Everyone belongs to one or more.  It’s just what you do.

But, alas, I am, personally, book-club-less at the moment.  By choice.  Or at least I think so.  No one’s told me otherwise.

Recently I’ve had a bit of a day-dream about the book club I would like to belong to.  The idea was sparked by a book loaned to me by a friend.  I enjoyed it, it held my interest and introduced me to a new author.

But the things I liked best about it were the under-linings and margin scribbles made by the book’s owner.

I wanted to know more about why she liked those words, those phrases, those sentences.  What about those particular passages piqued her interest?  Caused her to stop, pick up a pen, underline them and make notations?

I’ve always enjoyed the reader’s notes and scribbles in the used books I’ve bought.  Now I’d like to bring that closer to home.  In my own living room, to be precise.

And in the book club I’d like to belong to.

 

Image of book enjoyment thanks to the University of Minnesota, Morris

When it’s “a way of life.”

That was the description we gave to Dorothy Lane Market, our grocery store in Oakwood, Ohio.

Dorothy Lane Market started as a fruit stand and grew into an elegant, state of the art, innovative grocery store through the years.  But it never lost its sense of community, people, or friendliness.  It’s heart and soul.  Sure, you shopped there for groceries but it was the extra-curricular activities that made it a happy experience.

Tasting stations were everywhere.  The long aisles had cut-throughs so there were more places to stop and visit with friends.  Sips of wine were frequently available. You’d dare not enter those doors without lipstick.  You knew you’d see friends.  Lots of friends.   All of that made it THE place to shop.

In the years we’ve lived in South Carolina, I’ve not had that experience in a single grocery store. Not even close. It’s always been all about the list.  Get in. Get out. Get home.

Until yesterday.

I literally ran into a friend in the produce section and we began a conversation that went on throughout our shopping.   We shared grandchildren stories in the condiment aisle, retirement thoughts at the deli counter, husband’s hobbies in the freezer section.  Oh, and that little chat we had at the check out-lane? That stays at the check-out lane

All in all, it was a great day at the grocery store.  Not to be corny but I came home with a lot more sustenance than a week’s worth of food could ever provide.  It brought back ever-so-fond memories of a little corner store in Oakwood, Ohio.  Where all that was the norm; not the exception.

We subscribe to a small magazine called “The Week.”  It presents alternative positions on many topics, making it an unusual publication with no clear political or economic bias.  It’s intended to make you think.

There’s always a section devoted to Health and Science news.  A couple of weeks ago there were two headlines in that section.

The first was “Moderate drinking isn’t healthy after all.”

The second was: “Night owls may live shorter lives.”

Simply said, drinking’s bad and early-to-bed is good.

Like the rest of the magazine’s contents, those headlines forced me to stop, think and make thoughtful, informed decisions about my future habits based on the scientific evidence presented in each of the articles.  Or not.

After less-than-a-nanosecond, I decided that I’ll still drink my wine (unhealthy) and I’ll still go to bed early (healthy.)

Just like I’ve done all of my adult life.

Hopefully, the positive will continue to cancel out the negative and life will be both long and happy.

If only all decisions were that easy.

 

At some point in our lives, little pleasures start to outweigh the big stuff.

As we sat on the porch recently, enjoying the breeze and some wine, The Mister told me he’d had a most satisfactory and significant “Little Pleasure” event earlier that day.

Pray tell, I asked.

He said, that after a long, strenuous and exhaustive search, he had finally found his perfect screw.

After I took a deep breath and roamed through my mind,  I remembered that he’d taken his daily trip to Lowe’s.

Sure enough.  That’s where he found it.  His perfect screw.  And not just one.  A whole dozen!

Such joyful little pleasures.

We had a wedding anniversary some months back.  We’re not “big day” celebrants so we don’t get carried away with gifts or cards.   But, as it happened, we were invited to a  catamaran cruise that evening having absolutely nothing to do with our anniversary.

The night was perfect. Fresh winds, sails aloft, good wine, fried chicken and chocolate cake.

The others on the boat were considerably younger than we are.  In fact, most of them were considerably younger than our marriage.

Someone, somewhere along the line, let the anniversary thing slip. We were “outed” so to speak.  After that, many of those (young people) aboard nicely drifted by our seats to wish us a happy anniversary.

We talked about life with young children; about life with teenagers.  How two-working-parent families can possibly juggle everything asked of them.

We listened to the ups and downs of starting new jobs and businesses.  Of the challenges of living in the South when one is used to the North.

How social media helps….or hinders….family life.  And, oh, by the way, how about our school systems?

At no time during that cruise did we wrestle with the issues of illness, retirement, long-lost friends or politics.

While many of those not-so-fun things are on the minds of people of a certain generation…people like us….it was lovely to just sit back for an evening and enjoy the wind-blown ride.

We’ll deal with all that other stuff another day, another time, another cruise.

 

Sailing image thanks to meyerre.com

 

(Please click on the image for a full picture)

 

We recently sent a group e-mail to the family.  We thought they should know of an important decision we’d made.

It was a big decision on our part and made without consulting the family, or even hinting to them that we were on that path.

Since all news is sent and received electronically these days, we followed suit.

The email to them said:  “Alert!  Your parents taking a cruise.”

While they were initially alarmed, just as we had expected, they collectively decided that indeed a cruise might be good for us.  What concerned them was our selection of excursions.

They (wrongly) determined that we had signed up for a scuba dive, a self-guided ATV trip through the mosquito-rich jungles of Honduras and a six hour bus trip over rugged terrain to see some ruins.  All of these things seemed anathema to them but they accepted that we were challenging ourselves and would be safe.

But what really worried them, got them all in a lather and scared that we’d lost our minds, was that it also looked like we’d also signed up for a cooking class.

That one sent them right over the edge.

That concern warranted phone calls, texts and face-time events to make sure we were still who we said we were.

All fears were assuaged as we assured them we planned only to stroll the decks, sip champagne and enjoy the scenery as it passed us by.  No excursions…especially  cooking classes…on the agenda.

And with that they all wished us health, happiness and safe travels.

Love.  It shows up in such strange ways.

 

 

 

 

Remember the Chevy Vega “station wagon?”  That sub-sub-sub-compact-hatch-back from way-back when?

We had one and we’d travel to Fripp Island, S.C. from Ohio for two weeks in the spring in that car.  A couple of duffle bags, baseball mitts, fishing gear, wine and suntan lotion.  We’d pack it all up and, if things went well and we had our wits about us, we’d remember to toss the three young boys in on top of everything.

We drugged them for the trip.  Dramamine, if I recall. Our pharmacist recommended it as a safety measure.  There were no seat belts in the Chevy Vega.

We were able to get several hours of peaceful driving except for one unfortunate situation.  One of the boys always had an adverse reaction to Dramamine.  It wired him.  But at least there was only one asking: “Are we there yet?”  There could have been three.

When we got to Beaufort, we’d stop at the Winn Dixie and buy groceries. We piled a two-week supply of food on top of suitcases, beach towels, and boys. We had everything we needed for our vacation in that little car.  Our family’s footprint on Fripp Island was as small as the children’s on the sand.

Fast forward 45 years:  A recent trip to one of our Island’s beaches introduced me to eighteen wheelers masquerading as cars.

It seems that no one travels light these days.  And what they don’t bring with them, they buy and then apparently leave behind as trash to be cleaned up and disposed of.  Visitors may drop dollars but they and their huge cars/wagons/vans/ SUV’s leave an imprint that doesn’t always bode well for the future.

I must not get the meaning of vacation in today’s world.  I always thought vacations were an opportunity to be open, unstructured and free of “stuff.”  To leave behind encumbrances and just chill out.

But every day, it seems, I get older in my thinking.

Next week my post will probably be delivered by Pony Express.

“One if by land and two if by sea.”

Tally-ho.