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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! Not really…it was grey, overcast, sprinkly, and humid yesterday. My favorite type of day (except for the humidity – I’d prefer a steady rainfall). I called Mom/Dad for our daily checking-out-if-everyone-is-still-alive phone call. We all exist, so that is good news. When I call, Dad puts me on speaker-phone mode; it sounds to me like they’re shouting at me, and in return I feel I’m shouting at them…it’s awkward, but it’s been going on so long it’s become normal. I asked, “What’s on your shopping list?” in reference to our weekly trek to the grocery store and farmers’ market. Mom read off a number of items that ended with Maraschino cherries. Mom: “I’m baking a pineapple-upside-down cake and I need Maraschino cherries.” Dad: “You know what those are, don’t you?” (Directed at me) Me: “Yes, I remember.” I cringed in my apartment…the memory evoked caused me to crunch forward in my chair. Laughter from both Mom and Dad…and, weakly, me. Back when I was a young lad, I got up in the middle of the night, went downstairs, opened the refrigerator, took out a jar of Maraschino cherries, ate them all, drank the juice, put the empty jar back onto the refrigerator shelf and returned to bed. (I have no recollection of doing that- just for the record in case this comes up in court some day). A few minutes after getting back into bed, I sat up, coughed, and threw up all over my comforter. Mom, as young Moms do (I’m not a Mom – it must be innate that they can hear one of their children in distress – maybe one of my female readers could clue me in?) rushed into my bedroom – it was about 3 a.m. I gagged and coughed and vomited. Mom yelled, “Johnnie, he’s throwing up blood.” The lights went on in my bedroom, Dad entered, I continued to throw up, Mom continued to fret and worry about the “blood clots” I was throwing up. Dad tried to calm her down. She was having none of that. “It’s blood,” Mom cried. Dad, always calm in situations that require precision, said, “Nettie. He’s throwing up cherries. Can’t you smell them?” Mom mopped my brow and wiped my lips with a towel and asked, “Did you eat cherries?” I threw up one last time – Mom cried, “Oh, Johnnie, there’s more blood” – and I nodded my head. I’d been found out. I have no idea why I did that, but the story is a familiar one in our family’s history (which, to my chagrin, evokes laughter each time it’s told) – the time I ate a jar of cherries and Mom thought I was dying. That story took place more than 50 years ago. There are things in life that I wish could be forgotten. Back to the present…why are Maraschino cherries on Mom’s shopping list? She’s making a pineapple-upside-down cake as a test run for the one she’s baking me for my birthday next month. Growing up, Mom always made a birthday cake by request for each of us kids (and there were six of us) – for as long as I’m alive I requested pineapple-upside-down cake. And for the bakers out there, we all know a pineapple-upside-down cake has rings of pineapple with a half Maraschino cherry in the center of every ring. And each year Mom bakes one for me…and each year, I avoid eating the Maraschino cherries that decorate the cake. I’m looking forward to next month and a slice of pineapple-upside-down cake…I’ll pass on the Maraschino cherry – I’ve already had my fill. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I must be losing it these days. Sad, but true. Take, for instance, last night. I found myself yawning while watching a movie from Netflix after dinner (about 7 p.m.)…it wasn’t the movie’s fault – it was me. I got out of my chair, turned off the TV; turned off the computer; turned off the lights (my windows face south, so late afternoon and early evening require artificial lighting in my abode) and went to bed (gosh, I just realized how many things I turned off; no wonder my electric bill is so high). I had nothing scheduled for today and thought an early night in bed was worthwhile…in essence, I’d treat myself to a lengthy slumber. The next thing I know is me waking up, looking at my bedside clock, and reading 8:24. I thought, “Boy, I must have needed that extra time…thirteen-plus hours! Yay!” I looked at my bedroom window and saw it was light outside and congratulated myself on a good night’s sleep. I got out of bed, made my bed and stumbled to the kitchen. I turned on the coffee maker, fired up the computer, did my morning routine in the bathroom, returned to the kitchen, poured my first cup of coffee for the day, sat down at the computer and opened my email. Hmm, no new emails. That was odd. Usually overnight I receive 10-15 emails from several automated services I subscribe to. I thought, “Maybe there’s a problem with my ISP’s mail program.” I shrugged and sipped some coffee, lit a cigarette, inhaled and opened up my favorite news Web site. Hmm, still the same headlines from the night before…no new news (not necessarily a bad thing, I thought, but strange). I do the New York Times crossword puzzle second thing each morning (after checking my email). I pulled up the puzzle of the day and discovered it was the one from yesterday. Hmm, something didn’t seem right…I got curiouser and curiouser. I finished my coffee, stubbed out my smoke and looked down in the right hand corner of my monitor and read the date and time. DOH! It was still the same day! I had slept for a grand total of 43 minutes, awoke to (what I assumed was) a new day – in reality it was less than an hour since I’d left my life. How stupid can one get? I thought, “Great! Now what do I do?” I’d already finished a cup of coffee and a cigarette. My brain was wired for a new day. I turned off the coffee maker, washed my mug, turned off the computer, all the time muttering to myself, “How stupid can you get?” I got back into my just-made bed and laid awake for three-and-a-half hours because I had caffeine and nicotine in my system…no matter which way I positioned myself in bed, I could not fall asleep. Ugh. Had this occurred in winter, I would have realized the situation immediately. But, because it’s nearly summer here, the daylight lingers longer, hence the confusion (8:24 p.m. in winter would be pitch black; 8:24 p.m. in late spring it’s still light outdoors). That’s what I told myself. But I have this niggling thought in my mind, still today, maybe I’m losing it. Despite it all… Life is good. |
| Ugh! So in my daily phone call to my parents yesterday, we got to talking about olden days (*whimper* I’m now in that category of reminiscing about ‘olden days’). We talked about butchering (don’t ask), a wisteria bush (I was afraid of it as a child – don’t ask), and our trip to a local public swimming pool decades ago (I have NO idea how THAT conversation emerged). I remarked it was the first time I saw a jock strap (I believe the technical term was “athletic supporter” as I learned later in life – keep reading for that revelation…). Silence greeted me on my end of the phone line. The story: Mom/Dad drove us three boys to Hiawatha Pool for an afternoon of swimming (this was before the addition of two brothers and a sister into our family). Dad parked the car, we got out and headed to the changing rooms with excited thoughts of splashing and diving and jumping and swimming (why we weren’t already wearing our swimming suits is a mystery – it was a HOT day). Mom headed off by herself to the ladies room; my father and two brothers and I entered the men’s’ room. As I took off my clothes to change into my swim trunks, I noticed a naked man beside me who pulled on a piece of clothing I’d never seen before…it looked like underpants, but there was no seat portion – his butt cheeks were exposed. I was startled and tapped Dad’s hip and said, “Why is that man putting on underwear with holes in it?” Dad replied, “Don’t look.” Well, I’ve always been an inquisitive chap, hence, of course, I naturally stared at this man. He didn’t seem to care his underpants had no seat attached, so I figured everything was okey-dokey with him. But not with me. That image is burned into my psyche. I so wish Dad had said something like, “…it’s a jock strap, son. Put your swim suit on.” Not “don’t look.” Dad, just be honest with your son; why the diversionary tactic? It was a piece of clothing that several years later I had to don myself for my first gym class in seventh grade; sigh; I put it on sideways with the cup portion on my right hip. Sad. Robert G. had to help me get it on right. Double sad. Gym class and I were NEVER a good combination through 12 years of schooling. Instead, Dad presented me with the nebulous, “…don’t look.” And for years, that’s what I did. I didn’t look; I took life as explained to me from Dad’s point-of-view as Gospel. I’m sure he meant (and, stubbornly, still does) well. It’s taken me a long time to learn to “look” again. I think he used the term “don’t look” as something he didn’t want to discuss…things like, oh, let’s say “differences” in others (be that race, ethnicity, skin color, eye shape, clothing styles, accent, gender, etc…you know, just a *few* things). I don’t know about any of you, but I never had “the talk” with Dad…or Mom for that matter. I learned about sex from “the gutter” (meaning my peers and all the hopes, promises, rumors, and speculations that accompany stepping-into-puberty discussions – the mystery and satisfaction were merely a few years away, which I and my classmates couldn’t wait for). I remember being in seventh grade and during library period (yes, that was a class in my school), I went to the BIG library dictionary (the one on its own stand near the reference section) and looked up the meanings of several words. It was easy to locate the pages, because they’d been looked at before by thousands of students who went to school there before me (probably most onlookers had heard the “don’t look” statement from a parent). The pages were dog-eared, torn, marked by pencil and pen; words were underlined and some even had stars inscribed around them (*TRUE*). I’d really like to look at that same dictionary today (if it still exists) to see if my remembrances are correct. At the time of that discovery (I looked up several words that I’d heard out-loud but more often, whispered), I felt I’d taken a giant leap forward in my knowledge of things important to my future life. Dad, I know you meant to help, but if we “don’t look” we don’t see, and if we don’t see, we don’t learn. And the only way to move forward in life is to learn and put what we’ve learned into practice in everyday existence. This entire blog entry could have been avoided if on that summer day long ago Dad had merely said to me, “it’s a jock strap, son. Put your swim suit on.” I’d have accepted it and never have given it another thought. Dad knew. A few years after the swimming pool incident, I vividly recall the day Mom took me shopping on our yearly trek for new-school-year clothing. On Mom’s list was “athletic supporter.” I looked at the list before we left home; in my dementia I thought she was referring to cheerleading or rabid fan and dreamed of wearing our school’s colors (I was psyched!), and for a brief minute or two distressingly thought, “I don’t know how to jump,” but, I figured I could learn to do so in the two weeks before school started up again, and was excited about the prospect…cheerleaders were cool back then. Mom spoke to the sales clerk explaining the reason for our foray into the sporting goods department of the store (where just for the record, I felt *extremely* out of place). (Mom) “He needs an athletic supporter.” “An” athletic supporter?? “An??” What gives? I thought I was going to *be* an athletic supporter! I liked my classmates who played sports and had a desire to cheer them on to victory in whatever sport they played (even though I couldn’t jump – but I could yell loudly, so I felt semi-confident)… (Mom again, prolonging my agony) “What size should he wear?” (Clerk – taking a glance at me) “Oh, he can get by with a small.” *sigh* Maybe Dad was right? “Don’t look” – down. *double sigh* Wow! That certainly was a long, discombobulated ride…sorry. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday was rainy and overcast here at The Home. I took a nap mid-day, something I don’t usually do because I’m afraid I won’t sleep at night. However, I caved in and laid down for 15 minutes… As I slipped into unconsciousness, I had a great idea for a blog post. It was stupendous; I toyed with jotting down the idea, but figured it was such a strong idea, I’d no doubt wake up after 15 minutes and recall it and pen the entry (and besides I had no need to pee, so sleep prevailed). …Two-and-a-half hours later, I woke up. Drat! Ugh! I have no remembrance other than that my thought was “…a terrific idea.” Where did my brain go? Why, oh, why didn’t I follow my gut and get up and write down my thoughts? That inspiration is now gone, never to be written out. Sigh. It could have been the seeds to the next, great American novel we writers all dream of. Naaah, it probably had something to do with doughnuts and how they should be classified as a food group or something along that line of thinking…peas should be outlawed (I’m all for that one!), let’s please solve the problem with toilet paper: over or under? (for over 40 years I preferred under; lately I’ve found myself doing over…maybe an old dog CAN learn new tricks?) I find myself making notes to myself more and more as I get older…I have a pad of Post-Its on my desk beside my computer so I can keep track of random thoughts that occur during a computer session…menu thoughts (more like “remember to make this for dinner”), grocery items I need (and also what I want – there is a difference), financial matters (“where does all the money go?”), etc. I also use an electronic calendar to keep me on track; I have alarms set for every five days - charge my cell phone (which I now own for almost two years and have used to make exactly ONE phone call and it was busy so I had to leave a voicemail); every Saturday morning at 7:30 – pick up Mom and Dad to go shopping; every 15 days – leave the computer on overnight to do a thorough scan for virus/malware; each mid-August schedule my annual physical with my adamant, Russian primary care physician…with my computer’s assistance I feel a tad more in control of my life. My new goal is to write down any thoughts I have at any time throughout the day so I don’t miss something. Note to self: put Post-It pads in kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and living room – not just at computer desk. One can never be certain when a brilliant idea might arise. Yeah, and another note-to-self: “don’t lay down for 15 minutes.” Despite losing my brilliant blog idea…. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I think I’ve mentioned before that I take my parents to the local grocery store and farmers’ market each week. For the most part, the trips are pleasant with enjoyable conversations. As I grew up, Mom always had dinner on the table by the time Dad got home from work; she cooked and baked for eight…and there was ALWAYS dessert. I admire her tenacity and ingenuity. I use Mom’s well-observed-by-me skills to prepare meals for myself to this day. The only difference is I rarely make dessert. A cigarette suffices as an after-dinner treat. (Had I known that pleasure as a toddler, I would have smoked at home, but, I think few five-year-olds would be allowed to puff away after a plate of turkey while passing on the pumpkin pie…”thanks for the offer of dessert, Mom, but I’ll just enjoy this smoke.” Uh-uhn.) This past weekend Mom presented me with two slices of a fresh apple cake she had baked. I remembered the cake from growing up; it is very moist and has deadly icing – it used to hurt my teeth when I ate it. (Now I have dentures – long story.) We did our shopping and talked about the fresh apple cake and who provided Mom with the recipe (it came from the mother of my uncle who was married to my father’s sister – it took us several miles driving in rush-hour traffic to figure that one out). I joked that I’d probably be able to eat it since I have false teeth. Dad chimed in with, “Don’t bet on it.” HAHA. That night I ate one of the two slices. Then I wanted more because it was so good and I could eat Mom’s fresh apple cake without my teeth hurting – I was heady with excitement…I wanted to test my limits! I ate the second piece. “Oink!” Moderation has never been a strong point in my life – I’m either all in or not in at all. Boy, was that cake tasty! Life is good. |
| Ugh! My second-oldest niece graduated high school this past Tuesday. I did not attend the commencement ceremony (it was limited to immediate family), but through the visionary skills of Mark Zuckerberg and Facebook, I got to “attend” in a sense. Several of my niece’s friends shared their photos on Facebook. The first thing I noted was the diversity of her circle of friends…Asian, Hispanic, Indian, Black, White, etc. – a (trite as it sounds, but…) virtual rainbow. She had a much more robust experience in the public school system than I did growing up. When I grew up, my school was all White – the only diversity I encountered was who could drive a tractor and who couldn’t (I couldn’t and still can’t) – no Jews, no Blacks, no Asians, no Indians, no Hispanics, no gays or lesbians (except for those of us who were closeted and didn’t dare profess), no Muslims – We were a pale school. Lily white. (It’s difficult to reflect back on those days now.) My sister’s children have spent their entire educational experiences in schools with diverse populations. I envy their experiences, and wish I’d grown up the same way. I didn’t. My schools were all one color: drab. When I viewed the posted pictures on FB, I liked the smiles of my niece and her friends. Smiles are important in life. Color is important in life. Difference is important in life. She and her friends beamed their smiles. And all their smiles brought a smile to my face. Yesterday I ran into Complaining Connie when I left The Home to purchase my latest supply of cigarettes. I said, “Good morning, Connie and Rascal.” Rascal is her mangy dog who sat on her lap in her wheelchair and licked my hand when I gave him rubs. Her response? “Says who?” How does one respond to something like that? I hope I don’t turn into a Complaining Connie as life moves me forward. I try to live my life in a way that I seek out new things; not stew about the past or the present. I feel sorry for CC; she is always negative about every life element. I would think that would become tiring after a while – it doesn’t seem to affect her, though. There are things in life that I want, but I’m focused on things that I need. There is a difference there – I need food, I need shelter, I need safety – other than those things, I’m able to survive with what is available. And sometimes I have to search for those availabilities. Like enjoying a picture of a young woman surrounded by her friends, all with big smiles on their faces, in commencement garb, and enjoying a special moment in her life. And by sharing, her pictures provided me a special moment. Thanks, Emily! Life is good. |
| Ugh! Today is the 69th anniversary of D-Day, the Allied operation in WWII that turned the tide of the war. I read at history.com there were 156,000 American, Canadian, and British troops deployed that day, along a 50-mile stretch of beaches in the Normandy region of France. That’s a lot of soldiers to command and coordinate! Yikes! I experience difficulty when picking up Mom and Dad to do grocery shopping each week – who sits where? Front or back? Whose legs aren’t working right today? And, that’s THREE of us! I can’t imagine what it must have been like to orchestrate an event involving 155,997 additional individuals. Talk about the big picture! I was born during the baby boom following WWII. Perhaps our parents had had enough of war and just wanted to move on with their lives. The long, drawn-out turmoil was in their minds; having kids, owning a house, going back to school to earn a high school diploma, a return to “normal” were in the forefront of their lives. Our Greatest Generation (an apropos term devised by Tom Brokaw) of WWII vets is dwindling. My father served in the U.S. Navy; his late sister was an Army nurse. I guess back then, it was expected to serve. But those times were before we knew/learned the effects of war – on others and our loved ones, and some instances, ourselves. I guess I’m a pacifist by nature; I abhor confrontation – I’m a peace-maker at heart. I do not enjoy raised voices, arched eyebrows, steely glares, rigid postures…please! Can’t we talk this out? Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito (the Axis) were not willing to talk things out. Sad. So the powers-that-be assaulted them on several fronts. It would have been nice to “talk things out” but it was obvious by June 6, 1944, that was no longer on the table. Sometimes one must take drastic measures for the good of us back home. I tried Googling “how many died on D-Day” but came up with not one definitive answer…the estimates are in the thousands. They were brave soldiers, headed into the unknown. They fought for our freedoms, and we enjoy those freedoms today. Thank you Allied Soldiers. Life is good. |
| Ugh! This past Sunday, I ran into Bombastic Bill while checking my mailbox. It appears he has taken over the late Doom-and-Gloom Earl’s role of The Home’s voice of ludicrousness… He “informed” me vociferously that Edith Bunker had passed away and wondered if I would be interested in arranging a memorial service here at The Home. Okay, I had read the news of Jean Stapleton dying earlier that morning; but BB insisted it was Edith who had died. It got me thinking – there are actors who create such indelible memories, we often confuse reality with fiction. Jean was one of those individuals. Her Edith Bunker is etched onto my psyche forever. No one before her, and no one since, has had that effect on me. Lucille Ball’s “Lucy Ricardo” comes close; Mary Tyler Moore’s “Mary Richards” comes close. However, Lucy was a clown; Mary was a yuppie. Edith was the Everywoman. Yes, she was daffy at times, but she always portrayed a sense of realness that neither Lucy nor Mary provided. She strived to be the peacemaker in the Bunker household – and there was lots of peace to be made, if one remembers the series. She did it because she had to; chaos would have run rampant without her however-you-define-it wisdom. “All in the Family” was a bold experiment in how much the American public would tolerate in their living rooms on a weekly basis. Never before had a bigot been portrayed to the masses (at least in my memory). Apparently, the American public LOVED the concept…it was, for five years, the top-rated show in the Nielsen Ratings. That show would NEVER get aired in today’s politically-correct world. It was adapted from a British show entitled “’Til Death Us Do Part.” The Brits are usually ahead of the ball when it comes to quality on television…and I’m thankful for that. Archie, Edith, Michael, and Gloria broke barriers during the run of their show, which debuted over 40 years ago. The series was so good, it became difficult to remember Carroll, Jean, Rob, and Sally were actors providing entertainment for us audience members. They came into our lives each Saturday night for 30 minutes and made us look at our existences from a different perspective: we disagreed, we agreed, we were ambivalent, we were combative, we were emphatic – and we all talked about the show’s topics. Kudos to Norman Lear for adapting the show to air in the U.S. Lear created and developed a believable family and put them in our own homes for half an hour each week – he thrust the Bunkers and Stivics and Jeffersons into our faces and made us deal with situations. Yes, we had the option to turn the TV off, but we didn’t. We were fascinated, appalled, intrigued, entertained, and we questioned our own values system. At least I did; and I’m confident I’m not alone. So, in a sense, Bombastic Bill was correct when he told me “…Edith Bunker died.” See? I’m still learning at this late stage of my life. Yes, Edith is gone…but her memory will forever reside in my head (and in reruns on TV). As for a memorial service here at The Home – umm, I’ll take a pass on that one. We can’t get together for an activities director, let alone a memorial service. Good grief! We lost a friend in Jean, or as she’s better known, Edith. Thanks for the memories. In the future I’ll weigh Bombastic Bill’s comments with more compassion. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Well, things are returning to more spring-like conditions here at The Home. We all survived the first heat wave of the summer season (even though it’s not summer). Yesterday, I got caught up by watching some backlogged TV shows on my TiVo while it steamed outdoors. About 2 p.m.: Soft *knock knock knock* on my door. “Great,” I thought. “It’s Sylvia wanting to know who owns the Internet so she can contact the person in charge to express her dismay.” I ignored the knocks, hoping they’d go away. Not. A few seconds later: harder *knock knock* I hit the pause button on my remote and reluctantly got out of my chair. I figured it might be Calamity Cleary with one of her weather “bulletins” (we were, at the time, under a severe weather alert)… It was neither Sylvia nor Calamity Cleary – it was Diane, who knocks on my door asking “to borrow” something on a fairly regular basis – like a hot dog or a half-cup of milk. This is what transpired (interrupting my getting-caught-up afternoon): (me) “Hi, Diane.” (her – a little out of breath) “I just talked to Connie and she said I should ask you because you like to cook.” (me) “Okay, what about?” (her) “Do you have a lemon slice I could borrow? I’m making fish sticks and I forgot to buy a lemon. I like the way it squirts. Connie told me you might have a slice of lemon I could borrow.” (me thinking – a lemon slice? Not a wedge – as a rule wedges squirt, slices don’t) “Umm, no, sorry, Diane. I don’t have a lemon slice.” She never looked me in the eye during the brief conversation. She replied, “Oh, okay, well I’ll just have to eat fish sticks with no juice.” (me) “Sorry, Diane. I hope you enjoy your fish.” (her – wobbly walking down the hall toward the elevator) “I’ll try, but I won’t be happy.” Imagine – a slice of lemon can make someone happy. In a strange sense, I’m starting to admire Diane – yes, she bothers us Home-ites to ask to borrow something that can’t be replaced, but she is steadfast in her quest; she doesn’t give in. She lives life on HER terms…whether she’s a pain in the butt or not – she knows what she wants, and she goes after it. I’m not that brave – don’t get me wrong; I know what I want, but at this stage in my life I have to focus on what I need. “Want” is for dreamers; “need” is for survivalists (with all the stupid reality shows on TV, I wish someone would come up with one dealing with us seniors and what our lives are REALLY like). Maybe I’ll work on a pilot for a series of senior reality. Hey, it could be titled, “Life at The Home.” Naaah, it won’t happen. But a senior can dream, right? Life is good. |
| Ugh! Relatively quiet weekend here at The Home; Little Sparrow kept me entertained when my a/c wasn’t humming/rattling away. It’s way too hot for this time of the year; this heat and humidity can be expected in July or August – not early June. Sunday morning I took a bag of trash to the dumpsters outside The Home. I ran into Sylvia in the lobby. “Good morning.” (me with heavy garbage bag in hand) “Yeah.” (her) I proceeded outside and thought, “Great…another complainer.” I heaved the bag into said dumpster and re-entered The Home. Sylvia was seated in a chair. I smiled at her and headed off to the staircase to get to my apartment and listen to Little Sparrow. But… “My son is buying me a computer.” (her) I stopped, turned, and said, “Oh, that’s nice. I hope you enjoy it.” “Connie told me you’re a whiz with computers.” “Well, I wouldn’t go that far…” (me) “How much does the Internet cost?” (her) “My son said I have to pay for it, but he didn’t tell me how much. He said I could download it…how does that work?” “Umm, you don’t actually download the Internet.” (me) “Well, how do I get it on my computer?” (her) “The Internet exists…that’s all there is to it – you turn on your computer and connect to the Internet.” (me) “How will I do that?” (her) “I’m sure your son will get you set up in no time. If you have questions, ask him.” (me turning to leave before she asked ME for assistance) “Okay.” (her) I half-waved at her and headed off to the staircase. “If-“ I had almost escaped, but Sylvia rambled on. Drat. “-I have questions, can you help me?” Double drat. I turned and faced her. “I think it would be best if you had your son teach you.” I smiled, turned around and half-trotted to the staircase. Climbing the stairs, I thought, “How could she think about downloading the Internet?” I will live in dread over the next few days/weeks that any knock on my door will present me with Sylvia on the other side with a question about the Internet – does it ever shut down? Who owns the Internet? What does LOL mean? It promises to be a long, hot, sweaty, steamy summer here at The Home. Seniors online – what a concept! God must be smiling and maybe, just maybe, snickering. Off to check my emails… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday, I caught up with some shows recorded on my DVR. It was a hot and humid day here at The Home. I reluctantly turned on the a/c in my living room to keep the humidity at bay and the indoor temperature below 80F – it’s WAY too early for this summer weather; ugh. Poor Little Sparrow flitted away repeatedly throughout daylight hours while the machine hummed/rattled on and off. But Little Sparrow did wake me up this morning at 4:15 a.m. with a cheerful serenade. I watched the 250th episode of “Inside the Actor’s Studio.” I auto-record it throughout the year. I’m always fascinated by host, James Lipton and his ability to get actors/actresses/directors/celebrities to open up about their lives and their crafts. I gain appreciation each time; I guess that’s the intent of the show – it works for me. I don’t always like the interviewee, but I watch the shows nonetheless – I figure I might pick something up along the way through words of wisdom or life experiences. Lack of knowledge leads to fear that leads to hate that leads to war. If I don’t care for the guest, I imagine I’m locked in a room with him/her and he/she is my only companion; I must look for a way to relate, despite our disdain for each other. I dislike silence in close quarters – it’s awkward. Speaking of actors/actresses, I’m reminded of Shakespeare’s words: “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players…” from “As You Like It.” Shakespeare nailed it in my opinion. Here at The Home, we are all “players” (passengers) in a sad, yet blockbuster (after all, I’ll be featured) depiction of a movie entitled, “End of the Line: Titanic.” We all know the eventual outcome, yet we actors “play” with each other trying to outlast the pre-ordained visit from the Grim Reaper. It’s merely a matter of time. Some of my neighbors are nice ship mates (I enjoy their pleasantries on a daily basis and wouldn’t mind sharing a table with them in the grand dining room on board); some are pains in the butt (I think often of having an “accident” occur on deck and they “suddenly disappear” over the railing; I avoid them by taking the stairs instead of the elevator, or exiting/entering The Home using a side/back entrance). I want to spend my last years in solace, not conflict (surely, no scramble for lifeboats)…I feel I’ve earned it. I’m all for smooth sailing at this late stage in my life…no turmoil, no stress (and, certainly, no icebergs)… just a nice open sea as I sail on to The Beyond… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Woke up after a lousy night of sleep – I tossed and turned and fretted and stewed; finally I gave up and logged onto my computer only to discover I had connectivity issues with my ISP. Double ugh! At least Word works. Soooooo…let’s see, what’s new here at The Home. One of my new neighbors – nope, already wrote about that last week. Okay, how about cooking – uh-uhn, ditto. (As you can see, my life is jam-packed with excitement.) I have 45 minutes left of the final episode of Downton Abbey, Season Three on DVD. I watched the entire series back in February, so there are no more surprises for me. And I had to be VERY CAREFUL when online that I didn’t run across any spoilers as the season wound down. The show is very well produced and acted. I even like the nasty people. Not sure why it caused such a frenzy here in the States. It could be that it’s superior to almost everything on US television these days. I long for the days before “reality” shows took over the airwaves. Honey-boo-boo (I’ve never seen the show, but I’ve heard about it; how sad is it that an American show on American TV being broadcast to Americans has to provide closed-captioning to the rest of us Americans because we can’t understand what the people are saying?); The Bachelor and The Bachelorette (please!); hoarders (cringe-worthy and awe-inspiring, but intrigued – until the dead cats are found; then it’s “click”); the Kardashians – who the heck are they? And why are they on TV? Shows about fishermen and dancing celebrities (supposedly “stars”, but lately they’re making up “stars” to keep the show on the air); hillbillies and Jersey-Shore-ites; housewives of various places: let me tell you, my Mom NEVER appeared the way these vindictive, shallow women do… The only reality show I watch on a regular basis is “Project Runway.” I know absolutely zilch when it comes to men’s fashion, and double zilch when it comes to women’s fashion. However, I’m fascinated by how the designers take a piece of cloth and whip it into a dress in a few hours. I think they just ended the 11th season – in not one of those airings did I pick the chosen over-all winner of the season; I had a few victories for individual episodes. One would think I would gain fashion knowledge through osmosis, but that’s not the case. My wardrobe consists of seven pairs of socks, seven boxer shorts, seven t-shirts, three pairs of jeans, seven button-down shirts, two pairs of dress slacks, and two pairs of shoes. That allows me room in my closet to store my vacuum cleaner as it sleeps between work stints. I lead a pretty simple life…it does me fine. I shake my head when I see an article on TV about some starlet’s “closet.” Recently I saw a story about some famous star; she proudly showed off her over-5,000 sq ft closet. Yes, her “closet” was bigger than most houses. It reminded me of a warehouse. She had thousands of dresses and hundreds of pairs of shoes…and she giggled about her “passion” to the interviewer. Why the excess? It was almost obscene…how can one explain that situation without sounding deranged? The worst part is: I watched the darned thing! Ugh! As time marches on, I get more and more used to living with less and less – I suppose that might be part of the overall aging process? If so, I’m successful on this journey. And, for the most part… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Not really, but it’s become habit… The Home is located in eastern Pennsylvania. I’m fortunate to live in a fairly large-sized semi-urban area sitting 50 miles north of Philadelphia and 90 miles southwest of New York City…live entertainment is available in different forms both here and in those cities – easy enough for a night at the theatre not requiring air fare. This overall area used to be suburban, but is, over the years, turning into one consistent canvas: sprawl. I predict within fifty years we’ll be absorbed into a city-state that encompasses everything from Boston down to Washington, DC…a megalopolis of many millions of individuals (and, I’ll sadly not be around to enjoy the excitement). This year marks the 11th presentation of the Freddy Awards – a local competition (similar to the Tony Awards on Broadway in New York City each spring) in which high schools in our region compete in the field of musical theatre. The awards are named after a ghost who supposedly inhabits the State Theatre where the ceremony is held. I watch it on TV every year, and each year I am more impressed by the talent of our youth. They make me proud…and happy. Your mileage may vary. http://www.wfmz.com/features/freddys/musical-performance-from-42nd-street-by-sou... I hope that link works (sorry about the audio, but it’s not under my control; and the video is not in HD – remember, this is a SMALL TV station that can’t compete with the bigger ones out of Philly and NYC) and this is a live performance. This is my alma mater high school’s presentation at the Freddy Awards last Thursday night (they won a Freddy for best feature performance). May 2013 saw 30 local high schools compete for awards. Whoever came up with the idea to showcase the talents of young people in this region should be awarded something. Our economy is suffering and I’ve read about schools having to cut their budgets; usually the first to go is the arts programs, rapidly followed by athletics. Some schools in this immediate area have been affected, but when it comes to Freddy night, every student is a star. I’ve been out of school for nearly half a century, but I don’t recall anything like this approaching my experiences on stage crew (and my performance in the junior class play as “Boy at Record Player” –Lois (my aforementioned prom date) was “Girl at Record Player.” We each had four lines consisting of one word each; on the first performance night Lois forgot her third word – so there was an awkward moment or two until someone from off-stage cued her with a heard-in-the-auditorium “whisper” – it brought down the house. Ahh, memories of my former life on stage!). Now I feel most days I’m staging life instead of the old days when life was a stage. As a senior citizen, I am blessed to experience the talent of those coming along behind us. These students give me great hope for the future…they’re 14-18 years old – when I was that age, my biggest worry was whether I would be required to fight the war in Vietnam when I came of age or secondly (and more immediately), how do I get rid of my zits. Our crop of teens today exhibit talent beyond their years. If you’re really interested and opened the link I provided, I hope you enjoyed it; there are lots of links on that page to other schools and their performances. So grab a second cup of coffee and take part in what the youth in our nation are up to – it’s not all bad… …and maybe you’ll smile. BTW, Little Sparrow returned yesterday – and is happily chirping away on my a/c; I hope it had a good vacation. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Memorial Day here at The Home passed under partly cloudy, cool skies. I was happy. Mid-day I called my elderly parents, like I do every day to check in on them. “Hello! Just callin’ to see how everyone is doing.” (me) “We’re here.” (Dad) “Hi!” (Mom) They always answer their aging phone in speaker-phone mode; as a result, they shout and here, in my apartment at The Home, I shout back at them. (Sorry, The Home neighbors…) We exchanged pleasantries (Dad mowed the grass, they took the clippings to the recycling center, they planted 44 begonias, they bought a block of cheese at the grocery store, Mom found an incontinence pad in the wash; it had gone through both the washer and dryer (and she thinks she’ll be able to re-use it, now that it’s been laundered), the sorry state of the education system in this country (I know! WHAT brought that on?), and swimming pools (it was a long conversation). I shared I had to get out of bed twice the night before to pee. (Notice the difference in the size of those two paragraphs? I feel I’ve failed.) Mom is in the early stages of dementia/Alzheimer. Today, I asked, “What’s on your menu for tonight, Mom?” “Umm, let me think…” (Mom) [Loud whispering: “What are we having?” (Mom) “Hot dogs.” (Dad) “What?” (Mom) “Hot dogs.” (Dad)] Back on the speakerphone: “A hot dog.” (Mom) “Just one?” I hollered back. (Mom laughing): “No. One and a half.” (Me): “Umm…” (Dad): “She thinks one hot dog is not enough, so we each have one in a bun, then split another one without the bun.” (Me): “Umm…” (Mom): “They’re really good.” (Me): “Enjoy.” (Mom): “We will and I hope you will, too.” (Me): “I will, Mom and Dad. I hope you like yours.” [click] I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Despite everything…. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Quiet, cool, grey, off-and-on wet, windy holiday weekend here at The Home; I am a happy camper. I fear my Little Sparrow has found another place to perch – no serenades for the past two days. Boo-hoo. Perhaps it traveled out of town for the holiday? I read an article in the “New York Times” over the weekend about siblings and the roles they play in our lives throughout the years…it got me thinking about my own situation. I am blessed/cursed to have five siblings: four brothers (one older, three younger) and one sister (younger). Growing up, I was the middle child for 10 years; then my (according to Mom) “accident” younger brother was born. He was referred to at the time as a “caboose” child – one who came along after the train had left the station (we three older boys hadn’t left the terminal; however, there was an age gap of 15 years between oldest and youngest at his birth). Two years later, Mom and Dad “planned” a sibling for their youngest son (…”so he wouldn’t grow up alone”…) and fate intervened: we got twins – yet another boy, but for a switch, a girl, too. So, we became a family of six kids…with two “middle” children (my sister was born 22 minutes before her brother – making her the “middle” child in the younger group). I have a very concrete observation about growing up a “middle child.” The oldest child has the benefit of being the first to do anything – and the camera is always around. The youngest child takes center stage in the family – the baby. Everyone dotes on the tot. The baby creates “last first-time moments” as in, this is our last child – let’s cherish these firsts… (with camera in hand). “Middle” kids miss out on the first-time-ever accomplishments of family life: the first to sit up, the first to walk, the first to get a tooth, the first to talk. By the time the middle child reaches any of those milestones, the novelty and excitement has worn off (“We’ve been through this before”). I grew up with a feeling of being “there” – not actually serving a purpose. Through it all I developed a sense of looking for absurdities in life – “…why do things occur the way they do?” “What is wrong with this picture?” “Am I invisible?” “What if I eat chalk?” “How about I throw a tantrum?” “Is anyone listening?” I carry that inquisitiveness to this day…except the chalk thing – it’s not good. As I stated, my baby sister was the middle child of the younger set of children in our family. She and I have a good relationship. I’m closest to her when it comes to family even though we’re 13 years apart in age. She and I “get” each other in almost every aspect of living…I attribute our closeness to being middle children. As I’ve felt most of my life, my other siblings are “there” - much like I felt growing up. Sad. I wish it was different, but it’s not. It was Harper Lee who wrote (in “To Kill a Mockingbird”), “You can choose your friends but you sho' can't choose your family, an' they're still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge 'em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don't.” Amen…I think. To those readers in the US of A, a pleasant and reflective Memorial Day…remember the sacrifices our forebears provided us. Life is good. |
| Ugh! A stalled cold front (the same storm system that affected Oklahoma on Monday) *tried* to pass through here at The Home yesterday…we experienced spritzing then downpours, then drizzle, a few booms of thunder, a flash of lightning, tree-bending wind gusts, then more sprinkles. Through it all, my Little Sparrow friend was steadfast in its perch on my a/c. I turned the a/c off and opened my windows for fresh, cooler, but, humid air, then dashed to close the windows as the skies opened up, sweated inside; when the rain passed I opened the windows again, only to have to hop (“hop” being an ambitious word) up to close them. It was quite an afternoon. But I’m old. What else was I going to do to entertain myself? The weather folks promise temperatures in the 60s for the next few days. That’s more like it. YAY! However, the Memorial Day crowd will be disappointed – it’s the un-official beginning of summer in this part of the country (even though it doesn’t officially start until 21 June). My picnic and beach days are long behind me...now it’s easier to look at pictures of long-ago events and reflect on the reality. They’re somewhat romantic, but if one really thinks about the memory, one recalls at picnics: smoke getting into one’s eyes from the charcoal grill, gnats flitting about, ants getting into the food, flies – don’t get me started on the flies! Ugh! Potato salad made with mayonnaise that sat in blazing sunshine for a few hours and “…tastes a little bit funny, don’t you think, Nancy?” The little siblings, nieces and nephews (in my situation) who ran around with Popsicle trickle on their mouths, lips, chins, and bare chests without a care in the world. Ditto with beach memories: sand. Ugh! I can’t say it enough. Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Sand on my feet, in between my toes, in my bathing suit in the most uncomfortable areas (and there aren’t a lot of uncomfortable areas in a boy’s/man’s swimsuit!), on the porch, in the rental house, in the bed; in my ears, in my hair – and all I did was SIT on the beach! Beach time to me was nothing like the scene with Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1W6AGM-LxGY) in “From Here to Eternity” from 1953. Good for Debra and Burt (but I’m willing to bet dollars to doughnuts they had sand SOMEwhere on them after shooting that scene); however, the footage is magical… Ugh! Change of mind-thought: I do get nostalgic when I hear this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjD0Ne3CuaY It’s a musical remembrance of my visits to Avalon, NJ; Wildwood, NJ; and Rehoboth, DE: Fun, huh? I hope the upcoming weekend improves my spirit…if not, well, there’s not much I can do – except avoid picnics and beaches this weekend! To all Americans: a peaceful, reflective holiday Memorial Day weekend. And wishes for a blissful summer (my least favorite season of the year – but, still, I wish you well). (I think I may be hanging out with Complaining Connie more than I should; she might be rubbing off on me. Sigh. All I did in this post is grouse and kvetch. Ugh!) Despite it all… Life is good. |
| Ugh! My poor little, song-singing, air-conditioner-perching sparrow has been experiencing a rough patch the past two days. You see, the temperatures here outside The Home soared into the upper 80s yesterday and the day before (WAY too hot for this time of the year for this region). That meant my indoor temperature rose to uncomfortable levels, necessitating turning on my living room air conditioner. I like it frigid when sleeping (my bedroom a/c is set at 72F); my living room is set at 78F (I’m trying to conserve energy and at the same time not end up sweating like a hog or paying through the nose for the electricity). It took me a while to figure out the thermostat function (I prefer appliances to exhibit ON and OFF buttons/switches…all that’s needed - really), but I was eventually successful. I have it set on “energy saving” mode – whatever those two words mean. As far as I can tell, it means it doesn’t run all the time: it runs for 25 minutes, is quiet for 3 minutes, and then runs again for 25 minutes. I suppose in the universe of government energy agencies, it’s considered “energy saving;” or so is what they want us to believe. My avian friend sits on my air-conditioner and serenades me (I know; I should really get a life…or perhaps my friend should get a life?) with happy tunes until the behemoth a/c kicks on and the music abruptly ceases amidst a flurry of feathers as he/she flies off into the ether. But sparrow returns, like clockwork as soon as it shuts off and continues the concert where it left off. Maybe he/she likes me? The poor thing must be stressed out by now what with the sudden vibrations it senses as the a/c powers through its cycles to keep me comfy indoors. I kind of feel badly. But not enough to turn off the a/c and stew in my own sweat. Wasn’t Edith Piaf known as The Little Sparrow? Here is a gift to you by my little sparrow, and me, from our energy-saving-and-bird-frightening apartment here at The Home. I hope you enjoy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1zFc7nIJnvo (It’s one of my favorite tunes.) Life is good. |
| Ugh! I’m REALLY hungry for baklava. Neither my local farmers’ market nor my grocery store carries it and I’ve been unable to locate it in various bakeries throughout this area. I have to wait for the second week in September each year when one of the local Greek churches holds their annual festival. Baklava is like a Taste of Heaven in my mind. From Wikipedia: “Baklava is a rich, sweet pastry made of layers of phyllo pastry filled with chopped nuts and sweetened with syrup or honey.” By no means is it healthy…but then few good-tasting things are healthy, right? Like cheesecake…I use a recipe for triple-chocolate cheesecake that I’ve made over the past 30 years (indeed when I worked at University of Pennsylvania back in the 1980s I used to make them for fellow employees for $30 each). I haven’t made one for a long time. It is dark, rich, creamy, and just plain out “yummy” (to use a high-browed culinary term). It seems some of the tastiest foods are not good for us: doughnuts (glazed, not powdered is my preference); French fries (I opt for Burger King Fries – they’re crispier than McDonald’s); lobster: but most people like the butter that accompanies the lobster – not the lobster itself; and cheesecake. What would you choose for your last meal if you were on death row, and scheduled for execution? For my first course, I would request cucumber salad – merely, sliced cucumbers and sliced onions in vinegar and lots of black pepper (Mom made that a lot while I was growing up); for the second course, I’d go for pork and sauerkraut (my Pennsylvania-Dutch heritage); a side of steamed broccoli sprinkled with lemon juice and parmesan cheese; and for dessert: either my mother’s rhubarb-custard pie or baklava or Mom’s pineapple-upside-down cake (Mom always made – and still does – our own choice for birthday cakes for all of my siblings (5) – for as long as I can remember, my choice was pineapple-upside-down cake). Afterwards, I could be led happily to the electric chair. I might even skip to my death. How the heck did I go from baklava to capital punishment in just a few paragraphs? Yikes! I’d best start my day. My sparrow got an early start this morning outside my living room window on the air conditioner. (I AM going to get a picture of him/her one of these days. When I do, I’ll have to figure out how to post the picture in “Life at The Home”). In the meantime… Life is good. |
| Ugh! I planned on writing something witty about vegetarianism for today’s “Life at The Home” but decided against that considering the alarming news out of Oklahoma from late yesterday, and continues this morning. I’ve never been to Oklahoma; however, I’ve always been a fan of the state – if such a status is really real. In my junior year of high school (way back when), I wrote an essay about the ground-breaking Rodgers and Hammerstein Broadway show from 1943, “Oklahoma.” Their show changed Broadway forever. I enjoyed my research project (I visited the college library in my small town – I felt “important” entering the library every night for two weeks even though I was still in high school and not allowed on campus; it was a Catholic university, so I was always surrounded by divinity students at various points on their journeys; their garb was quite interesting to observe depending on where they were in their educations) and learned the life-altering shift the musical had on the future of Broadway. Indeed, my first record album, from my paper-route earnings, was the purchase of the LP/vinyl (the term “vinyl” is now receiving an aura of mystique; I never referred to my records as “vinyl” – they were records – but on Ebay, they’re referred to as “vinyl” – give me a break!) recording of the Original Broadway Cast of Oklahoma ($3.59 – steep in those days). Yes, I was a bit of a nerd back then…my classmates were interested in The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Turtles; Peter, Paul, and Mary – not me! I gravitated toward spectacle…exciting music, exuberant dancing, and clever lyrics. I played that record over and over in my bedroom. And, still, despite that, when I came out to my parents when I was 16, it was a disaster. Ugh! They couldn’t have thought I was a regular teenager listening to “I Cain't Say No” ad nauseum (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xY3gZMQpFOs That's a clip from a London production of the show. Besides, the clip I found for "Surrey With the Fringe on Top" from the movie was over six minutes in duration). My older brother was on the soccer team; my younger brother was on the football team; I was on stage crew! “HELLO!?” I got an “A” on my essay. I was happy. But today, my heart breaks for Oklahoma. My prayers and thoughts are centered on the folks affected by the devastating storm. I think this clip from the movie version of “Oklahoma” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpNeHMlJiD4) might show all of us how hardy Oklahomans are in times of distress. My sparrow friend is serenading me right now as I type…I want to take a picture, but every time I approach the window, it flies off. I hope all of you receive a personal song today. Life is good. |
| Ugh! (not really) A grey, dismal weekend here at The Home…my very favorite weather. I’m pretty sure I’m in the minority in that regard. I like the idea of raindrops hitting my windows and it’s even better if thunder and lightning accompany the moisture. Not high winds or hail, though. No boomers over the weekend, but I did have to turn my lamps on mid-day – something I enjoy. My parents told me I was born during a thunderstorm in the third week of July – it was an afternoon event…both weather-wise and family-wise. Mayhaps that is where my like of inclement days derives? I’ve always been interested in weather – especially storms. I find them exciting. I’m thankful I have shelter from them and can view them and experience them from safe confines. Sunday afternoon I heard a bird chirping VERY LOUDLY. When I watch television, I wear headphones (a habit I picked up many years ago when I had rude neighbors who blasted their stereo at all hours). I heard this incessant cheeping even over the soundtrack of the last episode of season three of “Downton Abbey.” I’m hooked on that show – I splurged and bought the DVD set of all three seasons. So I hit the “pause” button, scrambled (well, that’s a bit ambitious; rather, I struggled…) out of my chair and went to the window to determine how BIG this bird was that was interfering with post-war aristocracy. Perched on the outside portion of The-Home-provided window air conditioner was a bird that looked like a sparrow (I know some birds by sight, but this one was sort of mundane, which falls into my “sparrow” category of bird-watching – I know, a lame excuse). The bird performed an aria that was beautiful to hear…unfortunately, by the time I retrieved my camera to get a photo of it, he/she flitted off onto the far reaches of the roof that I view from my third-floor apartment. I was saddened, but I understood. It was a shy bird…or it had a scandal behind it and didn’t want to be memorialized in a photo. I hope the bird will return every day and serenade me – a gift from Mother Nature. Free things are almost always good – especially those that come with a song. I’m glad I had two days of gloom…the weather people say HOT weather is on its way. Ugh! (and I mean that!) Life is good. |
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no pun intended!