Backyard Mystery

It's painfully bright sunshine out there -- why do these pictures come out so gloomy blue?  But anyhow, here's the question:

What made this weird stuff in the snow?  It doesn't seem to track off anywhere, so I'd guess it wasn't the deer.

I'll include a closeup -- best I can get with this vintage camera and through the window -- to assist in your speculations.
(and no, I don't think it's plops of snow fallen from the trees --  most of these are out in the open.) 

Big Brother is Alive and Well

     You probably know about tinnitus (can be pronounced either way).  I’ve had it for years – sometimes buzzing, hissing or sirens in the ears, sometimes along the lines of people talking softly in another room.  It’s great how the brain ignores it most of the time.  Maybe you already have it – if so, get your hearing checked because it is sometimes an early warning.
     But in the last couple of weeks, something entirely new.   Driving, I found myself wondering if the radio was on very low.  Finally nailed it down – when I turn my head, which evidently happens a lot in driving,  I hear a musical note.  Shake my head back and forth and it’s two notes, chimes, a third apart.  Shake more quickly and it gets louder.

     So of course I immediately diagnosed brain tumor!!  An exchange of emails with my physician, though, convinced me it’s just another form of tinnitus.  And -- this is relevant -- I noted that in my journal, a folder in Microsoft Word.

     Okay, so today when I got on the computer, I immediately found myself facing an ad for a tinnitus remedy.  You tell me – how did They find out about this?  I wouldn’t like to think that fancy medical site is open to any interested ad agency.  Nor is the idea of my journal being snooped a particularly happy thought. 

And as I was writing this, I was interrupted by a phone call from the supermarket.  Would I be willing to join a panel to evaluate fresh orange juice?  Well, at least that one’s no mystery – because I dutifully offer that Shoppers Club card every time I check out, they know that fresh orange juice is one of my biggest extravagances.  

Maytime Revisited

    I woke before dawn,  clicked on the bedroom tv, and the movie, just starting, was Maytime.  Immediately I was back more than three-quarters of a century, a child in the dark in a little movie theatre in a little village.    
     Would the story of Jeanette Macdonald and Nelson Eddy, their one perfect day in May with those apple blossoms filling the screen, still strike me as wildly romantic?  Would I still cry at the end?  Would those voices still seem marvelous?
     Well, I did notice a few things that had escaped me when I was 12.  He does sing through his nose a bit, and I can't really judge her because I can  no longer hear high notes at all.   I don't know all that much about opera, but I question whether a world-famous prima donna would really star in everything from Delibes to Wagner.  I no longer think "You must give up your career for love" is a valid piece of advice -- that was so 1930s.
     And when Eddy is shot by jealous husband John Barrymore (over-acting with Shakesperean grimaces) I just know we're now going to get that standard Hollywood scene. 
     Yes, here it comes: she rushes to cradle the dying man's head in her arms and yes, she never thinks to stanch the flow of blood or call for a doctor.  Instead on cue she leans into the camera to catch his dying words.  Clearly, with perfect delivery, in that thrilling baritone he says "You'll never be alone.  I'll always be with you."  After which his eyes suddenly close and his head drops abruptly on her arm. 
     I meant to reach for my notepad and jot down the exact words so I could report them to you accurately.  But I couldn't.  I was crying.
     Real tears.

Frigid Morning

Outside my window right now, the kids in the house behind us are skating

 

 

and the deer are watching them.

Predeceased Frivolity

Still reading the obits, gang, and I must share with you this one from yesterday's paper.  There's that ugly phrase again -- She is predeceased by -- and if I was sure I knew how to photoshop this, I could narrow your attention to the last pre-deceser mentioned, sister-in-law Joyce Cuva. 

 

It's just as well Joyce is no longer with us.  She just might resent the typo?  omitted sentence?  dropped mention of a pet?  that refers to her in so frivolous a manner at a solemn time like this.

Correction

For some reason I couldn't find the "comment" icon, and I needed to correct that last post.   Finally did find an "edit" button.  Freddie's father isn't the Duke of Kent, he's the Duke's younger brother Prince Michael.  Correspondent points out that a first cousin of the Queen's seems a bit old to have a son playing soccer with my honorary grandson Ben, but there it is.   Freddie's mother is the one known in some circles as Princess Pushy.

Traveling Much in Rochester

     "I have traveled much," says Thoreau, "in Concord."  And it seems I'm traveling much right now, simply sitting in this desk chair.  Just now, a couple of days after I posted about my skype visits in New York and California, Ben calls again from Los Angeles.  It's the first time I've ever had anyone Skype from outdoors (can one do it from a cell phone?)  and I'm in a position to report there's blue sky in LA right now, and lots of sunshine. 
     They're at the weekly soccer game.  I watch Nathan kicking the ball manfully, I'm introduced as "my grandmother" to Ben's teammate Freddy, and I see half a dozen spectators on the bench.  This morning those include Freddy's visiting father, the Queen's first cousin Prince Michael. 
      I didn't take a picture of the bench, so I'll show you instead one of Freddy's father with some of his other relatives.


 

Register for the draft before your 18th birthday.

Still almost all women, few men back from the war yet.

In yesterday's obituaries, a 91-year-old woman about whom it says she graduated magna cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa from Syracuse University School of Journalism in 1944 and “was editor of the school paper, the Daily Orange.”  I find myself offended by “school paper”, which somehow trivializes that impressive publication.  Besides, I don’t recognize her name,  though I was already working on that newspaper by 1944.  I’ll bet she was simply a junior editor.  I was that myself, never mind the cum laude and Phi Bete, and I’ll bet my kids would never think of putting any of that in my death notice.  But she had no children.  I wonder if she wrote the obit herself.  These days I not only read the obits, I find myself looking at the list of survivors and trying to picture the person who wrote the notice.

I am reminded of the morning after my sister Esther died.  I had taken over  a proposed obit.  Cousin Betty came in (with a casserole of course) and I was just telling her how complicated it was, trying to get the job done in a house full of writers, when Martha came over, gave me a worried look, and said “I don’t want to interrupt, Aunt Edith, but why did you use a semi-colon here instead of a comma?”

Coast to Coast

I think of my grandparents, who left for America knowing they were cutting themselves off forever -- they'd never see their parents again, never hear their voices.  And now -- look what happened just yesterday.  In the morning Ben skyped from Los Angeles, whole family, Nathan wanted me to show him some snow. 



 And in the evening, someone set up a laptop and I was there in Manhattan, watching Dov and Connie arrive from Vancouver, joining in the brochas over the candles (that's the picture I should have taken; it was lovely) and then virtually (meaning of that word has changed btw) sitting at the dinner table.

  The conversation was a lot more lively than this snap of my screen looks (I show up as the ghostly bit up in the corner.)  The kids will take all this for granted, but I'll never cease being amazed at what a world we live in.  No problem that I couldn't actually eat -- I don't really like latkes anyhow.

Exciting Adventure!

My winter coat had a loose button this morning, and it needed tightening.  It needed mending -- and that's when I realized it's been a great many years since I've even sewed on a button.  The process was downright exciting, opening that jumbled drawer with all those spools of thread, and the cute little scissors, and yes, a thimble.  Even a pincushion.  If you'd asked me, did I own a pincushion, I wouldn't have known.  But I do, I do!
Hard to believe, but long ago I used all that stuff -- to sew merit badges on boy scout sashes, to hem something we bought one size too big so (s)he could grow into it.  The whole exercise triggered a trip into the way way past.  Today I wasn't sure I'd be able to thread the needle, but I did! I could!
I still can!

Happy Birthday!

Melmac Memories

How could I have forgotten?  Story in the current New Yorker brings back memories –  1950s,  house full of boomer babies,  and in the kitchen – MELMAC !!  We were so lucky to live in exciting modern times, when you could actually buy sturdy colorful dishes that the kids couldn’t break!

In a web site for Melmac collectors (yes, of course there are Melmac collectors) I just found this -- it looks almost like what we bought 60 years ago -- but we had tumblers as well, and I think we bought two sets.  Our neighbors did the same,  and then we cleverly swapped.  They took all the yellow and orange ones, we took the turquoise and grey.  Hard to believe I felt good about that, but I did.

As the years went on and the kids got older, eating off dull turquoise plates – and drinking from grey 'glasses' -- lost its appeal.  We replaced it with blue-and-white Johnson Brothers china, and I gave the Melmac set, still intact, to -- ???  Maybe to my sister?   At any rate, I do recall that whoever had it next complained to me one day that the damn stuff wouldn’t break.  

Snowbound

Not a post -- just an update.  Definitely snowbound.  But I don't need to go anywhere anyhow, and for your viewing pleasure, here are a couple of birds that just stopped at the feeders by my desk window.   

So We Need Help

So I start reading this review of "So We Read On" and then I decide to save it instead -- it'll be more interesting if I read the book first. 

 

So I get the book from the library, start to read it and then decide to save it instead -- it'll be more interesting if I go back and re-read "The Great Gatsby" first.
But it seems there's no longer a copy of Gatsby in this house, so I find it on the Internet.  The University in Adelaide opines that it's no longer copyrighted in Australia, https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/f/fitzgerald/f_scott/gatsby/chapter1.htmland and their screen is most attractive.
But my back hurts sitting at the desk.  It'd be great to finish the remaining chapters lying down. 
So I dig out the Kindle I haven't opened in a year or two.  But I've forgotten how to download onto the Kindle. 

I already have the novel on my desk computer...or am I just signing on to that web site when I read?  How do I get the novel on to the Kindle? 
Someone's attention to this matter would be greatly appreciated. 
Then I could go back and read the library book. Then I could go back and read the review. 
          Which is where we started. 
          Thanking you in advance, 
                               I remain.

L'Avant-Midi d'Une Old Lady

Wake early as usual, turn off security system and bring in newspaper – for what it’s worth.  It weighs four ounces these days.

Not-quite-breakfast: apple and a chunk of cheese. 

Back to bed, read paper.

Turn on bedroom tv and the movie is the Romeo and Juliet that Zefferelli made in the 1960s.


 



Immediate memory of Dottie, BF (we bought houses next door to each other) but sadly, not F.  They saw that movie before we did, and I can still remember her report:

“The theatre was full of 14-year-old girls and they were all crying.  I was crying too and hoping that somehow it would have a different ending this time.”

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37zp71EOf8g&list=PLzUIsdnldl_hHav9WSLqDq36NPv2Tqi-C



Roger Tory Peterson signed our bird books!

 

Is Nowhere Safe?

I thought it a bit excessive when the Chevy I bought last February received its third recall this year.  But it seems danger lurks everywhere -- this just in:  

 

Greetings from Amazon.com.
We have learned of a potential issue regarding certain product(s) that our records indicate you purchased through the Amazon.com website:

Screaming Meanie Timer and Alarm Clock with 120 dB Alarm - assorted colors

For more details on what you should do, please contact Pacific Cornetta at dave.nelson@pacific-cornetta.com.
If you purchased this item for someone else, please notify the recipient immediately and provide them with the information concerning these issues.
We regret any inconvenience this may cause you but trust you will understand that the safety and satisfaction of our customers is our highest priority.
Thanks for shopping at Amazon.com.
Sincerely,

Some of my Thanksgiving visitors took that alarm clock (still in original package) because their son has trouble waking up. This is terrible!!  What if something horrible happens to my grandson and it's all my fault for buying that Screaming Meanie???!!!  As Amazon cautions: please notify the recipient immediately and provide them with the information  I won't rest until  you GET IN TOUCH WITH SIMON AND WARN HIM!!!

Good thing they went home by train.  At an airport they might have been arrested for trying to hijack a plane with an alarm clock. 

Things Change

We're back-and-forthing via email (family coming from Los Angeles, Scotland, Milwaukee, Manhattan, Boston)  to plan Thanksgiving dinner.  My query about whether the shopping list should call for whole squash or packages of cut-up chunks brings this response, from someone I still regard as one of the young women: 
It annoys me to pay people to cut up squash...it is just not that hard to do.
I'd like to think I felt that way at her age, but I can't remember.  At any rate -- these days I'm the exact opposite of annoyed.  Almost anything is indeed that hard to do, and I'm delighted if I can find someone else to do it.

Edith and the Perfectly Fine, Warm and Toasty Copacetic Week

Sorry, keep forgetting to give you an update.  This is a much better week.  Both cars are  now in running order (okay, the one outside is encased in ice, but if it ever thaws I believe it'll work just fine.)   I'm wearing two perfectly good hearing aids.  I have not had a stroke.  We did not get all that snow, just a pretty coating.   I looked at my face in the mirror and wondered why on earth I thought a few new blemishes would even be noticed in among all the rest of the wear and tear.  (No illustration available.) 
Everything is copacetic.  If you're too young for that word,  you can look it up.  Wikipedia lists five possible etymologies, "all of which lack supporting evidence."  But it describes this week.

 

 

co·pa·cet·ic

ˌkōpəˈsetik/

adjective

North Americaninformal

adjective: copacetic; adjective: copasetic

1. in excellent order.

Edith and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

 Edith and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

Actually, I’m perfectly cheerful.  Wotthehell !  But you know – I'd love to list everything that’s happened since Monday. And this blog is, after all, supposed to be about Being Old.  So
* First thing Monday morning, the white electric car wouldn’t start.  Lots of back-and-forthing with the service department and it’s still dead five days later.
* Monday --  Doctor said yes, as I suspected, I'd had a TIA mini-stroke (no illustration.)
* Backed little yellow car into post while leaving doctor’s parking lot (you don’t want to see that rear end.) Won’t be able to have scrapes fixed till electric car useable. (see above)
* Googled TIA on Internet, where first four sites all said “one in three go on to have a stroke” – one site added helpfully “within a year.”  Decided not to look at any more sites.
* At audiologist's, ldropped off  right hearing aid to be sent out for repair.
* At dermatologist's (see below) discovered left hearing aid had fallen out somewhere.  Conversation muffled.
* Called audiologist and heard with difficulty over the phone that hearing aid insurance recently expired.
* At library, was told I never returned that book I cannot find.  Also owed $9.35 overdue charges.
* At dentist’s office told appointment no good, protocol changed yet again, must prepare with antibiotics (re old hip replacement), pick up prescription, come back next week.
* Had not one but two of those migraine auras or whatever you call them.  They’re not all that irritating but they make this list more impressive so I’m including them.
* Friday, today,  had three pre-cancerous thingies removed from face.  Will I look human by Thanksgiving? ( latest count is 21 for dinner.)
* Yesterday suddenly couldn’t breathe, throat abruptly closed up, first laryngeal spasm I've had since the summer.  As usual, thought I was going to die.  As usual, didn’t.
* So that was good.  And it’s only Friday.  Stay tuned.

Unsolved Mystery

I arrived at the Crab Shack in Henrietta (Hta?) at ten to six, nd parked next to a shiny red Chevy Spark.  This is worth mention, as my little car is evidently no big seller – I think that’s only the fifth Spark I’ve seen since I bought mine in February.

The pleasant girls at the reception desk had only one six o’clock reservation – for 18 persons, pharmaceutical company gathering, so I settled down on a couch near their desk and watched the passing scene.  Not a face I recognized.  Not a clue. 

At ten after six I ordered take-out clams, which came after ten more minutes, and I left at twenty after six.  (If I remember right, you had to give a full professor twenty minutes?)

Sixteen dollars brought one of the smallest orders of fried clams I’ve ever seen.  I’m not sure the chef could get a job in Maine, but maybe it’s just that things no longer taste the way I remember.  They were indeed whole clams, though, soft-bellied, with a whiff of the sea when you bit into them.  Wish I’d thought to take a picture when they arrived so you could share the whole experience, but I hadn’t had any supper and I’m afraid I drove home one-handed.

Crab Suspense

Okay, gang -- the day we've all been waiting for.  This evening at 6 pm I go to the Crab Shack in Henrietta, in response to a cryptic note on my calendar that says 
6 Hta Crab Shack
or maybe that's not what it says.  Those of you who commented didn't seem to think so.
By this time tomorrow it will be over.  We may know all.  Or we may not.
I looked up the menu -- you can't read it, but it lists fried clams.  I kind of doubt that.  I don't think there's anything but clam strips once you get west of Albany.
So exciting!  Suspense all round.

Stock Tip

Last winter, when the land was full of snowbanks and driving Norm's car felt like piloting an ocean liner, I traded it in on the smallest four-door sold.  I know it doesn't look it,  but that's a four-door -- and it comes in yellow!

I just received my third recall notice -- that's one every three months. 
 
They write that this is General Motors recall 14456.  That's the zip code for Geneva, about 30 miles from here. 
They're definitely running scared.
          If you have GM stock, my considered advice is -- SELL!  

Peaceable Kingdom

As we speak, three stags lying around in the backyard -- pictures just taken from my desk.  They won't be this amicable in the spring, that's for sure.

Mystery

I'll be grateful if anyone reading this can tell me why I've written "6 (if that is a 6) Hta Crab Shack" on the calendar for a week from today. 
Yes, it'll be Julie's birthday.  
The Sage Rutty I understand.
The M-J  I'm going to skip and it's just as well if you don't know what it is. 
But do you think I should go to the Crab Shack in Henrietta (next town over) at six next Wednesday evening?
And stand by the entrance? 
And see what happens? 
If anything?

Thank you Ma'am.

Amy reports that, yellow being the suffragette's color,  she took a yellow rose to Susan B. Anthony's grave this morning.  People had already been there, leaving two pots of roses, a stone with a ribbon on it, 27 assorted pebbles, and -- as we did last year at this time -- an I VOTED TODAY sticker.