Boomerina

Terror in the Haunted Hotel | Brown's Guide to Georgia

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 05:21:00 +0000

Terror in the Haunted Hotel | Brown's Guide to Georgia

Old Photos Evoke Memories

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 19:07:00 +0000

This old photo of me was found as we were cleaning out a drawer recently. My dad, Robert Littlepage Calvert, was a photographic hobbyist in the 1960s who liked to experiment with light, texture, lens effects, etc. He did some of the early experimental work in color photography, too, and travelled widely -- the U.S. West, South America, etc. on photo tours. He had a darkroom and studio in our basement on Spring Street, Spencer, WV, where my sister and I grew up. He was a actually a 'country' doctor of the old school who drove a Willies Jeep daily into the hills and hollows to make housecalls. Often, he was paid in garden vegetables or fresh eggs. Several babies were named after him, including a set of mountain-born twins, Robert and Roberta. As the county coroner, he once posted black-and-white photos he had shot and developed. The photos were put up to dry, each one held by two wooden clothespins. The photos were of a farmer who had committed suicide by blowing his brains out with a shotgun. My sister and I found these photos as we were dressing in swimsuits one summer day down in the basement shower room. The gruesome images are permanently etched in my memory, and because they were b-and-w, seem especially eerie.

My dad's office used to be a bank building and was located on the corner of Main Street across from Carper's Diner. When we would visit there (which wasn't often because he was so busy), people would be lined up in chairs around the room, waiting to see him, because for awhile, he was the only practicing physician in the county. Once I needed a physician's exam to attend Girl Scout camp, and I waited seemingly forever to access his services. One Saturday, visting my friend who lived in the country, I rode on the back of her bike down a narrow dirt road -- forbidden activity of the highest order. We flew down a hill at breakneck speed and then hit a bridge post at which time I went flying through the air before hitting the ground, landing on my chin. It bled profusely, but I was afraid my friend's parents would call my dad for help, so I hid out in the bathroom, soaking several bath towels with red blood. When the injury wouldn't stop bleeding, my friend and I were forced to confess, and her parents drove me into town that Saturday where my dad opened his office and sewed me up. He never chided me for the illegal bike ride, but I didn't have a bike of my own until the Christmas I turned 15. It was a fine machine...a soft pink-and-white Schwinn, with white plastic tassels sticking out of the ends of the handlebars. Heaven on wheels.

Don't Blog Like I Do!

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 14:47:00 +0000

It's true! Although I know better, I defy many important blog writers' rules. If you're going to be successful at blogging, here are five things I do that you should NOT:

Make blog posts too lengthy. Make yours short, sweet, pithy.

Blog infrequently. This is the one rule you should never break...but it's the one rule most of us Do break. To cultivate subscribers (not easy to do even if you are posting Blog Perfection), post on a regular schedule and don't violate that schedule. In fact, put together what magazines refer to as an editorial calendar -- know what you'll be blogging about beforehand. Then you're more likely to get that next post posted.

Fail to add some cool video clips once and awhile.

Fail to cross-promote your blog on all your social sites.

Fail to answer every comment to every post warmly and personally. This demonstrate that you're actually reading your subscribers' comments and appreciating their responses -- good or bad. Also, follow other similar blogs and support them by commenting on their good posts. That way, if you're on vacation and unable to post yourself, you can line up a guest blogger whose friendship you've cultivated. Blogging is a reciprocal practice.

Aye, Aye, Mateys! Blog correctly or walk the plank!

OKAY...I don't really violate that last one because I always comment on every comment. But that's easy because I have not been diligent about building this blog. You need to do better than I have here. ;)

Tinkerbell Influences a Generation

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 17:22:00 +0000

Walt Disney modelled his irresistible animated Tinkerbell character from the feature film "Peter Pan" after the real life Marilyn Monroe. Tink was the first of many sexy media role models for pre-adolescents to emerge in the 1960s.
I can remember aching to look just like -- the British Carnaby Street models with long, straight hair & the perfect flip; Julie Christie as Laura, Dr. Zhivago's mistress; Elke Sommer; Brigette Bardot -- all alluring blondes. Coupled with the popular Clairol advertisement message of the day that planted into our heads the idea that "Blondes have more fun!" it was a hard knock life for us brunettes.
Brunettes then had about 20 good years of higher hair color popularity until Madonna brought back Tinkerbelle/Marilyn Monroe blonde in the 1980s. When my hair began turning gray (in my early 30s, no less!), I began lightening it little-by-little until I became a full-fledged blonde for the first time ever. Recently, I became a brunette again after many years...which is not to say I will stay thyis way. Tinkerbell is still a blonde as far as I know; she has that fairy dust magic to fall back on...

Splendor in the Grass

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 03:34:00 +0000

I am one of a few of my generation who, until recently, had not seen the 1961 film, "Splendor in the Grass," directed by Elia Kazan. My sister and her friend, however, played hookey from high school one day and took a 2-hour bus trip to the big city to see it, considered at that time to be a really "dirty" movie. Scandalous.

Starring the lovely Natalie Wood as Deanie Loomis, and dashing hunk-of-the-day, Warren Beatty as jockster Bud Stamper, the film is an angst-filled tale of teen love, forbidden passion, and youthful madness.

Deanie and Bud are "nice" teens in love (as opposed to "trashy" teens in love), but unlike today, they are stuck in a sexually-repressed era that forbids physical expression. Deanie's and Bud's parents are horrific role models -- clueless, amoral, unenlightened...and that's just a start. Deanie's mom says inane things to her daughter like: "No NICE girl has desires for a boy!" while actor Pat Hinkle as Bud's dad encourages his struggling son to take up with "another kind of girl" to satisfy his frustrating teenage lust. The sweet-faced young man Deanie meets in the sanatorium (where she is sent at great expensive to her middle-class parents for more than two, whole YEARS to get over her self-destructive obsession with Bud) tells us he's been committed because his dad wants him to be a surgeon -- and he can't imagine "cutting into the flesh" of a potential patient. Even the local doc to whom Bud turns for medical advice is an adult ignoramous, prescribing "iron supplements and a heat lamp" to heal Bud's overwhelming sexual frustration.

But there are several cool surprises in this film:

1) The story takes place in small town Kansas during the prohibitive 1920s. Bud first appears in natty plus-fours (seen today only ion the golf couse), and his sister, Ginny, is a "bad girl" flapper. She, of course, must logically come to a bad end, and her death is related in one mere line near the end of the film. Car accident.

2) That asylum/sanatorium Deanie ends up in for two years seems an uncharacteristically cheerful place with lavish green lawns and life-affirming art classes. She must be thrilled to get away from her mom, and hey! maybe it's a substitute for higher education...

3) Deanie (a mentally ill 18-year-old, I remind you) inexplicably makes money in the asylum/sanatorium, even though her stay there takes place during the middle of the Wall Street crash! When she returns home sporting a new, mature look that includes coordinated outfits, single strand pearls and other fashion accessories, her ever-crass mom picks up a frock afrom her bed and cracks: "And how much did this cost?"

4) John Cougar Mellancamp's 1982 hit song "Jack & Diane" was written with the film "Splendor in the Grass" in mind. Listen to the lyrics.

...and there are plenty of laughable stereotypes in "Splendor", too:

1) The Harridan Mother with a bigggggggggg mouth (Deanie's), juxtaposed against the soft-spoken father who dispenses gentle, parental wisdom at appropriate times.

2) The Dowdy, Sexually-Frustrated School Marm -- a spinster in a lace collar, sack dress, and hairdo straight out of the 1890s. She teaches English (poetry, of course, in particular, Wordsworth's "Ode" that contains the line: '...splendor in the grass.') She aparently has a secret crush on all the hunky jocks and lets them get away with [fill in the blank].

3) The Wealthy, Obnoxious Dad (Bud's) who lives his athletically unfulfilled life vicariously through his angst-filled, James Dean-like son (Warren Beatty). He pushes him toward a Yale education Bud doesn't want, while believing his daughter Ginny is a slut because she drinks, smokes and does bad things with boys while away at boarding school.

4) The Humble Wife Who Must Encounter the Glam Ex-Girlfriend (Bud's wife played by Zohra Lampert) She meets splendid Deanie at the film's end (and we're pretty sure she's heard a lot about Deanie before this). With stringy hair, a dirty frock that fails to hide an obvious baby bump, she is frying sausages in a cast iron skillet and wiping the sweat from her brow while a toddler plays aimlessly with a spoon on the kitchen floor. Deanie arrives at Bud's wearing a white straw hat, gloves and a dress worthy of Edith Head. (Fomer rich-kid-turned-farmer Bud now sports bib overalls with suspenders when Deanie visits their farm.)

...and an insider's secret or two...

1) The actress Natalie Wood (Deanie), who in real life tragically drowned (the case was never 100% solved), was terrified of water. In at least two of her films --"Splendor" being one -- she had immersion scenes in bathtubs -- scenes that undoubtedly took much patience on the part of the director.

2) Natalie loved beautiful clothes and told a reporter she took the part of Deanie in part because she would be able to wear a beautiful white straw hat in the last scene.

A Gothic Tale

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 23:43:00 +0000

Here is my youngest son, Grey, at age three. It's a dear portrait by deceased artist Oliver Snow who was Grey's godfather. I met the enigmatic, white-haired Snow when I was given an assignment to write a magazine feature about him around 1993. During our interviews, he related wild, Byronic tales of residing for a time on the coast of England, in Tintangel, with his beautiful wife, Cathy. The couple, both from Georgia, USA, actually wed in Tintangel, her ancestral homeland. Poetically, Oliver contended in his interview that "the entire universe could be found in the nape of [Cathy]'s neck."

After relating childhood experiences of being influenced by the mysterious swampland of his native, U.S. South, Snow held me enthrall with his British tales. He told of wearing a long, woolen cape and riding a fiery steed right up to the arched doorways of the ancient inns and pubs of coastal England as thunderous waves crashed below against ragged cliffs. This region, near Wales, was Viking and Druid country -- a mystical place replete with legends of Merlin, King Arthur, and the lost kingdom of Camelot. I wove some of this material into my magazine feature about Oliver, not necessarily as fact, but as "facts told" -- as an authentic manifestation of his own passionate, artistic nature. My editors read my draft, and told me I'd been, well, "snowed" by Snow. If that's so, I only hope my Grey has assimilated some of his intriguing, creative nature.

YouTube - Discovery Health- Foreign Accent Syndrome

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 00:30:00 +0000

YouTube - Discovery Health- Foreign Accent Syndrome

When a foreign accent is truly "foreign."

I actually met someone from the Midwest with this bizarre syndrome early last month. She suffers from this condition, mostly from being misunderstood. She reports no one will hire her now because they believe her to be inauthentic. She told me she thinks and silently reads in her own Midwestern accent, but cannot vocalize in anything but a British (particularly British/Bath) accent. This phenomenon occurred after a 9 1/2-hour jaw surgery when she suffered a small stroke.

Too Much of Miles Davis, Shakespeare, Beethoven and Other Greats | Sightings by Terry Teachout - WSJ.com

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Sat, 29 May 2010 17:20:00 +0000

Too Much of Miles Davis, Shakespeare, Beethoven and Other Greats | Sightings by Terry Teachout - WSJ.com

December Apres"The 60th"

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 21:28:00 +0000

There are some great reasons to have a loving spouse and lots of grown children:
A touching surprise birthday party at a Japanese restaurant arranged by all my five great children who came from from their respective colleges (the younger two) and hometowns to surprise me. This was a great way to turn 60! This week, Johnny had rotary cuff surgery and both of us are exhausted with all the vast and highly-defined post-op undertakings. He must sleep (more or less) upright in a recliner for weeks! Can't tie a Cole Haan or dress himself or drive or, well, much of anything. How does a single person ever get through something like this? (The therapist at rehab said today: "Well, you can't. If you don't have a cooperative spouse or partner or parent or sibling... you must hire 'a helper.' " I guess growing older is going to take a lot of sacrifice...and we're both preparing for that.

Sex After Sixty

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 21:12:00 +0000

Sex After Sixty

For all of us who address life at certain milestones (and who doesn't, especially if you're a woman), you must read and follow Mary Tabor's excellent blog, Sex After Sixty. Click to be joyfully enlightened.

Sixty is the New Whatever-You-Think-It-Is

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 15:40:00 +0000

I will be 60 at the end of this month. I have no problem what that, but I am still trying to get "there" -- to some undefined place where I can live my life just as I want...just as I want it to be at any given moment. But I doubt if that's possible really, or if anyone actually achieves that during one lifetime. It may be too much to ask of the universe.

Maybe the closest we ever get is this dream about The Life Ideal. And what might that include anyway? More romance? More money? More independence? More people? More sex? More success? More creativity? More books? More travel? More spirituality? More time? More peace? More overall satisfaction on a daily basis? Or moment-to-moment?

It's the journey, right? Not the destination. And that seems to include a lot of daily joy. A lot of surprise and delight.
At least Reid-intruder-in-the-attic has finally left for the Florida Keys. After a year of intrusion that shattered my peace. Has he left for good? God, let's hope so!

That New Tech Thrill

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 20:14:00 +0000

I admit to a fascination with everything involving Web 2.0 (now it's 3.0) - and the digital world- blogs, micro-blogs, social media, e-readers, iphone apps, yada yada. But I'm not surprised that many Boomers (both early-bloomin' Boomers and Pt. 2 Boomers) are tech-shy and reluctant to get with it. And many are defensive when it comes to preserving the classic culture that defines them. They wouldn't read a book on a Kindle because that action would contribute to the eventual demise of all paper publishing and reading; they'd never date someone they met online because he/she would surely turn out to be an ax murderer; they'd never post a blog or set up a Facebook page because predators would then have access to their personal life and stalk them; they'd never let out a Tweet in 140 characters or less because some opportunistic hacker could steal their identity, take over their checking account, ravage their body and plunder their recipe box.

Call me crazy, but I have never harbored those fears, even though I've heard horrific tales about average, good (oblivious) people victimized in those ways. These tales are hovering like black clouds on Lifetime TVand The Criminal Network and in Reader's Digest True Stories. And maybe this kind of fearlessness is, in truth, stupid and will get me in big trouble someday. But at least I'll be connected with the universe on several fronts and I won't have to fight the Bad Guys alone. I'll let you know if I need help, okay?

Boomer Music

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 03:06:00 +0000

I'm one of the few Baby Boomers I know who don't like "oldies" music from the '60s, '70s, '80s. I will go so far as to say I actually despise that music. "Help me Rhonda," "Duke of Earl" "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" ...these and the million others played ad tedium over the airwaves and on iPods nation-wide (no...make that WORLDwide) depress the hell out of me. The memories of youth I associate with that music are -- I'm sorry to report -- mostly bad. I write this realizing I am basically an upbeat, positive person who greets most days with an overabundance of exuberance. Rock 'n roll, hard rock, electric rock, Southern rock...get me outta here! But the worst, the most depressing, the most ridiculous music of all time is -- at least for me--that music people with limp clothing, open-toed shoes and semi-sad faces play with an acoustic guitar and sing to, often in groups...and sometimes by a campfire. I'm talking about folk music, Folks. And it makes me cringe to hear it.

Celtic folk? That's a whole other thing. For a real treat, click on to the first two songs on the far left of this blog page. The highly-evocative "Danny Boy" and "Shenandoah," my all-time favorite.
Sorry Puff (Mr. Magic Dragon) and Michael (no last name) who rode that boat ashore.

Domesticity & Reckless, Abandoned Baking

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 03:28:00 +0000

I get more and more domestic as I age. Who would have guessed, but maybe it happens to the best of us career-driven types. I've been on this scratch baking kick for about 18 months now. I do it for therapy, mostly on weekends. The more complex the recipe, the better. I take pride in tackling what I used to consider impossible baking tasks involving ingredients that are hard to find such as exotic vanillas (Madagascar vanilla was one), meringue powder and marzipan. I even bought a lemon zester for god's sake! What's more, I asked my friend Bonnie to teach me to knit the other day, not that knitting is associated with old ladies anymore. And I enlisted my friend Suzanne in a plan to host an old-fashioned Valentine party where we make homemade Valentines and serve pink-iced cupcakes and lemonade, I kid you NOT! I guess I'm seeking some kind of serenity that has eluded me in the last couple of years. And creative tasks that have a beginning and an end are especially calming to me. Next I'll be redecorating the house in Victoriana! Naw..it will never get that bad. Besides, I just cut my hair as short as Annie Lennox's to offset this new "old" mentality. It's kinda hot. Oh, yeah.

Attic Billiards

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 17:47:00 +0000

I am really tired of our former attic resident coming to our door every evening for money. Or calling my husband's cell phone (with the ringtone "Good Vibrations" by the Beach Boys) to report in. But it isn't any surprise he's still in our lives since apparently he is working in the attic every day while I'm at work, installing flooring which (I hear) will hold a billiard table! The plan is to somehow install a pool table in the attic which can only be accessed by pulling down stairs from our main hallway ceiling. What a brilliant plan!! I hear the table will be placed up there in pieces since there is no way a completely built, regulation-size table will fit through the ceiling opening. And in the meantime, the guy continues to be in our lives. The Hensons provide a lifeline. He will never leave. Maybe we can move out of state!

Stranger Part III

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 02:53:00 +0000

I love my husband, but there are times he seems like a stranger to me. To save a buck or two, he had hired this homeless man at a cut rate to shingle one quadrant of our roof. From that job, a more extensive job evolved; apparently five rafters -- comprising the very "spine" of our house (as it was explained to me) had been broken long ago. A fallen tree perhaps, before we owned the house? This was discovered during the roofing job, and thankfully, the homeless roofer was able to replace the rafters over the next few weeks. My husband was relieved and grateful that the problem was discovered, and that it had been repaired at a much lower cost than it might have been. In the meantime, he allowed the man to move from his group home into our barren attic. Well, you've read the story in my previous two posts...

Christmas morning started around 7 a.m. when water began pouring in from above, soaking my son's bed. Usually a quiet fellow of few words, my son jumped out of bed and looked up in dismay at his ceiling. "Mom! Dad!" Looking incredulous, my husband was at a loss for words. He ran out the door to retrieve our attic resident who had been put up at a nearby hotel during the holidays. Here's what had happened: apparently, the hard morning rain had blown in through the felt being used to cover the opening in the roof where our attic resident entered and exited. The rain water had pooled over my son's bed, then began to pour in through his ceiling. Merry Christmas! Full of apologies and regret, the man arrived and worked diligently throughout the morning to arrest the rain/roof/ceiling problem. I spent Christmas morning washing and drying bed clothes.

I had already decided not to invite him to Christmas dinner (although I would certainly feed him), and his temporary residence at the hotel made it easier. I prepared the holiday dinner for the rest of the day, taking time to set an especially beautiful table. Despite the morning crisis, the day was turning out to be all that I had hoped-- the children were home from college and content, my stepmom was feeling relatively well and my husband was happily watching football on TV. Around 3 p.m. I called everyone to dinner. The candles lit, the table beautiful, the food arranged, we were suspended in a rare moment of perfect familial communion. I was at perfect peace when the house phone rang.

Assuming it was one of my three older, married children calling to wish us "Merry Christmas,"
I said, "Let's not answer that right now. We'll just call them back after dinner."

But the phone rang again. And again... followed by my husband's cell phone. He took the call in the next room, before returning wordlessly to the table. But before a serving spoon hit the mashed potato bowl, his cell rang again. He arose and left again, this time for a good five minutes. Sitting quietly around the table with our untouched plates full, we waited for his return. He did, but again without a word. Before 60 seconds had passed, however, the same thing happened. When he returned this time, more than the Christmas dinner had grown cold.

"What's going on?" I asked in a controlled voice. No reply.

I asked again.

After a pause and a sigh, my husband explained things.

Apparently our attic resident had a guest in his hotel room, a nutty young woman who had located our phone numbers recorded in a notebook by the bed. The man had left her alone in the room for some unknown reason (later he was to say that he had gone to fetch their dinner), and she was determined to find out where he was. She called my husband's cell again. And again. He finally turned the ringer off, but the damage was done. The whole family was irritated. We scowled across the table and my husband, who must have been a nervous wreck at that point, continued to pretend nothing unusual had happened.

Then, a miracle. Over the Christmas dinner that none of us actually ate, my two college-age boys began an unrehearsed heart-to-heart talk with their dad about The Man Upstairs (and I don't mean God). Every time he tried to redirect the conversation, they pinned him. It seemed to work. Before we left the table, he promised all of us that he would take immediate action and see that the man was sent on his way.

After Christmas, the felt-covered portion of the roof was reshingled and our attic dweller, assisted by my husband, moved to places unknown. I was unsettled, though, because my issue with the incident went deeper than a stranger living in our attic; it was the fact that my husband had been so caught up in another person's life. I wanted him to conclude for himself that the whole thing had been a bad, potentially-dangerous, judgment call, so that maybe-- just maybe -- this kind of thing would never occur again.

The fact is, it wasn't the first time. One summer when the boys were toddlers, my husband had been manipulated by a real con artist, another wayfarer who stopped in front of our house one day to comment that the repair work he was doing on our front porch was being done "all wrong." He knew how to do things. After all, he had once been employed by the pre-eminent architect in the Southeast. He had, he reported, played an important role in the construction of some of the most magnificent edifices in Atlanta.

"Move over and let me do it," the stranger commanded. And surprisingly my husband did.

That day the man took over the project completely (for a fair wage) and he ate at our dinner table every night that summer. I'm not sure where he slept, but it wasn't in our attic, I know for a fact. At Thanksgiving time, the porch project was completed, and the man asked if he could borrow one of our three cars to visit his mom in Florida for the holiday weekend. He had done such a great job for us on the porch for so little in return, my husband couldn't refuse this relatively-benign request.

The man took my car, dear to me because I had purchased it new before my marriage. He returned just short of three months later, having gone as far as Ohio to "conduct personal business that came up unexpectantly." It didn't take long to see that he had sold various parts of the car along the way (for food? for fuel?) --the air conditioner, the tires, the wheel covers, the radio had all been replaced with junkyard versions. He never offered an explanation as to why the parts were different and, unbelievably, my husband never asked.

But since it was my car, I felt used and violated. I was furious and complained bitterly, demanding to know why he thought he was within his rights to do what he had done. The next day a "persona non grata" letter addressed to me came through our mail slot. The letter reported that he felt he had been taken advantage of and treated unfairly. He thought I was an arrogant ingrate. He was "hurt and shocked"at my lack of goodwill, understanding and generosity. What's more, the U.S. Government needed him to head up a secret mission in a foreign land and he was ouuta here. "Goodbye for good!" he wrote.

Three years later, we heard he had married a divorced, single mother of two from in Ohio, had stolen money from her mortgage company resulting in its closing, and was now on the lam, sought by authorities for fraud. The wife called us from Ohio asking us about our dealings with him and pleading with us to testify against him, if he were to be found. How did she know us? Over the years, he had thrown our name around as "personal references." (patsies is more like it). Whether or not he was ever caught is still a mystery.

I'm still a little shaken by the whole attic/stranger thing. The attic man continues to do odd jobs for my husband: he's now putting plywood flooring atop the rafters in our attic, a job that I consider a ridiculous endeavor. He now comes and goes through the tiny, round dormer window that faces the street. The days he works, he arrives (or is picked up) after I leave for work and is gone before I come home. Still feeling responsible for the well-being of this 50+-year-old fellow, my husband has lined up other paying jobs for him, too. Last night, the fellow came to our door for "cigarette money" which was readily supplied, even though my husband paid him for work done yesterday afternoon. When I ask, my husband tells me he's living with another fellow in a subsidized apartment for which he pays $50 a month.

So, to some extent the stranger is still in our lives. A nice guy. A diligent worker. A down-and-out type who could be Jesus-in-disguise, putting us to the compassion test. (opps! I flunked!)
Or he could just as easily be another Charles Manson. My faith in my husband's ability to discern what's dangerous and what's not continues to haunt me every day. Sure, I could gripe day and night. Threaten him. Monitor his decisions. Censor his activities. Be bitter and miserable. But frankly, disharmony has never been my style, and it's not how I want to live out the last third of my life. Basically, I'd like my husband to take up another hobby. Or better still...GO BACK TO WORK!

Stranger Part II

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 20:20:00 +0000

I was pretty upset to hear that our attic resident was asking for my permission to "adopt a little kitten," because it indicated that he was feeling very domesticated and firmly ensconced in his new home. One thing was certain, he had not been told that this set-up was temporary. Even worse, I felt my husband was pitting me as the evil "hall monitor" in this whole scenario. Back home, I blew up about this Infamous Kitten Request and announced I'd address the issue once and for all and one-on-one with the guy. But I didn't. I was as culpable and namby-pamby as I accused my husband of being. I worked all day, and by evening, I told myself, I was way too weary to assert myself on this subject. Plus, I resented being put in this position in the first place. If I caught sight of the guy outside, he usually dodged me, or, if our face-to-face couldn't be avoided, he fell all over himself apologizing because he was "a mess right now" and that I was seeing him "all grubby and dirty." Once he said with a self conscious grin: "This is not the real me, Ms. Paige." It was painful and embarrassing for us both, so it made me even more resentful.

He was involved in some of the preparatory activity leading up to Thanksgiving when our two youngest boys would be coming home from college. He was given several fix-it tasks to do: put a new faucet in the kitchen, lay new carpet in the small bathroom, etc. Overall, he was an energetic, pleasant worker, although a couple of things went woefully wrong after they had been installed and repaired. Because I couldn't bear the thought of staging a big Thanksgiving dinner for the family while a human being upstairs had no one, I asked my husband to invite him to join us. He put him up in a nearby motel the night before where he could clean up and even wash his clothes. On Thanksgiving Day, he was a congenial guest and he ate heartily without seeming too out of place or self-conscious. Immediately following the meal, however, he disappeared, without a word. My stepmom thought this was rude and ill-mannered.

Christmas rolled around and my husband (again) assured me that the man's post-holiday
move-out plan had been thoroughly communicated. I felt better about things so when we went gift shopping one Saturday our purchases included a pair of faux-fur lined moccasins (size 7) from Target for our resident. My husband knew his size, because apparently he had already taken him shopping for some bluejeans, underwear, and a new shirt or two. This was news to me and although I was not upset about it, I hoped the purchases that day hadn't included cigarettes or even worse, beer, not that I don't drink it occasionally myself. "It's not that I don't want to help someone in need, "I explained (as if I had to justify my feelings). "It's just that I don't like someone being so dependent on you 24/7."

Taking care of our new friend was becoming a body of responsibility my huband hadn't counted on, and I think he was too proud to admit that he'd made a mistake. It seemed he was forever being called away to transport the man to feed "Miss Faye's dogs" or pick him up from here or there. The fellow wanted female companionship and he had been talking to a woman who worked at a nearby Arby's, so Arby's runs back and forrth became more and more frequent. My husband began fielding calls from social worker-types and potential employers like a contractor named (I swear) "Hercules." He was working hard to "set him up and move him out" but I was beginning to resent the constant intrusion.

Once as I was entering a neighborhood grocery store after work, there the fellow sat on a bench outside, a popular resting place for panhandlers working the interstate ramps. He didn't panhandle, I knew, but probably some of his friends did. When we caught sight of one another, we shared an awkward moment of recognition because he was neither a stranger nor a family member. He was lonely. I was an evil stepmother-type.

We had planned a big family gathering and expected all my five children, their spouses, and my seven grandchildren, so my husband decided to put him up again in the nearby fleabag motel, this time for a week. My two college boys already knew about the fellow upstairs from Thanksgiving and, although they had never expressed concern about the arrangement to their dad, they expressed concern to me. "Tell him how you feel," I said. "He needs to know from someone else that this whole thing isn't a good idea."
But they remained silent...until Christmas Day. One that none of us will forget soon.
Read this blog tomorrow where again I will finally attempt to wrap up this tale.

Stranger in the Attic

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 18:49:00 +0000

My well-meaning, bleeding heart husband allowed a homeless man who had been doing odd jobs for us, to move "temporarily" into our attic. He didn't tell me the fellow was living up there until, on a hunch one day, I guessed it myself. I had noticed various items missing -- a small lamp, a pillow, some blankets, a space heater or two. Understand that there is nothing in our attic except stored items in boxes set between rafters, and there no access to the area (which is a vast, open space) except through a pull-down trapdoor in our hallway. The man apparently accessed his new home sweet attic home through our rooftop. You see he had been replacing the shingles on our roof, so he and my husband, in a flash of joint genius, just left some shingles off, replacing the hole that remained with two heavy layers of felt. This created something like a doggie door whereby the man could come and go.

I was stunned when I realized all this. Yes, he was a nice person. Yes, he needed help. Yes, he was just temporarily down on his luck (not actually a bona fide street dweller, according to my husband). And his story was so sad. His only child, a son, had died at age 5, and his wife left him soon after. Because of these trials, he started "drinking beer" and, well, lost everything.

"How long ago did all this happen?" I asked my husband, because the homeless man was 50+ now. It could have been 30 years ago for all we knew. My husband didn't really know, he answered, but he felt really bad for him.

Taking care of the new resident became a new focus for my husband, now retired for nearly two years with not much else to do. (I am still working). He began having morning Bible devotions with him outside on the front porch, followed by a big breakfast my husband prepared. Somtimes they ate lunch at fast food drive-thrus if they were out buying home fix-it supplies, and at night, we "sent up" a plateful of food for his dinner. Since the man also had a job across town feeding an elderly lady's dogs, my husband was always "on call" to transport him to and fro. At one point my husband even considered investing in an "inexpensive cell phone plan" for the man. This would allow the man to call him from where ever he was in town without having to use a pay phone.

As the weeks past, I became increasingly stressed. I knew the man upstairs must be able to hear every sound we made below -- every toilet flush, every word spoken. This was disconcerting. I awoke one Saturday after a foreboding dream and sat upright. "Does he smoke? Is he smoking up there?" I demanded to know, for surely our house will burn to the ground, killing us all.
Yes. He smoked. But only outside, my husband assured me. Only outside. At my insistence, we installed smoke alarms in the attic before noon that day. Two of them. No worries now! But my sense of well being had been truly shaken, realizing my husband hadn't thought of this himself....

I read a news story about a family in the Atlanta suburbs which had, out of sheer benevolence, allowed a homeless man to live in their tool shed. Just like in my nightmare, the shed caught fire one night, and the man died. The family was now being charged by authorities with "failing to keep living quarters up to code with plumbing and electricity" or something like that.

Someone else mentioned a similar "stranger" story that had been broadcast on CNN, although the family didn't know the fellow was crawling into their attic at night and had been, for months.

Now I was really freaked! Where was our attic dweller using the bathroom? Where was he cleaning up, brushing his teeth, washing his clothes? I now wanted to know (well I had been curious before, but I didn't really want to hear the answer). "At McDonalds," answered my husband cheerfully. (He meant the McDonald's down the street, about a quarter mile away.)
Oh, yeah. Clever man! I hadn't thought of that...

I finally put my foot down one day and told my husband there must be "a plan" for this fellow to move on, and the sooner, the better. "After all, we can't adopt a grown man!" I screeched. A few days later (after asking him about this every day after I arrived home from work), my husband assured me he had informed the man of the master plan to leave -- after the holidays. Everything seemed okay. But I knew better when the guy, riding in the back seat of our car, expressed a wish to "adopt me a little kitten"...followed by "But (my husband) said I had to 'ask the boss'." (meaning me). He said this with a big grin. After all, he had somehow become a member of the family, even though the 'mommy' of the house complained now and then
. Read my next post for the conclusion this bizarre tale.

Baby Birds Gotta Fly

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 00:44:00 +0000

Okay, it's really hard to enjoy some TV shows after the kids have flown the coop to college. Seinfeld. 30 Rock. They're not the same somehow. In fact no one left behind here at the house (that means me, my husband, my stepmother) can even get the DVD player to work, so forget the movie rentals. Why does it feel that the very quality of my life has been altered after the kids leave after Christmas, when they were never home during the holidays, anyway? We rarely saw them. They were always out with friends-- to the movies, to breakfast/lunch/dinner, to old hang-outs, even back to their old high school to visit favorite teachers. I did make an appointment with my youngest son on his next-to-the -last night home to discuss academic biz and other practical matters. After watching a great old movie together (his suggestion) we had a luxuriously long chat about life, relationships... all the big themes. The next day he posted a nice status report on his Facebook page to honor the moment: I could talk to Paige Henson all night!
I can live on something like that for a long time, you know.

This Blog Won't Change a Thing In Your Life

noreply@blogger.com (Boomerina) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 01:18:00 +0000

In the course of a single day, we are bombarded with millions of words (both written and spoken), images and ideas to process. That's why the select material we choose to incorporate into our thoughts, our conversations, and our actions enjoys a special, elevated status. I will be genuinely humbled by anyone's decision to read Boomerina, and flat out incredulous if anyone actually subscribes to it or offers feedback.

With all that "golly gee" stuff expressed, I pledge to present thought-provoking posts that may resonate with you, challenge you, move you, and occasionally make you chuckle. My guess is that on a daily basis you may be as fascinated, puzzled, and curious about things as I am. So we can figure out things together.

The tagline to this blog: From the inside, looking out is my way of saying that as Baby Boomers, we have lived long enough to form well-honed opinions about the world we inhabit, and at least most of us at this juncture can discern what's important in the Grand Scheme of Things... and what's not. Facing the final third of our lives in this particular universe, it's a good thing we've come to some meaningful conclusions, right?

So, I invite you -- Boomer or not --to look around you, then communicate to the rest of us what we ought to take heed of, what we need to beware of, and what we should honor and cherish. Anything goes. From classic lit... to a new brand of socks on the market...to ideas about particular despotic regime.

If you're game, here's how it can work: I'll open up with a message introducing my own ideas, experiences, inspirations, and opinions...and you are invited to comment... or add to... or dispel altogether. If you've made it this far on this Boomer blog, let me hear from you!