What We Learn

One of the things I admire most about my husband is his voracious appetite for learning. He reads mostly non-fiction books on a variety of topics, including sports, history, travel, math and the English language. Oftentimes, he will read a passage aloud to me from one of his tomes, or he will call me over to the computer to read me something he's found on the internet. The cool thing is, he retains much of what he reads.

This comes in very handy when we're touring the Smithsonian. He will pull obscure facts from the recesses of his memory and share them as we walk through museum. I am constantly amazed. It occurred to me that I take this ability of his for granted. So I started trying to imagine what it would be like if he didn't have this incredible mind of his. And I realized how much I would miss it.

Unlike my husband, I read something, comment on how cool it is, and promptly forget. This causes a certain amount of consternation on my husband's part, especially when he is doing his crossword puzzle, and I can't remember the name of Jane Eyre's charge. (I read a lot of fiction.) My brain just isn't wired that way. I can recall jingles from TV commercials that ran 40 years ago, and I'm very good with song lyrics. I also have a good memory for events that took place at work. But don't ask me who the 26th president is, ask him.

I'm not sure I'm headed anywhere else in particular with this today. I just thought it was right and proper to give kudos to the man who has enlightened me in so many ways over the years.

So, here's to you, Mr. Ginley.

P.S. For those of you playing along at home, Jane Eyre was governess to Adele. And the 26th president was Theodore Roosevelt. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!

Confessions of a Worry Wart

There's a TV commercial for insurance that features a guy, calling himself "Mayhem," who causes all sorts of accidents. I hate those ads. They're like a streaming video of the scenarios that keep me awake at four o'clock in the morning.

My status as a "worry wart" began at a young age, according to my mother. I fretted over each and every "what if." I once ran into my parents' room in the middle of the night because I knew cursing was a sin, and I'd used a swear word in my dream. I wanted my mom to assure me I wasn't going to hell. Although I would later embrace the colorful language that dots my vocabulary, I am still a worrier.

I sat here for a long time staring at the phrase "worry wart," and it started to looked weirder and weirder to me. (Yes, I have no life to speak of.) So I decided to google it and see what happened.

I learned that the phrase is derivative of "worryguts," an English expression that dates back to 1936. There was a comic strip character named "Worry Wart." Then, in 1956, the phrase gained credibility when it was used in a medical tome to define someone who worries needlessly. (Of course, this information has not been exhaustively researched, so it could be complete bollocks. That's the joy of The Google.)

There is some part of me that believes if you worry about something happening, it won't. Therefore, it's worth worrying about. Yes, this is dumb, but it gives justification to my bouts of fear about the future. The trouble is, there will always be things I don't think of to worry about that will blindside me. So in the grand scheme of things, I'd be much better off not thinking about what could happen.

I look up and the sky, calculate the enormity of the universe and my teeny tiny place in it, and try to leave my troubles behind. I count my blessings. I meditate. I take one day at a time. I do exercises to let go and just be. But alas, it's a struggle.

For now, for this moment, for today, I'm going to be thankful for the chance to spend the holidays with my family. I will make a wish that we are all healthy and in good spirits and able to celebrate cheerfully. I will wish in positive ways, and try not to stray into the dark areas around the edges.

Wish me luck!

P.S. I just read my horoscope for today. It says, "Let go of worry, as it is absolutely pointless." I swear, I didn't make this up!

A Celebration of the Lost Arts

When I'm in the check-out line at the grocery store, I look for coupons, get out my checkbook and try to keep an eye on the cashier to make sure she's keying in the right code for my produce. So I don't always pay attention to the way my bags are being packed. On any number of occasions, I've groaned as I unpacked the bags at home to discover bananas at the bottom of a bag of canned goods. Or eggs tossed in willy-nilly with items that could cause breakage.

There is an art to bag packing. I have met these artisans. Generally, they are mature men in bow ties, who take bagging seriously, rather than the high school boys who view it as a bottom-of-the-totem-pole kind of task. This led me to think about some of the other lost arts in our supersonic fast-paced society.

Here are a few I've come up with...

Typography
If you cruise through magazines from the 1960's and 70's, you will find that type mattered. It was used to convey the look and feel of an ad. It was part of the design. Up-and-coming designers today rely too much on lifestyle and product images to set the tone. They see words as a necessary evil. As if to say, "well, of course, you have to include the 60% off message and all of the disclaimers, but those other words just get in the way." Maybe I'm just sensitive to it because I'm a word person. But the words, the way they look and feel can convey emotion just as effectively as a photograph.

Frugality
My mother used everything. And used it. And used it. Aluminum foil was not a one-time gig. Nor was string or plastic bags or even milk cartons. Towels became rags and rags became threadbare. A lot of them did not leave the premises until after she did. My parents and their parents lived through the Depression, which was largely why they were reluctant to let go of anything. Food was not left on our plates growing up. Over-ripe bananas were made into banana bread. Stale bread was ground into breadcrumbs. My mother was appalled when she saw waste. She was a proponent of recycling long before it became fashionable.

Letter Writing
Yes, we have email. And yes, I have succumbed to the evils of electronic communication. But I still get a thrill when snail mail arrives in my beat-up metal letter box. I love that someone took the time and effort to write to me. This is not to discourage those who email with their news. There are many advantages to the speed and efficiency of email. But speed has its price...words sent this way are often dashed off in haste, unedited and uncrafted. Letter writing is a lost art.

Movie Making
These days, it's all about the special effects. There are very few new ideas in Hollywood. If you doubt this, think about all of the remakes (or remakes of remakes) that have been released over the last several years. The original Star Wars was filmed in a garage with home made props. Computer technology didn't exist in the movie industry at that time. It all had to be done by hand, frame by frame. That took imagination and ingenuity and persistence. With all of the instant graphics at hand today, something grand has been lost.

I'm certain there are lots of other lost arts. Feel free to comment with your own. For now, I'm a little blue.

Maybe I'll go bake something. Or curl up with a book and some classic Christmas music. Ahh, that's better. Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom.

Toying with My Affection

When the toy catalog from Toys R Us arrived in our newspaper a couple of weeks ago, I knew the holiday season was off to its official start. The whole toy thing is really below my radar. My son is in college now, so my shopping list will consist of things like gift cards, clothes and X-Box accessories.

When he was small, I was up on the latest trends, although he rarely asked for the hottest toys. So I wasn't inclined to get caught up in the mad dash. I do remember going from store-to-store one year, trying to find a Spiderman web shooter. It straps to your wrist and spews the equivalent of Silly String. I was so proud of myself for finding it. He played with it once. Maybe twice. The toy he loved best as a child was his set of Thomas the Tank Engine trains and track. He played for hours, days, weeks, with those trains. I used to read him the original stories by Reverend W. Awdry. Then I'd hear him playing with the trains later, saying things like, "Cinders and Ashes, Percy, we're going to crash!"

To me, that's what toys are all about.

Playing my new "Beatles Flip Your Wig" Game

Lately, I've been thinking about the toys that shaped my own childhood. I still have my first slinky. And the dolls, much loved, but incapable of doing anything but blinking their eyes. I have my (one and only one) Barbie doll, complete with the original bubble cut, a few outfits and some mismatched shoes. From my mom I snarfed the cardboard frame puzzles we played with. Then there were the games. Christmas Day was our annual game fest, when we cleared the kitchen table (or living room floor) and played board games. My pride and joy was the Beatles Flip Your Wig Game. We had the classics like Clue, Risk, Monopoly and Life, plus card games. One sister had Barbie Queen of the Prom. My other sister had a game with a small purple princess phone that you had to dial for instructions. It took the place of the dice.

Then there were the crafty toys. Looms for making pot holders. The Easy Bake Oven. The too-hot toy that made creepy, crawly bugs so our brothers could torture us (like they needed help). The Spirograph. The white building blocks that were the predecessor to Legos. The Lincoln Logs.

Just out of curiosity, I googled to see what this year's hottest toys are. Although in some ways they have become a little more complex (and obviously more high tech) the themes are essentially the same. Included on the list were Legos, a make-your-own-bracelet kit, Elmo, a couple of board games and some dolls. My favorite of these was an "exclusive" by Toys R Us called the "Tub & Toot Doll." Yes, it does what you think it does. Complete with bubbles. I may have to get one for myself.

Christmases are much quieter these days. I can sleep in -- in fact, I'll probably be the first one up this year. That's nice, in a way. But I will reminisce about those Christmases past, when a family of eight swarmed around the tree and ripped open presents and spent the day together.

Am I glossing over the fights and disappointments that also took place on those long-ago Christmases? Of course. But they're my memories, and I'm sticking to them!

Gobbling it All Up

It's funny how we set aside just one day a year to be thankful for all we've been given. I pondered this on Thanksgiving morning as I walked to the corner to get a cup of coffee. It was cold and grey, typical C-town wintry weather. It was also kind of sleepy and peaceful. A little snow crunching under the old boots. The birds were raising a ruckus, but otherwise it was kind of quiet. Just a few cars out and about at 8 am.

I love mornings. The promise of new beginnings. I like being up early, and roaming around the house like a ghost before anyone else is up. It gives me time to get my bearings. And time to think about the things I'm grateful for.

So here they are, my thankfuls.

I'm thankful for my husband, my son, my warm home. And a job that keeps a roof above me, food within me and clothes upon me. (And a Kindle in my lap, just because.)

I'm thankful for siblings and other family and friends and coworkers and the coffee and the conversations that unite us. And for my parents and the others who have gone before, who still talk to me and urge me along the path.

I'm thankful for the earth, for its ability to keep me connected to everything. For its joys, small and large. For birds, sunshine, moon beams and flowers, grass and trees, soil and sky. (Yes, I understand the sky is not part of the earth, please don't get all technical on me.)

I'm thankful for the spirit that guides me, even though I'm not certain exactly how the whole thing works.

I'm thankful that my health is good. I still have my aches and pains, but they're manageable. I feel pretty good right now, anticipating breakfast with my kid. Eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee, lots of coffee and good times together. But I digress...

I'm thankful that I have all of my senses -- the five basics and the ones that keep me sane.

I'm thankful for books, their mysteries and their ability to transport me to places I'd never otherwise visit.

I'm thankful for all of the things I take for granted. I can't list every one here, but I wouldn't want to leave them out.

I think maybe the trick is to remember to be thankful every day for something. Just to acknowledge that, yes, things are good, right in this moment. To step back and take a breather and smile.

Gobble, gobble!

Tuning Up

My taste in music can best be described as "eclectic." A toodle through my record/cassette/CD collection brings up a whole range of music, from classical to jazz to pop to rock.

There was a time when my sister despaired of my ever listening to anything besides the Beatles. Really, she needn't have worried.

Over the years, I've developed a love for a lot of artists who didn't cross my path in childhood. Discovery of previously unknown artists is often by accident. Or maybe it's fate. I'll hear something on the radio or I'll pick up a CD at the library. Just because. That's how I discovered Kat Edmonson. And kd lang. And Julie London.

Music transports me. The Beatles take me to my childhood and my brothers, who played their records over and over nonstop until I could easily sing along. Mantovani's Italia Mia album brings my dad back to me, as do old Mitch Miller standards. Boz Scaggs and Steely Dan remind me of my antics in high school. Michael Jackson, Paul Simon and and Tears for Fears make me think of the time in my life when it was just me and the cat. "I Only Want to Be With You" was the song my husband sang to me from a phone booth (remember those?) that stood outside the Wendy's restaurant around the corner from my apartment. And my husband continues the tradition of wooing me, singing songs about me in the shower, putting his own lyrics to any tune you can name. (It's endearing, if frustrating when I'm trying to recall the real words to a song.)

So many memories tied to music. So many times I take music for granted, but honestly, I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't slip on my headphones and play keyboard or drums on the edge of my desk. Or crank up the radio in my car and wail away with Patsy Cline or Lesley Gore or Ella Fitz at the top of my lungs.Even background music has the power to set the mood. Some of the most popular Bugs Bunny cartoons are the ones set to classical musical. (Who can resist "The Rabbit of Seville"?). Music is life's soundtrack.

Of course, for every desperately wonderful thing in this world, there is a downside. "1,001 Strings plays the Beatles," for example. And those rotten songs that we call "brain worms," the ones that take up residence in your head, possibly for days, and will not be deposed, unless it's by an equally abhorrent melody.

Still, I'll take it all, the good, the bad, the off-key. Music adds the color and flavor to this drab world. And I feel blessed to have the ability to hear.

I might even acquire a taste for rap music someday.

Or not.

Perchance to Dream

Sleeping is one of those activities where my body and my brain are at odds.

If my body had its way, I'd get seven hours of shuteye every night. I have no trouble falling asleep...I often comment that I could fall asleep on a bag of rocks. Not the behavior of a night owl. But then, somewhere around 5am, I usually have to hurl myself out of the rack to make a bathroom stop. When I return to the comfort of my bed, there's a click -- my brain begins to kick in. Joining in are an assortment of fears, concerns, to-dos for the day, and other noise that build into a crescendo until I'm unable to tumble back into the Land of Nod.

So, there I am, an hour or so from waking for the day, and my brain will not let me rest. Sometimes I can fool it by trying to retrieve from my memory banks what it was I was dreaming about before I was so rudely interrupted by my bladder. By engaging in this exercise, my brain is tricked back into slumber. The trouble is, this tactic doesn't always work, and I give up and arise for good at my usual time, feeling cheated of much-needed rest.

My husband is my opposite. He is a night owl. Although he will say how tired he is in the evening, by the time my bedtime rolls around, he is wide awake, often not conking out until the sun has nearly made its reappearance. He has done some of his best research at 2 a.m. This is frustrating for him, especially on the weekends, when he sleeps through a good chunk of the morning and our time together.

Then there are the dreams. No one can really escape what's going on inside their head. On nights when I am so exhausted it is an effort to breathe, I will often begin to dream about work, and proceed to labor through a series of tedious exercises all night long. There are a lot of theories about why we dream and what our dreams mean. I figure dreams are a personal thing, tailored to our experiences. Sometimes they are just a series of meaningless episodes, strung together like a bad movie, replayed in our heads before being discarded.

I seldom remember my jaunts through other-consciousness. I know there are techniques for remembering them. Perhaps there's some benefit in this, but quite frankly, the dreams I do remember are pretty lame. And they don't help me sort out my awake self at all.

There are times when I wonder if our sleeping lives are just as real as our awake lives. Maybe it's a parallel universe kind of thing.

Maybe I just need a little more sleep.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

You can pick your seat, you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your family. Or your neighbors.

Like every other aspect of your life, neighbors can be a true blessing or a real pain. This week I attended the funeral of one of the former.

My sister and brother in the old neighborhood.

I grew up in 1960's style, in a middle class neighborhood, constructed post-World War II, where most of the homes were identical, single-story structures with three bedrooms, one bath and no basement. Only the paint job and the landscaping gave each house its personality. And there were the trees. Our neighborhood was shaded by old maple trees, planted when the lots were first plotted out in 1929 (I'm assuming right before the market crashed and the owner could no longer afford to construct the homes.)

Through the years, the houses became associated with their long-term tenants. Among those who have lived there for any length of time, my childhood home is still referred to as "Tony and Mary's house." Throughout my childhood, into adulthood and even today, this is the case, although my parents have not lived in our neighborhood home for several years.

Then, last week, we lost one of our old neighbors.

Mr. and Mrs. K lived two doors down from us. I have known them for the majority of my life, along with their three children. Their oldest daughter, Linda, I count among my dearest friends. I attended Mr. K's funeral this past week. It brought back many memories and felt as though I was losing a part of my childhood. Like many of the folks in our lives, we take our neighbors for granted. Although we may move on and get older, somehow the neighbors we knew growing up are frozen in time, waiting for us to go back and give them a hug.

It occurred to me, looking at the photos the family arranged, that I'd really only scratched the surface of who Mr. K was, in the way kids know an adult in their neighborhood. I remembered the polka music, of course -- his family made sure it was playing in the background during the wake. I remembered that he worked at the Chevy plant, that he was full of life, and like many of the men in his generation, he didn't take shit from anyone. He loved his family fiercely and worked his ass off to provide a good home for them. One of my favorite stories was of Mr. K. reluctantly taking his daughter to see Elvis Presley, her hero. He didn't want to go, but he wasn't going to let her go alone. As it turned out, the event transformed him. He talked and talked about how much he'd enjoyed the concert and wanted to go back and see Elvis the next year.

I look at my neighbors today. We have been lucky to date. We say "hi" and wave and chat every now and again. Then go on our way. I wonder if our house will be known as "Ginleys place" when we move on. People don't stay in one home as long as they used to. There are only a handful of people on our street who are still here since we moved in 20 years ago. We are a far more transient society.

I guess all you can do is foster that neighborly feeling while it lasts. Be considerate of your next door neighbors. And remember them when you can no longer shout a greeting over the fence.  Remembering people keeps them alive, even when they move to better neighborhoods than this world can support.

So long, Mr. K. I look forward to sharing a polka with you someday. In the meantime, have a beer for me, will you?

The Pain, The Wonder of Modern Technology

I think it's telling that when describing technology I chose the word "pain" before "wonder." I have a love/hate relationship with modern devices.

There was a show we watched a year or so ago that underscored the fast pace with which technology has taken over our world. The producers took a family in England and rigged their house with only the contraptions that would have been available for a specific time period. I think they started in the 1940's and worked their way up to modern day. Each "era" lasted one week. The family included a teenage daughter and a couple of younger sons. They found creative ways to entertain themselves in the early years. The kids grew bored by the time they got to the 1970's and they were able to play Space Invaders and Pac Man. By the time they completed their journey, they were ready to hook up to the google and jump back into the 21st Century.

This started me thinking about my own experiences. I've aged during a time in history when technology has advanced at breakneck speed. I learned to type on a manual typewriter. Then mastered the electric typewriter and 10-key calculator. I worked in a print shop in high school on a then-state-of-the-art CompuGraphic typesetting machine. You had to change the font by replacing a strip of film. You saw your copy in a window that was about 6 inches wide. Once you hit the return button, the words printed on the light-sensitive paper, which had to be developed in a chemical bath. Then you could take the type and cut and paste it onto your board, which was shot by a huge camera. You developed the film and used it to make a plate, which you put on a press to print. Piece of cake.

In 1983, my place of employment purchased a Wang Word Processing System, which was quite the thing. The Wang was a mainframe system. A clunky box with a green screen lived on my desk. I was in accounting at the time and was required (after half a day's training) to create elaborate spreadsheets. Mastering the beast was no easy feat. I had to code in each column manually. If I miscalculated, I had to go back into the system and rejigger the formula until the columns lined up the way I wanted them to. It was cool back in the day. Really.

Fast forward to 1990 and my first Mac.It was small, but all I was doing was typing words, so it sufficed. Today at work I have a Mac with a 25-inch screen, a trim keyboard, a small orange box and a CD player. Pretty amazing.

On the home front, we have an old laptop that gets the job done.I don't have all of the latest electronic doodads, but I keep up fairly well. My husband uses my cell phone more than I do (he has a dumb phone). He takes panoramic photos and makes movies and checks the score of whatever game is playing. I admit that texting is a cool thing. And we get a fair amount of entertainment value from seeing how our phone translates our voice-activated messages.

There are times I wonder, now that I've experienced these modern contraptions, would I be able to go back and live in the past?

I would miss the ease of looking up information on the internet, of finding out what happened to old friends and doing genealogical research with a world full of information at my fingertips. I would miss the ease of keeping in touch via Facebook and email. And it's nice to be able to communicate with my son via texting.

I would not miss the frantic pace that modern technology has helped to create. Because everything is instant, people think results should be instant. There's no time to ponder anything. We joke at work because every job that comes through our department is labeled "HOT!" This is just one of the symptoms of a larger problem. It's not that more is being accomplished -- the work actually takes longer to accomplish because changes can be made right up to the last minute.

Of course, it would be a whole lot harder for my son to exist in a world without computers and such because he's never known any other way. I'm glad to have come of age when I did. It's nice to have been able to see how our tools have changed over the years.

I almost said "how we've evolved" but I'm not sure that's true.

I see couples sitting across the table from each other texting and ignoring one another. I'm not convinced that's progress.

I Know, I Know, It's a Virtue

"I guess that's why they call us 'patients,'" my husband observed. We'd been sitting in the doctor's office half an hour past his appointment. We watched a parade of other patients file in and out until, at last, it was his turn. We wondered how "patient" doctors are when they have to wait to see a doctor themselves.

Why is patience such a difficult thing to master?

I am a Type A personality, and patience has always been a challenge. I get frustrated waiting behind the elderly person in the bank who chatters away with the teller about her family, her garden, her aches and pains. It is torture for me to sit in traffic that is creeping along at 15 miles an hour. And I begin to hyperventilate when I have to explain to the third nimrod at my cell phone company that they are not entitled to a late charge because I have a cancelled check that proves they received my payment on time.

I don't know why I'm wired this way, but I've observed I'm not in the minority. Last night, we were trying to cross the street after dinner. We were in the crosswalk, the signal indicated it was okay for us to go, but cars turning left didn't want to wait and, in the game of chicken that's played every day a million times around the world, they zoomed past us. The worst offender was an elderly lady who braked at the last minute. My husband waved her on and yelled, "Go on, you're in a big ass hurry." She looked straight ahead and plowed on. And turned into the gas station. Apparently, her getting gas at that exact moment was the most important thing in the world.

Then there was the guy behind me in our local discount drug store. I hate shopping there because the people who frequent the place behave abominably. (What is it about cheap prices that brings out the worst in folks?) Anyhow, we were in line, and there was a woman in one of those carts for people with disabilities. She had a small child on her lap and was maneuvering her way to the checkout. It took her maybe an extra five seconds to work it out. The guy behind me was muttering under his breath the whole time. The woman completed her purchases and asked the cashier if she could get assistance to her car. At that point, the guy behind me became apoplectic. I turned to him and said softly, "Would you just chill out?!" Did no good. In all, the extra time the cashier had to spend helping the woman was less than a minute. But even if it had been five minutes, what was this man missing out on that was so important?

And that's where it comes back to me. Considering his bad behavior, I had to think about my own. Even though I was not vocal, was I just as bad for getting worked up over having to wait? Where was I going in such a hurry? Was I on my way to cure cancer or save the world from global disaster?

Of course not. I was just on my way back to work or home or to another errand. I could have spent the extra few minutes planning dinner or counting my blessings or just taking the time to breathe and relax. Time is a luxury. We take it for granted, but we don't know how much of it we have left on this earth. Pretty much everything in my world can wait an extra few minutes without dire consequences.

So this has become my mission. To work on slowing down just a little. To remember that the elderly lady in the bank is probably going home to an empty house, and the teller may be the only one she talks to today. That the slow traffic could be because of an accident, and how fortunate I am not to have been involved. As for the idiots at the cell phone company, I held my tongue, and the lady I ultimately spoke with was able to resolve my problem and was pleasant and professional. She did good.

I'll continue to work on being patient. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to smile placidly and say, "No, that's okay, you jumped the line but I'm good with it."

I guess I'm not going to inherit the earth anytime soon. But maybe I can enjoy a smiling baby or a colorful sunset while I'm waiting.

Heavy Petting

Petting is therapeutic. Not the kind that's done in the back seat of the car in the park (although that kind may be considered "therapeutic" for completely different reasons). I'm talking about our furry or feathered friends. The family members who cannot speak our language but who communicate with us just fine.

They wag and beguile their way into our hearts, they share our joys and our sadness. They become members of our family. And they leave a space that cannot be filled when they are gone.

When I was growing up, my parents told us we could not have dogs or cats. My mom didn't want larger animals because she didn't want to have to be the one to take care of them (she already had six kids). My dad had a menagerie when he was growing up, but his heart was broken when his beloved dog "Teddy" died, and he didn't want to become attached to another animal. We were allowed to have small animals...gerbils, birds, turtles and once, even a snake. (I had a guinea pig, but she only lived six months.)

Marge, in her natural habitat

When I moved into my first apartment by myself, I decided to get a cat. My boyfriend at the time told me about a cat shelter where they let the animals live until a home was found -- they didn't put them to sleep. Off we went. There were rooms of roaming felines. Some of them yelled for attention. It was a little overwhelming. Then, one grey tabby came up quietly and rubbed against my legs. My boyfriend said, "that looks like a fine animal." I agreed, picked her up, completed the necessary paperwork, and home we went. After a short adjustment period, during which she hid under the day bed, we became fast friends. I called her "Muskrat," and the two of us grew very close. We played hockey on the wooden floors in my apartment. And she was a great lap cat. One of my favorite things to do was sit in the rocking chair in front of the window, sipping tea with a bundle of cat on my lap. The only thing she did not like about the apartment was my water bed. She'd tiptoe along the edge (the part that didn't move) and meow at me in the morning when it was time to eat.

I disrupted the apple cart when I rescued "Chessie," a very wily, soft grey cat who did not play well with others. The two of them fought all the time. Chessie eventually went to live with my boyfriend. And it was back to just Muskrat and me.

Fast forward to mid-1986 when my now-husband and I began to date. I made it clear that my cat had seniority. He was leery at first, but in short order, he warmed up to her...and changed her name to "Marge." (He didn't like "Muskrat," and after several months of tussling over her name, I gave in.) We moved Marge to Alexandria with us. And back to Cleveland. She was mostly my cat, but my husband was the object of her affection when I was out of town. For awhile I did quite a bit of traveling for work, and those nights when it was just my husband and the cat, the two of them were very cozy.

Then our son was born. I remember my grandmother cautioning me about cats, repeating the old wives' tale about them suffocating babies. I watched Marge to make sure she was cool with the new baby, but there was never any real concern. Marge was very protective of him. Her mom instincts were strong, and she watched him like a hawk. She didn't like it when people came over and tried to hold him. She was a good cat. She had a good run. Then, in January of 1999, her time ran out. The three of us were heartbroken. My husband said he did not want to get another cat.

Miss Mabel

It was a little over a year later, at Easter time in 2000, when my son and I wore down my husband, and the three of us went back to the cat shelter.We walked through the rooms until my husband spied one cat in a perch high above the floor. She was the spitting image of Marge, and my husband melted. He looked at me with "that look" and said, "Can we get this one? Please?"

Like I was going to say "no"...

This particular cat hated all of the other cats, which is why she was up high. Every time another cat walked by, she hissed at them. The folks at the shelter told us the cat was two or three years old (they really weren't certain) and she needed to be spayed. So I made arrangements to pick her up on Good Friday. I left work early that day and drove straight to the shelter.

When I walked in, she was pacing back and forth and yelling her head off. They told me she had been waiting for me. She continued her caterwauling throughout the 30-minute ride home. I had warned my son that it would take awhile for her to get adjusted to her new environment and not to worry if we didn't see her for the first few days. I needn't have bothered. I opened her carrier and released her. Yelling all the way, she went down in the basement and throughout the house, checking things out, then settled herself on the couch with a nod of the head and an attitude of "this will do."

We called her "Mabel."

Now, aged approximately 16 years, Mabel is coming to the end of the road. Her kidneys are like sieves and she sleeps most of the time. She hangs out in the basement a lot, and sometimes I don't think she recognizes us. About once a day, she wants to be petted and told she's a good kitty, then she goes back to sleep. I know it won't be long. And it will be a sad day. Mabel was supposed to be my cat, but she formed a deep attachment to our son. When he went away to college, her heart broke. We didn't think she'd live long after that, but she has surprised us by hanging in this long. She is a sweet little cat. And much loved.

Much like the humans we love, our pets can exasperate us at times. But the love and joy and comfort they give make us wealthy beyond measure. And life without them would be poorer indeed.

It's Vast, Ye Maties

Every morning I make it a point to go outside and look up. Some mornings it's dark, and I can enjoy the broad vista of the constellations. I've never been able to work out much beyond the Dippers and Orion's Belt, but I appreciate them nonetheless. Most mornings I'm admiring a cloud-streaked sky, blue or grey. Watching the clouds in their lazy journey over the earth or the stars in their courses reminds me of the vastness of the universe.

And this is blog-worthy...why? (You ask.)

I believe it's all about perspective. Every day I go to work and get sucked into the minor miseries and contrived catastrophes that define my life in that building. It's easy to get caught up and stressed out. To forget about the bigness of the universe, and how my life and the things that happen at work are just a minuscule part of it. Sometimes when I'm in a meeting and starting to get frustrated, I look out the window and think, "Yep, it's still there, a whole world full of billions of people who don't give a shit on shingle about what happens in this room." It's very comforting. It puts my work in its place. Of course, the work is important to me, it needs to be done and done well, but it does not define me as a person. Nothing I'm doing there will change the course of the universe. It is a job that needs to be done. Nothing more, nothing less. And when I am no longer roaming its corridors, there will be other employees to carry on.

Some might find this observation depressing. Not me. I find it liberating. When I walk out the door at the end of a long day and look up at the sky, I know it's okay to let go. And go home to the things that matter most to me.

That's what it's all about.

Bundle of Joy

"I don't want to have kids," I told my husband when we were dating. He was crestfallen. He loved kids. He was very good with his nieces and nephews. But he loved me and decided he still wanted to marry me, even though it meant he would not have children.

Flash forward to 1991. We're on a long-distance drive to somewhere, when I tell him, "I've changed my mind. I want to have a child."

He was  furious. I don't blame him. Asking him to shift gears after several years during which time he had gotten used to the idea that life was just the two of us. Not three. Not four. It took him awhile to adjust to the notion. Then we talked practicalities.

At that time, we were living in the house of his birth with his mother. We'd moved back from Virginia to take care of her after my father-in-law passed away. The house was very small, and even though his parents had raised five children there, when you factored in three adults, not two, it was not big enough for us. So, while he agreed that we would have a child, I agreed it would have to wait a little while.

The next year we bought a home and began trying. It didn't take very long. By Christmas, I was pregnant, and our son was born the following September, on the day of my baby shower at work. Two of my coworkers brought a photo of the cake. It was lovely.

As I had predicted, the baby was a boy, his head was too large, and the doctor had to go in and get him. During the procedure, I was very nervous, and the doctor asked my husband to calm me down. He had just been watching Jeopardy, so he asked a Jeopardy question -- What was Wilma Flintstone's maiden name? The doctor and nurses debated among themselves, and it was all very jolly -- for them. I was shivering and anxious. In short order, my son made his entrance, I cooed a bit, then asked them to please put Humpty back together again. (Kudos to my husband, who is icked out pretty easily, but who was able to keep his composure in spite of viewing all of my innards lying about.)

Having a c-section meant I could stay in the hospital a couple of extra days. I was thrilled. The hospital had new birthing suites, and there was only one other mother there. So the nurses were all over me and my son. Going home was culture shock. The first week was a blur. The odd thing was walking into the house, and nothing feeling the same. Everything in our lives changed. It was a wonderful, challenging time. I had six weeks before I had to go back to work. My husband had agreed to stay home and raise our son.

Looking back, there were times when I wish I could have been the one. I remember talking to them on the phone after they'd taken a walk in the park together or gone to the library or visited my mom and dad. And I would get teary and sad. Then there were days when two of them would come visit me for lunch. They'd bring sandwiches, and we'd sit in the park. Or we'd go to Wendy's and eat. Sometimes they would stop at the florist's and present me with a rose. Good times.

It was the right thing for my husband to be the stay-at-home dad. He took a lot of crap for it, but seeing how well my son has turned out is his vindication. Perhaps for him, the second-most important validation came from his mother, who said, "Don't pay attention to what anyone tells you. You are doing the right thing."

My time with our son was limited, but I made the most of it. Evenings were my time. We would eat dinner, I'd play with my son, give him a bath, read him a story, sing to him, put him to bed. Weekends were family time.

Then came pre-school. I didn't sign him up soon enough, so he went on a waiting list. One month into the school year, he got in because another kid was a biter and lost his spot. We have a photo of my son on his first day, so brave, smiling from ear to ear.

The school years whizzed by. Grammar then high school, now college. He's a young man with a life of his own. Our son has turned into a fine human being, and we are proud of him. Together, the three of have laughed, fought, and loved each other. I like to remember the laughing most, it's the best part.

We are proud of our son. Our wish for him is a wonderful life. One that is long, happy, healthy and full of laughter. Mazel tov, my son.

P.S. Wilma's maiden name was "Slaghoople."

All Gone to Look for America

As we began our journey, back to the Old Dominion, back to our second home town, I heard the Simon & Garfunkel song, America, playing in my head. It's my traveling song of choice -- bittersweet, soft and yearning.

We knew the way. We had traveled back and forth, from Cleveland to Washington and back again. Now we were headed to the Washington Capitals Convention in D.C. We also planned to go to the Newseum to see a new JFK exhibit. And spend the day in Alexandria, in Old Town, where we both worked several years ago.

Why is it the trip always takes longer going there than coming back? The drive down was uneventful. We noshed on sandwiches from Burger King. Stopped for coffee and a pastry at Panera. Paid our tolls. Rode our road. Navigated various construction areas, many of them phantom, with no workers or equipment in sight. We tried to listen to an audio book, but nothing really fit. We were "restless and aching" but we did know why...we were headed back home. To our other home. The one we left behind for a fate that wouldn't let us be.

We arrived late afternoon to a note on the door from my brother-in-law. We were to make ourselves at home. We made a call to my niece-in-law, who came over, her three small children in tow. She was feeding our literary addiction by taking us to a library book sale. We supported the local economy rather generously before heading back to their home, where we saw my nephew, briefly, in his natural habitat of overgrown plants and wildflowers. Too brief a visit. Then back to our home for the next few days. A lovely dinner with new babies and small children and nephews and their wives. Family time. Nice. My mister was a hit, reading stories to two of the little ones, in his own quirky, endearing style. Then bed.

Friday morning, off to the Newseum. Very moving photographs that really showed JFK. You can't always hide from the camera. Which native American tribe was it that believed the camera stole your soul? I believe it's true. Photographs do capture your soul. We spent most of the rest of the day exploring the other exhibits. Then to the museum shop. Then to the shop at the National Gallery of Art. Then back on the Metro, whooshing our way back. Through tunnels, then daylight. Content. A little sad. My Mister went to the game my brother-in-law was helping to coach. I stayed and read my email. Played with my Kindle. Dozed awhile.

Saturday was Caps day. Rallies and speakers. Cowbells and Rock the Red towels and t-shirts and all manner of souvenirs. Silly photographs of each other. Nice to be among our own kind again. Then back on the Metro. The one day it rained, we were lucky to be indoors. We timed it perfectly so my brother-in-law didn't miss any of his football game picking us up at the station. A quiet evening in.

Sunday, my favorite day, spent in Old Town. Sitting by the Potomac, people-watching, drinking in everything. Reminiscing days from years ago, sitting here just like this, reflecting the sunshine. Walking along the riverfront, taking pictures that will never do justice to the original. We strolled up and down King Street, and parked ourselves in front of the building where I used to work. Then lunch at our favorite restaurant, Il Porto. Eating homemade raviolis in a cream sauce that I nearly wept over. Yes, it was that good. If I could have licked the plate and gotten away with it, I would have. I think I chewed every bite about 50 times. A white chocolate cake for dessert with raspberry sauce. We split it. Divine. We tipped liberally and tripped out to buy t-shirts and magnets and the usual stuff for ourselves and for our college-aged son. Exhausted, happy and immeasurably sad all at the same time, we headed out of town. Later, we were driving down the George Washington Parkway. We stopped at a small park to take pictures. Of the park, the Potomac, each other, our shadows. Then back to base camp for pizza and a quiet evening with family.

Monday was our day of departure. Time for farewells and promises to drive safely. Hoping we remembered everything. Did you pick up the two small containers that were on the dining room table? Yes. What about my jacket? I think it's in the trunk. I checked the room, I'm pretty sure we got everything. Then the trip home. Leisurely, recapping everything we did, what was said, what we should have done, what we were glad we did. Daydreaming about how cool it would be to live there again. Though we both know it's not in our cards.

The trip back is uneventful, and we arrive home safe and sound. The cat yells at us. We unload the car. Back to work tomorrow.

For the next several days, we will be saying, "Remember what we were doing this time last week?"

Yep, I remember...

We’re on a Need-to-Know Basis

My father-in-law had a favorite saying when his children asked him why the sky was blue or some other question to which he had no answer. He would reply, “We’re on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know.

I love this answer. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate those who are intellectually curious. My husband is, very much so, in spite of – or perhaps because of – the nebulous response he got as a child. He loves the Great Courses series. He reads history voraciously. He loves learning new things in math. He has an amazing mind. I love going to museums with him, because he gives me my own personal tour, chock full of interesting facts that are far more fascinating than those inscribed on the little plaques on the wall.

Alas, I do not retain any of this kind of knowledge. He will read me interesting facts in some book he’s reading, and I will say, “Wow, that is so amazing.” Then the next day or the day after that, I will have forgotten. He, on the other hand, will file it away and retrieve it weeks or months or years later. And he’ll say, “Don’t you remember, I told you all about this.” And I will shrug and agree that he probably had, and that my mind is a sieve.

The things that my mind HAS retained are random and generally unhelpful. For instance, when was the last time someone asked you to sing the words to the Patty Duke Theme Song? Or to name the six wives of Henry VIII? Or ask you the meaning of life, the universe and everything? (It’s 42, by the way.)

I have come to accept my limitations. I am grateful that my brother understands and even embraces the world of electronics…that fiber optics are as familiar to him as the faces of his children. Stephen Hawking has my respect and admiration, but if I lived to be 193, his concepts would still elude me.

I don’t need to know why the sky is blue. Just that it’s there, above the clouds, predictable and lovely and just the color a sky should be.

Dad was right. I don’t need to know.

A Private Affair

My parents would have celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary last week. I hope that, wherever they are, they celebrated well. Although, come to think of it, they never did make a big deal out of it. They exchanged cards. But they didn't go out for a big, fancy dinner or share expensive gifts. Their wedding anniversary was not seen as an occasion that required a lot of hoo-ha.

Mom and Dad were never the hoo-ha types. They were quiet homebodies. They didn't socialize. They had each other and that was enough. Yes, they had us, too, but there was something very private and off-limits in their relationship. They didn't talk about the details of their disagreements. Presenting a united front to us was their mission, and they achieved it.

Looking back, my folks celebrated their love in small ways. She made his favorite dinners. He helped with the dishes. When I was little, my Dad worked down the street from the Whitman Candy Company. From time to time, he brought home a Whitman Sampler for my mom. Which she shared with us. A little. Alone in the kitchen, my mom would giggle and say things like, "Tony, stop that!" We'd yell from the living room, "What's going on in there?" and they'd reply in unison, "Nothing." Occasionally, my dad would add, "Mind your own business."

When my mom talked about my dad, she'd get a dreamy, far-away look in her eye. The one time she attempted to have "the talk" with me, all she would say is, "When you truly love the person you're with, it's wonderful." Then she sighed and changed the subject.

Like most men of his generation, my dad was not touchy-feely. He did not talk about his feelings for my mom. I didn't know until after he died that he sang "You Are My Sunshine" to my mom every night before they fell asleep.

My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. For the last eight years of his life, my mom took care of him, even when he didn't recognize her anymore. And after he died, she was certain he visited her at night. I believed her. I don't think anything, even death, could keep those two apart. Now I feel both of them as I sit here and type. How I wish I could sit at their kitchen table one more time and talk and tease and laugh and watch my own son play on the floor with the toys I enjoyed as a child.

I sure do miss you guys. Happy Anniversary! Have a caramel cream for me!

Random Acts of Not Being a Douchebag

There are plenty of books and blogs and articles about doing little kindnesses for one another. Holding open a door, sharing a smile, or helping an elderly neighbor with their groceries. All of these efforts are good and deserving of a pat on the back. But I contend it is often what you DON'T do that can make a big difference, too.

Here are just a few examples of little things you can do to spare your fellow travelers irritation and/or wrath:

1. Allow sufficient room between the back bumper ahead of you and your front bumper. Tailgating someone does NOT make them go faster. And neither you or the person ahead of you wants you to end up in their trunk after a sudden stop. Suggestion: Put on some music, ease back, and realize that getting to your destination 30 seconds later will not ruin your life.

2. It is impossible not to overhear private phone conversations. It IS rude to comment on them -- unless your teenager is on one end of the phone and you hear something that sets off alarm bells (e.g. "I have the roach clips." or "How far along are you?" or "Do you think we'd get suspended for that?")

3. Unless you are Greg Lamond or there is not a bike path/lane in the park, please don't ride your bicycle in the street. I know, I know, they are really pushing for cars to share the roadway with bicycles, but I'm afraid it's just a matter of time until we start to see a rash of injuries. On a curvy road, you can't see what's up ahead, and unless the road is wide enough, it's tough to pass safely without veering into the oncoming lane. This makes for a dangerous situation, even at low speeds.

4. Don't line-jump. And if a new lane opens up, offer the person in front of you the opportunity to go first. Waiting your turn is a Kindergarten 101 skill that many people have forgotten.

5. The scratchy paper toilet seat cover that delicate folks use for their derrieres is, alas, not reusable. That's why they call it "disposable." Please don't leave it behind. (Pun intended.)

6. Recycle. I know I covered this in another blog, but it bears repeating. If there are two containers side-by-side and all you have to do is put your plastic bottle in the recycle container and you don't, I'm sorry, but you are a douchebag. No exceptions.

7. Don't let your child run through parking lots. Ever. Don't assume they are going to see the moving car or that the driver is going to see them. God invented hands for a reason. Use them to hold on tight.

8. In social situations, do not leave a half of something in the bakery box. It does not make you look like you are concerned about your weight. It makes you look like you didn't want to be the douchebag who took the last donut. It doesn't work.

9. Don't walk on the left side of a sidewalk/hallway, even if you're going around a corner and it's three steps shorter. You will run into someone, possibly with a hot coffee in their hand. And it will take you a lot longer to wash the coffee stain out of your shirt than it would have to walk the extra three steps. (No exceptions for the British. You can drive how you like in your country, but walk that way here at your own peril.)

10. Don't be cheap with a tip if the service was good. Our fellow travelers who serve us well deserve their reward. An extra buck or two isn't going to make nearly as much of a difference to you as it will to them. If you can afford to eat out, you can afford to tip well.

Only 10 things that can make a person a douchebag? No, not really. Just 10 examples. Now, I have to go wash out my cereal bowl. It understandably upsets my husband (who washes the dishes) when I leave Cream of Wheat encrusted in the bowl. And I don't want to end up on his douchebag list!

The Junkie

I love food. And food loves me. At least, I assume it must because it stays around so long...on my waist, on my hips...well, you get the idea.

At the root of my love affair is the deep seated association of food as a cure. Not just for hunger, but for depression and stress. Food is also a reward. A means of sharing a meal or celebrating a special occasion. It's something that keeps my hands busy while I watch TV.

As a child, food was rationed. There were six of us kids. We each got one pork chop, one scoop of mashed potatoes, one serving of vegetables and one brownie for dessert. On shopping day, we each got a candy bar.

Then there were the years my husband and I lived in Virginia. On occasion, we would designate a junk food dinner night. On a day when we were both stressed from work, we'd come home, head for the Safeway and pick up our favorite junk foods. Chips, dip, pop, a Sara Lee cake, and my personal vice, Malomars. Alas, we do not abuse ourselves this way anymore, but I imagine the damage has already been done.

These days, our bad foods are limited to chocolate pretzels and the occasional milk shake. My husband's health is an issue. He simply can't eat all that junk anymore. And I am trying to stay away from it myself. This is a lot easier at home, where I don't keep things like donuts and chips. But at work, the environment of stress begs to be soothed by chocolate bars and Fritos. They call to me in dulcet tones from the gleaming vending machines in the cafeteria. It's a daily battle. Me vs. Food. If I were you, I would not put odds on me.  It's not that I don't eat healthy foods. It's just that once I'm done eating the fruit, I sabotage my efforts with a handful of Raisinets.

Someday, I hope to be able to walk through the grocery store, oblivious to the fragrant baked goods, the tantalizing snacks and that wicked temptress also known as the candy aisle. In the meantime, I'll just continue my strategy of forsaking fatty foods one day at a time and visualizing myself as a non-foodie. Slim and healthy. The envy of all my cronies.

Sigh.

Pass me a carrot stick, will you? And don't forget the dip!

Do Overs

It is no surprise to anyone that I am a tree hugger. I say it loud and proud. I love trees, animals, big open skies, oceans, fields, mountains. Mother Nature and I are on a first name basis. So I really hate to see people defacing the things I love. Cigarette butts, fast food wrappers, styrofoam cups all leave ugly scars on our landscape.

Another thing I cannot abide is the fact that recycling is made so easy, yet people still throw things away. I see folks all the time tossing bottles and cans in the trash, while the recycling bin sits just a few feet away. Are they being lazy or stupid or both?

Anyhow, this blog is about me, not about them. And recycling is what I do.

Paper, cardboard, bottles and cans all make their way into the recycling bin at our house. We started a compost heap in the back yard for kitchen scraps and yard waste. And we've discovered that if we put broken items for garbage pick-up on the tree lawn the night before, many times they will be gone before the collection occurs. There are lots of people out there who have discovered recycling can be profitable. Including the charities who collect old clothing and household goods. They either sell the items or recycle them to make money for their organizations.

Some of my favorite haunts are rummage sales and garage sales. I've gotten a lot of cool stuff second hand. You find things there you won't find in the stores (or on TV). Then we have EBay and Half Price Books, which area very dangerous places for us. As book lovers, we also frequent book sales. Conversely, we donate a lot of books.

The object of the game is to send as little as possible to the city dump.

Then there is spiritual recycling. I believe in some form of reincarnation. I'm not sure of the actual mechanics, but I'm pretty sure I've been here a bunch of times before. I once went to be hypnotized and experience past life regression so I could explore this topic. Not all of what I experienced felt right, but enough of it did to shed light on my life and why I feel the way I do about certain things. I've also gone to a psychic who gave me a rundown on my past lives. Much of what she said resonated, too. Reincarnation makes a lot of sense to me. Who can possibly get it all right the first time? Or even the fiftheenth?

Will I come back as a cat? Maybe. I like cats. But I suspect I'll just come back as another flawed human being, embracing the earth that I love and, as always,  seeking peace, love and the perfect chocolate.

Time Enough at Last

There's an old Twilight Zone episode. It's about a man who loves to read. His shrew of a wife ruins his books out of spite and his boss reprimands him for reading during his work time as a teller in a bank. On his lunch hour, he sneaks downstairs to the vault to read. One day, there is a nuclear explosion. He emerges from the vault to discover he is the only living thing around. In his travels, he discovers the public library, where he gathers and sorts pile after pile of books. But as he reaches to pick up one that has fallen, his glasses slip off his nose and break. He is blind without his glasses. The final shot is of the man weeping in frustration because he had "time enough at last."

In our house, we both love and hate this episode. As avid readers, we can image the joy of endless time to read, and the desperation of not being able to do so.

Life is so fragile. You go along, thinking you'll wander the earth forever, the first person ever to be immortal. You don't want to think about dying. So you build this illusion in your mind of endless tomorrows. You pile up your books, and you tell yourself you'll read them tomorrow, when you have time. But will you have time, or will it run out on you?

So, here we are at carpe diem. Today is a day to be seized. Take a book from the stack, open it up, and dive in.Who knows what lies languishing, waiting to be discovered?