Little Things.

Little Things....

Looking through pictures and posts I found this picture of a Mercury head dime. It took my thoughts back to two of these dimes that are very precious; I just didn’t know it at the time.

My three children are very close in age, and when they were small it seemed my washer and dryer never stopped. One hot summer day I was distressed to find more water on the basement floor than in the washer. The steady stream of hot water was leaking from a greatly appreciated turquoise stack set that my Dad had bought for us. They were gently used when I got them, and hadn’t stopped since they arrived.

I tried to find the source of the water but eventually I gave up and called my Dad. In those early days of marriage my husband worked long hours, and Pop was the one I always called for help. Of course he came over right away.

Soon my little washer looked naked as Pop took off panels and pulled out parts,  removing things I didn’t even know could be removed. He was flat on his belly on the basement floor, muttering expletives, when I finally heard him say, “Here’s your problem!”

Rolling over my dad showed me the two Mercury head dimes he held in the palm of his hand. They had somehow gotten into the pump, tumbling around in the water so long the copper edges now formed a copper ring around each dime.

I ' m proud to say I inherited my “ I can fix it” mentality from my Pop. Instead of an expensive new pump, he went to the store and bought some gunk you would use to fix an aquarium. Keeping his fingers in the pump he repaired the hole, keeping his hand deep inside the machine until the patch dried. In no time my little turquoise washer was as good as new. I thought my Pop could fix anything….or at least I always knew he’d try. Nothing was really broken till he ran out of duct tape, and while the fix might not be pretty, it was still a fix.

I held on to the tumbled dimes. I asked my husband to drill tiny holes in them (my apologies to the US Treasury) and put sterling silver wires through them to create pierced earrings that I still have today.

Fast forward about thirty five years, give or take a few. Now I sat at my Pop’s bedside, knowing he was very near his last hours on this earth. I had returned to be with him in the middle of the night; I sat holding his hand and talking to him without knowing if he could hear me. The very precious time was ticking away.

I talked on and on about everything and anything I could think of…from the activity of the squirrel outside his window to what the newspaper held….all with no response. I chattered on as if, somehow, my voice could anchor him here.

Finally I got around to telling him what a wonderful father he had always been, and how much I had learned from him. I recounted the story about the Mercury head dimes he had pulled from the cranky washing machine pump that day.  I recounted the good laugh I’d had at his expense when his hand got stuck in the machine. I smiled as I reminded him how he had saved the day by fixing my washer……without opening his eyes he squeezed my hand.

I kept talking, telling him I still had the earrings I had made….and he squeezed my hand again. I knew then that he realized I was there and that this time we had together was some of the most valuable time I would ever have in my life. That was the last response he made to any stimulation; I am eternally grateful I was there.

As I’ve grown older I’ve come to realize that our lives are made up of small things that often we don’t see for the big things they actually are.   Do yourself a favor, slow down and learn to embrace the small things before they become memories.

                                                                          Life is Good

Cooking for the voices in my head.

It's getting ugly out there....

Not long ago I was thrust into the role of ‘people watcher’ while waiting for a friend.   During that half hour I arrived at some very definite fashion ideas I would like to share with you.  I'm not being judgemental...I'm just sayin' :

I am in favor of women of all ages dressing fashionably, and I don’t think you’re ever ‘too old’ for a pair of comfortable jeans.  Having said that, perhaps women should re-think the “I just fell off the back of a motorcycle” look after the age of 25.   If you are 65 and postponing your clothes shopping for the week you will be in Sturgis….well, you get my drift.

I think manufacturers should consider putting age tags in grownup clothes the same as they do for infants and toddlers.  Instead of 0 to 12 months a tag might say 20-Y to 34 years.   If you see 2T inside the collar of a shirt you have a good idea if this is the right size for your grandson.  By the same token, a tag that says 18-Y to 24-Y inside a bikini might lead you to the understanding that a bright pink bikini might not be the right choice for your 56 year old keester.  Some women need that kind of help, and I saw a lot of them.  A good alternative might be to require a prescription to purchase a leather halter top.

Makeup is another thing that caught my eye as I sat watching people parade past.  In my (never to be) humble opinion make up is a good idea IF you know how to use it.  It’s all about enhancing or disguising.  Some women fall for what I call the “Vogue effect”.  We’ve all seen the pictures in Vogue magazine with models sporting glitter covered eyelashes, pink eyelids and lips that look like bathroom plungers.  That is for effect…not a guide for what to wear at the grocery.  If you’ve started to look like Tammy Faye Baker (rest her soul) or if you are applying your make up with a spatula, you might want to get the opinion of a trusted friend on toning down your look.

I did not see one hair style that made me change my long standing opinion that hair color should be confined to colors found in nature.  Personally I don’t like purple hair, green or blue stripes, or cotton candy pink.   I’m not at all creative when it comes to hair…mine or anyone else’s.  I think clean and combed is enough to satisfy my hair requirements, so it’s probably a good thing I’m not in charge.

Bling.  What is this preoccupation with anything that is shiny?  Rows and rows of golden chains, earrings with diamonds that would choke a Chihuahua, and clanking bangles that announce the arrival of a woman with earrings that could have been wind chimes.  Tacky, tinkly, sparkly … gold lame patches on sweatshirts and animal print, diamond studded shoes…oh, my!! 

Finally I am left with this last question.  Why would anyone wear clothes that do not fit them comfortably?  My bet is that most of the folks that walked past me were in search of another pair of slacks/jeans in the same ill-fitting size they had on.   Muffin tops and tortured seams were the order of the day….but why?  Just because you can stuff your frame into a ten doesn’t mean you should….and it sure doesn’t mean you’re a ten!!  

Clothing that fits properly is much more attractive on everyone, and I’m not just nagging the women. Too many men wear jeans that fit under an expanding belly.  The result is back pockets that rest just above the red stripe on the dudes white tube socks.  Not an exciting look.

There must be some middle ground between wearing a tuxedo and going out of the house looking like the cast of Duck Dynasty.  Let’s look for it before it’s too late, America.  It’s getting ugly out there!!

 

                                                          Life is Good

 

The House on the Corner

 

August 28, 2013 was an eighty four degree, ninety five percent humidity mid-Ohio day.  What started out as showers in the morning had ended up as a sticky, airless afternoon.

If it seems to you I’m always dragging my poor husband out to do unpredictable things with me, you would be right.  On this particular day we headed to the house at the corner of Fifth and Walnut Streets in downtown Mansfield to flesh out a story I’d been working on.  The article, a review of the book The Corner of Fifth and Walnut, is in the November/December issue of Heart of Ohio Magazine.  I have to admit I set out to do this story to answer my own curiosity.  If, in the effort,  a lot of other people get the same result, then it’s worth doing…don’t you think?

The house, long boarded up for security reasons, is currently owned by Grant Milliron, also the owner of Milliron Industries.  When I spoke to him about the house, I asked if a ‘tour’ would be possible.  Grant said he had a bag with 500 keys in it; he would see what he could come up with…and sure enough I ended up with a key to the house!

So it was that we found ourselves parked on Walnut Street, directly in front of the red brick house on the corner.  We struggled up the small incline; stone steps visible but un-usable in the corner of the yard.  The snaggle-toothed front porch greeted us; I hoisted myself up on it at the risk of ruining a good pair of slacks.  Why don’t I think of these things before hand? 

Larry stood checking out the hinged cover on the front door.  We carefully made certain not to stand too close together as we crossed the spongy wooden deck.   After determinedly working the padlock, the door cover swung open, and the actual door to the house stared out at us.  I could read the obscenities spray painted on the inside of the glass as I peered into the darkness.

I carried one of two huge flashlights we had brought along; it’s bright beam sliced into the darkness of the small room to the left of us.   Directly in front of the entrance door a staircase wound its way up into the second floor.   Although the peeling paint spoke of the years that have passed, I could imagine a little girl in dark stockings wriggling up that staircase, chased by a little boy in suspenders and knickers.   Eileen Levison’s comment* about this being a great house for children with creative minds came back to me; the nooks and crannies they enjoyed while they were at play stood out to me as we carefully explored.

The plywood covered windows did their job, keeping even the smallest glimmer of light at bay.  Inching around the first floor we found small rooms partitioned off to make even smaller spaces.  Many doors covered with ceiling tile; soundproofing for what purpose in this eerily quiet house?  The thick, red brick walls kept the sounds of traffic and life in general at a dreamy distance.

Larry climbed to the top of the staircase and, peering around,  announced it might not be prudent to go up there with so little light.   He also pointed out that the 150 year old wooden floors might take offense at our added weight; I did not disagree with him.

The years, the vandals and the elements have left their mark on the house at the corner of Fifth and Walnut Streets.  My fondest hope is that someone comes up with an idea to restore it, there is so much left to work with!  How I would love to be involved in that project. 

My husband says I see things the way they could be, while he is bound fast to reality.   Still, I can’t help wonder…is there someone out there who can hear the children scampering up the steps, and perhaps see the circus marching down Fifth Street?  If that person comes along, Mary Eileen Schuler Levison’s former home will be around for a long, long time.
 

*The Corner of Fifth and Walnut, written by Mary Eileen Schuler Levison

Book Review:  The Corner of Fifth and Walnutr, November/December Heart of Ohio Magazine

 

 

I Know You're Out There.....

It’s really hard for me to imagine but I just passed my second anniversary writing this blog.  I had no idea when I started if I’d be able to keep it up, but I just passed 139 posts.  I’ve also just passed the 10,500 visitors mark.  That means over ten thousand people have visited my blog, or one person ten thousand times…etc., etc.  

Which brings me to an obvious question: 

Who are all of you??  I don’t know ten thousand people (or 50 dedicated people, etc., etc.)!!!

Although it may exist, there is no software program that I know about, or that I could very likely operate, that would tell me the names and locations of everyone who stops by my blog.  There are some general things I can tell from the diagnostics that I have available.  I have a reader in the Ukraine, three in China, one in Jamaica and one in England (Thank you, Phillip).   74% of my readers use windows, and 45% visit me via Firefox.  I can usually tell when I have a new reader because I see the older posts being perused.  Right now I think someone in Germany is reading the novella, Stalk, that I wrote last year.  Thank you for visiting!

Blogging is a very personal thing, and because of that it’s been rather difficult for me.  It’s one thing to write advertising copy or stories about other people; quite another to put my own thoughts and experiences down for others to read.  I’m an introverted extrovert…if there is such a thing.  My work life has always forced me to be ‘out there’…but people who really know me understand that I’m rather introverted when I don’t have a microphone or podium in front of me.  Writing about other people is a privilege…writing about me, not so much.

Another thing I wonder about is the lack of comments. I know it was technically difficult at first to leave comments on the blog…I heard over and over that is didn’t work.  I think I have that fixed now, but people still don’t often leave comments.  Is that good?  Is that bad?  Are readers speechless because the post is so good?....because the post is so bad?   How can there be 10,500 visits and only a dozen comments?  The other thing in “blog-speak” that has me mystified is “followers”.   I have 14….that’s curious with so many visitors, isn’t it?

It’s not possible to determine how many ‘unique’ visits are in that number or, as I said earlier, if one person has visited Unremarkable Woman ten thousand times.  I can’t believe that all the bloggers haven’t banded together to demand a system that registers who and how many times someone reads the blog.  Maybe I’m the only person who’s actually curious about that……could be.

Everyone says we are communicating less in this day and age, but in truth I think we are all trying harder to communicate, with more people, than we ever have.   I have a zillion Facebook friends.  They’re people I’d never had contacted any other way, some I’d lost touch with over the years, and recent acquaintances, too.  I love being able to keep up with so many people, their families and their lives.  I talk to several people by text every day; being a person who loathes the telephone this is a wonderful way for me to touch base with them.  I actually feel more connected because of the electronic media, not less!

I will continue my blog as long as there is anything in me that I believe is remotely worth pouring out.  I will never know who all of you are, but somehow it still makes me happy to know that I have ever-so-slightly touched your lives.  

     Thank you for visiting and please feel free to share The Life and Times of an Unremarkable Woman…..whoever you are.

                                                                        Life is Good  

Things that go Bump in the Night

 

 

October has always been my favorite month of the year.  As a child the city always had a parade on my birthday (Oct. 30^th), which I thought was darned nice of them.  I remember going to the Halloween parade, my dad hoisting me up on his shoulders so I could see everything.  In those days they threw lots of candy and the long line of revelers seemed to snake through town forever!  Years later my Mom and Dad enjoyed taking their grandchildren to see the parade.  It was still a special event for me because while they took the three little ones to enjoy the spectacle, I could catch my breath and relax.   I still remember how much I appreciated having that two hour span of time to myself.

I grew up in a time before we had the world at our electronic finger tips.  With only three TV channels from which to choose the selection was small, but so were our expectations.  During the month of October you could always count on one of the stations to show scary movies!  In this day and age our kids expect gore and special effects and 3-D and surround sound to heighten their enjoyment.  I can’t imagine anything better than being stretched out on the floor in front of our old black and white TV, a bag of Jones Potato Chips, a tub of Lawson’s French Onion Dip and my BFF beside me.  We would giggle and gasp and watch Frankenstein or the Werewolf or Dracula far into the night.  If we were lucky the movie was hosted by Goulardi, or Big Chuck and Hoolihan; Cleveland TV and Mansfield potato chips were the highlights of my October.

Makeup techniques, innovative masks and special effects have developed to the point of delivering nauseating realism.  I can’t remember the last horror movie I saw, but I’m sure I sat with my face in my hands through most of the thing no matter what it was.   It’s funny, but I love to read ‘stab and slasher’ novels, but I simply don’t want to watch it on the big screen.  Sensory overload I suppose.

I know there is a new genre of television that has become very popular; vampires and zombies are now a year round occurrence.  I’ve never seen The Walking Dead, but I’m sure the special effects are amazing.  You can keep all that.   For me evil is best displayed in the scenes in the old black and white films where Dracula (Bella Lugosi) is advancing on the sleeping man/woman/child. (I vant to drink your blood….blaaaa!)  A light shines on the eyes of the walking dead man, giving him the most eerie and terrifying look imaginable.  That’s the point in the movie where I’d start looking around me to make sure the drapes were completely drawn and there was no strange mist seeping under the front door!  No remake has ever come close as far as I’m concerned.  Watching Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt mince their way through a later edition really didn’t do much for me.

Frankenstein’s Monster was another favorite.  Boris Karloff was the best, and the scene where he’s throwing flowers into the water with the little girl breaks my heart every single time I watch it.  Yes, Frankie speaks for the misunderstood monster in us all.

Werewolves were another thing to worry about in October.  Lon Chaney was just a big, unattractive man with stringy hair sporting an ill-fitting suit…but he was an amazing werewolf!    Of course we all knew it was just a movie…but even at this age I think a wolf call would send me scurrying back into the house if there was a full moon. 

 For a child of the fifties and sixties those old movies were deliciously frightening cinema.  Even though they were made in the 30’s, I still watch them today when I run across one as I’m flicking through the zillions of stations we now have available.

Maybe I enjoy those old flicks because I wish the bad guys were as easy to identify today as they were way back then.   We all knew not to trust the guy in the long black cape.   Today evil takes many forms…but none of them is as easy to spot as Frankenstein or as predictable as a full moon.  Dealing with today’s bad guys isn’t as easy as arming yourself with a wooden stake, a garlic necklace or a silver bullet.  When I was young we knew evil couldn’t triumph over a crucifix, couldn’t withstand the pain of being doused with holy water, and could not cross the threshold of a church.   We believed evil could be contained, it had boundaries.  As it turns out, that’s not really true.  More’s the pity.

 

                                                                            

Life is Good

Preaching to the Electronic Choir

 

The alarm on my iPad went off at six a.m. sharp, just as Siri had promised.  Before I rolled out of bed she informed me I could expect a sunny, 70 degree fall day.   I love it when she has good news for me.

Driving into work I was entranced by the changing colors of the leaves until my car chimed to get my attention.  It nicely pointed out that my trunk was open, a fact underscored every time I hit a bump by the gentle bobbing of the trunk lid in my rearview mirror.  Last week the car informed me I had a tire with low air pressure, something I never would have noticed until I needed road-side service.  My devoted Chevrolet always nags me till I fasten my seat belt and warns me that I’m low on fuel with a ‘get gas dummy’ light.  I know I take it for granted, but this car is so thoughtful in so many ways.  My husband’s van is even more sophisticated, with a hands-free, voice recognition phone system, satellite radio, CD/DVD players and sliding doors that open and close with the touch of a key fob button.  Get carried away with the remote and the automatic doors and tailgate give it the appearance of one of the shape-changing Transformers. 

Settling in at my desk I check my iPhone and discover two voicemails.  As I touch the screen the phone effortlessly redials the callers.   Next, as I return emails and prepare for a morning meeting, my printer warns that I will soon be out of ink.  Oh, bother.   The ‘15 minutes till the meeting starts’ reminder on my computer screen makes me realize I have just enough time left to check the tracking report for a package I’m expecting to arrive at my home later today; the workday is officially underway.

I recently spent the evening with two of my (seven) wonderful grandchildren.  I scooped up the girls from two separate locations; we had dinner, and then headed back to their house for the evening.  When an impromptu concert broke out I snapped photos of the viola playing duo with my iPad.  A bit later we downloaded an app to learn French and spent the rest of the time laughing as we learned new words.  Thirteen year old Sam served as instructor, nine year old Meg and I were the struggling students.  Siri (the voice of iPad) must have had a good time as well because when Meg prompted her, she told us a joke!  Out of town on a business trip, their Dad kept texted me on his progress as he headed home along the route that On Star had downloaded to his car.  

When I call my bank, my doctor, my pharmacy, the chamber of commerce or any other number of places I get a recorded voice with instructions on how best to work my way through their automated maze.   I come in contact with a real person only as a last resort; that doesn’t happen if I do what the electronic voices tell me to do. 

Automated systems give and take my money; I’m almost on a first name basis with my ATM. My favorite grocery offers me a self-scan option that I use frequently, and I religiously take my symptoms to the internet before I take them to my doctor.   At some point I bet that grocery store scanner technology will evolve and make my doctor obsolete, too.  No appointment necessary, just point the scanner gun at your aching knee and the problem and solution will pop up on the screen!

We seem to be on the road to making people obsolete… I actually think we’ve already blazed the trail and we’re just waiting for the paving to be completed!   Don’t get me wrong…..these technological perks are often great stuff.  Some of them save time, some seem to actually take more time, and some have just been created to waste my time.  It’s the ones that keep my learning curve straight up that sometimes just drive me nuts. 

My prediction is that humans will continue to communicate less and less.   I can see the enthusiasm for talking to one another falling to the level of the appreciation a wife experiences when trying to talk to her husband during an OSU bowl game.  I’m not saying it’s a good thing, and I’m not prepared to say it’s a bad thing.   Speaking as a soon-to-be-completely-unnecessary human being….It is what it is. 

I don’t know how long it will be before the machines completely take over the world, but I will have made my point when Siri calls my Garmin to direct me the restaurant where an anniversary party has been planned for my burglar alarm and his main squeeze, our answering machine.

                                                                       Life is Good  

 

 

To be...or not to be grey

It was just about this time last year I came to the decision that I was no longer going to color my hair….I wanted to see the ‘authentic’ me.  (Blog: ‘Authentic’, August 2012)    I had discussed it with my hairdresser at my last coloring session in July; in August I set off to claim my natural hair color, whatever that might be.  In truth I hadn't seen my natural hair color in so many years I was hard pressed to remember.

If you are male and reading this you may be thinking, “What’s the big deal?”   If, however, you are a balding man reading this you know just how important hair can be.  (You don't know what you've got till it's gone)   The beauty industry rakes in billions of dollars each year that everyday people like us spend trying to look better.    But don't get all judgemental, because that's not money spent by strictly women. Hair Club for Men and other companies give men a second chance to have a full head of hair.  There are special hair color systems for men, spray-on hair to cover bald spots, Rogaine to stimulate hair re-growth, and toupees if that should fail.  Both sexes are imminently susceptible to the siren song of youth-promising products.  Coloring your hair is just the tip of the rejuveniation ice berg.

For those of you who are considering this ‘let’s get back to basics’ move let me give you a few tips I’ve learned to get through it: 

My hair was decidedly blonde for a long.  (I decided I wanted to be blonde, so I was)  When I made the choice to let it all grow out I got the advice of my terrific hair dresser.  Kasey suggested we put some very light streaks throughout, anticipating a lot of gray/white to come!  She was right.  Doing this very light colored frosting helped make the process go much easier.

Knowing how I had always used special shampoos to keep the color in, I did the reverse and used harsher shampoos in an effort to let the color drab out a bit.  That also seemed to help! 

I washed my hair daily because the colors seemed to blend better when my hair was squeaky clean.

I went to the internet to look for pictures of women with gray hair.  There was no shortage of energetic, happy and vibrant women who had embraced their natural color.  I decided then that, for me, gray was the new blonde!

Most of all, I was determined to have a sense of humor about it; I knew if I didn’t make a big deal out of it wouldn’t be a big deal.  Wear a hat…wear a babushka….it will grow!!

One year later I’ve arrived at the point where my hair is all grown out…and the funniest thing has happened!  During the many years I colored my hair I’d sometimes have a stranger tell me she loved my haircut, but I never had anyone ask me what color my hair was.   Now, perhaps just because it's different,  I have women ask what color I’m doing my hair these days, “Is that ash blonde or what?”     I’ve decided to dub this color ‘Late in Life Diana’….because that’s honestly what it is.

I was at lunch the other day with a friend, chuckling about how people ask about my hair color, when a woman I’d never seen before stopped at our table and said she loved my hair color!  We both burst into laughter; maybe getting older won’t be as bad as I thought.

It’s such a little thing, but I love the freedom of not having to worry about coloring my ‘roots’.   Talking to women about hair coloring the comments ranged from “You’re so brave…wish I wasn’t so hung up on my hair!” to “What’s the big deal?  My hair started turning gray in my thirties!”.

Although the change is less than I expected, it is really a whole new ball game dealing with my "natural hair".  It's baby fine, with very little body.  For the first time I'm having to learn about hair products; for the first time I own hair spray.  I also find I'm spending more time on my hair than I ever have...with not very satisfying results.  I suppose there's a learning curve, but I'll get the hang of it.

And so it is that I have reached ‘authentic’ status in just one short year.  Like everything else this experience, as frivolous as it is, has taught me a lesson I needed to learn: 

                          Be who you are….whatever age you are….and you will be authentic.

                                                                            Life is Good

  

 

 

 

 

Time Passages

 

“Aging is not lost youth, but a new stage of opportunity and strength.  It is a different stage of life, and if you are going to pretend it’s youth you are going to miss it.  You are going to miss the surprises, the possibilities, and the evolution that we are just beginning to know about because there are no role models, no guideposts, and no signs.”  Betty Friedan

Talking with some friends and acquaintances not too long ago I did something I’d not done for a while; I sat back and actually listened.  The conversation bounced from what prescriptions each was taking, what aches and pains they were experiencing and who is likely to be in hospice care within the next few months. I was experiencing the unpleasant one-up-manship that occurs so often when people my age get together.  Each one seemed to feel that “age” was some dirty trick that was being played on him/her.  I sat there absorbing the bad news and complaints until I’d had enough fun for one evening.

Yes, we are aging.  Yes, it is challenging.  No, you don’t have to turn it into an ever expanding monologue every time you meet someone.  There needs to be an “aging etiquette” manual written for us seniors.  Here’s a good start:

Stop using “old speak”.   This self-deprecating dialogue is a symptom of your own feelings of inadequacy.  You may not be 25 any longer, but you still have more to offer than a catalog of your short comings.  Replace the things you believe you can no longer do with things you can and talk about those. 

Understand that “How are you?” is NOT an open invitation for a list of your complaints.  It is a polite greeting that should be answered with something along the lines of  “Pretty good!”  If you are doing well enough to meet and greet people you’re doing better than some.

Books, hobbies, movies and magazines are things to be shared and discussed with friends and family.  Bowel problems, muscle spasms and drug reactions are not great topics of conversation unless you are participating in a medical study.

Are you doing the best you can with what you still have to work with?  Are you getting enough rest, exercise and stimulation?  Take a walk, read a book (or write one!) or listen to music.   Open your mind and close your mouth for a while…you might see or hear something worth discussing later!

It is important to cultivate a grateful heart.    There are so many people of all ages in worse situations than you; don’t waste your energy lamenting the fact that you have so many years behind you.  Celebrate the very moment in which you stand and look to the future knowing you have the same control over it that you have always enjoyed.  Absolutely none.

I’m not suggesting we all become martyrs…”don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine”.  Instead I am suggesting we share the good news first.  I once knew a woman in her nineties who answered every, “Hello, how are you?” with:  “I’m still above ground!” and a big smile.  She was someone I crossed the street to greet every time I saw her.

For a good number of years had the privilege to manage radio stations for a man who made his home in Cleveland.  Radio was a passion, but his real job was as an attorney.  Already in his 70’s when I started working for him, he still practiced law and had his fingers in a lot of things.  As I got to know him I learned about his health challenges, and there were many.  In his 80’s he had frequent hospital stays, a wheel chair and constant pain to contend with, but I never heard him complain.  He never grouched about aging, he simply adjusted his life to be able to continue to do as much as he possibly could.  I will always remember him for his grace and his grateful spirit; he is my role model for aging and I hope I can do it half as well.

Aging is not for sissies; that much is very true.  I have officially arrived at an age that guarantees I will not die young...and I am grateful for every second of it.

 

LIFE IS GOOD

 

 

Food for Thought

Last week I thought I had hit the recipe lottery!  One of the local on-line pages I read regularly put me in touch with a gal I really wanted to know.   She is related to the family who ran a restaurant in town many years ago.   When my husband and I were first married we ate at the Boston Spaghetti House every chance we got.  It was nothing more than a one room hole-in-the-wall that served the best spaghetti I’ve ever eaten in my life.

The years have flown by, but I well remember those early days when we often had too much month left at the end of the money.  But, if we were very careful, we sometimes had four or five dollars left just before payday.  That was plenty of cash to buy two heaping plates of spaghetti, a half loaf of squishy-soft Italian bread and all the water you could drink. 

The moment you pulled into the parking lot of this tiny place the smell of garlic and onion and oregano curled its way into your nostrils.  My stomach would begin to make noises usually associated with whale distress signals as I anticipated the delicious meal ahead. 

Eating out was a special treat in those days; we didn’t have the money required for much more than this spaghetti house.  Although it improved over the years, at that time my newly-wed cooking skills were stretched to the breaking point after I fried an egg and/or opened a can of soup.  Needless to say we really looked forward to this occasional spaghetti dinner.

We spent many Saturday evenings there, meeting friends, laughing and talking and getting on with life.  

As the years passed our family grew, our income grew, but I never outgrew my love of the sauce created in that tiny kitchen at the Boston.  It was brown, not red.  The meat was finely processed but abundant, and the taste was unique.  Try as I might, I was never able to duplicate it. 

I have spent many research hours in cookbooks and on the web searching for a recipe like the one the cook used way back then.  I’ve read every recipe from Bolognese to Italian Gravy…all for nothing.  The end result is always hours of preparation, plenty of money and thousands of gallons of dish water to clean up what always turns out to be a disappointing result.   I’ve found some really good sauce recipes….just not the Boston sauce.  What is the ingredient I’ve been missing?

Then, last week, I connected with this lady and I thought I finally had it!  !  After chatting with her on line, she graciously sent me her Mother’s recipe!  Working behind the scenes, her Mother must have made many, many gallons of sauce for the hungry newlyweds and old derelicts that came through the doors each night. I was thrilled beyond explanation; I had found the Holy Grail of spaghetti sauce recipes.

Larry and I set out that very day to get the ingredients.  The recipe was for a large quantity, but we decided to go ahead and make it that way so we wouldn’t compromise the results in any way!  We shopped and chopped and stirred and stirred and stirred.  I was concerned that the sauce bubbling away in the biggest soup pot I own didn’t resemble the sauce I remembered.  I poo-pooed my own misgivings and kept cooking.

Finally the sauce was done; exactly to the recipe.   I anxiously filled a small dish and took it into my husband’s den.  As he tasted, then tasted again I impatiently shifted from foot to foot.  “Well?  What do you think?”  He was silent; his forehead wrinkled in thought.   Finally I took a sample myself.  No dice.  This is good sauce, but it’s not THAT sauce.   Sigh.

So…I start all over in my search for the delicious sauce we both remember from so long ago.  I froze most of the vat of sauce I just made.  It’s good…but it’s not right.

Maybe that’s what I get for chasing a memory…for trying to recreate the past.  I’ve already read the complete works of half a dozen chefs and pestered everyone in this town trying to find this recipe; I’m much too tenacious to stop now.

If I ever find that recipe I am going to throw the biggest spaghetti dinner that anyone has ever seen.  I promise to feed everyone I know, and anyone who doesn’t move fast enough to get away from me!   It’s my own personal quest.  Everybody needs one, don’t they?

 

                                                                             Life is Good 

 

 

 

Take a Look in the Mirror

It’s funny how our habits change as we age.   When I was a young girl I never passed a store window without checking out my hair…never walked past a mirror that I didn’t primp just a little bit.  Today, I’m just the opposite; with age comes freedom.

My “beauty regime” includes Noxzema, a comb…and my all-important ‘chap stick’.  A quick face wash, tooth brushing, hair brushing and a little eye make-up and I’m on the road again.   I’ve pretty well become a ‘this is as good as it’s going to get’ gal….and I’m okay with that.

I remember once, years ago, a hair dresser (who shall remain nameless) wanted to “surprise” me.  She had always done a wonderful job and, having just returned from a training session, she was full of new ideas.  I reluctantly agreed to let her try something new with my hair.  Keeping my back to the mirror she snipped and slathered and washed and combed and dried while I waited patiently.   When she finally spun me around I had blonde and burgundy hair.  I was sure at some point I had shared with her my belief that hair should only be the colors one naturally finds in nature; evidently she had forgotten.  After I restated the belief she got busy redoing my hair color.   We both learned something.  She learned that purple may not be the best color to use when surprising someone, I learned to always check the mirror!

Just this week I was getting ready early one morning to chauffeur my Mom to a doctor’s appointment.  I got up early and, as it often happens, had screwed around till the last minute to get myself ready.  I grabbed a pair of jeans from the dryer, raked a comb through my hair and grabbed a chap stick I found lurking on top of the dryer.  I had obviously fished it from a pocket before washing pants or shorts.  It wasn’t my usual brand, but it was handy, so I stuck it into my jeans pocket and left.

If you have an elderly parent you know it’s always an unpredictable thing when you take him/her someplace.  Dealing with Mom, her walker, her purse, and anything else she has to have with her at the time (often it’s a huge flashlight?) I juggled our way into the Doctor’s office.    We sank into chairs to wait for her to be called to the inner sanctum.   

As is my habit, I fished in my pocket for the chap-stick; finding it I ‘mooshed’ it all over my lips, then opened my IPad to read while we waited. 

Finally called into the examining room, we sat again.  Once again I pulled my chap stick out and ‘mooshed’ it all over my lips.  The appointment passed without consequence; in a little over an hour I had deposited Mom at home and I headed in to the office.

In my car I pulled out the old ‘mooshing’ stick and….you guessed it.

Finally, I was settled at my desk.  I hadn’t realized it before writing this, but I obviously have a ‘mooshing’ habit…because I pulled the stick from my pocket and spread it all over my lips again.   This time I got some of the creamy stuff on my finger.  It was blue.  A nice blueberry blue…likely full of antioxidants and vitamins…blue.  Pursing my lips I pulled a small mirrored box from my desk drawer and saw that I had been ‘mooshing’ blue stuff all over my mouth for the past few hours. 

With a deep sigh I realized I had spent the morning dashing around sporting a lip color that is generally only seen in people who have been submerged in ice water and are approaching hypothermia.  My lips were a nice, soft, mooshy, cyanotic blue.  I’m amazed a nurse or the doctor hadn’t started chest compressions on me after having a look at my ghoulish lip color!

I’m sure I bought this stick for one of the grandkids; it may have been left behind from someone’s Christmas stocking or birthday gift.  How it arrived on my dryer is a mystery, but it did reinforce one thing I seem to have forgotten:  Always….always…. check the mirror.

 

                                                                Life is Good