Dear You,
I cannot remember a time when I was happy to meet someone new. In social situations, even after all these decades, I feel awkward and out of my depth. I don't remember names, and I cannot tell you how often I've introduced myself to someone who looked instantly puzzled by it -- instantly I realize I should already know who this is.
The opposite is true for meeting new characters in books, and I am on an instant recognition basis with perhaps thousands of people, many of whom I've not encountered again in years and all of whom exist only in print. I open the cover of a new novel and am instantly on the lookout for the people who will be sharing their lives with me. I am sensitive to what they say, how they look, where they are, the ways they interact with others. I fill in blanks and anticipate their next moves. I love them.
The people I'm meeting today for the first time were created by Nina George in "The Little Paris Bookshop." Monsieur Jean Perdu and the people surrounding him in Paris began their lives, I believe, speaking German. Mercifully, I'm reading her book in an English translation and despite beginning it only a few hours ago, I'm about to pick up at Chapter 10.
Way too much has been written about the power of literature, and I certainly won't add anything to that here. If you, Dear Reader, also love books, you already know. Everyone else, I snobbishly believe, are to be pitied for all the worlds they have been missing. But I have lingered too long . . . I need to know what M. Perdu is about to do, now that he's on the verge of reading The Letter he'd tucked away, unopened, twenty years earlier. Please excuse me (I'm sorry I can't remember your name).
Saturday, May 21, 2016
Friday, April 8, 2016
Dear You,
I know, I know -- it's been awhile since I wrote something here. Busy, yes; hardly out of ideas! But I'm already off track.
The email from my high school class chronicler recently let me know that Joanne died -- the 38th member of BHS '60. I wasn't surprised; after a half century since we sat in those classrooms, it's to be expected. But it got me thinking . . .
Perhaps the first digits assigned to me (after my fingers and toes were counted) was my Social Securityerfff number. And since then, so many others I won't bother enumerating. Just add the credit cards, the driving license, addresses and phone numbers . . . you get the idea. Some change, and others don't last long enough to remember: "You're caller 7; your call will be answered in 27 more minutes. Please hold." "52? 52? May I help you? (this at the deli counter, where I've taken a number for faster service.)"
So it's come to this. When Bob sends out an eventual email about my demise (should he outlive me, of course!), I'll be assigned one last number. I hope it's a big one.
I know, I know -- it's been awhile since I wrote something here. Busy, yes; hardly out of ideas! But I'm already off track.
The email from my high school class chronicler recently let me know that Joanne died -- the 38th member of BHS '60. I wasn't surprised; after a half century since we sat in those classrooms, it's to be expected. But it got me thinking . . .
Perhaps the first digits assigned to me (after my fingers and toes were counted) was my Social Securityerfff number. And since then, so many others I won't bother enumerating. Just add the credit cards, the driving license, addresses and phone numbers . . . you get the idea. Some change, and others don't last long enough to remember: "You're caller 7; your call will be answered in 27 more minutes. Please hold." "52? 52? May I help you? (this at the deli counter, where I've taken a number for faster service.)"
So it's come to this. When Bob sends out an eventual email about my demise (should he outlive me, of course!), I'll be assigned one last number. I hope it's a big one.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Watch where you walk
Dear You,
Sitting in waiting rooms requires a certain level of patience, and I guess I can always use more practice. Generally I bring something to occupy my mind -- a newspaper, this morning, and often a book; but my iTouch is also useful if there's connectivity. I am not averse, however, to looking around and thinking my thoughts when other avenues are not possible.
This is why my attention was fixed on a dreadful pair of lime-green Crocs (I think I have the name right) covering the feet of the fellow across from me. I'd looked at his face, of course, and quickly determined that he had enjoyed rather too many french fries for one lifetime, and then -- avoiding the rudeness that accompanies discovered staring -- dropped my eyes to the floor. That's when I discovered the footwear.
I shall never be invited to participate in a fashion show, and I am well aware that my appearance in public never rises above Acceptable. Still. Those shoes really should never appear outside one's house unless one stays in the back yard to weed the roses or rotate the compost soil. Whatever impression this fellow, stuffed into his blue jeans, might have retained was surely lost at his first step outside this morning.
Sitting in waiting rooms requires a certain level of patience, and I guess I can always use more practice. Generally I bring something to occupy my mind -- a newspaper, this morning, and often a book; but my iTouch is also useful if there's connectivity. I am not averse, however, to looking around and thinking my thoughts when other avenues are not possible.
This is why my attention was fixed on a dreadful pair of lime-green Crocs (I think I have the name right) covering the feet of the fellow across from me. I'd looked at his face, of course, and quickly determined that he had enjoyed rather too many french fries for one lifetime, and then -- avoiding the rudeness that accompanies discovered staring -- dropped my eyes to the floor. That's when I discovered the footwear.
I shall never be invited to participate in a fashion show, and I am well aware that my appearance in public never rises above Acceptable. Still. Those shoes really should never appear outside one's house unless one stays in the back yard to weed the roses or rotate the compost soil. Whatever impression this fellow, stuffed into his blue jeans, might have retained was surely lost at his first step outside this morning.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Off With Its Limb
Dear You,
After nearly twenty years of mowing the grass around it, the tree had changed from an impediment to a stalwart and dependable friend. So it was a shock last Fall to turn the corner from the back of the house and find a major part of Shigawa (he was, after all, a flowering Japanese cherry tree) broken out and lying on the ground.
The piece that had given way was not just a small part -- near the trunk it was a foot or more in diameter, and the whole thing was easily thirty feet long.
As with any creature with a broken limb, I called a doctor. Bob came right away, appropriately for such an emergency, and as he surveyed the damage in his dry, tsk-tsk way, said there was nothing to be done but surgery. "Will he survive?" I asked.
More silent study, and finally, "Well, yes . . . but every tree has a lifespan, and this is a pretty old one." The next day the Assistants came, and in a few minutes cut and tended to the wound. At Christmas, I burned in the fireplace the portions they saved for me -- sort of a ritual, I guess, and wondered how the amputee would look come Spring.
Well, it's here, it's just as pretty as ever, and cutting the lawn was even a little easier today.
After nearly twenty years of mowing the grass around it, the tree had changed from an impediment to a stalwart and dependable friend. So it was a shock last Fall to turn the corner from the back of the house and find a major part of Shigawa (he was, after all, a flowering Japanese cherry tree) broken out and lying on the ground.
The piece that had given way was not just a small part -- near the trunk it was a foot or more in diameter, and the whole thing was easily thirty feet long.
As with any creature with a broken limb, I called a doctor. Bob came right away, appropriately for such an emergency, and as he surveyed the damage in his dry, tsk-tsk way, said there was nothing to be done but surgery. "Will he survive?" I asked.
More silent study, and finally, "Well, yes . . . but every tree has a lifespan, and this is a pretty old one." The next day the Assistants came, and in a few minutes cut and tended to the wound. At Christmas, I burned in the fireplace the portions they saved for me -- sort of a ritual, I guess, and wondered how the amputee would look come Spring.
Well, it's here, it's just as pretty as ever, and cutting the lawn was even a little easier today.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Culinary Adventure, the next chapter
Dear You,
A belated Father's Day gift arrived: six cedar plank steaks from my daughter. I'd never had one, but was still surprised these required no refrigeration. I saw there was a page of directions, but I never read directions, trusting on my intuitive gifts. Anyway, I put one on the grill, smothered in a nice sauce, and tried it.
Good thing I have excellent steak knives! As the package noted, it did taste strongly of cedar -- probably a kind of marinade, I judged -- but I simply wasn't able to finish the thing. And I took my time, including nearly finishing that nice bottle of zinfandel I opened while it was cooking. It's possible I'll try another one next week, probably lengthening the time of soaking in my own marinade and lowering the heat . . .
Anyway, my dentist says what damage I did can be fixed. And I'm hoping that my daughter gives more thought that I'm getting too old to chew tough food, and praying she will send something easier, like tenderloins, for my birthday. (Funny, I always thought they were called "flank steaks," but now that I've actually had one, I can understand why I was wrong.)
A belated Father's Day gift arrived: six cedar plank steaks from my daughter. I'd never had one, but was still surprised these required no refrigeration. I saw there was a page of directions, but I never read directions, trusting on my intuitive gifts. Anyway, I put one on the grill, smothered in a nice sauce, and tried it.
Good thing I have excellent steak knives! As the package noted, it did taste strongly of cedar -- probably a kind of marinade, I judged -- but I simply wasn't able to finish the thing. And I took my time, including nearly finishing that nice bottle of zinfandel I opened while it was cooking. It's possible I'll try another one next week, probably lengthening the time of soaking in my own marinade and lowering the heat . . .
Anyway, my dentist says what damage I did can be fixed. And I'm hoping that my daughter gives more thought that I'm getting too old to chew tough food, and praying she will send something easier, like tenderloins, for my birthday. (Funny, I always thought they were called "flank steaks," but now that I've actually had one, I can understand why I was wrong.)
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Vroom-VROOOOOOOOM
Dear You,
As it is wherever I've been, here in Florida between Tampa and Sarasota the nearest dump (excuse me, "landfill") is out of sight, in nobody's backyard, off the beaten track. I thought of that because the other evening I found myself AT the track.
It was a particularly chilly evening for Florida, even for February, and I was watching the light fade as I sat on the top level of the bleachers. Just ahead of me, across the path in front of the risers, was a double layer of chainlink, the top bent inward the way it is to prevent inmates from escaping their prison. This, my companion/guide -- a Racing True Believer -- explained was to "cut down on the rocks and dirt that will fly in our direction."
Just on the other side of the fence was the outer track, and to the left a little the platform where the guy with all those colorful flags would do his dance. The track is more like a D than an oval, for a reason I didn't really understand, but I nodded appreciatively during the explanation. And inside that track was a smaller one, raised just a little, with its own flagger-platform on the far side.
My eyes just then, however, were fixed on the dump on the other side of the track -- a long, flattened hill with black pipes snaking up and down, and big yellow machines parked at the top. To my eyes, everything in sight seemed dump-like: dirt, debris, gray clouds . . . even the audience. Except for the occasional colorful logo on a jacket, the clothing looked like work jeans and hoodies, not unlike that which the fellows wear while collecting the garbage at my curbside.
Many of the people in my view looked a bit like society's rejects -- the fellow with the mohawk, dangly earring and tattoos; the woman with the Raceway jacket, long bleached hair, cigarette -- although I hesitate to judge too harshly. Mohawk and I exchanged a pleasantry about the cold, and Bleach Blonde smiled when she looked my way. No doubt suburbanites with lawns and kids and paying their taxes.
I won't dawdle any longer. Noise, a blur of colors, air filled with dirt, and . . . yes, I was struck on the shoulder by a stone and in the stomach with a clod of dirt. Dinner in the stands was catered -- by me: hot dog, hamburger, fries and soda.
Altogether an almost palatable evening.
As it is wherever I've been, here in Florida between Tampa and Sarasota the nearest dump (excuse me, "landfill") is out of sight, in nobody's backyard, off the beaten track. I thought of that because the other evening I found myself AT the track.
It was a particularly chilly evening for Florida, even for February, and I was watching the light fade as I sat on the top level of the bleachers. Just ahead of me, across the path in front of the risers, was a double layer of chainlink, the top bent inward the way it is to prevent inmates from escaping their prison. This, my companion/guide -- a Racing True Believer -- explained was to "cut down on the rocks and dirt that will fly in our direction."
Just on the other side of the fence was the outer track, and to the left a little the platform where the guy with all those colorful flags would do his dance. The track is more like a D than an oval, for a reason I didn't really understand, but I nodded appreciatively during the explanation. And inside that track was a smaller one, raised just a little, with its own flagger-platform on the far side.
My eyes just then, however, were fixed on the dump on the other side of the track -- a long, flattened hill with black pipes snaking up and down, and big yellow machines parked at the top. To my eyes, everything in sight seemed dump-like: dirt, debris, gray clouds . . . even the audience. Except for the occasional colorful logo on a jacket, the clothing looked like work jeans and hoodies, not unlike that which the fellows wear while collecting the garbage at my curbside.
Many of the people in my view looked a bit like society's rejects -- the fellow with the mohawk, dangly earring and tattoos; the woman with the Raceway jacket, long bleached hair, cigarette -- although I hesitate to judge too harshly. Mohawk and I exchanged a pleasantry about the cold, and Bleach Blonde smiled when she looked my way. No doubt suburbanites with lawns and kids and paying their taxes.
I won't dawdle any longer. Noise, a blur of colors, air filled with dirt, and . . . yes, I was struck on the shoulder by a stone and in the stomach with a clod of dirt. Dinner in the stands was catered -- by me: hot dog, hamburger, fries and soda.
Altogether an almost palatable evening.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Don't Be So Forward
Dear You,
When my email has the subject heading RE: I am on guard. Usually it's just a REPLY from a correspondent about something I've sent, but too often it's one of those dreary FORWARDS.
You know what I mean, I'm sure. Opened, the message contains block after block of email addresses of others who have received the thing, and when I finally get to the actual contents, it is something (a) I've probably been sent before, (b) really stupid, (c) really sappy, (d) really obnoxious, or (e) all of those. It's getting so that I feel about the people sending me this stuff the way I once felt for people who said "between my brother and I" or couldn't pronounce "dour" or "err" the proper way. Superior. (Okay, snobbishly and arrogantly so.)
The worse are those emails clearly wrong. I just got the one about the photographs taken at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. These were from negatives found in "a Kodak box camera found recently in a sailor's locker and still in amazing condition." This gifted photographer was, it seems, everywhere in that area, including in a plane, judging from some of the shots. Also in the future, since one of the ships he recorded wasn't built until a few years after that event.
How did I know this was another hoax, begun by someone with wayyyy too much time on his (probably) hands and forwarded by dozens of unthinking (okay, perhaps well-meaning . . .) people before it reached me? Well, Postman wrote that an education is supposed to give people a "built-in crap detector." When I get stuff like this, mine goes off. Loudly. And I open Snopes.com and type a few of the words from the message into the search box. Voila!
It's crap. As I thought. And my next action is to delete it. I don't think it does much good. It won't be long before someone else forwards it to me for my enjoyment.
In Cyberspace what goes around gets around and around and around. Endlessly.
When my email has the subject heading RE: I am on guard. Usually it's just a REPLY from a correspondent about something I've sent, but too often it's one of those dreary FORWARDS.
You know what I mean, I'm sure. Opened, the message contains block after block of email addresses of others who have received the thing, and when I finally get to the actual contents, it is something (a) I've probably been sent before, (b) really stupid, (c) really sappy, (d) really obnoxious, or (e) all of those. It's getting so that I feel about the people sending me this stuff the way I once felt for people who said "between my brother and I" or couldn't pronounce "dour" or "err" the proper way. Superior. (Okay, snobbishly and arrogantly so.)
The worse are those emails clearly wrong. I just got the one about the photographs taken at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. These were from negatives found in "a Kodak box camera found recently in a sailor's locker and still in amazing condition." This gifted photographer was, it seems, everywhere in that area, including in a plane, judging from some of the shots. Also in the future, since one of the ships he recorded wasn't built until a few years after that event.
How did I know this was another hoax, begun by someone with wayyyy too much time on his (probably) hands and forwarded by dozens of unthinking (okay, perhaps well-meaning . . .) people before it reached me? Well, Postman wrote that an education is supposed to give people a "built-in crap detector." When I get stuff like this, mine goes off. Loudly. And I open Snopes.com and type a few of the words from the message into the search box. Voila!
It's crap. As I thought. And my next action is to delete it. I don't think it does much good. It won't be long before someone else forwards it to me for my enjoyment.
In Cyberspace what goes around gets around and around and around. Endlessly.
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Things I Carry
Dear You,
Do other men like cargo pants? I live in them and have several pairs, both long and short. I'm wearing shorts at the moment, and my pockets are stuffed like a chipmunk's cheeks.
In my back pocket is my wallet, of course, with more plastic rectangles than I can possibly remember. Last week the fellow in the ticket kiosk asked if I were a member of the Crown Regal Club. Who knew? After a search through the wallet, I came up with the card, and if I go to the movies a few more times I'll get in for free. Or is it a free small popcorn?
A constant companion is my Leatherman micra. It's in the top side pocket, and with it I can adjust my glasses (the right lens is forever falling out), tweeze a hair, open a beer, scissors a lock of milady's hair and/or file my fingernail. And more, if I'm creative. Aaron gave it to me for Christmas years ago, and every so often it goes missing. Generally I find it in a pocket of a pair of cargo pants I've hung back in the closet.
In that same pocket is a cloth handkerchief. Men of a certain age, I'm told, have these things. I never blow my nose with it (it's for wiping the lens after I re-install it in the glasses), and I am ever vigilant for the possibility of presenting it to a weeping damsel. So far no luck on that one!
My new iTouch rides in the lower left pocket, and I reach for it at every excuse. I like to think it makes me au courant. The grandchildren love it -- I have some games on the thing. What I like is that it holds several novels and a handy reader. Also the most up-to-date weather reports. And I can keep up with the latest musings on Facebook.
What else? Oh, yes, my keys, some receipts, a pen (can't go anywhere without something to write with, even with the little Notepad function on the iTouch), the grocery list, my tiny bottle of nitroglycerin tablets . . . Tim O'Brien wrote a book about what the soldiers in Vietnam carried. Should I be uncomfortable making this association with the contents of my pants?
Do other men like cargo pants? I live in them and have several pairs, both long and short. I'm wearing shorts at the moment, and my pockets are stuffed like a chipmunk's cheeks.
In my back pocket is my wallet, of course, with more plastic rectangles than I can possibly remember. Last week the fellow in the ticket kiosk asked if I were a member of the Crown Regal Club. Who knew? After a search through the wallet, I came up with the card, and if I go to the movies a few more times I'll get in for free. Or is it a free small popcorn?
A constant companion is my Leatherman micra. It's in the top side pocket, and with it I can adjust my glasses (the right lens is forever falling out), tweeze a hair, open a beer, scissors a lock of milady's hair and/or file my fingernail. And more, if I'm creative. Aaron gave it to me for Christmas years ago, and every so often it goes missing. Generally I find it in a pocket of a pair of cargo pants I've hung back in the closet.
In that same pocket is a cloth handkerchief. Men of a certain age, I'm told, have these things. I never blow my nose with it (it's for wiping the lens after I re-install it in the glasses), and I am ever vigilant for the possibility of presenting it to a weeping damsel. So far no luck on that one!
My new iTouch rides in the lower left pocket, and I reach for it at every excuse. I like to think it makes me au courant. The grandchildren love it -- I have some games on the thing. What I like is that it holds several novels and a handy reader. Also the most up-to-date weather reports. And I can keep up with the latest musings on Facebook.
What else? Oh, yes, my keys, some receipts, a pen (can't go anywhere without something to write with, even with the little Notepad function on the iTouch), the grocery list, my tiny bottle of nitroglycerin tablets . . . Tim O'Brien wrote a book about what the soldiers in Vietnam carried. Should I be uncomfortable making this association with the contents of my pants?
Friday, September 4, 2009
It's always greener
Dear You,
So there I was, walking back and forth behind my mower, wondering why I love cutting the grass so much. So much, in fact, that annually I watch from my Winter perspective in Florida for news that the snow is melting and revealing the new Spring crop, and I hasten back to the North to begin the harvest, well ahead of many of my Snowbird neighbors.
Perhaps it's because it is by far the most pleasurable of my To-Do Things Around The House. Does anyone really enjoy cleaning the basement or the garage? Paying the bills or shampooing a carpet? Each swath shows accomplishment and progress toward completion. And that smell!
I've even considered the act to be an ancient echo of my agrarian roots. I won't plant a garden -- not so long as a grocery story is within a day's drive! No tilling and toiling for me, nosiree. Still, the urge to keep that grass at croquet-playing level is truly primal.
In addition, I rather like that throbbing that goes up my arms, along with the motorcycle-level of sound that lingers in my ears even after I've come back inside. I like waving at my neighbors on both sides of my line, and I feel smug because they're perched on their riding machines . . . the wimps!
Maybe I'll never really understand it. What I know is how I feel at this moment, showered and in fresh clothes after an hour out there. As I type this, I'm wondering if it will rain this weekend, enough to make it necessary to get back behind my mower in a couple of days. I hope so.
So there I was, walking back and forth behind my mower, wondering why I love cutting the grass so much. So much, in fact, that annually I watch from my Winter perspective in Florida for news that the snow is melting and revealing the new Spring crop, and I hasten back to the North to begin the harvest, well ahead of many of my Snowbird neighbors.
Perhaps it's because it is by far the most pleasurable of my To-Do Things Around The House. Does anyone really enjoy cleaning the basement or the garage? Paying the bills or shampooing a carpet? Each swath shows accomplishment and progress toward completion. And that smell!
I've even considered the act to be an ancient echo of my agrarian roots. I won't plant a garden -- not so long as a grocery story is within a day's drive! No tilling and toiling for me, nosiree. Still, the urge to keep that grass at croquet-playing level is truly primal.
In addition, I rather like that throbbing that goes up my arms, along with the motorcycle-level of sound that lingers in my ears even after I've come back inside. I like waving at my neighbors on both sides of my line, and I feel smug because they're perched on their riding machines . . . the wimps!
Maybe I'll never really understand it. What I know is how I feel at this moment, showered and in fresh clothes after an hour out there. As I type this, I'm wondering if it will rain this weekend, enough to make it necessary to get back behind my mower in a couple of days. I hope so.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Guilty
Dear You,
I'm a news junkie, so I cannot dodge the Economic Bad News. Each day, NPR and the St. Petersburg newspaper remove the layers of my otherwise insulated life. Increasingly, I am led to care about the plight of the world's poor.
It's not that I do much about it. I cannot dodge my responsibity here - being an American means being part of the problem. And hasn't everyone heard that it's good for one's peace of mind to stop watching the six o'clock news? A head-in-the-sand approach, though, cannot make anyone's life better.
A statistic: the 500 richest people in the world a few years ago earned more than the 416 million poorest people (United Nations report). A story: A woman in Haiti once sold shoes on the street, but falling demand has meant that she used all her income to buy food for her child and none to replace her inventory . . . and now she has nothing but an emaciated, dying child (Nicholas Kristoff).
I ingest the daily news of bank bailouts and million dollar bonuses for those who will never be hungry, and I pause on Sundays to pray for the poor. And I hope the leaders of the world are listening, too.
I'm a news junkie, so I cannot dodge the Economic Bad News. Each day, NPR and the St. Petersburg newspaper remove the layers of my otherwise insulated life. Increasingly, I am led to care about the plight of the world's poor.
It's not that I do much about it. I cannot dodge my responsibity here - being an American means being part of the problem. And hasn't everyone heard that it's good for one's peace of mind to stop watching the six o'clock news? A head-in-the-sand approach, though, cannot make anyone's life better.
A statistic: the 500 richest people in the world a few years ago earned more than the 416 million poorest people (United Nations report). A story: A woman in Haiti once sold shoes on the street, but falling demand has meant that she used all her income to buy food for her child and none to replace her inventory . . . and now she has nothing but an emaciated, dying child (Nicholas Kristoff).
I ingest the daily news of bank bailouts and million dollar bonuses for those who will never be hungry, and I pause on Sundays to pray for the poor. And I hope the leaders of the world are listening, too.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Nickles and Dimes
Dear You,
Riding the casino boat out of Melbourne, Florida, you look in vain for the Pretty People, the sort you might see at your neighborhood pool or PTA meeting. Take my word for it - I traveled fore and aft on all levels of the SunCruz ship looking for an unweathered face.
By and large (and that can be taken in a literal sense) they seemed a hard lot. Those who weren't smoking appeared to have burned a few cartons in their past. The several bars were busy before we cast off at 11 that morning.
The boat and its passengers weren't going anywhere. The goal for the former was to make its way outside the three-mile limit, after that cruising north and south and north for the next few hours. As for the passengers, most would drive home that afternoon with less in their pockets and purses than they brought. And not because the ticket was dear - only $8! - or the drinks were overpriced. As long as you pressed the button or rolled the dice, the drinks were free.
For whatever reason, I managed to stay above it all. Literally, since I found a quiet chair up top where I could watch the gulls and finish reading "Glory in Death" before it was time to learn how much money my companions had lost.
Riding the casino boat out of Melbourne, Florida, you look in vain for the Pretty People, the sort you might see at your neighborhood pool or PTA meeting. Take my word for it - I traveled fore and aft on all levels of the SunCruz ship looking for an unweathered face.
By and large (and that can be taken in a literal sense) they seemed a hard lot. Those who weren't smoking appeared to have burned a few cartons in their past. The several bars were busy before we cast off at 11 that morning.
The boat and its passengers weren't going anywhere. The goal for the former was to make its way outside the three-mile limit, after that cruising north and south and north for the next few hours. As for the passengers, most would drive home that afternoon with less in their pockets and purses than they brought. And not because the ticket was dear - only $8! - or the drinks were overpriced. As long as you pressed the button or rolled the dice, the drinks were free.
For whatever reason, I managed to stay above it all. Literally, since I found a quiet chair up top where I could watch the gulls and finish reading "Glory in Death" before it was time to learn how much money my companions had lost.
Monday, March 16, 2009
But don't call 9-1-1 just yet!
Dear You,
Every time I wind up in the hospital, and despite any pain that otherwise confuses my thinking, I remember to ask for one of those little pressurized containers of shaving cream.
These come with the plastic razor, the thin washcloth, the little bar of soap and the breakable comb, in a pink plastic tub that fits into the rollaway tray-table that also holds the get-well-soon flowers and ice water with the bendable straw. I make nice with the nurse after I hide the first can - it's about the size of an inhaler, so it can go unnoticed even in a pajama pocket! - and I request another. They have hundreds of the things, I figure, so I don't consider this larceny.
With luck, I am released back into the world with at least two - sometimes more! - of them. Back at home, my shaving needs are met with the big red and black can of Gillette Foamy I keep under the sink. This is just not suitable when I am Away.
In my toilet kit, everything is small and travel-sized: comb, toothpaste, anti-perspirant . . . all available in the supermarket or drugstore. And thanks to Rochester General, so is my shaving cream.
Every time I wind up in the hospital, and despite any pain that otherwise confuses my thinking, I remember to ask for one of those little pressurized containers of shaving cream.
These come with the plastic razor, the thin washcloth, the little bar of soap and the breakable comb, in a pink plastic tub that fits into the rollaway tray-table that also holds the get-well-soon flowers and ice water with the bendable straw. I make nice with the nurse after I hide the first can - it's about the size of an inhaler, so it can go unnoticed even in a pajama pocket! - and I request another. They have hundreds of the things, I figure, so I don't consider this larceny.
With luck, I am released back into the world with at least two - sometimes more! - of them. Back at home, my shaving needs are met with the big red and black can of Gillette Foamy I keep under the sink. This is just not suitable when I am Away.
In my toilet kit, everything is small and travel-sized: comb, toothpaste, anti-perspirant . . . all available in the supermarket or drugstore. And thanks to Rochester General, so is my shaving cream.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Free, free! Trip to Mars . . .
Dear You,
Yes, some of the nicest things in life are free. On a walk with a grandchild the other day we spotted a poodle across the street and called out to its owner to admire it. Her response: "Would you like some grapefruit?"
Interesting how things happen -- you admire a dog and you wind up toting a plastic bag full of grapefruit back to your house. Set aside the idea that the fruit looked nothing like that pretty stuff you find in the supermarket. This came from the tree in the woman's side yard, it was of differing sizes, and it was dirty. I repeat: it was free. I didn't even ask the woman's name, and two days later I wouldn't be able to point out her house, even if I wanted to return the favor somehow. It was just one of those "random acts . . ."
Most of it is gone now -- I have a little machine that makes turning citrus into juice pretty easy. The haul became over a half-gallon of grapefruit juice, and the grandchildren made short work of it.
Years ago, my Uncle Paul had a little place in St. Petersburg, and on his daily walk past a Lutheran church cemetery, picked up some drops to carry back home. He'd received permission from the rector to do so, and he always had fresh-squeezed "Lutheran Grapfruit Juice" (as he called it) in the fridge. Now I know how much pleasure it gave him.
Yes, some of the nicest things in life are free. On a walk with a grandchild the other day we spotted a poodle across the street and called out to its owner to admire it. Her response: "Would you like some grapefruit?"
Interesting how things happen -- you admire a dog and you wind up toting a plastic bag full of grapefruit back to your house. Set aside the idea that the fruit looked nothing like that pretty stuff you find in the supermarket. This came from the tree in the woman's side yard, it was of differing sizes, and it was dirty. I repeat: it was free. I didn't even ask the woman's name, and two days later I wouldn't be able to point out her house, even if I wanted to return the favor somehow. It was just one of those "random acts . . ."
Most of it is gone now -- I have a little machine that makes turning citrus into juice pretty easy. The haul became over a half-gallon of grapefruit juice, and the grandchildren made short work of it.
Years ago, my Uncle Paul had a little place in St. Petersburg, and on his daily walk past a Lutheran church cemetery, picked up some drops to carry back home. He'd received permission from the rector to do so, and he always had fresh-squeezed "Lutheran Grapfruit Juice" (as he called it) in the fridge. Now I know how much pleasure it gave him.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Following the Sun
Dear You,
Most days, the sunrises and the sunsets here in Florida look remarkably the same. And on my street, when I step out to get the morning newspaper or when I sit on the driveway with my plastic chair and wineglass of an evening, I can watch the scene by looking either left or right. It doesn't last long -- very soon it's sunny or it's dark.
The sky is deep blue; the land is just dark. Silhouettes are palm trees, and the gray street wends toward the rising (or setting) sun. Pole lights winking off (or on) are like little exclamation points to add to the excitement of the moment.
In between, a slice of orange, with pinks and lavenders above. I think of Roy G. Biv (or, as my earth science teacher preferred, "vibgyor") and I watch for the arriving (or departing) flights of tropical birds.
I don't record this because it's particularly beautiful (it is) or at all unusual (as a part-time Floridian, I can't take it for granted), but because once again this demonstrates to me the importance of being "present," of "showing up." As I said, it doesn't last long.
But what does?
Most days, the sunrises and the sunsets here in Florida look remarkably the same. And on my street, when I step out to get the morning newspaper or when I sit on the driveway with my plastic chair and wineglass of an evening, I can watch the scene by looking either left or right. It doesn't last long -- very soon it's sunny or it's dark.
The sky is deep blue; the land is just dark. Silhouettes are palm trees, and the gray street wends toward the rising (or setting) sun. Pole lights winking off (or on) are like little exclamation points to add to the excitement of the moment.
In between, a slice of orange, with pinks and lavenders above. I think of Roy G. Biv (or, as my earth science teacher preferred, "vibgyor") and I watch for the arriving (or departing) flights of tropical birds.
I don't record this because it's particularly beautiful (it is) or at all unusual (as a part-time Floridian, I can't take it for granted), but because once again this demonstrates to me the importance of being "present," of "showing up." As I said, it doesn't last long.
But what does?
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Breakfast on the Beach
Dear You,
Even on a beautiful beach on Cape Cod, breakfast for the gulls is, at best, a beastly business.
The withdrawing waves leave a tide pool, in which silvery fish swim in circles, waiting for the next high tide to move them back to safer, deeper waters. This cycle has not escaped the notice of the gulls, however, and I watch as one hovers and swoops and lifts out a fish to deposit him on the sands, where he proceeds to hack the creature until finally it expires.
The gull is merciless. Great, bloody holes appear in the side of the fish, and with each slash the bird yanks out another hunk of sushi. He looks around for other gulls, meanwhile, knowing his prize could be snatched away if he isn’t ready to defend it. Now and then, another – stronger, perhaps older, certainly quicker – does just that. Screaming, the birds chase each other until the matter is settled.
No bird seems to finish the feast alone. At a point, the one is satisfied and leaves the carcass for the lesser birds to squabble over and finally finish. A bit of head and tail, some bones . . . little is left to represent that shining fish who a few minutes earlier was circling the shallows with his fellows.
Even on a beautiful beach on Cape Cod, breakfast for the gulls is, at best, a beastly business.
The withdrawing waves leave a tide pool, in which silvery fish swim in circles, waiting for the next high tide to move them back to safer, deeper waters. This cycle has not escaped the notice of the gulls, however, and I watch as one hovers and swoops and lifts out a fish to deposit him on the sands, where he proceeds to hack the creature until finally it expires.
The gull is merciless. Great, bloody holes appear in the side of the fish, and with each slash the bird yanks out another hunk of sushi. He looks around for other gulls, meanwhile, knowing his prize could be snatched away if he isn’t ready to defend it. Now and then, another – stronger, perhaps older, certainly quicker – does just that. Screaming, the birds chase each other until the matter is settled.
No bird seems to finish the feast alone. At a point, the one is satisfied and leaves the carcass for the lesser birds to squabble over and finally finish. A bit of head and tail, some bones . . . little is left to represent that shining fish who a few minutes earlier was circling the shallows with his fellows.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Book Crossings
Dear You,
You probably know that I buy my books more often than I ever get them from a library. When I have a couple of disposable dollars, I like to go to Borders or Barnes & Noble, and my favorite finds are on the remainders tables, where I can get a fat hardbound that cost $25 or more for only four or five or six bucks.
It makes it all the easier to give them away. http://www.bookcrossing.com/ has helped me in my enterprise, and I recommend it to you. For the record, if you'd care to look at the books I've read since joining, I'm "Manomet," a name I chose from the town where I owned a vacation home for 20 or so years.
The Random Acts of Kindness aspect particularly calls to me. I like the anonymity, the serendipity. But even I was surprised when my wife, traveling home recently and on a layover at JFK airport was handed a Dick Francis novel from a fellow sitting nearby. All I know is that he'd bought something in Dulles, Virginia that morning and a bottle of Guiness at JFK four hours later -- that from the two sales receipts he'd kept in the book for page markers. Instead of lugging the finished book onto the next airplane, he passed it along . . . and it got to me.
So, of course, I'm passing it along to you, in a sense. If you check my BookCrossing site for Dick Francis' Longshot, you can learn where I have left it.
Finder's Keepers . . . unless you, too, give it away.
You probably know that I buy my books more often than I ever get them from a library. When I have a couple of disposable dollars, I like to go to Borders or Barnes & Noble, and my favorite finds are on the remainders tables, where I can get a fat hardbound that cost $25 or more for only four or five or six bucks.
It makes it all the easier to give them away. http://www.bookcrossing.com/ has helped me in my enterprise, and I recommend it to you. For the record, if you'd care to look at the books I've read since joining, I'm "Manomet," a name I chose from the town where I owned a vacation home for 20 or so years.
The Random Acts of Kindness aspect particularly calls to me. I like the anonymity, the serendipity. But even I was surprised when my wife, traveling home recently and on a layover at JFK airport was handed a Dick Francis novel from a fellow sitting nearby. All I know is that he'd bought something in Dulles, Virginia that morning and a bottle of Guiness at JFK four hours later -- that from the two sales receipts he'd kept in the book for page markers. Instead of lugging the finished book onto the next airplane, he passed it along . . . and it got to me.
So, of course, I'm passing it along to you, in a sense. If you check my BookCrossing site for Dick Francis' Longshot, you can learn where I have left it.
Finder's Keepers . . . unless you, too, give it away.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Say Uncle
Dear You,
I chose my uncles very well. Uncle Doral was at least interesting, even if beer and baseball were his main passions and he died quite a long time ago now.
But I'm thinking of my mother's youngest brother, Kenneth; and my father's youngest brother, Vaughn, mostly.
Kenneth was a Marine in my earliest memory. He visited with a chess set, and I recall sitting on that old porch way out in the country in southern Ohio, where my father had rented a farmhouse. We sat on the steps and he patiently taught me the pieces and how they move and a bit about the strategy . . . then he beat me game after game after game. Even when I was grown up and living far away, we managed to have a game during our occasional visits, and twice we had an extended game by exchanging moves by postcards. He still won most of them. These days, every time I bring up my computer chess program, I think what it would be like to have just one more game with Ken. I miss him.
And I miss Vaughn, too. He was only nine years older than I, and I can still see him when he visited us -- in another farmhouse, this time closer to Columbus -- wearing his Coast Guard uniform. He brought firecrackers, which in our house were Forbidden Fruit indeed! Vaughn would get a Maxwell House coffee can, lead us three boys out to the yard, light a cherry bomb and toss it under the upended can and sit on it as it exploded, leaping into the air as if surprised. When I got older he taught me to play blackjack, relieving me of my allowance money but then treating me to a pizza. And as the years wore on, he was a correspondent as we explored the family genealogy.
On my family tree, it is probably Vaughn who hangs nearest the heartwood of the trunk.
I chose my uncles very well. Uncle Doral was at least interesting, even if beer and baseball were his main passions and he died quite a long time ago now.
But I'm thinking of my mother's youngest brother, Kenneth; and my father's youngest brother, Vaughn, mostly.
Kenneth was a Marine in my earliest memory. He visited with a chess set, and I recall sitting on that old porch way out in the country in southern Ohio, where my father had rented a farmhouse. We sat on the steps and he patiently taught me the pieces and how they move and a bit about the strategy . . . then he beat me game after game after game. Even when I was grown up and living far away, we managed to have a game during our occasional visits, and twice we had an extended game by exchanging moves by postcards. He still won most of them. These days, every time I bring up my computer chess program, I think what it would be like to have just one more game with Ken. I miss him.
And I miss Vaughn, too. He was only nine years older than I, and I can still see him when he visited us -- in another farmhouse, this time closer to Columbus -- wearing his Coast Guard uniform. He brought firecrackers, which in our house were Forbidden Fruit indeed! Vaughn would get a Maxwell House coffee can, lead us three boys out to the yard, light a cherry bomb and toss it under the upended can and sit on it as it exploded, leaping into the air as if surprised. When I got older he taught me to play blackjack, relieving me of my allowance money but then treating me to a pizza. And as the years wore on, he was a correspondent as we explored the family genealogy.
On my family tree, it is probably Vaughn who hangs nearest the heartwood of the trunk.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Cells
Dear You,
It seems that some people just can't stop talking. I notice, however, that real communication is scarce. This morning I was in line at the grocery store. Ahead of me, fumbling with her purse while Liz waited patiently behind her cash register, a woman was talking on her cell phone. Something to do with legal forms, I gathered -- all such conversations these days are public information, even when I try NOT to listen.
It was an express line. I had only four items -- the woman ahead had hers already bagged, so I couldn't tell if she was there under false pretenses, but I noticed the woman behind was putting a 13th item onto the belt . . . and she, too, was talking on her cell phone.
I looked at Liz, who looked at me and shrugged. The woman continued fumbling, and I thought that whatever she was trying to do would go faster if she could have used both hands. She didn't seem to know (a) that Liz was waiting, and (b) so was I. At last she pulled out a card, swiped it -- while still jabbering away -- and scribbled on the little plastic screen. Still deep in the conversation, she took the bag of groceries and headed to the exit.
"It gives new meaning to 'Shut Up and Drive,' don't you think?" I asked Liz. The woman behind me didn't hear the comment; she was still busy with her conversation. But I had to wonder how much anyone can be in touch with her surroundings if her mind is engaged with the virtual, not real, people in her life.
It seems that some people just can't stop talking. I notice, however, that real communication is scarce. This morning I was in line at the grocery store. Ahead of me, fumbling with her purse while Liz waited patiently behind her cash register, a woman was talking on her cell phone. Something to do with legal forms, I gathered -- all such conversations these days are public information, even when I try NOT to listen.
It was an express line. I had only four items -- the woman ahead had hers already bagged, so I couldn't tell if she was there under false pretenses, but I noticed the woman behind was putting a 13th item onto the belt . . . and she, too, was talking on her cell phone.
I looked at Liz, who looked at me and shrugged. The woman continued fumbling, and I thought that whatever she was trying to do would go faster if she could have used both hands. She didn't seem to know (a) that Liz was waiting, and (b) so was I. At last she pulled out a card, swiped it -- while still jabbering away -- and scribbled on the little plastic screen. Still deep in the conversation, she took the bag of groceries and headed to the exit.
"It gives new meaning to 'Shut Up and Drive,' don't you think?" I asked Liz. The woman behind me didn't hear the comment; she was still busy with her conversation. But I had to wonder how much anyone can be in touch with her surroundings if her mind is engaged with the virtual, not real, people in her life.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The Morning Muses
Dear You,
A benefit from rising before dawn here in Florida is that most mornings I can sit with my coffee and watch sunrises. Plural, because Down Here most days are clear . . . or nearly so. The lanai is in semidarkness when I settle into the wicker rocker that faces east, the early chirping all that breaks the quiet.
I think of Emerson's poem, The Days, wherein his conceit is a parade of women bearing trays. For this particular day, the woman, departing in the evening, looks back at the poet in scorn for selecting so poorly from her offerings.
In my youth I listened to a sermon on The Present -- how the present moment is, in fact, a "present" or gift. And how often since have I heard that the past, like any dream that dissolves on awakening, is just a memory; that the future, like any wish that may or may not come true, is just as unreal. The only thing one has is the moment. "Living in the moment" -- haven't we heard it frequently?
I have these thoughts more often as I grow older. Is that "wisdom"? I don't know. I do not, however, believe I am any closer to the ideal that Emerson posited. What I know is that very soon, my morning will begin Up North, where a sunrise is not guaranteed, nor the present so obviously a tray of delectables. I'll have to work harder to ensure that my days depart with a smile more often than a sneer.
A benefit from rising before dawn here in Florida is that most mornings I can sit with my coffee and watch sunrises. Plural, because Down Here most days are clear . . . or nearly so. The lanai is in semidarkness when I settle into the wicker rocker that faces east, the early chirping all that breaks the quiet.
I think of Emerson's poem, The Days, wherein his conceit is a parade of women bearing trays. For this particular day, the woman, departing in the evening, looks back at the poet in scorn for selecting so poorly from her offerings.
In my youth I listened to a sermon on The Present -- how the present moment is, in fact, a "present" or gift. And how often since have I heard that the past, like any dream that dissolves on awakening, is just a memory; that the future, like any wish that may or may not come true, is just as unreal. The only thing one has is the moment. "Living in the moment" -- haven't we heard it frequently?
I have these thoughts more often as I grow older. Is that "wisdom"? I don't know. I do not, however, believe I am any closer to the ideal that Emerson posited. What I know is that very soon, my morning will begin Up North, where a sunrise is not guaranteed, nor the present so obviously a tray of delectables. I'll have to work harder to ensure that my days depart with a smile more often than a sneer.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Monopoly
Dear You,
It's mid-April, so that means the IRS quietly removed from my savings account the money I owed in taxes for 2007. That same day, with just as little fuss, the bank took money I owed on the house "up North": principal, interest, and escrow on the mortgage. The process, called ACH I think, is used by a variety of creditors throughout the month to pay my bills. Even the church gets its share.
I think of "money" these days in the same way I think of the multi-colored scrip I use when playing Monopoly with grandchildren. Oh, it stings when I land on Brandon's or Joshua's property and have to shell out $1800 in rent . . . but only for a moment. I know that all I have to do is pass GO and I'll have more.
And at my age, it's just as easy to get the money replaced in my bank account. The trip around the board of Life involves waking up each morning until the day the calendar page flips to a new month. When I check my accounts on the computer, I've passed GO -- all that money the ACH process removed the previous month is back, and a little more. So it's not a "zero sum game" -- not quite, anyway!
The other day I stooped to retrieve someone's lost quarter. It felt good in my hand, and it was enough to insert into the nearby newspaper box to buy that day's copy of the St. Petersburg Times. Even as I heard the coin clunk in its little box I knew it had no intrinsic worth -- how many years has it been since a U. S. quarter-dollar held even a smidgen of silver?
Yes, it's all just a game.
It's mid-April, so that means the IRS quietly removed from my savings account the money I owed in taxes for 2007. That same day, with just as little fuss, the bank took money I owed on the house "up North": principal, interest, and escrow on the mortgage. The process, called ACH I think, is used by a variety of creditors throughout the month to pay my bills. Even the church gets its share.
I think of "money" these days in the same way I think of the multi-colored scrip I use when playing Monopoly with grandchildren. Oh, it stings when I land on Brandon's or Joshua's property and have to shell out $1800 in rent . . . but only for a moment. I know that all I have to do is pass GO and I'll have more.
And at my age, it's just as easy to get the money replaced in my bank account. The trip around the board of Life involves waking up each morning until the day the calendar page flips to a new month. When I check my accounts on the computer, I've passed GO -- all that money the ACH process removed the previous month is back, and a little more. So it's not a "zero sum game" -- not quite, anyway!
The other day I stooped to retrieve someone's lost quarter. It felt good in my hand, and it was enough to insert into the nearby newspaper box to buy that day's copy of the St. Petersburg Times. Even as I heard the coin clunk in its little box I knew it had no intrinsic worth -- how many years has it been since a U. S. quarter-dollar held even a smidgen of silver?
Yes, it's all just a game.
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