Snow Days

A dream for children;  a nightmare for parents.

We could always tell, as we woke up, if there was a promise/threat of a snow day upon us.  It was the quiet.  The peace that falls with the snow.

But we lived in a little town where all the kids could walk to school.  No buses. No public transportation.  Just their feet or a parent willing to drive them to school.  Not for nothing did we pay taxes on a fleet of snow blowers and salt trucks.  The roads and sidewalks were almost always clear and usable by 7:00 am.

The grumbling and griping was expected but manageable as we stirred them from their warm beds.  The entire world, according to them, was sleeping in, drinking warm cocoa, sledding, watching television and having snow fights.  They were going to school.

Darn right they were!

So get a move on.  Find those gloves, boots, hats and scarves.  Slurp down your breakfast.  Chop, chop, don’t be late.  Good boys. Have a nice day.  See you later.  Ta!

And with that, I’d close the door, pour myself a second cup of coffee, gather up a cat or two and a good book.  Walk up the stairs, climb back between the barely cooled sheets, inhale deeply, count to four, exhale slowly.

It was a snow day after all.



Snowy picture thanks to

Lifetime Appointments

Such appointments are usually regarded as special, unique, admirable.  They might include Saint Hood, a seat on the Supreme Court, Nobel Peace Prize laureate.  All represent hard-earned, meaningful, and extraordinary accomplishments.

Occasionally, however, there are lifetime appointments that come your way that you never wanted, certainly didn’t strive for, and have tried everything possible to get rid of.  All to no avail.

One such appointment would be a spot on the United States of America’s No-Fly List.

The Mister’s brother and his lovely wife have been on that No-Fly list for over fifteen   years now.  Nicer, kinder, more law abiding (senior) citizens you will never meet nor know.

How and why it happened is a mystery.  It may have had something to do with a large railroad spike, which they, as railroad buffs, picked up as a souvenir from an abandoned track in Colorado.  How else to get it home but in your suitcase on your flight back east?  Coincidentally, there had just been a suspicious train derailment, not terribly far from where they’d acquired their new bit of railway memorabilia.

That bit of confusion plunged them into hot water with Homeland Security.  And it has been thus for all these years.

With increased security since nine-eleven, they have been subjected to many hours of detainment and extensive questioning.     Once upon a time, those events were fodder for conversation, reflection, even amusement.

No longer.  Now they are obstacles to the fun and joy of travel, which they, in spite of all that, still love to do.

They have tried, in vain, and through untold numbers of channels, to get the “appointment” un-appointed and have been told by high-ranking officials that “once you’re on that list, you’re on for life.”  Just like a Supreme Court Justice appointment.

Or not.





Benign or Malignant

Which one of those options would you prefer?  Benign, obviously.

Malignant’s a whole other ball of wax.

Let’s look at some situations.  Breast lump?  Colon polyps?  Benign or malignant?  Benign wins every time.

Then, there’s language.  Profane language.  I’ve made it clear that I can and do swear like a sailor.   Stub my toe and out comes the S***word.  Break my toe and you’ll hear the F***word.

That’s benign swearing, in my mind.  The only object of my disdain is my own clumsiness and a painful toe.

Malignant swearing is a whole other ball of wax.

I said I’d stay away from politics in this blog.  But our president’s use of profanity this week, referring to certain people and their countries, was truly malignant.  A lot more is at stake than his toe.  His platform’s a lot bigger than mine. I try to be careful and I wish he would, too.

I wrote about my breast cancer once and I’m writing about  “S***hole” now.  Both malignancies rocked my world and caused me to worry, to be deeply concerned about my life as I know it and my future well being.

And that’s that.

Ghosts. Past and Present.

It’s been some time since our regular, known, and accepted ghosts have paid us a visit.  I think we both miss them at some level.  If we stop to think about it.  Which we don’t very often.

But, lo and behold, a new presence has entered our lives.

Normal ghosts (is that an oxymoron?), don’t present themselves to more than one person at a time.  So, a certain level of trust has to come into play when a new one appears (or seems to appear) on the horizon.  We’ve had a fair amount of experience with ghosts but each time things are a little more circumspect than the time before.

The iffiness of it all seems more likely.  Are you sure it wasn’t a cat?  Maybe you’re just hearing things?  Were you having a bad dream?  Don’t those old floors creak anyway?  Maybe it was just a branch hitting the house in the wind.

We’re pretty sure that there is some thing, or some one, new in the house.  The spectral presentation of this one is distinctly different from the others.  We’ll need to get our minds around it as best we can.

We’re good ghost hosts.  I think we successfully encouraged the others to go “home.”  That would explain their absence.  Ghosts need to go home.  To find peace.  To join those who love them.

So, whoever you are.  You’ve come to the right place.  We’ll take good care of you until you’re ready to leave.

Of course, we’d love to know who you are. But all things in good time.  We’re in no rush.





Christmas Dinner. 2017.

Ten of us.  The Mister and Me.   Two of our sons and their wives.   Four grandchildren, ages 17 to 21.

Our sons, their wives and children don’t see each other all that often.  Distance, work and school get in the way.

So this year, the Mister posed a question to the table to spark conversation.  To learn what’s on people’s minds.  To search for things we have in common other than a last name.

The question he asked was:  “What intrigues you?”

As Dr. Seuss might say:  Oh, the places we went with that one.

As we went round the table, we learned that one is intrigued by net-neutrality; another by bitcoins.

One wondered about the source of happiness; another is deeply concerned by the loss  of children’s national insurance and its repercussions.

One wants to know more about the sub-atomic universe; another is engaged by the concept of short-form.

One asked how, as an actor, he can best evoke emotions in audiences; another is curious about strong female role-models and where they may be found.

Remember, “intrigue” doesn’t necessarily imply knowledge.  It just indicates a compelling interest, a curiosity and desire to know more.

So, when it was finally my turn to respond to the question, my answer was very simple:  “You.  This family.  You all intrigue me.”



Image thanks to Pinterest


How long does it take for something to make that giant step from repetition to tradition?   A year?  Ten years?

Well, I’ve decided that three years is a fine number of years in which to create a tradition so here, on this Christmas Eve, is the third printing of a Christmas memory.

Our family wishes you and yours the best in the new year.

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 one 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, of course, in its own way, the true meaning of  Christmas.

December 14, 2014

How Cats Think

He always does this when we’ve been gone for one or more nights.  We ask ourselves: “Why?”  “Why does he bury (most of) himself under the hall runner?”

We’ve decided it’s his message to us: “You left me here in this house all by myself.  Yes, you arranged for me to be fed and watered.  But you were far away and unavailable for loving, petting, cooing.  All the things I value.”

But since he can’t pack his bags, walk out the door and leave us as we do him, he burrows under the rug and becomes unavailable for loving, petting, cooing.  All the things we value.

Wretched being.

And all the more loved for his cunning and very feline behavior.

‘Tis the Season

We’re in full shopping mode at this point.  It slowly creeps up on us and then takes over.  I weary of it and I don’t think I’m alone.

Our families and friends are so fortunate.  Our well-being doesn’t depend on those things we don’t have.  We’re blessed that way.

Still, we feel the pressure, the urge, and yes, the fun and joy of giving at this time of year.  Even if it’s something small, we want to give a gift to those we care about.    And yet….

A friend and poet, Thelma Naylor, wrote something a while ago that found its way into my “frequent reading folder.” With her permission, I’ll share that poem:

Please, don’t give me anything

I’ll have to recycle its packaging

Decide on its appropriate setting

Take care of it, clean it, move it

Determine its fair market price

And give you something nice


Please, don’t give me anything

Just your touch


How lovely.  Just that small, beautiful gift of friendship.  I can’t think of anything I’d rather have.



Image thanks to Babam Media

Coulda Shoulda Woulda ?

I should have written a check.

I would have written a check.

I could have written a check but I pay on-line.

It’s so much easier to do it that way.  Just a couple of clicks and it’s done.  Think of the paper I save.  No long lines at the post office to buy increasingly expensive stamps.   No trips to Staples to buy envelopes or order checks.

It’s all just great until the on-line people decide it’s time to verify I’m who I say I am.

Shouldn’t they warn me I’m about to be subjected to the dreaded “challenge questions?”

They, those inaccessible and inscrutable people, already know the answers to those questions and if my answers don’t match theirs, there will be a shut-down and I will be denied access to my hard-earned money.

I’m a good person, albeit not technically inclined.  I’m also not inclined to remember obscure answers when they were just that to begin with.

Happily, I still have lots of stamps, boxes of envelopes, years’ worth of blank checks and I quite love my writing instruments.

Am I to be ecologically incorrect or suffer at the hands of impersonal machinery?

What an absurd riddle.




Image thanks to

Priority Mail


Gotta love Amazon Prime.  When it works, it’s wonderful.  Reliable, fast, next-day delivery.

Not always the case where we live, however.

Our main thoroughfare (all two lanes of it) is frequently blocked.  No one can get in. Or, in our case, out.   And it’s blocked for the most delightful of reasons.

Our town has street fairs for just about every occasion you can imagine.  Orange no-parking cones go up, tents arrive, food is cooked and people throng.

We celebrate all the normal holidays:  Easter, Christmas, Veterans Day.  Parades fill the streets.  People come from all over to join in.

Those parades are just the beginning.  We also have Farmer’s Markets, Book Fairs, Art shows, Craft shows, Seafood festivals, BBQ cook-offs, Art and Wine strolls, Boiled Peanut festivals, pop-up fundraisers.  The list goes on.  No cars, golf carts, trucks or vans allowed during any of those things.  Only people on foot.  And dogs, of course.

So, sometimes we don’t always get our next-day delivery.  Or any delivery for that matter.

I actually find it quite charming that our little town successfully foils Amazon and the United States Postal Service.

We show them a thing or two about priorities.




Photo thanks to Jeramey Lende/

Once a mouse; always a mouse?

(Please be sure to click on the picture!)

Not if you’re a ballet dancer in the Hilton Head Dance Theater’s annual Nutcracker Suite.

If you’re at all familiar with the Nutcracker Suite, you’ll know that the Mice appear early in the show, all done up with little spiky ears, pink noses, and tails on their tutus.  They’re all under the age of five.  There are usually many, many of them.  Some run offstage as soon as they arrive, seeking comfort from their back-stage mothers; others take to the spotlight and have to be forcibly removed.  Cameras click and families strain to see if they can identify their “mouse.”  They can’t, but it doesn’t matter.

The Mice are wonderful. They put us in the Nutcracker mood.

We’ve had the pleasure of watching our own “mouse” morph into other, more glamorous, more taxing Nutcracker roles.  Fittingly, and through hard work, training, and commitment she’ll dance the Sugar Plum Fairy pas-de-deux this year.

We’ve followed our dancer and her friends from Mice to English Crackers, Soldiers to Candy Canes, Marzipans to Flowers.  We’ve watched them change, grow, take baby steps from ballet slippers to toe shoes, inch their way from the back of the stage to the front.

It’s a community they’ll never forget.  Whether they continue their dancing or not, the value of their collective accomplishments through the years is a wonderful thing.

They might not understand that right this minute but it will all be there for them, some day, when they need it.


Photo courtesy of the South Jersey Ballet School

The Time Has Come



“The time has come,” the Walrus said,

To talk of many things.

Of shoes and ships and sealing wax

Of cabbages and kings,

And why the sea is boiling hot

And whether pigs have wings.”


The time has also come for Life on the May to take a short hiatus.

Children’s stories so often have relevance that we need to hear.  And heed.  So, I’ll scare up my copy of C. S. Lewis’ “Alice in Wonderland.”  And perhaps read a little A. A. Milne while I’m at it.

But I’ll be back.  Soon, I hope.  Please don’t go away.  I’m just taking a brief journey  down the Rabbit Hole.  I’m pretty sure they still do marvelous tea parties.  And if memory serves, the March Hare will offer wine.

Maybe you’ll join me there.  I’d like that.  It should be fun.

The Stuff In Between

Uh, Oh, Oreos.

Every people-friendly pantry has a package of Oreos.  You never know when you’ll get the urge to dip one in a glass of cold milk, make cookie crumbles for ice cream or twist off those chocolate wafers to get to the yummy stuff “in between.”

That’s my personal favorite.  That stuff “in between.”  I think that’s where “it’s at” and I’m not just talking cookies here.

Sure, those chocolate wafers are crispy and good and they make a nice shell for the stuff in between.  Sort of like birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and so forth. Those big events hold us together and give us reason to celebrate.  They’re our bookends.  Our markers.

But so much of the good stuff arrives differently, doesn’t it?   When you least expect it,  It just slithers in and quietly becomes part of your life.

Watching a cat sleep.

Starting a good book.

Laughing with friends.

Cocktails on the porch.

Stuff.  Just ordinary stuff.   Every day stuff.

That yummy, delicious  “in-between” stuff.



Our favorite television character, Sheldon Cooper of the Big Bang Theory, says: “They say change is good.  But it never is.”

Sheldon tends to look at things in black or white so I don’t agree with him all the time but there’s been a change in our neighborhood recently that made me think of him.

The food bank at the church next door has recently moved.

We happened to be leaving our house early on the day of the move.  I saw bins and baskets being stacked in cars.  Shelving was dismantled and trucked.  Folding tables were put into vans. The food bank equipment was going to its new home.  It made me sad.  Surprisingly so.

I had happily volunteered at the food bank for three years.  Our group did the set-up work.  We filled the bins and baskets with bags, stacked the shelves with pantry-goods, stuffed the fridge with produce and dairy products.

The food bank clients would come in the following day and gather their needs.

There was a routine.  A pattern.  A ritual.  A comfort level.  Sheldon would have loved it.  I did, too.

Yes, I know the food bank needed to move to a new space and I know it’s still doing its good work.

But I miss having that regular, reliable, routine stuff going on next door to me every week.

For better or worse, change happens.





“A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down.”

So sings Mary Poppins.

I always study the medical column in the New York Times Magazine with its tales of difficult-to-diagnose-cases and their ultimate solutions. Understandably, I’m usually lost until some smart doctor or nurse comes up with the answer and solves the problem.

Not so a couple of weeks ago. I may not have grasped the entire picture but I sure could have helped.  Long before the doctors did.

It seems that a man had been suffering from hiccups for days on end. He’d tried all the home remedies….drinking water upside down, holding his nose while drinking water, asking people to scare him, etc. He finally went to the hospital and they gave him a bunch of harsh drugs. He went home and kept on hiccupping.

Back to the hospital; more nasty drugs, MRI’s, Cat Scans, etc.

Poor guy still had hiccups. He was exhausted, losing weight, going crazy.

And I’m sitting there thinking: “Why isn’t someone simply giving this poor man a spoonful of sugar? “

Well, it turns out he did indeed have a little issue (way over my pay grade) that was part of an underlying cause of the hiccups and they fixed it. For the most part.

When he was going home from the hospital, still with more than a few hiccups, one of the nurses said: “You know, there’s a really simple cure for hiccups. Just put a spoonful of sugar under your tongue. Let it dissolve and Ta Da!  All gone!”

Finally, I said to myself, a little common sense.

And some seriously long-delayed comfort and peace for the poor hiccupper.

It works, by the way. If you didn’t already know.