The Story of the Red Stove

And, because friendship can never be overrated, and because I DO need to reminisce about happy things, I'll tell the story of the red stove.

A saw the perfect wood burning stove at the store - I forget which store or where the store's located, please feel free to use your imagination. It's red. True red, not fire engine red, not maroon, just perfect red, with enamel-like finish in a classic configuration, with a glass front. Pretty much the epitome of a grand New Hampshire heating device. Even in the store's display setting, among lesser specimens and species, this was a standout. A could envision the red stove installed catty-corner in the house, snuggled next to the big screen, warming winter nights (and days - it's always cold in NH).

The price was apparently right, or right enough to bust the budget, so A inquired of the shop keeper. The stove was sold, to Mark and Steve, two years before. Of course, on further cross examination, A determined that Mark and Steve hadn't paid for the stove, they were checking on building codes, or viability or if the stove would clash with the Moroccan art or whatever, but for two years the stove sat gathering dust and even an interested party with cash in hand couldn't budge the store owner's loyalties and/or word of honor. Could Mark and Steve be contacted? No? Could their last names be given so as to track them down? Either that was a breach of confidentiality or the surnames were unknown. Poor A, you think, throw up your hands and continue the search for the second most perfect stove in New Hampshire.

You, apparently, have never met A.

She called once or maybe it was twice in the coming weeks, checking on the stove, or Mark and Steve's whereabouts, but, everyone was still waiting (it seems everyone in New Hampshire is very patient, except A, but she's not a native). So one Saturday, A gets a truck, a strong friend, and goes to the store. "Hi, I'm here to pick up a stove for Mark and Steve."

And let me say, we really enjoyed that stove...and the story.

Missing A...and B too.

The music swells. A wonderful weekend in lovely New Hampshire, at the peak of fall color...

Yes, this could be the beginning of a romantic fifties movie, but it was a whole lot more fun. And we didn't have to don formal-wear or drink martinis (yuck).

Fade to flashback....

We met A for the first time in Greece. No really.

We sat with A and G at one of the round tables in the hotel meeting room, where our group had gathered to be oriented and plied with ouzo before beginning our tour in Athens. They seemed nice. But, after consuming great quantities of ouzo, Tall One thinks inanimate objects have personalities. The next day, in the hotel lobby, before heading out on the tour bus I talked briefly with A. She had lived for a time in Greece and was familiar with Athens. She used the word "xenophobic" in a sentence. I was pretty sure I was in love.

That night (our second in Greece), we stayed in the quaint village of Delphi. All two streets of it. Tiny little town. We had a romantic room in one of the small hotels, really small. Our window opened up to the view overlooking the mountain side. The floors were marble (actually all the floors in Greece are marble, there is lots of marble, not so much wood), the plumbing ran cold, and A and G had the room across the hall. Ron and I strolled the streets (there were two) and decided on dinner in one of the small (little, tiny, couple of dozen seats) restaurants. It was wonderful. Tiny white lights, candles on the table, amazing food, way too much wine....

After dinner, we stopped at a cafe for some dessert and noticed A at one of the tables (G was asleep at the hotel). We invited ourselves to join her, and after a few more bottles of wine (SMALL, single serving bottles), we closed that cafe and moved to a bar. Well, the bar had Scotch, and apparently a fairly decent selection, as it turns out. A is a Scotch expert. So, we are now conducting a Scotch tasting while solving the problems of the world. There were still a few people at the bar (looking back, probably the help waiting for us to leave so they could close). But, we truly had no concept of, or care for the time. With that, G storms into the bar, fairly ranting (actually, really ranting). "It's two in the morning and the hotel is locked. I looked *everywhere (*author's note: remember, two streets in Delphi and I'm pretty sure our bar was the only one still open), you're coming back right now!" Now, G was talking to A, but let me tell you, when dazed by countless drinks (pretty drunk) and when confronted with an angry woman chastising anyone at two in the morning, you revert right back to twelve and guilty. Not only did A leave immediately (you never saw anyone settle a bar tab so quickly) but Tall One and I followed right along...meekly...apologizing... We had no idea what to expect the next morning, and being with a tour group, one irate woman can have an impact on the entire experience.

Well, G handled it beautifully, she really did. We saw them waiting for our bus and with a big smile, G said, "I'm feeling so much better this morning!" Probably because she suspected our hangovers. But, we continued to talk with them, lunch with them, and our second to last night in Athens we all went to the Plaka together for dinner and ended up in the hotel lobby drinking wine (do you see a pattern). It was truly delightful. We left for the airport together and promised to keep in touch, which we did.

Which brings us to New Hampshire, where A lives in a small college town with antique shops (ok, one), general stores, great dining (really great), and hiking within hiking distance. A and G are, unfortunately, almost divorced (an interesting story, but no one's business) and A has a new girlfriend, J. I'm pretty sure J never yelled at anyone for anything. There's also a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, named B, a chick magnet.

The weekend we visited, the college was celebrating parent's weekend. We walked through the art show, astounded by the yellow and purple paintings of the Yellow and Purple Man. Apparently all his painting are in yellow and purple, every year, every painting, all yellow and purple...we didn't buy anything. What I did buy was a box full of books at the LIBRARY BOOK SALE (oh, joy)! I also bought some handmade soap at the General Store in another small town whose name I never knew, but can find out if it ever matters.

And we ate, we really, really ate....a lot. Probably the most memorable meal in a weekend of memorable food was lunch at the Inn on Squam Lake (of "On Golden Pond" fame). We began with the Ginger-Ice Cream-in-Molasses-Cookies-sandwich, 'cause we know priorities. Then I had the best BLT on the planet. I even could have gotten it with avocado, but I don't like avocado. Seriously, I know why people eat pigs! And just the right amount of mayo, just to enhance, not drown. Then, for dessert we really needed to sample the Pumpkin-Ice Cream-in-Molasses-Cookies-sandwiches. Tall One got the ice box key lime pie. That was good too. Better than good. But, seriously the ice cream sandwiches were worth a first born.

We walked, we talked, we didn't solve world problems, but we probably created a few (like tight pants). We didn't drink too much, we didn't stay up late enough. It was chilly, and we kept the fire going all weekend in the greatest red wood stove ever. And there's a story to go with it. I'll save that for another time, when I again need to reminisce about good times with good people, and remember that friendship can never be overrated.

New Season!

OH, Holy Cow! I was going to start some profound post on a truly socially revolutionary topic that would challenge and change the thinking of a whole generation and perhaps usher in an era of world peace and make government obsolete (cause I'm sick unto death of this election coverage!) and health care affordable, and trans-fat good for you...but this is so much more important!

The new season of "Desperate Housewives" starts tonight! Hooray, bring on the band, and the wine and cheese! Start the fire, crank up the volume, and turn off the phone! The girls are back! Can you tell I'm psyched?

I (actually, "we", Tall One is as much a fan as I) got on the bandwagon late. It was sometime after the SECOND season. A dear friend of mine (and dearer now for the joy she's wrought) told me about the DVD collection that her sister had bought her. It was the first season of "Desperate Housewives" and she'd just finished watching it and would I like to borrow it? Now, I had heard from another friend, whose opinion I trust, that "DW" was "not what you think it is". Eerily compelling observation, with a tinge of a dare...So, why not? We were into the summer, series hiatus's and there was nothing to watch on the 4389 channels of satellite TV....NOTHING I tell you...

We are so hooked! We devoured the first season, by then Dear Friend loaned us the second season and we were almost up to date. Thank God for show reruns on the computer. Yes, Tall One and I actually huddled around our 15" computer monitor to watch a few episodes that we couldn't catch in repeats. Now you know how sad we are...but it gets worse....or better...

The girls have become some of our best friends. The only friends we hold dearer are the cast of "Nip/Tuck". Seriously, Tall One and I have talked about Christian, Sean, and the gang like we know them...but we're not talking about them now! We're talking about Linette, Gabby, Brie, Susan, and even Edie and Katherine. Yes, it's true, I can't remember the names of immediate family members, but I know all about these women, and their husbands, former husbands, and kids, neighbors, extended families, hideous crimes, psychotic breaks...and secrets, so very, many secrets. WooHoo, they're back, and guess what I'm going to be doing at 9pm tonight! Recording the show! That's right! I can't be trusted to watch (or be able to watch) a show at 9pm on a Sunday night. I might be tired, I might be inclined to read, I might still have the grandsons over...At any rate, I TAKE NO CHANCES! And I will probably want it watch it twice. I love my DVR!

I have even visited the official website. I took the "Which Desperate Housewife Are You?" quiz. I was hoping for "Linette", but I scored higher for "Brie". I just got finished watching some "Highlights" and "Moments on the Red Carpet". I wish I had time to re-watch last season, even though this season apparently "starts fresh". Ohhhh, I'm giddy as a school girl on prom night...

If only I could garner this much enthusiasm for finding a cure for world hunger...

Rethinking Priorities...

Things are slowing down. By things, I mean me. I was lighting the grill last evening and happened to notice the loose, wrinkled skin on my arms in the very unflattering setting sunlight. I have a few "age spots" on my arms and hands. I have cellulite on my legs and butt, pockets of fat deposited on my thighs, and lines around my lips. Some days my eyelids really droop, and I have beady eyes to begin with, so the effect is less than stunning. I have a cluster of spider veins on my calf that looks like a perpetual bruise. My waist is 4" bigger than it used to be. I'm at the high end of my weight fluctuation.

I can't exercise like I used to. It's not a matter of will, physically, I'm not capable of the effort. For over ten years I lifted weights at the gym, with and without trainers, three to five times a week. I'd precede or follow that with an hour of cardio. I added running to the mix ten years ago, and used to run to and from the gym (four miles each way) in addition to my workouts. My job was physically demanding. I've always walked a lot. I spent one summer with Tall One riding bikes. Now, I'm down to a half hour of exercise...most days. I took a yoga class that I really enjoyed, but I don't have the motivation to practice at home. I run three miles...occasionally. I take an hour-long cardio-kickboxing class once a week. I had been walking three or four times a week with Daughter and the boys, but now that she's pregnant, her hips have separated and we don't get out together as frequently or go as far. I haven't lifted weights in maybe two years, since I began training to run a marathon, which almost killed me. Seriously, I was sick or injured for the entire 10 months of preparation.

I have agonized over these changes. I have railed and fought, and pissed and moaned. I was committed to the fight. I read all the articles about all the seniors accomplishing incredible feats of strength and fitness; ultra-distance running, mountain climbing, triathlons. Have you heard about the man who runs marathons pushing his adult son in a wheelchair? The grandfather climbing Mt. Everest with his adult grandson? The wizened old 70 year old completing his 50th triathlon? Women have babies at 50 now, for crying out loud! WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH ME? What am I doing wrong, or at least, not right?

Well, last night, out at the grill, glancing at my aging arm, I thought, for the first time, "I don't care". And today, as I write the litany of deterioration, I think again, "I don't care". As I consider the accomplishments of those much older than I am, I think, "Good for them", not "What's wrong with me?". This is perhaps one of the most profound "thoughts", yet. My expectations are slowing down, too.

In my 30's the goal read, "Get better", in my 40's, "Stay good", now, in my 50's it reads, "Slow the deterioration", or "Manage the decline", or "Get out of bed and take a shower, you miserable wreck!". Increasingly, I'm thinking, "whatever". I wonder about our parents and grandparents. Parents in the "greatest generation" were old at my age. Really. They dressed differently and sat a great deal. They had friends their own age, listened to old music, and marked the days to "retirement". Granted, they had been through the Great Depression, World War II, and raising children in the 60's would have prematurely aged anyone! But, I'm wondering if we Boomers aren't the true mutants. We cling to our youth. We deny our maturity. We defy the natural ravages of age.

We've modified our diets, increased our aerobic capacity, monitored our bone density and muscle to fat ratio. We've nipped, tucked, and injected. We're experts at HRT, homeopathic medicine, and stress reduction. We change careers, take college courses, and start long dreamed of home businesses or "second" families. We move to "communities", or the mountains, or Spain. We're fabricating faux-youth at the expense of experience, maturity, and social ease.

WE NEED TO STOP! Take a deep breath and take inventory. I'm in my 50's. My children have grown and are fully functional. My grandchildren are stunning. My parents are aging rapidly and need quite a bit of extra consideration. I love my husband and he loves me. I can still run three miles. I practice controlled breathing. And I could die right now, this minute and have no regrets. That's good.

I want to climb Half-Dome with my son-in-law someday. I want to run with my grandson. I want to hold my new greatly anticipated grand-child moments after my daughter gives birth. But, I also want to read that great book with a glass of wine, sleep for nine hours and still take a nap if I need it, and at least once a week eat something that I shouldn't and not worry about it. I want to count "thinking" on my list of accomplishments for the day. And count "walking" as exercise. I want to cooperate with, not struggle against the inevitable decline. It's natural, normal, and inescapable. I'm not aging on purpose.

If I strive, I will strive for balance. Calm, mature, moderation. I will eat well, drink more than I should occasionally, laugh, watch movies, read, and write. I will not sacrifice the "good of the many" on the alter of "me, me, me". I will do the very best that I can...and I will enjoy everything that I have to do. I will be content.

To Rant, or Not To Rant.

I'm bound and determined to post something today. I'm not opening my bottle of wine or starting to read my new library book until I do. I'm in the mood for a rant, but haven't been able to get up the energy. So much lame stuff has been touted out as news lately.

1). Raising the driving age/Lowering the drinking age

2). The double standard for Republican Women

3). This headline on the internet, "Depressed Moms in Violent Homes Twice as Likely to Hit Kids, Spousal arguing also increased frequency with which mothers slapped children, study says"

I probably don't even need to add my commentary...but, it's my blog.

Re: 1). Ok, let me see if I've got this straight. Legislators, at the urging of insurance company lobbyists armed with statistics, want to raise the legal driving age to 17 or 18. Apparently, 16 year-olds are not mature enough to drive 1/2 ton vehicles at ludicrously fast speeds while drinking a coke, eating a Big Mac, listening to their ipod, and text messaging their friends. But, a year of two later they have it all together, just fine thank you. I've never seen a thirty year old talking on their cell phone, applying makeup and drinking coffee while driving, have you?
And, the heads of our illustrious colleges and universities want the drinking age lowered, to let's say 18, to make alcohol education more feasible. The students'll listen better after a few beers, maybe...
How about this? Let's teach our children about choices and responsibility and consequences from infancy. We as their adult role models could demonstrate socially acceptable behavior instead of just educating them with hollow words and ineffective programs? Just my opinion....

Re: 2). A few days ago on a national morning television program, I heard a pollster (you can't get much higher credentials these days) ask, in regards to Sarah Palin's Vice Presidential qualifications: "Shouldn't she be home in Alaska, getting her son ready to deploy?" What the....?
I am the anti-feminist, Bizarro Women's Rights Girl. I chose thirty years ago to stay at home with my children and I'm still basically, there. I honestly and truly believe that there is no higher calling, no more worthy occupation than keeping a home and raising children. And, I was offended. Nobody ever said anything like that about Hillary Clinton or Nancy Pelosi and got away with it. But the commentator is sort of nodding his head and then they're asking each other about Governor Palin's responsibilities to her special needs child, and I had to physically leave the room or risk smashing the TV. Perhaps it's PMS....

Re: 3). This was a U.S. study. Please God, let it have been privately funded...but, I doubt it. And, now I AM going to open that bottle of wine...

A Hair Raising Story of Passion and Loss.

It's been over six years and I still miss Robert....

In the complicated way of poignant love stories, it all began with Brenda. The children were small, and I was bored. We were in a tight... ridiculously tight... "national security alert" tight...financial situation and I couldn't afford any mistakes. The stress of saving for necessities, let alone frivolity, was taking it's toll. I desperately needed a change. I was frightened, but determined. I saw the ad, in the local Merchandiser, and called the number. I left the children with a neighbor and drove to the address along the main highway leading out of town. It was an old farmhouse, situated next to a trailer park, replacing the cultivated fields or cow barns. I had been told not to knock, just to walk in, and I did. I was greeted by a tall thin woman best described as a red-neck Olive Oil with really bad fashion sense. She gave me exactly what I asked for, and I was home again in less than an hour, exhilarated, and only a few dollars poorer.

Our relationship continued for fourteen years. There were a few really bad times. I'd go home, look in the mirror and cry a river. I'd vow to change. But, I always went back. Her husband joined her in the business for a few years, but the pressure destroyed him. She had young assistants now and then, but they only lasted through a time or two. I never knew what happened to them. I begged, finally convincing Tall One to see her a few times. The price was right, but he had different needs. She moved her "studio" once. For awhile there was fresh paint, and the carpet wasn't stained, but, it always smelled the same, ripe with strong, stale chemicals. She wasn't much for conversation and she rarely smiled. I wondered about her teeth. She'd turn surly if her daughter wandered in. There was a decided lack of maternal instinct. I stayed because I didn't think I had a choice. She knew too much.

And then the day came when she said she was leaving. She could work anywhere, but her husband had to get out. Too much baggage, too many damaging memories. A better climate. I said Goodbye. I was more relieved than I would have imagined. I would have been too weak to end our relationship myself, but I'd been dissatisfied and uninspired for a long time. I thought it would be good to be free.

I had wanted to regroup, weigh my options, start fresh with a new perspective, but, I floundered. Time is relentless and before I knew it, I was desperate. I would let things grow for as long as I could and then I'd take matters into my own hands. But I was unskilled, I didn't have the right "tools", I was afraid I would be humiliated. So I moved from "professional" to "professional". Sometimes paying too much for inferior service. Sometimes leaving with the glimmer of confidence that I'd found a new someone to meet my growing demands, only to be disappointed eventually. There were pretty young blonds with sparkling mirrors and scented candles. There was an old blue rinsed grandma wearing pince nez and too much perfume. I would travel miles to overpriced swanky salons, and walk to dilapidated store fronts along our deteriorating Main street. I was restless. I never stayed at any one place more than a few months.

I was in the midst of a long dry spell. My emotions were out of hand. I was a wreck, and needed badly the fix I had been denied for so long. I stopped on the sidewalk, staring at the homemade cardboard sign in the dirty window and copied down the phone number. That evening I called, and a few days later I walked through Robert's door for the first time.

The tacky furnishings and gaudy decor assaulted my sensibilities. But, I quickly recovered. I'd been in worse places. Brenda's accommodations had been sparse and utilitarian. I stayed, choking back my revulsion in his dusty fake foliage, because he was my last hope. Spinning the sad, sordid tale of his life gone wrong, he worked efficiently. When he handed me some lubricant and a towel and told me finish myself, I knew I had found the answer I'd been searching for. At home the smell of stale tobacco and something I didn't want to think about clung to my clothing, but, the face in the mirror was transformed. It wasn't just his years of experience, or his expertise. Robert was magic, and I was in love.

I'd know right away when it was time to go back. Things wouldn't lay right. There'd be the feeling of loose ends, stray wisps that no one else noticed, but I'd feel keenly. He was always the same. Always sure of his skill. He knew what I needed. He'd always make me finish. But, even as he had renewed the hope in me, he was hopeless, profoundly sad, and, over time I began to sense the underlying sickness.

I missed a rendezvous, I couldn't call to cancel. I left a message apologising and begging for another chance. I never heard again. Shortly thereafter, Robert's handmade sign was replaced by one that read "For Rent". I tried to find him. I left message after message, pleading, until the number was finally disconnected. I still don't know what happened to my dearest, darling, hair stylist.

I have good hair, very forgiving, and it grows out quickly, a blessing and a curse. My daughter recommended Debra, and I've been with her for a few years now. She has a nice shop, two cute dogs, and I'm comfortable there....but, I still miss Robert...

Salsa and DST.

I feel so free! Not only did I finally submit my essay for the kind consideration of the judging panel, but I also sent in a 250 word travel story to a different publication (this, under the duress and unsolicited advice of Tall One). The essay provides a potential $3000. windfall, the paragraph, a trip to Tasmania. If I weren't already retired, I'd start making plans! Fortunately, I handle disappointment well.

The tomatoes are happening, in large quantities. I planted five tomato plants this summer, four different varieties. And they've all survived and thrived. I've cut up a couple for sandwiches and salads. The rest of the ripe ones, I've made into salsa...and canned. I haven't canned anything in 25 years. Preparing and canning dozens of quarts of peaches with three toddlers in the kitchen brought me dangerously close to collapse. And, Tall One became convinced, with minimal shrieking on my part, that even though the produce was truly delicious when home-canned, it wasn't worth the additional price of psycho-therapy.

Yesterday, alone in the kitchen with only Dr. Phil for company, preparing and canning the salsa was more fun than I remembered, and not nearly as difficult. So, now I'm on a roll. I'd like to do some "salsa verde" using green tomatoes, and one other "traditional" salsa recipe. Then I'll use some of the tomatoes (a whole huge bushel) for tomato sauce. All this has the built-in benefit of providing useful and appreciated Christmas gifts. I am the domestic goddess....if no one dies of botulism.

It's starting to get dark earlier. And, I should be thankful for "Daylight Savings Time", but I'm not. I'm actually quite bitter. DST has been obsolete since the invention of electricity, and now that they've lengthened the "switch" from March through November, why bother changing things back... or forward,.... oh, whatever? It's unnecessarily confusing, and nobody, NOBODY, gets up with the sun and goes to bed as it sets. Maybe we should, but we don't. Even our senior citizens get up at 4am, not dawn. The only place in the United States that's light at 4am is, 6 months out of the year, in Alaska. So, why do they have daylight savings time in the parts of Alaska where it's either 24 hours of daylight, or darkness? Or, do they? It's not even a proper reminder for changing the batteries in smoke detectors. The batteries die before the first Saturday in November and aren't even broken in by the second week in March. There's no consistency.

I would prefer my own lighted, climate controlled atmospheric bubble - since regulating the entire world to my preferences seems out of the question - that I could manage according to my whims. This has been a warm, dry summer. Usually, that suits me. However, I would like it to rain, at night, so that I don't have to water any plants, and occasionally all day, torrentially, so that I can sleep-in and read. I want it to be cool in the morning, and there should be a nice breeze in the afternoon when the sun is overhead. Now, that's just summer. I have definite opinions on the other seasons, as well.

Hawaii does not follow daylight savings time. They have a bubble.