Happy Birthday Mom

On November 27 mom will be 100 years old. She will receive a letter of congratulations from the Queen who will, undoubtedly, be envious that mom is older and still kicking. 

Mom began her life in a tiny northern Italian village nestled against the hem of the alps. After WWI her father removed the family to the new world. Mom was eight years old when they boarded an ocean liner bound for this country. Her first memories are of Ellis Island. The morning of their arrival, as her family was packing their bags, they heard a yell: “Liberte, Liberte”. Everyone raced to the upper decks, cheering and waving at the first sight of the tiny, far off Statue of Liberty. As Liberty grew nearer, the cheering steadily abated until there was only silent contemplation. Before them stood the very real evidence of the onset of their very real new lives. Our family had traveled second class so they did not suffer the much described indignities of the lower classes. Nonetheless, as they were whisked through the terminal, mom marveled at the walls of shiny white tiles, the elaborate half moon windows and the polished brass rails of Ellis Island. 

Mom lived with her parents and brothers on a small farm. While the young boys were expected to help their father, she was her mother’s little helper, which also included taking care of the constantly renewing litters of outdoor cats that kept the field mice and other small critters away from the house, the root cellar and the barn. Mom was not overly fond of cat care but took her duties seriously. When one cat coughed and whined she did not want to be responsible for its demise so she fed it a healthy dose of castor oil. I shudder to think of the outcome but she vowed that it was perfectly fine the next day. 

She was taught English under the auspices of the local church. Her teacher was an expat so mom learned to speak the Queen’s English as a Brit would. To this day she has a trace of a British accent. “Hello Linda, it’s mum”. Mum? ‘Mom’, I want to say; mom, not mum. 

WWII arrived. While two brothers went off to war, a third was too young and the oldest was away in college. She was left, with all her girlfriends, waiting for their men to come home so that they could get married and begin their real lives. Meanwhile, the stocking factory in the next larger town retooled to manufacture socks for “the boys”. Mom and her girlfriends regularly hopped the Greyhound bus and learned how to operate those very formidable pieces of knitting machinery. Just before the boxes were taped shut, the girls would sneak encouraging notes into the socks: “come home safe soldier” “I love you soldier”, and other such endearments. Here she is, standing in the midst of her girlfriends at the sock factory, happy to be together and hopeful that the war would soon end. 

The war ended and it was time to wed. Astonishingly, her marriage was arranged. She had met my father twice before standing with him at the altar. When I asked how she felt about that engagement, she shyly and sheepishly replied “well, he was very handsome”. Enough said.  

Dad died of a brain aneurysm at age 51; she was 47. She never remarried, although she mentioned, on occasion, that some suitor had come “sniffing around”, as she put it. Dad left her comfortable. We were grown and gone. She allowed that this was the first time in her life that she did not have to cater to the needs of anyone else and she aimed to keep it that way. 

She has lived an extraordinary life without being aware that it was so. She spoke two languages fluently and understood the Austro-German languages. She grew up during a time that had outdoor 'conveniences', with only a pump in the kitchen, then moved to a home that not only had indoor plumbing, but included a dishwasher and a washer-dryer. Growing up, there were no telephones, then there were party line phones, now there are Zoom calls that allow her to see to whom she is speaking.  Her Atlantic crossing took almost two weeks. Today an aeroplane can accomplish the same crossing in a few hours. The family’s only source of world information then was a short wave radio. Today she can watch 3D color HD-TV with surround sound.  She takes everything patiently in stride while we whine when a text that must travel through space and back takes more than three seconds to arrive. 

Happy birthday mom. 

Commercials and Life

 Commercials, and the famous people who inhabit them, are they truly the criterion that reflect our lives. Remember Joe Namath, that most famous quarterback. Broadway Joe? Strutting around in his lynx fur jacket and fighting off adoring women like irksome gnats? Now he’s an old skinny guy living in Florida and peddling medicare policies. And Pat Boone. Oh my, he was a  heartthrob, espousing April Love while gliding on a ferris wheel, sporting that clean and wholesome smile. Now he is batting balls on the tennis  court, dressed in baggy shorts and a tee shirt, looking like he’s stepped into someone else’s very oversized and very wrinkled skin, talking about the products he takes to abate nature’s pains during the aging process. 

Granted, I was never all that pleased with the commercials from TVs’ early days. I was a hopeful young girl looking forward to an adventurous future but watching these commercials made me wonder: would my life really only matter if I wore gloves so comfortable that I could pick up a dime. Did I really want to wear gloves that made my hands look as nice as my daughter’s hands. What if I didn’t have a daughter. And then there was that waxy floor buildup that caused so much heartache to every housewife on the block. Would girlfriends whisper behind my back after their weekly card dates. Was that what I had to look forward to, and don’t get me started on ring around the collar. Watching those commercials made me realize that I was not ready to grow up if my life was to be about the kitchen, the floors, the shirts and J-E-L-L-O. I wanted more. I especially wanted commercials that spoke to me. Me. 

The 60s arrived, and that gave me heart; my life was about to undergo radical change, or so said the commercials. “You’ve come a long way, baby.” Although Madge was still soaking my fingernails in detergent, at least I was out of the house having a manicure, and LSMFT. I was smoking cigarettes that taste good like [as] a cigarette should. Cigarettes were the panacea for all manner of complaints and ailments. I was going to be worldly sophisticated one day soon. Commercials said that I wasn’t cooking at home every night either, because I “deserve a break today, so get up and get away” at McDonalds. It was McDonalds, but I was, nevertheless, out of the kitchen. And if I was in the kitchen, I could serve Swansons TV dinners. I still wasn’t happy. Even while those commercials showed happy housewives parading around their kitchens wearing high heels and organza aprons, I knew something wasn’t right. 

And still commercials moved on. Some things changed, while others did not. Paul Anka crooned “remember, do you remember, the times of your life”; all during those Kodak moments, the times were changing dramatically.  While we young folk were marching, protesting, burning bras and flags, fighting our way up the corporate ladder, Coca-Cola commercials sang in perfect harmony. Coca-Cola wasn’t just carbonated high-fructose corn syrup, Coca-Cola was the solution to world peace.  

Today we still don’t have world peace, but we still have Joe Namath and Pat Boone. Consider the irony.

October

Once again, I am bewitched by October. The water is no longer a choppy white and blue but a flat and shiny silver. The morning fog colors the world grey; shrinks it as far as the trees at the edges of the cove. In my mind, any illusion can appear through those October mists. A Viking funeral ship could materialize.  Hamlet, perhaps, sleeping amongst the dried leaves of Elsinore will rise. Mary, Queen of the Scots, headed to the guillotine during the cold October’s early dawn will stand and say goodbye for the very last time. October was the month of doomed kings and female sovereignty. I see how things could get a little carried away when the sky’s light is short and the chill lingers in the bones. 

Driving through town, there is poetry in October. Druids celebrated the harvest season. The whiff of burning leaves and logs perfume the air. Baled hay lies resting in the fields. Crisp sunlit days and brisk nights prompt scarlet and amber leaves on trees (whiskers on kittens and warm woollen mittens), bushels of shiny red apples, carved orange pumpkins and burgundy mums litter the streets and shop steps all over town. Their multicolored lives are short but glorious. Light and power poles are swaddled in corn husks, masquerading as varying mutations of scarecrows.  

October also marked the end of covid’s long talons of death and replaced it with the gifts of hope and life. There are three venues for great weddings in the area and they were booked solid all month long. Even the neighbors hosted a wedding at their home. The joyous music carried along the watery airwaves, allowing us all to rock with the sheer euphoric bliss of being alive.  

A good wedding is short on speeches, long on food, dancing and alcohol (which is how everyone gets to dancing as if no one is watching), and the somewhat bracing weather is so conducive to amorous cuddling afterwards, ahem. 

Weddings have lost a lot of the old traditions; some good, some bad. Songs in church are more relatable; I Love You Truly has been replaced with All You Need Is Love. Grooms wouldn’t dare push a piece of cake in the bride’s face, or vice versa. Happily, the young bride still throws the bouquet and her fresh faced girlfriends still vie to catch it. Hope, the ultimate gift. 

On a more pragmatic note, there is much to do in October: trade summer outfits for heavier garb; clear the fireplace of cobwebs; cover the pool and patio furniture; pile the firewood close to the house; cutting back the overgrown summer vines; on and on it goes, grunting, groaning and grateful.

It's Funny; How to Silly Laugh

 I swear, people have truly lost their sense of humor. Remember silly? Silly: used to convey a process that is frivolous and trivial. It appears that no one can laugh at anything anymore. Recently, I was at the grocery store, blankly staring into the dairy section, looking for a small container of plain regular eight ounce size sour cream. Nothing added. How hard could that be, and yet. . . . There was light sour cream, there was non fat sour cream, there was sour cream with chives, there was the large size container of regular for a family of 20, but no small size container of regular sour cream. How can there be so many options, I mused, but no regular folk plain. While I stood staring, waiting for the unicorn to jump out at me, a young man, clearly a summer help kid, tall and lanky, perhaps 17 or 18 years old, sunlit faced and sparkly eyed, watched my bemused face as I bobbed up and down while attempting to read the small print, asked if he could help. I explained my dilemma and reiterated that I wanted just a small container of regular sour cream. He handed me the triple churned version and told me that that was the regular; although it was under a new name, but it was the regular. He was so sure of himself, but I still gave him the fish eye, while simultaneously staring at the lady standing behind us. Nodding at me, he again said it was the same stuff, looked me squarely in the eye and finished with a resounding “trust me”. I looked at him, then looked at the lady behind us and said “when was the last time a young man said ‘trust me’ and it turned out well?” Rather than laughing, or even smiling, her piercingly expressive look could have crushed rocks. What the hell, lady!!!  It was funny. Was it so long ago, I wondered, that she was a teenager, confronted with a testosterone crazed young swain who whispered those very words in her ears? Even he laughed. Anyway, I took the proffered sour cream ‘cause, you know, I trusted him. After all, he was cute and had a nice smile and a clear complexion and I would undoubtedly have trusted him if I had been 17 at the time. Ha!!! The verbal exchange was comic and silly and it was fun to laugh.

Now, Scott and I, on the other hand, know how to laugh, at ourselves, at each other and at anyone else who might walk into whichever room we are standing. We had three DirectTV boxes in the house. One finally died so Scott took care of the details regarding its replacement which ultimately turned out to become a replacement of all three boxes. The young tech, “Gen Z” Evan, arrived; was very gracious and patient with us old geezers as he explained in small one syllable words the technology that he was about to bestow upon us. Scott patiently smiled and listened, while I stood there, lips pursed shut, but so wanting to scream that it was Scott who was behind most of that technology and could explain it in much greater detail than Gen Z Evan could understand ‘cause Scott is often much more polite than I am, but this time I held my tongue. Gen Z Evan piled the boxes on top of each other as he replaced them, then noticed that one was smaller and older than the other two, “more vintage”, he said. Yes, Scott related how it had come to him back in the 90s, then joked that it was the equivalent of a TV tube. Gen Z Evan looked at us with raised eyebrows and a bemused expression: “TV tube?” Scott tried to explain a TV tube, becoming more and more professorial while attempting to describe the ancient technology behind a TV set with glass tubes that could be removed and taken to the local hardware store for testing and/or replacement. Realizing that Gen Z Evan’s eyes had glassed over, Scott stopped. “It was way before your time”, he said, and further, that we well understood the rapid advancement of technology that took place before his life began. He stood decorously, somewhat miffed apparently, chin up and allowed as to how he was in his 30s and fully cognizant of today's technical workings. We nodded agreeably and stoically, silently wondering, could we even begin to describe the purpose of rabbit ears or the lack of a remote; when a person actually had to rise up from the sofa and manually change the channel, one of four, not 400. No. We gave up, stayed silent, work done, salutations all around, door closed and after he left, we laughed ourselves silly. 

My Brother's Heap

 I once had a mouse living in my 1963 Sunbeam Alpine. It stayed all winter. That mouse hid somewhere in the nooks of that car. Being a kindly soul, on occasion I’d leave a few French fries on the floor, finding them disappeared the next day. I miss them both. Each grand and glorious in their own way. 

An English sports car, convertible, was a babe magnet in summer. In winter it was a horror story. My breath warmed the interior more than the car heater could do. We had a tattered woolen army blanket, grey with a one inch black stripe. It became my seat warmer. The car was very drafty and, being a gentleman, I would volunteer it to my date to keep her warm in winter. Presumably the mouse too warmed itself in its folds. Yew! Don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. 

Kids today will never know what it's like to drive "a heap".  As in, "Where'd you get that heap?”  My passenger door would open randomly whilst I made left hand turns. I would reach over and hold my passenger in his seat or, if he had his arm on the door, he might swing out and I'd pull him back in. No one was shocked. It just was; it was funny then. It was expected. They were in “a heap”. If I had no passenger; if the door was unreachable or, more likely, if I was too lazy to stretch, the door would open and I would brake, then accelerate, creating door closing momentum. We could only afford heaps then. There were no credit cards, no down payments, much less easy car payments. We saved, then bought a heap. Then traded up for a better heap. I’m giggling to myself thinking about the danger, creativity and absurdity of it all. 

Vegas Baby

Although Nevada was the birthplace of the quickie divorce and even quicker marriage, when Las Vegas first became the playground of the Rat Pack (and if you don’t know to whom I’m referring, don’t bother reading further), there were only a few hotels: the Flamingo, the Sahara, the Tropicana, the Frontier and, later, Caesars. It’s true that it all began with Bugsy Siegal, who opened the Flamingo with Meyer Lansky’s Mexican drug money. During the 1950s and 1960s, mobsters helped build the Sahara, the Sands, the New Frontier and the Riviera. In 1966 Howard Hughes checked into the penthouse of the Desert Inn and never left, preferring to buy the hotel rather than face eviction. He bought other hotels too—$300 million worth—ushering in an era in which mob interests were displaced by corporate conglomerates. Money from organized crime combined with funds from more respectable investors—Wall Street banks, union pension funds, the Mormon Church and the Princeton University endowment. Angels and demons; who was which was/is still the debatable question.

Entertainment then was much more remarkable because anything could happen. Dinner shows were the norm although there was a late show too. Oftentimes, one, or a few, of the Rat Pack boys would hop on the stage, with a dazzling smile and a drink in hand, no matter who was headlining, and take over the show if they felt like it, which they did do. Don Rickles gave Frankie as good as he got. Dean would sing along with Elvis. Wayne Newton was 15 when he first began performing; couldn’t legally drink but he could sing. His parents had put him on a Greyhound bus to Vegas and the rest was history. It wasn’t called child abuse then. Johnny Cash had just found God and, for whatever mysterious reason, subjected the audience to “His loving grace” with photoshopped screen shots of JC arm-in-arm with Cash, somewhat bemused that Vegas was not the place to find Jesus. 

The non-headliner floor shows, too, were extraordinary. They were Busby Berkley inspired spectaculars with almost naked Amazon goddesses waltzing around in pastel colored bikinis and tasseled pasties with matching feathered headdresses that were practically as tall as they were. Added to that were four inch heels and utter amazement on the audience’s part that these performers could even walk, much less dance in synchronized patterns. 

Liquor flowed in copious amounts, like it was free, because it was free. Anyone gambling was offered a free drink — many free drinks. The more one drank, the more one gambled, the more one gambled, the more money was lost, so the more one drank. It was the circle of life. The tables themselves were very pristine, lustrous and elegant. There was never an empty table. At least one shill sat at each table. The mafia ran everything so the ladies were allowed to stay as long as they paid off the boss. Initially, I was very impressed at how elegant, and pretty, these ladies were, not yet having become quite sophisticated enough to understand their true job description. When I did understand that they were "ladies of the night" I was very curious, but never curious enough, or brave enough, to sidle up to one and ask about the line of work: OT? health benefits, etc., just curious. 

Later, in the 70s a few more hotels popped up, then Steve Wynn opened the Mirage, the first mega-hotel and from there all hell broke loose. Old casinos were dynamited and one grandiose hotel after another went up on every corner. Each one more ridiculously extravagant than the next one. Enormous two storey mouth blown crystal chandeliers made to look like bouquets of flowers; koi filled rivers flowing under the glass floors; entire hotels had themes: Circus, Circus, the Venetian, Paris Vegas, like a Disneyland park for adults only. 

We — me and a few office miscreants, on the other hand, were just out to have fun. We would leave the office  at 5 pm, drive to the airport, hop a PSA flight to Vegas ($15 return) and land an hour later, all the while humming the Hall and Oats’ tune: “Sarah’s off on a turnaround, flying gambling fools to the holy land Las Vegas, sometimes she’s here, and sometimes she can’t be found, turn around.”

We would ogle the shiny hotels, their lights reflecting on the taxi that took us to the strip. We visited a different casino each time - equal opportunity employers. We would gamble a little at the slots or blackjack, eye the shills, watch a floor show or two, visit the more high end gambling rooms, dine at the “all you can eat for 99 cents” buffets, catch a side show, then return to the gambling dens for more gambling, depending on the kindness of Lady Luck, and looking out for another celebrity or two. 

All the while being so naive and so impressed with ourselves, that we could stay up all night and not tire. There were no windows or clocks in those casinos; time ceased to exist. We didn’t realize that, as the evening progressed, so did the oxygen levels being pumped into the casinos. By 2 am we were inhaling pure oxygen. This was fine until it was time to collect each other and return on the first flight back to LA which occurred at 7 am. By 8:00 we were in the car and in the office promptly at 9 am. The bad news: since the office AC was not pumping pure oxygen, a very long day ensued. But it was Vegas, baby and what happens in Vegas. . . . 

Birthday Gifts

 Yes, it’s my birthday. And while it does fall on one of the most auspicious dates of the year, I am still one year older after the parades have broken up, the fireworks have died down and the crowds have gone home. The silver lining is that I am still standing. 

When I was younger my birthday celebrations would begin by collecting friends, driving to the Falls to see the fireworks from the US side, having spent ours a few days beforehand, and laughingly joking that it was all for me. Then, one unforgettable year, while living in Italy with the various relatives who would have me, I was baffled to learn that Europeans did not celebrate the 4th. Thinking it through clearly, I recalled that the 4th did constitute the separation of the US from the British empire so the fool was me. It was very humbling. Italian friends did not celebrate July the first or the fourth, but did wish me buon compleanno. 

In any event, moving from birthdays to birthday gifts, my husband believes he is the living embodiment of Mike Baxter. If you have not had the pleasure to watch Last Man Standing then this missive will not hold much meaning for you, which is unfortunate, but bear with me anyway. (The first six seasons of the show were hysterically funny, the last season not so much.) The show made it clear that Mike loved his wife and daughters very much. As the show unfolded over the years, Mike’s wife, Vanessa, was the recipient of numerous unusual birthday gifts. Mike was all about practical gifts while Vanessa gave him a ’67 Impala. Nonetheless, over the various shows, he gave her a she-shed, a change counter-sorter, a hand crank phone charger, a taser, my own desk chair, you get the idea. Which brings me to my gift. Scott, that most practical of men, and most loving of husbands, inspired by Mike Baxter, gave me a flashlight-stun gun combo for my purse. I ask you, what says love more than a stun gun (except maybe diamonds, but that’s another story).

Straight Into August

 "Straight into August." So says Scott, as he stands at the newly opened front door, momentarily overwhelmed by the blast of hot air, and it’s only 9:30 am in June.  The day won’t get any cooler but the evening will and it will be magical.

Last night, twelve hours earlier, as I walked the brick path toward the dock to watch the moon’s reflection mirrored on the water I was inundated with fireflies, hundreds of tiny fireflies blinking in the evening’s late dusk. I stopped, then slowly sauntered among their flickering lights, not wanting to break the spell, imagining I could conceivably run into Puck. (For those who were not awake during high school literature classes, his antics existed in Midsummer Night’s Dream; love is not smooth and makes us do strange things.) I don’t remember seeing summer fireflies when I was a child. If I did, I would surely have tried to collect them in glass jars as children must have done through the ages. But here, fireflies endure, enchanting by their airiness. 

In Los Angeles, our little group would regularly hike the trails of Griffith Park during the summer evenings and occasionally encounter a little train of glowworms, another of nature’s anomalies. Inevitably, the Mills Brothers’ tune would come to mind. Perforce, I would sing the song to them, completely enthralled with their very existence, watching them change their neon like color as they appeared and disappeared along the rock formations. My hiking buddies were less than thrilled with my singing. Apparently I can’t carry a tune but as far as I’m concerned, it was their problem; I was happy singing to these little glowworms, wondering how it was they came to be and what their very being meant in nature’s grand scheme of things. Most of the time I think that once I’m dead, I’m dead and the party's over but every once in a while, when I see glowworms and fireflies, I wonder if perhaps there’s some creator putting this earthly package together. 

And then there’s the cicadas. Scott says I pronounce the name incorrectly. He says it’s pronounced si-kay-da, while I say it’s pronounced chi-kah-da. Too many years in Los Angeles with plenty of Mexicans, not to mention my own Italian roots, have taught me that “ci” is always pronounced “ch” and “ca” is always pronounced “kah”. Rather than argue, I tell him he’s right then go about my business and pronounce the word whichever way I choose. This year was to be the great cicada invasion and while that was the case on the western shore, no inordinate numbers invaded our little corner of heaven. Only the usual size swarms have passed through, noisily letting us know of their presence, enlivening the trees with their music, saying hello or hola. 

Facing the other side of the house, in the midst of the four acre pine forest, is a huge pond. We do nothing to it or about it. It continues to exist because it was there before us. It lives within its own ecosystem. Yellow lilies and white mallows preside at its edge and bull rush reeds sprout in the water on occasion. Then, just as dramatically, disappear. There is an entire civilization of frogs in the water’s midst, from what I can tell anyway. During the day, they quietly hang around on the pond’s edge, like louche barflies with nothing to do and nowhere to go. I see them when I walk the lane to collect the mail. They see me and jump into the water to safety. The twilight of evening carries the frogs’ songs. I understand the male frog sings prior to, or during sex, I’m not clear on that course of events, but whichever way the alluring “ribbits” work, there must be a lot of sex going on in those waters. It’s very noisy. So goes our summer.

What I Got For $50

 As I was explaining to my girlfriends at brunch, my also divorced brother and I had long ago decreed that if we were both single when retirement arrived we would move in together. I painted a picture of an eccentric bro and sis who lived in a strangely colored house with a shrieking doorbell, who dressed in worn chenille bathrobes at odd hours, with perhaps a few cats to round out the scenario. Both girlfriends listened politely, but ultimately were having none of it. Instead, each one had success stories from meetings via eHarmony. I explained that I had tried a few dating sites, then regaled them with the outcomes, the wretchedly sad and sorry outcomes. Dismissing my experiences, they held the hope of a four year old child on Christmas morning for my future happiness. This site was different, they contended. I would find joy in a relationship once again. Doubtful, but for their sake, and silence on the topic, I agreed; once more into the breach.

On line I saw that the smallest increment of eHarmony time would be a three month “introductory membership” for $50. I groaned out loud at that waste of hard earned money but, for friendships’ sake, patiently spent the next three or so hours filling out forms; long, tedious forms that asked long, tedious questions requiring long, tedious answers that hurt my head to consider. Was I neat or ‘casual’? Was I prompt or did I live on ‘Hawaiian time’? Was I formal or relaxed in manner? What was my attitude about money, socializing, travel — everything from ice cream to teeth cleaning to the sun’s proclivity for rising in the east.  Finally, long after the shadows of day had left the city, not to mention a few glasses of wine that had mysteriously evaporated, I hit the Done/Send button. Immediately, up popped a response: “We have no matches”, thus confirming what I already knew — no one in their right mind would even consider spending an entire evening with me, never mind the rest of his life. So much for the reckless misuse of $50.

Over the next few days, though, various anticipative suitors appeared on my screen. I noted a number of cautionary tales amongst the requests for my company. For my part there was many a no - no to extreme age differences (no to someone to whom I would be spooning oatmeal in five years), no to men with children ‘who meant everything to them’. Not to denigrate parenthood, but I never wanted children so did not want to live my life around someone else’s children; and last, no to any man who lived more than 20 miles away (‘cause I learned that he will drive to my home a couple of times but after that I would be the one to drive to his home and the 405 freeway on a Friday evening is the embodiment of a very disturbing and never ending Twilight Zone episode). 

Weeks went by, with many a fruitless prospect getting the boot. I was almost at the end of my “introductory membership” when one man of interest appeared. Damn. This candidate could alter my life plan. He was four months younger than me (a plus); divorced, no children (another plus); just barely made the 20 mile cut (close enough). With great trepidation, I hit ‘yes’ and was presented with more questionnaires. Lovely. More wine please. Was I a reader or a TV watcher? Ocean or mountains? Coffee or tea? The questions went on and on as did the replies. Finally, more mutually positive responses led to direct email address exchanges and we commenced a fruitful correspondence. However entertaining these missives were, though, after a couple of months, he still showed no interest in meeting me. I finally tired of the written repartee and counseled that unless we were to meet soon I was done with him. After all, I had not joined the site to find a pen pal. The ultimatum finally led to a date request.

He was a member of the private and charming Magic Castle club, so we agreed to meet at the door at 7 pm. I arrived at 6:50 pm. It was an unusually cool spring evening for June 7. My carefully chosen, but thinly woven, purple silk dress was doing nothing to keep me warm. I went to the reception counter and explained to the two young ladies that I was very chilly waiting outdoors. Since I was not a member, however, I technically could not enter the bar without my escort. I gave them his name which did match the reservation time of 7 pm. They noticed the alarmingly large goose bumps on my arms and kindly took pity, giving me the magic word that opened the book case which allowed me entrance to the bar. At the time, I was very grateful. 

He arrived promptly at 6:58 pm, dressed in his best navy blazer, pressed khakis and gleaming white shirt, but while the valet was trading his car keys for a ticket the aforementioned young ladies went off their shift and were traded by two new young ladies who took their place. He peeked inside the reception area and, after announcing himself, saw that the entry room was empty so he gallantly waited outside, in the cool evening air that was becoming cooler and windier by the minute. After half an hour he tucked his chilled head back in the door, stated his name again, then asked the young ladies if, perhaps, there had been a call for him. No. Nothing, they lamented. He continued to wait, stoically, outside for another half hour before giving up and heading to the Magic Castle’s bar. Clearly, he had been abandoned. 

In the meantime, I waited patiently at the bar, fending off the occasional magician offering a fancy libation or an even fancier card trick. Regrettably, as my patience abated, so did my sense of humor. By 8 pm I finally accepted, quite distressed, that I had been stood up and was collecting myself in preparation for leaving at the exact moment he chose to enter the bar, having decided that I had stood him up. Our eyes met. We stared at each other, both equally nonplussed, but tentatively willing to hear each other's explanations. His was eminently reasonable, as was mine. It appeared that we had both been wronged. The rest of the evening was spent most agreeably, as were the many more evenings to come. Ten months later, as the song goes, he asked:

What are you doing the rest of your life?

North and south and east and west of your life.

I have only one request of your life,

that you spend it all with me. 

 

Next Door, Please.

 Our home sits back from the main road behind a couple of acres of trees. There is a white signpost that states our name and the house number at  the road and the mailbox likewise sports our address. This information does not appear to be a deterrent to folks who really ought to be visiting next door. Peoples’ general defense is that they saw the white sign and turned in to our road thinking that they had arrived at the correct location. The neighbor has a similar sign but is up the road a piece. Since our sign appears first, so do the vehicles. 

The home owner next door does not occupy the place full time. He rents the home to weekenders for a hefty fee while he opts to stay away during tourist season. On one occasion, I walked out the front door to visit the peonies just as a little white minivan had pulled up and half a dozen people alit with their bags in tow. Ever mindful that perhaps I was losing my cognizant abilities in my old age, I quizzically scanned their smiling faces and realized that I did not know a single one of them. The driver asked if I was ready for the guests. Um, no. While they stood, smiling politely and aimlessly looking over the grounds, the driver and I quickly ascertained that they belonged at the rental house next door. Apparently they were to attend a wedding on the island and the house had been rented for them. Back in the van they went, a couple of faces somewhat irritated that I had refused them entry, although the no, they could not use our bathroom may have added to their pettish mood. 

Last week I looked out the kitchen window, observing three summery dressed ladies chatting loudly about the spectacular view as they wandered around the back patio. Somewhat bemused, I walked out of the kitchen and said hello. They turned to face me, a bit horror stricken. One of the ladies asked, “can we be at the wrong address?” I certainly hoped so, albeit they did look very congenial sorts. After introductions, and embarrassed laughter all around, it was determined that they indeed belonged next door. 

And yesterday I heard noises out back.  After investigating the source, I noticed the pool guys outside were opening our pool. I called the pool company to ask what that was about since they are not supposed to be here until the first week of June. Ooops. They were supposed to be next door opening that pool early ‘cause it is heated. We, on the other hand, wait until the sun does the job for us. 

Commiserating about all the unlawful entries with another neighbor, she allowed as to how at least our intruders were repentant and left quietly. She had the unpleasant task of ousting a small family who had driven to the house, then prepared a picnic for themselves on her lawn. They thought the view quite lovely so they chose her waterfront to enjoy their afternoon. She explained that her home was not a park and to please get out. More heated conversations ensued until her husband appeared, rifle in hand. That story beat my stories. 

Today I saw a For Sale sign on the next door rental so hopefully these mistaken entries will end soon or someone will make an outlandish offer on our home.  

VW and Thee

 Remember the VW of our salad days? Numerous friends drove the iconic, genuine, original four cylinder motor in the back VW. 

I recall a young wealthy friend was very despondent to learn, upon graduation, that she would not receive the Porsche she had so keenly desired but instead would receive the poor man’s version, the Karmann-Ghia, which we penury mortals considered the high end of the VW.

Another friend drove a bug that was missing a shotgun seat, so he replaced it with a a very efficient, and color coordinated, folding sand chair. The substitution worked fine until that last little moment when he hit the brakes; the beach chair would unceremoniously fold up with whoever was occupying it and, since there were no seat belts in those days, the occupant usually ended up kissing the dashboard. Those of us who were small enough to be accommodated in the back seat were generally intrigued by the fact that, since part of the floorboard also was missing, we could watch the main axle turning as we drove along to our destination; able to determine how close we were to our arrival by the makeup of the road below us. 

It was an economical car on various levels. Another friend was as financially strapped as the rest of us. Unfortunately, one day the rear gear shift decided to take a vacation, so she could only drive forward until she had saved enough money to visit the local mechanic. For two years she parked with enough space in front so that she did not have to reverse to get her car out of its space. On the rare occasion that she found herself in an awkward position, she would put the car in neutral and we would help by pushing the car until it was righted again. If she had the bad luck to not have a friend indeed she would leave her door open and push the car with one leg to the ground and the other on the gas. Finally having saved enough, she hoped, to visit the mechanic and not have to include herself as part of the down payment, the honest mechanic determined that the problem was caused by a two dollar piece of plastic in the gear shift mechanism. Her conflicting emotions knew no bounds. Her chagrin was short lived. She took the money that she had saved and invited her car pushing friends to her home for a very extravagant dinner that included wine with corks. 

The VWs were uniformly held together with duct tape and/or accessorized with clothes hanger wires. Those wires came in handy as radio antennae. The bug could be left anywhere since, really, no one was going to steal it. One friend remembered that if it ran out of gas, he could push it home. It was fun when we all were young and poor. Today we drive big and comfortable cars, but once in a while a VW drives by.  Those were the days, my friend. . . .  

Where Did All My Old Friends Go

 Summers of long ago were simpler. The mists of time remembered them as cooler, the evening blue hour was longer, the streets were safer, and we young girls, on the brink of womanhood, had our entire lives in front of us.  

We imagined ourselves so sophisticated now that we were old enough to hold summer jobs. I was a tour guide through the local newspaper. My girlfriends, too, had summer jobs, salesgirl at the bakery, file clerk at dad’s office. Our own money to do with as we wished. We were rich in those days, with that youthful magical feeling that everything wonderful could and would happen to us one day soon. 

And the summers’ Sunday night CYO dances cemented our friendships forever. Dressed in our light cotton dresses we met up and walked to church together wearing our scandalously high one inch heels. I would walk to Loretta’s house. “Hi, Mrs. Cavaleri, is Loretta ready?” Her beloved mom would roll her eyes at our ministrations. “You girls are beautiful. Your skin is so fresh, it needs nothing. Look, where drops of makeup took the finish off the dresser. What are you putting on your faces?” She would laugh and we would sheepishly snicker. Further down the block we would call on Angela, “Hi Mrs. Bartoli, is Angela ready”.  She worriedly admonished us to watch out for each other. And still later we would pick up Francesca, along with her cousin Rita, who was spending the summer while her parents were in Italy. 

The summer nights would watch as we walked down the tree lined street toward the church center that sponsored the CYO dances. As we sauntered, we bid hello to the neighbors who sat on their front porches, trying to catch an evening breeze and keep cool. “Hello, Mr. Infanti, Mrs. Infanti”. Parents kept their vigils on the front porches in those days. All the parents reported to each other, safeguarding each other’s daughters. We were, after all, their flowers, their princesses. 

Together we strolled, wondering which of the boys on whom we had a crush that week would be at the dance too. We spoke the usual nonsense of our age. “My aunt just got back from Rome”. . . “really, what did she bring you”. . . “do you think Tony will be there tonight”. . . “will your brother be there” . . . “is my dress too long”. . . “I thought Andy had a crush on Angela”. . . “my mom won’t let me get my ears pierced”. Oh, the laments of our days.

Our lives then went no further than looking forward to summers with each other. But summers wandered into fall and the years traveled with us away from the blocks of our youth. College, careers, husbands, children. Our friendships accordianed. We would lose touch, but eventually would find each other again. Time moved on, careless about what became of us. Mothers became grandmothers, retirement arrived, sometimes widowhood. In the gloaming of our lives, we now attend each other’s funerals, grateful for the memories and sorry for the loss. Harking back to yesterdays, there's a little tune that wanders through the corridors of my mind; don’t recall by whom:

Oh, oh, I remember summers,

but that was very long ago;

I'd sit and talk with the gals I knew around the block,

where did all my old friends go?

Over the years the neighborhood’s members became ghosts. The last time I walked down the block, I couldn’t recall the name of the family who lived on the corner, or the name of the widow whose daughter went to school with us. New families replaced the old ones. Looking for my friends’ old homes, I realized it was we girls who had become the shadows. As it should be. Where we were from was no longer who we were, but where we were from made us who we are. 

Ordinary Days

 

Looking back over the past few weeks, it occurs to me that ordinary days around here, collectively, are quite remarkable. What’s ordinary for one person is extraordinary for another. We all know that, so, now, consider these current events.  You be the judge.

Early one recent morning, the cat jumped on the bed. Scott grumbled, rose, then ruefully informed me that one of the larger purpura blisters on his arm had broken during the night and covered his side of the bed sheets with huge splotches of blood. A vampire would weep at the sight of all the lost blood. Me, I felt sorry for the laundress, wondering how soon she would ask for a raise. 

No further sleep would be had, so I sauntered to the bathroom sink, only to see my entire sink bowl covered with ants. WTF!?! Ants? It was freezing cold outside. Aren’t they supposed to hibernate during the winter? After drowning them all, I searched for further familial evidence and there they were; knitting themselves into a coil around the floor wall. Death by killer ant pods was the only answer for now, but I knew that this was not the end of this tale - there would be further retribution on both sides for this massacre. More would come to look for their colonist relatives while I, the evil terminator, called the exterminator. 

After making myself presentable I wandered into the kitchen where Scott was busily making breakfast. I poured out the ant story to Scott, wondering aloud how the day could get worse after all the recent blood and death experiences. He  looked at me, clearly bemused, flapped his arms and said “well, things just got a lot worse”. Worse? Wait, what? How? Apparently he was attempting to crack an egg on the counter. The egg yoke popped out of its shell onto the counter then unceremoniously slid down between the counter and the side of the stove. Scott clearly was baffled by my response, which was to laugh out loud, and keep laughing, but really, wasn’t it a Laurel and Hardy moment? I considered alternate scenarios; what if the ants found the egg yoke, then decided it was best not to look that one in the mouth. 

As happens with the weather around here, Monday it was winter and Tuesday it was spring. Spring means flowers blooming, birds singing and deer chewing on tender buds.  After hearing so much about how Irish Spring soap keeps the deer away from the azaleas and the tulips, I bought a dozen bars, cut them in half, and placed them around the various bushes. I was so pleased and proud that this year, finally, I would enjoy the blossoms in all their glory. The next day I looked out the window and the soap bits were all gone. Gone! But where? It’s not like our neighbors would steal half bars of soap off the ground. Scott’s best guess was that the smaller animals, squirrels and raccoons and such, had taken them and eaten them. The soap has no carcinogens, the “pure and healthy” scent of Irish Spring opens with fresh bergamot and citrus, followed by floral and herbal notes on a woody base. I’ve drunk wine with less of a bouquet. Who, or what, wouldn’t want to chomp on that mouthful of herbal goodness. Philosophically, we are taking comfort in knowing that if we see little animals with foam around their mouths they are eating Irish Spring soap and do not have rabies. 

And then there was the Vidalia onion incident. Scott loves those onions. During their season last year he ordered a 40 pound box on line. We ate onion soup, onion rings, onion pies, etc etc etc. He did the same thing this year except that something “went amiss”, so he says, with his order. He wasn’t sure that the purchase had been made since he did not receive a confirmation of order, so he clicked the “buy now” button again, and just to be sure, he hit it a third time. A week later we found ourselves with 120 pounds of onions at our front door. We shared the onions with the UPS driver, the cleaning ladies, the handyman, the DOD agent who came by asking about our neighbors, but that’s another story. Anyway, we still have 80 pounds of onions at our door. Beware all who enter. 

Not to be outdone, in the last but not least category, I rifled through my lingerie drawer, staring at rotted plastic and yellowed lace, realizing that it was time to buy new bras. With Scott’s eager encouragement, I wandered into the lingerie section of the local department store. I had no idea of the “magnitude” of well endowed ladies around here. Some of those darn things, starting at 45DDD, are bigger than the kayaks on our shore front. Jeez, finally a sales lady, noting my blank stares, asked if she could help.  I pitifully beseeched her, “I’m looking for a plain wireless non padded ordinary run of the mill 34B bra”. She gave me the fish eye, then stonily replied  that I needed to be looking in the children’s department. Children’s department? I dropped my head, shamed by my under endowment, and hied myself into the children’s department, looking hopefully for a 12 year old to guide me in this brave new world. And today is only Wednesday. 

Ceremony, Ritual and Getting On With It

 I was reminded, while watching the funeral of Prince Philip, of the importance of ceremony. He and the Queen were, are, the last of the greatest generation. They spoke of a life of duty, not feelings; instead “got on with it”. They lived with whatever life handed them and didn’t whine about their predicaments. 

Prince Philip, while technically born a prince, was essentially homeless: father dead, mother in an asylum, elder sisters married off into foreign countries, living his life in boarding schools, ‘vacationing’ at the homes of benevolent friends and distant relatives. He never groused at the injustices of his life, but “got on with it”, joining the navy and eventually marrying Lilibet, then spending the rest of his life as Queen consort, a life filled with duties and ceremonies. 

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote: “Ceremony is essential to humans. It’s a circle that we draw around important events to separate the momentous from the ordinary. And ritual is a magical safety harness that guides us from one stage of our lives into the next, making sure that we don’t stumble or lose ourselves along the way.”

The three largest transitions in life are, of course, birth, marriage and death. And the accompanying rituals, however great or small, are essential to all of them. From the little girl whose goldfish died and who held a funeral at the family’s bathroom to the pomp and grandeur of the wedding ceremony of Harry and Megan, while the birth of the next generation, and all the hopes that come with a new life, is acknowledged with showers and cards and reveal parties. 

Even the lesser ceremonies nonetheless mark life’s positive transitions: graduation, anniversary, retirement. Likewise, symbolic religious events such as baptism, Christmas, Bar Mitzvah motivate us, spark our emotions and stir our memories. Remember the best Christmas gift, the 25th anniversary party, the retirement party, the debutante ball, or the brand new driver’s license which prompted dad to ceremoniously, albeit reluctantly, hand over the family car keys.  

We watched, mostly in silence, the funeral for Prince Philip. A very solemn and impressive ceremony marked with symbolism. The flag, the sword, the cap, all rested on the coffin. The choir singers in the great chapel, the lonely mournful tune of the bagpipes. I was moved to tears to see the Queen, sitting stoically in the chapel during the service, all alone. Another mortal would have taken to her room and sobbed loudly into her pillow, but the Queen understood that even in her moments of greatest grief, she had that most painful duty to perform; to publicly bid good-bye to her dearest companion, and she did so with grace and quiet dignity. There is dignity in silence, a trait that has fallen by the wayside. Her kind, and his, will not pass this way again.  Long live the Queen.

Feminine Mystique

 

I finally had to admit it to myself; we women have lost our feminine mystique. My personal life standard has always been: would Audrey Hepburn wear this or behave like that. Who do the young wish to emulate these days: Eileen Collins, Jackie Cochran, Marie Curie, Grace Kelly, Sandra Day O’Connor, Margaret Thatcher, Angela Merkel, Kate Middleton, Sherry Lansing? No flowery doormats, these ladies, and yet. . . .

Words such as captivating, mysterious, feminine, graceful are no longer in the American lexicon regarding American women. Instead lewd, salacious, vulgar, coarse, have become the norm. Nothing slammed those last four adjectives home more than sporadically watching the Grammys a few nights ago. Those women gyrating and prancing about had become  nothing more than “three holes”, as the old Chinese saying goes; how humiliating, how disgusting. 

Where did it all go wrong? When did the likes of Kim Kardashian’s butt become the standard by which we wish to live by. Or Milly Cyrus, whose grossly revolving tongue’s spots have been seen so often we can count them. And don’t get me started on bare breasts. We have been favored with every pore on Jennifer Lopez’ body. Is there an iota of captivating glamour about any of these women. Would the word ‘alluring’ ever be associated with them. The second-century Greek sage and philosopher Epictetus, wrote, “Know, first, who you are, then adorn yourself accordingly.”

The most infuriating aspect of all this abasing behavior is that it is so completely unnecessary. At the end of the day, we women are the only game in town. Do we need to turn ourselves into pole dancers to gain males’ attention? Men are heat seeking missiles to begin with; today they are undoubtedly more frightened of us than beguiled by us. Bewitched, bothered and bewildered, no more. 

Remember song lyrics such as: “in dreams I walk with you” (Roy Orbison), “I long to know the thrill of your sweet embrace” (Johnny Mathis), “for your love, I would do anything” (Ed Townsend), “don’t you know, I was born on the very day, that you happened to come my way” (Della Reese). Oh, how our hearts fluttered at the magic of romance. Alas, listen to music these days and the one note rap songs express a much less starry eyed notion of getting together. What is the message to our younger female generation.