" There's a storm a comin'!" I remember standing on the middle school stage years ago during a school production while a young lady playing Uncle Henry spoke that line. It always made me laugh because she said it with such little expression that I used to wonder if a storm really was a comin'. Following Facebook posts this past week had me questioning the same blase` attitude reflected by people directly in the path of Hurricane Sandy. Didn't they know Frankenstorm was a comin'???? Who were these people drinking wine, making jokes and planning parties while I was planning my survival? Weren't they worried?
I was worried. And scared. I worried about the power going out, and therefore my sump pump giving up the ghost (I purposely used a Halloween metaphor in honor of the holiday). The last time that happened my guardian plumber Jerry took care of everything. But dear Jerry's gone now. Maybe his spirit would watch over me, but it couldn't pump out a basement. And my refrigerator? I had just gone shopping and for once had actual expensive food in there. My car and garage were such a dilemma that I posted to FB for a solution.
Should I put the car in the garage, but leave the door open? When my car is filling the garage there is no way in hell I can reach the release for the door opener; so if I close the door and the power goes off, I am trapped in the house, unable to drive my car with its obligatory required-for-surviving-a-hurricane full tank of gas. Should I just take my chances and leave the door open, inviting storm damage, looters and zombies into my abode? (Barbara, they're coming for you.) Should I leave the car in the driveway and take my chances that the pear tree won't fall and flatten it? Everybody had suggestions. I loved the one that suggested "someone" tie a long rope to the release so I could grab it. Obviously that person hadn't read my blog about the lack of a house husband. And if I had someone to tie the rope, then couldn't he just pop the release? Nobody came up with the answer that I arrived at after worrying away Monday night. It was such a simple solution, I'm embarrassed. Park the car outside, grab the ladder, climb up a couple steps, pull the release, return the ladder, move the car back into the garage, and manually close the door. See? Simple, huh? Yep, I figured that out after I decided to take my chances and just close the damn door.
At 6:00 pm on Monday the wind was whipping, the rain was pounding, the trees were twisting, and the power went off. Because I was prepared for my survival, I had every candle in my house, a camping lantern, and three flashlights at my personal ground zero and ready for use. I pulled an Abe Lincoln and read my book by candlelight, rationing the batteries of my precious lantern for what might be my third or fourth night without power. It was a lonely night. I had no neighbors. The house on the left (where the woman who used to share her generator with me had lived) was empty. The dear old people on the right were at the daughter's house. The guy across the street was gone or else his stinky fireplace would be polluting the neighborhood air. It was scary. Poor, poor lonely me. When I put Trixie out, the drone of the generators at the houses with husbands made me feel even more pitiful. It was a long night.
I woke to sun breaking through the clouds on Tuesday morning. About four inches of water covered the basement floor. The outside of the refrigerator was still cold. I was ok. By three the power was back, complete with TV and internet. The sump pump started sucking out the water. I was saved! I had survived! And then I turned on the television and saw the devastation in New Jersey and New York.
How silly my worries. How small my problem. How humbled and thankful I am to be as safe as I am. Whole neighborhoods were decimated by the sand and waves invading and destroying property as if the buildings were hotels on a Monopoly board. One New York community lost homes to flooding and even more terrifyingly, uncontrollable fire. A historical ship was sunk and two crew members lost at sea. And so on and so on.
I plan to donate to the Red Cross, Salvation Army, and any organization that can use my money to help these poor damaged people. I urge you to consider doing the same. It is literally the least we can do.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Monday, October 29, 2012
Worry
I'm a worrywart. Always have been, looks like I always will be. My mother told me that I was just like my father in that respect. He would worry so much that he'd get up in the middle of the night to drive around the neighborhood until he relaxed enough to go to sleep. Mom finally got him to take a pill for anxiety by pretending it was a sleeping pill. He'd have worried endlessly had he known he had anxiety. But, he was ok with taking a sleeping pill. Go figure.
I don't know why I worry so much. I can't think of any problem I ever solved by worrying about it. And, I can't think of any situation that didn't eventually work out in a way that I could manage. So, you would think after fifty plus years I'd have realized that worrying is pointless and I should just stop doing it! Yeah, just stop! Once I figure out how to just stop worrying, I hope I can figure out how to just stop eating junk. But that's food for another blog. (Food? Eating? HaHa. I'm so dang punny.)
Today's major worry is Hurricane Sandy. The repeated calls to my house from the county disaster center have me ready to pack a bag for the nearest shelter. The 24/7 newscasts have convinced me that I am in a lot of trouble. I have not boarded up my windows. I just know the hurricane winds are going to blow my front window into shards. Poor little Trixie will be swept up in the furious winds, funneled out the hole in the window, and blown away, never to be seen again. I will step on glass which will infect my foot, cause gangrene, and leave me a partial amputee who's afraid to walk with crutches. Yep, I worry too much. I doubt I'd let the leg get gangrenous.
I don't have a generator. Years ago when the power went out for a few days, my neighbor shared her generator with me. The storm was over, the night was humid, and I was wide awake worrying about my silent sump pump and refrigerator. As I lay in my bed, I could hear a voice whispering loudly, "Barbara! Get up and get out here and help me." My neighbor was standing outside my bedroom window. We were Lucy and Ethel in our nightgowns figuring out how to set up the generator a friend had loaned her.She saved my sorry unprepared butt, not to mention a refrigerator full of groceries. However she has moved (just down the street, but too far for an extension chord to my house). The 24/7 newscasts have convinced me that we will be without power for days, maybe weeks. Maybe if I cook some of my freezer food on the grill I purchased for $3 at a yard sale this summer, I won't starve. I know I'll have plenty of water though because my basement will flood a few feet deep.
Could this Frankenstorm be the end of the world???
Maybe I need to stop reading so much. Books deeply affect me. A year ago, I read Life as We Knew It by Susan Beth Pfeffer. It taught me that life as I know it can end catastrophically due to the unpredictability of nature and our universe. Here's the review:
See? See? Oh the damage that can be caused by wild storms! tsunamis! volcanism! And I did not gather supplies! I don't have a battery powered radio! I don't have batteries! We're all gonna die!!!!
No, not really. I'll be ok after this storm and so will you. Maybe I'll need to have some repair work done to the house. Maybe I'll lose a boatload of groceries. But I'll be ok....if I could only stop worrying.
I don't know why I worry so much. I can't think of any problem I ever solved by worrying about it. And, I can't think of any situation that didn't eventually work out in a way that I could manage. So, you would think after fifty plus years I'd have realized that worrying is pointless and I should just stop doing it! Yeah, just stop! Once I figure out how to just stop worrying, I hope I can figure out how to just stop eating junk. But that's food for another blog. (Food? Eating? HaHa. I'm so dang punny.)
Today's major worry is Hurricane Sandy. The repeated calls to my house from the county disaster center have me ready to pack a bag for the nearest shelter. The 24/7 newscasts have convinced me that I am in a lot of trouble. I have not boarded up my windows. I just know the hurricane winds are going to blow my front window into shards. Poor little Trixie will be swept up in the furious winds, funneled out the hole in the window, and blown away, never to be seen again. I will step on glass which will infect my foot, cause gangrene, and leave me a partial amputee who's afraid to walk with crutches. Yep, I worry too much. I doubt I'd let the leg get gangrenous.
I don't have a generator. Years ago when the power went out for a few days, my neighbor shared her generator with me. The storm was over, the night was humid, and I was wide awake worrying about my silent sump pump and refrigerator. As I lay in my bed, I could hear a voice whispering loudly, "Barbara! Get up and get out here and help me." My neighbor was standing outside my bedroom window. We were Lucy and Ethel in our nightgowns figuring out how to set up the generator a friend had loaned her.She saved my sorry unprepared butt, not to mention a refrigerator full of groceries. However she has moved (just down the street, but too far for an extension chord to my house). The 24/7 newscasts have convinced me that we will be without power for days, maybe weeks. Maybe if I cook some of my freezer food on the grill I purchased for $3 at a yard sale this summer, I won't starve. I know I'll have plenty of water though because my basement will flood a few feet deep.
Could this Frankenstorm be the end of the world???
Maybe I need to stop reading so much. Books deeply affect me. A year ago, I read Life as We Knew It by Susan Beth Pfeffer. It taught me that life as I know it can end catastrophically due to the unpredictability of nature and our universe. Here's the review:
From School Library Journal
Grade 6-8–Pfeffer tones down the terror,
but otherwise crafts a frighteningly plausible account of the local effects of a
near-future worldwide catastrophe. The prospect of an asteroid hitting the Moon
is just a mildly interesting news item to Pennsylvania teenager Miranda, for
whom a date for the prom and the personality changes in her born-again friend,
Megan, are more immediate concerns. Her priorities undergo a radical change,
however, when that collision shifts the Moon into a closer orbit, causing
violent earthquakes, massive tsunamis, millions of deaths, and an upsurge in
volcanism. Thanks to frantic preparations by her quick-thinking mother,
Miranda's family is in better shape than many as utilities and public services
break down in stages, wild storms bring extremes of temperature, and outbreaks
of disease turn the hospital into a dead zone. In Miranda's day-by-day journal
entries, however, Pfeffer keeps nearly all of the death and explicit violence
offstage, focusing instead on the stresses of spending months huddled in
increasingly confined quarters, watching supplies dwindle, and wondering whether
there will be any future to make the effort worthwhile. The author provides a
glimmer of hope at the end, but readers will still be left stunned and
thoughtful.–John Peters, New York Public Library
See? See? Oh the damage that can be caused by wild storms! tsunamis! volcanism! And I did not gather supplies! I don't have a battery powered radio! I don't have batteries! We're all gonna die!!!!
No, not really. I'll be ok after this storm and so will you. Maybe I'll need to have some repair work done to the house. Maybe I'll lose a boatload of groceries. But I'll be ok....if I could only stop worrying.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Renn Fest Fun? Not so much.
I dunno. Maybe I'm getting too old or too cynical or too something. What used to excite me and inspire me to get up early on a Saturday morning or stay out late Friday night, no longer holds the appeal. Here, I will say it. I HATE festivals, fairs, carnivals, or whatever you call them. Hate them.
I already avoid the local ones. The Darlington Apple Fest was a lot of fun when it first started: reasonably priced crafts, free parking, friends to visit with, and lots of good food. I can't go anymore. The crowds choke the streets making it impossible to see the booths or comfortably walk the area. I get tired really fast of being elbowed and bumped by people who won't let the words "Excuse me" escape their mouths. I went once to the Seafood Festival when it was just starting. I did some volunteering and still have the apron I bought (I wear it to Grace Place since there's no need for an apron in this non-cooking household). I remember sitting with friends and laughing as we ate steamed crabs. I wouldn't go near the place now because of the crowds and the bus loads of tourists. The Independence Day Carnival? Haven't made it down to the park in years. I do go to the Art Show as I can get through there in about forty minutes. And so far, Graw Days has been fun. But Graw Days is new; everything's fun when it's new.
I took my nieces to the Renaissance Festival in Crownsville today. I hadn't been there in probably twenty years, but that last time was such fun. My friend and I bought flower wreaths for our hair. We sang with the musicians, posed with the characters, and bowed to the queen. The jesters danced around us and kept us smiling the whole day. I told my girls how much fun it would be, not to be afraid of the characters who would speak olde English to us, how great the shows would be, and how we'd get to see a real sword swallower. They must think I'm a liar.
I knew we were in trouble when the turn off to Crownsville was a traffic jam of revelers. We had to park so far back in the lot that we couldn't even see the castle. (And we were close compared to the miles away some overflow parkers got stuck.) The fairies on stilts at the doorway "creeped out" the girls. The girls were already whining and ticking me off, and we hadn't even got our tickets.
Once inside, the place was wall-to-wall people. We struggled to get lunch and struggled to sit. Of course the older niece didn't want anything until I'd already gone through the line and bought the food for the younger girl. Yep, I got stuck in line again. We were fifteen minutes into the "fun" and the older one was already pouting and asking how long we had to stay. We indulged in a little shopping. I looked for the flower and ribbons headpieces from yonder years, but there were none. Reba wanted a fascinator though, a black rose. A thirty-five dollar black rose. Which brings me to my next complaint. Everybody was out for a buck. Literally. Billie wanted to play the games; soon all my dollars were gone and she hadn't won me one free beer. The museum of horrors? Just a joke to these kids who have seen Disney World. We had to pay a buck each to get in. The woman in period garb had a huge wad of bucks in her hand. Billie was more interested in all that money than Grendel's arm. And the elephant ride? Eight bucks per kid, sixteen bucks per adult. I actually saw families of four bobbling on the bored pachyderm. Thirty-six bucks for a one minute ride! The girls were getting off the elephant before I'd even seen them hop on. No pictures for me. Lines! Lines! Everywhere! The longest line we saw was the one leading to the ATM. No surprise there.
We saw lots of people in costume, but no Renn Fest actors to cajole my nieces into the spirit. If there was a royal family parade, the crowds blocked us from seeing it. The jousting? Sigh, it was over by the time we waded through the crowd to get there. And speaking of costumes, can somebody explain to me what the costume is where the young men have about six trash bags neatly folded and hanging from the back of their pants? And what does a panda with an umbrella have to do with the Renaissance period? My girls wouldn't go near him (it creeped them out). Got me to wondering who was completely hidden inside that costume, a perv? Yes, it creeped me out too. And don't get me started on the almost naked sagging bosoms too many women were flaunting. Honey, if you've got a couple as big as eggplants, a thin cotton flounce on top of your corset isn't sexy. Maybe, as Honey Boo Boo says, it's smexy, but most of the looks you're getting are looks of wonder, as in I wonder when they're going to fall out and hit the ground.
After three hours of how much longer are we going to be here, we headed back to the exit. Had delicious apple dumplings with ice cream before we left. And we had no trouble finding the car, unlike the Renn Fest bride and groom who were disgustedly tromping up and down the aisles looking for their pick up truck. The girls were thrilled to curl up in the back seat with their I-pods, pillows, and bag of junk food.
I dunno. Maybe I'm too old, maybe things have gotten too commercial, or maybe, just maybe, these things aren't the fun the advertisers make them out to be. No more festivals for me!
I already avoid the local ones. The Darlington Apple Fest was a lot of fun when it first started: reasonably priced crafts, free parking, friends to visit with, and lots of good food. I can't go anymore. The crowds choke the streets making it impossible to see the booths or comfortably walk the area. I get tired really fast of being elbowed and bumped by people who won't let the words "Excuse me" escape their mouths. I went once to the Seafood Festival when it was just starting. I did some volunteering and still have the apron I bought (I wear it to Grace Place since there's no need for an apron in this non-cooking household). I remember sitting with friends and laughing as we ate steamed crabs. I wouldn't go near the place now because of the crowds and the bus loads of tourists. The Independence Day Carnival? Haven't made it down to the park in years. I do go to the Art Show as I can get through there in about forty minutes. And so far, Graw Days has been fun. But Graw Days is new; everything's fun when it's new.
I took my nieces to the Renaissance Festival in Crownsville today. I hadn't been there in probably twenty years, but that last time was such fun. My friend and I bought flower wreaths for our hair. We sang with the musicians, posed with the characters, and bowed to the queen. The jesters danced around us and kept us smiling the whole day. I told my girls how much fun it would be, not to be afraid of the characters who would speak olde English to us, how great the shows would be, and how we'd get to see a real sword swallower. They must think I'm a liar.
I knew we were in trouble when the turn off to Crownsville was a traffic jam of revelers. We had to park so far back in the lot that we couldn't even see the castle. (And we were close compared to the miles away some overflow parkers got stuck.) The fairies on stilts at the doorway "creeped out" the girls. The girls were already whining and ticking me off, and we hadn't even got our tickets.
Once inside, the place was wall-to-wall people. We struggled to get lunch and struggled to sit. Of course the older niece didn't want anything until I'd already gone through the line and bought the food for the younger girl. Yep, I got stuck in line again. We were fifteen minutes into the "fun" and the older one was already pouting and asking how long we had to stay. We indulged in a little shopping. I looked for the flower and ribbons headpieces from yonder years, but there were none. Reba wanted a fascinator though, a black rose. A thirty-five dollar black rose. Which brings me to my next complaint. Everybody was out for a buck. Literally. Billie wanted to play the games; soon all my dollars were gone and she hadn't won me one free beer. The museum of horrors? Just a joke to these kids who have seen Disney World. We had to pay a buck each to get in. The woman in period garb had a huge wad of bucks in her hand. Billie was more interested in all that money than Grendel's arm. And the elephant ride? Eight bucks per kid, sixteen bucks per adult. I actually saw families of four bobbling on the bored pachyderm. Thirty-six bucks for a one minute ride! The girls were getting off the elephant before I'd even seen them hop on. No pictures for me. Lines! Lines! Everywhere! The longest line we saw was the one leading to the ATM. No surprise there.
We saw lots of people in costume, but no Renn Fest actors to cajole my nieces into the spirit. If there was a royal family parade, the crowds blocked us from seeing it. The jousting? Sigh, it was over by the time we waded through the crowd to get there. And speaking of costumes, can somebody explain to me what the costume is where the young men have about six trash bags neatly folded and hanging from the back of their pants? And what does a panda with an umbrella have to do with the Renaissance period? My girls wouldn't go near him (it creeped them out). Got me to wondering who was completely hidden inside that costume, a perv? Yes, it creeped me out too. And don't get me started on the almost naked sagging bosoms too many women were flaunting. Honey, if you've got a couple as big as eggplants, a thin cotton flounce on top of your corset isn't sexy. Maybe, as Honey Boo Boo says, it's smexy, but most of the looks you're getting are looks of wonder, as in I wonder when they're going to fall out and hit the ground.
After three hours of how much longer are we going to be here, we headed back to the exit. Had delicious apple dumplings with ice cream before we left. And we had no trouble finding the car, unlike the Renn Fest bride and groom who were disgustedly tromping up and down the aisles looking for their pick up truck. The girls were thrilled to curl up in the back seat with their I-pods, pillows, and bag of junk food.
I dunno. Maybe I'm too old, maybe things have gotten too commercial, or maybe, just maybe, these things aren't the fun the advertisers make them out to be. No more festivals for me!
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Huh? Wud ya say?
As sad as it is to admit, I have become "that person." You know the one; the person who drives for miles with their turn signal flashing because he/she can't hear the clicking that reminds said person to turn it off. I can't hear like I used to. I don't know how it happened or when it happened, but if I'm honest with myself, it has happened.
Years ago at the dinner table, little Reba answered everything said to her by twisting her ear towards you and saying, "Huh?" After she did it about five times, her mother asked her what she was doing. She replied, "Being Pop-Pop." We broke into laughter. My dad kept asking what we were laughing about because he hadn't heard her. When we told him, he was mad. According to him, he could hear just fine.
I used to feel that way. My hearing wasn't bad. Other people just spoke too softly. We all know that middle school students mumble every word they say, right? It's not my fault I can't hear their questions and answers. Surely there is something wrong with my television. Sometimes I can barely hear it, even though I have the volume raised to the highest level. Can't tell you how many times I've been on the phone and had to tell the service reps to speak up, how can they expect to help people if we can't even hear them? My car radio makes me jump when I start it for the first time in the day. It is so loud, I immediately turn it down. No, I can no longer hear a lot of what I need to hear. I can hear the stuff I don't want to hear like somebody snoring in the next room, the neighbor's stereo, my sister's alarm clock(that, by the way, she sleeps through), or the cat that screeches all night. Why is that?
I've thought about hearing aids. Friends of mine have invested in them. But frankly, they often "forget" to wear them, or the background noises render them ineffective, or the batteries are dead. I can't stand the thought of something in my ear; it makes me itch. I guess the next generation will have it easier. They will most likely make the switch from ear buds to hearing aids very fluidly. And, with the way they listen to loud music, I predict they'll be making this switch in their thirties rather than my generation's sixties.
I often pretend to hear people when I haven't a clue as to what they are saying. Sometimes I know I've answered incorrectly because of the puzzled expression on the listener's face. Other times I just smile and nod and hope that does for an answer. With people I'm close to I say things like, "Dammit Dee you know I can't hear. Speak up!" Reading lips and cupping my hand behind my ear are two methods of compensating for my handicap. I'm not accurate with the lip reading. And people laugh at me when I make Dumbo ears with my hands. Sigh, I know it will only get worse.
So, I reach my sixties knowing that not only do my knees hurt, my ears are failing. The next time some rude person says, "What are you, deaf?" .... My answer will be, "Yes, you want to make something of it?" That is, of course, if I hear them in the first place.
Years ago at the dinner table, little Reba answered everything said to her by twisting her ear towards you and saying, "Huh?" After she did it about five times, her mother asked her what she was doing. She replied, "Being Pop-Pop." We broke into laughter. My dad kept asking what we were laughing about because he hadn't heard her. When we told him, he was mad. According to him, he could hear just fine.
I used to feel that way. My hearing wasn't bad. Other people just spoke too softly. We all know that middle school students mumble every word they say, right? It's not my fault I can't hear their questions and answers. Surely there is something wrong with my television. Sometimes I can barely hear it, even though I have the volume raised to the highest level. Can't tell you how many times I've been on the phone and had to tell the service reps to speak up, how can they expect to help people if we can't even hear them? My car radio makes me jump when I start it for the first time in the day. It is so loud, I immediately turn it down. No, I can no longer hear a lot of what I need to hear. I can hear the stuff I don't want to hear like somebody snoring in the next room, the neighbor's stereo, my sister's alarm clock(that, by the way, she sleeps through), or the cat that screeches all night. Why is that?
I've thought about hearing aids. Friends of mine have invested in them. But frankly, they often "forget" to wear them, or the background noises render them ineffective, or the batteries are dead. I can't stand the thought of something in my ear; it makes me itch. I guess the next generation will have it easier. They will most likely make the switch from ear buds to hearing aids very fluidly. And, with the way they listen to loud music, I predict they'll be making this switch in their thirties rather than my generation's sixties.
I often pretend to hear people when I haven't a clue as to what they are saying. Sometimes I know I've answered incorrectly because of the puzzled expression on the listener's face. Other times I just smile and nod and hope that does for an answer. With people I'm close to I say things like, "Dammit Dee you know I can't hear. Speak up!" Reading lips and cupping my hand behind my ear are two methods of compensating for my handicap. I'm not accurate with the lip reading. And people laugh at me when I make Dumbo ears with my hands. Sigh, I know it will only get worse.
So, I reach my sixties knowing that not only do my knees hurt, my ears are failing. The next time some rude person says, "What are you, deaf?" .... My answer will be, "Yes, you want to make something of it?" That is, of course, if I hear them in the first place.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Yard Saling
Sandy C. started me yard saling 20+ years ago. I'd been living in a furnished apartment and had just moved into the house she helped me buy. I had nothing. Nothing, that is, until I started yard saling every weekend. The world was my treasure chest.
I perfected my yard saling skills over the years when I traveled the roads with my buddy, Dottie. We used to call it home shopping; we'd go to your home and shop. We were a perfect team as we each searched for different things. Eventually, we went our separate ways. Dottie began getting up at 5 or 6 in the morning; I thought 8 was early enough. However, we continued shopping for each other and every Christmas we'd exchange a Santa Sack of newspaper wrapped yard sale gifts. In fact, a lot of people received newspaper wrapped gifts from me, the newspaper signifying that you were about to open a true and unique treasure. One of my favorite finds was given to my sister, Helen. At the time, we were both Rosie O'Donnell fans. I found a new, in the box, autographed Rosie doll. The person selling it was a former student so I could trust that it was the real deal. My sister couldn't believe it!
Anything you could ever want can eventually be found at a yard sale if you are persistent. I like wine. Yep, you can find bottles of wine at yard sales.
I can't remember the last time I bought soap from a store. All those pretty hand milled soaps that people spend a fortune on as Christmas gifts? They end up on the twenty-five cent table for people like me to indulge in. My nieces have the best dress up clothes! For months, three year old Reba practically lived in the pink tutu I found for fifty cents at a yard sale. My house needed ceiling fans; I found great ones, new in the box, at yard sales. I was amazed the day I found an antique Chinese bowl that someone, with no idea of its value, sold to me for $5. I bought another antique bowl at a different yard sale for $20; but it was a fake. You win some, you lose some.
A few years ago, I burned a hole through my kitchen table and luckily did not burn the house down. (Story will be told in a future blog.) I needed a new table, bad. On my way to church one Sunday, there it was. It was a perfect size table for 6 with a tile top and wooden chairs in great condition. They asked a very reasonable $50 and I talked him into delivering it for another $10. I put my old table and chairs outside and someone from Freecycle snatched them up. A win win situation.
I think everybody who yard sales is always looking for that one special find that will make them Antique Road Show stars. I found my thing a few years ago. At a small sale in front of a tiny, worn out house, were two framed pictures. I was drawn to one of a woman with a cane walking her dog. It was me. He wanted a lot for the picture, but as much as I loved it, I couldn't afford it. So, I left and saled for a few more hours. I purposely drove past the house at the end of the day and the picture was still there. I appealed to the guy by opening my wallet and showing him that all I had left was a twenty. He sold me the picture. After researching, I learned I had a signed limited edition silkscreen worth a tidy sum. The artist is Mackenzie Thorpe and the title of this piece is Walking the Dog. I have no idea how to create a live link on this blog, but if you copy and paste the link I've provided into your browser, you can see a bigger picture of this "rare" (their words) work of art and what it sells for.
http://www.monetfineart.com/walking-the-dog-686-p.asp
Now, isn't that just the best rendition of me and my dog? (Use your imagination.)
I haven't yard saled in a while. Now that I'm retired, I'm trying to downsize my home, not add to it. But the crisp autumn air drew me outside. And oh, the treasures I found! I have wanted a Moroccan style pillow for my living room for ages. Found it today. I found the most gorgeous Chinese calligraphy scroll that some tourist paid a small fortune for. It has the name of a good friend of mine; I'll soon be surprising her with it. Found a really nice cat purse; one of you cat people reading this may find it under your tree this year. And Helen, my dear sister, your Christmas present will be wrapped in newspaper. However, the best find, the most exciting find, was a beautiful bridal veil with a pearl tiara. Hope my dress-up girls don't fight too bitterly over it.
Yep, I thought I was done with yardsaling. Ha! A true saler is never done. I wonder what the weather is supposed to be like next Saturday?
I perfected my yard saling skills over the years when I traveled the roads with my buddy, Dottie. We used to call it home shopping; we'd go to your home and shop. We were a perfect team as we each searched for different things. Eventually, we went our separate ways. Dottie began getting up at 5 or 6 in the morning; I thought 8 was early enough. However, we continued shopping for each other and every Christmas we'd exchange a Santa Sack of newspaper wrapped yard sale gifts. In fact, a lot of people received newspaper wrapped gifts from me, the newspaper signifying that you were about to open a true and unique treasure. One of my favorite finds was given to my sister, Helen. At the time, we were both Rosie O'Donnell fans. I found a new, in the box, autographed Rosie doll. The person selling it was a former student so I could trust that it was the real deal. My sister couldn't believe it!
Anything you could ever want can eventually be found at a yard sale if you are persistent. I like wine. Yep, you can find bottles of wine at yard sales.
I can't remember the last time I bought soap from a store. All those pretty hand milled soaps that people spend a fortune on as Christmas gifts? They end up on the twenty-five cent table for people like me to indulge in. My nieces have the best dress up clothes! For months, three year old Reba practically lived in the pink tutu I found for fifty cents at a yard sale. My house needed ceiling fans; I found great ones, new in the box, at yard sales. I was amazed the day I found an antique Chinese bowl that someone, with no idea of its value, sold to me for $5. I bought another antique bowl at a different yard sale for $20; but it was a fake. You win some, you lose some.
A few years ago, I burned a hole through my kitchen table and luckily did not burn the house down. (Story will be told in a future blog.) I needed a new table, bad. On my way to church one Sunday, there it was. It was a perfect size table for 6 with a tile top and wooden chairs in great condition. They asked a very reasonable $50 and I talked him into delivering it for another $10. I put my old table and chairs outside and someone from Freecycle snatched them up. A win win situation.
I think everybody who yard sales is always looking for that one special find that will make them Antique Road Show stars. I found my thing a few years ago. At a small sale in front of a tiny, worn out house, were two framed pictures. I was drawn to one of a woman with a cane walking her dog. It was me. He wanted a lot for the picture, but as much as I loved it, I couldn't afford it. So, I left and saled for a few more hours. I purposely drove past the house at the end of the day and the picture was still there. I appealed to the guy by opening my wallet and showing him that all I had left was a twenty. He sold me the picture. After researching, I learned I had a signed limited edition silkscreen worth a tidy sum. The artist is Mackenzie Thorpe and the title of this piece is Walking the Dog. I have no idea how to create a live link on this blog, but if you copy and paste the link I've provided into your browser, you can see a bigger picture of this "rare" (their words) work of art and what it sells for.
http://www.monetfineart.com/walking-the-dog-686-p.asp
Now, isn't that just the best rendition of me and my dog? (Use your imagination.)
I haven't yard saled in a while. Now that I'm retired, I'm trying to downsize my home, not add to it. But the crisp autumn air drew me outside. And oh, the treasures I found! I have wanted a Moroccan style pillow for my living room for ages. Found it today. I found the most gorgeous Chinese calligraphy scroll that some tourist paid a small fortune for. It has the name of a good friend of mine; I'll soon be surprising her with it. Found a really nice cat purse; one of you cat people reading this may find it under your tree this year. And Helen, my dear sister, your Christmas present will be wrapped in newspaper. However, the best find, the most exciting find, was a beautiful bridal veil with a pearl tiara. Hope my dress-up girls don't fight too bitterly over it.
Yep, I thought I was done with yardsaling. Ha! A true saler is never done. I wonder what the weather is supposed to be like next Saturday?
Friday, October 12, 2012
Remembering Dad
Today would have been my dad's 89th birthday. He was so dear to me. He taught me how to drive, even though many of our lessons ended with me stomping home, him following me and yelling at me to get in the car, and then him pouring a stiff drink the moment he got in the door. He taught me how to pray. We were not raised in a religious home, but as a kid I decided I wanted to know how to pray, so he taught me, "Now I lay me down to sleep..." People said I looked like him when I was a kid, but I never saw it. He passed away in March 2004, and those were some very dark days. Anyhow, today I'm sharing the eulogy I wrote for him those eight years ago.
I want to thank you all for coming here today to support my family and say goodbye to my father.
We each come with our special memories of a man we knew as a nature lover, dog lover, bird watcher, friend, neighbor, co-worker, veteran, cousin, uncle, husband, dad, and pop-pop. Many of you have been sharing your memories with us, and I’d like to tell you one of our family stories usually shared by the relatives each Christmas gathering at my parents’house. Mom and Dad met thanks to her brother Ralph. He took his sister out to a club one night, and it was then that Mom met the blond, blue-eyed gorgeous sailor from Toledo, Ohio. It was love at first sight, but Dad was definitely a catch that took some taming. Stories have it that Mom’s father, a Philadelphia cop, liked to stroke his gun while talking to Dad about his intentions towards my mother. They made a beautiful couple. I have their wedding picture on my desk at school. Once, one of my students asked me who those people were in the picture. I looked at him quizzically and he said, “You know – that lady from Gone With The Wind and that movie star.”
My parents would have been married fifty-seven years this April.
We remember what a handsome guy Dad was. What a funny guy he was. If he got tired on a shopping trip with Mom, he would quickly walk around the store and touch all the merchandise. “There,“he’d say to Mom. “I’ve touched everything for you. Let’s go.”
Eulogy for my Father
I want to thank you all for coming here today to support my family and say goodbye to my father.
We each come with our special memories of a man we knew as a nature lover, dog lover, bird watcher, friend, neighbor, co-worker, veteran, cousin, uncle, husband, dad, and pop-pop. Many of you have been sharing your memories with us, and I’d like to tell you one of our family stories usually shared by the relatives each Christmas gathering at my parents’house. Mom and Dad met thanks to her brother Ralph. He took his sister out to a club one night, and it was then that Mom met the blond, blue-eyed gorgeous sailor from Toledo, Ohio. It was love at first sight, but Dad was definitely a catch that took some taming. Stories have it that Mom’s father, a Philadelphia cop, liked to stroke his gun while talking to Dad about his intentions towards my mother. They made a beautiful couple. I have their wedding picture on my desk at school. Once, one of my students asked me who those people were in the picture. I looked at him quizzically and he said, “You know – that lady from Gone With The Wind and that movie star.”
My parents would have been married fifty-seven years this April.
We remember what a handsome guy Dad was. What a funny guy he was. If he got tired on a shopping trip with Mom, he would quickly walk around the store and touch all the merchandise. “There,“he’d say to Mom. “I’ve touched everything for you. Let’s go.”
We
remember Dad as a war veteran. He liked to remind us that he was
there in Pearl Harbor at the beginning of World War II, and he
was there at the end, as Japan surrendered. He was a modest war
hero, one who didn’t talk about his service duty. But he
proudly wore his Pearl Harbor Survivor hat wherever he went.
Neil Sardinas best summed up my Dad recently in a comment he made to my sister. I am paraphrasing, but he said that Dad was quite a guy…a tough guy, a war hero, but yet the kind of man who would let his daughters, Lien and Laurel, play hairdresser and put ribbons in his hair.
We will all carry our special memories of Dad in our hearts. But if we look carefully enough, we will see him in others.
If you look closely, you will see my Dad behind and beside my mother as he holds her up while she begins to independently care for her health needs. Stop by our house at 5:00 on Saturdays; he’ll be there watching the East Enders with Mom.
If you look at me, you’ll see him at my side as I scour the yard sales and flea markets looking for that piece of junk that is really a treasure. You’ll hear him in my jokes and wry comments, as we shared a similar sense of humor.
When we were little kids, my dad was a rough and tumble daddy. We’d crawl all over him and do somersaults on his stomach. All you have to do is look at my brother with Reba, and you will see my father.
My father will be hovering over my sister, watching over her and guiding her as she raises her daughter, Reba Jean.
Reba Jean. The light of our lives. My father’s special “Bao Bao,” his treasured granddaughter. Helen tells us that Reba’s first spoken word was Pop-Pop. And that was also the first word she learned to write.
Neil Sardinas best summed up my Dad recently in a comment he made to my sister. I am paraphrasing, but he said that Dad was quite a guy…a tough guy, a war hero, but yet the kind of man who would let his daughters, Lien and Laurel, play hairdresser and put ribbons in his hair.
We will all carry our special memories of Dad in our hearts. But if we look carefully enough, we will see him in others.
If you look closely, you will see my Dad behind and beside my mother as he holds her up while she begins to independently care for her health needs. Stop by our house at 5:00 on Saturdays; he’ll be there watching the East Enders with Mom.
If you look at me, you’ll see him at my side as I scour the yard sales and flea markets looking for that piece of junk that is really a treasure. You’ll hear him in my jokes and wry comments, as we shared a similar sense of humor.
When we were little kids, my dad was a rough and tumble daddy. We’d crawl all over him and do somersaults on his stomach. All you have to do is look at my brother with Reba, and you will see my father.
My father will be hovering over my sister, watching over her and guiding her as she raises her daughter, Reba Jean.
Reba Jean. The light of our lives. My father’s special “Bao Bao,” his treasured granddaughter. Helen tells us that Reba’s first spoken word was Pop-Pop. And that was also the first word she learned to write.
Reba loved her Pop-Pop. This
Christmas she gave Glenn a cap with the Chinese character for
the word “hero” written on it. He was delighted with his
gift. However, we all were touched when all on her own Reba
threw herself into Dad’s arms and said,” You’re my hero,
too.”
When Helen explained to Reba what had happened to Dad, she told her that Pop-Pop would always be in her heart. Reba thoughtfully digested that information, and then asked her Mom a bunch of questions on the drive over to Bubbe’s.
“Is Pop-Pop in my heart?”
“Yes Reba.”
“Is Pop-Pop in Mommy’s heart?”
“Yes Reba.”
“Is Pop-Pop in Bubbe’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in Uncle’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in Aunt Barbara’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in the Survivors heart?”
So there you have it. Dad hasn’t left us. He’s here. In our hearts.
When Helen explained to Reba what had happened to Dad, she told her that Pop-Pop would always be in her heart. Reba thoughtfully digested that information, and then asked her Mom a bunch of questions on the drive over to Bubbe’s.
“Is Pop-Pop in my heart?”
“Yes Reba.”
“Is Pop-Pop in Mommy’s heart?”
“Yes Reba.”
“Is Pop-Pop in Bubbe’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in Uncle’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in Aunt Barbara’s heart?”
“Yes Reba”
“Is Pop-Pop in the Survivors heart?”
So there you have it. Dad hasn’t left us. He’s here. In our hearts.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Lucy the Wonder Dog
When I was younger, I used to pray for my Prince Charming to find me. I was sometimes lonely, and I wanted a companion with whom I'd travel through life. God answered my prayers, but not as I expected. He sent me a dog. Yea God! Good move on Your part.
Lucy Dogge was my first pet as an adult. We met in Atlanta, Georgia. My sister had a home there, and I flew down one day with an empty dog crate and every intention of filling it with a dog from the local pound. Helen and I spent an afternoon walking up and down the kennel. Helen kept steering me to a sad looking beagle on his last days; but, sweet as he was, the beagle just didn't call my name. She also kept steering me away from the filthy, scrawny, flea-infested grey poodle with pleading eyes. When I saw another visitor considering the poodle, I snapped up the card and Ladybird was mine. I promptly renamed her Lucy after my favorite comedienne and my favorite soap opera actress.
Lucy was a mess. Within twenty-four hours, she'd infested my sister's house with fleas. I bathed her and thought she was bleeding because the bath water turned red from the Georgia clay caked in her fur. She had to be spayed, and she was shaved at the vet's. When they brought her out to me, I didn't recognize the bundle in the tech's arms. "That's my dog?" I yelped. "What the heck did you do to her?" She looked like a big naked rat. Helen and I drove the dogs back to Pennsylvania to visit their grandparents. At every pit stop, folks would fawn over Helen's basset. They'd look at mine and ask, "What is it?"
Eventually, Lucy got her cute back. She wore ribbons in her hair making her ears look like ponytails. She gladly dressed in costumes. Kids came to the house at Halloween more excited about seeing Lucy in her costume than about the candy. Everybody in my new neighborhood knew her and her mom. One of the neighbor boys would knock on my door and ask if Lucy could come out and play. He'd cuddle up with her on the steps and tell her all of his secrets. When his mom, who could see my steps from their house, called him home to dinner, he'd open the door and let her in. My students frequently made me laugh when they used her as the main character in their creative writing stories. Lucy the Wonder Dog was quite a sleuth! She loved to be outside, so she'd hold court on my steps and greet the world as it passed by our house.
Lucy's health was not the best. Her first teeth cleaning resulted in her losing a bunch of teeth. By the end of her days, she'd get pink bows in her hair to match the pink tongue hanging out of her mouth. Helen once took my niece to a pig roast. When Reba was gifted with a pig tooth, she said she was going to give it to Lucy because she didn't have many of her own teeth. My dog's back was bad, but my vet at the time took good care of her. I will always be thankful for Dr. Thompson. When I vacationed in Europe, my parents babysat the dog. Her back went out. Dr. Thompson stayed open so they could bring her down (an hour and a half drive), and he refused to charge them for the visit. Despite her poor health, Lucy lived to be seventeen years old. I will always believe the power of love sustained her.
I was with her when she took her final sleep. My colleagues at work were as compassionate and caring as if I'd lost a human child. My students were sad for me. Some cried. Many told me about their dead pets. All of them treated me gently for days. If you know middle school children, you know that good behavior does not come naturally to them. I was touched.
I didn't know if I'd ever be able to own another dog. But two months later, I was looking at FARM's page of adoptable dogs. I wanted one very different from my Lucy, so I wouldn't compare them. Then, I spotted Trixie's picture. She looked like she was smiling, so I decided she was smiling at me. I brought her home, and she was, indeed, very different from little Lucy.
How different you ask? Look for a future blog about Trixie the Demon Dog. I will reveal her secrets then.
Lucy Dogge was my first pet as an adult. We met in Atlanta, Georgia. My sister had a home there, and I flew down one day with an empty dog crate and every intention of filling it with a dog from the local pound. Helen and I spent an afternoon walking up and down the kennel. Helen kept steering me to a sad looking beagle on his last days; but, sweet as he was, the beagle just didn't call my name. She also kept steering me away from the filthy, scrawny, flea-infested grey poodle with pleading eyes. When I saw another visitor considering the poodle, I snapped up the card and Ladybird was mine. I promptly renamed her Lucy after my favorite comedienne and my favorite soap opera actress.
Lucy was a mess. Within twenty-four hours, she'd infested my sister's house with fleas. I bathed her and thought she was bleeding because the bath water turned red from the Georgia clay caked in her fur. She had to be spayed, and she was shaved at the vet's. When they brought her out to me, I didn't recognize the bundle in the tech's arms. "That's my dog?" I yelped. "What the heck did you do to her?" She looked like a big naked rat. Helen and I drove the dogs back to Pennsylvania to visit their grandparents. At every pit stop, folks would fawn over Helen's basset. They'd look at mine and ask, "What is it?"
Eventually, Lucy got her cute back. She wore ribbons in her hair making her ears look like ponytails. She gladly dressed in costumes. Kids came to the house at Halloween more excited about seeing Lucy in her costume than about the candy. Everybody in my new neighborhood knew her and her mom. One of the neighbor boys would knock on my door and ask if Lucy could come out and play. He'd cuddle up with her on the steps and tell her all of his secrets. When his mom, who could see my steps from their house, called him home to dinner, he'd open the door and let her in. My students frequently made me laugh when they used her as the main character in their creative writing stories. Lucy the Wonder Dog was quite a sleuth! She loved to be outside, so she'd hold court on my steps and greet the world as it passed by our house.
Lucy's health was not the best. Her first teeth cleaning resulted in her losing a bunch of teeth. By the end of her days, she'd get pink bows in her hair to match the pink tongue hanging out of her mouth. Helen once took my niece to a pig roast. When Reba was gifted with a pig tooth, she said she was going to give it to Lucy because she didn't have many of her own teeth. My dog's back was bad, but my vet at the time took good care of her. I will always be thankful for Dr. Thompson. When I vacationed in Europe, my parents babysat the dog. Her back went out. Dr. Thompson stayed open so they could bring her down (an hour and a half drive), and he refused to charge them for the visit. Despite her poor health, Lucy lived to be seventeen years old. I will always believe the power of love sustained her.
I was with her when she took her final sleep. My colleagues at work were as compassionate and caring as if I'd lost a human child. My students were sad for me. Some cried. Many told me about their dead pets. All of them treated me gently for days. If you know middle school children, you know that good behavior does not come naturally to them. I was touched.
I didn't know if I'd ever be able to own another dog. But two months later, I was looking at FARM's page of adoptable dogs. I wanted one very different from my Lucy, so I wouldn't compare them. Then, I spotted Trixie's picture. She looked like she was smiling, so I decided she was smiling at me. I brought her home, and she was, indeed, very different from little Lucy.
How different you ask? Look for a future blog about Trixie the Demon Dog. I will reveal her secrets then.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Things I Miss
Today was chilly and dreary. I don't like this kind of weather. Grey skies have depressed me for many years. I can remember Labor Days when the weather was ugly, and I was desperate for that last burst of sunny freedom before school started. I felt so cheated! I love a cold, crisp, snowy winter day, as long as the sun is shining through the clouds. When the snow turns to snain, and the world is a dirty black and white photograph, I feel morose. So, on this first real taste of the approaching winter, it's only natural that today has been a day to muse about what I miss.
Let's get the obvious out of the way. I miss my parents, pets, and friends who have gone on to the next world. Every now and then I catch myself heading to the phone to call my mother. She passed in 2007. I believe I will see them again. But, in the meantime, I sure wouldn't mind getting a message or two from that Long Island Medium lady.
I miss acting in local theatrical productions. I can't commit to the rehearsal schedule because of other things I have to do. While watching the new movie version of Steel Magnolias, I was reminded of the year I played Ouiser at Cecil Community College. My director, Al Herlinger, was the best I'd ever worked with. I learned so much, loved all the people involved, and burst with pride at every performance. I miss that feeling of belonging to an elite group of theatre people. I miss the creativity. I miss the excuse to be manic, and have all hissy fits forgiven by other sensitive dramatic types.
I miss bouncing up and down steps. I used to climb to the top of the observation tower at Valley Forge Park. I danced down the stairs of the Capitol in Washington DC. Now, I hold tight to the railing. I carefully take each step one at a time and irritate the hell out of the people behind me. Just you wait, you young whippersnappers! Eventually, time will find you and kick you in the knees.
I miss being able to PAR-TAY! I was once a party animal. The fun didn't start until I got there. I'd dance and drink all night, or at least until the bars closed at 2:00. I remember a party where I was kissed (quite passionately) by my college English professor. Yes, I kissed him back. My dorm mates had blackmail material for months after that. I remember a party where I fell asleep in a field after drinking boiler makers and smoking some funny stuff. I was kicked out of the room I was renting after that one. I remember a party at Millersville that had a row of us mooning another row of partiers across the lake. Once I was at a dance hall in Fallston where I had to dodge a fight and flying bar stools. Some guy complimented my quick reaction; I told him I'd had practice as a middle school teacher. Parties at Glen Rock were the best! The faculty even gave me an award for my keen partying abilities (men's briefs with lots of ribbons and bows). Such good times!! Key up Archie and Edith Bunker singing Those were the days.... Now when I go out to Happy Hour, I call it Happy Half Hour, and I'm usually in my pajamas by 8.
I miss dating. It was so exciting to go out. I could buy new clothes, new makeup, new perfume. There were a lot of bad dates (subject for a later blog), but there were fabulous dates, and always the optimism and hope that this guy would be the one. I do not date anymore. There aren't too many men my age interested in dating women their own age. But lets face the real truth: the best single guys, the most fun single guys... well, those guys are gay.
I could go on (and maybe some day I will), but you get the picture. I miss my youth and the fun that went with it. Until dementia hits, at least I have my memories.
Let's get the obvious out of the way. I miss my parents, pets, and friends who have gone on to the next world. Every now and then I catch myself heading to the phone to call my mother. She passed in 2007. I believe I will see them again. But, in the meantime, I sure wouldn't mind getting a message or two from that Long Island Medium lady.
I miss acting in local theatrical productions. I can't commit to the rehearsal schedule because of other things I have to do. While watching the new movie version of Steel Magnolias, I was reminded of the year I played Ouiser at Cecil Community College. My director, Al Herlinger, was the best I'd ever worked with. I learned so much, loved all the people involved, and burst with pride at every performance. I miss that feeling of belonging to an elite group of theatre people. I miss the creativity. I miss the excuse to be manic, and have all hissy fits forgiven by other sensitive dramatic types.
I miss bouncing up and down steps. I used to climb to the top of the observation tower at Valley Forge Park. I danced down the stairs of the Capitol in Washington DC. Now, I hold tight to the railing. I carefully take each step one at a time and irritate the hell out of the people behind me. Just you wait, you young whippersnappers! Eventually, time will find you and kick you in the knees.
I miss being able to PAR-TAY! I was once a party animal. The fun didn't start until I got there. I'd dance and drink all night, or at least until the bars closed at 2:00. I remember a party where I was kissed (quite passionately) by my college English professor. Yes, I kissed him back. My dorm mates had blackmail material for months after that. I remember a party where I fell asleep in a field after drinking boiler makers and smoking some funny stuff. I was kicked out of the room I was renting after that one. I remember a party at Millersville that had a row of us mooning another row of partiers across the lake. Once I was at a dance hall in Fallston where I had to dodge a fight and flying bar stools. Some guy complimented my quick reaction; I told him I'd had practice as a middle school teacher. Parties at Glen Rock were the best! The faculty even gave me an award for my keen partying abilities (men's briefs with lots of ribbons and bows). Such good times!! Key up Archie and Edith Bunker singing Those were the days.... Now when I go out to Happy Hour, I call it Happy Half Hour, and I'm usually in my pajamas by 8.
I miss dating. It was so exciting to go out. I could buy new clothes, new makeup, new perfume. There were a lot of bad dates (subject for a later blog), but there were fabulous dates, and always the optimism and hope that this guy would be the one. I do not date anymore. There aren't too many men my age interested in dating women their own age. But lets face the real truth: the best single guys, the most fun single guys... well, those guys are gay.
I could go on (and maybe some day I will), but you get the picture. I miss my youth and the fun that went with it. Until dementia hits, at least I have my memories.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
The Book Thing
The other day my niece, Billie, looked over my shoulder and ordered a book from my Paperbackswap site. Realizing I had but two credits left, I knew it was time for my semi-annual trip to Baltimore's The Book Thing.
The Book Thing began years ago when Russell, a bartender, overheard teachers complaining about the lack of supplies, especially books, at their school. His campaign to gather books for them led to what exists now, a small warehouse in Baltimore filled with books. Free books. Tons of free books. You can find all kinds of books there. Don't look for a Dewey Decimal arrangement, these books are loosely shelved by categories: fiction, government, music, health, history, and so on. There are expensive coffee table books, out-of-print books, best sellers, self-published books, anything you want to read. About the only type of book that can be scarce is the children's book. I don't know if they aren't donated, or if they're immediately snapped up. When I was in Savannah, I was tempted to buy some "rare" and "out-of-print" Eugenia Price novels. Between The Book Thing and Paperbackswap, I found all I need to get started exploring her novels about the places I fell in love with on my recent vacation. The books are totally free, and when you take them, it is with the agreement that they stay free; no selling of these books is allowed.
Should you decide to visit, let me share a few hints to make your visit a little more pleasant. The Book Thing is only open on Saturday and Sunday from 9-6. They are open EVERY Saturday and Sunday - they don't close for snow, rain, Christmas, Kwanza, or the Jewish holidays. Parking can be tricky as the lot is small. There's a nice little lot next to the building, and you may be tempted to park there. Don't do it! The signs say the owners will tow, and they mean it. Make sure you've gone to the bathroom before starting out. I once had to use the toilet there. I shudder at the memory. It was filthy, making the porta-potties at Woodstock look clean. Bring a sturdy tote bag. You may think all you'll find is enough to carry in your arms. Ha! You'll see. Dress for the weather. If it's hot out, it's hot in the warehouse. If it's cold out, it's cold in. These folks operate on a shoestring budget. Bring some books to donate if you can.
Today I swore I would not fill up my trunk. I brought three tote bags and decided that when they were full, I would go home. HA! I have no self-control. After filling up and dumping the tote bags three times, my trunk was full, and I was ready to go home. I found large print books for the senior center, lots of books to trade on Paperbackswap, books for friends, and yes, books to shove onto my already over-stuffed bookshelves. All they ask in return is that you sign your name on a sheet of paper and write the number of books you've taken. I never count my books. I guesstimate 60-70, and believe-it-or not, there are people who take many more. It's not greedy, it's expected.
I hope you book lovers take advantage of this great resource in Baltimore. Someday you'll either thank me or cuss me for turning you on to The Book Thing.
The Book Thing
3001 Vineyard Lane
Baltimore, MD 21218
410-662-5631
The Book Thing began years ago when Russell, a bartender, overheard teachers complaining about the lack of supplies, especially books, at their school. His campaign to gather books for them led to what exists now, a small warehouse in Baltimore filled with books. Free books. Tons of free books. You can find all kinds of books there. Don't look for a Dewey Decimal arrangement, these books are loosely shelved by categories: fiction, government, music, health, history, and so on. There are expensive coffee table books, out-of-print books, best sellers, self-published books, anything you want to read. About the only type of book that can be scarce is the children's book. I don't know if they aren't donated, or if they're immediately snapped up. When I was in Savannah, I was tempted to buy some "rare" and "out-of-print" Eugenia Price novels. Between The Book Thing and Paperbackswap, I found all I need to get started exploring her novels about the places I fell in love with on my recent vacation. The books are totally free, and when you take them, it is with the agreement that they stay free; no selling of these books is allowed.
Should you decide to visit, let me share a few hints to make your visit a little more pleasant. The Book Thing is only open on Saturday and Sunday from 9-6. They are open EVERY Saturday and Sunday - they don't close for snow, rain, Christmas, Kwanza, or the Jewish holidays. Parking can be tricky as the lot is small. There's a nice little lot next to the building, and you may be tempted to park there. Don't do it! The signs say the owners will tow, and they mean it. Make sure you've gone to the bathroom before starting out. I once had to use the toilet there. I shudder at the memory. It was filthy, making the porta-potties at Woodstock look clean. Bring a sturdy tote bag. You may think all you'll find is enough to carry in your arms. Ha! You'll see. Dress for the weather. If it's hot out, it's hot in the warehouse. If it's cold out, it's cold in. These folks operate on a shoestring budget. Bring some books to donate if you can.
Today I swore I would not fill up my trunk. I brought three tote bags and decided that when they were full, I would go home. HA! I have no self-control. After filling up and dumping the tote bags three times, my trunk was full, and I was ready to go home. I found large print books for the senior center, lots of books to trade on Paperbackswap, books for friends, and yes, books to shove onto my already over-stuffed bookshelves. All they ask in return is that you sign your name on a sheet of paper and write the number of books you've taken. I never count my books. I guesstimate 60-70, and believe-it-or not, there are people who take many more. It's not greedy, it's expected.
I hope you book lovers take advantage of this great resource in Baltimore. Someday you'll either thank me or cuss me for turning you on to The Book Thing.
The Book Thing
3001 Vineyard Lane
Baltimore, MD 21218
410-662-5631
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Breast Cancer Awareness Month
October is the month when all things turn pink as the media reminds us to be aware of this cancer that holds fearful women in its grips. I don't need a special month because I am reminded every single day of the ugliness of this disease by the ones I've lost to it. By my memories of them. By the smiles of happier days seen in the old photographs as they are slowly starting to fade (the photos, not the smiles). By the music I hear. They're always with me. Especially you Nancy; I think of you every day.
Nancy was my college roommate. We only roomed together for three semesters, but she was and always will be referred to as Nancymycollegeroomie. I don't know how she lived with me that long. I was such a slob, and my side of the room was always a cluttered pigsty. She was a minimalist, a very neat minimalist. I smoked. A lot. Blue air breezed out of the room when either of us opened the door. She didn't smoke (well, knowing what I now do about second hand smoke, I guess the poor girl did smoke), and she never once complained that I did. So when she told me she'd be rooming with Bev the next year, I cried like she'd asked for a divorce. It all worked out, though. I became an RA (they have a room to themselves) and we lived on the same floor of our dorms until graduation.
We were on the same wavelength, often understanding each other without speaking the words. One dark night on campus, we acted out an impromptu murder mystery, making it up as we went along. The poor victim? Bessie the Cow. I guess you had to be there. We watched the same TV, the old black and white one in the dorm basement. We cried when the service people and POWs came home from Vietnam. We wore our matching Peter Pan slippers and sang and danced when Peter Pan was a "special viewing event" shown one evening around Easter. I bet few of you even remember the black and white version starring Mary Martin. The play ends with a touching scene, but the tears that well up in my eyes are not for the grownup Wendy, but for my Nancy who was not allowed to grow old.
We went our separate ways in adulthood, but she lived in the town next to my hometown so we regularly visited. She took care of me during my recovery from a broken leg. We knew I'd get better and she wouldn't; yet, she was a major part of my surviving those awful months. She also unknowingly helped me keep my problems in perspective. December 26 was always our day together. We'd have dinner, maybe see a movie, and exchange gifts. My favorite gift was the addition she made to my Santa collection, a Kwanza Santa. Now, don't go thinking racist, think reality. The celebration of Kwanza never included Santa Claus! I don't know why KMart thought it should. The gift went back and forth between us for years, but it was lost at the end. Nancy was finally too sick to celebrate Christmas.
The call came from her sister a few days before I was due to return to my hometown for a visit anyway. In complete denial, I told Donna I'd be there in a few days. As I went through my chores, a voice spoke clearly to me and said, Go now. I obeyed. The family didn't seem surprised to see me at the door to her apartment that evening. I brought her Christmas present, a soft colorful crocheted necklace that I put on her to brighten up all the white: the white sheets, the white blanket, her white tufts of hair, the white pillow, her pale still white face. We talked for hours; I talked and she listened. At one point, her family even left to go out to dinner. Finally, I knew it was time to go. It was time for her family to surround her in love as she breathed her last. An hour or so after I left her home, she left too.
I miss her all the time. I have trouble understanding how such a kind and loving person was not needed here on earth to spread her love a little longer. I have trouble understanding that she was my age, and that she died so young. I have trouble understanding how one who was gentle and never hurt another living thing had to suffer so deeply. Yes, I have trouble with all of it.
It's October! Bring on the pumpkins, the black cats, scary masks, and crazy costumes! It's Halloween, one of Nancy's favorite holidays. Boo!!!
Nancy was my college roommate. We only roomed together for three semesters, but she was and always will be referred to as Nancymycollegeroomie. I don't know how she lived with me that long. I was such a slob, and my side of the room was always a cluttered pigsty. She was a minimalist, a very neat minimalist. I smoked. A lot. Blue air breezed out of the room when either of us opened the door. She didn't smoke (well, knowing what I now do about second hand smoke, I guess the poor girl did smoke), and she never once complained that I did. So when she told me she'd be rooming with Bev the next year, I cried like she'd asked for a divorce. It all worked out, though. I became an RA (they have a room to themselves) and we lived on the same floor of our dorms until graduation.
We were on the same wavelength, often understanding each other without speaking the words. One dark night on campus, we acted out an impromptu murder mystery, making it up as we went along. The poor victim? Bessie the Cow. I guess you had to be there. We watched the same TV, the old black and white one in the dorm basement. We cried when the service people and POWs came home from Vietnam. We wore our matching Peter Pan slippers and sang and danced when Peter Pan was a "special viewing event" shown one evening around Easter. I bet few of you even remember the black and white version starring Mary Martin. The play ends with a touching scene, but the tears that well up in my eyes are not for the grownup Wendy, but for my Nancy who was not allowed to grow old.
We went our separate ways in adulthood, but she lived in the town next to my hometown so we regularly visited. She took care of me during my recovery from a broken leg. We knew I'd get better and she wouldn't; yet, she was a major part of my surviving those awful months. She also unknowingly helped me keep my problems in perspective. December 26 was always our day together. We'd have dinner, maybe see a movie, and exchange gifts. My favorite gift was the addition she made to my Santa collection, a Kwanza Santa. Now, don't go thinking racist, think reality. The celebration of Kwanza never included Santa Claus! I don't know why KMart thought it should. The gift went back and forth between us for years, but it was lost at the end. Nancy was finally too sick to celebrate Christmas.
The call came from her sister a few days before I was due to return to my hometown for a visit anyway. In complete denial, I told Donna I'd be there in a few days. As I went through my chores, a voice spoke clearly to me and said, Go now. I obeyed. The family didn't seem surprised to see me at the door to her apartment that evening. I brought her Christmas present, a soft colorful crocheted necklace that I put on her to brighten up all the white: the white sheets, the white blanket, her white tufts of hair, the white pillow, her pale still white face. We talked for hours; I talked and she listened. At one point, her family even left to go out to dinner. Finally, I knew it was time to go. It was time for her family to surround her in love as she breathed her last. An hour or so after I left her home, she left too.
I miss her all the time. I have trouble understanding how such a kind and loving person was not needed here on earth to spread her love a little longer. I have trouble understanding that she was my age, and that she died so young. I have trouble understanding how one who was gentle and never hurt another living thing had to suffer so deeply. Yes, I have trouble with all of it.
It's October! Bring on the pumpkins, the black cats, scary masks, and crazy costumes! It's Halloween, one of Nancy's favorite holidays. Boo!!!
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Homeownershit
I feel blessed to live in this country. Because of my full time job and my full time frugality, I was able to become a single female homeowner. When I bought my house, there were sections on the contract that I had to initial. Those sections were marked "no husband." I kid you not. I was proud then to be doing this with no husband; but now-a-days, I have to admit, I'm jealous of you gals with hubbies. Especially hubbies who are tall and can fix things!
I have so many things that need to be attended to in this twenty-four year old house of mine. I can't open the window part of my screen door. I'll bet a hubby could flip that thing up with one hand tied behind his back. The wind caught that same door one day, and pulled hard on the frame. I watch as the crack in the frame grows longer and deeper all the time. Bet a husband could have repaired that door frame the day it happened. And the hole that's been in the office window since a stone from the lawnmower ripped through the screen? It taunts me every day.
Not only am I not very strong, I'm short. Five feet tall, that's it. As a homeowner, my height is a handicap. The filter for my air conditioning system is in the ceiling. Even on a ladder, I need a tool to open it. Usually, the door bangs down, shooting dust all over the hall and sometimes smacking me on the noggin. When I remember to get the right sized filter, getting it situated correctly leaves me stretching, sweating, and dizzy. The vents are in the ceiling, too. I need to open and close them twice a year. Once again , I can barely reach them while climbing up as far as I can on my ladder. After many years of this, I decided last year just to leave them open. I can see the heat escaping into those vents making the attic I never use cozy and warm each winter. I, of course, am freezing. A husband who would be even two inches taller than I could do these chores in five minutes.
I need to paint the house, but I can't get myself motivated to start. All the up and down on the ladder tires me just thinking about it. It doesn't help that the last time I painted, I contracted a food poisoning so evil that the paint marks on the wall reflect the slap-dash job I struggled to finish before I died. I have heard that husbands like to paint. Oh, how I wish I had a paint happy hubby!
What really frustrates me right now is my garage door opener. The night of the Reba McIntyre concert, there was a huge clap of thunder. Most everybody in this area jumped at the sound. The sensor on my door opener hasn't worked since. Everybody had all kinds of advice for fixing the problem. The most frequently given suggestion was to unplug the opener, wait for twenty seconds, and replug it, therefore resetting the sensor. I do it all the time with my computer. But the garage door opener? It is plugged in at the top of my garage. Not only do I not own a ladder long enough, even if I had one, no way would I climb that high. I'll bet you girls with husbands don't even appreciate how you can leave the climbing and fixing to them. Lucky, lucky you.
Sigh, I love my home. Really, I do. But I sometimes wish it had come with a handy house husband. Heck, I'd be willing to enter into house fixing polygamy if I could get my bathroom recaulked.
I have so many things that need to be attended to in this twenty-four year old house of mine. I can't open the window part of my screen door. I'll bet a hubby could flip that thing up with one hand tied behind his back. The wind caught that same door one day, and pulled hard on the frame. I watch as the crack in the frame grows longer and deeper all the time. Bet a husband could have repaired that door frame the day it happened. And the hole that's been in the office window since a stone from the lawnmower ripped through the screen? It taunts me every day.
Not only am I not very strong, I'm short. Five feet tall, that's it. As a homeowner, my height is a handicap. The filter for my air conditioning system is in the ceiling. Even on a ladder, I need a tool to open it. Usually, the door bangs down, shooting dust all over the hall and sometimes smacking me on the noggin. When I remember to get the right sized filter, getting it situated correctly leaves me stretching, sweating, and dizzy. The vents are in the ceiling, too. I need to open and close them twice a year. Once again , I can barely reach them while climbing up as far as I can on my ladder. After many years of this, I decided last year just to leave them open. I can see the heat escaping into those vents making the attic I never use cozy and warm each winter. I, of course, am freezing. A husband who would be even two inches taller than I could do these chores in five minutes.
I need to paint the house, but I can't get myself motivated to start. All the up and down on the ladder tires me just thinking about it. It doesn't help that the last time I painted, I contracted a food poisoning so evil that the paint marks on the wall reflect the slap-dash job I struggled to finish before I died. I have heard that husbands like to paint. Oh, how I wish I had a paint happy hubby!
What really frustrates me right now is my garage door opener. The night of the Reba McIntyre concert, there was a huge clap of thunder. Most everybody in this area jumped at the sound. The sensor on my door opener hasn't worked since. Everybody had all kinds of advice for fixing the problem. The most frequently given suggestion was to unplug the opener, wait for twenty seconds, and replug it, therefore resetting the sensor. I do it all the time with my computer. But the garage door opener? It is plugged in at the top of my garage. Not only do I not own a ladder long enough, even if I had one, no way would I climb that high. I'll bet you girls with husbands don't even appreciate how you can leave the climbing and fixing to them. Lucky, lucky you.
Sigh, I love my home. Really, I do. But I sometimes wish it had come with a handy house husband. Heck, I'd be willing to enter into house fixing polygamy if I could get my bathroom recaulked.
Monday, October 1, 2012
My First Love
Thought I was going to talk about boys, huh? No way. I learned at an early age what true love is. Books. I LOVE books.
I love to read. Love it. People think I was born with a book in my hand, but actually I began school as a struggling reader. In my day, we learned sight words from the big book in the front of the room. I sat in the back of the room, and I was very nearsighted. So nearsighted that when we had our annual eye test at school, I would listen to the kids ahead of me, memorize what they said and pretend to read the eye chart. So, rather than have my disability diagnosed, I struggled tremendously, and my mean second grade teacher just thought I was stupid and gave up on me.
I remember a book all the kids were reading. Finally, it was my turn to take it home! I couldn't read it. My dad tried to help me, but he got frustrated; and I remember lots of yelling and sobbing, some of it my dad's. But I also remember the joy of reading my first story fluidly. It was from the Dick and Jane readers (just google it, youngsters). Sally had gotten lost. When the policeman found her, he asked her name. Of course, she said it was Sally. When he asked her last name, she also replied Sally. Sally Sally! I thought that was the funniest story on earth and I read it to anybody who would listen.
Eventually in third grade, I could no longer fudge the eye test. I got my first pair of glasses, caught up with my reading class, and never looked back.
My mother used to get so annoyed with me; she thought I read too much. She'd tell me to go outside and play. I'd sneak a book into the waistband of my shorts, and find a place where she couldn't see me. I'd read all afternoon. When a library opened up in the high school across the street from me, I was in heaven! The librarian was a bit of a pain; she always thought she knew what I should read. Eventually, I got cranky enough with her interference that she left me alone. Heaven! Hardy Boys? Heck no. Trixie Beldon? Nancy Drew? Oh yes!
The year I bought my house, I had no money for anything other than the basics. But because I read, I was never without something to do. Thank you public libraries! I read 365 books that year.
Retirement has been a boon to my hobby. How wonderful it is to read what I want, when I want, and as much as I want. It's all about me and the book. Authors are my heroes and I attend book signings every chance I get. I was excited to meet Jean Auel and Debbie Macomber. While on my recent vacation, I met a local author in a small bookstore and was thrilled to buy her book and have it personalized. I treasure my autographed books.
I need to tell you about my favorite source for books. Paperbackswap.com I discovered this website years ago, and I love it. I thought I'd use it to get rid of my excess books. Ha! I have a personal library now, a room overflowing with books, books, and more books. As soon as I read one, I trade it back or pass it on. Yet, the To-Be-Read pile continues to explode. I doubt I'll live long enough to read all my books. Hopefully, there will be libraries in the next life!
In future blogs, I will recommend some of my favorite reads. Maybe you'll share your faves with me. I sure hope so.
I need to close because I hear someone calling my name. What? What do you say? Ok, Lisbeth Salander...I'm coming. Stay out of that hornet's nest!
I love to read. Love it. People think I was born with a book in my hand, but actually I began school as a struggling reader. In my day, we learned sight words from the big book in the front of the room. I sat in the back of the room, and I was very nearsighted. So nearsighted that when we had our annual eye test at school, I would listen to the kids ahead of me, memorize what they said and pretend to read the eye chart. So, rather than have my disability diagnosed, I struggled tremendously, and my mean second grade teacher just thought I was stupid and gave up on me.
I remember a book all the kids were reading. Finally, it was my turn to take it home! I couldn't read it. My dad tried to help me, but he got frustrated; and I remember lots of yelling and sobbing, some of it my dad's. But I also remember the joy of reading my first story fluidly. It was from the Dick and Jane readers (just google it, youngsters). Sally had gotten lost. When the policeman found her, he asked her name. Of course, she said it was Sally. When he asked her last name, she also replied Sally. Sally Sally! I thought that was the funniest story on earth and I read it to anybody who would listen.
Eventually in third grade, I could no longer fudge the eye test. I got my first pair of glasses, caught up with my reading class, and never looked back.
My mother used to get so annoyed with me; she thought I read too much. She'd tell me to go outside and play. I'd sneak a book into the waistband of my shorts, and find a place where she couldn't see me. I'd read all afternoon. When a library opened up in the high school across the street from me, I was in heaven! The librarian was a bit of a pain; she always thought she knew what I should read. Eventually, I got cranky enough with her interference that she left me alone. Heaven! Hardy Boys? Heck no. Trixie Beldon? Nancy Drew? Oh yes!
The year I bought my house, I had no money for anything other than the basics. But because I read, I was never without something to do. Thank you public libraries! I read 365 books that year.
Retirement has been a boon to my hobby. How wonderful it is to read what I want, when I want, and as much as I want. It's all about me and the book. Authors are my heroes and I attend book signings every chance I get. I was excited to meet Jean Auel and Debbie Macomber. While on my recent vacation, I met a local author in a small bookstore and was thrilled to buy her book and have it personalized. I treasure my autographed books.
I need to tell you about my favorite source for books. Paperbackswap.com I discovered this website years ago, and I love it. I thought I'd use it to get rid of my excess books. Ha! I have a personal library now, a room overflowing with books, books, and more books. As soon as I read one, I trade it back or pass it on. Yet, the To-Be-Read pile continues to explode. I doubt I'll live long enough to read all my books. Hopefully, there will be libraries in the next life!
In future blogs, I will recommend some of my favorite reads. Maybe you'll share your faves with me. I sure hope so.
I need to close because I hear someone calling my name. What? What do you say? Ok, Lisbeth Salander...I'm coming. Stay out of that hornet's nest!
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