It’s Here!!!!
My new book!
LUCINDA’S SOLUTION is a love story that encompasses the changing mores and the role of women from 1918 to 1920.
The novel was inspired by my own family – especially how my paternal grandfather’s family coped with the devastation brought on by the influenza pandemic. LUCINDA’S SOLUTION is fiction, but hearing the family stories for years and years ignited my imagination, and created characters who quickly became family – in my heart.
Here’s the description from the back cover:
LUCINDA’S SOLUTION is available in paperback and kindle versions on Amazon.
Here’s the link: LUCINDA’S SOLUTION
I hope you will consider buying my book, and I hope you like it.
If you do like it, I hope you will also contribute a review on Amazon.
I am thrilled that I did it… that it’s real … that I can hold my creation in my hands.
I’m so fortunate – my dreams keep coming true.
The Seniors’ Door
Back when I was in high school – which was either just yesterday or fifty years ago, I forget which – there was a tradition associated with a door.
The Seniors’ Door.
The high school was a low, 2-story sprawling structure. I don’t think it was all built at the same time. It looked to me like every time the city (Bristol, Connecticut) grew a bit, a new quadrangle was added. Certainly the classroom numbering was fairly odd – like someone made up numbers as necessary. It reminded me of adding a new exit on the highway, and instead of renumbering the whole slew, they just added some As and Bs… Exit 25A, Classroom 213D.
So it was a big school that never seemed crowded because of the long wide insane squares of hallways. But it was pretty big for a rather small city – there were 450 kids in my graduating class alone- and another couple of hundred at the crosstown rival school.
But back to the door.
A rambling structure like that – holding two thousand kids and maybe 100 teachers and staff – had a gazillion doors. Fire drills were chaos, but everyone got out fast. (Getting everyone back in was a different issue.)
But there was one door – facing the main parking lot – that was reserved.
Seniors only.
Freshmen, Sophomores, and Juniors used mainly the other front-facing door. This lowly door (in status only; it was huge) was just a couple of dozen feet away from the Seniors’ door. But there was no honor in that door.
I think about it now.
How crazy and useless the separation of those doors was. And who in the world decided to give such designation to doors?
But when my time came, how I loved the Seniors’ Door. Even if a different door was more convenient, I would walk to the Seniors’ Door. Opening that door conferred my specialness. Well, mine and my 449 classmates. It was as if that door opened into the world of adulthood. And we Seniors were ready.
But I remember a day – a year before, when I was still a Junior. I was working on a project (I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. I hardly ever volunteered for anything) with two other girls who were seniors. And we were leaving to go to one of the girls’ homes to finish up, and they were heading out the Seniors’ Door.
I made a dead stop.
“What?” they asked.
“I can’t go out that door!” I said. “I will go around and meet you in the parking lot.”
“Are you kidding?” said the girl whose home were were going to. A girl who – in our very ordinary, very middle class community was considered ‘privileged’. I think her father had a print shop.
“It’s the Seniors’ Door!” I explained.
“It’s a DOOR!” she said.
And held it open for me and I held my breath and walked through.
Holy shit. I went through a door I was not allowed to go through.
And the world did not come to an end.
I did not get arrested. I did not even get detention. I did not even get noticed.
And it felt AWESOME.
I would recommend that we all go through all the forbidden doors more often.
Not the ones with the alarms though.
The ones with rules. The ones with stigmas. The ones that only allow certain people to go through.
Go through.
Dance through.
Push the damn door open and run like hell – right through.
I Have A Few Questions
On this day of the long-scheduled release of thousand of documents related to JFK’s assassination, I am reposting my blog from last year.
UNANSWERED
I have mentioned before my mild obsession (Can an obsession be mild? Is that an oxymoron?) with unsolved mysteries. (Eureka, Sort Of)
I’ve always wanted to solve some great mystery or cold case.
In part, because I always like to show how smart I am. I was one of those obnoxious kids in grade school whose hand was always waving frantically in the air. (Well, OK, that was high school too. And college. And grad school.)
But mostly, because I am one of those types that just NEEDS to know. I hate a mystery with no answer.
Just TELL me.
Why, for example, when suspected murderers are dying, why don’t they just TELL us? I felt that way with Dr. Sam Shepard, who I thought was almost certainly innocent. Of course, it would have been even more convincing had their REAL murderer given us a death-bed confession.
Or Lizzie Borden, who on the other hand, I think was probably guilty. She’d been acquitted. She was already pretty much a social pariah in Fall River, so she had no reputation to lose. So why didn’t she just tell us?
It’s unfair.
I have a couple of minor, trivial, mysteries I will share in my next post, but I am in a serious mood today, and so I want to share a few important mysteries.
I am a Conspiracy Nut.
Yes, that’s what people call people like me.
I’m not one of those true overachieving nuts who believes EVERYTHING is a big conspiracy.
No.
I have just a few very specific conspiracy beliefs.
Perhaps it stems from the fact that some momentous world events happened when I was at my most impressionable. Those experiences that made me question authority for the first time. And understand, for the first time, that Authority is not always admirable or honest.
I don’t want to be too preachy or morbid. And I am no expert. So I won’t go off on a huge rant about the numerous unanswered questions or inconsistencies. I won’t beat the drum for thousands of pages or millions of words.
Let me just pose three questions. One question on each awful puzzle that has haunted me for decades. That may be demonstration enough. A few simple questions to represent the hundreds that continue to plague me.
1.
President Kennedy was assassinated in 1963. His murder was the most horrific thing most people had ever experienced. And I was only twelve. I watched events unfold, as I stood before our black-and-white TV, with my hands to my mouth. I saw Lee Harvey Oswald killed. I have only witnessed death once since… in 53 years. Two deaths. One a cousin, in her hospital room. One – an assassin on live TV.
There are many unanswered questions. I’ve read dozens of books, probably hundreds of articles. Most people who believe the lone gunman theory think that those of us who don’t are in denial. That we just cannot accept that one miserable unknown human being could have the power to change history.
But I am not naive. I am not an idealist. (Well, OK, perhaps somewhat of an idealist.) I do not think Oswald was a patsy in the true sense of the word. I believe he was involved. It’s the “lone” part of the “lone gunman” theory that worries me.
Here’s my one single JFK question. How does a young ex-marine who defects to the Soviet Union in the height of the Cold War– how is it that he was able to return so easily 2 1/2 years later? Why did the FBI or CIA appear to have no interest in him?
2.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was murdered in 1968. I was 17. He had changed the world significantly in just a few years, and he was not yet 40 years old. He was shot on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis. The convicted murdered was James Earl Ray, a petty criminal and avowed racist.He recanted his confession only a few days after pleading guilty.
Here’s my Dr. King question: Ray was captured in London, with a false passport. He had escaped through Canada to the UK and was attempting to travel to white-ruled Rhodesia. In 1968, air travel was still extremely expensive – out of the reach of most Americans. Where did a loser like Ray get the money for his escape?
3.
Only a few months after Dr. King was assassinated, Bobby Kennedy was shot as his entourage moved through the kitchen at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles after the California Democratic Primary. The assassin was Sirhan Sirhan, a young Palestinian (whose family was Christian, by the way) who may have been truly deranged. He fired his 22 even as he was wrestled into submission by members of Kennedy’s group. He emptied the gun.
Here’s my RFK question. Sirhan’s gun held 8 bullets. Kennedy was hit three times, but only 2 bullets were recovered, with one supposedly lost in the ceiling. Five were recovered from other injured people. That’s seven bullets recovered. So there is just one bullet unaccounted for (the ceiling bullet). So why were there extra holes in the ceiling and the walls? One door-frame was photographed with 2 holes circled by investigators. By some accounts, bullets had been recovered from these or other holes. Sirhan was firing wildly as he was subdued. But that is one hell of a lot of ricochet.
****
I know this is a crazy atypical post for me. I wasn’t sure whether to even publish it. But I’ve been thinking so much about the passage of time. In the not-too-distant future, all the folks who were witness to these events will be dead. And perhaps no one will care much about unanswered questions.
I hope the interest in Truth will still matter.
Helping Out
Have you ever gotten one of those emails from Amazon, asking you to help answer a question? One that says something like: “A customer has asked a question about a product that you have purchased in the past. Can you help this person with an answer?”
I’ve been asked about the fragrance of a face cream or the thickness of an iphone case. I’m happy to share what I know.
So this week, I had a question of my own. And the response I got was surprising. And in a small way – profound.
This Summer, I found a new hobby. Or rather, I rediscovered an old one. I went as a guest to a watercolor painting class. I loved it. I took another and another, and then bought new paints (from France, no less). And I’ve been painting twice a week since.
You may have seen a few recent post of mine with watercolor illustrations. They are the product of my reinvigorated love for painting.
And I’ve been watching amazing watercolorists on YouTube. People describe being bored as ‘watching paint dry’. But OMG, I can watch artists paint all day. I am truly fascinated by watching paint dry.
But when you watch a certain genre of videos with any regularity, you start to get ads. I’m very good at ignoring ads, but sometimes something sinks into my consciousness.
I saw some ads (actually the same ad dozens of times) for watercolor brush pens. These are like felt tip pens, only with a brush head and watercolor paint rather than opaque colored ink. The commercials made them look pretty nice.
So I found them on Amazon. They were relatively inexpensive and the reviews were good. But I had a question. How long did they last? I wondered whether the brushes might dry up right in the middle of the sky, so to speak.
So I posed the question.
And I got five answers.
And I was amused (and just slightly annoyed) that three of the five answers were “I don’t know.”
Why in the world would someone take the time to log in to answer that they didn’t have an answer?
The more I thought about it though, the more I was intrigued. Why WOULD someone do that?
And I have come up with two reasons – which can readily coexist and both be true:
First, I think that people want to be part of the conversation. They want to be heard.
And second, I think that people truly want to help, even if they just can’t.
Which is really sweet.
So I have decided to give a few more people that opportunity – in a small way. It’s something my husband does frequently, and I’ve always thought that he did so out of a combination of friendliness and nosiness. But now I see it is both of those things, but more.
When I am in the supermarket, I am going to notice what the person in front of me is buying. And I will say, “I see that you are buying the kind of soap (or soup) that I have been considering. Have you bought it before? Do you like it?”
And so I will give one person a little opportunity to be heard – and be helpful.
And I just might find some good shit I would have missed.
My watercolor of my best friend.
How My Father Retired
In the middle of October, my thoughts naturally return to my father.
His birthday is in a few days. He would be 95.
He died at 88, and so he had a good, long, and happy life. I don’t think he had too many regrets. He worked hard. He was honest. He was unceasingly cheerful. He loved and was loved.
That’s what I would call a successful life.
Recently, I saw this image on Facebook:
The same day, I was discussing my retirement (in glorious terms… I love it), and I recalled my father’s own retirement.
Here is how he retired:
After my mother retired, Dad started to consider his own retirement. He liked his job very much, but understood that there would come a time to let it go. To move on and enjoy the leisure years with his wife.
He had no pension from his job, but he and my mom had been saving, and so, when he was eligible for health coverage under Medicare, he retired.
Well, almost.
He decided to ease into retirement by cutting his hours. (I did the same… it makes for a nice transition.) And when he was finally ready, he stopped. He was well-loved at work – he was the inside sales manager for a factory that produced precision gauges – and they threw him a marvelous retirement party.
All done. And ready to enjoy retirement.
Well, almost.
It wasn’t too long afterwards that his employer called him and asked him to come back – at least part-time. They needed his skills. And since he had always enjoyed it, and had no burning quests to fulfill at the moment, he agreed.
So he went back and worked for a while again.
Dad was happy.
Then the economy took a turn for the worse, and there was a correspondingly downturn in business at Dad’s plant.
And he saw plans in the works for a layoff.
Dad went to the owner of the business and made a request.
“Please keep someone on who has a family to support, and let me go instead.”
And they did.
Dad was happy.
He sent the elevator back down.
And he finally retired.
My father later said to me that everyone should get a turn. And his turn was great, but it was the next guy’s turn.
If I have become a good person, it is because I have had such good examples.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
You sent the elevator back down for me too.
Dad, around 1945. Awarded the Purple Heart twice and my heart forever.
In Praise Of Childish Things
One of my least favorite Bible verses is this one:
“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child, but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”
And yeah, I get it. We grow up and we have to behave as grownups. We go to work. We pay our bills. We keep our house clean. We make sure there’s gas in the car and food in the fridge.
But – oh, for those childish things!
In this time of worry, uncertainty, and sadness, may I please give a shout-out for childish pleasures?
Make time to regress a little.
Don’t put away the childish things permanently. Take them out – once a week or so – just for a little while, and play with them.
Let’s clear away the stress that has been pounding at the place just behind our eyes, and delight in a simpler pleasure.
What did you love as a child?
Do it again.
Here’s some suggestions:
Ride a bike. Take your feet off the pedals as you go downhill.
Sing. Sing in the shower or as you make dinner. Sing in the car. (that’s my favorite place.)
Maybe instead of a quick shower, take a bubble bath. Make a bubble beard.
Bubbles… oh yes, blow bubbles too. With your gum if you want. Or with a wand and some dish soap. I have a photo of my aunt (whom I miss so much) blowing bubbles with my sister’s children. She had cancer and yet her face shows only joy.
Did you love your tinker toys? Lincoln logs? Erector sets? Legos? Get some. If you can’t borrow them from a child, or from your library, buy a set. You spend money on stupider stuff all the time. (I spent $20 on a ham sandwich the other day. Ham. $20.)
Make a puzzle. My parents had a jigsaw puzzle on their dining room table at all times. We made puzzles together as kids. As adults, when we visited, we always took a few minutes at the table. I never left their house without the satisfaction of finding that one piece of sky.
If it was a Barbie that rocked your world, rock one now. Lots of grown women collect dolls. It’s not for the investment. It’s for the feeling. Or stuffed animals. When my husband’s aunt could no longer take care of a pet, she liked to sit with a soft toy cat on her lap. It made her feel more comfortable in her chair.
Once in a while, eat marshmallow fluff instead of your fancy boysenberry preserves. Drink your classy beverage out of a curly straw.
Keep a Pez dispenser in your purse instead of mints.
Dig in the dirt. Adult people call it ‘gardening’.
Don’t eat that orange without tossing it in the air a few dozen times.
Write something – maybe just your grocery list – and dot every ‘i’ with a little heart.
Give out with a big ‘Mooooo!’ when you drive by a cow.
Get yourself a pair of silly pajamas. Watch your favorite tv show in them.
Change your ringtone to Alvin and the Chipmunks.
Splash in a puddle. Wade in a brook. Pick up pretty rocks and keep them in a jar.
Make a chain with the paper clips in your desk. Or a nice big ball with rubber bands.
Sculpt. Not like grown-up sculpt. Play-Doh sculpt. Modeling clay feels so smooth warmed by your hand. Silly Putty too.
Buy a Chia Pet. Grow something hairy.
Color. There’s a reason why adult coloring books are so popular right now. Coloring can calm you. I remember years ago walking in on my mother when she was babysitting for her granddaughter. Mom was sitting at the kitchen table coloring. By herself. My niece had wandered off to do something else, but Mom was still coloring. When I laughed, my Mom said, quite seriously, “I just wanted to finish my picture.” Mom was ahead of her time.
Run. Not like ‘workout’ run. Like ‘celebration’ run.
Be a kid. Just once in a while. You’ll feel a lot better.
More Advice – And Why You Can Ignore It
I give lots and lots of advice.
Just as if I know what the hell I’m talking about.
I don’t have any qualifications for all this advice – except that I’m intelligent, good-hearted – and old.
Old people are allowed to give advice, because they have so much experience. Of course, in my case, I’m sort of an introvert and non-risk taker and non boat-rocker. So my experience is limited in some areas.
On the other hand, I’m relatively happy and relatively easy-going – and it seems that lots of other people would like to be those two things too. So I can offer my own little strategies that haved helped make me so.
For whatever it’s worth.
When I was growing up, my mother gave me lots of advice. But as I matured, she always added this caveat.
“I give you advice because I’m your mother and I love you, but you don’t have to take it. You can make your own decisions. But because I’m your mother, you shouldn’t argue with me either. Just say ‘Sure, Mom’ – and then go do what you like. ”
And that is good advice on taking advice.
I’m not even your mother.
So you don’t have to even be polite. Do whatever you like. It’s okay.
However.
(Did you ever notice how often I use ‘however’ as a paragraph all by itself? That’s called STYLE. And I’ve got it up the wazoo.)
However.
There is a kind of advice that I HATE. And so you absolutely should take my advice when I advise you to disregard this advice. And if you give this kind of advice, I have some advice on a better substitute.
It’s those short little pieces of advice that are actually unsolicited, often judgmental, orders.
Stuff like:
Relax!
Don’t Worry.
Try Harder.
Trust Me.
And there are two commands-disguised-as-advice that I particular hate.
CALM DOWN!
Isn’t it amazing how the person who says this to you is almost always the person who sent you off the rails in the first place?
But anyway, there are many times we have the right to be angry. And although there are lots of times when people (meaning: ME) overreact, telling people (meaning: ME) to Calm Down is most likely going to have the opposite effect.
And this was the inspiration for writing this today:
I recently had cause to become a little agitated (unglued might be closer to the truth). I had a cell phone failure. You’d think someones had mugged me, for God’s sake. But phones die. And I am addicted to my phone, and I was going through withdrawal. Most of my anger stemmed from the fact that my cell phone provider was not helpful. I have been a customer for 18 YEARS. Being a little helpful would have been nice.
And at my third trip to the cell phone dealer (and dealer is totally the right word) – I went just slightly unhinged. I wasn’t screaming… I am not a public screamer… but I came pretty close.
And the store manager said this:
“I can see how frustrated you are, and you have every reason to be. And I am going to do what I can to help. But being this stressed out isn’t going to make this problem go away any faster, and it will only make us both feel worse. So let’s sit down and see what we can do to fix things.”
And it worked. I calmed down. Without being told to “Calm Down!”
Which would not have worked.
SMILE!
Holy Crap, does this infuriate me.
And have you EVER heard a man say this to another MAN?
And it is very rare for a woman to say it to another woman. Mostly because woman know how maddening it is to hear.
No. This seems to be “Advice” that men say to women.
And here’s my advice to men who do:
DON’T.
Women find this patronizing. Always.
So here’s my alternative advice for men:
If the woman is a stranger there are two ways to go:
- If you are trying to pick her up, let me assure you, “Smile!” will not work. Try something else. How about – “You seem like someone I would like to get to know. Would it be okay if I talked to you for a bit?”
- Don’t say anything. Women are allowed to be serious.
If the woman is someone you know, there are also two ways to go:
- If she truly looks distressed, and she is a close friend (not just an acquaintance) you might say, “You seem (not ‘look’) a little down (not ‘upset’). Is there anything I can do?”
- Don’t say anything. Women are allowed to be serious.
Autumn Shopping Spree
Autumn is here.
I love Summer. I hate to see it go.
But there is something so appealing about Autumn. The colors, the clear sky, the rustle of the leaves. The kids headed back to school. The shopping.
Oh, yes, definitely the shopping. The fall clothes are so beautiful. I window-shop online – you can call it screen-shop. And I get a ton of catalogs that I browse through as I have my morning coffee.
And to go back to the kids returning to school. How I loved college. Grammar school, high school – well the first day was nice, and the last day…. but everything in between was only just barely tolerable. But college! Strolling along the university paths – smelling the fall air and the overwhelmingly beautiful scent of KNOWLEDGE.
I wanted to go forever. And I nearly did. I stayed in college as long as humanly possible, which for me meant that my parents finally said ‘Enough already. Graduate.’ At the time, at the University of Connecticut, one needed 120 credits to graduate. I had 148.
I did convince my parents to give me one last semester. I decided to get certified to teach. I was an English major and did complete my courses for teaching. But I needed a student teaching experience. So I went to the meeting where you registered for student teaching. And somewhere towards the end of the meeting, the professor said, “Would anyone like to go to Puerto Rico for student teaching?”
Well, why not? I raised my hand.
And I went for three months in the Fall of 1974 and taught middle-grade English at the Baldwin School in Bayamon, Puerto Rico. I lived nearby in Guaynabo with a family who picked me the same way I picked Puerto Rico. In church one Sunday, the minister said, “Would anyone like to host a student teacher?” And they said,”Why not?” And we found that we loved each other.
I took the school bus with the kids. The bus ride taught me everything I needed to know about Puerto Rico. Because the school bus driver kissed every kid each morning as they got off the bus at the school, and kissed them again as he dropped them off at their home at the end of the day.
That is Puerto Rico.
Where people love every kid. Not just their own. Every child is loved by every one.
So, back to Fall shopping for a minute.
I spent this week screen-shopping and catalog shopping and found the perfect sweater for Autumn. It is so beautiful it makes my body ache a bit for wanting to wear it.
It’s from Garnet Hill, whose clothes are always lovely and of high quality. It’s $98.
Also this week, I mentioned on Facebook how bad I felt for Hurricane Maria’s devastation in beautiful Puerto Rico.
A relative I love very much (despite usually disagreeing politically with on just about everything) sent me this link:
I clicked on the link – and I sent $98 to United for Puerto Rico (Unidosporpuertorico.com), spearheaded by Beatriz Rossello, Puerto Rico’s First Lady.
I love that sweater.
I love Puerto Rico more.
I have a pretty cardigan in an autumn print from a few years ago. I will wear it instead and think of my love for Puerto Rico every time I wear it.
Please think about doing the same. Find something that you would really like to have this Fall – something specific. Find something truly beautiful. Give that money to relief efforts instead.
In this report from ABC News, the reporter speaks of the destruction of my sweet town of Guaynabo.
The Pushover.
This is a story of Three Little Kittens.
They were found behind a diner on a very busy road in Connecticut. It was a Greek diner, so the rescuer gave them Greek names:
Athena.
Niko.
And
Thor. (The rescuer may not have been an expert on Greek names….)
These tiny kittens were so small they had to be hand-fed for several weeks. But they were strong and they thrived.
There were no takers for these kittens, however, and the rescuer still had them when they were fifteen weeks old. The rescuer thought that for sure they would be adopted by that time – and she had vacation plans that were made a long time ago.
So she asked a friend – the PUSHOVER #1 in this story – who happens to be married to ME – to take the kittens while she was on vacation.
So Pushover #1 agreed.
So we got 3 little kittens for ten days.
On August 10th.
Oh, they were so cute.
Niko and Athena were very timid.
Thor was very, very cuddly.
And we had sadly lost our sweet Stewart just a month before.
So it was decided. We would keep Thor.
He had an eye infection. But Pushover #1 brought him to the Veterinary Opthamologist. (Yes, there is such a thing. They have little tiny eyecharts with with mice pointed in different directions. Just kidding. But not about the Eye Vet.) Thor got his medication and his vision is okay, although his eye will always be a bit deformed.
But we love him just that way. And with his weird non-directional eye, he sort of looks like a pirate.
He certainly has read lots of pirate stories. Here he is playing the pirate’s parrot, with some shoulder-sitting.
He is also a wonderful hairdresser, and so very valuable.
When the ten days were up, we still had all the kittens.
The rescuer was in stealth mode – a gentle, loving stealth mode.
“We need to decide,” Pushover #1 said. “Of course, we should keep Thor, but I think Athena is just the prettiest cat ever. Maybe we should keep her too.”
And Athena was indeed very pretty.
And so it was decided.
And a few weeks later, we still had all three kittens. And they were getting big.
The rescuer – in a gentle, stealthy mode – warned us that if she need to place Niko, we had to give him back right away, before he was too big.
And Niko was still very very spooky.
“Oh Lord,” said Pushover #1, “Niko is so timid, and he depends on his brother and sister for everything. He will be lost without them. He NEEDS them. We cannot separate them.”
And that is where PUSHOVER #2 laid down the LAW.
“Okay,” said Pushover #2.
And we now have THREE LITTLE KITTENS.
Permanently.
Lillian and Theo are adjusting.
It may take a while.
notquiteold 