A Place of My Own

IT WAS NEW SOFTWARE

A few months ago, I wrote about genealogy and how U.D. and I met some different relatives who were working on family trees. It brought me back to a piece I started to write some time before, when the subject was the same and I — with my relational database mind — remembered a new software. That is, it was new to me back then.

Whenever I have encountered a new software, I try to use it for something familiar, in order to get used to the way the application works. A new word processor? I would do — redo, actually — my résumé.

[I eventually designed my résumé into a booklet form. In retrospect, I imagine it was often overlooked because it was not conventional. That, I suppose, works for me. Any employer who can’t appreciate my creative ability — or at least examine it — is not someone for whom I wish to work.]

In the years when my company was developing the Theory of Constraints©, they bought Metadesign®, a flowchart application. We could use it to chart one’s train of logic. For example, a short if-then statement might be:
If I throw a ball into the air —> then it will fall down again.

I would, in time, get so good at using Metadesign that I taught it to new staff members, but for starters, I began putting together my family tree. I had been trying to explain to the kids about first cousins and second cousins and first cousins-once removed. It is a little confusing in my family, as I am sure I have explained before, because my dad was the youngest in his family and my mother almost eldest in hers. Dad had nieces and nephews who were about my mother’s age. So I had first cousins whose children seemed to be my generation. (Those are first cousins once removed.) And if it was bewildering for me, it was compounded for my kids.

One of the lovely things about Metadesign (or any other flowchart, I guess) was that you can put selected objects into the same level. That meant I could put each generation in its own line, and you could see why they were first cousins or second cousins or, so help me, first cousins-three time removed. I pulled up the old sheets recently for my brother’s grandchildren and realized I need to make some new ones. A generation has passed, and offspring are falling off the edges of the chart, which means I need to make new pages showing what is relevant to them.

One of my aunts told me several things about my grandparents’ generation, including information about those who had not come to North America. Some are now in South Africa. Some died in the Holocaust. At least I have some names there. Unfortunately, I never got to enter what I had taken down in shorthand, because my computer died at that time. The paper might be somewhere in the house, but I doubt it. That aunt, unfortunately, no longer recognizes her own children.

I do not have the names of my father’s cousins who fled first to the Netherlands and later to Israel. The probability of my ever tracing them is very slight.

This much I can tell you, however. The popular online genealogy sites have been absolutely useless to me. My grandparents were in the United States a hundred years ago, and the only mention of them in ancestry.com is what we entered ourselves. The public library where I worked so long ago used to have a local genealogy section, but (1) I can no longer jump into the car and drive there, and (2) it might be useless anyway. I can’t imagine that they saved the city directories from the 1920’s. The fire at City Hall, sometime in the 1940’s, I think, destroyed such vital records as my dad’s birth certificate. There are some things we are not destined to know. At least, not yet.

YET AGAIN, HEALTH INSURANCE

You would think that, after all these years, I would be sick and tired of writing about health insurance. I am. But the problems persist. I am ready to ask the entire Congress to resign and start over.

The insurance companies, of course, are right on track. They’re raising prices. They’re really pushing Medicare supplements, all of which would cost me more than I pay directly for services that aren’t covered by Medicare. Even Medicare-D, the prescription insurer, which once cost me $26 per month, has gone up to $40.

Speaking of prescriptions, I don’t know who to blame for this one. Husband was in the Veterans Administration medical system for several years, and I paid $8 for any prescription he needed, brand name or generic. Now that he is in the nursing home, his meds come from the nursing home’s supplier, and I get the bills. They looked awfully high to me — one month the bill was higher than what he receives as social security! — and I began looking at the list more carefully. There are several treatments that are not available as generics. Okay. But there is one medication that we both take, same generic, same dose. When I go into the “coverage gap,” it costs me about $18 per month; for him I now pay $133 per month. As I told his nurse, I could understand if they charged $33, but $133? It doesn’t matter to me in the long run, as it goes toward the spend-down for Title XIX. Eventually, it’s the federal government that will be paying for it. Just another one of those $500 toilet seats.

It serves them right, of course. Members of Congress have medical coverage, so what do they care? Connecticut has several offices — both state and federal — coming up for election this year, and I am angry enough to have sent a letter to the newspaper. I’ll let you know if they print it.

As I listen to the candidates for various state (and federal) offices, I hear them talk about the need to create jobs. They mention how important it is to support small business. Those are excellent goals.

But I have not heard one of them suggest that we need a health insurance system that is not tied to one’s employment. The cost of insurance can be a very heavy burden for the small business. Employees are fearful of losing their jobs because they will lose their insurance but, believe me, that does not make them better employees.

If our potential candidates aren’t smart enough to figure that out, I don’t want any of them in office, wasting my money as usual. Get going, people, look at the bigger picture!

(Of course, Connecticut does have problems. There’s nothing like a company that exports most of its jobs and then complains that this is a bad economy because people here are losing their jobs.)

Just when I think I can stop spinning my wheels…

FIGHTING BACK

I have realized that I need to take some of my own advice. I have long held that a little vanity is a healthful trait. For years and years, I did not go anywhere without dressing appropriately and, especially, wearing makeup. Even when I had no hair, I made sure my cosmetics looked good. But the eye surgeon vetoed eyeliner and mascara, of course. By that time I was already letting a lot of things slip, what with a sick husband and all. (You might remember, his second respiratory emergency hospitalized him right before my first cataract operation.) After that, I was seeing doctors about the HHT, and it was necessary that they see the skin on my face. All you have to do is go out a few times without your face, and it becomes a (bad) habit.

[Just an aside: when I was a little girl, I had two little “beauty marks” on my face, one on my cheek and one at the tip of my nose. My parents had the one on my nose removed. Since the other one grew over the years, I was always grateful that there was no longer a spot on my nose. A couple of years ago, a fairly large telangiectasia appeared right where that little mole had been. I suppose I’m lucky the mole is gone. But the darned thing is hard to cover.]

Anyway, since I actually had to go somewhere today, I gave myself plenty of time to put on a face. Not only am I out of practice, but some of the stuff I have is old or the wrong color… One product I bought made me look older than I look without any makeup at all. There’s a nice little job; update your cosmetics. Ahem. As I went out, I noted that my color-coordinated outfit — green, today — matched my car.

My point, however, is that I felt better. It was a warmish day, and the roads were dry. After I finished the appointment with my attorney, I decided to drive out to Costco. Amazing! My sore shoulder and aching knee were gone, for the moment. (I have no doubt I shall pay for it later. Tylenol, here I come.) That drive is about the farthest I go by myself.

It is fitting and proper that March should begin with a spring-like day, even if it snows tomorrow.

ALL UCONN ALL DAY

Or almost all day. I’ve written before about the unique relationship between our local PBS station and our Connecticut Women’s Basketball Program. It started about fifteen years ago, when the team was in the running for the NCAA Championship, which they eventually won. There are a lot of University of Connecticut alumni around here, and the game was not readily available. The president of the station decided to take a chance on a new venture, and the station aired the final game.

To everyone’s surprise, not only did the game draw a large audience, but the fund-raising (which you get instead of commercials) was the most successful they had from any show that season.

It was worth trying again, and eventually the station had an agreement that any game that was not on national television would be available on Connecticut Public Television. This season the fund-raising was frenetic; several large corporate sponsors had withdrawn their support because of the bad economy. Airing basketball games, particularly when you have to borrow someone else’s feed, is expensive. The viewers were asked to fill in, to the tune of $20,000 to $30,000 per game. The volunteers begged, they cajoled, they offered incentives. Most years I just renew my membership (at the senior citizen level, of course), but even I felt I could add something this year. I believe they made their quota almost every time.

Traditionally the last home game of the season is Senior Night, when the graduating seniors are honored. They are accompanied by family, with flowers for the ladies. The seniors are given framed versions of their team shirts, and everyone poses for photos. It can be very emotional for everyone involved.

This year, for some reason, the game belonged to ESPN. It would be a daytime game, not a night game, because ESPN was in charge. (They could have just chosen the last game of the season, on Monday — but maybe they have that one too.) CPTV arranged to stream the ESPN broadcast, and they decided to make a day of it. At nine a.m. they did the last “Geno Show” of the season. Coach Geno Auriemma is articulate and amusing. He embodies what you would want from someone teaching your kids, requiring selflessness and hard work, as well as passing grades. At ten a.m. they aired a tribute to the five graduating seniors, with commentary from the coaches and the other members of the team. They are all very different, each wonderful in her own way, and very attached to each other. At eleven-thirty they went to the arena, where we were able to watch the senior ceremonies.

At noon the game began. Someday, somehow, ESPN will hire some decent sportscasters, who know what is going on in the game. A media guide is published every year, but I would bet that these announcers never look at it. They are, in the fashion of the day, very much enamored with the sound of their own voices.

After Connecticut won its 68th game, UConn 84, Georgetown 62 — they were unbeaten last year and this year so far — basketball coverage continued.

They aired the senior ceremonies again for anyone who had come in too late, and then they re-aired the tribute. That was followed by last year’s “Tribute to Perfection,” which ended at about six-thirty.

The only good thing about having the regular season end is that there will be a few tournaments to play. They don’t call it March Madness for nothing.

What I love about women’s basketball is that they are students first. (Of course, Geno would kick ’em off the team if they didn’t pay attention to their grades.) When they first became famous, there was no professional women’s basketball in the United States. Women had to be prepared to travel to Europe if they wanted to play, always remembering that they had better have some other career to fall back on. Men’s college basketball is mostly an audition for the NBA, and no one seems to care whether they graduate or not. We are very proud of our girls.

John Adams

Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it.
—George Santayana

I think that, the more I learn about history, the less I know about it. Occasionally, History Channel runs a series about the presidents of the United State, and I enjoy listening to it. Using what I know about the presidents gives me a, um, call it a timeline, against which the various events of the last two hundred plus years make more sense to me. The television series prompted me to buy a book about the presidents.

To my surprise, the book was often different from the series. History Channel explained the number of good things some presidents had accomplished; the book dismissed some of these same men as “party hacks.” I am well aware that there are often different versions of what is going on — there were half a dozen conflicting biographies of John Kennedy in the months after his death — but wouldn’t you think they would get their stories straight after a hundred years or more? Apparently not.

Recently I have been wading through David McCullough’s John Adams. It is excellent writing — Pulitzer Prize, 2002 — but I am not as good a reader as I once was. By the time I was only about halfway through, I learned that some things I had suspected were real.

From junior high school on, I had been taught that “John Adams was an unpopular president,” or even a bad president. I had taken it as true for years because, after all, a teacher told me so.

Eventually, I began to realize that Adams had a couple of strikes against him. First of all, he was not George Washington. He was not tall and dashing, he spoke up when Washington would have listened. That leads me to the second strike, Adams was probably much smarter than most of the men he worked with. He was a self-righteous man, never afraid to speak up (or write) if he was sure his opinions were valid. A third strike, I think, which I don’t completely hold against him, was that he never learned to tone down his erudition — quietly! — to avoid offending those less fortunate.

Nothing I had read previously told me about his foreign service before the Revolutionary War was over. He not only was in France (which I knew), but in England and the Netherlands. Had he not done those things, not only would the new country have been in deeper financial straits, but his son John Quincy, even smarter than his father, would not have been available for some of the foreign service that he did. Remember the difficulties involved — the dangerous trip across the Atlantic, the hardships of overland travel (especially if your ship came ashore in the wrong country!), and the time it took for communications to get to and from one’s home government.

Letters between John and Abigail illustrate their love for one another, despite the often stilted language that was used in letter-writing. (Not to mention the silence in that department when they were together!) But Abigail wrote to everyone, including friends and relatives, in an effort to keep the family together no matter where they happened to be. I really came to admire Abigail — what a life women led back in the eighteenth century.

Fortunately, I missed two bookmobile stops before I had to return the book. (They automatically renew my books if I’m not there.) Some of the most interesting stuff occurred after Adams became president.

The nasty politics — Jefferson and Hamilton, I had thought better of you both — the secret intrigues, the “ever-splenetic William McClan” — who could have been Rush Limbough — even Hamilton’s adulterous affair. Need I go on? It could have come out of today’s newspapers.

I really like David McCullough. I read the first of his books — for me the first — when I still had an infant. It was about the building of the Brooklyn Bridge, and I remember propping the book against a nursing baby (though I don’t remember which baby!). I learn so much from his writing, I wonder if McCullough ever did a book on John Quincy Adams. According to my teachers, he was an “unpopular” president too.

Our local weather has been very uncertain this week, bad enough that I begged off a meeting with our lawyer until next week. It had been raining, without a noticeable pause, for the better of two days. I scheduled a Peapod delivery on Wednesday, because I knew I would not want to be out. Though it was warm enough here just to stay liquid and wash away any vestiges of snow, I was beginning to wonder if I should consider getting an ark. I drove the block to the bookmobile yesterday. The clerk pulled out lots of biographies from which I could choose, although I am sure that much of the next two weeks I shall be concentrating on Anne Perry’s newest book. (I’ll let you know.)

After one other errand, I came home. The rain and wind were not pleasant. When U.D. came home from work, we went out again — manicure, Trader Joe’s, pharmacy. We were out for maybe three hours, though for the last stop, I did ask U.D. to get the car and pick me up at the door.

After supper I went to sit in the recliner and promptly fell asleep. I woke up briefly around eight when I felt U.D. removing my shoes… I woke up again around three, realized I needed some Tylenol, and went back to the recliner. I fell asleep again, listening to the sound of the rain against the windows. I woke up late, after eight a.m., and yelled for U.D. And yelled again, because I looked out the window to see snow. My deck, which was clear yesterday, has a couple of inches on the rails. It is exactly 32 degrees right now; we may or may not have a snow emergency, but the schools are closed. Last time I looked, it was still snowing. Maybe I shall just stay in the house till Monday.

WORLDNET DESERTS ME...

[It seems so stupid to whine about my own little problem, as many of my “virtual friends” are in pain right now. If they are people you read, you already know; if you don’t know them, it’s none of your business, and I refuse to gossip. May God grant you all the strength you need to do whatever you have to do. I wish you all the joys of family and friends — I’m so grateful for mine.]

Around fifteen years ago, having quickly realized that I did not want a-oh-hell as my service provider, I signed up for AT&T Worldnet. I have been mostly pleased with it through the years, though I gave up the dial-up when we got U-Verse. And the U-Verse is just fine.

As I explained to the umpteenth sales rep that tried to sell me a faster U-Verse, it makes no sense for me to have a car that can go two hundred miles an hour if my reflexes don’t allow me to drive any faster than forty miles an hour. “Oh,” she said, “I never thought about it that way.” Yeah, I know…

Anyway, for all intents and purposes, my e-mails are just AT&T, but they still come through Worldnet. However, Worldnet has finally decided to merge with other AT&T internet services, which means that stuff has to be transferred. It should be fairly simple. However, I have come to know that there is often a glitch in the coding when Worldnet makes a change. Like the time when they required me to change my password — which I did — and then, for about a month, the program didn’t accept the new password. Never mind, it is still a better home page than the other one, and I hope I don’t lose the good stuff.

So I read the directions and proceeded. For several days in a row, the transfer program would not accept any password from me. There was a phone number, but it was so swamped they didn’t even suggest you hold on. Finally, it let me in, I started entering the necessary data, until I got to the credit card. The same credit card that I had always used for Worldnet is no longer valid? I think not. This morning I tried again, after a message that the end date had been made three weeks earlier… I suspect that is one more typing error on their part, but I figured I would try once more. Aha! There was a change in the page, and my card is valid. Told ya!

So my email addresses are safe, but there is the issue of “personal pages.” I never was successful at building a web page, but I did store my pictures there. Not knowing whether I would be able to transfer them, I spent the last two days going through about five years’ worth of posts. (It was about that time that I learned how to insert a picture.) I saved them on my hard drive until I find a place to store them online. I shall talk to my various mentors to find out what to do.

Meanwhile, I read the occasional post and realized just how long Husband has been really difficult. I would have said just two or three years, but evidently he was deteriorating eight years ago. U.D. says that when she moved back in with us — more than ten years ago — she could see the difference but no one else could. I don’t know when I started asking medical providers for help; I had all kinds of advice, but no real assistance until it was court-ordered. Even then, he had to be really ill before anyone really listened.

LEAVING D'LAND

It is always sad when a worthy enterprise gasps its last. As I explained when I switched out of Diaryland, I feel it has outlived its usefulness for most of us who began there. I still look at it regularly, but I don’t get much out of it. Most of my favorite reads have long since moved to other sites. It does seem to be a good place for beginning a journal, but there are other free sites that seem to be just as easy to use but with more possibilities.

Why do I look at all? I still have a list of buddies who — even if they have relocated — still show up when they update. I even update there myself, for anyone who neither uses a feed like Google Reader nor signed up for my notify list. Actually, I don’t post my little nothing on D’land all the time; it’s a tedious task to post what is basically just a note to say, “wait till you’re redirected.” So today I took a long look at what is left of my old buddy list.

Twenty-three names. Eleven of those have not updated in three months or more; I know that some of them have moved elsewhere. Of the other twelve, I can access a few in other ways. I keep the list open in case some of the others return — I can’t very well blame them for computer problems… or for having a life beyond the keyboard! A couple of them continue to post but, for one reason or another, can’t be picked up through an independent feed. But I think I am going to stop double-posting very soon.

If it matters to you, be advised there is a notify list. Further, I can add names manually if you would rather not just click the notify link.

FAR AWAY PLACES...

Far away places with strange-sounding names
Far away over the sea
Those far away places with the strange-sounding names
Are calling, calling me

Going to China or maybe Siam
I want to see for myself
Those far away places I’ve been reading about
In a book that I took from the shelf

I start getting restless whenever I hear
The whistle of a train
I pray for the day I can get underway
And look for those castles in Spain

They call me a dreamer, well maybe I am
But I know that I’m burning to see
Those far away places with the strange-sounding names
Calling, calling me.

It comes from memorizing and the way I use it. I have often used recall to put myself to sleep. (Counting and math become automatic, and my mind then wanders…)

When I first started the list of American presidents, I used to fall asleep by Lincoln. Eventually I could do the whole list, and the wandering mind does not go to sleep. I did the fifty states, then added their capitals, then made a rule that I had to name three cities in each state. It’s not working any more. I did South America; I did Central America. They worked for a while.

So I devised a new project: how many countries of the whole world could I list? If I could list five for each letter of the alphabet, that would be 130. Well, I had better list more than five if I could, because there are no countries beginning with X or W and only one each for O and Q. (Oman and Qadar, in case you’re curious.)

I set some rules. They had to be current, and they had to be countries. No provinces or territories, even if they once had been independent. Scotland and England are part of the United Kingdom — one country. Can’t use Transylvania or Patagonia or Lapland. And so forth. This was far more satisfying than the game of Geography, where too many places end in A, and there are never enough A’s.

There were more than five for A, lots for B and C. Meanwhile, since this was new enough to require concentration, I was falling asleep before I got very far. That’s okay; there is no hurry. A, B, C… How about D? Denmark, Dominican Republic… Duh! There must be more, but I could not think of any. That’s enough to keep me awake. I went to the internet.

It turns out that there are just four countries in the world beginning with D. I had never thought of Djibouti. And the fourth was one I had never heard of: Domenica. Look at that; even when I am supposed to be sleeping, I am learning something new! If I ever finish the project, I shall be an expert.

By that time I was singing “Far Away Places,” a song I remember from the radio when I was a little kid. Imagine: one of those places doesn’t fit the rules. You have to say Thailand.

I am always of two minds about changing place names. No one says Sri Lankan sapphires or Ho Chi Minh City cinnamon. Well, you could say Thailand twins, but the original “Siamese” twins were Chinese.

But the reason I started thinking about this during waking hours was that I watched the parade of the athletes last night on the Olympics. Bermuda? That is not an independent country, according to the State Department. “Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia”? Okay, that distinguishes it from the territory in Greece, but it puts a country beginning with M under F. The International Olympic Committee makes the rules here.

Nevertheless, it was fun to watch them coming and to predict who would be next, realizing that certain African countries do not have Winter Olympic sports. I watch for the politics as much as for the events. Do you realize that if Ireland did not separate Iran from Israel alphabetically, Iran would not march in the procession? And weren’t the Native American dancers awesome?

THURSDAY

You know I don’t make plans, except when other people’s activitiess are involved. Thursday is the day for Husband’s care conference, required every three months. Son and I meet with the social worker assigned to Husband, along with the department reps, like nursing and therapy.

As you may have heard, we had a little snow on Wednesday. I just stayed in all day (not the most healthful thing, of course), and U.D. stayed home from work. She cleaned the dusting of snow off my car when she went out for the newspaper. With the temperature just above freezing and even a little sunshine, there wasn’t much accumulation until the afternoon. By evening, however, I was whimpering every time I looked out the window, even as I noted that Mr. New-Neighbor-Next-Door had cleared my walk once and my regular snow removal service had come after that and done walkway, steps and driveway. I don’t like to consider weather issues when I know I shall have to be somewhere.

Thursday morning did not begin well. Yes, I got up in time, started coffee, etc. I went in to remind U.D. that she had errands before work. I decided to carry some trash downstairs and investigate the possibilities of getting the paper. The sun was shining.

Melting was beginning by the garage, and the drive was not slippery. Neither was the walkway. However, the newspaper was on the grass, a couple of feet from the walk. I leaned very carefully, could not quite reach, tried a little more, and found myself on my knee in the snow. I was not hurt at all, but I was nowhere near anything with which to pull myself up. I finally managed to get myself, along with my paper, back into the garage, but the language wasn’t pretty. Fortunately, no one else was up that early.

Son picked me up — said the driving had been easy — and we went off to the nursing home. We always take Husband to the conferences with us, so we helped him dress and showed him some of the stuff we brought. It’s never, enough, of course, but he was very pleased with a picture of the Adorable Ms. Lila. The actual conference was pretty easy, as Husband doesn’t have a lot to complain about. He wants to be left alone, except for meals, etc., so mostly they let him alone.

We did accept having a new psych evaluation, although I don’t know what they will use for a baseline. He rarely saw the same geropsychiatrist twice at the VA. His lack of attention is as likely to be because of his hearing as much as dementia. And then we looked at more photos of Lila and remembered when the social worker’s sons and my kids went to Hebrew School together.

We brought him a couple of long-sleeved shirts for the cold weather. I packed his own special CD, made for him by friends at Replay Records. He had forgotten he owned it.

I brought him a valentine, which seemed to confuse him. “Who sent that?” “Me?” “Who? What is it?” Finally I handed to him and told him to read it — “Happy Valentine’s Day” — and he opened the package and found the Milky Ways, “from who?” “Me!” I am glad I resisted adding dammit!, because he did thank me.

And Son brought me home and fixed my internet connection. I would call that a successful day.

I DON'T LIKE JANUARY

A few weeks ago, I was having trouble writing a post. I pictured my brain as a misfiring engine, going off in all directions but never actually catching. I was so grateful for those people who always post every day. (I’m always grateful to them.) And then my computer broke.

Long story told short: in the process of removing a virus — or maybe it was already the problem — I lost the ability to log in. I knew my hard drive was intact, but I couldn’t access it. I need it now. All of my financial records are on that hard drive. I could get online using a borrowed computer, but I could not necessarily remember the URLs for my favorites or the correct passwords. I absolutely hate the touch-mouse! Beggars can’t be choosers, but I don’t have to like it.

My son came yesterday to try and fix everything. It used to be his computer, after all, and he brought his new computer so he could find references… But the passwords for this machine had long been forgotten, and it took a long time just to get in. He left the virus scanners running and told me what to do when they finished. The scanners did not find any problems, and I rebooted successfully. The computer even opened my internet connection, which is a strong connection. Unfortunately, my browsers can’t detect the connection.

The whole mess got me thinking to how many crappy things happen in January. It is not the “let-down after the holidays.” After all, I am not the kind of person who goes hyper over the holidays. But I keep remembering some pretty bad Januarys. Consider these.

Some twenty-odd years ago, my mother died on January second. “She gave us New Year’s Day,” said my sister. Oh, there was no doubt she planned it, but I figured that she wanted to be sure that her executor would have plenty of time to settle her estate. She loved playing the money market.

A year after that, mid-January found me in the hospital for surgery. I was the whole accounting department for our company at the time, and I found myself on the phone a lot. I specifically remember writing a list of actions so I could instruct someone how to do the payroll.

I certainly was happy when, later in the year, the company took on CPA Charlie. He could be a PIA sometimes — well, he was an accountant, after all — but he knew a lot and certainly eased my burden. But in January he was in the hospital for surgery, phoning his assistant on how to do payroll. And the January after that, another key employee was in the hospital… Different people, different illnesses, different surgeries. But the same time of the year.

A couple of years before I started writing, I had another problem. I couldn’t date it without a journal, but I can now access my medical history. My arm was very sore, and it was eventually traced to overreaching and causing a small spur to injure the ligament. It took about a year to heal completely, but it was worst in… January 2000. Last month I did it again, trying to get something off a high shelf. I can only hope it will heal faster now that I’m not working.

I am most thankful that January is over.

COUNT ME IN

This morning, right after the news, I heard the first discussion of the 2010 census. It isn’t new to me; I filled out my first census form in 1960, when I was in college. I have a specific question in mind, which was not answered on this news program. Though the local director did not mention it, there is a web site. Like most government web sites, it means well, but it needs some refining. Oh, by the way, the web site doesn’t really answer my question either.

There is, however, a copy of the questionnaire, although it cannot be submitted online. The material is mailed to an address — not to any individual — and must be returned by mail. If forms are not returned by the specified date (April Fool’s Day, I think), census workers go into the community to get the required information.

Even though the national count is conducted every ten years, the Bureau of the Census is busy all the time. Sample surveys may be conducted for other departments. For a time, our address was the one being used to collect information for the Department of Transportation. That was in the 1970’s. I’m not sure what they learned. Necessary Improvements to the interstate develop very slowly. The railroad station is finally being built, and it ought to be ready by 2012. “The mills grind slowly…”

The questionnaires change from census to census. In 1790, the first national census, they had to count women and slaves, even though those people weren’t officially people. (I was kind of surprised when I learned that the census went back that far, until I realized that how else do you determine how many will be in the House of Representatives. Of course.) I haven’t heard one word about POSSLQ’s* this time. I think the 2000 census put an emphasis on counting people who don’t have addresses.

I am reminded of the instructions that went with the 1960 form. Since the question specifically asks who is living at that address on a given date — and we were living in a college dorm — we were to list ourselves as children living with a guardian. We asked the housemother (now called resident counselors or something) whether that meant we could call her Mom.

Nothing that I know addresses the question I have had in mind for some time, although the college thing may be close. Every time I do an online questionnaire that asks how many people are in my household, I have to ask myself whether to count Husband. And if I don’t count him, are we married or separated? We are not legally separated, even though we no longer live at the same place. I am just as responsible for his bills as I have been for the last forty-one years. Since an online survey doesn’t go into detail, I often count him. If I say that two people live here and that I am married, it paints a picture of an entirely different household!

Connecticut being in the economic condition that it is, with lots of people leaving in disgust, we may well lose a member of the House. (We lost one after the last census.) But ten years ago we had two strong senators, giving us seniority and a certain amount of clout in the Senate. That is disappearing too. After nearly seventy years, I am beginning to think that maybe I should leave too.

Meanwhile, of course, I shall fill in that form and return it promptly. Because, at the very least, I need to be counted — as an adult, as a senior citizen, as a woman. Thank you very much, those are all the questions we have for you at this time.

*POSSLQ — Persons of Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters. It sounded silly enough that Charles Osgood wrote a poem about it.

My POSSLQ

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands and crystal brooks
With silken lines, and silver hooks.
There's nothing that I wouldn't do
If you would be my POSSLQ.

You live with me, and I with you,
And you will be my POSSLQ.
I'll be your friend and so much more;
That's what a POSSLQ is for.

And everything we will confess;
Yes, even to the IRS.
Some day on what we both may earn,
Perhaps we'll file a joint return.
You'll share my pad, my taxes, joint;
You'll share my life - up to a point!
And that you'll be so glad to do,
Because you'll be my POSSLQ.

Apologies, of course, to John Donne.

CURTAINS

Or window treatments, as my mother would say. When Mom returned to the work force, that was her field: high end curtains and draperies, bed ensembles, fabric. And hardware.

Drapery hardware — curtain rods, brackets, rings and pins — was very expensive, but Mom did have an employee’s discount. When we moved into the Cheesebox, which was entirely new, she bought hardware for all the windows and had Dad install it. (Husband didn’t understand any of this, but he had already learned that it was often simpler just to let her do her thing.) She bought curtains or drapes for all the rooms and several fancy bedspreads with dust ruffles and so forth.

I couldn’t care less. If it made her happy, I was glad but, with young kids and one or two other responsibilities, decorating was never high on my agenda. I knew the words, knew the difference between a valance and a valence, learned about finials and double widths, but for the most part I did nothing about it. Shades or blinds were important, but I had no interest in whatever curtains I had. On the other hand, I had been through this with her when I moved into a college dorm…

Several of those sets of curtains eventually fell apart when I washed them, damaged by the sun. One is supposed to put up protection for the curtains after one has hung the curtains to protect the furniture from the sun… My son took down the curtain rods in the kitchen and installed blinds. Whenever I replaced curtains, I chose the cheapest and simplest stuff I could find. I saved the rings and pins, of course. That stuff was expensive.

When we had new windows installed last year, of course we had to take down the window treatments. I took down the curtains in the living room and realized I had hung them before I got sick; they had been collecting dust for about six years. I didn’t even try to wash them; I know I have other curtains in the closet, so I just threw them out. That was when I discovered I had nothing appropriate for the front windows, for everything I had was too narrow or too short or needed different hardware from what I had saved. In desperation I put the rod back up and threw a sheet over it. At least that gave me a modicum of privacy.

The other day U.D. took me on a shopping trip, farther than I would have gone by myself. First stop was the Oreck store. I usually get my supplies online, but if we were out there anyway, we could go there. Not only do we save on shipping, but there is the advantage of patronizing a local business.

I’ve been very happy with my Oreck vacuum cleaner(s). Not only are they powerful, but I can empty them without a cloud of dust.

When I think of the money I wasted on cheaper machines, I could have just bought the Oreck first — with its lifetime guarantee!

Part of U.D’s goal was to visit Bed, Bath & Beyond right down the street. It’s the kind of place that I have avoided for several years, deferring expenses instead of just throwing caution to the winds. She wanted hardware for some curtains she has. I thought I might find some sheers appropriate for the front windows. And as long as we were there, we did pick up the smaller Cuisinart® food processor we had been thinking about; there are only two of us to cook for now. This particular BB&B also has a Harmon’s — a good place to buy cosmetics and OTC medication.

When you go into a discount store, even a good one, looking for curtains, there are only two lengths: long and short. The long ones are always too long for my house with its low ceilings. Café curtains are not right for that room, even if I wanted to deal with the additional hardware. I was happy to see that BB&B had intermediate lengths; 63 inches is excellent for those windows. I rejected the silk ones; not only do they need special care, but we have Cat. I also rejected anything that might need special rings or a second rod; I am not playing that game. I found inexpensive lightly textured gold-tinted sheers. Washable, of course. With a “rod pocket.” (Maybe I will put a little tea tree oil on the bottom to discourage you-know-who.)

I put them up this morning, with only minor problems. The rod pocket is smaller than my curtain rod, but I put the rod into the hem. (Okay, a professional eye will notice, but we’re not professional here.) I seem to have lost a finial, and the one I have is too loose for one end and too tight for the other; a little padding may keep it from slipping off the rod. The curtains do look better than the sheet.

As I mentioned to U.D., if there is one thing I have learned as I get older, it is that I do not have to do things I really don’t want to do.

READING OBITUARIES

The joke about reading obituaries is that you have to read them each morning. If your own name isn’t there, it’s okay to get up and get dressed.

I used to glance over the obituaries quickly, until I worked for the Red Cross. I phoned a volunteer one day to ask for her time, and she said, “Don’t you remember I told you my brother was sick? He died yesterday.” All I could do was apologize and express my condolences, but from that day on, I not only glanced at the notices, I read enough to make sure I didn’t know any of the survivors.

Whenever I worked for an attorney who wrote a lot of wills, my daily task would be to compare the day’s obits to the office list of wills on file. Just in case, y’know. I never found one. I am thankful I no longer hve to read the notices for business reasons.

I am getting older, though. One’s perspective changes. After I look at the local newspaper each morning, I go online to read the obituaries from my old home town. I am fine, but I have lost a number of classmates in the last few years. I have to read them carefully, because not only am I looking to see who survived (old habits die hard), I am checking the birth name of anyone who might have changed, like women who got married.

One day I read about the death of a woman far older than I; it struck me that her maiden name was familiar and that she might have had a brother who knew my dad. (It was an almost unpronounceable name; his friends called him “Whisky,” which was close.) I read on — yes, that was her brother — and I looked at where she had worked, from the early forties into the seventies. That was my dad’s second job during the war, and he went back to that machine shop after he retired. Someone he knew had helped him get the job… I felt a kinship; she knew dad.

Two of Husband’s childhood friends “hit the dust,” as Mr. Malaprop says, just this year. It’s really amazing that so many of those so-called deprived children are alive and vigorous into their eighties. One of those two was the keeper of the address list for the group, the person who kept everyone else up to date on the news. It will be a loss, even for those who saw him only once a year. There was no mention of where his wife is living; I would get in touch, just to talk a little.

There is a story in a lot of these death notices, and I am looking for stories. Remember the Watermelon Boy? A few days ago I saw that one of my old Red Cross volunteer nurses had died. I do mean old; she must have been at least sixty when I met her, some thirty years ago. This one was sad; there was mention of her late husband, the names of her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren. But there was nothing about the lady herself, and I suspect the obituary was written by someone who didn’t know her. There’s probably a Kaffeeklatsch somewhere in heaven where all my ladies can get together and remember the good things they did. I hope they remember me too.

GLOVES

Back in the day of the Katharine Gibbs School, we were required to wear hats and gloves. Even after they did away with the hat requirement, the school required gloves whenever students were out of the school area. As one teacher pointed out, they keep one’s hands clean.

As a commuter to New York City, I continued to wear gloves — sweet little lady’s gloves that I peeled off at the end of each day and dropped directly into the laundry. (I was the one responsible for the laundry, not putting the chore on someone else.) In those days I never lost a glove.

Fast forward to Mrs. Suburban Housewife. I wore gloves because my hands were cold. Keeping up with kids and having to drive a car meant I couldn’t keep my hands in my pockets. Often I removed the warm gloves because I needed more dexterity, a problem I never had with fashion gloves. I lost a glove every now and then, and I used to put the odd glove into the car, for those days when I might have to clear off snow. (Someone sent U.D. a mitten with a scraper on the end. Took long enough to invent that, didn’t it?) I started out last week, realized I had lost another glove and went to the car, where I found two left gloves. I wore one backwards until yesterday.

Yesterday the sky was clear and the temperature went above freezing, and the first place I went was to Burlington to look for gloves. There wasn’t much of a selection, but I found a good pair and a cheap pair for a total of $16. Now I need to make some idiot strings…

That post reminded me of something from the long past. I suppose every knitter develops her own “tricks” or methods. I did that too, but I also made something that is, as far as I know, completely unique. That is, I have never seen anything quite like it.

We were in college, and I had just resumed knitting; that is, I finally figured out how to make use of something I learned much earlier. Having done a successful sweater for my brother — with cables and everything! — I was venturing into mittens and socks.

I wasn’t crazy about doing socks. Well, I don’t really like wearing them either. Socks were more like an exercise to learn techniques. Mittens, on the other hand, seemed useful. (Or should I say, on either hand?) Maybe it was coincidence, but during our four years there, the winters on campus were very cold. And even colder at night.

Many of us tried to stay in on those bitter evenings, but my roommate used to study at the library — not just for access to materials, but because she liked to study with her boyfriend. Women’s dorm rules were not very welcoming toward male visitors. They were allowed only in the lounge, where the atmosphere just wasn’t conducive to studying.

Thus Roomie would return each night at 10:30 (weekday curfew time) moaning, “My hands are so cold!” I suggested mittens or gloves but, as she put it, “holding hands isn’t very romantic with mittens.” She was right, of course, but I think I would have chosen comfort over romance (which might explain a lot of other things, right?). Then I had an idea.

I made a large mitten, large enough to fit a man’s hand. I made a matching smaller one, to fit a woman’s hand. And then I began the masterpiece. I started like the man’s mitten, but I kept going until it was much wider and longer. Then I decreased down to a woman’s size wrist.

It was a matched set, one mitten each for Roomie and her boyfriend, and the double one into which each could put a hand and clasp hands without danger of frostbite. The mittens themselves were very generic and could be worn on either hand. The double one, of course, without any thumbs or fingers, could also be worn on either hand. Heck, they could have slow-danced with that set if they had wanted to!

As I think about it, the only thing I can imagine that would be as versatile is a muff. I haven’t seen one in years, but I know where we have one. That is, my sister has it. It belonged to my mother and matched her fur (seal?) coat. Even supposing that either of us could now fit into that coat, it is no longer politically correct. But I can see myself wearing that purse-and-muff.

ANACHRONISM

I no longer remember just why I looked up anachronism in the first place.

an error in chronology, especially, a chronological misplacing of persons, events, objects, or customs in regard to each other [that’s the literary definition, e.g., Moses wearing a wristwatch]
a person or a thing that is chronologically out of place, especially, one from a former age that is incongruous in the present
the state or condition of being chronologically out of place

But when I picked up my newspaper this morning, the first thing I saw was an article about why it is not a good idea to make New Year’s resolutions. Now look at this, which I posted some five years ago, when I copied it from something I had written long before I had an on-line journal.

I stopped making resolutions specifically for the New Year when I realized they were too limiting. If you’re really intent on making improvements, you don’t have to wait until January first. You just have to tell yourself: “Tomorrow I’ll stop smoking.” Or “next week I’ll start to watch my diet better.”

If there’s no date involved, it doesn’t matter as much if you slip. You can just start over. Most workable self-help programs stress “one day at a time.”

We’re not supermen, so let’s cut ourselves some slack.

It seems to be a part of getting older. Call it déjà vu. Sometimes we say “been there, done that…” But it is annoying to hear someone spout my ideas as if they were brand new. This particular expert is a “certified life coach,” whatever that is supposed to mean. Maybe we weren’t experts, but most of us managed to live our lives without coaches. Staycations? We did that for years, we just called them day trips. I really don’t think I’m obsolete yet.

Today’s news also has another article about the improving employment figures. I found the following item when I was looking for the resolution quote:

Unemployment continues to rise, particularly in this area. (And remember, the stats don’t tell you everything. Some unemployed people are no longer claiming because their benefits have run out.)

Who’s the anachronism? To all my readers, may I wish you a

Happy 1987!