Coffee, Tea, and Other Strange Tales

I knew it was going to be one of those days.

When I wandered down the hall this morning, still half-asleep, my plan was to start the coffee maker, hit the bathroom, then have a large cup of coffee while watching/listening to The Today Show. Simple enough, right?

My daughter, M.H., had bought me a new coffee maker for my birthday. It was greatly needed and appreciated, as the old coffee maker was nearing the end of a messy death. Let's just say that boiling water in a tea kettle, then slowly pouring it through the coffee filter and hoping that the heating element under the coffee pot just doesn't quite cut it. The old coffee maker was six years old, quite a bit longer than most of my previous ones had lasted.

The new one is bright red and works well...as long as I remember to do things correctly.

This morning, I got up, filled the pot up in the sink, poured water into the maker, put the pot in the dish drain (The dish drain? you ask; yes, the dish drain; I'd wanted to dry off the bottom of the glass pot before putting onto the heating element, and didn't have a dry towel around.), then ground the coffee beans, put them in the filter, plugged in the maker, turned it on, and headed down the hall. (I hear what you're thinking: You didn't say anything about getting the pot out of the dish drain. Yeah, I know.)

So, I'm down the hall, getting ready to brush my teeth (morning breath; yuck!), when I hear my youngest utter an expletive, followed by, "Hey, Mom, the coffee!"

I hurried out to find coffee all over the place. The filter had filled to the top, then overflowed. (The top of the pot presses against the bottom of the filter area, which releases the coffee into the pot. But one must remember to put the pot where it belongs - which is not necessarily in the dish drain.)

Good thing I'd planned to do some laundry today, since I used up a few dish towels cleaning up. The second pot went a little smoother...

My family has a few coffee stories, as well as stories dealing with being a little klutzy. So, here goes.

M.H., B. and G. moved here from Rhode Island, where coffee is the state drink. In most places, schools offer kids a choice of regular or chocolate milk (or have in the past); Rhode Island kids get a third choice: coffee flavored. Even M.H. says I drink too much coffee.

True coffee story: My dad loved coffee every bit as much as I do, which is no doubt where I picked up my love of it. Mom was (and still is) more of a tea drinker, and I tend to drink a lot of that, too. But Dad and coffee...

Whenever Mom's parents came to visit for the weekend, there was usually one night reserved for hitting up a nice restaurant. Sometimes they'd bring us kids along, other times, it was just the adults. But the complaint was always the same: "John and the coffee."

See, it went like this: After being seated and handed menus, the waiter or waitress would ask what everyone was drinking. Dad, Mom, and Grandparents would all get coffee. Mom and her parents would nurse that one lone coffee through much of dinner, with occasional sips of water. That one coffee a piece created all sorts of havoc: Mom, Grandma and Grandpa all knew that sleep would be evasive that evening.

Dad, on the other hand, had a cup of coffee with the menu, another helping with the appetizer, a third and forth with dinner, another with dessert, and, finally, a last one after dessert. Wired for sound, right? Wrong! When everyone got home from the restaurant, Dad would sit, yawning, in the living room with everyone else, trying to make small talk. Invariably, though, within half an hour, he'd be upstairs, sound asleep, the coffee having had no effect on him. Mom and her parents, though, would be awake until at least 1 or 2 a.m. from their one cup of coffee!

Note: Anyone having been in the University of South Florida St. Petersburg's Florida Studies program knows that no matter how many words are added to the phrase True Story know where the phrase comes from. I hope Gary Mormino is enjoying his retirement!

Another true coffee story: When I was still driving cabs, I got a call to take someone to Tampa International Airport. Before picking the person up, I grabbed a large coffee and Boston cream donut from a nearby Dunkin' Donuts. After dropping the man off at T.I.A., I decided to swing through the Ybor City section of Tampa, since I had a friend who lived there.

I drove along the main thoroughfare (7th Avenue), but didn't see her. So, I stopped at the coffee place that was on 7th Avenue, went inside and got a large hot mochacchino. According to the person serving this up, it was an espresso, dumped into a large cup (so there were maybe several servings of espresso in there), with chocolate added to the mix, and topped with whipped cream. I'll go with that description. Drank it down, then got a large iced mochacchino to go. Got to the cab, started to leave, and Voila!, saw my friend. I honked, she waved, I did a U-turn and chug-a-lugged my iced caffeine rush before getting out of the car.

We hugged, then went back into the same coffee place to talk over - you guessed it - large hot mochacchinos. The server raised an eyebrow as he served us, no doubt wondering how sleep deprived I'd been - or would be. This time, we each added a large brownie (one for friend, one for me). The things had to be 2 inches on each side and 2 inches high, then topped with chocolate syrup, whipped cream, a scoop of ice cream, more chocolate syrup, and topped with a cherry. (As Paula Deen might admonish, we have to get our fruits and veggies in somewhere!)

Then, as we got ready to leave, I grabbed another large iced mochacchino to go. Fortunately, there'd been a shift change, so it was a different person handing it over.

By the time I got back to the Pinellas side of the Howard Franklin Bridge (a.k.a. the Frankenstein), I decided I'd best get a plain old large coffee from Dunkin' Donuts before pulling onto the nearest cab stand, where two other drivers were sitting, talking, while waiting for calls. (One of the two was my friend Kevin.)

"Hey, Robin, how's it going?" the other driver asked. And I was off and speed-talking.

"Well, seeIgotthiscallthatwenttoTIAandthenIwenttoYborandIgotsomecoffeeand..."

Kevin and the other driver's eye kind-of widened. About the time one of them got a call, though, I'd hit the caffeine wall. Anyone familiar with vinyl might know about 33s and 45s; there are those of us who remember seeing 78s and 16s. Let's just say that at first, I must've sounded like a 33 being played at the speed 45 or 78 (think Alvin and the Chipmunks), then, after hitting the wall, sounding more like a 78 played at 33 or 16...

"Wow, I think you'd better steer away from the coffee for a day or two," Kevin offered as he drove off for his next call. He might've been right.

Another coffee story: By the time Dad had married my step-mom, I'd started sending pans of fudge as one of my Christmas presents to Dad and P. They both kept an eye out for the package: Dad was ready, willing and able to finish most of the pan of fudge with a pot of coffee, while P. was prone to dole the fudge out a piece or two at a time. (Does that coffee-and-chocolate thing sound familiar?) I'd inevitably get a call from Dad the day the package came, when I'd hear which way it had gone.

True (tea) story: My mother, whose maternal grandparents immigrated from England, was more of a tea person than Dad was. If there was cause for celebration, fix tea; if someone needed cheering up, fix tea; if someone felt a little under the weather, fix tea; if...well, you get the idea. I can't begin to count the number of times I'd be home sick and would be given a cup of tea and toast.

One rainy afternoon, Mom's mom came to visit. She lived maybe a fifteen minute ride from us and would frequently bring homemade oatmeal or peanut butter cookies.

This particular rainy day, I was home sick; I was definitely on the mend, but, since it was rainy, Mom had decided to keep me home, while sending my sister A. to school.

While Mom stood watching out the door for A. to get home, Grandma poured both of us another cup of tea, pushed the plate of cookies toward me, and told me about her one brush with fame:

When she was eight years old, she and her parents lived in Denver. Half-way through the school year, Grandma's teacher informed the class that the following week, she'd bring a friend of her's to class; her friend was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody.

The day before Buffalo Bill was to come to class, Grandma stayed after school to tell her teacher the news: she had found out that morning that her parents were moving the family back to New York; they were leaving by train the next morning. Grandma was heart-broken: she loved her teacher, who apparently very caring with the children, and she was going to miss meeting Buffalo Bill Cody.

At 6 the next morning, Grandma sat on the train as her parents handed the porter their luggage. She was lost in her thoughts when she heard a familiar voice say her name as a hand touched her shoulder.

"Lillian," her teacher said. "I have a very special person who said he wanted to meet my student who was leaving for New York."

Grandma turned to see her teacher, who had gotten up extra early to see her on the train. Beside her teacher was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody himself!

I went back to school the next day. And while I've met many people over the years, some famous, some almost famous, most just ordinary people, I still feel that tea will cure an upset stomach (especially if it's with toast or cookies), that coffee is wonderful, and that both are tied to an occasional quirky story.

At 2 in the afternoon, I wonder if it's okay to put on another pot of coffee...

Reading

I love to read. Always have. I blame my parents, in a good way. Between bedtime stories, watching both Mom and Dad reading a wide variety of books in their spare time, and receiving books for birthdays, Christmases, and just because, I learned that books were to be explored and enjoyed. A person can learn a lot from books.

It was on one website that I frequent that I learned about another cool site called Goodreads . Maybe you've heard of it. Or not. But on Goodreads, a reader can keep track of books she or he has read, is currently reading, wants to read (oops, must add the Narnia series!), learn about what others are reading, what others feel are must reads and what can be passed on. One can connect with friends on the site and get emails when books (and comments on these books) are added to friends' lists.

At the moment, I'm reading several books, a habit I got into as a kid during summer vacation. Getting home after the last day of school, I'd grab a stack of five books, read the first chapter of the first book, stick in on the bottom of the stack, read the next book's first chapter, then the next book...You get the idea. When I'd finish one book, it would go back on the bookshelf, another stuck into its place, and the reading would go on. By mid-summer, I might be on chapter one in one book, chapter ten in another, five in the third...Drove my mother crazy.

"How do you keep all the stories separate?" she'd ask. Just do, I'd tell her. She'd wander off, sighing, happy, I'm sure, that at least I was reading.

"I wouldn't worry about it," my grandmother told her when she relayed it during one of Grandma's visits. "I used to that all the time." Then, as an afterthought, she added, "I still do." If it was good enough for Grandma...

Two of the books I'm currently working on are Seasons of Real Florida, by Jeff Klinkenberg, and Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, by Anna Quindlen. Both are interesting reads, similar in some ways, way different in others

Klinkenberg's Seasons..., as with his other books, is a collection of his columns first published in the Tampa Bay Times (formerly the St. Petersburg Times). He introduces the reader to all sorts of interesting characters and Florida locales. His writing makes the reader think that Klink has the perfect job: wander the state, meet cool people, see cool places, and then write about them. Jeff, if you ever decide to retire, please put in a good word for me at the Times!

Quindlen's Lots of Candles... is also a collection of short essays. (She wrote for the New York Times for several years; several of her non-fiction books are collections of some of these essays.) Her essays tend toward her observations on life.

In one of the essays in Lots of Candles..., she mentions being a control freak, to the point of having a local anesthetic when having a hysterectomy. The surgeon, knowing a control freak when she saw one, told Quindlen that she would not be allowed to talk while the surgery was going on. I really had to laugh while reading Quinlen's description of being a control freak, as I've been there. I, too, tend to be a bit of a control freak, as well as a bit of a slob.

An aside: When Paul was alive, he played Felix Unger to my Oscar Madison; we used to joke that if anyone ever did a remake of The Odd Couple using a married couple, we'd be perfect. While I'm not enough of a slob to be on an episode of Hoarders, it's only because I am a control freak. And maybe the two apparent opposites feed into each other: I can never keep my home as neat as my mom used to, or as neat as I'd love to, so why bother? But then the control-freak-ness kicks in and...

There have been times when I've been in my friend Kevin's cab and told him that I wanted to go somewhere, then proceeded to tell him exactly how to get there. Kev will usually give me a look and ask who I think is doing the driving. If I mention wanting to be in control, he'll tell me that I'm simply neurotic. Nothing like having someone know you too well...

Kevin reads a lot, too; over the years, I've noticed numerous books in his cab. (Cab driving does give one down time between calls.) He's recommended several books, and I've told him about several, even handing him a copy of Elie Wiesel's Night, a book he devoured in a day or two before passing it on. (It was an extra copy and I'd told him to pass it along.)

Paul was a reader, too, liking a variety of books from Tom Clancy and mysteries to short stories. But there were several times when I'd buy a book for myself, put it on the table, then not be able to find it later. "Oh, I started reading it," Paul would say. "You really need to read this: it's great!"

We'd discuss books, what we were reading, what stood out in the book, what inspired us for a variety of reasons...

It's a rainy Saturday, the last weekend in the out-going year. I intend to do some house-cleaning (it's that control-freak thing), but I also intend to get royally lost in a couple of books. Will I read about more quirky Floridians? More Quindlen musings? AWOL on the Appalachian Trail on my Kindle? Who knows...maybe all three. It'll drive Mom nuts, but at least she'll take comfort knowing I'm reading!

Christmas Day

Yesterday was Christmas, and I'm okay with that. That might seem like a strange thing to say; how could anyone not be okay with Christmas? (If you've spent your life celebrating Hanukkah instead, or any other winter holidays, I'm not trying to disrespect you; I'm simply writing where I'm coming from and my point of reference. I'd love to read your writings on the subject.)

But being okay with Christmas: You have no idea how long it took me to be able to say that. Sure, as a kid, especially if you've grown up in a middle-class family, as I did, Christmas was great. What wasn't there to love: First off, there were the presents, the extended family, the food, the lights, the whole ambience of Christmas. We may have had two trees, since I do remember seeing a decorated tree in a corner of the living room by our corner windows, and the big tree - the one where we'd find the presents - downstairs in the playroom.

Most years, it seems, we'd go to both sets of grandparents' places, usually one a day or two before Christmas, the other either on Christmas Day for dinner, or a set would come over for Christmas. Both of my parents had one sibling who lived in close proximity so that whichever set didn't have Christmas dinner with us would have a place to go. All very good.

Of course, these days, with family frequently spread across the country, this is a little more difficult. Thank goodness for phones, though it's still not quite the same. Maybe in some respects, that's not always a bad thing; we all have our weird holiday stories.

But then, life changed, evolved. When we moved to Connecticut, it seemed that one year, both sets of grandparents came one year for Christmas, along with my mom's father's brother and his wife. Uncle George and Aunt Elsie were what could be classified as characters, a nice way of saying eccentric, or at least on friendly terms with it. Of course, I'm not really sure if both sets of grandparents came at once, or if my memory is simply condensing several holidays together. Either way, it wouldn't have been more than one Christmas. I do remember standing around the piano in what my mother called the music room, my mother playing Christmas tunes and hymns Christmas Eve and Christmas night, Broadway show tunes the next evening, while everyone stood around, singing.

(An aside that has nothing to do with Christmas: Off the music room was the downstairs bathroom; that almost deserves its own post: the previous owners painted the entire room in various shades of purple and lavender, including a purple sink and toilet. My mother named the room the purple potty, and the name stuck; forty-plus years later, the term still resonates.)

There were more moves: From Thompson to Woodstock, Connecticut, to Pittsford, New York just outside Rochester, and finally to Florida. There are plenty more holiday memories, mostly good.

When I married my ex, my parents weren't exactly thrilled; somehow, I doubt that it was simply his blue-collar roots. But that's neither here nor there. We did have some pleasant memories, interspersed among the rough spots, and we did have four offspring who I'm proud of more often then not; they're finally at that age when we can have semi-intelligent conversations. My second husband was also a blue-collar man with middle-class roots and enough patience to put up with an out-spoken extravert. He and I had good memories, including holidays.

This year, things have been tight, financially. We'd hoped that, since M.H., B., and G. now live nearby, we'd be able to see them for Christmas, as they'd had holidays for the past 15 or so years with family in Rhode Island. But life happens: their car died an unhappy death after they'd moved into their apartment nearby (but still requiring two bus routes, which, on the holiday schedule, is interesting, meaning a much shorter day), they now have a scooter to get around on (really pretty much a one-person deal, even if it does have pegs for a second person to put his or her feet), and M.H. had to work yesterday from shortly after noon until a little after 6. Finances didn't include cab fare to and from either way. You know the old joke that goes "How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans"? That's what happened to our first extended family Christmas in years. I could have copped an attitude, but it wouldn't have helped any.

Added to the fun was that our toilet, which has been acting up - but doing better the past few weeks - decided to act up on Christmas Eve day. This year, of course, it fell on a Monday, which means that a lot of places were giving workers a rare four-day weekend. I hated having to call the landlord about it, but also didn't relish the thought of a holiday with a backed-up commode. I'm funny about stuff like that. (And I'm sure you've already inserted something else into that stuff spot.)

The people coming out to fix it arrived just as I was heading out to meet M. at the bus; he had gone out to pick up last minute stuff from the store that we really needed for Christmas dinner and needed help carrying it all home from the bus stop. But J. was here, so that was cool; he could keep Drexie and Karma from making a break for it whenever the door was open.

As M. and I figured out who would carry what from the bus stop, we heard someone shout, "Hey, Robin!" I looked around in time to see Sandy V., J.'s day care lady from years ago. She lives within a mile or two from our place, but somehow, our lives have gotten so crazy that only occasionally see each other, and almost exclusively when we bump into each other. Usually, it's at the nearby Publix when we're shopping.

But she was out for a run in the misty weather. We quickly got caught up on each others' lives. She's married, has three kids, her daughters are now older than she was when we first met, her son older than most of my kids were when we met. Is it really possible that that much time has passed?

After we said our good-byes, Sandy off toward home, M. and I toward our place, I called J. and told him who we'd seen. Then I asked if the people working on the toilet were still there. No, he informed me; they'd plunged it, got it flushing, and left.

It worked fine the rest of the day. Good enough. Then, yesterday morning, I got up, went into the bathroom before starting the coffee and getting to work cooking, and sure enough, the toilet backed up. I plunged it once or twice, but wasn't thrilled.

Several hours later, after I did one load of laundry (when I'm baking and making holiday meals, I go through a ton of dish towels), I heard M. yell that he needed some bath towels NOW from the bathroom. Yup, you guessed it: there was a definite over-flow problem.

After we cleaned up a little and I started another load of laundry (thank goodness for the extra-hot setting on the washer), I called the landlord. When the property manager called back, she sounded as unhappy to be talking to me as I was. Don't get me wrong, she's a nice enough person, and I'm sure that if we were to meet under other circumstances, there's a chance we might talk over coffee. It's doubtful we'd ever be close best buddies - no BFFs here - but she's a nice enough person. But who wants to have to make or receive a call like that on Christmas? If there's one time of year when most of us want our family time, our please leave me alone unless you're calling to wish me a happy holiday time, it's Christmas.

She said it would be taken care of today, not to flush the commode, etc. This was the scenario we'd both hoped to avoid.

(For the record, she's already mentioned this morning that it will be taken care of today. We both were a little more, well, not okay with the situation, but at least not growling over it; at this point, that's an improvement.)

I finished the preliminary baking - two loaves of pumpkin bread, two pumpkin pies, and a cranberry-raisin pie - before starting the stuffing and turkey. Usually, I bake an apple pie, pouring apple cider into it for extra yumminess (yes, that's the technical term: yumminess), but we were a little short on cash this year. But M. and I decided that a cranberry-raisin pie would be a suitable stand-in. Twice in the past, I tried baking all three kinds of pie for holidays, but have since decided that that was a little much. Once I got the turkey into the oven, I washed a few dishes, had a cup of hot tea, then put my shoes on.

Years ago, when I'd already quit driving cab, and Paul was driving for what he knew was his last holiday season driving cab, I'd taken a walk through the nearby park. This particular park is less than a block away; I can see the back entrance to it from my front porch. It has a playground, horse trails through the woods (there are plenty of stables in close proximity), rings for horse shows, and a rec center which doubles as a local voting precinct. Usually, through most of the year, I walk along one of the horse paths along the edge of the park on my way to other paths during my morning walks/runs. But the Thanksgiving before Paul retired, I'd put the turkey in the oven, watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV (something my maternal grandmother got me into the habit of doing; it still somehow connects me to her), then went through a walk on the horse trails through the woods. It took close to an hour to walk to the end of the trail and back (or, at least, as far as I'd planned to go). I loved taking the walk enough that I did it again on Christmas. (I've been known to walk it on Easter Sunday, too.)

Since then, I've missed a couple of holidays; Christmas, 2004, it rained; Thanksgiving, 2010, I was still sore and nowhere near up for a walk after a fall from a ladder at roof level onto a cement driveway (something like that takes a bit of a recovery, trust me on that), this past Thanksgiving, M. and I went to M.H., B. and G.'s apartment, and so on. Occasionally, I think, This'll probably be the last time I do this for whatever reason; but almost without fail, the next holiday, I'm back out there. It gives me an excuse to walk a different trail, to see the changes since the last time I walked it, and to just let my mind wander along with my feet. One year, I saw a peacock walking parallel to the path. Several years, M. and J. joined me for the walk.

Quick story: the city put lights along the horse path. The path tends to get dark by late afternoon; the lights turn on automatically, making it easier to see the path. They're tall, with an opaque orb at the top. They remind M. of C. S. Lewis's Narnia series. One year, M. walked with me on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the following Easter; each time, he'd spend the entire walk telling me about Narnia, discussing whether I should read the books in chronological order or in the order that Lewis had written them. Narnia and the lights in the park are now one of M.'s and my inside jokes. Every holiday, I remind myself that I really want to read the Narnia series - it's one of those books or series I've told myself everyone needs to read, or, at least, I need/want to. And then life gets busy, crazily busy, and Narnia slips my mind, at least until the next holiday walk.

Yesterday, I walked the trail alone, noticing changes: how a stand of trees that I'd enjoyed was slowly disappearing - a stand of off-white trees with slightly peeling bark, trees that stood huddled together like a lost tribe; the newer houses near the park and how the older new houses - ones that were built in the past six or seven years but are older than the newer new houses; the changes to the stable next to the park; in general, letting my mind wander.

Heading back down the trail, a woman riding a horse approached. Usually, by this point in my holiday walk, I've seen maybe half-a-dozen horse-and-riders in several groups; this time, I was beginning to think I wouldn't see any.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" the rider called, and I agreed. We both wish each other Merry Christmas. Then, as if on cue, the horse nodded, whinnied, and veered a few steps toward me. I'd been around horses as a kid, so it didn't startle me. The woman steered the horse back to its original course.

"Sorry," she told me. "He's just looking for treats." I smiled, and made a mental note to bring carrot pieces on my next holiday walk - after which, I'll start the Narnia series.

By the time I got home, I was in a better mood, one where I could handle stinky bathrooms.

And, in spite of having to work, M.H. apparently had a decent enough Christmas, too.

We still have next year to look forward to.



Note: The path below used to walk through the stand of trees mentioned near the end of this post; enough of the trees have either died or been cleared by the city that the path is no longer there.

Birthday wishes and children

My daughter came over today; she spent a couple of hours here. I'd called and asked her to come over, since I had a birthday card for her.

I can distinctly remember the day she was born. I'd been told that I wouldn't be able to have any kids after her older brother; there were times when they were growing up when I'm sure they both would have preferred being only children; instead, they were joined by two younger brothers. I tell M.H. that she's my favorite daughter; it helps, if you're going to be the favorite daughter, to be the only daughter. (For the record, she's married to my favorite son-in-law; he has informed me that I'm his favorite mother-in-law. I also have a favorite oldest son, a favorite middle son, and a favorite youngest son.)

Several days before M.H. was born, her father and I put up our Christmas tree and decorated it. The night before she was born, I'd peeled several oranges. I was making homemade orange spice tea to give out for Christmas presents, and it called for the peels of three or four oranges; these were cut into strips, then baked for several minutes, then cut up further and mixed with loose tea, whole cloves, stick cinnamon, and several other things I no longer remember.

After baking the peels, I decided to go to bed; the cloves, cinnamon, et al could be assembled the next morning, then packed to send out.

But M.H. had other plans. Sometime during the night, I woke my then hubby up; he called my mother so she could come take care of J.A., after which, we'd head for the hospital. When Mom showed up, I was puttering around the kitchen, putting the tea kettle onto the stove so I could fix her a cup of tea (obviously not the spice tea, since it would have to wait an extra day to be assembled). She came in, checked to make sure J.A. was asleep (he was), then asked how far apart the contractions were.

"About five minutes apart," was the answer. The hospital was a good half-hour's drive away; five minutes apart meant things were beginning to speed up a little.

"What are you waiting for?" she demanded. I thought it was obvious; she'd always taught me that when someone came over to your home, you fixed that person a cup of tea! The water was almost to a boil, and..."If I want a cup of tea at three a.m., I can fix myself!" she scolded. "Now GO, before you end up having that baby in the car!"

As she pushed me out the door, hubby pulled my arm. "Let's go!"

M.H. was born several hours later. As with most babies, she looked a little like an elfish prize fighter, but a beautiful one. Ask most parents, their newborns are the most beautiful babies in the world.

Two asides here: When M.H. gave birth to G., sometime during the night, B. called from the hospital and left a message on our voice mail. "Hey, Grandma," the message started; you could hear the emotion in B.'s voice. "G.'s here. She's beautiful." When I visited a few weeks later, the man who swore nobody had better come up with any nicknames for G. already had two or three for his little girl.

The second one is from when I was born. Dads were not yet allowed in the delivery room, and Dad didn't have much experience with newborns. He figured I'd look like a two or three month old right from the start, all pink and clean and advertisement-cute. After Mom got back to her room, Dad came in to see her.

"Did you stop by the nursery and see Robin?" mom asked. Dad nodded solemnly. "Well, what do you think? Isn't she beautiful?"

Dad struggled to find the right words. He'd never seen a newborn before. Finally, he managed to spit out the truth, in a round-about way: "I'm sure she'll have a nice personality."

Fortunately, Mom forgave the remark, Dad realized newborns are beautiful in their own way, and things got better. (I hope my personality is at least passable.)

But back to M.H.: She seemed very alert and happy (i.e., she wasn't a screamer), she had a tuft of red hair, and the nurses ooohed and aaahed over her.

That evening, after dinner, hubby and I sat and watched TV, me in the bed, holding M.H., he on the chair nearby. After he left, I watched one of our favorite shows while he watched the same from home ("Starsky and Hutch"). I managed to keep M.H. with me until 10 that night; she slept most of the time she was with me. I only half-watched the TV; I was busy counting tiny fingers and toes, looking at her red hair, remembering how tiny newborns are.

We went home the next day morning, a change from when her brother was born, when we nearly had to stay in the hospital three days (he was four hours shy of the 48 hours of age that babies were required to be before being released). That afternoon, I managed to finish putting the tea together, then let hubby take the presents to the post office to send out.

Now, years later, M.H.'s taller than I am. Fortunately, she's also more organized than I am. She's a mom, wife, sister, sister-in-law, artist...a lot. She does them all well...

Happy Birthday, kiddo.

Newtown, Connecticut

On Friday December 14, there was another school shooting, this time in Newtown, Connecticut. News reports say that it is the worst school shooting in history; other reports write that it's the second worst. Either way, twenty-eight people are dead, twenty of them, children.

This is horrifically sad...and crazy. When will this stop?

I know that there are people who say that "guns don't kill people, people kill people." This may be true; people do kill others. And I know that the N.R.A. wants to protect Americans' right to own guns. But really, who the hell needs a semi-automatic .223-caliber Bushmaster rifle, a weapon that msn.com lists as a "lethal rifle originally designed for use in combat," capable of shooting up to six bullets per second. (See article at http://now.msn.com/sandy-hook-shooting-weapon-was-223-caliber-rifle-designed-for-combat ) Apparently, the shooter took this, and the two handguns, from his mother's house, and killed her before going to the school and killing 26 others, then himself. Democracy is about allowing one to have a different point of view from his or her neighbor, as long as you're not hurting, killing, maiming another, so being a member of the N.R.A. is legally allowed. But, really, if one is a member of the N.R.A., how would one ethically defend the right of John Q. Public to own something designed for modern battle? What's next, allowing nuclear warheads?

Okay, that might be far-fetched, but where do we draw the line? And is one's right to own certain weapons more important than the rights of twenty eight people, including twenty children? I think not.

Back to the school: According to Leslie Gunn, an art teacher for Sandy Hook Elementary School for 17 years, "It was a regular day. It was a beautiful day (before the shooting)." (Taken from the Hartford Courant; see article at http://www.courant.com/news/connecticut/hc-newtown-sandy-hook-school-shooting-20121214,0,5043872.story .)

A regular day. A beautiful day. This is frequently how the day is described before all hell breaks loose, whether an attack like the September 11, 2001 attack, or a school shooting.

As a nation, we grieve for the loss of life, especially when it is on a large scale or involves children. This horrible shooting involved both.

If you have children, hug them. Tell them you love them. Let those around you know you care.

And for those in Newtown, Connecticut, a nation cries with you.

Christmas parades and other memories

Last night, my younger two sons and I went to our city's annual Christmas parade. Pinellas Park was talking up this year's parade, since it was the fortieth year the event had marched down Park Boulevard.

In earlier years, the parade had been held in the morning, usually the second Saturday in December. Our family, in its various changes, would head out, sometimes picking up breakfast at McD's, sometimes picking up something to eat elsewhere. But within the past fifteen years or so, it was switched from mornings to evenings. Maybe it was so that anyone working during the day could make it to the parade, maybe it was so that the holiday lights could be seen along the route. No matter, though; it's still there.

M., J. and I caught a ride to Publix's parking lot with my friend Kevin so that we could cross Park Boulevard at the light at Forty-ninth Street. We usually stop by the Busy Bee Restaurant, a small mom-and-pop place that Paul and I used to frequent, where I'll grab a coffee to go, then head for the Subway restaurant a block away, where we pick up dinner and watch the parade.

This year, when we went into the Bee, we saw several familiar faces. Kelly had come back to work there. Her sister, Jackie, had worked there for years, and had been one of the familiar faces Paul and I looked forward to seeing. While Kelly hadn't worked there nearly as long as Jackie had, it had become a bit of a let-down not to see her after she'd left. We kidded about how the last time she'd worked there, people kept forgetting her name, simply referring to her as Jackie's sister.

We also saw Roxanne, a regular customer at the Bee who'd managed to become a part-time cashier/hostess/coffee-server and confidante of anyone coming into the restaurant. She was having dinner with her granddaughter, and, while we didn't get much of a chance to talk, it was good seeing her, too.

After paying for my coffee, we headed to our usual parade-watching place. While we didn't stay for the whole parade - something we haven't managed to do for several years, now - we did get a laugh at one point: One of the local high school marching bands went by playing Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer; this was done while trying to maintain formation while a rogue golf cart drove through their ranks the wrong way. Grandma may've gotten run over by a reindeer, but that's nothing like getting run over or under by a rogue wrong-way golf cart.

But as we watched the parade, or at least the first hour or so of it, we did talk about Christmas parade memories. There was the garbage-can-marching-band that marched in the parade three or four years in a row. It had been put together by the company in charge of the city's garbage pick up, used shiny new metal garbage cans as drums and metal lids as cymbals, and was led my a high-stepping, high-energy leader intent on strutting his stuff. I might be mistaken, but I doubt you'll see that in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade!

Another memory: The first Christmas that Paul were together - a month after the Thanksgiving where we both stood each other up (Thanksgiving stories and meals; Wednesday, November 21, 2012) - I'd mentioned that I'd be getting a late start driving that day, since I was taking the kids to the Christmas parade.

What time does it start? Paul wanted to know, as well as where we'd planned to watch the parade. He met us there, with an extra coffee for me, and a couple of donuts from the nearby donut shop. We sat in his cab while the kids walked back and forth, meeting Paul for the first time, showing us strands of beads they'd caught from passing floats and marching groups.

The last Christmas Paul was alive, the parade had moved to its present evening hours. Paul wasn't quite up to going, or maybe he simply liked the thought of having a couple of quiet hours during the boisterous holiday season. Whatever. But he knew we'd be at Subway and asked us to bring him back a salad for dinner.

Of course, there are other Christmas memories that have nothing to do with parades.

The last year I drove for the cab company, I'd transferred to being an employee driver for a variety of reasons. At one point, I drove a van to pick up children for a local preschool for disadvantaged kids; the cab company supplied the van and driver for the school.

The drivers - three or four of us, each with a 12-passanger (or larger) van - would leave the yard around 6 a.m., go to the school, where we would pick up an escort; these were usually full-time teachers at the preschool, and their job on the van was to go to each door and get the child or children, strap them into their car seats, and maintain some semblance of control, while the drivers simply drove. We would deposit kids and teacher/escorts to the school in the morning, then pick them back up in the afternoon, drop the kids off again, then redeposit the escorts back to the school so that they could grab their cars and head home.

Right after Thanksgiving, I noticed Christmas decorations cropping up along the route. Several stand out: on the drive to pick up Jim, the escort assigned to my route, in the early morning, I noticed a huge Christmas star. I had driven along Bay Drive in Largo (East Bay becomes West Bay at one point; I got a little of both) until reaching Clearwater-Largo Road, where I'd turn north. One one point, the road drifts to the left a little as it gently dips, and there was a large stand of trees that drivers would see before following the left-and-dip. It was here that the star was visible, a large metal-and-white-Christmas-lights deal atop a pole. Something about seeing the lit star seemed to make the early-morning-start worth it.

There was another Christmas display that we'd have to pass with the van loaded with kids. It was in Clearwater, put up by a group-that-shall-remain-nameless (anyone familiar with Clearwater and South Fort Harrison Avenue may understand why), and involved a large red velvet Santa's chair. I'd mentioned to Jim-the-escort that someone I knew used to pick up furniture put out by the side of the road on garbage day; it was something my kids and I referred to as Early American Curbside. After that, the kids would point to the large Santa's chair and start asking when we'd be able to pick it up and bring it to the school. After all, what could be cooler than taking turns sitting in Santa's chair on a regular basis, right?

On the ride into school, it was still dark enough to see Christmas lights, and we passed many houses where the owners kept the lights on all night. Of course, by the time we'd head back home with the kids, there'd be more lights on. The kids had a game where whoever saw a decorated home or business first would point and yell, "That's my Christmas!", at which point, no one else could claim that Christmas.

One morning, one little girl, Chelsea, lost out on half-a-dozen or so decorations, and this was with only three kids in the van so far! By the time we pulled up to the forth pick-up, she was in tears; she was never, ever going to be able to lay claim to Christmas lights again! As Jim got out of the van, I spotted a lit tree twinkling from the living room of the next house; I also knew Chelsea couldn't see it from where she sat.

"Chelsea, if you take your seat belt off and come here, I'll show you something."

She shook her head; the rule was that once Jim strapped a child into his or her car seat, that child was to stay strapped in until Jim took that child out. Chelsea might've wanted "her Christmas," but she was no fool: she didn't want to get into trouble for undoing her seatbelt.

"Hey, Jim," I called as he approached the front door where he had to pick up a couple of little boys, "Can I let Chelsea out of her car seat for a minute?"

He turned and called back that it was okay. So, carefully, she hopped out of the car seat and came to stand next to where I was sitting. I pointed to the lit Christmas tree and asked, "Do you see that?"

She looked and, after a second or two, her face lit up and she squealed with delight, "That's my Christmas!"

The rest of the ride went better, with Chelsea telling everyone, "I saw my Christmas!"

There are more memories - my kids, grandkids, in-laws, grandparents, Paul, extended family and friends - but, regardless of your faith or religion, whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, the Solstice, Kwanzaa, Yule, or any other holiday this season, that pretty much sums it up: it is a season of dark, but also a season of hope, joy, memories...

Enjoy the season, y'all!

Karma

So Karma's been acting a little off the past few days. In this case, I'm not talking about the cosmic boomerang effect, where "you reap what you sow." Karma Kitty is our five-year-old black cat. He thinks of himself as a panther masquerading as a cat; it's the whole cattitude thing.

But he hasn't been acting quite himself the past few days. I tried to pinpoint it exactly, and kept hoping that it was my neuroses tip-toeing in through the front door. Karma would run full-tilt through the house mid-morning, playing a rousing game of banking-off-the-walls-and-skid-down-the-halls-sideways-tag with his sister Drexie. They love the game, and have been known to include a sideways sweep of the dining room table when they're in full play mode.

But by noon, he wouldn't want to play. Or drink. He'd eat a little of the crunchy food, look at the litter box, then slink off to sleep where he'd be undisturbed. He also looked like he wasn't feeling up to snuff.

So this morning, I called the vet's office. We've been taking pets to the same veterinarians for a little over twenty years. It's been the same two male vets since we started going there and, over the years, an occasional new vet. I can't say enough good about Pinellas Animal Hospital.

Anyway, I knew I'd have to see about paying them next month, but Karmie was sick now. The crazy jabbering monkey keeping up a neurotic monologue in the back of my mind kept telling me, "Nope, doesn't matter how long you've taken pets there, they'll want money now...You might as well hand the cats over and let someone else have them, someone who's rich." Stupid jabbering monkey neurosis, getting me scared...

But when I called and explained what was going on, you know what they said? "Bring him on in. We'll work something out. We know you're not going anywhere." What a relief!

So, I called someone to bring us to the vet's and arranged for someone else to pick us up for the ride home. And then the fun began.

The pet carrier had been recently cleaned and a nice soft bath towel had been placed inside for Karma to lie on before being brought into the living room with the door open. Sometimes, if I do this a little while before we have to go, Karm will wander in and act like it's his cave. Other times, he realizes that he's going for a trip to the vet's office.

This time, it was the latter...and he was having none of it. It took three of us to corral him and get him into the carn thing. You've heard "It's not the size of the cat in the fight, but the size of the fight in the cat"? He may be a 12-pound-and-change cat, but the fight says panther. By the time we got him in there, we needed the box of bandaids.

Within a few minutes of arriving at the vet's, we were in ushered to an exam room. The new tech asked what was going on, then went to pull Karma out of his carrier.

"You might want to grab some gloves," I warned her. Karma's low-throated yowl and hiss reinforced my warning. After gloving up with elbow-length gloves and taking Karm out, the tech weighed Karm, then had the vet come in. Within minutes, Karma, a.k.a. the Great Hissing Yowler, was in the back room for a few tests, after which, he was deposited back with us while the vet awaited the results.

Karm dove for the carrier, which I'd had the foresight to close. No getting in there until we were ready to leave! He literally ran circles around the carrier, occasionally slapping it with a front paw, trying to find an opening, to no avail. So, the G.H.Y. stalked around the room, yowling and hissing his great displeasure, taking an occasional lunge and swipe at arms, legs, whatever was available.

Finally, at one point, he jumped on top of the pet carrier, and promptly peed. The stuff dripped through to the inside of the carrier. I glanced down, then did a double-take: sure enough, when he jumped off the carrier, I saw that there was blood in his urine...and I freaked! Part of me wanted to take the bath towels we had brought from home and wipe off the carrier, but I knew I wanted the vet to see what had happened.

"Why don't they hurry?" I muttered. "What's taking them so long?" M. kept telling me it was going to be alright, but I wasn't buying it.

Finally, the tech came back in. "It'll just be a few more minutes," she said.

But then I pointed to the bloody mess in the carrier. "He just did that. I'm really worried!"

"I don't blame you," she said. "I'll bring this in the back room and show Dr. G. and then clean it up for you."

After an what seemed like an eternity, I was told that the G.H.Y. had cystitis, which apparently is common in cats, especially as they age, especially if they're male. And the bloodly mess apparently is not unheard of.

After loading him up on fluids, antibiotics and a few other meds, they handed me one very indignant cat and a bag of canned cat food.

"He'll need to be on this for a while," Dr. G. told me.

"How long?" I asked. "Forever?"

"Why don't we play it by ear," he said.

Then, making plans to call on Monday and bring him back next week, I spoke with one of the front office people, a woman who is always asking after "the kitties." "Here's the bill, and when you come in next time, just bring in a couple of checks, with the date that you want us to deposit each in the memo line. You know we'll work with you!"

We're home now, Karma loves his new food, used the litter box, and is now resting on the couch.

I might take a little longer to recouperate...

Aging, with Attitude

I've noticed something lately: I'm becoming my parents, while my offspring are becoming, well, me (though a much younger me).

For starters, there are the aches and pains. When my kids were little, and I wanted to take them to the beach or park so that they could get rid of some excess energy (and I wouldn't have to think about the housework), I'd call my grandmother up.

Now, mind you, I called both of my grandmothers on a regular basis. They were very different from each other, but definitely cool, each in their own way. But while Dad's mom lived in New York (state, not city), Mom's mom and I lived in the same Florida county; therefore, it was Grandma Hallock I'd call for the weather update.

After catching up on the pleasantries, I'd mention that I was planning to take the kids out. "The meteorologist on Channel 8 said that there's a forty percent chance of rain today, something about a cold front coming through, so I'm wondering if it's safe to head for the beach."

"Well, hon, my arthritis is only bothering me a little," she'd tell me. "I think you should be fine today, but maybe not tomorrow."

Funny thing is, her arthritis was almost always right. Go figure...

I'd heard from both grandmothers and their friends that the weather would change soon because "I can feel it in my bones." My younger self used to think that was old people crazy talk, but over the past decade or so, I've been noticing how true it seems.

A couple of mornings ago, I woke up with a painfully stiff, sore neck. I didn't have a headache or a fever, which was good; it's always nice to rule out anything serious. Most writers tend to be a bit neurotic. I'm not as neurotic as, say, Woody Allen, but on some days, many of us could give Woody a run for his neurotic money.

I grabbed a tube of BenGay and slapped some on. I have several tubes of it, as well as Tylenol's version of it (Precise). A certain offspring, who could easily be on Extreme Couponing, had sent them to us several months before moving to Florida when she'd picked them up for mere pennies. So, after putting BenGay on my neck, and popping a couple of Tylenol and four baby aspirin, I eased into the kitchen to start the coffee.

But the neck continued to hurt throughout the day. When it did ease a little, my left knee...well, you get the general idea. The cold front that had come through had decided to settle in. While it wasn't a seventy-five percent chance of rain sort of thing, it did tell me that the weather would be this way for a couple of days.

An aside: I've been known to laugh in late August, early September when the meteorologists on TV say that there's a cold front coming through in the next few days. I live in Florida. While it does occasionally get down-right cold in January or February (temperatures in the teens are cold, as far as I'm concerned), cold fronts in Florida in August or September might just bring the temperature down a degree or two to a nice, brisk 79 or 80. Brrr! Not! But it did get into the high 50s last week...

Another thing I've noticed, heading into the end of my fifties: I tend to have a lower tolerance for some things (like, um, manure) than I used to, while things that used to absolutely drive me nuts hardly phase me.

A while back, I was riding with my friend Kevin, who happens to drive cab. We first met when we both drove for the same cab company. I'd started first, then he showed up maybe a year later, then quit for maybe a few months before climbing back into a taxi. Kevin's a few years younger than I, and he describes himself as a grump or grouch.

One morning, Kevin was driving me some place or other. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas, when people sort-of forget how to drive. It's like, they're in the right-hand lane, thinking of turning into this group of stores coming up to buy something, when suddenly and right now, they realize that the bank is on the left and they need to hit it up before shopping. We were behind three-lanes-and-half-a-block-worth of people driving like this.

So, Kevin had been grousing for the last couple of minutes as we ease south along Forty-Ninth Street that the other drivers are idiots, that you should have seen that guy plow into that pick-up truck this morning, the fact that we were only his third call of the day. His second call was a regular customer, but his first call was one that prompted him to tell M. and me, "You won't believe the call I got at 6:30 this morning. I hadn't even gotten my coffee, the address they gave me didn't exist, and after ten minutes of looking for him, he ran out from between a couple of houses and told me to hurry, he was late for work! I think he'd already been drinking..."

Finally, I looked over at him and said, "Kevin, you are such a grump!!!" As I said that, a car from the left lane cut across all three lanes of traffic, nearly hitting both us and the car in fron of us, before ducking into a strip mall, all the time waving Sorry, thanks! at everyone he'd cut off or almost hit. "What's with this (expletive)!" I practically yelled.

As we eased up to the light, Kevin looked at me slightly askew and, smiling, said, "And you call me a grump?"

Another story: My daughter, M.H., and I talk quite frequently. Once, several years ago, when we were on the phone, G. was doing something or other that she'd been told not to do. Let's face it: most kids do that, especially when the parent who said not to do it is on the phone.

At one point, M.H. told G. to "stop that right now." G. didn't, so M.H. said, "Don't make me count to three!"

By now, I was smiling, but trying not to let a snicker come across the phone. This sounded too familiar.

"Okay, that's it!" I heard. "One, two, three!" Then, to me, "I'll be right back." As she put the phone down, I could hear, "You're going to your room!" She was immediately informed that that was fine, G. had a TV, VCR and radio in her room. "Not any more, you don't! I'm taking them out right now and you can stay in your room until you apologize and make it right!" A stream of I'm sorrys followed this, along with much crying and wailing. But M.H. held firm.

When she finally picked up the phone, my daughter had one question for me: "When did I turn into you?", to which I responded, "When you became a parent!"

Life goes on, we age, and, if we're lucky, we manage to mantain our sense of humor.

To Kill A Mockingbird

I'm a writer, and I'm also a reader. I feel that the two are strongly connected; most of the writers I know also read a lot. Some of us touch base periodically to get caught up on books, articles and stories we've read: "Just started reading..." "Oh, I read that last month. Loved it; couldn't put it down," or "I really couldn't get into to at all because...Finally had to put it down."

I've picked up several books - and enjoyed them - on the word of other writer/readers. I've also felt better knowing that someone else whose writing I enjoy and whose opinion on good books is similar to mine says that he or she really couldn't get into whatever book I found lacking.

Most of us have favorite books that we go back to time and again. One of my favorites is Harper Lee's classic, To Kill A Mockingbird. I just finished it again for the umpteenth time this morning. The copy I put back on one of my many bookshelves is easily the tenth (or more) copy I've owned; I tend to reread it until it falls apart. One copy that I'd bought did manage to get gift-wrapped and sent to my mom several Christmases ago; that one doesn't get added to the count.

"Thanks for sending To Kill A Mockingbird this year," Mom said when she called. It had been years since she'd read it, and had been meaning to pick up a copy. Several weeks later, she called to tell me it was better than she remembered. I'm always glad when the two of us agree on a book; reading is one of the loves she passed on to me.

One of the many things I frequently find interesting in Harper Lee's book is how she manages to tie Atticus Finch's thoughts on Mrs. Dubose's bravery at the end of Part I to the fight Atticus faces in Part II. While Mrs. Dubose's thoughts on Atticus's defending Tom Robinson are a reflection of many of the townspeople's sentiment - as well as the nation's sentiments on race during the 1930s, they are drastically different from Atticus Finch's sentiment, as well as that of several of the people who fit prominently in the book. Atticus Finch may have been appointed to defend Tom Robinson by the court; however, he intends to actually defend the innocent man.

But back to what Atticus says about Mrs. Dubose: After he returns from her house and tells Jem and Scout that Mrs. Dubose has died, he says that she was the "bravest person I know." Why? Jem wants to know. How can Atticus say this, when Mrs. Dubose held such different views from his own? It turned out that, while dying, she was addicted to morphine for the pain from her illness and she wanted to come off it before she died. Courage, to Atticus's way of thinking, isn't "'...a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do. Mrs. Dubose won, all ninety-eight pounds of her...She was the bravest person I know.'"

Before and during Tom Robinson's trial, Atticus tries his hardest to win Tom's freedom. Miss Maudie tells Jem and Scout afterwards that while the verdict was a foregone conclusion - the American South, 1930s, a black man's word against a white man's word - that Atticus was the only lawyer in the area who could keep a jury deliberating for as long as it did. Afterwards, Atticus intended to appeal the verdict. True, this may be something lawyers are supposed to do, but considering the time/place/race issue, many lawyers may not have pushed the issue. Atticus knew, going in, that it would be an up-hill battle, but he was even more courageous than he had given Mrs. Dubose credit for.

The ending - when Bob Ewell attempts to kill Jem and Scout, only to die by falling on his own knife as the reclusive Boo Radley rescues the children - is as moving as the rest of the book.

The somewhat battered copy is now back on the bookshelf, and will be retrieved in another year or so to be reread.

Yesterday's Meal - Another memory in the making

My daughter M.H. and her family moved here over the summer, arriving June 30. M. and B. had lived in Rhode Island, which is where B.'s family is from, for the past 15 years; their daughter was born there.

After moving to their own apartment in July, their car proceeded to die; nothing like a blown engine to kill a car. Granted, it wasn't their fault; M.H. had checked fluid levels, etc. But that particular car had been trouble from the start. They picked up a scooter - basic transportation - but not something that can be used to cart the family around. Which brings us to holidays...

B. is one of several siblings, all of whom met up at their mom's house for holiday meals. The plan, once they were in the apartment here, was that they'd come here for holidays, thus starting new memories...but this was before the car died. The buses, which run on an altered holiday schedule, would have to work, since cabs between their place and ours is a little much. But since buses don't accommodate dogs (unless they're service animals), and since their dog would need to go out periodically, the plan was that we (my younger 2 sons and I) would go to their place.

Two of us headed for the bus stop around 10:20; the youngest hadn't felt up to snuff the evening before. The two of us hoofed the almost 3/4 - mile to the stop with several minutes to spare; ten minutes later, we exited the first bus and headed across the parking lot of a strip mall to catch the second.

This particular strip had been here forever, it seemed. There had been an A&P here when I first moved to the area, more decades ago than I care to mention. There had also been a dollar store, a restaurant where my sister had once waitressed while putting herself through nursing school (the restaurant has moved twice, now settled nicely maybe two miles away), a drugstore, and, out front, a bank that had put up a huge Christmas tree made simply out of lights, placed on its roof Thanksgiving weekend, that stayed through New Years'; the thing could be seen for miles. Then the A&P pulled out of the area, another grocery store moved in, but that ended up vacating the mall several years later. Half the strip mall has been bull-dozed, the drugstore is now where...well, you get the picture...

I called M.H. from my cell phone as we walked through the lot. "We decided not to come," I told her when she answered.

"What?!"

Not to worry, I told her. We were on our way to the second bus.

A young man sat at the bus stop. While we waited, he mentioned that the bus should be there in a few minutes; it was, and we all boarded, en route to holiday meals.

"Hey, how are you guys!" the driver exclaimed. Bob used to drive the Shuttle bus, a route that my son M. and I use a lot. Back then, we discovered that Bob's one food weakness was pizza, while his favorite football team were the Steelers. ("Does it get any better'n that?" he asked one Monday when he mentioned he'd watched the Steelers beat a friend's team while watching at his friend's, and eating pizza.)

We got caught up while picking up other passengers, discovering that he'd put in for a transfer back to the Shuttle bus.

"So, what's your daughter putting on that Thanksgiving pizza?" Bob kidded, to which we responded, "Turkey, of course!"

A small group of men boarded the bus; it soon became apparent that they were vets and were heading to the nearest American Legion post for dinner; they exited maybe two stops before us.

"We need the stop right after the Pinellas Trail," I told Bob as the vets piled off to head for the Legion. M.H. had told me that there was a stop directly across the street from their apartment complex. But it turned out that that stop was the second one after the trail; Bob stopped at the first one, which was immediately after it, which was across the street from the east end of the apartments. We thanked Bob and told him it was great seeing him again.

"See you soon," he said as the doors shut.

The bus's back door shut at the same time; the man who'd gotten on when we did was getting off here, too. While we were heading more toward the west end of the apartment complex, he was heading toward the east. He climbed over the wall at that end, then slid down a short hill, before walking off toward the south-east end. M. and I headed west for the complex's main entrance.

As we walked along the sidewalk, I spotted the stop that M.H. had told us about. "Now we'll know where to get off next time," I told M. He nodded.

Soon we were knocking at their door. B. answered the door and let us in with a "Happy Thanksgiving."

The apartment smelled of turkey and food. I handed over a bag that I'd brought from home: two loaves of freshly baked pumpkin bread.

We relaxed over munchies, then feasted on turkey, potatoes, stuffing, casserole, bread, rolls and pie. M.H. had started the turkey at one that morning, before heading to bed. "Then I got up at four, basted it once or twice, then got up at eight and set the oven a little hotter." It was her first official holiday turkey, and it turned out great. The casserole, from a recipe she picked up at the local Publix, was a nice new addition; M. and I both agreed I needed to make it some time in the near future.

We ate, washed down everything with soda, gabbed, listened in when B. talked to his mom on the phone ("Tell Grandma to Skype us when she calls back!" G., my granddaughter, told B.; "Did you hear that?" he asked his mom, then told G., "She said she will," then, just before he hung up, I told him to tell his mom "happy Thanksgiving" for us), gabbed and ate some more.

Too soon, M. and I had to head for the bus stop to head home. "When does the bus come by?" M.H. asked. I thought it was in maybe 10 minutes.

Turned out, we could have waited another 5 or so before heading out. But since the buses on the holiday schedule are sporadic, we needed to be on time.

As we waited on the bench to head back, I thought of all the women and men who'd had to wait for buses over the years, including on holidays. It seemed, well, not quite sad or disheartening, but working class. I also thought of a short story in a book of working class writings, edited by Janet Zandy. The book is titled Calling Home: Working-Class Women's Writings, an Anthology, and the story I thought about, Maggie May by Lucia Berlin, describes a young widow who cleans houses for a living, riding buses between jobs. It is a beautifully crafted story in a wonderful anthology. I think of the story periodically when on the buses.

Soon, the 74 arrived; it was not the same one that we'd arrived here in, so, of course, we didn't see Bob. At this point, M. and I were the only passengers; the man who'd gotten on and off the same times we had, earlier, was nowhere to be seen. But within a few stops, we were joined by the vets who'd ridden with us earlier. They were quietly thankful for the time they'd spent together, talking about ordinary life. Most of them got off where they'd gotten on when en route to the Legion, but one stayed on until after we'd exited the bus on our return trip, reading a magazine about, I think, South Carolina.

Turns out we just missed the second bus we needed to get home (which was the first bus we'd used that morning), so we ended up taking a cab the rest of the way home; it was that or wait a little more than an hour for the next bus.

Was it a good holiday? Yes. Did we enjoy it? Definitely. Will it be part of our family memory?

Thankfully, yes.

Thanksgiving stories and meals

Whether you're a Christian, Jewish, Muslim, B'nai, atheist, chances are you have holiday memories. Most of us have them, and, if we've been exceptionally lucky, most of those holiday memories are good.

A few of mine deal with having my grandparents on either side coming to our house, opening presents (at Christmas), and large meals involving turkeys and/or ham, depending on which set of grandparents were coming over. In one house, when we lived in Connecticut, there was a music room (it was a large Colonial house), where we'd all gather to sing holiday music while Mom played the piano. Very Norman Rockwell-esque.

Now, I'm sure that things weren't always wonderful - someone would have too much to drink, this relative wasn't talking with that one - but we tend to forget those less-than-stellar memories, or, if we remember them, gloss them over into something bordering on amusing.

Once I moved out on my own, the memories changed. Better? Just different. There was the first Thanksgiving that my ex- and I spent together without going to either set of paretns' homes. Although I'd fixed mashed potatoes before, the potatoes that year never quite cooked enough to mash, yet somehow managed to burn. Thank goodness, the cooking skills improved...

There are several Thanksgivings that stand out...

My ex- used to tell me that cooking a large holiday meal was a waste of time and energy; his mom used to settle on meatloaf and a dozen deviled eggs. "How about meatloaf?" he'd ask.

For Thanksgiving? Christmas? I'd think. It was what we might have for Sunday dinner, not holidays.

"I'd be happy with just a dozen deviled eggs."

Deviled eggs ended up on the menu, but they accompanied the turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, rutabags, peas-with-pearl-onions, and pies; they weren't the main dish.

Yet every year, we'd hear that "I'd be happy with just a dozen deviled eggs."

After we split up, I invited him for a holiday meal. When he showed up, I handed him - yup, you guessed it - a plate with a dozen deviled eggs.

"But I smell turkey and apple pie!"

Aren't you the one who said...? Finally, I let him off the hook; yes, he'd get the turkey, et al, if he didn't mind sharing the eggs, The eggs may've been hard-boiled, but that didn't mean I had to be.

Later, after my ex- passed away too young, I met my future second husband. Thanksgiving was coming, and I invited him for dinner, as well as one or two other co-workers (we drove for a local cab company at the time), and several relatives.

The deal was that Paul would stop by around 4:00. Around quarter til, I realized I'd forgotten something at the store and told my oldest son that I was running out to pick it up; would he please keep an eye out for an older gentleman who, I hoped, would be stopping by?

"Sure, not a problem."

I left J.A. chopping up the rutabaga in the kitchen.

But Paul drove by while I was out, didn't see my cab, and kept going. I heard dispatch talk to him once while I was heading back to the house, but didn't tell dispatch to tell Paul to stop by; I figured he simply would. And the driver I really didn't care about did show up, after we'd eaten, and I'd dropped J.A. back at home in the Ybor section of Tampa.

The next morning, when I went to cash out, Marsha - one of the cashiers - asked, "What's this I hear about you standing someone up?" That's when I learned that Paul had driven by while I was out; he thought I'd stood him up, while I thought he stood me up.

I offered to bring him some turkey, but by that time, it was too late. He also wouldn't come for Christmas dinner.

By the next year, we were married. We kidded that it was funny that we had to get married to insure that he get a home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner. We also planned how things would go when we cashed out the next day.

Friday morning, as we wandered into the office and saw that Marsha wasn't busy, we started in.

"You promised that if we got married, I could have a turkey dinner," Paul said loudly. "Instead, you handed me a stupid bologna sandwich!"

"It was turkey bologna!" I shot back.

"Can it, you two!" Marsha said. "I'm not buying it!" Busted!

Years later, Paul died in October, three weeks shy of our anniversary.

The first week in November, when I went grocery shopping, I picked up a turkey. I wasn't sure I was up to Thanksgiving, but I figured my sons deserved a dinner (and one with more than a dozen deviled eggs). Besides, Thanksgiving had been Paul's and my holiday.

A few days later, a friend - who happened to be my oldest son's mother-in-law - called from Tennesse. "A friend of mine is going to be calling you in a little while. Her name is C___, and when she calls, just accept what she's doing and thank her."

Sure enough, C___ called maybe fifteen minutes after I got off the phone with Linda. "Just wanted to let you know I found out from J.A. which Publix you shop at, so I ordered a complete Thanksgiving dinner for you and the boys. Comes with corn bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, an apple pie and a pumpkin pie. It's already paid for so you can't say no. Just pick it up after 3:00 p.m. the day before Thanksgiving."

After hanging up, I got to thinking. The turkey I'd already bought would stay frozen until Christmas.

A few days later, I was on the phone when J. informed me that the next door neighbors were walking up the sidewalk pulling their year-old twins in a wagon.

That's nice, I said.

"They're carrying a large box," J. said. I was curious, but stayed on the phone. "They're coming up to the house!"

That got my attention, so I cut the phone call short and went to the door. Turns out, we were being handed a third turkey and all the trimmings! After thanking the neighbors, I set about putting the extra turkey and trimmings away.

Then, about three hours later, another neighbor came by with her mom...who was handing us - you guessed it - turkey number four!

Now the freezer needed to be repacked to accomodate three frozen turkeys (the one to be picked up the day before would be pre-cooked).

The next morning, I called my friend Kevin so I could head to the store. On the way there, I told him about the four turkeys. He kept giving me these weird sideways glances.

Finally, as we waited at a traffic light, he informed me, "I'm glad you told me about this now instead of later." Turned out the $5 I was about to hand him for the ride to the store would have been enough to allow him to buy a complete turkey dinner from Publix, to be picked up the day before Thanksgiving.

"No, please don't," I told him. I also told him that, while I really appreciated the gesture, five turkeys were definitely a little much.

I'm sure Paul was looking down at this, smiling, and thinking that it sure beat a bologna sandwich and deviled eggs...

Psychoanalyzing the Cats...

Q: What does an indoor cat do?
A: Anything it wants, with cattitude.

So, I have two cats. Maybe the correct phrasing is that I live with two cats, and give in to most of their whims, the main exception being that I don't let them hang around outside. That's not to say they don't occasionally make a mad dash for the door...

Karma Kitty is a miniature black panther, who came into our house first (see "I'm going to the cats..."), and who is the king of all he surveys. His sister, Drexie Calabash, is a delicate-looking black and grey tabby with a white belly and white paws. She's half his size, but managed to get him in line the second day we had her. Nothing like getting the aggressive old-timer into a headlock, then proceeding to kick him in the face while biting his ears. After the third time, even the most stubbornly territorial cat will call for a truce.

The two are five-and-a-half years old, with very distinct personalities (or catalities), but they are both adept at bringing just enough chaos and eye-rolling to those around them.

Karma is pretty laid back, for the most part. He's also a closet-escape artist. He'll go for a week or more at a time, letting people go through the front door without moving from the couch; if anything, he'll look up, give whoever's opening the door a look that says, "Do you mind? I'm trying to sleep, here!" Then, once everyone is lulled into a false sense of belief that he thinks of himself as an indoor cat, he makes his move - fast. You've heard the term black lightning? That's him.

A while back, this lovely young woman kept knocking at my front door, wanting to convert me to her church's beliefs. I'd tried delicately, then somewhat bluntly that I had my own beliefs and church, thank you very much. Yet, she persisted...until Karma took matters into his own paws.

One day, while writing away, I had the windows open, screens in place so the cats could catch a breeze without getting out, the TV tuned to the Food Network (Paula Deen's show was on; been hooked on her show for years), so it wasn't like I could pretend no one was home. The UPS truck had gone by twice in less than five minutes, and was slowing down on its third pass. I heard the brakes, then a knock on the door. Oh, boy!, I thought. Presents! (Even though I usually have to pay for stuff delivered by UPS, I still think of 'em as presents; I mean, UPS doesn't deliver bills!) I opened the door.

"Hey, I was just wondering," said the young woman, as the UPS truck pulled away from our neighbor's house, "Can I leave you a few tracts?"

Karma saw his chance and charged out the door, running toward the other neighbor's yard and huge tree.

"Noooo!" I yelled, tearing after Karma. "You get back here, right now!" Yeah, like a cat's going to listen, right? He jumped over the small wall around the neighbor's front porch; I had to take the long route, bypassing the wall to get to the opening.

"Come here!" I called. "You know I love a good Karma! Please, be a good Karma!"

He looked at me as I got closer, then jumped back over the wall. I turned and ran back through the opening, and watched as he dashed to the other side of the large tree. He and I circled the tree, me calling for him to be a good Karma, not a bad Karma, until I finally snagged him. As we headed toward my house, I held him so that I could look him square in the eye. "You know I don't need a bad Karma, I want good Karma!"

I swear, he had a mischievious look on his face; the woman, however, eyes wide, decided that no amount of tracts could help someone who was into cosmic karma...Haven't seen her since.

Usually, Karma's pretty laid back. Oh, he will get a little feisty if someone rubs his velvety fur when he's not in a loving mood; several people find him a little intimidating that way. He does tend to lie on me in the evening when I'm watching TV and purrs in my ear.

Drexie, however, is a jittery little girl. She loves love, but on her terms, sort-of a "Love me, love me from afar" kind of gal. She loves people stroking her fur, but forget about picking her up.

She also tends to be a little ditzy. Once, when I badly hurt my leg after falling off a ladder, she decided to love me up during one of my many naps over the next few weeks. At one point, several days after the fall, she decided to rub up against my face, then proceeded to cat-walk down my hurt leg. Who'da thunk a six-pound cat could hurt a leg that much! I screamed loud enough that my son, who was on the other end of the house with his headphones on, listening loudly to music on the computer heard me and came running. Drexie, in a panic, came running back so that her nose was a mere inches from mine, frantically meowing her concern.

I loved her up, told her I was okay; once she was sure I was okay, she proceeded to cat-walk back down my leg! This happened three times, at which point, she was picked up and placed on a bookcase by the door by my son. Drexie was upset; her mommy was hurt! She jumped back onto the bed, landing right on the same leg. (Like you didn't see that coming, right?) Sweet kitty, but a little ditzy.

She also loves a couple of catnip mice that I bought for her and Karma last Christmas. She chats at them in a loud meowing voice, dragging them all over the house. I would love to know what she's saying to her mousies.

What really puzzles me is this: She's gotten into the habit of occasionally dropping one or the other into her water bowl. I have yet to figure out whether she's: 1) trying to wash the mouse, 2) let the mouse get something to drink, or 3) fix herself some catnip tea. (Left in the bowl long enough, the catnip from the mice tends to turn the water a pale shade of green.)

Darn, I wish the cats could talk!

Walk/Run

I've been goofing off lately from my morning walk/run.

There was a time when I wouldn't think of not going for a morning run. It tends to help me focus, zone-out, get-it-together...you get the idea. Those of you who run or race-walk - or even just plain walk - know exactly what I'm talking about: it's that me time that we frequently forget about in the crazy, fast-paced world we live in. It helps enough that when Paul was still here, if I didn't go out for a run and was just a tad bit, um, cranky, he'd tell me, "Oh, for crying out loud, go, already!" The man was as subtle as "a box of rocks" (his words).

I'd managed to keep up the running for years...then, slowly, missed days at a time. It was one thing when I'd have an early class and have to catch the bus to get there on time.

Injuries also made it difficult. Two years ago, after falling off a ladder at roof level and landing on a cement driveway on Halloween, I was unable to go for a walk - much less a run - for months. I had gone for an hour-long walk every holiday for close to ten years; once the turkey was in the oven, off I'd head to a nearby park. I wasn't even able to do that on Thanksgiving that year. Christmas was a little iffy; the route that normally took an hour took an hour and a half then.

After that, the running slowed to walking with an occasional run...and even that got side-tracked with an occasional sprained ankle, hurt knee, what-have-you.

However, I did manage to slowly start back. Yesterday morning, I found out why I loved running (or walking). Here was the spot where I frequently caught a smell that reminded me of my grandparents' apartment; there was the barn that reminded me of where I grew up in Connecticut, as well as pleasant memories of riding lessons in New York. The wild peacock I saw (there are loads of 'em around here) brought back other memories. Between all those and the endorphins from exercise, I know I'll be getting back into running...or at least walking.

Rev. Robert W. Castle, Jr.

Where does one start when talking about someone who has been part of one's family history? Especially when that person has recently passed away. That is what I'm wondering when writing about Reverend Robert W. Castle, Jr.

Who's that?you might be asking. And how does he fit into your family's history? Well, I guess that's a good place to start. Grab a cup of coffee or tea (or cocoa, if you'd like), sit back, and I'll tell you.

My parents, Jane and John, went to college at St. Lawrence University in Canton, New York; that was where they met. Of course, as anyone who has gone to college - or anywhere for any length of time - they met many people, some of whom were destined to be part of their lives. Robert Castle was one of those people. Bob was a student at St. Lawrence, and graduated the same time as my parents. Within months, my folks married, and Bob went on to Berkeley Divinity School in New Haven, becoming an Episcopal priest; I'm not sure when he married Nancy, his first wife.

Both couples managed to stay in touch throughout the years, getting together for dinner at each others' homes. Somewhere, Mom has photos of me playing with Bob and Nancy's children during one of the evening gatherings.

When did the Bob Castle stories begin? Probably shortly after he began rocking the Church's establishment. I know I heard about what he'd done while I grew up.

One such story was how, given a dying church in one ghetto, he managed to get people coming back to church. The first week, his sermon consisted of marching the dozen or so African-American congregants out in front of the church to a nearby storm drain. There, he held up a key.

"Does anyone know what this is?" he asked. After acknowledging that yes, it was the only key to the church, he opened his hand up, thereby letting the key drop into the storm drain. "Oops, guess I can't lock up the church." After bringing the congregants back inside, Bob announced that, to his way of thinking, those who were poor and struggling to make ends meet - especially if one was black, hispanic, or other disenfranchised group - needed to be able to get into church to pray 24/7 more than someone who was living on Easy Street.

He was also one to rally his slowly growing congregation whenever someone needed help with their rent, when a landlord had turned off a building's heat during a February blizzard, gave New York City grief when unmarked police cars parked on sidewalks, blocking access to church.

During race riots that seemed to spring up during the 1960s, Bob was one of the few whites who was able to walk the predominantly black neighborhoods, telling people to please calm down, let's fix things peaceably without getting attacked.

At one point, he moved his family to Vermont, where he ran a general store and did social work. Why? Because he'd been such a thorn in the diocese's side that the diocese decided it couldn't (wouldn't?) place him in another parish.

Years later, he was able to get another parish job.

During the late 1960s (late '68/early '69), my dad heard that Bob, who'd published a book of prayers titled Prayers from the Burned-Out City, would be giving a reading from his book in Providence, Rhode Island. Dad pulled me out of school for the day and invited several nuns from the Catholic high school where I was a student to come along to hear Bob. I remember Dad and I going up to Bob afterwards and talking with him.

In the early 1990s, director Jonathan Demme caught wind of a radical Episcopal priest with a familiar sounding name. He (Demme) had a cousin named Robert Castle. But the Bobby he remembered from his youth had been a somewhat quiet person; here was someone causing a ruckus, getting arrested, having marched decades earlier with Martin Luther King, Jr., talking with Black Panthers, fighting for the poor...could this be the same Bobby Castle? Turns out, it was. After reconnecting, Demme's documentary titled Cousin Bobby aired on PBS's POV series. Bob, who eventually retired, was thrust into several of Demme's movies. (If you've ever seen the movie Philadelphia with Tom Hanks as a man dying of AIDS, with Joanne Woodward as Hanks's mom, you've seen Bob Castle; he played Hanks's dad in the movie.)

Over the years, especially whenever I'd pick up my copy of Prayers from the Burned-Out City or re-watched Philadelphia, I've thought of Bob, and wondered how to go about contacting him. I'd want to tell him how I'd told both Mom and Dad to watch PBS when Cousin Bobby had aired; how the folks had divorced; how Dad had passed away in 2007, but that we'd talked about Bobby throughout the years.

Last night, as I was checking my email, I saw that there was one from POV. I usually open that one last, as I know there's usually something that will hold my interest. The first story had a photo of Jonathan Demme and Bob Castle, with a headline about Cousin Bobby. Of course, I had to read that. But the news was not up-beat: the article mentioned that Cousin Bobby, Bob Castle, part of our family history, had passed away on October 27 of this year at the age of 83. He was survived by his second wife, his children (except for Robert III, who died at 19 in a swimming accident), his step-children, grandchildren and step-grandchildren and great-grandchildrent.

I called Mom and told her the news, then, after hanging up, got teary-eyed on and off the rest of the evening.

God speed, Bobby. We'll meet again someday. And say hi to Dad and Paul for me, okay? Peace.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/07/nyregion/robert-w-castle-jr-outspoken-harlem-priest-dies-at-83.html?_r=0

http://newportvermontdailyexpress.com/content/reverend-robert-w-castle-jr

http://www.pbs.org/pov/cousinbobby/#.UJ1QLY7FX1I

Art Show

So, I mentioned my photography, right? The three large framed photos? (Check out last Sunday's post on selective deafness...the part about the yard sale.) The darn things are 20 X 30 inches, without the frames. Most people who've seen them have been somewhat impressed, judging by comments made.

I'd joined the Pinellas Park Art Society earlier in the year. The group meets every month, holds classes in photography, water colors, drawing, oils, you name it, and has art shows that change on a monthly basis. Their web site is www.pinellasart.com.

This month's show is a combination of two shows in one: Florida: Past, Present and Future, and Mayor's Choice. With the Mayor's Choice, Pinellas Park's mayor shows up, looks at the artwork, and purchases art to display in City buildings. It's a win-win situation; the artists whose artwork is purchased earn something from their art, the artists also get publicity from having their work hanging throughout the city, and city-owned buildings - City Hall, library, police station, etc. - have something interesting to display on what might be otherwise plain walls.

I dropped off the above-mentioned three photos today. The meeting is Monday. Anyone wanting to see what photos were dropped off can find them at robinshwedoproductions.weebly.com.


Here's hoping...

Hear, Hear!

I've noticed something over the years: the numbers of hearing-impaired people. Now, don't get all politically-correct on me; I'm not talking about those who would be helped by hearing aids or who grew up signing. I mean those who choose not to hear.

Example: Several weeks ago, I decided to have a yard sale. Simple enough. There were things in the house that really weren't needed, so I figured why not pick up a few bucks?

Saturday morning, several of us dragged stuff out, put them on tables, and a couple of signs were posted on a busy road to point people toward the sale. At the last minute, I brought out three large framed photos, figuring someone just might buy them. I'd had the photos blown up and framed a year ago for a show that ended up canceled. (Long story, don't ask...) But I figured that maybe I could recoup at least the money I'd spent to frame 'em.

A friend of mine stopped by around eleven and we yakked up a storm until around one. Just before he left, two cars pulled up to the yard sale. The first car held another photographer and spouse, the other, a single person who seemed a little sleep deprived. Photog. and I talked about photography, framing, cost of such, etc, while the sleep-deprived person looked around, finally spotting the photos.

"Wow," S.D. exclaimed. "These are beautiful! How much?"

I mentioned I'd put two-fifty into each photo, then added with a smile, "And that's not $2.50," and that I'd like to at least get my money back.

S.D. looked over the prints before stating, "I'll take that one and that one," pointing to two of the three.

Photog. and I looked at each other, dumb-founded. Recovering, I stated, "Great. That'll be $500."

S.D. stopped, stared, and fairly yelled, "Five hundred dollars?!? Five hundred dollars?!? What a rip-off!" before stomping off to the car and driving off. Photog. and spouse wandered off, shaking their heads.

Okay, so S.D. might not have heard the "not $2.50" disclaimer, and setting the photos out at a yard sale probably wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done, but still...

Another example of selective deafness: An acquaintence called one afternoon as I was going through a week's worth of newspapers before taking them to the recycling bin. When Acquaintence asked what I was doing, I told her about the papers. (It had been a very hectic week.)

After several minutes of chit-chat, I ran across my nephew's obit. I had had no contact with him since before my brother had died seven or eight months earlier (it's a very long story), but it was still a shock to see his name in the obits. I mean, he was 25 years old and had died in his sleep.

"Oh, no!" I said, shocked.

"What?" A. asked. I told her what I'd just discovered, nephew's age, etc. There was a slight pause before A. said in what I thought was sympathy, "Oh, wow!" Then, a split second later, "My cats are driving me nuts."

Huh? I thought. I mention that I just discovered that my 25-year-old nephew - the only offspring of my dead brother - has died, and the only thing A. can say is that the cats are working a last nerve? "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, they've been driving me nuts for the past ten minutes."

So glad we have our priorities straight...And to think I was actually more distressed about my nephew's death than cats and nerves...

And finally, the best selective deafness example of all: Several years ago, a very close relative died. Two weeks later, two hospital bills arrived, totalling $1,500. As the executor, I called the billing number and got someone on the phone.

"I'd like to discuss my late relative's bill."

Sure, I was told. And your late relative's name and patient number? Gave the name of the deceased, the patient number, then listened as I was told that because of HIPPA laws, the person I was speaking with could not talk to me without the relative's permission. "Well, I'm the executor of the estate, and since so-and-so is dead, you'll have to deal with me."

Okay, I was told. So, what do you need? I explained that I could send along $10 a month until the bill was paid, at which point I was told, Sorry, best we can do is in two installments of $750.

"Okay, I'll send the bills to the lawyer." That got her attention. Lawyer? What do you need a lawyer for? When I reiterated the person being billed was dead, the woman asked, astonished, "Dead? You mean, like, dead?"

Hmmm...what part of "late relative," "executor of the estate," and "deceased" hadn't she understood? The bill was written off...but I wonder who paid for her new hearing aids?

I'm sure I've run across many other examples of selective deafness, but I really wasn't paying attention...Just saying...