Hey ~ What Just Happened Here?

I have always mused that my Granny saw practically everything in the world change during her lifespan, December 7, 1899 through February 13, 1987. Cars and space travel, World Wars I and II, telephones and computers, television and medical miracles. Now I am nearly dumbstruck reflecting upon changes I've witnessed in only 57 years and what does the future hold that will amaze me?

All right, so I wrote a post that wasn't about Sam Cooke, per se, but no reader would doubt how much I appreciate Sam Cooke from reading my words.

When I wrote my next post, I was still rather introspective in mood, and while I wasn't writing about Otis Redding, specifically, anyone would be able to tell I revere Otis.

I must confess to feeling a little startled when I got a comment from a blogger called Sam's Neph, saying:

One of the most chilling conversations I've ever had was with Ben Cauley, the only surviving Bar-Kay from Otis' plane crash. He said just seconds before the crash, Otis was waxing poetic about how talented Sam Cooke was and how he left us too early. Eerie, to say the least.

Erik Greene
Author, "Our Uncle Sam: The Sam Cooke Story From His Family's Perspective"
http://www.ourunclesam.com/

What? Was Sam Cooke's nephew commenting on my blog? Was this real? I took a look at the blogger's profile, but there is not a lot of information (yet). I looked at the website. Oh. Sam Cooke's story as told by his family. This seemed real. Some of my commenters said something or asked about it. I got an e-mail asking, "Where and how did you pick up Sam Cooke's nephew?" I figured it must have been in the natural way. Organic, you know. Someone Googled something like "Sam Cooke's death" and my blog post came up high on the list of hits. That made sense. The post was only a couple of days old. It would place high.

Later in the day, blogging friend, Kirk, posted a little poke of fun at me along the lines of "be cautious about swinging celebrity names around on your blog as you never know what will hit you." All those who had been dishing and laughing on my blog rang in at Kirk's, and I think it's fair to say we all had a grand day laughing in the blogosphere.

I got home and went to take a serious look at the Sam Cooke website. I was impressed that his nephew, Erik Greene, had written a book based on input from many family members and professional associates and had published Sam's story from the family's perspective. I was moved to send Erik an e-mail saying I plan to buy the book and T-shirt today. I commented that I wish he sold smaller T-shirts, but I would tuck mine in. I asked how he found his way to my modest blog.

This morning, I receivede an e-mail:

Leslie,

It was my pleasure! I have a friend who scours the internet regularly and is a major Sam Cooke fan but much too shy to ever post on a blog. She regularly alerts me to Sam discussions and every now and then I add something, hence she posts vicariously through me! What's even more ironic, she alerted me to Kirk's blog this morning, and he seems to be giving you a tongue-in-cheek hard time!

While I thank you for your interest in my book, I unfortunately don't have any shirts smaller than a large currently. I only keep a small number of small and medium sizes because they aren't as popular, and was surprised to learn I was sold out of both. However, I'll keep you in mind when I order a new shipment.

Thanks for taking time to drop me a line,

Erik Greene
Author, Our Uncle Sam
www.OurUncleSam.com

Ha! He has, basically, a researcher who lets him know when Sam is being discussed on blogs. Not only had she found my blog, she found Kirk's little piece of sass aimed at me. After a couple more e-mail exchanges, Erik said, "I defended your honor on Kirk's blog." I zoomed over to Kirk's to take a look. Erik had, too! He's funny! And quick! These are qualities I like. He was immediately dishing in Kirk's comments and immediately felt like an old friend.

Anyone who has read my blog twice knows I am big on connecting with others. It's what makes me feel alive. I am reflecting upon this funny thing called blogging and the way we meet new friends. Some bloggers attract our attention not at all, and yet we feel magnetically drawn to others. I have some blogging friends I know I would hang out with all the time, if only we lived in the same hemisphere. With some of these good people, I felt an instant spark of connection over some small thing, but grew to understand that we shared other interests, too.

It amuses me that we now have an avenue by which to connect with others we would never otherwise encounter. I have a huge grin on my face today and I'm just shaking my head from side to side. David laughed at me! "You know there's everything in the world on the internet, including other fascinating people. You just didn't know how easily they'd find you or you'd find them." Erik, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance! I can't wait for Kirk to arrive at the public library today, log onto his blog and see what he hath wrought.

In my ears right now: What else, dear Reader?


Something that charmed me: Erik charms me. Blogging charms me. Good people charm me. Connecting with others in some human way charms me.

Some photos used with the kind permission of Erik Greene.

Georgie Eats Old Gray Rats and Paints Houses Yellow

I was visiting favored blogger Elisabeth and saw that she posted her rendition of a geography meme. I backtracked from her blog to see how/where the meme originated and to see how some other bloggers presented their versions."OK," thought I, "I am a woman who has been around the block a few times. This one is for me." And besides, I cannot look at the word "geography" without giggling. When I was a child in Catholic elementary school, spelling mattered, unlike today. Spelling comes pretty naturally to me, but some words were more difficult than others. "Geography" was such a word. My aunt Pat had always been spelling challenged, and the nuns in her generation were just as insistent upon proper spelling. Pat had made up jingles or reminders or prods to help her with certain words and she shared the one for "geography" with me: Georgie Eats Old Gray Rats and Paints Houses Yellow. But I digress. Here's my meme ~


You must begin your post with a geographical joke - Who is a penguin's favorite aunt? Aunt Arctica!

Then credit the geographical joke to the source - Sorry. I had to Google it. I'm not humorless, but I don't make up jokes and I didn't know any geography jokes.

Then in as few words as possible (that is very difficult for me!) - explain your earliest recollection/ awareness of the following:

Europe - In the same Catholic, elementary school we were joined by a new student, Elizabeth, from Germany. Sister showed us on the globe where Elizabeth was born. Who knew? I was 7.

America - I was born shortly after World War II. I knew at a very early age (preschool) that I lived in America and for that, I should be grateful and proud. Later I would learn to question some of that, but as a small child, that was imparted to me.

Africa - Same Catholic elementary school (yes, I did finally get out of elementary school): we studied about Egypt and the pharoahs. I made a diorama featuring a pyramid and camels, with beach sand representing the Sahara. One day, much later, I would visit Egypt.

Australia - Before I started school I had a book featuring kangaroos and koalas. My Granny always went farther than simply reading to me. She put the subject matter into context.

Asia - Several of my uncles had served in the Pacific in the War. Granny had the beautiful lacquered jewelry boxes and Japanese geisha dolls. Once again, that good woman pulled out the encyclopedia to show a 4-year-old where those gifts were made and purchased.

Then say what is your furthest point travelled - This made me snicker! North and South are pretty straightforward, but my east may be the reader's west, depending on where either of us is located. For the record, I'm in the western U.S. and that has always been my starting point.

North - Blaenau Ffestiniog, Wales, from where my ancestors hail.
South - The Panama Canal.
East - Egypt.
West - Hawaii.

Longest time living in one place and where was it? Lemon Grove, California, a four-square-mile city completely surrounded by San Diego. Home of the big lemon! It was incorporated in 1977, the year I was married, and every bit of that charms me. I lived there 22 years, by far the longest period of time I was ever planted in one location.

Shortest time living in one place and where was it? Four weeks in Santa Barbara, California. What a pity! It is lovely and Lemon Grove is not.

Brief list of places lived , in rough order of appearance: Mine cannot be brief. Behold! Cambria, LA, Salt Lake City, LA, Salt Lake City, Cardiff-by-the-Sea, LA, Inglewood, City of Commerce, Pomona, Santa Barbara, Glendale, Burbank, Bell, Las Vegas, Lemon Grove, Las Vegas. And that does not take into account that in some of those places, I lived in several different homes.

How many addresses have you had? I actually got out a pen and pad for this. How about at least 51 for certain!?! No wonder I'm so unstable!

In my ears right now: Well, it should be On the Road Again, as it seems that's where I've spent most of life except for the Lemon Grove idyll!

Something that charmed me: Ex and I had a very tiny house in Lemon Grove. Read t-i-n-y. As our income increased, he occasionally suggested we buy something better. I resisted. I pleaded with him to understand that I'd been moved around all of my life and I just wanted to sink some roots. He was tolerant. We were surprised by the arrival of Amber 20 years into our marriage, and babies require a lot of furniture and equipment. Now the house was inadequate to our needs. "Les, we need to buy something else." I resisted. Finally, it reached the point where we were going to have to nail any incoming furniture or appliances to the ceiling. That was still OK with me. "Mom, I can only have one friend over at a time. There's no place for us to play or sleep. I want to have a slumber party." I acquiesced. I lived in that house 16 years, and my daughter 8. The next home was fairly grand. But there the marriage collapsed and, once again, I moved on.

King of the Wild Frontier

In August of 1955, I turned 3. My mother was pregnant with Gary, who would be born the following January. I was a quiet and "good" child, but do not mistake that for "lifeless" or "dishrag". I was enthusiastic about many things. Just not unruly or untidy. A birthday party was planned, of course. It would be held in the yards of the two uncles who married the two sisters who lived next door to one another. It was a good location for hosting 50 people or more.

I was a passionate fan of Davy Crockett, having made his acquaintance by watching the Mickey Mouse Club most afternoons. I was also a fan of Annette and Karen and Cubby and most of the other Mouseketeers, except Roy. Roy freaked me out a little. Roy still freaks me out a little when I think of him mixed in with all those children. But I digress. It's Davy Crockett I was mad for. I liked Davy's rugged, but youthful, look and I was wild about the coonskin cap. I had a coonskin cap of my own and I wore it with panache, with dresses, with pajamas, with anything. [I still own a coonskin cap that sits on the shelf in my living room coat closet. I should bring it out to display, perhaps on the wall.] I liked that Davy was a grand hunter and shooter and knew how to live off the land.

But probably the most attractive thing to me about Davy was that he was born on a mountaintop in Tennessee, and my Granny-O was born in Tennessee. That must mean that Davy was a good, fine man. My hero worship was indulged, and this birthday party would feature Davy Crockett streamers, balloons, paper cups and plates, tablecloth, and whatever else in the world was sold with Davy's image in August, 1955. At least a dozen cousins dashed around the yards wearing coonskin caps, tugging at the tails hanging down the back. Those who didn't have a cap tried to pluck one off of the head of a luckier child. Games were planned, party favors waiting to be given to excited kids. It was some kind of day! An odd little snippet of reminiscence remains with me: when all of the cousins were gathered, there could be seen every hue of red hair known to man. From strawberry blond to deep copper, these were some redheaded Irish American kids. And more freckles than the law allows! I was the only one with dark hair and no freckles (and later Gary). I always remember playing outside with the cousins and the sun glinting off of their red heads.

The women worked in the kitchens of both homes, slicing tomatoes, forming hamburger patties, fixing potato and macaroni salad. The Davy Crockett birthday cake was featured as the centerpiece on a large dining table. The men fired up multiple BBQ grills and filled coolers with ice and canned drinks. An important task remained to be completed. Someone needed to pick up Uncle Ralph and Aunt Martha. My father and Uncle Ed were deemed to be the best candidates to transport elderly blind people, and I'm sure that had nothing to do with the fact that my dad had a brand new 1955 Chevy he wanted to show off to his brother-in-law.


The reader should know a bit about my dad and Uncle Ed. Although in-laws, not brothers, they were very much alike. Both were short, slight men with attitude. My dad had been a pretty remarkable boxer in the Air Force, and Ed has been described to me as the toughest human being who ever lived. This is based on his survival of the last days of World War II in the Philippines in hand-to-hand combat. He was tough physically and tough mentally. But my dad is no slouch! Both men possessed deadly wit, but were also sensitive. Uncle Ed was a lifelong reader of the poet, Robert Service, and my father has been known to silently weep watching reruns of Little House on the Prairie [recently]. Neither man was particularly well-educated, but both were extremely intelligent and articulate. These were also self-sufficient, no nonsense kinds of men. Neither was ever known to brook any measure of any type of bullshit from anyone. Never. None.

So, off they went together, Dad kind of show-offy in his new two-tone, driving on the freeway for a short distance, even though it wasn't necessary.

Uncle Ralph and Aunt Martha were ready, waiting with their birthday gift for me - a child-sized piano. Either someone had helped them, or maybe Uncle Ralph did it, but the gift was very credibly wrapped. Ralph strode confidently across the living room to the front door, cane tapping, rattling the keys with which he'd lock the deadbolt. Martha angled her elbows into the air so the two men could first hoist her out of the chair and then guide her outside. They did so. Ralph asked a couple of questions so he could understand where and how the car was parked. Once he imprinted that information, he walked quickly across the driveway to the curb, stepped down, walked in the street around the back end of the car, opened the driver's side door, pushed the seatback forward and got in the back seat. Dad and Uncle Ed were still maneuvering Martha toward the steps of the porch. Now it was their turn to learn that Martha was a leaner, a grasper, a clutcher. They were perspiring pretty quickly. It was high August and this was hard work!

Uncle Ed died in 2001, but he never altered one word in the retelling of this tale. My father has told it precisely the same way for 54 years and he still flushes bright red remembering that torturous trek across 25 feet of concrete to the car. The unholy trio shimmied like a hula dancer, traversing the two steps down from the porch to the driveway. It took them more than 10 minutes. Dad and Uncle Ed spoke encouragement, "Martha, step down 6 inches with your right foot and then just stop and wait." She extended her left leg as if to cross the mighty Mississippi in one step, began to wobble and nearly took the two men down. These two bright, efficient sorts wondered if she'd ever descended those stairs before, knew that she had and wondered why she seemed to have no recall of how it was done. The walk across the driveway was uneventful, but took a long time. Back at Party Central, the women thought it was about time for the car to arrive carrying party guests. Little did they know!

Arriving at the curb next to the car, Dad opened the passenger side door, flipped the seatback forward, assessed Martha's bulk, moved the front seat forward to allow more room and flipped the seatback forward again. Then began a 45 minute rodeo of the vilest sort. They tried first to give verbal instructions, but Martha seemed incapable of understanding right from left, inches from yards, forward from backward. She exhibited a fine understanding of hanging on to these men around their necks, as if for dear life, however. They knew they'd have to get physical with her - directions weren't getting the job done. They decided Dad would support Martha upright while Uncle Ed picked up her leg and put it inside the car. Then only one leg and the rest of her body would remain to be moved. She nearly toppled all three of them over backwards. They stood her in the gutter thinking she'd understand all she had to do was step up into the car, one foot at a time. They could even assist by lifting her legs for her, one at a time. Nope. She almost threw them all to the sidewalk.

It was Uncle Ralph who came up with the idea that worked. "Martha, bend into the car and give me yours hands." Uncle Ralph was going to pull. "Men, you know what to do next." Dad and Uncle Ed looked at each other, shook their heads from side to side, squared their shoulders, and each one tucked into one side of Martha's hind end. I've heard their analogy all my life: like pushing an elephant through the eye of a needle. Martha landed in the back seat a little worse for wear and tear. Her nylons had runs and her knees were banged up. Her (unnecessary) eyeglasses were askew and the floral pastel dress was rumpled. Uncle Ed always spoke of how her gray pincurls bobbed for a moment or two, like tiny springs on her head. Uncle Ralph helped settle her on the back seat and they rolled off to the party.

Lest the reader think these sweating, frustrated men were a little severe with an old, blind woman, consider this: Dad and Ed did not take a running start at Martha or execute a flying wedge maneuver up her backside. No jerking movements were made that might have harmed her neck or back. They simply dug in and pushed together against a seemingly unmovable mass. The slow forward momentum caused Martha to begin paddling her feet and legs, her body finally catching onto what her head hadn't been able to grasp. One foot got purchase on the curb and the other finally made contact with the carpet in the car. Uncle Ralph pulled for all he was worth. I wonder whether it might have been easier to install Martha in the front seat. For part of the difficulty was caused by the contortions necessary to squeeze between front and back seat. Up and into the car was not the only challenge. But it was the 1950s and those two young men didn't think to put Martha any place other than in the back seat next to her husband where she should sit.

One of the bigger kids saw the car approach and announced its arrival at the party. Some of the adults walked out to the driveway, concerned at how long it had taken to bring Martha and Ralph to Gardena. One look at Dad and Ed, and most of the adults in the clan knew there was a rich story to be told. The party began in earnest now, good food served, games played, prizes awarded. Scattered groups of kids belted out, "Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee, greenest state in the land of the free . . . " When I opened the gift of my piano, Uncle Ralph sat behind me and showed me how to place my fingers on the keys to play more like a concert pianist than Jerry Lee Lewis. "The story" circulated quietly among the adults, most of whom had to step behind the garage for a laugh out loud. My cousins and I were not timid about approaching blind people and starting a conversation, so both Ralph and Martha were chatted up repeatedly by kids of various ages. Martha managed to do my serious, sensitive cousin Mark out of his coonskin cap by using her tried and true line, "I'm blind." I am uncertain why she thought she needed a kid's coonskin cap, but I am now a 57-year-old woman who owns one, so perhaps I should not cast aspersions upon Martha. But at least I bought my own.

At dusk, the women began to gather dishes and tired, cranky children. The party was officially over. Granny-O decided she and Grandpa should take Ralph and Martha home. Ed and Dad watched over the fence in disbelief as Martha fairly hopped into the back seat of Grandpa's Impala. My father ranted in the car all the way home about the agony of moving Martha. There was no laughter in the Chevy, as my mother was still sensitive about her shopping adventure with that good woman. When we arrived home, Dad was overcome with guilt about sending Granny-O and Grandpa off alone to deal with Martha. They were old. He and Ed were young, but had barely been able to manage. He dialed the telephone, having decided if Granny-O failed to answer, he'd drive to Ralph's home to help offload Martha. Dad was slightly surprised that Granny did pick up the phone. "Mom, I was concerned you might need help getting them inside." "Oh, it was uneventful," replied my grandmother. "Earl never even turned off the engine, I had them inside so quickly."

In my ears right now: What do you think? Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee, greenest state in the land of the free, raised in the woods so's he'd know every tree, killed him a b'ar when he was only three. Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier.

Something that charmed me:

Turn a Blind Eye to Human Frailty

I've blogged several times about my maternal grandmother, my Granny-O, born in 1899, mother of 12, grandmother of more than 40, and the unconditional love giver in my early life. There's my Granny, less than a year old, on her mother's lap. The little boy standing between the parents is Ralph, my great uncle. No, he didn't blink when the photo was taken. He was blinded by the measles at the age of 18 months in about 1896. Here he is about 4 years of age. In a few short years, he will be put on the train and sent to the Tennessee School for the Blind, which I believe was in Nashville. But wherever its location, it was "away". Not near Knoxville. Granny was 4 when Ralph went away on the train, but she spoke of his sobs 70 years later. He was a scared, blind child going off on the train alone, away from his family. He stayed away many years. He returned in his late teens, confident, able to read Braille and write, skilled at a number of crafts including broom and brush making, as well as recaning chairs. He knew how to keep his clothes and possessions clean and in good repair, including sewing on buttons and doing his own laundry. He could get around expertly on public transportation and he knew all manner of ways to ask for just a little accommodation for the fact that he was totally blind. For all of his life, when he cashed a check at the bank, he asked the teller to fold the different bills in different ways - $20 bills folded in half vertically, $10 bills folded in half horizontally, and so on. I would wager that Ralph never "got taken" for his money by a sighted person.

Ralph lived with his parents after his return from school. The day after Granny graduated from high school, she, Ralph and her mother boarded a train for Denver. I do not know why Denver was the destination. No friends or relatives awaited their arrival. None of
Granny's 12 children ever met their grandfather. I do not know why the marriage split up. I do not know anything about that Great Grandfather after June, 1917, nor very much about him before that time. For the next 30+ years, Great Grandma and Ralph shared a home and followed Granny's family from Denver to Los Angeles, always living nearby, always in daily contact. Ralph never married. Great Grandma would not have approved of any woman on the planet, so Ralph didn't even try. He enjoyed his many nieces and and nephews, who also loved him. The brood were intrigued with the Braille books and his abacus and accordion. They wondered how he could perfectly recane a chair or weave a basket without sight. He read aloud to them often, sometimes reciting literature from memory. My mother and her siblings recall teasing Uncle Ralph by asking him what he thought "plaid" looked like and how he would know a horse from a mule if he woke up one morning, able to see, and was presented with a view of those two animals.

Great Grandma died in 1950 at age 96. Ralph bought himself a tiny one-bedroom bungalow in old Los Angeles, continued to work and made extra money by playing his accordion in the streets at holiday time. This required him to take a number of buses, making transfers often. I never heard of Uncle Ralph getting lost. Not once. He was 58 years old the year I was born, slim, tall, upright, shoulders back, a nice looking older man. His shirt was never buttoned up incorrectly and he did not sport clashing clothes. He took care of his business in a businesslike way. I think he was admirable. Some years later, he would sit beside Gary's crib, holding the child's hand and reciting something - maybe Longfellow's Hiawatha - and the little boy's head-turning took a slower pace.

I do not know how or where Ralph met Martha. She was also a southerner, but I don't know specifically where she called home. She was certainly age appropriate for Ralph. She became blind in her 30s or 40s, and I don't know what caused it. She was a tall, buxom woman with a backside like a brewer's horse, large hands, legs and feet. She looked like a typical older matron of her generation: pastel floral dresses, serious black "witch" shoes, gray pincurled hair, and the ridiculous pair of eyeglasses some blind people wear for reasons I do not understand. My god. I have just described a woman of the approximate age I am right now. I don't look like that in any way. Whew. When I was old enough to catch quietly spoken partial conversations, I drew the conclusion that Martha may have "had a past", whatever that meant. I do not know how the women in the family reached that conclusion, or whether it was a fair one. Martha brought her own money to the marriage, causing eyebrows to be raised because she liked to shop at Saks Fifth Avenue, not Sears or J.C. Penney like most of our family's good women. She had some "no account" adult children whom I did not know, but who were deemed to be scandalous for some reason. I don't think the marriage was about fire and passion. I think much of it, for Ralph, had to do with the companionship of a mature woman. He must have missed that after his mother died. I don't know what the marriage meant to Martha. Importantly, Granny-O accepted her because Ralph wanted Martha in his life.

Martha had not adjusted well to being a blind person. She constantly bumped off of walls and doorjambs in her own home. Her sweater was frequently worn inside out and she often wore shoes that were not a matching pair. Her dress and blouse buttons were usually one or two levels wrong when she presented herself for the day. She wore large clip-on earrings almost always, and almost always, they did not match. She did not master the use of a cane, and was a danger to any innocent bystanders when she attempted to use one. She preferred to have one or two people at her elbow(s) to guide her along through life. Martha was also known to cite her blindness as the reason for unfortunate events that had absolutely nothing to do with one's ability to see. After her death, Granny-O and some of the family women went to Ralph's house to pack up Martha's belongings to be shipped to her children. It was discovered that Martha had an apparent affinity for bourbon. Read this, enough bottles stashed throughout the house to choke a landfill. It made one wonder if all of Martha's clumsiness and general difficulty navigating through her day was entirely attributable to blindness. It made one wonder if, when Martha had been loud and belligerent, it was the bourbon presenting and not angst at having been struck blind.

A little rivalry grew up around taking Martha shopping. Whichever young woman was selected for such duty was in for a treat. For Martha would pay for a babysitter, pay for the bus or taxi rides - a taxi was quite an extravagance! - buy a nice lunch, and buy a little gift for her shopping companion of the day. My mother's sisters and sisters-in-law engaged in a little healthy competition for the honor. They all knew the ropes: dress up nicely including hat and heels, elbow-guide Martha through the store to the department that would display what she sought to purchase, describe the selections to Martha with many words, enjoy the lunch with mimosas and select the gift that Martha offered to buy. A nice outing by anyone's standards.

My mother's turn finally came. She was young and cute and dressed herself adorably for this outing. She knew what she would choose for her gift, because good, lacy slips didn't grow on trees. She wanted a red one. I was deposited at Granny-O's and my mother walked to Ralph and Martha's house. This may be a good point to remind the reader that my mother, in her early 20s, hadn't exhibited the strongest of coping skills. She wasn't good in a pinch and didn't always know what to do when things got hairy. Martha was in rare form that morning, gesticulating to make a point in conversation, perhaps a little loud. The taxi arrived and my mother must have felt like the tiny tugboat piloting a massive steamer out to sea. My mother admits today that the first moment she fully realized the disproportion of their body masses was approaching the taxi. Martha was a leaner, a clutcher, a grasper. But my mother was made of tough stuff. [She thought.] Mother and the driver finally got Martha situated in the taxi, and they set off for a very long ride to Wilshire Blvd.

Saks Fifth Avenue was a revelation to my young mother and she got to take it all in at a leisurely pace, as Martha was bulky and slow. They arrived in the department where Martha was given a chair to sit on and my mother ferried girdles, nylon stockings and other 1950s mature lady foundation garments back and forth from the display counters. Martha wanted detailed descriptions of each item and comparisons between one item and the other. She felt everything with her hands, stretching some of the garments to test their elasticity. She was damned touchy about the exact color of nylon stockings, pinning my mother down hard about the difference between beige and dark beige. Finally a $50 purchase was made - a huge sum in my mother's view. More old lady lingerie in a bag than the law allows.

It was after paying for her purchases that Martha loudly announced her need to "pee". My mother was a little touchy about such language in such a fine store. Her eyes darted about and she looked over her shoulder to see if anyone had noticed such an indelicate pronouncement. She also realized she was in the belly of a mighty big department store and she didn't know her way around. Mother asked a clerk where to find a restroom and was given directions to one on the floor below. As she steered Martha toward the elevator, the older woman continued to announce her urgent need, and mom began to sweat it. She rang for the elevator, which arrived fairly quickly. Pushing Martha into the elevator car, she heard the torrent begin to hit the wooden floor. The elevator operator visibly recoiled, and Martha loudly announced, as if it was a really good reason for wetting on the elevator floor, "I'm blind!" Mom began to cry and the elevator operator asked, "What do you want me to do, young lady?" He took them to the ground floor where my mother steered the dripping Martha out to the curb and hailed a taxi.

I was eating a favorite with Granny, pineapple and cottage cheese, when we heard my mother's sobbing on the back porch. Granny-O jumped up to see what was the matter. Was someone hurt? What had happened? My mother had to lie down on the sofa to start telling the story. She wept, she wrang her hands, she gnashed her teeth. "No lunch, no mimosas, no red slip." Granny was appropriately sympathetic, but she didn't give the event quite the weight my mother did. Until . . . "I had to give the taxi driver $10 of my money to clean his back seat after dropping us off. When I asked Martha to cough up the $10, she said, 'I'm blind.' "

In my ears right now: Manfred Mann, Blinded by the Light, what else?

Something that charmed me: Last night I got the loveliest, sweetest "good night" . . .

In Sugarhouse ~ Inspired by Feelings that Kass's Blog Stirred Up: Chapter I

I have written Kass an official fan letter and she has written that she has a girl crush on me. We're enjoying each other tremendously. She and her blog post about complex family love make me want to say all kinds of things. When I saw her Sugarhouse blog, I was transported back to Salt Lake City in the late 1950s when I was in the earliest years of elementary school. My Sugarhouse story will be the first to unveil some of the family of origin (except Granny-O, who has already been introduced). Just like everyone else, I was formed and misinformed by parents and close relatives. We've all got stories, but I'd nominate my extended family as the group who put the funk in dysfunctional.

Writing about families is risky business. Readers can misunderstand the writer's intentions and meaning. So here is my preface. I am a tremendously flawed, maladapted person. There are all manner of good reasons for that: intrinsic traits, conditioning and more. I recognize this about myself and try to address some of the more objectionable behaviors that are mine. Some others, I'll live with and bear the shame. I don't think anything that has happened to me in my life gives me a free ticket to act badly.

I want to state emphatically that I think my two parents did the best they could for me with what they brought to the table. Unfortunately, we were like people from three different planets. "Table" to one was "car" to another and "dress" to the third. We never have (and do not today) understand one another, we three. The irony is that we looked so good. Piano lessons and Catholic school. Upwardly mobile father (before that phrase was coined) who provided very nice homes and belongings. Lovely, charming young mother most people seemed to like. But when the drapes were drawn or we saw guests out and closed the door, it was like we took off our human disguises and reverted to whatever forms of alien life each of us actually was. I am truly uncertain that any one of us has ever given any one of the others something they actually needed or wanted. Lots of giving has occurred, but terribly misguided. Woven in with all the sad, miserable threads, one could sometimes find the shiniest, short-lived little glimmering strand of stuff. Do not expect only tragedy or only comedy.

It should be noted that we frequently changed roles in our little opera of three characters. Most times I stuck like glue to my father, but I could break out of that and become the champion of my mother. Each of them alternated between being almost too clinging with me to almost abusive neglect. Sometimes two were unhappy with one and sometimes one was unhappy with two.

My last prefacing statement: I truly don't have to endure tremendous suffering and angst any longer about my family. Believe me, I've suffered, but not any more. Lots of expensive therapy and aging will take care of that. Most of the vitriol is gone. I do, however, have an intense, lingering curiosity about things that happened, the way people behaved, and what it all means. It is this odd upbringing that makes me so avid about connecting with others and truly understanding the fascinating creatures around us who are - supposedly - just like us. I am a true student of people.

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My parents are probably the argument for children not having children. They were teenagers when I was born. Both came from large families and my father, who was 17 years older than his baby sister, at least had some working knowledge about babies and children. Although my mother was sandwiched in the middle of 11 siblings, it seemed she had never seen or heard of a baby or child. Nieces and nephews appeared frequently before she and my father married, but I guess she didn't see them. Somehow in the 1940s, she managed to never once have a babysitting job - perhaps evidence that the angels do watch out for little children.

My father was in the Air Force - read this, away from home a lot. They lived in central, coastal California when I was born at Camp Roberts Army Hospital. Granny-O lived hundreds of miles away in Los Angeles, so my mother was a new, teenaged mother with no knowledge and no support system. I grew up hearing her struggles presented in a humorous way, but I've always felt the relatives laughed at her rather than shared a giggle with her. I think she felt highly criticized by mother, mother-in-law, sisters and sisters-in-law. However, if family legend is to believed, she pinned diapers to my abdomen with regularity and dropped me fairly often. She is extremely intelligent and she is not callous. No one ever suggested she enjoyed dropping me or pinning me. No one thought she couldn't learn how to handle a baby with safety. But these things continued to happen. She became very anxious and I imagine she felt a tremendous amount of pressure when she contemplated feeding me or dressing me or taking care of me in any way. And there were the voices of all the women in the large extended family . . . . in those days it would have occurred through letters sent by U. S. Mail. Imagine receiving hurtful comments over and over again.

True story: my father was getting out of the Air Force and we were to take a trip to Los Angeles to arrange for an apartment to live in, find him a job, start a new phase of life. I was 11 months old. My mother prepared Granny-O by telling a story up front - Limes had taken a little spill out of the 1950s stroller and had a pretty nasty, very large bump on her head. She only fell from a height of 6-8 inches, but obviously whacked her pumpkin pretty hard. Granny-O generously replied that all children fall from time to time and that she wouldn't let anyone light into my mother for that. We rode for hours on the two lane highways through almost half of California, the young parents commenting on how the usually cranky baby - funny, I fussed a lot - was an awfully good traveling companion this time. [Yes, my ancient stroller did look like that. No, I did not resemble those well-used dolls.]

We arrived in L.A. where hugs were exchanged and my Granny reached into the car to pick me up. She was a little startled. A little concerned. That bump on my head was the size of a plum and I was pretty dazed. This mother of 12 and grandmother of about 15-20 by then, began to ask questions. Going inside, she called for Dr. Greenberg who eventually would know probably 75 of us and deliver 20 or more of our family members. A little trip was made to an emergency room. Fractured skull. That plum on my head was full of cerebral-spinal fluid. My mother kept a pretty low profile for the week we stayed.

{And now a word from our sponsor}

Favored reader, I am no where near Utah, Salt Lake City or Sugarhouse yet. Oh, you may rely upon my getting there, but I intend to take this just a little slower than I might have. We shall have Sugarhouse in chapters! I am finding this piece a bit like baklava ~ a thin layer of anger, a thin layer of forgiveness, a chopped nut of humor, a cup of empathy for a very young couple who struggled very hard to be "right", drenched in the honey of reminiscence. This has been much slower writing than some of my posts. I find it cathartic, but this path is very rocky and I must pick my way carefully. I've set the stage for a view of my earliest life and I will say it never got any more orderly, not smoother, no closer to "just like everyone else's". But it's been a full life of high highs and deep lows and I am glad to have lived it. I'm not finished with it yet.

In my ears right now: Bob Dylan ~ Modern Times. No further details required.

Something that charmed me: I suffered a little over whether to unveil the family. I feel strongly compelled to tell the parts of my story that are family life, but we're definitely not for everyone. I decided to write the prefacing statements and jump into the water. I feel OK. I'm doing OK. "Sugarhouse" won't look the way I originally planned it, but that's OK. I'll get there.

Granny-O and Transportation

By the time they had the first several children, Granny and Grandpa led a busy life. Granny spoke of meal preparation when the family was at its largest: frying 4 chickens, cooking 10 pounds of potatoes, serving 2 loaves of bread and a gallon of milk . . . that was for one meal. There were clothes to be made, from the underwear all the way out, and laundered and ironed. A house to clean, several children at different schools, once there was a sizable age span. It was determined that great efficiency could be attained if Granny could drive a car and combine errands.

It happened that Aunt Ruth was left at home with all the younger siblings while Grandpa and Granny went out in the Model A. They were gone less than an hour. No other driving lesson ever took place. No one still living today knows what happened during that time. She was able to handle certain types of machinery and implements well - a sewing machine, hand tools, kitchen gadgets, hatchet to slaughter the chickens for dinner and not at the cost of her own digits . . . but apparently not a car. My Granny never did drive an automobile, but - by God - she could get around.

First there was the walking: she walked longer, farther, older than most people. After Grandpa died, she was content with walking to the grocery market and pulling her purchases home in her granny cart. Sure, she liked it when one of us came along in a car and she could make bigger purchases, but she didn't complain. Once, when Grandpa was in the hospital in the winter, she walked to visit him with her umbrella against the rain. The belt to his bathrobe had dipped into the toilet and he was a fastidious man. She walked home with her umbrella against the rain, washed the belt, ironed it and wrapped it in plastic. She walked back to the hospital to deliver it to him. She was 70 years old and the hospital was 3 miles away. She still had to walk herself on back home, too!

But Granny's true transportation forte was riding the buses. There was nowhere in Los Angeles County that Granny couldn't travel with ease and speed. She knew all the routes, where to take a transfer and what time the next bus came. Throughout her 60s, she took the bus to visit her daughters and grandchildren a couple of days a week. From Santa Monica to Long Beach and West L.A. to Pomona, rode Granny with her bags. While riding on the Freeway Flyer, she'd piece quilts. When her stop was near, she'd take off her thimble and put away the fabric pieces. After pulling the cord to indicate she wanted the next stop, she'd gather the bags, typically containing her quilting, National Geographic magazines to be shared, a layer cake she'd made, outgrown clothing from one cousin to be given to another.

Ex and I had set up housekeeping and, like most teens, we had nothing to start with. Granny boarded the Greyhound and headed for L.A. with more luggage than the law allowed. There was some concern that the VW Beetle wasn't going to be able to handle Granny, Limes, Ex and all the luggage, but we managed. Think: Jed, Granny, Jethro and Ellie May pulling into Beverly Hills. The 72-year-old woman had packed and transported everything from a CorningWare coffee maker to bath towels, from sheets to a hand mixer. We could actually survive and even thrive for years on what she'd brought. On the Greyhound bus!

When I was in elementary school,I loved Wednesdays because that's the day Granny took the bus to our house. When I came home from school, she'd be in the living room, piecing a quilt, talking with my mother, waiting for me. We'd visit and talk. My Granny and I never ran out of things to talk about. There was never silence between us because there were too many things to be said. At 4:30, we'd start packing Granny up. We'd wait to hear the toot of the Helms Bakery truck pulling up in front of our place. My mother and I carried Granny's bags. The Helms man always handed me a free cookie and took Granny's elbow to help her up into the truck. Once firmly lodged in the truck, she'd take hold of the brass handle and ride standing to the bus stop. Mr. Helms transported her that way for years. 4:45 on Wednesdays, so she could get home and make Grandpa's dinner by 6:00.

This post started with just snippets of memories. The soundtrack might be "the wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round." I think this is my concluding thought, though: little inconveniences such as walking 12 miles in the rain (in four separate 3-mile spurts) to wash and iron a man's bathrobe belt, or hauling bags and bags of stuff 25 miles aross Los Angeles County on the bus while keeping one's hands busy with quilting in the moments unclaimed by other demands . . . . didn't stop her from doing what she needed to do. I don't believe I ever heard her complain about anything. Not once. She just did what she did, and didn't let much get in her way.

Last Saturday night as I took a life step, I was sent an e-mail that said, "I am so proud of you. You do what needs to be done!" Oh, my dear one, I am an amateur, an abecedarian, a dilettante. But she's an inspiration and I can learn!

In my ears right now: The Who - Magic Bus. What else? Maybe Magical Mystery Tour would also be appropriate.

Something that charmed me: Finding an image online of a genuine Helms Bakery truck. They were beautifully appointed with oak cabinetry and drawers and they smelled as good as the wares they were carrying. Little old ladies didn't need to be concerned about accepting a ride to the bus stop with one of the gentlemen in white uniforms.

The Venerable Thing

Photo credit:
J. D. Morehouse

You see in the photo a modest, very old gold filigree pendant on a simple, contemporary chain. The chain is 14 karat gold. The pendant is not. When the pendant was made, 14 karat gold was not as common as it is now. You can see the slight color differences between the two different qualities of gold. The little "jewels" are Tennessee River pearls. One is original and one is not. The pendant is quite thin, small and light. When the Badger photographed it yesterday, I noticed something I hadn't remembered. A tiny dot of gold solder on the back where the pendant had nearly worn through. It's been stabilized.

I wore the pendant on my neck on the day I was a bride and on the day I went to give birth to my child. When that endeavor became "surgery", Ex took it from my neck and wrapped the chain around his wrist so I could see it. I wear it to job interviews, to parties, and when I'm going to be photographed. When the Badger's daughter was a bride, she wore it pinned in the seam of her gown in a lace packet. Maybe my own daughter will, too. "Something old." It is retro, vintage, from another time. And so am I. When I wear it, I feel special and I feel like I look special.

For what you see, in all its glory, is my Granny's lavaliere. I have only ever heard that word used on about three separate instances except with reference to this very one. I know it's not a Granny made-up word. Pendant necklaces apparently were called lavalieres in another day and time and place. This was the May, 1917, high school graduation gift from the town doctor with whom Granny boarded. Sadly, I've never seen a picture of her wearing it. Her graduation photo had been taken before graduation and gift-giving. The later photos show her in more candid poses, more casual. Less dressed up. And then she was a mother. Pearls. Or no jewelry at all.

The lavaliere and my owning it are intriguing to me. She had daughters. None of them got it, and she was particularly attached to one of them. I am not the oldest granddaughter, by far. No one else was given it. We all played with it. I loved to sit in Granny's bedroom and poke around in the Japanese lacquered jewelry box one of "the boys" brought home from the war in the Pacific. I did my share of rubbing the lavaliere. Maybe generations of us rubbing it is what required it to be stabilized later! I even have a vague recollection, from very young childhood, of handling the box the lavaliere was presented from. By the time the lavaliere became mine, the box was long forgotten. There's no way to know when and where the original chain went. I can remember putting it around my neck using a ribbon in about 1956. The silky feeling of ribbon against the neck . . .

I am sad to say I don't recall when/how/why it became mine. Instead of hers. Gifted to me. Certainly before I married at age 25 on October 16, 1977. It wasn't new to me then. It was well established as mine. And long before her death in 1987, as documented by many photos of me wearing it. Stepfather's many interests/jobs in life included "fine jeweler", and it was he who was able to get me the restoration work that didn't bastardize the lavaliere in any way. Maybe the gifting of it was as simple as lunch over cottage cheese and pineapple, gingerbread hot from the oven, really good coffee . . . "Here, honey. I intended this for you." I received many other gifts from her in just that kind of setting.

In my ears right now: a Linda Ronstadt collection from the '70s. I wanted to look like young Linda Ronstadt so much I don't have the words to tell it. Playing the music, when Linda belts it, I belt it. I don't look like her and I don't sound like her. But I can belt a tune, inhaling and exhaling when she inhales and exhales, and I know every word.

Something that charmed me: the Badger photographed the lavaliere for me and e-mailed the image the next morning. He was not satisfied with his work. "The tripod must have been bumped during that long 30-second exposure." [Note to self: next time he says he's going for a long exposure, just avoid the general territory of the tripod and camera altogether.] I e-mailed back that it was good enough for my blog - I just wanted to show the lavaliere, not have something worthy of an auction catalog. Of course, that's why the Badger makes photographs and I take "pitchers".

Independence Day

Ex and I moved to Las Vegas on the Bicentennial Day - July 4, 1976. My mother had beckoned, saying if we wanted to be homeowners at a relatively young age, we might forego SoCal for a few years and start building our financial foundation in a place that was booming (but it does always bust eventually). Stepfather was a general contractor building homes faster than I can type it. Mom was the real estate broker who sold the homes. A post was found for me as an escrow officer - I escrowed the homes. Ex learned landscape and sprinkler systems - he put in the yards. It was a nice little dynasty we had.

We left LA that morning in our yellow VW Beetle with four kittens aged 8 weeks, a tiny traveling litter box, and everything we owned. Our home was to be one of the model homes in Stepfather's latest development. It was beautifully upgraded and we were excited . . . until we arrived in Las Vegas in 113 degrees to hear that decorating on the new model homes hadn't been completed and we'd need an apartment for a couple of months. OK ~ we quickly got one.

The 2 months rolled by and we did move into that first home. It was where I morphed from a teenager to a young woman. I learned to entertain and manage a "large estate" (ha!), keep a yard in an impossible climate, prevent my pack of cats from terrorizing the neighborhood. I belonged there. We (finally) married while living in this home. We spoke of beginning a family there. We hosted my Granny, my Dad and every known relative there. When you live in Las Vegas, you get lots of house guests. Funny how that works!

It should be noted, however, that while Ex loved everything about Las Vegas, I did not. I just liked where my life was during the time we happened to be in Las Vegas. He trenched by hand for sprinkler systems at high noon in August, no shirt on, braids to his waist . . and loved it. If I got a little dewy from heat, I hated life. When it snowed and my car spun off the road, I was ready to pack it in. He trenched for sprinkler systems in the snow and loved it.

When the economy busted, we headed for San Diego for the next 21 years (well, 21 years for me). Amber was born. We lived in one place for the longest time I've ever lived anywhere. When we divorced, circumstances were such that Ex got San Diego and I got - oh, NO, I've already served my sentence there - Las Vegas. Viva. ;(

Shortly after I returned here in 2003, and while the divorce conflagration was still roaring, I took a ride in my car to a well-known neighborhood. I parked and got out onto the sidewalk. An older man and his dog were in the yard, which was beautifully maintained, as was the paint, the wrought iron trimmings, the concrete driveway. I started to cry and he asked if he could be of assistance. "I'm sorry, Sir, I used to live here." "Then you must be Limes." Huh?

Ex and I had left Las Vegas before the house sold. We'd never met the eventual buyers. This couple had now lived in my former home for more than 20 years, and one might call them houseproud because they clearly spent a lot of time taking care of their home. For many years they had received catalogs in the mail addressed to Limes Now and had seen my name in the concrete patio with the date 6-18-78. The wife made me a cup of tea and gave me an inspirational book and then these lovely people did the most amazing thing - remember, he'd just picked me up sobbing on the sidewalk and I hadn't presented ID.

They went out into the yard with their dog. I remained in "my" home to walk through the rooms alone. The block hearth and mantelpiece I'd painted every year because the soot and ashes made it messy. The carefully concealed bullet hole from Ex's gun going off unexpectedly. My name and Ex's on the patio. Numerous rose bushes in the yard that I'd planted with my own hands. In the master bedroom, ex once hung some wallpaper I'd fallen in love with. He'd done a credible job of it for a man who'd never hung wallpaper. There it was in 2003 . . and, yep - the ferns on that wallpaper were still upside down.

I've never gone back there. I don't need to. Ex divorced me. And I divorced him right back during my stroll through our past home.

It happens that I will have the rare 2 days off in a row this weekend. I need a major walk to continue training. I've plotted my route. From my present home past the house that Stepfather built to the apartment shared with Ex and the kittens (which is now a pretty rough area). One of those kittens was in my life 17 years and waited in the bassinette when I brought newborn Amber home from the hospital. Turn around and retrace my steps. I figure it to be 16.75 miles round trip. On the 4th of July through Las Vegas. From my present through my past and back again. Very fitting!

In my ears right now: The Star Spangled Banner, what else? And James Taylor's truly beautiful tune, "The Fourth of July".

Something that charmed me: Choosing my words very carefully, so as not to ruin young men for life, I was telling some of the home dudes about different challenges of extremely long walks in heat. One is perspiring everywhere so that shirt, shorts, socks and shoes are soaked by the time one gets home. I also mentioned that my skin is irritated from moisture. "Men's clear antiperspirant, Limes. Even in the weird spots." Well, yeah! Duh. I shall try it immediately.

Something else that charmed me: Writing the blog post and scheduling it to post while I am out on my 16+ mile walk. I'll return home and maybe have comments before I've even checked out the post. We live in wondrous times!

Granny-O's Pronunciation

Granny went to school and - remarkably for a young girl of her time and station - she graduated from Park City High School in May, 1917. She was 17 years of age and lovely. She had perfect skin and the mostly perfectly square face I have ever seen. Her hair was very dark. I only ever knew her with gray and white and blue hair. Her eyes were hazel, which is a color I've never quite understood. But I can tell you her eyes sometimes looked brown, sometimes green, sometimes almost golden. I guess that's what "hazel" means. She was tiny. I don't believe she ever reached 5 feet tall because I am that size and I think she was smaller. She wore size 4 shoes.

In order to attend the high school, she had to move into town and stay there Monday through Friday. It was arranged that she would board with the local doctor's family in exchange for some light housekeeping on school days and go home on weekends. More will be blogged about that doctor's high school graduation gift to Granny, which now belongs to me - a venerable thing I shall have the Badger photograph.

Granny was almost 53 when I was born, so half of the time we had together, I was a child and she was the adult. But once I was also an adult, I observed that she had been decently educated. In 1960, she still recited Hiawatha from memory, with inflection. Her handwriting was perfect Palmer Method and she could spell. She spent time at crossword puzzles, Scrabble, Yahtzee, cards and was an avid reader. She loved a mystery story and could usually figure it out before the end. A good brain and a good curious mind had my Granny.

So, as Cousin [my favorite girl cousin to whom I was actually spiritually attached] and I used to say, "She's so sharp, but what the heezy is with "_______" ? [Insert particular words here - the ones that Granny had no intention of saying correctly, no matter who pointed out her faux pas. And when one pointed out such a faux pas, it was never acknowledged. Silence. As if it hadn't been spoken. The elephant in the room.]

A whole culture grew up around Granny's pronunciations. Various relatives learned to avoid eye contact with the others who would be most likely to cause them to howl out loud. One didn't want to howl out loud at Granny. She was a revered woman who didn't have a well-developed sense of humor. While 40 others of us would guffaw and roll around on the floor about something or nothing, Granny would sit in her chair completely straight-faced. She wanted to be in the mix with us, but she just didn't seem to "get" humor. She detested W.C. Fields and Bob Hope and Lucille Ball.

So ~ just the tiniest taste of Granny's fractured figures of speech:

Who knows why we were sitting around speaking of lesbians? Who cares? Maybe one of us had read a book or seen a movie or had a friend or was curious. When Granny first said "lisbon", Cousin and I exchanged a glance. The conversation went on. She said "lisbon" repeatedly. Cousin and I could no longer make eye contact for fear of unbecoming behavior. I never heard her pronounce the word in any other way. As if such women were Portuguese . . . .

My Granny wanted to visit Hawaii in the worst way. She finally did on several occasions after Grandpa died. She was attracted to all things Hawaiian, read everything about Hawaii, always bought a Hawaii calendar, bought leis, ate pupu, went to luaus, visited the Pearl Harbor Memorial about which she was sentimental because Pearl Harbor Day was her 41st birthday and she sent many sons to the war in the Pacific. She ate cottage cheese with pineapple for her lunch every day of life, giving a tip of the hat to Hawaii. The name of that place she loved was "Ha-WY-ya". I never heard her say it any differently.

When some family members moved to Las Vegas, Granny became a senior citizen good time girl. She loved to play nickel slot machines and she had a thing for Engelbert Humperdinck at age 78. My mother indulged her by taking her to the man's shows on practically every visit. Granny had the autographed photos, the personal mention from the stage - "It's lovely to see Granny with us again this evening." God knows how my mother managed that! Finally, through a labyrinth of smarmy Las Vegas deals, it was arranged that Granny would get to meet her idol backstage. She was 80 years old and wore a pink dress with a white corsage. Her hair had been made freshly blue and she wore lipstick. Very rare occurrence! I wonder what the man thought when she called him Engel-borg. Because that's the only way she'd ever been known to say his name!

Lest the reader think I am being mean by cackling at my Granny, I say this: although she didn't have much of a sense of humor, I do. Although she didn't laugh her way through her life, I must. Although she didn't work hard to get the snicker from others, I always have. I think she'd be pleased that I'm keeping her memory alive. Even if she didn't understand the vehicle. Hey, Granny ~ I thought of you and Engel-borg and your pink dress and corsage today. And it made me really, really happy.

In my ears right now: The sound of "yes, we can accommodate you." I fiddled around and failed to make a massage appointment until it was almost embarrassing to call. I didn't hold out much hope. But, "yes", for 2 glorious hours tonight! Hey, it's Las Vegas! We want everything and we want it right now. Mostly, we can get it, too. I book plenty of carpet cleaning appointments set for arrival at screwy hours.

Something that charmed me today: A friend was given some Starbucks gift cards in appreciation of extra effort at work. These were shared with me, and I hadn't done anything noble to deserve them. I protested. I was told, "I want you to have them."