It's Been A Scary Few Days

Spouse and I have been glued to news reports from Iran, concerned that his family members there may have been caught up in all the turmoil. It's impossible to get a phone call through, so we're sitting on pins and needles. It's incomprehensibly dreadful to see what the Iranian government is doing to it's own people!! It's even worse than when the Shah was over-thrown. If that wasn't enough, Sunday evening Mom phoned to say my youngest sister, Janet was being flown by helicopter from Calvert Memorial Hospital to Georgetown Hospital. She had been sick for a couple of days, but by Sunday morning had no strength to say "no" when her husband insisted she go to the emergency room. Her blood pressure was 83 over 47 and her temp was close to 104. At the hospital, they also discovered that her white blood cell count was off the charts. They had so much trouble trying to find a vein for an IV line that her arms are bruised from hand to elbow. Finally, they put a line into her femoral artery and started pumping in fluids to get her pressure up. An array of antibiotics and steroids seem to have done their job to fight the blood infection. It was a close call. Monday, shortly after I came home from seeing my sister at the hospital, the horrifying Metro rail crash was all over the TV. So, adding to my worrying about my sister and how her husband and two sons were coping with her situation, sadness and pain for the families and friends of the Metro crash victims took over. The human body just isn't cut out to handle all that trauma at one time! I've developed bronchitis so am pretty much useless to do anything but cough, wheeze and moan pathetically. Thankfully, Janet just phoned to say that she is being released this evening. Now that's the kind of news I want to hear!

More Foto Phun

Egging-On Identical Twin Boxers

A Button Box and a Red '68 Mustang

It may seem extremely old-fashioned to have a button box, but have one I do. Both of my grandmothers and my Mom had them, too. When Dad's mother lived with us, I enjoyed spending time with her going through her button collection. Many were from clothes she had sewn for herself and her children. She even had a wad of shoe buttons! [I have saved shoe ornaments from my all-time favorite shoes: Papagallos.] Frugality and limited availability made collecting buttons important when my grandmothers and Mom were young women. In their era, if a button came off a shirt, it was quickly stitched back on. If the wearer couldn't find the button, a replacement could be found in the button box. During the Great Depression, people learned to value and care for what they had. Losing a button was no excuse to buy a new shirt. Nor was a frayed collar on a gentleman's dress shirt reason to add it to the rag bag. My late, dear friend, Thelma used to carefully remove her husband's frayed shirt collars, turn them inside out and re-attach them. A little starch and the shirt was almost as good as new! My button box holds mementos of my youth when I used to make some of my clothes. Two silver-toned dome buttons with paste diamonds remind me of a fraternity dance in college. I bought my dress: an a-line, hot pink mini with these gaudy buttons running from the neck to the waist. I had silver square-toed shoes to go with it! My date was a sweetheart whose grin when he saw me made me feel so pretty. He was shaking when he put a corsage on my wrist. That was a good night. Tiny round, black buttons conjure up memories of a date for dinner and a play at Mechanic's Theater in Baltimore during the early 70s. I sweated bullets for three days and nights sewing what I thought was a really cool black and white striped satiny dress. The dress closed with twenty buttons and fabric loops down the front. Bad choice. The cool little round buttons kept popping out of the loops all night! It's funny how little things like buttons can bring back memories! I'll admit that the older I get the more I want to remember the good ole days. As I've aged, I've lost some of the goofiness and spontaneity of my youth. Those were fun and exciting times, but I'm a different person now. I enjoy watching kids doing so many of the same things I did at their age. They, on the other hand, just see me as a plump, graying woman. It would never occur to them that: >> In a mini-dress and heels, I'd climbed over fences and walls in Georgetown during a walk to the Zoo following a beer-infused lunch with friends in the Palisades or; >> I'd driven my Dad's '68 Mustang at 60+ mph along hilly, dark and curving Persimmon Tree Road in Potomac -- high on Acapulco Gold -- before the area was developed and grew so many stop signs! Oh yeah; I did some truly dumb-ass stuff as a young adult. Thankfully I no longer need the rush from endangering my life or testing my capacity for alcohol or weed. There really isn't anything new under the sun. Binge drinking and drugging have always been around and considered a sort of "right of passage." I know how lucky I am to have survived.

How To Survive A Jerk

When a nasty person tries to make me feel insignificant or bad about myself, I don't "think about my favorite things." I mentally place that person in the following context: Picture an old, ripe, running shoe. The shoelace is dirty and frayed, the top is scuffed and misshapen from molding itself to the wearer's calloused, bunioned, gnarly-toe-nailed foot. The sole of the shoe is worn unevenly and nearly smooth. The remaining, shallow crevasses are filled with gunk and dirt from hanging out in grungy garages, dog parks and fishing boats. A piece of ABC gum is firmly entrenched in what's left of the heel. It's been there for years, gathering germs, bacteria and all sorts of dastardly debris. Embedded in that dried, hardened glob of gum is the aforementioned nasty person. This is her/his inescapable universe and she/he doesn't realize it.

Pity usually sets in at this point.

Our Balcony Garden Today

Spouse and I love the smell of marigolds, so we always plant one window box with them. The other two are usually one of my favorites: petunias. This year we spent more time than usual making our selections which may explain why a pidgeon had time to crap on my shoulder. . .*sigh* Not sure what this stuff is called, but we both liked it's fur.

Note the little blue clusters in the centers of these deep fuschia petunias.

Godspeed, Victoria

The best manager I ever had died Thursday. She was far too young to have developed Alzheimer's Disease and passed away before her 53rd birthday. Victoria Ellen Reese was as brilliant as she was beautiful. She never brought it up and seemed almost embarrassed to have been selected Miss Atlanta in the Miss America pageant circuit. She was gracious and at the same time gutsy in a way I've never seen before nor since. She was unique. Victoria -- Vicki never suited her -- was born prematurely and had to fight to survive. She grew into a tall, slender, classy woman with a perfect complexion and graceful carriage. If that makes her sound snooty -- HA! She had an earthy sense of humor to match anyone's. She also knew the appropriate time and place to let it out. She took her work as seriously as I took mine. Many evenings, after working hours, a few of us would gather informally with her to discuss what was going on at work and in our private lives. Perhaps this was due to our being women, but it was something we looked forward to. Thinking back now, I wince remembering how often she joked about having Alzheimer's which she pronounced All-himers. We never saw even a hint of what was to come. Could she have known so many years ago? It's always tragic when someone young dies. With Victoria's passing, it's doubly so because she had such a good mind before this pernicious disease stole it. She had a positive impact on many more lives than she perhaps realized. Those of us who loved and admired her are going to have a hard time trying to fill the gap her loss leaves in our lives. Life isn't fair. I believe that events like this remind us to take nothing for granted and to make the most of every day.

A new way of greeting?

I ran into an acqaintance this afternoon. We haven't seen each other in a while, so I looked forward to catching up with him. We exchanged kisses on both cheeks and then he slapped me. For a moment I was stunned then I gently slapped him back. He smiled and said he slaps everyone. My expression, by that point was a grimace trying hard to be a grin. Is this something guys now do? This kind of greeting is new to me and, frankly, I can do without it. I've never had a female friend do it. I'm really stumped. This particular gentleman is usually very gracious and is a product of good breeding. Does the fact that he's a sailor have anything to do with this behavior? Nah . . . I'm from a family of sailors and not one of them has ever greeted me in this manner. Thoughts, anyone?

A Class Trip to Washington, D.C.

President Obama is not naive by any means but he was a little too P.C. in telling a story about his father. Specifically, he said that 60 years ago it might have been difficult for his father to get a meal in a D.C. restaurant. I think he was being polite in making it such a long time ago. In 1961, a sixth grade classmate of mine was humiliated and stung by segregation during our big class trip to Washington. We road a train with about 80 of our classmates from Chicago to Washington to "witness history." At the time, I was totally ignorant that history had yet to be made when it came to equal rights for African-Americans. Living in a cozy, nearly homogeneous, suburban community, it hadn't occurred to me that having a best friend who had African roots was anything extraordinary. Several generations of her family had lived in our home town, far longer than my family had lived there. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't learn about Michelle's dreadful experience until our 40th high school reunion 2 summers ago. The pain of the memory was still evident. As she cogently reminded me, race was a non-issue in our schools at the time. Problems between the races were never discussed, so it made it seem that there were no problems. Now that I think about it, discord of any sort was avoided. Reminds me of that movie, Pleasantville, about a pleasant town with pleasant people living a shades-of-gray pleasant lifestyle. They were ignorant of the outside world until a brother and sister from the future somehow were transported there and introduced them to literature, art, music and (oh my!) sex. Gradually the town and it's people then took on color and the world opened up to them. Please don't misunderstand me. I loved where I grew up, but now I realize mine was a very sheltered existence. Many of us went away to college and learned some hard, ugly lessons about real life. I now regret that I wasn't aware and mature enough in 1961 to recognize the nastiness of some people so that I might have tried to protect my friends. The resilience and resolve of African-Americans is astounding. The Black Pride Movement scared some whites, but it empowered Blacks and helped to bring about necessary change. Michelle earned a Ph.D. in religion and held high office in her denomination. Other African-Americans went on to become gifted educators, doctors, scientists, musicians, authors, athletes and more despite the undeserved stigma attached to their skin color. WE AMERICANS can be proud that we elected as our President an intelligent, motivated and honorable man -- a man of color!

Way off course

I just finished washing two romaine hearts and as I closed up the bag they came in, I saw something black on the counter. For a moment, I thought it was a clump of dirt and nearly swept it into the garbage disposal. Then it seemed to move. Curiosity made me fetch my glasses. Sure enough, it was a bug of some sort, lying on its back. When I gently turned it over, I discovered a sort of lady bug - at least that's what I think it is. And it was ALIVE! Knowing that lady bugs are good bugs, I gently urged it onto a corner of paper towel and carried it out to the table on the balcony. Now if this had been anything but a lady bug, it would quickly have been dispatched! No wait, I lie -- I once found an enormous, bright green grass hopper in a bunch of parsley and sent it on it's way through the kitchen window. Back to the LB who has just fallen or leaped off the table and is stumbling through our indoor outdoor carpet -- she must be wondering just where the hell she is. Imagine it: One minute your happily nibbling on aphids in a nice, warm California lettuce field when all of a sudden your dinner table is cut out of the ground, tossed into a truck, then washed and crammed into a plastic bag with two more romaine hearts. The bag gets packed into a case, the case onto a pallet and the pallet onto a truck then onto a train for the long ride across country to my grocery store on the opposite coast! I wonder if bugs suffer culture shock . ..

Men Doing Needlework

A young man recently passed away and his obituary stirred memories I thought some might find interesting. This bearded, nearly 7-footer, discovered a love and talent for knitting. Having learned the basics from a friend, he took off running. He became so adept that he taught others knitting tricks and wrote books about the art. Roosevelt "Rosie" Greer was a bear of a football player for the L.A. Rams in the 60s. He took up needlework as a hobby to help him relax after games. He also became an actor and entertainer. Talk show hosts light-heartedly teased him about his needlepoint hobby, but his artistic talent was also acknowledged. During the 1970s, the organization I worked for implemented an anti-crime campaign. It kicked-off with a national workshop here in D.C. An injury forced Rosie to retire from football by then and, among his many interests, he became a crime fighter. He also agreed to be a special guest at the workshop. A co-worker and I were asked to greet Rosie when he arrived. At well over six feet and nearly that in circumference, we easily spotted him. He was wearing a light blue denim pants suit, tastefully decorated with embroidery, front and back. He gave both of us bear hugs -- my arms could only reach his sides. When a photographer asked to take our picture, we women stood at his sides. His arms were draped over our shoulders and our arms weren't long enough to meet in the middle his back. This guy is HUGE! When I think about him, I have to admit to a silent giggle picturing this giant-of-a-man with hands like hams delicately stitching a pattern with needle and embroidery floss. But then I remember an exhibit Mom and I visited last winter at Ann Marie Gardens in Solomons, Maryland. Woolies were created by 19th century sailors on long sea voyages to help fill the weeks and months at sea. When I first heard the term woolies, I thought it referred to long underwear. It doesn't. Using scraps of yarn, thread and anything else they could scrounge onboard and during shore leave, men wove and stitched elaborate likenesses of their ships and other scenes. My photos cannot come close to illustrating the fine and detailed work in these woolies, but I think you'll get the idea. Click on each picture to see more detail.

Memorial Day 2009

George Mason doesn't seem bummed about all the hundreds of thousands of Harleys in town for Rolling Thunder this weekend. They're making lots of noise and traffic chaos but it's only for a day or two. This is a serious event for vets of several wars. Their bond with each other is clearly evident as they help each other when a bike breaks down or someone gets lost. It's quite a spectacle to see streams of them thundering across the E Street Expressway and down 23rd Street. Spouse and I wave to them from our balcony and many wave back. The weather has been perfect yesterday and today. I just hope the predicted storms hold-off until tonight so they can complete their circuit.

Say WHAT?!

In a full-page, color ad in today's Washington Post -- A section no less -- is an offer:

D.C. Retailers Initiative CELEBRATE Memorial Day with Recession Buster $avings Save up to $50

Following that huge header are cut-out coupons: one to save $25 for purchasing a minimum of 6 (750 ml or larger) bottles of "spirits" [hard liquor]. Next to it is another cut-out coupon to save $25 on the purchase of 6 eight-packs of beer and/or wines (750 ml or larger). Below the coupons are colorful pictures of bottled "spirits". Do we really need/want to encourage alcohol consumption during what should be a sober remembrance of our war dead? I'm not opposed to alcohol, but really! The kicker, however, is that to obtain one's Recession Buster $avings, (limit one per household/organization) the coupons must be completed with full name, address, date of birth and email address with receipt attached and mailed to El Paso, Texas . . .

To wear or not to wear: that is the question.

There seems to be a tempest in a teapot brewing right here in river city! It has to do with the wearing or not wearing of pantyhose. There are good arguments for and against use of this particular garment. But then again it almost seems like a moot point since so many women wear pants/slacks these days. Nevertheless, I feel it's my right and indeed duty to weigh-in with my two-cents-worth. During the dark ages -- during my early teens in the early 60s -- girls could hardly wait to wear stockings or, as our grandmothers called them "hosiery." It was a sign of maturity. Pantyhose had not yet been invented. One way to hold up stockings was with individual garters -- big rubber bands that cut off one's leg circulation or, if they failed, rolled down the leg rolling the stocking with it to just below the knee -- not at all attractive. Another way was by means of a garter belt. This was a weird looking contraption that, oddly enough, some men found arousing. It looked a little like crotchless panties with two strips of elastic hanging down the front and two in the back. Metal clips hung at the ends of the strips and were intended to anchor one's stockings. Doing the back clips required more agility than I ever attained. Oh, and let's not forget about the SEAMS!! Yes, dear boys and girls, our stockings had seams running up the back of the leg from of the heavily knitted heel. Keeping them straight and perpendicular was an unobtainable goal for most of us. We were all thankful when unseamed stockings came out. Still, the garter belt was a problem. The back clips often would let go for no apparent reason necessitating a quick trip to the ladies room. There was yet a third option to hold up one's hosiery -- the girdle. Whoever devised this garment surely hated females. I suppose they were better than early corsets with bones stitched into them. Girdles were more or less rubberized shorts and most uncomfortable. Shape wear is a euphemistic name for the modern version of girdles and other garments that squeeze the breath and joy out of their wearers. Getting back to pantyhose -- I don't think the decision to wear or not to wear them should be decided by anyone but the individual. Free choice is a God-given right, so back off criticizing women for their personal choices! I, for one feel more comfortable and presentable wearing them with a dress. [For those of you who may be wondering -- yes, I wear a slip, too.] I gave up the girdle long ago, but am not ready to abandon pantyhose -- yet. If some women want to wax, exfoliate, and wear baby oil on their legs everyday -- let um! If others want to be hairy or stubbly, so be it! If I want to make scars and spider veins less noticeable, it's my daggum right!!

"The (Ladies) Women's Room"

The author of this book recently died. Marilyn French was labeled a man-hater because of her books and didn't do too much to change any minds about it. The (Ladies) Women's Room came out in 1977. I was a single, working "girl" at that point, still wondering what had happened to the life plan I had anticipated. By then, according to the plan, I should have been married for a few years -- right out of college -- with at least two kids under my belt. My husband would be the sole bread-winner and I would be the faithful full time mom and homemaker. The equal rights movement basically nullified the plan for many in my generation. Rather than accepting the stereotype our mothers had endured, we were now free to chart our own course. We had little guidance to help with this, but books such as Marilyn's gave us the courage to try. I've always been shy. I do not dress provocatively because I don't want to draw attention to myself. However, from the time I was about 15 I have been subjected to catcalls and whistles -- "nice headlights" - "great nokkers" - "ooo baby I'd like to get it on with you" -- you get the picture. It was humiliating and infuriating. Having been raised to be a Lady, I didn't know how to handle it. Marilyn's book gave me the courage to hold my head high and keep walking with dignity. Reverberations of the women's movement are hardly noticeable anymore. Girls and young women have virtually the same opportunities as their male counterparts. Like Women's Suffrage, the Equal Rights Amendment is just something they've read about in history books. The women's liberation movement caused a paradigm shift that has enabled more freedom of choice for both men and women. Fathers are now staying home happily and effectively parenting their children while mothers bring home the bacon. During my childhood, this would have been scandalous. Marilyn French was no Susan B. Anthony but she helped to illustrate the need for women to change the ways we think about our lives and personal goals. Thanks, Marilyn.