Grammy and her Little Lamb

Today is a beautiful day, warm for September. Drew and I decided a walk uptown was in order. It's only 4 blocks away, and I assumed it would give him fresh air, sunshine and enough exercise to wear him out. The walk up took about 10 minutes, and was amiable, albeit not fast enough to qualify on the cardiac scale even as a “mosey”. Drew's little legs are pretty short. We picked a red leaf, and then a summer flower, and rested on a bench, and walked along the top of a wall. We made note of the yellow hydrant and the red berries, with the long-ago teacher in me shouting out the colors like someone from a special needs bus. He also inexplicably listened to the side of a tree, and did his Radar O'Reilly imitation in the middle of an intersection.
We crossed the street looking BOTH ways each time, and by the time we got to CVS, I was a) carrying him and
b) had moved up to " DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!!" on the cardiac scale. Picked up my prescriptions and some M&Ms for bribing, and we moved toward our return home. Well, at least I did.

At 10:51 a.m., Drew was struck with the realization that he is a separate human being who is not at all smart enough to be afraid of being left behind. In fact, I think he rather relished the idea. He would stop, turn his back on me, and refuse to budge. He had to stop the first time to finish his lollipop from the bank lady, because apparently simultaneous walking and chewing on it was too challenging. Then he just did it because he COULD. Hands on hips, I swear he was giving me the bird behind his back. Even when I stepped out of sight, he was unfazed. Or I should say, unmoved. We repeated this excruciating game of “freezetag, Drew-style” half a dozen times on the way home. By the time we reached our block, I was pleading.... begging him to PLEASE, PLEASE follow me home. Undeterred, he stopped to listen to another tree. For a full three minutes. He could probably hear it growing. We were there long enough. People drove by and smiled indulgently. When we were still there when they were returning home, they were outright laughing and pointing. Look at the lady with the statue!!!

Mary had an easier time with her Little Lamb than I did with mine.

The Fall Line in Fashion

Okay, I have been WAY too serious in the previous blogs. Now is the time for some irony, which is my other favorite mode.

The British, keeping a poker-face all the way, have developed a hospital gown they advertise as an "Interfaith Gown". There appears to be some question as to the high demand for such an ensemble from members of the Church of England, or local Hebrew women's representatives. Make note of how the press carefully avoids calling anything from terrorists to hospital gowns "Islamic". Makes me chuckle.

"Do you think this makes me look fat?"

Betcha that baby has ties that completely close up in the back.

The Oval pans

Since she brought them home from a trip to Spain, I have coveted the oval pans that hung in the kitchen of a friend. I was never clear on what I would do with them, actually, I only knew that they symbolized someone I saw as cosmopolitan and sophisticated and real-deal that Martha Stewart would some day strive to be.

She was my mother's best friend, first. We met when I was 15 and she was in her 30's. It was the early 1960s and the transition had been made from "convenience food" to cuisine, with a nod to Jackie Kennedy and Julia Child. Whacking a can of Pillsbury on the edge of the counter was no longer cool. Elegance, grace and made-from-scratch with "fresh herbs" and "wine" were the order of the day. She had five kids, and a "modern" house had a cool stone pond and a flagstone patio. My mother worked, but Betty sunned on her deck. While my mother broiled steak, Betty simmered soups that perfumed the whole house with miraculous aromas. She would transplant little trees from the woods behind our house, and then come home and make pizza dough when NOBODY even ate pizza, much less make it from scratch. This was New England, for heaven's sake.

Through the years, she traveled abroad, living in Spain for a time, and in Majorca. She toured sections of a country over weeks when everyone else was trying to squeeze 7 countries into 9 days. At home, she was the ultimate hostess, laid back, gracious, unrushed, with everything artlessly spectacular. I adored her, and I really think I wanted to BE her.

So today, when she took down the oval pans, and invited me to take them home, along with with 8 or 9 bags full of who-knows-what. I accepted them with more than a little awe. She is 80 now, and leaving soon for her new home in an assisted living facility. The huge old house where my daughter had her wedding reception is being dismantled, and I am suddenly conscious of several things.

I can help her by accepting things that are precious to her, knowing I will give them a good home, use them and remember her each time I do. For that I am thankful. Sometimes our belongings symbolize a huge part of who we are.

I also now realize I don't want the damn pans to hang anywhere but from her pot rack, over her stove with the pot of continuously simmering sauce or soup. I owe her so much. She was my mentor, my own dear friend for decades, and her home is the last vestage of the time that will never come again.

Feelings

Once, I had a friend who continually forgot his wife's anniversary and birthday. I was still young enough to think she would want me to quietly remind him so he would do something. And one year, after reminding him, he bought her a scratch ticket. That was the last time I reminded him. But it stuck with me, this cluelessness. What is it with men and remembering, and being thoughtful, and not even feeling particularly contrite? Moreover, why are "sorry" and "thanks" so difficult for some men to utter?

Books have been written about the Mars/Venus quality of the man-woman relationship. Ya, I get it. I get the communications thing, where they are problem solvers, while we are comforted by just venting. Yet, some men ARE better about these things than others. That said, the sentimentality and importance women attach to certain meaningful dates and holidays may be considered aberrant by guys. After all, who buys the cards and gifts, bakes the cakes and throws the parties for most families? Not the man, for the most part. Ok, not EVER.

Some suggest maybe the effort of finding just the right gift has become too difficult in this time of prosperity. Most people find a way to buy whatever they really fancy, not needing to wait for holidays. It is true that I have about dispaired at buying for the dozen and a half youngsters on my Chistmas list, knowing how much they already have, how anxious their parents are to provide the top ten items on each kids wish list, and how short the time is before the novelty is gone and the gift cast aside. And all the affordable stuff is too mundane for the adults, and the expensive stuff is... well... too expensive.

I believe also that it is frustrating to buy something for someone we love only to find out it misses the mark by a small but significant percent. Our desires are so specific these days. We don't want a digital camera, we want a "Canon EOS Digital Rebel XT." With enough specifications, the pleasure of choosing a gift for someone becomes a problem. The cashmere sweater also needs to be 1) mauve, 2) cardigan, 3) flat buttons, not pearl with 4) set-in sleeves not raglan, and of course, 5) no shoulder pads. Suddenly your visit to the Mall transforms into an exercize in haystack diving!

So men have some grounds for frustration. But the scratch ticket alluded to above represents the other part. They don't GET that thoughtfulness gets more points than anything else. It borders on perverse, when they buy the first thing that they come across. "Easy for me" is THEIR first priority. And it usually shows.

Then comes the question of the things that become a Mexican standoff in a marriage. The "you can't make me because I think it is silly, even if you don't." For me, personally, gifts on holidays and birthday are a report card. Not getting one at all after sitting through a semester of classes and doing the assigned work feels worse than failing the class. At least an F shows you exist.

As a result there is considerable "sturm und drang" around here, half a dozen times a year. From Valentines Day through Christmas I see the occasions coming, and try to prepare against them. Sometimes I take a cue, and likewise ignore them, so as not to feel piqued when there is no exchange of flowery cards. Sometimes I pointedly do all the things.. just to show they matter. I celebrated his birthday until several years ago when I threw in the towel, and it genuinely didn't bother him one bit.

Bottom line, does anyone else have this happen, and what ways have you found to live with it?

Editing Out the "G" Word

This post refers to this article which you need to read first: http://tinyurl.com/e9ook

An article like this certainly points out the extremes that have been unleashed under the guise of "respect of another's religion." We were gullible when we, as a society, bought into political correctness, believing it would only keep racial epithets and disparaging jokes in check. Instead it has encouraged the agendas of those wishing to expunge God from the lexicon, on the basis that faith is offensive to others, along with bad breath and slurping one's soup.

The religious right has, of course, responded by making matters worse. They provide fodder for the other extreme whenever they attempt to stand up in this ungodly mudslide. Who knew that in a time when we are villified by religious extremists for our lack of morals, that we would simultaneously be slammed by those among us who hate religion for having too much?

I often harken back to the riddle:

"How do you eat an elephant?"
"One bite at a time."

And so it is with social change. Be careful of that innocuous bite that it is offered. Elephant sometimes has strings attached.

Queen Midas of Quotes

My file of quotations is my most treasured collection. It cost me nothing, takes up no space, yet never fails to make me smile. Combining my love of words with all their graceful nuances, and my delight at a clever turn-of-phrase which delivers far more than the sum of its parts, they come as close to perfection as I ever venture.

I have been struggling with a situation in my personal life that has really torn me up a lot considering I am not directly involved in it. I have been accused of being a push-over, too soft on people, and an all-around wuss. Long ago I decided my values would include being kinder and more forgiving to people than they might deserve, with the hope that when I truly screwed up, I might elicit better treatment than I should be owed. Hours of conversation have gone on about this particular situation, and finally I came to rest on a nice flat rock, just before the precipice. I need be okay leading my life according to my own values and not feel bad refusing to return fire in kind, especially if it is the antithesis of what I believe. I also need to understand that there are a lot of bruises to be endured in doing so; first, people don't understand; second, there may be a lot of disappointments, even possibly betrayal, and it will hurt.

So then, I ran into this quote today.... made my day! Someone understands!!

"The last, best fruit which comes to late perfection, even in the kindliest soul, is tenderness toward the hard, forbearance toward the unforbearing, warmth toward the cold, philanthropy toward the misanthropic."

Jean Paul Richter
(1763-1825, German novelist)

Random Amblings

The title "Random Amblings" was my first column in the Junior New Century Club newsletter, some --gasp-- thirty years ago. A ton of words have gone over the falls since then, some of them even written. I wrote a humor column back then, and a food column for a small chain of newspapers in the 1990s. Then last year, I tried my hand at a newsletter, which only ended when the problems of making it readable to all subscribers couldn't find a suitable solution.

So here we are, starting a blog. For those of you who have heard of "bloggers" but haven't experienced a blog, this is how it works. I post articles, photos, recipes, whatever interests me... and if you and I like the same things, you tune in periodically to read my newest entries. For some, a blog is most like a journal. In some cases blogs can become tediously egocentric. I will really, really try to refrain from that.

But that doesnt mean that I wont use this as a bully pulpit for issues that I feel passionate about.

The other thing about a blog, is that when you read an article, you can and should comment... yea or nay, or add any pertinent information or opinion. This allows for more balanced view, and keeps me from feeling like I am out here ALL ALONE!

So bear with me, as I find out whether I have enough information and opinion to keep a blog afloat. And if I start to whine, just cyber-smack me.