Category Archives: Ramblings

Random thoughts and memoirs.

If I Could Buy One…

16 Thursday Oct 2014

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If I could buy one, I would buy two.  Doesn’t matter what, really.  If I like it, two or even three, might be better.  Just in case I lose it, or use it all up, and can never find it again.

I would of necessity put the original safely in plain view,
Just so in my old age, I don’t forget that I have a new object to play with; or eat.

As for the rest of the backups, well, they can get stuffed where ever I find space: a drawer, a cabinet, the back of the refrigerator. It really doesn’t matter.

Sometimes when rummaging through my house I come across one or more of these back-up necessities of life. I turn them side-to-side, top-to-bottom, and wonder why I ever needed so many yellow ceramic ducks in raincoats … or whatever the item might be.

But inevitably my lips curl into a broad smile as I recall the memory of where I was when I purchased it, and who among my loved ones rolled their eyes and laughed with me that day.

So after a minute of rekindling the relationship I gently stuff my treasure back in the closet, or squish it onto the bottom shelf of the refrigerator near the grapes, knowing in the not too distant future I will trip over it again. And it will fill my day with sunshine and laughter.

Joshua

26 Tuesday Aug 2014

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It was 1992. As a self-described plain person, I felt overwhelmed at the opulence of the hotel; plush carpets, huge 200 year old portraits hung on walls, white columns, gilded ivy. We waited quietly in line. Whispers seemed the appropriate demeanor. Our turn to enter the restaurant came soon enough and my husband and I were seated by a waif-like young woman with kind eyes and a bright smile.
Two hundred and forty six small lights circled the north and south walls, we were told. And the mahogany panels on the east side were first placed in 1856. A wall of window, floor to ceiling, was on the west. Classical music filled the air, created by a middle aged musician seated at a grand piano in the center of the enormous room.
We waited for about 15 minutes for our son to join us, and then he walked in. Tall, straight, handsome as only an 18 year old young man could be. Neatly pressed in gray, shoes shining, brass buttons gleaming. A very small smile crawled across his lips when he spotted us and walked our way. It was the first time we had seen him in uniform.
I remember that day, breakfast in the grand ballroom of the Thayer Hotel at West Point. I would always marvel at the incongruity of the opulence, the gold and alabaster columns, the classical music gently soothing, while in the bright sunshine on the other side of arched windows helicopters rose and landed and tanks rolled across the bright green grass of the plain.
I looked at my son’s face, bright and eager, and wondered what the next few years would be like in his new world.

New Year’s Eve Traditions

30 Monday Dec 2013

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I don’t remember New Year’s Eve growing up. Did we celebrate? I haven’t a clue.
Looking back to my young adult life there are shadows of memories, parties, mistletoe, uncomfortable whispers about being single. Trying to act like I was having fun.
And then time skips like a record jumping the track, and the music playing is in very early married life. BC. Before children. Parties, music, laughter, people loud and boisterous, high on booze. Elliot and I sitting in a corner snacking on liver pate and crackers, wondering what the hell we were doing there.
Another time-space jump finds us in our own home with three kids. New Year’s Eve suddenly became important. Yes, they could stay up. Yes, they could taste the champagne, but only a sip! Those were the fun years, the five of us huddled around the table, big platters of deli meat: turkey, roast beef, salami, tongue, pickles, sauerkraut, mustard, rye bread, potato salad, coleslaw, chips, soda. Thick sandwiches, gooey cake for dessert. The television stayed on, watching the ball drop in Times Square. The countdown, the hugs and kisses, then off to bed with full tummies.
True, the years were sprinkled with occasional parties that so many years later still found Elliot and me huddled over a bowl of chips wondering what the hell we were doing there. Followed by a quick retreat home the following year.
Decades have passed. All too quickly the kids are gone. Parties still attempted occasionally, but more often refused.
Lavish food no longer tolerated late at night. All that remains is watching the ball drop in Times Square, then a sip of champagne, a spoonful of gooey dessert, and off to bed.