Don't Tell the Children

DIA DE LOS MUERTOS

2009-11-12T10:05:00.000-08:00

We went to the procession for the Day of the Dead in downtown Tucson. It is a wonderful thing but I don't want to talk it up too much, because it was perfect just the way it was- very low key and Tucson, and we wouldn't want it to be a big spectacular. People just show up to walk in it, most of them dressed in costumes and masks (see the pictures above), some are walking on stilts, most have a skull motif, some are beating a mournful drum. The rest of us stand along the siidewalk and watch. There has been little or no advertising, the procession just starts.

I have been told that the Day is Mexican in origin. It is meant to commemorate those souls who have died in the year, and to remember all the dead. Families decorate the graves, and bring little festive meals for the departed. Some in the procession carry photographs of the relatives and somehow it all seems just right. My children do this for their dad, without knowing of the Mexian custom. He loved a good dry Martini. So whoever is in San Francisco at the time drives up to the gravesite and takes two Martinis and puts them on the stone and talks to him a little. When we leave we pour the Martini on the ground, and leave the olives on the stone for the animals.

This year we didn't walk to the end of the Day of the Dead procession, because we didn't know what wonders came then. I saw a clip on the TV that night, so I know what I missed. They light a big cauldron, which had led the procession, and it is filled with papers that people had written to their loved ones, and they light it. Big flames come up, and all of the messages are consumed. Very pagan, but satisfying, I think. It reminds me of the Burning Man festival in Nevada.

Don't tell anyone about the Day of the Dead in Tucson, because we want it to stay just the way it is. Some things should be left alone.

THE DAY OF THE DEAD

2009-11-12T06:45:00.000-08:00

INNOCENTS ABROAD

2009-10-11T16:26:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm back now from our trip down the Danube. Unfortunately it is with the obligatory illness - have you noticed how people come home from exotic trips with a disability of some sort? Usually it is a bronchitis type of infection, but mine is a strained or torn tendon in one leg; very painful and requiring physical therapy. But was the trip worth it? Yes, yes it was wonderful to be in all those fairytale cities and to float down the beautiful Danube on a luxurious boat.
From the very start you feel unusual. Passengers you meet on the trip to Europe ask where you are going and it's a thrill to say "Budapest" which is a place I never imagined would be any destination of mine. What a wonderful city it is! Apparently every nation to pass here thought so too - Attila, the Goths, the Romans all recognized the site was meant for a city. It must have been a Paris-like city at the turn of the century, its elegant buildings that line the streets still standing and handsome. It is hard to realize that 600,000 Jews disappeared during the Germans' stay here. Unbelievable.

Bon Voyage!

2009-09-05T06:07:00.000-07:00

Today is packing day. I never go on trips so I'm not an old hand at this. I know that if I find myself in a strange eastern European country where I don't speak the language, and I don't have my stomach medicine or enough underwear, I'm in real trouble. So this carry-on piece is very important because people have told me that British Airways is notorious for losing luggage. That doesn't sound like the Brits to me, you know how they are always pictured in Africa in formal dress eating on safari. But I want to be ready.

The main thing to me is my over-the-counter supply. I am big on this. I have ibuprophin, aspirin, anti-acid of two kinds, bandaids, antiseptics, gauze pads because you never know what can happen, and more. After all I won't see a Walgreens for twenty-one days and that can seem like forever. Then I have my meds - all in their original bottles and accompanied by my prescriptions. Finally, the underwear. By now the carry-on will be filled to the brim. Everything else can go in the checked bag which British Airways is getting ready to lose.

Sound like fun? I am thinking of it as an adventure. I'm off to Europe this weekend with my daughter, we'll let you know how things go. Bon Voyage!

THE BEAUTIFUL BLUE DANUBE

2009-08-27T15:02:00.000-07:00

I don't want to think that I was just lying around the last few weeks- I was getting ready to take a trip! That's a big decision to make, for me at least. It all started at Christmastime, 2008, which you will remember was when we first became aware that the country's finances had tanked. My daughter and I decided we would go to Europe - one last time for me. But when we looked at our brokerage statements, and read the news, we drew back because who knew what would happen next? I felt sorry for our travel agent, who sat alone and mournful in his office while Oro Valley oldsters cancelled their tours, right and left. But as the summer approached and there was no absolute disaster (other then my GM bonds) I thought "Why Not?" Things couldn't be much worse. So we re-engaged with the travel agent and now we are set for a river trip on the Danube.

I chose the river boat for several reasons -first, you can leave all your things in your cabin for 21 days, no packing or moving, or having your luggage outside the door at 7:30, and all your meals will be right there. Secondly, I have this image of sitting in a deck chair, with a plaid rug keeping out the breeze, drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream on top, and gliding past quaint German towns with people dressed in ethnic clothing. Sound good? Does to me. Is the Danube really blue?

I hope my daughter and I get along in a small cabin. Usually about three days is our max, but I think there will be a lot to do on the boat that should minimize friction. Then we have to stick together, to manage in strange countries where people speak languages totally unfamiliar to us. I hope for the best. I always used to travel with my husband, and he was no trouble at all. As long as he got some orange juice in the morning, he was totally cool and laid back and you could rely on him. He knew how to start strange rental cars and how to drive on the wrong side of the road, how to tip wherever he was, and how to get clean shirts. Now I am on my own, but I would never, never drive a car on the wrong side of the road, don't worry

I won't be leaving until September 5 - More about packing to come. Also, should we visit a concentration camp? I think it will be terribly distressing for me, but my daughter says we must go to honor the dead.

I SEE A RAT

2009-08-24T05:35:00.000-07:00

Hello Blog!!

Ive been absent for a while, but now I'm back and I promise to do better. Some of this was my fault because I have grown increasingly indolent. But most of it was the fault of my internet carrier (or whatever you call it) which stopped cold. I tried to get it fixed for almost a week, talking to these people in Pakistan or wherever with no results. Finally, after their last suggestion involved poking in the modem with a paper clip, anyone could see that it would never be fixed unless they came out from Karachi. I fired them and got the phone company instead. Now I am back in business except I have a new email address which involves a lot of work telling your friends and relatives. You probably know the drill.

Meanwhile I have a lot to relate, I will start with the wildlife. It has been very very hot here and very dry, so the animals are stressed. The last rabbit I saw was so skinny I was amazed that it coulds still run. But my bobcats look okay and they have become frequent visitors to my little patio. They lounge among the pots of cactus and take little catnaps. It started with a mother and two cubs. The cubs are quite large, I would think adaolescent. I'm sure mom would like them out of the house, so to speak, getting jobs or going to Pima Community College but they hang around. The last time they came it was just the two cubs so I think Mom must have dumped them. If I can ever figure out how to put the pictures on the blog, I will post them.

There was a little problem with the front door as well. On the mat was a very large black tarantula, big as a large salad plate. This terrified me at first, but I understand that tarantulas are not dangerous at all. I called my daughter and she came over and with a broom and dustpan, scooped it up and put it over on the golf course where it is probably scaring the golfers.

Now for the worst. Yesterday I looked out of my sliding glass door to see a RAT. This was not a tiny little desert mouse, but a real rat who had no business being on my porch. At first I was going to call the exterminator, but then friends urged me jus to go to Ace Hardware (what would we do without Ace Hardware) and buy some poison pellets. The rat ran into my beautiful bougainvillea, so I suppose I should have that cut back. My friends said the desert rats are stressed because of the heat and the drought, but to me that is no excuse. I am an animal lover but I draw the line at rats. I'll let you know how the poison pellets work.

I really miss my husband. If he were here he would know what to do, or at least act as if he did.

SCANDAL AT ST.VINCENT'S PART TWO

2009-05-15T10:28:00.000-07:00

[In re-reading Part One of this- I notice I used the wrong word. Father Webster announced his intention to take a vow of celibacy, not a vow of chastity. It doesn't make a great deal of difference, but I'll bet the whole thing made the diocese take notice, since it was followed not long after by Father Webster's marriage. He might have received a message from the powers that be that he was not to proceed with publicizing this vow.]

At any rate, the real trouble was soon to begin. The members of the parish received a letter from the parents of a teenaged boy, saying that their son had been molested and seduced by the rector, had left home because of this, and that this perversion was an ongoing thing at St. Vincent's. They also said the Bishop had been notified but had not appropriately responded. As events began to unfold it seemed that the rector had been involved with other boys on an ongoing basis, and had even acted as a procurer for a group of several businessmen in town who shared Father Webster's predilection!! There was more to come, and to me this was the worst. The parish had a young priest, just out of seminary, as a helper over the summer. He had found out what was happening, and had done nothing about it. I thought this was despicable - in my somewhat clouded thinking at the time, Father Webster had a sickness that he couldn't help, but the young priest had a terrible character.

In their reaction to the scandal, the Diocese and the Bishop acted just as the Catholic church did in present time. No one was arrested, no public fuss was made,
and Father Webster was hustled off to an Episcopalian contemplative order somewhere in another state. I wonder whatever happened to him? Or to the cowardly young priest?

The St. Vincent's survived - parishioners did not leave en masse. It was a nice church in a pleasant middle-class neighborhood,and it still is. No one thinks about the scandal any more -after all it was almost 50 years ago and the lack of publicity was beneficial. Perhaps the Bishop was right to keep it a secret. I was glad we had left when we did, and I was glad that our boys were too young to be acolytes. So I can view this as a bystander, but I am not so trusting any more. Are you?

SCANDAL AT ST. VINCENT'S PART ONE

2009-05-13T09:51:00.000-07:00

I haven't been writing my blog lately- laziness, and not feeling inspired. I made a vow to myself not to write anything about politics. I love it, but there is a plethora of political postings already and I wouldn't add anything new to that. I just like to talk to my friends (and we all share the same thoughts) since you really can't have a sensible political conversation with someone on the other side- I gave that up long ago.

But this week some old old friends came to visit and we had so much fun doing politics, and remebering the days when we were all together (some 48 years ago, to be exact.) And it brought back memories of the scandal at St. Vincent's - how could anyone ever forget that? We went over our mutual memories of the event. It was so bizarre that I had almost begun to believe it had never happened. How naive we all were then.

First let me make it clear that the name of our little church was not St. Vincent's. (I just made that name up.) We all met as newcomers to a small western towm, just beginning to boom with the advent of central air-conditioning, and the return of servicemen from World War Two. There were about thirty couples at the start, all Episcopalians with small children and small incomes to match. The church was a Mission in the beginning. We met in a local mortuary and when the Bishop came for Confirmation we had our coffee on the blacktop in the mortuary parking lot. The rector was a tall and thin blond young man, very serious and very "high church" a type of service which appealed to everyone. Rumor had it that Father Webster (not his name, I made that up) came from a wealthy social family in California and his manner confirmed that.

The new little mission flourished. We volunteered for everything- there was never any difficulty finding Sunday School teachers, or choir members. We shopped for property to buy, found an old adobe house in the desert and expanded it to make it our own. Members built pews, and the women made beatiful needlepoint covers for the kneelers. The church services grew to be higher and higher, incense filled the sanctuary. There was even Confession, a rarity in Episcopal churches then. One Sunday Father Webster announced that he was seriously thinking of taking a vow of chastity. This struck us a bit odd, since Episcopal rectors are usually very mainstream and tend not to deny themselves anything, but I thought it was because he was so obviously in tune with the Catholic church - and we all understood that. Soon after that, Father Webster got married. Now, I wonder if he had been pushed a little bit by the Diocese after they heard about the chastity vow.

I remember the congregation had a hard time finding just the right wedding gift. His tastes were very urbane and artistic- we took it for granted that the gift would have to be something very special, from a high-priced antique shop in town. No one criticized him for this, we were proud of Father Webster and his elegant ways. Soon after this, my husband and I slacked off as parishoners. There was no known reason for this: the children were getting older and it was a hassle to get them up and dressed every Sunday. Now that I look back, I think I had an instinct for self-preservation and something told me to go while the going was good. I've had that happen before - leaving before the roof falls in.

Can you guess what was wrong at St. Vincent's? It is a long story, and I'll leave it for the next post "Scandal at St. Vincent's, Part II". Stay with me.

A HAPPY EXPERIENCE WITH THE DENTIST

2009-04-02T14:23:00.001-07:00

Can you believe I have had a happy time at the dentist? You know, if you have been reading this blog, that I have virtual panic at the dentist, and have suffered from this since childhood experiences at the hands of one Dr. Fetter (may he roast in hell). I am now 80 years old, and the high anxiety lingers on. My dentist had brought me a long way out of this, and I only had to take one valium instead of two when getting major work done. To my horror, my dentist sent out a postcard announcing that she was leaving her practice. I went to see her and tried to persuade her to abandon this idea, but she said that she was getting a divorce and her life was being turned upside down. (Another man who was interfering with my dental improvement through no fault of mine).

Then I tried a new dentist and had a terrible terrible experience with a root canal gone awry. During this ordeal I felt I was being tortured by Mr. Cheney, and slipped backward from the progress I had made. I think I was in shock, because I was shaking uncontrolably and had a little accident in the chair. I got out grateful to be alive.

And wouldn't you know it, several weeks later I was innocently eating a slice of cold pizza for breakfast, when I happened upon an unusually hard bite of pepperoni. Of course it wasn't a piece of pepperoni, but a piece of one of my front teeth. This made it obvious that I had to try a new dentist (I couldn't go back to the last one) Seeking a referral from a very sensible friend, today was my first experience with this delightful, soft spoken man. And it worked! This morning on my way to the appointment for the crown, I felt like Marie Antoinette in the tumbril. I was really low and all valiumed up - don't worry, I didn't drive. But he, and his assistant, were so competent, so informative, so deft with the gooey stuff that makes the mold, that I survived without a trauma of any sort. I have found the answer! Find the best dentist you can.

Now I am home and the valium is wearing off. My sadness is gone- the Arizona sun is shining bright. I am singing and dancing around the house and playing my Abba record very loud, getting ready to switch to Beethoven's Choral Fantasy which seems like an appropriate end to the day. Goodbye and Good Luck.

THE GM BONDHOLDER AND TOUGH LOVE

2009-04-02T14:23:00.000-07:00

I might as well say it- I'm an old person and I live on what my father always called "a limited income". I'm a saver and don't like gambling, and some years ago gave up any experimenting with the stock market because it made me nervous to read about it in the morning paper. So all of my money is invested in a collection of very conservative bonds and it made me happy to read the list of those solid substantial corporations I was investing my life savings to. They don't look so good now in our financial debris. There's Citicorp, Bank of America, Wachovia, Credit Suisse, and my heavy hitter, GENERAL MOTORS. God save me, I am a GM bondholder and have been for many years.

The company which in my naivite I never considered would ever fail - how could Chevvies and Buicks and Cadillacs ever go away? It is inconceivable. Now we hear that GM is in the process of being given "tough love". The bondholders, I read, are given the choice of negotiating down the face value of the bonds or dying. No one has asked me if I want to negotiate - I suppose only the Wall Street types are good enough to take part in this death march. I haven't even been notified of it. I don't want to negotiate. I thought a bond was a contract between the corporation and the innocent buyer - You paid the face value and some ten years down the line the corporation paid you back. Aren't contracts not to be broken? Look at those jokers at AIG with their gross bonuses. Weren't we told that they were contracts and had to be paid even if AIG was on the verge of bankruptcy? Why doesn't that apply to me? I don't need tough love. I need for them to live up to the promise they made me.

n

AMERICAN INGENUITY AND THE CAT GENIE

2009-03-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

I don't think we should give up on good old American ingenuity, even though every job we have ever had has been shipped out to China. I was heartened to see a wonderful new invention on TV, and I sincerely hope it is being made in the USA. You know, I believe that we invented the toilet, and now we are following it up with an incredible thing called a "Cat Genie".

This is for cat owners only. You know how hard it is to care for a cat's necessities. Either you let the cat out, which you cannot do where I live because the cat would be eaten by coyotes or bobcats, or you maintain a litter box, cannily placed in the bathroom. This box is filled with expensive cat litter which the cat kicks aside happily. Then you search through the cat litter with a plastic scoop, separating the solid waste and placing that in a plastic Safeway bag, which then must be deposited in the dumpster. If you have two cats, multiply this by two.

But, on a TV show in the middle of the night, I saw this miracle. It is a completely self-contained toilet for the cat. "Never touch cat litter again" said the announcer. The box was an architecturally attractive semi-circle (sort of a Hollywood Bowl in miniature. There was a water supply hooked up. After the cat uses the facilities (which the cat in the ad seemed happy to do) a burst of water pours out and rinses the litter. Apparently something equally sanitary happens to the solid waste - this is the tricky part. It, too, washes away and the original litter remains in the box, ready for the cats next foray. The owner of the cat need not go near this miracle box.

The bad part is that "Cat Genie" costs $360, but isn't it worth it? Has anyone tried this that you know? I don'y have a cat anymore, since Portia went to cat heaven at the age of sixteen, but if she were still with us I would buy her one. Isn't it great to be an American?

THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES

2009-02-20T14:59:00.000-08:00

I can't get ENRON off my mind. I think it symbolizes this mess we are all in now. It's so Texas. The brazenness of it all, the gigantic sums involved, the imaginary profits carried on the books and the mesmerized accounting firms. Apparently every business guru believed in ENRON. I am happy to say that I suspected a scam from the first I ever heard about it - based not on economic brilliance, because I don't know a thing about their business, but based on that old fairy tale "The Emperor's New Clothes".

Well, actually I first heard the name when my sweet bright granddaughter got her first job as an accountant with Arthur Anderson (remember them?) and was sent to ENRON. I asked her what ENRON did, and she was uncharacteristically vague -"Lots of things" she said. She was right. But soon after I read a very long article, maybe two or three pages, in the New York Times about some genius at ENRON who was transforming the world. I read it very carefully, several times and I could not comprehend a word of it. This Enron genius had made up a concept that he was going to monopolize and market all over the world. I cannot describe the product, it was some kind of non-existent wave in the atmosphere that ENRON would own and market (and carry on their books as an asset.) I thought and thought about it - it was essentially air!! My son tells me now that it was something called atmospheric band width, which didn't actually exist at the time. The Times writer took this all very seriously, you would have thought it was the greatest innovation since the discovery of penicillin. I knew then that something was terribly wrong. Like the Emperor's new clothes, there was nothing there.

There is another thing I always thought was a phony, and I think events have proved me right. It is that economic master, Alan Greenspan. I know nothing about interest rates or the Federal Reserve system, God knows. But the weird pronouncements issuing from this little gnome-like man always struck me as a huge joke. Remember how people used to hang on every word of his totally obscure "reports" ? It was as if the Delphic Oracle were still around, when the ancient Greeks burned incense, and tried to decipher the prophecies the Oracle reluctantly spoke. Now we know that a lot of Greenspanese had no meaning - he has even obscurely said so himself. What a joke- just like the Emperor's new clothes again.

INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS

2009-02-07T09:23:00.000-08:00

I've been dreaming a lot lately. Usually early in the morning, just before it is time to get up. I am glad to awake, because the dream is not a happy one. It always has a common theme, and that is LOST. I wish I knew what that meant. I have a copy of Freud on that subject (if I could find it) but I no longer have much faith in Freud. He seems like a charlatan to me now.

In my dreams I am lost in Cincinnati, where I was born and raised. I want to find my way downtown, where presumably I would be able to find friends or find my way to where I belong. At first I find myself in some ubiquitous neighborhood and I ask the way "downtown" from people on the street, village idiots all. They have never heard of Fountain Square, which to me is the heart of Cincinnati. It was a huge square, with a bronze fountain of vaguely Grecian style- arms spread out and water flowing down from both of the statue's hands. Parked in the square are tens of city buses, each in their cubby, showing their routes. It is the city's transportation hub. How could these people not know of it? Could it be gone?

But I know another Cincinnati landmark, which I can see in the distance--the Carew Tower. This art deco building was the heart of sophistication in the Queen City. I try to walk in that direction, but I never seem to get any closer. All the streets I choose to walk on seem to peter out, or go into the country. In the last dream I was in some cavernous unfinished basements, round and round. I don't think I will ever get to Fountain Square, or the Netherland Plaza, or that happy little hamburger restaurant, quaintly named the "Purple Cow". When I wake I am very unhappy. Why do I want to go there in the first place?

Is Cincinnati still there? Someone please tell me.

WHAT AN INAUGURATION DAY

2009-01-28T14:20:00.000-08:00

I'm still reeling from Inauguration Day. It seemed as though it would never come- I worried that something might occur before January 20--a new war somewhere or a cancellation of the inauguration itself for some strange reason. But it was all there, perfect, joyous, a day everyone could remember always. The main thing I wanted was the sight of George Bush getting in his helicopter and flying away, and all the bad things flying away with him. I hope he is happy in Texas, I wish him no ill will. My daughter and I watched the whole day together. She wore a shirt of my husband's which she said smelled like him. I don't know how this could be, since it has been two years since he died, but she swears that is so. Anyway, we wanted him to share in the moment because he would have loved it so.

My husband's gravestone is in a little town on the northern California coast. I don't get to go up there very often-only if I go to San Francisco and rent a car. The last time we went, we took a jar of dry martinis, two olives, and two golf scorecards that he was particularly proud of. We poured the martinis on the ground and left the olives and the cards on the stone. The sexton of the cemetery sent me a picture of the grave with a Christmas wreath on it. The olives were gone, but the scorecards are still there. Some little animals must be happy.

I would like to write about this little graveyard someday because it is where Nicholas Green is buried--the little boy who was murdered in Italy, and whose parents saw that all of his organs were donated to Italian children, beginning an organ donation movement in Italy for the first time. The cemetery is very rustic, and one can imagine cows and sheep wandering around Maybe they ate the olives.

At any rate, I hope we all get an infusion of good feeling and hope for the future with our new President. It was a wonderful day.

NO CHRISTMAS CARDS

2008-12-31T10:38:00.000-08:00

Today in my local paper there was a column that seemed meant for me. It was by Linda Campbell of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. It related to my current drought of Christmas cards, which has caused me some worry. She wrote:

"Sorry, but you won't be getting a Christmas card from me this year. I missed that deadline big-time.....writing meaningful end-of-the-year notes got procrastinated right up to Christmas Eve."

I always think I am going to send tasteful Christmas cards, or funny little letters telling about my doings during the year, and sometimes I do that, but most times I just put it off until it is too late to do anything. I've been paid for that shortcoming, because now I don't get very many cards. It's somewhat embarrassing to walk out to the mailbox and return with just a few bills, catalogues, or local fliers for insurance companies. I hope the neighbors haven't noticed. I did make Christmas cookies, though.

Next year will be different I swear. I'm going to have pictures, of my new house, and maybe one of myself where I don't look too fat, or of the bougainvilla in my back yard when it recovers from the freeze we had the other night. And I'll add a personal note for everyone on the list, telling them that I really, really remember them and I hope they remember me.

Happy new year!!

NO PROBLEMS IN MEXICO

2008-12-24T09:47:00.000-08:00

A friend asked me to go to San Carlos with her to stay in a family condominium. I'm proud of myself- I said "yes" without a moment's hesitation. Why is that such a big deal? Because where I live in Southern Arizona all we hear is that it is dangerous to go to Mexico, via Nogales, now because a big drug war is in full swing. People don't walk on the streets of Nogales any more because there are bodies found in the morning, (without their heads). It is a war between the Mexican government and the big drug cartels--the cartels seem to be winning. I am not exagerating.

San Carlos is on the Sea of Cortez, and to get there you have to drive through Nogales, or swing around the side of it. Adventure is not my middle name, but I thought at my age "what the hell" and so I told Kate I would love to go, especially since Kate's son and 15 men would be going too. Kate's son is in the diving business, and they were all going on a diving and spear fishing jaunt. Kate and I had a car and the condo on this lovely beach all to ourselves.

Now I want to talk about this lovely little town of San Carlos for a while. The sea of Cortez is calm and inviting here - sunsets are incredible. Everyone is laid back, and eager to help you find things. We would stop to ask directions of a man fixing his car and he would be so gracious and helpful despite our minimal Spanish -- waiters would describe the entire menu in great detail. The shrimp were enormous, the beer was cold. I slept as though I were not an insomniac (which I am).

The way home was uneventful except for the sight of rifle bearing policemen at checkpoints along the way. At the Border in Nogales you wait for a while in a long line of cars. I always have a little worried feeling that for some reason my passport will not be up to snuff, because as beguiling as San Carlos is, I would still like to get back (with my head).

Later I have begun to think that when my money runs out, which is not too far-fetched to surmise, I would like to go to San Carlos to live. I could walk the beach and collect shells, eat fish every night, and learn Spanish so that I could really talk with those delightful people. I would be an immigrant going the other way.

I'VE MOVED !

2008-12-12T07:44:00.000-08:00

There has been a lot of time between my last post and this one. It wasn't my fault, though. I moved to a new house but my internet carrier didn't, so its been silent for two weeks. Apparently my "Earthlink" had a hard time moving from one place to another. Trying to call Earthlink (you try it sometime) is a wild and frustrating experience. You can only talk to someone in India or the Philippines and they speak in another language which I am unable to understand, not having an ear for languages. I tried to get rid of Earthlink and get another carrier more oriented to the English language, but I didn't seem to be able to do this. I could only hope and wait until they were able to move my service (it took two weeks). Yesterday it came. I was given a five buck coupon for Starbucks to compensate for my trouble.

Why do these companies farm out their customer service to people in foreign countries who do not speak workable English? I know, it's because it doesn't cost as much. But they lose in the long run. If I could get rid of Earthlink I would do that. And I would advise anyone who asked me not to go there. God knows there are plenty of Americans who would like this job.

Moving was not too bad. I can only say this because I have children who virtually did it all. I think they were afraid that I would fall and break my hip and that would mean worlds of trouble. My daughter likes it, though. She likes to organize things and make lists. Moving, particularly for old people, is a bonanza for her. I think she should start a business for this--not moving big things, but making arrangements and moving little handheld objects that commercial movers can't really do well. For example, you should see how the books in my own collection are arranged after the move == better than the Dewey decimal system. And the kitchen!

Two of my sons came for Thanksgiving and fixed all of the toilets, restructured some of the furniture that had to be taken apart, and hung pictures. If they hadn't, these things would have languished for weeks, even months, while I looked for a handyman. Particularly the toilets. It is so good to have toilets that don't run or leak, or that you have to jiggle.

All in all, it has been a good move. I love my little house and I hope to stay but who knows in these uncertain times.

A LETTER TO MY HUSBAND ON ELECTION NIGHT

2008-11-09T09:30:00.000-08:00

Ned, It's been two years since you woke up in the middle of the night with a pain in your back, and two years since you left us. So you were not with us Tuesday night when we watched the returns, unless you were there after all. I hope so. You would have been so thrilled when the reporter said " We are calling Pennsylvania for Obama" - you knew it meant that the long nightmare was finally over.

Do you remember all the times we stood in Peace vigils and marched up State Street in Santa Barbara in the hope that the Iraqi invasion would not happen? I think our troops might be coming home now, finally, although the damage has been extreme. I don't know whether they got their oil or not. Time will have to tell, but what a price!

And Ned, can you believe that gas was actually four dollars a gallon for a while? And that the administration had to call for billions of dollars to prop up big brokerage houses on Wall Street? That's not over yet. We are in a real meltdown, of global proportion. General Motors is close to bankruptcy- I suppose the Japanese carmakers have triumphed as you feared they might. Things are tough right now and small businesses are hurting, and big ones are as well. It's very like the crisis of 1932.

Still we're optimistic. Obama won, and won big from all parts of the country. Everyone was smiling on election night. We're hoping for better things to come. And we have a lovely new President.

Wish you were here.

ADVENTURES IN BABYSITTING (CATS)

2008-10-25T06:36:00.000-07:00

My daughter (who is very particular about her two cats) went out of town and I volunteered to babysit. This wasn't vitally necessary because she has an agency that does that, but I was eager to spend time in her new house with the enormous flat-screen TV with hundreds of channels. I could lie on the couch and watch dozens of old Law& Orders, and old movies and take showers in the elegant bathrooms. And cats? I've had a cat, sometimes two of them, all of my life and forsaw no problems with these two. I could clean a cat box with the best of them and I knew not to ever let them out of the house, because in Tucson the coyotes know no mercy.

Well, it didn't exactly work out because the cats got the better of me. Apparently one of them is an extremely sensitive and shall we say, highly neurotic cat who immediately went into his act. This was to disappear completely for four days and not eat a bite during that time. I looked and looked through every cabinet and nook, and could only occasionally see him. When I did, he ran in fear and disappeared again. I put out plates and plates of cat food (all different varieties), sang different songs thinking he might like the sound of a human voice. The other cat ate all the food as quickly as he could wolf it down, but as far as I knew the black and white one was slowly starving and would not be alive when my daughter returned. What I would do in that event I could not imagine - I would probably have to move to Colorado or somewhere. Finally I found him- he was in his cat carrier lodged as far back as he could go. I tried to get him out of the carrier but he wouldn't budge. At least he was still alive! I'm sorry to say that I picked up the cat carrier and dumped him out upside down. Then I put a plate of food (salmon and shrimp feast) on the floor of the closet and shut the door. When I returned at the end of the day it was still there (untouched) and he was back in the cat carrier. Score : Cat, one. Shirley, zero.

Finally the day came when my daughter would return. He was still alive, because I caught a glimpse of him that morning, going into a closet. I pulled out while the going was good. At least I could say with a clear conscience that he was O.K. when I left. My daughter said that he was waiting at the garage door when she returned, ate three plates of food, and has been happy ever since. When I come to visit, he prances around and looks at me with triumph in his eyes. In any contest of wills (and you know this) a cat .is always the winner. I personally believe the cat needs therapy.

ON LOOKING AT MY SMITH BARNEY STATEMENT

2008-10-15T15:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my Smith Barney statement came. I was in two minds- should I open it or not? Certainly it held no good news, since this was October , 2008 the month of the big meltdown. The only question was how bad it was. I decided to go ahead and read it - I am no coward. Actually it wasn't too bad, but bear in mind the statement ended September 30, and the real carnage happened in October.

Also, I'm virtually out of the stock market and hold almost exclusively bonds, which should be O.K. unless some of those solid(?) companies I chose go under. That could well happen since I have such beauties as General Motors, Wachovia, Credit Suisse, and the like.

How could General Motors come to this, to the point when you worry whether or not the giant will declare bankruptcy? I remember during the Great War when the GM president said "As General Motors goes, so goes the nation!" And it was true. What Japan could not win at Iwo Jima, they seem to have won in Flint, Michigan. No more Chevvies, and Buicks, and Cadillacs? That can never happen. A pox on Japanese cars.

BUCKEYES ARE LOSING IT

2008-09-14T11:12:00.000-07:00

What has happened to Ohio State football? I speak after the debacle of the game yesterday, when USC obliterated us 41 to 3. Three! I fear that the Buckeyes' reputation is in shreds and it might stay that way for years. I might have to retire my Ohio State red T-shirt that I proudly wear for big games, and my scarlet and grey beads, and my record of "Fight the Team" and ""Carmen Ohio. I have seen our hated rival Michigan fall on hard times and now it seems that we are next in line. Next we will be giving up Script Ohio, and the sacred dotting of the "i" by the tuba player in favor of a horse!

I remember years in the past, when Ohio State had a full complement of big, strong, tough players who came from around Pittsburgh. Their last names ended in "i"and when they tackled people, they stayed tackled. They brought fear into the hearts of opponents. Remember the lineman in James Thurber's wonderful book "My Life and Hard Times"? That was a real OSU football player. They seem to be gone now, and we have these lightweights from California dancing around and humiliating us. Woody Hayes would not have let this happen.. .

One of my sons says it is symbolic of the decline of the Rust Belt, in favor of the High Tech belt. I'm not prepared to accept that. Let us go back to eastern Pennsylvania, the cradle of football players, and bring them back to Columbus where they belong.

GARLIC PHOBIA

2008-08-30T12:47:00.000-07:00

I've been waiting to say this for a long long time. I don't like garlic in any form. I don't like it. I don't like to be near people who have been eating garlic in an elevator, or standing next to me in line. Remember Audrey Hepburn in "The Nun's Story?" She had to assist the dishy surgeon in Africa who reeked of garlic every day until she couldn't take it any more, and fainted. I haven't had it that bad but my heart sinks when I walk into a home as a dinner guest and a wave of garlic greets me at the door.

Now you don't get any support from anyone else in this phobia. Quite the contrary- friends tell you they can't get enough of it. One friend said she had a recipe for some kind of concoction with Forty (40) cloves of garlic, if you can imagine that! I have been served everything with garlic, eggs, delicate fish, butter, even once a fruit salad. This last was in a bank building rooftop restaurant in Phoenix. I don't think they really intended to garlic up the fruit salad, but their knives and cutting boards were just saturated with the stuff. It was years ago but I still haven't forgotten the incident. When is the last time you ever had a piece of virgin French bread with just butter and maybe a little cheese?

I think one of the reasons I can't tolerate garlic is because I come from a German town (Cincinnati) and garlic was not a staple in our house. I doubt if my mother ever saw a bulb of garlic, and it certainly was not big in Cincinnati"s German restaurants. Garlic was O.K. in the town's one Italian spot (Caproni's) and it was treat to go there - but that was where garlic belonged. Even then it was used with a certain amount of discretion, instead of total immersion as it is today. I have heard that the Queen of England does not like garlic, so perhaps it is not a staple of English cuisine. I wonder if Scandinavians like it - somehow I doubt it.

As for garlic supposedly being good for the blood pressure or whatever, I don't believe it. You probably smell so unpleasant that no one wants to get near enough to take your blood pressure.

There, I've said the unthinkable. Some very nice friends I know have the surname of Knoblauch. I think this means garlic. Please, Susan and Richard, think about changing your name!

DO YOU WANT TO LIVE IN LEISUREVILLE?

2008-08-06T08:36:00.000-07:00

There is an interesting new book out - " Leisureville: Adventures in America's Retirement Communities". in which a journalist takes a look at what he calls "Age-segregated housing".
This survey of the Sun Cities of the country and how that housing segregation is affecting the nation's culture is fun to read. You can put all of your own praise or criticism of these enclaves of senior citizens into play when you read it. I have my own, God knows, having tried briefly to exist in a retirement community. I have also witnessed the birth of a senior sub-city in Arizona, and watched it almost kill an entire previously healthy school system, its neighbor.

First, what's good about it? Getting old is really a downer. When you are all together with all your wrinkles, thinning hair, hip replacements and the like, you don't feel so much a figure of fun. You can get a walker and it's all right. You don't have to see the bright eyes and smooth skin of the young, hear the new vocabulary you have no knowledge of- you are safe and secure. When you talk about "the war" everyone knows which war you mean. It's comfortable.

That is good, but what is the down side to the senior community? The worst is that living there engenders selfishness and (dare I say it) meanness in a large part of the population. Hence the fervid, cantankerous antipathy toward paying taxes. In Phoenix, for example, the local Sun City enclave voted every school levy down, time and time again. Finally in desperation the boundary was changed, and Sun City was put in a special and unique capsule, with no responsibility for any
of this community obligation. This reluctance to support schools is surprising, given that Sun Citians were educated in public schools and land-grant state universities, as were their own children. The attitude seems to be "I've educated mine, and that's the end of it." The author of "Leisureville" attributes this to a declining notion of community.

The newspaper's letters to the editor columns are usually filled with angry letters from the age segregated communities, a sad negative note. It's true. Part of it, in my opinion, comes from the lack of respect or interest in seniors seen in the outside world. When these people are clumped together in a segregated community, resentment grows.

What is the future of the senior communities? According to the author, not much. When you don't care about future generations, you don't invest for the future. It's a glide to the finish. Read this book, and see what you think.

"Leisureville: Adventures in America's Retirement Utopias" ( Atlantic Monthly Press) by
Andrew D. Blechman

EATING OUT IN SAN FRANCISCO

2008-07-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

Food challenged, I decided to take a little trip to San Francisco. What could be better than a week on Russian Hill? One of my sons keeps an apartment there - in an Art Deco building with a quaint European-style elevator which I am somewhat afraid of. But with my cell phone I have learned to get in it and pull the grille shut with little trepidation - particularly when I am going out to one of the delightful little restaurants in the neighborhood.

Usually first on my route is the tapas restaurant on the corner, where the Hyde Street cable car and and the the wonderful 45 bus cross. The tapas restaurant is always busy- a lot of regulars choosing their little plates, or the paella with all kinds of fish in a steaming skillet. For two people, four or five little plates will do it - everybody shares and the sangria is fine. It's a friendly place, informal but gracious. You can't go wrong there.

Another small plate spot that I really like is Pesche. It's small and narrow with a lively bar, sometimes crowded. The small plates are fish -wonderful choices. Everything is beautifully cooked with a European flair. My daughter and I had asparagus risotto, fresh peas, heirloom tomato salad, and a whole sea bass with capers and fresh mushrooms. The table next to ours had a wonderful looking lobster on top of linguine. Great food. Charming servers who know all the dishes. Go there!

Down a block on Hyde is another little gem - a French restaurant named Freschetti (I may not be spelling this correctly). Again, it's popular and you may not be able to get a table when you want it. Try to sit in the window, where there is a lot of action on the street and sidewalk. The menu is small, with just a few selections, but all of the ones I have tried are first-class. I particularly like the bread salad and the roast chicken , but everything is a treat. It is a place to go for a special evening or a birthday dinner. Very Russian Hill.

Beyond my means is a place on Polk Street that I would like to try sometime. How did I know it was beyond my means? Because I looked at the menu on the outside -that's why. It starts at $100 a person for a three course prix fixe and that's too much for me. Someday, someday.

To finish off my gastronomical tour we went to the Giants game, where we indulged in an orgy of ballpark food. What a week.

2008-07-13T15:20:00.000-07:00

IS KEN LAY REALLY DEAD ?

2008-06-29T09:22:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking - is it possible to construct a scenario in which Ken Lay did not really die of a heart attack right before he was to be sentenced to a long term in prison? Is it possible that he is at this moment relaxing on a tropical island from which there is no extradition? I think I've been reading too many spy stories. But it's been fun thinking of various ways this could have been accoomplished.

You remember Ken Lay - "Kenny Boy" President Bush called him. He was the creator of Enron and presided over all the financial fraud that we think of when that name is mentioned. At his trial he said he really didn't know anything about what was going on, but the jury wasn't in the least bit sympathetic. He was headed for sentencing, which was predicted to be at least 15 years in prison. In the interim before sentencing the Lays were vacationing in Aspen (!) One night he reported chest pain , an ambulance was called, and shortly after was declared dead. An autopsy was performed by a Coroner from another county, cremation followed and that was that. Since he had not yet been sentenced, the conviction was vacated and all of Lay's assets were left intact. The death couldn't have come at a more opportune moment.

But what if Ken Lay didn't really die that night in Aspen? This scenario poses a lot of problems but it could be done. First of all, there was unlimited amounts of money to work with, and there was time. The criminal trial took years to prepare. Lesser culprits were tried first and as the whole thing began to fall, Lay could have anticipated the worst would happen when the prosecutors got around to him. So he had time, and money.

You have to have a body, but this doesn't seem impossible to obtain. Did anyone who actually knew Ken Lay see him lying deceased in the hospital, or ready for cremation? I don't think so. Remember this was a vacation spot, not Lay's hometown of Houston, where he was widely known. So it is possible to obtain another body but it would take some clever manipulation to carry this part off. Once the cremation is done, you're over the hump.

Lay had to surrender his passport while he was out on bail. If he was traveling in the normal way (and I assume that he would leave the country) you would either go undercover, or have a false passport. That's not impossible. With the time and the money he had, he could have prepared a suitable spot and cover story long before the heart attack. It could be done- but what a feat. It would make a great story. I hope it's not true.

MY HERO JONAS SALK

2008-06-11T15:52:00.000-07:00

If I had to pick my number one hero I would have no hesitation- it's Jonas Salk. That's a function of my age of course, because the younger generations have at best only a vague idea of who Dr. Salk was - maybe an elementary school is named after him and that's all they know. They have never seen an iron lung (Thank God) nor little children with huge braces and crutches. They didn't know know that our President couldn't walk and had to be lifted up and supported by two men if he ever changed his position. And they never lived through a summer of fear as we did in 1950.

We were young that summer, and had a little two year old. We lived in an apartment in Cincinnati on a block with other young couples - it was the first of the baby boom years. And polio struck that block with a vengeance. There were three cases on our block - two children and one young adult. He was a medical resident with small children himself and he had the most severe polio there could be. He was in an iron lung, which to my mind was the worst thing that could happen to you. The patient's lungs are paralyzed and they are unable to breathe outside of this iron coffin-like case over the whole body, with just a space for the face. We understood that the patient could never be out of the iron lung. I am sure they probably have better breathing apparatus now, but that was the way things were then.

That summer the whole city descended into fear. No one really knew where this horrible disease was coming from, or how it was spread. We were told that it was wise not to take children into crowds, to the movies, and in particular to swimming pools . We boiled our drinking water, we swatted flies and mosquitoes, we kept everyone in the house and we worried. It was hoped that when the cold weather came to Cincinnati that the epidemic would slow. It was a terrible summer.

There was a glimmering of hope on the horizon. The whole country was concentrating on a vaccine to put an end to this plague because, remember, it was aimed primarily at our children and there seemed to be no treatment, or cure. Finally the efforts of two doctors broke through- Dr. Albert Sabin with a vaccine concocted from live polio virus, and Jonas Salk with a vaccine made of a killed polio strain. They worked! Swiftly an immense population received ( I think, sugar cubes) coated with the magic. The plague ended, leaving the wounded ones behind. **

Here is the part you may not believe. Jonas Salk did not patent his miracle vaccine, the way he could have profited financially from his work. When asked why he acted so unselfishly he said , "Can you patent the sun?" Incredible, by today's standards. A hero for all time. Don't forget him.

** To show the incredible virulence of poliomyelitis, fifty years later some polio victims have been struck by something called "post-polio syndrome" in which they are invadeds again with another re-run of polio symptoms. No one knows why this final cruelty occurs, although some believe that the attenuated virus still exists in the bodies of these victims.

WHERE'S YOUR AMERICAN FLAG PIN?

2008-05-31T06:48:00.000-07:00

I am fascinated by this outbreak of American flag pins in men's lapels. What does it mean? How did the movement get started? I suppose it must be a means of identification: as in, "I am an American citizen" as opposed to "I am an Egyptian citizen" and that is helpful to dispel confusion. What happens if you are a man, in a suit, and don't have an American flag pin displayed in the lapel? I have heard, although I did not see this, that a reporter on TV asked a candidate why he was not wearing an American flag pin - ( I heard that this reporter was that sweet-faced George Stephanopolis). The implication must be that if one does not consistently wear a flag pin, one must be a terrorist sympathizer. Is this what George Stephanopolis meant?

The pins come in different sizes and degrees of elegance. I was watching a sports event - I think it was the Masters golf tournament (although I am not sure about this) and the three commentators all had enormous flag pins. They must have been 2 or 3 inches wide. The place where the stars would be was set in something sparkling and shiny, like rhinestones or possibly diamonds. All three men had the same pins, but they were not dressed alike. I wondered if they bought them together or if the network had decreed that flag pins were mandatory.

Wearing ribbons and other insignia to show your backing of a particular cause (usually health related) is not new but the negative connotation of this one (Where is your flagpin?") is new. We are all Americans, so there is nothing identifying those wearing them from the rest of us unless they are "super-Americans." Not since Nazi Germany has the wearing of a badge, or not wearing a badge, meant trouble. Remember how brave it was for the King of Denmark to wear a yellow star to show that he and his country were one,and if the Nazis took any Jews they would have to take him?? That was a lapel pin that meant something.

I am going down to my neighborhood Walgreens, where they have everything. I'm going to buy a lapel pin if they have one and put it somewhere on my person even if I don't have a lapel. Maybe then if I run into George Stephanopolis and his cohorts I'll be O.K.

SKIP THESE TWO DREARY MOVIES

2008-05-10T06:33:00.000-07:00

I love movies. I watch a lot of them since my husband died- although it doesn't make up for all the missed conversation and laughing. But when you live alone, Netfliix is a wonderful help.

The last two movies I ordered were bummers, though. They were so dreary! And pointless. You wonder why they were ever produced, because I know it is hard for a film to go through everything in Hollywood and finally emerge. Also, these two films both had good critical reviews which says something about the low expectations for films nowadays. No critic ever wrote that the films were dull and lifeless, the plots and storylines uninspired. Wonderful actors were sacrificed on these movies. Don't go to see them! That's my advice.

The first is Atonement. I have always thought that this author (McEwen) is a drag, despite the fact that he has been lionized for another book, equally uninteresting. The plot of Atonement is that a grim little girl makes a false accusation against her sister's lover (Of course, he is the gamekeeper's son in the typical English class thing) and that is that. He goes away presumably to prison, although later he is out and a soldier in World War !. Everybody dies except the mean little girl who lives on doing good works. There are a lot of gaps in continuity in the movie which may be a rough job of editing for the DVD. All in all, Atonement is a real loser from my standpoint, particularly when compared to the wonderful English movies of the past dealing with somewhat the same material. Skip this one. Mr. McEwen needs a little excitement in his life.

Next, another dreary movie, The Savages. I had looked forward to this because I love Laura Linney(who doesn't) and it had another great actor, Phillip Hoffman. It's not their fault that this is a "feel-bad" movie that you wish you had never seen. Being just a step away from Altzeimers myself, I must confess I am not enthusiastic about the miseries of this situation. But in this film, the Altzeimer parent is not the one who makes you most queasy. The real losers are the brother and sister, without an ounce of joy in their lives. The set decoration of their incredibly messy apartments gives you the picture. The portrayal of senior communities (Sun City) and the old folks there is unneccesarily cruel. It's a terrible screenplay. For a contrast, compare this parody to the Julie Christie movie "Away From Her". What do you think?

WHY DO PEOPLE GET TATTOOS ?

2008-04-23T07:09:00.000-07:00

If anyone can answer this perplexing question, I would like to hear it. Tattoos are so distressing to me that I can't imagine why any young person, with beautiful skin, would allow themselves to be disfigured forever. I can suppose that a teenager in a spirit of rebellion would do this on a whim, but don't they realize it will NEVER GO AWAY?

Someone told me once their theory - the potential tattooee saw no future for themselves. They knew instinctively that they were always going to be a member of a sub-culture and so the tattoo was a "what the hell" gesture. This is perfectly understandable, but things change in upwardly mobile America and maybe someday they won't want to be marked with a large dragon on their upper arm, or, God help us, on their neck.

And as for girls, I don't know what to say. A little rose, like Bette Midler, perhaps. But no more. Help me here - why do young people get tattoos?

SHAME AND THE LEAKY BASEMENT

2008-04-12T05:29:00.000-07:00

My mother-in-law, a very fine woman, had a premonition of her approaching death. The reason I say this is because that summer in her last few weeks she decided to mend all the disagreements and minor feuds she had ever had. Bad feelings tend to flourish in Cincinnati, as any native-born Cincinnatian would know. All it takes is for some relative in a previous generation to have married a Catholic (or a Protestant), and it is enough to set off a first class feud that can last for years and involve dozens of relatives. My mother-in-law inherited some of this. This particular summer she drove all over Cincinnati to find people she had not seen for years. She apologized to her brother-in-law for her harsh words about him; she put flowers on some graves in Spring Grove Cemetery. I didn't know why she was doing this. But when my mother-in-law died suddenly of a brain aneurysm the slate was clear.

I must be approaching my own sudden demise, because I have begun to brood late at night about some things I have done, which I now regret. There are a few things (not many) that I am ashamed of. I haven't been able to tell anyone, and some I will never reveal. But, like my sweet mother-in-law, I can try to make a clean beast of a few of these. This one involves, of all things, a leaky basement.

My husband and I and two babies were living in a small house, one of the first "prefabs", which came in parts and had to be reassembled on a lot. The contractor was a genuine con man. If anything wrong could have been done to that house, it was. The crux was the basement, constructed of cinder block and apparently totally without any provision for drainage around the foundation. It rains a lot in Cincinnati. The water poured through cracks in the basement walls, and seeped up all around the floor. Sometimes I would go down there and hold a cocktail shaker up to one of the worst cracks. The shaker would fill up in seconds. At night I would lie in bed and hear the pounding of rain, imagining the disaster that was beneath us. It was awful.

We were young and tried to make the best of things. My husband put this compound (I think it was called Thoroseal) all over the walls with little effect. We must have bought pounds of it. We kept quiet about this ghastly problem because it would have been embarrassing in our little upscale community. There seemed to be no solution short of building an entire new basement and we could never have afforded that. Finally we could stand it no longer and decided to sell the house and move to a house with walls made of iron.

But first, we had to mask the problem we had lurking in the basement and snare a buyer. Fortunately the gods smiled on us and we had about a month of dry weather. My husband totally Thorosealed the walls and put up sides of pegboard. On the pegboard we hung artistic displays of rakes and hoes, tools of all kind, bikes and skis. The whole thing looked like a craftsman's paradise. When I think back on this, I am ashamed. In a week the house was sold to a picture perfect couple with an beautiful blond baby . We didn't drive past it unless we had to - I heard later that they were having channels built around the foundations . I hoped that nice young mother wasn't lying there at night listening to the storms. And what must they think of us? It's sixty years ago, but I'm sorry. Unfortunately, I think I would do it again if I had to. I haven't liked basements since then and now I live in the desert, which is the best place to live.

UGLY TALK RADIO HAS STOLEN OUR RADIO

2008-03-23T07:25:00.000-07:00

Where has my radio gone? It used to be a lively, comforting companion. Now it is scary, furiously angry, full of hateful rants. I can't turn it off fast enough. Where do these people come from? Are there really scores of listeners, who apparently have no business to keep them occupied, who like to hear the "host" mock the infirmities of people with serious diseases, or make fun of women's looks, or demean black quarterbacks? Yet that is all we get- the radio waves, which belong to all of us, are swamped with this kind of ugliness.

I can remember when things were different. I was once what is now quaintly called a "stay at home mom" and the radio was a bright spot in my life. I used to iron piles of laundry listening to such fun programs as Perry Mason, Stella Dallas. Our Gal Sunday (married to England's richest, most handsome lord) and that little gem "Vic and Sade". This was before television, if you can imagine that. The soap operas were followed by variety shows such as Arthur Godfrey. Does anyone remember the furor when Godfrey fired Julius LaRosa? It was fun, and an awful lot of laundry got done.

Then at night, there was the sweet innocence of the disk jockeys, who would play a record for your boyfriend "and this is our favorite song for Dale, from Ginny" You could lie in your bed at night and wait to see if "your song" would come on. Then, the whole family could listen to the serials like "The Shadow" and "I Love a Mystery" or Fibber McGee, or Jack Benny. Radio was fun then, not miserable and full of shouting "hosts". What happened?

You must remember this - radio waves are not to be purchased, or owned, by corporations just because they want them. The stations have the right to take them only if the FCC approves of the public service they are rendering. I doubt if any FCC Commissioner has ever spent a day listening to the hours of fury and namecalling that most stations sponsor. If they did, how could these stations keep their license?

Maybe the talk shows will self-destruct. Sometimes there are miracles. Until then, I mourn the stealing of my radio.

I WANT A WHITE CASTLE!

2008-03-04T10:02:00.000-08:00

I want a White Castle! I want it right now. I won't get one, because as far as I know, there aren't any White Castles outside of a few states in the midwest. This company is selfish, selfish. They are ignoring all the people who grew up with those tasty little morsels and then had the audacity to move west, where the sun shines.

If you contact the White Castle people at their headquarters in Columbus, Ohio, I'm sure they would tell you that you can get frozen White Castles in a box, in the freezer at your neighborhood market. What a laugh! Everybody knows that a frozen White Castle heated in the microwave can never taste like the real thing. A real White Castle has to purchased where the lovely smell of beef and pickle and onions comes up from a vent in the sidewalk, usually on a cold and damp day. As any affionado knows, a White Castle is slightly damp, because it is all steamed-- bun, meat and fine onion, all together. It's just the size of the palm of your hand, if you have a small hand. Two are not enough, and four are not too many. In my youth, there was coupon in the Sunday paper and you could get a whole bag for a quarter! what heaven that was.

From what I can tell, White Castle is privately owned and has no franchises. Its probably easy to manage, but they have a ethical obligation to serve those of us who are hooked. Come on, White Castle - loosen up. Lets write, picket, petition this unfeeling company. We want White Castles- the real thing.

BRINGING HOME THE SALMON

2008-02-24T09:35:00.000-08:00

There are secrets that go to the grave, I found. One of these surfaced last week, about a year after my husband's death. Since he died suddenly, in the middle of the night, perhaps he had meant to tell me about it at some time in the future he found appropriate. Then again, maybe he got a kick out of my not knowing about the salmon.

It all started after we retired to Sonoma County in California. For those of you who don't know this little piece of paradise, Sonoma County is home to all kinds of wonderful food - there is no limit to what is grown there. You can eat your way from one end of the county to another and never miss an ingredient for a gourmet meal. Oysters, Pacific fish, cheeses, fruit, pate de fois gras, turkeys, champagne, wines --all call Sonoma home. I was thrilled with all this bounty.

One fine day my husband and one of the sons started out for Bodega Bay to play golf. On the way they would pass miles of Gravenstein apple orchards, a cheese factory where they make Camembert, oyster beds, and end up at the wharf at Bodega, where the salmon season was in full sway. He promised to brong me a salmon from one of the places where the fishermen unload their catch, or bring anything else he saw along the way. Hours later the men returned, with a large salmon. I praised them, and went into a little fit of enthuiasm about this wonderful place we lived in, etc, etc.

Now, years later. the son has finally come clean about the salmon. I guess he felt guilty. The whole thing was a con, expertly carried out in a tissue of fibs and I fell for it. They had forgotten to buy the salmon. On the way home, it dawned on them that they were going to catch a lot of grief. "Should we go back?" My husband said, no, he could handle this. They stopped in Sebastopol at a Lucky market, where he bought a large salmon. He got the butcher to unwrap the plastic shrinkwrap on the fish, take it out of its cardboard tray, and re-wrap it in butcher paper just like the wrap on the wharf at Bodega Bay. Removing the Lucky price tag, he was ready to go with this deception. The worst part was that they were able to talk about it with a straight face afterward, both of them. Finally the truth has come out.

I wonder how many more secrets there are that went to the grave? I know that I have one myself, and I'm holding on to it.

A SILENT WEEKEND

2008-02-17T06:10:00.000-08:00

For some unknown reason, I decided to go to a silent retreat. I had noticed this retreat house for years. It is in a particularly beautiful spot, surroounded by iron gates and majestic trees which I must confess was part of the attraction for me. You stay from Friday noon until Sunday after dinner and I wonderered if I could go that long without talking. B ut I thought it would do me good, sort of like going on a diet or a period of self-denial.

I was on my own at the retreat, since it is usually for groups. There were about fifteen women there from an Episcopal church up the coast but since we didn't speak we never got acquainted. At first I heard them chattering and laughing and I didn't think it was going to work out. But then what they call "The Great Silence" began. From that point on I didn't hear a sound.

The silence was so deep. There was not a murmur, not the sound of a car, a radio, a telephone, not even a dog barking. It was like being blanketed in cotton, or the silence of a great snowfall in the night. Very peaceful and soothing. I had a plain little room with a crucifix over the bed, all in white and just as you would imagine it should be. I had a little chair to read in and spent a wonderful afternoon, it was like heaven.

The only talking was in the church services in the chapel - four and five a day. The form was that of Gregorian plainsong - alternate chanting or song by different sides of the chapel. I felt I was back in the sixteenth century. It was hard to follow the breviary, but once you get into the swing of it, it is very satisfying. I had no idea Episcopalians were still doing this - it must date back to the early Christian church. The last service, Compline, was to end the day and you do sleep even if you are an insomniac like me.

The food at the retreat leaves much to be desired, but I suppose that is in keeping with the idea of a retreat. There were odd cuts of meat, modest portions, and a thin grey gruel-like soup in the evening. I don't know what was in that soup and I'll never find out because the Rule of Silence was in full force at meals. The women sat at a long table, and one of the Sisters read aloud from a religious book while we were eating. I will tell you one thing, eating was meant to be a convivial episode as far as I am concerned. It seems very awkward to eat without any conversation when there are many persons around to converse with.

I didn't stay for the last dinner, because my son came to pick me up. Forgive me, but we went ight away to In-and-Out Burger. Then we drove to San Francisco and I ate my way through orth Beach, I'm sorry about this.

All in all, it was a very fine retreat and I feel very refreshed. I admire the Sisters' way of life and their calmness and beauty of spirit. You should go, if you can, Silence is beautiful.

NO MORE MR. NICEGUY

2008-02-05T12:08:00.000-08:00

Another little hiatus while I went on a Superbowl weekend with friends. First, I have to tell you about my friends, Jean and Crystal. We have been best friends for 35 years, ever since the first year of law school. What is really weird is that our husbands even have a good time together.. We patted ourselves on the back because the husbands all had good hair and were reasonably handsome, and could survive with practicing lawyer wives who had opinions about everything. Now my husband is gone, and I thought this might alter our good weekend times but it really didn't. Because a friend from law school is a friend forever. And they do not hesitate to tell you what they think.

Jean started out by saying that she had been reading this blog and said it was too nicey-nice. She said it didn't sound a bit like me-- all that sweetness and light. " Write about something you don't like" she said. "Let it all hang out". So I will, but I don't think Jean will like it because she doesn't see "Lolita" in the same way I did.

In law school we were only seven women in a class of 125 and we thought we were real pioneers. Getting a clerking job was a real problem because no Phoenix law firm had ever hired a woman. The firms would come to interview at the law school and try to act as if it were serious, but everyone knew nothing would come of it. That's not true now but it was then. ( For example, when Sandra Day O'Connor graduated from Stanford Law near the head of her class, the only job she was offered was that of a secretary putting pocket parts in the back of a firm's library. ) This situation was about to change, however ,and we were hopeful.

The Law School professor in charge of employment opportunities was a sort of wimpy guy that I don't think the school knew what to do with - this job was a place to park him. And in our little band of seven woman was a young girl with very short skirts and a modicum of underwear whom I will call "Lolita". The combination of these two was deadly. It wasn't long before everyone knew that Lolita and the professor were sleeping together . The employment opportunity office came to a virtual halt. No woman got a hint of a clerkship job that year, nor the year afterward. Lolita was just the epitome of what everyone had said about the failure of women to be real lawyers , I thought. I was bitter.

35 years later we three friends talked about it. Jean still sees Lolita and she was very calm about it. It wasn't Lolita's fault , Jean said, Lolita was just young. Crystal said I was wrong to blame Lolita for her skirts and lack of underwear, the fault lay with the wimpy professor -- he should have overcome the temptation and done his work. I said I didn't care, it still makes me mad because it was so hard for us to find our initial job and make our way.

"But we did it" Crystal said and we three did. It just was damn hard.

MY INSOMNIA GOES TO A SLEEP CLINIC

2008-01-21T15:28:00.000-08:00

I don't like to talk about my various ailments- old people tend to do that, and it's a bore. But my insomnia is not a characteristic of old age. I can't remember when I slept all night, or even a sequence of four hours at a time. I've logged thousands of nights awake, staring at the ceiling, going over plots of old movies in my mind, playing my Walkman with late night talk shows, eating cereal in the kitchen at three a.m. But the insomnia intensified as I grow older and I am what is currently called "sleep deprived" to the point that it is worrisome.

What do you do? I believe in specialists. I needed a sleep doctor who I could talk to, and who could appreciate those long nights I was currently spending. For those bloggers who are familiar with the peculiarities of HMO's, it was not easy to get a referral to this kind of specialist. I decided not to try, and paid for a visit to a sleep doctor - myself. It was incredibly helpful to talk to him-- he understood. He prescribed a night at a sleep clinic affiliated with the University so that he could better understand my problem. I was excited. At last someone cared.

I reported with my night clothes to a little cottage, with a night light on, like a motel where you were checking in late. An attendant, who looked like a hospital orderly. wired me up . There were many wires, on my head and face, arms and legs. The bedroom was noticeably dark and totally quiet. It was cold. When he exited, the attendant said "You'll be hearing me talk to you with some instructions" and that was the last I knew. As soon as he shut the door, I must have fallen asleep and started snoring. So much for my insomnia! In the morning I was embarrassed.

Why did I sleep that night when I never do? I've thought about this a lot and I think it was (1) really dark, (2) really quiet, and Cool. I didn't hear any of those funny ominous noises the house makes in the middle of the night, or the coyotes howling. When I went back to the sleep doctor for his report, he wasn't dismayed that I had zonked out. He had a flow chart that showed a lot -- my dream sequence and constant kicking of legs and changes of position. They can monitor your brain while you are sleeping. He prescribed medication for "restless legs" but I don't think I'll take it. At any rate, I feel a lot better and my insomnia has really improved. I love the sleep clinic and I would like to go back again. Try it. You'll like it.

FRIENDS AND POLITICS

2008-01-10T03:59:00.000-08:00

I take my politics very seriously. My husband and I had long since decided that people we knew who talked on the other side of things were not for us and we avoided them whenever possible. We considered them unintelligent and morally a little lacking and not worth our trouble. It was a relief to socialize with others who felt as we do, and have congenial political talk. That wasn't hard to do, since most of the people we know and like are political bedfellows. Dividing into these social groups based on political leanings is not unusual - all over the country people are doing the same thing, I believe.

Now what do you do when you have a friend whom you really like, in spite of her demented political leanings? Do you "drop her" as one of my children say, or do you soldier on and consider it a learning experience? It is a glimpse into how the other side thinks. She listens religiously to several of the radio talk programs I find offensive, she doesn't ever read a major newspaper because they contain nothing but "lies", she brushes aside what you thought were established facts as "that never happened". It's like never-never land. It is impossible to have a logical debate with someone like this, and I would never try.

Now what is this friend really like? I value the friends I make in my new status as "widow". There are not a lot of them because this is not my home town and I don't have a backlog of friends from the old days. She (I'll call her Elizabeth) has been very nice to me, thoughtful and sweet, fun to be with. We have much in common - we beonged to the same college sorority, we go to the early Rite I service at the struggling little Episcopal church, we dress alike and we even look somewhat alike. I love to hear about her Kansas hometown and what goes on there -its a perfect microcosm of the Midwest. She remembers my husband and went to his funeral service. She's fun, a good person. If she just didn't have this flaw.

What do you do in this situation? You can't change her viewpoint, nor will I ever change mine. Are we still friends? It's like the North and the South in the Civil War.

HOW TO COOK A POSSUM

2008-01-06T03:20:00.000-08:00

I have been away from my blog a long time - I went to my daughter's for the Christmas holidays. She is, as she styles it, a Luddite who does not have a computer! I suppose I could have gone to a coffee house or somewhere and latched on to a computer, but I don't know how to do this. Certainly I couldn't take my laptop with me. T.he long plane flight to the east coast was gruesome enough without anything else to carry. I don't think I can take that kind of flight again by myself.

We did a lot of cooking and partying and that was fun. On one meal we were consulting that old favorite "The Joy of Cooking" and came across some wonderful recipes for wild game. Mrs. Rombauer had everything, together with some lighthearted sketches of skinning rabbits, and eviscerating squirrels. Apparently you can eat anything, although you must be very very hungry to do this. There is a how-to recipe for armadillo "porklike in flavor," woodchuck, and even a frequent visitor of mine, the javelina, or peccary. If you have ever seen a javelina I don't think you would want to eat it.

But my favorite is the instruction for cooking a possum, which begins, "If possible, trap 'possum and feed it on milk and cereals for 10 days before killing" This is followed by boiling and scraping and removing some ominous sounding small red glands. Serve with turnip greens. I can't imagine keeping this animal for ten days in a little pen and feeding it milk and cereal - one might tend to grow fond of it.

You just can't beat "The Joy of Cooking" . My own copy is long gone because the spine came off from years of use. I hope the new version is as robust.

Happy New Year!

I CAN OPEN A WINE BOTTLE!

2007-12-06T13:55:00.000-08:00

At Thanksgiving one of my sons came. He always brings a lot of high-tech items trying to bring me into the 21st century. These were really exciting items, however. First, a wine bottle opener that I can actually operate. My wine collection was building up, and I could never open a bottle because I have very little hand strength. I couldn't push that corkscrew into the cork. So I just waited until someone walked by the apartment, or until I asked someone to dinner. Once I even went upstairs to a man who lived up there whom I didn't even know. He just opened the door a crack and opened a bottle of Riesling out on the landing.

This wine opener is phenomenal. It is shaped like a tube about 10 inches long. It has a charger just like your cell phone. You slip the tube down over the neck of the wine bottle and press a button on the side, holding the bottle firmly with your right hand. It makes a loud whirring noise and agitates itself on the wine bottle. When the noise stops, you press another button and lift it off. Voila! Inside the tube is the cork.

My son also brought this clever thing called a digital picture frame. I have seen this advertised in the catalogs this Christmas and it is very cool. Somehow the pictures from your digital camera get put into this frame. It has a remote just like the TV, and the pictures just magically appear in this handsome black frame, like a slide show. Of course I do not know how these photos got into the digital frame, but maybe some day I will find out. When I do, I'll let you know.

SCORECARD FOR RETIREMENT HOMES

2007-12-06T13:30:00.000-08:00

My final thoughts on retirement homes---

(1) Don't go unless you have to. Some people are in such distress physically that there is no other option.
(2) Don't go if you have a personality that is not suited to following a prescribed way of life. If you are not a follower by nature, chances are that you are going to be restive in a retirement home setting.
(3) Don't go into a "buy-in" retirement set-up. If you still want to, and you like the place for some other reason, consider the sum you pay in at the beginning to be gone forever.
(4) Have someone you trust look into the background of the operators, particularly if the administration is a chain, ostensibly called "non-profit." That very phrase is often misleading. Better to seek a home sponsored by a church, or a fraternal organization that you know -- things can go wrong there, but at least there is a bond shared between the operator and the resident.
(5) Have someone who cares for you be a frequent visitor to the retirement home. Nothing makes more of an impression on the management than to know someone from the outside is looking in.
(6) Remember that things cost much more than you anticipate and be prepared for constant escalation. Best not to go unless you have flexibility in your income.
(7) We were so happy when we left, even though we left our money behind. But other people were content there. I think it is partially a matter of temperament.

RETIREMENT HOMES --YES OR NO

2007-11-28T14:32:00.000-08:00

When I last wrote, we had just moved into a retirement home (at great expense) and I was in the dining room looking for those laughing, tanned couples I had seen in the promotional brichures. Alas, they were not there. I had a sinking feeling that I had gotten ourselves in a bad situation -- the vibes were not what I had thought they would be. It would be three years before we went AWOL, but we never regretted leaving the place. We had gone on a little vacation trip to Tucson. In Arizona the sun was shining, I heard voices laughing, and we went to the bar next door and had an old fashioned. That was it. I didn't care what the children would say- I wanted out.

Now I don't want to say that there are not people who tend to flourish in retirement homes. They just have different personalities, or needs, than we did. Or they chose retirement "providers" who were not as rapacious as the one we chose. The decision of whether to go into continuing care or not is one that requires a lot of searching, and thought. Here are some pointers from my own experience.

Watch out for the private chains -- though they label themselves as "non-profit" they know how to maximize income. There is good money in these homes. The one we lived in charged for everything. If you had a package delivered byUPS to the front desk, they charged five dollars to bring it up. Exercise classes, riding in their van to a local doctor, changing the sheets, all kinds of small services were charged. They counted the forks after meals to be certain that no resident had the temerity to bring in a guest without paying. No one did, but the dining room guru was convinced that people were taking food back to their rooms. He would stop a ninety year old in the hall with a cookie.

Once a year in October the out of town management would dispatch a cold-faced operative down to our little town for the yearly financial meeting. All the residents would crowd into the auditorium to hear the pronouncement. Fees were going up another five percent (one year seven!) No one objected, although there must have been some distress. That is another problem - this time to bring to the attention of relatives who may be considering this move for you.

The population is very vulnerable. If the management is not caring, it is a population ripe for exloiting. There are little ladies who are very frail, spouses in the first stages of Altzeimers, older people who just do not have the strength to fight back they once used to have. Resident opposition to the pronouncements of the owners is improbable. They are sheep waiting to be shorn. Most of all, they may need an advocate. A good one would be your children keeping an eye on things.

More to follow.

A RETIREMENT HOME MISTAKE

2007-11-17T18:21:00.000-08:00

Everyone makes a mistake sometime. I've made quite a few and I must stop -I'm getting too old for it now.

The most recent mistake was our decision (mostly mine) that it would be a good thing to sell our house and go into one of the retirement homes. You know the kind -- where you first live in an apartment and then when you break your hip or something, you move into an area called "assisted living" . Then when even worse things happen, you move into nursing or Altzheimers parts of the buildings.

I was determined to do this, because I thought that nobody would take care of me; my husband was not well-suited for the nursing care of others, and the children were all out of town and very busy with their own lives. So we looked and looked in Oregon and Colorado, Virginia and Maryland, at church oriented homes and military havens, college towns and large cities. You can't say we didn't give it our all. Finally we picked one close to our home in a leafy college town . It was new-just under construction. The brochures showed happy smiling couples playing tennis and riding bicycles, very active and tanned. There was not a walker or a wheelchair in sight and the general impression was of a Sun City kind of life.

Now this was not cheap. All of these places wanted large sums of money to take up residency(about the amount of a small house). You had to "buy-in" and pay considerable monthly fees on top of that investment. Most of the homes provided a return of your capital investment when you died or left, but not the one we chose. The company made it very clear, the resident had no equity.

I don't think many homes do this any more. But we did it and it didn't seem strange at the time. It was just like getting into a country club with a big initiation fee. And besides there were all those laughing couples in the brochures - it should be fun. And we weren't going to leave, so what difference did it make?

When did I know that I had made a big mistake? I think it was the first week when I looked around the dining room. We were not ready for this. And where were those smiling, laughing couples? But I didn't tell the children how I felt. They were pleased we had made such a
sensible decision and they had gone to so much trouble to move us out of our house and get rid of all of our posessions. So I didn't tell them.

More to follow.

LIFE GOES TO A PARTY

2007-11-13T13:52:00.000-08:00

I'm going to veer a little bit here-- usually I write about the difficulties and little misteps of living alone for the first time. Things you don't want to tell the children, because they might think you are deteriorating.

But there are some things that you do want to tell the children before these things get lost forever. People of your own age like to remember these things, the little pleasures of the way life used to be before e-mail and Walmart, video games and Lindsay Lohan. First you have to tell the children that there wasn't any television. At this they sort of cock their heads as if to say "Yes, I believe you but that is so bizarre I can't comprehend it."

I am beset with nostalgia now. The latest was remembering the glories of LIFE magazine. I hear that there is a version of LIFE still, but it cannot ever resemble the LIFE of the 40's . Nothing could match that. It came every week, huge and glossy with beautiful scarlet edgings, with a wonderful photo of something or someone on the cover. The kids fought over it, to see who would get it first. But LIFE was for everyone, and as the war went on the magazine was even more intriguing.

I was a typical bobby-soxer crazed by Frank Sinatra and not too serious, so I loved the more frivolous articles. My favorite was a feature titled "LIFE Goes to a Party." The editors picked a party, any party, and gave it a two or three page spread. Remember the debutantes? They were my very favorites, particularly one named Brenda Frazier. She had a sweep of dark hair, and glorious sparkling strapless dresses. I wonder whatever happened to Brenda Frazier. Does anyone know? Surely she could never get old --she's dancing somewhere.

I HATE EXERCISE CLASS

2007-11-09T13:17:00.000-08:00

Don't you hate exercise class? How could anyone like it. At my age, I think I should have the inalienable right to loll around the house in my old bathrobe in the morning, drinking coffee and eating a bearclaw or a snack of cold pizza. Instead I have to put on exercise togs and drive to the Y, dreading every minute of it. Why do I do this? Mainly because the out of town children demand it. Even some friends who are hooked on Pilates (whatever that is) or Yoga suggest tactfully that I should keep up with this thing at the Y.

I am the oldest person in the class but that doesn't dissuade the teacher. She is an incredibly slim young thing with great dance moves and energy that just won't quit. The main movement is marching--knees up and arms swinging , just like a marching band from Music Man. This goes on for fifty minutes, with the addition of some hand weights and stretchy bands. I watch the clock on the wall, and by the time 25 minutes goes by, I am about to call it quits. But most of the time I carry on, because I've come that far in misery. When it's over, I can hardly walk and have to fall on my bed at home. How can this be good for anybody?

Sometimes I don't go, but say that I did. But DONT TELL THE CHILDREN.

IN WHICH I LEARN TO OPEN THINGS

2007-11-03T06:11:00.000-07:00

One of the first things I have to do, now that I am living alone, is to learn how to open things. I have often thought that I could starve to death sitting in front of a pile of canned food and bottled water if the electric can opener was defunct. I love wine and am somewhat of a wine connoisseur, but I have never never been able to get that corkscrew down into the cork . Just now all my wine is sitting in the closet waiting for a guest to come, or perhaps the man who lives in the apartment upstairs. And as for those packages of batteries and pills with hard plastic coverings over the cardboard, lots of luck. One problem is that I have very little strength in my arms or hands; when you have to squeeze that rubber ball in a test of hand strength, I come in zero. The other problem is that the manufacturers of these things don't really want them to be opened.

One day, shortly after the funeral, I couldn't get a chicken noodle soup opened. It had an "easy open" tab which promptly broke off when I pulled it back. This left a little narrow crack about the size of an eyebrow. I tried to pry the noodles out of the crack but they didn't fit. The can wouldn't go in the electric can opener any more because the edge was shot. I was weepy anyway and I started to cry - I needed that chicken noodle soup. That was the end of helplessness. I decided I was going to open this stuff no matter what.

I could use some suggestions! The tools I have so far that seem to work are (1) a plastic jar and bottle opener that is about 6 inches long. open like a nutcracker, with scallops along two edges. This works for sizes up to a big pickle jar, and I take this kind of thing outside and bang it on the cement. Then (2) a box-cutter is somewhat helpful on those hard plastic coverings - the terrorists were able to kill a lot of people with box cutters so you would think it could get through that plastic. {3} a round rubber thing about 4 inches wide. I don't know why this works but it sometimes does. (4) nailscissors. Sometimes you can clip around on the cardboard backing on pill cards, etc.

As to the wine bottles, I'm still out of it. Let me know if you have any ideas. Also a hand can opener for cans that is very easy to work.

BUYING THE NEW CAR

2007-10-29T06:55:00.000-07:00

Its a coincidence. Today is the birthday of my oldest, the first-born. Last year he came from Texas to help sell the old car and buy a new one because I was obviously not competent to carry this off. The old car made me feel sad, not because of the dimple-like indentation on the side but because I didn't like to ride in it anymore. Of course, my son noticed the side right away and I had to tell him about the gas pump.He seemed to take it in his stride. He is an engineer and very calm and steady and not inclined to be critical.

We spent two days looking for the right car. It couldn't be Japanese so that shortened the choices. That was because my husband was in the Navy in what we refer to as "the War", and he never got over his intense dislike for all things Japanese. We talked to him over and over about how the Japanese were our friends, and how they made these wonderful cars better than any American could do, but he wouldn't buy it.

When we parked the car at the first dealer, I thought if we put it in the shade the salesman wouldn't notice the dimpled side because it really wasn't that noticable. But he had the eye of an eagle when it came to making a trade-in allowance. He said that was body damage and they couldn't use it on the lot. Right away the value fell--I think about $3000 but my son did some hard bargaining at the end that helped. I couldn't have done that, but my son said I helped inadvertedly. I got very tired in the middle of this talk and said "I want to go home". That speeded up the compromise, my son said. The next day we got the car, a lively little car with a hatchback, all American. My son promised he would not tell the other children about the gas pump and I trusted him.

I remember the day he was born. Things were very different then. I had something called "Twilight Sleep". It was a shot and some pills and you woke up many hours later and there was this little baby. Then, get this, you stayed in the hospital for five days with people bringing you flowers. I think this method had a lot to say for it.

My Backyard

2007-10-27T19:25:00.000-07:00

Here's the view I share with the bobcat.

WOULDN'T YOU THINK YOU WOULD GET OVER FEAR OF THE DENTIST?

2007-10-25T09:49:00.000-07:00

I would like to finish my pumping gas problem (which still goes on) but something else has come up. You know, when you get pretty old, your teeth are also getting old. No matter how much time and money have been expended on your mouth, it never seems to reach a point of stasis. You can be eating spinach salad, as I was, and a large part of tooth falls onto the plate. That means a crown, and a fearful visit for me.

Dentristry has come a long way and I recognize that, but I have a phobia which goes back to childhood. I had many cavities, for no known reason, and my father believed in taking care of all of them. Every Saturday we would drive into Cincinnati for a visit to this sadistic torturer, Dr. Fetter. It must have been before the discovery of novacaine, or perhaps that Dr. Fetter liked to see young children suffer because of some preverse quirk of his own. At any rate, it was agony and I have never gotten over it. I am not afraid of libeling Dr. Fetter as I am sure he is long since dead and you cannot libel the dead. Did you know that? (I once did work on defamation cases, so I know it). I hope Dr. Fetter is in one of the circles of Hell, you pick the one.
At any rate, I am set to go to the dentist next week and as the day grows near I become increasingly apprehensive. I am afraid of the gooey stuff the dentist uses to make an impression - it seems to take forever to set up, during which time I am in panic. I don't know whether to take two valium or just one before I go. I plan to take my iPod nano and put it on cheerful pieces like "Strike Up the Band".

A BOBCAT COMES FOR COFFEE

2007-10-21T10:18:00.000-07:00

More about pumping gas (see Pumping Gas I and II) because that little debacle is not yet over. But, in the interim, I have had a guest for coffee. Did I mention that I live out in the desert? When I came in from running an errand yesterday I found a bobcat sound asleep on the porch, right in front of the glass door that leads outside. I have seen bobcats before in the wash, but never one just six inches away. I don't know how she got up on the porch because there is a three foot railing around it, but apparently that was no problem. She was very relaxed -stretched out just as a housecat would be.

I got to examine her closely - bobcats are the size of a large cat or a smallish dog. They have sort of fawn colored coats with black spots and very big lynx-like ears. On the back of the ears there is a white spot. The front paws are big and powerful looking. All in all, a beautiful animal who looked at me with total aplomb and who had no thought of leaving. I'm sorry to say I was a bit frightened at firat and tried to get the project manager's office to help me. No help there, since everyone in Arizona is told not to bother the wild animals. After several hours I got up the spirit to make some loud noises and she left - looking back over her shoulder as if to say "Why me?" After all, it is her home and I am intruding.

PUMPING GAS - DOWN TWO

2007-10-16T16:02:00.000-07:00

After my first little problem with the gas pump, I was wary but not totally discouraged. This time I went to a different station (incognito) and tried again. For some reason I decided it would be good to draw up close to the pump. Unfortunately I am not a good judge of distance - sometimes I think I should not be even driving a car because I don't have a gift for it. Nonetheless, I heard a small scraping noise and I thought it was time to get out of there. When I got home I saw that I had scraped all along the side of my white Buick, leaving a wide red racing stripe. I think this was from a red pipe that those wily gas people have put alongside the gas pumps. Why, I do not know.

I took the car to a detail place and they were able to erase the red paint, but there was a slight dimple-like indentation along the side that remained. THIS WAS SOMETHING YOU DEFINITELY DO NOT WANT TO TELL THE CHILDREN ABOUT. And I didn't.

PUMPING GAS -- DOWN ONE

2007-10-13T08:21:00.000-07:00

As soon as the funeral party had left, I had my first challenge in this new life--pumping gas. My husband always took care of the cars. That was his bailiwick and I don't think he ever wanted me messing around with a gas pump. And where are the old fashioned "service stations?" They don't exist anymore, at least where I live. Those stations served a good purpose. They furnished countless high school boys with their first jobs -- cheerful attandants who would wash your windows, check the tires, and look under the hood. I don't know why we had to do away with all that, but I do know that I am not an appropriate person to service a car.

But I had to start and start right away. Several friends gave me lessons and it didn't seem so hard - just put the nozzle in the tank and pay. I boldly put my credit card and my Safeway card in the pump, put the hose in the proper recepticle and pulled it out in triumph. Unfortunately I was still pressing on the lever or whatever it was and the gas was still going through the hose. It spewed out in a geyser all over the tarmac, and all over me. The attendant(if that is what you call him,) came out of his little locked kiosk and he was upset. I think it was because he had to clean up the gasoline on the tarmac. I reeked of gas and when I went on to the dentist for my appointment, the receptioist said I should go home and shower and change clothes, because I was also smelling up the dentists office. Needless to say I did not return that day. My clothes still smell of gasoline, and are very stiff. I determined I would try again, because what can you do?

Instructions for Un-assisted Living

2007-10-02T12:06:00.000-07:00

Once there were two of us. That is, until one night he woke up with a pain in his chest and by the time morning came in an emergency room there was only one of us left. But I don't want to dwell on that now. It's more about what happens next.

Not only is it very very sad, and you have many things to brood about that you could have done differently, but a whole new challenge awaits you. That is what this blog is about - how to accomplish things you have never done before and do not really understand. Things like how to sell an old car and buy a new car without paying too much; how to open a wine bottle or a pickle jar; how to get that hard plastic wrap off the razor blade packaging; how to drive on an interstate populated by huge threatening sixteen wheelers; and the simplest thing of all- how to pump gas.

All these things must be accomplished while staying moderately healthy, moderately cheerful, and within an aura of silence. The key to this is that you must not let the out-of-town children know about any mishaps, because nothing good can come of that.