I've been deeply affected by the death of Natasha Richardson. Any death is cause for reflection but to see this lovely young woman who had every physical advantage of beauty, was descended from a pretigious acting family, who managed to have a successful marriage with a moviestar husband and mother two boys, seems even sadder. She seemed to have beat the odds and been personally happy as well as professionally fulfulled.
Film stars tend to live large. We see them in an artificial blaze of beauty and priviledge. We sometimes forget, because of all the hype and glitz, that the death of a similar person, who is not famous, would be just as tragic, but that is not what usually attracts media attention.
Like Princess Diana before her, this lovely, leggy blonde will never live through her ripest middle years, will not see her two boys grow up, fall in love and find their path in the world. This only adds to the loss. Her husband and family will have to try to make sense of her passing and that struggle will be ongoing.
Whether I am feeling empathy or survivor's guilt, I made a mental note of the greater number of years I have been granted. Why ask why? The loss of Ms. Richardson caused me to sit this morning in the wee hours and just glance around my dining room while drinking my coffee. On the walls of this old house are momentos given family and friends: a Celtic cross by a college friend whom I have lost touch with, a silver shamrock from a cousin of my husband, a crucifix that was his mother's, a photo of our beloved deceased dog. All of these things reminded me that it is the everyday events of life, the human interaction of loving and sharing, that make it all worth living. Three generations of both families hang on these walls. None of us is glamorous, none of us had undue advantages in life. Still we all went on living.
As I think of Natasha Richardson, I am reminded that for whatever reason, I am still here taking up my little space on the planet and she, with her wit and beauty, is no doubt taking her place among the stars. She will be missed.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
THE PERILS OF A CLEAN PURSE
Spring is almost here and I have completed the ritual of cleaning out the black leather handbag (or pocketbook as my Mom would have called it)I carry in winter in favor of a lighter, if you will, springier purse. I probably could win on a game show with the things I discover in the bottom of my winter purse -- I had the usual stuff like a lipstick with no lid, a stubby pencil, a few cough drops and wadded tissues. I also found a ticket, circa 1985, for one admission to the Empire State Building, a key to a beater car that I no longer own, a tag that certifies that I had our dog vaccinated against rabies in a city in which I no longer reside and a walking guide to the city of Florence, Italy.
Now, lest you think I'm a sophisticated traveler, let me explain. I am not. I am, however, a pack rat. Yes, this purse has actually been to all those places over a span of 20+ years. I have to say the purse is still in pretty good shape after all this time, other than the hole in the front pocket lining that allows any number of odd bits to slide through it into the actual bottom of the bag. When I root around in there, I find the missing lid to the lipstick, another lipstick that I never wear (probably because I lost track of it!) and a small bottle of perfume I bought in Paris in 2000.
I went with my spring purse to the grocery store and, of course, did not have my discount coupon -- it was still in the black bag. I went to buy knee highs at a discount mall and did I have my "Members Only" club card? No, I had several others from different merchants but not the one I needed. You guessed it, it was still in the black bag.
Over the next few months I will be able to identify all the bits that I need to function as a consumer in society. I will place them in my spring purse and go about my business. However, come winter, when I go shopping again I will have to explain to the clerk that although I have the coupon or card that she requires to ring up my sale, I have recently changed purses and don't have the blasted thing on me.
No doubt, she will smile and say, "I understand completely."
Now, lest you think I'm a sophisticated traveler, let me explain. I am not. I am, however, a pack rat. Yes, this purse has actually been to all those places over a span of 20+ years. I have to say the purse is still in pretty good shape after all this time, other than the hole in the front pocket lining that allows any number of odd bits to slide through it into the actual bottom of the bag. When I root around in there, I find the missing lid to the lipstick, another lipstick that I never wear (probably because I lost track of it!) and a small bottle of perfume I bought in Paris in 2000.
I went with my spring purse to the grocery store and, of course, did not have my discount coupon -- it was still in the black bag. I went to buy knee highs at a discount mall and did I have my "Members Only" club card? No, I had several others from different merchants but not the one I needed. You guessed it, it was still in the black bag.
Over the next few months I will be able to identify all the bits that I need to function as a consumer in society. I will place them in my spring purse and go about my business. However, come winter, when I go shopping again I will have to explain to the clerk that although I have the coupon or card that she requires to ring up my sale, I have recently changed purses and don't have the blasted thing on me.
No doubt, she will smile and say, "I understand completely."
Friday, February 13, 2009
ROCK-AND-ROLL-ITIS
We had a spring-like day here yesterday. Temperature got up to around 61 degrees. As expected, all of us who had been cooped up in the house wanted to get out and drive somewhere -- anywhere -- just to enjoy the day.
Now a weird thing happens to me at least once in the spring. I get in my little Honda Civic and the open road beckons. I do whatever errands while listening to the car radio. Then, some mania overtakes me. It only happens with a 70s or 80s rock and roll song with a glorious guitar solo at the beginning. It could be rock anthem like Clapton's Layla or Hendrix's version of All Along the Watchtower, Let It Bleed by the Rolling Stones or Neil Young's Cinnamon Girl. I pull up to a traffic light with all my windows up and the car vibrating on its tires. I glance over at the person in the car next to me, supposedly also out to enjoy the spring day, and get a scathing look when he or she realizes I am not a young person but rather a 50-something behind the wheel of a car that, if it had flames painted on the side of it, would probably belong to my daughter. We have cats not kids but there is no way for the other driver to know that. Once in a while, I actually get a more forgiving observer who raises two fingers in a peace sign. I get a different finger from some folks but, that's just how it goes. This ride is a one-shot deal, after today I return to being a mild-mannered reporter for the WomensBoomerHumor blog.
More than likely, however, I'm driving along and not really paying attention to what's playing. Then I hear IT. My subconscious begins to filter the sounds from the radio above traffc noise and my mental lists of things needing to be accomplished that day. Faintly at first and then a rising synthesizer. I hear a little voice saying something about "I want. . ." My brain shifts to rock and roll trivia. Is that Sting that I'm hearing?
Paying attention to the traffic, I hear a vibrato guitar over the trucks pulling on to the interstate I use to get back home. Now there are drums, vibrating all around the speakers in the car and the - -there it is - - Mark Knoffler's amazing riff at the beginning of Money For Nothing off the Dire Straits album, Brothers In Arms. If I'm lucky, I get a station that plays album cuts -- that means all 8 minutes and 26 seconds of it.
Let me go on record as saying that I HATE THE LYRICS! There's not a thing I can say as to why I don't switch off the radio, except -- well --there's that guitar riff runining throughout the song.
So, like any respectable teenager, I roll up all the windows and crank it up! I shift into 5th gear and slide into the passing lane. By now I've pulled away from most of the 18-wheelers who are heading up the long grade into the foothills of the Allegenheys. The sky is clear, I open the sunroof and feel the beginning of spring warmth on my skin. Knoffler rocks on as I bounce in my seat and keep a weather eye for the Highway Patrol. I calculate the distance to my exit and realize I should just about be able to hear the whole song in that time.
Happily, as I pull off the ramp that leads back to our place, I hear the down-home rumblings of Creedence Clearwater Revival thrumming through the speakers. Gotta open all the windows in the car for that one. I'm not running through any jungle like John Fogarty is singing, just running at about 55 miles per hour into our village. The harmonica in this song is wailing as I turn on to my road. It has been said that my generation had the soundtrack for war. Listening to this Viet Nam era thumper, sadly I have to agree as I envision newsreel footage of helicopters and running foot soldiers.
As I pull into the bottom of the lane and stop at the mailbox, the car continues to throb. This DJ has an easy shift, playing nothing but album cuts, very little commentary, just music. I smile as I gather the mail. The envelopes in my hands are from church, charities, utility companies, cooking, woodworking and photography magazines, things that make my husband and me seem like God-fearing, tax paying pillars of the community. I suppose we are but we are also those kids who, when they first heard the wail of that Mark Knoffler's guitar solo, all those years ago, danced our socks off and wondered if our beater car was going to get us home in one piece.
The media says that the recent presidential election has brought to national attention the fact that young people are sick of hearing about Viet Nam and even sicker of baby boomers. Ah, well. It is a new day and, perhaps, a new era. I accept that because many in my generation were weary of World War II stories in the same way.
Getting get back in the car, I head for the house. I’m greeted by a barking dog, cats who are not sure if they care I’m home or not and our little piece of real estate. I spy a young neighbor who waves from across the road and does a little dance to the music from my car.
So, I’ve had my dose of spring rock-and-roll-itis and even managed to avoid a speeding ticket! It's time to start dinner. Life is good.
Now a weird thing happens to me at least once in the spring. I get in my little Honda Civic and the open road beckons. I do whatever errands while listening to the car radio. Then, some mania overtakes me. It only happens with a 70s or 80s rock and roll song with a glorious guitar solo at the beginning. It could be rock anthem like Clapton's Layla or Hendrix's version of All Along the Watchtower, Let It Bleed by the Rolling Stones or Neil Young's Cinnamon Girl. I pull up to a traffic light with all my windows up and the car vibrating on its tires. I glance over at the person in the car next to me, supposedly also out to enjoy the spring day, and get a scathing look when he or she realizes I am not a young person but rather a 50-something behind the wheel of a car that, if it had flames painted on the side of it, would probably belong to my daughter. We have cats not kids but there is no way for the other driver to know that. Once in a while, I actually get a more forgiving observer who raises two fingers in a peace sign. I get a different finger from some folks but, that's just how it goes. This ride is a one-shot deal, after today I return to being a mild-mannered reporter for the WomensBoomerHumor blog.
More than likely, however, I'm driving along and not really paying attention to what's playing. Then I hear IT. My subconscious begins to filter the sounds from the radio above traffc noise and my mental lists of things needing to be accomplished that day. Faintly at first and then a rising synthesizer. I hear a little voice saying something about "I want. . ." My brain shifts to rock and roll trivia. Is that Sting that I'm hearing?
Paying attention to the traffic, I hear a vibrato guitar over the trucks pulling on to the interstate I use to get back home. Now there are drums, vibrating all around the speakers in the car and the - -there it is - - Mark Knoffler's amazing riff at the beginning of Money For Nothing off the Dire Straits album, Brothers In Arms. If I'm lucky, I get a station that plays album cuts -- that means all 8 minutes and 26 seconds of it.
Let me go on record as saying that I HATE THE LYRICS! There's not a thing I can say as to why I don't switch off the radio, except -- well --there's that guitar riff runining throughout the song.
So, like any respectable teenager, I roll up all the windows and crank it up! I shift into 5th gear and slide into the passing lane. By now I've pulled away from most of the 18-wheelers who are heading up the long grade into the foothills of the Allegenheys. The sky is clear, I open the sunroof and feel the beginning of spring warmth on my skin. Knoffler rocks on as I bounce in my seat and keep a weather eye for the Highway Patrol. I calculate the distance to my exit and realize I should just about be able to hear the whole song in that time.
Happily, as I pull off the ramp that leads back to our place, I hear the down-home rumblings of Creedence Clearwater Revival thrumming through the speakers. Gotta open all the windows in the car for that one. I'm not running through any jungle like John Fogarty is singing, just running at about 55 miles per hour into our village. The harmonica in this song is wailing as I turn on to my road. It has been said that my generation had the soundtrack for war. Listening to this Viet Nam era thumper, sadly I have to agree as I envision newsreel footage of helicopters and running foot soldiers.
As I pull into the bottom of the lane and stop at the mailbox, the car continues to throb. This DJ has an easy shift, playing nothing but album cuts, very little commentary, just music. I smile as I gather the mail. The envelopes in my hands are from church, charities, utility companies, cooking, woodworking and photography magazines, things that make my husband and me seem like God-fearing, tax paying pillars of the community. I suppose we are but we are also those kids who, when they first heard the wail of that Mark Knoffler's guitar solo, all those years ago, danced our socks off and wondered if our beater car was going to get us home in one piece.
The media says that the recent presidential election has brought to national attention the fact that young people are sick of hearing about Viet Nam and even sicker of baby boomers. Ah, well. It is a new day and, perhaps, a new era. I accept that because many in my generation were weary of World War II stories in the same way.
Getting get back in the car, I head for the house. I’m greeted by a barking dog, cats who are not sure if they care I’m home or not and our little piece of real estate. I spy a young neighbor who waves from across the road and does a little dance to the music from my car.
So, I’ve had my dose of spring rock-and-roll-itis and even managed to avoid a speeding ticket! It's time to start dinner. Life is good.
Monday, February 2, 2009
GROUND HOG DAY GOES GLOBAL!
Now this is indeed a funny old world. I just went looking on Google to see what the groundhog predicted as far as this gray old winter persisting, and the only current referrence was the Manchester Guardian newspaper from England! Looks like Punxatawny Phil has gone global!
We had our 2nd Annual Groundhog Day Party on Saturday nite here at our house. The driveway was solid ice, the snow is still a foot deep in places and 15 brave friends and neighbors showed up bringing food and libations with them. I sent to the Ground Hog Day website last year for a beanie-baby Phil, which I placed in a molasses based bundt cake powered with confectioners sugar. Looks like Old Phil himself coming out of his den!
Our neighborhood will party just about anything, anytime - but there's something about this party that really breaks up the dead of winter and makes us think -- although Phil said differently this morning -- that spring cannot be far away.
The chocolate fountain has undergone a rehabilitation since New Years Eve and may even get a more powerful motor (then there definitely will be chocolate on the ceiling!)
As I look out on our garden space -- with snow half-way up a nearby tree, I'm already thinking about what we should plant differently this year. I can see cardinals and junkos at the birdfeeders outside the dining room window and I can't help but think of red ripe tomatoes on the vines, fresh basel in the herb bed and wonderful meals out-of-doors.
Just not today. . .!
We had our 2nd Annual Groundhog Day Party on Saturday nite here at our house. The driveway was solid ice, the snow is still a foot deep in places and 15 brave friends and neighbors showed up bringing food and libations with them. I sent to the Ground Hog Day website last year for a beanie-baby Phil, which I placed in a molasses based bundt cake powered with confectioners sugar. Looks like Old Phil himself coming out of his den!
Our neighborhood will party just about anything, anytime - but there's something about this party that really breaks up the dead of winter and makes us think -- although Phil said differently this morning -- that spring cannot be far away.
The chocolate fountain has undergone a rehabilitation since New Years Eve and may even get a more powerful motor (then there definitely will be chocolate on the ceiling!)
As I look out on our garden space -- with snow half-way up a nearby tree, I'm already thinking about what we should plant differently this year. I can see cardinals and junkos at the birdfeeders outside the dining room window and I can't help but think of red ripe tomatoes on the vines, fresh basel in the herb bed and wonderful meals out-of-doors.
Just not today. . .!
Monday, January 12, 2009
TRANSISTOR SISTER
I was one of the first kids on my block to have a transistor radio. I spent most of my youth with some sort of earphone (way before the advent of ear-PODS) rocking and rolling to the likes of Freddie "Boom-Boom" Cannon and the 4 Seasons. I also listened to what we would call easy listening. I can still sing all the lyrics of old Dean Martin and Jerry Vale songs -- can you believe it? Englebert Humperdink was old hat when came along as I already knew all of his lyrics!
Although a card-carrying member of the Beatles and British Invasion fan clubs, I also appreciated do-wop and blues. When Bonnie Raitt came along, I also already knew most of her blues numbers.
Now, don't ask me what I ate yesterday but if you want to know the full lyrics to Shelly Fabray's Johnnie Angel - - just let me know. Gee, I wonder if I can download that into my MP3 player?
Although a card-carrying member of the Beatles and British Invasion fan clubs, I also appreciated do-wop and blues. When Bonnie Raitt came along, I also already knew most of her blues numbers.
Now, don't ask me what I ate yesterday but if you want to know the full lyrics to Shelly Fabray's Johnnie Angel - - just let me know. Gee, I wonder if I can download that into my MP3 player?
SOMETHING PEOPLE DON'T KNOW ABOUT ME. . .
. . .is that I am actually a frustrated torch singer (is that another oven joke?)
IF YOU CAN'T STAND THE HEAT. . .
I've been suffering from a terrible injury lately, one that most people do not take seriously.
When you break a limb, people want to sign your cast. If you have the flu, people make you chicken soup. You get a lot of respect for bearing your illness or injury with cheerful stoicism.
But I have. . . (wait for it) . . .a baking injury. That's right! Whilst in the midst of making holiday fare for friends and family, yours truly managed to sizzle her finger (not the one you can hold up and show anyone without fear of reprisal) on a hot oven rack. Grrrrr. It hurts, I bump it on everything and its ugly. But when I show people my injury, they say a resounding, "Oh."
Home bakers of the world unite! Let's demand more respect for being injured in the line of domestic duty! Ha-rumph! :-)
When you break a limb, people want to sign your cast. If you have the flu, people make you chicken soup. You get a lot of respect for bearing your illness or injury with cheerful stoicism.
But I have. . . (wait for it) . . .a baking injury. That's right! Whilst in the midst of making holiday fare for friends and family, yours truly managed to sizzle her finger (not the one you can hold up and show anyone without fear of reprisal) on a hot oven rack. Grrrrr. It hurts, I bump it on everything and its ugly. But when I show people my injury, they say a resounding, "Oh."
Home bakers of the world unite! Let's demand more respect for being injured in the line of domestic duty! Ha-rumph! :-)
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