tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70017431575278316902024-03-21T00:35:23.866-04:00Now We Are SixtyMy title is a variation on A.A.Milne's "Now We Are Six," a book of poems from the vantage point of a six-year-old. My blog will be observations from the vantage point of a sixty-year-old . . . me.Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-87831100018548588132012-02-01T16:49:00.000-05:002012-02-01T16:49:53.603-05:00A Good News January<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbLMoG0P-YkdVNk2oZ0a3rPb7N3E-tbm_VkpXNGDaFh8gZy6c8QituJDV0jP58QG1I1aRkfDqBks5Vb458TnOSM0g64KWWM2da91tJAKIwZTbKDD0cddQGP8KmwgsxkRzpZtbPfnovFq4/s1600/poinsettia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbLMoG0P-YkdVNk2oZ0a3rPb7N3E-tbm_VkpXNGDaFh8gZy6c8QituJDV0jP58QG1I1aRkfDqBks5Vb458TnOSM0g64KWWM2da91tJAKIwZTbKDD0cddQGP8KmwgsxkRzpZtbPfnovFq4/s200/poinsettia.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Well, our huge, white poinsettia went out with the garbage bin, there’s no chocolate left in the house and now, at the end of January, all that’s left of the holidays are some great memories. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqAd0et6pgHPkIzp7I-y3yzznCywQdo0D_mRHB6n9SJOZuwxwyar_le7S7kcvbIHLWBzqs38Hr2koJCKhyphenhyphenlLiV9FzAT-wygd6FEsHMPWR1hPK0R0EhyphenhyphenFmIbBM-6vax2vuhEDiT3-0mNfs/s1600/Hawkhurst+Christmas+Party+2011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqAd0et6pgHPkIzp7I-y3yzznCywQdo0D_mRHB6n9SJOZuwxwyar_le7S7kcvbIHLWBzqs38Hr2koJCKhyphenhyphenlLiV9FzAT-wygd6FEsHMPWR1hPK0R0EhyphenhyphenFmIbBM-6vax2vuhEDiT3-0mNfs/s200/Hawkhurst+Christmas+Party+2011.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vaDrq4oxUwCUHMzVN0I4b-l6PNVMLZGuktOnXIQ53PUKxxMJRI7CVmzHUTqF5zuFlcoSsAGNQYkN-p3kSTnDziiZu0Ahqda5h_7j7pv2BPzZFOaO3YjQs9gzM6bTAMxvg9XGl2iq3uE/s1600/Hawkhurst+Christmas+Party+2011-38.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>We enjoyed lots of parties and get-togethers with friends. After our neighbor’s ice maker meltdown flooded their house, we took over as last-minute hosts of the annual neighborhood Christmas party. (Now that I think about it, however, Jerry and Helen could have staged one of those Roman orgies where they used to flood the Colosseum and wage mock naval battles, except it was probably too late to rent boats.) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vaDrq4oxUwCUHMzVN0I4b-l6PNVMLZGuktOnXIQ53PUKxxMJRI7CVmzHUTqF5zuFlcoSsAGNQYkN-p3kSTnDziiZu0Ahqda5h_7j7pv2BPzZFOaO3YjQs9gzM6bTAMxvg9XGl2iq3uE/s1600/Hawkhurst+Christmas+Party+2011-38.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vaDrq4oxUwCUHMzVN0I4b-l6PNVMLZGuktOnXIQ53PUKxxMJRI7CVmzHUTqF5zuFlcoSsAGNQYkN-p3kSTnDziiZu0Ahqda5h_7j7pv2BPzZFOaO3YjQs9gzM6bTAMxvg9XGl2iq3uE/s200/Hawkhurst+Christmas+Party+2011-38.JPG" width="200" /></a>Anyway that party rocked, rolled and racked up a record number of recyclables before it ended around 1:30 a.m. and I learned a good lesson. If you plan a party three months ahead, you have a long time for angst over food, drinks, decorations, etc. If you plan a party three hours ahead, there’s no time for angst about anything. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOa9SQxjVrww5-4jD-86oWNY3nKQgd7dVY01Z3O97LPJJM-NpR4z9Gl7rKHmTY8m7X3tLXgbzGGtvnMron6hmHMgxmbXJ-ljrY9a5UpOiQjmlvRPhWH_We9UPrO4-dtte6B84yHkLnCPk/s1600/taxi+before.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOa9SQxjVrww5-4jD-86oWNY3nKQgd7dVY01Z3O97LPJJM-NpR4z9Gl7rKHmTY8m7X3tLXgbzGGtvnMron6hmHMgxmbXJ-ljrY9a5UpOiQjmlvRPhWH_We9UPrO4-dtte6B84yHkLnCPk/s200/taxi+before.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLIoXMymCCjqiOv177J2Yz8I6u3rQzx3QUKLZFWCLNVXg0oytXe2gU09YljkLlS7AjqiM3hdYoNwLDqb-X1xvYsFTwhN-G2kcx9tcHB1URTn37ndbI1Q_LJU9ePAKlkFtX8k-6YuHHV5E/s1600/taxi+after.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Christmas with Paul’s side of the family in Cincinnati gave Willem the ultimate in holiday fun – a chance to mix it up with his cool, older cousins. Ann Marie entertained him by rigging up his big car as a cab so that his last words before he dropped off to sleep and his first words when he awoke the next morning were, “Taxi! Taxi!” As always, a game of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLIoXMymCCjqiOv177J2Yz8I6u3rQzx3QUKLZFWCLNVXg0oytXe2gU09YljkLlS7AjqiM3hdYoNwLDqb-X1xvYsFTwhN-G2kcx9tcHB1URTn37ndbI1Q_LJU9ePAKlkFtX8k-6YuHHV5E/s1600/taxi+after.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLIoXMymCCjqiOv177J2Yz8I6u3rQzx3QUKLZFWCLNVXg0oytXe2gU09YljkLlS7AjqiM3hdYoNwLDqb-X1xvYsFTwhN-G2kcx9tcHB1URTn37ndbI1Q_LJU9ePAKlkFtX8k-6YuHHV5E/s200/taxi+after.jpg" width="200" /></a>grab-bag Bingo got everyone’s adrenaline going; they snatched away fantastic prizes like duct tape, a plastic ice cube with a bug in it and a fake eyebrows/glasses/nose and mustache combination. Grandma morphed into Tiger Mom daring anyone to steal away her expandable back scratcher. Wisely, no one felt up to the challenge.<br />
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On January 2, our return trip from Florida was my wake up call to get ready for WINTER and, especially snow. It took us four hours to make the half hour trip from the airport to our house - accidents caused by blowing snow, a little ice and generally bad driving blocked the expressways and the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObaKx3jrC5cuphMZXMeEWkR1_KlV8rijtHY85rHH4L5DO7etD79xsTZx75jAuaRG-IqACtf9vHK8_9-PEHE5MeY3P-XcY-bdIYBAXKN5Tc6UBB0R5EQp5tGw1u4Jh9eHSsCOx9Ec_3U0/s1600/willembeach.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObaKx3jrC5cuphMZXMeEWkR1_KlV8rijtHY85rHH4L5DO7etD79xsTZx75jAuaRG-IqACtf9vHK8_9-PEHE5MeY3P-XcY-bdIYBAXKN5Tc6UBB0R5EQp5tGw1u4Jh9eHSsCOx9Ec_3U0/s200/willembeach.jpg" width="116" /></a>bridges. We tried four different routes to get home, I felt like the guys in “Planes, Trains and Automobiles” and I even wondered how hard it would be to swim the Ohio River. After that experience, I spent a week running all the errands that needed to be done for the month, restocking my pantry with staples like beans, pasta, rice and Bailey’s Irish Cream and filling my freezer with more soup – lentil and vegetable, beef and barley soup this time – just in case of more snow.<br />
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Despite that ominous start and a few ups and downs, January has ended up as an all-around good news month. After a week of blowing my nose and living in a NyQuil fog, I got over the cold that I’m blaming on the airlines, everybody’s favorite villains. Soon after that, I heard a lot of grumbling in the ranks of our technical equipment. My seven-year-old computer hard drive descended into senility and forgot how to get me into Windows. For several nights, I lay awake wondering what it would take to recreate my Photo library, Paul’s office check register and payroll data, the input to our class reunion website and the emails with all of our travel info. Amazingly, our computer guy sent the hard drive for an hour or two of time-out in the freezer (yes, you read that right) and was able to access and copy everything to a new hard drive. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3xsKzUdqDflTZWfI38Loty243OWVxD5m5SY4K2ZS-BSmSB0YbS061ZwziXplukU244kCx_qjywBlrsuMcfOKQ2lsxVgSEks1hzUnC-DKhN9D06ShBR0u6HQ9Ozb3KARJQv9ak9FKoVWE/s1600/xword.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3xsKzUdqDflTZWfI38Loty243OWVxD5m5SY4K2ZS-BSmSB0YbS061ZwziXplukU244kCx_qjywBlrsuMcfOKQ2lsxVgSEks1hzUnC-DKhN9D06ShBR0u6HQ9Ozb3KARJQv9ak9FKoVWE/s320/xword.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Next, I was printing out New York Times crossword puzzles and my printer choked probably because I jammed the paper in too fast. Unfortunately, pulling out the jammed paper threw the printer into what looked like cardiac arrest. As it turns out, it had been hijacked by aliens, but only temporarily – the next morning, the output tray contained a stack of crossword puzzles in some strange language (see photo) but after that, it printed like a champ. <br />
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Finally, our aging Sirius car radio turned temperamental. Some Asian guy named Butch on the Sirius helpline <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO4RzRDX-cpN8oxSIg7XQ3SuVQXql-45sTvz631tib-BRLGOsfAU_tMDdvxG8bCBXqqhGfxdayHCiS-avwugEA3k72DM4fQOLgkpibPLNtDUF1Ky9beoMhPWu-0JWy-T-iHshTEG6AvKk/s1600/lamborghini.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO4RzRDX-cpN8oxSIg7XQ3SuVQXql-45sTvz631tib-BRLGOsfAU_tMDdvxG8bCBXqqhGfxdayHCiS-avwugEA3k72DM4fQOLgkpibPLNtDUF1Ky9beoMhPWu-0JWy-T-iHshTEG6AvKk/s200/lamborghini.jpg" width="200" /></a>suggested we’d get better reception if we got a new car with the satellite radio built in, but that seemed like a fairly drastic solution to the problem. We got a new radio instead of a new car and, although it hissed and fizzed its way to Canada and back, it seems okay now. Maybe the radio had hoped to be put in an Porsche or a Lamborghini instead of a minivan but other people have dealt with that problem too. <br />
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</a></div>The end of the month brought more unexpected good news. I just returned from cross country skiing in Canada (see “Comfort Vacation” for details from last year), and I’m not hobbling around feeling like I was run over by a snowplow. Plus, after six days of big meals, bigger glasses of wine and the biggest chocolate<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWr9JZOOuXH3MDueuXp1NmDTe9-3XzfUJh_HH20LVh5F3yHg6eDepAtMmsuDL1WBZrhcnxKVeoiNK8GDv9SqOpJqTPWttoLtsZixilJvZDIGCykzVuM9w-NRLKGI2cNQc3L18EMempQk/s1600/ski.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNWr9JZOOuXH3MDueuXp1NmDTe9-3XzfUJh_HH20LVh5F3yHg6eDepAtMmsuDL1WBZrhcnxKVeoiNK8GDv9SqOpJqTPWttoLtsZixilJvZDIGCykzVuM9w-NRLKGI2cNQc3L18EMempQk/s200/ski.JPG" width="200" /></a> chip oatmeal cookies ever, I still weigh the same! Go figure.<br />
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The best news of all – we made it through the entire month of January with almost no snow in Cincinnati. Of course, Paul is disappointed that he hasn’t had the chance to break his neck cross country skiing at 40 miles per hour down some steep, narrow golf course cart path; but I’m not, as you’ll understand if you read my post “Snow Day.” And yesterday, January 31, it was warm enough to hit a few golf balls. Let’s hear it for winter!Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-38702060179960387632011-12-28T14:38:00.003-05:002012-02-06T17:59:41.636-05:00Knowledge Is Power<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L77i4CK_p0A/Tvtt9I3XNXI/AAAAAAAADIU/l3oxdVPOH6w/s1600/kip+john.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2cv3mqExjxyODgwEqLluYVduV_DGaeZtRu50U2R4fBx9S7L3KIf9F2elZn9LYcHYLxIV08M8DngklmP05XUkeu9ZQ2BiVIGWsxcLjzKR9DEW4SlUG8dnZQMVWOfe-npmeEeePHvmKosU/s1600/kip+david.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2cv3mqExjxyODgwEqLluYVduV_DGaeZtRu50U2R4fBx9S7L3KIf9F2elZn9LYcHYLxIV08M8DngklmP05XUkeu9ZQ2BiVIGWsxcLjzKR9DEW4SlUG8dnZQMVWOfe-npmeEeePHvmKosU/s200/kip+david.jpg" width="155" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2KrYNatHBTsDbgifC-7xbxGpHzIOjQXn7hTWAh0L_vwUiwzXgJ3zY2PPE4kfhIs-bTtEHr-fvVTsKsL84Vdsf-H9av9qk6jJaN6aBmCLFXmhSjHL0odNb8Mmig7RNHFvN3G7k3aPlx80/s1600/kip+john.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>The motto of David and John’s elementary school was “Knowledge Is Power.” I loved that as soon as I heard it. I mean, what kid doesn’t aspire to more power when someone is always telling you “It’s time for bed,” “You’ve been out in the snow long enough” or “No more candy.” The message is, if you<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2KrYNatHBTsDbgifC-7xbxGpHzIOjQXn7hTWAh0L_vwUiwzXgJ3zY2PPE4kfhIs-bTtEHr-fvVTsKsL84Vdsf-H9av9qk6jJaN6aBmCLFXmhSjHL0odNb8Mmig7RNHFvN3G7k3aPlx80/s1600/kip+john.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2KrYNatHBTsDbgifC-7xbxGpHzIOjQXn7hTWAh0L_vwUiwzXgJ3zY2PPE4kfhIs-bTtEHr-fvVTsKsL84Vdsf-H9av9qk6jJaN6aBmCLFXmhSjHL0odNb8Mmig7RNHFvN3G7k3aPlx80/s200/kip+john.jpg" width="111" /></a> want to take charge of your life someday, memorize those times tables, get the state capitals straight and finish that book report on “James and the Giant Peach.” How true! As I come to the end of 2011, I’m taking stock of all the knowledge I’ve picked up this year.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEEZaWbBY6EpdfW3qOX6mfixP5g8YFLMK_d5mpxW-vWRrc_GncipLyMsvU3NoSslgkDsOXZPeVULOwdtPv6xZrDQ7r3cx7llA7AydtLaa0A_l4YzGOfhQNKDFq_MizA38LYfaGF2zFTCI/s1600/xmas+card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEEZaWbBY6EpdfW3qOX6mfixP5g8YFLMK_d5mpxW-vWRrc_GncipLyMsvU3NoSslgkDsOXZPeVULOwdtPv6xZrDQ7r3cx7llA7AydtLaa0A_l4YzGOfhQNKDFq_MizA38LYfaGF2zFTCI/s200/xmas+card.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>For starters, I’ve learned if the toenails on your big toes die, it takes two months for them to fall off and five more months before they grow back and are long enough to be trimmed. I’ve learned if I buy Christmas cards with glitter on them, even just a little glitter, I'll spend the holiday season with sparkles in my tablecloths, my dish towels, my fleece pullovers and my egg nog. I’ve also learned there is a limit to how many cutting boards you can fit into one kitchen drawer before it gets hopelessly jammed. <br />
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</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguFAmRviyFubxmq9I2Yo1_hJBMsiSzLjHsbdlHjisfz8sthAJ5jWmfyV-Brp5vsnlN1kM5-Vc8IZSG-n1V-19nbqG5M-IvMbxGoxye2NBbhp-8_X4UKgFWn1GwepssQ_xpbFFchk9FAt0/s1600/biys+readubg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I learned that, even when you have known someone since kindergarten and been roommates for 40 years, there are still some surprises left. A few weeks ago, PAUL THREW OUT A RADIO. I couldn’t have been more shocked if he had said to me, “I’ll take care of all the Christmas shopping this year.” He has this thing about audio equipment – stereo speakers, turntables, records and, most of all, radios – and, to my <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguFAmRviyFubxmq9I2Yo1_hJBMsiSzLjHsbdlHjisfz8sthAJ5jWmfyV-Brp5vsnlN1kM5-Vc8IZSG-n1V-19nbqG5M-IvMbxGoxye2NBbhp-8_X4UKgFWn1GwepssQ_xpbFFchk9FAt0/s1600/biys+readubg.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguFAmRviyFubxmq9I2Yo1_hJBMsiSzLjHsbdlHjisfz8sthAJ5jWmfyV-Brp5vsnlN1kM5-Vc8IZSG-n1V-19nbqG5M-IvMbxGoxye2NBbhp-8_X4UKgFWn1GwepssQ_xpbFFchk9FAt0/s200/biys+readubg.jpg" width="200" /></a>knowledge, he still has every piece of equipment he has ever owned. After all, you never know when you might need radios that only crackle and hiss, records garbled with skips and screeches and disabled speakers the size of file cabinets. I gave up nominating audio candidates for the trash long ago. Granted, the discardee was a digital clock radio that was hard to tune and has not kept time properly since 1994, but I was worried. I guess Paul’s all right since his temperature was normal and the pupils of his eyes were the same size, but I’m still keeping an eye on him.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mrsVAaAectmEwAokavD6x0tXR700w9FLH3_dOTq2awM8AOstkq5TgHPsxlc-z9o33ixWuWwrbs4_C3HLPWn6RSCLBxpcgtsLXCZlG1nrLrBuMAijLkrnYt2eeK9Zp8SlB5dkc25CeCE/s1600/john+books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8mrsVAaAectmEwAokavD6x0tXR700w9FLH3_dOTq2awM8AOstkq5TgHPsxlc-z9o33ixWuWwrbs4_C3HLPWn6RSCLBxpcgtsLXCZlG1nrLrBuMAijLkrnYt2eeK9Zp8SlB5dkc25CeCE/s200/john+books.jpg" width="117" /></a></div>Although I’ve been cooking a lot over the past 40 years, I have learned some things this year that Martha Stewart, the Barefoot Contessa and my mom never told me. For example, flour and sugar bags look and feel a lot alike and, if, in the middle of multi-tasking, you dump the sugar into the flour canister (or vice versa), it’s a real mess. Also, if your rice cooker has the dry heaves and, when the timer goes off, the rice is still crunchy, you probably forgot to put in the water. <br />
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While my mom says you’re more likely to get cut with a dull knife, I learned that you get the fastest, deepest cuts with a sharp one. Somehow, I spent most of Thanksgiving with bandaged fingers – souvenirs of chopping vegetables for minestrone soup, cubing bread for dressing, slicing apples for pie and mincing onions for just about everything with newly sharpened knives, courtesy of our butcher shop. I learned to do a headcount every so often to be sure my bandaids hadn’t disappeared into the turkey, the mashed potatoes or the pumpkin pie filling.<br />
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</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmHrVRtuCnmtVms9LuI_G-aPuElCOnodjEwa4DTwXSY1NBEYp9oYNPLfeSwyr-FHdPjTWwoWc7wBLVAabBrnlaWCp8GR4BSb6pZ_jecih-z30jbP1vazeJcO5pf6sFgsndVOV6BldTx5w/s1600/d+microscope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmHrVRtuCnmtVms9LuI_G-aPuElCOnodjEwa4DTwXSY1NBEYp9oYNPLfeSwyr-FHdPjTWwoWc7wBLVAabBrnlaWCp8GR4BSb6pZ_jecih-z30jbP1vazeJcO5pf6sFgsndVOV6BldTx5w/s200/d+microscope.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I’ve learned that, once you’ve established a hostile relationship with a car (my post, “Why Can’t We Be Friends?”), you can’t let your guard down. Early in December, we came home late from a holiday party and in my hurry to get inside to the bathroom, I apparently left the door of the Lexus slightly, and I do mean SLIGHTLY, ajar. The door stayed open all night and, next morning, the battery was dead. With the holidays coming, you might have thought the car would give me a little break but, NO. So, Paul missed his early morning run and it took forever for AAA to recharge the battery. Okay, I did make an uncomplimentary remark about the Lexus in a recent post but I didn’t think our garage had internet access.<br />
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I’ve learned that 60+ is not a good time of life to start on some big housecleaning jag. That Lysol tub and tile cleaner is strong stuff – so strong it took out the good, royal blue polo shirt I was wearing along with the mold in the shower – I’ll never try that again (and I don’t mean wearing the royal blue polo shirt.) The reason the touch pad on our laptop stopped working is that I made the mistake of dusting it and accidentally hit the button that turns the touch pad off and on, which I didn’t even know was there. The Geek Squad guy who fixed this for me promised not to tell my kids but I forgot to ask him the purpose of a button like that.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5PLOTBTLMqymwp74evNzh2ofI43y3y0ddz1jqAY1OKuGOz3o07h675yrhnYvFnd9L-1KUvClk34t8l-0CFMRUVlzfxzgnE_-hJBJePLp-ZBpCAzajDLgkJyl-hJpfcX41R_YzITaO-o/s1600/burnt+pot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5PLOTBTLMqymwp74evNzh2ofI43y3y0ddz1jqAY1OKuGOz3o07h675yrhnYvFnd9L-1KUvClk34t8l-0CFMRUVlzfxzgnE_-hJBJePLp-ZBpCAzajDLgkJyl-hJpfcX41R_YzITaO-o/s200/burnt+pot.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I’ve learned not to accidentally leave a frozen block of vegetable soup on low heat when I go out for a three hour walk, unless I want a pot containing black concrete flecked with bits of carrot, corn and green bean. This mishap turned out to be a knowledge bonanza, however, as I also learned from the internet that you can save the pan by boiling a mixture of salt, baking soda and water in it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1ftuG76Z8ZRNArZ7Cflt9_b4w0Ke4a28i56CPMw8WVvH3eOv-0qug1HJP8L5KnJZJt4RKOOgR4buGIi3_lDXDH4N9U-pHFmFuCMnTJbwV0PVnmz_vpKoEpMQPfTMo2UY99MlRaM6MXw/s1600/white+wine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1ftuG76Z8ZRNArZ7Cflt9_b4w0Ke4a28i56CPMw8WVvH3eOv-0qug1HJP8L5KnJZJt4RKOOgR4buGIi3_lDXDH4N9U-pHFmFuCMnTJbwV0PVnmz_vpKoEpMQPfTMo2UY99MlRaM6MXw/s200/white+wine.jpg" width="163" /></a></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l-iRsLFDpYI/TvtupSKEiAI/AAAAAAAADJE/sndFdtfdRZw/s1600/white+wine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
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Unfortunately, I’ve also found that you can’t trust everything you learn on the internet. When I spilled red wine on our beige love seat, my frantic online search for remedies came up with salt, again. Heavily salting the stain and leaving it overnight was supposed to draw out the red wine. I visualized waking up to a miraculously cleaned cushion, but, instead, I woke up to a pink, salt-encrusted mess. The dry cleaner just laughed. He made some progress but the fabric still has a faint pink tinge and feels like it was left out at the beach all summer. I had to turn the cushion over and that loveseat is now a “White Wine Only” zone.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB5WO3N3lkBRUvb81UzhX10SiJ3yktMZMVMDRyumvVOwKLGpVxfTPyiQ_XLUFcnp7THWnttpMnDDeffh3MzfqTMQqIIycWhqwqlj-eOraKEHvIBMkdvftLjRd4KWBnnTx-Gs4DQ_zaGHE/s1600/reddi+whip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB5WO3N3lkBRUvb81UzhX10SiJ3yktMZMVMDRyumvVOwKLGpVxfTPyiQ_XLUFcnp7THWnttpMnDDeffh3MzfqTMQqIIycWhqwqlj-eOraKEHvIBMkdvftLjRd4KWBnnTx-Gs4DQ_zaGHE/s200/reddi+whip.jpg" width="192" /></a></div>Saving the best for last, here’s my favorite bit of new knowledge from 2011. If you want to put real pizazz into your Halloween party (or any other outdoor party), drop a can of Reddi Whip on the pavement. It instantly turns into a little whirling dervish, spewing whipped cream droplets all over baskets of chips, sandwich trays, paper plates and napkins, shoes and hair. What an icebreaker! The only downside is that, if your car is parked nearby, you’ll need to hit the carwash the next day.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoP-cmU9ubZ7RTIutfzAmOjFCtfheD8i0yZdXiLc3yOyDM0EsB3a92kSJtfmpzfEUG95vpCoZvB8V3DL1_nxtKTmkrwegjT0joolmv0UTyvhX7DOE-h7GaAaEP7B4y1BqvADtWa0M-KjM/s1600/willem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoP-cmU9ubZ7RTIutfzAmOjFCtfheD8i0yZdXiLc3yOyDM0EsB3a92kSJtfmpzfEUG95vpCoZvB8V3DL1_nxtKTmkrwegjT0joolmv0UTyvhX7DOE-h7GaAaEP7B4y1BqvADtWa0M-KjM/s200/willem.jpg" width="148" /></a></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Bb2xsNrmJWE/TvtudHhTr9I/AAAAAAAADIs/mqnQx-pB-tM/s1600/willem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
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So, as 2011 draws to a close, I may not be thinner, have fewer wrinkles around my eyes, or be better at remembering why I went into the laundry room, but I do feel more powerful. Here’s hoping you have a powerful New Year.<br />
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P.S. In the spirit of full disclosure, here are some things I have not learned this year – how to get my wristwatch off of military time, how to tie a scarf, or how to text, store and find phone numbers or do anything except make calls from my cell phone. I also have not learned how to keep New Year’s resolutions. Maybe in 2012.<br />
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</a></div>P.P.S. Thanks to Megan for the photo of Willem, the Brooklyn PowerhouseJillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-35827988241395095252011-12-10T08:42:00.003-05:002011-12-16T11:56:43.460-05:00Tis The Season<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNk7CiVm9bxGI9_zCQMZ5rQwG_ntU6jpPAzZaO8aWLvg6ju0lSN6EcTIGp26HySCgSZ5_Dao69LWzHOuPVMM2P3mQCn9x3-k8gtNF3ByTw4NA00rP3e8F2vs6H_Zv3rY0nNk3FSLY78gY/s1600/dickclarketal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kC_f9_BH605sQnQsEXiCkQJSsDAxwIXVFFExytCjS6RF-cHZLpsTLlT67q53RiSdG54KqWKt-mgVjvWH6K5pf5Yqoe84J0jb8LA8kSrFYgbZVP0upSLkV5Yfoa7pSmHcOGRAPT3DAFk/s1600/chipmunks.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kC_f9_BH605sQnQsEXiCkQJSsDAxwIXVFFExytCjS6RF-cHZLpsTLlT67q53RiSdG54KqWKt-mgVjvWH6K5pf5Yqoe84J0jb8LA8kSrFYgbZVP0upSLkV5Yfoa7pSmHcOGRAPT3DAFk/s200/chipmunks.jpg" width="200" /></a>It’s the time of year for fun things like Christmas trees and cookie baking and surprises. It’s also the season for not-so-fun things like addressing holiday cards, The Chipmunks’ Christmas album and, especially, running errands. <br />
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If you read my post “Park and Shop,” you know I’m a world-class errand runner with extensive on-the-job training and millions of car miles and sales receipts in my resume. This year, however, the pre Christmas rush of busy streets and crowded parking lots is getting to me. What keeps me going is the music of the 50’s and 60’s on my car’s Sirius Radio.<br />
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The Sirius Radio connection started out to be Paul’s birthday present two years ago. Unfortunately, the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi83oYt2j8GmpghiLSvTcsrNiySuifvlKoMPUXmZ8qs3crxZnGlC77BgPN7uH6OMGP4KOyZu4exf1jW-bj-xsh4qlAWUAQ7bn8t8nVRpCAM-IN_ThQA0SFg07Wo8P91J41u2cCc41QAWRI/s1600/IMG_0047.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi83oYt2j8GmpghiLSvTcsrNiySuifvlKoMPUXmZ8qs3crxZnGlC77BgPN7uH6OMGP4KOyZu4exf1jW-bj-xsh4qlAWUAQ7bn8t8nVRpCAM-IN_ThQA0SFg07Wo8P91J41u2cCc41QAWRI/s200/IMG_0047.JPG" width="200" /></a>control box would have had to be installed right out there on the dashboard of the Lexus rather than stashed away neatly in some little compartment – SO unaesthetic!! That was a deal breaker for Paul who has neatness issues (my post “The Secret Lives of Dentists” explains this) and for the Lexus which has snottiness issues (my post “Why Can’t We Be Friends?” explains that.) <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRV_fykLUXLCQZ_W3pLtqk9kd24OfW7JCgY4TAUN8nRcIfVa-I3HJ2SUOkG1RmxE9-1Qx7191mF0WPh_YHwBRhJHU2KbsIcfWsHRZTEzp57uAfaSMv0-wTs13MllJkBAuGPiJ9oDJCvzU/s1600/siriusbox.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRV_fykLUXLCQZ_W3pLtqk9kd24OfW7JCgY4TAUN8nRcIfVa-I3HJ2SUOkG1RmxE9-1Qx7191mF0WPh_YHwBRhJHU2KbsIcfWsHRZTEzp57uAfaSMv0-wTs13MllJkBAuGPiJ9oDJCvzU/s200/siriusbox.JPG" width="200" /></a>My van and I don’t have any issues. So, while I’m navigating from Macy’s, to Kroger’s, to Target, to Barnes and Noble, to Dick’s Sporting Goods, to the Party Store, to Bed, Bath and Beyond, and beyond, I can sing along to the music and enjoy the tunes, the lyrics and the memories.<br />
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I can count on getting a lift from the Supremes – the ultimate feel-good group. On the radio, their music absolutely shimmers. I can’t see them, but I know they <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjriCs0H7tw0KRpJZZQFcGeQwseCgEf1NLoozCh70XkxnCXbX6yysVzqqt3d2wKOUzj1F2zkWKqgAD42PkoBfjw-WPkH1XmTX0_RjRj8HyfvUMNRADBOdhi98xp0sTEj1FSpgtuMw8Q0CQ/s1600/supremes.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjriCs0H7tw0KRpJZZQFcGeQwseCgEf1NLoozCh70XkxnCXbX6yysVzqqt3d2wKOUzj1F2zkWKqgAD42PkoBfjw-WPkH1XmTX0_RjRj8HyfvUMNRADBOdhi98xp0sTEj1FSpgtuMw8Q0CQ/s200/supremes.jpg" width="192" /></a>always shimmered, too - slinky, sparkly gowns, shiny hair, glittery eyelids and glossy lips. And, what I like best is the Supremes never fail to sound upbeat and happy, even after some guy has ditched them as in “Where Did Our Love Go?” or “Reflections” or “The Happening.” (Click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQvCci9txEg&playnext=1&list=PLA04A59B11D814DF7">The Supremes</a> and see for yourself.)<br />
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Surf and drag racing music is also fun and I’ve always loved the Beach Boys. I picture them rolling out of bed, bare-footed, wearing faded t-shirts <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4y1hDLocNyQTtjPCSaHStlHdCZz386ablkYsBvkt08UW-WNMnjlCl30dzfyoRhO1LjGyu0_nlj_dUdby2HgFRbTzJsbp6OAcBwj86IC2jlhAVyzqYr3O7jWRUkXzE1iojy_x53aVti-g/s1600/beach+boys.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4y1hDLocNyQTtjPCSaHStlHdCZz386ablkYsBvkt08UW-WNMnjlCl30dzfyoRhO1LjGyu0_nlj_dUdby2HgFRbTzJsbp6OAcBwj86IC2jlhAVyzqYr3O7jWRUkXzE1iojy_x53aVti-g/s200/beach+boys.jpg" width="200" /></a>with stretched out necks and frayed cutoffs, sun-bleached blonde hair in their eyes, swigging milk right out of the carton, belching, and, then, stumbling through another chorus of “Barbara Ann.” (Click this link to hear them: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=654H4xfDYKM">Beach Boys</a> ) Raffish but wholesome, they take you on a “Surfin’ Safari,” urge you to “Be True to Your School” and wonder what life will be like “When I Grow Up to Be a Man.” (By now, they must know the answers to the questions in that song including, “Will my kids be proud or think their old man’s really a square?”) <br />
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Then, there’s “I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You,” sung slowly and suggestively as only Elvis could do it. (Click for <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmakK7BSRnE">Elvis</a>) That song, and other like it, brings back memories of junior high parties and dances. To <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv6GhgG9I-SB9A6A9liScxIAENwjmdWjcDkLnnUFx_l8R01lcYnF5X-d36W9u1q78vVM1nvwmdLH3MYJAT_47-sJQgGrbSys946HNLzIvjFmtUyurW7dhbI1UMYtBKFEnj-QlzxKJtCrA/s1600/elvis.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv6GhgG9I-SB9A6A9liScxIAENwjmdWjcDkLnnUFx_l8R01lcYnF5X-d36W9u1q78vVM1nvwmdLH3MYJAT_47-sJQgGrbSys946HNLzIvjFmtUyurW7dhbI1UMYtBKFEnj-QlzxKJtCrA/s200/elvis.jpg" width="200" /></a>launch me into adolescent social life, my mom sent me to weekly social dancing lessons with a bunch of other 12 and 13-year-olds - boys wearing clip-on ties and girls wearing anklets and white gloves. Two years of lessons taught me important stuff like how to meet people in a receiving line, how to accept punch and cookies from a dance partner and how to do the jitterbug, the waltz and the fox trot. I went to a lot of eighth grade parties and never once did I find a receiving line or punch and cookies or someone who wanted to foxtrot. What I wished I had learned was how to dance in low light with a partner holding me so close that I couldn't watch my feet.<br />
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There is so much entertainment in these oldies that sometimes I have to wait until a song like “American Pie” is over before I tackle Hobby Lobby. I get a laugh out of the names of the groups like the Orlons, the Ronettes, the Chiffons and the Shirelles. I love the politically incorrect songs you’d never record today like “A-Hab the A-Rab,” “You Better Come Home, Speedy Gonzales” and “Johnny Get Angry” – with lyrics like “Let me know that you’re the boss” and “I want a brave man, I want a cave man,” music that Gloria Steinem could really relate to. <br />
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The Mamas and the Papas’ “California Dreaming” takes me back to my first all-night work session on the high school annual. The Fifth Dimension’s “Wedding Bell Blues” reminds me of Friday nights at the sorority house when everyone was showering, powdering, perfuming, hot rollering and dressing for dates. And every time I hear “We Gotta Get Out of This Place,” I feel the strobe-lit pulsation of loud music and tightly packed bodies at college parties. Those were the days . . . I think.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNk7CiVm9bxGI9_zCQMZ5rQwG_ntU6jpPAzZaO8aWLvg6ju0lSN6EcTIGp26HySCgSZ5_Dao69LWzHOuPVMM2P3mQCn9x3-k8gtNF3ByTw4NA00rP3e8F2vs6H_Zv3rY0nNk3FSLY78gY/s1600/dickclarketal.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNk7CiVm9bxGI9_zCQMZ5rQwG_ntU6jpPAzZaO8aWLvg6ju0lSN6EcTIGp26HySCgSZ5_Dao69LWzHOuPVMM2P3mQCn9x3-k8gtNF3ByTw4NA00rP3e8F2vs6H_Zv3rY0nNk3FSLY78gY/s1600/dickclarketal.jpg" /></a>This summer, a disillusioning and frightening encounter with the musical past confirmed the value of radio when it comes to oldies. I was with a group of women friends on what one husband called a “Cat’s away weekend” when, late one evening, “Malt Shop Memories,” a PBS special about music of the 50’s and early 60’s came on T.V. <br />
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</a></div>We were just in time to see and hear Frankie Avalon who was cute but definitely flat, and, with my musical <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqffeqnzvPC7j9Zv3HtygQ12q-zGw94I_MU1KnIVt8xOWNMIUcltxVo0QKDFU2LW9voQZFiJTMV3hWAHUFZDj_k48BH0PO32Uyb_Y4Jptj85Ac50fQ8pt1dP6CTuC4U9xjPUvdwLM_2EU/s1600/frankiefabian+and+bobby.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqffeqnzvPC7j9Zv3HtygQ12q-zGw94I_MU1KnIVt8xOWNMIUcltxVo0QKDFU2LW9voQZFiJTMV3hWAHUFZDj_k48BH0PO32Uyb_Y4Jptj85Ac50fQ8pt1dP6CTuC4U9xjPUvdwLM_2EU/s1600/frankiefabian+and+bobby.jpg" /></a>ear, if I can tell he’s flat then he’s a pancake – no, make that a crepe. Fortunately he and most of the other guys talked a lot of their lyrics, but the talk wasn’t always on key either. Bobby Rydell had the best voice and moves of the group but he’s gotten a little fuzzy around the edges like the rest of us. The biggest disappointment was Fabian who has a size 25 neck and was unrecognizable. He and the rest of those formerly sexy <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj643N5WUSNgl61gZVU242MZTKLOysI9XSvM0YHpjDpXejzXBlwh9zAVs9UMiD1ypNgVQJGo15el2jfkZNjvZotS34CPnNfQBeef_v91_sStB3gEzDQOti2TaOKLFVXbsAUqhkeNX0Vfkg/s1600/cannolijpg.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj643N5WUSNgl61gZVU242MZTKLOysI9XSvM0YHpjDpXejzXBlwh9zAVs9UMiD1ypNgVQJGo15el2jfkZNjvZotS34CPnNfQBeef_v91_sStB3gEzDQOti2TaOKLFVXbsAUqhkeNX0Vfkg/s1600/cannolijpg.jpg" /></a>Italian boys from Philly have apparently gone overboard on cannelloni and cannoli.(The photo at the left shows Frankie, Bobby and Fabian with Dick Clark - the Malt Shop photo is at above.) My friend Carol just kept shaking her head and muttering, “That is NOT Fabian.” From beginning to end, “Malt Shop Memories” was something you might call “sweet” but certainly not what you would call “pretty.” Part way through the show I took out my contacts which helped a little.<br />
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The biggest surprise of all came at the end when Lesley Gore burst onto the stage. I always thought of her as<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2PPh2VRaFAAyRNR8QVfUxHJDPUvAapTr3UHbC1f2_itFwi7nu4bkjuFizuE4qkrhyphenhyphenJdMUUi25uC2nbam45nQ4MqOWEWRC3tEaD8m0R8vfHlmhKQzd08nlvdNTWLcP7-X7K4dOSnigvDY/s1600/gore1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2PPh2VRaFAAyRNR8QVfUxHJDPUvAapTr3UHbC1f2_itFwi7nu4bkjuFizuE4qkrhyphenhyphenJdMUUi25uC2nbam45nQ4MqOWEWRC3tEaD8m0R8vfHlmhKQzd08nlvdNTWLcP7-X7K4dOSnigvDY/s1600/gore1.jpg" /></a> an annoying whiner (“It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want To”) with a snarky, vengeful <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrUyrN5dm6IdFUwBo0avYZfuIHWdmt87mkxMnBIDh1yzjGTgBr32_IzlQLJJ0rMEIyxnZLM7tTAOH5Tc1DuxwlP2NM4gCB_7jBnR11t8GNNd_kbgBqfOhgvJW6kRUW5na6foSQvExMdc/s1600/gore2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrUyrN5dm6IdFUwBo0avYZfuIHWdmt87mkxMnBIDh1yzjGTgBr32_IzlQLJJ0rMEIyxnZLM7tTAOH5Tc1DuxwlP2NM4gCB_7jBnR11t8GNNd_kbgBqfOhgvJW6kRUW5na6foSQvExMdc/s1600/gore2.jpg" /></a>streak ("Now It’s Judy’s Turn To Cry.”) Well, she was outstanding that night – right on key (a welcome change) and to top it off, she pranced around the stage like a 30-year-old or at least like Mick Jagger at Super Bowl XL. I’d like to get hold of whatever Lesley’s taking.<br />
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After that, I decided to stick with Sirius Radio, especially since I can’t take the “Malt Shop” with me when I run my errands, thank goodness. I’m counting on the entire crowd from Buddy Holly to Ricky Nelson, from<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFviGk8XEGK2V__iIMdbvynSoLQneG4LJ7_q7ZMSLcLIOsGxlQFvsMvIWOZHg9uu90-74KJ1QkJYj6c5MZTwab4PCC7-SyZZ7sTow1anYUAMgN6YxNZu8jiIveGsu8ylo_T2S0Zu5Z11Q/s1600/sirius.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFviGk8XEGK2V__iIMdbvynSoLQneG4LJ7_q7ZMSLcLIOsGxlQFvsMvIWOZHg9uu90-74KJ1QkJYj6c5MZTwab4PCC7-SyZZ7sTow1anYUAMgN6YxNZu8jiIveGsu8ylo_T2S0Zu5Z11Q/s200/sirius.jpg" width="200" /></a> Simon and Garfunkel to Sonny and Cher, from the Monkees to the Turtles to the Beatles to the Animals, from Dionne Warwick to Connie Francis to Petula Clark, and from the Big Bopper to Little Anthony, Little Richard, Little Stevie Wonder and Little Eva to stick with me through all my holiday preparations this year. And I’m hoping that when I’m 85 or 90, those songs of the 50’s and 60’s will still be around. I’m going to need them.Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-10819169266729877562011-11-19T08:11:00.002-05:002011-11-19T15:43:30.722-05:00Soup of the Evening, Beautiful Soup<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV3UB0lonzL6mZBOdBaMSueRLlpcJd-Jfwmx-2el4bFiFQRskeUou-iN8kRxwOdCXXW_xg5rlVx-ffVXLrGSzA8SFmgcT22XWALwoiHvi1HN3kcZ13jJSf0dKKf5cZrHT1yFPxXZmM2OA/s1600/ingredients.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcNbCC6ZHk0aUOgPovjC8O999y6LUhfoZDWmB17VvQVwBBg6gJgQCM0bVdzrV5e9eAyRr3snjXrtoB0qW9jPUTtwUeK2lB8UUcu4aSC8t8K6GcGOH3yX50dNpE2H2iBUnC02wpa5uz7k/s1600/5soups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcNbCC6ZHk0aUOgPovjC8O999y6LUhfoZDWmB17VvQVwBBg6gJgQCM0bVdzrV5e9eAyRr3snjXrtoB0qW9jPUTtwUeK2lB8UUcu4aSC8t8K6GcGOH3yX50dNpE2H2iBUnC02wpa5uz7k/s200/5soups.jpg" width="198" /></a>With November’s hint of winter in the air, I’m thinking a lot about soup. Paul and I made two different kinds this weekend and I just bought the ingredients for several more batches today. Soup is comforting and delicious, it comes in a variety of flavors and styles (thick or thin, chunky or smooth) and it’s not that hard to make. Even Nana K. who was never much of a cook (See “A Tale of Two Nanas”) could fill her blender with chopped up celery, cucumbers and onions and V-8 juice and immediately serve her favorite summertime treat, “Gestapo” soup. <br />
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When I was sick, I always could count on my mom to make a soothing batch of chicken soup, aka Jewish penicillin. She also made a terrific vegetable soup with soft meatballs which I was hoping she would bring over when I had my wisdom teeth taken out. Instead she made her chunky ham soup, which didn’t work out that great. (Mom doesn’t relate to any physical ailment which she has not personally experienced – she still doesn’t believe my sister really couldn’t walk with a broken ankle.) <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgri33AhPqtttb0J5gRHL6TK6I4pgxQoxkTc9I9S_8iQnuke_icvoDoOc8g1TKs96wQHw4TRftQmxY78MEUrejXegFDYU6Z-yIInNIhf5cT6XnwzMrG09wMgec4D6ViNrrk_FK1XyfTZGI/s1600/freezer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgri33AhPqtttb0J5gRHL6TK6I4pgxQoxkTc9I9S_8iQnuke_icvoDoOc8g1TKs96wQHw4TRftQmxY78MEUrejXegFDYU6Z-yIInNIhf5cT6XnwzMrG09wMgec4D6ViNrrk_FK1XyfTZGI/s200/freezer.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Paul and I started soup production on a grand scale when we lived in our first house and had a kitchen big enough to make it and a freezer big enough to keep it over the winter. Our minestrone soup recipe was hearty and tasty with enough vegetables to meet the required 5 servings a day and then some. We bought storage containers and a 28 quart soup pot from a kitchen supply store and turned out huge batches every fall. When I saw that array of full soup containers lined up in my freezer, I felt like a contented squirrel.<br />
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After a few years, we teamed up with our neighbors, splitting the work and the end product, although the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV3UB0lonzL6mZBOdBaMSueRLlpcJd-Jfwmx-2el4bFiFQRskeUou-iN8kRxwOdCXXW_xg5rlVx-ffVXLrGSzA8SFmgcT22XWALwoiHvi1HN3kcZ13jJSf0dKKf5cZrHT1yFPxXZmM2OA/s1600/ingredients.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV3UB0lonzL6mZBOdBaMSueRLlpcJd-Jfwmx-2el4bFiFQRskeUou-iN8kRxwOdCXXW_xg5rlVx-ffVXLrGSzA8SFmgcT22XWALwoiHvi1HN3kcZ13jJSf0dKKf5cZrHT1yFPxXZmM2OA/s200/ingredients.jpg" width="200" /></a>work was more of a three-way split. Gail would cheerfully tackle any assignment from onions to parsley to carrots, and, unlike me, she wasn’t annoyed by Paul’s lesson in correct carrot peeling. Tim, however, had a history of work-related injuries and, after dealing with a particularly tough bunch of celery, he retired to the couch to nurse his blisters. <br />
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Minestrone remains a winter staple at our house but we’ve branched out in many directions. Split pea soup was our first venture. David loved it so much, he learned to make it himself and, as a second grader, offered it for sale in his school auction. When we reach the end of the Christmas HoneyBaked ham, it’s hard to decide whether to use the bone in split pea, black bean or navy bean soup – a problem that I often solve with my friend Jean’s 12 Bean Soup recipe which gets the post-holiday season off to a roaring start.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmt-tG0I7DDeR-7mlLRfF0auEiwnys_9Gc0a-zLLXVILQqHgPSyc6descB_Z94ON67cksqHJ-MRvc1F_T9HRZbDhlizxuJ-Ns5u8tvt5W1Zz0VQYOqdWERhZ0FZKvu5EcXBz6vN_T8Rz4/s1600/soup+can.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmt-tG0I7DDeR-7mlLRfF0auEiwnys_9Gc0a-zLLXVILQqHgPSyc6descB_Z94ON67cksqHJ-MRvc1F_T9HRZbDhlizxuJ-Ns5u8tvt5W1Zz0VQYOqdWERhZ0FZKvu5EcXBz6vN_T8Rz4/s200/soup+can.jpg" width="135" /></a>Of course, when it comes to tomato soup, it’s hard to beat good old Campbell’s and now it comes “Heart Healthy,” which means you can have Graeters double chocolate chip ice cream for dessert. I wasn’t even looking to make my own tomato soup when a neighbor brought hers to our Halloween street party. WOW! I’ve been using her recipe ever since although I do toss in a can of Campbell’s which keeps me from feeling guilty and disloyal.<br />
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Like Sir Galahad, I conducted a long and arduous quest for my personal Holy Grail – a good mock turtle soup recipe. Mock turtle soup is primarily a Cincinnati German dish and there are as many variations on the mock turtle theme as there are <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTHHFIfZtScP3hbnOrKHkiMnssE3G2gGGrqedTT_vrGhHGCF0IxTKirHMZ5veSnb0jz-i3NqTYbx3jGAnORC9RrSxsUOZ8mQ2-SDVge4lFL30jrYQfj6rni3u0_RHSAsUy04zRUUTN_qs/s1600/mock+turtle.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTHHFIfZtScP3hbnOrKHkiMnssE3G2gGGrqedTT_vrGhHGCF0IxTKirHMZ5veSnb0jz-i3NqTYbx3jGAnORC9RrSxsUOZ8mQ2-SDVge4lFL30jrYQfj6rni3u0_RHSAsUy04zRUUTN_qs/s200/mock+turtle.jpg" width="169" /></a>for chili or turkey stuffing. Vinegar, catsup, Worcestershire sauce and ground beef are in most recipes but the additional ingredients vary wildly. Mock turtle soup can be flavored with cloves, marjoram, pickling spices, Ginger Snaps or savory, bolstered with dry sherry, Bordeaux, white wine, whipping cream or canned gravy (yuck!), and finished off with lemon peel and/or hardboiled eggs. Needless to say, mock turtle soup does not contain turtle meat or any other authentic turtle parts (If you wonder what a Mock Turtle looks like, see the drawing on the left.)<br />
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While I’ve been successful at making everything from Carrot Orange to Minted Spinach and Green Pea to Potato Leek Soup, I do remember one spectacularly disappointing failure. I wanted to do something special with the big tin of prime crabmeat my parents had brought back from the Outer Banks of North Carolina so I tried a recipe for Crabmeat Gumbo. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVrKSmrMnUqzYUEkAxwuaik2LroW7JDpvCzSPSOXCLlknV31U4D9_HEQKsBe88Ea9Cizr8I3SoZEZ5aeB0ezYHTF6QUts2bfa4J9uO7nA6RnNOmERLcOecd0PBTWSs5Re5NebeN-Y9PU/s1600/okra.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVrKSmrMnUqzYUEkAxwuaik2LroW7JDpvCzSPSOXCLlknV31U4D9_HEQKsBe88Ea9Cizr8I3SoZEZ5aeB0ezYHTF6QUts2bfa4J9uO7nA6RnNOmERLcOecd0PBTWSs5Re5NebeN-Y9PU/s200/okra.jpg" width="200" /></a> After most of the ingredients were in the soup pot, the gumbo looked and smelled wonderful. All I had to do was add the final, authentic touch – okra, fresh from Findlay Market. One second after the okra was in the pot, however, my Crabmeat Gumbo turned into a steaming cauldron of rubber cement, hanging in gluey strands from my big wooden spoon – a prime candidate for the garbage disposal. Nana K, a native of Alabama, always talked about how great okra was so there must be a better way to prepare it but I have no idea what that would be.<br />
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You wouldn’t expect a post about soup to end with a confession but this one does. The night everyone brought a different soup to dinner club, we were the ones who brought the container labeled “Latin Fiesta <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmitzRZTR5bENKg8zTBzfUHMJcHDCt8asE-Y_bGjYkNJViQF6HXkIsJVAUPDHtwNpjV4UQgU1sWuxdAwHwGOFylvyJ34OtyspY9BaorYRSS3fNYgFnOP5BR69hUcqmCibLvp7opxDXsH4/s1600/fiesta+soup.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmitzRZTR5bENKg8zTBzfUHMJcHDCt8asE-Y_bGjYkNJViQF6HXkIsJVAUPDHtwNpjV4UQgU1sWuxdAwHwGOFylvyJ34OtyspY9BaorYRSS3fNYgFnOP5BR69hUcqmCibLvp7opxDXsH4/s200/fiesta+soup.jpg" width="200" /></a>Soup.” Nobody could figure out where it came from; and, although it looked pretty funky with its uncooked macaroni, banana peppers and green olives floating in a “broth” the color of Mountain Dew, I think several people tasted it to be polite - they’re all still alive so, no harm done. Anyone who knows Paul will believe me when I say this was not my idea. With Thanksgiving almost here, I also have a second, small confession to make. I will have to throw away the turkey carcass again this year unless somebody can rescue it by sending me a good recipe for turkey soup ASAP.<br />
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“Alice In Wonderland” is the source of this post’s title – click below to hear Gene Wilder as the Mock Turtle singing the praises of soup.<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hDG73IAO5M8">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hDG73IAO5M8</a>Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-90856297658701429432011-10-14T17:31:00.001-04:002011-10-15T11:30:41.137-04:00Just Eat It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjdv2dWjfRPYTe_EB0G1hi_jutg0uZSdAvtcFiRsdpsbwKDHSdCi6ou86xDc_5PoxwLwcIK8UJwTqXsx5NMYPcgdiUzz2t1JocwBsmO3OgLRQBFc795DZA0FHIUyrv_l2rAUciC4S5ao/s1600/bluebery.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjdv2dWjfRPYTe_EB0G1hi_jutg0uZSdAvtcFiRsdpsbwKDHSdCi6ou86xDc_5PoxwLwcIK8UJwTqXsx5NMYPcgdiUzz2t1JocwBsmO3OgLRQBFc795DZA0FHIUyrv_l2rAUciC4S5ao/s200/bluebery.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7F2jp2ry8Rxkv-IN4eQ2uXX9XGiyThDzVWlIFKlEptivBTx63-lmyugj95A7ZVDi5LAamn5j2EMgqb3c3jV_1lYoHGwBD-g9Vq_D8WJSkmQHJDMqLCAgq-wR4qq_mXIrWA-FKcEYXKgg/s1600/willem+babyfood.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>At 17 months, Willem is working his way up the food chain and reminding me how trends in food have changed with each generation. For example, he eats spinach, mango and pea puree which you squeeze out of a tube like toothpaste, onto a spoon. This wonder product contains super grain salba, whatever that is, plus omega 3’s and is <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7F2jp2ry8Rxkv-IN4eQ2uXX9XGiyThDzVWlIFKlEptivBTx63-lmyugj95A7ZVDi5LAamn5j2EMgqb3c3jV_1lYoHGwBD-g9Vq_D8WJSkmQHJDMqLCAgq-wR4qq_mXIrWA-FKcEYXKgg/s1600/willem+babyfood.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7F2jp2ry8Rxkv-IN4eQ2uXX9XGiyThDzVWlIFKlEptivBTx63-lmyugj95A7ZVDi5LAamn5j2EMgqb3c3jV_1lYoHGwBD-g9Vq_D8WJSkmQHJDMqLCAgq-wR4qq_mXIrWA-FKcEYXKgg/s200/willem+babyfood.JPG" width="150" /></a>“packed with antioxidants” along with fiber and protein and is organic and gluten free to boot. That’s an impressive resume. When you compare it to what I ate growing up, combined with exposure to DDT, mercury and second hand smoke, it’s a wonder I didn’t grow a second head like some of those mutant frogs they find in polluted backwaters.<br />
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My mom was and is a great cook (See my post “Food, Glorious Food”) and made a lot of mostly healthy meals from scratch, but the 50’s were the era of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3w5mZqSKmXxUAPwMs45sZ-aS9ukRMStDMosxlET2xyDignwUyESyO-86C_-5lc9emI8JE1g8GDpMVe-p9U0V5sf9CYnIcH7OM1R4-NVu008-0vVRd-RalWbF228V2GX5rYttQ1wRG7c/s1600/spam2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3w5mZqSKmXxUAPwMs45sZ-aS9ukRMStDMosxlET2xyDignwUyESyO-86C_-5lc9emI8JE1g8GDpMVe-p9U0V5sf9CYnIcH7OM1R4-NVu008-0vVRd-RalWbF228V2GX5rYttQ1wRG7c/s200/spam2.jpg" width="200" /></a>processed foods. We ate sugared cereals like Frosted Flakes, Sugar Pops, Sugar Smacks and Cocoa Puffs, and we buried cereals like Cheerios and Shredded Wheat in sugar ourselves. We ate bacon and sausage for breakfast, hotdogs, baloney and chicken liver (aka braunschweiger) for lunch and ham or Spam for dinner. Turkey sandwiches only made an appearance the day after Thanksgiving. Miracle whip and Mayonnaise popped up in everything from salads to sandwiches to casseroles and the concept of lite mayo (or lite anything) wasn't even on the drawing board. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRStC6fZyb0a55Dr8psSvt8dIyde4N71sCMvwASDTtR8izzUw231MEQvYRkBVDHOvzjx1nyR965t1CDmc89SdjNlJti4t9q0GQxJar-F7_IonEWdVtr7HkUzLA9kAFUAyIMS3YE1ceZxw/s1600/jello.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRStC6fZyb0a55Dr8psSvt8dIyde4N71sCMvwASDTtR8izzUw231MEQvYRkBVDHOvzjx1nyR965t1CDmc89SdjNlJti4t9q0GQxJar-F7_IonEWdVtr7HkUzLA9kAFUAyIMS3YE1ceZxw/s200/jello.jpg" width="168" /></a></div>My mom served vegetables and a salad every night, but Jello with mandarin oranges and pineapple counted as a salad in the 50’s. Tossed salads were made of iceberg lettuce which we now know has the same nutritional value as shredded tissue paper with salad dressing. <br />
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At least we didn’t go through soft drinks the way kids do today. Sports drinks like Gatorade hadn’t been invented. In fact the only energy drink we ever had <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5oOpvEWq5mNY6eurXsgzgzcg8zZV79g8SdL1fAl6YK_5t7fKYPK1I5ul-P1nVJ3C1M1rZxMkpBfV7LaEuIKrmm4rWaIXKIno152GJkrWRo5QQkHWCyThW_zZT1m070bXaeHYVAwZtClU/s1600/dana.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5oOpvEWq5mNY6eurXsgzgzcg8zZV79g8SdL1fAl6YK_5t7fKYPK1I5ul-P1nVJ3C1M1rZxMkpBfV7LaEuIKrmm4rWaIXKIno152GJkrWRo5QQkHWCyThW_zZT1m070bXaeHYVAwZtClU/s200/dana.jpg" width="200" /></a>was an eight-ounce Coke on Friday night and it worked like a charm. Naturally we did go a little crazy on special occasions – picnics with other families on Memorial day or the Fourth of July were a time for sparklers, wiffle ball and draining as many bottles of Dana root beer, red pop, orange pop, and lime-green pop as possible before the adults started counting the empties. One year, my dad’s high school friend, Bud, a W.C.Fields knock-off, told my brother, “If you take any more of those, I’m going to dump the rest in your dad’s gas tank.” And he meant it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUkvjLOWsF5ruyBHtMSi26H92ObqCuoxGP8X0Y5Uy-aCB8iQoIFZuteIaLx3hB_FTyA07SuHKNAdwH_nG2VJx1f1BTCPGorIoqaBX-RlDBmFN5_aGg7J1qc4-hgwv1iTUYFbTzFYgAp0/s1600/d+apple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUkvjLOWsF5ruyBHtMSi26H92ObqCuoxGP8X0Y5Uy-aCB8iQoIFZuteIaLx3hB_FTyA07SuHKNAdwH_nG2VJx1f1BTCPGorIoqaBX-RlDBmFN5_aGg7J1qc4-hgwv1iTUYFbTzFYgAp0/s200/d+apple.jpg" width="171" /></a></div>In the 70’s, there was a lot written about the ill effects of too much salt, sugar, and chemicals like nitrites in kid foods, especially baby food. I took it seriously and followed a book called, “Feed Me, I’m Yours” to what now seems like crazy extremes. I made my own granola and edible Play Doh. I cooked and pureed carrots, spinach, sweet potatoes and peas, laid out blops on a cookie sheet, froze them and then stacked up the frozen blops to use as needed. That worked well except for the time I used a knife to pry the frozen blops apart and wound up in the emergency room with a stab wound in my hand. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghUkEim73j3lr-egbj2bLOC4PT3xSQgfyg-NE49w4HXyfdduEdxNX2a7ZGdAANCjmcsSmkd6v_zfUQlOAKnr_aU5WAE-QqwgjbkWHEy3SyYqpVGEoGtuNiJhtBS0UtVr5_4bJ_4eeD7A4/s1600/d+spagh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghUkEim73j3lr-egbj2bLOC4PT3xSQgfyg-NE49w4HXyfdduEdxNX2a7ZGdAANCjmcsSmkd6v_zfUQlOAKnr_aU5WAE-QqwgjbkWHEy3SyYqpVGEoGtuNiJhtBS0UtVr5_4bJ_4eeD7A4/s200/d+spagh.jpg" width="190" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvH5QGflM2bCzfuPY0T4pq_01S-Brm8lZ7-h9G6mvhfCdt6hz-f3lUVYk1EhfmEwMcll1wPzzhcuWOL-c_3F54EDJVF4fXVeGMKYzOO25LzfZLVy_jFf4TsEZrt3Yp5kaswgDDJsLEa-8/s1600/j+ice+cream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I couldn’t puree any meat to a texture David would eat except chicken livers (the real thing, not braunschweiger) which I put in spaghetti sauce. I didn’t serve bacon, baloney, ham, sausage or any processed meats except nitrite-free turkey hot dogs from the health food store. And, I now acknowledge that I was pathologically obsessed with David not starting on sugar at an early age to the point that, the first time someone gave him a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvH5QGflM2bCzfuPY0T4pq_01S-Brm8lZ7-h9G6mvhfCdt6hz-f3lUVYk1EhfmEwMcll1wPzzhcuWOL-c_3F54EDJVF4fXVeGMKYzOO25LzfZLVy_jFf4TsEZrt3Yp5kaswgDDJsLEa-8/s1600/j+ice+cream.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvH5QGflM2bCzfuPY0T4pq_01S-Brm8lZ7-h9G6mvhfCdt6hz-f3lUVYk1EhfmEwMcll1wPzzhcuWOL-c_3F54EDJVF4fXVeGMKYzOO25LzfZLVy_jFf4TsEZrt3Yp5kaswgDDJsLEa-8/s200/j+ice+cream.jpg" width="160" /></a>cookie in a store, I grabbed it and popped it into my mouth. 32 years later, I still get a hot flash of embarrassment just thinking about that scene. And, by the way, the theory that kids who don’t have sugar as toddlers won’t develop a taste for cookies, cake and ice cream later in life is totally bogus.<br />
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For today’s baby, eating combines gourmet foods and natural ingredients, beginning with the bib. When Willem started eating real food, I was excited to <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_nTN3PUSNUXbPoj4JJq3_M-tmcZuA5Il3Ya98Nh4vQ1kXu-gyOq1vaH5_vTXXqjfOHkqoMIF9K4iMTkBlEVYSCzPZJKlu-pUyE5qOmuFg0xI8csyA9zOs7nKoiMahDyYH12Dh2ORHe4/s1600/cereal+face.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR_nTN3PUSNUXbPoj4JJq3_M-tmcZuA5Il3Ya98Nh4vQ1kXu-gyOq1vaH5_vTXXqjfOHkqoMIF9K4iMTkBlEVYSCzPZJKlu-pUyE5qOmuFg0xI8csyA9zOs7nKoiMahDyYH12Dh2ORHe4/s200/cereal+face.JPG" width="200" /></a>find the best piece of baby gear on the Internet - a flexible plastic bib which catches everything that comes out of the mouth, rolls over the chin and heads for the floor. These bibs look and work exactly as they did when David and John used them, but now they have a pedigree a mile long – no PVC’s, BPA’s, Phthalates’s (look that up in Wikipedia), lead or anything even mildly toxic. I thought it was ridiculous to make a bib safe enough for a kid to eat until Megan sent us this YouTube video last winter. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cOMfkZ2xZk">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cOMfkZ2xZk</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrPVmXcsw7h5iE6Mb0yeZ_Gcm9J0hPDdWU4-GceFgWf_na06p4w0mmZycWnTApurOEWxvzgFZXAdJuYox1nStfIsfWs3ewKjw5AtBPvfoEiRrLl3UQ8QVh4GLPHrBO8K81erMQcrHUbo/s1600/chef+boyardee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrPVmXcsw7h5iE6Mb0yeZ_Gcm9J0hPDdWU4-GceFgWf_na06p4w0mmZycWnTApurOEWxvzgFZXAdJuYox1nStfIsfWs3ewKjw5AtBPvfoEiRrLl3UQ8QVh4GLPHrBO8K81erMQcrHUbo/s200/chef+boyardee.jpg" width="188" /></a></div>Willem’s culinary adventures started with Baby Mum-Mum Selected Superior Rice Rusks. He has segued from pro-biotic oatmeal, to macaroni and cheese with butternut squash sauce to chicken mango risotto. As a child, my acquaintance with delicacies from exotic cultures was limited to Chef-Boy-AR-Dee Ravioli and Chun King Chow Mein. Willem, however, has savored couscous, hummus on bagel, black beans on crackers, pureed mango and pasta with both basil and sun dried tomato pesto and he isn’t even two yet!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii1I1RgyD8uN2Ps8asetHg3nEWFvays0P7UoRZSyn7vTaIjxa2eSLQejyNNOTYIOUhYsQmsrnDbw0-iP0EilsMV06YG3UwDiRHpgOueVH0GGvBdOiorzTr5Wpo97wLOXBa9VDKQPJYaqA/s1600/w+feeding+david.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii1I1RgyD8uN2Ps8asetHg3nEWFvays0P7UoRZSyn7vTaIjxa2eSLQejyNNOTYIOUhYsQmsrnDbw0-iP0EilsMV06YG3UwDiRHpgOueVH0GGvBdOiorzTr5Wpo97wLOXBa9VDKQPJYaqA/s200/w+feeding+david.JPG" width="200" /></a>It’s a little overwhelming, and I was worried about how we’d tempt Willem’s highly developed palate when he comes to visit us again. Which Kroger’s carries sushi or dim sum or escargot in the baby food aisle? On our latest trip to New York, it was a relief to see him devouring cream cheese and turkey sandwiches. And, apparently, it was love at first bite when he met up with Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks at his friend Mason’s house in Connecticut so the pressure's off.<br />
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Click this link for the source of this post's title<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Za_hBk8gdZU"> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Za_hBk8gdZU</a>Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-73813893036693698012011-10-03T17:57:00.003-04:002011-10-05T07:18:55.843-04:00Yard Sales<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj0gengKRkVoDG5lf-zFel1c92iv0Z_MLtqAWeMn4pCfqVNdcY314LSoNK2mdbJYNWmDZKwZ9yi3UmXfXWxLrEzzjc3mQwsgT95YDrxQUeBCnthLphT3w43BGbB_pW_Hb-TySAkkd96-8/s1600/many+color+sign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj0gengKRkVoDG5lf-zFel1c92iv0Z_MLtqAWeMn4pCfqVNdcY314LSoNK2mdbJYNWmDZKwZ9yi3UmXfXWxLrEzzjc3mQwsgT95YDrxQUeBCnthLphT3w43BGbB_pW_Hb-TySAkkd96-8/s200/many+color+sign.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>At this stage of my life, I find myself doing things I thought I’d never do like shopping for eye wrinkle cream or going to bed at 10:30 on a Saturday night or eating a low-sodium turkey sandwich with low-sodium and low-fat swiss and lite mayo. <br />
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Now, unbelievably, I find myself ready to put in a good word about yard sales. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2W8C_7Ej4P0ued18nX9p8QEGVli3OwhXn-sw3V0HpMPi_0Uw70FLlg-Lmf-mSecsByTvfZGEvx9d9YL76QSYWpVFq9qpIfW5CWJD3uS8ILVL7HY-Sli2n8UQlA7ey292Vh5xfw5csDQ/s1600/clothes+and+books.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2W8C_7Ej4P0ued18nX9p8QEGVli3OwhXn-sw3V0HpMPi_0Uw70FLlg-Lmf-mSecsByTvfZGEvx9d9YL76QSYWpVFq9qpIfW5CWJD3uS8ILVL7HY-Sli2n8UQlA7ey292Vh5xfw5csDQ/s200/clothes+and+books.jpg" width="200" /></a>I admit that, in the past, I’ve viewed them as blights upon the landscape – really just heaps of trash with price stickers on them. Yard sales were something you just had to put up with like a crying baby on an airplane or a woman with a fistful of coupons ahead of you in the grocery check-out line or getting crowns on your teeth.<br />
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We got an early, bad exposure to yard sales with a next door neighbor who ran one every weekend for a year or more. On Saturday mornings, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQx36_vFWBh5xqaN0kfuurpMn2T7IVZzxA2aVCMWjFMc06Czhef-TSsEs8SF_yaESOv0n4eOSt3PXbHGYWDGPQGkfo7fOVk7MNEa7nVNDKn-Hkn4_uKv-EvZ_8NYfjCBe7D-EjiK7dJ7Y/s1600/yellow+sign.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQx36_vFWBh5xqaN0kfuurpMn2T7IVZzxA2aVCMWjFMc06Czhef-TSsEs8SF_yaESOv0n4eOSt3PXbHGYWDGPQGkfo7fOVk7MNEa7nVNDKn-Hkn4_uKv-EvZ_8NYfjCBe7D-EjiK7dJ7Y/s200/yellow+sign.JPG" width="150" /></a>Bill would cover his front lawn with tables of glass and ceramic vases, piles of chipped china, boxes of rusting tools and kitchen utensils, mounds of discarded clothing and shoes, and stray chairs, desks and bookshelves.<br />
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It drove Paul so crazy that, one day, after disgustedly surveying Bill’s merchandise, he said, “Why don’t you just put that stuff out for the trash?”<br />
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The indignant reply, “This is all GOOD stuff!” summed up the motivation for every yard sale aficionado.<br />
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Soon Paul began fantasizing about making a film short in which he would drive up to yard sales in the<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKj1hTDm7iTcfVWk6UZtS1hzJ4Hf_eu0wnD-qW9XzYwImnHg7cq0S-1-O75JJnkPmMdEducMGTP1NurYT0D_rsrQHj5UvrfLuIjd7HUnufpw52dmtSidzJ5dZHXd38mkz-ZMwwqsYzU-s/s1600/treasure+sign.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKj1hTDm7iTcfVWk6UZtS1hzJ4Hf_eu0wnD-qW9XzYwImnHg7cq0S-1-O75JJnkPmMdEducMGTP1NurYT0D_rsrQHj5UvrfLuIjd7HUnufpw52dmtSidzJ5dZHXd38mkz-ZMwwqsYzU-s/s320/treasure+sign.JPG" width="320" /></a> neighborhood and, at each one, offer to buy everything they had to sell. Then he would motion a gigantic garbage truck in and throw every last tea kettle, roller skate, lamp and Encyclopedia Britannica into the truck. He relished the thought of the camera recording shock and awe on the faces of the sellers as an energetic trash masher chewed, chopped and pulverized all of their “good stuff.” I had not planned to accompany him on that film shoot, which, fortunately, never got past the planning stage.<br />
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Later, when the David and John were young, Paul’s mother showed me <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSVpiMVlH9PlhmUYeGXkdHnmgjVyus3XLxXlEUn-HKX513TPsLDujJDwWMvhTdL1gpYg9az6BUzVTAEOqw356N4aTTJRl23rv0giAWhOB0qBe9peF6k_M5d8wwknbgQ3EgeSjeCNTr54/s1600/toy+sale+gate.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSVpiMVlH9PlhmUYeGXkdHnmgjVyus3XLxXlEUn-HKX513TPsLDujJDwWMvhTdL1gpYg9az6BUzVTAEOqw356N4aTTJRl23rv0giAWhOB0qBe9peF6k_M5d8wwknbgQ3EgeSjeCNTr54/s200/toy+sale+gate.JPG" width="200" /></a>the possibilities of yard sales. In order to have toys on hand for her many grandchildren, she scoured the neighborhoods, finding things David and John loved like a Fisher Price airplane, a schoolhouse and puzzles. She got a little carried away when it came to buying used bikes, however, and amassed a huge collection of derelict two-wheelers in all styles, colors and sizes for the lake house, which gave the entire family plenty of hands-on experience at replacing chains and changing tires.<br />
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Without telling Paul, I checked out some sales myself, scoring things like a Fisher Price garage, a big yellow truck full of blocks, a toy treehouse and a metal board with alphabet letter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPUDVb5Z6bE-Q2Zhu6UHuzk1DDsYNXRs8K9-0N67IDLvyYXn-S1x1otbTU_I6XenA4daWkg9MDxePIei4qwBh3v3pqlvLKrNCb2sWEsJ_AHnsCU1h9m7sSlzC_pfWOCI_j_mKRRRQTDgw/s1600/blk+and+wh+sign.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPUDVb5Z6bE-Q2Zhu6UHuzk1DDsYNXRs8K9-0N67IDLvyYXn-S1x1otbTU_I6XenA4daWkg9MDxePIei4qwBh3v3pqlvLKrNCb2sWEsJ_AHnsCU1h9m7sSlzC_pfWOCI_j_mKRRRQTDgw/s200/blk+and+wh+sign.JPG" width="200" /></a> magnets. I couldn’t justify buying the boys a play kitchen at full price but I found a toy stove and refrigerator for $10 at a yard sale. Sure, they were scratch and dent models but the boys didn’t care, plus they were stocked with play food including plastic apples and bananas which doubled as hand grenades and guns. (See my post “Arms and the Boys.”)<br />
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I never got around to having my own yard sale – after all, I could only <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lPlylUaKi6yJEBuEzpX_YLuoTmrebMyVIhJ-F2faBBigGxCFhyoatnHvz1HtOtrgzOwVvYHty7iJtKFD2spdC8qXbk7GeAq_eP3zMV3ktzPaTqVJ4doxtBMWM3FIE71NG10IQq5kLh8/s1600/clothes+close.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_lPlylUaKi6yJEBuEzpX_YLuoTmrebMyVIhJ-F2faBBigGxCFhyoatnHvz1HtOtrgzOwVvYHty7iJtKFD2spdC8qXbk7GeAq_eP3zMV3ktzPaTqVJ4doxtBMWM3FIE71NG10IQq5kLh8/s200/clothes+close.JPG" width="200" /></a>push Paul so far. Besides, when my friend Tina held a yard sale in the upscale Chicago neighborhood of Winnetka, she attracted a horde of rapacious bargain hunters, like a reincarnation of Genghis Khan and the Mongols. Her 4-year-old daughter Claire was so enchanted by the crowd and the excitement that she didn’t want it to end. She had brought out and sold most of Tina’s designer lingerie and was back in the house emptying Tina’s sweater drawers when her parents caught on and cut short her brilliant sales career.<br />
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One September when David and John were in grade school, I had nightmares about all the new toys, books and games that were about to descend on our house for the boys’ November and December birthdays and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXYlJV4VK20Pnm3RvHSJF_W0Ud6bO7Um0VTRQJ_86LY4mGoYdeDNzQq3eSx5HiAiHb_nL0K0Qa0yElXqSKpCmY-7zOT5UXYEKdAps1m1fGUHqSIyTtmSVfDEPY4Veh0lecKXr1KTEHDM/s1600/kid+yardsale.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinXYlJV4VK20Pnm3RvHSJF_W0Ud6bO7Um0VTRQJ_86LY4mGoYdeDNzQq3eSx5HiAiHb_nL0K0Qa0yElXqSKpCmY-7zOT5UXYEKdAps1m1fGUHqSIyTtmSVfDEPY4Veh0lecKXr1KTEHDM/s200/kid+yardsale.jpg" width="200" /></a>Christmas. (See my post, “Toy Story.”) Finally, I issued a Mother Edict - no more stuff was coming into the house until some stuff went out - and suggested they have their own yard sale. It worked out great – the boys cleared out toys that were past prime, made some money and had fun bargaining with the buyers – or mostly great, although John immediately plowed his profits into a PlayMobile castle and, when the kids next door left with a wagonload of David and John’s old junk, I was afraid their mom would never speak to me again.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFr5VLQFBdXQt-1rCycgwiXa138TXx3jPnGFTvKt3sPopX2X7KYmvj5v2GmBcITuO9v7mGHGNfVpw-YJaO5OXJ0IcaXRogSf8-3MpMsk2kfmdKSOw2asgw5-Jp2S4LfX7e5D22Go8q6D8/s1600/push+toy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFr5VLQFBdXQt-1rCycgwiXa138TXx3jPnGFTvKt3sPopX2X7KYmvj5v2GmBcITuO9v7mGHGNfVpw-YJaO5OXJ0IcaXRogSf8-3MpMsk2kfmdKSOw2asgw5-Jp2S4LfX7e5D22Go8q6D8/s200/push+toy.jpg" width="153" /></a>Now, as a grandparent, yard sales have become my new best friends. You can find necessities like car seats, high chairs and porta-cribs at great prices, along with tons of toys. While I had saved David and John’s Legos, PlayMobiles, matchbox cars, trains and big metal trucks, I didn’t have much in the way of toddler toys for Willem’s visits this past summer. Thanks to yard sales, The Boss played with a fire truck, a farm, a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-vw8wTWWccLdQTmC2QHPkIIUFNe4Ov1gXbidwM-fNJTIfPmKKjSG9BqeNXnsEoI6FnOXfLErKYPJ-rOdxle6wde_qkuXPgbJn0k3ejnxpAOp9nNSUBrybBKUfMRLVZ_rNEUIh5nvDBQ/s1600/willems+car.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-vw8wTWWccLdQTmC2QHPkIIUFNe4Ov1gXbidwM-fNJTIfPmKKjSG9BqeNXnsEoI6FnOXfLErKYPJ-rOdxle6wde_qkuXPgbJn0k3ejnxpAOp9nNSUBrybBKUfMRLVZ_rNEUIh5nvDBQ/s200/willems+car.JPG" width="200" /></a>Noah’s ark, a push and ride toy and a big car instead of my food processor, Paul's golf clubs and our ceramic tulips.<br />
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While it wasn’t apparent to Paul, I did exercise discrimination in what I bought. I said “No” to some great deals - a grocery cart (only $1), a lawnmower (only $2), and a tool bench (big and flashy) because a Brooklyn baby has groceries delivered, doesn’t see his Dad cut the grass and wouldn’t <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3vPxZFlkF6CaIzGm-TDB8Snjdi8E7gLulKfVfszOXREmBtkxum4po99aWqlkX3A0dylY1KlkIjOjvlEXx5iS6A_rHapn379wsEKc-JzPPS5eQCQD3YPaOKKSQo52G6F6wbNQb_dnL74U/s1600/grage.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3vPxZFlkF6CaIzGm-TDB8Snjdi8E7gLulKfVfszOXREmBtkxum4po99aWqlkX3A0dylY1KlkIjOjvlEXx5iS6A_rHapn379wsEKc-JzPPS5eQCQD3YPaOKKSQo52G6F6wbNQb_dnL74U/s200/grage.jpg" width="200" /></a>know what to do with a tool bench except climb on it. I also risked being labeled a “No-Fun Nana” when I turned down an electric riding car and, in fact, nixed everything electric or battery powered. I neglected to do my homework, however, when I bought a toy garage with all sorts of cool features like an elevator, a car lift, ramps, a tow truck and a gas pump. What I didn’t see but what Willem saw first was the battery-operated sound panel – just push the buttons and you get a phone ringing, gas pumps dinging, an engine revving <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr18ZRU-XH9WLaAmZDEKxRaFQid2cpFm8Rm9YGIY_YYmOg7WRKCm9qH0aPwgZytWFDRLxEpYU1ZXIELR2yTsCwhHxQhm1pToAMhTtCjeY1-v8eGDEKvOpT9Z-TkGFizbtn8OiKNwpJPzs/s1600/bklyn+house+front.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr18ZRU-XH9WLaAmZDEKxRaFQid2cpFm8Rm9YGIY_YYmOg7WRKCm9qH0aPwgZytWFDRLxEpYU1ZXIELR2yTsCwhHxQhm1pToAMhTtCjeY1-v8eGDEKvOpT9Z-TkGFizbtn8OiKNwpJPzs/s200/bklyn+house+front.jpg" width="156" /></a>and tires squealing. Caveat Emptor.<br />
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Now, Megan has been making the rounds of “stoop sales,” the Brooklyn equivalent of yard sales, because there’s no point to pay full price for toys that the Boss may only play with for a week or two. Recently, she brought home a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYn3Cnej7Qt24CKFCY9Kdyo__xmnRPrh4x-ykIwiOt3PV5fVHC5Uvq_89KPw1dC2-1-L_LV-ooSGd8aEkUsEPnuL85LaUYSFF2fchIKeA3f3RbYFAix9f9lwe9w7sHSopCOAXkck4cnUU/s1600/firetruck.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYn3Cnej7Qt24CKFCY9Kdyo__xmnRPrh4x-ykIwiOt3PV5fVHC5Uvq_89KPw1dC2-1-L_LV-ooSGd8aEkUsEPnuL85LaUYSFF2fchIKeA3f3RbYFAix9f9lwe9w7sHSopCOAXkck4cnUU/s200/firetruck.jpg" width="167" /></a>toy stroller which saved Willem, who had been snatching them from other toddlers in the park, from a life of crime. She also scored hits with a toy recycling truck and a fire truck, which Willem embraced like it was a newborn baby.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg92xYH8S5NHNbnnEtYgzTLMfJkRyHJj_jVR2JfMJH-YAs0tVw70uAQSDjEcHs_SpyHJ1P9PlE21xGG6t6Lt8dBSd2-BLGGZ_l3Ae0DSSfFrI1sqeqsuFSrOqjP2tAXr2fQTXfolKKjcKo/s1600/airdyne.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg92xYH8S5NHNbnnEtYgzTLMfJkRyHJj_jVR2JfMJH-YAs0tVw70uAQSDjEcHs_SpyHJ1P9PlE21xGG6t6Lt8dBSd2-BLGGZ_l3Ae0DSSfFrI1sqeqsuFSrOqjP2tAXr2fQTXfolKKjcKo/s200/airdyne.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj0gengKRkVoDG5lf-zFel1c92iv0Z_MLtqAWeMn4pCfqVNdcY314LSoNK2mdbJYNWmDZKwZ9yi3UmXfXWxLrEzzjc3mQwsgT95YDrxQUeBCnthLphT3w43BGbB_pW_Hb-TySAkkd96-8/s1600/many+color+sign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>With Christmas coming, I’d suggest she focus on finding what Willem loved the most when he stayed with us this summer – a Schwinn Airdyne stationary bike. Every chance he got, he was in our unfinished basement cozying up to the Airdyne, admiring its big, caged wheel, lovingly caressing the frame, and reverently spinning the pedals. So, if Megan is a really good Santa, she’ll get it for him, and while, she’s at it, she might also pick up a lawn and leaf blower as a stocking stuffer.<br />
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Thanks to Paul for photographing all the Brooklyn street scenes.Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-86991716332287902742011-09-06T15:47:00.000-04:002011-09-06T15:47:03.294-04:00Fish Stories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXC0ruJex2JMLnhv89meMC_Z2l4BlJHH5M2f8FpGPxXS-TPpar03-yeO-DCTaVmqaNIEqrlLIU4F_b-BhUoEs570uZvPiRFkmM0RafoMgDWX61E7a9rXo6KMt-ZgC-BdV9VFzjneW_bU0/s1600/little+david2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXC0ruJex2JMLnhv89meMC_Z2l4BlJHH5M2f8FpGPxXS-TPpar03-yeO-DCTaVmqaNIEqrlLIU4F_b-BhUoEs570uZvPiRFkmM0RafoMgDWX61E7a9rXo6KMt-ZgC-BdV9VFzjneW_bU0/s200/little+david2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not sure how our family got started fishing. Neither of my parents fished when they were kids although my dad’s Uncle Walter had a worm farm in his basement so maybe there was something in the genes. All I know is that, when we were in grade school, most Sundays we packed cane poles, bobbers, bait and whipped-cream topped coffee cake (a bribe for my sister) into the car and drove to Hueston Woods Lake for a morning of fishing. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrveR90jpCU5-M6paeZRRlY873P_KYaIXslJgaQqHBSxAi9fIANbf5cznFbzZaud1mgdxFbFm0eiWnJWjSuA4EfcbfngTkZc8MkyRfN0FFiccazZFQREq1tY0-QGOQR3lXmAtbJY6Wm38/s1600/pa+david+and+fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="MsoNormal">My dad said real fishermen started early in the day so we usually got there way before the fish were up. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrveR90jpCU5-M6paeZRRlY873P_KYaIXslJgaQqHBSxAi9fIANbf5cznFbzZaud1mgdxFbFm0eiWnJWjSuA4EfcbfngTkZc8MkyRfN0FFiccazZFQREq1tY0-QGOQR3lXmAtbJY6Wm38/s1600/pa+david+and+fish.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrveR90jpCU5-M6paeZRRlY873P_KYaIXslJgaQqHBSxAi9fIANbf5cznFbzZaud1mgdxFbFm0eiWnJWjSuA4EfcbfngTkZc8MkyRfN0FFiccazZFQREq1tY0-QGOQR3lXmAtbJY6Wm38/s200/pa+david+and+fish.jpg" width="200" /></a>Eventually we’d catch a few yawning, sleepy-eyed bluegills or sunfish or crappies –little, bony Midwestern fish who had been repeatedly hooked and thrown back so that their mouths had more piercings than a punk rocker. They were too little to eat; but my brother, who was big on statistics, kept a running count of who had the most fish (him, naturally) and who got “skunked,” i.e. caught nothing. (By the way, when we spend the holidays in Florida, Mark still keeps family fishing tallies and – surprise! – he’s still the big winner.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWYIAO_yTho8SiDJW6fsRiNyR2sqj-ZzO_RgsqpzF7hbuJImUlAg8AwasmrqXdpwrL4l4KUFf62FsXTQOgA1rLSk7Gs-3d0FZulVK3bibh0f4N9-DXO2b889MmwIZIv2iBZZylCFcEuk/s1600/john+fla.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWYIAO_yTho8SiDJW6fsRiNyR2sqj-ZzO_RgsqpzF7hbuJImUlAg8AwasmrqXdpwrL4l4KUFf62FsXTQOgA1rLSk7Gs-3d0FZulVK3bibh0f4N9-DXO2b889MmwIZIv2iBZZylCFcEuk/s200/john+fla.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">On our first trip to Florida, we got hooked on ocean fishing from piers and bridges and kept it up for many years, in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. As always, this activity started before dawn so we had to have junk food like Moon Pies, Hostess Sno-Balls and PayDays for an eye-opener. Those saltwater fish were NOT late sleepers, however, and they woke up full of energy. Sometimes your pole would be bent in half and the line would be moving all around the water so fast that you barely<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0QmgU9C0azlAXULymaenCx-SzhbvSWUH91GXSaaVmewdB3jNygMHuNuyne26UwK_nLa7set-L9cwYHFekIyyVyDnY7t30AS1CXnDlIv7Mt1xi0KwfBqFR0VDmJis6Tw97X2-hTU9hfo8/s1600/d+big+fla+fish.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0QmgU9C0azlAXULymaenCx-SzhbvSWUH91GXSaaVmewdB3jNygMHuNuyne26UwK_nLa7set-L9cwYHFekIyyVyDnY7t30AS1CXnDlIv7Mt1xi0KwfBqFR0VDmJis6Tw97X2-hTU9hfo8/s200/d+big+fla+fish.jpg" width="182" /></a> managed to pull a feisty, two-and-a-half inch fish to the surface. And, while we caught plenty of little fish with hefty attitudes, we also caught stuff like flounder, sea trout and blue fish big enough to fillet and eat. Pulling up the occasional crab, spiny blowfish or ocean catfish kept things interesting, especially if we were barefoot; and, since the standard ocean fishing rigs had two hooks, we occasionally pulled in two fish at a time! Step aside, Captain Ahab! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk8Im3uF38a24HncMdSBjbVYdVxKO9gjqxKG4_VCR26nGsRcxMjNXYdUvniXYk4Q6D7MYdz_cQcEFR_gmR-kp6kZ8fj73TuZsOHqji-GKqmHjIN95JYF0J56UViZCRD7vrEIOwoXLKjRk/s1600/little+d+nc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk8Im3uF38a24HncMdSBjbVYdVxKO9gjqxKG4_VCR26nGsRcxMjNXYdUvniXYk4Q6D7MYdz_cQcEFR_gmR-kp6kZ8fj73TuZsOHqji-GKqmHjIN95JYF0J56UViZCRD7vrEIOwoXLKjRk/s200/little+d+nc.jpg" width="128" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, while two hooks means you can catch two fish at once, it also means you have to bait two hooks at once so this is probably the right time to talk about bait and, yes, I’ve always baited my own hook AND taken my own fish off. Anyway, bait falls into three categories – The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. The Good is what you use in Florida - raw shrimp like you cook for dinner – it’s clean, easy to cut up<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SLKl2waERvcceK9CYImjNvlvAg8_gvSiD4ZkSLdeGprx3H9P8o4X2_WlDr2-c20E8sRB1Wso6r01h4Wvw-JPNsX0e5enR5kVAcxHRkwMdZoOlfGiTXrTzfbq2_tArKDRa7w0NVpv9TY/s1600/john+pike+lake.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1SLKl2waERvcceK9CYImjNvlvAg8_gvSiD4ZkSLdeGprx3H9P8o4X2_WlDr2-c20E8sRB1Wso6r01h4Wvw-JPNsX0e5enR5kVAcxHRkwMdZoOlfGiTXrTzfbq2_tArKDRa7w0NVpv9TY/s200/john+pike+lake.jpg" width="158" /></a> and doesn’t wiggle or squirt out anything yucky when you put it on a hook. Cut bait, meaning chunks of fish, is mostly Good although it leaves scales on your hands. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Bad is little skinny red worms that have to be threaded over the hook while they wiggle or night crawlers which are even bigger and wigglier. If you thread them right, you don’t have to replace them too often but some of the fish we went for had such little mouths that a hookful of worm was more than they could handle. The Ugly <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwegWTnBur0h51SMNyCIgfTd9iAnlxS_Ry9Q9HqIJZkriuRagxeNHn4gzOxgeuEXUBgzVbf0idLhrtOPI4ZHUoTDTbP4KiCp07pqHetYwP72F2qN5figIfBjKmuxq05vy-9cnMuZHsDM/s1600/leeches.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwegWTnBur0h51SMNyCIgfTd9iAnlxS_Ry9Q9HqIJZkriuRagxeNHn4gzOxgeuEXUBgzVbf0idLhrtOPI4ZHUoTDTbP4KiCp07pqHetYwP72F2qN5figIfBjKmuxq05vy-9cnMuZHsDM/s200/leeches.jpg" width="200" /></a>is bloodworms and leeches. When you cut up North Carolina bloodworms, they squirt out their own blood which you offer up to the fish as a sort of gravy. On the other hand, leeches, used in Minnesota lake fishing, try to suck your blood before you can hook them (think Humphrey Bogart in “The African Queen” only bigger.) Enough said. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXDIf08g_X7Wu5NpaSQKbBa_TTH7abfk40fXHS451J6JFFw_KaG1Z6MZnN8ULU2QHMcKSqVn3QoDfVHTnbuOgbPe1cfKvKEyywQTRwXCAF4GepAXMyCLwVTOT7zgesxoQC6I-1g6LhWs/s1600/homeymoon+fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXDIf08g_X7Wu5NpaSQKbBa_TTH7abfk40fXHS451J6JFFw_KaG1Z6MZnN8ULU2QHMcKSqVn3QoDfVHTnbuOgbPe1cfKvKEyywQTRwXCAF4GepAXMyCLwVTOT7zgesxoQC6I-1g6LhWs/s200/homeymoon+fish.jpg" width="186" /></a><br />
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When Paul and I were dating, I introduced him to fishing. On summer evenings after work, we’d take blackberry milkshakes and our cane poles to a creek in Indiana and pull in a few small crappies while the old guys around us caught sumo-wrestler sized carp and catfish with balls of crushed up, wet cornflakes. Paul liked fishing so much that, on our <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8geEv8sul0Ds4gZeuW_UUVUqIFJHJ3L3LoEN78O6gonYeBuOepx2Gym2sFYnWeBQBgnMpmc9kQOGaDNUhKgs38CFTrV-GeujRLhhHOTlQsL_-XB_uWqHKIRMphlJrN1g1-c2w96yiCKE/s1600/mt+dew.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8geEv8sul0Ds4gZeuW_UUVUqIFJHJ3L3LoEN78O6gonYeBuOepx2Gym2sFYnWeBQBgnMpmc9kQOGaDNUhKgs38CFTrV-GeujRLhhHOTlQsL_-XB_uWqHKIRMphlJrN1g1-c2w96yiCKE/s200/mt+dew.jpg" width="200" /></a>honeymoon, we spent almost every morning in a small motorboat drinking Mountain Dew, eating Goldfish and catching a bunch of little fish. Paul also tells everyone that, with one bad cast, I hooked him in the eye but all I did was hook him just below the eyebrow so, after 40 years, he needs to get over that, plus he hooked himself in the ear not that long ago anyway.<br />
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My biggest catch that got away happened when Paul and I were canoeing the boundary waters between <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8EfDP9pQ6vCw04ojopPR8VcHqKUVslCFirPPgc6Fn8Tcfc9338fxN3kgUPhcj4eXnzed7bcfiqDiq4rKe-akZkyWQKB7NPkVlvgMDUgQAPVKb3cHyg-9ySOiCJ2USz8EH-l5qqba35M/s1600/paul+wyo.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8EfDP9pQ6vCw04ojopPR8VcHqKUVslCFirPPgc6Fn8Tcfc9338fxN3kgUPhcj4eXnzed7bcfiqDiq4rKe-akZkyWQKB7NPkVlvgMDUgQAPVKb3cHyg-9ySOiCJ2USz8EH-l5qqba35M/s200/paul+wyo.jpg" width="180" /></a> Minnesota and Canada. I was trying to free my hook from a snag on the bottom of the lake when I realized I actually had hooked a fish and not just any fish but a pike about three feet long. Netting a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZjXmY3YST8SbO9QDd5Pfa_UA9wvEjIPi7OOwhozzPNKY55qo7UrpoW874wiwOja3EiMzTt27gLabLi4IVnkQNSnRuAOs3gue7lR5Jcjgtba7E2Xw-2TDhyPuGh53uR_9mSwhh72lRaZY/s1600/me+fla.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZjXmY3YST8SbO9QDd5Pfa_UA9wvEjIPi7OOwhozzPNKY55qo7UrpoW874wiwOja3EiMzTt27gLabLi4IVnkQNSnRuAOs3gue7lR5Jcjgtba7E2Xw-2TDhyPuGh53uR_9mSwhh72lRaZY/s200/me+fla.jpg" width="200" /></a>fish like that doesn’t work out well when your fishnet is sized for brook trout. While Paul was trying to figure out whether to scoop up the head first or the tail first or go for a jackknife position, the fish figured out how to break the line. Oh well, I’ve heard that pike are pretty bony eating anyway.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8EfDP9pQ6vCw04ojopPR8VcHqKUVslCFirPPgc6Fn8Tcfc9338fxN3kgUPhcj4eXnzed7bcfiqDiq4rKe-akZkyWQKB7NPkVlvgMDUgQAPVKb3cHyg-9ySOiCJ2USz8EH-l5qqba35M/s1600/paul+wyo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglao8KAcZCFmogH83o7uBmV1QQgqTjBmPnnjTDD0N2PhqlB3oMUwCUd3GE8s6uZabMlLcp-Y4o072J_dTKM-2XTUNZzgtii5vnpGHNaOgE93x1EN8f2ceiUFLronlSgSGZogVuP3_FtwY/s1600/john+and+paul+minn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglao8KAcZCFmogH83o7uBmV1QQgqTjBmPnnjTDD0N2PhqlB3oMUwCUd3GE8s6uZabMlLcp-Y4o072J_dTKM-2XTUNZzgtii5vnpGHNaOgE93x1EN8f2ceiUFLronlSgSGZogVuP3_FtwY/s200/john+and+paul+minn.jpg" width="176" /></a></div>Naturally, our kids enjoyed fishing when they were younger. They remember the little sunfish they pulled out of Pike Lake and Lake Waynoka, the 10-pound redfish they hooked in the Florida mangrove swamps with Captain Bill and the huge haul of ocean spot (142 according to David) with Granny and Pa in North Carolina just ahead of Hurricane Bob. I remember all four of us crammed into one canoe in Minnesota’s Boundary Waters trying to catch walleye while shooing away a turtle with a head the size of a grapefruit and a shell like an ashcan lid who was after our stringer of fish. Paul remembers fly <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvTk-08Qzy3Lj13tBpKT5IwrMm2ZSIXiRabVBxM2RvsN48Gucet8RJq2DpGJkIlBc1bb3-RuOaIIMnqLih3yLJx-7SqgLcfwvtD22mwfh74BUbMeFyE9fCo897vXYDeraMZHrfMrzqosE/s1600/trout+in+pan.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvTk-08Qzy3Lj13tBpKT5IwrMm2ZSIXiRabVBxM2RvsN48Gucet8RJq2DpGJkIlBc1bb3-RuOaIIMnqLih3yLJx-7SqgLcfwvtD22mwfh74BUbMeFyE9fCo897vXYDeraMZHrfMrzqosE/s200/trout+in+pan.JPG" width="200" /></a>fishing with both boys in the cold, sparkling streams of Wyoming until one year, after seeing the beautiful rainbow trout he’d caught shining in the sun just before they hit the frying pan, John decided he wasn’t crazy about fishing any more.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
The great thing about fishing is that anyone can try it and even the most unlikely person can have success at it, as this final fish story shows. One summer, we went houseboating at Dale Hollow Lake in Kentucky with two other families. The kids were mostly into waterskiing and jumping off <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf447HRG9hFentPDd94HKM16Kw99nqagt6449WCTc_vHbypPi185GeL0kYffta-Au0J-maUupHSFw4GY7LnYsQKUtlelqePM5AEtIl7kUOnMDrNtNOLaOIgXY9qfhLoJdXu_9imrGNHqU/s1600/houseboat.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf447HRG9hFentPDd94HKM16Kw99nqagt6449WCTc_vHbypPi185GeL0kYffta-Au0J-maUupHSFw4GY7LnYsQKUtlelqePM5AEtIl7kUOnMDrNtNOLaOIgXY9qfhLoJdXu_9imrGNHqU/s200/houseboat.jpg" width="200" /></a>the houseboat into the water; but one of the dads, Danny, was all about fishing. He spent most of every day out in the rowboat with a tackle box the size of Long John Silver’s treasure chest and every kind of lure and bait on the market, determined to hook a big one. He didn’t have much luck. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBYDd2nhNXkc8IFjmCcnHhSmKRkNwDDzYdT8-JB1oeyDUF9FdMpAuO18MZcl1y1Q9EnUMzThK70LbYlGqbIoUfe61UlCsQd7y1iV1krHLXTIwaknpCI3gBgWir7VeW-PWvyHPrIKbqDE0/s1600/danny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBYDd2nhNXkc8IFjmCcnHhSmKRkNwDDzYdT8-JB1oeyDUF9FdMpAuO18MZcl1y1Q9EnUMzThK70LbYlGqbIoUfe61UlCsQd7y1iV1krHLXTIwaknpCI3gBgWir7VeW-PWvyHPrIKbqDE0/s200/danny.jpg" width="112" /></a></div>By Sunday afternoon, everyone was relaxing on the boat and even Danny took a break for a nap when his wife, Lynette, decided to make her first attempt at fishing. Baiting up with some left-over French toast over Danny’s disgusted protests (“Nothing’s going to bite on that!”), she threw a line off the side of the houseboat. Pretty soon, Paul and I heard her voice just above a whisper saying, “Danny, I think I got one.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From inside the cabin came the sleepy reply, “B--- S---, Lynette.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Again, a little more insistently came the plea, “Danny, Danny, I’ve really got one,” followed again by, “B--- S---, Lynette. You’re snagged on the bottom.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIC-GdoHsvtUQc_PIc89P-_JaXLhRm8ALaVNglezMyFS5bjC8Qc-_xnW-Cpt_BMwa_xEBpmKR_HLW0yYA2pxdEec4l8s4Kj17ljpigSMS70uk-iK6XOdBNm97LyH7bYsru7V0ecSaS7g/s1600/lynette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIC-GdoHsvtUQc_PIc89P-_JaXLhRm8ALaVNglezMyFS5bjC8Qc-_xnW-Cpt_BMwa_xEBpmKR_HLW0yYA2pxdEec4l8s4Kj17ljpigSMS70uk-iK6XOdBNm97LyH7bYsru7V0ecSaS7g/s200/lynette.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Paul’s curiosity got the better of him so he left his lounge chair and found Lynette, whose weight could bump up to 85 pounds after Thanksgiving dinner and whose arms were the circumference of two broom handles, struggling with a 15 pound carp. Paul helped her net the fish and even got some photos before releasing it while Danny grabbed the remaining French toast and got back in his fishing boat. And, unlike some fish stories, that’s the truth.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-72477684241302925442011-08-21T12:23:00.004-04:002011-08-22T08:13:27.684-04:00Forty Years<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WHOGY18qTUH6XLWqYoR0VBXl1_gIDUfBKeiDvuMD8l85LX5JzC-R_lgvrL7qe-KPZhGxmHE6ZnxqNxuN9j-IB_BQn1iB0JvcTTmYLiShZiJsceyz_f-XxUxEqj-Tc0I3UJwMZxD3-Z0/s1600/us+weddiing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WHOGY18qTUH6XLWqYoR0VBXl1_gIDUfBKeiDvuMD8l85LX5JzC-R_lgvrL7qe-KPZhGxmHE6ZnxqNxuN9j-IB_BQn1iB0JvcTTmYLiShZiJsceyz_f-XxUxEqj-Tc0I3UJwMZxD3-Z0/s200/us+weddiing.jpg" width="145" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"> </span>Forty years is 14,600 days, 350,400 hours and 21, 024,000 minutes. It is also how long Paul and I will have been married as of August 21 - almost two-thirds of our lives, which is a little overwhelming when you think of it that way. All those days, hours and minutes seem to have passed in no time, although they say one-third of your life is spent sleeping so that probably explains some of it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR12MWrfrydyUsDdAHXURERpPFm8XC9NI5SPByAcLXXNRI8Hc1xdMHRwXxdc2Zz7rUVqyXCkm-G4MaiXgv_ujgZSTq2N33w0QjEZlVlm0Kq4O62NkQ5e1Kv1er5GLniPc9x9X3belvupo/s1600/us+parents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>The year we got married, both of our parents celebrated their 25<sup>th</sup> anniversaries, my grandparents <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR12MWrfrydyUsDdAHXURERpPFm8XC9NI5SPByAcLXXNRI8Hc1xdMHRwXxdc2Zz7rUVqyXCkm-G4MaiXgv_ujgZSTq2N33w0QjEZlVlm0Kq4O62NkQ5e1Kv1er5GLniPc9x9X3belvupo/s1600/us+parents.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR12MWrfrydyUsDdAHXURERpPFm8XC9NI5SPByAcLXXNRI8Hc1xdMHRwXxdc2Zz7rUVqyXCkm-G4MaiXgv_ujgZSTq2N33w0QjEZlVlm0Kq4O62NkQ5e1Kv1er5GLniPc9x9X3belvupo/s320/us+parents.jpg" width="320" /></a>celebrated their 50<sup>th</sup> and Paul’s would have done so, too, if his grandfather was still living. I remember thinking that they all were SO old and our twenty-fifth anniversary was light years away. Right.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjcACZTyab2rIkpb5uMDrcAxpexy6NhSDs6hVuu-6ijdskZsRD8BR__78aleJypuRGwnmLC4w9SfxdmrV0zKnyCulQxMhvRRzS6j9fnSZ1vC-lhBwcTrnpyBWYeyGVimKqzC68A3Ccyvk/s1600/urwiler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjcACZTyab2rIkpb5uMDrcAxpexy6NhSDs6hVuu-6ijdskZsRD8BR__78aleJypuRGwnmLC4w9SfxdmrV0zKnyCulQxMhvRRzS6j9fnSZ1vC-lhBwcTrnpyBWYeyGVimKqzC68A3Ccyvk/s200/urwiler.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>So much has happened in the past forty years. We have lived happily in five places - a cute little townhouse with homemade burlap curtains, a tri-level city apartment with a view of Cincinnati’s downtown skyline from the shower, and three houses, two old and one new. We have had countless great neighbors, with only the occasional wing-nut - the old couple who engaged in <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVM8OnktVd5FyWRbbrJMwkEy0MGmUJ-tcl93Kg9LnMH_nVFzqMsXposhOGTiHdP5juigqkXRWDzl_eQwN_THTyj7j3FjVjM7Dl-SEONqbrjvVvq4UI5c0SyWZYUpQ9fmkVQvAqDAyR2tQ/s1600/eugenie+yard.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVM8OnktVd5FyWRbbrJMwkEy0MGmUJ-tcl93Kg9LnMH_nVFzqMsXposhOGTiHdP5juigqkXRWDzl_eQwN_THTyj7j3FjVjM7Dl-SEONqbrjvVvq4UI5c0SyWZYUpQ9fmkVQvAqDAyR2tQ/s200/eugenie+yard.jpg" width="200" /></a>shouting matches on Sunday nights (alcohol was definitely involved), the guy who ran a flea market out of his house and the guy who spent all his time shooting off firecrackers and bottle rockets except when he was in his tanning bed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVM8OnktVd5FyWRbbrJMwkEy0MGmUJ-tcl93Kg9LnMH_nVFzqMsXposhOGTiHdP5juigqkXRWDzl_eQwN_THTyj7j3FjVjM7Dl-SEONqbrjvVvq4UI5c0SyWZYUpQ9fmkVQvAqDAyR2tQ/s1600/eugenie+yard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Together we have planted geraniums, perennials, impatiens and basil, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlLvpf0uFau77RraHH8rvPx4fTLg8PFvod44zbPCJ_gQNW-xteJBOlECbTzATGrxf3GOIexS6fhK_4DgWjhc6P36Y4O1joyQ3fKCINnjJuH9LNIRHMu42FgQmG-qcqHeZo3DQaKrAhuWs/s1600/lesgeraniums.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="117" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlLvpf0uFau77RraHH8rvPx4fTLg8PFvod44zbPCJ_gQNW-xteJBOlECbTzATGrxf3GOIexS6fhK_4DgWjhc6P36Y4O1joyQ3fKCINnjJuH9LNIRHMu42FgQmG-qcqHeZo3DQaKrAhuWs/s200/lesgeraniums.jpg" width="200" /></a>pulled up carpet on hardwood floors, weeded ground cover beds, painted furniture, washed thousands of dishes and raked zillions of leaves. We have also passed the ultimate test of a marriage - wallpapering bathrooms together, although not recently – there’s no point in pressing our luck.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CW6vBThGS5vMqAhBIDKCYjEUULe505kJ5QU2Ka-_C8oMaX3MPbquoIYOvU98UOtBbo3ZqolRTJmbzzUOe8pM77h3dvwA4OthTmn9RuQLJdE0Gr8c5ZPMwD7VTc7GG6GkVHFK-iBhWh0/s1600/us+newer+pike+lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CW6vBThGS5vMqAhBIDKCYjEUULe505kJ5QU2Ka-_C8oMaX3MPbquoIYOvU98UOtBbo3ZqolRTJmbzzUOe8pM77h3dvwA4OthTmn9RuQLJdE0Gr8c5ZPMwD7VTc7GG6GkVHFK-iBhWh0/s200/us+newer+pike+lake.jpg" width="120" /></a></div>Together we have ridden on ski lifts, a hot air balloon, subways, sailboats, horses, a puddle-jumper plane, snow and water skis, rollerblades, tandem bikes, a helicopter, and golf carts. We have not ridden and will not be riding a jet ski, a motorcycle, a submarine, the space shuttle or the Beast at Kings’ Island. (Our first and last roller coaster ride together occurred on our third date when I wanted to impress Paul and agreed to ride the Wild Mouse at Coney Island – it was literally a white-knuckle ride and not an experience either of us wants to repeat.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-oZmmiyPzu0qFSriLk9GIuhfxkFqFBxEZzXQCuO01YKjoDNXpT_S54sbpW5KI9HS2uOZFliOEK3dQ_QqmMqastGiLh0IDguzidXlMSAf1h0vb9jwKbePPR9Znv2DUUMHhGPwOGW0WuZo/s1600/w+john+la2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1SKpSzkX6pzffwOZXRicgzsKu-ZgwLTRvKnbHXEhMi6nCtjz6NXKNx3SYDPCoWQWh20yOhVHjRAIMae8vrmTKZoUo4Nltaf6cn8eAcoYX7SAsdx3wsoVLEhtxV9Pj7OfXxFYH0vnV6fo/s1600/us+and+david.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1SKpSzkX6pzffwOZXRicgzsKu-ZgwLTRvKnbHXEhMi6nCtjz6NXKNx3SYDPCoWQWh20yOhVHjRAIMae8vrmTKZoUo4Nltaf6cn8eAcoYX7SAsdx3wsoVLEhtxV9Pj7OfXxFYH0vnV6fo/s200/us+and+david.jpg" width="200" /></a>Together we’ve seen The Big Red Machine, the Eiffel tower, bald eagles, moose and grizzly bears, the Roman Forum, Pete Rose and Luciano Pavarotti, mountain meadows covered with flowers, The Sopranos, traffic jams in LA, orcas in the San Juan Islands, London<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-oZmmiyPzu0qFSriLk9GIuhfxkFqFBxEZzXQCuO01YKjoDNXpT_S54sbpW5KI9HS2uOZFliOEK3dQ_QqmMqastGiLh0IDguzidXlMSAf1h0vb9jwKbePPR9Znv2DUUMHhGPwOGW0WuZo/s1600/w+john+la2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-oZmmiyPzu0qFSriLk9GIuhfxkFqFBxEZzXQCuO01YKjoDNXpT_S54sbpW5KI9HS2uOZFliOEK3dQ_QqmMqastGiLh0IDguzidXlMSAf1h0vb9jwKbePPR9Znv2DUUMHhGPwOGW0WuZo/s200/w+john+la2.jpg" width="200" /></a> Bridge and the Pooh Sticks Bridge, and so many plays and musicals that I don’t recognize half the titles anymore. We’ve also been lucky enough to see two babies born and to see them grow into two wonderful men.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Over the past 2080 weekends, we’ve given some memorable parties <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwEG6fkPY7b-YCV38LE29PuM7xSa-5LtbWq1cr1dP3mf7kuAyxvc142ZPRXcifUnSF_ZRZDeK6sXmvSHHhVZGAoWc7quYWoVHtkjGEBngojAktG5MS6QGKNw69GiGsv57yEoBpjiChszI/s1600/dinner+club.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwEG6fkPY7b-YCV38LE29PuM7xSa-5LtbWq1cr1dP3mf7kuAyxvc142ZPRXcifUnSF_ZRZDeK6sXmvSHHhVZGAoWc7quYWoVHtkjGEBngojAktG5MS6QGKNw69GiGsv57yEoBpjiChszI/s320/dinner+club.jpg" width="320" /></a>together. When Paul was in dental school, at one of our first parties, eight of us put away a gallon of Cribari red wine, four kinds of cheese fondue, a five pound box of chocolates and made a feeble attempt to play bridge –the after-effects lasted for a week. Our Battle of the Sexes party featured hotly contested competition in events like ironing a shirt, hammering a nail, sewing on a button, blowing up a bicycle tire, and baiting a fishhook. The first of several New Year’s Eve parties that included both kids and adults was a huge success although we did learn that, if you leave a group of grade school kids alone in the basement with a large tin of popcorn, your sweeper<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7ffTUoGfsFOc9-NFsw6uU1SK0bbKQ-S4loqzHyJB6acjufHXadBU2XKUErDndO2thFFGL94q6_8y-eFbfBgRfGqWVdoYrHwMWChHrayCm017BjnBaHMik4NSBwL4xtzRN8aGdPmBaOU/s1600/family+xmas.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7ffTUoGfsFOc9-NFsw6uU1SK0bbKQ-S4loqzHyJB6acjufHXadBU2XKUErDndO2thFFGL94q6_8y-eFbfBgRfGqWVdoYrHwMWChHrayCm017BjnBaHMik4NSBwL4xtzRN8aGdPmBaOU/s320/family+xmas.JPG" width="320" /></a> is going to get a work-out the next day. We even survived last minute crises like having both kitchen sinks back up from carrot peel overload just before 16 people arrived for a pizza party fundraiser and having the Shop-Vac spew out ash and dust instead of sucking it up out of the fireplace just before the whole family arrived for Christmas dinner.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
So, what’s the secret of a long-term marriage between two people with different personalities, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSlhwqfb38Za8RPVGJj71skYD74aJ_BDwhgJa5UPA2yrqu6c8s_j6sR7qklS3chabzgTmPcXbFVjINloZRweEjcY2N5WvubhhewZVSmjZ1b05KKOGNB8HnMZC6PFl1XPio5YneHCMfyjs/s1600/camp+photo.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSlhwqfb38Za8RPVGJj71skYD74aJ_BDwhgJa5UPA2yrqu6c8s_j6sR7qklS3chabzgTmPcXbFVjINloZRweEjcY2N5WvubhhewZVSmjZ1b05KKOGNB8HnMZC6PFl1XPio5YneHCMfyjs/s200/camp+photo.jpg" width="163" /></a>talents and interests? Well, for one thing, in forty years, we’ve developed a workable division of labor. When we have a computer issue, it’s up to me to solve it. When we want to send a text message or do anything fancy with the cell phone, Paul’s on it. I’m in charge of remembering names; he’s in charge of remembering where we parked the car. He is good at Physics (e.g. siphoning water out of the basement); I am good at foreign languages (e.g. getting directions to the nearest bar in Italy.) He finds our way out of the mountains or the woods; I find our way out of Macy’s. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgssyyeg9pSzlSoLHEjN5WW1klvqWQXXrRQFecC8r7sBzdCs66ctxO-rynU55tI0rlyCrB0lB9qaADjWdi5N9BTrcEIV_oX8-4xw20hek7l-KNmNTqC7ksvqNUz7TKyX8H1wrqXk6RWzjw/s1600/valentines+party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>We’ve also learned a lot. He’s learned that I need to do the crosswords and the Sudoku before I do anything else in the morning. I’ve learned that if I take just four quarters out of his poker money, he’ll<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgssyyeg9pSzlSoLHEjN5WW1klvqWQXXrRQFecC8r7sBzdCs66ctxO-rynU55tI0rlyCrB0lB9qaADjWdi5N9BTrcEIV_oX8-4xw20hek7l-KNmNTqC7ksvqNUz7TKyX8H1wrqXk6RWzjw/s1600/valentines+party.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgssyyeg9pSzlSoLHEjN5WW1klvqWQXXrRQFecC8r7sBzdCs66ctxO-rynU55tI0rlyCrB0lB9qaADjWdi5N9BTrcEIV_oX8-4xw20hek7l-KNmNTqC7ksvqNUz7TKyX8H1wrqXk6RWzjw/s200/valentines+party.jpg" width="196" /></a> notice. He knows that, if I’m preparing five dishes for dinner, I’ll make at least five messes in the kitchen before I clean up anything. I know that, if I turn my back on him, he’ll start cleaning up after me and every measuring cup and spoon, rubber scraper and bowl that I need will be in the dishwasher. He’s given up expecting me to hang up the bathmat so it will stay up. I have given up expecting him to suggest going out for ice cream. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDSl6pVHPWfgM8CRpK85nssdar0Ex6aIMS_xB1gWlVkXQxLioo9ZUWeNrPX-SXb8IMYgkglDIl5fy-V2VKJf2aCnwJ0A4beAkTzad4lTQuaNJdgb46Ld9iY2XfCUvb6PKoHRRRoCsLN90/s1600/us+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDSl6pVHPWfgM8CRpK85nssdar0Ex6aIMS_xB1gWlVkXQxLioo9ZUWeNrPX-SXb8IMYgkglDIl5fy-V2VKJf2aCnwJ0A4beAkTzad4lTQuaNJdgb46Ld9iY2XfCUvb6PKoHRRRoCsLN90/s200/us+beach.jpg" width="155" /></a></div>And, after forty years’ worth of disagreements, we’ve finally agreed to disagree on the edibility of lima beans, bananas, peanut butter and coconut, the importance of replacing the toilet paper with the paper coming out the top, and how many times you can wear a shirt before it belongs in the wash, even if it doesn’t have an odor. We’re still sorting out our driving differences. I say he pokes along in the car like an old man and rips around in a golf cart like one of the Beverly Hillbillies. He says I speed in the car and drive a golf cart slower than he can walk the course.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinUAoKItcskqkpGnrbhdk5HrLTv7Gv0_SCYFGjNas1Vio7cSVPYznr9ykmEQo7zIjOg4qqZtbc8emVuhKcGnF0K-Eb2vohSD4X-rjSXJ3QmUvWlfW-qmLHSuYHQr5Lv6S18EAIt-NXPQE/s1600/charit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>While our marriage has survived forty years, most of the things with which we started our married life haven’t. We no longer have our black and white checked couch, our orange plastic end tables or anything<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinUAoKItcskqkpGnrbhdk5HrLTv7Gv0_SCYFGjNas1Vio7cSVPYznr9ykmEQo7zIjOg4qqZtbc8emVuhKcGnF0K-Eb2vohSD4X-rjSXJ3QmUvWlfW-qmLHSuYHQr5Lv6S18EAIt-NXPQE/s1600/charit.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinUAoKItcskqkpGnrbhdk5HrLTv7Gv0_SCYFGjNas1Vio7cSVPYznr9ykmEQo7zIjOg4qqZtbc8emVuhKcGnF0K-Eb2vohSD4X-rjSXJ3QmUvWlfW-qmLHSuYHQr5Lv6S18EAIt-NXPQE/s200/charit.jpg" width="200" /></a> in avocado green. We have swept up the pieces of many casseroles, plates, bowls, and glasses, especially wine glasses. Recently, we got rid of our last wedding gift appliance, a popcorn popper, after it contracted leprosy - its yellow plastic coating was peeling plus it gave out an ominous smell when you plugged it in. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSL-dx1gIOm3Dp_5VGvDtL0LMAbMeBfZ-b7SShmSOM-3sNUDzV8DPeKlpa3L0FYvk5vvoR4mEUAiuQzt_GO26rcNuVD0I3H3FhjYwTcNfaoLfR6yvHimk7DJqDVvdKMV1j_Mxe394kUj4/s1600/desk+and+lamp.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSL-dx1gIOm3Dp_5VGvDtL0LMAbMeBfZ-b7SShmSOM-3sNUDzV8DPeKlpa3L0FYvk5vvoR4mEUAiuQzt_GO26rcNuVD0I3H3FhjYwTcNfaoLfR6yvHimk7DJqDVvdKMV1j_Mxe394kUj4/s200/desk+and+lamp.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>We have one or two pieces of 40-year-old furniture including the desk Paul and my dad made the summer before we were married. We also have a full set of our good china (thanks to 1-800-REPLACE) and the good stainless steel flatware we got as a wedding gift with only a few garbage disposal dings. The prize for the most practical, most durable, toughest kitchen gadget of all time goes to a jar opener I got as a shower gift – at 40, it remains in prime condition. The original Betty<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWkqBoLSPNvkisFizdzzE9y5zkUoo9YRngwFWg2zZDROLCBwBOU5RFTBHsFUjpgTVqDKTCJCBHw0HQRJ_B2pHm3TzTxcs-mYRSyz0t06jnZTLQI7_oqfSr8eDiGrAqkvIN2G_7jyZ1HE/s1600/cookbook+and+jar+opener.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWkqBoLSPNvkisFizdzzE9y5zkUoo9YRngwFWg2zZDROLCBwBOU5RFTBHsFUjpgTVqDKTCJCBHw0HQRJ_B2pHm3TzTxcs-mYRSyz0t06jnZTLQI7_oqfSr8eDiGrAqkvIN2G_7jyZ1HE/s200/cookbook+and+jar+opener.JPG" width="200" /></a> Crocker cookbook that Paul’s mom gave me is still on duty as well, even though it is about 5 pounds heavier than it was in 1971 because of the duct tape, scotch tape, reinforcements, crumbs and food spills on its cover and pages. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0bJ1cMsZ5GD8M-76WiUkxvAHLA03_6MvYuwF0xML1JsE9GxApvJwuu3je2SVKjANbev9Spyre_5wT82FTjGLUBqHOkux_4i-H0D0IIGNaiBX5Ep5KEkUSGj9z6DNL58iW8PmnabjR7I/s1600/us+nyc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0bJ1cMsZ5GD8M-76WiUkxvAHLA03_6MvYuwF0xML1JsE9GxApvJwuu3je2SVKjANbev9Spyre_5wT82FTjGLUBqHOkux_4i-H0D0IIGNaiBX5Ep5KEkUSGj9z6DNL58iW8PmnabjR7I/s200/us+nyc.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>However, the most important things with which we started our marriage and which have been with us throughout the past forty years are our wonderful family, our constantly growing circle of treasured friends, a sense of humor, a generous measure of good luck and each other. This post barely scratches the surface of everything that we've experienced together over these incredibly good years. I sure could go for another forty or so.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">Click below for a video of my favorite Broadway duet about a long-term love affair</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sISWPzEqHLQ">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sISWPzEqHLQ</a></span></div>Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-77649611193016127822011-08-10T07:57:00.000-04:002011-08-10T07:57:35.297-04:00The Remains of the Week (or The Boss Has Left the Building)<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKRaIOHAzjFo3sX96HM4lKYmwc6LWIgQchsWuJwO5O20dEhiuCmWjCUMRNrdH3KfbM2rN1VbZCxV75QuBJ7KN2Jc2If_iQjwMXZe-6QlPYkCgfqPIWdzyMSQdo8wXg_kXIePM8plA071c/s1600/drum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKRaIOHAzjFo3sX96HM4lKYmwc6LWIgQchsWuJwO5O20dEhiuCmWjCUMRNrdH3KfbM2rN1VbZCxV75QuBJ7KN2Jc2If_iQjwMXZe-6QlPYkCgfqPIWdzyMSQdo8wXg_kXIePM8plA071c/s200/drum.jpg" width="170" /></a> Paul and I babysat for our 15-month-old grandson Willem, aka the Boss, last week while his parents took a well-deserved, childless vacation. (Megan titled their trip "Bossless in Oregon.") We split the week with Willem’s other grandparents; and it worked out so well that the four of us voted to make this an annual event, at the very least.</div><br />
After WMD (Willem, Megan and David) left yesterday, I worked, reluctantly, at restoring <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWuXl3fSlVv5SAAPHxW2Ec9p6JtME4YJVaZRoZs6sf8igfNOMXsWOIxwY4EGDmXWaRI7rnHrqw5nY7utvL39h_rlv2XBbJVqrY-4jXkVF-E24ut9wk5FyGqTOnBZQtjunvbTDH_hKR1mY/s1600/cabinet.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWuXl3fSlVv5SAAPHxW2Ec9p6JtME4YJVaZRoZs6sf8igfNOMXsWOIxwY4EGDmXWaRI7rnHrqw5nY7utvL39h_rlv2XBbJVqrY-4jXkVF-E24ut9wk5FyGqTOnBZQtjunvbTDH_hKR1mY/s200/cabinet.JPG" width="150" /></a>the house to its former condition. It was slow going because, frankly, I wasn’t in a big hurry to rescue my Tupperware cabinet from total chaos or to reunite pillows with the appropriate couches or to clean the sticky spots off the floor. All the electrical outlets are still child-proofed.The dining room window blinds were still raised enough to allow a very short person to keep an eye on important stuff like the grass cutting crew, the sprinkler and the birds. You can tell Willem’s favorite look-out posts by the finger and nose prints. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogCn8gZ6F35zOg2wKne1aZbhXtxYh_dW0Myo0k7dYNIBs_9XQCuNWKluvAgAa9ngQGXcssXBEkBfXjrSt3O9-gi8Q8XErzgCiMqMsdz9c1dyGv87eZrbsRIqBihhPTC8qB3jGrYI1o_Y/s1600/highchair.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgogCn8gZ6F35zOg2wKne1aZbhXtxYh_dW0Myo0k7dYNIBs_9XQCuNWKluvAgAa9ngQGXcssXBEkBfXjrSt3O9-gi8Q8XErzgCiMqMsdz9c1dyGv87eZrbsRIqBihhPTC8qB3jGrYI1o_Y/s200/highchair.JPG" width="200" /></a>I had the luxury of being able to clean up the kitchen without stopping to follow the sound of fast little bare feet in the back hallway or to investigate the excited shrieks coming from the bathroom. It's not as much fun to do dishes, however, since I'm not racing to get the glasses, plates and silverware loaded into the dishwasher before Willem tries to climb in. <br />
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My pantry is down to a bare minimum of baby food – a couple of stray<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitIvMmNKr2gFLqdslE61Bp3gk4iFDhsrD1WYb-cqdgVlPXwCmEvKUsVinzeBdpJcHPY8sCdS20M9ZgB8UM80rCWfW6_B0lQBwsXzi6F1FFvDTl_rqS04anoLgHol-Foje1P7IoD_dRzEk/s1600/foodcropped.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitIvMmNKr2gFLqdslE61Bp3gk4iFDhsrD1WYb-cqdgVlPXwCmEvKUsVinzeBdpJcHPY8sCdS20M9ZgB8UM80rCWfW6_B0lQBwsXzi6F1FFvDTl_rqS04anoLgHol-Foje1P7IoD_dRzEk/s200/foodcropped.jpg" width="191" /></a> containers of applesauce and a little rice cereal along with the last box of Baby Mum Mum’s, his teething crackers. That, at least, is a step in the right direction. I couldn’t find Baby Mum Mum’s at the grocery for his visit last Labor Day weekend and was so delighted to find them on Amazon.com that I didn’t put on my glasses to read the fine print. Instead of a box, I wound up with a whole case and found myself wondering how they would taste as hors d’ oeuvres with Cajun crab spread or eggplant caponata.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMmzyak9Ean4vDkSajE4ZRRhaL3yv_qJj1xfuXIzONT6VD708Qo3FQt93PRRFheoPGHge__NzMKc6C7w4_iEedCLWJNpL_QWzfEAxXixWIQ9hkZfFhrB_ojkGFuwoBjiReYzerDe4HLE/s1600/toys.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMmzyak9Ean4vDkSajE4ZRRhaL3yv_qJj1xfuXIzONT6VD708Qo3FQt93PRRFheoPGHge__NzMKc6C7w4_iEedCLWJNpL_QWzfEAxXixWIQ9hkZfFhrB_ojkGFuwoBjiReYzerDe4HLE/s200/toys.JPG" width="200" /></a>I did collect the scattered blocks, stuffed animals and trucks, along with the garage, farm and Noah’s ark and pack them away downstairs even though there is now a big, empty space in the living room, like when you take down the Christmas tree. I left Willem’s tub toys in the Jacuzzi which is no problem because, in the 8 years we’ve been in this house, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFwbOrU7QS-qscJc9TYODybeLVAUVPD9ez-5ZROKsLZ4EQzDyXXomefMyOdXzzZKw26OyNaYiBnku8ra0XZv4qkoBfFgwRrKgLoBZu5H5fEGb8pMD8eHjyvE5ka8C9mmVw5x7qc39qyXM/s1600/tub.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFwbOrU7QS-qscJc9TYODybeLVAUVPD9ez-5ZROKsLZ4EQzDyXXomefMyOdXzzZKw26OyNaYiBnku8ra0XZv4qkoBfFgwRrKgLoBZu5H5fEGb8pMD8eHjyvE5ka8C9mmVw5x7qc39qyXM/s200/tub.jpg" width="200" /></a>we’ve only used it once. In fact, we didn’t want to put in a tub at all but our builder convinced us it was a good idea and he was right, seeing how much fun Willem had splashing around in that big tub. Just wait until he’s old enough for the water jets – they'll blow his mind. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVyHwCfLc81PGClcDg_4ob3L0orIUQKtUHWYq7WryROwWekMGOSxakKmj1mK7HkXnfcGLOrV1ZhahKn4lgAjNi_TAsjHZ2npXZDxm36V5jq-FDFn00u_ysM7Hcpultyxg30WLpO9l7qic/s1600/car.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVyHwCfLc81PGClcDg_4ob3L0orIUQKtUHWYq7WryROwWekMGOSxakKmj1mK7HkXnfcGLOrV1ZhahKn4lgAjNi_TAsjHZ2npXZDxm36V5jq-FDFn00u_ysM7Hcpultyxg30WLpO9l7qic/s200/car.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
Willem’s car was on our back deck just the way he left it – lying on its side. While he enjoys driving it, he mostly likes its spinning wheels when he’s not spinning the wheels on his dump truck, his fire truck or Paul’s Schwinn Airdyne. He is probably headed for a career as a race car driver or a roulette player.<br />
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For the first time in almost a week, I can go downstairs without climbing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvgtKYJfX2WKsOlYWiuPABIALHkp71EhPDndFEIVRyZZHiM5fZjWqCVfTOcE3O6rokYVcs2mqMcEob8uvq1fwbPFfoZgS0ws0qneNO5OvXKV1wjOU0O480uQc96pNMQCjAlhXZDOxtH8/s1600/bed.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvgtKYJfX2WKsOlYWiuPABIALHkp71EhPDndFEIVRyZZHiM5fZjWqCVfTOcE3O6rokYVcs2mqMcEob8uvq1fwbPFfoZgS0ws0qneNO5OvXKV1wjOU0O480uQc96pNMQCjAlhXZDOxtH8/s200/bed.JPG" width="200" /></a> over the baby gate which was a challenge but probably good for my glutes or my flutes or some other out-of-shape body part. Anyway, without the gate, it was easier to pack away the porta-crib and the diaper changing gear although I wasn’t especially eager to do either of those things.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW6Saq___5cpgwYwlsGd3twCvVOCoWhZ8ThyemCFDqyXLI0sf5FV7V0GpO6cj0GYdcjCjB8Hc5jAy03EHY5pUrSKNFTqVUSZaSQw-3Cst9xx5TAb7jfgUGxmD0QHMAK13PnAtzlRIcURA/s1600/sprinkler.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW6Saq___5cpgwYwlsGd3twCvVOCoWhZ8ThyemCFDqyXLI0sf5FV7V0GpO6cj0GYdcjCjB8Hc5jAy03EHY5pUrSKNFTqVUSZaSQw-3Cst9xx5TAb7jfgUGxmD0QHMAK13PnAtzlRIcURA/s200/sprinkler.jpg" width="124" /></a>By the end of the day, I could walk anywhere in the house barefoot, confident that I wouldn't stub my toe on one of Willem's cube chairs or step on a wooden puzzle piece. The only physical evidence of Willem’s stay with us was a few drool marks on the breakfast room chair cushions and some errant Cheerios. I expect one of his chubby, cheerful little plastic people will turn up in an unexpected spot soon. Meanwhile, Paul and I have countless wonderful memories, backed up by a ridiculous number of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5bGi6ID3jSAQ9USBa0-NcfvUsAb2lG5wtlxb36aF-OLv94UNwVBurh4IwvH8T_TSa2MLuHRm0TNvQ8NK8Y580LB_RMKUPyIN1n7WFEnStb_ODGDjAJ9dcbmXyCKXwZhzcC5M3YeOhO4w/s1600/reading.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5bGi6ID3jSAQ9USBa0-NcfvUsAb2lG5wtlxb36aF-OLv94UNwVBurh4IwvH8T_TSa2MLuHRm0TNvQ8NK8Y580LB_RMKUPyIN1n7WFEnStb_ODGDjAJ9dcbmXyCKXwZhzcC5M3YeOhO4w/s200/reading.JPG" width="200" /></a>photos and we’re already looking forward to the Boss's next visit. Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-70904659701824748582011-08-01T14:52:00.002-04:002011-08-01T15:04:11.640-04:00Hair<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3oYLSOX7TldmYiRRdTVc5qF4MJhnptq99PE2kMIaddRKXRq0ThZv-9GLBvTQs6j8tzFhgY5JZcL14Y1rctvT5jBgMuPogzfKLSZgG_M5rjBmEaX0H30h8sRtGDA_4-tDiRuhIHO0CIc/s1600/hair+poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3oYLSOX7TldmYiRRdTVc5qF4MJhnptq99PE2kMIaddRKXRq0ThZv-9GLBvTQs6j8tzFhgY5JZcL14Y1rctvT5jBgMuPogzfKLSZgG_M5rjBmEaX0H30h8sRtGDA_4-tDiRuhIHO0CIc/s200/hair+poster.jpg" width="142" /></a></div>I usually save YouTube musical links for the end of my posts but this one sets the stage so perfectly, I suggest you click the link below before reading further.<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ri1XicuLdxc&feature=more_related">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ri1XicuLdxc&feature=more_related</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjWzC67VDm-FLRDjA3Kc8ncHnp_16fOAE4CxQ8Mis2Mp_yl4W9XTkZTt_2SlLiB-3W5sApM9kY_Oa8Yk3thCwGFrjXum1F64XNx0gVutAhERNa5Gap9Wi2JrjEixYwmXakHvwA2c-mMJ4/s1600/me+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjWzC67VDm-FLRDjA3Kc8ncHnp_16fOAE4CxQ8Mis2Mp_yl4W9XTkZTt_2SlLiB-3W5sApM9kY_Oa8Yk3thCwGFrjXum1F64XNx0gVutAhERNa5Gap9Wi2JrjEixYwmXakHvwA2c-mMJ4/s200/me+baby.jpg" width="162" /></a>Summer is a great time for me, hair-wise. Cincinnati’s heat and humidity let my hair do exactly as it pleases which means a combination of curl, kink and frizz. At this stage of my life, I am at peace with my hair and I love not having to spend time blow-drying, hot-rollering or styling it. No matter what happens, my hair springs back into action, even after I take off a sweaty bike helmet although you wouldn’t want to get too close.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDMEo7pf7Yh-3O8dDMY-yQbAV62BdxW-8UasZvvbpoTrRiys3RXNFmNiXGRqyhMZ1-tst9J7YhoAF5C-IrgUd5PTZGRyz3rsbC4j9seootOIdBjk2E6e_Y0D7YSwcAMtTMHjgopQILQpo/s1600/me+jr+high.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDMEo7pf7Yh-3O8dDMY-yQbAV62BdxW-8UasZvvbpoTrRiys3RXNFmNiXGRqyhMZ1-tst9J7YhoAF5C-IrgUd5PTZGRyz3rsbC4j9seootOIdBjk2E6e_Y0D7YSwcAMtTMHjgopQILQpo/s200/me+jr+high.jpg" width="157" /></a></div>I didn't always appreciate my hair. When I was in grade school, I wanted straight hair like my friends in the neighborhood so I could put it up in pin curlers. My mom insisted that girls with naturally curly hair did not need curlers. Well, maybe not in the summer but, in the winter when cold, dry weather made my hair less curly, it did all sorts of funky things. Mom’s solution was to comb it with hot water so it did all sorts of wet, funky things. Finally, she agreed to curl my hair using socks; none of the models in “Seventeen” ever rolled their hair in socks, however, and for good reasons. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8_sACSiZfshmdOkKP2MuRTmzSj8LqC7pC1doPy6qxcAfVHFi6HqXhUJbS1XT9JvPmy5RxvmkLOFeyrs4EaK5gUIlFQjy61YfFiM-t0dsWuTLD7xKy2xH3qhSkdpM8cE6yErUoCrWBzT8/s1600/mark+and+kay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8_sACSiZfshmdOkKP2MuRTmzSj8LqC7pC1doPy6qxcAfVHFi6HqXhUJbS1XT9JvPmy5RxvmkLOFeyrs4EaK5gUIlFQjy61YfFiM-t0dsWuTLD7xKy2xH3qhSkdpM8cE6yErUoCrWBzT8/s200/mark+and+kay.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzm0iL10DMP74fh0Bo5Hi4Ovkvdv0vcRr6W3gh2rxhJJFV-P5QB82_WFxYTc7la8pjLVIA22cD5nJ1HC-ly4eAhZzBVfUIGl_tVayAMKaLsB28THWINo__WRJsy_FYUr5y7QKRvF-lArI/s1600/vegomatic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>I wasn’t the only one in our family with hair issues. Like most boys in the 50’s, my brother had a butch cut which left him with about ¼ of an inch of hair all over his head except at his forehead where the ¾ inch of hair stood at attention with the help of “Butch Wax.” After awhile, Mom got tired of paying Marshall the barber $5 for this kind of a haircut. I mean, what could be so hard about practically shaving a kid’s head every <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzm0iL10DMP74fh0Bo5Hi4Ovkvdv0vcRr6W3gh2rxhJJFV-P5QB82_WFxYTc7la8pjLVIA22cD5nJ1HC-ly4eAhZzBVfUIGl_tVayAMKaLsB28THWINo__WRJsy_FYUr5y7QKRvF-lArI/s1600/vegomatic.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzm0iL10DMP74fh0Bo5Hi4Ovkvdv0vcRr6W3gh2rxhJJFV-P5QB82_WFxYTc7la8pjLVIA22cD5nJ1HC-ly4eAhZzBVfUIGl_tVayAMKaLsB28THWINo__WRJsy_FYUr5y7QKRvF-lArI/s200/vegomatic.jpg" width="200" /></a>six weeks? Mom found out when she ordered a hair trimmer she saw demonstrated on T.V. Mark’s first (and last) home haircut left him with an assortment of bald patches, tufts and nicks, all of which Marshall corrected (mostly) for $10 since this emergency operation had to be performed on a Saturday. Mom would have been better off ordering a Veg-O-Matic. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqG8XvcBOebgWxxXhooEQkiUuVZ3TE6uICJg07A4u74fAHLv33xs7FvVQygvX8eDBUw4OiAlpZSDf9tH4JIYcGWgimfWa1I2drRyVVFGq0xhbXgM7LAeHRxZzEWBSzlt6-23o-uOiedLc/s1600/sleeping+beauty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqG8XvcBOebgWxxXhooEQkiUuVZ3TE6uICJg07A4u74fAHLv33xs7FvVQygvX8eDBUw4OiAlpZSDf9tH4JIYcGWgimfWa1I2drRyVVFGq0xhbXgM7LAeHRxZzEWBSzlt6-23o-uOiedLc/s200/sleeping+beauty.jpg" width="200" /></a>My sister’s hair problems stemmed from the fact that she wanted hair like Sleeping Beauty’s but, in fact, she had hair like Little Orphan Annie’s. Kay’s hair was thicker and curlier than mine so Mom decided to keep it short. Kay would come home from the beauty shop, take one look in the mirror and fly into a rage, violently shaking her head back and forth until <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEije2bUcFBdJavVv22I6WMf9j8OYt-uAro459fRMe_c1J4863ahFQXWrBWHxN0GT1bMn2oE6DoboeTQMEiIfRoeJMH11p8oBBtq7KrG51REHIxXzHzk0DzIKxjlOCmv9AAZnb47JD0mJro/s1600/kay+and+mom.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEije2bUcFBdJavVv22I6WMf9j8OYt-uAro459fRMe_c1J4863ahFQXWrBWHxN0GT1bMn2oE6DoboeTQMEiIfRoeJMH11p8oBBtq7KrG51REHIxXzHzk0DzIKxjlOCmv9AAZnb47JD0mJro/s200/kay+and+mom.jpg" width="154" /></a>her hair stood out like that photo of Albert Einstein with his finger in an electrical socket. When my dad came home in the middle of one of these storms, my brother tried to prepare him. “Look out,” Mark warned him. “She’s been to the bushwhacker.”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXFXhAGjFRYw1UCr97XrwWbhldhbbYbIgmvuPdHYJbeBfLbexkMys59rUQW_wCCNe7wepvOg9lBLuYV-KlOZdV-bIWqEaCxhsY3jI9JrlDgwzqVgXg1Qqnc-J30aI4dlllP58XP5fuQc/s1600/me+highschool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXFXhAGjFRYw1UCr97XrwWbhldhbbYbIgmvuPdHYJbeBfLbexkMys59rUQW_wCCNe7wepvOg9lBLuYV-KlOZdV-bIWqEaCxhsY3jI9JrlDgwzqVgXg1Qqnc-J30aI4dlllP58XP5fuQc/s200/me+highschool.jpg" width="131" /></a>When I got to high school, I graduated from socks to rollers and picked up an ally in the Hair Wars, Scotch Tape, to straighten my bangs and the goofy-looking lock of hair I wore in front of each ear. Unfortunately, I couldn’t always get the adhesive off my face in the morning so my blusher left pink rectangles on my cheeks.<br />
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In college, I tried almost everything to achieve the sleek, straight, Cher look although visions of a blistered <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUr2LjyWvKSSJni_s0l1myj9gpnuKjk0ixyXCtRNYxkv7rcCCFlz4WPI_GajWycvGolFUdd2P_ToZ4WVr5RWl9vJdmeIyZ8Sn_oAaObiZYsBCpRKJHqZBg3S3G7wS5qNp_7L9giQiIACc/s1600/pj70s.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUr2LjyWvKSSJni_s0l1myj9gpnuKjk0ixyXCtRNYxkv7rcCCFlz4WPI_GajWycvGolFUdd2P_ToZ4WVr5RWl9vJdmeIyZ8Sn_oAaObiZYsBCpRKJHqZBg3S3G7wS5qNp_7L9giQiIACc/s200/pj70s.jpg" width="135" /></a>scalp did make me stop short of ironing my hair. Even with clips, plastic rollers, sponge rollers, toilet paper rolls, orange juice cans, Dippity Do and hair straightener, my hair only met my expectations about three weeks each fall, when the air pressure, temperature and humidity were at optimal levels. I can’t remember when or why I finally decided to let my hair make its own decisions but life has certainly been easier since then. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5j88BHA9rfQkT-p96BVWNi_B1O2PkyWpt-juCoJsB8GgCnxjW2YUXmw-gVQ18A8bNmY4Lb6aVB0lxN2wqnlFoI5wUxkz1SBPafBxk1Ge-EqYPX0pf1t4M-MnkmsgZMfiAySwzBitDBe8/s1600/david+curls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0NCtdmZhtrCURkanW7M3epXMreTTif7DppEIeykm9drFzdTOWjMcB5rbkR_YAsiKJ4I-9Sp5Nn4stMRlEojryH0DQF_47Cq0S61jDE39AtJvDOr0xaRqMv2fs7rqM0WdhlsbVo95Lqg/s1600/john+baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0NCtdmZhtrCURkanW7M3epXMreTTif7DppEIeykm9drFzdTOWjMcB5rbkR_YAsiKJ4I-9Sp5Nn4stMRlEojryH0DQF_47Cq0S61jDE39AtJvDOr0xaRqMv2fs7rqM0WdhlsbVo95Lqg/s200/john+baby.jpg" width="166" /></a>When the boys were young, I didn’t expect to deal with hair issues. Both David and John followed the family tradition, growing from bald babies into curly-haired toddlers. David’s first haircut looked like something had been chewing on his head; but, after that, hair styles weren’t an issue with our boys – at least not until their grade school friends turned up with buzz cuts –butches without the butch wax. Even though their barber, Roger, warned <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5j88BHA9rfQkT-p96BVWNi_B1O2PkyWpt-juCoJsB8GgCnxjW2YUXmw-gVQ18A8bNmY4Lb6aVB0lxN2wqnlFoI5wUxkz1SBPafBxk1Ge-EqYPX0pf1t4M-MnkmsgZMfiAySwzBitDBe8/s1600/david+curls.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5j88BHA9rfQkT-p96BVWNi_B1O2PkyWpt-juCoJsB8GgCnxjW2YUXmw-gVQ18A8bNmY4Lb6aVB0lxN2wqnlFoI5wUxkz1SBPafBxk1Ge-EqYPX0pf1t4M-MnkmsgZMfiAySwzBitDBe8/s200/david+curls.jpg" width="160" /></a>them they’d look like a pair of dirty tennis balls, the boys got buzzed and I felt like I was harboring two prison escapees.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTYgvhgZOmngFO21gROUs7k5OX7rxopGfy_p7o4K99vBunbImthbYuj6knVkddCCALFLHKo5efyBHiUcKc5BZzcJ6DLPFtRMC9l6sGXikZ1ZMnQj3REXGNRbZ3RJxLOQT20L78yns2BlM/s1600/mom+and+guys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I had forgotten that hair is a means of expression for both sexes in the teenage years. I must have repressed my parents’ battles with my brother as he transitioned from an early Beatles style to something<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTYgvhgZOmngFO21gROUs7k5OX7rxopGfy_p7o4K99vBunbImthbYuj6knVkddCCALFLHKo5efyBHiUcKc5BZzcJ6DLPFtRMC9l6sGXikZ1ZMnQj3REXGNRbZ3RJxLOQT20L78yns2BlM/s1600/mom+and+guys.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTYgvhgZOmngFO21gROUs7k5OX7rxopGfy_p7o4K99vBunbImthbYuj6knVkddCCALFLHKo5efyBHiUcKc5BZzcJ6DLPFtRMC9l6sGXikZ1ZMnQj3REXGNRbZ3RJxLOQT20L78yns2BlM/s200/mom+and+guys.jpg" width="200" /></a> resembling a squirrel’s nest. Looking back at pictures of family and friends, I see guys with thick hair who went pouffy and guys like Paul, with thin hair, who went long on the top, back and sides. Despite my dad’s dire predictions, none of them, however, became deviants, social outcasts or Communists. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf0ivpWBhlRItuf4xE6sT1ABjNXLp1cVMF8_C2KAfMGTQWDIOdqW2LLcE5JPaEkVyt6_8Ezw11kVHJVitCRFO3aQG819_1hFKzc6cl3BDR2bP6kw_FapqQp2oL4Q9whIAb9o3sHyISd5I/s1600/paul+and+david.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf0ivpWBhlRItuf4xE6sT1ABjNXLp1cVMF8_C2KAfMGTQWDIOdqW2LLcE5JPaEkVyt6_8Ezw11kVHJVitCRFO3aQG819_1hFKzc6cl3BDR2bP6kw_FapqQp2oL4Q9whIAb9o3sHyISd5I/s200/paul+and+david.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_0gQs7rCp7CLlm4S_4VU66CUUatFHrAmLe9SvHsPzBS7wiIxC4GQkq-VzlqgjzeLEbup4peeYu4juMo2q0Hm40_xWLHSBFGXX7-Ms3bp3y-Mdd5WM1pNUBEzyDaqNvcC8E-ciD1z1jns/s1600/john+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Naturally, after grade school, David and John began experimenting with their hair and Paul and I started biting our tongues, with varying degrees of success. They seemed to be engaged in a tonsorial Tag-Team match. When David had a traditional cut, John cultivated a long, over-one-eye look ala Greta Garbo. By the time John’s eye came back into view, David’s hair was a wavy, shoulder length, with a couple of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_0gQs7rCp7CLlm4S_4VU66CUUatFHrAmLe9SvHsPzBS7wiIxC4GQkq-VzlqgjzeLEbup4peeYu4juMo2q0Hm40_xWLHSBFGXX7-Ms3bp3y-Mdd5WM1pNUBEzyDaqNvcC8E-ciD1z1jns/s1600/john+hair.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_0gQs7rCp7CLlm4S_4VU66CUUatFHrAmLe9SvHsPzBS7wiIxC4GQkq-VzlqgjzeLEbup4peeYu4juMo2q0Hm40_xWLHSBFGXX7-Ms3bp3y-Mdd5WM1pNUBEzyDaqNvcC8E-ciD1z1jns/s200/john+hair.jpg" width="165" /></a>little braids woven in. After college, David looked for a barber before looking for a job while John had trouble looking for anything with his mop of eyelash-tickling curly hair. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAG0tO0XIelZ1F-6s9dPzPs4T1WdPUH75D5vE21CfDo0hj3RO9GHQo9vLZJtPhV9f7vzseuxxVJOIH6t8yjXDL9x_vt_rLWZkzx6ZSikh2sfYVesxpHernwRorxM5OE0FCihOl8iMbu8/s1600/scan0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAG0tO0XIelZ1F-6s9dPzPs4T1WdPUH75D5vE21CfDo0hj3RO9GHQo9vLZJtPhV9f7vzseuxxVJOIH6t8yjXDL9x_vt_rLWZkzx6ZSikh2sfYVesxpHernwRorxM5OE0FCihOl8iMbu8/s200/scan0001.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
At David’s wedding reception, one of the guests, who remembered David’s long hair days, went up to John and offered his congratulations. “My brother is the groom,” John said, pointing toward the bar. “He’s right over there.” A few minutes later when John was at the bar, the same guy came up and congratulated him again. John just returned his handshake and said, “Thanks.”<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdyljyloRY_HWruHuzirfNlzDHV7OyzlxTvzLfI5HiknG16LFYXmuMno4_56oPEQt1MnM3LIbO-dDgEUYD0e0hCH2dJr1T7zeUJyzAiqpSRlh3DHZllhOxjKh7E33mYxGfqgFltYSIILs/s1600/willem+future.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdyljyloRY_HWruHuzirfNlzDHV7OyzlxTvzLfI5HiknG16LFYXmuMno4_56oPEQt1MnM3LIbO-dDgEUYD0e0hCH2dJr1T7zeUJyzAiqpSRlh3DHZllhOxjKh7E33mYxGfqgFltYSIILs/s320/willem+future.jpg" width="204" /></a></div>Currently my hair is happy, Paul’s hair is a little thin, David’s hair is businesslike during the week and more relaxed on the weekends and John’s hair is transitioning out of a year-long Biblical phase. The jury is still out on Willem’s so-called hair which did indeed stand up in feathery little spikes when he was in the pool last week. The future of his hair can only be left to the imagination.Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-39818867246412850032011-07-13T09:45:00.000-04:002011-07-13T09:45:28.602-04:00A Grand Old Lady Comes Roaring Back<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Paul’s and my account of our bike trip on the C & O Towpath appeared in my last post, “Vacation/Adventure.” There was, however, a third party on that trip – Cilantro, our original tandem bicycle, came out of retirement and made a triumphant return. Here is her story.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6sffTICr7qG7mOmEdI2Z71_b8kYaGDlKXb4_J2h5SvzjJ8osW4sv7-sA55KIjVBZ-KdGHjQzoJF5iLaExgeCsc2B5-nhLmHaorzuzYuK2CNyU7QJVAsEbaN29cNF6lrhE6f6jEnPpFLc/s1600/amish+ride.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6sffTICr7qG7mOmEdI2Z71_b8kYaGDlKXb4_J2h5SvzjJ8osW4sv7-sA55KIjVBZ-KdGHjQzoJF5iLaExgeCsc2B5-nhLmHaorzuzYuK2CNyU7QJVAsEbaN29cNF6lrhE6f6jEnPpFLc/s200/amish+ride.jpg" width="200" /></a> <br />
It’s an old, familiar tale. I was Paul and Jill’s first tandem bike and I gave them the best years of my life. I never made snide comments while they figured out how to get on and off a tandem bicycle gracefully. I held steady while they learned to negotiate hills and curves safely. I took them to Oxford on Saturday mornings for donuts and coffee cake, to Indiana with 5,000 other Hilly Hundred riders, and to Holmes County, sharing the gravel roads with Amish buggies. No <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjla-u8ihuy25tqYdoiOtu8WcABM6iMU05Qr3xAUKWYzXqPdOn1Nk-iaXvjA4yEO1mia3aD0H3QD4MB2CIG_7447sr9Z3gdG6RuhlAM1Wd2-bwPLlJtFAe0TSjmTQh-U0dKvOTNlwee3A/s1600/early+bike+pic.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjla-u8ihuy25tqYdoiOtu8WcABM6iMU05Qr3xAUKWYzXqPdOn1Nk-iaXvjA4yEO1mia3aD0H3QD4MB2CIG_7447sr9Z3gdG6RuhlAM1Wd2-bwPLlJtFAe0TSjmTQh-U0dKvOTNlwee3A/s200/early+bike+pic.jpg" width="133" /></a>matter where they went, my wide, mountain bike tires and sturdy steel frame provided a soft, cushy ride. I didn’t even complain when Paul and their son John took me on those insane mountain bike trails, bouncing over logs, down dry creek beds and around trees. I’m not going to comment on the mentality that finds fun in that sort of craziness. <br />
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Not only did I take Paul and Jill on biking adventures – I also went on some <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XmEW6IWeQtFj5XDH3DaWVsk2q3Jo9QVnpdbJiAhfC60DPU3vQHnvXGx6MOMRdjxMoLxoCSWh8xzAw8xR_GvRoIGjsncBiqg3aXtWJFpkdjLckG9ySNMGMHRS-0ke04YlWGeG1Z7TT8s/s1600/bike+at+burnside+bridge.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_XmEW6IWeQtFj5XDH3DaWVsk2q3Jo9QVnpdbJiAhfC60DPU3vQHnvXGx6MOMRdjxMoLxoCSWh8xzAw8xR_GvRoIGjsncBiqg3aXtWJFpkdjLckG9ySNMGMHRS-0ke04YlWGeG1Z7TT8s/s200/bike+at+burnside+bridge.JPG" width="200" /></a>adventures without them. I had my first ride on the C & O Towpath with their friends Maria and Chris – the three of us did the entire 185 miles from Cumberland, Maryland to Washington, D.C., including the infamous, 3,000 foot long Paw Paw tunnel through the Alleghenies (not my favorite part.) I also earned the nickname “The Love Boat” when their friends Matt and Amber took me on a biking honeymoon. Take it from me – that marriage between a fanatic mountain bike racer and a petite, non-biker would never have made it past the honeymoon without a tandem bike.<br />
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I carved out a good, solid place for myself through hard work, dependability and congeniality. I kept myself <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NFt0hY413k9sAX6WJPwVZOQtdtFWmYBQjxVSbBN4Ai0UM_LhEAjeVZEdXkYhM7pwKVOlFoAvDhW5rHwHk9sBaiSvxTuczxHgtC9FQhPKH3EkXLfd-JHII_hZA0BHxrHEr34-KRkurzA/s1600/big+al.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NFt0hY413k9sAX6WJPwVZOQtdtFWmYBQjxVSbBN4Ai0UM_LhEAjeVZEdXkYhM7pwKVOlFoAvDhW5rHwHk9sBaiSvxTuczxHgtC9FQhPKH3EkXLfd-JHII_hZA0BHxrHEr34-KRkurzA/s200/big+al.JPG" width="200" /></a>fit as well – no rust on my classy, ice blue frame and only a few nicks and dings as souvenirs of a life well-lived. Then one day without any warning, Paul brought home this shiny, bottle green, skinny-tire tandem named Big Al. (Just like a guy – always has to be Big something or other.) Next thing I knew, we were sharing the same garage space. Before long, Big Al was in the front row and I was permanently assigned to the back.<br />
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Somehow, whenever Paul and Jill took off on a ride, I got left behind. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMl1ksqp2uv77YYxvBwqYTXO7cIk9R4LXwFWOcB9n9F7R9irNjOI35MgWE6yT8mc6MEPu09JZhtT4M_Mvm21fVI24XTwWG3d0-E_MeRPvbZ11GIFwPNJRNlx6rJkvUx_VUEBnKvr3PqAc/s1600/dc+081.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMl1ksqp2uv77YYxvBwqYTXO7cIk9R4LXwFWOcB9n9F7R9irNjOI35MgWE6yT8mc6MEPu09JZhtT4M_Mvm21fVI24XTwWG3d0-E_MeRPvbZ11GIFwPNJRNlx6rJkvUx_VUEBnKvr3PqAc/s200/dc+081.JPG" width="200" /></a>They thought Big Al’s skinny tires and lightweight aluminum frame made it easier for them to keep up with their friends. I thought they needed some new friends – I mean, whatever happened to “Slow but steady wins the race?” For awhile they took both of us on trips to Door County; but somehow Big Al always got called up on the sunny days to cruise the wide, open roads. My turn came on the misty days, the sandy trails and the bumpy rides. Now, I’m not complaining; but, if Big Al is such a hotshot,<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj92_S8OEFzInG-p5P7Mn6_0Odex0dSLHE0kBtyq8DmQORAZlnlrhpy6bZYurEdtuVJbzPrtuueZOO_7kk2V21zhx4JZ0Fj7m5W3AoatNf-rxF4zn7pCeAOYb8QMmhOlSDX8uUfr51VUI4/s1600/cow.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj92_S8OEFzInG-p5P7Mn6_0Odex0dSLHE0kBtyq8DmQORAZlnlrhpy6bZYurEdtuVJbzPrtuueZOO_7kk2V21zhx4JZ0Fj7m5W3AoatNf-rxF4zn7pCeAOYb8QMmhOlSDX8uUfr51VUI4/s200/cow.jpg" width="200" /></a> how come he doesn’t tackle puddles or gravel. My best day was when Big Al had a gear shifting problem and had to cool his pedals at the bike shop. I thumbed my handlebars at him as Paul, Jill and I rode off.<br />
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For the last few years, I’ve pretty much been retired. I have nice quarters in Paul and Jill’s unfinished <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_3tB_UlPqqrKBCtJvDDflr1ff3hT7TIzTmrNi0HIIbimjybwcrqjYJgKDQqncD78B_1qwdkjMFMFJvtTy3OaYVms1qENiogTeTm0FohYuRUFSjo4q8HTAB8za4ch4lllITsT5gKWEz1o/s1600/bike+and+packs.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_3tB_UlPqqrKBCtJvDDflr1ff3hT7TIzTmrNi0HIIbimjybwcrqjYJgKDQqncD78B_1qwdkjMFMFJvtTy3OaYVms1qENiogTeTm0FohYuRUFSjo4q8HTAB8za4ch4lllITsT5gKWEz1o/s200/bike+and+packs.JPG" width="200" /></a>basement which is dry and clean, but it’s a little boring. Backpacks and rain jackets aren’t the most stimulating conversationalists. So you can imagine how excited I was when they started talking about a return trip to the C & O Towpath. Who has the heavy frame and sturdy tires to tackle the towpath’s rocks, mud, gravel, grass and tree roots? Who has the strength and the stability to pull a Bob Trailer full of gear? Certainly not Big Al, that twit.<br />
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It was a glorious week. I took Paul, Jill and their Bob Trailer past <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI61wljdzBTMNC4fdZH27sfbxcjJuBgSqQYpSgvCUqWLUpbTzdHdzrGZgOYZJ4aBDQpjOcKW9RGU0tsKk2gpF1npYEiiTzW7agKck1bZXkYoZVc-qF4I8y-aiWRMEDPIOXE13PdGG7f08/s1600/dirty+bike.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI61wljdzBTMNC4fdZH27sfbxcjJuBgSqQYpSgvCUqWLUpbTzdHdzrGZgOYZJ4aBDQpjOcKW9RGU0tsKk2gpF1npYEiiTzW7agKck1bZXkYoZVc-qF4I8y-aiWRMEDPIOXE13PdGG7f08/s200/dirty+bike.JPG" width="200" /></a>beautiful scenery, and up and down big hills without breaking a sweat. I negotiated narrow entry gates, high bridges and sand without losing my balance. I took it well when every square inch of me was caked with mud and all I got was a sponge bath out of an iron pump. I kept my cool even when sticks scattered across the towpath caused my chain to come off five times in a one-mile stretch. And, I made it over all sorts of surfaces without a flat tire.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgiMhOzFVksOz87djYdnbsSISx0gEvtneZIs2PGRCNoRWIjqZfBvLs56bLw95Cz3dwox7CH2sIWAdZQ-q73jd4dBpYzLPsUy-aurrjLeg7gNgCLrX6V1-k3xvVvoGlaQMHMC1dHuREh0I/s1600/bike+in+lh+6.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgiMhOzFVksOz87djYdnbsSISx0gEvtneZIs2PGRCNoRWIjqZfBvLs56bLw95Cz3dwox7CH2sIWAdZQ-q73jd4dBpYzLPsUy-aurrjLeg7gNgCLrX6V1-k3xvVvoGlaQMHMC1dHuREh0I/s200/bike+in+lh+6.JPG" width="200" /></a>I stayed in some great places along the way. I spent the night in a cozy barn at Georges Mill Farm. The lock house basements were very comfortable and, in one, my bedroom was definitely cooler than Paul and Jill’s. At the Jacob Rohrbach Inn, I stayed in a garage full of rental bikes – cute but empty headed and pretty ignorant. Since they rarely venture more than 10 miles from the inn, they kept me up most of the night with questions about where I’ve been and what I’ve seen. <br />
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Best of all, I found I can still turn heads, even with close to 20 years on me. When Paul and Jill had a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6T9jHQXVN7aFrAxM4D8n_oOpKud7aU6dgUgE3EVRd67r6UIyplol5PnAyfiLyh1RRq7SLhUhMDeBS10ht1A0zqmo439J0e13V8X1zxtAhNN77eheQHW-8GP2-6NTVXcrcBVVr1BepsM/s1600/me+bike+and+field.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6T9jHQXVN7aFrAxM4D8n_oOpKud7aU6dgUgE3EVRd67r6UIyplol5PnAyfiLyh1RRq7SLhUhMDeBS10ht1A0zqmo439J0e13V8X1zxtAhNN77eheQHW-8GP2-6NTVXcrcBVVr1BepsM/s200/me+bike+and+field.JPG" width="200" /></a>breakfast of BLT’s in the Desert Rose Café, the owner of the local bike shop stopped in to ask, “Is that your cool bike out there?” Little kids pointed at me and waved all the time. Couples struggling to keep up with each other on single bikes admired me, and one boy in Sharpsburg called out hopefully, “I’d like to have that bike.”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimkd2PICpSqJk8D2pxI7aR3GHt-YXN_Sw8qNN4cf-LK_5uZzv3FEHu1Wm37BqOmn13NJQf-mCqye8h5FFIZBYqj3hiODdg0fLWDQW3_cXH94kqS8Squf6FBO_dSi_C6OXryODlwxTsdXE/s1600/bike+bath.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimkd2PICpSqJk8D2pxI7aR3GHt-YXN_Sw8qNN4cf-LK_5uZzv3FEHu1Wm37BqOmn13NJQf-mCqye8h5FFIZBYqj3hiODdg0fLWDQW3_cXH94kqS8Squf6FBO_dSi_C6OXryODlwxTsdXE/s200/bike+bath.JPG" width="200" /></a>Now I’m back at home, totally cleaned up, resting in the basement and enjoying my memories. I have the satisfaction of knowing that, even though Big Al is younger and faster, I’ve been places where he’ll never go, even if he lives to be twice my age. I also know that, across the country, many former railroad beds have been turned into packed gravel bike trails; and Paul and Jill are already talking about some future trips. The C & O Towpath was definitely not my last hurrah.Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-84389706383273869802011-06-27T11:01:00.001-04:002011-06-27T12:31:07.380-04:00Vacation/Adventure<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTyo-q7LHCaHhIv8QpDknqAUn1vuRpKUxIHNDtvTHp7t8t7tMOvQfJwY1Fo9Qw_7yMKsH9csAn32JI2sBiAUYdBcAFHxgS5vU_V5lPxlhhc8tK8KGFuEm617TAO06pZD-_aGuig4BTljA/s1600/IMG_0170.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTyo-q7LHCaHhIv8QpDknqAUn1vuRpKUxIHNDtvTHp7t8t7tMOvQfJwY1Fo9Qw_7yMKsH9csAn32JI2sBiAUYdBcAFHxgS5vU_V5lPxlhhc8tK8KGFuEm617TAO06pZD-_aGuig4BTljA/s200/IMG_0170.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1ZrvYeNdxuaJLUMau_EXnM4ASkSCDHpLQycB415Ao1yXXWcTWX-1jQSwE3SOe0-FbbCE8ouXVeLxMfnMn3l5nQQMifigLhmhPF8m5v1VmeiS_uP3Qs9cqaxEzE8M0P-gWyWf7T5JgUQ/s1600/lockhouse+49.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>The last of my blackened toenails from our hike in Italy fell off about 4 days before we started our latest vacation/adventure - biking the C & O Canal towpath. That seemed very Asian – representing the balance and symmetry of life or something like that. As for vacation/adventures, discovering a new ice cream parlor on vacation is a big enough adventure for me. Paul, however, sees the words “vacation” and “adventure” as synonyms and neither has anything to do with ice cream cones.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihqZ5WL_zpX7TCJ26OGjNWsra4_BN3CGjXyhA8n9EldlJDRL1jXHDGy_4t7pMbj7kAHMeQGxz4_lx_Fe_nChh36U0riqXdtkp0g4GIIMOWQh8OLIDk0bbMJkmB0kKrI1dmAfP8yFKmFN0/s1600/paul+on+path.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihqZ5WL_zpX7TCJ26OGjNWsra4_BN3CGjXyhA8n9EldlJDRL1jXHDGy_4t7pMbj7kAHMeQGxz4_lx_Fe_nChh36U0riqXdtkp0g4GIIMOWQh8OLIDk0bbMJkmB0kKrI1dmAfP8yFKmFN0/s200/paul+on+path.JPG" width="200" /></a>I actually was the one who suggested this particular vacation/adventure. We had biked some sections of the towpath in the past and I thought it would be nice to revisit it for a week. Conceived by Washington, promoted by Jefferson and opened in the 1830’s, the C & O Canal was supposed to provide a waterway to transport goods <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxdmwU9YfGxWpTl4q6uubEHbf3kfclczDKtssM2PxtZoTzRFgX9mQ5yD7c5L1thsZAM8flo0ijEjSO46qaJIpCBkGBJBfN79VgKPXQDvTg7nEEhoUVxE3djX7S5ExJKlBwDJ6hGqOAN2I/s1600/train.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxdmwU9YfGxWpTl4q6uubEHbf3kfclczDKtssM2PxtZoTzRFgX9mQ5yD7c5L1thsZAM8flo0ijEjSO46qaJIpCBkGBJBfN79VgKPXQDvTg7nEEhoUVxE3djX7S5ExJKlBwDJ6hGqOAN2I/s200/train.JPG" width="200" /></a>between the Washington, D.C. area and the Ohio River at Pittsburgh. It reached Cumberland, Maryland 185 miles from Washington before it stalled out, bankrupt and upstaged by the railroads. In the 1950’s, Supreme Court Justice Douglas saved the remains of the canal from becoming a paved road, creating our longest and narrowest National Park. The towpath, once used by the mules pulling boats along the canal, is now a packed-dirt and gravel path for walking and biking that passes classic old canal and railroad towns. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpM4AEdl5bFA9UXtb8KQ9HvX8t1o4gzWcgtM3g7DLC1rSB60xyvhJlc515GgpgPVrRcmU2O2SQkgA1jMP0YkHJkxXK7v0egrGIboiAbdgSLpaokcsJZ8p5NFatexQzv7wzpPdJsBKeIJg/s1600/md+farmland.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpM4AEdl5bFA9UXtb8KQ9HvX8t1o4gzWcgtM3g7DLC1rSB60xyvhJlc515GgpgPVrRcmU2O2SQkgA1jMP0YkHJkxXK7v0egrGIboiAbdgSLpaokcsJZ8p5NFatexQzv7wzpPdJsBKeIJg/s200/md+farmland.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Some people drive to a town and stay there for a few days biking the canal and sightseeing before driving to the next town. You can probably guess which one of us would have been fine with that and which one wanted something more edgy. So, I mapped out a plan to leave our car about 1/3 of the way into the towpath and bike from there to Washington, D.C. and back, without the car. I had a bailout plan where, after a few days, if the weather was bad, we could return to our car and use it for the second half of the trip. Realistically, a combination typhoon, monsoon, tsunami and hurricane would have been the only perfect storm leading to that outcome.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WjEL3FM4x7BMN_68ZL5aL95pfZ3zc3sSBkPmrjHa5Lf5DEPzRzEikBKVD2kP3sUhK2oi2HG-irdr3WZS7KObSXILn-ZChZzOoIprVzG5ZXMY9FhuXKcosTA1lQGzuZFOeDIn8W7LZmk/s1600/lockhouse+49+kit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxdmwU9YfGxWpTl4q6uubEHbf3kfclczDKtssM2PxtZoTzRFgX9mQ5yD7c5L1thsZAM8flo0ijEjSO46qaJIpCBkGBJBfN79VgKPXQDvTg7nEEhoUVxE3djX7S5ExJKlBwDJ6hGqOAN2I/s1600/train.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdZcjY0fRwvgI3SctWqq8oJwEAmNpfd50STKqexGdPhcL6BoGumUM5zvuUzuO928ndH-CnWmJltG29Q6Opg3GQkJbiFyZUJ6qfugUJfz1ZedzX7Sj7FoTqt0pazsCvMCA86DaYT3fX_4/s200/me+bike+bob.jpg" width="200" /></a>We attached a little trailer named Bob to the back of the bike; Bob holds a good sized duffle bag of stuff. The duffle, however, turned out to be shockingly heavy when we loaded it up for the first time. While waiting out a thunderstorm, we thought about what to leave behind. When the weather cleared, I ditched one biking outfit, extra shorts, my writing tablet and a pair of shoes. I chose between a bottle of wine and liquid soap (not a hard choice) and gave up half a package of fig bars and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxt2VOB2KKS3wHP-pRpXkb8dmPLeIICwqInurkZrA1cDXQy13h5YIV_ixUGt866d0BjynNEsI-kM_COTq7V_LGrgd8jby7x8Fxg2mlCaG_C_J3a0fnErppmpQdP7YPqx869H7o9jFUCZA/s1600/rohrbach.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxt2VOB2KKS3wHP-pRpXkb8dmPLeIICwqInurkZrA1cDXQy13h5YIV_ixUGt866d0BjynNEsI-kM_COTq7V_LGrgd8jby7x8Fxg2mlCaG_C_J3a0fnErppmpQdP7YPqx869H7o9jFUCZA/s200/rohrbach.JPG" width="200" /></a>half my Kashi bars – at least they weren’t Oreos. We decided to share deodorant and Paul took out some of his stuff. When I was packing his 5-pound shoes, he asked me three times if I really needed my 2 ounce bottle of make-up and my LITTLE containers of special shampoo, conditioner and gel. (YES! YES! and YES!) I offered to compare the total weight of his stuff against mine but we didn’t have a scale. By the end of the trip, I had used every last sock and he still had a bag of unused clothes. HA!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1ZrvYeNdxuaJLUMau_EXnM4ASkSCDHpLQycB415Ao1yXXWcTWX-1jQSwE3SOe0-FbbCE8ouXVeLxMfnMn3l5nQQMifigLhmhPF8m5v1VmeiS_uP3Qs9cqaxEzE8M0P-gWyWf7T5JgUQ/s1600/lockhouse+49.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1ZrvYeNdxuaJLUMau_EXnM4ASkSCDHpLQycB415Ao1yXXWcTWX-1jQSwE3SOe0-FbbCE8ouXVeLxMfnMn3l5nQQMifigLhmhPF8m5v1VmeiS_uP3Qs9cqaxEzE8M0P-gWyWf7T5JgUQ/s200/lockhouse+49.JPG" width="200" /></a>A few days before we were to leave, I wondered if we had made a bad choice with all this year’s rain and flooding. In a canal website blog posting, some guy complained that the rocky, bumpy, muddy trail limited his speed to about 5 miles an hour, gave him flat tires and eventually caused him to bail out. He also ran out of water because he thought the Park Service water pump was unsafe since there was a dead deer lying in the water nearby. (“A First Class Weenie!” according to Paul.) My<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WjEL3FM4x7BMN_68ZL5aL95pfZ3zc3sSBkPmrjHa5Lf5DEPzRzEikBKVD2kP3sUhK2oi2HG-irdr3WZS7KObSXILn-ZChZzOoIprVzG5ZXMY9FhuXKcosTA1lQGzuZFOeDIn8W7LZmk/s1600/lockhouse+49+kit.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WjEL3FM4x7BMN_68ZL5aL95pfZ3zc3sSBkPmrjHa5Lf5DEPzRzEikBKVD2kP3sUhK2oi2HG-irdr3WZS7KObSXILn-ZChZzOoIprVzG5ZXMY9FhuXKcosTA1lQGzuZFOeDIn8W7LZmk/s200/lockhouse+49+kit.JPG" width="200" /></a> friend Jean said her butcher’s son found dead fish everywhere along the canal and one gigantic one (I visualized Moby Dick) in the middle of the towpath. But by then we were already committed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">As usual, my worries were unnecessary. By the time we started our trip, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgyplRKJfBp_wckBb_ng9mA-wWCu4b6_sMNnG2P8akfIl4VnFoCpwQGdY3HlEPATOyR7xLQN7RtN8AcH88DhXlggpJpbDfDM01wHf85Qw823_aSrfkvyTYie_PoIhIFAz3zto0Ju_BcvU/s1600/lock.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgyplRKJfBp_wckBb_ng9mA-wWCu4b6_sMNnG2P8akfIl4VnFoCpwQGdY3HlEPATOyR7xLQN7RtN8AcH88DhXlggpJpbDfDM01wHf85Qw823_aSrfkvyTYie_PoIhIFAz3zto0Ju_BcvU/s200/lock.JPG" width="200" /></a>the flood waters had receded, most parts of the trail had been repaired and rolled smooth and we didn’t see a dead fish anywhere. There were some bumps, a few limbs across the trail and enough muddy spots to leave my legs and Paul’s yellow biking shirt looking like cheetah wannabees but that didn’t hold us back. We had peaceful, pleasant rides each day past scenic dams, locks, and lock houses often with the canal on one side and the Potomac River on the other. The canal itself ranged from placid water to murky swamp to grass and trees; while the Potomac<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqLstRTtxepy2a0eINDx_2laoiZCUPwGkywq0aRyzgK7KiujqYuTVAtioPGYZvE7vmh9DNEWLvmy2PDrBHAASiVTERp8iMRqZuGf7jtsrl_UFmFBrsoaS5VQMDjy82PG0VDOX-OBilaxs/s1600/heron.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqLstRTtxepy2a0eINDx_2laoiZCUPwGkywq0aRyzgK7KiujqYuTVAtioPGYZvE7vmh9DNEWLvmy2PDrBHAASiVTERp8iMRqZuGf7jtsrl_UFmFBrsoaS5VQMDjy82PG0VDOX-OBilaxs/s200/heron.jpg" width="195" /></a> was wide and smooth in some areas and dotted with rocks and rapids in others. Our wildlife sightings included a blacksnake, red fox, turtles, woodchucks, an eagle, egrets and herons, a weasel and many deer which are much cuter when they’re eating something besides Paul’s perennials. It was great biking, even the one day when we rode about 75 miles without so much as one square of chocolate.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhowX94LQheVvR-qOGaJyVK_s5fk7bLjORhCzTit1jP1biD5dsvUUxpwLPJrVz-nLPolxIU3_pdgLTOy9Ehy3brAJazNd5rOa9FG_UDle3oGP0SiTm9PAZBe28soCN4MrTBrkZbUZ4q8/s1600/georges+mill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhowX94LQheVvR-qOGaJyVK_s5fk7bLjORhCzTit1jP1biD5dsvUUxpwLPJrVz-nLPolxIU3_pdgLTOy9Ehy3brAJazNd5rOa9FG_UDle3oGP0SiTm9PAZBe28soCN4MrTBrkZbUZ4q8/s200/georges+mill.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">We spent our nights in beautiful, out-of-the –way places including Georges Mill Farm (left) which has been in the same family for nine generations and the Jacob Rohrbach Inn, a large, comfortable house built in 1804 and used during the Civil War as a field hospital (photo with paragraph 4.) We also stayed in two of the old lock houses – the one was furnished in a 1950’s style complete with an Ike and Mamie Eisenhower commemorative plate while the other, our favorite, transported us back to the 1830’s, offering tranquility, a vintage kitchen and a lovely front porch view in place of air conditioning (photos paragraph 5.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgStZjj-Cry50KXJO1IbWlZuyUjk-e5f1HPJppR6rjpFtGl4Ewqzzk2BSkljjK4FQuDcYaLchj__KxHq0qbmVsUqZsOkxtRypap-9a9_YaS31OlFtq73NOcNXDSbDapscfiMyeRqcNkXjs/s1600/nutters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgStZjj-Cry50KXJO1IbWlZuyUjk-e5f1HPJppR6rjpFtGl4Ewqzzk2BSkljjK4FQuDcYaLchj__KxHq0qbmVsUqZsOkxtRypap-9a9_YaS31OlFtq73NOcNXDSbDapscfiMyeRqcNkXjs/s200/nutters.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">A big advantage of biking between 30 and 70 miles every day is that you can devour things like berry bread pudding and lemon pancakes and croissant omelets for breakfast. You can put down a three-inch thick deli sub for lunch. You can sample crab cakes everywhere – in Maryland, crab cakes are like pastrami in New York or brats in Milwaukee or chili in Cincinnati. You can enjoy a cone at Nutter’s Ice Cream Store; but you should know that “small” means two large scoops and, if you order Java Chunk, you’d better have a good book with you. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4dQKGftJW3RH-2YXOMMkQf6dlG3bBV_A75M93AipZYx1vw1vkSIVYsM6KK4b9xouZ_AtNH8NmEUyeCfoMBbqCrujTdwdy51q14e-EwNWK7tShMIKccqenpl4SAWSBwqugko1Jg5f4SNo/s1600/benders.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4dQKGftJW3RH-2YXOMMkQf6dlG3bBV_A75M93AipZYx1vw1vkSIVYsM6KK4b9xouZ_AtNH8NmEUyeCfoMBbqCrujTdwdy51q14e-EwNWK7tShMIKccqenpl4SAWSBwqugko1Jg5f4SNo/s200/benders.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1VZkkrJVmupqAuAYeWfLeUEuryjmh8bfnbd1oXuQNYgCvXAiQlE7v5yzIAiPMuAoqiG7hnQWp1PSW-d7hhyphenhyphenyZyTvpPO7qcKT4nw8GKxha68gDZ9pWoEo5pVhKTp0mG_W2plxIwvgnds/s1600/IMG_0119.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>If you’re Paul, you can even flirt with the idea of eating The Monument at Captain Bender’s in Sharpsburg – “Three 8 ounce Black Angus burger patties stacked high on a Kaiser roll with lettuce and tomato. Layered with chili, cheese, hot sauce, fried pickles, onion rings and spicy dipping sauce. Served with a dill pickle spear and cheese fries topped with bacon and sour cream.” It costs $28.24, but if you eat the<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1VZkkrJVmupqAuAYeWfLeUEuryjmh8bfnbd1oXuQNYgCvXAiQlE7v5yzIAiPMuAoqiG7hnQWp1PSW-d7hhyphenhyphenyZyTvpPO7qcKT4nw8GKxha68gDZ9pWoEo5pVhKTp0mG_W2plxIwvgnds/s1600/IMG_0119.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1VZkkrJVmupqAuAYeWfLeUEuryjmh8bfnbd1oXuQNYgCvXAiQlE7v5yzIAiPMuAoqiG7hnQWp1PSW-d7hhyphenhyphenyZyTvpPO7qcKT4nw8GKxha68gDZ9pWoEo5pVhKTp0mG_W2plxIwvgnds/s200/IMG_0119.JPG" width="150" /></a> whole thing, it’s free. Paul considered it until our friendly bartender/waiter warned him that most people, who plow through the burger, hit the wall when it comes to the fries. You could also go on a bender with one of Captain Bender’s signature drinks like Canal Water (Melon Liquor, pineapple juice and Sprite) or a Duck Shot (a duck decoy filled with 12 ounces of beer and a shot of amaretto.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxOX30SWrwsfTGK5JcfekaT5GifMDleWnWTNXgUNHHl0jO-znjyAPhVZooiLIHzPczZo-7VhKyCB7D15sY_zYF7Z_O0mlJgwpxfdLvVDASEN5GiDVnguawKjVWU0Zmv83HvzFEoFk7vfM/s1600/aqueduct.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxOX30SWrwsfTGK5JcfekaT5GifMDleWnWTNXgUNHHl0jO-znjyAPhVZooiLIHzPczZo-7VhKyCB7D15sY_zYF7Z_O0mlJgwpxfdLvVDASEN5GiDVnguawKjVWU0Zmv83HvzFEoFk7vfM/s200/aqueduct.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our luck with the weather lasted all week – the bike was in the van, our massive bag of dirty clothes was stowed away, Paul was in the shower and I was relaxing on the porch of the 1828 Trail Inn in Hancock, Maryland when it started to rain. I had hoped the benefits of biking 300 miles in a week might include sculpted, rock-hard calves or a few less pounds in my bike shorts or no more Saggy Baggy Elephant staring at me when I do leg lifts. That part didn’t work out. After all this was a week-long bike trip, not a miracle makeover; and I wasn’t exactly living on non-fat yogurt and birdseed. Still it was a wonderful vacation and a wonderful adventure. We’ve started thinking about other long trips with just us, the bike and Bob.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgZhO5TsUx7eRiEMM1TYMoqD32NP6v9TuvOKj45J2FQkvL8s3Bum52yiGcfeIv_6WhB0tY2xr6yzNK_zJ2duLSvZJeKHYH5RL-DWewNaPav0L7N4zXosFeqGTGBTQnprl54j9VRe21OM/s1600/us+and+bike.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgZhO5TsUx7eRiEMM1TYMoqD32NP6v9TuvOKj45J2FQkvL8s3Bum52yiGcfeIv_6WhB0tY2xr6yzNK_zJ2duLSvZJeKHYH5RL-DWewNaPav0L7N4zXosFeqGTGBTQnprl54j9VRe21OM/s320/us+and+bike.JPG" width="320" /></a> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-32585812642846892862011-05-13T13:24:00.000-04:002011-05-13T13:24:38.902-04:00It Was A Very Good Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1TJqY13iVJeDvscelg4x81rxor8mZSaSwIIJaAwtHOyGl2vXzl39VicdUfGuAmsM_daNpl-dYCLnnKJ5EztWJ7R4jOliq1SPjvTggN92dYnfbjVmykMc3V9zePnANbe4cDDpLuJmb_8/s1600/balls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1TJqY13iVJeDvscelg4x81rxor8mZSaSwIIJaAwtHOyGl2vXzl39VicdUfGuAmsM_daNpl-dYCLnnKJ5EztWJ7R4jOliq1SPjvTggN92dYnfbjVmykMc3V9zePnANbe4cDDpLuJmb_8/s200/balls.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal">Almost a year ago, I was having lunch with my friend Barbara when I got the phone call from David – he and Megan were off to the hospital for the birth of our grandson Willem.<span> </span>We were in Brooklyn last weekend so I can offer a first-hand update on the stellar progress of this remarkable, affectionate, brilliant, charming, exceptional and wonderful baby.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXevPCQBDV4tmt0esFlOTfMtDS8LhNaU-OyEQw-xM2ul0hgxhFGX-OlJayId6GPfQ21cS6zm_1f9c9zkfhGVC1S2SMiygo3sQyLdwv4z_f78PSi_1VFk2fvDMviDxVPzUFFNX8KmK2AwM/s1600/inred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXevPCQBDV4tmt0esFlOTfMtDS8LhNaU-OyEQw-xM2ul0hgxhFGX-OlJayId6GPfQ21cS6zm_1f9c9zkfhGVC1S2SMiygo3sQyLdwv4z_f78PSi_1VFk2fvDMviDxVPzUFFNX8KmK2AwM/s200/inred.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">When he was about two weeks old, Megan nicknamed him “The Boss,” as in “I have to get off the phone now – The Boss wants to eat.”<span> </span>A year later, he is still “His Bossiness” and is more likely to answer to “Hey, Boss” than to “Hey, Willem.”<span> </span>He has been photographed so much that, when the camera comes out, so does his smile.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxr4akq6Z_xYqPsQZCMUuuzMFZBqBbJ2kp7zd3aONJIaNOvf2QIz3_gsSDrsPWYckJx3iu3m_7D7iuKP1bwaJLVZWmtaISXblcZ_2tHZ02AaK470WBy8IANSsNNdBCTlG8soHPI2ix8A/s1600/davidguitar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxr4akq6Z_xYqPsQZCMUuuzMFZBqBbJ2kp7zd3aONJIaNOvf2QIz3_gsSDrsPWYckJx3iu3m_7D7iuKP1bwaJLVZWmtaISXblcZ_2tHZ02AaK470WBy8IANSsNNdBCTlG8soHPI2ix8A/s200/davidguitar.jpg" width="126" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Here is what Willem has mastered: speed crawling, playing the guitar, picking up Cheerios off the floor and standing without help. He is also the youngest person to achieve Platinum status with the airlines, having completed ten round-trips, all without buying a single ticket.<span> </span>Here is what he has not mastered: walking, doing anything with a cup but waving it around, and using a spoon, at least not a spoon with anything in it.<span> </span>Learning to escape from his crib is at the top of his bucket list.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFpJ2B39WULKtQ-oVWxe3ct_U7z9aCrHXcYxJYBN1EBAG6180gHdDwCrDHr6Q0mccPRjQqZYHvCP9Wv3O0QOedWbwa5EKTG89UME-rhhnrjCUKrFjPQjUqOFMik7OoFJ3tI0dTJdLEunk/s1600/paulbook.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFpJ2B39WULKtQ-oVWxe3ct_U7z9aCrHXcYxJYBN1EBAG6180gHdDwCrDHr6Q0mccPRjQqZYHvCP9Wv3O0QOedWbwa5EKTG89UME-rhhnrjCUKrFjPQjUqOFMik7OoFJ3tI0dTJdLEunk/s200/paulbook.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Willem marks his territory by drooling on couch pillows, piano pedals, carpets, everybody’s shoes, and the laptop, when he can get at it.<span> </span>He finds satisfaction for the mind and for the mouth in board books like “Going on a Bear Hunt,” “The Subway” and my personal favorite, “There’s a Wocket in My Pocket.”<span> </span>He has graduated to Size 3 diapers and turned diaper changing into an aerobic exercise for both the changer and the changee.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpCsJHOTKUblPjDbNVpi2UaCuYaDSF_OGFS2OpkTV9BzyqkfdO2T-Yv1AghL1rWCt3yn6PDuykOjvTcgbW3JcLFJ56Nua0ukqhifsjknLosf7wDvh-Iq1IcdB2RA8FY0vFxr9EUQP_zYo/s1600/apple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpCsJHOTKUblPjDbNVpi2UaCuYaDSF_OGFS2OpkTV9BzyqkfdO2T-Yv1AghL1rWCt3yn6PDuykOjvTcgbW3JcLFJ56Nua0ukqhifsjknLosf7wDvh-Iq1IcdB2RA8FY0vFxr9EUQP_zYo/s200/apple.jpg" width="182" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">So far, he has sampled purple carrots, a variety of fruit and vegetable (???) flavored yogurts, bananas, provolone cheese, bagels, pizza and bacon (thanks to my mother, aka Granny – who else?)<span> </span>He has graduated from sucking on apple slices to scraping off apple bits with his four and a half teeth.<span> </span>Willem tried strawberries with such bad results that he will probably wait until he gets to high school to order strawberry pie.<span> </span>As far as I know, he has not sampled Chicken McNuggets, Steak tartare, Brussels Sprouts or Graeters ice cream.<span> </span>I also don’t think there were any jelly beans in his Easter basket either.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHER6b2lOmN3QNds3PsMN4YNzDiykNuBPSy57ADot881jibGagAh5WmaqBu9XsY69g538j8-dZyrcNNkIkhbvYp6NKzpTdjvsGXDQtSINf3e_VYf3M3mh64v499uU-MU8CMpFBX_AT_CI/s1600/me+feeding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHER6b2lOmN3QNds3PsMN4YNzDiykNuBPSy57ADot881jibGagAh5WmaqBu9XsY69g538j8-dZyrcNNkIkhbvYp6NKzpTdjvsGXDQtSINf3e_VYf3M3mh64v499uU-MU8CMpFBX_AT_CI/s200/me+feeding.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">By the way, at mealtimes, he enjoys background music by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.<span> </span>He recently discovered that, if you really want to have fun at breakfast, you can lean over the side of your high chair and do the raspberries with a mouthful of Yo Baby yogurt.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbPX6y_SNp0tkMogRSykMmdzrIJxh9-Q5jK7hvpLGfarKdjGPFB2XpmsmGek780cxtzQkMCdwWGPhTd1yCz__nZrTwVFppD1oOWviP60sP-H0OsUdDS3FylIX7Cl7Rh5XamJLDw2Zozf0/s1600/inexersaucer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbPX6y_SNp0tkMogRSykMmdzrIJxh9-Q5jK7hvpLGfarKdjGPFB2XpmsmGek780cxtzQkMCdwWGPhTd1yCz__nZrTwVFppD1oOWviP60sP-H0OsUdDS3FylIX7Cl7Rh5XamJLDw2Zozf0/s200/inexersaucer.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Willem’s toys have crowded out most of his dad’s guitar equipment and most of his mom’s photographic equipment.<span> </span>He has made short work of the houseplants.<span> </span>His accumulated menagerie of quirky, huggable stuffed animals includes a big yellow duck, a lion, a giraffe, a stegosaurus and a cow with bright pink udders - none of which talks, thank goodness.<span> </span>He does not own a kid piano, a drum or finger paints although he does have a remote control – without batteries.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiioEh7xKm6zqrbUfE5pKfzh5w2ql8iGO_OGzUAfFf4mZppHmd1rI8xJuNDfToCHL8-RMBG3rIL0ImsclRSv1sNe3CIaEVYaa54AhHOohEYjxuBTIBnVOAio2_oEUw76HUqmOmVVp2YduM/s1600/pjstoys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiioEh7xKm6zqrbUfE5pKfzh5w2ql8iGO_OGzUAfFf4mZppHmd1rI8xJuNDfToCHL8-RMBG3rIL0ImsclRSv1sNe3CIaEVYaa54AhHOohEYjxuBTIBnVOAio2_oEUw76HUqmOmVVp2YduM/s200/pjstoys.jpg" width="132" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Willem’s clothes are covered with steam shovels, cars, cement mixers, dinosaurs and guitars and his socks have monster fangs on the heels – clearly he is not in touch with his feminine side yet.<span> </span>He owns half a dozen adorable little pairs of shoes and some Joe Cool sunglasses so he’s ready for a big summer of picking up girls in Prospect Park.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuyaQ9FUtkJMvbmWiOlW-RSin5KNlF45fJsYSs0CY7nzyqM4OwlnvovLYUuMV0PpiYZYWYrMUINbUieG6IFLAHT57UE7LsPACPAt0t3b1RKXsn0M3pX2mcLBgvx2BidGS2p-DwXZugGoM/s1600/meganbubbles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuyaQ9FUtkJMvbmWiOlW-RSin5KNlF45fJsYSs0CY7nzyqM4OwlnvovLYUuMV0PpiYZYWYrMUINbUieG6IFLAHT57UE7LsPACPAt0t3b1RKXsn0M3pX2mcLBgvx2BidGS2p-DwXZugGoM/s200/meganbubbles.jpg" width="127" /></a>He makes a lot of noises and is headed in the direction of saying important stuff like “Mama” and “Dada.”<span> </span>“NeNeNeNe” is one of his favorite things to say and I was all set to trade in “Nana” for “Nene” until I remembered that, in the crosswords, “nene” is some sort of a Hawaiian goose.<span> </span>I decided to pass on being “Nene” because geese are loud and disgusting and I don’t look good in a grass skirt.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhETIsEA8LID5bcRbK6lB9zVFGhvfPm2bNhjWVo_bc0nVNmhZtjASohErZShsPOyV-FlAU8QcLoPIUFdcltlQU4CUdyecAm13Xrcd1CXCCMvZdxYFAu4tmKA0T5_qt6WW3Br0XT-in2qRY/s1600/babies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhETIsEA8LID5bcRbK6lB9zVFGhvfPm2bNhjWVo_bc0nVNmhZtjASohErZShsPOyV-FlAU8QcLoPIUFdcltlQU4CUdyecAm13Xrcd1CXCCMvZdxYFAu4tmKA0T5_qt6WW3Br0XT-in2qRY/s200/babies.jpg" width="200" /></a>Last Friday, we got to see Willem with other kids his age at his weekly music class.<span> </span>It was lots of fun.<span> </span>Pete, the teacher played the guitar and led songs and activities with plenty of movement and rhythm.<span> </span>Pete also collected the musical instruments at the end using two baskets – one for the dry shakers and bells and cymbals and another for the wet ones.<span> </span>Anyway, we’re not sure if Willem is the most musically gifted kid in the class but he is unquestionably the baldest – ditto for the toddler playground.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf14UIhaWZM-WGdhqWINUrpl_16ZzujL729BT0vAB60kQHcSTddw_Lbhp3bVA8QNKQbtzwRaWLCX9lTk7woZUSBxoHBrpCNSh49mZjc7WC_AzmA0cvA1mPgPQSiAylxFZYG2nPCrjNNh4/s1600/upslide.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf14UIhaWZM-WGdhqWINUrpl_16ZzujL729BT0vAB60kQHcSTddw_Lbhp3bVA8QNKQbtzwRaWLCX9lTk7woZUSBxoHBrpCNSh49mZjc7WC_AzmA0cvA1mPgPQSiAylxFZYG2nPCrjNNh4/s200/upslide.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Speaking of the toddler playground, anyone who knew David as a kid or has known Paul at any stage of his life will not be surprised to learn that Willem goes up the slide rather than down. He was as unmoved by a loud “NO” from a little girl with red curls as Dennis the Menace is by Margaret.<span> </span>At home, Willem is watching for an opportunity to climb inside the dishwasher simply because, like Everest, “it is there.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORYvToeRrVzdl385AwcjSxrcHpJzUVURyiXfuAxTGbI-T_q5EY5qx-U_Yma2O87l3lFwi7zJsiUMakaNJ5as215tHvrgNlxY3eDMBRtZJwVdX_p-19oRjUcz2JRRdt6YcLxr6lzV0DxE/s1600/piano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORYvToeRrVzdl385AwcjSxrcHpJzUVURyiXfuAxTGbI-T_q5EY5qx-U_Yma2O87l3lFwi7zJsiUMakaNJ5as215tHvrgNlxY3eDMBRtZJwVdX_p-19oRjUcz2JRRdt6YcLxr6lzV0DxE/s200/piano.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">So, it has been a busy and exciting year for Willem and for all of us who are watching him grow and change.<span> </span>It’s impossible to predict what he will experience and accomplish in the coming year although the photos below may offer a hint. By the way, Megan took the first two photos in this post, I took a few and Paul took most of then, including the four at the end of the post.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia1BZ7X-jVtVOc1XW40JUY2gsUiJp01q_ok0GFYlRvaNy69xheVf9E6jmhXrsCCRQ7JYkXNwue8OObonoeZxoi-tznrZK8RD1BwzEzcMKrTXO35_y-iIb1bIwciCjIZ4YcDuK5ABT4TY0/s1600/friends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia1BZ7X-jVtVOc1XW40JUY2gsUiJp01q_ok0GFYlRvaNy69xheVf9E6jmhXrsCCRQ7JYkXNwue8OObonoeZxoi-tznrZK8RD1BwzEzcMKrTXO35_y-iIb1bIwciCjIZ4YcDuK5ABT4TY0/s200/friends.jpg" width="200" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNN10UfBdpVqtt7ox6Ax1d-fLtZvDRsNYzqbzq-qsNw0ephUlyBNW07twdYt0o5HAJVVOS5p0_jZdFm5yWp4pZgH9yIvpoQLoQihR82X_pZqS_pXD9HT2Txbl4IthtEz6cyavVHnGsnc/s1600/letmesay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNN10UfBdpVqtt7ox6Ax1d-fLtZvDRsNYzqbzq-qsNw0ephUlyBNW07twdYt0o5HAJVVOS5p0_jZdFm5yWp4pZgH9yIvpoQLoQihR82X_pZqS_pXD9HT2Txbl4IthtEz6cyavVHnGsnc/s200/letmesay.jpg" width="200" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiukg1AxYuYuY1mG-tHGtlILl6AIoP7UGILeuyRL4uOsFMT8XIuxHLm7kUJdzhG9C-6SMepFrnYeIdgVgZr8B9F2XNACNlR8rAf-GamXsJ-ffsNO9ObTCeFRCDxlaNUytVa2qJ0inl34-c/s1600/IMG_1201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiukg1AxYuYuY1mG-tHGtlILl6AIoP7UGILeuyRL4uOsFMT8XIuxHLm7kUJdzhG9C-6SMepFrnYeIdgVgZr8B9F2XNACNlR8rAf-GamXsJ-ffsNO9ObTCeFRCDxlaNUytVa2qJ0inl34-c/s200/IMG_1201.jpg" width="168" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7ZEaIO9FmU3gXaCER9nTG8K8Mp9Jjency_487TlMDSP1RMqGxW9G70gqwJO7imtMeUwDBxcjfUAtoPb1wYdA_m3N5qKV9rNHhvH8lAEVV0BidYAn01WAPQtcObND7f_y_vBq032BbcU/s1600/sucks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7ZEaIO9FmU3gXaCER9nTG8K8Mp9Jjency_487TlMDSP1RMqGxW9G70gqwJO7imtMeUwDBxcjfUAtoPb1wYdA_m3N5qKV9rNHhvH8lAEVV0BidYAn01WAPQtcObND7f_y_vBq032BbcU/s200/sucks.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-34659544246123620442011-05-03T14:58:00.003-04:002011-05-04T11:32:17.915-04:00April Showers Bring . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXE50Y6RO-ZMqYWax78R8MVDA_r0MPXjt1IVKIY2zDhUUgoI0mHU7QvPCqqxJID8smwaiiZMlBBLkU2BHABXLBBJI-ouPCR40sshF-Mjk1maRRgJ6_siDkREV8Qe-tgKVEP3FcwKcLuuk/s1600/ph_1937_street_450x389.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXE50Y6RO-ZMqYWax78R8MVDA_r0MPXjt1IVKIY2zDhUUgoI0mHU7QvPCqqxJID8smwaiiZMlBBLkU2BHABXLBBJI-ouPCR40sshF-Mjk1maRRgJ6_siDkREV8Qe-tgKVEP3FcwKcLuuk/s200/ph_1937_street_450x389.gif" width="200" /></a></div>Cincinnati has just finished the rainiest April on record. It barely missed the record for the rainiest month ever, coming in second to January of 1937 when 13.68 inches of precipitation led to the kind of flooding where rowboats were the only way to get around downtown. <br />
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What happens when you have an April like this one? Well, what looks like a mix of coffee with heavy cream is overflowing the Ohio River, the Great Miami and the creek on our golf course. You could easily mistake the soccer and farm fields along our usual bike route for lakes except that they have stands of trees in the middle of them. When I went<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtfNUaZvoFtvHCWEf7YF5rs7IFOegM_pW_iqwCnJt_ub5xdEvpmJ1FsmvflsYTHg2zEZZzO8fkUajqmpy6BHQRSqu7FIOupShu9TOZtZ9nJ4v6PDN2BNRG7qnQV0AXayJ4zqTFjWU5xYk/s1600/flooded+field.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtfNUaZvoFtvHCWEf7YF5rs7IFOegM_pW_iqwCnJt_ub5xdEvpmJ1FsmvflsYTHg2zEZZzO8fkUajqmpy6BHQRSqu7FIOupShu9TOZtZ9nJ4v6PDN2BNRG7qnQV0AXayJ4zqTFjWU5xYk/s200/flooded+field.JPG" width="200" /></a> to my piano lesson last week, one of my teacher’s neighbors had a pile of rolled up, wet carpeting at the curb. There were three trucks in her driveway, including one cleaning service van which had a house, whose windows were gushing water, painted on the side. One of my friends says her house in Mt. Adams is secure; but the hillside, cars and trees across the street are in the process of sliding into her deck and hot tub. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRfKrKo3aORyWCywGmYgvQLw9qNc5pORUstqCJZb-oX9-k5YAb0ow2Bub6Titelx5S2hqT8LtCK6DEVMlgT-N3nKq6i3v-Ob5YN57MTdUlix9PpV2ytipTFU0BRXp7H7mf4eLswbCOWkw/s1600/alligator.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRfKrKo3aORyWCywGmYgvQLw9qNc5pORUstqCJZb-oX9-k5YAb0ow2Bub6Titelx5S2hqT8LtCK6DEVMlgT-N3nKq6i3v-Ob5YN57MTdUlix9PpV2ytipTFU0BRXp7H7mf4eLswbCOWkw/s200/alligator.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>My golf league is headed for a record three weeks straight of cancellations, and it’s too wet to even practice on the driving range. We played Swamp Golf on Friday afternoon in Oxford with our friends Doug and Joanie, slogging through long grass and mucky, wet goop with alligators and piranhas nipping at our heels. I lost count of the number of times I used a “hand wedge” to get my ball from deep, impossible rough onto the fairway. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicajP8_cl_-cj3oF3VgXdLAF2UUgLempnzsQ6BPBWnwHgvHSAMGUnPyvN2PZuUnAmXyi7y3vhED-eHj-Nlz8nIvEMbiB6hck7AaUC0IdDm3bqhNc7R-P7YU7nNXopcs00Eb0aKKL8KEDU/s1600/coney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicajP8_cl_-cj3oF3VgXdLAF2UUgLempnzsQ6BPBWnwHgvHSAMGUnPyvN2PZuUnAmXyi7y3vhED-eHj-Nlz8nIvEMbiB6hck7AaUC0IdDm3bqhNc7R-P7YU7nNXopcs00Eb0aKKL8KEDU/s200/coney.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I bought rosemary and basil plants at Kroger’s but, while I was waiting until Mother’s Day to put the basil plants in the ground, they O’Ded on water and some of the stems rotted. Now the plants are drying out in our jacuzzi. Even the Cirque de Soleil had to cancel performances - since Old Coney Island is under water, its tents are underwater too, although I thought there was a version of Cirque de Soleil that was done in big tanks of water so I’m disappointed at their lack of creativity.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAlfxngOYdjlWe_KwDKgjwfLMu5WyJUyAZ_8fO09k4BWImhgD0FuxIgpnzdNTvt5O7PRJHTj9oDY_Wn-X12t6ecLqUIRGGQANAt44whqLDK5mWS9v0gUl2-KnZ9YxczygEW2JdmjAI-KI/s1600/pie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAlfxngOYdjlWe_KwDKgjwfLMu5WyJUyAZ_8fO09k4BWImhgD0FuxIgpnzdNTvt5O7PRJHTj9oDY_Wn-X12t6ecLqUIRGGQANAt44whqLDK5mWS9v0gUl2-KnZ9YxczygEW2JdmjAI-KI/s200/pie.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I know food is not supposed to be your emotional support system, and, for an entire month, I have held back the urge to bake and gobble up a large batch of chocolate chip cookies. The other day, however, I did find comfort in a second slice of buttered raisin pumpernickel toast and you can probably guess who did some “mining” for Oreos in the carton of Cookies N’ Cream last week. Last night, when our neighbors, Tim and Kathy, came over for dinner, she was wearing her old “comfort sweater” and the four of us wrapped ourselves in a cozy cocoon of pasta with red sauce and bacon, chocolate cream pie and two bottles of red wine.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyt10rAaOSt3lvkQ09_rtSedZRSqSVKor4xT2jT52KJhmwOhflAw3frGbuL-QuGi2bs8WANz_OV-kOZ7D1cwe78pvwepgjOp1xNBM-l4Ga-ZfBmCu9q30Dq-8AP0YrU_vZ4UKUicv0mk/s1600/shorts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyt10rAaOSt3lvkQ09_rtSedZRSqSVKor4xT2jT52KJhmwOhflAw3frGbuL-QuGi2bs8WANz_OV-kOZ7D1cwe78pvwepgjOp1xNBM-l4Ga-ZfBmCu9q30Dq-8AP0YrU_vZ4UKUicv0mk/s200/shorts.jpg" width="155" /></a></div>A week ago, my cabin fever got so bad that I organized and filed all of our recent financial statements – a sure sign of desperate boredom. (I briefly revisited the chocolate chip cookie option but reminded myself that I DO have to fit into my biking shorts for our trip in June.) Anyway, I discovered that two letters - one with the last four digits of the account number and another with my PIN number - were the only records I had of a money market account I had opened in December. I had visions of my money making laps in cyber space for the next thousand years so I called Capital One – after all, I had plenty of time to do the Press One, Press two routine and sit through obnoxious background music if necessary. <br />
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I reached a real person pretty quickly; and she was so nice that, after I described my problem, I told her I was sorry she had had the bad luck to get me. “Oh, this is easy compared to the last three calls I’ve had,” she said before finding my account, promising not to tell Paul (this kind of thing just fritzes him out) and signing off with a cheery “Stay sane!” I’m not sure I’m doing a great job in THAT department.<br />
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</a></div>I must also confess that, with too much unsupervised computer time, I found online access to Bookworm, a game I’ve played on airplanes before. You have to make words out of a whole grid of tiles and you get extra points for using green bonus tiles. When a red, burning tile appears, you have to use it before it migrates<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqAb0ie_zJ7gJi8iAMBGsbK2AQucJmKvxXJlvwH0_P4D1CKhMzwAJoI1QSzS9iF0Fqk7BvsDc5E89Hl0WleK0ahCCWdaEBnsjcmQLpnpORvJ4T85A717cWAOx1VYHGE6QlZx6WeuJDXDY/s1600/bookworm.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqAb0ie_zJ7gJi8iAMBGsbK2AQucJmKvxXJlvwH0_P4D1CKhMzwAJoI1QSzS9iF0Fqk7BvsDc5E89Hl0WleK0ahCCWdaEBnsjcmQLpnpORvJ4T85A717cWAOx1VYHGE6QlZx6WeuJDXDY/s200/bookworm.JPG" width="200" /></a> to the bottom of the screen and torches your whole game. It is educational but highly addictive – you can try it for yourself if with this link <a href="http://www.games.com/game-play/bookworm/single/">http://www.games.com/game-play/bookworm/single/</a> (Click on Play as a Guest if you don't want to sign in.) Don’t blame me, however, if your dirty laundry gets out of control, your family goes hungry and you wind up with a repetitive motion injury to your wrist. By the way, Bookworm does accept what David and John used to call “bathroom words.”<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjprslaS0HotBDSzaC9IPaJ5zM96cYFCeInqo0lxWCw1HhJ0OMWQmyK7U-_1Ew-tSItanfcL05eXuTgXRPkWshY5vlsJG8CjBKaB79EU9QbN_O-V6-kne24M0djZLa3GoWRsl7tE7BTB-o/s1600/garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjprslaS0HotBDSzaC9IPaJ5zM96cYFCeInqo0lxWCw1HhJ0OMWQmyK7U-_1Ew-tSItanfcL05eXuTgXRPkWshY5vlsJG8CjBKaB79EU9QbN_O-V6-kne24M0djZLa3GoWRsl7tE7BTB-o/s200/garden.jpg" width="102" /></a></div>Of course, the weather situation could always be worse. Our roof or our basement could be leaking. Our house could be under water. We could be on some noisy, smelly Noah’s Ark with all those green alligators and long necked geese, those humpty-backed camels and those chimpanzees and everything else but unicorns. Hey, all this rain could even be snow. (See my post, "Snow Day.") At least, Paul’s perennial garden is as lush and bursting with flowers and buds as it has ever been – even the slacker Clematis, which for years has been my prime nominee as “The Plant Most Likely To Be Ripped Out and Fed to the Compost Heap,”<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BDHbQoeNEYh34N51riG7wrgr2_Clj94KpjE643EzjGJtfxI_CIlgPJopety7CKNK4r3CXZzbc8-Wi6ebW-NoGLLAzgnNZzGIPbTeQ7ZpEsc2TMWxOwRsuysGQXsHtwAf_2OvfJSGUnc/s1600/cabanas.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BDHbQoeNEYh34N51riG7wrgr2_Clj94KpjE643EzjGJtfxI_CIlgPJopety7CKNK4r3CXZzbc8-Wi6ebW-NoGLLAzgnNZzGIPbTeQ7ZpEsc2TMWxOwRsuysGQXsHtwAf_2OvfJSGUnc/s200/cabanas.jpg" width="138" /></a> shows signs of flowering. In addition, Cabana’s, our favorite summertime riverside restaurant where they serve burgers as big as your head, is not underwater. Their trademark neon palm trees have survived the flooding and are waiting for us, and the sun, to return.Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-33921969556446403622011-04-19T17:16:00.003-04:002011-04-20T13:53:37.353-04:00Italy<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">. </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWihwje4en5tnSAjByn8I0-HSpGkkDo558qk-6ctpxmQJKlCb4QEtRSfZ4yQd9fKIyZpXJqRuEI4ZvztKKBk1k-F9R_7nN3UMQHSrCOiNFut7Me96yWwOHpgUCeAFjdGLidSVA8d5568/s1600/paul+and+me.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWihwje4en5tnSAjByn8I0-HSpGkkDo558qk-6ctpxmQJKlCb4QEtRSfZ4yQd9fKIyZpXJqRuEI4ZvztKKBk1k-F9R_7nN3UMQHSrCOiNFut7Me96yWwOHpgUCeAFjdGLidSVA8d5568/s200/paul+and+me.JPG" width="200" /></a>We debated about what to do for Paul’s vacation week this April. We wanted to go somewhere warm after a long winter and we wanted to go somewhere special to celebrate our 40th anniversary. (Paul fell in love with me in kindergarten and we got married shortly after that.) An email offering a self-guided, eight-day hiking trip in the Umbria region of Italy came at just the right time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF4l7cvLD-RvVyXKDWEn5953CqoZ0oiOjqXu3XHB7OLgyivhMBOpPzap3TFaiCuM6SR4XwFuotaQ-0_R1BPZBNlwj9KC4S4mUexTM8NytelRbLa1GPH3LbbfO650AJhVfpz8MNQnIqTfY/s1600/assisi+approach.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF4l7cvLD-RvVyXKDWEn5953CqoZ0oiOjqXu3XHB7OLgyivhMBOpPzap3TFaiCuM6SR4XwFuotaQ-0_R1BPZBNlwj9KC4S4mUexTM8NytelRbLa1GPH3LbbfO650AJhVfpz8MNQnIqTfY/s200/assisi+approach.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>We had done similar trips in Tuscany, Provence and Austria so we knew what to expect. On a self-guided trip, the tour organizer plans your route, books your hotels, gives you walking directions from town to town and moves your luggage so all you have to carry with you is water, lunch and a jacket. You have someone to call if you need help, but you hike at your own pace, use the directions, maps and a compass to follow the route and stop when you want to for food or photos. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHY9gqzhVRZz9nvvqviABDkt0PtQO0zfRrQi6V22oMxY7wuXGaNrXm09B2Z9qA5bzDiIEkVvur3-NdwBfw2-F-ELlcWzGo8HZVPWrh9GWA9E6Pr1XmSUXAsquPBzyfECBSJubNiDleJY/s1600/bevagna+churches.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHY9gqzhVRZz9nvvqviABDkt0PtQO0zfRrQi6V22oMxY7wuXGaNrXm09B2Z9qA5bzDiIEkVvur3-NdwBfw2-F-ELlcWzGo8HZVPWrh9GWA9E6Pr1XmSUXAsquPBzyfECBSJubNiDleJY/s200/bevagna+churches.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>It was a marvelous adventure. During the six days of actual walking, we made our way through forests, farms, mountains, olive groves and vineyards on dirt paths, gravel roads, grassy fields and occasional stretches of asphalt. We saw beautiful vistas of the Umbrian countryside. We walked along the Tiber River, beside mountain streams and next to a canal dating back to Roman times. We climbed into an Etruscan tomb, out of the Grotto of St. Francis and through a dark, dark, dark tunnel. We visited countless churches and abbeys, some in the simple, stone Romanesque style and others filled with ornate woodwork<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxjyIAJpbxZC3BUefvwevLNC1qK1h1sYVGpHgxpWSZtweN0SQPihmr3m2cb4pyEh9lEkyibPk4GygFDk7HvCfuusFKdbI7f5wBx0OANJMLzcC8uAl7T5VCR9mvTZGCQd3TyOozO9xntQ/s1600/frescoes.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxjyIAJpbxZC3BUefvwevLNC1qK1h1sYVGpHgxpWSZtweN0SQPihmr3m2cb4pyEh9lEkyibPk4GygFDk7HvCfuusFKdbI7f5wBx0OANJMLzcC8uAl7T5VCR9mvTZGCQd3TyOozO9xntQ/s200/frescoes.JPG" width="200" /></a> and colorful frescoes. It was difficult to keep their names straight – I do know we visited multiple churches of San Francesco and San Pietro and we did not see San Arrhythmia, San Dyspepsia or Santa Euphoria. We also didn’t see traffic, Burger Kings or many Americans, who all carry Rick Steves guides, like us.<br />
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</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHqswEm_qQfjiktGzD_4abk8hrkgt3X8UL0pLJVzE6FjFLhiN07at5UZHf9txpO-CWNCwHFWuI3hatrkAAOOC8hhY5xzHgYV2y1nKLhCHan76eGr0-kf5iMCsl3PZKGg2w0QyucMpfdM/s1600/old+man+street.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHqswEm_qQfjiktGzD_4abk8hrkgt3X8UL0pLJVzE6FjFLhiN07at5UZHf9txpO-CWNCwHFWuI3hatrkAAOOC8hhY5xzHgYV2y1nKLhCHan76eGr0-kf5iMCsl3PZKGg2w0QyucMpfdM/s200/old+man+street.JPG" width="200" /></a>We stayed in six different, charming old towns, two of which were familiar to us – Assisi, home of St. Francis, and Spoleto, home of the music festival. The city walls and history of these towns date back to the Etruscans and Umbrians of pre-Roman times. The Romans added impressive arches at the entry ways and wide streets crossing at the central piazza of each town. During Roman and medieval times, the locals built stone houses along an intricate maze of twisty, narrow streets which <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTaoKfcUWSDXROkm_E_lK1R-oejUZ72FXMNvrnwMPeOMMXwGUALeWPrthuNBo1nzwNtZSHjqjbSJGnwfuZHL1pCW0tw08UnCvR9TXQ0VxVhV74Kt1KviL1IucFy3StTNoo-tnrogZFf8/s1600/scalator.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTaoKfcUWSDXROkm_E_lK1R-oejUZ72FXMNvrnwMPeOMMXwGUALeWPrthuNBo1nzwNtZSHjqjbSJGnwfuZHL1pCW0tw08UnCvR9TXQ0VxVhV74Kt1KviL1IucFy3StTNoo-tnrogZFf8/s200/scalator.JPG" width="200" /></a>were perfect for self defense then and hide and seek now. All but one of the towns were built into rock hillsides so the streets were steep - I was disappointed to find that the uphill pedestrian walkways labeled “escalators” on the city maps did not move.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLph25JSmgOn163luNbJE-1AX8LDT28Jf3Styxz5CN9KQANT01mBd2BHsp5vnPASq01578nCUUDOF44gZtv-cFpmoH6x2nVx_8zE2C9iNVfptkAFlAX-fKgwWxz5OQK2uuP74zQatUuc/s1600/patio+berti.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLph25JSmgOn163luNbJE-1AX8LDT28Jf3Styxz5CN9KQANT01mBd2BHsp5vnPASq01578nCUUDOF44gZtv-cFpmoH6x2nVx_8zE2C9iNVfptkAFlAX-fKgwWxz5OQK2uuP74zQatUuc/s200/patio+berti.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>All of our hotels were small, friendly, family-run places. One had a shady patio, another offered us a room with a balcony and, a third hotel provided us with a canopy bed and a picturesque view of tile rooftops. One of the larger hotels was originally a palazzo and contained some lovely frescoes. Most of the bathrooms were tiny but we adapted to them; in one town, however, I had to turn down a second scoop of gelato for fear I wouldn’t fit into the shower.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRvZP4gsKvTxp_oFIVFW6ycCBK-328nsQ1uoox6iXxFHFigZquG9YpV__q0vlwqM5MWt0CCdlzH0kk31Xq2a9MJ7NykgT7EzRvh5NkGAmA_CEgLGNTtyRWMJGwSZa4GMw235qkg4p1M0/s1600/pastry.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRvZP4gsKvTxp_oFIVFW6ycCBK-328nsQ1uoox6iXxFHFigZquG9YpV__q0vlwqM5MWt0CCdlzH0kk31Xq2a9MJ7NykgT7EzRvh5NkGAmA_CEgLGNTtyRWMJGwSZa4GMw235qkg4p1M0/s200/pastry.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGijR_nvGkWjNx6bjtq48gqDcS1CykWe3QJEKbw8dYQ0QmdTZqKp-uY4HpRjZ5fwwaWAkNt4f0Zq_JZQAjlQgDDeW73fx6qTUBpzEJPk-dALzJ2oofiAER9l9CkSuTyuESt500pdPRGI4/s1600/all+veg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Of course, the food was fabulous. Beginning with the first breakfast, Paul developed a croissant addiction while I went for bread and chocolate. We ate delicious slices of pizza, local cheeses and gelato – nocciollo (hazelnut) is my new favorite flavor. Freshly-made pastas came in many shapes including large flat triangles and big tubes with sauces like Amatriciana (spicy tomato and bacon), Arugula Pesto and Artichoke Carbonara (bacon, cheese and eggs.) We passed two guys collecting <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGijR_nvGkWjNx6bjtq48gqDcS1CykWe3QJEKbw8dYQ0QmdTZqKp-uY4HpRjZ5fwwaWAkNt4f0Zq_JZQAjlQgDDeW73fx6qTUBpzEJPk-dALzJ2oofiAER9l9CkSuTyuESt500pdPRGI4/s1600/all+veg.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGijR_nvGkWjNx6bjtq48gqDcS1CykWe3QJEKbw8dYQ0QmdTZqKp-uY4HpRjZ5fwwaWAkNt4f0Zq_JZQAjlQgDDeW73fx6qTUBpzEJPk-dALzJ2oofiAER9l9CkSuTyuESt500pdPRGI4/s200/all+veg.JPG" width="200" /></a>wild asparagus on one of our hikes and, that evening, ordered pasta with wild asparagus, which has a strong, green taste. Umbria is also famous for truffles – the mushroom kind, not the chocolate kind. Our forest hiking trails passed private truffle-hunting reserves; and we enjoyed the distinctive, earthy flavor of truffles in pasta sauces, on bruschetta toasts and on roast veal. We also sampled the local wines the best of which were made with Sagrantino, a grape unique to the area. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3Ji8Q8ahcCtXezOSC1Ogd7v3Vshlr-qMuCBXqWioJmEDt57wt63paifmy2NjoXJCvzOvqhH5g4VffM4zpKiRS0cxk7w-p7MH04q296c56swEO7mInQzJ_G4_xP7TBmmhmweR4qpsomc/s1600/boars.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho3Ji8Q8ahcCtXezOSC1Ogd7v3Vshlr-qMuCBXqWioJmEDt57wt63paifmy2NjoXJCvzOvqhH5g4VffM4zpKiRS0cxk7w-p7MH04q296c56swEO7mInQzJ_G4_xP7TBmmhmweR4qpsomc/s200/boars.JPG" width="200" /></a>We did learn that Umbria is not for vegetarians - this is the land of beef, lamb, sausages, salame and prosciutto ham as well as game like wild boar, rabbit and pigeons. When I ordered a Grigliata Mista (mixed grill) for dinner, I got all of the above. One morning, we saw the Porchetta Wagon parked in the middle of a large piazza. Our friend Buzz, who grew up in an Italian neighborhood in Scranton, had introduced us to <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo0NBaQMWUFzt-P1el_0iAC38_gYo_Q8-sR_BRT61jtTV-cqy_-aAw1j83BQbLhOvPBUiTQYK3zsn0yCRlFIuIUq5w2Rc6nR3anS1Dk3M685gO5-zcdl9YWcjjbWfTN-OZnzRU4GhS-zI/s1600/porchetta.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo0NBaQMWUFzt-P1el_0iAC38_gYo_Q8-sR_BRT61jtTV-cqy_-aAw1j83BQbLhOvPBUiTQYK3zsn0yCRlFIuIUq5w2Rc6nR3anS1Dk3M685gO5-zcdl9YWcjjbWfTN-OZnzRU4GhS-zI/s200/porchetta.JPG" width="200" /></a>porchetta, a deliciously seasoned pork roast (pronounced por-ket-ta). In Umbria, it was much, much bigger. The Porchetta man had practically a whole pig and was cutting off slices for sandwiches - breakfast for the local guys. If McDonald’s gets wind of this, it will be “Bye, Bye Egg McMuffin” and “Hello, McPorchetta.” The porchetta sandwich we took on our hike that day was excellent.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5a01-VYoI0SHsw0k-UZT5vrejqEVfWqOMvh9WMcIVJspP2zHqBpOvKOu5lZU5ymOWTKDtahO4iyOCvmOckUvNrETRX_3SrvVGSIxZl9X8LEsQeJUIcqsgr6HRfvOFtEwCsC5Dgj890Uc/s1600/train.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQvplqOlTVk9wwOBUYxQ05xfnWclYldFYcglB0Dk9UU76cgkEELboWvNznNmLfcNeL5GCqzRy4euINXm0BFUISOoH7g7ZdSZD9GG77WrsjSjvLT7EKiFaW4xjb0zqw6zmLIBpzQrJ5dA/s1600/signs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQvplqOlTVk9wwOBUYxQ05xfnWclYldFYcglB0Dk9UU76cgkEELboWvNznNmLfcNeL5GCqzRy4euINXm0BFUISOoH7g7ZdSZD9GG77WrsjSjvLT7EKiFaW4xjb0zqw6zmLIBpzQrJ5dA/s200/signs.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQvplqOlTVk9wwOBUYxQ05xfnWclYldFYcglB0Dk9UU76cgkEELboWvNznNmLfcNeL5GCqzRy4euINXm0BFUISOoH7g7ZdSZD9GG77WrsjSjvLT7EKiFaW4xjb0zqw6zmLIBpzQrJ5dA/s1600/signs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Most of our travel from place to place was on foot, but we used some public transportation with mixed success. We started in Rome with “The Missing Train Game,” an Italian classic. As in the past, we knew the game had begun when our train was overdue in the station and, after several garbled announcements in Italian, the only people left on the platform were Americans and British, staring at the train schedules. Later in the week, we played a variation, “Bus? What Bus?” when we learned that the bus we were supposed to take back to our hotel did not exist. After our week of hiking, we were ready <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5a01-VYoI0SHsw0k-UZT5vrejqEVfWqOMvh9WMcIVJspP2zHqBpOvKOu5lZU5ymOWTKDtahO4iyOCvmOckUvNrETRX_3SrvVGSIxZl9X8LEsQeJUIcqsgr6HRfvOFtEwCsC5Dgj890Uc/s1600/train.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5a01-VYoI0SHsw0k-UZT5vrejqEVfWqOMvh9WMcIVJspP2zHqBpOvKOu5lZU5ymOWTKDtahO4iyOCvmOckUvNrETRX_3SrvVGSIxZl9X8LEsQeJUIcqsgr6HRfvOFtEwCsC5Dgj890Uc/s200/train.JPG" width="200" /></a>to return to Rome and unexpectedly got into a round of “Bus Anxiety.” This harrowing game began with us seated comfortable on a bus that we understood would take us directly from the small town of Norcia to Rome. After riding for about 20 minutes, however, the driver, who spoke no English, pulled into a parking lot, motioned us off the bus and dropped us and our suitcases at the outskirts of a tiny, nameless town. I was pretty sure he said that another bus was coming “subito” (soon) and he drove away with a sympathetic look and soothing gestures; but we had a tense few minutes until the next bus came along. Younger people do better with games like these.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgztL4I7JH1zlBv0soxbM_rpvs86IbbEKD1RQTi9BgzAsORWxCn69UI6EWq4I4pbNWUAeZmSnSWil12IBqj_UJegdPnkgTftsS-JSmPFskuuUFIdPhmUDgPSJQSb_a9Gyyv1J5HzI97liA/s1600/olive+hillside.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgztL4I7JH1zlBv0soxbM_rpvs86IbbEKD1RQTi9BgzAsORWxCn69UI6EWq4I4pbNWUAeZmSnSWil12IBqj_UJegdPnkgTftsS-JSmPFskuuUFIdPhmUDgPSJQSb_a9Gyyv1J5HzI97liA/s200/olive+hillside.JPG" width="200" /></a>How did we manage with the language? Well, I love the sound of the Italian language –it has lots of words that are similar to English; it is melodic, unlike German; and it has simple and consistent pronunciation, unlike French. We heard plenty of Italian on this trip because few people spoke English in the towns we visited. Before our first visit to Italy in 1997, I took a semester of Italian classes, learning verb forms, pronouns, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm1wEr9eYRePYpUbmY1xnZ9xcTHhHWQxg8SU6iw6-PC2eUJRG3l0JCPtcqxdBgIyQacOkyBCn5JQr5EezgTZb4JbeJY6hXy-mFZ7VZFkrEyivWzngap2pr9qhlC4PgH2gjCfW7WeTehRw/s1600/assisi+amphi.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm1wEr9eYRePYpUbmY1xnZ9xcTHhHWQxg8SU6iw6-PC2eUJRG3l0JCPtcqxdBgIyQacOkyBCn5JQr5EezgTZb4JbeJY6hXy-mFZ7VZFkrEyivWzngap2pr9qhlC4PgH2gjCfW7WeTehRw/s200/assisi+amphi.JPG" width="200" /></a>agreement between nouns and adjectives and a long, long list of vocabulary words. I communicated pretty well on that trip, but it wore me out. I felt like a two-year-old who has lots she wants to say but can’t always get it across and who, at the same time, only understands a fraction of the words being thrown at her. This visit to Italy was less exhausting, linguistically, because, at 60-plus, speaking Italian perfectly was not a goal of mine. (Actually, I’m not in the habit of doing anything perfectly any more.) <br />
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</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhstXpKtTlm5usP6h9wXUUQvNE1Qg7Jzwg7cY8MXEsxiL4A2yDkmvPyL7-i6gOI4In0luk1mWe7-eInxXKBm2e2lyaMZERx6w54xAcSArqCeTkYOiEWA8SHBseyCCX_5TCKk0A6yOvuqCU/s1600/assisi+basilica.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Last-minute studying of my Italian phrasebooks gave me all I needed to know. As I wove my way through <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhstXpKtTlm5usP6h9wXUUQvNE1Qg7Jzwg7cY8MXEsxiL4A2yDkmvPyL7-i6gOI4In0luk1mWe7-eInxXKBm2e2lyaMZERx6w54xAcSArqCeTkYOiEWA8SHBseyCCX_5TCKk0A6yOvuqCU/s1600/assisi+basilica.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhstXpKtTlm5usP6h9wXUUQvNE1Qg7Jzwg7cY8MXEsxiL4A2yDkmvPyL7-i6gOI4In0luk1mWe7-eInxXKBm2e2lyaMZERx6w54xAcSArqCeTkYOiEWA8SHBseyCCX_5TCKk0A6yOvuqCU/s200/assisi+basilica.JPG" width="200" /></a>the crowded train station, I sprinkled “scusi’s” everywhere. When I rolled my suitcase over a woman’s foot, the phrase “mi dispiaci” (I’m sorry) just popped right out. In bakeries or bars, I got comfortable using the word “basta,” which is not a curse but the word for “finished” or “enough.” And when someone unleashed a string of Italian words at me, “non capisco” (I don’t understand) was on the job. It wasn’t a big deal if I said “We is going” or “We am going” or “We to go” instead of “We are going,” and, if I used a feminine adjective with a masculine noun, I wrote it off as a unisex experience. I successfully made and canceled dinner reservations, got directions to our hotels, and ordered and paid for biscotti, wine and sunglasses in Italian without stirring up the grammar police. Va bene (that’s okay, very good)!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWT5WKptELJviU23bz6BrALEoa0ogTWJbHOtNifBi-EzkqweFX-H6MKgy4__5mCVpZGjmeuP9U0AIE6A6MIa5EGTHsXrk4VjlZcNkFuv60juZpEuEiv1uKcvXaQyKGXORnuABp6Iwn_u0/s1600/bandaids2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWT5WKptELJviU23bz6BrALEoa0ogTWJbHOtNifBi-EzkqweFX-H6MKgy4__5mCVpZGjmeuP9U0AIE6A6MIa5EGTHsXrk4VjlZcNkFuv60juZpEuEiv1uKcvXaQyKGXORnuABp6Iwn_u0/s200/bandaids2.jpg" width="148" /></a></div>While this was a really wonderful vacation, like most things, it wasn’t perfect. As it turns out, my good old friendly hiking boots decided they weren’t up for a trip like this but they forgot to tell me that. After a day and a half of rocky trails both uphill and downhill, my two big toes and one of my smaller toes got my attention with swelling and purple toenails. I lay awake that night wondering what gangrene looks like. Fortunately bidets are just the right size for soaking your feet and, with two boxes of<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghgOVsMM4XbZci3YmF1DvZ-H7z29bQmogAmv8x21PPX534fvOQNUDyJ780aLYLlVIeTBtTkeQD4J5HgQ5cTleiYyZgi2XKpgmDN1MfBjkEifalVbj_OokTzL0UMDd6iWCT-zBfNTZzxaM/s1600/toes.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghgOVsMM4XbZci3YmF1DvZ-H7z29bQmogAmv8x21PPX534fvOQNUDyJ780aLYLlVIeTBtTkeQD4J5HgQ5cTleiYyZgi2XKpgmDN1MfBjkEifalVbj_OokTzL0UMDd6iWCT-zBfNTZzxaM/s200/toes.JPG" width="200" /></a> BandAids, my feet made it through six days of hiking plus a day in Rome. I am still not speaking to my hiking boots, however, and they are officially grounded.<br />
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And, while we were happy for the opportunity to see Rome again, we <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyHd3ACc_ipOu7IUQcwTttBMeSd-zZuj5qyoIS-_WP1IvCS4cnm9RpeodJAy200a6hQzFPS2gP2YDRLdkm59MaiJnrXJxLGP4TMS4MkvHAywZmgKq84KbGey7BWjS9pMdwuBXjNZfq8ZI/s1600/rome.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyHd3ACc_ipOu7IUQcwTttBMeSd-zZuj5qyoIS-_WP1IvCS4cnm9RpeodJAy200a6hQzFPS2gP2YDRLdkm59MaiJnrXJxLGP4TMS4MkvHAywZmgKq84KbGey7BWjS9pMdwuBXjNZfq8ZI/s200/rome.JPG" width="200" /></a>also realized that we may be getting too old for the city’s noise and confusion and craziness. In just ten waking hours there, Paul got locked in the hotel bathroom, we paid 8 Euros apiece for a beer, and we got lost 15 times, including three times within 2 blocks of our hotel. After the quiet countryside, we found the crowds overwhelming – both the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps were like the OSU stadium during<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtwOH3lwCDxTwbUqXy5o9m0kLsldAIItoUuYLLU_bZnFfoc0R9t60Xcl_BOxa0Mj7X31oRtqjn7_cVLPWRg0XMczFf7ehpqt9jjTV2xIHVbv1ijlmD2yzjEjmasiA7gvFRRhbhcPSzhs0/s1600/coffee.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtwOH3lwCDxTwbUqXy5o9m0kLsldAIItoUuYLLU_bZnFfoc0R9t60Xcl_BOxa0Mj7X31oRtqjn7_cVLPWRg0XMczFf7ehpqt9jjTV2xIHVbv1ijlmD2yzjEjmasiA7gvFRRhbhcPSzhs0/s200/coffee.JPG" width="200" /></a> the Michigan game. Paul also decided that Italians choose espresso over regular coffee because public restrooms are so scarce. Still, we enjoyed revisiting the Forum, which has undergone major excavation and restoration since 1997; and we enjoyed a delicious dinner in a quiet restaurant near our hotel before getting lost for the fifteenth time.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoYTkDuVPWVUX3ISAmnNF-ZR94G5ZtWe_RN8MR3mBDc1DbkoblYPT5j6v4ELLD-5ZU5tspDTc7x-LkyXw34VV5OeK7VkkPk3LD3APjG4tt0CIUw88dT8QMBz6RTZwYuodHT7VorP3vhFk/s1600/us+with+drinks.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoYTkDuVPWVUX3ISAmnNF-ZR94G5ZtWe_RN8MR3mBDc1DbkoblYPT5j6v4ELLD-5ZU5tspDTc7x-LkyXw34VV5OeK7VkkPk3LD3APjG4tt0CIUw88dT8QMBz6RTZwYuodHT7VorP3vhFk/s200/us+with+drinks.jpg" width="200" /></a> So we’ve been back for over a week, and we’re still reliving the experience as we organize photos and notes for our journal. I miss starting out on a hiking adventure each morning. I miss stopping at a scenic<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoYTkDuVPWVUX3ISAmnNF-ZR94G5ZtWe_RN8MR3mBDc1DbkoblYPT5j6v4ELLD-5ZU5tspDTc7x-LkyXw34VV5OeK7VkkPk3LD3APjG4tt0CIUw88dT8QMBz6RTZwYuodHT7VorP3vhFk/s1600/us+with+drinks.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a> spot for a snack of pizza or biscotti. I miss sipping wine and people-watching from an outdoor café table at the end of the afternoon. And I miss the friendliness of the people we met who helped us and encouraged us and made this trip one we’ll always remember.<br />
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P.S. Many people have expressed concern about my feet - since we came home, they look worse but feel much better so I can bike and golf and walk even though I'm out of the running for this summer's Pretty Feet contest. <br />
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If you want to see the complete set of Paul’s photos from our hike, you <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizPduryBhyDhloXa7aQzMHML17DJxTChF84JAJrAOTARjxdqEjs0qVS3CK41e-Jd9yi3JPGRvLuP8yhasxk3X3lkth7I8ooVOZpm5Vp3efo3Ujr4xyPEQNTFc8phYYdb-t2PyBMGriwJM/s1600/norcia+night.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizPduryBhyDhloXa7aQzMHML17DJxTChF84JAJrAOTARjxdqEjs0qVS3CK41e-Jd9yi3JPGRvLuP8yhasxk3X3lkth7I8ooVOZpm5Vp3efo3Ujr4xyPEQNTFc8phYYdb-t2PyBMGriwJM/s200/norcia+night.jpg" width="200" /></a>can click the link below and click on Slide Show.<br />
<a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/staubitz1/UmbriaItaly2011?authkey=Gv1sRgCOL89cPAxNiaOA&feat=email#">https://picasaweb.google.com/staubitz1/UmbriaItaly2011?authkey=Gv1sRgCOL89cPAxNiaOA&feat=email#</a><br />
<span id="goog_2136410745"></span><span id="goog_2136410746"></span>Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-18011761848065220112011-03-16T12:51:00.000-04:002011-03-16T12:51:41.389-04:00Losing ItLosing it is what people in their 50’s fear most –more than an extra five pounds or a notice from the IRS or anthrax. “It” can be physical stuff like a wallet or a corkscrew or your favorite golf socks or “it” can be mental stuff like a computer password or your neighbor’s name or the reason you went into the guest bedroom. I’ve found that, by the time you reach your 60’s, these losses and lapses are everyday occurrences and provide bonding experiences for you and most of your friends.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREw5T5osQG6kgF0MoGbkGgCNZbH5jFJYCzu7kuULxhDhuw9Zom9NVK-m0mF_loQyroxYG7G2S6q1hPu09-2Dwa5n-zP10HN3yxafWSvr1pX5HdddAA1OFaj2A6lcBbLyIuYAk7e2DeKE/s1600/glasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREw5T5osQG6kgF0MoGbkGgCNZbH5jFJYCzu7kuULxhDhuw9Zom9NVK-m0mF_loQyroxYG7G2S6q1hPu09-2Dwa5n-zP10HN3yxafWSvr1pX5HdddAA1OFaj2A6lcBbLyIuYAk7e2DeKE/s200/glasses.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I have a pretty good repertoire of coping skills. I keep lists of everything I need to remember (see my post “Getting It Together”) although when my steno pad of lists disappears, it’s a bad scene. I eliminated the problem of lost reading glasses with a visit to Walgreen’s where they sell three pairs for $10. Keeping multiple pairs of gloves has been helpful but not completely satisfactory- I currently own three lefts and no rights. <br />
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Locating a missing cell phone doesn’t require great detective skills if you also have a land line, and the phone is somewhere easy like the pocket of the fleece vest you’re wearing. It’s a different story if the phone is in an <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8i4_uYmcp8xll3vfeW8vY2YXhIFai0uHciCH_JAx8z4bIczw9r28Hb9NDg5ZrjHljF0RN7Ty4FThVsLTvUhh0ufwTA_QLx9EvKeswACD3NAIwZMB99d9v9O5KV82w0-6lH68NEixAdgQ/s1600/holmes.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8i4_uYmcp8xll3vfeW8vY2YXhIFai0uHciCH_JAx8z4bIczw9r28Hb9NDg5ZrjHljF0RN7Ty4FThVsLTvUhh0ufwTA_QLx9EvKeswACD3NAIwZMB99d9v9O5KV82w0-6lH68NEixAdgQ/s1600/holmes.jpg" /></a>unusual place like the refrigerator. Recently I knew my errant phone was in the house but, when I dialed the number, I couldn’t seem to track down the ring. After about eight attempts, I got a little panicky knowing that, once the phone was out of juice, I was out of luck. Finally, in an effort worthy of Sherlock Holmes, I did find my phone in a closet, deep inside the pocket of my winter coat. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyOoMPUY4cq8a1O60DiG_3W5DB4teeDtlqk6yJ3_A4xdx6OoJlCK4a4A8J-NuLsOmhICZsfcB-EMjLNS44JtsH3QJhV4MjnqjVmSycaVBBx8ESvxf7vyXfvaBNQ4am7uVJDtyQrvitUM/s1600/golf+bag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyOoMPUY4cq8a1O60DiG_3W5DB4teeDtlqk6yJ3_A4xdx6OoJlCK4a4A8J-NuLsOmhICZsfcB-EMjLNS44JtsH3QJhV4MjnqjVmSycaVBBx8ESvxf7vyXfvaBNQ4am7uVJDtyQrvitUM/s200/golf+bag.jpg" width="107" /></a></div> My most challenging lost and found problem, “The Case of the Missing Golf Jackets,” lasted for an entire year. From one spring to the next, three different golf jackets disappeared from the big side pocket of my new golf bag without a trace – no fingerprints, no bloodstains, no DNA, nothing. I was annoyed at the thought of buying yet another golf jacket and I was also annoyed that, for some reason, it kept getting harder and harder to fit my golf clubs down inside my bag properly. Guess what? That big side pocket opened into the center of the golf bag so the jackets I put into the pocket had quietly migrated out. When I finally stuck my hand through the pocket and into the center of the bag, out came the missing golf jackets– first navy, then royal blue, then sea green - like colorful silk handkerchiefs pulled out of a magician’s sleeve. My golf clubs once again fit into my bag and the mystery was solved.<br />
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Of course, as with so many other things, Paul and I have different approaches to finding lost items. I generally follow the “Mary Had a Little Lamb” school of thought – that is, leave them alone and they’ll come home. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmM-3U54909dSNEgMRvA4Yw82p_n_L2qpDF1YugbvldIOGUPhwLGHsQYwRR4U8_dHBwGUOjBVVHzQhtIfFtkoDtFtJTaxRCIETX8_8Gsaehrp9GxUfEinpDR3nhtU-ntDI4VXD4CFyc_E/s1600/sunglasses.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmM-3U54909dSNEgMRvA4Yw82p_n_L2qpDF1YugbvldIOGUPhwLGHsQYwRR4U8_dHBwGUOjBVVHzQhtIfFtkoDtFtJTaxRCIETX8_8Gsaehrp9GxUfEinpDR3nhtU-ntDI4VXD4CFyc_E/s200/sunglasses.jpg" width="200" /></a>When something is missing, I do a reasonable search but I don’t tear the house apart again and again or miss a meal or lose sleep if it doesn’t turn up right away. Often the best thing is to stop looking and pretend you’re not even interested in the lost checkbook or can opener or DVD. Better yet, replace it. Next thing you know, it’s back! This works every time and has been particularly successful with my favorite sunglasses (above left), which cost $3 at the neighborhood Exxon station about 20 years ago but are still the most comfortable shades I’ve ever owned. Over the years, they’ve had many adventures without me; but they’re never permanently lost. Actually, they’ve been on a sabbatical for the past three months but I expect them to return any day now.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVpWVX8rbgH8zIwVpSqQgDhm_Efgl67NkbHtitdG9HNQXJoVQ8pkxwhaEahnRwmtZkSV03wat12JZf2OHTzKx7kUOXFBWlHI2nnpa9KLltaDzbmLbvZYHeBjf6HOzxEBQXROWM11Sg-s/s1600/poirot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVpWVX8rbgH8zIwVpSqQgDhm_Efgl67NkbHtitdG9HNQXJoVQ8pkxwhaEahnRwmtZkSV03wat12JZf2OHTzKx7kUOXFBWlHI2nnpa9KLltaDzbmLbvZYHeBjf6HOzxEBQXROWM11Sg-s/s1600/poirot.jpg" /></a></div>On the other hand, Paul’s approach to lost items combines the techniques of Hercule Poirot and Inspector Javert with the determination of a faithful bird dog. When something is lost, he leaves no stone, rock, boulder, pebble or dust mote unturned until it is found. He is relentless and he would NEVER just go and get more car keys to replace the missing set. I must admit that he is eventually successful. For example, the day we helped harvest vegetables at Michaela Farm, he recovered my gas station sunglasses from the middle of a big washtub of beet greens after everyone else had given up, although I also called in St. Anthony on that one. (I’m not Catholic but a lot of my friends are. If “Tony, Tony turn around, something’s lost and must be found” works for them, it might as well work for <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC5iPwVjccTIuiYhancFWfno9HGEcjpu__U_ht17Y0AFjbc9GZPBFtKbapbe4EXAzYejrTMEhL3aSC5uaciMeos9N2p96AQfdNwgB6XN9xvQ3_qErHq3yz6KgkvfAjXUDNrNOo1OnciYg/s1600/st+anthony.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC5iPwVjccTIuiYhancFWfno9HGEcjpu__U_ht17Y0AFjbc9GZPBFtKbapbe4EXAzYejrTMEhL3aSC5uaciMeos9N2p96AQfdNwgB6XN9xvQ3_qErHq3yz6KgkvfAjXUDNrNOo1OnciYg/s200/st+anthony.jpg" width="133" /></a>me.) The good news about having a professional finder in your family is that things do get found. The bad news is that no one gets a moment’s peace until then which is why, when the boys were growing up, we only reported missing items to Paul as a very last resort.<br />
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The same two approaches can be applied to memory questions like “What am I doing here?” or “Who is that?” I’ve always been good at names, but I’ve slipped a little in the past few years. When I’m stumped, I just think about anything but the nameless person and “Voila!” the name pops into my head. Paul, on the other hand, has always had and still does have trouble remembering names. When he sees a patient at a ball game or the theater, he mentally runs through the alphabet forward and backward as many times as it takes to get the right name. He did admit defeat, however, over the names of our growing assortment of great nieces and nephews. “It’s too hard to remember them all. Why can’t they have easy names?” Like what? Maybe they should all be named Paul or Jill? <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2qb88V8K5ZfFccex17wLvgaMjnDXCS4S-V6v6wGWQ_LdU_D9XEnpUBaI6mJ1keNB0v4H_OcylDMlMKOV_R16_cIoOOc94Mti3vJ0CZmA0BnUjGGrq78i6wN__yiiyvE5LsvpFnQTD73I/s1600/IMG_0558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2qb88V8K5ZfFccex17wLvgaMjnDXCS4S-V6v6wGWQ_LdU_D9XEnpUBaI6mJ1keNB0v4H_OcylDMlMKOV_R16_cIoOOc94Mti3vJ0CZmA0BnUjGGrq78i6wN__yiiyvE5LsvpFnQTD73I/s200/IMG_0558.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>On our recent ski trip, we had a little memory drama with a happy ending. Willem and I were waiting for everyone else to leave for the ski slopes one morning. David, Megan and John had on all their layers and were booted up, but Paul couldn’t find his ski claim check.<br />
“Where’s my ski check?” No response.<br />
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“It was right here on this table – did anyone see it?” No response again.<br />
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“Someone must have it. I know I left it here.” The sound of pockets unzipping and flaps un-velcroing on his ski jacket and pants. No luck.<br />
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I tried to help by saying, “There aren’t many skis in the ski check – they’ll probably just let you take yours without the claim check.” What WAS I thinking? Paul could no more walk out the door without finding his ski check than he could walk out the door wearing just a bath towel. More shuffling and re-examination of pockets, gloves, hat, etc.<br />
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Then I saw it - a little green plastic disc with the number 23 attached to a little green elastic band around his wrist. YES!! I was happy to find it and beyond happy, all the way to ecstatic, to know that someone besides me had had a seriously forgetful moment – a moment that earned Paul a big kiss, right through his 6 layers of sunscreen.<br />
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Everyone I know has his or her favorite “Losing it” stories. The video link below captures many of them perfectly –if nothing here is familiar to you, don’t tell me about it.<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=HzSaoN2LdfU">http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=HzSaoN2LdfU</a>Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-53867438022643911792011-03-04T10:50:00.002-05:002011-03-04T11:47:29.981-05:00The Family That Skis Together . . .<div class="MsoNormal">We loved the idea of taking kids downhill skiing, even before we had kids. On our first real ski trip to <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEH0bBVhdEZceBFMhSPph7x3_L3Fvtu27VLoSwQvg5urkyP3Lala0cMGqzRpFcTgtUdMeGW5NDYgailJdi2bNlkKyNL1cTE8lLjDfsSdtGKqYal8_1gfmnsFg5TGsDybKD5x9tbfK2KE/s1600/david+perfect.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEH0bBVhdEZceBFMhSPph7x3_L3Fvtu27VLoSwQvg5urkyP3Lala0cMGqzRpFcTgtUdMeGW5NDYgailJdi2bNlkKyNL1cTE8lLjDfsSdtGKqYal8_1gfmnsFg5TGsDybKD5x9tbfK2KE/s200/david+perfect.jpg" width="159" /></a>Michigan’s Schuss Mountain, we were charmed by the Elf classes –adorable little skiers wearing brightly colored ski suits and following enthusiastic, peppy young instructors in a snaky line down the hills, like baby ducks. After I had kids of my own, however, I did wonder what medication those instructors used to stay perky and energetic even at the end of the afternoon as they helped the Elves out of their skis and herded them into the lodge for the fifteenth bathroom and hot chocolate break with the admonition, “Even if you don’t have to go, you have to try.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7eX5WRPivvI1HNVYpcgJ8RZol99vMYBI0SQBCGkMiAXD2hjZ1e53lUSHlEoA9KDJ0ZlU6BDJXNXgT7KfH5CacSY-eMrlX9iAti3dBstYX8yMLoY4GXvzvqpX4cD8usHcA9QQIe4iT6I/s1600/john+mich.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7eX5WRPivvI1HNVYpcgJ8RZol99vMYBI0SQBCGkMiAXD2hjZ1e53lUSHlEoA9KDJ0ZlU6BDJXNXgT7KfH5CacSY-eMrlX9iAti3dBstYX8yMLoY4GXvzvqpX4cD8usHcA9QQIe4iT6I/s200/john+mich.jpg" width="136" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">We took several adult ski trips to Michigan where Paul worked on his skills and I worked on my attitude. After awhile, I stopped having heart palpitations each time I started down Mellow Yellow or Chicken’s Choice, which were supposedly the easiest runs at Schuss but were actually the Swiss Alps in disguise. I couldn’t figure out why my hands were the sorest parts of my body after skiing until Paul suggested that the death grip I kept on my ski poles might be to blame. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eventually Paul convinced me we were ready for a Western ski trip - a week in Aspen, Colorado that could have been titled “Profiles In Courage.” While we waited to board the small plane that would take us into Aspen, we watched the deplaning <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjW-g9mjY9BdW2Xmfsxit8sqwVA5OD-oefsr63qFA3_satG7nv3DIWnhSxww9F6DxaTScBNl11d5SZM5cZTX9KPZ5rWBzmyYfHCHvg7NbECs9pSk3UvKzkstk-n66DhO74Nwgu7WaVSI/s1600/alta+lift.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAjW-g9mjY9BdW2Xmfsxit8sqwVA5OD-oefsr63qFA3_satG7nv3DIWnhSxww9F6DxaTScBNl11d5SZM5cZTX9KPZ5rWBzmyYfHCHvg7NbECs9pSk3UvKzkstk-n66DhO74Nwgu7WaVSI/s200/alta+lift.jpg" width="121" /></a>passengers going home from their ski week with an assortment of slings, casts, crutches, and wheelchairs like some medical suppliers’ trade show. That shook my confidence a little. An attack of altitude sickness brought on by a huge pasta dinner, plenty of red wine and, of course, the altitude, was my next surprise. Once I recovered enough to actually ski, I had to face the fact that, in Colorado unlike Michigan, when you get on the chairlift, you can’t see the top of the mountain and, when you get off the chairlift, you can’t see the bottom of the mountain. All you can do is head downhill and hope you end up where you started. It didn’t take long for me to understand why we smelled a lot of marijuana on the lifts and saw a lot of people drinking from wineskins in the middle of the ski runs. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEpLB4JJFeX3c4SlUKNq7yT9N2_SYqY2gUmZ0_cFXp4nau431a9fttPgR_IzGipk5fDKvgazunWI8x33Bn0_a8Gv7ziJPp2VfD8r_bBw1y0EyAt2eduzpVBl0B8ar-sQRMMdGX_rEa5u4/s1600/hot+tub.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>By the end of that week, however, Paul and I had both found hills where we could ski comfortably in Aspen. He explored the more challenging runs with some Cincinnati friends who were experienced skiers. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEpLB4JJFeX3c4SlUKNq7yT9N2_SYqY2gUmZ0_cFXp4nau431a9fttPgR_IzGipk5fDKvgazunWI8x33Bn0_a8Gv7ziJPp2VfD8r_bBw1y0EyAt2eduzpVBl0B8ar-sQRMMdGX_rEa5u4/s1600/hot+tub.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEpLB4JJFeX3c4SlUKNq7yT9N2_SYqY2gUmZ0_cFXp4nau431a9fttPgR_IzGipk5fDKvgazunWI8x33Bn0_a8Gv7ziJPp2VfD8r_bBw1y0EyAt2eduzpVBl0B8ar-sQRMMdGX_rEa5u4/s200/hot+tub.jpg" width="200" /></a>I discovered the Colorado equivalent of Chicken’s Choice, accessible by a long, gentle chairlift ride in the sun, which had the added plus of allowing me to take an after-lunch nap on the way up. (Just because you’ve never heard of anybody napping on a ski lift doesn’t mean it can’t be done.) Best of all, we didn’t bring home any orthopedic souvenirs from that trip although we met plenty of people who did, including one guy who broke his shoulder in a lift line fall and another who injured his knee climbing into the hot tub.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1AZOdtfM_Bw-s4v92YvGszanuVf9xBAuf5P3zKXv8cK5NviOTFb4SlzyuhMUkPQRze5GvMUd95dz16SszBsLr3wX1ac288hhyphenhyphenLBAln9wesDletxx-055nMgAwSuqjFR0gkVt0gkGKS0s/s1600/keystone+kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiutrdJmDS0mZgbJrGhJ66Wm-CBJRbqWRsEU44bvu49H5PX4IrxdZ6a7BAPIBKvwMpcfEBGayZ5E_iY7t5082Wgv0DvoWQFextl4zJa6LdFGUG2bMFdfqNrVI_wlWRmaCROoEk4GbZeKCg/s1600/hot+choc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>After another year or two, I had graduated from the easy Green Slopes to the intermediate Blue Slopes or at least Blue Slopes that weren’t too narrow or too bumpy or too full of trees or people. We decided it was <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvf4QRVj-MTlQnNRo2yvjzXQQOZci8bN-YKrjdy37oTedMVbpVIAHKC7-eVFGyyv9Ryytf3gFBszFBg2F3pDP7RFiF-GTAdOn6vyN2n-Y_6WYphX0GJKxscK1e5TUkCEPJhIH8yIMsRg/s1600/us+and+ternans.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvf4QRVj-MTlQnNRo2yvjzXQQOZci8bN-YKrjdy37oTedMVbpVIAHKC7-eVFGyyv9Ryytf3gFBszFBg2F3pDP7RFiF-GTAdOn6vyN2n-Y_6WYphX0GJKxscK1e5TUkCEPJhIH8yIMsRg/s320/us+and+ternans.jpg" width="320" /></a>time to take the boys skiing in Michigan with our friends Lynn and Katherine and their kids. The ski resort brochures enticed us with images of happy, glowingly healthy families having fun in the sparkling snow under sunny, blue skies – the perfect vacation for everyone from adults to toddlers. Who wouldn’t want to be part of that appealing picture? Later we found out what the brochures had omitted - the runny noses, the whining, the ski-hat hair and the kid who had to be retrieved from the mud because he forgot how to steer. John, who was too young for Ski School<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiutrdJmDS0mZgbJrGhJ66Wm-CBJRbqWRsEU44bvu49H5PX4IrxdZ6a7BAPIBKvwMpcfEBGayZ5E_iY7t5082Wgv0DvoWQFextl4zJa6LdFGUG2bMFdfqNrVI_wlWRmaCROoEk4GbZeKCg/s1600/hot+choc.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiutrdJmDS0mZgbJrGhJ66Wm-CBJRbqWRsEU44bvu49H5PX4IrxdZ6a7BAPIBKvwMpcfEBGayZ5E_iY7t5082Wgv0DvoWQFextl4zJa6LdFGUG2bMFdfqNrVI_wlWRmaCROoEk4GbZeKCg/s200/hot+choc.jpg" width="200" /></a>, found the nursery to be on a par with Devil’s Island, and David slid off the chairlift into a snow bank, but we still had a great time. It turns out that, for kids, the key elements of a successful ski trip aren’t deep powder or nicely groomed ski runs or the view from the top of the mountains. It’s all about hanging out in a cool condo, preferably with a bunch of friends, soaking in a large hot tub, preferably outdoors, and downing plenty of hot chocolate, preferably with whipped cream.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Xy-WbHvpZ7l3AHVThytm5xmcpIVTmxOk-B8vDvjs1unglJj42j7PCJcMGgW8ZtUuGkiD2yZHs-n67V8xQ828CxvPBREEiqKNqYImtUL2joAelP3wr-iSGNsNuGkRtqa-LooZTM51AE4/s1600/keystone+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXZ327wqMQH6UraCXkOf4vWtJKIfKaNuTm5pOJfvko4AyonBiPAcTBpJc2lacfOs9BxhqBoUMJ6IYwrOfchjcdzYMyaYYxDvCCivIaLHYqY7pc63qIXtdoEvVA094epRNOChQPRSFhJo/s1600/us+keystone.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXZ327wqMQH6UraCXkOf4vWtJKIfKaNuTm5pOJfvko4AyonBiPAcTBpJc2lacfOs9BxhqBoUMJ6IYwrOfchjcdzYMyaYYxDvCCivIaLHYqY7pc63qIXtdoEvVA094epRNOChQPRSFhJo/s200/us+keystone.jpg" width="166" /></a>On subsequent trips with other families to Michigan, Colorado, Wyoming, British Columbia and Utah, David and John learned to love downhill skiing and to ski well down steep slopes, through trees and over moguls (the bumps made by other skiers as they carve through the snow.) In addition, they learned to start the day with a Mighty Skier Breakfast of Coke and Oreos like our radiologist friend, Kay. They learned from one of the kids who skied with us that if you race down the hill at top speed, you end up with your skis, poles and boots scattered everywhere and yourself on your back with your sock feet waving in the breeze. They<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Xy-WbHvpZ7l3AHVThytm5xmcpIVTmxOk-B8vDvjs1unglJj42j7PCJcMGgW8ZtUuGkiD2yZHs-n67V8xQ828CxvPBREEiqKNqYImtUL2joAelP3wr-iSGNsNuGkRtqa-LooZTM51AE4/s1600/keystone+group.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Xy-WbHvpZ7l3AHVThytm5xmcpIVTmxOk-B8vDvjs1unglJj42j7PCJcMGgW8ZtUuGkiD2yZHs-n67V8xQ828CxvPBREEiqKNqYImtUL2joAelP3wr-iSGNsNuGkRtqa-LooZTM51AE4/s200/keystone+group.jpg" width="200" /></a> learned that climbing up a spiral staircase to the ski condo loft while wearing ski boots is harder than it looks. And, after skiing, they learned to go back and forth between the hot tub and the surrounding snow banks, just like some crazy Norwegians. Incidentally, they also learned to like cross country skiing since they could scream down big hills with no lift lines and NO SKI PATROL.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaxl9WuEMwNb-feZsaU2jAnLxTPMLIQBFV0T_VTmWGB4zdooOOMnX3Lw0zXRIYjfysfF0Nky8MEznMqnzsvWZfF8rExSuOyP3RqnxtS-llamvWalnSbXuAIJJJDX4RzTJtyIUwDsPDl0/s1600/alta+snack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Once the boys were out of grade school, the hardest part of a ski trip was finding an acceptable and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaxl9WuEMwNb-feZsaU2jAnLxTPMLIQBFV0T_VTmWGB4zdooOOMnX3Lw0zXRIYjfysfF0Nky8MEznMqnzsvWZfF8rExSuOyP3RqnxtS-llamvWalnSbXuAIJJJDX4RzTJtyIUwDsPDl0/s1600/alta+snack.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFaxl9WuEMwNb-feZsaU2jAnLxTPMLIQBFV0T_VTmWGB4zdooOOMnX3Lw0zXRIYjfysfF0Nky8MEznMqnzsvWZfF8rExSuOyP3RqnxtS-llamvWalnSbXuAIJJJDX4RzTJtyIUwDsPDl0/s200/alta+snack.jpg" width="200" /></a>plausible reason why they had missed school. We knew we couldn’t expect many teachers to believe that 4 days in bed with the flu left a kid with a ski goggle, raccoon-like tan so they slathered on the sunscreen. One time David took a fall and scraped the entire left side of his face on the ice (Photo at left.) He spent the rest of the weekend working on a cover story; but, before he could tell it to his homeroom teacher, she said, “Where were you? Skiing?” You can’t fool a fellow skier! Fortunately she didn’t rat him out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijdngSLeRmXDO1cv3R4qDB6aVho5xzTgc_z5sIoQpoEApFiAgytuXpU6lY1lYntE_27ML6ldvixuqIO9_SkY41dXHbMOaXcQddKW0TXpyTA3btN9G8Br-mY3ELalobQ8w-FrIAkGMD7n8/s1600/stairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwCH6PqxK8-9ydBEg5T5CcBc7TMVaH6pNv-sDV9A7bZ_PNItnnygezEt2gDkT3TzmsZwtcjX8RORyiHyPs9-6o8ZFdMcXgPlfg41aPPVXRg784ufj5Zcp-mT6Dc2FDKfFDQEoZZ7JZRZQ/s1600/we+five+utah.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwCH6PqxK8-9ydBEg5T5CcBc7TMVaH6pNv-sDV9A7bZ_PNItnnygezEt2gDkT3TzmsZwtcjX8RORyiHyPs9-6o8ZFdMcXgPlfg41aPPVXRg784ufj5Zcp-mT6Dc2FDKfFDQEoZZ7JZRZQ/s200/we+five+utah.jpg" width="176" /></a>The best part of skiing as a family is that, even in the surly teen-age years when your kid refuses to go anywhere with you, he may agree to a ski trip. And, now that David and John are adults and Megan has joined our family, the fun of family ski trips has continued. All of us, including nine-month-old Willem, spent last weekend in Park City, Utah; and it was <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijdngSLeRmXDO1cv3R4qDB6aVho5xzTgc_z5sIoQpoEApFiAgytuXpU6lY1lYntE_27ML6ldvixuqIO9_SkY41dXHbMOaXcQddKW0TXpyTA3btN9G8Br-mY3ELalobQ8w-FrIAkGMD7n8/s1600/stairs.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijdngSLeRmXDO1cv3R4qDB6aVho5xzTgc_z5sIoQpoEApFiAgytuXpU6lY1lYntE_27ML6ldvixuqIO9_SkY41dXHbMOaXcQddKW0TXpyTA3btN9G8Br-mY3ELalobQ8w-FrIAkGMD7n8/s200/stairs.jpg" width="127" /></a>great. I would have been contented to spend the entire time in the condo with Willem as he set records for speed-crawling, drooled over and licked the leather couch, learned to climb stairs and demonstrated his yoga moves. As it turned out, I had lots of time with him and I got to ski as well. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrNciSIhtoAqCAvd0AouqaxhvmWPVuoyGyNorCh-1qtyWKOQhj_tNu_nGS_a01UnZki_nxB8JRgtiIWlEHLrtKzAG9s8QwPZ9SXfCK1cIWBK943YRowTLL4d1zjzhzWjiFWn8q6aFxYTc/s1600/couch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrNciSIhtoAqCAvd0AouqaxhvmWPVuoyGyNorCh-1qtyWKOQhj_tNu_nGS_a01UnZki_nxB8JRgtiIWlEHLrtKzAG9s8QwPZ9SXfCK1cIWBK943YRowTLL4d1zjzhzWjiFWn8q6aFxYTc/s200/couch.jpg" width="126" /></a>Of course, I started by telling the guy at the ski rental shop that I was a CAUTIOUS Intermediate skier who NEVER skis fast and that I wanted reliable, FRIENDLY skis. I wound up with skis that barely came up to chest height. Paul laughed at them; and whenever I took them out of a ski rack or loaded them onto a gondola, people looked around for the little kid who they belonged to. So what. They were PERFECT for me – I couldn’t have asked for any more congenial ski gear. Those little fidget skis got me down some steep hills (at least they were steep for me), through some thick piles of snow and safely back to the base of the mountain every time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXj95F6WANCN_Oo7NpXCmDdgx_XnZ-Rfk7MMB922gS8vLLcDwAH53SomjBv_3kY3pu1iJHYlG5Ay4J5H5JtvYnywDsZDUo3S4KzWwuNaCHAdfJP1BTWKGEDuWaWu7_Kbk8bv-qmwdoFkI/s1600/black+diam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmpZpyuUz0IzsBAA2HG8V1xAZFAGj3gqsMHAYIgTroWKT3QzRDLnvCl6Ne9SJpfoIxCZInEJk2vGzFKjS40V5n6vEEEfeab26_05HFuOMzrd37qD6pzUMsERMhJRpxY_ikVrLpFyEjNQ/s1600/yoga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmpZpyuUz0IzsBAA2HG8V1xAZFAGj3gqsMHAYIgTroWKT3QzRDLnvCl6Ne9SJpfoIxCZInEJk2vGzFKjS40V5n6vEEEfeab26_05HFuOMzrd37qD6pzUMsERMhJRpxY_ikVrLpFyEjNQ/s200/yoga.jpg" width="190" /></a>The last afternoon, we all were dealing with some sore muscles. David explained his aches and pains by saying, “Well, the last time I skied, I was in my twenties.” Yeah – and the last time I downhill skied, I was in my fifties. The best part is that, at 60-something, I can still do it! No, I don’t ski with those graceful, fluid motions that come so naturally to David and John. I can’t ski from the first lift in the morning until the last lift in the afternoon like Paul. I’m always the last one to get to the end of the ski run, even when I have a head start and someone makes a bathroom stop along the way. In fact, when I was younger, fresh snow and ideal ski <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXj95F6WANCN_Oo7NpXCmDdgx_XnZ-Rfk7MMB922gS8vLLcDwAH53SomjBv_3kY3pu1iJHYlG5Ay4J5H5JtvYnywDsZDUo3S4KzWwuNaCHAdfJP1BTWKGEDuWaWu7_Kbk8bv-qmwdoFkI/s1600/black+diam.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXj95F6WANCN_Oo7NpXCmDdgx_XnZ-Rfk7MMB922gS8vLLcDwAH53SomjBv_3kY3pu1iJHYlG5Ay4J5H5JtvYnywDsZDUo3S4KzWwuNaCHAdfJP1BTWKGEDuWaWu7_Kbk8bv-qmwdoFkI/s200/black+diam.jpg" width="200" /></a>conditions occasionally convinced me to try skiing a Black Diamond (the steepest, narrowest, bumpiest, baddest ski runs), but that part of my life is officially over. I know I could probably get down any ski slope, including a Black Diamond, safely, given enough time and the right skis, but I don’t want my tombstone to read: “She died of old age while picking her way down the mountain.” </div><br />
Even though Paul had thought we could fit Willem into a ski boot and just shoot him down the mountain, he didn’t hit the slopes on this trip. By the time he is ready to ski, I hope I can find the right combination of friendly skis, gentle ski runs and Advil to be a part of the picture.Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-20146753511880888822011-02-09T14:47:00.001-05:002011-02-09T15:03:11.857-05:00Snow Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivz882yQJnAqmzmKwlx_67LUCu330AObbTXtpKzbzSeAioAsXfvvrpF3jBHFpPExAQ6hHx6Fi1duec4Vz7TkT8UXJVfM3R5Y7uppxnfa4OyDVDQqpK9VJRyPCEUQLqEZhaI0hxCZBaVW4/s1600/indoor+snow+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I just discovered another great thing about being over 60 – you don’t have to wait for somebody else to declare a snow day in order to stay home. This is a huge relief for someone like me who worries about <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4YImjioxi_SGfBv1YcG1njacnwPBBXLAAunHbioOK9CEh1wdacMuqnUGtmQZAB2bnpgyL8-pT2VBsa27VTRuu6-w9zLg7PNEDWV0mRWVo6m-UahXtHcb5ntmDA7aOcw_1PcSu4KkGbM8/s1600/david+snowman.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4YImjioxi_SGfBv1YcG1njacnwPBBXLAAunHbioOK9CEh1wdacMuqnUGtmQZAB2bnpgyL8-pT2VBsa27VTRuu6-w9zLg7PNEDWV0mRWVo6m-UahXtHcb5ntmDA7aOcw_1PcSu4KkGbM8/s320/david+snowman.jpg" width="176" /></a>driving in the snow as much as she worries about misplacing her cellphone, getting a computer virus or running out of red wine.</div><br />
Of course, everyone knows that fear of driving in the snow is genetic. Neither of my grandmothers drove in the snow. As soon as the first snowflake fell, Nana K. dug the keys to her Plymouth Duster out of her purse and went home. It got to be a family joke – when my dad said, “I think it’s snowing,” the guests, including Nana, were supposed to leave. And, as I said in my post “A Tale of Two Nanas,” Nana A. never drove at all, so there you have it. <br />
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We all knew that there was nothing that flipped out my fearless mom more than the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCD13ypxzqdpEZSecyfsTQygvTbI8_gdxweISmtFi8du9tV_L_V8OW8Q02boMXcHWRyzs1dB2DemdpNnHvszxHxtP_pQpZOrglq6zaUIWrZgn61PqALbVfKrS3gWWtEp_GCGc7QzwKf5g/s1600/john+4.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCD13ypxzqdpEZSecyfsTQygvTbI8_gdxweISmtFi8du9tV_L_V8OW8Q02boMXcHWRyzs1dB2DemdpNnHvszxHxtP_pQpZOrglq6zaUIWrZgn61PqALbVfKrS3gWWtEp_GCGc7QzwKf5g/s200/john+4.jpg" width="187" /></a>thought of driving us to school on a snowy day. It didn’t help that our no-outlet street absolutely never saw a snowplow. Well, actually, during the years when a judge lived in the corner house, the plow did come to Gilna Court; but it only cleared past his driveway. One year Mom agreed to drive the carpool every week if the dad down the street would drive whenever it snowed. It only snowed twice that winter, but she was happy with the deal.<br />
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I inherited the family musical talent, the family taste for Miracle Whip and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNyxoj0rj4Djhd4JqvGLSlhmd9I5610hVuM2eYsSa0F1gYT1vmvNYkErJHhb6UD9f3JJhNFf1xrotuUJYFL5VFZ6HgIFkTEK2cWC-Xfey02lkLGEIHIANScN2zVPYJFjR-W51p1V1KFj8/s1600/schaffers+skating.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNyxoj0rj4Djhd4JqvGLSlhmd9I5610hVuM2eYsSa0F1gYT1vmvNYkErJHhb6UD9f3JJhNFf1xrotuUJYFL5VFZ6HgIFkTEK2cWC-Xfey02lkLGEIHIANScN2zVPYJFjR-W51p1V1KFj8/s320/schaffers+skating.jpg" width="286" /></a>the family attitude toward snow driving. If it snows, you can always put off driving to the grocery for a few days but you can't leave your kids at school until the roads are clear. My kids attended a small, private elementary school located on top of a hill (like everything else in Cincinnati) on a narrow, residential street that never got plowed. The director never declared a snow day because most of the parents depended on the school for day care and most of the staff lived nearby. My choice was to make a Slip-N-Slide run to and from school with our snow-challenged Volvo or to declare a personal snow day. Talk about a no-brainer.<br />
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I absolutely loved those snow days. I loved taking our time getting up and dressed. I loved helping David and John put on their gloves and snow pants and boots and watching <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivz882yQJnAqmzmKwlx_67LUCu330AObbTXtpKzbzSeAioAsXfvvrpF3jBHFpPExAQ6hHx6Fi1duec4Vz7TkT8UXJVfM3R5Y7uppxnfa4OyDVDQqpK9VJRyPCEUQLqEZhaI0hxCZBaVW4/s1600/indoor+snow+day.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivz882yQJnAqmzmKwlx_67LUCu330AObbTXtpKzbzSeAioAsXfvvrpF3jBHFpPExAQ6hHx6Fi1duec4Vz7TkT8UXJVfM3R5Y7uppxnfa4OyDVDQqpK9VJRyPCEUQLqEZhaI0hxCZBaVW4/s200/indoor+snow+day.jpg" width="164" /></a>through the window as they built snow forts and rode their saucers down the neighbors' hill. I loved warming them up with dry clothes and hot cocoa when they came back inside. And I loved the hum of their activity around the house as they dressed up as cowboys or spacemen or as they laid out yet another battle with plastic figures, vehicles, weapons and blocks. (See my post “Toy Story.”) Yes, I did feel guilty, just like I feel guilty when I beat Paul to the last sleeve of Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies – guilty, but not very. <br />
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Of course there were sometimes those “terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad” <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjQiUnFk1fyxI7F_xARQoblE53H9sSson2FHqtZvWzfAzfsltiV5Hr0O5kwqwJX6pKJwK5rqjVSxbS7OAPvVfYH1TU41B67LJCoitioU0HXwBIyfnKHMF8ZG9Umc2o6NIX5t9FeU1h-8/s1600/david+fort.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjQiUnFk1fyxI7F_xARQoblE53H9sSson2FHqtZvWzfAzfsltiV5Hr0O5kwqwJX6pKJwK5rqjVSxbS7OAPvVfYH1TU41B67LJCoitioU0HXwBIyfnKHMF8ZG9Umc2o6NIX5t9FeU1h-8/s200/david+fort.jpg" width="144" /></a>days when the snow started falling right after I dropped the kids off at school. I spent anxious hours at home watching the snow pile up on our street and wondering how early I could go pick the boys up. Those painful memories have been blocked out along with the memories of the time we missed our flight to Canada because we didn’t bring the boys’ birth certificates and the time I got distracted while making pumpkin pies for dinner club and left out the sugar.<br />
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Fortunately, the boys rode a bus to junior high but the snow anxiety was back, bigger than ever, after they reached high school. When I woke up to snow, I cowered under the covers, holding my breath while Jim Scott read the interminable list of school closings, hoping to hear St. X and Cincinnati Public Schools. Some<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivT1InISQ2lZY9oFOrBe5vzp-IgRsjYAswXSmVDwXHoX83XwQdzar743K2O4XS2pVKH5GS9KgIDP1fVHlVyPgatX80H-3YfsDrUecAfBZeYG-xVmrcOTdB6kAmPFcM_uRDf8WhZcw4X9g/s1600/boys+and+wiers.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivT1InISQ2lZY9oFOrBe5vzp-IgRsjYAswXSmVDwXHoX83XwQdzar743K2O4XS2pVKH5GS9KgIDP1fVHlVyPgatX80H-3YfsDrUecAfBZeYG-xVmrcOTdB6kAmPFcM_uRDf8WhZcw4X9g/s320/boys+and+wiers.jpg" width="320" /></a> days I contemplated a move to Kentucky or Indiana – their schools were always closed for snow. The best days were Sundays when a big snow came in early enough that Monday was declared a snow day by Sunday evening. High schools frown on personal snow days. As a result, when school wasn't called off, my kids were driving to and from school and mixing it up in a snow covered parking lot with a bunch of other new drivers all of whom were confident that the car would stop dead the moment they touched the brakes. It was an inexpressible relief when everyone was home and all the cars were safely in the garage.<br />
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When I worked at the boys’ old elementary school, everyone there already knew about my snow phobia <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhllck2Q_dBOVPIIOZfHhq4gmIhWeo2oEGgf50ii6MPDwzWY6m0ENXqZGEYxms4P_eYPPaFGv8O0dTBik38w8MuI4qdOc-V6lRMNZIJ0DFW0ExOmx4eDIrxn3yBGfqVF12NJgODCi7KSoc/s1600/jhn+6.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhllck2Q_dBOVPIIOZfHhq4gmIhWeo2oEGgf50ii6MPDwzWY6m0ENXqZGEYxms4P_eYPPaFGv8O0dTBik38w8MuI4qdOc-V6lRMNZIJ0DFW0ExOmx4eDIrxn3yBGfqVF12NJgODCi7KSoc/s200/jhn+6.jpg" width="187" /></a>which made things easier. Nobody was surprised when I said, “I’ll be here tomorrow, unless it snows” or when I made about 300 trips from my desk to the big windows in the main office to see if the snow was sticking in the parking lot. Now, the teacher whose students I tutor knows I won’t be there if it snows on a Monday. The woman who cuts my hair calls to reschedule my appointment if snow is in the forecast. Paul’s office staff doesn’t even think about calling me to fill in for a cancellation on a snowy day.<br />
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At 60 plus, I’ve given up the guilt thing entirely where driving in <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2kKuXKfztbcp_yq3cMk7br3_P22UDF5WB-eqTr-68Wt6sujsqhtH_1gxgQ3O8D5ZQitH-f4HLio13X8gwpOpr7MOjUo7EdEXmTRvBPs59Xt9bFNc3-CfYsiK9LF7mRoUbh0M84s-d4I/s1600/germaine_greer.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2kKuXKfztbcp_yq3cMk7br3_P22UDF5WB-eqTr-68Wt6sujsqhtH_1gxgQ3O8D5ZQitH-f4HLio13X8gwpOpr7MOjUo7EdEXmTRvBPs59Xt9bFNc3-CfYsiK9LF7mRoUbh0M84s-d4I/s1600/germaine_greer.jpg" /></a>the snow is concerned. I used to feel like such a weenie, especially since women of my generation were encouraged to be assertive and independent and strong. Then I told myself that women like Betty Friedan (below) and Germaine Greer (right) all lived in New York, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssTY90fUecM565WAYWHoW0jsPQzlugJ39v55-GU0sJhLEg0sfkiVO0W2SMYalYDw5ZPwG3Olva17ttg6ntipOIcLyBd-gdknpr2JNNwxVKHpPhnhVDmxSPvb3Ulye2t72127sxgPM4zM/s1600/betty-friedan-51254249.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssTY90fUecM565WAYWHoW0jsPQzlugJ39v55-GU0sJhLEg0sfkiVO0W2SMYalYDw5ZPwG3Olva17ttg6ntipOIcLyBd-gdknpr2JNNwxVKHpPhnhVDmxSPvb3Ulye2t72127sxgPM4zM/s1600/betty-friedan-51254249.jpg" /></a>where driving in the snow was some taxi driver’s problem. If they had had to drive a Volvo around a snowy, hilly Midwestern suburb, they would have sung a different tune. <br />
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So, this morning, with big flakes falling and four to six inches predicted, I saw Paul off to work without even a twinge of guilt. After all, he’s the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCmEEKnny2W_1TGYYuqNg1SKEZXw958lc46Oe2pOVgOLMVhLR4MypSSDvdmO9eoMFWDFw1Ww9s95hN6Jmyw3s4WtmrwdrY-UcMrwew2HoBm5E7Q-_-iGzI3igxq-uGurFjbKAFigPtKGw/s1600/boys+7+and+4.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCmEEKnny2W_1TGYYuqNg1SKEZXw958lc46Oe2pOVgOLMVhLR4MypSSDvdmO9eoMFWDFw1Ww9s95hN6Jmyw3s4WtmrwdrY-UcMrwew2HoBm5E7Q-_-iGzI3igxq-uGurFjbKAFigPtKGw/s200/boys+7+and+4.jpg" width="150" /></a>one who loves everything about snow including driving in it, so, he’s getting exactly what he wishes for all year long. Here's what I'm going to do today - finish reading “Fall of Giants,” work on ideas for our vacation in June, keep up with the snow shoveling and make Verda’s Barbeque – the stringy kind not the crumbly kind. And I won't be alone. If I want to talk to a friend today, I know I’ll find most of them at home.<br />
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Click the link below for my new attitude toward winter weather<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mv_I_EIBtrk&feature=fvsr">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mv_I_EIBtrk&feature=fvsr</a>Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-86684503385579587762011-02-02T13:40:00.005-05:002011-02-03T11:55:51.114-05:00Comfort Vacation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46kPlZKfe7yxZnqSPN0lN3Ovra1s7yzW1TH23RcOBSRpHni5deUbfIeSJN4ZE2wu7z1OuQuzC8PvWFgcdFdTaALLbxivC-e77g6H6i6cST9hVANmqSUN1U5eD8EeZ-eBQQGeVt0MAs8E/s1600/lodge+door.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46kPlZKfe7yxZnqSPN0lN3Ovra1s7yzW1TH23RcOBSRpHni5deUbfIeSJN4ZE2wu7z1OuQuzC8PvWFgcdFdTaALLbxivC-e77g6H6i6cST9hVANmqSUN1U5eD8EeZ-eBQQGeVt0MAs8E/s320/lodge+door.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>We just came back from our annual comfort vacation - cross country skiing at Stokely Creek, in Sault Saint Marie, Canada. Comfort vacations are uncomplicated, familiar and satisfying like macaroni and cheese or bread pudding. You don’t have to figure anything out on a comfort vacation because you already know how everything works. You can just relax and start having fun right away without any hassles. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Zsjo482D6oVYmFJIAIPvxLQY4HpKEhH0EjfpIgr0BxTP_0kzyz58ceyQS4aDAbHwxmNjbq_djDkUboOCSqrU-dyV9vUd0IvQJr642p9LlYcO-0fX6geYzmg6D3LcGAxtLtpHn1yE0fU/s1600/path+in.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>For ten years, Stokely Creek has offered us and our friends Maria and Chris the perfect comfort vacation. It has a lodge, which houses a dining room and two cozy lounges with fireplaces, plus 7 or 8 <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Zsjo482D6oVYmFJIAIPvxLQY4HpKEhH0EjfpIgr0BxTP_0kzyz58ceyQS4aDAbHwxmNjbq_djDkUboOCSqrU-dyV9vUd0IvQJr642p9LlYcO-0fX6geYzmg6D3LcGAxtLtpHn1yE0fU/s1600/path+in.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Zsjo482D6oVYmFJIAIPvxLQY4HpKEhH0EjfpIgr0BxTP_0kzyz58ceyQS4aDAbHwxmNjbq_djDkUboOCSqrU-dyV9vUd0IvQJr642p9LlYcO-0fX6geYzmg6D3LcGAxtLtpHn1yE0fU/s200/path+in.JPG" width="200" /></a>outbuildings with guest rooms, set among 10,000 acres of woods, lakes and trails and dedicated to silent sports, meaning no snowmobiles. By now, we know exactly what to pack and what to expect - a peaceful walk from the parking lot to the lodge, our usual snug room with the view, the friendly welcome of everyone on the staff and a week where good company, great food, and outstanding skiing are just outside our door. It doesn’t get any better than that.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKgNzN7IiujQZ3yOlYhSgeQlw94wpIBM_ehc0FMV9qXbKV9c-Lrl_swhf4J5E53IlrWARNLzyimC_HVRdrm8O1bbfWfDmhcBU8tO1ZQq7XVhi4qEuERbRgKxOi1n9lvud2PDNtsrzDsyc/s1600/paul+jill+chris+maria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKgNzN7IiujQZ3yOlYhSgeQlw94wpIBM_ehc0FMV9qXbKV9c-Lrl_swhf4J5E53IlrWARNLzyimC_HVRdrm8O1bbfWfDmhcBU8tO1ZQq7XVhi4qEuERbRgKxOi1n9lvud2PDNtsrzDsyc/s200/paul+jill+chris+maria.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Now, I know some people would call this a discomfort vacation. “Let me get this straight,” my neighbor said in the midst of an unusually snowy January. “You’re flying hundreds of miles and paying hundreds of dollars to spend a week where there’s SNOW?” <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq9WEywl9nioSYJHjoYqMZgYCDcxj8H9noK5CsODLnqkkOgnTMIRqyx4Pl1kHrKGXALJwZ8qQ4iW938pYEsPrFOL3tbyLUbw1IgdslAWsyEabq49QhrtlusVy7_heRZvzfjJKd33ez6_c/s1600/therm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>“Actually we’re driving, not flying,” I said, “but we love it.” It is true that the temperature started at 31 below zero and warmed to about 19 below on the day we arrived. Skiing in those conditions either <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq9WEywl9nioSYJHjoYqMZgYCDcxj8H9noK5CsODLnqkkOgnTMIRqyx4Pl1kHrKGXALJwZ8qQ4iW938pYEsPrFOL3tbyLUbw1IgdslAWsyEabq49QhrtlusVy7_heRZvzfjJKd33ez6_c/s1600/therm.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq9WEywl9nioSYJHjoYqMZgYCDcxj8H9noK5CsODLnqkkOgnTMIRqyx4Pl1kHrKGXALJwZ8qQ4iW938pYEsPrFOL3tbyLUbw1IgdslAWsyEabq49QhrtlusVy7_heRZvzfjJKd33ez6_c/s200/therm.jpg" width="200" /></a>impresses people or convinces them that you’re crazy; but, either way, it does serve as what Nana K. used to call “a conversational piece.” One year, Paul’s Office Manager marveled that there was a 100 degree temperature difference between her January vacation in Florida (80) and ours at Stokely (-20.) Anyway, you may not believe this but, by Tuesday when the thermometer read 20 above zero, it felt like a heat wave and the snow was fantastic.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrnKBjymrh_jouaCF_0yKceTd-5qeSlF7yaiZt-kaZ1j6Kj1Nr7vO4iJhOhI5RPcFRqyA_3lyFDldhwQhZeiaSvfLIybSPBInMrI1qUlhBPxtCHDFG2Fca558gMx_l7OPGnfsKjXQ5egM/s1600/signs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrnKBjymrh_jouaCF_0yKceTd-5qeSlF7yaiZt-kaZ1j6Kj1Nr7vO4iJhOhI5RPcFRqyA_3lyFDldhwQhZeiaSvfLIybSPBInMrI1qUlhBPxtCHDFG2Fca558gMx_l7OPGnfsKjXQ5egM/s200/signs.jpg" width="182" /></a></div>Regardless of the temperature, every day of this comfort vacation follows a predictable routine, starting with a hearty breakfast of hot cereal, fruit, yogurt, bacon or sausage, eggs or pancakes and homemade raisin toast. Table conversation sticks to a few key topics – where you skied yesterday, where you plan to ski today, which body parts are begging for mercy and what might be on the lunch menu. After breakfast, we take off for about a 3 hour ski on Stokely’s endless kilometers of groomed trails which range <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2SwEycBMaVUGYNbEDnRN2lC1sIfYNqpsQEAEW4Hgy2ezKeGiWi_hHPzRnv_fUxdR1B2MqiZOvJ_8oc8yk7bjZkqOQwU2zTNDDMg75x5BdwSuvn-KKBrCj3Ljw6PsLY6L4XgQoE23UJs/s1600/all+skiing.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2SwEycBMaVUGYNbEDnRN2lC1sIfYNqpsQEAEW4Hgy2ezKeGiWi_hHPzRnv_fUxdR1B2MqiZOvJ_8oc8yk7bjZkqOQwU2zTNDDMg75x5BdwSuvn-KKBrCj3Ljw6PsLY6L4XgQoE23UJs/s200/all+skiing.jpg" width="200" /></a>through snow-covered woods, alongside half frozen creeks and around frozen and snow-covered lakes. It is breathtakingly beautiful. This year, our neighbors Tim and Kathy made their first trip to Stokely; and, every few minutes, Tim stopped to take in the view and say, “This is worth the price of admission.” As an added bonus, there isn’t the slightest chance of being taken out by a snowboarder wearing earbuds while cross country skiing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9lWMQ_XscHYtt8QdfQ5qz6xxVzzODSpoGQyV4rC79f8LDF0Ul7Hnia8rZBOYUwIyM_nudzz8LJ9bqSqBNQQ4iGiN8qxypq-_QzLMxgG1v8BeruPoer9Qe5MeFYrk-fm9LbvAXGi2zqs/s1600/creek+and+woods.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9lWMQ_XscHYtt8QdfQ5qz6xxVzzODSpoGQyV4rC79f8LDF0Ul7Hnia8rZBOYUwIyM_nudzz8LJ9bqSqBNQQ4iGiN8qxypq-_QzLMxgG1v8BeruPoer9Qe5MeFYrk-fm9LbvAXGi2zqs/s200/creek+and+woods.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYniqJeDvhfEEZmp9e4kNrgcs4tmbYvcSKtLlvvPIHOc1wsHeUy3-d_dEdRQXjr5y_nEb_qAI826e24dBnU8yGbolZ0-_DGPfxrv7m2Lmds_9FweHyWVp77iVNHHoI3B0U4u_pcTpYotk/s1600/outhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>We cover a lot of ground at what is a leisurely pace for Paul and a brisk pace for me. Just before this trip, I finished up a course of steroids for a stubborn cough and was hoping for major benefits in terms of big, strong muscles; but all these steroids did was keep me from getting poison ivy. There are a few warming huts and outhouses on the trails – one member of our group has the outhouse locations engraved in her heart. Often we ski for an entire morning without seeing anybody else;<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYniqJeDvhfEEZmp9e4kNrgcs4tmbYvcSKtLlvvPIHOc1wsHeUy3-d_dEdRQXjr5y_nEb_qAI826e24dBnU8yGbolZ0-_DGPfxrv7m2Lmds_9FweHyWVp77iVNHHoI3B0U4u_pcTpYotk/s1600/outhouse.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYniqJeDvhfEEZmp9e4kNrgcs4tmbYvcSKtLlvvPIHOc1wsHeUy3-d_dEdRQXjr5y_nEb_qAI826e24dBnU8yGbolZ0-_DGPfxrv7m2Lmds_9FweHyWVp77iVNHHoI3B0U4u_pcTpYotk/s200/outhouse.jpg" width="125" /></a> but, in case you’re wondering how we would get help in an emergency, don’t worry. No matter how isolated the route you’ve chosen, all you have to do is stop for a trailside potty break and, in about four seconds, someone will come skiing right past you. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKw8wfBWU3jeGrME-EYy00huys0Odyst-J9nJF9PBLS4wY1XGmN6tVb7HX_4vUCMej-R_FH6mhWQMtQBFtwvdAkcwB0cDWxrq_kK_fPdcqfS4I1dtIiQx2cs4qgv0_dB5aCPcCi3VZpCU/s1600/me+and+maria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKw8wfBWU3jeGrME-EYy00huys0Odyst-J9nJF9PBLS4wY1XGmN6tVb7HX_4vUCMej-R_FH6mhWQMtQBFtwvdAkcwB0cDWxrq_kK_fPdcqfS4I1dtIiQx2cs4qgv0_dB5aCPcCi3VZpCU/s200/me+and+maria.jpg" width="122" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjUwDmwcFOGGMIbrqUKxEY27y_XEpS_G0eRAtGsN_TDmVeVrkDSjd8c16ZZ80L-BB2lo4tNZ3c64zY39U1hFiLuSE8JklI8tctUouE2Uv_zOpi35H6S6R5fa6xNIrm0Jhgg4rQn_S_g4/s1600/dinner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>If you have any sense, you make sure to return to the lodge by lunchtime to enjoy soups like cheesy potato or ham and split pea, hot sandwiches, a big salad bar and a colossal, homemade cookie tray. If I take an extra long ski with lots of big uphill climbs, it’s a three-cookie morning. After lunch, Paul and Chris rush outside immediately to “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” like the vonTrapps; but Maria and I need a little time out. We nap or read and then do a leisurely ski or snowshoe for an hour or <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjUwDmwcFOGGMIbrqUKxEY27y_XEpS_G0eRAtGsN_TDmVeVrkDSjd8c16ZZ80L-BB2lo4tNZ3c64zY39U1hFiLuSE8JklI8tctUouE2Uv_zOpi35H6S6R5fa6xNIrm0Jhgg4rQn_S_g4/s1600/dinner.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjUwDmwcFOGGMIbrqUKxEY27y_XEpS_G0eRAtGsN_TDmVeVrkDSjd8c16ZZ80L-BB2lo4tNZ3c64zY39U1hFiLuSE8JklI8tctUouE2Uv_zOpi35H6S6R5fa6xNIrm0Jhgg4rQn_S_g4/s200/dinner.jpg" width="200" /></a>so later in the afternoon. Afterwards, I’m always glad that I left my book and the warm fireplace to get some fresh air and exercise, but sometimes it takes me a long time to feel glad. We always watch our time so we get back and are ready for drinks and appetizers followed by a delicious dinner<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtvrZyticRK1MofI29PTAA8LxsTKErQLPbxbXFal1CajBvPO_Qw7la3fD4sSQuXCIVYIbfnzCFn24v7-GWHk7ayckxP2u4hkLcTalhBKIciWWWzVYDrMucfojN3o7qrr6obZl1y3wwAoY/s1600/gil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtvrZyticRK1MofI29PTAA8LxsTKErQLPbxbXFal1CajBvPO_Qw7la3fD4sSQuXCIVYIbfnzCFn24v7-GWHk7ayckxP2u4hkLcTalhBKIciWWWzVYDrMucfojN3o7qrr6obZl1y3wwAoY/s200/gil.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCSSda3v3khS24RMxMwNxW6KkSPHIyqCyvrgQf0m6E0G8-lDbGeDRgFpJfNwldiDkVULVcNgoexSHBVX7hnWRuxoSgx_4A5QKkh160ZuGIlpTmCdQ501x7eIugR3xCMPwonv1YEESqvEk/s1600/jamie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Believe it or not, we occasionally have enough energy left after dinner for entertainment. We organized a few rounds of full-body-contact dominoes this year; Paul dozed off between plays while everyone else argued about the rules. Next year we might have to set up an instant replay camera. Our group has also developed a tradition of sing-a-longs; and, with several guitarists, a banjo player and a pianist, we sounded pretty good on oldies like “Puff the Magic Dragon,” “You Are My Sunshine,”<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCSSda3v3khS24RMxMwNxW6KkSPHIyqCyvrgQf0m6E0G8-lDbGeDRgFpJfNwldiDkVULVcNgoexSHBVX7hnWRuxoSgx_4A5QKkh160ZuGIlpTmCdQ501x7eIugR3xCMPwonv1YEESqvEk/s1600/jamie.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCSSda3v3khS24RMxMwNxW6KkSPHIyqCyvrgQf0m6E0G8-lDbGeDRgFpJfNwldiDkVULVcNgoexSHBVX7hnWRuxoSgx_4A5QKkh160ZuGIlpTmCdQ501x7eIugR3xCMPwonv1YEESqvEk/s200/jamie.jpg" width="200" /></a> and “Feelin’Groovy.” The group does include a critical mass of people like me who are better with the words than with the tunes (see my post “The Sound of Music.”) One year Clyde brought kazoos in what I think was an attempt to direct some of us out of the vocal music arena but it was not very successful.<br />
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About 6 years ago, drawing inspiration from the bottom of several wine bottles, some of us formed The Stokely Sisters. We’ve bonded while composing, rehearsing and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhFCbIONuAgEGT2LPTxYIpojZ8QyMjEOm2FjBnFmvNzC4hVGTkhmDW8aViY9kpytJNdkd9J9NsOu0HE7qWw5E5WQfnND43lh4MuVPwEDb7GVmIkRvge4v5BTvY7BjIJFMZDimrVgxl_8Q/s1600/sisters+kick.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhFCbIONuAgEGT2LPTxYIpojZ8QyMjEOm2FjBnFmvNzC4hVGTkhmDW8aViY9kpytJNdkd9J9NsOu0HE7qWw5E5WQfnND43lh4MuVPwEDb7GVmIkRvge4v5BTvY7BjIJFMZDimrVgxl_8Q/s200/sisters+kick.jpg" width="200" /></a>performing songs like, “Take Us Out To Old Stokely,” “We’ve Been Skiin’ at Old Stokely,” and “Stokely Ladies Sing This Song;” and the group adds members every year. Our husbands have bonded while suffering through these performances together (and they’d better continue to do so if they know what’s good for them.) You can click the link below to see Paul’s video of this year’s tour de force by the inimitable Stokely Sisters, but, I warn you, it’s not for music lovers. <br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZWtLdERt1yw">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZWtLdERt1yw</a><br />
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While our annual vacations at Stokely are comfortingly predictable, they are never boring - unexpected events make each year unique. On our first trip, Maria and I got lost one afternoon, and learned that, if you’re short and don't have your glasses, you can’t read the trailside maps, and that guys, especially guys <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIO2Yl-2ew6HOaLmhiRe2Rfndfs7EASndZK-dQt5QOiCylQoM0oXgM8AR35Dx4-Fbu4G6PNuDjs930nVzoJZof1thHW2TVu78v_I2XWKjl1-vLqhZjXDCjB1iOxnpasFwxYRra-VAojBc/s1600/chris.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIO2Yl-2ew6HOaLmhiRe2Rfndfs7EASndZK-dQt5QOiCylQoM0oXgM8AR35Dx4-Fbu4G6PNuDjs930nVzoJZof1thHW2TVu78v_I2XWKjl1-vLqhZjXDCjB1iOxnpasFwxYRra-VAojBc/s200/chris.jpg" width="200" /></a>wearing orange jumpsuits, aren’t always the best source of directions. One year, Chris came flying down a hill, missed the right turn, wound up chest deep in the snow covering a frozen lake and had to wait for help getting out until we all stopped laughing. Other highlights of the past have included Gelato Week, Fake Teeth Week, and Blizzard Week, when the power was knocked out leaving us without heat, lights or running water for a day.<br />
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What doesn’t Stokely offer? Well, there’s no cell phone coverage, and if getting it would require a cell phone tower in the middle of Home Run Hill, I say forget it. There’s also no gargantuan plasma TV or any other TV <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2uHGnbYlK0VE0st0X2zMTBpL7PEoSGpw1HBwSXe65mvgawvCxLpDKJq-ddVO-oaSJ6Tkj6vQRL8K_BbNZzMYEDiTmVCBcjXOFJMaH0dSXBBrFhc0lwrL_AWPQhTsKvs04ApDA30c8R0/s1600/lodge+at+night.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2uHGnbYlK0VE0st0X2zMTBpL7PEoSGpw1HBwSXe65mvgawvCxLpDKJq-ddVO-oaSJ6Tkj6vQRL8K_BbNZzMYEDiTmVCBcjXOFJMaH0dSXBBrFhc0lwrL_AWPQhTsKvs04ApDA30c8R0/s200/lodge+at+night.JPG" width="200" /></a>for that matter. I didn’t hear a radio or even see a newspaper except for last week’s Wall Street Journal. (Through wireless Internet, we did find out that the Packers beat the Bears last Sunday - that was the only important news.) You can’t shop for anything, except hand warmers. Dinner is definitely NOT a fashion parade; in fact, you could even come in your jammies. In other words, Stokely is absolutely perfect the way it is. And, if you’re the tinkering type who is only happy when you’re fixing and tweaking things, Stokely does offer ski wax. There are different colors for different temperatures and you can spend the day taking it off, putting more on, changing it and massaging it around if that’s your idea of a vacation. Unless I can coordinate my ski wax color with the color of my ski outfit, I’ll go with no-wax skis.<br />
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</a></div>One of my favorite things about this comfort vacation is seeing many of the same guests and staff members each year, so that our week at Stokely is like a big family reunion. (Actually it’s better than a family reunion because no one remembers the time you got carsick all over your favorite Ginny Doll or how you could barely make it home from Brownie day camp because you refused to use the outhouse or how you got a speeding <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1gBZ_NV7ZoZgvMNJ12OfrbDsi7XEl4xrueJxAugpAiXHNY-IVnPFHhTyzsm9Q51L2pWC6Y1uC2QHe3Vj4jEJ2iYFf_YdLjezmk-E-N6BLQHp6BBrYaaNz4jhZo3Dl75z1yCYyfLJi7mU/s1600/idiots+w+jamie.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1gBZ_NV7ZoZgvMNJ12OfrbDsi7XEl4xrueJxAugpAiXHNY-IVnPFHhTyzsm9Q51L2pWC6Y1uC2QHe3Vj4jEJ2iYFf_YdLjezmk-E-N6BLQHp6BBrYaaNz4jhZo3Dl75z1yCYyfLJi7mU/s320/idiots+w+jamie.jpg" width="320" /></a>ticket in a school zone right after you got your drivers’ license.) Year after year, I look forward to finding out who has retired, who has a new grandchild and who has had a traveling adventure. In addition, there’s always the fun of meeting new people who venture into our week, some of whom have the bravery (or the foolishness) to come back again. The end of the week is like the end of a really good family reunion – lots of hugs and promises to keep in touch and, of course, reservations to meet again next January. (The photo above was taken in 2008.)<br />
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P.S. You can view the Stokely Creek website with this link: <a href="http://www.stokelycreek.com/">http://www.stokelycreek.com/</a>Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-80963992097778897882011-01-20T13:00:00.004-05:002011-01-20T17:39:14.037-05:00In the Land of the Blind . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQQuygVIhbm5zJU5CzfyAcCt5l5QvR5M6k_TYL8nuFYRTA0ughg3VBh3hCFWujsewlYRmhDKi7Ehh2z8Z5jqRgqJn0MFrIm-FMFtdtqQAQWXDgV8p9X-gCt4YFZLJ-KSWF9ViIMZ6_N8/s1600/gates2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTxTEFKtlFUhzI1pOQwh1UAcQ6jNsI_QQwD4-tzxGaLaT0hbOkTeKFOv71tPl68Ql88FLRHcJ8_D33zQceimR0Mao7gxX3X2LyTG_HKPTx7Ch0E6qUYqzeyofNu9CqUEgcOFtxPGPLGCg/s1600/mom+bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTxTEFKtlFUhzI1pOQwh1UAcQ6jNsI_QQwD4-tzxGaLaT0hbOkTeKFOv71tPl68Ql88FLRHcJ8_D33zQceimR0Mao7gxX3X2LyTG_HKPTx7Ch0E6qUYqzeyofNu9CqUEgcOFtxPGPLGCg/s200/mom+bike.jpg" width="144" /></a></div>While my mom is very capable of handling her own affairs, she turns to each of us when she want assistance with certain aspects of her life. My brother helped her buy her PT Cruiser and guided her through back surgery and recovery. My sister taught her to balance a checkbook, more or less, suggested what clothes she should take on her cruise last August and directed her to California Closets when she wanted to remodel her home office space. And, believe it or not, I am her designated computer expert. The good news is that you don’t have to know everything to be considered an expert at computers or anything else. You just have to know more than most of the people around you which, in my case, means my mom, my siblings<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7OVU0YdiwXm0ya3JOEcXD1uuUZCzauhg9pvmyS2zeWvVGXVIOI3xyX3mw9KZXWuJjLP8kv9qhuR2lQQ2Q1h0FA2nYCDsB1FpKDmCNdifPN2sr6_0fdDX4YfcFHTFDrdin6Vn5q1f3jqE/s1600/us+three.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7OVU0YdiwXm0ya3JOEcXD1uuUZCzauhg9pvmyS2zeWvVGXVIOI3xyX3mw9KZXWuJjLP8kv9qhuR2lQQ2Q1h0FA2nYCDsB1FpKDmCNdifPN2sr6_0fdDX4YfcFHTFDrdin6Vn5q1f3jqE/s200/us+three.jpg" width="198" /></a> and many of my over-40 friends.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ipCiE6MMSiW8qN8t5Uo3sZojW4w1T3jSLGC1maUoosPJ0GuCj9BCdC24Enp9KAT41RvnWq_7BeLwe3JC0tceQDYFM4FuzSU1Y7p19hListKCp84p84k3VdZdux99nDOeLhJfgR3BC5k/s1600/at+and+t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>I got the jump on most people when I was hired by AT&T in the mid 70’s to help design and implement a computer program to measure productivity and develop budgets. (How I got the job is too complicated to relate besides being irrelevant, although the title of this post gives a partial explanation.) This was before flat screen monitors, before printers, before <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ipCiE6MMSiW8qN8t5Uo3sZojW4w1T3jSLGC1maUoosPJ0GuCj9BCdC24Enp9KAT41RvnWq_7BeLwe3JC0tceQDYFM4FuzSU1Y7p19hListKCp84p84k3VdZdux99nDOeLhJfgR3BC5k/s1600/at+and+t.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ipCiE6MMSiW8qN8t5Uo3sZojW4w1T3jSLGC1maUoosPJ0GuCj9BCdC24Enp9KAT41RvnWq_7BeLwe3JC0tceQDYFM4FuzSU1Y7p19hListKCp84p84k3VdZdux99nDOeLhJfgR3BC5k/s200/at+and+t.jpg" width="141" /></a>laptops and before the internet. The “computer” was some behemoth in New Jersey that served all of AT&T’s operations. I had a terminal that looked like a portable typewriter and made a connection by dialing up the main computer and then sticking the telephone handset into the back of my terminal. Commands I typed in and responses that came back were printed out on the terminal’s roll of paper – if I wanted to print out a multi-page report, I typed in my request and, 3 or 4 days later, the mailman delivered the report. This was also before pull-down menus, before point-and-click, before cut-and-paste and before user-friendly programs like Excel, PhotoShop and Greeting Card Workshop. Just printing out a simple list required a whole string of commands after which you typed “:GO:” and hoped you hadn’t made a typo which meant you had to type the whole thing over again. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7KFkmITie4Vl8irSnM52rPe5M1QQtz1-Nm-WBzwVBt4JlRHlHsHKvzEQM7N_v_LOPnnz2Jf9P_GGpjMvNDA8xwyoIyyng9ibLtz_QCHJaDoTlKoqWpW-D-9QxgsixKrY0mB2MCVY2-I/s1600/me+and+john.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>Shortly after John was born, I left my AT&T job and put my computer skills on hold for awhile. We were latecomers to the world of home computers as we were to color T.V. (finally, our babysitters demanded one), cell phones (we needed a way to order pizza on the way home from the airport) and Twitter (just kidding.) Once we did join the tech world, many things I learned back in the 70’s at AT&T came in handy. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7KFkmITie4Vl8irSnM52rPe5M1QQtz1-Nm-WBzwVBt4JlRHlHsHKvzEQM7N_v_LOPnnz2Jf9P_GGpjMvNDA8xwyoIyyng9ibLtz_QCHJaDoTlKoqWpW-D-9QxgsixKrY0mB2MCVY2-I/s1600/me+and+john.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7KFkmITie4Vl8irSnM52rPe5M1QQtz1-Nm-WBzwVBt4JlRHlHsHKvzEQM7N_v_LOPnnz2Jf9P_GGpjMvNDA8xwyoIyyng9ibLtz_QCHJaDoTlKoqWpW-D-9QxgsixKrY0mB2MCVY2-I/s200/me+and+john.jpg" width="200" /></a> For example, if you don’t know or can’t remember how to do something, search the computer screen for a clue. Trial and error is frequently rewarded by success although it can carry some downside risks. (It is not just a false rumor, that, with one simple command which I no longer remember, I did unleash a hidden but deadly cyber force and erased our entire hard drive so thoroughly that the computer consultant couldn’t reinstate it, even with a big bag of floppy disks and CPR. The idea that stuff you put on a computer sticks around forever is an urban myth.) I also learned that, if something doesn’t turn out the way you expected it to, look for a typo. And, if you flat-out have no idea how to do something and are dealing with people less knowledgeable than you, all you have to say is, “No, it turns out this computer simply can’t do that,” which isn’t a lie because, in fact, when you are at the keyboard, it can’t.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zeMlA6a2BMMAjSx3SWOTAgRl40nFVsIqd_vk49QkSiYfsm9MHadqhpEBAa__IfZVktSUAAK_q-PwrVFCKGCDZIRoC3CP9XIb4rjRLa7Ao9VfBJq245PgNeuUYpCZNBbkgqZa62ZH0-o/s1600/chatty+cathy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zeMlA6a2BMMAjSx3SWOTAgRl40nFVsIqd_vk49QkSiYfsm9MHadqhpEBAa__IfZVktSUAAK_q-PwrVFCKGCDZIRoC3CP9XIb4rjRLa7Ao9VfBJq245PgNeuUYpCZNBbkgqZa62ZH0-o/s200/chatty+cathy.jpg" width="200" /></a>The one thing I haven’t really gotten good at is dealing with on-line tech support people. You can tell right away when you’ve hooked into one from somewhere deep in Asia. They always make me think of my sister’s Chatty Cathy doll – the one where you pulled the ring and she said in a mechanical voice with exaggerated inflections, “Let’s go for a walk” or “I want a cookie.” When you pull the ring on these phone techs with names like Rex or Bart and they say, “I am so sorry you are having this problem, Jill,” for the eighth time, you know you’re in trouble. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNypOXT1d95M1q03maATYw3gpH3z3-QsQjBl2zVkzDP4kazpJURXgcFbFvvVdUs8bo4-NHCsQLMKY-xbJXaI51gHsamM3XRHNIIqpd56Kh8h_uA4GJK-bnwNn2HBdg76I76V_VrIqLeto/s1600/tns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>My 15 years as Development/Communications Director at a small private school gave my computer repertoire and reputation a huge boost. I found that the old maxim, “if you can read, you can cook” also applies to understanding much of the current <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNypOXT1d95M1q03maATYw3gpH3z3-QsQjBl2zVkzDP4kazpJURXgcFbFvvVdUs8bo4-NHCsQLMKY-xbJXaI51gHsamM3XRHNIIqpd56Kh8h_uA4GJK-bnwNn2HBdg76I76V_VrIqLeto/s1600/tns.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNypOXT1d95M1q03maATYw3gpH3z3-QsQjBl2zVkzDP4kazpJURXgcFbFvvVdUs8bo4-NHCsQLMKY-xbJXaI51gHsamM3XRHNIIqpd56Kh8h_uA4GJK-bnwNn2HBdg76I76V_VrIqLeto/s200/tns.jpg" width="200" /></a>computer software, especially if you have the back-up support of a tech savvy person – in my case, one kid’s dad. With the school’s user-friendly Apple computers and programs, I was able to reorganize one data base and set up two more. I created flyers, magazine ads, invitations, 5 panel color brochures, and 4 to 6 page newsletters with columns, headlines and photos as well as a literary magazine with the kids’ artwork and writing. And they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks – although I wasn’t quite as old a dog then.<br />
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It was a pretty easy transition to taking over as leader of my mom's tech team. This fall, after a virus wormed its way into her email (see my post “Pick On Someone Your Own Size,”) she called a real computer consultant to do the initial clean-up. Then, my sister suggested that <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghTArGjwT4TDxjr3W5V4tY2wrlofipO4fqjRUY0t2BvbXQmpVh6EmH0sd2tHYN39ib0dJEG8Fcsfr-UD7h2BG3C15ojZD0vsYL3cVYvYU0omDYv6OItBoAAb8UOqBOMLFU8n1OCDZplog/s1600/logo.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghTArGjwT4TDxjr3W5V4tY2wrlofipO4fqjRUY0t2BvbXQmpVh6EmH0sd2tHYN39ib0dJEG8Fcsfr-UD7h2BG3C15ojZD0vsYL3cVYvYU0omDYv6OItBoAAb8UOqBOMLFU8n1OCDZplog/s1600/logo.png" /></a>Mom leave the follow-up work for me, prompting me to send Kay some very negative thought-waves. In the end, everything worked out pretty well, and I further clinched the title of family computer expert. I set up Mom’s new G Mail account and made it easy for her to receive and send messages. I also cleaned up her address book, got her addresses transferred to G Mail and sent everyone in the address book her new email address along with a warning not to open emails from her old address. She had been complaining that, when she tried to type double letters, her computer seemed to stick after entering just one letter. I solved the problem by getting her a new, wireless keyboard and, for an encore, installed a wireless mouse. Just another successful day in Geek-land.<br />
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In addition to helping my mom, I get a lot of satisfaction from knowing I can knock Paul’s socks off with a simple parlor trick like <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7MYYZL79kPtjdXlScDPXZYuIZnphmYjYpDo0kyt0Na5xinXVD9Z9fmvMvqTxN2uV1rtDkN2wJs94iA7dMqvn6e4tU5QtyjW3FwPapBxrhYgaDIFjuYMc3EAl4NLbzq4_gJiT8DotK5TU/s1600/gates.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7MYYZL79kPtjdXlScDPXZYuIZnphmYjYpDo0kyt0Na5xinXVD9Z9fmvMvqTxN2uV1rtDkN2wJs94iA7dMqvn6e4tU5QtyjW3FwPapBxrhYgaDIFjuYMc3EAl4NLbzq4_gJiT8DotK5TU/s200/gates.jpg" width="199" /></a>setting up an email contact list for his dental study club. I racked up lots of points when I designed his office website which does include photos, directions and new patient forms even if it doesn’t include anything twirling, whirling or exploding onto the screen. And, after I put his fall hiking photos in a laptop slide show for his office staff, Paul said admiringly, “You’re like Bill Gates – this is like living with Bill Gates.” <br />
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If you’ve got it, flaunt it.<br />
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P.S. In case you're wondering, the guy at right is Bill GatesJillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-9881433905247896272011-01-11T12:17:00.002-05:002011-01-11T16:10:02.453-05:00My New Year's Resolution<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3FsBUm5s7LqzeCGLFjY-jmvcNpHAeNYOr4uwxKmfCcQUwppZVLLBsjxsipQYkI18Ue0wk-N43k3B4NjpbwwIQ8lljWentFzzJ83en2uOICViigP7yT3DM4kVzY7xHmRHyRu4aa9fNho/s1600/black+hole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>This post was supposed to come out right after New Year’s, but all of last week just vanished into one of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3FsBUm5s7LqzeCGLFjY-jmvcNpHAeNYOr4uwxKmfCcQUwppZVLLBsjxsipQYkI18Ue0wk-N43k3B4NjpbwwIQ8lljWentFzzJ83en2uOICViigP7yT3DM4kVzY7xHmRHyRu4aa9fNho/s1600/black+hole.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3FsBUm5s7LqzeCGLFjY-jmvcNpHAeNYOr4uwxKmfCcQUwppZVLLBsjxsipQYkI18Ue0wk-N43k3B4NjpbwwIQ8lljWentFzzJ83en2uOICViigP7yT3DM4kVzY7xHmRHyRu4aa9fNho/s1600/black+hole.jpg" /></a>those black holes that only people like Stephen Hawking understand. I vaguely remember doing the usual after-holiday jobs like packing away the Christmas decorations, washing linens, paying bills and clearing my refrigerator of UFO’s (unidentified food objects.) I also recall doing some unusual jobs. For instance, Paul rang in the New Year by rounding up about 75 dirty handkerchiefs from his pants pockets. Some of them hadn’t seen daylight since July so they were squinting and blinking in the bright light of my laundry room until I got them washed, ironed and ready for redeployment. </div><br />
Then, I had to minister to Arturo, our 37-year-old ceramic penguin. At Christmas, three or four Santas replace him on the piano and he’s generally okay about spending the season on the sidelines. This year, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXM46IoBRWvlVDf8Kzs-uRSdDXnN0qmhoDPtVr-GxtQzelCLfJ1DbpYNL7NWkjBwu5B1MlLgs4v0EvDDldbQO52uAr6GsoBr-RBHpV7wvE7hFrA35N-FAvFRb_TsHSTIA2bFcXC9jbY4/s1600/arturo.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXM46IoBRWvlVDf8Kzs-uRSdDXnN0qmhoDPtVr-GxtQzelCLfJ1DbpYNL7NWkjBwu5B1MlLgs4v0EvDDldbQO52uAr6GsoBr-RBHpV7wvE7hFrA35N-FAvFRb_TsHSTIA2bFcXC9jbY4/s200/arturo.jpg" width="100" /></a>however, he must have engaged in some sort of a fracas over the holidays because he came out of the closet with a broken wing. Paul was more distressed about that than he ever was over the kids’ injuries. (See my post, “Is There a Doctor in the House?”) Anyway, it took 4 phone calls, 2 desperate emails, a trip across town to a ceramics studio for special glue and 24 hours of standing on his head for Arturo to make a full recovery. The only thing I didn’t have to do was make him chicken soup.<br />
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The most vivid memory I have of last week is a montage of boxes, picture frames, <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFqczjhfUQBLN4bPO0XHmcp8K0wltcd24Qb26OivDrhaFaQDGXYz9AMIqGImSnBmktTRz0m1bMJgHgZIj7JhBoTV36gZj6gXukWEJ81CeQYb6haGurgGa-levHZuf6Z4SygoPSecPuXE/s1600/junk.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFqczjhfUQBLN4bPO0XHmcp8K0wltcd24Qb26OivDrhaFaQDGXYz9AMIqGImSnBmktTRz0m1bMJgHgZIj7JhBoTV36gZj6gXukWEJ81CeQYb6haGurgGa-levHZuf6Z4SygoPSecPuXE/s200/junk.jpg" width="172" /></a>placemats, record albums, furniture odds and ends, golf clubs, baskets, old camping gear, vases, books and more books – all headed out the door after a marathon session of basement clean-out and reorganization. I am happy to report that Paul and I are still friends after this experience which ranks among the top two or three biggest challenges of our 40 years of marriage. I’m not sure I can say the same for the garbage guys and the pick-up crew from St. Vincent de Paul.<br />
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Now I finally have time to think about New Year’s resolutions, although when I told Paul that was the subject of my first post for 2011, his immediate response was, “When have you ever kept a New Year’s resolution? In fact, when have you ever made one?” Well, of course I knew I had made and kept lots of New Year’s resolutions over the past 60 years even if I couldn’t come up with any examples at the time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgFmxVqEb2cTl23K31VP6vjyVba-Y8F8piH9DNvpGaJEXLzGy2p7tLl369eHSEt8W8MD6oaUSMlb-hGSI4Al_2RKw5eZisBPUuHVMLLFKdUtJBnkPK5OU8Uaf9t_215w89v-URmhgW7o/s1600/scale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>Actually, I did come up with one example but I decided not to share it. The January before I turned 60, I secretly resolved to focus on losing weight and even bought the first scale we’ve owned in 20 years thinking that would be an incentive. If you’re considering this strategy, I’ll tell you right now it doesn’t work.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgFmxVqEb2cTl23K31VP6vjyVba-Y8F8piH9DNvpGaJEXLzGy2p7tLl369eHSEt8W8MD6oaUSMlb-hGSI4Al_2RKw5eZisBPUuHVMLLFKdUtJBnkPK5OU8Uaf9t_215w89v-URmhgW7o/s1600/scale.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGgFmxVqEb2cTl23K31VP6vjyVba-Y8F8piH9DNvpGaJEXLzGy2p7tLl369eHSEt8W8MD6oaUSMlb-hGSI4Al_2RKw5eZisBPUuHVMLLFKdUtJBnkPK5OU8Uaf9t_215w89v-URmhgW7o/s200/scale.jpg" width="171" /></a> When the scale said my weight had gone down a pound or two, I rewarded myself with the last of the caramel, chocolate and pecan turtles from my neighbor. When I stepped on the scale and my weight was the same, I knew I had gotten away with that second helping of Spaghetti Carbonara. And, when two extra pounds popped up on the scale, even after I had chosen grilled salmon and steamed broccoli over fried crab cakes and three cheese, garlic mashed potatoes, I knew I had been played for a sucker.<br />
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I have really been trying to make a New Year’s resolution for 2011 – that is to incorporate all the things I’m supposed to do for health and fitness and mental well-being into my daily routine. The problem is that the list of stuff to include keeps growing at about the same rate as the national debt.<br />
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First I have to find time every day to eat all the “must-eat” foods. I should start with a cup of yogurt so I have <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nxaudnYtZeoRl72l3_3rsGXDHHUJcSXBFURRhN-ADeFttMbJVhF8MDKsR4nQzKE0DbNRVqEcRqJ7cDxCECseGFR5whd4IS5HmOT49MQxmI9DM_Ojj_LI77FpOB-YYS0JLFHPAclzdXM/s1600/foods.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nxaudnYtZeoRl72l3_3rsGXDHHUJcSXBFURRhN-ADeFttMbJVhF8MDKsR4nQzKE0DbNRVqEcRqJ7cDxCECseGFR5whd4IS5HmOT49MQxmI9DM_Ojj_LI77FpOB-YYS0JLFHPAclzdXM/s200/foods.jpg" width="200" /></a>the right bacteria in my stomach. Then there’s orange juice with both calcium and vitamin D. My doctor said I also need a vitamin D pill; and I agreed to take that daily but ONLY because, unlike calcium supplements, the vitamin D pill is sized for a human not a horse. I have to fit in a handful of walnuts or almonds for cholesterol and something else that I forget (maybe it’s for memory??) in addition to the blueberry thing so I am properly anti-oxidized. Just as I was gearing myself up for the recommended 4 servings of fruit and vegetables daily, I saw in the newspaper that the recommendation is now 9 servings. 9 SERVINGS OF FRUIT AND VEGETABLES!! If I do that, I’ll never have room for chili cheese fries. I’m still considering my mom’s recommendation of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9a3uMclv2XJpWdwBKUpucnzVclLygcRIaXbJYgRwGrGJSwPXq0ypH0E_2ajTag_FoH2FP6pYhYVQzS8b_1iBuyaE0e2n3UsHhfMMSxtQQ3nEbHeMvjkM5Ddy7zA7MB-UItz34KCOGOg/s1600/gin+and+raisins.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9a3uMclv2XJpWdwBKUpucnzVclLygcRIaXbJYgRwGrGJSwPXq0ypH0E_2ajTag_FoH2FP6pYhYVQzS8b_1iBuyaE0e2n3UsHhfMMSxtQQ3nEbHeMvjkM5Ddy7zA7MB-UItz34KCOGOg/s200/gin+and+raisins.jpg" width="149" /></a>eating 11 raisins marinated in gin every morning to help with arthritis, but I’m not wild about either raisins or gin. (Don’t ask me where the number 11 came from.)<br />
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Besides the required foods, my routine should allow time for exercise and fitness – my favorite group of activities. (HAH!) I know I’m supposed to do an aerobic something or other every day. Walking an hour and a half with my friend Jean is no problem but sticking it out for as much as half an hour on the elliptical is a challenge, even if I’m watching “The Godfather” or “M*A*S*H.” or “South Pacific.” My physical therapist friend Sue also gave me a program of stretching exercises so my back isn’t stiff when I get out of bed, I don’t lose my balance when I put on my jeans, and my fingers are nimble enough to pick out the red jelly beans. On top of all that stuff, my routine is supposed to include using our weight machine 2 or 3 times a week. AAARRRGGGHHH!<br />
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In addition, I have to schedule practice on skills that need improvement. If you read my post “What Did I Have I Don’t Have Now,” you won’t be surprised that golf is at the top of that list. I had planned to do golf <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQ8Cf4Jql5kzuQIoiQPP4AZZ1Ujwz1pF4TPVH5qvl2koXLVtf6M5j3B5DDT7qd2DxMgljEmcSNY7tGFnsOxYrWleVoirW3cF4_-63pRxRrgvdKlFWIraqD4W4vXVPiKEE1lLnAIiHvM0/s1600/golf.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQ8Cf4Jql5kzuQIoiQPP4AZZ1Ujwz1pF4TPVH5qvl2koXLVtf6M5j3B5DDT7qd2DxMgljEmcSNY7tGFnsOxYrWleVoirW3cF4_-63pRxRrgvdKlFWIraqD4W4vXVPiKEE1lLnAIiHvM0/s200/golf.jpg" width="188" /></a>swings in the basement every day. With John’s Christmas gift of an indoor putting green and electric ball return, I can polish up my short game as well. I really need to practice piano for at least 10 or 15 minutes every day so I don’t embarrass myself at my weekly lesson. And, since we just decided to spend a week hiking in Italy this spring, I bought “Italian In 10 Minutes a Day” and hauled out my old Italian book and flashcards. Given that I’ve had ten long years of memory cell deterioration and acquired smatterings of French and German since our last trip to Italy, I might need 1000 minutes a day to get a glass of wine and directions to the restroom. Then again, it might not make much difference. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5oNONSDqj63mAmya1MNmu4uKcyptwtkFsWV45-Rre6FwOnnptgqFgeiOVAJFGqDWGftLWJUsGwtVCQuoaCAY1qfDQ39ROFWHBg9VER3fYmDwf2jzXoqKFoqhGjPEbFodhZhKanLbZCRM/s1600/IMG_0195.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5oNONSDqj63mAmya1MNmu4uKcyptwtkFsWV45-Rre6FwOnnptgqFgeiOVAJFGqDWGftLWJUsGwtVCQuoaCAY1qfDQ39ROFWHBg9VER3fYmDwf2jzXoqKFoqhGjPEbFodhZhKanLbZCRM/s200/IMG_0195.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Perhaps one of those big charts with places to give myself gold stars would help - half the time I can’t even remember whether I’ve flossed my teeth and or not. Right now, I’m worn out from just thinking of all the things I should do every day; and I’m questioning the wisdom of the whole New Year’s resolution schtick. Should I break a perfect record?Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-69417091859281805502010-12-21T12:54:00.002-05:002010-12-21T15:53:01.906-05:00Toy Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZf789Zs-h7yecHIteS4zwzzuL02fFfK2EFc_EhWLkzGRb5XCyBlUFArQdZFya1s9uMR_CdNa8657NQ3VcYcBeQXfXnerGuVj4oIXRKQxWpe7bKUCDHTomuEkIR9iuBjQtP3087_4Y3Y/s1600/d+present.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZf789Zs-h7yecHIteS4zwzzuL02fFfK2EFc_EhWLkzGRb5XCyBlUFArQdZFya1s9uMR_CdNa8657NQ3VcYcBeQXfXnerGuVj4oIXRKQxWpe7bKUCDHTomuEkIR9iuBjQtP3087_4Y3Y/s200/d+present.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAehmVJfwQH6zd_W6XKHKZFhfauggUEylVpOXq-UvcC6jFZpuJA2WjIhghesM-Kq2ynLoMoA8zD0kCTwKXlWEibElEACUTPkeTN2SuXIxjSPX-E0pjYa8-aWbnZUaHkS2mZy1JW3aoBPg/s1600/d+backhoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAehmVJfwQH6zd_W6XKHKZFhfauggUEylVpOXq-UvcC6jFZpuJA2WjIhghesM-Kq2ynLoMoA8zD0kCTwKXlWEibElEACUTPkeTN2SuXIxjSPX-E0pjYa8-aWbnZUaHkS2mZy1JW3aoBPg/s200/d+backhoe.jpg" width="165" /></a>Getting ready for Christmas brings lots of memories of the years when David and John were young – years of excitement and wonder and magic along with icing drips on the Christmas cookies, interminable sessions at Children’s Palace, carrots for Santa’s reindeer and blizzards of wrapping paper, ribbon and boxes on Christmas morning. This will be my first Christmas as a grandparent, an ideal role for someone my age because, at 60 plus, there is absolutely no way I could brave the tsunami of toys that used to engulf our house every November and December. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUQAdphbs4e9-8F8tmhEt123Kh37Tl6ph1u680SqQLNgjkXikY4sRIz-TBnQz2OUadrMUHi3bcArBmtHXYXNA1vpxgLLzcH4DXuwGVLZxvrKWF37qZuPxSINru34WGKiVGcFO7MvvsS18/s1600/d+drum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUQAdphbs4e9-8F8tmhEt123Kh37Tl6ph1u680SqQLNgjkXikY4sRIz-TBnQz2OUadrMUHi3bcArBmtHXYXNA1vpxgLLzcH4DXuwGVLZxvrKWF37qZuPxSINru34WGKiVGcFO7MvvsS18/s1600/d+drum.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> With Christmas plus a November and a December birthday (colossally bad planning), a host of loving thoughtful grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends inundated the boys with presents. We had no <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUQAdphbs4e9-8F8tmhEt123Kh37Tl6ph1u680SqQLNgjkXikY4sRIz-TBnQz2OUadrMUHi3bcArBmtHXYXNA1vpxgLLzcH4DXuwGVLZxvrKWF37qZuPxSINru34WGKiVGcFO7MvvsS18/s1600/d+drum.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUQAdphbs4e9-8F8tmhEt123Kh37Tl6ph1u680SqQLNgjkXikY4sRIz-TBnQz2OUadrMUHi3bcArBmtHXYXNA1vpxgLLzcH4DXuwGVLZxvrKWF37qZuPxSINru34WGKiVGcFO7MvvsS18/s200/d+drum.jpg" width="102" /></a>idea that those adorable Fisher Price toddler toys like the school bus, the garage, the family camper and the<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUQAdphbs4e9-8F8tmhEt123Kh37Tl6ph1u680SqQLNgjkXikY4sRIz-TBnQz2OUadrMUHi3bcArBmtHXYXNA1vpxgLLzcH4DXuwGVLZxvrKWF37qZuPxSINru34WGKiVGcFO7MvvsS18/s1600/d+drum.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a> schoolhouse were just the tip of a massive iceberg. Soon, wave after wave of toys swept over us - billions of blocks, mountains of matchbox cars, legions of LEGOs, piles of PlayMobiles, an avalanche of athletic gear, a glut of games and a wealth of weapons. (See my March post, “Arms and the Boys” for more on that subject.) This was in addition to big items like a toddler slide, a chalk board, a play grocery store, a red wagon, a bumper pool table and a tabletop ice hockey game. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1n3gGK-Pyv5-85tkZaFurG5xRn3aBT2aboVYFA1v2lokGK47VMYCDQtQ1dkHYrjMNVtXf3aJf6xVDy9Pc-VLbALVti5qauxGLG4pWIhH1Gm34g2gg9TYSntH4QNCUwt5XzPJef69La0/s1600/j+opening.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1n3gGK-Pyv5-85tkZaFurG5xRn3aBT2aboVYFA1v2lokGK47VMYCDQtQ1dkHYrjMNVtXf3aJf6xVDy9Pc-VLbALVti5qauxGLG4pWIhH1Gm34g2gg9TYSntH4QNCUwt5XzPJef69La0/s200/j+opening.jpg" width="118" /></a></div>While I was often the designated shopper for the grandparents, that didn’t mean I could control how much came into the house. Everyone wanted to give gifts with the WOW factor, especially my grandmother, Nana K. Her favorite year was when I chose Civil War battle sets as her gifts to David and John. As a native of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgulGxrjG319e28-T8ho8bxJFcRk7bgth5dhaC_T9X-Z3gFpZq3grMq6r0Tg_qIG8PpsBk2ypX12BBEop6VhqEMV2yNq8sDmJRFUzXLLEQbKgTj5CoWw55JMpHYHg-u07Z42rlk8ZrvWPs/s1600/j+civil+war.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Alabama, a one-time resident of “the first White House of the Confederacy;” and, if you believe my dad, a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgulGxrjG319e28-T8ho8bxJFcRk7bgth5dhaC_T9X-Z3gFpZq3grMq6r0Tg_qIG8PpsBk2ypX12BBEop6VhqEMV2yNq8sDmJRFUzXLLEQbKgTj5CoWw55JMpHYHg-u07Z42rlk8ZrvWPs/s1600/j+civil+war.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgulGxrjG319e28-T8ho8bxJFcRk7bgth5dhaC_T9X-Z3gFpZq3grMq6r0Tg_qIG8PpsBk2ypX12BBEop6VhqEMV2yNq8sDmJRFUzXLLEQbKgTj5CoWw55JMpHYHg-u07Z42rlk8ZrvWPs/s200/j+civil+war.jpg" width="165" /></a>personal friend of Robert E. Lee, Nana was as excited about those gifts as the boys were. Each set had a cardboard antebellum mansion and more cannons, cannonballs, tents, horses and blue and grey guys than the boys could count. All that was missing was Scarlett O’Hara so almost everybody was happy. As for me, I can’t really reconstruct the thought process that led me to buy even one of those toys, not to mention two; but I do remember my shock at how many pieces came out of the boxes.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpR0d4uLj6VnaPSPxltB_xrWS9QFsQbBD4FuQWNc_A-o1t2SyMvh7RwCR8QlG7MWrqT02CaBi3ttl5M00LNmRJZdrs4EFXO3HlyB292WpJaZ3O9CGfxQX7tLtP-dtJ4RILGVfNGBV_ISc/s1600/j+beans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpR0d4uLj6VnaPSPxltB_xrWS9QFsQbBD4FuQWNc_A-o1t2SyMvh7RwCR8QlG7MWrqT02CaBi3ttl5M00LNmRJZdrs4EFXO3HlyB292WpJaZ3O9CGfxQX7tLtP-dtJ4RILGVfNGBV_ISc/s200/j+beans.jpg" width="183" /></a></div>It quickly became apparent that resistance was futile. The most appealing toys had the most parts. Every Star Wars guy had a removable helmet and one or more weapons as well as props ranging from the Millennium Falcon and the Ewok Village to these gangly things that looked like intergalactic Tyrannosaurs. The PlayMobile Western sets included a fort, a jailhouse, Indian tepees, covered wagons and, naturally, a saloon. In the PlayMobile Castle set, even the horses had accessories – those skirts they wore in medieval times and silver helmets with plumes, detachable, of course.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWlkr1SAcLT03v8dQqbRbDC1pHkOkiMP1RlzOmms9OVZom_qLrlPR31HSIBhCGzxDprrSwyoo6f26et5TI4rVAQxVG0k5NpdwcJgkV7pjFuwOUMUylu_1YRxrd9OWdSEBfgfxSoc0lgyg/s1600/j+sand.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWlkr1SAcLT03v8dQqbRbDC1pHkOkiMP1RlzOmms9OVZom_qLrlPR31HSIBhCGzxDprrSwyoo6f26et5TI4rVAQxVG0k5NpdwcJgkV7pjFuwOUMUylu_1YRxrd9OWdSEBfgfxSoc0lgyg/s200/j+sand.jpg" width="200" /></a>What did David and John do with all that stuff? Well, if they had skipped school and bedtime and played 24-7, they still couldn’t have played with everything they owned; but they certainly made a good attempt. With their fleet of heavy metal backhoes, graders and dump trucks, they moved enough earth to dig to China. When outdoor construction shut down for the winter, John kept his edge by digging in a big box of dried navy beans.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0850-IlDBzipVo962c7knTPUbKcGmismel3i7XNz0Dqqxr_0tAMA0jmyZIOLAE3BEmjrTzn6d698yf2xKBkyrl7gFGsswa_FTubhuw5m9bhPwRUy_XyiyNc31YnKn7kgCa_lfpxtmVOU/s1600/d+train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0850-IlDBzipVo962c7knTPUbKcGmismel3i7XNz0Dqqxr_0tAMA0jmyZIOLAE3BEmjrTzn6d698yf2xKBkyrl7gFGsswa_FTubhuw5m9bhPwRUy_XyiyNc31YnKn7kgCa_lfpxtmVOU/s200/d+train.jpg" width="166" /></a></div>With their garbage cans full of blocks (including some really big ones my dad made for them) and their suitcases full of outer space and castle LEGOs, they constructed edifices rivaling the Great Pyramids, the Roman Forum, Windsor Castle, Fort Ticonderoga, the Empire State Building and the Space Station. Their wooden and, later, metal train tracks and car racetracks could have connected the East and West Coasts. <br />
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</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndgvSLQdLUBn7D_CqEdfYVjFkUERyiAy1Sc24bUV2fnkpIh9KgayLsyMSnWmBy_ayf9ghIG-LFFWcrXMzYAHSGLtQ8qmlEL6o5BeeIa8U6qF0LqALCriZL21tlzuVmPOBSZFTjJyTDIQ/s1600/both+set+up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndgvSLQdLUBn7D_CqEdfYVjFkUERyiAy1Sc24bUV2fnkpIh9KgayLsyMSnWmBy_ayf9ghIG-LFFWcrXMzYAHSGLtQ8qmlEL6o5BeeIa8U6qF0LqALCriZL21tlzuVmPOBSZFTjJyTDIQ/s200/both+set+up.jpg" width="200" /></a>With their armies of guys, horses, vehicles and weapons, the boys made what they called “Set-Ups,” recreating the Gallic Wars, the Crusades, the Spanish Main, Gettysburg, Little Big Horn, Pork Chop Hill and Star Wars, sometimes all at once. A Set-Up would fill every corner of the room, sometimes lasting for a week or more. The rule was that there had to be a clear path between the bed and the bedroom door although sometimes the path wouldn’t have let a garter snake through. When I finally announced it was clean up time, there was always a lot of complaining, followed by gut-wrenching emotion of an intensity not seen <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7kxizjE_O76stadeg06qVxOfz4loAQVXFPnSCG3YzZ_ktg0eB0pa02dumBw7lShXcr5PQ1m9IHL1oOskBXBzzjPpq5vtTjjJYI6r60G7_GzJk4vdJLLmTx82-rYmztJTSf6M-_nwQYSM/s1600/j+set+up.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7kxizjE_O76stadeg06qVxOfz4loAQVXFPnSCG3YzZ_ktg0eB0pa02dumBw7lShXcr5PQ1m9IHL1oOskBXBzzjPpq5vtTjjJYI6r60G7_GzJk4vdJLLmTx82-rYmztJTSf6M-_nwQYSM/s200/j+set+up.jpg" width="200" /></a>since Robin Hood, with an arrow in his breast, bid his Merry Men goodbye or Douglas McArthur gave his “old soldiers never die” speech. To soften the blow, I took multiple photos before they conducted a no-holds-barred Last Battle – nothing like a gigantic shoot-em-up to ease the pangs of separation.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1qQgipll9VCrcaqF04LDeIzhVoUv3F4Hk-Vy1vYEU4jClL5EVPUsczTxgLj-fX89ubpcSq2clo7Ah7NJZh8JF9k1R73_mrCtEK8Md6gv2oYrDthVpMcQ4FhEkwe4IaAjEk7OHoCEesdQ/s1600/mu1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I must admit that David and John did really have some cool toys – things I would have loved as a kid. The only toys I never took to were Plug Uglies like the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82KeiC5mbbtwxT50lZ3FekTP4S1FPEmgGUau0wr1cLZL6QwZs9avpjjfcTrh_ChjkhQ9DAzwnRlrwjFqGz7sk9k92LOGmuXhKBKj1gQJTeD0Cb1i7vf60-hySI_O-fkHVhPisfWZuuC0/s1600/bumper+pool.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82KeiC5mbbtwxT50lZ3FekTP4S1FPEmgGUau0wr1cLZL6QwZs9avpjjfcTrh_ChjkhQ9DAzwnRlrwjFqGz7sk9k92LOGmuXhKBKj1gQJTeD0Cb1i7vf60-hySI_O-fkHVhPisfWZuuC0/s200/bumper+pool.jpg" width="200" /></a>Masters of the Universe and the Transformers. The Masters of the Universe were disgusting TV characters with squatty little legs and grotesquely bulging torsos that could only be the product of steroid overdoses, a probable explanation for their offensive behavior, clearly manifestations of ‘roid rage. More than once I’ve skipped a session at the gym for fear I’d end up looking like one of those obnoxious, over-flexed hunks of flesh. Transformers were jeeps and trucks and airplanes with aggressive names like Ravage, Double Punch, Scourge, and Grimlock - their appeal to boys was that they could be transformed into surly, leering, combative robots. Need I say more.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKxk4zguGd5iNydplsCblUte5p4bpn239ltIItL63Dz51O9fJVqZBWhaIOcRu6lkIsjRAQH4F2bqAJZpWP_uIBHY3D30etNX4lx7CuwlBnKEGlRXCr__l1u5XjOKPwUoeaITGEQ2QOXM/s1600/j+pirate+ship.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKxk4zguGd5iNydplsCblUte5p4bpn239ltIItL63Dz51O9fJVqZBWhaIOcRu6lkIsjRAQH4F2bqAJZpWP_uIBHY3D30etNX4lx7CuwlBnKEGlRXCr__l1u5XjOKPwUoeaITGEQ2QOXM/s200/j+pirate+ship.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSRKE5oVkeSijL8MHw0HyFgFIS7bdag7X_SVK6g1j-Ulrf5QJQCyB-EB6HWEJq67CDlHiHcnDTSyAhwzixrw2BUZYE158FZuhl9pJMtlHSdUM-e3Y0NpkLWWj7TU-i3BaJOhOnG7YdlU/s1600/grage+sale2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>For those of you who are experiencing your first toy invasion, all I can say is, it’s going to get worse – a lot worse – before it gets better. I can offer a few pieces of advice. Don’t expect Santa Claus to assemble the 795-piece PlayMobile Pirate Ship complete with lifeboat, crow’s nest, sails, riggings and pieces-of-eight. Be aware that making space for two of everything is a steep price to pay to avoid sibling squabbles, but it's <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSRKE5oVkeSijL8MHw0HyFgFIS7bdag7X_SVK6g1j-Ulrf5QJQCyB-EB6HWEJq67CDlHiHcnDTSyAhwzixrw2BUZYE158FZuhl9pJMtlHSdUM-e3Y0NpkLWWj7TU-i3BaJOhOnG7YdlU/s1600/grage+sale2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSRKE5oVkeSijL8MHw0HyFgFIS7bdag7X_SVK6g1j-Ulrf5QJQCyB-EB6HWEJq67CDlHiHcnDTSyAhwzixrw2BUZYE158FZuhl9pJMtlHSdUM-e3Y0NpkLWWj7TU-i3BaJOhOnG7YdlU/s200/grage+sale2.jpg" width="200" /></a>your call. And, in a few years, set the stage for an October garage sale of toys, by telling the kids, “We can’t bring any more stuff into this house until some stuff goes out.” This at least slows the rate at which you get buried. If it’s any consolation, before you know it, your kids will be asking for major electronics or cars for Christmas and you’ll look back on the Toy Era with feelings of nostalgia. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyQiBg2zRCQqhbtHf-UaVfD9gRF9GsQCtsakKJdvu7l7jP3BDJgfLq24spFEDQl6bqLPe-kfx5og29_BY-GnLH-17SKgvpw2KJ3OGYnttR73BuWkeB2tkzuwFLNCWRq9KVfmG70LcWos/s1600/scan0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyQiBg2zRCQqhbtHf-UaVfD9gRF9GsQCtsakKJdvu7l7jP3BDJgfLq24spFEDQl6bqLPe-kfx5og29_BY-GnLH-17SKgvpw2KJ3OGYnttR73BuWkeB2tkzuwFLNCWRq9KVfmG70LcWos/s200/scan0001.jpg" width="113" /></a></div>Eight years ago, Paul and I packed up the contents of the house where we had raised our family and prepared for our big move. Sorting through David and John’s old toys brought back lots of good memories, and we boxed up some (actually, many) of the classics “for the grandkids.” We had really loved that house and the years we spent there, but we didn’t feel any regret or sadness at moving. Since the kids who had shared the house with us were grown up and gone, it really felt right for us to be leaving, too. The only thing that gave us both a lump in the throat was when, at the end of the day, in the corner where the piano stood, we found one lone Star Wars figure. We didn’t leave him behind.Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-40812056133216086182010-12-07T15:32:00.003-05:002010-12-22T15:34:09.556-05:00Deck the Halls<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggN9qKXNap6bGev_poydKjzjXg4D5czjCGiOxZfQY1RO6hnU1g_OlYwvvflt8fQgIQR7EtI934Cl66Q5pK75rwVLHTd6aUqIjdf9oVk9vNPlJviBvaCvK5sRNSH4RONL8qzl4G_2mdI34/s1600/mermaid3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGoEvFuOOWvAaZdeVsrSCG2vcmD5v3_BWzDXs6x1WcPvux1ziJoEERA2Qc2EZPUeKKosYehWFVc7gzJmzlxYXIMQtPFgGAm0008a7Vihm3aG9Cm1V201c9QeUx0zevk_3dUz4HNQ8HkyU/s1600/john+decorating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGoEvFuOOWvAaZdeVsrSCG2vcmD5v3_BWzDXs6x1WcPvux1ziJoEERA2Qc2EZPUeKKosYehWFVc7gzJmzlxYXIMQtPFgGAm0008a7Vihm3aG9Cm1V201c9QeUx0zevk_3dUz4HNQ8HkyU/s200/john+decorating.jpg" width="151" /></a></div>Saturday we had a few inches of snow – the good kind that covers the bushes and grass but doesn’t stay on the streets – and today feels like the right day to decorate the house for Christmas. <br />
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I don't remember doing much holiday decorating when I was a kid. Somehow my parents got the idea that Santa Claus should bring our Christmas tree in addition to all the presents. Once I learned the secret of Santa Claus, I also learned why my dad never had much pep on <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRM2l6soDqVgiXIJIRfmmjuXxvENad7v8aaQK8ejUwJrgHbt9NycvCHucRfwwKwgmx35eEtjDGWx2keHtEUoTry_Wb6v0mqtudSAoi5Hl5xwMATPcn5LCx_SQ9Ij4A3hQoiuCFCvxj64/s1600/dad+xmas.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlRM2l6soDqVgiXIJIRfmmjuXxvENad7v8aaQK8ejUwJrgHbt9NycvCHucRfwwKwgmx35eEtjDGWx2keHtEUoTry_Wb6v0mqtudSAoi5Hl5xwMATPcn5LCx_SQ9Ij4A3hQoiuCFCvxj64/s200/dad+xmas.jpg" width="177" /></a>Christmas morning – after spending all night on Christmas Eve decorating the tree and assembling toys, who would? Before Christmas, we did decorate little trees for our rooms divvying up a pile of gilt encrusted reindeer, aluminum stars and other ragtag ornaments that my mom had bought as a newlywed. But, frankly, we had bigger holiday fish to fry. For one thing, we had to devote a significant amount of attention to the five-pound box of chocolates our great, great Aunt Annie always sent us from California. We never actually met her; but, believe me, when you're a kid, a big box of chocolates would earn even Jack the Ripper a hallowed place in your heart.<br />
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We also had to play along with whatever fun, family holiday project my mom dreamed up. The wildest was the time she decided we should pull taffy. It sounded like fun, stretching it back and forth until it got hard, just <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggN9qKXNap6bGev_poydKjzjXg4D5czjCGiOxZfQY1RO6hnU1g_OlYwvvflt8fQgIQR7EtI934Cl66Q5pK75rwVLHTd6aUqIjdf9oVk9vNPlJviBvaCvK5sRNSH4RONL8qzl4G_2mdI34/s1600/mermaid3.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggN9qKXNap6bGev_poydKjzjXg4D5czjCGiOxZfQY1RO6hnU1g_OlYwvvflt8fQgIQR7EtI934Cl66Q5pK75rwVLHTd6aUqIjdf9oVk9vNPlJviBvaCvK5sRNSH4RONL8qzl4G_2mdI34/s200/mermaid3.jpg" width="130" /></a>like the pioneers did in the olden days. (Of course, the pioneers didn't have indoor plumbing, couldn't go out for Creamy Whip and never got to watch "The Mickey Mouse Club.") The reality is that hot, gooey taffy is not that easy to hold onto, much less pull; and you definitely have to butter your fingertips both to keep the taffy from sticking and to soothe the burns and blisters. Like most creative mother projects, this one tasted good in the end but it generated a lot of griping and groaning along the way.<br />
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Paul and I started our own holiday traditions the first year we were married, cutting a Christmas tree and decorating it mainly with homemade red velvet bows. In a fit of holiday craftiness, I bought and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9xHXUTdqP7bsCyvHXr7Coghx5q32xXgF_hsV5SW3X-UJFRL0nOEIVg3i-O8UoP5nOlZK-m_8cYqJhYm1cpb7_40LZKz2U0n1mAhlto41spQR7PpsLbUM873e0tp3Ex2dP2LS2KEC0JI/s1600/camel.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9xHXUTdqP7bsCyvHXr7Coghx5q32xXgF_hsV5SW3X-UJFRL0nOEIVg3i-O8UoP5nOlZK-m_8cYqJhYm1cpb7_40LZKz2U0n1mAhlto41spQR7PpsLbUM873e0tp3Ex2dP2LS2KEC0JI/s200/camel.jpg" width="135" /></a>painted a set of wooden ornaments which included a sleigh, a teddy bear, a gingerbread boy and a yellow camel, which you can find exiled to the back of our tree, if you look hard enough. Our early holiday preparations also included handmade, wood-block printed greeting cards although, after repeated bloody accidents with wood cutting tools in our printmaking class, I was demoted from the cutting role to the inking role.<br />
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Our stock of purchased Christmas ornaments grew gradually – the first three were a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhekp5TeY4qfPzBsFwfpVqYPtHS3zVQOO5R7n_UFK1zqEw37Bq3-fmgPj_Khj7ayj3AGrddXj2e0fctAmhGq1r8Bh_AOip-imBwnSO7YHMTrT2Ya0Cjs-M0Z15Xh4Mji_K6-5GBqTs54qM/s1600/mouse.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhekp5TeY4qfPzBsFwfpVqYPtHS3zVQOO5R7n_UFK1zqEw37Bq3-fmgPj_Khj7ayj3AGrddXj2e0fctAmhGq1r8Bh_AOip-imBwnSO7YHMTrT2Ya0Cjs-M0Z15Xh4Mji_K6-5GBqTs54qM/s200/mouse.jpg" width="199" /></a>mouse on a little red chair, a mouse on a piece of yellow, Styrofoam cheese and a dove from Frankenmuth, Michigan, Christmas capital of the Midwest. A fabric horse from our friends Tina and Rick, a needlepoint gingerbread house from my sister, a handmade ceramic pizza from Jeff and Mary Pat, a jewel-studded pig from my mom, a zaftig mermaid in a red, strapless gown (photo above) from Caroll and George, a bunch of fishing-themed <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNL3hK2MJrTEDsqgm3tUA5grvz3e_u33kVHxoHGPzrC7zWJtSDAAkgs7gexquKo-dm-K1MSnZlaZ5sdJZApESjtPOcqao_ATvP_pFKdCDO8InNgJ50ijGssLkEoy6HoYjsZztDLdB8meQ/s1600/ball.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNL3hK2MJrTEDsqgm3tUA5grvz3e_u33kVHxoHGPzrC7zWJtSDAAkgs7gexquKo-dm-K1MSnZlaZ5sdJZApESjtPOcqao_ATvP_pFKdCDO8InNgJ50ijGssLkEoy6HoYjsZztDLdB8meQ/s200/ball.jpg" width="111" /></a>ornaments from Paul’s office staff and many others followed. We love the uniqueness and personal quality of our tree; but, as a kid, David was not impressed. When he was three, he wanted balls on the Christmas tree so much that he made one out of wadded up paper and a pipe cleaner. Finally Paul bought him a set of six pink balls which are still with us today along with the ball David made. <br />
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Since then, we have collected a whole box full of kid-crafted ornaments – John’s pre-school wreath made out<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKm_hf89LQNUZMRMw-6qGBgAaqaP1B9QgMeJ1wkHuZah6KwTOLvIfIA3D0G3NIMLoxBfr5ZB678uHC3ggsLgdF-bER8XGcHs3YwSy9dy2W02s0HVHj2wma8hoxlsRmfucQ-11NHqcZVZY/s1600/john+and+grandma.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKm_hf89LQNUZMRMw-6qGBgAaqaP1B9QgMeJ1wkHuZah6KwTOLvIfIA3D0G3NIMLoxBfr5ZB678uHC3ggsLgdF-bER8XGcHs3YwSy9dy2W02s0HVHj2wma8hoxlsRmfucQ-11NHqcZVZY/s200/john+and+grandma.jpg" width="200" /></a> of dyed green, crushed up cornflakes, David’s construction paper chain and dough snowman, glitter laden snowflakes, an origami reindeer plus assorted items the boys made in their annual holiday craft sessions with Grandma. I’m allowed to sneak a few out each year as long as they’re not displayed too prominently.<br />
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Our collection of holiday decorations has also increased over the years. We have a lovely, hand carved, wooden crèche set, which Paul’s parents <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_YCB7uCCHDePUGbWcVV6d1R0vb1iYH0l3MBl_gp0cmfxXf3Y5OrOYwsLocwrCv3dDRggdg8_-KgX6-nk2Y_9FEPq8nTh1HM49XL5gJnuLl2pfN_KqP28p693Z0nL7ORhQvPCW3UebLo/s1600/david+creche.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_YCB7uCCHDePUGbWcVV6d1R0vb1iYH0l3MBl_gp0cmfxXf3Y5OrOYwsLocwrCv3dDRggdg8_-KgX6-nk2Y_9FEPq8nTh1HM49XL5gJnuLl2pfN_KqP28p693Z0nL7ORhQvPCW3UebLo/s200/david+creche.jpg" width="200" /></a>brought back from Germany, a few pieces at a time, over about ten years. The boys took turns setting it up although we knew when it was David’s year, we’d probably find a sheep or a donkey perched on the roof. Now Paul sets out those beautifully made pieces, but the job can be Willem’s when he’s a little taller and not drooling so much. <br />
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We also have fabric, ceramic, wood and metal Santas each of which <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCeKI4reY7u5iJ74bWz4rXR7KbBAqfXtyXWUpUGgdQgqv-rLbr_-L8JyhKMt9jO4HzS8GH_skNtxwV0CWUkXyU0rnUEf1F7ZGdPuSbJuLVVrSjd84PBO_pONDJp1UP_LW_pNtmx2E1Tg/s1600/rudolf.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCeKI4reY7u5iJ74bWz4rXR7KbBAqfXtyXWUpUGgdQgqv-rLbr_-L8JyhKMt9jO4HzS8GH_skNtxwV0CWUkXyU0rnUEf1F7ZGdPuSbJuLVVrSjd84PBO_pONDJp1UP_LW_pNtmx2E1Tg/s200/rudolf.jpg" width="133" /></a>brings us the memory of the person who gave it to us. Paul’s sister Marti made us a big, fabric Rudolph head which always hangs in the breakfast room. Paul’s personal favorites among the decorations are also the tackiest – a goggle-eyed tree that blares out a Christmas carol when you walk past it and a big frog that bops around and sings “Jingle Bells” when you shake its hand. I figure if that’s what it takes to put him in the holiday spirit, tackiness is a small price to pay. <br />
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I myself never buy Christmas decorations, however, for fear of someday finding out <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS_E2-3q763faf8wHxYXePXyux8QN0f7D-fp0bffnjCIXBWy-20fKFkZC4BNA4ept3yZ8oc2c5Si7XzwQTbvExaJGWEWpjlMjwNk5vBVMa1RticrAbAmlbY-zxpsJU6Qbep9M3j-2J3zU/s1600/frog.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS_E2-3q763faf8wHxYXePXyux8QN0f7D-fp0bffnjCIXBWy-20fKFkZC4BNA4ept3yZ8oc2c5Si7XzwQTbvExaJGWEWpjlMjwNk5vBVMa1RticrAbAmlbY-zxpsJU6Qbep9M3j-2J3zU/s200/frog.jpg" width="145" /></a>that, instead of being able to decorate (and a month later, de-decorate) in under an hour, we might find ourselves spending days in the process. I appreciate the beauty of other people’s houses graced by hundreds of Santas or multiple trees for the holidays; but I can’t do it. Besides, it would not go over well with Paul who is truly a closet Grinch. As we were getting out the Christmas boxes, the first thing he said was, “We don’t have to put all this stuff out.” He reminisced fondly about last year - he was sick so John helped me cut the tree and I did all the decorating. “You know,” he said, “My chest feels a little tight today.”<br />
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</a></div>I told him to “man up” and handed him the lights for the tree. For some reason, that job always brought out the worst in my dad. Once my sister figured out the Santa thing, decorating the Christmas tree became <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8Y7XwRCjWwFDzSukVe9t01beKXFlrKo7bi0_paw8MhhO3dsn08aB93qaVRmW20CFogiUGuJGs1Ua6tCo9xVoOka3NWPY3iqvH7O_FA0E0Urfd9tq0jpRxKq6-KZVTzI_plitSOagogY/s1600/lights.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS8Y7XwRCjWwFDzSukVe9t01beKXFlrKo7bi0_paw8MhhO3dsn08aB93qaVRmW20CFogiUGuJGs1Ua6tCo9xVoOka3NWPY3iqvH7O_FA0E0Urfd9tq0jpRxKq6-KZVTzI_plitSOagogY/s200/lights.jpg" width="140" /></a>a family affair, but we hid out until after the lights were safely installed. While we might have gotten a few laughs out of hearing Dad’s muttered curses at the tree, General Electric, Cincinnati Gas and Electric, Thomas Edison and the holidays in general, it wouldn’t have been a good idea. When Paul and I put up our first tree, I was braced for the all-too-familiar blow-up. It didn't happen. Paul impressed me by arranging those light strands as nonchalantly as if he were brushing his teeth; and he has done so every year since. It’s definitely more restful that way, but sometimes I do miss the fireworks. <br />
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I am pleased to report that, even interrupted by a phone call from David, we completed our holiday decorating in 57 minutes. As always, Paul’s inspiration came <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ8Ty-hZN3njtW6GmlTpZHZu2Bu_lSkmuqH5M6X1RXI-RJ_KBHoTbwfAr3-Mihf-N6-NRSQwU2inSERu3kMYB66SjQqVdfU5xFTMz1DijQm9prM59BMwoGqUXbZ_yQid16mqyPueb2mAs/s1600/album.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ8Ty-hZN3njtW6GmlTpZHZu2Bu_lSkmuqH5M6X1RXI-RJ_KBHoTbwfAr3-Mihf-N6-NRSQwU2inSERu3kMYB66SjQqVdfU5xFTMz1DijQm9prM59BMwoGqUXbZ_yQid16mqyPueb2mAs/s200/album.jpg" width="200" /></a>from his Christmas Manhattan in the special glass my parents gave him. My inspiration came from “The Best of Christmas,” a holiday record album we bought in 1971 - the perfect background music for tree trimming. With that album, we bring Nat and Bing and Ella and Dino and Tennessee Ernie into our house every December. True, we also bring in Wayne Newton's cloying version of “Silent Night” and Marlene Dietrich's inappropriately smoldering rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy.” However, when Lou Rawls tells you to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” you know you’re ready to do just that.Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-13265294789392393222010-12-01T13:36:00.004-05:002010-12-07T12:35:24.965-05:00Thanksgiving - Post Mortem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy6yxW9mE1m_MBBNLe3EtHlubHFEe1NCMowVE3Lw21RgMlrELNtQqDtUb45zH_OuO2MW0jL5haC6LPfaROW4tkOH2sJemPO01PnY8KPr9Ygsn57KlSrcTJyC7LNmYAQ3RBSmJ3pa7tUrE/s1600/kids+buffet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy6yxW9mE1m_MBBNLe3EtHlubHFEe1NCMowVE3Lw21RgMlrELNtQqDtUb45zH_OuO2MW0jL5haC6LPfaROW4tkOH2sJemPO01PnY8KPr9Ygsn57KlSrcTJyC7LNmYAQ3RBSmJ3pa7tUrE/s200/kids+buffet.jpg" width="158" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvVtFFWpCm4d0-ZSKzVMcnOd0C2Ez_WpQUSX2HKcd9jZZq4FlCA_hggSOxZchtJ96fTTyiHgEEjJl22GDK79zJI8lmfP65AA54RaqeNt9nUL633-wDrlkxL3F0Zo6UlNCF907c5Il14s/s1600/willemtoy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>I’ve never met a Thanksgiving I didn’t like a lot. What’s not to like about a holiday that involves good food and good company without the hassle of hanging decorations, shopping for presents or sending out greeting cards? When people ask, “How was your Thanksgiving?” what would make you reply, “Bad”? Underdone turkey? Butter-free mashed potatoes? Dressing with some funky ingredient like eel? No pumpkin pie left for breakfast the next morning?<br />
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</a></div>After more than 60 Thanksgivings, it’s natural to compare this year’s model with those of the past. I know, for example, that this one was not as aromatic as the Thanksgivings of my childhood. Nana K. always <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWhU68DRTBIm6qq4CyxE-5w81nIrSCQR9PdYAoyvqQJWz5pVk3c2NKC59d5dlGwi7SYLIhbaxf3zQhXWxAW1GSSV76b3S-FWgKzGpIhhyphenhyphenJaBp_Y_H_RQ4MPlDV5ahlv1iO1XwrsMdTJD4/s1600/wethree.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWhU68DRTBIm6qq4CyxE-5w81nIrSCQR9PdYAoyvqQJWz5pVk3c2NKC59d5dlGwi7SYLIhbaxf3zQhXWxAW1GSSV76b3S-FWgKzGpIhhyphenhyphenJaBp_Y_H_RQ4MPlDV5ahlv1iO1XwrsMdTJD4/s200/wethree.jpg" width="195" /></a>spent the night before Thanksgiving at our house so she and my mom could get an early start. We woke up, not to the smell of baking pies or rolls but to the smell of sautéing onions and burnt toast for dressing and boiling giblets and gizzards for gravy. This Thanksgiving also wasn’t as informative as the year my brother hid his tape recorder under the dining room table and recorded every bit of dinner conversation, most of which involved Nana or Aunt Stella or Uncle Al complimenting the sweet potatoes or the gravy or the pumpkin chiffon pie and my mom reciting the recipe. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ7bbq9PtGtWaBrUWi1UnkIhpY9Tn0Ijhh2R9PyfWq9cqIxmpXnmqf0SlOwisKbTiFh0llzjgrr4LS7cu9ArLCOgcZhMlcglwvzun80a9A7-g3PV8DN21XqHTk1Cp7ZcBq01xyeUIBIw4/s1600/turkey+race.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ7bbq9PtGtWaBrUWi1UnkIhpY9Tn0Ijhh2R9PyfWq9cqIxmpXnmqf0SlOwisKbTiFh0llzjgrr4LS7cu9ArLCOgcZhMlcglwvzun80a9A7-g3PV8DN21XqHTk1Cp7ZcBq01xyeUIBIw4/s200/turkey+race.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>This Thanksgiving wasn’t as boisterous as the numerous holidays we spent with Paul’s extended family – his parents, siblings, nieces and nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins – as many as 30 or 40 of them around one huge table set up downstairs. With that many people, you definitely need two turkeys and can have a turkey carving race (Paul’s idea, of course.) It’s a welcome diversion from football games as long as the pit crew, who are in charge of removing of skin and bones and salvaging dressing, don’t have a run-in with an irrationally exuberant carving knife. Also, a crowd like that makes for a colossal selection of side dishes and desserts at the buffet table. The only<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRIP_4imrUkYH1IOvsHu4gYaiK8KCxO6FoZntNbD_MFIsYkDopwPnako_Um3PeOUnVViLzaEJdjM3UL7RWTFoxWI8aEryBtTtv-q3AfnR5ZEq5F4idlKmOGNmE3kovtKrNZsAJb5gjU74/s1600/carving.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRIP_4imrUkYH1IOvsHu4gYaiK8KCxO6FoZntNbD_MFIsYkDopwPnako_Um3PeOUnVViLzaEJdjM3UL7RWTFoxWI8aEryBtTtv-q3AfnR5ZEq5F4idlKmOGNmE3kovtKrNZsAJb5gjU74/s200/carving.jpg" width="160" /></a> downside is that those at the bottom of the line-up are just rounding third and heading for home when the lead-off hitters are ready for a second at-bat. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wC4_bvogsvnIrDWYwGZpWAYy838ilZIx_reMJAYScfnIB0bRVl6QgwVsWWP6dYTRqqu5ptsbdSEnU3RzR8C6e9p4WC_MSnkuBn2EUiIqqkUp6dTJ6PBxQz2_77dyFnP-oMHx0FYb540/s1600/baby+john.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>This Thanksgiving wasn’t as exciting as the one 29 years ago when two-day-old John was a late entry to the guest list. Paul brought us home from the hospital that morning then went to get David who had spent the last two nights with Granny and Pa. I had read a lot about sibling rivalry and was anxious to make the right first impression. I fed John, put him to sleep upstairs in the bassinette and waited in the living room so David’s reunion with me wouldn’t <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wC4_bvogsvnIrDWYwGZpWAYy838ilZIx_reMJAYScfnIB0bRVl6QgwVsWWP6dYTRqqu5ptsbdSEnU3RzR8C6e9p4WC_MSnkuBn2EUiIqqkUp6dTJ6PBxQz2_77dyFnP-oMHx0FYb540/s1600/baby+john.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wC4_bvogsvnIrDWYwGZpWAYy838ilZIx_reMJAYScfnIB0bRVl6QgwVsWWP6dYTRqqu5ptsbdSEnU3RzR8C6e9p4WC_MSnkuBn2EUiIqqkUp6dTJ6PBxQz2_77dyFnP-oMHx0FYb540/s200/baby+john.jpg" width="200" /></a>be overshadowed by the new baby. So much for child psychology – David ripped through the front door yelling excitedly, “Where’s that baby?” and raced upstairs to see John, without so much as a glance at me, his mother, aka chopped liver. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4jPf9mixyk4MtCoE3tRmrwWYydYmHAN9sqF7nqGRU2CUlm1NMQFD4upzZBq_VoBfQFKfOlAqh8RUZU9CrK9Vm95jYbSibMp6NdhO1otYrQjiaTdB8rC54-Z7HmPJ6wadfOpysj8VWKg/s1600/grvy.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>This Thanksgiving wasn’t as adventurous as in 1989 when Paul’s parents were in Germany visiting his youngest sister and the in-laws and out-laws came to our house for dinner. None of us had ever done an <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4jPf9mixyk4MtCoE3tRmrwWYydYmHAN9sqF7nqGRU2CUlm1NMQFD4upzZBq_VoBfQFKfOlAqh8RUZU9CrK9Vm95jYbSibMp6NdhO1otYrQjiaTdB8rC54-Z7HmPJ6wadfOpysj8VWKg/s1600/grvy.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4jPf9mixyk4MtCoE3tRmrwWYydYmHAN9sqF7nqGRU2CUlm1NMQFD4upzZBq_VoBfQFKfOlAqh8RUZU9CrK9Vm95jYbSibMp6NdhO1otYrQjiaTdB8rC54-Z7HmPJ6wadfOpysj8VWKg/s200/grvy.jpg" width="158" /></a>entire Thanksgiving dinner but everyone had ideas on how to do some part of it, sort of like the story of the five blind guys and the elephant. Marie made the cranberry mold and Randy made the mashed potatoes and Carolyn made the gravy and Faith assisted with the turkey carving. We did it all in our small, narrow kitchen with its limited counter space - authentic family togetherness.<br />
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</a></div>This Thanksgiving wasn't as inspired as the Thanksgiving of 2005, the first one we had hosted in 15 years. My dad had passed away that summer so this was also the first Thanksgiving my mom had spent with us for some time. I wanted everything to be perfect so I consulted David and Megan's friend Steve, the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhK2EKzsJfhVZoqDFArf4SS00NFlx8dp4YMxG1qOnKOHGVhO8k8fXerJW6UcjKh8ebWDe-ehQWXFc3vVDwfXTaGOkI_nnZCK6Wde2uLdWjp_3MiCK6NPWT74ZwCbTVrSvK6k33TTsWYHU/s1600/jhn+carving.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhK2EKzsJfhVZoqDFArf4SS00NFlx8dp4YMxG1qOnKOHGVhO8k8fXerJW6UcjKh8ebWDe-ehQWXFc3vVDwfXTaGOkI_nnZCK6Wde2uLdWjp_3MiCK6NPWT74ZwCbTVrSvK6k33TTsWYHU/s200/jhn+carving.jpg" width="143" /></a>TurkeyMeister, on fixing a brined bird. His words of wisdom came down like Moses's stone tablets from the mountain - well, actually, they came from Washington, D.C. via an email, which I still have in my recipe file. Among Steve's suggestions: "The first thing you should do is grab a glass, fill it halfway with ice, then pour the glass 3/4ths full with Maker's Mark" and "attack that bird repeatedly with a can of Pam and a hunka-hunka burning attitude." I wondered how much Pam spray to use but, again, Steve was helpful: "Make like Miss South Carolina with a can of AquaNet and coat that thing." The meal turned out great, especially the turkey, and my mom has been a welcome and enthusiastic Thanksgiving guest ever since.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxSd87cYurEwVBswDm_0fRAZHHZr-F79U8YHAafm7EfqHZMiTAlszVKLMMhLPP9Dc37MKZn_dPSW8s2OqSbR6PC8Nod0dtwZjnEPfCAQ2aI0D6ryR9gAo-n1unkzViBzCvSWk5hQn9sYk/s1600/willemfood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxSd87cYurEwVBswDm_0fRAZHHZr-F79U8YHAafm7EfqHZMiTAlszVKLMMhLPP9Dc37MKZn_dPSW8s2OqSbR6PC8Nod0dtwZjnEPfCAQ2aI0D6ryR9gAo-n1unkzViBzCvSWk5hQn9sYk/s1600/willemfood.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUszuzAnQhbwW1u63ONO9hek3b_PHJJBvxlozpKiVf_iKE0ljrVXxjAw9s2EZ4t3ZzKIcTgfeywvjaPXtAlpya99a2XRk9MxxfFEuCDO8AnkJdt3ocoUisiG_CATnaDlQQ5Q88aCr7XM4/s1600/piano.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUszuzAnQhbwW1u63ONO9hek3b_PHJJBvxlozpKiVf_iKE0ljrVXxjAw9s2EZ4t3ZzKIcTgfeywvjaPXtAlpya99a2XRk9MxxfFEuCDO8AnkJdt3ocoUisiG_CATnaDlQQ5Q88aCr7XM4/s200/piano.jpg" width="200" /></a>In spite of all the things it wasn’t, this Thanksgiving was very, very good. Now that we have Thanksgiving at our house, everyone in the family contributes something to the meal, which works out okay in a kitchen like mine where you can make seven or eight messes before you have to clean up anything. John made pumpkin pie and paid homage to the ghost of Julia Child by tossing a whole stick of butter into his mashed potatoes. Megan garnished her roasted sweet potatoes with lime syrup and chives - a great alternative to marshmallows. In addition to making pecan pie and cranberry sauce, David took over quality control, nixing new dishes that violated holiday tradition – no mashed root vegetables, no sweet potatoes au gratin, no cherpumple cake. Fortunately he did approve the gravy from my butcher as I have yet to scale the heights of gravy making. In addition to arranging the flowers, setting the table and helping me with preparing the turkey and dressing, my mom <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxSd87cYurEwVBswDm_0fRAZHHZr-F79U8YHAafm7EfqHZMiTAlszVKLMMhLPP9Dc37MKZn_dPSW8s2OqSbR6PC8Nod0dtwZjnEPfCAQ2aI0D6ryR9gAo-n1unkzViBzCvSWk5hQn9sYk/s1600/willemfood.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxSd87cYurEwVBswDm_0fRAZHHZr-F79U8YHAafm7EfqHZMiTAlszVKLMMhLPP9Dc37MKZn_dPSW8s2OqSbR6PC8Nod0dtwZjnEPfCAQ2aI0D6ryR9gAo-n1unkzViBzCvSWk5hQn9sYk/s200/willemfood.jpg" width="86" /></a>played the piano which set the mood, although opinions vary as to what kind of a mood her piano playing sets. (See my July post, “The Sound of Music.”) Paul kept us all supplied with homemade bread and homebrew. All I did was provide the ingredients and act as oven traffic controller.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdwOIDZOJVDaP5_NEMrCuUGuVquMtnJiOQV6hhJKvt-hpp_AZloy_g7OnITcRvZqsepjtzB7JFbkzEzZJVHPpAcZHmlGgWtaOWTja7WYmcv-552u9kkJ0I4NTisp0FALfDRJXHc9bsBv8/s1600/willemshoe.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdwOIDZOJVDaP5_NEMrCuUGuVquMtnJiOQV6hhJKvt-hpp_AZloy_g7OnITcRvZqsepjtzB7JFbkzEzZJVHPpAcZHmlGgWtaOWTja7WYmcv-552u9kkJ0I4NTisp0FALfDRJXHc9bsBv8/s200/willemshoe.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdwOIDZOJVDaP5_NEMrCuUGuVquMtnJiOQV6hhJKvt-hpp_AZloy_g7OnITcRvZqsepjtzB7JFbkzEzZJVHPpAcZHmlGgWtaOWTja7WYmcv-552u9kkJ0I4NTisp0FALfDRJXHc9bsBv8/s1600/willemshoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>This year, Willem, at 6 months old, was in bed before the turkey came out of the oven. While he did sample applesauce and sweet potatoes, he found his shoes more palatable. Although no one from Paul’s side of the family was in town to join us this year, we enjoyed sharing the holiday and a little Irish whiskey with our good friend Pam’s father. As with any ideal Thanksgiving dinner, the turkey was cooked perfectly, all the side dishes hit the finish line at about the same time and there was enough pie left for breakfast. Everyone was in good spirits and good health. It doesn’t get any better than that.<br />
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At this point, I have checked off everything on my Thanksgiving lists. My refrigerator is recuperating from holiday gridlock which was worse than usual since Paul’s keg of homebrew has taken over 1/3 of my second <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-C_8-bCCPrgkZ3G9VNNcnLV0HZI84xtIASCbmujviWEhwouiNhzU9lK7HZbCE2JHND-SJFYbE4cMuPnQO2A3cK4klQLXpbw_opRioh9y42p9qmMhBG9ODiL2vdiKvvCKFXZR9X2ncYg/s1600/megan+and+willem.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-C_8-bCCPrgkZ3G9VNNcnLV0HZI84xtIASCbmujviWEhwouiNhzU9lK7HZbCE2JHND-SJFYbE4cMuPnQO2A3cK4klQLXpbw_opRioh9y42p9qmMhBG9ODiL2vdiKvvCKFXZR9X2ncYg/s200/megan+and+willem.jpg" width="194" /></a>refrigerator. John took the left-over shrimp creole and the last two pumpkin Whoopee Pies home to Nashville leaving us with a smattering of dressing, a dab of cranberry sauce and one ziploc bag of turkey that didn’t make it into Saturday night’s pot pie. My washer and dryer have held up well under 6 loads of sheets, towels and dishcloths. The baby bed, bathtub, bouncy chair, diapers, wipes and Banana Man (see my September post “Guess Who Came to Dinner”) are all in storage until Christmas. It’s pretty quiet around here.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ICvZjdMZ7qexna8YZYBe-ZARPno5m0uDf9HgbfiCbu1U5nakurJnpAuQ5EoynPuBS-79aVVguPFDN6gwDFfCgTx5C5STDZrhkmP7jkH4OznTeSukR6TGfeoayrjh1_GpOcOjNk3jEnA/s1600/me+and+willem.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Monday, I felt so buoyed by that wonderful Thanksgiving week that I recklessly dipped my toes into the treacherous waters of holiday shopping. At Macy’s, 30, 40 and 50% off signs lunged at me from all sides. Even though the store wasn’t full of people, it was so crammed with tables and racks of merchandise that it was just a matter of time before my purse would take out a Kate Spade plate or a Waterford knickknack. (It’s probably not okay to cal<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ICvZjdMZ7qexna8YZYBe-ZARPno5m0uDf9HgbfiCbu1U5nakurJnpAuQ5EoynPuBS-79aVVguPFDN6gwDFfCgTx5C5STDZrhkmP7jkH4OznTeSukR6TGfeoayrjh1_GpOcOjNk3jEnA/s1600/me+and+willem.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ICvZjdMZ7qexna8YZYBe-ZARPno5m0uDf9HgbfiCbu1U5nakurJnpAuQ5EoynPuBS-79aVVguPFDN6gwDFfCgTx5C5STDZrhkmP7jkH4OznTeSukR6TGfeoayrjh1_GpOcOjNk3jEnA/s200/me+and+willem.jpg" width="200" /></a>l something that expensive a knickknack.) As always, my descent into Buyers’ Paralysis was rapid and irreversible. At least two dozen sales people offered to help me during my aimless, glassy-eyed slog through the Men’s, Housewares, Bed and Bath and Jewelry (a wrong turn) Departments. I didn’t stay long and I didn’t cross anything off of my “After Thanksgiving” list . . . yet.Jillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7001743157527831690.post-54196619074103723582010-11-17T14:39:00.002-05:002010-11-19T06:37:21.950-05:00Getting It Together<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavLld_MhG5YnCo08l88XKXItKd46p23YQ8opwUymf3ni5bzNWXFGIAPjqg7t9KJ28pPCUoC8-DMDia8tG5QOWQcyZtuwDQH1LQ3_ekn_fGW6aIjNgVBCHVK9Z3byUQQ2dheb1FrPtUAM/s1600/esso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavLld_MhG5YnCo08l88XKXItKd46p23YQ8opwUymf3ni5bzNWXFGIAPjqg7t9KJ28pPCUoC8-DMDia8tG5QOWQcyZtuwDQH1LQ3_ekn_fGW6aIjNgVBCHVK9Z3byUQQ2dheb1FrPtUAM/s200/esso.jpg" width="145" /></a></div>A few weeks ago, I had a trial run on my physical and mental fitness for Thanksgiving and the upcoming holiday season. That morning, I changed the bed, cleaned up the previous night’s dinner dishes, ran a load of wash, made quiche and lemon bars for a sick friend, and played two games of Spider Solitaire (yes, it sneaked back here inside our new laptop and I can’t figure out how to get rid of it) and, when I checked my watch, it was only 8:09. I would say I passed with distinction. It’s very nice to know that, at sixty-something, I can still wake up with a tiger in my tank since I mostly wake up feeling like I was run over by a herd of elephants.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1WkkdHfoQ3NhsuCOFqLabnrTSqmdBvcvw0SZGmcEIoLTnYaVVVzwylCUK6vVWkoR5he-mbaUvJwH7F18rWEPOUNfZgq0U475PQBU8K7KENyzS9bb0ZHEILdYPEhoGWSh-1j8N2l2Vik/s1600/willem+seriuos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>After a delightful weekend in New York with the most adorable baby in the universe, I'm now ready to get serious. My actual preparation for the Thanksgiving holiday started early this week with lists. I now have 6 lists and I'm not done yet. I have a list of menus for Thanksgiving week from Sunday night when my mom arrives (lamb stew) to Tuesday night when Megan gets in to Wednesday night when we have our annual <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1WkkdHfoQ3NhsuCOFqLabnrTSqmdBvcvw0SZGmcEIoLTnYaVVVzwylCUK6vVWkoR5he-mbaUvJwH7F18rWEPOUNfZgq0U475PQBU8K7KENyzS9bb0ZHEILdYPEhoGWSh-1j8N2l2Vik/s1600/willem+seriuos.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1WkkdHfoQ3NhsuCOFqLabnrTSqmdBvcvw0SZGmcEIoLTnYaVVVzwylCUK6vVWkoR5he-mbaUvJwH7F18rWEPOUNfZgq0U475PQBU8K7KENyzS9bb0ZHEILdYPEhoGWSh-1j8N2l2Vik/s200/willem+seriuos.jpg" width="163" /></a>pre-Thanksgiving dinner (shrimp creole) with close friends to Turkey Day itself. I have a general list of things to do like getting flowers, ironing napkins and picking up the turkey. (That has to wait until my mom can walk into the butcher shop with me and hear the guys behind the counter call out, “Hi, girls.”) There’s a list of what to do each day between now and Thanksgiving - we’ll be picking out a dressing recipe Monday morning, if you want to offer your opinion. I have two grocery lists, one for this Friday and one for next Monday, both of which are works in progress. Finally, I’ve drawn up a list of things to put off until after Thanksgiving, like planning Christmas. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0izXw_YwlGpbNTAHZlSvt_R-zRNWav1HrUlK9DpLVHHfgZPOkmtOQfCuUDxxW-v3Uofv2Cn5_rZl-bIrfqDI1W08krHyNiNTIYtejARRpj2vIOo20eRz5dYFwjfDniGQz2d7pP2Nwhcg/s1600/mama+smurf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>All of these lists are in a steno pad which I probably should chain to my wrist like a briefcase full of diamonds. I had my second pre-holiday brush with disaster when I was pulling out of Kroger’s parking lot and happened to see my steno pad still sitting in the baby seat of the grocery cart. Whew! If I lose my lists at <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0izXw_YwlGpbNTAHZlSvt_R-zRNWav1HrUlK9DpLVHHfgZPOkmtOQfCuUDxxW-v3Uofv2Cn5_rZl-bIrfqDI1W08krHyNiNTIYtejARRpj2vIOo20eRz5dYFwjfDniGQz2d7pP2Nwhcg/s1600/mama+smurf.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0izXw_YwlGpbNTAHZlSvt_R-zRNWav1HrUlK9DpLVHHfgZPOkmtOQfCuUDxxW-v3Uofv2Cn5_rZl-bIrfqDI1W08krHyNiNTIYtejARRpj2vIOo20eRz5dYFwjfDniGQz2d7pP2Nwhcg/s1600/mama+smurf.jpg" /></a>this time of year, the holidays are toast. In case you’re wondering, my first pre-holiday disaster happened that same day, just before I entered Kroger’s, when I discovered that a BIC pen had blown up in my car spreading ink all over me, my cell phone and the car. Ink is surprisingly sticky and a little goes a long way. Naturally, the soap dispenser in the restroom was empty so I had to go up and down the grocery aisles looking like Mama Smurf. When I got to the check-out counter, a cashier took pity on me and offered me her bottle of hand sanitizer which did an outstanding job on my hands and face. They say bad things come in threes so I don’t know what’s next, but I’m definitely not driving Paul’s car this month. (If you’re wondering why, read my October post “Why Can’t We Be Friends.”)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLhdJIT_619_94ZNfokrRRNyTGUdJR38qAh7CQTq4Z9aoF7cPrWswIWkQKuzqG0A0ouK1Or02eeYjBAiKwik99Pp76dPlq4X7hdfuLurhEmLUziHT4pDFISargLlBel93AkcdWPfMWllw/s1600/willem+smile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>My holiday list-making might sound a little compulsive, but lists give me peace of mind. First, when I write something down, I don’t have to wonder whether or not I’ll remember it in five minutes, although I might wonder where I put my notepad. Second, I’m less likely to have to send someone out (or go myself) at the last minute for chicken broth or cinnamon sticks. A long time ago, I stopped having the dream about turning up for an exam, being unable to find the classroom and, in fact, being totally unprepared for the test, plus having no clothes on. Now, in my anxiety dreams, I am expecting dinner guests in half an hour, have no idea<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLhdJIT_619_94ZNfokrRRNyTGUdJR38qAh7CQTq4Z9aoF7cPrWswIWkQKuzqG0A0ouK1Or02eeYjBAiKwik99Pp76dPlq4X7hdfuLurhEmLUziHT4pDFISargLlBel93AkcdWPfMWllw/s1600/willem+smile.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLhdJIT_619_94ZNfokrRRNyTGUdJR38qAh7CQTq4Z9aoF7cPrWswIWkQKuzqG0A0ouK1Or02eeYjBAiKwik99Pp76dPlq4X7hdfuLurhEmLUziHT4pDFISargLlBel93AkcdWPfMWllw/s200/willem+smile.jpg" width="162" /></a> what I am going to serve and, in fact, have no food in the house, plus I can’t find a bathroom. Lists keep my nightmare from becoming a reality. And, finally, after I check everything off my lists, I know I can relax with my family and friends which is the best and most important part of any holiday.<br />
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Let’s face it - with or without lists, the holiday season can be hectic, demanding, and excessive and it’s not always easy to keep the focus on fun. In the next six weeks, if you lose track of the fun because you’re up to your elbows in cookie dough or onions to be chopped or shrimp to be peeled and you wonder “Why am I doing this?” click the link below for some answers from The Designated Celebrator. (You can read this piece but, if you have time, click “Listen.” After the NPR introduction, you’ll hear the author read it herself, which is much better.) <br />
<a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6741965">http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6741965</a><br />
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P.S. Have a Happy Thanksgiving!!<br />
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P.P.S. Thanks to Megan for the photos of our grandson, Willem, who is too young to even lick a drumstick this yearJillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12744697432896611110noreply@blogger.com0