Leaving on a Jet Plane

A year ago, Ed and I began entertaining the possibility of traveling to the Galapagos Islands, a place that has been on my bucket list for years, especially since my good friends Matthew and Jerry made that trip ten years ago. We spent months researching tours, boats, schedules, weather, health concerns, altitudes, and, of course, wildlife. We got vaccinations. We watched youtube videos and read several books, from Kurt Vonnegut's Galapagos to Jonathan Weiner's Pulitzer Prize-winning The Beak of the Finch. We've learned a thing or two about shifting tectonic plates, the diversity of beak size in the thirteen species of Darwin's finches, the sad story of Lonesome George (a Pinta Island tortoise who was the last known individual of his species and considered the rarest creature in the world until his death in 2012), the eradication of goats and donkeys on the islands, and the Ecuadorian political chaos that threatens the fragile archipelago.

Our research led us to our choice of tour company, a decision based largely on the number of islands included as well as the opportunity to travel on a small ship of only 40 guests. When we discovered that this tour could also include a visit to Peru and the incredible Machu Picchu, we decided why not? Might as well cross two things off the bucket list. And so, last June, we took a deep breath and booked this dream adventure. And by this time tomorrow, we will be on our way, flying from Miami to Lima. To say we are excited would be an understatement.

Other than a jet plane, our modes of transportation will include five short flights between cities and the islands, six nights on the expedition cruise ship Isabella II, short journeys by panga, kayak, glass-bottom boat, and snorkel fins. We are especially looking forward to our journey to Machu Picchu aboard the Hiram Bingham, considered one of the ten most scenic train rides in the world.

Other than seeing the ancient Incan ruins of Machu Picchu, our time in Peru will allow us to explore the cities of Lima and Cusco, high in the Andean mountains. We'll visit the Maras salt fields, the Ollantaytambo ruins in the Sacred Valley of the Incas, and farms that are home to Peruvian Paso horses and alpacas. Our lodging includes a sanctuary lodge and a 16th century monastery. We will be toasting our adventures with pisco cocktails (a uniquely Peruvian brandy) and sampling Cacao Republic chocolates, the best in Latin America.

In the Enchanted Islands that we will visit (San Cristobal, Genovesa, Santiago, Isabella, Fernandina, and Rabida), we'll hope to see not only Darwin's finches, but also frigate birds, storm petrels, flightless cormorants, and all three varieties of boobies: Nazca, red-footed, and blue-footed. I am especially looking forward to sighting the only penguins found north of the equator. And aside from the famous tortoises of the Galapagos, we'll be amazed by the fur seals, marine iguanas, sea stars, sea anemones, and Sally Lightfoot crabs. Yes, Ed's photography skills will likely be responsible for hundreds of pictures, and I will share the best of them with you as soon as I can.

I am well aware how fortunate I am to be able to embark on this journey. I am grateful beyond words. I'll let Mark Twain inspire your own bucket lists:

Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones that you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

Tempeh, Bohemian Rhapsody, and The Beak of the Finch

Provocative title, right? Random happenings, maybe? Or things I'm trying to wrap my head around? Wait for it.

Grocery shopping with my daughter at Trader Joe's when she visited a week and a half ago resulted in unfamiliar things in my cart. Jenna and I are both vegetarians (although I eat fish and she does not), but being a millennial, she is much more up on the trendiest of consumables. Organic Pomegranate Hibiscus Kombucha and organic tempeh were still in my refrigerator after she left, so what am I do do? Throw them out? No, wastefulness is not an attribute of mine. The kombucha is good until July, so no worries. But I thought that the highly-touted tempeh, a rich source of protein, might inspire a healthy meal for me. Google it I did. And I found a recipe for Pad Thai with Tempeh. Now, I really like Pad Thai, so this seemed a good choice. And I had (almost) all the ingredients! I got to work, chopping the veggies, baking the marinated tempeh, cooking the Pad Thai rice noodles, whisking the sauce, crushing the peanuts. I don't own a wok, but a big old frying pan will do, right? Man, this is a lot of work! But the finished product will be worth it, right?

Wrong. It really wasn't very good. Not garbage-worthy, but maybe I can salvage the veggies?

This past weekend, my guy and I were among the last people on the planet to go see Bohemian Rhapsody. We'd been hoping that it would be back in IMAX at the cineplex that we go to, but Shazam! seems to own that now. So we decided we should see Bohemian Rhapsody in standard format before it disappears. Now, I was never a big Queen fan, but this movie was wonderful! We were still high on it when we got back home, and then I remembered that I have the 4-disc DVD set of the 1985 Live Aid concert, the same concert that closed out the movie. So we watched the first two discs until we got to see Queen's performance. Wow! The movie held true to the reality of that set! Amazing! I am still enjoying the buzz from watching both the movie and the concert.

And speaking of buzzes:

One week from today, my guy and I will be off to South America for a couple of weeks. This is a bucket list trip: Machu Picchu and the Galapagos Islands. We booked it last spring, and here it is already! During the several months of waiting for it, we've been reading as much as we can about the places we will visit. Perhaps the most difficult but important book that we've read is The Beak of the Finch by Jonathan Weiner. We now have an understanding of what Darwin "discovered" when he sailed on the HMS Beagle from 1831 to 1836, spending historic time in the Galapagos Islands. We are also aware of how much he didn't discover. But he inspired a multitude of scientists to pick up where he left off. In reading The Beak of the Finch, we could not help but be gobsmacked at the fact that there is still an anti-evolution contingent among us. Evolution is occurring before our very eyes!

"The Creation is never over. It had a beginning but it has no ending. Creation is always busy making new scenes, new things, and new Worlds."  ~ Immanuel Kant

So how do I tie these three disparate topics together?

Here's a definition of tempeh: " . . . made by a natural culturing and controlled process that binds soybeans into a cake form."

Here's a possible definition of Freddie Mercury: " . . . made by a natural culturing and acceptance process that binds humans into whatever form nature intended for them."

And maybe a definition of the beak of the finch: " . . . made by a natural culturing and uncontrolled evolutionary process that alters creatures into survival form."

Or maybe they're just random happenings in my evolutionary world.

On the Oranges of Speeches

If you've been hiding under a watermelon lately, you may have missed the Orange Man's latest display of dementia. Yesterday, in discussing the Mueller Report while meeting with Jens Stoltenberg, Secretary General of NATO, our elderberry leader mangled the word "origins," repeatedly saying "oranges." And I quote, "The Mueller Report, I wish, covered the oranges of the investigation." He said it not once, not twice, but at least three times. He did seem to realize that something was wrong, as he offered the word "beginnings" as if to clarify. But no matter how many times he tried to conquer that pesky word "origins," it kept coming out "oranges."

Once I stopped smacking myself on the coconut, I made a fruitful effort to predict the White House take on this covfefe. Will Sarah Huckleberry Sanders be able to spin this into some kind of detente intended to make peace with those "Mexican countries" that have so troubled us at the border? Are they no longer banana republics? Is this a case of "You can squeeze my oranges if I can peel your banana?" (Insert groan here.) I wonder if Tim Apple feels like yesterday's news now? Well, I guess that's neither here nor there. You know, apples and oranges.

I suppose we're getting used to the King Kumquat's gaffes. Late-night comedians don't have to work very hard these days. Earlier this month, while going on a two-hour-plus rant at the CPAC conference, NotMyPresident provided enough juice for a month of comedy sketches. It's so easy. I'm imagining him at Lar-a-Mango, calling out to his wife Melon in the adjoining bedroom: "Darling, darling, is the wind blowing today? I'd like to watch television, darling. Bring me some Hannity. Please, please, with a cherry on top?"

And in yesterday's display of mental derangement, the Confused One misstated his own oranges origins. He claimed, not for the first time, that his father was born in Germany. He wasn't. Fred Trump was born in the Bronx in 1905. Fred Trump's son, the man who stole the office of President of the United States, in part through Birtherism, lies about his own father's place of birth? Isn't it ironic?

But I digress. I do not like making light of dementia. Those of us who have lost a loved one to this disease know the heartbreak of watching that descent into confusion and frustration. But there's a big difference between our loved ones and the Tangerine Tyrant. Notably, our loved ones were not in charge of the nuclear codes.

The USDA database lists the avocado as a vegetable, but according to those who grow them, the avocado is a fruit. Either way, avocado toast is the new PB&J. But here's something to scare the guanabana out of you: if the Clementine-in-Chief shuts down the border with Mexico (as he has threatened to do), we will suffer an avocado shortage within three weeks. Now maybe you don't give a fig about that, but there will be a lot of crab apples threatening to burn their Make America Grape Again hats over this. This could mean war. We'll see how the fruit flies.

And now, orange you glad this post is over?

Half a Baby Bunny

I'm going to cheat now. For whatever reason, my thoughts today turned to an event and a subsequent  post from a blog I wrote in 2014. That year, I challenged myself to fall in love with something every day and write about it. And I did. Every damn day. For a year. The blog was called "Falling on Purpose."

One of the things I love about writing is that when you begin to write something, you don't necessarily know where the writing will lead you. That was true in this case. I decided to fall in love with half a dead bunny. I wasn't sure why. But as I continued trying to sort it out through writing, I discovered something figurative lurking behind the obvious. And I don't know why this post came to mind today, but it seemed worth sharing with you. So here it is:

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Half a Baby Bunny

Let me take you back to my first post and the Billy Collins poem that was my inspiration.  

In the very first stanza, Collins falls in love:

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

Let me remind you, too, of my June 15 post, in which my killer cat took down a pesky chipmunk.  I could hardly be angry with her for her murderous instincts, as I was the one who commissioned her to do so.  But I was able, nonetheless, to forgive the tiny rodent for the damage done in my garden, and to fall in love 

with him.

But this time, Cassie the Killer may have gone too far.  Last night, I woke to that terrible sound 

of crunching bones, and figured that Cassie had caught another mouse.  When she devours 

her prey, she usually cleans her plate except for the carefully removed stomach and 

maybe the head, so I felt no need to get up in the middle of the night to clean up.  Imagine my 

surprise (and my scream) this morning when I stepped into the living room to find the back half 

of a baby bunny on the floor.  Not a pretty sight.  (I am sparing you a picture.)  The stomach 

had been removed, but there was blood, and (forgive me for being graphic here) 

the poor little thing must have pooped his pants in fear, because there was that, too, 

minus the pants.  And, of course, there was the whole back end of the bunny, little legs and tail.

I admit, I was pissed at the cat.  Pissed at her for killing a baby bunny and pissed at her for

leaving me her mess to clean up.  But you remember that my mission with this blog is to fall 

in love, not fall in hate.  So I forgave the cat again, and considered falling in love with the 

half a bunny.

The question is, "Which half?"  Did I fall in love with the furry back end, the tiny legs, the fluffy tail, 

the isolated tummy, the blood and the poop?  Or did I fall in love with the half that disappeared?  

The half that was settling in my cat's belly and lulling her into a morning nap?

Do we fall in love with what is present or what is missing?  The seen or the unseen?  The known 

or the unknown?  The reality or the memory?

I'll let you think that one over and decide for yourself.

Where the Hell Have I Been?

I seriously didn't realize that it's been two weeks since my last post. But happily, my absence is not because of anything bad that happened. Quite the opposite. I've had company, begun some projects, finished a couple of novels, visited the beach, and procured a Florida Medical Marijuana Card. It's all good.

Life at this age is funky. There are just so many things one can let go of. I've been thinking a lot about how brainwashed we can all be when we are young. Take that rule that one must never wear white after Labor Day or before Palm Sunday or Easter or Memorial Day or whenever the hell it was that the fashion police said it's okay now. (Is this just a law in the Northeast?) I lived by that rule most of my life . . . until I finally stopped and realized what a stupid friggin' rule it is. Even though my winters in Florida make this a non-issue, I still call up that rule whenever I dare to wear a pair of white jeans in the off-season. I feel downright defiant when I don those jeans and go out in public, damnit!

So what other rules can and should be broken? I've been working really hard at not saying, "Bless you!" (or god forbid, "God bless you!") when someone sneezes. It's a hard rule to break! I know, I know, its origins lie in the idea that, during the bubonic plague in Europe, Pope Gregory suggested that saying "God bless you" when someone sneezed would protect that person from getting the plague. Last time I checked, there was no bubonic plague going on in my neighborhood, so why do we continue? We don't say "God bless you" when someone coughs or farts or otherwise expels some holy spirit into the atmosphere, do we? Please don't misunderstand . . . if you want to God bless everyone who sneezes, go right ahead. And if you don't like that I am trying to break the habit, then just don't sneeze around me, okay? (At least I won't catch the plague from you.)

And then there's that Marijuana Is Evil rule that has been around most of my life. Reefer Madness. Gateway Drug. Just Say No. I thought I'd never see the day when pot would be decriminalized, let alone legalized. But here we are! Yes, we have to go state-by-state, and oddly, marijuana use is still against federal law. Last year, Canada made pot legal in the entire country, which makes more sense than this state-by-state thing. But, hey, it's a start. And it's about time.  Just try not to go "one toke over the line," okay?

Like Trying to Give CPR to a Dragonfly

Everybody's worried about time
But I just keep that shit off my mind
     ~  Ziggy Marley ("Dragonfly")

I'm used to walking through a convention of dragonflies on my morning trek. I've mourned the inability of my cellphone camera to be able to capture a picture, as they dart about with such rapidity. But yesterday, I happened to get a picture up close . . . of a downed dragonfly, struggling for its life. How I spotted the tiny thing on the ground, I'm not sure, although its jeweled visage may have been the reason. I poked at her a bit, hoping to compel her to fly up into the air and rejoin her friends. She wasn't having it. In fact, she seemed to be stuck to the pavement, although it did not appear that she'd been flattened by a pickup truck or anything. I was finally able to unstick her from the pavement and relocate her to a sandy spot on the side of the road.

And then I wondered what else I could do. Any further poking or prodding I did just seemed to upset her, as she whisked her fragile wings in distress. I repositioned her close to some grass in hopes that she could use the blades to climb upon and then rise in glorious flight. And maybe that's what happened. On my subsequent laps around the park, I tried to find her again, but had no luck. Granted, the chances of spotting a dying dragonfly on the side of the road are slim, but I choose to think that she did, indeed, recover and fly away.

Dragonflies have been around for over 300 million years. I know, I know, it's impossible to wrap one's head around that kind of time. So let's just say that they've been around a very long time. There are about 5000 known species, and 182 of them live in my home state of New Jersey. And check this out: Sussex County, where I live in the summer, has more species of dragonfly than any other county in the United States at 145!!! I personally think they are all residing in my backyard. And lucky me . . . one dragonfly can eat from 30 to hundreds of mosquitos a day. (Dragonflies and bats are keeping me itch-free.) But if a dragonfly can't fly, it will starve, as they only eat prey that they catch while flying.

Which brings us back to my rescued dragonfly. Did she starve to death? Or did she recover? I know I've spent way too much time stressing over this. She was just one insect, albeit with compound eyes and the ability to fly 18 mph.

That worry aside, I welcome my morning walks for the escape from the troubles of the times. When I am among the egrets, the dragonflies, and the parakeets, and even the alligators and armadillos, I don't think about nuclear war or children in cages or climate change or hush money paid to porn stars. I don't think about the future (or whether there will be one). There's not much I can do about any of these matters that are destroying us. I feel helpless most of the time.

Like trying to give CPR to a dragonfly.

A Love Letter to My Son on His 27th Birthday

Twenty-seven! How did that happen? Your birthday presents another opportunity for me to be reflective, to call back memories of another time, when the future was ahead and I was checking off all the boxes (career, husband, home, children). You were a gift. Sort of a happy surprise. And you are here now, celebrating 27 years of YOU! Happy Birthday!

Early memories point me to the lullabies that I sang to you to get you to go to sleep. "A Child's Gift of Lullabies" can still bring me to tears. And then there were the Spot & Petey years, which seemed to last forever. Those "telling stories" of the adventures of your beloved stuffed animals are a sweet reflection. While I don't remember the stories that well, I do remember how we populated them with so many characters. Jack Frost, Easter Bunny, Santa Claus . . . I owe you an apology for suggesting that Leprechaun would lick you if you didn't fall asleep. But hey, I was desperate! Forgive me?

It wasn't long before you moved into your Tools & Weapons phase. You had quite a collection of Cool Tools, which made Christmas shopping relatively easy for Santa that year. As for the weapons, your sisters remember well (and with some disdain) how you had a plastic basket full of toy guns. I recall specifically the wooden "rifle" that your dad carved for you. It accompanied your Davy Crockett coonskin cap on many a journey. I find it interesting that you are now the owner of a real gun. I think you are in possession of your dad's coonskin cap? You should wear it when you go hunting!

Ah, and after a brief love affair with "Howwy Pottah," you segued first into what I call the "Hair Gel Years" and then into your heavy metal phase. A true test of parenthood is being able to tolerate the AC/DC onslaught. I tried to steer you in another direction, taking you to concerts by Neil Young, The Who, and Tom Petty. I think I succeeded in influencing your musical tastes. You and I like a lot of the same music, don't we?

High school was a rough go. You tried to hide your sadness, and I regret that I did not grasp how deep it was. I guess we were both in denial. I will be forever grateful for baseball! It provided much joy during those difficult years. The sound of bat making contact with ball will always take me back to those years, cheering your skill, your speed, your knowledge of the game. You were my Catcher in the Heart.

And then college. I will never forget the day that I dropped you off at UVM and walked away alone one last time. Your dad never got to experience those rites of passage, those emotional separations of parent and child, those endings and beginnings. But you found yourself while there, and you rocked it! I dropped off a child, and you returned a man.

Post-college, you exhibited the courage and sense of adventure that has ever since defined you. Less than a week after your graduation, you drove across the country by yourself to begin an internship in California. One of the highlights of my life was the road trip you and I embarked on when I flew out to visit you. Me, old enough to be your grandmother! Two weeks on the roads of Northern California, replete with baseball, breweries, wineries, National Parks, and coastline. It is one of my fondest memories.

When you were little, you used to reach your arms up to me and plead, "Huggies!" I would pick you up, and you would nuzzle into my neck. I would dance us around a bit until you indicated that you were satisfied, and I would let you down again. Until the next time. Around that time, I remember Mary H giving me a magazine article she'd come across titled "The Last Time." Basically, it posited that, as parents, we make note of the "first times" (first time sitting up, first time walking, first words, first day of preschool, etc.), but we don't take note of the last times. This is mostly because we don't know it's the last time when it happens. When was the last time that you asked me to pick you up and give you a hug? I don't know. I didn't make note of it. And I suppose this is a good thing, because if we knew it was the last time, we would be confronted with something that would seem like an insurmountable loss.

Sam, you are a good man. You are full of so much love and generosity. You are capable of great successes, and you are custom built for home and family. I know you are an old soul and that it seems to take so long to get to where you want to be. But you'll get there. My birthday wish for you is that you take good care of yourself, both physically and emotionally. I understand the sadness that you carry inside, and I cannot promise that it will ever go away. But you will also have great joy in your life if you stay on the same path that you are on now. I promise.

Happy Birthday, boy of mine. I hope this letter picks you up and hugs you!

Love always, Mom

No Pattern for Love

I don't remember how old I was when I first started visiting our town's little library. It was housed in the basement of the bank on Main Street. Mrs. Clark, who'd been my second-grade teacher, was the summer librarian. She was as bitch-faced a librarian as she was as a teacher. Memory tells me that I visited the library with Peggy, my bestie, at least once a week. We liked romantic pre-teen novels, even though they were probably not age-appropriate for our little selves. We would return from the library and settle in on Peggy's bunk-bed, well-supplied with penny candy and a good book.

So I remember taking out No Pattern for Love by I-don't-know-who, a story about a girl who was very, very good at sewing, a Home Ec stand-out. Somehow she abandons her sewing machine long enough to fall in love, but I think the relationship encounters some snags and cannot be stitched back up. (I'm making up most of this; I have no idea what the plot was.)

This is the important part: While the book lived at my house, my dog decided it smelled good enough to munch on, and so she did. The bottom corner was pretty well chewed up. My mother told me that I would have to return the book and pay for the damage, a punishment that would deplete the nickels and dimes I'd been saving for, I don't know, maybe a hula-hoop? I nervously headed for the library and presented Mrs. Clark with the damaged goods. She checked the price of the book (what could it have been? A buck and a quarter?) and I forked over the money. And Mrs. Clark kept the book.

When I returned home, my mother reacted to this injustice. I guess she thought I would have had to pay a fine, like maybe a dime, not the whole cost of the book. She directed me to return to the library and confront Mrs. Clark. I was to inform her that if I paid for the book, it was rightfully mine and she should hand it over. This was way out of my comfort zone. But I followed my mother's directive and returned home with the chewed-upon book, no good to me anymore, as I'd already read the darn thing.

Years later, before my mother sold and moved out of her house, we retrieved whatever she still had that belonged to us. There was a bookshelf in the attic that contained an assortment of books that we didn't know what to do with. There, on a bottom shelf, was a chewed-up copy of No Pattern for Love. Heaven forbid that my mother would have ever gotten rid of anything.

On that bookshelf, I found another book that held a story of my literary youth. As a teenager, ever curious about all the facts of life that my parents didn't tell me, I sought answers in books. I somehow procured a paperback copy of Boys and Girls Together by William Goldman, a 700+ page complex story "just loaded with sex," as one review exclaimed. Ah, but I was clever! I tore off the front cover of the book (a sketch of naked lovers), and just to be sure, I got a pack of matches and an ashtray and burned the offending cover up.

I had a long way to go in terms of mastering "clever." Of course, the lack of a cover on the book I was absorbed in aroused suspicion in my ever-vigilant mother. She confronted me with the book, shamed me for reading obscene trash, and took the book away, saying that she was going to burn the rest of it. I was devastated; I'd only been half-way through the book and there was so much more to learn from its pages.

Did I mention that my mother never got rid of anything (a trait that I've inherited)? There was the book she'd never burned, on the top shelf of the bookcase in the attic. If I'd only known.

When I had children of my own, I decided that no book was off-limits to them. I will admit, there were times when this permissiveness made me uneasy, as my daughters were prolific readers, weary of the age-appropriate books that they'd already read a dozen times. But I held to my promise: my kids could read whatever the hell they wanted. And they're still doing that. Like all the time. No regrets.

There's a lot of love in this post: libraries, Peggy, my mother, my dog, my daughters, and of course, books. Is there a pattern? It must be this: make books available and kids will read them.

Story Lines

All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am

      ~ Phil Hanseroth (for Brandi Carlile)

I'm at that age where I'm shocked whenever I accidentally catch my reflection in the mirror. When I'm not looking in the mirror (which is 99.9% of the time), I think my face is the same as it was when I was thirty. Why wouldn't I think that? Hence, the surprise when the mirror tells me something else.

I turned 69 a week ago, and I've been struggling with it a bit. I know our culture makes a big deal about the "ties" (say "teez," as in fifties, sixties, etc.), and I'm still a year away from the seventies. (It is necessary for me at this point to quote the character Miles Dentrell of thirtysomething: "The decimalization of time is so arbitrary.") Perhaps I'm just getting my angst out of the way in order to make a smooth transition into my seventies? Okay, I'll buy that.

This morning I was listening to Brandi Carlile's 2007 hit, "The Story," and I settled on the opening lines (above) to contemplate. I thought about my stories. I like most of them, even the ones that involve getting stuck on a zip-line, getting kicked off a plane, or getting body-searched trying to enter Canada in 1973. I have hitch-hiking stories, drunken stupor stories, and a lot of rock 'n roll stories. It's amazing that I am still alive.

But I also have stories of giving birth to three spirited children, stories about all the dogs and cats I have loved, and stories of students, forever sixteen, who still live in my mind and heart. I have stories of untimely death, stories of loneliness and depression, and stories of grace and forgiveness. I have stories of family dysfunction, stories of forever friendships, and stories of spiritual messages.

And for every story I could share with you, you would have one to offer in response, right? Isn't that what we do? Tell each other stories? It is how we share our joy and our pain, our fear and our love. And it never hurts if there's a bottle of wine on the table when we share our stories.

So those lines on my face, the ones that tell my story, are okay with me. And there's room for more.

But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to

Pull up a chair. I have a story to tell you.

Slovenia Calling?

Nothing I say here will be news to you. My guess is that you get as many spam phone calls as I do. I could do the "block caller" routine in my sleep. As many times as I do it, I know that it's not going to make a damn bit of difference. My cell phone area code and primary digits do not match the geographical area where I reside, so when I get a call from that area (which accounts for most of the ones I get), I can be 99% certain the call is spam. I'd heard of people getting calls from their own phone number and thought that was accidental . . . and then this weekend, my guy got a spam call from his own number! Okay, funny ha-ha . . . but how do you block your own number?

Today, I got a call from Slovenia. Nothing against Slovenia, but I am fairly certain that I do not know anyone in Slovenia. Trust me, I do not know Melania Trump! Or her siblings. Or her distant cousins. Or the guy who grew up next door to her. Melania's home town, Sevnica, is known for its underwear factory and its salami festival. (I swear, I am not making this up!) I do not know any underwear sewers or salami makers. (Wow, learn something new everyday . . . people who sew are also called "sewists," an effort, I suppose, to differentiate between one who sews and an underground conduit for carrying off human waste matter. And just to add insult to injury, auto-correct wanted to change "sewist" to "sexist." Gotta love the English language!)

Salami jokes aside, the prevalence of spam phone calls is ridiculous. I came upon a headline today that said that more than half of the phone calls you get in 2019 will be spam. I am calling for a national emergency. I don't have to do this, but I want to speed up regulation on spam callers. I want a wall on spam. Block those callers! Prevent them entry! They are bringing trickery, they are bringing falsehoods, they are bringing rip-offs. And some of them, I think, are probably good people. Nonetheless, I want my Wall of against Spam!

Take that, salami!

Chasing the Dark-billed Cuckoo

West Delray Regional Park (or "my park," as I like to call it) is over 300 acres of natural Florida beauty. There are 38 lake acres, multiple kinds of birds and plants, a resident alligator, and an occasional armadillo. Although the park hosts activities such as disc golf, archery, remote control car racing, miniature plane flying, and trail biking, I frequent the park to walk/run on its winding paths. There to watch the sunrise, I am often the only person in the park at that early hour. I like it that way.

Yesterday, I took my company there a little later in the morning to find a few dozen cars parked near the bike trails. I figured it was due to the later hour. But as we proceeded to walk the paths, we came upon several people toting cameras bigger than armadillos. We had to ask what the occasion was.

The dark-billed cuckoo had been spotted in the park! Whoo-hoo!

Um, what?

The dark-billed cuckoo is a resident of South America. According to the birders/photographers, it has only ever been spotted in North America once. But two days ago, someone spotted it here and spread the news on Twitter. Voila! Birders all over my park!

The cuckoo is a rather dull brown with a whitish underside. Its long tail has white spots, and its beak is black. Other than that, the only noteworthy thing about its appearance is the red ring around its eyes. A medium sized bird, it's 10" - 12" long with a wingspan of 15" - 17". It doesn't seem to be that spectacular a bird! But while my googling revealed that it "has occurred as a vagrant in Florida," the birders at the park insist that that  has only happened once before, good enough reason for them to travel to Delray (from places as far away as Georgia, New York, and California) to try to spot the little thing and capture it on film.

Whatever rocks your boat.

When I returned to my place, my houseguests advised me that there is a small wren nesting in my dryer vent hose! I recall seeing a tiny wren hopping on my kitchen window sill the other day, but I had no idea she considered it part of her back yard! Last fall, after bitching about my dryer taking forever to dry my clothes, I separated the hose from the vent to find all kinds of hardened lint and stuff blocking the vent. I reached my hand in, cleared it out, and was surprised by the sunlight that suddenly appeared. I thought the problem was solved. Apparently, I need to figure out a way to stop my little wren from living rent-free in my space.

And it breaks my heart! She may not be a dark-billed cuckoo, but she selected me to share living quarters with. Me, not an obsessive birder or professional photographer. She picked me. And I can't help but contemplate who gets to be "special" in this crazy world . . . the ones who capture our attention because of their uniqueness or splendor or misplacement? Or the ones who quietly inhabit their space and go unnoticed? Look around your own orbit. Who gets your attention? Who gets taken for granted?

Who is camera-worthy?

Joni75

I was having a bad day yesterday. I spilled a cup of coffee on the couch, I checked my retirement annuity account to see how much money I'd lost, and two DEA agents knocked on my door. (Only one of those things is true.) My stomach hurt, my head hurt, and I didn't know how to make myself feel better.

But last evening, I went to a local cinema complex where I had reserved tickets for the one-night showing of Joni75, a musical tribute to Joni Mitchell, one of the greatest singer/songwriters of my generation. The film was being shown throughout the country, but on one night only. (I think it is available for purchase on DVD.) It didn't take long for me to forget my troubles and get lost in the music.

Joni turned 75 on November 7, 2018, and on that night, an array of amazing artists gathered at The Dorothy Chandler Pavillion in Los Angeles to pay tribute to Joni. All but one performed songs that Joni had written. (The one exception was Graham Nash's solo performance of "Our House," a song he wrote about his cohabitation with Joni in Laurel Canyon in 1969 when they were romantically involved.)

Aside from Nash, the line-up included Emmylou Harris, James Taylor, Kris Kristofferson, Seal, Los Lobos, Norah Jones, Rufus Wainwright, Glen Hansard, Brandi Carlile, Chaka Khan, and Diana Krall. My personal favorite was Diana Krall's rendition of "Amelia," but I will admit that it's hard to pick a favorite. My date liked Seal's cover of "Both Sides Now," and my friend Matthew raved about Los Lobos' version of "Dreamland," featuring the dynamic vocals of La Marisoul. It was all good.

One thing that struck me was a study of the back-up band. Different instruments, ages, genders, ethnicities, races, religions (not that I know what they are) . . . it was a smorgasbord of personalities, backgrounds, and presentations. And what was the common ground? The music! They performed a seamless accompaniment to the featured artists, united in harmony, purpose, and beauty. (I'll let you figure out the message here.)

The closer, on which everyone joined in, was "Big Yellow Taxi," a song from Ladies of the Canyon. Although released in 1970, the song did not become a hit in the USA until 1974, when a live version was released. It's an easy sing-along. So, c'mon now, join in:

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone . . . 

State of Confusion

When Stephen Miller Donald Trump takes the stage tonight for the State of the Union address, will I tune in? Or will I wait for Stacy Abrams? Although I haven't decided yet, I suspect it will be like that train wreck thing. I don't want to miss what Jared Donald has to say. How many lies stories will he tell? Will there be live fact-checking? Will Stormy Melania be smiling in the audience? Will MacBeth's witches Kellyanne, Sarah, and Ivanka sit together? And what about Beavis and Butthead Eric and Don Junior? Will they bring their families? And who will keep Cruella Ann Coulter quiet? So many unknowns! I guess I will have to tune in, at least until I throw my last bottle of tolerance at the TV.

If you detected a lack of comity in that opening paragraph, you're very perceptive. "Comity" sounds just like "comedy," which is somewhat comedic, I think. A lack of courtesy and considerate behavior toward others has been a casualty of this administration, with bullying and name-calling the norm that the White House spits out on a daily basis. Will Drumpf Trump go off the rails tonight? Will he tear up the speech that Miller he painstakingly crafted while on executive time and speak from his ass gut, as he is prone to do?

It is tradition for the Vice President and the Speaker of the House to sit behind the President at the State of the Union address. But will Mike Sycophant Pence sit next to a woman who is not his wife? (I call her my hero Nancy.) Perhaps his homophobic wife Karen will wedge herself between Mike and Nancy, just to keep things chaste.

Although the Notorious RBG is doing well and back at work, it is my understanding that she will not be in attendance with the other Supremes tonight. And who can blame her? She has an excuse to watch the address on her home TV, where she will be free to yell "You lie!" as many times as she wants. On second thought, maybe she should just go to the gym and let her personal trainer distract her from the comity comedy tragedy that will be enacted in the House Chamber. I don't want RBG to get too agitated.

Yeah, I'll watch. If for no other reason than to see if the bleeder leader of the Free World does his sniffing thing. I used to think it was from snorting cocaine, but I've been told that it's from snorting Adderall. Apparently, he does this because he can't read, and he gets nervous when he has to read cue cards or a teleprompter. Who's prescribing the Adderall? Dr. Ronny Jackson maybe? My favorite "mis-read" was when the idiot Trump talked about hard-working parents who "sacrifice every day for the furniture . . . and future . . . of their children." Yep, he said that. The President of the United States.

With all the shit poop hitting the fan these days, I have to wonder about the furniture of this country. IKEA, do you hear me?

Wait. For. It.

This morning, I drove a friend to a surgical center for a routine medical procedure, after which he was not allowed to drive. I am grateful that the facility was efficient and that the procedure itself was a short one, as I was relegated to the waiting room for the duration. I lost count of how many times the automatic door opened and closed. Even though there was a second automatic door which one might think would prevent the chilly Florida Polar Vortex air from entering the waiting area, it was cold in there. But there was actually a sign posted in the room which was an FAQ of sorts. First question: "Why is it so cold in here?" The answer had to do with germs thriving in warm environments. Kudos to the facility, which offered a heated blanket if this was a problem for anyone.

So my friend went in for the procedure, and I, prepared with a book, settled in as far from the automatic doors as I could get. Checked my text messages, emails, and newsfeed, all the while having my ears overwhelmed by the non-stop weather channel on the waiting room television. Looks like the Midwest is going to experience record-breaking low temps in the next couple of days. Of particular note, Fargo, ND will experience a high of 19 friggin' degrees below zero. Now, it just so happens that my friend and I watched the Coen Brothers' classic movie, Fargo, just last night. So I'm still nightmaring about wood chippers and chain smokers and deplorables while fretting over a medical diagnosis for my friend and shivering in friggin' South Florida. Waiting.

I see nothing good about waiting. No, wait, let me rethink that. There are times when waiting allows one to contemplate all sorts of heady things. Time to reflect upon past joys (and sorrows), anticipate future joys (and sorrows), plot to create future joys (but not sorrows). So forced downtime can be good, I suppose. But more than likely, waiting lends way to frustration, fear, exhaustion, exaggeration, imagination (not the good kind), and regret. Too much negativity.

So what am I waiting for? Oh, not much. Just world peace, Trump's incarceration, a return to sanity, clean water in Flint, separation of church and state, equal rights for all, legalized marijuana, an end to everlasting war, proper funding and intelligent leadership in education, gun control, health care for all, tax reform, free Internet access for all, and the return of Last Week Tonight with John Oliver. Waiting. Just waiting.

I didn't even get around to opening my book before I was called back to Recovery. My friend's procedure was finished, and all was good. I'd waited in hopes of good news, and it was delivered. But how many people were in a similar situation at the same time, waiting for good news, only to be hit over the head and heart with bad news? I've been there. I know how painful the blow.

What are you waiting for?

Dark Side of the Moon

I was sound asleep for the lunar eclipse on Sunday night, but on Saturday night, I was outside on a balmy night, gazing at an almost-full moon and a handful of stars . . .  and blinded by a Pink Floyd Laser Light Show, enhanced by cheapo 3D paper glasses. Two handsome men, one on each side of me, kept me comfortably numb and ruminative throughout the two-hour show. The southern breeze seemed to be part of the experience, one that tapped into all my senses.

I still cannot understand how and why I was absent the day that Pink Floyd appeared on the music scene. I have always prided myself on being up on all aspects of that music renaissance of the 60s and 70s, but somehow, I missed out on Pink Floyd. Well, not entirely. I do remember struggling with "The Wall" in the early days of my teaching career. ("We don't need no education," if nothing else, demanded a lesson in double negatives. It was an awkward time to be an educator. "Teacher, leave them kids alone.") Maybe my unintended dismissal of the album is because I never did hallucinogenics?

Regardless of whether or not I was paying attention, fifteen million copies of Dark Side of the Moon have been sold, and the album spent 937 weeks on the Billboard 200. It was the first Pink Floyd album to break into the U.S. Top 40. Yes, that was over 45 years ago, but given that a Pink Floyd Laser Light Show still commands a sell-out crowd, the story lingers on. And the themes called up in the album are certainly present today: wealth ("Money"), armed conflict ("Us and Them"), madness ("Brain Damage"), squandered existence ("Time"), and death ("The Great Gig in the Sky") all speak to the Age of Trump.

The cartoon video that accompanies the song "Money," which includes sound effects of ringing cash registers and rattling coins, shows persistent, flying coins stamped with the letter "B." All I could think of was "bitcoin," a monetary concept which I do not pretend to understand. My subsequent research could not find a reason for the "B," so I am left pondering if the retro video has been updated to reflect the money of today? Or was Pink Floyd prescient?

Well, surely they were. Why did it take me so many years to take them seriously? I don't have the answer to that, but I know that whenever I hear "Comfortably Numb," I become aware of my need to escape from the politics of the day, to immerse myself in music and color and light, enough to blind me from the reality that we are on the precipice of darkness.

Photo by Matthew Van Houten

On the Basis of Sex

I am not a fan of history being Hollywood-ized. (Having said that, I will admit to the fact that my favorite TV show is Drunk History. The difference between the two is that Drunk History doesn't pretend to present an accurate account of historical events. It exists to make you laugh. And if you learn a bit of history in the process, cool.) My complaint is that On the Basis of Sex, the biopic of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, attempts to tweak events with words and actions that make me say, "What? Did that really happen?" I don't like having my emotions manipulated. Despite that, it's a captivating movie, and you will not regret seeing it.

The biopic begins in 1953 when Ginsburg enters Harvard School of Law, one of a handful of women in that freshman class. The story leads up to her argument in the 10th Circuit Court of Appeals in 1972, in which she takes on laws that discriminate "on the basis of sex." That case, Moritz v. Commissioner of Internal Revenue, was about a situation in which a man was discriminated against, but it makes the point. And there's been no turning back. (Despite continuing and current efforts to do so.)

The script was written by Ginsburg's nephew, so it would seem that he had access to credible sources. It's little things, like her microphone squeaking when she accidentally knocks it upon beginning her appeal to the court, that bug me. But, okay, no biggie. What's important is the story.

I was not surprised at the sexism in the story. I grew up in the 50s and 60s, and I remember well how it was. For example, as a child, I loved sweeping the sawdust off the machines in my father's workshop. I can still smell that wood. My father was a woodworker, a builder, and an Industrial Arts teacher. Did he ever teach me any of his skills? No. "Girls don't do that." Even when choosing courses for my senior year of high school, my request to take mechanical drawing was denied because . . . wait for it . . . "girls don't do that." In my 30s, I took a couple of woodworking classes at the local adult school, finally getting to fulfill that dream. So there. (I'm rather proud of the coffee table, medicine cabinet, and lidded box that I made!)

Title IX, which prohibits discrimination in school athletics, became law in 1972 when I was a few years out of high school. In my experience, girls could be cheerleaders or twirlers or pompom girls, and I did those things. I do remember that in my junior and senior years, I was on both the girls' field hockey and soccer teams. How could I be in two sports that both took place in the fall? Because each sport only had two games per season!

It was in 1972 that I graduated from college with a degree in secondary education. (Career choices for females at the time consisted primarily of teacher, nurse, secretary, or stewardess, the latter of which only became "flight attendant" after men entered the field.) Teaching jobs were hard to come by that year, and I had several interviews before I was finally hired. I will never forget being asked on one interview if I could coach football. Needless to say, despite my saying I could, I did not get hired for that position. At another school, I actually received a rejection letter which offered as a reason the fact that they wanted to hire a man. These are true stories, but the reality of sex discrimination was so embedded in the culture, it never occurred to me to file a discrimination lawsuit.

I used to love clambakes. Back in the 70s, it was not uncommon for organizations to host "stag clambakes." This pissed me off. So when the American Legion started selling tickets to one such event, a girlfriend and I surreptitiously purchased two. Although we had several male friends watching our backs at the event, the old guard was not amused. They called the cops. And when the police said they could not evict us, we were ushered into a private room to enjoy our steamed clams and corn-on-the-cob. I recall many of our male friends joining us there. And the clams were damn good.

I'm no Notorious RBG, but I am grateful for her and all the others who have led the fight for gender equality. My daughters do not have stories like mine to tell, and my son would never think himself superior to a woman just because he is male. I am grateful that most of the world has changed in this regard. But there are more battles to fight. News just broke the other day of Karen Pence, "Second Lady," taking a teaching job in a "Christian" school that discriminates against LGBTQ students, parents, and teachers. "Religious freedom"? Bullshit.

We have already begun to see changes in our elected officials. The new House is more diverse than ever, especially in the ratio of women to men. (The Senate? Not so much.) I am looking forward to continuing change before my time here is over. Thank you, RBG, and thank you to all those who continue to fight this good fight.

Popcorn Ceiling

Who the hell created this cheat of a ceiling? I hope he or she is burning in hell, if there is such a place. Popcorn Ceiling Hell. Where you are forever doomed to having tiny white balls of air showered upon you. Endlessly.

I had new window treatments installed in my condo today, and the tracks to hold the roller shades had to be drilled into the ceiling above the windows. So I was tasked with cleaning up the little puffballs from hell which scattered all over my floors, window sills, and me. Everyone hates them, even vacuum cleaners and garbage cans. The little shits just jump out of the vacuum cleaner or the garbage can and fly to far corners of the room, singing, "Nyah, nyah, come and get me!" I'm exhausted. (But my windows look good.)

My condo was built in 1995. Wikipedia tells me that asbestos was banned from popcorn ceilings in 1977, so I think I'm safe from mesothelioma. After that, they used styrofoam to continue selling the product. Popcorn ceilings are basically a way to hide imperfections in the drywall ceiling. Lazy. Just damn lazy.

I did some googling on how to get rid of popcorn ceilings, which went out of fashion around the same time as platform shoes, wide ties, and leisure suits. There was more success in eliminating those fashion trends than getting rid of popcorn ceilings. Why? Just imagine standing on a ladder with a mask on your face, scraping all that styrofoam onto your furniture and countertops and carpets, kind of like when it snows, but I assure you, those little flurries will NOT melt away. And then you have to repair all the imperfections in the ceiling, repaint, and oh no, I'm not up to the task. So I am stuck with the popcorn ceilings. I try not to look up too much.

After cleaning up the stubborn mess, what do you think I did? I ate some popcorn. Smartfood Delight (with sea salt) has only 35 calories per cup, so I went at it. And while I was scarfing down that airy, unsatisfying delight, I did some research. Did you know there are six major types of corn? There's dent corn, flint corn, pod corn, popcorn, flour corn, and sweet corn. Now, I'm from New Jersey, where we grow the best sweet corn in the world. I will only eat it in late summer, and I will only buy it from the farm stand down the road. As to those other types, I just keep mixing up the letters, pondering what cod porn or clour forn might be. Never mind.

So here are some other Popcorn Fun Facts:

~  In Mexico (where it was invented), remnants of popcorn have been found that date back to 3600 BC.

~  Popcorn (with milk) was a breakfast cereal for Americans in the 1800s. Take that, Lucky Charms!

~ Popcorn has been a staple in movie theaters since 1938, despite the industry's initial thumbs-down on such a messy thing.

~ A medium-size movie theatre buttered popcorn contains more fat than a breakfast of bacon and eggs, a Big Mac and fries, and a steak dinner COMBINED! I think there's even a movie about this.

~  Remember popcorn balls? Oh, and they were even dyed horrible colors! And we ate them! The world's largest popcorn ball is in Sac City, Iowa. It weighs 9,370 pounds. WTF?

I guess one of the sweetest things about popcorn is that old-fashioned habit of threading popped corn to make a garland for a Christmas tree. I confess to having done that  a couple of times when I was young and optimistic. Now, I won't rule anything out, but I doubt that I will ever have that kind of patience again.

So the 105 calories I inhaled earlier have left me hungry. I'm going to gaze at my new window treatments (careful not to look any higher than the valances) and scarf down something not white, not puffy, not round. Something that goes with Chardonnay. Cheers!

Where Have I Been?

It's been ten days since my last post, when I questioned whether or not I should continue this blog. I did get some encouraging responses, which made my heart glad. But my absence of ten days has little to do with the decision-making and more to do with the way life just grabs ahold of one's time and discourages one from sticking to routines.

So what the hell have I been doing for ten days? Or perhaps the question is what has life thrown in my orbit to distract me from this need to write?

For one thing, I had some company for a couple of days. There is nothing quite like reconnecting with old friends (and, yes, "old" has two meanings here). Dear friends whose connection with me dates back to the 70s were here to make me laugh, poke my memory, and just ease me into that comfort zone that only old friends can know. While we amused ourselves with visits to the ocean, a bird sanctuary (where we also got to see FOUR alligators and two iguanas!), a yacht cruise (complete with our signature drink, the Bloody Mary), a couple of happy hours, and a lot of trump-trashing, we also spent quite a bit of time traveling down memory lane, where we found ourselves peeing in the parking lot of Shea Stadium, swatting giant mosquitos in the Grand Tetons, and reclaiming our inner hippie at the corner of Haight and Ashbury. I began missing these dear companions the moment they left.

I dreamed that I got caught in a tsunami. You know those dreams when you simply cannot run, walk, or even move? It was one of those. I could see the waters rushing toward me, I could hear myself yelling to my son to get out of the way, and yet, I could not move. For whatever reason, the water stopped about five feet from where I was immobilized and turned into some kind of infinity pool. What the hell does this mean?

I employed some long-ignored culinary skills, creating breakfast nachos, perfecting the art of baking wild salmon, and revisiting my world-famous banana bread. (Why is it that the man I love is allergic to bananas, coconut, and walnuts, the key ingredients in my banana bread? My love could kill him.)

And speaking of the man I love, we have been working our way through Jonathan Weiner's The Beak of the Finch in preparation for a trip to the Galapagos Islands in a few months. The book, as well as the theory behind it, is challenging, but we are learning a thing or two about Darwinism. I find myself looking at birds differently now as a result. The wood storks at the bird sanctuary, the ibis in my front yard, the herons and egrets that fly overhead . . . in what ways have they evolved over time? It's fascinating stuff.

I have enhanced my living space with a variety of air plants placed here and there, marveling at their survival skills. I have planted the tiny garden on my balcony, visions of fresh organic lettuces dancing in my future. I will be visiting a renowned orchid nursery with a dear friend soon, eager for the opportunity to gaze at these beauties in my own home. How amazing to be able to surround oneself with living and growing specimens! Green has always been my favorite color.

And lastly, I have been pondering prayer. There's too much in my head to expose here, but perhaps a future post will tackle the myriad thoughts that have amused and befuddled me in regard to this simple human habit.

So I've been busy. And it's all good. I've been encouraged enough from readers' comments as well as from daily experiences and contemplations to not abandon this blog. I will try not to disappoint you as I continue my ramblings.

And thanks for visiting. Come back soon, ya hear?

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

If you recognized that title as a song by The Clash, then I am happy you are here! But why are you here? Is it because you like this blog? Or because you like me? Or because you're bored? Please don't take offense at those questions. I am just trying to decide if I should continue or take a break.

I've had a few blogs. Two of them required daily posts for a year. That got weary, so when I started this one last January 24, I decided I would only post when something inspired me. Initially, I eagerly posted several times a week. That didn't last. Although I averaged two posts a week throughout 2018, I've been slacking off. Blame the holidays? I don't think so. I guess I'm just at the age when I need to figure out how best to spend my remaining time on this planet. While writing has always been important to me (I still have my handwritten copy of the first poem I ever wrote at age seven), it seems that other things have edged out the need to write. Some of them are stupid, like spending too much time doing Sudoku and crossword puzzles, some of them are obsessive, like watching MSNBC 24/7 or checking my Newsfeed on my phone a gazillion times a day (wondering did I miss anything?), and some are good, like traveling and planning the next trip. And I love projects! Refinishing furniture, decorating my space, making 250 coasters for my daughter's wedding, putting together photo albums for my kids, etc. Hell, I love jigsaw puzzles. Whatever takes up my time, productive or not, works for me. I hate TV (except for MSNBC, of course), so that old habit is long dead.

If I don't continue this blog, what will take its place? A pottery class? Cleaning up my gmail account? Organizing my chaotic collection of photographs? Learning how to cook Thai food? Writing a novel? Well, I guess the possibilities are endless! I just don't know what I want to do.

What I do know is that I am trying to be more mindful. I spend way too much time living in memory and anticipation. I want to live in the NOW. Harder than it sounds, at least with a wandering mind like mine. I'm taking baby steps for now. When I go on my morning walk, I am training myself to be observant, to watch the birds, look for the alligator, admire the flora . . . instead of stressing about how long it will take to complete my regimen, what I need to get done today, how the stock market will impact my retirement, if my kids will still love one another after I'm gone. I am a work in progress.

Perhaps some of you struggle with the same issues. Tell me how you spend your time? How do you keep the devils at bay? What do you want people to say about you when you're gone?

Tough questions. Tough decisions. Must be a new year.