In My Dreamhouse

Over Today

2011-04-03T15:27:00.000-07:00

Time out to refill my imagination and take a vacation from this blog. I'll be back, don't know where, don't know when.

Thanks for reading!

Risky Biz Preparing for Disaster

2011-04-01T09:43:00.000-07:00

From Barbara Eggleston, retired Engineer.

At breakfast today, 2011, my husband Dick read to me from the Wall Street Journal of Tokyo Electric Power Co.’s disaster plans which called for one stretcher, one satellite phone and fifty protective suits.

After breakfast I felt compelled to write this story. I was an older kid in Indiana. My father and I were at the small train station in Lafayette waiting waiting for my grandmother to arrive. She would have taken the train from Los Angeles to Chicago and from there to where we lived. A train was racing through the station, a freight train.

All a freight train meant to me was that it had to go by before my grandmother’s train would arrive. I didn’t see the train as an integral part of a great nation’s industry. I only saw the large, black and exciting train taking many minutes to go by. Then it stopped.

Dad took me on a walk along the tracks to the end of the pavement. It was to relieve our boredom. As we turned around and walked back to our car he looked at a freight car that was open exposing large cardboard boxes inside that held televisions. He started to talk.

“I wonder if any of the boxes have damaged televisions. The problem is that you can’t afford to pack the televisions so well that none of them get broken. And at the same time you can’t afford to break a lot of televisions. So the manufacturer has a decision to make: just how well should he pack the televisions. This decision process is very important in industry….Do you understand?”

I nodded, yes. As I have gone through life, I have very often recalled his little lecture. And I have added other things he said which amount to: mistakes will happen. You can’t avoid that mistakes will happen. Mistakes don’t mean that you stop trying to do something.

You try to plan for mistakes. You try to predict mistakes. And you must also understand that you may not predict some of the mistakes. But you don’t stop what you are trying to do.

As I approach the ebb of my life I feel more keenly the significance of what he said. Dad got into emergency preparedness soon after The War. I have a copy of one of the invitations. It was from the White House.

Damn, Goats on a Dam!

2011-03-22T17:31:00.000-07:00

You won't believe your eyes when you open this site. Goats with very sticky hooves indeed.

http://eolake.blogspot.com/2010/09/mountain-goats-on-diga-del-cingino-dam.html

Many thanks for this little jewel to my cousin Bobbi Tucker, She of Many Political Opinons. Got this one right!

Tortilla Flats

2011-03-21T11:30:00.001-07:00

Waste not, want not, Ben Franklin says. Spaghetti in a taco? Carbs in a carb wrapper? Why not? Just go for a walk before dinner.

It's all about the left-overs. Corn tortillas have more calories than flour tortillas and they don't bend so I take the frozen flour tortillas out of the bag, pry off two, 100 calories each, no worse than bread, slather them with the left over beans and cheese from a recent supper, top with that last inch of cheese and heat 'em up.

There's bound to be a bottle of hot sauce in the fridge.

Clean fridge shelves, ready for the next action.

Return on Investment

2011-03-17T15:29:00.000-07:00

If you had purchased $1,000.00 of Nortel stock one year ago, it would now be worth $49.00.

With Enron, you would have had $16.50 left of the original $1,000.00.

With WorldCom, you would have had less than $5.00 left.

If you had purchased $1,000 of Delta Air Lines stock, you would have $49.00 left.

But, if you had purchased $1,000.00 worth of wine one year ago, drunk all the wine,

then turned in the bottles for the recycling REFUND, you would have had $214.00.

Based on the above, the best current investment advice is to drink heavily and recycle.

Thanks to Britt Schroyer!

Quake Moves Japan Closer to California

2011-03-14T12:56:00.000-07:00

When the Pacific tectonic plate dived under the North American plate, The United States Geologicall Survey reports, Japan moved about 13 feet closer to California. And shifted the earth's axis by 6.5 inches, shortened the day by 1.6 microseconds, and sunk Japan downward by about two feet. When Japan's eastern coastline sunk, the tsunami's waves rolled in.

Eryn Brown in the LA Times, March 14

SHOVELLING SNOW

2011-03-12T14:23:00.000-08:00

December 8 6:00 PM
It started to snow. The first snow of the season and the wife and I took our cocktails and sat for hours by the window watching the huge soft flakes drift down from heaven.

It looked like a Grandma Moses print. So romantic we felt like newlyweds again. I love snow!

December 9
We woke to a beautiful blanket of crystal white snow covering every inch of the landscape. What a fantastic sight! Can there be a more lovely place in the whole world?

Moving here was the best idea I've ever had! Shoveled for the first time in years and felt like a boy again. I did both our driveway and the sidewalks. This afternoon the snowplow came along and covered up the sidewalks and closed in the driveway, so I got to shovel again. What a perfect life!

December 12
The sun has melted all our lovely snow. Such a disappointment! My neighbor tells me not to worry-we'll definitely have a white Christmas. No snow on Christmas would be awful! Bob says we'll have so much snow by the end of winter, that I'll never want to see snow again. I don't think that's possible.
Bob is such a nice man, I'm glad he's our neighbor.

December 14
Snow, lovely snow! 8 inches last night. The temperature dropped to -20. The cold makes everything sparkle so. The wind took my breath away, but I warmed up by shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. This is the life! The snowplow came back this afternoon and buried everything again. I didn't realize I would have to do quite this much shoveling, but I'll certainly get back in shape this way.
I wish I wouldn't huff and puff so.

December 15
20 inches forecast. Sold my van and bought a 4x4 Blazer. Bought snow tires for the wife's car and 2 extra shovels. Stocked the freezer. The wife wants a wood stove in case the electricity goes out.
I think that's silly. We aren't in Alaska, after all.

December 16
Ice storm this morning. Fell on my ass on the ice in the driveway putting down salt. Hurt like hell.
The wife laughed for an hour, which I think was very cruel.

December 17
Still way below freezing. Roads are too icy to go anywhere. Electricity was off for 5hours. I had to pile the blankets on to stay warm. Nothing to do but stare at the wife and try not to irritate her. Guess I should've bought a wood stove, but won't admit it to her. God I hate it when she's right.

I can't believe I'm freezing to death in my own living room.

December 20
Electricity is back on, but had another 14 inches of the damn stuff last night. More shoveling!

Took all day. The damn snowplow came by twice. Tried to find a neighbor kid to shovel, but they said they're too busy playing hockey. I think they're lying. Called the only hardware store around to see about buying a snow blower and they're out. Might have another shipment in March. I think they're lying. Bob says I have to shovel or the city will have it done and bill me. I think he's lying.

December 22
Bob was right about a white Christmas because 13 more inches of the white shit fell today, and it's so cold, it probably won't melt till August. Took me 45 minutes to get all dressed up to go out to shovel and then I had to piss. By the time I got undressed, pissed and dressed again. I was too tired to shovel.

Tried to hire Bob who has a plow on his truck for the rest of the winter, but he says he's too busy.I think the asshole is lying.

December 23
Only 2 inches of snow today. And it warmed up to 0. The wife wanted me to decorate the front of the house this morning. What is she, nuts?!! Why didn't she tell me to do that a month ago?

She says she did but I think she's lying.

December 24
6 inches - Snow packed so hard by snowplow, I broke the shovel. Thought I was having a heart attack.. If I ever catch the son of a bitch who drives that snow plow, I'll drag him through the snow by his balls and beat him to death with my broken shovel. I know he hides around the corner and waits for me to finish shoveling and then he comes down the street at a 100 miles an hour and throws snow all over where I've just been!

Tonight the wife wanted me to sing Christmas carols with her and open our presents, but I was too busy watching for the damn snowplow.

December 25
Merry f---ing Christmas! 20 more inches of the damn slop tonight - Snowed in.
The idea of shoveling makes my blood boil. God, I hate the snow!
Then the snowplow driver came by asking for a donation and I hit him over the head with my shovel. The wife says I have a bad attitude. I think she's a fricking idiot.
If I have to watch "It's A Wonderful Life" one more time, I'm going to stuff her into the microwave.

December 26
Still snowed in. Why the hell did I ever move here?
It was all HER idea. She's really getting on my nerves.

December 27
Temperature dropped to -30 and the pipes froze; plumber came after 14 hours of waiting for him, he only charged me $1,400 to replace all my pipes.

December 28
Warmed up to above -20. Still snowed in.
The BITCH is driving me crazy!!!

December 29
10 more inches. Bob says I have to shovel the roof or it could cave in.
That's the silliest thing I ever heard. How dumb does he think I am?

December 30
Roof caved in. I beat up the snow plow driver, and now he is suing me for a million dollars, not only for the beating I gave him, but also for trying to shove the broken snow shovel up his ass.
The wife went home to her mother. Nine more inches predicted.

December 31
I set fire to what's left of the house. No more shoveling.

January 8
Feel so good. I just love those little white pills they keep giving me. Why am I tied to the bed?

Gotta Gotta Have Teeth

2011-03-07T14:20:00.000-08:00

http://www.neatoshop.com/product/Chomp-Pacifier

I'm not too old to need this and I think you could buy it for my 75th birthday, just kidding, not 75th but heck-a-roonie, close enough.

Orthodonically correct!

Facebook is not looking at me!

2011-03-07T13:57:00.000-08:00

http://community.nytimes.com/comments/bits.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/02/28/a-new-service-for-video-chatting-on-facebook/

Friending wasn't enough. Now there's Video Chat with Friends. But not everybody wants to screen up in PJ's, bed hair, sloppy housekeeping in the background.

There are bandwidth, video and audio clarity issues, think Skype, that time and money will probably cure before you can get the toothbrush out of your mouth.

But until I get my hair cut and my makeup on and straighten the books on the shelves behind me, you can take your Friendly Chat camera and shove it!

One Line Laugh

2011-03-06T09:20:00.000-08:00

OLD AGE IS WHEN FORMER CLASSMATES ARE SO GRAY AND WRINKLED AND BALD, THEY DON'T RECOGNIZE YOU!

Thanks to www.suddenlywenior.com

Breaking the Unions

2011-03-05T15:36:00.000-08:00

From SMARTYPANTS:

A unionized public employee, a teabagger, and a CEO are sitting at a table.

In the middle of the table is a plate with a dozen cookies on it.

The CEO reaches across the table and takes 11 cookies, looks at the teabagger and says, "Watch out for that public union guy. He wants a piece of your cookie."

How to be Married

2011-02-21T09:52:00.000-08:00

So the husband is writing the story of his life. He tells me he's working on the chapter headed, "And then he married the bitch."

Of course, he's been married more than once.

THE GEOGRAPHY OF GENDER

2011-02-15T10:44:00.000-08:00

GEOGRAPHY OF A WOMAN

Between 18 and 22, a woman is like Africa. Half discovered, half wild, fertile and naturally beautiful!

Between 23 and 30, a woman is like Europe.Well developed and open to trade, especially For someone of real value.

Between 31 and 35, a woman is like Spain, very hot, relaxed and convinced of her own beauty.

Between 36 and 40, a woman is like Greece, gently aging but still a warm and desirable place to visit.

Between 41 and 50, a woman is like Great Britain, with a
glorious and all conquering past.

Between 51 and 60, a woman is like Israel, has been through war, doesn't make the same mistakes twice, takes care of business.

Between 61 and 70, a woman is like Canada, Self-preserving, but open to
meeting new people.

After 70, she becomes Tibet. Wildly beautiful, with a mysterious past and the
wisdom of the ages.... An adventurous spirit and a thirst for spiritual knowledge.

THE GEOGRAPHY OF A MAN

Between 1 and 80, a man is like Iran, ruled by nuts.

THE END.

Lost Love

2011-02-13T14:40:00.000-08:00

http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/02/13/unlucky-in-love-readers-tell-tales-of-valentines-days-gone-wrong/?hp

Readers' short, very funny tales of love gone wrong . Here's one:

Valentine’s Day, I called my boyfriend at college to see if he got my flowers and another woman answered the phone — at 8 am.
— sjl

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ELMS

2011-02-10T08:47:00.000-08:00

Long ago, in Michigan.

“What are they doing?” Barbara asked her mother.

“They are taking out the elm trees.”

When she looked at the pretty American elm trees she couldn’t see anything to dislike about them. “Why are they doing that?”

“Because soon they will get sick with Dutch Elm Disease.”

Ah, what we remember sixty years latr. What we miss. My Connecticut elms were also stately and my mother also wept.

The neighbors' Dad had hung a plank-seated swing on ropes from a sturdy elm branch on the noblest elm in Middle Haddam. He pushed us hard out over the downhill slope, thirty feet, forty or more above the wild pasture, it seemed. So high at the apogee the ropes softened and our fannies lifted off the seat. We screamed. Yet our Mothers never objected.

There was never a swing like that again.

Guest appearance: I Quit My Job!

2011-02-04T19:21:00.000-08:00

I Quit My Job! by Jim Tirjan.

I love coming up here at the end of the day. The park closes at sunset but the park rangers all know me. Apparently I don’t look like a vandal, vagrant or a threat to Western civilization so when I pass them on the trails we just smile and exchange pleasantries.

“How’s it going tonight?” I say.

“Good evening, Sir.”

“You don’t have to call me Sir. A simple Your Lordship will do,” I joked.

"Hah! I like that one. Just making my rounds one more time to make sure we don’t have to organize a search party to find somebody who got lost. It happens, you know.”

“I’m sure it does. But, say, do you know if there are three packs of coyotes up here now or four?”

“Well that depends on how you define ‘here’. Last year at Fremont Older we counted three packs with pup litters but we weren’t sure all three dens were right here on the property. Coyotes are free to roam wherever they want and they do. Have a good night and, remember, please don’t make us have to come up here and pull you out with a ‘copter.”

“Sure thing. I’ll only be a little while longer. Have a good night,” I reply.

I climb an incline to the small bench atop Hunter’s Point to get a view. The Valley of Heart’s Delight spreads for miles before me. It all seems so peaceful and orderly from up here. The smear of red and white lights reminds me of a giant pizza; I hadn’t realized it but I am probably getting hungry. Looks like the evening commute is well underway. The monotonous buzz of the traffic noise drifting from down there is like a thousand honeybees gathering nectar in a flower-filled meadow. It brings back memories of meadows long ago and far away.

I lean back on the park bench to relax. They tell me I have to get my heart rate and breathing back to the new normal. Slowly I start to close my eyes but before my vision completely fades to black a blast of light lasers my eyes through my slit eyelids. Damn! The setting sun’s reflection glints off a high-altitude plane, descending and heading straight up the peninsula. Heading to SFO for sure - probably an American 757 or 767. Been there, done that way too many times.

The wind is out of the northwest so at this time of day this one’s probably not from the East Coast or Chicago; plus anything arriving from Denver and points east won’t be arriving today anyway because of the blizzard back there. I’d bet those poor bastards overhead just returned their rental cars in Dallas or LA within the last few hours and were damned glad of it. I’m immediately miffed at myself for even peeking at the plane. The annoying afterimage of the sun’s blast is a reminder that I have to put that other world behind me. It’s over; just let it all go.

“Breathe deeply,” that’s what the yoga instructor told me years ago. I take in as much of the cool, sweet air as I can through my mouth, being careful to not make a whooshing sound.

I exaggerate the process by throwing my shoulders back, thrusting my chest out and turning my face skyward. “Get as much oxygen into those underused alveoli, clamp your lips shut and hold your breath as long as possible,” she said. “Then slowly, ever so slowly, exhale through your nose like you’re a deflating balloon.”

I can imagine the plane first passing over the Sunnyvale Rod and Gun Club on Stevens Canyon Road. Geez, on the weekend that place makes a heck of a racket. “Bang, Whomp, Crack, Kabam, Kapow.” That’s always followed by silence and then some shouting. You can’t make out the actual words way up here; you just hope it’s “Bulls eye” and not, “We’ve got a man down here!” Mercifully the gun crowd doesn’t shoot after dark and the light is fading fast now.

I know the plane follows Stevens Creek Canyon northward, descending past the huge Lehigh Portland Cement operation. What a Hellish place that is! Monster earthmovers, crushers and trucks transform ancient seabed into Portland cement. Jurassic limestone with the assistance of Permian oil runs headlong into Silicon Man at the western end of Stevens Creek Boulevard with an ear-splitting “Cha, cha, cha, wronk. Shwoo!” Hydraulic brakes only in the city, please, fellas. A sign on the downgrade clearly states “Use of Jake Breaks Prohibited in Cupertino. Strictly Enforced!”

As the faint rumble of the plane’s engine noise washes over me I recall thunder over the Sangre de Christo Mountains in New Mexico. I visualize our horses stirring nervously in their stalls, fearful of the lightning and thunder of the approaching storm. Then abruptly I’m jolted out of my reverie. Off to my right and slightly downwind, a familiar voice sings to me a cappella. “Yip, yip, yip, yahoooo.” Then a silence. Next a repeat of that “Yip, yip, yip, yahoo” but with variations on the first theme – off key and slightly out of sync with the first. I’m in the first pew of my chapel now and the choir is just warming up; glad I got here in time. Silence again.

Next, off to my left but closer than the first group, the contraltos come in. They are upwind of me but, thanks to their pals on my right, they know I’m here. This time I can clearly hear the higher-pitched, staccato yips of the pups underneath the melody of the baritone. Obviously feeling secure in the presence of their elders, the little cherubs don’t hold back. Unbridled cacophony ensues for 30 seconds or more.

In fact, it’s the elders who give up first. I can just imagine the papa saying, “OK, OK, kids, put a lid on it!” In my mind’s eye I can see a choir director bringing both paws down in a horizontal position, claws down/fuzzy side up, to close the stanza. Abruptly and right on cue the chorale stops. These guys are good! They’ve been practicing a bit.

But a screech of tires and some jackass laying on his horn down on Saratoga-Sunnyvale Road breaks the spell again. Amazingly, the choir is unfazed. These dedicated professionals attack the third stanza with even more vigor than the first two (to the delight of the audience). Now, way up in the hills beyond Saratoga, a third pack chimes in for the final chorus. Celebrants at St. Patrick’s on Christmas Eve have never heard the likes of this.

Feeling that I’m intruding on the coyotes’ sacred space, I decide to work my way down the mountain. I’m also starting to feel guilty because I had promised the nice, young park ranger that I’d only stay a short while. Even though visibility is pretty much gone I’m sure I won’t have trouble on these trails. I’ve hiked them a hundred times.

When I get to the parking lot the only car there is my ’94 Olds. Best darned car GM ever made; boy, the company deserves to go out of business for killing the Oldsmobile Division.

I silently slip behind the wheel and coast down Prospect Road with the windows open so I can hear the soft evening air whoosh past the car. I know that all too soon I’ll be at Saratoga-Sunnyvale Road where my ears and nerves will be assaulted by the motorcycle roars, hip-hop music and traffic noise of the maelstrom we call the Twenty-First Century.

Our Chinese Family

2011-01-28T17:47:00.000-08:00

From a commediatn in today's www.HuffingtonPost.com:

"Obama wants America to be more competitive. So he's announcing $150b plan to give every American a Chinese mother."

Retirement Insurance

2011-01-23T17:06:00.000-08:00

“So if Grandpa doesn’t have a job, does that mean you have to cut back?”

Long-distance, eighth-grade grandson to senior California. Wow. If a thirteen-year-old boy knows about cutting back, the Great Recession has bitten deep into the generations.

“Oh, we’ve got enough money to keep us going for a good ten years,” I say cheerfully. But I’m thinking OMG, stock market stability, Social Security. And the equity in our house. Let’s not outlive our savings.

“Ten years!” the kid says. “By then I’ll be making gazillions of dollars and I can pay for everything!”

Isn’t that great? Maybe these thirteen-year-olds will make gazillions. I bet they won’t squander it.

I hope his mother is reading this

Three Apples

2011-01-09T17:50:00.000-08:00

To cheer ourselves up this afternoon—what ghastly Arizona news—we visited our dear horse,Wolfie, at the retirement ranch in Woodside, California. As we came over the hilltop above the pastures, we spotted him folding himself up to lie down in the mud in the pasture below. The sun had just broken through a very chilly grey sky.

Mellow Wolfie is thirty this year and as always he likes to rest his bones. I called lovingly from high above in the distant car and again as we rolled in to the yard but he ignored me. It's been extremely gratifying that he has always recognized the old car--after all, we go back twenty-five years. Of course he's glad for the treats, not us. Well, maybe it is us.

No nicker? Wolfie didn’t get up or even turn his head. Of course he was covered in mud. Maybe his ears were plugged. All white horses roll in mud and dust, wanting to be chestnuts or bays. You need a putty knife to groom Wolfie's until it rains but of course, feeling wet makes him roll even more.

“What’s that brown.. thing under his tail?” Jim asked with restrained horror.

“Just his tail,” I replied. “Clogged with mud.” This is a horse living the wallowing life of a hippo. Underneath the filth he wears a thick, insulating polar bear coat and just the right amount of fat and flesh on his bones. Perfect condition.

“Are you going to take him his apples?” Jim asked, looking down at my sneakers, then over the near pasture knee-deep in mud from all the rains.

“No way.” I said. “Heave ‘em.”

Jim wound up and pitched the first apple thirty feet too short. With a resounding thud it lay there among blackened weed stalks. Wolfie did not bat an eye. The second shot bounced twice and struck his tucked front hoof, then rolled under his chin. He blinked his eyes open, nosed around for it, then, eyes closed again, chewed it with evident pleasure.

“Wow,” I cried, gazing up at my husband. The first throw of the first year of his retirement. “What an arm!”

Christmas Afterglow

2011-01-03T16:10:00.000-08:00

I need a good answer to the well-meant, How was your Christmas? It's a very long time without mail, is the best I can say. Out here in sunshiney California we've had forty days and forty nights of rain and nary a dove in sight. My feet are cold. Our grandkids are thousands of miles away. And the travel thing, well, too much junking around in the lines.

Okay, not much merriment.What about feasting? Now I remember the old Joy of Cooking warning that a definition of eternity is a ham and two people. What was I thinking?

Fishing around the Huffington Post site, this delightful reminder of the true meaning of Christmas brightened my winter mood. Just click.

http://www.cracked.com/article_18928_the-12-most-unintentionally-disturbing-christmas-ads.html?wa_user1=4&wa_user2=Weird+World&wa_user3=article&wa_user4=recommended

Borrowed Words To Start the Year

2011-01-02T10:10:00.000-08:00

Here are some ideas from John Kinde's wonderful free Humor Power Tips newsletter aimed at stand-up comedians and wannabes. It helps my Toastmaster presentations and often I get a good belly laugh, too. John writes about the mechanics of humor and includes some pithies you might find useful in your daily life.

Stretch yourself in 2011 and tell better stories! Here's an example from today's inbox.
http://www.humorpower.com/>

C. Strength is Weakness

Your strength is your weakness. And the opposite is true. Your
weakness is your strength.

Your strength is your weakness because you come to depend on it and possibly fail to use and develop other important tools. If your strength as a presenter is a high-energy style, you may have a tendency to never use an under-stated style.

On the other hand, your weakness is your strength. It may well be
your secret weapon. Because of the contrast of your weaker skill
compared to your strength, it may have a magical power that may
surprise you. Just a touch of contrast may add power to your talk.

True Grit, reviewed by a True Grouch

2010-12-28T15:00:00.000-08:00

http://www.broadstreetreview.com/index.php/main/article/true_grit_gets_a_remake/

Here's my sincere, honest and cranky opinion of 'True Grit'. Some critics say good things about lousy movies but I'm not one of 'em. If you go to see the black pony leap into the raging river make a pit stop first: the show is over 2 hours long!

Dear Santa, I want, I want..

2010-12-19T10:52:00.000-08:00

I’m always glad to see the good old December Hammacher Schlemmer Christmas catalogue. Now I am ready to give you my Christmas list. I'm sure you know I have been a very good girl, as always. Even to my husband! Well, mostly. Here goes.

Like all girls, I want the “5 FT REALISTIC PAINT PONY”. I know, I have had a real horse for 30 years but I want another one. Please, Santa. Just $999.95.

And I want the “FLYING CAR” on the catalogue cover. It flies and if it’s foggy, the wings fold up so I can drive it down the highway at 65 miles per hour. Way faster than the PAINT PONY. It’s also a little truck that pulls the plane which becomes a trailer. There’s a steering wheel, brakes and even a gas tank. Yes, it’s hard to explain but the Hammacher Schlemmer Institute assures me it really flies and they wouldn’t lie, would they? $350,00, special order.

Are you thinking, Santa, that I am a greedy girl and don’t deserve these expensive presents? I was just thinking the same! (Great minds.) So, instead, bring me a “PERSONAL TOWEL WARMER,” $79.95 on page 38. Holds two bath towels at the right temperature and yes, sometimes I like two towels, at exactly 135 degrees. Call me a Princess, I don’t’ care! FYI, it takes up only the space of a small garbage can plus it signals when the towels are done.

While I’m into my beauty routine, drop off an “EFFICIENT EPILATOR”. Better than a razor, 72 tweezers lift and remove flattened hairs from my chin and other areas, never mind where those are.

Oooh, so many goodies to choose from, you dear old Santa. A girl might think you had notions and I bet you did back in the day. Of course now you’re too old and fat although I bet you pinch the bad girls right on their epilated butts, don’t you! Ha! I knew it!

Don’t you dare leave that “WALL CRAWLING SPIDER” in my stocking, you devil! I don’t care if it does have concealed wheels and a powerful, fan-operated suction cup so it sticks to the ceiling. $29.95 is way too much money to scare little Reedie, you meanie.

Instead, get me the $69.95 “VOICE RECORDING PEN,” sensitive enough to capture voices 25 feet away! No more whispering behind MY back. And for the other pocket, the plain video pen, no software necessary, a thrifty $99.95. No one will suspect I’m recording their every move. That might be worth something, you never know.

As a good, good girl, I’ve always thought about my dear husband. So, for those long mornings when I loll in bed and he waits for me to finish the paper so he can read it, he could really, really use the “BREAKFAST SANDWICH MAKER”. It will poach his eggs, burn four toasts and keeps his pre-cooked bacon warm, all at the same time: $99.95.

If airport security can see through his clothing, unscrupulous thieves can read his credit cards right through his pants! He needs a “STAINLESS STEEL WALLET”, which “cannot be hacked” for $89.95.

He works so hard for me. Us, I mean. Say he’s feeling musical while cooling his heels in the airport en route to another sales meeting. Let’s not stint on the “SIX SIDED HARMONICA.” What’s another $499.95?

Too much you say, Santa? Well, surely any good husband is worth $39.95 for a little yard work. Let’s make it fun with a “WEED WHACKING GOLF CLUB” requiring a square stance and proper grip.

And if he just wants to go for a long, long walk away from me—anyone who marries me needs will want to walk, drop off a" GENUINE ENGLISH TIPPLING STICK," $249.95. It holds only one measly shot so he’ll be back on the job in no time.
What, you say I’ve forgotten the pets? Oh, yes, I believe I did. Here’s something to distract Kitty from clawing the couch: a perpetual “LASER IMAGE CHASE TOY” that creates a pretty red dot she’ll never catch.

And to for the neighhor’s loud-mouth pooch the “INDOOR BARKING DOG DETERRENT”, $49.95, that goes off when he does. May NOT break his eardrums or theirs.

Well, last but not least, the grandlings. The internet has made the newest generation way too passive so skip the educational paraphernalia. Let’s teach them some good old-fashioned ways to shoot! First the gentleman-Cheny “TWO PERSON DUCK HUNT”, $39.95. That’s a pretty angry looking target duck. He deserves to be shot!

Next up: the “DOUBLE BARRELLED MARSHMALLOW SHOOTER”, $39.95. Will these weapons actually kill our grandchildren? No! Marshmallows are harmless unless you eat too many. (Not for Granny’s own house, thank you. Fortunately the kids live on the Other Coast.)

Perhaps events of our times have made the shotgun-style hunting too retro. Here’s a “PUMP ACTION MARSHMALLOW BLASTER” more like a real terrorist weapon. Again, only marshmallows. $27.95.

Are these going to capture the inflamed imagination of today’s youth? Yes, because there’s the “MARSHMALLOW TARGET”, another $19.95, which makes four different sounds (not described but surely include realistic cries). Remember, Santa, to remind the children they can have just as much fun taking potshots at the family gathered ‘round the fire or the ornaments on the tree. Hey Kitty, get those claws out of the upholstery!

I’ll have your milk and cookies waiting on the hearth as usual. I can’t wait!

2010-12-14T11:12:00.000-08:00

The What-Guys-Don't-Say Birthday Card

2010-12-09T16:44:00.000-08:00

10. "Screw the Game, Rosie's on!"

9. "Excuse me, sir, we're really, really lost. Could you give us directions?"

8. "I don't really care for beer. Too filling. White wine for me, please."

7. "Honey, you up for some shoe shopping?"

6. "Oh sure, she's great looking but what about her personality, hmm?"

5. "I'm just feeling fat right now so I'll have a nice salad instead."

4. "I can't go out tonight. I've got nothing to wear."

3. "Well, I was just reading Cosmo and it said.."

2. "Um, Joe, do you ever get that no-so-fresh feeling?"

1. "This greeting card is way better than power tools!""

Get Your Grump On

2010-11-28T14:00:00.000-08:00

“Hey, you’re swerving in his lane,” Grandma remarks calmly. Okay, not completely calmly. “No wonder he has to goose around you. Euch!” I grip the panic handle over the passenger window. Thoughtful of Cadillac to provide this. We love our car. It’s so comfy on our old bones.

“Should’a seen me,” Grandpa snarls as he fails to yield to the car in the right lane. “Damn car’s exactly the same color as the asphalt.”

“Lucky he didn’t blast you with the horn,” I mutter. “You deserved it.” The escaped car scoots away from us as fast as he can.

“Probably a kid,” Grandpa grunts disapprovingly. God knows who you’ll see behind the wheel: children, foreigners, people smoking cigarettes. All in a big, big hurry. “Looka that sucker talking on his cell phone!”

Visiting our Retired Horse today we learned that the rancher who keeps him is looking for a new position. That would be, uh, recently the case in our own situation and as a result, Grandpa Jim and I are learning how to get our Grump On.

We never wanted to be retired persons because we have long sneered at retired persons who drive Cadillacs like somebody’s Grandpa and Grandma and weave across the lanes. Wearing white hair, some, anyway, and looking straight ahead as if they were clueless. Avoiding eye contact to better to blame the victim, that little Nissan zooming off. Like many of our fellow citizens, we are reluctant retirees and grumpy.

“He won’t get good gas mileage hitting the pedal like that!” Grandpa says with satisfaction. We are quiet for a moment, recalling his own father’s complaints and how we snickered.

So this is what it's like. Oh hell, let’s hit KFC! I’m always thinking about food these days. Actually need to gain five or ten, must be the blood pressure meds. Now that Gramps isn’t tied to his job we do lunches out. After twenty-five years we’re both pretty fed up with my cooking and Trader Joe’s deli products so we cruise the Fasts: KFC for a thigh and cole slaw, a supremo at Taco Bell, cheesy taties at Jack-in-the-Box and fried tofu at the Kazoo Sushi Boat. Might as well feed ourselves.

The greatest retirement reward so far: a prime rib sandwich at Adamson’s French Dip, twenty minutes up a highway. Real, rare roast beef on a long, tender roll that soaks up the juices WITH a cup of beefy broth just right for jazzing up a leftover stew in the fridge.

Occasionally, certainly not every time we come down the mountain from visiting Retired Horse we allow ourselves to stop at the Woodside Bakery for a luxury hamburger. A Cadillac of tender, juicy beef on a fresh focaccia roll with a slab of gorgonzola criss-crossed with two very fine, not too salty, bacon strips. Probably mayo on the bread, who cares? Twelve ninety-five heart attack, salad for supper, maybe not even that.

This is how involuntarily retired persons live. Pre-elderly, I suppose. We shop for warm clothes and we shop for bargains. We don’t try things on in the store, too hard to undress in those tiny changing rooms, so we have to take things back. Never mind, we can catch a bite on the way home. And we can well use that driving time to criticize other drivers—Whoa, watch out, pal!—and comment on the real estate.

“Look at that ridiculous roof," I say."All those pointy gables. What are they, some kind of a religious sect? Guess this is the north ass-end of the city,” I note with a Grandma whine. “Those leaves will be off the trees any day now. I sure hope the city can still afford to clean them up. Wet leaves are very slippery.”

“And they ruin the asphalt. Eat right into it,” Grandpa replies. A True Curmudegon.

“Stay in your own godamn lane,” I advise. We’re never at a loss for words nowadays. We've got a good Grump On going.

Talleyho! To the Park We Go

2010-11-21T13:46:00.000-08:00

“Walk?” Mopsy hurries to the door, head up, ready for Mission Squirrel. I buckle on her little red collar and tuck the leash into my pocket. As I close the gate behind us she trots down the long driveway as purposeful as the lead hound casting for the fox.

I myself might be a lord on a tall horse off for the morning hunt across the wild bogs of Devon or the green turf of Galway. Never mind that it’s just the sidewalks of small houses in a small California town and I’m on shanks’ mare, my own legs. Never mind that Mopsy’s not bred to outrun even a bunny rabbit: she a short Shih Tzu. A fox could carry her off as easily as he would a chicken. Mopsy couldn't tell a fox from a fox terrier. She busy hunting for squirrels.

She’s off leash until the end of the block. She may piddle on the curb area between the walk and the street but she must never step onto anyone’s grass and she must never set a paw on the street, although there’s not much traffic. She's focused on the mission.

So straight and narrow it is. She trots confidently ahead, all business, her tailfeathers shaking over her back. She sniffs delicately at a much-tinkled-on fence post here and there, then, leashed up we cross the street and come to the rolling green grass of Morgan Park, immaculately groomed by the city of Campbell. Nary a popsicle stick nor a dog poop since dogs are forbidden, even on leashes, in most Bay Area parks.

Thus, protected like the king’s royal stags, squirrels scamper freely on the grass beside the sidewalk under the tall redwoods. Look over here, I whisper, pointing. Being so short, her eyes only eight inches above ground, Mopsy doesn’t often see them. I don’t like squirrels. They’re not native and they dig up my gardens. They’re rodents, for Pete’s sake. So if Mopsy ventures onto the forbidden grass on this six foot leash, I say, Go get ‘em! Of course they’re up the other side of the tree before she takes the first step. Yes, I hate to hold her back, she’s having so much fun.

I have ridden to hounds on a tall horse, back in the day. Black cap, jacket, gleaming leather, bright jangling bits, the stone wall beneath me as the horse flies over. The landing, the gallop behind the hounds who pour over the ground, long ears back, tails waving like glorious flags. All, all of us as joyful in the chase as Mopsy on a short leash in a city park. The hounds never got a fox and Mopsy will never get a squirrel but now we both know how it feels.

Family. Dinner. Rules.

2010-11-15T15:21:00.000-08:00

“Children today,” she began as her hands kneaded the knot out of my right quadriceps. “They don't understand the rules.”

Physical Therapist Alison is old-fashioned: family dinner at seven and don’t call at the last minute to say you won’t make it. Her eldest is studying to be a missionary. The middle one goes to community college and the girl is a high school senior.

“When my kids go to their father’s, they eat whenever they want, they come and go. Curfew? Forget about it.”

“Ouch,” I holler
.
“Oh, did that hurt?” she says without pausing. The room of pt patients looks up and goes back to swiveling legs in the air.

“My daughter’s only one I have any trouble with. That’s normal,” Alison hastens to add. “But she has to learn the rules.”

“How do you enforce the rules?” I ask, rolling over so she can get that tight spot on my back. “I mean, what would you do if she didn’t come for dinner?”

Alison stops to think. Valuable seconds pass—my massage, don’t stop my massage! then her hands get back to work.

“I don’t know how. Well I guess she just has to. I know they don’t have to do anything when they go to their father’s. They come in whenever, take their food to their rooms so they can eat in front of their pcs and hang out on their cellphones. I suppose I could take away her cell phone.” She sounds uncertain.

Pretty drastic, like taking away the car keys back in the day. Even worse: how would Alison keep track of her kid without a cell phone? I wonder how certain Alison is that she’s in charge. She pushes with both thumbs and moves off this uncomfortable topic to a more general rant.

“Nobody reads any more. My daughter does her Hamlet homework with an outline of the story on the computer screen. She doesn’t think she should have to wade through the language when she can just learn what the play’s about. But I tell her, the language is important. It’s important to know how people spoke long ago.”

She shakes her head impatiently because that does sound pretty feeble. I don’t suggest anybody read Sanskrit just because once upon a time it may have been spoken. It bugs Alison that she can’t remember exactly why it’s important to read Shakespeare's words because her own English class was a long time ago. I am so lucky that my physical therapist appreciates these refinements.

And hates to let the rule of homework go.

“You read Shakespeare in the original language also because it’s the assignment.
Like learning the multiplication table. And it’s also quite poetic, once you get into it.”

I agree completely. “See ya,”does not so melodiously sound upon mine ear as "Good night, sweet prince." And boy, doth it warmeth my heart to hear a New Old Fart complain about the Awfull State of Children Today.

I ask myself, would I have gone to libraries.com for the trot and the translation into modern English? Alas, I am not completely pure, myself but I am glad to report that libraries.com would not let me copy and paste their text into my text.

And, as an Older Generation who complained about hers, I am delighted that Alison's public school education has educated hers. Their ways were not so hopeless after all.

Alison gets both hands into my back. She rolling now.

“You can’t live with your parents forever. Rules are important if you want to have a job and pay your bills. If you don’t understand how to get up and go to work, you’re screwed. These are the rules.

“Kids today can’t make change for a quarter. Work, ha! My middle kid gets an intern job and he doesn’t have to show up until noon. The supervisor, or whatever you’d call him, says just put in the hours somehow. That’s not a job. Somebody’s got to open the store. You know I don’t think kids have any idea of what a family is, either. Scary, isn’t it?”

Ouch again!

But it’s not all bad. Alison’s Number One Son doesn’t own a cell Phone because he’s studying to be a missionary. When he graduates he’ll dedicate his life to service in underdeveloped countries. Right now he’s learning jungle survival. Missionary colleges teach counseling, ethnomusicology and developing worship communities—which is evangelizing, true. But if they dig wells and vaccinate against smallpox, I will suspend my skepticism. Centuries of history tell the awful story: for many, many years pious Christians missionaries have, in the name of Jesus, enslaved indigenous people, broken their spirits and taken their lands.

“Is your son a Mormon?”

Alison shakes her head as she lowers the table and I sit up. “Baptist?”

“No, something like ‘Twelve Tribes’. I’m not really sure.” Not a lot of religious dogma going on there. It seems that now Number One Son doesn’t have to show up for dinner, she's busy showing up for her daughter. Enforcing the rule of family supper at seven.

Where will you two be in ten years?" I ask.

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll be all right. By then she’ll thank me for drilling all the rules into her,” Alison says. “I see us getting along really well.”

We'll see how the rules look in ten years. I’m thinking, maybe we'll be geo-tracked and ready for family dinner at seven. Family. Dinner. Rules

The Lion Tamers

2010-11-04T15:02:00.000-07:00

Two people answer the circus ad for a lion tamer, a beautiful young woman and a mature gentleman.

"Here's the chair, the whip and the gun," the circus owner says. "Who wants to go first?"

"I will," the young woman says. Ignoring the liontamer tools, she strides into the lion's cage and drops her coat, revealing her fabulous body. The lion stops his charge in midstride, falls to the ground at her feet and licks her all over, purring like a kitten.

"Well," says the circus owner, turning to the gentleman. "Can you top that?"

"No problem," the man says. "Just get the lion out of the way."

Thanks to Suddenly Senior.com

Important Cooking Tip!

2010-10-20T09:14:00.000-07:00

Gracie Allen's recipe for Roast Beef:

Put a big rib roast and a small rib roast in two separate pans into the oven at 450 degrees.

When the little one burns, the big one is done.

Your Life at Home Depot

2010-10-18T11:06:00.000-07:00

Thanks for another beauty, Maureen.

You are in the middle of some project around the house - - mowing the lawn, putting in a new fence, painting the living room, whatever.

You are hot and sweaty, covered in dirt or paint. You're wearing your old work clothes You know the outfit - - shorts with the hole in the crotch, old T-shirt stained from who knows what, old tennis shoes.

You realize you need to run to Home Depot to get something to complete the job.

In your 20s:
Stop what you're doing. Shave, shower, blow dry your hair, brush your teeth, floss, put on clean clothes. Check yourself in the mirror and flex. Add a dab of your favorite cologne because you just might meet some hot chick in the checkout lane. And you went to school with the pretty girl running the register.

In your 30s:
Stop what you're doing, put on clean shorts and shirt. Change shoes. You married the hot chick, so no need for much else. Wash your hands and comb your hair. Check yourself in the mirror. Still got it. Add a shot of your favorite cologne to cover the smell. The cute girl running the register is the kid sister of someone you went to school with.

In your 40's:
Stop what you're doing. Put on a sweatshirt long enough to cover the hole in your shorts. Put on different shoes and a hat. Wash your hands. Your bottle of Brute Cologne is almost empty, so you don't want to waste any of it on a trip to Home Depot. Check yourself in the mirror and do more sucking in than flexing. The spicy young thing running the register is your daughter's age, and you feel weird thinking she's spicy.

In your 50s:
Stop what you're doing. Put a hat on; wipe your hands on your shirt. Change shoes because you don't want to get dog doo-doo in your new sports car. Check yourself in the mirror and swear not to wear that shirt any more because it makes you look fat. The cutie running the register smiles when she sees you coming. You think you've still got it. Then you remember the hat you're wearing is from Buddy's Bait & Beer Bar and says, 'I Got Worms.'

In your 60s:
Stop what you're doing. No need for a hat any more. Hose the dog doo-doo off your shoes. The mirror was shattered when you were in your 50s. You hope you're wearing underwear so nothing hangs out the hole in your shorts. The girl running the register may be cute. But you don't have your glasses on, so you're not sure.

In your 70s:
Stop what you're doing. Wait to go to Home Depot until the drug store has your prescriptions ready. Don't even notice the dog doo-doo on your shoes. The young thing at the register smiles because you remind her of her grandfather.

In your 80s:
Stop what you're doing. Start again. Then stop again. Now you remember you needed to go to Home Depot. Go to Wal-Mart instead. Wander around trying to remember what you are looking for. You went to school with the old lady who greeted you at the front door.

In your 90's & beyond:
What's a home deep hoe? Something for my garden? Where am I? Who am I? Why am I reading this? Did I send it? Did you?

Showing Up

2010-10-13T11:19:00.000-07:00

If you're trying to scare a president by throwing a book at him, you're one president too late.

Isn't this great? It's from my old friend, Maureen, who hates to be an "old" friend, as if that describes her age and not the age of our friendship. I can write all about her because she adamantly refuses to read blogs. Any blog, not just my blog. She don't say why.

Somehow this reminds me of the time last June when my grandson, visiting from the east coast, came in for supper. it's lovely to have a grandling in the house.

"Chicken and rice for dinner," I announced happily.

"I don't eat rice," he said in a sullen, twelve-year old tone.

"Then you won't get anything to eat," I snapped in a crabby sixty-nine year old tone.

He's not so picky these days.

Sigh. That was months ago and now I'd gladly take a little remorse on my rice. Gimme another chance. Maybe spaghetti?

I'd sure love Maureen to read this before I get too old to show up here.

Oh, Sad and Sorry Tale

2010-10-07T10:36:00.000-07:00

Please join me in remembering a great icon of the entertainment community. The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and trauma complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was 71.

Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin. Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies and Captain Crunch. The grave site was piled high with flours.

Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded. Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times, he still was a crusty old man and was considered a positive roll model for millions.

Doughboy is survived by his wife, Play Dough, three children, John Dough, Jane Dough and Dosey Dough, plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart. The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.

If this made you smile for even a brief second, please rise to the occasion and take time to pass it on and share that smile with someone else who may be having a crumby day and kneads a lift.

Thanks to my friend Jaya Salsman.

Motherhood

2010-09-23T16:10:00.001-07:00

Dogs, all dogs and nothing but dogs today. Liz dropped her pug pup, Miss Pia, off at eight and I've been keeping my Mopsy from eating her all day.

Watching for inside piddles. Sharing the bones, the teeny treats, unwrapping Pia's leash from my knees as we walked down the sidewalk, she plunging after the dignified Mop who trots off-leash staight ahead, not a paw on anyone's grass. Exactly two piddles and home directly. Pia clueless but extremely sweet. And smart. Sorry to say this three-month-old pug makes our little shihtzu look like an ox.

I've been saying for months that we really MUST have a companion for Mopsy but now, I wonder what I was thinking. I'm exhausted. What would I do at night? Pia is now yipping pathetically from our crate on the porch.

Must get Jim to take our picture. Must mix martini.

Juice

2010-09-07T08:58:00.000-07:00

Appliance Repair Guy revived my dishwasher switch, cleaned a gas jet on my range and rocked my clothes washing machine forward to let its back legs level itself. Who knew an old GE had self-leveling legs? I could use a pair myself.

He’s twenty-nine, tall and good-looking like his father who fixed these very same machines but died two years ago of sudden diabetes at fifty-two. The Kitchenaids are now eleven years old, geriatric. He handled them with tender, loving care.

"Do I need new ones?"

“Oh no,” he said. “These are well made. The designs haven’t changed in twenty years. You could get fancier ones,” he added doubtfully.

I apologized for the inside of the dishwasher. Horrid deposits of God knows what.

“This is nothing,” Repair Guy said calmly. “It just needs a little citric acid. Cheap, any Indian market.” He spooned a big tablespoonful of it into the dw’s soap dispenser, snapped it shut and punched the short cycle.

Wow! The inside of the dishwasher is sparkly clean after all these years. All this in half an hour. Eighty bucks.

I found a jar of citric acid for under one fifty in the canning section of my ordinary grocery store. Being slightly sour, it boosts flavor. Basically lemon juice, it’s organic and harmless.

I thought you should know that I am not a one-sided intellectual-type writer who can’t manage her household appliances.

Citric acid. Think about it!

The Mexican Finger

2010-09-05T09:41:00.000-07:00

Husband has espinas in his finger. I know too well that these invisible cactus thorns that lurk in the landscaping bark mulch can turn into a nasty infection. No matter how he rubs and tweezes, he can’t get them out.

Scrape it off with an emery board, I suggest. He snorts. Then he thinks of my Mexican finger.

“Remember the espinas in Oaxaca?” he asks, rubbing his knuckle. “That surgeon?”

It was a while ago when I had tossed a few dried cholla cactus stems into the Santa Fe kindling pile. Something pricked my finger but I was too preoccupied with our trip to Mexico to pay attention. By the time we finally got to Oaxaca, that finger was hot and throbbing. Although I could see tiny red dots I couldn’t squeeze or tweeze or even suck them out. It is no vacation walking old, historic streets with your finger on fire.

The B&B sent me to a doctor down the street. Gee, uh, a foreign doctor. The sparse examining room was immaculate, containing a worn examining table and a glass-fronted cabinet holding a few tongue depressors, bandages and a few instruments. The handsome, white-coated doctor peered at my wounded finger and shook his head.

“It’s too swollen now to see the thorns.” He reached into his dispensary and handed me a bottle of meds. “Take this penicillin for three days to reduce the swelling, then go see my surgeon colleague at his hospital. I’ll call him for you.” He scribbled a name and address.

His fee was seven dollars

Surgery in a foreign hospital? Yes, I’m a cool traveler, or I thought I was, but the thought of an emergency room crowded with wailing babies and an crowd of sickly people whose language I couldn’t understand—in spite of all those futile Spanish lessons I’d taken—did I really need to see a surgeon for cactus prickers?

On day three of the penicillin the swelling was down but not completely gone so Husband and I went off to find the foreign hospital somewhere across the foreign city. Oaxaca spreads business districts all across its rolling valley with the fabulous ruins of Monte Albon on a distant rise.

All the buildings in this section of the city looked like ordinary three story apartments with garage doors than opened onto the street. Nothing said Hospital, nor was there any sign. After circling the block, we finally decided that building number beside an open garage must be correct.

Husband went to park. An old but clean ambulance stood inside the bay, then an ordinary door opened into a lovely three story atrium with a black and white tiled floor, rather like a hotel lobby. A few benches and big potted palms lined one wall. I was the only visitor.

As I gazed around to see where I should go, a handsome woman working at a desk on the far side looked up and called across the echoing floor, “Digame!” I looked at her blankly.

“Digame!” she shouted again but not unkindly. In a heavenly epiphany I suddenly understood what she was saying and that this foreign word would stay with me for the rest of my life: Talk to me.

So she was the receptionist, very classy indeed. When I stumbled through my clumsy Spanish pregunta she pointed to a bench and picked up her phone. In two minutes an even more handsome Mexican man opened a door, introduced himself as the surgeon and gestured me in.

He clucked sympathetically at my finger and asked where I’d got the espinas.

“Santa Fe, Nueva Mexico, I know it”, he said. “I like to ski the Rockies.”

My God, he was gorgeous, with smooth mahogany skin, thick shiny black hair and a matching mustache. He held my purpled finger in perfectly formed hands with manicured nails, numbed me up and pulled each cactus thorn out.

“Twenty-five,” he reported triumphantly when he lay the tweezers down. “That's a record, I think. Although it happens all the time, especially riding. Do you ride?” he asked in perfect English.

I nodded as he bound up my finger. “Try to avoid the cholla.”

Absolutely, Doctor. From now on, someone else can stack the firewood. I shall wear gloves night and day and learn what damned cholla cactus looks like.

His fee was twenty-five dollars, a buck apiece.

But that was then. Here in the U.S. the Husband could schlep his finger to our local clinic. Medicare would pay for it. But the clinic's fifteen minutes away and a long wait. First, the emery board.

How’s the finger, I asked him later in a moment of wifely tenderness, remembering how mine festered.

“Oh, the emery board pulled it right out,” he said.

Now, if we could just figure out how cholla espinas get into pine bark mulch. Suggestions?

Off the Tracks

2010-08-17T15:13:00.000-07:00

Reed, your story about your mother doesn’t make sense. How could someone be smart and sophisticated but let a con man scam her out of fifty thousand dollars?

“He’s an actor. He lives in Hollywood but he’s here visiting family,” my mother told me over the phone. “He’s good-looking. Italian.” She clicked her tongue. Middletown was thick with Italians. Many had worked for my father in the feldspar mill he ran. Lovely people.

Now, years later, Girlfriend has taken up with a smooth-talking, unemployed, seedy-looking guy ten years younger than she. He has no job and no fixed address. Not only that, she met him at a dumpster. And not any dumpster, a Goodwill dumpster. Girlfriend hasn’t had a boyfriend for a long, long time. So I told her my mother’s tale. Might be a useful lesson.

Yes, Sally Stevens appeared to be sophisticated and worldly. She taught me makeup and to choose tasteful clothes and pick the right men. Snagging a guy who could take you places was the mission.

I was too involved in my own life to see that beneath Mom’s domineering, maternal role, she was passionate woman who longed for masculine attention. When she met Rudi she was a widow in her fifties, like Girlfriend. And like Girlfriend, Mom may have hoped for another steady relationship, this time with SEX. Yes, great sex! To make up for the years of pretty lousy sex or none.

I measure how was hungry she was for a last crack at a big affair by how easily she persuaded herself that this unemployed actor, Rudi Campisi of Middletown, Connecticut, was a candidate for romance.

“He ruins the King’s English,” she said gaily. Slumming, what fun. “Just because he’s from Middletown doesn’t mean he’s small-time. And Italians are good people.” She meant Rudi was uneducated and uncultured. “Simple people. He’s very nice. A smoothie,” she ended in a sultry voice.

This was a woman who did the Sunday Times crossword puzzle in ink and read every book in the local library, probably six or seven a week: literature, biography, mystery, gardening. Drove miles to arty films. Admired tough, sassy women of her day: Eleanor Roosevelt, Katie Hepburn. Glamor, money, the high life.

Her passion for Rudi, born of her loneliness and horniness, simply overwhelmed her usual skepticism. Rudi knew a middle-aged sucker when he saw one. As she fell he simply held out his arms.

A few things began to bother her. “Rudi loves my house,” she gushed. Who wouldn’t? She designed houses, she collected art and antiques. “He looked around at the paintings and said, ‘If only they were originals they’d be worth a fortune.’ 'They ARE originals,' I said. How amusing!”

Originals, yes, but not worth a fortune. She only looked rich.

Original art, authenticity, honest genius, these were Mom’s highest standards. Yes, she was a snob to the extent she could be on her limited income. Dad had left her a hundred thousand in 1961 but no cash flow. She had to sell real estate.

She chose to ignore the warning flags. Weeks passed and he never got that casting call. Yet he was good company during those long, dark nights and he raved about her cooking. He did all he could to stave off her growing impatience with his Middletown gossip and his lack of money.

I stayed clear of my mother in those days but I did meet him once. Rudi was tall but not as tall as my father. He was probably very photogenic with his glossy black hair swept back from a sharp-jawed profile. He could play an Indian. Or a Mafioso.

Her friends rolled their eyes. “That Sally, she’s a wild one. Her husband would roll in his grave.”

“Running off the tracks, just like a woman,” old bachelor Lloyd growled into his scotch. “They get like that.”

Sensing Mom’s ardor was cooling, Rudi turned up the heat.

She must know, he said, the movies were all run by the Mob. He was into them for fifty thousand and if he didn’t pay up they would throw acid in his daughter’s face. He wept when he told her this. If my mother would give him fifty thousand, exactly half of what she had in untraceable cash, his daughter would be safe.

Lust may subside but a woman’s rescue impulses last a lifetime. She got the untraceable money and gave it to him. Rudi thanked her and disappeared.

She was so chagrined at her mistake—to put it mildly—that she told me this story. Sure, she tried to get it back, hired a dectective, tried to prove she had withdrawn the money but he had instructed her too well. Years later when she ran across him, he laughed at her.

Even in her old age she seemed amazed that she ever believed his story. Me, too. How could this happen to smart, sophisticated Sally Stevens? How could my own mother be such a dope?

I tell you how. She had fallen under the spell of her own dream, that he really would get an role and invite her to visit him in Hollywood.

I know she had dreamed of a big life for herself because that’s what she dreamed for me. Didn’t Katherine Hepburn live just down river from her? Not that they'd ever cross paths, Mom knew that.

I wish I had known her then. Of course I knew her as a daughter but I was a very different me those long-ago times. I was surprised that she fell for such a hoodie guy in the first place. And then for his extortion scam. Two mistakes. Yet she never admitted to the first because she really did not recognize her own yearnings.

So, Girlfriends, when you go dumpster diving you're likely to find some trash.

Dreamed Life:Two

2010-08-10T11:49:00.000-07:00

In the beginning, monster dreams come at me in the night.

“Wake up, honey, it’s only a dream,” Momma says.

Only a dream. As if it weren’t real but what’s could be more real than the awful creature who lives under my bed and reaches its long, clammy fingers up the sides of my mattress so I must lie perfectly still in the absolute center as far out of reach as I can get. Hold my breath. It will wrap its long, cold arms around me and carry me away.

This is not the dream I wanted. When I turn on the light it vanishes.

Here is the dream I made for myself: the white, white room. There’s my black Nikon on the floor, the neck loop open, ready for my hand. The beauty of the camera's mechanism, the elegant slap of the mirror lifting and falling exactly so. Like cocking a well-oiled rifle. Frame, focus and squeeze the trigger.

Light on the delicate emulsion. I can almost hear the molecules laughing as they rearrange themselves. What took you so long, they shout joyfully as they form precise shapes on the film. When I pull the photograph out of the fixing solution the image belongs to me. I dreamt I would make pictures and I do. I make beautiful pictues. I exist.

With the camera I can go anywhere in the world. No one asks why I am there because they can see the camera, my trophy tool. Show me your face, I command. Let me count your eyelashes. Now I have you forever.

I still have that two-eyed Kodak Brownie Dad gave me for my twelfth birthday. Two wide rolls of 620 film, twelve exposures each. The Brownie cracks open like a coconut to reveal the spindly spools, the scratched plastic lens, the simple lever that snapped open the shutter. I took pictures of my old hound, left, right, sitting on his haunches, innocently oblivious to his boy stuff jutting forward.

As a girl I never imagined I would become a photographer. Because developing the film cost money, girls grow up to be writers. We sit quietly in a room pecking out words on somebody’s old typewriter. The ‘e’ arm is bent. Write on both sides of the paper to conserve it. Rewinding the thin ribbon, then reversing it. Scrubbing ink off the elite type with a toothbrush dipped in nail polish remover, wet, inky, stinky fingers.

But that Nikon on the floor, the shutter sound as deluxe as a Mercedes door closing with a rich thunk. Those blindingly white domes, palms over rooftops, that journey to Morocco with my aunt Edith. She carries her paint box and small rolls of canvas, a folding easel. She sets up at the gate of a souk where donkeys hurry by. She paints the shadows deep blue and purple. I open the aperture wide to increase the contrast because I want those shadows for myself.

Edith died ten years before I was born but she left me those arched blue and rose shadows and the white, white domes. In my dream I go back alone, find the room, set my camera down and wait for her.

Dreamed Life

2010-08-09T15:03:00.000-07:00

I never had an agenda for my life, not one I could articulate. No path to my shining star. All I had were wishes and hopes and disappointed people who had other plans for me.

Dream number one: I live in a white room with a white floor and a tall window that looks out over blinding white domes against a deep blue sky. My bed coverlet is white and there is nothing else in the room except my camera. Deep blue shadows stripe the white, white floor.

Dream number two: I work at my keyboard looking into a garden whose walls burn with thick pink and red bougainvillea. A Mexican in a long-sleeved shirt splashes water on the stones. His face is dark in the shade of his wide hat.

Dream number three: two armchairs by the fire. My feet on the fender, his feet on the fender as we consider the remains of the day.

The angel of my dreams has guided all my wanderings. Only now do I see that they all came true.

Mopsy's First Cat

2010-08-03T15:55:00.000-07:00

Update to Bonnie Pratt, Mopsy’s breeder:

Why would Mopsy suddenly not go down the block on her leash? She’d learned to sniff and piddle but one day last week she just sat down on the sidewalk and looked at me with those big, brown Shih Tzu eyes. No cookies or enthusiastic thigh slapping, no pulling or jerking would budge her. I couldn't drag my twelve pound dog down the street so I gave up and we came home.

But then she would go with me, off leash. Very dangerous! Other dogs on leash terrify her, God knows why. But she would not go down the block with Jim, even off leash so he carried her to the end of the block, put her down but then carried her back past a friendly, sniffy dog. He doesn't mind. It's his first dog. But I imagine myself an experienced dog trainer. Hmm.

Now she may go down the block off leash and let me put it on before we cross the road. But she’s bored with that part of the walk where we might meet other dogs. Any size. Yesterday a Chihuahua charmed her so much little Mopsy leaned over to sniff, waggling eagerly. But the wretch suddenly snapped at her. Thank God she's fast!

She had never even noticed, let alone met, a cat until I happened to toss a bowl of water into the jasmise vines beside our back deck where Mopsy lay deep in her afternoon snooze. The wet and surprised cat, hunting birds in this exotic jungle, leaped out onto the deck. The big, fluffy fellow landed i right beside Mopsy with a thud and woke her up.

In a flash the cat flew off the deck with Mopper right behind it. Down the path, out through the gate--note to self, keep the gate closed— and down the long driveway as fast as a big cat and a short-legged dog can run. Barely ahead, the cat turned right onto the sidewalk with yapping Mopsy on his tail, her long ears twirling like two propellers. Satisfied, the Mop stopped a few feet down the walk at the property line, her pretty head and ears up. She snorted importantly and circled twice to be sure her territory was clear. Then she then trotted back into the yard, sneezing, extremely pleased with herself.

First cat, ever. And bigger than she. Four houses down, that rascal sat in the middle of the sidewalk, his sidewalk, watching us.

Claiming Lucky

2010-08-01T17:07:00.000-07:00

My friend Martin loved to tell us how Lucky came into his life. Because I'm a writer, I made it a short story. Here's the end which became part of Martin's eulogy.

HOW MARTIN CLAIMED LUCKY AS HIS OWN:

Damn near seventy, Martin thought as he drove home that winter night. Wasn’t he too old to have a dog? Total responsibility, that scared him.

When he unlocked his front door, Lucky followed him inside, panting nervously. Martin headed straight to the kitchen to fill a water bowl.

As he reached down a dish, he realized how delightful it was to select just the right one for Lucky’s water. Gosh, it was also delightful to think of going to the pet store tomorrow to select a real dog bowl. Two bowls in fact, one for water, one for food.

Then he remembered the Alpo Liz had given him.

“Take him, I already have a dog,” she’s said. Pissed off. The can was still in the car.

He had to knee the dog back from following him outside. As he fumbled around the upholstery he heard a whine from inside his house, light as a bow on a violin string. Martin paused. It was a new sound in his life, the beginning of something. Maybe, too, the end of something.

He would miss Liz’s kitchen. She would be tidying up now and in his mind he saw her wide rump as she bent to add a glass to the dishwasher. What had repelled him now seemed endearing because it belonged to a woman he had loved. Yes, he loved her but not enough. Women were needy, it was their nature. As it was his nature to avoid it.

The Alpo can was already very cold. He’d nuke up a few spoonfuls right away, just to make Lucky feel at home. The dog—his very own dog, his first—might like that leftover salami. And then he thought, no no, too fattening, he’d throw that out right now. Tomorrow he’d buy proper dog food and go on a real diet himself. Take Lucky to the dog park. The exercise would be good for both of them.

He twisted the handle of the can opener while the dog sat at his feet. Lucky’s bright eyes followed every movement of Martin’s hands.

“So, you love me already, huh? How about a little taste of Alpo, Lucky?”

Blond Again!

2010-07-26T10:03:00.000-07:00

An Irishman , a Mexican and a Blonde Guy are on the scaffolding on the 20th floor of a building.

When they open their lunch boxes, the Irishman says, “If I get corned beef and cabbage one more time, I'm going to jump off this building.”

The Mexican opens his lunch box and exclaims, “If I get burritos one more time I'm going to jump.”

The blonde opens his lunch and says, “If I get ever get another bologna sandwich, I surely will jump as well.”

The next day, the Irishman opens his lunch box, sees corned beef and cabbage and jumps to his death.

The Mexican sees his burrito and jumps.

The blonde guy opens his lunch and sure enough, there’s the bologna so he jumps to his death.

The Irishman's wife weeps at the funeral. “If I'd known how really tired he was of corned beef and cabbage, I wouldn’t have given it to him again!”

The Mexican's wife wails, “I didn't know how much he hated burritos. I could have given him tacos or enchiladas.”

Then the blonde's wife speaks. “Don't look at me. He always made his own lunch.”

Treat Me Like a Lady

2010-07-17T13:56:00.000-07:00

After my visit last summer Martin sent me a note taped to this wall in front of me: “Don’t wait another ten years.”

Thirty years ago he and I lived together as lovers. It was a year or perhaps less before I became impatient and found Larry who lasted about the same amount of time before I gave him the boot, too. Then the two of them went off together on glorious adventures around the world that I could only envy.

What did I want? I wanted to move into a real partnership, down that long, winding path to Forever. A joined-up life. Travel was exciting but I wanted to build a nest, fix up old houses because that’s what I knew. Neither one of these guys had the money or the inclination to throw their lots in with me. They had their own paths to follow.

As I look back on that time in my thirties and forties I realize now that I only flattered myself that I threw them over. They were just being gallant guys by letting me be the one to say tootle-oo.

The great thing about men is that they intensify our womanliness. Not by pawing our panties off but by acknowledging that we are feminine. There’s always the potential erotic connection even in forbidden relationships, fathers and daughters, brothers and sisters, but masculine gallantry is a special kind of love. These guys always treated me like a lady.

So, bereft now of my old lover, Martin, who died last month, I lose a few dance steps in the rhythm of my femininity. I am grateful that other old flames still stop by or call to keep up. I can hear the old music in their voices and see that same bright spark in their eyes. For me. Well, I'm sure they tell all their old girlfriends they are still special. Cricky, who expected boyfriends would live past eighty? Who knew they’d die?

I loved them once and I love them still. I am still beautiful in their hearts. How I miss the dance.

Hand Me the Spade

2010-07-10T15:28:00.000-07:00

When an old friend of thirty years died last week I realized again that very few people can utter the actual word, 'dead'. People say “passed” or mumble something pious. No one dares say 'croaked', either or 'toes up' or even that poetic Shakepearean 'shuffled off the mortal coils'.

Next time you say 'passed', try to not roll your eyes heavenward. Look at me. See what it means to me. Help me face it. 'Dead’ is hard, yes. ‘Dead’ is sharp, yes, and final. There’s nothing good or easy about it but it's the truest word.

Don't try to smooth it over with a flowery euphemism such as ‘he’s gone home to God’. This makes YOU feel better but it irritates the hell out of me. Just endure my unhappy moment with me. Maybe I want to say more about the dead friend; maybe I’ll even burst into tears. But I’m a grown-up. I’ll change the subject if I can and let you off the hook.

Say, “too bad he’s gone” or “what a shame” and I’ll handle my own religion. You may mean well but you're changing the subject from my grief to your sermon. If you really believe I am wrong to weep, that my friend truly is ‘better off’ with the angels’, just hand me a pamphlet. I’ll read it later.

“Be honest. Call a spade a spade,” my mother said. When you want to dig a hole you need a spade, you don’t want ‘a digging instrument’ .’ Only a shovel with long handle and a pointy blade will do the job. A tool you can lean into. I need a spade to bury my dead friend. I need a sharp spade to say good-bye to thirty years of happy times.

Now is not the time for a spirituality lesson. If you saw me with a cast on my leg, would you say, “it’s God’s will?”

No, you’d say, “Too bad. How’d it happen?” Because you know I’m dying to tell you how it happened and I’d sure like your sympathy.

“Don’t gild the lily.” My mother said. Meaning, don’t paint over a beautiful flower. Saying “he’s passed” means he’s not really gone away forver. “He’s passed” means he’s just out of sight, stuck in a traffic jam. “He’s passed” promises I will see him again. You may believe that what if I don’t?

What matters is that he’s not here anymore. He doesn’t answer the phone. His dog misses him. Dead means dead no matter how you try to improve on it.

Skip the sermon. Hand me the spade and let me dig.

KABOOM! How to Make Airports Secure!

2010-07-07T09:27:00.000-07:00

From my smart pal in today's mail:

Get ride of those embarassing full-body scanners at the airports which prove to the security line that you have huge breasts or a tiny penis. Now you can step into a booth that will detonate any explosive device on anyone's body.

You'll feel completely secure at the airport terminal every time you hear another muffled explosion because you know your plane ride will be perfectly safe!

We'll save money without those long, expensive 'terrorist' trials and arguments about racial profiling. Nope, justice will be swift and certain. Case and casket closed!

And there'll be the added benefit of hearing the airport announcer say, "Attention standby passengers! We now have a seat available on flight number..."

The Pessimism Bubble

2010-07-05T16:43:00.000-07:00

Unemployment, oil spill, climate change.. but maybe it ain’t ALL bad. Ross Douthat, op-ed columnist for the New York Times, writes July 5 that we have been down before and recovered.

"Pessimism bubbles formed during America’s last two economic crises," he writes. Take a look at "the stagflation era in the late 1970s and the post-cold war recession that ushered Bill Clinton into the White House. Go back and read Jimmy Carter’s famous “malaise speech,” which liberals have lately been rehabilitating. With its warnings about retrenchment, rationing and a permanent energy crisis, it feels like a contemporary document. But it isn’t, and Carter’s prophecies were wrong: the grimmest speech any modern president has given was delivered just a few years before America kicked off a long era of impressive economic growth.

"..(E)ven now, there isn’t a major power in the world that wouldn’t happily change places with the United States. Our weaknesses are real, but so is our potential for resilience. While our rivals (in Asia as well as the West) face a slow demographic decline, our population is steadily increasing. The European Union’s recent follies make our creaking 200-year-old institutions look flexible by comparison. And China can throw up all the high-speed rails and solar panels it wants, but it won’t change the fact that most of the country is still sunk in rural poverty.

"All of this is cold comfort if you can’t find a job, or can’t afford your mortgage payments. But historical perspective is important. The more we remember the pessimism bubbles of the past, the better our chances of bursting out of this one.

"Here endeth the pep talk. Happy Fifth of July.”

To be Very Very Old

2010-07-03T14:10:00.000-07:00

My husband and I are very, very old. How old? I'm so old I don't know what I'm missing. So old I gave up on the Mac transition a few months ago and still work on my old Dell with a very old browser.

The husband's so old he can't figure out the Mac OS either. And now we've spent all this money on the Macbook, keyboard and mouse, iMe or whatever the devil it is, and a years supply of Apple tech support. Hundred bucks for that and cheap at twice the price.

IF, if if we can ever remember what the sequence of the OS is. Email looks very like Outlook but it's not the same. It's a flat, grey on grey color, for one thing. I know the Apple Genii put my contact list on there but since I can't sync it with my ever-changing Dell contacts, what good is it? And it doesn't pick up my mail.

Poor husband is right now on this fine Fourth of July Saturday standing confused and pissed off at the Apple Store. You make an appointment for a One on One a week or so ahead and you can only make one appointment at a time. Plenty of free 'seminars' at the stores which are really just feature demonstrations. Somehow Apple has designed the cruelest stools to sit on my butt has ever met so you stand. Keeps the customers moving right along.

Wait, it's worse. Dear reader, dear fellow blogger, help me post your blog right alongside this one. I fell off the turnip truck years ago and can't remember how to put you there. It's not that I'm not reading you, it's just that I'm so very, very old. A toddler could help but I'm all out of toddlers these days.

Mother of the Bride

2010-07-02T10:15:00.000-07:00

A friend sent this charming little tale just today:

Jennifer's wedding day was fast approaching. Not even her parents' nasty divorce could dampen her excitement.

Her mother had found the PERFECT dress, and would be the best-dressed mother-of-the-bride ever!

A week later, Jennifer was horrified to learn that her father's new, young wife had bought the same dress as her mother!

Jennifer asked her father's new young wife to exchange it. ''Absolutely not!" she replied. "I look like a million bucks in this dress, and I'm wearing it to your wedding.''

Jennifer told her mother, who graciously said, ''Never mind, Sweetheart. I'll get another dress. After all, it's your special day.''

A few days later, they went shopping and found another
gorgeous dress for her mother.

When they stopped for lunch, Jennifer asked her mother,
''Aren't you going to return the other dress? You really don't have another occasion where you could wear it."

Her mother smiled and replied, ''Of course I do,
dear. I'm wearing it to the rehearsal dinner.''

2010-07-01T17:13:00.000-07:00

Damndest thing. One day he’s here, kvetching about his stocks and no wonder, he was always looking for a bargain, junk bonds back in the day, all you can eat at buffet restaurants in low-rent shopping malls. Not that he was tight, just cautious. Conserved what he had, his money, his routines, his solo life.

Now he’s dead. Not from junk bonds or junk food but a junk doctor who didn’t read his file and prescribed penicillin that sent him into anaphylactic shock, Stevens-Johnson Syndrome and, poof, a month later, toes up. He had quit Medicare for a cheaper local HMO. No copays.

Over the years I asked Martin what he was going to do with all his money when he croaked.

“I ain’t goin’,” he snorted. No ex-wives and no kids to leave any money to, just a stray dog, Lucky, that kept him company for the past ten years. A distant sister too old to visit nowadays who didn’t need anything from him.

“Are you okay, financially?” I pestered. Only old lovers who have morphed over thirty years into close friends can ask these questions. Nobody else did. “Mart, you gotta have a will. Leave everything to me.”

“Hah.”

“You want to be buried or cremated or what? You give anybody a power of attorney?”

“Nah.”

Even ‘nah’ sounded Brooklynese. New York City smart, Martin could tell jokes for hours: Jewish jokes, Irish jokes, religious jokes, lawyer jokes, doctor jokes, all of them streamed out of his memory, an East River of humor, tolerance, irony and wit.

During the brief year he lived in my house, two doors down from his, he brought home grocery bags of goodies and great wine. He loved to shop, he loved to cook and he loved to eat. He taught me to drink martini’s. We went to Key West and looked at Hemingway’s house although Martin did not read much.

In Santa Fe last summer, promoting my memoir, Santa Fe Dreamhouse, I stayed with him. There’s a box of my books in his garage right now, along with the last rugs he didn’t sell at flea markets. Pissed me off he wouldn’t read my book even though he’s in the last chapter. Damn stubborn.

I’ll always have my dreamhouse for it existed before I ever set foot
in Santa Fe and will last as long as I have memory. It's architecture is not perfect but its location by the ancient river, snug against the mountain flank, makes it unique. There will never be another like it, ever.

I can fill the Thanksgiving table with everyone I loved. Here’s Martin, my old friend and neighbor from Brandywine Street, who loved my dog, Flyer, so much he followed me from Philadelphia to Santa Fe just to be near him. Martin has his own dog now.

“Can I bring my Lucky?” he’ll ask.

“Of course,” I say. “Bring what you love.”

Martin, how I miss you.

One Mo' Blondie

2010-06-22T15:31:00.000-07:00

"Are you really a blond?" a leering man asks her.

"Why don't you ask me," she replies.

Trumpet Vines

2010-06-17T14:34:00.000-07:00

Today I shall shamelessly borrow from Cowgirl’s delightful blog about daylilies to praise the six-foot-high red, pink and gold trumpet vine on my brick wall. Eleven years ago it was just a sprout in a five gallon pot but now it reaches twenty-five feet from its stem on one side. Here we must admonish it not to grown right across the street.

It’s other arm has grown in the other direction at least fifty feet along the wall all the way to the end of the house. Not content with two dimensions, this lusty vine sends its joyful tendrils across the five-foot side setback to tap on the living room window panes.

At its furthest end it armwrestles a wall of white blossoming jasmine which itself is climbed every year by the nasturtium vines. Did I once plant those? Their smiling faces are a perfect, clear, almost translucent orange. At their feet volunteer pink and yellow columbines lift their elegant horns almost three feet high.

Trumpet vines grow wild and free along the highway walls out here. My own vine’s stem is as thick and hard as a gnarly tree trunk. Years ago, the same gorgeous trumpet vine grew around the screened porch of my old New Hampshire house. Forty years, I calculate! Gosh, I loved that place, the first I owned by myself. I paid sixteen thousand dollars for it, cheap even at the time. Two big old maple trees in front, a ratty one-car garage and a rickety little barn the previous owner had thrown up to keep the snow off his tools. My pregnant mare went in and out at will to roam the ten acres of pasture.

We swatted mosquitoes many a hot summer night on that porch, watching the mare and then her babies, and the quick gleam of humming birds in the gold and red trumpet blossoms. Their needle beaks sipped from those deep rosy throats long, long ago but not so far away.

Highjacking a Rodeo Princess

2010-06-11T09:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers: I am highjacking a paragraph from Shirley's wonderful meditation just in case you might skip over it. After I walk the dog this morning, I shall return to see if any of you have found it as delightful as I have.

Our farm has a completely amazing population of lightning bugs. Down at the bottom of the pasture, at dusk, they rise out of the ground, swirling, twirling glimmering dots of palest yellow, neon green and blue white, the exact opposite of the blanket of dark. I like to watch as they blink, then disappear, to reappear several feet away. To catch them, you have to guess what direction they go, or be fast enough to snatch them with your hand while they are lit. I think I used to be good at this, because I remember filling mason jars with grass and a twig and then using it as a temporary home for dozens of bugs. As long as I left the lid on the jar, I was allowed to have the jar in my room on my nightstand. I would fall asleep to the glowing semaphore they sent. I hope they found love, if briefly, inside the jar..

The Domestic Episodes of a Rodeo Princess: The Light

Meatloaf

2010-06-06T14:49:00.000-07:00

Jim vowed he could improve on my meatloaf after The Incident on Thursday. I couldn’t agree more. The Thursday meatloaf began with the basics: white bread soaked in milk, eggs, sautéed onion, a dash of Worcestershire and a pound of good ground beef.

Okay, then. Perhaps because I overthawed a pound of mysterious ground beef in the microwave, leaving only its bottom edge a bit tan—and, yes, firm—I resisted thawing expensive artisan bread and found that while the milk box was sealed, the heavy cream box was already open. So I stirred some heavy cream into a quarter cup of Progresso Unseasoned Bread Crumbs.

I let that rest while I considered the meaty glob and considered all that peeling and chopping and sautéing onions need, plus there'd be an extra pan to wash. The hell with the onions.

Meanwhile, the crumbs seized up on the cream so I added more cream. This created uncrushable lumps and a lot of them. Discouraged, I threw that mixture away and thawed the bread. Let the bread cubes stand with light cream, the heavy being now a bad choice, wouldn’t you say? I would. Apparently artisan bread is not very absorbent so I just threw in two organic eggs, a pinch of salt and mixed up the glop, hopefully.

Anyway I baked this concoction, thinking ‘ketchup’ is always a good moistener. Din din, knives and forks, wine and hard voila! dry, hard, flavorless Meatrock.

Volunteer into the breech last night, at about six Jim began to back away from his meatloaf commitment. I presented him with the four lean TJ burger burger discs, flat as if they were stamped out on a cement sidewalk.

“Ready to mix this up?”

“Maybe,” he said and took his drink out to the porch. Meatloaf wasn’t gonna happen.

“How about burgers, then? I’ll put the string beans on.” Necessity being the mother of invention, I buttered one patty and slammed another on top. Jim looked doubtful.

“Think of this as a thick steak,” I suggested and handed him the frying pan.

Well, even with butter the too-rare burger--nuked for a taste-enhancing thirty seconds—was too dry even for a ketchup rescue. The beans were just fine. What potatoes? What comforting starch?

This morning as we drove home before lunch I mentioned that I hadn’t planned anything for supper.

“Please don’t!” he instantly replied.

There’s a goodly supply of dogfood for Mopsy in the fridge. And a big bowl of water beside her dish.

Dementia: Not for Love or Money

2010-06-04T16:12:00.000-07:00

At 5 o’clock yesterday I stopped by SarahCare, a daycare for memory-impaired elders, to introduce my dog to the clients. Sarahcare generously gives my Toastmasters Club a free space to meet every week. In return I occasionally stop by to fill an hour of their day. Owner Tim, busy at the front desk, waved me in. I led Mopsy through the silent, immobile clients, greeted the caregivers and headed through the door.

As I walked out, a slender, well-dressed, seventy-plus client was kicking up a real fuss about the taxi home.

First the cab driver, a powerfully built fifty-something with a heavy moustache and a heavy accent, and then another driver and finally, slim Tim himself, beseeched the woman to get in so she could go home. But the more they begged and patted and even pushed, the more wildly obstinate she became.

“Maybe the dog will distract her,” I offered. “Look, here’s Mopsy!” I cried helpfully. The men stood back. The woman looked at me with silent despair. Ah, probably doesn’t speak English, I thought.

“Senora, por favor, venga con estos hombres. A su casa.” She grabbed my hand with a ferocious grip and looked at me intently. I struggled for a few more Spanish words but none came. “A su casa. La comida. Suenos, senora! Siete en el coche, por favor!”

She cocked her head as if she could not quite hear the words.

“Doesn’t anybody speak Spanish?” I wailed to the men who were looking at me hopefully. “Help me out here!” I tried to pull away from her hand. Goodness, who knew that an old lady could be so strong.

But I did know. Long ago, one high summer season at the Tanglewood Music Festival I sat in an old-fashioned rocker on the front porch of the Lenox Inn beside a gabby old lady in her eighties who claimed she was Joseph Silverstein’s aunt. Silverstein was then Boston Symphony Orchestra’s First Violinist. I had no reason to disbelieve her. She told me a long, funny family story about the poor man’s bossy wife.

I thoroughly enjoyed the insider gossip but when I rose to leave, the old lady grabbed me by the shoulders and planted a passionate kiss full on my mouth. While kiss lasted, a good long time, I was powerless in her grasp.

Those were indeed the woohoo lesbian days and women did occasionally, fall in love with me, then. But this was not a lover’s kiss, this was a very heartfelt, farewell kiss. I know I’ll never see you again.

Then I was gone and of course, I never saw her again. But I have never forgotten the amazing power of her embrace.

Now, at Sarahcare. The woman backed away from the cab with a tormented expression.

“We can’t help you out,” Tim said. “She’s Italian!” The three men renewed their attempts to stuff her into cab’s back seat, then the front but she would not go. As two pushed and cajoled her stiff, resistant body the sweating, burly cabbie turned to me.

“Last Friday she unbuckle herself and open the door right on Freemont Avenue,” he cried. “I used to be a chiropractor and I could hardly get her back inside.”

Now several more pickup cars crowded in, clogging the parking area. I finally squeezed my car out, cursing myself for adding to the mess. Never, ever stop by to visit at day’s end!

In the mirror I saw Tim and now the caregivers push the poor woman back in through the Sarahcare door. The cab drove off empty. God knows who could take this poor woman home and if Sarahcare workers got their own suppers on time.

If you think Alzheimer’s patients just need a loving touch, remember the three men and the taxicab. Doctors are scared to prescribe sedatives or lock people up. The new Health Care bill may spawn a voluntary long-term care fund. But there’s a lot more to memory-impairment issues than love or money.

In her last years my mother had Alzheimers Disease. As she slid into oblivion, she offered to leave me her money if I let her live with me. Too proud for a bribe—I would have done it for love—and too ignorant to understand what was happening to her, I declined. And have felt remorse ever since. She found loving caregivers who chased after her when she ran naked down the street one night and left them the money. Little did I realize the generous gift she left me.

David C. Grabowski, associate professor in the department of health care policy at Harvard Medical School, writes that “today, more than 5 million Americans are estimated to have dementia. By 2050, the number of those afflicted is expected to exceed 13 million.”

Dogs Dogs Dogs

2010-05-31T17:09:00.000-07:00

http://digg.com/pets_animals/Dog_Surprises_Officer_After_Being_Freed_From_A_Fence?OTC-bd1e#

I don’t understand how anyone can have a dog and then not have a dog and forget about them. Isn’t there a teeny dog icon, a dog ap, inside us which once activated, jiggles around on the dock of our unconscious? (Note to pc users: Mac icons dance when you activate them. Very useful.) How can you not look into a dog’s eye when you park next to a dog-in-car or pass one leading its mistress down the street?

Doesn’t have to be your own dog. Any dog. They all have dogness which is something in common with humans but not altogether common. Their dogness goes way, way back, before they sat outside our campfires and drooled at the smell of our meat, perhaps the beginning of our mutual passion. Long ago they ate us. They would again if they were hungry enough and we too feeble or dead to protest.

They are older, almost as old as the rocks in the mountains. Their ancient, wild dogness connects us to our knuckle-dragging, prehistoric ancestors. They jiggle the ancient, deep right sides of our brains.

Now some people who never had a dog who can still feel the tremble of that dog icon deep in a mysterious unconsciousness. People who have felt a puppy kick to free himself from loving arms, who have watched a terrier leap for a Frisbee, these have seen the arc of wolfy leap he makes against a blue sky. Dog icons remind us that the earth is very old and our lives are very short.

Play Farmville or enter Second Life but there’s nothing like a dog’s eye, watching you. Look back.

Hospitalization

2010-05-25T08:39:00.000-07:00

A patient is lying in bed in the hospital, wearing an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, heavily sedated from a difficult four-hour procedure.

A young student nurse appears to give him a partial sponge bath.

"Nurse", he mumbles, from behind the mask, "Are my testicles black?"

Embarrassed, the young nurse replies, "I don't know, sir. I'm only here to wash your upper body and feet."

He struggles to ask again, "Nurse, are my testicles black?"

Concerned that he may elevate his vitals from worry about his testicles, she overcomes her embarrassment and sheepishly pulls back the covers. She raises his gown, holds his penis in one hand and his testicles in the other, lifting and moving them around.

She takes a close look and says, "There's nothing wrong with them, sir."

The man pulls off his oxygen mask, smiles at her and enunciates slowly.

"Thank you very much. That was wonderful, but now, listen carefully.

"Are my test results back? "

Blonds and Rotties

2010-05-21T10:14:00.000-07:00

1. Two blondes walk into a building. You'd think at least one of them would have seen it.

2. I went to buy some camouflage trousers the other day but I couldn't see any.

3. My friend drowned in a bowl of muesli. A strong currant pulled him in.

4. A man took his Rottweiler to the vet.

'My dog is cross-eyed. Is there anything you can do for him?'

'Let's have a look at him.' He picked the dog up and examined his eyes.

'Well', said the vet, 'I'm going to have to put him down.'

'Put him down just because he's cross-eyed?'

'No, because he's really heavy.'

2010-05-20T08:07:00.000-07:00

Helpful Screen Cleaner

2010-05-19T12:12:00.000-07:00

I noticed your computer screen needed cleaning so here is my present to you. click on the word "here" above and wait for a few seconds
and your screen will be cleaned for you!

The True Story of Goldilocks

2010-05-18T09:52:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time Goldilocks lived on a farm at the edge of a deep, dark forest. She was a very good girl who always finished her chores by suppertime.

One morning when she came down for breakfast, the house was empty and the larder was bare. On the counter a note said: Back by dark. Scrub the floors, chop the wood, mow the lawn and plant an acre of potatoes. Do not go into the deep, dark forest where dangerous animals lurk.

Just then delicious aroma of buttery, sugary, nutty porridge wafted from the deep, dark forest.

“The heck with the chores.” She set off to follow the aroma into the woods.

Golden sunlight streamed down through the leaves. Overhead the birds sang.

Goldilocks sang, too, as she skipped along. When she came to an open meadow where the grass was green as emeralds, a turquoise lake sparkled and beside the lake stood a cottage with a red door. Flowers waved in the window boxes. A swing hung from the big tree beside a bee hive.

The front door was slightly ajar.

Hello?” she called politely.

Pushing the door open she entered a cozy living room. The delicious aroma was stronger now.

“Anybody home?” Ah, those three chairs. She slid right off the big leather Barcalounger and almost drowned in the deep cushions of the second chair.

But the baby chair just fit and now she could see three bowls on the kitchen table.

“Ouch,” she yelped and put the spoon back into the biggest bowl. The porridge in the second bowl was cold and hard.

Of course the third bowl was just right. She felt her strength restored.

“If I ate this every day I could work ten times as hard.”

She ate it all up and rinsed the bowl. Very sleepy she went up the stairs and tried the first bed but it was too high. The second bed was too soft and the third bed, as we know, was exactly right. In a moment Goldilocks was sound asleep.

The three bears came home and saw front door was open.

“Uh oh,” growled Papa Bear. “Has someone been sitting in my chair?”

Mama Bear saw that one of her chair cushions was on the floor.

Baby Bear examined his chair. “Somebody sat in MY chair and moved it one inch.”

“Who ate a spoonful of my porridge!” said Papa Bear angrily.

“Some one tried mine,” said Mama Bear thoughtfully.

“Who’s eaten my porridge ALL UP?” said Baby Bear. “Look, they even rinsed the bowl.

“Someone was tidy,” Mama Bear smiled.

They trooped upstairs.

“Nobody’s in my bed,” Papa Bear said.

“Nor mine,” Mama Bear said.

“She’s in MY bed!” Baby Bear cried.

Papa Bear stretched out his claws.

“Put those away, it’s just a girl,” Mama Bear said.

“Hey, wake up!” Baby Bear said.

Goldilocks opened her eyes to see three dangerous animals looking down on her. Exactly what her parents had warned about.

“A nice-looking girl,” said Mama Bear tenderly.

“Would she like to play with the bees?” asked Baby Bear eagerly.

“Probably not,” said Mama Bear.

“You know,” said Papa Bear. “It would be lovely to have a girl in the house. Let’s keep her.”

Mama Bear gave his paw a tender squeeze. “You old softie,” she said. “But she might have her own parents.”

Goldilocks sat up and yawned.

“What pretty little teeth,” Baby Bear noticed.

“She’s awfully thin,” Mama Bear noticed. “But not for a human.”

“Humans know how to read and write,” Papa Bear said. “She could teach us.” He went off to look for a pencil.

Goldilocks stood up. “I’m awfully sorry. I just couldn’t help myself.”

“My porridge does that,” Mama Bear said. “And it makes us strong.”

Goldilocks agreed. “May I have the recipe?”

“Certainly,” said Mama Bear. She gently straightened Goldilock’s braids. “Such long, yellow fur. Come down to the kitchen and I’ll show you how I make it.

First Mama Bear made a big pot of porridge while Goldilocks wrote down the recipe. Then Goldilocks taught them how to read and write. They were thrilled.

“Now I can sell our honey in the market,” Papa Bear said. “We’ll be rich.”

“Now I can write my cookbook,” Mama Bear said. “I’ll have my own TV show.”

“Now I can go to college,” Baby Bear said. “Then play professional hockey.”

When they were finished, Goldilocks thanked them. Goodbye, they said, giving her bear hugs. Fortified by the wonderful porridge she did every single chore on the list and planted twenty acres of potatoes before her parents returned

“You were wrong about the forest,” she said. “The wild beasts were nice to me. And their porridge gave me the strength of ten.”

Goldilocks made it every morning so they could work ten times as hard. Papa Bear got rich selling honey and Mama Bear got her own show. Sure enough, Baby Bear plays for the Bruins.

Here's the recipe for Paula Bear's Ten Times Stronger Porridge:

Simmer oatmeal in grandmother’s good pot. When it’s thick and hot, give yourself a big helping in a blue and white bowl. Add cream from your prettiest cow and a dollop of good butter from the churn. Swirl in a tablespoon or two of dark brown sugar. If you have berries, add them. A teeny pinch of salt on top brings all the delicious flavors together.
GRRREAT!

Breakfast With Ginger

2010-05-16T10:28:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaAVZ2yXDBo

Laugh all day!

The Story of The Humble Seamstress

2010-05-16T09:58:00.000-07:00

One day when a humble seamstress was sewing near a river, her thimble fell into the water. Seeing her distress, the Lord
appeared and asked, 'My dear child, why are you weeping?'

The poor woman replied that since she had lost her only thimble she could no longer earn a living for her family.

The Lord dipped His hand into the water and pulled up a
golden thimble set with sapphires.

'Is this your thimble?' the Lord asked.

The honest seamstress replied, 'No.'

The Lord again dipped into the river and brought up a golden thimble studded with rubies.

'Is this your thimble?' the Lord asked. Again, the little
seamstress replied, 'No.'

The Lord reached down again and came up with a leather thimble.

'Is this your thimble ?' the Lord asked. The seamstress
replied, 'Yes.'

Pleased with the woman's honesty, the Lord gave her all three thimbles. The seamstress went home happy.

Some years later, the seamstress was walking with her
husband, who fell into the river and disappeared under the water. When she cried out, the Lord appeared and again asked, 'Why are you crying?'

'Lord, my husband has fallen into the river!'

The Lord went down into the water and came up with George Clooney.

'Is this your husband?' the Lord asked.

'Yes,' cried the seamstress.

The Lord was furious. 'You lied! That is an untruth!'

The seamstress replied, 'Oh, forgive me, my Lord. It is a
misunderstanding.

'You see, if I had said 'no' to George Clooney, You would have come up with Brad Pitt.

'If I said 'no' to Brad Pitt, You would have come up with my husband. Had I then said 'yes,' You would have given me all three. Lord, I'm not in the best of health and would not be able to take care of three husbands.

'THAT'S why I said 'yes' to George Clooney.'

Time Off with Girl Friends

2010-05-14T07:51:00.000-07:00

Four friends spend weeks planning the perfect girls getaway trip - shopping spree, casinos, massages and facials, the whole works.

Two days before the group was to leave Mary's husband put his foot down and told her she wasn't going. Her pals were very upset but since they'd already paid for the holiday, they reluctantly decided to go anyway.

On Friday when the three get to the hotel, there was Mary sitting in the bar drinking a martini.

"Wow, how long have you been here?" they asked.

"I've been here for hours," Mary said with a sly grin.

"But tell us, how did you talk your husband into letting you go?"

"Well, last night as I was sitting on the couch my husband came up behind me, put his hands over my eyes and said 'Guess who?'

"When I pulled his hands off I saw all he was wearing was his birthday suit. Whispering sweet nothings, he led me to our bedroom. It was dark and scented with lovely perfume. He had lit a dozen candles and strewn rose petals over the bed. There, on the sheets he had set out handcuffs and ropes!

"He told me to cuff him and tie him to the bed, so I did. And then he said, 'Now you can do whatever you want.'

"So here I am."

Here's a little music to send you into the weekend: http://oldfortyfives.com/DYRT.htm

LOL

2010-05-11T13:03:00.000-07:00

When an old nun living in a convent next to a construction site noticed the coarse language of the workers, she knew she could change their godless ways. She would take her lunch to the site, sit with the workmen and talk with them.

She put her sandwich in a brown bag and walked over to where the men sat eating their lunches. As she approached the group with a big smile she asked: "Do any of you men know Jesus Christ?"

They shook their heads and looked confused.

One of the workers looked up into the steelworks and yelled, "Anybody up there know Jesus Christ?"

One of the steelworkers yelled, 'Why'?

The worker yelled back, "Cos his wife's here with his lunch!"

Highly Saturated Memories

2010-05-10T11:19:00.000-07:00

Poet Nicholson Baker writes in his wonderful meditation, The Anthologist, that “Poetry is like math or chess or music—it requires a slightly misshapen brain and those kinds of brains don’t last. Sometimes if you can hold on into old age you can have another late flowering.. much of adulthood crumbles..and you’re left with highly saturated early memories..”

Highly saturated memories. Good to know we have that.

Thanks to http://magpietales.blogspot.com/ for the nudge on writing.

Child Witnesses Birth

2010-05-10T09:34:00.000-07:00

Due to a power outage, only one paramedic responded to the mother's desperate call.

The house was very dark, so the EMT asked 3-yr-old Kathleen to hold a flashlight while he helped her mommy deliver the baby.

Kathleen did as she was asked. When the baby was born, the paramedic lifted the him by his little feet and spanked him on his bottom. The baby wailed.

He thanked Kathleen for her help and asked what she thought about what she had just witnessed.

"Well," Kathleen replied with indignation. "He shouldn't have crawled in there in the first place. Smack him again!'"

The Beggars Opera

2010-05-05T15:59:00.000-07:00

Feeling overnetworked, I quit Facebook today and, boy, not one Friend has noticed. No one’s hitting my LinkedIn, either, except thousands from my old alma mater, whoever the hell they all are. I forgot how to Twitter as soon as I learned it. Netting doesn’t work for me. I’m a hermit. I don’t get around much anymore.

But last week Shirley Landis VanScoyk, who lives in Honey Brook, outside of Philadelphia, took me back to Center City Philadelphia where I spent a happy ten years. In her funny and smart blog http://domesticepisodes.blogspot.com/ she wrote about the Philadelphia Opera Company’s flash opera at Reading Terminal Market. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_zmwRitYO3w&feature=player_embedded

Holy smokes, Reading Terminal is my favoritest food market in the States. Soon as I quit Facebook, here's Shirley, whom I've never met, sixty miles west of the Philadelphia, hooking me over three thousand miles with a YouTube vid. In a flash I’m back at my old stamping ground, The Terminal. As the singers raised their beautiful voices in La Traviata’s brindisi scene, I searched the crowd for a familiar face or a familiar sign. I didn’t recognize any people but there behind the singers’ and the shoppers’ joyful faces, there was the same old Spano Cheesesteaks sign. I could smell the onions frying.

Oh, dear Reading Terminal. If I could write an opera, it would be about thee. Thee of shining Korean faces selling fish flesh and gleaming string beans. Thee of Amish and Black folks and Italians. The many, many cheeses and the finest spice shop that ever made me sneeze. Oh Reading Terminal Market, I love your old, rotting beams and the stink of nearby Chinatown.

Not for me to evaluate professional opera singers. Let me just say I was very glad to see the dawning surprise and pleasure on the shoppers' faces. Yes, yes, California is very beautiful and the market at the San Francisco Ferry Terminal bursts with organic string beans and handmade cheese and considerately-harvested fish. Not great fish, mostly those flabby, flavorless Hawaiian giants you have to jazz up with wasabi and teriyaki sauce (might as well eat the paper napkin).

Unlike Reading Terminal, the Ferry market is new. The building is all spiffy reproduction glass. The bathrooms sparkle. Nothing smells except the brisk breeze blowing in from the Pacific Ocean through the Golden Gate which I now know is the actual name of the mouth of San Francisco Bay: not the bridge, not the bay, just the mouth of the bay.

Okay, then.

Because the earth spins, that Pacific wind blows west to east right over the continent to the Reading Terminal Market, at least in my memory. Quick, before I forget, here’s the real broiled bluefish recipe: a little Mombasa red pepper from that spice shop, go easy, then a schmear of mustard and a bigger schmear of Hellman’s mayonnaise, yes, oily mayo on an oily fish. Broil until crackling, eat. Eat the skin, too. It’s loaded with vitamin A.

Alas, I cannot buy this divine fish out west. Short of standing on the pier in Boston as the trawler comes to dock, Reading Terminal has the freshest blues. Don’t get me started on soft-shelled crabs and shad roe. We’re all about the vegetables out here.

One of my favorite memories of The Terminal, where I shopped two or three times a week, was the Italian sandwich with chopped artichoke hearts, hot pickled peppers, exactly the right proportion of freshly, thinly sliced ham, mortadella, genoa salami, provolone and chopped romaine. Sprinkle of olive oil, sprinkle of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. A roll to rip the teeth out of your mouth. You don’t need your teeth in heaven.

So I considered my food inventory and remembered to take those two hundred dollar bills out of the kitty—can’t remember why it was so fat—and drove the VW downtown. I always looked for a parking meter on Arch so I wouldn’t have to pay the lot attendant. Sure enough, I nailed a space but as I was beginning to fish in my shoulderbag for change, a street bum right out of a Three Penny Opera—originally The Beggars Opera, did you know that—caught my eye and approached, spewing dust from his filthy hair and layers of filthy old clothes. Suspenders held up his horrible baggy pants. He held my tremulous eye. I am such a sucker and I knew the hit was coming.

“Say,” I blurted. “Have you got change for a dollar?”

How inspired is that? Like a mask, his face morphed from rapacious to gracious, wreathed in smiles. He wasn’t that murderous-looking under all the dirt.

"Why honey,” he said in an almost-cultivated voice, “help yourself.” He dug into a very, very deep pants pocket and pulled out a glittering handful of quarters and dimes. “Take all you want.”

“Thank you,” I said, picking out four shining quarters. I didn’t try not to touch him. I may have touched him. I hope I did.

“Want more?” His eyebrows lifted politely.

“No thanks, that’s just what I need.” I turned to feed the meter. Then I walked across the pay lot and did my shopping.

After I unloaded the goodies in my Brandywine Street kitchen, I counted out my change. I like to keep tabs on the cash flow, balance it with my feeding frenzies. That day I was short exactly one hundred dollars. Damn! I mentally retraced my shopping steps as I put each item away. I remembered breaking the first hundred, not the other. It was missing. Theft? Had that bum somehow got his hand in MY pocket?

Or had I dropped it as I walked into the market, arranging the bills in my wallet. It could be. But finding a hundred dollar bill outside Reading Terminal Market on a busy, sunny Saturday was impossible. Yet.

I fired up the VW and drove to the spot. Found several open parking spaces. Put my eyes to the sidewalk, to the weedy edges. Continued across the Arch Street Parking Lot, five dollars half an hour, the ripoffs.

There it was, two hours after I dropped it, my one hundred dollar bill. Waiting for me.

I was so grateful I went right back into the Terminal and bought those very expensive things I had foregone on the morning run.

And every time I break a hundred, I feel grateful and lucky. And when I take a deep breath blowing through the Golden Gate, I often think of the bluefish and the bum at Reading Terminal Market.

Unfortunate Blonds

2010-05-04T10:11:00.000-07:00

The big mall had a power blackout yesterday. Three blonds were trapped on the escalator for hours.

Do You Have Children?

2010-04-29T08:07:00.000-07:00

“You should think about this, Reed,” my mother continued. “They prefer to be with me. You know that.”

Ouch. Could that be true?

“Oh yes,” she continued, seeing my face. “They’ve told me. Many times. It breaks my heart to tuck them in at night and hear their prayers. I don’t think they say prayers at home with you, do they? No, I thought not.”

Impatient, yes indeedy. My fury rose to my ears.

“They do NOT prefer to be here with you,” I snarled, at the same time, asking myself if perhaps they might prefer her house alone in the woods to mine. No other company, just Granny and they, all the time. She’d have to drive them to school and drive them to friends. Find friends because my mother had cast off all hers. Alienated them. Her phone never rang.

“Oh, yes they do. And I can prove it. Right now!”

“How would you do that?” I choked.

“Ask them,” she said with a triumphant grin. My gut clenched.

"They’re asleep! It’s ten o’clock at night.”

“We’ll wake them up right now and let them choose. You or me.”

I woke them, all right, and stuffed them back into the car, drove the hundred miles to my own house and never spoke of it.

So I didn’t get to start a career. I bought cheap houses and fixed them up and set the table with good silver and packed lunches and took them skiing and sent them off to see their father and yes, my mother, whenever they wanted.

I pitched just one Little League game until my son walked off the field, bored. I bought him a pony. My daughter had her Barbies, my son his Tonkas. Bikes, skates, swimming and tennis and sailing lessons, cooking, Europe and even six weeks in Greece with just me. Nightly readings by the fire. They had fabulous Christmas presents, the poor little broken-family orphans. Everything my parents did for me and more.

Men came and went. Very few wanted to take on two young kids and to tell the truth, I had had my fill of being a wife. So it was the open sea for me.

The daughter, Sarah, was ever distant. I never knew when she menstruated. She did not want me to hang her one art project. She did not want to paint or cook or sew or knit or plant anything. She lived behind a closed door from the time she was eleven or twelve. She went to boarding school in ninth grade and spent her holidays with chums. At the senior year celebration of her B.U. Women Crew she told me I was not to come because her father would be there, instead. Not a shortage of tickets. She didn't want to see us in the same room. Was I sorry I had supported her team with actual money?

Nick left boarding school under a cloud before the end of his ninth grade. I got him into Germantown Friends Dayschool and for a time he had a nice little job opening up the corner store on the same block. He was funny and lively and popular and acted in the school productions. But his father was not pleased with his low grades and never attended any functions. The kids always went to their father, in Paris, in Teheran, in Newport or Florida.

When Nick abandoned school in his junior year to play with cocaine and the Philadelphia police would not enforce the curfew unless they caught him on the street, I begged the ex talk to the boy.

"Don’t bug your mother, you’ll be out of there pretty soon,” was his advice.

Indeed, before senior year, the boy left for his father’s, dealt more drugs, flunked public high school, flunked a semester at UTenessee and tried to kill himself. He let me rescue him, then disappeared into that awful, Arctic world of dealing. I bailed him once and then set myself against that tide. No more money, just straight talk. He fathered a child, abused his wife and abandoned them. I chose her and the kid and haven’t heard but once from him since. When he sees his kid, begging to be forgiven his child support, he forbids the boy to see me. We ignore this admonition.

My daughter has not spoken to me in almost ten years. Who knows if my mother told the kids I was a crazy, drunken lesbian? I’ll never know if the ex’s bountiful supply of money lured them away.

So you, my sisters and brothers, you asked what happened after the horse kicked the kid’s head in. Now you know. Tell me, do I still have two children?

Too Awful

2010-04-28T21:35:00.001-07:00

These posts are so painful, so awful, I have to take break. Who the hell wants to know this?

Do You Have Children?

2010-04-27T08:31:00.000-07:00

It was true. I didn’t think I was a good mother. I often felt angry and frustrated. Lonesome and cut off from my life. Writing seemed a thousand years in my past. The Husband didn’t want me to work and he sneered when I sold one little article for twelve dollars.

I minded the kids, cooked, entertained, decorated the house and kept a lovely horse. Rode with my girlfriends when the kids were in school. I gardened and raised dogs. I visited my widowed mother. Kept supper warm when the husband came in late.

“You better find yourself a place to live,” he said, opening his suitcase on our bed.

“I don’t want this,” I cried. “I won’t sign a divorce.”

“If you don’t sign, I’ll have the sheriff put you and the kids on the street,” he said.

Boy, I could see it. I could see it. The idea of separation from him was terrifying. Where would I go? Where would we go? The dog, the cats, the horse, my garden—for surely we couldn’t continue on what he would provide. And sure enough, we didn’t continue.

“What if I don’t take the kids,” I said, trembling at such an idea.

“If you won’t take the children,” he said stiffly, “I’ll put them up for adoption. My sister will take them.”

Indeed his sister, whom he had barely spoken to since I’d known him, nine years, could afford to take them since she’d divorced very, very well. What a fool I was.

I couldn’t let them go. I set my oars and headed my little boat into the stormy seas.

Of course I was delighted to let the Ex have the kids anytime he wanted. And my mother, lonely in her widowhood, was thrilled to have them singly or together for a week or two. She felt she was a great help. And she was. She was. Then, this, out of the blue.

“You know, Reedie, you should let me have the children,” she said one rainy spring night as I prepared to head back home, leaving them with her.

“What?”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I could do a better job. You’ve always been so impatient! They need more love. I have the time and I know your ex would pay me the money he pays you.”

Alarm bells went off.

“Thanks, Mom, but I don’t think so,” I stammered. How could this sixty-two-year-old woman with a terrible bad back who spent most of her days in her bed-nest with the TV on and her nights listening to rabid talk radio, a woman too acrophobic to go to a movie, who slouched around the house in a nylon mu-mu from the discount store, how could she possibly raise two kids who had music lessons and sports and, shit, I put in five hundred miles a week carpooling.

“No thanks,” I said, icily.

(More tomorrow)

Do You Have Children?

2010-04-26T17:17:00.000-07:00

Men never ask me this question but mothers always do. If I hesitate and answer that I have two children, she may imagine they’re dead. So I hasten to add that we are only estranged. Have been estranged for years. This leads down a path I do not want to tread, at least not with someone I’ve just met.

You, however, I know you. I can tell you a little more of the story. But I must begin with the Great Disclaimer: I was a Monster. Yes, it’s no wonder they got rid of me. Although I didn’t beat them, didn’t chain them up—quite the contrary, I let them go where they wanted. They visited their father, my mother and their friends whenever they liked. I packed them up and spent the holidays alone.

Or with a boyfriend. Single for eighteen years I confess I did have lovers and yes, sometimes they stayed overnight but not in the same room, not until the boy was home from boarding school at fifteen. Even then I was discreet about the bedtime romps.

I was lonely. I like company. I like men and yes, sex. Of course I want to say, my only sin. Now that I’m digging into it, I see there is an underlying, original sin.

I never wanted to be a mother. I never babysat, never played with dolls or imagined what kind of a mother I would be. Never had a crush on a girl, either, although that may be irrelevant. Babies were just outside the picture. The first baby was an accident.

I married Mr. Executive to escape my mother, a woman obsessed with my virginity. She’d have locked me up in a chastity belt if there were such things. The pill came along ten years too late for me.

Frying pan into fire. Without birth control, illegal in Connecticut in 1960 even for married folk, I was two weeks along when I married and a mother a month after my twentieth birthday. The second child was meant to save my marriage.

As my husband prepared to move out I screwed up my courage and asked if he would take the children. I was just twenty-six, still young enough to finish college and start a career.

“You’re a good father,” I said. He had a great job and the kids adored him. “You take them. I’ll have visiting privileges.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I have a job. I can’t be a full-time parent.”

"You can hire a nanny and a housekeeper. Stay in this house, keep the kids in school. I’ll be around."

“And,” I confessed, “I don’t think I’m a very good mother.”

A Good Walk Spoiled

2010-04-22T11:11:00.000-07:00

A certain man I know—lets call him ‘Mr. Bob’—might retire if he could avoid playing golf. Poor Bob, he’s both a terrible golfer and a tender-hearted guy who can’t say No when Uncle Albert calls.

“Are you free on Wednesday?” Uncle Albert asks. That’s Senior Discount Day at the local greens. Uncle Albert likes the Senior Discount Deals: twenty bucks for eighteen holes and a free hot dog before you tee off. Free small beverage, too.

“I’ve never been any good at golf,” Mr. Bob says. His clubs aren’t the high end whackers a guy can brag about. And Mr. B doesn’t want to order expensive custom golf shoes with little pegs so he wears his good sneakers. Slippery, amateurish, plus it’s very irritating to walk around in soggy socks.

The Tiger isn’t calling Mr. Bob for a casual round. He’s never had the time or money to take lessons or belong to a club. His younger brothers love golf and they’re so much better the last time they played—the only time—he got his ass handed to him. Not that sibling competition has anything to do with the golf. Just saying, is all.

Golf is supposed to be a relaxing day in the sunshine but those few times Mr. B. has played with Uncle Albert, he comes home tired and pissed off.

“Did you have fun, dear?” the wife asks. But she can see the grim answer on Mr. B.’s face.

“First we get paired up with a couple of jokers I hope I never see again. All they talk about is the local hockey team I don’t give a rat’s patootie about. Sometimes they’re retired geezers, like Uncle Albert, only interested in what other courses charge, who has senior discounts for anything, how much they pay to get the car’s oil changed. Dog shit money.

“And I can’t talk about politics or the news because Uncle Albert is such an idiot. An archconservative idiot. He hates Obama. He hates the Federal government. Immigrants. And taxes, boy does he hate taxes.

“Basically he’s cheap. I’m ashamed to say that because he’s my uncle.

“Lemme tell you how cheap. Say he hits one into the rough. We’re both pretty lousy players. He’s only a little better than I and.. well, I did hit a couple of long, straight drives today. Surprised myself. But no, not enough to inspire me. I’m too old to start over. And golf is really boring.

“You get behind some women, for example. Women talk. Yak yak yak while we wait. But we’re just as bad.

“Say Uncle Albert’s ball is buried in the rough which is very often. Now, the gentlemanly thing to do is not hold everybody up by looking for the god damn ball. You just take another ball out of your bag and tee it up as close to where yours went in as seems reasonable and get on with the game.

“Not Uncle Albert. He goes into the bushes, whacking away with his club which I don’t think is legal. Certainly not good for the bushes. He searches until he finds his ball. Meanwhile, he’s finding other balls. Lots of them! After several minutes he emerges with handsful of balls, wearing a big smile.

“’Won’t have to buy any new ones for quite a while,’ he says with satisfaction. This is a guy whose house is worth over two million and he’s always drives a Lexus. Jeez. Today while I was waiting for him I looked around the edge of the rough and found an old ball, myself. So old the cover was split and a little tree was growing out of it.

“I don’t know why Uncle Albert doesn’t have anybody else to play with. Lots of old farts have those kinds of political opinions and the time and money to find the Senior Discount hot dogs. For some reason it’s me.

“And for some reason I can’t say no. I don’t know why. Maybe because he’s a relative. If he heard I had quit working, I’d have to play every single week. Get real golf shoes. Listen to those hockey bores. I tell you, honey, no matter how I complain about my job, it beats golf all to blazes. I’d much rather hike by myself.”

And Mr. Bob does just that when he can fend off Uncle Albert’s invitation.

As Mark Twain said: Golf, a good walk spoiled.

I Thought You Were Dead

2010-04-12T18:10:00.000-07:00

On a whim I went back to my old hometown, Middle Haddam, Connecticut, last year as I was zipping through the state. I parked the car and walked all around town, beginning at the first house, the one with the cowboy wallpaper, the one where Dad brought home the terrified hound and the one where Mom threatened to leave.

Not in that order. The hound relaxed and Mom stayed put. Wallpaper’s probably still there. Nothing seems to have changed. Except me.

“I wonder if Sandra Hale still lives here,” I asked the grumpy postmistress.

She nodded toward a little old man twirling the knobs of his post box.

“That’s her husband. Ask him.”

He smiled at me.

“I’m a very old friend of Sandra.” I hesitated. What if..? “How is she?” He nodded and explained she was right outside in the car.

“San’,” I said as I rapped on the closed car window. She looked almost exactly the same: thick, reddish hair, pale skin with freckles. Sensible glasses. Exactly my age. Which would make her husband my age.

I rapped again. She was fooling with her checkbook and looked up with irritation.

“What do you want?” she growled as she rolled the window down just two inches.

“San, it’s me, Reedie!” I exclaimed joyfully. Had not seen this woman since I first married in 1961. Boy, she looked great!

“Oh, Reedie,” she cried and opened the door. Just about time, I thought, then stuffed that away. “Gosh what are you doing in Middle Haddam?" She looked me in the eye. "I thought you were dead.”

Well. Welcome back.

Then we hugged and she told me all about her life married to Richie, that old man, and he came out and stood aside our floods of girlish reminiscing. They had followed his Army career and come home to take care of her aging parents who had finally died off, leaving Sandra and Richie a house just above our old grammar school.

Our old pal, Doris, who lived in the next town, had once married briefly and lived quite cheerfully on her own. This one and that had died or moved away. We soon ran out of common folk to catch up on.

Then she had to go somewhere and drove off.

Dead, huh?

I got a better reception from the one real estate broker in town who bought my mother’s last remodel and remembered her with proper respect. She actually apologized to me for updating a bathroom.

“Your mother was so clever at tucking a bathroom into a tiny space,” the broker said.

“What? You’re destroying my mother’s work after.. let’s see.. only fifty years? That's a hell of a note!”

She smiled thinly. Oh hell, I’m just a ghost.

The door of the little Episcopal church where I tied that unfortunate knot was locked. Just as well, I thought. A bosomy lass came out of the brick Rectory where Dad stopped for a post-sermon martini many a Sunday. Good enough reason to listen to Father Love’s bromides, apparently. The bosoms glanced at me, got into her car and drove off. Boy, am I dead or what?

Another house my mother rescued, the one across from Sandra’s house. This diffident homeowner apologized for not having furniture up to Sally Stevens’ standards. I waved my hands helplessly and tried to reassure her. I did note, without saying anything of course, that my favorite maple trees were no more. Not her fault, they were about 200 years old when I left 60 years ago. Still. Her furniture looked just fine, better than anything Mother could afford.

“Ah, Mother's sconce,” I pointed out as I left.

“I love that sconce!” she dithered happily.

I headed down the twisty River Road past Gretchen’s house where her wonderful grandmother just keeled over dead one fine September afternoon and I had to go get poor Gretch’ from St. Margaret’s School way over in Waterbury. Haven’t seen dear Getchen but once since I married and moved away with my la de dah Yalie husband. Her brother, a skinny kid terrified of his beautiful mother, killed himself at Parris Island boot camp. Some one else found Gretchen then but I didn’t live there.

None of the old, shingled cottages had seen a carpenter’s hammer. I’d love to see Gretchen again and Sandra and Doris, my bridesmaids but I was walking in a parallel universe. At last I came to the lovely big river and Mary Starr’s summer cottage right on the shore. The dark screens of the river-facing porch were exactly as I remembered. Up the green painted steps and I’d be on the comfy flowered couch among the grownups, their dripping ice teas and gins, their cigarette smoke and loud, husky laughter.

Mary Starr was a jolly, fat woman who loved everybody, dogs and cats included. She was just taking a batch of bread out of the oven.

“Go ahead, hon, just pull the end offa that loaf and see if it’s any good,” she’d say. “Here’s the butter. Sal, you got to feed this girl!”

Mary Starr and her bigger, fatter and sooner dead husband, Alan Starr—man, they could cook and could they eat. Lobsters with bowls of butter and lemons. Shad, shad roe, bluefish, swordfish, steaks as thick as your thigh on the charcoal grill. Crispy on the outside, red and rare in the middle.

“Let’s see if you can pick this up with your toes,” Mary would say, tossing a dime on the bare wood floor when we kids got bored. This was before we learned to drink. My pal, Tinkie, same age, and I would madly scrunch our toes to win the dime and another and another. My mother rolled her eyes but Mary waved her off. “Good for their feet. Going to be ballerinas one day, Sal. You’ll see.”

The Starrs owned a brass bell factory where Tink’s mother, Margo, worked as a secretary in those desperate last years before cancer took her. Yes, there was Margo pulling on a long cigarette filter, very elegant, keeping an eye on Tink. No shenanigans, that was Margo. Tink was a complete orphan at thirteen.

All our lives changed when Margo went.

But the river remains the same. I doubt any house in Middle Haddam has seen a single new two by four since I left. Mother still rules. And I am, to Middle Haddam, still dead.

Sunday Morning Sex

2010-04-10T18:29:00.000-07:00

Hearing that her grandfather had just passed away, my old friend, Katie, went straight to her grandparent's house to comfort her 95 year-old grandmother.

When she asked how Grandfather had died, Grandmother replied, "He had a heart attack while we were making love on Sunday morning."

Horrified, Katie blurted that sex for 100-year-olds was certainly asking for trouble.

"Oh no, my dear," Grandmother replied. "We adjusted long ago to our advancing age. It seemed our best time coincided with the Sunday bells of the nice little church next door. Long and slow and even. Never strenuous, just in on the Ding and out on the Dong."

She paused to wipe away a tear. "He'd still be alive if the ice cream truck hadn't come along."

WHAT SHE LEFT BEHIND

2010-03-29T15:09:00.000-07:00

My mother left the old prewar studio photos of her and Dad taken after their marriage. Her fine hair rolls up to the top of her head in the fashion of the time. My father’s short, dark moustache looks a bit like Hitler’s but it’s uneven, as if he shaved in a hurry. I doubt he gave a damn about having his picture taken but perhaps this photo was meant to be a gift to his parents. Mom never said much about those years before I was born and of course I wasn’t the least bit interested in anything that happened before Me.

My house is full of my father’s stuff. I use the low, square pine box my father’s grandfather, Ernst Hanefeld, built to carry his woodworking tools from Paris to Philadelphia. Father’s. In the living room, a long cocktail table Dad concocted for my mother out of odd legs and a walnut plank just before he died. The legs are a bit crooked, like his moustache in the photo.

Mom loved to go junking with a gal friend, counting the bills in her purse, asking Dad for more, then heading out as soon as I left for school and not back until dark. In the fifties and early sixties you could find treasures in rural Connecticut because nobody used decorators in those days.

She bought all kinds of old things, furniture and picture frames and old tinware and silverware and pewter and copper bowls and things you could make things out of. They had to be original and authentic, nothing reproduction. She glued and sanded, she caned and laid on gold leaf. She swapped and traded gave stuff away just for the hell of it. Giving stuff away is a good reason to buy it in the first place.

That’s one of the things she left me: generosity.

The old cherry table’s drop-leaves were always so loose Dad could hardly cut his lamb chop. The bottom of the drawer has shrunk over it’s hundred and fifty, maybe more, years, so it won’t hold a paperclip. Mom eventually bought a more rugged pine table two people could actually put their elbows on. I gave that to my daughter.

I gave my daughter the bright Victorian quilt Mom gave me. And the pretty Kelim rug. My dog had chewed one corner off it but the rug itself was so handsome you just had to use it. Perhaps my daughter’s dog has evened up the opposite corner by now.

Dogs, that’s another thing my mother left me. We always had dogs, hers and mine.

“Mom, you gotta get a dog,” I told her when the spaniel died.

I’m too old,” she said.

Dog dog dog, I insisted. True, she was old and not just old but getting dotty.

When that rug-chewing boy went to join his ancestors, I went dogless. But I’m not too old to have a dog again so here I am with a another. A rug piddler this time.

So, dogs, that’s another thing she left me.

What has she left me that I would I save if the house were burning down? I am too full of her stories to choose. The birch trees of her Rochester childhood, the mother she lost, the red setters that lay under the piano? Popovers—when did I last make those? It’s a lot of dust in the attic, a lot of stuff falling out of that drawer.

Oh, one other thing she left: an old, heavy, maple cutting board shaped like a pig. I’ve chopped bushels of onions on it and perhaps a hundred miles of celery for her duck stuffing. Mother instructed me very carefully how to keep it clean. I was to slosh bleach on it occasionally, then anoint it with olive oil, then put it out in the sun to dry.

The pigboard and the dog. Enough.

Shad and the River

2010-03-13T14:01:00.000-08:00

Three thousand miles and almost sixty years away from it, I dream of the lovely Connecticut River of my childhood. Every spring about this time it flooded with the spring snow melt from its source in Northern New Hampshire down through western Massachusetts to Long Island Sound. The Sound, a grand estuary of the Atlantic Ocean, runs along the south coast of Connecticut. It seemed a vast sea to me. Long Island, that stretch of land from New York City almost all the way to Cape Cod, was only faintly visible on a clear day from the mouth of the river.

My mother was fiercely adamant that I stay away from the flooded riverside but the strangely altered banks were irresistible. For a week in late March or early April the grassy lawns of the boat landing at Middle Haddam were several feet underwater, making the river twice as wide as usual.

The smooth glittering waters snaked silently downstream at eight miles an hour. When the tide turned in obedience to the earth's spin and the moon's pull, the Sound’s rising waters only pushed the river wider and higher. The hypnotically rising and sinking debris was a fascinating nightmare: a window frame, then the rooty stump of a huge tree, then the ribs and keel of a crushed boat drifted by. An tree's arm might lift itself in agony, then drown again.

When the mountains of northern New England had given up their snow to the sun, the river subsided to it's normal level, six feet up and down every twelve and a half hours.

By early May when it was calm again, the shad began their ancient run upriver to spawn . These big, fat silvery fish, related to herring, are an old, old source of protein for critters and humans, easy to catch with seine nets set near the shore.

With the dangerous flood safely past, Mom would send me down to buy shad roe from fisherman Pat Callahan at the small public landing, a muddy bank at the very bottom of Middle Haddam Village.

Red-faced from drinking Pat and his pal were not too tipsy to haul ashore his small, flat-bottomed boat-load of thrashing, desperate shad. Knee deep in fish, outboard motor blades dripping river water, Pat scaled each one with a toothed metal curry comb, holding it by the tail and stroking hard to the gills. The iridescent scales flew into the sun's low rays like diamonds.

"Sally wants a roe, huh?"

Pat pulled a fat female from the heap and slit its belly with a curved fillet knife, then caught the roe that dropped into his hand the way a midwife catches a new baby. Dark red and river-cool, the shape of beautiful lips, the slid the roe into a plastic bag. I gave him five dollars, pricey then, and headed back uphill for supper. I left a trail of sequined scales all the way home.

Shad roe is rarely available now even on the east coast. Mom wrapped the delicacy in waxed paper, not very pc these days, and pinned it with wooden toothpicks to keep the delicate outer membrane from breaking, then sautéed it in bacon fat. We'd peel off the waxed paper and break off a browned lump of firm, crunchy roe moistened with a squeeze of lemon and a bite of the crispy bacon. A very large roe would just about feed my father and me for breakfast but two roes were better for dinner.

Mom found it as disgusting as raw oysters and never failed to mention that we were eating at least a million eggs at one sitting. True, any roe is eggs and high in fat and cholesterol. The pale shad flesh is delicious but contains thousands of tiny hairlike bones. Occasionally Mom roasted a whole shad, sans roe of course, on a plank for a whole hour. This supposedly dissolves the bones but even so you will spit a few. For me, long-cooked fish is not worth the trouble.

Here I am three thousand miles and almost sixty years from that river but I still smell its mud. And long for just one more bite. With my father at the table before me.

For more on Shad, see: http://wdfw.wa.gov/outreach/fishing/shad/shad.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_shad

One Orange

2010-03-06T16:10:00.000-08:00

I bought a woman an orange at Safeway yesterday. I was just behind her in the checkout line, watching her rummage through her small purse to find the fifty-seven cents the clerk had rung up.

I waited, then I waited impatiently, then I realized she wasn’t going to find any money.

“Put that orange on my bill,” I said to the clerk who was gazing over the woman’s head into the distance. Discretion or indifference, I couldn’t tell.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, zipping her bag and giving me a small smile. “I guess I left my money at home.”

She didn’t look so poor she wouldn’t have a dime on her. Her clothes were clean and her hair was tidy, yet I sensed a certain despair. Okay, maybe I was projecting as I looked down at my pricey artisan bread and two quarts of ice-cream. The clerk would take three cents off my tab because I had my own bag.

“Do I need to put in my discount number?” I muttered as I watched her walk away with the one orange in her hand. Oranges grow in every yard here. School kids climb our trees on the way home and toss the peels into the street. Not just oranges but lemons, grapefruit, tangerines just drop to the ground uneaten. Fifty-seven cents out the door right here in Paradise.

“Naw, she put her number in already. I’ll run you through on that.” He toted me up. “You’ve saved, let’s see, one dollar and fifteen cents.”

Last summer I walked down to the Dairy Queen to try a flame-broiled cheeseburger with pickles because the grill smoke was simply irresistible. I was finishing it up as I walked back to the house with a mouthful of strangely seasoned meat made of God knows what, the usual junk burger, when a young woman came down the sidewalk toward me.

“Excuse me,” she said, eying the last drippy bite of burger. “Could you spare some money so I could get lunch?”

My mouth full, I nodded and fished out a fiver.

Later I talked with a car salesman about selling my ten-year-old car. He had to unlock his glassed-in, open-to-view showroom office to protect customer documents from lookyloo’s who steal social security numbers right off his desk. Apparently we are beyond shredding.

“You’ll make more money if you sell your car yourself on e-Bay,” he advised. “But be sure to get green cash.”

He meant, don’t take even a cashier’s check. Uh oh. I told him the orange story.

“My mother-in-law gave a cold Gatorade to a man at a traffic light,” he said. “It was broiling hot and the guy was pouring sweat. But he threw it at her, hard, and screamed, ‘I don’t want no Gatorade, I just want money, bitch!’”

Call me a sucker but I gotta buy hamburgers and hand out fivers. Now, how many oranges should I buy?

Dog Talk

2010-03-03T10:04:00.000-08:00

Two weeks into Mopsy the Shih Tzu, ARGHH! We've washed the pee-pad, we've lived through the barks, we've abandoned healthful kibble for ground boiled turkey and nutritious crispy biscuits.

I've trimmed her beard and her furry feet, paid the vet for ear meds. No, she can't sleep on the bed with us, there's no room and when she scratches her neck the bed shakes.

She's learned to come for a treat, to sit and sometimes stay. Gotta work on the stay command. She obeys if I'm looking at her but when I walked around the corner of the garage yesterday as she sat obediently at the open gate to the yard, big brown eyes watching my every move, she suddenly shot down the long, straight driveway all the way to the end.

"Mopsy, come! Mopsy come back!" Jim and I hollered as we dashed after her. She glanced over her shoulder to be sure we were chasing her, then bounded off, ears and long tail flopping with every stride. Full speed, she turned right at the sidewalk and disappeared. When she realized she couldn't see us, she returned, again at full gallop.

"Good girl!" we cried. I reached down to pat her--the devil--but she ducked left into the front yard and circled it like a crazy dog, wagging and dropping to her elbows adorably. Thrilled to be the pursued! Not funny to me, damnit. As she sped past I grabbed her like a football.

"Bad Mopsy!" I scolded. "Very bad!"

She wiggled and wagged her long, plumy tail with delight. I returned her to the stay position and stared her down for a solid twenty seconds. She didn't break out again because I never took my eye off her.

Hmm.

She's really delightful company in the house. Lies on the little cushions we set out. Appears to be housebroken although it's quite a chore putting her outside twenty-seven times a day, then listening to her scratch the paint off the back door. Hates the crate, of course, and although she's debarked, she can certainly make herself heard. In fact she sounds like a St. Bernard.

But visitors terrify her. She cowers, she shrinks, she hides behind my legs. No coaxing can reassure her. I think she has really High Anxiety.

I'm not sure she will ever be trustworthy. That I can leave her loose in the house. That I can trust her not to jump out an open car window--gosh, California gets hot and I don't want to leave her home, in the crate, a day at a time.

She's darling but I'm not sure she's the right pooch for us. One of us needs Prozac.

Stay tuned.

2010-02-23T15:40:00.000-08:00

Mopsy

Mopsy is dozing on my lap as I write, eyes closed, head nodding because she doesn’t know where to lay it down.

Mopsy is a two-year-old Shih Tzu who had a rather close haircut a few months back before she came to live with Jim and me last Thursday. Yes, instead of a chicken with a diaper, we chose a dog. I just couldn’t resist the look of Shih Tzu pantaloons bounding away down a garden path like a Beatrice Potter storybook creature. You remember Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail, don’t you?

I haven’t had a dog for almost twenty years and never such a small dog. (Ah, she’s almost snoring with her head still up.) Even though Mopsy is well past puppy-hood, she has disrupted our calm senior lives as if she were brand-new human triplets.

Her well-known breeder, Bonnie Prato of Oakland, made no promises about house-breaking so we’ve been keeping a close eye out lest she mark our good rugs. This means we leap up anxiously every time she comes out of the kitchen, scoop her up to a piddle-safe lap or onto our bed. She’s still afraid to jump down, thank goodness.

She’s very cheerful, loves to explore our yard and eager for treats. Sits a bit, now. Doesn’t care for kibble but loves our food as much as we do.

But she does not really like her handsome new, Shih Tzu-sized black crate with a special non-spill water bottle she likes to lick. And the big chewy bone made of brown rice to gnaw on the fuzzy, double-folded saddle-pad mattress. Being in the crate means being away from me and hoo boy, she knows how to speak to us directly.

Night #1: no barking. This lulled us into complacency.

Night #2: all quiet until Jim began to snore. Then barking.

I had to laugh, all by myself in the dark, because MY snoring has so annoyed Jim for the past few years that he moves into the guest room, leaving me cold and alone, searching for the heating pad switch. Now HIS snoring has waked Mopsy. Ha ha! Then she stopped and I fell asleep, virtuously ignoring the gentle roars of my beloved husband.

Night #3: no barking, no snoring, just peace. Bliss!

Night #4: we shovel reluctant Mopsy into her crate, say good-night, firmly and pull up our covers. Silence. Then tentative barks. More barks with pauses to listen followed by steady barking and attentive listening.

“Should I go turn out the light?” Jim asks through gritted teeth.

“No! That’ll only encourage her,” I whisper. Continuous barking now. She’s really got our number. We’re trapped in our own bed.

We lie stiffly side by side, wide-awake. Now I would like to drop this darling Mopsy off a cliff. We quietly dig out the maxi-Ambiens and try to unclench our muscles.

“Damn,” Jim cusses, finally. He rises and heads into the kitchen. Mopsy is so thrilled to hear him come AT LAST that she shuts up. I can hear her moaning joyfully, wagging her tail and clawing gratefully at the crate door.

“NO NO NO!” Jim yells and then I hear him actually shake the crate! I didn't know he had it in him.

Complete silence.

We settle into our drug-induced sleeps and hear nothing until this morning.

Stay tuned!

2010-02-22T08:54:00.000-08:00

HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHO TO MARRY? Ask a kid:

You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like, if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming. -- Alan, age 10

No person really decides before they grow up who they're going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you're stuck with... -- Kristen, age 10

WHAT IS THE RIGHT AGE TO GET MARRIED? Twenty-three is the best age because you know the person FOREVER by then. -- Camille, age 10

HOW CAN A STRANGER TELL IF TWO PEOPLE ARE MARRIED? You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids. -- Derrick, age 8

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR MOM AND DAD HAVE IN COMMON? Both don't want any more kids. -- Lori, age 8

WHAT DO MOST PEOPLE DO ON A DATE? Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough. On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date. -- Martin, age 10

WHAT WOULD YOU DO ON A FIRST DATE THAT WAS TURNING SOUR? I'd run home and play dead.. The next day I would call all the newspapers and make sure they wrote about me in all the dead columns. -- Craig, age 9

WHEN IS IT OKAY TO KISS SOMEONE? When they're rich. -- Pam, age 7

The law says you have to be eighteen, so I wouldn't want to mess with that. -- Curt, age 7

The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them... It's the right thing to do. -- Howard, age 8

IS IT BETTER TO BE SINGLE OR MARRIED? It's better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need someone to clean up after them. -- Anita, age 9

HOW WOULD THE WORLD BE DIFFERENT IF PEOPLE DIDN'T GET MARRIED? There sure would be a lot of kids to explain, wouldn't there? -- Kelvin, age 8

#1 Favorite is .... HOW WOULD YOU MAKE A MARRIAGE WORK? Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a truck. -- Ricky, age 10.

Thanks to Alex Pirbazari [alpirb@gmail.com] for this Monday smile!

My (Social) Medical Life

2010-02-16T15:28:00.000-08:00

I don’t have a social life, I have a medical life. No time for lunch with Mary, who looks to me for encouragement and how flattering is that?—to hear what she’s writing. Too bad, Mary. I’ve got a toothache. A physical therapy appointment. Maybe a vision ‘field test’ where I spot the stars around the edges of my eyeballs.

No time for a good Yoga workout on the soft living room rug, the most perfect mat ever invented, so my abs are flabs. My knees are stiff and I really should stretch because most of my joints are like cement from rheumatoid arthritis. My teeth are rotting in my head, in spite of my obsessive brushing, flossing and rubber tipping, not to mention thrice-a-year ‘periodontal visits’. I don’t even try to find a dental insurance plan that would cover my $1,500 REroot canal—Oww, man, this sucker is just under my cheekbone. Maybe the endo could go down from my eyelid.

But no, endo must go up through the original, expensive crown. Gaaa! The why details are too gruesome to think about. Oh, did I mention my slightly too-high blood pressure? My hair is falling out. On top, in front where it shows.

Body maintenance. I am an old house. Speaking of houses, didn’t I just clean that range hood last week, okay, two weeks, and it’s sticky again. Darling little dustbunnies are swirling like tiny tornados along the edge of my bedroom.

Let’s not go into my terrible cooking. I’m soooo bored with my one chicken, one burger, one spaghetti menu that last night we ate take-out meatloaf and it was not only delicious but better than anything I can or would make. Better than any hot tray at Home Buffet. This is not just the winter of my discontent, this is a new nadir of my gourmet image. I used to chop the peppers for chile and stuff the organic chicken and spend an hour on an authentic ragu. Huh.

Could there be any silver lining in this cloud? How about this: Perhaps it’s cheaper to buy just the amount we need than to shop for the ingredients, pay the electric bill on the fridge, cook and clean up with gas, $$, and then have to eat the leftovers. Leftover salad, for instance, uh uh. Steak, possibly but old meat needs a lot of support. And with take-out, Jim can have what he wants and so can I.

Wrap it up. I’ll stop by on my way home from whatever doctors I’m visiting.

The Best Years of Life

2010-02-09T16:57:00.000-08:00

Childhood is short. There’s just ten years or so of it, from two to twelve at the most. That’s not long from my point of view.

Ten years, fifteen. When I look back at my life, my friendships, the cities and villages I’ve lived in, I see that I give the most credit to those early years.

Why does childhood matter so much? Because those years were the archetype for the rest of my life. They set me on my particular path and taught me where to seek safety, warmth and space.

Childhood signed my consciousness with an indelible pen. The shape of my tall father coming into the house, the contrast of sunlight on the floor and shadows at night. The vertical panic of the airy stairwell and the moist, warm aromas of kitchen. The stillness of grass in winter. For all my life I have compared every other man to Father, every woman to Mother and every house to that first house.

I’m not saying the comparisons are odious. This is not a moral or Freudian concern, this is a mirror I hold up to see back to then.

First impressions embed in us like the Ten Commandments. The first sounds are the basic musical patterns laid down on my mind. Voices, dogs barking, the car starting up, crunching away down the drive.

The look and feel of the outer world on my body. The miracle of tadpoles in the spring ditch below my grammar school and the lush May grass that grew thick on the banks. Forty, fifty years later as my horse pulls toward just such delicious, green grass beside the Santa Fe River, at the end of my driveway, I am again six years old on my belly in that same sweet fodder.

The long path of my life has been filled with joy and terror, pleasure and pain but childhood images are the brightest. Recent memory has to fight for space on top of all the layers.

It’s not so important to remember where my keys are in the grand scale of my life. But to recall how my mother sewed me prom dresses at the dining room table--if I have to choose between the keys and the dresses, well..

The longer I live, the fewer contemporaries are left to corroborate my history. A really good reason to keep old friends. Stay married, if you can.

Damn.

What’s ten years when you’re almost seventy? I’ve forgotten whole chunks of time in my life. I don’t recall my infancy--I don't care who held the bottle. I’m forgetting the humiliations of my youth, my first marriage, the boyfriends, movies, books, trips. I’ve even forgotten articles I’ve written although they look pretty good now when I come across one.

But my childhood—that’s ten Technicolor years.

It’s your childhood. And it’s not too late to make it a happy one.

Winter everywhere!

2010-02-06T12:01:00.000-08:00

Government surveyors came to Ole and Lena's farm in the fall and asked permission to certify his property boundaries. Ole agreed and Lena even served them delicious lutefisk at noontime.

The next spring, the two surveyors stopped by.

"Because you were so kind to us, we wanted to give you this bad news in person instead of by letter," they said.

"What bad news?" Ole asked anxiously.

"Well," the surveyors told him, "after we finished our survey we discovered your farm is not in Minnesota, but is actually in South Dakota."

Ole smiled happily. " This is the best news I have heard in a long time. Why I just told Lena this morning, I don't think I can take another winter in Minnesota."

That's the version from Marty Swanson. But I'm never satisfied until I can make it a blond joke.

Try this:

When a government surveryor completes his work, he knocks on the farmhouse door and tells the blond farmer her property is not actually in Minnesota as they thought but in South Dakota.

"Thank goodness," the blond replies. "I couldn't take another Minnesota winter."

Ah.

Sun Lover

2010-02-02T11:45:00.000-08:00

Outside my window tiny birds are singing and chirping and bouncing off the branches, way too early in this New England Yankee’s opinion. It’s only the first of February, for Pete’s sake.

And those tulips six inches out of the ground, please be careful. It’s too soon! Children walk to school in tee shirts and uh oh, something red is blooming on a bush over in the neighbor’s yard. Surely a frost will burn every petal.

Maybe not. Maybe I really do live in California where the temperature rarely drops to thirty-five. When it does I’m the only citizen of this state who shivers.

You can take the girl out of Connecticut but you can’t take the Connecticut winter out of this girl. Brrs, who knew even fifty degrees was so hard to take?

If I get my lazy butt off this chair and go into the back yard to pull a few thriving weeds, I’ll warm up. Then I can shed my winter jacket the same as the kids and start blooming like that bush.

Yesterday the sun burned through the heavy clouds and struck my pale face with the same hot caress I remember from all my summers. For many years now I let my shins burn while I incorrectly roasted my body in summer’s luxurious heat.

I thought back to all those springs I’ve been toasting myself, darkening those horrid age spots without giving a damn. It’s been a long time. Me and the sun, we don’t count years so we don’t get older, we just meet up every spring at the same time.

When Old Sol slides out from behind a March or April cloud I slide out of my jeans and into the skimpiest shorts I can dig up and I ask him to give me that long, lovely kiss that burns my thighs and spackles my face with no-doubt-damaging red spots. By tomorrow those enthusiastic inflammations will be a lovely pale gold and I’ll expose my backside to Old Sol.

Have you way with me, again, Sir.

I know my annual affair with the sun will not go on forever. One day I’ll be a wizened old woman, lost in her brown wrinkles, still begging for one last kiss. And these birds, such busy little creatures arguing over a seed or a mate, they’ll be too busy to notice that I’m getting another sunburn. The sharp leaves of the umpteenth generation of tulips will look just as premature as they do today.

Careful, I might wheez at them. But what I really mean, Thank God you're up. Winter is over. The Sun is back and he’s going to have his way with me one more time.

OPB

2010-01-29T17:01:00.000-08:00

OPB, you know what that means. No? Well, that's because I just made it up. OPB means, 'other people's blogs', today's most important breakthrough. For me. I have finally figured out how to put these blogs right up there where they should be.

A long and narrow road from November to an obvious conclusion: I must click 'save' to prevent these blogs from escaping my clutches. Why don't I know these rules? Because I am blond!

Okay, two blonds froze to death at the drive-in movie. The feature? "Closed for Winter".

My Husband's Autobiography By Me

2010-01-27T16:15:00.000-08:00

Jim was looking a little blue last night. It’s hard selling telephony doodads (never did understand what they were) for a doodad manufacturer whose doodads don’t work very well and may be obsolete by the end of the quarter, although we sure hope not since DooDad, Inc., pays the bills.

“Honey, I know what you need,” I said in my wifeliest tone. “You’re bored with my blogging day and night about ME."

No wonder. I’m a bit bored with the topic of myself as well. So I say to him, sweetly, that I’ll give it a rest and begin a new book, The Autobiography of My Husband by His Wife.

"Whatdoya think," I ask.

I hadn’t the heart to tell him right then I would of course be the author because he brightened right up and taking the pen in his right paw, HAND, I meant hand, began to write clearly on a small scrap of paper I keep for making grocery lists. I should tell you we were sitting in the kitchen at the teeny table where we throw poker dice while supper cooks.

Ahem. Here’s what he had to say so far. In MY voice. Like we're some strange duet:

He often seemed to be rational. (Good, very good opener.) I don’t know what pushed him over the edge. (Uh oh, a little gloomy here.)
It all started with the horrific event that changed our relationship. (I'm getting nervous now.) Early on in our time together he mentioned something that I pooh-poohed (did I?) at the time. Wish I hadn’t done that.

(Uh oh.)

Then he put down the pen and pushed the paper over to me. Hey, I was putting the steak on the grill. Buffalo steak, he’s got the heart thing about cholesterol (thank God for spell check here) so we’re eating nature’s-bounty-meat these days. With trips to KFC in between (original thigh, side of slaw) to keep the economy moving. And I’m thinking, like, you going to write this or am I? Are we going to write it together?

But first, Whoa, what the hell event was he referring to? (Bad to end sentence with preposition but at least I recognize that.) Maybe I don’t believe there was any such event. I’ll ask him to tell me.

Tick tock, wait an hour. Here’s his reply:

It’s simple, really. Since it was my autobiography I decided that some of it should at least be “auto.” So I started to write, bearing in mind that is you don’t snag the reader in the first few sentences, you’ve lost him or her. The best snag is a potential sex thriller or murder mystery. Why not drop an innuendo right up front that it could be either? Or both? Or neither?

Hah, Hah! Still don’t know where it is going, do ya? I’m keepin’ it that way, you auto thief you.

Hugh Lyon Sack

You see what I have to put up with?

Doing it After All

2010-01-23T11:30:00.000-08:00

You'll never be a writer.

That’s exactly what my mother told me.

Writers have to be crazy people. Writers drink too much, screw around, can’t stay married. Writers never make any money.
And they make people angry.
Great writers have special talents.
Great writers are born, not made.
Great writers are like gods, they speak for everyone.
Ordinary people can’t be great writers. Who wants to read ordinary writing? Who do you think you are? What do you have to say?

Nothing. For years, nothing at all. Just grumbling and grousing in my journal.

Then I felt something so strongly I had to write it and I did, in a hurry before the voice of my mother killed it. I didn’t tell a soul what I had dared to do. I just stuck the pages into an envelope, mailed it off and forgot about it.

One day I got a check for twelve lovely dollars from the publication, a horsey newsletter. They printed my writing—now it was a real article—under my by-line. I was so happy I cried.

Mother was completely wrong. I am not crazy, I don’t drink too much and I am happily married. Well, for the second time. It’s true I don’t make enough money to support myself and my writing has angered a few fatheads.

But I don’t have to speak for everyone, just for myself. It turns out there are lots of people like myself who enjoy reading what they are already thinking or about to think or would have thought if I hadn’t written it first.

I don’t have to write the Odyssey or Gone with the Wind so I write about ordinary life. If you are a woman, a parent, any person who has known love and despair, anger and fear, we have a lot in common. That’s enough.

That was Stage One, sheer delight. Ha ha on Mom. Then the spark I had struck dimmed.

Only the gods can write. Who wants to hear all your troubles? Everyone suffers, what’s the big deal about you?

That shut me down for years while I waited for My Big Life Story to unfold. Long wait. Life Story unfolded but was not big enough for a book. I would never dare write a book. Only gods could do that.

Years passed, one ordinary day at a time, added up to a lifetime of ordinary.

More events pissed me off, I wrote more articles. People who read my articles seemed to think I could write a whole book. A joke, right? One man suggested I write about a 19th century bag lady whose portrait hung in the Pennsylvania Historical Society, long ignored.

What preposterous idea! Then I wrote her story as a radio drama, The Story of Crazy Nora, and by golly National Public Radio bought it and aired it.

Still not a book. Years passed, more articles. One day I said out loud in front of a lot of people, “I’d like to write a book.”

By golly, in one year I had written my first book and that won a prize.

But I still did not believe I was a writer. If I became a writer I would become a crazy, penniless drunk, lose my marriage and piss people off.

Now I am old enough to say, Who cares? I have found a husband who not only puts up with my craziness but pays the bills. I don’t drink any more—or any less—than before. I seem to always piss people off anyway, so, so what?

Many people say they want to be writers. What’s the difference between wanting to do it and doing it?

Giving yourself permission. Accepting that you may become your mother’s worst nightmare, a crazy, drunken slut. Oh, and poor, too. That you will undoubtedly reveal to your readers that you never did have a Big Life. That you weep when your dog dies and burn the onions in the frying pan. That you fuck up, that you are a jerk.

But in between, that you are a living, breathing pilgrim on the road to Jerusalem, just like any other person and that is exactly your value to mankind. Our ordinary words bind us, teach us, support and encourage us to love one another and ourselves. Writing our ordinary lives takes us out of ourselves and back home to our own hearts.

Once you begin, you will find your way.

Chicken Diapers

2010-01-19T17:33:00.000-08:00

My legs get cold sitting at my keyboard. Blankets fall off and tangle my chair wheels.

Should I get a dog? A cat? Oh, I’ve had those kinds of animals. Boring!

What I need is a nice, big chicken to sit on my lap while I’m writing. A chicken with a warm chicken body. She’ll cluck over me like a nursemaid. She’ll peck the fuzz off my sweater. Might even lay an egg.

A 5-7 pound broiler, fryer or even an old stewer, I don’t care. She’ll weigh less than as a barky little dachshund or a sheddy cat and she won’t scare away my birds.

She could be speckled, she could be barred, why, her feathers could be as flamboyant as a peacock. There are hundreds of beautiful breeds to choose from. So, no matter what, she’ll be easy to look at. Chicken feathers are smooth to touch. I know she’ll hop right into my lap up at the snap of my fingers. Her eyes will be bright, always open unless she falls asleep. If I ever get fleas, she’ll take care ‘em.

I’d probably call her “Henny” except that was the name of a very dear old lady who just shucked off her mortal coils. Perhaps Beatrice, something Shakespearean, would be more elegant. I would take her for walks down the street, let her scratch for bugs and worms. Let her drive all the dogs crazy.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m crazy. You could be right. Wouldn’t be the first time you thought that.

I can tell you’re also having doubts. You’re thinking, what about when.. you know.. the chicken has to poop?

You people have brilliant minds. Now, follow me here. I once had those very same thoughts. I thought, eeuw, do I want a chicken to poop on my valuable Kelim rugs? Do I want to even hear that horrible, splattering sound?

So I laughed when Sam Blackford over at Sam’s Downtown Feed on San Carlos told me some of his customers have indoor chickens.

“But Sam, how..?”
“Chicken diapers.”

I stopped laughing. I googled up ‘chicken diapers’.

Folks, they are for real. And they’re like just darling little baby bibs! They go around the chicken’s neck, fasten over the back with a little Velcro tab and hang discreetly under the tail feathers. You hardly know they’re there!

These diapers comes in many different colors and patterns. Pink polka dots, blue ones, a very nice greens dot pattern I wouldn’t mind having in an apron. The diaper-y part is lined with vinyl and the you-know-what is really good for the garden!

I’m sure I could do this. There’s a YouTube (www.youtube.com/watch?v=mm_-glNJlns)showing how install this diaper and gently ease the chicken’s wings through the openings. In the video, the rooster—his name is Ben—also wore a little cape over his wings because he likes to peck out his feathers. Some guys! Sadly, Campbell does not allow roosters. Handsome but too noisy.

Although hens talk, too. I like the sound. Cluck cluck cluck. Like someone in the kitchen making cookies. Although I probably don’t want those kind of cookies, now that I think of it.

You may not run right out to get YOUR chickens today. And I might not, either. On the other hand, I just might.

All righty then, at least I’ve opened a new door in your petalorium.

Let’s go even further: imagine your family as chickens. Think how easy it would be to fix dinner! You’d just pick up fifty pounds of scratch at Sam’s Downtown Feed. Shake a little into a bowl on the floor and let ‘em at it.

Rinse out the diapers now and then and wow, easy living.

2010-01-13T11:46:00.000-08:00

The River

I loved the Connecticut River. On Friday afternoons it spread out like a flat mirror until Dad hit the throttle and the old boat carved a long, white stripe of foamy wake down the middle as we pulled away from the landing at Middle Haddam. Ten fathoms deep in the channel for the barges and freighters hauling oil and other industrial materials up to Hartford, it was half a mile wide where we began, twenty-five miles inland. As it approached Long Island Sound it stretched out on either side into broad marshes where herons stalked their prey and ducks paddled safely among the reeds.

Just Dad and I headed out for the weekend with a twenty-five pound block of ice in the cooler, breakfast, lunch and supper supplies stashed in the tiny galley. A carton of Old Golds, two rough decks of damp playing cards and our bathing suits were all we needed. The sun was hot overhead but the breeze from the WaWa's speed cooled us.

WaWa, the name for all Dad’s boats, I, II, III and WaWa IV, meant ‘flying duck’ in some Indian language. We laughed at calling the old cruiser ‘flying anything’ for she had only enough speed to get me up on waterskis. Dad couldn’t afford anything fancier and would have preferred a sailboat to a stinkpot but old WaWa’s were better than nothing. Born in Hartford to a boat-loving father, he had grown up on the river himself and knew every shallow, every sandbar and snag.

Yes, the WaWa was plenty good enough for getting out of town for the weekend. Fresh breezes in our hair, no phones, no putting up or taking down storm windows or painting that side of the barn, just the bow cutting into the smooth water, the trance-inducing roar of the engine and soon, salt water at Fenwick Point just past Saybrook.

Mom rarely came along. She preferred her garden, her library books and the Sunday Times crossword puzzle.

Once in quiet water behind the Fenwick breakwater I would throw the anchor over while Dad gently backed the WaWa to set it, just the way a roping horse backs to hold tension on the rope so the cowboy can pigtie the lassoed steer.

Then we dove overboard. Might scrub the waterline with Babo. Might swim ashore, careful to avoid the beach just in front of Katherine Hepburn’s rambling, dark house. Didn’t even put the binoculars on her to preserve her privacy. Being so close to such a celebrity was enough.

As WaWa rode the calm swells that broke their white teeth on the beach, we ate sardine sandwiches and watched the masts of sail boats and tall outriggers on fishing boats come and go in the choppy channel on the business side of the long stone breakwater. I might get a nibble on my fish hook but it would only be some small fry too bony to bother with. We’d eat well tonight in Hamburg Cove. And tomorrow at the Griswold Inn in Essex.

When we were bored with Fenwick, I hauled up the wet anchor line, coiled it perfectly on the foredeck, then planted the little Danforth on top to keep the loops from flying overboard. We headed back up into the rough water under the high Baldwin bridge among the other boats coming and going, some under sail, others speeding past with a wave. We always waved back.

When we saw someone we knew Dad rang the brass ship’s bell that hung beside the wheel. The river was an exciting turnpike, a splashing, slapping water playground. Just upriver of the arched Baldwin Bridge that carried Route 1 traffic from New York on up to Boston, we squeezed between the complicated steel trestles of a low, flat railroad bridge that crossed the river.

Ships too tall to pass under it had to signal with two loud horn blasts to ask the bridgemaster to raise a section like the jaw of a giant stapler. If a train was coming, those boats—we never used the word ‘yacht’ to describe anything less than luxurious and certainly not our own little 'boat'—might have to circle for half an hour.

The WaWa sped through alongside dozens of other small craft going in both directions. The bigger boats made huge waves that fought with other wakes to create a swirling boil. I liked to lie on the highest part of the WaWa, atop the deckhouse, as we passed through the churning waves of changing tides, looking up at the bottom of the train.

Flung from side to side by the boat’s roll, I forced myself NOT to hold on. The train might fall on me. Soomeone might flush a toilet- ugh! I might flip overboard and be run over by some drunken lout in a speedboat. These things could happen. But my father never said No to any of my shenanigans.

This was another wonderful part of the river. And what would come next.

Today's Inbox

2010-01-07T14:54:00.000-08:00

A friend writes:

In the Old Days, adults used to bore me to tears with their tedious diatribes about how hard things were. When they were growing up they walked twenty-five miles to school every morning,uphill, barefoot BOTH ways—yadda, yadda, yadda. I vowed there was no way in hell I was going to lay that crap on my kids about how hard I had it and how easy they've got it.

But now that I'm over the ripe old age of thirty, I can't help but look around and notice the youth of today. You don't know how good you've got it. When I was a kid we didn't have the internet. See, if we wanted to know something, we had to go to the damn library and look it up ourselves, in the card catalogue.

There was no email. We had to actually write somebody a letter with a pen. You had to buy stamps. Then you had to find a mailbox and it would take, like, a week to get there.

Child Protective Services didn't care if our parents beat us. As a matter of fact, the parents of all my friends also had permission to kick our asses. Nowhere was safe.

There were no MP3' s or Napsters. If you wanted to steal music, you had to hitchhike to the damn record store and shoplift it yourself.

Or you had to wait around all day to tape it off the radio and the DJ would usually talk over the beginning and screw it up. CD players? Ha!Just “tape decks” in our car. We'd play our favorite tape and “eject" it when finished and sometimes the tape came loose and jammed up the player.

We didn't have fancy apps like Call Waiting. If you were on the phone and somebody else called they got a busy signal. When the phone rang, you had no idea who it was. It could be your boss, your bookie, your drug dealer or a collections agent—without caller ID you just didn't know. You had to pick up and take your chances, mister.

No Playstations with high-resolution 3-D graphics, just Atari 2600 with games like 'Space Invaders' and 'Asteroids' where your guy was a little white square. You actually had to use your imagination for that. No multiple levels or screens, just one screen forever and the game kept getting harder and harder and faster and faster until, well, I guess you died.

You used a little book called a TV Guide to find the programs. Channel surfing? You got off your ass and walked over to the TV to change the channel.

There was no Cartoon Network either. Only cartoons on Saturday Morning. Do you hear what I'm saying.? We had to wait ALL WEEK for cartoons, you spoiled little rat-bastards.

I can’t believe I’m saying this. I sound just like my parents when they said, You kids have it so easy. That was back in the 80's. Before that is lost in the mists of time.

Speak, Memory

2010-01-05T11:52:00.001-08:00

While Nabokov was not a memoirist, like all writers he used memory to express his conscious thoughts. All our ideas and thoughts, even our feelings, begin in memory. As we age, our memories build upon each other the way cities build upon the remains or ruins of ancient civilization.

Why not? If the site was once favorable, by a river, say, or on a hilltop safe from enemy attack, the site is still useful. Digging the foundation of a new building, one might find tools abandoned by previous inhabitants.

Our memories are like middens, those ancient trash heaps archeologists love, full of artifacts that recall long-forgotten stories. When we write memoir, we are the archeologists of our own midden.

You can call it a scrapbook or journal, it's all about the Past in the Present. And it's always a changing process.

Speak, Memory

2010-01-05T11:52:00.000-08:00

2010-01-01T18:03:00.000-08:00

The River
To me, Mother was like weather, always there, everywhere, in the air I breathed, in my clothes and on my skin. There was no part of me that wasn’t also part of her. She did not mind if I ran through the scrubby woods that lay north and south of our house, if I climbed high trees and made secret hide-outs under the overhanging rocks. I could disappear for an entire day with a sandwich as long as I was home by dark.

But there was one forbidden place: the river.

So I went to the river. Down through the woods past the sliding slope, along a little trail some critters had made, not that I saw critters ever, not a fox, not a deer, not a coon, although I tried to walk like an Indian, pigeon-toed and silent. As far as I knew there were no wild animals anywhere in Connecticut.

The hill sloped down and down until it ended at the edge of the water. The winter river was nothing like the summer river. In January it stretched across half mile of broken, yellowed ice, moving with only a quiet hiss, an occasional splash.

At Middle Haddam, the tides pushed the river up every seven hours, then sucked it back down twenty-five miles to salt water at five or six knots. Great chunks of foot-thick, grimy ice, floes big as a house, shards small enough for a glass of iced tea, all ground and polished the tree roots along the banks.

Busted tree trunks and broken timbers raised their dead, black arms for a moment and disappeared under the surface in the inexorable current. The river was so huge, such a force that I watched it the way I watched the moon and stars. The river carried winter downstream according to some planetary laws I barely recognized, nothing to do with humans. I imagined the Arctic Sea, I imagined explorers with dogsleds.

The grinding flow moved on relentlessly and I, my cozy house, the village with its connected lives, its quarrels and summer picnics, my mother in the golden light of her kitchen, my dog wolfing his kibble, were all tiny, irrelevant.

Sometimes a tempting, flat, solid sheet of ice formed in a shallow cove . What about a crossing? Courageous people had crossed icy rivers, I had read that in books. Slaves. Yes, sometimes they died. Sometimes they made it to the other side, freedom, a new life.

I edged out onto the ice a few feet from the bank and stamped hard to test it. Sploosh, cold water filled my boot and I felt no bottom. I jerked back as if my mother had yanked me, found a dry spot to sit and pour the river out. The wind was cold on a wet sock on a dying afternoon. The evening settled on the river in a fine mist.

I headed back uphill, a blister forming on my wet heel. Back through the tangle of scrubby woods, barely able to find the little path. It didn’t matter, really, I just had to walk up and sooner or later I’d come to the two-lane road that paralleled the river. My house, which I had left behind on my great exploration, was rooted securely on that road, either to the right or left, so I could not get lost.

Would my mother know I had put my foot on the ice? I would tell her something else. I would tell her I had found another hide-away, one with vines. No, not vines, this was the wrong season for vines.

I would tell her I looked for an adventure but I hadn’t found it. Although I had. And I would find it again.

No Fun

2009-12-28T18:41:00.000-08:00

Those were cold, grey days growing up in Middle Haddam. Clouds promised snow but rarely produced enough to be useful. Somewhere in the back of an imagined scrapbook the snow reaches to the window panes but in reality we kids were lucky to see a foot and that didn’t last. Only the grey lasted all winter, through March and into April. Yet there was nary a new leaf on the big maples until well past my birthday in early May, when Mom was not quite ready to put away winter coats.

There was nothing to do because it was December. The snowman melted. After a terrific fight with the neighbor kids we obliterated the snowfort. There were some hard feelings with the only likely playmate, next-door Chris, a year older. He had surprisingly good aim for a kid who didn’t play baseball and he packed a nasty ice ball. Never mind I had thrown first yesterday, ice balls were cheating. Now there was nothing to do on a cold, gloomy afternoon.

“Go play outside. Get some fresh air. Go sliding. Did you wax Daddy’s skis?”

His old hickory skis were way too long and heavy for me to actually ski and they stuck to everything. Not only that, the gentle slope behind our barn was only a few hundred feet long and ended in trees so even if you could get going, you’d have to fall down to stop before you tangled up in the brush.

You never got enough snow in Middle Haddam. Not really good, deep snow. Our sled runners had worn right down to the grass and rocks the day before. Besides, skiing or sliding by myself was No Fun, that dismal category of existence that dogged my childhood.

No Fun. The afternoon stretched into eternity. My mittens were wet and so were the linings of my five-buckle galoshes. Rexie lay curled comfortably against the living room couch, his eyes shut tight.

“Wanna go outside?” I whooped at him but he only fluttered his tail politely against the floor.

“Mom, it’s starting to rain,” I whined.

“No, it’s not. Run along now. See if Chris is home.”

“They’ve gone to the Ice Capades,” I muttered. They went every year and didn’t take me again this year because I had done something horrible such as breaking a window accidently on purpose. Or they were going on to visit cousins in West Hartford. Such a happy, jolly family piling into their back Ford sedan, the three big kids in back, baby Alice in front between David and Henny.

We never went anywhere every year. My family was No Fun. And I was all alone on a dismal day.

“Where’s Tink?” I asked, again. My best friend, my age, who didn’t throw ice balls, lived in the next town.

“She and Maggie went shopping. Why don’t you go ride your horse?”

I pulled on my cold boots and mittens and let the storm door slam as hard as it would. There at the end of the driveway stood our old white-painted barn, two stories tall, wide enough for both cars and a workbench alongside one. I pushed one heavy sliding door open enough to squeeze through into the dank gloom. It smelled of motor oil and old, raw wood, an acrid, pissy smell.

Dad’s tools lay on a gouged-out plank counter among cans of paint thinner and glue, clamps and screwdrivers, signs of his household projects, perhaps tacking a painting into a frame or fixing a lamp. I glanced at the long-necked oil can and a screw-top copper mister of Flit bug killer, paint brushes, cobwebs, signs of long-gone summer, absolutely nothing of any relevance to me there. The lawnmowers, one power, one push, rested at the end of the bench.

Dust lay on every object, testimony to it’s disuse. Beyond the lawnmowers, at the very back of the barn, just past the front bumper of Mom’s car, a stair led up to the second floor.

There was nothing of any interest to me up there, only old oil paintings and trunks of Spanish shawls and ivory combs, old letters and journals. Stuff my dead aunt Edith had brought back. We kids wrapped ourselves in those black and gold shawls with long, long fringe and tried to stick the big combs into our girlish hair but they fell right out. Such long teeth on those combs and the fancy lace carving. Some were translucent, some light and brown. No one ever asked us to even be careful. One day that would all disappear.

In summer, bright sunlight pierced the siding and the little windows of the high cupola and brightened the dark matched-boards of the walls and ceiling. And it illuminated the bodies of dying wasps littering the old, rough plank floorboards. Overhead thickets of slow-flying wasps with long, dangling legs dipped and swooped too close as they came and went from their nests in the cupola.

There was one place in the barn I liked from the first moment I let myself believe it was what it seemed. What I longed for. Beyond the lawnmower, under the space of the stairs an old horse stall remained, about five feet wide and eight feet long, just the right size for a real horse. My parents always adamantly refused to let me have a horse and it was a constant battle between us.

As a sop to my obsession and no doubt at my mother’s insistence, Dad set a barrel on home-made sawhorses in that stall, screwed a plywood neck and two-dimensional head on that. Clothesline reins dangled from a notch in this head that faced out through the heavy sliding doors. I stepped up onto the milk box and swung my leg over this doll-horse’s dusty barrel and settled myself on it’s horribly bulging, slippery shape. Try as I might, this was no live horse. I clucked and kicked my heels against the air, feeling like a fool.

Nothing happened, of course, except I had a higher view into the front seat of my mother’s car just a few feet away. So many obstacles. A terrible sadness filled me, a certain knowledge that I would never feel a live creature under me, that I would never put my hand on a warm neck, that no powerful body would gather itself to take me out of the barn and into sunny fields. Beyond, into my real life.

No, that December afternoon would last forever, all dust and darkness.

Then my mother’s voice called me from the back door, high and sweet.

“Reedie? Come on in and get cleaned up. We’re going over to Maggie’s for dinner.”

It wasn’t always No Fun. Inside my boots eventually dried. The neighbors came back and eventually it snowed enough to ski down that hill and in just a few years when I had my own barn my mother gave me $250 to buy a real horse I could sit on in his stall when the December sleet sifted down and as long as I can help it there will always be a real horse. Fun!

Talk to Christmas animals

2009-12-21T09:45:00.000-08:00

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/12/20/mark-wahlberg-talks-to-ch_n_398436.html?fbwall

So, talk to them. Who? Them! Christmas animals! Aren't your reading this blog??

2009-12-18T14:42:00.000-08:00

Talking Houses

If the walls could speak, what stories they could tell. Old houses would have many tales of lives begun and ended within their rooms. Family battles. A drunken aunt, a sickly father, money coming in and going out. Old houses remember the irresistible smell of roast chicken, the horrible stink of burnt lima beans. The time the roof leaked, the time the snow beat on the window panes and the furnace roared to keep everyone warm and safe inside.

New houses? Well, you have to start somewhere. But I don’t think gypsum board can tell as good a story as the plaster some tired man mixed with a trowel. Plywood floors do not remember the sounds of your heels as well as real oak or pine. Real wood never dies, it becomes more beautiful as it ages. And those efficient, new plastic windows that never warp or shrink certainly keep out the drafts and mosquitoes and the sound of traffic a few blocks over. Keep out the smells of the neighbor’s barbeque and the sounds of a wailing baby, too.

Old trees guard old houses, tall, leafy shade in the summer and bare branches in winter to catch the stars. New houses have to wait years for this sweet embrace. Old houses may once have looked alike in a builder row but they have grown wings and ells and second stories and character. Old houses have old gardens where tomatoes grow every summer and all the birds for miles around know the birdbath will be fresh every morning. Old houses’ doors may not close tightly and they don’t have garages in front but they do have porches to sit on so you can wave to the folks pushing baby carriages along the sidewalks.

If you live in an old house, that is, a house that’s older than you are, take a moment to listen to the creak of the radiator, the squeak of a certain floorboard, the sounds of water running through the pipes. You may hear the footsteps of those who came before you. Where did they go? Where do any of us go when we move on?

Our houses remember us and hold the sound of our footsteps through all the years ahead.

2009-12-16T17:49:00.000-08:00

Old Mothers

You can be outside of Christmas, looking into the cozy scene with longing, and you can also feel beyond Christmas. Looking back at my mother’s brave efforts to make wonderful holidays for me and my father when there wasn’t much money to spend, I see the image of a woman rowing a small boat into a storm-tossed sea. Goodness, did I ever, ever, even as an adult, ask her what her life was like? Really listen?

No. The late spring bulbs of sympathy and understanding toward her are only now poking their noses up through the compost of my many years. So, Mom, this is what you went through, the joy of parenting a child, the heartbreak of watching her go and the long impatience waiting for her to recognize you. Duh.

Did she know the stockings she stuffed, the doll she made and the hip-roofed doll-barn she encouraged my father to build me, the expensive, beautiful horse books she bought me, all the more credit to her since she disliked horses in general, would go unappreciated? Sure, I was polite but I never gave up my grudge against her: that I never got the one thing I wanted which was a real, live horse of my own in our real barn. A real saddle, a real bridle with a real bit. Brushes and a hoof pick. The sweet smell of horse on me day and night.

Mom really flexed her creative muscles to make up for this permanent loss. But it was never enough for me. Selfish, bratty kid that I was.

But now, years later, I salute my long-departed Mom. Perhaps not departed altogether. Perhaps sitting on top of a snowy cloud, clicking her heels together as she peers down at me.

“You got your horse, after all,” she says. “So Merry Christmas and stop whining.”

Darkness at Solstice

2009-12-13T16:20:00.000-08:00

Finding Christmas, leaving the year

Winter solstice is the end of a season of life and for many of us the memory of the year brings sadness and loss. When the leaves have fallen and your bare trees hold the stars at night, find an evergreen. Cut a few branches that smell of sap and set them by the hearth.

Light a bright fire to hold the longest night at bay. This will remind you that after billions of years, since before anyone imagined keeping time, our planet has spun like a top around our sun. On December 20 it begins again its endless tilt toward heat and light and growth. Every single day after is two or three minutes longer than the day before. You might ask, who pulls the string to keep this top turning?

What is Christmas, Hanukah and Kwanza but a bright passage to the new year? Make a rich altar over that fire. If you have them, set out the tiny crèche figures who promise that birth follows death. Lay greens and berries and sparkly garlands. Light candles to assuage that dread of darkness the way our ancestors lit torches around the bodies of their dead. The flames that guide the soul into the hereafter also illuminate the faces of those of us who remain behind.

Love what you have. And watch for the narcissus.

Good News

2009-12-10T17:01:00.000-08:00

http://www.nytimes.com/projects/magazine/ideas/2009/#business-1

Just when you thought the world was coming to an end, here are some really wonderful ideas for all the problems we struggle with.

You see, our fellow citizens are ALSO smart, creative and very, very busy.

In the darkest days of the year, hope.