Yesterday I received an email that confirmed to me the moral decline of Western Civilization. Graeter's Ice Cream is becoming available in Kroger's grocery stores throughout the mid-west and parts of the south.
How can that be? How can those little copper french pots possibly hold enough butterfat and mammoth chocolate chunks to supply the matrix of Kroger stores? Are round the clock shifts mandatory for the Cincinnati men and women stirring those special ingredients adding untold delight to taste buds and inches to the hips? Alas, I think not.
I believe that Graeter's has gone Hollywood. Homemade goodness has fallen victim to the almighty dollar. Why is Obama zeroing in on Wall Street when the bigger story is the world's best ice-cream has become another indication of Gordon Gekko's mantra - Greed is Good? Forget the SEC and Goldman, get the Commerce Department to lower the boom on the manufacturing complex of cream, butter, chips and nuts. Are the french copper pots and ladies with hairnets stirring the heavenly goodness still in the picture or have they succumbed to industrial steel buckets with mountain size metal beaters? Is the finished product being hand scooped into the cartons or is a robotic arm slamming it into the carton?
Graeter's was one of the five basic food groups of the Connelly household. Trips to the Fatherland always involved multiple visits to the shrine of all that is good in the world. We would often stop for a tasty treat before arriving at Michael's parents. Our priorities were in the right order, chocolate chocolate chip complete with bittersweet sauce before all else. In later years, we would have it shipped to our door. When storms cut power, Michael wasn't concerned about burst pipes - emergency action centered around saving the Graeters. I think Graeter's is why we now have a generator.
Katie bar the door, our society is in a downward spiral. Mass production of the Holy Grail is now a reality. Next announcement will be there is no Santa Claus. Where is government intervention when you need it?
Monday, April 19, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Angels in Our Midst
Every morning when I awaken, my morning prayers include a request to be kind to others. Having resided in the New York environs since 1986, by noon all bets are off. But it remains one of my daily aspirations. That, and to tell a joke a day. Unfortunately, much of my humor falls flat, so I am zero in the batting cage. As Good Ol' Winnie said - Never, Never, Never Give Up - so I give it a daily heave-ho and hope one evening I will have climbed the mountaintop.
But spending the winter in The Virgin Islands I witnessed it everyday. My cousins, Tish and Jerry, were always kind - to everyone. To their children, to their friends, to the interloper in their home (that would be me), to their employees, to the hardbodies at the Soggy Dollar, simply Always. Now, it is possible to put on a facade for a day or two but fairly soon the exterior breaks and one's inner self comes shining through. So, after a period of months, I am positive this is who they are.
This isn't so simple in the Islands. From the grocery store, to the post office, to the people repairing your home, there are constant opportunities to become a bit testy and what some people politely call, direct. Add dealing with employees on an Island of 300 and one has a boatload of possibilities to spring a leak. But I never saw it, not once.
I am not saying they are pushovers. They stand their ground and accomplish their goals with respect for others and an understanding of the complexities and differences in life. Rather than being "with me or against me", they understand the cultural differences, interact with all within their own framework and work towards accomplishing the task at hand without a harsh word or raised voice. While I am certain there are many times frustration must bubble beneath the surface, it never sees the light of day.
During Michael's illness, someone said to me to be aware of Angels in our midst. We experienced many acts of goodness during our battle, but I have never experienced true goodness as I have over the past few months. I am wondering where they stuff their wings.
We should send Tish and Jerry to the Mid-East. No doubt a solution would be close at hand.
But spending the winter in The Virgin Islands I witnessed it everyday. My cousins, Tish and Jerry, were always kind - to everyone. To their children, to their friends, to the interloper in their home (that would be me), to their employees, to the hardbodies at the Soggy Dollar, simply Always. Now, it is possible to put on a facade for a day or two but fairly soon the exterior breaks and one's inner self comes shining through. So, after a period of months, I am positive this is who they are.
This isn't so simple in the Islands. From the grocery store, to the post office, to the people repairing your home, there are constant opportunities to become a bit testy and what some people politely call, direct. Add dealing with employees on an Island of 300 and one has a boatload of possibilities to spring a leak. But I never saw it, not once.
I am not saying they are pushovers. They stand their ground and accomplish their goals with respect for others and an understanding of the complexities and differences in life. Rather than being "with me or against me", they understand the cultural differences, interact with all within their own framework and work towards accomplishing the task at hand without a harsh word or raised voice. While I am certain there are many times frustration must bubble beneath the surface, it never sees the light of day.
During Michael's illness, someone said to me to be aware of Angels in our midst. We experienced many acts of goodness during our battle, but I have never experienced true goodness as I have over the past few months. I am wondering where they stuff their wings.
We should send Tish and Jerry to the Mid-East. No doubt a solution would be close at hand.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
SnowBunnies
We grew up skiing. It was the family winter weekend activity of choice. My father would pack us in the wagon with a thermos full of oxtail soup and sandwiches wrapped in foil. Saturday and Sunday mornings the family cart would exit the driveway at 5:47am. No flexibility there - always trying to instill in us a life lesson, Dad would depart at the appointed time. Chasing down an icy driveway in unlaced ski boots - a perfect morning exercise drill.
One of my favorite parts of this experience was Sunday morning mass. We would clomp up the aisle in our gear, including ski boots and escape after communion. Hopeful for a quick sermon, we would count the minutes. The longer winded epistles meant the lifts would open without us. Tragedy in my father's book since he wasn't getting his money's worth.
Off we would drive to The Berkshires. To those unfamiliar with these eastern Alps, a good visual would be dousing your neighborhood hill with ice and placing a T-Bar to the top. Okay, the T-bar was for the advanced skiers, the beginners had a rope tow. Made no sense to me. The tow was designed to pull your shoulders from their sockets while you skidded on along the ground trying to untangle your skis from the rope. Anyone silly enough to return to the slopes a second day after experiencing this lurch forward was a bonafide aficionado.
The T-Bar and Chair Lifts provided my father the opportunity to determine happenings. Captive until the top of the hill, he utilized his best litigation techniques to determine the state of your union. A master of communication, he gained a wealth of information from our adolescent lips. Frostbite is a wonderful incentive to spill your guts.
Eastern skiing is not like the movies. No lovely tracks through the powder while the sun lovingly warms your face. Sharp edges were essential to slice through the ice while wearing masks to protect the extremities from the 20mph winds whipping ice pellets through the air. We skied all day, through the lunch hour (more runs while people ate. Never mind that you were ready to eat your glove). Finally, at 2pm we stopped, wolfed down the packed lunches and trundled to the car.
I wouldn't trade those memories for anything. They are among my best. I loved skiing with my father. Today one of my favorite places on earth is Vail, Colorado. I love the blue sky and white snow. I love moving down the mountain with a gaggle of friends. I love the sense of being with nature and the freedom it gives me.
All this due to the 5:47am sprint down the driveway.
One of my favorite parts of this experience was Sunday morning mass. We would clomp up the aisle in our gear, including ski boots and escape after communion. Hopeful for a quick sermon, we would count the minutes. The longer winded epistles meant the lifts would open without us. Tragedy in my father's book since he wasn't getting his money's worth.
Off we would drive to The Berkshires. To those unfamiliar with these eastern Alps, a good visual would be dousing your neighborhood hill with ice and placing a T-Bar to the top. Okay, the T-bar was for the advanced skiers, the beginners had a rope tow. Made no sense to me. The tow was designed to pull your shoulders from their sockets while you skidded on along the ground trying to untangle your skis from the rope. Anyone silly enough to return to the slopes a second day after experiencing this lurch forward was a bonafide aficionado.
The T-Bar and Chair Lifts provided my father the opportunity to determine happenings. Captive until the top of the hill, he utilized his best litigation techniques to determine the state of your union. A master of communication, he gained a wealth of information from our adolescent lips. Frostbite is a wonderful incentive to spill your guts.
Eastern skiing is not like the movies. No lovely tracks through the powder while the sun lovingly warms your face. Sharp edges were essential to slice through the ice while wearing masks to protect the extremities from the 20mph winds whipping ice pellets through the air. We skied all day, through the lunch hour (more runs while people ate. Never mind that you were ready to eat your glove). Finally, at 2pm we stopped, wolfed down the packed lunches and trundled to the car.
I wouldn't trade those memories for anything. They are among my best. I loved skiing with my father. Today one of my favorite places on earth is Vail, Colorado. I love the blue sky and white snow. I love moving down the mountain with a gaggle of friends. I love the sense of being with nature and the freedom it gives me.
All this due to the 5:47am sprint down the driveway.
Your Best Foot Forward
Since Michael's days at The Wharton School, I have been a strong proponent of the capitalist system. Due to my exposure at this citadel of economic theorists I am strong believer in the basic principles of supply and demand, competition among companies and the need for constant innovation in the product world. Although I have not been clever enough to bring forth a marketplace bestseller, I dream of my place in the chia pet hall of fame.
Well, I have hit pay dirt. My day of glory is just around the corner. Morning TV shows, the Money Honey and even Wolf Biltzer will be begging for a piece of my day. The creative juices began flowing while sitting on White Bay Beach in Jost Van Dyke. I am certain it had nothing to do with the ingestion of multiple Painkiller Cocktails but rather my creative business molecules seizing an opportunity.
As you know, hardbodies from around the globe frequent white sands. Swimming from their yachts to shore, they emerge from the sea as Bo Derek did in 10. Watching the parade can be relatively depressing for a 50 something fighting a Shock and Awe Battle with cellulite. Years of research to develop treatments or lotions to rid those afflicted of the pesky pockets of fat have come to naught. No amount of rubbing or shaping seems to eliminate the built-in Floatie system.
Then it came to me. We need to develop a Farm system for cellulite free parts. Similar to farm-raised salmon, we need to develop centers for skin growth. Once harvested, one would apply the new taunt muscle-bound pieces to the afflicted areas. Choose among various shades and shapes, apply directly to the appropriate areas and spring forth to walk the beach in the your newest suit.
The production of bathing suits will explode. After years of hiding behind the strategically placed sarongs, bathers will be free to dive and swim without shame. This may be the impetus needed to kick the economy out of the recession. Not only suits, but boat and water skiing equipment sales will hit 24 hour manufacturing cycles.
Forget The Money Honey, maybe the Nobel Prize for Economics is in my future.
Well, I have hit pay dirt. My day of glory is just around the corner. Morning TV shows, the Money Honey and even Wolf Biltzer will be begging for a piece of my day. The creative juices began flowing while sitting on White Bay Beach in Jost Van Dyke. I am certain it had nothing to do with the ingestion of multiple Painkiller Cocktails but rather my creative business molecules seizing an opportunity.
As you know, hardbodies from around the globe frequent white sands. Swimming from their yachts to shore, they emerge from the sea as Bo Derek did in 10. Watching the parade can be relatively depressing for a 50 something fighting a Shock and Awe Battle with cellulite. Years of research to develop treatments or lotions to rid those afflicted of the pesky pockets of fat have come to naught. No amount of rubbing or shaping seems to eliminate the built-in Floatie system.
Then it came to me. We need to develop a Farm system for cellulite free parts. Similar to farm-raised salmon, we need to develop centers for skin growth. Once harvested, one would apply the new taunt muscle-bound pieces to the afflicted areas. Choose among various shades and shapes, apply directly to the appropriate areas and spring forth to walk the beach in the your newest suit.
The production of bathing suits will explode. After years of hiding behind the strategically placed sarongs, bathers will be free to dive and swim without shame. This may be the impetus needed to kick the economy out of the recession. Not only suits, but boat and water skiing equipment sales will hit 24 hour manufacturing cycles.
Forget The Money Honey, maybe the Nobel Prize for Economics is in my future.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
FanHouse
My father loves the UCONN Huskies Women's Basketball Team. If he lived in the Middle Ages, he would have been burned at the stake for idol worship. He knows the past and present athletes' stats, where they were born, their astrological signs and their life goals. He follows them through each game, their illnesses and their family's travails. I think he would love to grab their Christmas Lists but that has yet to be discussed.
Unfortunately, the hierarchy at ESPN does not hold UCONN at the same adoration level. Those callous beings driven by the bottom line and viewership demographics, sometimes schedule the game on ESPN2 rather than the main channel. (For those "Murder She Wrote" viewers out there, ESPN2 is the minor league of the sports viewing alternatives.)
My parents' abode is well suited for basketball viewing pleasure. The living room is outfitted with loungers situated in perfect viewing range for the wall mounted, mammoth, plasma screen, HDTV. Not quite sure what happened to the ruling no television in the living room, never mind chairs that eject one automatically, but that is the decor. So, Mom and Dad are ready to get rowdy in their Mystic abode but the cads at cable scheduling have foiled their social agenda.
Resourceful Yankees at their core, my parents were not to be denied. A fellow morning Starbucks customer (my father's wake-up brew) told of a Sports Bar in New London. The establishment has many screens and the Huskies game for the patrons viewing pleasure. So, Mom and Dad set off for an afternoon among the faithful.
Can you imagine the scene? 80 Somethings arrive in the 10 year old Lincoln Continental to a parking lot filled with 4 Wheel Drives, Bikes, Trucks and a smattering of BMWs. A bit misty, Mom adds the plastic rain bonnet to the bar entrance. Perfect addition to crowd's composition. The patrons were probably looking for the "You been Punked" video crew.
Well, they watched the game, had a burger or two and cheered the team to victory. Couldn't have done it without them. Mom and Dad said they had a great day although it was a bit loud. Since they are almost deaf, I can only imagine.
I did notice the next time I called Mystic, my Dad was waiting for the Cable Guy. Seemingly they are expanding the home coverage to include all future Husky games.
Guess that beats buying a Harley and zipping down I95 to catch the next tournament on the wide screen.
Unfortunately, the hierarchy at ESPN does not hold UCONN at the same adoration level. Those callous beings driven by the bottom line and viewership demographics, sometimes schedule the game on ESPN2 rather than the main channel. (For those "Murder She Wrote" viewers out there, ESPN2 is the minor league of the sports viewing alternatives.)
My parents' abode is well suited for basketball viewing pleasure. The living room is outfitted with loungers situated in perfect viewing range for the wall mounted, mammoth, plasma screen, HDTV. Not quite sure what happened to the ruling no television in the living room, never mind chairs that eject one automatically, but that is the decor. So, Mom and Dad are ready to get rowdy in their Mystic abode but the cads at cable scheduling have foiled their social agenda.
Resourceful Yankees at their core, my parents were not to be denied. A fellow morning Starbucks customer (my father's wake-up brew) told of a Sports Bar in New London. The establishment has many screens and the Huskies game for the patrons viewing pleasure. So, Mom and Dad set off for an afternoon among the faithful.
Can you imagine the scene? 80 Somethings arrive in the 10 year old Lincoln Continental to a parking lot filled with 4 Wheel Drives, Bikes, Trucks and a smattering of BMWs. A bit misty, Mom adds the plastic rain bonnet to the bar entrance. Perfect addition to crowd's composition. The patrons were probably looking for the "You been Punked" video crew.
Well, they watched the game, had a burger or two and cheered the team to victory. Couldn't have done it without them. Mom and Dad said they had a great day although it was a bit loud. Since they are almost deaf, I can only imagine.
I did notice the next time I called Mystic, my Dad was waiting for the Cable Guy. Seemingly they are expanding the home coverage to include all future Husky games.
Guess that beats buying a Harley and zipping down I95 to catch the next tournament on the wide screen.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Sticks and Stones
Words swirl in my brain. They dance in rhythm while I determine my message. Whether oral or written, they twist and turn providing me with the ability to communicate a bit of my being to others. Sometimes it is a glimpse of my soul or a point of irritation - I love it when it is a fracture of my funny bone.
No matter what, words have always been a treasure. Whisking me to China in "The Story of Ping" or enabling me to solve a mystery in the land of Nancy Drew. Like most other children, words also provided me my first taunts, my first heartaches and realization that mean people suck. Perhaps because these linear shapings were always repositioning within my cerebral cortex, the stings seemed to dwell in my heart longer than others. My friends and brothers would shake off the ill-designed comments more easily than me - at least they seemed to handle the stupidity of others with their shields abreast and their swords drawn.
Eventually my grandmother's pithy one-liner's - "Snap out of it, Bub" (really, she said Bub) and "So, what did you do to make it better?" taught me to ride the wave and return to the water. But, there continued to be moments when I believed Jaws was treading in the shallows waiting to take me under. I think we have all experienced the majesty of words - both the evil and the light.
That is why I am stunned with the happenings of South Hadley High School. Perhaps Mean Girls begot Mean Girls and that is why the cycle continues through the generations. Perhaps there is a portion of one's soul that actually harbors evil and the spreading of this aura becomes unleashed by some inner uncontrollable torment. I am amazed that parents believe taunting, ridiculing, belittling and excluding of others is an acceptable mode of behavior for their children.
The response that "It was only words" and "She didn't physically harm her" makes me wonder if these parents sprang into the world as full grown adults. Surely they must never have experienced classroom horrors to believe this is an acceptable rite of passage. It hurts, does a number on one's confidence, and in extreme instances, causes immeasurable, everlasting harm. Why any parent would brush these experiences aside is saddening and maddening.
Perhaps they should have had more skilled English composition teachers - to teach them the power and influence of the word. Perhaps they should listen to Hitler's stadium speeches or Churchill's radio communiques, perhaps then they would understand the magnitude of every syllable.
No matter what, words have always been a treasure. Whisking me to China in "The Story of Ping" or enabling me to solve a mystery in the land of Nancy Drew. Like most other children, words also provided me my first taunts, my first heartaches and realization that mean people suck. Perhaps because these linear shapings were always repositioning within my cerebral cortex, the stings seemed to dwell in my heart longer than others. My friends and brothers would shake off the ill-designed comments more easily than me - at least they seemed to handle the stupidity of others with their shields abreast and their swords drawn.
Eventually my grandmother's pithy one-liner's - "Snap out of it, Bub" (really, she said Bub) and "So, what did you do to make it better?" taught me to ride the wave and return to the water. But, there continued to be moments when I believed Jaws was treading in the shallows waiting to take me under. I think we have all experienced the majesty of words - both the evil and the light.
That is why I am stunned with the happenings of South Hadley High School. Perhaps Mean Girls begot Mean Girls and that is why the cycle continues through the generations. Perhaps there is a portion of one's soul that actually harbors evil and the spreading of this aura becomes unleashed by some inner uncontrollable torment. I am amazed that parents believe taunting, ridiculing, belittling and excluding of others is an acceptable mode of behavior for their children.
The response that "It was only words" and "She didn't physically harm her" makes me wonder if these parents sprang into the world as full grown adults. Surely they must never have experienced classroom horrors to believe this is an acceptable rite of passage. It hurts, does a number on one's confidence, and in extreme instances, causes immeasurable, everlasting harm. Why any parent would brush these experiences aside is saddening and maddening.
Perhaps they should have had more skilled English composition teachers - to teach them the power and influence of the word. Perhaps they should listen to Hitler's stadium speeches or Churchill's radio communiques, perhaps then they would understand the magnitude of every syllable.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
YadaYadaYada!
I feel like Goldie Hawn in "Death Becomes Her" - my head is snapping a 360. Not only that, but I am developing a tick and have begun a dialogue with the television. Soon eyeballs will avert as I ramble down the street searching for the mother ship while requesting "Beam Me Up, Scotty - there is no intelligent life down here".
Did you ingest any of the Health Care Summit? Stunning wasn't it? Another example of sharks skimming the shoreline, eyeing the bathers, considering what delicious little morsel to chomp. It was ridiculous, rather than creating real discussion, it was more a case of "I told you so" and "Because I said so". It didn't sit well with our children, and it certainly won't move the ball forward to gain a solution. While Nancy Pelosi stared straight ahead and John McCain delivered yet another campaign soundbit, those without insurance, those with pre-existing conditions, doctors with mountains of school loans and 100 patients a day, sit by the sidelines wondering how the issue is to be resolved.
Meanwhile, back at the funny farm, otherwise known as The House, the Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee pleads ignorance as his defense of misuse of funds and non-payment of taxes. Is criminally stupid who you want leading the most powerful committee in Congress? Do you really think that he could have simply forgotten about half a million dollars in income or had no idea who was hosting a trip? The Majority Speaker simply says, we will wait for the investigate committee's findings - Now there is a heavy decision maker.
I think this is a perfect example of why the Head Start Program should be mandatory. These people never learned how to play in the Sandbox. Meanwhile, the castles that our forefathers erected are being washed to sea.
Did you ingest any of the Health Care Summit? Stunning wasn't it? Another example of sharks skimming the shoreline, eyeing the bathers, considering what delicious little morsel to chomp. It was ridiculous, rather than creating real discussion, it was more a case of "I told you so" and "Because I said so". It didn't sit well with our children, and it certainly won't move the ball forward to gain a solution. While Nancy Pelosi stared straight ahead and John McCain delivered yet another campaign soundbit, those without insurance, those with pre-existing conditions, doctors with mountains of school loans and 100 patients a day, sit by the sidelines wondering how the issue is to be resolved.
Meanwhile, back at the funny farm, otherwise known as The House, the Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee pleads ignorance as his defense of misuse of funds and non-payment of taxes. Is criminally stupid who you want leading the most powerful committee in Congress? Do you really think that he could have simply forgotten about half a million dollars in income or had no idea who was hosting a trip? The Majority Speaker simply says, we will wait for the investigate committee's findings - Now there is a heavy decision maker.
I think this is a perfect example of why the Head Start Program should be mandatory. These people never learned how to play in the Sandbox. Meanwhile, the castles that our forefathers erected are being washed to sea.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Living is Easy
White Bay, Jost Van Dyke, is one of the most beautiful beaches on the planet. I do not understand why it hasn't hit Samantha Brown's repertoire but it should. Exquisite turquoise water lapping white sand that is soft on your feet and pleasing to the eye. The pelicans swoop down to catch their tasty treats and catamarans swing gently anchored a few yards offshore. Sounds idyllic, doesn't it?
The Soggy Dollar Bar, one of the best beach bars in the Caribbean (won such an award in 2008 and 2009), is situated along the shoreline. Boaters crowd the bay, rain or shine for a swim, for time in the Adirondack chairs, to munch the grilled spicy chicken and to sip the world famous Painkiller concoction served by Mic, the British Virgin Island bartender extraordinaire. Music plays and the ring toss game provides the possibility of athletic prowess for those who wish to be achievers at some point in their day. Sounds perfect and it pretty much is. People are happy at the Soggy Dollar, smiles are part of the uniform - a good time is had by all. As my grandmother would say - if you do not have a good time, it is your own dang fault. (Yes, she would say dang!- Sometimes when she had her dander up it would actually be damn!)
The local residents of White Bay periodically walk through the Soggy Dollar crowd. I wonder what they think. Are they delighted people are having a good time or do they feel invaded by happy feet padding among the Palm Trees? Sometimes they sit among the crowd, sometimes they just keep moving. I wonder if they would like a piece of the pie or if they are content with their way of living. I wonder if they think we are silly with our big yachts, our swinging hips and brightly colored jams. Would they like to be island entrepreneurs or do they want to spend their time in the hammock watching the clouds, birds and us?
I know I would want to compete. I would want to build the best beach bar to rival Soggy. I would spend my days trying to do one better, to determine the niche that would put my place on the map. Make the crowds switch allegiance to the new hot spot. But where would that get me? Not sure anymore. Maybe it is better just to take one day at a time. Not certain that is so cool either.
Individuals far smarter than myself have pondered "smell the roses" question. Is it nurture or nature that causes some to define a quest while others enjoy the ride? Can we blame our parents, our teachers, our siblings, or the bully next door with our viewpoint on life? (I personally think Margaret Leahy making the cheerleading squad in seventh grade and ditching me as a friend because I couldn't do a triple cartwheel has quite a bit to do with my yearnings for measurable success.)
We need to define and be satisfied with our own agendas; we should be not be afraid to examine our choices and change direction. The biggest mistake would be to wake up one morning and say where am I and how did I get here? Especially if it isn't where you want to be.
The Soggy Dollar Bar, one of the best beach bars in the Caribbean (won such an award in 2008 and 2009), is situated along the shoreline. Boaters crowd the bay, rain or shine for a swim, for time in the Adirondack chairs, to munch the grilled spicy chicken and to sip the world famous Painkiller concoction served by Mic, the British Virgin Island bartender extraordinaire. Music plays and the ring toss game provides the possibility of athletic prowess for those who wish to be achievers at some point in their day. Sounds perfect and it pretty much is. People are happy at the Soggy Dollar, smiles are part of the uniform - a good time is had by all. As my grandmother would say - if you do not have a good time, it is your own dang fault. (Yes, she would say dang!- Sometimes when she had her dander up it would actually be damn!)
The local residents of White Bay periodically walk through the Soggy Dollar crowd. I wonder what they think. Are they delighted people are having a good time or do they feel invaded by happy feet padding among the Palm Trees? Sometimes they sit among the crowd, sometimes they just keep moving. I wonder if they would like a piece of the pie or if they are content with their way of living. I wonder if they think we are silly with our big yachts, our swinging hips and brightly colored jams. Would they like to be island entrepreneurs or do they want to spend their time in the hammock watching the clouds, birds and us?
I know I would want to compete. I would want to build the best beach bar to rival Soggy. I would spend my days trying to do one better, to determine the niche that would put my place on the map. Make the crowds switch allegiance to the new hot spot. But where would that get me? Not sure anymore. Maybe it is better just to take one day at a time. Not certain that is so cool either.
Individuals far smarter than myself have pondered "smell the roses" question. Is it nurture or nature that causes some to define a quest while others enjoy the ride? Can we blame our parents, our teachers, our siblings, or the bully next door with our viewpoint on life? (I personally think Margaret Leahy making the cheerleading squad in seventh grade and ditching me as a friend because I couldn't do a triple cartwheel has quite a bit to do with my yearnings for measurable success.)
We need to define and be satisfied with our own agendas; we should be not be afraid to examine our choices and change direction. The biggest mistake would be to wake up one morning and say where am I and how did I get here? Especially if it isn't where you want to be.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Once in a Lifetime
Something I wanted to write on Valentine's Day but didn't. Being a "downer" on the most romantic day of the year would be wrong. Thinking Cupid would probably dose me with something nasty, I abstained but it has been milling in my head so off I scribe.
I had something quite special for more than 34 years. Michael was exceptionally intelligent, quick, funny - the humor was always present and many times used to quell a children's simmering revolt, a business deal gone sour or his spouse's thinking in a different direction. He always had vision, definitely knew where he was going and how he was going to get there. What a ride we had, it was more an adventure than I ever could have imagined.
When one says, it is the journey rather than the destination, that is so true. Michael had absolute goals and determination, his path was well-planned and his goal was in sight. But I was there for more than the ferris wheel, and it wasn't always a day in the park. I wanted what he wanted and he wanted to share it with Jennifer, Meredith and I. When one had twists and turns (and there was some major switchbacks), we did it together, we never faced anything alone.
When traveling, the phone was the main method of communication and it was fully utilized. So much so that Jennifer announced to her nursery school class that her father lived on the train. Since the Connelly clan only had one car, off Michael went to the train, to the plane, to his myriad of business trips, always calling to find out what was happening. Jennifer thinking he was a stand-in for Charley and the MBTA, chatted it up with her Dad. Must have been a good visual in her brain - Dad hanging on the strap with the telephone cord (remember those) extending to the office. I covered the home front, Michael conquered the Cable Industry and we were off to the races. And boy, there was some memorable tracks!
I am glad we shared that adventure. I am glad that we wanted what the other wanted. I am glad that we laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks and snot came blowing out of our noses. I am sad when I see people get bogged down in the details of life. Yes, we had our moments when that happened but I can firmly tell you now that was time wasted. So silly, really. Who Cares? We realized that most of the time and let stupid stuff slide by the wayside. When we went to dinner, we had so much to chat about, that it was never quiet. I see other couples silently sloshing through the meal, and I think, Wow, what a waste.
Always remember what drew you to your other half, never lose sight of the big picture, treasure the moments you have with each other and realize that true joy is realizing a shared dream. At the end of the day, it is not the pretty dress, big house or fancy car that matters, it is what you are to each other.
I had something quite special for more than 34 years. Michael was exceptionally intelligent, quick, funny - the humor was always present and many times used to quell a children's simmering revolt, a business deal gone sour or his spouse's thinking in a different direction. He always had vision, definitely knew where he was going and how he was going to get there. What a ride we had, it was more an adventure than I ever could have imagined.
When one says, it is the journey rather than the destination, that is so true. Michael had absolute goals and determination, his path was well-planned and his goal was in sight. But I was there for more than the ferris wheel, and it wasn't always a day in the park. I wanted what he wanted and he wanted to share it with Jennifer, Meredith and I. When one had twists and turns (and there was some major switchbacks), we did it together, we never faced anything alone.
When traveling, the phone was the main method of communication and it was fully utilized. So much so that Jennifer announced to her nursery school class that her father lived on the train. Since the Connelly clan only had one car, off Michael went to the train, to the plane, to his myriad of business trips, always calling to find out what was happening. Jennifer thinking he was a stand-in for Charley and the MBTA, chatted it up with her Dad. Must have been a good visual in her brain - Dad hanging on the strap with the telephone cord (remember those) extending to the office. I covered the home front, Michael conquered the Cable Industry and we were off to the races. And boy, there was some memorable tracks!
I am glad we shared that adventure. I am glad that we wanted what the other wanted. I am glad that we laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks and snot came blowing out of our noses. I am sad when I see people get bogged down in the details of life. Yes, we had our moments when that happened but I can firmly tell you now that was time wasted. So silly, really. Who Cares? We realized that most of the time and let stupid stuff slide by the wayside. When we went to dinner, we had so much to chat about, that it was never quiet. I see other couples silently sloshing through the meal, and I think, Wow, what a waste.
Always remember what drew you to your other half, never lose sight of the big picture, treasure the moments you have with each other and realize that true joy is realizing a shared dream. At the end of the day, it is not the pretty dress, big house or fancy car that matters, it is what you are to each other.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
No Snowmobiles Allowed
A sense of humor is vital to one's own being. Granted, an individual, or even groups of individuals can exist without an ability to catch a chuckle or four, but the days are dreary and gray - one could even say that it would be similar to living in Siberia or being with a tribe of Investment Bankers. Twilight surrounds you without a glimmer of those brief shining moments. Thank Goodness I am spending my winter in the vortex of gleeful manifestations - St. John's.
For those of you who decided to take a snooze during your elementary school geography lessons (I was seated behind Richard Castageno who had a fabulous sense of humor and let it develop by driving the nuns wild all day long - I was lucky I knew how to spell my name by the eighth grade), let me provide you with a brief synopsis of The Virgin Islands. Millions of years ago, land shot up from the ocean floor creating wonderful water displays that resulted in mountains cascading directly to the sea. The vertical pitch of the Virgin Islands in more than 1,000 ft in zero to three seconds. Readers, that is quite a drop. Four wheel drives are mandatory and the road engineers test your skill by creating hairpin turns at the steepest locations. Party On!
So, every day is test of your driving and dodging ability. My cousins are terrific at dancing with the trucks, tourists and taxis as this trio attempts to make you sweat and ruin your Caneel Bay manicure. A toot on the horn lets you know they are rounding the bend; please sharpen your reflexes - perhaps an investigation of the surrounding foliage as you careen into the side jungle is in your future. So far, so good - I haven't investigated the roots of the banana tree but every day is a new adventure. One of my future goals is to be closer to nature - this may be my chance.
But, wait, the roads were constructed to provide drivers with comic relief. Truly, St. John's traffic department wants to lighten your day. On the street to Jerry and Tish's house is an official sign indicating No Snowmobiles Allowed. No kidding, it is an authorized 8 x 10 white metal glossy warning drivers not to wander the streets as if in the tundra. While they may be lurking in the rainforest, no worries about frozen mobilers lurching into the stream of jeeps and semis.
How reassuring that snowmobiles will not be crowding the paved mountain passes. It is even better to realize the traffic department is giggling while instructing us to lighten up and enjoy the day.
For those of you who decided to take a snooze during your elementary school geography lessons (I was seated behind Richard Castageno who had a fabulous sense of humor and let it develop by driving the nuns wild all day long - I was lucky I knew how to spell my name by the eighth grade), let me provide you with a brief synopsis of The Virgin Islands. Millions of years ago, land shot up from the ocean floor creating wonderful water displays that resulted in mountains cascading directly to the sea. The vertical pitch of the Virgin Islands in more than 1,000 ft in zero to three seconds. Readers, that is quite a drop. Four wheel drives are mandatory and the road engineers test your skill by creating hairpin turns at the steepest locations. Party On!
So, every day is test of your driving and dodging ability. My cousins are terrific at dancing with the trucks, tourists and taxis as this trio attempts to make you sweat and ruin your Caneel Bay manicure. A toot on the horn lets you know they are rounding the bend; please sharpen your reflexes - perhaps an investigation of the surrounding foliage as you careen into the side jungle is in your future. So far, so good - I haven't investigated the roots of the banana tree but every day is a new adventure. One of my future goals is to be closer to nature - this may be my chance.
But, wait, the roads were constructed to provide drivers with comic relief. Truly, St. John's traffic department wants to lighten your day. On the street to Jerry and Tish's house is an official sign indicating No Snowmobiles Allowed. No kidding, it is an authorized 8 x 10 white metal glossy warning drivers not to wander the streets as if in the tundra. While they may be lurking in the rainforest, no worries about frozen mobilers lurching into the stream of jeeps and semis.
How reassuring that snowmobiles will not be crowding the paved mountain passes. It is even better to realize the traffic department is giggling while instructing us to lighten up and enjoy the day.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Reinin' It In
Here in the land of sun and white beaches, one sees bathing suits - and the bodies inside them all the live long day.
The clever fabric configurations or lack thereof are especially visible at that Mecca of crafted bodies and beautiful people, The Soggy Dollar Bar on Jost Van Dyke. On the beach, on the boats moored in White Bay, at the bar, eating lunch, playing the ring toss game - picture perfect molded beings providing a panoramic view. It is enough to make one consider a change of religious affiliation - making the burka the wardrobe of choice. Certainly, one explores all avenues of food restriction - from gastric bypass to clamping one's mouth shut with super glue.
Thank goodness the wonders of modern communication have saved me from all extreme measures. TV has found my salvation. It is called Finefit and is a body stocking made of Bamboo. The infomercial was quite educational. Took one from the strength of the bamboo tree to how it is woven into the garment. The selling point for me was the before and after pictures of people wearing the garment. Extreme muffin tops, bellies hanging out, hips and legs filled with cellulite, complete with jiggling the excess flab - not to mention a poke or two. But once stuffed into your exquisite Finefit garment, the Sports Illustrated cover is in your future.
So, bring on the Cajun Fries and the Graeter's complete with bittersweet sauce, Finefit eliminates the need for those nasty treadmills or stair steppers.
Best news, bamboo floats. Your personal raft for White Bay at the Soggy Dollar. Makes one happy to be a woman.
The clever fabric configurations or lack thereof are especially visible at that Mecca of crafted bodies and beautiful people, The Soggy Dollar Bar on Jost Van Dyke. On the beach, on the boats moored in White Bay, at the bar, eating lunch, playing the ring toss game - picture perfect molded beings providing a panoramic view. It is enough to make one consider a change of religious affiliation - making the burka the wardrobe of choice. Certainly, one explores all avenues of food restriction - from gastric bypass to clamping one's mouth shut with super glue.
Thank goodness the wonders of modern communication have saved me from all extreme measures. TV has found my salvation. It is called Finefit and is a body stocking made of Bamboo. The infomercial was quite educational. Took one from the strength of the bamboo tree to how it is woven into the garment. The selling point for me was the before and after pictures of people wearing the garment. Extreme muffin tops, bellies hanging out, hips and legs filled with cellulite, complete with jiggling the excess flab - not to mention a poke or two. But once stuffed into your exquisite Finefit garment, the Sports Illustrated cover is in your future.
So, bring on the Cajun Fries and the Graeter's complete with bittersweet sauce, Finefit eliminates the need for those nasty treadmills or stair steppers.
Best news, bamboo floats. Your personal raft for White Bay at the Soggy Dollar. Makes one happy to be a woman.
Manhattan South
Life happens at a different pace in the Virgin Islands. One often reads about "Island Ways", about seeing things from a different perspective, about taking things one step at a time realizing that one step does not necessarily follow another. As a visiting New Yorker, it causes me to smile - only because I am not greatly affected by the meanderings that come to define daily life.
The Mail Center is one of my favorites. More efficient than the Post Office, it is the center of Island business transactions. Faxes, letters, packages, boxes - all handled from a suite that is constantly under construction. Varying sizes of Priority Mail Boxes line the display with numerical markings making it easier for the customer to indicate the size needed. As one winds through the store and construction area waiting for assistance, one has ample opportunity to memorize the number indicating the exact box. Proud of my ability to retain information (no matter how small), when my tour of the environs came to an end, I stated I needed a #2 size carton. The lady quizzically looked at me - what? You know, the #2 US Priority Mail Carton - Oh well, out came a box labeled Christmas Lights and away we stuffed. Hope the recipient doesn't think it is last year's decorations gone astray when the item arrives at its destination.
The Grocery Store is another hub of activity. Named Starfish (Same owner as the Boston Star Markets. Star - Fish - clever, don't you think?), it is filled with tempting treats. Strawberries for $9.00, Progresso Soups for $3.69 - thank goodness that Coca-cola sees the light and is approximately the same as in the States. Artificial syrup and carbonation available for all. But what I love best is that the check-out area is the opportunity to catch up with old friends, run back to retrieve missing items - perhaps a dozen times and debate if another piece of fish is necessary for tonight's dinner.
New Yorkers are forced to learn the error of their past lives and have the ability to repent. Smile, converse with those around you about the beautiful weather, the best beaches (prefect timing - send the blog as you are being submerged in an avalanche of the white stuff) and whether to go to ZoZo's to watch the sunset. Tough stuff.
No wonder no one minds eating pears, foregoing the strawberries and winding among the boxes to mail a package. If it doesn't arrive - oh well, Christmas lights are not a big Valentine item.
The Mail Center is one of my favorites. More efficient than the Post Office, it is the center of Island business transactions. Faxes, letters, packages, boxes - all handled from a suite that is constantly under construction. Varying sizes of Priority Mail Boxes line the display with numerical markings making it easier for the customer to indicate the size needed. As one winds through the store and construction area waiting for assistance, one has ample opportunity to memorize the number indicating the exact box. Proud of my ability to retain information (no matter how small), when my tour of the environs came to an end, I stated I needed a #2 size carton. The lady quizzically looked at me - what? You know, the #2 US Priority Mail Carton - Oh well, out came a box labeled Christmas Lights and away we stuffed. Hope the recipient doesn't think it is last year's decorations gone astray when the item arrives at its destination.
The Grocery Store is another hub of activity. Named Starfish (Same owner as the Boston Star Markets. Star - Fish - clever, don't you think?), it is filled with tempting treats. Strawberries for $9.00, Progresso Soups for $3.69 - thank goodness that Coca-cola sees the light and is approximately the same as in the States. Artificial syrup and carbonation available for all. But what I love best is that the check-out area is the opportunity to catch up with old friends, run back to retrieve missing items - perhaps a dozen times and debate if another piece of fish is necessary for tonight's dinner.
New Yorkers are forced to learn the error of their past lives and have the ability to repent. Smile, converse with those around you about the beautiful weather, the best beaches (prefect timing - send the blog as you are being submerged in an avalanche of the white stuff) and whether to go to ZoZo's to watch the sunset. Tough stuff.
No wonder no one minds eating pears, foregoing the strawberries and winding among the boxes to mail a package. If it doesn't arrive - oh well, Christmas lights are not a big Valentine item.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Sitting On the Dock of the Bay
Sitting on the top of the Bay - close enough to the dock - causes me to reflect on the finer points of life.
Here I am in one of the most beautiful spots on earth - St. John's, Virgin Islands. Sun is shining, trade winds are creating a gentle comfort and the view is a spectacular panorama of Chocolate Bay, Cruz Bay and St. Thomas in the distance.
Not only physical beauty surrounding me, but the true kindness of loved ones pervades from my perch.
I am with my cousin and his wife for the next three months. Just typing the sentence causes me to wonder about my rational behavior and the lack thereof. How about if your cousin emailed you and said, I am considering coming to visit for an extended period? Whew - would take a few moments to recover from that missive - don't you think!? Granted, these are my kissing cousins but how much of an additional being in your life would be appropriate? Think the delete button would be close at hand and, if a follow-up email ever came across the laptop, lost in cyberspace would be the cry.
It all started at a niece's wedding last July. Gathering with cousins, having a wonderful time, hearing about life in the Virgin Islands, caused my nuclear and extended family to begin the discussion of how wonderful it would be for Anne to try her hand at Island Living. Perfect for enabling me to set the next chapter and formulate a new plan. Something a wee bit stronger than organizing my Nancy Drew's and Florence Nightingale's in alpha and color order. (A childhood Saturday activity - scary,I know) Over the Fall months, the underground current, known as the family grapevine, continued. So, I tested Jerry and Tish's (cousin and his wife) cardiac strength and sent the notification,(calling it anything else would be less than true) otherwise known as inviting oneself.
My cousin, his wife and their family are fun, fun, fun. They put the P in positive. They own several businesses in St. John's and a most eclectic and relatively famous bar in Jost Van Dyke, The Soggy Dollar. The Bar's moniker evolved since the only method of approaching the center of The Painkiller (a wickedly delightful alcoholic concoction) universe is by boat. Once close, moor the boat, jump into the water and swim to one of the most beautiful beaches ever witnessed. More on the Soggy Dollar in future notings. (or nothings - depending on your point of view)
So, off I wrote, requesting admittance to this isle of coral reefs and kindness, with the caveat that I would be put to work. Surprisingly, the most welcoming response came almost immediately. They could not have been more warm in their reception, both in their communications and their response since Monday's arrival. I am sitting at the Top of the Bay, so grateful that good people are a part of my life.
I know that I can never contribute to their lives what they have given to mine - even if I came up with a golden opportunity. Jerry and Tish have ideas a mile a minute and experiences that reflect thoughtful action on the ideas. Makes one excited just listening to the possibilities. Their minds work so fast that I am unclear what I can add to the equation but I am delighted to listen, think of how I can be part of the equation and provide some sort of labor somewhere.
I do know that they have added to mine. Opening their door, welcoming me, adding a smile to my day. How many people do you know who have the generosity of spirit to be so magnanimous? It is true, Mean People Suck but Good People Rock.
When someone says to have a good day - they must have met Jerry and Tish.
Here I am in one of the most beautiful spots on earth - St. John's, Virgin Islands. Sun is shining, trade winds are creating a gentle comfort and the view is a spectacular panorama of Chocolate Bay, Cruz Bay and St. Thomas in the distance.
Not only physical beauty surrounding me, but the true kindness of loved ones pervades from my perch.
I am with my cousin and his wife for the next three months. Just typing the sentence causes me to wonder about my rational behavior and the lack thereof. How about if your cousin emailed you and said, I am considering coming to visit for an extended period? Whew - would take a few moments to recover from that missive - don't you think!? Granted, these are my kissing cousins but how much of an additional being in your life would be appropriate? Think the delete button would be close at hand and, if a follow-up email ever came across the laptop, lost in cyberspace would be the cry.
It all started at a niece's wedding last July. Gathering with cousins, having a wonderful time, hearing about life in the Virgin Islands, caused my nuclear and extended family to begin the discussion of how wonderful it would be for Anne to try her hand at Island Living. Perfect for enabling me to set the next chapter and formulate a new plan. Something a wee bit stronger than organizing my Nancy Drew's and Florence Nightingale's in alpha and color order. (A childhood Saturday activity - scary,I know) Over the Fall months, the underground current, known as the family grapevine, continued. So, I tested Jerry and Tish's (cousin and his wife) cardiac strength and sent the notification,(calling it anything else would be less than true) otherwise known as inviting oneself.
My cousin, his wife and their family are fun, fun, fun. They put the P in positive. They own several businesses in St. John's and a most eclectic and relatively famous bar in Jost Van Dyke, The Soggy Dollar. The Bar's moniker evolved since the only method of approaching the center of The Painkiller (a wickedly delightful alcoholic concoction) universe is by boat. Once close, moor the boat, jump into the water and swim to one of the most beautiful beaches ever witnessed. More on the Soggy Dollar in future notings. (or nothings - depending on your point of view)
So, off I wrote, requesting admittance to this isle of coral reefs and kindness, with the caveat that I would be put to work. Surprisingly, the most welcoming response came almost immediately. They could not have been more warm in their reception, both in their communications and their response since Monday's arrival. I am sitting at the Top of the Bay, so grateful that good people are a part of my life.
I know that I can never contribute to their lives what they have given to mine - even if I came up with a golden opportunity. Jerry and Tish have ideas a mile a minute and experiences that reflect thoughtful action on the ideas. Makes one excited just listening to the possibilities. Their minds work so fast that I am unclear what I can add to the equation but I am delighted to listen, think of how I can be part of the equation and provide some sort of labor somewhere.
I do know that they have added to mine. Opening their door, welcoming me, adding a smile to my day. How many people do you know who have the generosity of spirit to be so magnanimous? It is true, Mean People Suck but Good People Rock.
When someone says to have a good day - they must have met Jerry and Tish.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Take Direction Well
Never to be left behind, my parents have joined the parade of companies and individuals bestowing instructional directions. Our world is full of helpful hints, from a cup of coffee informing us of its heated content to the mattress label hinting the brigade will be surrounding our bedrooms if removed. Not to be left in the cold, Honey and Pappa (otherwise known as Big G) have accepted a leadership role.
Their house is full of educational listings, from the clock radio, to the DVR, to the oven. Truly, taped to each mechanical feature is a multi-tiered paper giving the reader a clear process to operate said item. How many people do you know, take the opportunity to improve our reading skills while setting the alarm or watching a movie? Not to miss an opportunity, the yellow pad even explains the telephone. All that is fine and dandy, I am willing to dawdle over writings within the cozy confines of their abode but they have taken their need to inform the public to a new and more complex level.
This is an extremely cold winter in Mystic, Connecticut. Not only is the temperature below the comfort zone, the wind and salt air make for a less than inviting environment to have outdoor experiences. Taking odds with the Denver weatherman that expounds - "No such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing" - this weather has led one to forgo crisp walk and cross country-skiing expeditions.
Honey and Pappa have decided we all need assistance in operating a storm door, the first point of entry to their home. Really, how many of you need help opening and closing a door? Well, according to Generation One - we do. There is a rather large note taped afore-mentioned storm door explaining how to successfully achieve the goal of entering their home. Honestly, it is a several step process. Unfortunately, my father's handwriting needs the Rosetta Stone to decipher so one is left standing in sub-zero temps trying to decide if the note is a warning for smallpox or some other dreaded disease lurking inside the walls. By the time, one realizes it is simply further helpful hints on how to grab and latch and pull, frostbite has set in and one cannot operate the latch. So, doorbells are rung - shuffling occurs inside and one eventually gains admittance.
To date there are no instructions where to sit - perhaps that will be a 2010 improvement. Now that Pappa, Big G or Dad (depending on where you are in the line-up)has discovered the internet and Megan as his cameraman, we may have youtube performances informing us on the best methods of can-opening, handling an electric toothbrush or operating the remote control.
An exciting year ahead.
Their house is full of educational listings, from the clock radio, to the DVR, to the oven. Truly, taped to each mechanical feature is a multi-tiered paper giving the reader a clear process to operate said item. How many people do you know, take the opportunity to improve our reading skills while setting the alarm or watching a movie? Not to miss an opportunity, the yellow pad even explains the telephone. All that is fine and dandy, I am willing to dawdle over writings within the cozy confines of their abode but they have taken their need to inform the public to a new and more complex level.
This is an extremely cold winter in Mystic, Connecticut. Not only is the temperature below the comfort zone, the wind and salt air make for a less than inviting environment to have outdoor experiences. Taking odds with the Denver weatherman that expounds - "No such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing" - this weather has led one to forgo crisp walk and cross country-skiing expeditions.
Honey and Pappa have decided we all need assistance in operating a storm door, the first point of entry to their home. Really, how many of you need help opening and closing a door? Well, according to Generation One - we do. There is a rather large note taped afore-mentioned storm door explaining how to successfully achieve the goal of entering their home. Honestly, it is a several step process. Unfortunately, my father's handwriting needs the Rosetta Stone to decipher so one is left standing in sub-zero temps trying to decide if the note is a warning for smallpox or some other dreaded disease lurking inside the walls. By the time, one realizes it is simply further helpful hints on how to grab and latch and pull, frostbite has set in and one cannot operate the latch. So, doorbells are rung - shuffling occurs inside and one eventually gains admittance.
To date there are no instructions where to sit - perhaps that will be a 2010 improvement. Now that Pappa, Big G or Dad (depending on where you are in the line-up)has discovered the internet and Megan as his cameraman, we may have youtube performances informing us on the best methods of can-opening, handling an electric toothbrush or operating the remote control.
An exciting year ahead.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Rub A Dub
One knows civilization is doomed. Really we are in a crumble. You know what has given me insight that we should gather our belongings and build the ark? Laundry Rooms. Yes, laundry rooms, or should I say laundry buildings? Isn't that what you have in your casa?
I am fortunate enough to have a home in Palm Beach. That mecca of sun, charity events that cost more than they raise, and size 2 dresses. Sadly, my size 10 is regulated to "let me check in the back for you", while slipping me a business card for nutri-systems and lipo-suction. I digress.
There is a bit of a construction boom on the Island. Those in the know are constructing free-standing two-story structures for their laundry. Wow - they must have alot of it to need all that square footage. But design and build it is, I think the contractors are delighted for things are a little slow in the real world. While others are worrying about their mortgages being more than the value of the house, true islanders are cementing away - complete with architects to ensure their no-iron shirts have a proper rise cycle.
I learned from one of the owners that it isn't appropriate to have the laundry underfoot. Truly, that was said. So, where is your laundry? At your feet? Where do you keep it - across you kitchen floor? What do the rest of us, do - stomp it with a bar of soap? Honestly, I think it is so the noise of the machines do not disturb the living environment. Okay, good. Come the revolution I do not want to be at that house - off with their heads - or maybe simply the burn the permanent press.
So, why is there a backlash toward the rich? I don't understand.
I am fortunate enough to have a home in Palm Beach. That mecca of sun, charity events that cost more than they raise, and size 2 dresses. Sadly, my size 10 is regulated to "let me check in the back for you", while slipping me a business card for nutri-systems and lipo-suction. I digress.
There is a bit of a construction boom on the Island. Those in the know are constructing free-standing two-story structures for their laundry. Wow - they must have alot of it to need all that square footage. But design and build it is, I think the contractors are delighted for things are a little slow in the real world. While others are worrying about their mortgages being more than the value of the house, true islanders are cementing away - complete with architects to ensure their no-iron shirts have a proper rise cycle.
I learned from one of the owners that it isn't appropriate to have the laundry underfoot. Truly, that was said. So, where is your laundry? At your feet? Where do you keep it - across you kitchen floor? What do the rest of us, do - stomp it with a bar of soap? Honestly, I think it is so the noise of the machines do not disturb the living environment. Okay, good. Come the revolution I do not want to be at that house - off with their heads - or maybe simply the burn the permanent press.
So, why is there a backlash toward the rich? I don't understand.
Rough Riders
Much of today was spent driving around town.
Must admit, when sunny and 75, not a harsh task. Alas, the top of the convertible is latched due to my turkey leg nose but it is wonderful not to be testing the automobile interpretation of ice dancing.
When zipping on 95 (yes, I have a lead foot), I reflected on the number of people consumed with making contact with those in a galaxy far, far away. Surely that is what is happening - we are on the verge of discovering Spock's favorite planet. Everyone is so intent on diverting attention - from the cell phone, to the DVD, to the pods. No one is speaking to one another. I know the topic of cell phones and texting while driving has hit the mother overload - I am focusing on missed opportunity.
The car is a wonderful place to discover what is happening in loved one's lives. It provides an environment where sharing is natural and tales told do not survive beyond the wheels.
When playing chauffeurette for the myriad of school trips, I learned what was truly happening in the classroom. I learned who was the princess, the pea and the bad apple. As long as I stayed silent and became an extension of the steering wheel, I gleamed who was on first base and who was in left field. I was able to better comprehend the social fabric of their lives.
When providing transport to and from high school, modern music provided the veneer to explore deeper issues. The girls created tapes and forced us to name the artist and title within the first 5 notes. Inbetween discussions centered on course loads, life-goals, summer jobs, vacation destinations and, if very lucky, a bit of their love lives. Since the music broke the rhythm, it was easy to tackle tough subjects - the exit ramp was simply the next stanza. Amazing what one can learn in a 30 second span. When a particularly rockin' song hit the waves, we would burst into song with Michael beating the steering wheel and my ear-splitting voice creating cracks in the windshield.
In younger days the required games of car bingo, license plate alphabet and I Spy were constant accompaniments. We interacted with each other often wishing we had arrived where we needed to go long before it appeared on the horizon. Sometimes it was downright ugly - with me facing backward (no, I wasn't driving) to placate screeching babies - to humorous sidelights.
Truly, one of my all time favorites occurred when driving from Boston to Cincinnati. The girls were small and we were broke - hence the car piling to visit Michael's old homestead. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, Jennifer requested that Meredith remove her finger from Jennifer's nose. How special is that, think of the dexterity involved in reaching from one's car seat across the span to the other's nose - you really want to explore that nose to stretch those fingers to that point. An athlete in training. During that excursion, Michael and I decided no matter the shallowness of the piggy bank, we would fly on future pilgrimages to the fatherland.
During the years of Wendy's wrappers strewn across our feet, we gained a closeness - an understanding of our inner workings. As cars zip by with DVD screens flipped down, blu tooth and ipods attached to passengers' ears, I think of what the inhabitants are missing. A perfect opportunity to learn what is happening in the lives of those they care about.
Isn't that more important than making that dinner reservation or returning the missed business call?
Must admit, when sunny and 75, not a harsh task. Alas, the top of the convertible is latched due to my turkey leg nose but it is wonderful not to be testing the automobile interpretation of ice dancing.
When zipping on 95 (yes, I have a lead foot), I reflected on the number of people consumed with making contact with those in a galaxy far, far away. Surely that is what is happening - we are on the verge of discovering Spock's favorite planet. Everyone is so intent on diverting attention - from the cell phone, to the DVD, to the pods. No one is speaking to one another. I know the topic of cell phones and texting while driving has hit the mother overload - I am focusing on missed opportunity.
The car is a wonderful place to discover what is happening in loved one's lives. It provides an environment where sharing is natural and tales told do not survive beyond the wheels.
When playing chauffeurette for the myriad of school trips, I learned what was truly happening in the classroom. I learned who was the princess, the pea and the bad apple. As long as I stayed silent and became an extension of the steering wheel, I gleamed who was on first base and who was in left field. I was able to better comprehend the social fabric of their lives.
When providing transport to and from high school, modern music provided the veneer to explore deeper issues. The girls created tapes and forced us to name the artist and title within the first 5 notes. Inbetween discussions centered on course loads, life-goals, summer jobs, vacation destinations and, if very lucky, a bit of their love lives. Since the music broke the rhythm, it was easy to tackle tough subjects - the exit ramp was simply the next stanza. Amazing what one can learn in a 30 second span. When a particularly rockin' song hit the waves, we would burst into song with Michael beating the steering wheel and my ear-splitting voice creating cracks in the windshield.
In younger days the required games of car bingo, license plate alphabet and I Spy were constant accompaniments. We interacted with each other often wishing we had arrived where we needed to go long before it appeared on the horizon. Sometimes it was downright ugly - with me facing backward (no, I wasn't driving) to placate screeching babies - to humorous sidelights.
Truly, one of my all time favorites occurred when driving from Boston to Cincinnati. The girls were small and we were broke - hence the car piling to visit Michael's old homestead. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, Jennifer requested that Meredith remove her finger from Jennifer's nose. How special is that, think of the dexterity involved in reaching from one's car seat across the span to the other's nose - you really want to explore that nose to stretch those fingers to that point. An athlete in training. During that excursion, Michael and I decided no matter the shallowness of the piggy bank, we would fly on future pilgrimages to the fatherland.
During the years of Wendy's wrappers strewn across our feet, we gained a closeness - an understanding of our inner workings. As cars zip by with DVD screens flipped down, blu tooth and ipods attached to passengers' ears, I think of what the inhabitants are missing. A perfect opportunity to learn what is happening in the lives of those they care about.
Isn't that more important than making that dinner reservation or returning the missed business call?
Monday, January 25, 2010
Under The Boardwalk
So,childhood summers were spent at the Jersey Shore. A bit south of the infamous MTV show of the same name.
We traveled in herds, our parents had no idea where we were for most of the day and the lasting legacy of this generation of fun in the sun is two-fold. A deep understanding of friendship and family, and a guaranteed annual income for the family dermatologist. We have been carved up in more places than we care to describe (my nose is a dead ringer for a gnawed turkey leg at the end of the Thanksgiving feast) and one brother has experienced melanoma. But something more important than our tribal scars, we carry with us comforting memories of lazy days, of each other's fears and joys and what it means to be a member of an extended family.
My grandparents owned the house next door. The cousins and my family sometimes shared the same roof (depending if the sisters were delighted with each other or less than enamored), sometimes we spilt the summer by months and sometimes one group was with my grandparents while the second group had their own abode. My grandparents house had real furniture, with beautiful rugs and lovely china. We had linoleum floors, sofas that had been around the block a few times and wicker chairs. No matter what house we had to dress for dinner - okay meaning a collared shirt and no jeans. We always sat down to a real meal and we always ate together.
My mother had this thing for Jersey tomatoes. Nothing like it in the world. We would even take them back to Connecticut with us at summer's end. That is another story for another day - the flat tire, the Jersey tomatoes and the tow truck. I think my mother came close to leaving us behind and taking the Jersey tomatoes. We had them at almost every meal. Sliced tomatoes everywhere and the meal wasn't a meal if we didn't say grace and have the tomatoes with my mother commenting on the soil, what farm stand had the best and whether it was the height of the harvest. Really, I was too young to understand mantras, but I know now my mother had a tomato mediation theme. The piece da resistance was when she made Chili Sauce for canning. Makes my mother sound like Betty Crocker which isn't quite accurate, she was one of the original proponents of processed foods. (Probably why they are living so long - my parents are semi-petrified). But Chili Sauce was her thing - an all day affair with the cutting boards, Ball Jars and flipping the lids to ensure a tight fit. Christmas presents for all and chili sauce at every family gathering.
One evening, my darling brother, Jim, decided that I needed to have a lesson in global politics.
It was the beginning of the cold war streaming into our beings. Russia was going to take all our shoes - at least that it is what I thought when I saw Kruschev take his and slam the table - and once our shoes were gone - they were going to send us to work in the factories and wear those red scarves everywhere. (I look terrible in red, very concerning to me)
Jim and I were sitting at the water's edge at dusk. I noticed a blinking light on the horizon. What could that possibly be? Jim informed me the Russians were invading the US and the point of entry was our beach on the Jersey shore. OH NO - what to do. Head home and tell Mom and Dad. Immediately chastised for my selfishness, my trusted older brother said it was important to have their last hours be happy ones. Really, if Mom wanted one more evening with her chili sauce she should have it, who was I to ruin her last hours of joy. Made sense to me so I ran to the house, and dove under my bed (not too comfy with the linoleum floor) and spent the night with the sand and the spiders. Imagine my surprise when the next morning I awakened to one more day at the Jersey shore and no red scarves anywhere. When I questioned Jim, my trusted source, the invasion force decided that last night was not the night but it could happen anytime. After a few nights, I forgot the threat and realized the bigger issue in my life was picking the individual weed quota. Years later, I realized it was a buoy that I had spotted that fateful August evening.
Other stories abound, like running through the DDT clouds when the crop duster planes sprayed the beach (really, one wonders about our mental capacity - so much for Catholic school education), determining if the duck head was on or off during the airport trip to greet our grandfather (worth 5 bucks if we guessed correctly) or watching my oldest brother's first forays into dating (not exactly smooth, although he thought so).
But here is the real situation. We laid the groundwork for life. While so much swirls around us, I realize that we have each other - we have each other's backs. Perhaps we should all have a little of the Jersey Shore. How fortunate that my grandparents had the good sense to bring us together, to exhibit to us the importance of each other and creating our own binding history. We all have our moments but I actually like my brothers and sister, I even like who they married. Their children are pretty cool too. Maybe I wouldn't have this, if it hadn't been for the Jersey Shore.
So, here is my situation, I am glad for the wide beaches, the white lifeboats but most of all, for my family.
.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Biggest Losers
Reflection on the state of affairs is appropriate on the anniversary of Winston Churchill's passing. A great statesman who was not afraid to swim against the tide, never lost sight of his vision for England and understood the complexities of achieving goals within a democratic society. His was not an easy task - he switched parties, was "left out in the cold" at various points in his career and he was wrong - Gallipoli was a major tragedy from planning to operation. But he spoke his mind and dealt with people on both sides of the aisle to accomplish his goal of captaining his country through treacherous waters to eventual safe harbor.
Today's pundits believe the election of Scott Brown is a reaction to health care. I believe it is not, I believe the people of the United States, and, in this instance, Massachusetts are disgusted with how our country is being governed. Congress no longer believes in understanding, or trying to understand another's point of view. They are too busy screaming at each other to listen, they are too busy worrying about the next vote, the next election, the next pork barrel project to be granted as payback rather then where all this is leading the United States. What happened to honest disagreement, to attempting to come together with a compromise to move the ball forward?
The shrillness emanating from the lips of our elected officials takes my breath away. Surely we have learned that extremism, in all forms, is not a good thing. From religion, to food, to drugs, to politics - where is it that extremism has served anyone well?
When will we realize we have been given a golden gift by being United States citizens? When will we treasure our birthright and understand the obligation bestowed upon us by being part of this grand democratic plan? Scott Brown, in his first news conference, spoke of his path to becoming senator. From a child of welfare to the halls of the United States Senate. Doesn't that make you proud? We have a President climbed the ladder to success through hard work, ambition and dedication - not from a trust fund. We have leaders of our society from business to politics who rose from nothing and achieved. Why are we losing sight of this?
The atmosphere is poisonous and we are ALL LOSERS. Every single one of us. The flag burning of Wall Street, the tom-toms against Bernanke, the falsehoods on health care being circulated because of vested interests - who are the real losers? Us, all of us.
When we reflect on what we have been given and how we have handled our treasures, do you think we will be proud of ourselves? I think not. It is not simply the politicians, it is us. We are permitting this to happen. Shame on all of us.
Today's pundits believe the election of Scott Brown is a reaction to health care. I believe it is not, I believe the people of the United States, and, in this instance, Massachusetts are disgusted with how our country is being governed. Congress no longer believes in understanding, or trying to understand another's point of view. They are too busy screaming at each other to listen, they are too busy worrying about the next vote, the next election, the next pork barrel project to be granted as payback rather then where all this is leading the United States. What happened to honest disagreement, to attempting to come together with a compromise to move the ball forward?
The shrillness emanating from the lips of our elected officials takes my breath away. Surely we have learned that extremism, in all forms, is not a good thing. From religion, to food, to drugs, to politics - where is it that extremism has served anyone well?
When will we realize we have been given a golden gift by being United States citizens? When will we treasure our birthright and understand the obligation bestowed upon us by being part of this grand democratic plan? Scott Brown, in his first news conference, spoke of his path to becoming senator. From a child of welfare to the halls of the United States Senate. Doesn't that make you proud? We have a President climbed the ladder to success through hard work, ambition and dedication - not from a trust fund. We have leaders of our society from business to politics who rose from nothing and achieved. Why are we losing sight of this?
The atmosphere is poisonous and we are ALL LOSERS. Every single one of us. The flag burning of Wall Street, the tom-toms against Bernanke, the falsehoods on health care being circulated because of vested interests - who are the real losers? Us, all of us.
When we reflect on what we have been given and how we have handled our treasures, do you think we will be proud of ourselves? I think not. It is not simply the politicians, it is us. We are permitting this to happen. Shame on all of us.
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