The Go Box

If you live in hurricane-prone territory, you have a Go Box.  It’s got all the hurricane evacuation basics.  A little extra cash, hand-sanitizing wipes, power bars, water bottles, some first-aid gear, medicines, pet supplies, a few food staples, Kleenex and so on..  It’s at the ready when/if evacuation becomes mandatory.  

Here, on the coast of South Carolina, deep in hurricane land, we all have one.  Sure, there’s more to do at the last minute but those Go Boxes give us a jump start on our trip to safety.

As a friend said recently, we know how to leave.  We’ve done it before and we’ll do it again.

But right now, we’re learning how to stay.

Hurricanes have defined edges.  They’re scary but the end is in sight. The attack zone is identified. A safe place is within driving distance. We hope for the best and we plan for the worst. 

This virus we’re dealing with has no discernable parameters. We have no idea what it’s likely to bring our way.  Or when, how, and where it will end.

So we have, in our house, a Stay Box.  It looks a lot like a Go Box only bigger.  Much bigger.   There may be more wine in it than in the Go Box.  Certainly, more food, more supplies. 

If we could, we’d leave, of course.  Get outta here. Go where it’s safe. Where the virus isn’t.  Gather up the Go Box, the cats and hop in the car.  But, that won’t work this time so we stay put and, just as with hurricanes, we hope for the best and we plan for the worst.

Oh, To Be Chic

We try.  But, we don’t necessarily succeed.

On the whole, we’re relatively comfortable in our clothes.  We enjoy bright colors, old tee-shirts, pleated khakis and mis-matched socks.  But when you go to New York, you can’t do that.  If you want to be chic, or not stand out like a sore thumb, you have to get with the program. Which is black.  All black and only black. 

And so it was, in order to be chic, that we packed our black clothes in our black suitcases and checked into a chic hotel in New York.  We knew it was chic because it was black.  The rug, the chairs, the lamps. Ditto the tables, the bedspread.  Also, the sink and the mini-fridge.

The lighting was chicly dim.  The closet was chicly small.  The clothes hangers were chicly dark grey.  The ever-so-chic bath tub….free standing in the middle of the mostly black bathroom…..was actually white.  Getting in was easy.  Getting out was quite another issue.

We don’t have cataracts.  Anymore.  But that doesn’t mean that we see clearly all of the time.  Which is to say that we left several items behind.  Of course we did.  Black-on-black just doesn’t have the same don’t-forget-me-quality of hot-pink on bright-yellow.

As a result of all that intended chicness, we’re missing one black sock, my favorite black turtleneck and the Mister’s black-framed glasses.

We’ll be all right.  Eventually.  We’re just a few pieces less-chic than we were before we went to New York.

I Sure Hope He’s Right

I’m down on my knees.  Praying that he’s right.

Praying that he’s right when he tells us that we don’t need to worry.

That this virus is little more than the common cold. 

That it’s not highly contagious.

That no one will die from it. 

That it won’t continue to scare the markets and cause further economic damage. 

That we don’t need to “stock up” on supplies in the face of a broad outbreak.

That we won’t be isolated, quarantined and fearful.

That a pandemic is not in sight.

That it’s all just a deep state political maneuver.

I really pray he’s right.

However, my left brain says we should be guided by science and our health institutions which warn us to be careful.  To take precautions. 

And my right brain says that we should also listen to our own instincts on this one. 

However, if it’s found to be a hoax, I’ll be the first to celebrate.

And, as long as I’m down there, on my knees, I’ll continue to pray for our country.

See No, Hear No image thanks to

It’s Really NOYB

Increasingly, I think that medical questionnaires are seeking information that falls squarely into the category of “None of Your Business.”

To wit:  Our dear dermatologist of many years recently retired.  He himself hadn’t seen the sun in eons but he forgave us our years of using that wonderful “baby-oil, iodine, and aluminum-foil” tanning method, or as he called it, systematic abuse of our bodies.  We quite liked him.

So, just the other day we took ourselves to our brand new skin doctor.  I’d already decided that she wouldn’t be as kind to our scaly skins as our old one, but I was wrong.  A young, attractive, knowledgeable person, she gave us a good once over and sent us on our way.  Come back in a year, she said.  

That doesn’t mean I appreciated the invasive nature of the questions that were asked of us to become part of her practice.

As a breast cancer patient, I’m accustomed to lots of scrutiny.  I freely tell my cancer-related docs about my bad habits, family history, genetic structure and so on.  Those questions and my answers are definitely “need-to-know.”

But, we’re talking skin here.  Some red bumps, a few freckles, age spots and the occasional mole. Sure, the doctors need a little history but I wasn’t sure why they wanted/needed to know if I’d ever had 4 alcoholic drinks in one day

I had the option of clicking “No”. Complete and total denial.  Never did.  Never would have. 

But then again maybe once upon a time I did, in fact, have 4 drinks in one day.  If I did, I don’t remember.  Perhaps, I blacked out the memory.  Perhaps I, myself, blacked out after all that booze. And, exactly why would I ever admit to either one of those things?  The four-drinks-in-one-day thing or that I blacked out?   Further, why would I confess it to a computer whose stuff goes into the great blue cloud?  And stays there?  For ever and ever?   Where my great-great-grandchildren could read it some day?   Not that they’d care but still.

I really like our new derma-doc.  So, I’m not totally bent out of shape about this.  But if ever there were a NOYB question, it was that one. 

Image thanks to

And, The Winner Is……..American Factory!


Those words, spoken at the Oscars, on Sunday, February 9, 2020, were music to my ears.  The words were also, and perhaps even more so, a balm for my eyes.

I watched, in joy, as Julia Reichert and Steve Bognar accepted the Oscar for their  documentary, American Factory.   

I cheered as they took their place in film-history.

I marveled at their ease, their composure and their presence on that stage.

But mostly, I just enjoyed seeing my old friends.

It’s been a while since that happened.  Clearly, our lives are very different these days but that doesn’t mean there’s not still a bond.    A bond that was created over 30 years ago.  And we all know that old friends are often the best.

Their bald heads each tell a different story:  Steve’s as a result of genetics; Julia’s as a result of a nasty cancer, starting in 2018.  No stranger to the disease, she’s fighting, again, with all her might.  That part of the story continues.

But for now, their hard work, stamina and talent are available to all of us through American Factory, streaming on Netflix.

Who Are They?

Are they Crooks or Cronies?

Perps or Pals?

Burglars or Buddies?

How about all of the above?

A couple of weeks ago, I posed a simple one-question “survey” to a group of friends. The question was: “Have you ever stolen anything?” The responses were remarkable.

With that seemingly innocent inquiry, I learned, to my great dismay, that many of those friends had suffered from sticky-finger-syndrome at one point or another in their lives.

Nearly all of those questioned confessed to “lifting” something that was most definitely not theirs. The majority of the incidents appear to have taken place in what we once referred to as Five-and-Dime Stores or “corner groceries.” 

All of the respondents assured me that their transgressions occurred years and years ago and that they have since been rehabilitated and gone on to live crime-free lives.  At least, that’s their story and I suppose they’re sticking to it.

From what I gathered, the majority of the pilfered goods were sugar-oriented.  Chocolate, to be specific.  Baby Ruths, Mars Bars,  Butterfingers.  There were a few variations on that theme. One helped herself to a package of spearmint chewing gum and another to small box of safety pins. 

One purloined a gold fish, which, lacking water, died on the way home.  Another “borrowed” her sister’s Halloween outfit, most likely, in a fit of pigue.   Still another took one screw (yes, only one) from Lowe’s.  He also took it back.  The guilt was overwhelming.

The stories, as gleefully reported to this pollster, are vividly rich in detail.  Each “con” clearly remembers the heist, the thrill of success, the fear of discovery and, ultimately, the shame of parental punishment.

And each story is funnier than the next.

I’d highly recommend taking your own survey if you think you might enjoy sharing a friend’s childhood memory and a hearty laugh.

Image thanks to

The Party’s Over

Yes, the party is indeed over and it ended “not with a bang but a whimper.” To cite a bit from T. S. Eliot’s poem, The Hollow Men.

Yes, I watched the impeachment trial.  At least some of it.  People got very long-winded and repetitive and my attention span waned.

Yes, the I kept the television on but the proceedings were little more than background noise.  Barely a hum. 

And yes, like many others, I made up my mind about the whole thing long before the last question had been posed and the last speech had been made.

And this what I concluded:

Lots of lawyers made lots of money.

And I think that’s really all we know for sure.

Let’s PARTY!

Nothing screams party like an impeachment trial! 

It brings out all the stars.  The A-listers.  The Old Guard.  The Wannabees.  The Media.  All of them vying for a spot on the red carpet. Or the blue carpet, so as not to appear partisan. 

All the rest of us can do is sit on the sidelines and watch.  We’re not invited and, frankly, it’s not a party most of us would go to anyway.

So, we’ll watch as our new besties, Nancy and Mitch, Lindsay and Chuck, take their proper places in the throng.  Surrounded by their surrogates and supporters.

Then there are the lawyers. What’s a party without lawyers?  Bunches of them. Alan, Ken, and Rudy are boning up on their constitutional law and hoping to make the all-important zinger. Ditto Adam and Jerry.

Behind the cameras we have Sean, Tucker, Rachel and Anderson.  Each hanging on to every word and gathering nuggets to feed to their faithful viewers.  Hoping to score big for their networks.

The Big Cheese…the honoree.…declined the invitation.  But that’s OK.  This is the time for others to shine and, anyway, we all know he’s watching.

So, get out the crepe paper; blow up the hot air balloons.  Deck the (Senate) halls with silver bells.  Pull out all the stops.

Oh, and don’t forget to send in the clowns.  Or, as Stephen Sondheim might say: “Don’t bother, they’re here.”

Online Survey

It’s rare these days when somebody wants my opinion.  It seems that I’ve “aged out” of relevancy.  Or value.  At least as far as market research goes. 

So, when four educational institutions, each of which I hold in high esteem, asked me to participate in an online survey regarding my political views and behaviors, I happily and energetically agreed.  They assured me that I was selected randomly from a large pool but I was selected nevertheless.  That felt kinda good.

The survey asked me some general questions that I answered easily and truthfully.  Then they began pinning me down with specifics.  And that’s where the trouble started.  I found myself unable to decide among incremental but significant variations.  Variations that assumed that I had all the facts at my fingertips.  Variations that assumed I was fully informed and able to assess each and every nuance.

As the survey went on, I became increasingly aware of my ignorance.  This was true not just for those things of no particular interest to me but for those things of great interest as well. 

When the survey was over, I briefly questioned my right to hold the opinions I do.  And those opinions are strong.  Heartfelt.  Firm.  I believe what I believe.  I think what I think.  I feel what I feel.  And I have no plans to change that.

I guess it comes down to this:  Ask me your questions and I’ll give you my answers.  But, please, don’t confuse me with the facts.

It made me wonder if there are others out there as poorly informed as I seem to be. Others who are in positions to make important decisions without a full and complete appreciation of the consequences. Surely that’s not the case. Because that would be scary. Very, very scary.


During my blogging years, I’ve introduced you to Carolyn.  I hope you’ll enjoy getting to know her just a bit better.  It’s a longer story than usual but she’s worth every word. Some people just can’t be edited.

A few years ago, she had come to Hilton Head from The Villages to spend the night with us.  The timing was perfect. We were headed to North Carolina the next day, were planning to leave the house early, and she wanted to be on her way at an early hour as well.

That evening we took Carolyn out to dinner with some friends who lived down the street.

The next morning, the Mister rose early to make coffee.  Shortly after that, I got a knock on my bedroom door. Carolyn came in, sat down on the bed, and said that a terrible, terrible thing had happened.  Carolyn was nearly 6 feet tall, had a thick head of curly hair and a Tennessee accent (twang) that could knock your socks off. You tended to listen up when she had something to say.

Through the years, I’d done “terrible” with Carolyn and it ran a broad gamut from absolutely nothing to something of concern so I wasn’t alarmed.  Yet.

Never one to get directly to the point, she thanked me profusely for a wonderful evening, the food had been just delicious, she had loved catching up with us and had so enjoyed the friends who had joined us and she hoped she’d see them again sometime soon. What were their names again?  She thought she’d write and tell them how nice they were to her.

 I was waiting for the terrible. 

She went on to say that she’d decided to take a shower before she went to bed and oh, by the way, the guest bathroom was just lovely, so colorful, the way the stripes and flowers went together, had I had help with a decorator or done it myself?

 I was still waiting for the terrible.  Getting a little nervous.

Then, she said, she thought as long a she was taking a shower, she might as well  wash her hair because there was some delicious smelling shampoo right there next to the shower and she’d been in the car all day and it seemed like a good idea and the hot water and the shower head were just perfect.  Did I know where I’d gotten that wonderful shower head? She surely would like to have one just like it.  

Still waiting for the terrible.  Maybe she’d forgotten.   That would not be entirely out of character.

Then she told me that while she was washing her hair with that wonderful smelling shampoo she had gotten some in her eyes and she rubbed them to get the shampoo out because they really, really stung and hurt like crazy and then her contact lenses fell out and went down the drain.

Oops.  Maybe the eagle just landed.

Did I know, she then asked, that she was almost legally blind?

No, I said.  I was not aware of that particular, and at this moment, very ominous “legally-blind” thing.   This after knowing her for 40 years.

I know what you’re thinking….of course she has an extra pair of lenses,  a pair of prescription glasses, sun or otherwise.  Oh, that would have been far too easy.

Now, it’s seven am on a Sunday morning; we have to leave the house in two hours and, obviously, so does she.  I asked if she could even see my face. She said she couldn’t but it didn’t matter since she already knew what I looked like. 

She also said all this talk was making her hungry; she had seen some delicious looking blueberry muffins on the kitchen counter last evening (when she still had contact lenses) and the coffee smelled wonderful.

But what about seeing, I asked?  And getting home?  You can’t drive this way. We can’t take you home.  This is a disaster, a complete and total unmitigated disaster. And just exactly how in the world can you even think about food at a time like this?  Aren’t you too worried to eat?

She said she saw no relationship whatsoever between her sight and the blueberry muffins which happened to be her very, very favorite kind and besides she wasn’t the least bit worried.

Just exactly how can you not be worried, Carolyn, I asked?

She replied:  “Because I have faith, Sallie…in you and our Good Lord. The two of you will work it all out.” 

And off she went to the kitchen.

Well, if I were to be assigned a partner in that mess, He was a good one to have. Of course, we found someone to get her some new lenses and off she went, just as planned.

As I’ve said earlier, Carolyn is no longer with us.  Her memory lingers on, so strongly.  For so many.  I’d put money on most of her friends thinking about her almost every day.  What a legacy she left us all.


We rate WAZE at the very top of our life-style computer assistants. Just plug in your info and follow its little brick road. It tells you everything you need to know for an angst-free trip.

On a recent trip, we asked….and received….excellent directions from point A to point B.  We wanted the bi-ways instead of the high-ways.  WAZE was happy to accommodate and we travelled for over 150 miles on back roads that were tree-lined, nearly empty and delightful.  It brought back memories of the years we each travelled with our parents from our respective homes to the place in Georgia, where we ultimately met.  Over 65 years ago.

Those memories, not-so-pleasantly, also carry with them the overwhelming smell of gasoline, the discomfort of un-air-conditioned cars, the parental tension of getting lost…a lot…. and the hours and hours of wondering when you might eat or attend to personal needs.

We decided we didn’t miss a bit of that part.  However, we both remembered with fondness the Burma-Shave signs, long out of existence, which popped up along the landscape.  Planted about 100 yards apart, some were amusingly product driven, touting their brushless shaving cream; others reminded us to drive carefully or pay the price.  Either way, they were bright moments in what were long, seemingly endless, trips.

And so, Dear Reader, if you’ve never had the dubious pleasure of pounding down southern back roads, in the middle of the summer, sitting in the back seat of the car while one or both parents chain-smoked, temperatures in the 90’s with no relief in sight, I give you a small sampling of those wonderful Burma-Shave signs.  They made us smile all those years ago and I hope they bring a smile to your face at the start of this New Year. 






If you wish, a site for more of these ditties is But, fair warning:  They can be addictive.  Silly is the order of the day.  Seriously, could you ask for anything more?


He’s finally back.  He abandoned me completely during my time of need.  During those two long weeks of sniffling, coughing, sore throat, feverish times.  I was all by myself. Left to keep my own company.  To take my own temperature.  Fetch my own Kleenexes.

Not that he’s particularly adept in filling any of those needs.  But still.  You hope to reap rewards after you’ve invested so much.  And invest I have.  Years and years of care and love.  Offered unselfishly and unconditionally.

Even during the day, he became offish.  The looks he gave me lacked their normal concern and affection.  I asked again and again what I had done to deserve that snobby, aloof attitude but no good answer was forthcoming.

The night times were especially long and lonely.  I’ve become accustomed to his warmth.  His mutterings.  The slight stirrings.  They help me get a good night’s sleep and surely, if there’s ever a time you want a good night’s sleep, it’s when you have a bad cold.

He’s very sensitive to touch and smell.  It became clear that he’d decided I wasn’t up to par on those things so he turned his back on me.   Actually, it was his back I particularly missed. After all, nothing says sleep like a purring cat, his furry warm  back tucked snuggly into the small of yours. 

Anyway, as I said earlier, he’s back.  How sweet it is.

Christmas 2019

When we were first married, the Mister’s father gave us one share of stock in Scott Paper. It seemed a bit odd at the time but there was something lovely in that gift that I didn’t originally appreciate. I was thinking about that the other day as my Christmas “tissue” blog is being re-blogged below.

The Scott Paper people apparently didn’t care if you had one or one million shares of their stock. They still sent you a Christmas present every year. A giant box full of paper towels, toilet paper and, of course, tissues. Being a teensy bit poor during that time, that box was manna from heaven for us. Our appreciation of that box of “necessaries” was truly joyful.

Now I’m wondering if that was the forerunner of my “tissue” issue. See what you think.

The Mister and I wish you the very happiest of Christmases.

The Christmas Spirit

The year was 1961. I was working in Boston at the New England Conservatory of Music as a receptionist. It was, in all respects, a wonderful year. I was in love (still am) and was surrounded by talented, generous and joyful people.

But Christmas was always hard for me. What to give to my parents? My father never wore anything but a suit, had enough ties to last several life times, bought his own socks and had no hobbies. My mother was choosy about the things she wore and the things she had in the house. I always had great angst about what to give them. That year I found a little Japanese porcelain dish which I hoped they would like, but it cost more than my small salary could comfortably bear. Still, I bought it. There wasn’t any joy in the purchase, however. I was worried and poorer…not a good combination.

The Conservatory was, back then, in a less than desirable part of town. It was surrounded by poverty level housing and people. There was a drug store right across the street that I visited on my lunch hour to pick up necessary items.

One day, near Christmas, I was at the drug store, mindlessly purchasing some stuff, not giving it any thought as I stood in line to pay for my items. An older woman was in front of me. She wasn’t dressed warmly enough for the cold Boston December day. It did strike me that she most likely didn’t have a warmer coat, but the thought was fleeting.

And then something happened that I will never forget. As my arms were carelessly full of stuff, I realized she was buying a single box of tissues. And I heard her say to the clerk: “This is for my friend for Christmas. She’ll really like it.”

I find myself as speechless now as I did then. And still a little close to tears. It was a hard reality. She was delighted with her choice of a gift for her friend, confident that it would be given, received and used with love and affection.

And I was worried about an expensive porcelain dish for my parents who needed nothing and would most likely put the dish in a drawer anyway? Not a Christmas goes by that I don’t think about that moment.

Sometimes, I wish our family could just exchange boxes of tissues, carefully choosing ones that might appeal…they come in such jazzy colors and designs these days. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could wrap them up fancifully with pretty paper and ribbons, confident they would be used and appreciated.

Now, I know we can’t….and would never want to…deny our families the joy of Christmas morning and presents under the tree. Santa Claus does exist. But, for me, perhaps, a box of tissues has become a symbol of friendship and love, of a longed-for simple Christmas season, of joy, of an opportunity to share with others less fortunate, and, in its own way, a real meaning of Christmas.

Cold Comfort

There’s no comfort in being cold. Even less in having one.  I understood that first hand when I caught one recently. My first in over twenty years!  The dis-comfort of chills and coughs, aches and pains, sniffles and fever came crashing down. 

That night, as I gathered up warm blankets and boxes of tissues for a healing sleep, I decided to take a look in our medicine cabinet.  Turns out it was a walk down memory lane.  All the cold remedies in the closet were seriously past their use-by-date. 

There was Ny-Quil and ZZZZ-quil.  Sleep meds and nose drops.  Zy-Cam and cough drops.  Advil and  Cold-eeze. I was determined get well fast, so I cooked up a combination of those out-of-date drugs that no cold could possibly withstand.

Sleep came easily.  Most likely too easily.  And much too deeply.  At 3:00 a.m. I woke, wondering where I was. I tentatively put a toe out and found the Mister.  That was comforting. Shortly after that, I heard a faint, but clear, rendition of Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer coming from a place nearby.  It seemed only right to sing along.  So I did.

After Rudolph had flown off into the night with all the other reindeer, I wondered if I’d really heard that. Or if it was just my imagination?  Maybe it was enabled by too many “cold comfort” drugs?   Then it started up again.  And again, I joined in.  It was Rudolph all right, singing gently and surely from the Mister’s bedside table.

Or was it? There were no music-making thingies on his bed-side table, no angels singing from the rafters.  But the music was there.  It really was.  Wasn’t it? 

Socks as Metaphor

Both the Mister and I like socks.  We each have a broad assortment; mine considerably larger than his but still.  We’re in agreement that socks are not just for chilly weather any more. They can make a statement or just be fun. For the most part, we’re of one happy mind about the whole sock thing.

We differ wildly, however, in the manner of which we don our socks.  Oh sure, we both put them on one sock at a time but the manner of selecting the socks-of-the-day varies broadly and deeply.

I’m a grab-and-go kinda person; he’s a matchy-matchy kind.

Mine are in a jumbled pile. His are rolled up in neat little balls. Yes, I enable his carefully matched socks. And yes, he looks the other way when I wear one orange sock and one blue sock. Or maybe one with a cat motif, the other with zebras.

Mine come from exotic places throughout the year. Thoughtful and funny friends, on-line sources like The Joy of Socks, and funky little shops. My collection is fresh and fashionable.

He goes to Belk’s.  Every five years or so.

So what would our children say about all that?  That’s just the way they roll?  The same but different? Way too late to change any part of that. Don’t even think about it. We all tried. Look where it got us.

Works for me.  And, apparently, for him.   So, just go ahead and sock it to us.  We can take it.