So, the supercenter formerly known as “discount” has apparently abandoned that concept in favor of something they’re calling “store of the future.” I’m not naming the particular retailer. But, you can probably guess. It’s the store where many customers feel comfortable wearing their pajamas to shop. Well, and except for Target, it’s almost the only discount store left, since we have no more Gibson’s, Kmart, Woolco, or Spartan-Atlantic. Not counting five-and-dime, thrift stores, and outlets – did I leave out anything? Despite the limited options, this frugal consumer is seeking alternatives to that particular afore(not)mentioned retailer. My original intent was to note the price increases accompanying the makeover. However, after shopping my local store, I have noticed more of the old, familiar rollback signs. Further, word on the street (as of July 2026) is that retailer is actually reducing prices. Cynical skeptic that I tend to be, can’t help wondering whether those prices might first have been hiked up in order to honestly roll them back. Because, they do still seem a bit high for a discount store. Nevertheless, with respect to giving the retailer the benefit of the doubt, I will focus on the lack of competition.
So, a few months ago when I was seeking an alternative, I noticed a new big wholesale store had opened not too far from me. However, my initial enthusiasm was quickly tempered by the realization that, like the other membership wholesale stores, this new one primarily benefits those who buy in bulk. Buying in bulk, however, is a concept I could never embrace. Even when I was a young mom with an intact family, I would buy just enough to get by – maybe a week’s worth of groceries. I had a childhood friend who was/is completely the opposite. Though she also had only two children, she always stocked like she would be feeding an army. Case in point: Many years ago, when we visited her family in Colorado, my young, cold-cereal-loving daughter thought she had died and gone to heaven when she saw at least five boxes of different types of cereal in their pantry. Conversely, when visiting us, her son, observing much extra space in my pantry and refrigerator, asked his mom, “Is Nancy poor?” Seriously, I have always been this way, and don’t even know where I got it. My mom was a child during the Great Depression. Yet, as an adult with a good job, she enjoyed keeping a full supply of food and other staples. I, on the other hand… before the great covid 19 panic, would have been happy to buy just two rolls of toilet paper at a time. (If I learned nothing else from the year 2020, I now stock up on certain necessities).
Despite that attitude adjustment, my overall feelings about buying in bulk – Twinkies. There’s two in one package. But, why? Maybe one is enough. I might have called the snack cake ONEKIES (wunkies?). Okay, maybe not.
So, it’s official. I don’t buy in bulk. But,I would really like to have more options in discount stores. I was thinking maybe Elon Musk might open one (maybe call it MuskMart) – preferably on this planet – not on Mars.
Cool is increasingly becoming a lost art. I don’t mean Steve McQueen or Bruce Willis kind of cool 😎. But, cool, as in remaining calm in the face of adversity – refraining from impulsive, knee jerk, almost instinctive lashing out when someone verbally attacks or even disagrees with us. That kind of cool. Overreacting is what we do. We have pretty much become a society of overreactors. When my kids were little, they would occasionally complain that someone had said something mean to them. At first, I advised them to simply ignore it. Well, nobody wants to hear that – especially not a little kid. No, they want to immediately say something back – something even meaner. So, I had to convince them that ignoring a person has greater power than a verbal assault. I reminded them of how annoying it is to be ignored. I think that worked for a while. I clearly remember my daughter trying to tattle on her little brother, complaining, “He’s E-noring me!” It’s true. Ignoring is kind of like a punch in the stomach with no actual physical contact. Being ignored hurts. That’s why companies get P.R. firms and why entertainers hire agents.
It’s hard enough being ignored. Ouch! But, when someone is deliberately trying to provoke you, and you remain emotionless, that is almost painful to that other person who was counting on and hoping for a big reaction. When my kids got older, I added another analogy. I told them to think about tennis, and “Just don’t return the serve.” I suggested they imagine someone hitting tennis balls at them. If they never returned the serve, it would be game over. At some point, the other person would tire of hitting balls over the net, which were not being returned. Eventually, they would feel like a fool, or simply run out of balls.
Fast forward to what brought this to mind, and why am I harping on it now. I recently re-re-watched the 1967 film “In the Heat of the Night,” starring the late, greats Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger. If you have never seen the multiple Academy Awards winning movie (including Best Picture), here’s an abbreviated, albeit inadequate plot summary: Set in the fictional town of Sparta, Mississippi, Sidney Poitier, as Virgil Tibbs was arrested while waiting for a train to return to Philadelphia. He was charged with murder by the ignorant, Deep South cop who arrested him without probable cause, mainly because he was a Black stranger in town. I realize that might sound a bit disrespectful on my part. However, the movie, set in the mid-1960’s was a believable scenario and a pretty accurate reflection of the era; that time and place. So, it turns out the well-dressed (in white shirt and tie) Black stranger arrested at the train station was not only a Philadelphia police detective. He was also their foremost homicide expert. Because the arresting officer had not bothered to check his ID, this was only discovered when Tibbs was delivered to Police Chief Bill Gillespie (played by Rod Steiger). As previously promised, this is not a movie review. Hence, no spoiler alert. I mean only to address and applaud Virgil Tibbs’ reaction (or lack thereof) to all efforts to insult, assault, belittle, humiliate, and threaten him. Given the mid-1960’s, Deep South setting, the way Tibbs was treated comes as no surprise (though no less disgusting). In the face of repeatedly being called “boy,” among other racial insults, Poitier’s character remained unmoved. Their taunts were met only by his icy, emotionless stare. Tibbs barely spoke a word throughout the entire arrest. Though, later in the film, Chief Gillespie, frustrated by Tibbs’ obvious superior knowledge regarding a homicide investigation, angrily spouts, “Virgil – that’s a funny name for a n***r boy that comes from Philadelphia. What do they call you up there?” The response is that famous line, so cooly, authoritatively delivered by Poitier, “THEY CALL ME MISTER TIBBS.”
And that is exactly the point of this otherwise loosely assembled opinion piece. (Okay, it’s a blog. But, I prefer the old school terminology like “editorial.” Humor me. 😉). Tibbs’ ability to remain so completely unimpressed by the ignorant, vile attempts to provoke him gave him the upper hand throughout not only what could have otherwise been a humiliating arrest, but through every interaction with almost every person in that racist community. But, what if Poitier’s character Virgil Tibbs had reacted in a completely different manner? What if Virgil, despite his impeccable appearance, coat and tie, had caved under the insults, whimpering, whining, “Stop! Stop! You’re offending me! You’re hurting my feelings!” Well, for one thing, there would not have been a movie – at least not one that Sidney Poitier would have starred in. But, seriously, had the character crumbled under the abuse and assaults, the victory would have gone to the racist bullies. That is how bullying works. I think it is possible, probably very likely that, as a Black man in the mid 20th century, Virgil Tibbs had heard all of those insults before. Yet, whatever abuses, verbal or physical, they had never stopped his personal progress to become the lead homicide investigator for the Philadelphia Police Department.
It’s like the Rod Stewart song (written by Cat Stevens) “The First Cut Is the Deepest.” That is, overall, pretty true. In almost everything from love to rejection of any kind, the first is usually the worst. We develop a sort of emotional scar tissue that covers over those wounds. So, by the time 30-something-year-old Virgil Tibbs was the target of the racial slurs and abuse during his arrest, he had long since become immune to it all. I am also reminded of an old deodorant commercial with the tagline “Never let ‘em see you sweat.” It’s true. Once a weakness is discovered by a tormentor or bully, it’s all over for the intended victim. One should never let his oppressor (or anyone, for that matter) know his kryptonite.
See? This was not a movie review. If you want to know how the film ended, you’ll have to watch it – something I highly recommend. But, you can never go wrong with any film starring the great Sidney Poitier.
Big disclaimer here: As you read this, please keep in mind I am not a prepper or a totally off-grid fanatic. Seriously, when you read something in this piece that gives you even the slightest impression I might have a vitamin B deficiency, or maybe need to gulp some chamomile tea, please just scroll back up to this paragraph. I confess to being all kinds of unique (or as my late mother-in-law once called me “odd”). But, I am not a total social reactionary or survivalist.
Okay. That said, here goes. Recently, I saw something listing some of the things they have taken from us. I don’t even know who they are. We may think of the vague, obscure “they” as government (or agencies thereof), nature, or maybe something like Oz’s wizard – that notorious “man behind the curtain.” But, I believe many of us attribute massive movements, whether viewed as progress or problematic, to that unidentified “they.” Like that age-old saying, “They say…” or “You know what they say…” So, just WHO are THEY? Nobody knows. It’s just an unidentified, nonspecific they. Anyway, the issue presented was about all the things they have taken from us. We used to be a society of owners. Ownership was a big deal for us. We like deeds, pink slips, certificates of title, and all forms of proof of ownership. I’m pretty sure that “my” and “mine” are among the first words a baby learns. When my niece was about three years old, she was even trying to own songs. She especially loved Neil Diamond’s “Song Sung Blue.” When it came on the radio, if anyone else tried to sing along, she would command an immediate halt, declaring, “No! MY “Song Sung Blue!” Indeed, it’s what we humans do. We declare ownership, we buy, we stake claims, and dare anyone to trespass. “No Trespassing” signs were only the beginning. I don’t think barbed wire and electric fences are intended to merely keep the livestock in. Razor wire cuts both ways, so to speak. So, when and how did we begin relinquishing ownership of so many things we once held precious? At some point, they dangled convenience in front of us, and convinced the modern world to let go of files, photos, hard copies, and paper of every kind (including cash). I can’t say when this surrender of our actual physical property began. Hey, I’m an editorialist, not an investigative reporter.
Music – I always bought vinyl and tapes of all my favorite songs. I remember when I could even buy cassette singles – like a 45 RPM single, except on a cassette. Then, shortly after the turn of the century (the most recent turn of the most recent century), I got my first iPod, and discovered I could download a single as an MP3 file. Hence, the beginning of digital playlists replacing cassettes. Thank goodness, I did not completely embrace this.
CD’s and cassettes – but a sampling – so much more – vinyl, cds…
I never had even the slightest interest in E-books, mostly because I like to highlight, underline, and dog-ear pages in my books.
Just one of many, many boxes, not to mention books on bookshelf.
I remember being so excited about fax machines. All you needed was a machine and a telephone line. In many cases, no more need to buy a stamp and mail a document, no more personal delivering. We got our first fax machine at the house in 1990. It was so convenient for me to fax in my weekly column, instead of delivering it to the newspaper. Even with faxes, you still had to first print out a hard copy. For years, fax machines had us thinking we were close to a George Jetson world. Then came email. Whoa – now there was no need to even print anything. Just type in an email address, hit “send,” and we were saving trees, and sending documents all over the world. For many, it meant reduced need for copy machines and printers. Because, after all, we were assured our documents and personal information were safely stored, if not on our computers, in the cloud – yes, we actually accepted the reality of not just the existence of that cloud, but its security.
Within about 10 years of that century shift, we started taking pictures with our phones. So, there went cameras and film – not to mention FotoMat kiosks. But, some of us will always own a camera, buy film, and store “photographs and memories” (as the Jim Croce song goes. Okay, maybe not necessarily this camera (bought in 1984) – but, a camera.
Just a sample of the boxes and boxes of actual (paper) photos
Randomly, further physical losses, in no particular order: Let’s start with TV and movies. We were accustomed to only seeing our favorite television shows when they aired or maybe catch them in summer reruns. Movies were only seen in theaters until they were several years old, and became might be seen on late night TV or programs like “Saturday Night at the Movies.” So, when cable TV became widely available in the 1980s, our viewing choices were greatly expanded. Then with VHS tapes and DVD’s, we could actually rent or own our favorite shows, and watch them any time – no more depending on specific airing dates. That was a game changer. Fast forward to DVR (digital video recording). No need to buy or rent your favorite shows when your cable provider and streaming service will save them for you right there in that safe cloud. Yes, all your go-to programs will be right there for you to enjoy any time – right there for you until they’re not… Maybe you missed a payment or changed providers; a major power outage, or device failure. Any one of many events could remove your safely stored favorites, leaving you thinking maybe you should have bought the DVD or kept your recorder, and saved them yourself. Guess who still has her recorder – for both VHS and DVD’s.
It still works, and I still use it and view some of these favorites. ⬇️
Speaking of TV, with no deliberate intention to increase paranoia… In George Orwell’s novel 1984, the television was used by the government to constantly monitor citizens’ lives. Aww, don’t worry. It was only a book and just fiction – really.
Then, there’s money. They have pretty much lured us away from cash and checks. It’s plastic and virtual plastic. Sure, we have been using credit cards since the 1960s. However, throughout that decade, and probably up until, once again, the most recent turn of the century, we had to sign something to complete the transaction. Many will recall that credit card imprinter device that slid across the card, capturing the number, and creating a few copies, including one for the customer’s records.
No more imprinting machines or signature required. You just slide the card in, maybe/maybe not have to enter a PIN. I don’t know why credit cards still require us to sign the back of the card. Understatement alert ⚠️ my how things have changed!Many years ago, my check was rejected my local Safeway grocery store (another age indicator, there). The signature on my check did not match the official signature on file with my credit union. Hence, the check was returned. True story!
As I continue on this major harking back… A couple of years ago, I bought a new laptop for the first time since 2008. I admit it the old one weighed a ton. But, it had a CD drive and a floppy disk drive. That laptop and every computer I had previously owned came with all necessary software – everything a person would ever need for normal productivity. Imagine my surprise upon buying a computer with basically, only the brain. I was shocked to learn I had to buy Word and everything else, just to begin using my new computer. Not only that, my Hotmail suddenly stopped working, and I was required to buy more space in Microsoft World, or lose all access to the email address I have had for over 20 years. That same thing happened to someone I know using Yahoo email. No one ever warned us our email addresses would expire or be held for ransom. Adding to that aggravation, Microsoft has ended support for Windows 10. There’s nothing like designed obsolescence to keep us sheep returning to the well – that well they can drain at any time.
Finally (though not comprehensively), as a Baby Boomer, raised with board games of every kind, I was going to address how they have replaced our games with virtual versions. Intending to use age-old card game Solitaire as just one example, I planned to download a screenshot of the game. That’s how I learned the game is no longer on my iPad, because it’s no longer available from the Apple store, because Microsoft discontinued it, to bundle it with other games. I’m not even going to remind that Solitaire was standard – always included on devices back in the day. It was not a download/app. Oh well, no surprise Little Miss Retro, here, has a deck of actual playing cards. How else could your big brother offer to play a game of 52 Pick-Up?
As previously mentioned, this longer than usual blog is not complete. So many other things we held (physically) and owned have gradually, perhaps systematically been removed from our world. And again, please scroll up to the intro paragraph reminding you I claim no membership in any survivalist cult. I just agree with the overall big picture of the message. As for keeping your paper and actual receipts and records, it is not my intention, in any way. to advocate, encourage or justify hoarding of any kind. No, no… So, please, go ahead and throw away those 300 plastic bags, the twisties in your kitchen junk drawer, and the assortment of dead batteries you’ve been saving. Plunge into that other kitchen drawer that’s overflowing with packs of plastic utensils you have collected over the years. Take a few out, put them in the glove compartment of your car, just for an emergency, like when the drive-thru forgets to provide them – or wants to charge extra for utensils. There, now, you have a few in the car. Take the other 250 packages, and donate them to a day camp, senior citizens’ activity center, or just throw them in a recycling bin.
Now, just scan this QR code to read my blog. Just kidding! And don’t even get me started on QR codes…
Reflecting on recent tragedies, there are no words. I believe the children and all who were lost, have gone home. Their suffering is over. As always, it is those who are left behind that grieve. As a parent, my heart aches, because I always somehow believed that nothing bad could ever happen to my children as long as we were together. I realize how delusional that is. But, devoting this piece to those long held feelings.
As parents, when our children are young, together is all we know. It is all we hope for; all we dream of. Together is all we ever want. Well, except for, you know, in the bathroom (good luck with that 😉). And that occasional Saturday night, when we hire a babysitter to stay with the kids so we can have a nice dinner out – and talk about our kids all evening – recounting the cute, funny things they did over the week, and probably including a quick call to the babysitter, just to make sure everything is all right, and nothing tragic has happened in that whole hour since we left. Then, the minute we get back home, pay the sitter, and rush to the kids’ rooms, to be sure they are well and peacefully sleeping. And sure enough, there they were, safe and sound, snug in their own beds. The only thing amiss was I had not been there to say prayers with them, and tuck them in.
Our entire focus as a family was togetherness. Even when my son was about 10 years old, before he would accept a friend’s invitation to spend the night, he would first ask us, “Is there gonna be any family fun?” He still preferred time with his family over going to a friend’s house. I was never really crazy about my kids spending the night away from home. It was only allowed with families we knew and trusted. Nevertheless, I just felt no one could take care of them and protect them like I could. I don’t think it is a conscious feeling. But, more of a subconscious belief at the soul level, that somehow, nothing can hurt our children as long as we, their parents, are with them.
Especially when our firstborn was an infant, and in that wobbly toddler stage, I felt I was the more anxious and concerned parent about situations like her getting too close to coffee table corners, the fireplace hearth, etc. Even with the most supportive, involved daddy that anyone could hope for, on some level, I still felt I was the one who could prevent her from ever being hurt. So, wouldn’t you know it. One afternoon, while enjoying some springtime sunshine on the patio, I blinked, and she toppled right out of the lawn chair, and busted her lip. Her first injury, bloodshed – it happened on my watch. So much for my maternal super powers.
At one point when our children were still quite young, we came very close to changing our religious denomination to one that appeared to promise eternity with our little family. It truly was my deepest desire to hold my little family together forever.
It’s a good thing God didn’t make me a bird. Because, I never would have pushed my little fledglings out of the nest. Speaking of flying, my young children were nervous about their first airplane trip. So, upon boarding, when repeated assurances that the plane would not crash, I tried a different tack. I told them in the remote possibility that something should happen, we were all together, and would perish as a family, and since we would be in the sky, we were already closer to Heaven. Well, the jet was fine. But, my consolation effort definitely crashed and burned. My eight and four-year-old children were not relieved. I’m pretty sure I only compounded their anxiety. And yet, even in my misguided attempt to allay their fears, I personally believed that would be the best end for us all, God forbid, if it ever came to that.
No, I was not ready for our lives to end. Besides the fact that we all still had a lot of living to do, at that particular moment, we were on our way to see the Grand Canyon, Disneyland, and other wonders. But, in the grand scheme of any disaster, it would have been my hope that we could all be together. Fortunately, we made and shared those precious memories, and many more beyond Disneyland and the Grand Canyon, though not always together. Without the growing up and moving on blessings, my daughter would not have known the joy of having her own children, and my son would not have met and married the love of his life. Yet, even now, with them hundreds of miles away, somewhere in my mother’s heart, I cling to the feeling that togetherness, if only through my prayers, will somehow, always keep them safe.
I rarely write about movies. For one thing, I never see new movies. I’m sure I have enough fingers to count how many times I have been to a theater in the 21st century. In the past 10 years, I have seen a movie in a theater four times. Back in the day when I was a regular at the picture show, I was only writing poetry and song lyrics, not my impression of the movies I saw just about every weekend. Returning you now to the original topic. I recently watched – re-watched John Wayne’s Hatari!, a film I first saw in the theater with my big brother when it was released in 1962. Yes, we actually walked to our neighborhood theater, all by ourselves. That was back in the day when all we needed was probably 50 cents each, which covered cost of admission, popcorn, and a drink. I found this classic on Pluto TV, a free streaming media service. That’s right. I said free. Nowadays, I only watch free TV. Because, that’s how I grew up. I was watching TV for free for about 25 years before I personally got cable TV around 1980. Pluto TV is free, because it has commercials. I don’t have a problem with commercials. If I had not watched free TV all those years, I wouldn’t know what nine out of 10 doctors (or dentists) recommend, why a guy gets “a handshake instead of a kiss,” or what laundry detergent was “stronger than dirt.”
But, I digress. The aforementioned Hatari! , the inspiration for this blog (random mental meandering)… When I first saw the movie poster in the lobby of the theater, my hooked on phonics education had me sound it out, and I thought “HAT-A-Rye.”
Only when I saw the preview/trailer would I learn the word hatari, appropriately rhymes with safari. Fast forward to my recent re-watching, I looked up the word, and found it is Swahili for danger or risk. Again, very appropriate, as the film has John Wayne as Sean Mercer, leading a small group of guys at a camp in Africa, who capture wild animals for zoos. Filmed on location in Tanzania, the movie is a rollicking good time – lots of action and African dirt kicked up by wild Jeep and old truck chases, as the crew throws caution to the wind in hot pursuit of rhinos, giraffes, and water buffalo. If that were not enough excitement, youth and testosterone-fueled competition, not just on the job, but also vying for the attention of the one female on the team – Brandy (unofficially “the boss,” because her father had been killed in this project), played by Michele Girardon. Hence, lots of toxic masculinity – guys, guns, cigarettes. Even the women were smoking – in keeping with the cultural norm of the day.
Brandy and Kurt
While Brandy was originally the only woman, Elsa Martinelli, as Dallas, a zoo photographer joined the crew, and would ultimately be the romantic interest of Sean (John Wayne). Long story, short, because Sean initially expected the zoo photographer to be a man (not the lovely Dallas), he only reluctantly agrees to let her go along on the dangerously wild chases.
Wayne’s other costars – guys who actually did all that wild chasing and catching of animals that clearly did not want to be caught. According to IMDB, per the film director Howard Hawks, the actors did the actual captures – no stunt men or animal handlers were used. Wow! One exception to those daring maneuvers, however – Red Buttons, who as former New York cab driver, Pockets, nearly stole the show. He was a natural for comic relief amid all that macho adventure. Pockets never participates in the actual captures. He was clear in his explanation to Dallas about why he just sat in the car while the others wrestled the animals down: “Any animal that has spots, stripes, or is one color, any color, I don’t go near.” He further explained, “I like animals. I’m just scared of ‘em.” So, when Dallas asked how he was able to drive right in, so close to the giraffes, Pockets’ response reflected his cabbie experience. Confirming with her that a giraffe, like a New York cab, is “mostly yellow. I drove a cab in Brooklyn. I pretend it’s rush hour in Flatbush, and in I go.”
Bruce Cabot, whose character they called The Indian, was almost fatally gored by a rhino in the opening scenes. Hardy Kruger plays Kurt Müller, former German race car driver. Young, blond, and fiery, my impression was the casting director must have said something like, “We need a Steve McQueen type” when they cast Kruger in that role. Valentin De Vargas, as Luis Francisco Garcia Lopez, a Mexican bullfighter. Now, there’s a job that definitely qualified him for Sean’s troop of trappers! After The Indian was hospitalized, Gérard Blain as Charles “Chips” Maurey, a French sharpshooter joined the team. He and Kurt, initially, fierce competitors, like two schoolboys who get in a fight, and end it with a handshake, becoming friends – that was pretty much their relationship. Chips, at the time, unknown to the guys, asked for the job of replacing The Indian when he had just been admitted in the hospital. All were offended at his bad timing, since at that point, they didn’t know if their buddy would even survive. Kurt, who already felt guilty, because he was driving when The Indian was injured, was especially angry – mad enough to slug the stranger. As luck (and good screenwriting) would have it, The Indian, having lost a lot of blood, needed a transfusion. None of the guys matched his rare blood type – except this pompous stranger they had just dismissed. He agreed to donate blood only if they would ask him to work with them. Chips specifically wanted a nice request from Kurt. That moment reminded me of a scene from another of my favorite old films. The opening of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when Sundance (Robert Redford ) was accused of cheating at cards, then ordered to leave. But, he would only go if he was asked to stick around. It’s that same hardheaded logic, but makes for good dramady.
Kurt and Chips also competing with guns
I won’t further summarize the plot – mainly because if you are reading this, you’re probably “of a certain age,” and you saw the movie. I will add that Dallas became somewhat the elephant whisperer, resulting in the amusing scene of three baby elephants seeking her in the city, to the delightful tune of the great Henry Mancini’s “Baby Elephant Walk.” https://youtu.be/EbI2nl3Duf8?si=q7DGDE5FTkRMPPVL
Chips, Kurt, the Indian, Sean, Dallas, and one of her baby elephants
Now, for the “other stuff,” as hinted in the title… When I texted my big brother about having watched this movie again, it led to a discussion about some John Wayne patterns. For example, how Duke chose his friends as frequent costars in his films. I noticed in this film that Bruce Cabot had been in several other of Wayne’s films, including Big Jake,McLintock, Chisum, Angel and the Badman, Hellfighters, The War Wagon,The Green Berets, The Commancheros, and In Harm’s Way, as well as a couple of others. In previous John Wayne conversations with my brother, I had mentioned how Richard Boone was in The Alamo, Big Jake, and The Shootist. I had also noted Jim Hutton costarring with Wayne in The Green Berets and Hellfighters. Turns out I am an amateur at this game. Boy, did my big bro top me on costars. In my defense, he’s had a few more years of watching movies. He reminded me that Ward Bond was in 23 films with Wayne, including: The Quiet Man, The Searchers, Fort Apache, They Were Expendable, and Rio Bravo. I haven’t even seen some of those. He also mentioned Harry Carey, Jr. (nine movies with Duke), Ben Johnson, Maureen O’Hara (five films), Vera Miles (also five). Doubtless, Big Bro and I barely scratched the surface on that topic. Hey, there’s only so much chatting that can be done via text. I did, however, think of another sort of pattern. For a while, it seemed Wayne would cast a sort of young tock star type in his movies: Ricky Nelson in Rio Bravo, Fabian in North to Alaska,Frankie Avalon in The Alamo, Bobby Vinton in Big Jake, and Glen Campbell in True Grit. Well, so now I guess we all know why I never got (or applied for) the film reviewer gig. But, hey, if you want to talk or text about movies over 50 years old, I’m your go-to!
Most are familiar with the term “it’s like pulling teeth,” to describe something very difficult to do. Seriously? Pulling teeth is difficult? Because my grandmother was my first dentist, and pulling teeth was pretty easy for her. When I had my first loose tooth, her plan was to tie a string to the tooth, with the intention of tying the other end of the string to a doorknob, then slam the door shut. The anticipated result – extraction of said loose tooth. Fortunately for me, as soon as she tied the string to my tooth, it just dropped out – no door required. Bada bing bada boom! Boy, was I relieved, not just of the annoying loose tooth – I was more than a little concerned about a bedroom door yanking it out. Best of all, it was free. That dental procedure didn’t cost this five-year-old a dime. On the contrary, I made money. True story! I actually woke the next morning with a quarter under my pillow. 25 cents for a crummy, little, used tooth.
A side note: When my son lost his first tooth, the tooth fairy left him (based on the nearly 25 years of inflation) a five dollar bill. Because he was known as an enterprising young lad, my mom expressed some concern that her grandson might start intentionally knocking his teeth out, to jumpstart his fortune. We dodged that bullet. He was enterprising, not foolhardy. For the most part, we all started life believing we would receive money for every lost tooth. Yeah, that whole Tooth Fairy scam was a bigger hoax than Santa Claus ever was. So, my first dental procedure involved a string and a door. Another treatment in my early years was, umm, if you are of a certain age to have watched The Beverly Hillbillies, and remember Granny Clampett’s “rheumatiz medicine,” something like that was administered for my bad toothaches. Seriously, I was given a swig of whiskey to hold over the painful area for as long as I could stand it, then, spit it out. No, we did not live in a tobacco road area (a term my mom used for backwoods places). We had indoor plumbing, and I actually grew up in Dallas, Texas. So, here’s my excuse/rationalization for the toothache remedy. A lot of things parents do to/for/with their kids are based on what their parents did. Consequently, we Baby Boomers, being raised by the “greatest generation,” were subjected to some medical procedures based on how they were raised. If you do that math, it could mean we were still getting some old wives tales treatments and cures from as far back as the late 1800s, when our parents’ parents were born. (That’s not to say that many of those old wives’ remedies don’t work. Because, on some level, I think maybe duct tape, WD-40, Vicks VapoRub, vinegar, and bourbon are all we need to fix anything mechanical or human.) I don’t think any of the grownups actually believed those toothache quick fixes were anything beyond that – just quick fixes. However, dental visits were not part of my early childhood. We had good health insurance, between my mom’s as a city employee and my stepfather’s union coverage. But, then, as now, oral issues were not considered part of overall health by the insurance gods – consequently, not covered.
Needless to say, those stopgap measures would eventually lead to dire need for a legitimate dentist – you know, the kind with a drill, needles, and a license to use them. The first dentist, while not horrified, was – well, let’s say he was militantly disgusted. When he saw the condition of my jaw teeth, he scolded and chastised both my mother and me, before extracting them. I was going to say he bawled us out. “Scolded” sounds better. But, he did bawl us out. Mixed results, to say the least, from that first ever dental visit: The good news was relief from excruciating jaw pain pain. However, this barely 14-year-old was steadfastly determined to never-ever go to the dentist again. Fortunately, a year later, a friend insisted I go to his dentist. Needless to say, I was absolutely reluctant and resistant. Let me be clear. I was never concerned about physical pain or discomfort, which is the concern for most people when it comes to dental procedures. You know, the sound of that whirring drill, smell of smoke from your own teeth – like a jackhammer in your mouth. That is disconcerting. But, I really just did not want to be yelled at or bawled out.
I could probably write at least another paragraph describing my resistance to going to a dentist. Suffice to say, my aching mouth and my persistent friend convinced me to try it one more time. To say Dr. L.T. was the polar opposite of my first close encounters of the dental kind would be an understatement. He was warm and friendly, kind and compassionate, and I believe, quite possibly the best 20th century dentist in Dallas. Maybe you think that a bold claim, given my previous experience. I admit it would not take much to eclipse that guy. I think my grandmother and her doorknob were preferable. But, I can back it up. Many years later, when I was a mother, I had a slight dental emergency on a Saturday. My beloved dentist did not work on weekends. So, I had to visit one who did. While I waited for the dentist, his assistants were not just checking my situation, but admiring the handiwork of my longtime dentist. Seriously, they were literally oohing and ahhing, asking what dentist had done the beautiful work. Beyond those two (I’m guessing sterile) thumbs up, many others agreed with me, and attested to Dr, L.T.’s superior competence. I had brought my parents, my brother and his family, and my husband to him. All had been to other dentists, and agreed there was no one like him. This blog was not intended to be a eulogy for my beloved family dentist. So, I will just add that he was as beautiful a person, as he was skilled in his profession. At just 32 years old when I first met him, Dr. L.T. had probably only been a dentist for about six years. I believe, like most dentists of the time, his was a small, private practice. And he did it all – fillings, crowns, bridges, root canals – everything.
Fast forward to present day dentists. I still cannot understand why they have to farm you out to other specialists – endodontists, periodontists… The one-stop shop is rare. The dentists and subspecialists have all kinds of sophisticated equipment. They plug you in and connect you to things that monitor your pulse, blood pressure, and I don’t know what all. I only know we pay for it before leaving the office.
As for my beloved dentist, back in the day of swish and spit into the snow cone shaped paper cup. He didn’t have or need any high-tech gadgets to monitor his patients. He would touch your shoulder, and intuitively knew when to increase novocaine. Even if you never winced, he just knew. Likewise, when nitrous oxide was used, he could tell when to increase or decrease the gas. Throughout any procedure, there was continuous patting the shoulder, and “You doing okay?” And it was not superficial or rote. He was sincere. With the exception of just a cleaning, within hours of any procedure, he would call to see how you were feeling. Dr. L.T. truly cared.
I realize that was all so 20th century. But, honestly, his beyond exceptional dental expertise and care was even affordable. I don’t know if it was because of his nice, yet modest office in northeast Dallas, with only necessary staff, or because I wasn’t paying for a lot of fluff, or because he was just such a good, kind man, pursuing his passion, and providing excellent dental care – just because.
Well, that was then; this is now. Over the past year, I have spent in the double digit thousands, between one dentist and one of those specialists. I also learned that when a dentist suspects a root canal is needed, and refers you to one of those specialists, said specialist will charge anywhere from $250.00 up – for the initial consultation – CONSULTATION! I wonder if Hermey, that elf dentist in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is still practicing at the North Pole…
Alabama – the band, not the state (Disclaimer: Nothing at all against the state – it’s just not my topic). Anyway, I have loved the band Alabama (Randy Owen, Teddy Gentry, the late Jeff Cook, Mark Herndon, and random others throughout the years) since I first heard them in the very early 1980s.
I was a relatively new convert to country music, mainly because disco pretty much eclipsed the pop music I had been listening to most of my life. Country music was not completely new to me. Because of my stepfather, there was plenty of Jim Reeves, Marty Robbins, Patsy Cline, and Buck Owens in my early life. It was sandwiched in with my mother’s Big Band, Sinatra, and overall contemporary music as constants in our household. But, that’s a whole, ‘nother blog (see link at bottom), in fact. But, when The Beatles rocked my world and I got my first transistor radio at about age 10, it was pop music all the way, until disco sent me to the comfort of country. That musical genre had also transitioned by the 1970s, and I found the sounds I was missing in the likes of the Gatlin Brothers, Oak Ridge Boys, Jerry Jeff Walker, and many others. When I saw Alabama in concert at Reunion Arena in Dallas in November, 1983, I declared them, in my opinion, the “country Beatles.” They had it all – the energy, the harmony, the overall excitement of just feeling a part of their musical experience.
Needless to say, I remained an Alabama fan throughout the years. I bought their albums, and thought I was keeping up with their music. Consequently, I was surprised when I only recently heard the 1995 song “Give Me One More Shot” on SiriusXM Prime Country channel. Actually, I might have heard the song back in the day. If so, because I was still full of that delusional feeling of youthful immortality, the lyrics just didn’t strike the relatable, albeit uncomfortable chord they now touch in me.
About 10 years ago, I found myself grousing, sometimes even in prayer, actually whining to God along the lines of “What happened? Why is it over? I wasn’t through yet being young and cute… Wait! Stop the clock.” I was almost demanding a “Do-over! Do-over!”
I clearly remember when I was a child, saying things like, “I can’t wait till Christmas,” or for my birthday. It was always “can’t wait” for something or other. My mom would usually say, “Stop wishing your life away.” At the time, that caution went right over my head. About my mid-fifties, I got it – totally understood. And that is just about the time I started my whining about how I wasn’t finished being young. Yet, there I was, wrinkling and crinkling while the two lovely young adults who used to be my babies were suddenly the age I felt I should still be.
Well, that all started a little over a decade ago. So, you can probably imagine how I feel now. I literally thank God every night for all my blessings, not just my health and the obvious gifts (none of which should be taken lightly). I am also grateful for some very good opportunities in my life, and for those times when it seemed like everything in my world was going great for me. I follow that with my expression of regret and remorse that I did not build righteously on those or many other blessings I never deserved. That is all probably TMI for this blog. Yet, it is, unfortunately, the basis, the essence of this piece. Because, when I reflect back on all of the gifts, blessings, opportunities I did not embrace and capitalize on, mainly because I thought there would always be time to do so, this song by Alabama says it all for me. The final chorus is:
“Well I’m satisfied just being alive give me one more day Give me one more shot I’ll give it all I’ve got Give me one more day Show me the way and give me one more day Give me one more shot.”
I like to think of my blogs as mostly humorous. But, it’s tough to come up with a closing punchline for this one. So, on the upside: I am still here, have my health, and my Baby Boomer rationalization is word on the street is that 60 is the new 40. So, over 60 must be… I don’t know – still alive and relevant? Yeah, let’s go with that.
Let’s talk about comfort. No, I’m not practicing ad copywriting for mattresses, recliners, or new cars. And I’m not referring to the relatively minor discomfort I call the Goldilocks Syndrome – when a chair or bed is too soft or too hard. I want to address inner peace and contentment – that comfort most sought to relieve anxiety or loneliness. Even in today’s somewhat adversarial climate, we are often encouraged to reach out, much like Buddy the Elf would say, “Does someone need a hug,”
and the implication is that will be quite soothing. Of course , the thing about a hug is someone has to be there to extend that embrace.
Also, in the real world, the strangers we encounter in stores, etc. rarely even make eye contact, let alone offering a hug – and that’s probably a good thing. 🙄 I mean, hugs from strangers – just creepy, to say the least. But, I digress…For the very young, comfort is relatively easy to obtain. Besides doting, affectionate parental cuddling, babies and young children may find the comfort they seek in a pacifier (or thumb), soft blanket, or a favorite stuffed animal.
As we age, that comfort is less easily obtained, and even less easily sustained. Parents pass, friends slip away, our children (always affection at the ready) grow up and move away. When peace and contentment are not as easily found, different options are sought as remedies for that uneasy sensation associated with the need for solace. Travel (take a cruise), drugs (legal and illegal), alcohol, and foods that are even labeled as such “comfort food” (think fried or sweet).
Some degree of anxiety has been an occasional unwelcome visitor for probably most of my life. In my defense (she said defensively 😉), for a while, my mom was a single, working parent. Even after she remarried, for the most part, it felt like she was all I had. And there was “THE bomb.” Growing up during the Cold War, it felt like every day, we faced what seemed a very real possibility that the world could end with that one call on the red phone. Wounds were still raw from the assassination of President Kennedy.
I have previously written about this. Yet, it seems worthy of reminding (or informing those so young they cannot even imagine it). But, during my early school years (the height of the Cold War), at the beginning of the year, we were sent home with forms for our parents to complete. Sure, most were just about legal names, address, parent/guardian, etc. However, there was also a particular form to indicate how, in the event of a national disaster, what the child should do. The options were: 1) Child is to remain at school; 2) Parents will pick ip child from school; or 3) Child is to get home the best way possible. True story! My mom always selected option 3. Because, she didn’t drive, and it seemed the least traumatic – you know, for me to die at home with family, rather than at school with strangers.
Furthermore, it seemed every week or so, President Lyndon Johnson would break into our regular TV programs to address the nation about something that felt scary and unsettling to this elementary school kid. As I recall, it was usually about civil unrest or national security. I don’t know. I’m probably just trying to rationalize my own insecurities. Yes, that is exactly what I’m doing – making excuses for my own (albeit occasional) insecurities. Because, according to several sources, over 70 million Baby Boomers are still with us, and it’s my guess that most have long since outgrown the trauma of our collective Cold War childhood. And then, there’s me. 🙄 There is a good chance I might be revealing too much here. You know the old saying about writing “opening a vein…” So, let’s assume some of this is hyperbole – exaggeration for effect. Yeah, right…
Some examples of my solace seeking: As a child, my sole source was my mom. My parents were divorced shortly before my fourth birthday. Although she remarried a few years later, I still felt she was all I had. I remember lying beside her on the couch, watching TV, I would try to sync my breathing with hers. As a pre-teen, I was often unable to sleep for worrying about that inevitable apocalypse so imprinted in my young mind. So, after my big brother fell asleep, my mom would lift his transistor radio from his pillow, and let me use it. The late night music worked wonderfully to calm and finally lull me to sleep. Consequently, by my next birthday or Christmas (because, in those days, Christmas and birthdays were the only times we got gifts), I received my own transistor radio. Hence, the beginning of music being my main source of comfort. Let me add that Mom had taught us since very early childhood, to pray, and I vividly recall her teaching mr the 23rd Psalm, encouraging me to recite it when I felt particularly fearful.
Nevertheless, that music sure helped, too. So, a few years later, when I got my first guitar at age 11, my own music became a great source of comfort for years to come. Even when Mom wasn’t working deep nights at the Dallas Police Department, thus at home and trying to sleep at night (as normal, non-rotating-shift people typically do), she never seemed disturbed by my being up at 1:00 in the morning, playing my guitar and singing.
During my high school years, I had a kind, loving boyfriend who was always supportive. If I anticipated a particularly stressful day at school, he would let me wear his jacket, and just doing that alleviated all anxiety.
Though music (my own and now all-night SiriusXM and Pandora) still ultimately ease me to sleep, there was that blessed interim when I was a mom. I believe most mothers lie down beside their children at bedtime, to say prayers, tell bedtime stories, and listen to their concerns. Those times were always at least as comforting to me, as I believe they were for my kids. Just feeling their unconditional love and complete dependence on me was both comforting and on some level, empowering. Besides God, a loving family is the ultimate source of comfort.
But, things change. Children grow up, and move away – which brings me back to the qualifier at the beginning of this paragraph – God. When everyone else is gone, only He is still with us.
The comfort we thought was from those people and sources was actually God working through them. He was always the great comforter, and the ONE who never leaves us.
A couple of years ago, when I moved to a new place, my son and daughter-in-law had this plaque made for me. It is placed where I see (and read it) every day.
Oh, yeah – writing helps me, too. I believe there is some empowerment in using our God-given gifts. Hmmm… I feel more comfortable already. 😉
Many people embrace the concept of aging gracefully. I applaud them – yay! Personally, I have no desire to age gracefully, clumsily, or any other mode. I am fighting it all the way – kicking and screaming. I typically resist change – especially to my age, face, body – to my life, in general. I mean, my philosophy has always been once you get to a point, be it a house/location, job/life situation, age, weight, appearance – whatever… once you reach a place where you are truly satisfied, just STAY THERE. Do not touch it. Don’t mess with it. You know, “if it ain’t broke…”
I don’t want the circle of life, as referenced in several songs, thinking particularly of Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game.” I want life to be linear, and stop at just the right point, then stay there, in as much perfection as fate will allow. I realize most normal people accept the natural progression and inevitable transitions in life. But, I’m guessing I am not completely alone in my resistance. Surely, many musicians, actors, and athletes long to have frozen time during their glory years. While I certainly cannot relate to that kind of glory, there were periods I would love to have lived in forever. Because, you move and you go, and you live. Then, you reach that point where you long to linger. But, you can’t. I relate it to the late, great Jim Croce’s “Time In a Bottle”: “…There never seems to be enough time To do the things you want to do Once you find them…”
I will say there was no point in my early childhood that I would have chosen to slam on the brakes. Obviously, life is rapidly changing for everyone when we are very young – outgrowing clothes, changing appetites, ever-evolving activity interests – overall, just growing. My early years, however, went well beyond the normal expected evolution. Except for the comfort of having my mother always with me, my early years were probably more fluid than most. We moved a lot, hence changing neighborhoods and schools, even in mid-year or mid-mid-year. I never felt dug in, and rarely (probably never) truly bonded with my environment, knowing, even in my young mind, on some level, it was only temporary. The only constants were my mother and brother. Everything else was a variable.
Finally, in my teen years, there was, at last, some degree of stability. Now, we’re talkin’! We moved to a house that my mom apparently liked enough to stay there for a few years. There was no changing schools, except for the natural progression from junior high to high school. That meant for five straight years, I did not have to be the new girl. Yes, those wonderful teen years – the same address for more than a year, blossomed out of adolescent awkwardness, got my drivers license, and most all of the popular music of that era was great. My high school boyfriend was kind, handsome, and also my best friend. Yet, even with all that newfound peace, consistency and contentment, I probably would not have frozen my life in that particular period. I knew there was more. I still wanted to ultimately be a successful writer/songwriter, wife, and mother. Consequently, not that I had any choice, but, I didn’t fight the hands of time during those years. Moving forward… I touched only the fringe of writing, though did become a wife and mother. I had a few beautiful homes, a couple of jobs I really enjoyed, and eventually, the invaluable blessing of being a stay-at-home mom. And it is somewhere in that era I would absolutely choose to freeze time.
I believe for most of us, our physical appearance changes very little between our twenties and late fifties. Then, yikes – we learn life’s harsh lesson that cute does have a shelf life. So, at some point, there you are – your parents died, the kids grew up, and looks are fading (fast). And the chorus to Joni Mitchell song “The Circle Game” is the stark contrast to Jim Croce’s desire to save time in a bottle:
In reality, it’s not some kind of suspended animation that I would choose. You know, the way cartoon Dick Tracy would be falling off a building or in some dire situation, and yell, “Hold everything!” – while he hung there in mid-air. And even I (almost exclusively educated in liberal arts, intentionally avoiding math and science), yes, even this Pisces poet knows enough about physics to understand that you have to keep moving. If you stop pedaling a bicycle, you fall over. You don’t apply brakes when driving on ice. You maintain consistent, gentle pressure on the accelerator. I get all that. So, all of this pining – like most things I think, feel, or write – just wistful whimsy.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older…” Remember when the Beach Boys sang this – and we all agreed? What were we thinking?
Back in the day – before all of his legal problems, when so many of us thought Bill Cosby was one of the funniest comedians – ever… In one of his bits about aging, he quipped that when he was a kid, he thought God just put old people here for him to look at. I confess I must have thought that same thing. You know, like all horrific things – we tend to think they just happen to other people, not to us. Yeah, right.
Well, this just in: AGE HAPPENS. And you know that old saying, “Time flies when you’re having fun”? No – uh-uh. Time just flies, irrespective, with absolutely no relation to the amount of fun you may or may not be having. Believe me, time could not care less. It doesn’t give a flying fig whether you’re having fun. It just flat-out flies.
Another misconception is that age is only a number. Really? Well, so is the speed limit and your credit score. But, they still restrict your life.
I often compare aging to the 1988 Tom Hanks film Big, where he went to bed a 12-year-old, and woke up 30 years old. It is exactly like that! One day you are young and cute, then, bam! You wake up – well, old.
But, wait! Old is a word we must never-EVER use (in reference to our generation). Nor do we use the s-word – senior – unless it gets us a discount on something – wink! Otherwise, my fellow readers “of a certain age,” specifically born between 1946 and 1964, we are forever Baby Boomers.No other label shall be applied.
That said, it used to be a lot more fun being a Baby Boomer. I think it really struck me that this giant g-g-g-g-generation of mine was really special (and kinda cool) in the early 1980s. We had all grown up, had jobs, mortgages, credit cards, and kids. But, we were still under the safety net of our parents’ “greatest generation,” you know, the one that survived the Great Depression, and World War II. Overall, they still held all the most powerful positions in business and government. So, we Boomers were just old and strong enough to control our personal lives, finances, and maybe push some limits.
Now, when I identify as a Baby Boomer, I feel like that scene in the movie Space Cowboys where the young astronauts send a round of drinks to the old guys – bottles of Ensure! 🤦🏻♀️
A few years ago, I had the unfortunate obligation of attending a family Easter dinner at the home of someone else’s family. I overheard the 40-ish year-old host explaining to his 12-year-old son how this country’s financial crisis is due to all the Baby Boomers’ mismanagement when in power, and because they’re now sucking the Social Security. Seriously! He said this right in front of his own parents, both likely Boomers, though they seemed considerably older than I. At any rate, he didn’t seem concerned about whom he might be offending or, for that matter, the validity of his theory.
And another thing – I am tired of being treated like an old person. Seriously, a few months ago, a dentist noticed my shoes, and said I was the second patient that day to be wearing those same shoes. I cautiously asked, “Was she old?” And without missing a beat, and zero effort for diplomacy, he said, “Yes, she was.”
I just thought, “Well, kill me now.” It was these shoes. 👇🏻 👇🏻
So, are Skechers now the official shoe of (what others consider) old people? Well, I have been blessed with good health, and can walk as briskly as ever in them – maybe even run. Besides, I’m not sure they still make PF Flyers.
Anyway, just a few things this Baby Boomer misses and wishes she could still do:
• I wish I was still capable of breaking a guy’s heart – not intentionally. It would just be so nice to have someone so attracted to me, that if unrequited, it could be heartbreaking – just for a little while. 💙
• I miss the occasional double-takes – not the lewd kind – the subtle complimentary second looks.
• I miss hand-written love notes.
• When the phone rang, and you didn’t know who it was – ahh, the hope and eager anticipation that it might be someone special – calling me.
• I even kinda miss PMS – a valid reason for being cranky.
I have read and heard that some of Stephen King’s books (and consequent films) were based on his dreams. Apparently, he had the presence of mind to recall them well enough to write them down when he woke up, then embellish, as needed. As a lifelong dreamer (literally and figuratively), I have often wished I had done that with many of my subconscious mental masterpieces. If I had promptly penned some of the kaleidoscopic concepts of my sleep state of altered consciousness, you might have seen my name in lights – or at the very least, maybe I would be seeing my name on royalty checks, instead of uh, you know, just free fonts.
Recently, I had a dream I did feel compelled to write down. It was not the stuff of which great novels or even movie scripts are made. It probably isn’t anything that would likely even make it onto the printed page back in the day when I was paid a little money to write for actual publications. But, it was powerful to me, not just immediately upon waking – it stayed with me – really lingered.
Typical of what I call “dream rules” (to explain the logically impossible events in dreams), I felt I was either observing or participating in a boat trip that ran into choppy waters. It was just a small boat – like a row boat or maybe a large canoe – no sails or motor of any kind. There were several in the small boat. But, the only identifiable figure was a little girl, looked to be about three years old. The choppy water quickly became a violent storm, wildly tossing the fragile vessel into the air; under the massive waves. The few people on board clung for life, and cried out for help.
Again, following dream rules, I sensed I was somehow a part, yet apart – maybe both a witness and a victim. Finally, the sea or whatever kind of body of water it was, hurled the little boat onto a beach, where it turned over, and spilled out its drenched human cargo. The little girl, wet and covered in sand, scrambled to her feet, and started to run away.
But, I grabbed her, told her she was not to leave until she thanked God for saving her. Kneeling down to her toddleresque level, to make eye contact, I explained that every time God answered a prayer, bestowed an unexpected gift, or saved her from any kind of storm, she must thank Him – immediately, upon her realization of the blessing.
When, I awoke, the dream stayed with me. The child seemed so familiar – the dark hair, dark eyes… I dismissed the possibility it might be my niece or granddaughter when they were little. They both had brown hair, but, not dark, dark brown like the little girl in my dream. After an hour or so, I knew where I had seen her – in my own childhood photos. It was little Nancy Sue.
And in keeping with those mysterious dream rules, old Nancy was counseling that inner child. I don’t understand why. Because, ever since as a pre-teen (when I began praying for certain family needs), I made a deal with God – that if He would answer my prayer, I would make it a point not only to thank Him, but that my prayers of gratitude for any particular request would far outnumber the original pleas. Consequently, to this very day, I am still thanking Him for prayers answered over 50 years ago.
This is, in no way, intended as any kind of virtue signaling. On the contrary, something in my soul must have felt I needed a reminder – hence, the dream.
Besides my own recollection of the mental images from that near-nightmare, the other illustration that comes to mind is, of course, from the New Testament gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, where they tell of Jesus calming the storm violently tossing their boat. The Bible doesn’t specifically state that they thanked Him. However, their realization that Jesus was no regular man, that “Even the wind and the waves obey him…” was likely the appreciation He sought.
So, there’s that dream I felt compelled to share – not coming soon to a theater near you. 😉
“Me and Bobby McGee,” a song I have probably heard more than a thousand times over the past 50-plus years – finally just struck a solid blow to my heart. Seriously, I never cared for it. That might even be putting it mildly. Because, it was a song that would make me to change the channel if there were other options. For one thing, and I know this is not a popular opinion – but, I was not a Janis Joplin fan. Leaving it at that, I will say I love Roger Miller, who also recorded the song, and am a huge fan of Kris Kristofferson, who wrote it. However, in 1971, I never intentionally listened to country music. That only happened when it was forced on me while in the car with my parents, where my stepfather typically controlled the radio.
Despite my appreciation and admiration of both Kristofferson and Roger Miller, I must admit I still would not likely have related to the song even if I had not first heard it sung by Janis Joplin. True, Joplin’s voice and my overall lack of fandom for her, initially turned me off of the song. But, even if I had first heard it by Roger Miller or Kristofferson, I would have felt, at best, indifferent. The song just did not appeal to me on any level.
Fast-forward a little over 50 years. Oh my goodness! The line “I’d trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday…” What? Yes, yes, I would so do that! Never in all my years of changing the channel or just tuning out when the song came on had I ever heard that one line so clearly, and now it is stabbing me in the heart.
The first time it struck me, I was immediately wondering how old Kris Kristofferson was when he wrote it. Because, that single line is so profoundly wise and angst-filled – the sort of yearning only older people would truly understand. Well, I looked it up, and Kris was probably about 33 at the time. Okay, over 30, but, still quite young to find a lyric like that in his soul. The complete line, of course, is “I’d trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday, to be holding Bobby’s body close to mine…” an obvious yearning for a past moment with a lost love.
Nevertheless, trading all your tomorrows is not typically something that would even occur to a person only in his thirties. Oh my, in your thirties, forties, even fifties, there are still so many tomorrows to look toward with hope. So, having recently heard that song with a new perspective and old soul, I embraced it. Yes, I would absolutely trade whatever is left of my tomorrows for a single yesterday.
But, oh, wait – when I consider the joy in that prospect, it is definitely through a rose-colored rear view mirror. I would actually only trade those tomorrows for one of my most precious yesterdays – like the warm, fun, happy home we enjoyed when my kids were little, and my family intact, or just one more meaningful day with my mom.
So, before I could completely commit to trading my tomorrows, I would need some assurance that “single yesterday” would be one of those really wonderful days. Because, I’ve seen enough episodes of Twilight Zone, and read enough Aesop’s Fables to have learned the need to “be careful what you wish for.” Oh, yeah, I am still praising God for getting me through plenty of yesterdays that I don’t even want to remember – let alone, revisit.
So, there’s that keeping me from anteing up any tomorrows at this time. That said, it is a beautiful lyric, and just one more reason for me to appreciate the songwriting genius of Kris Kristofferson.
That is a little question my daughter and I have always used to validate our own experience when we fear it is just something only happened to us. As an aside, I must add (not proudly) that we both do seem to have the patent on a lot of weird things that seem exclusive to us. Anyway, it seems like an appropriate opening for this mental meander (blog).
So… Have you ever had this?
You have a problem or situation, and someone symbolically points an accusing finger with the phrase “The Lord helps those who help themselves.” I am so tempted to insert the hand to face emoji here. But, back in the day, words were all we had in writing for publication. So, I’m relying on my words to elicit appropriate images.
Anyway, responding to that help yourself or the Lord won’t help you. Umm…thank you – comforting and encouraging? Not so much. For one thing, that expression is not scriptural – it is nowhere in the Bible. True, we can’t simply sit and do nothing, waiting for God to just fix everything. Something is always required of us. Noah didn’t order an ark from Amazon. He had to build that big, ol’ boat in order to be spared the devastation of the great flood.
As for Jesus’ first recorded miracle, He didn’t just wave a magical wine wand. He told the servants to fill six jars with water, then take a sample to the banquet host, who (unaware the jars had previously contained water) declared the best wine had been saved for the last. I could go on. But, entire books have been devoted to the miracles of God, and how some action is always required of the human beneficiary.
At some point, most of us face some grievous situation that, despite our best efforts, just keeps bringing disappointment, discouragement, despair. Perhaps we ponder prayer, then consider whether our particular problem warrants bothering God. We think of others facing real life or death issues, or maybe just things that make our problems seem like a broken nail or bad hair day, in comparison.
There can be a struggle between feeling too proud to ask for help (even from God) and showing weakness by doing so and the realization that nothing is too small to take to God in prayer. It might be too small to complain about to fellow humans – but, never too small to ask for God’s help. My mother was always quick to diminish my complaints by reminding me of people with much bigger problems. Mom would never discourage praying about my problems, however small – she only warned of whining about them.
Another aside: When the aforementioned (funny) daughter, was a first grader in parochial school, a charismatic, young deacon told her class a joke she loved and shared. It was something about a child whose mother needed to clean a spill on the floor, and told him to go out on the porch and get the mop. The little boy told her it was dark, and he was afraid. His mother urged him to ask for God’s help. So, he opened the door, and said, “Hey, God, would you hand me the mop!” The message hit home, and certainly illustrated how there are different ways to ask for God’s help.
Whether prayer is the first course of action or last resort, at some point, most believers will be there in times of need. One of the great things about prayer – there is no IVR like: “Press 1 for illness. Press 2 for financial. Press 3 for depression.” It is a direct line to God. Maybe that perception of prayer as the direct Lord line, causes us to expect more timely results from our requests. Then again, our experiences with fellow humans (especially authority figures) adversely impact our expectations of God. For example, many years ago, I worked for a Dallas Mayor who was also CEO of a large Dallas area grocery chain. His policy was you should already have a solution in mind before you took a problem to him – a mortal management style – probably not what we should expect from God. Another boss I had kept a suspense file, where he basically put things off until the last possible moment to respond. Again, likely efficient time management and way to prioritize tasks – not likely God’s system. And yet, as mere mortals, we almost instinctively project our expectations from prayer, based on our human experiences.
Even knowing God is our Father, it is not necessarily accurate to compare His responses to those of our earthly parents. My mom, for example, often responded to my requests with a reflective, “We’ll see…”No, not the dreaded “We’ll see!” More often than not, that was simply a way for her to buy time and diffuse my urgency while she devised a rationale for saying no. While a typical, relatively effective maternal method for addressing requests, it’s not likely one the Lord would use, any more than He would say, “I’ll give you something to cry about.” Nevertheless, our human experiences with parental and authority figures just naturally influence our expectations from prayer. Because, a divine, loving Father, with no personal agenda, and nothing but the best intentions for us is almost, if not completely, beyond our mortal comprehension.
I had hoped to bring this blog home with some profound wisdom or enlightenment. Unfortunately, all I have is to reiterate that “the Lord helps those who help themselves” is not biblical. We can take our smallest need to a loving God, and leave it there, with faith that He will provide in His own time. However, we can’t just sit idly, expecting Him to do all of the heavy lifting. Like Tom Hanks’ character in Castaway, once the tide brings in the right material, we need to get busy building that raft.
Memory.Okay, not the most attention-grabbing opening sentence. But, hey, I’m just coming off a long dry spell (okay, writer’s block). So, it’s a start. Many songs reference remembrances – either caressing or cursing them: * The Way We Were” – … Continue reading →
This is not the typical Baby Boomer or humor piece characteristic of my blog. It is simply something I felt moved to share. So, if you were expecting Boomer nostalgia or quirky, observational humor, I apologize for any disappointment, and hope you will find some inspiration.
For quite some time, miracles have been on my heart and mind.
The Bible tells us Jesus’ first documented public miracle was at a wedding in Cana, where, at His mother’s request, He changed the water into wine. While an amazing feat (one I’m sure some of us have, at least occasionally, wanted to do), it was, nevertheless, nowhere near the greatest of the Lord Jesus’ miracles.
It was only the beginning. He would go on to walk on water, calm the turbulent seas, give sight to the blind, heal the sick, make the lame walk, cure the lepers, raise Lazarus from the dead, and the list goes on…
Yet, that turning the water into wine might be considered his protomiracle. Today, we might call it Miracle 1.0.
Transforming water into wine was the one that proved to those who, until that point, thought he was just the nice carpenter son of Mary and Joseph, that there was something more to this Jesus of Nazareth. Continue reading →
A retired friend recently returned to work – a feat in itself that I find nearly miraculous, since I can’t even get an interview at a used book store – but, that’s a whole ‘nother blog…
My friend is excited about being out and about, and returning to the productive population. However, he said it is difficult re-adjusting to things like not shaking hands.
Yes! Someone else is feeling it – the frustration of re-learning how to interact with other humans. A few months ago, after a particularly pleasant experience in the service department of an auto dealership, I instinctively reached out to shake the masked service advisor’s hand, then immediately drew back my hand. My brain reacted like the navigation app in your car when you make a wrong turn: “Re-calculating! Re-calculating!” The service advisor nodded understanding, and we sort of waved in mutual appreciation. Continue reading →
In his first inaugural address in 1933, President Franklin D. Roosevelt said, “… the only thing we have to fear is…fear itself...” So true. The danger is in the fear.
I was recently privileged to be invited to a Golden Wedding Anniversary of some dear friends. The guy who served as best man in 1969 was at the party, and stood to toast, and say a few words. He began by telling how the couple met all those years ago. His tribute was great – both heartwarming and humorous. Because of the amusing angles, I wanted to share it with my daughter, then realized she is not old enough to grasp or fully comprehend the comedy.
Though my daughter is officially Generation Y, I have dubbed her an honorary Baby Boomer. She grew up with my music, old movies, and solid values, and has never been an easily offended snowflake type. I had both of my kids watch the film On theBeach so they could get some kind of understanding of the nuclear war/Duck and Cover environment that was my childhood. Nevertheless, I realized she would have no way of knowing about the military draft, and 1960s drama involved therein. Continue reading →
Country music was not really a part of my life until my mother met my stepfather when I was six years old. Mom was of the Big Band generation, and always kept up with popular music. She bought records – not just by Sinatra and the crooners of her generation, but also hits by artists such as Johnny Mathis, Paul Anka, and Frankie Avalon.
Enter the Kentucky-born country boy who would become my stepfather, and consequently, lots of Jim Reeves, Patsy Cline, Roy Drusky, and other 1960s country singers. Popular and easy-listening remained the primary music in our home. The car, however, was my stepfather’s domain, and country music radio stations were his choice.Continue reading →
After quite a dry spell – not so much writer’s block as, at worst , starter’s block; at best, finisher’s block, I realized I had to write something – anything. So, with nary a nod to nasty politics, I thought I would start slowly with an elementary school style essay on why I love collies.
Without further ado… ahem…”Why I Love Collies” by Nancy Krenrich:
It should come as no surprise that this Baby Boomer grew up watching “Lassie.” I was too young for the Jeff episodes with Tommy Rettig (1954 – 1957). It was the Timmy shows (starring Jon Provost) that I watched every Sunday night.
It might be that my love of collies is hereditary. I have seen a picture of my big brother (before I was born) holding what appeared to be a tricolor collie puppy, whose name I am told, was Tippy. My mom never had pets, because her mother was not a fan, and was appalled at the very idea of actually keeping and feeding them. Heaven forbid they should be allowed in the house! So, any affection for animals would likely come from my father. After I was born, we had a sable collie named Sandy until my parents divorced. Mom got my brother and me. My dad got custody of the collie.
I just read the GQ article “The Untold Stories of Paul McCartney.” https://www.gq.com/story/the-untold-stories-of-paul-mccartney Writer Chris Heath’s interviews with Paul revealed many things even this lifelong fan never knew about the former Beatles/Wings/singer/songwriter/icon for a generation.
I was pleased and relieved to realize the energy, intellect, excitement, and mental clarity we perceive in Sir Paul is, apparently, an accurate impression. The 76-year-old is definitely still all there.
Heath unearthed far more than the sweet story behind “Let it Be” of how Paul’s mother Mary came to him in a dream – oh, so much more… I found, especially interesting, the insight to the Wings’ song “Jet.” While the title was for a pony they had named Jet, Paul seemed to suggest that early in his marriage to Linda, his father-in-law was a “kind of a nuisance,” and might have been the “Major” in that 1973 song.
Note: Originally written and posted in September 2009; updated March 12, 2026.
Spoiler alert: both of my kids are now happily married to wonderful people.
We all know someone with a penchant for attracting and/or being attracted to – how can I put this tactfully? I can’t. So, I’ll just say it – they seem to be a magnet for psychopaths. Maybe you are that guy (or girl). But, let’s just go with you know someone like that.
And if we have known such individuals, as parents, we definitely would not want our kids to be such victims. Consequently, when our kids become of age to date and venture out into friendships not arranged or necessarily parent-approved, we would like to scotchgard or otherwise keep them immune from such situations.
When my kids were growing up, I made my them watch a lot of old movies,– either for historical or “cultural literacy” purposes.Maybe, in the interest of defensive living, people should also watchfilms like Play Misty for Me and Fatal Attraction.
Jessica Walter in “Play Misty For Me” Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction”
But, even if a guy (or girl) never saw those particularmoviesfeaturing fragile relationships gone very bad, anyone who watches LIFETIME movies or other true crimefeatures, should know these red flags: 1) If a person looks hot, yet for some reason is apparently un-attached; 2} He/she immediately adores you, and 3) Seems absolutely PERFECT within the first 24 hours of your meeting… It is almostinevitable that person of interestturnsouttobe NUTZ.
Because, it justdoes not work that way. Even love at firstsight never happens that perfectlyandquickly. Oh, no… every so often Mister or Miss Rightturnsout to be very, very, very wrong.
Consequently, the naive, targets of these types of emotional stalkers might want to check with the person’s former relationships, spouses, or maybe even local mental institutions beforebecoming too attached.
But, nooo – they usuallyjust go all in for this perfect soulmate who has miraculously shown up in their life. And before long, it has all hit the fan! Neighbors begin complaining and calling the police. But, already, the psycho has got the innocent party’s life story, not to mention the password to their email, voice mail, and probably their ATM PIN – and so the stalking drama is on.
Even worse, it maynotbelimited to romanticinterests. Some innocent, gullible, or simply caught off guardfolks may inadvertentlyattractfriends or business associates of questionablecharacter, ultimately resulting in uncomfortablesituations, possible professional betrayals, and consequent lawsuits.
Actually, writing this as a seasoned adult, I realize my tonesoundssomewhat self righteous. But, no – I admit that as a relatively naive young person, I was never immune. One instancecomesto mind. In my veryearly 20s, I met a girl in my workplace, and trusted her completely – until a coworkerwarned me aboutwhat he believed the girl’s trueagenda was. He was right, and I cooled the friendshipbefore she couldcause any (more) problems. Stuff happenswhen you’re young.
Hence, the term “live andlearn.” After all, Bad Company is not justthenameof a 1970’s rock group, it’s also something our elders warned us not to travel with. In a past life, (you know, a longtime ago, in a galaxy far, far away), my son seemed to be a magnetforthosekinds of “friends.”
It seems one movie I should have made my kids watch wasLONESOME DOVE.Because, I could tell them (what my mom drilled into me) “You are known by the company you keep,” and preach ad nauseam about reputation and “birds of a feather…”
But, I’m just the mother. My warnings were only garbled gibberish, a la, the adults in PEANUTS cartoons, “waah waahwaah waah waah waah waah…”
But, I’ll tell you what.My son was a huge fan of Robert Duvall and Tommy Lee Jones.I know if he had seen Gus (Duvall) string his lifelong buddy Jake (Robert Urich) in that tree, he would absolutely believe it when Duvall says, “You ride with outlaws, you DIE with outlaws.”
Young people don’t always put much stock in maternal words of wisdom.But, they listen to cool, tough guys – and THATis why God gave usROBERT DUVALL (may he rest in peace) and TOMMY LEE JONES!
Elvis wasn’t the only one when he sang about having a blue Christmas. It happens to many. I came across this newspaper column I wrote way back in 1989. I’m not sure what this happy looking young writer could have been moody about.
I had every blessing imaginable – beautiful children, intact family, a lovely home. I was enjoying a lifelong dream of being a freelance writer. Apparently, it was not depression or even true moodiness. My mom was still alive. So, it looks like I was just pining for family and friends who had moved away – along with a few other things, like Andy Williams Christmas specials – even certain recipes. No, that young writer, now this much older woman had no true understanding of seasonal or any other kind of sadness.
Exhibit A – the column:
Fast forward a few decades, and that same writer recalls her little boy’s words of wisdom. When I was whining and complaining about some minor annoyance, my eight-year-old son interrupted me with this reminder: “Well, you’re alive, aren’t ya?” Out of the mouths of babes… And that logic still applies.
Surely, many things have changed over the years – the Christmases that have come and gone. But, I’m alive – and if you’re reading this, so are you. Cool. So, Merry Christmas!
I don’t recall from where I lifted this meme. But, I love it.
And frankly, I love the sound of barking dogs. I understand a lot of people get annoyed by it. But, it’s music to my ears. Seriously, no matter the cadence or pitch, I love the sound. The only time I have ever stressed about that beautiful sound is when we had multiple dogs, and I worried about bothering the neighbors. Early in my marriage, we had a couple of young collies. Our first house had a chain link fence, allowing them to keep a watchful eye on the planet.
Then, we moved to a new house with a wooden stockade fence, and they could no longer see the world, and until they accepted that limitation, they seemed to bark more. Because the house had an attic fan, on pleasant autumn nights, we could sleep with windows open.
One particular such night, the dogs seemed especially vocally active, and I would shout out the window, “Shut UP!” After a few times, my husband called me out. No, he didn’t tell me to shut up – he never would. But, he did suggest I stop doing that. When I pleaded concern it would bother the neighbors, he calmly suggested, “They’re probably less annoyed by the dogs than by you hollering ‘Shut up!’ out the window.” End of discussion; beginning of peaceful, autumn night sleep.
Many years later, we had a similar situation. Once again, we had multiple collies, and for several years, had lived on acreage in the country. Those dogs had no boundaries, and could bark and chase coyotes to their hearts’ delight.
Then, we moved into the city limits – and once again, free range collies found themselves confined behind a wooden stockade fence. Making matters much worse, our next door neighbor was a Gladys Kravitz.
So, when the dogs began barking a bit too much, we would bring them inside, or give them a time out in the garage until they calmed down.
In their defense (and for all dogs), in neighborhoods and populated communities, the bark of a single dog becomes a sort of contagion of telegraphing Because of their keen sense of hearing, a dog hears another one barking miles away. So, he answers, and so it begins…
When we lived next door to Gladys Kravitz, the neighbors on the other side had a Rottweiler, who, I believe, often started it. I swear, he would begin barking, and I really believe the very alpha female collie I had at the time, would run to the fence, and bark at him to “shut up!” – which triggered the age-old counter, “No! YOU shut up!” “No, YOU!”… and so, it went…
Anyway, barking is what dogs do. They bark for warning, they bark for joy, to sing, and sometimes, just because. In addition to pawing and tail-wagging, it is their most effective means of communication, and it has major benefits, even beyond the obvious watch dog advantage.
For many years, my family spent part of most weekends house-hunting. One time, we were touring a house, and the owner pointed out remodeling that had been done, because it had once caught fire. The homeowner had a dog, but had that debarking surgery performed on it (yes, there really is such a cruel procedure). So, in the middle of the night, when the fire started, his neighbor called to wake them, and tell them their house was on fire.
How did the neighbor know before the homeowner? Because the neighbor’s dog, not devocalized, was aware, began barking, waking the neighbor in time to alert the homeowner. Yeah, surgically silence your dog – how’s that working for ya? If a person thinks he wants a dog, but one that can’t bark, maybe he should consider other pet options, like maybe a goldfish?
I usually try to close my blogs with an uplifting comment – even better if it’s humorous. However, reluctantly making an exception to my self-imposed rule on this one.
So, in closing, on a somewhat somber note – as a person still grieving the loss of my soul dog over two years ago, I feel certain even if people find their dog’s barking somewhat bothersome at times… and I believe many widows might agree with me here. It’s like when you hear women complain about their husband’s snoring. You will really miss it when they’re gone
Closing a text message exchange with a dear family member, in response to my expression of love, she responded with “Love you more.” Like the game of Marco Polo, that phrase has sort of become the Polo response to the Marco of “love you.” However, I was able to top her “love you more” with my “No way!” And it’s true. I can flat out-love the strongest heartstrings. Just ask anyone who has ever been the object (or victim) of Nancy Love. It is relentless, never-ending affection, commitment, and devotion. Yes, though not particularly proud of it, I can pretty much be the proverbial chewing gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe – really hard to shake off. Besides the relatively few people fixed in my heart, this applies to everything else to which I have attached my extreme affection – from The Beatles to collies.
Just like Robert Redford‘s character (Hubbell) said to Barbra Streisand (Katie) in The Way We Were: “When you love someone, from Roosevelt to me, you go deaf, dumb and blind.” That’s me. My eternal devotion is basically unshakable – maybe inescapable – well, not completely (more on the flip side of that coin in final paragraphs below).
I confess (with some embarrassment) this is likely because I don’t really, truly love many people. Not proud of that. Consequently, I have fallen back on this excuse for it: Growing up, I had one parent, onegrandparent, and one sibling. So, I didn’t really have to spread my affection too thin. Additionally, we moved quite often, making close friendships seem like a pointless pursuit.
I know – I know it doesn’t make much sense. But, it’s the best/only way I can possibly rationalize my limited circle of affection.
Conversely, when I take a disliking to something,.. well, that sticks pretty hard, too. Like the late Robert Kennedy’s own father allegedly said of his youngest son, “When Bobby hates you, you stay hated.”
Yikes. As the Plain White T’s’ song says, “Hate is a strong word.” But, when I “really, really, really don’t like” someone or thing, well, that kind of has a tendency to stay with me. In my defense, I am working on that. I mean, as a Baby Boomer or “of a certain age,” as the saying goes, I am seriously trying to get into heaven now. Fortunately, between my extremes, there is a lot of middle ground. So, I’ve got that going for me.
Exhibit A of why you never see travel specials for a “fall foliage tour” of North Texas is this first picture- a typical autumn in the Dallas-Fort Worth area of Texas.
Yes, every few years, we get an early frost or two, and the leaves actually do turn some lovely shades of red and gold.
But, usually, this is it. The leaves just burn in the five-plus month summer scorch, then, eventually surrender and plummet to the equally parched ground.
This year, I broke down and added A Christmas Story to my holiday movie collection so I could watch it all night, (I mean, literally all night – 24 hours on Christmas Eve), like in the old days (when I had cable). I love the movie. Yet, I do take issue with a few things:
• Ralphie, despite his precocious vocabulary and cherubic countenance, was a bad friend. He repeatedly left his pals to get beaten and bullied – even stuck to a flagpole. He never stood up for them. Also, having been a considerably younger sibling myself, it’s my opinion Ralphie was not a particularly supportive brother. I’m confident my own big brother would never have allowed a bully to tip me over in the snow. Continue reading →
Seriously, the only thing making me sick is the word virtual. I am truly just so sick of hearing about virtual concerts, virtual conventions, virtual fairs. For cryin’ out loud, even the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade will be virtual this year.
The great State Fair of Texas was canceled, offering instead, drive-through photo ops with Big Tex and similar alternatives for obtaining deep-fried Fair food. In all fairness, I understand the relative impossibility of achieving and maintaining any kind of social distancing at such an event.
However, social distancing aside, with all due respect, the State Fair has long been an experience of basically taking your life into your own hands. It’s true that many years ago, either it was much safer, or we were much more naive. For example, the first time I attended the fair, I had only lived in Dallas two years. I went with the little boy who lived next door. Hs mother just dropped us off at the front gate, and we two nine-year-olds spent the entire day at the fair (albeit, among thousands of other elementary school kids). Three years later, at just 12 years old, I boarded a city bus with my friend (Dallas school kids were given bus tickets along with our free fair pass), and we spent the day at the fair, then caught a bus back home. Twelve years old – alone on a city bus from quiet, little, basically suburban, Mayfieldesque Northeast Dallas to the outer edge of downtown. True story. That was simply situation normal in the 1960s. Fast forward a few decades, even with prominent police presence on the fairgrounds, it is highly unlikely anyone would allow their elementary school age children to attend the fair alone.
But, I digress with a not infrequent lapse into a Baby Boomer childhood moment.
My point is the Texas State Fair is an annual event that thousands of people attend, knowing full well the inherent dangers, given the crowds and ingesting all manner of fried foods and delicacies on a stick from outdoor vendors.
And I can’t even say I would have attended the fair this year. I would just like to have had the option.
Returning to my initial premise, I am sick of the cancellations and closures. I can’t even go inside the veterinarian’s office with my dog. It is now a drive up, call in, tell them what space you’re in, they send someone out to get the dog, then the doctor calls you with the diagnosis, your credit card is processed inside, then card and dog returned to your car.
It’s like everything is the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, but without that exacting efficiency.
I was definitely never, by any stretch of the cocoon, a social butterfly. Yet, all of these non-interaction interactions and virtual events have made me appreciate when actual human contact was at least an option.
I understand if people with underlying health problems that make them more vulnerable to viruses want or need to self quarantine. But, at the risk of sounding selfish, I would love to return to an America fully open for business, events, and celebrations.
The current state of isolation and impersonal existence is virtually sickening.
Now, for the proverbial “call to action:” If you liked this piece, please click “Like,” leave a comment, “Follow” my blog, – better yet, share the link with friends, family, or colleagues you think would enjoy it. It’s the only way a writer can gather an audience. Thanks very much! Nancy 🌹
Today marks the anniversary of what they called “Victory over Japan Day” or “V-J Day,” when Japan surrendered in World War II, basically bringing that world conflict to an end on August 14, 1945. The surrender document officially ending the war, however, was signed on September 2.
The initial surrender by Japan occurred just nine days after the bombing of Hiroshima. That atomic bomb seemed to galvanize the concept of war and peace into a single, treacherous, and disturbingly quiet “cold war.” Seventy years later we have grown relatively complacent with the positives and negatives of nuclear power. We accept it in our homes for the convenience of a microwave oven (it’s true – popcorn used to take at least five minutes). We submit ourselves to x-rays and other medical uses of radiation. Only after a disaster like Chernobyl in 1986, do we pause to ponder anew…
Nancsue's Blog (Mostly Baby Boomeresque) 