The Nature Of Change

 When we decided to buy our house, Jared was just a few months old. We were on a very bare-bones budget, so our plan was to look for the worst house in the best neighbourhood. We found one that fit nicely into our plans for everything:

1.  It was in our budget at $32,500. 

2.  It was mere blocks away from the same schools Rick attended, all of them excellent.

3.  The work it needed could be done by Rick and me.

4.  It was an older home, a sort of Craftsman/Cape Cod built in 1940, that had plenty of charming features, especially all natural woodwork and hardwood floors.

We even lived right across the street from Rick's kindergarten teacher. The boys walked to and from school every day to the very same schools their dad did from elementary school through junior high school.  And they rode to school with me for high school. 

Rick and I live in it still, and we still love it. That hasn't changed. But a great deal else has.

Probably you still haven't closed your jaw since reading that we paid only $32,500 for our house. Even back in 1985, that was a hell of a deal. Our house then was a story and a half, two bedrooms, one bath, and a semi-finished attic room, dining room, living room, kitchen. There was a garage, but there was a huge tree in front of half of it, and it was in pretty bad shape (the garage, not the tree). Full basement, too, unfinished, but dry (at that time).

Houses certainly don't go for that now. We're constantly astonished when we read what homes in our neighbourhood sell for. 

Rick's kindergarten teacher, who you met in 2009 in this post, and learned more about in this one, this one, this one, and finally this one, has been gone for almost ten years now. Her home was a rental for a bit, but soon it went on the market. Its new owners are a young family; they have two little boys. I often watch my new friend Charlotte managing Ollie and Archie and think back to my early days in this house. Astonishingly and poignantly, Charlotte planted rows of marigolds along her front walk. I felt the Universe come full circle.

Sometimes my walk takes me through the parking lot of the elementary school that Rick, Jared, and Sam once attended. It's five blocks from my house. The oldest part of the building is older than my home. It has beautiful brickwork and scrollwork. So many memories are there, but there are no longer any children. Our city built all new schools with levy funding and grant money. They're State Of The Art and safer. They're far more able to handle the demands of new technology and security. They have air conditioning and smart boards and beautiful libraries. 

This school is now owned by the hospital next door, who is leasing it to police, fire, and rescue for school shooter drills and other training. During the pandemic its parking lot held refrigerated trucks for makeshift morgues. I once peeked through its front windows and saw that it looked the same as it did the very day the last kids left it on its final day of school in 2021. I don't do that anymore; it made me sad and uneasy. But I'm so grateful for the time my sons spent there and the memories they made.

Once in a while, people take their dogs to play in the field where the playground equipment used to be. I love to see that. And neighbourhood kids sometimes run and skateboard and bike down the big hill that I walk up briskly to strengthen my knees.

I think about the Nature of Change and how easy it is to mourn for the Past. We miss and grieve for things we can no longer have. It is our nature. Loss feels final to us. We are conditioned to rail against it.

But in so many cases, Loss is not final or fatal. It's merely Change, Metamorphosis; Matter, as we were always taught, can neither be created nor destroyed, merely transformed from one form to another.

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Life Goes On, So Let's Ketchup: Good News, Good Music, Good Dog

 So! November. I put a lot of miles on my walking shoes last month. It's amazing how therapeutic it is. Walking was my way to cope with The Results. I'm not going any farther than that--no need to bring everyone back to that mindset. Let's just say that it's way worse than I felt after Gore, Kerry, and Hillary combined, and as a political activist of many years, I'm cocooning now. Please don't judge. (But do read this; it's enlightening.)

Back to Walking:  I used to walk in silence, appreciating the ambient noises of my neighbourhood. For some reason, however, I began to get bored and frustrated. I didn't feel energized. I began using my earbuds and chose music for my sojourns, varying my playlists among the music I grew up with and loved in my earlier life. Now I feel so much more spry, briskly striding to The Beatles, Genesis (whose catalog is excellent for walking), and an eclectic mix of artists from Aretha Franklin to Bruce Springsteen. I still carry dog biscuits in my pocket, just in case, and even in this cold weather, I'm out there (thank you, Rick, for my heated coat).

Good News:  Sam and Emily vacationed in Hawaii and got engaged. Emily has been part of our family for years already, so we couldn't be happier. Theo had his first birthday. He celebrated with Jared and Jordan in Pittsburgh, where he visited the Children's Museum. On Thanksgiving Day, J&J hosted. Some of her family came into town from out West, so we all got to celebrate Theo's birthday together as well as have a terrific feast. Jared made his first turkey ever (he brined it), and it was tremendous. So much to be Thankful for!

More Good News:  Rick semi-retired in November, going part-time, but at his full salary. His boss is so kind and generous. As of January 1st, he will officially be retired. Rick has been working since the age of 15 and mostly in construction, so I'm very happy for him. The boys are, too. Sam's first reaction was, "Dad. Mom lives a very quiet life. And she really likes it. Just saying." That boy knows his mother! And it is true that it'll be a big transition for Rick and me both--it already has been. His part-time schedule is Mondays and Fridays off, so we are already navigating what shared space and shared time* look like. (Sam has also lamented that he will be the only one in the family who has to get up and go to work, a singularity that he feels keenly.)  *I will always walk and go grocery shopping alone. 

Random Splotches:  Here's where I use up what could be short blogpost topics, mainly because I might forget them later.

*I think Heaven & Earth Grocery Store is going to be a DNF for me. I find myself annoyed and disconnected when I read it. I'm over you, James McBride, once and for all. Nothing personal.

*There's a new Beatles doc out, but it's on Disney+. I don't have that. I guess I'm going to have to pay 10 bucks for a month just to watch that one thing. There's no free or cheap trial because I already have Hulu. I'm going to have to swallow my disdain for Disney and pay it. Sigh. (But I still love Winnie the Pooh. Oh bother.)

*Speaking of Hulu--if any of you have watched the last season of Only Murders in the Building, were you as disappointed in it/its quality as I was? I thought it was terrible and jumped the proverbial shark.

*I'm having a terrible, TERRIBLE time finding Diamond Crystal Kosher Salt. As in, nowhere around me carries it and I had to order it off Amazon. The box I got was clearly marked "Not packaged for retail. For Food Service Use." I feel like a criminal. 

*Finally, another Dog Show has come and gone, and still the Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever has not made it into the final round, let alone won Best In Show. The fix is in, and why Canadians aren't doing something about it is beyond me.

Thanks to those of you who kept writing in November. I appreciate you. 

Shopping My Way To Sainthood: My Husband Needed New Sneakers

 

Wow. These photographed
way better than they actually look

Rick and I went on a trek to find him a new pair of tennis shoes. If you think this sounds--for me--like A) fun; B) no big deal; C) one of those simple Guy Errands; or D) absolutely no cause for Deep Breathing or Xanax, you'd be wronger than wrong. Whereas I approach shoe shopping with Joy and Glee and a sense of Wonder, hoping to be Surprised and Delighted, my husband has a different expectation. 

As in, he expects to walk into any shoe store and see THE EXACT SAME SHOE HE HAS BEEN WEARING FOR ONE HUNDRED YEARS sitting there, waiting for him. In his size. So that he can merely stride purposefully over to it, procure it, and take it to the cashier, where he will pay pretty much what he paid for it the first time he bought it. 

The. End.

I have no idea where this Fantasy originated. This has never, ever been his experience that I know of. As a matter of fact, I have accompanied him on his shoe shopping quests since before we were married, lo these past 45 years. His shoe shopping habits are so frustrating for the both of us that I often buy him shoes for gift-giving occasions.

Rick's requirements for The Perfect Tennis Shoe are:  absolutely all white; no ostentatious logo; no cloth; if there are ventilation holes, they must not be too numerous; the sole cannot be too clunky or chunky; no Nikes (they do not accommodate his very high arch); he prefers K-Swiss, but they no longer make the ones he used to wear; no high-tops.

The last time I bought him The Perfect K-Swiss Shoes, I bought two pairs. It was, I must say, A Genius Move. Except for the fact that he got far too attached, obviously, and now here we are. 

We went to four stores. I did not look at a single pair for myself (it must be said). I was Gentle, Kind, Patient, and Helpful. I did not roll my eyes one single time, even when he couldn't see me. I did not make any menacing movements behind his back or stick my tongue out at him when his head was turned. I didn't even show him really ugly shoes while pretending I thought they were nice. I was, in a word, Perfect.

Here are the shoes Rick finally chose. There was a lot of concern about that flashy air cushion thingy that's visible mid-sole. It is not optimal, and was--briefly--a sticking point. I sort of wandered away and let him decide while I did some deep breathing and thought about Theo being a cow for Halloween.

You can order this shoe here rather than wander all over two counties.

Only when I saw him give the cashier his credit card did I walk up to the counter and witness the end of our quest. "Yay!" I said, smiling and cheery. "That's accomplished! How do you feel about it?" 

"I'm just glad that's done and off my list," he said. 

The Big Question now is when will he wear them? There is always a Transitional Phase wherein the new shoes are slowly phased in, worn only for certain things, and the old shoes continue to be the main shoes. Eventually, the new shoes are pressed into more service, and the old shoes are relegated to lawn mowing, basement work, or get taken to the lake for jobs around there. This could take months (and all of my Patience). It reminds me of this story about his wallet.

My sons are more like me when it comes to shoes. Sam is a sneakerhead; his collection of sneakers is vast and eclectic. Jared loves shoes, the more unusual the better; the shoes he chose for his wedding were fantastic (so were Sam's). I want very much to believe that this sort of thing is not exclusive to my husband. Tell me in Comments if any of the Men In Your Life have a Shopping/Fashion Quirk. Failing that, you can pat me on the back for my Patience.

Six Questions

 

Thank goodness for Ally Bean, who gave me something to write about. I'm not feeling particularly Thinky or Inspired lately, so I'm borrowing from her latest post in which she asks and answers some questions about herself. She chose ten from an interview that she read, and I'll see how far I get, depending upon how much I want to chat about each one. I've altered the wording of some questions to better suit my purposes. Let's go.

1. What is a character trait you most dislike in yourself?

Oh, just one? I am not as patient as I'd like. Many people are very surprised by this, especially knowing that I was a teacher for thirty years. Perhaps that's where I used it all up. I find myself always feeling impatient, as if I'm in a terrific hurry:  in the car; in the checkout line; doing tasks at home. I have no idea why. I'm rarely on a schedule or deadline. Fortunately, I rarely show my impatience, so few people even know. 

2. What is a character trait you most dislike in others?

Again, just one? I'd have to say Willful Ignorance. I have the hardest time with stupid people, and with stupid women especially. I get so tired of hearing about Undecided Voters in this election or people who say they don't ever watch the news because it's too depressing or people who say they don't vote because it doesn't matter anyway. I just want to light those people on fire. 

3. Describe yourself in three words.

Intelligent. Kind. Concerned.

4. What do you most dislike about your appearance?

The dreaded menopot/meno belly, that little belly that won't go away now, no matter what. If I hadn't grown up with weight issues, it probably wouldn't be such A Thing with me. Thanks to so much fixation on and bullying about my weight when I was a kid, it's something that has become ingrained. Even when I was ill and size 0 clothes hung on me, I didn't have a realistic perception of my appearance and looked for bulges. To this day, when I see my reflection or a photograph of me, I don't recognize myself; I have no real idea of what I look like. Other than that, I'm pretty happy about how I look, despite the signs of normal aging. I decided long ago that I'd age as gracefully as I could and not be a big baby about it.

5. If you could bring something extinct back to life, what would you choose?

Civility and decorum in the public square. I can pinpoint exactly when rudeness and disrespect took over our Politics, and no, it wasn't when the adjudicated rapist descended his golden escalator. It was the moment when republican representative from South Carolina, Joe Wilson, shouted "You lie!" at then-President Obama during a speech to a joint session of Congress. At first, the retribution was swift and strong:  both parties condemned the action; his own wife called him an idiot; he apologized. Later, however, he had a change of heart and fundraised off the moment, appealing to the worst elements of the party, a faction which has only grown stronger since then.

I'd also like to include in this what I call the Great Casualization Of America. I'm so tired of seeing people wearing pajamas and slippers in public. I hate seeing men wearing baseball caps in restaurants and anyone wearing flipflops or crocs unless they're gardening or boating or on the beach. I can only imagine what is being flipped and flopped up into my food or produce. America:  where khakis are the new tuxedo. Sigh. (And longtime readers know how I feel about feet. Ugh.)

I don't want to end on a low note, and this is getting longish, so let's do one more and leave it at that.

6. Who is your celebrity crush?

Oh, we've talked about this before. Actually, I just talked about this yesterday on Football Sunday over at Sam's house, a quieter affair since Jared, Jordan, and Theo weren't there. (Theo is growing so fast that they had to take the day to go buy him warm clothes.) Not only was there an ad for the new Dylan movie starring Timothee Chalamet, but the Browns were playing, so I could gaze at Myles Garrett. 

Nance:  Oh, Timothee Chalamet. He's just beautiful. And he does all the singing in this film.

Rick and Sam:  (no response; Rick is dozing; Sam is feeding Zydrunas some tortilla chips)

Nance:  You know, I'm old enough to be his Nana. Myles Garrett's, too. (sighs) I don't care. They're just beautiful to look at.

Sam:  Wait. If you could be their Nana, that means I could be...their DAD?! How could that work?

Nance:  They're 27. Their moms would have had to have them at like 19 or something. It has nothing to do with you right now. 

Sam:  Oh. Okay.

(Poor Sam--the Browns continue to look just awful this season. He cannot handle anything else during games.)

Now it's your turn. I can't wait to hear from you in Comments.

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I'm Voting Hard For Harris-Walz And Langston Hughes

 

Last night Rick and I were trying to watch television, and we were unceasingly assailed by political ads for Ohio's US Senate race. Even on streaming channels (YouTubeTV and Hulu), we can't escape them. I detest the person running for the republicans. It's no secret that I love Sen. Sherrod Brown, who's just an all-around Good Guy. 

Anyway, every time the republican's ads come on, I mute them and get snarky and truthy with them. I used to have to prompt Rick to do the same, but now he does it on his own. That makes me feel good. Last night, we had this conversation after back-to-back-to-back political ads for the Senate race.

Scene opens in Rick and Nance's living room. Nance is on the couch, legs tucked under her. Rick is in the recliner, sitting like a normal human adult. She rolls her eyes and points the remote, exasperated.

Nance: (mutes TV) Rick! Tomorrow is already October 1st. Early in-person voting starts October 8th.

Rick: (turns to her, waiting) So you told me.

Nance:  I can't wait. I'm going to be there on the first day. I'm so ready. And I'm going to vote so hard. I mean it. I'm going to vote so hard. What about you?

Rick: (very serious) I don't think I can vote as hard as you, but I'm going to give it my best.

End Scene

(I may complain a lot about his snoring, his lack of fastidiousness, and his corny sense of humour, but the man gets me.)

In all seriousness, however, this election and what's at stake made me think of Langston Hughes. Cleveland loves to lay claim to this Harlem Renaissance poet, playwright, author, and activist. He wasn't born here, but after moving around awhile, he and his mother settled here, he went to school here, and he did publish his first poem while living in Cleveland. I love his work, and I taught a great deal of it. His poem "Let America Be America Again" makes me think about what is at stake in this critical election. Because it's really this simple, as I said over at maya's place:  In whose hands do you want to place the fate of those who need our help?

I hope you'll read this moving poem by Langston Hughes. And I hope you'll vote so hard to 

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

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Clearing Out My Cranial Clutter: Drugs For The Elderly, The Dress, And Marcel's Philosophy On Blog Comments

 Let's start right in, shall we?

After three days of suffering a vicious migraine that my meds would not even touch, I called my neurologist for a cycle breaker. This is a steroid med pack (6 the first day, 5 the next, and so on). I put on my sunglasses and drove the short distance to CVS to pick it up and gobbled the first 6 in the parking lot like an addict needing her fix. It was only when I got home that I looked at the attached paperwork and saw this very Disheartening missive:

I am the Older Adult In The Combination

Because I have reached The Magic Number, I'm now asked a bunch of questions I never got a year ago. Like Do you feel safe at home? (Honestly, I think every patient in the ER should be asked if they feel safe at home, don't you?) Anyway, so much for the whole Age is just a number philosophy.

 
Some of you asked to see my dress for Jared and Jordan's wedding. The photo isn't very good, but here it is:

Just imagine my head, arms, and legs poking out, and my feet wearing great shoes

What you can't see is that the skirt is split at the side wrap with cascading ruffles, and the front is shorter than the back, like a cutaway. Here is a link to the actual dress online, but it's not that great of a photo, either. Regardless, there it is. 

One more note about the wedding. Last weekend, Rick and I hosted the family along with Jared and Jordan's parents at the lakehouse before they had to fly back to Colorado. We talked more about the wedding, and I said I realized I didn't cry a single tear during the whole thing. Not one (and I had even bought waterproof mascara). Jordan said, "I know. I was watching you. You were so incredibly calm. But you were radiating Joy." I agreed. I said that I simply felt complete--contented and complete. I knew that everything was right and perfect about their marriage. I felt like I was watching the natural next step, the culminating event. I was just so happy.

Finally, during my Migraine Days this week, I was edgy and restless. I couldn't do much, but I didn't want to just sit in a darkened, silent room. I could read on and off, or watch television if it was something quiet. I found the movie Marcel The Shell With Shoes On, a film which had intrigued me a while ago, but I had forgotten about.

image credit

 It's a lovely little film with an endearing protagonist and a dear, yet important, message that resonated with me. And it expresses my philosophy about blogging, specifically the Comments section.

Over at Kyria's place, several bloggers spoke about not answering Comments at all, and others spoke about not checking back to even see if their Comments had been answered. To be blunt, I find that dismissive and rude.

In the film, Marcel reluctantly goes online to find his family. Instead of receiving help, he gets fans and followers. At one point, he says something like, "This is an audience, not a community." And that's what those kinds of blogs are to me. People who don't engage with their commenters are just looking for an audience, not a community. Wouldn't a Like button serve the same purpose for them? I don't know. I know that I choose carefully who I read and want to spend time with.

Thank you for spending time with this broken down, yet joyful, old lady who feels quite safe in her home (both of them). 

Have you reached a Milestone Birthday, and did it come with some unexpected baggage? Have you seen Marcel The Shell With Shoes On? Do you cry at weddings? Chat with me (and everyone else!) in Comments. 

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

When I was in junior high and high school, I used to write my own Excuse For Absence notes and sign my mother's name. I had her full permission, always. She rarely wanted to take the time to do this herself, so she was happy to have someone else do it. Trying to get all of us to eat something in the morning and get us out the door to school was enough of a project without adding to the process. It is entirely possible that I wrote my brother's and sister's as well. Anyway, consider this post my Excuse For Absence from this space for the last four months.

In May I celebrated a milestone birthday, becoming an Official Old Lady. Thank you all (in the USA) for your contributions to the government coffers so that I can be a Medicare recipient (even though it took many irritating phone calls and one morning of standing in line in the cold sleet to prove to a clerk that I was worthy).

June found Rick and me in Niagara-on-the-Lake again, celebrating with our friends at our favourite winery and restocking our cellar. I started looking in earnest for a dress to wear for Jared and Jordan's wedding in September, a mission which proved to be nearly impossible. My requirements:  long or 3/4-length sleeves, lightweight, not clingy or tight, not black, not high-necked; and harmonious to the wedding colours of burgundy, gold, navy, pumpkin. 

The whole family spent Independence Day Weekend at the lake house. It was wonderful. Theo loves the boat, and we had so much fun together. To make it even more special, Theo said Mama for the first time ever! Once he realized the power of saying it, he couldn't stop. July ended with me actually finding my dress--two of them, in fact. The family came over one day, and I let them choose between the two. They all chose the same one. (It was the one I liked the least.) Here's the best part--I got it online from TJ Maxx on clearance for about twenty bucks. 

Another note from July--Unfortunately, in this month I also had a terrible fall. I was on a 6-foot fiberglass ladder on our new concrete patio taking a bird nest off the gutter. The ladder failed--it actually split near the bottom--and I fell about 5 feet. I never lost consciousness or broke anything, but when I felt my head, it was wet, and when I looked at my hand, it was full of blood. Luckily, I always have my phone, and it landed right next to me. I called Sam, who was at home three doors down, and he came right over to take me to the ER. I ended up with a mild concussion and five staples in my head. Thank goodness they didn't have to shave any hair off! It didn't take me long to recover at all.

View from my bed in the hallway, parked in front of this

In August we only made it to the lake one day. We were so busy with wedding things and babysitting Theo, who is such a happy, goodnatured baby. Rick finally got his insurance settlement from his accident three years ago. It was less than what we had hoped for, but at least this case is finally over. If Rick were younger, they said, the amount would have been more, but because he is 65, the lingering effects of injury won't have as great of an impact on the (shorter) remainder of his life. Insurance companies, huh? Nice.

Rick mowed, we took a boat ride, and then ate ice cream for dinner before going home.

On September 1st Jared and Jordan were married in the Cleveland Botanical Gardens. The ceremony was a very personal one, a perfect reflection of them both. I did a reading from Jane Eyre, a favourite book of theirs (and mine!)--an excerpt from Chapter 27, a bit of Mr. Rochester's impassioned speech. Their vows, which they each wrote themselves, were poignant and funny. And at the reception, Jared and I danced to "I'll Stand By You" by The Pretenders.  Sam gave a heartfelt Best Man speech that made everyone know what a strong and special bond he and Jared have and just how seamlessly Jordan fits into it. It was such a joyful day. Oh, and Theo came down the aisle pulled in a wagon that gave Jared and Sam countless rides around their neighborhood so many years ago.

The next day we picked up Theo and brought him home with us for a few days while the newlyweds went on the Bourbon Trail for their mini-moon. I was catapulted back into my past, caring for a baby again, waking up at 5:30, making bottles, feeding, diapering, bathing, strollering, and watching the magic of a baby's body completely relax and give in to sleep in my arms. Sam came over every day at lunch and after work, much to Theo's delight. They are completely smitten with one another. When it came time to take him home and deliver him to his other grandparents, awaiting Jared and Jordan's return, I felt a real sense of loss (and exhaustion!). 

😢I miss that little boy.

This is a long-winded post, and I'm leaving lots of stuff out, mainly some Not So Good stuff. We all have those things that knock us off our moorings and take us out of ourselves for a time. The important thing is that we celebrate and remember The Good Stuff. 

As of August, I've been writing here for 19 years. A few of you have been with me for the whole time, and the sheer math of that astonishes me. You are dear friends to me now, and I'm grateful to have met some of you in person. I feel a sense of connection and camaraderie with my regular Commenters and Writers, too. We are a loyal and supportive clan, and I look forward to spending time with each of you every morning as I start my day. Now, I feel like my Real Life is back, and I am, too. Thanks for reading, and thanks for your affirming presence. Never forget that words are a beacon for many.

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Severe Weather Season Is Here, But Here Doesn't Exist And I Remain Directionally Challenged

 It's Severe Weather Season here in Northeast Ohio (aka NEO). What? You didn't know that we had Severe Weather here? I'm going to give you a pass on that, especially if you watch the National News. According to national media outlets, weather doesn't really happen anywhere except New York and California. Oh, once in a while, Severe Weather occurs in The Panhandle and The Gulf Of Mexico, but neither of those places really interests Chief Meteorologists until there's a hurricane or a named tropical storm. At that point one of them has to Time It Out or Track It whether We The Viewers live anywhere near it or not. 

Most often, national weatherpersons stand right in front of Ohio and much of the Midwest as they gesticulate about Severe Weather in New York or California, making wide, sweeping motions about Storm Tracks and The Gulf Stream. Sometimes, Rick and I sigh loudly and say things like, "We don't live there!" and "What about the remaining two-thirds of the country?" More often, though, we talk about other stuff, like how weather forecasting has gotten worse the more technology they have, and how bad our basketball fantasy teams are this year, and how cute Theo is, and whether or not I got the mail. 

There's one habit that both national and local weather people have that really irritates me, and here it is:

News Anchor:  Chief Meterologist Rayne Shein is here to tell us about the Severe Weather alerts raising concerns in some major areas and to time it all out for us. Rayne?

Weather Person:  Thanks, Telly. We've got a major front setting up along the I95 corridor that will bring heavy downpours in several metro areas. Out west, look for damaging winds causing problems for those along the 101. 

Here at home, our meteorologists/weather forecasters say things like:  "This storm is setting up right along I271." Or, "Those of you living east of 77 should prep those snowblowers," or "The line of tornadic activity is mainly south of Route 80." 

THAT KIND OF TALK IS NOT HELPFUL TO ME AT ALL AND I BET I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE!

First of all, I have no way of knowing--nor do I care--where the I95 corridor is, even though they talk about it constantly like I should. Please do not Feel The Need to inform me because--and I cannot stress this strongly enough--I DO NOT CARE. I feel like the only people who know Routes, Interstates, and Roads like this are people as old as my mother, who used to be able to tell you extemporaneously exactly how to get every single place in the country she has ever been, using all the exact route numbers and cardinal directions. It was uncanny. She still may be able to do it; I refuse to ask her. 

Secondly, I could not tell you immediately, unless I am in my house, which direction is north, south, east, or west. Okay, I could tell you if I was at the lakehouse. Or at my childhood home. Or in my car, which has a dashboard compass, but I would be cheating. If someone gives me directions and tells me to go east on such-and-such a road, I glaze over. Means nothing. Tell me left or right. What am I, an original Native American describing territory? A clipper ship captain using the North Star to chart his course? Speak in concrete terms to me that mean something tangible. You have a map right there; point to it. "If you live in the Avon-Avon Lake area, blah blah blah"; "counties below this imaginary line (or left or right of it), blah blah blah." I can even accept north, south, east, west if you refer to the map, but don't point to a plain old map and start rattling off a bunch of highways as if I'm a Greyhound bus driver. In New York or California. Because, honestly. People live elsewhere, too. That's just fact.

If you are having Severe Weather where you live, irrespective of which Interstate you are near, I hope you get through it with no damage and no floody basement, which I can now be assured of, thanks to a huge cash outlay and several days of people digging and working at my home. Let's not talk anymore about that. 

Instead, talk to me of Stupid Weather Irritations and BiCoastal Weather Biases in Comments. 

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Let's Ketchup--Er, Catch Up: The Flu, The Baby, The Experiment, The Siren Song Of Confectionery Snacks

 

Gosh, it's been a while, hasn't it? To quote one of my favourite lines from The Last of The Mohicans, "Things were done. Nobody was spared." Let's do an Olde Fashionde CatchUp wherein I foolishly use up a whole lot of topics, each of which could have been its own blog post.

(*)The Dreaded Illness--I'm just now feeling better more than a week after coming down with a vicious gastro bug. It left me feeling weak, sore, fatigued, and desperate. Rick got it immediately the day after I did and so did Sam, who lunches here daily. Whenever I get ill, I become irrationally angry. That does not help with Recovery. I also stay impatient to become well. Did I have my regular flu shot? But of course. Did everyone get well before I did? But of course. Did I miss some beautiful walking weather? Please. Upside:  I am about ten pounds lighter. 

(*) Theo!--Theo went on a business trip to Florida and stayed at a resort with his parents. Jordan's company paid for Jared and him to accompany her while she had to be there for meetings, etc. He was, in the words of his father, "a rockstar for the whole trip." Rick and I babysat for him while J&J went to Cleveland for a matinee performance of Funny Girl, and he was perfect:  all smiles, chuckles, and cuddles, and nary a fuss for Nana and Grandpa. He will be four months old in about a week. He is a cute little roundheaded boy and I wish I could show you one picture. Note:  I think I took my first airplane trip when I was about eighteen. Just saying.

 (*)History Bears Me Out--Every so often I just cannot take it anymore and I perform The Experiment, even though I know it's Not Good For Me. Even though I know that all it does is raise my cortisol levels and make me crazy.  I mentioned The Experiment before, in this blog post way back in 2006. It just goes to show you that I don't learn from my own suffering. Anyway, this is a photo of my latest Experiment:

That bag of jellybeans behind the candy jar is EMPTY. Rick filled his candy jar after I went to bed--desperately ill--and left that empty bag there. FOR OVER A WEEK. He looked at it every day FOR OVER A WEEK and did nothing. Meanwhile, I refused to throw it away because of The Experiment and my own Disappointment and Frustration. Which leads me to History, and this article from the Smithsonian Magazine, which is titled What Is the Dominant Emotion in 400 Years of Women's Diaries? I bet I don't have to tell you, do I, Women At Large? Hint:  It is Frustration.

(*) Warning! Do Not Ever Make This--Remember how I made Christmas Toffee with mini pretzels and said I was going to try it with potato chips? Well, I did. 

Do not do this. Do not use Wavy Lays to capture every bit of the buttery, brown sugary wonderfulness. And instead of putting the semisweet chips on top of the pan of hot toffee-covered potato chips, do not instead melt the chocolate and drizzle it on. And don't sprinkle a bit more flaky salt on top. Because, after the requisite cooling and breaking, you will sit with the entire bowl of these and eat them ashamedly and continuously. Black Box Warning:  They are the Siren Song Of Confectionery Snacks. 

There. I think you're all caught up. Let's chat in Comments. 

The Skin I'm In

 This morning, after I washed my face in cold water and observed it closely in the mirror, I struggled to choose a moisturizer from among three jars on my dresser. Did my skin need moisture and brightening? Did my skin need moisture and sculpting and tightening? Did my skin need extra moisture and a boost of collagen repair? As I stood there deciding, I could feel my face draw and dehydrate. In truth, I needed all of them--immediately. 

What has become of me?

I am the girl who used to wash her face with whatever soap was available in the dish back on E. 38th Street:  Safeguard, Ivory, Caress, Irish Spring, or Dove. My skin was constantly oily. I used to use straight rubbing alcohol on a wad of toilet paper dabbed on my nose and forehead to rid myself of the shine and the greasy feeling. All of us had that skin, a gift from our Croatian father whose own swarthy complexion never got a wrinkle as he aged. I abused my skin for years, according to dermatologists, using harsh soaps and astringents, Laying Out for a tan and using baby oil. Even well into my thirties, forties, and fifties, I never understood all the Women Who Lotion religiously. 

I am also the girl who had storybook-worthy thick hair. I wore it long, and I had to shampoo it every single day or it would look greasy and stringy, especially at the scalp. It was incredibly frustrating. At times, I even washed my hair with dishwashing liquid, again using whatever was available at the kitchen sink, where all hairwashing was done since we had no shower. (You try washing long, long hair while taking a tub bath.) Forget conditioner because it made my hair lie flat and look--you guessed it--oily. On date nights, I washed my hair in the morning and again when I was getting ready to go out.

Now, I have dry skin and wash my hair about twice a week. My skin drinks in even the richest, most emollient creams and lotions like water. My lips are as dry as that old-fashioned onionskin typing paper. My gorgeous thick hair is a shadow of its former self, and I condition the ends.  I also use a volumizing spray at its roots. It all seems incredibly cruel to me. And terribly unfair.

Perhaps there should be a product for us, The Extremely Dry, that is Industrial Strength. It could come in a huge drum, and we could put on a bathing suit and merely stand in it, up to our nostrils, for about a half-hour each day. We could conveniently locate it near a television so that we could be occupied for that time and not be fidgety. When our time is up, we'd carefully emerge fully moisturized and ready for our day or for our restful night's sleep. Certainly, there are Safety Considerations, and Sanitary Ones as well, but that's for other people to figure out. I cannot be bothered with those sorts of Engineering and Science-y details. 

I feel a little better now, having thought of a Possible Solution. Do you have one? Share it--and your feelings about all this Unfairness--in Comments.

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Walt

 

Authorities found the body of one of my former students on 12 February. Walt had been missing since late August when he failed to show up for lunch with one of his kids. They found him in a wooded area out past some hiking trails not so very far from one of my grocery stores. I drive past that area on that pretty road fairly often. There are nature preserves there, and some dog owners like to run their pets in the clearing. 

I remember when Rick came home and told me Walt was missing. It was sad and terrible news, and I knew it was ominous. "This won't end well," I said, "unless Walt is somebody else now." 

In October, the family and some friends organized a search party. "I feel so bad for the family," I told Rick. "Do you want to show up and help?" he asked. "No," I said. "I was his sophomore English teacher; even then, only briefly. And I don't want to go out and look for a body."

My time with Walt was, indeed, brief. He was added to my third period Basic English class about midway through the year. I already had his brother, who was a star running back for the football team, in my other Basic class. It was probably around 1983. Walt came from a juvenile facility where he had spent quite a bit of time. (You might recall from my story about Jeremy that my class was the usual landing spot for such kids.)  He was on probation and a short leash, but I didn't get any details. He was merely plopped into my class with a transfer form. As usual.

He gave me no trouble as far as routine discipline. He sat where assigned. He was respectful. He wasn't late to class. But did he bring a book, pen/pencil, paper each day? Not usually. I didn't make a big deal out of it and supplied whatever he lacked, as I did for everyone. No, the problem with Walt was that he was high almost every single day, and he often couldn't stay upright or even in his seat. He was a mess. Even so, when Walt wasn't too obliterated, he could be funny and charming. When he could manage to be sober, he was a gentleman. And he tried.

I found out from my usual Reliable Source--a smart, peppy girl from their neighbourhood named Darla--that Walt's dad and uncle were in jail. That Walt figured he'd end up there and share a cell with one of them at some point. He ran with a bad crowd that he'd hooked back up with the minute he'd gotten out of the facility. 

I decided that I wasn't going to send Walt out for being high. It was better to keep him in the room and try to get him to do something. One day two assistant principals knocked on my classroom door, called me out into the hall, and asked, "Is Walt in there?" When I assured them that he was, one asked, "Does he have his yellow gym bag with him?

"Yes, he does. Why?"

"Okay. We have information that he has a gun in the bag. You need to send him out here and make sure he brings the bag with him."

(Dear Readers, you and I know now, in 2024, how much is So Wrong about this conversation. But it was 1983; I was 24 years old and in my third year of teaching; school shootings were Unheard Of.)

I was too dumb to even be in shock, I think. I merely went inside and said, "Walt, they want you to go to the office. Please hand in your book and your work, and be sure to take all your things with you." He did exactly that, and I never saw him again. 

Every so often his name would pop up in the local paper. He'd be arrested for a rash of break-ins at gas stations or convenience stores. He'd threaten the cashier, say he had a gun, but he never did. I'd read the article and shake my head. Poor Walt. 

Poor Walt, found dead under the trees in the brush. I feel sad and helpless and impotent. What in the hell did I do for him, all those years ago? Him or Jeremy? Sometimes it feels as if what I was up against was insurmountable. For some of my kids, they were in a hole so deep, my ladder couldn't begin to step them up and out. A lot of people who lay blame on our education system and teachers need to shut the hell up. They have no idea.

Despite the life that Walt led, he didn't deserve to lie cold and alone in the woods. I hold him in my heart.

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In Which I Lighten Up My Life And Get A Little Airheaded

 Let me just say this:  I'm feeling delightfully lighter in February. After 48 straight days of Absolutely No Sunshine Whatsoever, we've been treated to several bright, happy days of sun. Yesterday and today, I took my daily walks without a coat or a jacket in 60 degree temperatures. Yes, it will all come crashing down next week, but until then, I'm basking in this Joy. 

And fresh air! My windows are open! Can you even imagine that--in Northeast Ohio! in February! What luck!

Another reason I'm feeling lighter is that this morning, I watched as a volunteer from the Vietnam Vets of America came to my home and picked up bags of clothes and several boxes of dishes, shoes, purses, and two pieces of furniture from my porch. All that stuff is now G O N E from my home. Hooray for decluttering and giving to a good cause.

Now let's see if I can declutter my head a bit and dump off a few things here.

1.  This ad was in the Cleveland Plain Dealer a little while ago and hurt my eyes and my feelings:

First of all, absolutely nothing in this estate sale interests me, thanks to the ad's key words and phrases:  Every room full (they were hoarders); CB radios (no one ever left the house or had contact with the outside modern world); precious moments (dust bunnies galore and stuck in the 80s); bennie babies (Precious Moments turned out NOT to be the moneymaker they thought, so they glommed onto these, which tanked even worse, and, again, dust); seasonal (my experience with this is that many Collector-type people also collect tons of Xmas and holiday tchotchkes which also sit around collecting dust; these types of items do not sell, even at garage sales, trust me). 

Also, let's talk about The Spelling now, shall we? Obviously, it's Beanie Babies, not bennie babies, like some sort of homage to Bennie and the Jets or the drug benzedrine. And it's collectibles--the noun form--not collectables--the adjective form. An easy way to remember is "if it's an Investment, it's a collectIble." Sigh. I know, I know, I should stop reading the Classifieds.

2. On my walk today, in addition to a dandelion, I saw this and it made me smile:

I apologize for the quality of this photo. I couldn't get very close because this is not a friendly cat. It's also Not Their Cat. Did you think I was just posting this for the Irony?

This is a neighbourhood stray who hangs around on various porches. It's the first time I've seen it on this particular porch, however, and I'm rather surprised. This is where a St. Bernard lives. There must be something really good inside that Chewy box. You know what they say:  no risk, no reward.

3.  Finally, this conversation occurred on Monday night:

Nance:  I'm exhausted. I was so busy all day. (proceeds to list all chores accomplished that day)

Rick:  Wow. Well, thank you. That was a lot.

Nance: Oh, and by the way, I barely had enough battery left to finish using the leaf blower on the porch. Then I saw the charger wasn't even plugged in. What's up with that?

Rick:  You what?

Nance: I used the leaf blower to blow all the peanut shells and sunflower seed detritus off the front porch. It's ridiculous out there, you know? And the battery went dead, and I had to put it in the charger, but first of all, the charger was crammed behind stuff on that shelf, and then it wasn't even plugged in.

Rick:  I unplugged it.

Nance:  But why?

Rick: (carefully, looking right at her) Because I assumed that we wouldn't be needing A LEAF BLOWER in the WINTER.

Nance:  (light finally goes on) Oh! 

So tell me--What's lightening up your life in February so far? (And do you have the Winter Dumbs like me? Sigh.)

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The One About Potato Peelers

 

Vincent Van Gogh

Sometimes, I am dismayed by the way my Life is Awash In The Mundane. The smallest, most pedestrian things earn my laser focus. This happens most often during the winter months when I'm forced to be inside more, and I become a little...well, crazy. 

Anyway, this post is not about that, per se. This post is about Potato Peelers.

About a month or so ago, my Potato Peeler (aka Vegetable Peeler, or whatever) simply stopped working adequately. I was incredibly annoyed, for the obvious reason, but also because it was bright red, matched my kitchen, and hung conveniently (and cutely) on the wall within reach. Here is a photo of one just like it, because in a fit of pique, I threw mine in the trash with a lot of profanity.

Thank you, Ebay, for this photo.

That Peeler gave me many years of good service, but it let me down, so into my Journal Of Wrongs it went, right next to my can opener. That meant that I had to use Rick's Peeler until I could find a new one. Rick's Peeler was THE Peeler many years ago until it displeased me mightily, and then it was demoted to backup status when I got Big Red.

Rick's Peeler:  Barely Usable

His Peeler isn't sharp enough and doesn't peel away from me as well as it does toward me. I hate that. It also has separation there at the neck where the Peeler part fits into the handle. I hate that, too. And the whole handle is too big for my hand. 

So I was really on the hunt for a new Peeler, and I found one at Marshalls where I was also the Victim Of Rude Cellphone Usage. It looked okay, was a brand name, and was only $3.99. The handle looked small for my hand. I went ahead and took a chance.

Farberware+Marshalls=Fail

I could not have been more wrong. This dumb thing didn't last even one potato. (And that potato was a Yukon Gold, not even hard to peel. Come on!) I berated this Peeler loudly and vociferously the entire time it struggled to get the peel off the potato. Did I use The Eff Word? Yes, I did, and as several parts of speech. It went immediately into the trash. Enter Rick's Peeler again.

On Thursday I went to my grocery store and lo! and behold, hanging on an end cap in the Closeouts Section, were THREE bright red Potato Peelers. They were arrestingly red, a little odd-looking, and even better, priced at $1.99. How could I not try one? I tossed one in my cart immediately and hoped for the best. (I also scored a Carter's brand set of babywear for Theo for only $7.99, but this is not about that. Still, a major deal for 3 shirts and 2 pants, right?) Here's that Peeler: The handle is made of bamboo! It's so red and shiny! And cheap!

I put my new Peeler to the test the next day, and it astounded and delighted me! It flew through carrots and potatoes. It made short work of apples for an apple crisp. It fit in my hand perfectly and sturdily. 

IT'S EVEN DISHWASHER SAFE. I'M IN LOVE.

It has only one drawback--its hole is not big enough to fit over the hook where its predecessor hung. But that's okay! I've placed a pair of red and white kitchen scissors there, and it's proven to be a very handy place for them. (And you all know about me and Scissors.)

This week I'm going back to the grocery store to see if any of the Peelers are still there. If so, I'm buying whatever remain. I simply cannot go through this again.

Talk to me about your Potato Peelers in Comments. Or any other Kitchen Utensil Persnickety-nesses.