The Squeaky Pen

Feminists and Lesbians and Communists...Oh My!

2012-03-01T23:21:00.000-05:00

Finally we have a hero! Someone who has cast illumination on that scandalous organization known around the world as radical maniacs...nay, demonized maniacs...maniacs who encourage the downfall of women and family. This group does not conduct its evildoing on foreign land led by men with unpronounceable names. They are right here among the clueless Americans, walking the streets, luring in members with promises of a future too terrifying to imagine. They wear uniforms and meet in church basements, and once a year their masses are sent forth with lists and pens and innocent expressions to knock on doors...and sell us cookies. They are (drum roll here): The Dreaded Girl Scouts.

So yes. Indiana Republican State Representative Bob Morris, the hero in our story, has denounced the Girl Scouts, claiming to colleagues that after "talking to some well-informed constituents" and conducting "a small amount of web research" he has determined the Girl Scouts are a "tactical arm of Planned Parenthood" that encourages abortion and "homosexual lifestyles." He also noted that the fact First Lady Michelle Obama's has a role as an honorary president of the New York City-based group "should give each of us reason to pause before our individual and collective endorsement of the organization." He evidently also got crazy that of the 50 role models studied by the Girl Scouts, "only three have a briefly mentioned religious background; all the rest are feminists, lesbians, or communists." Try as I might, I couldn't find the list of fanatic role models to which he refers. Any researchers out there: if you find the list please comment below and provide a link. I'm interested to know who all these feminists, lesbians, and communists are that the Girl Scout leaders are insisting their cookie sellers admire.

Representative Morris has since apologized for the letter, which he says was meant for colleagues only (it was leaked to a local paper before going viral). He blathered a bit about his words being reactionary and emotional and went on to chat about God and The Pope and family and radical liberals and all the other favorite topics of the far right. In the end, he still refused to sign a resolution to honor the 100th anniversary of the Girl Scouts, which is what set all this off to begin with.

This news item, and this guy, make the inside of my skull itch. Maybe it's an aneurysm about to explode, or maybe it's just my brain trying to get out and away from the concept that Morris is a representative of the people, a person in our government standing alongside historical figures like Washington and Jefferson and Adams. How did this clown ever get into a position of power?

There is so much more to say. That vilifying the Girl Scouts is almost as ridiculous as vilifying Planned Parenthood, an organization I myself used when I was young and becoming sexually active and which gave me access to affordable gynecologic care, contraceptives, and, as needed, counseling (and no, I did not go to Planned Parenthood for an abortion, nor did any of my friends who also partook of PP's services). Or that claiming the Girl Scout credo includes sexualizing young girls so that...what? They'll run off and get pregnant so they can then run off and have an abortion at Planned Parenthood, thereby implying some deep conspiracy involving feminists and communists and Planned Parenthood making money on terminating pregnancy? The whole thing is so patently stupid that I can't even talk about it anymore, other than to say this: first the right goes after the Muppets, now the Girl Scouts. Mickey and Minnie, Daisy and Daffy, look out. You guys are probably next in the fundamentalist crosshairs.

This and That

2012-02-27T22:01:00.001-05:00

We finally got some snow. While I've been enjoying the strange warm weather, there's been a tiny (tiny) piece of me wondering what's happened to our classic snowbanks this time of year. There are little white flowers, over which I stand puzzling with hands on hips, that keep popping up near the driveway. But last weekend I was reassured that we are indeed at February's end. Snow fell and temperatures dropped and the wind whipped with such fury that I huddled in my quilts, terrified the big tree out back would be blown onto the house and its branches into and through my bedroom window to skewer me in my sleep. The tree stayed put and I concluded my feelings about classic February are misguided.

I took a rather intense fall recently. I've never been accused of being graceful, but this incident was more stupid than clumsy. I was cutting across the lawn to my sister's house one night and slammed shin-first into a tree stump that I'd maneuvered around a hundred times. In pure Dick van Dyke flip over the hassock style, I took a header into the grass. I sat there for several seconds assessing the damage, and was pleased to find that while my shin was screaming pain, my bones were intact. I was rather proud of myself that I still had it, "it" being the ability to take a fall. Funny, how as we get older that falling isn't an embarrassment anymore. If we can catapult over a stump and walk away, that's a badge of honor. Time's marching band, beating that drum.

I was on an airplane recently and sat next to a woman who was wearing so much perfume my throat closed up. Why do some people, more frequently than not female people, think it's a good idea to douse themselves in scent, especially when they're getting on an airplane or going to a movie where they'll be in close quarters with other people? I wanted to tap her on the arm and ask that very thing, ask if she noticed my hoarse voice and that I'd been coughing and blowing my nose for three hours because of her, and how I really wanted to understand her thought process when she'd gotten dressed this morning. "Do you even give this any thought when you let loose with the atomizer, about how someone sitting next to you might respond to all that Obsession or White Diamonds or Black Pearls you're wearing? Did it for one second enter your pea brain that the reeking swirl of what you think smells good might be offensive to somebody else?" Just as I was about to launch she turned to the young man sitting next to her, patted his cheek, and said "I love you son."

So I let it go.

I think I'm ready for spring.

A Ghost Story

2012-02-24T01:58:00.000-05:00

Let me begin by asserting that I am not a nut. I assert this because today I'm going to talk about the ghost who resides in my home.

I grew up in a house teeming with spirits, something my sister and I understood well but never discussed until we were adults. We were "spook-sensitive" so to speak, and got used to the underlying tremble of homes that seemed empty but were (we knew) not. So when I walked into this house that first day with the realtor and experienced "the shiver" it was not particularly disturbing to me. I've felt the shiver many times, the sensation that air in a certain room or hallway is somehow thicker than it should be; a feeling of being watched, causing you to turn around to look at the nothing behind you; overall, the perception that you are not alone when in fact you are.

The house I now own, once a showplace I'm told, was worn out when I bought it, with sagging ceilings and battered woodwork. On closing day I found buckshot in the walls, leaking bathtubs, cracked linoleum, and one sleeping porch that looked like it would topple onto the driveway if a strong wind kicked up. Under the damage and abuse, though, I saw beauty, and as renovations over the next year progressed, its charm and splendor re-emerged. Still, the shiver remained.

My house, from what I can deduce from old papers, was built sometime in the mid-1800s and was occupied by a family named Storrs: the parents, Hiram E. and Eunice; and three children, Hiram H., Ida, and Mary. I've come across the names of family members Eunice, Ida, and Hiram H. only recently. Since 2003 when I bought the house, the only names I'd heard were Hiram E. (the father) and Mary Storrs, the latter of whom I assumed to be Hiram E.'s wife. And from Day One, I knew without question -- and without good reason -- that the ghost who occupied my upstairs hall was Mary Storrs.

In the beginning the sensation that some spirit was lurking around in the long second-floor hallway was only that: a sensation. I would sometimes stand at the top of the front stairs and suddenly feel a presence behind me. Then little things started to happen. My nephew Thad often spent the night and remarked several times that he'd caught sight of something passing by the bedroom doorway, something like the whisper and a glimpse of a long white dress. Twice in my first months here I felt the sigh of air against my cheek, once as I lay in bed, and again while sitting on the sofa in the upstairs study. These phenomena are easily explained away by the naysayers, of course. "Paranoia. Imagination. Breeze from a cracked-open window. The vapors." I don't bother to argue with naysayers because I know what I know. I know what I feel.

Upstairs hall

Also early on, I hosted a sort of "fun" and informal seance. There were several of us here, including both of my nephews. We were seancing in the dining room with all the doors closed, lights out, candles lit and so on to create the right ambience. At one point during the seance the room grew cold and my younger nephew Nick, then in his twenties, got very upset and said there was someone in the room wearing a Civil War uniform (more on this later). Shortly thereafter there was a loud bang on the doors that connected to the living room beyond, causing all of us to spin into hysterical frenzy. Since everybody in the house was in the dining room at the time (making all of us wonder just who [or what] banged on the opposite side of that door), we put a quick end to our seance and a permanent end to ghostbusting at my lovely though spooky address.

And here's a long story short: my friend Lucy from Long Island came to visit in 2005. I stationed her in one of the front bedrooms, the one I call "the blue room." Lucy was supposed to stay a couple of days, but the morning after she arrived she bolted out of the house to her car, calling after me, "I need to get out of here. That room in haunted!" I never did find out what happened.

The Blue Room

Fast forward to 2007, when a pipe burst in an upstairs bathroom and destroyed my recently renovated kitchen. A team of insurance people came in to gut what was left of the room and remove the water-soaked plasterboard. I left them to their work and spent the night elsewhere. When I returned the following morning the team, which had also returned, was sitting around eating lunch. One of the women asked me: "Do you have a ghost in this house?" Eyebrow raised, I asked what prompted the question. It seems one of the workers -- a young man of 19 -- had seen a full-body apparition in the upstairs hall late the night before. The phantom, as explained by the ashen-faced worker, was a woman dressed in white Victorian clothes. She was standing at the far end of the hall by the street window (and outside the blue room), gazing at the highly freaked out young fellow who, I might add, left the house never to return. I responded to this story and to the "do you have a ghost" inquiry with a sly smile, because by this time I'd grown used to my ghost, and in fact rather enjoyed the notion that other life, in whatever manifestation, shared my accommodations. "Yes," I said to the questioner. "I think her name is Mary."

Finally, a year or so ago a local woman came to call. Her grandparents had lived in the house from the late 1930s through the 1980s, and she had spent a great deal of time here. We got to chatting and I mentioned my spirit. "Oh!" she said brightly. "You mean Mary Storrs?"

As a person who enjoys the idea of having those from the great beyond still hanging around their former domicile, one might think I would have pursued information about Mary Storrs sooner. However, it was just a month or so ago when I wandered into the historic society in my town and discovered a box full of diaries written by Ida Storrs Dietz, the daughter of Hiram E. and Eunice, and the sister of Mary Storrs and young Hiram H. The diaries date from 1864-1919, and are a treasure trove of information about the house, the people who lived here, and the times of their life more than a century ago: there is talk of the weather, the gardens out back, the first house downtown to be illuminated by gaslight. There is much talk of disease: consumption and small pox, and the most prevalent it seems, the "grippe" (aka, influenza). In fact, in 1893, the entire family was sick with the flu. Father Hiram, Mother Eunice, and Aunt Mary Crary, the latter of whom also lived here, all died within a three week period in December. The heartfelt diary entry by Ida on December 25, 1893, said this:

"Sad Christmas. Warm, just like spring. Doesn't seem like Christmas. Mother died two weeks ago, Aunty a corpse upstairs, and Father dying...Frank brought a diagram of West Hill Cemetery for us to look at. I combed Aunty's hair. Father weaker and did not seem as if he would live through the night."

Then, on December 27:

"Pleasant I think, only rough traveling, no snow. Father seemed to be weaker this morning, he died at eleven forenoon, did not seem conscious after about 6:30 this morning. He seemed to suffer pain after that but was so weak could not groan out loud and finally died very easy. This makes three that have died in this house in less than three weeks. Who next?"

Hiram H. Storrs, Mary Storrs, Ida Storrs, 1855

I'm sorting through these rich, wonderful, and sometimes tragic writings, learning about the Storrs family and, in particular, about Ida, who married Malcolm Dietz and had a baby, Grace. Grace died at age 3, followed by Malcolm himself just 9 years later, when Ida was 36. After the Storrs parents and Aunt Mary Crary died, Ida and her sister Mary Storrs lived here together for almost 30 years. The ladies hosted visitors and visited others on a daily basis, cooked and baked, delivered breads to ailing neighbors, attended functions at the Opera House, tended the rooms -- one still called "the nursery" years after Baby Grace was gone -- collected antiques (to which Ida referred as her "relics"), and often rode the train to Binghamton to visit the orphanage to be sure the children there were being well cared for. They were generous, sending donations of clothes and money to an organization in New York City called The Home for the Friendless. Ida had hoped to donate the house to the village as a museum, and left money in her will for the indigent of town, asking trustees to buy Christmas gifts and host a holiday dinner for those less fortunate. I can see from the small number of entries I've read so far that Ida and Mary were kind, charitable women from a well-to-do, kind, and charitable family.

Ida Storrs Dietz died in 1921, at age 74. Mary Storrs, Ida's sister and my ghost, never married and lived here alone another 18 years until she died in 1938. She was 87.

L-R: Mary Storrs, Ida Storrs Dietz, with friends and frequent visitors Carrie Davis, Helen Wilcox, and Emma Walker, 1914

I am not haunted by the spirit of Mary Storrs. Rather, I am humbled to take care of this place, the Storrs home that, after several inhabitants in between, I now call my home. I don't really know, of course, if Mary Storrs wanders my hall upstairs, drifting about in some alternate time in her white Victorian dress, gliding a pale hand across my "relics." I do know, however, that if she is here, I am honored at her presence. I think of the puff of air against my cheek when I first moved in and wonder if she was showing me gratitude, in the only way she could, for fixing crumbling plaster and planting flowers in the back garden. I like to think she watches me now, that she watches Harry prancing and my family gatherings and my visitors, who don't come and go on a daily basis like hers and Ida's did, but who are certainly here every week, socializing and appreciating a shiver of flesh that suggests others have been here before. I also like to think that the puff of air I felt nearly a decade ago, when whistling workmen with saws and paint were freshening rooms where corpses once lay on a sad Christmas in 1893, was a spirit kiss thanking me for breathing life back into these walls.

Oh yes. About the long-ago seance and my nephew Nick upset that someone wearing a military uniform was in the room with us? I discovered in my research weeks ago that Hiram H., the only brother of Ida and Mary, died in Louisiana at age 23. He died as a soldier. In the Civil War.

(In keeping with the mood of this post, I include here the link to a movie trailer that features a local aspiring actress, Anna Fagan. Good luck Anna. May the spirits be with you. http://www.indiegogo.com/The-Visitation )

Taking A Moment to Stop and Smell the Birthday Roses

2012-02-21T01:38:00.001-05:00

The first birthday I actually remember celebrating was when I turned six. My mother had been plotting a surprise and pulled in my dad as co-conspirator. He summoned me to go with him to the dump (in those days it wasn't a landfill; it was more of a spot where people just went ahead and "dumped" their unwanted stuff). I loved going to the dump with all of its potential treasures, and in keeping donned my dump clothes: horrible plaid pants, a mismatched striped shirt, ratty old coat and knit hat. Off we went, and upon our return I was horrified to walk into the living room, dressed like Fred Sanford, to be greeted by a dozen squealing friends in frilly party dresses. There's a photo somewhere of six-year-old me in my dump clothes looking extraordinarily ticked off.

Over the years, of course, there were other birthday celebrations. I had skating parties in high school, my birthday being in winter, and parties in general in college and beyond. Scattered throughout my belongings are pictures of me smiling with flowers at age 20, toasting with a glass of champagne at age 30, twirling in a velvet dress at age 40, and nuzzling a dolphin in Mexico at age 50. A few come to mind that were not so great, but all in all I've been lucky. My birthday, the only day of the year that is technically mine, generally has turned out to be a pretty good time.

This year's birthday, I'm happy to report, was one of the good ones. With our now dozens of ways to communicate I got emails, text messages, phone calls, flowers, cards, and visitors, not to mention a fine dinner and fireside chatting with family and a hundred or so salutations on Facebook. I feel fortunate to have so many people who care about me, something I don't really ever forget but which comes clearly into focus on this one day a year when I awake and murmur, "Another twelve months gone by. I wonder what's next?"

With all my possessions, with all my travels, and with all it seems I've accomplished in five-plus decades on this planet, there's really nothing in the world like the people who populate my life. Birthdays are good for remembering that.

This is not to say, however, that we learn much as time passes. Today when two of my friends stopped by I looked a bit like Frankenstein's bride. I wasn't wearing dump clothes, but it was close. Maybe next year I will learn, and will don a ball gown when I climb out of bed to see, at 57, what wondrous things are headed my way.

Then and Now

2012-02-17T02:24:00.001-05:00

The News then: "There's been a storm in New York City. Forty are confirmed dead."

The News now: "This is a terrible story. Please be prepared, some of these pictures are difficult to see. You may want your children to leave the room. There's been a terrible storm in New York City...yes, that's right, I said in New York City. Forty people are dead, more are sure to die. Awful. Just awful."

Language then: "He and I went to the store.

Language now: "Me and him went to the store.

Watching TV then: "Now Beaver, you know your mother and I never fight."

Watching TV now: "I want a bleeping divorce, and I don't give a bleep about the bleeping kids or the bleeping house or your bleeping money, so bleep you!"

Driving then: Get in the car, put the kids in the back, drive away.

Driving now: Get in the car, secure the kids' car seats, insert the kids, double check security features, turn cartoons on back seat TV, click the seatbelts, lock the windows, lock the doors, insert the blue tooth, insert the CD, plug in the GPS, drive away.

Dealing with kids then: "Get your butt up and go to school, and when you finish school, get your butt out and find a job."

Dealing with kids now: "Oh honey, I know it's so hard and I know you're tired, but you really need to get out of bed and go to school, but if you really really feel like you can't get up it's okay if you take a mental health day. And don't worry about a job. Daddy and I will support you with our unconditional love and of course our unconditional money until you find a job you really really like and that you really really deserve."

Leaving the house then: Leave.

Leaving the house now: Check the back door lock, check the side door lock, check the timers, check the windows, check the motion detectors, set the alarm, triple lock the door, leave.

Communication then: "I need to make a long distance call. Can you ring me when you're off the party line?"

Communication now: "OMG! WTF? U R 2 Cool!!

Love then: See someone, wink, date, feel a tingle, fall in love.

Love now: Write and post a personal profile online (with sexiest possible photo), sift through potential love interest profiles, send an email to one, check email responses and select good-looking match with closest interests to your own, set a time to meet, set a place to meet, alert all friends and family as to where and when and who, meet, discuss similarities and differences, discuss feelings that "resonate," be sure long-term goals are on "the same page," meet again, articulate "dream vacation," articulate "dream job," articulate "dream home location," begin dating, share views on staying fit, share views on children, review financial statements and portfolios, clarify prenuptial requirements, discuss "dream retirement," and (maybe) fall in love.

Cleaning then: Mop the floor, dust the bureau, wash the dishes.

Cleaning now: Disinfect doorknobs, disinfect countertop, disinfect floor, disinfect toilet, disinfect sink, disinfect laundry, disinfect dishes, and when finished disinfect hands.

Weddings then: Go to justice of the peace, get a keg of beer, buy a cake at the grocery store, invite some friends to the house, go to Niagara Falls.

Weddings now: Hire wedding planner, select weekend, host family golf tournament on Friday afternoon, host rehearsal dinner for 200 of friends in fine restaurant on Friday evening, host wedding and reception for 500 friends in state-of-the-art venue on Saturday, host brunch in fine restaurant for 50 friends on Sunday morning, spend $75,000 on food, open bar, flowers, dresses, shoes, hair, make-up, jewelry, tuxes, gifts, band, rings, limos, cake, and go on month-long honeymoon trip to Europe.

Dealing with dogs then: They lived outside, they ate table scraps.

Dealing with dogs now: They sleep in beds, they eat heart-healthy shiny-coat-causing teeth-cleaning natural homemade whole foods in fun shapes and sizes...while wearing a sweater.

Politics then: A couple of people throw their hats into the ring, tell us what they'll do for the country, we vote and elect one.

Politics now: A dozen people spend millions of dollars berating opponets, shout each other down in televised debates, and run hundreds of ads telling us why the other socialist/communist/fascist guy is going to bring the country to the brink of ruin, all the while mugging for cameras and inspiring pundits to collect millions of dollars in advertising while shouting each other down and causing voters to collapse in apathy by the time an election rolls around.

Then had some problems for certain. But it's no wonder we're all so worn out in the Now.

Whitney: A Sad Goodbye

2012-02-14T00:52:00.001-05:00

The first time I heard Whitney Houston sing was in 1985. I was in a car. I can't recall who was driving, where I was, or where we were going, but I remember the song coming on the radio, Saving All My Love For You, and my reaction, which was "Who is THAT?" What a voice. Hitting notes that were astonishing. Interpreting words that raised goosebumps on my arms. Her voice and the song were perfect. Beautiful. Timeless. I knew then I was listening to a star on the rise.

Fast forward a few years. I was living my life and Whitney Houston had become a part of it. Granted, not a big part. She was a voice I heard on the radio, a face I saw on award shows, in interviews. So beautiful, so much life in her eyes, such talent. She became part of the swirl of music and celebrity that surrounds us all.

Fast forward a few more years. Suddenly I'm watching, with peripheral vision, Whitney getting thin. And thinner. There is talk of drugs and of falling. A falling down of another lovely star for whom fame is too much. Too much money, too many cameras. I found myself in Spain on business one year and had a dream about Whitney. A dream that she had died. I came downstairs in the hotel and told a person with whom I was working that I was worried about Whitney Houston. Ridiculous. I should have been worrying about whether or not my clients were happy and instead I was wringing my hands over a women who did not and would never know my name. But I couldn't get past it. Yes. Ridiculous.

A few years ago I was passing through JFK and saw Ms. Houston. We were both standing on the curb outside the airport. I was waiting for a taxi, she was waiting for a limo. She was surrounded by battered silver trunks and a dozen other suitcases. There was no entourage, no photographer. A fellow passing by remarked that the silver trunks looked like they'd been traveling. I was about three feet away from her. She was skinny and bundled, a knit cap pulled over her head. She was wearing sunglasses, I guess to hide her identity as it wasn't really sunny. Not looking so good. She smiled at the guy and said "Yes, those trunks have been around." I wanted to approach her and say something. Say, "I had a dream about you." Of course I didn't. Her limo arrived as did my cab. She'd seen me staring and we exchanged a glance as my taxi pulled away. I thought about hearing that first song back in 1985. My mind whispered, seeing her thin frame grow smaller there on the curb, "Take care of yourself. I had a dream..."

I was so...disheartened I guess...to hear that Whitney Houston had died. I wasn't crushed or devastated. For heaven sake, I didn't know the woman. Disheartened is the only word I know to use because it's disheartening to hear of another person joining the ranks of so many gifted artists who can't take the pressure of fame. They turn to drugs, illegal or otherwise, and seem unable to pull themselves far enough away to realize the money and the accolades and the rest of what comes with being known isn't, in the end, worth it. They give their gift -- and ultimately their very lives -- to the public, and we the public suck them dry. So here is this pretty girl, this mad-talented woman who through her successes and her gifts and her struggles touched the hearts of so many people, ending up dead in a hotel bath tub.

There are moments when I want to be famous. I want everyone to know my name, to talk about me as a brilliant writer. Well, okay, let's get real. I'm a decent writer, can certainly string sentences together and can spin a story better than some, not better than many. Could I be fiction-famous? Maybe. If I had the right connections and if I set aside walking the dog and socializing for 20-hour writing days...yes, perhaps fame could be mine. Would I turn to drugs if suddenly I couldn't walk outside without photographers and fans mobbing me? What if I couldn't go to WalMart without a disguise? At this stage in my life, I imagine I could endure the price of fame without Xanax or Valium or gin or heroin. But who knows? And I think of Whitney. Maybe she thought that, too, back when she was just a sweet girl singing at church, thought she could handle the massive pressure of millions of eyes watching and judging. There's no way to tell, really, what might happen to any of us if fame knocked at our door and we were there, smiling, to answer breathlessly,"Yes, here I am; take me on the grand ride."

Many people will be wringing their hands over poor Whitney for a long while I suppose. I've done my hand-wringing about her, when I was in a hotel in Spain, and again curbside at JFK. She was a remarkable person, now standing alongside other remarkable people: Michael Jackson and Heath Ledger and Billie Holliday; Elvis Presley, Amy Winehouse, Brian Jones, John Belushi; Jimi and Janice and Marilyn. And all the rest. Will these fame-induced drug deaths never end?

All this just makes me sad.

Whitney Houston: Another Lost Soul Leaves Us

2012-02-12T01:11:00.000-05:00

Rest in peace, Whitney. What a cryin shame.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8QaI-M9sxW4

Rotary, Spaghetti, and Splendid Americana

2012-02-10T00:01:00.000-05:00

I went to a Rotary luncheon on Thursday. The last time I was at a Rotary lunch was about 30 years ago when I was a reporter and covered one for my paper. I don't actually remember much about the decades' ago event. The lunch this week, which I believe I'll remember for a long time, was steeped in Americana, a description I use with utmost respect.

There were maybe 30 Rotarians in a cordoned-off room at a local restaurant. Rotary insignias hung in strategic locations, insignias I was told represent visitors from other chapters. There was also draping and official name badges and a bell that was rung periodically for reasons I couldn't quite determine, but which was charming and brought forth some laughs. After lunch, the meeting was kicked off with all of us standing and saying the Pledge of Allegiance (I'm thinking the last time I said the P-of-A in a group of people was 45 years ago, with grade school classmates). We then sang God Bless America, and after bowing our heads for a short prayer were off and running.

Rotary has always been a staple in my town, a part of life here that people probably don't think about much but would surely miss if it was gone. And I learned a few things today that I didn't know. I was aware that Rotary sponsors our Music in the Park event during the summer. What I didn't realize is that Rotary has as part of its mission statement stamping out polio, which still exists in third world countries. I also learned that our Rotarians sponsor local foreign exchange students. In fact, the speaker this week was the sheriff from a neighboring county, whose daughter is in Denmark thanks to the very Rotarians with whom I was enjoying fish and salad. Before his presentation, the sheriff gave a nice report about how she's doing followed by a heartfelt thank you for Rotary's part in his daughter's continuing education in another part of the world.

I was at the Rotary lunch on Thursday as a guest, and as such was reminded how really special service organizations are to small towns like mine. These groups offer important though often behind-the-scenes contributions that we all take for granted. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm happy to know that every week this particular group of people meets, has a bite to eat, plans projects, and takes time out of busy lives to quietly weave much-needed threads in the fabric of our community.

(By the way, Rotary is hosting a spaghetti supper soon. Their flier is below. Why not stop on down and show this fine organization some support.)

No Longer Waiting To Exhale

2012-02-07T00:03:00.001-05:00

It's a strange February weather-wise. No snow, and today the thermometer read 53 degrees. I was out and about all day without a coat.

A friend from New Jersey (former hometown resident) was here visiting over the weekend. We took a drive this morning and thoroughly enjoyed the atypical sun and spring-like temperatures, the winter grasses flat and brown but still somehow beautiful. The car ride took us into the hills surrounding the valley that is now (again and finally) my home. Jackie remarked that it's interesting to look at this town with eyes that have seen many other places; eyes that started here, left, and have returned with so different a perspective. We mused about being young here and wanting nothing more than to get out to explore the world, or at least some other version of it. We both went exploring, which -- for us -- was the right choice. I don't think I ever took a drive when I was a teenager in Sherburne that didn't have the purpose of getting away from my parents' house, away from teachers, away from what I thought was a suffocating small town, away. Today's drive was a pleasure trip. We were thirsty to drink in sights that to others might be meaningless tilting fences and sagging barns. This hour-long automobile stroll was an unhurried delight.

I've lived here full-time just short of twelve months. My outside self has changed, but more stunning is my inside self: how I've quieted. I take pleasure in sweeping the porch, or in slicing an onion. Sometimes in the middle of the day I flop down on the bed and talk to the dog, looking into his eyes and noticing how intently he looks back. A few days ago I found a box of greeting cards that I've been meaning to sort for ten years and sorted them: birthday, get well, thank you, Christmas, sympathy. Yesterday Jackie and I went to a Super Bowl party and heard a fellow say his house is two ridges over from a certain location. Not two exits or two blocks, but two ridges. I've been mulling this expression all afternoon, and in fact pointed out the ridges on our drive today. Life has become astonishingly slow, and in this slowness I've again found my life. It's as though I've been inhaling for 30 years and now, at last, I'm exhaling.

It feels...good.

Never have I so appreciated the expression that youth is wasted on the young. I wonder what I missed growing up here, although I wonder this with no regret. I observe now how I observe. I notice the way the sun slants off a certain hill, and marvel that I notice. Today I pointed out tree shadows and wished momentarily that I'd brought my camera, although while I might have captured the image, I couldn't have captured the emotion. Happily, the tenderness of those shadows lingers in my mind and is not ousted by the frantic rush to a train station. I still taste the winter portrait there, like a nice wine.

All things happen for a reason. My return home twelve months ago seemed premature. Now I realize, as I ponder ridges and deer prints in occasional front yard snow, that coming back to this place where family ghosts tug at my sleeve, where the moon and the maples and the smells are as familiar as my own voice in a quiet room, was simply meant to be.

Muppet vs. Puppet

2012-02-03T00:51:00.000-05:00

Fox "News," which shall now until forever on this blog be referred to as "Fox" because, of course, there is precious little news on that program, has finally lost its collective mind.

On December 2, 2011, the Fox installment Follow The Money ran this segment, which lasted 7 minutes:

http://mediamatters.org/mmtv/201112020036

In response to Fox's charge that the new Muppet movie is brainwashing our children with dangerous liberal ideas about rich people being bad, the Muppets held a press conference on January 26. Yes. I just said that. The Muppets -- you know, those adorable funny fuzzy PUPPETS -- held a press conference to respond to Fox's allegations:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8YhED4IgQA

I have been sputtering about this all week to anyone who'll listen and somehow feel as though I've entered an LSD-inspired hallucination. Is Fox with its ultra-conservative agenda, the agenda that seems to instruct its media minions to use as frequently as possible buzzwords like "class warfare" and "liberal news bias" (the latter of which includes CBS, ABC, NBC, CNN, MSNBC, Newsweek, various wire services and The New York Times) so desperate for a palatable Republican candidate that they are now lumping Kermit and Miss Piggy in with the current administration as those to blame for the so-called impending American leftist/socialist morally corrupt totalitarian regime? I suspect the answer to that question is yes, they are that desperate, just as I suspect it's no coincidence that Fox is taking potshots at little guy vs. big guy themes because the man most likely to win the Republican nomination also happens to be very rich and more than a tad out of touch with the aforementioned little guy.

It is not news that the right has for years pointed fingers at "liberal" Hollywood, and it's also not news that creative types -- ie, writers, artists, filmmakers, actors, and the like -- lean toward liberal thinking, such thinking characterized by a desire for workable social programs as opposed to elite greed. And yes, if we look at films over the years, those aimed at kids or not, there is a common theme toward the disenfranchised fighting back against "the man." Take 101 Dalmatians (1961), featuring Anita and Roger, regular folks who own a bunch of pretty dogs vs. Cruella De Vill, the rich lady lusting for a spotted coat. We also have Snow White (1937), a common gal battling against her wealthy stepmother the Queen. And of course, can anyone forget the venom spewing forth from Mr. Potter in It's A Wonderful Life (1946)? Mr. Potter who, without interference from poverty-stricken George Bailey, would have turned bucolic Bedford Falls into Sin City? This message of little guy going up against big-and-maybe-wealthy guy is as old as time, going back as far (and probably farther) as poverty-stricken Jesus taking on the Romans. But now that we have what Fox and its kin keep insisting is a socialist in the White House, it seems it's time to take aim at a frog and a wig-wearing pig who apparently are the latest culprits twisting the minds of our ill-fated children and causing them to become lazy welfare-lovin' food-stamp-orderin' rich-folk-hatin' communists.

Maybe Fox's next target should be Charles Dickens, who in 1843 painted a rather dark portrait of a rich fella beating up on the poor, a fella named Ebenezer Scrooge. In fact, that's a great idea since the Muppet Christmas Carol features Scrooge AND Kermit AND Miss Piggy, all of them no doubt in socialist kahoots. Go for it, Fox! You can save some ammunition and take down literature and puppets in one fell swoop, though I'd be careful about getting rid of all the bobbing marionettes: you might lose your jobs.

The Nephew and the Argyle

2012-01-31T00:25:00.002-05:00

I became giddy getting dressed this morning. I found a pair of matching socks.

About five years ago I gave up on wearing socks that match. In my new nonchalant life, I do go so far as to select foot coverings that are at least in the same shade range: black or dark gray; deep blues; the browns; the reds; similar print patterns; and white, of course, for golf. Some days, though, overcome with fashion apathy, I close my eyes and pull two socks out of the drawer, which is when I end up with a pink sock and a black sock. I've never been accused of being in vogue in the clothes department and this unmatching sock trend of mine isn't helping my reputation any. You get to a certain age, however, when you just don't care anymore.

I decided to forgo wearing legitimate sock pairs because the process of keeping track wore me out. I think it was the great Erma Bombeck who wrote about being an intelligent woman feeding socks two by two into the washer and how, when the load left the dryer, five socks, or seven socks, or some other odd number of socks would emerge. Jerry Seinfeld also used the mysterious sock dilemma of humans in his standup, something about socks realizing, in the dry cycle, that this was their opportunity to escape. I'm certainly not qualified to explain how socks get separated and disappear anymore than Erma or Jerry. All I know is that for years I had laundry baskets (yes, plural) full of nothing but odd socks. Every few months I'd take an afternoon at the dining room table and lay all the socks in organized lines, always finding many mates, and always having at the conclusion of this domestic adventure six dozen lone tubes in rainbow colors. I would tie the strays together and throw them back into the baskets, and put the baskets back into a closet, hoping somehow on laundry day next the wandering mates would reappear (ref: "Stuff" on this blog, 4-22-11).

So I gave up. It's freeing, really, to abandon footwear worries. Occasionally someone will point out the mismatched look, and now, as a secure female in her fifties, I shrug and say "Oh who cares." It isn't like I'm wearing ragged underthings that are discovered in an unanticipated emergency room visit. They're socks, for god sake. To quote the young (or those who've run out of intelligent commentary), whatever.

As a final observation: I have a sneaking suspicion where some of my socks have gone. One day I was visiting with my nephew and he crossed one ankle over his knee (this is the nephew, by the way, who lived with me for several years). There peeking out from the hem of his jeans was a familiar sight, a lovely dark blue argyle. I couldn't see his other ankle, but I knew there was no match there as the sock's significant other was resting quietly in a clothes basket upstairs, tied together with other cast-offs, patiently awaiting the return of its twin, now residing on the hairy hoof of my beloved and thieving family member.

Maybe that was the day I gave up on matching socks, the Day Of The Nephew And The Argyle. I knew then this was a battle I could not win. Even so, there was a moment of secret pride that the boy got a bit of his personality from me: clearly, he's also decided wearing matching socks is a waste of time.

The Beautiful Place Where I Live...A Closer Look

2012-01-30T00:11:00.001-05:00

Thanks to the motivated young people in upstate New York for making this video, and for caring so much.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FlPlj1DfAU

And The Password Is...UPDATE

2012-01-28T15:50:00.000-05:00

Somebody up there doesn't like me. Went to pay my cell phone bill today. My normal bill of $125 was $919. Four additional numbers were added to my cell phone account in November, in Illinois, at an Apple store. By spammers or hackers or some other idiot who spends time screwing up our lives. After 1.5 hours on hold, with customer service, and with the fraud department of AT&T, the problem was resolved (or at least so they say). And of course, I had to change all my passwords. And passcodes. And usernames. And so on.

All this virtual communication is going to be the end of us.

And The Password Is...

2012-01-27T00:18:00.000-05:00

When I was ten I spent much of my time outside. Smelling flowers, climbing the hill across the pond, building large nests out of mowed grass. Life was good.

Now I spend my days fighting spammers, who just lately have hacked into my contact list and have been busy sending god knows what to everybody I know: viruses or porno or invitations to collect millions of dollars from Nigerian princes. I've spent the week changing passwords. Unlike in my youth, when I spent time watching butterflies spinning through the foliage, now I fiddle around with passwords.

I have passwords for everything. Email. Voicemail. Blackberry. Investment accounts. Bank accounts. Google. Blog. Twitter. Facebook. American Express. Visa. MasterCard. Amazon. Paypal. Ebay. Etsy. Sometimes I can't get into my own business because I can't remember the password, and if I should call a toll-free number and speak to Billy Bob with an Indian accent I am offered no assistance. I have a Rolodex full of passwords. If I forget my passwords I have to reset them. I spend hours doing nothing but trying to remember passwords, or looking up passwords, or resetting passwords. My entire world is now taken up with passwords. My parents never had passwords. They had boats and cars and jobs and relatives and long drives through the country and Sunday dinners. I have passwords.

So today my password is BURNEDOUT. I need to take a couple of days off and recalibrate myself. I'm thinking of going to the casino this weekend, although now that you can't put money in the slot machines anymore, now that you have to have a special card with a special computerized situation that somehow identifies you and adds money to your special computerized account card, they'll probably ask me for my password. I hope not. I'm thinking if they do my head might blow off.

Costa Concordia: A Titanic Miscalculation

2012-01-24T00:25:00.002-05:00

In another life long ago, I was the editor of a boating magazine on Long Island. I wouldn't go so far as to call myself "a sailor," but I came to the job with a bit of boating experience: my dad owned a small motorboat, I'd done some rowing and canoeing in my youth, and I took a short sailing class just before being named the magazine's editor. If I had to assign myself a number (1 being landlubber and 10 being sea captain), I'd be about a 4. I've sailed on the Long Island Sound on friends' boats, serving primarily as "rail meat" on tame adventures where the shoreline was never out of sight. I like being on the water, and while I'm a proficient swimmer I have a healthy respect for boating's inherent dangers. As for the ocean...well, that's another story. My respect is less like healthy and more like terror-filled.

All this to say I've never been on a cruise. I've been close to cruise ships, which for those of you who haven't look more like buildings than boats. They are massive, holding from 2,000 to 5,000 people and featuring restaurants, swimming pools, casinos, nightclubs, bars, spas, fitness centers, movie and live theaters, shops, and all manner of amenities. Not to be confused with ocean liners of old, modern cruise ships have designated routes that rarely take them across an ocean. They are by some descriptions "balcony-laden floating condominiums."

The Friday the 13th sinking of Costa Concordia did not, like its tragic sister Titanic one hundred years ago, result in the deaths of more than 1,500 people. As of this writing, 15 people are confirmed dead and 17 are still missing of the 4,200 aboard. That the number of dead and missing is small does not, however, diminish the tragedy, particularly in light of the ever-blooming story of a daredevil captain who claims to have "tripped into a lifeboat" when explaining his premature departure from the ship. Stories about why the ship was so close to Giglio are varied. Some say Captain Francesco Schettino decided to take the ship for a spin in rocky waters to show off for the locals. In fact, gossip around the island suggests captains compete to see who can get closest to shore. The closer they get, the more thrilling. Then we have Schettino's story, which is that his bosses at the cruise line told him to do it "for publicity." There's also some nonsense about "noisy passengers" distracting the captain, which is so ridiculous as to be dismissed out of hand.

The whys -- other than for reasons of prosecution -- are less important to me than the results. Take the couple from Minnesota, Barbara and Gerald Heil, who according to their children bypassed luxuries all their lives in order to send four kids to private schools from elementary to college. When they retired, they decided to treat themselves and, with great excitement, boarded the Costa Concordia for a 16-day cruise. The Heils are still missing. And then there's Sandor Feher, a Hungarian violinist working on the ship as a musician. In the chaos of the sinking, Mr. Feher helped children don life jackets, then returned to his cabin to retrieve his violin. He was never seen again.

I don't know what will become of the ship captain, nor of the Carnival Cruise Line spin doctors who I'm sure at this moment are in a brand-saving scramble. What I do hope, however, is that Captain Schettino and his superiors will be tortured in their dreams by the cries of frightened and dying passengers who trusted them. I hope they are shamed by the potential damage that 500,000 gallons of spilled fuel might cause to marine life and surrounding waters, and by the colossal ship now abandoned like a broken toy off the coast of Italy. More, though, I hope they are haunted from now until forever by the memory of frugal and caring parents finally taking the trip of their lives, and by the song of a beloved violin, its music silenced for all time by, at the very least, grotesque incompetence, and at worst, by arrogance and thrill-seeking and a contemptible lust for publicity.

The Not-So-Great Debates: Republicans Square Off (Again)

2012-01-20T01:55:00.000-05:00

Republican debate night. It's starting to feel like the debates are on more often than The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I'm having trouble figuring out which -- the debates or the housewives -- is the kooky reality show.

Some highlights: Only four guys left. Rick Perry exited today, throwing his endorsement to Newt Gingrich. Speaking of Newt, he flipped out at CNN's John King right off the bat when asked about the ex-wife interview on ABC regarding his alleged request for an open marriage (he had a six-year affair with current wife Calista while married to ex-wife Marianne), galled that CNN would start out a presidential debate by asking a question about "trash like that" and exclaiming that the media makes it difficult for "decent" people to run for office. So I guess it's the media's fault Newt couldn't keep his pants zipped when he was married. Oh well, he's asked for God's forgiveness so I guess we're good.

Ron Paul was on message. Get the government out of the way so the country can do its thing, let's stop with the undeclared wars, we can't be policeman of the world, constitution, constitution, constitution. Lots of jobs talk by all, how to get the economy going, too many regulations, must crack down on China, let's become energy independent from the Middle East, and of course Romney's Bain troubles. Same old story: Romney helped create 120,000 jobs with four companies through Bain. "There's nothing wrong with profit," Mitt said, profit that he says went to charities and pension funds. "It's capitalism and freedom that make America strong," said Mitt, adding he plans to "ram that down" the President's throat. Picking up the drumbeat, Santorum called America "Barack Obama's squalor." Rick says "sign up with us (us being the GOP) and we'll put you back to work." Lots of humble pie from the Pennsylvania contender. "My grandfather was an immigrant. Dad came here when he was seven. I grew up in an apartment and watched the veterans come home. God is great. Yada yada yada."

Let's see, what else:

Obamacare is evil evil evil. (Why is that again? Not sure. They never quite say but I guess if you say something is evil long enough everybody will believe you.) Healthcare should act like a market, says Mitt, not government domination. "Obama's wrong, we're right, thats why we're going to win." One of them said the American people are frightened by "bureaucratic medicine" (you mean like bureaucratic auto insurance, whereby if I don't have insurance on my car I get a ticket?). Newt mocked that kids remain on parents' insurance until age 26. I found this interesting as I had a conversation with a friend recently who said how good it was that his daughter is still on his insurance...she graduated college, is looking toward grad school, and will probably be a fine educated American citizen who didn't need to worry about paying for insurance while she furthered her education. Ah, who wants fine educated Americans? Not Newt! "Elect us and we'll get jobs going so you're kids can move out."

Some other soundbites:

Santorum:

"Gradiosity has never been a problem for Newt Gingrich."

Accused Newt and Mitt of "playing footsies with the left" re healthcare

Gingrich:

"Long before Rick came to congress I was busy being a rebel."

"I helped balance the budget for four years." (Newt is fond of taking credit for the four-year balanced budget during Bill Clinton's administration. I wonder how much credit for "American squalor" current speaker John Boehner is taking?)

Romney:

"We need to send someone to Washington who hasn't lived in Washington...someone who's been a leader in the private sector, who's been on the streets...someone outside of Washington should go to Washington."

"Democrats want to go after people who are successful. I've been very successful, and I know the Democrats will go after me for being successful. I didn't inherit money from my parents, what I have I earned the American way."

Paul:

"People worry about money going overseas. If we send dollars over there, they don't put those dollars in a shoebox. Those dollars come back."

"Let's take the overseas resources defending foreign borders and put them here to defend our own."

When asked when they would release their tax returns:

Newt: An hour ago.

Ron: Haven't thought it through, but I'd be embarrassed to put my financial statement against their (the other candidates') income. It may come to that but I have no intention of doing it.

Mitt: When my taxes are complete this year in April.

Rick: I do my own taxes and they're on my computer and I'm not home and there's nobody home. When I get home I'll go get my taxes.

On SOPA:

Gingrich: I favor freedom. If a company finds its been genuinely infringed upon, they should do something. Government involvement is exactly the wrong thing to do.

Romney: I think Newt got it just about right. The law is far too intrusive and expansive, it would have a potentially depressive impact on the Internet. I'm standing for freedom.

Paul: I was the first Republican with a host of Democrats to oppose this law. This bill is not going to pass but watch out for the next one.

Santorum: The bill goes too far, but something should be done to protect intellectual property of people. I'm talking about entitites off-shore. Government should a have role to protect intellectual property. I'm not for people abusing the law and that's what's happening now. The idea that anything goes on the Internet, where did that come from? Property rights should be respected.

Nothing new on immigration: Newt wants to control the border, deport the bad guys faster, and not kick out grandparents who go to church and who have been here for 25 years. Mitt wants to build a fence and get some ID cards. Rick believes in immigration but not illegal immigration, and Ron says nobody believes in illegal immigration for heaven sake.

And of course, they're all pro-life (this expression has always irked me, as though those opposed are pro-death. Maybe the terms should be changed to pro-choice and pro-choiceless). Newt and Mitt argued for awhile (and again) about whether Romney is pro-life, and Santorum chimed in, beating on Mitt for a few minutes. Mitt insists he'll be a pro-life president and will always "protect the rights of the unborn." They tried to skip Ron Paul on this issue to the outrage of some audience members. Ron got his points in, is also pro-life, adding that culture changed in the 1960s, and the law followed. The problem, he says, is "the morality of people."

There were lots of "pick me"s at the end, espousing that Barack Obama is the Great and Corrupt Socialist Food Stamp Guy, that he's dangerous, that armageddon is a-comin' unless a Republican gets into office. We're still a great country, they said, The Hope of the Earth, The Shining City on the Hill, and so on, as long as we boot the current guy for one of them. And one of the candidate's wives spent $16,000 on a pocketbook...

...oh wait a minute. That happened on the Real Housewives. Sorry. TV is confusing these days.

When They Start Arriving Two By Two, I Start Work On The Boat

2012-01-17T00:53:00.002-05:00

So I'm sitting here tonight reading a book and, out of the corner of my eye, I see something flash by the window on the street. Something big. At first my mind tells me "Kid on a bicycle." I look up and see a second something go by. Also fast, also big. My mind then gets hold of itself and says to me "It's 10 o'clock at night, there's snow on the ground, and it's 9 degrees outside. Kid on a bike? I don't think so." I get up and look out the window, and under the streetlight I see a third something run by, only this time it isn't a something. It's a deer. A big one. I then look down the street and there they are, the three of them, galloping down the middle of my street. Finally they sail over snowy lawns, cut in front of the church, and are gone.

It's true that I don't live in a big city, but I do live in town. There are sidewalks and stop signs and steaming cups of coffee at the convenience store around the corner. That is to say, I don't live in the boondocks. And yes, I have in my lifetime seen a deer in town, although the number of times I have I can count on one hand.

I bring this up not because seeing a deer in the middle of the village is so shocking (although I've never seen three at once before), but because just lately there's been quite a bit of talk about wildlife around here. As you may have read on this blog, there was a bald eagle in my back yard last week, and since that incident several people have reported that the bald eagle population in this area is growing. In summer and fall, it's not uncommon to hear coyote packs yipping in the woods behind our golf course, and a few weeks back a friend of mine reported seeing a wolf at the treeline of her property, not a coyote or a dog, a wolf. Finally, over the weekend, I heard tales of more than one person seeing mountain lions in the hills that surround our valley. Mountain lions.

I'm not inclined to conduct extensive research on the wolf/lion stories since I'm not a hunter, nor am I an animal activist or conservationist. Curious, though, I checked a few online message boards and found many anecdotal reports on wolf and mountain lion sightings in New York State, and many in my own county. Also on these message boards are the nay-sayers, insisting that the lion a person says she saw was probably a bobcat, and the wolf another person says he saw was probably a coyote. I can't speak for the lion and wolf sightings, but I can certainly speak to the rest. I've seen coyotes at the edge of town, I've seen an eagle skimming the trees from my own porch, and now I'm watching deer loping up the street outside my window.

All this wildlife is kind of exciting. At the same time, there's something a bit unnerving about it. Do the increased sightings mean animals and birds are migrating this way? That conservationists have been doing a good job? That some mysticism is at work? Or did I just live in New York City too long, where the only animal that scampered by my front window was the mailman?

January Observations

2012-01-12T23:07:00.000-05:00

Wednesday: Rumor has it there was an eagle in the neighborhood this morning. In fact, not only was said eagle in the 'hood, but he was perched, I'm told, in my big maple out back. I'm sending Harry outside with great consternation, imagining my dog, and then myself holding tight to Harry's rear legs, dangling cartoon-style over the back yard fence from the hunting talons of a magnificent though homicidal bird. Granted, the eagle would have to be Schwarzenegger-strong to carry me off, but my imagination tends to run wild. Then again, the mayor informed me tonight that the eagle was most likely searching for food, leading to a gut-wrenching possibility that my tiny pet was indeed on the menu. I am further traumatized by a southern friend sharing this: "I've probably already told you about the local chihuahua being hawk-snatched, sailing across the sky, headed for the eager craws of naked baby birds." I am in high freak. Sensing this, Harry patrols the windows.

The Christmas tree came down today. I dreaded this task, not because of the work involved but because the thing was so lovely. A small part of me (very small) wishes there were snowbanks outside that I might stuff the tree deep and attach bird feeders (then again, do I really want to attract more fowl to the premises?). Alas, my shining tribute to the holidays will lay broken and dribbling needles curbside until the men who do such things come along to cart it away to the Christmas tree burial ground.

Speaking of snow, the weather is strangely mild. I stepped onto my porch barefoot today, scanning for dog-eating raptors and puzzling over bright skies, so atypical this time of year in central New York. My disbelief that such tender temps can continue long was confirmed by a smirking newsman, who reports chilly precipitation is on the way.

Mitt Romney, he with the look of a cheerful Dracula, won New Hampshire. John Huntsman, the only Republican candidate lacking foxy expressions, came in third. I don't get it. I want to like Ron Paul but he unnerves me, Rick Perry is a Dubya-clone dolt, Santorum is pro-fracking ("Here you go, Senator, light this tap water on fire and drink up..."); and then there's Newt...a smart man, experienced, but another who makes my nerves jangle. The best news about the Republican race is that nit-wit Bachmann is finally gone.

I'm not sure I can take another eight and a half months of this. Maybe I'll just go outside and watch for eagles, the soaring American symbol that seems unaware of duplicitous politicians blowing January sunshine up our skirts.

I Never Thought I'd Have A Hair...There

2012-01-10T00:04:00.000-05:00

To all the nubile young girls who have not yet gone through menopause: this column is for you.

I've always had decent hair. Growing up it was long and, I think, fairly luxurious. In the red family, although now thanks to Miss Clairol it's most certainly red. I skipped through my teens, my college years, my twenties and thirties and forties flinging my hair around. My concerns then were never more than what's the right shampoo and conditioner? Did I get a good cut? Is it shiny? And so on.

Then the fifties arrived along with menopause. Although the hair on my head is distinctly thinner, it's held up well. Not great, but not awful. I have maybe two or three good hair days a month. The rest of the time it's...well, it's there, not falling out by the handful, not frizzed to the outer reaches, and, as long as I visit the hairdresser on a frequent basis, not gray.

This column isn't about the hair on my head, though. This is about the hair everyplace else. With the decrease of estrogen has come calmer moods, wisdom, and, in horrifying places, hair. I have hair on my chin. There is now hair on my big toe, and today I found a hair on my neck that was an inch long. Added to my beauty equipment in the last few years is the hair removal kit because tweezers can no longer handle the job. In my hair removal kit is wax that you heat up in the microwave, smear on in the necessary places, and tear off, the ideal being that the unwanted hair comes with it and you don't end up with blazing red marks from the scalding wax. Furthermore, the hair I used to have on my eyebrows has moved. Yes, young girls, that's right. You will come to regret all that plucking you're doing to your eyebrows. Sooner or later, the eyebrow hair vanishes, relocating, I'm sorry to tell you, to your upper lip.

Then there's leg hair. This is good news, actually, in that along with the aging process, at least for me, has come a realization that I don't need to shave my legs as much as I used to. This does not count the bikini wax, which I have never experienced. The very idea of a bikini wax is terrifying to me. Then again, since I've never worn a bikini this is a problem that falls far back on my list of things to worry about.

Now we come to a sensitive area, an area I shall call "the petunia" (this phrase comes from my cousin the nurse, who once cared for an elderly woman who referred to her private place as her "petunia"). It's come to my attention that women 30 and under (my friend Gloria tells me it's 40 and under) now shave their petunia. Shave it bald. I feel a bit prehistoric in that my knowledge of this custom has come to me late in life. I'm not sure what this shaving of the petunia is all about, but I have to ask wwhhhhyyyyy? Why would anyone other than porn stars or women about to give birth shave the petunia?? Women ...adult women anyway... are supposed to have hair in certain places. The petunia in my book would be one such place. Forgetting for a minute about the itching and the oddity of resembling an adolescent girl, there's putting a razor someplace that it simply does not belong. And if the reason has something to do with sex, well the truth is I just don't want to know about it. The ladies of The View even mentioned this cultural phenomenon one day recently and, I'm happy to report, agreed with me (well, at least Whoopi and Joy did; Sherri and Elizabeth, both under 40, kept still). I realize this topic is a bit off-color, but I feel a need to bring it up because, quite frankly, I'm aghast.

All this to say, I never knew growing up that hair would become such an issue later on. I considered that my head hair might fall out, but it never dawned on me that I would be thinking about hair everyplace else and that I would be panic-stricken if either my tweezers or my eyebrow pencil vanished for more than an afternoon.

So sit up and take notice, young girls. All this shaving and waxing and plucking you're doing now is only the beginning. When your final drop of estrogen flaps its hand goodbye you'll be entering the hair twilight zone. Hang on, ladies. It's going to be a bumpy ride.

"There is no friend as loyal as a book"

2012-01-06T00:04:00.000-05:00

Ernest Hemingway

I'm fortunate enough to have a library at home, and as I write this I'm admiring my books. They're really quite beautiful, the spines in lovely colors accented by fonts that mirror content: stark and bold for mystery and thriller; playful for comic and light; serious for the classics. I have an entire wall of Stephen King, a wall at which I marvel on quiet nights that any one person could have so many words in his head. Under the book jackets are bindings with soft leather and colorful threads. When I hold a book close I can smell the ink, a throwback I imagine to my days as a newspaper reporter when I would walk into my office and breathe in the back room scents, when I could hear the presses running and know that soon folded paper with my name on it would be tossed on doorsteps. There is nothing quite like seeing one's own name in print.

I don't yet own a Kindle, but appreciate its novelty, its lightness of weight, its ability to call forth with a few keystrokes all manner of literature. In the last two years I've purchased four as Christmas gifts, and yes: I get it. The Kindle (or Nook or whatever) is a "cool thing." This onslaught of technology is wonderful, although not unlike the advent of the car, which put the horse folks out of business, it has its downside. Progress talkers say such advancement is important, and that indeed, some businesses that once were thriving should become obsolete. Being fazed out is part of the deal. I get that that, too. We must march on, though I do wonder how many jobs the Internet and its spawn have winked out. Everybody likes to blame the President -- whether of the blue or red variety -- for job loss. Here in my library, surrounded by hefty work by King and Grisham and Dickens and Shakespeare, I wonder if the web is more responsible for unemployment than Mr. Obama, or Mr. Bush, or whomever might be next.

Some terrible news has emerged this week in my little corner of the world. The First Edition, a bookstore in Norwich, New York that's been in business since the early 1980s, is closing in the next month. I could not be more disappointed. A bookstore closing its doors, thanks to Kindle and Nook and Amazon and the rest, is a tragedy for me. I wish I had a million dollars I didn't need (well, I wish I had a million dollars period). I'd give the money to The First Edition and say "Go forth. We need you." Sadly, this will not happen. The First Edition will close, the only bookstore (or so I've heard) in my county.

When I lived in Arkansas there was a bookstore in our smallish town. Its proprietor created in her store not just a place to shop, but a home away from home. There was often chili bubbling on top of the wood stove out back, and rockers for sitting, and toys for playing. Authors were frequent visitors -- and still are in fact, as the Arkansas bookstore, for the moment, continues on. Still today the public is invited in for signings and conversation. The store is a place where readers and writers gather to meet, talk, drink coffee, eat chili, and share a love of books. Some of my fondest memories of my time in Arkansas were spent in that bookstore because it wasn't just somewhere to buy books. It was a place of learning and people and grand times. A bookstore is a place of wonder where stories -- and those who write them -- come to life.

They say we never know what we have until it's gone, and I'm as guilty as the rest. I'm lazy and order books online because I can type in John Irving, while I'm in my bathrobe, and have a book the next day. I have not, I'm sorry to say, frequented The First Edition much. Now it's too late. Sooner or later the bookstore as we know it will go the way of the horse-drawn carriage, the live meeting, the movie theater. Instead we sit at home in our slippers and wait for Netflix to arrive, for the Amazon package, for the webcast. We order stories on a skinny computerized tablet and are immediately gratified. I appreciate the Internet, I do. If it were not for the Internet you would not be reading this now. Still, what are we losing in this tap-tapping in a home office, in this solitude? I find it odd that while we're all more connected than ever through computers and social networks, we've never in our history been more disconnected. I don't know who's reading this now. I may know what country you're from, but I'll never know your name. The Internet, somehow, makes me feel lonely. Not just alone, but lonely. And the Kindle with its pixels on a tiny screen is stealing away our closeness as humans, our one-on-one with bookstores and authors and beautiful books with their smells and threads and jackets. In the end I'm just a gal in a horse-drawn carriage, I guess, watching Chevys and Fords flash by.

As I sit here looking at my books, objects that seem to be turning obsolete along with the stores that sell them, a thought drifts in: a hundred years from now when I'm gone, after my old-fashioned carriage has carted me and my nostalgic ideas off to the great beyond, will people not yet born stand in my empty library and wonder what all these shelves were for?

Color Me Twitter

2012-01-03T00:04:00.000-05:00

Here we are in the new year, and in this spirit of "newness" I've decided to join Twitter. So I'm twittering now. Er ... I mean, tweeting.

I told a friend the other day that, when it comes to technology, I feel like an elephant slogging through quicksand while hummingbirds whiz by overhead. This assessment isn't exactly accurate since I AM on Facebook and Linkedin, and now Twitter; and since I do in fact work on a computer every day and am never far from my Blackberry. Still, my brain hasn't caught up, especially when it comes to Twitter.

For months now I've been scowling around, trying to understand the point of Twitter. I have a bead on the other two social networks with which I'm affiliated -- Linkedin and Facebook -- the former a business networking site and the latter a way to tell every friend you've ever had what you're doing and thinking and feeling every minute of the day ... with pictures. But Twitter has had me puzzled, it being the one with the length limit. That is, a tweet can only be 140 characters long including spaces and punctuation, meaning if you feel like tweeting the Gettysburg address you'd only get this far with one tweet: Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the propositio

Even with this unappealing character restriction, the idea that I hadn't signed up for Twitter was gnawing at me. I sensed I was missing something, millions of people out there yucking it up with mini-conversations of which I was not a part. So over the weekend I created an account, tweeted something about my blog, and went to bed.

In the morning I was overjoyed to see I'd attracted 32 followers overnight! In clicking on my followers link I discovered that 31 of the followers were men and women with sexy-looking photos and email address profiles so vile I won't repeat them here. With my 140-character tweet I'd managed to pull in a couple of dozen porno people. Marvelous.

On Sunday I got busy. I blocked the porno folks and started following all sorts of people: celebrities, literary agents, publishers, newscasters, authors, politicians, and a few friends and business associates. Now when I sign onto Twitter I read tweets like these:

"Love getting gift cards for books!" ... and

"Are Minka Kelly and Derek Jeter back together? ... and

"Have zero heat since December 28th" ... and

"I never get along well with touch-screen products" ... and

"Happy birthday Erin!"

You can also include links to pictures and videos and articles, just like on Facebook and Myspace and Linkedin and the rest. The only difference, really, other than some made-up rules by Naziesque software programmers about the method of befriending or how many characters you're allowed to use, is the social network's name.

I am no longer a large, trundling plant-eating mammal with a prehensile trunk being taunted by fast-winged fowl. I, too, am a hummingbird now, zipping along with understanding. Twitter, while sort of entertaining and maybe occasionally educational since I'm following news outlets, is basically this: same sh#t, different day.

New Look, Still Squeaking

2012-01-01T13:20:00.000-05:00

No, you're not in the wrong place. This is still The Squeaky Pen, which will continue to squeak away every Tuesday and Friday of 2012. Just thought it was time for a different look...the candles were starting to bum me out.

Check back on Tuesday, January 3, for a brand new post.

15,000 And Counting...

2011-12-26T23:48:00.002-05:00

I'm happy to say that since my first post in March 2011, The Squeaky Pen has tallied more than 15,000 page views, which puts the blog somewhere between "Up and Coming" and "Loyal Following." Not only is TSP being read in the U.S.A., but in countries around the world, including (starting with the most readers): Russia, Germany, Netherlands, United Kingdom, Ukraine, Latvia, Iran, France, and Canada. Other notable reader locations are Singapore, Poland, Sweden, South Korea, Chile, Australia, Belgium, Brazil, China, Denmark, Colombia, Finland, Greece, Hungary, India, Turkey, Thailand, Egypt, Indonesia, Ireland, Israel, Japan, Lebanon, Italy, Malaysia, Romania, Saudi Arabia, Maldives, Mexico, Slovenia, South Africa, Vietnam, United Arab Emirates, Oman, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka. To my regular readers, a big thank you!

The Squeaky Pen is going on vacation (only a week) to rest, relax, and regroup for the new year. When I return, TSP will have a different look (not unlike rearranging the furniture, it's time for a change), so don't think you're in the wrong place when you check back in. My next column will be posted on Tuesday, January 3.

Happy New Year to all my Squeaky Pen readers around the world. See you in 2012!

'Twas The Night

2011-12-22T23:04:00.000-05:00

We're decked out around here. Lights, tree(s), stockings, Santa, action. I'm spending these final hours before the big day making bourbon balls and cookies and fudge. The guests arrive Saturday night when more cooking will launch: southern pork barbecue, sausage rolls, and Polish delicacies like pierogis and kielbasa. Early Christmas morning there'll be hot coffee and French toast followed later by Champagne mimosas and lobster tails. The gifts are wrapped with sparkles, and on Christmas night: fire and cards and family and a tiny sighing dog.

Count your blessings this year, one by one. You probably have more than you realize. Wishing everyone a wonderful Christmas from The Squeaky Pen!

(PS: following is an old favorite...enjoy!)

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

I'm Dreaming of a Hollywood Christmas

2011-12-20T00:25:00.001-05:00

I've been watching the weather channel on an hourly basis as many of us do (some might say pathologically) here in central New York. Fifty one weeks a year I listen to meteorologists with squinted eye, waiting for the inevitable news: rain (well, there goes golf); wind (and there goes my garbage can down the street). In winter months, the news is usually snow. And snow. And snow. Last year, if memory serves, it started snowing in early December and didn't stop until spring. At one point in March I recall standing hip-deep in the stuff searching for tiny Harry, who had vanished into a snowbank. The flakes are great from inside the house, drifting past the window in magical patterns. Outside, when the car wheels are spinning and the steps are buried, the magic fades.

This week, though, I'm clicking on the weather channel with eyes wide open, cheering for cold temperatures and plump clouds. We got a dusting over the weekend, which caused me to squeal with delight (I squealed, I actually did). The snow is pretty much gone now as is my squealing. Christmas is Sunday and I want a white one. WHITE, not greenish brown. Are you hearing me Al Roker?

What's the deal with wanting a white Christmas anyway? I have Florida friends who brag about hitting the beach after opening presents, a practice so antithetical my own holiday visions that, in hearing about it, my brain has to reboot itself. Swimsuits and Santa? That does not compute. Facts are facts, however: warm weather at Christmas works fine for many people and clearly, this dogged need for snow on December 25th is a problem of my own. Again, why?

My nephew answered the question for me recently. He was in a restaurant and there was music playing in the background. Somebody asked who was singing and Thad said, "Bing Crosby." Are you sure? the questioner insisted. "Uh, yeah," my nephew said. "I was raised on White Christmas."

My sister and I, short of the singing and dancing portions, could perform the movie White Christmas on stage with no rehearsal required. We've probably seen the film a combined total of 200 times, figuring conservatively that we started watching it at age 10 and tuned in at least twice a year ever since. For anybody who has recently emerged from fifty-seven years of incarceration with no television or movie privileges, White Christmas (released in 1954) is the story of four people who travel from Florida to Vermont in search of snow, only upon arrival in New England to find the weather isn't cooperating (there are other plot points, like love and war and kind-hearted soldiers who bring a special gift to an old general, that I won't go into here). In the final scene the snow starts to fall, and the movie ends with a gleaming, tinsel-laden tree, a rural snow scene complete with horse-drawn sleigh, and a bunch of people dressed up in red and white velvet outfits singing and toasting and generally appearing to be having a fabulous time. As bossy family matriarchs, my sister and I subjected her children to The White Christmas Movie Event each twelfth month until they were old enough to flee the house. Pat and I have performed the song "Sisters" every year, either alone or in front of relatives (and once on videotape). We have dissected the film to oblivion, and annually point out editing mistakes and the fact that Vera Ellen, one of the "sisters," is impossibly skinny and wears turtleneck-only clothing, even in bed (she turned out to be anorexic). Our knowledge of this movie is extreme; perhaps, some might say, pathological. We are -- not to put too find a point on it -- White Christmas People.

So thank you, Thad. You have clarified for me, in relating a 30-second restaurant conversation, why I wake up every morning the week before Christmas and peer out the window, hands clasped, begging for snow; why I want to slap the local weatherman when he chirps, as he has this week, "sunny, with temperatures above normal!" I want a horse-drawn sleigh to shuusssh by the house. I want to be at an inn in Vermont with soldiers and dancers. I want a tinsel-laden Christmas tree with a blizzard in the background, and I want Bing Crosby crooning in my living room. Good grief. I am a slobbering product of Hollywood. And you know what? I don't care!

I suspect I'm going to be snow disappointed this year and that, barring a surprise storm, a white Christmas will not be. If the weatherman is right, my plan is to pull the shades on Christmas Eve, flip on the DVD player, and watch Bing and Rosemary and Danny and Vera cavort in Vermont in crimson clothes. I'll watch the general's grateful face when he sees the first flakes, knowing that his ski lodge has been saved from financial ruin, and I'll watch (and probably cry for the 200th time) as the soldiers march out and sing "we'll follow the old man wherever he wants to go, as long as he wants to go, opposite to the foe..." Most importantly, I'll watch the snowfall, even if the only magical white stuff I get this year is on the screen of my television. In fact, as my beloved family guests snooze in their beds upstairs, I may even watch it twice.