Buffalo Gal

The dying art of obituary

2012-02-05T08:55:00.000-05:00

My first love kicked me in the teeth again this morning.
The newspaper industry has not responded well to change, cutting costs and services on an old model while trying to reinvent another one -- that looks suspiciously like the current corpse.
I know I will come off as a "get off my lawn-- those were the days" relic -- but I truly loved what a newspaper used to be and I miss it. When I had my first "real" newspaper job at the Buffalo (Evening) News in the summer of 1980, I honestly felt my career had peaked at the age of 20 years old. How could it possibly get better than this -- bylines AND a paycheck?
Summer interns wrote obituaries and we were taught it was a privilege. The typewritten local style guide every reporter was given explained how very important these short pieces were to our readers, the families of the deceased and history. It wasn't simply a case of getting it the facts right, it said, but demonstrating for readers the life and character of the subject. That was then.
Most folks don't understand that the family of the deceased can only call the shots on paid notices, obituaries are written by reporters. Using the old "life and character of a subject" rule -- I had previously provided write-ups for my mother's obituary, other relatives and even the parents of friends. I was proud of the combined result of my info and the reporter's skill each time.
A few years ago the News announced it was eliminating obits for all but the most prominent of civic figures. There was a tremendous push back from the community and obits were dragged begrudgingly back.
Like any old-school reporter, I had Dad's obit submission pre-written, giving me a chance to fact-check with the subject. We laughed together and he loved it. I sent it to the City Desk the morning of his death.
A reporter called that night to check Dad's birth date. When I called him back, he said he had gotten the date from the funeral director, the obit had already been sent and he had 10 obits to write that night. I felt sorry for the guy.
Until this morning, when I opened my paper to find the copy and my father's very lively and character-filled life reduced to a recitation with an error in the first line. It said he died at home in Pembroke. The materials submitted said that Dad retired several years ago as the Pembroke Town Justice and that he died at home. The overworked reporter made a careless leap of fact and moved Dad's place of departure 35 miles.
Dad's home was with us, in downtown Buffalo. He passed here with me holding his hand, the dog under his bed and the cat purring at his side. Those are not the details appropriate for an obituary, but location is a key fact. I sent a request of correction on the online version of the obit.
The reporters also eliminated any copy having to do with horseracing, despite the fact the sport was central to my father's life and a fat file of clippings at the News covered Dad's exploits as the owner of a stakes champion. The reporter also moved the Aleutian Islands to "off of Alaska" when they are indeed part of the state.
This is what it I sent:

James M. Mohn, 78, known by Thruway truckers as “The HangingJudge” and “The One Armed Bandit” for his lack of tolerance for sad stories andexcuses, served as Town Justice for the Town of Pembroke from 1975 until 2003.He prided himself particularly, family members said, in not trading a reducedsentence for an autograph when O.J. Simpson appeared in his court on a trafficinfraction. He died at home Friday of natural causes.

“Even though he didn’t attend law school, or even go tocollege, Dad knew the Penal Code inside out,” said his daughter Judi MohnGriggs. “In 27 years on the bench, hewas never overturned on appeal.”

He performed hundredsof marriage ceremonies over the years. “One time a couple came to Town Hall for a scheduled ceremony and thepotential groom asked him to hurry it up so that they could get to BataviaDowns in time for the Daily Double (a wager that links the winners of the firsttwo races). Dad handed the unsigned license back to the bride-to-be and toldher he was doing her a favor by not performing the ceremony,” Griggs said.

Judge Mohn himself was no stranger to Batavia Downs, BuffaloRaceway and Fort Erie. He was a proud and passionate horseplayer and eventuallyowned several trotters and pacers including Star Sapphire, a local standout. Mohndonated the proceeds from that horse’s first stakes win to the Buffalo Zoo tohelp replace the polar bears that had been destroyed when trespassers breachedthe bears’ habitat.

He was born in his parents’ home in East Lovejoy and was astand-out athlete at Sloan High School in track, baseball and hockey. His career in the New York Rangers farmsystem was cut short in 1953 by a military draft notice. He served in the U.S. Air Force as a radiooperator at the tip of the Aleutian Islands in the then territory of Alaska,before earning a transfer to Nellis AFB near Las Vegas to play on an Air Forcetravelling baseball team.

He married the late Judith (Witkowski) Mohn in 1958 andgraduated from New York State Trooper Academy in 1961. He was the first Trooperinjured in the Rochester riots of 1963 and was at the Attica prison riots fromthe time the troopers were called in until the final withdrawal several dayslater. He took early retirement from thetroopers in 1974 following in a near fatal auto accident that resulted in theloss of his left arm.

“Dad never used his arm as an excuse for anything. He stillcoached my baseball team and could outskate most of the guys on the Akron townrink,” said his son James E. Mohn. “Ifhe made up his mind to do something, there was no stopping him.”

Mohn and his wife enjoyed cruises and travel – always makingat least one pilgrimage to Las Vegas each year. “Las Vegas had everything Dadenjoyed -- horse racing, cards, dice, excitement and giant shrimp cocktails,”said his daughter.

A strategic player of all card games, he taught twogenerations behind him to play to win --but not to beat him. “Most of his nieces and nephews, and many of their kids,studied The Judge carefully in hopes of earning his edge in poker or pinochle," hisson said.

Survivors include another son -- Michael Mohn of Tonawanda,his sister Judith Stawicki of Depew, four granddaughters, a great grandson andnumerous nephews and nieces. A memorial service will be held Saturday, February11 at 11 a.m. at St. Francis of Assisi Church, 18 West Main St., Corfu NY.

Our lion in winter

2012-01-31T11:34:00.000-05:00

Defying experts and expectations, Dad and winter set their own schedules this year. As a child I thought my father was invincible. As an adult, I know it is so.
On January 31, in downtown Buffalo, we have yet to plow our driveway this season. I brushed snow off my car only once. On this same morning, my father sleeps in his room, listening to an iPod mix of 100 of his favorite songs, with his family at his beck and call.
The last time he ate more than a spoon-tip taste of anything was December 30 -- and it was lobster from his favorite restaurant.
"It will be days" they said, as his weeks defied them. They said the same thing when it got to only ice chips for hydration a few days ago. We'll see.
A friend of mine, whose late father was also a State Trooper, explained it succinctly "it is so hard for these lions to let go."
The brand name on the key to my father's house is "Gressett." The cottage key next to it on my key ring is stamped "Defiant." The many times I couldn't get the door open on first try, it was always because my mind simply refused to believe Dad's key could be anything but "defiant"
He petrified me for years by driving and living alone much longer than was safe. Three years past the date he told his concerned neurologist that he lived with us, he finally acquiesced to allow us his presence. This was a practical , not emotional, decision. At no time did we acknowledge that his legs had gone from occasionally freezing to failing.
He moved in after Thanksgiving, begrudgingly accepting the room equipped and bath built specifically for his comfort -- but none of the limitations of his rapidly advancing disease. The simple suggestion of a chair that could help him get up, wheelchair or a hospital bed invited instant anger.
The first week, he woke up in the wee hours and deemed the water on his nightstand inadequate. He wanted soda pop -- now. He made it from his room into the adjacent kitchen, before falling, hitting his head and knocking himself out. A gash on the side of his right eye instantly converted my cozy kitchen to a CSI crime scene.
When he came to, he called out to me. I was sleeping upstairs, but somehow heard the soft call. When I turned on the kitchen light, my yell awoke Charlie. Dad adamantly refused to allow us to call an ambulance, but agreed to allowed us to carry him to the car "to get stitches."
After seven stitches at the Kenmore Mercy ER , the nurses were incredulous at the strong results on his heart, head and blood tests. I thought he was dozing when a nurse said to me that she thought for sure he would be going to ICU when we brought him in. If the last test came back OK, she said, it was likely he would be released within the hour.
I explained that had he had been in critical condition three times in his life -- a burst appendix in his 20s, a massive heart attack in his late 40s and an auto accident in his early 40s where he was called in as DOA at the scene.
I told her I was shooting hoops in our driveway when I heard the WKBW newscaster on my transistor radio say that my father was dead. He lost his left arm from the shoulder at the scene, collapsed both lungs, broke a couple of dozen bones and took hundreds of stitches. But they got his heart going in the ambulance and the docs at Mercy put Humpty Dumpty together again. It was several days before he could have any visitors, but when his Trooper buddies came to call -- he asked them if they noticed the weight he'd lost.
"He's like Godzilla," I told the nurse. "Every time you think he's down, he gets up and takes out another village."
Dad's eyes opened and with Borscht Belt comic timing he said "A small village next time."
Perfect pause.
"Maybe Sloan"
Just a beat this time
"It's only a mile square."
I laughed until I cried.
There haven't been many tears since. That's not how Jim Mohn's oldest would behave. I can't say there will be time for tears when he's gone, because regardless of what his body does -- he isn't going anywhere.
I see him - strong, stubborn, smart and defiant -- in my mirror, in my daughter and now my grandson. Those genes can't be anything but dominant.

The roller coaster

2012-01-14T09:00:00.001-05:00

If I was a better person, or at least a better writer, perhaps this would have been a year of Magical Thinking. Instead it has been more like getting on a roller coaster only to discover you can't get off. The peaks keep shrinking and the valleys plummet a little deeper each time around. There is no stopping for treatment for emotional whiplash. All you can do is hang on tight and hope you can keep the bugs out of your teeth by keeping your mouth shut.
Dad will decide when it ends -- and I think we're both ready. The Hospice team refuses to attach a number to the days left. Call it the craziness of spending a Buffalo winter with your father dying in your home, but I truly believe our cat Little Bit knows when, but he's not telling either.
Little Bit has gone from checking in with Dad several times a day, to sleeping at his feet , to spending most of his time up close to Dad's chest. Because of the Parkinsonian tremors -- Dad's version of petting more closely resembles pummeling, but Little Bit stays close. Little Bit is the only pet or person in the house whose name Dad has yet to lose.
The bed that was in our guest room got moved downstairs to my office and a new bathroom was built before Dad arrived. Too quickly, that bed was replaced by a hospital bed and the bathroom now used for our hand washing and container emptying. The guest room queen bed is on it's side in the dining room. My office is squeezed into the remaining furniture in the upstairs guest room.
Every room, every person in our home has been temporarily reassigned new duties that we figure out as we go along.
This is not a tragic time, nor one of any great heroism on anyone's part (except perhaps Little Bit). It is a time of change and passage that can only be supported, not orchestrated or commandeered in any way. This is a challenge for one, as myself, with Lifetime Elite Status in the Control Freak Club.
It has been a time to appreciate husband Charlie's steady support, refusal to complain about anything and quiet resolve in taking on care tasks neither of us previously imagined. I asked myself frequently why he would do all this for a man only 12 years his senior whom he has only known for 15 years -- until I realized he is doing it for me. I can't imagine a more exquisite gift.
Although daughter Jessica's texts, photos and silly phone calls from Texas come close. She's never been good at dealing with death, but she is amazing at dealing with me. I have come to count on her for an unexpected smile just when I need it -- and she always delivers.
Everyone says "What can I do?" -- cousin Bernie and his wife just do it. They came over to play cards in the dining room with the bed last Saturday and brought dinner with leftover containers. They ignored that the game was interrupted and distracted and hugged all three of us before they left. If the text on my phone isn't from Jessica, it's from Bernie.
Hospice makes sure meds, equipment and people arrive as needed like clockwork. Angel, the home health care aid who comes in for a few hours in the morning on Monday through Friday could not be named more appropriately.
The day will come when Angel stops coming, the crazy clutter clears and the next chapter begins. But for now, I'm hanging on to this one with both hands -- grateful for those who are willingly taking the trip with us.

Our reluctant houseguest

2011-11-13T10:37:00.001-05:00

At 4:00 a.m. the distance between our house in downtown Buffalo and my father's home in Pembroke is a million miles up the New York State Thruway.
Charlie and I made the trek this morning commenting on the number of limos and vans toting responsible members of the bar closing crowd and erratic autos of the less concerned. I mentioned the lack of deer (a good thing) and police cars (not such a good thing , see above). I talked about the old serial shows playing on the satellite radio and anything else I could think about to keep Charlie -- awaken from a sound sleep minutes earlier -- alert. I tried not to talk about the 800-pound gorilla in the back seat of the Prius. We knew Dad fell out of bed and couldn't get up. He didn't want an ambulance, he just wanted "a little help. "
The actual distance was about 30 miles on the Thruway, followed by a long and bumpy trip down Denial Road. Dad is a master of pretending it's all OK. What others might consider dismemberment, he would call a glancing blow.
He lost his left arm in an auto accident 38 years ago and has largely pretended not to notice. No, he insisted, the persistent tremor and increasingly awkward gait were not Parkinson's. When I Googled his medicine cabinet to find a Parksinson's hit parade, he told me I was being nosy, obnoxious and never went to medical school as far as he knew.
Three years ago, his neurologist told him he could not safely live alone. He told the neurologist it was OK because he lived with us. He never mentioned it to us until the neurologist caught him in the lie this year.
The dynamic in the doctor's office that day was just like the time he got called to the principal's office after I told a whopper about a missing first grade assignment-- with the roles reversed. In spite of all the charm and misdirection Dad could muster, the doctor got an agreement that there would be a plan in place by October.
I showed him the plans to modify our house for his comfort and privacy. I told him about all the great restaurants in the neighborhood and closer proximity to casinos (not mentioning his doctors and medical care would be minutes rather than miles and miles away). I printed out brochures and floorplans from aging-in-place communities and spread sheets detailing the financial simplicity of any of the options.
He responded with the latest scuttlebutt on the Sabres, Bill , BoSox or this week's Final Jeopardy answers.
We picked him up for Doc Day on Tuesday. Dad shook hands with his neurologist and agreed he would be moving in with us as soon as the new bathroom was done.
On Wednesday when we were driving him to a family funeral he said the doctor could "go to hell," but that he would pay for our new bathroom even if he didn't plan to use it.
On Friday he had a problem with a prescription and I made my third round trip out there this week. When I ventured that I have been spending an awful lot of time driving this week, he immediately volunteered to pay for my lunch at his favorite diner in Batavia. He barely touched his food but had a lot to say about the quality of recent Jeopardy contestants.
As the mileposts clicked past this morning I grew more anxious about what we would find. When my cell rang through the Bluetooth about 10 miles from his house , it was a relief to hear his voice from the dark dashboard. He was only calling to check to make sure I remembered my key ring with his house key.... not that he was scared, or in pain, or wondering how far away we were at that point.
When I walked into his room I was prepared for anything. He wasn't bleeding and nothing was obviously broken, but it took Charlie and I together to lift him until he could get his legs to support him again. It was an awkward and extended process peppered with his explanations about how he fell out of bed because he was having nightmares about Miller's goal tending and was slapping at pucks in his sleep. Bruises and contusions were already coming into color, but he insisted he needed only an Alleve, a donut and a cup of tea. Once he was settled back in bed we were NOT welcome to stay.
A parent can tell a child what to do. A child can only hope their parent will do it.

My Cousin Bernie

2011-08-28T20:32:00.002-04:00

His mother and my father were siblings separated by 11 chronological years and 180 degrees of personality. Yet, regardless of the structure of the genetic bridge that connects us -- my cousin Bernie is a better version of me.
There are only nine months between our birthdays and we spent much of our very early years together. Our summer cottages were only a few doors apart and his Mom kept their door open to me. At the ages of five and four respectively, we went into a summer business using his wagon for a lemonade-bait-painted rock stand. For the remaining seasons, we attended the same grade school and lived only a few blocks apart.
I may lose my cellphone regularly now, but I still know that Bernie could sing (badly) all the words to "Winchester Cathedral" when he was two and can hear that rendition as if it was on iTunes.
Bernie had the all the best toys. I can picture the labels on all the games in his toy closet in order. We played them all dozens of times.
My folks moved to the sticks when I was nine. The only time I can ever remember being angry at my gentle-spirited Aunt Irene was when she explained that not only would she not allow Bernie to come to our new house to stay overnight, but that it was time for me to have more friends who were girls. I cried for days.
For the next several years, any time Dad asked if anyone wanted to "go to the city," I was in the car before he could finish the sentence-- knowing his route always included visiting Aunt Irene.
I was tall, but sometime in junior high Bernie got taller. In high school, I found it slightly disturbing that female friends were now asking after my best buddy cousin like he was some kind of heartthrob-piece-of-meat. This was MY childhood fishing buddy.
By the time he came to visit me at college, my fellow co-eds seemed to think that saying he was my cousin was the equivalent of all an "all clear."
Fortunately for me and the visit time I valued, Bernie fell in love in high school and that relationship survived the growing pains of college and life. I came home from San Antonio for their wedding and cried happy tears. He and Karen have now been married for 25 years.
No matter where I lived, no matter what I did. I could count on heartfelt notes from the world's best cousin. Whenever I came home to visit, it was as if no time had passed. When I finally came back home to live six years ago, Bernie was the first to visit my bad temporary apartment -- and showed up unbidden the next day with the tools and hardware to change a lock he deemed inadequate.
Bernie is now a mountain of a man. In a long black leather coat, he looks like a sofa set on its end. It's a deceptive package for his Mom's sweet nature. I know of no one who loves his wife, his son, his family and his friends more deeply and unashamedly. It doesn't matter if I saw him last week, when he says goodbye, I will get a Bernie/bear hug.
We have now both past the half century point. Last weekend, Bernie stopped at our cottage -- the same one from my childhood --- on his way back from a business function. He dropped off a birthday present he had picked out -- a necklace that strung together an eclectic and unusual variety of things that is somehow uniquely me. It's not showy or expensive, it is perfectly considered. That's Bernie.
You probably guessed that when Charlie and I bought the cottage back from outsiders six years ago, Bernie brought painted rocks as a cottage warming gift with some plastic fake bait. (We display them both proudly at the cottage).
Charlie, Bernie, Karen and I started playing pinochle together a few years ago -- like his parents and my parents did when we were children. We don't play as frequently as we'd like, but a have great time every time.
Yesterday, the four of us spent the afternoon on our boat anchored off Sunset Beach, laughing about memories of the small amusement park that used to be there Later, all four of us had a role in pulling together a steak dinner served on the cottage porch with a backdrop of the sun setting over the lake.
Bernie and Karen won two of the three pinochle games. We decided a golf ball Bernie found in the lake earlier would be "bedazzled" into a travelling trophy to reward our pinochle triumphs.
Bernie taught me long ago to celebrate the small stuff.
I can't wait to get my hands on that golf ball.

Building the better blogger

2011-08-24T16:18:00.000-04:00

From my pregnancy through her second birthday I wrote a humor column for the Air Force Family News service about adventures with my daughter Jessica. Base newspapers from Ankara to Anchorage knew every home remedy we tried to coax her along as she lingered weeks past her due date and that her first sentence was "Jerome bit my butt."
This assignment made sense because:
1) I had a journalism degree
2) I couldn't keep a newspaper job in Biloxi, Mississippi
3) We were then an Air Force family
4) She was pretty funny
In that I quit the gig before she could read, she never complained. I think she actually enjoyed the minor celebrity status of being THE "Baby Jessica" at base day care.
When she was nine, I was a single parent in Houston writing a column in a horse racing newspaper I published. This time I had to ask her permission to use her for material. She responded with a counter-proposal. She wanted her own column.
The advantage of owning the paper is that you can bury anything you want in the back pages and be sure it's not on the same page as the chaste Gentlemen's Club ads (that is, the ads were required to be chaste, the clubs likely were not but they paid a large portion of my budget.)
I think we called her column "The Filly File" or something equally absurd. She interviewed the owner of her favorite grey horse and watched over my shoulder to make sure I didn't screw up her work with too much editing. She got fan mail and story ideas, but , like any self-respecting 9-year-old , grew bored with the whole thing after three columns and quit.
When I won an American Quarter Horse Association "Sprint" Award for commentary later that year, she asked if her columns had been submitted for consideration. Sure that she wouldn't be pleased with "no" I told her there was an age cut-off and agreed that it really wasn't fair.
Both of our journalism degrees came from Bonaventure, but she was a pr/marketing whiz who could write. I was a writer who could do the other stuff.
It is inevitable that all teens are sure that their clueless parents want them to be just like us.
Somewhere in the 20s it kicks in that all we really want is for them to have it better.The greatest compliment a child can give a parent is to take something from the life they shared and improve upon it.
When Jessica found out that she and Michael were pregnant with their first child and our first grandchild, I knew she would leave the scrapbooking part entirely to me. But I was delighted when she started a blog "Little T's Journey" chronicling their adventures.
I love that blog, not just for the latest and greatest on the amazing Mr. Jacob, but because she does a great job writing it. I regularly catch myself mentally grabbing a phrase or closing and thinking "I wish I'd written that."
But I didn't. My daughter did. And that's pretty cool.

The (e)Games People Play

2011-08-23T16:46:00.000-04:00

I am fully prepared for your scorn, derision and loss of respect.
I ask only that you do not judge me until you've walked a mile in my furrows.
Try to remember I was likely the first person you knew who had a blog (2003), a gmail account or a Kindle. I don't own any collectible action figures.
But the fact is ... I play Farmtown. And I've been playing for more than two years. And the Gross National Product of my ten integrated farm/industrial operations would put the North American economy to shame.
For the uninitiated, Farmtown was one of the first major social games on Facebook. I initally indulged a friend's wife by accepting her online invitation for what I assumed was a couple minutes of diversion.
I am not, by nature, a "gamer." Virtually or actually, I have no interested in blowing things up or even driving fast. When my daughters were teens, Jessica's Simm cities confused me and even attempting to play Mario Brothers with Jen resulted in brief, frustrating fiascos that were apparently very painful for Luigi. Up until Farmtown, I only played games with actual social intercourse and established rules. I loved the feel of cool backgammon stones or the snap of a trump card revealed in triumph.
To start Farmtown, all I had to do was plant and harvest a couple of squares of corn and some apple trees. With time and tending, the crops could be harvested to buy more seeds or trees and make the farm bigger. Things worked out better for everyone if you helped your virtual neighbors with their farm and they helped yours.
At the time I donned my cyber coveralls, my real life job was all-encompassing and my daily realities absurdly complicated. My farm was not. If my neglected crops rotted, it let me plant more. There was no way to lose. As I worked up through various levels, it rewarded me with Farm Cash and all type of virtual stock to define and decorate what was now becoming a Thorton Wilder town with a meeting square, post office, rivers, houses, animals -- and, of course, trees and crops to harvest.
Strangers from far and wide "visited" my pretty farm, left nice comments and asked me to be their Facebook friend and Farmtown neighbor. We helped each other out at what was becoming an increasingly complicated web of fantasy commerce. My 10 inter-related farms now harvest, mine and fabricate hundreds of source materials. They have dozens of production facilities and the consumer purchase locations now number almost 20. All the cute stuff from the early phases has been ditched in favor of maximizing the production capacity of every imaginary inch.
Relax, I'm not going to explain how they all work together. I raked in my husband and son-in-law in my initial Farmtown evangelism phase, but they quickly let their crops go fallow. I didn't invite anyone else after that.
I make it a practice to not attempt to recruit or "send gifts" to anyone who isn't already playing. There are currently over 1.5 million people worldwide playing, so there is no point in annoying folks who may not be amused.
I understand that this is my own little ordered and obsessive world. My daily check-ins are mental vacations where everything always goes right, everyone always plays nice and your luggage is never lost.
Snicker if you will, I'm going to get a monster price on that flax I've got coming in tonight.

The Many Sides of the Red Triangle of Death

2011-08-18T16:04:00.004-04:00

A good sound system is the the only non-negotiable feature of any auto I have owned. (At least since the time I could actually afford to make a choice).
After that comes low maintenance, good mileage and climate comfort controls. Airbags are a nice extra, but I have no intention of using them.
For five years and 70,000 miles, my Pruis has reliably delivered on all counts. I thought we had an excellent relationship. I gave her gas, oil and tire updates as appropriate and she quietly got the job done.
I was in the passenger seat yesterday heading out to see my Dad in Pembroke. I suggested she might need gas, but Charlie rightly noted the gas gauge was A-OK and it would make sense to buy gas this weekend on the rez. With my obligations to her complete, I proceeded to enjoy the trip -- the grocery store, taking Dad for errands in Batavia, a few stops on the way home. She was behaving her unremarkable best.
On the elevated loop of the Niagara exit of the 190 she sputtered and threw an electronic fit -- her dashboard ablaze with every warning light including the prominent and ominous red triangle. Various other lights suggested we may no longer have brakes. As Charlie eased her hopefully to the red light on Niagara St. I thumbed quickly through the owners manual. The word "Problem" now headed the navigation screen and the book said the red triangle meant to stop the car and call the dealer. Since she did stop at the light and start again, we decided to push our luck the remaining half-mile home.
New noises joined the chorus every couple yards and we exhaled for the first time when the house was in sight. I noted that nothing was yet in flames or smelled bad. Charlie was in no way buoyed by my observation as we eased into our driveway.
I ran inside the house and Googled "Prius red triangle warning" while Charlie sat alone in the kitchen muttering about the unexpected and incessant attacks of August on our checkbook.
I decided it was best not to tell him that nearly every search result included the words "Red Triangle of Death." I did mention that while it seemed a lot of folks experiencing the triangle ended up with a $4,000 wiring harness replacement job -- it should still be included under the 150,000 warranty on the hybrid system. I didn't believe it, but I said it in hopes that he would find the courage to get up from the table.
Considering it would be a couple hundred dollars to have it towed to the dealer no matter what happened at this point -- and it has never been my experience that any dealer finds simple solutions-- I suggested we see if it would start and attempt the few blocks to Sammy's.
I would travel many, many miles to have Sammy Buscarino and his team work on our cars... this time I was glad it was less than one. While Charlie was considering the relative merits of selling human organs on the black market, I held fast to the dream that it would be like the time we brought her in for routine brake work -- and Sammy told us we had several thousand miles to go before it needed to be done.
I got behind the wheel, with Charlie hoping to follow in his car. I quietly promised her more car washes and occasional time in our garage if she would just get to Sammy's.
She started and sputtered. I willed her to the corner of Prospect and Carolina. After the right turn, she was fading fast. I wondered if it would make more sense to trade her rather than repair her (but I didn't tell her that).
Charlie arrived well ahead of me and for the last few yards I was wondering if there was an automotive equivalent to closing the eyes on a corpse out of respect.
Sammy was out for the moment, but the mechanic on duty got her to turn over and travel in reverse... her forward motion was gone. As he got the computer hook up to check the internal codes on the Red Triangle of Death, I realized that the increasingly desperate sputtering and lurching of our last ride together felt an awful lot like the time I ran out of gas on the Thruway with Dad in the rental car.
But who runs out of gas in a Prius? And running out of gas doesn't exactly warrant the Red Triangle of Death. Of all the lights flaring not one said a thing about fuel. But sometimes a girl has to believe. Charlie and the mechanic politely ignored my naivete as they waited for the computer to return the diagnosis.
The mechanic looked somewhat startled when the read-out appeared. "It says its' out of gas'," he said. He loaned Charlie a gas can and I stayed with the patient. Sammy arrived and was quickly brought up to date on her condition. He warned me that there could be additional problems or damage. I clicked my heels three times and decided to believe.
I was late for one appointment but made the other one. I gave her a pat on the bumper when I filled her up later that day.
So maybe we can't exactly count on her gauges anymore... together we cheated (the red triangle of) death.
Either something got lost in translation... or the guy who sets up the dashboard lights at Toyota has a seriously twisted sense of humor.

Deliver me from delivery

2011-05-20T15:37:00.002-04:00

A few years ago I was surprised to learn that my brother didn't get home delivery of the daily newspaper. We grew up in a home with both the morning and evening papers on our doorstep. I thought he was raised better than that.
I was more surprised to later learn my daughter and her husband did not subscribe to any daily paper, but surfed the net every morning for news. I knew she was raised better than that.
I started my career in newspaper. I built and sold two small newspapers. She tagged along with me on dozens, if not hundreds, of assignments over the years. How could it be?
Newspapers supported us and continue to support some of our very favorite people. How could she be so callow? Didn't she see the bigger picture?
This morning I (gulp) cancelled home delivery of my newspaper.
Breaking up was hard. I dragged it out about a year longer than I should of because the relationship was once so very good. I probably would have stayed with it indefinately for old times sake (enjoying my burgeoning relationship with online news while taking too many newspapers directly to the recycling bin untouched), but the loss of subscribers has meant belt-tightening and automation at the paper. As bad as I was now treating them, they were treating me worse.
Every time we went away for a week or weekend, we would call or write to the paper asking to suspend service for so-many days. Almost every time, we came home to a porch littered with orange delivery bags beaconing our absence. We live in the heart of downtown. This is akin to leaving warm milk and cookies for certain opportuntists.
I have been putting the call off for several months, paying the bills (which now come from an out of town processing house) and hoping the service would get better. We took a long trip to Texas at the end of March and filled out our suspension notice on the paper's website two weeks before we left. We came home to a mountain of papers on the porch.
Still, it took me until this morning to finally end it. I filled in several boxes on the website form before I got a pop-up telling me I had to call to cancel my subscription. The phone number answered with an extended recorded message encouraging me to go to the website for service.
When I finally got to a live person she asked first for my email address. I told her I was looking to cancel home delivery and could give her my home address. She seemed annoyed that I could be so foolish and asked again for my email address because "that's how we keep track of you."
I gave her my email and she pulled up an address we had six years ago when we first moved back to Buffalo. No, I said, we've been getting the paper at this address for more than three years. She asked if it could be under another email address -- and found it under my husband's email.
She asked why I was cancelling and I told her about the repeated failures on delivery suspension. She noted that we had the paper suspended over Christmas. I told her we had suspended it in March, April and again last week and the paper kept coming. She asked if we called to suspend it "or just filled out the online request."
I told her we used the online form on the paper's website labelled for that purpose. She told me we should have called, because "most times that just doesn't work."
It then became clear that it was time to let go of dysfunctional relationship. I didn't need home delivery and it didn't want me.
I will still check the website daily and buy the paper more days than not, but I hate to be one of the statistics trumpteting the death of the business I once truly loved. Lost subscribers make it harder to justify ad rates. Lost ad sales mean more cuts. I feel like a traitor.
A traitor without a porch covered with orange bags.

Let's talk Tiger blood

2011-03-10T17:24:00.003-05:00

Dear Charlie,
Although we've never met I feel I can call you Charlie because I've learned more about you in the last weeks than I know about most of my closest friends and family. I buy it that you are omnipresent , but let's talk about that omnipotent thing -- particularly as it relates to tiger blood.
Any fool with enough money, drugs, and sycophants (and perhaps a fairly nimble gift of language) can create what you are today. It's not unique or particularly special.
My grandson, Jacob Tiger, actually does have Tiger blood. My first thought was that if it was anything like what you have -- we should probably consider a transfusion before his first birthday.
But then I got to thinking about my son-in-law/ Jacob's Dad -- Michael Tiger -- and realized quickly that you, Mr. Sheen, do not have a drop of Tiger blood in you.
You and he are both quick-witted and good-looking, but it's amazing the difference a little Tiger blood makes. His job doesn't go on hiatus or surround him with assistants catering to his every whim. It will take him several years to earn what you did for each excruciating 22-minute episode.
I've never heard him complain, but I think it's a safe bet that some days he really doesn't want to go to the office. But he shows up and does what he needs to because people depend on him and he's not going to let them down.
Michael's son is not a project or a prop, but a newly adjusted center of the life he shares with his wife. Maybe it's the Tiger blood, but from the moment we learned Jessica was pregnant we saw Michael react as if he singularly was given the best gift a man could possibly share. Even before Jacob was born, he treated her with the same love and respect when she was dressed-up arm candy as those days she might have been a slightly hormonal shrew. (A disclaimer here: as her mother I too have been a hormonal shrew and believe further that all females everywhere are occasionally afflicted to some extent thus this is by no means a character flaw of my eldest daughter).
Michael is neither a saint nor a choir boy. He is a master of jello shots and is likely to be the life of any party. That picture of him behind a pyramid of beer cans at their Texas wedding reception was not a fluke. At the subsequent Buffalo reception, Michael earned his place in our large, ethnic clan by accepting with enthusiasm a variety of bizarre, semi-humiliating groom "traditions" with humor and more than a few shots. I don't know whether it's the Tiger blood, but he knows when too much is too much and recognizes that family comes first.
Michael's father has the same sense of family and fun, but I really don't think Tiger blood is inherited as much as learned. Michael learned it well at home and now my grandson has a daily example of caring, commitment and selflessness. I gotta tell you Charlie, that is what really makes a man a million feet tall and bullet proof.
Claim all the conquests and superhuman qualities you wish, but leave the Tiger blood to the guys who really know how to take care of business.
Sincerely,
Jacob's Nana

Chocolate bunnies

2011-03-09T12:11:00.002-05:00

My 77-year father grew up in a tight-fisted nest of frugal German Poles. To this day, he would rather come home stumbling through a dark house than give the power company a couple of unnecessary pennies in his absence. A discussion about his recent trip to the grocery store will always include the deals he bagged -- in the terms of a big game hunter exhilarated from safari.
But he bought my first typewriter and cassette recorder when I first asked -- at a ridiculously precocious age. Not the toy department knock-offs , but a powder-blue Smith Corona with a striped red/black ribbon and a "portable" Pansonic recorder the size of my current laptop (although considerably thicker). Once I got access to the mimeograph machine at school, my second grade newspaper was in business.
Dad has never been stingy with the stuff that mattered.
Knowing that, it should not have caught me off-guard when he said he wanted me to pick up a "good" chocolate bunny at Antoinette's and take it down to his great grandson in Texas early next month.
Dad had four siblings and parents who took the prohibitions of Lent seriously. Chocolate bunnies were the oasis at the end of the long drought and were earned in neighborhood egg hunts where parents pooled their resources to guarentee at least one of their children got a big bunny. (My aunt alleges Dad rigged the hunts to guarentee the biggest rabbit, but I prefer to believe he was both incredibly skilled and lucky).
I know what those rabbits meant to him because there was never an Easter in my childhood (or that of my brothers, or Dad's godchildren) that didn't include a mental picture of his smile as he delivered a box approximately the size of the recipient with a huge, hollow chocolate bunny.
I spent my first 10 years in the East Lovejoy home where my Dad was born and caught the tail end of a neigborhood where there were still neighborhood confectioners. Dad bought his bunnies from real chocolatiers... often travelling across town to Antoinette's for "the best."
So as not to disapoint, I would squeal in mandatory delight on arrival. Eventually I would remove the ribbon for a craft scheme or doll accessory and peel off the sugar egg and pop it into my mouth at the first moment no one was looking. Within about a week, my mother would quietly melt down the monster in a double boiler and make raisin and peanut clusters for sharing. I simply didn't like chocolate.
Chocolate and I have since made fast friends, but the idea of that massive amount of candy in the form of a giant woodland creature still has no particular appeal. My daughther's Easter baskets in Mississippi, Texas and Georgia always had the modestly sized "store bought" bunnies - nested deep in other Easter delicacies.
Her son Jacob will be one-year-old and likely oblivious to the massive beast of the best milk chocolate available. I'm not even sure Jessica will let him have a taste yet. But I have to deliver it.
Dad will happily spend enough on the bunny to pay at least a month's light bill .
But being the proud son of Leo and Agnes Mohn of East Lovejoy, he will really like the fact that I will pay for the sponge candy for him he knows I'll pick up for him when I buy the rabbit. The big bunny tradition may now be entering it's fourth generation, but Dad's favorite flavor is still "free."

Animal instinct

2011-01-01T10:19:00.000-05:00

My menagerie -- three cats of about a dozen years each and a Lab now five years old -- is a collection of indoor-loving, city-dwelling rulers of the roost.
None was in the least bit phased last night by the "ball drop" just up our downtown street, the quarter hour of fireworks or the ensuing stumbling about of revelers who were "pretty sure" they had parked on our street.
But when the church bells sung this morning, each of them found a window to listen. When the sound was over they all resumed important duites and naps elsewhere in the house.
If I made resolutions, they just gave me a pretty good one. Ignore the noise. Take time for the beauty.

Eavesdropping

2010-11-30T20:00:00.000-05:00

I overheard a conversation in the gym locker room today between two grandmothers. One said to the other "Thanksgiving is just the perfect holiday, just food and family -- no religion, no gifts and no bad music."
I had just come out of the shower and did not have ready access to a pen, so repeated it a half dozen times to be sure I remembered it. I felt for a moment like I had found the Golden Egg.
Any chronic listener/ eavesdropper couldn't help but smile at the remark.
A writer (who by definition is a habitual snoop) hears it and thinks, "I could use that someday."
A writer in the middle of a novel thinks "That is exactly what Character X will say."

First reader limbo

2010-11-22T12:27:00.000-05:00

Having a great first reader is the ultimate writer's gift. I am absolutely gifted.
He has perfect academic, professional and emotional credential.
He lives far away and we have few mutual acquaintances. He has made his living as a writer for a long time and is better than excellent at the craft.
He is objective and analytical. It matters not if the subject matter appeals to him, he knows the trade and his tools are sharp with experience.
And he is making my stomach hurt.
I was already writing chapter three when I reluctantly and finally surrendered the first to him last week. I'm now deep in four -- a tribute to ego over experience. His remarks on the first chapter are likely to chew up and spit out much of what he hasn't seen yet. But this is why the process works.
This is not grade school where all my papers came back with a shiny gold star or a family reunion where they talk about my clever toasts and eulogies. He's going to have criticism - solid, unblinking, bare ideas on structure, character and plot. He's going to rap my knuckles hard on lapses of grammar and judgement.
Without asking, he is going to force me to view the next chapters through his eyes before I send them to him. And with each one the process gets a little easier and the book gets a lot better. He is the difference between me and all the self-published and fellow "good writers" who never truly learn the process.
At writers' conferences and groups, I've seen and heard a lot of positive build up and support between writers. I don't want valentines. I want the keys to the kingdom. It takes a massive ego to think thousands of people would want to stay with you for hundreds of pages. The process to get there requires complete sublimation of that same ego.
Waiting for first notes is the ego crushing phase. His notes are not going to be as bad as I expect -- I am a master at anticipating the horrendous -- but the pregnant time forces me to reread until I despise each syllable.
This will be our third trip through the process.
I expected valentines the first time and what I got was the guidance I needed to write a book that could get me an agent.
The second one was chick lit. This time I expected his "tough love" to drip with disdain for the genre. He demonstrated just how good he is by working it (and me) as hard as he did the first one. Life intervened and I lost my heart for the second one. He never gave up.
Our friendship has survived 17 years and 1.5 books, it will make it through this one too. I owe it to him to get this one right- and go all in.
Once I've got his comments addressed and a few clean chapters, I'll start sharing it with people who will tell me they love it. They have to say it. They love me and/ or see me regularly. I'll listen to what Charlie has to say about anything having to do with weaponry and check the weather stuff with Andy. A few friends will give feedback about the sections having to do with the Seneca Nation. Their input will be essential to "getting it right."
After that is done, my agent will finally see it.
My first reader is the gatekeeper to all else.
So for now, I'm waiting. It's not whether the proverbial "dream" or "dud" of my "Mystery Date" board game is on the other side of the door, but the direction of my novel-child-work.
For fellow writers who would love to know who my novel sherpa is -- forget it. He's magnificently generous. I'm not.

A 3900 Word Day - TDT- No. 2

2010-10-27T16:14:00.001-04:00

Our former den is now my office -- with two large windows looking out on the very cool little world of my city backyard.
The new furniture is functional, stylish and decorated with some of my very favorite possessions. My new desk chair is the most comfortable I have ever owned. The dog sleeps at my feet and at least one of the cats is usually napping on my desk.
Under these conditions I should be able to churn out a best seller every couple of weeks, right?
Or a least a few good chapters?
Or lines?
Not exactly.
I stretched out the moving in period as long as I could. When it finally came down to it, I sat down and wrote ... nothing.
The next day I did some revisions on the chapter that was already complete.
The next day I revised the revisions.
I ignored it all the following day and hated myself for playing "Farmtown" on Facebook.
When I finished my appointments and phone calls this morning I sat down to no expectations whatsoever. I took out my chart, a simple timeline I sketch to help me with character back stories showing when they were born and consequently how old they would be a various times. I had exactly two characters mapped. The math for a few more would be easy and I could get back to my Farm with the knowledge I had "worked on the book."
But the chart reminded me about something I had wrong with one of the characters and as I fixed the info in the dialogue, I heard them talking again.
When the characters are talking, I'm writing.
They chose today to be magnificently chatty, even through a break for lunch where I pretended to read a magazine so Charlie wouldn't interrupt them. They couldn't be distracted by the UPS man delivering my new Kindle. They were on a roll. At 3,800 words I knew it was time for us all to take a break. I went back to the paper and pad to map the key events for the next few chapters. I'm going to need to go to the library tomorrow to dig a little on one area of local history.
It feels like they will be there when I get back.
I got the impression today that they like the new digs.

Put Up or Shut Up - Two Degrees Town No. 1

2010-10-20T00:34:00.000-04:00

Enough with the deliberate distractions and elaborate excuses.
Several years back I finished a novel that was good enough to land a top flight literary agent.
He is so good that he knew better than to submit that manuscript, but told me wanted to see the next.
That next set of primary characters came with me when I moved back to Buffalo six years ago, unsullied by any attempt on my part to reduce them to paper.
In the ensuing years, I actually met two of them -- but the book stayed packed in the attic of my imagination .
The plot needed a new college grad, brilliant and conflicted between her commitment to her Seneca heritage and desire to make her own path. I ended up working with her within my first year home.
As the protagonist comes home to Buffalo only to find herself embroiled in a mess of political mayhem, personal crisis and murder, for some reason I decided that her sounding board/ guy next door would be a weatherman.
Two winters ago the city did not get around to plowing our street for a couple of days and I got stuck. As MY neighbor the weatherman and his wife helped push me out while providing a gentle running commentary on how to drive in snow again, it dawned on me that was exactly the kind of thing that character would do.
Andy and Melissa -- I promise I didn't base those characters on you. But you've certainly helped me like and understand them better.
The only "real" character in the book is the city itself. The places are all real, all of the people are not. The title "Two Degrees Town" is a triple take : the stereotype about Buffalo weather; the number of over-educated and under-employed that one finds in a Rustbelt city with several colleges and universities; and mostly, the narrow gap of interpersonal relationships in a shrinking town where everyone knows, or thinks they know, everyone.
I finally have more than a good title and the adult equivalent of a head full of imaginary friends. I now have a solid first chapter and no more excuses. Neither my job nor children are all-encompassing anymore.
I will still use this blog for the unavoidable rant or observation that only proves I have never emotionally graduated from being a newspaper columnist.
But once a week, no matter how much I stumble and screw up, I will update you briefly on where things are with the book. With the amorphous, anonymous you looking over my shoulder, perhaps we can get this deal done.

Carrying it off

2010-10-06T17:07:00.000-04:00

In the fall of 1970 I had two obsessions, Bob Lanier and someday wearing a bra.
Lanier was the St. Bonaventure All-American who took my beloved team to the NCAA final four, only to be injured in the quarter-finals (say it was an accident all you want, but Chris Ford I will NEVER forgive you). Lanier was talented, humble and from Buffalo. He was the first pick of the 1970 draft, signing the first $1 million contract in NBA history.
As a certified city dork, all gangly and grim, I was not enjoying my family's recent move from a tight Italian neighborhood in the city of Buffalo to the wide green spaces of the country 35 miles away. Going to St. Bonaventure in another seven years was the first part of my fifth grade escape plan, hatched during Bonas NCAA run-up. I never actually formulated part two, but am guessing now that at 5'9" and 100 pounds, I simply figured that Bonaventure was good for tall people.
My mother worked a day job and my father carried the shifting schedule of a young State Trooper. Going anyplace with the two of them together was a rare treat and when I heard my little brother was going to the babysitter, I didn't even mind we were going to a "Jerry Lewis" concert. They were both oddly smug and excited about seeing this guy. I was just along for the ride until I realized we were within blocks of War Memorial Auditorium where Bob Lanier and the Pistons were playing his first homecoming game against the Buffalo Braves.
I had to remind myself to breathe.
The seats were three rows past nosebleed and the cheering was deafening. Dad bought me a program and showed me how to keep the center section scorecard. I scrupulously recorded the first two quarters for posterity. At half time, Dad asked to borrow my program to take it to the bathroom with him. Having Readers Digest in the bathroom at home was one thing, but I was silently miffed that he had to take my program NOW. After about eight-minutes-that-felt-like-an-hour, I finally whined to my mother "Where is he?" A few seconds later she squealed and pointed down to the scorer's table.
"Oh, my God, there he is," she yelled.
There indeed was my Dad, tapping the announcers table right in front of ace morning DJ Danny Neavareth with my program as he walked past them, all confidence and bravado. I watched him stop at the edge of the court where the teams were warming up for the second half.... and then BOB LANIER WALKED OVER TO MY FATHER . They both laughed and smiled, Bob Lanier signed my program and Dad walked back the long way, just the way he came in ... without a single game official, player or security guard asking who he was or why he was there. When Dad and the program made their way back to our seats, I couldn't hold the program without shaking.
I asked my Dad how he managed to make it through all the media and security without getting stopped. He said simply "All you have to do is act like you belong."
My mother asked him what he said to make Lanier laugh.
"I couldn't take the chance of just standing on the courtside for too long, so when I saw him chasing a ball close to where I was walking, I just said 'hey Bob'," Dad explained. Lanier walked over thinking this guy must be somebody to be where he was at that time. Dad said in a low voice, "You've got the choice of getting me arrested for trespassing or signing this program for my 11-year-old daughter who is your biggest fan, she's way up in the orange seats watching us right now " Lanier looked at the approaching security, laughed and put his hand on the skinny Trooper's shoulder.
The guards stepped back with that gesture. He signed the program "To a little girl with a brave father, Bob Lanier. " It was my most cherished possession for many. many years. I wish I had known how to preserve it or that it wouldn't withstand all the handling over the years. But the moment of seeing him on the court, talking to Big Bob,is crystalline in my mind.
Learning that it takes guts and moxie, as well as skill, to get the things you really want wasn't a bad lesson either.
Four years after that basketball game, my father was in an auto accident that severed his left arm and left him in critical condition for months. A series of heart attacks a few years later took him to the edge again. In his 60s the tremors and rigor of Parkinson's Disease started to extract their toll. As he approaches his 77th birthday, simply standing up or sitting down is a challenge and his walking distance is increasingly abbreviated.
He never complains and fights against the help he needs. He knew he'd be resting before and exhausted afterwards , but jumped at the chance to go when I got suite tickets for a Sabres preseason game last Sunday.
He stumbled badly as we were walking in. Catching and holding him until he could get his feet in position again, I was astounded how light he is now. I realized in a moment I could carry him if I had to and I'd be glad to do it.
But that would never do . As long as he can walk at all, he will walk with his head held high and his eye on places other's wouldn't dream of going.

To Be Time

2010-09-13T12:39:00.000-04:00

The tower teetering over the in-box edges has been precarious since July, the last several pieces added with awkward precision. Suffering a summer of neglect, my to-be stack (notes to be answered, jewelry to be fixed, ideas to be considered, photos to be copied and distributed to friends, odd bits of detritus to be repurposed in collages and cards) reached impressive heights.

These are not things like bills and appointments that punish you for neglect. They’ve simply been waiting… and waiting…. for their turn.
I cranked up a blues mix driving the 70 miles from the cottage to my father’s house yesterday morning. Charlie and I have a running joke that every third blues song starts “Woke up this morning.” With Big Mama Thornton wailing through the speakers, I howled along the Thruway-- her lyrics from my mouth, mine in my head. “Woke up this morning… knew it was done… another cottage season… done gone with the sun.”
O.K, I can’t write blues songs, but I could sure ‘nuf feel them. The first thought I had when I opened my eyes was “this is it.” Melancholy walloped me before my feet hit the uneven floor. All the annual rituals and traditions, all the unexpected delights, shuttered until May.
I was glad Charlie volunteered for the physical close-up duty. I left with the rocking chairs still on the porch, cushions ready with invitation. I pretended to look past the freshly boarded windows of my neighbors’ cottages as I drove out.
I picked up Dad and then my brother Michael to take “my guys” to lunch. Traffic was light and the restaurant empty courtesy of the Buffalo Bills game. I watched the bookends of my original family work quickly, if not exactly neatly, through their chicken wings. After we dropped Dad off, Michael and I bought a couple of bags of local apples out in the country. As would be expected this early in the season, they were small, but snapped and splashed with sweetness on the first bite.
When we got back to the suburbs, Michael and I did a little shopping in a strip center with plenty of big boxes and empty parking spaces. I made a mental note to try to do my Christmas shopping early – on Sundays when the Bills are playing. I dropped Michael off and headed back home to the city.
Charlie was, of course, watching football. I dropped the food in the kitchen, my laundry in the basement, my purchases in my bedroom and took my cottage bag into the studio. It was time to combine my cottage to-be stack with the overflowing mother ship.
I went back downstairs, grabbed an apple and a chunk of freshly purchased farm cheese and balanced a big glass of wine with the plate as I went back up the stairs. By the time they all were gone, the box empty – its contents now committed to all variety of tasks for the coming weekends.
Summertime is over. It's time to be.

Born to be mild

2010-06-13T08:28:00.001-04:00

My iPod is full of singer songwriters who use words like Leviathan, classical music and every breed of the Blues. But summer Friday afternoons are all about rock and roll.

Only rock works with the windows down, played loud enough that no one can hear you sing but everyone knows why you may be banging with both hands on the steering wheel at the traffic lights.

The transformation from work to weekend requires more than a hurried wardrobe switch fro starch to soft. The trip to the cottage requires mind-clearing decibels.

Who can even consider a Client Relations Management conundrum with the J Geils band partying large from all six speakers?

Yes, I am the very model of mid-life rebellion tooling down the interstate in my silver Prius, staying within two m.p.h. of the requirements of a series of small town speed traps, and taking long pulls on my Vitamin Water.

As the cottage draws near, I turn off the last paved road into a cloud of dust and rock and roll – taming the silver beast to about 15 m.p.h. to protect the undercarriage from the dirt road ruts.

I drop the volume down by half at the dirt bridge over Dead Creek and ease it to the 5 m.p.h. maximum on cottage grounds. My husband, my dog and a glass of sauvignon blanc wait expectantly on our porch.

As I picked up my wine glass last night , a hollered invitation from the cottage across the way put us on the fish fry a-list. After a brief debate on the culinary merits of the American Legion, V.F.W. or dive bar – we headed out to Sturgeon Point – wine in a plastic carry cup.

It’s the weekend after all – and that’s how I roll.

Dock Day 2010

2010-05-29T15:02:00.004-04:00

There are hopeful drop-bys and occasional overnights, but the cottage season actually begins each year with dock day.

The familiar roles and rhythms fall into place as “the committee” engineers the placement of the same dock segments into the same murky water as a changing cast of relatives has done since my father was a child.

I have no tools, no skills and still fear the mythical monsters of the green creek water as much as I did when I was four. Thus, I have appointed myself the social documentarian, camera in hand recording each year the changes in the people at a task that never changes.

I can’t say my work is encouraged. Various threats have been made upon both my camera and my body . But no harm is ever done. It is just another tradition layered over my last six snapshot years.

Cottage pictures are green , blue and shady. People are not primped, posed or polished. The lighting is always natural and often freckled by the moving shadows of massive poplars which assist Lake Erie with our air conditioning.

The green creek feeds into the blue lake a few hundred feet from my front porch. By tomorrow the entire ragtag regatta of family boats will be tied to the docks and ready to escort the crowd-du-jour of assorted relatives, dogs and friends around the point, past the tourists at Sunset Bay and over to The Rockpile.

We’ll anchor in waist-deep water, climb down the swim ladders and swap stories, snacks and beverages in the cool lake water until it’s time to reverse the process.

There is never a schedule. That would violate the very principle of having a cottage (on a green creek by a blue lake) which is surrounded by people you love.

But you can’t have the lake days until you have the Dock Day. And so it begins again.

Our Jake

2010-04-10T15:39:00.000-04:00

There is no way to avoid schlock and exuberant cliche when it comes to your first grandchild.
Yes, I know that procreation is the most animal of acts requiring no particular skill or sophistication. Birds, bees and paramecium do it without a thought to subsequent issue.
A friend once told me grand-parenthood is the only thing in life that is never overrated and I indulged her hyperbole.
Shortly after Jake's Mom was born I knew I wouldn't be able to have any more children. I was neither maudlin nor relieved. It was just life. I was fortunate to have one great kid. I always had the sense that she would and should grow up and away, so I celebrated as much of our time together as I could.
No parent/child relationship is perfect. But we had so many good times and shared adventures that simply thinking about certain Jessica phrases or faces can make me laugh aloud when I am alone in a room. I know how lucky I have been for these 26 years.
It never dawned on me that her child would roll back the tape and start the odyssey again. I've been deposited square in the middle of wonderland with the experience of age and the excitement of a child.
My parents were not much involved or interested in Jessica's life. There was a gap much larger than the several state borders that separated us. I had no personal framework to prepare me for the near manic need to be close to Jessica as her due date approached.
On the day Jacob was born, all six of his grandparents sat in the waiting room for hours quietly reading, working puzzles, watching baseball, pecking on laptops and making baby announcements respectively. The unspoken agreement was to not discuss our fears. Jessica's husband (a.k.a The World's Best Son In Law Michael) was the only one allowed in the L&D room with her. He kept us posted by text messages. Halfway through the sixth hour of waiting, our phones buzzed simultaneously and within a second of seeing the picture of Jacob on the baby scale we were locked in teary, happy embrace with our respective partners.
I held back when we walked into the room. Jessica and Michael were glowing. Jacob was beautiful. When Jessica threw out "Does anyone want to hold him?" I knew there was a six-way tie for wanting to be first. You can't say a stepmother of 20 years or stepfather of 13 years loves her less than her biological parents, or that Michael's parents were any less part of the miracle in her arms.
Michael's (magnificent) mother Lou Ann spoke right up. "This is Judi's first," and nudged me to the bed. In those few steps I felt I had won a Pulitzer, Nobel , Grammy, Emmy and Tony. Jacob looked up at me and I couldn't find a way to dam the flood of thoughts and feelings with words. I know he was held by each of us, but I can't tell you who came next. I can describe in excruciating detail every aspect of those shining eyes.
Charlie, as the only retiree of the six-pack, has the privilege of staying with Jessica and Michael for the month to help out. I had to come back to Buffalo and my job two days after the big event. Of course I wish I was there, but the miles don't matter. I am a grandparent now.
And it is the only thing in life that can't be overrated.

Team XX

2010-03-24T23:59:00.001-04:00

As one who has been in a different city for every census in my adult life, leaving places is easy. In fact, it's an adventure to peel back the layers of a fresh town.
But leaving people is hard. Even if you are only changing jobs.
The time is right. The opportunity is excellent. The new job will be a professional challenge and personal relief. For the first time in almost two years, most of my nights and weekends will belong to my family. The new firm has a stellar reputation and I'm very comfortable with everyone I've met there.
But I can't help but mourn the team that barely was.

Brilliant, beautiful Mel was fresh from college when I hired her as an intern. A friend who had taught Mel said she was exceptional. I learned quickly that if Mel's confidence matched her abilty as a graphic designer -- we couldn't possibly afford her. But Mel is quiet and hardworking. In spite of being hired full time and promoted, two years later she still doesn't recognize how exceptional she is now and will be tomorrow.
I had a brief opportuntity to work with Tara when we were both with another company. She came in off of maternity leave with a wicked wit and a way to get things done effortlessly that left me, the grizzled old vet, awestruck.

Tara has the rare gift of both creativity and organization. The girl gets the job done and does it well. I had tried once before to hire her but we couldn't make things connect. The next time things fell easily into place. On Tara's first day I booked the three of us for lunch, relishing the creative discussion and the work this team would tackle together.
Before lunch I was told I would be spending all my time on an off-site project. A great opportunity, but one without my hours-old team. Our lunch conversation was instead about how they would be reporting to someone further up the food chain.
With Tara and Mel at corporate working on a variety of projects and me focused on one downtown, it seemed our connections were always hurried by flying deadlines.

Just a few weeks after my daughter announced her first pregnancy , Tara told us about her second. I met her right after her four-year-old son was born and this seemed to bookend our experience. My distant perch made it easier to see how much Mel was growing professionally -- and how much tiny-boned Tara was simply growing!
They both carried full workloads but were (almost) always ready to step up and help on my downtown project. I loved the energy, creativity and humor they brought to a situation that by nature had little.

Our industry is male dominated, but we girls could get things done. Tara dubbed us "Team XX" - for our unique (in this circumstance) chromosonal configuration.
Last Friday night was the Addys, the regional advertising awards. Team XX, with the help of our web developer, took home a couple of awards. Not the fanciest, not the highest, not even the best designed awards I've lined up in almost three decades of work, but probably my favorite.

They matter not for the end product, but the process and the people who put them together.
There will be bigger and better awards ahead for both ladies. But I hope they occasionally look back on that night, as I will, and marvel at the power of XX.

Riding the Zamboni

2010-03-01T19:34:00.004-05:00

My daughter Jessica is a variable southpaw. She writes with her left hand, but sports and any other variety of coordinated functions are a random preference mixture.

Years ago, she was a hormonal adolescent on a family bowling outing whose tossed balls alternated hands and results. Sometimes she dropped all 10 pins with dead-eye precision, other times spectators ran for cover as balls bounced into adjacent lanes and even backwards. Charlie-the-world's-most-patient dad finally stepped up as she approached her swing and gently suggested she stick with one hand and aim for the arrows on the lane.

She burst into tears, announced to all within earshot "I'm just trying to have fun with it," and stomped off to the ladies room. As soon as she was safely out of sight, we burst into laughter.

While it was several years before we could say it in her presence, "I'm just trying to have fun with it"became the family shorthand for someone insisting on behaving in a defiantly bizarre manner without an ounce of self-awareness.

Having passed the half-century mark I am now delightfully aware that as long as I'm not hurting anyone else -- Jessica was right.

It is in that spirit, knowing I am inviting ridicule and derision, that Charlie and I will be riding the Zambonis at the Sabres game Wednesday night. Yes, we will be wearing our matching Sabres jerseys with 01, 02 numbers and GRIGGS on the back.

According to Jim Rome and arbiters of equal panache -- wearing a jersey with any name other than a current or sorely missed player name is loser city.

Fortunately, I don't plan on hanging with Rome any time soon.

Our jerseys grew from my father's much unexpected gift of Sabres club level season tickets shared with my brother.

My husband Charlie, a southern gentleman transplanted to our harsh New York ways and weather, developed a real passion for the game. Like his lifelong affinity for baseball, he quickly grasped both the art and science of hockey He now exceeds my knowledge and appreciation of a game I have watched since toddlerhood.

We love our shared pre-game ritual of dinner at the Harbour Club and the same first period drinks from the same bartender. With my crazy work schedule, our shared "game nights" are much anticipated and always enjoyed.

The majority of the fans at any Sabres game wear jerseys (technically called sweaters) or other logo wear.

When I went to the shop at nhl.com, I knew we needed the third series sweaters with the crossed swords rather than the current leaping hamster design. I had no idea which player names we wanted. I joked with Charlie that we should use our own name since we had no chance of being traded. I was surprised when he agreed. He took 01 and I took 02 on the basis that he was a Griggs first.

We've worn them to every game we've attended. Our ushers and waitress greet us with "Hey Griggs" and a laugh. A few people have noted they like the sweaters, most snicker, some roll their eyes.

At this point in my life, I like both the idea that we can afford this kind of silliness and that we enjoy it together. I see so many younger couples at the games posing and preening, one half obviously bored out of their mind and or clearly indulging the other. Then there are the guys who wouldn't dream of wasting a great ticket, game after game, with "the wife."

We enjoy the game and being there together. We countdown the days between our ticket turns.

Thus, bidding on "The Ultimate Sabres Experience" seemed like the perfect anniversary present for Charlie. My brother has family tickets for Wednesday night's Capitals game, but with my winning bid we'll be front row center behind the goal where the Sabres shoot twice. We'll be in the penalty box for the pre-game skate, ride the Zamboni between periods and attend the post-game press conference.

While the Sabres Foundation auctions off this package for each game, I think it's safe to say we will be the first husband /wife, aging baby boomer riders with matching jerseys.

The promotional materials say our ride will be announced and possibly shown on the game television coverage.I talked to Jessica in Texas this morning and she said she'd check to see if their sports package has MSG. Rather than being embarrassed, she'll tape it for our grandson-to-be to watch some day.

She's always known, as we do now, it really doesn't matter what others think. It's actually a hoot to "just have fun with it."

Sleeping arrangements

2010-01-13T17:24:00.004-05:00

Over the years he's becoming increasingly demanding.

HE decides when it's time to go to bed.

HE decides how much attention he'll get when we get there.

HE even tried to manipulate exactly the position I would fall asleep in for his own comfort.

I finally saw a professional about the situation and the doctor told me in no uncertain terms that it was time to get my own bed and some blessed peace.

He was cool and aloof when I first told him, but come bedtime it got ugly. I ignored his howls and pacing outside my door and finally got some sleep. I don't know where he ended up sleeping but I snuck out this morning before he saw me.

I knew there would be hell to pay when I got home and sure enough, I wasn't in the door three minutes when an open bottle of wine went flying across the table and splattered on the floor.

He sauntered out of the room with his tail proudly high. You don't mess with the cat.

Little Bit doesn't care about the allergist or my new dander-free bedding. My asthma is not his concern. He has trained me for almost 10 years now to bow to his wishes and he is not going to let some physician undo all that tedious cycle of repetition and reward.

It's hard enough to find a trainable human and the work is incessant. For the first seven years I was too stupid to realize he preferred to sleep in the crook of my arm, flat against the bed with my fingers cupped around his front paws. It took almost nine years for me to be able to sleep through the night in that position.

He's always knocked little things off of tables and counters when he wasn't getting the appropriate attention, but in ten years and many times that multiple of bottles of wine he had never even set a bottle to wobble.

The Pinot Grigio flood said he was serious.

Husband Charlie, who had just spent more than $500 redoing the now-allergy free room with mite-blocking mattress envelopes, allergy-free duvet, HEPA filters and all variety of specialized linens and potions took a hard line.

The door will stay closed.

The cat will eventually retreat, if only to plot his next attack.

And it's probably not a good idea for us to have company anytime soon. At least not anyone we like...

By any other name

2009-10-12T20:28:00.002-04:00

It's invariably the first question when I drop the big news.

"What do you want the baby to call you?"

Let's see. She/he will not be born until April and even though he/she comes from a long line of loquaciousness ... I have to believe it will be another 10 months before she/he starts saying much of anything.

There is plenty of time to think about it and not much to think about. This isn't about me. My baby is having a baby!!

Jessica and Michael are ready to be parents in a way I was not. They are secure in each other, in their lives and the roles they want to share in their child's life. That's the part I'm excited about.

But nobody wants to hear about that, they want to know what the kid will call me.

When I say "probably just Grandma," the surefire response is "but doesn't that make you feel old?"

No, it doesn't. Waking up on a cold morning wondering how much creaking it will take for my feet to hit the floor makes me feel old. Knowing the majority of the population does not consider rap music an oxymoron makes me feel old. Remembering when the price signs in gas stations only had two numbers before the decimal makes me feel old.

Knowing that Jess and Michael are producing a spectacular human being that I can take to museums and concerts, spoil rotten and then give back-- makes me happy.

I've had several years of "cool aunt" training and I'm ready.

It's a safe bet that whatever Chloe Rose/Jacob Craig calls me -- I'll answer in a heartbeat.

Coming clean

2009-09-26T08:40:00.003-04:00

In a few minutes I'll be cleaning the house for the cleaning lady -- and I'm o.k. with that.

A good cleaning lady is worth her weight in platinum. Once you find one, it's like dating the high school quarterback -- you know there will be a constant stream of better offers.

So you dress-up for the date and try your best to keep them interested and amused.

Our referral was a gift from our neighbors. This is a sacred pact that bonds us for as long as Merka works for us both. This is the ultimate generosity. We can not betray that trust.

Did I mention she doesn't like the dog?

During the summer, the dog was at the cottage for cleaning day. Now we will load her into the car and drive about for several hours inventing errands. Lily the Lab enjoys it. With centuries of hunting instinct deeply bred, she can pick out a Tim Horton's drive through at 100 paces.

In fact, she has come to believe that any drive through has unlimited potential for delight. We'll take her through at least one because we feel a little guilty for driving her around because Merka doesn't like dogs.

And when we come home I'll work a little more on the basement office so as not to mess up the house.

Because a professional woman who works as hard as I do, deserves to relax a little and have a cleaning lady.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

2009-09-02T08:13:00.002-04:00

In one weekend, I :
1) found out I'll be a grandmother this spring
2) turned 50
3) drove across the state with my dad and spouse to see an old friend
4) sweated out a ravaging 100-year flood on the quiet creek that runs by our cottage
5) discovered Bruce Springsteen "at 60" on the cover of AARP magazine.

That last one really shook me up. The man is still doing back bends from the microphone stand and sliding across the stage on his knees. Talk about pressure on those lagging a decade behind. I don't want to drink from the fountain of youth -- I much prefer a crisp Sauvignon Blanc.

Yeah, I know the last baby boomers on Madison Ave. are proclaiming that 60 is the new 40. There will likely be a few that hang desperately on to their desks just to call 70 the "new 40" in another decade. The fact is -- it's the same old 60 heaped with a massive dose of denial. And being the generation that refused "no" for an answer we will indulge every trick.

The practice of simply trading car models or spouses in pursuit of dropping digits has gone to replacing and /or rechiseling body parts and pushing the ones left to do things I couldn't do in junior high gym class.

I put my glasses on the other day when I was tweezing my eyebrows and was startled to see that my long eyelashes have been replaced by sparse old lady stubs. There were actually grey hairs in my eyebrows.

I immediately took my glasses off to finish the task.

With age comes enough wisdom to know we don't always need clarity.

Playing with paper

2009-06-06T09:59:00.003-04:00

I've set a personal low in blog neglect by several weeks recently. Here's the short version - got hit by a hurricane of challenge and bad news, survived it, moving forward.
The good thing about this kind of personal sandblasting is that it leaves a real shine on the things still standing... family, friends, and, to a much lesser extent, professional accomplishments.
From furtive fourth grade journals to the library books I consumed in rapid succession hidden among the upper branches of the poplars on the edge of my parents' rural property line, words have always been my primary refuge.
Not this time.
My hands have been covered from ink, but not from my consistently inconsistent fountain pens but from papercrafting, The challenge of staring at the blank page starts the same, but twists in many directions. I never outline my words, I don't sketch my creations. Like words they find their own form and sometimes astound me with occasional ingenuity. (And the trash can is the ready delete key when the new direction is simply misdirection).
Even it it's superficial and fleeting, writing requires a level of contemplation that has not been possible for my personal or professional self. Work is busy. Life is crazy.
Maybe I'll write about it later.

Rethinking Genius

2009-03-23T07:17:00.003-04:00

I'm in marketing. I get the fact that you can't call a product "Random Inconsistent Tease" and get consumers excited, but "Genius" may be stretching it beyond even the excessively flexible bounds of marketing-speak.
For the uninitiated, "Genius" is a feature on the last few generations of iTunes which examines your library and selects for you songs that go together. On my current iPod I can just press one button if I want to hear more songs like the one I am listening to at the moment. Depending on my presets, it will deliver within seconds a list of 25, 50, 75 or 100 allegedly similar songs.
I have more then 15,000 songs on my iPod, yet it seems convinced that "Alison" by Elvis Costello goes with everything. It really likes Bruce Springsteen too. The decisions are not being made by a "Genius" but John Cusack's character in High Fidelity.
If he doesn't (and I use the masculine pronoun, because only a man could be this obstinate) agree with my taste, he vetoes or diminishes it. This morning I asked for 100 songs to go with a cut from jazz guitarist John Pizzarelli's lastest. I have John's entire catalogue, as well as that of his father Bucky, Curtis Stiger, Elaine Elias, Peter Cincotti, Diana Krall and at least a dozen classic jazz discs.
Yet, it gave me only 28 songs including B.J. Thomas' "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" from the Forest Gump soundtrack and of course, my old pal Alison.
I get it, Genius. He isn't Radiohead. But I like Pizzarelli and I own the iPod.
If I give him "Train in Vain" by the Clash, he's brilliant. He plays well when I'm willing to play by his rules.
Perhaps I confuse him by being complex. I buy music for my own enjoyment as well as for parties and mixes for friends. I admit "90s Music" is right up their with "Ancient Dynasties" in my worst Jeopardy! categories. It is an eclectic mix. But I thought that was the point.
Like the guy who still wears his varsity jacket to class reunions, he is really good at pulling out the top 40 sound of the 70s, but gets lost with Nick Lowe's recent stuff.
I understand that Apple has not created him for my amusement. By opening the door to my library I am giving them psychographic data with which an FBI profiler could have a field day. They expect to get me to buy more by pushing forward music similar to what I have bought in the past. Previously it could only do this with my iTunes store purchases, now it has my entire library (and likely my shoe size and why I feed the dog from the table when I'm not supposed to).
Yet here it is Spring, and Genius still keeps requesting I purchase more Christmas music. It thinks I need to buy more of the disco and rap I bought last summer for dancing the weekend of Jessica's wedding. It will not tell me when an artist I have "bought deep" has a new release.
For that I have to click on Music, then the "Just Released" line and scroll through an agate type list of esoterica every Tuesday.
Genius wants me to think like it does. If it actually had any smarts at all it would have figured out by now that I am no Genius.

The Bills, Barbie and me

2009-03-07T06:44:00.003-05:00

All my milestone birthdays have been shared with two anchors of my childhood, the Bills and Barbie.
This year we'll be 50 - and as usual she is holding up much better than I am physically (not to be catty, but she has had some work over the years -- we're talking major P-L-A-S-T-I-C-S).
She's also the only one I know who has had more jobs than me and my cousin Bernie combined. There was period in the post-NOW days when she was popping out with a new career (with a full line of related accessories ) every month or so.
There never was a Barbie the reporter. I'm guessing the powers that be recognized the minimal opportunities in that role for ball gowns and Dream Cars. When I started my career at the Buffalo News ,the miasma of stale cigarette smoke and strong coffee hung over the urgent clattering of typewriters, wire service bells, deadlines and barking editors. I loved it, but she was never that kind of gal.
She didn't do the PR or marketing thing either. The wardrobe is a little better and a lot of folks in my field do drive their own dream cars - but it's got to be damn near impossible to think on your feet with those impossibly spiked arches.
Still you have to give the girl credit. She stayed with Ken for all those years in spite of his obvious physical shortcomings and still doesn't look a day over 25.
From the day in fourth grade where they took the boys and girls into separate assemblies and explained the mysteries of life with gender specific, detail deficient film strips with an accompanying scratchy record -- I woke up every morning hoping the Breast Fairy had indeed brought me a Barbie shelf with the accompanying wisp of a waist. Let's just say the Tooth Fairy was much more dependable.
The Bills and I have had a much more similar trajectory. We've made it to the big game a couple of times and had a great time getting there. Not everything always turns out the way we'd like in the end, but we've gone places others doubted were possible. Most importantly, even when we really screw up, we've got a loyal fan base who will complain up and down about us at times, but kick the collective butts of any outsider who utters a disparging word.
We're real. We're from Buffalo. And more than once we've painfully convinced smug mega-city folks that it's a serious error in judgement to discount us.
My relationship with Barbie lasted only a brief prepubscence. There was an abbrieviated second round in the 80s when my daughter went through her even shorter fascination with Barbie the Astronaut-Veteranarian-Actress-Archeologist.
But the Bills and I bonded at the Rockpile and through the preschool shades of fuzzy grey on our black and white TV on game day. I went with my father to a game the year the new stadium opened and was so cold, I left my seat for the huddled warmth of the people in the concession lines. My teeth were chattering when a man asked if I wanted to come into their room and warm up. In the days before Stranger Danger, this seemed like a really good idea. And it was.
I gladly accepted a mug of hot chocolate, but only stared in awe at a glorious buffet with little firepots burning under each silver dish. I'd never seen anything like it. I accepted a large chocolate chip cookie which remains to this day the best tasting cookie any one even consumed at any time. As soon as I drained the mug I was deliciously warm, said thank you and returned to my seat.
After the next play was completed, my father asked where I had been. I told him of the wonderous land behind the glass wall at the top of our section. He asked if I had seen Ralph Wilson in there. I thought he was referring to Mr. Wilson from the Dennis the Menace cartoon and knew no one in the room looked anything like that. These days I like to think RW was there. Sometimes when I tell the story he handed me the cookie.
When I lived in Houston and on St. Simons Island, some of my most enduring friendships came from the connections with Bills fans too far from our shared stadium Mecca.
I was blessedly out of town for the Zooba pants era, but have had an ensemble or two of red, white, and blue logo gear in my closet from the time I started buying my own clothes. The closest I've even come to a ball gown were a couple of frou-frou polyester prom dresses.
Barbie, the Bills and me -- we've had some adventures. They'll have bigger 50th parties than I will, but I don't mind.
I'm just looking forward to seeing what the second half (century) will bring us.

These are the climes that try men's souls

2009-01-31T07:39:00.003-05:00

I have been known to be downright obnoxious in my defense of my hometown.
During my 24 years away, I'd get so frustrated with the narrow-minded fools who thought of us as nothing but a dot on bad weather map.
I blamed the Weather Channel with for it's attention-grabbing , alarmist rant -- carrying you through yet another pharmaceutical commercial with the promise of dire spectacle on the other side.
Their correspondent would be at the same lakeside , southtowns location every time in the midst of a whirling winds whiteout and crashing waves... failing to mention that a few miles up the highway people were enjoying a crystal night and bonfire.
We have micro-climates, I would insist. We have more sunny days that the majority of American cities. We have four glorious seasons. We don't fear our snow and ice - we embrace it with tubing, skiing, skating, ice fishing. Woe to one who has never made a snow angel or put the carrot in the nose of a snow man.
For the first four winters I was home, my conviction was unblemished.
Today I say to all who scoffed and ridiculed our weather - you're right.
January dragged without a full thaw of the pre-Christmas dump. Our front sidewalk is a topless tunnel and the snow blown against the brick walls on either side of my driveway is a frigid canyon.
Several blogs back I talked about Charlie's new, unused snow blower. It's now his constant first-morning companion, before the coffee, before the newspaper. Charlie is not particularly companionable before his coffee and newspaper.
Lily the Lab is setting land speed records running out the back door, making two quick circles in the snow to pack down an area to squat, taking care of business and sprinting back in the door in seconds.
This is crazy-making weather -white knuckle driving, cancelled plans and cold, wet feet that never seem to warm.
A Buffalo Police Officer is facing charges for beating a man in a parking space dispute. It is a horrible thing for anyone to do, especially one pledged to serve and defend -- but do you know how hard it is to park with half the spots covered with plowed snow mountains?
I had several commutes this week watching the ABS light on my dashboard remind me ... in case I didn't already notice... that I actually had little control of what was happening.
Yesterday morning the roads were creep-along bad, but the visibility was good... until I eased onto the curving ramp from the Expressway to the Thruway. As I entered the two- lane canyon with snow piled on each side, the wind cut across -- blanking my view. I saw hints of tail lights in front of me, discovering quickly the car in front of me had stopped.
I did not wonder if he or she was incapacitated and what I could do to help. I worried that a semi would roll over both of our small cars before the driver noticed that two idiots were stopped on a ramp. I laid on the horn and the car started to creep. The squall stopped as we reached the open highway and I realized it was a scared, small old woman in the car.
A better person would have felt very bad about the horn and evil thoughts I harbored against someone's grandmother. I'm not that good.
We're supposed to see high 30s tomorrow.
For the sake and safety of little old ladies throughout Western New York, I hope so.

Small, simple gifts

2009-01-24T04:18:00.005-05:00

January weekend is an oxymoron. It is a month of consecutive Mondays. Each time someone on my street takes down their holiday lights, things get just a little more grey.
I'm going to a funeral later this morning and find myself missing the days when such events were uncomfortable social obligations of respect to another generation.
Father Jim was only a few years older than me. His fire and dedication burned considerably brighter than mine, or anyone else in the room, when we worked together on a project just last year.
While the occasion is surely sad, it will celebrate a life lived generously. I'm not sure there is a greater endowment anyone might create.
Not everyone has the skills or funds for grand gestures, but I am appreciating more the value of small, simple gifts.
There is a waitress, for example, who unknowingly pokes me in the negativity every time I see her.
My youngest brother, Michael, is profoundly autistic. He is a powerful and, at times, uncontrollable force at 6'3." At 33, he is still quite attached to a large stuffed Elmo and a tattered baby blanket. Most times it is not worth the negotiation of trying to get him to leave them in the car.
Michael lives in a group home. My middle brother and I share responsibility for weekend visits. If this is where you're expecting the triumph of family love over adversity or the magical-undiscovered-skills -of-the-handicapped angle, you're going to be disappointed. This isn't Rainman.
I've lived enough of this experience to neither judge those who do not cope at all with family members in this situation nor deify those who sacrifice all. You do what you can.
Michael does not react to me, but the schedule he has ordained for our visits and how these visits fit into a larger, unbending cycle of holidays and family birthday parties that mark his years.
Michael's grey January differs from glorious July only by the pre-assigned occasion. February is Kaityln's birthday. March is Jim's. April, we go to the zoo. May is Karen's birthday. June is Father's Day (at the cottage now, not an annual carnival -- a change made four years ago that still ticks him off). July is Michael's birthday and Taste of Buffalo. August is Lauren's... you get the picture.
My alternating Sunday afternoon assignment is pick him up by 1 p.m. (late is a serious problem) , put CSN&Y on the car stereo and go directly to Duffs on Sheridan for exactly the same menu built around massive quantities for chicken wings.
The first time I took him there was my first Sunday in our new family order following my mother's death this spring. I was on high alert to the dual looming disasters of what Michael might do and how others might react.
Michael is echolaliac and can be loud if agitated. On his best days, the sight of him tearing into a plate of wings is not attractive. If he is too disruptive to others I can always leave cash on the table and herd him to the door.
That's what is in my mind when I bring Michael into a new situation. What's the quickest way to get him to the door and settled in a less public place?
Michael loves public bathrooms. It's his first stop in any restaurant or store and there WILL be additional trips. He goes for the traditional reasons, nothing unsavory, he just loves bathrooms. Having him out of my sight makes me very nervous. I have been known to lie about the availability of facilities.
On the first Duff's trip we were seated way in the back (too far from the front door for my comfort) and next to the men's room (to Michael's delight). It promised to be a long afternoon.
A pretty, dark-haired waitress with a comfortable smile came to our table. She didn't stare or look past Michael's rocking and took his order for "the Akron bus" in stride.
She spotted him looking hungrily at other tables and made sure our order of wings took quick flight. Her easy manner had a calming effect on Michael and I actually tasted my own food. She checked back with us frequently and never stopped smiling.
Yes, she got a good tip. But she didn't know that was a possibility when she first went out of her way. I was not surprised when Michael insisted we return on our next Sunday and every one after that.
She's there most times. We always sit at her table. She knows when I order a pitcher of Pepsi, it's the diet, decaffeinated type that works better for Michael's meds. There is no point in saying it out loud and upsetting him. Michael is more patient in her presence, and, frankly, so am I.
Time with Michael is necessarily focused on Michael. I don't know her name, we've never had an actual conversation. But I'm always so glad to see her there. Her easy kindness tips the balance from nerve-wracking obligation to time with my brother.
The routine has been that I take Michael to Duff's while my other brother takes him to another restaurant. Michael never volunteers to change a routine. Two weeks ago he told my brother to take him to Duff's. You've probably figured out why.
She may not even understand the impact of her kindness and calm.
I do.

Slow going snow going

2009-01-11T07:50:00.004-05:00

Folks in Buffalo like to puff our barrel chests and talk about how badly others handle snow driving.
"They close down the entire city of Atlanta for four and a half flakes."
"They tell people to use their salt shakers to remove ice in Dallas."
"One little flurry and a palm tree is shot."
The fact is, that while we do get plenty of practice, we're no where as good at snow as we think.
Having been gone for 24 years, I had to relearn my snow driving skills. Whether it's age or common sense, I approach things much more cautiously than most full time natives.
I gauge my speed by road conditions and visibility. My Prius refuses to be cowered by SUVs with tires as tall as sixth graders racing up in the rear view mirror. She and I have worked things out. We know we'll get home. If they can't pass us easily, we're glad to make room.
For those of you in boring , sunny climes, the barometer of winter driving is how many cars are off the road on a given trip.
My trip to the office involves 13 miles each way, most on major arteries. No ditched or crunched cars means it's just snowing. One or two gets your attention. Three to five is an issue. Over five makes your heart beat a little faster. The record, thus far this year, is 13... but that includes a seven-car domino effect. That was a black ice day with perfect visibility.
Five of my cousins and I meet monthly to eat, drink and scrapbook. I'm the token city mouse. Two come from the snowtorious Southtowns, one from an eastern suburb, one from the eastern sticks and last night's hostess lives in the Northtown suburbs. A few inches of snow will not dissuade us from our shared obligation to preserve memories, tell stories and laugh so hard our faces hurt. Attendance was 100 percent as usual.
My 3 p.m. trip there was easy with a "zero" off road / accident score.
There were a few inches to brush off the car when I left at 11. Traffic was light, visibility was generally good with flurry patches, but the plows hadn't kept up with the snow pack. I spotted the first fender bender as I eased on to Transit Road within a few hundred yards of my cousin's driveway.
I plodded along between 20-30 m.p.h. in the slow lane. More than a few people passed me in the other lanes, especially as I turned from the airport to the 33 (a.k.a. Kensington Expressway). This is a controlled access highway with numerous overpasses. There are three lanes, so I figured that others had all the space they needed to do what they wanted... occasionally my rear view mirror would reveal in my lane a small caravan of well-spaced wimps like myself in no particular hurry. There was no one in front of me, I followed the right lane ruts.
Just after I crested a hill, I saw high headlights coming up fast on my left. With no one behind me I instinctively slowed a little more, just in time to see those lights skid sideways in front of me and end up in the ditch on my right facing traffic.
I saw the door open and a young man get out from behind his airbags. He appeared to be fine (other than likely needing a tow truck to get his car home tonight). When the adrenaline stopped coursing, I realized I was OK too.
I respect and obey snow and ice.
It's bigger and badder than I am.
Call me a wimpy old broad if you will.
I was home and in bed by midnight.

Best (?) Buy

2009-01-08T23:29:00.005-05:00

The story you are about to read is true. No names have been changed to protect the innocent. There are no innocent parties (and likely no real names) involved.
Let's just call this a possible alternative explanation as to why holiday sales tanked this year.
There was a winter storm warning up when I left the office on the Friday before Christmas. We were leaving for Texas in a matter of days and I needed to pick up the primary gift for Jessica and Michael... a Flip Video on sale at Best Buy.
I stopped at the bank... and got stuck in the drivethrough. It took 20 minutes to get out of the fast refilling ruts, but it was on to the nearly deserted Best Buy store on Niagara Falls Blvd. The one clerk anywhere near the cameras was telling a customer EVERYTHING he thought he knew about cameras. He thought he knew a lot about cameras.
I waited for almost five minutes before I went up to the register and asked a bored teenager reading a magazine if there was someone else who could help me. She picked up the phone in spite of her exagerated annoyance with my interuption and told me to go back to the department, where the Cliff Clavin of videography assured me he would be with me as soon as he finished with his (same) customer.
"Can you just pull out a Flip for me?" I asked.
"We're all out."
"Do the other stores have any?"
"I'll be with you when I finish with this customer."
I had to assume that in a store that large in the week before Christmas there would be more than two people working. I roamed the largely empty aisles until I found the other one.
He was actually quite nice and checked the computer. They "had a ton" at the McKinley and Galleria stores, but he couldn't reserve one by company policy.
My best bet, he said, was to order it online for instore pickup. That way I would be SURE I had one when I got there.
I brushed off my car and skidded twice in the parking lot, letting the storm decide for me that the purchase could wait until morning. It took two neighbors and Charlie to help me get into the driveway from our unplowed, but fast piling, street.
The plows still hadn't come the next morning, but I had a gift to get. I followed all the instructions precisely at bestbuy.com . It warned NOT to leave the house until a second confirming email arrived. The first email came confirming the order for two Flip cameras, one for Jess and one for me to record the fast approaching trip. Charlie fired up the snowblower.
Twenty minutes later the confirmation email came. Just to make sure, I checked my account and discovered I had already been charged for both cameras. We plodded from our unplowed to the plowed streets and headed directly to the Walden Galleria store.
We weren't the only ones. There was a lot of pent up shopping demand and no where near enough parking spaces to address it. We crawled through the parking lot for nearly a half an hour before Charlie dropped me off and we promised to reconnect by cell phone.
This is where the real fun starts.
The clerk took my printed confirmation and ID and returned one camera. I explained I had ordered and paid for two. She went in back.
"We sent you an email saying we didn't have the other one," she said. I checked my PDA, the third email had been sent during one of the parking lot circles , long after the "confirmation.
I asked to see a manager.
The "manager" had no name tag or obvious interpersonal skills. She would give me only the first name "Nicole" and the option of taking or leaving the one camera on the counter. Yes, if I demanded, she could call another store.
And since I continued to demand, she made the call. Yes, they had one in Clarence, but she couldn't guarentee it would be saved. I looked at the reciept they asked me to sign for the one camera and saw it showed I recieved and paid for both cameras.
"I'll have to process a return," the nameless and annoyed manager stated.
I was still trying to figure out how I could return something I never had, when I recalled my debit card had already been hit for the $200 for the camera that never materialized.
"Will the credit come through as fast as the charge?"
"There's nothing we can do about that, it's entirely up to your bank."
So I'm down a camera and $200 and am perilously close to managericide . I make the survival judgement not to drive to a third store to fnd yet another camera mysteriously disappear.
The problem was clearly with the local store (or stores), right?
A national chain has policies to correct and deal with such bizarre incidents, right?
If I were to call their customer service, I bet they would apologize and get a camera sent to Jessica's for me, right?
After 20 minutes on hold, my call was dropped.
So I sent an email outlining the shorter version of the above... and bought the second camera without incident at Target.
The credit did not return to my account for five days.
Finally, on Christmas Day there was indeed a miracle in my inbox.
I assure the following is a direct cut and paste response from a "professional" customer service person. The only thing I've changed is the reference number....
"Wow Judi,I am appalled at way you were treated when you went to pick up your order but I will try to straighten out some things for you. My name is Jo Ann with the Bestbuy Customer Care team and let me start by saying I truly truly sorry for the experience you had in our store with the parking, trying to pick up your order and the poor customer service. I must say that ticks me off the most because we at Bestbuy strive for the BEST CUSTOMER SERVICE our valued customer's such as yourself should have with us making your shopping experience one of the most unique you can have. I guess we dropped the ball on that with you. Again I am truly sorry for that. For the understanding of the Camcorder being in stock or not what happens when you place your order is that we send it to the store you want to pick up at in the hopes that they have the item in back in their stock so that they can pull it for you and sometimes they don't which is what happened with you. Then you get a e-mail saying that we are sorry buy this store does not have that item and ask you to call us and let us know if you want us to ship it to you or find another store for you. Since you was gone already to get the order thinking that it was there you had missed that e-mail, so what should have happened that associate in the store should have said Ms. Giggs I am sorry that we don?t have your Camcorder but let me check the floor and see if I got one and if not since the weather is so bad rather than have you try and get to another store maybe you would like to look at what we do have and see if you see something else you like. As for getting your credit back it should have been explained that your bank has set guidelines that we must follow, and they tell us that with a Mastercard that if its a bank or debit card that it will update in 24 to 72 hours, if it is a regular charge card then it can take up to 7 days for it to update but there again that is up to your back. I hope this explains some of the things that was going on with what was happening at the store. As for the poor customer service there is no reason for that, it is total unacceptable. I would like to offer you a 50.00 Digital Coupon that will come to your e-mail in 24 to 72 hours and you can use it online at our Bestbuy.com for you next order. I will expire in 2 weeks and you can use it online for any order you choose during that time. Should you have more comment or concerns please e-mail us again and reference number xxxxxxx.Have a Happy Holiday'sJo Ann"

Apparently she did indeed expire in two weeks, because that amount of time has passed and there has been no coupon, digital or otherwise. I email them every few days as a matter of principle and they tell me again how really busy they are from the holidays, but how important my request is to them.
I'm starting to doubt their sincerity just a little bit.
Can you imagine what the service is like at Second Best Buy?

In and out

2008-12-31T11:47:00.003-05:00

If you wait around long enough, eventually you'll be relevant.
The Washington Post has declared that "twittering" is out, "slow blogging" is in. Yes, the morning show commentator explained, it was no longer necessary to tell the world when you're going into the shower - instead the trendy are to post essays at an easier frequency, maybe even once a month.
There I am- way ahead of the curve in blog neglect.
I'm not saying I'm clairvoyant, but you just might want to keep an eye on my personal trends in the coming year.
Out - Scrubbing bathtubs
In- Lower wattage lighting
Out - "Cute" jeans, crop tops, camisoles
In- Functional clothing with size tags cut out immediately after purchase
Out - Going to big parties because you have to
In- Making small parties because you want to
Out- Sushi
In- Soup
Out- Celebrities
In- Cousins
Out- Associates
In- Friends
Out- Clubbing
In- Reading
Out- Pious self denial
In- Occasionally relishing the smell, taste and texture of warm crusty bread with real butter
Out- Collecting art
In- Collecting memories
Out- Botox
In- Candlelight
Out - Reality TV
In- Reality
Any you'd like to add?

Canine indulgence

2008-12-27T22:03:00.004-05:00

I am one of those pathetic empty-nesters who lavishes absurd and excessive attention on my pets as a bizarre substitute for the birds who have flown.

I'm married to another one.

And thus it made perfect sense to us to take Lily the Lab on a 3,000 mile car trip over seven days. The only question was how she would get on with Scoot - the equally indulged pup of pre- nesters Jessica and Michael -- for the middle days of the trip.

Jessica and Michael have been married since May, but shared custody of Scoot for nearly two years in advance of the big day. He IS their child and they are both fully involved in every aspect of his life.

When Charlie and I started dating seriously, it meant bringing together two very protective, headstrong, only children together in our two daughters. That worked out just fine, but we had the advantage of being able to retreat to neutral corners in the event of snarling or biting.

No such luck in this matchmaking. All four adults and both dogs would share Jessica and Michael's house for three nights. (I had a list of nearby pet friendly hotels with availability just in case.)

We learned quickly that there would be no sharing of toys or food bowls, but everything else fell into the rollicking rhythm of two rambunctious 60+ pound adolescents who both wanted to be boss. Neutered Scoot was regardless entranced with Lily's "feminity"- and she responded alternately as a pious noviate and teasing temptress. I decided within minutes of arrival that we could call it a win if the dogs didn't knock over the Christmas tree in their non-stop romp.

Scoot is taller, thinner and much more active. He's an outdoor guy -- king of the yard. Lily is a city girl who prefers watching cable in the winter months. She still has the broad muscles from her summer swimming and is not at all shy about flipping Scoot on his back every now and then.

I brought Scoot's gifts unwrapped. When Jessica insisted that Scoot likes to unwrap presents I indulged her by picking up some more paper for the doggie gifts. Lily wasn't nearly as impressed as I was as Scoot carefully ripped the paper, piece by piece, off each of his gifts regardless of the content.

I would never dream of having our wonderful dog compete with my daughter's equally fantastic pup. But don't be surprised if by next Christmas Lily actually wraps our gifts.

Road warriors

2008-12-23T07:21:00.003-05:00

My proud little Prius sits just a few feet outside of the room of this hotel room, crusted in a crazy crystallized pattern of road salt and resting from the absurd exertion of the last two days.
It's 1500 miles from our doorstep to Jessica and Michael's. We had planned to leave on Monday.
We hadn't even started packing early Sunday when I heard our neighborhood weatherman's car wheels spinning in the snow as he left to do the morning show.
I made myself a cup of tea and tuned in the show. We were socked on Friday. We would be socked again. The afternoon looked miserable... and wasn't going to let up until Monday morning. It took 28 hours for the plows to get to our street after the Friday blast. This wasn't good.
I started getting my things together. Once it became a reasonable hour to talk to other people , I cancelled our plans to see my youngest brother that afternoon and told my sleepy spouse that the storm was coming from the north and we were heading south... so it was time to run.
Clothes that were in the wash would have to stay there. Hasty checklists were scrawled and quick piles formed in the kitchen by the back door. Jessica and Michael's gifts look like they were wrapped by a careless chimpanzee.
Lily danced back and forth between us once her travel harness was in place. She was delighted. We kept looking out the window and loading the car in silence and apphrension. Charlie ran the snowblower one more time, and we piled in the car making it out of the driveway and on to the ruts in the street in only a few tries. We stopped at the ATM and filled the tank within a few blocks of home as the winds whipped up. By the time we were ready to head to the Thruway, it was a complete whiteout downtown.
For several blocks the only way we knew where we were was the navigation system. A brief clear patch would occassionally tease, but not enough to get bearings. The streets were drifting.
This marriage has made it 12 years because I've learned to shut up when my head is in overdrive with fear and alternative plans. Charlie kept the car crawling in silence through the stark , whirling white, calmly working through the ruts and hoping we were still on a street. If there were other cars or people out, we could not see them.
I'd have to walk the Santa suit to the Post Office the next morning to overnight it to Texas. I would cancel my vacation days and we'd deliver the presents in the spring. Our cell phones were working. If we had to leave the car where it was, we could be rescued. In a lifetime first, Lily sat perfectly still and silent with no mischief in her eyes. Charlie just kept the car moving how and where it could go.
It took a half a hour to travel a little more than a mile, but we found the Thruway ramp and the car went more forward than backward as we scaled the icy slope. There were other cars crawling along and within a few miles, the massive grey cloud was in our rearview mirror.
We travelled along Lake Erie, so the winds didn't let up until well south of Cleveland. The temperature was 1 when I took Lily out at 4 a.m. in the hotel in Columbus. Traveling only 350 miles the first day would have been a disaster under regular circumstances. This was a victory.
We were rolling through Memphis yesterday evening when the temperature topped freezing for the first time. Our Saltmobile drew a curious crowd while we ate dinner in Little Rock last night.
Charlie and Lily are still sleeping. No point in waking them yet. It will be an easy run across the rest of Arkansas and on to see the kids.
Yes, there are more than a few things we forgot to pack in The Great Escape, but nothing that really matters. We're almost there.
And that's what counts.

White (wine) Christmas

2008-12-11T06:48:00.006-05:00

My personal Pandora's box was opened with a cork screw.

I drank Lambrusco and Canei Rose in collegiate plastic cups and thought this wine thing was something I could take or leave.

Through my 20s reasonable quantities of wine occasionally made me sick. That was enough to make a a gin and tonic drinker for many years.

My eyes opened when I was in my late 30s doing the media prep work for the Food and Wine Classic hosted by the resort where I worked. There was a preliminary tasting for staff that made my tastebuds dance. Then a friend/vinophile established a series of Wednesday night marathon classes to drink our way through all the major varietals. God bless St. Peggy of Chaines des Rotisseurs who led us patiently out of the wilderness.

I learned quickly that oaked Chardonnay - or any heavily oaked wine - were the culprits which made me ill. Heavy tannins turned my face bright red and most sweet wines left me flat. But oh, the luxury of a wonderful dry white. Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Grigio, White Burgundy, Dry Reisling or Gewurztraminer, my new friends tantalize me.

I learned that many expensive wines are worth every penny, but there were value wines that are surprisingly great. Charlie and I bought a 230-bottle dual zone wine chiller that year and have been trying hard to make more deposits than withdrawals ever since.

There have been a couple of wine trips to California, but the pleasure of sorting though and finding small regional wineries has been one of the advantages of coming home to New York. A passion for wine is so much sweeter when it's shared.

Just a few days ago, my cousins and I did our annual "Deck the Halls" Seneca Lake wine trail weekend. The majority of the group is pictured above. There are a LOT of sweet wines made in the Finger Lakes and some of our group loved them. I am not a wine snob, but just writing about them makes my mouth twist. I found some wonderful choices in "my" whites, Charlie loaded up on some of his favorite reds. Most of all, we laughed a lot and shared the adventure with a dozen or so of my very favorite people. It was hardly a tradition any one us would have imagined we would treasure when we were younger, but age brings so much richness to wine ... and cousins.

This weekend my friend Carol is coming from London via St. Simons. The weather looks good for a Niagara-on-the-Lake tasting day. Some might suggest that two wine trips in seven days are excessive.

I think it's just about right.

In the wee small hours

2008-12-10T06:46:00.003-05:00

No matter the level of exhaustion or Tylenol PM, 3 a.m. lays in wait the minute my head hits the pillow.
It ridicules the clock set to wake me four hours later. It's jarring and resolute. It wins every argument.
No, I insist. I will not worry about work. Or my younger daughter. Or things that need to get done for the holidays. I will clear my mind. I will reclaim stolen slumber.
I will not watch TV. I will not read. I will not look at the clock to see how much time I've invested in this absurd and insistent ordeal.
Then maybe after about 57 minutes (I only look at the clock a few times and it's almost an hour by that point so it's not like the going back to sleep thing is working) I get up to go to the bathroom and check on the pets.
But I'll go right back to bed.
But my office/ craft room is right across the hall. Anyone who knows me knows the peace and release I find in paper crafts. That would be almost as good as sleep.
But who can layout scrapbook pages or make cards with all the work I didn't get done yesterday. I'll just check my email before I turn to the craft desk. This way I'll get a little start on the day and it won't end as backed up and undone as the day before. It will help me sleep tomorrow.
I mean, face it, this night is shot. But getting a little ahead, maybe a memo or two, will make this new day that much easier.
Every morning around this time I hear the alarm go off in the other room. Charlie paws at it like a hibernating bear , makes the sound stop and settles back to stillness. His slumber is sacrosanct. At 7:01 each morning, I wish that I too was retired. I imagine that I could make 4,5,and 6 a.m. strangers to me.
But 3 a.m. is an stubborn bitch. I'm not sure she'd let go under any circumstance.

Got Mario Lanzo?

2008-11-30T08:51:00.006-05:00

The Hi-Fi in my parents living room sat next to the console TV with a channel knob on the side bigger than my hand . The TV could get all three stations in shades of grey if you jiggled the rabbit ears just right. I didn't much care to bother.
Grainy home movies exist to prove that, as now, I couldn't dance (it's just a lot cuter at 2' than 5'9"). But I loved the Hi-Fi.
Dad's album collection was stacked upright under the HiFi in a repurposed piece of furniture which likely once had doors. About 20 sleeves with frayed cardboard edges told me on some basic level that we were rich.
Excepting the Tom Jones and and then Neil Diamond albums which arrived later in the 1960s, Dad's collection was split almost equally between show tunes (non-cast albums in a series produced by Ed Sullivan) and Christmas music.
In spite of (or perhaps because of) my mother's protests, the holiday LPs started stacking on the turntable in September. She begged to get him to surrender by February.
The music came from the front panel of the Hi-Fi and a single speaker with nubby fabric that was about the size of my Etch-a-Sketch (and likely had similar sound quality). I would spread my blanket on the living room linoleum and camp in the scratchy songs.
By the time my brother Jim could ride a tricycle, it was with 45s on the handlebars and his "Close and Play" record player strapped to the back with one of my father's old belts. At three, he was the original mobile DJ.
Today, his poker room has two walls lined floor-to-ceiling with CDs. He and I escaped to that room Thursday. While his wife and daughters prepared dessert, Dad and Charlie watched football, Jim and I were in our element. I had my lap top and a few select CDs for him. He had data sticks full of music to share. It was a feast beyond any T-Day banquet.
I'd spent the past two evenings scouring iTunes for the definitive versions of the Christmas songs Dad played over and over. I didn't know the Harry Simone Chorale was the absolute "Little Drummer Boy" until I sampled it. Judy Garland's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" was a slamdunk - but it took several listenings to determine whether the right "Christmas Song" was Johnny Mathis, Mel Torme or Nat King Cole. It wasn't a question of just the best cut, it was Dad's best cut. The end result was 30 tunes sure to make the old man smile.
The last CD I made for him excavating obscure novelty tunes from the 40s and 50s delighted Dad , this one would be huge.
I ran through the tracks and artists of about half the tunes as I gave it to him.
"Do you have Feliz Navidad?" he asked.
"I sure do,"I beamed with pride.
"The one by Jose Feliciano?" he said cautiously.
"Of course,"I answered as if I had just put a school test with a 100 grade on the refrigerator with a magnet.
"Marshmallow World?"
"By Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra."
"No Place Like Home for the Holidays?"
"Perry Como"
"Santa Claus is Coming to Town"
"Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters"
"Silent Night?"
"Bing Crosby's 1947 single version."
I was on a roll. It doesn't matter what your age. It's a basic truth that all girls want to make their father's happy.
"O Holy Night?"
I had struggled with this one. The Pavarotti version was flawless and always brings a tear of beauty to my eye, but it was not part of the original collection. I spent a good two hours sampling the top tracks in iTunes before coming down to Como or Sinatra. In the end, I knew the Como version was on his LPs.
"Perry Como," I stated triumphantly.
His face fell.
"Did you get any other Mario Lanza?" he asked meekly.
Here sat a one-armed man beset by the tremors of Parkinson's who had lost his wife of 49 years last spring... the man responsible for half my genetics and likely a larger portion of who I am... and I couldn't deliver his favorite tenor. How could I have forgotten that damn Mario Lanza album? How could iTunes not have offered it up as an option? The only thing to do at this point was lie.
"I got a whole disk of his Christmas album for you, Dad. I forgot to bring it. Charlie will bring it out to your house later this week."
Dad began listing the tracks of that long ago album in order and the paint was very wet all around the corner I now sat.
I didn't even take my coat off when I got home. There were results for "Mario Lanza Christmas." When the screen finished loading, I recognized the cover art immediately. Within seconds, Dad's disk was burning.
I called him yesterday to check in. Toward the end of the conversation he asked about his old pal Mario.
"Of course, Dad . I have it right here. Let's see how the weather is this week and decide on a day for Charlie to bring it out."
I have more than 10,000 songs on my iPod. My brother has even more. But for Dad, it's still the same tried and true tunes that take him back to that very good place.
When I tested the Mario Lanza CD, I discovered his version of O Holy Night was hampered by the production technology of the time. It didn't have the richness of the others.
But it made me cry just the same.

Let it snow?

2008-11-23T06:45:00.002-05:00

There are two phrases Buffalonians HATE to hear: "wide right" and"looks like it's going to be a mild winter this year."
If you don't know about the first, I'll have to just leave it at that. The second is a surefire way to guarantee a storm.
The Lake Effect Gremlins have a cruel sense of just who is entitled to their largess. I respect them and have full faith in their ability to do what they want when they want (just in case Lake Effect Gremlins read blogs).
I believe I know the reason that the area immediately south of here is enjoying an early ski season and Cleveland (west) and Utica (east) have been socked while we have had but a dusting -- we finally bought a snow blower.
Charlie, who received a lifetime achievement award from the Guy Hall of Fame for the Man Most Adroit at Avoiding Outdoor Chores, is looking forward to firing up the shiny new contraption with it's multi-directional shoot and 18" scoop. Our sidewalk will be showing concrete all winter.
At least it has been so far... and the snow blower is still in the box.
We have a variety of micro climates in Western New York which make it possible to grow wonderful grapes and apples... and, in the winter, can make you feel like you've passed through three different states in a 30 mile drive.
My office is in the Northtowns and, until recently, the winter commute could pretty much guarantee at least a few harrowing days. But we have a satellite office now , just a few blocks from my house. I've been walking to work on the days I have to be there. My commute is storm proof.
(Like all locals I am a hearty on-foot traveler thanks to our very clear memories of having to burrow through 30 foot snow drifts and 60 m.p.h. winds in subzero temperatures on the way home from school. I also distinctly recall that my kindergarten teacher was 32 feet tall, but a very nice lady).
So we're ready for winter, but I would not dare say it will be a mild one.
But I may be willing to talk about it in April.

Believing in Buffalo

2008-11-21T06:43:00.002-05:00

Thank you for all the emails cajoling and chastising me for blog neglect. I am not ill, quite the opposite. I have been working 24/7 and fall asleep on the couch within an hour or so of getting home. It's a good tired.
Sometimes I think inherent cyncism is a geographic by-product of my birth. People in Western New York are conditioned to see the thorn before the rose. It doesn't matter how gorgeous the color or fragrant the rose - the thing is going to cut you and the cut will probably get infected.
Over the years, I've given myself permission to focus on the bloom. My reward is living in a wonderful downtown neighborhood, the opportunity to be part of organizations who are working for the greater community I love, and working for people who put their money behind their passion for this area.
Over the past year, I've seen how absurdly hard it is to bring a major project to life in this region, in this economy. The Montantes stun me daily with their persistence, resolve and investment. Avant, a sixteen-story, mixed-use former federal building, is taking shape as a hotel, Class A office and the finest, and most expensive, condominiums Buffalo has ever seen.
I speak to real estate professionals all over the country who can't believe how low the prices are for the finishes, features and amenities we offer ($500,000 to $1.7 million for a high-rise luxury experience from 1,400 sf to to 3,800 sf ) .
Yet in Buffalo, where real estate prices have not cratered because they never even peeked at peaking, many people are startled and immediately utter the instant lament of the City With No Expectations, "That will never work here."
Public sales of the condos will start in January, but in the last few weeks we've started a Private Preview time for those who contacted us about the project over the last year. The people I deal with get it about the city, the project and the fact that living in Buffalo shouldn't mean viewing life from a rear view mirror.
I'm delighted to report the first three sales have all been for residences over $1 million -- and there is plenty of interest in the smaller residences too.
No, I don't get commission. And, yes, there are a total of 28 residences in the building. This could take awhile.
But it will be a huge win against the naysayers and for the community.
I don't have $85 million to put on the table to make this happen. Fortunately my employer is willing to gather and risk the resources. I only have my time and whatever abilities I can contribute to the much larger whole. It's worth it.
From the top floors the views run from the hills of the Southtowns to Toronto. There's Lake Erie, the Niagara River, the Peace Bridge, the downtown skyline, Historic West Village (where I live a block behind the building), the West Side, the tower at Buff State, at least 45 church spires... and even on snowy windy days, I see a lot of hope for what we are and what we will be.
So I'm not doing much writing these days and I haven't seen the end of any television program I sit down to watch with Charlie. But if you know anyone who wants to great deal on a spectacular home in a wonderful city - have them give me a call.

Chestnuts on the porch

2008-11-10T07:40:00.003-05:00

After a crazy week of balmy breezes, winter slapped our reddened cheeks this weekend.
I came home Friday night to find most of my neighbors (including a less than enthusiastic spouse) outside raking and bagging leaves in anticipation of rain and a cold snap.
"Andy says it's going to start raining in four hours," one of the neighbors told Charlie when he answered the door. "If we don't get the leaves up the drains will clog."
Andy was already outside (in shorts and a tee-shirt) with his leaf blower, so folks knew the neighborhood weatherman had confidence in his forecast.
And thus began the back-straining price for living on an graceful, tree-lined street. Neighbors called out to each other and chatted between stuffing bags. Jim and Ginny covered the yards for those who were not home. All we needed was Barney and Floyd the Barber to complete the Mayberry tableau.
The majority of the people in this region, including some of my family and friends, could not imagine this scene possible in the heart of downtown. They have the perception we sit about sipping Syrah, voting Democratic, and barring our windows. They are only right about the voting ( and maybe the wine) thing.
Our little piece of downtown is the most active and engaged neighborhood I've ever enjoyed. It is the first place in my wanderings where I have truly felt home.
During my 24 years of Southern living, I missed the seasons and grew nostalgic for their symbols. The chestnut became my autumn talisman. There were dozens of chestnut trees on my childhood walk to elementary school. We gathered up them up and strung the best on the end of an old shoestring for chestnut wars. (Proof that even before video games, children were barbarians). It was a head-to-head competition holding the non-chestnut end of the string to whip it against your opponent's chestnut until one of them shattered. The fact the I usually ended up with the broken chestnut and bruised arms faded in the warm light of memory.
On an autumn trip back to Buffalo several years ago, I drove my daughters on my old to-school route -- anxious to show them the massive trees, but they were all gone. The street had fallen to neglect and the trees lost to disease.
Andy was right about the impending rain, winds and cold. Almost everything left on the trees was swept down to the street and swirled about the block.
On Sunday morning I opened the door quickly for the sole purpose of retrieving the newspapers from the front stoop with a hasty retreat to warm and dry. The Times was thrown in the front yard again, so my bare feet stepped gingerly to reach it. I stopped flat-foot when I saw two chestnuts delivered by the wind to my porch. I walked out to the street and picked out the tree responsible for this gift about three houses down the block. I brought my treasures inside and put them on my desk. I held them a half dozen times yesterday afternoon when I should have been working on something else.
Late last night, Lily the Lab didn't come back in from the backyard when Charlie shouted. He called and called again. When he turned on the light, he saw her romping joyously in a new dusting of snow.
Ilove the four seasons - even when they come in the same weekend.

No disguise

2008-10-24T06:55:00.006-04:00

The family legend is that my ancestors sold their "von" title of nobility for the equivalent of about $50 as they were hightailing it to the States a half step ahead of the Prussian Army.

But if we had a family crest, I would see it containing a kid, a cottage and a cocktail glass with a motto perhaps of Sic Semper Excess.

We like to celebrate and we're good at it.

Thus when cousin Craig and his wife Kim returned to town, they discovered most of the summer and all the major holidays were long claimed for family celebrations. They saw an opportunity for Halloween and grabbed it with both hands.

Six Flags Fright Fest would get a lot more holiday traffic if they put in half the time and money Craig and Kim invest in transforming their multi-acre country spread into "the event." There's a haunted forest hayride, a pumpkin patch, a bonfire, a shark fin in the pond, a bounce house and a mechanical (I hope) half body kicking it's legs under the tractor - as well as indoor decorations on three levels of their house.

Food covers all available surfaces in the kitchen and dining areas, the basement bar is fully stocked and a separate fridge in the garage serves the smokers lounge. There is a 50/50 drawing with cash and gift baskets, but the big event is the adult costume vote complete with trophies and ribbons.

A tradition has been established that the individual award winners appear to get help from George Lucas and would walk away with the best costume Oscar were they entered. It's serious. Groups was very strong last year, but at least approachable.

Thus when cousin Bernie's wife Karen emailed suggesting Charlie and I join into a Gilligan's Island group, I jumped on it. Eddie would be Gilligan, she'd be MaryAnn, Bernie would be the skipper... I was thinking about how Charlie and I would deck out as Ginger and the Professor as she said "And you two would be the perfect Mr. and Mrs. Howell."

Ouch.

Welcome to officially old.

The Halloween store blonde wigs were not "mature" enough. At the "real" wig store I discovered that expensive wigs were sized, under $50 you had to buy into the myth that one size fits all. This is where I learned I am not only old, but my head is better suited to be a jack o lantern. A large jack o lantern.

But I put on the sparkliest gown in my closet, draped my entire pearl and diamond costume jewelery collection around my neck, adorned my fingers with the extensive collection of cubic zirconia recently inherited from my mother, stuffed my brown/black hair under the wig cap and pulled the wig over it SNUGLY.

I asked Charlie to glue on my false eyelashes without apparently making it clear that they belonged on the outer edge of my lids and not the mid point to the eye brows. I tried to readjust them down before the glue dried, but this somehow freed two independent caterpillars which travelled throughout the general area of my face throughout the night while my eyelids occasionally got stuck shut.

So Karen had actually made a good call on that not being Ginger thing.

Throughout the evening Mr. Howell was thoroughly enjoying his cocktails and cigar (just keeping in character mind you) so Mrs. Howell assumed the designated driver role.

Every once in a while my wig would pop up like a blonde bagel in a toaster and perch on the very top of my head with my dark hair fringing the base. Combined with the cavorting caterpillars on my eyes and smeared makeup in their perpetual adjustment, several people thought my costume was a tribute to my late Aunt Jeanette who was known for both her dramatic wardrobe and a serious "celebration" habit.

Yet so many people told me how great I looked as a blonde, I wondered just how bad I actually look as my dark brunette self.

Jill's witchdoctor costume took top honors. Cheryl's Bee Swarm edged a tight race against Old McDonald's Farm for best group. Janie took funniest (again) for her Tits and Tats biker babe... and I learned that looking oddly off kilter is apparently better than I normally look.

The next family event is coming up in a few weeks with our table at the SABAH gala. I'm going as a brunette anyway.

A try-out in Jeopardy!

2008-10-12T19:04:00.007-04:00

For Samson -- it was the locks.
Superman had his kryptonite. Achilles dealt with the darn heel.
For me, it's green peppers.
After decades of peaceful co-existence, they turned on me in the mid-80s in a big way. I won't go into the gruesome details except to say it's a plus if I stay conscious and you don't want to get between me and the bathroom.
I obviously would not have knowingly ingested green peppers within an hour of my Jeopardy! tryout in Toronto on Saturday.
I specifically said "no green peppers" in my lunchtime Cobb salad and filtered through the greens like I was panning for gold. The salad was dressed with Guacamole.
I discovered the "secret ingredient" in (that particular) Canadian Guacamole as we walked back to the try-out hotel where we were staying.
My chest and neck immediately objected with hives and other assorted angry welts as sweat dripped of the tips of my hair. The only outfit I brought for the tryout included a scoop neck black shirt and a black blazer that provided a stark contrast to my fire engine torso.
I took two Benadryl and tried to run through my vice president list one more time. On my third and final trip to the bathroom I popped another Benadryl ... or was it two?
I was a splotchy pink as I sucked it up and introduced myself to the other candidates waiting in the hall outside the try-out room. We had all passed the national online test and were all "officially" in the contestant pool at this point. But this was a competition to stand out to the contestant coordinators for our knowledge, wit and energy.
As one of the few Americans and the only one who looked like a seasick lobster - I stood out. I could see the others mentally crossing me off the list.
At least that's what I thought I saw. Things were getting a little fuzzy. The Polaroid they took for my packet was NOT fuzzy - it clearly showed my sweat-soaked hair was plastered to my head like Alfalfa.
My mouth was dry from the Benadryl. Really dry. I was wondering if it was possible to cut yourself with your tongue as they passed out the 50 question test answer sheet. New questions were read every few seconds.
We were all sworn to secrecy about the test - so you'll just have to take my word that the first two questions were really easy ... under any other circumstance. But I was numbstruck. The Benadryl had apparently blocked all reactions.
I scrawled question notes in the margin as the next questions came fast and furious. There was a blur of questions I knew easily and others that I made notes on. When I heard "Question 47" I realized I was only on the blank marked "44." I had put subsequent answers into lines I thought I had left blank.
I turned it in sheepishly explaining I'd screwed up the numbering. I wasn't about to explain the green peppers. This show is supposed to be for smart people.
The smiling contestant wrangler said it happened all the time - they know where the answers are supposed to go.
I think his name was Tony, it could have been the The Angel Gabriel. All my fuzzy mind could fathom was two thoughts. The Angel Gabriel was extremely nice and Maggie Speak, the head contestant coordinator was REALLY funny. Either one of them could have had a second career as a high voltage alternate energy source.
This was the third Toronto audition of the day but we were ALL Maggie's new best friends. She was the head coach in a Nerd Olympic trial. She walked with compassion among us, but you knew she hung with the cool kids in high school .
We were called to the front in groups of three, handed signalling devices and a live board was projected on a screen in front of us. Maggie and crew sat between the screen and the prospects. I was just starting to feel a trickle of adrenaline when I heard my name called in one of the first groups.
I took the device in hand consoling myself that I couldn't screw up worse than the written test, they gave me a free pen and it was a short walk to the elevator to my hotel room where I would sleep off humiliation and Benadryl.
But just a few questions into it, I started picking up on the energy of Magic Maggie. I answered and answered again. I'd gone from near comatose to having a really good time.
In the interview portion I talked about Avant and Marvin Hamlisch fine tuning my car radio settings. It was fun. I didn't even think about not having any saliva or seeing random blue lights.
When I went back to my seat I silently practiced signalling in on the next few groups and I was on a major league roll. It was Nerdvana.
I was actually whistling in the elevator heading back in to the room. Who needs nap? Charlie and I went out to celebrate.
Jeopardy! can call to schedule me any time in the next 18 months. When the call comes, I'm ready to hold the guacamole and get on the next plane.

Geography lesson

2008-09-12T06:56:00.003-04:00

I'm about to get into the car for five-hour trip across a strip of Canada that will end in a funeral home near Detroit.
Charlie's Uncle Charlie was in his 80s and the denouement was expected, but you're never ready. I spent yesterday evening frantically untangling my commitments for the weekend. Charlie was just sad. I know it will cheer him to see his brothers there and wish he would see them more often.
But St. Louis, where his brothers live, is 12 hours by car and air travel has become such a hassle. Time gets away too quickly.
Down in Houston, Jessica and Michael are battening the hatches for Ike. Jess and I have been through hurricane evacuations and ride-outs together, this one is the first apart. I spoke to her yesterday morning and got a newsy email later in the afternoon. She's got it down. She'll be fine. But I'm worried.
Both events make me miss the easy closeness of my early childhood where my grandparents, aunts and uncles lived within a few blocks. My father was born in the house where I spent my first nine years, and it passed through the hands of others in the family before and after my grandparents. Today a stranger lives there in a neighborhood about 25 years passed when the last person gave up.
More than ever, I cherish the cottage where four of us have cottages, but the rest of the cousins know they are welcome every weekend. My daughters did not have that gift growing up in Texas and Georgia. I regret that.
Thus I was thrilled to learn that Jessica connected with her cousins and some of my cousins' kids when she was here for her wedding reception this summer. They pass photos and chat through Facebook. I'm glad they are reweaving the loosened strings of our family.
But with a hurricane in the Gulf and a funeral on the horizon, there is no substitute for the warm kitchens with open invitations an easy walk from my front stoop.

Discovering Dodo

2008-09-09T22:31:00.005-04:00

It's the first job of a symphony PR person to get to know the classical music critic for the daily.
When I arrived back in Buffalo for the job I had plenty of "networking" time -- avoiding my minuscule apartment as Charlie stayed in Georgia with the girls to get the house sold.
From the knowledge apparent in her copy I expected a classical elitist, but Mary is an musical omnivore.
"You've never seen Dodo!" she stated incredulously during one of our first shared intermissions. "We have to fix that."
On the next available Friday I found myself at the Anchor Bar in the presence of greatness.
"Talk to me" Dodo said between songs, but her soulful blues/jazz vocals did all the talking.
She recorded a handful of records in the late 50s and early 60s. The picture on one of the album sleeves shows a sultry chanteuse in full length gloves. You could close your eyes on any Friday night and see her again in a smoky Manhattan club.
She was a musicians' musician. I learned quickly that any visiting jazz act guesting with the Philharmonic knew about Dodo and would be heading directly from Kleinhan's to the Anchor Bar to catch the last set.
As her body began to surrender to age, her voice and spirit refused. The sexy spike heels of yore were replaced with slippers on feet that shuffled over to the bandstand. She made no excuse for sitting down for the ballads and sometimes her blond wig was more than a little askew. She sat by herself in a "dressing room" between sets catching her breath. Some nights you couldn't help but worry about her --until the music started and she raised that lipstick-coated mike to her lips one more time.
Every show was a gift.
I understood Mary's evangelical zeal and started dragging in the eventually grateful uninitiated. On one of those nights, not likely to budge from my lifetime Top 10, cousins Bernie and Karen ventured in from the 'burbs with Craig and Kim, who were then visiting from Maryland.
There were some unstated doubts about my itinerary for that cold March night when an increasingly small and bent DoDo shuffled out - right up until the moment she began to sing. The night was magic defined.
I had no trouble talking them into staying for the third and final set. "You have to hear 'Kansas City'," I told them. And I was right.
Dodo"posed" for a picture with us - half the size of anyone in the group including Kim (who is so short she should probably have a booster seat when she drives). I loved that photo the minute it was processed, even more so when Dodo left us the following July.
I spent most of this evening downloading music for my father on iTunes (who would have thought there were so many versions of Skokiaan I'd have to call him to ask which he wanted) and looking at that Dodo picture as I waited for the computer to catch up.
I entered Dodo Green in the iTunes store and turned up one of her albums. I purchased it immediately, with a slight tinge of regret that it didn't include "Kansas City." But, I consoled myself, that was a different time, a different place. It would never sound like it did all those nights at the Anchor Bar.
I plugged "Dodo Green Kansas City" into Google expecting to get the home address for a stranger in Missouri. But there it was on UTube -- taped at the Anchor Bar. She's even wearing an outfit I'd seen a few nights.
It took me back. I'm grateful to the guy who was willing to save and share. So far only 42 people have watched it. Do yourself a favor and take a look at the clip below.
The sound isn't that good. But the lady is great.

More Night Lights

2008-09-08T21:57:00.000-04:00

Night Light

2008-09-08T21:51:00.001-04:00

It only took a few years to find out there could be someplace grander than downtown Buffalo and we weren't twice as cool as that downstate place that had only one Statue of Liberty.
But five states and 40-some years later, it's still a rush to drive home at night with our glorious Art Deco City Hall illuminated at the end of my street. The sisters topping the twin towers of the old Liberty National Bank keep an eye on my backyard.
I tagged along with a real photographer the other night getting shots from the top of Avant before the glass is complete next month. In the day you can see everything from the verdant hills of Boston, NY to the Toronto skyline from the 16th floor. Lake Erie makes a seemingly infinite stretch to the southwest.
But at night the hills and water disappear beyound the immediate sparkle and shine of downtown. I am again an awestruck kid.
Objectively I know there is no volume comparison to the glass, grand and glorious sunshine state skylines. But this one is mine.

Winter Nose

2008-09-08T21:33:00.000-04:00

I always thought that once you weren't a kid and your kids had grown , that summer could last as long as you and the weather let it.
With no back to school shopping, bedtimes or homework WE could keep the boat in the water and enjoy the golden cottage weekends that bridge to fall.
And so we sat on the cottage porch on Friday night. The weather was perfect. But the cottages around us chilled the spirit with their dark silence. No impromptu iPod Name That Tune among 12 people representing six decades on one porch, no children running between the cottages, none of the god awful song they sing when someone is out of the card game on Lee's porch. Who would have thought I'd miss Bill's happy hour gong?
In our solitary porch light I noticed that Lily-Our-Lab had the beginnings of her winter nose. The center pink of her summer nose was darkening - along with my hope for setting my own calendar.
Labor Day weekend with all the food, company, fireworks and bonfires seemed four weeks rather than four days previous. I went to bed very early.
Some of the others came out the next morning to take out boats and docks. Charlie stayed to help out and put "Got Pinot?" to bed for the winter. Lily and I headed back for our first city Saturday since May.
The tomatoes in my yard have finally shifted from green to red while the leaves are going brown. The elephant ear-sized leaves on my over-achieving cucumber plant had shriveled to twigs and the last few cukes were mishapen. It's time to change gears. One way or another - we all end up going back to school.
(Photo - Gilian and Katherine dancing to the Labor Day weekend band and bonfire across the creek)

The Albany frat party

2008-08-21T16:51:00.005-04:00

We didn't have email and still regularly used the typewriter in the corner of the office. Hugh Carey was governor and Reagan had just moved in to the White House.
But the recent newsfest on the try-to-drive-by-a-train-wreck-and-not-look indiscretions of Buffalo Assemblyman Sam Hoyt make clear that Albany is not much changed.
In 1980, I was a New York Assembly intern earning 18 credit hours and $750 for the entire term for the privilege of working full-time in an Albany assembly member office and taking classes at work with other interns.
Most of what I learned was not touted in the program application, but much of it was valuable. By chance, I was fortunately assigned to a straight-arrow, hard-working Assemblyman who was deeply committed to the issues of his largely impoverished district. He worked incessantly when he was in Albany and rushed home to more of the same. As a journalism major in the post-Watergate days, I assumed it was simply a matter of time until he exposed a sordid underbelly, but it never happened. He made a difference, or at least tried to, every day.
Not all, not most, but many of his colleagues made up for his solid ethic, especially when it came to "fraternization." Many of my female intern colleagues were only to glad to help.
Kissinger said famously that "power is the ultimate aphrodisiac" and there was plenty of power in the air every Monday through Wednesday.
The assemblyman arrived late Sunday and were usually heading back to the district by Wednesday or Thursday. Monday and Tuesday night were packed with "legislative receptions" hosted by various lobbyists and special interest groups and interns were generally included.
Considering that we were making about $35 a week, had schedules far too packed for side jobs, and lived in a decrepit hotel that prohibited hot plates even if it had the electrical power to run them -- we quickly learned the art of cocktail frank and Swedish meatball sustenance. When the members were back in the district we shared spaghetti with a splash of sauce sold in two-gallon cardboard buckets and pooled our change to by a box of Entemann's cookies at the corner newsstand. When they were in town it was champagne and mini-crepes.
This potent combination of economics, ego, and alcohol mixed with the "schools-out" frenzy of home and family commitments securely back in the district, lead to more hook-ups than your average municipal switchboard.
Discretion was rarely a consideration inside the bubble. Shielded by a fiance at home (and a wicked crush on a male intern from Long Island) I watched largely from the sidelines. But circumstances sometimes forced me obscenely close to the game.
Some of my female colleagues "fell in love," but others, including a suite mate at The Wellington , seemed to be working through a district map of adultery. This would often require the we, the uninvolved, pile our books and selves in the hall during "entertainment." Some of the names screamed through that wall made it to Congress. I can't keep a straight face when I see their sober, gray faces on television today.
One could argue that, at least in this case, she was "asking for it." We were 19 and 20 and strongly believed we had the world by the tail. We probably did, but did not have the experience or judgement to know what to do with it. In retrospect, I can see we were thought of more realistically as a world of tail.
We were no match for men who every other year won the game of competitively selling themselves to masses.
The Intern game is so effortlessly won that even a new set of rules couldn't shut it down.
The current phase of the Hoyt brouhaha is whether the women involved were interns or legislative assistants at the time of the alleged infractions. In my mind it's moot. LA's had cars, were paid a little better and got to go back to the district more often, but like interns, they exist only to reflect the elected.
I made my decision not to vote for Hoyt many months ago based on policy and performance alone. If it had been favorable at that time, recent revelations would not have changed my vote. He is not in any way exceptional in his misbehavior.
But I don't buy the "protect my family and our pain" mea culpas that seemed to be scripted directly from caughtwithmypantsdown.com. You can't claim a career in public service, behave horrendously to those in your private life and then attempt to use them as the shield prop to hide behind.
The bright burn of a little public ridicule may be just what's necessary to shift the don't-tell frat boy culture of people from whom we have every right to expect a great deal more.

49 reasons

2008-08-08T08:45:00.002-04:00

I woke up to the start of that song playing in my head, a continuation of an already forgotten dream.
"Forty-nine reasons all in a line. All of them good ones. All of them lies."
It seemed a rather pessimistic way to start a Friday until I recognized that my subconscious was once again ahead of me.
Happy 49th birthday to me.
I've already had several jokes and comments about being 29. I know I'm supposed to be coy about THE number. But if I was any less than 49, I wouldn't be me. Yes, at 29 and even 39 the exterior package looked a hell of a lot better, but the people, places and experiences I've been lucky enough to share took every minute of this near-half-century.
I left my cell phone at the office last night and was greeted with a dozen voicemails this morning from all around the country. Artistically --some of the worst versions of happy birthday even sung. Emotionally-- an exceptional way to start the day.
Daughter Jessica knew I was taking a half day today ,so had flowers and a Jess-kinda-note delivered yesterday. They sit next to the big silly party hat my colleague Michelle left on my desk with a card before I got here.
I've got more than 49 reasons to celebrate.

The goose guy

2008-08-06T07:17:00.003-04:00

My cousin Craig joined the blogosphere yesterday calling me out as an urban goose.

He's right on more levels than he could possibly know. My migratory days are done.

Check out Craig's website and blog. I'd be impressed with the guy if he wasn't my cousin. When health issues forced him from the job he had to do, he found the job he wanted to do on his own terms. He identified a need, studied intensely, invested in the business and rolled it out.

I admire and envy him for finding that flame and feeding it to burn brightly (as well as his role in reducing toxic goose dung). The picture above is his junior trainee Bogie. Who can't love a job where you get to play with puppies?

One problem with being a writer (and there are obviously many) is that the basic need comes not from the marketplace -- which is constantly flooded to Katrina levels -- but from the writer. Serving up a product for an eager audience of one is not a solid business plan.

My head is overcrowded with my day job - a misnomer for a occupation that seems to consume most of my waking hours. But still snippets of character and description for my dormant novel present themselves unbiden. Each taunts me with the challenge of writing it down somewhere knowing that if I don't it will be lost, if I do I will be acknowleging what I am not doing. I've ignored them for many months now, but they still keep popping up.

Two of the primary characters in "the Buffalo book" were established when I lived in Georgia. I'd never had an actual conversation with an idealistic young Seneca woman who was educated overseas and wants to be an agent of positive change in the nation - but she was essential to the plot. She materialized as my assistant at the ad agency here. I told her that the character existed long before I met her, but would have to be influenced by her ideals and perspective. She taught me so much.

I thought it would be clever to have a secondary character in the protagonist's circle of acquaintance be a weatherman. It's Buffalo for god sake - all I'd need is a Bill and a Sabre and I'd have the holy trinity of local celebrity.

Not only does a weatherman live across the street from me now, but he's the smart, funny, "real Buffalo" guy I started to form.

I'm definately feeling the pressure of internal market forces- but have lacked the courage and commitment to get it done. In a way he couldn't have imagined, Craig is an inspiration.

A relative who is a Canada Goose herder could make an interesting character. I think I'll write that one down.

Card carp

2008-08-03T11:37:00.004-04:00

In a family of card sharks, I am a carp -- a lumbering, worthless bottom feeder.
Friday nights of my childhood were reserved for the crisp snap of cards played with rapid precision by the adults at Aunt Irene's kitchen table.
The kids who made Creepy Crawlers and Creeple People in the next room now have custom chips and poker tables. My husband Charlie, who possesses both the chips and a table at home and another at the cottage, plays poker with the cousins. They play 86,754 different games, each with a half dozen variations. I know better than try.
There have been dozens of "regular games" in my family history. Our oral history is punctuated with this dispute causing this one to drop out of "Card Club" or another to be expelled from "Pinochle Club."
But playing cards at the cottage has always been a more relaxed pursuit. Back when a card table was simply a folding table, my grandmother played Canasta for hours with her sisters-in-law at a card table set creek side.
In whispers we referred to the old aunts, in their starched sleeveless housedresses, with their flapping upper arms and handkerchiefs tucked in ample bosoms as the "Tons of Fun."
They played for the hours between morning chores and dinner preparation and often moved the game indoors after dinner. As the evening wore on, my taciturn grandfather was known to enter the kitchen on heavy steps , stand right next to the card table and start to wind his alarm clock. Most times they wound up the game.
The younger women, my aunts and my mother, would play Pinochle, Hearts and Spades at the outdoor picnic tables that had to clear for meals. When "the men" came in from "the city" on weekends the couples card games began.
But just when it was about time for me to be dealt in a few hands, my parents moved out to the country and sold the cottage. No more card games for me.
There was a year or two when Jessica was a baby that her father and I played cards monthly with another couple, but as quickly as I relearned the games, I lost them again in the crowded rafters of my mind.
Every year a seasonal pursuit emerges at the cottage. Last year it was the board game, Apples to Apples. This year Lee and Trish have been teaching their high-school aged daughter, Becky, to play Pinochle. They played with Aunt Judy last weekend and soon Charlie was part of the game too.
Our screened porches sit side-by-side separated by a space too narrow for a car. I'm hearing a lot of Pinochle this summer.
Charlie and I were going to the produce stand this morning when I suggested he head up the street to the hardware store... just in case there were some pinochle cards there and he might be interested in reteaching the game.
My plan was to keep it all on the Q.T. until I could , if not swim with the sharks, avoid drowning in an obvious and embarrassing way.
But there are no secrets at the cottage and Trish asked from her porch when I'd start playing within seconds of stripping the cellophane from the new deck.
The pressure is on. Cottage rules demand they indulge me bad play... at least for a little while.
I'm about to find out just how long that while lasts.

Changing my tune

2008-07-28T19:46:00.002-04:00

My brother and I don't communicate in words, but in music.
No, we don't sing to each other (that would be so wrong on so many levels). We swap CDs and share new releases and artists with near religious passion. (Don't lecture me on file sharing- we spend enough on music annually to each support a major road tour).
He thinks nothing of calling my husband to try to get together a poker game with the guys at his house - on my birthday. But when it comes to new releases among our common core of artists, he never disappoints.
His tastes swing wider into the range of heavy metal than mine, my choices run deeper into blues, folk and jazz - but there is more than enough common ground. I love it when I discover he likes something he would not otherwise have considered. We're both evangelists for our own taste.
Thus when iTunes offered the little box you see on the right lower corner of this page (keep scrolling, you'll get there) I figured it would be a small window into my head and possibly the chance to make the world a better place by introducing someone to Jordan Zevon, Ray LaMontagne, Willie Nile* or Dar Williams.
I didn't see the "songs" section when I put it up and now feel the need to disclaim. It is individually purchased songs like these which prevent me from ever putting my iPod on full shuffle.
The part of the list that came with burning a concert replay CD for Aunt Judy after taking her to the Trisha Yearwood concert (yes, I WOULD do ANYTHING for Aunt Judy) is apparent. So are the dance and wedding tunes for the after wedding parties - Soulja Boy and Jonas Brothers cuts were specifically requested by a niece and nephew for whom I would also do MOST anything for...
Then there is a chunk of 50s and 60s music for the Murph's Porch mix at the cottage (without alternatives Murph has been known to play the extended version of Harry Belafonte's "There's a Hole in My Bucket" and a full set list by the Ohio State Marching Band).
The most recent purchases were for the New Orleans party at the cottage this weekend. My collection is already deep in Doctor John, Clifton Chenier, Irma Thomas, Etta James, Tab Benoit, Louie Armstrong, various permutations of the Neville Brothers, Rooster -- but how can you have a party without "Don't Mess with my Toot Toot" - and I knew aforementioned Aunt Judy would be looking for Johnny Horton's tune despite the fact it had nothing to do with N'Awlins music.
Sure enough, she loved it.
Check out the Albums list if , for some unimaginable reason, you'd like to see what I'm listening to these days. The Songs list just tells you how much I love my family.
*My brother would want you to know he found Willie Nile WAY before I did.

Duty, honor and the weekend

2008-07-23T20:19:00.003-04:00

Adrenaline is my friend.
Costumed in my favorite power suit and red heels, I spent the morning commute revving myself up for the tasks ahead of me with my iPod cranked. I like my job and my to-do list is infinite. By the time I got to the parking garage I was sure I'd make it through the day. I even stopped at the cafe in the building next door and tried a little yogurt.
So maybe that didn't work out so well, but my email was another jolt and rush of media, politics and deadlines. I was going to be just fine.
We recently expanded our department by one and she is a machine. Someday we'll all work for her, but with her newly minted MBA she's smart, strong, hungry and not afraid to roll up her sleeves. I love her energy. A quick conversation with her kept things buzzing.
But just a few hours into the day I hit the wall. Sweating profusely, nausea... pain... time to go home. Right after a couple more details- cancelling the lunch appointment I'd confirmed just a few minutes earlier, cancelling the after hours meeting I was hosting, leaving instructions for the in-office meetings I'd be missing, finishing a memo, answering a few more emails, taking a few more calls...
Passing out at your desk is somebody's signal that it's time to go home.
I picked up a quart of Won Ton Soup on the way and was asleep within 20 minutes of walking in the door.
I woke up a little while ago and feel better. Not great, but better than this morning. I have a 8:30 meeting in the morning I really don't want to miss and tomorrow's lunch appointment has already been rescheduled twice for other reasons. But those aren't the real reasons I can't miss work tomorrow.
I can't miss work on Wednesday and Thursday and expect to go to the cottage on Friday. That's just the way it is. It's all about guilt.
This is Aunt Judy's birthday weekend celebration and our first tribute to New Orleans group cooking and drinking adventure. You can't miss work and then do those things. That would definitely go on your permanent record.
So Lily the Lab and I are going back to bed with a trashy novel and I'll set the alarm to leave myself some prep time for my first morning meeting.
This IS simply a 24 hour flu. No, I haven't been to the doctor, but I have a journalism degree. And everyone knows we know everything about everything. Just ask us.

Suits me to a T

2008-07-20T19:35:00.007-04:00

I'm too old to wear a t-shirts outside a gym. I know the rules and I own mirrors.

None of the other women at the cottage wear t-shirts. They look comfortable, sporty and elegantly age appropriate. My pal Mary recently blogged against t-shirts as a aesthethic crime against humanity.

Yet it's Sunday morning and I am in my favorite place (the cottage porch) wearing an Elvis Costello t-shirt and shorts. At niece Lauren's birthday party yesterday, it was the vintage Sunset Bay t-shirt. Even the young girls were wearing layered tops with multiple spaghetti straps. The men were wearing collared golf shirts. The t-clad group was only me and the teenage boys (thank you Garrett and Connor).

But regardless of the low-class, no-class, shapeless non-statement I'm making, every one of my dozens of t-shirts makes ME smile. They are cotton scrapbooks of times and places that need to be worn over the heart.

Long before I considered sleeping with boyfriends, sleeping in their oversized t-shirts was the height of intimacy. I may have been a cheerleader for the Pembroke Dragons, but it was an Akron Tiger who then had my heart and that orange and black wrestling team t-shirt was worn near threadbare.

Every year or so I weed out my collection and promise I will buy no more (except at concerts, travels and of course, when I find one I really like).

Every working day I wear a suit or slacks and a jacket. I have three closets packed with appropriate clothes for day and evening. But when it's my time, my terms, it's my t-shirts.

Back in the early 90s I dated a guy who declared my role in business and the community demanded collared shirts and khakis at the minimum. Recently divorced and somewhat unsure of my new role in the world, I disposed of my collection only to immediately start refilling the closet void "for the gym."

I can remember a dozen classics (my Buffalo News t-shirt from the year I interned there in 1981, a signed Harry Chapin t-shirt, a PRESS shirt from the Dukakis campaign, my college dorm floor shirt , to name a few) sacrificed for that snob -- but I can't remember his last name.

My t-shirt habit went underground when I worked at the fancy resort in a elegant island community. I wore my stash around the house and at the gym. I felt stifled.

Moving back to Buffalo reopened the drawer. Yes, I am old enough to know what I should wear. But I'm too old not to wear what makes me comfortable and happy.

Been there. Done that. Got the t-shirt. And I'll wear it proudly.

We Was Robbed

2008-07-17T21:53:00.005-04:00

I'm not putting on airs here, but it is a fact that the reigning regional cheese stacking champion is a close personal friend of mine.
Fact is, before tonight I could have told you that Mary is a Van Cliburn piano competition amateur finalist, can stretch ingredients like loaves and fishes while making magic in the kitchen of a homeless shelter and has been an exceptional pal from the first I met her when I came home.

I didn't have a clue about the cheese thing.
But Charlie and I were bopping about the Italian Heritage Festival struggling with the age-old dilemma of sausage or meatballs for the first meat eat of the evening ,when Larry Norton - the lead morning jock at a local rock and roll station who had exactly that job when I was a teenager- announced from the main stage it was time for the Celebrity Cheese Stacking contest for charity. That, in itself, was not enough to quell the meat quest. But then I spotted Mary mingling among the TV chicks and Lance Diamond, lounge act extraordinaire. We saw Mary's brother and niece and settled in to complete the cheering section.
(Plus they promised to throw the cheese into the crowd when they finished. )
Mary took her qualifying heat easily from the legendary Lance and a radio guy. They learned a thing or two about messing with a newspaper columnist.
Rounds two and three went to TV gals and Mary lined up with them for the finals. The building blocks sat waiting - a table overflowing with packaged string cheese. A giant costumed string cheese danced on the stage among finalists. I couldn't believe we almost missed this? !?!
We were nearly riveted.
Most people don't recognize the actual variances in string cheese size or how the plastic wrappers are darn slippery. But Mary was a pro. She was playing for $1,000 to her struggling local parish. She may have had a little divine assistance.
At the end of the 60-second cheese stacking final frenzy the piles seemed pretty even. But the stack from the NBC affiliate gal fell before it could be measured and the CBS pile went right behind it. At this point the cheese, our cheese, stood alone. Mary was, at that moment, a two time undisputed champ.
But the crowd felt sorry for the TVers and the host asked Mary's permission for a do over-- snatching the cheese crown from the true sovereign. Gracious ruler she is, Mary acquiesced to a replay.
In the end, she was robbed.
But she lobbed the used cheese into the crowd with the abandon of a true winner.
We headed out quickly to avoid eye injury. (The cheese itself is not sharp, but the edges on the packaging are quite deceptive).
We were sitting in the wine tent later on when Mary strolled by with her consolation prize cheese board - a champion to the end. We shared several glasses of wine. No one said anything to us, but it was clear that the others knew we were in the precense of a true champion.
Tomorrow night we're going to a formal event with Mary and her husband.
Little did we know we'd be seated with royalty.
Those TV gals know in their stage-made-up hearts who really won.
She'll crush them next year.
And we'll be there... out of cheese throwing range.

Lost at sea?

2008-07-12T08:19:00.005-04:00

While I don't like shopping, the sterling exception is a papercrafts store less than a mile from my office. It's my day end reward and/or lunch time pick me up. I can buy one new adhesive, rubber stamp, template or tool and spend the entire trip home thinking about how I'll use it.
I love rubber stamps with clever or thought-provoking quotes . I hate stamp quotes by greeting card makers and tv shrinks. In both camps I have browsed and eliminated hundreds of stamps over the years which attempt to define family.
Most are just sappy and none seem to see things the way that I do.
I worked late last night and got to the cottage just as the sun was settling. Charlie, whose romantic suggestions up until that moment were limited to that moment, suggested we take the boat out on the lake to enjoy a private sunset cocktail hour.
My grandfather was "The Old Man and the Lake" - he knew every inlet, bay, rise and shoal of Lake Erie. His grandson (and my cottage neighbor) Lee inherited the lake and is a studied steward.
Charlie is still an enthusiastic rookie to it all - the Lake, boat ownership, boat operation. But he was the captain of last night's plan. We quickly packed a cooler and headed to the dock, telling Lee and his wife Trish about our plan through the porch screen.
The sky was gorgeous, the lake smooth. But the original plan to drop anchor off Sunset Bay and listen to the music from the Beach Clubs there was challenged by the waves, I tried to be a sport but was soon hanging my head over the side feeding the fish.
Once back on our calm creek, we put on our own music, tied off at our dock, poured a couple of drinks and watched the bonfires set along the shores. We settled in to easy conversation, a rare opportunity in recent months.
There was a slight breeze, no bugs, no one anywhere within earshot - this slice of perfect belonged only to us until a sharp floodlight sliced the night and bathed us instantly in startling bright. Somewhere behind it I heard, "why aren't you answering your cell phone?"
Lee and cousin-in-law Bill tromped up the dock genuinely relieved to find us and instantly scolding. If not for the fact that we were sitting on opposite sides of the boat with the combined chronology of a century, I would have sworn we were kids caught necking.
Apparently we'd been there for a few hours. As we were at the dock, we didn't have our radio on and the cell number Lee got from his daughter was my last one. As the night eased on, Lee and Bill grew more worried.
Trish, a cop, suggested that they search our cottage to find Charlie's cell and get a good number for my phone. (Understand that under cottage rules, this would not be an intrusion, we share without reservation the contents of tool sheds and refrigeratora and, with mercurial cottage plumbing, as long as one has a functioning bathroom and shower we all do). The guys didn't want to waste that time, they headed to our dock.
Watching Lee standing on the dark dock, putting on his glasses and fumbling with his cell phone then and there to put my current number in his phone - I saw the definition of family that escapes rubber stamp cliches.
With family you can never stay lost for too long.
There's always someone to bring you back in .

Vanilla ice cream

2008-07-10T06:44:00.005-04:00

The Buffalo wedding reception check cleared yesterday and things are back to an ordinary level of extraordinary. For months now "real life" has been one of those tasks that kept getting squeezed out by the demands of others on my daily to-do lists.
There's a Saratoga run next month and maybe a New York trip in October. But things have gone largely from rainbow sherbet to vanilla. I never realized how much I missed vanilla.
During my southern decades I barely touched ice cream. It was just another item in the freezer case at Harris Teeter. But in Buffalo, ice cream is summer roadside stands, family creameries and... Antoinette's.
As a kid, ice cream was a summer weekend ritual. Considering the premium on time and gas today , it's seems foolish that we would drive 20-30 miles out to the country "for ice cream." Neeland's in Alden, Hess & Bement in Lancaster, and the one in Batavia with the cows in the backyard. My father used to tell us different cow markings meant they gave different flavors of ice cream, but that mattered not to me.
I always ordered vanilla. Whether I really liked vanilla or the frustration caused to others insisting I try something different is lost to time. It was just what I did.
Unless we went to Antoinette's Sweet Shop.
Fresh homemade whipped cream piped from huge white pastry bags, exotic flavors of homemade ice cream with 17 percent butterfat, those footed metal sundae bowls... the experience demanded experimentation and was reserved only for good report cards.
Whether I would have been an A student without Antoinette's is inconsequential. This was our legacy. My parents went there for good grades when they were kids and though I found out later my grandparents only attended grade school sparsely, if at all, my mind's eye had them sitting at the Antoinette's counter as the first horseless carriages splashed down the street.
And because Buffalo works this way, the fourth generation of owners of the shop are now my friends. It started when I was working with the Philharmonic and delivered Marvin Hamlisch to the shop in response to his request for "good" ice cream.
Their Cappuccino Toffee Crunch fit his request perfectly. The owners were a fan of his. He became an equal fan of theirs. I told them the story they likely heard daily of my childhood report card trips and eventually we had them over to dinner.
Ice cream is their summer business - fall, winter and spring are reserved for delectable handmade chocolate and the region's best sponge candy.
I stopped in the shop a few weeks ago to ask Pete if they had a "tiger" mold that could create table favors for the newlyweds, Michael and Jessica Tiger. We went in back and looked through catalogues, carefully stored in the everything-in-its-place candy kitchen labyrinth, without finding the right tiger.
Pete suggested we might have the tiger stamped into gold-foil chocolate coins. He had a buffalo die we could use for the other side. Standing among shelf after shelf of wooden and metal molds imported from Europe and handed down through generations, Pete gave me the email address for the coin platemaker in California and told me to send him a tiger design. He Fed Exed it back the next day.
Pete's wife, Alexandra, called a few days later to RSVP for the reception and insist that their Greek tradition demanded that she bring Baklava. I know better than to turn down Alexandra or Baklava. The coins were adorable, the baklava delicious and we all laughed when Jessica opened gifts after the reception and found a sterling silver ice cream scoop from Pete and Alexandra with a "little ice cream money."
Going to Antoinette's, sometimes directly from the airport, was always part of our visiting Buffalo routine as Jessica grew up.
We took Jessica and Michael there on the way to the airport Sunday. I had a bowl of cinnamon ice cream as I watched Jessica work away at a sprinkle-covered sundae, seeing not her long, graceful, manicured fingers, but chubby toddler hands wrestling the spoon with same choice so many years ago.
It's just the natural order of things that she will tell her kid(s) about the ice cream scoop and I know where we'll take them from the airport.
And they can even order vanilla if they want.
But I know they won't.

Who do Wiii think we're kidding?

2008-06-12T21:03:00.004-04:00

I really did buy the new Wii by accident.
That Saturday morning arrived way too early. I was showered and ready for the day before another creature stirred.
I stopped at the 24-hour grocery store, but it didn't have a women's razor I wanted so I buzzed up the street to Target.. which I discovered didn't open until 8 a.m. I assumed I was part of a larger movement of convoluted internal clocks when I joined the line at the door.
A red-shirted, barely-post-adolescent with a name tag came out and counted the line out loud. He stopped two people behind me and started to hand out little pieces of paper. I opened my department-store fortune to discover I was "38." I'd like to be 38 again. That was a very good year.
Even though the red-shirt's voice was just this side of cracking, he was doing his best gym teacher imitation when he said "There is no need to rush or run. We have 40 units and everyone with a number will get one. There will be no multiple purchases today."
The doors opened and as the crowd swept toward the electronics department I deduced that I had inadvertently been optioned the purchase of the hottest game console around. My rationale spun tighter with each step in lock with the pack.
After all, I was chosen. I was chosen 38th, but I was chosen.
"Charlie and I had a really good time playing with Jessica and Michael's Wiii in Texas."
" It will engage him and get him off the couch."
"It will be a good escape from work pressures for me."
"The nieces and nephews will think we're cool."
And then, with the box now within grasp.... the big close.
"Wiii Fit will be out shortly. We'll both lose weight. I'll get into all those great smaller clothes I have put away. Charlie's blood pressure and cholesterol will go down. I'll be carded when I try to buy wine..."
The box was in my hands and I was one of the first to the register.
I bought the razor too.
I was home before 9 a.m. - wondering exactly how I'd explain my purchase. The interior monologue suddenly sounded a little... weak.
Wii Fitness... that was it. But for now we'd do the bowling, baseball and golf.
Later that day we went out and bought trivia, darts, billiards and a "few" other titles.
Just biding time until we can get the Wii Fitness.
Really.
Wiii just can't wait.

Marriage ready

2008-05-26T17:48:00.003-04:00

Over the past year the question has largely been the same.
"You have a daughter getting married?"
Followed quickly with "how old is she?"
The answer to the second question is 24 and it often drew a declaration of whether or not the questioner thought that was old enough.
I knew I was too young at 21 and happily ready at 36. I knew Michael was a positive and mature 29 and that Jessica was generally ahead of her peers growing up, but I honestly didn't know where she fell on the continuum.
The Buffalo contingent began to arrive on Friday for the Sunday wedding. We each found huge totes full of Texacana, marked maps, snacks, drinks and practical items like Alleve, sunscreen and bandaids with sweet notes from Jessica and Michael welcoming us to town.
At the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner that night, the mood was easy and celebratory.
The expanding group gathered in a large ice house Saturday morning and then on to a shared barbeque dinner. The "young people" continued the party at Jessica and Michael's house while a few of us spent the evening hours at the hotel pool talking.
The discussion was affirming, but tempered with the necessary caveats in the statistical reality of marriage.
Jessica seemed calm.
Jessica seemed so happy.
Michael seems very good to her.
Without qualifier, we could agree that she would be beautiful.
She sent the first images of her dress to me from the store on her cellphone almost a year ago. It was perfectly her and very unlike any dress I had seen. Jessica didn't want sequins or beading, she did not want "pouf" or netting. Her dress was grace and simplicity defined. We happily sent the check to pay for it.
On Sunday morning the bridal party met at a salon to have hair and make up done. The wedding was at 5 p.m. and we looked forward to a cool, quiet afternoon in the hotel lobby playing very still Uno with the Buffalo bridesmaids to keep hair and makeup from melting.
Jessica called my cell before she arrived at the salon.
There was a problem.
The person who was supposed to pick up the dress at the tailor on Saturday forgot. The shop was now closed for Memorial Weekend.
As the hours passed in the salon, we learned no one was answering the tailor shop contact numbers. The property management of the strip center was on a tape answering system until the next business day. The Harris County sheriff's did not consider it an emergency and would not allow us to contact a locksmith even if we paid for everything under their supervision.
The person who forgot the dress was hysterically sobbing for most of the morning. Jessica held it together. She was still basically a happy person.
She still believed someone would call back, but by 2 p.m., we were considering alternatives. One of the bridemaids had a divorcing friend about Jessica's size who might be willing to loan her dress. A team was dispatched to pick it up.
Charlie said we would buy her a new dress. We went to two shops with off the rack wedding dress sales, ready to send photos to her cell phone before bringing her - in full makeup and up-do-- to the shop.
There were literally hundreds of dresses, but none that looked anything like hers. "No," I kept telling Charlie, "Too busy. Too sparkly. Too poufy"
We photographed a few compromise candidates and I called Jessica around 3 to tell her we had some possibilities for her to try on.
"Don't worry," she said. "The dress they brought from Kristen's friend fits perfect. We're all set." I got dressed and buzzed back to the dressing suite at the chapel/ reception site. Jessica was laughing and talking to the bridesmaids. The dress hung nearby.
The bodice was heavily beaded and the skirt a Disney Princess dream of netting and cotton candy volume. I swallowed hard and plastered a smile on my face. If she was good with it, so was I.
When she eventually put it on, I cried. Not for the loss of the dream dress, but for the pure joy and beauty she radiated. Brides do glow. At least this one did. When she came up the aisle on the arms of my ex and current husbands, I knew without equivocation there has never been a happier or more beautiful bride. The look in Michael's eyes said he saw even more than we did.
They entered the chapel to classical music, but danced back down the aisle with full-laughing smiles to "Signed Sealed Delivered."
The reception was a celebration from the first moment they entered the hall to Kool and the Gang's "Celebrate." Writing about it seems like an odd choice. Watching it had everyone ready to join the party.
She danced with everyone. Michael hugged me and called me Mom several times throughout the night. The hours went by like minutes. The night ended with fireworks that were almost anti-climatic. I'd never had a better time at a wedding or seen a happier bride.
She'd bought a simple sundress for her Buffalo reception July 3, but we're going to dress up that party a little with her original wedding gown- and do a little formal photography of the couple by Lake Erie.
They are on their way to their honeymoon now and I can't take the smile off my face.
No Bridezilla, my girl.
She's Michael's wife now. And 24 seems to be just about perfect.

M.O.B.

2008-05-22T07:31:00.002-04:00

At the office I have one title and many jobs. In recent weeks I've taken on several new tasks helping my family transition. But this weekend I'm being gloriously demoted to one role and one role only -- Mother of Bride.
Although this is my first run in the part, I've done my homework. I've been reading newspaper advice columns since I was six years old, have talked to hundreds of family and friends on the topic and did a couple aisle trips myself.
It is my job to stay out of the way, offer no unsolicited advice, affirm her every choice and not spill anything on myself before the photos are complete.
I am allowed to weep at the ceremony - and I will drop copious joyful tears - but not to the point of doing any damage to above referenced photos. Audible sobs will be constrained for the sake of the video.
If she gets the jitters and tells me Michael is a beast, I will immediately agree and promptly forget she said it.
If she, in the rush of hormones and emotions, spins together sweet words about how happy she is that day, I will quietly write them down for posterity and later do them in calligraphy for her bride book.
I will take a lot of pictures, but try to avoid the trap of hiding behind the camera so I can be fully involved with her day.
Sharing this adventure with Jessica has thus far been a delight, but should Bridezilla raise her inevitable head, I will remind myself of the miracle this wonderous child has been to me for the past 24 years.
I will try not to break the bones in my husband's hand for squeezing it that tightly after he walks her down the aisle.
I will delight in seeing my teenage and pre-teen nieces in their bridesmaids dresses and say a silent prayer that my sister-in-law recognizes how precious and accelerated the time is between now and "their turn."
I will pat myself on the back for selecting the two finest godparents a child could ever have and hug them frequently.
I will count on Aunt Judy to prop me up if my knees get a little wobbly.
I will not ask the DJ to play any of the dozens of sappy songs I've been compiling since Jessica and Michael announced their engagement.
I will ask him to play "I Knew the Bride When She Used to Rock and Roll" and though everyone knows I can't dance -- I will.

Making connections

2008-05-14T06:37:00.005-04:00

It was an absolute of my parents 49-year marraige that Mom embraced technology, Dad did not.
She had THE computer and THE cellphone. If he wanted to watch a DVD she put the disk in and pressed play.
He handles the multiple remotes for cable, tv etc. by simply ignoring all but the "big three" buttons (on, volume and channel).
She had a prepaid cellphone with several hundred minutes left. With Dad now living alone in the sticks (they wanted to get away from the city when they bought the house in 1968 and gas was 30 cents a gallon), Dad sat with my husband Charlie at the kitchen table as Charlie tried to show him how it worked.
Charlie's undergraduate degree is in education. At the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center he taught thousands of people holding loaded guns through simulated hostage roleplaying. He even taught our older daughter to drive. He's good. But not that good...
Too many small buttons and detailed command strings. It did not go well.
I got online and discovered the Jitterbug phone for seniors - which may have been a good idea but the coverage map was a little spotty in this area. We knew our phones worked at Dad's house so went to the Verizon store to see what they had to offer.
An absurdly positive salesman took me straight to their Coupe model immediately pointing out the one button 911 and additional one button dialers labelled I, C & E - in case of emergency.
"He's 74 years old and not in great health," I explained.
"The large number keypad and large clear display works very well for seniors," the eternal optimist responded.
"He has Parkinson's and a pretty bad tremor," I cautioned.
"It also has voice recognition so he can call people from his phone book by just asking," the sunny salesguy continued.
"I'm not sure how well the flip phone case will work in that he only has one arm," I added.
"Well," the salesguy said slowly. "If you bring it back within 30 days we can cancel your contract."
I have to admit, I had even less confidence. But I programmed the phone and took it out to Dad on Friday.
I explained that my brother Jim, whom Dad calls by his middle name Eric, could be reached by simply pressing the "E" button. Charlie could be reached with the "C" and my cell would be dialed with the "I."
"Why isn't it a J?" he asked.
I showed him how to press the side button and say a name.
"Call Judi" I said and within seconds my cell was ringing. I had previously loaded his primary contacts, grandkids and nephews into the phonebook.
"Call Judi" he said and the phone answered "Did you say call church?"
He yelled back at the phone and discovered that it, unlike the rest of us, would not engage in an irrational conversation. I figured I'd keep the box and receipt in my car and somewhere around the 28th day I would go in for the extraction.
Over the weekend, my brother told me about Dad telling his teenage granddaughter to call him as she sat next to him in the car - and him jumping startled by the ring when she did. The whole concept of vibrating and ringing shook him up pretty good. He thought it was short-circuiting in his pocket.
It was late evening yesterday when I was driving home from work and my phone rang. I pressed the answer button on my steering wheel.
It took a moment to register that it was my father's voice on the other side of the phone. I hadn't bothered to program the new number into my car list. I panicked.
"Where are you? What do you need?" I said speaking slowly while mentally recalulating the best way to get out to Dad's house.
"Are there any more checks in for Mom's memorial fund?" he asked.
I gave him an update and then he asked about my day.
In 48 years, my father has never called to chat. That was Mom's job. Part way through the conversation she'd hand him the phone, he'd say his piece and give it back to Mom to continue the conversation.
I was reeling ...until he said "Hold on, I have another call. Your brother is on the line."
I thought I was going to need to pull over. Dad was chatting and doing call waiting. He read my brother's name on the display. This was huge.
We wrapped up our conversation and few minutes later my brother (who was on a business trip in Florida) called me.
"Dad is using call waiting!" I exclaimed the minute I picked up. "Do you think he's going to figure out conference calling before I do?"
We shared a good laugh about never selling the man short and a long talk about the challenge we now share in filling in the large spaces in Dad's life.
Mom would be proud. Our smaller family is connected as never before.

The no-rush hour

2008-05-13T06:53:00.005-04:00

You know how it goes, you stay a little late at the office, pick up some dog food on the way home and next thing you know you are a dozen or so cars back on a closed freeway with an armed guy in the middle of the highway holding off a couple dozen cops.
Suddenly you are in a sea of stilled cars two lanes deep for miles with the Niagara River to one side and a concrete wall separating us from oncoming traffic (which obviously, in this case wasn't coming) - what's a girl to do?
I had a UPS truck in front of me conveniently blocking my view of the gunman and my husband on the cell phone suggesting I stay in the car. Hundreds of people poured out of the nearby Riverside neighborhood to watch on the highway embankment.
Neither trained in SWAT negotiation tactics, nor particularly brave, I took Charlie's advice while those in cars around me got out of their vehicles and started milling around -- a tailgate party without the Bills or beer.
I kept the engine running. I had plenty of gas and the Prius spent most of the time running off electricity.. so I was charging my iPod and phone. I answered email on my PDA and spent about a half an hour with Barbara Walters new book on the Kindle. Yes, I have plenty of serious tomes on my Kindle, but the tailgate- neighborhood fest - armed man situation just seemed to scream for a trashy biography.
On the radio I listened to "eyewitnesses" call in and exaggerate and lie about the scene in front of me. Everybody wanted to get into the act.
Except me. I got to the part about leaving the Latin Quarter in New York to go back to Miami (high school angst) when a few guys from the cars were telling others to move forward or back up a few inches until some smaller cars could get turned around and go back in the other direction on the shoulder. It seemed like folly in that the nearest on ramp was at least a mile of solid cars back (and the off ramp was just on the other side of the gunman) - but never sell short Buffalo ingenuity. Eventually there were enough cars lined up in the opposite direction (creating a third lane opposite lane) that there was a break in the line to get to go the wrong way off the entrance.
Within about 10 minutes the section of the highway was clear enough for me to do an awkward three (or seven ) point turn and join the northbound parade on the southbound highway.
The young Tonawanda cop sitting at the entrance to make sure no one got ON the highway, just sat and watched us all stream off.
You can pretty much count on Buffalonians to get the job done.
The cops captured the guy without incident a hour or so later.
A couple of weeks ago, Forbes pronounced Buffalo's commuting times among the best in the nation.
At least most days.
And otherwise, we make it interesting.

Gotta blog?

2008-05-09T08:41:00.003-04:00

A study released last month by BlogHer and Compass Partners surveyed 6,000 women and came to the following conclusions.
"Women are so passionate about blogging, says the report, that large percentages said they would give something up to keep the blogs they read and/or write:

55% would give up alcohol
50% would give up their PDAs
42% would give up their i-Pod
43% would give up reading the newspaper or magazines
only 20% would give up chocolate

What's up with my fellow Blog Babes? Given the choice of chocolate or my blog, even Antoinettes Sweets chocolate. and it's the blog easy.

But newspapers, my iPod, my PDA or (this is really getting serious here) my Sauvignon Blanc ... I don't think so. Priorities ladies, please!

Step away from the computer, put a nice iPod mix in the speaker dock, pour yourself a glass of wine and thumb through a magazine. You can do it. It will be pleasant.

And even if it's not, you can blog about it later.

What we do

2008-05-07T07:03:00.004-04:00

Although the companies have changed, I have been doing basically the same work for a career that is only slightly short of three decades.
Yet, the majority of my family is clueless as to what I actually do.
My grandparents, uncles and aunts were solid blue-collar types. Sure, Uncle Barney was "in politics" but we were largely a lunch-bucket crowd. My father was a New York State Trooper and then a part time Town Justice. He's been retired from both for several years now.
"Your father has no idea what I do at work," my mother used to complain regularly.
Thus, she was thrilled when I did my Science Fair project on integrated and printed circuits. Never had such a project enjoyed that much delighted parental interference.
If you ask my Dad today what Mom did professionally, he'd say she was a designer, but don't bother asking what she designed.
I realized it wasn't indifference as we went through the house yesterday cleaning things up and getting Dad's new solitary life on track. I suggested that my sister-in-law could take care of the transfer of Mom's stock and retirement funds.
"Maybe you should do it," he said.
I explained that Karen has been with an investment firm for more than 20 years and does these things every day. Dad looked perplexed.
"These kinds of things?" he asked.
"Yes, Dad she handles transactions daily with a lot more zeroes on the end," I explained.
"It's OK, " I told her later, " He doesn't know what I do either."
My brother and I both have "Marketing" titles. In Dad's mind it means that Jim sells things and has to travel, I write things and get to stay in town. That's more than he needs or cares to know. He figures we must be doing OK because we apparently are current on our bills.
He liked it better when I started my career as a newspaper reporter. It was just like any other manufacturing process , except the product comes out with your name attached to it.
When I had a front page story he would carry the paper folded under his arm, go the the bank or coffee shop and set it down on the counter waiting for the teller or waitress to give him the slightest opening to point out my byline and brag on his daughter.
Other than my stint as Communications Director at a horse race track in Texas (where he still was hazy on exactly what I did during the day but knew he got VIP treatment when he came to the track) he hasn't a clue what happens in my office.
He knows the people I work for now build buildings and give a lot of money to the community. I think he assumes I write their newsletters.
I love the work I do and the people with whom I work. I've been off work this week tending to Dad and details, but it was oddly comforting yesterday afternoon taking a moment on his porch to run through my email on my PDA and accept a series of meeting notices for next week. Some things are held up in my absence, some things go on , but there was a bizarre reassurance in seeing my electronic calendar for next week block up.
Yesterday morning I dropped the paid death notice off at the local daily, as well as a pitch for an obituary for my Mother.
Buffalo has an aging population and a shrinking news hole. Mom was not the type to be community involved (the ace in the hole for my eventual write up) so I wrote and pitched it about the thing she was proud of and Dad never understood.
You can read the headline they gave it by clicking on the title to this blog. A "pioneer" in computer aided design - she'd be pretty damn thrilled to see it.
That's what she did Dad.
And convincing other people to write and talk about things that matter to my organization , that's a big part of what I do.
Mom was and I am pretty good at what we do.

Comfort care

2008-05-05T17:25:00.006-04:00

No more pet posts - I promise.
It's just a little easier to deal with furry pals than reality sometimes.
My Mom finally died this morning.
It actually felt good to write it that way. Not "passed away," "gone on" or "departed." She died without a whimper in a easy sleep.
The past 24 hours have been a whirl of discussions with medical professionals and filling out forms. But the piece that stands above it all is the last few hours she was conscious. I was feeding her tiny chips of ice on a plastic spoon. She motioned for them over and over - a special treat denied her for all these weeks on a ventilator.
I held the spoon so gingerly, so afraid I would give her too large a piece. Ironic now when I think that there isn't much you can do wrong when someone is already on "comfort care."
When I worked for the agency I had a (great) health care client. Then I would choke on those words - comfort care- as too fuzzy and euphemistic.
Turns out they couldn't be more appropriate. After all this time of pain and struggling -- seeing the machines turned down and your parent easing into a soft, safe place is extremely comforting. On an eight-hour stretch yesterday I became transfixed by the monitors, holding my breath as each line completed another cycle and posted a number. My breathing and heart rate regulated to untethered machines across the room.
Eventually a nurse came in and turned them off. I assumed it was because my mother didn't need them anymore.
When I returned early this morning they were on again.
Had there been a change in plans?, I asked meekly.
The new nurse looked at me quizzically.
"I thought she didn't need the monitors anymore," I said pointing to the machine.
"No," the nurse said with an easy smile, " I think the nurse last night decided you didn't need them anymore."
Comfort care isn't all about the machines or drugs, it's about family and caregivers.
ICU nurses and aides, who deal with this every day, greeted me outside my mother's room this morning with hugs and tears.
I don't know how they do it.
But I'm so grateful that they can.

Resource Management

2008-05-05T17:16:00.002-04:00

The plan is for everyone to meet here in a few hours, walk a few blocks to a Mexican restaurant for dinner, walk a few more blocks to the train and head to the arena for Elvis Costello and The Police (I'd flip the bill if they asked me, but once again they didn't...).
After the show we reverse the route, stopping at a coffee shop for dessert.
The success of the plan depends on the intensity of the lightening and the rain currently soaking the garden.Lord knows I want to reduce my carbon footprint, but I am a wimp.
I drive a hybrid and try to avoid one-purpose trips (thus the justification for sitting in a cloud of carbon monoxide in the Tim Horton's drive through on my way to work every morning- but there is often a substantial gap between intention and execution.
My much-more-dedicated pals Marilyn and Annie decided they would car pool for weekly grocery shopping. As there are a limited number of grocery stores in the city, the Amherst Street Wegman's is mobbed on weekends. In a town with two degrees of separation, you can't go two aisles without running into someone (or something - the aisles get pretty constricted).Marilyn and Annie planned to beat the system by going on Friday night -- usually a slow night.
These ladies are excellent planners.But they failed to factor that the first group of mailed stimulus checks from Uncle George hit mail boxes here Friday afternoon. It says plenty about where things are heading when rather than buying flat screen tvs or refrigerators - folks are hitting the grocery store and stocking up. Their evening took much longer than planned.
We could all learn much about energy conservation from Sadie, our nine-year-old, tortoise shell cat. She is not playful or in the least bit conversant. She spends at least 18 hours daily in a basket (originally intended for scarves and gloves) by the front door.She can look over the edge of the basket for hours when the front door is open and she can see out.
I was thus inspired this morning to purchase a faux sheepskin coated "cat shelf" for one of the back windows overlooking the garden. With a tableau of birds, squirrels and even an occasional rabbit - this would be perfect. She could remain perfectly still but have an ever changing scene.
I assembled it easily and lifted her out of her basket in the dark hall, carried her limp and resigned across the house and set her on the shelf. For three glorious minutes I thought I scored.
It wasn't exactly a sneer when she jumped down, more bored resignation at my folly.I don't have to say where she went, or where she sleeps right now.
She hates to go to the vet or the cottage. She has no interest in going outside.
She's got her energy pawprint perfected.

King of Pain (in the ...)

2008-05-03T16:36:00.001-04:00

Our youngest cat is the only male among the pets, he also has thumbs. It's a lethal combination for any flat surface.
Sadie is completely indifferent, Bess only likes to cuddle at night - Little Bit wants the attention due all three of them, the dog and Britney Spears.
Without thumbs he might seek attention in more traditional ways. He can be lovable, but that simply does hold your attention as long as he requires -- so he cleans off flat surfaces. The louder the item to fall, the better.
If it happened to be fragile, that's your problem. Pay the piper and there are no issues.
There are usually all kinds of things, large and small on my craft table. It's also a place that can hold my attention for hours. Thus it's his favorite hunting ground. If I leave an ink pad open, he will autograph everything in sight.
If I leave 50 items on the desk, at least 30 will find the floor.
Unless, of course, you stop everything and adore him.
He considers it a small price to pay.

making april

2008-05-02T10:56:00.002-04:00

i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

e.e. cummings

I'm not clever or deep enough to luxuriate in poetry. My words are simple tools in a battered box. I found the "i'm not sorry when the sun and rain make april" line on a rubber stamp in a craft shop -- and bought it because I thought it would go well with the photos of all the crazy color springing into my mystery garden.

I looked up the poem online and read it through a couple of times. Initially disgarding any personal relevance at the "far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities" - I am all about splendor, squalor and cities.

But the verses sprung whole to my mind as I walked out of the hospital Wednesday night. It was a hard visit. The shades were drawn and it was dark in Mom's room in every way. As each two-hour cycle of pain medication wound down, her body tensed and mouth twisted in silent screams. Even girded in gown and gloves, we're not allowed to touch her. You could speak, but the pain seemed to drown your words and with the medication came still slumber. If feelings had exponential value like numbers, this would be helpless to the ultimate degree.

Outside the too-slow revolving door exit to the parking lot, a small pack of tattooed tweakers took quick drags on cigarettes and spoke all at once in fragments. One was about to become a father, apparently within minutes. The sole female, possibly the sister of the girl in labor and delivery, make a weak case for him to go in and watch the birth of his son. But the guys supported Dad's inalienable right of neglect and agreed to go with him for a ride.

The Mom in me wanted to grab him by the ear, haul his skinny frame through the door and force him to accept a miracle. I knew I could carry him with ease, but I couldn't force anything else. I got in my car feeling sorry for the child with no choice but to enter this seamy chapter.

But people start with less and do more. They start with more and do less. I said a little prayer for the baby, turned on NPR and drove home.

"around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing"

Flying by the seat of my pants

2008-04-25T22:47:00.002-04:00

In a crisis situation you can:
a) fall apart
b) cope appropriately by recognizing and dealing with the challenges
c) go through all the necessary motions, but pretend like it isn't happening
Those of you who think a or b are possible options are not of stoic Germanic stock. Friends and colleagues have commented on my dark humor and even temperment in the last few weeks. Mom's doctor asked early along if I had medical training because I asked careful questions dispassionately.
Sure, there were a couple of "hours not days" calls from the hospital and Mom is technically still in critical condition in the ICU. If you were into generalities -- the ventilator, dialysis and feeding tube might be called life support.
Yes, there have been more than a few challenges at work, that's the nature of the business.
And our accountant finally got back to us on April 14th with some very bad news about our taxes this year. It wasn't exactly expected, but it's not the first time we got socked.
And Charlie was out of town for the last eight days.
And my oldest daughter is getting married in a month.
We finally got a night out with friends tonight - but I got a bad plate of scallops. I only ate one before the waitress took them away, but the damage was done. I spent the last part of the movie in the ladies room heaving like a sorority girl (like George Clooney's team would have lost...)
What, me worry?
I spent the ride home telling Charlie about my office adventures in his absence, in between brief episodes of puking into a newspaper delivery bag that was fortunately in the front seat. If you just keep moving. If you just keep pretending nothing is wrong. If you stay functional, it's all OK.
Willie Nile is one of my favorite musicians. D. Nile - is my way of life.
Goth pale and sweating profusely, Charlie suggested I might want to go to bed, but in my office adventure monologue I reminded myself that I had promised to schedule a meeting for the week of the 5th on a particular project. I went straight to the computer.
Since things had settled to dry heaves, I went on to finalize the online order for the champagne glasses for the reception and then started to clean out my personal email.
That JetBlue message from a few days ago, the one I thought was promotional, had my flight information for the wedding. Except it had us departing yesterday. I screwed up big.
The facade shattered. The room spun.
When the Jet Blue reservationist who answered said "How can I help you?" I heard myself say in a very small voice "I really don't know."
Too Much Information spilled out in torrents. The hospital. The wedding. Not keeping up with my email. I'm not sure exactly what rushed out of my mouth while my mind was racing to how to pay for another set of tickets.
The woman on the other end of the phone asked questions, put me on hold, asked questions, put me on hold and came back with a plan that cost only another $160 and put us on exactly the same flights moved five weeks forward. She expressed sympathy and compassion.
I couldn't read the credit card number as my eyes welled with overdue tears.
Enough of that already. I said I couldn't find my glasses and told her my husband would give her the credit card number.
He handled the rest of the transaction.
Everything isn't OK.
But it's going to be allright.

The Cottage

2008-04-22T19:58:00.006-04:00

You'd carry a big stick too if the two cousins older than you and the two cousins younger than you were all boys.
Here we are, the original Survivor cast in the 1960s on the beach at The Cottage.
Forty years later, The Cottage still isn't so much a location as a state of mind.
The dashing older man (no less than Safety Patrol guard at our elementary school making me the envy of all the kindergarten girls) in the background is my cousin Lee. He now owns his father's cottage.
It's next door to the one our grandfather built for my parents. I own that one now. Lee and I are usually the first ones up on summer weekend mornings. We discuss the world through our porch screens sipping our respective morning beverages.
It doesn't matter than we didn't see each other for about 30 years in between. We're at The Cottage.
Bernie and Craig, the young guys on the log, they come out to visit The Cottage almost every weekend during the summer. It would be better if it was every weekend.
Kirk, who is either doing a Charles Atlas pose or getting ready to throw something at the camera, is in Florida now. But I know, especially when the temperatures there hit the 90s, he misses the Lake Erie breezes.
The release of the ice boom on the lake and bloom of daffodils has us all anticipating another season.
I saw this picture for the first time two weeks ago. Lee's older sister Debbie placed it in a crystal frame that was one of my daughter's shower gifts. I thought Jessica would give me the picture when we got home, but she only loaned it for a scan. She lives in Texas, but she knows The Cottage is important.
I made copies for everyone in the shot. It was the favorite present in a basket of gifts for Bernie's birthday. He emailed me the next day and said he still gets excited driving out to The Cottage - and sad when he has to drive home.
"Could it really have been that good?", he asked.
Yes.
And it still is.

Deja blog

2008-04-22T19:50:00.003-04:00

Yes, the last three posts read suspiciously like the last three of several hundred at my first blog.
Like jobs and iPods, sometimes it's just time to upgrade.
If you're really curious about the last five years of my life, I'll give you the short version here.
WroteBookGotAgentGotSickGotBetterMovedBackToBuffaloStuckOnSecondBookGotJobGotBetterJobGotGreatJobGotta GetTheBookFinished.
If you really want detail it's at the old blog.
Gotta warn you - that one didn't have spell check.

Lily the hunter

2008-04-22T19:34:00.003-04:00

My Uncle Casey has a gorgeous Black Lab who washed out of service companion school for being too affectionate. Thus Augie is impeccably trained and super sweet. Augie could have tea with the Queen.

Cousin Craig has two brilliant hyperkinetic Border Collies who work with him in his Canada Geese removal business.(http://www.movetheflock.com/)

My pal Steven has two sweet, stately greyhounds retired from earning big bucks as racers.

But my dog, Lily, SHE has real skill.

For the past week she's been in the charge of the lesser parent, the one who actually goes to work during the day and is not available to scratch her belly at will. With each successive day Charlie has been travelling, it seems she spends the entire day practicing dejection and exploring new guilt buttons to push.

Thus, I have freed her from the crate during the day and even deigned to allow her to sleep with me instead of in the crate.

I'll admit, I'm a coward. For as long as I remember there have been monsters under my bed and yellow-eyed gargoyles in the closet. Add in the semi-rational fears associated with living in the heart of downtown and I appreciate sleeping with a large, retired cop.

Lily , with her wagging tail and nearly nonexistent bark, is not a reasonable substitute for that purpose, but at least she can cuddle up in the glow of the television.

The first night, I woke with a start to Lily standing on the edge of the bed, back fur straight up barking into the corner. In one shaking motion to the nightstand, I grabbed the panic alarm button and my cell phone while I turned on the light.

It revealed .... nothing.

Logically, I could see there was nothing there. The light showed the cat sleeping soundly on the pillow. But my heart was beating so hard it was pushing my fillings out from the bottom.

I spent the rest of the night watching TV with the lights on.

The next night she slept in her crate.

She was sleeping at my feet yesterday evening as I sat at my craft table experimenting with a new card-making technique. Suddenly, she scrambled to her feet and started to growl.

Because of the nuance of color, my craft room is lit like an operating room. The ceilings are stark white. She was now barking, fur punked straight up along her backbone, at the corner opposite the door. Nothing human had entered the room.

Did my dog talk to spirits? I thought about how our deed went back to the first Mayor of Buffalo, of the wars fought on this space before and after it was tribal land.

I wondered if cable might be interested in Ghost Whisperer meets Dog Whisperer. I was writing the pitch in my mind as she ran along the wall barking.

Then I spotted it.

All of this furor was for a spider -- a small, confused, insignificant arachnoid.

Lily doesn't bark at cats and rarely other dogs. She stood stunned the first time she ran into a bunny in the backyard. But spiders...

I told Craig he could now offer a sub-speciality - removing Canada Geese and locating spiders. Craig hasn't written back.

But, especially until Charlie gets back, Lily is available for night work.

Personality Plus

2008-04-22T19:32:00.002-04:00

I took a personality test at work yesterday. Apparently, I still have one.
My first association with Herrs Myers and Briggs was back in Texas when a friend convinced me to attend a Christian Singles night at her church (approximately 40 older women, a buffet of colorful casseroles made primarily with jello and Cool Whip and about eight guys who looked petrified). We sat on folding chairs, balancing our fruit punch cups on our knees and revealed our true selves by filling in small blocks with a Number 2 pencil.
I was extremely concerned to learn that as an ENTJ I was the personality model of Jesus Christ himself. Aside from the obvious pressures associated with such a pronouncement (everyone from that point forward would likely expect me to bring the wine) I had a hard time imagining standardized testing in the bibical era. Did an HR consultant assemble the apostles?
I immediately reverted to meeting men in bars, thereby eliminating the WWJD issue entirely.
My next testing encounter was part of a creative group hug at an ad agency. It was all warm and fuzzy until they distributed everyone's results (in an effort for us all to understand and appreciate each other better, harmony and understanding, sympathy and trust abounding, no more falsehoods or derisions, golden living dreams and visions, mystic crystal revelations and the mind's true liberation... or some other song from Hair).
Everyone else in my section, including the boss, had the same personality type. I did not. While it did not state I was a pervert, axe murderer or bunny-hater - it may as well have. This was a matter of major concern to the boss who did not recognize that in seeking his approval some of the junior staff had actually copied answers from others (no sir, I don't have any personality, I borrowed hers...)
The suggestion that a variety of ways to approach an issue might be valuable fell on deaf, but uniform, ears. If he wanted diversity, he'd hire a Protestant. I decided not to mention that I had it on good Texas Presbyterian authority that the Lord himself might not fit on this team.
Thus I approached yesterday with fear and loathing. Over the years, I've apparently become an ESNTJ with an even split between Sensing and Intuitive questions. Had they uncovered a latent schizophrenia? I was realy going to miss my office with the window wall. I really liked working at this place. I thought about changing some answers, but pressed SEND anyway.
Thus far there hs been no pressure to conform or be a Savior. But I can do it if they ask.
My test says I'm adaptable.

Goosing the Muse

2008-04-22T19:27:00.000-04:00

My old blog has degenerated to infrequent treacle. This is no way to treat an old friend. It was there for me when I needed it, but I've callously set it aside.
My friend Mary (www.marykunzgoldman.com) just started her blog. It's bright, fresh and shiny. I'm jealous. These days I write memos, emails and truncated updates typed with large thumbs on small keys.
Only one correspondent, by the long shadow of his own literary accomplishment, forces me to even think about the words I dispense. I'm all about quantity these days-- copy decks, brand communication and such.
The muscle atrophies. My best work in the past year was likely a speech for an awards dinner - for someone else's award. I could spin excuses for the next hour, but none would ring true.
The outline for Book Two is covered with computer cobwebs. It's written in Word 2003. I opened it the other day in my year-old Word 2007 program and it groaned. It's better than I remember - or maybe my standard has slipped that far.
I'm raining a tsunami of corporatespeak this week, but next week I'm going back to the book. Yeah. Right. I can soothe myself with the knowledge of how much I've learned in the past several years, how much richer and better observed today's tome will stand.
Then I read another stellar review of a 20-something wunderkind. But maybe, with a little exercise and a strict avoidance of the sentimental and obvious, I can blog again. Let's see what happens tomorrow.