Merry Anti-Christmas Christmas To All

After 60+ years of watching It’s A Wonderful Life, The Bishop’s Wife, the Christmas Story, etc. it’s the same old story. The good guys are good, the bad guys don’t even know that they’re bad guys, but they are, and then love and good conquers all.  Alas, we’ve become inured to the romance of Christmas. Not to suggest that we have turned into a couple of Grinches, but we are so over the stories. Yes, we know that George Bailey is a nice guy and the town will come to save his bacon, that mortals win over Christmas angels, even if that angel bears a remarkable resemblance to Cary Grant and that the Red Ryder BB Rifle will shoot your eye out if you’re not careful. We’re done. We’re cooked. Stick a candy cane in us. No more. 

So, in recent years, we have embarked on a quest to collect our favorite anti-Christmas Christmas movies. It all began with Die Hard. Really, Bruce Willis just wants to go home for Christmas to be with his family, but no, there’s Alan Rickman in his glory as the perfect bad guy trying to blow up the office tower. Rickman is so deliciously evil. Is that any way to spend Christmas, but Bruce baby pulls it out of the fire. Of course, everything gets blown up, and hey, does that spell Christmas or what!!

And then we found Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. Who doesn’t love Robert Downey Jr. on Christmas day. He’s a petty thief who somehow ends up posing as an actor. He heads into LA at Christmas for an audition and bumps into the junior high love of his life and attempts to discover who her brother’s killer might be, all the while attending one slick Hollywood party after another while a bunch of bad guys are trying to kill him for sticking his nose into something that isn’t any of his business, when all he wants is a kiss under the mistletoe. How could a Christmas movie get any more warm hearted than that.

Well, then there’s my personal favorite: The Ice Harvest. John Cusack under the tree for me, Santa baby. Cusack plays a sleazy lawyer (already I love it) who has just embezzled $2 million from some equally unsavory mob guys. He needs to get out of town, but there’s erstwhile family members, and a dame with legs from here to next week.  Murder and mayhem ensue, and the 12 hours of Christmas are filled with fun and frolic. This movie brings new meaning to “‘twas the night before Christmas”. 

And then there is Bell, Book and a Candle. Who can forget the favorite belled cat, Pyewhackit. Poor Jimmy Stewart getting involved with a witch, a few witches actually, a couple of warlocks and a cellar, the Zodiak, where they all hang out. It's winter, it's Christmas and who can't love Kim Novak as a stellar witch.

If anyone knows of other equally insane and crazy funny Christmas movies, please let us know. In the meantime, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Warm Winter Solstice and/or whatever other pagan holiday warms your heart. Happy 2015 too. 

A Night At The Opera

It’s fall. In addition to the rustle of leaves and that vague autumn smell of wood smoke in the air, it’s opera season, which brings to mind the parallels of opera to life, not because of drama or plot twists, but because most of the time I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. Opera, like fall, ultimately spells doom. Greens turn glorious colors, then brown and finally, fall dead. Opera, too, comes with its parallel set of harbringers: the ubiquitous fat lady sings amidst the overdecorated sets, while extolling her glorious love affair and then, sadly, comes death.

When dad insisted we learn about ‘real’ music, we whined “why? what did I do”. We were familiar with classic artists: the Beatles, the Stones, the Beach Boys. I demurred, quoting Robert Benchley: “Opera is when a guy gets stabbed in the back and, instead of bleeding, he sings,” to no avail.  

As dad patiently explained, Italian opera was the soul of beauty and simplicity. Act One, boy meets girl; Act Two, they fall in love; and finally, Act Three, one or both of them die; add a couple of catchy jingles and an opera is born. In retrospect, he was right. When I look back on the Italian operas I’ve had the privilege to see and hear, they do tend to follow the same scenario, although I am troubled by the propensity of dying divas. La Boheme: she dies; Madame Butterfly: she dies; La Traviata: she dies; Il Trovatore: she dies; agreeably, in Tosca: they both die, although not so agreeably for the protagonists. 

German opera, on the other hand, is much more tortuous, as are the Germans. They can never seem to agree on anything, even pronunciation of the letters of the alphabet. Germans pronounce V like F, and W like V. Try pronouncing Volkswagen as the Germans pronounce it: “FolksVagen”, but I digress. German opera, and I’m talking about Wagner (again, pronounced Vagner), the father of German opera, is unlike Italian opera. In Act One, half the cast is dead, by the end of Act Two, the other half of the cast has died, and finally, by Act Three, the audience tries to take itself out. Having sat numbly through The Ring Trilogy and The Flying Dutchman, I would have to agree.  

Remember Cher, and her great lines from Moonstruck; as she left the opera, sobbing “She died. I couldn’t believe it. I knew she was sick but I didn’t think she was gonna die. She was coughing her brains out, but she still had to keep singing.”  Death is inevitable, in opera, as in life, although I would prefer my death to be on a quiet note rather than anything operatic.

Remembrance Day

Just a Common Soldier

(A Soldier Died Today)

He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast,

And he sat around the Legion, telling stories of the past.

Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done,

In his exploits with his buddies; they were heroes, every one.

And tho’ sometimes, to his neighbors, his tales became a joke,

All his Legion buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke.

But we’ll hear his tales no longer for old Bill has passed away,

And the world’s a little poorer, for a soldier died today.

He will not be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,

For he lived an ordinary and quite uneventful life.

Held a job and raised a family, quietly going his own way,

And the world won’t note his passing, though a soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state,

While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great.

Papers tell their whole life stories, from the time that they were young,

But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land

A guy who breaks his promises and cons his fellow man?

Or the ordinary fellow who, in times of war and strife,

Goes off to serve his Country and offers up his life?

A politician’s stipend and the style in which he lives

Are sometimes disproportionate to the service that he gives.

While the ordinary soldier, who offered up his all,

Is paid off with a medal and perhaps, a pension small.

It’s so easy to forget them for it was so long ago,

That the old Bills of our Country went to battle, but we know

It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys,

Who won for us the freedom that our Country now enjoys.

Should you find yourself in danger, with your enemies at hand,

Would you want a politician with his ever-shifting stand?

Or would you prefer a soldier, who has sworn to defend

His home, his kin and Country and would fight until the end?

He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin,

But his presence should remind us we may need his like again.

For when countries are in conflict, then we find the soldier’s part

Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honor while he’s here to hear the praise,

Then at least let’s give him homage at the ending of his days.

Perhaps just a simple headline in a paper that would say,

Our Country is in mourning, for a soldier died today.

By A. Lawrence Vaincourt

Ducks In A Row, or Gnat

This morning early I heard the ducks before I saw them, singing their road trip song in three part quacking harmony. I looked and there they were, peacefully perched atop the cove waters, the tides rhythmically pulling and tugging while they floated contentedly three deep, row on row. I turned away before the hunters in the duck blind blew their heads off with their shotguns. A sure sign of fall.  

Later that morning I drove into town to find all the telephone poles swaddled with bright and happy fat scarecrows. The shops’ doorways were festooned with pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns, bales of hay supported wooden baskets overflowing with shiny red apples and bumpy green and yellow gourds. Summer green had given way to fall’s russet, sepia, ochra.  The halloween witch mannequin had once again plowed into the telephone pole in front of the local tavern. That babe needs a GPS tracker, or at least glasses, and those striped knee socks are so last year.  

Coming home the roads were sparsely sprinkled with dead raccoons, squirrels and deer, while various carnivorse swooped over and around looking for a hearty dinner. There would be more bodies as October melded into November. So pretty, the harbringers of fall. 

Arriving home, the kitchen was filled with another reminder of fall. The freakin’ gnats. Gnats are not just gnats. Like all annoying creatures, there’s never just one, or one variety. No. There’s fungus gnats, eye gnats, gall gnats, sand gnats; don’t call them fruit flies. They are not fruit flies. Fruit flies leave, but not gnats. Gnats hover around moisture: eyes, ears, nose and mouth. And don’t even think of going outside; they fly around the shoreline and pond in huge sun covering swarms. You’ve seen them, people who look like crazies, running around and swatting the air around them, in fact are normal, but are being bombarded by the gnats buzzing around their heads. Foolishly walk into a swarm, and you’ve just swallowed dinner, or you’ve become dinner. They, in turn, are dinner to birds, bats, frogs, and larger insects. Frankly, I don’t care what they do outside the house; survival of the fittest, kill or be killed, etc. but inside, the house is my domain. Stay out of my house, dead gnat dead gnat dead gnat. 

Problem is, nothing stops them. Nothing, that is, except apple cider vinegar. I learned that filling a small bowl with apple cider vinegar, covering it with saran wrap and then punching little holes in the wrap is the perfumed siren song to gnats. The sweet-sour smell of vinegar intoxicates and they scramble to get closer to the bouquet. Once under the wrap, though, they can’t figure out how to escape, because they have tiny gnat brains. Ha ha ha ha!  Eventually they tire, fall into the vinegar and drown. A friend adds liquid soap to the mix for added assurance that they will stick to the liquid and die quickly, but I like to toy with them first. I swirl the dish around to catch the gnats that have not yet fallen into the vinegar while admonishing them to die. The next day they are all dead. Ah, lovely fall. Fall has come to Sherwood once again. 

British Car and Driver

Again, with the UK cars and drivers. We were most impressed with the iconic shiny black taxi cabs. The first time we hopped into one, giddy with excitement, we asked the driver about the lore surrounding the London cabbie and were told that yes it was all too true. In complete astonishment, we learned that it takes about three years to learn not just the names of all the streets but also the locations of thousands of pubs, theaters, shops, hotels and historic landmarks. There are 320 basic routes, about 25,000 streets within the basic routes and about 20,000 landmarks that are located within a six mile radius of Charing Cross.  Beyond impressive. Also, we were so thrilled, and relieved, to know that all we had to do was hail, hop and say “Harrod’s”. Certainly a contrast to the New York cabbies who can’t even speak English, much less find their way to the storied Waldorf without a specific address and a GPS. 

A small amount of inquiry led us to the answer of what the occasional zig zags on portions of the road were about; turns out they mean ‘no parking’. These markings are common throughout England and Australia. This of course led to the inevitable question -- why not simply mark ‘no parking’ on the road since England only recognizes one language, or paint the curb red.  After all, there are notes on the road saying ‘look left’ or ‘look right’, and isn’t red the universal color for no. Red lights, red octagon signs, red fire alarms, red capes, etc. However, since cars have been around longer than I have, I will not pursue this line of inquiry. 

Then again, why do the British continue to drive on the left side of the road. Henry Ford shifted the steering wheel to the left so that the ladies could alight without harm and with clean shoes after their gentlemen completed their drive on the right side of the road. Surprising that the British have not shifted sides since they are much more polite than Americans (sad but true). 

Another wonderful anomaly had to do with electric cars, which appear to be much more prevalent in the UK than in the US. While walking through Picadilly we encountered a lovely young lady who was plugging her small car into a street side electric outlet. When asked, she explained that her electric car required four hours of energizing once a week. Higher end cars, such as Porsches, could take as long as eight hours. She plugged in at the street because the home cost would be prohibitive, whereas street charging was on the government’s dime (which explains the VAT and myriad of other taxes). Of course it left one to wonder; what does she do for four hours one evening a week. She looked quite smart so my best guess is that she hailed, hopped and said “Harrod’s”.

Nonetheless, whether driving on the left or right side of the road, it cannot be argued that some of the most extraordinary cars originated in the UK. Rolls-Royce, Jaguar, MG, Bentley, Aston Martin . . . for the likes of Bond, James Bond, need I say more. 

London Observations

London. As iconic as the red telephone booths (with porn stars’ postcards taped next to the telephone - lovely), is the local vernacular language. For instance, “bowled them a googly”; I had to ask a local to translate. It means to surprise someone with something unexpected.  Once, an equerry was an attendant to the royal family, today it means personal assistant. Bubble and squeak was another favorite; something about frying up leftover veggies and taters.  

Then again, English muffins for breakfast are unheard of, but crumpets rule at tea time during the holidays. English muffins, aka crumpets, fall in the same category as Canadian bacon in the USA. In Canada, this meat cut is referred to as back bacon.  Canadians have no idea what Americans are talking about when they ask for Canadian bacon. The same blank look accompanied our request for English muffins in London. Blimey, but these Americans are stupid. 

And still the Brits drive on the ‘other side’ of the road. I did find, though, that the English are a thoughtful people under these most trying circumstances. The street curbs, for instance, are marked “Look Left” or “Look Right”, which marks are, obviously, not for the locals, but for the rest of the world that drives on the right side of the road. Apparently other worldly folk step off the curb only to be flattened by a car driving in the “opposite” direction -- and Splat goes the tourist. 

I did notice that the cars themselves were in remarkably good shape, not a single scratch or ding to be found anywhere. This observation led me to believe that the drivers must be incredibly proficient. Only when I spoke to my much more worldly and sophisticated brother was I enlightened. Apparently drivers must take their cars for inspection once a year. The engine and body must be in perfect condition in order for the car’s license to be renewed.  

Nonetheless, the British do have a remarkable sense of humor, which was borne out whenever I noticed a pub sign. Where else could one find a pub named Faggots & Gravy, or Hung, Drawn & Quartered. The Cock & Donkey likewise stirred the imagination, making me wonder if the Captain & Tenille conceived their moniker inspiration while traveling in the UK. 

Shoepidity

Shoepidity: The act of wearing ridiculously uncomfortable shoes just because they look good.  

Ah, Shoes. How do I love thee. Let me count the ways. A woman’s love of shoes is a love as old as time. Since Cinderella found her true love by donning a glass slipper, and Dorothy clicked her heels together in a rocking pair of red sequin shoes; proof that shoes can change a woman’s life, shoes are not just a work of art but the mystical embodiment of all that is flattering and sexy. Shoes make the legs look longer and thinner; make the dress look smarter; match the handbag and belt; cause the female form to sway elegantly and the male to ruminate mightily as he watches her sashay down the hall. Shoes transform body language and lift a woman physically and emotionally. 

The Chinese even went so far as to have the feet bound to make them smaller. The shoes were hand embroidered works of art. No matter how tall or short, light or heavy a woman may be, the right pair of shoes can make a woman feel like Jean Shrimpton, Elizabeth Taylor, Audrey Hepburn and Charlize Theron all rolled into one.  

And the shoes in my closet, all 104 pairs, are very necessary and required for different occasions: high heels, mid-heels, mules, slingbacks, ballet flats, flip-flops, court shoes, deck shoes, water shoes, clogs, satin pumps, platforms, sandals, slippers, wedgies, stilettos, espadrilles, hirachis and ghillies. They say you are what’s on your feet so don’t be unstable, cheap and plastic. 

My very favorite birthday card came from my darling and adorable husband Scott, and I keep it to remind me that I still have sex appeal that starts at my feet. The card begins “Happy birthday honey!  No one else could fill your shoes” and inside: “The black ones. Not the black flat ones or the black sandals or the black heels. The black ones that kinda look like the other pair of black ones that you had before the last pair of black ones.” Then again, if the shoe fits, buy it in every color. 

Sandals are the earliest known shoes; gladiators wore them. And they’ve made a comeback, just walk into any shoe department and there they are, albeit today they may be embellished with sequins. Sandals developed into thong sandals, which later developed into flip-flops. What woman can have a pedi without wearing flip-flops. 

The oldest leather shoes were made from a piece of cowhide tied with a leather cord. Best guess is that the Indians came up with that one; they came up with moccasins too. Then there’s the iceman’s shoe, made of bearskin or deerskin, the forerunner of Uggs. Of course, more than cowhide leather, shoes can be made from various animals: ostrich, alligator, snakeskin, etc.  One of my favorite blonde jokes has to do with shoes. “A blonde wanted a pair of alligator shoes but didn’t want to pay the high price so she decided to catch her own alligator and get the shoes for free. There she was, waist deep in water, with a gun in her hand, shooting alligators as they came toward her. There were a dozen on the banks, all lying belly up. She pulled up another one, flipped it on to its back and said ‘aw, heck, this one’s barefoot too’.”

Pattens (think Dr. Scholls on wedgies), were the predecessor of the modern high heel shoe, which became popular in Venice as a status symbol of wealth and social standing. My Stuart Weitzmans are the current higher and shinier example. I would hate for anyone to look at my shoes and say “oh, those look so comfortable.” 

Remember when Steve Martin’s routine involved throwing his shoes at a lady and proclaiming “I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee”. How simple life would be, he said, if that was all it took. Turns out, that’s how the Arabs do it. I suppose which shoes I threw would constitute how much or how little I felt about the soon to be ex. 40% of women have hurled footwear at a man, but the other 60% would never disrespect their shoes like that. 

And when my shoes needed repair, I knew this was the guy for me. The sign said: 

I will heel you. 

I will save your sole. 

I will even dye for you.

Snake?

Yesterday the UPS truck swung into the driveway. As I went to the door to greet him I saw him recoil when he jumped out of the truck. I wondered what prompted that alarming reaction. I knew it wasn’t anything I had done, but Scott was right behind me so naturally I thought it was something to do with him (what’s a husband for but on whom to lay blame). I opened the door and realized there was a huge snake right outside the door. Holy freakin’ crap !!!  I jumped back. It started its crawl into the house between the door and wall jamb. Scott quickly appraised the situation and just as quickly slammed the door shut while I stood there babbling (did I say babbling, I meant “shrilling”, which is like babbling, but two octaves higher). The UPS driver left the package at the end of the walkway, waved, wished us luck and left. Meanwhile, we had the head of the snake staring at us inside the now slammed shut door. 

Scott and I looked at each other and laughed WTF Now What. We decided to simply let it die there since it pretty much was choking between the door and wall anyway. We thought it  would soon be over. Time passed. I went out the back door and pared back the geraniums (my girlfriends are coming over for lunch in a few days; I wanted pretty colors on the back deck). Another hour later I walked by the front door and it was still turning its head trying to figure out how it had come to find itself in that position and what to do about it. Oh man, now I was starting to feel sorry for the poor thing. 

Later, the fedex truck pulled up. He too saw the snake when he jumped out of, and back into, the cab. Thoughtfully, he called to let us know that there was a snake at our front door; yes, thank you. After taking a photograph of the scene, he left the scene. (Typical Gen X, or Gen Y, or Millenial, whatever -- don’t do anything about it, just photograph it.) Once again, our package was deposited at the end of the walkway, next to the UPS package. 

Scott decided that it was time to take action. This was not going to be a repeat of the mouse incident of some years ago. That time, we used a glue trap. The mouse was quickly trapped but it took two days for the poor thing to die. This time, we were not going to be under house arrest while we waited for the sorrowful snake to die. The next thing I knew Scott had walked through the garage and picked up the large branch cutter from our nest of gardening tools. With that, at the door, he handily lopped the body off the snake. I stood inside and watched him working. Fortunately I couldn’t see too much due to the somewhat darker recessed entry so this particular Mutual of Omaha moment was, thankfully, lost on me.  He neatly pulled the six foot long snake’s body away from the entry way and carried it out to the forest. Damn, that thing was long. Did I mention that I stood inside and watched him working. When he returned, he asked me to open the door, Wha? I unlocked it, then ran. Apparently, at the open door the head fell to the ground, which he again carried out to the forest. I was nowhere to be found. 

When it was all over, I praised my hero for his life saving actions. Scott. My tower of courage, my Indiana Jones, although Jones, the wimp, was afraid of snakes. 

Dentistry and the Tooth Fairy

After suffering for two months with a minor ache in a molar, which the dentist thought might get better, but didn’t, I found myself laying around on his ergonomically correct chair, waiting for the “frezone” to kick in. Left alone with my imagination, which I hate to waste when it comes riding in; I gave it free rein, which translated to near certainty that the freezing agent, in addition to numbing my gums, was coursing through my entire body, and would soon freeze my lungs and heart muscles. The doctor would return in 15 minutes to discover my dead body. “What the hell, she was fine 15 minutes ago!”, or perhaps I was just cold. Anyway, when he returned, I was still alive.

These dental dilemmas were so much easier when I was a kid. When my baby teeth began falling out, I proudly showed my wiggly tooth to my dad as evidence that I was growing up. If he agreed that it was loose enough, he would grasp it firmly between two fingers and just yank it out. He did a good job. It never hurt and, through some miracle, there was never an infection. I was always delighted to show him how brave I was, and it meant that the tooth fairy would make a nocturnal visit. Our tooth fairy didn’t leave money under the pillow.  No.  Ours left money in the kitchen cupboard. I had no idea that there were optional dropping off points; didn’t think anything about it until ensuing discussions with my little girlfriends, who all must have had a different fairy (perhaps mine was Italian), led me to discover that their fairy left money under their pillows. When my mother was questioned about this anomaly, she explained that different zoning rules applied in different neighborhoods. Our tooth fairy, considerately not waking up other members of the family, left the money in a kitchen mug.

Years later, dad explained that he just couldn’t stay up late enough to make sure we were asleep and then take care of the switch, ergo teeth and money in the cupboard. Dad further revealed that he saw this little childhood fantasy as a shakedown. “You lose a tooth, you throw it away; end of story. The kidney stone fairy didn’t leave me any money when those things were removed.” I could see his point.

A friend told me that her mother had saved all her baby teeth in a silver box. I asked my mom where mine were -- she pointed to the trash can, and was horrified when I told her about the silver box. What are these Americans thinking?? Pictures of a toothless kid were cute, but the actual teeth bronzed on either side of the picture, like those baby shoe montages, was not cute.

As I grew older, I was taken to my first real dentist, who wore a toupee. Back in the day, those wigs did not look good, or like anything that resembled hair. His toupee was jet black and of a texture that could only be seen on bathroom floor mats, nor did it match the color and texture of his surrounding halo of hair. I sat in his chair, with my mouth hanging open, always fearful that his toupee would slide off his pate and land in my face, giving new meaning to “furry mouth”.

Those days are long gone, but I still have my teeth.

Earthquake ! ! ! !

Earthquakes make the news far more often in other parts of the country than they do in their home state of California. The earthquake that occurred in Maryland a few years ago received a light comedic treatment in California. It was so small; the magnitude of which barely stirred the denizens’ coffee in Los Angeles. 

Californians are much more casual about earthquakes, then again, they freak out when it rains two days in a row. What’s ordinary in one part of the country, is extraordinary in another. One sunny summer afternoon in Los Angeles some years ago, our little party had enjoyed a delightful picnic lunch; various pates and crackers, fresh fruits, light whites, and now were “grogging” peacefully while laying flat on our blankets atop the grass at Griffith Park. The Symphony in the Glen concert was in full swing. The fifty piece orchestra was playing Debussy. As the dulcet tones wafted through the fresh air, I looked up at the clear pale blue sky, through the gently swaying, long thin branches of the overhead eucalyptus tree, listening to the music harmonizing with the sound the breeze evoked as it moved gently through the leaves. The afternoon sun warmed our bodies, cooled our minds and the world was indeed a wonderful place. I was appreciating that perfectly happy moment that fleetingly comes our way on such rare occasions, until the earthquake rumbled though the ground; not a jarring jolt, but a gentle roll. Nothing that would cause anything as extreme as jumping up and yelling “earthquake”, only enough to cause another slow moving head to turn and ask “did the earth move for you too?” 

The last big earthquake to come to the Los Angeles area was centered in Northridge, back in the ’80’s, and to this day is referred to as the Northridge quake. On that particular morning I was sleeping blissfully in my bed when the quake so rudely interrupted my revelries. I jumped into my hard soled slippers, all Californians keep a pair under their bed for just such emergencies, and ran downstairs to the front door, where I stood; the door frame being of Honduran mahogany, I knew it wasn’t going anywhere. And then the jolts stopped. And then an aftershock came by, followed by another aftershock. Then peace, but for all the neighbors on the street yelling back and forth “are you okay?” “we’re okay”. I prudently decided to spend the rest of the night on the sofa, downstairs, just in case. Morning arrived and all was quiet. Of course it was quiet. There was no electricity or water. I picked up the phone, only to hear the infernal buzzing that comes with out of order lines. Nothing to do but go back to sleep. Off I shuffled, back to bed, figuring it would be a few days before I learned anything constructive about the quake, but I was wrong. The phone rang, which caused me to levitate off the sheets. My friend Jackie was calling from Switzerland to ask if I was alive. She imparted all the details while simultaneously watching CNN. The irony of hearing reports of an earthquake taking place “up the street” from someone on the other side of the planet was not lost on me. It was then I learned that telephones, land lines, have separate trunks for state, country and international calls, ergo the call from Switzerland was viable, while the call to the neighbors was not. Shake, rattle and roll.

Spring Ahead

'Tis the time of year to spring our clocks ahead an hour. Someone suggested losing the hour in the middle of the day, during the work week, say, hump day, Wednesday at 3 pm, being the perfect time to fast forward to 4 pm; I say that’s brilliant, like a little fairy flying by with her wand, and poof, an hour in the dreary workday has passed. “Hey, look at that, it’s already four pm and a second ago it was three pm.” Letting go of that afternoon hour would make a person believe in magic. Instead, we are rudely awakened an hour earlier, on a dark and cold Monday morning, the day on which (and doctors, hospitals, and various studies concur) the most heart attacks take place.

Twice a year we realize that we have far too many needless clocks in the house. We’re retired. We don’t care what time it is; we eat when we are hungry and sleep when we are tired; what difference does an hour make, but here we are, on step ladders, once again fixing the time. After we are done with the clocks we turn to our watches, a number of which haven’t been worn for years and have dead batteries that need replacing. I keep a few of them for the memories: the Timex Indiglow underwater watch that I wore while snorkeling in Tahiti and Hawaii, the opal face lapis lazuli watch that I purchased in a drunken haze during a ski trip in Aspen, the Cartier tank watch (that actually turned out to be genuine) from the duty free shop, while boating in the Bahamas. None functional, but all reminders of times well spent.

Earlier in the year I came across a few dozen 50 year old photos, all taken during our high school years. There we were, forever thin, handsome, pretty, fresh skin all over our  happy faces, full of baby boomer promise. I forwarded the more interesting snaps to the folk in the photos and the most thought provoking response came back as: “who says time travel is not possible”.  Just looking at those photos brought us back to a long ago time; finned cars, prom gowns and other age appropriate escapades. During those years, we all had problems of one sort or another, but since none of us grew up to become axe murderers, drug addicts, wife beaters, child molesters, or any other type of career criminal, I’d say we all came through the fire intact. Then again, I didn’t notice a “top of the heap” winner either, and I blame it all on the time clock. Losing that precious hour in the morning during our teen age growth years was detrimental to our intellect and there are studies to prove it (if there aren’t, there should be). Supposedly we gained the time back in the fall, but by then the damage had been done.

The only clocks we don’t bother with are the kitchen appliances clocks. We lose power so often that they are forever flashing, but it is fun to watch guests try to calibrate them, the type A personalities who do not understand Einstein’s theory of relativity. Time flies or drags, depending on the quality of the moment; what the clock says is irrelevant, but always tempus fugit.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

What is it about snow that makes everything quiet? Rain does not have the same outcome. Rain can be heard, on the ground, on the roof, on the windows, but not snow.  The snow, the “polar vortex” arrived during the early evening hours. We watched the snow float serenely to the ground, then, as the hours climbed, the skies turned wild. In our warm den we watched. The fireplace was ablaze, the wood pile outside the door well stocked. “Oh, the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful, and since we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow”. And snow it did. Finally, we went to bed, enjoying the sound of the wind howling through the trees, and grateful to have a forest between us and the Chesapeake bay. The woods kept the drifts at bay. 

The next morning we woke to white. Great piles of white. Nothing but white. Everything was white. Dr. Zhivago white. The movie’s snow was a key element to the plot; Zhivago looking for Lara. “Lara, “Lara”, trudge, trudge, “Lara, Lara”, trudge, trudge, “Lara, Lara”, trudge, trudge. We only had to make it to the mailbox and that was far enough. Zhivago should have stayed with his wife. He  wouldn’t have caught the illness that eventually killed him; another good reason not to cheat on the spouse and stay indoors while all that snow was falling. 

Meanwhile, our two cats sat at the window sill, unblinking, unable to take their eyes off all the white stuff that was descending to the ground. If only they could talk:

“what is that white stuff? where’s the green?”

“dunno, it’s taking over.”

“can we eat it?”

A few days later, the roads were cleared; sand and/or salt covered the tar. Here and there, though, wherever there was a forest clearing to the bay waters, the winds from the ocean had pushed the snow back on to the road. The drifts made for some interesting driving moments, but nothing that required consideration of life’s great meaning or the end of it. 

We did contemplate the enormous thrills and raptures that the weather had brought us: wild winds, exciting car rides through the snow, sensational white outs, not to mention the hilarity in watching ducks and geese foolishly attempting to land on the 'waters' of the cove, only to be bounced off the ice. Each morning we’d look for any sign of spring on the horizon, looking forward to reacquainting ourselves with the color green, any shade of green, even brownish-green would exhilarate.  

And another few days later, the sun shone brilliantly, warming the ground, melting the snow, turning white to brown to green, as we had hoped, but what came next? Fog. London fog. Soup fog. The ground was warm but the air was cold. Our world once again became very small, and very quiet. No noise in the fog. No sound. Even worse, we couldn’t see anything, other than the occasional dead deer by the side of the road; evidence that someone else had not seen anything either, until it was too late. 

Looking forward to March 21.