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. 

THIS CREAM MAKES……THE GARDENER’S DAUGHTER……PLANT HER TU-LIPS…..WHERE SHE OUGHTER

A NUT AT THE WHEEL…..A PEACH ON HIS RIGHT….. CURVE IN THE ROAD……FRUIT SALAD THAT NIGHT

CATTLE CROSSING……PLEASE DRIVE SLOW……THAT OLD BULL……IS SOME COW’S BEAU

BEFORE I TRIED IT……THE KISSES I MISSED……BUT AFTERWARD—BOY……THE MISSES I KISSED

USE THIS CREAM……A DAY OR TWO……THEN DON’T CALL HER……SHE’LL CALL YOU

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

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.

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.

It’s that time of year when we go all Norman Rockwell.  We get out the good china, the colorful tablecloths, the pretty glasses.  Gourds and autumn leaves decorate our houses.  Families do their best to get together and we deeply miss the ones who can’t be with us. 

And then there’s the food.  Always too much but always appreciated.  We resurrect our old family recipes.  Year after year, out of respect for our heritage, we re-create the good ones.  And, sometimes, the not-so-good ones.

And so it was last week that my relatively small food contribution to this year’s dinner was discussed.

The family knows that my grandmother put lard in everything she cooked.  It was yummy but we can’t go there anymore.   My mother was big on adding generous dollops of rum to nearly everything that left the kitchen.  That, too, was yummy but best not to go there either.  For those reasons, the recipe collection from my past is slim and iffy, at best.

Thus, I’ve always relied on my friends to share their simple and always delicious favorites.  This year, I offered to bring Mrs. Willard’s Zucchini Casserole to our table.  Surely, I remembered the recipe from our recent downsizing and deeply purged move.  Didn’t I?

Where might it be?  My recipe box?  Nope, not there.  Maybe it’s in one of the few cookbooks I brought with me?  Not there either.  Panic swells up.  If I pitched that,  what else went out by mistake?

Aha, my memory said. Maybe I stuck it in my old…really old… Joy of Cooking.  Surely I brought that with me.  But not so fast.  It’s nowhere to be seen.  And I can’t exactly Google “Mrs. Willard’s Zucchini Casserole”.

Then memory did me another small favor.  That old…..really old…..Joy of Cooking has no backing.  It just looks like an old stack of papers.  Take another peek. 

And there it was.  One old friend embracing another.  Mrs. Willard will be with us, after all.  Of course, there’s still that little matter of proper preparation but I think I’ll be okay.  Mrs. Willard understood my kitchen limitations.  Good friend that she was.

And a happy Thanksgiving to all. 

That one, simple, scary word sends shivers up my spine. And it has nothing to do with ghosties and goblins.  Halloween’s all about the nifty costumes and the requisite creativity to make them.  I find that utterly terrifying. As parents, we’d send our boys out into the dark of night, “dressed” in the Mister’s old and tattered shirts, with a schmear of black gunk on their faces.  That was it.  No imagination.  Nothing clever. Just regret that they always brought home so much candy in spite of it all. 

Here in our new surroundings, all holidays are celebrated.  Fancifully.  Gaily.  There’s music, table decorations, flowers, colors.  We go all out.  We get with the plan or stay home.

And so it was, that lacking said creativity, we regretfully declined a lovely invitation for the Halloween bash.  But at the very last minute, we decided to pop over to the Big House and take a peek at all the fancy get-ups. No costumes necessary. No one would even see us.

We slipped in the back and immediately saw the Halloweeners pictured above  They definitely were not what we’d expected.  And not necessarily what was welcomed.  In fact, it wasn’t long before the “unknowns” were forcefully ejected from the premises. 

We thought we heard laughter as the pair were escorted to the elevator and sent on their way.  But who knows?  Perhaps it was just a gentle snort or two from behind the somewhat obscene masks.  Only the ghosts really know for sure.

It was a late summer day so I put my little beach chair in the car and headed to the ocean. October sun, gentle breezes, tourists gone. I found myself closing my eyes to just enjoy it all.

Now, you might think that conversations at the beach would be private and contained.  But, when there’s a breeze….and there usually is…..voices carry.  And so it was last week that I became privy to a wide ranging political discussion, just up wind from where I sat.

As I eavesdropped, I learned that the women sitting near me had, to a one, watched the latest presidential debate and were sharing their varied ideas and positions.  They’d paid close attention to the big themes:  health care, immigration, taxes, gun control.  Each had a studied and thoughtful approach.  They were, decidedly, NOT of one mind.  They were engaged in a “judge-free” discussion and I learned a lot.  I did wonder at the time if they knew how lucky they were to be able to do that but that’s another matter.

Then one singled out a candidate and said:  “She needs to “style-up.”

Whoa, I thought.  They just morphed into a whole other level of debate.

Apparently, there was more than one die-hard feminist in the group.  Those women, of course, took the position that “styling up” was frivolous and silly.  Stick to the issues, they said.   Surely, we’ve moved beyond this.

The other side suggested that if clothes make the man, then why not the woman?  Image counts, they said.  So do first impressions.  This is important stuff we’re talking about here. 

Those in the middle were busily hedging their bets. 

It was a vigorous debate and I was enjoying every minute of it.

On and on they went. Civilly agreeing to disagree. Honoring and respecting one another’s opinions. They were friends with differences.

Then a chill wind woke me from my pleasant little nap. And that, as they say, was that.

Beach chair painting by Vic Mastis

Mostly, they’re just gentle mutterings as one reads his iPad, the other works a crossword puzzle. It’s music of a sort. Humming noises in the background.  A soft blur.

It’s all easy and expected.  Until last Saturday morning when one uttered the following:  “I was visited by smells last night.”

Then the world stops. There’s a palpable gasp.  As if the dead has been resurrected.  Which is exactly what those words mean.

The questions start.  Was it flowers or fruit?  How long did they last?  Were you sound asleep when they came to you?

The questioner already knows the answers but they need to be asked anyway.  For confirmation.  To make sure.  Why now, we wonder?  She’s been gone several years.  

She, for the uninitiated, or the forgetful, is my mother.  Dead now for over twenty years, she spent many of those years appearing to us in the night as “sweet smells.”  Sometimes fruity, sometimes floral. Strong, intense aromas that wafted over us, waking us from deep sleep. Never visiting both of us at the same time.  Ghosts don’t do that.  Don’t ask why.  The episodes always lasted between 15 and 30 seconds. Then they’d be gone.  Poof. Just like that.

The abnormal became the normal.  The peculiar, the accepted.   The why, the why-not. The events became shrug-worthy. Nothing more.

But now, after a hiatus of several years?

There’s a reason it’s happening again.  We just don’t know what it is. Yet.