The Last Independence Day?

 It's been a long time since I've written a blog entry. In fact, I had trouble remembering how to get into my account.

 Today is Independence Day in Havre de Grace. To me, the HdG date is what matters, not the actual 4th of July. I used to love the small-town celebration, a carnival, parade, lots of friends, good food, fireworks. This year the temperature was over 100 degrees and the humidity in the air made it thick enough to suck it up like a straw in a milkshake. I didn't go to the celebration. I can't celebrate my country this year. I can only mourn what I believe to be my witness to the end of the USA as we've known it.

 We are facing the possible election of a lying, cheating, racist, incompetent, and convicted felon whose main goal for reelection is to get his revenge on those who have wronged him. Or, those he thinks have wronged him. Or maybe people like me whose friends took me to Mar-A-Lago last year so I could have the pleasure of giving him the one finger salute. Defenders of trump are dismissive of the charges against him because, after all, the Constitution doesn't prevent him from running. Of course it doesn't! Our founding fathers never imagined that such a criminal would even be considered for the most important job in America. I guess they thought the Constitution implied that a convicted felon who participated in the treasonous attempt to overthrow the government of the United States would be stopped by the citizens of this country from running for office. As Gomer Pyle used to say, "Surprise! Surprise!" To paraphrase Oda Mae Brown from the movie Ghost, "America, you in trouble, girl." 

 Project 2025 is the platform to revise the government as developed by the conservative Republican group, the Heritage Foundation. Here are the a few key elements of the proposed plan:

    a.  restructure the federal government so that federal civil service workers will be reclassified as political appointees that will have to be committed to supporting the Nazi - oops, I mean - Republican party

    b.  extend presidential authority so that the president has complete control over the executive branch. We already know that trump expects, with the Supreme Court's support, to have complete freedom of action to do whatever he wants, when he wants - legal or not. He's calling for presidential immunity, no matter what criminal acts he commits

    c. policy changes that include the dismantling of government agencies at his whim

    d. include government policies to reflect Christian ideals eliminating diversity, equity, and inclusion programs. May I suggest at this point you read Margaret Atwood's book The Handmaid's Tale , because that's where they're headed with women's rights. Separation of church and state is on the chopping block, as are all the freedoms and rights so many Americans have worked their lives for. I have gay friends in fear of having their marriages annulled. Think it can't happen???  Look at Roe v Wade for a starting reference

    e. the establishing of internment camps for illegals also known by the Nazis as concentration camps. Death camps being advocated as necessary in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

 As I end this essay,  I can hear the fireworks that always mark the magnificent end of the Independence Day celebration. What will I hear next year at this time? 

2023 Comes To An End

    Well, this has been a year. Yes, it certainly has. Been a year, I mean.  As my friend Mark Briner so perfectly said, "Another year comes to a close and nobody says it better than Lucy (Lucille Ball). I'd say here's to a better 2024, but, history."

    His words made me laugh. At this time of the year, people are full of resolutions, expectations, and hopes for the year to come. But, as Mark said... history.    

    I make no resolutions. After fifty years of promising to lose weight, it has sunk in that it probably won't happen, and torturing myself over what I do or don't eat won't change a thing. So, no weight related resolutions any more. Nope, not beginning a "weight loss journey." (That expression makes me gag.) Instead I follow the wise advice that my friend Dee Ashby once gave me about life.

    Life is full of ups and downs. We are going to have a lot of happiness, so we really need to be present in those moments when we are happy. Hold on to them. Savor them. Record them in our hearts and brains. Because the bad times will shake us to the core, and we need the memories that good can and will happen to take us through them. I lost Dee on May 1. I can't stand it that she is no longer here on Earth, but I am comforted that I can still feel the happiness we shared in life. I remember her excitement when she became engaged to Jerry, I remember Sarah's birth and her wedding, I remember trips to Allenberry, beach vacations, Independence Day celebrations, New Year's Eves dinners, goofy inside jokes, etc. etc. etc. The last picture taken of us was out of focus and so unflattering that even the best of filters couldn't improve it. But we are laughing out loud, our heads together, recording one of those simple happy times. It's my most beloved picture of us.

         I am thankful for the people in my life. My sister and her daughters are my "official" family. It goes without saying, I love them so much, and I am so thankful for them. I have lifelong friends that I met through theatre. When Harry Malin talked me into auditioning for a play being performed by a little local community theatre, I had no idea that it would change my life. I've been a member of the Tidewater Players for over forty years. I've had some amazing experiences and met many amazing people. Think about it folks, I've been on stage with naked men!! I have danced with a leg lamp, and the people I danced with loved and encouraged me even though I stunk (stank? Who cares? I'm no longer in the classroom.)

       

     I had a rewarding career. Again, a job that brought me many laughable moments and lifelong friends. I have teacher friends that I stay in touch with (some more often than others).  Now that many of my students are now heading into their 40's, 50's, and 60's, I can count them among my adult friends. I can't get them to stop calling me Miss Snyder, but what the heck. As Dee advised, I committed the happy times of my job to my memory- both in my heart and mind. 

    My church friends have kept me going this year, without a doubt. We operate a food kitchen every week, and it certainly gives me an appreciation for my blessings, as well as a chance to make a difference in a cruel world. Oh, the people I've met! There's the elderly frail couple who look like they stepped right out of Mayberry RFD. They entertained me one day with the ins and outs of the marijuana industry because when they were younger they grew their own and had a booming local business. I did my best to keep my eyeballs from popping out of their sockets as they told me their story. There's my down-on-his luck ex-convict buddy who once served eighteen years for murder, and frankly, I would trust him with my life. We serve aliens to our country without questioning their legality or illegality, but by welcoming them and providing them with food and kindness, as well as educating our other clients to be compassionate.  Because of my church family, I am an active participant in doing God's work on Earth year round.  My church peeps are special people, who make me laugh, who pray for my concerns, and bless their hearts, who even threw me a surprise party for my 70th birthday. Sheila, especially, keeps me grounded and entertained. This year we drove to Florida to babysit Mike and Steve's dogs. And, then she and Betty took me to Mar-a-lago so I could give trump a middle finger salute. One of the highlights of this year!

     As 2023 comes to an end, I reflect not only on this year, but the years that have led up to 2023. The years blend into each other, and the best way I can figure out when something happened is "before or after Covid."  The bottom line, when it comes to thinking about the next year, is exactly what Mark said: "... here's to a better 2024, but history."

One is silver and the other's gold: a eulogy for my friend Dee

 Dee and I were friends for a long time.  So long that I can't even remember how we met. I think we met almost 40 years ago through Tidewater Players. If you know anything about community theatre, you know that those people are the ones who become friends for life. And we were.

Dee and I were single when "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" was a popular song; it was our going out song. And did we have fun! If there was a party to go to, we were there. We had a lot of fun nights dancing and drinking and laughing our heads off. The Crazy Swede was one of our favorite places. Eventually our single days of partying came to a bit of a slow-down when Dee met Jerry Ashby. She and Jerry both credit me with getting them together. She wanted to get to know him better, so I suggested she have some plumbing issues. He made a house call, and the rest was history. 

They married at Dee's mom's house before a small group of friends and family. It was a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon.  It wasn't long before Sarah was on the way. Dee wanted a baby, and she had waited a long time for her.  Because of her high-risk pregnancy, Dee was hospitalized in the weeks before Sarah was born.  She always told me how thankful she was that Jerry was able to spend so much time with her. And how blessed she felt to have Sarah in her life.

Sarah was the light of all of our lives. She went everywhere with her parents and her grandmother. And me, her Aunt Barb. One of my favorite memories was Dee, Shirley, Sarah, and I at a coffee house in North East.  Sarah loved the music and she made the three of us sing and dance with her all night.  These were the kinds of events that made Dee happy. Simple times. Being with her Mini-Dee was what made her happiest. And we were lucky to have a lot of fun times together. Dee became even happier, if that's possible, when her grandchildren were born. Her family is what she lived for.

This is a story probably few of you know. Did you know that Dee saved a life? We were in Ocean City, swimming in the hotel pool. These two little kids came to the pool on their own. Dee had her eye on them the whole time. And a good thing, too. The little girl walked down the steps and jumped in the pool. Where she sank like a rock to the bottom of the pool, making no attempt to resurface. Dee pulled her up, both of them terrified and spitting water. We could see their parents on the 3rd floor balcony with drinks in their hands. Oh my God, Dee was furious.  She sent the children back upstairs and told them never to come back by themselves. I had to hold her back from going after those parents. Had we not been there, there was no one else in the pool area. That child would have drowned.

Some of my favorite Dee memories involve holidays, especially the Fourth of July.  My family would come from PA and stay at the Vandiver Inn, and we'd party all weekend.  We'd watch the parades in front of our church or in front of the Inn.  We never cooked out, but ate at the local restaurants or had pizza delivered. Sarah loved the carnival, and one of Dee's favorite memories was a night at the Carnival and Fr. Rory riding all the rides with Sarah.  We traveled a lot and had some terrific trips. Ocean City became an annual tradition.  Cape May NJ at Christmas time. A Caribbean cruise. The Allenberry Murder Mystery weekends. And one of our most memorable trips was the senior citizen bus trip we took down south to South Carolina and Georgia. We were sitting outside one night by the pool chatting and enjoying the fresh air. A bunch of guys were across the pool barbequeing.  They called to us, Hey you girls want to come over and have a drink? They called us girls! We jumped up and joined them.  When we glanced over at the motel, the people from our bus trip were plastered at the windows, their mouths dropped open and probably praying for our hedonistic souls. New Year's Eve was always special.  Sarah would have her friends over and Dee had hers.  We would drink and eat and laugh all night. Then at midnight we'd walk outside to watch the fireworks and then laugh some more. Laughter. It's the laughter I remember the most about all my time with Dee. 

Dee was one of the most considerate and caring persons I ever knew.  She started the annual Pancake Supper at St. John's Church.  She and Jerry paid for everything and insisted it be a free dinner for whoever wanted to come.  Lots of food, wonderful fellowship. She also began the annual Epiphany parties and gift exchanges at the church.  Every holiday for years she sent cards and little gifts to friends of hers who lived alone and needed to know someone cared about them. She was a giver, both of her time and her money. Her generosity was huge, but not showy. She taught me a lot about generosity.  Helping others is one of the many gifts she left me with.

There are 40 years of stories and remembrances I have. Far too many to put into a Eulogy.  I will treasure all my memories of Dee, all of them. I can't believe my Dee is gone. She has filled so many years of my life. She was every bit as much my sister as Helen is.  I want to end with a short poem.  I read this poem once before, and that was to say goodbye to our dear James. Today, I say goodbye to my dear Dee.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

   by Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Our last picture together. March 2022. LAUGHING!!!

The Ultimate Countdown

My niece and I have been playing a telephone game called Locket.  Each day we send a picture of ourselves to each other and sometimes attach a little message to it. She is so breathtakingly beautiful; her pictures are works of art. Me? I am another story.  I don't know what it is about that App, but it emphasizes every wrinkle in my face, every pouch under my chin, every circle and puff around my eyes, every sun damaged blemish, every thin gray hair.  I rarely wear make-up anymore, so my pictures are the real me. And they make me sad. I am so old, so fat, so wrinkly, so not as I internally picture myself.

And then it hits me like a sledgehammer, that is me. And I am seventy years old. Seventy...where has the time gone?

I can hardly believe I am this old. My body feels it, but my mind keeps me somewhere around late 40's/early 50's.  Hell, if I had children, they would be that age. I look at the cute guys in a bar, and the ones I like are somewhere between 40 and 60. The ones my age look like grandpas.  Seventy feels ancient, older than sixty or fifty ever did. My friend Larry helped clarify my jumbled feelings. He is a year older than I, and he gets it. Hitting seventy begins the ultimate countdown. How much more time do I have? 

My best friend is dying. She has brain cancer. I know I should be glad to be turning seventy because Dee will not see her next birthday. But I am not glad. I am lonely, and sad, and grieving. Growing older may be a privilege, but there's a price to pay. Those who continue, have to live with the grief of loss. I have many happy memories of wonderful adventures that Dee and I shared.  She has said it, she lived a good life. But I want more adventures with her. Ok, maybe just more lunches at our favorite restaurants. Never again will we laugh over wine at how stupid I look in a lobster hat. Our adventures are done. I'm seventy and she's only a few years older; that mournful recognition is a part of my birthday. I hate it.

I keep trying to stay active and involved because I learned through Covid that it is very easy for me to hole up in my house and hibernate. My last grand act of trying to keep up with the young ones was to be a part of the ensemble last December for "A Christmas Story" with the Tidewater Players. I was the oldest in the cast, and it showed. I never thought I would learn the three minute dance with the famous fish-netted leg lamp. It was tough enough for me to learn it when we practiced with a stick. Then we got the heavy lamps. Forget it! But, I did not give up. I did most of that dance correctly and with a smile on my face (well, except that one night when a certain diva shoved me out of her way. If the lamp hadn't been so heavy, I'd have beaned her with it.) Anyhow, I can say I DID IT at 69 years old. I danced with a true borrowed from Broadway prop---a leg lamp!! Even though I danced like Lucy Ricardo when she infiltrated Ricky's shows, I did it. (If you are too young to understand the Lucy Ricardo reference, google it.) That was most likely my last time on stage as my old legs can't handle the steps, my old brain has serious issues remembering lines, and there are many others in their forties, fifties, and sixties jumping in to play the old lady roles. Yet another stage (ha ha that's a pun) of the ultimate countdown.

The oddest thing happened to me as I attended yet another funeral last Saturday. (I have a witness, so this really happened.)  A tiny little woman needed to pass by me. I smiled at her as I moved over, and out of nowhere she said, "You are beautiful." I thanked her and laughingly told Gay Lynn that one doesn't hear that every day. But it has stayed with me all week, and made me smile. Me? Beautiful? LOL The poor woman probably had cataracts. How could she say that to me? I am so old, so not beautiful. So headed for the ultimate countdown. 

Both of my parents died when they were eighty. I carry the weight of this knowledge as I approach my seventieth birthday in the next hour. Do I at least have ten more years left? Will they feel more like ten minutes as time flies by? 

Probably some of you believe this line of thinking is a terrible way to approach my birthday.  You won't hear me vocalize a word of this. I will go through the day with a smile on my face because I'm doing something I like. Unlike others who really know how to do birthdays, I have nothing special planned for a celebration. Tomorrow will be a normal day of our church's food kitchen, then dinner and cards with the girls. Tomorrow will be like every other Friday in my old-lady life. I will spend the day doing what I enjoy as I mark the beginning of the ultimate countdown. 

Please, if you wish me a happy birthday, don't hesitate to tag on "and many more." I'll appreciate it.

You probably don't want to read this, but I need to say it.

 Because I can't stop my thoughts, maybe expressing them will help me let go and relax. Don't read if you're not old; I don't think you'll get it.

A lot is on my mind. I can overthink anything. 

I am an empath, and that can be good or bad. Lately, it's been tough. So many of my friends have been widowed in the past year or so. I ache for them because the changes in their lives are so drastic. My neighbor who lost her husband last week is a real mess. It actually gives me anxiety when I am with her because I am "gut worried" about her. She doesn't want to live. What can I say to her, except I get it. We are a very lonely society. 

I used to be sad that I never married and had my own family. However, I have had "friend-families" and my sister and kids who fill my life, so I am good. I think. I know how to do many things on my own. I enjoy my own company. And, I have filled my days with great hobbies. Lucky me? Maybe. I know as we age, we lose...people we love, health, memory, looks, bladder control. It's so hard getting old. I have noticed since the pandemic I stay more to myself. I don't go out as much. I don't answer the phone or return calls in a timely manner. I miss appointments, even though I have checked the calendar many times. I don't ask anybody for anything because I don't want to be disappointed. Yet, I disappoint myself constantly.

 I feel very depressed when I look at the mess our world, and especially our country, is in. What the hell is going on? How can anyone justify trump and the current Republican platforms as acceptable for our country? How can anyone believe that January 6 was not an attempted coup led by a fake "president" who remains unaccountable for his treasonous behavior? I will not agree to disagree; I will not stop calling people out for their despicable supremacist behavior; I will not fail to note your "I've got mine, I don't care about yours" behaviors and attitudes. I am dismayed that racial prejudice seems to have become more intense and visible in our country. No, you are not better because you are white. And don't tell me you have black friends, so you can't be a bigot. That's bull. I hate that the middle class suffers financially when the wealthy in this country don't pay the taxes that would solve so many of our problems. How do they sleep at night? Much better than I do from what I hear. 

Speaking of sleep, I can't get much. I worry more than ever. I don't know if other people my age feel this way. If I look too much at Facebook, everybody else is having the time of their lives. And, I'm not. Yet, many people who know me consider me one of the strongest and most secure persons they know. HA! Listening now to Peggy Lee, "Is that all there is?" I used to think this song was so self-serving and depressing. Now, I get it. Is it growing old? Or is it just me? I have come a long way as far as my jealousy towards others who have it better (so it seems). I am much more comfortable with myself. I know my worth. I don't hate my body, I just wish I had the strength to make it healthier. I actually like my white hair. Sorta.

As we age, I think people need religion more than ever. My faith suffers as I watch people use Christianity and the Bible as reasons to discriminate, outlaw, hate, reject, interfere in, and destroy the lives of others. The hypocrisy spewed in the name of Jesus makes me sick. I am watching this country turn into "The Handmaid's Tale" and I am appalled that women are sitting back and letting the male government destroy their healthcare and their rights to decide with a medical doctor what to do with their bodies. Nobody is promoting the involuntary vasectomy of anybody who gets an unmarried woman pregnant, how come?  Yet, those same people justify a ten-year old rape victim carrying a baby to term because it's God's will. Can you stop your insufferable Christian superiority for one moment to actually think about what you're saying? The Christian outrage over gay marriages is almost laughable as one sees all the divorced and cheating spouses who pretend to be so disgusted by same sex partnerships. Their cheating, lying, divorcing "sins" are forgivable.  I am appalled that Christians justify acts of prejudice and cruelty as Biblically appropriate. I want to smack smug Christians who look down their noses at and think they are better than anyone else because they know Jesus. Two of these devoted "Christians" actually told me after her death, that my mother went to hell because she was not a born again Christian with a relationship with Jesus. Who are you people? What gives you the right to judge so arrogantly just because you believe in Jesus? 

Life just makes me sad anymore. That's a scary thought because basically, I have a good life. I want to live a long life. But, does it have to be so freaking sad?  

My Fiftieth High School Reunion

This weekend was my high school reunion. My 50th high school reunion! The reunion of Upper Merion's class of 1971.  The tenth time that a dedicated committee has brought us together.  Amazing people. 

This year brought an additional challenge, the Covid virus.  A number of my closest friends did not attend.  After all, we're 68. We are old. That virus wants to kill us.  We had to fill out a contact sheet in case anyone came down with the virus.  Chances are good.  Few people wore masks. (My Ruth Bader Ginsberg mask didn't match my ritzy, glitzy blouse.) Odds are good there were a number of unvaccinated people.  And, because we're old we had to lean in close to squint and read name tags or stick our ears up to someone's mouth to hear them speak. We hugged; we hugged a lot. Hopefully, our reunion won't be remembered as the  Class of 1971 Super Spreader Event.

Part I of the reunion happened on Friday when we toured the old high school.  It will be torn down as a new school is being built, so I truly appreciated Huck L. and Sherri B. taking us down memory lane.  Well, memory lane for some people. Nothing looked familiar to me.  Glen T. found his locker and assured me that mine had to be somewhere near his because homerooms were alphabetized in the good old days.  Nope. Nothing. Until we saw the staircase. Oh, I remembered that staircase and all the times I had to run from the gym, up those stairs to my locker, and then down those stairs to catch the bus....or watch it drive away. Good times. It was interesting to see the pool again as so few schools have pools anymore. That sure brought back memories...the horror of wearing regulation bathing suits provided by the school.  And if you were a fat girl, the horror of walking by the boys to get to your bench.  Another trauma for me was being blind as a bat, unable to see a thing without my glasses, and getting yelled at by Mrs. Harlan because I couldn't see her and I had no idea what was going on. In the old days, teachers didn't have to accommodate disabilities. You were on your own.

A Happy Hour followed at a popular local restaurant called Peppers.  A few beers and everybody was friends again.  I talked to Kathy R. and it was delightful. She, too, is a retired teacher.  And, I haven't seen her in 50 years!!!  How many people have you not seen in 50 years that you can jump right into a conversation with? The retired teacher part didn't hurt; we survivors of the educational trenches share a universal bond. I walked up and introduced myself to people rather than play a guessing game.  I let them pretend they remembered me and told them it was great to see them again. When I left, the party was still going strong. The Class of 1971 showed those young whipper-snappers at the bar, who were wide-eyed shocked at the idea of a fiftieth reunion, that old people rock!

The big event started the next day at a senior appropriate time ,6:00pm, and was held at a fancy hotel with a parking lot perilously far from the front door.  That's when I noticed that my dress shoes, which I've probably had for twenty years, were on their last legs. I kept slipping out of them and praying they wouldn't  disintegrate before I walked in the front door. (I tried on four different outfits before I settled on one, but I never thought to check the shoes. Let this be a reminder to you, dear reader, if you want to be comfortable at a big event, check your shoes.) The hard working committee made name tags with our high school pictures on them.  Of course, the print was big so I could read them without getting too close. Everybody was so nice. Everybody pretended they remembered everybody else. Everybody was joyful. It was such an "up" evening!

I enjoyed catching up with people. My good friend, Laurie R. was my dinner date. The food was good and so was the conversation at our table. Laurie sat to my left, my goods friends Janet and Glen T. to my right, and the hunkiest boy in the senior class, Walt W., sat across from me with his adorable wife who has also come to all the reunions.  After dinner, I wandered the area trying to catch up with long time friends.  I have to give a shout out to Nancy N.  She is still working full time as a nurse in Florida. Last year, she worked the Covid unit. Nancy, you are a hero! And there was Chris C., a boy who gave me a carnation in seventh grade, and just made the day of a shy and not too attractive young girl. I never forgot him or his sweet gift. He forgot it, of course, but I think I made him happy to let him know he was remembered so fondly all of these years. Fifty years folks, fifty - count 'em.  Patty B. (who has the most whimsical picture in our yearbook as she looks off into the distance thinking what a PITA picture day was) was there with her brother. I was immediately transported to the old days when I used to bring my brother, Glenn, to the reunions. So many of his friends were at the reunion and they told me stories of why and how much they loved him.  One classmate, who has already told me bits and pieces about their trip out west, wanted to tell me stories about my brother and the women he met on the trip.  I still don't want to know that!  I only had to tell a couple people that Glenn had died, for which I was thankful. And I was thankful, too, for the good thoughts shared with me. I always joked that Glenn had more friends in the Class of 1971 than I did. 

Which brings me to the classmates who were not there and who will never be back again.  I remember the first few years when a table held red roses (donated by the father of one of our classmates killed in a car accident) and a 5x7 picture frame with the names of those who were gone.  This year there were two sheets of poster paper with names and pictures of classmates who have passed away.  I was in for some big shocks as many people I remembered fondly were gone. People I had hoped to see, gone.  I left the table and then returned three times to try to gradually absorb all the names. That's when the whole concept of fifty years truly hit home.

Yes, the pretty and popular girls were there. No, they didn't get fat and ugly, they are still pretty.  And they are nice. Easy to talk to. Happy to be there.  I have to say that most of them were easily recognizable. I told Janice R. she still looked like a kid, and I meant it!  Bonnie D. is still just as cute as can be. I don't think Kitty H. will ever age. But the person who surprised me most was one of the quiet beautiful prom queens. I remember her as a petite blonde long-haired prom queen who wasn't much of a smiley person, and didn't have the time of day for me. She's seems tall now (why did I remember her as so small?) and outgoing, with a big smile, and she remembered me and was happy to greet me. Repeatedly. Because  I kept forgetting who she was since she looked so different. Ha ha ha. We laughed. 

There was dancing that night. The dancing girls were on the floor. I used to dance all the time because Marianne Y. would pull me onto the dance floor.  But, she was on the poster board, and not there to drag me out.  So, I watched the fun girls dance.  And I fastened my eyes on one guy. My secret crush, ah, maybe not too secret. The kind-hearted guy who I think has aged well  and is still adorable.  And I watched him dance with the dancing girls as I sat in my chair  and wished he'd pull me onto the dance floor.

My fiftieth reunion.  So much has changed. Some things remain the same. Looking forward to fifty-five! Classmates, if you're not on the poster board, be there. You'll be surprised at the fun you have.

My Thoughts on Texas and Abortion

 I watch the news. One thing that has appalled me is the glee with which the Texan republican lawmakers passed their recent abortion bill/abomination.

There is no denying that this law is meant as punishment for women who have had sex. If not, why is no thought given to the other half of the equation? No reparations. No responsibility. No jail time for them. No "punishment." No acknowledgement of the male except in a proprietary position - the rapist who can claim visitation rites, the neighborhood guy who gets a kick out of seeing how many babies he can father and who thinks a box of diapers is support, and so on.

These same male lawmakers who believe it is their "Christian" duty to force women to do with their bodies what they (men) believe is right, are the same men fighting against wearing a mask because it's their body and their decision. Huh? Why does that battle cry not apply to women and their bodies? How can anyone not recognize the hypocrisy of these so-called men? Why are all women in 2021 not standing up and fighting this insult to their autonomy?

You know what really happens when laws like these challenge Roe vs Wade? Women don't stop having sex. Or getting raped. Or getting sexually abused by members of their own families. Women seek out illegal abortions. Frequently they die from those backstreet abortions, and it's a very painful death. However, make no mistake about it, the need for abortion will not be legislated into oblivion. I know women who had abortions and now they stand on the side of anti-abortionists because they've "learned better." Dear women, how do you forget your panic? your need? How can you deny this option to other women? What have you actually learned?

Please, don't cry for those "poor babies." Those babies are safely with Jesus. Yes, Christians who are so worried about the babies: their. souls. are. with. Jesus.

The real poor babies are the unwanted ones, the ones born into poverty, the trafficked children, the abused children, and the hungry children...hungry because lawmakers believe cutting their benefits will force their parents to work. Be truthful - do any of you who are so appalled about abortion do anything to help the children in poverty? to care for the abandoned and unloved? These poor children are not with Jesus; they are in hell.

I hope in 2021 our lawmakers come to their senses. I hope in 2021 women realize they deserve to make their own decisions about their bodies. I hope for a miracle.

2020 A Year for the Books

 Literally, 2020 was a year for the books.  The last time I read so many books was when I bought my house and I was too poor to go anywhere or do anything else. I love to read, but not necessarily when it's forced upon me as it was this year.

2020 was rough on this country and rough on the world. The Covid-19 virus crippled us in ways we'd never seen before.  Businesses died. People lost jobs and homes. Hospitals were overwhelmed, their staffs exhausted beyond anything previously experienced. Schools closed and opened, then closed and opened again with teachers doing the best they could with little in the way of helpful direction. Zoom communications replaced physical contact, for those who could figure out the technology. Tempers flared. Fights over mask wearing put shoppers and store staff in danger. Riots broke out, each "side" blaming the other "side." People died. Alone. People survived. Alone. Our government did little, if anything, to alleviate our fears, our struggles, our loneliness.

As bad as it was, 2020 was NOT the worst year of my life. That honor goes to the year I broke my leg and my mother died. The second worse year of my life? That was the year my brother died. The third worse year of my life was the year I bought my house, experienced a vicious group of parents determined to get me fired, determined (and successful) at making my life miserable, and the terrible depression I waded through. So, in perspective, 2020 runs as the fourth worst year of my life. Heck, fourth place barely gets an honorable mention in the contest of the worst possible year.

I hope this year is much better for all of us.  I have hope in a new administration and some humanitarianism returning to our government.  I have hope that vaccines become available to all and put an end to the deadly hold Covid has on the world. I have hope that I'll play trivia again, hug my friends again, return to art classes again, act in a play again, and travel again. 

I need to get back to Key West and have another reading with the gentleman who read my cards. He predicted this year's setback. He wasn't quite sure what he was seeing, but he told me I'd survive it. I have hope that he'll read my cards again with much more optimism. 

2020 ends tonight. I have hopes that its bad karma goes with it. Happy New Year everybody. May you live to enjoy it.

For Delilah's Daddies

Recently, two of my friends had to put down their dog when it became painfully obvious that she could no longer enjoy life on this Earth.  Though the kind and loving action had to be taken, my friends were suffering as they did it.  They are missing her terribly. The void is a physical pain. Yet, Larry confessed to me, he had peeked at Petfinders.com. Was he a terrible person?

Hell to the no!

I lost my first dog, Lucy the Wonderdog, this month some fifteen or so years ago.  I didn't think I could ever recover, yet alone love another dog. Then, I saw Trixie at F.A.R.M. (Fallston Animal Rescue) Her picture called to me, so I went to get her. She was mine. And I didn't know what to do with her. I felt disloyal to Lucy.  Could Lucy see that I "easily" replaced her? How dare I love this new dog when I hadn't finished mourning my last dog. Why had I done this?  Trixie used to look at the picture of Lucy that I framed and placed on top of a cabinet in my living room.  It gave me the creeps. Why that picture? Did she know something I didn't know?  One day I was in the back room, and I heard something crash.  It was Lucy's picture. It had fallen off the shelf. By itself. For no obvious reason. The other pictures beside it were still on the shelf where they'd always been. Trixie sat beside me, looking at it and then at me. I am convinced that Lucy wanted me to know she was still with me. And, I believe, she wanted me to know it was ok that Trixie came to live with me. I mean, the picture didn't fall and smash my new dog on the head, did it?  So, there you go.

I had fifteen wonderful years with Trixie before I had to let her go. That was it. I knew I was done with dogs as I didn't think I could survive that pain again. But, like Larry, I couldn't resist peeking at Petfinder. It was a month before I saw her picture, but I felt Winnie calling to me to come get her.  I adopted her and wondered, again, what the heck had gotten into me. To say this dog was quirky was an understatement. And, she wasn't housebroken. What had I done? Why? One night as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard her in the kitchen. I figured she was getting a drink (and then going to pee on the kitchen floor once again). Sighing, I tiredly decided to just clean it up in the morning.  She padded down the hallway, got to the bottom of my bed, and then just stopped. I patted the bed, and when she still didn't jump up, I sat up to see what was going on. Nobody was at the bottom of the bed. Winnie was where she'd been the whole time, sleeping soundly at my side. I got chills. I knew that I'd had a visit from Trixie. She'd investigated and decided all was ok with the new dog. So, there you go.

My message to Larry and Mark, and all people who lose their beloved pets: Don't hesitate to rescue again. Our animals don't want us to be alone. Our animals know the pain of abandonment and the joy of adoption.  They want us to share this love again.  

So, there you go.

 

I'm Not Anne Frank

I'm not Anne Frank.  Anne Frank hid in an attic with seven other people for two years. Two years of never leaving the house, of never inhaling fresh air and turning her face up to the sun, of never enjoying the freedom of a walk in the park with friends.  No, I'm not Anne Frank. I have sheltered at home for almost three months, and my spirits have been so low that I have to compare my experience to hers to feel a little better. Pretty pathetic, huh?

I am the poster child for social distancing.  I can just take so much peopling and then I have to retreat to my home for however long it takes me to rejuvenate.  Sometimes, it can take a while.  But three months of isolation has taken its toll on me. Everything hurts on me because I don't exercise. Walking my dog makes my back ache. Deep cleaning the bathroom requires a nap.  My eating habits are atrocious.  I began this experience with the intention of cooking lean, healthy meals. Somehow I got hooked on cheezies and peppermint patties; the hell with veggies and protein.  The eleven pounds I recently lost were back when I last checked. Yard work? Every time I gathered the energy, it poured. So, no trimmed evergreens for me.  My play was canceled before the first rehearsal. The trip to NYC was canceled when  Broadway went dark. And so on. And so on. And so on.

Depressed? Yes, safe to say I am.  I'm not alone.  The seniors of the Class of 2020 lost out on the "senior year experience." My dog groomer's business folded during the pandemically forced closure. The people coming to my church's food pantry are really suffering.  Many new clients join us every Friday lamenting the loss of jobs, the inability to pay bills, and facing the embarrassment of needing help. Some of our clients have suffered drastically because their AA and NA meetings aren't happening.  Many of our regulars are MIA and we worry about them.  Some of our clients are taking out their anger and frustration on us. They fight us about wearing masks. They complain about waiting in line six feet away from the nearest neighbor. One even called me a motherf--, well, you get the idea. It's been tough. People have lost loved ones and were unable to hold or attend funerals.   I have a friend whose sister is hospitalized for dementia, and J. believes she may never see her sister again.  Teachers and students were thrust into a world of on-line schooling that no one planned or trained for. In many situations, the stress of schooling exacerbated tensions already existing between parents, teachers, and students. The world is a mess. Bodies pile up in refrigerated trucks. ICUs are full to capacity. There aren't enough ventilators or even protective gloves and masks to properly equip our tireless medical personnel. Our president jokes about injecting bleach to curtail the virus. He advocates taking a drug that has not been proven to help, but in which he has a financial interest.  He threatens to cut supplies to governors who don't kiss his ass. Leadership? What leadership have we had during this pandemic?  Listening to the president's "news briefs" has been unnerving for most of the world.

Optimists like to say that this emergency has brought out the best in us. I guess I'm not an optimist.

The news is full of violence.  Angry groups of people scream and threaten (with weapons brought into government buildings ) the lives of governors failing to reopen America quickly enough for them.  A black man is murdered by a policeman kneeling on his neck, and that action leads to rioting.  Farmers dump milk they can't sell, putting their futures in jeopardy. People spit on fruits and vegetables causing grocery stores to destroy produce. Citizens show their distain for those of us wearing masks by spitting and coughing on the mask wearers. They claim the government has no "right" to require its citizens to wear masks. Really? Any society, even an American society, has rules and regulations established supposedly for the good of the citizens. Your rights are being denied? Maybe you need to take another look at the rights you're so sure you're entitled to have. Even the things that started out well have soured.  A Facebook group of wine fairies secretly gifted each other with bottles of wine mysteriously left on porches. That went south fast with bottles being stolen from porches and people whining (pun intended) that nobody fairied them. Or posted pictures to thank them for the good deed. The automobile parades past birthday peoples' houses have dwindled and folks are even complaining they can't get enough interest in their parade, or why won't someone do a parade for them???  The happy, optimistic this-is-what-we-did-today Facebook posts have stopped as people seem to have run out of happy optimism.  I am weary. I'm told I don't pray enough; I don't trust God. Well, God gave mankind the "gift" of free will. He probably weeps as He watches how we use it.

No, I am not in hiding because I fear the Nazis taking my life. However, while I am self-isolating, I do fear for my life.  The obvious fear? I am the exact target of this nasty virus that has killed over 100,000 Americans. And too many Americans have said that the extinction of the elderly, aka the weak, is an acceptable consequence for reopening the bars, the restaurants, the beaches, the parks. I constantly mourn the America we've become, and wonder if things will ever go back to the way they were. And then I'm stopped dead in my tracks.  Will we ever go back to the way we were, or is this who we have been all along?  Or, and this is a chilling thought, will things get worse?

Can Covid-19 bring out the best in us?  Will it teach us lessons about what is really important? Will it leave us permanently changed, selfish, and/or vulnerable in a not-so-good way?  Will it reveal who we are deep down when we think no one can see us?  Will our world become "A Clockwork Orange?"  Will we continue to hoard toilet paper?

I have run out of words. So, let me leave you with words from the expert in social isolation, Anne Frank.

“In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.”

2019

I was talking life/politics with one of my like-minded friends.  I told her that it bothers me that I feel such pain due to the horribleness in the world: trump, floods, school shootings, trump, children caged and separated from their parents, racism,  trump, trump, trump.  Why can others just ignore the injustices of the world and pretend they don't exist?  What is wrong with them? Or should the question be, what is wrong with me?  So with this blog,  I decided to force myself to focus on things that made me smile this year, to realize that not all is trump-trash. Life can be good. So here goes.  In no particular order, a recap of the Happy of 2019.

1.  The Full Monty. This was the most exciting theatrical experience I've ever had. I actually sang a solo, on stage, in front of a big audience.  I was funny. I got lots of laughs and rounds of applause.  I held my own with theatre professionals, and hopefully earned their respect. I met new and wonderful people. At sixty-six years old, I accomplished a milestone when I thought all of my milestones were over.

2. Flowers.  I am still thrilled that my former student, Martice Huff, sent flowers to me on opening night.  I taught seventh grade; do you realize how long ago it was that he was in my classroom?  To have a former student remember me so fondly warms my heart which too often feels cold. And who can forget flowers on my birthday? Thank you always Ronnie and Lou. You're the best!

3. Hamilton.  How lucky am I that the Cohens had an extra ticket to this Broadway show and they chose me to go see it with them?

4.  Surgery. I had my thyroid removed this summer.  Surgery went well, recovery was swift, my sister took care of me, and I did not have cancer!!

5. Visitors.  My dear, dear high school friend and her husband came to visit. It has been at least ten years since I last saw Cathy Beaver, and yet, we were as close as if no time had passed.  It's FUN to show off Havre de Grace. They got a Barbara S. Special Maryland Tour, and it was wonderful. I realized as I showed off my hometown (well, technically I reside in Ceciltucky; but my heart resides in Havre de Grace) how proud I am of where I live. And, how lucky I am that this part of the world is where I landed.

6. St. John's Food Cupboard.  I work this Cupboard every Friday.  Sometimes I dread getting up and going over, wondering what problems are going to give me a headache that day.  I leave every Friday feeling so full for having provided real help for people in need. Thank God this project has given me an insight and a personalization of a problem that plagues our country. I have a genuine compassion for those in need, and a chance to help in a meaningful way.  Our clients depend on us, and know we will help. We treat them respectfully and offer them dignity that they rarely get anywhere else. They worry about me - my aching knees, my cold hands and ears, my surgery - and they pray for me. They make me aware of blessings that I take for granted.

7. Winnie Poo Poo. My new dog has helped to heal my broken heart. She's got me walking because she won't do her business without a walk.  She has allowed me to become reacquainted with my old neighbors and she's helped me meet new ones. They may not always remember my name, but they always have a big hello for Winnie.

8. Gambling.  Once a week I join two friends, Sheila and Edith, for an evening at the casino. We have dinner and beer...cold, cold yummy beer.  I do ok. Sometimes I break even, lots of times I lose, once I won $500.  I like the slots. I like the lights, the bells, the whistles, and the absolute positive escape from the real world.  It's numbing, which is sometimes just what I need. I enjoy talking to people who are there for the fun. Sometimes I am entertained just watching and rooting for the big spenders. Whatever. I am Barbara. I like to gamble.

9. Key West. My family (and our extended family friends) took its second Thanksgiving trip to Key West this year.  We are so lucky to visit this paradise of sun, water, friendly people, glorious sunsets, entertainment, and margaritas. No matter what else happens or happened this year, what a joyous way to begin closing it up.

Blessings of the new year to you. Look for the good. And celebrate it.

Memories

"Memories, may be beautiful and yet. What's too painful to remember, we simply choose to forget." Cue Barbra Streisand and The Way We Were.

That song takes me back to Millersville State College, now known as Millersville University.  The movie came out in 1973, and it struck a chord with me. The frumpy, kinda loud, intelligent girl finally gets her man, the gorgeous blonde Robert Redford. However, they don't get their happily ever after. So damn unfair! The music always brings a tear to my eye. Ah memories.....  At sixty-six, I have more memories of adventures gone by, than I will ever have of adventures yet to come. Many of my fondest memories were of my college days and the people who wove that tapestry of my life. Often, I wonder what happened to these people I haven't seen in forty-four years.  So, I stalk them on Facebook. The guys especially, I stalk the guys.

Yesterday, one of my FB groups shared the tune Midnight at the Oasis and I immediately shot back to Millersville, 1974, and Mark Q.  Mark was an English major and in a number of my classes.  He was imposing, a big handsome long-haired blonde guy in his denim overalls, a sailor's cap, and his bushy mustache. I called him Captain Kangaroo or The Walrus because of that mustache. He thought I was a good ole gal, and he laughed with me. We were good buddies. One of my dearest memories was the night before his graduation.

Mark was a good student, but a procrastinator. He had a paper to write and turn in by midnight that night if he wanted to get his diploma the next day.  He asked to borrow my typewriter.  I had the cream of the crop of typewriters.  It was electric. It had a ribbon with correction tape built in, a luxury not everyone could afford. And all the keys worked.  When he came to my dorm to pick it up, he was happy to learn that I came with it.

In his room, we worked for hours. Intense hours. But, for this English major nerd, fun hours spent exchanging ideas, debating what to write, laughing in exhaustion, and spelling difficult words out loud. English student fun.  Some of the time, he'd write a section by hand and turn it over to me to type.  When he was typing, I'd relax on his bed, pillows propped up against the wall as I flipped through his Playboy magazines.  Then I'd go back to typing.  Later, when he proofread the paper, he had to manually correct the number of times I'd typed Gertrude Skin instead of Gertrude Stine.  Fun times. Maybe you had to be there?

By 11:00 pm we were finished. Then off to the library to make a copy.  Time was running out. We jumped in his VW Bug and headed into Lancaster to find his professor's house. Those were the days before GPS, and we were lost. At ten minutes before midnight, we found the dark house, stuck the brown envelope with the precious paper inside his door, rang the doorbell once, and drove off high-fiving our success.

Back on campus, he walked me and my typewriter home. I carried a gift he'd given me, a lamp he'd made himself. If any of you are old enough to remember the masking tape covered Matuese bottles that were shoe-polished to look like leather then you can picture the lamp. I treasured it for years. Mark graduated. I met his parents the next day. He said many wonderful things about me and we parted for what I believed would be the last time I'd ever see him.  It made me sad.

By now you're probably wondering why Midnight at the Oasis triggered that memory.  Simple. That summer he told me he'd be working at a dive bar at the Jersey shore called The Oasis.  A few weeks into the summer, I asked my friend Kay if she was up for an adventure. We decided to go to the Jersey shore, have fun on the beach, locate the bar, and surprise Mark. She drove and I navigated. We spent the day, and then the real fun began, finding the bar. Finally, we found it tucked away on an iffy street. It was closed. I was crushed. My crush was not there, and I knew I'd never see him again.

Driving home was bittersweet. We commiserated like girlfriends do. Eventually we were laughing and singing with the radio. And then I saw it. A Volkswagon Bug that looked exactly like Mark's. I screamed for Kay to pass it, but to slow down enough so I could get a look at the driver. It was Mark. He was as shocked to see me in the car next to him  as I was to see him. I rolled down the window and hung out of it, waving and yelling. He was pumping his arm in the air, honking his horn,  and waving frantically at me. Was this Kismet or what???? Then, he turned off the road to go one way, and we stayed straight to go our way.  And, that was the last I saw of Mark Q.

Back to stalking guys on Facebook. I found him. He has had a wonderful life with a beautiful wife, two handsome sons, a home in Florida, and a dream job at Universal. He still had his moustache! He looked great. Except that he wasn't great. The messages on his public page were condolences to his family on his passing in May, 2018.  How can someone who lives so vividly in my memory be gone?

So it's the laughter we will remember. Whenever we remember the way we were.

Stubborness

I am stubborn, especially when I think I'm right.  I come by this characteristic naturally (Mom), and it's been a part of me for a long time.

In second grade, a friend (Joan Nobile) gave me some little figurines right before our bathroom break.  I took those little guys with me, had a seat in the back stall, and played and played and played. It was a while before I discovered that I was alone.  I sheepishly walked into the classroom where my classmates were engaged in a workbook activity. The teacher, Mrs. "Nasty" Norris was furious  and after yelling at me for what felt like an eternity, she sentenced me to stand in the corner during recess for one week.  The next day was rainy so the class played indoor games.  Carol Marshall ( the Nelly Olsen of my day) taunted me endlessly, and I decided that would be my last day in the corner.  The next day was rainy again, and I joined my friends playing a game. Carol was furious that I could be so defiant, and she ratted me out to the teacher who hadn't acknowledged the empty corner.  "Aren't you supposed to be in the corner?" asked Mrs. Nasty. I stared her down and said nothing in response.  Either my look to kill or her realization that the punishment was excessive caused her to back down and she said, "Oh that was last week, wasn't it?"  I still refused to speak to her, but I nodded yes, went back to playing, and laughed to myself when the teacher shut Carol down and threatened her with a week in the corner for tattletaling.  I was glad the incident was resolved so easily because I knew I wasn't standing in that corner again and my second grade brain was frantically trying to figure out my next step.

In ninth grade my typing teacher, Mr. Storti, brought a sick student to the Health Suite and jokingly called himself "Super Sam."  He didn't know I was in the back room. So when I wrote a gossip-type column for the school newspaper, I hailed him a hero and shared the moniker with the school.  He was livid, and rather than talk to the teacher who oversaw the contents of the paper, he yelled at me in front of the class and assigned me a detention for the following day. Shades of second grade!  I wasn't serving that detention, no way in hell.  Two days later he made me stay after class and questioned my not showing up. I told him I was never going to serve that detention. He was flummoxed.  I was a good student, I did what I was told, and he knew I meant business. He sent me on to my next class and treated me horribly for the rest of the school year. I'm stubborn and he wasn't getting away with it. I bided my time.  When I graduated from high school with a college acceptance into Millersville's teaching program, I wrote him a letter that explained my desire to be a teacher and how my experience with him would guide me through the years as a prime example of what I would never, ever, ever do to a student. We crossed paths once after that letter, and he couldn't look me in the eye.

I don't know if I ever treated a student in a similarly unfair manner.  (If I did, feel free to write me a letter. I will grovel and apologize.) But,  my first year of teaching was  such a nightmare that I've blocked out many of the memories. I had no classroom management skills and learned on the job from my many mistakes.  Had I not been stubborn, I could not have survived that year. Dead bird in a baggie in my desk with the misspelled note "your next." Back the next day.  Called into the office to apologize to a student I sent to the office for his nine hundredth unexcused lateness. Back the next day.  Breaking out in hives when the kids hid my car keys that I sobbingly searched an hour for with Russell Barnes, our beloved custodian.  Back the next day. Birthday gift of a bag of garbage wrapped like a present and left on my desk. Back the next day. Called to the office to watch the assistant principal return a student's pen knife because he said he did not carve his initials into a desk, and she chose to believe him. Even though the initials were on his desk! Even though the whole class saw him! Back the next day. I was too stubborn to give up.  Too many young and naïve teachers don't survive their first year. Failure was not an option for me, so I stuck it out. I'm so glad I did!

I am now involved in another test of wills with my new dog, Winnie the Poop.  For eight years, she was allowed to do her business inside her owner's home on a pee pad.  I told her that those days were over, and I swear she said, "It's on."  Every day, four to eight times a day, the call of "Go pee" can be heard coming from my yard. Twenty minutes this morning, before coffee, in my nightgown and winter coat, we played Go Pee. She didn't.  I watch her constantly. She has a favorite spot by the back door.  My sneaky Stealth Shitter leaves me little logs proving that she is in it to win it. I have started giving her treats when she goes pee outside. She loves them, but still hasn't yet made the connection. She is the only dog I have ever walked who does nothing on top of the other dogs' scents.  I dread the days of nice weather when my words "Go pee dammit" will float into my neighbors' windows and send them running to the bathroom. This stubborn dog is a challenge, but I will win.  I have many more years of stubbornness on her. I taught middle school for thirty long years. Chew on that Winnie because you will learn to "Go pee" and you will like it.

Life post Trixie

It's been three weeks now.  Three weeks since a vet appointment for a consultation turned into a final goodbye. I guess I'm supposed to be over it, but I'm not.

Today my neighbor was walking her dogs. I stopped to chat a bit and pet her babies.  I told her that Trixie was gone, and she was very sad for me. I cried all the way to the grocery store. And, then I had to sit in the parking lot before I could pull myself together enough to run into the store for my snow storm supplies. I got all teary again in the pet food aisle. I had turned down there by habit.  Fifteen years of habit is hard to break.

My other neighbor has two dogs. I'm in love with the bulldog, but I'm not allowed to pet him anymore.  He wiggles under the fence for continued attention, and his owner gets pretty annoyed with me when his dog takes off. So, I just wave at his smiling, slobbering face.  And I go into my quiet house.

This weekend I went to my sister's house for the first time since Trixie passed.  I expected her two dogs to look all over for her, wondering why she wasn't with me. They didn't. My nieces have never even acknowledged that Trixie died. That's not surprising since it's a constant coming and going of pets in their house.  But I felt horrible the whole weekend. Looking at the kitchen couch reminded me that Trixie spent Christmas hiding under it and pretty much telling me her time was coming to an end. The back bedroom is cold, and I missed Trixie snuggling up to me to keep warm.  Helen's cats hate me, so no cuddles from them.

I hear noises in the house. I used to shrug them off and attribute the sounds to the dog. Now, I'm always wondering, what the hell's that?  I haven't figured out where to put her bed and bowls. Or maybe, I just won't hide them away because maybe, just maybe, another dog will use them.

I don't want another dog, or so I tell myself. I don't want the expense. The commitment. The mess. The work. All that responsibility. The possibility that I'll need to leave my home for a place that doesn't take dogs. The possibility that while she's healthy now, she is, after all eight years old....

I guess I should mention that I look at Petfinder all the time.  One of the dogs keeps calling my name.  She's eight years old, housebroken, loves kids and other animals, the whole bit.  She was well-loved and given up by an older woman who couldn't care for her anymore. But, she's a Pomeranian mix and looks like Trixie.  I stop there. There's no substitute for Trixie. I keep waiting for some family to snap her up, but every day she's still a picture on a computer screen. Her name is Sandy. She needs someone, but I don't know that it's me.

My heart is so broken.

It's hard to be old and alone.  Poor Sandy.... I hopes she gets adopted, soon.

So this is Christmas?

It hasn't felt very "Christmassy" this year. Maybe it's the rain. This has been the rainiest year on record for our area. We've had cold rain, warm rain, flooding rain, misty rain, blowing rain, pounding rain, monsoon rain. Snow is what makes me want to play Christmas music, bake cookies, and write Christmas cards. Not rain. I got a few Christmas cards written. I feel sort of guilty because the cards I received are from people who did not make my list this year. Honestly, I apologize. I don't really have a list, I just write 'em as I go along, usually alphabetically through my address book. Until I just stop. My dog has been sick. Really sick. She has dementia. Most of the time, she has no idea who I am. She bites me if I try to cuddle her or simply pick her up. I can't let her outside to do her business because she runs away and gets lost. Then I have to trudge through the mud to rescue her. I now put her on a retractable leash and stay outside with her as long as I can stand it in the rain. She runs all over the yard, and then comes inside to do her business. I haven't decorated this year, but I have spot cleaned my carpet over and over again. I did not make the arrangements to have lunch with two teacher friends I have lunched with every December for at least twenty years. How did that happen????? Television usually gets me feelin' the season. But not this year. Today I was hoping to watch classic Christmas movies all afternoon. After all, it is the Saturday before Christmas. Nothing! No Scrooge, no Natalie Wood discovering Santa, no George Bailey teaching ZuZu about angels, bells, and wings. Nothing except repeated repeats of the generic Hallmark holiday movie. Even the commercials are disappointing. Where are the heart-rending service people coming home to surprise their families who are drinking their morning coffee? Where are the young couples and their angelic children decorating their curmudgeonly neighbor's house with the goodies they bought at Target or some place like that? Where are the singing and dancing chunky women from last year's uplifting Big Lots commercials? It's like businesses are afraid to make a big deal out of Christmas for some reason. Not all businesses though. If we were to believe the ads this year, everybody is getting a car or two for the holidays. I have to admit, I rarely get invited to Christmas parties. So the dearth of dress up events doesn't surprise me. But heck, I haven't even seen a lot of pictures on Facebook of all the parties I didn't get invited to. Are you all not partying this year? Thank goodness for my trivia team; at least I had the chance to wear my new-to-me ugly Christmas sweater to our last competition. We came in first. I must admit that felt like Christmas after our losing season. In a couple of days I'll be at my sister's place. She has decorated her house, put up a tree, and baked my mother's snowball cookies for me. We'll do our traditional Christmas Eve dinner and a movie at the theater. There will be a full house of people I like on Tuesday and then again on Wednesday. My nieces are a lot of fun, and shopping for them was easy. Reba wanted gummy bears and maraschino cherries. Billie texted me the link to the shirt she wanted. Easy peasy. I'll get to meet their new cat. Yes, they have a third cat because, hey, you can never have enough pets. Hopefully, I'll be able to blame some of Trixie's accidents on one of her two dogs or even on one of the three cats. I will enjoy reading their Christmas cards and not feeling guilty because none of those people expected a card from me. I'll eat turkey and my mom's twice-baked potatoes. Yum! Christmas food....Hey, I'm starting to cheer up! Happy HOLIDAYS to all of you!! Best wishes for a healthy and blessed new year!! And may the Mueller investigation make 2019 a year to celebrate!

Casual Chic

I have two sets of relatives. My father's side lives in Toledo, Ohio.  They are all either dead or in jail. I know because I paid some internet site $20 to let me look up their arrest records.  We haven't seen them since childhood.  My mother's side lives in Philadelphia, so we see them a little more often.  They are the wealthy side of the family.  My cousins are big-time lawyers and very important in their fields. I know because they attended a garden party in London hosted  by Her Majesty the Queen and her son. (Prince Charles and my cousin made small talk about their similar-in-age sons.) My cousins' sons are also highly educated and very successful. The younger son is CEO of his own clothing company. And he's the reason for this blog.  We were invited to a party to congratulate him and his wife-to-be, a well-known actress/singer whose first name rhymes with the Spanish word for day and who shares the second part of her name with a much beloved First Lady.  I can't wait to see the relatives again and meet my famous cousin-to-be, but there is a dress code for this event and I don't know if I can meet it.

Casual chic.  What the hell does that mean?  I know what it means for those who travel in my cousins' circle.  Expensive pants, most likely jeans. Fancy and very expensive blouse or sweater of some kind.  Maybe a very expensive jacket.  The kinds of clothes my cousin sells where one piece of casual chic costs anywhere between $200 - $1000+.  All of this is topped off by high heels, preferably the kind with bright red soles. The impression given by a casual chic outfit should be expensive, slim, fashionable, slim, carefree, slim.  Yes, that's casual chic for the Philadelphia crowd, but what about me?

I mostly shop the clearance racks.  I look at the price before I decide to try something on. Then I look above the rack to see if there's a sign indicating a further discount. I've purchased some very nice pieces that way.  In fact, I found a number of things in my closet that I considered wearing to the party. I have a beautiful gold blouse with a mandarin collar. I love it and wear it on special occasions. In fact, I've worn it for the past fifteen years of special occasions. I have it on in the picture for this blog.  I have a few other beautiful seldom worn blouses that might have fit the bill if they weren't  between ten and twenty years old. I recognized that I would need something new for this event.  But what? My clothing style is "small town teacher."  Most of you are familiar with that style; recognizing it helps you pick the teachers out of the crowd. That can be a fun game to play while people watching. But I digress; today I went shopping.

At my favorite store for finding something chichi and elegant, I was beyond disappointed.  They've gone the casual route, but not the casual chic route.  I did find some pants, and that's a major achievement for me since I am only 5' tall and probably about as round as I am tall.   I treated myself to a sweater with cardinals decorating it, and I paid full price (oh what a spendthrift desperation turns me into).  I debated a particular blouse for the evening event.  I couldn't tell if it was pretty on me or something pretty a ninety year old would wear.  It was on sale, so I bought it of course.  I'll ask my niece what she thinks of it. She's brutally honest about my ugly  clothes.

Deciding to step up my game, I went to Macy's.  I tried on all the sale items that might have worked.  They didn't.  Then I found it, a 2-piece shell and jacket the color of birch trees in the sparkling snow.  It too was on sale, $160 reduced to $xxx.  I can't remember the last time I spent that kind of money on a shirt.  So I scoured the store, determined to find something spectacular for 2/3 the cost.  I learned that spectacular doesn't come at 2/3 the cost and I was lucky to have found what I did.  For fifteen minutes, I debated buying it because not only was it too expensive, but it had shoulder pads.  (I had nixed anything in my closet with shoulder pads as giving away their time period, the days of TV's Dynasty.)  Here was something brand new and it had those damn shoulder pads.  I bought it.  I will take them out and hopefully not destroy the lines of the jacket.  And while I won't be a 2018 version of the girls from Sex in the City, I'm hoping I'll be chic enough not to look like the county bumpkin I am.

I doubt we'll be invited to the wedding.  That will be a Hollywood extravaganza filling a few pages in People magazine.  The stress to find something to wear in People magazine would probably require me to hire a stylist. And that is definitely not in my clothing budget.

My Old Dog

When my little Lucy Dogge died, I didn't ever think I could have another dog. The pain of putting her down was agonizing.  However, three months later I adopted Trixie.  We've had a wonderful fifteen years together, but I am girding myself for the inevitable.  My old girl is just that, old.

She's  had quite a few health scares.  One night she got drunk on my airline sized liquor samples.  Back in the old days, you were given (for free) more booze than you could drink. So, I would bring them home to drink later. Later never happened, and  Trixie had a one-dog party during a PTA night. Then I had a night of running her outside every time I heard that earping sound.  Another time, her love of anything peppermint caused her to devour my dental floss. The first time it happened, I got home (from another PTA night) to hear her choking.  Just in time, I was able to pull the floss out of her.  It was similar to how a magician pulls a string of handkerchiefs from his pocket.  I thought that line of floss would never end! Since neither of us learned our lesson the first time, Trixie once again had access to my dental floss. This time she ate it, container and all, resulting in surgery and thousands of dollars in medical bills.  Since then she's had Cushings disease diagnosed and she also lives with congestive heart failure.  Neither of those conditions seemed to slow her down, but old age is a different story.

Dogs get skinny when they get old.  Trixie eats, and she eats well.  I buy her a roasted chicken once a week.  But, she doesn't put on an ounce.  My girl should weigh between twenty and twenty-two pounds; she barely weighs in at thirteen. Getting her groomed turns her into a walking skeleton.  She is arthritic and those old bones hurt her.  When she shows me her pain, I give her the pain pills the vet has provided. They bring her relief. I hope.

She seems to have dementia.  I have actually watched her walk into a corner and be unable to turn herself around.  She will sit motionless and stare into the hall at nothing. Well, nothing that I can see. She will pace endlessly until eventually she settles down, only to get up and pace some more.  It is annoying.  It is unnerving.  But it is really heartbreaking when I go to pick her up, and she is confused as to who I am.  She tries to bite me.  She struggles to escape my hug.  She is confused. She winces when I approach her to pet her head.  I think that's because she can't see. Or hear. I hope it's not because her head hurts.

She sleeps in the bed snuggled up to me.  I've had to put pillows in the gap between my bed and the wall because she falls off and can't get herself out of there. And she cries when she falls, so the pillows soften the blow.  I think she takes up more of the bed than I do, but she hasn't fallen lately. In the morning, I've started carrying her outside as soon as she wakes up because the old girl doesn't always find her way to the door in time. 

I am no longer able to board her. She's so frail, the confusion could/would kill her.  So Trixie and I will be spending Thanksgiving together here in Maryland while the rest of the family goes to the Poconos.  I'm sure she'll enjoy some turkey (or cashew butter and jelly) as much as she does her chicken. 

Yes, she's old, 105 in human years. But, she still gets excited when I come in the back door.  I could be gone for as long as it takes to get the mail, and she greets me as if I'm returning from a long journey.  She knows when I'm yelling at the television, and she sits at my feet to calm me down.  She actually jumps for joy because she loves me that much, well, me or the morsel of food in my hand.   Nobody else loves me that much. She still has spurts of energy when she runs across the lawn like a puppy.  She's still happy to greet visitors to the house.  Yes, she's still happy.  Lucy taught me how to be a loving mom when the pup is no longer happy.  The day's coming, I know that.  But it's not today. And I know that too.

an electric blanket memory

It's Autumn. It's getting cold.  It's time to put the electric blanket on the bed.  And it's time to remember a little story that still makes me laugh when I think of it.

Many, many years ago,  I worked as a teacher's aide at a wonderful middle school in Glen Rock, PA. The teacher was my friend Glenda Penigar, and we worked as reading instructors. I loved working at that school, with those kids, and with that amazing faculty.

Glenda and I did a lot of functional reading lessons with the kids.  One day we were teaching the kids to read catalogs and order merchandise.  Part of their lesson was to order gifts for friends, family, and their teachers.  Then they had to total up their costs and correctly complete the order form.  To exercise their writing skills, they needed to explain why they selected the particular gifts for each person. Glenda and I were gifted many household appliances.  But, I remember how one of the boys ordered an electric blanket for me.  His reasoning? He decided that since Miss Snyder was all alone she needed something to snuggle up with and keep her warm at night.

So, as I put my electric blanket on my bed, I remember that story from 40+ years ago.  And I chuckle.  I can see the kid's face, but I can't remember his name.

This is a teacher's life.  Kids stay with us forever.  They warm our hearts as well as electric blankets warm our bodies.

Why I'll Probably Be Single the Rest of My Damn Life

Today I had the urge to buy an air pressure gauge.  My tires have sounded kind of squeaky lately, and after researching how to use one on YouTube, I decided it was time to buy one.

I took a run to the neighborhood Wally World, and headed to the automotive department.  There I saw the gauges hanging from hooks way over my head. I was able to swat one down, but the one I wanted to compare it to, eluded me.

And then there he was. A nice man helping me out.  He was around my age, full head of silvery hair, built on the stocky (ok, really stocky) side, nicely dressed, neat and clean, all of his teeth, no MAGA hat, and no wedding ring. Just my type.

So, I compared the two gauges. When I turned to rehang the one I didn't want, Mr. Nice Guy was still there.  He was chucking a little and said he waited because I might need help again. I smiled and as I thanked him, I gently touched his arm. He did not recoil, in fact he smiled even bigger. I took off.

It wasn't until I was driving home that I realized he had been flirting with me.

Now a normal person would have known what to do.  A normal person might have said something like, Do you always come here to rescue short women in distress? or Now, let's hope I know how to use this thing or Do you hire out? I have a lightbulb at home I'm too short to change or even, and maybe most importantly I'll bet your wife really appreciates your help around the house. But no, I just turned and ran.

And that is why I will probably forever remain single.  If there really is a man out there for me, he's going to have to hit me on the head with a club and drag me off into the sunset by my hair.

Boys will be boys...like hell

We are living in confusing times.  Our country's president is an accused rapist, a philanderer, and a man who believes that if you're famous enough and rich enough you can grab whomever you want whenever you want.  His nominee for Supreme Court justice has been accused of attempted rape and is trying to make the country believe he has a calendar from his high school years that proves he wasn't at said party; and even if he was, he was a virgin all through high school and college.  Everybody's television father was just branded a dangerous sex offender and at eighty-one, he's going to jail for drugging and raping one woman. His conviction feels like vindication to the sixty other accusers whom either his lawyers or the statute of limitations discouraged from pursuing him for the same crime.  A college swimmer raped  an unconscious woman at a dumpster and the judge felt regretful for giving him a six month jail sentence because it could ruin his life. Need I continue?

The women coming forward are brave. Many have waited years to speak up. More have continued to hide their shame at the expense of their mental and physical health.  They know they won't be believed. Women know they will be skewered for turning allegations into court cases.  People, specifically men, with far more money and power than those women will ever have, will virtually rape them again.  Their characters, their pasts, their mere existences will be shredded in the courts and the quasi-courts of Facebook.

Facebook people make me sick.  People who worship a president who has bragged about forcing himself on women but ignore his acts because they believe he has been cleansed of his sins, are some of the worst. People blaming women for going to parties, accepting invitations for a nightcap, wearing provocative clothing run a close second.  People sharing memes discrediting  the seriousness of the #MeToo movement meet with a 'Block this User' from me.  A woman of my generation gave me a ration of FB crap when she claimed that young women need to keep their knees together and I shot back that young men need to stop trying to pry them apart.

I joined a sorority in college and went to a lot of parties.  I met a lot of guys at these parties, and most of them were pretty drunk by the end of the night.  I heard all kinds of stories about what was going on in the bedrooms, but I rarely had trouble making "no" clear to the few who pushed my boundaries.  My sense of self preservation has always been strong. Frat parties could be fun times to explore drinking, dancing, kissing, and more kissing, and well, more.  Until we went to a party at a neighboring university.

The frat arranged for a car to bring us over; the driver was a really nice guy. I thought. Upon entering the house, there were a few stairs that led to a long hallway that led to the party room and the beer.  Lining both sides of the hallway were leering brothers who laughed and groped us as they forced us to slowly walk single file down the hall. I don't mean unwanted arms around the shoulders, I mean hands on my crotch, my butt, and my breasts. I was furious and demanded the driver return me (the other women weren't upset) to my dorm.  And that really nice guy laughed and said no.  So, I told my friends I was leaving and I would hitchhike home. (Well, it was the seventies.) Grudgingly they left with me, and we weren't too far from the frat house when a bunch of guys exited a dark parked car and started towards us. Now, I was terrified.  We ran into a neighborhood bar and called somebody's boyfriend to come get us.  My sorority friends were furious with me. Me. Not the guys who grabbed us or the strangers who threatened us. Me.  I will never forget the boyfriend. He was mad as hell, but not at us for dragging him out there. He was furious at the frat guys. It was then, and only then, that the women I was with finally understood that we had been mistreated.

We had a many talks after that.  Most of these girls had partied there before and gone through the gauntlet.  It was no big deal because, after all, boys will be boys and they do stuff like that. Nobody had been hurt. And then one woman spoke up and described how she'd been trapped in one of the bedrooms at a previous party.  How scared she was. How the guy blocked her from leaving the room. She didn't tell anybody because he passed out and she was able to escape, "unharmed."  So, she just avoided him at other parties. That was her solution. The fraternity wrote a letter of apology to our sorority. I don't remember what the others did, but I never went back.

Women think they need to be nice, to be polite. What women really need to be is smart.  They need to be taught that nobody has the right to touch them inappropriately, no matter how "nice" or drunk/harmless he appears to be.  They need to be taught that their "no" is as important as his "oh please baby, it's your fault I'm all worked up." They need to be taught to watch their drinks carefully, and not accept anything that wasn't opened in their presence. They need to be taught that their sexuality is every bit as raging as his, and they are entitled to enjoy it.  Enjoy it, not submit to it or lose control of it to one bigger and more powerful.  They should feel satisfied, not shamed. Men need to be taught and raised to understand what is acceptable "flirting" and what is unacceptable behavior, no matter what their gonads may be telling them. Men need to understand that many women are beginning to tell, even if it takes them twenty years. If they are truly good guys, then they will have nothing to worry about.

We are living in confusing times, no doubt about it.  We are living with issues as old as humanity. However, we are strong. We are educated.  We are women, hear us roar.  For we have begun screaming, and we will not stop until you listen. Until you hear us.  Until respect is mutual, a given. Not something fought for in the courts.

Our country elected a person who was recorded bragging about his exploits with women: You know I'm automatically attracted to beautiful -- I just start kissing them. It's like a magnet. Just kiss. I don't even wait. And when you're a star they let you do it. You can do anything... Grab them by the pussy. You can do anything.

Oh no you can't.