Good Times at the Jersey Shore

Spent some time in New Jersey last month.



Good times in Joisey?? Youz wants some good times in Joisey?
Fehgitaboutit.



Uh, no. Not that New Jersey.

Those of us that live in the Midwest find the misconceptions about our part of the country in the minds of us those who have never been here laughable.You know what I mean. Are there really CORN STALKS growing next to my driveway??? Uh well......actually......yeah, within spittin' distance. But I don't ride a tractor to work, don't own any livestock and I like sushi as much as I like pot roast and gravy.

New Jersey is a state that alot of us Midwesterner's misunderstand in similar fashion. Does everyone in NJ really live next door to Bruce Springsteen and hang out with the E-Street Band? Do people go about their daily business in fear of getting tossed into the river by Tony Soprano?? Name a place in New Jersey other than Atlantic City...............took you a minute, didn't it???

Try telling people you spent a week of hard-earned vacation in New Jersey and see how they react. But that's what I did and it was great.



This is the Walt Whitman Bridge. The drive from Philly airport to Stone Harbor, New Jersy starts with a trip across this bridge. It's an hour and some change along the tree-lined Garden State Parkway. Only my cousins will truly understand, but one can not make too many trips across the beautiful Walt Whitman TOLL Bridge.



Even the most skilled pilot and shot-gun navigators may find themselves, on occasion and despite the best of intentions, defying their internal compasses and contributing multiple tolls to the betterment of New Jersey road maintenance.

Once you finally make it across the bridge (for the last time)it's a green and beautiful drive. When you reach Egg Harbor you begin to see the salt marshes and brackish tidepools of the intercoastal waterway that lead to the Atlantic ocean.

The seven-mile island of the Cape May peninsula offers some of the cleanest, most pristine beaches I've ever seen. These are not tropical beaches such as those found further South. You won't find a palm tree anywhere in sight. Sea grasses line the beaches of Cape May, tall and graceful, the long slender leaves are simple,peaceful and calming in the way they react to the breeze.





It's a really pretty place.



After a hectic few weeks of travel for work, Stone Harbor was the perfect place to snuggle down into a beach chair and mindlessly lose myself in a great book and that's exactly what I intended to do.

I rented a little house in a tiny beach community.....


....full of neatly trimmed yards and blooming flowers.



I brought everything I needed: sunscreen, beach towel and classy straw hat.



And of course, you'll recognize the Achievement Badge of Middle Age, my ever-present pair of reading glasses.

So yes, the plan was to catch some sun, wiggle my toes in the sand and read. Great plan....until I invited a couple of my cousins to join me.



And they're so much fun,I never even opened the book.
Instead we wandered around the island acting goofy, eating ice cream.....



... and learning new stuff about New Jersey. We especially liked the salt-marsh tide pools.



All sorts of cool stuff lives there.
Little crabs, big crabs. Birds. Turtles. And if you know me at all, you know I big-time love me some turtles. In this case we're talking primarily about the Northern Diamondback Terrapin, a humble little turtle that went about it's business for hundreds of years, nesting in the dunes of the Atlantic barrier islands. As their sand-dune habitat has disappeared with the development of the coast, the little mama turtles have taken to nesting in the best spot they can find---which happens to be along the roadways of the island. Unfortunately, this has resulted in the untimely demise of hundreds and hundreds of turtles each year, most of them victims of car tires.

Efforts are in place to reduce the carnage.



Drivers are asked to keep an eye out because apparently turtles don't seem to be so worried about getting hit when they decide to cross the road.




You might even say they are fairly nonchalant about the whole thing. This little guys reaction to our screeching brakes was to stop and crane his neck to see what all the fuss was about.




Lucky for them, the residents of Cape May are not. There are fences along the roadways to protect them, viable eggs are collected from victims of unfortunate encounters with Mr. Goodyear for incubation and school children hold fundraisers to help fund the turtle nurseries.



I'm not much for tourist junk, but I am proud to have joined the keychain-carryin' I Brake for Turtles brigade.



Our final morning we went to the beach early and spotted a large pod of dolphins feeding just a few dozen yards off the shore. Sailors say that it is lucky to see a dolphin in the morning.



I think it's lucky when you get to spend time with your cousins.


Better than books on the beach any time.

Watch where you step! They're coming, they're coming....!!!!!!!!!!
Listen to the proud ol' bird, she knows of what she speaks.

In the car with the sun roof wide open, coffee in hand and tearing down the road early this morning I encountered nary another soul. It's the 4th of July. I'm sure everyone is at home getting ready for the local parade.

Unless you plan to stay at home today with the shades drawn, you'll be in prime waving position on the sidelines of the Midwest's biggest parade, even if you don't want to participate.

Yes, they're back. Costumed in seed corn hats and 4H t-shirts to lend an air of sincerity to their mechanical waves, exagerrated oh-I-know-what-you-mean-I-knew-a-poor-struggling-farmer-once-myself smiles and gestures, step back from the curb or you're likely to get run over. We'll wave as they pass because it's polite and if nothing else, we're very polite here. Go ahead and shake their hand, let them kiss your baby, even. Just don't expect it will get you a VIP ticket to the Inaugural Ball. The fields and gravel roads are thick with photographers this holiday for the myriad opportunities to catch a candidate doing something noteworthy (or not)and notice how much bigger the smiles get when a lens is in the neighborhood.

As reported in The Newspaper that Iowa Depends Upon, the cast of this holiday's parading characters are like little wandering prairie dogs that pop-up unexpectedly in neighborhoods that the rest of America has never heard of.

In Urbandale, Marshalltown and Sioux City.........





In Clear Lake, Waterloo and Cedar Rapids......




In Norwalk, Coralville and Wellman.......




Not to be outdone, spreading the usual I-Can-Save-the-World message.......




.......in Beaverdale.

All I can say is: Be careful when crossing the streets and remind you, when it looks like, tastes like and smells like...................well, uh.............





Now where did I put my apron and dustpan.............

Just when you thought you'd seen everything.

Do you have trouble picking the perfect give for your friends? Do they already have a Bobbly-head dog or a wiggle-hippy-hippy Hula doll in the rear window and a stinky maple leaf hanging from the rear view mirror? How about something unique and meaningful for the dashboard?? Have your friends got kids????

People, have I got a gift idea for you.







Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "What Would Jesus Do?" doesn't it???



Would Jesus play soccer?



If so, I hope he shows up for practice.



Because it looks to me like he's seriously off-sides.

Note to Self................

My little digital camera is under the weather. While packing for last weekends trip I considered taking my 35-mm camera along but I don't trust the security search to treat it gently if packed in my bag and didn't want to carry it through the airports in a carry-on. So I left it home.

Big mistake.

The town of Jackson Hole and the surrounding Wyoming countryside are magic for me. I love everything about it there. The National Elk Refuge, Moose Junction, Jenny Lake, Signal Mountain, Yellowstone National park and the tiny little primitive cabins at Jackson Lake. I love the trees and I love the mountains, I love the elk and the buffalo and the cowboys and the bikers and all the fun little shops in town. I love coming up on a group of stopped cars on the side of the road, knowing there is a moose feeding in the reeds or a buffalo grazing in the meadow. I love the crisp, clean air. I love the chill mountain mornings and the way the sun warms your hair in the middle of the day. I love the Wyoming night time sky. If you stare up into the darkness long enough, the dark spots fill with stars. I love the memories I have in Jackson Hole. All of them.

So I was quite pleased to find myself flying there on business this past week. Even though I knew it was going to be a short trip with little time for wandering, my heart beats as happy in this place as anywhere on earth and even before we landed at my favorite airport on the planet, I was looking out the window at the rugged Tetons and kicking myself for not bringing my camera.


Thanks to the good people at Verizon, all was not lost.



I figured out how to capture the weekend on my phone.
They're a little fuzzy, a little vague and they don't capture the beauty of the peaks in a way that my 35mm and telephoto lens could.



But they'll do.

I've never thought about or especially liked yellow.
Sunshine is good,but I hate bananas.
Mostly I've just ignored the color yellow until this morning when I saw it in a new light. All of a sudden I love yellow.

Sylvia Randolph is 102 years old and her house is yellow.



She's slowed down a bit since I had dinner with her when she was a much younger 99 but she is still sharp as a tack and welcomed a friend and I into her kitchen for a quick visit this morning as we were leaving Saugatuck, Michigan for home. After working all weekend in a gallery owned by Syliva's daughter-in-law there on the shores of Lake Michigan, I was thrilled to see Syliva again and tell her how much fun I have using the cookbook that she wrote to celebrate her 100th birthday. Sylvia is an artist and the cookbook (as well as Good Goods Gallery www.goodgoods.com) is filled with her oil and watercolor paintings.





Being an painter in Saugatuck isn't remarkable in itself. The town is a haven for artists. Being a 102-year-old artist who still paints most days is, in my opinion, quite remarkable. Despite the fact that she trails a thin little plastic tube that supplies oxygen to her nose everywhere she goes, she manages to get around the place quite nicely and the evidence of her art is everywhere. There are her cans of paintbrushes on the kitchen sill, her boxes of paints scattered around the room and paintings representing her impressions of beautiful Saugatuck and the graceful sand dunes of Lake Michigan on her walls.



Last year her old family home needed painting. No, she didn't paint it herself but she did decide that the dark green shutters against the white wood siding had never reflected her personal taste and ordered the place spruced up a bit and more to her liking. As we drove up this morning, I smiled as I looked at the house in all it's bright, crayon-yellow glory. The shutters are white now and lining the porch rail... a parade of brilliantly painted purple flower pots.
Perfect.

Inside, at her table, Sylvia mentioned to her daughter-in-law Sandra that "this is going to be a busy week for me..." and recounted, day by day, a list of scheduled activities, where each would be held, who was in attendance and why she supposed she should go. Two nights ago she stayed home, but her donated painting was the talk of the charity auction to benefit the local art center and along with a nice cruise along the river and lake, fetched the highest bid of the night.........over seven thousand dollars. She smiled in amazement, told us some stories. And then we came home.

Sylvia cooks, she gardens, she paints. And all her sofas and chairs have handmade slipcovers that she changes to go with the season. (Do you even have to ask?? Yes, of course she made them---and the braided rug on the floor too, in case you wander in and wonder.)

All of a sudden yellow and purple.........and growing old......look different to me.
Thanks, Sylvia.

CAMP DEBBIE MEMORIES JUNE 2007

Oh look! Up yonder in the old dead tree. Is that an immature bald eagle I spy???
You know what THAT means.....................it's time for another CAMP DEBBIE!!!!!



Ok yeah, he's really a turkey vulture.
Just don't mention it to any of my camper girls, they can't see a dang thing without their glasses and he makes everyone feel sorta welcome. Like he's been sitting up there waiting for us since last time we gathered around the fire.






Thanks to the handsome young neighbor who graciously stopped by our camp and offered to take our picture. Say young man..........might you happen to have a single father lurking out there somewhere???? Does he like dusty girls that are fragrant, like a campfire?




The Camper girls surprised Director Debbie with a little graduation party.



I waited 50 years to twirl some tassels.



The best part of Camp Debbie, of course, is the Camper Girls.



And nature class. Here first-time Camper Paula learns more than she ever wanted to know about a woodland toad. Here also, a woodland toad learns more than he ever wanted to know about what happens when one wanders from the woodland into the campsite of a bunch of women on their third tumbler of vodka punch.




First time Campers Lisa and Molly. Molly has a beautiful voice and without benefit of accompaniment, burst into a heartfelt rendition of "Oh Danny Boy" somewhere around midnight. Her beautiful song was met with cheers from surrounding campers when she finished. Unfortunately, traditional Irish melody is apparently the distress call that summons state park rangers.

Frankly, we wondered what took him so long. Traditionally Camp Debbie gatherings are visited by men in uniform long before dark. This ambitious fellow didn't show up until well after midnight and, I must say, was fairly humorless.

Perhaps he was annoyed when one of the Camper Girls asked if he was a stripper cop as he walked up to the fire. In her defense, how was she to know he wasn't??? It was dark. It was late....

At any rate, once he identified himself and showed us the fine emblem on his hat, we listened attentively and sat in wide-eyed and rapt attention as he explained his Strike One, Strike Two, Strike Three policy which would eventually end with us crossing homeplate in handcuffs. (Not, he emphasized, nearly as fun as it sounds)
We thanked him for reviewing the park policies with us so carefully and eventually he went home.

This was about ten minutes before our neighboring campers brought out a CHAIN SAW.
Yes, a chain saw and you can bet,for a moment all of our minds wandered off in the direction of wondering which of our body parts they would wrap up and mail to our relatives in brown paper when they were done sawing their way through our campsite.

When it became evident we were just neighbors and not prey, we forgot about them and continued with our own little camping party.




And yes, of course.
There were awards for everyones official Camp Debbie necklaces.
Followed by sleep, and eventually.........




Morning.

Playing Tour Guide Again

Last week I hosted guests from Florida. In addition to Michael's opportunity to experience his very first plane ride, it was both he and Charlie's first visit to the Midwest!! Clean slates, they were! Minds for the molding, mine mine mine...allllll mine for two days. As their Iowa Ambassador I took my responsibility to indelibly etch this place into their hearts very seriously! It wasn't from inside a grand old tour bus like I drove one summer in Montana, but I popped open the sun roof on my little car and headed down the road to the place they wanted to visit most --- Madison County, home of the famous covered bridges and the pastoral setting for Robert Wallers romantic best-seller, The Bridges of Madison County.

"It's very GREEN here...." they kept saying.

I hear that alot when I am hosting out-of-town guests. The leaves and grasses are gorgeous right now, hard to convince my visitors that we have been in desperate need of rain.




In the town of Winterset, fans of "The Bridges.." film will recognize plenty of scenes from the story of Clint Eastwoods' Robert Kincaid and how he fell in love with Francesca, the beautiful farm wife played by Meryl Streep. Michael, Charlie and I ate lunch at the counter in the North Side Cafe.



Winterset is your typical county seat in Iowa, with the town square and grand old courthouse surrounded by old business buildings with lots of character, most of which are in noticeably great repair. My guess is that this is thanks to the influx of tourist dollars provided by interest in the movie and the fact that the town can also brag on itself as the birthplace of John Wayne.




Five minutes in any direction, it's wide open space and that beautiful green, green, green. Even roadside ditches can be fun if you know what to look for. I showed the guys how all Iowa kids know how to pull the little tops off clover and suck the nectar out of the flower for a sweet little burst on their tongue.





The stars of the show of course, are the bridges.







Tour guides pray for moments like the one we experienced when driving down a tree-shaded side road just outside of town.



This gorgeous little doe, in all her nonchalant glory, looked up from munching weeds, completely disinterested and for-darn-sure not going to interrupt her lunch as we stopped the car and snapped pictures. All the while a couple of guys from Florida are snapping their shutters and yelling, "No WAY this is a real deer. She's five feet from us. She's mechanical, right? You PLANT these deer in the ditches along the side of the road and when you pass a certain spot, she looks up?? Right on queue??"

Indeed, as if on queue, she looked up, twitched her ear, and went back to munching grass.

Despite Bambi and I's efforts to amaze my visitors, nothing we saw or experienced could eclipse Michael's favorite moment of the day - experiencing his first drive down a gravel road. At this point I might add that I delivered mail on gravel roads for 12 years and have great respect for them. But I also know how to drive them and I told Michael he didn't have to worry.

At 50 miles per hour, he just wasn't so sure.



With deepest apologies to Robert Waller and all due respect to Winterset and the bridges in all of their Midwestern splendor, it seems the gravel dust cloud was the favorite moment of the day.

THE ANSWER IS YES........................

The Camp Debbie staff makes every effort to provide a wholesome educational experience for each Camper Girl in attendance, as well as indulge in fun, frivolity and general merriment. So YES, Camper Virginia. The answer to the question on everyone's mind is....yes, indeed bears DO...............





Ok, well.................most bears.................




No matter WHAT you like to do in the woods, there is a place for you around the camp fire at Camp Debbie. Can't wait to see you Friday night!!!!!!
XO, Director Debbie loves you!!!!

CALLING ALL CAMPER GIRLS

Listen up, ladies!!
Friday, June 15. Rain or Shine and of course, everyone earns a new ring for their Camp Debbie necklace. Patch your tent, shake the dust off your sleeping bag and start saving crisp, new dollar bills for the stripper cop.....we need to get back to the woods!!!!

In addition to consumption of food and beverage we shall engage in the traditional merriment standards established by Camp Debbie's gone by by....

Moonlit Night, Down by the lake....
Late-night girls were trapped in the park, I melted the bottoms off my tennis shoes and a big, hairy man emerged from the dark looking for love in what he discovered were all the wrong places. Awakened by shotgun blasts at dawn, coincidentally, the opening day of duck hunting season.

Moonlight Night, In the park....
Scolded for noise violations by the friendly neighborhood sheriff who entered our circle and had a hard time convincing you camper girls that he wasn't a stripper hired by The Director. Why he didn't arrest one of us when Camper Ellen asked to see his gun is still a mystery. Who says cops don't have a sense of humor??

Moonlight Autumn Night, under the trees....
The usual consumption and merriment, pastoral by previous Camp Debbie standards until a mole burrowed up from below ground directly beneath Camper Deb's sleeping bag.

Darn Cold Moonlit Night, hmmm...where the heck were we....??
Last night of the camping season, deep into the month of October and cold as hell, good camper girls all believed her when The Director explained it's warmer to crawl into your sleeping bag naked but it made for a chilly sprint to the bathrooms in the middle of the night after all that beer and gave new meaning to the phrase "frost on the pumpkins".

Yet another ccccold and Moonlit night..........gathered round the fire circle at my Dad's empty farm house just before it sold. Sleeping bags covered the floors in every room and we were honored at the presence of a Prom Queen in full regalia. The next morning we all received our Camp Debbie honor and attendance necklaces.

I could go on and on.......there will be plenty of time for that around the next campfire. More info to come, let's start packing.......

Graduation Day ~ May 5, 2007

Having my son surprise me by flying in with my little granddaughter for my graduation meant alot to me. I hope someday, knowing that she was at her Grandma's college graduation, will be important to her. And I plan to be in the cheering section when she graduates, too.

There's no place like home, there's no place like home

In their day, rotating restaurants were the architectural cutting edge of fine establishments for discriminating diners. People would book reservations weeks in advance for a spot on the rotating floor of these restaurants, most of which were located somewhere near the top of (what were then) very tall buildings. In terms of todays wind-generated swaying towers in Dubai and roller coasters that careen off the top of hotels in Vegas, a rotating restaurant on the 15th floor of a modest hotel isn't architecturally remarkable, but they are a delicious little taste of seasons past. The Top of the Tower Restaurant at the Holiday Inn just off the freeway in my hometown was no exception. In it's day, the Top of the Tower was the hot-spot of choice for prom dates, anniversary dinners and (I've heard) clandestine romantic liasons.


How handy....great restaurant, hotel rooms just a short ride up the elevator. You get the picture. Of course I am referring to anniversary dates and romantic liasons, NOT of the prom-kind. It was a kinder, gentler era...remember??
No all night parties and girls who did it on prom night were naughty.

I digress.
Let's get back to the Top of the Tower at the Holiday Inn. No longer a restaurant, the place is now a lovely banquet ballroom, rented out for parties and such. Children of my friends held a beautiful wedding reception there recently, the first time I'd been in the place in many, many years. The bride and the groom were friends of my son, so he and his girlfriend were at the party too, their first visit.

Does it REALLY rotate? They wanted to know. I wasn't sure. The place first opened more than 40 years ago. That's alot of years for a restaurant/ballroom to keep spinning. When we arrived the large elevated circular floor was still in place, just as I remembered, but it was stationary. Maybe the floor didn't move anymore. We toasted the bride and groom, enjoyed our dinner and didn't give it much more thought.

After the cake, I got up from my chair to mingle and visit friends at other tables until the music started and the newlyweds stepped out on the floor for their first dance.

Time for a picture! I walked over to my table to retrieve my purse and camera from under it, where I'd tucked it. Did I consider it a little odd that a man and a woman had decided to take my seat after I'd gotten up? Not really. It was a good spot, right in front of the room by the bridal table and overlooking the dance floor. They probably wanted to move closer to be able to see what was going on.

"Excuse me," I interrupted the couple as they chatted. "I'm sorry to bother you, but if you'll excuse me, could I get my purse out from under the table. I left it under there, right down by your legs."

As I explained to them, I lifted up the draping of the tablecloth and tried reaching past them, under the table.

They looked a little perplexed. "We've been sitting here all night." they explained. "We don't have your purse."

I chuckled to myself. Ok, these folks probably have been enjoying the champagne, trust me people, I'm not trying to play with your legs. "If you wouldn't mind, it's just down under the table by your legs. If I could just get my purse, I don't mind if you sit here. I'll move. It's no problem. Really." I reached for the tablecloth near their legs again, determined to get my purse. Visions of identify theft ran through my head. Is that my drivers license I see hiding under her crumpled napkin on the table.....

"Lady. We got here early." the man said. "We've been sitting here ALL NIGHT. We DON'T have your purse." He got up from the table and with a little more disgust than gentlmanly flourish, pulled back the draping of the cloth. "SEE?? Like we said. NO PURSE."

I thought I was going to cry. Something wasn't right. Have I fallen and can't get up? The room was funny. I felt funny. Who has stolen my purse. Am I still in Kansas? Oh Auntie Em, Auntie Em, where are my ruby slippers.....

"MA!"

I recognize the voice of my son, somewhere in the distance. It has a vague ring of familiarity combined with subtle (?) overtones of impatience. He's rolling his eyes. No, I don't have my glasses on so no, I can't see them. But they're rolling. I FEEL it.

"MA!!! OVER HERE." My own eyes, not unlike those of some startled doe blinded by the surprise of headlights, dart around in the direction of his summons. I'm further confused to find him sitting with all our friends on the other side of the room. When did they move? Why did they move? How was I supposed to know they moved? Are they playing tricks on me? Is it my imagination or is the wind coming up?? Toto!!!??? Toto!!!!!!!!!!???? Find the cellar door......!!!!!

I can see his eyes rolling now as my son walks straight towards me and takes my arm. "It's moving, Mom. The restaurant is rotating. Come here and leave those nice people alone. This is your table over here."

Oh.
Rotating. Well yes, of course. That's it. The room is rotating.
Fussing with the edge of the tablecloth, trying to smooth it back into place, the nice man shoos me on my merry way like some sort of annoying summer bug as I try to explain my behavior in as few sentences as possible.

"It moves, you see. Well, what I mean is........how funny this is, you're going to think this is the funniest thing, I'm sure of it! You see, I was here before, actually. Well, apparently actually not, but......well my goodness it seems you are right. This is your table. And that is mine! How funny is that........I mean about my purse! Of course that's not my license under your napkin, we don't even look alike, what good would it do you.........."

"Mom, tell the nice people goodbye." My son insists, pulling me off in the direction of familar faces and the comforting sight of my own wine glass.

Now I know what Grandma feels like when she wanders off from the nursing home during the attendants afternoon smoke break.

Remembering

Sun-fried and exhausted from a day at a California beach, my aunt handed me the phone and I listened to my mom, on the other end of the line back home in the Midwest, as she told me my best friend's brother had been killed in Vietnam.

1969?? I think. He was a few short days from coming home after a long tour. Wife, new baby. He was the big brother every little sister looks up to. Wild and fun with some fire in his eyes. I helped pack one of the boxes his mom sent off to him every few weeks. Canned cherry pie filling was his favorite. "Don't worry Mom," his last letter said. "They moved me in off the line now since I'm coming home soon. I'm as safe as if I was right there at home with you and Dad."

He came home right on schedule, wrapped in a flag.

Twenty or so years later, I stood on a small town sidewalk and waved goodbye as bus loads of National Guard troops left town, destined for the Middle East and what American History would remember as Desert Storm. It's funny, the one thing I remember about that day was the bright, yellow gloves I was wearing. I stared at them as I waved, knowing that history repeats itself, the timing seemed uncomfortably right. I knew the next time I waved like this, it would likely be at one of my own sons.

As it fell into place, some years later, my son flew out of a military base in California and I didn't get a chance to wave goodbye to him at all. He called me from the airport before he climbed onto the plane that was the start of his journey to Iraq to tell me not to worry and remind me that no matter what happened, he was proud to be an American soldier doing what he felt was right. I remember thinking of all those cans of cherry pie filling as I said goodbye.

At the disconnect of a cell phone began the intolerable echo of defeaning silence, a silence that rang so loud in my ears I couldn't sleep for many nights.

My son came home.
Many did not.
This weekend I will bake him a cherry pie and take time to remember.

Bi-Partisan Lunch

The promise of a melt-in-your-mouth tuna melt seems good enough reason to stand in the door of Francie's around noon, testing out the theory that staring down diners who happened to be smarter than you and showed up early can be shamed into wolfing their lunch, thus sparing you the indignity of public stomach gurgling and fainting dead away while clinging to the hope of impending sustenance.

I shared my stare-down theory with the lady standing next to me last Friday, inviting her to join in the exercise and it didn't take long for the two of us to agree that the key to making people feel guilty is definitely eye contact........and most folks make little of it when dipping fries in ketchup.

"So," I asked her, turning from our research project, "how's life after the big house??"

We'd never met before but I knew she'd recently moved from a pretty impressive home. Folks around here call the place Terrace Hill. Christie Vilsak laughed and said it was really fun, sort of like starting all over.

"We bought a condo and it's alot smaller of course. I used to have an office and now I just have a chair where I pile things. We've got four plates, two or three forks...you know how it is when you first start out?? That's us. We keep bumping into eachother in the hallway."

I'm sitting here looking around my place and I think I need to hold a general election, the term of all this STUFF needs to expire. How long have I been here? Four years. Four years from a little apartment with a few boxes of stuff and I have somehow over the months, in the name of "someday I might need it", accumulated more stuff than one person could ever be expected to use.

Problem #1 - Yes. I am a pack rat. I can take a clean space and fill in the corners with stuff. I love stuff. I must. No one else is hauling it in the front door.

Problem #2 - Once I have stuff, I forget that I have it. Frequently I find myself purchasing stuff I need, only to discover a short while later, I now have double stuff.

Problem #3 - Well of course, someday I might need it.

Old dogs can learn new tricks. Debbie can learn a thing or two from a Democrat. Christie is onto something. If the former governor/presidential candidate and his wife don't need more than a couple of forks, what am I doing with a whole drawer full of them??

Extracurricular Activities

 

All work and no play makes Debbie a dull girl.
Thus I agreed to visit a nearby casino and learn the fine art of playing BINGO. Thinking it would put some sort of cosmic odds in my favor, I bought the Elvis-Themed four-pack of dot-dobbers. Sadly, I went home empty-handed, but my spent bingo-sheets had enough fuschia and orange dobs to make a fine 70's sort of wallpaper.

Graduation Day

On the day I graduated with my business degree there were cameras flashing all day long. Eventually I will sort all of the photos out into some sort of sensible order. My little 3-year old granddaughter flew in to surprise me for the ceremony that day. Always and forever, this will be my favorite memory.

This age thing....

Perhaps repeated attempts by the AARP to recruit me into their fold like some sort of aged, greying ewe should have been a solid clue but until this evening I really have not felt like a woman of 50 years, much less what many young people call folks my age..........OLD. Well, I'm feeling it tonight, all right.

I live in a neighborhood of automatic garage doors and nameless, faceless people who drive in and out of them. I've joked many times but it's true--Osama Bin Laden may very well be hiding out in any one of the townhouse units in my block. No one would ever know. He could be coordinating the entire network of his bad-guy crew from a laptop in a living room just across the driveway while I'm standing at my morning stove making oatmeal. The only time I learn anything about my neighbors is when they move out. Or they move in, as is the case this evening.

Even as I watch the NCIS coroner dissect some poor, murdered fellow on my evening tube, I see from the corner of my eye activity beyond my window where the contents of a large livestock trailer are being unloaded into the vacant townhouse across the street. In the drop of a tailgate, the crash of a set of box springs this peaceful, idyllic and oh-so blissfully anonymous life as I have known it, is passing before my eyes. It appears that the boys from Animal House are moving in.

Somewhere from way back in my Sunday School years I remember a Bible verse instructing me not to judge my neighbor by the condition of their cattle trailer, but seven guys under the age of 25 unloading a truckload of personal belongings............all neatly smashed into drawstring trashbags....worries me just a tad. Even as a fight the impulse to pull out binoculars and sneak upstairs for a much closer look, I fear the quiet spring nights of falling asleep to the comforting sound of the croaking frogs in the nearby woods, will soon be but a memory.

Neighbors!!! Hey you, yes YOU over there living in the other units. Are you peeking out YOUR front windows, too?? Do you SEE what's going on here?? Are you worried?? I see KEGS in our future, people!!! Kegs and kegs and more kegs. Tell me you're worried, too!!!

They're wearing ball caps. BALL CAPS!!!! And they're talking loud. Really loud. And wearing NFL t-shirts. And one of them is leaning out the upstairs window shouting at the others. (Didn't I see this scene, this VERY scene, in Animal House II: Nightmare on Brook Run Drive??? Hey!!! Wait just a minute, I LIVE on Brook Run Drive!!!) And they're all GUYS, have I mentioned that. All guys. There must be hundreds of them. Oh THERE GO MY QUIET NIGHTS OF PEACEFUL SLEEP..........

I remind myself to get a grip.
Wait a minute, Deb. Things could be worse. They could worship Satan or something.
Oh. My. God. THEY COULD WORSHIP SATAN!!!!!! OR SOMETHING!!!!!
Worse yet, they'll play loud music. At all hours, no doubt!! Dear Lord, tell me those are matching dressers and not stereo speakers they are dragging across the lawn and in through the front door.

The trailer just left. The front door closed and the garage door went down. All is quiet.
Ok, well maybe they'll fit in.....

Listen to me. When did I start worrying more about my good nights sleep and less about whether any of those boys might have single dads?

Age. Now I know.
It happens. Gradually and ever-so- slowly. But it happens.