Don't you just hate Daylight Savings Time? First of all, there are the clocks to reset. In the kitchen there is the stove clock, the clock on the coffee maker, the clock on the micorwave and then - the easist - the kitchen clock, which is battery run so you just move the hands an hour ahead. The TV and the computer somehow change themselves, this always amazes me, especially because our computer is so old, and now the change occurs at an earlier date than ever.
There are 3 clocks in the bedroom, one on either side of the bed, and then the clock on the radio. And there is a clock in the hallway upstairs, another battery one. One of the hardest to change is the clock in the car. I have to dig out the manual twice a year to see how to do it. And then there are the clocks, three of them in the Bird's Nest. It seems like you have them all, and then there it is, another one to reset. I resolved not to ever wear a watch when I left my last job. As a secretary, you always had to note the exact time of each phone call, visitor, etc. Your watch was part of the job. So, like high heels, the watch is gone. Timmy has a watch and it took about 15 mnutes for him to get it to the right time today.
Then there are the meals - Is is too early for lunch? Is is 11 o'clock or 1 o'clock? Spring ahead, clocks ahead - its repeated a hundred times a day. Nighttime has its own problems. I go to bed early, usually at 7:30, listen to a story for an hour, then off to dreamland. Going to bed and then waking up, a whole new game with Daylight Savings Time. Who was the airhole that thought this one up?
Sunday, March 10, 2013
In July of 1984 Chrissy and I went to Ireland on a week guided tour of Ireland that was spent three days in Limerick and then to Dublin for three days and back to Limerick and the Shannon airport. In July of the next year we returned, but this time on our own, no bus, no guided tour. But with both visits we had the experience of visiting a real Irish home - not just being a B&B guest, but a guest to the Irish.
The first time we met a guy named Tom (Chrissy said all the Irish guys are either Tom of John) and when we told him we had rented a car and were going to go to Blarney castle, he suggested that he drive us there, and we could also visit his "Mum" who lived nearby in Bantry Bay. In Ireland they drive on the other side of the road, and our rented car was a shift stick that Chrissy had never used. When the rental agent brought the car to our hotel he offered to give Chrissy a lesson on shifting. I was having a cup of tea and thought best to not be a part of it. I was right because in half an hour, they returned - both their faces were bright red, but I think the rental car agent was brightest and he could barely speak as he rushed out. "What happened?" I asked Chrissy, who had ordered a pint, and was downing it quickly. "Oh, " she said, "I was doing good, until I had to put it into fourth gear, and I accidently went into reverse. The car jumped straight up into the air and that was the end of my lesson." So, when we had an offer to be driven to the castle, we thought it a good idea.
We set out early the next morning. We started to realize that Tom (or John) was a little unusual when he stopped to have us pick strawberries in a field to bring to his mother. We got to the castle, climbed the dangerously small stairs, kissed the stone, and were off to meet Mum. The house was beautiful - like somthing out of the movie The Quiet Man. It was right on the ocean, their dogs, two collies, were frolicing near the edge of the water. In the house, the TV was on, a game show from American, and Mum greeted us warmly, although it was hard to understand a word she said. Two bachelor uncles appeared in the kitchen, looking at Chrissy and myself as if we had dropped in from heaven. After a short visit, he left to return to our hotel, but the Irish visit outshone kissing the Blarney Stone by a mile.
The next year we visited the home of John ( maybe Chrissy was right) Quaid. I had met him in Tivoli when he was working on the horse farm. After his visa ran out, he had returned to Ireland and graciously invited us to his home. We drove up, hestitantly, was this it? The hedges were covered with laundry drying, no clothesline in sight. Chickens roamed about the yard, and then the door opened and John came out, followed by his parents, both adorable, with white, white hair, and blue, blue eyes. "Come in, come in" they ushered us into a small sitting room. Newspapers were in piles all over the floor, the chairs we sat on were missing legs, held up by a brick instead. They offered us large bottles of beer (Chrissy and I could never find bottled beer in Ireland) and then to a "tea" that was everything but tea. Piles of smoked salmon, a platter of delicious potato salad with dill and peas, the bread so good, that we couldn't stop eating it and then a cake made, as John's mother said, with a dozen eggs. What a feast. We took pictures of them and they took pictures of us. John and his brother looked sad as they said goodbye...sad that they weren't going home to America. We said, "We'll be back" and they said, "See you soon', but we never did get back to see them. I wonder now if I ever will get back.
The first time we met a guy named Tom (Chrissy said all the Irish guys are either Tom of John) and when we told him we had rented a car and were going to go to Blarney castle, he suggested that he drive us there, and we could also visit his "Mum" who lived nearby in Bantry Bay. In Ireland they drive on the other side of the road, and our rented car was a shift stick that Chrissy had never used. When the rental agent brought the car to our hotel he offered to give Chrissy a lesson on shifting. I was having a cup of tea and thought best to not be a part of it. I was right because in half an hour, they returned - both their faces were bright red, but I think the rental car agent was brightest and he could barely speak as he rushed out. "What happened?" I asked Chrissy, who had ordered a pint, and was downing it quickly. "Oh, " she said, "I was doing good, until I had to put it into fourth gear, and I accidently went into reverse. The car jumped straight up into the air and that was the end of my lesson." So, when we had an offer to be driven to the castle, we thought it a good idea.
We set out early the next morning. We started to realize that Tom (or John) was a little unusual when he stopped to have us pick strawberries in a field to bring to his mother. We got to the castle, climbed the dangerously small stairs, kissed the stone, and were off to meet Mum. The house was beautiful - like somthing out of the movie The Quiet Man. It was right on the ocean, their dogs, two collies, were frolicing near the edge of the water. In the house, the TV was on, a game show from American, and Mum greeted us warmly, although it was hard to understand a word she said. Two bachelor uncles appeared in the kitchen, looking at Chrissy and myself as if we had dropped in from heaven. After a short visit, he left to return to our hotel, but the Irish visit outshone kissing the Blarney Stone by a mile.
The next year we visited the home of John ( maybe Chrissy was right) Quaid. I had met him in Tivoli when he was working on the horse farm. After his visa ran out, he had returned to Ireland and graciously invited us to his home. We drove up, hestitantly, was this it? The hedges were covered with laundry drying, no clothesline in sight. Chickens roamed about the yard, and then the door opened and John came out, followed by his parents, both adorable, with white, white hair, and blue, blue eyes. "Come in, come in" they ushered us into a small sitting room. Newspapers were in piles all over the floor, the chairs we sat on were missing legs, held up by a brick instead. They offered us large bottles of beer (Chrissy and I could never find bottled beer in Ireland) and then to a "tea" that was everything but tea. Piles of smoked salmon, a platter of delicious potato salad with dill and peas, the bread so good, that we couldn't stop eating it and then a cake made, as John's mother said, with a dozen eggs. What a feast. We took pictures of them and they took pictures of us. John and his brother looked sad as they said goodbye...sad that they weren't going home to America. We said, "We'll be back" and they said, "See you soon', but we never did get back to see them. I wonder now if I ever will get back.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
The snow this week reminded me of a trip 29 years ago this month that my friend Crissy and I took to the Quebec Winter Festival. It was an IBM trip, the bus picked us up in Kingston at 5:30 am on a Thursday and we were to return late Sunday night after attending the 30th anniversary of the BonHomme winter holiday. We arrived in Quebec early afternoon and quickly changed our money, a trick we had learned the hard way in Ireland. The snow was amazing - up over the first floor windows, piled high in the streets with just narrow little pathways to walk on. We noticed that the Quebec residents were very thin, a fact Crissy thought was directly related to the narrow paths. We had been warned upon our arrival of the festival drink called "Caribou" that was especially deadly and especially well liked by the locals. We quickly bought souvenir plastic red canes with a removal BonHomme head (a snowman wearing a tasseled hat). The head could be removed so that vendors who were selling the drink, could pour it directly into your cane. People on the streets everywhere were lifting headless BonHomme canes to their mouth. We decided to take a tour on a horse driven carriage with a woman driver, who unfortunately did not speak English. We were amazed to see snow higher than the goal posts in the local school yard, snow everywhere piled high. I tried to question her: "Quelle mon la beige est away?" she looked puzzled and then smiled and said, "Oh, Mai" - think of that - snow until May.
We saw an ice castle, a real castle with two floors that you could walk into, and a parade at night, complete with fireworks shot right over the heads of the onlookers. Ambulances were riding up and down the streets to pick up the people who had failed to heed the caribou warnings and were down in the snow. Crissy and I walked the street, and hearing music, entered a building where they took our coats, and $10 dollars or the equivalent, and we entered a large gym, furnished with picnic tables and bands, four of them, in each corner. Molson's beer was being sold everywhere, and we sat down at a table. After a few drinks we had the great idea of taking a swim. The brochure at our hotel had advertised a swimming pool and we had come prepared with our suits. We put on our suits, grabbed a couple of towels, and got on the elevator. One of the buttons was labeled pool, so we hit it. People got on the elevator at the next stop and looked at us in surprise. The pool button took us to the bottom floor, and we followed the signs for "pool". Turning a corner, we came to an empty hall, with a door at the end. There was a window, covered with snow, but we could just make out an outline of the outside pool, completely filled in with snow. "No wonder they looked at us like we were nuts", we thought laughing and tried to reach our room without anyone seeing two grown women in February wearing bathing suits. Probably perfectly normal during the festival.
Crissy and I traveled well together, Boston, Venezuela, two trips to Ireland, but that trip to Quebec, the snowiest place in the winter, is right up there near the top of the list.
We saw an ice castle, a real castle with two floors that you could walk into, and a parade at night, complete with fireworks shot right over the heads of the onlookers. Ambulances were riding up and down the streets to pick up the people who had failed to heed the caribou warnings and were down in the snow. Crissy and I walked the street, and hearing music, entered a building where they took our coats, and $10 dollars or the equivalent, and we entered a large gym, furnished with picnic tables and bands, four of them, in each corner. Molson's beer was being sold everywhere, and we sat down at a table. After a few drinks we had the great idea of taking a swim. The brochure at our hotel had advertised a swimming pool and we had come prepared with our suits. We put on our suits, grabbed a couple of towels, and got on the elevator. One of the buttons was labeled pool, so we hit it. People got on the elevator at the next stop and looked at us in surprise. The pool button took us to the bottom floor, and we followed the signs for "pool". Turning a corner, we came to an empty hall, with a door at the end. There was a window, covered with snow, but we could just make out an outline of the outside pool, completely filled in with snow. "No wonder they looked at us like we were nuts", we thought laughing and tried to reach our room without anyone seeing two grown women in February wearing bathing suits. Probably perfectly normal during the festival.
Crissy and I traveled well together, Boston, Venezuela, two trips to Ireland, but that trip to Quebec, the snowiest place in the winter, is right up there near the top of the list.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Let's continue with the theme of Death Month. A few weeks ago, I was sitting in the living room front window, a large bay window that overlooks the front yard, the birdfeeders, Clay Hill Road, and anyone or anything going on outside my house. I love to sit in that window, especially when the sun is bright on a cold winter's day, it is almost like being at the beach. Anyway, I was sitting there, when I got this idea that I would like to be laid out in front of that window, in my own house, with my own things all around me. No need to make a photo poster, family pictures hang all over the walls. No cold hard folding seats, there is my wonderful couch of 25 years to relax on. I shared this idea later that day with Sabra and Laura and they quickly latched on to the idea. "It would be so nice, so comfortable to be in our own home, for the funeral. The kids could go outside and run around, you could make a cup of tea in the kitchen, so much better than the coldness of the local funeral home." At Mayor Koch's funeral on Monday, which I watched with great interest, his assistant remembered that the Mayor had strarted to plan his funeral in the 80's and was constantly updating it. Can't start too early, better make an appointment with the funeral director to see if he can handle this, I thought.
Then today at Mass, the priest got into "dust to dust" with Ash Wednesday coming up in a few days. My ears perked up when he mentioned wooden coffins hand made by Trappist Monks as part of their works for God. Looking the coffins up on the internet, their simplicity, their low price starting at $1,000, sold me. They even bless the coffins and offer a free Mass for anyone using one. What a bargain. I think I am on to something.
Then today at Mass, the priest got into "dust to dust" with Ash Wednesday coming up in a few days. My ears perked up when he mentioned wooden coffins hand made by Trappist Monks as part of their works for God. Looking the coffins up on the internet, their simplicity, their low price starting at $1,000, sold me. They even bless the coffins and offer a free Mass for anyone using one. What a bargain. I think I am on to something.
Friday, February 1, 2013
The first of February, a month that Bucky termed "death month" years ago because so many people died in February one year. This first day of this month Mayor Koch died. I met Mayor Koch several years ago while on an IBM bus trip to the city. Well, I didn't actually meet him, he spit on me. We were at a food festival that we just happened upon in one of the parks, very busy atmosphere, everyone enjoying ethic type foods. A group of men passed by, one eating and spitting all over the place, and Timmy pointed him out as Mayor Koch. "Yeah," I said as I wiped off my shirt, "he just slopped all over me." So much for the Mayor.
Timmy has been sick all week, an inner ear ailment maybe, dizziness and nausea on standing so he spent three days laying flat in bed, the only way he felt ok, laying flat. Sabra looked up his ailment on the internet and deemed it an inner ear problem, or a brain tumor, take your pick. Apparently, there is a new kind of phobia going around, people using the internet to look up their symptoms and coming down and going to their doctors with hypocondriatic illnesses learned on line. I can see where that might be a problem. I only used the internet once. It was years ago and my belly button was inflamed and sore. Looking up the symptoms I gasped as I read of three different possible cancers, feminine type concerns and intestinal juices being emitted through the naval. Nervously, I examined myself for more symptoms and saw that it was too tight pants in too hot weather. Loose pants, and the cancers all went away.
Timmy uses the nature programs on TV to diagnose his illnesses. For this one, he used a wolf that had a broken leg and laid in an entrance to a small cave for two weeks, semi protected from coyotes, until his leg healed, and he headed for a stream, drank water and was fine from then on. So Timmy stayed in bed (his cave), didn't eat for days, and today he is on his feet, his voice still shaky from whatever he had. Maybe on the nature channel he can learn what to do about that. One day of death month down, twenty seven more to go.
Timmy has been sick all week, an inner ear ailment maybe, dizziness and nausea on standing so he spent three days laying flat in bed, the only way he felt ok, laying flat. Sabra looked up his ailment on the internet and deemed it an inner ear problem, or a brain tumor, take your pick. Apparently, there is a new kind of phobia going around, people using the internet to look up their symptoms and coming down and going to their doctors with hypocondriatic illnesses learned on line. I can see where that might be a problem. I only used the internet once. It was years ago and my belly button was inflamed and sore. Looking up the symptoms I gasped as I read of three different possible cancers, feminine type concerns and intestinal juices being emitted through the naval. Nervously, I examined myself for more symptoms and saw that it was too tight pants in too hot weather. Loose pants, and the cancers all went away.
Timmy uses the nature programs on TV to diagnose his illnesses. For this one, he used a wolf that had a broken leg and laid in an entrance to a small cave for two weeks, semi protected from coyotes, until his leg healed, and he headed for a stream, drank water and was fine from then on. So Timmy stayed in bed (his cave), didn't eat for days, and today he is on his feet, his voice still shaky from whatever he had. Maybe on the nature channel he can learn what to do about that. One day of death month down, twenty seven more to go.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
There have been several articles in the paper lately on teens, even preteens, and technology and how parents can handle it, even control it. I guess this is a result of Christmas presents of iPhones, smartphones and video technology. Limiting the use of such devices has become a hot topic of parenting today. And things have become drastic, between the kids and the adults. Parents in California were acutally drugged with sleeping medication by their daughters after the parents forbid texting after 10 pm. Desperate measures but digital addiction has been identified as a real problem.
Our parents didn't have this worry, we didn't even have a TV until almost everyone on the block did. Even our grandparents, who lived next door, had one before us. It stood downstairs, in the dining room, and we sat around the dining room table and watched Jackie Gleason, one of Poppy's favorites. Poppy even adopted one of his famous phrases "what's that slop you're eating? when he saw the plates in front of us that Grandma had filled for us.
My best friends Barbara and Charlene had TV's before us, and I watched The Big Top circus show at Barbara's house every Saturday and I Love Lucy at Charlene's house. When we finally did get a TV there was no concern of watching it too much. Mostly, because there was only 2 channels and a limited amount of viewing you could do. Ernie Kovacs was on in the morning, with a little witch puppet that we loved. There were puppets then on tv, Kukla Fran and Ollie, Sherri's little lamb, every kid show had at least one puppet. I don't think kids even know what puppet are today. Anyway, as more shows came on, tv became an issue. Not so much as how many hours were spent in front of it, as to how close you were sitting to it, with fears of sterilization, ruined eyesight, and worse in the future.
Technology has surely come a long ways in my lifetime, but I can't say anything is any better. Today the channels number into the thousands, on every subject and cablevision now costs us more than electric and heat total for the year. Any there is never anything on that you want to watch. I don't own a cell phone, and probably never will. I would like to get rid of our one phone on the kitchen wall, for that matter. With the Bird's Nest closed for winter most of my calls are about my credit, do I want my chimney cleaned and what do I think of single sex marriage. Technology my foot.
Our parents didn't have this worry, we didn't even have a TV until almost everyone on the block did. Even our grandparents, who lived next door, had one before us. It stood downstairs, in the dining room, and we sat around the dining room table and watched Jackie Gleason, one of Poppy's favorites. Poppy even adopted one of his famous phrases "what's that slop you're eating? when he saw the plates in front of us that Grandma had filled for us.
My best friends Barbara and Charlene had TV's before us, and I watched The Big Top circus show at Barbara's house every Saturday and I Love Lucy at Charlene's house. When we finally did get a TV there was no concern of watching it too much. Mostly, because there was only 2 channels and a limited amount of viewing you could do. Ernie Kovacs was on in the morning, with a little witch puppet that we loved. There were puppets then on tv, Kukla Fran and Ollie, Sherri's little lamb, every kid show had at least one puppet. I don't think kids even know what puppet are today. Anyway, as more shows came on, tv became an issue. Not so much as how many hours were spent in front of it, as to how close you were sitting to it, with fears of sterilization, ruined eyesight, and worse in the future.
Technology has surely come a long ways in my lifetime, but I can't say anything is any better. Today the channels number into the thousands, on every subject and cablevision now costs us more than electric and heat total for the year. Any there is never anything on that you want to watch. I don't own a cell phone, and probably never will. I would like to get rid of our one phone on the kitchen wall, for that matter. With the Bird's Nest closed for winter most of my calls are about my credit, do I want my chimney cleaned and what do I think of single sex marriage. Technology my foot.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Timmy and I have been engaged for over 25 years. We met 26 years ago and have lived together for the past 25 years. In Sunday's NY Times they had an article on how people, unmarried, living together refer to each other. There are the usual ones: boyfriend, way too silly for someone who is 70. Then there is special friend or friend, that is just stupid. Partner is too cold, lover is too sexy, and significant other has been outdated for years, although you still do see it in obituaries. Anyway, the Times had some suggestions. Fusband, for future husband (not likely) or fake husband (I like that). One woman called him "mi hombre" which is kind of nice. My man. And the census bureau penned a title, Person of Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters, or POSSLQ pronounced "Possiecue". Statisitically, there are a lot of us.
All this came to bare two weeks ago when I was admitted to the hospital. The first question was easy, Are you married? "No," I replied quickly. Later, I was asked "Do you live alone?" Apparently, a routine question upon dismissing a patient, meaning is there anyone there to help you. This one slowed me down. How do I refer to Timmy? Then, I gave my usual comment, "No I live with Mr. Haley." The nurse just put the information into the computer. Thank God she didn't say Who is Mr. Haley? I guess now I can say my "Possiecue", sounds kind of like a type of dog. But Mr. Haley kind of sounds like a dog too.
All this came to bare two weeks ago when I was admitted to the hospital. The first question was easy, Are you married? "No," I replied quickly. Later, I was asked "Do you live alone?" Apparently, a routine question upon dismissing a patient, meaning is there anyone there to help you. This one slowed me down. How do I refer to Timmy? Then, I gave my usual comment, "No I live with Mr. Haley." The nurse just put the information into the computer. Thank God she didn't say Who is Mr. Haley? I guess now I can say my "Possiecue", sounds kind of like a type of dog. But Mr. Haley kind of sounds like a dog too.
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