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 |  A Baby-Boomer STILL alive and living in senior housing...
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The random thoughts of a Baby-Boomer STILL adjusting to life in senior housing (after five years)... Almost exactly nine months after World War II ended, one historian writes, “the cry of the baby was heard across the land.” More babies were born in 1946 than ever before: 3.4 million, 20 percent more than in 1945. This was the beginning of the so-called “baby boom.” In 1947, another 3.8 million babies were born; 3.9 million were born in 1952; and more than 4 million were born every year from 1954 until 1964, when the boom finally tapered off. By then, there were 76.4 million “baby boomers” in the United States. They made up almost 40 percent of the nation’s population. - www.history.com |
| Ugh! Almost half-way through the brutal month of July…YAY! It’s my birthday month – the only child of six who was born during the summer. The rest of my family have autumn/winter birthdays: Dad/cousin/niece (all the same date: Dad will be 86, cousin will be 71, niece will turn 21 this year) =October; older brother (his birthday and his wedding anniversary are the same day: smooth move by his wife to get married on HIS birthday – he now CANNOT come up with an excuse for forgetting their wedding date) =November; two younger brothers and sister=December; younger brother=January; then Mom=March. But I appeared in July…during a thunderstorm. Sigh. Is it any wonder that I feel different after all these years? I never did fit in. There was one good thing about my birthday: it was, for most of my childhood, celebrated at the New Jersey shore – it fell in the third week of July (Dad’s vacation week), and we usually traveled to the shore for one week to stay at Aunt Peg’s and Uncle Vernon’s house – two blocks from the beach. My birthday celebration routinely involved sunburn, sand, mosquitos, sand, miniature golf, sand, Mom’s pineapple-upside-down cake, sand, seashells, sand, boardwalk games, sand, amusement rides, sand, and, oh yeah, did I mention sand? So, take that you autumnal (my FAVORITE word of all time) and winter babies. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I’m still mired in boredom, but something exciting happened yesterday that lifted my spirits. I drove, off-schedule, to my farmers’ market to pick up several bottles of the new flavored water in my life: cucumber and melon. As a rule, I use re-usable shopping bags – I have about a dozen of them that reside on the back seat of my car. Yesterday, I used one of my latest bags: it’s from HRC.org – Human Rights Campaign. This is from their Web site: “As the largest civil rights organization working to achieve equality for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender Americans, the Human Rights Campaign represents a force of more than 1.5 million members and supporters nationwide — all committed to making HRC's vision a reality. Founded in 1980, HRC advocates on behalf of LGBT Americans, mobilizes grassroots actions in diverse communities, invests strategically to elect fair-minded individuals to office and educates the public about LGBT issues.” It’s been a long time since I’ve been involved in the gay community or attended any gatherings. When I was younger, I was considered a rebel: attending protests, marches, parades (a picture of me appeared in Newsweek magazine in 1977), parties. Nowadays it’s difficult to keep my eyes open past 7 p.m. Sigh. Anyhow, a few weeks ago, at the farmers’ market, the clerk running the check-out packed my purchases, paused, looked at the bag, and said, “Where did you get this?” I replied, “hrc.org. They do a lot of good work.” The clerk pulled out a cell phone and typed in a reminder to check out the Web site. I thought nothing more of the incident. Yesterday, when I checked out, the same clerk was there. I said, “I brought my own bag,” as is my practice and opened it up. I then said, “The last time I saw you, you seemed interested in this bag. I’ll give it to you; just use plastic today for my stuff.” The clerk beamed and replied, “I got one at a transgender conference a few weeks ago. But, thanks for the offer.” We smiled at one another, I paid, and we each said, “Have a good day” and I left. On the ride back home I couldn’t stop thinking…was the check-out clerk a woman becoming a man or a man becoming a woman…honestly, I couldn’t tell; he/she, when I thought about it, was androgynous. The further I drove on my way back home, the more excited I got. “Good for whomever it is – why does gender matter at all? What business is it of mine?” Growing up, I have an easy sense of transporting myself into other people’s shoes, because I was ridiculed, shouted at, made fun of, called names through 12 years of school; my gym teacher in high school (if he can be called a teacher) referred to me as “Little Miss Muffet.” I still can recall the shame, when my gym class chose sides to play basketball, and I was the last one standing on the sidelines, and Mr. E. said, “Looks like you get stuck with Little Miss Muffet,” and everyone laughed…I didn’t laugh. I can still feel that pain from long ago. Why couldn’t I tell if it was a man or a woman who rang up my purchases at the farmers’ market? Then I thought, does it matter? Really, DOES IT MATTER? I got my cucumber-melon water, and that’s all that counts. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I’m still trapped in my bored mode. So I killed some time yesterday on the Internet looking up information about ducks and geese. Don’t ask – it was a REALLY ssssslllllloooooww day here at The Home. On the way to my parents’ house each week for our market excursions, I pass a pond that is inhabited by ducks and Canada geese. For the most part, they stay in the pond or on its banks. Occasionally, however, they decide to cross the road to visit the golf course on the other side – who knew geese and ducks liked the links? I didn’t. When they’re seeking their golf fix, traffic on the road stops until they all waddle over the pavement. It can be maddening at times (like if I’m running late); the birds just take their good old time waddling. So when I approach my parents’ neighborhood, out of habit, I slow down while driving past the pond, because the fowl don’t always (read: never) “look both ways” before venturing forth. They just waddle onto the roadway willy-nilly; I sometimes think, when this occurs, “Who died and made you king of the road? I’m driving a 2,000 pound car – I could squash you in one tire rotation!” But, of course, I don’t carry through…I apply the brakes, and sit on a country road. I’m at the mercy of these geese and ducks who waddle without a care in the world. I give them slack; they don’t know traffic laws…I’m not aware of one “Fowl School” in our region. Their disruption costs me a few minutes of my time; and Mom and Dad understand when I’m five, or 10, or 15 (there are lots of geese and ducks at the pond/golf course) minutes late. I merely say, “…the geese…” and they nod their heads. They’re used to it, also. Don’t ask me why I sought out You Tube footage of “geese crossing the road” or “ducks crossing the road.” I have absolutely no idea from where that originated. But this is my favorite of what I found (as I said, it was a ssssslllllloooooww day at The Home; the clip is short: 49 seconds): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55k_JixZYao, I need a life. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I have nothing to say today. Life continues, with minimal complaints. Nothing strange, ordinary or exciting has happened, so I can’t report on that front. Well, maybe ordinary comes into play…I woke up, drank coffee, read email, completed the New York Times crossword puzzle, checked into Facebook, updated Words with Friends, read the headlines on the New York Times homepage, lit another cigarette, drank more coffee, then went to my TV to see what was recorded that might interest me….it was a bust. *yawn* Sad. Still, sometimes it can be okay to be bored…if I had to choose between “bored” and “worrying” I would choose “bored” (it’s less taxing on the body). However, I’m pretty sure “worrying” burns more calories, so that’s something I should keep in mind for the future…if I’m worrying about something, I have to focus on the “something.” If I’m bored, I’m just that: bored…no thinking required, and that’s something to shoot for. Unless I start “worrying” about why I’m “bored” – that leads to full-out “worrying.” And, just like that, my mind is active again with all its “worrying.” Funny, I’m a senior citizen and continue to struggle with “bored.” Why is “bored” so difficult to deal with? *yawn* Life is good. |
| Ugh! Well, I was lazy/bored over the weekend here at The Home; it was hazy, hot, humid and I watched the men’s final of Wimbledon. I’m not a big sports fan; however, I attempt to be in-the-know when it comes to sports – knowledge is important in life; tennis is something enjoyable to me. My former partner, Chuck, played tennis in high school and college, and taught me the rules and strategies (not on the court, mind you; in the living room) – the best though, was watching, back in the 80s, live TV entitled “Breakfast at Wimbledon.” We ate a hearty meal followed by lots of alcohol (and some grass) and groans and yells… I rooted for Andy Murray and I also rooted for Novak Djokovic, yesterday …I like both of them so I was pleased with the finals (but I rooted a wee bit more for Murray – after all, he’s Scots and I’m half Scots). At the outcome, the U.K. had a men’s winner for the first time in 77 years (and it happened on the 7th day of the 7th month). Now, Dunblane, Scotland will be known for another (happier) reason. Well done, Andy Murray! Speaking of all those sevens, I distinctly remember 7/7/77: I worked as assistant manager for a small bank in Central Pennsylvania; our branch employed seven full-time employees (and three part-time). We regulars decided to celebrate that special Monday calendar day by each downing seven (small – they were more like shots than actual drinks) seven-and-sevens (Seagram’s 7 (whiskey) and 7-Up (soda)) after our shifts ended. The next day, Tuesday, two of my co-workers didn’t show up for work…wimps! On my market trip, I bought a bottle of seltzer water flavored with “cucumber and melon.” Boy, is it good. It’s refreshing. I like cucumbers and I like melons, so I thought I’d give it a shot. I also bought a bottle of dry orange whatever that is (the liquid is neither dry – duh – nor orange in color)…it’s also good. I ended up being a happy camper here at The Home during our typical summer weather. I’m proud of Andy Murray’s Wimbledon win; the U.K. drought is finally ended…congrats to all Brits reading this. Life is good. |
| Ugh! A hot, humid 4th of July here at The Home…the municipal fireworks lit the skies and rattled my windows, while I stayed home and avoided all the traffic involved with events like that. In the afternoon I watched “The 39 Steps” from Masterpiece Classics – I found it on my TiVo as I was searching for something to watch. It took me a while to get into it, but once I did, I enjoyed it immensely. Partway through the showing, I noticed, from my peripheral vision, some movement next to my entertainment center. I looked and saw nothing amiss; I attributed it to senioritis. A few seconds later, the same thing; again, when I focused, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Then, several minutes later, it happened again. This was getting ridiculous. WHAT was happening? I hit “pause” on “The 39 Steps” and looked next to my entertainment center (really, it’s just a piece of furniture that holds my electronics and TV – nothing fancy, but “entertainment center” makes me feel like I have something special. Sad.) What I saw was the floor littered with leaves from this “mystery plant” I have in a large pot next to said “entertainment center.” I acquired the plant several years ago from a local nursery; I thought it would brighten my apartment here at The Home; it did. It’s now about 5 feet tall with lots of leaves (no flowers; but I knew that when I bought it – it came from the foliage section of the nursery, so I didn’t purchase it with the hopes of color – it’s green and has large leaves). About a year ago, I took a picture of it and posted it on Facebook asking anyone if they knew what the plant was called. I got two responses from that post (which was a success in my mind – usually my posts just appear as a random thought in Cyberspace): one from my New York cousin, who wrote – “it’s a big, green plant;” the other was from Dad, who wrote, “It looks like a castrated banana plant.” (I Googled “castrated banana” and was shocked by the results…well, when I think about it, I shouldn’t have been shocked…though, I was.) Over the past few years, I watered this mystery plant at least once a week; it doesn’t take a lot of water; the drip tray underneath the pot overflows onto my floor if I give more than half a watering-can full…ugh. I went back to watching “The 39 Steps” and, like clockwork, my peripheral vision caught movement every three minutes or so. I hit “pause” again and looked more closely. I think my mystery plant might be snake-related; it appears to be shedding its “skin” (aka leaves). It was like freaking autumn in my living room yesterday. For some reason this plant decided to drop leaves like there’s no tomorrow. By the time “The 39 Steps” ended (90 minutes), I had a pile of big, green leaves on my floor, which I scooped up and dumped into my trash… Later in the day, the dropping stopped or at least minimized (an occasional leaf wafted downward but it was more of a whimper than the slightly audible dead-drop of earlier). Now, my (formerly) beautiful mystery plant that once graced my living room looks like a skeleton – it’s mostly limbs, with just a few leaves remaining. I don’t know what I did wrong! I don’t talk about it or ridicule it behind its back; so why? Maybe its life expectancy was only three years – if so, the nursery should have warned me. Maybe it’s just given up and is committing suicide? Sad. Over this coming weekend, I’ll decide what happens with my beloved “mystery plant” and whether it stays or goes. Other than that… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Today is the 4th of July for the whole world; but it holds special significance to Americans. It’s celebrated by our local families here in Pennsylvania by attending nearby amusement/water parks, trips to the beaches of New Jersey, New York, Maryland, and Delaware; lakes and campgrounds in the mountains; backyard picnics, fireworks (both private and municipal) – and the resultant news articles about locals losing a finger or two, when a firework goes wrong…it’s as American as hot dogs from the grill! I like fireworks (who doesn’t? They’re spectacular, colorful, and awe-inspiring…and they’re LOUD!) I recall one, really important, Fourth of July: For our nation’s Bicentennial celebration way back in 1976, I lived in central Pennsylvania in a small city that had a river-front with an attached park. Each Memorial Day, Independence Day (4th of July), and Labor Day the city provided fun, several-day-long festivals, capped off by fireworks on the actual holiday. Back in 1976, our country’s Bicentennial year, the city provided much public relations touting a “…display never before seen.” My partner-at-the-time and I bit, and invited friends from a very small town in central Pennsylvania to spend the weekend with us. (They were used to driving on two-lane roads; the four- and six-lane Interstates surrounding our small city, which were really tame, frightened them. When they arrived we shared two joints and a jug of wine to calm them down.) The next day, the 4th of July was hot, hazy, humid. We grilled dinner outdoors for our evening meal. Lots of laughter and conversation...and catching up; we hadn’t seen each other for over a year. Everyone enjoyed the experience despite the bugs and smoke. Afterwards, we loaded into my car to head off to the riverside to watch the Bicentennial fireworks display – our country’s 200th birthday! We were psyched, full of food, and high (and one of us was drunk). We found a patch of grass along the river and got situated. The city symphony was already playing Sousa marches on a barge in the water by the time we made it to the river; people strolled past us dressed in red-white-blue; children waved miniature flags – all while the sounds of the symphony filled the riverside perch where we sat. The sun set and we waited and listened to patriotic music… The sky was clear, reduced humidity, and light winds blowing across the river soothed us as we lounged on a blanket above the river. This is what had been expected by us all according to the local build-up hype leading to the celebration: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVP1pjNVtHk and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_2a_buchPA (two clips from the fireworks show at Penn’s Landing in Philadelphia in 2010 – each clip is about seven minutes…but worth every minute (and includes music from two of my very favorite composers: George Gershwin (“Rhapsody in Blue”) and Aaron Copland, “Appalachian Spring”). If you can’t attend a local fireworks display in your village/town/city tonight, grab a cup of coffee or beverage of your choice and spend 14 minutes and witness how Philadelphia (my home for nine years in the 1980s) celebrates the 4th of July. This is similar to what we actually experienced back in 1976 on Bicentennial day in our riverside city: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pef7TL1HuC8 it wasn’t quite as uneventful (two fireworks did make it into the air and exploded), but pretty close – the entire event lasted less than two minutes. We made our ways back to my car and drove back to our apartment; my partner and I had “lots of explaining to do” for the dud show. Our friends decided to drive back to their own home town and left instead of staying over. It was embarrassing and sad. The next day, the local paper reported that city parks people were confused (I’ll say they were “confused.” Yipes, it was the Bicentennial – it only happens once in, well, let’s think about it…umm, forever). In an embarrassing apology, they said they would shoot off the Bicentennial fireworks on Labor Day. Our guests, and we, were disappointed. We invited them back for the Labor Day riverside celebration, but they turned the invitation down: “…we didn’t like the traffic, ‘big’ city [the population was 43,000; but I guess that’s considered big when your hometown has a population of 400], or the fireworks.” Here’s hoping all readers will enjoy the festivities of our country’s birth and at the end of the day, have all their fingers. I’m planning to go to bed at the time I usually do, and I am prepared to be awakened by the municipal fireworks display – I always wake up during the festivities and see the sky brighten outside my windows, which rattle during the explosions, and then I drift back to sleep. Happy Birthday, U.S.A.! Life is good. |
| Ugh! Okay, here is today’s wake-up-in-my-head-song-where-I-could-only-remember-the-first-few-lyrics: http://www.baeblemusic.com/music-video/Matthew-Morrison/It-Dont-Mean-A-Thing.htm... I searched on Google and came up with some You Tube matches: a recording from 1931 by Duke Ellington’s orchestra (grainy and mostly instrumental), and a later version performed by the late, great Ella Fitzgerald (still pictures, but fabulous voice – she was magical!)… Further research found a modernized version of the song (above link); the video has high quality yet retains the essence of the song. Thank you, Duke, Ella, and Matthew… I have no idea why I wake up in this manner; I wish I had a TiVo or other recorder attached to my brain when I sleep (hint to any entrepreneurs out there who might be reading this diatribe) so I could figure out from where these songs arise; some of the songs I wake up to indicate a fabulous dream (that I can’t recall except for the song)…it DOES make going to bed a fun experience, though – I kind of look forward to tomorrow’s song of the night/day. Maybe it’s because I’ve always been a fan of music? Growing up I was not athletic (and remain so); I didn’t play Little League baseball despite Dad’s insistence I try out for the local team…having a boy throw a ball at me reminded me of the playground-torture thing, being a target, and getting pummeled while playing dodge ball at recess – I always got hit; I wasn’t (and am not) fast on my feet. Standing at home plate waiting for a boy to throw a ball at me – that I was expected to hit with a bat – a piece of wood! Are you kidding me? Why??? Why??? What is the purpose??? I didn’t comprehend what was going on. Playing my clarinet was WAY more enjoyable. So, I quit Little League after the very first session, which made Dad silent (and disappointed, I assume). Wow! That got off topic…I have absolutely no idea from where these songs derive or why I wake up mentally-singing them (and then continue singing them for a few hours – until the coffee kicks in and I regain my sanity…) In other news, my across-the-hallway neighbor, Bernie, put up her picture of bleeding Jesus on her apartment door again yesterday. Not sure of the significance of that – the 4th of July is tomorrow: why not a U.S. flag or a picture of George Washington or Abraham Lincoln? She hangs it periodically for some reason…usually followed by a few days of medical updates: “Don’t knock. Don’t call me at [phone number]. Had a bad night. This is a medical necessity” or “If you knock knock loud. If I don’t answer, call me at [phone number] but not before noon. This is a medical necessity.” She told me a while ago, she’s a retired psychiatric nurse. That’s an admirable profession, truth be told. It takes a lot of patience to deal with a lot of patients. People rarely knock on her door (I can hear since I live right across the hall from her – not that I’m spying; the walls are thin here at The Home), so I’m not quite sure for whom her health advisories are intended. I smile and say “hello” when we meet in the hallways here at The Home. She appears to be a pleasant individual except for her eyes – they’re forever darting about, never focusing – or so it seems to me. I can’t tell if she’s nervous, is on constant-alert phase, on medication, or if she’s just plain-out whacky. Uncomfortable is a good word to describe my interactions with her. Uh-oh, I just thought, maybe she wasn’t a psychiatric “nurse” in her past…maybe she was a psychiatric patient? It could be true. This ship-of-the-final-voyage-for-all-cruisers, the HMS The Home, has its own cluster of weird passengers (me among them). I’m surprised some days how it remains afloat. Our captain (The Home’s on-site manager) posted a hand-written message Scotch-taped to her office door last week: “Folks, I’m out of the office until July 8 – don’t knock. No one will answer. If it’s an emergency, call [phone number].” I wonder if she’s in cahoots with Bernie, what with their similarities when it comes to announcing one’s updates on one’s door… (I checked; the phone numbers are different). As we all sail off into the sunset…a little modern-take on swing music will ease the voyage…and don’t throw any balls at me. Please! Life is good. |
| Ugh! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RAEqsnOQrxY THAT is what I woke up to this morning! Where the heck did THAT come from? It could be because it’s summer here in Pennsylvania at The Home (my least favorite season of the year), and I was dreaming about other times, but, still, come on! Thank goodness for You Tube and its contributors (I just wish the resolution of the video clip was better). The first few words will be stuck in my head now for hours. Ugh. (And it’s not so bad to wake up with Dean and Frank in one’s bedroom, no matter what, right?) I used to keep a dream journal back in the 90s when I lived on the farm. At the time I thought it would be a good idea in an attempt to capture my “visionary” thoughts that got lost as soon as I opened my eyes. It took me about a week to train myself to wake up enough to jot down my thoughts (and most mornings when I read my jottings, I had difficulty deciphering my words…ugh). I kept the journal for about three months…I still have it, but don’t look at it. Most of the entries made no sense at all in daylight, but in the middle of the night when I scribbled the ideas down, I thought I was a genius…much like when I got together with friends and we smoked pot – we routinely solved all the world’s problems every time we got together. The journal and regimen were retired after I read an entry one morning wherein I was a Hitler Youth (brown-shirt) and I refused to get onto a train. I was ridiculed (in my dream) and forced to recite “Mary Had a Little Lamb” to the rest of the Hitler Youth already aboard the train, and sneering at me. I (in my dream) was mortified; I couldn’t remember the verse. Of course, I know the entire “Mary Had a Little Lamb” – however, in my dream I couldn’t recall it: Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow, and everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go. In my dream, I was threatened with treason for not performing (who knew Hitler liked “Mary Had a Little Lamb”? And could use it for punishment?) – I was a kid in a brown shirt. The next morning, when I was able to get through my midnight scrawlings and read what I’d scribed, I was alarmed. I didn’t recall the dream at all…I can’t recall at this moment what I actually dreamed that night, but “Hitler”, “youth”, “brown shirts” did not sound familiar – or good! I’d have preferred “cats as chauffeurs”… or “asparagus is outlawed”… that I could comprehend. Ugh. That whole day at work, I reflected back on my journal entry, and remained disturbed…and I kept repeating the verse in my head (just to make sure I recalled it) every hour or so…to prove to myself I was sane…(it sort of worked). That night when I went to bed, I placed the journal onto the desk in my spare bedroom, near my computer. And I never used it again. I no longer have a dream journal… NOW I HAVE A BLOG! Silly, I know. I find dreams fascinating. I’ve always thought dreams were a result of the brain digesting information during the previous day and putting those memories into the proper parts of the brain that are there to store things. And memory is interesting. For instance, I can remember my first day of school: Chylia K. peed on the floor beneath her desk after lunch recess that first day (and did so for the rest of the school year), but I can’t remember the second day or any other day of my first year in school – oh, I do remember one special day: it involved a classmate, Raymond M.; our teacher, Miss W.; the principal, Mr. S.; and the police…no one was harmed, but Raymond M. withdrew from public school and went to private school thereafter. (He’s now in prison.) So, no more dream journal for me…sleeping sometimes is a chore; dreams happen. For the most part, I enjoy my dreams; however, if I wake up in a sweat and have to wipe my brow and can’t remember why, it gives me pause…what was that? But, then I turn over and go back to sleep and end up waking up an hour or so later with “It’s a marshmallow world in the winter…” playing non-stop in my head. Egads! Life is good. |
| Ugh! It’s July…it’s hot, it’s steamy, it’s sticky – all to be expected here in Pennsylvania, but on the bright side, it’s the month of my birth (except I get older, and that’s sort of depressing; but what can one do? One can lie about it…if one is able to keep up the made-up birth year). The weather people are forecasting heavy rain today, with unsettled weather through Thursday…I’m happy! I have a TiVo that records TV shows for me so I can watch them at my leisure (but, more importantly, I can fast-forward through all the annoying commercials). Rarely do I rewind (not sure if that is the correct word with digital recording; I’m still stuck in the VCR era where actual tapes recorded the shows – so rewind makes sense to me. I’m sure my nieces and nephews would laugh at my terminology if I dared share it with them). I found this while catching up on some shows over the weekend: https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=RFStdNtTkNI it’s only 30 seconds, so if you can, take a gander at it. When I do my grocery-store, farmers’ market trips each week, I tend to buy the same things. I’m not averse to buying off-brand/generic products, but I’m at the age to know when the “equivalent” works and when it doesn’t. I’ve learned the hard way: buy brand-name tissues, toilet paper and trash bags. Doing dishes, I’ve been a fan of Dawn for many years. I don’t care if it’s gentle on my hands – my hands are getting old and I’ve given up trying to preserve them (why would I want to do that?); they’re preserving themselves at this point in my life – I’m freakin’ old! I originally bought Dawn years ago for its blue color. I used it and was impressed – that nasty chore of washing dishes each day was made much easier. The product works! (Not enough for me to start watching live TV and living through myriad commercials, though.) (And, no, I’m not being compensated for this endorsement.) For some reason this commercial touches me…the ad agency and their employees should be congratulated for a job well done…those who can’t help themselves rely on the help of others – and they apparently appreciate it! (Maybe they rushed out of their cages because they were pent-up while all the producers, camera people, production assistants, lighting personnel, satellite trucks, assistants-to-assistants, craft services (food), and director got everything into place for the one-time camera view…and the birds and other mammals just wanted to get the heck out of their situation? It could be true!) Just as an aside…I’ve thought about this commercial and how long it took to film – it airs for 30 seconds. At my last job, I was officially employed as an executive secretary, but for this one day, I was told I was a production assistant for a video touting the benefits of the university I worked for at the time. I arrived on campus at 5 a.m. to meet with our “actor” (a volunteer student) and crew (one director, three camera personnel, and one annoying lady that I couldn’t figure out). We mapped out the filming session by looking at possibilities (that was my main job – orienting them to campus). The filming began an hour later and ended six hours afterward…lunchtime. I was glad because I had little to do other than state “…there’s a big tree over there…” or “…this walkway is nice…” or “…the ivy looks nice on [this building]…” Months later I watched TV one night and saw the finished product – I was psyched and prepared to view a masterpiece that involved my participation…it showed the completed video…in all its “glory.” Ugh. The video lasted 30 seconds…my involvement and influence took up exactly two seconds…a female running on a sidewalk! SIX FREAKING (I’d use the other word, but I strive to make my blog 13+) HOURS for TWO SECONDS of material? Are you kidding me? No wonder movies cost so much to produce! And that ineptness, perpetuated by production teams is why movies now cost more than ever. Outrageous! Back to the main point: Dawn. My mind wanders at times (read on). None of the animals in the proffered Dawn commercial appeared to be maltreated or in danger - indeed they appeared joyous for their freedom…but now I question just “how long” were the animals confined? I guess I just enjoy waddling, as in ducks, penguins, and sea lions – the walk is entertaining. I don’t meet many waddlers in my day-to-day existence (except for Marie on the second floor here at The Home; she grunts much in the same fashion as her second-floor neighbor, Heidi Hitler). And, in truth, I like the word “waddle” – it’s almost an onomatopoeia. And, although I’ve dreamed of it, I’m glad I’m not involved in the movie industry. I don’t have the patience and/or stamina to record a scene over and over and over ad nauseum to perfection. Can you imagine Clark Gable at the end of “Gone With the Wind” and the various takes involved in that last scene? “Flankly, my dea-“ “Cut. Try it again, Mr. Gable.” “Okay.” Deep breath. “Action!” “’Frankly, my, umm, oh yes, frankly, my dea-“ “Cut. Once more.” Ahem. Cough. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t care.” “Cut. That’s not the line, Mr. Gable. It’s ‘give a damn,’ not ‘care.’” “Okay. Let’s try this again…” Thirty-two takes and two days later, the scene is finalized and memorialized on film…and when seen on screen lasts one second: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Wow! That was way off-topic, huh? Rejoice with the cleaned and released animals. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I had a senior moment yesterday here at The Home. They’re becoming more and more common with each passing day, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I called Mom/Dad for our daily mutual welfare-check. During the conversation we agreed to do our market trip Friday, instead of Saturday. Mom checked her calendars (yes, plural – she has three different calendars to keep track of things going on; each calendar contains the same information, so I don’t get the need for three of them. I suppose she does it so she doesn’t lose any appointments – sort of her own checks-and-balances practice. I joked with her that it would be difficult to make a mistake with her system. She said, “Oh, it’s nothing.” I thought, “…nothing? Why do you have to write something down three times? My life isn’t so busy that I’d need to do that.” I replied I get along fine with just the ONE calendar on my computer. We chatted about nothing for half-an-hour, then I said, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at 7:30.” “Okay, see you then.” (Mom/Dad) *click* I checked my email, ate lunch, watched a few TiVo’ed shows that are creating a backlog on my DVR (I have a habit of taping a show and then not watching it; instead of deleting them, though, I hang on to them. Before dinner, I again checked my email and news and a calendar reminder popped up on my screen…for a doctor’s appointment I have scheduled for Friday morning at 8. Doh! *ring ring* “Umm, can we go marketing on Saturday instead?” (me) “I just realized I have a doctor’s appointment Friday. I should have checked my calendar earlier. Sorry.” Mom laughed and said, “Maybe you should try keeping three calendars. If you write an appointment down three times, you tend not to forget it.” “Yeah, maybe I should.” (me, sheepishly) How stupid can one be? I won’t make fun of anything Mom does again (and she has some strange practices; someday I’ll relate how she preserves everyday food – it’s quite the process – bordering on OCD)…but I was the one who made the mistake this time. Doh! Have a good weekend. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Mama Sparrow and Her Sparrow-lings are serenading me a lot this morning…I’m assuming there might be a change in the weather up ahead. I believe birds tell us more than just melodious tunes. Back in the 90s, I rented a cottage on a 200-acre former dairy farm…I encountered wildlife during my six-year tenancy: wild turkeys, foxes, ducks and ducklings in the creek, snakes (*shiver*), a heron in the burbling creek by my cottage, deer (that decimated my gardens each spring), groundhogs (that decimated the parts of my gardens the deer didn’t). It was maddening and magical at the same time. At the time, I lived with Gershwin and Miss Bessie Smith – my two mutt cats. The three of us shared the cottage and surroundings as one, big, happy family. Gershwin, my older cat, was pleased with roaming the yard outside the door to our cottage. Miss Bess, however, was a wanderer – she’d disappear for an hour, then come tearing around the corner of the main house (the widow’s house – my landlady) and “gift” me with a mole/vole (I never got to learn the difference between them – and one time, a snake). Miss Bess was proud…I’m sure if she could smile, she would have beamed. Gershwin didn’t give a hoot; he ate his grass and ignored Miss Bessie Smith and her captures. Life went on for the three of us. When I adopted Gershwin in 1985, he learned to eat and love chicken each night for his meal. I baked bone-in chicken breasts and shredded it for his meals. Every evening, I presented him with his chicken; he sniffed, chortled, then looked back at me, and blinked his eyes. I will never forget his actions – his thank-yous. A few days before Thanksgiving, 1997, I detected something wrong with Gershwin – he stopped eating his beloved chicken. I took him to the vet; he howled the whole trip in his cat carrier. The diagnosis was not good: cancer. Sadly, and this is the hardest part of this tale, I couldn’t afford to pay for potential treatments for him. Over the next few weeks, Gershwin got smaller and lighter – he became a wisp of his former self. One night in February, 1998, in bed, I read a book as I do before turning off the light and going to sleep. Gershwin lumbered up the staircase and tried to hop up onto my bed. He couldn’t make the hop. I picked him up and put him beside me. He wasn’t satisfied with his position and walked across my chest. I couldn’t feel him walking across my chest. Sad. He had lost so much weight, I didn’t know he was there. I made the decision to have him put down. The next morning, I called the vet and arranged things. I say “things” – it wasn’t “things” – it was a MAJOR decision. I felt thankful that Gershwin had given me 12 years of joy; he NEVER complained; he was ALWAYS there for me, but it was time. I had asked the vet, “Is he in pain?” She replied, “No. Not yet.” On the way to Gershwin’s last visit to the vet, he was silent in his cat carrier; it was unlike him. Years before he had borne a two-hour-long trip from Philadelphia to Rehoboth Beach in Delaware. He howled the entire trip. At the hotel, he stayed hidden under the bed for six days (the hotel was pet-friendly). On the seventh day, he came out from under the bed only to have the house staff come in to vacuum…back under the bed. He howled for the two-hour ride back home to Philadelphia. I felt guilty; indeed, I had tears streaming from my eyes. We got to the vet’s office; I checked in and sat on a chair in the waiting room with Gershwin beside me, silent. Gershwin approached the front of the cat carrier and licked my fingers that were dangling in front of the carrier. I thought, “He’s still here.” And, I questioned my actions. In that moment, I thought, “Who am I to make this decision?” Minutes later, I held him as the vet injected him…and he was gone. But I was there with him at the end…just as he had been with me for the previous 12 years. In hindsight I made the right decision (at least I hope so and pray for)…I’ll always recall Gershwin’s finger licking that sad day. I remember them as kisses that would have landed on my cheeks if he hadn’t been caged. Wow! This is a bummer of a blog entry, huh? I have no idea where this came from. Sometimes we have to remember the past and how it all played out so we can deal with today... Life is good. |
| Ugh! I’ve blogged before about waking up with a song stuck in my head. Last night, I awoke four hours after entering my bedchamber and I had “Give My Regards to Broadway” replaying over and over and over in my head (I have no idea from where that derived – what dream did I have and not recalled to trigger that song – it must have been a good dream; at least that’s what I told myself). I tried to think of other tunes, “Maria” from “The Sound of Music” and the wedding scene; that didn’t work, so I thought of “Maria” from “West Side Story” – “…the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard: Maria, Maria, Maria…” No dice. I tossed and turned. (I possess a liking of the name, Maria. Sue me!) I sighed and got up to begin my day. I completed the New York Times crossword puzzle after checking my email. And still, “Give My Regards to Broadway” permeated my being. I couldn’t shake the darned song. The worst part was, I didn’t know all the lyrics, so I kept singing the same thing over and over, “Give my regards to Broadway, remember me to Herald Square; tell all the gang on 42nd Street, that I will soon be there…” and that’s it. I know there are more lyrics to the song, but could I recall them? No! It was maddening. No matter what I did or tried to think, the song was stuck in my head. Even when Mama Sparrow and her two sparrow-lings began their early-morning concert on my air-conditioner, the song stayed in my head. I’ve read about the phenomenon online; it’s called an “ear worm” – it invades one’s being without being invited and is annoying. It’s a good song…I like it, BUT, not as an ongoing thought. So, I went online to find a video clip of it being performed (mainly to learn the rest of the lyrics). There are several, but the quality of the clips I unearthed are not worthy of sharing except for this grainy rendition from 1966: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-IznMa7cqQ Yes, it’s Judy Garland; yes, I’m gay; yes, I’m from the old gay school and Judy is a goddess…I guess I’m disappointed this is the “best” version I could find online (I did find a YouTube clip of Judy Collins doing her own version, but it turned out to be a television commercial for a credit card – that made it a no-no in my book; and my book is very particular). I suppose the thing to do is just embrace the songs that end up in my head. At least I don’t have thoughts of murder or mayhem…an innocent song about Broadway sounds like a much better way to stay awake mind-wise. As for the lyrics for the songs that invade my psyche, I’m willing to learn them, and in the process, finally finish the song so I can get back to sleep. Fingers crossed…and… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday was hot, hazy, humid weather here at The Home; late in the day, booming thunderstorms moved into the environs – usually a good sign in late summer of having the air cleared by our northern friends in Canada. But we’re still in the infant days of summer; the storms resulted in even steamier weather for today and the rest of the foreseeable future (or as long as the forecasters can “forecast.”) I am not a happy camper. Back in 1999, I visited friends in Scotland for 10 days. I so looked forward to the dismal weather they'd complained about for two years via email. (Yes, I'm strange when it comes to weather.) The first leg of my journey ended at Heathrow Airport outside London...it poured down rain - so much so, my plane couldn't reach the terminal. I was giddy with excitement! We off-boarded onto the tarmac and climbed aboard a bus to deliver us to where we needed to go. I was psyched and thought, "Wow! This is real British weather – I was happy as a pig in [a sty]!" (to paraphrase a local vulgar expression…) The next leg of my journey found me flying in rain and clouds into Glasgow. I looked out the window into the dismalness and was saddened I couldn't see the land of my ancestors (my paternal grandparents) - just at that moment, the weather broke - the sky cleared, and below me I saw the most beautiful, glorious green I'd ever seen (and to this day is something I can recall) - Scotland was gorgeous...and, that quickly, the plane went back into a cloud. But, for a few seconds, I caught a glimpse of why Grammy and Pappy spoke so fondly of their home country. My friends and I drove to their cottage situated on a farm midway between Edinburgh and Glasgow; the drive was harrowing with the pelting down rain we encountered. I thought I’d died and gone to Heaven! “This is great!” ran through my mind. David, the driver, and Eugenie, his wife, from the front seat groused about the weather for the entire two-hour drive from the airport. We attempted to “catch up” on news since we’d last seen each other two years previous, but those attempts were punctuated with “Watch out!” and “Careful” and “Sorry, we didn’t order this weather” and “Darn that was close.” It was soooo exciting for me sitting in the backseat. There I was in my ancestors’ home country, experiencing typical British weather (or so I’d heard) AND, this is the most exciting part (or dangerous depending on your point of view) of that ride, WE WERE DRIVING ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD! If I could have bounced up-and-down in the back seat, I would have. They had a small car, so I couldn’t. For the next nine days, we visited places: a medieval village; St. Andrews and its famous golf course; Edinburgh; Glasgow (which I LOVED); bus rides (double-decker buses at the end of the lane leading to the farm where they lived! Who knew?); trains (always on time, but I found the windows to be dirty inhibiting my view); tiny restaurants; and the highlight of my visit: a trip to get fish and chips (I so looked forward to that) – the fish and chips were given to us wrapped in newspaper! Okay, I lost track there and went off onto many tangents that have nothing to do with this blog entry. I started out discussing weather. Yes, I encountered typical British weather upon my arrival. The next nine days of my visit, though, presented me with crystal clear, blue skies (I visited in November, so it was almost winter) necessitating the wearing of a sweater and nothing more (well, I DID wear pants, shirt, underpants, socks, shoes – I don’t want to create the image that I appeared in public in just a sweater. How much fun would that have been, though, huh?) For the entire length of my visit I experienced sun-filled days (although the sun was low in the sky; I hadn’t realized how far north Scotland is located). I got to explore Stirling, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, all with no need for an umbrella. The day I left them, my flight was delayed because of inclement weather. So I arrived during a rain storm, and nine days later, I departed during a rain storm. I was born during a thunderstorm…everything felt right to me. I like the place here in Pennsylvania where I was born and raised. I’m comfortable here; it’s not perfect, but it suffices. I remember stepping off the train at Glasgow station, and I thought, “I’m home.” Something affected me on that November day back in 1999. I don’t know what caused my reaction/feelings – it just felt “right” – that I had found my place in this world. Alas, I flew home and now live three blocks from the hospital where I was born a long time ago, and where I suspect I will lie in the morgue someday – coming full circle. I’m glad I made my trip to Scotland. Dad (born here in the U.S. after his parents emigrated from Glasgow in 1920 and 1922) never got that opportunity. I took photographs during my visit and created a scrapbook of my journey. Every few months, I pull it off the shelf and relive my experience abroad in 1999. I wish fish-and-chips were sold in my little town. Alas, I’ve been unsuccessful in my search. Despite that… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Not really – and, oh, this is exciting (in an aging person’s mind: mine)... I’ve written before about Little Sparrow who visits my air conditioner each day and delivers a concert only heard by me (as far as I can tell; mayhaps one of my neighbors could potentially complain to management and I’ll be reprimanded. When I owned my house, I had three bird feeders in my backyard. My next-door neighbors reported me to the police for “…creating a public hazard” in my own backyard! I was interviewed by the police – it was scary and embarrassing; they suggested, with much head-shaking, subdued smiles, and raised eyebrows, I ignore my neighbors. Cripes, I provided food for other inhabitants of our planet – hazard? Come on!). I was allowed to keep my bird feeders. And I defiantly did so – I PROUDLY replenished my oft-empty feeders! The neighbors turned out to be nitpickers; they groused about every aspect of my life: first it was the birds; then they complained that I used my outdoor grill too much (I used it on Saturday afternoons) - I had barely a life back then: I worked 8-5, M-F, came home, made dinner, refilled the bird feeders, checked my email and went to bed to prepare for a repeat the next morning…ad nauseum for four years. On this past Saturday morning, I was at my computer and heard the becoming-more-normal-as-days-go-by sounds of Little Sparrow’s song from the outside portion of my air-conditioner. Something was different – I heard more than one tune. My curiosity was piqued. I approached my window where the air conditioner lives (I did it slowly – I’ve learned my lesson over the past few weeks: Little Sparrow detects inside movement near air conditioners). There Little Sparrow sat with two even littler sparrows and they were all singing as loud as they could (I’m assuming they were singing; I’m not educated when it comes to birds and their innate capabilities – so maybe they were screaming about nest abuse or perhaps they were just providing joyous music to an old man who has no life, led by Mama Sparrow – it could be true…). A choir of sparrows now serenades me. How lucky can one get? For the past few days, I’m getting a Sparrow Chorale each morning. What a benefit to my existence – and it’s FREE! When I think about it, it’s better than cable TV entertainment-wise; the sounds are happy – the sparrows are not complaining (I hope and believe); rather, their song choices sound positive and upbeat. And, best of all, they’re not Kardashians. Their tunes bring a smile to my face. When I hear them begin their concert, I turn to the left at my computer desk, say, “Thank you” and I smile. I hope my neighbors don’t hear me professing my gratitude, but I’m getting to the age when I can say, “Go pound sand if you don’t like it! Take THAT!” Acckkk, I’m getting old – I’m appreciating bird songs as the highlight of each day. Sad. No, I take back that last statement – it’s not sad. They’re making joyous music. I have no clue from where my fondness of birds derives; I’ve always enjoyed them – their antics, their fluttering, their songs, their eggs and resultant babies, and their feeding habits – unless you’re Tippi Hedren in Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” there is no reason to be scared. As I type this, Mama Sparrow (I’ve decided Little Sparrow is female, and a Mom) and her nestlings have finished their early-morning chorale. My air conditioner hums likes it’s supposed to do on this hot, sticky morning. I’m thankful I was serenaded this morning…although 3:20 a.m. was a tad early. (Maybe they have plans to be somewhere else later in the day? It could be true! Maybe they’re on tour?) Listen to our birds…and thank them for their anthems – free is good. And I’m a happy camper here at The Home… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Summer began today. Oh, woe is me. ‘Tis the season of my birth – I should be happy…alas, I’m not. This is the hottest season, the most humid season, the stickiest of seasons – it’s the season for kids. I’m no longer a kid…I’m getting old and am almost at the age that anything I say is to be expected, and because of my age, accepted. I say, “Bring on autumn!” with its pumpkins, and falling leaves; autumn with its cool evenings and nighttime arriving late afternoons; fall with wool-clad cheerleaders bouncing up and down on the sidelines at high school football games and bands maneuvering around the gridiron during halftime extravaganzas; autumn when leaves are raked into piles in the yard and (according to local ordinances) set on fire. Autumn comes with its own aromas. Summer has its points, I suppose, for some – let me think. Okay, here’s one. We don’t have to wear coats. That’s it…I can’t think of another reason to like summer. Do I sound bitter? You bet I do! And, I CAN sound bitter because I’ve lived through my share of summers and all that is offered: mosquitoes, sun burn, body parts sticking together where and when they shouldn’t, gnats, the air so still and heavy it’s difficult to breathe, ice cream cones that melt before their time is up. Here is a clip from my favorite composer, George Gershwin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ixdJLXDT_QM On the bright side, it’s only three months until autumn…a mere 90 days. Sighing and forging ahead into three months of agony…think apple cider, heated up with a cinnamon stick immersed in it – especially if it’s served after a hayride. Life is good. |
| Ugh! During my regular welfare-check phone call with Mom/Dad yesterday, we discussed the weather (beautiful), road construction woes (terrible and, annoyingly, ongoing), taxes (maddening), and cheese (enjoyable, but stressful. Can cheese be considered stressful? Read on…). Growing up half Pennsylvania-Dutch and half Scots, cheese is important in our family. We ate it on toast for breakfast; we ate it on sandwiches for lunch; we ate it on hot dogs for dinner. Other times it was with spaghetti (Parmesan), lasagna (Ricotta and Mozzarella), and scrambled eggs (Cheez-Whiz – shudder). I grew up with cheese served at almost every meal. Mom shared with me that her favorite cheese, Jarlsberg, is no longer carried at their grocery store (it’s a version of Swiss cheese– from Norway). Whenever Mom brings up Jarlsberg cheese, she says, “You are the one who introduced me to it.” I did so 40 years ago. At the time I gave Mom her first taste, I lived in central Pennsylvania and had brought a chunk along with me as I visited home for a picnic. I had driven to “Charlie Brown’s Cheese Hut;” it was an enclosed porch on a two-story house – nothing fancy: no parking lot, no neon lights, and no other products – just cheese. The gap-toothed proprietress greeted me while wiping her hands on her apron/bib. “What yer lookin’ for?” (Yes, she said “yer” instead of you…) “Umm, cheese.” (me) “Well, I’ve got American, Swiss, Dutch, German, and English, Italian…what’s yer pleasure?” (her) “Umm, I want some to take to a party on Saturday night.” (me) “Okay, here’s what yer need.” She stepped behind the cooler and picked up a HUGE, round, yellow-wax covered disc and hoisted it in my direction. “Jarlsberg. It’s from Norway.” “Umm, that’s a lot of cheese.” (me) “Yes, and it’s really good. Here, try some.” I took the proffered slice and ate it. “Mmm, this is good.” “I told yer it’s good. How much do yer need?” I had not thought of that. I had volunteered to bring cheese to our regular Saturday-night gathering of pot-smoking, wine-guzzling friends. I paused and thought some more. “How much?” (her, sounding impatient by my inability to make a decision…) (me) “Enough for 20 people.” “One wheel should do the job.” She hefted the 15-pound round above the counter and said, “Here yer go!” Her smile broadened. I paid her $30 and left with a wheel of Jarlsberg cheese on the backseat of my car…that worked out to $2 per pound. The leftover portion from that gathering is what I took home for Mom to taste Getting back to my conversation with Mom/Dad yesterday and Mom’s distress that her grocery store stopped carrying her favorite brand. I asked, “How much do you pay for your Jarlsberg?” (Mom) “$3.99 a pound.” (Dad – breaking into the telephone conversation) “$3.99? HA! It’s $9.99 a pound.” Silence for two seconds. (Mom) “Really?” (Dad) “Yes, really.” Silence for a few more seconds. (Mom) “But I like it. Why did they stop carrying it?” On my to-do list for today is to Google Jarlsberg cheese by zip code in an effort to find a place where Mom can get her beloved Jarlsberg…. I can’t believe I spent an hour on the phone conversing with Mom/Dad and the big topic of conversation was cheese. Equally disappointing is that I wrote about that conversation as a blog entry. Sad. I need a new existence... Life is good. |
| Ugh! Three days until summer arrives, and I’m already tired of the upcoming, on-the-horizon season (it’s been summer-like here for two weeks). Things do not bode well for me and the next three months. Sigh. On the bright side of life, let’s see, I received a threatening notice from The Home’s management office that I “…must pick up after your animal or you will be evicted.” Lucky for me! I don’t have an animal. And, even if I did, I’d pick “up” after it. It’s only common courtesy. Apparently, for some of the cruise passengers here aboard the HMS The Home, just ignore that rule of life and the grassy area outside the main doors remains littered with lawn bombs. I remembered a long time ago, from high school. I was a member of band until spring of my senior year when I got kicked out for blowing bubbles ala Lawrence Welk during our spring concert’s flute section’s rendition of “Flute Cocktail.” (I received laughter and applause; however, the band director, Mr. A. thought otherwise. I was reassigned to study hall for the remainder of the term; in study hall I played “Old Maids” with Sharon W. Many laughs ensued…). We marched in Philadelphia’s Gimbel’s Thanksgiving Day parade (at the time, the oldest in the country). Early that morning, we boarded buses to transport us to Philly (a two-hour bus ride). The weather was wet – as in pouring-down rain for hours. Nevertheless, the parade took place. Our band was in parade formation behind a brigade of policemen on horseback – some sort of color guard. The policemen-on-horseback received lots of applause along the parade route as we marched through Center City. It was exciting, although, soppingly wet. As our band approached the reviewing stand, where we, naturally, were reviewed, I noticed the file of band members in front of me making an out-of-the-ordinary left step and then an exaggerated right step as we marched and blared down Market Street (in the still-pouring rain). I thought, “Hmm, I wonder what’s up?” A few steps later I realized it wasn’t so much “what’s up?” as it was “What’s down? Look out for the horse poop!” (Apparently, horses have lax manners…) Left jump – toot-toot-toot – right step, back in formation. Talking with Mom/Dad yesterday, I brought up that event (don’t ask – our conversations vary all over the place each day. I do so enjoy our talks). Dad recalled the ice wagon and milk wagon (I asked twice: “Wagon?” and he replied, “Yes, horse-drawn wagons.”) and how the neighbors just cleaned up after the horses pooped on their street. That is absurd. I said I’d be livid as a house-owner if a horse pooped in front of my place and it was MY responsibility to clean up after it! Dad replied, “Times were different then.” Well, I guess so. What amazes me about this entry is that I’m the son of parents who recall horse-drawn wagons. Wow! I must be getting old! Just for the record, I can still jump to the left on a moment’s notice. That’s something one doesn’t quickly forget. And I can still step to the right. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rtkdo7bOmJc That’s a clip from the “Rocky Horror Picture Show,” a cult classic that is making a resurgence of popularity in the communities surrounding The Home…my nieces and nephew attended a midnight showing a few months ago and had a blast. When I shared with them I remember when the movie originally came out and I attended my own midnight showings, they were in awe. “You can remember that far back? All the way back to the 1970s?” my niece asked…exactly when does one turn old in the eyes of youngsters? Sigh. And I can’t believe I penned a blog entry dealing with poop, bubbles, and dance... Double sigh. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I’ve mentioned before, I was born during a thunderstorm in the middle of July (so my parents tell me; my birth certificate does not detail the local weather conditions at the time of my arrival). I was there, obviously, but have no recollection of emerging from Mom’s birth canal...and what a ride it must have been for an infant: me! I asked Mom about it on the phone yesterday. She awoke from her doze (she has the habit, at age 82, of nodding off during everyday events: sitting, eating, riding in the car to the market) and replied, “What?” “Was I born during a thunderstorm, Mom?” (Me) For the next several moments, I detected somewhat-not-quiet whispering between Mom and Dad on the other end of the speaker-phone I’m always put on when I call them for our daily welfare-check phone call. I faintly picked up, “…son…,” “…no, not that one…,” “…no, the other one…” I lit a cigarette and waited patiently until they hit on the right son (there are five of us and one daughter). Back to my waiting, “…I think so…wait.” (Mom) “Hello?” (Me) “I’m still here, Mom.” “I can’t remember.” She laughed. Okay, I thought, and then my mind went awry for a few seconds while I digested her response. She couldn’t recall my birth, the latest addition to the family, the second son…what? I’m not a woman and therefore have never given birth. I imagine (after seeing movies and TV shows about the birth process) it’s not something forgotten. In fact, I get the impression it’s pretty darned painful yet memorable. It wasn’t every day Mom passed another human being outside of her. I recalled a toothache I had 22 years ago. I had sat on the side of my bed, held my cheek, groaned and moaned and writhed and prayed for death RIGHT THEN AND THERE! (My two cats at the time, Gershwin and Miss Bessie Smith ignored me.) A toothache – nothing approaching childbirth! No one likes pain; our brains process that information to make us remember not to do the same thing again in an effort to avoid the pain. Our brains are wonderful instruments. Yet, Mom couldn’t recall another human being emerging from her loins. My first thought was, “Why?” My second thought was, “OUCH! Why not?” After a few seconds, I said, “So you don’t remember my birth?” I was somewhat deflated spirit-wise. Pause. Silence. Then… “Oh, no. I remember you being born. I just don’t remember the weather that day.” (Mom) Silence. (Me and them) “Isn’t that what you asked?” (Mom) And, Mom was correct. I didn’t ask the right question. I’m not sure what the right question should be. Now that I think about it, does it matter? I’m sure the local weather conditions at the time of my birth were the farthest things from Mom’s/Dad’s minds on that sultry, thunder-and-lightning-filled afternoon. And when I thought further about my own painful memory of my toothache, I couldn’t recall the weather conditions that evening. I think the lesson learned, as a writer/interrogator is “…ask the right question. And be prepared for whatever the answer is; not what you expect to hear. Sometimes, life will throw you a curve ball.” As usual, Mom is right. Yay! Life is good. |
| Ugh! Over the weekend, I found a group on Facebook called “Pennsylvania Dutch and Proud.” I’m both, so I joined. I’m also half-Scots (second generation on the Scots side; on the Dutch/German side, depending on where you find my name on the family tree, I’m 11th generation and 12th generation – there was some hanky-panky going on with some distant cousins around 1820…oi!). We Pennsylvania Dutch are a dying breed…there are fewer and fewer of us as time marches on. The local, huge, family-run farms are being turned into housing developments, shopping centers, and industrial parks. Indeed, the hill we used for sled-riding on my grandparents’ farm is now dotted with mini-mansions (I’m sure those residents have NO clue about the joyous winter days I spent sliding down that hill.) One can still hear the accent in the oldsters who remain in this region, but for the most part, our world has disappeared due to modern times. “Pennsylvania Dutch” is a misnomer. My ascendants arrived here from Germany in 1738. The German word for German, is Deutsch – close enough to Dutch, that the name was bastardized in our area. Someone in the group posted an item about scrambled eggs. So far it has elicited 141 comments…for scrambled eggs! Yikes! (We Pennsylvania Dutch folks are fervent when it comes to food and the proper way it should be prepared…) I posted my own recollection: “Fry up slices of bacon; remove bacon from pan; break eggs into the leftover grease from the bacon; stir vigorously with a fork until the eggs congeal. And, this is most important, they must be made in a cast-iron pan – that is tantamount!” Well, my comment unleashed some comments about cast iron pans. The good, the bad, and the cautionary. I stated “…never use soap/detergent to clean cast iron…” I don’t know if there is a scientific reason for that; all I know is (I learned it from my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother) NEVER use soap on cast iron…apparently it removes the “seasoning”, which is talk for “preparing” the cast-iron pan for use…it takes years of careful attention to the cast-iron vessel. Mom has a set of cast-iron pans/skillets (received as a wedding gift over 63 years ago) she uses to this day. And they NEVER, EVER receive a drop of soap/detergent. Back in the 80s, I bought a cast-iron skillet and set about “seasoning” it according to directions I received from two different sources (Mom and Grammy). I was successful and excited I had a seasoned cast-iron skillet to make Pennsylvania Dutch delights for Chuck (my partner at the time) and me. And it worked. I was proud. I never put a drop of soap on it. My ancestors’ skillets had this non-descriptive build-up of something black (the dregs of numerous Sunday dinners, multiple Thanksgivings, many Christmases), and NOTHING, and I mean, NOTHING stuck to those pans (maybe Pennsylvania Dutch mothers should be credited with coming up with Teflon or T-Fal before it was conceived by male scientists/inventors?). It took me eight years to accomplish that feat. Early into year number eight with Chuck, I arrived home one evening from night college. He ushered me into the kitchen, picked up my (beloved, blackened, painstakingly-prepared-over-eight-years) skillet, smiled and said, “Ta-da! I got rid of all the black stuff! See how clean it is now?” He proudly displayed a shiny, grey skillet…with his shiny white smile. I wanted to cry, but remained manly with my response. “Oh.” (That’s it folks, that’s as manly as I can be.) Pathetic, huh? (In his defense, Chuck was from New Jersey; I had to cut him some slack when it came to my family’s history/traditions…he told me it took him one hour of scrubbing to make the pan shine. I heard, “It only took me one hour to erase eight years’ worth of work.”) “Oh.” Chuck and I separated two months later…not because of his skillet infraction that night when he thought he was being helpful. No, it had more to do with one of us uttering one alcohol-infused evening, “I don’t like you anymore.” That’s pretty definitive and leaves little- to no-wiggle room. Sigh. Just as an aside; while growing up, our family visited my great-aunt and great-uncle at their cabin on a lakeside in the mountains a few hours away; we had to use their outhouse. My younger brother used it, came out, tugged Mom’s skirt and asked, “How do I flush it?” Growing up half-Scots and half-Pennsylvania Dutch has its moments to reflect back on. Life is good. |
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I shall miss your wit and wisdom. Hope all works out for you.
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no pun intended!