That’s almost prophetic, isn’t it? Who knew? But then, I often reread some old post and think that I wrote better when I began than I do now. Just now, what I am is angry. I read so much blather from self-proclaimed experts who can’t see the whole picture. Meanwhile, a lot of people are suffering, but evidently that doesn’t matter as long as it isn’t you who hurts.

Cheap credit — that’s about the best way to describe it — is at the bottom of the cause-and-effect tree, but I don’t think it’s the only root cause. If you read the real estate records, a pattern begins to appear.

I began reading these lists to find out who my new neighbors might be, but many of the buyers and sellers that I see listed are not buying houses for the purpose of living in them. They are real estate agents, and they are speculating. Sometimes I see a sale from one agent to another. If they push the prices up each time, there are two effects. The more obvious is that their own sales records go up; look how many of them are now in the million-dollar club. The other effect is that house prices are inflated. [Would you believe I just heard that on the radio? Hello? How come I knew it already?] There is no way that this Cheesebox is worth what the realtors list. Fortunately, the house is paid for, so I won’t actually be in the red if/when I sell it. Of course, if we had sold it when I suggested it to Husband, we would be sitting pretty. (Remember, “what-if” in the past is just fiction.)

I started reading The World Is Flat, by Thomas L. Friedman, thinking it might shed some light on the situation. To anyone interested in information technology, the book should have said a lot. Instead, it made me mad; I started again and got mad all over again. You can’t tell me you’ve leveled the playing field, when all you’ve done is enlarge the gap between the haves and the have-nots. I also see a disturbing parallel between bringing illegal aliens into the U.S. to provide cheaper labor and exporting customer service jobs to countries where “five people will work for what it costs to pay just one person here.” If one practice is bad, so is the other.

If they are saving so much money, why are they not passing it on to their customers? Not to mention that, having “dumbed down” the requirements for customer service, the service suffers. That’s bad enough when they are providing jobs for Americans who aren’t too swift; it’s unconscionable when it doesn’t benefit anyone here. What I was reading was simply an apologia for the kind of business practices I abhor. Furthermore, I ’m pretty sure that Mr. Friedman knows it too, or he would not feel the need to apologize.

When I had a Dell computer, I was happy with the online help — until the day came when I couldn’t put the computer on. Then I had to telephone, speaking to a guy who was telling me to do something for which I didn’t have the strength. So I got the information for my son to call him back. My son knows something about computers (to put it mildly), but he didn’t know what was the trouble with this one. So he followed the instructions, which didn’t seem to work, and the “helper” referred him to another assistant. That was when we found out that the instructions merely fried the motherboard. They sent us another one, which didn’t work either, and eventually sent us an appropriate replacement. The customer service stank, as far as I was concerned, and next time my Dell gave me a problem, I took it to a competitor (gasp!), who fixed it just fine.

I guess that “level playing field” explains why my current computer is not a Dell. I don’t deal with companies that have poor customer service. It also explains why we are using AT&T rather than Sprint or Verizon. I digress yet again.

I always feel bad when nefarious manipulators turn something good into something bad. Credit cards have a great potential for good, until someone decides to make a career of stealing identities. The internet should have been the best thing we had; then we discovered we needed things like virus protectors and firewalls and spam blockers.

Until individuals realize that the good things should benefit everyone, not just a select few, we are going to have problems. I can only hope that the coming elections will bring a new viewpoint into play. We don’t need another jackass telling us everything is fine, just because he says so. “Just take a deep breath,” he says. It may be all you can do; they’re not charging for air — yet.

Yesterday, however, I went out while it was still coolish. I didn’t do quite twenty minutes, but I was going fast enough to have done 3.8 miles.

Today I had an agenda. I started out about twenty minutes before the bookmobile was due — with books in the basket. When I got back to our street, the bookmobile wasn’t there yet, so I went around the block again. I did better than four miles today, I’m sure. I have a couple of errands to do when U.D. comes out of work, and I will be able to say I’ve gotten my exercise for the week.

Now where’s the ice cream?

Earlier in his career, he had invented several methods for improving open-heart surgery, but he became a national name with his ground-breaking developments in bypass surgery and heart-lung support. In 1971 my dad, who had been ill for some time, had reached a crisis, and his personal physician recommended bypass surgery. (The personal physician, incidentally, was Dr. Norman Jarvik, father of Dr. Robert Jarvik, who went to school with my little sister. As long as I’m dropping names.)

Bypass surgery was still rare then; no one was performing it in Connecticut. The closest hospital he might have chosen was in Cleveland, but there was a six-month wait. And that is why, shortly after my Middle Daughter was born, my parents flew to Houston, where Dr. DeBakey himself repaired dad’s heart. DeBakey may have been the chairman of the department, but he was also part of the — what would you call it? — surgical rotation. He believed that every patient deserved the best care possible, and he didn’t charge extra; his fee was just whatever one’s insurance paid. And by the way, in his opinion, dad could not have waited six months more.

Bypass surgery had remarkable results and was practiced more and more during the seventies and eighties. Just watching dad go up and down stairs seemed like a miracle. Since angioplasty, a less invasive procedure, was developed, you hear less about bypass. Husband has undergone several angioplasties since 1995; I doubt that he could have survived the stress of open-heart surgery.

Nevertheless, bypass surgery improved to the point where the recovery time is just a few days instead of three weeks plus. It does indeed add productive years to the life of the patient.

Dad passed away in 1978. I measure those seven years as the gift of a grandfather to my children, who learned to treasure the man that was my dad. For that, I have to thank Dr. DeBakey.

I should update you on Gloria. I finally talked to her yesterday. She had been in the hospital just as I thought she should be; she still sounds worse than Husband — which I didn’t think was possible. But she told me that the Filipino family next door has sort of adopted her. Not only do they provide her with dinner, but they check on her. She leaves her door open, and when the kids get home from school, they stick their heads inside and call out, “Granny, is everything okay?” It may be the closest to assisted living she will ever accept.

I was glad I had taught myself, because if I learned it once, I can do it again. I unraveled so much I felt like Penelope waiting for Odysseus. In spite of myself, I have completed three “carriage blankets.”

I made a classic granny — four squares by five squares — which was my original intent, and it will be ready for the baby whenever s/he gets here. Then I did a modified granny, something I had only seen other people do. That’s when you start a square and just continue until it is the size you want. (The lady I learned it from made one big enough for a full size bed.) It came out quite well, and I gave it to the gal down the street who has just had her third boy. I tried a ripple blanket, which nearly drove me nuts, but it’s all right; single crochet ripple stitch is very forgiving, as long as you remember to keep the sides straight. But suddenly there’s a queue; where did all these babies come from?

Jake is next. My cousin D is a grandmother! How could I not make a blanket for him? I made one for his mother as well as his uncle. Now is the time when understanding relationship and family trees comes in handy; this little boy is my first cousin, three times removed, and I am thrilled.

Since I found out about Jake, I have learned that three other women we know are pregnant. Whoo! I make all baby things of washable yarn, because a new mother does not have the time to fuss with hand washing; I include a lingerie wash bag in each package… How could I know I didn’t buy enough?

After a week when I could not get out once, I have ridden the trike twice in two days. I hate waiting too long, because I always have to work back up to my last strength. I don’t us too many fancy calculators on it, just the time and average speed. If I can go out for twenty minutes — one-third of an hour — and average, say, ten miles an hour, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure how far I traveled: 1/3 x 10 = 3.3. I did twenty-one minutes today and averaged 10.2 mph, so I did almost four miles.

It is always harder to go out when Husband is at home, because he may use that time — if he realizes that I have gone — to sneak the things he is not supposed to do. I secured the cellar door when I rode, and I secured it again when we did some grocery shopping. It looks as if he tried and realized he couldn’t get out.

I don’t worry about his going outside and wandering. That’s too much trouble; he would have to get dressed and get his cane or maybe his walker, and it is a long way to get anywhere from here. But the cellar is another story. He still has stashes of contraband down there. Monday, when I was feeling yucky (it was very humid), I took a nap and woke up to see the door to the basement open. “Where’s the cat?” “Huh? I don’t know.” (Cat is no dope; he ran into the garage and found the big bag of cat food.)

Husband carried a couple of shopping bags upstairs — one step at a time, of course — filled with candy. I thought I had gotten it all; that stuff must be at least three years old. He has hidden it in his room, probably in locked cabinets, because I can’t find it. I shall just have to wait until it makes him sick.

Y’know, life wasn’t this tough when I had three babies under three years old.

On Wednesday afternoon, when Husband got back from day care, M.D. and Son-in-Law were here to tell him goodbye before they leave for “the final frontier.” (Don’t get me started about this non-recession.) He actually sat in the room with them, though he didn’t contribute much to the conversation. He had some idea about what was going on, however. When they were ready to leave, he got up and kissed her goodbye. At least he finally understands and has stopped asking me to fix it.

It’s a good thing I’m a visualizer. I figure she’s sleeping late, even later than she used to. I know she will be up before noon, because the noon church bell is the signal to say her prayers. That takes a long time, she has told me. So I allow for that, imagine she has to get some kind of lunch, and I try again a little after two.

“Hello (pant, pant).” Yes, the muggy weather is getting to her emphysema again. I identify myself, and she says, “I can’t talk now, I got the doctor here.” That means that either (1) one of her neighbors sent her own doctor downstairs or (2) she actually felt bad enough to call 911. I’m just glad there’s someone with her. “Never mind, I’ll talk to you later,” I say. “Four o’clock,” she says, and hangs up.

Swell — four o’clock. That’s when Husband is due back from day care, when I must go to the door and make sure he gets in okay. He has been known to trip over the doorsill and fall down on my poor neuropathic feet. But I shall call her, even if I have to hang up in a hurry. No problem: when I phone at four, there is no answer.

This time, it’s okay, either/or. The doctor may have simply made her comfortable and given her something to help her sleep; it wouldn’t be the best choice, but she’s so darn stubborn. Better, he may have insisted, despite her obstinacy, that she go to the hospital for observation. At least I don’t have to picture her passed out on the kitchen floor — or hanging out the window to smoke “just a few puffs because it will make me feel better.” (Heaven help us, that’s tobacco she’s still using.)

Over the years I have warned her that the day will come when they take her to a hospital and will not allow her to return home by herself. I pointed out that, while she may feel somewhat in control as long as she has her own place, if she gets that sick, she will have no control at all. (And I’m keeping the police number on her address card!) I get offensive when necessary; in my last long letter (which she never answered), I told her it was time she stopped procrastinating and made some decisions. I can hear my mother now, as she used to say, “ sh1t or get off the pot!”

I promise my next post will be more upbeat, even if I have to borrow from someone else.

Knowing how this can happen, I am worried about my friend Gloria. She has been getting weaker and weaker over the past year and still fights the idea of assisted living. So I try to keep in touch, and I still send the occasional “care package,” even though I have reminded her that I am getting older too and can’t always get out to shop or get to the post office. Usually I track the package online and then give her an extra day. (Because a neighbor may have taken the box in for her, or maybe the postman scanned it before he actually delivered it.) Then I phone to find out how she liked what I sent, if it was what she needed, and to give her a little time to talk.

There was no answer when I phoned, and I tried several times that day. She could be sleeping or just indisposed. She might be having a meal at a neighbor’s. I didn’t reach her on subsequent days either, so I sent her a short letter. Basically it said:

Well, that was more than two weeks ago, so I tried phoning again this week. No answer. I tell myself that her neighbors in that crappy little apartment house are really as good as she says. I try to believe that, if she had fallen or was sick, someone would check on her. Of course, no one is required to do so, and their own emergencies could easily distract them. Who would think of informing me if she were hospitalized? And there might well be a notification to hold or forward mail that is being ignored.

Now I’m beginning to be annoyed, even angry. Why couldn’t she move someplace where I would know she was safe, even if she were unwell? Did I waste those batteries and peanut butter — and postage! — by sending them to someone who is not there? No, that’s just a symptom of being worried.

Whom can I ask? I don’t know the names of any of those “good neighbors.” There is no on-site landlord. I don’t know how to contact the fellow who has her power of attorney. (Can’t google him because I never knew his last name.) I thought of calling the police, but I have no faith that they could help. And I’m sure she would be upset if I did that for what turns out to be nothing.

Which brings me back to, where is she and why has she not phoned or written? Yes, I am worried. In case you haven’t realized, I shall be most offensive when I hear from her!

Because I believe these girls need help, I have toyed with the idea of a residential high school for young mothers to learn what they need to know. Curriculum might be built around basic understanding of their world. Chemistry teaches cooking and what happens to foods when they are mixed and heated. Biology teaches nutrition and how one’s body works. (Oh, yes, maybe a “refresher course” on where babies come from.) More biology — infection and sickness — can guard against difficulties before they occur. Basic math is learning to read a supermarket ad, how to keep a budget and use food stamps; everyone should know some personal finance, like having a bank account, paying rent and working with a landlord, deciding when not how to spend what money you have.

Required living-in serves a couple of purposes. For one thing, it provides (we hope) a clean and safe environment. Secondly, living with a roommate or two results in a mini-household, where they learn to help each other. They can trade baby-sitting, they can do homework together; they might share necessary tasks. (I’ll shop for the food if you’ll cook it. I’ll go to the laundromat if you’ll watch the kids.) Finally, there’s always a kind of independence attached to being away from one’s authority figure.

The girls might be taught how to run a small business, and the first one that came to my mind was day care. Not only is this an ever-growing need, but health care and its ancillary services may be one of the few constant needs in a changing economy.

This is, of course, a pipe dream. It would take more money than any grant one might get, and it would be years before we could tell if it were successful in any aspect. Approaching the private sector is almost certainly fruitless, because it might very well be a losing proposition.

I wondered about variations, like offering the curriculum in a regular high school. Would it hurt to make some of those courses compulsory? Personal finance is something we all need (look what happened when we brought up a generation that doesn’t understand it!) I knew only one teacher who taught it in our school system; he may be one of my favorite teachers of all time, just for that. What about teaching child care — with real babies, not dolls — to boys as well as girls? In any case, it all went to the back burner.

When I heard about seventeen girls in one high school becoming pregnant at the same time, planned or not, it occurred to me that I had it wrong. Parents send their kids to tennis camp or computer camp or music camp. Why not offer a baby camp? The subjects would be more or less the same, but it’s two summer months total immersion. Campers who already have babies bring them along; babies can be provided for those who don’t have them. Counselors have babies too. The benefits of the residential high school apply, including group support and the realization that life goes on as it must, even with a baby to care for. Having less experience with camps, I would need assistance in developing such a program. Of course, it will never happen. Asking parents to pay to prevent something that will never happen to my child? I don’t think so.

In the meantime, I noticed that NBC began a new show yesterday, “The Baby Borrowers.” Personally, I’m not much into reality shows, but this was one I obviously had to inspect. The premise is that five teenage couples, who have been dating for some time, get to keep house and take care of babies. They are getting to “try out adulthood.” I was pleased with the announcement that no one wins prizes and no one gets voted off.

Several of the girls really want to be mommies. They think they are good with kids. Some of the boys have signed up for the experiment because they believe it will change the girls’ minds. A couple of the boys have strengths I was surprised to see. And yes, I will be tuning in next week.

For more information about the show, Google it. There has been a lot of discussion already; the official web page is part of NBC.

George Carlin has died. What a heartless thing to do!

Sometime around two this morning, I was awakened by Husband fumbling in the kitchen. He returned to his room and turned up the radio. So, from down the hall, I heard the news. Since I was now thoroughly awake, I went to the computer to read obituaries. Darn journalists, they didn’t know what they were writing about.

Anyone who knew George Carlin did not begin with the “Seven Words You Can’t Say on TV.” George was hilarious long before that and long after it. Censors are strange people, and even they don’t know why those words are offensive. That’s why it’s funny. George had a unique view of life and language.

My Middle Daughter, who adored George Carlin, discovered him sometime in the 1980’s. She was rather surprised that I had even heard of him, but when I sang out “Won-der-ful WINO,” she realized I was a fan. I first saw George Carlin on television when he still wore suits and cut his hair short. His satires on disc jockeys and drill sergeants were right on target.

Much more recently, I saw a performance where George said he was going to use a sentence no one had ever said before. Pause. “I have an anchor in my pocket.” He was right; we laughed. And maybe a few of us thought, “it’s funny and it isn’t even dirty.” This is becoming a lost art among comics.

Not that George was never vulgar. He often was. But he never used a dirty word just because he couldn’t think of anything funny to say. What’s more, I remember seeing a bit — I think he was still trying it out — that was a little offensive and not very funny. He realized it — “that was too much, wasn’t it?” — and apologized. When is the last time you saw that?

I find it very sad to think of all the subjects that George Carlin never got his teeth into. Can you imagine his take on those high school girls who think pregnancy is a team sport?

As I neared the corner, I was planning a left turn, but there was a vehicle stopped where I would pass with a right turn. I am just too, um, curious — okay, nosy — to ignore that, so there I go… Surprise! It was the bookmobile! I haven’t seen the bookmobile up close in years. Last time I caught it, purely by accident, I returned some books I had in the car but didn’t take any more because I was not sure I would be able to return them.

Well, Dom, who has been the driver since Lee died, was just as delighted to see me as I was to see him. I didn’t go in because I don’t bring my reading glasses when I ride, but I did take a schedule. The regular borrowers at our corner have dwindled (a common problem with an older population), and he has only one regular now; so he is allowed fifteen minutes at our corner every two weeks. I can live with that, I think. This is a day when Husband is at Day Care, so I’m not tied down. I will look forward to that. Not only can I find books without paying for them, but we have a lot to catch up on. (I hope they don’t decide to cancel because of the long weekend.)

Now where is my library card? And is it still active?

Tomorrow we start what may be a great improvement for Husband. The oxygen supplier has decided to give him smaller bottles with a light-weight, battery-operated converter. If he likes it, and if he finds it a easier to carry, he may be a little more mobile. It would mean we could go out once in a while, like to a restaurant or to visit friends. I’m very hopeful.

On the morning of my birthday (which was more than a week ago already), the U.D. reminded me that I should listen to the Morning Show on WQUN after seven-thirty. I usually do, of course, but she wanted to make sure I didn’t get distracted.

At half past each hour, there is a routine: network news, local news, weather, traffic, sports. Following that, Ray and Greg go into one of their “weekly features.” In this case, it was Connecticut history, with questions like when was the first mine opened in Connecticut (you didn’t know there was ever a mine in Connecticut, did you?). I like the feature, even when I can’t answer the questions.

Right after that, I heard a chorus loudly singing, “Happy birthday! Happy birthday!” The first thought that went through my head was, “oh, no, I’m so old I’m part of Connecticut history!” Then Ray announced that the U.D. had requested a specific recording for my birthday. Tony Bennett and Kermit the Frog singing, “Firefly,” as if you couldn’t guess.

So I got both a grin (from the song) as well as a good laugh. Sometimes I get so caught up in my own words I forget what I was talking about.

My birthday spread itself out over nearly a week. I started receiving cards in the mail the weekend before. Especially nice was a greeting from my eldest niece, signed by the whole family, even her youngest.

My Son came by on Sunday, bringing me souvenirs from their trip to Bangkok. I love it, not only that they travel, but that they go out looking for places of interest. (My daughter-in-law is once again traveling on business.) Over Sunday and Monday, e-mails and comments on my page began to show up. How nice! It seems as if, each year, I receive a birthday wish from a stranger or two who end up being new reads for me. Every year I am surprised — because I forget they exist! — to receive E-cards. Thank you all!

Going out to celebrate is more of a problem because I will not leave Husband by himself for too long. I never know what he’ll get into. On my actual birthday, U.D. and I went out for an hour or so; he was napping. I had my nails done; they do look pretty. U.D. made me her “extra hearty” nachos for dinner; I neither had to cook nor clean up.

“Birthday lunches” happen on the days the Old Man is at adult day care. One day was with my M.D. and son-in-law. Another day I spent time with my old colleague V.

With greeting from some online connections (you sign up, they ask for your birthday), I was beginning to wonder whether the whole world knew… Well, not the whole world, I guess; the surveys used to know, back when I did them on paper. This one asked for the ages and genders of the people in my household, and had already put in mine (because I’m on their list already). I changed it because I had a birthday and was scolded: “You may not change information on this line!” Okay, jacki, you know my age better than I; no wonder your stats are often so skewed.

Bottom line? Good birthday week.

I thought that Hillary Clinton’s concession speech was good, gracious as we knew it would have to be. And I found myself thinking, how best will Mr. Obama make use of her executive abilities? I am not sure that making her the vice presidential candidate would be his best move, especially since I am sure that a large number of his votes came about as votes against Ms. Clinton. In addition, Hillary and Barack are not buddies, despite their mutual respect. I think that kind of relationship works better. Bill Clinton and Al Gore were buddies. Mr. Dubya and Mr. Cheney are friends, after a fashion. (D’ya s’pose one of them is snickering behind his hand?)

Hillary’s backing, however, is no mirage. She could make herself a force to be reckoned with in the Senate and help ensure that some of Barack’s promises actually are enacted into law. But Hillary has executive skills that also can be very useful to a president. What kind of an advisor might she make?

As Secretary of Health and Human Services, she might be able to focus on some of her own pet projects. For example, the universal health care system she wrote while her husband was president could very well be the basis for one of Barack’s promises. Another thought that crossed my mind may be more urgent. An agency badly in need of redevelopment is FEMA. It performed so badly during recent crises that a strong, intelligent director is sorely needed. Comments will be gladly accepted.

I did finish one blanket for my coming grandchild, and suddenly I realize there is a need for several others as well. A friend of U.D’s just had a little boy. Ms. P’s sister-in-law is expecting a month or so after her. (Ms. L will be delighted, as this will give her three grandchildren!) And the little girl I talked about at the end of this post is now the mother of a son! How could I possibly neglect that baby?

With the disastrous rise in the price of gasoline (I can remember when a gallon cost 30 cents!) and the difficulties facing the airlines, my old post about trains really begins to make sense, even if the rates go up. And in the newspaper this morning, I found this article about Amtrak. I always wanted to travel across the U.S. by train. I would love this! My they still be organizing such trips, when I manage to reduce the current constraints.

Finally, I need to say a word about pictures. When one sorts personal web pages into types, mine is usually the type that’s all text and no pictures. Outside of some cartoons, I seldom include any pictures at all. I never was much of a photographer.

Somehow, using my dad’s old box camera, my mother managed to take more photos of her baby (me) than I could imagine — at two weeks, three weeks, one month, two months, ad infinitum. I never was able to take a picture with that camera, because you had to hold it in front of you and look down into the tiny mirror to focus. I couldn’t hold my hands still, and I couldn’t see the outlines of the shot I had.

With a brownie kit my brother bought me, I took some mediocre pictures at college and on vacation. Husband liked to take pictures, and I experimented with his instamatic, trying to get a few good shots of my firstborn.

I had read that parents should always keep a loaded camera at hand, and I did indeed achieve a few really good pictures, including one of Son that made its way into the display window at a developer’s. (Sister has the actual photo, and maybe she sent a .jpg to Son; but I have no copy of that one.) As my children grew, they learned what a camera was for. Then, whenever I had a roll of film developed, I would find that most of the pictures were of stray cats and people’s feet!

Recently the M.D. found
"
this old black-and-white, though I don’t know how come she had it. That’s me with Gramma at three months. Though the face is the same, I don’t think anyone will recognize me.

I have to take exception to Stanley Heller’s letter about Zionism (Register 6/2/08). Who are you, to read Israel’s mind and decide what its intentions have been? Maybe you don’t remember what it was like, sixty years ago.

In 1948, the partition of Palestine that created the state of Israel gave the West Bank to what was then called Trans-Jordan. When the British pulled out of Palestine and Israel declared independence, who started shooting first? You could look it up; it was in all the newspapers. Arab terrorists (and, yes, I know that not all Arabs are terrorists) used that territory as a convenient pied-à-terre [sanctuary], from which they could cross the border each night and kill a few more Israelis. (Y’know, that wasn’t mentioned in the newspapers so much.)

There was not yet much of an Israeli army. Citizens lived in fear of who might be dead in the morning. It was within walking distance, after all .

Jordan held the West Bank until the 1967 wars, when Israel seized it. To cement their hold on the land, the Israelis built settlements; the Palestinians yelled, “Foul! That’s ours. We demand a Palestinian state.”

But, if a Palestinian state is so important, why didn’t Jordan create one? The land was there, the people were already on it.

While the Israelis on one side of the border struggled to make the land productive, the Arabs on the other side taught hatred — for three generations.

How else could one [They] encourage young people to fight rather than to negotiate? They call them heroes if they strap explosives to their bodies and set off their human bombs in heavily populated areas.

There is a frame of mind, on both sides, that will take at least another generation to change.

Let me paraphrase something that Golda Meir said: “We can perhaps forgive you for killing our sons. We cannot forgive you for forcing us to kill yours.”

I am waiting for this guy to tell me that he taught social studies for thirty years, so I can say, “Is this what you were teaching my children?”

Anyway, the gloves are coming off now, and this could get nasty. Let us remember that we are friends. As I have mentioned elsewhere, friendship does not require oneness of opinion. I will not hold your opinions against you, and I trust you will do the same for me. We have too much in common, and thus too much to lose, if we decide to hold a grudge. Believe me, I know; I come from a family of notorious grudge-holders. We may forgive, but we never forget…

My friend Vee is a person with whom I seldom discuss politics. I know which party she favors, and I know who she voted for. Most of the time, we don’t go there. We have lots more to discuss, not to mention stuff about which to commiserate. It would be a pity to lose that. However, she is running for the State Assembly this year and, surprise! I do agree with some of her issues.

That is the answer, you see. We can concentrate on what we have in common and then work from there. There is a nice feeling, a kind of “aha!” when two people connect and agree on some point. It makes it easier to proceed. We don’t always have to fight.

What do you say to a child who asks, “Why are there wars?” Does it always have to be this way?

Are we all too stubborn — or stupid — to start over? In any case, I remind you once again: you are my friend.

This time I am looking at the same weekend ten years later. June began on a Saturday that year, and Boyfriend (not yet Fiancé) and I were planning a special Saturday night. “Shall we celebrate your birthday with your friends or mine?” he asked. “With yours,” I replied, “and don’t tell them it’s my birthday.

“Oh, no, ” he said. “We will have to ask your friends.” That is how we decided to have dinner with my friend Gloria and her husband, Bob. We chose the Riverboat Restaurant, in the Empire State Building. (Not there any more.)

I had bought a light blue minidress, with long sleeves and a scoop neck; it had big fluffy ruffles at the wrists and neckline. (Long after the dress was no longer in style, it was Husband’s favorite.) I wore silver brocade shoes with a matching purse, and finished off with a rhinestone locket and hanging rhinestone earrings — special occasion, y’know. Oh, yes, and blue (to match my dress) lace gloves, because a lady always wore gloves.

Boyfriend came into New York on the train and came up to my apartment. He had a birthday card for me. Taped inside was a diamond engagement ring. I thanked him and he kissed me, and added, “uh, here’s the box.” I thought that was so cute.

So Fiancé and I took the bus to the Empire State Building. Gloria and Bob were waiting for us; they were not yet seated because Gloria had made the reservations in Boyfriend’s name. As we entered, she told the waiter, “Here’s Mr. H——” and then, watching me remove my gloves, she cried out, “I knew it! I knew it!” Obviously, everyone was in a festive mood. It was a lovely evening. (There is a picture, taken by the restaurant photographer, and I know where I left it — in Husband’s room — and I cannot find it now.)

Fiancé and I walked back to my apartment later. I always loved walking in New York, even in heels; it was only about two miles, and we were in no hurry. He slept on our pull-out couch, and the next day we both took the train to go and tell my family.

It occurs to me that this is another memory that is now really mine alone. Bob died a few years later, and Gloria only thinks she remembers things; for example, she now confuses M.D.’s husband with my brother-in-law and remembers attending an anniversary party that was actually my fiftieth birthday party. Husband’s memory grows spottier every day. I suppose I had better remember a whole lot of other things, before I lose them too.

As CBS Sunday Morning reminded me, it is also forty years ago this week that Robert Kennedy was assassinated. I remember thinking at the time, it was a good thing we didn’t wait to celebrate on Gloria’s birthday (the eighth), when the country was mourning.

I had seen Bobby Kennedy orating on a street corner in Manhattan, just a couple of months before. He was not my favorite candidate, but he was nice-looking. That family can break your heart, even after all these years.

We were seniors in high school, due to graduate, and the next couple of weeks promised to be filled with special events. Life goes on, of course; we still had to attend school, at least to be checked in as present. Most of the traditional activities were scheduled during school hours, since many of us had jobs or other afterschool responsibilities. We were looking forward to Field Day, Yearbook Day, and Report Card Day, all leading up to the Senior Prom and, of course, the Graduation ceremonies. Though I don’t remember it specifically, there must have been a rehearsal for Graduation.

Field Day was an outdoor athletic event specifically for seniors. Many students who never participated in extra-curricular sports would be running or jumping, in events you would see at any track meet. Those who took second place to talented underclassmen all year long would have their day in the sun. All seniors were excused from class that morning; if we weren’t competing, we were cheering on our friends from the grandstand. I have no recollection of who won which events; I only know that we all had a wonderful time.

Yearbook Day was another tradition in our school. Everyone, not just seniors, ordered our books earlier in the year, and they were distributed in home room, immediately after the morning exercises. We would attend every class that day, not to study but to be sure we could get autographs from everyone we knew, teachers included. After school, many seniors visited teachers from previous years, because we wanted them to sign our senior yearbook as well. I don’t know where my other three books are, but I could still put my hand on my senior yearbook at a moment’s notice.

Did any other high schools give out their grades the way we got ours? I don’t know, though it must have been easier on the teachers. The report cards — the very same pieces of paper that would be sent to our parents — were handed out in home room. In each class they were collected by the teacher, who would write in the grades and return them to us. At the end of the day, we brought them back to the home room teacher, who would complete them — attendance figures and so forth — and give them to the office for mailing.

One of the dangers of this system was that each teacher saw how well you had done in the classes you had already visited. When I was a sophomore, one teacher actually told me that she was marking me down, because if I could do A work in geometry, I could have done A work in her class too. (Actually, I could not; geometry was automatic and fun. This woman was even more difficult than her classwork was.)

Of course, by the fourth quarter of senior year, marks were pretty much of a formality. You knew you had passed, because you (and your parents) would already have been notified if you were in any danger. The only question was exactly which mark it was, and if you really needed the higher one to make the grade for college — to which you had probably been accepted already — the teachers knew it and acted accordingly.

Rehearsal for graduation was a necessity because the classes were always large. The procession consisted of groups of ten couples. If everyone in our class walked, there would have been twenty-five such groups plus a few extras. I never saw the end of the line, so I couldn’t tell you if there were any stragglers.

Proms were always held on Friday nights, as I have described elsewhere. None of this thousand-dollar evening stuff; the boys’ expenses were for the tickets, tuxedo rental, and flowers for their ladies. They borrowed cars, usually from parents, and maybe two or three couples rode together. Nobody got drunk, and drugs were not yet fashionable. Afterwards smaller groups went to late-night restaurants and maybe to someone’s home. Whether we listened to music or actually napped, we were resting up for the second half of Prom Weekend, which was always a day at Playland. On Saturday night, our bunch finished up by going to my house to watch “Have Gun, Will Travel” and “Gunsmoke,” two of the most popular shows of that year.

On the Saturday (May 31, just like this year) before the Big Week, Bunny and A and I were planning to spend the evening as we often did when nothing special was planned. We would get together — just the three of us this time — and work on our embroidery. So, after I had finished work and had supper, my sewing box and I were dropped off at A’s house.

I was full of some story to tell about what had transpired at the library that day, but it was eclipsed by a loud “Surprise!” as a dozen or so people came in from the other room. I would turn eighteen on Monday, but that day was already scheduled. This was the first real birthday party I ever had, and it was organized not by my family but by my good friends. To tell the truth, I went through the next couple of weeks in a warm glow, and I am surprised that I remember as much as I do.

Yes, on the eleventh, I think — we were postponed a day by rain — we did indeed graduate. We put on our rented caps and gowns and paraded to the football field, and we went from students to alumni. (We were reminded that we were not to toss the tassels on our mortarboards because we were not receiving degrees. No one seems to know that any more.) We returned the caps and gowns but were allowed to keep the tassels as souvenirs. Oh, yes, I should tell you that we dressed. No one wore blue jeans under their robes.

Then we went on with our lives. About 40 percent of us started college, though many dropped out after the first year. We held jobs, got married, raised families. Just like “real people.”

I have already received a pre-invitation for our fiftieth reunion, but I have no intention of going. I suppose it was bound to happen in a class of that size, but those people are not my people.

Many of you have kids or grandkids graduating from high school this year, with all the difficulties that go with it, from planning to safety to the exorbitant cost. It seems to have been a lot simpler, back in the day.