tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6599945181751474942024-03-08T03:33:04.550-08:00Minor League Mom Writes...I discuss the humorous quirks of life after menopause, including body changes, long-term marriage, kids and grandkids, workouts, retirement, travel, life as a baseball mom, life as a caregiver, life as an elderly parent, writing, and other oddities.minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.comBlogger323125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-82592702453684958092023-07-11T07:59:00.002-07:002023-07-11T17:37:45.208-07:00Our Summer So Far, 2023<p>May 18 - We return to Massachusetts from Florida</p><p>June 2-3 - We attend husband Charley's college reunion </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhef3vpm7LSWmLRsstVHOgBBaBGNsrnzMzdnQ88NqFKm8pSD6-8jajopqMb-TUIJyc5zo11eVPxaIgvoXRVFABOZ_A0YI9pVT6y9BJ9JzlvHMBeLzucN-ABFB-vpRYPEaLCsvaxE6bL_a33LyQKO8zxnXn6UmpaHcO-arfdhYRThL_8yR4U9jkCQHC7OvU/s320/IMG_1026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhef3vpm7LSWmLRsstVHOgBBaBGNsrnzMzdnQ88NqFKm8pSD6-8jajopqMb-TUIJyc5zo11eVPxaIgvoXRVFABOZ_A0YI9pVT6y9BJ9JzlvHMBeLzucN-ABFB-vpRYPEaLCsvaxE6bL_a33LyQKO8zxnXn6UmpaHcO-arfdhYRThL_8yR4U9jkCQHC7OvU/w200-h150/IMG_1026.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>June 4 - We attend granddaughter's graduation from high school</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapnX1eHBXG2ROioDVccoCQk3QqHWXJXu1FM5GDlqKoZmVbV4WE6x1ixahGg6UDy6pWbVbp0BroIv-2SaJ0ZZrs1NfLIGcdnKR_MUViJgN3kdoijizxx7NLXjpTy3teee2wB9OnxI8RclhTqfH3jf0E_ueZcz0VCSBVUFMvgnUYlekKADmamCYJXrLSpc/s320/IMG_1043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapnX1eHBXG2ROioDVccoCQk3QqHWXJXu1FM5GDlqKoZmVbV4WE6x1ixahGg6UDy6pWbVbp0BroIv-2SaJ0ZZrs1NfLIGcdnKR_MUViJgN3kdoijizxx7NLXjpTy3teee2wB9OnxI8RclhTqfH3jf0E_ueZcz0VCSBVUFMvgnUYlekKADmamCYJXrLSpc/w200-h150/IMG_1043.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>June 18 - We return rested and energized from a vacation to our favorite </p><p> spot off the coast of Italy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5O2B4ZbmwnuFk1Jl0e32VNGnWM9cDhSuKQnSH4JnZYuEKURtD9Xeqd5MZTZbce5Li0RYAheeDgz1E2gQ9seHyNWv6cF7A-Dp4iG-eQzSY4WPxrbtsw_zKUlgllkHH6MfyjfFq8ZmpAMhJdZxHR8yXB2GPsVLsZMlkQI2cxk8PiyM7dLqF0z-i_ixxMiM/s320/IMG_1137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5O2B4ZbmwnuFk1Jl0e32VNGnWM9cDhSuKQnSH4JnZYuEKURtD9Xeqd5MZTZbce5Li0RYAheeDgz1E2gQ9seHyNWv6cF7A-Dp4iG-eQzSY4WPxrbtsw_zKUlgllkHH6MfyjfFq8ZmpAMhJdZxHR8yXB2GPsVLsZMlkQI2cxk8PiyM7dLqF0z-i_ixxMiM/w200-h150/IMG_1137.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p>June 25 - Charley's brother passes away after a lengthy illness.</p><p>June 29-30 - Services for Charley's brother</p><p>July 1 - I begin shopping for our July 4th cookout. The number attending</p><p> exploded from the usual twelve to forty-something, including </p><p> those who said, "We'll just stop by for a drink." The kitchen</p><p> island transforms into a buffet table, and I rummage the</p><p> Christmas Tree Shop (which declared bankruptcy) for </p><p> red-white-blue melamine plates. I find them for $1.00 each.</p><p> I hit BJ's for liquor, quantities of non-alcoholic drinks, and </p><p> perishables. I begin cooking the freezables - cranberry/orange </p><p> breads, strawberry/ rhubarb and apple pies, tomato tarts </p><p> (tomatoes drained but tarts end up mushy. Will stick to the quiche</p><p> recipes in the future.)</p><p>July 2 - The weather forecast turns ugly for July 4th, with thunderstorms </p><p> predicted at 4:00 pm for the start of the party. We decide to </p><p> forget the badminton and Corn Hole games and set up inside, </p><p> where the a.c. can handle the humidity. Charley's sister Kathy </p><p> and her husband Norm drop off three small tables and chairs </p><p> and help remove our furniture. Frank, who watches our house</p><p> while we're in Florida, and his partner Tony drop off an 8' table, </p><p> coolers, and more folding chairs. Our living room accommo-</p><p> dates the large table and our dining room transforms into a cafe, </p><p> with the three small tables, coolers, and a table for drinks. </p><p> We set up our drop-leaf and game tables in the family room and</p><p> cover all with July 4th tablecloths and centerpieces supplied </p><p> by a friend who's attending.</p><p>July 3 - I begin making devilled eggs, baked beans, salads, dips, carrot </p><p> cake. All else (except the meats) donated by invitees. I go to </p><p> bed reviewing mental lists. Not asleep at 11:00 p.m. and go to the</p><p> bathroom. </p><p> Toilet won't flush! No water from the faucets!</p><p> I wake Charley who says, "It couldn't be the well with all the rain</p><p> we've had. Will call Frank early tomorrow. Don't flush the toilet!"</p><p>July 4 - Frank appears by 8:00 a.m. with two appetizers and says he's</p><p> already called the well compnay who will install a new pump</p><p> (ours dead after almost 40 years) on the morning of the 5th.</p><p> Charley suggests we call all invited guests to cancel.</p><p> "Not neceessary!" Frank says. "Let's ask your neighbor </p><p> across the street (invited to the party) if we can hook a hose up</p><p> to their well (no town water at this end of town). Charley and</p><p> Frank receive permission from our neighbors. Frank heads to </p><p> Home Depot (open on the 4th) for a 400' hose, which he and </p><p> Tony attach between the two houses. We have clear, plentiful</p><p> water by noon!!</p><p> Thunder and lightning start at 4:00 as guests are pouring in</p><p> through the garage and front hall. Son Todd, Charley, and Norm</p><p> cook dozens of hamburgers on the outdoor grill under </p><p> umbrellas. I cook hot dogs on the cooktop grill in the kitchen.</p><p> Everyone gets to know each other really well without a </p><p> clue we'd run out of water! The drinks are flowing.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4mGOIIXm4rB7hoJuZrt6PxH737tjivkKosa7ppeVl4dE2K0YKkJ_LEdeySpkh92N9UMQste3P0CXMNRpqsgtMFineO0Rx_rh7xrlVb0I_HWA_AQn-66dkNUP7h9NWUBUBmws9BSzVZztCmZFJH26FhZ2cUrdMQi3Mmi82wSVEcbQNf3Xx2tGMw2wpQWY/s640/Cooking%20in%20the%20rain%20July%204,%202023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4mGOIIXm4rB7hoJuZrt6PxH737tjivkKosa7ppeVl4dE2K0YKkJ_LEdeySpkh92N9UMQste3P0CXMNRpqsgtMFineO0Rx_rh7xrlVb0I_HWA_AQn-66dkNUP7h9NWUBUBmws9BSzVZztCmZFJH26FhZ2cUrdMQi3Mmi82wSVEcbQNf3Xx2tGMw2wpQWY/w150-h200/Cooking%20in%20the%20rain%20July%204,%202023.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>July 5 - By noon we have a new pump in the well, the kitchen is clean, </p><p> and donated items have been picked up. </p><p> Charley and I head for bed.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-89829040567638267382023-05-01T16:37:00.000-07:002023-05-01T16:37:53.010-07:00Aging Gracefully (or Not)<p><span style="font-size: large;">My body has become a punching bag of late. It never used to be this way. I have never felt clumsy or unco-ordinated. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In high school and college I was a varsity cheerleader, an activity I survived without injury. I participated in an amateur dance troupe, again without injury. My husband Charley and I skied the icy mountains of New England's Killington and Mad River Glen with no ill effects except tired muscles. Emboldened, we skied St. Anton, Austria,</span> <span style="font-size: large;">and despite windmill-like tumbles down a trail one day, we emerged unscathed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yet my forearms are now a patchwork of purple bruises, my legs a network of scars. Within the past year, I tripped on my own sneaker during a tennis match and rolled across the clay. Wiping myself off, I hid my embarassment by examining my left knee, where blood bubbled over the embedded clay granules. The scar healed in a gray half-dollar.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My right leg, not to be outdone, buckled against a low rusted metal fence hidden in the pachysandra, as I knelt to pull weeds. Fortunately, I'd had a tetanus shot within the prescribed ten years. The freebie I received was a two-inch jagged scar on my shin...which soon elongated into a snake-like five-inch scar, the additional three inches the result of a stubborn eliptical machine which refused to stop as I stepped off behind it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I received my latest badge of dishonor during a shopping trip to a very large Macy's store. I was pushing some tops across a rack crammed with black, white, sunshine yellow, and lime green sitting on a table, when the entire rack began tilting in slow motion toward me. There was a clatter of metal on the floor as the upright stanchion of the display fell apart and the merchandise fell into my lap and against my forearm. The rep setting up the display rushed around the jumble toward me. "I filled it too full," she admitted. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">No kidding?!!? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Are you hurt?" she asked, examining my arm. "Let's go to the office, We can get medical help and file a report." </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I followed three steps behind, holding my right arm in the air as beads of blood bubbled up out of the rip where my skin lay backwards. The surrounding area of my forearm looked like eggplant peels, with bruises blossoming around the laceration. Both hands sported matching aubergine buds where I'd tried to prevent the rack from falling into me - nothing new, since the slightest knock to my limbs had been producing the same purple glow in my "golden" years.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After the Lagerfeld rep dropped me in a chair in the office, she explained what had happened to the manager and took off to clean up her mess. The manager requested medical help and followed the rep down the hallway. I didn't think to request a gift card as compensation, and none had been offered. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I waited fifteen minutes for a very overweight man carrying a first-aid kit. He donned surgical gloves, tore open the wrapper of an astringent pad, and handed it to me. Then he helped apply two band-aids. "Please tell me what happened, miss, so I can write a report." I gave as concise a version as possible, blood still trickling down the arm I held in the air, the manager still in absentia. Several minutes later, I headed toward the elevator, wiping away the trickle with a Macy's paper towel. The tear healed within ten days with antibiotic cream and non-stick bandages.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have begun adding Collagen to my juice to strengthen my hair, muscles, bones, and paper-thin skin. I have reduced my intake of Omega 3 fatty acids (blood thinners to reduce inflammation), since "bruising...is just an unfortunate side effect of a medication that is providing important protection from stroke." (My Mercy online technical support for non-medical questions)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I could stay home in my bubble. But an island vacation sounds more inviting.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5YNinAuj94Van4kOZXAr76mrbcNrNsZqMXiRPjhxXwnIAi-Vl_SMkmTV_R4iumhTmCsef8Q-C7316IKhhQ9P8onTdh-3VgdjvKuPraOYc-HuqA3a9vmXJcW_EbqUS3RaEaFjHatVQHx-n5EGtEYjpl6lN31nxnPlY5S5_cbEHw-EDzZfbgGEOawY/s320/2023%20April%20Macy's%20injury%20%232.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5YNinAuj94Van4kOZXAr76mrbcNrNsZqMXiRPjhxXwnIAi-Vl_SMkmTV_R4iumhTmCsef8Q-C7316IKhhQ9P8onTdh-3VgdjvKuPraOYc-HuqA3a9vmXJcW_EbqUS3RaEaFjHatVQHx-n5EGtEYjpl6lN31nxnPlY5S5_cbEHw-EDzZfbgGEOawY/s1600/2023%20April%20Macy's%20injury%20%232.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4_MX-P7AmURJKnJALamg2WWJiG5LbME0DNwOYr5U8kj486W61C2q81z-4ZqyDyt6EhiEaHIKBqoHvXJg9qLVbero1uYBITeNaHTriiuep28gbNP-RphfjoNLGrcINPzNkOe5VweRErkn99JHqYmZGpiUaEu6Y0ufUU70eaid-0lgpoTc_NjPbsxjq/s1600/View%20from%20Key%20West%20over%20Sunset%20Key.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4_MX-P7AmURJKnJALamg2WWJiG5LbME0DNwOYr5U8kj486W61C2q81z-4ZqyDyt6EhiEaHIKBqoHvXJg9qLVbero1uYBITeNaHTriiuep28gbNP-RphfjoNLGrcINPzNkOe5VweRErkn99JHqYmZGpiUaEu6Y0ufUU70eaid-0lgpoTc_NjPbsxjq/s320/View%20from%20Key%20West%20over%20Sunset%20Key.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-32120736852542654792023-01-24T08:06:00.000-08:002023-01-24T08:06:37.575-08:00A New Year - New Expectations<span style="font-size: large;">The end of 2022 couldn't have come soon enough for Charley and me. After three healthy years during COVID mutations, five shots, hundreds of masks, and isolation from anyone suspected of carrying any virus, we succumbed between Christmas '22 and New Year's '23. The Christmas dinner we enjoyed resulted in three of us testing positive within days.</span><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">After hibernation in bed for several days,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAaV284Bnb38sQOE3292lpWjJ-8_NyvsXBLJHxP11S89h2PPfzpWisYuBPoU-a60qHi2I9jW1zN8Km5vqdcUrF8kdMm77DirBwkgVgT27dpa-kpWIUnhmgyqhO0CWGmbJP4ZfWJaC8CSz-W9rnnBfZP7AJEMvWOl5fok3r_9S-zgvxJ1HTWaY5KvC/s314/Sleepwalker.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="201" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAaV284Bnb38sQOE3292lpWjJ-8_NyvsXBLJHxP11S89h2PPfzpWisYuBPoU-a60qHi2I9jW1zN8Km5vqdcUrF8kdMm77DirBwkgVgT27dpa-kpWIUnhmgyqhO0CWGmbJP4ZfWJaC8CSz-W9rnnBfZP7AJEMvWOl5fok3r_9S-zgvxJ1HTWaY5KvC/s1600/Sleepwalker.gif" width="201" /></a></div><br /> with energy only to drag ourselves to the bathroom, a slow rise in our desire to eat or brush our teeth followed in succeeding days, during which we lost our fever, chills, swollen glands, sinus pains, and sore throats. We were among the fortunate who had no major respiratory issues and had doctors overseeing our care via teleconferences.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbzjsszGaB9WT9iZD6KrTQMMtZQ09mGFQMS9KcsNVuIRVE1V9ZeWKbOudUAs42LbwyLBfNSekAtbps4jpnSQIYVjgH1DKZOQRlUDNdT7uo7P-XyYLb5H_xb5wmfODHJFDFDngnIVR_hwmCg_m_VcSDoGlMwAVDyWNfzmnUxvkn17odg_BgRYIGe3fV/s320/Corona%20Virus%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbzjsszGaB9WT9iZD6KrTQMMtZQ09mGFQMS9KcsNVuIRVE1V9ZeWKbOudUAs42LbwyLBfNSekAtbps4jpnSQIYVjgH1DKZOQRlUDNdT7uo7P-XyYLb5H_xb5wmfODHJFDFDngnIVR_hwmCg_m_VcSDoGlMwAVDyWNfzmnUxvkn17odg_BgRYIGe3fV/s1600/Corona%20Virus%208.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;">I love to make plans, to have a "to do" agenda each day. I thrive on goals and accomplishments, as small as they may be in retirement - experimenting with a new recipe, winning a tennis match, or outlining a new blog or book.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8pq4gku2c3Fr_ksQgDycgbMkZ7JemHvIqB4jUfha0QvUC_wy2vkJkSFjWx_Dozq8szg4N0bXjyauWAIFF6QvwNf_px9Hoq9qvjvVPpnk9ap9lC8kIgWN4ey0fhZowSkZNqNV4pkyb3Zy2kJEehTZp84Fb30nL-bNP28RxTXT1RmTQqzcxcM9d4Y7L/s2048/Fruit%20and%20vegetable%20stand%20Forio,%20Ischia.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1459" data-original-width="2048" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8pq4gku2c3Fr_ksQgDycgbMkZ7JemHvIqB4jUfha0QvUC_wy2vkJkSFjWx_Dozq8szg4N0bXjyauWAIFF6QvwNf_px9Hoq9qvjvVPpnk9ap9lC8kIgWN4ey0fhZowSkZNqNV4pkyb3Zy2kJEehTZp84Fb30nL-bNP28RxTXT1RmTQqzcxcM9d4Y7L/s320/Fruit%20and%20vegetable%20stand%20Forio,%20Ischia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />What's changed since our COVID experience? Everything! I now look forward to a "palate-cleansing" year (NY Times, "Realistic Expectations for the Year Ahead" by Alyson Krueger, Jan. 8, 2022, Sunday Styles) - that is, one of calm and simplicity, with expectations in check. I want to move on, while calmly processing each day. Let's face it - we were bombarded by a lot at once: COVID, flu, RSV, mass violence, war in Ukraine, recession, loss of loved ones, etc. Perhaps if I lower the bar on my expectations - for writing a new book, for extensive foreign travel - the risk of disappointment will lower, too. It's a self-defense mechanism in an attempt to simply BE.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">My college roommate, a widow compromised with multiple health issues, experienced eight weeks of COVID symptoms in the fall of '22. On Christmas Eve Day she welcomed her son from California, who that night had to undergo an emergency orthoscopic appendectomy. He flew back to California in pain two days later, after which my friend's dog ingested a pack of sugar-free gum, which necessitated a stomach pump and multiple shots over several days.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The good news...everyone is back to good health!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeGAo10DjtBRp70eXRu14xqt0y6uZvtzLGLPrcI5Y5QIh8LTltsf_bi41ojjM6VzesYQzLphEARlBc9kKErl5sAxjhbMijjn5-bHiNdHz2MZrnBLa_XDMopgDnlzwWnBQxIiuDwNdBrRpu03JZYG01wJnQ2LGdqAph3MXFa-SVt4Kq-H8pa2BSMhBa/s334/pekingese.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="334" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeGAo10DjtBRp70eXRu14xqt0y6uZvtzLGLPrcI5Y5QIh8LTltsf_bi41ojjM6VzesYQzLphEARlBc9kKErl5sAxjhbMijjn5-bHiNdHz2MZrnBLa_XDMopgDnlzwWnBQxIiuDwNdBrRpu03JZYG01wJnQ2LGdqAph3MXFa-SVt4Kq-H8pa2BSMhBa/s320/pekingese.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;">So she and I are processing 2023 together, one day at a time. I will take my time submerging myself in the writing of a new book, whose topic will be the calm and enrichment found in the walks Charley and I have taken around the world.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ0B5z1cwUcYeAk9fmh6xsA_m9SUxLuFzhpGLTLt2VdoqB4oFVF5evzN8jJD8z_FmBXRtT1EyjkxS2UGQZEg3wjURafjXtejME6jB5gNlXdIc7vbAkLJsNSl-fmznBZ64BYOvoNtIzxitKhHqjnIUBBGcVQHwO3ZdBX5CI8-dQ0caki-FGZ7VRAE2R/s1532/P1010333.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1460" data-original-width="1532" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ0B5z1cwUcYeAk9fmh6xsA_m9SUxLuFzhpGLTLt2VdoqB4oFVF5evzN8jJD8z_FmBXRtT1EyjkxS2UGQZEg3wjURafjXtejME6jB5gNlXdIc7vbAkLJsNSl-fmznBZ64BYOvoNtIzxitKhHqjnIUBBGcVQHwO3ZdBX5CI8-dQ0caki-FGZ7VRAE2R/s320/P1010333.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwF_Vq_Kjo2DKqy0z59gRzx_EdZniDK797P9yqAXYDVd5TkMrWgfgeo-IhzAVdvNtbP6RKZRaPWjhGHCxubWMWtyM_C4d_gcfwoqXsZg3thyDNtdDHsna9A2J233S6IigPA-WVEyAoh50Q9ETZyl7aJOr_Ss04FHfXpmsvPXU31TIfmqGYDS4yVJa/s2048/Charley%20with%20great%20horned.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1803" data-original-width="2048" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMwF_Vq_Kjo2DKqy0z59gRzx_EdZniDK797P9yqAXYDVd5TkMrWgfgeo-IhzAVdvNtbP6RKZRaPWjhGHCxubWMWtyM_C4d_gcfwoqXsZg3thyDNtdDHsna9A2J233S6IigPA-WVEyAoh50Q9ETZyl7aJOr_Ss04FHfXpmsvPXU31TIfmqGYDS4yVJa/s320/Charley%20with%20great%20horned.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijg8Y42PW35cNF7__QMjwDFBn7p1h48objEAc7GumUqYDMZUB7AIrQRYAkAFWWsmkgRus-6gcpxPMWGChudb1tHt5tJwTKjbJ1V8j_82iVhVbI19HJVr-r9_slk1JoQB5nNwWUv4Wq_YYxuR37A_HGicX6w7ct3Ep3jC3YlAjRypMuTHvPJPNBOhE4/s980/P6190072.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="924" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijg8Y42PW35cNF7__QMjwDFBn7p1h48objEAc7GumUqYDMZUB7AIrQRYAkAFWWsmkgRus-6gcpxPMWGChudb1tHt5tJwTKjbJ1V8j_82iVhVbI19HJVr-r9_slk1JoQB5nNwWUv4Wq_YYxuR37A_HGicX6w7ct3Ep3jC3YlAjRypMuTHvPJPNBOhE4/s320/P6190072.JPG" width="302" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyM6DEFf7lplBYwISojCSTG4TBLGR5-d2uhjKXRbMQcqtmir6mW3VpmPvtIDU6L1dK0YSbhbjppbkmKX_CIAQ-OTE6QfWb3M9Prr8Ky-cDQyhW2XQcXWMNJyjk8LYhngSfINEEjnNLmng5VSbDunl0bpezqcfcpngzTBerZJsuMpN0zfOwIaTDmuJo/s320/Overlooking%20Forio%20%20Ischia.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyM6DEFf7lplBYwISojCSTG4TBLGR5-d2uhjKXRbMQcqtmir6mW3VpmPvtIDU6L1dK0YSbhbjppbkmKX_CIAQ-OTE6QfWb3M9Prr8Ky-cDQyhW2XQcXWMNJyjk8LYhngSfINEEjnNLmng5VSbDunl0bpezqcfcpngzTBerZJsuMpN0zfOwIaTDmuJo/s1600/Overlooking%20Forio%20%20Ischia.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggSCzc7mob4XnPJsAia54tOmU71mbHFZGsghp0FXuH6zxCNoosToVWYDiCmA6jJOb0XM3AXP1UWi6eeW0ZOXQjtstz86UTg-Db2qAxxzgoflwyI6holqWbXwS4KGuwp1RO9-COo0OaQUjLeMaYbJA4JSbS0RjBnMPYXRBK8Q1HXaBtS9hjzlZxZ0H9/s1600/Best%20shot.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggSCzc7mob4XnPJsAia54tOmU71mbHFZGsghp0FXuH6zxCNoosToVWYDiCmA6jJOb0XM3AXP1UWi6eeW0ZOXQjtstz86UTg-Db2qAxxzgoflwyI6holqWbXwS4KGuwp1RO9-COo0OaQUjLeMaYbJA4JSbS0RjBnMPYXRBK8Q1HXaBtS9hjzlZxZ0H9/s320/Best%20shot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoKrvTfSRN08dhjYVh6n6Mtw1G8WUI5DoGKFfyIRh4DIVudy3ZymkIaXllJdb1cS3Av-SfAM-xXv4cQbp8KBHcJWUpB1RnYh65ds_MYBHnu5LacjIDPVeAptvO_25sROL9RWJiyeOpeLTnSs07lwZio6cM9jBT6ryRf9H2iA3-JkdjYZjcbqi7vqaz/s1600/Monet's%20Giverny.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoKrvTfSRN08dhjYVh6n6Mtw1G8WUI5DoGKFfyIRh4DIVudy3ZymkIaXllJdb1cS3Av-SfAM-xXv4cQbp8KBHcJWUpB1RnYh65ds_MYBHnu5LacjIDPVeAptvO_25sROL9RWJiyeOpeLTnSs07lwZio6cM9jBT6ryRf9H2iA3-JkdjYZjcbqi7vqaz/s320/Monet's%20Giverny.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> I'll face the reality that awaits me every day, correct what I can, and accept what comes.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Welcome, 2023!</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-29018972914373531282022-12-14T08:19:00.000-08:002022-12-14T08:19:50.409-08:00An Imaginary Christmas Letter from a Florida Condo President<p> <span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Association Members,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Happy Holidays from your President and the Board of Directors. We are hoping for a bright New Year!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtULnKTKgrj4q0zUXaFllFcAm3GfikS2wPqqVHbdD-naKareZ9bJjvXCH0wH0_GKeFIe-2hhnfvfXMFu31YlGEHUxUOBsYlgEZtoLaSLd-LzXl9YN9RM_yMDYIFt4d46sMpo_8luKGHnfBSnU2_hIujcCjE_w1wqMevc75_BZ_R6UD9czY1iia2kgm/s2048/4001%20No.%20Ocean%20Condo%20002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtULnKTKgrj4q0zUXaFllFcAm3GfikS2wPqqVHbdD-naKareZ9bJjvXCH0wH0_GKeFIe-2hhnfvfXMFu31YlGEHUxUOBsYlgEZtoLaSLd-LzXl9YN9RM_yMDYIFt4d46sMpo_8luKGHnfBSnU2_hIujcCjE_w1wqMevc75_BZ_R6UD9czY1iia2kgm/w432-h324/4001%20No.%20Ocean%20Condo%20002.jpg" width="432" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As you know, we have had a difficult 2022. The roof leaks that began in tropical storms this summer have been remedied with an entirely new roof which, fortunately, was completed before the storm of the century in November. Roof repair was not budgeted until 2025, but the emergency assessment covered most of the cost and our insurance policy covered the remainder.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The garage floor was painted over the summer. The result was squealing tires and skid marks, as some of your vehicles slid across the garage. The floor has been completely repainted and there have been no further incidents involving cars sliding into one another. The second emergency assessment covered the cost of repainting. However, two of you have sued the association.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The pavers on the driveway were cleaned and resealed under budget. However, the storm of the century in November dislodged some of them. The compay is so busy that they have yet to repair the holes. We've installed neon cones to prevent any damage to vehicles. Please practice making "S" turns in the garage, before proceeding up the driveway.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The air conditioning units on the roof, as many of you know, took direct hits in that storm. The one unit that blew off landed in our neighbor, the Sea Cove's, office, with a resulting lawsuit. Fortunately, no-one was injured. Insurance companies are "talking."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Some of you might have noticed a different "look" to our landscaping. It is the result of neglect for two months, during which our contractor did not show up and all attempts to locate the owner were futile. We have hired a new landscaper, Green Design. They will be slightly more expensive, with a resulting minimal increase in your quarterly fees. The Board will follow up with a letter of explanation to all homeowners. We have also hired a detective agency to find the previous contractor. The cost will be covered in the increased quarterly fees. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Finally, I'd like to compliment our new manager, Mr. Howe, for the spirit in which he decorated the lobby for the holidays. There was a glow in the entry we've never had before, due to the multitude of colored lights. Some of you requested Mr. Howe remove half of the decorations, especially the gingerbread houses, which were attracting ants. I conveyed this wish to Mr. Howe, who removed almost everything and was despondent until the leak occurred from the plumbing fixtures in the apartment above the lobby. We could have had gingerbread batter spreading across the floor, if the houses had remained. Mr. Howe will return half of the decorations for credit. The Board has vetoed all further expenditures, including the replacement of the wallpaper that was ruined in the lobby.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Effective immediately, I am resigning as your President. I will be out of the country imdefinitely and thank those of you who supported me. Peace be with you all!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Sincerely, </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ann Beckwith, President</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-38903890071844511862022-11-15T10:23:00.002-08:002022-11-15T10:45:02.689-08:00My "Do-Not" Lists<p> <br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL_9iujJ1ujI1I1_Z5j9STzv8zZMqEJgOjS8EIfatFaS_gMJI8Dd55BRM-hvu_96HFMpc0eSjr60ANGkou1nnovHxI6VMA2vAZHgVS3wCXXGVdXfK3Q0QwvDvo_ZACnjS7P6O5BizZObzOThrhGb9KaLXH7zP4WXX97j2BLh3v0DNimUHuTuV__4IV/s1088/IMG_1498.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="1088" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL_9iujJ1ujI1I1_Z5j9STzv8zZMqEJgOjS8EIfatFaS_gMJI8Dd55BRM-hvu_96HFMpc0eSjr60ANGkou1nnovHxI6VMA2vAZHgVS3wCXXGVdXfK3Q0QwvDvo_ZACnjS7P6O5BizZObzOThrhGb9KaLXH7zP4WXX97j2BLh3v0DNimUHuTuV__4IV/s320/IMG_1498.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcXr3-E1vZybcB5Nkz-Bmnc8e9o_fkG78cHqiZyaRWrTTRPBqbMnKefWeUVczd4iNeYQ87Ata72sOYcKCaQ3_nY5YepZ_d2o8cs1n-WgRfnnj-TLR6GwjrabOJClnO8-nYScAJpDyYXZCs3pN44f_lx5RP6ebxqDEREfupYwb2QeKlwLSNp0U6hKb/s2048/More%20breakfast%20at%20Mezzatorre.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibcXr3-E1vZybcB5Nkz-Bmnc8e9o_fkG78cHqiZyaRWrTTRPBqbMnKefWeUVczd4iNeYQ87Ata72sOYcKCaQ3_nY5YepZ_d2o8cs1n-WgRfnnj-TLR6GwjrabOJClnO8-nYScAJpDyYXZCs3pN44f_lx5RP6ebxqDEREfupYwb2QeKlwLSNp0U6hKb/s320/More%20breakfast%20at%20Mezzatorre.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfNUKc_sOWh6bQLV6h3uhb6yzS6MhKB7gPvWgreGGxlSsY2DQpuE_sV8grzyj1Nq8os3AfTJEO1hP9MSyq12pXmXZLhdbfIrN5v_jmrG0dPR2x__O8hBAYOF4QdBpmeyFIDmFmlodPHFRL3LUKcbcFTARkDogONoAl12eKBVOJBUDn7quRFTcrLSa2/s604/Limoncello%20bottle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="403" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfNUKc_sOWh6bQLV6h3uhb6yzS6MhKB7gPvWgreGGxlSsY2DQpuE_sV8grzyj1Nq8os3AfTJEO1hP9MSyq12pXmXZLhdbfIrN5v_jmrG0dPR2x__O8hBAYOF4QdBpmeyFIDmFmlodPHFRL3LUKcbcFTARkDogONoAl12eKBVOJBUDn7quRFTcrLSa2/s320/Limoncello%20bottle.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><br /><br /><br />After age sixty, there were things I could still wear (but really shouldn't have):<p></p><p> 1. Skirts too tight or too short. Mini's were out. No-one's bumpy knees or calves knotted with varicose veins were attractive. Likewise, the rolls around my gut couldn't be hidden by anything tight-fitting unless it was a corset, which aren't produced anymore.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhImjA-u17EyKUut7lgU_Xbq-l3EMYcyxpRL5lesF2lxc7E7LwPL19j_M4G3An93IdU_vE9w453qoh4ltHrwbH6-blcmKTsUcVpbKOYa7MZJr3CcQ5CXN0j5-byeZqgZXnU75tiuFOavg-kUBBjl93XriugE2t6ymowiWUBijM3VWnfaUzs-BTNaljy/s640/drag%20race%206.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhImjA-u17EyKUut7lgU_Xbq-l3EMYcyxpRL5lesF2lxc7E7LwPL19j_M4G3An93IdU_vE9w453qoh4ltHrwbH6-blcmKTsUcVpbKOYa7MZJr3CcQ5CXN0j5-byeZqgZXnU75tiuFOavg-kUBBjl93XriugE2t6ymowiWUBijM3VWnfaUzs-BTNaljy/s320/drag%20race%206.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p> 2. Plunging necklines. Wrinkled or leathery cleavage wasn't an asset.</p><p> 3. Red dresses. I looked like a male cardinal on steroids.</p><p> 4. Anything that had "pouf" in its name. Why did I want to look as though I had additional cellulite around my thighs or hips?</p><p> 5. Sleeveless tops, unless exercising. The flaccid "angel wings" hanging below my arms were hideous.</p><p> 6. Pants with pleats around the waist - added ten pounds!</p><p> 7. Pencil-thin jeans. My muscular calves were bound so tight they cramped.</p><p> 8. Pants with wide cuffs. Heels got caught in them (who wants to tumble?) and they got filthy as soon as I sat down.</p><p> 9. Heels that were pointy or over three inches high. My bunions screamed and the formerly dislocated disc in my back warned me, "You'll be in therapy again!"</p><p>10. Anything that didn't have an underwire in the bra (as in swimsuits). No such thing as perky, pointy boobs anymore!</p><p><br /></p><p>After age seventy, there are things I THINK I'm ok with (but really am not):</p><p> 1. Making an introduction. I may have no clue what my best friend's name is, even if I'm staring at her!</p><p> 2. Walking into a room without having written down why I'm entering. I may have to leave and re-enter to remember what I'm there for.</p><p> 3. Spending all morning looking for my glasses. They're usually on the top of my head.</p><p> 4. Eating anything with garlic. The reek lasts well beyond several applications of toothpaste and mouthwash.</p><p> 5. Removing my shoes for any reason in front of anyone but my husband. The bunions are grotesque! At least at the beach I can bury them in sand.</p><p> 6. Getting out on the dance floor to join twenty-somethings in their latest groove. Especially true for limbo contests! My body refuses to become a pretzel.</p><p> 7. Eating any food in any quantity. Ditto for liquor.</p><p> 8. Skipping the flu or Covid shots or forgetting to take my eight vitamins and cholesterol pill each night.</p><p> 9. Travelling alone. I'm not looking for any kind of adventure without a guide to rescue me.</p><p>10 . Signing up as a chaperone for a teenage grandchild's class trip. Child will never speak to me again.</p><p>11. Applying make-up that will cover blemishes and bruises. Must be scraped with a putty knife!</p><p>12. Applying mascara that looks like cat's whiskers except they've relocated around my eyes. Or wearing those old cat's-eye glasses!</p><p>13. Going through a buffet line more than once. There wouldn't be enough Tums in my nightstand to get me through the night.</p><p>14. Wearing stockings. They eventually sag around the ankles and they're sooo 70's.</p><p>15. Trying to copy Jennifer Aniston's waist-skimming or feathered hair styles. Ear-length is the asolute max that won't blow into my eyes (or glasses) and make me look like a wanna-be 60's hippie.</p><p>16. Attempting to set up anything electronic unless my grandchildren have already pre-programmed it.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_QejG8UhTkWaCLuNf2kTBXhWq7NnMXQT6wyF-pnrvxy6HiPNXCS6a56tUQjqmzYFDXGbZ6BwDm7-8BtDsc3DStTvB4QNM9n2MFMXlhJRM7XoFiV9aay0JV2oGez-7jKrYF-YGvzqzRyw-xTHCHxX19NbyVyZABS-X7nFCHcQaCbnS8rcWhLbFy12/s4608/Iphone%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_QejG8UhTkWaCLuNf2kTBXhWq7NnMXQT6wyF-pnrvxy6HiPNXCS6a56tUQjqmzYFDXGbZ6BwDm7-8BtDsc3DStTvB4QNM9n2MFMXlhJRM7XoFiV9aay0JV2oGez-7jKrYF-YGvzqzRyw-xTHCHxX19NbyVyZABS-X7nFCHcQaCbnS8rcWhLbFy12/s320/Iphone%203.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>17. Attending a grandchild's sporting event and cheering so loudly the opposite team turns to stare at the old lady, while my grandchild's team whispers behind their hands, "Is that your grandma?"<br /><p></p><p>18. Trying to sleep through the night (unless you're a man). Herbal and green teas, sleep aids, reading till midnight, bathtub jets, bath oils, and sleep masks do not perform as advertised! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn2eElIEQhl-DxwaY5eB99BzTCl2g6Z51vL9silWZS0NlmL_jx15n-dtztt8cR7qA6GPDUTfFSKwD946HiinzZHjKFH3hsQp4wZO7q4mFrjgQQPBEOe-rOBvbbJ9gqloIrXKy9JUNqKMEKa-cQW3aV7YXo6wjmFzipz4NqicGiO6SX6Ov5KHG47Ge5/s320/Pam.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn2eElIEQhl-DxwaY5eB99BzTCl2g6Z51vL9silWZS0NlmL_jx15n-dtztt8cR7qA6GPDUTfFSKwD946HiinzZHjKFH3hsQp4wZO7q4mFrjgQQPBEOe-rOBvbbJ9gqloIrXKy9JUNqKMEKa-cQW3aV7YXo6wjmFzipz4NqicGiO6SX6Ov5KHG47Ge5/s1600/Pam.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-25442798243411410052022-09-19T16:33:00.000-07:002022-09-19T16:33:10.200-07:00From Black-and-White to Split Screen<p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I rushed home from grammar school along a dirt path behind
the parking lot, through the ravine we called the “snake pit,” up the other
side, to the road in front of our house. The thought of a long slithery black snake lying in wait got me to the macadam in no time. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Our gravel
driveway curved in an “S” around the evergreens my dad had planted
and back over the brook where he’d built the bridge. Mom had already tuned into
the Yankees’ first game of the World Series when I barged through the door, breathless. “Hi, honey! It’s just started,” she said. “Take
off your sweater and give me your lunch box.” She wasn’t really a fan, but she
knew that I, like all my friends in southern Connecticut, was a true believer in the miraculousness of the Yankees.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Our picture was black and white and a little fuzzy. Rabbit ears reached toward the ceiling, but I was grateful to get anything on the
screen. I was in charge of my sister, a toddler who played on the floor at my feet while Mom started supper. Dad soon appeared from the NYC commuter train, and while he prepared a Manhattan cocktail for my Mom and himself, I gave
him a rundown of the game.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcBO45UCyjdXI_wQG4vGUaDL4Z16KDYXMiysHMwEoAqCVj0u8xXrOiMQwuLrbOM_1geOLn8I6TS4MF_TqWfLWjHp9QF-ZNpfigVYidrS2BDTq5Z-GMesT70PnGJrhbcHl9a1YWj6Aznfy1tXbyUFHsXOAsc8VIl-ry4BT2jTB8i5yQeIYFh3OcdO8r/s380/rabbit%20ears.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="265" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcBO45UCyjdXI_wQG4vGUaDL4Z16KDYXMiysHMwEoAqCVj0u8xXrOiMQwuLrbOM_1geOLn8I6TS4MF_TqWfLWjHp9QF-ZNpfigVYidrS2BDTq5Z-GMesT70PnGJrhbcHl9a1YWj6Aznfy1tXbyUFHsXOAsc8VIl-ry4BT2jTB8i5yQeIYFh3OcdO8r/s320/rabbit%20ears.jpg" width="223" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Yankees won the Series, as they always did - one of the
reasons I became a Yankee hater after I married a Red Sox fan from Massachusetts.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We’d been married a year in 1966 when Charley was assigned
to Tan Son Nhut Air Base in Saigon, Viet Nam, during the War. When he returned in ‘67,
we landed in Warner Robins, Georgia. It could have been the moon
– we didn’t care, as long as we were together. For me, it was the moon, landing
there directly from graduate school in NYC, where I'd spent my time while he was away. In Macon County, Georgia, no liquor
was served in public establishments; my junior-high students crossed the street
if a black classmate approached on the same sidewalk; wooden paddles were used
by the assistant principal for discipline; and the laundromat’s window
declared, “Whites Only.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The antenna on our T.V. could only pick up three stations. “The Beverly Hillbillies” was on every single night in living color. We attached tinfoil to the rabbit ears to get a picture and separated
the two, turning them in different directions till we could make out human
figures. “Damn it! The Red Sox have a chance to win the Series!” Charley yelled.
“Get more tinfoil, honey. I’ll keep turning the ears.” We were able to watch the Red Sox lose in seven games to the Cardinals.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBPChetqQXxBbL3VEiExQ-wJ9Dvj_sdWEuS741TtsSvjpcuSF8qKLc2wuGoQhTXqv-nE2Fa8D3OG2pKSNhiKnBZuR8JNfQRBVKAk7uSdDJ90BiliyoXYxZ1P2PGAAFD8lzBP0m6ODfo1tZllLDKLRwGGHb4-lMbgC8aa6OGwZY6vpCdARUzeloECAp/s538/photo%20tinfoil.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="538" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBPChetqQXxBbL3VEiExQ-wJ9Dvj_sdWEuS741TtsSvjpcuSF8qKLc2wuGoQhTXqv-nE2Fa8D3OG2pKSNhiKnBZuR8JNfQRBVKAk7uSdDJ90BiliyoXYxZ1P2PGAAFD8lzBP0m6ODfo1tZllLDKLRwGGHb4-lMbgC8aa6OGwZY6vpCdARUzeloECAp/s320/photo%20tinfoil.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In 1975, we'd settled in Rhode Island and still used rabbit ears with tinfoil, but the
channels were many. The Sox were in game
six of the World Series, down 2-3 to the Reds. Eventually Carlton Fisk hit a
ball that his body language nudged fair, as he left home plate. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s curving, it’s curving,” the announcer yelled. “It hit
the foul pole! It’s a home run! The Red Sox have tied the Series!” Thanks to
the tinfoil, we’d bent our bodies to the right side of the foul pole along with Fisk. Participating in his homer made the upcoming loss to
the Reds easier to swallow.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now we have a cable box, a 70” flat-screen television, splt screens, two remotes, and a device to record so we can watch later. “You have to press the top left white button first,” Charley tells
me, demonstrating. “That will bring in the cable, too. But if it doesn’t, I’ll get the cable company to give us a boost.” Once the wad in the pitcher's mouth and the drool on his beard pop in with living color, we are sitting in the box seats behind home plate.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagl55FU3GCrwUPyQnFqWfMjx9mS7MOAVrKJmAmC0PZ6kpEjd9TOKYMlcLAJfOSU9bsIj-ED0shlyN7nPnEfakLgZhtMp5bSIiloFd5lZ8b9VU-Rp0bceJW8x6JPoIDlCqrcr8JG2hs_JNUw02eRbDyKoVksFSL_ATYuKM2xnqzP-ETjcSseXXqR3_/s1024/big%20screen%20tv.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="718" data-original-width="1024" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagl55FU3GCrwUPyQnFqWfMjx9mS7MOAVrKJmAmC0PZ6kpEjd9TOKYMlcLAJfOSU9bsIj-ED0shlyN7nPnEfakLgZhtMp5bSIiloFd5lZ8b9VU-Rp0bceJW8x6JPoIDlCqrcr8JG2hs_JNUw02eRbDyKoVksFSL_ATYuKM2xnqzP-ETjcSseXXqR3_/s320/big%20screen%20tv.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">After the game, I hit the “Guide” button again to select a
movie. “We don’t get Netflix here in Massachusetts,” Charley said. “We only subscribe
in Florida.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, what channels do we get?” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He hands me the list of channels with
stars next to the ones we subscribe to. There are only three for movies. “Why
don’t we look into getting more movies here? These three never seem to have
anything we’re interested in or we've watched them already.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Charley responds that since we’re only in Massachusetts four-and-a-half months
a year, it would be a waste of money to add more subscriptions. “All that’s
really important are the Sox and Pats,” he says.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> I choose “Pretty Woman” for
the third time.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinG-874PUtYi215XpoBvrfLo6VZCmqDzNpN8mpGJtFg3dKcuyew1AkZMW5gzjxyBF8XN9dxhnqPupNMMaaKgm4SIg3zdyHkME2xuCimgJcgxS2mwoU8tuuwGipQi0mof-tdjjXHNS5EnRbSMT30M-TWNA_9ZXxPYt-zUgJVYQTaRRWze6yxE8a9dZe/s228/Fenway%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="228" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinG-874PUtYi215XpoBvrfLo6VZCmqDzNpN8mpGJtFg3dKcuyew1AkZMW5gzjxyBF8XN9dxhnqPupNMMaaKgm4SIg3zdyHkME2xuCimgJcgxS2mwoU8tuuwGipQi0mof-tdjjXHNS5EnRbSMT30M-TWNA_9ZXxPYt-zUgJVYQTaRRWze6yxE8a9dZe/s1600/Fenway%202022.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-31946768032738890452022-08-23T07:34:00.001-07:002022-08-23T07:43:55.974-07:00My First Year Teaching 1968<p>"Please sit down!" I raised my voice, using my most authoritative "teacher" volume without frightening the rest of the kids seated in front of me. One of my 12-year-olds had gotten up from his desk, refusing to read aloud the paragraph we were dissecting from Hemingway's<i> Old Man and the Sea</i>. </p><p>"Where are you going?" I demanded, heading down the aisle toward him. Fortunately, he didn't have anything metallic pointed at me.</p><p>"Toby, please sit down so we can go on!" By this time, Toby had one of his legs dangling out the awning window cranked open in the sweltering heat of Warner Robins, Georgia. I headed for the phone on the wall.</p><p>"Please send the Vice Principal to my room immediately! One of my students is climbing out the window."</p><p>By the time I finished the second sentence, Toby had managed to flatten his body plank-link through the pane of glass that extended outward and had disengaged himself from our study of Ernest. I heard a thud and crack of branches in the lantana, planted just six feet below and ran to the windows. The orange, yellow, and purple blossoms lay crushed amid the splintered branches on the ground. The back of Toby's blue-jean jacket and pants were visible, running through the parking lot toward the street in front of the school.</p><p>The Vice Principal threw open the door to my classroom. "Toby Mulcahy climbed through the window and is heading across the parking lot!" I shouted.</p><p>The back of his jacket was the last I ever saw of Toby Mulcahy. </p><p>Later that year, my students gathered around a black-and-white television projecting downward from the ceiling. Together we watched coverage of the shooting of Martin Luther King, Jr., in April, 1968, and in June that year, the assasination of Bobby Kennedy. My student reactions were mixed. </p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-4489716264906507942022-07-11T17:09:00.002-07:002022-07-22T11:55:31.078-07:00My Bra Life<p></p><br /> In the early days of our marriage, before I had kids, I could still wear plunging necklines. In fact, I enjoyed the sidelong glances I got walking into a party, sometimes with just pasties under my dress. The bras I bought were lacy blacks, plunging reds, or strapless florals that could be easily unhooked. Sports bras were no problem, their crisscross straps slipping easily over my head. In those days, before arthritis began its slow march into my shoulder joints, I could raise my arms over my head.<p></p><p>Now I walk through department stores, looking at strapless dresses I remember purchasing in a distant past.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIrPXueEmsTm1AYlFnlevzoAzvr6xxJrhMbblk7sXbcdv1DyUg0m3au9HuJpKwz0V3vLGAJemxQPpPmVuYf88JJYAGsdsow01HN1uPAejIT5g0rqsZLTtaIOTs2ZaTtbTh_HsUbLiU7ntPP8FxfQ-6xIIa4Ect3Cm2s2MjlkdFZFGWAljT5fVJJE-/s6720/pexels-a-koolshooter-6975078%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6720" data-original-width="4480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIrPXueEmsTm1AYlFnlevzoAzvr6xxJrhMbblk7sXbcdv1DyUg0m3au9HuJpKwz0V3vLGAJemxQPpPmVuYf88JJYAGsdsow01HN1uPAejIT5g0rqsZLTtaIOTs2ZaTtbTh_HsUbLiU7ntPP8FxfQ-6xIIa4Ect3Cm2s2MjlkdFZFGWAljT5fVJJE-/s320/pexels-a-koolshooter-6975078%202.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyA6AYIh3AlOQXhJXZqarpg7qdYDZTfrA2Py4DVVEY8N3bk1cverLhz2blK_C3mKhaVet8UZryAhCl5NV4et5rYPUCiCsIFZP_dsVGswU8IkmeTf9wsXvQqnc7KNqIY0sOr3R3aMzyFz-UO0AW8dcBM_byz8g-nuf7AKNWyS3FPvgeAd2f7lqikkfA/s1136/IMG_2012.PNG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyA6AYIh3AlOQXhJXZqarpg7qdYDZTfrA2Py4DVVEY8N3bk1cverLhz2blK_C3mKhaVet8UZryAhCl5NV4et5rYPUCiCsIFZP_dsVGswU8IkmeTf9wsXvQqnc7KNqIY0sOr3R3aMzyFz-UO0AW8dcBM_byz8g-nuf7AKNWyS3FPvgeAd2f7lqikkfA/s320/IMG_2012.PNG" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(from Pinterest)</td></tr></tbody></table><br />My favorite was a white with bright pink hydrangeas that had a built-in bra which I didn’t fall out of.<p></p><p>Today I shop for bras that are beige and have heavy-duty straps with underwires that lift and shape. They support the sinking boobs that have nursed nine-pound babies and hang like melons waiting to be lifted into their bra cups. My husband claims drooping boobs don’t matter to him. But they do to me. My back and shoulders have begun demanding, “Help!”</p><p>Fortunately, I have found the perfect bra that does as advertised. First I had to be measured by a consultant. No problem there, since my daughter-in-law knew the routine and this was a piece of cake for her. The bras were shipped to me, they lifted and separated, and I bought one each in black, gray, and nude. They definitely performed their advertised task, but no-one would call them sexy!</p><p>My fondest memories of bras are those that remained in the drawer, never-worn. Gone are the days when I didn’t need any…until I lose my marbles and simply throw a tee shirt over my chest!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAgPRrC4xwk3Z4DECnTgLfvXZoZoo5O_c9ygk2pFDoB0v9yqcGz198M3qWZagFyLWRz-LtClQ8mTo1D02QSEVfTZRCt38YSGIEqq5BYY8r94SBgFXxvuVe9UqRNmHwoe-WGh0OF9b1fnzi8PzMlSLnzll_t5lBssytZwk3IpAG1REWFyY0j7U77HI/s2048/Todd's%20Family%20Delray%20Xmas%202012%20St.%20Augustine%20010.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1887" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAgPRrC4xwk3Z4DECnTgLfvXZoZoo5O_c9ygk2pFDoB0v9yqcGz198M3qWZagFyLWRz-LtClQ8mTo1D02QSEVfTZRCt38YSGIEqq5BYY8r94SBgFXxvuVe9UqRNmHwoe-WGh0OF9b1fnzi8PzMlSLnzll_t5lBssytZwk3IpAG1REWFyY0j7U77HI/s320/Todd's%20Family%20Delray%20Xmas%202012%20St.%20Augustine%20010.jpg" width="295" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Mrs. Claus apron</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdXYoRKkmjg1OupmxQov-FE5wuEPFb2ClXW_u7alVEFgznn3sKcGUYN2KpaNMVBHf5hIfpSqEZY_dhgLZPsVflUH2AGfkkiFp8PMJaS7cUdfNIfQwdt0JLKA9qKMdZQmWnwoE45oo3WWS7FebD-xiCMMap-SjCzBGQLb63egtMmXYhoeLYCbiID7eI/s320/ADA17764-28B9-4F10-A5DF-B589FB8688A3.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>.</p><p><br /></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-28529200124367868972022-03-29T18:24:00.008-07:002022-03-30T06:55:48.414-07:00<br /> A TENNIS PRIMER FOR WOMEN'S DOUBLES<div><br /></div><div> Borrowed from Karla Araujo's "Why You Should Never, Ever Tell the Truth </div><div> in Tennis"</div><div><div><br /></div><div>"Sorry about that! Are you OK?" I mutter to my partner, as she dusts the optic yellow fuzz and dusky green dirt from her skirt...My attempt at an offensive lob has fallen woefully short. Instead of rising to soaring heights over the net player, my shot peaked instead at the perfect height for the nearly six-foot-tall, Lululemon-garbed opponent to crush it at my partner's left thigh...What I'm really thinking is, "Why did you turn your back and run off the court like a chicken? If you had just held your ground, you could have reflexed that back over the net player!"</div></div><div><br /></div><div>TennisSpeak...It's the unspoken language that lurks beneath the words we use on the court every day. The following is a glossary of TennisSpeak that every doubles player will recognize to keep the peace with both partners and opponents.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yours!"</div><div>Translation: I closed too tight to the net and if I tried to back up, the twenty extra pounds I'm carrying will make me tip over like Humpty-Dumpty.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Mine!"</div><div>Translation: You missed the last four overheads, so I'll trample you if you don't get the hell out of my way!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Short!!" </div><div>Translation: You're going to get creamed.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Good idea!"</div><div>Translation: That was a really stupid shot you tried but I'm trying to stay positive because you're my partner.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Bounce!"</div><div>Translation: Take that ball out of the air and I'll kill you because it's flying to the back fence.</div><div><br /></div><div>"We'll do better next time, partner."</div><div>Translation: I'm dumping you for a taller partner who loves to poach. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Are you sure that was out?" (to opponent)</div><div>Translation: You lying broad! You know it caught the line.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Have a nice match." (to opponents before play begins)</div><div>Translation: Were going to kill you b------.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nice match." (to opponents after you won)</div><div>Translation: We kicked your sorry asses.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nice match." (to opponents after we lost)</div><div>Translation: You guys didn't deserve to win. You hit all that soft, slicey-dicey crap and we're going to kill you the next time we see you. I wish I hadn't had that second Cosmo last night and hadn't stayed up to watch the last six episodes of "The Gilded Age."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwogKbfszabk8n3dPRB_K5b9KExH-ip6gxcdqwr2Ev1S4vRD5b6SONaVZDgX-GSii_-s21OAA89EK_hoLJQUTlk49gNR9ghpnPEpKns5pFLcbemnQqY0s8-GqMgX6O8OP1d6k-qJHXA8KFDpM1cm7Tom1_Ck50gw4gdLsdvbiSIDnRw3ndFaPbfUtO/s246/55Love%20Capt%20and%20Co-Capt%202017-18.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="217" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwogKbfszabk8n3dPRB_K5b9KExH-ip6gxcdqwr2Ev1S4vRD5b6SONaVZDgX-GSii_-s21OAA89EK_hoLJQUTlk49gNR9ghpnPEpKns5pFLcbemnQqY0s8-GqMgX6O8OP1d6k-qJHXA8KFDpM1cm7Tom1_Ck50gw4gdLsdvbiSIDnRw3ndFaPbfUtO/s1600/55Love%20Capt%20and%20Co-Capt%202017-18.jpg" width="217" /></a></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZbmmJOi3fBkxl53ee52pHEMAlI5e-X5kuZR7YxKamwJKVKTO_m8h-K3Yb0KHJAUNeyu4308N-IKInC1Y1W6lhyDbvePVxO28nfNuPVpRrkPHsLWnqF0ClKPv4LFMDKVduyi1KR84xbS5ZePvh6Us4x3LUMSkWOWbUpPhKHP3J2rt9JwzU2ZMl2XNu/s1536/P1010732.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="1536" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZbmmJOi3fBkxl53ee52pHEMAlI5e-X5kuZR7YxKamwJKVKTO_m8h-K3Yb0KHJAUNeyu4308N-IKInC1Y1W6lhyDbvePVxO28nfNuPVpRrkPHsLWnqF0ClKPv4LFMDKVduyi1KR84xbS5ZePvh6Us4x3LUMSkWOWbUpPhKHP3J2rt9JwzU2ZMl2XNu/s320/P1010732.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxlQeY7sGZxdmrUj7JdjHynr6oXsgC6cLAU3oW981T906CVsdA-UUvcEiFx08_60yy_hnDHXOw3f4gK4LIVIJUE9upfJyJ3MPDxCmUqo-iPrhsjTEwuu0zwxyymOUCz3gXZ7V0ytGYNCN75F6yJ27Ld9v_WMtzrri-EYHCZiOm5t8MILpFmYyUxBF/s320/55Love%20Sportsmanship%20Trophy%202015-16.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxlQeY7sGZxdmrUj7JdjHynr6oXsgC6cLAU3oW981T906CVsdA-UUvcEiFx08_60yy_hnDHXOw3f4gK4LIVIJUE9upfJyJ3MPDxCmUqo-iPrhsjTEwuu0zwxyymOUCz3gXZ7V0ytGYNCN75F6yJ27Ld9v_WMtzrri-EYHCZiOm5t8MILpFmYyUxBF/s1600/55Love%20Sportsmanship%20Trophy%202015-16.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div></div>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-42845381772243148632022-02-04T17:24:00.001-08:002022-02-04T17:24:50.865-08:00The Missing Cell Phone<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">Ira secured his racket across his back and checked the front
pocket of his shorts for his cell phone. Despite the shallowness of the pocket,
he could feel the phone nestled against an inside corner. He flung his leg over
the bar on his bike and began pedaling two miles to the tennis courts at
Countryside Estates. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sweat poured onto his headband in the August heat, but the
biking gave him an extra workout. With black elastic bandages wrapped around
both knees, he planned to stay fit as long as his knees held up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The bike ride gave him extra time to figure out his roster. He
had volunteered to captain two of the teams in his community, and he suspected
that without him, his teammates wouldn’t have had any idea where or when to
show up for matches. He didn’t think some of his teammates could organize a
grocery list, let alone team matches. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The morning’s effort proved worthwhile, as Ira’s team won at
every position. Before sitting with a fresh bottle of cold water, he dug into
his pocket to check his messages. He found nothing but lint.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Hey, guys, did anyone see my cell phone on the court?” he
yelled. He began a search of every inch of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>clay
where he’d played, as well as the patio where the teams had met before and
after. No luck.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh my God, I need my phone!” Ira started to panic. Although
he never locked it (no password necessary) and he didn’t do business on it, he
checked his messages hourly. The only times he didn’t have it on his body were
when he was on the court or filling his stomach. All the grandchildren’s
photos, his doctors’ appointments, an address book with two hundred contacts, texts,
Facebook and FaceTime links, as well as emails were stored in the device. His
shirt, soaked from the match, began dripping onto his shoes with the thought of
trying to replicate the device.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’ll help you along the road,” Stuart said. “I can follow
in my car.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ira jumped on his bike and began to pedal out the gate onto
the bike lane, stopping every few yards to scour the pavement and grassy
shoulders. Stu drove at 10 mph against traffic with his door open and flashers
blinking. Although traffic was minimal, cars had to veer around him. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No luck. “I can’t believe it!” Ira shrieked. “I don’t know
how I’m going to retrieve everything.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Do you use the ‘cloud?’” Stu asked, beside him on the grass
where he’d pulled over outside the gate to Ira’s community.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, never took time to do that. I’d better get home and ask
June to help. Thanks, Stu.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ira clunked his bike against the wall of the garage and stumbled
through the door. “June, you’ve got to help me!” he gasped.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“What happened? Are you hurt? Oh my God, you’re gray!” his
wife uttered in spasms, rising from the sofa on the other side of the kitchen.
She could taste the acid her stomach was sending to her mouth. “Sit down and
I’ll get you some water.” June helped him onto a kitchen chair and ran filtered
tap water into a glass.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t need water! I need my phone!” Ira took a sip and
tried to catch his breath. “It must have fallen out when I biked to the match.
We need to go back!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Here’s a paper bag. Breathe into it for a few minutes to
catch your breath. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We need to go now. I already looked with Stu, but we couldn’t
find it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Ok, calm down and breathe into the bag for a few minutes.
I’ll get my keys and phone. We can take my car.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“How can I calm down? I need it to function! I’ll never wear
those shorts again.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">June parked at the beginning of the bike path under some
trees and left the flashing lights on. She locked the car and took her keys and
phone. The two of them retraced Ira’s path, bent over like bloodhounds. It took
well over an hour in 90-degree temperatures to cover almost two miles. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">June and Ira approached the entrance to Countryside Estates,
where a guard admitted visitors. “Has anyone turned in a cell phone?” Ira
asked. “I lost mine on the way to the tennis match here this morning.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Sorry, sir, no-one’s turned in a cell phone.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, I need to leave my name and phone number with the
manager at the courts, in case someone finds it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’ll need to see some identification, sir.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You have my name from the list of guests playing a match
this morning! I don’t have anything with me.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Does this lady have any?” the guard asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m his wife. We were in such a rush to get here, I didn’t
bring mine.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Please just look at the list from this morning,” Ira
begged. “My name’s Ira Kosloff.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Just a moment.” The guard disappeared into his
“guard-house,” and in a few seconds the electric gate rose. Ira and June headed
to the courts. After talking with the pro managing the courts, they had the
same news. No phone had been turned in. Ira left his home number and he and
June gulped water from a cooler before they began their trek back to June’s car.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I have an idea,” Ira said, turning to June along the bike
path. There was no answer from June, since she had decided not to speak to her
husband until the phone turned up. “I need your phone, June.” June handed him
the phone. Ira dialed his own cell number and heard it ring. After he heard his
message, he spewed out, “This is the owner of the phone, Ira Kosloff. PLEASE,
if you find my phone, dial my wife’s number at 708-939-0677. That’s
708-939-0677,” he said more slowly. “My phone is unlocked. I’ll offer a reward
if you return it. Thank you.” Ira held June’s phone in his hand, afraid to put
it back in his pocket. They continued to June’s car in silence.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBS7gZa27UQxGvlsr0vKwXe_Uaq8OJaFkRf7eUuYLbYkXGXP5qS10KKfShI8GvOT3yVxZKUWPvkaQmgMR0bv9XOFkmkVIprYXFT0wPH1hpWjgviVZyEMBPn6rleBOKEh8L17jhMO4oCa6B5qPPJswHX5-YFrjH7u2mcy7YmNtVFrojPWXK6Ptmx5tX=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBS7gZa27UQxGvlsr0vKwXe_Uaq8OJaFkRf7eUuYLbYkXGXP5qS10KKfShI8GvOT3yVxZKUWPvkaQmgMR0bv9XOFkmkVIprYXFT0wPH1hpWjgviVZyEMBPn6rleBOKEh8L17jhMO4oCa6B5qPPJswHX5-YFrjH7u2mcy7YmNtVFrojPWXK6Ptmx5tX=w150-h200" width="150" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">About halfway down the path June’s phone rang. “Hello? Is
this Ira Kosloff?” the female voice said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes! Who’s this?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I found your phone along the bike path this morning. I live
in the trailer park just beyond the tennis courts at Countryside Estates. Are
you nearby?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, my God, I can’t believe someone found it! Yes, my
wife’s car is parked under a tree with the lights flashing at the corner of
Military Trail and Lake Ida Road. We’ve been looking for it all afternoon.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’ll drive over to meet you.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, I’m so grateful. I’ll be happy to give you a reward.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“That won’t be necessary. I’ll look for your car under some
trees at Lake Ida Road. What color is it?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Tan. We’ll head back there now. We’ve been scouring the
bike path.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“See you there.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“June, we’ve got to get back to the car. A lady found my
phone! Do you have some money to give her?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, Ira, I just grabbed my keys and phone.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When June and Ira got to her car, the lights were no longer
flashing. “What now???” Ira moaned, grabbing June’s key to turn over the
engine. There was nothing but a screech.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Do you believe this?? You’d better call the guy who does your
tune-ups, June. He can charge the battery.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Any more orders, Mr. Know-It-All?” June dialed the number
for her local garage. “It will be about an hour till they get here,” she said,
“but it may take longer. You can amuse yourself catching up with your messages
while you wait. Maybe the lady can drive me home.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“She said she didn’t want a reward, but we can get her name
and address and mail it to her anyway.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“She’s not the only one who’ll be getting a reward! I saw some
shoes I’d like in Bloomingdale’s. I’ll be making a trip there tomorrow.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_02CdfENWewLsVyJuV1uEMMPFyXR-Nmrp8fAmlJmooj7y8A7ASQ3H-6pt4Hg4R2cEQzWB2eebmd8USDmf8RNtZc7nspeWwRB3AymUGg_zdkufBwf0YZoYYQg1z3ULRlGFL-GGSsGkZpeMO_jRbSkYQMS-qGgoJZOx8RNgx5N342vnzsL7L0qBO45X=s1333" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_02CdfENWewLsVyJuV1uEMMPFyXR-Nmrp8fAmlJmooj7y8A7ASQ3H-6pt4Hg4R2cEQzWB2eebmd8USDmf8RNtZc7nspeWwRB3AymUGg_zdkufBwf0YZoYYQg1z3ULRlGFL-GGSsGkZpeMO_jRbSkYQMS-qGgoJZOx8RNgx5N342vnzsL7L0qBO45X=w150-h200" width="150" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-91751477384909039982021-12-23T16:00:00.001-08:002021-12-23T16:00:59.673-08:00Florence Gold (A Real-life Encounter)<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I took my seat at the table attached 90 degrees from where Julie
had just finished trimming and polishing my claws. That’s what my split,
sawed-off nails looked like after I’d wrapped two dozen Christmas gifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stuck my hands under the blower when Julie
said, “I have to warn you, Pam. My next client is a stage show. She changed her
name from Florence Pasokaski to Flo Gold.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We just humor her along, but you’ll get a lot of blog
material,” Liz chimed in from the station behind Julie. “She’s a real
looney-tunes.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At that moment someone flounced into the salon, waving at
Julie and yelling “Hello, ladies,” under her imaginary spotlight. She swirled
to the coat stand and deposited her boa and puffer coat, both purple. Next to
it she placed the fake fur babushka from her head, revealing a purple wig that stuck
out above her ears in stiff strands. Layers of black mascara spiders crawled
against her eyelids and down her cheeks. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Just call me ‘Flo,’”
she said, introducing herself to me as she bent toward Julie’s forehead to
plant a loud smack through her mask. “My last name is ‘Gold,’ so if you put it
together…get it? Flo Gold…like my Grand Marquis outside – all gold.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Hello, Julie,” Flo continued, waving her arms above her
head to all five of us getting manicures at that moment.
“How’s the world’s best nail girl?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Julie managed a thin smile toward Flo. “We prefer to be
called manicurists,” she said. “I’m fine, Flo. Thanks for asking. This is Pam.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I nodded in Flo’s direction and smiled behind my mask. Flo
plopped into the chair behind the Plexiglas separating her from Julie. “How’s
your fibro myalgia treating you today?” Julie asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’m not due for a shot till Monday. It hurts like a pisser.
I’ve got to keep my arms above my head as long as possible. And I’m always cold,
especially since I had to shave my head. The damn synthetic wigs don’t keep my
pate warm. The temperature could be a little warmer in here, by the way.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I’ll put it up two degrees while you’re here, but if the
other clients complain, I’ll have to turn it back to 70. Why didn’t you wear
your purple turtleneck?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The pink one matched my pink and white sneakers. Anyway,
I’m a Fibro Warrior. I’ve been to the Outer Limits and back.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We know that, Flo,” Julie answered with a smirk, adjusting
the thermostat. “How’s your love life?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, I met a new possibility at Starbucks this week. I
stopped in for my usual mocha latte and he was sitting at the next table. He’s
in his forties and we chit-chatted. I flirted a little and he asked me to
dinner on Wednesday night. I met him at Applebee’s and we hit it off. He called
me his ‘cougar,’ but he seemed a little scared. Don’t know if it will last.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I thought you were still seeing Davy the lifeguard?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“He was a summer fling. We went out a few times after that. I
was making day trips down to Newport to see him but he expected favors in
return. Back in September when I asked him to keep the pool temperature at 85, the
management fired him. They said members were complaining it was too warm. He blamed me.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Didn’t you have a problem with the temperature in your apartment
building?” asked Julie, grabbing a shimmery purple polish from the display. “By
the way, I assume you want your usual polish?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Absolutely no other!” Flo shot back. “The temperature
dispute was because I had the apartment on the first floor right inside the outside door, and when it opened, my apartment got cold in the winter. So
I asked the maintenance man to turn the thermostat in the hall up five degrees.
Well, the other tenants on my floor complained to the landlord it was getting
too warm. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know why drama follows
me wherever I go.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Did they insulate your front door?” I asked, trapped in
Flo’s web. Her spidery mascara should have given me a clue.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“They didn’t do anything and I couldn’t stand it. The cold
air seeped right under my door. My purple satin sheets and comforter didn’t
keep me warm! I have to sleep in satin, you know, because they’re easy on my
fibro pain,” she said, turning to me. “But I had to move. And it was right
around the time I lost my job.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“What a shame!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I used to be a legal secretary before the fibro got bad.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Did you wear purple to work every day?” I asked, trying not
to giggle. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Only in winter. I love to see the smiles when I wear my
purple! In summer my favorite is my fuchsia camisole and orange short-shorts. I
wear them to clean my Grand Marquis, along with my pink neon baseball hat. And
I have my tattoo that I can show off.” Flo pulled her pants above her sneakers
to reveal a six-inch palm tree against a setting sun. “I got a few good dates with
that outfit!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I could imagine Florence Pasokaski, a.k.a. Flo Gold, sloshing
water over her car in her short shorts with her ample bosoms hitting the hood. My
guess was she couldn’t be a day under sixty-five.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The worst was in the summer when I went to the pool at the
apartment complex. The chairs have plastic slats and my skin would stick to
them and rip. So I wore my wet suit down there. But then I got too hot. I could
only stay a few minutes.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“If you have a wet suit, did you ever snorkel or scuba
dive?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Flo held onto the edge of the table, doubled over in
laughter. “Oh, you just smudged your polish, Flo!” Julie scolded.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Sorry, Julie. Oh, that’s hilarious – me scuba diving! I’d have to wear a swim cap and I know
what the shape of my shaved head looks like – a peeled egg. I need fluff around
it. No, I had to get the ridiculous wet suit to sit in the sun. But like I said,
it got too hot, even though it was real thin and I’d sit in the shade.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By this time my nails had dried and I had to give up my seat
for Flo. I was reluctant to leave the free entertainment, however. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Julie, I need to book once a month for the whole year. If I
have the appointments in my notebook, my life will be organized. Would you mind
writing them in for me?” Flo asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Julie picked up Flo’s notebook and the purple pen Flo had
placed next to the dryer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Every month on a Tuesday, starting four weeks from now?”
Julie asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oui, mademoiselle,” Florence Pasokaski answered.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Pam, do you need an appointment?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, please book me right before Flo’s. I’ve enjoyed every minute,” I said, flinging a scarf around my
neck with some of Flo’s flair.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Likewise, darling. See you next time.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-66501148491515901962021-09-24T16:43:00.002-07:002021-09-25T17:50:08.275-07:00Memory Flash: Autumn<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tIhSB8ltYAAVHRcCuzEVw5jwghSNdFpvPKYp7kx0X8aAgwNDTTS0w_P1NK_TCWm8O1UcVwBgOph2-5AxhgauvngHtZmTqexqr6IqouG1DbNTH6-mvL-ygQFs0LKNYBm9TioPU8zcysU/s246/55Love+Capt+and+Co-Capt+2017-18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="217" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tIhSB8ltYAAVHRcCuzEVw5jwghSNdFpvPKYp7kx0X8aAgwNDTTS0w_P1NK_TCWm8O1UcVwBgOph2-5AxhgauvngHtZmTqexqr6IqouG1DbNTH6-mvL-ygQFs0LKNYBm9TioPU8zcysU/s0/55Love+Capt+and+Co-Capt+2017-18.jpg" width="217" /></a></div><br />In the heat I’m struggling to hold up my end of our twosome. At least I was able to win my serve, setting up my partner at the net
for overhead smashes and touch volleys. We change ends and I tip my H2O bottle,
guzzling water mixed with Diet Gatorade. Liquid resembling iced tea drips down my chin and
spills onto the clay. I
may need some cases when I hit the grocery store.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Did I put apples on my shopping list? “This
humidity is brutal,” one of our opponents says on the change-over. “We really
need a cold snap to break it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What else is on my shopping list? Water, Gatorade, and apples. The apple tree in our yard was cut too harshly by the arborist and this season won't bear any of the Delicious variety we love. We could always go to the orchard in Rhode Island, where we took one of our granddaughters.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was hot then, too. I had worn a sweatshirt and had to wrap it around my waist. My forehead dripped onto my sneakers, which began to resemble tie-dyed patterns of fallen apple residue and sweat. Yellowjackets swarmed over the saccharine remains, and trying to escape them made me glisten more. </p><p class="MsoNormal">The orchard owner had pointed out on a map where the different varieties were growing. Eight-year-old Arden and I balanced the bright orange metal picker vertically between us, her auburn curls bobbing up and down with each step. The ten-foot picker rocked like a metronome to her bobbing. We
took off down row three for the Delicious variety, with their deep red heart shape and bumps on the bottom.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Grandma, I can’t reach,” Arden said, looking
up at the tree we selected. The lowest apple was about ten feet above her head.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Don’t worry. I’ll lift you."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I got behind her, while Arden lifted the orange
basket with its long metal prongs into the air. The picker began to swing back and forth like a flag in a soft breeze.
“Aim for that big one in front. Sit the apple in the basket, then pull down. The prongs will grab it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I lifted her hips and heaved upward. “I can’t reach it,”
Arden yelled. “I’ve got to let go!”</p><p class="MsoNormal">“Hold on! I’ll
lift you higher." My thighs started to shake. The long orange shaft
waved right and left like a flag caught in a storm. </p><p class="MsoNormal">A thud and then another resounded in front of us, as the bright metal shaft hit the ground and bounced under our tree. Arden, wrapped in my arms, landed on top of me, facing the hanging apples. We lay together in the middle of the cidery, gelatinous mash.</p><p class="MsoNormal">"You okay, granny?" she shrieked.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I pulled a dented, brown Delicious from my twisted sweatshirt and tumbled over her, alternating laughter with kisses in her neck. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Five-four,” Shelly says from the other end of the court. "First serve."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFagQSjG77dthErmU5fOKB2loq_BKRuMrKLZxvGlProyuBNyz0WKgQtCxAYJTiQn0nTDmg-kLPIWAPJno3p3G69LjD4WFH3ThHRdamcSkx0jBCo_TjonJ6B7NZGQxVZ0kPWhaMswcGV-c/s320/Delicious+variety+from+our+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="252" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFagQSjG77dthErmU5fOKB2loq_BKRuMrKLZxvGlProyuBNyz0WKgQtCxAYJTiQn0nTDmg-kLPIWAPJno3p3G69LjD4WFH3ThHRdamcSkx0jBCo_TjonJ6B7NZGQxVZ0kPWhaMswcGV-c/s0/Delicious+variety+from+our+tree.jpg" width="252" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-1983644329088198322021-08-16T17:06:00.001-07:002021-08-16T17:06:32.196-07:00Is Happiness Based on Our Social Interactions?<p>How we define our state of mind for the foreseeable future may be a result of our 2020-2021 Covid experiences.</p><p>According ro Emile Durkheim, a pioneering sociologist of the early 20th century, "our greatest bliss is found in moments of collective effervescence." There is energy and harmony in a group, large or small, that is sharing a purpose.</p><p>Those moments were few during Covid quarantines and their aftermath. Emotions that spread from person to person in a collective (without our realizing it) were missing. Lockdowns and distancing prevented touching and sharing joy or purpose. The number of adults with symptoms of depression or anxiety spiked during our isolation in 2020 (<i>NY Times Sunday Review</i>, July 11, 2021, "The Joy We've Been Missing," Adam Grant, pg. 3).</p><p>Fear was the first negative emotion to spread. We hoarded toilet paper, masks, hand sanitizer, and scrubbed our groceries. Depression became contagious through social media. In order not to succumb to negative emotional contagion on the internet (Zoom meetings, etc.), eye contact was avoided. Introverts, as well as extroverts, missed collective effervescence and languished somewhere between stagnation and survival. I was one of those. This is the first blog I've written in several months. </p><p>In May, '21, Charley and I finally joined in collective happiness again. We hugged our loved ones, went to dinner with friends and family (in their homes!), and planned summer trips. Others went to work in person instead of in their pajama bottoms. We had a new understanding of mental health and our individual happiness. We began to grasp that flourishing includes collective effervescence. We witnessed Italians singing together out their windows, residents of New York City honoring essential workers with fireworks, homemade signs, and a march. To be loved, we needed to profess love. We were back on track, social distancing and masks a memory, vaccinations in our arms.</p><p>But SURPRISE! Covid had mutated! The Delta variant has increased the probability that those who are unvaccinated and contract the virus will be hospitalized and stricken more severely than those who have been vaccinated. Even the Summer Olympics couldn't distract us from the news of spikes in the variant among certain states across the south and of hospitals that were overwhelmed there. Our collective effervescence turned to a lack of understanding of those who chose to remain unvaccinated. In early August, 2021, one in three Americans who were eligible for the vaccine hadn't received a single dose. Lives, jobs, experiences, money, mental and physical health, were again in jeopardy. Anger can become a contagious emotion. The difference between it and collective effervescence is that anger can hurt oneself or others. We began to don masks, change plans, and worry about our loved remaining safe once again (two of our grandsons were under twelve, too young to be eligible for the vaccines).</p><p>Exhausted, despairing rage was finding comfort in turning complex realities into simple "us" versus "them" categories. A study of survey results among those eligible in March '21 found that 22% in the study hadn't gotten the vaccine because of concerns about cost, safety, or systems that already "did them wrong" (<i>NY Times Sunday Review</i>, August 8, 2021, "What to Do With Our Covid Rage," Sarah Smarsh, pg. 4).</p><p>Sarah Smarsh in her article, "What to Do With Our Covid Rage," suggests ways to close the gap between those vaccinated and those unvaccinated in this country. A lack of money, power, and education has kept uninsured Americans among the group with the lowest vaccination rate among 22 subgroups examined by the Kaiser Family Foundation (<i>NY Times Sunday Review</i>, August 8, 2021, "What to Do With Our Covid Rage," Sarah Smarsh, pg. 4). Smarsh suggests we "demand public health MANDATES; we communicate with the cost-anxious and wait-and-see people who remain open-minded despite skepticism wrought by a lifetime of disadvantage; we do good deeds to negate harmful ones, like donating money to a nonprofit health clinic..."</p><p>Americans were among the first in the world to receive the vaccines into our blood, thanks to a feat of modern science. W:ith a booster shot awaiting approval for the general public, those who receive the serum will almost certainly survive the pandemic in its present forms to feel the collective effervescence again in a sports stadium, community building, at an indoor wedding, or at a school play. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-4796055239902624262021-05-06T17:51:00.001-07:002021-05-08T16:57:39.781-07:00On Our Shores<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgne-6XYMO1dy4n5yUnW5FdV8N8ywNGhYz0TEwlmqyxIit6U4j80Eo_tof_ZrgTvphrDr7CONv5Su0khgBgFsh2Ibi38FHlMq_sRvyg5__zkHmECZmWUnu1UDE5wHlgrWmKgjECrvjfXiQ/s320/IMG_0407.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgne-6XYMO1dy4n5yUnW5FdV8N8ywNGhYz0TEwlmqyxIit6U4j80Eo_tof_ZrgTvphrDr7CONv5Su0khgBgFsh2Ibi38FHlMq_sRvyg5__zkHmECZmWUnu1UDE5wHlgrWmKgjECrvjfXiQ/s0/IMG_0407.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdFTZfOtNLvWtpuIDUQGCeTK9m0PZky6VJ9pkLT9Vv7VVqOAmSlE_85DN56uVcNZAcGAvllIg9wHsY4JGiUNNwbgUYD95VgiGYa4X4rtSaiP74hmGKPiS9szx5G4Hj3GMNRtSc4OX5fqc/s320/IMG_0415.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdFTZfOtNLvWtpuIDUQGCeTK9m0PZky6VJ9pkLT9Vv7VVqOAmSlE_85DN56uVcNZAcGAvllIg9wHsY4JGiUNNwbgUYD95VgiGYa4X4rtSaiP74hmGKPiS9szx5G4Hj3GMNRtSc4OX5fqc/s0/IMG_0415.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeA-MqCTOAXd-oMJMaHxetym4_kHYAM4RYpQsdj11iVj0okoAH5xWqaaJXXxAw_V49RIjk07Lif9aElVb003Xwqwc_4oBs8NSNPIgfovgHaxvd_EXrYbwMDmGeILDr42XMg2hzTOExaHk/s320/IMG_0417.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeA-MqCTOAXd-oMJMaHxetym4_kHYAM4RYpQsdj11iVj0okoAH5xWqaaJXXxAw_V49RIjk07Lif9aElVb003Xwqwc_4oBs8NSNPIgfovgHaxvd_EXrYbwMDmGeILDr42XMg2hzTOExaHk/s0/IMG_0417.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">During the night of May 3, 2021, the fourth boatload of Haitians in the new year grounded itself on a beach in southern Palm Beach County, Florida. The beach happened to be in front of our condo building.</span></div><p></p><p>Human smugglers ran the boat onto the beach after someone on the vessel had called the Coast Guard. Twenty-nine migrants jumped onto the coral reef in waist-deep water to run to an oceanfront park, where they were detained by the border patrol and taken to a station in West Palm Beach. There they were interviewed and processed for removal. Included in the group was a pregnant mother.</p><p>Charley and I didn't hear the Coast Guard cutter deployed during the night or the helicopter (they frequent our shores) or the local police that responded from three communities. We did see the beached 45' fishing vessel and two small Coast Guard boats patrolling in the morning. Five days later, despite daily calls to three government agencies, the boat remained grounded in the same location with flotation devices attached. Ocean Rescue and Environmental Resource Management reported that after the fuel leaked, the boat would be deconstructed and removed. The agency in charge of the boat and its removal was Customs and Border Protection's marine unit.</p><p>During a landing on our beach another year, we were startled by an FBI helicopter's searchlights so intense that, although no migrants could be found in our apartment, we ran to close all the storm shutters. The spotlights reached into every room except interior bathrooms and closets. We later learned that FBI dogs scouring the property had found several Haitians hiding in shubbery, under cars, and in ramps to buildings.</p><p>Legalized Haitian immigrants account for less than 2% of the U.S. foreign-born population, though in 2018 their number increased to almost 700,000. The 2010 earthquake (displacing 1.5 million), Hurricane Matthew in 2016, endemic poverty, and political unrest have driven Haitian migrants to smugglers who charge thousands of dollars per person to drop them off the Florida shore. They then ram their stolen vessels onto the beach. Others attempt the crossing in sailboats or rafts. </p><p>Haitians in Florida accounted for 49% of all Haitians in the U.S. in 2018. Among legitimate Haitian immigrants 16 years and older, 71% participated in the civilian labor force in 2018, most in service occupations. The same year, 61% residing in the U.S. were naturalized citizens and approximately 21,400 had obtained a green card. Immediate relatives of U.S. citizens or family-sponsored "preferences" (adult children, siblings, or spouses and children of green card holders) were granted easier access without risking the treacherous waters between Haiti and Florida. </p><p>The administrative and legislative measures against terrorism taken by the U.S. government since the 2001 attacks are most vigorous in relation to military reinforcement of the borders via land and sea, use of high-tech E-verification and drones, as well as criminalization of illegal migration. (Information in above three paragraphs courtesy of "Migration Information Source" by Kira Olsen-Medina and Jeanne Batalova, Online Journal of Migration, August 12, 2020)</p><p>Haiti's current political unrest centers around President Jovenel Moise's legitimacy. His opposition claims the President's 5-year term should have ended February 7, 2021. Moise claims he has one year left to serve after taking office officially. (Jorge Milian, "29 Haitian Migrants Make Land, Detained," <i>Palm Beach Post</i>, May 4, 2021, p. 1)</p><p>Under the 1994 and 1995 U.S.-CUBAN migration accords, any CUBAN who reaches U.S. soil is paroled into the country. The Cuban Adjustment Act of 1966 allowed Cubans to be eligible for a fast track to permanent residency.</p><p>Meanwhile, at the U.S.-Mexican border, U.S. agents are overwhelmed by migrants crossing rivers and deserts, often aided by local U.S. police as they step onto U.S. soil. There were 22,500 UNACCOMPANIED minors who crossed from Mexico in early May, 2021, being held in overcrowded detention centers meant for adults. They are eventually transferred to health officials in the Office of Refugee Resettlement. </p><p>May we never forget the sacrifice thousands make every year to become residents of the U.S.A.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wgL5kxDcy6bpv9KHE5GoiYt-erBmwgAKbuUfe9iFC3Tz5z0TdfbaUOaU_emXMCdjvakLlnUTy44TGBJ5kzXRolN6ZfkSzwVoMFfbI_ngyQQOVx9lHPiPeB4QQc0_BiSzQQyPn2ymoik/s320/IMG_0421.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wgL5kxDcy6bpv9KHE5GoiYt-erBmwgAKbuUfe9iFC3Tz5z0TdfbaUOaU_emXMCdjvakLlnUTy44TGBJ5kzXRolN6ZfkSzwVoMFfbI_ngyQQOVx9lHPiPeB4QQc0_BiSzQQyPn2ymoik/s0/IMG_0421.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caught in the coral</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6CwHYro27ynFRlsiFAWIJUNNAo8XtA1QirEuREydP-DkSgaPMIX-hihTaOU_hIFlu7inqGQLDd799MZN4Y9Xs49HKzlmI8DEwUfSVn6hWMF5HGMoKWDppITMmEuGIY3V45VEYgPFGU5A/s320/IMG_0427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6CwHYro27ynFRlsiFAWIJUNNAo8XtA1QirEuREydP-DkSgaPMIX-hihTaOU_hIFlu7inqGQLDd799MZN4Y9Xs49HKzlmI8DEwUfSVn6hWMF5HGMoKWDppITMmEuGIY3V45VEYgPFGU5A/s0/IMG_0427.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flotation devices</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif7prPkaFzxTVdYxfj8Orzn-vywlb-6U_42k1Rd1ZPmE1qw9epLlejEEk3AXfJu9atr9hrCU2Ejo0YfIanJ3vVLWsyWdC95mXOw9HYhpieVh0sPPe-u5x0NJOz9y9IDgHjHqrWtu0GoWk/s320/IMG_0428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif7prPkaFzxTVdYxfj8Orzn-vywlb-6U_42k1Rd1ZPmE1qw9epLlejEEk3AXfJu9atr9hrCU2Ejo0YfIanJ3vVLWsyWdC95mXOw9HYhpieVh0sPPe-u5x0NJOz9y9IDgHjHqrWtu0GoWk/s0/IMG_0428.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Onto the beach</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKelNXPUXbc9arNh-ss1Uv0rnLF-SX7GRRqZP1nBoKYV6X9c4cC9bzIGXQaAEBmLZ7egP29Xmq7zq-k5I6UzQ7zT2EtBWt51VLZLi42viSlbmIvSYjJjOaraV6gu61v1kANPZyRic41Gk/s320/demolition+started.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKelNXPUXbc9arNh-ss1Uv0rnLF-SX7GRRqZP1nBoKYV6X9c4cC9bzIGXQaAEBmLZ7egP29Xmq7zq-k5I6UzQ7zT2EtBWt51VLZLi42viSlbmIvSYjJjOaraV6gu61v1kANPZyRic41Gk/s0/demolition+started.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Demolition started</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-29080836479398719572021-04-02T17:19:00.001-07:002021-04-02T17:19:39.969-07:00In Retrospect<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYGRYmn27tXaGxf7kceBiPlSgDhrWtNiM3dPB_OAdfxP6sicKxRE0JT9oXtF6io3PeIQqN8d2Wq1Q1EtKIWW938jQmuhctxxQMoPfnZxlA506vMNpDnu0j0HyiB4WssilBSUsAPHasvk/s320/Corona+Virus+4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">What a year it's been! <img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYGRYmn27tXaGxf7kceBiPlSgDhrWtNiM3dPB_OAdfxP6sicKxRE0JT9oXtF6io3PeIQqN8d2Wq1Q1EtKIWW938jQmuhctxxQMoPfnZxlA506vMNpDnu0j0HyiB4WssilBSUsAPHasvk/s0/Corona+Virus+4.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjipHP-W6I3FViOJwIou_EbnhK7pnha5LGqFaniTDs8tI1oSY3YZ73NOJ8XlmByk93tP5_p3tsdc0a6Wizv67hZYqQFnEMTiK2fdUgDjmiyFSavSC1bVAzIcAJRxbRq7gRay1cRV8SrKMc/s320/Corona+Virus+1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjipHP-W6I3FViOJwIou_EbnhK7pnha5LGqFaniTDs8tI1oSY3YZ73NOJ8XlmByk93tP5_p3tsdc0a6Wizv67hZYqQFnEMTiK2fdUgDjmiyFSavSC1bVAzIcAJRxbRq7gRay1cRV8SrKMc/w373-h320/Corona+Virus+1.jpg" width="373" /></a></div><p></p><p>Looking at photos I took during a walk in Florida in March, 2020, I hardly recognize the street where we walk every day. A year ago, yellow tape roped off beaches and pools; stores and restaurants had "Closed" signs across their doors; masked figures patrolled the streets.</p><p>Today, masks still prevail...except on beaches where mobs of spring breakers sway shoulder to shoulder, while police push, spray, arrest, and declare a curfew. Covid 19 will have its way, with a fourth spike threatening.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi4vdTCXoqPLVWlHMRGDGwnRBMBScuNyOGmv-NB5P_5tAtfXDpsMTyaL8ND0ii_J7LRjyVvgJDYCb_97id0ivEmb7H0V9LX_vmFjRYC7g08nSSvnjuT9wC6hGDpxsWo7VEVd0Fo_BMzdc/s320/Corona+Virus+7.jpg"><span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi4vdTCXoqPLVWlHMRGDGwnRBMBScuNyOGmv-NB5P_5tAtfXDpsMTyaL8ND0ii_J7LRjyVvgJDYCb_97id0ivEmb7H0V9LX_vmFjRYC7g08nSSvnjuT9wC6hGDpxsWo7VEVd0Fo_BMzdc/w240-h321/Corona+Virus+7.jpg" width="240" /></span></a><span style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi4vdTCXoqPLVWlHMRGDGwnRBMBScuNyOGmv-NB5P_5tAtfXDpsMTyaL8ND0ii_J7LRjyVvgJDYCb_97id0ivEmb7H0V9LX_vmFjRYC7g08nSSvnjuT9wC6hGDpxsWo7VEVd0Fo_BMzdc/s320/Corona+Virus+7.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></span></div><p>We haven't been ill, though family members have been. Recently, we lost a brother-in-law to cancer. We have shelter without multiple generations living under one roof. We have food. We aren't sending our children or grandchildren on a forced march across thousands of miles to safety. We haven't been forcibly or unjustly detained or killed.</p><p>The horror of the spring and chaos of the summer have given way to a new "normal." This "normal" means I'm not scurrying through the grocery store like a mouse in a maze, although I still wipe every item with a disinfecting square when I get home. We can now sit outside at restaurants. We explore our narrow world inside four walls and our environs within a drive of several hours. We take advantage of the weather to exercise outdoors as much as possible. We no longer run to meetings and appointments throughout the day and have found we enjoy the new pace. We have rekindled our relationships with family and friends on Zoom or Facetime or over the phone. </p><p>As of April 1, 2021, 29% of the U.S. population had been vaccinated with at least one dose of a Pfizer, Moderna, or Johnson & Johnson serum. Citizens numbering 534,387 had perished, alone and unable to breathe. Charley and I were fortunate to receive two doses of the Pfizer vaccine in February in Florida. The future looked brighter. </p><p>Our relationship to our home has altered. We have "nested." A refuge, a prison at times, it has become our space for work, experimental cooking, rest, recreation, and physical activity. Zoom has brought our homes into public view. I look around, tired of the same walls, the same furnishings, the same spaces that have become filled. At least we have walls to look at! We have windows to keep out the elements. We have a bed and light that comes on with a switch, and if the plumbing stops working, we can get it fixed. Our mail comes regularly (slowly); there is water and it's hot.</p><p>Domestic harmony has become a priority, as we spend almost twenty hours together each day. Fortunately, we each have private spaces within our home and since we're in Florida, we can always retreat outdoors for isolation!</p><p>And yet, it feels like a lost, numb year, particularly for our grandkids, struggling to maintain a flow of learning between a physical classroom and a screen. Distance from our loved ones has made hugs a gift we dream of. Spinning in a tight circle and reading piles of books, I stalled out, unable to start another manuscript. I waited for motivation or inspiration. Spontaneity and joy were missing.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9doHdlggCF0-jDaPXUafqVhuIjo-6XcZDJPJ7so4ry0HM1OjvjoljRYcymaxSzEOhNeNhGFwkkCtfDNtS-iNKvfneZWoKNZjGfPJPNkZuBvfW5zCC0sZwMSjroSePdYrYl8qW9riVgs0/s320/Corona+Virus+8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9doHdlggCF0-jDaPXUafqVhuIjo-6XcZDJPJ7so4ry0HM1OjvjoljRYcymaxSzEOhNeNhGFwkkCtfDNtS-iNKvfneZWoKNZjGfPJPNkZuBvfW5zCC0sZwMSjroSePdYrYl8qW9riVgs0/s0/Corona+Virus+8.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>And yet, creativity must remain our salvation - at work, at school, in decompression. I re-energize with my surroundings - the wildlife, the beauty of nature, the love - and look forward to when "normal" isn't an exhausting state of emergency.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFDN1CDSWoRRYnK7bs8n1nrh8Bji9ch2RvGlQGJxgAVDhM9Lf5l6lWGJugrI6mWKnxZxXrJllC-jehMVuQUtwXiXVSOk2sHI0inigaE-9Y3O9-PnDAl1CbTZPeIGSaFauh_JjnTIjfMtQ/s320/Pelican+diving.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFDN1CDSWoRRYnK7bs8n1nrh8Bji9ch2RvGlQGJxgAVDhM9Lf5l6lWGJugrI6mWKnxZxXrJllC-jehMVuQUtwXiXVSOk2sHI0inigaE-9Y3O9-PnDAl1CbTZPeIGSaFauh_JjnTIjfMtQ/w320-h240/Pelican+diving.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYBIz2hidQtNy64dlaiQ1_wri6i_goUjkNO0agBqztfA7pTJ1wM9qFzCqwH3mtSnmUnDe7CYXD5X6rS4fcfBq0b3LSCMZgnaMZ-9ipNESqTqZWaMwnN7OuW757BwbmYSDAfo1mUwUdfI8/s2048/View+from+Key+West+over+Sunset+Key.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYBIz2hidQtNy64dlaiQ1_wri6i_goUjkNO0agBqztfA7pTJ1wM9qFzCqwH3mtSnmUnDe7CYXD5X6rS4fcfBq0b3LSCMZgnaMZ-9ipNESqTqZWaMwnN7OuW757BwbmYSDAfo1mUwUdfI8/w320-h253/View+from+Key+West+over+Sunset+Key.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIeJYwpuuh8L7hTuo2E8IC-9KhWzX_w9yo2E3Qyw_F_3LLE4oMwm583zqzR39c93w0FR8C_U0lwtqHjVUMjWhgExfzGBTERJanVcnvvCx0av2w6FKd2JHiZ4WVBeR6yg6vI7NFDikNwPM/s984/Scan0001.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">1982<img border="0" data-original-height="984" data-original-width="604" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIeJYwpuuh8L7hTuo2E8IC-9KhWzX_w9yo2E3Qyw_F_3LLE4oMwm583zqzR39c93w0FR8C_U0lwtqHjVUMjWhgExfzGBTERJanVcnvvCx0av2w6FKd2JHiZ4WVBeR6yg6vI7NFDikNwPM/s320/Scan0001.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh9T8WS_vU-4K_USvTegqWaYog8cpGTILrKNw9_7kzHaYWWIxRCjsgcwNM0s_HE5o3b5hYN_tqZw1ctmSWYyohOP1SVCuZmt6TbFRUy7iMXhs4wm2wkt_HEVhluzb_c9TOOaLFe4Por3g/s320/photo+%252841%2529.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-26767711894107349692021-01-30T17:35:00.000-08:002021-01-30T17:35:11.788-08:00Words Matter, Even the Ambiguous Ones<p>My parents were fond of maxims. One of my dad's favorites was, "Actions speak louder than words."</p><p>Mom would counter with, "Think before you speak. Your actions have to match your words."</p><p>I learned early, as we all do, that words can shout; they can whisper or sing, bring tears, intimidate, condemn, celebrate, incite, or lift. </p><p>On January 6, 2021, Americans witnessed right-wing groups of extremists attack and breach the security perimeter of the U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C., forcing a lockdown and halting a ceremonial vote to confirm Joseph Biden's victory over Donald Trump as President of the U.S. While lawmakers hid in locked rooms, Capitol police attempted to hold off the protestors from further ransacking of offices, stealing of Congressional property, and threatened lynching or killing those inside. Defying the Electoral College vote following affirmation by numerous state courts and attorneys-general, the takeover resulted in the death of five Americans.</p><p>That morning, former President Trump had spoken to his supporters in a park nearby. "...You'll never take back our country with weakness, you have to show strength, and you have to be strong. We have come to demand that Congress do the right thing, and only count the electors who have been lawfully slated - lawfully slated. I know that everyone here will soon be marching over to the Capitol building to peacefully and patriotically make your votes heard today."</p><p>Later, he said, "We're going to walk down Pennsylvania Avenue - I love Pennsylvania Avenue - and we're going to the Capitol. And we're going to try and give - the Democrats - are hopeless, they never vote for anything, not even one vote - but we're going to try to give our Republicans, the weak ones because the strong ones don't need any of our help, we're going to try and give them the kind of pride and boldness that they need to take back our country. So let's walk down Pennsylvania Avenue." (Transcript by FACTBA.SE)</p><p>Trump never used the words "storm" or "breach" or "break into" the Capitol. It was a subjective call whether "you have to show strength" and "take back our country" were actually messages condoning crimes of violence. His supporters interpreted his words as a call to action.</p><p>Fourteen days later, on January 20, 2021, a 22-year-old Harvard-educated African-American National Youth Poet Laureate named Amanda Gorman wove her words into our collective consciousness at the inauguration of President Biden. Resplendent in a bright yellow coat, her flawless skin glistening and her red velvet headband holding piled plaits, we watched her bubble ring with a caged bird (loaned by Oprah Winfrey as a tribute to Maya Angelou's <i>I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings) </i>lift and descend, riding imaginary waves as she recited her poem, "The Hill We Climb." In a lilting performance she called upon us to unite with her words:</p><p>"...We've seen a force that would shatter our nation rather than share it/Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy/and this effort very nearly succeeded/But while democracy can be periodically delayed/It can never be permanently defeated.</p><p>..."The new dawn blooms as we free it/For there is always light, if only we are brave enough to see it - if only we are brave enough to be it."</p><p> (Excerpts from NPR as quoted in "Amanda Gorman Reads Poem 'The Hill We Climb' at Biden Inauguration" by Amy B. Wang and Stephanie Merry,<i> The Washington</i> <i>Post</i>, 1/20/21)</p><p>Yes, words do matter.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-31805833368883175472020-12-22T17:18:00.001-08:002020-12-22T17:52:25.429-08:00The Contradictions of 2020<span> *A silent viral killer named COVID 19 claimed over 322,000 victims in the U.S. from January, '20, until this post on December 22, '20.</span><div><br /></div><div><span> *Health-care institutions, our educational system, businesses, and the emotional/psychological well-being of our nation were ravaged by the Virus.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span> *Food lines stretched for blocks, even miles, in the richest country in the world.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span> *The U.S. became deeply divided politically during the 2020 presidential election.</span><br /></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><span> *</span></span></span>African-Americans Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd were killed by white civilians or police without provocation.</div><div><br /></div><div><span> *A Cyber breach, likely initiated by Russia, went undetected for nine months, possibly jeopardizing several government agencies, banking systems, electric grids, transportation, etc.</span><br /></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span> *Around 20% of Americans recently polled said they would be reluctant to take a Corona Virus vaccine.</span><br /></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span> <b><i><span style="color: #f6b26b;"> </span><span style="color: #e69138;"> AND YET...</span></i></b></span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><span> *Over 155,000,000 U.S. citizens voted in our November presidential election during a pandemic.</span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span> *Our democratic institutions remained intact during protests and judicial appeals.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span> *At least four private U.S. companies developed a Corona Virus vaccine in warp-speed time.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span> *A body of expert scientists approved the safety of two of the vaccines before distribution to health-care workers in December, 2020, and the general public thereafter.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> *Americans demonstrated limitless devotion, generosity, and empathy toward those in need. For example, health-care workers struggled to the point of exhaustion and self-sacrifice. Handicapped kids organized toy drives. A national group of women baked lasagna for distribution. Food pantries and church groups served thousands every day. National organizations such as Feeding America and Meals on Wheels became lifelines.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> *On December 20, 2020, Congress passed a $900-billion relief package for direct payments and jobless aid to the needy.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> *American citizens and corporations experienced a social awakening by taking action in support of the Black Lives Matter movement.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> <b><i><span style="color: #f1c232;"> </span><span style="color: #e69138;"> And so,</span></i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> <b><i>2020 LEAVES US WITH A BANG...</i></b></span><b><i><br /></i></b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><b><i> </i>and a whimper.</b></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> <span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><span style="color: #e69138;"> MAY 2021 BRING </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #e69138;">HEALTH AND</span></div><div><span style="color: #e69138;"> HEALING TO OUR NATION.</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCwsd0kpqWy2vihDPZasLch_DQUQrR8LuG8PXfLmPCHhqxHhSrpLk9U6jl4rabIDfmU3Si0TAh5W_p8ydHa4B85nK0XagVp0XcU0EdmhPeryg5BqtC_a-v_vwYik5650l8ZIfj18hxmAk/s240/Happier+New+Year.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCwsd0kpqWy2vihDPZasLch_DQUQrR8LuG8PXfLmPCHhqxHhSrpLk9U6jl4rabIDfmU3Si0TAh5W_p8ydHa4B85nK0XagVp0XcU0EdmhPeryg5BqtC_a-v_vwYik5650l8ZIfj18hxmAk/s0/Happier+New+Year.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span> </span><br /></span></div><div><div><span><br /></span></div></div>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-45597694171137924822020-11-11T18:29:00.001-08:002020-11-11T18:46:57.656-08:00Christmas Music in Early November<p>On November 8, 2020, I tuned into our favorite radio station in south Florida and Christmas music popped on. I began to reach for the dial, in disgust at the early commercialism, but instead began singing. That's right - I was singing to Christmas music in early November. </p><p>I needed to feel good again, to exhale, to take the stress off my sleep-deprived brain, to erase the relentless, rabid, targeted tweets of 2020 and SING about the time of year that cocoons me like a warm, fuzzy comforter. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2IGsJb1mWJO3AusoiGjYcS8-OXo9ze2mhHR1j2Bh4ZjaSrsMTPOXQ0oglkBc7Yhyphenhypheno3HlrIis1mruRQtvhrN6lmaPNvTIlNGMC7XxIgOgYVxa8I31xGEGAooMwgTP1YmjpnrnIyqW01fc/s1426/Rudolph+image.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1426" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2IGsJb1mWJO3AusoiGjYcS8-OXo9ze2mhHR1j2Bh4ZjaSrsMTPOXQ0oglkBc7Yhyphenhypheno3HlrIis1mruRQtvhrN6lmaPNvTIlNGMC7XxIgOgYVxa8I31xGEGAooMwgTP1YmjpnrnIyqW01fc/s320/Rudolph+image.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>The U.S. had reached a total of 10,000,000 Covid infections. Nearly 240,000 had died. One hundred thousand small businesses had closed since the start of the pandemic. President Trump wasn't conceding the election so that President-elect Biden could begin the transition process, despite Biden's winning enough popular votes (discounting those still being counted) to give him more than the necessary 270 in the electoral college and no evidence of fraud in any state.</p><p>I'd barely written anything new in the spring and summer of 2020...I just wasn't motivated. We weren't socializing, we certainly weren't traveling, and we hardly left the house except to exercise. I managed a few humorous blogs and posted some friends' travel stories, while diving into books, cooking, and gardening.</p><p>In late October we drove 1500 miles from Massachusetts to Florida to vote in the Presidential election, aware that Florida traditionally went to the Republicans. It did again. We paid $109 each for Covid tests (both negative) so that we could unpack. Our air-conditioning went out in 85-degree temperatures the first night we arrived. Two plumbing items had to be replaced and an outdoor electric storm shutter was stuck. A week later, Tropical Storm Eta hit with 55 mph winds and slashing rains. </p><p>Of all the tragedies emerging, a generation of children teaching themselves on sofas and mattresses had the potential to become the most devastating. Researchers at Brown University projected in May, 2020, that students would return in the fall, 2020, with approximately two-thirds of the reading gains relative to a regular school year and about one-third to one-half of the learning gains in math. (<i>NY Times</i>, Nov. 8, 2020, Ginia Bellafante, "The Pandemic Widens the Learning Gap," p. 29.)</p><p>Still, I sang! I sang off-tune and hummed the words I'd forgotten because I was blessed to have a husband of 55 years who still loved me; because our family enjoyed good health and wasn't devastated by the Covid virus, as so many hundreds of thousands had been; because we had retirement funds and weren't stressed about our living quarters or our food supply; because we had a support system of relatives and friends who enriched us in innumerable ways; because our family had never been forcefully separated or racially attacked.</p><p>And I wasn't the only one singing. On November 8th, multitudes in protective masks poured from their doors to chant, to sing, to pop champagne. Our nation would need time to accept, to lessen the rancor, to coalesce, to change the systemic ills, to heal. Meanwhile, I listened to Christmas music and sang. I wondered how many others were singing, too.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTExyJOWV1fxujX1iN_xxrIcuKiC2yt-s8V9jZGB_LrVaZNi8rx_yaPL05zoWych0pTxfFeOXKQbE4piF_FOsSeYsdCdZaMshZj9PSjANnbGxuQo5dbgX-Dqm-UmzaKeB4ravZcs1kkVk/s1024/santa-claus-.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1011" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTExyJOWV1fxujX1iN_xxrIcuKiC2yt-s8V9jZGB_LrVaZNi8rx_yaPL05zoWych0pTxfFeOXKQbE4piF_FOsSeYsdCdZaMshZj9PSjANnbGxuQo5dbgX-Dqm-UmzaKeB4ravZcs1kkVk/w198-h200/santa-claus-.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p><i> </i></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-14023657229440750492020-09-25T16:29:00.000-07:002020-09-25T16:29:47.680-07:00Aging Hands and Other Mishaps<div class="separator"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">They say you can tell a woman’s age by looking at her
hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which puts me at about one
hundred!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s just say that my hands
will never be models for a sculpture, unless it’s outside a skilled nursing
facility.</p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="510" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrnUSCIZCrtSIIeQTANPPwFuzmjnYM-gzjf6MSs3zsP6lHbXkA1Lq1MzIHHMhMz8VmbPPQGUuqgsJoEs0jmp6UCxyfwM3MPlek-qBJqPGuo99Uqt9RvY1Fa6HRjzBqHWpl4ACOBDeDK1E/w320-h214/earthworm-4220363__340.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Earthworm</td></tr></tbody></table><img border="0" data-original-height="239" data-original-width="319" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdzgHmLGMtzoVE2zq7Ik5xcXCRcZVUjJnIds481sHUjn-eu8Da3BxXIgKQNtcNeUU5YyKRUg_NIT5-g4IosNIYDZjzpTr9T9JSiBxoRUeaNxkl4ax6EbjgMHuJozfL-ZR7ZXfmXMygTc/w200-h150/Pam%2527s+worms.jpg" width="200" /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">One of my granddaughters once asked me why I had blue worms on the backs of my hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The veins are raised and twisted, in-between the now protruding knuckles. I gave her a lengthy explanation of what veins do, and told her she had them in her hands, too. The only problem was, we couldn't find them!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><img border="0" data-original-height="746" data-original-width="1228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQJ2ySpl1649tMpcBimx7b-vfhB0NWc7Uk2R-daXDqNEqid_st9Qlj8z5QenAOKgtgdiPy9MSEJsnMmykxRDG9XM6m9iC5lH4dyl3rxQqVEgUraWA1GLEl58JI34LcFY0dRfIKOrxNog/s320/IMG_0119+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /><br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">When I go for blood work, the lab nurse never fails to exclaim, “Oh, these are beautiful!” I look at her like she’s not playing with a full deck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she explains that I’ll never be traumatized by having a succession of needles poked into my hands (or forearms) trying to find a vein.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that if one collapses, I’ll have plenty of others to choose from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s supposed to make me feel better? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are operations where plastic surgeons inject YOUR OWN
fat into your hands to plump them up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The operation is a mere $5,000/hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then, I do have some rolls I’d like to get rid of! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Almost as offensive as the veins are the small round
bruises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not even aware of doing it,
but if either hand bumps against something, a small purple mushroom appears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother used to call them “age” or “liver”
spots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had to take Coumadin to thin her
blood, then an aspirin regimen to replace the Coumadin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know if the blood thinners were
related to the spots, but I take neither and my hands always look like a
Jackson Pollock painting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tonight my right hand sports a new wound across the thumb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s from cutting it on the
door latch of my locker, while storing my golf bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So in addition to the blue worms and purple
mushrooms, I have a red badge of courage. The courage was just for going out on the golf course!</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfCsOL8Hcy2-SZwqyLbRQ4aUsF8KLlkWBp7FTwAOrv6LXaePL11GQIQmoOyvIb0LSUaa-9i5_W4O0CL7yz8ZWBfFd7ASXco52BC1V4KUUoTzfFO7Gd0pxGeRFt4uu2Y1lywKj_tr8Oqt8/s320/Pam%2527s+band-aid+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfCsOL8Hcy2-SZwqyLbRQ4aUsF8KLlkWBp7FTwAOrv6LXaePL11GQIQmoOyvIb0LSUaa-9i5_W4O0CL7yz8ZWBfFd7ASXco52BC1V4KUUoTzfFO7Gd0pxGeRFt4uu2Y1lywKj_tr8Oqt8/s0/Pam%2527s+band-aid+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>T</o:p>hen there’s the lump and blue/black bruise on my shin. I know I’m digressing from the hands, but
it’s the same beat-up body. In a tennis
match I whacked myself with my racket as I followed through during my
serve. An ugly hematoma appeared
instantly, and my opponents were gracious enough to let me sit with an ice pack
for ten minutes so I could elevate the leg. The lump is gone, but the blue-black three-inch bruise remains. You can actually see the indentation of my
racket against my shin. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I guess I could sit at the computer all day, or on the
sofa. But my blue worms need exercise!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-68090061184676936372020-08-31T17:43:00.001-07:002020-09-01T10:14:05.471-07:00Over the Hill<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now I’ve reached the age where people expect I won’t be
able to do certain things myself. I went over the hill maybe seventeen birthdays
ago but I don’t acknowledge I’ve even hit the upgrade yet. I can
certainly take care of myself and I don’t plan to give up activities like
tennis or travel. However, there are things I used to be able to do that don’t come so
easily anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For example, I used to be able to open any kind of lid or
wrapper. My unladylike biceps are a result of years of work-outs at fitness
centers, and I still play a sport at least four times a week. However, three
out of four times I cannot open the top of an iced tea bottle. I usually hand
it to Charley, who struggles a bit and may tap it with a utensil, but succeeds. Is it because the arthritis in
my wrist is getting worse or is it because the brand I buy uses tightening
machines designed to frustrate me? I have now switched to iced tea cans.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there are the liners inside cereal boxes. I can never
pull the glued tops apart to open a new one. “Do they use Gorilla Glue on these
things?” I lament. Finally, I give up and use scissors.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day it took two of us to open a clear plastic
Q-Tip container. Adhesive labeling covered both ends. Once I had ripped all
that off, I tried to pry open two small protrusions on one side which I
thought<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>were tabs. Negative. I
checked the other side. It was perfectly smooth with an indentation half-way
around. I pushed on the indentation. No luck. “Can you open this thing?” I
said, handing it to Charley. Negative. That’s when I pressed as hard as I could
on the top. Magically it flipped backward!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sometimes walk into a room and forget why I’m there.
No-one can help me with that. I walk out and remember and walk back in again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dare I mention the hearing problem…both mine and Charley’s? I
have to repeat almost everything and ask him to turn
the television down when he says it’s already down. If he’s got it on and
shouts to me in the kitchen, I usually can’t hear him. “See? You can’t hear,
either,” he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHgU1JpbS661qP7oz78J1H3PvNaa6r-X5O92V2fji0OREnAjtBF6xAxEAUycVkwO90Q2PTloEHAaeSahl9SuvJs9ARcXAAm9IUdy46WtZQKHS8Yqn9SWfhdbYWs5c-E8OUfavtBZUU3g/s1600/Zonked%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAHgU1JpbS661qP7oz78J1H3PvNaa6r-X5O92V2fji0OREnAjtBF6xAxEAUycVkwO90Q2PTloEHAaeSahl9SuvJs9ARcXAAm9IUdy46WtZQKHS8Yqn9SWfhdbYWs5c-E8OUfavtBZUU3g/s320/Zonked%2521.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When someone comes to clean our house, the beds are made, the
dishwasher emptied, and Charley has put dirty laundry in the washing machine. There
might be a chore I need to do like change a light bulb on a one-step stool or
gather up the scatter rugs to shake on the deck. “You shouldn’t be on that
stool!” the housekeeper admonishes. “You might lose your balance. And scatter
rugs are dangerous. You might trip.” I replay the refrain in my head and
realize I have now become my parents.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqdFnDovNzDmxxU8OE2Zw-STOA_SwEQDzUK2WSuK4t8Q_RmU2FAFtruhD9qIeRaFrPcTs2EjHfohdk5m2cS05k2bzFwNp5qpvJ3CXPvlN9dHFBWCMJX3yAkHEfnlOKV6mkziZ7Nw1um7k/s1600/Ev+and+Walt+Plumb+at+Leisureville+House+%252796.+Owner+of+photo+Pamela+Carey+with+full+rights+to+reproduce+as+cover+photo+for+A+SURVIVAL+GUIDE..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="531" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqdFnDovNzDmxxU8OE2Zw-STOA_SwEQDzUK2WSuK4t8Q_RmU2FAFtruhD9qIeRaFrPcTs2EjHfohdk5m2cS05k2bzFwNp5qpvJ3CXPvlN9dHFBWCMJX3yAkHEfnlOKV6mkziZ7Nw1um7k/s320/Ev+and+Walt+Plumb+at+Leisureville+House+%252796.+Owner+of+photo+Pamela+Carey+with+full+rights+to+reproduce+as+cover+photo+for+A+SURVIVAL+GUIDE..jpg" width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pam's parents, Ev and Walt</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least I know I’m not alone. I see other signs of aging
among those around me – on the tennis court, for example. After a few games,
one of the ladies might suddenly drop her racket and run in the direction of
the bathroom. Or one of the men might suddenly head toward the tennis shop. “I
forgot my drink,” he’ll say, holding up a bottle and stopping to talk to
someone through the fence upon his return, while the rest of the men wait on the court. Despite
an on-line schedule, we might have seven ladies show up instead of eight. Or
nine. Or one might begin to play in reading glasses that have to
be switched to the distance glasses left in the car.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn8YaZmAt5Pj_gssyLWRH-uuzHHweG_ouUSSdbh9CXvwfn4CKuePsZfRwt1LnFa-Ia2SYlPSsBtNwNV_3SnAGK17pF7Gr_2KyahUbWKu76fQWgQS4pDSQsDD2JTzebbVDLZKnqX6o3CJo/s1600/scan0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn8YaZmAt5Pj_gssyLWRH-uuzHHweG_ouUSSdbh9CXvwfn4CKuePsZfRwt1LnFa-Ia2SYlPSsBtNwNV_3SnAGK17pF7Gr_2KyahUbWKu76fQWgQS4pDSQsDD2JTzebbVDLZKnqX6o3CJo/s320/scan0001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there’s the matter of keeping score. In tennis, the
server is supposed to yell the score before each point. Some women are
perfectly silent. I’m never sure whether it’s because they don’t want to be
bothered or because they haven’t been able to keep track. Three out of four on
the court aren’t paying attention, anyway.</div>
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</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNq6XqI6GBAxIau_RCw1Hd4MjMFAN72V53PZgyZrNJwZ2nTwIuWWWc-Rp8sqwfRzaAQVG7V5vXXPSuXwWSjb9GFs9PERO2GUjvokh-RtI9rMOe3bhosznE__2N8lseUPjqtOMLlBNDEI/s1600/Corona+Virus+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNq6XqI6GBAxIau_RCw1Hd4MjMFAN72V53PZgyZrNJwZ2nTwIuWWWc-Rp8sqwfRzaAQVG7V5vXXPSuXwWSjb9GFs9PERO2GUjvokh-RtI9rMOe3bhosznE__2N8lseUPjqtOMLlBNDEI/s1600/Corona+Virus+8.jpg" /></a>I’ve purchased little beads on a string to keep track of my
strokes in golf. That way my partner will still be talking to me when we finish. But first I have to remember if I moved a bead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-81887473525661841782020-07-28T14:21:00.000-07:002020-07-28T14:21:38.032-07:00From the SidelinesJuly 28, 2020<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the last four months, life has been slipping in and out
of focus. The joy stick that I control is no longer reliable. But that’s OK.
I’ve never really been in charge, anyway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Charley and I were in Florida at our condo in March when
the pandemic hit. Life as we knew it shut down: beaches had yellow tape at the
entrances and sheriff’s helicopters flew overhead, looking for violators.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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<br />
Tennis courts and golf courses were off-limits. All commercial establishments
closed, except for take-out dining. I ordered 100 masks on the internet so we
could venture out one day a week, clad in gloves, to pick up our groceries. Placing the grocery bags outside the front
door when we returned, we carried the items to the kitchen fully clad and bathed each item in a disinfecting cloth.
Isolating and remaining six feet from anyone we encountered, we brooded
feverishly over news videos, press conferences, and data graphs. Our neighbors
invited us to gather in the evening in masks outside (three feet apart) for cocktails and hors
d’oeuvres, supplied for personal use. Instead, we waved and began three-mile walks. When
we returned, we retreated to seats above the ocean, where the rhythmic pounding
of waves and whosh of dive-bombing pelicans lulled us into a hypnosis. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEHMPx895pcsmDpi7Lc9iT0ONHuMd4IwWV1vRWIi9W1XXrMNGBBpn9WObZcjpylYBF6ebLU24GuKMEetPTHBD8JN28nAeaBuwNeIGOiX0uxdic3sEfRcGyzFfEcZIdW-w1sj1_KZU4GPI/s1600/Pelican+diving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEHMPx895pcsmDpi7Lc9iT0ONHuMd4IwWV1vRWIi9W1XXrMNGBBpn9WObZcjpylYBF6ebLU24GuKMEetPTHBD8JN28nAeaBuwNeIGOiX0uxdic3sEfRcGyzFfEcZIdW-w1sj1_KZU4GPI/s1600/Pelican+diving.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
We
counted thirty-five tractor-size treads on the beach in front of us, left by Leatherback
turtles during their nighttime deposit of eggs. Fellowship came on the internet or over
the phone.<br />
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<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need routine. I like to be in control. My new routine
consisted of letting go: sleeping later; foregoing my usual Kashi twigs and
blueberries to splurge on a “Big Breakfast” with pancakes at
the McDonald’s drive-thru twice a week; performing exercises on the dining room
floor instead of rushing to the tennis courts or the fitness center; watching
Governor Cuomo’s press conferences, whenever they came on; reading in a lounge
chair; preparing dinner at 4:30 p.m.; walking three miles at 6:00, when the
temperature dropped to 80 degrees; rediscovering old favorites on
television like “Out of Africa” and “City Slickers,” or new ones like “Ray” and “Million
Dollar Baby.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shortly after we started our isolation in March, I developed
a scratchy throat. I attributed it to the allergy season in Florida. The glands
beneath my jaws popped like miniature flower bulbs, and my sinuses sounded like pipes in need of Draino. There was no way I could write anything new, although
I had endless days to write. I was totally uninspired and lethargic. “We’re in
this together,” we kept hearing on television. Yet we felt like aliens. I began
sleeping in the guest room, hoping Charley wouldn’t catch whatever I’d
developed. My imagination ran wild. I Googled symptoms on the internet. I
discovered others were experiencing similar problems, a sign of the times. Virtually I had an appointment with our
primary care doctor, although I had no temperature. He called a prescription to
the pharmacy for my sinuses, which we picked up at the drive-through. I stayed
in the guest room till early May. Neither of us had developed antibodies,
meaning neither of us had contracted the virus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We headed north to our home in Massachusetts in mid-June, just
before the pandemic began to spike in Florida, a result of Memorial Day festivities. We spent
two nights on the road at Hampton Inns I’d contacted. They assured me of their
cleansing policies following each guest’s departure and the availability of
baggie-only breakfasts. In South Carolina restaurants had reopened inside, but
we were the only ones for dinner in a Ruby Tuesday. Our waitress wore no mask
and seated a group of young people without masks directly behind us. We departed as quickly as possible. In Virginia, where everyone wore masks, we ate
outdoors.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The kaleidoscope of tragedies began to spin out of control. Deaths
resulting from the Corona Virus, racist inhumanity, violent protests,
unemployment and business failures, lies from leaders we were supposed to
trust, and our brother-in-law’s struggle with cancer, created an unbearable edginess
while we isolated at our home in Massachusetts. In Florida we had taken stock
and resolved to eliminate the fluff, creating a tight knot of two. We’d
resolved to try to control only what we could change and refocus on our
relationships, our attitudes, our healthy habits, and everything that inspired
us. Inevitably, the outside world crept back in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thankfully, we remained healthy, as did our sons and their families. We had income in retirement and places to call "home." Restaurants began to reopen outdoors in Massachusetts. Masks were
mandatory to enter any commercial establishment, which made us feel safer. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfYMMmVfwNALfgtocZGlJskzW8g2Dw0vEbPmS-XKgqpp_n_6yDXJitev_h53ryxQPzS0G4gfPbr1YXulrI38dEioEbHGJd97XS3d5Jk5vtBZ-lh7M5SkSG4s7MqxN0c2O360rrE7XplQ/s1600/Face+mask+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfYMMmVfwNALfgtocZGlJskzW8g2Dw0vEbPmS-XKgqpp_n_6yDXJitev_h53ryxQPzS0G4gfPbr1YXulrI38dEioEbHGJd97XS3d5Jk5vtBZ-lh7M5SkSG4s7MqxN0c2O360rrE7XplQ/s1600/Face+mask+sign.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
In late July, after two members of our local community tested positive, the golf course, tennis courts, and all restaurant facilities were immediately closed at the club next door.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGWAmOPn4n__k_3SzSU8MeUtxquoX71_lw6O3WIODWqauII28ZVVroLXCr76UFvynS3x2YtPbkCT-n8wjV0CmsCFGNHYsaPHiVuIYzM-ActPcJaiXsmi0ht57tQcV3fyFEVLmHeW5w74g/s1600/Club+closed+July+27%252C+%252720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGWAmOPn4n__k_3SzSU8MeUtxquoX71_lw6O3WIODWqauII28ZVVroLXCr76UFvynS3x2YtPbkCT-n8wjV0CmsCFGNHYsaPHiVuIYzM-ActPcJaiXsmi0ht57tQcV3fyFEVLmHeW5w74g/s1600/Club+closed+July+27%252C+%252720.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Meanwhile, we
watched wild turkeys cross the yard, a wren nest in the wreath on our front
door, deer eat my hosta plants, and<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3bZcLCGEu_CN305Gis5lAm2ppz1zTz8Y09SioRHDGtrdYNXCBCwjWxb0NaV0kbDycz2OLZ3hFi-7rIZ0TK7wOq0G6wrUd55cprV0e4y3Cu1poHeIQ1q0Gga5tiM_KiQWW_ZsHU9HfT_k/s1600/Deer+in+Westport+garden+%252720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINAauhE5ucOpCzOAZc2LLV8RlMS8KIqQ2J0Dy8o8IDCopf2x8m8gClMj7OUYFKBq_xYzMJV8mvpeCpnNvvPJE0drU1y7IHBveUUmmJ6QzgyIVcAA3g2hJbsdX-0SnotHRCWbpmrpHuAw/s1600/Deer+in+Westport+garden+%252720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="902" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINAauhE5ucOpCzOAZc2LLV8RlMS8KIqQ2J0Dy8o8IDCopf2x8m8gClMj7OUYFKBq_xYzMJV8mvpeCpnNvvPJE0drU1y7IHBveUUmmJ6QzgyIVcAA3g2hJbsdX-0SnotHRCWbpmrpHuAw/s320/Deer+in+Westport+garden+%252720.JPG" width="180" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />
an osprey adolescent venture from the nest its parents had remodeled last year. Roses overwhelmed our hillside in the heat, mimicking the hair that grew down over my ears. In a rear-view mirror I noticed the blond highlights on the back of my head had transformed into a cap of gray. I let go of lip liner and lipsticks. What was the point, under a mask? Simpler things became easier. I became gentler on myself and more forgiving, while around me I heard, "What a mess! What a mess!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXerAu4CC9L_nVf0eTouLIF9OVNwTSoeefvDfVT3PaVxEb5JXOsOGqJNoU0rEIZ-UUim7z-pgvkOaAvq2c1F8tOu0P0LS1ICd5O8we4M1MD6oWgYZTSX81ZXq088UEWDt_4NicP2uCIc/s1600/Front+door+wreath+with+nest+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKXerAu4CC9L_nVf0eTouLIF9OVNwTSoeefvDfVT3PaVxEb5JXOsOGqJNoU0rEIZ-UUim7z-pgvkOaAvq2c1F8tOu0P0LS1ICd5O8we4M1MD6oWgYZTSX81ZXq088UEWDt_4NicP2uCIc/s1600/Front+door+wreath+with+nest+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div>
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minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-63671165810176988982020-07-10T15:28:00.001-07:002020-07-10T15:28:36.352-07:00A Bus Trip in the Canadian Rockies<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our bus departed Whistler to go to Sun Peaks in the Canadian
Rockies. After a couple of hours travelling, the bus was positioned vertically
up the side of the mountain on a two-lane road when it pulled partly off onto a
shoulder. All of us passengers assumed it was for a photo-op, so we stood to
take photos. We looked all around but could only see blue sky ahead of us and
blue sky below us. Then we noticed our tour guide was crossing the road with
his cell phone at his ear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We watched as he walked down the road, up the road, crossed
the street to our side, and then climbed the mountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that point we decided he probably wanted
some privacy to squat, but that didn’t make sense because there was a toilet in
the bus. Meanwhile, the driver crossed the street, walked down the road, walked
up the road, crossed the street back to our side, and then climbed the
mountain. Maybe they were having a rendez-vous?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, our guide returned. “The bus has stopped by
itself!” he informed us. “It won’t restart!” There were shouts from some of the
older men and hysterics from their spouses. Needless to say, we weren’t near
any town and our guide didn’t know how long we’d have to wait. Unfortunately,
the bus had given out in a spot that partly obstructed one lane around a curve.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some of the younger passengers were Australian, and their
attitude was, “S__t happens.” A few of them disembarked and found a tiny
clearing to play “pitch penny.” One man found a soft limb (a “switch”) and
began to weed-whack the area for the game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Another man put on his earphones and entertained us dancing up the
aisle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rest of us laughed (at the beginning), talked, and read.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since there was a hillside path, the men could
mountain-climb when they needed to pee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
so for the women!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With my luck, I was seated in the last row on the aisle in
front of the bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver
informed us that he couldn’t start the engine, so we couldn’t flush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But some of the females began to get
desperate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The door knob to the toilet
wouldn’t turn properly and kept getting stuck, so I used a piece of paper towel
to keep the knob from turning and told the women I’d guard the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since there was no power from the engine, I
used my cell phone flashlight to usher them in and show them where the
necessities were located, although there was no flushing, of course. After a
bit, it began to get “ripe” in the bus, especially for those of us seated near
the toilet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Could you put on the emergency lights?” I asked the driver,
hoping that would provide enough power to flush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t really want to use up whatever power’s left,” he
said. We ended up compromising with every third woman flushing. My job was to
open the door, usher the ladies in with my flashlight, and designate every
third person for a flush.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was an interesting way to meet women! I was offered tips
and written recommendations, should I wish to pursue this as a new career.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
.........................by Eileen Watson</div>
<br />minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-79059808941357362042020-06-19T09:10:00.000-07:002020-06-19T09:10:28.860-07:00A Poet Laureate's Thoughts Although Danusha Lameris, poet laureate of Santa Cruz County, California, posted these thoughts over eight months ago, they seem fitting today. This was printed in the <i>NY Times Magazine</i> section on 9-22-19.<br />
<br />
<br />
Small Kindnesses<br />
<br />
I've been thinking about the way, when you walk<br />
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs<br />
to let you by. Or how strangers still say "bless you"<br />
when someone sneezes, a leftover<br />
from the Bubonic plague. "Don't die," we are saying,<br />
And sometimes, when you spill lemons<br />
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you<br />
pick them up. Mostly, we don't want to harm each other.<br />
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,<br />
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile<br />
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress<br />
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder<br />
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.<br />
We have so little of each other, now. So far<br />
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.<br />
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these<br />
fleeting temples we make together when we say, "Here,<br />
have my seat," "Go ahead - you first," "I like your hat."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7PGgF-E-Bn1Z_NG-5YXNsu08hpbx1d5gIb-TsNqxW8PCByQb1Jf1ptJG09dI_oIESTjMq9vGAm69TU0gjVwWs5sKopJkrrbNjQPwZ7W4TLTGxfvpTPwpMMsx1If4FVqK1hv6wMfXIXc/s1600/The+hat-birdman+of+Trinidad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7PGgF-E-Bn1Z_NG-5YXNsu08hpbx1d5gIb-TsNqxW8PCByQb1Jf1ptJG09dI_oIESTjMq9vGAm69TU0gjVwWs5sKopJkrrbNjQPwZ7W4TLTGxfvpTPwpMMsx1If4FVqK1hv6wMfXIXc/s320/The+hat-birdman+of+Trinidad.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cuba, 2018</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-4984385944091917382020-06-03T17:15:00.000-07:002020-06-03T17:15:40.850-07:00And the Pastor Drove Away...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOeR3Sck8LQavynVu3hgwzNbC4toE2pDk6GLYkHPNtn0JEaASxQDhti14-DAZM-x5Tr98Hgn4l-6EHSrLngrlL7Ww_te2ABbksxMlL49ewL2VD5qkZyt7zZb7lzEdJF7_c5OhE-3IuQ4Q/s1600/RV%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOeR3Sck8LQavynVu3hgwzNbC4toE2pDk6GLYkHPNtn0JEaASxQDhti14-DAZM-x5Tr98Hgn4l-6EHSrLngrlL7Ww_te2ABbksxMlL49ewL2VD5qkZyt7zZb7lzEdJF7_c5OhE-3IuQ4Q/s320/RV%2527s.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For their trip to
Yellowstone National Park, Pastor Gail and husband Ben rented a Winnebago. They
picked it up at their local CarMax in Indiana and took off with Gail behind the
wheel, stopping along the way to visit friends and relatives. Inside the magnificent
surroundings of the national park, they swam, hiked, and sat by campfires for
four days and nights, listening to coyotes howl and watching eagles skim the
surface of Yellowstone Lake. When their camping reservation ended, they decided
to get an early start the next morning. Around 6 a.m. they roused themselves
and Gail again took the wheel. Ben would get his turn after about three hours.</div>
<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/AVvXsEhH8y4DqREjArOcyE2fOCnsSr77ODBMH3t1xBZFtaIoup4lYdKUG4Je7h36ESQHJ590fidxvrmZIOXH4vq5KXyyRwqToHxvMcZEwd74t7GmrosIo2S3A-yg7aYgycQYGOvudQhsVm-Lpn4/s1600/RV+Camper+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="451" data-original-width="761" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8y4DqREjArOcyE2fOCnsSr77ODBMH3t1xBZFtaIoup4lYdKUG4Je7h36ESQHJ590fidxvrmZIOXH4vq5KXyyRwqToHxvMcZEwd74t7GmrosIo2S3A-yg7aYgycQYGOvudQhsVm-Lpn4/s320/RV+Camper+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’d better stop
at the general store on Highway 20 before we leave the Park,” Gail said. “We
can shower in there at the truck stop. No telling when we’ll find another
full-service place.” No answer from Ben in the rear of the camper. Gail’s
husband was not a talker and was clearly not in charge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the camper
reached the truck stop, Gail turned off the engine and grabbed her back pack
with overnight necessities: face cloth, towel, deodorant, soap, toothbrush and
paste. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked in the rear view
mirror to run fingers through her cropped gray hair, pushing a cowlick down with wet fingers while
Ben shuffled in his slippers and pajamas to the “cab.” A towel draped over
one of his shoulders and a toiletry bag dangled from one hand. Together the two
walked into the facility, Gail turning toward the ladies’ lockers and Ben
turning in the opposite direction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gail was quick in
the shower and returned to the camper. She put away the bread, milk, peanut
butter and jelly, apples, and granola bars she’d purchased in the truck stop
store, hung her wet towel over the back of the passenger seat, and glanced toward
the back to look for Ben. His red and black checked sleeping bag followed the
curve of his body and the girth of his belly. “He must have crawled in and gone
back to sleep,” Gail thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She started the
engine and checked the rear-view mirror. It took a while before she could enter
the stream of traffic heading out of the park. After she hit the highway, she
pushed the pedal to the medal till she saw “65,” turned on a talk show with the
volume on low, and sank into her captain’s seat with its molded velour back
rest to sip her burning black decaf.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two hours went by
without a peep from the sleeping bag. “I’m going to stop to check on him,” she
thought. “I’ve got to use the facilities anyway, after that mug of coffee.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gail pulled into
a rest area and went to the rear of the camper. She peeled a corner of the
sleeping bag back, but all she saw was a pillow. She peeled more sleeping bag back
and saw only blankets. Ben was nowhere in the camper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Dang it!” Pastor
Gail spewed. “Dang it, dang it, dang it!” Pastors didn’t swear, but Gail was
sorely tempted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“He must still have been
in the truck stop when I came out. Now what do I do? It’s another two hours
back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had no
choice. She turned around, muttering, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not
want,” and other Biblical verses for two hours so the Lord wouldn’t hear any
blasphemies. When she re-entered the full-service facility, she spotted Ben’s royal blue slippers on the foot rest under the
counter before she recognized the back of him. His pajamas had been a gift from
the twin grandsons at Christmas.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she stood
next to him, Ben was enjoying his last bite of apple pie. “Glad you came back for me!” he said. “Some
guy left me his newspaper. Hope you have money for my breakfast and lunch.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gail paid up.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicliA7vD1ZCnudR7RYCvR0pbVj7Ok-GAghpd4xlt2e6Gwo-eBrTAHHhvtkufcm83suL-5JeCle36jy5oH7jFMH2nJJY7QC4aPlG2rvtH-t0nbmaVPVf_ITaGrUhAXfxDVYj9pnZsDj4UM/s1600/Yellowstone+canoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicliA7vD1ZCnudR7RYCvR0pbVj7Ok-GAghpd4xlt2e6Gwo-eBrTAHHhvtkufcm83suL-5JeCle36jy5oH7jFMH2nJJY7QC4aPlG2rvtH-t0nbmaVPVf_ITaGrUhAXfxDVYj9pnZsDj4UM/s320/Yellowstone+canoes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhEA7Uh4Rgrq3Ho8R2uU6QiuWDNZPRolzN8HmMdUOyyX0VQG1dpcMLFHsVyMxG7bLETq6lmu4JN4rsiJg5XP-iHtxj88gYUxxU7zbosLvUroHM3vgys9ArktrOs0E3PW8iPZmi3W26Os/s1600/Yellowstone+eagle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhEA7Uh4Rgrq3Ho8R2uU6QiuWDNZPRolzN8HmMdUOyyX0VQG1dpcMLFHsVyMxG7bLETq6lmu4JN4rsiJg5XP-iHtxj88gYUxxU7zbosLvUroHM3vgys9ArktrOs0E3PW8iPZmi3W26Os/s320/Yellowstone+eagle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTch303N0wB63HLdn2AG0QSe9HuMU5yJ1Vxge8H5oPydXkKHeR3h_8nacMDWU-4SLvepBHTggLryWJKHyjt3jKzO-7vhcOoFMEtZJ3hgyr9mjn5gdkFWmVxgFifLxT3nCIsESDgG7Mq4/s1600/Yellowstone+grizzly-bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="760" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTch303N0wB63HLdn2AG0QSe9HuMU5yJ1Vxge8H5oPydXkKHeR3h_8nacMDWU-4SLvepBHTggLryWJKHyjt3jKzO-7vhcOoFMEtZJ3hgyr9mjn5gdkFWmVxgFifLxT3nCIsESDgG7Mq4/s320/Yellowstone+grizzly-bear.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3qCKTU2HPYtK-Wpmsza01eejHnEG-ODY39jbpgjQYlt0TgAjxQMvoJrLKh4UnOvT3dWAOFsSdM53mK3BtAvW7-VDRUWxUDlYuo1YpPXLM88nDeNVHMslPlyVtPUb_WSGeaADNKrBIc3E/s1600/Yellowstone+lone-bison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3qCKTU2HPYtK-Wpmsza01eejHnEG-ODY39jbpgjQYlt0TgAjxQMvoJrLKh4UnOvT3dWAOFsSdM53mK3BtAvW7-VDRUWxUDlYuo1YpPXLM88nDeNVHMslPlyVtPUb_WSGeaADNKrBIc3E/s320/Yellowstone+lone-bison.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWn_xuiDKGrE_1hAh-OibSFIj_rYoH2codhKEqIoMe56i2CssL93z6t4XpkzBrzxpwiceETuTyqmK4e7uKIlw2e5LcUKiYYUKnhQfA44Y_-uMeytUbH_7dJOwCRc0V-fDaAY0S2X9yN5Q/s1600/Yellowstone+lower-falls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWn_xuiDKGrE_1hAh-OibSFIj_rYoH2codhKEqIoMe56i2CssL93z6t4XpkzBrzxpwiceETuTyqmK4e7uKIlw2e5LcUKiYYUKnhQfA44Y_-uMeytUbH_7dJOwCRc0V-fDaAY0S2X9yN5Q/s320/Yellowstone+lower-falls.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scenes from Yellowstone National Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659994518175147494.post-32588827580290710122020-05-12T15:11:00.002-07:002020-05-12T15:11:55.967-07:00A Belated Mother's Day Tribute to My Mom Evelyn (1915-2006)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbTZOFuf6GGnFdfmee2u13kZVWepAT3IW7_b3iyLiIZqrrU6eDthVrKTfwY_Yt1YGJHyda8q7B7ZCUudfekSjzReW3SSITNT-O_PGWmPRMZ7bIKhJ1lZTPAt8iG03a94ddww_oZwfa-Jc/s1600/Evelyn+Plumb+1940.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1150" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbTZOFuf6GGnFdfmee2u13kZVWepAT3IW7_b3iyLiIZqrrU6eDthVrKTfwY_Yt1YGJHyda8q7B7ZCUudfekSjzReW3SSITNT-O_PGWmPRMZ7bIKhJ1lZTPAt8iG03a94ddww_oZwfa-Jc/s320/Evelyn+Plumb+1940.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evelyn at age 25, 1940</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you carried me home from kindergarten in a blizzard,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I learned trust.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpKxpL5qHsi31O83J821HmLmhfXuWb_iBTsaMXSVtFLyQuczybzslM1hRqgqpG9uzVK5GmQnxSnaa-W5zmjO8q06ZIDvCWYzRd0rlGsxxYFNugLoDLI419v8mc0iU-bljZpLCoLXYOs-s/s1600/Page+82.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1164" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpKxpL5qHsi31O83J821HmLmhfXuWb_iBTsaMXSVtFLyQuczybzslM1hRqgqpG9uzVK5GmQnxSnaa-W5zmjO8q06ZIDvCWYzRd0rlGsxxYFNugLoDLI419v8mc0iU-bljZpLCoLXYOs-s/s400/Page+82.jpg" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evelyn and Pam, 1943</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you volunteered as Brownie leader and supplied
store-boughts for meetings,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw dependability.</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you donated a nickel as my neighborhood newspaper’s
first customer,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt pride.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you designed campaign posters for my student
government election,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I witnessed creativity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you quizzed me before tests in school,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I acquired readiness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you welcomed girlfriend sleep-overs in the living
room and teenage “cider” parties on the lawn,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I developed self-confidence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you typed my compositions till midnight and
went to work in the morning,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gained self-discipline.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpf0SxsIbNH7OzxaSs_2vAD4ik_QZtmC-QgRwDLySzJysT0MsMcyKW18yR-k8Gk2HbE-uVN60sJA6ST39CLoSgZdRFf1vnignvPRbx48vrEHLFLngDNi7emPlOM5ZbFPmJPNaTt4J4dI/s1600/Pg.+59.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1164" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpf0SxsIbNH7OzxaSs_2vAD4ik_QZtmC-QgRwDLySzJysT0MsMcyKW18yR-k8Gk2HbE-uVN60sJA6ST39CLoSgZdRFf1vnignvPRbx48vrEHLFLngDNi7emPlOM5ZbFPmJPNaTt4J4dI/s320/Pg.+59.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pam and Evelyn at grandson Todd's wedding, 2000</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you organized details of my wedding so I could finish my college degree,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found gratitude.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you provided a home for your ailing parents,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw devotion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you offered me shelter while Charley went to war in
a place we’d never heard of,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tasted fidelity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you baked your grandsons lop-sided birthday cakes
and never refused to babysit,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew unconditional love.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you and Dad said “I love you” each night before you
slept,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I heard eternity.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQQ3pJ8bWMNOTj8e3mIPLonkI4Na_sZJFqL37X-eZzJ3qqVnLHKWesPl7D-b3IJp636km3OKxJJawJw8Vlxxf38D65BKU2JdE9mZkh3QMn18cqB2ypaMBn6o43Zi7D-kjmThi7pEPaIpA/s1600/scan0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="973" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQQ3pJ8bWMNOTj8e3mIPLonkI4Na_sZJFqL37X-eZzJ3qqVnLHKWesPl7D-b3IJp636km3OKxJJawJw8Vlxxf38D65BKU2JdE9mZkh3QMn18cqB2ypaMBn6o43Zi7D-kjmThi7pEPaIpA/s320/scan0001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pam's Mom and Dad, 1995</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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Happy Mother’s Day, Mom, from all of us who remember.</div>
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<br />minorleaguemomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14340014340564225667noreply@blogger.com7