Happy Thanksgiving America

Nothing says Thanksgiving like peeling onions at 8 am., which made me wonder, do other countries celebrate Thanksgiving the way the U.S. does? What is T-Day about, really. It appears to be an annual holiday that exists only to sanctify overeating at the dining room table across from people with whom people are related but with whom they are not too friendly and who then have the audacity to root for the wrong football team.

Canada celebrates Thanksgiving in October. It’s a small one day family event. People give thanks for the harvest; nothing to do with pilgrims, maize or Indians,  but simply to be grateful that the latest harvest reaped enough food to carry the good folk through the coming winter.  Germany, apparently, has a similar harvest festival, likewise celebrated in October. Japan has an ancient shinto holiday to celebrate the harvest, but also has a legal holiday that was adopted during the American occupation after World War II (speaking of roots). Other European countries have similar harvest holidays but nothing compared to the four day U.S. extravaganza that includes Black Friday, mega-movie debuts, or travel discounts for weary passengers.

Both of my parents were born and raised in Italy. Their families ventured to the new country while they were still children, escaping the distressing after effects of WW1, and living quietly in rural areas, surrounded by other immigrants of similar ethnic backgrounds. They grew up, married and moved to the big city for business opportunities but still found their compatriots through church, and kept the memories of their roots alive. While dad went about growing his business mom stayed home, as did all the other moms, who would get together regularly to exchange recipes and discuss other important matters, such as “Do you think she dyes her hair; you know she’s a di-vor-cee”. Otherwise, they maintained their traditions but depended on the next generation, us, to deliver messages from school and friends and to teach them about an alternate reality, aka the ‘outside world’. True to our important responsibilities, one year, excitedly, we came home to tell the parents all about this Thanksgiving holiday. While they listened patiently, as they did to every new fangled idea we came home with, we explained how a big feast took place with lots of food and relatives seated around the dining room table. Mom looked at us quizzically and asked “like on Sundays, when everyone comes over for lunch after church?” Oh yeah. Pretty much, except with something called gravy instead of tomato sauce.

That was then. Mom’s kitchen klatches are long over. Everyone has grown up and moved away with families of their own, but the holidays remain the same. Relatives and friends abound, green bean casseroles with onion rings now make their way to the table and turkeys come out of the oven, filling the house with familiar aromas. Dogs lick the stuffing when no one is looking, grandma complains that she’s old and ignored and we will be sorry when she is not here next year, someone drops the cranberry sauce on the rug; a memento stain for years to come, and raucous screams over the illegal pass will be argued about the rest of the afternoon. Thank you, America. Happy Thanksgiving.

TV Ads

Now that the political season is over, we can return to our regularly scheduled prescription drug ads. There’s a host of maladies out there of which I was not aware, but thanks to the drug ads that discuss “non-small cell ace bandage drug inhibitor” a patient can now speak intelligently with the oncologist and tell the doc what drug is best for that patient's ailment. Really? Would a smart person really tell a doctor who studied medicine, specialized in oncology to help a patient stay alive; would a rational person really tell the doc that a TV ad that said “drug A” is best, tell the doc to prescribe that drug. Fools may, but I would do as I was told. I like life. 

And those political bashing ads: “He/she’s a professional politician, while I am an honest business man/woman”. . . who wants to become a  professional politician like the current opponent. 

We don’t see those bashing ads in any other brand so why do the political swamis say this is the way to go. I agree with Jim Mullen. Coca-Cola doesn’t bash Pepsi-Cola because, really, what is to be said: “our highly sugared chemically colored and carbonated beverage will make you fatter and give you a better quality of diabetes and other health care problems than our competitor”? No. Instead, bright shining faces want to give the world a coke to make it happy so that it can live in perfect harmony, yes they do. If politicians were smart, they would just hand out Coca-Cola to everyone. 

United Airlines doesn’t promote the fact that they have had fewer crashes than American Airlines (don’t know if that’s true, just saying). The airlines don’t bash each other; they just talk about how great it is to arrive at a certain destination. The opening scenes of Love Actually show hundreds of people at the airport hugging and kissing each other upon arrival, some crying with happiness; best airline ad ever. No longer, though, do we hear that getting there is half the fun. It is only fun if the individual sitting in one of those tiny little seats weighs 80 pounds and believes that a 2 oz bag of peanuts will suffice as a meal. I’m speaking, of course, of the emotional support monkey. All passengers ought to be handed a can of Crisco when boarding. 

The Hershey kisses ad that shows various holiday colored kisses jumping and ringing while bells play to the tune of “we wish you a merry Christmas” has been running since 1989. Doesn’t that little kisses commercial make you happy? Who doesn’t smile to see the ubiquitous Hershey kiss, whether you eat the things or not. And those beautiful Clydesdale horses jingling through the moonlit evening snow towing a tree toward a cozy and bright winter home, while a tiny xylophone quietly and slowly  tinkles “I’ll be home for Christmas”; doesn’t that commercial warm your cold heart, whether you drink beer or not. Those ads make you happy, warm and fuzzy; you feel better after watching them cross your screen. Why can't politicians put out ads like that? President Roosevelt held fireside chats. Can't you just see him sitting in a rocking chair, wearing a wool cardigan, while the fire crackles in the background. We knew the world was safe then, never mind the reality of the depression and the war. He said we have nothing to fear but fear itself and it was so.

Wouldn’t it be nice if a politician stood up in an ad and said “vote for me, I will make your life better and you will feel happier”. No need to mention the opponent. Please. More kisses and fewer illicit affairs. We know that none of the commercials are true, but we don’t mind watching them. 

Perspective, on reaching the 70s

The dictionary defines perspective as “a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something; a point of view.  A true understanding of the relative importance of things; a sense of proportion”.

It’s another way of saying that, as the 70s comes barreling down the corridor, I’m not so much concerned about purchasing a new sturdy sofa with the idea that it will last twenty years since the odds are that I will not last that long. A certain age gives one a new sense of freedom and perspective. Children live in the moment and, more and more, the thought appeals to me too. I eat more ice cream, stay up later, hang out in my bathrobe longer and I don’t just smell the flowers, I cut them and bring them into the house.

Another change in perspective has to do with my looks. At one time I was considered very good looking. I was a traffic stopper. Now the compliment that most often comes to people’s lips is that I am “looking good”, which translates to “look at you, still standing”.  I don’t so much stop traffic with my looks as I do with my slow shuffle across the street. Motorists wait patiently for the old lady to make it across the road,  and still stopping traffic.

Speaking of visuals, the cataract surgery, a few months ago, that promised improved vision, did just that. One moment life was a fuzzy blur, a Monet painting, now Raphaella Spence, with her crystal clear photorealistic artwork, comes to mind. This is the first time since I was 12 years old that I have perfect 20-20 vision and no longer need glasses or contact lenses. Still, I wonder why I did it. I can now see more acutely the fine wrinkles on my face. Hm, when did that forehead line arrive? And the white hair halo that appears when I am late to the hairdresser.  At one time I sported a luxurious mane. Time passed and there was talk of salt and pepper hair. Now my hair is more salt than pepper. When did pepper leave the building. There isn’t as much hair either. I can see now the rose colored glasses approach had some merit, cataract surgery be damned.

Like others my age, I don’t care so much about what is going on in the big wide world. Perspective again. I am only concerned with peace in my little corner of it. At one time, yes, passions flew; everything was black or white, right or wrong, true or false. Those extremes have long since been traded for tranquility: with a lot more grey between the black and white, right sometimes is more what is left than what is right and is all that news really true. At one time I had all the answers, today some of the questions are in doubt. Does it really matter?

I am told that people of an age become more mellow or more cantankerous as the years pass. I suppose it has to do with a life well lived, or not.  Fortunately, I think of myself in the former group. I laugh a lot, which perhaps may have to do with the onset of dementia, but I’m happy.

The other good thing about aging is that no one messes with an old lady. A grand old lady has gravitas; a solemnity of manner. A stern look down my aquiline nose can wither anyone under 40. I hold no truck with unauthorized questioning from whippersnappers. And, always to my utter astonishment, I get away with it.

Thinking on it, how many moments can I have left, when more than half of my old friends are already dead. I learned that there are only four ways to die: murder, suicide, accident or illness. Some friends dealt with horrible illnesses, while a couple of them took themselves out. The reason for doing so doesn’t matter. Maybe they just felt that it was time to leave. Anthony Boudain, for instance, had traveled the world, written a few well received books, met everyone who was anyone, ate in exotic locales, stayed in grand hotels, lived a full and very interesting life. What was left but more of the same; maybe he just was done. Last year a dear friend decided that she had had enough; dementia was setting in, so she literally willed herself to die.  She was done with this world. There are others who would disagree, of course. Someone said that if life was so bad for a person to consider suicide, then that was the time to hang around, because life could only get better. Perspective again; how much is too much, how much is enough.

My last bit of perspective on life? The world is no longer ours; the moment has passed. Life belongs to the next generation. Good luck.

Born on the 4th of July

Here I sit, a few days away from my 70th birthday, impressed with myself for having reached this age and still able to feed myself. Looking back, there are certain memorable birthday years: my 21st birthday was celebrated by many friends who managed to make it a month long event. My first birthday as a married lady; my husband had created a very intricate scavenger hunt for my present. Numerous other years came and went, always with fireworks, not especially for me but I liked to think so anyway. I remember my last birthday in California. I was 53 that day.

My day began very early since my mother seemingly could not comprehend that if it was 9 am on the east coast, it was 6 am on the west coast. She wanted to be the first to wish me happy birthday. Time zones mean nothing to a woman whose first vision of America as an eight year old child was passing the Statue of Liberty and working her way through the maze of Ellis Island. That’s what freedom and America are all about, and I am sure that’s why she had me on the 4th, even though this is not her native country; this great country, this great big country, with three different time zones. That said, it is not enough that she brought me into this world, but at 6 am I had the distinct impression that she was trying to take me out.

To make matters worse, I had a bit of a thumper headache due to the previous evening’s events. I had attended the Hollywood Bowl pre July 4th concert with half a dozen friends. It was a very relaxed California weather evening, that is to say there was no humidity or mosquitos, only a soft breeze and a clear sky that held the full moon. We sat in our private box dining, drinking, listening to Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture while oohing and aahing the fireworks at evening’s end. There was an awkward moment, earlier, while enjoying highlights from Porgy and Bess, when one of the younger members of our group turned to me and asked from which movie Summertime was from; movie? After a short introductory pep talk about American opera, the theme of the evening, peace was restored, somewhat (was I that old? was she that young?).  We went back to tapping our toes and sipping our wine under a warm summer sky.

In any event, that was last night, this was this morning; more phone calls ensued and I was up for the day. I packed and headed for Manhattan Beach where I was meeting more friends for another day of sunbathing, dining, drinking and oohing and aahing the fireworks. One girlfriend and I took a stroll along the strand. We had both lived in the rafting beach towns during our youth. Now, 25 years later, it warmed my heart to see that the kids were still the same: young, long haired, beautifully healthy, suntanned (they’ll pay for that later), irresponsibly drinking too much and still singing their own a cappella version of the Rascals’  “It’s a beautiful morning”.

Upon returning to our self-described “young seniors” groups, safely ensconced under a large parachute canopy, extra sun umbrellas, beach chairs, and gallons of suntan lotion, we partook, in celebration of this great American holiday, of English lemonade and Boodles gin, margaritas, tacquitos, enchilladas, Spanish rice, cerviche, Bavarian creme, German chocolate cake and Aussie and Italian wines discretely decanted into Coleman coolers since drinking on the beach was not allowed by anyone over 50. What a great country!

Another girlfriend and I were idly enjoying the young male eye candy playing volleyball nearby. Our conversation oftentimes stopped abruptly, an occasional eyebrow was raised when an intricate lob was executed and young male muscles rippled accordingly. It was summertime and the ‘young senior’ mind ought to be forgiven if it should wander, under the guise of some sort of heat-sun spell, along other miscreant lines. A young man jogged over to retrieve an errant volleyball. His oh so low bathing trunk hung precariously on his oh so narrow hips and when he bent over, oh mon dieu, my friend fell backwards on her sand chair during her attempt to covertly admire this oh so handsome and ever out of reach young sun god. Of course it was impossible to explain to her loyal faithful age appropriate husband how and why it was that she had managed to tip herself over, but she knew, and I knew, and she knew that I knew, and we both knew that our secret would die with our giggles even while her husband helped her back into her chair.

The day progressed. Another two couples joined us. One man had a long tape bandage across his knee, the remnant of a recent surgery on his knee joint. After a long and much too comprehensive explanation, I remarked that I was glad that all my joints were still fine. One lady, who was not privy to the entire conversation, but only scattered remarks about joints, remarked:
“Linda, you’ve got joints?”
“Yes”, I replied “and they’re all good.”
“Are they cheap?” she asked.
“What. Joints? What? What are you talking about?” How could she not have taken my meaning? I wasn’t talking about cheap dive bars. I was talking about knee joints.
“No. Joints, as in tokes, reefers, fatties”.
I was struck dumb. No easy feat. At that moment, I realized that my advanced years had stopped being a joke when the definition of smokable grass was not even on my radar. A joint is (1) the uniting point of two or more bone parts; (2) a cheap dive; (3) a home made smokable product. There was time when number three would have been number one, and number one would not have been in my conscious thoughts. Where had the years gone. Clearly another discreet glass of “pink lemonade” from the Coleman cooler was needed.

The day progressed in equal folly, friends came by, passed the time and went off to their own blankets. The day was coming to a close. The sky, the sea and the sand had all mutated into that unifying translucent silver grey glass color. All three textures had merged into one making it impossible to tell where the sky ended and the sea or sand began. The ocean took on a stronger voice while the human noises ebbed away. Always, this time of day would fill me with a certain wistful melancholy; a timeless moment where anything seemed possible and probable. If time travel was possible, this was the moment when I could step into another era. So I stood and watched, waited and listened and wished the moment of peace would last forever. And then the moment was gone; dissolved into the everyday reality. Society’s bright lights bore holes into the grey canvas. The sky very very slowly darkened and the full moon made its presence known low and large on the horizon.

We pulled down the canopies, and spread the blankets to watch the fireworks that would soon appear before us.  Some of us added sweaters to our ensembles. A couple of us ladies stood together quietly talking about this and that, when a young man came up behind me and asked if the fireworks had started. I politely responded no and went back to our conversation. A short while later another young man popped by and asked the same question. No, again. What was the matter with these young men? Couldn’t they see for themselves that the fireworks had not yet started. The mystery was cleared when one of our group came up to us, with a smile and a chuckle,  and said that he had overheard one of the young men talking to his buddies: “when I got up close and talked to her, it turned out that she was about 30; bummer”.

Could a California 4th of July end more perfectly?

Meeting the neighbors

I trudged downstairs after my workout and searched out Scott, who was sitting in the den with a strange look on his face. He said “I know this sounds weird but the door bell rang and when I opened it a woman in a bikini was running toward the driveway”.  Naturally, I asked about the quantity of scotch that he may have imbibed during my absence. He appeared quite confused. In response to my questions, he could only iterate that she was running towards the neighbors’ trees, had a nice figure and hadn’t stood at the front door long enough for his arrival. Neither one of us knew what to make of the event. As I walked to my dressing room, though, I looked out the window and saw red flashing lights next door. Calling Scott to come look, we both realized that the neighbor was in trouble and had needed help. 

We both raced to the neighbor’s home to see if there was anything we could do to help. I put on a light raincoat to cover my shorts and sports bra while Scott undoubtedly ran towards the bikini. All manner of madness was taking place: the fire trucks were alit, the coast guard boat had arrived, various generations of women were pacing and crying at the back patio. A young man with down’s syndrome was smiling at all the attention, while another equally young pony tailed teenager was scrolling through her cell phone, completely oblivious to the drama whirling around her. 

Apparently the 30 year old son, or nephew, I wasn’t clear on his lineage, had put on his wet suit, dove off the dock and never returned. There were theories that the strong tide had taken him out, or that he had a debilitating cramp. Scott dispelled the tide theory; there is no tide here, not to mention that the entire cove is about three feet deep at high tide. The guy could just stand up if he felt a cramp. Nothing nefarious could possibly happen in these waters. The cove is famous for its peaceful tranquility.  Pleasure boats dock in these waters all summer for just that reason. Nonetheless, dad went out in a kayak when they learned that Scott’s boat engine wasn’t working. I hugged and comforted the 91 year old grandmother, while Scott talked with the volunteer firemen. The bikini had taken her car and was driving around the area, presumably looking for, dunno, a body, albeit none of the public roads are located near any of the local waters.  

Somewhere in this madness the subject (or is it object?), of all this search and rescue, appeared. Apparently the waters were too shallow, he was done with diving, had returned, removed his wet suit, took a shower and spent some time in his room playing with his cell phone. Evidently no one had seen him return and he hadn’t thought anything of it either. When he noticed the red flashing lights he came downstairs to find out what was going on. Discovering that he was the object (or is it subject) of all this attention, he dispelled the notion that he had drowned. Nonetheless, that didn’t stop everyone from yelling at him, angry, tearful and grateful at the same time. Scott and I, realizing that all was well, removed ourselves from this family drama and came home. Anyway, this is a long way to say that we met the neighbors. 

Gregory

Our house lizard, Gregory, made another appearance the other morning. Gregory is our colorful little lizard that has lived on the wall outside our front door, munching on the various bugs that ill advisedly land in our portico. But I noticed that he had left his garden condo and moved into our home. More specifically, I noticed that Grey, our cat, was playing with a new toy, happily chasing, pawing, and clawing what turned out to be Gregory. Closer inspection led us to discover that Grey had extracted, and now was playing with, Gregory’s tail, which was still twitching. Gregory was shaken that he was shorter but grateful to be still living.  We last saw Gregory being chased by Grey to the bottom edge of the stove and disappear between the cracks. We reminded Grey about her duties as a house cat. Grey took her duties seriously and stoically kept him under surveillance for a few days, not leaving the site other than to attend to her dietary needs.

However, morning arrived. We heard Grey mewing loudly in the living room, while parked at the edge of one of the chairs. As we watched, Gregory startled us with a cameo appearance, as our appearance did him; yes, we knew it was Gregory because the tail was missing, due to the previously acknowledged encounter with Grey after illegally entering the house. Unfortunately, the moment Grey made a move, Gregory high tailed it (pardon the pun) back under the chair. Grey remained vigilant. I wondered if there was something we could do to entice Gregory out from under the chair, or wherever else he may be inclined to move to, so that we could catch and release him back to his portico-garden home.

An email asked friends for recommendations on luring Gregory to the field. A flurry of responses ranged from preparing a bug salad to buying a skink. This last option alarmed me, considering all its ramifications. We could use the skink to rid ourselves of the lizard, but then how do we get rid of the skink. 30 day notice to vacate? The next step, we were told, was to find a mongoose.  And how should we find a mongoose to rid us of the skink? And what about Grey? Of course we knew where this was going. The mongoose falls in love with the cat and then it's the Capulets and the Montagues all over again. We decided that the best approach was the do nothing wait and see approach, with the caveat that all bets were off if Gregory advanced while we were in our beds. Scott kept the taser bracket nearby should such an event occur.

And it came to pass that last night, as I was preparing for bed, I saw that Gregory had found himself lollygagging around in Scott’s dressing room. I eeked and Scott came running with a metal bowl, which he then handed to me. Wait, what? I wasn’t going near poor Gregory. I was torn between alarm and pity for the tailless little thing. Scott manned up and plopped the bowl on top of Gregory. There we stood, flummoxed. What to do next. A number of post-grad degrees between us and yet there we stood, mystified, staring at a metal bowl in the midst of a dressing room. Scott suggested placing a couple of thick books on top of the bowl and letting the cairn sit for a few weeks. Inevitably, we had to nix the idea because the ensuing remains would leave a mark on the carpet; the cleaning ladies would revolt, not to mention Scott’s fastidious nature. The residual stain would be  a constant reminder of his walk on the dark side. Instead I placed a flat manila folder under the bowl, carried it to the great outdoors while Scott held the doors open and unceremoniously tossed Gregory on the lawn, leaving him bewildered but once again able to enjoy his life in the great outdoors, albeit without a tail.

Visions of a Driver's License

The post brought a note from the MVA-DMV letting me know that it was time to renew my license. I called the 800 number and, after pressing 15 numbers for various reasons, confirmed an appointment.  On the agreed upon day I ambled on up to the local DMV (or MVA as it is known in the storied state of Maryland) officer, filled out my form and waited and waited and waited nonetheless.  When my turn finally arrived, the very solemn clerk reviewed my form, then asked if I wanted to donate my organs. Seriously? I’ll be 70 in two months; the parts are all well used and no amount of lubricant will make them work any better or faster. I declined his kind offer, even after he attempted to induce me with a cheery heart icon on my new license. I sat patiently while he  took my new photo (yes, it’s ghastly but a re-do would only produce an even worse likeness), then we proceeded with the vision test. I was so confident that I would ace the test since I had just had cataract surgery in my left eye a few months prior and could now read the serial number on an eagle’s ankle bracelet as it flew overhead. As expected, I breezed through the first three rows, but came to a grinding halt on the bottom row — that teeny tiny last box in the most little row that requires a magnifying glass. I stated that I could not read the last box, but asked why it would be a problem. After all, why would I need to see anything that small when I was driving; it’s not as if I’m going to swerve if a bug flies in front of the car; that’s what windshields are for — however, he allowed as to how I needed to read that bottom line or no license. Since I was not in possession of reading glasses of any kind, I stood up, turned around and, in a moderately loud voice presented my dilemma to the audience. I asked if anyone had reading glasses that I could borrow momentarily. Most folk had been sitting there a long time, to whit their vacant soulless expressions would testify, although a number of them smiled, a few shrugged their shoulders, then turned back to their cell phones. However, my day was saved by a very elderly gentleman (and I mean a 104 year old guy) who stood up fully on his second attempt, slowly shuffled over to me and, with a hopeful smile, offered his bifocals. Gratefully, I took them, thanked him, stood while reading the bottom row out loud to chuckles and applause all around. I then returned the glasses, and a few minutes later left with my new temporary drivers license. The genuine article will arrive in the mail within 10 business days.

As I drove away, pondering the events of the morning, a number of questions arose. First, what was the point of letting me read with someone else’s glasses. That’s like taking a test at school, asking the kid next to me for the answer to a question and then getting an A for turning in a perfect paper. Second, there was the old old old guy himself who was there getting his license renewed. His glasses had the density of green glass coke bottles and he shuffled; could barely stand up, so why would the DMV give him a new license. Third, what was the point of making an appointment if I still had to sit there for forty minutes while my aged brain atrophied further.

But wait, there’s more. I learned that my local friendly ophthalmologist could have filled out the vision portion of the form — for a fee. I found this very disturbing. A fee? Since I had already paid for the eye check up why did I need to pay her to confirm what she already knew.  Equally annoying, since the MVA is a government run organization why is it suggested that I pay a private enterprise to do the MVA’s work. Isn’t this why I’m paying $48 for my license.

2005 Was A Very Good Year

In 2004 I had lunch with a couple of girlfriends who suggested the eharmony website. I had no interest, no interest at all. My first marriage ended in an unmitigated disaster; the stuff of cheap sordid novels. My ex-husband’s betrayal had left me so emotionally devastated that I had no further interest in dating, much less marriage. Besides, I had my future planned. I would retire soon, sell my house, and move back to my home town where I would live happily with my now divorced brother. I envisioned our occupying an old dilapidated house together. We would be the peculiar bro/sis (every neighborhood has one) who wandered around in their threadbare bathrobes all day, complaining about the neighbor’s noisy dog; pouring Cocoa Puffs and milk into a blender, then calling it a smoothie. 

However, to pacify my nagging friends, I agreed to join for one month, which was the smallest membership increment possible. The questionnaire process was very time consuming and more than mildly thought provoking. Not only was I compelled to write in complete sentences, I had to actually consider a few real life scenarios, ie., how big a deal was it to live with someone who was a slob. I discovered that I am a neat freak, that I would rather read a book than watch TV, that camping was not my idea of a good time and that I would prefer to put my head in the oven before I would tolerate football, or any sports, season in my living room, not to mention my aversion to beer belching contests. Ultimately, I realized that I wanted three things from a man: He must be intelligent. I did not want to explain why, even though we were on the east coast, we could still see the sunset. Also, he was to have a sense of humor. After all, what could be more eye rolling boring than a smug supercilious man droning on about a convoluted theory regarding the cosmic black hole into which I would very quickly want to jump. Last, and equally important, he was obliged to be kind. If those three traits were not available in male human form, then I had the second option of joining a convent should my brother decide I indeed was too much of a neat freak. So, many hours later, after answering all these myriad questions, I pressed the send button, only to have an immediate response appear: “We have no matches for you”. 

Eventually, a number of somewhat appropriate swains appeared in my In box. In reviewing their personal CVs, three other critical factors came into play. Age, for one. Age did not matter when I was 20 and he was 30, but when I was 50 and he was 60, well, how long would it be before I was spoon feeding him his pablum, so any more than two years difference and he was tossed into the trash bin. Next was the issue of children. My clock had never ticked. A number of men wrote that their children were their greatest pleasure and treasure, which is as it should be. However since I had chosen not to have children, I did not want to live my life around someone else’s children. Their children would always come first which, again, is as it should be. Unfortunately, I too am of the “me first” variety of wife. Trash bin once more. Last, he had to be geographically desirable.  Women know (and men are free to argue this point, but please don’t) that men will drive to our home the first few dates, but once they are sure of our feelings, we will be driving to their home each date night or weekend. I had no interest in spending one or two hours driving to his home, no matter how tony the neighborhood. So, with those three further caveats, the field narrowed considerably and the trash bin reigned. 

Finally, my future husband appeared on my virtual doorstep. Our meeting and courtship were filled hilariously with paradoxes, puzzles and enigmas. Our first meeting almost didn’t take place. I arrived a few minutes early, he arrived a moment late. I waited inside at the cozy bar, while he waited outside on the cold and windy bench. An hour later, I was about to leave in a huff when he finally walked in, angry, chilled and hungry. But, meet we did; I spent the evening humming Some Enchanted Evening while he charmed me with stories. And yes, we have laughed about that evening quite often. While I was fairly sure from our first meeting that he was “the one”, the morning my car battery died sealed it. He hied himself to the store and replaced it with minimum fuss. I was thrilled; no metrosexual was he. No, nothing to laugh about here; this guy was a keeper. Time passed, and even today I’m not sure how or when we agreed to marry, but agree we did. Our wedding day was going well, until we appeared in front of the justice of the peace who asked for the marriage license, which my soon to be husband had been left on the couch. I tried not to read anything Freudian into his omission as I waited for his return with the critical document, but return he did. I do, he do, we did and yes, we have laughed about it often. 

We were wed on April 20, 2005. The years passed, we retired, moved across the country, lived our lives as partners and friends; shared in joys and sorrows, laughed and cried together. My heart is full because he accomplished what I thought no man could ever do again: he restored my hope and faith in love.  As Buddy Holly reverently sang: Sometimes we’ll cry, sometimes we’ll sigh, but by and by, just you and I’ll know true love’s ways. Happy anniversary, to the man who changed my life forever. 

Casablanca

On January 14, 1943 President Franklin Roosevelt, Prime Minister Winston Churchill, and French General Charles de Gaulle opened a wartime conference in Casablanca. And we all know how that war story ended. War is war. But even in the midst of terrible war, there is love, deep and heartbreaking love.  

And there is love in war torn Casablanca. Rick, Ilsa, Laszlo. Is there any story more romantic, more heroic, more universal, more quoted.  The very thought of those two long ago lovers sacrificing their own happiness for the greater good of the country, if not the world, makes the heart beat faster. 75 years later, we still remark: What a movie. 

As Time Goes By is the theme song for Warner Bros. The melody is played every summer at one or another performance at California's famed Hollywood Bowl. As the music carries over the air on a cool summer night, members of the audience inevitably will close their eyes and dream of long hugs and warm kisses. Da-di-da-di-da-di. While Max Steiner wrote most of the soundtrack, he did not write the theme song. The song was written by Heman Hupfeld. Outdoor wall murals depicting Rick and Ilsa in each other’s arms can be found all over Hollywood walls, as can murals of Rick staring at a half empty liquor bottle with Sam in the background. We all know that he said: “Play it”, not "Play it again, Sam". 

The Burbank airport, sitting in for the Casablanca airport, provided the backdrop for the final scene between Rick and Ilsa.   “We’ll always have Paris.” Paris. Is there a more celebrated line; even my brother used it during a short affair with a lovely lass at the end of a brief Paris vacation. 

And “Here’s looking at you, kid”. I too have unashamedly raised a glass and toasted with that line. While we’re on the subject of looks, let’s take a look at some of the actors in the movie. Their real lives were more incredible than the movie’s characters. 

Beginning with SZ Sakall, who played Carl, the chubby and cuddly head waiter, SZ Sakall was a Hungarian Jew. Sakall’s three sisters and his niece died in concentration camps. Although he was a famous film star in Hungary, with his wife, he fled for America in 1940. His wife’s brother and sister had likewise been killed by the Nazis. They only had each other. 

Nearly all of the 75+ actors and actresses cast in Casablanca were immigrants. Peter Lorre too escaped Berlin just in the nick of time. Among the 14 cast members who earned a screen credit, only four were born in the United States: Humphrey Bogart, Dooley Wilson, who played Sam, Corina Mura (nee Wall) and Joy Page, Jack Warner’s stepdaughter, who played the newly wed Romanian refugee.

Marie Madeleine Berthe Le­Beau; remember Yvonne, Rick’s wanna be girlfriend, was born near Paris in the early 1920s. In her teens, she landed a tiny role in a play with the already famous actor Marcel Dalio, who later played Emil, Rick’s croupier. Dalio was about 20 years her senior but was struck by her beauty and married her.  In 1940, Marie and Marcel raced out of Paris just hours ahead of the invading German army; incredibly, Dalio’s image had been used in Nazi posters to identify Jewish-looking features. They made their way to Lisbon and, using forged Chilean visas, booked passage on a Portuguese cargo ship, the Quanza, that was taking more than 300 refugees to the Americas.  Many of the passengers were not allowed to disembark in New York or the next port-of-call, Veracruz, Mexico. However, Marcel and Marie secured temporary Canadian visas in Mexico.  They didn’t make it to Canada, but did make it to California. And there they stayed, to forever become Emil and Yvonne. Heck, Casablanca could have been written about them. 

Conrad Veidt had served Germany in WWI, but contracted an illness that would no longer allow him to fight, but did allow him to learn to act. He played out his time performing for the troops. However, when WWII interrupted his acting career, he left with his Jewish wife to England. He was not Jewish but declared himself to be Jewish in a show of solidarity with his wife. He hated anti-Semitism and donated a great deal of his fortune to fighting it. After perfecting his English, they traveled to America to assist in the British effort to have America join the war. Realizing that Hollywood would most likely typecast him in Nazi roles, he had his contract mandate that his characters must always be villains. There, Veidt landed the role of the hated SS General Strasser. He was a great villain and we are forever grateful to Captain Renault when he ordered his men to “round up the usual suspects” after Strasser was shot. 

The romance behind the movie has always intrigued me. And the bits of background history even more so. While attending a friend’s 40th birthday party, I was introduced to a couple of elderly gentlemen who had been blacklisted during the McCarthy era. In fact, even my birthday girlfriend’s father had been one of the many blacklisted writers. She grew up in Europe and only returned to America with her parents later in her life. Learning they were script writers, we talked about old movies. These charming gentlemen asked the name of my favorite movie and, after replying Casablanca, one of the gentlemen beamed with a huge smile and averred that he had done some writing on the movie, as had many others. The making of the movie was famous for its own high dramas: firings, hirings, all manner of intrigues. He went on to tell me that in “those days” people didn’t hop airplanes and travel all over the world as they do today. In “those days”, if someone living in Los Angeles had traveled to San Francisco, or even Riverside, he had “been around”. Both gentlemen nodded knowingly. He went on with a wonderful little detail about the movie that has always hidden in plain sight. When asked to provide names for the movie’s characters, they didn’t have any idea what names to give European men landing in an international town like Casablanca, but they were men and men knew about cars so they named some of the main characters after cars: Renault, Ferrari, Strasser, to name a few. Now, watch the movie, hum the tune and count the cars before any more time goes by.