Long, long ago and far away

All right, friends - it's time to see how well the memory works. I recently got an email from a teacher pal with a long lists of things we should remember from the fifties and the sixties. Sadly, I did recall almost every single one of them, but I thought it might do me some good, in the cathartic sense of the word, to recall some more specific moments or items of my own.

First Kiss: Of course, everyone wants to remember this one, but frankly it was less than memorable. His initials were R.M. and I was about 13. I remember thinking - "all that fuss over this?"

First Date: My mom actually set me up on a "movie date" with a fellow first-grader, thinking it was incredibly cute. His mom went along with the plan, and the two of us were somewhere between confused and embarrassed. The two moms sat a few rows behind us in the theater. I haven't a clue what the movie was.

First Home: For some their first home was the one they eventually grew up in. My first house was actually a remodeled chicken coop outside Pittsburgh, PA. My parents bought half of a defunct chicken farm, and we got the half with the house on it. The only thing I remember about the house (we moved when I was 4) was the coating of ice we would get on the living room windows - on the interior. There were blankets hung over the windows to try to keep heat inside, but you could scrape a good 1/4" or so off the inside in mid-winter.
There was an episode of "Extreme Makeover - Home Edition  once that rescued a family from living in a chicken coop. I vividly remember Ty Pennington yelling that no family, ever, should have to live in a chicken coop. I felt somehow cheated.

First Car: The first auto I ever drove was a green and white, 1956 Pontiac station wagon, with no power steering or brakes, or windows or anything else for that matter. It was a tank and I loved it. It was also my high school colors, so I was obligated to drive the cheerleaders to every football game. By the  way, it was stolen three weeks after my parents bought it, and found in a town in the Adirondack region of upstate New York. We had just returned from a vacation in the mountains, and my Dad and I guess a friend had to drive all the way back up there to retrieve it. I'm sure it was worth it. The first car I ever owned was a 1965 Chevy Impala convertible, champagne in color, and I wish I still had it.

First drink: Well it probably wasn't the first, but it was certainly the first time I ever got really hammered. I was fifteen, and went with a bunch of friends up to the top of a hill outside our suburban New York town. At night when it was clear you could see the lights of the big city, and I guess we considered this a perfect view to get drunk by. I got totally fried, and then totally sick, on a blend of numerous remains from numerous household liquor cabinets. The next day I went to a wedding, and had to chuckle a bit at my parents' pride in the fact that I didn't watch to touch the champagne. (One of my current readers was with me that night - do you know who you are?)

First House: Yes, I have purposely skipped over a couple of "firsts", mostly because they aren't anybody's business. My first house as a married adult is the one I'm still living in, still with the same husband. It's 110 years old, and we are the first folks on the deed. Bought it from the descendants of the builder in 1975 - it had been a rental property until then. It was definitely a handyman's special. In the first two years we redid a lot of the plumbing, put in a new furnace, rebuilt the roof, did some major rewiring, painted everything, cleared and dug out the yard, fixed the front porch floor and railings, went through three or four gallons of spackle, built a new kitchen, and put storm windows all over the place. Most of that needs to be done again, after 36 years.

First baby: She showed up a couple of years into rebuilding the house, and put a screeching halt to most of that activity. She is now 34 and nicely settled into her own place with a very likable gent. I knew nothing about child rearing when she arrived, and she taught me plenty. What she left out, her little brother added after he was born, one and one-half years later. They have provided my greatest joys and my biggest worries, and I continue to adore them both.

First Grandchild: Nope! Not there yet. I guess I'll have to keep you waiting and I'll finish this another time!

It's that time of year!

Yes! It's that time of year! The trees are almost bare, the temperature is falling (though not very far at the moment), and people everywhere are decorating their homes with tissues. Tissues? Huh?

Yes, doggone it - it's time for the first version of bubonic plague to hit the Philadelphia area, and my whole family has it. We are going through cold medicine, cough syrup and tissues like crazy. Even Costco can't keep up with the amounts needed to serve this group. And whose job is it to go to Costco tomorrow in the pouring rain and load up once more on sneezing, hacking and sniffling supplies? Mine, of course!

I also am under orders to get more soup, and I think it might be time to make a huge pot of chili. Maybe that way the germs can be scorched out of existence. I did concoct a huge pot of chicken/vegetable/pasta soup yesterday, but that has all disappeared along with the very garlicky bowl of hummus (made that this afternoon!) and just about every kind of cracker I might have on hand. The fruit juice supply is almost depleted, and I've run out of lemons for the many cups of tea being ingested. Oh, and I probably need tea bags.

This is one part of marriage and motherhood I have never completely understood. Why, when the ills of the universe have descended upon my household, am I the one selected by some higher power to take responsibility for feeding and soothing the rest of the brood? It never gets put to a vote. I have not seen a single show of hands, nor a ballot box. It all comes down to a severe case of "mom'l'doit" syndrome, and I have fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

If another member of my family has a sniffle, and I am running a fever of 110 and bleeding out both eyes, I will drag myself to the car and the pharmacy to see to it that enough tissues are available. The only break I can remember in the last 37+ years of this family's existence was last summer, and literal, when I broke my foot, had it in a cast, and wasn't allowed to drive. I was still somehow expected to create miraculous healing in my household, even though I couldn't leave the living room. I did make up a few chants just for the hell of it, but they consisted mostly of curse words.

Sadly, the foot healed remarkably well, and I soon was back to my existence as family healer. Frankly, for the level of trust my family hands to me, I am surprised the neighborhood hasn't started lining up at the front door. No, I know my little group - they won't tell anyone for fear of losing even a second of my dedicated services.
So, tonight I sit here, exhausted yet awake, listening to the choruses of coughing coming from the various bedrooms around me. I should be sleeping, but my clogged head won't yet allow it.

Tomorrow will bring one to two inches of rain, more coughing and blowing, lots of aches and pains, and a trip for Mom to the local "big box" store. The big boxes will be of Kleenex or Puffs, fruit juices (with and without arsenic!) and soup or chili supplies. At least I will be treated like some level of hero when I arrive home from my adventure, and when I'm done putting everything away and/or cooking up a storm, I will find a place to lie down, and stay put.

And then, with a healthy dose of blatant sarcasm, I will wish everyone a happy cold and flu season!

On the empty nest

Nobody's home except me! This is a circumstance which up until recently was only fervently hoped for every once in a while, as I was cleaning up someone else's dishes, or finishing their laundry, or picking up extraneous crap from various perches. Now my husband works 100 miles to the north, arriving home only on weekends (and sometimes every other weekend), and my son, who rejoined the household in August, is currently about as far away as he could get without heading slightly back toward our domicile. He is in Australia.

I have discovered that I like cleaning up only my messes, and enjoy the total freedom of bedtimes, wake-up times, and meal times. I go out when I want to, where I want to go, and come back when I feel like it. I leave my keys where I want to leave them upon entering the house, and I can rest assured that they will be where I left them the next time I feel the need to drive somewhere. I put things away where I think they belong, and, miraculously, they are in the same place when I go looking for them again!

I also feel an incredible level of freedom when it comes to trash. My version of trash is not always anyone else's version of trash, and I currently have no one complaining when I toss a batch of old newspapers into the recycling. These newspapers might not be considered appropriate trash, because their crossword puzzles have not yet been completed. I am the crossword addict in the household, and if I deem a puzzle unnecessary, then I should have the final word on when it disappears. By the way, I have a huge book of crossword puzzles next to my bed, and when I finish that, I may feel differently.

I can hang things up where I want them to be, and be secure in the knowledge that my warmest jacket is right where I need it, and not buried under eight or ten jackets donated by contractors to my husband at various jobsites. It is very nice that construction people feel the need to reward project managers with warm clothing, but I have lost count of the donors, and therefore the number of jackets and/or hoodies. Did I mention that our 110-year-old house has very few closets? Our poor downtrodden coat rack sits by the front door, groaning with the weight of  logo-laden winter wear. My stuff is somewhere underneath it all.

I can watch what I want to watch on TV. I can listen to music that I want to listen to. If I want to be on the internet for fifteen minutes or three hours I can do just that. I do not have to suffer through football games between universities I have never heard of, nor reruns of movies I did not care to see when they were initially released. There are no sounds of country or pop music wafting through my house, and I do not constantly hear about the latest "you tube" offerings.

However, when I wish to discuss a recent news event with someone, there is no one nearby. When I am greeted by a burned-out light in the cathedral ceiling of my family room, there is nobody willing to climb up a ladder and replace it. Large insects can rest assured they they will not be squashed while I am home by myself, as I prefer to leave the room where they live unoccupied. This also goes for small furry animals who like to make this house their home for the winter months. I will put out friendly traps, or even the occasional box of D-Con, but disposal is left up to the next person arriving home.

The things that go bump in the night will remain unexplored, and will tend to be the subject of my sleep-jarring obsessions. The electric bill will spike a bit, as this house when dark is far less friendly than this house with lots of lights left on all night. Other budgets might just be affected, too, as my ability to fix small household emergencies is pretty good, but the big stuff requires paid help. So far, since my husband started his job in New York, the furnace has needed repair, a major electric switch has decided not to work any more, and there is an issue in one bathroom that calls for replacement of the offending appliance.

Though I really hate to admit it, I am nowhere near as self-sufficient as I like to think I am. Though my time alone is enjoyable and peaceful, I admit to preferring the company of and conversation with at least one other human. Somebody had better come home soon, or the phone bill is going to go through the roof.

To avoid hypothermia

It is officially cold outside. Last night the temperature hit the thirties. Today it is slightly above 60. I am officially freezing. As I have aged I have noticed distinct leanings toward low body temperature, or at least the inner certainty that I am slowly, as November creeps nearer, becoming a block of ice, only to be thawed out somewhere in late May.

This conclusion has now been reached, and along with it comes a considerable number of possible solutions to the permafrost that is slowly consuming me. For instance, I can simply turn up the heat in my house. This is deceptively simple, as my husband has now discovered his inner core of estrogen, and is too warm most of the time. Every time he walks past the thermostat he turns it down a couple of degrees. Actually this serves a dual purpose for him, as he also is what you might call thrifty.

This is the other problem with trying to depend on the furnace. It means depending on a reliable supply of heating oil, at approximately $4 per gallon. Our oil tank holds 250 gallons. That comes to $1,000 per fill. When I do the calculations, I also come to the conclusion that the thermostat needs to be turned down, maybe even off.

That leads me to the second option. Staying in bed. Last night I added a second blanket to the pile of heat-retaining covers that grace my bed. Should someone come looking for me late at night, I guarantee they would have a problem finding me among the layers of flannel and feathers. You would never know that in my daily life I am quite claustrophobic, as my nighttime regimen involves burying everything from the nose down. Staying under this batch of insulation is lovely, except for one thing. No, two things: I have to eat, and I have needs that take me to the family restroom. Neither is close by to the warmth of my bedclothes.

The third answer to my dilemma comes in the form of a sturdy old wood stove that sits in my living room fireplace. It cranks out an amazing level of heat, but takes maintenance and wood. The wood is kept outside; the stove in inside. Do you see a problem developing here? Once I have frozen all of my extremities during the trip to the woodpile, I can finally light the stove and curl up in a close-by chair, wrapped in yet another blanket and clutching a good book. All is well with the world until the inevitable calls of the wild show up - woodpile, kitchen or bathroom?

The necessary trips to the kitchen or bath bring me to the realization that I cannot carry twenty pounds or more of blanket along with me. Therefore, option number four. The exact moment that the calendar says October I happily bring out my collection of turtlenecks and sweaters. The bottom half of my anatomy is clad in jeans of various types all year, so I remain  fairly comfortable up to the waist. The top half of me, however, is sorely in need of extra padding come late fall, so the turtleneck supply must be accessed.

Even the pile of turtlenecks and matching sweaters is not enough, sometimes, to counteract the icy temperatures of Thanksgiving through Easter, so the final solution has to rear its ugly head. I have thence chosen to share my secret with the world of blog readers. I wear long underwear.

It's ugly, it fits funny, and I sincerely hope I don't get into an accident so emergency room personnel will bear witness to my choice of fashion. It does, however, keep me warm. Inside, outside, getting wood, getting groceries. Everywhere I am invited I can show up unchilled and not in need of a quick thaw. No matter what the fashion police and Joan Rivers have to say about my choices, I will be cozy and comfortable instead of goose-bumped and shivering. Come on, winter, do your worst. I'm ready!

By the way, don't be surprised if you come to visit and find me wearing my extra layers, curled up next to the wood stove, and wrapped in a blanket. The only time I will complain about being too warm is in August.

On Writer's Block

It's been a little more than a week since I announced to the universe that I was going to try to write something here every week. My intentions were good, but my will power is in crummy shape. I am blaming it on what we folks in the business like to call writers' block.

As is the case with any creative project that involves a piece of paper (or a computer screen), the sight of one of these blank areas is guaranteed to induce brain-freezing terror in the individual responsible for bringing it's planned contents to life. Just coming up with the first word is a panic-producing moment, especially if you have a tendency toward perfectionism. Let's see, should I start with "The" or "Those" or even "What?" Maybe "Where" or "When" would be more appropriate.

That seemed daunting until I realized that I had no idea at all what I used as the first word in this little piece. I could have started off with "Lightning" and I would have just as easily have forgotten it. That, of course, means I have to find a word with such power and presence that I couldn't possibly forget it. Maybe something unexpected like "Maudlin" or "Execrable." Even a shocker like "Death-defying" or "Oozing" might work. The problem inherent in those is figuring out what on earth to follow them with.

I keep being told by experts (in print, of course) that I should simply start writing about anything and the prose would start to flow naturally, creating a memorable piece with little effort after the first sentence. If I were to write something like that, the first word would absolutely have to be "Bull****."

I am also told that writers' block has little to do with the piece being written, but has much to do with the general well-being of the author. That may hold a bit of water, as I find when I have too much time on my hands I get stuck between projects, unable to move much on any of them. I have some crocheting to finish. There is a half-finished painting sitting on my easel. The vacuum cleaner has been plugged in to the dining room wall socket for about a week, and the spider web still sits in the corner of a close-by window. The hope is that by writing this little ditty, I can kick my behind into gear to get moving on the rest of my endeavors.

I'll let you know if that works. Right now I am doing something decisive. I'm going to bed. See you next week!

Has someone forgotten it's October?

It's my favorite time of year, when the leaves are turning to brilliant shades of red, orange and yellow, the air has a cool snap to it, and the frost is on the pumpkins. Now I must qualify that statement. It is fall, which I love, but it's currently in the 80's, the leaves aren't doing a doggone thing, and the only item in the air is record levels of fall pollen and mold. I have a cough that sounds like it's coming from a rhinoceros, and it is accompanied by a constant runny nose and the occasional bout of uncontrollable sneezing. What has happened to October?

By the time Halloween rolls around, I fully expect too see trick-or treaters dressed as California beach bums, carrying their surfboards and wearing the latest in swimwear. No heavy Darth Vader costumes this year; it's way too warm. As for the obligatory pumpkins, many of them were decimated by the monsoon season we had during late August and early September. We had over 23 inches of rain, and pumpkins do not float well.

Any blooms that remain on my personal pumpkin vine are now being eaten by an extra-hungry woodchuck. He took up residence in my yard last year, and I never get to see him at a time when I can run out and scare him away from the blossoms. The result?  I have one fake pumpkin to put on my porch this year, and it killed me to spend $15 on the dumb thing. The woodchuck will someday go into hibernation for the winter, but it is not happening any time soon.  A thermometer that says 81 degrees does not signal "Time for snuggling up and sleeping." Rather it tells me, and evidently the local vermin, that it's time for a protracted last hurrah at the expense of my gardens.

At the expense of my physical comfort, there is a bumper crop of mosquitoes this fall, another leftover from the monsoons. One trip to the recycling bin (about ten feet from the back door) and I return to the house trailing a line of buzzing buddies, and sporting a minimum of a half-dozen itchy welts.

I recently got within a couple of feet of an extremely brazen rabbit, who looked at me carefully for a full minute, then ate a petunia. I admit it made me laugh, which only, I am sure, encouraged him further. Next it will be the zinnias. Oh, and speaking of zinnias, the combination of the rain, heat, and now unrelenting sunshine has created a monster in my zinnia patch. I have some sort of zinnia-beast which has grown to a height of about seven feet, and is hiding my beautiful new blue spruce from the passers-by. I am sure the radioactive spiders are next.

All I have to say is that when the month of October arrives, I am ready to stock the wood pile, rake up leaves, bring out the blankets, and get my stock of houseplants in off of my deck. Instead, this year, the houseplants will be enjoying the great outdoors for a while longer, growing more blooms and housing plenty of spiders. The blankets are still in the closet. I am resetting the air conditioning and wearing shorts. 

Why we have a city of animals

I'm glad I don't live in inner city Philadelphia. It's a beautiful place, but right now it's in big trouble. The level of violence, particularly shootings, is skyrocketing. In the last week, there have been eleven people shot in different parts of the city, including a two-year-old and a ten-year-old, and their 58-year-old grandmother. Those three were shot because some girls had a fight over a boy. The baby is still in the hospital, and still critical. The others have survived (some did not in other shootings), but at what cost?

I'm sure that lots of people in city government are having long conversations about the complex reasons why this is happening, but I can tell them one good solid way to stop it from continuing:

Put more effort into your schools, and do everything you can to lower the drop-out rate!


Philadelphia schools have had a drop-out rate of close to 50% for a long, long time, and the unemployment rate of young people who have dropped out is astronomical. When teens have no knowledge to use toward bettering their lives, and no income, the result is a desperate race to get what they can through any means possible. This includes stealing, dealing, and shooting people. When young males have no education to give them a sense of self-worth, they may decide that having a gun will make them feel powerful, manly. Using that gun becomes far too easy when there is no knowledge of other paths to manliness.

Having said that, the rate of pregnancies in the poorly-educated groups of teens is always high, as another way the boys in the crowd can feel like men is to be a father. Again, with no education to give them the knowledge of the responsibilities that fatherhood brings, they soon become absentee fathers, unsupporting mates, and at best poor role models. This can all be avoided, or at least diminished, when quality education is demanded for these children.

Philadelphia recently got taken to the cleaners by a woman who was charged with fixing whatever was wrong in the district's schools. She did, by most accounts, a terrible job. It cost the taxpayers nearly a million dollars to get rid of her, a million dollars that could have purchased books, art supplies, musical instruments, and more than a few teachers' salaries. I sincerely hope that an audit will be done of the district, so that whoever agreed to her hiring and then paying-off will be held accountable. Meanwhile, our school buildings are old and crumbling, there are no books in some classrooms, and teachers are afraid for their safety.

By the way, our new governor cut a huge amount from the money allocated for city schools, as well as slashing funds for state colleges. I can't help but feel like nobody gets it.

Gets what? The connection between successful education, for a minimum of 12 years, and an adult population that is able to find work, take care of themselves and their families, and who feel the need to be good citizens. When that education is lacking to the level it is in many inner city environments, we end up with a population of feral teens and young adults, existing on poor interpretations of animal instinct. If no one ever teaches peace, our only choices are different levels of war.

Please, Philadelphia, treat your children like your most important resource. Make sure they stay in school, and make absolutely sure that your schools are worth attending. It's very nice that we have a fifty-foot Claus Oldenburg paint brush statue on our Avenue of the Arts, but I'd rather see pencils and books and art supplies for the city's under served and under educated kids.

Bullying is not just for kids

I just finished reading a fascinating article on teachers who are bullies. It showed how teacher preference or indifference to certain students can cause the same kind of lousy feelings in a student as bullying by a peer. It amazes me that this is seen as a surprising piece of information. I have two children, both of whom were subjected to bullying behaviors, not only from their fellow students, but from teachers, administrators, and even counselors. I am thrilled to see the amount of attention this subject is getting in national press, and sincerely hope that the result will be more schools where a zero-tolerance anti-bullying policy is reality.

I have seen, over and over, institutions whose unwritten policies promote the downgrading and belittling of students who are "different."  These differences can take an incredible variety of forms, based purely on the worst part of an administrator's discomfort with students who may be"difficult" to teach. I know of children who have been called insulting names by a teacher, for an entire year. I know of a teacher who, more than once, slapped a female student in the face in front of an entire classroom. The student had disagreed with that teacher on an answer in a test, and had asked for help more often than the teacher saw as necessary.

A young lady in adaptive physical education spent her gym periods in a pool in a district building across the street from her high school. During one of her swim times, one of the gym teachers followed her up and down the pool as she did laps, calling her fat and lazy, and suggesting that the rest of her family was probably fat and lazy, too. She left the pool, got dressed in the locker room, and called home to tell her mother to "pick me up before I hurt somebody." For some reason the administration was never informed that she left school two hours early that day. I am not at all surprised.

I know of situations where special education students were called stupid by their teacher, where students who were seriously learning disabled were told by their counselor that they could probably get straight "A's" if they would just work harder. This was in the middle of a school-sponsored support group for students who felt they were being bullied because of their inabilities in standard classrooms..

I guess the answer to this insanity is more education, not only for the students, but also for the teachers and administrators. I spent a number of years as an actor/therapist, working with school districts where dysfunctional behavior was out of control, and where the student suicide rates were up. When students in these sessions were asked who their favorite person in the school was to talk to when they felt like they needed some support, the answer was almost universally the school custodian. Why are the janitors so popular? They don't judge; they just listen.

The ultimate answer to bullying is to educate all individuals on the sanctity and innate importance of every human life. People certainly don't have to like everyone else on the planet, but they do have to respect their rights to exist in peace and dignity. Too many of us learn to discriminate, judge, and even bully others from a very early age. It needs to stop.

Now what?

OK, it's official. I have retired. Permanently. I know full well I said the same thing last January, and then went back and taught four more terms. Well now I'm done. I was lucky enough to have a spectacular group of very smart and motivated students for my final class, so that made it easier, and harder. Ambivalence is coursing through my veins.

Yes, I will miss my students terribly, but there are some very good reasons for me to separate from my place of employment for the last 16 years, for instance:

The school has just hired the fifth Dean of the Faculty I will have dealt with since I started. Each one has arrived with a whole new style of communication, set of standards, and agenda for change. My adaptability has waned considerably over the years, so I don't think I would be ready to cave in to a new set of rules and regulations. In fact, I would probably fight them tooth and nail.

I am officially tired. I still approach each 4-hour lecture class with the same approximate level of energy and expectation I always have. In fact, I approach them with far more confidence and comfort than I used to. However, at the end of those classes I sit down at my desk and truly do not want to get up. After a few minutes, when I do uncurl myself into a standing position, it is difficult and rather painful, leading to a series of loud groans. I don't mind this when I am getting up from the sofa at home, as there is usually nobody available to hear me. At school, however, the halls tend to echo.

My patience has begun to fade. I still try my very best to be accepting and non-judgmental with my students. However, I have found that no one person has enough relatives to account for the number of funerals some need to attend, and I will not dismiss a young female from class for the evening because she has broken a fingernail, or is having a bad hair day. If a student's cell phone rings in class, I will answer it, and try very hard to embarrass the individual for whom the call was intended as well as the caller.

I am getting less adept at fudging my way through administrative tasks. I have always hated grades, and did really do my best to grade fairly and equitably, but I think the process leaves a lot to be desired, and my school's new computerized grading system leaves little room for flexibility. It does not understand the awarding of an "A" to a student who tries incredibly hard, but is not as quantitatively successful as his or her peers. It also does not know what to do with grades entered for class participation levels, usually expressed as a plus, minus, or check sign. It will only accept numbers. One of my favorite classes to teach was Public Speaking, but I haven't a clue why one student should get an 86 on a speech, and another an 88. I know an "A" or "B" speech, however, when I see one.

There is a massive difference of opinion when it comes to classroom expectations between the owners and top administrators of a small private college and the teachers employed by them. Those who can do teach, and those who can't, administrate. Anyone who has been a teacher at any level has my permission to agree with this statement. I won't tell.

Yes, I will miss my students, but you must have noticed I didn't say I would stop teaching, just that I had retired from formal education. I have already signed myself up to teach a couple of classes at my town's local senior center, and am looking for other opportunities. I have four or five drawings on canvas and wooden objects that are thirsty for some paint, and my writing needs lots of exercise. So I may have retired from one type of classroom, but as for others? I'm just getting started.

So vacate, already!

Here I sit, on the final day of my vacation, dreading the packing I will have to do tonight and the unpacking I will have to do tomorrow. When people plan their vacations, do they ever think of making sure their car will not be filled to the exploding point? Do they consider the possibility of packing only a few necessary items, or is it a rule of some sort that the amount you pack has some bearing on the amount of fun you will have while away? I seriously doubt it, but I do it anyway.

Every year I sit down and carefully make lists, planning exactly what I will need in the way of clothing, linens, food, medications, et al. Every year I bring too much, but forget something, and have to rush to the grocery store/drug store/ clothing store to fill in the inevitable blanks. We rent houses when we go on vacation, so I have to account for the things that I consider necessary and the original homeowner couldn't care less about. Like food.

This year it was a kitchen colander, or a strainer, as I had to explain to the non-English speaking young lady who helped me find one. She had been trying to tell me where the calendars were in a store devoted completely to the display and sale of thousands of varieties of plastic crap. I also needed a cutting board and a pizza cutter. I have lots of those things at home, but my landlord evidently doesn't strain pasta, cut up meat, or bake his own pizza. I found all of the items, for under $4.00. This is considered a victory.

Of course, now I have to decide whether to bring the new kitchen stuff home with me, or leave them so another renter can either destroy or swipe them. I swear that's what happened to the stuff I bought last year.
However, if I decide to cart home the new utensils, then I have to find room in the car and my kitchen when I get them back to my house.

A classic story from my family of origin involves a married couple of local professors (my Dad was a college administrator) who were coming to visit us one summer during a short vacation, and who showed up a day late. Their explanation was simple. The diagram that the husband had developed to pack their station wagon had not been successful, so they had to unpack everything and develop a new diagram. I have yet to decide if this was a good idea or just very strange. My family used to pack for vacation by stuffing a bunch of things into a bunch of bags, then stuffing the bags into the car. With any luck there would be enough room left for three kids and a large dog.

One year we bought a detachable luggage rack and piled everything on top of the car. We were about 100 miles into our trip when my brother noticed a suitcase in the middle of the road we had just traveled. Then another, then a couple of blankets. He mentioned this to my father, and we screeched to a halt and ran back a few hundred yards, retrieving our mangled vacation supplies. My current car has a roof rack. I have never used it.

History aside, I will struggle tonight to fit everything into suitcases and bags, then struggle tomorrow to load it all in, and then unload it one more time and put it away in its proper place, or somewhere close. Next year I know I will plan better.

The Reason Glamour Magazine has Never Called

When I was born and raised, back in the 1950's and 1960's, women were supposed to be glamorous. In fact, my mother insisted that I spend a few miserable months in charm school somewhere in my early teens. I learned how to walk, how to speak without ever really expressing an opinion, how to tilt my pinky finger when drinking tea, and how to appear glamorous at all times. The only thing I remember from charm school was how to tell what fork to use first. The rest is a distant blur.

Maybe that is because I was never destined to be charming. It has taken me quite a few years to come to terms with this, but now that my 65th birthday is fast approaching, I can honestly say I don't give a rat's behind. There. Was that glamorous enough for you? It was for me. As I sit here in my jeans, sneakers and t-shirt in front of the computer, I am totally comfortable with my glamour-free status. Here is how I have arrived at that conclusion:

I am sitting in front of my computer with the air-conditioner going full tilt, and I am sweating like a pig. There is nothing delicate or feminine about the way I perspire. I am soaked, with drips leaking from my ears to my shoulders, and my face is a fully reflective surface. My hair is kinky and damp, and showing no visible signs of a style. Glamorous women somehow withstand excessive heat, with nothing better than a handkerchief to dab at their moist cheeks. I need a bath towel.

I am long enough past menopause to be sprouting a few testosterone-fueled and very dark hairs on my chin. Not enough to spend thousands on a laser treatment, but enough to pull out a razor every morning and get rid of them before I scratch someone while doling out a hug. They are in direct proportion to the long white hairs suddenly appearing in the middle of my eyebrows. I swear they grow in overnight, from nothing to an inch or two in length, and sticking straight out as opposed to up or sideways. The hair on my head, however, seems to be getting thinner with every haircut. None of this seems very glamorous to me.

Also, my waistline has disappeared. I was never one of those hourglass-shaped lovelies, but at least I could wear a belt without it disappearing between two distinct folds of pudginess. Now I cut the belt loops off of my coats and sweaters. Maybe folks will think it's the clothing that drapes without an indent, and not the body.

I can not wear high heels. I had a grand old time back in the 60's and the 70's with my platform shoes and 5-inch heels, but just looking at what is selling in shoe salons currently makes my arches ache. I have my wonderfully comfy sneakers, and three different colors of my favorite walking shoes. None of those colors is chartreuse. There are two pair of sandals I can wear, one flat and one with about a one-inch heel. Even that feels risky. My balance seems to have disappeared with my waistline. I used to walk like a model. Now it's more like a Model T.

Makeup does not work on this face. I spend far more than necessary at my local cosmetics counter, but my attempts to achieve a "smoky eye" look more like an eye that has been firmly punched. My rosy cheeks are more likely from rosacea than from the correct color of blush, and any attempts at contouring look like I'm preparing for a football game in bright sunlight. Mascara is out. It makes my eyes itch. And I was actually trained as a makeup artist.

At some point I thought over all of these facts, as well as a few more, and decided that being glamorous just wasn't in my cards. I had a few minutes in my twenties when I could turn heads by walking into a room, but now it's probably because I have tripped over something. I think my most important accomplishments have not been based on looking just so, but more on what directions I chose to look. I was lucky to discover early on that glamour was pretty boring stuff, and had very little impact on the human race as a whole.

It's not that I look forward to being a frump as I get older, but I sure look toward continuing to make one big positive dent after another in the lives around me. I can't always look in the mirror and like what I see, but I sure do like who I see.

Out with the old? Not so fast!

I have recently received the same email from a number of friends and relatives, and feel the urge to respond with some thoughts of my own. The message was all about the things in our lives that we currently take for granted, and how they were most likely to become obsolete and even extinct. I can't say that I agree with all of the items on the list, though I do understand that the term "endangered species" might apply.

First of all is the Post Office. I understand that email has taken over the hand written letter. I still really like getting hand written letters. I get nice thank-you notes, formal invitations to events, and updates from friends and organizations I support. The post office is also the best and cheapest delivery form for packages. They cost about a third of what UPS charges to send stuff overseas, and their local delivery is much less expensive than the competition. I do hate the level of junk mail I regularly receive, but the recycled paper industry is doing well as a result. I see this cutting back, but not disappearing entirely.

Next is the check. Again, I do admit that I do 98% of my banking and bill paying online. However, when the local landscaper delivers a truckload of mulch to my back yard, I don't think she'd appreciate waiting for me to drive to the bank and get out enough cash to pay her. When my car gets fixed, it gets done extremely well by a local mechanic, who prefers not to accept credit cards. Again, he really appreciates that I can write him a check before he gives me back my car. And I really appreciate that I don't have to pay the 21% interest rate on a credit balance.

Third on the list is the newspaper. Have you read a newspaper online? It is a royal pain, the advertising gets in the way, and it is very hard to flip to the page with the article you were looking for. Until they get the interface right, I prefer my newspapers tossed on my lawn. They are also cheaper that way.

The book is going to disappear? Not likely. I do have a kindle, and I think it is terrific for reading books (primarily fiction) that I want to get through quickly and comfortably. However, my very favorite books are of art museum collections,  Amish quilts, instructions in watercolors or Chinese brush painting, photographers displays, oil painting techniques, drawing workbooks, colored pencil illustrations, etc. There is no way these could be translated into screen-appropriate material, at least not without a considerable loss in color, context, or readers' joy.

The land-line telephone. I know lots of folks who do not have a land-line installed in their apartments. If it works for them, that's fine. It does not work for me. I live in an old neighborhood full of huge trees. These trees have a disturbing tendency to drop their limbs on electric lines. When we do not have power, and I have forgotten that my phone needs charging, I am up the proverbial creek. There have been times when our power has been out for two or more days. Use of the cell phone is those situations is great, but only until the charge runs out. Even the land-line portable phones don't work in those circumstances, so I am glad that on each floor we have a plugged into the wall, corded phone.

How anyone can think that music is going to disappear is beyond me. If all one listens to is the current pop fare (yuck!), maybe they would welcome the disappearance, but most of my friends and I prefer things like modern classical, jazz, esoteric rock, and other items that are continually growing and changing. Live music beats the daylights out of recordings, and if you look for really good music, you will find it thriving everywhere.  If all you care to listen to is top 40, sorry!

As for the next item on the list, television, I have to assume this was written by someone who watches sitcoms and reality shows. When they go away, I will be celebrating. Well, okay, I do like "Big Bang Theory" and "So You Think You Can Dance", and am borderline addicted to "Project Runway." Notice that only one of those runs on one of the three major networks. Again I am far more likely to delve into cable fare, and I like to curl up on the sofa and watch, not on my computer screen, but on my TV. I like pay-per-view movies and the almost unlimited choices I have through my provider, and I do not want to watch anything on my cell phone!!!!

Possessions are the next to last expected to disappear. The loss of possessions listed in the email is almost exclusively in reference to computer gadgets, and I know people who love computer gadgets so much that they have way more than a reasonable share of possessions, just in that category. As for other things, we will still want kitchen appliances, furniture, art, clothing, air conditioners, candles, fuzzy towels and the occasional teddy bear. So much for possessions.

Finally the email bemoans the disappearance of personal privacy. As if this comes as a surprise to anyone. If you think you have privacy to lose, Google yourself. Also, I happen to live in a small town, where everybody knows everybody and watches out for them. Yeah, this is a loss of privacy, but I like knowing that if I have an emergency, there are 12 people ready to jump in and help. I don't know if I have ever had total privacy, nor that I would want it. People who are my friends like all of me, including the warts. Privacy may really mean loneliness.

Maybe I am just revealing my age, but I truly think things like books, music, newspapers and letters have a certain value that keeps them alive, even if it is in a small minority of the community. I am pleased if I am considered to be a part of that minority, and will continue my outdated habits that happily keep me there.

New Movie with old, uncomfortable theme

I've started and stopped writing this about a dozen times in the last week or so, mostly because I wasn't sure of the direction it would take. Now, however, I find myself with some time and some clarity of thought, though the two do not always occur simultaneously, and the result will, I hope, make some sense.

A new movie has come out in the last week, and I will admit I honestly know nothing about it. I have not seen it, I have not read any reviews, and yet the theme of the film as I understand it is driving me absolutely  nuts. It is the new version of "Red Riding Hood." It is one more film which, at its core, or at least the core of its most popular ads, has the combination of implied violence and sexuality firmly joined together. I thought we had put most of that behind us with the disappearance of the "Twilight" series, but no, we have one more growling, snarling beast and one more innocent maiden sent into a frenzy of sensuality at the touch of its steamy breath. Or at least that's the impression I get from the trailers that have been all over the TV for the past few days.

When the hell is Hollywood going to get the message that there is nothing even slightly sexy about violence directed at women?

With the advent of the Twilight movies and their bloodthirsty hero, emergency rooms all over this country found themselves dealing with ever-increasing numbers of young teens suffering from bite wounds. It seems that the young ladies, in particular, who were all soft and melting over Edward, were talking their boyfriends, or even sleepover buddies, into taking a good chomp to see if the passions would flow. The only thing flowing, sadly, turned out to be the supply of antibiotics needed to avoid serious infections.

What do you know - violent behavior, it turns out, really hurts!

All anyone has to do is ask a member of the female population if they have been the victim of violence, either verbal or physical. When you discover that an incredibly large number of them have, at some, point, been victimized, your next question should be "Gee, was it a turn-on?"

I can guarantee that, if you don't get asked to leave the area immediately, you will get a resounding "NO!" as your answer. There is nothing, I repeat, nothing, sexy about being belittled, humiliated, or battered. In case no one has read the expert opinions in law enforcement, let me fill you in with the facts regarding the ultimate in crimes against women, violent rape. In all of the psychological studies out there, it is not even considered to be about sex, but about power and the creation of helplessness.

It makes me heartsick to see the number of media outlets who still joke about these attacks, and state that "make-up sex" is the best sex of all. Soap operas, for example (and we all know how realistic they are), continually go out of their way to show intense fights between couples, followed by intense coupling. In reality, intense fights are usually followed by hospital visits or nights alone in a hotel or the car, as far away from the partner as one can get. Then they are followed by arrests and the issuance of orders of protection.

I guess the most important point I am trying to make is this: Somehow we continue to raise our daughters to believe that violent behavior is in some way proof that the boy (or man) in our lives really loves us. We are making an enormous mistake in supporting media stories that tie violence and sex together, and letting our girls think that Prince Charming is somehow related to the fire-breathing dragon.

As a long-ago victim of those beliefs, I would like to know when we are going to come to our senses and see these story lines as complete fiction, and not worthy of our attention.

Now I've gone and lost my temper...

I have officially had it with the new governor of Pennsylvania, and he's only been in office for a few weeks. He's right up there with a couple of other governors you may have heard about lately. The new budget is out, and what's the first thing he has cut? EDUCATION! At the K-12 level, he has slashed a huge amount of each districts' annual income from the state, and in our fair city of Philadelphia, he has, among other cuts, dropped all funding for kindergarten. This in a school district that has close to a 50% dropout rate, and that has too many of its classrooms trying to function with no textbooks, no computers, no A/V equipment. Arts and music curricula will no doubt have to be eliminated, as will after-school activities. All the added latch-key kids will have the dear governor to thank for their time at home alone.

I'm waiting for the discussion of vouchers to show up. That will no doubt be one of the next steps. Because, after all, a $1,000 voucher will do ever so much good in helping local families send their children to private school. The last time I had to come up with private school tuition, which was in 1995, the cost was $12,000 per year per child. Would those who keep suggesting this idiotic "solution" please tell me where families are going to find the other $11,000? I know how we paid tuition: we re-mortgaged our house, drove cars with 150,000 miles on them, and furnished the living room with second-hand furniture at a total cost of $73.08. That doesn't count the rugs, which I trash-picked.

As for the college-age folks, they are also getting royally screwed. The budget has taken 50% out of the money for state colleges, like Penn State and Temple University. That means a tuition hike of around 20% for students who already are scraping the bottom of their families' financial barrels. I have to wonder how many perspective students will just give up trying to afford their dreams of a good college education.

Oh, and by the way, our new governor has firmly stated that there will be no corporate taxes for the natural gas drillers or other huge commercial ventures. That's okay, they'll probably go out of business eventually because they won't find any educated engineers, project managers, accountants, office managers, or administrators. His rationale is that he doesn't want them moving to other states to do business. Duh. How does he suggest they move the natural gas deposits to take them along? Maybe he's being advised by someone who went to a high school with cost-cutting firmly in place. Yeah, the one with no books and no after-school science club.

I have a suggestion for the political mavens of our fair state. The next time you go out looking for a candidate for office, put on your list of requirements the following: The individual will not have made any more than $50,000 per year for any of the previous ten years. That way you will get people running for office who really understand the kind of life most of us are living. Most of the state's residents are hard-working, middle class families who are struggling to put food on the table, gas in the car, and tuition payments in the bank. For the vast majority of these families, their best shot at an educated child is a good, well-equipped public school system. It has just been proposed that the chance every child deserves will be gutted.

Oh, and for those who think teachers are overpaid? I dare them to spend one week in the classroom. I have been a teacher for the last 19 years, and it is the toughest job you can imagine. That is, if you really care about educating your students, and most of the teachers I have known really do care. They take money out of their own pockets to equip their classrooms, make sure their students are well-fed and sometimes even warmly clothed. All of their time "off" is spent taking courses, correcting papers, developing classroom activities, reading possible textbooks, and finding ways to improve their own classroom performance. Anyone who has been in the trenches at any level, whether K-12 or college, can only react with horror and dismay at finding out that once again, the budget axe has fallen squarely on their shoulders. When the hell are we going to stop short-changing our young people and start making those who can afford it pay a bit more for all of our futures?

Dear Mr. Governor, you can't possibly have gotten it more wrong.

Me and my Bears

I have always loved stuffed animals, of any kind. I was not a huge fan of dolls as a kid, but I have very fond memories of a big white stuffed poodle and a wonderfully squishy, flop-eared dog I named Poochie. As an adult, I have tried very hard to keep this passion in check, as I have seen what can happen when you tell your friends you collect something. For too many years I had a never-ending supply of hippos arriving on birthdays, Mothers' Day, Christmas, and any other time when one was found. I was fond of hippos at the time, but very particular about the ones I felt I needed around me at all times. Many have gone the way of the Garage Sale.

I have a few seals, and a manatee here and there, and some bunnies and mice (I do not include the real live ones we occasionally have as visitors). Once in a while I may come upon a dragon that catches my fancy, but I let no one know of these joys so that the numbers remain manageable. I have actually made some bears as baby gifts for friends and relatives, and for years I have featured bears in the illustrations for my annual Christmas Card. Only one or two bears, however, had come into my house to stay. That was until 1995.

It was my daughter's senior year in high school, and her school requires 40+ hours of community service during senior year for graduation (an idea I think should be copied everywhere!). She had been doing some volunteer work at a local nursing home, and helping out neighbors with projects, but wasn't really sure she was getting as much as she needed, both in hours and in appreciation for duties done. Then we were hit with a double disaster. The Oklahoma City bombing happened on a Wednesday, and that Friday she lost a friend in a car accident on the girl's way to school.

Saturday morning we were all just reeling, and she wondered aloud what we could possibly do to turn these horrible events into something positive. I'm not sure which one of us thought of it first, but an idea began to take shape. We would find a way to do something for the children in Oklahoma City, and do it in her friend's honor. By the end of that day the Oklahoma City Children's Comfort Project was born.

By that evening we had a donation of a dozen or more moving cartons from a local moving and storage company. We had ten drop-off sites set up, two newspaper articles written, and three TV stations scheduled to come to her school Monday morning for a story. We were going to collect as many new stuffed animals as we could, and deliver them to wherever the greatest need might be. Through the Mayor's office in Oklahoma City we learned that the police department had run out of it's "comfort bears" that sit in police cars in case a child might need a soft friend. We found out that a residential home for mentally-impaired young adults would love to have some comforting, and the mood at other day care facilities in the city would be lightened by the arrival of some stuffed travelers.

People all over our area jumped at the chance to do something to help, and within a few weeks we had well over 600 beautiful new stuffed animals to go to Oklahoma. UPS made sure they would get there by waiving almost all of their charges, and ten large moving cartons were soon on their way. The thank you letters we received helped my daughter tremendously in her grieving for her friend, but that was far from the only thing we got out of this adventure.

When given a chance to do something good, we found that people from all areas, and all walks of life couldn't wait to jump in and help. I got one phone call from a gal in a distant part of our nearby city that had collected around her neighborhood, and had three large trash bags full of bears. Could we come and get them please? You bet we could.

Even Russ Berrie, the owner of one of my favorite toy companies, got into the act by sending to my house two large cartons full of delightful, brand-new teddy bears, with soft tan fur and pale pink cheeks. They were beautiful, and I will be a fan of Russ toys for life.

Needless to say my house looked like a bear convention. Though there were a few other animals and even a couple of rag dolls, bears were by far the chosen creatures. There is something about a soft, gentle-faced teddy bear looking at you and being hugged, that melts the heart of any but the most hardened folks. After that wonderful life-affirming experience with the snuggly fellows, I was hooked. I started seeing an occasional bear that just had a certain look to it, I  guess wistful is the adjective I would use - a carefully crafted, soft and loving little friend who could not be ignored.

Yes, my friends and relatives know I collect bears, but they are smart enough to know I am fussy. My bears must have character and personality, and must look at you in way that asks for a special amount of loving. My house has them everywhere, and I appreciate my husband's tolerance. My son, in his late 20's at the time, even got me a Build-a-Bear gift certificate for Christmas one recent year, and came with me to help design the fuzzy fellow. That was the best part of the present!

So, after all that, I am what you would call a bear afficionado, even a bit of a bear freak. In fact, as a lover of bears and a lover of things artful, I am toying with the idea of taking this thing one step further. I am in the process of developing a series of bear-based prints, paintings, and illustrations to put into a line of art prints and/or stationery. I have the name copyrighted = "Nothing is UnBEARable".

I assume you will agree.

What's white and fluffy, cold and beautiful, and a pain in the neck to remove?

Happy New Year everyone! According to the Farmers' Almanac, this winter is supposed to be mild and dry. Usually the Farmers' Almanac is better informed and makes better predictions than most, including the folks on the Weather Channel. This year, however, the weather guys win, hands down. At an average of two storms per week, we have had snow on the ground for the past two months, and it shows no sign of letting up.

Usually I like following weather patterns, and I do watch the Weather Channel occasionally, looking for some explanations of what the heck is going on in our part of the country, which is the northeast. This year I find myself purposely channel surfing past #119, the Weather Channel according to our local channel provider.There has been a pattern of lousy weather on Tuesdays going back to early November. Why do I pick Tuesdays to bellyache over? Because every Tuesday night since early November I have been teaching a course in a satellite campus of my college, 28 miles away.

Normally when it snows I like sitting quietly in my living room and watching the flakes gathering in my neighborhood. There is something about old homes, huge shade trees, and snow that is calming and quite beautiful. I actually enjoy bundling up and taking a silent stroll around my block, sometimes with a camera in my pocket, looking at the gentle white clouds forming along the streets and in the yards. The total silence is almost overwhelming, while everything around me becomes coated with a perfect creamy blanket. I have been known to flop down without notice and create a well-placed snow angel in the yard of a friend.

When my children were young, we used to create what we thought were the very best of snowmen, sometimes with a slightly bizarre twist. I remember in particular our "punk" snowman, complete with chains and a Mohawk hairdo. Snow has been fun and creative and challenging. There were years when the neighborhood kids built elaborate igloos, with passages in between where the perfect snowball fights could be planned and carried out. Forts of all shapes and sizes sprung up around the neighborhood, along with huge piles of shoveled snow whose purpose was solely for landing, after jumping as high as possible off the top of a fort, or a wall, or a picnic table left out for the winter.

Now  I will admit to getting older and more cautious, appreciative of the beauty of a snowstorm, but full of concern when I have to travel through the barely plowed, slippery streets that come between me and my chosen employment. Yes, I am supposed to be retired, but like a moth to a flame, I am drawn to the promise of teaching just one more class. For some reason I cannot fathom, I chose a class this term at our satellite campus. Bad idea.

I love the students, mind you, and the class has been tremendous fun, but there is a weekly anxiety attack when I look at the weather forecast for each allotted Tuesday evening. I have looked with dread toward my 28-mile trek (each way!) up and down hills, around hairpin curves, and under arched overpasses with sharp turns at either opening. I have not hit anything yet, but as each Tuesday and its accompanying forecast looms, I imagine that this will be the week of sliding semis and fellow travelers with bald tires or no knowledge of winter driving techniques.

This Tuesday is the last of the term. The weather forecast has gone from snow, sleet, and freezing rain to mostly cloudy with either a rain/sleet storm or a whopping pile of snow to arrive later. Now, in fact, they are backing away from the most dire of Tuesday predictions, and my friends who will be teaching on Wednesday are in for a bit of trouble. No matter what, I will be on the road Tuesday night, teeth gritted and arms locked in position, with both hands firmly gripping the wheel. I hope the snow is beautiful, and I hope nobody needs to go out in it, and I sincerely hope it waits until Wednesday.

And next year I will not be purchasing the Farmers' Almanac