Karma Kitty - Rest in Peace

It's been a rough couple of months. First, I managed to fall, fracturing a vertebrae. While that has pretty much healed, we ended up losing Karma Kitty.

But first, let me back up just a little.

"Hey, I've found the perfect cat for you." My friend Kevin told me this while I was in his cab. I'd met him back when we both drove cab, years ago.

"I already have a cat," I reminded him.

But our old black cat, E.B. White, was fading fast. She had been sick for a while, and was in the middle of quite a few family members who died over a two-year period.

E.B. White

"But you need the kitten," Kevin insisted. He'd even named the kitten Karma.

(To cut this part of the story short, you can read about Karma, Drexie, Osha and E.B. here. The entire part of when Kevin delivered Karma is especially good for a laugh.)

Kevin

Anyway, fast forward to the present. Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash were a month apart in age, and had both recently turned 15 years old. According to a chart I'd seen, that qualifies them as geriatric cats, as in "forget the numbers, they're very, very old." They were both showing their age, Karma more so than Drexie.

Up until the last year or so, Karma had been twice Drexie's size, starting when they were kittens. When we adopted Drexie, a month after Kevin brought us Karma, he spent the day whooping up on her. This was his house, he'd been here first, how dare she invade his territory. I kept them separated as much as possible.

The next day, I called our vets' office in tears, sure I was going to have to bring Drexie back. Fortunately, the vet tech who answered the phone had quite a menagerie of pets.

"Not to worry," she said over the phone. "I go through this every time I bring a new cat into the house."

She added that it might take up to two weeks for them to work it out, but that it would all be okay.

That afternoon, it did get worked out. Karma went to beat up Drexie again, only this time, she was tired of him being a bully. She reared up on her back legs, as only a tiny kitten can, wrapped her front legs around his head, and rolled onto her side. Of course, Karma had no choice but to roll over, too, at which point, Drexie started kicking his face and head hard with her back paws while biting his ears.

It took Karma a minute to work his way loose, and he backed up, eyeing the smaller cat. Then, on for a second attack, and Drexie did the same thing! By the third round of "I'll-whoop-your-butt-oh-no-you-won't," Karma backed up, eyed Drexie, and decided she could stay.

It took another few days for them to decide to be friends, but after that, they were basically inseparable.

At his heaviest, Karm weighed 12-pounds and change, while Drexie hovered just above six pounds. After a bout of cystitis, when he had to go on a special (read: expensive) diet, he did lose a couple of pounds, but not much. He was still muscular, and was still twice Drexie's size.

Karma Kitty

"I can haz tuna?!" - photo by J. Goff

Drexie

Someone's in the kitchen with Drexie...

I've written about these two time and time again over the years. They've kept life interesting, to put it mildly.

But several months ago, maybe a little longer, Karma really started going down hill. I'd taken Drexie in, as she had some minor aging problems going on. The meds seemed to help, but it did make her gain a little weight. I'd also noticed, during this time, that Karma was losing weight, so I brought him in to see Dr. E. While all the vets who share the office are fantastic (trust me, if you're in Pinellas County, FL and need a vet, leave a comment, and I'll let you know the animal hospital), Dr. E. and Dr. G. got the least amount of static from Karm. At this point, though, I did have to give Karma something to keep his anxiety down a little (i.e. got him zonked out).

Yes, he had lost weight; it turns out, he was having kidney issues, and had to go onto another (more expensive) food, as well as meds.

His weight held (sort-of) for a while, but soon, the weight dropped more and more. When he was seen on June 14, he was below six pounds.

We figured the end was coming sooner or later...

Then, on Thursday, June 23, he really got worse. He didn't want to eat, went to drink some water, then had trouble walking. His front end seemed to be functioning, but his back legs were wobbling like a drunk who'd had way too much to drink. He also threw up the water.

I called the vets' office. Dr. G. could see Karma around noon...

I made sure Karma got tons of snuggles over the next hour or so before bringing him in. Turns out, he'd lost another half-a-pound in just nine days. He was also a little dehydrated, and had developed a heart murmer, which made giving him fluids at the vets' office a little dicey.

After talking with the vet, we decided it would be best for Karma to be put to sleep. Left alone to die on his own, it was probably not more than a couple of days, at most, during which time, he'd be in pain.

I stayed with Karma while he was given a sedative, then cuddled him and told him how much we all loved him, including Drexie. After a few minutes, he recieved another shot, and drifted off.

I must have gone through most of a box of tissues during this time. This was our mini-panther, our Karma.

We had him cremated by himself, so that we now have his ashes in a box in our living room. We also have a paw print, along with some of his fur in a clear bag. (We used to call him our velvet panther.)

The next day, the vets' office sent a small floral arrangement, with a card, something very appreciated. Karma was family.

Drexie obviously misses her big brother, as does everyone else in the house.

Rest in peace, Karma. You were a sweet-heart.

The More Things Change...

I've been doing a bit of thinking lately about how much things change, and not just the little things, either. October does that for me, puts me in a reminiscent-type frame of mind.

As far as the big/little things are, what might be a little thing to one person can be a big thing for someone else. If you don't see someone for a while, it might (or might not) be a big thing. But if that person has died, it's definitely a much bigger thing for that person, and his or her family. I'm thinking my friend Kevin. While I hadn't seen or spoken with him in several years, and while it might have been a small thing in the grand scheme of the world, it was still sort-of a big thing for us (my family and me), and definitely a much bigger thing for him and what's left of his family.

There were reasons we hadn't spoken for a while, but that's neither here nor there. I figured we had known each other for several decades. He's also the very last person I knew from when we both drove cab whom I had had even the slightest contact with, so with his death, it's like an entire chapter of my life is closed.

My sons and I have lived in the same house in what seems like forever. While some of the neighbors are the same ones who lived in the neighborhood when we moved in, the majority have moved. I can point to a house, and remember that the guy who drove a race car on the local circuit and worked on the car on weekends lived there, then sold the house to S. and C., who had their twins while they lived there, who then sold it to B., who...Well, you get the idea. And while some of the change, no matter how minor, is understandable and do-able, some of it can be almost disconcerting.

I used to walk/run for years. It's easy enough exercise: you put on your shorts and a t-shirt, sneakers, and head out the door, work up a sweat, then come home and get on with your day. I even blogged about it for a while.

I'm trying to get back into it, though I haven't done it near as much as I used to. When one hasn't exercised for a while, it takes time to ease back into.

For a while, my walks included bringing Osha along. (I've posted about Osha here in the past, including "A Tail of Two Cats (and a Dog and another Cat.") She was a sweetheart; it was tough when she passed.

Osha





When I wasn't walking Osha, I'd pass by a nearby stable and house on maybe 10 acres or so of land. For a while, there were quite a few horses stabled there. Then, slowly, the numbers dwindled until there was only one horse, a graying old mare named Smoky.



She would frequently be grazing in the middle of one field. One morning, I brought along a carrot, and managed to get her to come over to the fence, where she received the carrot for her troubles.

"Don't forget to bring a carrot for the horse," Paul would tell me when I'd start lacing up the sneakers. It even got to the point where Paul would ask if we had carrots whenever we'd go to the store.

Finally, the stable started filling up with horses, which made the scenery nicer during my run. (Smoky was still the only horse who got carrots, though.)













Maybe two years ago, I noticed there were no longer any horses at the stable. Smoky had died, according to one of the old men who worked at the stable. And then, the house started looking rough. The city bought it when the renter could no longer afford it, and the owner couldn't sell it. The house got demolished and slowly, the stable started falling apart. It was a little disheartening.

Another change, though I've posted it here once or twice: Paul has passed, as have numerous family members.

Paul



A friend rented our spare room for a short while, years before he quit driving cab, before his health took a dive. Family members were here, then moved; jobs, gotten and lost; scenery changes.

Thank goodness for memories...

My Friend, Kevin

The text hit my cell phone this morning when I turned it on. It was from my friend Kevin's brother, and it was to let me know that Kevin died last night.

I'd mentioned Kevin several times in this blog, though it had been a while since I mentioned him. I'd also posted a photo of Kevin in my photography blog, as well as an article on my production site in which Kevin figured in prominently ("Wait'll You Hear This One!" on this page).

Kevin and I met when we both drove cab in Florida. He started a few months after I did, then quit, finally coming back several months later, continuing through the beginning of 2015. I'd know him for more than 20 years. He was one of the last people I knew from my cab driving days.

He is responsible for my having two cats, as mentioned in "I've Gone to the Cats...". He'd given us Karma; we then adopted Drexie to keep Karma company.

Kev and his dad had shared an apartment for years. Then, when Dad had died (everyone who knew Kev well got to the point where they'd just call his dad Dad, rather than "your dad"), Kevin moved into our spare bedroom for a while. It worked out for a while...until it didn't, at which point, we had him move out.

Shortly after he moved in, one of his brothers died. There had been a total of four brothers and one sister. In the year or two after Kev moved out, another brother and his sister died. Then it was only Kev and his brother, J.C. (yes, I'm using only his initials here, for his privacy).

J.C. and I would touch base periodically about Kev. The last time was maybe a couple of months ago, when I'd texted about any news. J.C. had called and let me know that Kev was in bad shape, but was, at least, in a place where he was getting care, meals, a bed...

Then, this morning, the text from J.C. that Kevin had passed away. I called back shortly after noon, got J.C.'s voicemail, and left a message. He called back after this six.

We both agreed that Kevin had been difficult at times, but that we both had plenty of good Kevin memories.

"At least he's not in pain any more," J.C. mentioned, and I agreed.

Yes, there were difficult times, some of which led to his moving out, but which I won't go into here; it wouldn't serve any purpose. But there are plenty of good memories. It's hard losing a friend, especially one of the last remaining friends from a particular time in my (and Kevin's) life.

Kevin, you'll be missed. Peace, my friend. This song's for you (it was one of his favorites, that I know about): Low Rider.

Caution: Whiny When Sick...

I'm not sure why, but I get whiny when I'm sick. Throw an occasional ache or pain my way, the normal I-just-mowed-the-lawn ache, the twisted ankle during a morning run, and I can usually shrug it off. But give me a bad cold, the flu, or anything like that, I jump full-force into whiny-little-kid mode. I fully expect my mom to fix me hot cups of tea and toast or soup, with the knowledge that that evening, my dad'll get home from work, bring me a class of Canada Dry Ginger Ale (the only kind he bought when one of us kids were sick) and sit and me the funny pages or some really cool book.

I've been sick the past week. (You kind-of suspected something was up, right?) My mom, who's in her 80s lives several states away, and my dad, the Ginger Ale king, died almost seven years ago just short of his 80th birthday, which meant I was sort-of on my own.

Actually, I sort-of was given the cold (which morphed into bronchitis) from my younger two sons. Growing up, all four of my offspring were told repeatedly to share. There are times when I wish they didn't take that sharing thing to heart. Usually, my son M. gets whatever first, then passes it to his younger brother, J., who then hands it off to me. This time, however, my friend Kevin is go blame. He started the whole thing, then gave it to M.

For a while, it looked like I wasn't going to get it, but when I did, it hung on, gradually getting worse. Finally, I broke down and had Kev drop me off at a walk-in clinic. I didn't feel bad enough to go to the ER, but I also didn't want to wait a day or so to get an appointment with my primary doctor.

At the clinic (one of Bayfront's many walk-ins), I had less than a 15-minute wait. (Note: No, I'm not getting any form of compensation for the plug, but I do figure that if someone or some place provides a decent service, I'll let people know. Flip side is that if that service treats people like crap, that gets a write-up, too. One area hospital - unnamed here - knows that.) Once in the exam room, Dr. Sunshine (obviously not his real name) checked out the lungs, etc. and told me it was definitely more than the cold that Kev, M. or J. had: it had morphed into bronchitis.

"On the bright side, it's not pneumonia!" he exclaimed. I wanted to ask who had died and made him Dr. Sunshine...In this case, I'm not trying to be mean or snarky, just realizing he was trying to put a positive spin on it (I hope!). Off I went with a prescription for antibiotics and cough medicine.

There are two pluses to this all. First is that I'm doing a lot better. (Everyone else healed before I did; I made 'em bring me hot tea and soup and Canada Dry Ginger Ale.) The second is that, unlike one bout of the flu (partial description in January, 2013), no one sounded like Harvey Fierstein.

When looking for something positive, ya gotta go with what works.

A Walk In The Park...

It's been one of those days when things get a little weird. Not bad weird or good weird, just weird. It'd be easy enough to say what all went on, but it would almost sound whiney, and it really wasn't a bad day. Just...aggrevating and...weird. Let's just say it entailed half-hour long phone calls to walk me through computer stuff while listening to my friend Kevin calling on my cell phone about some weirdness he was going through. Let's face it, when one deals with any kind of government agency, no matter how large or small, and computers and paperwork, it's bound to get weird.

So this afternoon, I decided to go for a walk through the nearby park. My son, J., decided to go, too. He grabed my new cell phone that my daughter, M.H., had gotten for me. It has all sorts of features, one of which makes it great for geocaching, something J. has been interested in for a while.

We got to the park, then started heading off in different directions, he toward the horse trails through the woods that I usually use mainly on my holiday walks, while I headed south along a path that I frequently go on. But at the last minute, I detoured and caught up with J.

Turns out, he wanted to check a few spots that the geocache site said were in the woods. He'd never found any of the stuff from the site, but that hasn't stopped him from checking it out, anyway.

We wandered through the woods, both on and off the path, looking for stuff. "What sort of stuff is used for geocaching?" I asked.

"Just stuff," came his response. Sometimes it's stuff in baggies--a pad of paper and pen, a couple of dime-store toys. Sometimes it's stuff that can fit into a film canister. You just never know. But if you find something, you're supposed to leave it where you found it, then, when you're back on the computer, you check in and report what was found and where.

We wandered around for maybe half an hour before heading back. Since it had rained heavily a few days ago, much of the trail was muddy; some of it had huge puddles stretching across it. We finally had to head back, since we really could go no further.

A little way back, I spotted something just off the path and pointed it out to J. "Could that be something from the geocache site?" He checked the phone's GPS and said that there was something nearby on the site.

Turned out what I saw was simply a discarded food container. But a little farther, we spotted a baggie with a pad of paper, a pen, and a few odds and ends. A waterproof camera sat nearby. We opened the bag, saw that the pad had been signed by quite a few geocachers. We signed it - no real names, of course, but as his geocache name "and friend" (me), as well as the date. We opted out of taking any pictures, though. Long story, but we figured it'd be safer that way.

On the way home, we talked about how cool that was, finding the geocache stuff. "I think I want a cell phone like this," J. told me.

All I know for sure is that after a very weird day, a walk in the park was just what was needed.

A Tail of Two Cats (And A Dog and another Cat...)

I currently have two cats, which is ironic, considering I'm more of a dog person. Most people, if they like dogs and cats, tend to like one species a little more than the other. I've always been more of a dog person, but that's beside the point: I now share my house with two cats.

Actually, it's not completely my fault that the two of them live here. Oh, yes, I know, I didn't have to allow either one into my house. But there are times when life happens. What was it John Lennon said? "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." Which is what happened here.

I was having a bad year. It hadn't actually been a January-through-December-bad-year, more like June-through-whenever kind of bad year. It started when our cocker spaniel died in June, 2006. Osha was 16 years old, and we knew it was just a matter of time. She's started losing her hearing, her vision was getting bad, and in the last few weeks, she seemed to have the dog equivalent of Alzheimer's.

One afternoon, maybe a week before she died, I'd let her out in our fenced-in back yard and, somehow, she'd managed to slip out in a break in the fence that she'd never been able to get through in her middle age. When I saw her wandering next to the road, I ran out and scooped her up. She gave me a happy-aging-puppy look that seemed to say, Hi! I can't quite place you, but you do look familiar! Maybe you have a nice treat for me? I knew...



Osha

A week later, the evening of June 4, she had trouble getting up and coming to the bedroom. My son, J., was on the computer, and planned to be up for a while.

"If she needs help, let me know," I told him.

"Sure thing," he answered.

Maybe fifteen minutes later, he knocked on the door, holding Osha. She'd tried crawling out of the living room toward the hallway. I took the old gal and placed her on her nest of blankets, petting her once-silky fur.

But no matter what, she couldn't get comfortable. Paul got up and fixed a pot of coffee and we sat up with Osha. We knew that if she didn't go that night, we'd have to do the hard thing and take her to the vet's in the morning. She was that far gone. Sixteen is a very old cocker spaniel.

Finally, at 4:00, when it was obvious she couldn't get comfortable, I picked her up and sat on the front porch while cradling her. She'd always loved sitting on the porch, sniffing the air, watching the neighborhood. She howled her wimpy little cocker spaniel howl, something she hadn't done in probably several years, then settled down. I told her what a good girl she was, that it was okay for her to go.

When I brought her back inside around 4:30, she seemed ready to sleep. Sometime between then and 6:00, she passed over the Rainbow Bridge, her friend and buddy, our cat, E. B. White, keeping watch.

That was a hard one. Even Paul - a former Marine! - was a little teary-eyed.

Then came October. Paul was sick and had to be rushed by ambulance to the hospital. At one point, he seemed to be getting better. But after almost a week, he passed away. I won't go over the details; suffice it to say that I covered that in another blog...



Paul

The following June, E. B. White died. She'd seemed to be going downhill after Osha and Paul died. And on Father's Day of 2007 - June 17 - she, too, died. After wrapping her up in an old towel so that I could take her to be cremated the next day, I called to wish my dad a happy Father's Day. Unfortunately, it was obvious he couldn't come to the phone. Two years earlier, he and my step-mom had come to visit to let me know Dad had cancer and was terminal. He died two weeks later. My brother, too, had gone several months earlier.



E. B. White



Greg



Dad and step-mom, Phyllis

I really wasn't in the mood for any more pets. Cats and dogs tend to have a shorter life-span than people, which means that there's a good chance you'll have to go through the pain of their deaths. I was soooo over death and dying. Whether the loved one was a person or a pet, it hurt. True, some deaths hurt more than others, but it still hurts. I was not going through that again!

About a month before E. B. died, though, I had called my friend Kevin up. Kevin, you might recall from previous posts, drives cab. I needed a ride, so I usually call Kev.

On this particular trip, Kevin informed me that his friend Billie, a nice gal who'd gone through a rough patch with her sense of humor intact, had a cat who'd just had a litter of kittens. "All of them have been claimed for adoption when they're old enough, except for one," Kev informed me. "That one is yours'. He's your karma." I was sure he meant that I was destined to have this cat, but it came out as Karma.

"No way I'm taking that kitten," I informed Kev. "I don't need another cat."

"Yes, you do," he insisted.

"Whatever." I let the subject drop, figuring that someone else would come along and decide that they had to have that kitten.

But nooooo. Kevin kept giving me periodic updates on my kitten. The first couple of weeks, I kept telling him no. Then I got to the smirking stage; no way is he giving me that darn kitten!

"But Karma's so cute!" he gush, as I smirked away.

Sometime between E. B.'s death and my dad's death, two weeks later, I was on the phone with my son-in-law, B. (M.H., who I'd wanted to talk to, had gone to work.) Suddenly, a car honked in the driveway. I looked outside.

Kevin.

"Hold on," I told B. "Someone's here."

I opened the door as Kev opened the trunk of his cab. "I got your cat!" he called.

"Even you wouldn't keep a kitten in the trunk of your cab!" I responded. He gave me a look.

"No, Billie has Karma. I just have all the cat stuff so you can't give him back!"

It was then that I noticed Billie in the front seat. She opened the window and handed out a tiny black furball. Karma's eyes were wide and he opened his mouth to let out a yowly mew. I took him as Kev put litter box, cat litter, and a six-pack of canned cat food on the front porch before beating a hasty retreat to the cab.



Karma Kitty, first week at home

"Enjoy!" he called as he jumped into the cab, threw it in reverse and left!

I looked at this tiny little bundle. "What are we going to do?" I asked. He leaned into me, then looked up and bit the end of my nose.

I got him and the stuff into the house and watched as he sniffed the carpet. E.B.'s scent was still there. "Yes, Karma," I told him. "This is a cat house." Meaning that we'd recently had a cat.

At this point, I heard laughter. It sounded kind-of far away, but somehow close. The phone!

Grabbing the phone, I asked, "Are you still there?" B. was. He'd heard the cat house remark.

A month later, we adopted Drexie from our vets' office (Pinellas Animal Hospital). I figured a second cat would keep Karma company. After a day or two of getting acquainted, during which time Karma kept trying to get rid of the intruder, until she finally fought back and let him know I'm staying, they've become friends and perfect foils for one another.



Karma Kitty, adult



Drexie Calabash

I guess I'll keep 'em.

Holidays

It's only a few days until Christmas, and while my Christmas tree has been up for maybe two weeks, more or less, I finally got around to decorating it.

Before you ask "a competely bare Christmas tree?", it had three strands of lights on it since the afternoon I'd set it up. Just no actual decorations. It's not that we don't have them, I just haven't put them on our tree for a few years now.

There's a reason for this. (Besides sheer laziness; that doesn't quite cover it.) For years, we'd bought live trees from local tree lots, lugged it home, set it up, then decorated it with lights and decorations. Somewhere along the way, we ended up with two large buckets with lids to keep our Christmas stuff in; one bucket was for lights, the other for all other decorations. The light bucket always came off the utility room shelf first; once the lights were on the tree, the other bucket came down and the decorations put up.

Each year, it was the same thing: each decoration represented a family member who'd made the ornament or given it to us. My grandmother had given us quite a few ornaments: ceramic bells shaped like mice with little ceramic clappers that caused a tinkling sound when the mice moved, several clothespins painted to look like Santa Claus, and other trinkets that held memories of going to her house at Christmas time. My ex-mother-in-law had made a few beaded ornaments that we still have, though she's been gone for decades. There are ones that my kids made when they were in grade school. And of course there are others picked up here and there over the years.

Around the time P. and I had gotten together, my daughter M.H. and her husband moved out of state. One of the things they dropped off at our place was a 4-foot artificial tree. It fit nicely on a table top, which is part of why M.H. had bought it in the first place. It's easy enough to put together: simply pull it out of the box, put the lets on the base, pull the branches down, and viola!

However, P. and I simply kept buying real trees. Using the artificial tree felt, well, artificial.

Then, one year, we were a little short on cash. By the time we finally had the money to buy a tree, three weeks before the big day, there wasn't a real tree on any lot to be found without driving miles and miles. So, out came the 4-foot tree.

After setting it up, we threw several strands of blinky lights on it; that was plenty on a tree that size. Then, grabbing the ornament bucket, we found a few ornaments that fit the smaller tree very nicely. There was no way we could use all the decorations; there simply wasn't enough room. Sighing, I put the bucket back on the shelf, half the ornaments still inside.

This tree seemed perfectly fine for the next few years. Then P. died. When I went to set up the tree that year, the lights went on it, but I only had the energy or desire to put one or two ornaments on it. The next year, the ornament bucket didn't even come off the shelf.

A few years ago, I went out and bought a 6-footer. It's still artificial, but I figured I'd get a few years' use out of it. I even bought a few extra strands of lights, since two tiny strands of blinky lights just wouldn't do. But still very few, if any, ornaments. Until now.

My friend Kevin has been spending a lot of time here. He's more like a slightly strange, slightly goofy kid brother, and a friend. Nothing more, nothing less. Contrary to what Billy Crystal's character thought in the first half of When Harry Met Sally, men and women can be friends. He acknowledged the tree and several strands of lights. My son J. even put a strand of lights on that M.H. had given him last year; this strand has maybe a dozen large blood-shot-looking plastic eyes painted on the white globes.

"Cool lights," Kevin mentioned when he saw them.

But then, after a week or so with no other ornaments, he finally asked where they were. "You got the tree, you got the lights, you need to get some ornaments!"

I had to admit, it might be nice to get the bucket down. Last year, I'd used the excuse that our two cats, Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash, might knock them off the tree and bat them around the house. But there had to be something I could put on the tree that wouldn't cause problems for the two crazy cats. This meant that the few beaded ornaments in the bucket would stay in the bucket, along with a couple of other potentially dangerous ones (dangerous to kitties, anyway). But then, there were other ones I could put on the tree: there's a plastic one that looks almost stained-glass-like and looks nice with a light showing through; there's a star made out of little mirrors (great for reflecting light), and several others that actually look a little nicer than I remember.

The tree is now officially decorated. It won't rival anything in any fancy home decorating magazine. But that's perfectly fine with me.

Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice, Happy (belated) Hanukkah, and Happy New Year.

Coupons and Saving, part two

We did it again: we saved money at the local grocery store. Actually, if you want to get technical, my daughter M.H. save a bunch of money. I simply came along for part of the ride.

So, here's how it went: I'd gone to Publix first thing in the morning. I figured if I had my friend Kevin, the cab driver, drive, I could get a case of cat food from the vets' office and a case of bottled water at Publix, then get home and have the rest of the day to work. Of course, it turned out Kev needed a few items, so the trip took a little longer than planned. No biggie.

I'd been home maybe 15 minutes when M.H. called. "I need to go shopping. Want to come along?"

Sure, why not. Hitting Publix, or almost any place M.H. plans to shop can turn into a small adventure.

Disclaimer: I am not, by nature, a shopper, at least not the way my daughter is. I lean towards the hit-and-run method. Yes, I'll use coupons and occasionally even come up with a list. I don't dare leave that list in Kev's cab, though. I made a stop once on the way to the store, leaving the list on the front seat and came back to read, "Lots and lots of RED MEAT, cake mix boxes (one each of chocolate, vanilla, and yellow cake), six cans of frosting mix, soda, hot dogs (10 packages),lots and lots RED MEAT." But, as far as shopping with M.H., it is definitely an adventure.

Last Sunday, Publix had a $10-off-$50-or-more coupon. At the store, M.H. told me that had to buy enough to ring up $50 at the cash register. (This doesn't include the BOGOs, which kick the cost of the freebie off before it all rings up.) After wandering through the store with coupons and shopping list in hand, we headed for check out. I'd put a box of Tazo Chi Tea into the cart and handed her the $3.99 for it; this tipped the amound to just over $50 without costing M.H. anything.

Then the coupons were handed over. I went to sit down and watched as the cashier scanned first the $10 coupon, then an entire fist-ful of the pieces of paper. M.H. had six boxes of cereal (it was one that she, her husband, and my granddaughter like, it was buy-one-get-one free, and she had six coupons for the stuff), several four-packs of yogurt, Kraft Mac and Cheese, coffee creamer...all stuff they use on a regular basis. After the coupons were scanned, the register read $17.33. However, she had a $10 Publix gift card that she had gotten for clipping three or four UPCs a month or so again and sending them in, along with the receipt. So a $51 shopping trip cost her $7.33 ($4 of which I paid for).

It gets better. Her husband B. pointed out that they were almost out of something-or-other (yes, that's the technical term!), so M.H. would have to go back out. Fortunately, someone else had given her a second coupon. That $58 trip cost her right around $7. So, because of couponing, BOGOs, shopping lists, and buying only things that they really use, they ended up with almost $110 worth of food for less than $15.

While B.H. may never be seen on Extreme Couponing, she does know how to save some serious money for what her family needs. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go check on some couponing sites. (Yes, I'll pass 'em along...eventually.)

The Tampa Bay (Car) Triangle, or How I Jinxed a Car

I hate to admit it, but I may have jinxed my daughter's car.

There, I said it, but it needed to be said. Better you hear it here first, than from my daughter, though she might have a word or two to say about it.

Okay, a little back story here. My daughter, M.H., her husband B., and daughter, G., moved back to the area from Rhode Island last summer. If one is going to be technical about it, M.H. and B. moved back here; G. is moving here for the first time. No matter, they're here.

They'd been here for not quite two months when their old car died completely. Nothing like the smell of burning rubber, followed by a loud boom, a large poof of smoke, and a blown engine in the middle of a major intersection to announce its demise. This was followed by the purchase of a scooter so that M.H. could at least get back and forth to work.

Cute as the scooter is, as well as good on gas, it is not exactly designed for hauling around a family of three. At least, not all at the same time. When B. ended up in the hospital (see February 14's post: What a week, or Is everyone in the hospital?"), it was obvious that buying a car was in their immediate future.

M.H. mentioned she'd been looking at cars. Then, a couple of days later, I called and got B. on the phone.

"M.H. is on her way to your place," he told me. "At least, I think she is."

A few minutes later, a car horn sounded out front. It was M.H. in her new white Toyota. Well, not new new, but new to her. It ran well, it didn't have a blown engine, it had room for four people, comfortably; in other words, it's wonderful. She was able to take B. and G. places, able to pick me up for errands, able to get to and from work comfortably when it rained.

A week or two later, M.H. stopped by. "Come on, we're going to the beach!" There was no one else there.

"We, who?" I asked. When she gave me that look that said, "A little slow today, are we?", I hurried on, "Are we picking B. up on the way?" We had to pass right by their place on the way to the beach.

"Sure, we'll swing by our place and see if he wants to come along," she said. "He'll probably want to come."

But no, B. was comfortable where he was. After hanging out for a few minutes, M.H. and I headed back to the car.

"Enjoy yourselves," B. said as we left.

Once in the car, though, we realized the beach was not an option. Remember the question about how to make God laugh? (Answer: Tell Him your plans.) This was one of those times. The car would not start. Wouldn't even make a noise like it wanted to turn over, no click, click when she turned the key, nothing.

"Oh, great, now what?" she asked.

"Pop the hood," I told her. The rule is that if your car won't start, even if you have no idea what's wrong, even if you can't tell an alternator from an alternate universe, you pop the hood, right?

I tried moving the battery cables. If the car isn't getting any juice from the battery, it's obvious the car won't start. But the cables seemed tight. M.H. tried turning the key again. Nothing. She called B. on her cellphone. (Yes, I know: we were still parked in front of their place; at this point, that's beside the point.)

"The car won't start," she told him.

I didn't hear the rest of the conversation, as I'd grabbed my cellphone to call my friend Kevin. He's regaled me with enough stories of growing up and putting together car after car after beater car with friends that I figured he'd be able to give us a pointer or two. I was already leaning towards either a new battery or an alternator, but I figured he could offer some advice.

After listening to the symptoms ("ran great coming here, now it won't even try to turn over"), he concurred that it was probably either the batter or alternator. "If she still has the scooter, she can try jumping the car off that. I'm guessing the scooter's got a 12 volt battery, so it should be able to handle that."

I thanked him and passed along the news. We went inside, got the jumper cables, along with a battery charger B.'s mom had given them several years ago. Unfortunately, the charger needed to be charged for hours before its first use. The scooter was equally helpful for jumping off the car.

Finally, M.H. asked a neighbor for help. Mr. Neighbor pulled Mrs. Neighbor's pickup truck around, we hooked up cables, and sure enough, the car started. Sounded beautiful. We thanked Mr. Neighbor, put the cables away, then headed back to my place. We both figured the beach was not an option that evening.

There were a few more quirky happenings with the car that evening, part of which involved Kevin bringing his cab to my place to jump-start M.H.'s car again. It died a third time as she pulled up in front of her place.

A few days later, with a friend's help, she got the car to where she'd bought it; it turned out to be the alternator. It was changed, and off she went.

Then, this morning, M.H. called and offered to help me run errands. We got a few things done and came back home.

"Hey, want to try going to the beach again?"

"Sure, why not?" It would be a pleasant diversion.

We got back into the car and first headed to her place. She had groceries, so we'd put them inside and see if B. wanted to come along. M.H.'s neighbors were sitting out front. I hoped that this wasn't going to be a pattern: we decide to go to the beach, we stop at her place, we see the neighbors out front, the car dies.

B. said he wouldn't come along, he was happy to stay home. Again, he told us to enjoy ourselves at the beach.

So, we get into the car. M.H. puts the key into the ignition...and it starts! We both smiled.

"Good!" we breathed.

We were almost to the beach when M.H. decided she needed to gas up the car, so we pulled into the next station. After putting in a few gallons, she climbed back in, put the key into the ignition, and...nothing. She tried it again. Nothing.

"Really?" she said. "I pick you up to go to the beach, we stop by my place, and the car dies again?"

We pushed the car away from the pump (no minor thing with this particular car) and into a parking space. M.H. called someone from work who promised to stop by after work. Then she called B.

"The car won't start." I got out of the car to give her some privacy.

The coworker arrived a little while later, but while the car sounded like it wanted to start, it wouldn't. So M.H. called the place she'd bought it from. The mechanic who'd changed the alternator told her to have me try moving the positive battery cable. Didn't help. He'd send someone.

After the coworker left, but before the mechanic arrived, we both decided that I'd jinxed the car. "You, the beach, the car: It's the Tampa Bay Car Triangle!"

This time, however, it was a simple fix: the clamps on the battery cables were loose; they were fixed and we were good to go.

"No, don't worry about it!" the mechanic told us when we tried to slip him some cash.

"Okay, it's a tip!"

But no, he wouldn't take the money. We thanked him, he left, and we headed for the beach.

It was almost deserted, wonderfully cool, nice waves...definitely relaxing.

On the way home, as we waited at a light, M.H. glanced over. "I've got an idea. Once a week, I'll come over, tell you we're going to the beach, we'll stop by my place, the car'll die, we'll have a hissy fit, then I'll take you home."

I guess this means that if that's our plan, God'll let us go to the beach...

Catch-Up and health

So, now we're getting used to the new normal - sort of. Medical scares and problems have a way of doing that.

M. had an appointment with a cardiologist. A cardiologist! Unfortunately, one bus was running a few minutes late, while the next one left a little early...He's had to reschedule, as well as set an appointment with our primary care doctor. Then there's the whole diet thing. Pizza delivery has been curtailed (and we were within a point or two of getting a free pizza; with all that grease, though...).

Then, there's my son-in-law, B, who is on a whole new regime of meds that may or may not make a huge difference. But at least he's home, after two trips to the hospital. (The second trip came less than 24 hours after he got home from the first one.) If one good thing came out of his hospitalization, it's the fact that B. and M.H. now have a car. M.H. hadn't been able to bring their daughter, my granddaughter, to see her dad in the hospital; this will make their life somewhat easier.

Note: Unless you happen to live in New York City or any place where public transportation is abundant and parking is at a premium, getting around without a car makes life interesting, at best. If you have access to a car 24/7, try parking it for a week. Grocery shopping, going to work, job hunting, going to the doctor's, everything becomes a matter of logistics: When do I have to leave to catch the bus to...? Can I afford another cab ride?

My friend Cookie's husband has been transferred to another facility; he hasn't been home for three weeks now. They're not sure when he'll be home. My friend Kevin's dad is not doing well, either. I don't envy any of them.

On top of this, my daughter M.H. told me that her friend Sam's sister died near the end of the week when M. and B. were in the hospital. Her sister was 30, and died of a blood clot.

Life expectancies have slowly gotten longer over the years; most of us are sure we'll live longer than our parents did. And while my friend Kevin's dad may be in his late-80s, the others in my circle who've recently been hospitalized - 30 to 56 years of age - show that we can never take our health for granted. We all need to do what we can, what is within our power to change, to ensure our health. Granted, some things can't be changed; genetics figure into our health. But most of us do need to do what we can to change.

One last thing: I know one person who has done that. When I first met J., an intelligent guy with a great sense of humor, he was way overweight. Many of his friends worried about him, because of his weight. I didn't see him for a while; when I did, he'd dropped quite a lot of weight. He's finally at his ideal weight, having lost the equivalent of two medium-weight people. Two! How did he do it? No surgery, no weird, magical thinking. He went through Weight Watchers, stuck to the plan, even when eating out, and went to the gym almost every day. He's an inspiration to all who've watched this transformation. And while this might not change all the medical things he'll go through in life - age and genetics fit in, too - he has done what many of us need to do to ensure a healthy life.

Punchline is this: if we're doing something detrimental to our health, we have a choice: Change it for a chance at life, or don't. I'm including myself here. We deserve giving health a fighting chance; so do our families.

What a week, or Is everyone in the hospital?

There are days that make a person just want to crawl back under the covers and hide. A good book might help, along with a plate of homemade cookies and a cup of coffee or tea. Or maybe a quart of vodka, if that's your preference. But since I don't drink...But let me back up and explain...

Actually, it wasn't just a day, but, rather, the entire week. It started back about a week-and-a-half ago, on Sunday, February 3 when my friend, Cookie, called. We've known each other for over half-a-lifetime, seen each other through the weird thing we call life. She'd just gotten her kids back from what sounds like a horrible ex- when we first met. Her kids and mine were all younger than our grandkids are now. We know things about each other that would make great fodder for the daily soaps, as is the case with most long-term friendships, but that's a whole 'nother story.

So, when I saw Cookie's number on the Caller I.D., I picked up. "What's up?" I asked.

"Well, I've had the morning from hell," she answered.

Because Cookie has a strong Drama Queen gene, I sighed. I figured it could be anything from The neighbor parked in my space to who-knows-what. I'm not griping, just explaining. I, too, have been accused of being a Drama Queen. For the most part, I honestly love seeing friends' and family members' Drama Queen-ness.

But this time, it was serious, and she truly had had the morning from hell. Her husband, L, was in the hospital with a stroke; she'd found him lying on the bathroom floor that morning, tried to wake him, move him, anything, before calling 9-1-1. They'd taken him to a nearby hospital; after some preliminary tests, and finding out how serious it was, he was transferred to another hospital.

"The place they took him to, XYZ Hospital? It's a train wreck." She knew, since she'd had to work there, years ago. She'd wanted him transferred to a different hospital, but it wasn't in the cards.

We talked while she tried taking her mind off what was going on. The doctors weren't hopeful, though things are starting to look a little better now, eleven days later. With any luck, he'll recover.

Then, Tuesday, February 6, my son M. informed me that he wasn't feeling well. "What's up?" I asked. Turns out, he was having chest pain. At least he told me around 5:00 p.m.; he's been known to let me know he needs to go to the E.R. at much less convenient times, like 2 a.m. Also, he's gone to the E.R. with chest pain a couple of times before, and it had always been something fairly benign. Since everyone in the house had had a bad cold or a minor case of the flu a few weeks back, I figured it was just left over tightness from all the coughing.

But since it was chest pain and M.'s dad had died at the ripe old age of 49, we called my friend Kevin to take us to Bayfront Medical. Turns out Kevin was tied up and said he could get us in maybe 45 minutes or so. Okay. Since Kev usually goes home early on Mondays and Tuesdays, this was a little unusual, but we didn't think much about it.

But after a few minutes, M. decided he really couldn't wait, could I please call 9-1-1? So I did, while M. called Kev back using his cell phone to tell him not to come by. In a little while, we were in Bayfront's E.R., being hurried into a room, where they started a battery of tests. There were others in the E.R., but certain things - chest pain, included - trump other things, like sprains.

Shortly after we got there, I called Kevin to see how late he was planning to be out. I figured he'd say he was already home. Turns out, he was at another hospital, not far from the one we were in. He had a family member who'd had a heart attack that morning and had gone to the E.R. This family member has had medical issues for a while; for privacy, that's all I'll say. But Kev said that he'd probably be heading home around 8; he'd call me when he was leaving to see if I needed a ride home.

M. was still in the E.R. when I left; they'd already said that they were keeping him for the night. Turned out, M.'d had a mild heart attack. Treated, taken care of, minimal damage, home several days later. Good as new, or as good as possible.

So, Thursday, after we'd gotten home, picked up his meds, etc., I got on the computer and discovered my son-in-law was in another hospital, and had been since the night before.

"I thought I told you," my daughter said. If she had, somehow I hadn't heard it.

M. is now on the mend, working today (it's not heavy work, so the doctor cleared him for that). B. is also on the mend, back at home. L., though, will be in the hospital for a while, as is Kev's family member. The best we can do is pray, send good vibes, thoughts, and wishes.

Would you mind horribly if I just crawl back under the covers with a good book and a cup of tea? One more thing - pass me a cookie...preferably peanut butter...

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 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!

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.