tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10030206441683066262024-02-18T23:49:46.783-08:00JeanniesBlogAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-23022754484191862412012-03-27T12:18:00.001-07:002012-03-29T10:02:59.458-07:00Doodling and NoodlingTonight I had some fried peppers with my dinner. I love fried peppers! Sauteed in a little olive oil with a sprinkle of salt, the onion rings tinged with gold and the peppers crisply tender. Surely there is no culinary image more beautiful than a panful of bell peppers, the scarlet and emerald green of the peppers contrasting with the white of the onion slices. Almost too pretty to eat. Almost!<br />
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Of course, bell peppers come in other colors, as well, yellow, orange, even purple, but they do not vary significantly in taste and and are often very pricey, so I used to buy them only when I wanted to make a <i>presentation</i>. No problem these days. I no longer make "presentations".<br />
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I also love stuffed peppers. One of my favorites is a recipe given to me many years ago by a Swedish friend in Stockholm. It is essentially a creamed chicken filling and she used to throw in a can of crabmeat for good measure. Very delicious. <br />
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My Lakeport grandsons are big pepper eaters. Raw. They nibble the peppers out of the salad, or steal bits before the salad is assembled, or slice them up for school lunches. One of them won't eat squash in <i>any</i> form, the other one can find the tiniest sliver of mushroom in his casserole, which he picks out and discards, but they really like peppers. Among many other things, of course.<br />
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(As you can tell, this discussion concerns bell peppers. Hot peppers are another subject. )<br />
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"I like the way you walk! Some of the old ladies are so SLOW!" A take-out boy at the supermarket once said this to me while helping me carry out my groceries. I was pushing 80 at the time and he looked to be about 16. One of the best compliments I have ever received!<br />
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Pianos I Have Known......I have never lived far from a piano. The first one was my mother's, a big bulky upright of the sort that graced American living rooms throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries. This was the piano on which I learned to play. It had a beautiful shiny case, kept gleaming by my mother who loved the look and feel of the satiny wood. Itinerant tuners who passed through the countryside from time to time kept it tuned and regulated. When my grandfather, who suffered from dementia, came to live with us we moved the piano into a spare bedroom so as to disturb him as little as possible with my hours of practice. Of course it was not possible to shut it out completely and one day he said to my mother, "Does that girl read music?" When assured that I did, he muttered darkly, "I thought so!"<br />
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The first piano that I owned on my own, was a pretty little studio upright in a dark case with a lovely rich tone. I can't remember the make, but it was far superior to the parlor "spinets" that came later after WWll and were often just additions to the decor. These were the pianos that I encountered in the bars, lounges and dancehalls where I played during those years. They were mostly scarred-up veterans of the night-club scene, covered with rings from highball glasses and burns from neglected cigarettes. Likely not tuned regularly. I often had to transpose to another key to be in harmony with the sax or trumpet or the arrangements of the current guest singer.<br />
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When Erik and I married, he owned a small spinet, Kohler and Campbell, I think. Not a good piano, but it accompanied us on our various journeys and served the purpose for several years. All the kids practiced on this little piano. After we settled down in Alamo, I purchased two Mason and Hamlin pianos which I still have. An excellent studio upright, which I used in my studio, and a beautiful smallish grand, just the right size for our living room. These pianos have given me much pleasure and I hope will live long and useful lives after I am gone. Electronic keyboards are versatile and produce some exciting music, but no other instrument can ever supplant the sonorous, pure and brilliant sound of a good piano. Alexander Liebermann, my wonderful teacher, thought of his piano as an old and good friend. I do, too.<br />
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It sometimes seems to me that the world is divided into two parts: There's the dog lovers. And there's the rest of us.<br />
<br />
Now, don't get me wrong, I am not a dog hater. I am just not a "dog lover." I have known several dogs in my life that I liked a lot and I admire many things about this wonderful creature. I admire his liquid eyes, his beauty (or not), his wagging tail, his silly grin and his undying devotion and loyalty to the people he loves. I do not admire his shedding coat, his poop, his personal hygiene habits, his snarl and bared teeth. I do not appreciate his vocal sounds, ranging from the basso profundo "woof" to the falsetto "yip-yip- yip".<br />
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I have the same reservations about cats. I like other people's cats and I admire their beauty (no "or not" here, you seldom see a cat who is not beautiful), their playfulness, the inscrutable eyes, the comfortable coziness of a sleeping cat, their aloofness, the mystery that seems to surround them. I do not like them drooling in my lap, kneading their claws into my leg, twining around my ankles so walking is difficult. I do not like them prowling the counters, licking the butter dish. While I appreciate the thought, I do not enjoy having gifts of mice, frogs and moths (mostly still mostly alive) deposited on my doorstep when I step out to retrieve the morning paper.<br />
<br />
I do not like personal contact with animals and where this aversion came from, I do not know. But I don't want to pet, rub, stroke, cuddle, or otherwise interact with them and I sure as heck don't want them licking my face or sharing my food.<br />
<br />
While I do not understand the personal interaction between people and their pets, I don't have any quarrel with it as long as I am not asked to participate. You snuggle with Tiger and Fido and I will sit over here and enjoy them from a distance. I realize this puts me in a distinct minority of the population, but as I have said before, we are what we are. Somewhere along the road to my development I picked up this prejudice and it has remained with me. I don't especially like it but it is too late to change now!<br />
<br />
(My apologies to Barney, Juice, Hazel, Duffy, Nureyev, Chico, Rags, Old Dane, Winkie and the other pets who have shared my life. I really was fond of you all even if I didn't want to rub your tummies.)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-45003591291381240672012-02-13T20:41:00.000-08:002012-02-13T20:41:54.837-08:00For My ValentinesI have lost so many people that I have loved. Sometimes at night or on quiet afternoons, I think of them. I no longer grieve for them.....believe it or not, grief does fade.....but memories do not. I remember them all, the good times and bad, the fun and sorrows. I can remember mostly how they looked and sounded, although those things also fade with time. But the essence, the personality, the <i>person</i> that they were, remains as clear as when last we met. They are the dear ghosts peopling my past with love and laughs and songs and tears.<br />
<br />
Today, they have been not replaced, but followed, by other people whom I love. Such a bounty! My children, each a joy from the day of their births, so different, so alike, so thoughtful and loving and precious in every way. Children do not get old to their mother.....in her mind they are always the same. My beloved Valentines, David, Lisa, Erika.<br />
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My grandchildren! The girls so beautiful, the boys so handsome. All of them sweet and loving and kind. My darling Valentines, Anna and Elizabeth and Erik, Tyler, Jack and Jamie.<br />
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Erin and Scott, special Valentines. How is it possible to have a better son- and daughter-in-law? <br />
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These are the people that I love with all my heart. They have enriched my life and made living to 92 a pleasant journey. I often wish that all the people I love and all the people I have loved, could meet and get to know each other. (I mean in the here- and -now and not in an afterlife, in which I do not believe.) There is so much of them in each other!<br />
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Now, let's see if I can figure out how to add all those little hearts to this Valentine........Nope. All I get is a line of <<<<<33333333. Oh, well.... Happy Valentine's Day everyone!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeaCaY2T46ryTLxVJzTYL7BNRTJCn8TGbylfykiCHAv4uwwHBbInMGQp07HQloYaY374n8pFOJ3Gmk8re2G0_-Uwt0rSAgqFPCNs4JMdSUO_txQKqDZ8Qqs86tY4MVKH9hwZh3e-Sg64/s1600/valentines.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeaCaY2T46ryTLxVJzTYL7BNRTJCn8TGbylfykiCHAv4uwwHBbInMGQp07HQloYaY374n8pFOJ3Gmk8re2G0_-Uwt0rSAgqFPCNs4JMdSUO_txQKqDZ8Qqs86tY4MVKH9hwZh3e-Sg64/s1600/valentines.jpg" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-59118709505635128992012-02-03T14:16:00.000-08:002012-02-04T21:54:54.547-08:00Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUOakS9_-Vkpfj9JBfxPpMK1UavK4TNCHrwlQq7aUsvTD07FV5iNQhSsRSRl-ovrAN7NLT_tO0s9-143shaESVNR43iJ7UUJqRh1rXLZk-XF7Quioj4vic3kmGg73hPJQaWfWzHQuaY0/s1600/givingbackforchristmas2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUOakS9_-Vkpfj9JBfxPpMK1UavK4TNCHrwlQq7aUsvTD07FV5iNQhSsRSRl-ovrAN7NLT_tO0s9-143shaESVNR43iJ7UUJqRh1rXLZk-XF7Quioj4vic3kmGg73hPJQaWfWzHQuaY0/s320/givingbackforchristmas2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I have just about quit donating to the big national charities. There is one that I contribute to and another couple that I sometimes support in a small way, but I have found that for every check I send to any of them, I get ten fancy mailings asking for more. I are deluged with appeals for various causes, all worthy of my support. But every response, not matter how small, results in a avalanche of pleas for additional contributions. So I figure that everything I donate goes to promotion and not to research, or alleviation of hunger, or veteran's care. Of course, I understand that all the money goes into a large pot and that every little bit helps, and so on. But I have come to to a point where I want a more direct line from me to the recipient of whatever help I can offer. Like most of us, I would to like to feel that my contributions are being applied directly to the needs of real humans, touching someone's life in a personal way.<br />
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So I have begun upping the bonuses I give my housekeeper, my gardener, and others who make my life easier and who do so by work that is mostly underpaid and burdensome. Our County is one of the poorest in the State and the local paper often publishes stories of neighbors in trouble through accident, illness, home fires, or other tribulations. I send a check to to the bank account listed in the paper. I do not know these people and they do not know me, but I do know that my contribution goes directly to them and their needs and not into a giant fund to get lost among all the others.<br />
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I do not know if this is the best way to to go about it. My contributions are (necessarily) modest and charity, even the word, is a touchy thing. It must be very satisfying to be in control of large foundations that are able to make huge contributions for research, education, provision of drugs and food, and other worthy causes. But $25 or $50 or $100 can make a difference to a family burned out of its home, whereas those amounts sent to a large charitable fund often only pay for the cost of sending requests for more.<br />
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Jon Carroll, the SF Chronicle columnist, writes a column every Christmas touting what he call the "Untied Way." His system is for you to go to your bank and draw out as many $20 bills as you can afford, plus maybe a few more, and then go down to the Skid Row in your town and hand them out to whoever looks needy, until they are gone. No questions asked. No conditions imposed. Whether the twenty goes for drugs and cheap booze or food and a night's lodging, it has filled a need for a human being. And what else is charity meant to do?<br />
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I do not go down to Skid Row at Christmas with my pockets filled with $20 bills. But I do want to help as much as I can in my limited way. Charity begins at home, as the old saying goes. And I do sometimes wish I was filthy rich, so I could help a lot!<br />
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I know that I am blessed that I have this dilemma. That I am not shivering on a street corner on Christmas Eve. That I have a small cushion to spare for people who have nothing. It is not much but it is something.<br />
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P.S. Let me just say here that I have no shame at all about keeping the various notepads, calendars, and other "free gifts" that accompany many of these charity fund-raising pitches. Things like pocket calculators, cheap jewelry and watches and other trinkets, I give to the local thrift shop. They can do with them whatever conscience dictates. It seems better than throwing it all in the trash.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-44325526119982681662012-01-11T14:19:00.000-08:002012-01-12T20:43:22.056-08:00Older Than Dirt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0S7T9jrPHAgwngglqTJUBYRe8W_sFiQLatdJyzHPVBoPkMlnOZxPQbI9OrhKuyOW5KinOTV4FiOfQirPHaAVy3lTTKKtr_vbU-dr-rJkEKaEeLdzpwBfXODFgIkJ_QaA00Gb2qy3U_s/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk0S7T9jrPHAgwngglqTJUBYRe8W_sFiQLatdJyzHPVBoPkMlnOZxPQbI9OrhKuyOW5KinOTV4FiOfQirPHaAVy3lTTKKtr_vbU-dr-rJkEKaEeLdzpwBfXODFgIkJ_QaA00Gb2qy3U_s/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>I have heard many people express the hope that they have inherited good genes and will live to an<br />
advanced old age. This is a very human and understandable desire and I hope they do, too.<br />
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But we must be very careful what we wish for.<br />
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Living a long life is rewarding and a cause for great gratitude. But there are downsides.<br />
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When people visualize themselves living beyond the average age of most of their peers, they see themselves as relatively healthy, relatively free from financial worries and relatively happy. Sadly, this is not always the case. I have never seen the advantage in outliving your resources or suffering through health problems and loneliness. Quality is surely the thing, not just quantity.<br />
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One of the saddest things about old age is the loss of those we have loved. In my case, I am the last surviving member of my generation on my father's side and on my mother's side, only four cousins remain, all well into their 80's. Being the last man standing is not always much fun. It means the loss of your parents, your siblings and other cherished relatives, and all your beloved friends. This last summer, my two oldest and dearest friends left me. One avidly followed Tiger Woods and the SF Giants through their triumphs and failures and kept a lively email correspondence going. ( She never quite got the hang of Facebook.) She went on a shopping spree for her summer wardrobe a few weeks before she died. She was 98 years old. The other, one of the most special people I ever knew, suffered from blindness, ill health and dementia for several years before her death at 96. Both left holes in my heart that can never be repaired.<br />
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Given the premise....and without these conditions you do NOT want to live to an advanced old age....but given the premise that the health problems you have accumulated over the years are manageable and that your brain is in reasonably good shape....there are of course, wonderful pluses to getting old, as well. <br />
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I was quite well along before my grandchildren were born, 64 before the first one and 75 before the last one came along. If I had moved on in my 80's, like many people, I would not have seen them evolve from adorable babies to the fine young men and women that they have become. Full of promise. Bright. Loving. Good-looking? Oh, my! I have lived to see the first black president of the United States and if I hang on long enough, maybe I will see our first woman president! (Or maybe not. I don't want to live forever.) I have seen many fabulous advances in medicine and science and technology. I have learned to use a computer. All exciting stuff and well worth living long for.<br />
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Of course, living into the 90's is not really much of an achievement anymore. The age-span has gotten increasingly longer and if society holds together, it will get longer still. I saw a picture of a lovely lady in our local paper last month whom I took to be in her 80's, maybe. Reading the caption, it turned out she was celebrating her 102nd birthday!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I think the thing that we all wish for is not so much a long, long life as one filled with joy, achievement and satisfaction. If the added years come with it, all the better. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "It is not the length of life but the depth of life."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-40935182191674812212011-12-22T12:10:00.000-08:002012-01-06T15:31:56.743-08:00Bah, humbug!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVHtkmLA0bKlsthmy6dUAVemrfUUOiSizpsbGSkmNZO4ofpAuq_UbelaKdYLTHrXuqcNR9TFNZM0bIZhOVpJh5cLTIWreAZ9SK54OpNA3Yj3Awz_W_dQfX7LhSwRpQoOxbMyDXyQLgFcI/s1600/bah-humbug-63710104316.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVHtkmLA0bKlsthmy6dUAVemrfUUOiSizpsbGSkmNZO4ofpAuq_UbelaKdYLTHrXuqcNR9TFNZM0bIZhOVpJh5cLTIWreAZ9SK54OpNA3Yj3Awz_W_dQfX7LhSwRpQoOxbMyDXyQLgFcI/s320/bah-humbug-63710104316.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Christmas used to be one of my favorite times of the year. I still remember Christmases at home when I was small. We had a tree loaded with time-honored ornaments, many of them home-made. When I was about six, my sister, Thelma, brought a small blue and white owl to hang on the tree. I still have it with a note added by my mother after Thelma's death, noting the date and place. It hung on our family Christmas tree for almost seventy-five years until I moved to Lakeport and and quit putting up Christmas trees. We always had the same candy and nuts, which mother divided into separate bags, so we each had our own stash for the holidays. There were mint pillows and hard candies and nougat cremes and Brazil nuts, filberts and walnuts. I don't remember baking frenzies or big dinners, although I think Mother made Scotch shortbread for my father and we always had big batches of homemade fudge. I was also about six when I learned the truth about Santa Claus. He arrived with a doll that I had my heart set on that cried "Mama!" when you tipped her over and in the excitement I forgot everything else. Later, I went into the kitchen to get a drink of water and saw Thelma and realized that she had missed seeing Santa Claus! I was so overcome by remorse that I had forgotten to call her that they had to tell me the real truth.....Thelma was Santa Claus.<br />
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When my own kids were small, Christmas was a BIG DEAL. I loved the warmth and coziness of it. Lights everywhere, candles and glitters and sparkles. Fires in the fireplaces, huge trees loaded with ornaments and lights, the smell of cookies baking and roasts browning and glögg warming on the stove. The avalanche of Christmas cards from old friends and family members not often in contact. The beautiful Christmas wrapping papers and exciting packages piled under the tree. The runs to Mac's drugstore for last-minute items. The sumptuous holiday meals. When we were a young family just starting out and money was scarce, I used to collect grocery-store coupons. (Still do!) This money I saved all year in a special envelope and at Christmas-time we had Maine lobsters for dinner.<br />
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Now-a-days the sparkle of Christmas has faded for me. I am not a religious person, so that aspect was never a factor in this holiday. Rather it was the feeling of fellowship and peace and goodwill that surrounded the season. Joy. The beautiful music. The ancient traditions and customs and superstitions that gave it such a special aura. Today it seems to have resolved into one giant shopping spree where people spend money they don't have on merchandise nobody really needs. Our newspapers have morphed into Macy ads with snippets of news tucked along the borders. I think if Macy suddenly pulled all its ads, the front section of the SF Chronicle would be reduced to three pages. The stock market rises and falls on the forecasts of how much the public is going to blow on Christmas this year. Catalogs for Christmas cards begin arriving in August. Christmas decorations are now in place before the Halloween merchandise hits the shelves. Buy! Buy! Consume! Consume! Where is the humble Christmas story in all this?<br />
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Whatever the cause, the magic has gone out of Christmas for me. Maybe it's because the children are gone, grown into men and women no longer wide-eyed with wonder and excitement at the holiday preparations. Maybe it's the endless, soulless commercialism, maybe it's the cynicism that pervades so much of our society. Maybe it's because I am growing old and grouchy. Annie Rooney rides again! Please don't let this sour diatribe put a pall on your celebrations. As I have so often said, this blog is how I let off steam and I write it strictly for me. No one else need read it.<br />
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May your Christmas be merry and bright and may the bills that arrive in January be within your budget!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-40317514102788381252011-11-29T21:04:00.000-08:002011-11-29T21:04:42.928-08:00Cutting for StoneI really liked this book. I resisted reading it for quite awhile after I read the reviews.....didn't sound like my kind of book. But once I started it I never looked back. I often complain about the length of novels where the story just plods on as though the author can't figure out how to end it, but although this book is well over 600 pages long it held my interest to the very end. <br />
<br />
The author is a doctor in real life and there is a lot of emphasis on hospitals and medical matters, but it is not (very) technical and the physicians and surgeons in the story come across as real people with compassion and concern for the human beings who are their patients.<br />
<br />
The plot revolves around twin sons born to a beautiful Indian nun and a British surgeon. It is a tale of love, betrayal and forgiveness, set in the exotic background of Ethiopia during the reign of Emperor Haile Selassie. There are many colorful characters brought together by life's vagaries and I was mindful of that"endless river of Chance and Change" on which we all float and which carries us to destinations which we could not have imagined when we set sail. <br />
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<br />
I have heard several reactions to this book from different people....one liked it a lot, one could not get into at all, one put it aside while reading something else but intends to go back to it, and so on. So you will have to sample it yourself to see what you think. But for me, it was one of those books that makes reading so much fun. I would give it 4 1/2 stars. maybe 5.<br />
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Cutting for Stone Abraham Verghese Vintage Books Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-91188660529089301242011-11-11T20:01:00.000-08:002011-11-11T20:09:25.092-08:00Alone in the Kitchen With an EggplantI have just read a book about eating alone. It is a collection of essays from food writers and well-known people about what they eat when they are home alone or dining solo in restaurants. As might be expected, their choices are sometimes weird in the extreme. They indulge in secret food fetishes and gorge on childhood favorites, they invent fantastic stews and experiment with exotic spices. Or, they open a can of refried beans and eat them cold out of the can. Just the sort of thing you (oh, come on, admit it!) or I do when we are alone.<br />
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I have lived alone for almost ten years. Although I share meals several times a week with my family, most of my meals are just me, myself and I. To make things clear, eating alone (or <i>being</i> alone) is not my problem. What I hate is cooking alone.<br />
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I still love to cook, and spend a lot of time poring over recipes on the wonderful cooking blogs on the Web, or in magazines and Sunday supplements. I keep up with the latest trends and techniques (sous vide, foams), exotic ingredients (hoja santa, malanga), adventurous and daring combinations of foods ( guacamole with Dungeness crab, apples and coconut vinegar ) and various foreign cuisines which catch on with the public for a while and are then replaced by the next hot trend. I like to try new recipes, but I do not go far afield, sticking mostly to tried and true ingredients and techniques. Can't get most of that new, trendy stuff here in Lakeport, anyway.<br />
<br />
But when I do cook, it is for my family. I have little interest in sweating over a hot stove to produce something just for me. In the first place, after I finish eating, I do not want a lot of pots and pans and dishes sitting around my kitchen. As I wrote in an earlier blog, I do not do dishes at night, and when I finish eating, I want to rinse off a plate and a glass and be done. <br />
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So I often do what some of the essayists in the book do: I open a can of something and eat it, as is. I love corn, and while it is in season I have an ear of corn-on-the-cob almost every day. But the rest of the year, I will sometimes open a can of Green Giant kernels and eat them cold (but not out of the can) with a slice of buttered bread. I like baked beans the same way. Hot or cold. Tomato soup is good with saltines and butter, and there is just one pot to wash. Cream-of- Anything Campbell's soup heated up with a can of chopped clams. I love canned red salmon, plain, with maybe some left-over salad or a sliced cucumber. Once in awhile, I will get ambitious and cook a full recipe of Swedish meatballs, say, and store them in the freezer. Pull out two or three, heat up some McCormick's brown gravy and boil a potato and I'm good to go. You understand that this is a confessional, nothing held back. I was comforted by some of the stories in the book: I am not the only one!<br />
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I have some standards. I do not eat things straight out of cans. I do not eat standing up by the kitchen sink. I do not eat TV dinners (except when I had the shingles), and I always use a place setting. Etiquette gets bent a little, of course. I usually cut everything up into bite-size bits before I begin, because I read or do acrostics or watch the News Hour while I am eating, and I do not want to be distracted. This is the antithesis of what food means in the social sense...the gathering around a communal board to share and enjoy the loving preparation of nature's bounty and so on. This is just to stuff in some nutrients to keep the engine running.<br />
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Confession: I have not been entirely candid about eating out of containers. I eat Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk right out of the tub. Nobody around to see and it saves washing a bowl.<br />
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The book is "Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant", edited by Jenni Ferrari-Adler, and published by Riverhead Books.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-23812095525056793692011-11-01T14:50:00.000-07:002011-11-01T20:18:21.127-07:00The Buddha in the AtticAn unusual little book, only 129 pages long, but covering a period in American history not given much attention by many Americans. If begins with the journey of the "Picture Brides" from Japan to the West Coast of the U.S. and ends with the round-up of all Japanese at the onset of WWII. It is written in an incantatory style which I found very compelling and very close to poetry. In it, one traces the history of these women with their expectations, hopes and fears as they make their way to America to begin life with men whom they know only from pictures (many of which are misleading or false), through their first anxious days, years of backbreaking toil for most of them, childbirth ,and the repudiation of their heritage by many of those children, and the final days of their disappearance from the cities and towns and farms of the West.<br />
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The author does not follow the story of any particular woman, so this is not a novel in the usual sense. She writes of the women as a collective body, giving the narrative a universal, interlocking, unity. One feels the commonality of their stories woven into the individual experiences of each one.<br />
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The final section (of eight) is written from the point of view of their American neighbors after the internment of the Japanese. Where did they go? Will they return? Were they really traitors, are the rumors and whispers really true? <br />
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I liked this book a great deal. I think any woman reading it can relate in some way to the stories of these women, even though her life experiences may be much different. A mother is a mother, a wife is a wife, a woman is a woman, whatever her origins. <br />
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The Buddha in the Attic Julie Otsuka Alfred A. KnopfAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-90648723747877903052011-10-14T10:19:00.000-07:002011-10-14T10:26:07.535-07:00Prairie NocturneI used to think Ivan Doig was one of my favorite authors, based on his "Dancing at the Rascal Fair", which I loved, and "English Creek" which I also liked a lot. "Ride With Me, Mariah Montana" did not do much for me, but I figured two out of three wasn't bad and not everybody can hit the bullseye every time. But I have just read his novel "Prairie Nocturne" and I am re-evaluating my views of Ivan Doig. I did not like this book at all.<br />
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It is a rambling story, alternating between the 1890's and the mid-1920's. It is set partly in the Two Medicine country of Montana which is the background for his earlier novels, and partly in Harlem with episodes in Scotland and other places. It involves cattle barons, a WWI hero, the Ku Klux Klan, an illicit love affair, a bi-racial love affair, a dust storm, an earthquake, rustlers, black cavalrymen, and on and on. Reading back over that list, it sounds pretty exciting, but I just found it tiresome and skimmed through quite a bit of the book. Just when you think the story is winding up, the author manages to throw in another crisis and keep it going. None of it rang true in my mind.<br />
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Of course, this is all very subjective and you may love this book. It is called "Prairie Nocturne" by Ivan Doig. Published by Scribner.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-84004581712516247212011-10-01T09:56:00.000-07:002012-01-12T10:52:13.138-08:00Where Rivers Change Direction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimxs0y5hHNcWVFEGKeL78poKSM3mUxr6tb-tavXYM1yZH-2ZsdG6-w-YH9XwSlD9VUAjG1nF_sD-bQZnjcvDFvLQ1Bc5Z3kFBj5vWdXISyd-UsNdEQuoE2kBwe2Fa8Fb2IJ0k9O_Beteg/s1600/warmblood_horse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimxs0y5hHNcWVFEGKeL78poKSM3mUxr6tb-tavXYM1yZH-2ZsdG6-w-YH9XwSlD9VUAjG1nF_sD-bQZnjcvDFvLQ1Bc5Z3kFBj5vWdXISyd-UsNdEQuoE2kBwe2Fa8Fb2IJ0k9O_Beteg/s320/warmblood_horse.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I love horses. That is, I love the i<i>dea </i>of horses. I would never get anywhere near an actual horse. I am terrified of them.<br />
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To me, they are the most beautiful of all the creatures. The lovely, graceful sweep of neck and back, the muscular hindquarters, the delicate legs. What could be more thrilling than a herd of wild horses thundering over the desert, manes flying, nostrils flaring? You feel the raw energy generated by these free spirits could move mountains. No wonder they call it horsepower!<br />
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In the big derbies, I want every one to win! I love the post parade, watching the lathered beauties dancing by, each a bottled-up unit of power and speed, ready to explode at the signal. I love the gentle, mild-mannered outrider's horses, sensible no-nonsense mentors to these high-spirited youngsters. I love the massive Percherons and Belgians, with their feathered feet, the elegant trotters and steeple-chasers and the patient workhorses, uncomplaining and steady. I am an admirer of all horseflesh.<br />
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I suppose this rubbed off on me from my mother, who adored horses. She rode them as a girl and painted and sketched lovely images of them later in life. Since my family were ranchers, horses were an important part of their lives and livelihood, as much a part of daily life as the automobile is to us today. <br />
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The only horse I ever had anything to do with was a sway-backed pinto pony we called Ole Paint. As little kids, we rode him bareback, sometimes two or three at a time. My father used him to haul the stone-boat with which he cleared land, and they harrowed the garden together in spring. We sometimes hitched him to an old buggy for jaunts around the neighborhood. When approached with a harness or bridle, he emitted huge audible sighs, but he had the patience of Job and he was gentle and understanding. There is a family story of a small cousin who wandered off and was discovered standing beneath him, patting his tummy. As far from the fiery mustangs of the plains as Mrs. Claus from Lady Gaga.<br />
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Believe it or not, this is leading, in a way, to the review of a book I recently read. It is not really about horses, although they figure prominently in the narrative, and the author's father owned a hundred of them as the proprietor of a Wyoming dude ranch.<br />
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The book is a collection of essays and stories of the writer's rugged boyhood growing up in the 1960's on the State's oldest dude ranch, just outside the east entrance to Yellowstone Park, in the Shoshone National Forest. He went to work for his father at the age of 11, with a salary of $30.00 a month, room and board. Some of the events he describes would surely have today's Child Protective Services in a dither, but he seems to have relished the life, at least as a boy. His writing is sometimes quite lyrical, even poetic, and very intense. I think of his style as <i>masculine</i>. As the essays progress and he grows into manhood, they take on a very dark tone and the last one was so depressing that I would recommend skipping it entirely.<br />
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I liked this book on many levels, but I don't think everyone would. The descriptions and flavor of the Wyoming wilderness are powerful and the author is passionate in his love for the land where he grew up. (And for the horses he shared it with.) But a quaint memoir of boyhood on the old homestead, it is not. I think he wrestles with many demons. But if you like this rugged kind of man-book and admire good writing, I think it is worth your time.<br />
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Where Rivers Change Direction Mark Spragg Riverhead BooksAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-62576878126938756492011-09-24T15:47:00.000-07:002012-01-11T14:36:11.809-08:00Oh, Give Me a Home....I was born in North Dakota, on the OX ranch, one of the oldest ranches in the area, just a hop, skip and a jump over the Montana border. Ranches carried the names of their brands and this was the O.X. (not the "ox".) My parents bought it after WWI and did not run cattle, but instead attempted to start a dairy business, which soon went broke, either as a result of the economy after the war, or more likely because I don't think either of them had a lick of business sense. Whatever the reason, they sold out and we moved to the West Coast when I was three years old.<br />
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As a high school graduation gift, they financed a trip back to Montana with my aunt and uncle to visit family and see where I began. I was 17 and had never been out of Clark County, Washington, so it was a big event for me. We drove up the Columbia Gorge, past Multnomah Falls and the Indian fishing grounds of The Dalles and into Eastern Washington. I was enchanted by the golden hills, quiet and tawny in the still air, like the flanks of lions sleeping in the sun. I was raised in the drippy conifer groves and small narrow valleys of southern Washington State and I had never seen expanses like this.<br />
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We crossed the Idaho panhandle and the mountain passes and suddenly....the prairies! My heart opened up. Something clicked. It was as though I recognized something I did not know I knew. I have loved the prairies ever since, the openness, the space, the soft wind ruffling through the grasses and wildflowers.<br />
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The mountains and the redwood groves and majestic forests of the West are awe-inspiring and beautiful, but I am not really comfortable there. I do not like the closed-in feeling of the towering trees and the dark and secret passages through the forest. I love the desert, the sweep of sky and space. And the ocean, where, from California's beaches one can see all the way to Japan!<br />
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Of course, I love the Western woods, where I grew up, as well......dogwoods, vine maple, Solomon's Seal and Oregon grape. Trilliums in the spring, wild iris in the summer, small, shy lady's slippers and tiger lilies. And, on the horizon, the magnificent mountains of the Cascades.<br />
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I have lived in many beautiful places and each holds precious memories. But, of them all, only the prairies give me that special feeling of freedom and exhilaration. I have no romantic illusions about life there. I know that folks there are just starting their spring gardens while we here on the West Coast are harvesting the first produce from ours. I know that the wind that runs through the grasses and tickles the leaves on the cottonwood trees along the creeks can be a relentless enemy, that pioneer women committed suicide to escape its ceaseless moaning, that it can pile the snow that blankets the area in winter to drifts as high as your head and make driving impossible. I know that the winters are endless and merciless. I could not live there. I am too soft.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_304OuqlQXJKW6ZLyOQsaGrZldWNAp5dUZq6CKX2P5icDSkrlylbU3rNU7EbeaTFR4B4TKzwIBCQG9uhprC0S_JiwtXK5Urap7BaxxNksOHE5J_OJoZg9zaIr7rE4-pPqcAK1UpG590/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_304OuqlQXJKW6ZLyOQsaGrZldWNAp5dUZq6CKX2P5icDSkrlylbU3rNU7EbeaTFR4B4TKzwIBCQG9uhprC0S_JiwtXK5Urap7BaxxNksOHE5J_OJoZg9zaIr7rE4-pPqcAK1UpG590/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>But driving down a Montana highway with the endless vista stretching out ahead, the purple shadows of the distant mountains on the horizon and the red-winged blackbirds lining the fences, I feel the lightness and joy of the meadowlark as he whistles his flute-like call and scatters the notes like flakes of gold into the clear prairie air.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-18744445523947388152011-09-12T20:32:00.000-07:002011-09-13T09:38:27.755-07:00Annie RooneyI have always thought of myself as quite open-minded, tolerant of other people's opinions and sympathetic to the other guy's point of view. My father taught me that there are two sides to every question, that disagreeing with a person does not mean being disagreeable. Live and let live and so on. <br />
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Ha! As I grow older, I find that I am not as open-minded as I thought, or as tolerant of other people's views, and that people who disagree are indeed disagreeable. In fact, I am becoming quite crochety. A female Andy Rooney!<br />
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The recent lack of dialogue in Congress certainly illustrates my point. I remember a day when opposing sides could sit down and, with some measure of compromise and common sense, work out knotty problems of policy and principle, each side giving a little, but both sides aiming for the common goal of the good of the country. What has happened to that great institution that its members act like a bunch of spoiled children fighting over who gets to be "it"?<br />
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Small things like TV and magazine ads still set me off. Have you seen the ads for "Senior Retirement Communities"? Most of the people look young enough to be my grandchildren. How happy they are! Off to the tennis courts, the swimming pools, the golf courses! Laughing over an afternoon cocktail with the other tanned and sexy members of this exclusive country-club society! The gleaming teeth, the shining silvery hair, the smooth sun-browned skin (no naturally brown skin here). Ah, the Golden Years! Just one thing missing...where are the walkers, the wheelchairs, the canes? Where is the often-present emergency vehicle, called to help someone in trouble? What have they done with the wrinkled ones, the bent ones, the bald or gray-headed ones? If you believe the ads, these communities are inhabited solely by the fit and healthy, but I have lived in a couple of "senior" developments and I know that such is not the case. I know that a greater proportion of the inhabitants are more likely to be gathered around the bridge table than the tennis court and are much more apt to be riding around the premises in their electric carts than rollicking around the golf course. Not to say, of course, that everyone is disabled or too feeble to wield a tennis racket. Just that there is a mix of people and a majority of them are not candidates for the Health Club Poster of the Year.<br />
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If anyone reads my blogs they are familiar with these rants. I am well aware of the larger issues of the day and that there more important things to get one's panties in a twist about than misleading advertisements, but sometimes these problems are so overwhelming that at this stage in my life I just prefer to peck away at the petty annoyances. I am beginning to understand Andy Rooney better than I used to, when I sometimes considered him just a tiresome complainer. It is a satisfying way to deal with some of the frustrations of modern life without harming anyone!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-70304195710299669832011-09-10T14:06:00.000-07:002011-10-10T20:17:21.410-07:00Pictures of YouI found this book very touching. It concerns two women running away from failed marriages. On a foggy country road an unavoidable collision leaves one of them dead and the other trying to cope with her grief and guilt. I had a hard time putting it down, especially in the first few chapters.<br />
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It is an emotional story, as the survivor deals with her own devastation as well as that of the husband and young son of the dead woman. It raises the questions of what do we do with the fate that life hands us, how do we move beyond tragedy to redemption, hope and healing.<br />
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It does not have a story-book ending, but one that I think rings true. As you can tell, I liked this book quite a lot and I will be looking for other books by this writer.<br />
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Pictures of You Caroline Leavitt Algonquin Books of Chapel HillAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-48101667358724847152011-09-07T20:52:00.000-07:002011-09-08T10:21:19.676-07:00Pull Over!!I have an opinion that I think many of my fellow retirees probably do not share, on a sensitive subject among us old folks:<br />
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<b>I think that all older people ( as well as most younger ones), should have to take a driving test in order to get a driver's license</b>. There! So shoot me.<br />
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It is not that I am anxious to get behind the wheel with an examiner who is no doubt crabby, bored, under-paid and over-worked. That is a level of stress that everyone would like to avoid, but who said driving was not stressful? It is the ability to deal with it and all the other hazards on the road that make a good driver. Most of us feel that we are experienced, careful, capable and responsible drivers. So why be afraid to prove it?<br />
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Of course, the sad truth is, that while we are for sure experienced, and no doubt careful and responsible, not all of us are capable. Our reflexes, our eyesight and hearing, our perceptions, are all diminished with age and often we do not recognize the loss of these functions. That is not to say that many older people are not perfectly able and good drivers with many years on the road still ahead. It is just that some are not. I don't believe there should be an age limit on driving, just that there should be adequate testing for capability.<br />
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The written test which is administered in California can be passed by anyone with the ability to read and understand the manual which lays out the laws and traffic rules. But knowing, for instance, how far ahead of a turn you should turn on your blinkers does not a safe driver make. Of course, it it helpful to recognize the different traffic signs, but we all know that stuff already from years of driving.<br />
What counts is if you are able to stop in time to avoid a collision, or if you are aware of what is happening several cars ahead, or if you have noticed that car in the intersection before you make your left turn.<br />
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I renewed my drivers' license in 2009 on my 89th birthday. I went in, took the written test, (which I aced, as I always do, because, for heaven's sake, I can read that manual, can't I?), took a cursory vision test, and walzed out with permission from the State of California to drive an automobile until I am 94 years old. I read of a man last week whose license had been renewed until he was 100. <br />
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I live in a small town with hardly any traffic and my driving these days is confined to familiar routes: the supermarket (two blocks away), my hairdresser (the other end of town, maybe a mile), my doctor (four blocks) and on occasion, the local hospital where most of the specialists are located, 6 miles out of town on a little-traveled freeway or my favorite back roads along the lake. I do not drive after dark or on stormy days. I do not drive if I am feeling below par. My family helps me keep my car gassed up and in good condition. I do not like driving. I never have, but as for so many of us seniors it is the key to the independence which is so vital to our lives. I feel as comfortable as I always have while driving, but the minute I begin to doubt my abilities, I will turn over my keys. <br />
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Of course, seniors are not the only hazards on the road. Teenage drivers have inordinately high death statistics. Many ordinary citizens are terrible drivers and a menace behind the wheel. My position: Test 'em all! No money, we hear. But the cost of unnecessary accidents and the toll in lives lost or ruined caused by bad driving is incalculably greater. As for people who text, or gab away on their cell phones while driving, the penalties should be the same as for drunk driving.<br />
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OK. So I've got that off my chest. Lord, this blog is wonderful!! Everybody should have one to blow off the steam!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-35850296861944325732011-09-03T20:43:00.000-07:002011-09-05T20:43:25.247-07:00Good EatsNow that my appetite is returning, I have begun to think about Great Food that I have had over my lifetime. There has been a lot of it, of course. I have known some wonderful cooks in my life. My sister was a good cook, all my kids are good cooks and I, myself, (forget modesty here), have turned out some pretty good food. But a few stand out.<br />
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In Wolf Point, Montana, we were invited to one of my mother's cousin's for a catfish fry. I don't remember anything that was served except the catfish, giant platters of crispy, golden fish, freshly caught from the Missouri that day. I can still taste it. When we left Vermont to return to California, we took a detour up to Maine to visit friends and had a real, honest-to-goodness clam bake. The kind you read about but never get to try. Fresh lobster from our friend's boat, clams, potatoes, corn on the cob. It was fabulous! Once in Frankfurt, Germany, Erik and I dined at an ancient cellar restaurant on fresh oysters followed by salmon so succulent and perfect that I have never forgotten it. Erik did not care for turkey, so we usually had something else for Thanksgiving dinner, and one year I made a crown roast of pork that was a triumph. Lisa and I met for lunch in San Francisco one day and each ordered a hot turkey sandwich which has been the gold standard for hot turkey sandwiches ever since. In Sweden, where it seems every woman is a gourmet cook, I ate so many wonderful meals that I lost count. Our friend, Ulla Svensson, used to stuff strömming (a small, herring-like fish, harvested from the Baltic Sea by her husband and sons) with fresh dill, and then bread and fry them to golden perfection. Ulla was a wonderful cook and her pittipanna, a kind of Swedish hash, was outstanding. Erik's Uncle Lasse made heavenly plättar, (Swedish pancakes) with cloudberry preserves and whipped cream. Yum, yum.<br />
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But my all-time, never-to-be-forgotten meal, the one that sticks in my mind as the most delicious food I have ever consumed was a KFC take-out meal. We were on a trip to Montana and the plan was to link up with Lisa, Scott and Jack (then about 18 months old) and tour the old Anderson haunts and my birthplace in North Dakota and other points of interest. It was one of those made-in-hell travel days, where the flights were late, the connections were bad, Erik's blood sugars were low, and the accommodations were not really what you would call plush. This was Billings, Montana. Our motel was a row of nondescript, identical rooms, no restaurant, no shopping center nearby. No car, since we had flown in. We were famished, crabby, ready to chuck the whole thing and head home. But we had to eat, especially Erik. So I picked up the telephone and called KFC. In no time, an angel from heaven arrived at our motel door. He had with him a large packet, warm to the touch and steamy when opened. In it was crispy, golden chicken, mashed potatoes, flaky biscuits, creamy gravy. I have never tasted anything so delicious before or after.<br />
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I have never eaten KFC since that night. I do not want to spoil the remembrance of that wonderful meal, since I suspect that in the light of everyday dining, Colonel Sander's food is quite ordinary. But, oh boy, on that occasion, no 5-star German restaurant could have produced anything so life-savingly scrumptious as that take-out packet of production-line fast food.<br />
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Makes you kind of stop and wonder how much of what we enjoy in food is based on conditions, atmosphere, hunger, company, and other factors, and how much is actually based on taste. A hot dog roasted over an open campfire on a chilly evening does not taste a thing like that same hot dog heated up in your broiler at home. A toasted cheese sandwich shared with good company at the end of a long hard day does not resemble that same sandwich thrown together for a hasty lunch on your way out the door. A gourmet meal in a fancy restaurant will be tasteless and dry if you are sharing it with people you despise. Maybe it doesn't matter so much what we eat as when and with whom we eat it.<br />
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All I can say, if you are starving and distressed and at the end of your rope, ole Colonel Sanders sure knows how to deliver!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-34355627352438600132011-09-02T20:41:00.000-07:002011-10-10T20:19:55.515-07:00The Greater JourneyI have just finished David McCullough's new book, "The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris". I am a big David McCullough fan, having read his books on Truman and John Adams, both of which I loved. I did not care quite as much for this one, although it is an excellent book. It deals with the influence that living and working in France, (mainly Paris) had on several generations of Americans in the 19th and early 20th centuries. It is a time when our country was quite new and finding it's way toward a national identity and character. Since we had no history or background to draw on, many artists and writers looked to the Old World for guidance and inspiration and the superior instruction available in the ateliers and workshops there, as well as the advanced medical practices and facilities.<br />
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The list is quite amazing: James Fenimore Cooper, Samuel F.B. Morse, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Mary Cassatt, Harriet Beecher Stowe, John Singer Sargent, Charles Sumner, and on and on. I was struck by the common feeling they all seemed to share of the magic of Paris. It had a profound influence on all of them and despite the hardships of ocean travel in the early days, homesickness, money problems and other obstacles, many of them made several trips to visit and study.<br />
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One gets a feel for the turbulent political climate of France in those days....the Franco-Prussian War, the Siege of Paris and the awful days of the Commune. I learned of our heroic American ambassador, Elihu Washburne, who refused to abandon his post throughout this trying period despite the terrible conditions and his own ill health. There are accounts of the exciting Universal Expositions, where all the wonders of modern technology, art and science were on display. This book was a kind of eye-opener for me. I knew that many Americans had traveled and studied in France, but I had never before realized the extent to which their experiences had shaped and influenced them. <br />
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I can recommend this book. It is well researched and full of interesting anecdotes as David McCullough's books always are. Four-and-a-half stars, I think.<br />
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The Greater Journey David McCullough Simon & SchusterAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-83377444898441681822011-08-08T10:45:00.000-07:002012-01-06T15:22:28.712-08:00TV DinnersThis bout with shingles has me doing something I swore I would <i>never, never, ever</i> do. I have been reduced to eating TV dinners! (Picture head hanging in shame.) I have no appetite and less energy and the thought of cooking even the simplest of meals it just too daunting. My question.....is there such a thing as an edible TV dinner? I am not expecting much. Just something that resembles what is pictured on the box and does not look and taste like cat food on the plate.<br />
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There seems to be a tremendous demand for this stuff, judging from the freezer sections at the supermarkets, so you would think that some of it must be more palatable than the samples I have tried.<br />
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The illustrations look quite appetizing. For instance:<br />
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<u>Salisbury steak</u>..... a nice juicy little hamburger patty with mashed potatoes and a small serving of corn. Reality.....a chunk of some sort of spongy mystery meat. The potatoes are usually OK and corn is corn. So I had mashed potatoes and corn for dinner.<br />
<u>Chicken pot pi</u>e....golden and yummy-looking, with a little sauce oozing out of the crispy pastry topping. Reality.....a puddle of white sauce with a few coins of under-done carrots and a pea or two, and here and there cubes of some sort of white (and spongy) substance that I guess is the advertised chicken. True, the pastry is nice and crispy but does not make for a satisfying meal.<br />
<u>Swedish meatballs.</u>.....I should know better.<br />
<u>Sweet and sour chicken</u>.....cubes of white-meat chicken, peppers, rice, some pineapple, just the ticket for a light meal. Reality....what do they do to that chicken to turn it into inedible chunks of sponge? I know I keep using that word, but it is the only one I can think of that describes the texture and taste of this stuff. It does not resemble chicken in the slightest way, just as the slab of "Salisbury steak" had no relation of any hamburger patty I have ever eaten.<br />
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The shelves are full of packaged dinners, just waiting to be reconstituted with a little water in your microwave, and the freezers are jammed with frozen dinners of all sorts. Surely, among them there must be some choices that are acceptable? Not as a steady diet, but just as a stop-gap to get one over the rough spots. Any suggestions, dear friends? <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxTYkNmML5O3xqxFvAn24ZrQnd2F_KcGF1adViD5pqXTKV6wfziTbSWVanBWZ4khCCx7KlHtrs7wM6ytkR3SOkhshtql8WfgTRgmDF3h8v2xegnCU_xL0nW0qyIuOsCoKQ5Ck4ug98G4/s1600/ttv2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxTYkNmML5O3xqxFvAn24ZrQnd2F_KcGF1adViD5pqXTKV6wfziTbSWVanBWZ4khCCx7KlHtrs7wM6ytkR3SOkhshtql8WfgTRgmDF3h8v2xegnCU_xL0nW0qyIuOsCoKQ5Ck4ug98G4/s320/ttv2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-24560430645958652322011-07-29T09:55:00.000-07:002011-07-29T09:55:24.210-07:00Major Pettigrew's Last StandA charming first novel about a small English village trying to cope with the influx of foreign-born and, to the insular inhabitants of this village, sometimes outlandish, people. The protagonist of this narrative is Major Ernest Pettigrew, a retired Army Major. He is a very likeable hero from the start.....courtly, wry, dignified, intelligent....the very epitome of the best in the British character. The village is populated with a mix of people who are somewhat reminiscent of the folks in the Lucia books, transplanted to today's world. The story revolves around the friendship of Major Pettigrew with Mrs. Jasmina Ali, the Pakistani proprietor of a village shop. Small-town- type crises arise, petty rivalries abound, snobbery as only the British can do snobbery, all leading to a happy ending for the Major and Mrs. Ali. A gentle book, humorous without being comic, principled without being preachy, a very pleasant summer read.<br />
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Major Pettigrew's Last Stand Helen Simonson Random HouseAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-29817691344170609102011-07-18T20:07:00.000-07:002011-09-24T20:22:09.660-07:00Odds and EndsI feel like rambling. Things pop into my head and I just like to put them down for fun. So the usual product warning: Quit reading now if you don't want to be bored. I am doing this for my own amusement.<br />
<br />
There is a question that PAs, nurses, and other medical professionals often ask that I never know how to answer. If you go in with a pain somewhere, they will ask, "On a scale of 1 to 10, how much would you say it hurts?" Well, now. There are some factors involved here, right? How much is 10? Is it <i>agonizing,</i> <i>excruciatin</i>g <i>pain</i>, or is it "It hurts like hell"? If 10 is <i>excruciating </i>pain, I would say my knee is maybe a 4 or 5, or on some days, 6. If 10 is "It hurts like hell", then it is right up there at the top. I knew a woman who moaned about how painful her mammograms were. Obviously, she had never had a baby. I knew a man who died in agony from cancer of the sinuses. When I consider this last, it puts my knee down to a 1 or 2. So it is a relative thing and what good does my answer serve?<br />
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Another silly TV ad. Cereal, this time. A young woman sits in front of a box of nutritious, heart-healthy Choc-O-Puffies. Flashing a toothy smile, she reaches toward the box and selects a Choc-O-Puffie <i>from the very top of the box</i>. Reality check! Have you ever bought a box of cereal where the contents reached the top of the box? No, you have not. You much reach <i>into</i> the box to extract a tasty Choc-O-Puffie.<br />
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While I am knocking the TV commercials for the idiotic baloney (old-fashioned term) that they are, I will give a nod to some of the dementia treatment ads, which are quite sensitive and realistic. I am not against advertising. I am against phoniness. Show us real people doing real things and maybe we (I) will be more receptive to your pitches.<br />
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A small boy and girl cousin were put into the bath together at their grandmother's summer cottage. The little girl had never seen a naked boy before and she got quite upset. "How come", she demanded, "that he's so fancy and I'm so plain?"<br />
<br />
When I was young and for a good time after, choices at the markets and drugstores were limited to one or two of each product. For instance, I have always used Crest toothpaste. In the past, if you went into the store to buy a tube of Crest, you picked it up, paid, and took it home. There may have been some choices as to tube size, etc. but the product was the same in all. Today, Crest toothpaste occupies three shelves at my local market. Gel or paste? Toothwhitener? Plaque control? Sensitive gums? Once upon a time, Bayer aspirin was Bayer aspirin. It eased all kinds of pain. Nowadays, you can get Bayer aspirin specific for arthritis, heart problems, menstrual distress, "minor aches and pains" and lots of other special situations. I always wonder.... if I have a headache, will the arthritis pain pill work? Or if I have both arthritis pain and a headache, must I take a pill for each condition? How does the pill know which pain it is targeting? In those days, if aspirin was not your choice, you could get Anacin. That was about it. We had Minute Maid frozen orange juice. We had Kellog's Corn Flakes, and Rice Krispies. We had white rice, and apple cider vinegar. These days the cereal aisle is 50 feet long and the choices among exotic rice varieties, vinegars, grains of various sorts, and frozen products is staggering. Of course, it is nice to have all these wonderful (although often unnecessary and redundant) choices, but shopping in the old days sure was a lot simpler.<br />
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Mondegreens!!! Young scholars have expressed their rapture for the "Bronze Lullaby", Beethoven's "Erotica Symphony", Gershwin's "Rap City in Blue", and my favorite, "Taco Bell's Canon".Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-78565139311608959962011-07-11T20:56:00.000-07:002011-07-11T20:56:16.567-07:00Two Good BooksA couple of books I can recommend:<br />
<br />
The first one is called "The Forgotten Garden" by Kate Morton. This is a big, romantic novel and I enjoyed it quite a bit. It concerns a 4-year-old girl, found abandoned on a dock in Australia, adopted by the port master and his wife, and her subsequent efforts to trace her background and origins. It spans three generations and two continents and ends with her granddaughter's unraveling the secret of her family and her grandmother's past. Lots of mysterious leads and side stories and a little mild love interest. <br />
<br />
The author jumps from one character and one time period to another throughout the book, which can be a little disorienting at first. But once I got acquainted with the people involved and the mysteries surrounding their stories, it did not present a problem for me. A nice pleasant read, I thought.<br />
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And just the sort of escapist literature that I have been indulging in lately. I find that the older I get, the less inclined I am to tackle books that require much involvement, either mental or emotional. I have become very cynical about government and the people who "run" it, and I have witnessed so much violence, hatred and evilness during my lifetime, that I sometimes feel I cannot take in any more. From a young idealist, believing fervently in the eventual triumph of civilization, I have evolved into a skeptical old lady who wonders if mankind is going to make it. Except for the technological marvels, it seems we have not advanced much beyond the Middle Ages. We still torture and murder and engage in brutal wars and sacrifice our young as though their lives hold no meaning at all.<br />
<br />
Which brings me, sort of, to this next book, which I am going to recommend without having read it.<br />
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It is called "Unbroken", by Laura Hillenbrand, who wrote "Seabiscuit". It is about Louis Zamperini, an Army Air Forces bombardier and champion Olympic runner, and and his experiences in WWll. I did, in fact, get quite far into the book and then reached a stage where <i>I</i> <i>could not continue</i>. Louis' plane was shot down and he became a wartime prisoner and I simply could not read another account of the atrocities and sufferings of young men at the hand of brutal prison guards and the ordeals they underwent during those terrible years.<br />
<br />
Louis survived and lived to a ripe old age. The book is well-researched with many pages of notes and a large index, and quite a few photos. My impression from the portion that I read was that it was a very informative, interesting, scholarly book and well worth the time of anyone who is interested in this period in history. In fact, a very good book. Wish I could have read it all.<br />
<br />
The Forgotten Garden Kate Morton Washington Square Press<br />
Unbroken Laura Hillenbrand Random HouseAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-83858438078568484462011-06-29T14:03:00.001-07:002012-04-01T21:03:56.750-07:00Who you callin' grumpy?I am getting to be a grouchy, testy, crabby, grumpy old lady and you kids had better stay off my lawn if you know what's good for you!<br />
<br />
Lots of things set me off: TV ads are high on the list. Here's the middle-aged gentleman consulting his doctor about whatever middle-aged gentlemen consult their doctors about. The doctor nods gently and reassuringly and the middle-aged gentleman smiles in relief. They shake hands and then the doctor and the patient <i>stroll down the hall together, chatting amiably!</i> Oh, sure. When is the last time your doctor walked <i>you </i>to the elevator? If your experience is the same as mine, the answer is "never." You clutch the prescription for your $200 bottle of pills and you hightail it out of there while the nurse is already calling the next patient.<br />
<br />
Here's the latest wonder drug, Formaldehyedroxin. Cures just about everything. The ad is full of happy, healthy-looking people whose symptoms have been cleared up after years of suffering. However........Do not take Formaldehyedroxin if your skin should turn green, if you suddenly gain 100 pounds, or if your fingernails start to drop off. Call your doctor if you notice that you have blood pouring out of your ears or if you become blind or have out-of-body experiences. Ask your doctor if Formaldehyedroxin is right for you!!<br />
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Erectile dysfunction (or ED, as the drug companies like to call it) ads can be a hoot. What do you do when that "right moment" strikes? Well, instead of heading upstairs and tumbling into bed like most people, the folks in the ads get dolled up, go out to dinner and a show, or maybe stroll out in the woods and build a campfire. It occurs to me that the 4-hour erections that the ads warn against might come in handy in these situations.<br />
<br />
Then there are the food ads. Usually, when you put something in your mouth it takes a moment or two for the taste buds to register the sensation and the brain to process what is going on. But not on TV! As soon as the spoon touches the lips, a beatific expression of bliss and delight hits the face of the recipient. Same with digestive aids and pain pills. Pop that antacid pill and before you can swallow it....blessed relief from that acid reflux that's been keeping you awake at night! My experience is that a pain pill takes a little while to do its work, but in the TV ads, not so. Before it has had a chance to dissolve, the subject is dancing, picking up the toddler, trotting up the stairs, biking around the block.<br />
<br />
Drives me crazy.<br />
<br />
It doesn't have to be that way. There is a lovely ad on TV with a man walking his Spaniel on the beach, meeting some neighbors out with their dogs, chatting for awhile and walking on, just as any of us might do. Natural and believable, and the pitch for the drug advertised is just as forceful as any of those other ads.<br />
<br />
I am a person of very limited imagination. I do not like magic shows, fantasy or science fiction. As a child, I hated Alice in Wonderland, Peter Pan, the Arabian Nights, and Aesop's Fables. I like things to be realistic, every-day, plausible. I cannot suspend belief and pretend that fabulous, unlikely things can happen. My loss, I know. But we are what we are.<br />
<br />
I could go on, as I have a tendency to do, but I will shut up before I get started on the movies. Or telemarketers. Or politicians. Or computers. <br />
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Didn't I tell you kids to stay off my lawn?<br />
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One day, while poring over the Real Estate For Sale columns, I ran across an ad for a mobile home. I had never actually been inside a mobile home, but it sounded perfect! 3 bedrooms, a fireplace, spacious kitchen, in a nice development where someone else did all the landscape work.<br />
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Some obstacles presented themselves: (1) It was quite far from our center and(2) my husband was NOT GOING TO LIVE IN A TRAILER! <br />
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After some persuasion, he agreed to call the agent and at least have a look. As it turned out, she had another listing closer to home we might like to see. Well, OK, (sigh) if I have to, I'll go see it, but I am not going to like it.........Mmmmm, not bad. Not what I expected. Quite nice, in fact. How much is the listing, again?<br />
<br />
And thus we ended up in beautiful Brookview Park where we spent 15 happy years in our comfortable, roomy, and I think, very attractive mobile home.<br />
<br />
Mobile home owners are very sensitive to the terms "trailer" and "trailer park". We were constantly reminding people that although our home had been pre-assembled elsewhere and trucked in, it was sitting on its own permanent foundation and was not a "trailer" or a "unit" or a "coach", but a real house. Hard habit to break, though. And a wonderful source of bad jokes. (Erika moaned: How am I ever going to tell my friends that my folks have sold their beautiful Alamo home and moved into a trailer park? Haha.)<br />
<br />
But, oh, the luxury of having someone else trim the bushes, tend to the pool, plant the flowers! All we had to do was enjoy. Our last few years in Alamo were a constant battle with so-called "gardeners". Once I left a big tall weed near the patio just as a test. It was there for weeks. Once, when I was resting on my bed, I heard voices outside on the patio and when I checked, there were two of my "mow- blow- and -go" gang stretched out on the lawn chairs having a nice chat. They were quite surprised when I appeared.<br />
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I now live in another mobile home in Lakeport on a lagoon that stretches in from Clear Lake. This house has had kind of a hard life, I think, doors a little crooked, floors a little slanted. A cake baked in the oven will be a bit higher on one side than the other. We bought it on the spur of the moment just months before Erik died. I think if he had been himself and in good health it would have driven him crazy to live here because nothing is "plumb". My kids will tell you that, to their Dad, being "plumb" was next to godliness as a virtue. But I am very happy here, it is airy, bright and comfortable and I am willing to overlook my little house's eccentricities to be near my family (some of 'em, anyway!) and to enjoy the abundant bird life on the lake and the wonderful clear air and beauty of Lake County.<br />
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And I am definitely not living in a trailer.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-55959567157562768402011-05-30T15:39:00.000-07:002011-05-31T09:05:13.321-07:00Decoration DayWhen I was a young girl, we went every Memorial Day (Decoration Day, back then) to put flowers on the graves of our departed ones. The flowers came from our gardens, no one ever bought hothouse flowers from the florist shops. It was too late for the snowballs and lilacs, and too early for the dahlias, but my grandmother's peonies were at their peak and my aunt always had armloads of Madonna lilies and there were roses and irises and other early summer bloomers. We would fill buckets and jars and pile them into the car and then Auntie Dimp, the World's Worst Driver, would get behind the wheel and we would take off in a series of neck-cracking lurches and jerks as she released the clutch. Quite often she would kill the engine and have to start all over. But eventually we made it to the local cemetery.<br />
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We did not have many graves to decorate in those days. My sister, Thelma, who died at the age of 22 of pneumonia, and my Uncle Lee. He was struck by a car late one night while crossing the street in Vancouver. I always figured he was drunk, but whether I surmised this or picked it up from the whispers of the older members of the family, I don't remember. He was a World War I veteran of the campaigns in France and returned home as so many young men did then, as now, damaged and anchorless. (As a side note, many years later, after my father's death, my mother married Tom Crable, Lee's wartime buddy.) In addition to those two, there were a few neighbors and friends.<br />
<br />
It was not long before the graves in our family began to add up. My grandfather, my grandmother and my father. Followed by the aunts and uncles and then the cousins, one by one. My brother and sister. My nephews. A baby grand-nephew. Today, except for four elderly cousins, I am the only remaining member of my generation on either side of my family. Having good genes and living a long life has its pluses, but the minuses are many.<br />
<br />
For many years, after I moved far away, I sent money to my sister to buy some of those hothouse flowers to put on the graves. Today, it would take a truckload of blossoms to honor the resting places of my family. Not only in the little local cemetery, which has grown into many acres, but scattered in graveyards all over Clark county, where most of them lived and died.<br />
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As a child, I don't remember the patriotic and military aspects of this holiday. We had not been in so many wars then. I suppose there were parades and celebrations in the towns but we lived far out in the country and I think the height of our holidaying was the usual huge family pot-luck at the home of one of the relatives. <br />
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Memorial Day has a whole new meaning to me now than it did in those far-off days. Members of my family have been to war and I have lost a friend in battle. Our country is much more belligerent than it was then and we are engaged in conflicts of doubtful merit. But my heart is with the young men and women who fight these battles and I am filled with admiration for their services. While I remember my loved ones as I always have on this day, I add the thousands of brave warriors who have died in combat in far-off lands and I hope and wish that their sacrifices will be worthy of the courage they displayed.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-14395873522411722562011-05-26T12:32:00.000-07:002011-06-13T20:35:51.975-07:00The Riverboat GamblerSeveral years ago I spent Thanksgiving with Dave's family in a spacious guest house up in Truckee. During the weekend, we drove over to Reno so Erin could shop. I am not into shopping, so the boys and Dave and I spent the afternoon "gambling". We dropped the boys in the arcade and Dave and I headed into the casino. Now, I had never been in one of these modern casinos. I spent some time in Nevada years ago and did a little gambling, but my game was Blackjack. I <i>never</i> played the slots. What greeted me here was a dark, vaguely sinister cavern, filled with flashing lights, stale cigarette smoke and lots of noise and movement. Dave and I bought a few rolls of quarters and then he took off. <br />
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Now, I have never claimed to be the brightest bulb in the chandelier and I am completely flummoxed by machines and mechanical devices, so I was at a loss. I wandered around a little and then went looking for him and hauled him over to show me what to do. He pointed out some slots and levers and the bucket that is designed to hold all the coins that you are sure to win and took off again. Ok. So I pulled the lever and watched the lemons and cherries and things roll up (always all different, aren't they supposed to match up?) Well, I fed the beast a couple of rolls of my quarters and it didn't even belch. Just blinked it's colored lights and waited for more. This is fun?<br />
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Back in my Rhythmette days, we played endless games of 3-handed pinochle and lots of poker. The good ole honest-to- goodness games like Draw Poker and 7-card Stud and maybe a little Spit-in-the- Ocean. After I was married and became a mother I did not play much poker except for occasional socials with friends. I never enjoyed these much. They played party games where it seemed like every third card was wild and there were so many variations that you forgot what you were supposed to be playing. Forget the strategy and bluff and that delicious little feeling of excitement and danger when you are playing real poker. It might as well have been Rummy.<br />
<br />
Erik did not care for cards much and so I got out of the habit and many, many, many years have passed since I have stood at a Blackjack table and instructed the dealer to "Hit me!" I have even forgotten the rules. But I know one thing, I am never going to take up the slots.<br />
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Some of my favorite people love slot machines and even win some money now and then. They have favorite casinos and even machines and spend many happy hours pulling that lever. None of these people are addicts and they don't blow money they can't afford, so why not? Just not my thing.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1003020644168306626.post-56981115900180008272011-05-20T13:56:00.000-07:002011-05-20T20:38:08.802-07:00All About LuluSomehow or other, I ended up with two books by the same author in my stack. Even though I didn't care much for the first one I read ("West of Here" which I reviewed awhile back), I decided to read this one and I did like it a little better. This author will never make my list of favorites, though.<br />
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The novel concerns a hopeless love affair between two young people. Not exactly ground-breaking material, but there is a twist at the end which anybody but me could have spotted two miles away. I think I missed it because I was not really engaged with the story to start with, but it explained (sort of) the anguish and mystery and heartbreak, etc., etc.<br />
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This would be a good summer poolside book. Easy to read, easy to lay down. And a little more substance than many summer-time novels. About 3 1/2 stars.<br />
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All About Lulu Jonathan Evison Soft Skull PressAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14353240999076377657noreply@blogger.com0