Archive for the ‘Musings’ category

“Trains tap into some deep American collective memory.”

May 4, 2013

I always think May is the sweetest month. The gardens have come to life, the days are warm and the air smells of flowers and of grass mowed for the first time. I can hear neighbors working outside on their yards. Winter hibernation is finally over.

Saturday was the best day, a whole day to be outside, to ride my bike or just walk around town to explore. We’d walk the tracks to the old depot. The depot is red brick, has granite window sills on the outside and a neat overhanging roof. It was never open, but we used to peek into the windows. The depot was built in 1895 and was part of the Boston and Maine Railroad. In front of it were a series of tracks which went across the road and down a bit further where they ended. I used to figure that’s where the trains would turn around to begin their journeys back. Across from the depot were a couple of cars just sitting on the outside track. We’d climb the stairs to try to find a way inside but we never did.

Until I was around 8 or 9, there was a freight six days a week and two passenger trains to Boston. A couple of factories were right beside the tracks. The one I can still remember was a tall wooden building painted grey. Around the top painted in black was the name: E.L.Patch. It was a company which made chemicals and pharmaceuticals. I also remember when the trains would cross the road near my grandparents’ house not far from E.L. Patch. I’d hear the bells and run to the front door to see the train pass. There were no gates, just the signal which flashed red, sounded the bells and had a warning waving back and forth. The sound of those bells is one of my favorite train memories.

Years later the depot became a gift shop, and I finally got inside. It had a ticket window with bars like the ones in the movies. I wished I could buy a ticket and board a train to Boston right outside. Now the depot is a credit union, designated a historic building. The tracks are long gone, replaced by a road. I’m thankful for my memories of walking the tracks, of jumping to the side when the train went by and of hoping it would flatten my penny.

“There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love.”

May 3, 2013

It was 10 o’clock when I finally woke up this morning. My room was cold because the window was open so Gracie was curled up right beside me on the left and Fern was curled up on the right. They were pretty cozy. I wasn’t.

The day is dreary with a cloudy sky and a feeling of dampness in the air. The breeze is strong enough to blow even the thick branches. As my coffee was brewing, I checked the feeders through the window and saw two new visitors: wrens. I also saw a woodpecker, the goldfinches eating thistle and a robin eating suet.

Today we have a couple of errands, Gracie and I. It’s time for a new dump sticker then a visit to the dump and finally the pharmacy. It is getting closer to the time when Gracie will come with me to do errands only when I can leave the air conditioner on for her. Luckily, the dump is one of those places.

Days like today were among my favorite days when I was a kid. It was too ugly to play outside so when I’d get home from school I’d put on my coziest clothes, hop into bed, turn on the light and read. I’d lose myself in the pages all afternoon. When I got older, I always carried a pocketbook book with me in case of a spare minute or two. I’d read on the bus or even standing waiting for the bus. I disguised my book and read it in church. Last summer in Ghana for three weeks, I read 12 or 13 books. I had no radio, no TV and no computer, but I had books, and they were more than enough entertainment.

When I became a volunteer, we were given settling in money to buy whatever we needed for our houses. I bought a few dishes, a giant coffee cup, some pots and pans and I bought books, lots of books at the university book store. They were as essential as that coffee cup.

Every Christmas from the time I was really young, first Santa then my mother would give me new books. When I was older, my mother would ask which books I wanted as she was afraid she’d buy ones I’d already read. One year I got Alive, The Story of the Andes Survivors. I started reading it right away and read it all of Christmas Day. My mother told me I was reading it too fast and should save it by reading only a little at a time. That made no sense at all to me. I am a firm believer that you can’t put a good book down, that you are drawn to its pages over everything else. I can remember reading The Stand straight through for days. Sometimes I was far too engrossed to realize I had read the night away then I’d hear the birds greeting the morning and look up and see the first light in the window. I still do that every now and then. I love a book which makes me forget everything but the page I’m on.

“It’s okay to be crazy and scared and brave at the same time!”

May 2, 2013

The day is so beautiful that Gracie just came inside for her morning nap. It’s quite late as the cats are already well into theirs. Fern, of course, grabbed all the morning sunlight streaming through the front door so Maddie is on the afghan. Gracie hit the couch.

Last night around 11:30 I noticed the back sensor lights were on. They were keyed to Gracie when she was younger and around 25-30 pounds so a possum or skunk wouldn’t trigger them. I was curious to know if something was in the yard so I went out to check. I saw nothing, and a few minutes later the lights went out. I had to laugh when I thought about the whole thing. If I were watching me do that in one of those B science fiction movies I love, I’d be sitting on the couch saying what an idiot that character is to go outside like that. Then when a rabid wild beast or a homicidal maniac with an axe or an alien hungry for human flesh got me, the me on the couch would not be surprised. Characters who follow blood trails or weird sounds in the woods always end up dead. The lights being on could have been a tip-off, but I went out anyway. Watching those movies, I’ve always wondered why the blood on the stairs wasn’t enough of a warning to make those characters run as fast as they could in the opposite direction, not upstairs, but I really knew it was one of those suspension of disbelief moments, a necessary plot detail, as no real person would ignore the blood. Because I always get into those movies, I often yell out loud, “Run!” as if I could save the character walking upstairs to his doom. Last night, though, I found out it isn’t only in movies. Even in real life people ignore the warning signs and walk blithely into the possibility of mayhem or impending doom. After my having ventured out to the deck, I’m going to re-evaluate calling those characters idiots. Maybe I’ll use curious or even brave.

The brave woman holding the kitchen knife in her hand followed the blood trail up the stairs.

“In America you can always find a party. In Russia the party always finds you.”

April 30, 2013

Today is downright gorgeous. The warmest day so far. Sunlight fills everything and nothing moves in the still air. Gracie hasn’t come inside yet, not even for her morning nap. Our only errand for today is to go to the vets. I found a hot spot on her fur which needs checking. I also have to vote in the primary for senator to see who will run to replace Kerry. I’m choosing the democratic primary, no surprise there I suspect.

Last we talked, I was in Moscow jumping ship from the tour. My travel partner and I started using the metro. I have never seen more beautiful metro stations in my whole life. Some actually had chandeliers. There wasn’t a single piece of trash nor any graffiti. We had to figure out where we were by using a map which had English translations below the Russian names for the stops. That wasn’t easy. It was like figuring out a code. We shopped a few times in the foreign currency shops, and I bought gifts for my family and some mementos for me, mostly wooden figures. Pins were big back then, and I bought a few of those which I still have framed. To get across large streets in Moscow there are pedestrian tunnels. We didn’t know that at first and started across the street when we heard whistles coming from the police heading our way. They were indignant. We were led to the tunnels and crossed the street through them though I don’t think you can say cross when you’re underneath. I’m not so sure what you’d say. We wandered the city for the last few days stopping in small museums and churches. A few of us decided to buy vodka and have our own little going away from Russia party. The day’s quota had been sold, but one guy led us to the back of a store where they sold us a couple of bottles. When we got back to the hotel, we wanted ice. The woman assigned to sit in the chair on our floor knew no English so we mimed pouring something into a glass, adding ice, drinking it and being cold. She brought us ice.

That last night we had a conversation about famous murders deciding to give our listeners something new. The British guy told us about a severed head found in left luggage. The rest of the conversation ran along the same lines until the British guy mentioned his roommate, an America, and how strange he was. When he left the room, he’d put a magazine a certain way so he could check to see if his bags had been rifled. He only wore two different sets of clothing despite having a huge suitcase. I mentioned I had seen him in one of those tunnels talking to a Russian woman. He had ditched the tour even earlier than we. All of us decided he must be a spy.

The next day we were driven to the airport for our flight to Copenhagen. Customs went through our bags. It was and still is the first time I ever had my bags gone through leaving a country. All of a sudden two soldiers took that American and his suitcase away. We weren’t all that shocked. We had figured something was up with him, but we were worried. We were the only ones who knew what had happened so we decided to stand our ground and not go upstairs to the waiting area until he was with us. Bad guide came over and said get upstairs or we’ll take your tickets away. The Argentinian said we didn’t care. We were rich Americans. Next, two soldiers came, pointed their rifles at us and moved them back and forth from us to the stairs. We talked and decided to go upstairs but we would make another stand there. We did. We were promised that our spy, our word, not theirs, would be on the plane. We waited to see, and he was brought first to the plane accompanied by soldiers. We then boarded.

After we had arrived in Copenhagen, we stopped him for the story. He was a spy of sorts, for the Zionist underground. He was supposed to travel with a partner but the partner got sick. The powers that be decided to let this guy go on his own. That’s how he was caught: being seen talking to Jewish dissidents. His suitcase had contained pairs of jeans which could be used on the black market. He has also brought books in Hebrew. His job was to get the names of those working in the underground in Tbilisi and Moscow. The first part of the trip had been cancelled which was why he was so indignant. The reason he had been taken away was the soldiers found letters which were addressed to Israel and had been given to him to mail. The letters were seized. The guy told us that what was most important, the names of the underground leaders, had not been found. He had written them in tiny letters in some of those books and pamphlets we had been given in Kalinin. They didn’t check Lenin material. We told him he was the worst spy ever as we had figured him for one, but we told him it was kind of exciting to have a spy in our group and to have rifles pointed at us. It made for a great story, the sort you’d expect in Russia or at the start of John Le Carré novel.

Well, that’s my trip to Russia. Thanks for coming along. I haven’t told this story in a long time, and it was fun to remember.

“One does not go to Moscow to get fat.”

April 29, 2013

Today is making me believe that it might really be spring. The sun is out and it’s warm. The sky is a bit cloudy, but that’s a small complaint. I have to go out and about to do a couple of errands then I might just sit on the deck for a while and do nothing but watch the birds and grab a bit of sunlight.

Our last travelog had me arriving in Moscow, a city filled with smoke which our guide couldn’t see. Our bus wasn’t there. None of us were surprised. Since the evil guide had joined us, the tour had taken a turn for the worst. We waited over an hour before the bus arrived to take us to the hotel which was a bit out from the center of Moscow. The next morning the guide and a bus met us for our first day of touring. We went to a museum about the revolution. My favorite exhibit of all time was in that museum. In a small class case were two chunks of break: one tiny and one very much larger. The tiny bread was a portion from the time of the Tsar and the large chunk was from the time of Lenin. Oh the plenty the revolution brought! That day we also went to Lenin’s tomb on Red Square. No hand-holding the guide told the Italian married couple. The tomb was the coolest place in all of Moscow which was so hot that the Italians keep fanning themselves and saying caldo, caldo. We had found out the smoke came from the peat fields which had begun to smolder spontaneously from the heat. It was the hottest summer in a 100 years. I would have stayed in that tomb longer if I could have. Lenin looked waxed to me, a product of Madame Tussaud. One of our group started to whisper and was shushed immediately. Lenin’s tomb was a holy place. The next stop was the wonderful State Historical Museum facing Red Square. We got booties to put over our shoes. I figured it was a cheap way to keep the floors shiny. The museum housed many artifacts from the days of the Tsar including Fabergé eggs. There was a carriage that had belonged to Catherine the Great which was pulled by a large stuffed horse. The Frenchman wanted to know if that was the fateful horse (I’ll let you do the searching for this one). The guide ignored him, good move on her part. We also went to the church of the Assumption, a beautiful golden onion domed church. That’s where I scared the crowd of Muscovites. All over the city were Вода́ machines, pronounce vah-DAH, and meaning water. A small glass sat on one side, and you pushed down to wash it then inserted a couple of coins, köpeks, then moved the glass under the spout. You paid one for plain or two for colored water. I didn’t get either. The American in my tour who was standing next to me said to tap the glass front of the machine, like pounding a coffee machine that didn’t work. I did that. Nothing. I did it again. Nothing. The third time I did it I broke the glass with my hand. The crowd made such a sound of horror you’d think I kicked a grandmother a few times when she was down. The side of my hand was bleeding and had shards of glass stuck in the cut. The Argentina offered to help. He said he did cleaning of cuts and other wounds for himself when he was on the pampas. His arms were filled with scars. I politely declined. The American said he was a medical student and he’d do it. That man patiently took every piece of glass out of my hand using tweezers then took a band-aid and covered the wound. We did that a distance away from the broken machine. I kept looking for police. Later I thought about that machine and realized that the glass, a nice glass, just sat there not at all connected and was never stolen. By the reaction of the crowd to my mishap, I guessed why.

The tour continued. We visited St. Basil’s Cathedral and GUM Department Store, the largest in the world according to nasty guide. I bought a few scarves as souvenirs for people. We were done for the day and dropped off at our hotel. Dinner there was the worst so we took a streetcar into the city. The streetcars were on the honor system: put money in the slot and take a ticket. We put in dimes or quarters and I threw in some Finnish money and took my ticket. We took that streetcar often and never failed to put in money. Good thing too as a couple of times the streetcar was stopped, police got on and checked to see that everyone had a ticket.

One night we went into the city and had dinner in the Hotel Metropol, the grand dame of hotels. It was beautiful, majestic, ornate and one of my favorite stops in all of Moscow. We finished that evening by stopping at one of the foreign currency bars and having a nightcap before the trip back to our dismal hotel. At least the bed was comfortable and the bread with breakfast was fresh.

The last of my trip will be tomorrow, and I guarantee some excitement. That next day after dinner in the Metropol, we started, as did many of my travel mates, taking the tour bus into the city then ditching the tour and taking off on our own. That was the best part.

“One does not go to Moscow to get fat.”

April 29, 2013

Today is making me believe that it might really be spring. The sun is out and it’s warm. The sky is a bit cloudy, but that’s a small complaint. I have to go out and about to do a couple of errands then I might just sit on the deck for a while and do nothing but watch the birds and grab a bit of sunlight.

Our last travelog had me arriving in Moscow, a city filled with smoke which our guide couldn’t see. Our bus wasn’t there. None of us were surprised. Since the evil guide had joined us, the tour had taken a turn for the worst. We waited over an hour before the bus arrived to take us to the hotel which was a bit out from the center of Moscow. The next morning the guide and a bus met us for our first day of touring. We went to a museum about the revolution. My favorite exhibit of all time was in that museum. In a small class case were two chunks of break: one tiny and one very much larger. The tiny bread was a portion from the time of the Tsar and the large chunk was from the time of Lenin. Oh the plenty the revolution brought! That day we also went to Lenin’s tomb on Red Square. No hand-holding the guide told the Italian married couple. The tomb was the coolest place in all of Moscow which was so hot that the Italians keep fanning themselves and saying caldo, caldo. We had found out the smoke came from the peat fields which had begun to smolder spontaneously from the heat. It was the hottest summer in a 100 years. I would have stayed in that tomb longer if I could have. Lenin looked waxed to me, a product of Madame Tussaud. One of our group started to whisper and was shushed immediately. Lenin’s tomb was a holy place. The next stop was the wonderful State Historical Museum facing Red Square. We got booties to put over our shoes. I figured it was a cheap way to keep the floors shiny. The museum housed many artifacts from the days of the Tsar including Fabergé eggs. There was a carriage that had belonged to Catherine the Great which was pulled by a large stuffed horse. The Frenchman wanted to know if that was the fateful horse (I’ll let you do the searching for this one). The guide ignored him, good move on her part. We also went to the church of the Assumption, a beautiful golden onion domed church. That’s where I scared the crowd of Muscovites. All over the city were Вода́ machines, pronounce vah-DAH, and meaning water. A small glass sat on one side, and you pushed down to wash it then inserted a couple of coins, köpeks, then moved the glass under the spout. You paid one for plain or two for colored water. I didn’t get either. The American in my tour who was standing next to me said to tap the glass front of the machine, like pounding a coffee machine that didn’t work. I did that. Nothing. I did it again. Nothing. The third time I did it I broke the glass with my hand. The crowd made such a sound of horror you’d think I kicked a grandmother a few times when she was down. The side of my hand was bleeding and had shards of glass stuck in the cut. The Argentina offered to help. He said he did cleaning of cuts and other wounds for himself when he was on the pampas. His arms were filled with scars. I politely declined. The American said he was a medical student and he’d do it. That man patiently took every piece of glass out of my hand using tweezers then took a band-aid and covered the wound. We did that a distance away from the broken machine. I kept looking for police. Later I thought about that machine and realized that the glass, a nice glass, just sat there not at all connected and was never stolen. By the reaction of the crowd to my mishap, I guessed why.

The tour continued. We visited St. Basil’s Cathedral and GUM Department Store, the largest in the world according to nasty guide. I bought a few scarves as souvenirs for people. We were done for the day and dropped off at our hotel. Dinner there was the worst so we took a streetcar into the city. The streetcars were on the honor system: put money in the slot and take a ticket. We put in dimes or quarters and I threw in some Finnish money and took my ticket. We took that streetcar often and never failed to put in money. Good thing too as a couple of times the streetcar was stopped, police got on and checked to see that everyone had a ticket.

One night we went into the city and had dinner in the Hotel Metropol, the grand dame of hotels. It was beautiful, majestic, ornate and one of my favorite stops in all of Moscow. We finished that evening by stopping at one of the foreign currency bars and having a nightcap before the trip back to our dismal hotel. At least the bed was comfortable and the bread with breakfast was fresh.

The last of my trip will be tomorrow, and I guarantee some excitement. That next day after dinner in the Metropol, we started, as did many of my travel mates, taking the tour bus into the city then ditching the tour and taking off on our own. That was the best part.

“[Leningrad] sits astride the Neva, frozen in time, a haunting mélange of pale hues, glorious façades and teeming ghosts.”

April 28, 2013

Today is another sunny but chilly day. Last night was downright cold. I would never guess we are so close to the beginning of May without a calendar in front of me. Fern has the right idea: stay inside nice and warm and stretch in the sun on the floor. My breakfast place filled quickly and many were golfers. Four men in polo shirts in a single booth were a dead giveaway. I guess I’ll take that as one sign of spring.

The saga continues.

We arrived in Leningrad and went to the hotel where we were to meet the rest of the tour group which had flown in from  Copenhagen. We went to the desk to check in. The woman at the counter wanted our passports. I was okay with that until she said she’d have to keep them while we stayed there. I panicked. Too many movies had me thinking I’d be stopped by the KGB who’d want identification, and I would have none. They’d haul me off to prison and I’d be gone for ever. My family would call the embassy, but the Russians would deny any knowledge of my whereabouts. I said no, an emphatic no. She then said I couldn’t check in at any hotel. I folded quickly. I wanted a bed.

The first guide we had was wonderful. She was friendly, knowledgeable and courteous. My tour group was multi-national: 4 Americans, a couple from Italy who didn’t speak English, some Argentinians, a couple of guys from France and a couple more from England. We dutifully followed Natasha (I know, really?) from sight to sight. We saw the winter palace of the Tsar, the Peter and Paul Fortress and cathedral, the Hermitage ( one of my favorite places), Peterhof and we also took a ride down the Neva River. We were told no one in Russia is ever unemployed. That made sense when you saw that each room in the Hermitage had its own woman sitting in a chair keeping an eye on everything while other women sat in other chairs at the bottom of escalators in the metro. I have no idea what they were supposed to do. We noticed no one ever smiled. Once we bought an ice cream and a woman smiled at us, and the guy from Argentina said she must be a foreigner.

My friend and I and one other American were supposed to go to Tbilisi, but we were told that trip had been cancelled, and we were going to Kalinin instead. We were furious but stuck. At the tour office, we complained and also wanted a refund as the other trip had been more expensive. We were told they knew about us in Moscow. I replied that the tsar knew about the Bolsheviks and look what happened anyway.

The good guide left us at the train station in Leningrad, and the worst guide ever took us over for the rest of the trip. We rode the train together to Kalinin. At one point I asked the guide what river we were passing, and she said she didn’t know. The Frenchman said there were trains in France like the one we were on but they were in museums. The tour group had become quite irreverent.

Kalinin was sheer misery. The two tour stops were a printing plant and a dentistry school. At the plant we watched machines print. That was it. We were given literature about Lenin as souvenirs when we were leaving: just what we all wanted. At the dentistry school we walked  through rooms filled with chairs which had people sitting in them with their mouths opened while their teeth were being fixed. It is number one as the worst tour stop ever, including every trip I’ve ever taken. The one good think about Kalinin was it is on the Volga River. We walked along it and hummed the Volga Boatman.

Next, we took the train to Moscow. When we got off the train, we saw that whole city was filled with thick smoke. We asked the guide why there was so much smoke. She said there was none.

“It is from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia.”

April 27, 2013

Today is another get out of the house and enjoy the weather day. It is a bit chilly but the sun is too wonderful to waste. Luckily, I have a few errands so I’ll venture out a bit later. For once Gracie is still outside enjoying the day. Usually she’s napping about now.

I mentioned that I had been to Russia in the 1970’s, and Birgit was curious about my trip given how long ago it was and how closed the country was especially to foreigners. She asked if I had ever told the story and I hadn’t. Today I will.

It was the summer of 1972. I flew from Boston to New York and boarded a flight which stopped in Denmark, Sweden and Finland, my stop. I was a bit unnerved when what had been a full plane came down to about 10 people for Finland. My friend and I had chosen Finland because we planned to book our Russian trip from there as it seemed easier and quicker than doing it from here. We stayed at a hostel in Helsinki which had been residences for the Olympic athletes in the 1952 summer Olympics. It was kind of neat to stay there. As soon as we could, we went to a travel agent and booked a trip by train to Leningrad where we would meet the tour then we’d go to Moscow and Tbilisi. It would take nearly a week for the visas so we left our passports and decided to travel north by train. As it was an overnight train we booked couchettes which really just meant 3 bunks on each wall of the compartment. Our train-mate was Finnish and spoke no English. Swedish is the second language in Finland. I never what I was eating: I just pointed. On the train she and I carried on a conversation by passing my Finnish-English dictionary back and forth. It was kind of fun and she laughed a lot. In the morning we arrived at Rovaniemi, the capital of Finnish Lapland. From there we took a bus to Lake Inari, north of the Arctic Circle, and we stayed at a hotel on the banks of the lake. I had reindeer for dinner. People always ask me how it tasted, and I answer delicious, but I tell them I found the blinking red nose a distraction. On the TV in the hotel was Eagleton stepping down from running with McGovern. I had a blue pin with white letters on my backpack: it said McGovern and Eagleton. I left it there the whole trip. I still have it. Reindeer were herded down the street, fir trees were all along the lakeside and it was midnight sun time. We stood outside where the sun hung down near the horizon and took pictures of ourselves late at night. It was absolutely beautiful.

When we returned to Helsinki, we toured the city. That just meant taking a certain streetcar with a loud-speaker system which pointed out the historic places and other places of interest for tourists. One of my favorite stops was the outdoor market. There were tables filled with vegetables and one had the largest strawberries I’d ever seen. I bought some and munched as I walked. Boats were moored and from them people sold fish. I remember the colors of the market. The umbrellas were mostly red, clothes were a variety of bright colors and the fruits and vegetables popped with color. In the late afternoon I walked where the market had been, and there wasn’t a single piece of paper or a slice of errant fruit. It was immaculate. We shopped at the Marimekko store, and I bought a red bag. It’s the same bag I still use when I travel; it’s a bit worse for wear, but I wouldn’t travel without it.

We picked up our passports and the next day we boarded our car to Leningrad. It was a single car connected to the Finnish train. When we got to the border, the car was disconnected then reconnected to a Russian train. There were three passengers: my friend with whom I was traveling and an African studying in Russia. The border guards came on the train, checked our passports and went through our bags. They seized a tomato from me and rifled through all my books. They obviously didn’t speak English as I was reading East of Eden at the time. The only crew member on that train was a woman, a train stewardess, who would come to us periodically and say,”Tea?” I drank glasses and glasses of strong Russian tea. I don’t remember how long the train ride was. I remember we arrived at the station in Leningrad, said good-bye to our car mate and went looking for a taxi to take us to our hotel. There were two lines, one short and one hugely long. We got in the short line and got screamed at in Russian by just about everyone. Someone was nice enough to tell us in English that we were in the line for women with children. We grabbed our backpacks and sheepishly walked to the end of the hugely long line, now longer by two people.

That’s it for today. I don’t ever remember writing as much, and the story has barely begun. I’ll continue the saga tomorrow.

” Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands, and goes to work”

April 26, 2013

What a beautiful day it is with deep blue skies and warm sun. Today is spring in all its glory. When Gracie comes in from the yard, her fur is warm to the touch. She sleeps in the sun in the back of the yard on the tall grass. It is her morning perch on glorious days like today. Fern is asleep in the sun streaming through the front door and Maddie, also by the door, grabs the very small bit of sun Fern doesn’t use. Today is animal day as I need to shop at Agway for all of them: cat food, litter, dry and canned dog food, dog and cat treats and thistle and suet for the birds. I’ll need a small loan to pay for all of it. As for me, I’m thinking of that bacon, cheddar and avocado sandwich I had last week. That will be my treat.

Last night was trivia night, and we didn’t win. We weren’t even close. One of the questions was what year Dakota Fanning was born. A teammate said she’d never even heard of her. I gave a bit of background and said she was 19. We subtracted that from 2013 and guessed 1994. I was right. I have no idea why I knew that answer. That will always remain one of life’s mysteries. Another question asked for the last state admitted to the union before Alaska and Hawaii. I knew it was Arizona, and I even knew it was in 1912. Sometimes I get to the kitchen and forget why I’m there, but I don’t forget Dakota Fanning’s age. Life is strange sometimes.

Say it, don’t spray it is a put-down from my childhood. The other day it popped into my head from who knows which part of my memory drawers, but it got me thinking about all those put-down we used which have now disappeared. They were really innocent as were we, but they did the job. Ask too many questions and one of us would want to know if you were writing a book. To call someone a closet case back then had nothing to do with sexual identity. Don’t have a cow is a favorite of mine. It really makes no sense, but we all understood its meaning. Sometimes we’d call a kid a spaz. I think that’s what I still am. Odd ball is another. Hold your fist in front of someone’s face and offer him a knuckle sandwich. The threat was generally declined. Being accused of having cooties was about the worst. Once that started, it became a refrain, a schoolyard taunt.

This morning my sister said, “You owe me a coke,” because we both had said the same thing at the same time, and she was quicker in throwing out the coke line. That and spitting were the start of this whole musing.

When was the last time you called dibs?

See you later alligator!

“You must pursue this investigation of Watergate even if it leads to the president. I’m innocent. You’ve got to believe I’m innocent. If you don’t, take my job.”

April 25, 2013

Yesterday was a stay home and do stuff day. All the chores I’ve been putting off got done. When I had finished, I wanted the feat extolled, but alas and alack, I celebrated alone.

Last night I went upstairs at ten, read until 11:30 and slept until 9. It was the sleep of the dead, a check with a mirror to see if she’s alive sort of sleep. Fern and Gracie were my companions, and they slept right in with me. They’re even back to sleep now. Only Maddie and I are awake.

The morning is cloudy. The paper said 61˚ and sunny to partly sunny for today’s weather. I’m not optimistic. Yesterday it was cloudy the whole day. I went outside and filled the feeders, including the suet feeders. Luckily it was fairly warm though damp from all the rain. Today the birds are enjoying a good breakfast. I watched while the coffee was dripping. The male goldfinches are beautiful. They hang onto the new suet feeders, and I have the best view from the kitchen window. A flicker dropped by, and my usuals are in and out. I noticed the deck needs a good cleaning. The birds are not circumspect as to where they leave their droppings. The rail is dappled.

Last week, I watched “All the President’s Men Revisited,” and I was riveted. I remember the summer when the Watergate hearings held my attention every day. I was wan and pale from staying inside watching TV. I read an article the other day which said that the memory of Watergate is fading. “For measuring distance, we in 2013 are now farther away from the events portrayed in “All the President’s Men” than the film “Bonnie and Clyde” was from the real Bonnie and Clyde.” That floored me. I remember everything. My favorite memory is when the committee first heard of the tapes. It was a wow moment for them and for me. I remember John Dean’s wife sitting behind him every day as he testified and helped unravel a presidency. The Saturday Night Massacre made Richardson and Ruckelshaus heroes to me.

I remember the Woodward book and the movie which is still one of my all time favorites. The scene at the Library Of Congress still awes me. Woodward and Bernstein are at a table going files that list all the books the White House had requested. The camera starts to rise until the men are just specks. I also love the noise of the typewriters and the phones in the Washington Post newsroom. The movie is a whodunit, and though I already knew the answer, I watched wide-eyed.

“All the President’s Men Revisited” was on Discovery and was one of the quickest two hours of television that I can remember. Toward the end of the program Ben Stein, who is shown in footage as a young staffer at Nixon’s farewell to his staff, said, “It’s really sad. I don’t think any president has been more persecuted than Nixon. I think he was a saint.” Then he broke down and cried. My first reaction was to think how ridiculous to cry over Nixon and call him a saint. We all know what he did. Later I was thinking about Stein and decided I was wrong to ridicule. Those are his memories, and he has every right to cry.