Leaves, Snow, Pollen, Moles: The Four Seasons

Thanksgiving is behind us, and if the first snow has not fallen where you are by the time you read this, it cannot be far behind. We had a flurry here Monday morning. Happily, it didn’t amount to anything. We can only hope that we get the last of the leaves raked up and hauled away before the white stuff really descends.

I think it’s a sign of old age that we have begun to view the change of seasons only as they relate to dreaded household chores.

We have not yet put the leaf rakes and yes, I admit it, power leaf blower into that bleak section of the garage known as ‘off-season storage’, and we’ve begun to bemoan the prospect of winter and snow shoveling. As winter ends, we’ll start fretting about the spring pollen that clogs our screens and fills our deck. Just as that’s clearing away, we’ll be worrying about the lawn and the moles and the carpenter bees. And then, of course, we’re back to the leaves. Perhaps we’re ‘glass half-empty’ kind of people.

Now this would not be such a bad thing, but it does keep us from what life coaches and zen masters call ‘living in the moment’.

Today we should be enjoying the comfy temperatures that enable us to walk the neighborhood in just a sweater, instead of the heavy coats and caps that are soon to come. We should be enjoying the fact that it’s not yet dark at 4:30, as it surely will be a month from now. We should be enjoying the relative beauty of the brilliant reds still clinging to the row of burning bush shrubs that line our driveway, and the wonderful crunch of the dried leaves under our feet on the paths in Babler State Park. Are we doing this? Not so much. We’re changing furnace filters, fighting the woodpeckers opening knots in our cedar siding, and lamenting the impending ice age that is sure to come.

Have we learned nothing from the sixty-something winters we have survived? It’s as if we are embarking on new and unseen territory as fearsome and threatening as the surface of Jupiter. Is this why so many clear-thinking seniors have become ‘snowbirds’ and spend the harsh winter months in the balmy and temperate southern states?

Last year we spent Thanksgiving with our son and daughter-in-law in Washington, D.C. From there we drove to Englewood, Florida at the generous invitation of friends. We spent five delightful days there, but I believe that in some deep-seated way it altered my ability to experience winter.

We ran into some very cold and blustery weather en route home, and it was as if I had no winter coat and gloves. I believe that somehow my body had decided that Florida was right, and anything else was wrong. And while I’m not a Florida person in general, by the time we returned to St. Louis on December 8^th, my body was inexorably altered. I endured last winter with incredible disdain for the cold and damp. Every 30° day felt like a 20° day; twenty felt like ten, and I pretty much felt like Sam McGee who needed to be ‘cremated’ just to defrost. I survived, without Sam McGee’s incineration, but my suffering was intensified by my newfound world view.

This year it will be different. We’re not visiting Florida till February, at which time it should feel like Paradise. By the time we come home, it will be time to put the snow shovels into dry dock and welcome the pollen. Meanwhile, I’m putting on a sweater and going out for a walk.

Overheard at 30,000 feet

Ah yes, the airplane trip: a dependable source of frustration, humor and shared germs. Squished carry-ons, people who won’t turn off their cell phones, talkers who want to yak in your ear, and the incessant coughing that turns the aircraft into a flying petri dish. Yet it gets us where we want to go, and by and large, it’s all just fine. Every safe landing is a happy landing, I like to say.

None of which keeps me from laughing about some of the escapades we experience or witness in flight.

On a recent trip home from Sacramento, I changed planes in Phoenix. After most of us were in our seats, our intrepid and unflappable flight attendant, Shonda, brought a young boy of 9 or 10 aboard. She seated him in the aisle seat in the row across from me. As a result, I was treated to the following overheard conversation.

Wait—I got ahead of myself. I was seated on the aisle, too, and the young boy shared his row with an older couple; the wife was at the window, and the husband was in the center seat. Now, back to the eavesdropping  entertainment.

Boy: My last name’s a color. Guess it.

Man: Green.

Boy: Nope.

Man: White.

Boy: Yep.

Man: My last name’s a position—guess it.

Boy: Pitcher.

Man: (Chuckling) No. What’s the opposite of right?

Boy: Left.

Man: Right.

Boy: Do you live in Phoenix? We live in Mesa.

Man: I live on the opposite side of Phoenix in Sun City.

Boy: Sin City?

Man: No, Sun City, like the sun shines in the sky.

Boy: I thought you said ‘sin’ and sin is bad.

[Oh great—this poor man’s in for a 3 ½ hour lecture on original sin and the evil nature of man from a 9-year old, proving once again that no good deed goes unpunished.]

It got real quiet in their row after that.

Break-In or Break-Out?

The day started off innocently enough. We had slept soundly. Everything looked and felt normal. There were no overt signs or sounds of a break-in…

I got up, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and dressed for the gym. I grabbed an armload of laundry and headed downstairs to toss it all into the washing machine, where I had casually dumped a couple of towels and cleaning rags the previous morning. The plan was to fill the load today and run the thing at capacity. But then…

I opened the lid, and found it empty.

What?

Where are the things I had left inside? I looked around the laundry room. Nothing on the floor. Nothing on top of the dryer… Then I looked inside the dryer.

Omigosh, omigosh, omigosh—scare me to death—the missing laundry was in the dryer, clean and dry! There was only one conclusion: a burglar had gotten into the house and done this tiny load of laundry!

I struggled to get my breathing under control, and reached for the phone to call 911. Then I realized I should tell my husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) first. I wouldn’t want the sirens to be his first awareness of this.

I found him upstairs at his computer, and broke the news as gently as I could. “Honey—I’m sorry, but there’s a problem downstairs. It looks like we’ve had an intruder, and I’m not talking about another squirrel.”

Of course, he jumped up and freaked out. “What? Where—what happened?”

“Calm down,” I said, there doesn’t appear to be any real damage, just a load of laundry done.”

He sank back down in his chair, and attempted to wither me into shame with an icy glare.

No explanation was forthcoming.

“Hello???” I prodded. “You know, some things are givens. The sun will rise in the east, the Mississippi flows south, highway 40 will jam at the 141 overpass, and you do not touch the washing machine. These are not facts because I wish them to be so, they seem to be forces of nature. Well, at least the first two. The others I have come to believe because of so many years of observation and experience. I open the washer and expect to see what I left there the day before. It has always been so. You can’t do something so unexpected and out-of-character and think I’m not going to be stunned. I need an explanation.”

“Ummm… it’s really no big deal… I wanted to clean my new lens cloths, and you were in that all-day workshop, so I stuck them in the washer and did it.  Dried ‘em, too.”

“But,” I struggled to say with aplomb, “it seems that there’s always been a force field in the laundry room that repelled you from the washer and dryer. Remember the time I was away on Father’s Day and left your card and gift inside the dryer, knowing full well you would never run across it accidentally? I had to call you and tell you to get it out and open it. That space has always been sacrosanct—what’s next? You’ll be rinsing dishes and putting them into the dishwasher? Please—where’s my real husband, and who are you really?”

He turned back to his computer with a smug smile. “CoTU, here. Where ya gonna hide my next present?”

I’m not worried. There’s still the vacuum cleaner closet.

My Marriage and Al Gore

Al Gore had a good week last week. He was on The Colbert Report Tuesday night, and sparred competently with the amazingly agile and witty Stephen Colbert. My husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) and I enjoyed the spectacle immensely. When it ended, I blithely commented that Colbert hadn’t even plugged the new dance studio Gore had opened.


“Dance studio?” the hub inquired.

“Yeah, it’s based on math formulas. It’s called the Al-go-rhythm,” I deadpanned. He threw a throw pillow at me. Maybe that’s how they got the name. You know: throw pillows. Sorry.

Then Wednesday as I was preparing our lunch, listening to Neal Conan’s Talk of the Nation on NPR, and soaking up the pun-ditry and wisdom of the ‘political junkie’ Ken Rudin (his cohort for the Wednesday show) CoTU moseyed into the kitchen. I subtly pointed at the radio so he’d know that I was focused on what was being said, and implying that he might be interested, too. He was.

He also began quietly foraging in the pantry for a snack to tide him over the next ten minutes or so while I created a chef’s salad for me and a turkey wrap with black olives and sun-dried tomatoes for him. Often, when he does this, I point out (helpfully) that a meal is just moments away. He then (helpfully) points out in response that his snacking has never dulled his appetite for a meal. Case closed. This time, I chose to save my breath, since my helpfulness has never deterred his snacking anyway.

Meanwhile, Mr. Gore again espoused the breadth and depth of the scientific community’s belief in climate change and the human component thereof. Although he said it much better than that, and didn’t have to use ‘thereof’.

CoTU popped some dry-roasted peanuts into his mouth and said, “He does a fine job of stating the facts, outlining the situation, and proposing solutions.”

I stopped chopping tomatoes for the salad and gave him a cold, hard stare. “This man has been vice-president of the United States, holds numerous honorary doctorates from respected universities, in 2007 he won an Emmy, a Grammy, the Nobel Peace Prize for heaven’s sake, and pretty much everything but the Heisman trophy—but believe me, I’m sure nothing would mean as much to him as your glowing assessment of his competence.”

“Yeah. I’m sure he would,” CoTU agreed, totally missing my sarcasm. “Is he divorced now?”

“I guess so—I recall hearing that he and Tipper separated about a year ago. Why—are you planning to fix him up with someone?” I asked.

“Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-no.”

Pause.

“You want to date him yourself?” I suggested.

He choked on a peanut.

We went back to listening to the interview, enjoying the rich repartee of the co-hosts with their guest. Soon our lunch was ready and we sat down to eat, still listening to the radio. When the program ended, we did our usual post-mortem on it—what we thought about the points made, and the other ideas that had come to mind while we had been listening.

As we cleared the table and put the dishes into the dishwasher (and when I say ‘we’, I mean me), CoTU suggested we head upstairs to double our entrendres. (Insert your favorite euphemism here.)

“Cool,” I said. “As long as you’re not going to be thinking about Al Gore.”

“And as long as you’re not going to blog about this,” he added.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight…

“You know, maybe Al and Tipper would still be together if he had spent less time working on the environment of the planet, and more time working on the home environment,” CoTU said.

“Or maybe Tipper got tired of polishing his trophies,” I remarked.

“So to speak…” he mumbled.

Back to Back

Our mattress is done for. We used to love it, and even on the best of vacations, we would talk all the way home of how much we looked forward to sleeping in our own bed.


I have a long history of back problems, dating back to my twenties. (Yes, I can remember back that far, thank you very much.) My brother has the same problem with the same disk, so we blame our parents. That’s fair, isn’t it? My kids blame me for everything they suffer from, so why should the buck stop here? I ain’t no Harry Truman, you know…

Anyhoo, this summer my back issues seemed to escalate, and by the fourth of July had really flared up (pun intended.) I was walking like the 2000-year old man: hunched over and grimacing in pain.

My husband, the Center of the Universe (CoTU) suggested I try sleeping in the guest room. I gracefully declined, unwilling to believe I could blame my troubles on the mattress I had so loved and relied on for so long.

The problems with my back continued.

CoTU again suggested I give the guest room a try. After all, our guests were gone, and though that mattress is significantly older than the one we currently share, he posited that I had nothing to lose. I again declined, this time without a trace of grace, and got down on the floor to resume the physical therapy exercises that usually grant me relief. But like the Cardinals’ bullpen, there was not nearly enough relief to be had.

Within a few days I gave in to his urging, and gave the guest bedroom a try.

That room is now known as Lourdes.

The very first morning I woke up and walked upright for the first time in weeks! I slept better, felt better and moved a whole lot easier. Knowing CoTU as you do, you know how pleased he was to have been proven right.

Except for one thing. Now he can’t lure me back to the bed that causes me so much pain and discomfort.

He tried enticing me back with tales of his ‘invisible friend’. “She’s really special. She’s really hot,” he said.

“She’s really imaginary,” I replied.

Both beds are available for conjugal visits, but I insisted that he boot out his invisible friend before I agreed to go back. No more references to her, her specialness, or her hotness. “She doesn’t take care of you like I do,” I helpfully pointed out. “I haven’t noticed her helping with feeding you, for instance.”

“True,” he agreed. “But she doesn’t have to.”

Ouch! “You’re going to die,” I deadpanned.

“In your arms?” he asked.

“No, I’ll be the one in handcuffs.”

We’re going shopping for a new mattress. Today.

The Wild Kingdom

You remember my bunco club, the Dicey Housewives of West County, don’t you? Yes, the ten of us have been getting together for years on the second Monday of the month to play bunco. There used to be twelve of us, but the other two let sanity overtake them, and they dropped out. We ten survivors probably laugh too much to be tolerated on a regular basis. It’s better this way.


Anyway, over the years we have come to realize that in July and August we are too scattered (geographically, not mentally—that’s permanent) to gather enough members for our usually rousing evening of throwing dice and rotating among the tables. (If you don’t play bunco, just visualize a game of musical chairs punctuated by a gaggle of giggling grandmas asking each other what number we’re on.) So we do what otherwise normal women do—we go out to dinner instead.

Here I will pause to point out that alcohol is not, and has never been involved in our get-togethers. We’re all pretty sure we could be dangerous with a glass or two of chardonnay in us.

But back to our story…

At our August dinner, everyone was laughing, talking and sharing stories. We try to keep each other apprised of the comings and goings in our families, the travels, the remodeling, the moving, the medical issues, the not-to-be-missed recipes, and the ways in which our husbands drive us batty.

Suddenly Jan says, “Oh, Leah—I was thinking about you! The other night I was getting ready for bed, and last thing, I’m about to go to the bathroom. I lift the lid on the toilet and see that there’s something in there! I think, ‘Oh, the grandkids were over earlier, and one of them forgot to flush.’ Then, as I’m about to reach for the handle, I see this thing BLINK at me! Then I realize it’s a frog! I close the lid as fast as I can, and start yelling for Stu (her husband) to come in. My voice got so high-pitched, he thinks I’ve hurt myself or something.”

No, Jan did not take a picture.
Consider this a facsimile.

Jan went on to tell us how long it took for the two of them to get the frog flushed away. The next day, she called the Metropolitan Sewer District to report this, and to see what could be done to keep it from recurring. She was redirected to the water company. Jan thought she had a “you won’t believe this” tale to tell, but the customer service representative at Missouri American Water Company was unfazed. “You wouldn’t believe how common this is,” she said.

She also said that there was virtually nothing that could be done to prevent it from happening again.

Ruh-roh.

This led us all to speculating about what might have happened if it had been a snake or a rat. Yes, we all spoiled our appetites ‘going there’. But we all vowed to keep our toilet lids down at all times, just in case. Not that it would help much if a snake wanted to slither out.

But as the laughter died down and we were all grimacing at the possibilities, I had a thought.

“Jan,” I began. “I’ve never had a frog in my toilet before, so what made you start this story by saying that you thought of me the other night?”

“Well,” she began, “You did have squirrels in the attic, a chipmunk in the ceiling, and mice in the garage. You’ve had more in-house wildlife than anyone I know.”

“So I’m like a cross between Martha Stewart and Steve Irwin?” I asked.

She agreed. I went home and polished my squirrel traps.

I'll Take "Names & Jobs" for $800, Alex

By popular request, we’re back with another installment of “I Chose This Profession Because of My Name”.


You may recall that we’ve shared examples in the past of people whose names almost prophesy their professions. Doctors like Dr. Wink (the optometrist), Dr. Bonebrake (the orthopedic surgeon), Dr. Fang (the dentist), Dr. Wisdom (the oral surgeon), and my personal favorite, Dr. Philpott (the urologist.)

And they’re not all doctors. Remember Sally Ride, the first woman astronaut? She fits in quite well here. There was the pilot, Ross Aimer, and the dietician named Kathy Kitchens Downie. If only she hadn’t married Mr. Downie, she could have emphasized the Kitchens more. Still…

So now that I’ve refreshed your memory, here are a new crop of discoveries:

A woman metalsmith whose last name is Hammer. (Sorry I didn’t jot down her first name when I saw her interviewed on the Newshour.)

An expert on animal breeding at an animal preserve whose name is Ron Sweisgood (pronounced “Sways good”.)

An archivist at Ft. Belvoir, Virginia by the name of Sarah Forgey. (Yikes—and they hired her!)

The trading floor guru of UBS, and frequent guest on CNBC, named Art Cashin. How could he have possibly chosen any other profession in the world? Of course, if his name were Cashout he’d have a whole bucket of problems…

The veterinarian named Dr. Hoot! (Thanks to astute reader and blogger “Sunny in Seattle” for contributing this one!)

And my current favorite, the Bangor, Maine Home Depot employee, who, in June, presided over a nest of mallard eggs, and protected them till they emerged: no—wait for it—it’s worth the wait—Brenda Hatch.