Last week as trees began to get leaves again I was reminded of a situation that has been a problem to me for several years.
When my street, Foxfire Drive, was built, it was aligned with an older street, Ridgecrest Drive, where they intersect with Arcadia Drive. The street sign on one corner says Ridgecrest and another, diagonally opposite, Foxfire. In the summer the leaves of a large oak tree on the corner of Foxfire and Arcadia have been obscuring the street sign so that people looking for the Foxfire Drive sign have difficulty seeing it. I thought the sign might be moved to a more visible spot. I called the City of Greensboro's main number which was answered immediately by a pleasant-sounding real-live person. She transferred me to someone working the streets division who also answered quickly. That lady listened to my problem and took my name, address and phone number. I thought that would probably be the last I'd hear about it.
I was quite surprised a couple of days later to get a phone call from a gentleman who said he was inspecting the sign problem and thought they should first try cutting a couple of lower branches off the offending tree. If that didn't help I should call them back. Of course I agreed. It was done.
I didn't get any names, but I sent an e-mail to the city Public Affairs Department to compliment all those involved for their pleasant, professional handling of the matter and its prompt resolution. I hope those employees AND their supervisors get the communication and receive the appropriate commendations for jobs well done.
It's getting service like this that makes paying city taxes a little easier.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
More Springtime Memories
Back in the 1950's to mid-1960's any young (under 35) man who aspired to "be somebody" in Greensboro was a member of the Greensboro Jaycees. The group had a by-invitation-only membership of bankers, lawyers, professional salesmen and mid-to-upper-level managers who were white, well-educated and well-connected. The 1960's rosters included names like Jim Melvin, John Forbis, Eddie Yost, Henry Isaacson and Doug Galyon and others like them who, with the help of their Jaycee brethren, rose to top leadership positions in the city. Business owners and managers gave their young Jaycee employees time off to lead and take part in Jaycee projects for management training they might not otherwise have been able to provide. In return, the financial rewards of networking were realized and businesses prospered along with these young executives.
As egalitarian movements arose in the 1960's the Jaycee organization began to allow any young male applicant to join, but the companion female organization of Jaycee wives, the Jaycettes, remained just that--wives of Jaycees only. No single women were allowed. Jaycee husbands strayed enough as it was--late night meetings and projects affording them excuses to play around without further explanations to their wives. (Had single females been allowed to join the fraternity it would have been an even greater temptation for the young male members to spend time on "projects" away from home and hearth.)
I don't know what has happened to the groups since the early 1970's when my "ex" and I separated and divorced and I could no longer be a Jaycette. He aged out in the mid-1970's and went on to own and run a successful (due in part to his Jaycee training) business with his second wife.
Women were invited to join as full members and even rose to top leadership roles. Anyone who wanted to join was allowed in. Membership was no longer a requirement for up-and-coming young men in town, nor was it a sign of social status.
The GGO moved to Forest Oaks, became the GGCC, then something else and then something else until it became a struggling stop on the tour for golf wannabes. A professional manager had to be hired, as opposed to a local firm allowing one of their own to take a year (or two) off to organize and run the tournament.
I miss those days of wine and...well, beer and more beer and socializing along with service to the community. As spring comes, so do the memories of GGOs and Jaycee/Jaycette activities of long ago. I miss that fun. I just don't miss being married to a Jaycee.
As egalitarian movements arose in the 1960's the Jaycee organization began to allow any young male applicant to join, but the companion female organization of Jaycee wives, the Jaycettes, remained just that--wives of Jaycees only. No single women were allowed. Jaycee husbands strayed enough as it was--late night meetings and projects affording them excuses to play around without further explanations to their wives. (Had single females been allowed to join the fraternity it would have been an even greater temptation for the young male members to spend time on "projects" away from home and hearth.)
I don't know what has happened to the groups since the early 1970's when my "ex" and I separated and divorced and I could no longer be a Jaycette. He aged out in the mid-1970's and went on to own and run a successful (due in part to his Jaycee training) business with his second wife.
Women were invited to join as full members and even rose to top leadership roles. Anyone who wanted to join was allowed in. Membership was no longer a requirement for up-and-coming young men in town, nor was it a sign of social status.
The GGO moved to Forest Oaks, became the GGCC, then something else and then something else until it became a struggling stop on the tour for golf wannabes. A professional manager had to be hired, as opposed to a local firm allowing one of their own to take a year (or two) off to organize and run the tournament.
I miss those days of wine and...well, beer and more beer and socializing along with service to the community. As spring comes, so do the memories of GGOs and Jaycee/Jaycette activities of long ago. I miss that fun. I just don't miss being married to a Jaycee.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Will's Blue Ribbon
This past Saturday my 9-year-old grandson (Kim and Ash's son) took part in an event sponsored by the Greensboro Music Teachers Association in which young musicians are critiqued on their performances by judges for whom they play one (or two or three) solos behind closed doors at the UNCG Music School. Will started piano lessons last fall with Craig Fields, and has really been challenged by the discipline needed to master the music he has been given. Like me, he plays by ear, so it's hard to memorize and play the exact notes on the page. But he has learned several pieces well, so Craig enrolled him in the "competition", playing one song from memory. I don't know who was more nervous, Kim or I (me?). You can't hear through the doors of the rooms of the new Music Building but Will evidently played without a mistake and emerged with a big smile on his face. He received a top grade of "Superior" (I think most of the kids do--but that's not to diminish Will's achievement; it just shows how encouraging to young musicians the judges are) and a certificate with a blue ribbon and gold sticker on it. He was so excited and proud! He kept saying, "I've never won a blue ribbon before!" and "It's so shiny and beautiful!" and "I can't wait to get a trophy next year!" (for playing two years in a row).
Will is not athletic nor particularly competitive except in computer games. He attends the Greensboro Montessori School where competition is not stressed and he has rarely participated in anything where awards have been given. This was, I hope, the beginning of many future competitions and awards for music performance.
Entry fee to the GMTA: $8
Will's expressions of joy getting his award: priceless!
Will is not athletic nor particularly competitive except in computer games. He attends the Greensboro Montessori School where competition is not stressed and he has rarely participated in anything where awards have been given. This was, I hope, the beginning of many future competitions and awards for music performance.
Entry fee to the GMTA: $8
Will's expressions of joy getting his award: priceless!
Friday, March 20, 2009
Spring Has Sprung
The first day of spring is today, March 20th. In the same way that some people can't wait for fall and its colorful foliage, I eagerly anticipate the coming of spring. I also look forward to summer and don't mind the heat as long as there is air conditioning available. I hate cold weather. It's nice to be able to walk outside barefoot to bring in the morning newspaper or afternoon mail. I don't like having to figure out whether I'll need a heavy coat, medium-weight jacket or just a sweater when I go out. A short-sleeved top (I can't stand sleeveless clothes) is my preference.
Spring flowers have it all over fall leaves for beauty. Early-blooming trees and bulbs give way to dogwoods and azaleas. Then it's time for roses and planting annuals. Leaves come out and green grass grows--with a little help from my yard guys. Everything looks fresh and new and I'm invigorated by it. Even though we have to endure the pollen season before we can really move outdoors, the change in temperature makes it bearable. I've already written about how I dislike eating outdoors, but walking and sitting outside listening to the songs of birds is great.
Down by the ponds near my house those darn, messy Canada geese will hatch another batch of eggs. They should NOT be protected. Does anyone know if they are good to eat? (Goose is a delicacy in many parts of the world.) Or could they be slaughtered and ground up for animal feed? Maybe they could be shipped to someplace that needs their poop for fertilizer. WE certainly don't.
Robins and cardinals are all over the place, especially in the trees in my back yard. I think they feast on the holly berries there. I'm not the bird lover that daughter Cathy is, but I find them interesting. Wrens usually find some place around my house to make a nest. For several years at least one has made a nest in my garage and laid eggs before I found it. Then I had to leave the garage door open all the time to let it sit on the eggs and come and go to feed the brood (usually 3 or 4) that hatched. Sometimes birds fly into the picture window over my great room. They knock themselves ga-ga then usually are able to recover and fly away. The only one I know has died was a cedar waxwing (I saved it in the freezer and identified it from a bird book due to its unusual coloring). Birds have plenty of insects to eat around here--especially mosquitos in the summer. I appreciate that.
I miss having the GGO (or whatever that golf tournament is called now) in the spring at Sedgefield. The weather was always "iffy" the end of March, but on sunny days the course was gorgeous. You could almost watch the dogwoods come out during tournament week. We Jaycettes wore our best new spring outfits to the Golfers' Wives Tea--THE social occasion of the week for us gals, because we were usually busy behind the scenes doing the menial work our Jaycee husbands found beneath them. It was a great week to start wearing our new spring clothes, and we were still young and skinny enough to look good in them. I'll be writing more about the Jaycees in another post.
For now, I'll just quote the lyrics of an old song, "Welcome, sweet springtime...."
Spring flowers have it all over fall leaves for beauty. Early-blooming trees and bulbs give way to dogwoods and azaleas. Then it's time for roses and planting annuals. Leaves come out and green grass grows--with a little help from my yard guys. Everything looks fresh and new and I'm invigorated by it. Even though we have to endure the pollen season before we can really move outdoors, the change in temperature makes it bearable. I've already written about how I dislike eating outdoors, but walking and sitting outside listening to the songs of birds is great.
Down by the ponds near my house those darn, messy Canada geese will hatch another batch of eggs. They should NOT be protected. Does anyone know if they are good to eat? (Goose is a delicacy in many parts of the world.) Or could they be slaughtered and ground up for animal feed? Maybe they could be shipped to someplace that needs their poop for fertilizer. WE certainly don't.
Robins and cardinals are all over the place, especially in the trees in my back yard. I think they feast on the holly berries there. I'm not the bird lover that daughter Cathy is, but I find them interesting. Wrens usually find some place around my house to make a nest. For several years at least one has made a nest in my garage and laid eggs before I found it. Then I had to leave the garage door open all the time to let it sit on the eggs and come and go to feed the brood (usually 3 or 4) that hatched. Sometimes birds fly into the picture window over my great room. They knock themselves ga-ga then usually are able to recover and fly away. The only one I know has died was a cedar waxwing (I saved it in the freezer and identified it from a bird book due to its unusual coloring). Birds have plenty of insects to eat around here--especially mosquitos in the summer. I appreciate that.
I miss having the GGO (or whatever that golf tournament is called now) in the spring at Sedgefield. The weather was always "iffy" the end of March, but on sunny days the course was gorgeous. You could almost watch the dogwoods come out during tournament week. We Jaycettes wore our best new spring outfits to the Golfers' Wives Tea--THE social occasion of the week for us gals, because we were usually busy behind the scenes doing the menial work our Jaycee husbands found beneath them. It was a great week to start wearing our new spring clothes, and we were still young and skinny enough to look good in them. I'll be writing more about the Jaycees in another post.
For now, I'll just quote the lyrics of an old song, "Welcome, sweet springtime...."
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Color My Thumb Brown
I hate watering houseplants. The only ones I have are those that survive long periods of drought followed by saucer-underneath-filling drenchings. Those nice Aquaglobes sold as "the perfect gift" for plant owners are great, but you have to fill them with water almost as often as you should water your plants. They do look interesting, and visitors often remark, "Oh, you got some of those plant-watering things for Christmas, didn't you?"
Pothos plants are great for people like me. Those are the plants you can root easily from a single leaf and they live forever. You don't even have to plant them in dirt. They live very well in a small cup of water (as long as you remember to replenish the liquid from time to time). When one gets overgrown and leggy you just cut off the leaves and make a new plant--or two or three.
It seems the cheapest Christmas poinsettias are the ones that survive, too. If you wait to water them until their leaves droop they seem to last longer. At least mine have.
I admire people with green thumbs. The most gifted are those who can keep a peace lily alive and blooming, and whose Christmas cactuses (cacti?) actually blossom each year instead of every 2-3 years as mine does (after I relegate it to the garage for punishment).
I prefer fake plants. It's amazing how life-like some of them are. I have a friend who asked how I managed to keep the greenery in my guest bath looking so good in such low light. "Dusting", I told her.
Pothos plants are great for people like me. Those are the plants you can root easily from a single leaf and they live forever. You don't even have to plant them in dirt. They live very well in a small cup of water (as long as you remember to replenish the liquid from time to time). When one gets overgrown and leggy you just cut off the leaves and make a new plant--or two or three.
It seems the cheapest Christmas poinsettias are the ones that survive, too. If you wait to water them until their leaves droop they seem to last longer. At least mine have.
I admire people with green thumbs. The most gifted are those who can keep a peace lily alive and blooming, and whose Christmas cactuses (cacti?) actually blossom each year instead of every 2-3 years as mine does (after I relegate it to the garage for punishment).
I prefer fake plants. It's amazing how life-like some of them are. I have a friend who asked how I managed to keep the greenery in my guest bath looking so good in such low light. "Dusting", I told her.
Leftovers
People who know me know that I am not fond of leftovers (the food type). Most re-heated stuff tastes yucky to me, though I will eat it for economy's sake.
It's really hard for a normal person to eat the over-sized servings most restaurants serve these days. It used to be considered gauche to ask for the proverbial "doggie bag" for whatever meat (Heaven forbid you had leftover vegetables!) remained from a steak dinner out. A haughty waiter packaged those last tasty bites, along with the steak bone and/or fat, in aluminum foil shaped like a swan (since anyone who owned a dog that ate steak had to be an art lover).
Now everyone's expected to save part of those supersized portions lest they seem gluttonous members of the Clean Plate Club. You get one of those horrible foam containers that never fit in the garbage can (or degrade in the landfill) when they're discarded. E-mails advise you not to use them for reheating food because the plastic supposedly gives off some kind of poison when heated in the microwave oven. They never close tightly enough to keep food from drying out if kept for more than a couple of hours.
The only leftover I eat regularly is spaghetti with meat sauce made from Mama Margaret's old recipe. My sauce version (available on request) yields more than 8 cups of tasty goodness. My reduced calorie regime calls for eating only 1/2 cup each of pasta and sauce, so I can get at least 16 meals from one batch of sauce (unless I'm unselfish enough to share some with family and/or friends). I cook 4 ounces of vermicelli, divide it out in 4 Corningware dishes and spread sauce on top. I then store the containers in the fridge to later pull out and "nuke" for 2 minutes. Quick, easy and downright delicious! Beats those little swan-shaped packages or boxes of dried-out leftovers every time!
It's really hard for a normal person to eat the over-sized servings most restaurants serve these days. It used to be considered gauche to ask for the proverbial "doggie bag" for whatever meat (Heaven forbid you had leftover vegetables!) remained from a steak dinner out. A haughty waiter packaged those last tasty bites, along with the steak bone and/or fat, in aluminum foil shaped like a swan (since anyone who owned a dog that ate steak had to be an art lover).
Now everyone's expected to save part of those supersized portions lest they seem gluttonous members of the Clean Plate Club. You get one of those horrible foam containers that never fit in the garbage can (or degrade in the landfill) when they're discarded. E-mails advise you not to use them for reheating food because the plastic supposedly gives off some kind of poison when heated in the microwave oven. They never close tightly enough to keep food from drying out if kept for more than a couple of hours.
The only leftover I eat regularly is spaghetti with meat sauce made from Mama Margaret's old recipe. My sauce version (available on request) yields more than 8 cups of tasty goodness. My reduced calorie regime calls for eating only 1/2 cup each of pasta and sauce, so I can get at least 16 meals from one batch of sauce (unless I'm unselfish enough to share some with family and/or friends). I cook 4 ounces of vermicelli, divide it out in 4 Corningware dishes and spread sauce on top. I then store the containers in the fridge to later pull out and "nuke" for 2 minutes. Quick, easy and downright delicious! Beats those little swan-shaped packages or boxes of dried-out leftovers every time!
Madoff's Estate Plan
Bernie Madoff did what every responsible father tries to do--provide well for his family and leave a large estate--though he did it without dying. He has sacrificed personal freedom in his old age in order to protect the jillions he had passed on to members of his family--a unique way of avoiding inheritance taxes. In this age of super-computer networks, surely someone can find where some of those billions he stole are. We can keep travelers with questionable names off airplanes. Can't we block his family's and employees' access to the assets acquired through Daddy Bernie's nefarious schemes? He shouldn't be considered an "Indian giver" if he asked for the return of all that jewelry and other expensive stuff he mailed off to his relatives while he was still confined to his penthouse. His wife and kids continue to sit in the lap of luxury he provided, laughing all the way to the bank. Way to go, Papa Madoff!
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Doggerel?
Almost everyone has a tale of a great dog they or their family used to have. Back in the days before people spent more on their animals' care than their own, they fed the dog with table scraps and let it go out on its own to explore the world and pee and poop in the neighbors' yards. No one spent an hour a day walking the dog on a leash for exercise--either human or canine.
There wasn't a rush to spay female dogs because families wanted to teach their kids how babies were born without having to show them the real thing. (How they explained the mother dog's eating the placenta I don't know.)
The pictures here are of Brownie, who came around in 1948 to my grandparents' home in rural South Carolina. (The two humans are me and brother Preston.) She had eight puppies obviously of varying lineage. She must have known what a soft touch Grandma was for anyone needing a meal, but she knew her place (outside) and left as soon as the little ones were able to fend for themselves. It really hurts me now to see her scrawny physique, but we didn't know any better back then.
I'm glad we have learned how to treat our animals. People who aren't pet owners rarely appreciate the feelings of affection those who own pets have for their furry, feathered or finned friends. Dogs and cats are my favorites. Some people love their birds and fish, though I don't understand why. It's so nice to arrive home to an otherwise empty house and be greeted by a waggy tail and happy "woof". Cats meet you own their own terms, but you know they care for you as they rub your ankles and try to trip you as you walk in. Sure, you have to go to the trouble of feeding them and dealing with their eliminations, but at dinner time they don't grumble "we had this yesterday" or "this doesn't taste like my mother's". There are no complaints about bedtime or refusals to pick up their toys (since you know they can't anyway).
A wise marriage counselor once advised people to treat their mates as they do their pets. Give them unconditional affection; let them come and go as they please; feed them their favorite treats; forget their transgressions. (Do you keep track of every time the puppy peed on the floor?)
Some animals get their "people" up before dawn to be let out or fed. Murphy the Bed Dog (see previous post) is not one of those, thank goodness! He lets me sleep as late as I want and doesn't care what time, or what, I feed him. He doesn't beg when I'm eating so I don't have to decide whether or not to let him have "people food". He sheds very little and doesn't sit and stare at me when I'm on the toilet. He doesn't try to get food off the table. (I wish he were more diligent about eating crumbs off the floor.) Except for his not knowing how to walk beside me on a leash (he's learning!) and weighing more than I can easily pick up (22 lbs.) he's almost perfect.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Nobody "Does" It Better
This is a tribute to my hairdresser and friend, Lyse Pearman. Lyse started "doing" my hair back in 1965, soon after she moved south from her native Quebec. I had a French twist back then, and she was one of the few people who could make it stay in place and look good on me. Must have been in her genes.
We've seen each other through "thick (a problem for both of us) and thin". She has supported me through my physical and mental battles and I her through the illnesses and death of her dear husband Andy. She even appears regularly in my dreams. (No, not for that reason!) Perhaps it's because I have seen her so often over the years. It used to be once a week; now, thanks to my wash and wear hairdo, it's only once a month.
After Cathy was born I had her cut my long hair and I've kept it short ever since. She cuts my hair with a razor. When I lived in Northern Virginia my young oriental hairstylist told me, "Not velly many people get "laser" cut--just old ladies!" (I was 43 at the time.) The color she mixes for me looks natural, though my wrinkles and sags give away my age.
Many of Lyse's customers are "older" women--really old. She knows just how to treat their thin white tresses and make them feel special at the same time. Some have a problem remembering when their appointments are. She usually manages to accommodate them regardless of when they arrive. I've screwed up my appointment time more than once. I've learned to keep it "standing" unless I absolutely must change it.
She cares deeply for others and has helped too many friends make it through their final days in the past few years.
She and Andy used to have their own shop. Now she rents a station at Park Place Studio. I don't know what I'll do if she decides to retire. When it comes to my hair, "Nobody does it better"!
We've seen each other through "thick (a problem for both of us) and thin". She has supported me through my physical and mental battles and I her through the illnesses and death of her dear husband Andy. She even appears regularly in my dreams. (No, not for that reason!) Perhaps it's because I have seen her so often over the years. It used to be once a week; now, thanks to my wash and wear hairdo, it's only once a month.
After Cathy was born I had her cut my long hair and I've kept it short ever since. She cuts my hair with a razor. When I lived in Northern Virginia my young oriental hairstylist told me, "Not velly many people get "laser" cut--just old ladies!" (I was 43 at the time.) The color she mixes for me looks natural, though my wrinkles and sags give away my age.
Many of Lyse's customers are "older" women--really old. She knows just how to treat their thin white tresses and make them feel special at the same time. Some have a problem remembering when their appointments are. She usually manages to accommodate them regardless of when they arrive. I've screwed up my appointment time more than once. I've learned to keep it "standing" unless I absolutely must change it.
She cares deeply for others and has helped too many friends make it through their final days in the past few years.
She and Andy used to have their own shop. Now she rents a station at Park Place Studio. I don't know what I'll do if she decides to retire. When it comes to my hair, "Nobody does it better"!
Saturday, March 7, 2009
In Fond Remembrance Of
I've written before that one of my favorite sections of the newspaper is the obituaries. Not only do I check to see if anyone I know or used to know is listed, but also the ages of those whose death notices appear, using my age--at present 68--as a guideline as to whether someone has "died young" or not.
I love the euphemisms for dying that are used: "went to be with the Lord"; "was ushed into the arms of her loving Creator"; began a new journey"; "joined his/her late somebody-or-other"; or simply "passed away". If it is a long (spelled "expensive") notice, it's more likely that the decedent did not just "die". The newspaper charges extra for someone's having done anything other than "died".
Years ago (but in my lifetime) a married woman's obituary wasn't even published under her own name. She was still Mrs. Husband's Name. Now obituaries include nicknames like "Pappaw" or "Tweetie Bird" or whatever. I can't imagined how some of those folks lived with some of their monikers.
I think I'd like to write my own obituary--to be used way, way off in the future, of course. What you would say about yourself?
Do you know what you'd like people to say about you as friends file past your casket? As for myself, I'd like to hear someone say, "Look! She's alive!"
I love the euphemisms for dying that are used: "went to be with the Lord"; "was ushed into the arms of her loving Creator"; began a new journey"; "joined his/her late somebody-or-other"; or simply "passed away". If it is a long (spelled "expensive") notice, it's more likely that the decedent did not just "die". The newspaper charges extra for someone's having done anything other than "died".
Years ago (but in my lifetime) a married woman's obituary wasn't even published under her own name. She was still Mrs. Husband's Name. Now obituaries include nicknames like "Pappaw" or "Tweetie Bird" or whatever. I can't imagined how some of those folks lived with some of their monikers.
I think I'd like to write my own obituary--to be used way, way off in the future, of course. What you would say about yourself?
Do you know what you'd like people to say about you as friends file past your casket? As for myself, I'd like to hear someone say, "Look! She's alive!"
How Big Is Yours?
Since when did it become necessary to have a bathroom big enough to hold The Morman Tabernacle Choir--or at least a part thereof? Most houses built through the first three-quarters of the 20th Century had bathrooms just roomy enough to take care of the activities one generally associates with a bathroom. Then came the idea of increasing the size and adding a second bathroom called the Master Bath so couples could perform their ablutions at the same time, fostering more togetherness (and therefore more romance?) in the relationship. Personally, I never found it romantic to watch my mate's slobbery tooth-brushing and spitting while I was massaging anti-wrinkle cream onto my face and various other body parts. Most wives and mothers are tending to the kids or cooking breakfast in the mornings. Performing one's morning rituals at the same time does not a marriage make--especially when one of those rituals is the great morning dump.
What else does one do in a huge bathroom? Check one's golf swing? Practice naked dance routines? Examine all the contours of one's body from every angle and multiple distances? Have family reunions?
Who cleans it all? Two sinks covered with dried toothpaste, soap scum, shaving stubble and makeup dust are twice as much work to clean as one. Such handy tools as the Swiffer WetJet (my favorite toy) make floor cleaning easier, but it's still extra floor space that has to be dealt with.
Our latest financial crises are causing some people to have to reduce the size of the houses they live in. Will they also be willing to give up the luxurious layouts of the lavatories? Or will the fact that our 21st Century bodies are bigger require that the extra square footage be kept for our ever-widening posteriors?
What will happen in, or for, the end?
What else does one do in a huge bathroom? Check one's golf swing? Practice naked dance routines? Examine all the contours of one's body from every angle and multiple distances? Have family reunions?
Who cleans it all? Two sinks covered with dried toothpaste, soap scum, shaving stubble and makeup dust are twice as much work to clean as one. Such handy tools as the Swiffer WetJet (my favorite toy) make floor cleaning easier, but it's still extra floor space that has to be dealt with.
Our latest financial crises are causing some people to have to reduce the size of the houses they live in. Will they also be willing to give up the luxurious layouts of the lavatories? Or will the fact that our 21st Century bodies are bigger require that the extra square footage be kept for our ever-widening posteriors?
What will happen in, or for, the end?
Head Lines
One of my favorite newspaper headlines of the past year was "Man Appears In Court After Decapitation Aboard Bus". How could he manage to get there with no head? How could he be identified? What did his mug shot look like? Was it labelled "Anonymous"?
I just read a follow-up story about the incident. The perpetrator of the act appeared in court--with his head attached. The charges he faced included cannibalizing the victim. The report didn't say what he was accused of eating, but it was probably something from that head. (Bus Station food is notoriously bad--but really...!) He was found "not criminally responsible because of mental illness".
Well, that's a no-brainer!
I just read a follow-up story about the incident. The perpetrator of the act appeared in court--with his head attached. The charges he faced included cannibalizing the victim. The report didn't say what he was accused of eating, but it was probably something from that head. (Bus Station food is notoriously bad--but really...!) He was found "not criminally responsible because of mental illness".
Well, that's a no-brainer!
Going Bust
My friend Betty Jo, who is a comedian (comedienne?) in her own right, was telling me about a discussion on The View about wearing bra's or, more formally, brassieres. (I like the German word bustenhalter.) Whoopi Goldberg says she doesn't wear one--just has 2 very short people who walk in front of her and hold "them" up. (LOL here.)
Then BJ and I reminisced about the IBTC (Itty Bitty Titty Committee) groups many of us girls belonged to in high school. How I long for those days! With changes in hormones and weight gain after menopause my B's became G's (for grande)--with no man around to enjoy them. With the passage of years my perky protuberances matured to pendulous proportions. The wearing of a bra or brassiere or bustenhalter is no longer optional.
I was 9 years old when my breasts began to develop. Actually only one began to grow at first. I was terrified I would be cyclops-chested until Mother assured me it was normal. And of course they finally (almost) "evened out".
I never had what is now called a "training bra". Why are they called that? I never knew "the girls" to do anything you could teach them to, other than to differentiate you from a guy. What tricks can they perform except maybe to catch a few compliments (unless you're a stripper and can make tassels on them spin around)?
Why some perfectly healthy women opt for boob jobs (a.k.a. breast augmentation) I'll never understand. As with men's penises, size has nothing to do with function. A cups feed babies as well as C's or D's. Mother Nature sees to that.
Collossal cleavage may attract a man, but does little to keep him. You're much better off learning to be a good cook!
Also, how are those maximized mammaries going to look among the other guests' dried hanging gardens at the Old Age Home?
A favorite family story was told by my sister Mary. She had taken a group of kids from the New York Settlement House where she worked on a beach outing. When they got their swim suits on some of the 10 and 11 year old girls started laughing at her. She finally got one to tell her why they were snickering. "You ain't got no titties!" the girl told her. Ah, the candor of children!
Ah, my yearning for belonging to the IBTC again!
Then BJ and I reminisced about the IBTC (Itty Bitty Titty Committee) groups many of us girls belonged to in high school. How I long for those days! With changes in hormones and weight gain after menopause my B's became G's (for grande)--with no man around to enjoy them. With the passage of years my perky protuberances matured to pendulous proportions. The wearing of a bra or brassiere or bustenhalter is no longer optional.
I was 9 years old when my breasts began to develop. Actually only one began to grow at first. I was terrified I would be cyclops-chested until Mother assured me it was normal. And of course they finally (almost) "evened out".
I never had what is now called a "training bra". Why are they called that? I never knew "the girls" to do anything you could teach them to, other than to differentiate you from a guy. What tricks can they perform except maybe to catch a few compliments (unless you're a stripper and can make tassels on them spin around)?
Why some perfectly healthy women opt for boob jobs (a.k.a. breast augmentation) I'll never understand. As with men's penises, size has nothing to do with function. A cups feed babies as well as C's or D's. Mother Nature sees to that.
Collossal cleavage may attract a man, but does little to keep him. You're much better off learning to be a good cook!
Also, how are those maximized mammaries going to look among the other guests' dried hanging gardens at the Old Age Home?
A favorite family story was told by my sister Mary. She had taken a group of kids from the New York Settlement House where she worked on a beach outing. When they got their swim suits on some of the 10 and 11 year old girls started laughing at her. She finally got one to tell her why they were snickering. "You ain't got no titties!" the girl told her. Ah, the candor of children!
Ah, my yearning for belonging to the IBTC again!
Second Hand Rows
People who would never think of buying used clothes or household items think nothing about acquiring used books. Books can be very personal items, handled more often than a shirt or coat, but once they have been read they can easily (I almost said "read"-ily) be shared with a friend or given away to charity. (Used book sales like those of St. Francis Episcopal Church or Beth David Synagogue are hugely successful.)
Your selection of books can tell more about you than the garments you wear. Clothes may make the man, but the books he reads make him more of one.
I love books, but I can pass them on without regret. A good novel is to be shared, but a candle holder is forever.
I've got a table full of books ready to find new homes. Let me know if you'd like to come by and check them out!
Your selection of books can tell more about you than the garments you wear. Clothes may make the man, but the books he reads make him more of one.
I love books, but I can pass them on without regret. A good novel is to be shared, but a candle holder is forever.
I've got a table full of books ready to find new homes. Let me know if you'd like to come by and check them out!
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
I'd Rather Eat Inside
Picnics and cookouts are touted as great American traditions. I don't like them. First of all, the weather is either too hot or too cold. Outside seats are uncomfortable; the ground is dusty or too hard or too wet; tables, if existent, are rickety and/or dirty. You have to carry your food and utensils far enough away that if you've forgotten something it's a pain to go back for it. Your hands get sticky and those flimsy paper picnic napkins aren't good for anything.
I think kids like eating outside because they can be as messy as they want to be and don't have to mind their manners. They can run around between courses.
I prefer sitting down at the table with real dishes, real glassware and metal knives and forks. It's OK to use paper napkins, because they don't blow away or fall in the dirt. The temperature is controllable.
Granted, on a picnic you get to enjoy the beauty of the outdoors, but being beset by bees and bird poop is not my favorite way of communing with nature.
Let's hear it for the comfort of the family dinner table--indoors!
I think kids like eating outside because they can be as messy as they want to be and don't have to mind their manners. They can run around between courses.
I prefer sitting down at the table with real dishes, real glassware and metal knives and forks. It's OK to use paper napkins, because they don't blow away or fall in the dirt. The temperature is controllable.
Granted, on a picnic you get to enjoy the beauty of the outdoors, but being beset by bees and bird poop is not my favorite way of communing with nature.
Let's hear it for the comfort of the family dinner table--indoors!
Now In Living Color...
We didn't get a TV until mid-1952, I think. Daddy had wanted to wait to get one until color TV was available (and affordable) which he was sure would be soon. We hardly could afford a black and white one at that point, but we managed. It was better than our traipsing off to the Cribbins' house to watch theirs every chance we got. He died in November of that year. Color TV didn't come into widespread transmission until the 1960's.
Mother got the family's first color set in 1967. We had had a terrible ice storm and lost power for several days at our little house among the pines of Guilford Hills. Our family house on Lake Daniel Park had lights and heat (and Black Mary's cooking!) so Bruce and I (who was pregnant with Cathy at the time) and Willie D. Dogg ("the world's greatest dachshund") moved "back home".
Mother's TV was in the repair shop of Steele & Vaughn, though. She called their sales manager and suggested that he send out a color TV "on trial" so we could have something to do while we were there. Of course that set never left. We spent the next 4 days adjusting the knobs to get some semblance of correct color and fiddling with the antenna to try to improve reception of the four available channels--2, 4, 8 and 12. I don't think cable TV was even available at the time.
Bruce and I bought our first color TV with part of my winnings from Jeopardy! late that year. Four years or so later we even got a second set for the bedroom--quite an extravagance! I didn't get cable until 1978.
We never imagined back in the '50's or '60's the size of TV screens, picture quality or the range of channels we have today--nor the comparably low prices.
Daddy would have loved it!
Mother got the family's first color set in 1967. We had had a terrible ice storm and lost power for several days at our little house among the pines of Guilford Hills. Our family house on Lake Daniel Park had lights and heat (and Black Mary's cooking!) so Bruce and I (who was pregnant with Cathy at the time) and Willie D. Dogg ("the world's greatest dachshund") moved "back home".
Mother's TV was in the repair shop of Steele & Vaughn, though. She called their sales manager and suggested that he send out a color TV "on trial" so we could have something to do while we were there. Of course that set never left. We spent the next 4 days adjusting the knobs to get some semblance of correct color and fiddling with the antenna to try to improve reception of the four available channels--2, 4, 8 and 12. I don't think cable TV was even available at the time.
Bruce and I bought our first color TV with part of my winnings from Jeopardy! late that year. Four years or so later we even got a second set for the bedroom--quite an extravagance! I didn't get cable until 1978.
We never imagined back in the '50's or '60's the size of TV screens, picture quality or the range of channels we have today--nor the comparably low prices.
Daddy would have loved it!
Wrap It or Bag It
I just finished wrapping and mailing a gift for my sister's birthday next week. I'm old fashioned. I like to wrap packages with real wrapping paper and tie them with ribbon to match. It's a challenge to find a box to fit whatever I'm giving. That's why I save all sorts of odd-sized boxes.
The paper must befit the recipient. For sister Mary I chose one printed with pansies, because they were the first flowers our parents planted in the yard of their new house in the late 193o's, and their first year's proliferation was the subject of many family tales and pictures.
In the "olden days" thrifty folk saved wrapping paper and ribbon to use again. Nowadays it's just torn off and tossed. How sad.
I still find it heretical to put a gift in a bag with only tissue paper around it. That's just too easy. Of course bags are re-usable--more so than wrapping paper. That's why I keep all of them I've gotten gifts in to use later. At gift-giving time, however, I choose wrapping paper, unless something is odd-sized or I have a bag design perfectly matched to the recipient. Stick-on bows are great for multiple Christmas gifts (all of my packages have to have bows on them), but tying a box in ribbon shows that you care enough about the giftee to spend the extra time and effort it requires.
By the way--thank you, Shamrock Corporation, for continuing to print great wrapping paper. Keep on "rolling" along!
The paper must befit the recipient. For sister Mary I chose one printed with pansies, because they were the first flowers our parents planted in the yard of their new house in the late 193o's, and their first year's proliferation was the subject of many family tales and pictures.
In the "olden days" thrifty folk saved wrapping paper and ribbon to use again. Nowadays it's just torn off and tossed. How sad.
I still find it heretical to put a gift in a bag with only tissue paper around it. That's just too easy. Of course bags are re-usable--more so than wrapping paper. That's why I keep all of them I've gotten gifts in to use later. At gift-giving time, however, I choose wrapping paper, unless something is odd-sized or I have a bag design perfectly matched to the recipient. Stick-on bows are great for multiple Christmas gifts (all of my packages have to have bows on them), but tying a box in ribbon shows that you care enough about the giftee to spend the extra time and effort it requires.
By the way--thank you, Shamrock Corporation, for continuing to print great wrapping paper. Keep on "rolling" along!
Memories of Medellin
I was graduating mid-year from Duke. In the fall the Duke placement office received info from the American private school in Medellin, Colombia, The Columbus School, that they had an opening for a 2nd grade teacher for the January-November school year. The 1st grade teacher was a Duke grad I knew who had practice-taught under the teacher I was then training with. She offered to let me share an apartment, furnished by the school, with her and another teacher. I applied and got the job and headed south in January of 1962.
I hadn't studied Spanish in school, but I had Latin at Central Junior High and French at good old Greensboro Senior High and in college. One of my college roommates had a tough time with her Spanish studies, so I had helped her and learned a little bit that way. I took classes in Medellin and by June was fairly fluent. It's so much easier to learn a language when you're young!
The Peace Corps arrived soon after we did. In Spanish, Peace Corps is Cuerpo de Paz. We called it the Cuerpo de Paseo or Party Corps. Most volunteers worked out in the boonies and when they came into town they gravitated to our apartment or homes of other English-speaking young people in the city. We had some wild times! One of my favorite volunteers was named Bob. I don't remember his last name. He was a big black guy from Memphis, TN who was teaching at the University in Medellin. He had been a PE major in college and had studied ballroom dancing. He was one of the best dancers I have ever met. We went to an American-style night club where we waltzed, tangoed, and danced the polka to the amazement of all the other patrons. I wish I could find his name and find out if he is still alive.
Medellin was a dangerous place even then. There were double locks on the door, bars even on 4th floor windows, and our maid rarely left the apartment except to go grocery shopping once a week. Our building guard was Jesus (pronounced hay-soos) who lived in a room by the entrance to the apartment building. (Wouldn't you feel safer with Jesus living downstairs?)
The maid, Eudocia Soto, lived in a room with a bath off our kitchen with her 6-year-old son Alfredo. She was a Protestant who had been raised in a missionary setting, and thus was not accepted by Catholic employers. She knew how to cook "American style" and fed us well. She could cook a 3-course meal over a single gas burner when the power was off (which was often). We gave her a certain amount of money each week (I think it was the equivalent of $20) with which she purchased all the ingredients (except for meat which we bought from a nearby German meat market) for the six days of meals she planned and cooked. She did all our laundry by hand and kept our apartment spotlessly clean. She didn't say anything about the occasional Peace Corps volunteer who ended up sleeping on our couch. I don't remember how much we paid her; it wasn't much, though. Alfredo attended a Protestant mission school. In the 2 years I lived there he never learned to speak any more English than to answer, "Fine, thank you, and you?" when asked "How are you?" He would be in his early 50's now. Unbelievable.
Other teachers and I travelled around the country during our school vacations. By far the best destination was the island of San Andres off the coast of Nicaragua. I was even able to fulfill my dream of being a cabaret singer there.
I came home for Christmas between the 2 years of my contract, and left for good in November of 1963 on the day Kennedy was shot. What a great homecoming!
I had met Bruce, my husband-to-be, at a party in Medellin. Though he was raised in Elmira, NY, his family lived in Connecticut and he was a Spanish teacher in a private boys' school there. We became engaged on the 28th of November, 1963 and married the 28th of December so our wedding wouldn't "compete" with brother Preston's already-scheduled wedding the next June. (It was not acceptable to live together "without benefit of clergy" back in those days.) I wonder if we would have gotten married if we had waited--but that's a question for another time.
I hadn't studied Spanish in school, but I had Latin at Central Junior High and French at good old Greensboro Senior High and in college. One of my college roommates had a tough time with her Spanish studies, so I had helped her and learned a little bit that way. I took classes in Medellin and by June was fairly fluent. It's so much easier to learn a language when you're young!
The Peace Corps arrived soon after we did. In Spanish, Peace Corps is Cuerpo de Paz. We called it the Cuerpo de Paseo or Party Corps. Most volunteers worked out in the boonies and when they came into town they gravitated to our apartment or homes of other English-speaking young people in the city. We had some wild times! One of my favorite volunteers was named Bob. I don't remember his last name. He was a big black guy from Memphis, TN who was teaching at the University in Medellin. He had been a PE major in college and had studied ballroom dancing. He was one of the best dancers I have ever met. We went to an American-style night club where we waltzed, tangoed, and danced the polka to the amazement of all the other patrons. I wish I could find his name and find out if he is still alive.
Medellin was a dangerous place even then. There were double locks on the door, bars even on 4th floor windows, and our maid rarely left the apartment except to go grocery shopping once a week. Our building guard was Jesus (pronounced hay-soos) who lived in a room by the entrance to the apartment building. (Wouldn't you feel safer with Jesus living downstairs?)
The maid, Eudocia Soto, lived in a room with a bath off our kitchen with her 6-year-old son Alfredo. She was a Protestant who had been raised in a missionary setting, and thus was not accepted by Catholic employers. She knew how to cook "American style" and fed us well. She could cook a 3-course meal over a single gas burner when the power was off (which was often). We gave her a certain amount of money each week (I think it was the equivalent of $20) with which she purchased all the ingredients (except for meat which we bought from a nearby German meat market) for the six days of meals she planned and cooked. She did all our laundry by hand and kept our apartment spotlessly clean. She didn't say anything about the occasional Peace Corps volunteer who ended up sleeping on our couch. I don't remember how much we paid her; it wasn't much, though. Alfredo attended a Protestant mission school. In the 2 years I lived there he never learned to speak any more English than to answer, "Fine, thank you, and you?" when asked "How are you?" He would be in his early 50's now. Unbelievable.
Other teachers and I travelled around the country during our school vacations. By far the best destination was the island of San Andres off the coast of Nicaragua. I was even able to fulfill my dream of being a cabaret singer there.
I came home for Christmas between the 2 years of my contract, and left for good in November of 1963 on the day Kennedy was shot. What a great homecoming!
I had met Bruce, my husband-to-be, at a party in Medellin. Though he was raised in Elmira, NY, his family lived in Connecticut and he was a Spanish teacher in a private boys' school there. We became engaged on the 28th of November, 1963 and married the 28th of December so our wedding wouldn't "compete" with brother Preston's already-scheduled wedding the next June. (It was not acceptable to live together "without benefit of clergy" back in those days.) I wonder if we would have gotten married if we had waited--but that's a question for another time.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Trash and Treasures
Most of us have collections of some sort. Those who have been to my house have seen my owls, little boxes, cat art, music books and pottery. At Christmas I set out a host of angels, creches and Christmas trees galore. I wonder why we human beings feel the need to collect stuff. Where did we learn "if one is good, then more must be better"? We may have been taught by our frugal parents or grandparents to shop for bargains, so we buy extra grocery items that are "on special". Then they sit on the shelf waiting to be thrown out or given away in the next food drive for "the poor".
Attic and garages are piled with things too good to throw away that we might need some day. Some people pay hundreds of dollars a year to store stuff that could easily be replaced with the dollars saved by not renting the space. Or they buy more to replace things they know they have somewhere but just can't find.
The only things we really need to save can't be replaced by buying new ones--family pictures; letters from dear friends or that special someone; kids' report cards, first teeth, or crafts from kindergarten; high school and college yearbooks; the christening gown Grandma sewed; a late beloved dog's collar and tag. The list could go on and on. What are your irreplaceable treasures?
Collections are great, but who wants them after we are gone? And how much are they worth to anyone other than ourselves? I don't care. I love my collectibles be they trash or treasures. Someone else can worry about what to do with it when I'm no longer around. Just keep the good stuff!
Attic and garages are piled with things too good to throw away that we might need some day. Some people pay hundreds of dollars a year to store stuff that could easily be replaced with the dollars saved by not renting the space. Or they buy more to replace things they know they have somewhere but just can't find.
The only things we really need to save can't be replaced by buying new ones--family pictures; letters from dear friends or that special someone; kids' report cards, first teeth, or crafts from kindergarten; high school and college yearbooks; the christening gown Grandma sewed; a late beloved dog's collar and tag. The list could go on and on. What are your irreplaceable treasures?
Collections are great, but who wants them after we are gone? And how much are they worth to anyone other than ourselves? I don't care. I love my collectibles be they trash or treasures. Someone else can worry about what to do with it when I'm no longer around. Just keep the good stuff!
A Penny Saved
Do you ever get something with a postage stamp (or stamps) attached that you know you are not going to mail back? Do you ever try to peel off the stamps to use on something else? I hate to admit it, but I have. It's easier these days with the peel-and-stick stamps as opposed to the old lick-and-stick kind, though some of the old style weren't fully moistened when they were put on, so they came off fairly easily. It takes patience to get a stamp off fully intact. The stamp is never an even amount for first class postage, but every little bit of thrift helps. And they're good for adding on extra postage needed.
When my mother died she left a collection of stamps almost worthy of a philatelist. It's been 10 years since her death, and I still have some of her "stash" left. She was on every charity mailing list imaginable, though she sent donations to only a few. She kept greeting cards of all kinds that were sent with donation requests, but I never knew her to use one. She almost always wrote on her personalized note sheets ("From the Desk of Margaret Earle" or "Just a (music note)"). Her Christmas cards were always original. I don't remember the stamps she used. I think she bought them by the 100's. She went to the post office every day, even after she retired, so having correct postage to mail something was never a problem.
Now that the Postal Service has come up with the "Forever Stamp" we don't have to worry as much about having to keep extra one or two-cent stamps on hand for postage increases. And fewer charities are sending out pre-stamped reply envelopes. Oh, well. It was nice while it lasted. As Benjamin Franklin said, "A penny saved is a penny earned."
Monday, March 2, 2009
Murphy the Bed Dog
A few weeks ago I decided it was time for me to get another dog--one that would like to share my bed. You can own a dog, as opposed to a cat which owns you. I sent out e-mails, contacted rescue groups and posted fliers at veterinarians' offices seeking a Bed Dog. There were no responses. I responded to a classified ad about a small dog (not what I was looking for, though) and was referred to a rescuer named Gail Gentry. I went to her shop to look at some newly-rescued chihuahuas (too yippy!). Over in a cage in the corner, however, was this perky terrier named Murphy who had been rescued from somewhere out in the country. He was under treatment for heartworms and was being kept quiet--not easy to do with a terrier, but he was getting along OK. It was love at first sight. I "borrowed" him for an afternoon to have him meet the family. We all got along famously. After his next heartworm treatment I brought him home to stay with me. When he gets a clean bill of health from the vet he can be mine permanently.
Murphy is a funny fellow. He lies on the bed or in his crate most of the time. He sits by the door to the back yard and starts spinning around when he thinks I'm going to let him out. When I open the door and tell him he can go, he bounds across the deck and launches himself over the steps with great enthusiasm and optimism that he's finally going to catch that rabbit that lives in the berm or one of those pesky squirrels who jump from tree to tree high over head. He trots around the perimeter of the yard and through the trees, sniffing all the while, then returns to the door when his feet are cold or he just wants to hold down the covers of my bed again.
Often one ear is up while the other is down. He doesn't much care for cheap hard dog biscuits, but loves the very expensive dried chicken strips his rescuer fed him. He cowers in the presence of men (one probably abused him), but can't get close enough to women. Like many men, he wants to be petted and rubbed in strategic places in the mornings before we get out of bed.
He was a lucky find for me. We make a good pair.
The Write Stuff
I've just started reading a very interesting book, Script & Scribble: The Rise and Fall of Handwriting by Kitty Burns Florey. I highly recommend it.
It drives me nutty that handwriting isn't really taught at the Montessori school grandson Will attends. He wouldn't let me teach him the manuscript "printing" that all first and second graders should know. I'm not sure what he's doing now that he's a third grader. I think they teach cursive writing, but doing it "right" is not an objective.
To me handwriting is one of the fundamentals of a good education. Having neat, legible handwriting is right up there with using correct grammar and knowing how to add and subtract without a calculator. In that same vein are correct spelling and punctuation, too.
Oh, how texting has ruined everyone's writing skills! I want to send back granddaughter Hannah's e-mails with spelling, punctuation and grammar corrected, but I don't. I'm just glad to hear from her! I'm sure her school papers are better written.
Good handwriting takes practice. I hope the kids who don't study it now will work on it before they have to fill out job applications by hand!
Sunday, March 1, 2009
As the Snow Falls
Back in the "olden days" snow days were our family's days to clean out the closets. Mama Margaret rarely stayed home from work except when she had to, and snow days were usually her excuse to do so. When the flakes begin falling I get a primal urge to unpack, re-pack, organize and re-organize that is unsurpassed any other time of the year except when I'm on a big dose of Prednisone. It's my way of honoring Mother's memory, I think.
She was a saver--a pack rat with more pack than rat in her, thank goodness. As with many Depression survivors she saved anything that might be considered remotely useful in the future. Being a business person, she saved all her records of everything. She even kept her daily pocket calendars. She kept records in stenographic notebooks about all her travels as well as her monthly expenses through the years. I hated throwing them out after she died, but I know no one has the space to save them.
She saved all the letters she and Daddy wrote back and forth while he was in the Navy in WWII, and they wrote each other almost daily. I still have them, but they are out of chronological order from being moved so many times.
I wonder what people will think of the things I have saved. I love going through stuff from time to time--jokes, clippings, e-mails, even bills--and remembering why I've kept them. There are notes and partially completed essays on a variety of subjects (for my blog or letters to the editor?) Not long ago I went through a bunch of old e-mails and chuckled at the jokes as if they were new. Looking in my computer folders is a pleasure trip down Memory Lane.
The snow is falling now, so I will have to get started soon on cleaning out closets for the first time in years. I know Mama Margaret will be with me.
She was a saver--a pack rat with more pack than rat in her, thank goodness. As with many Depression survivors she saved anything that might be considered remotely useful in the future. Being a business person, she saved all her records of everything. She even kept her daily pocket calendars. She kept records in stenographic notebooks about all her travels as well as her monthly expenses through the years. I hated throwing them out after she died, but I know no one has the space to save them.
She saved all the letters she and Daddy wrote back and forth while he was in the Navy in WWII, and they wrote each other almost daily. I still have them, but they are out of chronological order from being moved so many times.
I wonder what people will think of the things I have saved. I love going through stuff from time to time--jokes, clippings, e-mails, even bills--and remembering why I've kept them. There are notes and partially completed essays on a variety of subjects (for my blog or letters to the editor?) Not long ago I went through a bunch of old e-mails and chuckled at the jokes as if they were new. Looking in my computer folders is a pleasure trip down Memory Lane.
The snow is falling now, so I will have to get started soon on cleaning out closets for the first time in years. I know Mama Margaret will be with me.
There's Hope for the World--through Bridge
I am addicted to on-line bridge with www.bridgebase.com I have myself randomly assigned to a table when I log in (unless my friend Betty Jo is on line) and it's amazing the people I get to play with from all over the world. Just today I played with people from the Netherlands, Sweden, Turkey, New Zealand, Brazil, Argentina, Chile, Egypt and Malta. I have played with Bulgarians, South Africans, Israelis and Canadians as well as all kinds of folks from the US. Today there were 2 students from Hungary--age 17 and 18--who were really fun. They said that they had taken bridge courses and learned also from other students. Bridge is very popular among young people there. Their English was excellent and we also "spoke" French with a nice lady from Egypt. And in the past few days I have played with BBO members from England, Ireland, Denmark, Germany, Italy, Portugal, Norway, Iceland and India. It's a great bridge world out there!
Lament of a Newspaper Lover
It's a sad commentary on my life and that of the newspaper that I find the most interesting parts of the daily News & Record to be the obituaries, classified ads and the puzzles.
I remember, and long for, the olden days having two newspapers delivered daily and more information in them than one could digest at one sitting.
I especially miss the "society" pages, with coverage and pictures of local meetings, weddings and other social events as well as interesting tidbits about the lives of our friends and neighbors thanks to folks like Martha Long and Anne Cantrell White. Clippings about my mother's civic activities fill a treasured scrapbook. We could be assured of a mention of her wonderful Earl-e Edition Christmas cards almost every year.
At least the sports pages still publish game statistics. That's more than can be said for the stock exchanges (though who wants to see them these days!)
I know "the times they are a-changing" and I should be more forward thinking, but getting my daily fix of news and other information from TV or the computer just doesn't cut it.
Hang in there, N&R!
I remember, and long for, the olden days having two newspapers delivered daily and more information in them than one could digest at one sitting.
I especially miss the "society" pages, with coverage and pictures of local meetings, weddings and other social events as well as interesting tidbits about the lives of our friends and neighbors thanks to folks like Martha Long and Anne Cantrell White. Clippings about my mother's civic activities fill a treasured scrapbook. We could be assured of a mention of her wonderful Earl-e Edition Christmas cards almost every year.
At least the sports pages still publish game statistics. That's more than can be said for the stock exchanges (though who wants to see them these days!)
I know "the times they are a-changing" and I should be more forward thinking, but getting my daily fix of news and other information from TV or the computer just doesn't cut it.
Hang in there, N&R!
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