Aging & Attitude

Ridiculous, this is ridiculous; I am telling myself, stressed about baking chocolate chips cookies.

Really! Chocolate chip cookies! Have you eaten a home-baked chocolate chip cookie that was not delicious?

I am on a mission to bake my grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies and disappointed with the results.

Granny B’s cookies were more like a brownie, square in size , not chewy or gooey, just the right amount of crunch. As you can tell from the picture; not flat or crispy.


The struggle for perfection is ridiculous, absolutely positively ridiculous.

My children, who I will be bringing them to, remember the cookies, but not the way I remember them; a special treat that accompanied a special woman wherever she went.

Remember special treats for special days. Some of us even enjoyed weekly special treats.

Ours was eating pizza in front of the television on Friday night. Pizza was tomato paste on English muffins with American cheese criss-crossed on the top. The television show was Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip. We snapped our fingers and mouthed the words to the signature song. Then mesmerized by Kooky combing his hair, and prayed he would lend me his comb.

No really, I am being ridiculous. The cookies I baked are practically almost exactly like hers.

I never watched her bake them, but asked for the recipe once. Her response was she followed the recipe on the back of Toll House package but added one teaspoon more water. In later years I pondered and pondered how an insignificant addition to a cookie recipe could produce nirvana , then recalled Granny B baked with Crisco.

Remember the movie, “The Help,” when Minny says to Celia, “The greatest invention since they put mayonnaise in a jar. You have a squeaky door hinge, Crisco. Bags under your eyes, gum in your hair, Crisco”?

I examined the Crisco can, and sure enough, when substituting Crisco for butter add one teaspoon  water.

Now the recipe is just right. Well not exactly, the taste is delicious. That is not the problem.  

The problem? The cookies are too thick and a tad too light in color.  

I get it, I am being ridiculous.

I have tried a 9 by 13 pan, too thick, and 15 by 10, too thin. One is too small; the other too big. It is possible a 9.5 by 14 pan will be just right. Unless I am being ridiculous.

. . . . just saying



Vertigo/The Not Getting Younger Series

   th  I am in Albuquerque visiting my son and have Vertigo. Today it’s not so bad. I just cannot bend over, or rather tilt forward or position my body even on the slightest incline. It is best if I am in a posture perfect position, which is not so bad. At least I am not in bed.
      It started on last Thursday. I woke feeling fine but by 9AM had a severe case of the chills. I was already completely dressed and wearing a sweatshirt but got in bed, and piled on four assorted blankets and comforters. Still ice-cold, I turned on a room space heater to high and fell asleep for four hours. When I got out of bed, I was still fatigued and could not walk straight unless guided by a wall. My head felt too heavy for my body and I was dizzy, very dizzy.

     My son thought it best I visit the emergency room and I could not argue. He took me to the hospital where my daughter-in-law works to be certain I would get the best treatment, and he was right. When he parked by the emergency room entrance I experience a  sense of helplessness like never before, and was thankful my son was at my side. 

     An EKG test ruled out a heart attack. My son spoke to the doctor asking questions, and supplying answers I was too dizzy to ask. It was a complete role reversal and since I am not getting younger graciously accepted his loving care.

     When I flunked the “follow my finger, touch my finger and then your nose test,” and three people rushed to support me after being told to stand and walk, a head scan and MRI were ordered.

     The doctor laughed when I asked if my brain was normal. Then commented that there was nothing acutely wrong. The prognosis was vertigo. I was given a prescription for Meclizine and sent home dizzy and nauseous. 

     The next morning I did an online search and learned vertigo usually is a disorder of the inner ear BPPVBenign positional vertigo exercises | Vertigo …that affects body balance and that specific exercises can help.

     Another cause discussed in the u-tube video by Ninni Girl, was acute vitamin B12 deficiency.  Click skip the advertisement to view the video directly.

     Just when I was getting back on my horse and thought I would be posting consistently this happened, but I am thankful to have an ever so sweet memory of  my son and me.

. . . . just saying

Teachers Make A Difference

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

The Wonder of Kindness


The Wonder of Kindness

I have been mumbling and grumbling about the sorry state of affairs the world is in. You know what I am talking about; Bill Cosby, NFL domestic abuse policy, Ferguson Mo., Republican idiotic-mess, and the final slip into insanity, Isis; who think nothing of cutting off heads.

What is wrong with these people? It is overwhelming and leaves me no energy for a decent rant. I worry too, that I am adapting an older person’s perspective; the world is coming to an end or a Chicken Little belief that the sky is falling.

Then I heard about “Wonder,” a book my ten-year old granddaughter is reading, that is so good she could not put it down, and read while walking home from the school bus stop. So I got the book, thinking we would start a Nana & Alexandria book club. “Wonder,” by R.J. Palacio, is a New York Times Best Seller and there was a wait for the book at my Library.

Book Summary: Ten-year-old Auggie Pullman, who was born with extreme facial abnormalities and was not expected to survive, goes from being home-schooled to entering fifth grade at a private middle school in Manhattan, which entails enduring the taunting and fear of his classmates as he struggles to be seen as just another student.

In this book, the heroes are kindness, courage, friendship, and character; the message about leadership and solving life problems. I could not but it down either.

The book even has a happy ending, when Mr. Tushman, the principal, gives the middle school address and quotes J.M. Barrie from book, “The Little White Bird.”

“Shall we make a new rule of life . . . always try to be a little kinder than necessary?”

Although I always make an effort to not be rude, and treat others the way I want to be treated, have forgotten to be kind and rarely, kinder than necessary.

The icing on the cake is when the Henry Word Beecher Medal is awarded to August Pullman. Mr.Tushman quotes Beecher defining greatness.

“Greatness, lies not in being strong, but in the right using of strength. . . He is the greatest whose strength carries up the most hearts.”

Auggie gets a standing ovation as he accepts the medal. It is a feel good moment for the reader and food for thought, what is kindness?

Kindness is a step beyond polite. Kindness is compassion, consideration, benevolence, goodwill, cordial, gentle, generous, decent, charitableness, sympathy, sweetness, towards others. Kindness is a wonder.

Thank you to author R.J. Palacio for giving us hope.

. . . just saying

R.J. Palacio Web site

Summary & Characters “Wonder” 

A Lost Pearl

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

Shake It Off

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”

An Irish Hand-Me Down


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.
The bodice is hand embroidered, and the seams French to prevent fraying and unraveling. My memory says it is similar to the pictures below.


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.


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




The End of Summer

640px-Lake_Alice_WinterLake AliceWinter In Florida

The End of Summer

In Florida, the hot summer days never cease. The temperature does not drop; the leaves fade; never glory in red, yellow, and orange changes. The median temperature, eighty-eight, in June, July and August varies only one degree in September, but the days grow shorter.

The end of summer is an event in my mind, attended by memories and strong scents; long idle days accompanied by the excitement of new beginnings, school.

We did not mind summer heat on Long Island. We lived in a Levitt house and felt lucky to have a community pool, which we walked to daily, for 9AM swimming lessons. Learning to swim was a safety issue. The instructor taught the sidestroke saying, “Imagine picking an apple from a tree, put it in your opposite hand, and then reach for another apple,” which we practiced lying on the cement. Once in the pool, a magic scissor kick produced a glide through the water.

 Next, we learned the Australian crawl, holding on pool side. We blew bubbles, our face in the water, we then turn our mouth to the side and gasped for air. The breathing technique was essential  to mastering the crawl, or freestyle as it is known today.

At Lunch time we walked home to eat sandwiches of peanut butter & jelly, or baloney on Wonder bread. Occasionally, lunch was a tuna fish sandwich or tomato soup. After a rest, sitting on the living room couch in the dark, we walked backed to the pool for open swim.

Mornings off from swimming lessons, I met my friend, Vicki Love, under the Weeping Willow tree in her yard. We played Gin Rummy until lunch.

As I grew older, the summer felt shorter although the calendar said the number of days for summer vacation stayed the same.

Even though summer ended, school was beginning.

I loved school, the smell of pencil shavings, blackboard dust, leather school bags, and white shoe polish.

 My leather school bag was a birthday gift from my grandmother, not a hand-me down. Brand clean with an adjustable lock flap that expanded effortlessly when the bag was very full. The frame kept the bag open while I search inside for homework or an eraser.

Florida’s summer does not come to an end. The leaves do not change, although, the nights are slightly cooler and the days shorter. The end of summer is an event in my mind. 


. . . just saying


Sweet Memories

Goodies  (Not the Franklin but close)


I love the way a dear friend captured the nostalgia of eating ice cream and asked her to guest blog. The inspiration came from her love of ice cream and July being national ice cream month. Please leave a comment for Glenda as she doubts others will find it enjoyable. 


              The Franklin Ice Cream Store by Glenda Cunard                                                                                                                                                                             

“You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream.” Isn’t this the mantra for most little children in the good ole USA?

I remember my twin brother and sister sitting beside me in the back seat of our car and all of us chanting this little rhythm every time we got close to an ice cream store.

It all started in the 1930’s when I was about 4 yrs old and lived on Bellview Street in Indianapolis. (Now a rundown dilapidated street with shabby rental homes.) But, it in the golden days of my childhood there stood the most exciting building in the neighborhood, The Franklin Ice Cream Store.

In the afternoon, after our bath and clean clothes we would sit on the front porch waiting for Dad to come home. One could look to the left across the street and see the 8th Christian church, which was catty-corned from Public School 51. When you looked to the right there stood the Franklin ice cream store.  It was on the corner of Bellview and 16th street. A busy intersection that we could never go down alone. I thought it the most beautiful ice cream store I had ever seen. It looked like something from a fairytale. It was a rather small white stucco building with a most unusual roof. The roof was sculptured all around the top like small snow-capped mountains with icicles hanging down on all sides of the building.

Just looking at the building made you feel cool. At least two times a week and always on Friday evening after dinner, the family walked to the Franklin ice cream store. We looked like we were following the Pied Piper, Mom, the two older girls, me, and my twin brother and sister all following Dad down the street.

This store did not have 31 flavors, sugar-free, all natural ingredients, Neapolitan, glutton free or any other strange-sounding names for ice cream. It just had three flavors – vanilla, chocolate and strawberry. But that was enough for us.

People ordered  at a small window, much too high for a small child to reach, trimmed in icy cool blue. Our father was a very tall man and we stood around his legs while he ordered for the family; and on a hot summer day it felt like the line would never end.

Some children would run, like all children do, around the beautiful white wrought iron tables and chairs, until someone would hand them their cones. Then they would sit in the princess style chairs. But, we never got to sit in them because we always walked to get our ice cream and then go back home. Dad often got three scoops – one vanilla, one chocolate, and one strawberry. That was the ultimate in cones.

Our cones were just one flavor, mostly vanilla. Mom and the older girls got 2 scoops, me and the twins got one scoop. I can hear Dad still saying as we walked back home “hurry up and lick those cones before they melt and Mom saying “don’t let that ice cream get on your clean clothes,” of course that was impossible.

I still close my eyes, lick my lips and have sweet memories.


 . . . . just saying,  Thank you Glenda!

Remembering Easter

scan0019  Easter 1965,

 Aunt Carol with Lucite Handbag, sister Judy, Mother(Pregnant with my sister Abigail), Mariellen, Claudia, Grandma,center my sister Martha Gertrude

Mr. Wonderful and I retired to Florida seven years ago and can now say we  like living here. The weather is my biggest challenge. It is simply too hot and there is little change in the seasons. I miss the smells of spring and Easter that prompt renewal with a burst of color.

I can recall Easter as a young child living on Long Island. The Dogwood trees bloomed and the pink flowers used to  make corsages. The Weeping Willows wore yellow-green buds to announce the occasion.

I remember Easter Baskets, the kind filled with love, jelly beans, and hollow chocolate eggs laced with confectioners squiggle.  Our grandmother made them for us eight kids, niece and nephews; a total of twelve baskets.

She filled them with squishy marshmallow chicks called Peeps, jump ropes, jacks, spanking clean pink Spaulding balls and laced trimmed socks for the girls; and army men, matchbox cars, baseball cards, and sunglasses or shades, for the boys. When teens, panty hose and paper underwear replaced the socks.

She continued the tradition with my children until she died.

Great Granny B and 4 month old great-grand son, Tony

Great Granny B and 4 month old great-grand son, Tony

My grandmother baked butter cookies made to look like  Easter baskets filled with dyed eggs, by adding a  handle, shredded coconut, and jelly beans. She used cookie cutters for Bunnies with chocolate ears, and included mini linzer cookies filled with cherry jelly, egg white cookies laced with walnuts and her famous chocolate chips cookies. 

We usually had new dresses and shiny black patent leather shoes, bought by Aunt Carol at Macy’s 34th Street. The shoes were a perfect fit because Aunt Carol would trace our feet on card board, cut out the pattern and bring it with her to the store.



Aunt Carol always carried a pretty handbag

and a tasteful hat, similar to  these: il_570xN.455754744_g6yt





Easter morning, after the excitement of the baskets, my mother dressed us in order of our behavior. Once wearing our new clothes we were told, “Sit on the couch, and don’t move, or else!” And we didn’t. Drew, the youngest at the time, was dressed, after my mother dressed, and held by the hand until he was in the car and Mass over.

I remember Easter Egg Hunts where real dyed hard-boiled eggs were hidden outside and eaten later no matter how much dirt was brushed off.

After  mass, the company arrived, and when the whistle blew, we ran, desperate to be the first to  find THE GOLDEN EGG, a chocolate egg wrapped in gold foil. I did not know my brother, Victor, cheated and looked ahead, while I closed my eyes and prayed to find the Golden Egg just once. The prize was one dollar.

Although Easter is about baskets and hunts, it is really about hats. as seen in the above picture.

I remember being in a panic shopping at Montgomery Ward’s, the day before Easter, and thrilled to find the hat I am wearing, an exact match to my homemade celery- green coat. Judy was ecstatic about her hat, the red band makes the outfit pop, and Mariellen’s was simply perfect. Don’t we look marvelous?

                                                                                 . . . . just saying