Moonrakers

While hubby and I were perusing the local paper the other night we became aware that the house we first lived in together was on the market. Yep, the first house we fixed up, re-wired, painted, papered and had our first child in was for sale. The owners who are selling it obviously have done some work since we lived there. The ad states it has an eat in kitchen. The little galley kitchen we used barely had room to turn around in, so obviously it has been upgraded. I have dreamed of that house repeatedly. In those dreams it is still the cute little place where I learned to be a wife, then a mommy. In the dreams though, I am always leaving it for somewhere. I don't know what that means in "dream speak". I don't think I care really. Our daughter laughingly said we should buy it and thereby come full circle. And so help me, I thought, maybe that was a good idea. But hubby and I, if we ever move, want something on one floor. Something that as the little old people we are becoming can stay in and not worry about climbing onto the roof of the porch to fix it or climbing into the attic to find out what was leaking into the kitchen. So practicality has been our motto; if we ever move. Still it was fun to reminisce about the ol' homestead. And think what life was like then and how it has become now. The sale sign is gone now and I'm sure some young couple has begun their new life there. I wish them luck and happiness. Something the house seemed to bring to us. We've been to Moonrakers and we've moved on.

Greenery

We attended the Flower Show yesterday, hubby and I. The theme this year was Hawaii. There were hundreds and hundreds of orchids everywhere! I love to look at orchids. I've only got one in the house and it seems to be growing well--oh, I shouldn't have said that, now it'll probably die. Anyway, I love admiring the varieties of orchids and well, really, any type of flower. Squinting closely at the way the coloring seems to follow the veins in the petals, admiring the graceful arch of leaves, checking out the way the roots either push up from the dirt to get a better sky view or humbly remain hidden in the dark recesses of the loamy soil, I really do enjoy studying plants. As we wandered the aisles and elbowed our way into the display areas, I was again amazed at the variety of say, tulips or daffodils. The seemingly endless array of orchids. The subtle nuances of the various ferns in the judging areas. Of course, I looked at the blue ribbons and thought to myself, hey my "insert-plant-name-here" is just as good looking as that, I could have won! But the difference between the people who entered their plants and I (besides the fact that they entered and I didn't) is that they care about winning the ribbon. Whereas I just like to have them inhabit my space with me. I love the way the poinsettias are still blooming in March in the front window of the living room. I appreciate the green accents in the sun porch in the corner, even if I can't remember the names of the plants. The african violets on the windowsill are my way of greeting the morning, even when I can make myself wake up enough to say hello to the hubby. Outside, the weather has been relatively warm for a winter in Zone 7, and the daffodils and crocuses are confused and coming up a little early to greet the season. I like their ambition. I like the splash of color before everyone else gets into the act of dressing up in their greenery. I restrained myself at the Flower Show. I bought two small plants to add to my collection. I would have loved to have purchased so many others. But we needed to ride home on the train and lugging a wheel barrow full of posies was not really what I wanted to do. But still, I took a few pictures with my phone and I'll be able to revisit the blooms if I choose. Which isn't as good as having them here with me, but it will have to do until next time.

She Walks in Beauty with the groceries

Beauty is for looking at
No matter what others say.
If the visage is not beautiful
They will not be looking your way.
Trust me on this.

The beauty of today is slim and straight
And hardly any curves
Unless you are selling underwear
With wings attached.
Trust me on this.

Skin is flawless
Lips are full-ish
Lashes are grotesquely long-ish
And hair is flowing, flowing
Past the shoulders in lustrous waves
Of rippling brown (no longer blonde-mostly)
Trust me on this.

And those of us who are
Or never have been willowy
Our hair is short, our stature shorter
Our underwear white and serviceable
Without wings or even possibly lace
Watch in haunted shadows
The passing of those long, cool drinks of water
Sometimes with a lump of envy
Sometimes with a note of irony
And mostly with a wonder, what if
Trust me on this.

We populate the daytime
With mini-vans
Small economy cars full of groceries
And love and angst
And fierce pride in our broods
We do not pout, nor whine, or expect roses
Or even dinner out (except maybe once a year).
We are real, those without the visual beauty
And we are beautiful to one another
We recognize each other
Even if not in some man’s fantasy.
Trust me on this.

It's Stupid to Get Mad, But...

I consider myself okay with computers. I know how to do certain things and in turn certain things get done for me. It's a basic premise, one that I'm comfortable with from day to day. Ah, but there are those days. I decided to be lazy and instead of sitting at my desktop, I decided to use my laptop which I hadn't powered up for a little while. I briefly recall that hubby had it upstairs tinkering about a week ago, but I didn't think anything of it. Until I tried to get on it. It is not connected to the wireless in the house...hunh? How could it not be connected to the wireless? It doesn't have to be plugged in, right? It just has to have the proper little code to work...right? And then I remembered. He moved the wireless router. We live in a brick house. The poor little laptop is lost within the walls of the dead space between brick and mortar. I have to change my location. It took me 40 minutes, I'm sorry to admit, to remember he told me this. I sent him a text message before I remembered with a snarky, sarcastic tone. Forty minutes of swearing, mumbling, yelling at the screen and then finally powering off to remember this little tidbit of info.

I'm on the desktop now. Breathing deeply and trying to remain calm. But it was just one of those days.

Good Ol' Music

I know I've written about this before, but it bears a repeating, sort of. I love music that my father loved. My hubby found on Pandora, a succession of songs which I have to admit made me dance about the kitchen with a goofy smile on my face. I knew most of the lyrics, could guess most of the singers, and even knew their phrasing! It was great! Because it's just he and I, during dinner we are usually serenaded with classical. It's soothing, sometimes I recognize the music, sometimes I don't. But after our respective busy days, it's nice to listen to soothing melodies.

But since the radio station went off the air that I used to listen to with this kind of music, I don't get the variety anymore. My own personal playlists are heavy on the Sinatra, Bennett and not too much else. It was wonderful to hear Ella, Jimmy Durante, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr. and even Bobby Darin. I asked him to leave it on just a little longer as I cleaned up the kitchen. They even played, "In the Mood" by Glen Miller! Oh, it was marvelous. I finished cleaning up, and just sat in the chair in the kitchen with that small smile remembering all the times I must have heard The Lady is a Tramp, As Time Goes By, and oh, I don't know, hundreds of others all those years in the car singing along.

It was superb! I'm sure my husband, who by the way retreated to his lair upstairs, could do without my out of tune warbling. But it restored me for the evening. And reminded me that my memory is just fine for these songs. I swear I have so many memorized, it's a wonder I can remember everything else. Which I would like to believe is the reason I can't remember everything else.

Anyway, I'm singing along now and hope to continue for a little while yet. I'll catch up with you all later...after hours...maybe at a quarter to three. If you don't get that reference well then, nevermind.

The Passage of Time

I visited my nephew's grave today. His birthday was February 3 and I just thought to go over and see where it was, the new headstone, well, whatever. It was cold and blustery there. The cars were whizzing by on the highway and the side streets, people hurriedly going about their business on a Saturday. I looked down and thought of him.

I remembered my sister, upon hearing of his death, say, "Oh, that's just so unfair." And she was right. It was. And still is. I am not unknowing about the world, I am aware that life can be unfair. I know that people die all the time in accidents and even because bad people make choices that affect innocent people. I read the paper. I watch the news, only not so much anymore. I don't like the news. All that death on purpose makes me uneasy. And sad.

He should have been around to witness all the wonderful things going on with his family this year, the weddings, the new baby, even the usual birthdays. I do not want to hear someone say, "he is with you in spirit," right now. Maybe he is, but he isn't here in person is he? And that's what I miss, what I'm thinking of, not the ethereal "other"; the here and now. He is not in the here and now with us.

Life changes so quickly. And goes on. I said to my husband, "life still goes on," knowing that it wasn't a breaking news bulletin. Just a realization. Life progresses without us when we cease to be. In the play Our Town, the character Emily has died and is counseled by the people on the hill who have gone on before her. But the stage manager tries to answer the question she asks about realizing how life is going on all around us, "every, every minute." Do they realize, she asks? And he says honestly, no. Maybe some, poets he mentions, but most of us see the time we are living in at this moment as just the second leading up the next second to the next minute, hour, day, week, month, and year. The slip stream of time blurs by our eyes so fast, that we weren't even sure we saw it. And then when someone slips out of the stream, we notice the vacancy, but the current takes us past and the vacuum is gone, until the next time we take a minute to see it. And so I stood in the blustery gloom and stared at the stone with his name on it, trying to fill the void for just a few minutes.

Happy Birthday John, wherever you are.

Christmas Time is Here

The above is the first line from the skating scene song in "A Charlie Brown Christmas". It's sort of obvious, but with the shushing of the drum beat in the background, it's sort of like underneath stuff too. On the surface there is that hubbub and rushing and baking and cleaning and laughing at stupid old songs. But I've noticed that many columnists point to the season as being-well-less than stellar for them. They aren't hearing the undertones. They lament that it's too full of things, too full of getting, not enough of giving, yada, yada, yada (as the Seinfeld gang would say).

And I for one would like to post that I give all those uber-cool guys the raspberries. Excuse me if your Christmas is commercial, gimme, over the top greedy. I'm sorry for you, really. I probably don't give as much to charity as I could. I probably don't remember the poor and homeless as much as I should either--although I'd like to think I got a few brownie points for some of the stuff I DID remember. But almost to a one, every person I know thinks Christmas is pretty wonderful and happy and full of good things. We adore giving just the "right thing" to people in our family (and sometimes they aren't even related!). We laugh at antics of Christmas past. We relish the time given to us because it is given to everyone and you can either be glad about it or complain. I read far too many columns from some high-brow snooty people about how Christmas is just for the people with money. But I still believe Christmas is in the heart, not the pocketbook. I see lots more smiley faces, lots more letting into traffic, lots more "no you go ahead" in the checkout lines at the grocery store. I'm sorry they don't see this Christmas that I see. I wish they could. I wish everyone could see the light which shines over all darkness and illuminates the spirit. Oh, how I wish Scrooge wasn't such a hero before he gets changed.

So I'm not cool again this year. I am hopelessly in love with the season, my family and friends and how they celebrate it and I hope the same for those curmudgeons grousing about their houses in their bathrooms today.

Merry Christmas, God Bless us EVERYONE!

People and Their Dogs

Okay, I don't own a dog. I used to share ownership of lots of dogs at various and sundry stages of my life, but I no longer own one and probably have forgotten many of the things associated with owning or even taking care of one. But one of the things I know that is supposed to happen with a dog is a walk. It's universal like a remote control (unless you live in my house in which there are several remote controls for the same thing, but I digress). So you walk the dog, probably poopy scoop after them and both of you get your exercise and everybody's happy--mostly.

I have seen the scenario I'm about to describe to you for at least 3 nights now, when I go to pick up hubby at the train station and I don't understand it. I imagine what it means, I try to logically figure it out, but alas, I'm at a loss. Dispassionately, the scene looks like this: a women is holding, no make that restraining her snarling, barking German Shepherd who is carrying on in the direction of a man who is either standing on a porch or the front yard of what I assume to be his own house. He isn't moving, isn't taunting the dog. He is either standing with his hands on his hips staring at this excited beast or looking relatively unconcerned with his hands hanging down at his side. He isn't approaching the woman and her dog. He isn't even conversing as far as I can tell with either of them. He's just standing there. And she isn't reprimanding the dog for these shenanigans either, she is simply holding him and letting him "express himself" at this man's expense. It's such a bizarre tableau. What is going on? Does he know them both and teases the dog regularly and this is their "playing"? Does she dislike the man and this is the only way she can be sure he knows it? I have no clue. So what do you think?

Company again

We are hosting company this weekend. Yes, the family just got done being together, but this group is made up of our daughters friends. They are coming together to look at dresses for the upcoming wedding. Deciding on what to wear, the color, the style, the logistics. They like each other (a blessing, I'll admit) and they are a fun bunch to talk with. They are staying for a couple of days. We are spending an inordinate amount of time around the kitchen table laughing and eating. The ebb and flow of conversation is different that when the family was here, but the current is fine to jump into once in a while and observe the rest of the time.

I'm cleaning up again and dusting and straightening. The house hasn't been this organized in I don't know how long. It's amazing really. I'll need to take some time off before the next round at Christmas.

But I like it! and I like having them around. See you when I get done doing another round of dishes!

Ah, yes, the family

We are getting together this weekend. A whole lot of family. All sides. They are coming from all over, too! And this time it's a happy occasion, a celebration of a milestone birthday. There are plans already made, plans in the making and contingency plans for the plans that don't work out. It will be raucous, noisy fun when we all assemble and I'm really quite excited about the whole thing. I love it when all the siblings get together with their spouses. I love it when those who aren't actually related by blood or marriage cram themselves and those who are blood relatives into a space and laugh and talk and laugh some more. Sometimes, as I told my sister recently, I wish I could hear better. But really, it's so great to go from group to group, catching pieces of conversation here and there, sliding into a joke with this crowd and delving into the philosophical question with that assembly. Re-telling the same family stories, even though everyone has heard them twenty-five times is still a tradition. And amidst all that, we really like each other. Oh, sometimes we lose patience with one or another. Sometimes we get angry over something someone says or does, but mostly I would say we really enjoy our company.

I like it when everyone has left, too and you can re-think things over. Replay the laughter and conversations in your mind and file it away for some long afternoon when maybe it seems colder and darker outside than normal.

I know this post sounds really "Pollyanna-ish", but I make no apologies. We're getting together this weekend and its a happy occasion.

An American Tune

I really love music. Not all kinds I know. But I love it when a tune I know sneaks up behind me and taps me on the head and I whirl around and recognize it suddenly. I was in church this morning--where I am most Sunday mornings and as we ambled our way along the liturgy and readings a song arose in mid-service. Mostly when I don't recognize a song as one from the random memory, I listen to a verse or two before joining in, trying to categorize it, see if indeed I'd heard it before somewhere else. This has happened a few times with hymns in the past and I'm always pleasantly surprised when I do know the song.

Anyway, while listening to the melody during the second verse of this second hymn, it seemed to me that I knew this song but not from church. I looked down at the teeny-weeny notes which shows the person who wrote the lyrics and the music. The music was done by Bach. Well, that didn't help me much. I mean I like Bach, I guess when I recognize it, but I usually hum Beethoven in a pinch. But I just knew this music. I could feel the synapses pushing stuff aside, shuffling, shuffling and suddenly I had it! I had Paul Simon's American Tune! Okay, it didn't match exactly, but it was there, right there! And I was amazed!

An American Tune is one of those songs that gets stuck in my head for long periods at a time and here there it was! A mosh up of Bach! I went to our wise and wonderful music director after church and explained my excitement at recognizing a tune in an unfamiliar place. He was trying to figure the melody out from American Tune, but he couldn't quite remember how it went so he asked me to e-mail him the song so he could hear it.

Okay, so this is where some people will turn off the post...because the version I remembered most was not the Paul Simon version, but the Starland Vocal Band version. It was sung acappella with beautiful harmonies and it was just my favorite song for a very long time. So I found this version and after playing it about 100 times just to hear it again, I sent it off to the music director. I'm not sure if he's appalled that I sent this instead of the other. I haven't heard back from him yet.

But I love this...the fact that I was actually listening to something written a long time ago and never even knew it!

The Meaning of the Date

For most Americans, this Sunday is an anniversary of a horrific event 10 years ago. Even though life has gone on and people live their lives in pretty much the same way, it's still something in the collective American memories of 9/11 which rush back, asking, "What were you doing when?"

But the significance of this date has taken on a new meaning for our family. A tragedy last year swamped our emotions, flooded our consciousness and pushed the national mourning to the recesses of our minds. We are remembering a different scenario than most this Sunday. We are asking ourselves, "where were you when you got the call?" We, too have moved on with our lives, pretty much the same way. But the hollowness in the corner of our heart is still there and is still somewhat fresh. It still hurts. It catches us unaware when we are going about our lives. It robs us of breath sometimes with its jagged edge of memory. It stings with the thoughts of what those loved ones won't be sharing with us: the new baby, the new engagements, the laughter of coming together. And it's more personal than watching the images of those buildings crumbling to the ground. We thought we were lucky then because we didn't lose anyone in that calamity. But we lost them years later on essentially the same day.

So we are mourning again, in a way taking comfort that the nation is mourning along side of us for a different reason. There is a comfort in a way of all those people feeling sad, even thought they aren't aware of our own personal sadness. But we are sorrowful in a way that the nation isn't. Eventually we'll heal and it won't be as sore as it is now, just like the nation. But we aren't there yet. It takes time.

After She's Gone

I kept thinking that it seemed wrong to sleep through the storm last night. That “trusting” the devices that will alert us of problems will continue to work seemed sort of naïve. I lay awake for some time next to the snoring spouse, watching the trees bend to and fro with the weight of wind and rain bowing their backs. We’re fine this morning. There wasn’t even a power outage, which is something of a surprise in the bubble. Usually the random thunder storm causes the power to blink owlishly. But not for the hurricane of 2011! The Bubble is intact. There were a few leaks of water. Several hundred twigs lying lifeless on the lawn. Watery graves for thousands of ants, sow bugs and seed pods of the nearby ash tree. The aftermath is forlorn and solemn. And the world seems somehow quieter, having escaped the wrath of Mother Nature, there are no cars zooming to get to wherever it is they go. There aren’t any people patrolling the streets yet, like they do after a snow storm, checking to see if they can shovel or not. Only the shushing of the wind, only the dripping of the water out of the gutters, only the groaning of the ancient trees.

Good bye Irene

The hurricane moved through last night
It’s path hurling wind and water
In the murky light of the street lamps
Against the house

It seemed wrong to sleep
During this furor
But sleep we did, in the
Air conditioned comfort that
Blissfully secured us
The bricks and mortar
Pushing the tempest back
Outside where it belongs

Most of our trees are still standing
Still being bent by the aftershocks
Of the storm that was
Their twigs strewn about like autumn leaves
Abandoned because of their size
Or weight or both

Life goes on,
The wind whispers still
Water collects in puddles in
The gutters and driveways
Remnants of nature
Spent fury during the night.

Plans and more plans

Things have been a little busy in the neighborhood bubble lately. Of course, these things are only related to me, therefore I'm more conscious of them than say the neighbors across the street or even across the far end of the bubble. Our daughter has become engaged to be married and the wheel of planning has begun to turn. You must pick a date, preferably not when one of your friends is doing the same thing. You have to decide on a place, see the same "peferably" mentioned above. And there begins to be a sense of reality as these things get filled into the calendar. You find things out about about your child that you thought you knew, but didn't really. They aren't important things necessarily. Things like the dance they will be dancing to will not be either a singer nor song you have ever heard of before. Although I will admit the song is beautiful and haunting. You will suddenly become aware of stores you didn't notice around you before. Specifically bridal salons. Those stores were there before, for quite some time, they just had some nebulous name to go along with their nebulous purpose. But now, ah, we know what the name means and that it does indeed have a purpose. The bridal magazines in the stores which before were just in the peripheral vision of the magazine rack, now grab your eye. And you realize you don't know what your daughter will pick for her gown, her colors or her theme. And yes, you need to have a theme and no, it won't be "look I"m getting married." It's educational this process. And not particularly frightening, not yet anyway. I have been assured by several friends who recently did this, that it will become increasingly frightening, annoying, time-consuming and breath taking (in many ways) and sometimes all at once. I think I'm ready for this. Our daughter is worth the fuss and hullabaloo. Her fiance is a rock-steady young man and not prone to hysterics or demands, which I'm sure will be a blessing as time goes by.

And so I am busy. And she is busy. Her father and fiance are standing next to us and listening. Which is what we both need right now, I guess. And we need a new calendar for the dates. It's getting busy in the bubble. And it's exciting as well.

Of Long Distance Phone calls

I got a phone call at work today from Kate Middleton. Honest! That's what she told me her name was and she had a wonderful British accent and everything! But I just knew it wasn't the princess or duchess or whatever her title is since the wedding. And some lackey would have called for her anyway, even if it had been her. But for just a minute, I thought, OH!

The real reason she called was that apparently the old high school in which I work was once the site of a house in which her relative resided. She was looking for a picture of it. We have loads of old pictures on the wall of graduating classes that go back to the Stone Age, I think. But no photos of a house. We even have aerial views of the building as it was expanded and enlarged (you'll notice I didn't mention upgraded). But no residence. I told her I had a book at home, something about historic houses or some such thing. But I couldn't remember the title exactly nor even the contents come to that. So I gave her my home e-mail and asked her to write me a message and I would reply with whatever information I could find. Alas, I came home, pulled out the beautiful coffee table book I was thinking of and the house wasn't even mentioned. Her relative however at one time owned a "shop" downtown. And I could locate his name in some dreary write up about the historic businesses of the town.

I opened my e-mail, but she hadn't written to me. I was disappointed. Kate Middleton, writing to me! My brush with fame was short-lived. I wanted to tell her to tell the prince I said hi! But as I said, she wasn't the princess or the duchess or whatever. So it's a moot point.

At the Shore

We are on vacation, the family and I. The immediate family is here, day in and day out, laughing, arguing, laughing some more. It's a good and marvelous thing. One I've missed for a while. But isn't vacation supposed to be a balm to the soul?

Anyway, the place we rented, and if you don't know this about renting at the shore--you go down in the depths of winter looking for a place you might like in the swelter of summer--doesn't have central air conditioning and we are in the midst of one of the hottest summers on record. We thought the place looked original and quaint. And it did and it is. But on those 100+ days, a little better than window units would have been helpful. The breeze is jumping today,though, and the humidity is low, so it's a good place. Yesterday at the sandy gateway to the ocean, the breezes blew, the sun, when it peeked out of the clouds was hot and the water was cool enough to make you suck in your stomach, not to impress anyone, but because the initial shock felt great if surprising. I sat on my beach chair and opening my senses to what I could smell and hear and these are my observations. The smell of sunscreen is no longer fruit scented. When did that happen? But the ocean still smells salty, of course. The sounds though, well, it's different now with hearing aids. I leaned my head back on the chair, closed my eyes and really listened. The roar of the ocean waves rumbles through everything. The laughing gulls pierce the air with their insolent cries. I can't distinguish conversations anymore, just register the fact that people are talking around me. Which doesn't bother me all that much. I don't need to hear the family drama or teen angst taking place next to me. But oh, the joy to hear the casual conversation between the brother and sister in our family who are separated by a continent, that would be wonderful. As well as the funny observations from the daughter's boyfriend or hubby. I really don't miss being able to submerge myself under the waves, I never was one much for that, but I have to be careful how wet I get or decide simply to cool off and leave the "ears" back on the blanket, swathed in cotton and plastic, lest they got sand in their mechanisms. It's just not worth it, so getting wet from the waist down it is, so I can hear calls to me to turn around to get my picture taken or listen as the lady next to me tells of the visit of the dolphins on the one day I didn't go to the beach.

It's a different experience this year. One I'm grateful for and dubious of at the same time. But all the same, we are here, at the shore.

Pictures and Rainy days

I had a great time with my sister today. We shopped and ate our lunch out and laughed and talked. Over lunch she brought out an old photo album she found in the back of her closet. It was an amusing bunch of pictures, some of our parents, some of her husband's parents, some of my wedding shower and rehearsal dinner. Were we really that young looking! And my son has an uncanny resemblance to our younger brother. And my youngest nephew looks amazingly like his father from all those years ago. We were laughing and remembering and suddenly I turned the page and there was a picture of my sister in law with our nephew, my husband's and mine. He was only one year old the year we got married. He light blond hair cut close to his head, he was peering up warily at the photographer.

That nephew passed away this past September. In a senseless way. I don't think of him everyday anymore as I did when it first happened. And my sister felt bad when I saw the picture and got all teary eyed. But suddenly all the little thoughts of him rushed back at me, how it wasn't fair that he wasn't here anymore. That his parents shouldn't have to feel this awful all the time. That his brother and sister shouldn't have to wish he was here for her baby or his engagement.

the world still turns every day. Some wise woman recently said, "the sun comes up and it doesn't care whether I acknowledge it or not." One day moves into the next with either blessed consistency or callow disregard depending on your perspective. Our milestones come and go whether we acknowledge them or not. Maybe its the melancholy of the rainy day, but it seems harsh that he isn't here to see the sun or the rain, the dew on the grass or the moonlight through the trees. It seems like he should have those days and someone older, much older who has seen his share of sunsets and rainbows can have those taken away. But who am I to decide I guess. So I reflect on the pictures and his life, while the rain patters on the leaves outside. Remembering.

Militant Pedestrians

I can't remember if I've posted on this previously or not. But if I have, it bears repeating. I understand pedestrians have the right of way at all times. Truly I do. I know what it's like to wait and wait and wait on the curb while the hustle and bustle of lines of traffic backed up to kingdom come traverse in front of a person. I don't like it either. When the light finally changes, I'm almost euphoric getting to my destination. However, I know what it's like driving trying to get from point A to point B, especially in New Jersey. Especially around 4:30, 5:00 pm. I know how annoying it is for three light changes to take place before you even get to the intersection. So in light of those opposite considerations, can we take a moment here to be rational? If you step off a curb in front of someone who has waited two or three light changes to simply get to the line of traffic which waits on the other side, could you please do it with the green with you? Preferably when that nice flashing neutered person gives you the example of being able to walk at that time? The people who simply step off the curb knowing full well, you will have to jam on the brakes and sit in the middle of an intersection while they stroll, amble and converse with themselves (or perhaps it's on headphones and I just can't tell?) make me crazy. Nine times out of ten they look smug. They look like they want you to hit them so then can sue you for everything you've got and your mother besides. Why? What does this get you? I really want to understand as it makes no sense to me. The ones that really make my eyebrows jump to my hairline are the moms with strollers! Really? Are you really gonna put your precious child to the test of whether the next guys brakes work or not? You're gonna walk out boldly with your child in your probably collapsible mechanism and play chicken with the next driver? I don't understand them even more. I've seen jogging moms with strollers dart out from the curb, looking at the driver as if to say, "Hey, I have a right!" And of course, they are right, they do have the "right" to get rolled over but hey, think about the kids, okay? New Jersey drivers have enough attitude for half the East Coast, are you sure you want to challenge one with your offspring? It's just mystifying to me. Most times it's moms, occasionally dads try it, but they never look militant. Almost always they look apologetic. For them I'm willing to shrug and remember when my children were small and I needed to get home quickly. But the moms that just step out? Well, let's just say I hope in my current frame of mind, I certainly hope they're wearing lots of padding.

Exercising My Weather Options

So, I needed to make sure I got more exercise. I had read the obits recently and a guy who was a local barber died and he was my age. I have no idea whether he was more active than I was, but I was willing to bet he was. Most people are more active than I am. Even pandas seem more active, but I digress.

I drove home from work during lunch and thought, I know I'll walk back to work. Then after work I can walk home and get two bouts of activity in one day! I should be able to reward myself with some chocolate for that, or something. I ate a nutritious lunch and locked the house and car and began my walk back. It started out sunny. The weather wasn't too hot, nor too cold. I set a brisk pace and was back to work in no time. I noticed however, after getting back to work, that the sun was no longer shining as brightly. I got busy doing what I do and when it became evident that it was time to leave, I logged off the ol' computer and looked out the window. It looked dark. And it wasn't because I had stayed later. It looked like it was going to rain. Of course, the day I decided I need the exercise, it decides to rain. Well, I thought, there's no use putting it off, I better get started.

It's a curious thing about me as I age. There were things I did as a younger person that seemed fun and exhilarating. But when I contemplate doing them now, they don't seem so carefree. In fact, they sound downright unappealing. Walking in the rain was probably fun and even romantic in my younger years. But now? Not so much. I packed an umbrella in my back pack and began the relatively short walk home. It was still very cloudy and looked like the rain would begin any minute. I started walking faster. My walk home is through a residential area, full of mature trees which would keep light pattering rain off me. Of course, in my current frame of mind, all I could think was that those mature trees also beckoned lightening. Why I would think of this while trekking through the neighborhood, I have no idea, but it took root in my brain and would not leave. I began to walk faster, except I was running out of breath and I didn't want to have a heart attack on the way home. Of course, then that thought took root in my brain and as the palpitations began I decided I needed to slow down and enjoy the scenery and forget worrying so much. It did indeed begin to rain, just a few drops here and there. I opened the umbrella and looked slightly ridiculous I'm sure as the sidewalk wasn't even wet from the drops yet. I put it back in the backpack and soldiered on. It was about a block from the house I began to hear thunder. Now I have to admit that I don't usually hear thunder too much. With my hearing, the rumbling is just too low and it isn't until the storm is right on top of me that I can hear it (but really by then I'm feeling the tremors and seeing the flashes of light). So I began to pick up the pace a little more. After all, if Mother Nature decides to flick her wrist in my direction, I'm under all these trees and they would probably tumble down on top of me. By the time I reached the street I live on, I was running, umbrella tucked under my armpit, backpack slapping my back. I got home before the deluge--which didn't happen by the way. It sort of rumbled it's way off and that was the end of it. But I was safe and sound. I intend to have a large bowl of ice cream this evening to congratulate me for my new exercise regime!