TERMS OF ENDEARMENT: RULES FOR GROWN CHILDREN WITH ELDERLY PARENTS (Excerpt from new manuscript)

MY PARENTS AND HURRICANE WILMA

RULE FIFTEEN: EXPECT FALLOUT IF YOU RELOCATE PARENTS DURING

A NATURAL DISASTER (BUT DO IT ANYWAY!)

In October, 2005, Hurricane Wilma hit south Florida. It was only thirteen months after Frances and Jeanne had hit. Wilma went across the Gulf of Mexico and hit Cozumel as a Category 5 storm, then turned around and took aim at Florida's west coast. Its eastward path would carry it across the Everglades toward Ft. Lauderdale, just below us.

Ten years before, I had relocated my parents from Connecticut to Boynton Beach, just five miles from Charley and me in Florida. In 2005 Mom was 89; Dad was 93. I had left them alone in their cinderblock house for Hurricane Frances, a Category 2. During Jeanne, almost a Category 4 storm, my mother and I had mopped up all night in their house. When Wilma bore down, I made reservations for the four of us at the Hampton Inn in Brunswick, Georgia.

My parents protested that all their neighbors were staying in their homes. After age eighty, the herd mentality took over, reminding me of a bunch of teenagers. Evacuation to a shelter was unthinkable, because of the prevalence of germs. "God knows what we'd catch! Besides, we don't want to listen to screaming children all night," Dad insisted. "We'd be on cots and wouldn't sleep at all. We need a bathroom close by and the toilets would be overflowing."

We each packed one suitcase. In addition, I'd put water, snack items, rain gear, books, lanterns, blankets, and some canned food in the car. I'd recharged my cell phone and gone through a check list for our residences. Mom brought her knitting.

On the drive up Route 95, there was dead silence from the back seat. My parents were punishing Charley and me for uprooting them from their home without just cause! At a rest stop we heard, "Bob (next-door) says this will only be a tropical storm. Why do we have to leave our house? Bob has a generator and Ann is the new block captain, with a satellite phone."

"You certainly have a lot of faith in Bob's weather predictions!" I replied. There was no point arguing.

Wilma got stuck over the Yucatan. Mom lectured, "You are a worrier, Pam, and we should never have left Leisureville. Besides, we're missing Doc Schenecke's 90th birthday party, and he came to my party last fall!" My mother the social butterfly??? She hated even going to block parties right in front of her house, especially if she had to bring a dish.

The inhabitants of the Hampton Inn that weekend were all Florida residents, driven out by caution over the storm warnings. Saturday and Sunday Charley and I listened to a litany of complaints about my parents' accommodations. The beds were too soft; there were only three T.V. stations; the toilet seats were too low (after all, they had replaced all theirs in their Leisureville house with high-rises); there was no Florida newspaper at breakfast. "Let's go shopping at the mall," I suggested.

"No thanks, I think we'll stay right here." Charley and I left them in front of the T.V.'s giant screen in the lobby.

The next day: "Why don't you both come to a matinee with us?"

"No thanks, I think we'll just stay here."

By Monday morning, Wilma was gathering strength and heading east across Florida. It finally hit our area, nearly a Category 3. We, however, ate a leisurely breakfast in Georgia, read, napped, and went out for an early dinner.

"You know, Charley, I think it was a very wise decision we made not to stay in our house," Dad informed us. "My God, what am I eating? Catfish??"

A CONDENSED VERSION OF MY LIFE (THIS MORNING)

I decided to pay some bills after breakfast. First, I took my cereal bowl and juice glass to the sink and rinsed them out. I tried to put them in the dishwasher, but it was full with last night's dirty dishes.

So I turned on the dishwasher, poured more coffee into my mug, and cleaned out the coffeepot. I walked toward the front room to get my glasses in the desk.

Passing through the front hall, I noticed the flowers in the vase were wilting and the stagnant water was beginning to smell. So I took the vase into the kitchen, threw the flowers into the trash, emptied the water, rinsed and dried the vase.

When I was putting it back in the front hall, I remembered I had come out there on my way to someplace else. But I didn't have any idea where. So I headed back into the kitchen and just as I remembered I was supposed to be getting my glasses, the phone rang.

After my conversation with one of our daughters-in-law, I decided I'd better get dressed. When I passed through the front hall on my way to the stairs, I remembered that I had been going to get my glasses. I retrieved them from a drawer in the desk in the front room, but couldn't remember what I needed them for. So I put them on top of my head and went upstairs.

In our bedroom, I made the bed and put the clean laundry away. I put the items that needed ironing into a pile. Then I went to my closet.

It was a very hot day, and I was going to meet someone for lunch. I selected a sundress to wear, but then I saw that it had a spot. So I went downstairs to get the spot remover.

I retrieved the spot remover but needed my glasses before I could do anything with the dress. I looked in my desk in the front room, but they weren't there. I looked around the kitchen counters and the family room sofa, as well as among the magazines. No luck!

I went back upstairs, got another dress out of the closet (I was going to be hot in this one!), put on some jewelry, and decided I'd better wait with the makeup till I found my glasses.

I started down the stairs, but half-way down, I remembered I hadn't brought the clothes that needed ironing. I went back up, but noticed the toilet was still running in our bathroom.

So I took off the tank cover and jiggled the lever a few times, lifted the float manually, and washed my hands thoroughly. I got down to the kitchen and remembered I had forgotten to bring down the clothes that needed ironing. Oh well, it was too hot to iron, anyway!

I noticed the stack of bills still sitting on the kitchen table. Since I couldn't find my glasses, I decided to cut some flowers from the garden to replace the ones I threw away.

There was a problem with cutting the flowers: the deer were eating our arbor vitae trees in the early mornings, and they carry ticks that cause Lyme disease. The arbor vitaes were right next to the hydrangeas and the roses I wanted to cut. So I had to cover myself with bug spray. That meant a shower when I came in, and I usually showered at night.

As it turned out, I was sweltering in that dress under the hot sun, anyway! After I'd cut and arranged the flowers, I went right for the shower. I took off my dress, then my necklace and earrings, and hopped under the cool spray of water.

I started to wash my hair when I discovered the glasses on top of my head! Now what was it I needed them for?

THAT LITTLE WHITE BALL

I don't understand the problem! The little dimpled ball sits there, stationary. It is begging to be clobbered! All I have to do is swing at it.

I would not consider myself a novice at the game. Our property in Massachusetts abuts a golf course. We have owned it for twenty-seven years. I have taken clinics and private lessons. I have attempted to play in ladies' leagues.


Still, I stink! My handicap remains at forty. Some days, it's downright embarassing! And frustrating.


If I analyze, I conclude that I really don't enjoy the game. Therefore, I don't lug buckets of balls out to practice. I don't play enough, either.


I LOVE playing tennis. I am on the tennis court three-four times/week. I have played competitively on a team in Florida for many years. If I make a mistake on the court, the next ball is coming right back at me. I don't have to dwell on a screw-up, while I walk yards and yards to hit the next shot.


When I am not on the tennis court, I am writing. It is a new career, after my first book was published, and I have to take it seriously. Yet I still expect to go out on the golf course and play decently.


Golf I have to squeeze in. It doesn't always happen.


Golf takes time. You have to devote half a day, at least, to the game. You can go play a couple of sets of tennis (and get some ACTIVE exercise) and be home in two hours, max.


You have to play golf regularly, or at least practice regularly, if you expect to improve, like anything else. By regularly, I mean at least three times/week. There is no muscle memory, because there are so many variables.


The grip has to be just right. The stance has to be just right. The shoulders have to turn so the backswing is just right. And God forbid if the hips don't pivot with the shoulders! The head has to stay down. Do I need this?


If I choose the wrong club, I hit too far or not enough. If the wind is blowing STRONGLY, as it was last Thursday, I have to keep the ball low. I don't know how to do that, unless I choose a club that will make the ball go too far. I also don't know how to give the ball backspin when it lands on the green.


The three women I played with last Thursday were all steady, consistent golfers. They are good friends and were very positive and supportive, but they were always waiting for me.

I set the ball on the tees and took gorgeous practice swings! On one occasion I topped the ball and it landed five yards in front of me. Two other times, I whiffed. Four times I picked the ball up and stuck it in my pocket.

I went right home after we played, disgusted. Didn't even eat lunch. I tried not be negative or aggravated. After all, I was privileged to be out on the course. I tried to focus on the good shots. They were few and far between.

Yesterday I learned that.......we had WON the ladies' day last Thursday. How???? It must have been my handicap that pulled us through. Maybe I'll sign up for next week.

ONE OF THE BENEFITS OF TRAVEL

With the exception of common courtesy and a respect for human dignity, one must leave all assumptions behind when travelling. This is especially true for Americans in Italy.

Charley and I do not assume the following there:

-that the paper will be delivered regularly or that buses, trains, and ferries will be running (24-hour strikes occur with a day's notice);

-that the road to our hotel, with rock walls tumbling down the hillside at hairpin turns, will be fixed in our lifetimes;

-that garbage will ever disappear from roadsides, or even be collected;

-that drivers will move over for pedestrians (who have no sidewalks), instead of playing "chicken";

-that American prudishness about exposing the body is universal.

It is one of the things we love about southern Italy. Life is exuberant and loud. Neapolitans are brash, grabbing life as it comes and squeezing it tight (as evidenced by the antics of twosomes on scooters or in passionate embraces whenever the mood strikes).

Neapolitans are not afraid to flaunt their assets. The men and women are bronze, the women with thick chestnut tresses and filmy gauze dresses cut to their navels. They have little and live under the shadow of the ever-threatening Vesuvius. They disregard the mafioso clans that rule every aspect of their city: garbage collection, construction, gambling, drugs, pinball machines, and all other illicit activities.

"Humans are flawed," the Ischians tell us. Their island faces Napoli and Vesuvio. "We cannot be expected to perform perfectly all the time."

At our hotel pool on Ischia, I am surrounded by six-foot models in thong bikinis, topless women sunbathing, and men in Speedos. Some of the sights over age sixty are not pretty! Only the English and Russian women in that age group, like me, wear one-piece bathing suits.

Perhaps it's time to dig that bikini out of my suitcase!

PANIC TIME

I have cartwheeled down an Austrian Alp, after falling off a chairlift; remained confined to a hotel room in Buenos Aires, while a coup d'etat prevailed outside; watched helplessly while a gang of youths surrounded, then lifted, our Volkswagen in Naples, Italy; suffered swollen eyelids from a severe allergy attack on a 12-inch trail over 200-foot gorges on Madeira. But nothing can send me into a panic so much as....................................................................................................................












........................................................................................................................................










......................................................................................not being able to find a toilet when I need one!!!










Charley and I recently returned from our all-time favorite destination of Ischia - an island facing Capri outside Naples, Italy. We attended the last night of festivities honoring St. Vito in the nearby town of Forio. Our friend who owns an apartment there made a 9:30 p.m. reservation for a waterfront table to see the fireworks. In Italy, diners show up an hour before they think about ordering dinner. The wine was flowing. We thought the fireworks would start at 10:00.




"Soon," Daniella kept saying. "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe July! Here - have some more vino!"




It WAS tomorrow when they started - 12:30 a.m., exactly. By then I'd switched to coffee and Charley had switched to Diet Coke.




The show was spectacular - the most impressive we'd ever seen, including July 4th in Boston. Marco Polo had, after all, brought fireworks back to Italy from China.




In fact, there were TWO fireworks shows over the marina. Forio's ended, and the town of Lacco Ameno tried to outdo its neighbor. By then, I was nursing a glass of water.




The shows ended at 1:30 a.m. I hit the toilet one last time. Along with 12,000 Forio residents and thousands more from across the island, we trudged half a mile to get out of the harbor.




Up ahead I spotted an available taxi. We ran! Then we sat for thirty minutes. Like bees (except they were carrying sleeping infants and toddlers), the throngs swarmed in front and in back of us, making last-minute purchases at open stalls. Vespas whizzed by. We progressed one car length at a time. The thought crept into my mind that our progress might necessitate an impossible pit stop. The power of suggestion is a dangerous thing!




There was construction on the road to our hotel. The taxi couldn't get through the traffic. We got out two hundred meters from our entrance to walk.




Ischia is volcanically thermal, lushly colorful, and demandingly vertical. Climbing up the road, I mapped the location of the nearest bathroom at our hotel. Our room was ten meters up the hillside from the lobby. The public restrooms were ten meters down the hillside from the lobby.






"Honey, we'd better step on it," I warned Charley. He knew what that meant.




We arrived at the twelve-foot iron gates marking the entrance to our hotel. They were securely locked!! By this time, I was crossing my legs.




There were two callboxes. I hit all the white bars on the first one. While Charley was pushing buttons on the second one, I eyed the surrounding bushes.




Suddenly the gates opened! We ran for the lobby.




"Room 415, please!" Charley demanded, as the night clerk turned for our key. "Can we get a ride to our room?"




"Certo, signore!" The clerk pushed a button, while I folded myself into a sofa in the lobby.




"Please, St. Vito, we toasted you so many times tonight! Now do something for me," I begged. "Let me make it to our room!"




An attendant on a golf cart appeared. Over every bump I prayed to St. Vito. He didn't forget me!

France Revisited

We will soon re-enter French airspace en route to Normandy. It will be Charley's first tour of the D-Day beaches, but not his first trip to France.

During previous visits, we made mistakes. We didn't understand the French mentality. We didn't follow the rules. We didn't wait patiently as French men and women ignored us. We didn't ask the right questions.

On our first trip, we flew in from the States at 7 a.m. and had to connect to Corsica. Charley put our luggage cart, piled high, directly in front of the "Corsica" sign at the ticket counter. We needed boarding passes and had four hours to kill. Groggy, we took turns getting coffee and reading. Around 10 a.m. the "Corsica" sign moved. Charley grabbed our cart but wasn't fast enough. A French woman came out of nowhere, ramming the front bumper of his cart and cutting him off. He rammed her back. "Despicable Americans!" we heard, as she stepped up to the "Corsica" counter ahead of us.

On another trip, we met an American friend and her travelling companions at an outdoor cafe. We got there first and eyeballed the tiny cafe tables. "I'll grab a few more chairs and move this other table over," Charley declared, rearranging the furniture. A waiter ran over. "Monsieur! Monsieur! Non, non!" We had violated two waiters' serving assignments. Ten of us sat at two separate tables and waited thirty minutes for acknowledgement that we existed.

We drove along the Riviera from Nice. About two and a half hours beyond St. Tropez, we cut inland looking for our "Hidden Inn," right out of a guidebook. It was hidden, all right! No road signs anywhere. We stopped a farmer, who led us down a dirt road on his tractor.

We checked in and learned the pool was in back, with reciprocal privileges at a hotel right on the beach. We unpacked, put on bathing suits, and headed for the pool. All we wanted was to chill out with a cool drink! There were plenty of chaise lounges at the pool, but no towels. "Excusez-moi, les towels?" I asked a sunbather.

"At the main desk in the lobby!" he answered in English.

I went back for towels but diverted up to the room for sunblock I'd forgotten. The upstairs hall was in total darkness. I fumbled with our key at the door, shoved it around near the hole, but couldn't get the knob to turn. Back to the front desk.

"Madame, you must insert your key in the slot at the end of the hall. That will turn on the lights. Then the locks will respond."

We decided to try the beach at the other hotel, instead. We made our way to the attendant there, who explained, "Je m'excuse, no chairs at beach. OK on hill. I move you when beach chairs open."

That was fine with us, since there was shade on the hill. We spread out our stuff and walked toward the Mediterranean.

"Monsieur! Monsieur! Non, non! Non beach!"

"What? We can't go in the water?"

"Non, monsieur! The prix on hill - non beach."

Back to the lobby for towels.

Before flying out of Nice, our last stop was the Chevre d'Or Hotel in Eze. Eze is on a cliff along the Grande Corniche, hanging high up over the Blue Mediterranean. We had to leave our car about two hundred yards below; a golf cart took us the rest of the way.

We had booked a reservation for dinner in their famous restaurant, filmed in "The Bucket List" with Jack Nicholson. It was one of the two most expensive dinners we've ever paid for. Problem: we couldn't see two feet out the windows. We were completely fogged in!

The next morning the fog burned off and Charley decided to use the exercise room. The receptionist had proudly told us it opened at 10 a.m. Right at 10, he climbed the fifty stone steps from our room, hanging over the cliff, up to the exercise room. Closed! He continued up fifty more stone steps to the lobby.

"Non possible, monsieur! It's after 10 o'clock. It must be open!"

There was no point arguing. Charley figured by the time he got back down fifty steps, he might find the door unlocked.

Not so! But where there's a will, there's a way. He spotted a louvred window on the bottom row that was cracked open. Yup! He climbed in.

The exercise attendant thought he was hallucinating when he unlocked the door and saw Charley pedalling calmly on one of the bikes. "Monsieur, what are you doing here?"

Charley pointed to his watch. "It's 10:30. The exercise room is open!"

Anyone else have travel stories??

AT&T MERRY-GO-ROUND

AT&T: "Hello, my name is Melody."




Chas: "Are you a real person?"




AT&T: "Last time I checked!"




Chas: "Well, I've been pushing buttons on your menu for ten minutes before I got anyone with vocal cords."




AT&T: "I'm sorry about that, sir. Would you kindly give me your phone number?"




Chas: "....................."




AT&T: "Now I need your password, sir."




Chas: "........... "




AT&T: "Would you please give me the last four digits of your social security number?"




Chas: "...."




AT&T: "Now I need the answers to a couple of security questions~"


Chas: "I'm not Osama bin Laden!"




AT&T: " I guess we wouldn't be having this conversation if you were! Just a couple more, sir. What was the name of your childhood pet?"




Chas: "Blackie."




AT&T: "What was the street that your wife grew up on?"




Chas: "River Road."




AT&T: "You have answered all the questions correctly."




Chas: "Do I get a prize?"




AT&T: "I suppose I could sing for you, since my name is Melody! Otherwise, how can I help you, sir?"




Chas: "Melody,I have a very simple request. We have your UVerse system for two phone lines and high-speed internet. We are leaving Florida to go north for four months and would like to put our service on seasonal hold."




AT&T: "I'm sorry, Mr. Carey, but I can't help you."




Chas: "Excuse me? We've been putting our account on hold each summer for fifteen years!"




AT&T: "Yes, Mr. Carey, but you didn't have UVerse before this year. I'm afraid UVerse customers will have to do that on-line."




Chas: "But only my wife deals with the computer. I don't touch it!"




AT&T: "Then have her go on-line to AT&T.com and I will walk her through the steps."




Chas: "I don't think she'll want to hear about steps right now. She's in the middle of a project. I'll have to break it to her at another time. Can't you just flick a switch or fill out a form, like the cable company?"




AT&T: "I'm afraid it's not that easy, Mr. Carey. Is there anything else I can help you with?"





***********************************************************************************


Next evening







Chas: "Are you having any luck getting our service suspended?"




Pam: "I've been on for over an hour and opened every possible link under 'UVerse.'
When I hit 'Move or Change Service,' it asks where we're moving to!"




Chas: "This \/!!***! Company is useless! What other links are there?"




Pam: "I've tried 'My Account' and 'Technical Support.' The word 'Suspend' or 'Hold' doesn't exist in their vocabulary. Call them back for specific instructions."







*************************************************************************************
Next morning

AT&T: "Hello, my name is Samantha."

Chas: "Am I speaking to a real person?"

AT&T: "Yes, I'm a real live wire!"

Chas: "I'm so excited for you! I have spent one evening on the phone with your Company and my wife~"

AT&T: "Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but would you please give me your phone number?"

Chas: ".............."

AT&T: "May I please have your password?"

Chas: "...................."

AT&T: "Now I need the account holder's name."

Chas: "Samantha, I AM the account holder, and my name is CAREY and the last digits of my social security number are .... and my childhood pet was named BLACKIE and my wife grew up on RIVER ROAD and I am UPSET! Please HELP ME!"

AT&T: "What can I do for you, Mr. Carey?"


Chas: "I want to put our UVerse service on seasonal hold for four months. I have called your Company once before and we have tried to do it online. Nothing has worked! Can you please give me the steps to follow on your website?"

AT&T: "I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Carey. Let me find out how you can proceed."

AT&T Supervisor: "Mr. Carey?"

Chas: "I can't believe it, but I'm still here!"

AT&T Supervisor: "Mr. Carey, I'm the Supervisor, Scott Regan, and I'm here to help you."

Chas: "That remains to be seen! I just want to put my UVerse service on hold for four months while we leave Florida for the summer. It used to be so easy!"

AT&T Supervisor: "Well, I'll find out how to do that. Would you mind holding?"

Chas: "Do I have a choice?"

AT&T Supervisor: "Mr. Carey, are you still there?"

Chas: "Is that you, Scott?"

AT&T Supervisor: "It's me. Thank you for holding. Now, tell me, is it correct that you do NOT have your cable t.v. with UVerse?"

Chas: "That's right, Scott. We live in a condo, and the building is wired for Comcast. We have no choice in the matter."

AT&T Supervisor: "Well, you see, Mr. Carey, right there is the problem! You have to have the ENTIRE PACKAGE in order to put your account on hold for the summer. You have to have phone and high-speed internet and t.v."

Chas: "So what you're telling me is that after two phone calls and an evening on your website, it's impossible to put our account on seasonal hold? What's the minimum we'll be paying each month over the summer?"

AT&T Supervisor: "$69.95."

Chas: "Even though we won't be here? That's outrageous!"

AT&T Supervisor: "I'm afraid so! But that's still quite a savings each month. Then when you get back, you just call us to reinstate full service."

Chas: "As simple as that, huh?"

AT&T Supervisor: "Is there anything else we can do for you?"

Chas: "I'd rather not say."