Shortsighted Snippet

All the local bond issues failed.

For the average homeowner, someone who owns a home assessed at  $150,000, the cost for all 7 proposals came to a whopping ........

Let's ask Mr. 10 that question, shall we?  Driving in the car, on our way to an adventure, he wondered if I had voted Yes or No on the propositions.  That led to a discussion of what they would provide - funding for roads and hospitals and museums and civic improvements - and the fact that all 7 had been voted down.  My fury was evident, my disgust with my fellow citizens apparent.

"How much do you think the average homeowner's tax bill would be raised, Mr. 10, before you think that person should consider voting against those propositions?"

"Oh, maybe $500 or $700."

Will you be as surprised as he was to find that the total increase for the average homeowner would have been a whopping $27.

The kid has amassed that amount himself, at times, and he's only 10. His face was beautiful to behold- total shock that so little was asked and even that was refused

I can't believe I live in a community which is unwilling to invest the cost of lunch for two in the creation of a better world for themselves and those around them.

Did I mention I'm furious?

Watching Him Fade

He had a lot of life left, a life filled with plans and good deeds and more plans and family and more plans and, then, gradually, he became unable to make plans or to follow through with plans or, increasingly, to remember that the plans were there at all.

Calculations which would have been done in an instant now required time, and repetition, and explanations.  There's a certain amount of denial on everyone's part, and it's easy to see why.  It's hard to watch, hard to wait, hard to feel the pain.  They are losing him, one moment at a time.  If, for some of those moments, he seems to rally and really join the party, who can blame them for grasping at the hope of a positive change?  The reality returns soon enough; let them enjoy their delusional happiness in peace.

People relied upon him.  He's a fixture in the community, the rock on which so many lives rest.  He had the answers; now, he is a question mark.  His is a quiet kind of dementia, not a loudly repetitive chanting dementia, not a wailing or a babbling dementia.  There's a vacancy where there was liveliness, the emptiness a fitting metaphor for the process itself.

He kept himself fit, running before his heart attack and walking the dog for miles afterwards, once he had the cardiologist's okay.  Use it or lose it was evident in his daily life, not that it did him much good in the end.  As Jackie Kennedy said after she was diagnosed with cancer, "All those sit-ups for nothing!"

I'm thrown back to G'ma's slow descent, remembering how lucky I was.  She never denied her memory loss. She never let it make her angry, either.  "Will I remember more if I'm upset about it?" "Who wants to be around a cranky old lady, anyway?"  But she was older and more ready to let things go.  This is more unexpected, and it hurts just that much more.

There's no solution that fits everyone's needs and expectations.  He's unwilling to talk about it and no one is quite sure if they'd had the conversation with him.... or not.  There are alternatives and there are decisions to be made and, for now, everyone is in a holding pattern, waiting for the next shoe to drop.

For sure, old age ain't for sissies.

Mozart and Me

"There is a lot in the world that I just don't know."

I made that announcement as Scarlet and I were leaving the first of our Humanities Seminar's classes on Mozart.  There were things I knew that turned out to be untrue (the story about the composing being effortless stems from a forged letter) and there were things I didn't know existed and by the end of two hours I had a better understanding of why Mozart's music is considered structurally and emotionally exceptional.

It wasn't easy getting there.  The professor was a study in How to Teach an All-Levels Class.  There were sage nods of heads as I felt myself skirting the edges but never quite hanging on. It was mildly frustrating.... and then he played the music.

Sometimes he spoke over it, pointing out the sections of the fugue as they morphed from one to the next.  His voice was a gentle nudge in the right direction; without his guidance I'm not sure I'd have caught the nuances.  And then, at the end of the piece, he made me feel much better when he said, "Admittedly, this is hard."

Did I mention that he's a master at teaching a melting pot class?

His slides were perfect, pictures of the family interspersed with handwritten scores.  Some in the class understood the notations; I grooved on the fact that it was written in his hand.  There was something for everyone, with diagrams - colored and black-and-white - explaining the theory behind the music.  I could follow the diagrams, and though I don't know what a fifth might be, or what contrapuntal means, I was never more than ten or fifteen minutes from the music.  And the music was sublime.

And so, with Scarlet by my side, reminding me how lucky we are that we will never be tested on this material, I'll spend the next few Monday afternoons with Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart, whose Chrusostomus refers to St. Chrysostom, on whose day he was born, and whose Amadeus is a Frenchified version of Theophilus, which means beloved of God or Lover of God.

I did learn something after all.

It was the best Halloween costume ever.

Her parents take the holiday seriously,

searching for the perfect outfits in the perfect theme.

This one was pinned well before FlapJilly was created.

Is it one of your favorite movies?

No?  Confused? I am here to help. 

Ever heard someone say, "There's no crying in baseball?"

A League of Their Own gave us that,

 and Rosie O'Donnell and Madonna and Geena Davis and Tom Hanks 

and, for a certain demographic,  

OH MY GOD IT'S MY FAVORITE MOVIE!!!

That was the second most common comment on our Trick or Treat trek.

The first was "She is ADORABLE!!!"

It was hard to disagree.

The neighbors were kind enough to leave the leaves for Little Cuter's photo shoot.

As I sang The Itsy Bitsy Spider crawling up the water spout,

FlapJilly danced to the music ... a measure of her love since my rendition was hardly melodious.

Dancing consists of shoulder shrugs and plies,

followed by appreciative clapping by one and all,

led by FlapJilly herself.

When we saw her last, she was an infant.

Now, she's a little girl, pitching in the pros. 

I'll try to write something of substance tomorrow.

Right now, I'm travel weary and missing my snuggles.

Can You Believe the Cute?

Yoda and a strawberry joined our bumble bee at the library for story time yesterday.

It was the grandest collection of adorable I've seen in a long time.

FlapJilly was in heaven - all those books ready to be pulled off the shelves.

Grandpa was on the floor, but he wasn't chasing after her.

The antennae were annoying.

The librarian was a saguaro.... how did she know that we were coming?

There was singing and reading and dancing and controlled chaos and I'm still smiling.

We'll be home this weekend, and I'll be able to think about Republicans yelling at ridiculous questions, about Cubbies losing four in a row, about watching West Wing from the pilot episode.

For now, though, I'm going downstairs to hug the baby.

Too Much Fun

Oops.... We were having too much fun for Grandma to take time to post. Perhaps tomorrow will be different......

Pumpkin-ing

In between the snuggles

there was decorating.

Babies can't use power tools

but Daddies can.

I'd never seen anyone use a power tool to open a pumpkin, 

but then again I'd never seen anyone use such perfect carving tools

either.

He did a great job, but FlapJilly had just as much fun with her Crayola water based paints. 

I mention that they are water based so that you don't think she is permanently purple.

Once she figured out that the colors were for the pumpkin instead of for spreading on the plate, 

she took great delight in placing a delicate finger tip or two on her pint size pumpkin.

Little Cuter was a helpful assistant, covering the baby's palm with purple paint and placing it on one side.  It was less than successful, and the kid was less than thrilled, but Grandma had a great time laughing at them all.  I was careful to keep the clapping to a minimum, though.  FlapJilly is a great imitator and I didn't want the paint to go flying .

We got her dressed, again, and ate dinner and ran around the first floor and then it was time for bed.

But first, there had to be more hugging.

Life is pretty good right now.

Music Time and A Couple of Parks

It's tough, being a grandparent.

You have to go to the park

and climb on the slide

and slide down the slide.

There was lots of wandering around

and crawling under 

while wondering where her minions might be hiding. 

There was looking for Grandpa through the bars,

and following the parade behind her.

You have to watch her devour a grilled cheese sandwich while flirting with the worker bees, 

and then go to music class where she becomes the queen bee.

And then, after singing and dancing and making music with every kind of percussion instrument ever invented,

you must go to another park, where tan bark makes the littlest human in the party extremely happy.

There were dinosaurs to sit upon

and cars to drive

before it was time to go home.

As I warned you yesterday, there's not a lot of pithy thought this week.

There's just lots and lots of love.

Pumpkin Farm

We traveled (it was delayed, it was crowded, there's a lot of stupid in the world) and arrived after the baby was asleep.  We ate and drank and hugged SIR and Little Cuter and went to sleep so that the morning would come quickly.  I needed a baby hug, and tomorrow could not come soon enough.  

The day dawned, breakfast was eaten, a nap was taken, and then it was time for The Event of The Day: Kuipers' Pumpkin Farm.

Pumpkin farms in October are a chancy business - they can be over-crowded and run down.  Often the animals look desperate for a rescue.  

None of that was a problem for us this afternoon.  There were three parking lots filled with cars, and there was nary a crowd in sight.  There were families of all ethnicities, and children of all ages, including FlapJilly, arguably the most adorable human there.

She was too little to ride the ponies, but that didn't stop her from enjoying them.  

There was a palomino named Trigger, which made TBG smile.  

The whole thing was a source of giggles and chortles and squeals of delight for the littlest member of our troop.

FlapJilly was in charge, and we followed the pointing finger

to the Gourd Arbor. 

It was probably prettier when the gourds were still hanging, but FlapJillly didn't seem to mind.

There were piglet races and hay mazes and sand boxes filled with kernels of corn, 

but the most fun were the animals.

Here she is kissing the goat.

Truly.

The goat was unimpressed, but FlapJilly was undaunted.

Her face was pressed against the fence, her arm was through the opening, and her squeals were delightful.

The sheep came out to meet her,

which made pulling its ear all the easier. 

These animals are obviously used to little kids.

The sheep stood there, patiently letting her explore.

It was a glorious afternoon,

with fall colors and warm temperatures

and the cutest little girl in the whole wide world.

I can't promise that this week's posts will be any more pithy.

There will be lots of photos, though.

I can't think about much beyond FlapJilly.

A Snippet From 9+ Hours of Testimony

From TBG's lips:

And isn't it interesting that, once again, a woman has to be smarter than everyone else.....

and she is.

I'm not a big fan of Mrs. Clinton.  I think she plays fast and loose with the truth (see Tysons' Foods profits in the 1980's).  I'm not talking Vince Foster rumors, but how did those Travelgate papers get on a family only table in the White House?  I think she has an interesting relationship with what the rest of us would deem appropriate.

I don't fault her for personality traits; I cannot imagine that it is possible to rise to her level of influence without being ruthless (Joe Biden, it seems, to the contrary) and I think ruthless in women is characterized through a different lens.  I don't think there's an unbiased view out there and I don't have a personal one...

Except when she was at a rally in Tucson, with Chelsea, and I watched them together and it felt right.
And then a woman fainted in the front row and Mrs. Clinton was down on her knees on the stage, in her blue pantsuit (because we always report on what women are wearing, even when could-and-don't point out the men wearing Hermes ties), refusing to go on, despite her handlers' pleas, until the EMT's arrived.

She's a mom, and it showed.  One thing on which we all can agree is that Chelsea is a fairly normal human being.  Her parents can take some credit for that, I think.

I worry about myself, though.  I'm watching her impress the hell out of us, with her well-spoken, detailed, self-serving-but-why-not answers and I'm beginning to think she looks damn Presidential.
I'm beginning to believe that a sterling character may not be a necessary characteristic for a President.

 

 

A Distinctive Voice

My family tells me that they can identify me in a crowd of thousands.  Your voice carries, Mom, is the nicest way they let me know that they heard my conversation with the cashier half way across the store.  That comment is often accompanied by rolling eyes and shrugging shoulders.  After all, what can you do about a mother who is loud?

In the late 1970's, TBG and Orb Kcrob and Belly and I went to Grant Park for the 4th of July concert and fireworks.  We were meeting other friends, friends who were always late.  Our big pink sheet was on the ground, our balloons floating above it.  Unfortunately for us, every other large group had the same idea; the ground was littered with colorful, easy to identify, blankets and the air was swimming with balloons.  There was no way our friends would ever find us.

(No, Millenials, we couldn't use our cell phones or send a GPS link to a device.  Those things had not yet been invented.)

After finishing the first bottle of wine, we began to search the crowd in earnest.  It was fruitless.  I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I'd go up to the guy at the microphone on stage and ask him to make an announcement asking our friends to meet me at the stage.  As I left the blanket, TBG wondered, idly, if I'd remember where they were so that I could return safely.

Blithely, I assured him that I was fine, and off I went. Once at the stage, I realized that I was not the only one with lost companions, that others had tried to have similar announcements made, and that unless we were looking for lost children, we were out of luck.  Our friends would have to find us on their own.

Sadly, I turned back to the crowd and came to the startling realization that I had no idea where I'd left my husband.  Somewhere dead center, I discovered, was no real help when the crowd numbered close to one million.

I began to walk.  It was hot.  I was lost.  I was lonely.  I was frustrated.

By the time I'd tripped over the same people for the third time I had had enough.  Warning those nearby to cover their ears, I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled for TBG, aiming my shout in the general direction of where I thought I'd left my blanket.

Over the heads of thousands, my sweetie, standing and looking for me by this time, heard my dulcet screech and pointed his outstretched arm in my direction. I was in an entirely incorrect section of the park, having lost my way entirely, but my distinctive voice saved the day.

No one else could have found us by her voice alone was the consensus once I returned to the warm embrace of my friends.  I smiled, somewhat sheepishly, and opened the second bottle of wine.

This all came back to me today while I was shopping in Clique, my favorite store in Tucson.  I recognized your voice said a friend-of-a-friend we'd met years ago.  We exchanged phone numbers and made plans for December and I left with a new blouse, a renewed connection, and another check mark in the box of You have a distinctive voice, Mom.

Sometimes, that's a good thing.

Allowing Myself to Care

I have resisted for years.  Others became excited, and I was able to maintain my equanimity.  I'd been burned too many times before.

I threw myself into it while sitting in the bleachers, a $2.50 extravagance which the sun and the peanuts and the beers made worthwhile.  The game was played, and we watched and cheered and threw back home run balls hit into the stands by opposing players.

We wore Cubbies shirts and Cubbies caps and wrapped ourselves in plastic bags from the food vendors when the wind whipped up.  I had a wide array of gear, something for every season.  I bought Brother a Cubs jacket for his 30th birthday, which he exchanged for a Nationals jacket on his 60th birthday.  It was hard for me to buy something other than Cubbies blue, but he was cheering for his (new) hometown team and who was I to complain.

We'd listen to the cheers from our backyard, leaving the gardening and running inside to watch the televised replay.  We were six blocks from Wrigley Field.  We could walk to the games.

Ticket prices went up.  Friends moved away.  The Golden Gopher and his bride held their wedding party on a rooftop; we watched the game in the gloom as we celebrated their union.  Lights were installed, the neighborhood had parking stickers for residents only, and the stadium started to peel away from the rafters.  It was upgraded and refurbished and Jumbotrons were installed.

It was starting to feel like a regular ballpark, instead of the friendly confines of Wrigley Field.

The only thing that never changed was the outcome at the end of the season.  The Cubs continued the longest drought in professional sports.

Then, 2015 arrived.  Back to the Future II announced a Cubbies victory in 2015.  A new manager arrived, one who couldn't be bothered talking about the curse.  Young players were groomed and brought up to the major leagues, players who had no idea of the long standing tradition of Oh, My.... they've lost again.

They had the best time at the end of the regular season, playing against the number one and number two teams in the league for the chance to get into the World Series.  They beat them both.

And then, they met the Mets.  The Mets, who defeated them in 1969.  The Mets, who have a deep bench and fantastic pitching. The Mets, who outplayed them and made it almost impossible to watch without wincing.

I went online to play Words With Friends, and found SIR and Little Cuter there, too.  Instead of apologizing for playing faux-

Scrabble while the Cubs were on tv, I commiserated with them.  The two most rabid fans I know were similarly distressed.

And now, with two minutes to go before the starting pitch, I am in a quandary.  Do I put on my tee shirt and yell GO CUBS?  Do I resign myself to the sinking feeling in my gut?  Do I continue to care?

I can't believe I've gone this far......
.......
.............
...................
And now it's bottom of the ninth, the Cubs are down by three runs, and the Mets' closer is basically un-hittable.

On the other hand, with Rizzo and Castro and Soler coming to the plate ....young men whose existence was unknown to me a month ago... I am hopeful....

(Ground out to second)

.... and even though it's been an awful few hours, especially since the cameras are focusing on the forlorn fans in the stands....

(Another infield ground out)

and Big Cuter keeps calling to remind us that There's always next century.... and the rain is turning the batter's bx to mush as the count goes to 2-1.... and no one has gone home.  It's pouring rain and no one is cowering under the overhangs.  No one is paying any attention to anything but the final out... 3 balls and 2 strikes in the bottom of the 9th and we're down by 3 runs and the fans are cheering.

(He stood there.  Called third strike.... third out.... down 3-0 in the series....)

And yes, somehow, I still care.

A Chair Fell

There were six of us, women of a certain age, playing mah jongg this morning.  We were at two tables, playing 3-and-a-dummy.  The upstairs lobby in our friend's senior living complex is bright and airy and, if I sit with my back to the hallway, I can see both the main entrance and the doorway to the balcony.

It feels very safe.

I traded my usual seat without much thought; my friend was warm, and I could feel a breeze she was lacking.  I decided not to mind that I couldn't see the doorways; she promised to keep an eye out if there was a tumult below.

I was fine... I was winning.... once then twice then oh, dear this is embarrassing, three times in a row. I managed to fill a 2015 + winds hand; if you know the game you know that doesn't happen very often.  I had lots of jokers and it was easy to decide which hand to play and I was cruising along, smiling and accepting kudos and then I jumped about five feet in the air.

A woman seated behind me stood up.  Her heavy purse was more than the armchair's backrest could handle and over it went.  It's a heavy chair.  It made a very loud noise.

The other two women at my table were surprised, too, but neither of them levitated.  Neither of them was hyperventilating.  They weren't leaning back in their chairs, hands on their bellies, feeling the breath going in... deeply... holding and slowly releasing.  They were a little bit concerned about me, though, since I was doing all of that while trying mightily to smile.

I was fine.  I would be better soon.  Was she okay, the one whose chair set this off?  The fact that she didn't go over with the chair is the saving grace of the situation; the rest of it was awful.

I was back on the cold sidewalk, looking into Christina-Taylor's eyes.  My heart was pounding and my chest could barely contain it and then there was an absence of feeling and thought and everything but memory.  It's sharp edged and tinged with grief and it's usually locked up tight in the box in my head which I reserve for such things.

It only takes a chair falling in a lobby to release the Kraken.

PTSD... the gift that keeps on giving.