Category Archives: #Baby Boomer/Happy/Remories

The Not Getting Younger Series/Understanding Nothing

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Understanding Nothing

      The local newspaper, “The News Journal,” informs readers of the number of days left in the year and quotes a notable person on a daily basis. I usually start my day reviewing these tidbits of information. Somehow, the number of days to the year’s end surprises me. Although I should know without checking, since I always look the day before. The quotes vary from familiar and meaningful to humorous and ridiculous.

     On a recent Wednesday, when there were 247 days left in the year, the quote  was by Edward Dahlberg. Initially I was amused and thought he made sense, then I was perplexed but eventually annoyed.

     Since I am not getting any younger and easily confused, I gave it more thought and made a list of the possibilities.

“It takes a long time to understand nothing.”
By Edward Dahlberg

      • You forgot what you thought you knew, and now understood nothing
      • You never knew enough to understand nothing
      • You are now old enough to understand nothing

     Who was this man giving me a headache? I went online feeling stupid, and searched for an explanation. There was none, but learned Dahlberg, who is frequently quoted, was an accomplished author during the early nineteen hundreds. His words were too obscure to others.

     Getting no satisfaction I turned to the dictionary for a tangible meaning of nothing. Evidently nothing can be a noun, something that is nonexistent or a verb, as in a trivial action. Perhaps I needed more time to think about nothing and went back to doing the laundry. 

     I went to sleep that night ruminating about understanding the absence of meaning in everything.

     On the “246 day left in the year” I awoke smitten with myself, and feeling smarter than Mr. Dahlberg. However, because I was still not getting younger, made a list of other interpretations of the quote, “It takes a long time to understand nothing.”

• Understanding nothing is pointless
• There is nothing to understand
• Move on quickly once you understand nothing

. . . . just saying

PS: Another Dahlberg quote: “Every decision you make is a mistake”

Hobnobbing and Sailing

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Some would say I am MIA, not having published a blog post since January. I apologize. We did move and I could use unpacking and decorating the new hut as an excuse. But the truth is, I am struggling creatively. In the past an obscure word or thought would dance in my head until I put pencil to paper. Recently I have only pondered what to eat for lunch and how to get a better night’s sleep.

This morning however, the word hobnob and music from Gilligan’s Island interrupt my thoughts. While Charlie Rose on CBS This Morning asks questions about Google and mobile websites, I hum  “What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor?” When Gayle King comments about a lost wedding band returned to a Boston marathoner I blank out, and say hobnob aloud.

You see, I have been hobnobbing. To be more specific, I just returned from a Road Scholar trip called, “Day Sailing for Beginners.” And yes, I feel like I am swaying on land and extremely dizzy when bending over.

Road Scholar educational adventures are conducted by Elderhostel, a not for profit world leader in lifelong learning. The trip description read, “Have you always wanted to experience the freedom and pleasure of sailing? Then this small-group program is for you.” The adventure included five days of sailing in Boca Ciega Bay (St. Petersbury, Florida), three meals a day and lodging for $935. A bargain! I stopped reading and mailed my check. Realizing “learning” to sail, not sailing, was the trip focus, while reviewing the trip itinerary and recommended reading list. I was still game. What the heck, I earned a knot-tying badge as a Brownie and know how to swim.

The small group of nineteen consisted of twelve women and seven men. The refrain “Ear-ly in the morning,” from the song, intrudes my thoughts as I now write, and recall the trip orientation and dinner on Sunday evening.

There were three couples, of which one were in their eighties and married sixty-five years. Seven of the participants were from Florida, four from New York and the rest scattered between Alabama, Indiana, Massachusetts, Tennessee, Texas, and Vermont.

Not everyone was retired. Their backgrounds were eclectic, varying from kindergarten teacher, geophysicist, law professor, computer programmer, and commercial farmer. Many had traveled extensively and lived in other countries. Several enjoy ballroom dancing. Two disclosed they had built sailboats in their youth then reluctantly admitted the boats sank.

We all lacked sailing experience when we entered the lecture room at Eckerd College,  to met, the lead instructor. He earned his facial wrinkles not by smiling but from numerous sailing certifications and dedication to the sea. Attractive, although, his nose was clearly designed to hold glasses on his face, his full head of white hair streaked with yellow suggested he was older than he looked. He had skinny knees and I speculated his mustache had been penciled on after shaving. He shut the lecture room door quickly, and a no-nonsense approach sprinkled with infinite patience was quietly revealed. He stood alongside a podium, a smart-board marker in his hand and said, “I am Richard, your Captain.”

Learning to sail was a wonderful experience. The learning curve was high however, and on Wednesday, I vowed to either do more new learning or abandon all learning that is new completely when my brain twisted Jibe and Gybing. That night a fellow crewmember stayed up late replacing the words in “What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor,” with nautical terminology.

A Brit, she shared her, “Sea Shanty in Honor of the Inestimable Captain Richard,” in the morning, and instructed the group to repeat each line three times then follow with the refrain “Ear-ly in the morning.”

Reef him to the boon vang, til he’s bowlined
Moor him to the jib sheet til he’s cleated
Winch him in the pulpit til he’s port tacked

There are numerous other stanzas calling for wrapping, lashing, tying, and dragging Captain Richard about. The group loved her rendition and ignored the implication of  bondage.

I am still dizzy when bending over and debating if it is a side effect of new learning or a brain tumor. I have doctor’s apppointment next week.

. . . . just saying

Moving Soon

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GE DIGITAL CAMERAAging & Attitude

   We will be moving soon, back to Halifax Plantation; the community we first retired to in 2007. We have been living in Shangri-La, aka a villa apartment, where we have access to several pools and the beach is a three-minute walk. I can meander up to the lobby for afternoon coffee and bring back a free copy of USA Today. The flowers are switched out after several months and housekeeping sweeps outside our door. We are definitely spoiled.

   I am conflicted about moving. I like living in a smaller place and having zero outside chores. On the plus side we will have neighbors and space for entertaining.

   However, Mr. Wonderful* is thrilled. He will have a garage, be able to wash the car and kibitz with his golf buddies.

   As I reread what I am writing, I realize what a charmed life we have. Yes, our first years in retirement were consumed by Bob’s symptoms of pancreatic cancer, but he survived, very few do. He has no pancreas. I have been diabetic for thirty years and use an insulin pump, now we are both insulin dependent diabetics. It makes for some humorous situations.

   Life is good. He has all of his hair and teeth, and I have most of my hair and all of my teeth. We both can get out of a chair unassisted.

. . . just saying

*Mr. Wonderful is my husband of forty-three years

Teachers Make A Difference

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2000_4_founderCharles Best & Donors Choose

“CBS This Morning,” with Charlie Rose, Norah O’Donnell, and Gayle King is my favorite news show. I enjoy the television program and tape the entire two-hour broadcast. This way if interrupted by brushing my teeth or putting in a wash, I can fast forward during lunch and view what I have missed. The show’s tag line “Real News” is evident in many segments and laughter is kept to a minimal. I love, love. Love the “90 Second Eye Opener,” that captures the day’s top stories and more importantly, special reports inform me about things I do not know about, like Donors Choose.

Donors Choose is an online charity that collects and distributes donations to public school teachers across America, so teachers do not have to take money out of their own pockets for projects.

“Teachers ask, you choose,” is their mantra.

The program was started in 2000, by Charles Best, a history teacher at a Bronx high school. He and his colleagues were spending their own money on school supplies. Best built a website for teachers to post classroom project requests and people to make donations. His peers posted 10 projects, but Charles did not know any donors, so he funded those projects, anonymously. The other teachers thought the website worked and rumors spread. Fourteen years later, $292,646,946 dollars have been raised, and 528,697 projects funded. Clearly, teachers make a difference and I recall one that made a difference in my life.

The writer in me would not let the memory rest until I found some words in which they could be expressed.

Not Forgotten  

Miss Brown, my first grade teacher listened to me, “I was absent on Tuesday, and didn’t get a wooden box.” The other students had retrieved their Mother’s Day project from the supply cabinet and sat at their desks arranging paint and paint brushes.

   She smiled and said, “I saved one just for you.”

   I thought her hair yellow, like a Crayola crayon in a package hugged by red and orange. Her blue eyes sparkled and her Pageboy haircut bounced with enthusiasm when she taught. My heart raced as she held my hand, and we walked to the back of the classroom, my attention on her penny loafers. Together we bent to look inside the cabinet, darkness prevented a good view, but as my pupils adjusted, a wooden box appeared.

Miss Brow is not her real name. I cannot remember her name only her kindness.

. . . .just saying

A Lost Pearl

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81070be8-4105-4dda-b88e-eac682dc7c17Picture Male Tufted Humming Bird by Ray

 

A Lost Pearl

Flash Fiction

The last time I saw her, she was young; youth sparkled in her eyes. Now the sparkle is gone, the jade blue color diminished by time; her convictions etched in lines across her face. Her once narrow nose is broader, broken from standing up for others. Her chest sunken with anger, not there the first time we met.

“Pearl is that you?” I inquire.

She strains to turn towards me, her range of motion greatly compromised.

“Yes, I’m Pearl,” Her voice recalls dignity, and she pauses to ask, “Have I had your acquaintance?”

It was 1971; we got on the Concourse Avenue bus each with a child in hand. She took notice of my bruises and we became friends.

I take the seat alongside her and gently touch her forearm, “Pearl, it’s me Rosa . . . . Rose, remember. . . .” I expect her to ooze with gladness, say, “Lordy, Lordy, Rose, how are you?”

Instead, she says “Rose? Can’t recall a Rose, refresh my memory child.”

If she remembers me, she would never mention beatings, and hiding in safe houses. I remind her of Bainbridge Park; how we would meet after lunch, let the children play in the sand box then walk them to sleep in strollers.

“Yes, I remember sunshine and playgrounds, how is your boy . . . ?”

“Danny, Dan, he’s at Fordham University; studying to be a lawyer.

Danny was five when I made the decision to leave the morning after a beating. I phoned my sister, asked her to get him from school, and left a note for John saying I didn’t want a divorce, and wouldn’t fight him for our son.

I worried about leaving Danny behind. Pearl said, “Don’t fret; your boy be fine,” and hooked me up with people.

John was a New York City Police officer and protected by his brothers, but the force would not ignore his beating a child.

Sill, I moved every four months with a new identity.

Three years later, the Richmond Virginia Newspaper reported the hunt for the killer of John McGill, a NYC Police Officer shot in the line of duty. I went home;  stood next to his coffin, widowed with a pension; my eight-year-old son at my side.

John had never mentioned I was gone to anyone on the force.

Now Pearl dozes next to me, and her head bobs from side to side startling herself. “What was I saying?”

“We were talking about the time we brought the boys to the Bronx Zoo and rode the train around the park ten times. You packed potato salad and fried chicken; a stranger asked to buy your picnic lunch.”

The mention of potato salad crystallizes in her milky eyes, “I remember the day you left, bruised and wearing borrowed clothes; it broke my heart knowing I’d not see you again. How you been?”

“I never got to thank you, Pearl. . . .” She interrupts my attempt at gratitude and explanation of regret .

“Hush, Woman . . . tell me something that will make me smile.”

. . . . just saying

The Borrowers and Re-purposing

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4b2f5fb176c0792e05a9ee10c6912116Illustrated By Beth and Joe Krush

 

Mr. Wonderful* weaves his way through the house, ignoring a house rule, not to start a conversation unless we are both in the same room, and calls out; “Have you seen my cell?” There is no water running or hair dryer blowing in the bathroom so, I hear him and come out.

He is having a conversation with himself, “I just called Marshall, I just had the damn thing, I was sitting in my chair and put the phone on the snack-tray, but, it’s not there.”

He is wearing a heavy hooded sweatshirt and pants. I am dressed similarly. There is a cold wave in Florida. This morning’s outside temperature is 52 degrees; inside the thermostat reads 65. It is much too early to turn the heat on, besides if I remember correctly, AARP reported Arctic air increases life expectancy and being cold burns more calories. Maybe it was not AARP, maybe it was . . . whatever, who can remember; I’ve agreed to enjoy the cold or at least to pretend.

“Did you look in your sock draw?”

“Why would I look in my sock draw?”

“You put on clean socks; did you look in your sock draw?”

He looks at his feet, frowns, and checks his sock draw. The phone is not there, nor on the bureau top, and he says, “This is ridiculous I just had it. It’s in this house, somewhere.”

I pick up the land-line, “I’ll phone you.”

“It’s off, I turned my cell off.”

“Are you sure? I dial his phone and listen as the call goes directly into a message box, and say, “Well maybe ‘The Borrowers’ have it.”

“The Borrowers?”

“You know, ‘The Borrowers,’ little tiny people who live in walls and borrow people’s stuff to survive.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You never read the book, ‘The Borrowers’ by Mary Norton? The dad, Pod, risks his life daily getting a potato, afraid he’ll be ‘seen’.”

“No, never heard of them.”

“Pod is a handyman, makes furniture from thread spools and kitchen sinks from Altoids Mint tins. Their home is wallpapered in discarded notepaper and birthday cards. That’s why I’m not upset one of my favorite earrings is missing. The possibilities are many.”

“You’re right it could be anywhere.”

“No, the re-purposing possibilities; the earring is made of wood, and is probably now a table or firewood. The Borrowers like having company for Thanksgiving dinner.

Not amused, Mr. Wonderful does not get it and says, “If they’re so tiny how could they talk on a cell phone?”

“Your cell is more likely their big screen television; they’ll add an app and stream the football game.”

Mr. Wonderful’s retort, “Will they be paying the bill?”

 

. . . just saying

*Mr. Wonderful is my husband, aka, Bob.

Shake It Off

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taylor-swift-shake-it-off-video-falls-flat Taylor Swift

Taylor Swift, singer and songwriter, sold 1.287 million copies of her new album last week. Swift is the first artist to have three albums sell one million copies; “Speak Now” in 2010, “Red” in 2012 and this album, “1989” in 2014. I love the featured song, “Shake It Off,” and want to wear a tutu and diamond tiara when I shake it off. I am thinking of dying my hair platinum blonde and getting some feathers. She makes listening to a boom box and wearing a hoodie look cool. I love that she cannot jump high and how she embraces the failure to complete a proper curtsey with nonchalance.

Watching the video, I feel fourteen again, back in high school, and sitting in study hall. It is the first day of school; Mary Ellen Knefley on her way to sharpen a pencil, drops a note on my desk. The note details what Lillian St. Clair is saying about me, and that I am not liked. I care less, rip the note into pieces, and with a boom box balanced on my shoulder sing my way to the wastebasket.

Needless to say, I did not have many friends in high school. I was not cool like Taylor Swift, but I did know to disregard other people’s stupidity, unlike the youth of today who put their fragile ego in other people’s hands.

Well, I did have a best friend, Liz, but we did not talk about stupid notes. We talked about boys, the Beatles and JFK saving the world.

In a recent interview with Gayle King, Taylor Swift talked about MBF’s, and said best friends share a passion for what they do and do not get upset if you do not phone them every day. This young woman is not only cool but also smart. After fifty-three years, Liz and I are still best friends although we do not talk everyday or even once a year, some years.

I love this song, and thrilled that Kelly Ripa and Michael Strahan parody her in a spoof.  Their joint efforts make a successful anti-bullying campaign. Yes, bullying is complicated; more serious and damaging than ever, and cannot be prevented by singing. However chanting, “sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never harm us,” helped me. In addition, the line was clearly drawn in the schoolyard, anyone caught fighting was mean, and thrown out of school.

The only thing new about bullying is how extreme it has become, so extreme there are claims of bullying to death. Our local newspaper headlined a story about school age girls in a street brawl. A 9-1-1 phone call alerted police who said there were over 100 spectators and that they are investigating.

Has bullying becoming a spectator sport or does Taylor Swift have a better suggestion?

                                                                                       …just saying
 
 
 Rolling Stones Magazine “The Reinvention of Taylor Swift”

Autumn Along The Hudson

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largeHudson River Photo by Jim Robertson

Autumn Along the Hudson

Come out of town with me
And see what is always there to see
Mountains covered with trees
But, add color!

The air is crisp, the breeze fragrant
We climb the twisted bends, the crunch of leaves beneath our feet
Background music for what lies ahead.

A parting of trees, then pasture . . . a view of the Hudson
Midnight blue water framed in yellow, orange, and red
Autumn on the river

Add the silence of Nature
Warmth of the sun
Just a few clouds over head
Delight in how it soothes one senses

Come out of town with me
And see what is always there to see, the mountains
But, add color!

I have been out of town, visiting family and friends in New York and New Jersey and wrote this poem upon returning. Other than being patted-down at Newark airport for having nitrates on my hands, the trip was perfect. Security asked if I toted guns. I do not, but did pet my friends hunting dog, Louie. That is the closest explanation I could find to testing positive for a bomb residue, and turns out Louie’s owner hunts exclusively with bow and arrow; go figure.

The trip began at the Emerson Spa and Resort near Woodstock. The weather was cool and we slept with the windows open, under down comforters, to the sound of a babbling brook.

Hyde Park was our next destination. We lunched at the Culinary Institute and toured Eleanor Roosevelt’s cabin, Val-Kill, as well as the home of Thomas Cole and the home (Olana) of Frederic Church, his student.

We stayed at the Beekman Hotel in Rhinebeck and managed to tour Wilderstein, the home of FDR’s friend Daisy before leaving. After watching, the recent PBS special on the Roosevelt’s being in the area was an ideal culmination of events.

“Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me.”
By Ralph Waldo Emerson
 
                                                                                          . . . just saying

 

The Big But!

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The Big But!

According to Avjobs, “Today’s airline industry is radically different from what it was prior to 1978. At that time, the industry resembled a public utility, with a government agency, the Civil Aeronautics Board (CAB), determining the routes each airline flew and overseeing the prices they charged. Today, it is a market-driven industry, with customer demand determining the levels of service and price.”

The effects of Deregulation Act of 1978:

• Increased Competition
• Express Package Delivery
• Discount Fares
• New Carriers
• Frequent Flyer Miles

 

Although airline travel has had challenges over the past thirty-six years, passengers get where they are going in a reasonable amount of time, for a reasonable price, with reasonable discomfort. In other words we fly cheap and have next day delivery without fighting.

Now the industry is shifting from market to profit driven. Seats are smaller and closer, and the aisles narrower. Michael Henny, Delta’s director of customer experience explains the new profitability plan nicely saying, “Increasing density is a priority for us from the perspective of maximizing revenue, but the Slimline seats are great because they allow us to do that without sacrificing customers’ comfort,”

Increase density! The phrase applies to a can of sardines or salmon swimming upstream and I  imagine their new tag line; Delta Delivers Density.

Moreover, please define customers’ comfort, keeping in mind the American butt is wider, and the extra roll is now spilling on to a neighbor’s seat. 

But, let us not pick on Michael Henny, I am sure he is not the only highly paid airline executive who believes the general public is stupid, other airlines are refurbishing planes with the “Slimeline” seat.airline-seats

The Slimline is 17.3 inches wide, just an itsy- bitsy bit smaller than the 17.6 seat we currently sit in, which has been shrinking from the popular 18 inch seat during the wide body 1980″s.

Passengers are already sitting in seats that are too small without a pillow or blanket.

However, the Slimline cuts back further. Passengers sit one inch closer allowing for additional seats or revenue.

Experts predicted passengers would not notice the sardine can has gotten tighter.

But we have, and are now fighting. 

A United Airlines flight, from Newark to Denver, was diverted because of two passengers who were fighting over legroom.

“A woman and a man — both seated in the “Economy Plus” section of the aircraft, which already comes with extra legroom — were at each others’ throats because the man attached a “knee defender” device to his seat, preventing the woman in front from reclining, according the Associated Press.”

Passenger fights involving reclining seats diverted flights, one in route to Paris from Miami made an emergency stop in Boston and the other headed to Palm Beach out of NYC landed in Jacksonville to settle the dispute.

Why the fighting? People think it is about reclining seats and leg room, but it is really about invasion of personal space. If you raise your arm to scratch your head your elbow will hit your neighbors face. And think carefully about the logistics of using to the bathroom, which by the way is rumored to be the next “for-fee” service.

The new seats are 1,200 pounds lighter and will reduce fuel cost; but not if you have to divert planes, and rebook passengers on other flights.

“United says, the new seats make each A320 1,200 pounds lighter. Southwest says the weight savings is cutting about $10 million per year in fuel spending. In addition, the extra seats allow Southwest to expand flying capacity 4 percent without adding any planes, says spokesman Brad Hawkins, while also collecting more revenue from the additional passengers.”

When I complained to the airlines a customer service person responded, “You people wanted deregulation.”

Is  Ralph Nader still alive?

. . . just saying

 

An Irish Hand-Me Down

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Aging & Attitude

 Daily Prompt Clothes and toys, recipes and jokes, advice and prejudice: we all have to handle all sorts of hand-me-downs every day. Tell us about some of the meaningful hand-me-downs in your life

 

 An Irish Hand-Me Down

Smiles tell the story of joy and happiness in this Baptism picture. My Uncle is holding our six week old son, and my seventy-five year old grandmother, Gertrude, is clutching her purse. Judith Andrea, my sister and baby’s Godmother, is behind them.

It is the best picture I can find of the dress.

My mother, Patricia DeSalvo Boylhart and her sister, Carol DeSalvo Connolly were Christened in it, as well as seven siblings and myself. My son was the first of many grandchildren and great-grandchildren to wear the hand me down.

There is history in this dress.

Still in our possession, it was handmade by my mother’s mother, Mary Ellen Doherty DeSalvo. The fabric is  Batiste (Fine Cotton) and  Irish lace,  that her mother; Myra O’Rourke Doherty, brought from Ireland.
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The bodice is hand embroidered, and the seams French to prevent fraying and unraveling. My memory says it is similar to the pictures below.

christeninggown91

The mock neckline has no collar and the back is open to allow dressing over the infants head. Numerous round mother of pearl buttons sewn along the passage await to be fastened by silk thread eye loops. I recall a decision to leave the top buttons unfastened, hoping my son would not cry. The dress is sheer, and a full-length slip underneath  necessary to hide cloth diapers and mandatory plastic rubber pants of early times. It is a delicate dress and has always been hand washed, rolled in a towel, and then laid out to air-dry.

christeninggown3

Katherine Boylhart Ferreira, my sister Abigail’s daughter, was the last child to be christened in the dress in 2006.

I am traveling North soon and hopefully can take a picture of the actual dress that is more than a hand me down.

. . . just saying