March 10, 2024 ~ Sunday morning (sunny/warming up … first day of daylight saving time this year! Woohoo!)

OMG … I can feel winter sloughing off of me as I type. It’s to be 65° today here, despite it being not quite mid-March. I’ll take it. AND … we turned the clocks forward last night. Hello Daylight Saving Time … how I will love you for the next seven and a half months (until Nov 3rd, when we “fall back”). Yes indeedy, I am thrilled.

Let there be LIGHT!

And so we have it. Thank god! Winter (here) hasn’t been horrible (I’ve gone through much worse) but six months of brown and ugly is about five months too much. I need green … and with this “springing ahead” of time – I know actual Spring is just around the proverbial corner and with that all things green and flowers. Yippe and yahoo!

We have sprung forward an hour which means, darker in the morning and lighter in the evening. Again, I’ll take it! I always thought (wrongly) that Daylight Saving Time first began to help out the farmers with their harvesting. Not so. Apparently, (after a little sleuthing), I found out that it was initiated as the “Standard Time Act of 1918”, a wartime measure for seven months during World War I, adding more daylight hours to conserve energy resources. Year-round DST, or “War Time” (as some used to call it), was implemented again during World War II. Huh. (However, Hawaii, Arizona, and the US territories do not comply with this – don’t ask me why, it’s too confusing!). And, just FYI – farmers were against this as it decreased an hour of morning daylight for them, meaning they had to rush to get their crops to market.

In any case, it will be lighter later here and I am as giddy as a girl on the day of a school dance. I’m as giddy as an unsupervised dog with an open bag of dog food. I’m as giddy as a hippopotamus being fed pumpkins. Well, you get the idea. Giddy and … happy as a clam!

And, while I’m happy this morning – my brain, like in a car on The Wild Chipmunk roller coaster, has veered around a corner and I wonder – are clams really happy? How does one know? How can one tell? The phrase “as happy as a clam” is derived from the full phrase “happy as a clam at high water.” Clams are collected during the low tide; and during the high tides, they are safe from fishermen. Who knew? (Maybe fishermen and clams!)

But, are they really “happy”? Oddly enough, a little click on the internet gave me this ditty:

How happy are clams really? Happy as a Clam? Not! | HuffPost Entertainment
Kerala, India – A highly respected scientist has determined, contrary to popular belief, that not only are most clams not happy, they are in fact severely depressed! Dr. Patra Gupta, of the Kerala Institute of Undersea Study, monitored over 1,000 clams closely for seven years.

I don’t know which is sadder … that clams are severely depressed (according to this study) or that some scientist spent seven years doing this study? WHY? What sort of benefit to mankind (or clams) was to be done with this study? So weird.

And speaking of clams … my dad used to replace the word “dollars” with other words … smackers, bucks, dough, moolah … and (the determined-to-be severely depressed) clams. So called “old-timey slang” that he, no doubt, got from his dad (who was born in 1896 and was in his prime in the 1920s and 1930s when this terminology developed). The slang term for money would have been popular among 1920s bootlegging gangsters, with the word clam being used as a term for a dollar. It was somehow derived and based on the use of shells as currency in ancient societies and some Native American tribes.

Doing a little research on this, made me think back to the holiday the kids and I spent in Copenhagen. It was glorious. It was fabulous. It was COLD! OMG – it was SO cold. I knew I’d never wear it again, so I didn’t buy one of the gorgeous fox stoles that were sold (everywhere) at the Christmas markets … but damn, I wished I had. They were so beautiful and would have kept me so much warmer. I’m not a proponent for fur sales/wearing but my god, they were beautiful … and dyed … magenta, emerald green, sapphire blue, ruby, eggplant, chocolate, mustard. Stunning! I should have gotten one!

Anyway – while there, we went to the National Museum. It was amazing! The display room I remember most was the “money room” (speaking of clams). This collection of Danish money is the most comprehensive in the world and is called the “Royal Collection of Coins and Medals” having over a half million pieces … money, medals, stones, and other objects related to means of payment. That’s a LOT of clams! And it was displayed like a jewelry store would display pieces … gorgeous! Glass encased drawers and drawers of coins and whatnot from centuries past. It was divine. I’d go back just to see that one room again!

And, here I am – having veered off course – again! I was going to write more on light today, and well, this is how my brain works … being happy as a clam, and then the brain railcar goes down the bivalve track and then veers off to the money route … which morphs into a visit to a museum … and well, hope you are following along!

Anyway, here I am now thinking of bivalves – again – (bivalvia – aquatic invertebrates found living in sediment – usually sand) … oysters, cockles, scallops, mussels, and (those severely depressed) clams … nice as shell souvenirs from the beach but I’m not a fan of eating any of them. My mom loved scallops. My daughter used to enjoy mussels – but I think she read something about them and decided not to eat them anymore. Kind of like me and lobster – the garbage cans of the ocean – however grossed out I am about them, it’s not going to stop me from eating one from time to time (so good)! Hey – I eat Hostess cupcakes and those things have a shelf life of 1000 years and will certainly kill me off before consumption of a little sea poop!

And, again, in thinking about all those sea creatures … and especially cockles (I had to look them up/a cousin of the clam but sweeter and less briny in nature) … and that horrible, horrible (tragic folk tale) song came to mind about Molly Malone who wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets, wide and narrow, selling cockles and mussels – alive, alive, oh! Egad. That is now going to stick with me for at least a week. Maybe two. Maybe longer.

In any case, clams (happy or not) be damned … I’m going to throw something on the grill later and am going to sit outside in the extra hour of sunlight we’ve got and enjoy the heck out of it!

As it was written, and translated from the Bible versions written in Hebrew and Greek, “light – let it exist” or as is stated simpler … Let there be LIGHT!

March 6, 2024 ~ Wednesday (sunny and mild)

I saw a body get bagged this morning – as in a body bag – as in they would soon be on their way to the morgue. I felt awful, as just moments earlier, on my way to an appointment, I was more than muttering (as in verbally out loud to myself and the pink dinosaur that hangs from my rearview mirror) … “What the hell, people, just DRIVE!”

And then, I realized. The 17 cop cars, plastic drape being held up, and coroner’s van were a (dare I say … dead) giveaway. Sorry person – whoever you are – or were. RIP. I said a little prayer.

And in that instant of realization, my heart sank. I didn’t know who that person was, but I knew their life had ended. And I also knew that someone, somewhere, was on the phone or about to get a call that would change their life and turn their world upside down and inside out. I, again, said a little prayer. I know how it is to be on the receiving end.

My thoughts flashed back – like after a turn of a very fast dial on a microfiche machine – to my dad. It’s been over five years since he passed. Since I got that call. His was the last body bag I saw. I didn’t watch as they took my mom from her apartment … perhaps I had gotten over the morbid fascination that humans usually harbor. I didn’t want to see her like that. I didn’t want to see him, either, but I stumbled into the hallway where he was. The EMT’s should have told me. They didn’t. It was awful.

I hope whoever has to identify that person from the parkway today – has someone with them and that someone has the kindness to remove the bag before the deed is done.

I’m not a religious person. But, I am spiritual. I send prayers out to the universe and good vibes out to friends (and people I see along the way) as well as good wishes, be wells, and take cares … all the time. I send our little ditties to remind them that change is constant … that unease means we’re doing something new and growing (hopefully) … and that no matter what the day brings – to breathe and be grateful. Whether I know if someone needs a little boost or not, those wishes go out. Because, after all, don’t we all need a little lift/help now and then? What is the harm in wishing someone well?

So, I say a little prayer.

Our planet is in trouble. February marked the ninth warmest month in a row for good ol’ Mother Earth. Not good. Global average temps set records. Ocean temps set records. And not good ones like “You are the BEST ever!” … more like … “This is god-awful.”

Our country is in trouble. Far too many of those in or seeking office are known liars, frauds, convicted of sexual assault, Holocaust deniers, KKK clansmen, Neo-Nazis, radicals, thieves, criminals, misogynists, religious nut-cases, conspiracy theorists, destroyers of women’s rights, morally bankrupt, dictator wannabees, insulting, divisive, deceptive, spineless and ethically challenged, and even one who is telling the survivors of a school mass-shooting that they are “spoiled little bastards”.

I send out prayers for our planet and country (and us) every day. We need to get serious.

And, we need more help. So, please join me … and do more than say a little prayer.

February 23, 2024 ~ Friday (afternoon/sunny/warmer than Feb usually is – nice)

A million years ago (or so it seems), on this date, my childhood dog was born, Marvin. I’m thinking something like 60 years ago. How is that possible? The years seem to just melt away.

I am having a bad hair day. But, then, how can I tell? It seems all my days are usually bad hair days! But, today, things seem especially stupid in the hair department!

Foregoing any chance of looking like I wasn’t electrocuted, I gave up on my hair styling and went back to my desk. I was looking for a post and came across one from seven years ago (which also seems like a million years ago) … and oddly, it has to do with my hair. Go figure.

It was mid-February of 2017 … I was six weeks into my “hair experiment”. I had been interviewing women for the book I was working on (the same one I’m STILL working on) … specifically about their hair loss due to their cancer treatments. Almost all of them said they’d rather lose a breast than their hair. I was dumbfounded, confounded, amazed. WHY??? Hair grows back – breasts do not. Women are not starfish! They all (basically) told me I didn’t get it. I had no idea how hard it was to lose their hair … had no idea how it made them feel … that I was essentially, clueless. And … they were right.

So, on the eve of that new year – I stood in my island bathroom and did what I felt I needed to do … I shaved my head. I’m sure most everyone who knew me thought I’d gone off the deep end … that I lost my mind and marbles along with my locks. I’ll tell ya – I’ve never been one with a lot of hair. I’ve had LONG hair … but put it into a pony tail and it would look like a rat’s tail. The only thing ever consistently thin on this body has been my hair!

So, there I was, seven years ago – ruing my experiment … feeling sorry for myself … being done. I had less hair than a Chinese Crested … and wanted my hair – even the thin, baby-fine wispiness of it – back!

Here’s that post …

Put a fork in me … I’m DONE!

Posted on February 18, 2017 by Les

February 18, 2017 – From Hair to There

If I were a roast or loaf of banana bread or any other baked good or savory dish in the oven, I’d say … “Put a fork in me-I’m DONE!” But I’m none of those things … not a stew nor a baked dish. Too bad.

This (lack of) hair experiment has me pulling out my (proverbial) hair! Yes, it is beyond my control as to how fast or slowly it grows in/out. And, yes, that was part of this challenge to myself – to grasp the lack of control. And, because I’m a quasi control freak, this was to be a good exercise in patience and acceptance, understanding and empathy. And a life experience. I wanted to know. Yes, I get it.

But I’m DONE. I just want my hair back!

Remember seeing (or having) that one child in Target who was having the hissy fit of all temper tantrums in the toy department? I’m that child.

I’m done. D.O.N.E.

Come on hair – get with the program – grow like Rapunzel’s golden glory! Grow like Tressy’s auburn mane! Haven’t the slightest clue who Rapunzel is? Go read some fairy tales (for god’s sake!). Don’t know who Tressy is, either? Read on.

When I was 7 I wanted a Tressy doll for Christmas. She was the IT item of the year for me. No ballerina tutu or fun game for me … I pined for that doll. I’m pretty sure I broke out into a sweat when thinking about her as a possible gift from Santa! I think I folded a lot of extra laundry those days just to stay on the “nice” list to ensure my odds!

And, alas, Christmas morning revealed NO Tressy from Santa. But, hark! That afternoon, I opened a box from my grandparents and there she was … Tressy … in all her hair splendor. Tressy was a bustier version of Barbie (if that is even possible) but a tiny bit larger so that when you used Barbie’s clothing on her, the fit was a little tight – think Junior Hooker in the making. She had really pretty eyes and gorgeous reddish-brown hair. And that was the kicker … her hair. You could change the length! Talk about nirvana for girls who loved styling hair!

To achieve the length change, she had a key slot in her back and a round (rather large) belly button on her stomach. At the top of her head there was a pony tail. Now, when you pushed in the button, you could pull on the pony tail and more hair would come out (at full length, the pony tail was almost to her ankles)! And if you turned the key in her back the hair would magically wind back down into her head (and I’m assuming body) so that she had a short “do”, once again. It was FABULOUS! She was the BEST ever!

I can’t tell you how many hours I played with that doll. Her ensemble included brushes and combs, curlers and little hair toys and jewels … it was a hair-enthusiast’s dream doll! (And, I imagine, a vacuum cleaner’s nightmare! I wonder how many of those little curlers got sucked up over time?!)

Getting her was great and almost as good as getting one of those beauty school doll heads that you could put curlers on and put under a toy hair dryer hood. I always wanted one of those but never asked for one. I think I was a bit creeped out over a bodiless doll head! In any case, I loved that doll! I was such a hair-nut, it makes me wonder why I never went to beauty school or did anything with hair!

So, yes, I now wish I were Tressy or Rapunzel or anyone else who has more hair than I do at this given moment! I’m done with this experiment. I want life as it used to be. I guess I’m not that great with the reality of lack of control at times.

I remember feeling that way after Tim (my husband) died … it had been months and I remember standing in our closet, my things had taken over the space that once housed his clothing (as I’d removed most of his things) and I remember saying, “OK, come back! This test sucked. I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m DONE!”

How wonderful that would have been – to have the ability to blink my eyes or wave a magic wand and make that happen. (Though I had the awful feeling that if that happened, he would have been really upset with me for getting rid of his stuff!) But that’s not reality. Sometimes reality sucks.

And so, here I am today, thinking similar thoughts … “I don’t like this. This challenge is dumb and going to take far too long. I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m DONE!” Reality is looking back at me in the mirror with a head full of 1/4″ – 1/2″ hair spikes and I have no choice or control over the matter  … once again, I have no magical ability to change things.

I’m in this for the long haul! It is what it is and my hair will grow back in whatever time it takes … and I have to get a grip on the fact that it could be a really long time! Accept it!

And it’s when I look in the mirror and tell myself to accept it and to “get over it”, that I laugh at my ridiculousness over this HEAD. I know that I’m healthy and the hair will grow back and I shouldn’t make such a big, damn deal about it and that it’s okay and just go on with life and ignore the big, round, fat head …

BUT … then I have that wave wash over me … the one that sneaks up from time to time and makes me feel less like myself. The wave that strips my confidence and power and femininity.

And makes me feel so ugly.

Not bald, not short hair – I’m somewhere in between and I feel (still) so naked. Vulnerable. I don’t like it. I don’t want to say that there is a certain security factor or feeling of having hair … but there kind of is. I don’t want to say I hide behind it – but I feel so bare without anything there. Raw. Naked. Fat. Hair has a certain comfort factor and without it it’s like being in one of those dreams where you forget to wear your underwear in public (or in my case, a skirt too short that I have to go up steps sideways). It’s NOT a good feeling.

And as hard as it is at times, I did this to MYSELF! I wanted this! I just can’t imagine dealing with this hair (lack of/slowly growing/oddly growing) while also being sick and having this happen due to meds. It makes me think that hospitals and care facilities NEED (just not should) provide some sort of classes for people who lose their hair to illness or treatments. It is such a mentally difficult thing that I just have to imagine that the depressed psyche would somehow impede the healing process. Why isn’t a class on “inner beauty” and acceptance and gaining confidence in one’s new look a reality for people who lose their hair?

It’s been 6 weeks now (a bit more) and I’ve gone from naked chicken skin (which truly was disgustingly gross) to baby peach fuzz to feeling like a chia pet to Curly from the Three Stooges to militant spikes to … what I’m now calling this … the Awkward Stage. My hair is now, as I said,  about 1/2″ in length … well, in spots! Some hair is 1/4″ and some somewhere in between those lengths! I’ve got a lot of scalp going on – but that was a “thing” when I had a full head of hair. I must be follicle-ly challenged as I’m sure they are farther apart than is deemed normal.

In any case, I’ve got sparseness going on on the left side with some weird cowlick thing going on over the left temple. There is a silver circle over my right temple – that from afar looks like a bald spot. (Lovely, I know!) There is a huge (as in golf ball sized) swirling circular cowlick going on at the top of the back of my head … I’m calling it Hurricane Leslie. (It’s disgusting.) The top of my head has an arete of darkness which makes me feel akin to a Rhodesian Ridgeback. The only place my hair is actually growing with any consistency or length or without problem is at the base of my neck and that is just GROSS! I’ve got this Poindexter “do” going on with these longer wisps … like some wayward carny with a very bad mullet in the making.

So, you get the gist of this. I’m DONE. Or at least I want to be. I miss my hair. I want to get out a curling iron and some barrettes! (And at the rate my hair is growing – I’ll be waiting to do that for at least a year … or two!)

For someone who really likes hair – this really was a rough (dare I say stupid?) challenge. Yes, I’ll say I’m at the place where I’ll call it stupid (and that’s just because I want my hair back – NOW!) … but I know months from now that there will be redemption and I will appreciate this journey and gain insight and understanding and some really awful photos that I can finally show my kids.

I know all that and I know my hair will grow back … someday.

But for now … put a fork in me cuz I’m done!

February 11, 2024 ~ Sunday (Sunny, snow is melting and it’s the Superbowl ~ so what?!))

It snowed yesterday in my little corner of the world. I am not glad for it, other than it brings our thirsty trees and ground much-needed moisture; but I am thankful we only got the 5 or so inches … as it was a drier snowfall … and not the foot or so we could have gotten, if the system had more moisture in it. Be grateful for small blessings.

I just went out and swept off my car and windshield before the snow got too heavy (melting in the sunshine) and broke the glass. It’s happened before. I’m sure there’s a mathematical explanation/equation about the ratio of the weight of the snow, the psi, and the curvature of the glass, etc – but I don’t know what that is … and honestly, I don’t care.

Apathy. I seem to have a bit of it today. And, sadly, I feel it’s become a national epidemic. The unrecognized malaise of far too many. The invisible divider. Uncaring. Not caring. I’m too busy. I don’t want to help. Not my circus/not my monkeys. The “don’t bother me” attitudes.

The definition for that word – is lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern. Yup, pretty much sums up what I am finding everywhere … in the baristas at my local Starbucks, just about every wait staff or service person I’ve encountered in the last too many years, health professionals and their assistants. Sadly, too many people I know. When did this become pervasive? No one gives a shit anymore.

And, speaking of which … I was out walking the other day, pre-snowfall, and I was with Mac (my lab) and he did what dogs usually do while out on walks – he pooped. So, being a responsible dog owner/walker, I used my doggie bag and picked it up. Knowing we had a ways to go, I thought I’d find a garbage can that was out on the curb – ready to be picked up the next day. I figured, if it’s out on the curb, no one would really mind if I dropped the tied bag in with their other garbage. I spied a can … walked over to it … and on the lid was a rather large sticker reading … DO NOT PUT YOUR DOG’S POOP BAGS IN MY GARBAGE CAN!

Okay … got the message. But really? Is that necessary? Your can is filled with YOUR garbage already, waiting for the disposal company’s truck to arrive in the morning … why does it matter? I don’t live in an area where 75 people would be dropping off bags of “doody” in anyone’s garbage cans … so, really, why the ugliness? Why not a sticker that reads … YOUR DOG’S POOP BAGS ARE WELCOME IN THIS GARBAGE CAN. Why not? It’s better than leaving it on the sidewalk or someone’s yard. And, honestly, I’m not a good body “fluids” person, so carrying around a bag of dog you-know-what for a mile is supremely nauseating to me. Everything about it makes me want to puke. Almost. Seriously. (You should have seen me potty training my kids!)

Anyway – what happened to neighborliness? What happened to CARING about your fellow man? You need a cup of sugar? Sure, come on over. You need help shoveling your walk? I’ll come by. You need your plants watered or your cat looked after when you’re out of town? Sure, sure, and sure. The weather is turning, do you need something at the grocery store? I’m going. What happened to us?

I have one neighbor where I live now. I live in an odd/mixed area of the historic town here. I’m zoned residential/commercial so could do a dog grooming biz, since I’m zoned for it, if I wanted to. I did, at one time, but couldn’t because the city council said I couldn’t give a dog a bubble bath here. Something in the by-laws or rules or something said that I could do surgery here, but I couldn’t give a dog a bath. Huh! And when asked why not – I was told it was the way it was. Apathy abounds on so many levels. Not caring enough to change things or look into the odd ruling means I couldn’t do what I thought I could do … and I couldn’t have a dog bakery either. Another ruling. They could have changed it but no one really cared to. I’ve been around these issues (in the past) and it’s not worth me pursuing anymore.

In any case, I am surrounded by healthcare buildings and a house or two that have been changed into offices … a few apartment buildings and duplexes across the street – where I never see any signs of life. And then there is the hoarder next to me. I haven’t seen him in a good 15 years. He has a guy living in a shed (I kid you not) in his yard and I see him … seems like a nice guy. And we’ve chatted, exchanged wayward mail, petted the dogs but that’s about as far as we’ve gone in neighborliness. And it kind of makes me sad. But, I’m solo and don’t know this guy, and (judging) if he were really normal, would he be living in a shed? How neighborly do I want to get? But, I miss neighbors. I miss that connectivity. I miss that built-in camaraderie and oneness and helpfulness. There were still the local oddballs on the island on my little road … but for the most part, we all had each other’s backs. I just don’t see that all that much anymore.

And I find that very sad … but I can also relate. I find it creeps into my life and those around me too easily of late. Yeah – as I said, I’d like to be neighborly but is it safe? There was a guy this week, in his bathrobe, walking along … and I just hoped he’d continue on his way. Is unwillingness to get involved the same thing as apathy? I want a solution and help for homelessness … but I don’t want it done next to my house. Is that apathy or hypocrisy? Is there that fine of a line between all of those things?

Today is the Superbowl and honestly, I could care less. Apathetic? Perhaps to some, but I’m not a commercials gal or a professional sports person. I think they are all stupid. We have children starving in this country. We have BIG problems with unstable housing, food deserts, aging/aged/ailing, healthcare, addiction, education, inequality, environmental issues … need I go on? And there are grown men running around a field chasing a ball, risking brain injuries, making MILLIONS … and millions are watching them do so. Some are there – having paid thousands for a ticket (each) and at least $30 for a beer and a slice of pizza. I’d love to see some of that money go into education and food programs and housing assistance (etc) … it’s big bucks for everyone – except those that really need it. I find it rather disgusting.

In any case … it’s something I wrestle with … those fine lines of apathy and the could-care-less attitude, charity, and neighborliness.

I just want you to know, if you are out walking your dog and are near my house – your dog’s poop bag is always welcome in my garbage can.

February 5, 2024 ~ Monday night (cold, late, dark)

It’s funny when you get a look – however brief it may be – into another’s life. Even if you don’t know that person. So many things run through your head – well, at least, my head.

I stopped into my local Safeway today around lunchtime – an unexpected stopover as my scheduled appointment had been canceled – unbeknownst to me. Lovely. Anyway, I was near the store and thought I’d pop in for some fried chicken (I do love fried chicken – gas station or otherwise!) and an apple. And maybe dog food/kibble, if I could find the kind that I like for the dogs. I left with six other items along with the chicken and apple – but no dog food.

Funny how that goes.

Along with the said chicken and apple, I came home with … puff pastry, a can of white/sliced potatoes, a huge container of blueberries, half of a watermelon, two celery sticks, and a package of romaine lettuce. I wonder what that tells of my diet?

When I checked out, I grabbed the receipt as it was spat out at me from the self-checkout machine. I got home and realized I got someone else’s receipt … apparently it was the shopper’s that used the scanner before me. I didn’t see who checked out ahead of me … but it certainly made me wonder.

Diet Mountain Dew, sushi, and Pepto Bismol.

They spent $1.04 less than I did. I’m pretty sure I got the better deal. But it made me wonder about them … male or female (or fluid)? Young, middle-aged, or older? Introvert/extrovert? Maybe if they didn’t eat the sushi and/or the soda, they wouldn’t need the Pepto! Hmmm.

My puzzling mind started reeling. Certainly (in my mind) it wasn’t a young mother or someone struggling financially. No one would spend nearly $10 on sushi, if so. I pictured someone in the work force with a good amount of disposable income (who could afford $10 sushi for lunch). I was inclined to think it was a guy … but the sushi was a veggie combo and aren’t sushi portions on the lighter side? I would think a male would need more than a few rolls of sushi – but what do I know? I thought of the Mountain Dew … I don’t know many women who drink soda or Mountain Dew, for that matter. But, do guys drink diet soda? And the Pepto … well, it made me think of someone older than 40. How many under that age need an antacid?

Good thing I’m not a detective!

I could have been way off base … and the purchaser could have been a 22-year-old female … grabbing a quick lunch, eating in her car, getting a caffeine spike to finish off her day or be ready for an afternoon presentation … and downing a swig of Pepto to calm her stomach. Who knows?

I’m just going to make sure I grab my receipt next time I’m shopping when buying Cheetos and snack cakes. I don’t need anyone judging my purchases except myself!

February 3, 2024 ~ Saturday pm (cold, snowy, purple skies)

Good ol’ Punxsutawny Phil forecasted an early spring. Hooray and yahoo! However, maybe his prediction wasn’t to include this weekend. The dogs are snuggled on the couch; Mac is staring at me with expectation. No, we are NOT going out for a you know what! It’s still snowing … I think we are at 7″ now … and still it comes down … sometimes fat flakes, other times like sifted powdered sugar. In any case, it’s leaving a white landscape that I do not care to walk around in.

We had thunder last night … at midnight! And, it was 48°. It was LOVELY! As I climbed into bed, I was praising that darling, fat, famous groundhog for his early Spring prediction … I have been needing it. I am NOT a winter gal. I awoke this morning to a gentle rain … it was delicious. I looked out and thought I’d go for a nice, long walk – carry an umbrella, maybe pick up a coffee. It sounded fabulously springlike … and I walked out of my bedroom after getting my clothes, headed for the shower, and realized it was … snowing!

Curses!

Yeah, I sound like the Wicked Witch of the West. Maybe I am her? I feel like it when the weather turns. Not that I’m bound to melt, just that words like, “Curses!” come out of my mouth. Like I said, I’m not a winter gal.

I’ve had the WW of the W on my mind lately. Odd but true. I was out, walking the other day in our beautiful 64° weather (it was glorious/and abnormal for late January – or Feb, March, or April! Yeah – Spring in CO sucks) … and I happened to look at my phone to see how many steps I’d taken. What was I averaging? How was I doing for this new year?

I was okay with the steps taken but was HORRIFIED when I saw how many calories – averaging/on a daily basis – I’ve been burning off. And how many you ask? A whopping 39.7 calories a day. Seriously! HOW is that even possible? I am sure a snail burns off more than 39.7 calories a day! WTF times 157!

I have NO metabolism. Sometime in my early 30s, after having two kids and seeing numbers on the scale that now would only happen if I endured amputation, my metabolism packed up and went south. Or east or to Europe; I don’t know, but it left me – for good. Without so much as a note. Sigh. And so it’s been my absolute pleasure for the last 35 years to do what so many women (and some men) have done … diet/exercise/curse the mirror/and have a closet of four different sizes of clothes. I’ve tried just about everything aside from surgery. And I won’t do that. I’m up 20 lbs from when I moved here … 20 months ago. Yeah, curses!

When I had my tonsils out, I lost 10 lbs in a week … of course, I couldn’t open my mouth and I sipped tea and broth for that time. When I actually could get any sort of food in me – I gained the poundage back … and an additional three pounds … in about ten minutes. Go figure.

And this all got me thinking, again, about the WW of the W and her hourglass. I’ve never had an hourglass figure (nor an actual hourglass, either). I’ve always been one of those rectangle girls/women … broad shoulders, thick waist, no hips. In other words, a smaller version of Refrigerator Perry. But now I’m a medium version of him. Oh, happy day!

In any case … I just shoveled the walk (and yes, I did take the dog for a walk!). I left the driveway to melt or be iced over for the next month – whichever comes first. Usually, the neighboring parking lot’s plow drivers also plow my drive – only right because the clients/staff for that building also tend to park (all too often) in my driveway or park blocking it. But, today the plow didn’t get near my drive. Oh well. Such is life. But, I’m not going to break my back (or have a heart attack) shoveling off this driveway. I’m not going anywhere tomorrow … and on Monday, I’ll cut through the plowed parking lot. I’ve done enough shoveling for the day … month … year! Surely that had to burn off more than 39 calories – apparently my caloric intake allotment for any day if I want to maintain this weight (which I do not). So, guess I’m down to water, tea, some tasty celery sticks, and air. Wonder if I sprayed a fruit-scented air freshener and took a few deep breaths if that would be cheating?

Sure am hoping that rodent of rodents was right … and that I can figure out how to get this poundage off me. Guess we’ll have to “weight” and see.

January 22, 2024 ~ Monday morning (unseasonably warm – I’ll take it!)

I’d like to wish you all a Happy New Year – but we are already three weeks into this new year – so, I’ll wish you a Happy (three weeks in/not so) New Year, instead. Hope it’s a great one for us all.

It’s been a while, again. The lobster has been absent for a couple of months and I feel it in my soul when I don’t write – but I have been “elsewhere” in my thoughts and time.

Mom died the week before Christmas … she was ready, and we were ready (is anyone EVER ready though?). She went peacefully, at home, and that is all anyone can really hope for. She missed her 95th by a month … a long, pretty-easy life. The night she passed, I came home late; I was grumpy and sleep-deprived, stressed and sad, and I brushed past my tree to hang up my coat and knocked off one of my favorite ornaments and watched as it shattered into a million pieces on the floor. I wondered why my heart didn’t do the same. The dogs had been in too long so I had messes to clean up. I got grumpier. Could I take one more thing? And then, in the laundry room, there was a (still alive – and squeaking – omg) mouse in the trap. OMG. Horrors! As I put him outside – all I could think of was that it was a day of slow, lingering death. I came inside and shouted at the ceiling, “I can’t do this … I hope you made it Mom. I hope to God you made it!” … and as the last word left my mouth, one of the light bulbs in my kitchen fixture blinked off and on. WTF?! I exhaled … and took it that Mom “made it” – she’d made it to Heaven. I whispered a very soft … thank you. That was good. A few days later, I brushed by the tree again and a small cluster of bells, hanging on one of the branches, tinkled softly. Okay … I get it … another sign. I took that that Mom got her wings, too. Atta girl, Mom.

This month has flown with holidays, packing up her apartment, arrangements, and all that losing someone entails (contacting whatever friends she had left, sifting through bits of a 95-year-old life) … which also included complete and utter exhaustion. Stress does a number on the body and when you stop for a moment after being on “high alert” for so long … the body (at least mine) turns to a glob of goo or a pile of mush and it’s really hard to get a glob of goo or a pile of mush to do anything!

I’m working on my next book (yay) and came across these this morning … old 100-word smash-ups from when I lived on the island. The local arts center would hold contests from time to time and you were allowed 100 words – no more/no less. Two local actors, one female/one male, would sit on the stage and read the stories out loud. Behind them on a large screen would be a photo of a “mock-up” book with the title of the story and the author’s name. It was always such fun! I was most tickled when the woman read my Ima Goen story. She did such a GREAT job with it. These are all better read aloud – just fyi. I placed 2nd and 3rd in two different years; I now don’t remember which stories won, but it was exciting! Big crowds in the performing arts center … and always a rush to hear someone else read your work. I miss my friends from there, but man, I miss the beauty and green and the culture … and having a reason to write a 100-word smash-up. Enjoy!

*****

By Myself … (Feb 2017)

Countless diaper-changing, bottle-feeding nights. Sleep-deprived days of colic and firsts …  I wished for a moment by myself. 

Giggles, swings, tadpoles, and cat birthday parties. Wading pools, dinosaurs, dolls, legos. Hours of Barbie, Disney songs that still haunt, slumber parties with Mary Worth til dawn.

I wished for a hot bath – by myself – without toys.

Back packs, packed lunches, soccer, piano, scouts. Friends galore, empty pantry, family vacations. Pizza boxes reaching the moon. Mountains of laundry. Whirling days of car pools and errands.

I wished to catch my breath. 

Quiet house. Husband passed. Children’s wings spread. 

By myself. 

*****

I am NOT Scarlett O’Hara  (Feb 2016)

I am NOT Scarlett O’Hara.

Though I do believe that “tomorrow is another day”, I keep hoping it ends up being something other than what it always is—Another. Day. 

It’s been years since that horrible, worst day—not the day he died (though not great in itself)…but the day AFTER he died. After 9,926 days together how was I to go on with my life…a life without HIM?

My shattered heart is mending—apparently too slowly—because everyone thinks I should be “over him” by now. 

I am NOT Scarlett O’Hara…and frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.

*****

The Light (Oct 2015) (This is a two person read. Italics = person #2)

The light comes intermittently—not like a blinking firefly but steady and streaming—reminding me of the lighthouse beacon at the cove.

Her pupils are not responding.

The voice is clinical. It talks about me—but not to me.

“I’M HERE!” I shout. But the words never pass my lips and echo in my head. I feel hollow. Do I feel?

I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do.

It is then that the sobbing begins. I hear the heartbreaking slump of bodies against each other—my parents.

The light returns but it is different—warmer, brighter—beckoning me towards it.

*****

My Fairy Tale  (Oct 2015)

Snow White had it made!

Seven boyfriends—Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Grumpy, Bashful, Happy, and Doc. Not great names and albeit short in stature, but she was adored by industrious, doting miners in a one-bedroom, cozy cottage deep in the woods.

What’s not to like?

A girl can dream. Right?

But, in my fairy tale, they would be tall, dark, and handsome with names like Hunky, Sporty, Funny, Wealthy, Smarty, Arty, and Chef.

However, life usually isn’t a fairy tale and sometimes you get Lazy, Sleazy, Slimy, Horny, Drunky, Stupid, or Broke.

But sometimes, just sometimes, you get a Prince.

*****

The Day After (Feb 2015)

I remember it like it was yesterday; because it was yesterday. 
I should have heeded the warnings. I knew it was coming. And yet, I ignored all the signs. And then it was upon us. And they were upon us. 
Scenes from nightmares: tattered and armed, skeletal, fang-toothed, and bloody; lurching and scurrying with a hundred feet. 
I turned out all the lights – hoping they would pass me by and not stop to feed on me to sate their unquenchable hunger. 
I endured hours, hidden in the darkness, praying for them to be gone. 
Thank God, Halloween is over!

*****

Ima Goen (Oct 2014) (Best read with a slow, Southern drawl – female voice)

You’d think my mama and daddy were humorous folks. Not so.

Contrarily, my name defies their stern nature. My name is Ima Goen…and that’s what I plan on doin’.

I’m sick of saying Ima Goen…cuz I know someone’s gonna ask me, “Where?”

It ain’t funny. So, I’m a goin’. I don’t know where…and I don’t know when but I’m a goin’ somewhere where I can breathe air so fresh my lungs will laugh.

Today’s not the day. But one day I’ll just go. And when I do, I’ll no longer be Ima Goen … I’ll be Ima Gone.

*****

Ode to Leggings (Jan 2015)

Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a pair of long, shapely legs … 

Once upon a time, and long ago, (probably whence I was in 4th grade) – I owned a pair of legs – bar non, from sticks and pink were made.
For twelve seconds, that is, those “sticks” were mine, between baby and adult stages of chub. Good thing I don’t live in Borneo where cannibals would rename me … Grub.  Bob Evans and Jimmy Dean would love me – don’t give either of them a fork … cuz my legs, these days, are no longer sticks, but look like fat sausages of pork!

*****

Realization (Nov 2014)

Realization. It had been a long time in coming. I stared down at my left hand as I slipped the band from the fourth finger. Subtly … like a hurricane gale or a marching band … it hit me and swept away my denial. Awash in grief, I could do nothing but quell the primal howl inside me and try to breathe. Breathe. Keep breathing. Road signs around me silently screamed their directions: STOP, MERGE, WRONG WAY, CAUTION, DEAD END. DEAD. END. I felt sick. Again. All the sleepless nights, unshed and shed tears, my shattered heart … finally it set in … realization.

November 7, 2023 ~ Tuesday night (another day/another night/more meds, please)

I consider myself a healthy person – relatively speaking. Yes, I’m sensitive to almost everything on the planet, allergic to a few others, and a sesame seed away from living in a plastic bubble – but then, it would have to be something other than plastic, because I can’t handle that, either. But, I’m rarely sick.

But when I found myself in the Urgent Care exam room twice in as many months and needing antibios. I wondered. And, when both docs suggested that I have my tonsils looked at, I wondered more and I did. My primary recommended an ENT and a month later, there I was sitting in his office with my mouth open like an ungracious cod fish with him peering down my maw with one of those baby flashlights. He stood up, made eye contact, and said, “Wow.” Oh great! NOT what you want to hear from your ENT! He began furiously scribbling on whatever sheet was on his clipboard (yes, people still use clipboards! I love them – mini-tables / tables on the go – I digress.) … he stopped whatever he was writing and looked at me and said, “Yeah, we’re gonna take those out.”

And so that is what happened last Thursday.

A quick trip to the surgery center, a couple of warm blankets, and a nice chitchat with a very friendly preop nurse (who told me she kissed a walrus when she was 5). Seriously, I did not dream that – that was before I had any drugs in me! The anesthesiologist gave me a very (way too) graphic run-down of what was going to happen and told me that in an hour or so, I’d be waking up – tonsil-free and raring to go.

Well, in theory. I fought everything. I didn’t, but my body did. I fought the anesthesia. I fought the breathing tube. My body refused to give up the goods. Enormous tonsils + a very tiny airway = prying the jaw open. I can only picture myself looking like a human Pez dispenser for an hour or more. Too bad I’m not full of brick-like tasty candies!

The operation took twice as long as expected. The breathing tube abraded my esophagus, they wrestled with the tongue and tonsils, and somewhere along the line, I think a crown got chipped. Apparently, I also have very sharp teeth. My bottom inside lip, tongue, and sides of my mouth were all cut up – making me feel like I’d been chewing on glass shards. My tongue was swollen, black and blue, and too sore to move. (Really creepy.) The roof of my mouth is toric and (still) feels like it’s been on the receiving end of a mouthful of burning/too-hot cocoa or hot cheese. I also had a bruised neck, sore right knee and hip. What – did they drop me? Sit on me? I doubt it – but odd pains in places that should not be associated with a tonsillectomy.

In any case – gentleness was not being had. This was not one of those poetic moments or Dylan Thomas scenarios … “Go gentle into that good night.’ This was, “Get the damn, unwilling-to-leave-the-body tonsils out, and let’s go have lunch” times.

And, so, post-surgery, I woke up (rather slowly), didn’t remember anything the doctor said, was taken home, and had a very sleepy first day and night – drugged up but good. But, I’d been thinking … I’ve had a C-section without anesthesia – this should be a walk in the park, right? 6-year-olds get their tonsils out – how bad can this be?

Let me tell you – pretty $%&(*+$#(%@#@ bad!

So, this past week was a lot of sleeping and a lot of pain meds (that didn’t really seem to work as well as they should have) and broth and tea. Lots of tea. Honey is my new best friend. I am the Goldilocks version of tonsillectomy recovery because the temperature of anything in my mouth has to be just right. Anything hot was too hot, anything cold was too cold and burning … tepid is/was best. And forget about anything dairy (lactose intolerant), or fruity (applesauce/jello/fruit pops = too acidic). What I wouldn’t give for a barbacoa burrito!

In my mind, I’m one of those creepy fish in the depths of the ocean that have that little lightbulb hanging over their mouths — wide mouths ready for food. Well, I’m ready for food – but my body isn’t having it – yet. Willing but not able. It’s been a week!

So, why am I not eating yet? Well, the prying open of the jaw will do that. Jaw hinges don’t really like being pried open! I have ear and jaw pain still and can only open my mouth so much. The first few days I couldn’t do anything but sip … then I got a cracker in … then a baby spoon. So, I can get in broth, tiny bits of scrambled eggs, and have been nibbling on crackers until the ends get soggy/mushy (disintegrated) enough for me to swallow down with a sip of tea. I can now make a cracker last an HOUR! Today I got some noodles in me with the broth – progress!

I know sleep is good when recuperating – it’s the time when the body gets rid of toxins (aka meds/anesthesia/etc) and cells are rejuvenated. I need a lot of cell rejuvenation on a regular day! So, I slept a LOT this past week. And, that’s fine by me – I didn’t really feel like doing much else. Sleep masks pain (usually) and I was in no mood to feel like I was swallowing glass shards or knives all the time – I am not a circus performer. So, sleep was a good escape. I’m perfectly fine, albeit a little woozy/weak from lack of food (hey – and 10 lbs lighter!), but able-bodied and ready to go … I just can’t swallow without major pain!

But, this too, shall pass – and heal … I’m already feeling the gross coverings coating my throat (sorry tmi) and in another week, I’ll be back to my old self. And as in “old self” – the doctor already told us he wouldn’t do this surgery on someone of my “advanced” age in the future. Okay, sonny – nice to know! In any case, I wouldn’t recommend it – not really the staycation of my dreams. Covid was more fun.

And this? Unless you’re 10 … it’s not for the faint of heart … or throat!

October 24, 2023 ~ Tuesday morning (the last few days of 70-80 degrees are upon us)

I set myself up for this. I know I do. I’ve done it before … and I’ll do it again. But, it never gets any easier.

Last Saturday, I said a very tearful goodbye to my sweet lab, Mr. B. Another trip to the Rainbow Bridge. This was my third time taking a special pup in under a year. And, no – it does not get any easier. Ever. I don’t know why I think it would or should … but it doesn’t.

Mr. B was my last lab adoptee. A big, 13.5-year-old, white-yellow lab, with a heart of gold, a permanent mischievous grin, and eyes that could melt your heart like a chocolate bar on a hot day. He was a goober. Plain and simple. He was not of the peanut variety – but just silly, funny, playful … just a goober.

His journey started some 13 years ago … we never had his early info … but he was (technically) in foster care from the time he was 18 months old. And, knowing him as I did as a 13-year-old adult, I can only surmise he was a monster as a youngster (probably why he was relinquished early on). A lovely couple took care of him for those ten years after his puppyhood – loving him like their own – not wanting to let him go/biding their time for the perfect family for this dog – not realizing they had already found it. He was their sweetheart for all those years until they could no longer take care of him – and then he became mine. Lucky me.

Mid-November, last year, my lovely lab, Annie, lost her battle with cancer. It was fast and ugly and unexpected … and I was heartbroken (once again). Knowing it took me nearly 18 months to find her after my last lab passed, I put in an application with lab rescue, thinking this could take some time, and a mere 4 days later Mr. B was climbing into my car for the trip to his new home.

That was the Sunday before Thanksgiving, last year. It all happened so fast! I got home with this 85 lb, huge, male dog and wondered … what did I just do?

But, it was all just perfectly fine the minute we walked in the back door – he sniffed Bea (my teeny chihuahua) a very chill “hey” … and we were on our way. I just had no idea our little lovefest would end not quite a year later.

B (as he came to be known) was pure delight. I think he made me laugh every day … all 333 days … that he was with me. I’ve never had a dog whose sole mission (or soul mission) was to bring joy to everyone and everything he came in contact with. He did just that.

The Friday after Thanksgiving, I had an Open House. I was a little worried – bringing so many people into the house, with a new dog. How would he do? Would he be overwhelmed? I needn’t have worried one single bit. With each arrival, B greeted them as if they were long-lost friends – going to his toy basket and giving out toys, one by one, to the guests. If no one was coming in – he’d toss his toys in the air like a performing juggler. He was the hit of the party. He gave new meaning to Party Animal!

And so our days went. And do I have any doggie regrets? Yeah – one. Aside from not having more time with him – something I had no control over – I never got him to a dog park to run freely. He was always on a leash when we were out walking (lesson learned one day when he got out of the back fence, in 7″ of snow, and ran around the neighborhood with 3 adults chasing him for 20 minutes – until (thankfully) he triggered an automatic door at the local pharmacy and walked in and we grabbed him!). He was a runner. I couldn’t take my chances with him off-leash except somewhere contained. We went to the local dog park twice – both times to leave before getting out of the car. I’m not a very trusting person and a lone guy with a pit bull just didn’t seem like a good idea. TWICE! But, we walked at Wash Park and around our neighborhood and he played and ran around in our yards with my daughter’s dog and visiting dogs. And, while not deep enough to swim in – he’d sit in creeks and pools. And, he was always so happy. But, as happens, time and life got away from us and I never got him back to a dog park. I would have loved to see him run free.

He was so playful. If I wasn’t throwing him a toy – he was tossing it up in the air himself. He was silly and cloddy and more than once would fall over a branch, toy, or something in the yard and look back at me with a look on his face that was like – Oops, did you see that?

I’d throw a toy to him – and he’d run and get it, toss it into the air, and look at me with that face that said, This is the best thing ever! And, then I’d do it again – and I’d get the same reaction. It was always like he’d never seen a toy before and this was, indeed, the best thing ever! We did that over and over and over again – until one of us was too tired. It was usually me!

His former owners and I kept in touch – sharing photos and stories of this goober that we shared and loved. I sent a photo showing that B had dug 3 holes in my back garden beds – photo evidence of the holes and dirt-black legs proving his feat and glee. I was sent back a photo of a hole that B dug years prior – one that rivaled any archaeological dig site! He must have been a beast in his heyday!

But by the time I got him, he was a gentle, old guy. He’d play like a 3-year-old with any visiting pup (for 20 minutes) and then go take a nap. But, he’d be raring to go again later. He was accepting and friendly to all humans and animals. On a few occasions, I found him taking toys out to the squirrels. Was he wanting them to play with him? I just had to laugh – toys encircling the tree on the patio – squirrels chattering away up high – and B waiting below, expectantly, with that silly, happy face hoping to bribe playmates.

And that’s how I’d like to remember him. He was a smiler. He found delight in anything and everything. He was always smiling. Well, until this last week.

About a month ago he had what we thought was a bout of vertigo. But the symptoms didn’t go away and some worsened … he listed, he was wobbly and unsteady, his head was cocked to the left. I thought his vision was impacted. We wondered if something else was going on – a brain tumor? Infection? One day on a walk he seemed to forget how to walk … the next he seemed to forget how to eat. But he was always sweet and loving, patient and playful. Another visit to the vet – and all seemed fine. But it wasn’t.

We took our last walk last Tuesday. He slept a lot that day, which I thought was really odd. He just didn’t have much left by the time we walked to the corner – so, we headed home. He looked tired. The next two days he didn’t eat (much)/stood out in the yard in odd places … by Friday night he couldn’t hold down water. I knew something was up – obviously – but what?

I wondered if he had eaten something he shouldn’t have? Was there a blockage? After lab work and xrays, after a trip to the vet Saturday morning, we had our answers. What we had questioned came to light – his number valuations were off the charts for everything possible, there were shadows, organ enlargements, and he was in various stages of organ failure. We had to say goodbye. So – thinking I’d come in to “fix” whatever was wrong, instead I found myself giving him a very unexpected final hug.

He was ready. I was not.

And, so it goes. And even with little Frankie here, the house is so empty. My heart is broken and if I could stop crying, my eyelids might stop hurting. I don’t think my heart will though.

A friend comforted me this week by saying – “Hello is easy – most goodbyes are not.” Too true. And, I set myself up for this heartache when I adopt the oldsters. But, it’s what is in my heart – even though I know it’ll get broken (time and time again) – I’ll do it again. I want to be part of that last chapter.

And, not yet being completely cried dry, I couldn’t sleep and was lying in bed last night counting the days I had him … after all, I am a numbers gal … and came up with 333 days. I thought there might be some significance to that number, so I looked it up. And while I’m not into numerology or angel numbers or those sorts of things – I am open to what might be.

Apparently, (the angel number) 333 means positivity, mental peace, and abundance in life. And, biblically … divine wholeness, completeness, and perfection. Sounds like B, right there! Why live another day if that is you in a nutshell? I kept reading. The ancient Greek philosopher, Pythagoras (remember him from math class?), considered the number 3 to be a near-perfect number. It depicts harmony, wisdom, and understanding. It was also the number of time – past, present, future; birth, life, death; beginning, middle, end. It is thought that people who encounter this number will grow in their relationships and in life. It is a sacred number in these realms. In numerology, it is a sign to embrace your creative abilities and express yourself authentically. So, I guess I’m doing that now … as he did.

Thank you, former owners, for allowing me to take care of B for the time I was given. He was complete joy for me. And thank you, B, for being such a silly, sweet, loving, goofball goober. I will always love you.

Run free, baby, run free.

October 12, 2023 ~ Thursday (Fall has arrived … it’s 48° and fall-chilly … finally!)

As a kid growing up, we did not have fish. No tetras or goldfish in aquariums or bowls on any tabletops. And, for that matter, not many dinners of fish sticks, halibut, trout, mackerel, or salmon either. We did have tuna salad and my mom served pickled herring (terrifying to me and always in some horrid mayo sauce) at their New Year’s Eve parties. And, I think we may have brought home a goldfish or two from some school carnival but those mysteriously disappeared within a week. But that was it.

My brother had scads of tadpoles (in various stages of froghood) in buckets and containers in the backyard, crayfish were in others, but fish were not our thing. One such tank was as best to be described as a small cattle trough. Where on earth did he get that thing? It must have weighed a ton! I imagine he got it out of my paternal grandfather’s basement – a haven to spiders, a scarier-than-hell dark storage area for us kids, a boundless treasure trove to my Grandpa. He was born in 1896 and was a quiet, scrappy man – always working – and he saved anything and everything … just in case he or someone should need some bit of whatever. And apparently, that tank was needed to house more tadpoles … but never fish.

We were not a fish family.

Except for Whitey.

When I was, I don’t know, five or six, I entered some “fishing derby” at the local mall. That sounds weird, I know. It was a newer shopping mall but one of those that has now come back into style with outside entrances and covered walkways. It was lovely and beautiful at the time and at one end was a big pond and a working mill waterwheel. What someone didn’t count on was that the fish they originally stocked the pond with would GROW and multiply and soon they were overrun with very large, very hungry “goldfish”. I have no idea what they were – koi seems improbable, but they looked like koi and were huge! But, that’s from a six-year-old’s perspective – and one who had very poor eyesight at that!

Anyway – in order to thin out the growing fish population, the shopping center had a “fishing day”. I think a person paid some nominal fee to enter the fray and one was given a fishing pole and some bait and whatever fish they caught they could take home. The fish were weighed and whoever got the weightiest fish got a prize. Except for the WHITE fish. For some reason – they were to stay in the pond.

So, there we were, I don’t remember anyone else being there except my dad and me. He got my pole ready (cuz I certainly wasn’t going to hurt any worm!) and I remember being so excited that I was going to catch a big goldfish and take it home. I figured I’d name it Goldy (doesn’t every kid?) and we’d live happily ever after – forever – or at least until I got married.

And, there I was, this dorky kid with sugar plum fairy pink metal cat-eyed glasses on my little face, filled with anticipation to nab my first real fish pet … and yep, I caught a white one! I think I must have started swearing with that catch! Maybe that’s where I get the “sailor salt” from?!

The officials came over and unhooked the fish and unceremoniously tossed him back into the pond and that was that.

Or so I thought.

Not long after the fishing day, my dad and I were back at the mall. Dad LOVED the Sears store! We were always in that store – in the tool section – which, by luck, was by the candy and hot nut counter. I’d troll the counter while my dad trolled the Craftsman tool section! I don’t recall either of us getting anything from either counter/area – but it was fun to go look! When I was older and had allowance/earnings money – I always got Dad a tool from Sears for Christmas! (And, I’d get some hot nuts for myself!)

Anyway – on one of these outings, my dad said let’s go take a look at the fish. So, happy little me was thrilled. We walked to the far end of the mall (the other end from Sears) to the pond and we saw a few fish – as in NOT MANY. So, we were looking and walking along the railing, and all of a sudden a white fish popped up from the surface! I’m sure he was hoping for some fish food or whatever people would throw down – but my dad said it was the fish I caught – coming to say hi to me! (It didn’t enter my little brain that since the white ones were thrown back that MOST of the fish in the pond were then white and that this was just some random white fish!) But, being impressionable and wanting that human-animal connection, I hopped on the “that’s my fish” story in the making. Of course, I named him Whitey … and we would go and visit the pond whenever we were there and of course, “Whitey” was always at the surface to greet us!

In the fall of 1958, the groundbreaking ceremony for this soon-to-be mall, on some 88 acres of farmland set aside for the Chicago area’s eighth shopping mall in the northwest suburb of Niles, took place. It was a big deal for this fledgling city. And my dad liked “big deals”. I remember him taking a group of us kids (his own plus neighbor kids) and walking (3 miles) to see the construction. I was really little and don’t remember being pulled in a wagon, so maybe he carried me some of the way? I don’t recall – I just remember being on some of those hills and feeling like we were the only ones in the great expanse! Probably how pioneers must have felt at their time. At the time it was all onion fields around us – so, we could walk over prairies and hills (and cut through farmland) to get to the site that eventually became subdivisions and strip malls. And, at that time, it was a beautiful wilderness expanse. Probably made my mother crazy that he traipsed us out there and back!

The open-air shopping center took two years to build and opened on October 13, 1960. (63 years ago tomorrow! Weird!) It was called Golf Mill (at the corner of Golf and Milwaukee) and someone thought it would be catchy to add a pond, some bridges, and a working waterwheel (hence the play on mill). There was also an office building structure that was supposed to resemble a golf ball (a play on golf) but I never thought it looked like one! The anchor store was Sears and the mall ended up having over 1 million leasable square feet! The place was huge for the time. One of the stores even had caged monkeys in it! Egad! It was a great place to walk on a snowy winter’s day – all open air and then you’d pop into a store and that rush of warm air could make you feel all cozy and melty inside. Then you’d go back out and the brisk air would sting your cheeks but it was okay because you knew another store was a few steps away and all the while the aroma of greasy burgers and fries permeated one end of the mall – thanks to the Woolworth’s dinette!

A few years later the pond and mill wheel went away. I can imagine it probably caused all sorts of legal, safety, and sanitary issues. Or maybe they just needed the space for more parking! A theater in the round was built at that end and a Millionaire’s Lounge (notorious mob/gangster hangout!) was added later. But, for the time it was there – it was a lovely little area to visit. The mall is still there and is being considered for a $440 million dollar renovation with ideas to bring back the mill pond.

This memory was sparked yesterday while at lunch with a good friend. She was telling me how animals are drawn to her daughter. When out in open water – the manta rays surround her. It sounded lovely. I always wanted that animal magnetism. I always fantasized about walking the woods and having all the wild animals coming to walk with me – kind of like a combo of Jeremiah Johnson and Snow White!

Anyway, RIP Whitey – all of you white fish in that pond – you made a little girl feel very special!