Yes, There Is A Santa Claus

Our youngest nephew, Anthony, was just old enough to question the existence of Santa Claus. Throughout the Christmas eve dinner and party, he questioned patient aunts, uncles, parents, grandparents and unsuspecting guests regarding the veracity of the Santa story. He eyed the fireplace, in full blaze, and loudly pondered the ability of a portly Santa’s “little round belly that shook like a bowlful of jelly” to climb down the chimney. We all assured him that Santa lived in our hearts and elsewhere, “elsewhere” being a somewhat elusive geographical locale. 

As the hour grew late, his parents said it was time to go upstairs to bed, otherwise Santa would not arrive promptly, if at all. Parents historically are very tired by the time Christmas eve arrives, and Anthony’s parents were no different. The guest bedroom was ready for them and they were ready for bed. Meanwhile, downstairs, the rest of us partied away, bathed in the glow of the Christmas tree lights, the scent of pine candles, carols in the air, champagne and a calorie laden pre-midnight buffet. 

At about 11:30 pm, Peter, the prodigal son, arrived in full Santa Claus beard and costume, complete with shiny belt and matching boots. Peter had spent the entire evening at the downtown Mission dispensing donated toys, candy canes and hugs to the homeless children. He marched into the living room with a jolly “ho ho ho” to great cheers and hugs, and then promptly marched to the bar for a glass of champagne. 

Unbeknownst to us downstairs, Anthony had heard the jolly “ho ho ho”, sprang out of bed and ran to the door. He opened it a crack and spied Santa walking across the hall, then, saucer eyed, just as quickly closed the door after his mother admonished him to shut it because if Santa saw him, no presents would be left. Now that hard evidence had been sighted of Santa’s existence, Anthony jumped back into bed and burrowed under the covers, filled with the pure joy that only comes to a child unfettered by reality. 

Downstairs, after his long evening, Peter needed some cheer and was duly entertained by the company of friends and relatives during what was left of the evening. He particularly enjoyed the culinary largesse while listening to our Christmas stories. Finally, at 2 am we reluctantly ended the evening; the food and champagne were gone, the fire logs had burned to ashes, the presents had been retrieved from their hiding places and placed under the tree and, most significantly, a young child would be waking us very early the next morning to see what Santa had left for him. We, to our bed, and our guests to their homes. Merry Christmas and good night. 

The next morning Peter arrived late for Christmas brunch, tired, somewhat bleary eyed, as we all were by then. We cheerfully told him how he secured the Christmas magic for a little six year old boy. He had an equally amusing story to tell us, which would also serve as an apology for his tardiness.  On his way home, while gaily and loudly singing carols to stay awake, he was pulled over by a policeman. Uh oh. He mentally recounted the number of drinks he had consumed during the evening. Since only one glass of champagne came to mind, he deduced that being stopped could not have had to do with erratic driving, and he was pretty sure that dressing as Santa Claus while driving was not illegal. The policeman was pleasant enough, “no sir”, he said “nothing was wrong”, then he politely asked whether Peter could come down to the station with him for a few minutes . . . he realized it was an imposition . . . but if he could stop by. . . to cheer up the men and women who were working during the night, not spending the time with their families.  Peter readily obliged, followed the policeman to the station, still singing and spent the next hour boosting the officers' morale. He left just as the sun was rising on Christmas morning. 

Aren’t those nice Christmas stories, and true too. Believe in the magic of Christmas. 

Gerald Charles Dickens and the Great Con

It was the notice from Winterthur announcing a reading of A Christmas Carol that brought back the memory, and what a delightful memory. A few years ago, the Biltmore hotel, in downtown Los Angeles, sponsored “A Dickens Dinner”, a sparkling black tie event during the Christmas holidays that included champagne and hors d’oeuvres in the back lobby among full size gingerbread houses and a genuine traditional six course goose dinner, just as would have been served during the time of Dickens, when the haves had and the have nots had naught. We reserved a table for five, prepaid, and set ourselves to an evening of amusements. 

Our party, dressed in our finest formal finery and giddy with anticipation, looked forward to being regaled with a reading of A Christmas Carol by the great grandson of Charles Dickens, Gerald Charles Dickens. Realizing that this may be a once in a lifetime opportunity, I purchased a dozen copies of the book for his signature, which I would then hand out as Christmas presents to friends and family. 

We arrived to find the two storey lobby just as advertised, beautifully lit, handsomely decorated with tinseled trees, Christmas lights and garlands, the air faintly scented with gingerbread and tinkling music, while numerous waiters in red vests proffered champagne in elegant flutes. We leisurely strolled around and inside the gingerbread houses, charmed by the lit candies, while striking up cheerful friendships with other attendees. 

We found one couple particularly amusing so we asked them to join our little group of five.  Then likewise discovered a somewhat mysterious but very handsome man, with a mane of silver hair, a charming smile and by all appearances, quite single. We invited him to join our dinner table since we had a single woman in our midst. Arrangements with the maitre d’ were made and we eight sat down to a very entertaining evening. Gerald animatedly brought to life the characters within each chapter, reading between courses of squash soup, seasonal vegetables, a stuffed goose, mashed potatoes, Christmas pudding, pumpkin pie and English cheeses. The wine flowed freely, the laughter grew more raucous and a good time was had. 

Somewhere between the Christmas pudding and the last cheese course our silver stallion received an urgent call, for which he left the table, promising to return shortly. We understood, having been given the impression, during the various courses, that he was in the medical field. Finally, the last course was served and the last chapter read. After “God Bless Us Everyone” we cheered Gerald’s performance and I settled into the autograph line. 

Ah, but then the mystery continued. The maitre d’ arrived at our table, tactfully asking about the missing payment from one of the guests. Vowing ignorance and averring that all five had paid ahead of time, as did the couple who joined us, we then, as one, looked at the empty chair where previously sat our silver stallion, and, with equal amounts of horror and glee, realized that there was a louche scammer in our midst. The maitre d’ was not amused. 

During the drive home, we tittered with delight at being involved, albeit unknowingly, with a con man. His ease at pulling off the scam, was thrilling and entertaining. And yes we understood that what he did was wrong wrong wrong and ought not to be emulated or condoned in any fashion, but it was like a Christmas Dickens movie. 

The long and winding road

It’s deer mating season. Like us, the deer are looking for love while hunters are looking for deer.  As usual, they, like us, are looking for love at the wrong times and in the wrong places. How many bad boyfriends and experiences have to take place before true love walks in the door. While I’m listening to the sound of rifles and running deer hooves, I’m reminded of a few of my own misplaced “heart” occasions. 

Once upon a time, a mild mannered man whom I had seen and oftentimes talked with at the gym asked me to attend a concert with him. He was somewhat shy, charming, and courtly so I said yes. Later, not clear on what kind of concert we were to attend, whether at the music center or at a rock jam, but believing the genial gentleman to be of a more bashful nature, a more conservative venue was probably in the forecast.  I settled on an understated black pants suit, thinking I would be ready for anything in that outfit. I was terribly wrong. He arrived at the agreed upon time, dressed elegantly in a jacket and tie, and then took me to a Jesus concert, where we spent the evening chanting great vocal Hallelujahs. 

I was only slightly more nervous when a co-worker suggested an evening with a newly divorced old friend who taught high school history. I reiterated some of my more tragic dates, including the Jesus concert story. She assured me that nothing of that nature would occur. He was agnostic, articulate, and well traveled. We met at a local bistro. True to her words, he was a pleasant enough man, well spoken, affable, and well mannered. Throughout the dinner, though, he kept quoting his "mama", which was only slightly tiresome, but did so in her native German language, which was extremely tiresome.  After a long long while, I suggested he stop quoting his German mama or I would be forced to respond with a few of my mama’s well chosen Italian quotes. I understood clearly why this man was divorced. 

Daunted, I was nonetheless game to go out with the engineer from our twice weekly hiking group who had suggested an outdoor jazz concert in Pasadena. An excellent choice. He called 20 minutes before his scheduled arrival time to say he would be ten minutes late, which was very considerate, until I realized that ten minutes translated to an hour later. Evidently, he had had his new Escalade washed to impress me. I was not impressed, particularly when he appeared wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and enough Navajo turquoise jewelry to fund the restoration of the entire nation’s beaded moccasins. We traveled to Pasadena, during which time he allowed as to how it was too late to attend the concert; he didn’t want to pay full price for a small portion of the show and suggested we ought to just “grab a bite” and wander around Old Town. Mildly disappointed, since jazz is one of my favorite music genres, I steered him to the usual parking lot I frequented when visiting the Old Town area, but he “was not about to pay to park” so we drove around and around town. Now I was mildly irritated. It was summer. Pasadena is a huge tourist area, there was no free street parking in the entire city, and he was not about to squeeze an Escalade into any tiny space. Another 45 minutes later (surely the gas expended equaled the cost of parking), we parked at the outer edge of town. I was not wearing walking shoes and I was hungry, not to mention cranky and more than slightly annoyed that this cheapskate would not spring six crummy dollars for parking.  Every maitre d’ told us the wait was at least 45-60 minutes. Now I was low on blood sugar, really ticked off and determined that somehow this stingy bastard was going to pay for my pain. Luckily, we entered a little Italian bistro just as one couple left and grabbed their seats. I perused the wine list only to be told that he preferred a glass of beer.  Beer . . in an Italian restaurant. That was the last straw. I ordered the most expensive glass of wine and took two sips. Then I ordered the most expensive appetizer and took two bites. Then I ordered the most expensive main dish and ate two bites. And then I ordered the most expensive dessert but only took one bite before I remembered that I was dieting. He didn't return for a second date and kept a wide berth during our group hikes. 

And just as I returned to my previously settled upon single life, convent / retirement plan, my two ‘bestie’ girlfriends talked me into one more date. They had found love, their daughters had found love, their fathers had found love, all on the same dating web site. One more date, one more time, one more wasted evening, just once more into the breach they pleaded, even after hearing my regrettable dating sagas.  I asked them, I asked the cleaning lady, I asked the pharmacist, I asked the cosmos, “How hard could it be to find a man who’s (a) intelligent (b) possessed of a sense of humor, and (c) kind.” That was all I wanted, just three little things in a man. I was patient. It wasn’t much to ask I thought, but for 50 years I had asked, until. . . finally. . . Scott stood at the door; my prayers were answered. The long and winding road that led to his door. May it never disappear. 

Columbus Day - Italian American Quiz

Through the power of the Roman Republic, Latin became the dominant language, initially in Italy and subsequently throughout the Roman Empire.

Colloquially referred to as the “New World” this second super continent came to be termed “America”, deriving its name from the Latin “Americus”. This country was discovered by an Italian, named after another Italian, and has been populated by Italians ever since, so let's see how much we know about our Italian neighbors.

Question 1: Match the first and last names of these famous figures:

1	Al                  (hint: actor)	A	Alighieri
2	Benito           (hint: made sure the trains ran on time)	B	Buonarroti
3	Dante            (hint: wrote a few books)	C	da Urbino
4	Enrico           (hint: created the first nuclear reactor)	D	De Niro
5	Guglielmo      (hint: turned on the radio)	E	DiMaggio
6	Guiseppe       (hint: wrote a few “musicals”)	F	Fermi
7	Joe                 (hint: married Marilyn Monroe)	G	Leone
8	Michelangelo  (hint: worked in marble)	H	Lombardi
9	Raphael          (hint: painter)	I	Marconi
10	Robert             (hint: actor)	J	Mussolini
11	Sergio            (hint: spaghetti westerns)	K	Pacino
12	Vince             (hint: Green Bay Packers)	L	Verdi

Question 2: America was named after:
(A) Americo Boschetti  (B) Amerigo Vespucci  (C) Amicus Curiae

Question 3: The restoration of the Statue of Liberty for the Bicentennial was orchestrated by:
(A) John DeLorean  (B) Dino deLaurentis  (C) Lee Iacocca

Question 4: Which SCOTUS justice is of Italian heritage: ____________ (there were two, but Justice Scalia passed away)

Question 5:  A.P. Giannini began the Bank of Italy. What is its name today:_____________________

Question 6: (trick question - read carefully) Which of these great car names is not of Italian origin:
(A) Alfa Romero (B) Ferrari (C) Lamborghini (D) Maserati (E) Prius (F) none (G) all

Question 7: During WWII, which of these ethnic groups were interred in prison camps throughout the United States:
(A) Germans (B) Italians (C) Japanese (D) all three


Question 8: Match their Birth names with their celebrity names:

1	Anne Bancroft	A	Antonio Benedetto
2	Tony Bennett	B	Louise Ciccone
3	Vic Damone	C	Dino Paolo Crocetti
4	Lady Gaga	D	Vito Rocco Farinola
5	Frankie Laine	E	Stefani Angelina Germanotta
6	Sophia Loren	F	Anna Maria Louisa Italiano
7	Madonna	G	Francesco Paolo LoVecchio
8	Dean Martin	H	Sofia Villani Scicolone

Answers:
Q1: 1K, 2J, 3A, 4F, 5I, 6L, 7E, 8B, 9C, 10D, 11G, 12H
Q2: B;  Q3: C;  Q4: Alito;  Q5: Bank of America;  Q6: all;  Q7: D;
Q8: 1F;  2A;  3D;  4E;  5G;  6H;  7B;  8C

Buona Fortuna if you got them all right. If not, go down to the corner and pick up a pizza, listen to the guy behind the counter and learn something.

Old Songs

Old songs, like kitchen fragrances, can deliver us back through time. The song that still can  transport me is Sleepwalk, played by Santo and Johnny. I was in the 8th grade, a skinny, gangly 12 year old. Girls’ gym classes in those days included dance lessons. After a year of dance classes that introduced us to folk dances, country reels, and more contemporary steps such as the cha cha cha, the school held a tea dance. That long ago afternoon, Wayne Smith crossed that huge gym floor, smiled apprehensively and asked me to dance. He was wearing a plaid shirt, cute in a comfortably burly way; what my girlfriends call fuzzy, and it was easy to tell that he would grow up to be a big, handsome and strong man, he already had broad shoulders. It was the first time I danced with a boy and I was dizzy with excitement, not to mention fear of failure. What if I stepped on his toes? What if everyone  was watching? I tentatively stepped into his arms, and he led me around the gym floor. He had learned his steps well and was light on his feet. Only after the song was over, and he had walked me back to my chair did I breathe again, blush and think to say thank you. We never danced again, and as is the want of young adolescents, I don’t think I ever talked with him again; I was too shy, but I never forgot him or the song from that sweet and memorable afternoon.  

And along with those old haunting songs, there are the other songs; the songs of summer. Summer songs are like Christmas carols, only more enduring, evoking memories of long sunny days that began sooner and ended later, of beach parties, backyard BBQs, boardwalk bicycling, amusement park rides, weekends at the cottage, big convertible cars, suntan lotion, beach sand, and of course pretty girls slyly watching boys watching girls watching boys walking by; all the while not appreciating the power of our own youth and beauty.   

I lived in a California beach town during the early ’70's, oftentimes rising early on Saturday mornings to ride my bicycle along the strand, hoping for a small smattering of solitude before the tourists sullied the sun bleached boards. The sky was blue, matching the equally calm and blue water, the salt air was fresh, sea gulls hung in the air. Inevitably, I wasn’t alone. The summer rental college kids already were out playing beach basketball; music blasted from their  strategically placed speakers, and the smell of cocoanut scented suntan lotion drifted on the breezes. I would hear snippets as I rode by, but I would slow down just a bit when I heard some of my favorite Rascal tunes: A Beautiful Morning, A Girl Like You, and Groovin’. During the day the songs of summer included bright and peppy melodies and silly lyrics, whether it was Nat King Cole’s Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer or the Beach Boys’ Little Old Lady from Pasadena. The tunes were melodic and hummable, the lyrics then were repeatable to parents. As the day passed, long haired leggy lovelies, with burnished skin, moseyed along the beach, licking ice cream cones while listening to more favorites: Heat Wave by Martha and the Vandellas; In the Summertime, by Mungo Jerry; Hot Fun in the Summertime, by Sly & The Family Stone, and mulled over the evening’s entertainment options. We had great music, big cars and still had a few drive-ins, although submarine races were taking over. Life was perfect.

As the sun’s rays diminished, when the sea and sky had morphed into the same pale grey, a vague wistful melancholy seemed to hang in the air; the blue hour arrived. We washed the sand and lotion from our bodies.  DJs would change the musical tempo, playing a paean to the day passed:  A Summer Song, by Chad & Jeremy; Summer Breeze, by Seals & Croft; Sealed With A Kiss, by Brian Hyland. And every once in a while, there it was: Sleepwalk. 

Late in the evening, long after the last rays of sunshine had left the sky, more romantic songs evoked cool island evenings, colored drinks with pretty umbrellas, soft breezes, full moons on the waters and fireflies dancing in the dark: Sentimental Lady, by Fleetwood Mac;  Memories, by Elvis Presley; Theme from A Summer Place; I’ll Remember You, by Don Ho; and my sentimental, most romantic favorite: True Love Ways, by Buddy Holly.

In old age, songs are the smiling ghosts that come after summer’s laughter. So glad to have heard them, so glad to have had them. 

Hairy Tales

While watching a movie about life through the lens of a barber shop last week, I thought about our local beauty salon and the unfolding of life stories within its curled and dyed walls. Our little village boasts a beauty salon, not a hairdressing studio, not a gender neutral barbershop or anything of that ilk, but a genuine beauty salon. A hag walks in, a beauty walks out.  The operator of the salon, a life long resident of the area and high school graduate, along with beauty tips, freely dispenses her own brand of folksy wisdom to all who walk through her doors.  

During one particular visit that began with a tirade regarding the current state of the movie and TV industry, she talked about watching a sci-fi flick with her son and remarked that all the shows about the worlds of the future were so desolate and uncompromising. Not one movie or TV series portrayed a better world than the one in which we are currently living. In the future, apparently, universal shortages of life necessities abound, everyone will try to kill off everyone else just to have enough food to stay alive. 

“Life is not better in the future; this ‘here and now’ is the best that life will ever be. Nothing good will happen in the future. It will just get worse and worse”. 

She had a point. Even Lost in Space didn’t have good cell phone reception. I nodded quietly and humbly agreed while she melodramatically emoted and snipped close to my jugular. However, while driving home and pondering her words, I gave fruit to her cautionary tale. Mankind’s life has not improved over the years. The post war generation had the best that life had to offer, but for the next generation, the future is somewhat more dire and bleak. Fortunately, as I like to point out to my husband, we are old and won’t be around to see this godforsaken destiny coming. 

Another visit found her exasperated with a customer who had just left. Apparently the hapless woman was without relatives so her dogs had become her life loves and companions. And, to ensure that the dogs would likewise think of her as part of their family, the woman purchased the same color contact lenses as the dogs’ eyes. Her reasoning was that the dogs would look up at her, see a more familial face and perceive the ancestral connection. Our hairdresser pointed out the absurdity of this situation, because dogs are color blind.

My neighbor in the seat next to me was irritated to discover that her granddaughter, who is in college but working at a local eatery during the summer, and sharing grandma’s beach house, had been inviting her friends over when grandma was gone and partaking freely from the liquor cabinet, then topping off the liquor bottles with water so that grandma wouldn't notice that her liquor supply was evaporating. Of course, once grandma poured herself a stiff one, only to discover that the expected kick was only a light tap, realized what was going on and confronted her granddaughter, who denied everything, had no knowledge of anything to do with liquor and wouldn’t dream of betraying her grandmother in such a  manner. Granddaughter is also going to law school and, as we all know, the first tenet of law is deny, deny, deny. 

Not to be outdone, I included the story of the local handyman around town. He is very good at repairs; medium and small appliances and equally expert with other, more personal,  handyman chores, including, ahem, servicing some of the lonely ladies. These happy endings ended for a few unfortunate reasons: (1) he is/was married, and (2) one of the grateful ladies gifted him with the clap. What followed was equally unfortunate: after revealing his little malady to his wife and confessing how it happened, she (1) visited her doctor, and (2) visited her lawyer. The unfortunate handyman now is single with no happy ending in sight. Since the town learned the story, because the soon to be ex-wife told everyone the story, people clap their hands together when speaking his name.  Ah, but the hairdresser knew the story and knew a few ‘victims’. Evidently his ‘cheer’ had spread far and wide. Yet another cautionary tale learned at the beauty salon. 

And on the 4th of July

We started the evening early on the shores of the Miles River, at the Maritime Museum, under a clear blue sky with only a few thin horsetail clouds.  Surprisingly, for a long summer’s day, there was no humidity, and only a slight breeze to rustle the leaves in the overhead trees that provided dappled sunlight to those of us wandering about below. 

We arrived, laden with provisions, and selected the perfect spot to listen to the Shades of Blue orchestra play tunes from the 40’s and 50’s. The twenty piece band fit inside the old  white wood gazebo. On the grass next to it a temporary dance floor and tent had been set up for the evening and, while music wafted through the air, couples danced, undoubtedly remembering the first time they heard songs like String of Pearls, It’s a Wonderful World, and That Summer.  

We sat comfortably in fold out seats, surrounded by our hampers, pulling out wine and dining elegantly on cheeses, guacamole, chicken salad, all the picnic foods that make such an evening so perfect. As we ate, we watched other people dancing or sitting in little circles, like us, chatting amiably with friends, while their children and grandchildren delightedly scurried after fireflies in the early dusk; little boys in shorts and tee shirts threw beach balls at each other, little girls danced to the music in their fairy costumes, while parents stood patiently in long lines waiting for their turn to buy ice cream and hot dogs. Looking around at the relaxed adults and happy children, it could have been 1850 or 1950 or 2016; the setting was timeless. After we were done with our goodies, we moseyed around the park, meeting up with friends, chatting contentedly about the weather, the music and all and nothing of real consequence, only luxuriating in the peace and serenity of the evening, all the while leaving our hampers of leftover foods and wine unattended. Over an hour later we returned to our seats, everything exactly as was left it. 

After the sun departed the sky, the fireworks began. We moved our seats to the deck for a better look.  The clear view of the calm water provided a perfect reflection of the show that lit up the skies. We unabashedly clapped and cheered, oohed and aahed, at the colorful extravaganza. Several boats were bobbing in the nearby harbor, likewise tooting their horns in appreciation. Fireworks are the only thing I can think of that has improved over the years.  Can there be any joy greater than watching a small child’s excited eyes fill with wonder as fireworks explode overhead. Happy 4th.

The Harry Potter Dream

I read all the books, watched all the movies and now I was living the 21st century  Wizarding World of Harry Potter dream. I was delighted that I could laugh at the wonder of audio animatronics (aka robots, to those of us over 60): the elves at Gringott’s Bank were amazing; the toy snakes and owls, that could look and move as realistically as their real life counterparts; the magic mirror that could answer specific questions; the three storey high dragon that spewed flames; the magical knitting needles; the self-stirring cauldrons; and especially the signs, proclaiming Ollivanders - Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC, Mrs. Skower’s Magical Mess Remover, the Society for the Reformation of Hags, House-Elf Placement Agency. Inside this little old lady still beats a young girl’s heart that fills with mirth and joy. 

I was giddy with delight over the craftmanship involved with the settings, but every so often I was disappointed with myself when I realized that while I was thoroughly enjoying the street shops and rides I found myself analyzing how the special effects were created. What is wrong with me. Reality ought not to rear its ugly head in the midst of all this imagination. At Kings Cross station 9-3/4 a hologram accomplished the effect of running through the wall. The interactive wand, that allowed muggles to perform magical feats, relied on hidden laser beams. I had to stop myself. 

By the way, am I the last person in the world to realize that Diagon Alley is Rowling’s spelling of diagonally. What else don’t I know. I may have to read those books again.  

While we wandered around, I remembered times, long ago, attending the annual summer fair. We were overjoyed at the exotic taste of cotton candy and caramel popcorn. Was there anything to rival the taste of funnel cakes. Here, we imbibed in warm butter beer at the Leaky Cauldron. The heady aroma of butterscotch was intoxicating, albeit it would have been even more perfectly intoxicating with an adult dose of rum (just an observation). We partook of the exploding bonbons and purchased a package of Bertie Bott’s all flavor jelly beans, although I’m still nervous to try one, recalling Dumbledore’s experiences with flavors that included earwax and snot. 

We were charmed by the young boys and girls who were carrying magic wands and wearing black hooded robes, like Harry and Hermione wore at school, but it was creepy to see young male adults wearing them. The cutoff age ought to be ten, no good could come of 20 year old males wearing those robes; even Harry left school and put the robes away before age 18. 

When a visit to the ladies room was warranted, we listened to Moaning Myrtle, which made the time waiting a complete delight, not to mention, speaking of moaning, relief after the long line to enter. 

Last, in the land of Spanish moss, we learned that Spanish moss is neither Spanish nor moss. Instead, it is an air fern that carries jigger bugs, essentially tiny sand fleas. In the interest of recycling, Henry Ford thought the moss could be used as padding in car seats in lieu of horse hair, not knowing that the moss carried those tiny biting bugs. It was the first car recall in history. 

The Last of the Snow Stories

Determined to collect the mail after “the blizzard of ‘016”, I pulled on my fleece lined snow boots, donned my perky new purple wool hat and cloaked myself in an oversize full length fur coat. I was ready! I marched out the front door, ready to do battle with the elements, and promptly found myself calf deep in snow. "Oh!" Scott watched, indoors, warm, amused. Undaunted, unfazed, intrepid, my razor sharp memory recalled the answer to my dilemma. In the closet, still in the box, my brand new light weight solid aluminum LL Bean snow shoes were awaiting their maiden voyage. Victory was mine. I slipped them on over my boots and plodded out to the road. I smiled smugly, my cheeks cherry red against the white snow. I felt like an extra in Dr. Zhivago, even looked like one. Crunch, crunch, crunch, all the way to the post box. Only to find that no mail had been delivered the previous day. Apparently the mail does not go through in sleet, or hail, or foul weather. When I called the post office to inquire about delivery, I was told, somewhat sarcastically, I thought: “There was a blizzard, you know.”  

Later, in the peace of the white out aftermath, while driving through the snow laden driveway, I spotted a deer sitting on the lawn. The deer watched me run the car around the circular drive but made no effort to move. Kind creature that I am, I demanded that Scott shoot the damn thing, otherwise it would chew on what was left of my azaleas and roses. And Scott, card carrying NRA member that he is, marched outside, ready to do battle, not with a gun or rifle, but with two pot lids and banged them together for noise. He can happily shoot an intruder but, apparently, cannot harm a helpless animal. The deer looked at him, then hobbled itself up and attempted to wobble away.  While we both can shoo away a perfectly healthy deer, an animal in distress is another matter, and this deer appeared to be in terrible pain. Its back was broken. It was cruel to leave it in the woods. We couldn’t watch while Ken went out and shot the poor animal. He returned to tell us that the animal had died instantly. Darkness was falling when I called Joe, whose family and friends enjoy deer meat, to come and collect the carcass.  Since neither Scott nor I knew exactly where the deer’s body had fallen, we all donned our coats, called a few friends, turned on our flashlights and walked into the woods.  The wind had come up and whistled through the trees as evening approached. I felt a horror movie coming on. I tripped on a berm and knew it was a human body (it wasn't). I made out a fallen tree and knew it was the deer (it wasn’t). I heard a crackling noise in the woods and knew that an overly large wolf was sizing me up for a late night snack (it wasn't). The various disembodied flashlights casting eerie lights through the woods didn’t do much to alleviate my fears. Was Artemis, the god of all wild animals, ready to pounce on me for killing one of his own (he wasn't). A strong imagination may be a shame to waste, but mine had folded in on itself. I’ve seen enough Stephen King novels to anticipate how this would end (I didn't).  The deer carcass was retrieved, our friends went home, we went back to the house. The end. 

Snowmagedden

Yep, old timers hanging around the pickle barrel at the local fish and tackle will remember the “great storm of ‘015” and will recount how the snow drifts were “as high as yer arm pits”; the relentless, never ending snow that felled trees and caused street side mail boxes to disappear under its shroud. “Why, even Broadway’s theaters closed down, can you imagine that, by cracky”. Martial law went into effect in NYC; only way to get the cars off the road so that the snow plows could do their work.  And yet it wasn’t the worst blizzard. NYC's biggest snowfall on record hit on Feb. 11, 2006, dumping 26.9 inches of powder on the city over two days. The second largest blizzard killed at least 77 people when it struck and dropped 25.8 inches on Dec. 26, 1947. But enough about the Big Apple, here, south of the Mason Dixon Line, life is more genteel. Our snow would never dream of such rudeness. It is quiet and elegant, gently falling. We stopped at 23 inches. 

For us, real life started with the cute Campbell’s soup commercial. Mom was cruising the aisles, two children in tow, dropping soups into her cart while the PA system announced that “the snow was expected to fall for the next 24 hours; white out conditions, schools will be closed” at which point mom picked up a bottle of wine -- presumably to go with the soup.  We decided to follow her lead. After picking up a case of wine and a few bottles of scotch, our attention turned to food, firewood, full tanks of gas, batteries for flashlights, and a fired up generator. We were ready, bring it on, and then, and then, nothing big happened. Well, it snowed and kept on snowing, but while the D.C. and Baltimore news reports showed snow blowing sideways; gale force winds and a relentless blizzard taking place on the western shore, not much was going on here on the eastern shore. I vaguely felt left out, but this morning we woke up to find that it had snowed all night, and that various landmarks had disappeared under the snow. The pool is gone as is the walkway to the dock. There are little snow mounds where bushes previously sat. I'm sitting in the kitchen waiting to see if any geese or ducks bounce off the cove’s frozen waters. I can hear it now: Head duck to duck party: "Coming in for a landing, boing boing boing, uh, trying again further south, keep flapping those wings". I'm quite taken, though, by a small bush on the other side of the pool fence; its little red berries are shining through all the white. It's the only color anywhere. Our little bush lives in hope. 

Our cats are fascinated by the changes; they’ve sat on various window ledges for hours, stoically staring out the windows, waiting for some entertainment that does not appear to be arriving. And, while nothing tragic occurred at our home; no loss of electricity, not even loss of internet, the fire glowed in the fireplace all evening, our down blanket kept us warm through the dark night and the coffee pot percolated this morning, I am grateful that no tragedies occurred at our home. The radio scanner tells about various tragedies that occurred during the night; other homes that caught fire, homes without electricity, downed power lines, car accidents, people stuck in their cars for hours, snow drifts and even fallen animals that needed to be rescued from the icy waters. I am grateful too for the hundreds of unsung heroes -- those men and women who left their own homes and families to take care of others in need. Thank you.

New York State of Mind

There is something about New York City that makes me smile, makes me behave more kindly and more gracious but, alas, it also brings out my best alpha and my best sense of entitlement. I may be a little old white lady but when a young babe in high heels tried to out maneuver me for a cab, I jumped in her way, we hopped in and I peeped “age before beauty”, as we sped away. Comfortably ensconced inside, Scott then murmured that she was out there first. What? I hadn’t seen her, and when I admonished him for not having said something earlier, he replied “I didn’t see how that would benefit me”. That NY state of mind appears to run majestically through both Hamilton’s veins. 

Trains are wondrous means of transportation, as are the Redcaps, harkening back to the old days of elegant travel in Pullmans and sleeping compartments. We found train travel much to our liking; big padded seats, lots of leg room, free wifi, quiet cars, and no TSA. The train brought us right to Penn Station in the heart of the city. Once we walked onto the platform, however, I felt like Wilma Flintstone, staring open eyed at all the Jetsons flying by. In a blink, big city girl mode kicked in. I waved a bill that quickly brought a Redcap to deal with our luggage and hail us a cab. 

It was raining and naturally our umbrellas were in our suitcases. An intrepid young man was selling umbrellas of suspect origin for $10. I offered five and walked away with an umbrella. We later met up with my brother who sported a similar umbrella that he had picked up on the street for free.  Later still I saw them at the market in Gramercy Park for $3. I love New York. 

We stayed at the Hotel Elysee on East 54th, one of the many elegant little boutique hotels that dot the town. I had suggested a more modest hotel for my brother a block away on 55th. Unfortunately I had not paid close enough attention so while we were technically a block away, we were on east 54th but he was on west 55th.  

We took in a couple of Broadway plays, then while enjoying a late night snack at the Monkey Bar restaurant one evening, my brother noticed a familiar looking man sitting at a nearby table. It took a couple of covert peeks to realize the familiar face belonged to  Harvey Weinstein. The young lady with him bore no resemblance to his current wife. My brother leaned in, winked and knowingly whispered “his niece”.  For the rest of the trip, every time he appeared in the lobby to retrieve us my brother would have the front desk announce that Harvey Weinstein was in the lobby. 

We walked from our hotel to Fifth Avenue, leisurely strolled past the windows, all dressed up for Christmas. Although the building is now empty, I pointed it out to my brother, telling him how at one time it was the FAO Schwartz store and in December it had a big red ribbon and bow wrapped around its outer walls. Later we walked down to 34th Street to the original Macys. While the first two floors are modern, the upper floors still look like they did in the 1940s, complete with wooden escalators; the grand old stores in the old days. For me,  these are the good old days, sauntering through the best city with my two best men at the best time of year. Merry Christmas.