…For the Birds

“I hope they have cute teenage girls,” were the words from our younger son as I sat reading in the living room. I looked up to see a large moving van in front of the empty house across the street from our city home.

I smiled, understanding his thought process. There is indeed a bit of anticipatory excitement when it comes to new neighbors. But, what you hope for and what you get don’t always jibe.

I always hope for the well-grounded ones—warm, good-humored, quiet people with no pets would be on my list. You know the kind you can share a glass of wine with on their expansive deck at sunset, not the “collectible” hoarders, who store old rusting appliances in the backyard. Maybe a kindly major sports ticket office manager, who just happens to have occasional gratis tickets, not the guy who grows medical marijuana so he’ll have the jump on legalization. Perhaps a nurturing nurse practitioner with whom to discuss my latest hypochondriacal malady, not the owner of an untrained snarling dog, oh wait, that was us.

Out here in the country I hope for a literary expert with an abundant library of rare foreign translations and an equally abundant desire to share them with me. And speaking of rare and foreign, how about a retired 5-star Michelin chef with a kitchen filled with such herbs and spices? That might be nice. Not some guy who cuts the sleeves off of every single shirt he owns and tells me he can get me a deal on all the smoked meat I want.

Seriously, we have always been blessed with great neighbors both in the city and here in our new home (knock on wood.) But it’s the time of year where many of our neighbors, if they haven’t already, leave for warmer climes. “Flew the coop” is the  expression that comes to mind. One moment they are here dashing about in golf carts, zipping around on the lake, like the barn swallows that arc and dive on the golf course. Mowing their lawns, tending their gardens, like the robins that build homes only to abandon them come the cooler weather. Or like the summer tanager, my California-bound next door neighbors offer a short but dazzling flash of color to our lives. One day I'll look up and they’re all gone and I know I won’t see them again until spring or summer.

I’m a dyed-in-the-wool introvert...

But, more about this later. I'll finish this post in a day or so… I hope…

Three Kids from the Mean Streets

Two weeks ago, on a Wednesday, I published a post titled "Carpools or Do Extroverts Really Have More Fun?" The next morning I immediately deleted it, but not before five of my faithful readers had an opportunity to hear me at my whiniest and most self-aggrandizing. I'd broken my rule of never posting after you've had a glass or two of wine, a lesson I learned when reading a friend's blog, that she posted under the influence of pain killers she'd taken after dental work. I copied and saved that particular blog of hers and keep it safely in my files. You can't make stuff up like she penned that day and it's there for posterity.

Anyway, kudos to my faithful five. And to the rest of you?  See what you miss when you don't check my blog site frequently?

***

Some of the old grammar schools in Chicago had little park districts attached. This consisted of the usual park playground equipment, swing set, slide, monkey bars, etc. and an adjacent small park building which had pingpong and bumper pool tables, as well as a meeting room and kitchenette. Back in the 50s and 60s, during the school year they would offer after-school arts and craft classes, music lessons or such, and when it was cold enough they'd put an ice rink out and the building became a warming center, offering hot chocolate and cheap skate rental.

The schools that didn't have the park districts offered after-school classes as well, staffed by park district employees or senior volunteers. There was even the rare grammar school that had a swimming pool and offered swimming lessons. Sometimes the full-service park district was a mile or more away, so the schools provided a nearby place for kids to hang out. It was a different era. One where Chicago municipal departments seemed to cooperate in an effort to keep children occupied in safe alternatives to the mean streets of the city. But, then came the "cutbacks…"

***

It was a warm summer afternoon. Nothing to do. Just hanging out around the swing set, waiting for the park building to open so we could play bumper pool.  Of the group of 6 or 7 of us there were two Francis's present.

Frankie had the thickest head of blond hair and bluest eyes you ever saw. He combed his hair in an Elvis-style pompadour. I had an unrequited crush on him. He came from a Irish family of 8 or 9 kids who were in and out of the local Catholic orphanage, Angel Guardian. Local authorities would find Frankie's parents derelict in some form and remove the children, only to have the court system return them when the parents had complied to whatever qualifications were imposed.

That day Frankie sat astride one of the swings, fidgeting, looking at the cheap watch he wore, given to him by one of the orphanage nuns. He'd occasionally reach out to pluck a strand of quack grass and form a whistle by placing the grass between his thumbs and impelling air from his mouth to make a piercing, haunting sound.

Frank was the tallest of our group that day. His parents had divorced, his mom remarried, but his stepfather hadn't wanted to adopt Frank, so his mother and he had different last names. It's hard to believe that kind of crap made a difference back then, but it did. At the moment, Frank was standing on the support bar, near the top of the swing set, towering over all of us. Frank was the kind of kid who moved slowly, deliberately. He didn't talk much, but when he did you could tell he'd given some thought to his words. Frank broke our silence, "Do you guys ever wonder where we'll all be in ten years? I mean, seriously, do you ever think about things like that?" Frankie looked up at him in bewilderment. Here was a kid who never knew day to day where he would sleep. "Who the heck thinks about such stuff?" Frankie's expression seemed to say. "We should make a pledge, right here and now, for each of us to meet here on this date in 10 years," Frank continued. We all agreed. But I knew, even then, that if I found my way out of this hardscrabble life, I sure as heck wasn't coming back. 

***

"I'm hungry. Let's head over to Beefy 19." Manny was behind the wheel of his 2 year-old Olds Hurst 442. It was a beautiful car he'd purchased with the money he saved working in his Greek father's meatpacking business. The car was full with three guys in the backseat and Frankie riding shotgun, with his back pressed to the front passenger door, his left arm slung over the seat back. Joking, laughing, kibitzing in the same manner he did at those all-night poker games he hosted.

"Hey, take the Bowmanville shortcut, I'm starving!" As Manny zigged across Western Avenue a truck t-boned Manny's hurst. Frankie was practically decapitated, they say.

***

When Frank was 21 and an employed high school dropout, he began dating Mary, an outgoing 17 year-old senior, with long flowing blonde locks. A classmate of mine, Mary was the oldest in a family controlled by a strict, domineering father and a devoted Catholic mother. Mary's father detested Frank from the moment he laid eyes on him. And there was that problem with Frank's surname... Her father had plans for his eldest daughter and those plans didn't include Frank, so he forbade Mary from seeing him. One day Mary came to school with her hair cut in a Twiggy-like pixie. "My father chopped it off when he found out I'd seen Frank on the sly. Oh, but you should have seen it before my mom took me to the salon to have it styled," she laughed. She had a way of finding humor in practically anything. Until it turned out that her father was too late in his ban. Mary was pregnant. I can't remember exactly how it all came about, legal rights of teens were different back then, but despite her desperate pleas, her parents arranged to have the baby given up for adoption.

Mary was never the same. Her humor must have been attached somehow to that baby girl, because you never saw her smile or laugh much after that. Frank moved out-of-town. Mary moved on with her life, graduated from high school, got a decent job. She met Charlie. They married. Charlie wanted a large family, as did Mary. But, life has it's ironies. Mary couldn't seem to get pregnant. Her fertility no longer at it's optimum, she and Charlie had to visit a specialist.

First came David. Mary adored David, but it wasn't the girl she'd been aching to replace. Back to the specialist. This time it was triplets, two more boys and her longed for baby girl. But, over time the kids were a handful, Charlie's work took him away a good deal of time. She still couldn't get over the loss of her first child. She and Charlie divorced when the triplets were nine.

I lost contact with Mary, only to connect again briefly via Facebook. After 40 years she had reconnected with Frank. They married, moved south, enjoyed visits from her brood of grandchildren. The last post I saw before I quit Facebook included a memorial to now deceased Frank, "the love of my life," was her direct quote.

***

Me? I'm retired and working on my bucket list:

1. Retire and move to the country
2. Write numerous short stories (work in progress.)
3. Begin to sew again (did some this week)
4. Refinish the head and foot boards of my husband's childhood twin beds
5. Buy local only and avoid all big box stores
6. Hike at least part of the Appalachian Trail
7. Have High Tea at the Drake Hotel in Chicago with my granddaughter
8. Purchase only the finest bourbon, wine and tequila
9. Take my grandchildren to Yellowstone in the middle of winter
10. Re-institute monthly potluck suppers with a few good friends (note the words "few" and "good")
12. Be able, again, to do some of those yoga poses that now seem just beyond my reach
13. Learn to play guitar
14. Visit Thich Naht Hahn's Plum Village in France
15. Learn how to perfect a chip shot in golf
16. Let my hair go totally gray
17. Own some chickens
18. Meditate daily
19. Take Fred to the tiny town where I was born
20. Visit Africa and/or New Zealand
21. Have a pet dog  (tried that, didn't work out so well for us and Cujo ;)
22. Remember my friend Consuelo's birthday, like she does mine every year
23. Read 52 books a year
24. Walk/run 1,000 miles a year (made 800+ this year, so far)
25. Scan and organize all of my photos

My apologies to those who read this before my edit… it was Frankie that was nearly decapitated.

The Saboteur

I had planned to write and post a scary halloween-type story to celebrate my one-year-old blog. But, the story sits unfinished… Apparently when I am busy with the logistics of my life, planning, making lists, catching up on chores and other duties, my left-brain dominates and I am clear and linear in my thinking. But, though my brain may work like a well-oiled machine, I’m basically a drag to be around.

Now, if I permit my right brain to take command, I become like a puppy off-leash. I'm more creative and able to write effortlessly. In fact, I'm so ready to "go with the flow" that I tend to space out and thus become a danger behind the wheel. Anyway, the best I can manage right now is to paste together some stuff I wrote back in my Facebook days:

***

For 12 years we lived without much bother from the squirrels in the city where we resided, as we had a dog who had a way of baring her teeth in a manner that reminded one of Stephen King's Cujo. One day the alarm system on our house was tripped. The security company alerted me of a possible break-in and being but a few minutes from home, they arranged for me to meet reps from the Chicago police department there.

When I arrived, regular patrol officers, as well as two detectives, were standing in wait on my front porch. It seems our crazed-looking dog, now clawing, drooling and barking in a demonic frenzy at the front door, was enough to hold at bay police, who are accustomed to urban violence that ranks, near or at the top among the nation.

But, I digress… I remember now, fondly, that when I baked in the fall, I could open a window and place a pie or bowl of ganache-topped cookies out on the sill to cool. No squirrel would dare come forth. But, outside the confines of our fenced backyard the squirrels were a menace. They would chew holes in the tops of our city-provided garbage containers, find and remove a choice bit of leftover apple core or
avocado skin, eat tiny bits of it and ceremoniously dump the refuse in our yard. They would gnaw their 
way through the pumpkins I put out as part of our halloween decorations. Hours were spent perfecting the perfect jack-o-lanterns, which were demolished in minutes. An affront, I felt, not unlike one to an artist whose work is senselessly destroyed by vandals (wink).

Some people say that squirrels are calculating saboteurs. And squirrels do exhibit unusual behavior. Like their kamikaze-like propensity to chew through live electric wires, thus causing power outages, as if they wished to plunge the entire country into darkness. But are they really sinister? I must admit to actually wondering this, as I'd watch a particular red squirrel torment my grandchildren's dear dog, Maya. Maya was one of those otherwise sweet dogs who, for whatever reason, fixates on squirrels. When I would tend to the children I'd notice that the squirrel would sit outside the back door, with seemingly no objective in life, but to brazenly and mercilessly taunt and menace poor Maya. 

I'd often wonder why we'd easily have a dozen or more squirrels living within 30 square feet of our city dwelling, yet I'd rarely see a squirrel within 400 square feet of our country home. Wouldn’t I, as a squirrel, prefer the open fields and stands of timber found in our idyllic country setting, I reasoned? But no, though I occasionally see a squirrel quickly, oh and I mean ever so quickly, darting from tree to tree, my carved country pumpkins sit undisturbed, even though I no longer have a dog to scare away the squirrel vandals.

I ponder that again today, a cup of coffee in hand, sipping slowly and taking in the beauty of fall's magnificent colors. My eyes are taken skyward as I see a beautiful red tail hawk soaring above. Aren't they a sight with their wings majestically extended in an almost complete plane? The hawk gracefully and effortlessly pirouettes, takes a dive, plucks a squirrel from the ground and carries it away…

My Magic Kingdom

I'm good at recognizing voices. A few weeks ago, I heard Wolf's voice from an adjacent room in our home. And then I heard my husband's retort. I couldn't hear everything being said, but I did overhear Wolf Blitzer mention "Japan's response." Response? As I wondered to myself, why now, in heaven's name, is it necessary for us, here in the U.S.A., to be worried about what Japan thinks. Curiosity got the best of me and I entered the room to see my husband avidly viewing CNN's current broadcast on the U.S./Syrian debacle/dilemma/disruption regarding use of chemical weapons and the necessity of averting possible disaster.

Fast forward to this week. This time I hear, from another room, Chuck Todd's voice. I like Chuck Todd, even if he is a die-hard Green Bay Packer fan. Chuck is talking about the yet latest U.S. debacle/dilemma/disruption and the averting of, yes, another possible disaster, this time the self-inflicted U.S. government debt shutdown/showdown.

This is how my husband and I differ: He listens to, reads about, studies and likes to opine on, (to no one in particular) anything related to U. S. politics. He will also often write to and/or text our senators and congressional reps with his thoughts. I, on the other hand, try to avoid and block out any media coverage of politics. Like the proverbial ostrich, I prefer to bury my head in the sand. I tell myself that I don't have enough time to be concerned. I'm busy and so, instead, I will go for a run or walk, do some yoga, pull some weeds, bake some cookies, heck, I'll even write an article for my blog… 

Curiosity usually gets the best of me and I'll sneak a peak at the New York Times or ask my husband for an update, and he is only too happy to share with me his condensation of any current event. Along with this, I may also hear about his staunch anti-war stance or his distain for our current politicians. Oh, the joy of  having a husband willing to sort through and distill it all for me.

***

My normally sweet, placid husband, who I cannot ever remember raising his voice to me or our children, or any other person for that matter, has no problem hurling epitaphs at the television, and not just when viewing political pundits, but also while watching sports.

Years back, one of our three children had a friend visiting. Her guest heard my husband's roars from a different level in our home. "I think your parents are having a quarrel." "No," she laughed, "My father never shouts at my mother like that. He's probably watching the Chicago Bears game and arguing with the refs."

Like Clarence Day in "Life with Father" my husband bellows his outrage at the politicians, even though they are not actually in the room and thus cannot hear him, "…taking the bread from their mouths," or "...put an end to this idiocy!" or adjectives such as "senseless," "buffoons," "stupidity," and an occasional profanity are what I'll hear. Were I to walk in the room at such time, he would turn to me, smile, kiss my cheek and say, "Hi, Hon!" as all antagonism is now off his chest and has instantly vaporized.

When my country is teetering on some dangerous precipice I, on the other hand, will try to do a kindness somewhere for someone, probably a penitential throw-back to my Catholic upbringing.

I will then remember that my Native American grandfather bore no ill-will for the thrashings he suffered at the "white man's school" for accidentally speaking in his native tongue. He told his children, "Like it or not, we are part of this country now. We must move forward in whatever harmony we can find."

I will remember visiting the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial, or the small-town, Memorial Day parade I attend annually, those both never fail to bring tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat.

I will replay, in my mind, the powerfully delivered words of Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech.

I will recall the poetry of Emma Lazarus that I memorized as a child:

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries sheWith silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

But, these actions seem lately to no longer serve as an antidote to a poison that has seeped into my American veins. I have become a jaded cynic when it comes to my country's representatives.

Why can't we all just get along?

Why don't we learn from our mistakes?

We are like the fly that, at this very moment, buzzes in my home. The fly can see the outdoors, its hoped-for destination, but can't figure out how to get there, as over and over again, it smacks into the glass pane on our back door. I rise, open the door and shoo the fly outside. Our country needs someone to do that, I think. Someone to stand up, stop us from our repetitive head-banging and shoo us in the right direction.

Someone to remind us that it's a good thing to be empathetic and extend a helping hand to a struggling fellow American.

Someone to show us how to hold our elected officials immediately and directly accountable for actions not in our best interest, but only in their own, short-term career interest.

Someone who can erase my doubts that our politicians are wise enough and pragmatic enough to revive economic growth, which leads to my most acute concern: the questionable legacy we will leave for our grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

 But, my cynical self says, "don't hold your breath waiting..."

***

My own grandchildren recently made their first trip to Disney World. The photos streamed to my husband and me show a happy, sun-bronzed, smiling family against the backdrop of the Magic Kingdom. ...The Magic Kingdom, Fantasyland... that would be my non-cynic ideal for my country... A Magic Kingdom... but Fantasyland, that's the place I've attempted to live, by choosing not to watch media coverage on television or completely peruse the newspapers…

***

But, like I said, my curiosity gets the best of me. This morning I looked at the BBC news to see the world's reaction to our near meltdown and it is there I read a quote from Churchill:

"One can always count on the Americans to do the right thing - after they have exhausted all the other possibilities"

The component of truth in this statement brings an immediate smile to my face. I turn to my history-buff husband and ask him if he's ever read any books on Churchill?

"No? Well, maybe could you read a biography about him and give me a synopsis. I'm interested, but I don't have much spare time."

Mrs. Dominick

The man in front of me in the grocery check out line is irate. He has come in with an outdated coupon and the teenage cashier has rejected it.

"And you are who?!" he roars, so that my ears hurt. "Mrs. Dominick?!"

The young lady takes a breath and simultaneously flips the switch on her lane light that indicates a call for a supervisor.

***

Dominick's has roots in Chicago that go back to my childhood and beyond. Over the decades I've known many a highschooler who, if fortunate enough to be hired, took their first "real" job there, working after school and/or on weekends.

Chicago is a quirky city of rivalries and loyalties run deep. You learn early to declare a side... Cubs or White Sox, Catholic or Public schooling, Coke or Pepsi, Tribune or Sun Times, Democrat or Republican... Wait! There wasn't really a political choice as most Chicagoans back in the day were Democrats.  At least you said you were if you wanted to curry a favor, like let's say an extra garbage can, from your alderman. Anyway, I recall once playing cards in a local women's contract bridge group, a band of fairly intelligent women, and partaking in a serious discussion as to whether we were "Dominick's" or "The Jewel" shoppers, Jewel Food Stores being the only rival grocer at the time. 

Chicagoans don't like change. When Macy's bought out the city's beloved Marshall Field's there was an uproar that Macy's would not keep the name Marshall Field's on its stores. So after that debacle, when Safeway purchased the grocery chain, they knew better than to change the name of the stores. They remained "Dominick's, albeit now featuring "Safeway" products.

***

If I wake before my husband, I'll pick up my IPad and check the world news. I always begin with a glance at the Chicago Tribune. My two younger adult children still live in the city and I like to keep abreast of the city's goings on. I was surprised to see the announcement that Safeway was selling all 72 of it's Chicagoland Dominick's stores.

The article had comments such as: "market fragmentation," "competition from higher-end stores," "increased consumer use of 'big box' and bargain stores" My favorite comment was, "It is the fiduciary responsibility of our board of directors to evaluate any opportunities that may enhance shareholder value.”

I was a frequent Dominick's shopper when I lived in the city. Heck, I passed two stores on my 2.5 mile commute home from my office, so it was convenient, if nothing else. Over the years the stores had been refreshed, as they strove for an upscale modern look. And although the high school workers came and went, they had a core base of employees that remained over the years. I'd known some of the cashiers, butchers and service desk employees for 20 years or more.

Maybe Dominick’s wasn’t always the best bargain, but I knew the store like the back of my hand and I liked their community spirit. They employed a number of people who had a variety of special and different abilities, like Sam, who has cerebral palsy with obvious physical spasticity and speech function issues. And they didn't just employ them as grocery baggers, but as regular employees throughout the store. Sam was a cashier. I once, teasingly, asked Sam if he was old enough to scan my wine purchase. He laughed and told me he was 29. He then thanked me for the compliment and confided that he obtained his youthful-looking genes from his 80-year-old dad.

One day as I drove to Dominick’s, I spotted Sam ambling along, about a mile from work, a to-go soda in hand. I had shopped and was in the process of checking out when I noticed him idling at the front of the store, still sipping his drink. My cashier saw him, too and gestured frantically to Sam, as if to say "get moving." He saw her, nodded and held his soda up by way of response. I tell her that I like Sam. She sighs, “Sam’s the only employee I know who always arrives 1/2 hour early, only to clock in late.” We both smiled.

***

It took me a while but I found a grocery chain out here in the sticks, that I like a lot. It's a 33 minute country drive, roughly a gallon of gas. But oh, is it worth it.

Here's why I like Hy-Vee, in no particular order:

The liquor store is very large and includes lots of wine and local craft beer options and offers the usual 10% a purchase of 6 or more items.

The bakery section is expansive with a variety of fresh and artisan breads. In addition to the typical bakery fare of cakes, pies, coffeecakes, etc. they have fancy colorful cupcakes, mini-desserts and cute little shot glass desserts, perfect one-serving bites of deliciousness, all of which can be purchased in quantities of 1 - 100.

The large produce section contains all the fresh yield you’d expect, but peppered among are more unusual items, including offerings from numerous local farmers.

There is a separate portion of the store devoted to organics, health food and gluten-free, with its own organic dairy section. Everything in the "health market" can be purchased each Wednesday at a 10% discount.

They have the regular cheese selections of packaged sliced, grated and chunk cheese and as well as an upscale, fancy cheese section, featuring gorgeous wheels of cheese from around the globe as well as perfectly veined Maytag bleu cheese directly from nearby in Iowa.

There is an expansive prepared food section at Hy-Vee. In addition to the customary selections, there are extra options that give it a food court, if not quite a bistro feel. They've a Caribou Coffee mini-store, a fresh pizza section and an area devoted to Chinese cuisine which, some say, easily outdoes the area Chinese carryout eateries. Sushi and sandwiches are made to-order by hand. The soup/salad bar, is fresh and contains wide variety of options.

 The list goes on:

-Cents-off on gas purchased at Hy-Vee or local Casey Stores. 76 cents off per gallon of gas for us last visit!

-Free cookies from the bakery for kids ages ten and under

-Near the entrance expectant mom parking

-On-line grocery list print outs, listing aisle numbers, a map of the store, and any necessary corresponding coupons.

-And not that I've need of one, but they have a dietician on hand in each and every Hy-Vee store.

Like Dominick's, Hy-Vee has great community involvement. As we shopped recently, the entire Clinton, Iowa high school band came marching up and down every aisle of the store, performing in honor of their upcoming homecoming game. Happy, fresh-scrubbed, cornfed, heartland kids, with a healthy sprinkling of diversity. And they were quite good, I must say.

More importantly to me, like Dominick's, they also give high school kids that jump start in the job market, they have long-time employee retention, and they employ people of varying different and special physical abilities.

Hy-Vee is a "employee owned" store. I'm not a student of economics and don't know how this differs from "profit sharing" companies, but I do know that for the most part it produces happy, smiling, helpful employees, with whom I'm beginning to become acquainted. Soon one or two will become a favorite, just like Sam.

Oh, there it is again, that pang. Sam, oh Sam, what will become of you?

"Fiduciary interest" be damned.

"90 years ago, Sicilian immigrant Dominick DiMatteo opened a tiny grocery store on Chicago's West Side, ...he opened a second location with his 16-year-old son, Dominick DiMatteo Jr., and the grocery chain was born." 

So, apparently there actually was a "Mrs. Dominick."

of a lesser bowling god

I am not a natural athlete. The only team sports I ever participated in were the school required phys-ed sports. I well recall running up and down the basketball court, praying the ball wouldn't come my way. In softball, I was the girl who daydreamed out in right field. When the volleyball would come directly to me and I'd no choice but to hit it, my touch would cause the ball to rise up and strike me in the face.

I have an abundance of slow-twitch muscle, poor hand-eye coordination and I was born without the important "win at all costs" gene. Once the 2 sides figure this out, I’m usually the last one picked. To me, joy in physical activity has come in the form of yoga, and swimming or running long distances. As it turns out, I rather enjoy being by myself.

Married to a husband who enjoys all sports, I've been inspired to improve my athletic abilities. I've looked to books, magazines, dvds and online sites for tips on how to improve. After much perusal I’ve come to accept: Some of us were meant to be Mia Hamm and others, like me, are best relegated to cooking ham.

I was a "sub" last year on the local women's bowling league. Due to a last minute dropout this year I found myself a member of a team.

Each ball I throw is delivered with great expectation and fervent hope. However, as it rolls closer to the pins it becomes apparent that expectation and hope are trumped by accuracy and form. I'm pretty certain that the few pins that do occasionally succumb, do so out of pity.

***

I read this week with fascination of recent scientific research in neuroplasticity that tells us that the human brain is physically changed over time by physical activity and by our own learning processes. We actually mold our brains via our perceptions and reactions. Just like "we are what we eat," we are what we do. For instance, experts say that reading abundant amounts of good literary fiction helps to build and hone our emotional intelligence. There is additional evidence of benefits to our acuity and creativity due to time spent daydreaming. Heck, if that's the case I'm probably near genius. Anyway, over the last 60 years, apparently, I have reshaped my frontal lobe to the point that my abilities are pretty much limited to empathy, reading, cooking, gardening and playing with my grandchildren. One would think that this knowledge would be a relief to me, as it explains why I fail at sports such as  bowling and golf.

This weekend I also viewed, with interest, the Budweiser commercials that go something like this: "We'll never know if somehow, in someway, we can affect the outcome of a game… We all believe."

***
I worked for 20 years at a Catholic university where I met someone who would become a cherished friend and mentor. She was and remains a fiercely proud, Cuban-born, Roman Catholic. Each day she arrived an hour early, just so she could attend Mass at the chapel prior to work. She devotedly offered Catholic prayers, novenas, rosaries, and the lighting of votives to help friends in need. She swore it worked for her... and when her copious prayers didn't help she had another ace up her sleeve - Cuban Santeria. From her, I learned of syncretism, the combining of completely different, contradictory beliefs.

Once, within the confines of my office, I lost a critical document. I began frantically searching my desk, files, cabinets and the garbage can. From across the hall, she watched my fretful agitation, then said placidly, "We need a red string." "A red string?!" Ignoring my panic, she calmly walked to the supply room and returned with a length of red yarn. "Here! Tie this to your desk chair and tell that imp in a loud voice that you will not release him until he releases your paper." Out of sheer desperation, and hoping no other staff would happen by and witness me, I complied. Satisfied she returned to her office. I no sooner sat down at my desk, randomly picked up a stack of papers that I had thoroughly perused, over a dozen times in the past hours, when I found my lost document. It had been stuck to the bottom of the pile. Now, as if miraculously, it had released itself. I called out to my friend, "I found it!" She sprinted from her desk and said urgently, "Quick! Quick! Untie him! Untie him and thank him!"
As if I actually had some little imp tethered to my office chair. I removed the red yarn and mumbled my gratitude to the arm of my chair. Smiling smugly she made a motion of dusting off her hands and returned to her office.

***
One evening, our department was hosting a social for a very high ranking Catholic official. My job was to oversee the event. As the tall, dignified official and his entourage made their way around the room, greeting visitors, I noticed a large-boned woman with an unruly head of, not-recently-enough, dyed-red-hair that failed to hide two inches of gray roots. I recognized the frayed raincoat she wore, regardless of weather conditions. She was a neighborhood eccentric, who occasionally showed up on campus. She was eyeing the dignitary, looking for an opportunity to approach him. I made a move to intercept, but was too late. She'd latched onto the VIP's arm, looked up at him and said earnestly, while batting her eyelashes, "Doodle-ee-doo!"

With concern, the dignitary looked helplessly to his entourage. By then I'd reached the group, put my arm around the woman's shoulder and with promises of cookies directed her away. After filling a container with treats, I escorted her to campus security and they took her away. But not before, in the presence of my Cuban mentor, the crazy neighborhood, fiery-red-haired-raincoated kook pointed a crooked finger, from her gnarled hand in my direction and uttered a curse, calling for my demise.

With genuine horror my friend bade me, "Go immediately to the chapel and bless yourself with holy water and..." "Nonsense! I don't believe in curses." She took me by my lapels, looked me in the eye decrying, "Don't you see? It matters not if you believe! There are forces beyond us. Things we cannot explain. Not believing doesn't mean they're not there!" I shook my head, chuckled and returned to attending to the social.

Things were winding down and I took a breather, sitting down to check my cell phone for messages.

The cold water hit me directly in the face. In shock and gasping for breath, I looked up to see my Cuban mentor, breathless herself from a quick trip to and from the chapel's holy water font, holding a now-empty paper cup while uttering an anti-curse incantation.

***
I know now that I will improve my standing in the bowling league and not, mind you, because I go all by myself for extra practice every week, but because I cheer for everyone. I remain humble when I "accidentally" throw a strike or spare. And most important of all, I never, ever offer advice to another bowler, no matter how well meaning.

After watching me struggle recently, a teammate, who had bowled several frames exceedingly well, endeavored to offer me advice. "I know I shouldn't say anything, sweetheart, but you're kind of zig-zagging on your approach. Why don't you try starting more in the center." No response was able to form on my quivering lips. "Come on," she continued, "just give it a try. It can't hurt. I mean, you can't do any worse, right?" she chortled as she nudged me toward the lane.

My well-meaning teammate's next throw is a gutter ball. Next two frames she has bad splits and basically falls apart. I instantly begin to bowl much better. Oh, my dear Cuban shepherd, you have taught your protege well!

"It's only weird if it doesn't work." ~ Budweiser

Celebrities

When we lived in Chicago we were friends with a couple who both had held relatively prestigious positions. He, recently retired from a local U.S. government organization and she, still a high-ranking city union official. We'd socialize with them a couple of times a year. Just before we sold our city home and moved to the countryside, they invited us to their home for dinner. They'd a beautiful home in a nice suburb just barely outside of the city limits. Like us, they were now "empty nesters." We enjoyed cocktails as they showed us the latest improvements to their Architectural Digest-type home. We marveled at the fabulous, innovative updates, which included a completely renovated basement now featuring gorgeous eco-friendly faux-wood floors, a swanky bar area adjacent to a custom-built slate pool table, a hobby center for the stained glass she crafted in her spare time, and storage solutions that would put Martha Stewart to shame. Together we joked that their recently fledged children would surely complain that their parents had waited until they'd moved away to make these upgrades to the home.

Among the decor that caught my eye in the basement were the multiple, handsomely framed photos of the couple with local political, sport and business dignitaries. Photo after photo showed the two of them dressed to the nines, smiling while nestled shoulder-to-shoulder with the likes of former Mayor Richard Daley, current Mayor Rahm Emmanuel, the state governor, local CEO's of major companies, professional Chicago athletes and if memory serves me, (my husband concurs) there was a photo of them with Oprah Winfrey.

***

Recently my husband and I attended the annual "homecoming" parade of a nearby small town, population 757. It's billed as "the largest parade in the county," and is a part of their annual hometown festival. We found the quarter mile parade route already lined with people and selected a viewing spot next to an "elephant ear" stand, run by the local Lions Club.

"Care for an elephant ear?" I turned to see a bespectacled, thickset man with a round face and a head of white hair. He looked kind, like if I did actually want an elephant ear, he would cook one for me with great care. "Do you live around here?" he asked. "Well sort of, we live over at Lake Carroll," I gestured with my hand in the general direction of our home. "Oh," he brightened, "We, too, have a place there." By now I had gotten a good enough look at him to know that I had seen his photograph just this morning on a missive we'd received in the mail. I also knew that his massive waterfront property was but a second home for him.

"Aren't you the president of our bank?" I asked. At the moment I could only remember his first name and it seemed brash to say, "Hey, aren't you Omar?"

"Yes," he said obviously pleased that I recognized him. He asked for my name and nodded immediately, "Yes, yes, I've seen your name when I've looked over our records" he made a slight sweeping motion with his hand as if he was reading a list.  As he spoke the words, I could somehow picture him sitting in his spacious office perusing a list of his customer base.

***

At a golf outing we win a gift certificate to a local eatery/bar, and decide to stop there for breakfast. Above the front door of the otherwise nondescript exterior hangs a large Budweiser sign. There is no other signage indicating the eatery name, their hours or the fact that they serve food. Uncertain if this is  the correct spot we enter.

The joint is dark and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright morning sun. I blink and see a bar along the left of the lengthy one-room pub. A group of men sit playing euchre at a common table in the middle. Beyond that is a large round table filled with a half dozen people at various stages of eating breakfast. To the right are some small square tables along the wall. We choose one of these near the back beside the round table.

"You can have our spot. We're leaving," offers someone from group at the round table, but we've already taken our seats. "Next time," says my husband grinning.

"Breakfast One - $4.25" or "Breakfast Two - $2.75" are the menu options. Breakfast One consists of coffee, two eggs cooked to order, toast, potatoes and "meat." "Meat?" Our server explains we have a choice of sausage or bacon. "Sometimes we have ham, but not today." Breakfast Two is coffee, eggs and toast.

To spend down our ten dollar gift certificate we each choose Breakfast One. We add a glass of juice, which I'm fairly certain is Tang, to bring the tally up another buck. With tax we'll still come in just under ten dollars and we can give our server a cash tip.

The gregarious people, at table next to ours, draw us into their conversation. A man sporting a blue chambray shirt and baseball cap saunters over from the bar and leans up against the pool table near us. "Hi, my name's Bob," he offers. A woman from the round table mentions in a stage whisper that Bob is the town's mayor.

As we finish our breakfast the mayor takes a seat at the adjacent round table and we turn our chairs to facilitate better conversation.

It is here that we learn first-hand of the town's current problems: 

a) the manhole on Summit and Lumar is loose

b) music performed at the recent "Appreciation Day" celebration contained vulgar language

c) repetitive problems with a rottweiler getting out of the yard and running loose 

***

I sit now sipping a cup of coffee and wonder how those handsomely framed photos of my husband and me with Omar  and Bob will look in our lower-level.