A Memoir

It seems everyone’s doing it these days. Writing a memoir, that is. You know.…spill the family beans. Air the dirty laundry. It would seem that having been physically or emotionally abused is a requisite for writing a memoir….at least if you expect it to sell. So, let me confirm, in these opening words, that I have been abused. And abused. And abused.

But, first allow me to introduce myself. Some of you know me. Some of you have sat on me. In spite of that level of intimacy, you might not know my name. I am “Russell’s Chair.” (Russell was Sallie’s father.) I came to live with Sallie and her family about 15 years ago.

When I arrived, I was pristine! Covered with a taupe silkish/linenish fabric.   My clothes weren’t new but they’d been beautifully maintained in my former life. Fresh as the day they were stitched on me. No stains, in spite of Russell’s smoking habit. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep with a cigarette in his hand and I would quake with fear. But not one ash ever fell on me. No, the abuse I suffered was far more dire than a silly little ash.

You see, it all started with The Cat. The one Sallie brought home a couple of years ago from the Humane Society with a promise not to remove its claws. Now you see where I’m going, don’t you?

I find myself getting emotional here so I’ll cut to the chase. The Cat put me at the top of his list of things to destroy. The family noticed but hoped he’d quit. Au contraire, Dear Reader. On and on it went, the tearing and shredding. My back, my arm rests, finally my seat. They had to act. Oh, not on the precious cat but rather on me.

New clothes were picked out. Wolfgang, the master upholsterer, did his magic and I looked grand, once again.  How long do you think it took for The Cat to go at me again?

This time, he started with the roping around my legs. Now here comes the ultimate abuse. Instead of dealing with The Cat, they bought some paint !!!!. Paint that matched the color of my new suit. And they “touched me up” so no one would notice the damage, the ripping, the shredding. The silent abuse.

I’m sure you understand my trauma. By now, of course, The Cat has, once again, moved on to my back, my arms. I’m waiting for the seat. It won’t be long. And I overheard THEM talking about it yesterday. There were two horrifying words: More Paint. Have they no mercy?

So, do you think I’ll make the best seller list? Perhaps the royalties could pay for a new suit. Or, even better, and I know this is evil, the mysterious disappearance of The Cat?

A Model Prisoner

When the youngest of our boys reached the age of 7, I knew I had to get out of the house, had to go back to work….at least part-time.

I got really lucky. In front of my very eyes appeared an opportunity to start an organization to help women return to the work-force.   So I got to return to the work-force and help others do the same….what could be better?

The funding came together and we gathered a staff of three. We were armed and ready to go.

Then the phone rang. It was the government calling. They had a deal for us.

If we took their money, we would, in return, help primarily poverty-level women.

We would also hire a fourth person, a counselor, and she would be of their choosing. Strings. Many strings. But we accepted the deal. It would ensure the organization’s viability and our salaries.

We inquired about the “new hire.” What was her background, her education? Where did she last work?

We were told that she had not worked for the last four years. Really? Why not?

The answer was simple, if not alarming. She’d been in a medium-security prison and was just being released.

Well, we said. What else was there to say? We were told that she would be joining us the next Monday at 9 am and that would be that.

We caucused. How do we manage this? We need to welcome her…whether we want to or not. What should we wear? We don’t want to intimidate her with our newly-acquired working-women’s clothes but we don’t want to be too informal either. We agreed not to wear stripes. We were, collectively, more than a little apprehensive.

Monday morning arrived. We waited. At 9 am on the dot she walked in the door….all 5 feet 9 inches of her. And that was before the three-inch heels she wore no matter the weather. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, perfect make-up, pencil-slim skirt, smart white blouse, slender as a reed except where she shouldn’t be. Seems she’d also done time in Paris. On the fashion runways.

Her smile was easy. Her hello warm and gracious. In a nano-second, we went from we-three to our-four. And we stayed that way for ten years.

Oh, by the way, the “crime” she did four years for was a victimless one…..today she would get a gentle slap on the wrist. But that’s another story.

Parts is parts.

I just put away my winter stuff to make room for summer stuff and wondered, yet again, why jeans and tee shirts fill my closet. I think I finally figured it out.

And I put the blame squarely on my three sons.

You see, when they were first driving, we wanted them to have safe cars so we got Volvos for them. Used, of course. Seriously used. They’d all been rode hard and put away wet. They were “Centurians”….100,000 miles or more on each of them. As a result, we were always in the market for “parts.”

Now, I had lovely friends, who, with their lovely daughters, went to lovely stores, not for “parts” but for pretty things, fluffy things, soft things. Things like dresses, sweaters, ribbons, shoes, jewelry.

I can just imagine that they received phone calls like this:

“Good morning, Mrs. Smith. It’s Mrs. Jones calling from La Petite Salon, calling to tell you that we just received some of those sweaters you and your daughter wear so well.  I’ve set aside several in your sizes and colors. I hope to see you both very soon. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.”

A typical message for me would be:

“Sallie. Beastie’s parts are in. Call me.”

That call would be from Gary, our Volvo mechanic/doctor. No need for him to identify himself. We were long past that. No need to leave his phone number, either. He was on speed dial. And Beastie, (we had to name them…you couldn’t just say The Volvo), the oldest of the tribe, was always in dire need of “parts.” In fact, they all needed “parts.” Oily, dirty, mysterious, and, expensive, “parts.”

Nothing was ever set aside for me, unless it was “parts.” Sometimes from the Napa store.  Sometimes from the Volvo people. The UPS man delivered “parts.” Same for FedEx. “Parts.” Always “parts.” No money or time left over for “pretty.”

Oil and lube changes filled our week-end hours. Revolving the tires on one or more of the old Volvos was always a special treat. At least for the car. Heating cores were treasured as were brake pads and transmissions.

So, now I understand everything. I never knew “pretty” from “parts.” It’s good to put blame squarely where it belongs. It eases the angst. And explains my wardrobe. Or lack thereof.

Please Meet Ann

Ann is a long-time friend from Dayton. She’s always the star of a party whether as guest or hostess.

Well, let me back up on that hostess thing for just a second here. No issues as far as having fun. That was always a given. But things can happen in Ann’s kitchen that are inexplicable and, even, sometimes cause for alarm. Remarkably, a single head of broccoli, cooked in one pot, can become bi- or even tri-colored. Lemon bars can come out of the oven upside-down for no apparent reason. Everything still tastes good, but one does wonder.

In all fairness, I’ve had my share of oopsies in the kitchen, too.

So, when Ann and I decided to have an engagement party for a good friend’s son, we wisely decided to have a professional caterer prepare the main dish. The young man’s fiancée had not met any of us and we wanted to impress her. We knew that bad things could happen to good people…(us)… in the kitchen.

Despite our good intentions, things went a bit awry. As we opened the oven to check on the status of the professionally-prepared dish, a little hot oil splashed onto the burners. Flames exploded, setting dish, oven and, almost, us, on fire. My husband was quick with the fire extinguisher. Thank goodness.

But now, the food was covered with a thin gray chemical icing. (As were my beautiful navy blue counter tops but that’s another story.) Ann and I quickly set to work with spoons, carefully scraping off the offensive anti-inflammatory stuff so as to get on with dinner.

Someone (who wasn’t even supposed to be in the kitchen) rudely suggested that even a small amount of that substance might not be good for our guests….might, in fact, be poisonous.   Go away, we said. We have hungry, and now seriously over-wined, guests. Let us get on with our work.

That same individual had the gall to call the poison-control center.

Alas. We had to present ourselves to the hungry crowd, without the professionally-prepared and now-determined-to-be-poisonous dinner. Of course, they all knew that with us in charge danger could lurk in the kitchen. We watched as eyebrows went up. Furtive glances were exchanged. We heard murmurings of “Oh no, not again.”

To appease them, in addition to pouring a little more wine, we offered a financial reward to any one who could correctly guess what went wrong this time. No money exchanged hands.

And no pizza delivery person was ever more warmly welcomed.

Just One Too Many Uh,Oh’s

Once upon a time, we had decided to become glider pilots.   We would buy a two seater glider, spend our Sundays blissfully aloft, guided only by soft clouds and thermals. Far above the madding crowd. No cars, no people, no noise. Just the two of us. Swaying and swinging in the gentle breezes. Sun warming our shoulders. Alone, together. What could be better? Have I lulled you to sleep yet? Well, wake up because it didn’t exactly turn out like that.

Apparently, one doesn’t just become a glider pilot. One must have training. So we signed up. What you see in that picture is me, smiling, getting ready for my first lesson. What you don’t see is this:

The day before that first glider lesson, I had had some measure of irregular heartbeats. Doctor said “Go to the hospital tomorrow, early, they’ll outfit you with a Holter monitor and I’ll look at it in a day or so. In the meantime, don’t worry.”

Did that. Now had wires snaking out from my shirt, a clunky little box attached to my waist and a note pad to write down any “interesting” events that might cause heart rate to change. Does going up in a glider for the first time count? I thought so.

Upon climbing into the glider, with my wires and my notepad, the pilot expressed concern. Said “Uh,Oh.” Now, I have to calm him down. Assure him I’m in no danger. Isn’t this the wrong direction? I’m the one who’s nervous. Note to notebook.

Okay, now I’m strapped in. Pilot says “Uh, Oh.” Now what? “You don’t weigh enough.” Well, it’s a little late to do something about that, isn’t it? No, he says, we’ll just pile a bunch of bricks around you and that will give us the ballast we need. More scribbles in notebook.

We secure our rope to the tow plane and take off. Several seconds later, pilot says “Uh, Oh.”   Seems the tow plane just lost altitude. Apparently this matters because if it doesn’t attain altitude, neither do we. We release the tether and pray. Nervous scribbles in notebook. Happily we’d gained enough lift.

So off we go into the wild blue, thermal-laden, sick-making sky. Around and around we go. Up, down, again and again. Bricks scrunching my feet. Hot sun beating down. Tummy churning. Madly writing in notebook.

At last it’s time to land. We turn and glide toward the runway. Pilot says “Uh Oh.” Really? Again? Yep. Now there’s a one engine Cessna (hey, one is one more than we’ve got!) sitting on the (only) runway. Gliders have “right of way” because they only have one shot at landing. Then call them, I say. Can’t, says pilot. Then for pity sake’s, honk. No answer. No writing in notebook either. Too scared.

Is this the way it ends? Not with a whimper but a bang? Strapped in a glider, surrounded by bricks, notebook in hand, wires hanging out, green-ish from thermals, longing for land?

Obviously not. But, pilots (and hairdressers) should never say “Uh, Oh.”   Thought that was in their training manuals. Which, quite frankly, I never got to. I’m sure you understand why.

Lost. And Found.

I love socks. Always have. I have “popsicle toes” so socks help.  Golf socks. Knee socks. Bobby socks. Doesn’t matter. I don’t discriminate. I love them all.

My favorite shopping web site is www.joyofsocks.com The colors, the designs, the craziness.   Almost too much to bear. But I manage. Quite well, actually.

And, oh, how I hate to lose a sock. Was it eaten? By the dryer? The dog? The cat?

To paraphrase Ms. Peep: “Where, oh, where did that little sock go? Where, oh, where could it be?”

I have a friend. She’s a poet. Her name is Elizabeth Robin. She wrote a poem about the overwhelming joy of finding that long lost sock. She said it so well. I hold her poem close to my heart and in my sock drawer. It helps me stay upbeat and positive about finding the lost one. With her permission, I am sharing her poem with you. I hope you, too, will find comfort in her words.



A Simple Pleasure

today i found that sock

the one that disappeared in the laundry months ago

the one i sifted and sorted and searched to recover

the one that was cushy and fuzzy and warm

the one that brought piggly wiggly joy


reunited with its lonely twin

the one who’s been waiting in that dark, cold drawer, alone

so patiently, trusting her double would return some day

abandoned twin haunting the sock drawer

taunting my helplessness, my haphazard wardrobe control


and just when i’d abandoned all hope, there, just there

inside the form-fitting folds of last season’s sheets

there, yes there, better than graduation and trophies and christmas morning

euphoria, because today

i found that sock


©Elizabeth Robin


David DiBenedetto from Garden and Gun magazine says that dog people are the best kind of people. He’s welcome to his opinion but them’s hissin’ words if ever I heard ‘em.

He’s can take a swat at me but there’s an insinuation regarding my cats in that statement that I don’t like. At all. I’d sic my cats on him, but they’re asleep and have no interest in what others think. See, they know, I mean they really know, that they rule. So why does anyone else’s opinion matter?

It matters to me because I am devoted to cats and have been for over 50 years. Never had one I didn’t love to bits and pieces. Now, I know that dogs do things like deliver your slippers (good dog) or your newspaper (good dog). Cats do, occasionally, bring you the newspaper, but by then it’s been clawed and shredded into, well, I hate to say it, but into bits and pieces.

We have an obsessive-compulsive Cat. If, in his opinion, there is something on the kitchen counter that doesn’t belong, off it goes. (You’re telling me your cat gets on the kitchen counter? With his feet?? Yes, they all do.)

It’s best if the out-of-place object has something in it…water, wine, .…or is breakable (that’s the very best).   But he’ll settle for anything. A jar of vitamins, a magazine. Bad Cat, we say. Why bother? He doesn’t care.

Lest you think poorly of this Cat, he is also the one who refuses to eat until both he and his food have been blessed. His idea, not ours.  He was a stray, picked up entirely by accident by the Humane Society. He has set his own rules, trained us well and we behave accordingly. He’s a charming boy.

Any book about cats…and there are lots of them…. will tell you that if you have a cat in your house, a statue is unnecessary. There is such incredible beauty in their sleeping, dozing, stretching, just being Cat.

To say nothing of the joy finding Cat tucking himself into your arms in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep. A purr is worth a thousand Ambien.

I know. You don’t need to tell me. I’m a little compulsively-obsessed. Just like Cat. I like it that way. I’m pretty sure my cats do, too.

At least during those short periods when they’re awake.



Early on, I told you I’d introduce you some people I’ve known. So, with no further ado, here’s Carolyn! She was one of those rare birds who supplied her friends with endless joy and laughter….usually at her own expense. One of her many wonderful qualities was that she truly lived “in the moment.”

We had known each other well during our years in Ohio. Later in life, she moved to the Villages in Florida. Shortly after that move her husband of many years passed away.  She mourned deeply but maintained her joy in life.

This particular “event” occurred several months after his death.

She’d just returned from a cruise with friends, was tired, had not unpacked a single thing and was getting ready for bed. The phone rang; a friend who lived nearby asked her if she’d like to go to a movie. Of course, she’d love that, she said. She simply didn’t know how to say no if it involved being with friends.

There was one caveat, however. She wanted to drive her own car so she could get a good parking spot. She was tired and didn’t want to have to walk too far to the movie theater.

When the movie let out, her friends went on their way. Carolyn went to get her own car. Except she couldn’t find it. Now it was dark and she couldn’t remember just exactly where she’d parked anyway. (That could happen to her in broad daylight, too.)

Two young men were sitting on the curb. One said; “Lady, are you looking for a silver SUV?” She allowed as how she was indeed doing just that. They told her that the sheriff had towed it away.

Why, she asked, would they tow away a perfectly good car that belongs to an old lady?

They had a simple answer. “Because, Lady, you parked in the intersection.”

Now, I venture to say that most of us would panic. How will I get home? When can I get my car back, and how? How much will it cost? Who do I call? Will I get a ticket?   For parking in an intersection? Will my insurance go up?

Not Carolyn. She sat down on the curb with the young men and thanked them profusely for their help.   Whatever would she had done if they hadn’t been there to tell her what had happened? She wanted to pay them for their help. They said they couldn’t take her money.

Well, did they have girl friends? Yes, they said, they did. Would they let her pay for a dinner date with their girl friends? No, they couldn’t do that either.

Then could she at least have their names and make sure that the Village newspaper knew of their good deeds? (She was going to find a way to thank them if it took all night.)

They agreed that would be fine. At last, things were looking good. She might get some sleep after all.

Then one made a terrible mistake.

He lit up a cigarette.

Now, remember, she’s tired, has no car, no idea how to get home or how to retrieve her car, her phone is still in an unpacked suitcase, her friends have gone home, but now something much more important has happened. One of her new friends is smoking! And at such a young age.

I fear the young man got a long and impassioned lecture on the evils of cigarettes, the damage to his lungs, the potential for a shortened life, money spent poorly on cigarettes, yellowed teeth and every other smoking bad you can imagine.

I don’t really know when she got home, or how. At that point, the one and only thing on her mind was to get this nice young man on the path to a long and healthy life.

Car?? What car?? People always came first for her. New friends or old.   Didn’t matter. She was there, in the moment, and she had work to do. Everything else would eventually, and always did, fall into place.

Sadly, Carolyn, has since died. We all, who knew her, miss her like crazy.

The Boys on the Bus

So there they were. Nineteen of them. Lacrosse players and their coaches. Big, strong, fit, healthy and hungry. Very hungry.

They arrived on a Greyhound bus. Watching them get off the bus was like watching Shriners clowns climb out of a Volkswagon beetle…except there were more of them and they were bigger….much, much bigger.

We knew they were coming. And we knew we were going to feed them.

So, we went to Sam’s to buy “in quantity,” as they say. The pickle jar alone was too heavy for me to pick up.

We’d been warned that they eat a lot….a whole lot.

Question: What’s a lot?

Answer: Think big and then add more….a lot more.

So we did. We bought 60 hamburgers, 40 hot dogs, 100 cookies, many pounds of mac and cheese, dozens of devilled eggs, jars of chili con queso, tons of fruit and sacks and sacks of chips and pretzels.

Nicer young men I’ve never met. To a one they were thoughtful, appreciative, (yes, cute, too). When they arrived, we gave them Easter baskets and sent them on an egg hunt. We were prepared for groans but they smiled and took off like rockets in search of plastic eggs. The one who got the golden egg with real money in it shared it with his teammates.

The fact that one of them is my grandson didn’t sway me one little bit. I did do a little of his laundry but that was his only perk.

When dinnertime came, they ate it all. Every bite of it. Gone.

If only we’d known, we woulda bought more.

We certainly coulda bought more.

We definitely shoulda bought more.

My reward….and it was a great one…was that each of them gave me a hug and a thank you as they climbed back on the bus and took off.

They won their game the next night. That was the icing on the cake.

Obviously, we shoulda bought one of those, too. A big one. A great big one. What were we thinking?


Some years ago, I was involved in the production of a small independent film, Emma and Elvis. When the director asked if they could film a few scenes at my house, I was thrilled.

Should I redecorate? Paint the house? No, they tell me, that’s not necessary. They’ll find a few spots in my house and yard. I’ll hardly know they’re there.

I offer to perform the morning craft services (in movie lingo, craft services is breakfast and snacks….not lunch…..there’s a big difference.) I can certainly buy a few muffins and fire up the Mr. Coffee. Well, they say , there will be about 20 of them and I should seriously consider two large urns of strong coffee, many muffins and a variety of juices. Movie people need a jump start.

Okay…..I can do this graciously if not on a slightly larger scale than I’d originally planned.

8:45 is the appointed hour. I’m ready! The juice is chilled, the muffins are fresh, coffee’s hot (no Styrofoam cups, please….this group is ecologically correct.) But there’s no sign of anyone anywhere. Where are they? I know from my brief experience in this business that things can change in a minute. Did they change their minds? Are my colors wrong? I’m getting nervous.

Suddenly, I hear cars…no wait!…I hear vans, cargo vans, moving vans, passenger vans. They’re here! They come into my house with their wares: cameras, wires…..large, black snaking wires,….screens, batteries, sand boxes, sound booms.   They are grateful for the coffee, etc. and say so, sipping and nibbling as they interdependently and individually go about their work.

I’m sitting graciously in my living room, waiting for their approval and decision on the scene. Suddenly, I realize they’re setting up in the garage. THE GARAGE??? For Heaven’s sake….no one ever suggested that. How will I ever explain this to my mother? But yes, it’s true….not one but two separate scenes in my garage. I don’t even ask why…..I don’t want to know.

But in due time, they move to the back yard. OK, it’s still not my living room but it’s a far cry from the garage. I’m more thrilled than ever when I realize that it’s MY back yard that has been chosen for THE poignant, final speech by the lead actress and that all is in readiness for Take 1.

Shooting a scene requires total silence…..no movement, no whispers, very little breathing.   We’re ready.

Suddenly suburbia explodes. A large golden Labrador jumps into the yard ruining Take 1. She’s collarless and nameless and not at all deterred by more than one gentle pat on the rump to send her on her way. A walk with her though the neighborhood turns up nothing. The only solution: the local police who arrive with their staticky police radio. Scratch Take 2.

The mailman’s mufflerless jeep intrudes on Take 3.

Cicadas do in Take 4 and airplanes ruin Takes 5 and 6.

An innocent lawnmower drowns out Take 7 and two people trimming a tree blast Take 8. We track them down but they insist on seeing the set. Scratch Take 9.

Take 10 looks pretty good but they’re a little concerned about a neighbor’s air conditioning which came on in an untimely fashion.

The afternoon brings them inside. I watch them work, some in advance of a scene, some with follow-up work, listening to the cries of “Locking Up”, “Rolling,” and “Cut” reverberate through my house. It’s serious business and no one takes a minute to relax. They appear choreographed and in tune with one another.   They are professionals and apprentices, working closely together.

Very little in my house is NOT moved.   They shoot three separate scenes and seem pleased.

Suddenly, it’s 5:00 and they’re gone. My house looks as though they’d never been there….cleaner nearly now than before. I took no pictures and have only a memory of watching them work so passionately and with such dedication.

I am grateful that at 5:15 when the neighborhood church bells ring for a wedding that no takes are destroyed and we don’t have to send a runner to ask for “Quiet on the set.”

The Tale of the Traveling Grill

During many of the years we lived in Oakwood, Ohio, we didn’t own a grill and have just, in recent weeks, acquired one. Our first in over 20 years.

For some reason, during that grill-less time in Ohio, we needed one. Our oldest son, who lived a mere mile away, had a grand one. Nice big side arms to hold the food, implements, drinks, and so forth. Multi burners. All kinds of nifty bells and whistles. As it happened, they had access to a truck that week-end and were pleased to loan us their grill.

Whatever we did with it worked out just fine, we didn’t ruin it and everyone was happy.

The time, of course, came to return it. At that point, access to the truck had gone away and we were left with a problem. How to get the thing home. There seemed to be only one way. We would walk it there. The wheels on that grill were not for nothing. It was, remember, a mere mile away.

Two obstacles stood in our way (well, really there were more than two but in our zeal to get the thing home, we ignored them.) The first was the fact that the mile that stood between us and our son’s house was quite hilly. The other was that getting to their house required crossing what is known as Six Points, Oakwood’s largest and busiest intersection. It’s not only Six Points; it’s six lanes.

Undeterred by the realities, we charged ahead with our plan. My husband manned the grill. He put on a billed cap, hoping to achieve anonymity, should our actions be spotted. I followed in my bright red Volvo, front and back warning lights flashing, license plate CATMAX, well known to all in our little town. No anonymity there. But then again, I wasn’t the one walking the grill.

We were doing quite well and made it to Six Points without incident. Being on one of the side streets, we naturally had to wait a spell to get the green light. Finally, it looked like we were next in line. We’re pumped and ready to go. Six lanes it is.   We can do this!

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw our middle son’s car approach the Main Street intersection. Further, I saw him see us. There was no place to hide. We were cooked. He made a sudden left turn from the main drag onto our little side street, rolled down his window and said things to us that still hurt, deeply, to this very day. I can’t repeat them here and will only tell you that references to “old fools” and “obvious lack of good judgment” were made.

I told him in no uncertain terms that all of his unnecessary ranting and raving had caused us to miss the green light for which we had waited so long and so patiently and now we would have go all the way through another extended traffic light sequence thereby putting both grill and car drivers at further risk for problems which we had brilliantly avoided to this point and that if he so much as breathed a single solitary word to anyone or anybody about what he’d just seen he should consider himself disowned and no longer welcome in our home.

My threats were not taken seriously.

We received phone calls with messages that, as above, shall not be repeated here. I will only say that questions regarding our sanity were posed in many forms and sometimes, we felt, in unnecessarily harsh and inconsiderate ways. At least those which we could decipher through choked laughter, which we also deemed to be unkind and thoughtless.

Well, I ask you? What would you have done? I mean when something’s gotta go, it’s gotta go and that grill had to go. It got home; no one was harmed in the process and, now, 20 years later we have our very own grill! Could you ask for anything more?


It’s nighttime. I have adjusted my blanket, just the way I like it. Gently pulled up to my chin, ever so soft and warm.  Sleep comes easily.

Later in the night, I wake. Cold. My blanket is at the bottom of the bed. It’s become a nest. For them.

They have entered stealthfully. Together. Thick as thieves. Which is exactly what they are.

They stole my bankie.

If I’m lucky, they’ve left me enough to cover one leg. I struggle back to sleep.

At some point, one of them says to the other, let’s sleep on her. You take the small of her back, I’ll get on her legs.

After a while, I wake. No feeling in my feet. This is not good at my age. I need circulation. I push the offenders off. They’re persistent. Back and forth we go. They win. I sleep. Again. Fitfully.

Later, the bed quivers and shakes. It wakes me. It’s them, of course. They’re stretching and limbering up for a nighttime snack. But they’ll be back. Soon. I know.

On and on it goes..…only dawn and their feral need for breakfast will break the cycle.

Later in the morning when I gently fold the well-loved Ann Arbor Blanket, I can see that Oscar needs a thorough brushing and Basil’s front claws could do with a little trimming.

Trust in the blanket. It holds the evidence and the story of the nighttime thieves.

Going, going, gone?

We’ve seen it coming. It’s been like watching a train wreck getting ready to happen. Whistles blowing, cars stuck on the track and nothing we could do about it.

It’s the extinction, demise, disappearance….whatever you’d like to call it ….of the dining room table.

I’m not smart enough to analyze the elements that are wrapped up in that one little thing but I’m pretty sure it’s important.

I don’t care where the table is…dining room, kitchen, family room…or what it looks like….plastic, wood, counter-top, a board on top of a bunch of bricks. That’s not what matters, of course. What matters is that families eat together, talk to each other, look at each other….not to their phones, lap tops or televisions.

I know you see it when you go out to lunch or dinner.…..families with their faces buried in their electronics. Families…in cars….on their phones….sometimes texting to the person sitting next to them!. Families at the beach…..fingers on the phone, not in the sand. It’s everywhere.

I’m not saying it’s easy, that families don’t try. I think they do. And sometimes they succeed. Not all is lost.

Kids have after school programs, athletics, play dates and so much more. Their lives are full of challenges. All those things take a toll on the opportunity to just be a family. Or, to just be. Life is so busy and programmed for young families. It’s especially hard for single parents. I have no idea how it will play out. I’m not sure anyone does.

I don’t know about you but (ever so long ago) when I was driving the children from point to point, they assumed I was invisible and had lost my ability to hear, so they talked…to each other. Oh, the things I learned that I needed to know.

Didn’t we gather information just by the tones of our kid’s voices even if the questions were the old classic ones.” Where did you go today?” ”Out.” “What did you do?” ”Nothing.” We learned to hear paragraphs in those two words.  Siri’s good but she can’t let you know your children’s feelings. And there’s so much parents need to know these days.

Remember when we’d say: “If only that table, that old chair, or those walls, could talk?”

Now so many of them have no stories to tell.




The chickens are here!

They arrived last Frieday via Fed Eggs. Their delivery was delaid by the frigid temperatures of late.

I must confess I’m a little worried. The coop our neighbor built is quite salad but it’s out in the open and it wouldn’t be difficult to poach on the land and help yourself to an egg or two.

Shirredly, no one would be devilish enough to do that. My blood would boil over if that happened.

I guess omletting my imagination get carried away here. It’s easy to let your mind get a bit scrambled when you’re feeling protective about those precious little chickens.

But the good news is that they are indeed here now.   There will be time spent getting to know them, coddling them, patting their soft little feathers. When they finally go to their coop, they’ll all have names and personalities. We can hardly wait for the first egg to be laid.

So that’s my story, and I’m chickin’ to it.


PS. If you even remotely care, there are 16 really stupid puns in this thing. Two are a teensy bit obscure. There are no prizes. And I should probably be punished accordingly. Ooops…now there are 17.

PPS. I am almost, but not quite, desperate enough to say this is no yolk.



Thoughts on listening


Years ago, my husband had the great honor of working closely with Dr. George Gallup of the Gallup poll. They were involved in a world-wide survey together and in the process became friends. I was a beneficiary of that friendship as the Gallups graciously invited us, and our children, to join them in the Bahamas more than once.

They had a simple little cottage on a small island…..too small for us to stay with them. Their kitchen was the size of a large closet and Mrs. Gallup’s favorite, if not only, entertaining dish was hamburger soup. We had it often.

Dr. Gallup had a new gizmo….a radio that supposedly put him in contact with the world. The fact that he couldn’t make it work didn’t diminish his fun. If he even got close to making contact, he would puff up with joy and pleasure. Mrs. Gallup would always say “Oh, Ted, you think you’re so good” (that was her nickname for him) and everyone would giggle. Imagine, laughing at George Gallup, but he made it impossible not to. He’d join in, knowing that he really had no idea what he was doing.

For their stay on the island, they always brought all their old newspapers and magazines and made their way through them. Their lives were as simple and steady as the tides.

On the nights we were invited to join them, we would stay for a while after dinner. The children would sit on the floor, gathered around Dr. Gallup.

Now you might think he was telling them stories of his big, broad, and fascinating life…and there was certainly much to tell.

But that’s not what he was doing. He was asking THEM questions about themselves. What did they like, not like, who were their friends, where would they like to travel and on and on. Question after question. He was listening and learning…. not teaching or telling. It was so refreshing. The children loved it….and they loved him.

Neither Dr. nor Mrs. Gallup had an ounce of ego. It simply wasn’t in them.

They’re both gone of course, but they were, in their own ways, mentors to both of us.   I know we can’t hold a candle to them or their generosity but they’re in our hearts to stay.