to my dear and respected poets:

sometimes….no, make that lots of times….i have trouble understanding poetry.  shakespeare and chaucer are lost on me.   i do quite like e.e. cummings but mostly because he never  capitalized anything.    my poet friends are well aware of my limitations.

forrest gump said that “life is like a box of chocolates……you never know what you’re gonna get.”     well, i think poetry’s a little like that,  too.

there was a ton of chocolate in our house when I was growing up.   my mother, a woman of taste, particularly loved godiva chocolates.    a beautiful box of those sumptuous goodies was an instant path to her heart.

on top of each layer of those yummy chocolates we’d find a road map for what lay beneath.    directions, if you will, for our munching enjoyment.    you certainly didn’t want to bite into a hazelnut when you were longing for marzipan.

for example, you might read: “this particular delicacy is bathed in a dark swiss chocolate, blended with finely shaved brazilian walnuts, carefully layered with argentinian caramel and a hint of oak-aged scotch.”

those tantalizing, seductive words urged us to dig deep and understand what made that chocolate so good;  to appreciate that little piece of candy intelligently, knowingly, happily.   the godiva people did that for me and i wish poets would do that, too.

oh, i know a little mystery is part of the whole deal, but every once in a while, i’d love to be prepared before i take my first bite.

so, dear poets, please help me out a little.   give me a few hints and clues as to what i’m meant to discover between the lines and the layers, under the lid of that beautiful box.

i think i might be able to savor the sweet stuff…and the journey… just that much more.

Definition:  “Among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected.”

Or put another way:   “Keep it simple.  The most obvious answer is likely to be the right one.”

Apparently, there’s no Occam’s razoring when it comes to computer issues.   One starts with the most complicated, the direst, the most difficult, the tech-i-est, the most demanding, the most frustrating, the most complex, the most confusing, the most upsetting, the most time-consuming hypotheses possible.

For eight months now, we’ve been living in a world of hurt, confusion, and despair.

All brought on by malfunctioning computer systems.

At some point, I channeled Mr. Occam and suggested that the Mister’s new computer, and its equally evil twin, the printer, simply be returned and exchanged for new ones.  Sort of like an errant blender or bad toaster.   It seemed, to the uninitiated, to be a good idea.  And, besides, I had Mr. Occam on my side.

But, oh no.  That would have been far too easy.

The excuses for not following that simple suggestion were too many to mention.  And way above my pay grade to challenge.

Mr. Occam’s philosophy went unheeded.  Time and time again.

And this is how it ends.  Maybe.

Computer and printer are in the trunk of his  car.  On their way to being returned.  And exchanged.  Simply.  And, I hope, successfully.

Mr. Occam and I are not saying anything remotely like “We told you so” but we sure are thinking it.

I’ve had my share through the years. They’ve taught me, inspired me, been there for me when I needed them.  That’s what role models do, even though they don’t necessarily know they’re doing it.  They’re just there.

At my age, I should be the role model, rather than the role model-ee.  That gets us to the issue of age, among other things.    Surely, I’m too old to expect that there’s someone out there….someone actually older than I am.…who can act as an inspiration.

But wait.

My new role model appeared in our town newspaper just this week.   I know I can’t match her feats of energy, strength, get-up-and-go or bravery.  She is, however, someone to emulate and admire.

I’m personally skilled at finding excuses NOT to do those things which I ought to do.  Now, I look to my new role model and try to follow her lead.

She shows me that I really don’t have excuses for my excuses anymore.

I bemoan a little cancer?   She’s survived three.

Blood pressure’s a tad high?  She has aortic valve stenosis.

I’ve got a little tinnitus?  Her face is numb.

Woke up feeling a touch woozy?  She’s been diagnosed with vertigo.

Just feeling too old?   She’s got more than 15 years on me.

So what would she do with all those non-excuses?  She’d pop out and run a half marathon.  And along the way, she’d continue to raise mega-bucks for her favorite charity.

Granted, she’s exceptional.  But that doesn’t keep her from being there for me.  Even though she doesn’t know it.

P.S.  The blog itself is a no-reply site.  If you send me something to or on  it, it goes into the ethers, never to be seen again.  If you don’t have my email address, go to the contact page for the blog and write me that way.  I love to hear from people.  I hate it when someone tells me they were in touch and I know that message is out there in never-never land…never to be retrieved.

I just put my little brick away.  The one I use to squish every last dib-dab of toothpaste out of its tube.  I’m following the old adage: “Waste not; want not.”

When it comes to things in jars, jugs, tubes or bottles, I WILL get that last drop out.

Those vessels get watered-down, shaken-up, q-tipped, turned upside-down, drained  and swathed to a fare-thee-well.  Waste not; want not.

I cut face cleaners in half; I don’t get dirty enough to merit a whole one each night.  I’ve kept every gift bag that’s ever come in our door.   Little scraps of paper get stapled together to make note-pads.  Wrapping paper and ribbons get ironed and reused.  Waste not; want not.

But, having said that, I own more than one pair of shoes that have never met the floor.  I’ve bought sweaters that were worn once, maybe, and I’ve purchased other things I knew I’d never use just because I felt like it.

Things die in the refrigerator and not always by accident.  Pantry items go past their use-by date all the time.

So the adage doesn’t apply to everything and all the time, at least for me.

I wonder why that is and, frankly, I have no idea.

Ah, sweet mystery of life.

A friend told me, many years ago when I was too young to understand, that “the older you get, the more like yourself you become.”

What rubbish, I thought.  But, she was a wise woman and I now know that statement to be true.

See, I’m an introvert.  A born and bred, dyed-in-the-wool, card-carrying introvert.  I’ve always felt I had a black “I” emblazoned on my forehead.  And the older I’ve gotten, the more like myself I’ve become.  More introverted…if that’s possible.

It’s taken years to accept that but now, it seems, I have no choice in the matter.  I do, indeed, have a pre-existing condition.  Not covered by insurance, alas.  This year or any other.

Susan Cain, author of “Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking” is known as the fairy-godmother of introverts.  Her research extols us!  Gives us permission to celebrate our introversion.  She even says it’s “cool” to be introverted.  Who knew?

It’s great to be appreciated, if only in literature.  But in reality it doesn’t change much.

Introverts need peace and quiet to re-charge.  The older we get, the dearer that time becomes.

Socialization becomes extreme sport to “mature” introverts.

Coping in crowds?  Well, with age, that goes from the maybe-we-can-do-this to no-way-that’s-happening.

The good news is that we are cheap dates.   Noisy restaurants, big parties, festive events, big galas are all on our no-no list.   Consider the money we save on clothes, mani-pedis, shoes, hair fluffing.

On the other hand, we surely miss out on a lot of fun.

It’s a toss up.

And the older we get, the more like ourselves we become.

(Please click on image for a larger picture)

My cousin Joe and I grew up together in the same small town.  We were almost exactly the same age.  Neither of us had siblings.  We had a close relationship for many years.

Eventually, our lives took different turns and we lost touch.

He became an internationally-known journalist and made his mark globally and personally.   Obviously, I didn’t go down that path.  Our wildly disparate lives kept us  apart for over 30 years.

A few years ago, after he’d returned to the states, we re-established contact and got to know each other again.  Sadly, he died in 2013, in a most mysterious way.  We’ll never know exactly what happened.

Last week I received an invitation from my college alma-mater for a reunion luncheon, scheduled for early June.  The cover of the invitation is quite beguiling.  It’s a black and white photo of college kids, in 1960 or so, doing the “frug “or some kind of awkward dance we did way back then.

The photo was clearly taken at a “mixer.”   For those not quite old enough to know about “mixers,” they happened when bus-loads of boys or girls were shipped from one single-sex school into an opposite single-sex school.

Something made me look at the photo several times.  I have no idea what I was looking for but, suddenly, one face in the crowded room popped off the page and took my breath away.

I’d put money on the young man at one side of the picture being my cousin.

Joe wasn’t as tall as most of the boys.  His khakis were always a tad bit too short.  He didn’t  conform to dress codes. He was handsome.  Just like the boy in the picture.

Now I can’t take my eyes off the picture.  Or him.

I’ve called the school to see if they can source the photo.   Maybe they can tell me where it was taken.  I doubt they know the names of the kids in the photo.  But perhaps I could put two and two together.

Part of me wants an answer.  Is it Joe or isn’t it?

The other part of me just wants to hang on to the long odds that his picture simply arrived in our mailbox.  Mysteriously and curiously.   Just like he died.

Sometimes chance provides an opportunity to assess and evaluate what’s most important.

Such was the case this last week when, through another friend, old friends from Ohio happened into my blog and, subsequently, onto our porch.

There was ample wine, much laughter, even political chit-chat….and what fun it was.

Later that night I got to thinking about what seems, to me at least, to be most important in having good friendships.  So, here are those thoughts, unfiltered, as usual.

I’d like to know what you’re thinking; not where you’ve been.

Please tell me what you’re feeling; not what you’ve done.

I’d like to know who you are; not who you were.

I’d like to know what you love and why.

I want to know what makes you cry and why.

And, finally,  please tell me what makes you laugh so that I can laugh with you.

That laughter thing may be the most important of all.  If you can get there, it’s all good.