Celebrating Life

Happy Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Mon, 06 Feb 2023 21:13:00 +0000

Phillip Sanchez - Guest Blogger

I wrote this on my Birthday, last Saturday, Jan 28^th of 2023

Today, this day

I turn 78 years of age.

I look in the mirror, and, I have to look again.

Who is that old, old wrinkled up man, that Viejo (Spanish for old man)

What happened que paso? To you

How very sad, Que lastima

Well, aside from the sorry looking sight of me, the image of the very old man of the sea.

I do come to the realization that, Yes, I’m 78 now

Many mixed feelings

Don’t know why I feel a little melancholy.

Memories of my youth and my parents come to my heart now

With it, quiet sadness.

Don’t know how much longer.

My Father will grant me Life on this planet.

It’s unknown.

That light at the end of the tunnel grows - smaller

And smaller, day by day by day.

But, on the other side of the coin

I’m ever so grateful for

The true blessing of this, my Life

A healthy body, mind, and spirit

I do say a healthy body with a medium size grain of salt.

With 2 slight tears in my left rotator cuff and a tooth that will have to be replaced soon with an implant and with a slight loss of my hearing.

But, I still enjoy

Comforts and Joys: the thrill of dancing, of attending and listening to concerts, plays, of catching, a huge yellowfin tuna.

Good times with Loved ones: family and good friends

All these, Given to me by the grace of God.

However, I do have one major correction that needs to come into being.

I really do need to be much more positive.

And, not so critical and judgmental

Sometimes knowledge can be a curse.

As passion can also, sometimes be.

Hardwired to hate injustice

Regardless of its form or shape

So, I tell myself Phillip do these few things to maintain a good and healthy balance.

When that passionate anger touches your heart

Take a deep breath

Exhale slowly and, take one more breath

And, just sing the words of one of your favorite songs:

Phillip, here’s a few lyrics for you.

“In every life we have some trouble

When you worry you make it double

Don’t Worry, Be Happy”

Yes, 78 years!

Note: The name of the song mentioned is “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” by Bobby McFerrin

Still Feeling the Power and Strength of Hate

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Wed, 25 May 2022 23:10:00 +0000

Phillip Sanchez - Guest Blogger

Still feeling the power and strength of Hate

Our Nation seems now on the brink.

Which way will we go?

Feels like we are actually moving more toward hate and intolerance.

Wondering if I should re-arm myself again.

We seem to be moving backwards as a civilized nation.

Is our nation now on the short path to self-destruction?

I don't know, I don't know.

I don't know if we can not get along with each other.

Such hatred and evil coming out of the actions of the Evil One and his Cohorts.

Serious cuts, bruises, and wounds in the fabric of this,

Our beloved nation.

I will remain positive even though I know it may be very hard at times.

Knowing that there are those who really, really seek to hurt others, destroy others,

who seem to really have no feelings, no empathy for others

refusing to follow the words of Christ,

"Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these, you did it unto Me."

Matthew 25:35-40

Those of us who believe in dignity, love and compassion

must remain strong and determined to reach out

Not with the closed fist of war

but with the open hand

of forgiveness, love, and compassion.

Walk a Mile in My Shoes

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Tue, 18 Aug 2020 22:27:00 +0000

I grew up living in an apartment in Harlem. When I moved to L.A. I lived in an apartment there. It wasn’t my desire to have a house though after experiencing rents that went up without explanation, downstairs neighbors that harassed my child when she walked across the floor or a landlord who was reluctant to fix a leaky toilet or replace a blown out light bulb on the stairs, I began to seriously think about buying a house. Home ownership in my chosen area was beyond my meager salary; however, after much searching, I finally found a house I could afford though it was many miles away from my job. That was years ago before the catastrophe in the housing industry. But when I hear people say, “Not all people should have a house. They should be content to live in an apartment,” I wince. Not because what they are saying is true in some instances, but because it implies only certain people should have a house. I wonder if those who say this ever lived in an apartment where rents climbed and things broke and were never repaired, and walls were so thin you could hear your neighbor breathe. It’s fine if you can afford a luxury apartment with plenty of amenities, but not all people can. In addition, some people prefer to pay rent than a mortgage. Nevertheless, I have empathy for the plight of those who want to have a safe, decent place to live and to raise their family; and who have gone out on a limb to secure one; Isn’t that part of the American dream?

However, this essay isn’t about homeownership. It’s about empathy. What is empathy? I’ve been thinking about that word for a while, especially when I heard it used as a negative or weakness. My dictionary defines empathy as an identification and understanding of another’s feelings, situations and motives. That doesn’t sound like a weakness to me. It’s almost like the saying “walk a mile in my shoes,” or “maybe if you walk a mile in my shoes, you will understand what I’m going through.” I don’t have to have the same experience you have to empathize with you. I simply need to be sensitive to your situation. Having empathy doesn’t mean one is weak or naïve. Having empathy enhances a person’s humanity. It allows one to see both sides of an issue; to not jump to conclusions based on ones beliefs or opinion.

What happens when one does not have empathy? Not having empathy or understanding promotes intolerance. It can lead a person to relate to others based on ones prejudices and can lead to devaluing a person’s humanity. Also it can lead to reducing people to labels, not understanding other people who are different from you. It can cause us to see a homeless person as an annoyance rather than a human being keeping us from understanding “there but for the grace of God….” Or when one considers illegal immigration, one sees aliens coming in to “take away our jobs,” rather than seeking a better life for their family. Or the argument that those who have lost their homes should have been content to rent since not all people should have a home.

I’m not condoning a person’s actions whether it is illegal, irresponsible or whatever. Rather, I’m appealing to the humanity in us all. Being empathetic may help us understand that we are not different from our neighbor. When we realize this, maybe we can build a better world.

in-Between Spaces

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Sat, 08 Dec 2018 21:44:00 +0000

Deborah Ladd, Guest Blogger

I heard a someone say that, "We the people of the United States,

in order to form a more perfect union..." must come together.

How many ways can we do this in a seemingly graceless time?

Sometimes it’s in the work place.

On the very last day I walked towards

the final closing of the door behind me.

I was moving more towards my future in front of me,

rather than the memories behind me.

But I was holding on in that moment.

Then I realized that I would miss

the more perfect “unions” of the people and their lives …bittersweet.

Maya Angelou once said that,

”…you remember the way people make you feel.”

Yes, you see I remembered how I felt

right at the intersection of those in between moments

I guess you can call it a “union”.

We unite in those in between spaces,

that fall in and out if time.

It was in the stories told about the weekends and vacations.

It was in the soft wave of a hello or in a simple smile,

perhaps a gift, a hug, the sharing of photos,

the abrupt closing of an office door, a shoulder to sometimes lean on or cry on.

It was in births and graduations, weddings and funerals, office parties,

the frequent uttering of joy and despair, defeat and

the celebrations of living, and then celebrations of lives no longer lived.

Sometimes there were cursings of anger, tears of joy.

Nothing but people …us forming a more "perfect union”...every single day.

I shall mention a few…

An Iowan, farm raised, family person,

smart, hard-working, dignified, compassionate.

An East Indian living in a beautifully arranged marriage

for thirty plus years who explained the caste system

and the reverence of the Hindu religion.

The Nigerian, a mastermind of numbers and figures,

proud of tribal roots, children and family.

The Cuban, a naturalized United States citizen whose parents worked hard

escaping communism and creating a new reality in America.

The American Southerner, a part of the Great Migration

via Chicago to Los Angeles, a class act, a powerful, sophisticated lady.

The Egyptian Goddess, loving, caring,

whose ancestral smile reminded me of some of my own history.

A local grown man, flag waving, a military man,

a proud, brave courageous man, loving his country.

A Korean, a loving husband, a courageous man

who traveled through the uncertainties in life.

And when the person from Downey spoke

it was of her family, her rock.

The Filipina raised in Hawaii whose mom shared her story

of being a young girl who lived through the Pearl Harbor bombing.

The person with Chinese roots who remembered

to teach his family to never, ever forget culture,

his photo wall proudly displaying his life.

To the one born in East Los Angeles rooted in Latino culture,

taking care of an aging parent and raising family.

And the Armenian remembering her life and ancestors

who escaped daily bombings,

she worked hard to make America home.

Are these Americans?

Yes, these are Americans.

This is America but not whose America?

In order to form a more perfect union

we must connect to our own humanity,

to the you in me, the me in you.

‘Cause we love like that in those in between moments,

in and out of time.

No limits.

A more perfect union.

The union of love with love.

For in the beauty of the spaces and places where they lived or may have lived,

I saw their beauty in living colors, in living cultures, in time, in life.

The love between us is celebrated in the in between moments where you and I really live.

Yes, I think I I have enjoyed more perfect unions…

...I know that I have loved.

Expect Changes

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Wed, 17 Oct 2018 22:35:00 +0000

Al Turnbull Guest Blogger

(An Old Man's Guide to Advanced Age)

You are old Father William and your hair has become very white...Lewis Carroll

We are constantly told in the daily news reports that our population is aging. An advertisement in a popular magazine proclaims that 10,000 people turn 65 every day. They don't cite their research, but anyhow, it is evident that there are a lot of children and a lot of old people around; also, there is evidence when you read obituaries in the newspaper that many people are living long lives. As one of the elder eldest (I am 89), I feel that I am in a position to expound on old age as an expert on how to exist in a hostile environment. At least I have some ideas and suggestions to those of you who are in your middle seventies and are going to have to be canny and realize that you are going to have to re-learn many things as time rushes by, and you become among the old older.

First of all, particularly, if you are a man, you need a companion. Women seem to be stronger and more skillful in living by themselves. An old person needs to develop special skills to survive and care for themselves. A consultation with a physical therapist is worthwhile for one must learn basic skills as how to sit and rise from a chair, get in and out of bed, walk and not shuffle, how to stand, how to get dressed, and how to move. Negotiating stairs is a huge problem if there is no railing and wall to balance oneself. A deep overstuffed chair or sofa could easily trap a person who no longer has strong pliable muscles to rise. There is a great need to have balancing skills to avoid falls.

After realizing and accommodating the unremitting physical limitations of aging, staying mentally alert is essential. Read the daily newspaper, books and magazines, do crossword puzzles, and learn to use a computer but beware of dangers that come with one; don't become enslaved to social networks and beware of people trying to scam you. Messages with weird or foreign words in the subject line should be consigned to the spam file. Learn to use the delete key. Form your own opinions, think for yourself, and avoid political pundits and preachers who demand your money to get you priority in heaven. Just because you are old you don't have to fall for some criminal's folderol!

Look after your health. Exercise daily, see your doctor when you are not feeling right, and visit your dentist; every tooth you keep adds a year to your longevity, (this is my maxim). Your doctor, dentist and optometrist are vital guardians.

Another area you must consider as you age is your financial health. An absolute sign of dotage is squandering money. You do not have to contribute to every charity that sends you address labels and begs for cash. I feel giving a scholarship fund at an accredited college is better than buying Thanksgiving dinner for the indolent. They will be hungry the day following. Absolutely never make loans or co-sign for a family member or friend. If a bank won't lend to them, you dare not. Run from financial advisors who want to sell insurance or dubious annuities. Find bonds and stocks to work for you and don't allow money to stay in a low yield bank account. Make a will that wisely distributes your estate and will not reward unworthy family members who never bother to call you, remember your birthday, or thank you for gifts, as you become old.

Here are some additional ideas I have to offer

· Keep a supply of flashlights around: small, cheap, LED-type give a lot of light and will save you in a power failure.

· Keep a light on in the bathroom.

· Be meticulous about taking your medications.

· Try not to cross roadways. You walk slowly and drivers are inattentive.

· Make friends

· When out of your home, carry pepper spray to ward off muggers and pit bulls

· Be a volunteer

· Have a special place for your keys, eyeglasses, and other essentials. Immediate recall just about disappears as you go up in your 80's.

· Eat balance meals and use fresh fruits for snacks.

· Take a short afternoon nap.

· Germs hate you. Fight them by washing your hands frequently and make liberal use of hand sanitizers when eating in buffets and restaurants.

· Graciously realize when you must surrender your driver's license. When you leave, you don't want to take any pedestrians with you.

· Keep your doors locked, never answer your door after dark, and never admit a stranger into your home.

· Keep valuables and important papers in a safe deposit box.

· Be informed on local issues and vote.

· Pay your bills on line when possible. Go to the post office to mail checks.

· Be acquainted with your neighbors.

Finally, be prudent and mature: Father William, if you read on in Lewis Carrol's poem, was standing on his head. Accept that when you are in your 80's you must not do things that a child can. Don't be childish.

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Catching up with Technology

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Wed, 21 Mar 2018 20:00:00 +0000

I have collected cookbooks for years. I've even created my own cookbook cutting out interesting and unique recipes from newspaper and magazines. One evening, I decided to make spinach quiche for dinner and began searching through my collection to find one without too many ingredients and not too difficult to make. While going through my cookbooks, my head buried behind the pile, my niece walked into the room. "Auntie, what are you doing?" I looked up at her and down at her hand in which she held her cellphone. an appendage attached to her hand as she seldom puts it down. When I told her, she said simply, "Why don't you just goggle it."

"Google it?" I asked. She peered down at her phone while tapping on the screen. Within seconds, she pulled up several recipes for spinach quiche and showed them to me. I was impressed. In response to many questions I have about anything and everything, her response is always "just goggle it." Reluctant to give up the method I've used for so many years, I began to reconsider. Faced with the dilemma whether to move into the 21st century, I pondered, should I toss out my old cookbooks or keep them for old time sake; though I could use the space.

This makes me think about how many changes we face as technology advances. How many of us are torn between the old ways and the new? I won't go into moving from the corded phone to the cordless, to the cell phone; from large, unwieldly maps to Goggle map or GPS etc.

I decided to keep my cookbooks for now; haven't gotten up the courage to get rid of them and I'm not sure I want to. But when I need a recipe, I use the internet. It's faster and easier. I still carry a box with those large maps in the trunk of my car though I use GPS and Goggle maps whenever I travel. Bottom line, because of so many advances in technology, things have gotten much easier on the one hand. On the other hand, I'll miss those days when it took time to find the answer to a problem. There is something to be said about nostalgia.

Living in the Present

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Fri, 26 May 2017 01:43:00 +0000

Anna Chase

Guest Blogger

achaser.blogspot.com

Living in the now and being fully present and mindful of each and every moment sounds like a great idea – it’s so Zen! But have you ever really tried it? How can something so basic be so hard?

I don’t dwell much on the past but I do a lot of thinking and sometimes worrying about the future. A certain amount of planning is necessary, but worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet is a waste of time and energy.

If you think about it, our feelings of love, spirituality and true joy are “in the moment” feelings. Yet, how to achieve this state all the time seems impossible.

When I try to concentrate on the here and now, my mind always wonders. For example, when I’m taking a walk I’m usually timing myself to be sure I do at least 30 minutes, and all the while I’m thinking about what I’m going to do next, when I should be soaking up my surroundings and just appreciating what is right in front of me at the moment. What’s my hurry? Time passes too quickly as it is and here I am trying to push it ahead even faster.

For me, trying too hard to make each moment joyful, spiritual or relaxing usually has the opposite effect. I think we just have to accept the here and now as it is and not try to change it into something better. Maybe all we need to do is pay attention to each experience as it comes. If my mind wanders, as it often does, I’ve found that it’s best not to resist it. If I’m being distracted by too many random or unproductive thoughts, I can start by just being thankful that I noticed it. Then I can take a deep breath and turn my attention back to the present. This way I can increase my mindfulness a little at a time.

What about feelings of stress, anxiety and sadness? This is a part of life that we all experience. I find that if I try to push away these feelings, they just get worse. If you don’t accept these feelings for what they are, then you begin to try to justify them by making a mental list of all the bad things in your life. It’s not likely that this will make you feel better. So, when you are sad, just accept that it’s okay. Even accepting your negative feelings is a way of living in the moment.

Some people may think that living for today means being unmotivated. In other words, if I accept everything in my life as it is, how will I have any motivation to get things done? I think the answer may be that finding joy in our special talents and even the small things we do each day will keep us motivated.

If we really focus on the here and now, maybe we can live more fully from moment to moment. In every moment there is a choice. If we keep reminding ourselves to pay attention to what is around us and what we are doing right now, even cleaning house can be uplifting – if we do it with our whole heart and with our best intention.

Studying Other Writers

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Sun, 07 May 2017 04:09:00 +0000

I’m always looking for ways to improve my writing. I try to write every day, I keep a journal. Whenever I read a particularly good book, I write a review for myself. Sometimes I’m so impressed with the author’s writing style, the seamless way in which a story is told combining all the right elements, in the right proportion, I study the author’s technique; not for the purpose of imitating his/or her style, but to understand what makes one author’s writing stand out from another’s.

In most novels the following elements are present in one form or another - protagonist, antagonist, conflict(s), setting, dialogue, exposition, theme, minor characters, storyline, plotting. But it is the way those elements are put together that distinguishes good writing from bad. I recently read a novel that contained all the above elements; however, as I read I was aware of the author’s missteps and rather than losing myself in the world the author had created, I found myself noticing the problems with the novel. It’s like making a cake. One might put all the ingredients together, but if they are not in the right proportion, the cake will taste awful.

While one can learn to write a novel in a relatively short period of time, reading well-written novels can elevate the writer’s sense of aesthetes. In art schools, students are taught to study the masters. I’m not suggesting that beginning writers have to study Shakespeare, Milton, Twain, Dickens or other writers of a period long ago. It can help; however, there are excellent novelists writing today. What I am suggesting is that when you come across a novel that moves you - not just the storyline itself, but in the way the story unfolds, by how the various elements come together to create a whole – believable characters, authentic dialogue, vivid settings, complex plotting, and a theme that resonates long after you put the book down, reread it or examine passages as one would study a painting or a textbook. Note what the author did that captivated you. Ask yourself how the author made you give up your time, lose yourself to spend hours, days, even weeks to enter his/her world.

My reading lists spans continents. I read widely. I read fiction as well as non-fiction, and poetry as well as drama. If you were to ask well-known authors for their reading list you’ll find they read widely, too. In essence, reading good writing enhances your own.

You're Not Too Old

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Tue, 25 Nov 2014 04:46:00 +0000

“I’m too old,” a friend said to me when I asked her to go with me to the (gym). “What do you mean you’re too old?” I asked. “I’m almost 73," she said, "and when you get to be my age, you can’t do the things you use to do.”

I’ve heard that mantra from people younger than me, “I’m old.” They talk almost obsessively about their age. I wonder if it’s an excuse not to try anything new. When one says one is old, what exactly does that mean?

“I'm old. I’d just rather sit in front of the TV, and watch the world go by, content in my suffering." Satisfied to live vicariously?

Does it mean one is ready to give up on life, sit down and wait for death? Have they stopped living? Not interested in exploring new areas? Close minded, stuck in the past; unable to accept changes?

Does that mean all the aches and pains remind one of ones age. And prevents them from trying something new?

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” one friend said when I tried to get him to accompany me to a class. Yes, you can teach an old dog new tricks. But the dog has to be interested in learning.

From the moment of our birth, we age. Yes, I admit that there are certain stages in our lives when significant changes take place; Going from a baby to a toddler, from preteens to teenager, from a teenager to a young adult, a young adult to an adult, middle age, elderly. Granted, as we age we must endure new aches and pains almost daily. However, if we focus only on those aches and pains, it prevents us from being open. And being open allows us to experience life's riches.

There are many advantages to growing older. My list includes:

1. I don’t have to compete for attention from the opposite sex.

2. I wear what I like, comfort takes priority over trends.

2. I’m comfortable with myself and with my decisions.

3. I can stop and smell the roses if I choose.

4. I’m like a child, my mind is open to new vistas and I’m willing to explore.

Despite my age, I feel young though for the younger person, I'm considered ancient. My body has sagged, wrinkles invade; I've got little aches and pains from time to time. I may be invisible to the young/younger, however, I don't center (focus) on being old. I’m aware of the things I can no longer do. But there are so many things I want to learn, places I want to go, that I don’t have time to think about age.

Vanity, Thy Name Is...

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Tue, 30 Sep 2014 00:09:00 +0000

I don't think we ever outgrow vanity in some form or another. I remember when I was young, my eyesight was so bad that I needed to wear thick glasses. I wore them reluctantly, and would remove them whenever I could though it left me quite blind. Unless I wore those thick lens, my world was draped in blurred images like the time years ago, when I was in a play at a theatre in L.A. Though I was part of the Greek chorus, every evening before running on stage I left my glasses upstairs in the dressing room and made my way down to the stage. To this day, I couldn't tell you who was in the audience. We could have been playing to an empty house as far as I could see.

Hating to wear glasses as a young girl was understandable then. During my teenage and young adult years I was very aware of the saying "men (boys) don't make passes at girls who wear glasses." More than a few times I and my other spectacle-wearing friends suffered under the moniker "four eyes" hurled by some cruel member of the opposite sex or, heaven forbid, being labeled a "nerd." Today, glasses are fashionable prompting some who don't need them, to wear them because they are "cool."

Not wearing glasses when necessary is not the only form of vanity competing with sensible healthy choices. I've seen women whose feet were obviously killing them persevere in those 6 inch heels despite the possibility of doing serious damage to their ankles. It's difficult to look cute when your feet are killing you. But what the heck! it's the style.

Some forms of vanity can be more hazardous to your health than others. A friend told me he wouldn't use his cane at his volunteer job in a hospital because he didn't want people to know and feel sympathetic or worst, lose his job. He has fallen several times because of lack of balance. He's 87 years old. We've suggested a walker or perhaps a scooter. At the moment he rejects those ideas.

Perhaps the worst case of vanity replacing good sense is one I recently heard. A woman who has spent her life smoking heavily now has COPD. When her doctor told her if she wanted to continue her mobility, she needed to carry an oxygen canister around with her. She refused declaring she'd rather be dead than carry an oxygen canister.

These are just a few examples of vanity dictating the choices we make. There are many more. Hopefully, as we age we realize that some forms of vanity not only can harm you, they may even kill you.

What Ever Happened To That Old Dress?

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Mon, 16 Sep 2013 20:48:00 +0000

Do you remember your old clothes? At times I look up and begin to wonder, "What ever happened to that red dress that I wore to a party when I was a young girl? It was a long sleeve red knit with white dickie." My mother bought it for me from Macy's Department Store where she worked; I wore it on my first date. She was always bringing me the latest fashions which she got at an employee discount; that is until I was a young adult, working and able to buy my own clothes. I remember buying a beautiful chiffon, yellow striped shirtwaist. At the time I wore size 10. I got to wear it once before it became too small or did I gain weight? Still I held on to it for the longest time, hoping one day I'd be able to fit into it again. After a few years, reality set in; I gave it to my local thrift shop. What ever happened to the dress I wore at my wedding? It was beige with brown trim. Being impulsive and a romantic, I had convinced my boyfriend to elope to get away from his domineering mother. We've since divorced. And what did I do with those platform shoes that were fashionable years ago and have recently come back into fashion?

You're wondering what brought about my reminiscing about clothes? For some of us, clothes, shoes, hats, what we wear hold not only significant memories, but also a bit of cultural history. Long after the item is gone, probably completely disintegrated, forgotten, something will trigger the image in our minds. A dress gone out of fashion years later will suddenly be in vogue. But the memory of the times and situations when we wore certain items remain embedded and can evoke happy or sad memories. Few of my clothes carry any meaningful memories like my mother's mouton. I don't have the mini skirts or Dashikis I wore back in the day. Though sometimes I wish I did especially when someone throws a "good old days party." Styles continually evolve forcing fashionistas to run to keep up. Some people shop often, buying new things and tossing out the not-so-new without a backward glance. I don't imagine they attach any important significance to their clothes. However, for those of us who seldom shop, once in a while, somewhere in those items we've tossed is a memory that lies dormant and when we least expect it, it will reappear and demand some sort of response, a laugh, a smile, or perhaps, a tear.

Laughter is Good Medicine

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Fri, 17 May 2013 23:27:00 +0000

There is an old saying that laughter is good medicine. It's been around a long time and I believe it's true. Laughter is also contagious. When I was a young girl, just a certain look from my sister would send me into spasms of laughter. And she would do it purposely. I laughed a lot when I was younger. I laughed at movies like the "Carry-on" British series and "Dr. Strangelove." Recently I saw a Carry-on" movie on TV and I didn't find it funny at all. I laughed at my relatives when they'd do something, not intentional, but to me it was funny. My father would lecture us on our behavior. I wouldn't laugh in his presence. That could lead to dire consequences. And I would laugh at my aunts and uncles who had a tendency to imbibe too much and act crazy.

As a young adult, I laughed a bit, but not the kind of guffaws that erupted unexpectedly in my youth. Personal and family relationships, concern with school, job, marriage and raising a family really cut into my sense of humor. My emotional rollercoaster seldom rose above a polite chuckle. I don't mean I never laughed. I just can't remember those deep spontaneous laughs from my young days. Then one day, I realized I hadn't had a good laugh in a long while and I missed it. As an older adult, my responsibilities have lessened, my life has become simpler, and the belly laughs have returned. Now, I laugh at the silly mistakes I make. Once I couldn't find my keys and I had an appointment. I climbed out the window, went to my son's school, got his keys, only to discover I'd locked mine in the garage. I laugh at some things in life that I use to take much too seriously.

I've read that laughter is good for ones health. They even have classes to show people how to laugh. Now that's funny. There are enough things in life that make us cry. And plenty of people who enjoy having company in their woes. It's best to avoid those who feel better only when they can make another suffer. When I focus on the bright side of life, seeing humor even in little things like my grandbaby being mischievous, doing things one-year olds do and driving her parents insane, it makes me laugh. I like to laugh. It makes me feel positive, looking forward to life's challenges, and it keeps me healthy.

Mama's Mouton

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Sun, 17 Mar 2013 02:03:00 +0000

During the 1950's Mama saved up from her stock clerk job at a big department store in N.Y. When she had enough money, she purchased a mouton* coat. It was beautiful heavy, capable of withstanding New York winters and probably would do just fine in Alaska. It had a rich warm brown color, lined, with a high collar that covered her ears and wide sleeves almost like the sleeves on a kimono except the lining wrapped around her wrist to keep out the cold. It wasn't a mink, or a sable, Mama couldn't afford either, but she looked fantastic in her mouton. She only wore it to church and on special occasions like when Daddy took her out for a night of dancing at the Savoy Ballroom. For a long time, we kids didn't know what a mouton was or even how to spell it. All we knew was that it was some sort of fur coat and that Mama loved it.

When Mama died, my brother inherited her mouton along with the house and whatever items his siblings left when we struck out on our own. His wife buried it deep in the basement behind boxes and there it languished until one time when I returned for a visit. She hurriedly retrieved the coat and thrust it into my arms. "Here, get this thing out of here!" she said. It frightened her, made her feel uneasy. I didn't ask the reason. I hauled the heavy coat back to California and put it in my closet. Each time I moved from one apartment to another, from one town to another, I carried Mama's mouton and put it in the back of my closet. Every once in a while, I take it out, try it on and think perhaps I'll have it shortened, have it made into a jacket. I'll have to do it soon because the moths have begun their attack. Even knowing that I'll probably never have a reason to wear it unless I take a trip to New York in the winter or to Alaska or Siberia, I treasure Mama's mouton and cannot see myself giving it away, tossing it, or trying to sell it on ebay. It's the same with Mama's dishes, but that's another story. Some things are difficult to part with whether or not they are of use.

*A mouton is sheepskin sheared and processed to look like beaver or seal.

Pursuing Your Passion

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 23:41:00 +0000

Last year around this time my good friend Mattie decided it was time that she stopped procrastinating and do what she always wanted to do - learn to paint. She said all her life she'd wanted to learn to paint but some thing or other would get in the way. "I've seen too many of my friends with all sorts of dreams who never got around to fulfilling any of them before they were too ill or died." So she enrolled in an art class at her senior center and every week, she attends class. When I went by her house the other day; all along the walls of her family room were pictures she'd painted, beautiful landscapes, portraits and still life. On her easel was another she was working on. After working as a nurse most of her adult life, she had finally acknowledged her passion and said it enriched her life.

I have another friend who taught himself to play the guitar and every spare moment, he's in his garage learning new chords, listening to all sorts of musical styles and trying to imitate them. He doesn't do this because he wants to be a recording artist and make a lot of money; Rather, he told me, he's doing it because it is what he loves. He, too, has found his passion.

I'd never thought about passion in that way before - discovering things within you that you've always desired to do but for one reason or other, you've disregarded as being unimportant or because of what others might think. We usually think of passion in a limited sense having to do with romantic desire. In a broad sense, it is being enthusiastic about life.

So when do we find time to discover our passion, what we love to do no matter how trivial? Retirement is the perfect time; that is if your health and finances allow you. If you've always wanted to learn to sing, dance, travel, knit, write, act or whatever, find a way to satisfy your desire. Don't discount it or put it off for another time. Don't think that you're too old. Pursue your passion with boundless energy regardless of whether it will lead to financial gain. Pursuing your passion can make life so much more fulfilling.

Planned Obsolescence

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Sat, 11 Aug 2012 00:33:00 +0000

The other day when I tried to use my printer, it said, “check your color cartridge.” I had recently installed a brand new color cartridge in it. I followed the instructions, but it continued to tell me to check the color cartridge. I figured maybe it meant the black cartridge so I installed a new black cartridge. No matter, the instructions wouldn’t go away. I unplugged the printer and plugged it in again. Slowly the printer began to print. I’ve noticed this happening more and more frequently. The printer would take minutes to print out a page, sometimes not completing the job at all. I was fed up. “How long have I had this printer?” I wondered. It didn’t seem that long ago when it was brand new. I was elated with its many features. Unlike my old printer that only printed, this one copied and scanned in black and white as well as color. Five years had passed since I’d replaced my old printer with this one. Because having a working printer is essential to my work, I went out and bought a new one. What to do with the old one? I asked myself. Toss it in the garbage bin like rotten meat? I envisioned my printer setting on a mountain of trash to become part of a landfill. Sell it to some unsuspecting soul at a yard sale or on eBay with glowing reports extolling its special features?

Come to think of it, lately objects I bought not that long ago like my garbage disposal, steam cleaner, and my computer have all quit on me. Is this a conspiracy? I wondered. In all fairness, when I checked to see how long ago I purchased these items, it had been a little over five years ago. Is this how long something you’ve paid good money for suppose to last? I’ve heard the term “planned obsolescence;” however, I wasn’t conscious as to the real effect until I noticed it happening to me. I know I have to replace these and other items such as my cell phone and camera, as they are important to me. Keeping up with the changes in technology is one thing, and it is an expensive endeavor. Having things intentionally built to break down is another. I realize I can’t do anything about this.

However, I do have options as to how to dispose of things that no longer work. I could toss, sell, or recycle. I can recycle the computer and the printer, but what to do with the steam cleaner and the garbage disposal? Once upon a time some things could be repaired, but today there are few places to have things repaired. For me it’s difficult to toss into the garbage something that looks as good as the day I bought it, the only problem is that it simply doesn’t work. It’s easy to see how some people become hoarders. Today it becomes a battle of keeping up with a changing society where new gadgets become old within a short period of time. Things that use to last break down much sooner. Granted, sometimes those new gadgets make life a bit easier. However, the problem still remains, what to do with something that is no longer useful? Another option is to give the items to charity, like Goodwill, Veteran’s groups or thrift shops with the hope that they can repair them and resell. It’s good to know I have options. Contributing to a landfill will be my last choice.

Travel Lessons Learned

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Fri, 08 Jun 2012 21:23:00 +0000

I’ve learned from the many mishaps I and others have had traveling around the country and around the world. Here are a few anecdotes and tips to help you avoid making the same mistakes.

Years ago, when I went with my aunt to Nigeria, though we were required to have a small pox injection prior to leaving the U.S., my aunt decided she wouldn’t. We spent two weeks in the country having a fine time. However, when it was time to leave and return home, she was stopped by the customs official. “Where is your certification proving that you’ve had a small pox injection?” the customs official asked her. "We cannot let you leave without it!" She was dumbfounded. I’d been cleared and anxiously waited for her near the exit to the field. Fortunately, the doctor, a friend of the family, had accompanied us to the airport to say goodbye. When the officials took her into a room, he went with her while I waited, wondering if I’d see my aunt again. I imagined her being taken away in handcuffs to jail. The plane filled with passengers stood on the runway waiting. After a while my aunt appeared looking a bit shaken, but grateful she was allowed to board the plane. Tip - If told that you must have a shot before visiting a country, if you don’t want to be harassed, get it.

Another friend who is an avid photographer was on a cruise when something happened to the ship and passengers were told they must quickly disembark onto a small island in the Caribbean. She grabbed her camera equipment and followed the other passengers getting off the ship. Only when she landed on shore did she realize she had forgotten to take along her purse that contained her medicine. She spent several frantic hours in search of a pharmacy to replace her medicine. Luckily, the passengers were told to return to the ship before her health was greatly affected. Tip- always keep your medicine with you when traveling.

On my last day in Manila, Philippines, the zipper on my suitcase broke. Unable to fix it, I searched for a store to purchase a new one. Despite my dwindling funds, I bought a lovely expensive one. When the plane landed at my home airport, I waited patiently for my luggage. But when my beautiful new bag arrived on the carousel, one wheel was missing. As it was late and all I wanted to do was get home, I hauled my damaged suitcase to the car and drove home figuring I’d deal with the problem the next day. When I contacted the airport, I was told they were not responsible for damaged baggage. I didn’t pursue the matter. Tip – Don’t buy expensive luggage unless you don’t mind the expense of replacing it.

While in the airport in Trinidad returning from a week’s vacation, I stopped in the duty free store and purchased a bottle of Rum Punch. I put it in my carryon so it wouldn’t break and boarded the flight to Miami where I was to change planes for home. Unfortunately, the layover in Miami was twelve hours so I decided rather than wait at the airport, I’d spend overnight in a nearby hotel. The next morning I made my way back to the airport for my flight. I checked my luggage and with my carryon, I headed for security. I was more than a little surprised when I was stopped. “You are not allowed to carry liquids through security,” the security man told me. “But I bought this at the airport in Trinidad at the duty free shop.” No matter, my choice was to purchase another suitcase and check it through to my destination, toss the bottle, drink the whole bottle outside the terminal in which case I’d probably be too drunk to make my flight, or to give the bottle away. I didn’t want to purchase a suitcase just for a bottle of rum, nor could I bring myself to toss it. There was no question about me downing the liquor. The only alternative was to find someone to give the bottle to. I rushed around the terminal looking for someone to whom I could give the liter bottle of Rum Punch. I saw a friendly looking man standing by the terminal door. I handed him the bottle and hurried back to security. I wish I could have stayed to see the perplexed look on his face but I had to get to my plane. Tip – which I’m sure you know, put any alcoholic beverages you’ve purchased in a well-padded pouch and pack them in your suitcase.

I learned many other things in my travels such as pack light, and don’t put valuables in your checked baggage, instead put them in your carryon. I think one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned though, is to keep an open mind, be flexible and have a good sense of humor.

An Evening at Madam L's Soiree

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 05:46:00 +0000

I know you’re tired of reading about my Paris adventures. This is the last one, I promise. I’d like to move on to other things. It deals with a very interesting evening we had at the home of a Paris resident and an ingenious though not original way of surviving in the City of Lights. To protect her identity, we’ll just call her Madam L. An evening at Madam L’s Soiree. Before leaving home, a friend suggested that when I got to Paris I must contact this African American woman in Paris who hosted soirees for visitors. “She hosts parties for artists of all genres at her home.” While my friend hadn’t been to one when she visited Paris, she had heard about her from a friend.

One day during our stay, I called the number my friend had given me. Madam L told me she was having a soiree that evening at her house and gave me directions by train. Her apartment was located on the Left Bank. My sister and I took the train to her stop and followed directions to her apartment. By that time, night had fallen, and streetlights had come on. Few people walked along the street. This would be our first time inside an apartment in Paris and we were excited.

To enter the building we had to pass through a huge iron gate. Once inside, we walked across the yard and into the ancient apartment building that reminded me of Harlem. A note on her mailbox indicated that visitors were to leave the Euros or francs inside her mailbox and come up. We were reluctant to do that.

When we reached her apartment on the third floor, a young woman opened the door and greeted us warmly. In her hand she held a cigar box into which we deposited our money. Apparently few visitors left money downstairs. Then we walked into the living room already crowded with people; it was difficult to make out the décor. I saw three people on the sofa and someone sitting in the only comfortable chair in the room. Everyone else stood around in small groups. Several guests spoke French, a few English. A young black man with an unusually high head came over, shook our hands and told us he had lived there for years. Originally from Philly, he was a poet who had come to Paris and settled. He found it an exciting and welcoming place. We met two English women who had come over by the Chunnel train from London for the weekend.

Emerging from the kitchen, our host appeared carrying a large bowl of squash soup. A harried, slightly intoxicated petite woman, honey brown complexion, she wore beige lounging pajamas and flat shoes, a gold chain around her neck. Her short brown hair was stylishly cut. She didn’t appear very friendly and smelled of whiskey. She flittered busily around the room handing out small bowls, ladling up the squash soup and speaking French like a native. Her helpers, two young French women, passed out hors d’oeuvres and glasses of wine. After standing around for what seemed like hours, we managed to find seats on the sofa. By that time I felt almost claustrophobic and awkward. The squash soup was delicious as was the wine. Since it was a warm night, the windows were open. We were told to keep our conversations down so as not to disturb the neighbors. There had been some complaints about her gatherings. Suddenly, small white stools appeared seemingly out of thin air and everyone sat down. Madam L appeared from the kitchen once more to introduce the special guests, an author who had written several books. He read a few pages to our applause and answered questions about his books. Glancing down at her watch, my sister suggested we take our leave as the trains would be shutting down soon and we didn’t want to get stuck walking through Paris that late. We couldn’t locate Madam L. to say our goodbyes.

I left my email address and for a few years received emails from her telling everyone on her email list who the guests would be, how much it costs, and where the soiree was being held. It wasn’t until I became a recipient of spam along with others judging by their hostile responses that I blocked her emails.

Paris in August Part Three

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 01:01:00 +0000

My sister and I anxiously waited in the lobby of Unk’s hotel. We would finally get to meet our cousin, Lynette (not her real name). Unk had returned upstairs to his room and said he’d be back down shortly. The lobby was filled with crowds of men and women, dressed in business suits and a few tourists dressed in shorts, tee shirts and sunglasses. Enter Lynette with her manager/boyfriend. How did I know it was she? In her mid thirties, Lynette is tall, over 6 ft., statuesque, and possessing an aura of “I know who I am.” She wore no make-up; short dark curls framed her smooth, heart-shaped face. She wore a short black mini skirt and a turquoise tee shirt. On her long shapely legs, she wore black flats. Her manager, Lorenzo, 5’4, was an olive complexion, medium built Italian, his curly black hair sprinkled with gray as was his scruffy beard and mustache. He looked to be in his forties. Hesitant, we walked over to them. Just as we reached them, Unk suddenly appeared and dispelled any doubt. We hugged; Lynette introduced us to her companion. Unk and Lynette caught up on the last time they’d met. Laughing, he said “Last time I was here, she walked me all over Paris.” Lynette turned to Sis and me. “And how are we related?” Unk explained. Sis elaborated giving examples from our youth spent visiting Lynette’s family, our first cousins. “We knew you mother….” That question was asked several times during our short visit. I got the feeling she didn’t believe us.

Lynette had come to the City of Lights a few years earlier. She’d graduated from a prestigious college in the East with a degree in Sociology and had come to Paris for vacation. She fell in love with the place and returned shortly after. She auditioned for a gig at a nightclub, was hired, and thus began her career as an entertainer. A popular singer in Paris, Lynette had been on TV and had worked in several nightclubs around the city. As we walked towards the exit of the hotel, Lorenzo told us the plans they had for her career. We agreed to meet at our hotel that evening, and they would take us to a Senegalese restaurant near Montmartre.

Around seven that evening, we met them in the lobby. The five of us squeezed into Lorenzo’s small Fiat and we headed towards Montmartre. Before we were halfway up the steep hill, it became evident that the car would not make it. It began to stall. He quickly pulled over to the curb, and told us we would have to walk the rest of the way. As it was a clear, mild, lovely evening, we didn’t mind. The restaurant was dimly lit, a few people stood at the bar. I followed the group as the waiter led us up narrow stairs to the second floor where several tables covered with white tablecloths were spread across the room. Because it was early evening, we were the only dinner guests. The brightly lit walls were peach with alternating brown and beige wainscoting; small abstract prints hung between the lights. In the background the soft rhythmic sounds of West African music enhanced the atmosphere. The food was delicious – rice and stew, pepper soup, fried fish and Banana Manadazi (Banana Fritters) for dessert. We enjoyed a lively conversation that ranged from life in Paris, to Lynette’s career, to explaining again how we were related.

Soon it was time to leave. We made our way back down the narrow stairs to the first floor. The downstairs was packed, the bar was crowded as were the small tables with people talking, laughing drinking and smoking. It reminded me of the cafes in New York's Greenwich Village. Over the noise I heard someone reciting a poem. I would have loved to linger in this exotic atmosphere but it was getting late. One thing, however, held up our departure. Outside it was raining. Not a gentle rain but an angry storm. Lorenzo, his tee shirt pulled up over his head, told us to wait inside and he would go down to get the car. He soon returned, we jumped in and just as we reached our hotel, the rain stopped. It had been a memorable day.

Paris in August Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 23:17:00 +0000

Unk invited my sister and me to the Foliere’s Begere for dinner and a show. He picked us up in a taxi and dressed in our finery, we rode across the city, now bathed in bright lights, for an evening of fun. My uncle who is known for his frugality, especially when it comes to his nieces, was particularly generous that evening treating us to a seven course dinner, a stylish show, and to top it off, a bottle of champagne. The evening ended on a high note.

The next day, Sis and I decided to explore the nearby neighborhood including Place Pigalle. Coming out of our hotel, one of the first things we noticed was the gentlemen’s club right across from us. Down the narrow block, apartment buildings and small hotels like ours were intermingled among these clubs. Throughout the day and far into the night, women, heavily made-up, scantily clad and wearing high-heeled shoes stood in the doorways of the clubs, - young, old, shapely, and shapeless, blonds, brunettes, and redheads. They called out to male passersby, trying to entice them to enter the clubs to fulfill their fantasies. Other tourists walked up and down the street. Some glanced curiously into the dark interiors, some stared straight ahead as they scurried past. Apartment dwellers hurried to their doors, punched in a code that allowed them to enter the buildings.

Short blocks and narrow sidewalks, fruit stands sandwiched between the buildings, gargantuan wooden doors, and streets filled with people impressed upon my memory. Sis and I found a bakery where we bought fresh baked baguettes, and a cafeteria where we planned to eat lunch. Strolling along Place Pigalle we passed the sex shops, the pharmacy specializing in sexual enhancing products for men, the Monoplex, a department store, shops where tourist could purchase souvenirs and the ubiquitous cafes where patrons sat at small tables to drink wine or beer and watch the never-ending stream of humanity. At the far end of Place Pigalle stood the famous Moulin Rouge. We explored the massive lobby, reading the advertisements and noting the upcoming shows. It was closed but would open in the evening.

We rode the bus up a steep hill to Montmartre where we gazed down at the city below. We visited the Sacre-Coeur Basilica and watched artists paint lovely scenes of the cityscape. I didn’t notice the sign that read “no photographs” until I’d snapped a photo. Finally we hiked back down to Place Pigalle.

Imagine our surprise when we bumped into our uncle strolling down Pigalle with a sheepish grin on his face. He said that he, like us, was just exploring the area. He said he had arranged for us to come to his hotel the next day where we would meet our cousin who had relocated to Paris and was now a “celebrity” there. Coincidentally we ran into him several times during our stay “exploring the area.” I think he spent more time exploring the area around our hotel than he did his.

Paris in August

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 02:23:00 +0000

When one thinks of Paris, France, one thinks of all the famous places to visit, like the Le Louvre, the Eifel Tower, the Palace of Versailles, the Sacre-Coeur Basilica, and other things like French wine and romance. I looked forward to my vacation in Paris with my sister and my uncle. While this was our first trip to this celebrated city, my uncle had been in Paris during World War II and again years later and was eager to return.

I booked reservations online choosing the hotel based on the quaint photos of the newly renovated hotel posted on the Internet – inexpensive, gorgeous looking interior, rich colors, off the beaten path, lovely spiral staircase. My uncle, on the other hand, was booked into a well-known hotel not far from the Eifel Tower- located on the other side of town. Our hotel was three-star, his five-star. We met up at the airport and engaged a taxi. The driver was none too thrilled as he jammed our luggage into the boot of his small cab. My sister and I were dropped off first at our hotel; the driver took Uncle to his. I paid little attention to the area as we hauled our luggage out of the car and into the small lobby. The woman behind the desk spoke little English. As I had when I went to Spain, I had learned a few French words and phrases before coming, enough to make our check-in a bit easier.

We rode the elevator up to our room and were surprised at how small it was. We could barely get our suitcases inside. A couple of steps from the door were twin beds with little room in between. A couple of steps from the beds was a tiny bathroom. The largest thing in the room was the floor to ceiling window that looked out onto the narrow street below. From the window we could just barely see Place Pigalle, an infamous area known for its sex shops and prostitutes. When I chose the hotel, I didn’t know this. About the only thing I recognized from the photos posted on the Internet was the spiral staircase with its rod iron decorated scrolled railings. However, suffering from jetlag, we retired early.

The next day after the complimentary breakfast, which consisted of a fresh baguette, strong coffee or tea and orange juice served in their quaint dining room, we decided to visit Uncle at his hotel located on the other side of town. At the desk we asked the concierge for directions. The Metro station was just up the block from our hotel. We purchased ten tickets for 61 French francs or ff (the Euro was not widely popular) to last at least a week. While most passengers use tickets, others jump over, crawl under, or pair up to avoid the charge, a freebee on the city, I guess. Paris has an efficient train system that carries riders all over the city. Trains run from 5:30 AM until 1AM when the ground beneath the city streets cease to rumble like earthquake tremors. It is the heartbeat of the city.

About 35 minutes later, my sister and I arrived at Unk’s luxurious hotel. The huge lobby contained a piano bar, a café, gift shop, and a seating area with plush couches and chairs. Businessmen and tourists filled the lobby. As soon as we entered Unk’s room, we marveled at its size and all the amenities he had access to. From his window we saw the Eifel Tower and much of the city. The weather was fantastic; we were in good spirits and looked forward this new adventure. During the next two weeks, we would take in a few tourist attractions, meet a distant cousin who had become a popular singer, spend an evening at the Follies Beg ere, and have a unique experience at the home of a woman who made her living hosting parties or soirees for artists, tourists and newcomers to Paris.

Misadventures in Costa del Sol, Spain - Part Three

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 23:28:00 +0000

My two-week vacation had come to an end. This was my last day at the resort and I had to be out by noon. My friends had gone home the day before. My plane though, wasn’t scheduled to leave until the next day. Knowing this, I telephoned around to hostels to find a place to spend the night. Finally I found a place and made a reservation. I checked out of the hotel, took the bus into Malagua. With my luggage, I wandered the streets of the city trying to locate the address asking everyone I met (in my halting Spanish) for directions. After several wrong turns I found it. I checked into the small hotel, took the ancient elevator up to the third floor and stood before the old wooden door hesitant to insert the key. I felt as if I’d stepped back in time. It reminded me of the tenement buildings in Harlem where I grew up except this hallway was much smaller. Slowly, I opened the door to my room and stepped in. I was greeted by a sea of brown - brown walls, brown carpet, brown doors - one leading to a closet, the other to the tiny bathroom, a single bed with a faded bedspread. The forty-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling cast ominous shadows on the wall. On a small table sat a 14 inch TV screen, with programs in Spanish, mostly featuring bull fights. The only window looked out onto an alley – quite a comedown from the luxurious apartments at the resort with large color TV’s that featured international programs. Nonetheless, it would do for one night.

I wandered through the Lara, an interesting maze of streets, and as I was getting hungry, I decided to find a place to eat. From a guidebook I’d borrowed from my local library and copied pages, I thought about having one of Spain’s famous dishes “Malaguena.” The problem, my funds were quite low. I could either dine out my last day in Spain, eating at one of the outdoor restaurants, or save the money to pay my hotel bill and take a taxi to the airport the next day. I decided I’d eat out. When the waiter delivered the huge dish of fried fish, I savored the wonderful taste. But when I began to look closely at what I was eating, I saw what looked like eyeballs staring up at me – octopus or squid tentacles, I think. Despite the delicious flavors, I couldn’t finish my meal knowing I was eating octopus.

I returned to my lonely room, tried to read in the dim light until I finally fell asleep listening to voices murmuring nearby and the elevator as it rattled up and down its shaft. The next day, I returned to my exploration of the Lara. As my checkout time from the hostel approached I felt my anxiety rise, I was deep into the Lara and lost. Walking quickly down one street after another, I finally found one that led to the boulevard and to my hostel. I paid the hostel bill with my credit card, took a taxi to the airport, and sat around for hours waiting for my plane to take me home. It had been a wonderful adventure; however, I was ready to put it behind me.

Misadventures in Spain - Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 23:51:00 +0000

I had been in Spain for almost a week. At the end of the first week, my two friends joined me at the beautiful resort. Tired of talking to myself and wandering around alone, I was looking forward to their visit. During that 2^nd week we visited Mijas, a quaint, picturesque village; Seville, historic, cultural, and financial capital of Southern Spain; Gibraltar where we visited St. Michael’s Cave and the monkeys that roam freely about the area; and the Casbah, a walled city in Tangier, Morocco.

I’d seen Casablanca, the 1940’s movie staring Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and Paul Henreid, and couldn’t wait to see that area of Tangier where such intrigue took place. Before entering the Casbah, our guide warned us all to keep up with the group as the Casbah is made up a maze of streets and alleys where one could easily get lost. We were also warned to watch out for pickpockets who preyed on unsuspecting tourists. He added that we would encounter many vendors trying to sell their wares and to be “careful how you open your purses or wallets.” Armed with these warning almost put me in a state of panic. I don’t know about the others, but I was on guard. As our guide led us through the Casbah pointing out different sights, all I could think about was his warning. “Keep up with group and watch out for pickpockets.” When I spotted several young men in green-stripped tee shirts moving among us, I clutched my purse even tighter. When vendors approached, while I wanted to examine their wares, I dared not stop. One vendor was offended about my refusal and asked derisively, “Why are you here if you don’t want to buy?” Despite this, there were many memorable moments even if I can’t remember them.

Back to our resort. The end of the week fast approached but not the end of our adventures. The weather was hot and humid and since our apartment had no air conditioner, we were forced to leave the windows and door to the balcony opened to catch whatever breeze happened by. One morning, one of my friends was awakened when she felt someone standing at the foot of her bed. Thinking it was me, she didn’t pay much attention at first. But when she opened her eyes she saw a man bending over the nightstand where she had her bag. She shouted, frightening the man who headed for the balcony door. We watched him leap from balcony to balcony carrying a basket filled with other tenants’ valuables. Lesson learned, when traveling, don’t leave valuables lying around openly. When we reported it to the front desk, they denied knowing anything about it. Suddenly I understood why this beautiful resort had so many empty rooms. The next day my friends flew back to the U.S. leaving me alone to spend one more day and night at the resort.

Travel Misadventures Part One - Costa del Sol

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 00:23:00 +0000

I’d booked two weeks at a resort in Costa del Sol and was looking forward to spending my vacation in Spain, a country I had never before been. I flew from LAX to Heathrow in London, and then from Gatwick to Malagua, Spain. Being on a tight budget, I called the hotel prior to my departure to find the most economical way to get to the resort. The receptionist at the hotel desk where I’d plan to spend my vacation, told me the best way to get there was to take a taxi from the airport to Costa del Sol. “It will cost around $50,” she said. “Is there a less expensive way?” I asked. “Well,” she hesitated, “there is.” She gave me directions. From the airport in Malagua to the resort in Costa del Sol is a distance of over thirty miles. Piece of cake, I thought confidently. I love an adventure, or so I thought.

Outside the Malagua airport was a line of taxicabs, each driver beckoning me. “No, gracias,” I waved them away. In my halting Spanish I managed to find the local train station. The car I stepped into was practically empty. I sat down and as I waited for the doors to close, I looked around wondering who to pay and when. The doors closed and the train started. At each stop passengers hopped on and off before the conductor reached the car in which I was sitting. Will I be able to do the same? Not a chance. Fortunately, I had exchanged a few dollars at the airport so when the conductor came to me, I was able to pay my fare. I think at the time it was three pesetas to Fuengirola.

The town of Fuengirola was the last stop. Trying not to show how confused I was, I followed the crowd of people to one of several bus stops and waited. Someone told me what bus to take and where to get off. After several minutes, the local bus arrived. By now it was rush hour and with my heavy bags I managed to get a seat. It was a long ride and especially distressing because with so many people standing in the aisle, I couldn’t see the street names. Finally I heard the driver call out the name of my stop. I managed to push pass the passengers to get off before the bus pulled away. On one side was a long stretch of coastline; on the other, various shops, and restaurants, and in front of me, a very steep hill. As I stood looking up at Mount Everest, I began to wish I had paid the $50 for a taxi. Gathering my remaining strength, I dragged my luggage up the hill to the resort, a distance of almost a mile.

It was almost dark when I checked in. Tired, hot and sweaty, not to mention suffering from jet lag, all I wanted was a shower and something to eat. I had no problem checking in or finding the way to my apartment. When I surveyed the rooms, I noticed that the bathtub was filled with water. I unplugged the stopper and let the water drain out. Then I undressed, stepped into the shower and turned on the faucet. Nothing. Not a drop. I phoned the desk. “We turn off the water for a few hours, once every week. It’ll be on again tomorrow,” the clerk explained cheerfully. “Use the water in the bathtub.” I groaned. Too hungry and exhausted to bother, I decided to forget the shower; just let me get something to eat. Unfortunately, the on-site restaurant was closed. The desk clerk told me where to purchase food and water - halfway down the hill I’d just climbed! Oh well, my adventure had begun. If this were any indication of things to come, it would be a long two weeks.

My Favorite Vacation

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Thu, 21 Jul 2011 19:04:00 +0000

Not too long ago on vacation in Arizona, I went to a sales presentation for a timeshare. The reward for sitting through the ninety-minute presentation was half price off a tour of the Grand Canyon. The salesman, Tom, asked me “Of all the vacations you’ve taken, what would you say was your favorite?” I had to think a while about it. I’ve gone on vacations alone and also with family. Each time was unique.

I thought about the time I went to a resort in Tobago. I couldn’t get anyone to go with me so, not wanting to cancel my vacation, I went alone. However, before I could settle in, I met a family, two sisters, their daughters and granddaughter, who feeling responsible for me, took me under their wings. “How can you travel alone?” they asked. “We go everywhere together,” to Alaska, to Turks and Caicos in the Caribbean. They couldn’t imagine me traveling alone. While I appreciated their concern, not wanting to appear standoffish, I accepted their invitation to tag along with them. But I soon found their taste differed a bit from mine. I love to swim. I never saw them get into the pool or Jacuzzi, nor did they relax at the nearby beach. Instead they shopped. Lunchtime they usually went out to a restaurant to eat. My place had a full kitchen. And since I was on a budget, I purchased food and brought it to my small apartment. Each evening they dressed up in makeup, heels, dressy outfits, and sat around the lounge watching the entertainment. I felt more comfortable in my shorts, tee shirt, and sandals. While I was grateful they included me in their activities, whenever I could, I ventured off on my own.

Whenever I go places with family, I’ve always enjoyed myself. Once we accompanied my uncle to Paris. Now that was fun. That was one of my favorite trips. There were other trips with family I found thoroughly enjoyable. The advantages of vacationing with family and friends are that you don’t have to make critical decisions that affect everyone, it becomes a group effort; Also when you’re with others, no one looks at you strangely; you can blend in. Traveling with family and friends, I have felt safe, more relaxed. I laugh a lot. However, on the other side, vacationing with family and friends, I usually set aside my desires and yield to the desires of others.

Whenever I’ve gone to places alone, such as a recent trip to Sedona, I’ve enjoyed that very much as well. It was an adventure that had me discovering not only the magnificent sites in the area, but also learning more about myself; tapping into my strengths as well as recognizing my weaknesses. There is no escaping one self when you vacation alone. On the up side, I’ve found it easier to meet people when I’m alone than when I am with family or friends. On the down side, I’m always aware of the issue of safety. I don’t stay out late at night. I can’t be as relaxed as I am with family. Nevertheless, I set my own schedule, eat what I want, wander wherever I please, stay as long as I want, and can change my mind without worrying about hurting others.

I appreciate vacationing with family and alone. Both have their advantages and disadvantages. To answer Tom, the salesperson’s question about my favorite vacation, I’d have to say all were special. Just getting away from time to time from my normal routine is one of my favorite activities.

Tribute to My Brother on Father's Day

noreply@blogger.com (anadoodlin) — Thu, 30 Jun 2011 19:12:00 +0000

When he was young, my big brother was incorrigible. He did all sorts of things, so much so that my father and mother couldn’t handle him. Because they worked, they were unable to supervise him as they wished. He was a wild colt, doing whatever he wanted. He bullied us younger siblings, played hooky from school, stayed in the street long after he was supposed to be at home. Seeing my parents’ plight, our favorite aunt stepped in and took him to stay with her. Not having children of her own, she allowed him to do whatever he chose at her home. While we were not allowed to touch her walls for fear of leaving fingerprints, he could climb all over the furniture without once touching the floor. In her eyes, he could do no wrong; She spoiled him.

Whenever he’d return home to our small apartment, we children trembled in fear. My sister, younger brother and I would plan how to get even for the mean things he’d do to us. One example, he would sit in front of our small TV, and open an umbrella so we kids could not see the screen. Once he closed my younger brother in the sleeper couch as a joke; our parents did not think it was funny. Even school couldn’t tame him. When he was still a teenager, he dropped out and joined the Air Force. He fought in the Korean War and was stationed in Japan where he wanted to stay. By the time he returned home, he was a man. Service had leavened him.

When my father was alive, our home was the center to which not only his wife and children, but also his sisters, brother, cousins and in-laws gathered to sort out their problems. Daddy was the patriarch; our home, a refuge. After his death, Big brother inherited that mantle. Though married with a family of his own, he was called upon to help other family members. We all knew we could depend on him. He opened his home to us whenever we visited or needed a place to stay, and, like Daddy, he gave wise counsel.

As an adult, I began to see my brother in a different light. Beneath the surface of this strong, quiet man was a connoisseur who sought beauty in objects he found in outlet stores, and antique shops along downtown Manhattan and in plant nurseries. He constructed a fantastic garden in his backyard filling it with beautiful and rare plants of all colors and sizes. He loved music, especially blues, and poetry. When he was young, he loved to draw. His love of art expanded while he was in Japan. Not just a loving husband and father, he was a leader. He became a 33^rd degree Mason. From the obstinate young man who terrorized his siblings, my brother grew into a man I greatly respected and admired. I will always remember him for his kindness, generosity, and patience. Thanks, Sis. for your help.