Moving Soon

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

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

The Borrowers and Re-purposing

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.

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

 

Wrinkles & Prunes

dorian-gray-portrait

A writing prompt from WordPress:

You wake up one day and realize you’re ten years older than you were the previous night. Beyond the initial shock, how does this development change your life plans?

Wrinkles and Prunes

May Dillard wakes to the sound of a bird chirp coming from her smart phone. A birthday text message appears from her daughter, Melissa, saying, “Happy 76th! You’re the Best.” May is surprised by the time, 9AM, and cannot remember the last time she slept this late. She stretches, flutters her feet to get blood circulating, and thinks, I’m not seventy-six, although I feel ten years older this morning. I am sixty-six.

In the bathroom, she lets the hot water run cold while she brushes her teeth, then washes and cleanses her face once the water is warm. The mirror reflects a ten year older version of her. The famous quote, “Old age is not for wimps!” ping-pongs in her mind. She says aloud, “I’m sixty-six today. I was born November 1st, 1948. Today is November 1st 2014, I’m sixty-six.”

Yesterday’s newspaper touted the benefits of coffee and May brews a pot. Anticipating the aroma, she walks to the front door and retrieves today’s newspaper. She removes the plastic sleeve and spreads the paper open on the kitchen table. The headline, “School Board Candidate Borrows Answers” is bold. Evidently, a member had copied and pasted information from Wikipedia onto their application form,and the media considers it cheating.

The date on the newspaper is November 1, 2024.

She had gone to sleep in 2014.

May retrieves a pair of  eyeglasses from her handbag to check the year. It reads 2024 clearly; aging her ten years. She searches the recycling bin and finds a paper dated October 31, 2024, but no story on the benefits of coffee. She recalls the article’s title, “Coffee’s surprising perks,” and the writers visit to the annual Convention of the Hawaii Coffee Association in the year 2014.

It is possible she slipped off the toilet and hit her head last night, as Hillary Clinton did in 2011 or could not remember due to a stroke or amnesia.

The phone rings, really it is a whistle to announce a call. She answers. Her sister Judy sings Happy Birthday. Then says, “God how did we get so old, in four years you’ll be eighty. We’ll have to do something special, like climb Mt. Everest, LOL.”

They chat freely, Judy doing most of the talking and May pretending to be ten years older than she believes. Later, the family gathers to celebrate and May blows out the chunky seven and six numbered candles that decorated an ice cream cake.

That evening she fears sleep, afraid she will wake another ten years older.

Well, she would still be alive. If life expectancy was eighty-one, she had five more good years. She was going to make the best of them.

There would be some changes..

Saturday morning May is packing when her daughter arrives. 

Melissa asks, “Mom, what are you doing?”

May struggles to an upright position and straightens her back and shoulders with a smile, “I’m going on the road. Do you need a vacuum? In five years I won’t be vacuuming.”

“Mom what are you talking about?”

“I making some changes, selling the house, traveling to all the places I haven’t been to. If you don’t want the vacuum I’ll donate it. How about a Crock Pot? They’re real convenient for one pot meals. On second thought I think I’ll take that with me.”

                                      . . . 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!

Shopping for Bread in a Hardware Store/Silly Poem Series

 

3934175392_a22a526274_z                                                                              Aging & Attitude

                                                                Shopping for Bread in a Hardware Store

Hardware Stores fit all our needs
Wheel barrels are near the door

First aisle; nuts and bolts tucked in draws
Second aisle; power tools, gadgetry and more
Midnight Blue and Sunset Yellow paint swatches, linger by brushes.
Floor Fans overcome noise

But no bread!

Hand tools and power saws hang over drop cloths
Welcome mats decorated the floor

Perhaps the bread was in the back
Squeezed between charcoal and bug spray
After fertilizer and birdseed
Before the rest room door

But no, no bread!

I asked a man for help.
The man scratched his beard and said
“Lady you are in the wrong store.”

. . . . just saying

 

Summer Solstice/The Silly Poem Series

th (300x164) Aging & Attitude

Summer solstice sillies, something else a new event!
Reminiscent of clam bakes, swimming lessons
Freckles, blistered shoulders
Sharing baby oil among friends.
Scratched up from picking blue berries
White Keds worn on our feet
Baby sitting for twenty-five cents an hour, considered a treat.

Is the Summer Solstice Silly?
Well, we still can have fun.
A vacation, or staycation, not to offend anyone.
The feverish dog days of summer are coming,
Steering wheels burn hands and flip-flops sting feet.

 

The latest CBS bulletin; we won’t enjoy more sun,
But will miss the needed sleep.
Not to worry, on/off button  is in the future
And they make covers for hot leather car seats.

                                    . . . . just saying

Mr. Wonderful Goes Keurig!

Keurig
I have loved the smell and taste of coffee, since the age of thirteen, when I was allowed an occasionally cup.

My parents drank instant, but I quickly acquired an appetite for the real deal at the Plaza Hotel in New York City. Polished silver pots of hot perked coffee, accompanied by tiny white porcelain pitchers filled with heavy cream, were delivered on trays to the Banquet Office. I was a file clerk and felt special drinking the aromatic coffee from a bone china cup with the Plaza logo on it.

Our first coffee pot, a ten-cup corning ware electric was a wedding gift, and only used when company came. As time passed I finessed a four cup Farberware electric into our daily routine and said goodbye to instant coffee.

Once retired, Mr. Wonderful assumed many household responsibilities, and insisted we needed a Mr. Coffee. How could I refuse when the person asking was doing the food shopping and mopping the kitchen floor?

Life was good because, although Mr. Wonderful frequently wakes several hours before me and the new pot would turn off, he would have a fresh pot ready, and press start when he heard the toilet flush.

A good cup of coffee is more than a good cup of coffee, and Mr. Wonderful makes a great cup of coffee, smooth and never bitter.

Then along came the Keurig, the individual cup miracle machine. I had my first cup at my friend Christine’s house and fell in love with the red colored machine.
Christine explained that her husband, Angelo, was still working, so the additional cost per cup was not a problem and were planning for the added expense in retirement. They love their Keurig!

I shared her sentiment but responded nonchalantly. Mr. Wonderful’s reputation as a coffee brewer and his stock piling of BOGO Free Eight O’clock coffee would not translate into fifty cents a cup. Besides how do you tell the man you love you have found something better.

I wanted a Keurig, but kept my desire a secret. It would be ridiculous to complain, Bob makes great coffee, and cleans up the mess.

However, on February 17th of this year things changed. We stayed with my sister, Marti Gert and she had a Keurig! I did not scream YES, or do a happy dance and recall acting nonchalant as I went to bed feeling like Santa would arrive in the morning.

When I woke, Mr. Wonderful greeted me saying, “We should get one of these, it makes coffee better than I do.

We purchased the miracle machine shortly after.

Yes, the cost is close to double what we paid for a Mr. Coffee cup, but we are worth it and have advised our financial person to make adjustments for a lifetime supply of K-cups.

Morning Walk

Morning Walk

Morning Walk April 24, 2014 The morning air is cool in Florida. As May unfolds the heat intensifies, and the humidity, accompanied by a sultriness that is hard to forget, descends. But for now, I enjoy early walks bemused by … Continue reading