Baby Showers - Not For Women Only

So in my ongoing and painful initiation into the 21st century my most recent discovery is that baby showers are not just for the ladies anymore.  Whole families attend now, husbands and boyfriends included.  And other babies and toddlers.  Which is kind of a bummer because the mother-to-be at the center of it all is treated to a very harsh look into her wailing, pooping, sleep-deprived near future. 

I remember a time in a century not long ago when baby showers were a strictly feminine affair. Ladies would gather in someone’s living room and sit around drinking punch from little glass cups.  The gifts were relatively inexpensive items that would be necessary for the initial care of the newborn.  Things like bibs, diapers, diaper bags and the like.  The more expensive gifts would be given after the baby was born and everyone knew whether it was a girl or a boy.  And yes I know how ancient that makes me sound. Of course sometimes a few ladies would pool their money and buy a more expensive item like a bassinet or something.   

Well I just went to a modern day baby shower this last weekend.  It was my granddaughter’s baby shower.  Let me clarify:  my granddaughter is not the bun in the oven, my granddaughter is the one WITH the bun in the oven.  So yes, the aforementioned bun is my great-grandchild.  Anyone doing the math out there might now reasonably assume I am older than dirt.  But in fact I am not as aged as this makes me sound. 

Anyway, we already know that the great-grandchild is a boy. This is not new of course, knowing ahead of time whether it’s a girl or boy.   What is new is that in addition to baby showers, people apparently also have ‘reveal parties’ where they concoct clever ways to reveal the gender of the baby to family and friends.  I have heard, among other things, that the mother-to-be (probably along with the father, who really should be in the next room drinking a beer and watching the game in his undershirt) cuts into a cake which has been colored either pink or blue inside.  Can I hear a group “Awwwwww”? Big reveal!

Okay, so back to my granddaughter’s baby shower.  First of all there were more people packed into that house than fans at a playoff game. The gift area was roughly the size of…. well the size of the room.  Instead of punch there was beer for the guys and Mimosas for the gals. Oops that’s sexist.  A lot of the gals were drinking the beer actually.  I don’t know what the toddlers were drinking.  But it was festive.  Things to eat, things to drink, and of course the obligatory plates full of cupcakes with blue frosting.  So we all had blue teeth.  This went on for about the first hour.  Then it was gift opening time.

And that went on for about two hours.  At the beginning, each gift lifted high for all to see was met with a chorus of “Awwwww!”  But the chorus got weaker after about the first half hour, replaced with an occasional “Uh huh.”  Even the mother-to-be’s eyes kind of glazed over after awhile. Most of us began trolling for more beers and Mimosas.  

But the clothes this kid got!  Boat loads of clothes.  And I’m told that one of the cute little tiny jackets still had the price tag of $100 dangling from its tiny sleeve.  Are you kidding me? 

Well anyway, it was a nice party.  I got to see my kids and grandkids and then of course there were the Mimosas.  And I’m glad my great-grandson will be so dapper. 

Can’t wait to see him spit up on that hundred dollar jacket.  

Text or Texted?

Just what IS the past tense of text?

First of all, text used to be a noun.  Text was what we read in our textbooks at school.  Text is simply the sum of a bunch of words written in sentences.  The result of all that black and white is the text.  As in, “according to the text…”

Now we enter the age of text messaging.  And initially that’s what each little electronic correspondence was called; a text message.  We “sent a text message” to someone.  The text message quickly became simply a text.   

Then as we became even lazier as we always do, it became much easier to say “I’ll text you” rather than “I’ll send you a text.”  Thus the noun text has also become a verb. 

No one minds.    This happens a lot in modern language usage.  Things change and evolve.  Google also used to be a noun.  A proper noun in fact.  Not anymore.  When was the last time you heard anyone say, “I did a Google search to find out whether George Clooney is still married, or is possibly looking for another suitable mate such as myself.”  Now we simply say “I Googled George Clooney.”  (The rest is not germane to this discourse except that it may offer an embarrassing peek into my leisure time.)

In regards to Google, no one disputes that the past tense is Googled.

But with texting, it’s a different matter.  I have noticed that large numbers of people do not change the word to indicate past tense. For example,  “I text him yesterday, but he didn’t answer.”  I on the other hand would say, “I texted him yesterday and he didn’t answer.  The bastard.” 

So which is it, I wonder?  Since this new wrinkle of turning a noun into a verb is relatively recent, I don’t think there are any hard and fast rules of grammar to cover it.  But it always sounds odd to me to simply say ‘text’ instead of ‘texted’ when using it in the past tense.  Then again I suppose ‘texted’ can sound a little moronic too.  Like hearing someone say, “I casted my fishing line into the water.”  Past tense of cast is cast.  So should it be the same for text?  But past tense of rest is rested.   So where does that leave us?

Perhaps an opinion poll is in order.  What do YOU say? 

You can comment here.  Or you can text me. 

Communion

 Today was Communion day in my little church. We take Communion once a month and I always find it to be a sacred time of faith renewal. Well usually.

See here’s how it goes; in my church we serve Communion by passing a platter of little bread cubes, followed by a  tray that holds a bunch of teeny tiny little glasses of grape juice representing the wine. The bread is usually some kind of white or whole grain bread.  First the bread is passed, and we all hold our cube in our hand until the pastor speaks a few words and invites us to eat the bread, which we all do at the same time.   Then the juice is passed, more words are spoken, and we do the same. 

So today, as I took a piece of the bread and held it in my hand, I noticed that it looked different and was kind of firm.  One might even say HARD. I discreetly squeezed it a little.  Yup.  Hard.  So I just thought, “Oh well. It doesn’t matter, it only matters what it represents.”  So after the pastor’s words were spoken and we were invited to partake of the bread, I put it in my mouth and tried to chew it.  Imagine a mouthful of baking soda and sawdust.  It was apparently someone’s failed attempt at a soda biscuit.  There wasn’t enough saliva in me to dissolve it.  A camel wouldn’t have had enough saliva to dissolve it.  I concentrated on not choking and just did the best I could to mangle it enough to swallow some.  Chew chew chew, try to swallow. I started thinking, “I hope they hurry up with that juice.” 

After a few more words, thankfully they passed the juice.  Of course we all had to hold onto our tiny little thimbleful of liquid until pastor gave the word.  Soon we all had the little miniature shot glasses in our hands and the pastor was saying a few more words.  That’s when I heard it.  It sounded like someone across the aisle a ways back was crying.  There it was again, someone trying to stifle sobs.  Soon the sound was undeniable.  It seemed that someone was overcome by the moment, filled with the Spirit to the point of tears.  I finally had to turn and look.

There was one of our leading church ladies sitting in the pew, shoulders shaking, holding the little glass in her hand, laughing so hard her face was red. Soon others around her, already smiling, began to chuckle.  Poor pastor plowed ahead with the liturgy, backed up by a chorus of chortles and snorts.  After an eternity he finally gave the word to drink the juice.  Finally.  Hard as I tried to focus on the true meaning of the sacrament, I was mostly just relieved to have that tenth of an ounce of liquid to help wash down the sawdust.  (I later found out that another lady in the back told the deacon who was passing the tray of little glasses, “I’m gonna need two of those.” )

Well by now the laughing was raging out of control.  You know how it is when you’re NOT supposed to laugh, you laugh all the harder.  It’s just a law of nature, it’s not your fault. 

Everyone was at least smiling, smirking, or glancing at the pastor.  Even he had a smirk on his face by now and said, “I assume all the mirth has something to do with the quality of the bread.”  Well now the whole place erupted.  Permission to laugh.

Through a Herculean effort, the congregation finally pulled it together and we continued with the service. 

So today was not your average Communion.  But you know what, there really shouldn’t be an ‘average Communion’ anyway.  No one was intentionally disrespecting the sacrament.  Circumstances just threw a touch of comedy into the mix.  The laughing church lady later said, “I sure hope God has a sense of humor.”  Pastor said, “Oh I think He has a great sense of humor.” 

That’s just what I was thinking. 

 

 

 

A Poem for Early Summer in Western New York

The cottonwood

flies through the air,

and where it lands

I DO know where;

Right up my nose

and so it goes,

that with each breeze

again I sneeze!

 

 

 

Have a great day everyone :-)

 

 



Not Just a Recital

Yesterday I saw a dance recital.  But it was about so much more than dance. 

I saw exuberant joy in the face of one “special” dancer (Buddy would have called her “one of God’s kids”)  as she leaped and swooped and kicked and grinned, keeping up remarkably well with her able-bodied mainstream classmates.  Pure joy in motion.
 
I saw baby dancers, all dressed up in their pretty poofy dresses.  As the curtain parted and the music began…..they all just stood there.  Frozen.  Staring at the bright lights.  But then when it came time for each of them to come forward and do a little solo step, I watched as each one came to life and showed their families they really could dance. They really had learned.  And they were beautiful and precious.  And they were proud.

I watched as “dancers of size” proved to the world that elegance in motion is not restricted to the skinny girls.  They performed classic ballet, hip-hop, tap; all of it.  And they smiled and looked pretty and moved with grace.  It made me smile too.
 
I saw a mixture of love and grief displayed as only teenage humans can feel when tributes were paid to fallen classmates who had passed from this earth too young.  A reminder that the ones they loved will never be forgotten.  A lesson from their teacher that no one is ever really gone. 

I saw a powerful dance routine performed to a song that teaches we are not cool because of the shoes we wear.  We are not puppets of consumerism.  We can take off those shoes and be ourselves.  Wow.  Heady stuff.

I looked on stage and saw kids who had grown in stature and talent and maturity over the years since I started being a spectator at this studio’s recitals.  I saw self confidence where I had once seen hesitance.  I saw broad smiles where I had once seen neutral faces when they danced.  I saw pride.  The good kind. 

I saw awards given to dance students who had displayed special qualities throughout the year. Not just dance qualities, but things like personal integrity and enthusiasm. 

And yes, I thoroughly enjoyed the dancing.  There were many gifted students on stage yesterday, and many who simply love to dance and are learning to do it better and better. 
 
Because I was also able to attend rehearsals and observe personal interactions, I saw kids who clearly love each other and help lift each other up.  And I saw their teachers filled with love and pride in each of their students. 
 
Finally I saw Miss Amy.  Owner of the studio and Teacher with a capital T.  I watched her dance her own poetry-in-motion number with a man who had been her student as a young boy, and has grown to manhood with a family of his own, including his own children who are now students at the studio.   And I witnessed (as well as I could with tears in my eyes) her genuine, original, from-the-heart speech to her departing seniors. The speech was written in rhyme and set to music.  And so full of love and Truth it will be inscribed on the hearts of those students for all their lives.  And the audience too.
 
Yeah, I saw a dance studio’s annual recital yesterday.  But the dancing was only a part of it.  The main attraction was Love, Respect, Inspiration, Self-confidence, Cooperation, and did I say Love?
 
Oh yes.  It was a dance recital.  But it was about so much more than dance. 

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I'm Still Here

I'm sitting in my usual morning spot on the couch, ready to read my Bible and morning devotionals, just like Buddy and I did every morning.  The empty rocking chair sits beside me.  I open the blinds and see that it is foggy this morning.  I thank God for being so near in the clouds right outside my door.

I hear the mockingbird in the tree outside my lanai.  Two years ago at this same time a mockingbird sang continuously out there, night and day.  His incredible repertoire of vocalizations - incessant and endless - finally began to make me laugh.  Especially thinking how our grumpy neighbor was probably going nuts listening to it all night while he tried to sleep.  Buddy had been gone only weeks at that time, and the thought came to me then that somehow that bird had something to do with him.  Buddy used to make me laugh every day; I was missing that and then this bird had started making me laugh, right in the midst of my grief.

So this morning I am reminded of that time as I listen to my talented bird perform his whole routine outside my door. I open the sliding glass door and walk out onto the lanai to listen more closely.  Standing there, I see movement in the grass to my right.  I look and it's a bunny.  Oh my goodness.  We called each other 'Bunny' and we collected stuffed bunnies.  (He called them Fuzzy Americans.  Said that's what they preferred to be called because it was more politically correct.  See what I mean about him making me laugh?)    So here is this beautiful brown bunny.  I stand stock still.  He comes closer and sits right in front of me outside the screen.  After hopping back and forth a few times in front of me, he goes on his way. 

My mockingbird and my bunny both visiting me today, with God right there in the foggy cloud. 

Buddy is ever near.  I know it.  And I am reminded how brave and strong he was.  I vow to be like him.

Mayberry Moment

Yesterday I had a great time rockin’ with friends.
 
No, not rockin’ as in dancing and drinking and shouting over loud music.  Rockin’ as in rocking chairs.   Seriously. 

After yoga yesterday (and that’s another topic) some of the girls said they were headed to nearby Brown’s Berry Patch farm market to have coffee and set a spell on the rocking chairs provided on the porch.  Okay they didn’t actually say “set a spell”.   But they did call this summertime Saturday ritual their weekly Mayberry Moment.  This appealed to me a lot.
 
Brown’s is located very near the shores of Lake Ontario where several of my yoga pals have summer cottages.  In fact, our yoga class is held in a church right near there too.  So apparently these lake dwellers – longtime friends of one another – established the Mayberry Moment tradition some time ago and look forward to it each Saturday morning.  I was delighted to join the group yesterday. 
 
We bought our coffees and bagels and pulled up all the rockers we could find, along with a bench for the overflow.  Kim (known to us all as Kimmy in high school, but I guess at our age that doesn’t sound quite right) used her noggin and found a small wagon nearby to use as a coffee table.  These flat wagons are used by customers who pull them to whatever pick-your-own produce is in season.  It suited our purpose perfectly.

So we got to rockin’ and talkin’ and laughin’ and yes a little gossipin’ as we watched the little orchard train loaded with giggling children come and go. The nearby Barnyard Adventure area was alive with the sounds of goats and ducks; families and fishermen came and went, some hauling trailers and boats behind their cars; kids walked by licking ice cream cones (one licked too vigorously and the ice cream toppled off onto the gravel and that was that);  and all too soon an hour had gone by. 
 
I loved the Mayberry Moment.  One of the ice-cream-licking kids even looked a little like Opie.   I’m already  looking forward to next Saturday.  Too soon summer at the Lake will be over, and these magic moments will be stored in winter’s memory.  And that’s why I cherish them.

A very wise friend, who has gone through more than his share of troubles, has a wonderful saying I will never forget;  ‘You gotta have a little fun every day.’ 

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Dad vs. The Birds, Season Seven

The battle rages on.  Dad is still determined to save his precious cherries from the ‘damn robins’ that eat EVERY cherry EVERY year before they have a chance to ripen.   Dad has not been able to eat a single ripe cherry from his tree since….. EVER.
 
Some of you faithful blog followers may remember past seasons when Dad attempted such mundane methods as the fake owl and the aluminum pans, then progressed to the radio wedged in the branches, blaring rock music (he reasoned that none of God’s creation could stand rock music, so surely this would be a deterrent), and finally the tee pee net over the whole tree.  None worked.  Not even the tee pee.  Apparently there was still a small opening at the top where the wily winged creatures found entrance.  Unfortunately, they were not wily enough to find the same exit, which left one of them trapped inside, flapping around like crazy and probably saying a few swear words himself.   

He has been threatening of late to hack off the top branches, making the tree small enough to cover it with one huge net, which he would gather at the trunk.  He figures this is the only fool-proof method.  He hates those birds.  They are his arch nemesis.  He will win.
 
So the other day he yelled from the bottom of the stairs, “Well, wish me luck.”  This was not a good sign.  I said, “Wish you luck for what?”  He said, “I’m going to cut off the top of that cherry tree.”  Oh boy. 
 
He’d finally had it.  He’d gone out to take a look at the tree and about half a dozen birds with cherries in their beaks high-tailed it out of there when they saw him coming.  He couldn’t stand it. 
 
Well, I had to see this.  (Did I mention that Dad is 94 now?)  So I followed him out there and helped him get the ladder in place.  Then watched in awe as he began sawing away at one branch after another, lopping them off with grim determination.  Not a power saw, mind you, but an ordinary hand saw.  He did this with relative ease.  Hack off branch; branch  falls….hack off another branch; branch falls……. move ladder, and repeat.    My part was to haul away the branches as they hit the ground. 

So that was one good afternoon’s work.  The next day was the real trial.  Time to deal with THE NET.  

I don’t have the time, space, or patience to relate the whole story here.  It involved duct-taping together two 30-foot panels of netting. (The ‘sewing them together with nylon thread’ was a disaster.) You cannot imagine the patience and endurance it takes to perform this task while bending over a picnic table to work on it.  Let us just say we’re talking hours, not  minutes, after which I could fully appreciate the phrase, “oh my aching back”.  But we got it done, and heartily shook hands in congratulatory triumph.
 
By now I am INVESTED in this project.  There is no stopping.  We will now GET THIS 30 x 30 FOOT GIANT NET OVER THAT TREE!  I asked him how we were going to do that.  He said, “Well…….I’ve been thinking about that.”  

You’ve been THINKING ABOUT THAT???  You don’t KNOW???  
 
Once again, I don’t have the time, patience, space, or legal acumen to fight the censorship if I quoted all the bad words spewing from both of us as we attempted to actually get the net over the tree.   It is a disastrous story, a horrible tale of sweating and swearing and finally admitting defeat as we stood staring slack-jawed at the tangled mess of net caught hopelessly in every twig and branch of that stupid tree.   We sadly but resignedly quoted the Serenity Prayer as we stood stoop-shouldered beneath the beloved cherry tree..”God give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”  Dad said it was time to have the wisdom to know when we were licked.  It was a sad day.  Then he said, “Well, there’s only one thing left to do.  I’m gonna chop down that tree.  If I can’t have those cherries, the damn birds aren’t gonna have them either!”
 
I’ll let you know how that goes. 

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I’m Too Old For Weekends

Every Thursday the daily newspaper includes a special supplement called Weekend.  It’s full of articles and listings of things to do in and around the city on the weekend.  I used to look forward to opening those pages and seeing what I might be interested in. 
 
Things have changed. 

Last Thursday I opened the Weekend supplement and the first article was about a rapper by the name of Flo Rida (get it?) who would be headlining something called the Jingle Jam on Friday.   Okayyyy…..

Next page is a photo of a middle aged, unsmiling guy with a weathered face and long, and I mean long, stringy hair, scheduled to appear at an establishment called the Abilene Bar and Lounge.  His style is described as “melancholy” and “a self-flaling inward gaze.  Something that he works on deep inside, where no one can see.”  Good.  I don’t plan on seeing it either.

Oh here’s something….The next headline features an artist who “brings obtuse stylings to East End.”  The accompanying photo shows a bearded man with face paint, predominantly featuring big black circles all around his eyes.  And a smudge on his nose.  He is looking directly into the camera as if to say with a straight face, “Yes, I meant to look this way.”  The description, and I kid you not, says, “A devotee of ‘outsider art’ with a passion for creating difficult-to-interpret art objects fashioned from found objects, matched by his wildly obtuse musical compositions.”  Oh goody.  I’m such a fan of obtuse.   NEXT!

Next page….a huge color photo of an apparently renowned DJ whose head is completely shaved except for a row down the center from front to back, which is sculpted into six dangerous looking spikes.  Long ones.  Scary.  Again….NEXT!

Oh I love this one…at the top of another page is a headline which reads,”HOLIDAY JOY WORTH SHARING”.  Underneath are two upcoming shows…’Lewis Black: The Rant is Due”  with an accompanying photo of Black displaying a scary angry grimace on his face. And the other show is Grand Funk Railroad. (BTW I am a big fan of Grand Funk.  But the headline did say HOLIDAY JOY.  What about the Funk in Grand Funk?)

So I don’t know.  I think I’m too old for weekends anymore.  I used to like it when I opened the entertainment supplement of a newspaper and saw photos of top 40 bands appearing at the Holiday Inn lounge.  They usually had matching shirts and vests, or tuxedoes.  Granted, sometimes the matching shirts were that tacky polyester knit with the big collars, but that was actually hip then.  See?  See how unhip I am?  The word ‘hip’ isn’t even hip anymore.  *sigh*.

It’s okay.  Let the young be young.  Let them gyrate on the dance floor to their favorite DJ, dressed in scanty clothing, tossing their hair and doing shots, …..oh wait a minute.    That was us.  Never mind.

 

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Thanksgiving Indeed

So what does a widow have to be thankful for on the first Thanksgiving after her husband's death? 
Lots.
I am thankful for the loving care of friends and family...providing for my physical, emotional, and spiritual needs.
I am grateful for the grace and strength to face each day, finding little treasures of joy amid the rubble of grief. In fact, sometimes big treasures of joy.
I'm grateful that I still love to sing, and singing is aiding the healing process.
I am thankful that all my needs are miraculously met.  Sometimes it's like the fishes and the loaves.  I always have supply from the One whose supply is limitless.
I am grateful for the love my husband and I shared, and thankful that even though he is no longer here, our love will never die.  Ever.

I could go on like this forever.   I am aware - every moment - of something I am grateful for.  

Yeah, the holidays are hard.  Anticipation of the holidays is tough.  Tears happen. 
But every day is a challenge anyway, and I trust God to get me through each one from morning till night.  And He always does.

And..... there are still gorgeous sunsets, and there are still movies that make me laugh out loud, and there are still friendly hugs, and there are still babies that coo and smile at me in the checkout line.

There is still so much.   And for me, every day is still Thanksgiving.

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The Church Ladies

On a recent trip to the supermarket I noticed a bake sale going on just inside the store with smiling church ladies behind the table of packaged cookies and treats.  I decided I would make a contribution on my way out.

So later I stopped by the table and explained that I couldn't eat the sweets but would like to make a donation of a couple dollars, which was the price on most of the little packages of cookies they had on the table. They were very grateful and told me how they were renovating an old church to be their new church home and the bake sale would benefit the building fund.  I wished them good luck and dug into my wallet.  I was embarrassed to find I didn't have any one dollar bills.  Only a twenty in fact.  I apologetically explained my situation and one of the ladies assured me that was no problem. The store had been kind enough to supply them all the change they needed.  So I handed her the twenty.  She went into her change bag and asked again how much I wanted to give. I said "two dollars", so she rooted around in there and handed me back a ten and a bunch of ones.  I smiled and once again wished them well. 

When I got home  and re-organized my wallet, I was horrified to find that she had given me back a ten and ten ones.  The whole twenty dollars!  Thinking back on it, I thought she had a funny look on her face when I stuffed the money in my wallet and waved good-bye.  She must have thought the proper thing to do would be to hand me back the twenty in the appropriate denominations and leave it to me to hand her back the two dollars.  I just thought she would give me back eighteen dollars.  I felt terrible, and vowed to make it right if I got the chance.

The next day I went back to the store but the church ladies were not there.  Oh well. Then a couple weeks later I went to the same store and once again, there was the bake sale and smiling church ladies manning the table!  Here was my chance.  I didn't see any reason to go into a big explanation of  the previous debacle, so I just once again explained that I couldn't eat the sweets but would like to make a donation.  This time I gave them five dollars, just for good measure. I was redeemed! 

They were so very pleased and smiled brightly as one of them said, 'The Shiloh Church thanks you so much!" 

I said "You're so welcome" even as it dawned on me, this wasn't the same church as before.

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Autumn Tree at Sunrise

Taken at Dad's this morning.

A beautiful sight to carry with me back to Florida.



SCARY

What dark and dreary dungeon is this where cobwebs do drape and dangle?

What forsaken fortress doth lie in such forlorn neglect?

What horrors await within this hoary web of......

Wait a minute. This is right here in Dad's cellar.
Never mind.

(We really do sweep them away.  They come back so fast!  Might as well leave them up for Halloween now!)


P.S. Don't tell Dad I posted this. 

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Life With Dad

I am watching my dad out the window.  He is raking leaves.  He is 93.

First he went over the whole yard on his lawn tractor pulling some sort of leaf collecting attachment.  He has dumped several loads of the collected leaves in piles around the yard and now he has to do something with them.  So he has brought out his trusty ‘cardboard sled’ that he invented.  It is a huge piece of heavy cardboard made from a refrigerator shipping box (from his brother’s appliance store), flattened out and fitted with a board across one end with a rope handle attached to it.   He rakes the leaf piles onto the cardboard sled and then pulls the loaded sled with his tractor off toward the back of the property where they end up I don’t know where.  Then he returns to rake more piles onto the sled.   He’s very methodical.  He will do this as long as it takes.  And it’s cold out there.

 I love watching my dad do stuff like this.  Yesterday I watched him harvest his acorn squash out of his garden.  He leaves the winter squashes on the vine as long as he can, because they keep better that way, even though the vine looks dead.  Then finally when the weatherman forecasts the first frost, Dad goes out and harvests the squash.  This is a yearly ritual.  Sometimes the harvest happens in the dark of night because he hasn’t heard about the frost until the evening news, so he goes out there with flashlight and basket and rescues them just in the nick of time.  I am glad he did it in daylight this time.  He is sorely disappointed because he bought seed for butternut squash and instead it came up acorn.  Just not the same.  I love to see those butternut squash all huddled together in the wheelbarrow after he has picked them.  If you can picture these flesh-colored squash all piled up together, you will understand why he calls them his ‘bare naked babies’.  Anyway, no babies this year.  Just these dark green things.  That’s okay.  They taste good too. 

 I imagine when he’s done with his leaf project he’ll come back inside and read the paper for awhile.  He goes to the corner chair next to the window and reads until pretty soon I hear ‘crunch’………’crunch’………..’crunch’………as the paper slowly lowers into his lap and his eyelids close.  He calls this his ‘news snooze’.  But when he comes back fully awake afterward, he will do the word jumble.  He does the word jumble every day to keep his mind from going soft.  (Or words to that effect.)  And just to challenge himself a little more, he doesn’t write anything down.  He does it all in his head.  Holy moly, I gotta tell ya, if he can do THAT, his mind’s a lot firmer than mine. I always know when he’s working on the jumble because I catch him slunked way down in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, staring into space.   Thinkin’.   

 So these are just a few glimpses into life with Dad.  I admire him so much.  He does what needs doing around here, but all in good time.  What’s the rush?  Read a little paper, watch a little TV, eat a little dinner, take a little nap, play a little organ, play a little saxophone, exercise a little, take a little nap…(yeah, I know I already said that).

 I’m ashamed to admit it, but after seeing him do all that work, I think I’m ready for a nap.

Giddy-up

The Three Amigas

Well, in keeping with my new endeavor to keep busy and try new things, I went horseback riding the other day.  In truth, it’s not an entirely new thing.  I used to go riding with my friends Deb and Cindy in high school.  They had their own horses.  How cool was that?  But since I had not hoisted myself onto the back of a horse in over 40 years, it was sort of a new thing all over again.  Once again the ’60 Club’ (I call us that but I’m sure they hate it) of Carol, Chris, Betty Sue and I planned a day together.  Betty Sue had a last-minute family celebration so she couldn’t come, but Carol, Chris and I went on The Great Trail Ride Adventure. 

Okay, ‘adventure’ is not exactly the right word.  Chris’s horse “Freckles” kept falling asleep, and my horse “Dusty” stayed awake but obviously just wanted to get it over with and I swear I could hear him muttering under his breath, "Yeah, whatever."  Still, it was a glorious day and the three of us friends really enjoyed being together in the great outdoors, at one with nature and joined in spirit with our magnificent steeds. 

As you can see in the picture (that’s me on the left) we had to wear those doofy helmets.  I wanted to wear a ten gallon hat, but first of all I didn’t have one, and second of all there are safety issues to consider, as evidenced by the phone book-sized stack of release forms we had to sign prior to mounting up, including a clause (I kid you not) that says the stable is not responsible for the weather.  Yeah, apparently a few customers have actually thrown hissy fits because it rained on the day they picked to go riding, and they felt the stable was somehow responsible. 

As I look at the picture, I see that my horse looks kind of….short.  Carol, the most experienced of the riders, was assigned the tallest horse, so she looks positively regal atop her mount (Carol’s the one in the middle.)  And Carol also has her own helmet.  I was impressed.  (Kind of reminds me of when I was in college and they made me the captain of our intramural bowling team because I was the only one who had her own ball.)  And Chris looks happy and comfortable atop Freckles, who appears to be awake in this picture. 

I will boast a little though, because I was the only one who knew ALL the words to Happy Trails To You, even the middle part that nobody knows.  (Thank you Buddy for singing it at the end of every show.) 

So once again, a good time was had by all, and we parted ways with a fond farewell as Carol heads off to Florida for another season.  
 
Then after that, I went to tap dance class.  But that’s another blog. (That ‘Icy Hot’ stuff really works.)

 

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Yoga

I started taking yoga classes a couple of months ago up in New York state with a friend who had been going for a few years.  Excuse me, I think they say yoga practice.  I'm still practicing, that's for sure.  Anyway, I went the first time just to be polite, fully expecting to hate it.  Imagine my surprise when I actually liked it.  I think it was kind of a modified version of yoga, and it felt good. So I went twice a week for about three weeks.  Then I came back down here to Florida a couple weeks ago, and found that I missed it  So I get this bright idea......I know that the local Senior Friendship Center has all kinds of classes, and activities and stuff so I went to their web site and found out that sure enough, they have a yoga class once a week.  And it's only three dollars!  Yes!  Plus, I figured it was best to find a senior version of yoga since I'm still pretty new and not too flexible and still learning the 'downward facing dog'.  And after all, I am 60 now, so I qualify for the Senior Friendship Center.  So I went this morning.

The instructor is 80 and way more nimble than me.   Two of the ladies were in their  nineties. (I'm not kidding.)  And they were way more nimble than me. I left the room with my legs shaking and my hips screaming at me.  As I waited for the elevator to carry me back down to the main floor, I watched as the two 90-year-olds took the stairs.

I'm gonna go again next week.  These people have inspired me.  I have a whole new outlook.....'Hey, I'm ONLY 60!"  But don't expect me to take the stairs.

My Week In Review...Poo-Poo-Pe-Doo

Just thought I'd do a quick round-up of this week's events. 

1. I'm back in Florida and all my anxieties and fears about the trip which I stupidly suffered all of  last week are behind me and were, of course, groundless. Things went smoothly and all is well.

2. Went to the communal 60th birthday party that we had planned for two weeks earlier (I wrote about that one last time.  See "The Girls At The Lake".)  Four of us recently-turned-60 friends gathered once again at Carol's house at the lake.  Thank you Carol.  It's a really nice house and well, it's on the lake for heaven's sake so it was gorgeous.  This time all four of us came and had a grand time.  Kind of a take-two of the previous get-together.  This time clever Carol had presents for each of us.  The first gift was.....are you ready?.....a package of SPOOLIES.  And if you're reading this and don't know what Spoolies are you are way too young to be reading a baby boomer's blog.  So we each grabbed one and wound a lock of our hair around it and sat there with these pink plastic circles in our hair for the remainder.  I was given Tangee lipstick.  Oh man, haven't seen THAT in years.  And I will forgive you if you don't remember Tangee lipstick because the specific name may be throwing you off.  Here, this description from their web site should jog your memory: "The original orange lipstick that goes on clear and gradually transforms into the perfect shade for you." Huh?  Huh?  You gettin it now??   Sure enough.  The stick is orange, but I put it on and it immediately went DARK PINK.  It's freaky.  Then the next gift was a MADRAS plaid duster, or housecoat, or whatever you want to call it. Perfect. 

Well, since Carol was the one who came up with these, she didn't want us to feel bad, and think she was left out, so she gave herself a gift too.  She unwrapped the package to reveal....EMERAUDE COLOGNE.  Wow.  shades of ninth grade.  I think I alternated between Emeraude and  Ambush.  


Anyway, it was another great gathering of old friends.  And sorry but I do mean old.


3. Watched several old movies with my dad to pass the evening hours.  I actually enjoyed them more than I anticipated.  One in particular starred Fred Astaire and Red Skelton and was called "Three Little Words".  It was the story of two actual songwriters (Burt Kalmar and Harry Ruby) and their successes and feuds and such.  Lots of good dancing by Mr. Astaire so I was all up for that.  One of the songs they wrote that was featured in the movie was "I Wanna Be Loved By You".  ("I wanna be loved by you alo-ne...POO POO PE DOO"  Now you can better understand the formerly puzzling title of this post.)


4. Flew back to Florida, as I mentioned.  Was picked up at the airport by two of my wonderful angel friends who not only drove an hour each way to pick me up, but took me to their house afterward and fed me a delicious meal.  And, oh yes, THREE MARGARITAS.  Which was apparently one margarita too many because I ended up having an unplanned sleepover at their house.  Oooohh, I forgot how the bed could spin like that.  But I had a GREAT time and loved every minute.  


So here I am, settling back in at my condo.  I was wondering how I would feel coming back to an empty house,  but ya know, I'm okay.  Going out to dinner tonight with another friend and planning to curl up with a good book afterward.  


Life is good.

The Girls At The Lake

Got together with a couple of high school class of '70 girlfriends the other night for cookout and conversation.  It was supposed to be a communal 60th birthday party but one of our comrades in sagging arms couldn't make it, so we stashed the cake in the freezer for another day, and just got together to get together. 

It was great.  I mean great in the sense that I perceive it at 60.  It was great because we were totally relaxed with each other, and enjoyed each other's company, and laughed and remembered and talked about today, yesterday and tomorrow.  And had a few glasses of wine of course.  I have found that a glass of wine is an excellent accessory to conversation. After a couple of the aforementioned glasses of wine we were even inspired to get up from the dinner table on the patio and do the stroll when a stroll-worthy song came on the radio.  Well, we tried to do the stroll.  I confess I had forgotten exactly how it went and my version was somewhere between the Electric Slide and the Virginia Reel I think.

I thought about the whole affair later and smiled at the realization that maturity has its benefits when it comes to female friendships.  No adolescent competition or jealousy.  No  inward comparisons of each others' strengths and weaknesses in order to find our footing in the social order.  I felt no social order whatsoever.  It didn't matter who was popular, who was smart, who had the best clothes. Popular isn't even in our grown-up vocabulary any more.  It was just us.  Three friends, still friends.  Survivors of youthful foibles, failed relationships, successes, defeats, jobs, love and loss.  Three friends sitting outside on a balmy evening at the lake, just talking, just enjoying.  It was just nice. 

And that's what really made it great. 

The Lines On My Face

So recently I've been noticing a couple of new crease lines on my cheek.  What the heck?  They're not crows feet, I've got those a little higher up next to my eyes.  At first I thought it was just pillow lines, but I was noticing them lo-n-g  after I got out of bed.  What the...I never saw anyone with lines like these.  Oh well, I'm almost 60, so I guess it's just old age. Figured I'd just have to find some new kind of makeup that would fill them in, like spackle.  Yuck.  Another age thing.

But wait.  One day I was talking on my iPhone and after I got off I looked in the mirror for some reason.  The creases!!  They were really prominent.

DUH!  I've been using only my iPhone recently because I'm travelling and have all my calls forwarded.  It's not old age creases. 

It's iPhace!

P.S. Tomorrow is my 60th birthday. Glad I could make myself laugh. 

Facebook Caper

This is a good one.  I was reading the newspaper the other day and there was an article COMPLETE WITH PHOTO about a young guy who got caught for robbery because he posted a photo of himself on Facebook holding a big wad of cash.  This, after recently posting that he was flat broke and out of work. 

Now, meanwhile, a Dollar General store VERY close to this guy's house had been robbed.   Of a big bunch of cash and some other stuff. 

His own Facebook photo showed him grinning away with this wad of cash in his fist, and also visible in the photo were a few items identifiable from the Dollar General robbery. 

Apparently  the police are now using Facebook as an evidence-gathering resource and they couldn't help but notice the stupid idiot with the cash.  So they arrested him, and sure enough, he did the robbery.

Well, my late husband, who just never could understand the big deal with Facebook, always said somebody should start an Assbook.  I think we just found our first member.

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