Corn on the Cob

About a month ago, they opened a farmer's market in town. It's held in the parking lot of the Korean church every Wednesday. The Hubs walks there at some point during the day and brings home goodies, especially corn. We've been having corn on the cob for dinner every Wednesday since then.

For most people, corn on the cob is a side dish, a vegetable, and I suppose it always was for me, too. But my father would tell stories of his childhood, when his family piled in the old car and spend all day every Saturday and Sunday at "the Cape" -- he grew up near Cape Cod -- and on the way home they would stop at a farm stand and get a bushel of corn and that would be their dinner. (Not both days, I presume.)

I like corn on the cob, as most people do, and I associate it with Taunton, the place my father grew up, but not for the same reasons. My grandmother died when I was eight, and my grandfather years before that, so if we had corn feasts on the way home from the Cape, I don't remember them. What I remember is Uncle Ben.

Uncle Ben was not like anyone else in my family; I don't think he was like anyone else in his family, either. He was the husband of my father's oldest sister and they married in their forties, although they had known each other all their lives, grew up around the block from each other, and their mothers were friends. My Aunt Rose was a schoolteacher, very dignified and refined and soft-spoken. Uncle Ben was a boisterous, growling, cigar-smoking fanny-pincher. He was short, even by my family's standards, about 5'2", and had been a Marine in World War II and Korea. Let me see if I can come up with a picture:


Somewhere there's a picture of him actually pinching Aunt Rose's bottom, but I couldn't find that. Anyway, I always adored him; my earliest memory of him is before they were married. When I was about six, my grandmother sold her house, and moved in with Aunt Rose and Uncle Ben, into the house they had just bought. I loved their house, I can't believe I don't have a picture of it. Wait.


Yay! I found it among the pictures I scanned a few weeks ago, unlabeled and not in the file it belongs in, but there it was. I don't know why I loved this place, but I did. It was an older bungalow, but the kitchen had been all newly remodeled just before they moved in, so that's an up-to-date 1959 kitchen. Here are the cabinets (and co-incidentally, my parents):


and the tile. Anyway, it was the first house I had ever seen that had a garbage disposal in it. (I've never even lived in a house with a garbage disposal, as they're illegal here in B-Town, where I've lived most of my life.) Uncle Ben adored the garbage disposal. It was his baby. (There were no actual children in this house, unless I was visiting.)

My aunt was a good cook, and we always had a lovely dinner every night we were there. After dinner, she would serve coffee, which my parents didn't do at home. We would all sit around the table as the adults had their coffee, and Uncle Ben got everything ready for the garbage disposal.

Got everything ready, Gracie? Oh, my. He would take everyone's plate and sort the refuse onto various plates, so that food of similar textures could be scooped in together. Every so often, when he had what must have been the optimum amount, he would go scrape something in -- say mashed potatoes -- and turn it on. He was absolutely a craftsman when it came to corn on the cob. Which we had often in the summer, farmstands and all.

He would take everyone's cobs on a plate, and you know, even if you're a member of The Clean Plate Club, you leave cobs behind. He would work with a very sharp knife, and while the rest of us were chatting and the grown-ups sipping coffee, he would slowly and methodically carve down each cob into pieces about an inch long. Remember, these were people who could eat a lot of corn, so there were a lot of cobs. I don't recall how long it took him, only that I couldn't take my eyes off of what he was doing. Once had a heaping plate of carved coblets, he would feed them to the disposal, watching carefully to make sure that each one got ground up and didn't jam up the works. Every so often he would be called into the conversation, and he would answer "Aye-yuh" in a New England drawl, almost like a Mainer would say. At some point while he was doing this, I'm sure, he would stick a cigar in his mouth and light it up. A cigar was never made that was too cheap for Uncle Ben, and they were all rank. But he would give me the cigar bands to wear like rings, and that made me very happy.

Anyway, to this day, when we have a corn-on-the-cob meal, either the Hubs or I will look at the stack of cobs and know that we are both thinking of Uncle Ben. He actually put on his cob-carving show for the Hubs the first time we went to visit them right after we were married. That was just before he took us on a tour of the invisible Army base, but perhaps I'll save that story for another time.




watching THE GOLDEN GIRLS :: ENTRY #2113
READING: The Outliers by Malcolm Glaldwell

Thinking Back ...

It's July 16, 2009.

48 years ago -- hard to believe it's that long -- my Grandma Sadie died. I was eight years old. I loved and adored her, and had been sad that she didn't choose to live with us after we moved into our house just months earlier. In fact, she had told my parents that she was going to live with us so that they would take the money she offered to help them buy the house, and she did move with us, and stayed a little less than a month, and then basically said "Ha ha just kidding" and moved back in with my aunt, to the town in Massachusetts she had lived in for over forty years.

I didn't go to the funeral with my parents and sister, and I was angry at them for years for leaving me behind, but when I was older, they told me that I had been afraid to go, and they reluctantly left me with family friends. It was probably a good choice, if I was scared. Not ready to deal with it, I guess. I remember that one morning (they were gone for several days), the mom in the family I stayed with let us sit on the floor and eat our breakfast off of trays, still in our pajamas, because there was a rocket launch on TV. (It was a Mercury flight, the Liberty Bell 7, commanded by Gus Grissom.) It was very exciting, as I remember now. I don't regret not going with my family, because I don't have that memory of Grandma like that (not that the casket would have been open; that's not a Jewish thing.) I remember her smile and her holding me on her lap and her voice and the magic things that came out of her kitchen.

In 1969 -- forty years ago on this day -- they launched the first rocket to carry men to the moon. We watched on TV days later as they prepared to step out of the lunar module and onto the surface. If you didn't live before then, and men on the moon has always been a given to you, you can't imagine what it was like. The TV picture was poor, although now they always show it enhanced and clear, not the way we saw it that night. It was a hot summer night, and everybody everywhere was inside in front of a TV. We had just started using the air conditioner that summer, and it was a big one, so we all sat and froze, in the dark living room with the glowing TV on its portable stand in front of us. We didn't have a color TV then, but the moon pictures were in black and white anyway. (How would I know?) We watched, and we grinned, and couldn't believe it, and took tremendous pride that night not in being Americans, I think, but in being human beings.

And ... 32 years ago today, the Hubs and I said "Live long and prosper," among other things, and poof, married. 32 years. It's a long time, man.




watching THE FAMILY GUY :: ENTRY #2088
READING: The Housekeeper and the Professor by Yoko Ogawa

la la la la la la

I'm just bopping along here, nothing substantial going on, just rolling along. I've had a couple of goofy smiley moments today that, seriously, could only come from pharmaceutical enhancement, I think. I was on my way home from work and before I reached the point where I could even see my little house with its dirty siding, crumbling driveway, overgrown grass and undergrown shrubbery, I caught a mental image of driving up to it and I thought "Oh! Home! Isn't home wonderful?" You might be interested to know that once I got home, I decided to chance it without the cough medicine for the evening. So far so good, and now I'm not afraid to drive anymore.

I had my grandparents and my time with them very much on the mind today, I guess because of last night's conversation with my sister, some of which I wrote about last night. One of the avenues that had led us into where we ended up was that we were talking about our aunt, Jack's oldest sister, someone who had been a teacher for 43 years but had no children of her own. She was, among other things, quite the antique collector, but she died before her husband, whose brother then took charge of his estate when he died, and sold every stick and stone in the house. He offered my father absolutely nothing, not even those things that had been his mother's, including a wonderful dining room set and a silver tea service. Our aunt had always promised us certain small things, not valuable, which were also sold, including several afghans my mother had made for her over the years. It was never about money, and clearly, my uncle's brother was not a sentimental man (even though he and my father had actually been boyhood pals), but we were, and we would have liked to have some of those things. My sister goes antiquing a lot, and says she's always saddened when she sees things like needlework and family photos for sale, and could never understand how that happens: wasn't there anyone in a family who would treasure these things? Now we have our answer: we would have treasured those afghans, for example, but they probably ended up in a consignment store someplace, or the trash.

I'm just letting my mind wander here. Can you tell?

There's a rumor at school that 300 kids were sent home with fevers the other today, and that 200 kids were out today. Uh ... I don't think so. For one, the halls would be really empty, and I bet everyone would notice. For another, there have been no reported cases of swine flu in the county. Yes, everyone is sneezing and coughing and hacking. It's called allergies. Get with the program.

Okay, I started this like a half hour ago. Time to press publish.



watching GOLDEN GIRLS :: ENTRY #2050
READING: American Lion: Andrew Jackson by Jon Meacham

Down Memory Lane

I was just on the phone with the Sibs talking about going to Disney World, as one does, and other things, and the conversation drifted back down the mists of time, mostly to our grandmother's house in Massachusetts, and our aunt and uncle who lived there, and then later in their own house there, and so on. The conversation took a turn, as conversations do, so here are two tales of Little Me that might amuse you.

My mother's parents lived in the Bronx, where I was born, in an apartment that I had known all my little life. (They moved from there when I was about ten.) I loved all of my grandparents, but I saw these two more often because they only lived twenty minutes away from us. First story.

When I was in kindergarten, I made one of those palm-pressed-in-clay things that little kids tend to make in kindergarten. I think we were told that we were making them as gifts for our parents, probably Christmas gifts. We made the palm prints, then painted them -- mine was blue -- and then the teacher attached some kind of calendar to the bottom of it with pipe cleaners. Voila. Anyway, I brought it home and my mother loved it because, you know, it's the kind of crap kids make and she probably had one from my sister someplace. But I was adamant -- and quite stubborn -- that I had made it for Grandma and Grandpa. My logic was that my mother still had children; I could always make her another one, but my grandparents were childless! They had no children in their house, so who would make them such a wonderful treasure if not I? Anyway, the thing hung on the wall in their kitchen until they packed it up years later for the move to Florida.

Second story. I rarely spent the night with them because they stayed with us at least two weekends a month, as they babysat so Shirl and Jack could go to a movie. Talk about your win-win situation. Anyway, a couple of times in my childhood, I was driven into the Bronx and left with them overnight. I loved to explore their apartment, which was interesting to me. The kitchen window looked out over an alley, and more or less directly into a neighbor's kitchen window. The bathroom sink had old-fashioned handles and spigots, separate for hot and cold (the spigots too, not just the handles.) Aunt Becky, who lived with them, had a bedroom bigger than the living room, and loved to show me her various treasures.

Once when I was staying with them, I opened the refrigerator for some reason and there on a shelf was something I had never seen before in the real world: a can of spinach. I didn't know that real spinach could come in a can; Shirl bought it in a bag, a bag of spinach leaves. As far as I knew, spinach in a can existed in only one place ...

Grandpa Sam was a small guy, you know, scrawny, actually. And he ate spinach in a can. There was only one possible explanation:

Grandpa Sam was his secret identity. His real identity must be Popeye. It was the only answer.



watching GOLDEN GIRLS :: ENTRY #2049
READING: American Lion: Andrew Jackson by Jon Meacham

Hi-Ho, Everybody!

(Quick: My title was the often-repeated tagline of a character in a long ago TV show. Anyone know who? Under 50's may have trouble answering.)

So, it's just that kind of day, y'know, hi-ho, everybody! I keep tinkering with one thing or another, whether it's on my Mac here, or the computer at school, or even the iPhone. I keep looking for ways to accomplish certain things and ultimately finding work-arounds; as long as it works, I'm fine. We are very busy in the library -- today we had ten classes scheduled into our eight period school day. And I'm working on next year's orders, and the new website, and the kids are reading like crazy so I put up a sign about summer loan, too. And I'm still waiting to talk to the principal, which takes forever, even though I've sent him emails.

My big excitement today is Lost tonight. Also, and I know this is weird, but I made a very important decision last night, for some reason, and here it is:

The next time, if it ever happens, that Paul McCartney is doing a concert in the New York area, I want to see him.

Why did I think of this last night? Heaven knows; it was in that almost-falling-asleep time when crazy things flit through your head. I decided that it's something I should do before I die, if I have the opportunity, and that I would need to ask my nears and dears so that if I ever hear of a concert being announced, I can call and get the tickets right then and there without checking with anyone.

It's like unfinished business, in a way. I once almost saw The Beatles, when they played Shea Stadium in New York in 1965. I was eleven; it was a huge and heavily advertised concert, and my friend Jessica and I wanted to go. We called Shea and there were tickets available. Her mother said she could go; of course, she and her older sister had been navigating the subways on their own since they were five years old -- they took piano lessons in Queens every Saturday -- so she wasn't worried. My mother, on the other hand, was not sending an eleven year old to certain death, riding the subways back and forth to Queens at night. She did say that I could go, but only on one condition: my sister and her boyfriend had to drive us there.

Jessie and I waited eagerly for my sister and her drippy boyfriend (who had his own car) to come home. If I was eleven, my sister was sixteen, and the boyfriend seventeen. They had already been to Shea Stadium for baseball games, so no problem about his parents letting him go, and drive. The thing was, my sister said no.

I was outraged. We had already offered to pay for both of their tickets to the concert, as well as gas and tolls. We were going to treat them to a Beatles concert! Ehhh, my sister didn't feel like going. Her boyfriend (who turned out to be her current husband many years later), was okay with going, but he deferred to her, whatever she decided was okay with him. Well .... maybe, she didn't know, she wasn't sure, she'd been thinking about washing her hair ... You get the picture. Finally she said to me, hey, I know what: if you can make yourself cry, we'll take you. So I thought of all the horrible things I could possibly think of ... death of all my loved ones, I suppose, although I certainly wasn't including her at the moment. After a short pause, tears came, I think because I was so angry. I cried big drippy tears. I satisfied her requirement. And then she said

I was just kidding. I don't want to go.

I never saw the Beatles, and I LUUUVVVED the Beatles, but I have put this incident behind me, and did so many years ago; I don't even throw it in her face anymore, although I could, and I'd be justified, and she knows it. But I do think that if I ever have the chance to see Paul McCartney, I'll feel somehow that the planets are all aligned and everything is as it should be.



watching FRIENDS :: ENTRY #2043
READING: American Lion: Andrew Jackson by Jon Meacham

Cubin' (and a Meme)

There is a group of boys who come into the library every day during first lunch and pull out Rubik's Cubes -- four or five in all -- and compete to see who can solve them the fastest. It took me months, until yesterday, to realize that the sporadic "crack!" I hear is them slamming the cubes onto the table when they finish. I asked them to quit that.

Otherwise, lunchtime in the library is generally a cacophony. Cacophany is an excellent word, and I'll tell you the first time I heard it. In 8th grade, we were in French class, where we had a delightful, if clueless, teacher who was herself, I believe, Egyptian-born. Madame Tomich, as I recall. Anyway, one day one of the boys in class let out a long, loud fart. It did nothing for the air quality in the room, but it was the sound that really drew everyone's attention, a sound that no teacher could just let pass by, so we knew that sweet, genteel Madame would have to say something. She did. In her quavery, French-accented voice, she said "Ooo la, quel cacophony!" We knew what she meant, of course, given the context, but we all begged her to translate that funny French word into English. She was so puzzled, and said several times that it meant "cacophony" and we would say, no, in English! How do you say that in English?" until she finally got across to us that it was the same word, English and French. And then, embarrassed, given the context, she had to tell us what it meant, and she couldn't believe that we didn't already know.

I was going to give you a little sample of the library cacophony at lunchtime, but I have to convert the file from the iPhone to, I don't know, something. For the future.

No news on the trip yet. I handed the ball off to the Sibs, who can be very good at putting the ball away in an unused closet and forgetting it's there, or that there's a game in play. I asked her to call the Cousin so the two of them could sort things out, but she hasn't, to my knowledge, and the Cousin is going to call me tonight or over the weekend. Uh, thanks. As for me, I'm could pack tonight for a moment's-notice trip to Disney World, if anyone's interested. Not that we're going tonight, anywhere, I'm just saying I'm ready. I have a list.

I saw a little meme over at k-lo's, and there's also this award thingy going around that the empress was kind enough to add my name to.

Its a Hubs/Wifey meme.

♥ What are your middle names?
I don't have one. His is Anthony.

♥ How long have you been together?
Married 33 years come July, together for two years before that.

♥ How long did you know each other before you started dating?
We met on the first day of high school, when we were in a class together. We Did Not Get Along. He was the only boy in high school I had the chutzpah to talk to, and all we did was argue with each other.

♥ Who asked who out?
We ran into each other one August evening, the summer after college graduation, at the town library. He asked me if I wanted to go out for a drink later.

♥ How old are each of you?
I'm 56. He'll be 56 in the fall.

♥ Whose siblings do/ did you see the most?
I see my sister as often as I can. We see his sister at Christmas and Easter, and occasionally in between.

♥ Do you have any children together?
We have two fine daughters in their twenties.

♥ What about pets?
Our two little feline friends passed on two summers ago.

♥ Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
We're not social people, so we are both unhappy at parties, and similar social situations. With each other, I think we don't communicate all that well all the time, but I don't know if he thinks so too (because of the communication problem.)

♥ Did you go to the same school?
High school, yes.

♥ Are you from the same home town?
We both grew up here in Bizarro Town. I moved here when I was 8, he's lived here since he was born.

♥ Who is smarter?
We used to argue about this in our early, lovey-dovey years. I said he was, he said I was. Aw.

♥ Who is more sensitive?
He is like a wall, mostly, but who knows what he could be hiding behind that? Could be him, but most likely me.

♥ Where do you eat out most as a couple?
A vegetarian Chinese restaurant near here.

♥ Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Disney World, I think. He didn't like it.

♥ Who has the craziest exes?
Our exes are so far in the past that it's a subject that never comes up. But I did.

♥ Who has the worse temper?
He has a scary temper, when he lets it go. He breaks things. But mostly he takes his anger out on himself.

♥ Who does the cooking?
He cooks for himself. I mostly get take-out.

♥ Who is more social?
Neither one of is social, or wants to be.

♥ Who is the neat-freak?
He is very, very tidy.

♥ Who is more stubborn?
Both of us.

♥ Who hogs the bed?
If anyone, he does.

♥ Who wakes up earlier?
It was him for the first 30 years, but now it varies with the day.

♥ Where was your first date?
Our first attempt at a date was in our senior year of high school; we played tennis. Our first date after high school was to a movie, The Andromeda Strain. Our first real date was to a really nice restaurant/bar not far from here called The Iron Horse.

♥ Who has the bigger family?
We each have one sister. His sister has two children, mine has six (combined with her husband.) There is no one left in my parents' generation on my side, but they're all there on his.

♥ Do you get flowers often?
Nevah! He knows that I'm allergic, and thoughtfully never brings me any.

♥ How do you spend the holidays?
Christmas and Easter with his side, Thanksgiving with mine.

♥ How long did it take to get serious?
After he took me home from that first date out for a drink, I watched his car pull away from the curb and said to myself -- out loud -- "Oh my god! I'm going to marry him!" We both knew within two weeks that this was it.

♥ Who eats more?
He can pack it away, but no meat. I eat a lot of cheese and ice cream and stuff, which he also doesn't eat.

♥ Who does/ did the laundry?
I do mine, he does his.

♥ Who’s better with the computer?
I am probably, but only because I know about things that he doesn't care about and would never bother to learn.

♥ Who drives when you are together?
He does, usually, but if it's a short drive and we're going in my car, sometimes I will.


waiting for TWO AND A HALF MEN :: ENTRY #2019
READING: Bel Canto by Ann Patchett

The Recap

It was a somber day, but not a bad one. We hit almost no traffic on the ride out to Long Island, which is virtually unheard of, and even less on the way back. Unfortunately, my sister's husband was the driver, and I hope someone puts a bullet in my head before I have to be his passenger again for any length of time. He's not a wild driver, he's an oblivious one, and I was required to be the navigator today. Saying to someone "It's the next exit. It's this exit. It's right here," and having the driver make no reply and change no lanes is maddening. When a car in front of us slows down, my sister tells him to "Stop!", which she illustrates by grabbing her armrests in alarm.

As for the drive, I hadn't realized that it would be the same ride we took as kids all the times we visited this family: the George Washington Bridge to the Cross Bronx Expressway to the Cross Island Parkway to the Southern State Parkway. Along the way, we passed the exit that I know is the one to take to get to the cemetery where my own grandparents are buried, so now we can take that trip next summer without fear of getting lost.

Anyway, there was a graveside service with about a dozen people there, because most of the people are in Florida, where the actual funeral and mourning period (shiva) will take place.

In the meantime, I later spoke to my cousin in Colorado, who tells me that her mother -- my aunt by marriage -- is in hospice (in Oregon) and will probably not last the week. She doesn't want us to fly out for that graveside service; we'll get together at another time.

It's hard to mourn in the true sense, because both of these women are reaching a peace they have not known for a long time due to their illnesses. My aunt in Oregon is still clear of mind, but has been quite ill for some time. She's about 90, I think, and is ready to let go.

So, somber, as I say, but all right. Today is also R's 28th birthday, and a good day for her; I'm glad of that. As for me, my lunch is ready and my clothes are out for tomorrow, so that means it's nighty-night time for me.

(Oh, and yes, Mary: Edith was indeed a pistol. A good description of her.)



FAMILY GUY :: ENTRY #2009
READING: Paper Towns by John Green

End of An Era

My cousin Edith died yesterday. She was 92, and had Alzheimer's, so I know she's in a better place now, so to speak. Because her husband is buried near their longtime home in Long Island (as opposed to Florida, where they lived their later years), her burial will be tomorrow in Long Island, so the Sibs and I are going. The actual funeral will be in Florida, later in the week, but we will have been the only family in attendance at the burial, other than her son and daughter-in-law, who're flying up in the morning, or tonight.

Edith is the last person who knew my parents before they were married. She introduced my parents to each other, a story I've told before. My mother was her first cousin, and they were like sisters. My father was a third cousin on the other side whom she'd never met, but he needed a date for a fraternity weekend in New York, and she set it up for them.

She was often a difficult person, and always an opinionated one. But family is family; she was like an aunt to me. My best tribute to her is the final chapter in the book I wrote about my family some years ago for my kids and nephews and niece, so here it is (with a little editing), pictures included.

+++++

Chapter Sixteen

By now, you will have figured out, if you didn’t already know, that Edith is the lynchpin. Without Edith, there’s no story, no pictures, no me. No you.

When I draw my family tree, with my mother’s family on one side and my father’s family on the other, it only works out if I turn it into a tube, and make the two sides meet at Edith. This means that an awful lot of my relatives are relatives on both sides of my family. Even weirder than that, it means that my mother grew up calling a lot of people uncle and cousin even though she wasn’t related to them, but now she really is. It means that even though I always knew that Uncle Jake wasn’t my uncle at all, and that he was really an uncle of my cousins Peter and Richie (whom I always thought of as being on my mother’s side of the family), Jake really is my cousin, which is good, because he looked just like my father, and like my father’s father.

Okay, okay, enough of this nonsense. You understand the connection. So let me tell you about Edith.


Here’s picture of Edith as a child. She was a sharp-looking kid. She had devoted parents, devoted grandparents, a devoted aunt, and two devoted uncles. Although both of the uncles later married and had children, their children were many years younger than Edith. So, for a long time, on her mother's side, she was it.


Edith grew up pretty and popular. In fact, because she was so popular, and always had a date or something else going on, an expression developed in the family. If the conversation turned to a topic that was better left undiscussed, and someone wanted to change the subject, a sure-fire way to do this was to ask the question, “So, what’s Edith doing Saturday night?” Because one thing they could always rely on was that Edith would be doing something on Saturday night, and there would be an answer to the question.

Edith had a lot of friends and a lot of what you might call opportunities. She was pretty and smart. But she didn’t meet Jules (“Julie the Man”) until the late 1940s, and Julie was apparently the man she was meant to meet. They were married in 1948. Their son Peter in 1950, and Richie was born in 1955.

+++++

That was the chapter in the book. Here's a little more. First, a picture of my mother (on the left) and Edie, sometime in the early 1940's:


And later, in the 1970's:



They were in many ways like sisters, my mother being the younger one who always deferred to the older, prettier, richer one. Even so, our families were close and remained so. It's nearly three years ago that my sister and I went to Florida to be there when Richie had to tell his mother than his brother had lost his battle with cancer. After that, Edith began to slip away. In time, she forgot about Peter, and Julie too, and didn't recognize Richie most of the time. Before she became completely out of touch, she would sometimes ask when Shirl was coming to visit. Richie would tell her that she would be there soon.

I had my share of arguments with Edith over the years -- nearly everyone did -- because I had strong opinions and she could never see anyone else's point of view. She was conservative in every way as long as she lived. She didn't agree with intermarriage or children with poor manners. She was a one-of-a-kind, and she was ours. I can only hope that this Saturday night, she'll be sitting around a kitchen table in Brooklyn with Shirl and Jack, and with my grandparents and Edith's parents, all of them having a good laugh.


GOLDEN GIRLS :: ENTRY #2008
READING: Paper Towns by John Green

It Was

WEINDORF

You can't imagine how proud I was of myself for, first of all, remembering, and secondly, not calling my sister last night at midnight when I remembered it. I did call her from school today, and she was proud of me, too. Somewhere, Shirl is smiling down on me.

(See yesterday's entry for the story about the family whose last name I could not remember.)

Seriously, that was my big accomplishment for the day. I feel fine, generally, except for the headaches, and had a bit of an odd day at school, but not a bad one. I'm not loving the book I'm reading, but I'm finishing it because it's a popular teen novel of the moment, so I should know it. It just seems to be something that's been done before. (At one point, a character says to another character: "I thought I recognized your foul stench." Star Wars, anyone?)

My mission for tomorrow is acupuncture and, if we're lucky and find a place to park, the new Target. And getting the clock change right, which I never do.


FAMILY GUY :: ENTRY #2003
READING: The Alchemyst by Michael Scott

Yes!

HSPA (which we pronounce hespa) is over, for now, for which we are all grateful. That would be the High School Proficiency Assessment, which New Jersey students must pass to graduate from high school. I'd like to say that's it's over until next year, but actually it's only over until next week, when those who couldn't wake up on time for three days in a row this week will take the make-ups. Which were going to be given in the library -- and I didn't even blow a gasket -- but then got moved to a classroom. So for me, no more HSPAs for a year.

It was 45 degrees when I left school today, and this tune started up in my head: It's summatime summatime sum- sum- summatime! because, you know, in comparison, 45 degrees is great weather. It's supposed to be almost 60 on Saturday, so I guess I can go out in shorts and flip-flops. As if I ever left the house in shorts and flip-flops.

This was a nice short week, it seemed. I guess that's what happens when it starts with a snow day.

My wonderful therapist has set me partially free; she thinks I don't need to come in every week any more. Gloriosky, I'm cured! Or something; mostly she thinks that I'm dealing pretty well with all my medical and physical crap, which was my reason for going to her to begin with. And I am, pretty much. For now, I'll be going every other week, but she says she'll keep my time open, so I can go in between, if I want to.

I need to dream about my mother tonight, because I'm trying to remember something that she would know, and I need to ask her. (No, it doesn't really work like that.) Here's what it is. I was talking today to one of our younger teachers, who is teaching a unit on the Holocaust and genocide. I was explaining to her that I don't generally watch Holocaust movies (like Schindler's List, for example, or Life is Beautiful) or read books about the Holocaust, because I think that education is important so that no one ever forgets, but that I am in no danger of forgetting, so I don't have to see that stuff. She seemed to think this was very strange, but I explained that when I was a child, it was kind of common for other kids to have parents or grandparents who were Holocaust survivors, and that my father had helped liberate a camp, and so this was a very tangible thing that I grew up with, not history. Then I remembered our next door neighbors when we lived in the apartment, before we moved to B-Town. The kids were a boy a year younger than my sister (Stanley) and a girl a year younger than I, who was my friend (Sherry.) Their mother (Ruth) and their father, whose name I could not remember, were camp survivors. (It took me all day, but I remembered that his name was Steve.) Anyway, anybody could see that Ruth had numbers tattooed on her arm, although Steve did not. My parents explained that this meant that Steve had been in a labor camp, where he was expected to work until he died, so that it wasn't important to keep track of him. Ruth, however, was assigned a number and kept track of. They had both been put in the camps as teenagers. When I was older, my mother told me that Ruth had been taken when she was twelve or thirteen, along with her identical twin sister. If you know about the Holocaust, then you know it was not a good place to be a twin. Both of them were subjected to medical experiments; the twin did not survive. Anyway, I knew them to be lovely people, devoted parents. Stanley was obnoxious, although Sherry was very sweet and pretty. The thing is: I CANNOT REMEMBER THEIR LAST NAME AND IT IS DRIVING ME CRAZY. My mother would know. My sister doesn't remember, either, and IT IS DRIVING ME CRAZY. All I can think of is Weinberg, but seriously, I'm sure I would remember if our next door neighbors both before and after we moved were all named Weinberg, and I know for a fact that our neighbors in B-Town were. That would have amused me, even at eight years old.

Okay, so. I now need to take my allergy meds because I am breaking out in itchies all over. Such is my lot in life.


KEITH OLBERMAN :: ENTRY #2002
READING: The Alchemyst by Michael Scott

Where Was I?

As you know, I've lived in this town for most of my life, since I was 8. Before that, I lived on the other side of the county, in an apartment, which made me feel somehow that I was not quite a part of the real America, since everyone I saw on TV lived in a house, and all seemed to be long-term residents of their small-town America towns. I thought it would be cool to have an actual home town and have roots there, although I certainly wasn't thinking along those lines when I was 8 and we moved here. Nor was I thinking along those lines when we ended up living here after we were married, and raising our children here. It just worked out that way. (The Hubs too has lived here all his life.)

Anyway, so this means that I pretty regularly pass the landmarks of my childhood -- those that are still here -- in every day life. The junior high school I went to, now a middle school, is at the end of the street I live on and down a little hill.

I went to the doctor this morning, and as I was stopped at the light before crossing the road and turning into the parking lot, I turned around and snapped this out the window:



This is the elementary school I went to, the original part of the building, which was opened in 1921. After my appointment, on my way home, I was stopped at a stop sign and saw this image before me, so I took it to show you:



This is the street I grew up on, although my house doesn't show. It's on the right, down near the far end.

So, all is well at the doctor's, and my liver enzymes are no longer elevated, which, as the Hubs said, would have been nice to know before I went for the liver scan. Well, whatever. So I can keep taking Tylenol, fortunately, because I think my only other option was to put a hypnotist on retainer.

K was observed teaching today and got very good grades on it, which I totally anticipated because this is a kid with teaching in her blood, third generation, both sides. She came home late because she was working with a kid after school, is totally exhausted, and is going back tonight to help chaperone a dance. I am so proud of her.

My vacation is technically over. What a lovely week it was, no pressure, no big tasks. And I even got something accomplished for work on Monday. It is so incredibly nice to think that my feelings toward work are completely different than they have been for the last two years. A long period of adjustment to moving the library, perhaps.



FAMILY GUY :: ENTRY #1993
READING: Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

Not a Meme

So, not a meme. I was doing something before and realized that I couldn't do it the way I had done it all my life, and the rest of it just sort of came up.

Fifty Years Ago, I Could

... run as fast as I could forever, and never get out of breath.
... spin round and round and round and fall down and laugh.
... sit on my daddy's lap.
... climb trees.
... fall asleep when I was tired and sleep through the night.

Forty Years Ago, I Could

... sleep over at a friend's house and stay up all night talking.
... have a crush on a cute boy.
... sing harmony with my sister as we washed and dried the dishes.
... conjugate verbs in French, Latin, and Spanish
... wear a tube top.

Thirty Years Ago, I Could

... wear a size 8.
... cook dinner every night.
... spend Saturdays with my grandma in the Bronx.
... read books and highway signs without glasses.
... lie on the new-mown grass and revel in the smell of it.

Twenty Years Ago, I Could

... hear with both ears.
... tickle my little girls until they giggled without end.
... teach 250 Girl Scouts to tie-dye in the same day.
... go from standing up to sitting cross-legged on the floor and back up without a thought.
... drink caffeinated coffee, often and early.

Ten Years Ago, I Could

... reach around my back with both arms to fasten my bra.
... stop eating Hostess cupcakes for a week and lose five pounds.
... talk to my mother on the phone every day.
... take three-mile walks with my sister every summer evening.
... have lunch at work every day with my two best friends.

Ten Years From Now, I Can

... cuddle some grandchildren.
... say that I'm comfortable with my weight.
... be retired.
... have a dog, maybe.
... keep my house clean. Maybe.

Twenty Years From Now, I Can

... keep having pedicures with my sister every few weeks.
... finally stop shaving my legs.
... get my kids to take me to Disney World with them.
... finally have a head of gray hair.
... fall asleep when I'm tired, and sleep through the night, I hope.




FAMILY GUY :: ENTRY #1987
READING: Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

Who's Your Patronus?

It's not a meme, but I'll get to that in a minute.

This is how strange it was here today:



I don't know if you can tell from the picture, but it's snowing and the sky is blue. For most of the day today, we had snow squalls and bright sunshine. It was very weird.

Okay, so here's the thing. If you know Harry Potter (or if you don't, I'm going to explain it), but I figure that if I had a Patronus, it would probably be a little old man in an overcoat and a fedora.

This isn't exactly a meme, just a question I asked myself, and answered. Feel free to give it a shot.

In Peter Pan, the children must "think lovely thoughts" to make themselves fly. Harry Potter must think of his best possible memory in order to create his Patronus, a powerful protective charm that takes the form of an animal or creature of some kind.

So here's the question: which memory of yours would make you fly, or let you summon a Patronus?


I am anywhere between eight and fifteen years old. It's a Friday afternoon, after school but before dark. It's a scene that takes place once a month or so. Grandma and Grandpa are coming for the weekend.

They're coming from the city, by bus. If I'm younger, they're coming from the Bronx, a 45 minute trip. If I'm older, it's a two hour ordeal from Brooklyn.

I know they're coming, and I can't sit still; ultimately I can't stay in the house at all.

I wiggle my way onto the sidewalk in front of my house, waiting and watching. Our street is three blocks long and we live near the end of the second block. At the far end of the first block, where the street starts, is the highway, and the bus stop. That's where they'll be coming from. There's a slight rise in the street, so the first thing I will see will be the top of Grandpa's hat as they come over the crest towards me.

I am too little to cross the street, too little to run up to the end of the block so I can wait for them to cross from the first block to the second. But I edge my way, first past the house to our left, then to the house to the left of that. I will usually stop before I get to the Krugs' house, because they have a mean, scary, barking dog. I dance my way back and forth, not too far for Mom to yell at me, far enough to see. At last!

I see Grandpa's hat, and then Grandma's, and I can see them coming! He is carrying two suitcases and anything else she could hang on him; she has her purse and a couple of shopping bags. I race past the barking dog and stand on the corner, hopping from one foot to another. (If I am older, I have already been waiting on the corner, and race carefully across the street to meet them as they make their way down the first block.)

We are walking towards the house now, I am hopping all around them, and perhaps have been allowed to take a shopping bag to carry. No hugs yet, just smiles. When we get to our house, the front door open and waiting, I have only to open the storm door and hold it for them and then they are inside!

Before we can blink, Grandma has put down her bags (but not her purse) and with her coat and hat still on, she will grab either my sister or me, whoever is closer to her, and begin to dance. She sings the same tune each time: ta YA TA! ta ya ta! ta yatatatataTA! as she dances us around the living room, one at a time. When she's finished, Grandpa has put down the suitcases and hung up his overcoat and hat in the closet and we get to hug him, one at a time, always standing in the little entry area of the living room in front of the mirror. When I am older, we are on eye level; I have been five foot two since I was twelve, and he has been five foot three since about 1910. It is the best hug ever.

By the time we have hugged Grandpa and danced with Grandma, her coat is hung up too, and we are helping them carry their things upstairs. They sleep in my room when they are here, and I happily take the extra bed in my sister's room. I would share a room with my sister forever if only they would come and live with us, the most wonderful thing I can imagine.

Once they are settled in my room, Grandpa comes out into the hallway for a low-voice conversation with both of us, with my sister and me. He reaches into his deep pants pockets and starts to apologize, because they are not wealthy people and he cannot give us more. We are already saying "No, Grandpa, don't give us anything! We're happy that you're here!" because we are and because we know that they are poor. He forces us each to take a dollar from him, and then we ask if he has gum, because he always has a flat yellow box of Chiclets in his left front pants pocket. He does, and gives us each a piece, and we chew, happy and contented. Grandma and Grandpa are here for the weekend.



WATCHING WIFE SWAP :: ENTRY #1958
READING: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norell by Susanna Clarke

Lost. Found.

So, I went to that memorial service today. There were a good forty or more people there, and I was in the back of the room, waiting for the family to come in. When they did, there were clearly two daughters and a son, and I couldn't tell which of the daughters was my childhood friend, Jessica. She and her sister both looked so different than I remembered them that either one of them could have been either one. The minister was standing near me at this point, and I asked him, and he pointed her out.

Ah. Sophisticated. Sharp. I was not surprised.

I stood so that when she came toward the back of the room, I could step forward and say who I was, but as she got closer to me, she looked puzzled, and then looked like she got it, and said my name. We were immediately hugging each other. I told her that when I saw the announcement of her mother's death in the paper, I had to come, because I had loved her mother.

She was very touched. After a few minutes, she asked how my mother was, and I told her I had lost both of them about seven years ago. "Oh," she said, "then you know. This is the pits." I told her I did know, and it had surprised me too.

We spoke a bit after the service, too. I didn't go to the repast, which I felt was more for family and close friends. But we vowed to get together again. I met her daughters, one in college, one in middle school. Beautiful girls, like their mother, like their grandmother.

It was a surreal, fulfilling experience.

----------------------------

In other news, I worked on my closet all morning and when I got back, and to my amazement, it's done. My living room now looks like a rummage sale is going on there, and I actually had it all tidied up before I started the closet. I took three sets of plastic bin drawers on rollers out of my closet (two out of the closet, one out of the bedroom), so they're in there, not to mention about eight pair of jeans that I have decided I'm not squeezing back into just yet. (Or ever, probably.) And empty boxes, and other stuff.

In the meantime, K was working on her room, which I went to help her with when I was done with mine. We got her closet completely cleaned out, and at least now we know how the mice are getting into her room. Seems that when I had the electrician there to work on some things a while back, he made huge holes in the walls of the closet that have the attic on the other side. It's like a freaking mouse freeway up there. So now I need to call someone to come and sheetrock the inside of the closet and plug all the holes up.

The SCM, of all non-home-handy people, told me that he had mice in an apartment once, and he was told to stuff steel wool into the cracks. This won't work for the closet, since I'm talking about holes the size of a man's fist, but I did work on some corners and such. We had also suspected that they had made a home in the bottom of a couch we have up there (used to be my mother's, a love seat, actually) but we moved it and everything was clean, thank god. But it's time for that to go, too, so I need to make a lot of phone calls on Monday.

Looks like a busy next few days, between calling to get this work done, getting my car fixed -- the dashboard lights are sometimes on, sometimes not -- voting and watching the results, packing to go away, and going away on Wednesday. If only I didn't have to go work on Tuesday, but it's an in-service day -- closed for the kids, open for the teachers.

I changed the reservations for both of the hotels we're going to stay in, since neither one of them, as it turned out, had the one essential thing that the Hubs, as it turned out, wanted: wireless Internet in the rooms. Now we got it, even though one of the hotels, I think, will cost as much as a new car, but hey, you know, we don't buy new cars, and it's our only vacation. It's also adjacent to the historic district, or the pedestrian mall, or whatever it is they have down there, and I think very close to UVA as well, which they say is the most beautiful college campus in the country.

Packing for a car trip is so different than packing for flying. I have so much room to work with that it makes me giddy with delight. Doesn't fit in the luggage? Put it in a shopping bag on the back seat! Bring my own pillow! Bring the giant economy size of everything! Bring food in a cooler! And all this while I'm glued to the TV Tuesday night. Oh please, please, let there just be a definite outcome before we leave the house on Wednesday.


WATCHING WEST WING MARATHON :: ENTRY #1896
READING: Just Listen by Sarah Dessen

Uh Oh ... Flashback

I have no idea what made me think of this now, except maybe that my hair isn't quite the way I want it to be today and I'm still working on getting it right, but this very strange childhood experience just resurfaced.

Of course, we start with background. (I'm always tempted to start with "Sicily, 1912", but this one would have to be "School Playground, 1964", or something.) Anyway, being a baby boomer, there were always four classes of each grade in my elementary school, and this was one of eight schools in town at that time. (My school was the biggest. We had four classes of 25, but where the Hubs went, he was always in one class of 32 or 33.) So there were roughly 50 girls in my grade. Roughly 43 of them were in the Girl Scout troop. My mother was not the leader of the troop, but she was one of the six or seven mothers who volunteered and helped out and came to every meeting. In uniform. So all these mothers knew each other, and they all knew practically all the girls in our grade.

One girl in particular was somewhat annoying, but not to the point that she was generally shunned or mocked. She was taller than almost everyone else, and sturdily built. Not overweight, but just with the bulk to accompany her height. She had pale blond hair and a fairly prominent nose. For someone who was usually teetering at the brink of exclusion, she was pretty gutsy when it came to teasing other people. One day, when my mother had perpetrated yet another disaster on my hair, probably with the help of the curling iron that she heated up in the fire on the stove, this kid said to me on the playground at lunchtime, "You know, you look like George Washington." She meant the way my hair was curled over my ears. I was cut to the quick. And I said "Oh yeah? Because you really look like George Washington."

She burst into tears and ran off to tell the teacher what a terrible person I was. I was still stung by her original remark, and the other girls we were standing with all looked at me. The looks on their faces told me that I had said a terrible thing. "What?" I wanted to know. "She said it first!" I don't think I got any answers. The problem, of course, was that she really did look like George Washington.

I don't recall my teacher saying anything or punishing me, but that night, after George's mom called mine, I got in trouble. Could no one understand what had happened? She had insulted me and all I did was say the same thing right back at her! She started it! I never would have told her she looked like George Washington if she hadn't said it to me first! I probably wouldn't have talked to her at all!

My mother told me that I had to be extra nice to her, because she had hardships in her life. (Which she did, and I knew; her father had died about a year before, and her mother was ill too, not to mention the most obnoxious mother in the Scout troop, and that includes the drunk. She also had an incredibly pesty little sister who was always hanging around, and who came to our meetings and got in the way.) I suggested to my mother that her hardships had not made her more sensitive to others, and that she had hurt my feelings first. My mother indicated that I was on a somewhat higher social level than this kid, and I should make it my duty to befriend her, and be nice to her, not to mention the public apology I was to make the next day.

I was outraged. First of all, I was on no social level, and my mother damn well knew it. I had no social skills to speak of; I panicked and cried for hours if I had to call my very best friend on the phone for a missed homework assignment. I had one or two good friends. I think I dressed like everyone else, but my hair always looked like an experiment gone wrong. I probably bathed rarely. I was no prize.

I do think that I grudgingly said "Sorry" the next day, and muttered that she shouldn't have said it to me first, and she immediately became regal, willing to accept the poor offering the peasant had made to her, and making sure everyone still understood that I had cut her to the quick and was slime. Yeah, poor thing. I felt real sorry for her.

**********************************************
There is no real follow-up to this story; my 100 member sixth grade class was split in half to go to two different junior high schools, and very few of us maintained connnections until we were re-united three years later in high school. I wouldn't have stayed connected to this kid under any circumstances anyway, but I was there, she was there, I saw her in the halls. We were never in any classes together. I worked on yearbook, and I know I saw her picture in some club that supported the troops in Vietnam. I'm sure I never spoke a word to her in high school, or had the occasion to.

My mother, as mothers do, maintained membership in the occasional network of mothers even after we were out of high school, so I knew that shortly after high school graduation, this girl got married, which was nice for her, and not long after that, her mother, who had been ill for so long, did die, and the George girl ended up becoming the legal guardian of her little sister, who must have been a real trip as a teenager. So she did the right thing, and made all kinds of sacrifices, probably, for a lot of years, none of which is germane to the story.

**********************************************

Let me see if I can remember who the mothers in our Scout Troop were. Mrs. Martin was the leader in charge, and she was a tough cookie; she was organized like a drill sergeant and never cracked a smile. Then there was Shirl, and my best friend Jessica's mother, Mrs. Chao, and Mrs. Chao's best friend, Mrs. Roe. Those were the three moms that everyone liked best and wanted to get to work with each week. (Our patrols rotated from mom to mom each week, for obvious reasons.) Mrs. Silverman was incredibly bossy, as was her daughter Lida; she was to be avoided, if possible. Mrs. Riglian was not unpleasant, but was dull. Mrs. Holly, George's mom, was only interested in sitting in a chair and barking orders. She was not kind or in any way pleasant. Mrs. Waters always smiled, and was very nice to us, but never quite caught the instructions for what we were supposed to do, so if you were in Mrs. Waters' patrol, you never finished your project. When I commented on this to my mother years later, she said, a little sadly, "Oh. Well, she was an alcoholic. We all looked out for her." Which I guess they did.

You know, that elusive school asset "popularity" skipped over me entirely, regardless of age or grade, but you know what was really nice? Knowing that my mom was one of the "nice ones" and that the other girls all wanted to be in her patrol.

I speak of this, in part, because Mrs. Chao died last week. I have not seen Jessica in more than twenty years, and that was just a random running into each other at the mall. I loved Mrs. Chao; we all did, but since I was her kid's friend, I knew her at home baking cookies, and got invited over to see their Christmas tree every year, and stuff. She was a small, delicate woman with an incredible smile. She was smart, and was the only mother I knew who had gone to college. I read the obituaries in the local paper every week, because I knew that one day I would see Mr. or Mrs. Chao there.

There was no wake, but there will be a memorial service in a few weeks. I'm thinking of going, although I don't know if I have the guts to do it. It's walking into a room full of strangers, but strangers that I knew 40 years ago. Is her mother's memorial service the right time to spring a reunion on Jessica? More thoughts to discuss in therapy, I guess. The bottom line is that I'd like to pay my respects to Mrs. Chao, so I'm really thinking of going.

And I thought it was tough being a kid.


WATCHING L/O :: ENTRY #1880
READING: Lies My Teacher Told Me by James W. Loewen

Still Scanning

I was at the Sibs' today, and mentioned that there are few old pictures I can't find and did she have them; she handed over a little ziploc bag with about a dozen pictures in it, including one of the ones I wanted. I don't know why she had this odd assortment handy, but there it was. Anyway, I won't share them all now, maybe one here and there, but here's one for today:




It's not a good picture of any of these people, but it's a good picture. This was 1978. Wonderful Niece was a wee thing, and she's on the lap of my Grandma Ida, so, her great-grandmother, who died in 1979. Flanked, of course, by the Sibs and Shirl. Four generations of the general group of us.

I've learned the hard way that I still can't have caffeine; my blood work came back to the doctor showing that I'm dehydrated -- I'm really not -- because caffeine will try to do that to you. Bummer. Resnick looked at me over the tops of his glasses and was kind enough not to say "What kind of idiot are you?" So I'm pushing fluids like crazy, no more caffeine, and more blood work on Friday. Goody.

I'm going into school for a couple of hours tomorrow morning, joy. I'll let you know if I make it out alive.


WATCHING TWO AND A HALF MEN :: ENTRY #1842
SUMMER BOOK #7: My Life in France by Julia Child

Be Afraid.

Not that I haven't had a whole summer to do projects, but yesterday I mentioned to K that I had been looking for a particular picture and couldn't find it on my computer, and she said "It's in one of the albums." I found it right away, and then realized that I had never scanned in a whole lot of pictures that were in the albums I kept years ago. Run now, while you have the chance.

I scanned in very many, so this is only a sample, but these are all good ones. Also, after looking over the albums, I felt compelled to prove to you that I really did have a magical-looking child. (But they're not all of her.) Here goes.
It's not a well-lit picture, but if you want to know what I really look like, this is it. If I could go back and look forever like any particular time in my life, it would be this. Look at that flat tummy! This was about 1978, standing on the shores of Squam Lake in New Hampshire.




Is that a whole lot of baby, or what? This was probably the last time I was actually able to hold both of them at once. Look at that head on the left! When they were born, he looked huge and she looked like a little scrawn, but in fact, they were both over five pounds, and only a half pound different from each other. 1978 as well.


I couldn't resist another picture of my special good guy, the one who's getting married in a few weeks. Look at that punim! He was very intently watching the Memorial Day Parade. 1982.



A strange one, but a favorite; I made it my wallpaper after I scanned it yesterday. In March 1982, a week after R's first birthday, my father had a heart attack. As a result, he took up exercise for the first time since V-E day. One lovely summer day, I took baby R to the park near our house, and took pictures of her on the swings and so on, and at one point, I turned around and saw Jack walking his laps around the pond. He didn't know we were there and we didn't know he's be there, either. 1982.



She had the biggest eyes in the world. This was about a month before her second birthday, so, R, 1983.




This is the picture I was originally looking for. I had taken her for a haircut and said to the stylist "Not too short!" and she cut off a hank of hair over the kid's ear and said "What did you say?" Not that it didn't look good on her. She still keeps her hair short. Summer 1983, in the ILs' backyard.




I ask you, is that a face? From around the same time.




I've posted a variety of pictures of Jack and Shirl, but mostly when they were old. Here they are with R, age 2, so, 1983. Her hair is starting to grow back a bit.



I was taking pictures to go out with the Christmas cards, and she was being the super-model, striking a different pose after each camera snap. So, fall, 1983.



About six months later, spring 1984. Although she's average-sized now, she was a very petite child and very well-proportioned, so she always looked kind of like a whole person, just shrunk down to tiny. Really. I think I have made my point.



Together again for the first time. Summer, 1984, and all the players are in place now. Big sister R and little sister K, ready to go.

I finished one whole album, but I'm not quite ready to do the next one yet (or as K says, "the one with the really interesting pictures in it.") Another time, perhaps. If you've stuck with it this long, I appreciate your patience!


WATCHING E! :: ENTRY #1840
SUMMER BOOK #7: My Life in France by Julia Child

Visiting the Past

First on the agenda today was waiting for that phone call from my mother's best friend, which came a little before 10:30. I met her and her daughter at my parents' cemetery. We spent about 45 minutes together, some of that at the grave, some just standing in the parking lot.

It really was wonderful for me to see them, although it would have been a completely different experience for my sister. Doris is still totally hyper, remarkable for her age, which is 80 in October. She looks fabulous. (I took some pictures with her camera, which I may post once she sends them to me.) She drove here from Long Island. I did totally get the impression, though, that her daughter limits the amount of time she spends with her mother and has spent way too much with her recently. Doris is very hard to take in anything but small doses. But this was a small dose for me today, and it was great. We remembered, we talked about my parents, all kinds of things.

My appointment with the cardiologist was at 12:30, but I didn't actually see the doctor until about 2:15. Now, this is total proof that either the anti-depressants are helping me or that I have evolved, because this is the kind of thing that always pushes me over the edge. This time, not only was I accepting of it -- I didn't want to reschedule and have to go back -- but my blood pressure was even on the low side when someone finally came in and took it. When the doctor came in, he asked why I was there, and I said Uh ... your office called and said I needed an annual follow up? I certainly am having no cardiac complaints. Anyway, he took an EKG and gave me a copy, and said I should carry it with me in case I ever need to show that the abnormality in it is an old one -- okay -- and he also said that unless I want to lose weight to feel better, which I told him I did, there's no cardiac need for me to lose weight. I love when doctors tell me that! But less weight would be easier on my feet and back, not that I know if I can even lose anything.

About a half hour ago, K's college roommate dropped in, on her way driving from Maine to San Francisco. Originally, K was going to go with her from this point onto Ohio, where their third former roommate is, but the little dear is somewhat disorganized, and showed up today, and K's final in her summer course is tomorrow. Whatever, they'll see what they can work out. So the kid may be gone for the rest of the week, and R is going to Mexico tomorrow for ten days, I think. Why do they always end up doing these things at the same time?

And I have court tomorrow afternoon for my speeding ticket. I'll let you know how that goes, too.


WATCHING GILMORE GIRLS :: ENTRY #1823
SUMMER BOOK #3: As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner

Not My Story

So. I did virtually nothing today, couldn't motivate myself to do a thing. R's power went out last night, so I spent most of the day getting phone calls from her about what she should do, and then, once all the necessary people had been called, getting occasional updates from her. (It's back now.) We had an epic thunderstorm this morning, which I think set the tone for the day. That kind of storm isn't common in the morning, I think. Maybe.

But I got this other phone call this morning from, of all unexpected people, my mother's best friend. I think I've written about her before; she defies conventional description. I think if they tested her, they would find that hey, you can diagnose an 80 year old with ADHD. She has always been a hyperactive adult, and based on the phone call, she's not slowing down any.

I could write volumes on this character and the role she played in my young life, and in my sister's, but for now, the thing is that she's coming to New Jersey on Monday. (She's lived on Long Island for the last ... ooh, maybe 35 years. For those out of the tri-state area, I'm west of New York City and Long Island is east of it.) She's coming for two reasons. One is that she's visiting the graves of her husband (who died about two years ago) and her parents, and the cemetery is not that far from where I live. She also figured that hey, she doesn't get to New Jersey often, so she arranged to have lunch with my OldFriend's mother, who lives in assisted living in Edgewater, which I've mentioned, which is right along the New Jersey side of the Hudson River, opposite New York City.

So she figured, call little me and see if I can meet them somewhere! In fact, if it works around my doctor's appointment, I will meet them -- her daughter is coming, too -- at the cemetery where my parents are. Doris is a cemetery-goer; when I was a kid, and my mother and Doris did everything, every errand and every shopping trip, together, we went to the cemetery once a year. At that time, we went because Doris' father and my mother's grandmother were there, but Doris' family plot has filled up some since then.

At one time, we lived down the street from each other, and OldFriend's family lived right across from me, so that's how the old ladies -- both named Doris, btw -- know each other. I don't know if I'm in on the lunch, although I'm sure I can join them without a problem. My sister asked me why I would subject myself to the two of them, as they are both extremely demanding personalities, but really, they were both part of my life and I'm sure this is the last time I'll see either one of them. And the daughter who's coming with Long Island Doris is really one of my oldest, oldest friends; I remember seeing her being pushed in a baby carriage. (I'm two and a half years older than she is.) I like her, I'd like to see her.

Anyway, I must amuse you with a tale that Doris told me on the phone this morning. She said she decided to go to Israel one more time, and daughter and her husband went along. (Their children are grown.) Now, Doris feels a very strong Jewish connection but she was raised less religiously even than I was, if that's possible, and by immigrant Jewish parents who were from England, of all places, so she doesn't even have a Yiddish connection. But she loves Israel, had been there five times with her husband over the years. So she says, they went with a group last week, and stayed at the biggest hotel in Jerusalem, which is the King David Hotel.

Saturday, she says, nothing is open in Israel and everything is deserted, because it's the Sabbath, so her son-in-law figured hey, didn't matter to him -- also not religious -- and the hotel gym would be empty, so he went down to work out. There was only one other person working out in the hotel gym: Barack Obama! (With his entourage standing by.) So Jeff went over and said hello, shook his hand, wished him well, etc. And then later in the day, Doris herself saw him in a corridor, also said hello, shook his hand. How weird is that?

So that's my Saturday. R has power, thank you very much, and I think I will try to read more of that damn book. I may have to move on to Faulkner sooner than expected.

WATCHING WILL & GRACE :: ENTRY #1821
SUMMER BOOK #3: The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon

My Vinyl Childhood

I wrote yesterday that I felt I had turned a corner in this summer, but I didn't elaborate. What I meant was that I feel that now I'm ready to take on a couple of the projects I hadn't even touched yet. First thing I did was cross "Basement" off my list. I really don't care that much.

After having a wonderful facial this morning, I came home and had a bit of lunch and then decided to connect the USB turntable that the Hubs got me for Christmas. It was a very minor adventure, which first required cleaning off the stuff I had piled on top of the box, following the directions to put the hardware together, and finally, hoping that the USB cable would reach and I wouldn't have to run right out and get an extension. (It did.)

The documentation was poor -- no surprise there -- but I managed to assemble the tone arm and the counterweight because I know what tone arms and counterweights are. I think that anyone who didn't grow up with turntables would have found it more challenging.

I did, of course, grow up with turntables. My sister and I must have had some kiddie record player, because I remember that I had two or three records that I played endlessly. Or probably, that I played endlessly on rainy days when I was alone and not outside playing with other kids. One of my records, I recall, was bright red, sort of see-through, and played all the songs from Pinocchio. It may have been an official Disney recording, I don't know. When I listened to it, I acted out the whole story, every part. I was probably more exhausted afterwards than if I had played outside.

At some point, I think while we still lived in the apartment, we got a copy of the original Broadway cast recording of Peter Pan, with Mary Martin. I have probably written before about the essential part this show and music played in my young life. We adored it, the Sibs and I, and our family friends Philip and Patti. We had seen it on TV (I think it was aired twice) and it was our Bible, our guide to life. We played it out as a group, with Philip, the only boy, playing both Peter and Captain Hook. My sister was Wendy, because Philip loved her. His sister was Tinkerbell, because Tinkerbell dies. I was Michael, because I was the smallest, and generally also all the Lost Boys.

Shortly after we moved to B-Town, so I was 8, Jack went out and bought *gasp* a stereo. We had this knotty pine, very fifties den at the lowest level of the house -- a split level -- and it had closets and cabinets and built-ins sort of hidden all over it, camouflaged by the slats in the paneling and the knots in the pine. One of these was big enough for a TV or something, and had a slide-out shelf on the bottom; Jack came home one night with a so-called "portable" stereo and installed it in this cabinet. It was portable because you could attach the speakers back to the top of it and buckle them down and carry the whole thing by a handle on the side, like a heavy suitcase. I think he got this one because it fit in the cabinet. Our speakers came off permanently and were connected by ungodly long wires that ran around behind the paneling to the hidden cubby holes were the speakers were stashed. And Jack began to purchase his record collection.

He didn't go crazy with this as, say, I would have, but he ended up with maybe 30 records. (He and Shirl still had their stash of about a half dozen 78's, which they didn't play on the stereo because they were so heavy.) What Jack mostly liked was Mantovani. Anybody remember Mantovani? This was elevator music before it ever occurred to anyone to play music in an elevator. These were light listening, orchestral versions of just about any song you could imagine. Mantovani must have recorded thousands of albums. Putting on a Mantovani album was the sure way to get the Sibs and me out of the den.

They also bought several original cast recordings of Broadway shows. (But surprisingly, they bought no opera records, thank god, although both of them were opera fans.) When I was old enough to be trusted to use the stereo -- and I can guarantee you that I used it before I had permission to -- these Broadway show records were my meat. It was just like Pinocchio; I listened to these albums again and again and I played all the parts, kind of like karaoke. My favorite of all was The Sound of Music, which Jack took us to see on Broadway around that time. The original cast was long gone, but it was my first Broadway show; I got all dressed up and even wore my hated black patent leather Mary Janes.

I started listening to contemporary music before that, though, maybe in the late fifties, because I had a sister four and a half years older than I was who rushed home from school every day to watch American Bandstand. Around the same time, Grandma Sadie gave her a transistor radio for her birthday, and we would surreptitiously listen to the local top 40 stations (WMCA and then, WMGM) at night when we were in bed in our shared room. Radio fueled record purchases. I remember being in a store with my mother and sister -- J.J. Newberry's, kind of like Woolworth's -- and my sister begging my mother to buy her something and my mother finally giving in but saying then she had to buy me one, too. The Sibs got a 45 of "Theme From a Summer Place." I got a 45 of "Running Bear." (Somehow, I've ended up with all of my sister's 45's, as well as all of my own, some of which are here:



I remember Christmas, seventh or eight grade, and my friend Jessica getting Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme as a gift. We must have all been just starting to get into albums around that time, instead of singles. Although, to backtrack to another memorable moment, I remember coming home for lunch one day when I was in fifth grade, Jessica was with me that day for some reason, and my mother pulled out a surprise: she had been in Alexander's that morning, the local department store, and had stood on line to get me this:



which is now, of course, hanging on my wall. So I guess I had a few albums before eighth grade, most or all of them Beatles albums, I would think.

I saved and saved and saved and when I was about 15, I went to J.C. Penny and I bought myself a small portable stereo record player, which of course, I still have in the basement:



(The little blue thing on top.) I believe it cost about $22.00. It served me incredibly well up until my sophomore year of college, when I got a "real" stereo system for about $129.00, as I recall.

Anyway, by the time I went to college, my tastes had expanded somewhat, and I had a respectable collection of James Taylor, John Denver, and Carole King. I was also quite fond of Cat Stevens, Harry Chapin (may have been later) and all the configurations of Simon and Garfunkel. I think that by this time I had also somehow claimed all my parents' showtunes albums for my own, since they never listened anymore and the old stereo was gone anyway. I had also become a big fan of Bob Dylan, because when I was still in junior high, my sister had this incredibly obnoxious boyfriend who would bring over his Dylan albums and insist on playing them, for which they commandeered my little blue record player, so I got to stay in the room. Loved the music, hated the boyfriend, although I must say, I like him much more now that he and my sister have been married for coming on ten years.

Well, as you know, I never throw anything out, so all my records are -- of course -- in the basement, along with the Hubs'; there are more of his, actually, and his are more true rock than mine are. Anyway, it was tough finding an album to try on the new turntable because by now, I pretty much have all the music I ever wanted, either on CD or from iTunes. In fact, I could only find one album of mine that I didn't already have in iTunes:



It must be 50 years old. Well, the turntable works fine and all, and when it plays, I can hear every snap, crackle and pop that I remember from vinyl records that have been played again and again and again. It was a very comfortable and familiar experience, and really took me back, as you can see. Alas, Pinochhio is long gone, but Mary Martin lives forever.

WATCHING L/O :: ENTRY #1818
SUMMER BOOK #3: The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon