Week in review

 I’m not too sure how this will go - I’m avoiding my laptop due to unfriendly incursions and am writing this on my iPad. 

Last weekend we had an extended family event. One of the great-nephews had his first communion. Since this branch of the family trekked across several states to attend our grandsons’ three separate Bar Mitzvahs, the least My Guy and I could was go to mass a couple of towns over. 

I’m a very lapsed Episcopalian so these milestones have been quite the learning experience.  As I grow older some of these rituals don’t always make sense to me, but the church was pretty. Unfortunately I spent much of my time mulling over the medieval need to bring entertainment to the lower orders with fancy icons and impressive pomp  

On Monday I was waiting for an x-ray on my knee when this notice in the waiting room caught my attention  

Somehow messages warning against “aggressive behavior” make me feel less, not more safe.

And today a friend and I went to a very be-flowered tearoom awash in tablecloths and tea cups. They really get into the spirit, offering a trunk full of hats and fascinators for those who feel the need. 

And I found a new friend.

Peaceful distraction

 

          Gentle yoga went well yesterday, a happy change from last week when my knee was still behaving like one of Satan’s minions. On Monday my doctor suggested the possibility of a damaged meniscus and sent me off for an x-ray. Happily, not only did he give a prescription for a super-duper non-inflammatory med, the x-ray results said it had just been arthritis rearing its ugly head. Less happily, my stomach’s not too sure how it feels about this med so I’m treading carefully with that.

          But. . . much better knee so yoga went well.

          Before class began, a friend and I had a big discussion about arthritis and feet. Aging – flat feet – plantar fasciitis, and in no time the lady in back of us scooted over to show us her “barefoot” sneakers. Turns out she’s a waitress and those + orthotic inserts have saved her life.

          We went through our usual routine- stretching, a little down dog, a few warrior stances, and soon we were in the end of the session rest mode, flat on our mats, eyes closed.  I thought I even heard a quiet snore from my friend to the left.

          We began by visualizing somewhere we felt “happy, safe, and at peace.” I always pick the same place I use when I’m having my blood pressure taken (trying to keep my numbers low). I’m lying on our old swim dock on the lake – I’m alone, the sun is beating down, and the waves are gently rocking me. I could analyze the fact that I’m also isolated from anyone else, but that’s for another day.

           Then we were told to imagine a white light scanning over us, toes to top. This always makes me think creepily of an alien examination, probably not the experience our teacher wanted us to summon.

          The room quieted to almost silence which then was interrupted by pot banging from the caterer next door that rents the kitchen from our YMCA. Silence reigned again, although like waiting for the other shoe to fall, I was listening for the next pot bang.

          A little silence, then along came the train that runs alongside the building, tooting out “shave and a haircut, two bits.”

         

Aroma Travels

 

They say smells are strong memory triggers. For me, there are even some that I can recall without even smelling them, like the chlorine smell of the hospital room when both of my kids were born.

Danger Signals

 

This morning I lay in bed listening to the familiar gobble!gobble!gobble! outside. But then I
heard it followed by a sort of continuous clickclickclickclick.

Was this the mating call of a female turkey? Turns out it was another sort of call.

          I must really need more excitement in my life because I got out of bed to look.

No turkeys, but as I stood at the window a bobcat passed by, about ten feet from my window. I think I’ll be taking a good look and a deep breath before venturing out in the backyard to garden.

         

          I’d received a worrisome email from my bank a couple of days ago, congratulating my on my successful change of password. WHAT????

          I immediately called my good friends at the bank’s fraud division. After two different conversations and much entering and re-entering information I entered another ID and password, re-upped the phone online facial recognition check, and changed the connecting email account from Gmail to Yahoo.

          (Since over the winter we had our Verizon account hacked, our bank accounts – 3 X -, our brokerage account, and My Guy’s computer hacked, we’re old hands at this stuff)

          Well, at 2am that night I received another email from my bank telling me I’d been locked out of the online access and I needed to go back in and change passwords. Hmmm.

1.    Even though it looked legit at first, when we compared it to another message from the bank, it was different.

2.    It was sent to my Gmail account, which was no longer the email on record.

Young Love

 

Tom is outside my window at this very moment, proclaiming to the world that he’s got his woman and no one had better mess with her. Or him.

If he could fling his arm negligently over her shoulder (assuming he had an arm and she had a shoulder) in the style of teenage love everywhere, I bet he’d do it.

The non-stop gobbling is pretty impressive, too.

         Earlier today when I was out gardening he and I almost had our own High Noon moment, staring each other down across the backyard.

I sat very still, thoughts of sharp turkey talons on my mind, but he eventually took a left and cut past the garage.

 

Drips and stretches

 

   

      It arrived this morning at 4:30 a.m., and not on little cat feet. More like stegosaurus stumps.

Boob Tube Times

 

I’m grateful to have grown up in a time period when tv was so new, parents didn’t worry about what it might be doing to their kids. Granted, for me it also helped that I was mildly neglected by my mom and so was pretty much left to my own devices.

Playing in the Mud

 

First, to be clear – I have no, repeat, NO artistic ability. Even my handwriting is so poor that I used to avoid writing on the blackboard when I was a teacher.

But I may have found my medium.

Just as something for fun, a friend and I signed up for a pottery class. Outside of those ashtrays (did teachers in the 1950s think that everyone’s family smoked? Good thing mine did – like chimneys.) that we all made in elementary school, I haven’t willingly put a pinky in mud for the past umpteen years.

But I’m hooked.

We begin with a giant lump of clay. 

Kind of daunting. 

Then I rolled some of it between giant rollers remarkably like a big pasta machine. 

But now what to do with it? 

There was lots of guidance on technique, but we could make anything we wanted. 

After they've been fired in the kiln.

Then dipping in the glazes. 

And after another firing:

Now if I can just find a place for all the results. 

The family had better watch out at Christmas. 

The Girls

 Zoom call at 5:00 last night, as I kept repeating to myself all day, lest I forget.

I also kept checking email, because our organizer, Christine, still hadn’t sent the link. By 4:00, what with packing to head back to Massachusetts and cleaning and doing laundry, I’d forgotten. So at 4:45 I was out in the garage sorting the car and gathering up the DampRid (moisture-gathering bags to hang in closets) I’d stored there.

By the I’d wandered inside it was 5:15 and I had a text reminding me to join the gang. I had of course just turned off my computer, so I revved that up, checked its camera to see if I could be seen, and clicked “join Zoom”.

It was another of the every-few-months-or-so gatherings of my girl friends from Washington-Lee High School in Arlington, Va. No particular agenda, just a chance to catch up. The players are pretty diverse.

We know me – Massachusetts resident, visitor to Florida, retired teacher, writer, grandma of 5.

Chris – Maryland retired college prof and historian, so Irish her mom had had a faint brogue, Catholic elementary school and then enthusiastic convert to Judaism after marriage, Bat Mitzvah and all.

Sheila – West Virginian resident in a small art-colony sort of town, stained glass artist who has had one of her works on the White House Christmas tree, three husbands in the rear view mirror, and now barely eking out a living and on Medicare.

Andrea – Hawaii, resident of Lahaina, whose home thankfully sat above the August 2023 wildfires, former tv producer, and who looks very tired, likely from caring for a husband who recently turned 101.

          The conversation ran through politics – we’re all unabashedly liberal; travel – some of us can, some of us now can’t; watching old musicals with granddaughters; health (inevitably); and oddly, no reminiscences about the past.

          There may be time for that yet, because by the close of the call we’d vowed to each other to meet in person. We made plans to get together next fall, in California to simplify travel for Andrea, with the subtext that Chris and I would do whatever it took to get Sheila there, too.

          Exciting!!

Splurging

 

I figured one last indulgence before we leave would be a shopping trip. Florida clothes are different, and with all their bejeweling and glitter not the sort of thing that a Northerner like me would usually wear. Except for the fabrics. At home the tee shirts are heavier, thicker, and when Massachusetts hits the 90s, as it often does, it would be good to have something to cover as much of me as possible without buckling under the heat.

If I only had a brain

 

One small benefit of a bum knee and being unable to play pickleball is that I now lounge in the mornings instead of bounding onto the court at 8:30 a.m.

Knees and Hair

 

Today should have been a pickleball day but my knee is on the fritz. It’s been acting up since last Monday’s session and I finally realized that if I’m going to do my part in the roughly 1,500 mile road trip home, I’d better be sensible.

Bikes not Buggies

 

When we bought our home here in Venice years ago, I knew it wasn’t like Miami or any of the other party-central places on the east coast of Florida. Thank heaven. But it’s also far less glitzy than the big city of Sarasota just down the road.

          The area also has unexpected things like the equestrian center, with its jumping
competitions involving people from all over the country, that I could easily walk to from my place.

  

        And if you see someone on an adult tricycle wearing suspenders and a straw hat, they’re likely from Pinecraft, an Amish community on the outskirts of Sarasota, only 30 minutes from Venice.

          Yes, even some of the Plain people are snowbirds. I’ve even seen a few on the beach.

      

   In fact, in February they held their 7^th annual Seniors Softball
Showdown between Amish and Mennonite players versus non-Amish locals. 

    There were three competing teams, coming from Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Indiana. And no real need for uniforms, since you can differentiate the teams by who’s wearing suspenders.

          There’s been an Amish and Mennonite community in Pinecraft since the 1920s. While there are a few year-round residents, many of the houses are rented out for short-term visits by the thousands of Amish that come from all over the country.

 It’s a destination for older folks, honeymooners, and some younger Amish come for seasonal work. Generally, though, the visitors come from more business-oriented locations in the mid-west.

          It can get iffy, though, because the more traditional communities would frown upon the use of electricity in the homes here, although apparently this is often allowed for temporary stays. And there does seem to be a range of observances of tradition. One Saturday, when My Guy and I were breakfasting on a patio next to a parking lot, I saw two women in long print skirts arrive in an SUV, pop on their bonnets and go in for some pastry.

Mama Maneuvers

 

It was just to be a small walk around our complex.

Pioneer Skills

 

When we had friends over the other night, I brought out a bottle of a wine I’d enjoyed at someone else’s house and I bought a bottle of my own for that evening.

We opened it up, poured a small taste, and then collectively reeled back.

          It was awful. It smelled ghastly and our one brave taste confirmed it. Something had gone horribly wrong with it. So, I poured it out and put the bottle in the recycling.

 

We were having beef stew last night and I wanted to have something more than just a bowl plonked down on the table. Not in the mood for another salad (yes, I know, a healthier choice) and needing to use up the flour, I made baking powder biscuits.

          Kind of.

          No shortening. Since anyone knows that butter makes everything better, I substituted that. Like so many times before, I mixed the dry ingredients, cut in the butter, and added the milk. Next step, a quick knead and then roll it out.

          No rolling pin. When outfitting your place in the land of sun and fun, a rolling pin is rarely top of anyone’s list.

          But wait.

          A quick rifling through the seltzer cans, tonic bottles, and wine discards and eureka! There it was, only needing a good washing.

          The bottler may have screwed up the contents somehow but they designed a perfectly
shaped container.

         

Massachusetts here I come

 

We won’t be heading home till the end of the month, but my urge to be there is growing and it’s not just because of the impending 90 degree temps here.

Pressure

 

I’ve been spending the past few days selectively deaf. My AirPods have become almost a permanent fixture in my head, and My Guy is getting used to waiting for me to tap my left ear twice (to pause the recording) until he can speak to me.  There are a couple of reasons for this.

Bags or Circles?

 

I remember being mortified as a child when my mother would strike up conversations with complete strangers. We’d be out somewhere shopping and the next thing I knew she’d be sharing observations or worse – some kind of comment about me.

Dreary Drama

 

The play Dancing at Lughnasa, a biographical work by Brian Friel, was described as a “lyrical, effervescent portrait of five fierce sisters holding onto each other through the joys and sorrows of life in rural Ireland.”

Bittersweet sunset

 

Living as we do in western Massachusetts, an area packed with mountains and tall trees, spotting a sunset is a rare and magical thing. Here on the Gulf Coast, sunsets are easy to come by but everyone still appreciates them. 

Many beaches are noted for their late afternoon gatherings, known as drum circles, in which people dance and celebrate the end of the day. There could just possibly be some beverages, too.

Another way to view the sunset is from a boat, and we were on one recently to say farewell to a couple we’ve become friendly with but who – darn it - are moving away.

We’ve gone out with this captain before and we enjoyed her inside information on some of the fancy houses by the water and we also saw the after effects that still remain from the two hurricanes of this past fall.

She always brings us to a rookery, a grouping of mangroves that houses a colossal variety birds. 

The pink spoonbills are my absolute fav.

A couple of dolphins spun in the water for us, and the sun did its thing again.

Big men, small men, and great food

 

You may recall that My Guy not only has painted more than one living room wall in his time, he also has a couple of other mediums. He took up oils not all that long ago to great success.

Oddments

 No deep thoughts here today. 

Just some photo snippets of things around me. 

I picked up a new travel organizer, seeing as how mine is possibly 30 years old. And no, that's no exaggeration. 

Except when I cut the price tag off, I found this:

It makes you wonder how a cosmetic tote could be potentially responsible for reproductive harm, but at least we've all been warned. 

Here's our resident eagle at his post, ever vigilant over our small lagoons.

 Someone told me that eagles really aren't the best fishermen in the world so their strategy is often to wait around for an osprey to get lucky and then he swoops in to carry off dinner. 

And a trip to my local Publix supermarket gave me a golden opportunity to broaden my culinary world. 

Small Victory

 

It’s officially been a month since I’ve put anything here. Wish I could say that life has been so merrily madcap that I just didn’t have time. Or that I’d been achieving something hugely important: curing athlete’s foot or saving the economy from the impending recession. Nope. I’ve got nothing.

 

Meanwhile, after my perfectly ordinary trip to Goodwill today, I’m happy to be alive.

 

As usual, I took a right onto the road that takes me there. Goodwill is on the left, only about three blocks away so I – as usual – immediately popped into the left lane, the traffic in this stretch being challenging to get across at the last minute.

 

And just as immediately, a woman in a boxy red (matching her mood) car was in my rear view mirror. On my bumper. On my bumper. On my bumper.

 

So of course I slowed down.

 

Long hooooooonnnnnnnk. Followed by a long hoooooooonnnk.

 

Really, I thought? My turn off was coming up.

Since there was also a convenient truck on my right, I did what any small and petty person would do – I stayed side-by-side with him so the idiot behind me couldn’t shift lanes to pass.

 

More hoooooooonnnnnk. Hoooooooooooooooonk.

 

The truck and I were not dawdling, both of us traveling at or slightly above the speed limit. And I don’t know if he was in cahoots with me, but we drove in tandem until it was time for me to make my turn.

You know, all of perhaps two blocks.

 

When I made the turn I rolled down my window and gave her a big wave.

And to my credit, I used all the digits on my hand.

Bloody but unbowed

 

You wouldn’t expect there to be any benefit from having been relentlessly attacked by fraudsters. A month ago, we stood at the gates of our small financial world, fending off incursions against what seemed like every possible angle – phone service, bank accounts, broker.

Turning the tide

 

Years ago, we would pack up and brave the traffic for a blissful week at Cape Cod.  Sometimes we’d hear reports of something called ‘red tide,’ but the only significance I recall it having on our lives was its suggestion to avoid eating certain seafood.

Finding Balance

 

My Guy and I have just returned from eating out and are now collapsed in matching states of repletion – i.e. we’re stuffed. We were out for linner, named by a clever friend who also enjoys this idea. You move lunch forward and pull dinner back to meet in the middle, creating a mealtime at 3 in the afternoon.

Soldiering on

 

(Not his - example from the show)    

While My Guy has been painting in oils over the past several years (and we're running out of space on the walls) it all started with another medium. 

Looking for a good home

 

In the first excited flush of outfitting this place in Florida it was easy to get swept up by the novelty of it all.

To Shoe or Not

 

Deedle, deedle, dumpling, my son John,
Went to bed with his stockings on;
One shoe off, and one shoe on,
Deedle, deedle, dumpling, my son John

Here in Florida

 

In the Now I’ve Seen It All category, the following is a bit of Florida news:

 

‘My sweet angel’: 7-year-old junior drag racer dies after crash on racetrack

Published: Feb. 9, 2025 at 12:19 AM EST

ORLANDO, Fla. (WESH) - A Florida racing family is in mourning after a 7-year-old junior drag racer died following a crash at the Orlando Speed World Dragway.

Junior drag racer Elienisse Diaz Rodriguez, 7, was critically injured in a crash at the Orlando Speed World Dragway on Sunday and died of her injuries Tuesday night. She was part of a racing family well-known throughout Florida.

Elienisse’s devastated mother posted to social media, writing, “My sweet angel! Mommy will always love you forever!”

Copyright 2025 WESH via CNN Newsource. All rights reserved.

Apparently it was part of a “Funday Sunday” event. She lost control of her vehicle (not surprising in a 7 year-old, but that’s just me) and hit a workman on the track and then a concrete wall. 

She was in the first grade at Eastland Christian School in Orlando. Still, since the Florida Highway Patrol saw no need to investigate further, Orlando Speed World was able to continue with the scheduled racing events.