tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9439134476002060652024-03-05T05:12:41.447-08:00ContinuingAdventuresofAdventures of Franny and Robert Lochow, of Beacon, New YorkFrannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-14112628708846885762010-04-28T03:55:00.000-07:002010-04-28T03:55:51.095-07:00I've got a new blog!Because it's so darn hard to type this LONG blog name without boo-boos, I have abandoned this site, and I have a new one at <a href="http://www.frannyhoggblog.blogspot.com/">http://www.frannyhoggblog.blogspot.com/</a>. Join me there!<br />
<br />
FrannyFrannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-80391174013580934292009-11-26T09:38:00.000-08:002009-11-28T08:08:43.908-08:00She Arises From the Muck, to Say Happy Thanksgiving!<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My cousin Karen calls me up to BEG me to write a letter. I tell her, "I'll do it today!" Then I don't. My brother Tim thought I was mad at him and had cut him off my letters list. I don't know why it has been so hard for me to do what comes so naturally to me -- to let everybody know what nutty things we are up to. I thought perhaps it was because, for so long, the target audience for my letters was Mom, and she's not here any more. I have even written letters and then deleted them. So this must mean I am psychotic. Oh well. I am trying hard to be less psychotic.<br />
</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This is Thanksgiving morning. I was going to do the big dinner here but was waiting for it to get cold enough that I can store a turkey on the back porch (my fridge is too little or crammed with too much other stuff) and it is freaking BALMY outside. Then our guests dropped out, one by one, and I didn't want to think of Robert and me chewing away on the same old turkey carcass for three weeks, so we happily accepted an invitation from our friends and former neighbors, the Carrolls. I am bringing pies, that are right now making my house smell wonderful.<br />
</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Well, what have we been up to? I have now been unemployed for NINE MONTHS. Every day I look for work and there are so few things that are really appropriate, I get very down about it. But that goes away in a flash when I have even the slightest whiff of a job possibity. I get cheery! I start making plans! Then, like smoke, the job dissolves away and I'm all bummed out again. I think I only have a week of benefits left, and perhaps that is why I am suddenly suffering all sorts of dermatological maladies. <br />
</div><br />
The first to visit me were tiny, water-filled itchy blisters between my fingers. I did research on the 'net and found this is caused either from handling live tarantulas (which I don't recall doing lately) or from stress. Then came the attack of shingles -- ARGH!-- but not as bad as the first attack I had, in February. And then, about a week ago, I had a little bout of fever and chills. I felt fine the the next day, but now I have an explosion of cold sores on my lower lip that makes me look like the loser in a prize fight. Looking like a leper doesn't help in the job search, either.<br />
<br />
I have had all kinds of well-thought-out plans for finding new work. Certainly, in an economy as awful as this one, you would think my debt-counseling skills, honed from years of bneing a legal aid consumer law attorney, would be in demand! But there is an adage about law -- you are only going to be as rich as your clients are. Nobody who needs my skills can afford to pay for them! I have taken all sorts of special trainings and I'm signed up to be a volunteer lawyer for several organizations, but so far, no calls, even to do it for free! The legal aid community is a kind of closed-off group, I'm afraid, and I'm not inside the circle. Pooh.<br />
<br />
So many times in my life when I've been the closest to the end of my rope, that's when something wonderful happens. I would not want to make any assumptions that this will happen again, but I remain hopeful. I decided I should pile myself up with so many volunteer responsibilities that the Gods of Contrariness will just HAVE to bring me employment, just to mess with me. To this end I have become a certified reading tutor and English as a Second Language instructor for an organization called Literacy Connections. I'm also doing stuff for the kitty shelter (though I am no longer on its board of directors) and I drive people without cars to medical appointments. I'm working with two writing critique groups, editing manuscripts for other members.<br />
<br />
Speaking of writing, though I have been a dismal letter writer, I have been very busy on a couple of books. The first one is a collection of short, mostly humorous stories about cars and things that happen in cars. The economy has also hit publishers, and so I have not even contemplated trying to find one. I only wanted to send it off to my family and friends, but I was encouraged by some other writers to use a print-on-demand publisher. I found out that I can have a bound book, with a nice cover and everything, for less money than it would cost me to run the thing off on a photocopier and staple it together! So the galleys of "Never Look a Gift Hearse in the Grille" should be arriving very soon. I need to have some friends help me check it for boo-boos and then it will be available to everybody at Amazon.com and other sites. I also want to run the stories past some of the people who appear in the book. I like to say, speak now or forever hold your lawsuits. <br />
<br />
What else? I have been keeping myself occupied with creative projects. One of the most fun was making Robert's anniversary gift. He has always wanted a BEAR COSTUME. (Why? To wear when he goes to the bagel store to buy bagels, of course!) I have priced these and to get one that looks anywhere near real, it costs about a thousand dollars. So I got busy with some papier mache and fake bear fur, and the end result is pretty cute! No! I mean, pretty scary! I also made a cat costume, for the shelter, with the help of a little girl named Tessie. We had a Hallowe'en party, and here are our costumes:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzrcCOlJfcjj6fK_cmOFwvyWOPsA5Zfz5voiLsyx6XwlzXmD_n2l4FUdGWN0BEXaZ_abO-Ka3YuU0QM42Jj5o0OYrTQ39AdRl9RJFG684ZovgGFPRX2p_XmFkI3gNSovZXWLvO8uGo-9I/s1600/DSC01550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzrcCOlJfcjj6fK_cmOFwvyWOPsA5Zfz5voiLsyx6XwlzXmD_n2l4FUdGWN0BEXaZ_abO-Ka3YuU0QM42Jj5o0OYrTQ39AdRl9RJFG684ZovgGFPRX2p_XmFkI3gNSovZXWLvO8uGo-9I/s320/DSC01550.JPG" yr="true" /></a><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Robert, the Bear</span><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0absc4CtSQMQ1DhtxDv33FZnvlQDI7sN9ezHT56ZrUUDRaT_7RE56r3lBDI9mQ4df7zd2lb6DeuiJh12FVAknPOEXr3kCwGJC8zaGrG1j4SOuTVcK1YeQm2vDECQT7MrnRYtkB_8LlAd-/s1600/I+look+like+Chris.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0absc4CtSQMQ1DhtxDv33FZnvlQDI7sN9ezHT56ZrUUDRaT_7RE56r3lBDI9mQ4df7zd2lb6DeuiJh12FVAknPOEXr3kCwGJC8zaGrG1j4SOuTVcK1YeQm2vDECQT7MrnRYtkB_8LlAd-/s320/I+look+like+Chris.JPG" yr="true" /></a><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here I am as an Arab, but I think mostly, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">look like my brother, Chris.</span><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Well, it is almost time to pack up the pies and take off for our Thanksgiving afternoon of too much food. I am thankful, as always, for my husband and my family and all my friends. I hope you had a great holiday, and even better ones coming up!<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Love,<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">F<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I promise to write again real soon!<br />
</div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-6906170651512414352009-04-19T05:54:00.001-07:002009-04-20T08:06:27.645-07:00First, a famous rock star destroys my TV, then a dog pees on my rug.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdW6TM85TkHImODN_-OxGmMQ3VhbDMlaSHYeEupSBYQhcu-jXOgc_QJKk4LM3HaynpIHkNV2AbjvKq3LOudS3N4uzQADmaJGTagXGsrYomlQWs8Z8LIkxFXXxZNj3PxP8ONnR0OE_qoSW8/s1600-h/DSC00997.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326788791808703042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdW6TM85TkHImODN_-OxGmMQ3VhbDMlaSHYeEupSBYQhcu-jXOgc_QJKk4LM3HaynpIHkNV2AbjvKq3LOudS3N4uzQADmaJGTagXGsrYomlQWs8Z8LIkxFXXxZNj3PxP8ONnR0OE_qoSW8/s400/DSC00997.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><strong></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><strong>This is what a stone chamber looks like on the outside.</strong></div><br /><div align="center"><strong></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><strong></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><strong></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpG2kV69iG1QNOXs7NsQhcq2YrGU0kQ499xvwq7VtMPIMKSe2MqC7L0YXoyiR2px5opy1J2HLcRSJzGRAhxBrv5jypgGVoa7OSUr-TbjrAuynFVa2kKtZ1P4eKefOkfc4L4Cqf6bunExZ/s1600-h/DSC00993.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326461286646719746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpG2kV69iG1QNOXs7NsQhcq2YrGU0kQ499xvwq7VtMPIMKSe2MqC7L0YXoyiR2px5opy1J2HLcRSJzGRAhxBrv5jypgGVoa7OSUr-TbjrAuynFVa2kKtZ1P4eKefOkfc4L4Cqf6bunExZ/s400/DSC00993.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_212GGkzTPLF7Q9eY4pRc3pnVgkVNEM_mkhwyso3SiV0o_pS_vZCvsT-5haHfhoiM263a1T-_fmgjHF_VHv7YqBP0V4PNLnquDYYpeOJqp48gsioaoUMKwy4Yo0ON1m41JAQIzJDldSxz/s1600-h/DSC00991.JPG"></a><strong>Me, at the dolmen stone</strong>.<br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWtSgomicAuURuD6GM_rw1mdDP3iI2O4NVGnEmoWVJRMaDMMy9qy45zDNZSNT9JlkmcUGhgFtsaAzUh6cSO_7zi4DdtQjclwg5jt0F6yyEQfNOjn6NW7V2Ys_Bi71PTOK3-suK9pscrI8P/s1600-h/DSC00960.JPG"></a><br /><br /><br /><div>An apology, because I can't get the stupid spacing right and I can't insert the pictures where I want them! Gnash-gnash! (that is the sound of my teeth...)<br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><strong>FIRST, A ROCK STAR DESTROYS MY TV ...</strong></div><br /><div align="left">I attended a writer's group someone was trying to organize in Beacon. When I got home Robert asked me if I had met any interesting people there. I told him there was one--someone who had just moved to the area from England, and he had given me a postcard with his website on it. I didn't know much about him but I described him and Robert said, "You mean John Mendelsohn<em>, the writer</em>?"</div><br /><div align="left">Apparently, Robert was well-acquainted with the work John has done for Rolling Stone and Creem magazines. John had also been a member of a rock band called Christopher Milk, in the days when most of us had more and darker hair. I wrote to John and told him we'd like to get together with him sometime. For a variety of reasons, that didn't happen until just recently. But John finally came to visit and we spent a really good afternoon talking, and we introduced him to our favorite Indian restaurant. We found out we have many interests in common with John and his wife, and we are looking forward to meeting Claire, who was still stuck in London, trying to get their house sold.</div><br /><div align="left">Robert's Christmas gift to himself was a monstrous HD television set. As is his nature, he spent months planning the installation and re-design of our upstairs TV room. Robert built new video cases and planned to move our huge and bulky Sony from that room into his basement music room. The day before the new set was to be delivered, Danny, our neighbor's weightlifter son who usually helps us with efforts like this, was not available. Also, I had sprained my knee and was hobbling about on crutches. Reluctantly, Robert decided to take advantage of our FLEDGLING friendship with John, and ask him to help move the TV. John agreed.</div><br /><div align="left">The plan was to bring the TV down the front stairs then outside and around the house to the back basement door. Robert had the mover's dolly all ready. John showed up and I went to my basement art studio to be available to open the door when they were ready to move the TV in. </div><br /><div align="left">I guess I expected this to take about twenty minutes or so. Twenty minutes passed. I kept myself busy. Another twenty minutes passed. Then another. I had run out of busy work. I hauled myself up the basement stairs to find out what was going on. As I started to climb up the front staircase I noticed the carpet was sprinkled with what appeared to be black rice. At the top of the stairs Robert looked stricken. He and John both began babbling, "Extremely brittle!" and "Never expected!" and "Imploded!" Those tiny bits of black plastic were all that was left of my fabulously expensive TV. </div><br /><div align="left">I still have a hard time wrapping my head around the image of a television set, which, upon being lifted up and placed on a padded dolly, suddenly collapses into to a pile of plastic pellets. It has something to do with the immense weight of the inner TV tube (almost 150 lbs.!) and the requirement that it always be kept in a strictly upright position. Oh well.</div><br /><div align="left">I always had a love-hate relationship with that TV, anyway. It was purchased as a peace-offering to me from a tenant who never paid his rent because he spent all his money gambling. Then he won the lottery and bought me a $1,300 TV that I didn't want, then he got mad at me because I didn't want to do MY part, which was to purchase cable programming that I couldn't afford. And then, he never paid rent again after that! So I didn't care much that the television set died, and the fact that its death was as dramatic as its "birth" is only funny to me. Also, I do not believe that TWO people living in ONE house have any business owning FIVE televisions. </div><br /><div align="left">But Robert insists I'm wrong, and he is shopping for a new set for the music room. It's his way of supporting the economy. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Anyway, the new TV is fabulous, the video shelving looks gorgeous, and the gigantic TV tube sits in the driveway along with a lot of cut brush, waiting for bulk trash pick-up day. John sprained his back helping us, but we think he still likes us, anyway.<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><strong>Norma, KISSING MY HUSBAND inside the stone chamber.</strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW1Z9yVbaky5lJE4Ku1gmxq1ZTjPa7czX52dR0yDOiD0omi_IU8CTtOubG1_vp1yGRrSW1r0EegtH79rvkJhjyEBRT933PPOSp1QkRC4e0q8wHIqi77m9k5YeS0J4W4qiEV6BzojB1n8lK/s1600-h/DSC01000.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326402484479027218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW1Z9yVbaky5lJE4Ku1gmxq1ZTjPa7czX52dR0yDOiD0omi_IU8CTtOubG1_vp1yGRrSW1r0EegtH79rvkJhjyEBRT933PPOSp1QkRC4e0q8wHIqi77m9k5YeS0J4W4qiEV6BzojB1n8lK/s400/DSC01000.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>Lucy, Culprit of Cuteness</strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje3ImirkmsXnLSoskuv-xvt5ZjZLyYScTVWW6FAp1b5pRnpsKHZ9DBi733FDKbHLKZH329kCdr0N0oMpCzO1VrsXYpTFQ0vLMiM4euUB5wSKeIAIlfx7sCQrBnbMfAWVqWGt-g-mfUdjhK/s1600-h/DSC00980.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326402077646618866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje3ImirkmsXnLSoskuv-xvt5ZjZLyYScTVWW6FAp1b5pRnpsKHZ9DBi733FDKbHLKZH329kCdr0N0oMpCzO1VrsXYpTFQ0vLMiM4euUB5wSKeIAIlfx7sCQrBnbMfAWVqWGt-g-mfUdjhK/s400/DSC00980.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div align="left">I met Norma Levinson when I was 14. I had won a scholarship to attend summer art classes at the University of Kansas. My mother told me later I was so awful that year (PUBERTY, MOM! IT WASN'T MY FAULT!) that she jumped at the chance to have me out of the house for awhile. Anyway, I met Norma there, and we had a blast. I think that is where I found my true identity. </div><br /><div align="left"><em>I'm not a just a weirdo! I'm a hippie! Yay!</em> </div><br /><div align="left">Anyway, after Kansas I was invited to spend a week with Norma and her five sisters in Toledo, where her family operated a Jewish restaurant. Over the past forty years we have had lots of other adventures together, and I was very touched that Norma traveled all the way from Virginia Beach, VA, to attend my wedding. Robert and I have visited her there, but Norma hadn't been able to take us upon our invitation until a week ago or so.</div><br /><div align="left">She didn't come alone. She brought her new baby, Lucy. We were a little concerned at first how our cats would respond to having a dog in the house, even one smaller than they are, and little yipping dogs send Robert right up the curtains. But the cats just sulked and glowered, and Lucy turns out to be a very quiet little puppy. She was so cute that we didn't care that she had puppy pee mats laid out all over the house and never managed to hit ONE of them.</div><br /><div align="left">The weather wasn't the best. It was chilly and rainy so we took little car trips. We took Norma to see the Vanderbuilt mansion, and the gorgeous Hudson River views that have inspired so many painters. We also took her to see two of our favorite mysteries--the dolmen stone and a stone chamber. The dolmen stone weighs 90 thousand pounds and is perched up on five little "finger" stones. No one knows if it happened naturally (sometimes this can occur when a glacier recedes, but there wasn't glacier in the area) and some speculate it was erected by early explorers who were Irish monks. In any event, it is quite a cool thing to see and a nice drive through "rich people" territory, with lots of horse farms. </div><br /><div align="left">After seeing the dolmen we wanted to show Norma a stone chamber. These are prehistoric structures found in a concentrated area in Connecticut and eastern New York. There are hundreds of them. No one knows how old they are, who built them, or how the massive solid stone ceilings were put in place. Once again, Irish monks are blamed because Native Americans didn't build stone structures. Any suggestion that the chambers might have been built by European settlers as root cellars is pooh-poohed by those greater thinkers who insist that space aliens with technology capable of transporting themselves across the universe figured the very best way to impress future generations of us cavemen would be to pile rocks in interesting configurations. </div><br /><div align="left">I also don't understand how a mere boatload of Irish monks could have built all of these things in the few years they were supposed to have been here. But this has not stopped people from claiming the chambers are holy druid sites, and one frequently finds mysterious offerings of flowers and other New Age offerings inside the stone rooms. </div><br /><div align="left">I <em>thought</em> I remembered where a chamber was, but I didn't. We spent several hours buzzing around curvy country roads and exploring little hamlets and villages (we even found ourselves in a place called "Monkeytown") and I finally gave up. We drove home, and suddenly, there it was! Miles away from where I thought it was. So Norma got to be amazed.</div><br /><div align="left">We had a great time with Norma, and even though Lucy peed on the rugs, we were sorry to see her go. I mean, that's why carpet shampoo was invented. </div><br /><div align="left">When you come here to visit us, we will take you to Monkeytown, and to see the big rock and to look at stone chamber ceilings. And you can even kiss my husband.</div></div></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-76852117358516884762009-02-23T15:20:00.000-08:002009-04-20T08:14:51.841-07:00The Other Shoe Has Dropped, and the Dangers of Whipped Cream<div align="center">HOW I LOST MY JOB, AND NEARLY SCANDALIZED THE COMMUNITY.</div><div align="center">ALSO, A SHORT STORY ABOUT MY BROTHER. <br /></div><br /><div align="center"><strong>LOOK at these! They've got CUPCAKES </strong></div><div align="center"><strong>on them, </strong><strong>for heaven's sake!</strong></div><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306381160310562802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNIgu7_uGsBB-Njgp2lGkH6gHzGF_EQMDvr6qnyoUlrmWAwXFM4hSWSvRgumB_n9lkqIZgxfrzTGvItnNtsKYn7iRX5Di7HaJOQVYtV6tRJtz3-xBTCH9KBOz-wJ_oW0qUIGbVCGkfoEhT/s400/Picture+009.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>And I had finally scored an office with a window. . . .</strong></div><br /><div align="center"><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkvp21v04TLAkYxaTTR8EqxVyQok8R67Cfakp95nG0sKtbU3kQtp0mg0K49oFYXuIhySgyL2H5CzWVLioNZRwHIufJ9drieR2Ch_aSH3u8h7yVJdMU3nKDBoqiV-kfSeAq9ih4E0VvbX9/s1600-h/my+credenza.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306369983147162002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkvp21v04TLAkYxaTTR8EqxVyQok8R67Cfakp95nG0sKtbU3kQtp0mg0K49oFYXuIhySgyL2H5CzWVLioNZRwHIufJ9drieR2Ch_aSH3u8h7yVJdMU3nKDBoqiV-kfSeAq9ih4E0VvbX9/s400/my+credenza.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="left">For some time now, it has been hard for me to sit down and write. I am distracted. I didn't know if this is a symptom of lingering stress from the previous year, or insecurity about the future. I never wrote my usual Christmas letter in 2007, and planned to write double one for 2007-2008, but even that has hit a snag. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">While 2008 actually ended on a high point, with a great job for me, I still felt very insecure. The current financial situation has had an effect on everybody, including insurance companies that insure hospitals and landlords. They are fighting paying anything, and it has been very hard for my boss because settlements have been held up. He has been paying our salaries out of his personal savings and investments, and those have also taken a huge hit. I was afraid he wouldn't be able to continue to pay me. That has come to pass. I am laid off. I am bummed. My last day was in February, Friday the 13th. </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">I am eligible for unemployment and that will make it a little easier. Also, I have some legal connections in the area where I had none originally and some different experience to put on my resume, but no law firms are hiring and people are being laid off right and left. I keep thinking how this reminds me of what it is like to suffer through a blizzard. The blizzard hits, and afterward you are stuck in your house, you have tons of snow to shovel, it's hard to get to the store and when you struggle through hell to get there, you can't assume there will be any milk. It is frustrating and maybe even scary, but nobody lashes out, because they know that everybody around is suffering the same frustrations, or worse. </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Anyway, now that the dread other shoe has dropped--I have actually been doing a lot of writing! Mostly short stories. After Mom published her book of dog stories she wanted to write another one, featuring funny stories about Hogg kids' cars. I had made an audio tape for her that I found when I went through the contents of her office. I have been writing one or two a week, and the stories are getting good reviews at my writing group. Of course, the bad economy makes it harder to get things published, too! Oh well. It feels good to write again. I'll try to get the 2007-2008 Christmas letter written eventually, but as it costs several hundred dollars to print it out and mail it, you may not get it until I get a new job--hopefully, before Christmas 2009! </div><br /><br /><div align="center">Anyway, I will try to to be a better writer here on the blog... </div><div align="center">and I'll try to write more shorter pieces, like this one. </div><div align="center"> </div><p align="center"><strong>WHY I SHOULD GIVE UP BAKING<br /></strong><br /></p><div align="left">I decided, since money will be tight while I'm unemployed I should use up some of the groceries in my pantry. Often I buy foodstuffs on sale, pack them away in the pantry and forget about them until well after the expiration dates. I rarely use cake mixes but I found I had several, so I made a cake out of a spice cake mix and a can of pumpkin and took it to my office. It was a big hit. Then I wondered if I could make a Caribbean cake out of a white cake mix and tropical fruit cocktail. I tried it but wasn't very good--the flavors weren't strong enough. I considered making the cake into a trifle by layering it with whipped cream and more canned fruit, but I didn't have any whipping cream.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">I remembered that for the kitty auction in November I had put together a "baker's basket," filled with things like cookie cutters, a spatula, colored sprinkles and little tubes of icing. I thought it would be a good gift idea for a little kid, or for a parent or grandparent to bake holiday stuff with a favorite child. I collected stuff for the basket but I still needed a few more things to make it complete. I found the cutest thing at the dollar store-- little aerosol cans of flavored whipped topping that came with candy sprinkles in a shaker lid. The flavors were awful, like "bubblegum" and "cotton candy," but I thought it was just the thing for a kid to get excited about. The can featured an iced cupcake on the front, so I got some brightly colored muffin paper cups to go with the several cans I bought. In the end, we didn't use the baking basket idea, so I put the stuff away in my pantry for next year. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">I remembered that one of the cans was banana-flavored. I thought that might taste OK in a tropical dessert. I cut a little piece of cake and squirted the stuff on it. It was lovely--fluffy and bright yellow. I took a bite and was immediately overpowered by the strongest banana flavor you could imagine. The aftertaste was even worse! I looked at the label on the can and was surprised to see the words NOT A FOOD on it. Also, the words "so delicious-- it's kissably sinful!" </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">I am so glad I did not actually sell aerosol foam sex lubricant to children! </div><div align="left"> </div><p></p><p align="center"><strong>CHERISH</strong></p><p align="left"><br />She is walking toward me on the sidewalk. Her round face is a bit puffy and her eyes droop at the outside corners, but I know her face. She sees me, says, "Hi!"</p><p align="left">I assume a pleasant smile while I frantically search for her name in the library of my mind. <em>She was in my Algebra class. She lives down the street from Mom now.</em> "Hi!" I say.</p><p align="left">She gives me a hug, steps back. "Chris told me about your mother. I’m so sorry."</p><p align="left">Chris is my younger brother. "Thanks," I say. </p><p align="left">"How long are you in town?" she asks. </p><p align="left">"Until Saturday. I’m trying to empty the house." My brain churns. <em>Sheila? No. Lois! Lois Bannerman.</em> </p><p align="left">"That’s the toughest job in the world," Lois says.</p><p align="left">I nod. </p><p align="left">"I’m really going to miss your mom. I loved visiting her."</p><p align="left">"Why don’t you drop by later?" I say. "There’s so much stuff I have to get rid of–you might find some things you can use. Mom would like that."</p><p align="left">"Really?" says Lois. We say good bye and go off in our different directions.</p><p align="left">Lois is right. Emptying your childhood home is the toughest job in the world. </p><p align="left">"I want people to have the things that are important to them," Mom had said. I have spent months now trying to keep my promise to her. I have dug through closets and chests and suitcases and folders and file drawers and envelopes, sorting thousands of newspaper clippings and letters, photographs and souvenirs. I have prepared and mailed off boxes of trinkets and memories to relatives and friends. My two younger brothers have hauled away carloads of stuff. </p><p align="left">I don’t know what to do with Andy’s things. I collected them in a cardboard box-–his Boy Scout sash, his science fair ribbons, his well-loved books, including this one. He loved "The Rescuers," a story about brave mice. My younger brothers took their boxes away but Andy’s two daughters only want to take a few photographs. I understand. They knew the Andy who was their father. They never met the sweet and serious ten-year-old who first read this book to me. </p><p align="left">I hold his high-school graduation picture in my hands. The frame is nice and might sell at a yard sale. I suppose I should discard the photo. Mom had so many copies made of this, as well as of his Navy portrait and the one of him with his bagpipes and kilt. Everybody in the family already has this photograph. But I can’t bear to throw his image away. This is my big brother Andy, my childhood protector and great friend, who died twelve years ago. I swaddle the portrait in bubble wrap and put it on the floor. </p><p align="left">I have completely forgotten about Lois, but here she is walking up to the porch. I provide her a cardboard box and invite her to poke through the cabinets and bookcases. Now she is sitting on the floor in front of the big china hutch, wrapping wine glasses in newspaper. </p><p align="left">"Your mom is the one who taught me how to cook!" she says. </p><p align="left">"Really?"</p><p align="left">"My mother died when I was ten."</p><p align="left">I don’t remember knowing that, but now I have a recollection of Lois' earnest face beaming from beneath her Scout beret at troupe meetings at our house. I’m embarrassed to realize how very nearly invisible she was to me then–so mouse-like and quiet. But Lois Bannerman is not quiet now. She is animated, smiling, telling me stories about my family.</p><p align="left">"I loved to watch Andy practice his bagpipes in your back yard," she says, then she whispers, "I was crazy about him!" </p><p align="left">"Really?" Lois could only have been a freshman the year Andy was a senior. </p><p align="left">She drops her hands into her lap and looks up at the ceiling. "Do you remember the dances at Lake Ocquiac?"</p><p align="left">I shake my head. All the Boy and Girl Scout camping trips are a blur to me.</p><p align="left">"Girls got to ask the boys. I was so shy, but I promised myself I would ask Andy Hogg to dance with me if it killed me! But other girls kept getting to him first. Finally, it was the last dance, on the last night. I ran to up him and opened my mouth. I was standing right in front of him and he was looking at me and then Marilyn Dedyne -- do you remember her? -- she literally pushed me over, grabbed him, and off they went!"</p><p align="left">"Oh, no!" </p><p align="left">"I felt like such a failure! I was devastated!" Lois says these words, but she is smiling now, almost grinning. "The coolest thing happened!" She closes her eyes. "The music ended, the lights came back on and everybody started groaning. Marilyn walked away. Andy looked at me, and just then – like magic! like an answered prayer! -- the scoutmaster said, ‘Oh, all right! Just one more!’" </p><p align="left">"They played another song?" </p><p align="left">A tear traces its way down Lois Bannerman’s cheek. "<em>Cherish</em>," she says. "That song by the Association. A slow dance. My whole life, whenever – "</p><p align="left">She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to. I realize she isn’t even here. At this moment Lois Bannerman is at Scout camp in Northern Michigan. She is twelve years old. She is slow-dancing under the stars with Andy Hogg. </p><p align="left">Her eyes are still closed. She doesn’t see me place the bubble wrapped package in her box of wine glasses, trinkets and memories.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p><div align="left"><br /></div><p align="left"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p><div align="left"></div><p align="left"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p><div align="left"><br /></div><p align="left"><br /><br /><br /><br /></p><div align="center"><strong></strong></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center">--</div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-17997450774840414912008-11-22T04:40:00.000-08:002008-11-26T04:25:54.518-08:00ROBERT'S LOVE CHILD AND OTHER SHOCKING STUFF<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-BsviIW_ZIZv8L7jrbbZq2-WfUUv1ULfKZo_exWFH556pijJ69VUaGAEduKFGyNXsZQPHLVcPsCz6oDymvRk4DzW8EWcAoAYr3pmmuB_oJ3K6pkrdbrbbx5wanjrKtFYyOyfT-jtTK30k/s1600-h/Radio+Music+Hall+sign.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272938098099785058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-BsviIW_ZIZv8L7jrbbZq2-WfUUv1ULfKZo_exWFH556pijJ69VUaGAEduKFGyNXsZQPHLVcPsCz6oDymvRk4DzW8EWcAoAYr3pmmuB_oJ3K6pkrdbrbbx5wanjrKtFYyOyfT-jtTK30k/s400/Radio+Music+Hall+sign.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><strong>My surprise from Robert!</strong></div><div align="center"><strong></strong></div><div align="center"><strong></strong></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGbGWu7-bu-VWwm_3-pYtd4uGBmn141yC4J1vHTC8qY6EnXus5p3jRc5CxEzt1cmlgVBt9a2KsiYRAmOr9wkQpuvtkJ8weIJ72TgE_ouQosvALV2eCoK9o5uxerCtUmEKdZCvTx9qgaP_G/s1600-h/with+Rockette.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272937322160662114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGbGWu7-bu-VWwm_3-pYtd4uGBmn141yC4J1vHTC8qY6EnXus5p3jRc5CxEzt1cmlgVBt9a2KsiYRAmOr9wkQpuvtkJ8weIJ72TgE_ouQosvALV2eCoK9o5uxerCtUmEKdZCvTx9qgaP_G/s400/with+Rockette.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>On stage, with the Rockettes! </strong></div><strong></strong><br /><p><strong></strong></p><p align="center"><strong> </p></strong><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><br />The word is out about Robert's love child.<br /><br /><br />Sigh.<br /><br /><br />The person who is telling the world that my husband Robert has been having an affair with a nursing student at the University of Washington, which dalliance has resulted in a pregnancy, is my 91-year old mother-in-law. One of the symptoms of her Parkinson's disease is a senility that started off slow but has been picking up speed. Poor Muffy gets ideas in her head that are so real to her, she cannot be disabused of them. For the most part, these ideas haven't been a problem, and in fact, I think some of them have been helpful, keeping her occupied and happy. For instance, she is excited about the new job she is going to start, as a nursing administrator on the night shift, and she looks forward to dinner dates with people long dead, and she doesn't seem to be too upset when those engagements fall through.<br /><br /><br />But she is very upset about this one, and worried about the effect this new baby will have on our family. She is not swayed by denials made by both Robert and his sister Cindy, and rejects any suggestion of the improbability that Robert is able to fly back and forth between Seattle and New York every day without me being aware of it.<br /><br /><br />We hope Muffy will forget about it soon, and move on to some more pleasant fantasy. But in the meantime, just to be on the safe side, I'm re-decorating our guest bedroom in a teddy-bear theme!<br /><div align="center"><strong><br /> </div></strong>Perhaps Robert's it is guilt about his multiple love affairs with young girls all over the United States that makes him plan romantic surprises for me. A few weeks ago he told me to arrange for a day off from work. He wouldn't tell me anything else, except not to pack anything I couldn't carry around with me for awhile, to dress warmly and wear comfortable shoes, and to meet him at Grand Central Station in New York City at six p.m.. So I packed clean socks and underwear, a nightie, and a toothbrush in my briefcase, and arranged for a ride to the train station from one of my co-workers.<br /><br /><br />It was a bitter morning, and Robert specifically ordered that I pack two things--a hat and gloves. I don't like hats and I always lose gloves, so I rarely wear them. But I have a fake fur collar thing that I wear around my neck when it's cold, and if I need to, I can wrap it around head. Of course, when it was time to take off for the train station, I grabbed my briefcase and left the hat and gloves on my desk.<br /><br /><br />The train station platform is on the Hudson River, up high, and when the wind gets blowing, it can be frigid. I was sitting on a bench there, shivering and miserable, with my head scrunched down into my coat collar, wondering how in hell I was going to be able to enjoy myself if I had to walk around the City like that. So I opened my briefcase, pulled out my black negligee. Wrapped around my neck with the ends tucked into my coat, no one would ever know.<br /><br /><br />I met Robert and we walked about a mile or so to a nice hotel, across the street from Madison Square Gardens. Then he took me out to dinner at a really nice restaurant, where I enjoyed a poached pear and cheese salad, a glass of wine and some delicious Brazilian fish. Then he told me what the surprise was.<br /><br /><br />We walked to Radio City Music Hall to see the 76th annual Christmas Spectacular, featuring the Rockettes. What fun! The sets were just amazing, and the dancers so incredible, and the show numbers SO LONG. How many calories must those women consume everyday in order to do that? There was a double-decker bus trip that you have to see to believe, a 3-D movie of a sleigh trip over New York City, it snowed inside the theatre and there was a full sized nativity scene complete with camels and sheep, and overhead, angels flapping around. It was a true New York experience and I had a great time. But that wasn't all--<br /><br /><br />Apparently, one of the Rockettes is a University of Michigan grad, and she had invited members of the U 0f M club that Robert is a member of to come backstage afterwards. So I got to see the camels up close and all the set pieces and incredible costumes. We ended up on the stage.<br /><br /><br />And that is how your friend, FRANCES HOGG LOCHOW, APPEARED ON STAGE AT RADIO CITY MUSIC HALL, WITH THE ROCKETTES (two of them, at least) WEARING A BLACK NEGLIGEE (around her neck)! <br /><br /><br />The auction for the cat shelter was a big success--or as much of a success as one could be in this current economic climate. We had a lot of people and a lot of nice things to auction off, but the prices we got were about half what we would have gotten last year. We still made over ten thousand dollars, though. The food was great and the entertainment was fabulous (Thanks, Jan and Don and Rosemary!). But there were (as there always are) little bumps and personality clashes on the road to the big event, that left me feeling over-stretched, and I ended up doing something rather extreme. Immediately after the auction I quit the Board. I feel a little sick about it, because I have really enjoyed all the work I've done there and the people I worked with, but I know I have invested too much, emotionally. Three of the main people who usually work on the auction weren't able to do that this year, so I ended carrying all those responsibilities that normally would have been handled by the group. A project that I had worked on for hours and hours (the auction catalog) got screwed up by someone else, and that was really depressing. I felt so floored by the criticisms of a co-Board member who I actually like, I realized I can't be in the same room with her any more.<br /><br /><br />So now the challenge is to find a way to keep working for the organization from outside. I am sure I will find a way to do that.<br /><br />And all of this is part of another story--about a doll house. I'll tell you that next time.<br /><br /><br />I want to have a new blog set up soon, that is easier to get to. My poor computer makes horrible noises and is on its way out, so I hope to get a new one (actually, I want an OLD one) around Christmas. I also hope to send out my regular Christmas letter that I didn't send out last year. I have to figure out how to get that written.<br /><br />I hope you all have a lovely Thanksgiving (we're going to visit Cindy and Muffy)-- and I hope to hear from all of you around Christmas and the New Year!<br /><br /><br />Love, FAH and Robert.Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-54176233758513591022008-10-09T12:34:00.000-07:002008-11-22T04:40:12.113-08:00Up to my ears in cat stuff....This is me, painting kitty faces on little kids at a recent festival in Warwick, New York.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbrle7df6KujNZOqUnPpZjhw8J3anpxRi6AZaI1AFVgnRltvhb1Kpw7sqjY3U6Vt6kxywgCAVZlzgZPLlckQU2QeDy0G5clTVHtOP8uilVkWIJCMKZIf893w63q93KuiNhYWInOHdXlf-T/s1600-h/facepainting.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255260017433944546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbrle7df6KujNZOqUnPpZjhw8J3anpxRi6AZaI1AFVgnRltvhb1Kpw7sqjY3U6Vt6kxywgCAVZlzgZPLlckQU2QeDy0G5clTVHtOP8uilVkWIJCMKZIf893w63q93KuiNhYWInOHdXlf-T/s400/facepainting.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I keep getting e-mails from people saying, "Are you all right?" I tell them, "Yeah, I'm just busy! I'll write a letter soon!" Looking at the date of my last post, I guess I've been saying that too long. I think at first, I was just too exhausted from all the stuff about Mom and clearing out her house to even think about writing, and that was soon combined with a computer crash, followed by a busy summer that found me doing something for the cat shelter almost every weekend, and on top of THAT, my new and wonderful job. So I'll take these in reverse order. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>MY NEW AND WONDERFUL JOB! </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Back in early March, when things were really awful, my friend Lindy told me that angels had told her I shouldn't worry about money, because a fabulous job was going to drop into my lap on the same day as my unemployment ran out. Lindy has been exploring her spiritual side, and I like to be supportive, so I thanked her heartily for her good wishes. Then darn, if she wasn't right! I got an e-mail out of nowhere from Charles Rock. He is an attorney, looking for a managing paralegal to run his office, just across the river from where I live. He's not your average attorney (before becoming a lawyer he was a professional classical guitarist, who performed all over the place) but he has had a successful practice, suing doctors, but now he has decided to switch gears and focus on cases that he thinks have some underlying social importance, like lead-poisoning of children. He also decided he didn't want to work with grumpy people anymore, so he farmed out most of his old cases and hired an all-new staff!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>He didn't hire me for the manager job--instead, he asked me if I'd like to work as an attorney. I didn't think I'd really want to do that again, but I find I am enjoying it. I forgot how much I like to do legal writing--figuring out arguments to get around obstacles and then finding the right case law and the right language to beat the opposition into a pile of blubbering jelly! Ha! I now fearlessly stride into courtrooms and act like I know what I'm doing. I am still struggling a bit, getting used to a completely different court system and a very complicated computer case-management system, but Charles is completely supportive. I love the other extremely competent women (Yeah! He only hired women!) in the office--Liz, Chrissy and Jenny. It takes me just minutes to get to work, I can take time off when I need it, and the work we do suits my values. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>UP TO MY ARMPITS IN CATS!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>During the summer the cat shelter (midhudsonanimalaid.org) carries on fund-raising activities at festivals. I make things to sell, like magnets, pins and earrings, and I make a nice pot of change painting kitty and puppy faces on little kids. It seems I have something going on almost every weekend. That is winding down somewhat, but I am the chairman of the annual auction, in November. Our basement is filling up with donations, and I just finished making 30 centerpieces for the tables. The cat calendar I designed was finally produced, and Mom's favorite cat, Popcorn, is Mr. February. Doing this stuff for the cats took on a different importance when we couldn't find homes for three of Mom's kitties, and had to bring them to New York, to the shelter. The picture I (I think!) put on the blog is one of me, at the shleter, holding her beautiful Pussyfoots. I'm glad to say that Foggie was adopted a few weeks ago, and sorry to say that Mousie (her very old cat) has left ths earth. </div><div> </div><div>I enjoy doing things for the cats, because in some way, I feel I'm doing it for my Mom and for other old ladies out there who are worried about what will happen to their little friends when they can't take care of them anymore. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>LAST VISIT TO HOGGWILDE</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>About a week ago I made another trip to Michigan, to help my brothers make the final decisions about what to do with stuff in Mom's house. I was a little surprised to find I am not melancholy about the house. I hope someone with kids will buy it--it is certainly magical to be able to grow up in a house on a river. The real eatate market has tanked so badly, and the house is not in particularly good shape, it is evident to anyone entering it that cats used to live there, and also, Mom painted it a very LOUD yellow and green, that will not suit the tastes of very many people. It will sell for much less than it's worth, if it sells before the bank forecloses on the reverse mortgage. Maybe someone will even tear it down. </div><div>If so, that will be too bad. It really is pretty, and I love all the wilderness that grows around it. Mom wrote a wonderful essay about it, called "Sacred Ground." But where she connected the river and the land and the house to her "dear little ghosts," I have discovered that all those memories reside in me, and I can say good-bye to the place they were born. </div><div> </div><div> </div><br /><div></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-6046030997895527872008-06-01T12:16:00.000-07:002008-06-25T15:23:27.143-07:00Life returns (to normal?)<div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I started this letter a long time ago, but didn't finish it. I feel a need to continue to tell the story about my Mom's death--or I should say, the end of her life--because that's something people care about, but it is hard to do. I've spent so many months focused on her--on dealing with all the emotional aspects of her impending death, for her and for me and for people who love her. It has been hard, but beautiful and important. Now I really want to point my life in a different direction--looking forward. Lots of really good and fun things are happening in my life! So I think I'll tell you about the new stuff, then I'll tell you about Mom's memorial service. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I feel better, finally, after surviving a bout of shingles in 90-plus degree weather. Shingles is a painful after-effect of the chickenpox that often comes back to bite people over fifty, in times of stress. An itchy spot over my breastbone turned into a line of tiny blisters running along my ribs, that spread out into inflamed patches of HELL. It hurt to wear clothes. I spent days lying in the dark in our bedroom, nude, plastered with cold, wet towels. It hurt to have the fan blow on me. I thought it was ironic that I would get shingles now, when, for the first time in almost a year I feel completely relaxed about my life, but our friend, Dr. Ruth, says it is normal to get them after a period of intense stress. Ruth loaded me up with all kinds of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">naturopathic</span> cures and I feel I got off lightly. The blisters never broke and have subsided, but I still have moments when I feel like my skin is crawling with bees! Oh well. Focus on the positive! </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(I am writing this now on June 22) We just got back from a weekend in Southern Maryland. We were there to scatter the ashes of my brother-in-law, Bill MacArthur. Cindy (Robert's sister and Bill's widow) works at the Calvert County Marine Museum, that owns an antique oyster-fishing sailboat called a "bug-eye." It is a gorgeous craft and we get to take free rides on it from time to time. Cindy rented it for the ceremony, and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Lochow</span>/MacArthur family gathered. It is so much fun for me because we have lots of teeny great-nephews who are so quirky and dear. (For instance, almost-two-year-old Landon, has a fixation on leaf blowers. He runs around pretending that vacuum cleaner parts and empty paper-towel rolls are leaf-blowers, much the way my brother turned anything they could hold in their hands into guns when we were little and cowboys and Indians were all the rage.) Landon, Nicky and Lukas were playing with little toy cars on the benches of the boat, and it was entertaining how everyone became hearing-impaired each time one of them asked (about the wooden casket of ashes), "What's in there?" </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It was a great day, bright and sunny, to be out on the water of the Chesapeake Bay, bouncing over the waves with spray in our faces and pretty Celtic music playing. Cindy asked Robert to read a poem that I thought was not well-written, but the sentiment and the idea behind it were very appropriate, and I think people might appreciate it who are thinking about my Mom now. Here's my version:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">"A ship leaves the dock. She is beautiful, with sails full-blown.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">She takes off toward the horizon, becoming smaller and </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">smaller, until she is nothing but a white dot at the place where </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">the sea touches the sky. Someone beside me says, 'She is gone!' </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">And I think, 'Gone where?' She appears smaller, but only to </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">us. In reality, she is as broad and strong and capable of carrying </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">life as she ever was. And at that very moment that someone </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">cries, 'She is gone!'--persons on another shore are crying, </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">'There she is! Here she comes!'"</span></div><div> </div><div>OK. I had to stop and have a little cry there. If anyone want to know the poet or the actual poem, ask me, and I'll send it to you.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Mom's memorial service was held on May 10. I don't think she could have asked for a better and more meaningful send off. My brothers and I talked with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Jannel</span>, the priest, about what we thought was important to Mom. I put together a collection of photographs for a display (when I get my computer working again I'll be able to show you) of all the special things in her life--family, music, art, writing, small animals, Vick, and her beloved <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Hoggwilde</span>. Mom had wanted people who didn't have it to have a copy of her book, "A Dog Called Dirt," and also, some of her art work, so I had those ready for those who wanted them. Aunties and Cousins and friends more dear than they will ever know helped set up before the service. Then the others showed up--so many more than were anticipated when the church printed the official programs. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Jannel asked me for a photo to put on the little table where Mom's ashes were placed at the front of the church. I didn't have anything except a portrait that Mom absolutely HATED. In fact, when I was sending out her Christmas letter for her last year I decided to send out some of her millions of extra photographs to her friends. I found lots of copies of pictures of her with her "Dirk" book (by the way, I discovered today that twelve-dollar copies of her book are selling for $22.00 on e-Bay now!) I also found a whole bunch of copies of a portrait taken for the St. Kate's church directory. When I told Mom I was sending those out to people, she freaked! She told me she thought she looked so awful in that picture she wanted all copies destroyed. I lied, and didn't tell her I'd already sent out dozens and dozens of them. I actually like the picture. I have it on my fridge door and I blow kisses at it every morning when I get milk for my coffee.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>In that photograph Mom is wearing pretty pale blue and green colors, and they perfectly matched the colors of the service bulletin that Jannell had put together. Jannel also asked me about flowers for the table display. We didn't have any. I was so busy trying to get the photo display set up and the food set out and coffee made, all the while trying to greet people and answer questions (in addition to the general stress of dealing with the fact that I was about ready to attend my mother's memorial service) I was about ready to go out of my mind. Then a very sweet and "Hoggish" thing happened. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Patty Graham <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Enfield</span> (one of the "school chums" I got re-acquainted with last year when I was working on my high school reunion) walked into the church carrying a handful of the most beautiful and poignant flowers--pale-blue columbine, with drooping, sad heads and translucent pale green stems. She held them out to me and I almost cried. I said, "Oh, no! Mom said she didn't want flowers--" and Patty started apologizing. I swept them up. They were so unusual a flower for that time of year, and such gorgeous colors-- I spent a lot of time during the service looking at them and thinking how Mom always said that is something special about our family--that we are blessed--that how often in our times of need we receive exactly what we need from unexpected and unbidden sources.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The church was crammed full, and the service was perfect. My brother Tim wrote things that were incorporated into the homily that were so perfectly "Patty,"--I can't tell you. It was especially good that her two sisters and some cousins were able to come from Kansas to be with us. Afterwards, we went back to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Hoggwilde</span> and had the kind of party Mom always loved--lots of people milling around, telling funny stories. She would have been so happy to have been there, with so many friends enjoying her beautiful house and the flowers and her new deck. There could not have been a more appreciative, happier, more thankful way to say goodbye.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The next morning Robert and I had to take off. We stopped at the house and loaded the car up with living memories of my childhood--Hoggwilde-grown ferns and black raspberry plants and jonquils, in plastic buckets. I am happy to report that they are growing like gangbusters here in my yard in New York. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I have been busy since the service with my special project--sending things that Mom saved off to people. I am sending them a booklet of her writings that I put together and brother Chris produced. I am almost done, but not quite.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The challenge now is to learn how to live my life without a mama. I got through Mothers' Day OK. I don't think Mom was particularly sentimental about that day, but I did discover that she saved every Mothers' Day and Fathers' Day card I ever sent to them. July 4th was harder. I always think, when I see flag-decorated paper plates and napkins in the stores, "I should get these for Mom, she'll like them!" Then I remember. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>So life without her is emptier, but it keeps going forward, and it's good. Her silly kitty, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Twirp</span>, lives with us now, destroying wallpaper and tearing up sofas and carpet. He is so proud of himself! I think her kitty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Foggie</span> (at the shelter) will be adopted soon, because she's so affectionate, but Pussyfoots and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Mousie</span> are so spooky, they hide from people. I hope for Christmas maybe my husband will let me bring Pussyfoots home with us. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Mom's favorite cat was Popcorn. She saved him from death just about the time Andy died, and she focused so much love and attention on him. He had seizures and died in her arms, and Mom never got over that. She had always considered him to be her miracle kitten. I am glad that I was able to give her a special gift before her death--Popcorn was chosen as the Calendar Cat for February for the Mid-Hudson Animal Aid Record of Special Events. The Record (a perpetual calendar) has been a personal fundraising project of mine, and I am very proud of it. I think we will have an ad for it on our website soon, so I'll publish that for you in a month or so (in time for Christmas shopping!). This is a great gift idea for anybody who likes cats or who has a large family with lots of birthdays and anniversaries to keep track of, or who wants to honor Patty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Hogg</span>. The calendar is GORGEOUS. They cost $12.00 each. If you want one, let me know. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I will wait until next time to tell you about my fabulous new job! My great boss! My shocking paycheck! My cool co-workers! Write to me! I love to hear from you.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">FAH</span> (and Robert)</div><div><br /></div><div>(Hoping soon to get my computer up and running again so I can send you pictures!)</div><div><br /></div></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-70196103428027103762008-05-06T15:08:00.000-07:002008-05-07T03:55:37.653-07:00Mom's good ending--and some good beginningsHowdy--<div><br /></div><div>I wasn't aware I hadn't written anything in April. I guess it's because I have been writing so many individual e-mails.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I last wrote I had just received a job offer that I could hardly believe. The commute is so short (4.7 miles) that I could walk it if I really needed to. Or, if I wanted, I could get there via a ferry ride across the Hudson River! My co-workers (and especially my boss, Charles) are friendly and helpful, and I am so excited to be part of his practice! If I had dreamed it I could not have asked for a better and easier way to get established as a lawyer in New York, after such a long absence from that workforce. I'll write more about that next time.</div><div><br /></div><div>When Charles handed me my first paycheck he apologized and told me he'd try to make things right with me with bonuses later in the year. I put it in my briefcase and didn't look at it until later. Then I nearly fell over. I made Robert look at it, and tell me I'm not crazy. It is MUCH MORE than I ever expected (but, being so very bad at math, I can often be taken unawares). Furthermore, that paycheck is proof of the existence of God, because immediately upon receiving it I broke a tooth ($1,200); our gas clothes dryer quit ($1,000); Mabel required veterinary care for a urinary blockage ($500, plus $18.00-per-5-lb.-bag cat food weekly for the rest of her life); Mom's kitty Twirp has to get his shots ($150); my computer is still useless and may require replacement ($1,200) and my vacuum cleaner expired ($150-200). IN CASE THAT WAS NOT ENOUGH, I need a new dish drainer! That's five bucks at K-Mart, and even more if I go for fancy and insist on Martha Stewart. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I last wrote, Mom was doing well after her surgery. I had decided to tell Charles I wanted to take off the Thursday and Friday before Mother's Day to go to see her. But I had worked at my new job for only two days before Tim called to say that the nurse at TenderCare strongly suggested that the family gather to "make arrangements." I prepared to take off again. At first I planned to take the trip alone, but Robert insisted on coming with me (part of our pre-marital "mi mama es tu mama" pledge) and I am so glad he was able to do that. I had no idea how much I would need him. I appreciate what a strain it was on his bosses to have him be gone that week, and I am so thankful to them and to everybody else for their support through this difficult period. </div><div><br /></div><div>This trip was the third time since June 2007 that I have dropped everything to make the thirteen-hour drive to Michigan at Tim's suggestion, never knowing what I would find when I got there. Robert and I arrived late in the evening and got a room in the hotel where we stayed before--the parking lot adjoins Tendercare. I left Robert to deal with registration and I ran to see Mom, and found her sitting up, and looking mighty pink and perky for a dying woman. For a moment (but just a little one) I wanted to strangle my brother. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mom said, "Franny! I'm so glad you're here!" and I instantly thanked God and Tim. It was so important to see her when she was really aware of my presence. We had a nice evening together. Chris had spent the whole day with her, and he had a good time with her, too. Mom asked me to cut her fingernails, and I did that. I complained that I had gotten little pieces of fingernail all over the floor. She was in a happy mood, but very very weak. She could hardly move, but she could still tell stories. </div><div><br /></div><div>Each day she became weaker and more uncomfortable. Her bowel surgery made it hard for her body to absorb water, so she was constantly thirsty and unable to get a drink herself. So I sat next to her all day, because she wanted water about once a minute. The next day she slept a lot more, and she had pain in her hands and arms in spite of large doses of morphine. She asked me to scratch her nose and I told her I needed a little guidance as far as where she was itchy, and I was also hampered because I had just cut my nails very short, and didn't have any fingernails to scratch with. Her last joke: "Pick some up off the floor." </div><div><br /></div><div>Wednesday the 16th, she stopped drinking and slept all the time. I had decided I would go back to New York if a time came when I couldn't be useful to her anymore, and Robert's bosses especially needed him to be there there on Friday. So we prepared to drive back on the 17th, my birthday, although I had a funny feeling that Mom would die that day (Dad died on Andy's birthday). But I realized that even though Mom wasn't asking to have her nose itched or her neck rubbed, or for a drink of water, my brothers needed me to be there. </div><div><br /></div><div>Chris and Tim and I were at her bedside all day long on the 17th. At about four 0'clock in the morning on the 18th, Tim tried to get a few winks in his truck out in the parking lot. We were all worried about going to sleep, lest we be so out of it we couldn't wake up when we needed to. But I realized it was STUPID to have a perfectly nice hotel room about fifty yards away, so we decided to take shifts at two-hour naps. Tim and I took advantage of it first, then we took over the vigil at six. At about eight a.m. on the 18th, Tim noticed Mom's breathing was different. I went to get Chris, FASTER THAN I HAVE EVER RUN, and about ten minutes later Mom stopped breathing. She was very calm and relaxed. It was peaceful, painless passing for her. We were all with her, touching her. She held a picture of my Dad in her arms. </div><div><br /></div><div>All of us were with Daddy when he died, in 1988. That was a much sadder event, because he was leaving Mom, who loved him so much, and he died much too young. Still, it was a very spiritual experience. I remember a distinct feeling at the moment he died of a presence entering the room, and I felt compelled to look toward the ceiling. I felt as if he was looking at me from there. I didn't have that same feeling with Mom. I think it's because she was already gone--already with Daddy and Andy--when she finally left. </div><div><br /></div><div>I told the nurse that she died, then Chris, Tim, Robert, and I all went together to the funeral home to make arrangements. We met up with Meg and Lindsey and we all went out for breakfast together. Chris said what we were all thinking, how strange it was, for once, to not be worried about Mom. </div><div><br /></div><div>Back in New York I started working again on the last of the boxes and boxes of papers Mom saved, trying to sort them out and get things ready to mail out to her friends. I spread everything out on our parlor floor, and worked on it for days, until I wore myself out. It has been overwhelming, dealing with the thousands of letters and photographs that Mom saved. It was such a huge responsibility but I kept on, knowing I was doing it for her. </div><div><br /></div><div>In these long months of her disability I had been saving things I sorted through--notes and letter fragments and essays--in a file marked "memorial." When I got home I started reviewing those to put together a gift of herself, for those who love her. Chris offered to do the actual design and layout of the booklet (about sixteen pages of poetry and prayers and stories, photographs and diary entries) and I am sure he will do a beautiful job. We will have it ready for her memorial service, and I will send it out to any of you who ask me.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was especially hard to make it through those last boxes. I think there were eighty of them, originally. I've often just been unable to face dealing with the task. I wondered if I have been blocked by the realization that when I finish this last sorting, I will be performing the last good thing I can do on earth to help my Mom. I wondered, is this the last opportunity I will ever have to show her how much I love her? Is this the last way I can make her feel more comfortable? When this job is done, is it really the end? But I think not. I promised her I would try to get her book completed--"As Ever Yours," about her family. It seems to make the most sense to wait until I have a computer that is not going to fart out on me before I start that in earnest. But I will do it. It's a wonderful book. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mom's memorial service is May 10th, at St. Kate's. That's the day before Mother's Day. Her sisters and some cousins will be there, as well as many friends. If you can't be there, believe me, she will know you wanted to be, and she will receive your prayers and thoughts. My brothers and I thank you so much for your cards and e-mails. Thank you for showing up at the nursing home to sit with me. Thank you for bringing me flowers. Thanks for giving me a hug in the parking lot of the grocery store. I appreciate every thought and gesture.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So that's the story of the good ending of my mother's good life. I look backward with thanks, and forward with eager anticipation. My new job and my new friendships with the people at work and at the foundry, and my continued excellent relationship with Robert and my wonderful brothers and sisters-in-law, are all wonderful, happy things on the horizon of my life, on my 54th birthday. I'm sad, but I'm OK. </div><div><br /></div><div>In fact, I am ridiculously happy about some things. When I get my computer to work again (I'm writing this on Robert's new Mac) I'll show you pictures of my new BACK PORCH SLAB! Now, who could be excited about a new back porch slab? I am! We used to have a crumbling, ugly concrete back porch that has been replaced (AT A RIDICULOUSLY LOW PRICE--due to my magical connections) with Vermont bluestone. I am so excited about it, I go outside often, just to look at it. I'm also happy about spring. I tried to figure out what would be the best thing to remind me of my childhood at Hoggwilde, after it becomes someone else's home. So I dug up buckets of Lily of the Valley and ferns and black raspberries and jonquils, and planted them in our yard here. I know how much Mom loved them, and I think every spring I will be able to share that thrill with her, even though she's not here, of seeing her little green babies push their way out of the soil to bring forth trumpeting masses of color and scent, and clouds of joy, that allow us all to experience once again that feeling of renewal and life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Keep in touch, all of you. Come to see us! Remember, we are the cheapest hotel in New York you'll ever find, all you Europeans! Jenny and Rick, please move here immediately! Marguerite, you too! </div><div><br /></div><div>Love, F and R</div><div><br /></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-88065405229545782162008-03-30T05:48:00.000-07:002008-03-30T14:20:12.464-07:00Better news!I have been hampered by computer problems. I was in Michigan for awhile, without access to a machine, and when I got home I found mine to be completely useless. Robert is infuriated by long waits for websites to load. He blames this on spyware and viruses and has installed all sorts of programs to rout these evils out. These programs result in a fifteen-minute battle of the anti-program programs before you can get to any site. (I believe this is why his own computer finally screamed and died, and he's been using mine for the last year.) Robert also blames slowness on aol (which I still use because I'm used to it, even though we have cable now and don't really need it) and Windows. <div><br /></div><div>So while I was gone Robert bought a new Mac computer which, of course, doesn't use Windows. When he hooked up his new machine and mine to a router, his worked fine, but something happened to mine. My Internet connection flickers and I get booted off after about half a minute. Then my mouse pointer got stuck and I couldn't get off the opening page. All this is boring to you (and to me too, believe me) so all I'll say is that Robert is still plugging away trying to figure out how to fix the problem. I can use his computer to write this and to check my e-mail, but I can't share pictures, I can't get at my address lists or my writing projects, and this computer isn't compatible with our printers! ARGH!!! <div><br /></div><div>I sent you all an e-mail from my friend Colleen's house when I was in Michigan and Mom was in the hospital. I suppose that was the low point, but things are a little better now. Mom is on the mend physically. She handled the surgery well and is back at Tendercare now. She is still very weak and depressed, but there is a psychologist who visits her and she hopes he can help her get her head around what is happening to her. She likes company but in very short spurts. After I wrote to you, she had a really good day. I sat with her and read her letters and she was even laughing from time to time, telling me stories. Then the next day she was wiped out and slept all day. She goes up and down. Keep sending her good thoughts. I hope I'll be able to see her again in May.<div><br /></div><div>Part of my mission when I was there was to corral her three remaining kitties and bring them to New York. I spent the week cooing at them, petting them, and gaining their trust (and they are NOT very trusting kitties). After that, it felt awful to have to grab them and stuff them into cages. I had to set up elaborate structures of storm windows propped up against chairs to herd them in the right direction. Even wearing arm-length oven mitts, some Franny blood was shed in the struggle, but I was successful in the end. Mousie, Pussyfoots and Foggy are now living at the shelter where they seem to be quite comfortable. I will visit them today, bearing catnip mice and a hairbrush. <div><br /></div><div>I have been enjoying working at the foundry very much. It feels wonderful to get up in the morning with a PURPOSE. But even if they could afford to pay me and I was working there full-time, I wouldn't make enough money to cover my portion of our expenses. (I do think that in a few more months, the foundry's finances will be much stronger. If I had money to invest in a new business enterprise, I would invest it there!) This fussing about money causes me to wake up in the middle of the night in a panic. I really enjoy the work and the people I work with, and if I didn't have to make our steep monthly car payment, I could do it. Robert says we could pay the balance off out of savings, but I hate not having any kind of emergency fund to fall back on. <div><br /></div><div>So in spite of the fact that I LOVE this job I realized I have had to keep an open mind about finding another one. I have continued searching and sending out resumes, but I've gotten no nibbles. I went to the county employment office for career counseling and spoke to a woman who told me to visualize my perfect job. So I did. The perfect job for me would be close to my home. It would be in a law-related field, where I could use my license, but I wouldn't necessarily be responsible for my own caseload. I am tired of working at the office for ten hours, then bringing piles of papers home with me every night. (I did that for fifteen years, and that was long enough!) I enjoyed managing law offices (that's what I did at my legal aid jobs) and being the person who figures out what needs to be done and how best to do it for litigators (which is what I did at Robert's law firm). I prefer not to work for the interests of corporations or insurance companies against regular folks, and I 'd love to work with people who are civil to one another. (This is more of a rarity in law offices than you may realize.) <div><br /></div><div>So in a perfect world, where there are unicorns and fairies and rainbows everywhere, I suppose such a job exists. <div><br /></div><div>My friend Lindy sent me a kind of prayer thing (which I'd like to look at again now, but it's on my computer). She said she envisioned the perfect job for me arriving JUST as my unemployment insurance ran out. It ran out this week.<div><br /></div><div>Last Friday I got an e-mail from someone who said, "I saw your resume on the 'net. Give me a call." So I did, and I had an interview on Friday at a one-person law firm across the river in Newburgh, only three miles from our house. This guy is named Charles. He's my age, and doesn't think people over fifty are dinosaurs. (The career counselor told me this is the main reason I'm not getting offers.) Charles said he's looking for someone who can run his office when he's gone (he is gone for months at a time), delegate work, and keep track of deadlines. He needs someone who can step in and handle some attorney-type things when necessary, but he only carries 50 cases. This means it's a nine-to-five job -- and it has benefits! He said, "You're much more than I was even looking for," and I said, "You're exactly what I've been looking for," and he said, "OK. I am going to spend the weekend trying to figure out how I can pay you what you're worth." Oh yeah, and while I was waiting for my interview I talked with the receptionist, who said, "The best thing about working here is that everybody is SO NICE!"<div><br /></div><div>Thanks, Lindy!<div><br /></div><div>We'll see what happens when I speak to him again tomorrow. Anything he offers (and he seems to have a very successful practice) will be more than I can make at the foundry. I am already sick about telling Insun. We have been working on the most fun sculptures! We are fabricating a centipede for Tom Otterness. It is about a yard long and has 56 little feet. At the same time we are making two other centipedes but they are twelve times that size! They will be 28 feet long, and when they're done, Insun wants a photograph of all of us, riding them. We're doing a man and a lady centipede (the lady has a hair bow and high heels; the man wears a bowler). I have some photos to show you of the tiny wax shoes next to the big wax shoes. They are cute, but I am sure we'll be SICK TO DEATH of any size wax shoe pretty soon. <div><br /></div><div>Robert and I did a fun thing on Monday. On the way home from an Easter visit with his family in Maryland, we stopped in NYC to attend the preview of the graphic novel that I wrote about last time. I am always very nervous driving in the City, but we had no problem -- we even found a parking space right in front of the theater! We had a delicious meal at an Indian restaurant, then went to see the show. We recognized a few of the artists who were at the shoot we did in Philadelphia, and they all seemed to remember us (since we were the only gray-hairs, I suppose). We watched four episodes of "non-filmic cinema" (yes, Jenny Walker, that's what they called it). The second one was one of the stories from the book. We had only seen a few of the photographs before. They took pictures in the underground tunnels and endless hallways filled with debris and with the ceilings falling down, and used the photographs of the actors to tell the story. They did all kinds of interesting things to the photographs. One particularly spooky one was of old chairs and wheelchairs tumbling through space down one of the hallways, and in other pictures you could see the shadows of the floating chairs. It was a lot of fun and the theater was completely filled. <div><br /></div><div>Afterward we talked to Bryan, the filmmaker who'd told me my story was going to be in the book. He was very apologetic. He said, "I didn't have enough time!" Since they didn't mention my story (which is called "Marjorie's Sister"), I figured that they'd decided not to use it, but he assured me it is in the book, the photographs are fabulous, and I'll really be pleased with it. Bryan didn't have time to convert it to PowerPoint, or whatever they used to make the version they showed at the theater. Then later, when I was standing in line for the ladies' room later, a young woman said, "Hey! I heard you're one of the writers!" So that was fun--in my whole life I never imagined I'd be part of the New York City arts scene! Still no word when the finished product is actually going to hit the bookstores.<div><br /></div><div>There's more, but I have too much to do. Hopefully, soon I'll have my computer back again, or maybe even a new one (my birthday's coming up, you know) and I'll send you some pictures --and maybe some more good news. <div><br /></div><div>Happy spring!</div><br /></div><div>Love,</div><br /></div><div>F and R. <br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-35287458296811564092008-02-24T13:32:00.000-08:002008-02-24T18:55:41.822-08:00Nerves...This is Twerp.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQYBWzUAcEsGwyV8L5zISrOtx9yAkMpKoYpRgcS_D0IOhHgyeLEdIt3IpN7B3wTyaOwfIOAq7OnfWbhGxUtcFrlafDcze-8KShJYlPFE1wVSeagBySHMUTLbqkvE0srjXc8HtNoG1B3Bp/s1600-h/DSC00600.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170713292547904226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQYBWzUAcEsGwyV8L5zISrOtx9yAkMpKoYpRgcS_D0IOhHgyeLEdIt3IpN7B3wTyaOwfIOAq7OnfWbhGxUtcFrlafDcze-8KShJYlPFE1wVSeagBySHMUTLbqkvE0srjXc8HtNoG1B3Bp/s320/DSC00600.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Here's the cover of the Byberry book. I'm the little white dot at the far right corner. Robert is walking behind me.</div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNcyDhjQIcCAPd5F4IUrBFTDR0Csk_CtlTms_Os30jpNlCFbWOdhlo-WpjpNpz6kSyem-hwKtQLqcCwtSrdoPVb5YeV5IcrYbLd0G207XEAxKWj7o67qewTH_Xj2fmOf9aMO996WvbfV_B/s1600-h/tales_cover.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170712369129935570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNcyDhjQIcCAPd5F4IUrBFTDR0Csk_CtlTms_Os30jpNlCFbWOdhlo-WpjpNpz6kSyem-hwKtQLqcCwtSrdoPVb5YeV5IcrYbLd0G207XEAxKWj7o67qewTH_Xj2fmOf9aMO996WvbfV_B/s320/tales_cover.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br />Check out that Grandma hair!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMZxSbxBu9F0TSauEtBRO2tnF2IYqNM1PAbkSjk3JDgEIwnda0g24kRBwpDHTLohVBDM3R38y8B1Qu4Cd3t5ac0do0ZvU5ZP5cCKDWwWljXE91oKXId1B0dw1qOddC2nQTwbnMvYMKEPq/s1600-h/DSC00582.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170701880819798674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMZxSbxBu9F0TSauEtBRO2tnF2IYqNM1PAbkSjk3JDgEIwnda0g24kRBwpDHTLohVBDM3R38y8B1Qu4Cd3t5ac0do0ZvU5ZP5cCKDWwWljXE91oKXId1B0dw1qOddC2nQTwbnMvYMKEPq/s320/DSC00582.JPG" border="0" /></a> This is a picture of Mabel, sleeping on my office chair, and my new desk that Robert built for me. But mostly, it is a picture of how messy my office is.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_8nJBRal8NTurQY7Zidlq9WV7AnJ8eYdG9qmSDlYxfe4ESexi_qvGHKv3nVJgwz0k3G8w7BwoLs8oqgJVqxO2yHYTsbzUzKra85cAqJcxOaMiom7FkTfU5mJiBjH0Td6cn1EALOKoIR4/s1600-h/DSC00571.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170701889409733282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_8nJBRal8NTurQY7Zidlq9WV7AnJ8eYdG9qmSDlYxfe4ESexi_qvGHKv3nVJgwz0k3G8w7BwoLs8oqgJVqxO2yHYTsbzUzKra85cAqJcxOaMiom7FkTfU5mJiBjH0Td6cn1EALOKoIR4/s320/DSC00571.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPOzb3C7V7h3FzWfQJHldfAYLyUU6R-LbuKlD1o23AC8oTpcgIrsUJvlfdYRsipikYugPHQ188_s-GdTTUO_oBZZJxwgLdLQ4erl37KH7rFftHhP0EFFARt8T2kDOcKN5Ad7COrW3x4yeb/s1600-h/DSC00582.JPG"></a><br /><br /><div><div><div><div>Happy birthday, all you Februaries! Lindy, Colleen, Dawn, Susie, Susan, Lucas, Margaret, Jane and Norma!<br /><br />This is a quiet, snowy Sunday afternoon. Robert has ventured out for a walk but I am too paralyzed by lists of things I must get done to do that. ARGH!<br /><br />I am enjoying my new "job" very much, but I still feel so much at sea about it. I put the word job in quotes there, because having a job usually means that you get paid for the work you do. But my poor boss is having a terrible time. She has to wait for final approval on some sculptures in order to get paid for them, all the while trying to pay employees, make improvements to the foundry building, and buy materials. I have been working full time, but she is only able to pay me for a few hours a week. I expect the situation to get better eventually, and I feel I am getting some useful training, as well as being in a better state of mind doing something that gets me out of the house. I am not in financial difficulty yet, but that may come. For the time being, I have the supplement of unemployment insurance, but that isn't going to last forever, and working for free for someone arguably makes it difficult to work for someone else for money. That may run contrary to the unemployment rules, but I am still applying for regular lawyer jobs, and I swear, if ANYBODY calls me back, I'll jump on it! I figure whatever ends up happening will be a sign from God. I just wish that God would stop speaking to me in mysterious ways, and just pick up the phone and tell me what to do!<br /><br />This artistic life -- made up of of periods of panic about money interspersed with periods of panic about looming deadlines, smoothed out with moments of creative zen -- is something I know well, as I lived it with my parents for decades. I suppose it is not such a prudent choice for someone like me, who really ought to be thinking about retirement and the need to squirrel some bucks away, but it sure has been interesting! For the past few weeks I have been working on a sculpture of an American WWII soldier for a war memorial. He looks like a giant version of those green plastic "army guy" toys, as my brothers called them. I spent a week on a wax rifle, smoothing joins and filling in tiny air bubbles, and rebuilding a gunsight and other parts that didn't get filled in the mold correctly, or got 'smooshed' in the molding process. I spent another week or so on the soldier's backpack and shirt collar. All the while Insun (my boss) has been putting the finishing touches on a beautiful sculpture of two cranes perched on a tall pillar, caught in barbed wire. It is so gorgeous and sad, and the ironic thing is, it is also a WWII memorial. This one for Japanese soldiers, and will eventually stand somewhere in Japan. It is stunning to contemplate that in the same rooms we are creating symbols to express heroism and loss for people on opposite sides of the world, on opposite sides of the same terrible conflict.<br /><br />I have been doing the wax re-work while I look around for other ways to be helpful. I answer the phone and I've tried to take over mundane stuff from Insun, like dealing with suppliers and making sure there's enough coffee and toilet paper to make it through the week. I have yet to tackle the bookkeeping work I originally told her I'd do for her, as the computer I need is still in John and Insun's bedroom at their home.<br /><br />Robert and I did something different last night. Our neighbors invited us to go to a '50s dance with them at a local Knights of Columbus hall. It was fun. I even danced a little, but most of the music was what they call "mixes"--little snippets of old songs connected together--and I didn't like that too much. I guess I'd also prefer to dance to the REAL dance music of my generation--"Born to be Wild" and "Sympathy for the Devil" come to mind. It was funny to watch all those old, silver-haired people gyrating around on the dance floor, then to look at MY husband, who is MY age, and realize, "Oh no! Am I the only YOUTHFUL person here?" Then, with a shudder, I remember that I've got silver hair, too. I'VE GOT GRANDMA HOGG HAIR! I'M GRANDMA HOGG! ARGH!!!! (But I also inherited Grandma Hogg lovely skin, so I'm not complining that much.)<br /><br />It did not help to learn that some symposium of radio stations has recently decided to add songs from the <em>1980's</em> to their "Golden Oldies" collections.<br /><br />Speaking of my wild hippie youth, I have recently been contacted by my first big heart-throb, John a/k/a "Fuzzy" Backus. He lives in Florida now, and seems to have come back to his senses after years of following one cultish (is that a word?) group after another. I told him I'd critique a book he's writing. This is a stupid promise, as I have a grant proposal to write for the cat shelter, an arts grant proposal for the foundry, my own books to work on, my Mom's book to promote, my friend Herman's book to edit, and MY CHRISTMAS LETTER to write! Oh well. It's so hard to write or even to concentrate when I feel so adrift with this job stuff. NERVES!!!!<br /><br />What else? I told you all a long time ago that a story I wrote for a series of books called "Tales From The Sanitarium" was supposed to be published. This was connected with the photo shoot Robert and I did at the Byberry Mental Institution in Philadelphia a few years ago. I kept being told and told again that it was coming out "next month," and then nothing. We have just received notice that there will be a special publication party and an exhibition about making the book (a movie/slide show) in New York City in March, and we are invited. Sounds like fun, except the announcement/invitation lists the stories in the first book, and mine is NOT one of them! Oh well. I will try to attach a photo of the cover of the book. I am the TEENSY-WEENSY little white dot in the far right corner of the uppermost photo. I think Robert is behind me, but you probably won't be able to make him out.<br /><br />I'll also try to upload some pictures of other things. Maybe some of our kitties (who wouldn't get out of our room and kept Robert up ALL NIGHT) and if they aren't too dark, a picture of the dance last night, or maybe a picture of my kitchen window or my new office, who knows?<br /><br />Twerp used to be my Mom's cat and now he lives here, getting fatter and fatter every day. He is so fat and round, in fact, that when he tries to clean his little pink butt, he rolls back and just keeps on rolling, like a beach ball. He has to roll himself up against a wall or something in order to do any really effective cleaning. Without going into nauseating detail, I will tell you that this prime situation doesn't occur often enough. I have started to refer to Twerp's anatomy as "the Black Hole of Cat-butta." I tell him all the time how he should try to be more fastidious, but he doesn't care.<br /><br />In the morning Twerp runs downstairs with me to the kitchen, where he falls over in a dramatic fashion and acts like Scarlet O'Hara on her lounge, dying from lack of sustenance. Then I lay out a line of four kitty treats (little brown things shaped like rabbits, about the size of my little fingernail) and he gobbles them up. This one morning, when he threw himself down like that, a crusty bit of matter from his nether regions fell off. I told him how disgusting and awful that was, but he ignored me and went after the kitty crunchies. Then he accidentally went toward his own personal "crunchy," and -- my goodness! You never saw such a dirty look from a cat! He absolutely thinks I tried to play a trick on him, and since then, he won't eat kitty treats! He just pats at them, and glowers at me.<br /><br />Cats are a hoot.<br /><br />Write soon. I am planning on a four-day trip to Michigan around St. Patrick's Day. I'm looking forward to seeing Mom. Maybe I'll see some of you then, too.<br /><br />Love,<br /><br />F and R</div><div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-62346020670553011642008-02-03T07:11:00.001-08:002008-02-05T16:01:12.786-08:00My (literally) HOT job prospect...These are life-size waxes of some sculptures, cut into pieces for casting:<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg95BzlqN9l7jbGJ5HikSQX5oDgfJWtTElOdJ-Tlacpp3Ojh_E9Kb0qHXiR8ADecuo0-ET5TAx6-rudxdqrfu948T8P6rd5Cxpxc5BC3L5hnNhmxhr-92JmG_-TgS3dljyW1_U_yMdV4EXe/s1600-h/DSC00539.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162912416718284546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg95BzlqN9l7jbGJ5HikSQX5oDgfJWtTElOdJ-Tlacpp3Ojh_E9Kb0qHXiR8ADecuo0-ET5TAx6-rudxdqrfu948T8P6rd5Cxpxc5BC3L5hnNhmxhr-92JmG_-TgS3dljyW1_U_yMdV4EXe/s320/DSC00539.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This is where I work: </p><p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOjs7OESPCkS8j54xsXQBiWFqabDYtwccP3q5H7RxhfFv_ITiLdsCx5SPVCsllqrqLCIVzNA8bwj4T5H9AR-tRXCKJNvljjpl3OYXVyK5TELJnUgjCCbch1PVv68W9p0lExBkqKqezB0B/s1600-h/DSC00559.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162911016558946034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOjs7OESPCkS8j54xsXQBiWFqabDYtwccP3q5H7RxhfFv_ITiLdsCx5SPVCsllqrqLCIVzNA8bwj4T5H9AR-tRXCKJNvljjpl3OYXVyK5TELJnUgjCCbch1PVv68W9p0lExBkqKqezB0B/s320/DSC00559.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /></p>This is a statue (about eight feet tall) of Martin Luther King that has just been completed.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0wc_cRNPMHg2GoICeor2XaVpi8M3g21b3fIJ3NsV0H9xKiNbFkMOWy23ftGKIiEqWBF3EKUl5hhlfoqhIG-bfpkOhPDkaWPhEN8iRblQ4e01QldRqOT5bsBsPhEW21qyp4jHlhMaLRne/s1600-h/DSC00558.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162910853350188770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0wc_cRNPMHg2GoICeor2XaVpi8M3g21b3fIJ3NsV0H9xKiNbFkMOWy23ftGKIiEqWBF3EKUl5hhlfoqhIG-bfpkOhPDkaWPhEN8iRblQ4e01QldRqOT5bsBsPhEW21qyp4jHlhMaLRne/s320/DSC00558.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>I think this is Mary Magdalene...</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwMDL-gedRKP9PRMDqbMr-Fdv0giQF3RdFMDkCEg1B32e2XU8nAeq2NqPsmsC7BvqIg0fFZSJHbq3J7Buj1q_dCKxLZm1T_PTrpd573XBYHi0rdWGRfDaSUzRLAXs0Cj2FmwHRNhvDM1Y/s1600-h/DSC00548.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162910694436398802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwMDL-gedRKP9PRMDqbMr-Fdv0giQF3RdFMDkCEg1B32e2XU8nAeq2NqPsmsC7BvqIg0fFZSJHbq3J7Buj1q_dCKxLZm1T_PTrpd573XBYHi0rdWGRfDaSUzRLAXs0Cj2FmwHRNhvDM1Y/s320/DSC00548.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This is John and Cornelio, pouring a casting. Watching this is like watching a baby being born.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpGd5fUj12XVjB10FbOkoc1VchyxHa5uGvENhBvjJwOevz119S-pLFW5MzVUrX5K7CTeiPzQo91N0aU3Jx8P5nXezCtJcGKUMk0eh3DVIfk188lQtnLpHTP_QtM55JY6rD20vbqirlflf/s1600-h/DSC00556.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162910462508164802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpGd5fUj12XVjB10FbOkoc1VchyxHa5uGvENhBvjJwOevz119S-pLFW5MzVUrX5K7CTeiPzQo91N0aU3Jx8P5nXezCtJcGKUMk0eh3DVIfk188lQtnLpHTP_QtM55JY6rD20vbqirlflf/s320/DSC00556.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><div></div><br /><div>February 3, 2008<br /><br />Robert and I have been trying to get to know more of our neighbors by throwing dinner parties. I planned a big Jamaican spread for eight people. I made fancy invitations and sent them out. I spoke to everybody to remind them. I spent a few weeks tracking down ingredients. I made pumpkin soup, callaloo, goat curry, rice and peas ("coat of arms"), and jerk chicken, as well as a tropical fruit salad for dessert. We bought Red Stripe beer and made a huge quantity of rum punch. We had Bob Marley on the stereo. I did the whole thing, dressing up the table with my blue fishy dishes and a centerpiece made out of ceramic crabs scuttling around the "coral reef" that was my soup tureen, amid little candles nestled in glass bowls of salt. I tell you, Martha Stewart would have fallen to her knees and wept tears of pride.<br /><br />Our neighbors Insun Kim and John Maffucci called to say they would be happy to come, but because of another commitment, they'd have to leave early. I wasn't sure from the message whether they expected to eat dinner with us or not. I decided to play that one by ear. Early on the day of the party, Carolyn Carroll called to say she thought she might have pneumonia, and begged off. Robert and I ran around calling other pals with late invitations. Roy thought he and Anne could make it, but he had to wait until she got back from a shopping trip.<br /><br />Cocktails were at six and dinner at seven. When NOBODY had showed up by 7:15, I realized it was going to be up to ME to drink a gallon of rum punch all by myself. At 7:20, right after I'd dismantled my beautiful tablescape, John and Insun knocked on our door, ravenously hungry and bearing bottles of wine.<br /><br />We had a great time, and actually, I was glad not to have other people there who would have diffused the conversation. We found out that John is a professor of metal casting at a college on Long Island. He and Insun had both worked at Tallix, Beacon's world-famous art foundry, which closed its doors about a year ago. Insun is a Korean-born metal sculptor and metal-finishing expert. They explained that they had just opened a small foundry in Beacon and were in desperate need of a bookkeeper, a general office manager, and just about every other kind of employee you can imagine. I told Insun about my visit to Tallix with my brother and sister-in-law, shortly after we moved to Beacon. I had seen the women calmly scratching away at wax models, and I'd wondered then if I would enjoy doing that.<br /><br />She said, "Come on!" So for about a week now I have worked at the foundry, trying it on for size. I have purchased books about how to be a bookkeeper. Those of you who know about my math skills are probably reading this with bulging eyeballs at this point. (Yeah, I don't know what 7 times 7 is. Yeah, I transpose numbers all the time and can't write a phone number down correctly to save my life. Yeah, if you show me the number five and ask me what it is, I'll tell you it's four. So what?) I'm looking at various small-business payroll software programs. I am doing this even though John and Insun will not be ready for me to even look at that stuff for about another week. In the meantime, I've been trying my hand at wax reworking.<br /><br />Reworking is part of the process of making bronze statues. The artists usually make their originals out of clay or wax (or wood, or recycled popsicle sticks) and have a rubber mold made of it. If the sculpture is very complicated or very large, there will be several molds. The molds come to the foundry where a copy of the piece is made out of a brittle red wax. It is the reworker's job to reassemble the original work out of wax. All of the joins have to be smoothed away, and any distortion corrected. This is done with tools that have been heated over a torch. The reworker has to be able to gauge the temperature of the wax and choose the right tool (from a chisel or a saw down to a dental pick) to recreate the artist's intent and the original texture of the area that has to be repaired.<br /><br />When the reworking is completed, the artists come in to check the reproduction and make sure it is exactly what they want, making marks where they want the reworkers to change things. Then, when it is ABSOLUTELY PERFECT, the reworkers cut the whole thing up again with saws! They have to do this because there are limits on the amount of hot bronze can be poured at one time. There are about forty other steps that have to be taken to make a ceramic mold of the wax copy, with supports and channels (called gating) for the molten bronze to flow through, before the metal is poured into the mold. When the bronze castings are made the metal finishers, like Insun, do to the metal the same thing the reworkers did with the wax, except they do it with grinders and welding torches.<br /><br />It is ungodly expensive to cast a statue--it can cost hundreds of thousands of dollars--but if you saw all these steps in the process, you would understand why. Both Insun and John are very well known in the artistic community and are up to their ears in work offers. But the foundry has only been operational since November, and it's very much still in the start-up stage. There are painful gaps between the time a mold comes in and the finished project goes out (and the payment comes in). Unfortunately, as artists who have been completely focused on the operational aspects of this new business, John and Insun are at sea about things like what documents have to be handed over to the accountant. I am at sea about all these things also, but I have been advised that my IQ is above-average. I OUGHT to be able to figure out numbers and IRS forms--don't you think? I grew up in a family of artists who are terrible business people. I should be able to handle this rollercoaster better than other people, don't you think?<br /><br />In the meantime, I've been doing wax reworking. I have been working on a set of plaques by a New York artist who has a thing for octopi and gigantic penises (give me a break--who doesn't?). I have been working on cute little robots by the artist Tom Otterness. I have been making little softball-playing girls by some famous artist whose name I've forgotten but if you saw her stuff, you'd recognize it, and a beautiful statue of the Virgin Mary. I have been doing the rework (and enjoying it!--it is the most zen job I've ever had) but I assumed I was just marking time while the Mafuccis get ready for me to do the office job. But Insun told me I am really talented as a sculptor--much better than most people--and she is thrilled with the quality of my work! This is stunning to me.<br /><br />So the question is, what should I do? I constantly make lists of pros and cons in my head. The cons are: The longer I am away from a law-related job, the harder it will be to get one again, and law jobs pay better. Art money stinks like rotten potatoes. With this particular job, there is a great possibility of unpaid paydays occurring from time to time, at least for a while. The hours are long--7:30 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., plus all the weekend hours I can handle. On the other hand, these are the same hours Robert spends at his job, plus his commute. My commute is a whopping 1.8 miles each way; I could easily walk it in the summer.<br /><br />Other cons are that this is a DANGEROUS place to work. Fire and horrible burns are a constant threat. Wax smoke is lethal (Did you know that? Even candle wax), as is about every other fume caused by, and chemical used during, the foundry process. The ex-Tallix workers tell the most hair-raising stories. "Remember when that guy knocked over his wax pot and the whole floor was on fire, and everybody jumped on top of their tables, screaming?" "Remember when that guy accidentally poured molten bronze into his boot and burned all his toes off?" And then they laugh!<br /><br />The pros are that it is a privilege to be a part of someone's grand artistic vision, making something that may inspire thousands if not millions of people and last hundreds of years. (Of course, during the Civil War they had to melt down all the monuments to make cannonballs, but really, in ten months, how many more wars can Our Exalted Ruler start?) It is also interesting to use a process that has been used since the Egyptians, and inspiring to work with such talented people. In addition, it's nice to know that I'm actually GOOD at doing something that's challenging and FUN!<br /><br />Damn!!! It's a real dilemma!<br /><br />So that's the deal. That's where I am. I'll post some pictures I took this weekend. I'll show you where I work and some pictures of John and Cornelio and Doug pouring a cast. I'll show you some of the sculptures (Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and a madonna that will end up in a church in Colorado) AND MAYBE YOU CAN TELL ME WHAT TO DO!!!!!! ARGH!!!!<br /><br />Other than that, Robert and I are groovy. I am hoping I'll be able to make a trip to Michigan again soon, to see my mother. I miss her so much, and it is so frustrating for me not to be able to just pick up the phone and talk to her. I am hoping our friends Colleen and Brian will make a visit this winter and that they will be able to bring me more boxes of papers from Mom's house to sort through, and also a gigantic dollhouse that my folks made. God knows where I'll put it. (But truly, God does know these things, so I'm not going to worry about it.)<br /><br />We're going to see Robert's mom and sister this next weekend. I miss them! I am looking forward to it!<br /><br />Be groovy!<br /><br />F and R</div><div></div></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-62750283086986276062008-01-14T18:31:00.000-08:002008-01-21T10:13:10.953-08:00Christmas and the New Year!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFDY6SMcOjolliFIxiFHOgaNs3-uwO0g9ATrpNaTz3L-7RBamDvkCdL3cgE6K3b0U0Ls_tmLG6iMdhspDIFrsxAo4heVK5RMDUmfOckzxX2wDSCYGsisg-Ppgbx-k_VH8ogRumjKXVRRc/s1600-h/boxes+in+upstairs+hall.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157624873206640322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFDY6SMcOjolliFIxiFHOgaNs3-uwO0g9ATrpNaTz3L-7RBamDvkCdL3cgE6K3b0U0Ls_tmLG6iMdhspDIFrsxAo4heVK5RMDUmfOckzxX2wDSCYGsisg-Ppgbx-k_VH8ogRumjKXVRRc/s320/boxes+in+upstairs+hall.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadWkXZEjmr6HT4Y4T3lYfHxXhLC1fkHE9b4c9Hk9BxP6V8UjYBorzoB22lEuto-VFNqV8KUpXx3T7JSTXvvvA1TKkGCKYDH5tC4oFsgJxjWxG-CqlxfOY_-z3gfgJ_Bdk6xjL3Ua3gLQh/s1600-h/boxes+in+f%27s+old+bedroom.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157624319155859122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadWkXZEjmr6HT4Y4T3lYfHxXhLC1fkHE9b4c9Hk9BxP6V8UjYBorzoB22lEuto-VFNqV8KUpXx3T7JSTXvvvA1TKkGCKYDH5tC4oFsgJxjWxG-CqlxfOY_-z3gfgJ_Bdk6xjL3Ua3gLQh/s320/boxes+in+f%27s+old+bedroom.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQHdUC-dbSmevBUfC5V3yi-zOnuOgT5V1gmQD4aDSrqchtFW4uKJxo5gKDxS13VH1uVNwZoLsYcDbP_dFGawivyRNDgcJ71MSVwhZSfeSJu_tVb7wvYd2L4JxrGIGvQyru7ZSOMRfwFA5/s1600-h/boxes+in+upstairs+hall+2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157624057162854050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQHdUC-dbSmevBUfC5V3yi-zOnuOgT5V1gmQD4aDSrqchtFW4uKJxo5gKDxS13VH1uVNwZoLsYcDbP_dFGawivyRNDgcJ71MSVwhZSfeSJu_tVb7wvYd2L4JxrGIGvQyru7ZSOMRfwFA5/s320/boxes+in+upstairs+hall+2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div></div><div>I keep writing about how overwhelmed I have been, going through boxes of documents and photographs at my Mom's house. (I hear you mutter, "She's such a crybaby!") Maybe these photos will give you some idea what I'm talking about. I had the brainstorm of taking pictures only after I'd been working on them for about two weeks, so there were MANY more than this to begin with, and stacks and stacks more boxes in the studio and in Mom's office. The top box in the middle picture was mysteriously labeled BOB FLECK'S PANTS. </div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>January 14, 2008<br /><br /><br />I have had a hard time writing lately. I still haven't started my annual letter yet--this past year has exhausted me to the extent I get tired thinking about even THINKING about writing about it. I also just finished sending out a Christmas letter for my Mom (She dictated, I took notes, Robert transcribed, I copied, addressed, stuffed, stamped and mailed) to all of her friends, and maybe that's why I feel like I've already done the Christmas letter job.<br /><br /><br />Robert and I drove to Michigan for the holiday. We didn't stay at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Hoggwilde</span>, but rather in a hotel whose parking lot abuts the lot of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">TenderCare</span>. I was able to trot over there every morning and every evening, and that was good. I spent the rest of the time at the family home, sorting through more boxes. (I'm posting pictures of SOME of these boxes, lest you think I'm exaggerating.) Before I left Michigan on the last trip I had set up Mom's Christmas tree and got her house decorated. On the Sunday before Christmas the whole family gathered there. Chris and Tim brought Mom from the facility, hauled her up the stairs in her wheelchair and plunked her down in front of her tree. The night before she had tearfully told me she didn't know if she should go back to the house, because it might make her feel too sad. In the end she surprised herself and had a wonderful, happy day.<br /><br /><br />Robert and I had a good time at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">McNeilly</span> family Christmas Eve food-and-drink-fest, and then went to the service at Saint Katherine's in the evening. We also met up a bunch of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Williamston</span> High school chums at a local restaurant, and I had lunch with my pal, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Marisue</span>. I also had a short visit with Jenny (Smith) Walker, who was visiting from Atlanta. It was good to see so many old friends and great to have my whole family together.<br /><br /><br />For the last few years Robert and I have celebrated Christmas with his mother and sister in early January, so we saved our gifts for one another to open then. This time Cindy asked if we could put off the celebration until February. We said, "Sure." Cindy lost her husband recently and is having an understandably <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">tough</span> time. So we weren't too surprised when she called again to ask if we could put off Christmas until next year. The truth is that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Muffy</span> often doesn't know what day it is (though she has lots of lucid moments) and she probably won't miss it. So Robert and I finally opened our presents to one another on Friday. I gave Robert thrilling and exciting gifts! New hangers and moth blocks for his closet! A Belgian waffle iron, and a promise to actually make him waffles! He gave me jewelry (I must grow additional fingers and earlobes, immediately!) and a magical mystery tour.<br /><br /><br />We try to take turns surprising one another with little mystery vacations. Robert does a much better job than I do of keeping them secret all the way to the end. On Saturday morning (after Belgian waffles!) he bustled me on the train to the city, where we checked in to a nice mid-town hotel. He told me we were going to see a play. I can't tell you how many times over the past seven years Robert has asked me which plays I've seen on Broadway, and I've told him I've never seen one. Then he says, "WHAT? YOU'VE NEVER SEEN A BROADWAY PLAY?" and I say, "Nope. I've never seen one." Then he says, "We'll have to do something about that." Then we have this same exact conversation a few months later, and he swears I never told him that before.<br /><br /><br />So I was surprised to find myself actually standing in front of the Lyceum Theater. It is an ornate, Victorian building, built in 1900. It was an especially fitting place to see "Is He Dead?", a farce written by Mark Twain about an artist in bankruptcy who fakes his own death to make his paintings worth more money. It was written right after Twain himself emerged from bankruptcy, but the production deal fell through. The play was never produced until somebody found it in a dusty archive in 2002 and staged this performance. The show was full of awful puns and lots of silliness, and it was fun to watch it in a theater where the author/playwright himself had attended plays.<br /><br /><br />We went to the matinee performance because Robert had other plans for us in the evening. After the show we had dinner at a fancy fish restaurant. It was so fancy, in fact, they had a special attendant whose only job was to open the bathroom door for patrons. We ate grilled sea bass and a seafood appetizer that was just delicious, and for dessert, lavender and honey ice cream. We went back to our hotel to rest our already blistered feet before walking through Times Square (or perhaps I should say, before being jostled through Times Square). There were shoulder-to-shoulder people there, admiring all the lights and giant television screens. Robert hates the crowds, but I thought it was fun and exciting.<br /><br /><br />We ended up at our destination--another new experience for me-- an actual night club. We did the thing where one stands in line and a beefy-looking character decides whether or not one is cool enough to be admitted. The guy demanded IDs and I told him I didn't have one. He just smiled as I tried to convince him I’m over 21.<br /><br /><br />Apparently he felt sorry for us, because he let us in. We had gotten there half an hour early in order to get a good seat and relax before the show, but ended up having to stand around for an hour and fifteen minutes in a bar so jam-packed with people, and so hot and so noisy, it was practically painful. But when we finally got into the venue and found some (pretty terrible) seats, we chilled out. We saw an old-fashioned burlesque show, complete with a raunchy band, torch singers, belly-dancers, jugglers, magicians, a stripper and a sword swallower. Then we stumbled to our hotel for a sleep and a leisurely morning in our nice hotel before taking the train back to Beacon on Sunday.<br /><br /><br />But this was not even the greatest of my Christmas booty! I sit here typing this at my new, fancy desk! Prior to this past weekend, my work space consisted of an unfinished interior door propped up by phone books on top of a metal filing cabinet at one end and a folding table on the other, with a drawer-less desk shoved under the middle to hold all the computer guts. Now I ask you, is that any place for a famous writer to work? Huh? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Didn</span>’t think so! Six years ago it was my temporary solution to an emergency situation, and it has never been satisfactory. For one thing, the typing surface was about four inches higher than it should be, and I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">didn</span>’t get to look out my window when seated at my computer. So last weekend Robert directed me to clear everything out of there, and we spent a pleasant two days working on it together.<br /><br /><br />Mom had some golden oak filing cabinets at her house that I brought here. Robert built me a huge L-shaped desk top that I stained a dark mahogany color. I stained the wooden filing cabinets the same color, and used them for the base of the desk. It looks elegant and expensive, but the whole thing, including stain and varnish, only cost about fifty bucks. I was also able to finish some little tasks I had started but never completed, like hemming the curtains and putting up my fancy antique drapery hardware. It is so much easier to work and type now–I have no more excuses!<br /><br /><br />I must finish this letter now, and go out in the world to purchase four pounds of goat meat. Robert and I are throwing a dinner party for eight on Saturday–a continuation of our effort to meet more of our neighbors. I’m making a Jamaican meal, and I think I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">ve</span> finally located a grocery that sells the stuff I need. I have to get a move-on!<br /><br /><br />We hope your New Year is off to a good start!<br />Love,<br />F and R</div></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-44906580828137070182007-12-14T11:35:00.000-08:002007-12-20T08:14:01.474-08:00December 14, 2007 letter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_7baaryuWacS7__sumwndVkJKR9s2DA4_Z2nrS8szWaJd-Df_Q95QpWh5QDxHmBnAjFSVFmAM55W8VhgFzWJ7FwtccGGrWw3TL1LHpgxPgokOSFfjZU14Gv8SDSPciUalVLJ9YYUOohC/s1600-h/DSC00471.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144041536621866642" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_7baaryuWacS7__sumwndVkJKR9s2DA4_Z2nrS8szWaJd-Df_Q95QpWh5QDxHmBnAjFSVFmAM55W8VhgFzWJ7FwtccGGrWw3TL1LHpgxPgokOSFfjZU14Gv8SDSPciUalVLJ9YYUOohC/s320/DSC00471.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center">Our house, in a snowstorm</div><br /><br />I'm back from Michigan, still a little exhausted and depressed from the ordeal. I spent two weeks going through boxes and boxes of papers and photographs, trying to figure out what is in the house, so we can be prepared for the time when everything has to go out of the house. I've done my best to do this without ruffling feathers. I'm not sure how successful I've been.<br /><br />I was able to see Mom almost every day. That was nice, but most of my time had to be spent at the house. I do think Mom is more relaxed now at the facility. She doesn't have so much stuff to worry about, and I'm sure she is more comfortable physically. She is doing her best to look forward, but it is very hard for her to think about not having the house anymore. Right now, as far as I know, there is no plan for what to do with the house. I'm leaving that up to my brothers.<br /><br />When my mother's mother died it was a big surprise. Likewise, when her father died, she and her sisters had only a few days to sort through everything and figure out what to do with it. Mom told me a story that has always stuck with me about how, after her mother died, she went through all of the pockets of her mother's suits and dresses looking for a letter, because she was sure her mother would have left a message for her, telling her what to do. Mom didn't want that to happen for us, so I have had the job of going through zillions of bits of paper--<br /><br />I have to stop now, to explain. One thing that made an impression on my husband Robert as he was considering joining Clan Hogg, was that when one was served something to eat on a paper plate, often, that paper plate was covered with writing. (People who know my family are going to be smiling about this--) I don't know why Hogg people write on paper plates--because they're there? Because nothing can be truly explained without affording the explainee a diagram? Because eating food is conducive to thinking up plans, and paper plates are usually handy then?<br /><br />Anyway, Mom is a list maker, and I have found those lists EVERYWHERE, in hundreds (although I am prone to exaggeration, I am not exaggerating here) of notebooks, on Post-It notes, in files and on paper plates and yes--even in pockets. In these notes and lists she has written goals for herself , and dozens of prayers for the things she has hoped for her children and others who she feels are like her children, for good relationships and love and creativity and financial safety and spiritual growth. Going through all these scribbles has given me a special insight into my mother and the things that are important in her life that I think other people don't get to have with their own parents. I feel very fortunate--but it also provides me a burden. Mom has written about her need to record everything. One of her essays was about her hope that her children would be able to know her as a human in her lifetime. She hoped her writing would allow that. I will be sending some of her essays to some of you soon.<br /><br />I have learned about my mother is how important it is for her to finish a project she has been working on for decades. As a young child she had been interested in bundles of letters between her parents when they were courting, when her mother was a Nebraska schoolteacher and her father was (yes, he really was!) a cowboy in Pioche, Nevada. Mom inherited those letters and started writing a book based on them. She then collected old letters and photographs from other family members, and reels of old newspapers on microfiche. Everyone's concern was that she was enjoying the research so much, she appeared to be forgetting to do the writing. I realize that for my Mom's life to be important (and bearable) she has to have something to look forward to, and the publication of her book is a goal I hope to help her accomplish. If I can't do much about her physical condition, maybe I can improve her emotional health!<br /><br />Mom made multiple copies of everything she ever wrote, as well as keeping copies of every draft. I did my best to sort out duplicates before bringing files and files of papers home with me. Some of these are hadwritten, many are in faded dot matrix type from Mom's original Epsom computer. Everytime one of her computers died, someone would give her a second-hand replacement with obsolete programs, and a different word-processing program incompatible with just about everything else. The result was, as each successive computer died, her processed files died with them. I was especially happy to learn, from Mom's notes, how thrilled she was when I gave her a brand-new PC with Word installed on it. Unfortunately, I have found only a few discs that contain parts of the book, so almost everything has to be re-typed from scratch.<br /><br />Knowing what a terrible typist I am (you don't see my first draft of this, friends!) I was freaked out about the goal I'd set for myself, then my husband asked me, "Didn't you ask me to retype all that stuff for your Mom the LAST time she changed computers?" And indeed, I did! And indeed, he did it! (at least Parts I and II of the book) What a prince I married! I'll tell you, Mom's prayers for me, at least, came true! And now, my prince is re-typing the other mish-mash of pages. When we see Mom at Christmas, I'm hoping we can talk about what she wants me to do regarding the rest of the book. I think workingtoward getting this book published is what my Mom needs to give her a boost and something to look forward to. Her sisters, Rosie and Lois, have signed on to help with the postage costs and figuring out the photographs that ought to go with it.<br /><br />I am still jobless, and more freaked out about that than I care to admit, although I feel in my bones that things will start hopping after the New Year. My nebulous and fuzzy feelings about God lead me to believe that it is not for nothing that I find myself without a job at the same time my organizational skills and time are required to take care of my mother and her needs. I am sure, in the long run, I won't regret a moment of these days, as difficult as they are. I hope, when my Mom does die (and there's no reason to believe that will be any time soon!) she will know that she accomplished what she set out to do.<br /><br />So that's my goal. I am hoping to send out a couple of inquiry letters to publishers before Christmas.<br /><br />Since coming back to New York I have spent days going through the stuff I shipped home with me. In addition to the papers I brought back an antique dresser and one of Mom's cats. (She still has three at the house--anybody want a nice kitty?). I spent the entire two-weeks while I was in Michigan trying to cozy up to a gorgeous long-haired calico Mom calls Pussyfoots. I tried to warm that cat up with bits of ham, and I set a trap for her the last night I was there. Unfortunately, on the morning I was leaving (and trying to get on the road early enough to avoid a snowstorm in Pennsylvania) a different cat was snoozing inside my cat carrier. I did my best to interpret this sign from God, and decided a cat in the carrier is worth two on the lam.<br /><br />This kitty's name is Twerp. He's a young, light-tiger kitty with cream-colored eyes. I had expected spats with kitty Mabel, but there haven't been any,and they have become good buddies. Unfortunately, when I made my early-morning decision, I wasn't thinking that maybe my brother Tim had promised this cat to his daughter, Lindsey. Lindsey has forgiven me. I don't know if Tim has.<br /><br />All of this stuff has kept me so busy, I wondered whether I should skip putting up a tree this year. It is something I really enjoy, but I got a late start and we'll be gone for Christmas week. Another decider was that when I erected Mom's fake tree for her in Michigan, Twerp and another cat named Foggy were almost instantly inside it, gleefully batting down ornaments. Here at home I have very expensive, blown-glass ornaments that I treasure, that would all be ground to glitter if I left two big, fat, never-saw-Christmas-before kittens home alone for a week (or even minute!) I hope by next year Mabel and Twerp will be less rambunctuously curious. <br /><br />We had an ice storm yesterday. I had to shovel twice. A kitten's first experience with snow is not not unlike a baby's first steps, so I took my camera with me when Mabel insisted on going outside. She went out there, her ears went flat, and before I could even turn the camera on she had zipped between my legs back into the house! I took a picture of our house (I LOVE OUR HOUSE) in the snow, decked out in pine garlands, swags of little white lights and wreaths, but something screwy is happening with our digital camera. When I upload them, the pictures never leave the camera, and when I try to attach them to this blog, all I get is gobbeldy-gook.<br /><br />So if I can do it, there'll be a picture of our pretty house in a snowstorm at the beginning of this letter. (Robert did it! He's a genius!)<br /><br />I don't know when the heck I'm going to find time to write my Christmas letter! Probably not until January. Anyway, have a happy, happy Christmas or alternative seasonal holiday, and have a GREAT NEW YEAR! If I take the time to send this letter to you, you know how important you are to me. Talk to you soon--<br /><br />Franny (and Robert)<br /><br />P.S. I cook lots of soup in the winter/fall. I have specialties, such as Hoggwilde Autumn Soup with hamburger and veggies, clam/corn chowder, navy bean and ham soup, red lentil soup and fresh mushroom soup. (Ask for recipes, I'll send them!) But I made some soup last night (practicing for a dinner party I plan to throw in January) that was SO FABULOUS it is going to be a FAHL signature dish from now on! Very easy and cheap and pretty and delicious!<br /><br />Here it is:<br /><br />Caribbean Pumpkin Soup<br /><br />Saute 2/3 cup chopped red bell pepper and 2/3 cup chopped onion in a soup pot with some olive oil until onion is transparent.<br /><br />Add 2 1/2 cups chicken broth (I used partially home-made stock, with little bits of chicken in it) --very yummy!<br /><br />Add 1 tsp. ground cumin and 2 tsp pureed garlic<br /><br />Add 1 15 oz. can of pumpkin puree and 1 can of rinsed black beans<br /><br />Add a 15 oz. can of chopped tomatoes, if you'd like (I accidentally left this out when I made it, and it was still GREAT), and salt and pepper.<br /><br />Serve with crusty bread and hot sauce!<br /><br />GOOD STUFF!! TRY IT!!!<br /><br />Drop a line!<br /><br />Love, R and FFrannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-86479111922791942202007-11-18T16:59:00.000-08:002007-11-23T13:23:02.723-08:00November 18, 2007 letterNovember 18, 2007<br /><br />Howdy!<br /><br /><br />Well, this is a big pain in the butt. I have pictures to share with you but when I tried to load them this time all I got was a string of gobbledegook. Technology hates Franny! What did Franny do to deserve this? If I WERE able to download some photos for you I'd show you the fabulous decor for Mid-Hudson Animal Aid's annual auction, our pedicab ride through Manhattan at night and our family's newest baby, Eli, grinning on the lap of his very favorite great-aunt. POOPY! (This is a general comment about the unavailability of the photos. It is not not a comment on Baby Eli on Franny's lap.)<br /><br /><br />The cat shelter auction was a huge success. Everybody commented on how easily everything came together. The thing I remember best about the first time I helped with the auction was being barked at: "Don't touch that!" That was from the old coordinator, who shall remain nameless. By contrast, this year Jane Hanley and I worked together as co-coordinators of the event, and she was just a dream. She is so easy to work with, and so organized, and we are both big believers in DELEGATING DUTIES! Everybody did what they were asked to do, and they did it perfectly. It was a fun night, and we made about $12,000. Some of that money is earmarked for a personal project of mine, a special dates reminder calendar. (That's a calendar you use over again every year, to remind you of birthdays and anniversaries.) We auctioned off the rights to have someone's cat be the "cover kitty." A wonderful donor paid $1,000 for that! When the calendar is ready I'll be hitting you all up to buy one. We'll showcase some of the favorite shelter cats for the individual months, I think. I am trying to line up a well-known cat photographer to do the cover for us. <br /><br /><br />Robert and I had a great time at our friend Ruth's elegant birthday bash. "Doctor Ruth" is the daughter of an honest-to-goodness rocket scientist at NASA. She is also a naturopathic doctor as well as a secretary at Robert's office, and she tells the most amazing stories. Her stories are so amazing, in fact, that some people think she makes them up, but we know they're true. Ruth lived through harrowing experiences around September 11th--her apartment building was right next to the towers--and she has done so many things! For instance, she has been a ballet dancer, a flautist in several orchestras, a computer whiz at Salomon Brothers (a giant investment bank), a fashion designer, a succesful Hollywood screenwriter, a theater manager, a prizewinning sharpshooter, an accomplished horsewoman, and on and on, and she has only now celebrated her fiftieth birthday! (Wouldn't you know it? She looks like she's thirty-five.) Anyway, her parents gave her a lovely gift for her birthday--dinner for twelve good friends aboard a cruise boat--and Robert and I were very pleased she chose to include us!<br /><br /><br />The boat was to leave the Chelsea Pier in New York City at 7:30, and Robert doesn't get off work in White Plains until 6:00,. so we knew we'd have to hurry. I drove in to work with him, and we managed to get off a little early to take the train to Grand Central Station. Once there, we had only about half an hour to make it to the pier, and found we had a wait of about that long just to get a cab. We stood in line at the taxi stand, where a guy with a pedi-cab (sort of a bicycle rickshaw) swore to us he could get us there in time, even though it was a dang long and fast bike ride. The cost was exorbitant (though well-earned)and we decided to go for it. What fun! The night was brisk and gorgeous, and it was exciting to dodge in and out of traffic, past the brightly-lit theater marquees, looking up at the Empire State Building from the street. I think wherever you live, one tends to acquire the idea that as a local, you should somehow be above being impressed by those things that are "tourist" for your area. But there is something about being in New York City at night. It is a wonderland of sounds and sights, and it was fun to be caught up in it! And nothing is more fun for me than to be caught up in it with my best friend, Robert Lochow. <br /><br /><br />Our hard-working pedaler got us to the pier in time, and we had a few stressful moments when we realized we had forgotten to bring our invitation, and had no idea which of about five huge party ships we were supposed to embark upon, but we found our way in the nick of time. The "Bateaux" was a beautiful boat, perhaps 120 feet long (says Robert--I'm no good at judging things like that) with a glassed-over dining area, and everything decorated with flowers and little white lights. We met Ruth's parents and her other guests, who included among others, two male ballet dancers, a transgendered mother of two, and a couple named Gary and Dennis, who met Ruth when she was the costume designer for a drag queen production in which one of them performed. (You never would have guessed this, meeting them.) We spent the most time talking to those two guys. They told wild stories about Ruth! They make most of their income now in real estate, but one of them still derives a great deal of income dressing as a woman, selling Tupperware! (We're talking thousands--how come I only made about fifty bucks the whole time I did it?) [Robert replies: Maybe you should've worn one of my suits.] <br /><br /><br />Anyway, our meal was elegant, and the company fun and fascinating. The boat went around the lower part of Manhatten, under beautiful bridges and past gleaming skyscrapers. All the colors of the lights were reflected on the black water, glinting like jewels. We ended up in front of the Statue of Liberty, where the jazz group performed "God Bless America" and songs of that ilk, while we stood on the deck. Even though I often feel as a country we are failing in the promises made by that icon, it was still a surprisingly stirring experience to be there, looking up at it, while listening to the words of those songs. (Who knows? Maybe someday we'll return to our roots as a place of refuge for the huddled masses, yearning to be free.) Anyway, it was a thrilling, romantic, and beautiful night.<br /><br /><br />We presented Ruth with the gift we'd scored for her in Connecticut the weekend before--a nearly life-size Belgian dark-chocolate turkey. (We had tried to get her a special German hot chocolate drink mix, but couldn't find it.) The turkey cracked her up. At the end of the evening Gary and Dennis (the real estater and Tupperware kings) drove us back to Grand Central in their incredibly elegant BMW 5 Series with black leather interior (people really do live like that in New York!) past all the lights of 42nd Street. It was a night to remember. <br /><br /><br />This last weekend, we drove to Maryland for the memorial service for our brother-in-law, Bill MacArthur. It was a sad weekend, because Bill had deserved to have a long life, enjoying his family. But it was also gratifying to have his whole family gather to say good-bye to him, and it was a treat to meet our two newest members, Landon MacArthur (son of Bill's son Josh and his wife Lisa) and baby Elijah Stritter (son of Todd and Christy). I love having babies in the family! (SQUEAL!) I cooed and kissed fat little feet all weekend. Robert and I brought Muffy along to most of the get-togethers, although not the actual memorial service. The simple, dignified service was held in an 18th-century chapel, filled to the rafters with friends. The reception afterward was loving and the food was great. And there was a piper. What more could one ask? <br /><br />I am all packed and ready to drive to Michigan. I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to seeing my Mom on Tuesday evening. She's back at TenderCare. She doesn't have a phone there, so I haven't been able to talk to her, but Tim and Chris are spending lots of time with her. From November 20 to December 3 I'll be at her house (517-655-2609) trying to figure out what to do with all the stuff collected by the Family Hogg over about half a century. Give me a call or come by! I'll put you to work! I'm having Thanksgiving dinner with my sister-in-law Liz and nieces Amanda and Margaret at a restaurant somewhere. I'm looking forward to that. Robert is running back down to Maryland to spend the day with his mother and sister. <br /><br /><br />I know my Mom is having a hard time adjusting to this big change in her life, no matter what she says, and never mind that it was her own decision to leave Hoggwilde. So please send her a prayer for peace and contentment, and love. And send her a letter. Tim works very near where she is living now, so if you send a letter in care of him, he'll get it to her. Send it to Patty Hogg, c/o Tim Hogg, 6970 Aberdeen Drive, Dimondale, MI 48821. <br /><br /><br />Everybody, have a great holiday with your loved ones. And write to me! I'll be able to pick up e-mail while I'm in Michigan. <br /><br />Stay Groovy! <br /><br />F.Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-54908218570941108472007-11-03T08:07:00.000-07:002007-11-05T17:38:56.685-08:00November 5, 2007 letter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRaYp9tKSuElcr4dvBoUZTmFhB88_c0EGdZYmT3AP3vqtU1gIfB6g-PV5cB0HHNk782RsiL9peFB6SN0vxe6MJJF78J0qRdsEbE_Zr3JPrPo2Ib2Q4ZqEgXj_Z-nFWjlJYquiPuzfsIsgt/s1600-h/DSC00222.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128636419636973106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRaYp9tKSuElcr4dvBoUZTmFhB88_c0EGdZYmT3AP3vqtU1gIfB6g-PV5cB0HHNk782RsiL9peFB6SN0vxe6MJJF78J0qRdsEbE_Zr3JPrPo2Ib2Q4ZqEgXj_Z-nFWjlJYquiPuzfsIsgt/s320/DSC00222.JPG" border="0" /></a> Here's a picture of Mom, taken in June.</p><p align="left">Although she put up a brave front recently, making it through a tornado all by herself, Mom has told us she doesn't feel safe being alone in her house. She has also had a continuing slow decline in her ability to get around, even with her handy new wheeled walker. She has told Liz and Tim that she thinks she'd like to go back to TenderCare, where she got so much good care and attention, and made friends. <p align="left">I talked to Mom for a long time about how she feels about this, knowing how much she loves our old house, filled with so many fun and lively memories, and how hard she fought to be able to come back to it after her original hospitalization. She says she doesn't feel bad. She told me, "I couldn't have had a better life if I had dreamed it," and that she's ready to let some young family take over that dream. She seems to be feeling peaceful about it, although I'm sure she'll have teary moments as the time grows nearer. Tim and Liz are working on getting her back into nursing care. In the meantime, Chris and Tim are spending nights with her, Brenda is helping her, and Liz is dropping by in the mornings and evenings and handling a lot of the paperwork. </p><p align="left">Once again, it seems God has given me the great gift of NOT finding me a job, so I have time to take care of this more important one. In order to legally receive unemployment benefits I actually have to be in New York, ready and able to accept a job at any moment, so I will have to go off benefits for a few weeks. That will be difficult. Too bad I'm not the heir of any wealthy, near-death relatives who nobody likes. Perhaps I should start buying lottery tickets? Sigh. </p><p align="left">We drove to Maryland last weekend to see Robert's sister Cindy, and to do what we can to help her as she deals with her new widowhood. It has been a rough trip for her. Cindy's daughter Sarah was there, helping her mom figure out her financial situation and providing emotional support. They have planned a lovely-sounding memorial service for Bill, on the 17th. We'll be driving down for that, of course. We also spent time with Robert's mother, Muffy, who seems much more frail to me now. I guess this is the time in our lives when we have to deal with death and illness of parents and spouses and the like. It's just very tough, and there's no way around it. </p><p align="left">Our friend Paul visited from the city this weekend. It was overcast and blah-looking outdoors. Paul and Robert went for a long walk and talked books and politics while I spent most of Saturday on a shopping venture. I was looking for things we need for the cat shelter's annual goods and services auction. It's this next Saturday, and I am co-chair. Paul left early Sunday morning. It is always good to visit with him. </p><p align="left">Robert and I have been invited to a special party next week, celebrating our friend Ruth's 50th birthday. She is the secretary at Robert's firm who is also a naturopathic doctor. It's going to be a fancy dinner on a big boat that goes around Manhatten at night. Ruth has done many thoughtful things for us and has been a very good friend through tough times, so I had a special birthday peresent in mind for her. I asked Robert to buy it on the Internet for Ruth, but he discovered it can only be purchased directly, in Germany, and in one little shop in Connecticut. Like the incredibly prudent people we are, we decided to try Connecticut first. </p><p align="left">After such a drab Saturday, our drive on Sunday was glorious! The sky was bright blue and the hillsides all orange and gold and red. We drove along curving, country roads, past red barns and yellow fields that are criss-crossed with the ancient gray stone fences that are everywhere around here. It was as if we were driving through postcards of New England--we even went through an antique covered bridge! We saw red hawks, a gorgeous ring-necked pheasant and a (sadly, dead) fox--even the animals we saw were in fall colors! We got to Kent, Connecticut, and spent a couple hours discovering art galleries and bookstores. We also discovered that the shop no longer carried the item we were looking for. Dang! So we bought something else. (Sorry, Ruth. You have to wait until your birthday party to find out what it is.) </p><p align="left">I was looking forward very much to seeing my friend Bonnie when she was in New York City, but I didn't hear from her in time to make a plan. When she did call, I was busy assisting an electrician who had come to our house to figure out why our fridge outlet stopped working. I was also sick as a dog that day and hoped Bonnie and I would be able to make another plan. It didn't happen. Poop. </p><p align="left">Other bits of news of note: My pal Starr Toth, from the mystery writing group I attended when I lived in Detroit, entered an on-line contest for best first chapters, and won second place. But someone from Simon and Schuster read her submission and offered her a contract! I am so pleased! Starr is a really good writer, and perhaps her success will get me off my butt and back to writing things other than this blog! Other good news was an e-mail from a college pal, Ziyad Sha'ar, now living in Lebanon. It's been fun playing catch-up. </p><p align="left">Ah well, I must get busy now with my unceasing job hunt and grocery shopping! Write soon!Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-25854045448251569372007-10-23T05:37:00.000-07:002007-10-23T11:08:51.344-07:00October 23, 2007<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3LtmH7mU03Np8basLR62K9fMV6Xw3Tijoj8IOT0wB7Tci76ZmNgDfrIQWkNw4at0ksBxA-0wEgALDYqiO1EZ1ZBw4AlJbPGH0OwikA3bLSVFKmC5qavfaTv66NoRJCP4LWWDOVrCDt-Yr/s1600-h/box+window+corner,+library.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5124528643593040642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3LtmH7mU03Np8basLR62K9fMV6Xw3Tijoj8IOT0wB7Tci76ZmNgDfrIQWkNw4at0ksBxA-0wEgALDYqiO1EZ1ZBw4AlJbPGH0OwikA3bLSVFKmC5qavfaTv66NoRJCP4LWWDOVrCDt-Yr/s320/box+window+corner,+library.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Here are some long-awaited photos. Too bad I can't figure out how to change their order of appearance. The first ones are views of our library, that Colleen and Brian helped us build this past winter. The next picture is of the ceiling before we put up the complete fixture and the tin panels. The last one shows the room before the built-in bookcases were installed. Quite an improvement!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3sJ6OLqAFJXqvMtsbMSCzHoQrfRPNUEY9CHv3HTiY96E8mXJDOBDUoxyesEufYWkOzXsz-L8V_q9xMZSHJmjjGO3oSivC7liPptZlhVaD84D7XbdvjJwQAPnbnGzNqhWy77xMCDkNKwqy/s1600-h/library+from+landing.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5124526109562335986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3sJ6OLqAFJXqvMtsbMSCzHoQrfRPNUEY9CHv3HTiY96E8mXJDOBDUoxyesEufYWkOzXsz-L8V_q9xMZSHJmjjGO3oSivC7liPptZlhVaD84D7XbdvjJwQAPnbnGzNqhWy77xMCDkNKwqy/s320/library+from+landing.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1s02u2De65yWN3h4fwt0D4E-9oZAxdCCXivQMfHDRYtRv9GdxxSk7_ZoSIKBOKaR-mk_vYwhXD1Q23ZeBl0MbyvdUqSeeQaoZZYG4HXIvLB4D0m_jxXjK1jDzrE3lNT-Pje2WPwq-6p7e/s1600-h/library+before+2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5124525564101489378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1s02u2De65yWN3h4fwt0D4E-9oZAxdCCXivQMfHDRYtRv9GdxxSk7_ZoSIKBOKaR-mk_vYwhXD1Q23ZeBl0MbyvdUqSeeQaoZZYG4HXIvLB4D0m_jxXjK1jDzrE3lNT-Pje2WPwq-6p7e/s320/library+before+2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqwChqz7k7Wsby0arqINqPzuS6etDZ-e2MVUgZCWKtxDnrLgQoDk5b9sXXvvbsLtdNZ0Lg0LsxLA6EZPx17HBJnNu8xOhQPn58Qi-ix0R_G-b097EzNfe0u7q_K6jJNF0NSr-ikv_n2__/s1600-h/library+before+1.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5124525246273909458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdqwChqz7k7Wsby0arqINqPzuS6etDZ-e2MVUgZCWKtxDnrLgQoDk5b9sXXvvbsLtdNZ0Lg0LsxLA6EZPx17HBJnNu8xOhQPn58Qi-ix0R_G-b097EzNfe0u7q_K6jJNF0NSr-ikv_n2__/s320/library+before+1.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>It's been a wild ride since my last blog letter.</div><br /><div>First, I have bad news about my brother-in-law, Bill MacArthur. He is Robert's only sister Cindy's husband. Bill had been battling cancer that started in his bladder. He didn't like to talk about his health problems and he didn't like other people talking about them. He was a very stoic person. We knew things weren't going well, as he seemed to have one surgery after another, and we knew his chemo-therapy wasn't working as planned and was debilitating. Robert and I felt helpless, not able to offer much, except to be here, ready to come when asked. We got the word yesterday that Bill has died. We feel sorry for Cindy, knowing how much she looked forward to retiring with her husband, to live a life doing the things they wanted to do together. We also feel so sorry for Bill, who had to suffer so much at the end of his life. We will be traveling to Maryland this weekend to be with the family. </div><br /><div>Another tragedy is that Patience, the young girl who has been helping take care of my Mom, had planned on moving out of Mom's house because her father had been in a terrible accident, and would need 24-hour care after getting out of the hospital. Unfortunately, just a day or so before he was supposed to be released, he unexpectedly died. This was a rough blow for an eighteen-year-old, who has had a lot more crap to deal with in her short life than most other people. In June, Patience' cousin disappeared. She had lived in Williamston. She was later found, murdered. At first, an ex-boyfriend was the suspect, but it turned out she was killed by a serial murderer, who killed four other Lansing-area women. It was something you'd expect to read in some cheesy police procedural mystery story--not something you expect would happen in real life, to someone in your family. Patience had been spending a lot of time with her deceased cousin's two daughters. </div><br /><div>To make matters even MORE surreal, a tornado plowed through Willaimston last weekend. It made the national news, and you may have heard about the couple who lost their lives. Their brand-new house, that they had finally moved into just that day, was completely blown off its foundation and dropped into a pond on the property. The husband and wife, whose bodies were later pulled from the water, were Patience' aunt and uncle. Needless to say, the poor kid is a wreck, and feels she needs to move back in with her mother to help hold her family together. I don't know how you could have all these random, awful things happen in such a short period of time, and not have it change your life forever. This young girl can use your prayers. Her name is Patience Bentley. </div><br /><div>My Mom made it through the tornado practically unscathed, which is a miracle, as some of the most intense damage occurred right on High Street. All of the trees in the park two blocks away were torn up by their roots, and the high school was hit hard. There is a huge maple tree right outside the room Mom sleeps in, that we have been worried might fall on the house some day. Years ago my brothers and Clay Lenherdt put a huge bolt through the trunk,to keep it from splitting completely in half, and we have thought it was about time to add some other sort of support. Anyway, that tree did split, but it fell against the roof above the studio, and took out part of the eaves. The place where she sleeps was not affected. She insists that being from Kansas, she's not afraid of tornados. Her sister Rosie (also from Kansas) told me that being AROUND tornadoes is a little different from being IN a tornado. Rosie made it through the huge twister that tore up downtown Topeka by hiding in a stairwell with her hands over her ears. She said that for years after that, even the sound of a vacuum cleaner made her nervous. </div><br /><div>Anyway, Mom is OK, doing better than expected (she got her electricity back faster than most of the rest of the town) and I think getting through the experience all by herself has made her feel a little more competent and tough. </div><br /><div>In spite all this extreme sad and scary news, I am feeling quite a bit better. My brother Chris says that I should not talk about a job possibility before it's a job certainty, or I'll jinx it, so I won't. My friend Lindy (who tells me she has been praying for me to get a good job) asked me how this came to me. Well, Lindy, this job possibility came to me through the medium of PYGMY GOATS. That's all I can say for now. </div><br /><div>I am expecting to meet one of my highschool chums, Bonnie Beuthein Dike, in the City sometime this week. Bonnie played the cello in highschool and was in student government. Now she's a yoga instructor in Washington state, and the mother of eleven children! Cool! I've collected some articles and things to share with her. Maybe I'll find some interesting photos. Hey! Maybe I'll share some photos with you, too! Maybe I'll even show you that library make-over I've been promising for centuries!</div><div></div><div></div><div>Write! <a href="mailto:FAHOGG@aol.com">FAHOGG@aol.com</a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-68830909479642276152007-10-03T12:10:00.000-07:002007-10-06T21:14:18.506-07:00October 3 letter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEqwOAasMzajWo2C8am2XlULUN3UZanWpiWL4kfb-l_3oA80vGHO9O2IHRGx-Mh1G6epW48kSgNSII_81iMmm1r_Carc2I6Ti66Uoi57R0VZZ7zVJzfp3hV7EhNbYNMynZnZSxTvzH87hi/s1600-h/DSC00363.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5117317065557464610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEqwOAasMzajWo2C8am2XlULUN3UZanWpiWL4kfb-l_3oA80vGHO9O2IHRGx-Mh1G6epW48kSgNSII_81iMmm1r_Carc2I6Ti66Uoi57R0VZZ7zVJzfp3hV7EhNbYNMynZnZSxTvzH87hi/s320/DSC00363.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>While the other ladies marched in the Spirit of Beacon Day Parade, I kept busy at our booth, painting kitty faces on little kids.</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCGUaW7-dN44SX_8g3Il3qU3mWDE0zf3PI6oRaVWDAo0QvqlG1K8F8XXe9JIypTNygexJ12BBnUqbJvOHBU-zA6wAWcUjlha6DEMsfanLhP-Im1v5_XXK4ApT8uzBOXkMsl7WfnTvllpO/s1600-h/DSC00368.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5117315841491785234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCGUaW7-dN44SX_8g3Il3qU3mWDE0zf3PI6oRaVWDAo0QvqlG1K8F8XXe9JIypTNygexJ12BBnUqbJvOHBU-zA6wAWcUjlha6DEMsfanLhP-Im1v5_XXK4ApT8uzBOXkMsl7WfnTvllpO/s320/DSC00368.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>This is a close-up of Mom's painting.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiZ-k1qx3oRFIOYnSZhFEw3KZAf7Eh2QVfarRhAzNHObhPsHiz_ecXCpDzItuzBn9C-AHncUyw29W2smYAQMuMxNLqI0cwNriGDBdtUziOPnfyRNxoZDi399dSMi39C3wb1fv7yBNIXbx7/s1600-h/great+aunt+painting+detail.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5117192661829735938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiZ-k1qx3oRFIOYnSZhFEw3KZAf7Eh2QVfarRhAzNHObhPsHiz_ecXCpDzItuzBn9C-AHncUyw29W2smYAQMuMxNLqI0cwNriGDBdtUziOPnfyRNxoZDi399dSMi39C3wb1fv7yBNIXbx7/s320/great+aunt+painting+detail.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>October 3, 2007<br /></div><div>Howdy! The air is suddenly crisper, and the Virginia creeper that grows all over our front porch during the summer has begun to turn from dark green to blazing scarlet. It is an effect that lasts only a few days, as the leaves fall off soon after they turn, but it sure is striking while it happens! </div><div><br />We had a short but fun visit with our friends the Habels, from Michigan. Mark collects prints by an artist named Richard Merkin, who was appearing at a gallery about fifty miles from here. So part of our visit with them was taken up on a holy pilgrimage to meet Richard. He is a very interesting guy–he’s a regular writer for Vanity Fair magazine, as well as an art teacher, and he is one of the people whose faces appear on the cover of the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper album. We had a good chat. Mark bought a painting from him--a self-portrait--and everybody was happy!</div><div><br />I spent some fun time with Deb while the boys were elsewhere, probably upstairs arguing about politics. Deb (the child of two Polish concentration-camp survivors) let slip that she didn’t know how to make <em>pizaki</em>. (Yeah, I was shocked, too!) So the Scottish girl spent a day teaching the Polish girl how to make them. (They’re Easter eggs, by the way.) You draw designs on raw eggs using beeswax that you warm up over a candle, and it melts through a <em>pizaki</em> (a tiny copper funnel on a stick) onto the egg. You dip the egg into progressively darker colored dye baths, adding lines of wax where you want the next color to appear. Eventually, you end up with a lumpy black thing that hardly looks like an egg anymore. Finally, you hold it over a candle to melt off all the wax you just spent hours putting on. Gorgeous colors emerge. You have to be careful with the dyes because they’re poisonous, and not to break the eggs (after a few years, the stuff inside evaporates).</div><div><br />Deb and I had a fun afternoon, made almost indelibly memorable when I accidentally dumped two cups of black dye all over the place in my kitchen. I let go of a string of words that would have injured even Robert Lochow’s hardened ears. [Robert says: This I doubt.] I quickly sopped up the dripping puddle, but that left a huge blue stain on my white vinyl floor and another one on my horrible worn-out yellow counter top. Robert and Mark came running to assist me. With a lot of Clorox and elbow grease, after an hour you could hardly tell where the dye had been, except the grain on the wood cabinets is quite a bit darker there. Also, I forgot, and washed the old towels with some other laundry. Let’s just say I no longer have difficulty telling my identical pairs of white bedroom slippers apart. </div><div><br />We had a good time, visiting Olana (the home of the Victorian painter Frederick Church) and eating things. We had a great meal at Tonique, a fancy restaurant in Beacon, on Mark’s mother, Leonora. She was not very nice to me when Mark and I dated, but she has mellowed in her old age, and now enjoys treating Mark and his friends to nice things. One thing Mark’s father used to do at the end of a meal was to demand the "terrifying total." When the bill was finally presented, he'd give out a mock scream. So we called Leonora when the bill came, and screamed, and she giggled about it. It was a nice and funny way to remember Mark’s dad, who died a few years ago. </div><br /><div>Mark also visited my mom before he came here (as I mentioned, Mark is an ex-beau of mine, and very fond of Patty). He brought some stuff from Mom’s house that I had been unable to bring back with me. One item is a very large painting that Mom started many years ago. It is of her old aunties in Nebraska, squinting into the sunlight. Mom never actually finished the painting, but I talked her out of doing any more to it, because I like it the way it is. If it were not so big (five feet tall by three feet wide) I would want to hang it in our house. But as I’m always trying to find ways to get some bucks together to pay for helpers for Mom, I thought I might find a better price for it in New York than in Michigan.</div><br /><div>We have some new young neighbors across the street. (I find it hard to believe I would ever be writing about "those nice young people." I mean, aren’t Robert and I nice young people?) Joshua is thin and intense. He bought the terribly neglected house across the street from us and spent the summer gutting it, then piecing it back together. He finally moved in with his tattooed and pierced girlfriend, Erin. We don’t know them very well, but we’ve been friendly, providing them with useful welcome gifts–a sump pump we weren’t going to be able to use, and some cabinet hardware. I found out that Erin works in a gallery in town, so I took a photograph of the painting to her for advice on how I might go about selling it. </div><br /><div>It turns out that Erin is the OWNER of the gallery (and others! And Joshua designs men’s clothing for Banana Republic–who knew?). She was thrilled with the painting, and wants to sell it in the gallery. The amount $1,500 was bandied about! So I’ve spent a few days building a frame for the thing, and I’ll take it over there tomorrow. It is so fun that my mother, at age 79, is still having life-long dreams made real. I promised her I’d take a picture of the painting when it’s in place, and that I’d tell you all that her work is being exhibited in a fabulous New York art gallery! It’s <em>Beacon</em>, New York, not <em>New York</em>, New York, but who’s quibbling? Mom was pretty tickled about that.</div><br /><div>Sunday was Spirit of Beacon Day. I painted faces of little kids, including one very pretty little boy who talked the whole time, saying things like, "It was evil, so I cut it off," in a very sincere voice. It was more than a little creepy. Next, a little girl whom I had assumed was his sister kept touching the brush and my hands and my face while I painted her face. The woman who was with them said, "She can’t help it. She’s hyper-tactile." I realized these were probably children from a school for emotionally impaired children that is nearby. That made me sad. I wanted to hug them so bad. I also loved the little girl who wiggled all her loose teeth for me. I WISH WE HAD KIDS! If anybody has any they don’t want, let us know!</div><br /><div>We made about five hundred dollars for the cat shelter at our booth. Robert marched in the parade, handing out candy, and helped me set up and close down. I am always thankful for his support and his unending love. I am a lucky chica to have chosen such an excellent muchacho! I thank God every day.</div><br /><div>Speaking of the shelter and of cats, Alice was in good spirits while Mark and Deb were here. They also have a very old cat, so they are always very attentive to Alice when they visit. But the day after they left Robert told me he had seen Alice wandering around, squatting and straining as if she were trying to urinate. Not a good sign. He also found little drops of blood on the parlor carpet. So I took her to the vet in the morning to make sure she wasn’t in pain. The vet said her intestines were "ropey," a sign a she might have lymphoma. She said that even if Alice wasn’t in pain, she probably would be soon. So I had to do the hard thing and have my dear little baby put to sleep. I got to hold her, and that was good. I still burst into tears every time I think about it, but I know in my heart it was the right thing to do. Robert and I buried her in the flower bed, next to my dear Kahuna and Clawd’ya.</div><br /><div>It’s not so easy when it’s your Mama who’s having the rough time. Although Mom’s very happy to be home, it hasn’t been easy for her. Her night nurse, Patience, had a terrible thing happen. Her father was in a bad car crash, and Patience may need to move in to take care of him. She has been spending a lot of time at the hospital, and Liz, Tim, and Chris have been staying with Mom on the nights she’s not there. Although Mom is expecting to get better and better, sometimes the improvements brought about by her physical therapy don’t seem to last very long, so she sometimes finds herself back at square one. I hope we can find someone who can help Brenda, who is doing all she can do right now, and for a reliable replacement for Patience, if she has to leave. Send prayers to my brothers and my sister-in-law Liz (and all my sisters-in-law, for that matter, because they’re all involved) because this is very trying for all of them. I wish I lived closer and could help more. </div><br /><div>I wrote last time that a headhunter (that’s a person who finds jobs for white-collar employees) had called me to say there was no way in hell (I think those were her exact words) she could find a job for me. A couple of you have written back to tell me that person was a jerk, but I don’t think so. Her name is Judy. She is a very well-known and respected professional who I never would have consulted in a million years except that she had placed several people in my old office. I didn’t have very high expectations to begin with. She spent a long time with me on the phone, telling me the problems she saw with my situation that will make getting hired harder for than other people (most of the straight lawyer sort of work I did was about twenty years ago, for instance, and the last few jobs I held for only about two years). </div><div><br />I explained what happened to me in Michigan when the legal offices I worked for lost their funding. She asked me more questions about things I do for fun, and I told her about my writing and the cat shelter. She said she found me to be a very interesting person, but my resume didn’t show that. She mentioned it was near Yom Kippur, and she thought it would be a good mitzvah to help me (that's a good thing you to do to help others without expecting anything in return). I went to see her and she spent about an hour giving me invaluable advice, helping me to rewrite my resume to show employers what sort of things I might be able to do for them. So I feel a little more able to go out there in the world and find something important to do that makes money for Robert’s and my future together. Keep those happy thoughts coming for me and my job hunt!</div><br /><div>I think I’ll make this a short letter. I hope it works out better for most of you to only have to load up one letter at a time. If you want to see letters that I wrote earlier, just click on the month on the right side of the top of the page, and that should bring it up for you. </div><div><br />Tonight is my writing group night. I have been so bummed out lately about things like my job situation and Mom’s problems that I haven’t been able to write anything new. But I’ll give it a try. Drop a line! I know you are supposed to be able to post comments here, but I don’t know how. You can reach me at <a href="mailto:FAHOGG@aol.com.">FAHOGG@aol.com.</a> </div><div><br />Love, and good health to you all!<br /></div><div>FAH and Robert </div></div></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-75712427363554751742007-09-17T04:46:00.000-07:002007-09-19T05:24:32.135-07:00September 18 letter<div align="center">Old, deaf, blind, toothless Alice.<br /><br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1jLdTK-zatIYDnBSVWsICcfVT2bsynA9Dqn03psUNMTyPNoJV4RWhGamRAYErnhjPYPnLTyljplMVkmhyXYWwDLFDIt4HwhToOV75qS6vtis_7YHsAfa3TGiUG7kuFqbsvlC6OhAfenha/s1600-h/Alice+on+couch.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111679311237378466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1jLdTK-zatIYDnBSVWsICcfVT2bsynA9Dqn03psUNMTyPNoJV4RWhGamRAYErnhjPYPnLTyljplMVkmhyXYWwDLFDIt4HwhToOV75qS6vtis_7YHsAfa3TGiUG7kuFqbsvlC6OhAfenha/s320/Alice+on+couch.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Howdy, howdy, howdy...<br /><br /><br />The first and best news is that my Mom is home. She sounds great, she seems very happy. She's got Brenda and Patience and my sister-in-law Liz looking in in her, and physical therapists coming to the house, and after a long ARGUMENT (Mom hates their food) I think she'll agree to have Meals on Wheels. Even if she feeds the stuff to her cats, it's another person dropping in every day to make sure she's OK.<br /><br /><br />It's hard to get an accurate picture from so far away. Mom, and the women who take care of her, all say <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">everything is</span> going as well as can be expected, but my brothers are all flipped out because she seems so weak and they're worried she'll get hurt. I think some of this is because of men's innate feeling they are supposed to be able to fix everything--but some things related to getting older can't be fixed. Meanwhile, my mother is pleased to be back in her place, and hopeful that things are going to get better (for instance, she expects she'll get better at naviga<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ting</span> with her new wheeled walker). Her state of mind is very good. Give her a call--her number is (517) 655-2609.<br /><br /><br />When I last wrote, I had just contacted my old college friend, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Moncef</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Majbri</span>, and we had made plans to meet. Susan and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Gagik</span> and I went into the City and met him at the subway station. We walked to his house to meet his wife, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Monia</span>, also <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">from</span> Tunisia, and I was completely enraptured by his children, twins <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Amin</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Insaaf</span>, who attend a special school at the United Nations. (I love it when you ask a kid what their favorite thing in life is, and they say, "School!") We had a nice cake, then <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Moncef</span> drove us into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Manhattan</span> to show Susan and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Gagik</span> some things they hadn't yet seen, like Ground Zero and some shopping areas. I had a great time on the drive, getting a French lesson and a history of New York City from Moncef's kids. I have a great deal of affection for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Moncef</span>, who has always been such a sweet-natured, decent, good guy. It was so nice to find out that he ended up so happy, and with such a lovely family!<br /><br /><br />By a fluke, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Moncef</span> happens to live in the same neighborhood where <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Gagik's</span> father Stephan lived before the incident that sent him to prison. So we walked to the apartment building where Stephan used to live, and a super actually let us into the building's courtyard. I don't know whether it was helpful to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Gagik</span> or not. The whole experience of going to the places his father had gone seemed to add to his emotional strain at times. (Susan has just called me to let me know that they had received approval to have <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Gagik's</span> father's body exhumed, that it had been done today, and that his remains would be flown to California very soon!) I hope once they have him buried in the Armenian cemetery in Fresno, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Gagik</span> will finally feel he has done right by his father, and find some peace. I can't imagine going through what <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Gagik</span> has gone through in the past few years.<br /><br /><br />Anyway, we ended our visit with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Majbri</span> family with a lovely meal at their favorite local Greek restaurant. The night was beautiful, and it was great to be with old friends. I only wish Robert had been with us! (And Abbas <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Panjvani</span>! And <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Ziyad</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Sha'ar</span>! And <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Muhsin Akkas</span>! And Patty Finale!) I hope the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Majbris</span> will soon take us up on our invitation to visit us. But they'll have to wait a bit, because this weekend, friends Mark and Deb will be here from Michigan.<br /><br /><br />The job search slogs on. I actually was offered a temporary job selling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Hallowe'en</span> costumes, but Robert talked me out of it, because the hours I would be working are exactly the hours I need to be available in case someone decides they want to interview me. I would be working a 40-hour week, and it would take me two-and-a-half weeks just to come up with my monthly car payment. I don't know why it didn't occur to me, but a friend told me I would be STUPID (thank you, Linda <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Bierniak--s</span>ometimes I need to be hit in the head with a sledgehammer) not to apply for unemployment compensation. Because so much of my income while I was working came in the form of a big Christmas bonus, I am eligible to receive almost my usual weekly pay while I look for work. DUH! So I applied. Not a nibble, yet, on any job application. (Sigh.)<br /><br /><br />So now I am home, scouring the I<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">nternet</span> and buying lots of newspapers, looking for my new dream job. In the meantime, I have plenty of time to work on the cat shelter's biggest fund-raiser of the year, the annual goods and services auction, which takes place on November 10. <em></em>I am co-coordinator. If anybody wants to donate something to be auctioned off, let me know! I hear works of art go for big bucks. My pal Dee <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Weis</span> donated a gorgeous cat quilt.<br /><br /><br />Speaking of cats, every day I strain to hear the flutter of the wings of the angel of death--and every day I don't hear them. 21-year-old Alice has lately been soaking her bedding with urine when she sleeps (which is almost all the time). She doesn't seem to be in any pain, and doesn't seem to be very interested in food. According to the websites, these are the signs an old cat is on the way out. Right now she's asleep on the front porch, on a wing chair that we used to have in our parlor and haven't yet bothered to haul out to the curb on junk day.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I think I will be less traumatized when Alice finally dies than I was when my favorites, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Claw'dya</span> and Kahuna, died, but it is still hard to say goodbye to a friend who has been with me every day for 21 years. Alice has no teeth and is blind and deaf, but still has a pretty, sleek coat. She can't find the litter box anymore, but she can still jump up <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">onto</span> the washing machine, where her bed is. I took the picture of her at the top of this post, in her "traveling bed" on the sofa (on top of a sheet of plastic! I'm no fool!). Isn't she a pretty girl? I am concerned about her, but as I've been expecting her to die for about seven years now, ever since she got lead poisoning from drinking from the furnace boiler run-off bucket, all I can tell you is, I'm not holding my breath. I think I am going to be extra nice to her, in any case, with lots of extra hugs and pets and ear scratches.<br /><p><br />What else? I just got a call from a headhunter who called to say there was no way in hell she could ever place me in a job. So I guess that means I need you all to keep sending me good thoughts! Write soon (to <a href="mailto:FAHOGG@aol.com">FAHOGG@aol.com</a>)!<br /><br />F (and R)<br /><br /><br />More pictures!~</p><p>At dinner in Queens, with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Gagik</span>, Susan, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Monia</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Moncef</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Amin</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Insaaf</span>. A fun evening!<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_34naJGkGxmRm4mGv72CYQrHzvHFaVzMYz7fcQf6xvhxqJtOHuR7vdB3yarpyMmQE-YgAhgIDN-HiwGJ8FAb7-VKAE8h74nVQABsgBkIpYTepUUjmCF53UOevhn4z2xZrXazmv90Z0ke/s1600-h/Moncef+at+restaurant.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111646330183512466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_34naJGkGxmRm4mGv72CYQrHzvHFaVzMYz7fcQf6xvhxqJtOHuR7vdB3yarpyMmQE-YgAhgIDN-HiwGJ8FAb7-VKAE8h74nVQABsgBkIpYTepUUjmCF53UOevhn4z2xZrXazmv90Z0ke/s320/Moncef+at+restaurant.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>This is a photo of me with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Moncef</span> and family.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfB1duTpDYZuymQ6XuMo8ngWastDkoU73Vd3mBV9Vu8PB8pdiPjwEKcDjEaIb0nE3pse9JBjdxNKxGlPaT9I1hkr0hKFFiGSayxj_yzJy3QRFMASvGby2H2IeSVcgAsZ9QQJKFg_hK2kBP/s1600-h/F+and+Majbris.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111644899959402882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfB1duTpDYZuymQ6XuMo8ngWastDkoU73Vd3mBV9Vu8PB8pdiPjwEKcDjEaIb0nE3pse9JBjdxNKxGlPaT9I1hkr0hKFFiGSayxj_yzJy3QRFMASvGby2H2IeSVcgAsZ9QQJKFg_hK2kBP/s320/F+and+Majbris.JPG" border="0" /></a>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-67179864397121103612007-09-02T05:50:00.000-07:002009-03-01T15:15:44.963-08:00Sunday, September 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFxTs0qLG0b6vfqn-OHGjpMYBLxkA4FGWzpgrV21s6h8Mg8S_e2XcnaCu2GVNVQ-QIx_Bjt4E0x-xKBb-pk1DioPE0-xlYODTzSAOGaJrqm14Y_uOGpWeV-U3o96A3fWw7tNpKMZOClEUV/s1600-h/Gagik+laying+flowers.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105630968669540162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFxTs0qLG0b6vfqn-OHGjpMYBLxkA4FGWzpgrV21s6h8Mg8S_e2XcnaCu2GVNVQ-QIx_Bjt4E0x-xKBb-pk1DioPE0-xlYODTzSAOGaJrqm14Y_uOGpWeV-U3o96A3fWw7tNpKMZOClEUV/s320/Gagik+laying+flowers.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><strong>This is a picture of Susan's husband, Gagik, putting flowers on his father's grave.</strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>I don't know how I let such a long time go by without a new letter. I guess I've been feeling overwhelmed with the job hunt, getting my Mom back on her feet, and then figuring out how to get back home to New York. Since returning home, we've had houseguests from California, and I've been driving them around, and doing what I can to make their visit a good one. Here's an update: </div><br /><div><strong>The job hunt:</strong> I keep sending out resumes and letters. Haven't gotten a blip back yet. I may get a job at a doughnut shop next week if I have to.</div><br /><div><strong>Getting Mom back on her feet:</strong> Pretty good news on this account! She'd still at the facility, but they are expecting to send her home in about two weeks. I know. That's what said two weeks ago. But they want to assure that she'll be able to do things around her house safely before they let her go. She's making great progress--not using a wheelchair at all any more--and her spirits are good! </div><br /><div><strong>Getting myself back to New York:</strong> I spent a lot of time while in Michigan looking for appreciative homes for things Mom has collected over the years and no longer needs. In her name I donated miles of fabric to a theater and to a church group that makes crocheted rugs. I gave boxes of <em>A Dog Named Dirt</em> (Mom's funny book about an awful dog we used to own) to two animal shelters (to be used as a fundraiser) and to her vet's office (to be sold to help pay vet bills anonymously for old ladies who can't afford them). I gave piles of clothing to Goodwill and the Salvation Army and donated huge trash bags filled with yarn to a friend who crochets lap blankets for injured veterans. I sent Robert back home with our car loaded to the roof with fabric and stuff I intend to try to sell for her, including a rather valuable antique doll. I sent the doll to a special doll dealer in Maryland, and it is going to be offered at an auction in Europe in about six months. I mailed off packages of letters and other treasures to their original senders. Then I packed my suitcase with everything I could fit into it and (with help from friends Colleen and Mary) got onto a Greyhound bus headed for Philadelphia.</div><br /><div>It's been some time since I've been on a Greyhound bus. I had originally intended to take some cartons of stuff home with me, and thought the bus made the most sense, as you can bring just about as much luggage with you as you want. Also, it was very cheap. But I still had to face lugging boxes and suitcases around when I finally got to my destination, and in the end I ditched the idea about the cardboard boxes, and only took two suitcases with me. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>As usual, there were a few interesting incidents. For instance, when the snotty driver (who made a little speech everytime we boarded new passengers, "I will not tolerate the use of profanity on my bus! You will be ejected from the bus if you use profanity!") drove in circles around downtown Pittsburgh for forty minutes before getting on the intercom to ask if anybody had any idea where the bus depot might be located. That answered my question about his sensitivity to profanity--I figure he must get sworn at more than most people.</div><br /><div>Got into Philadelphia, and to the hotel Robert had procured for our anniversary weekend. It was an elegant place near Rittenhouse Square, a park. It was so good to greet him there--and nice to have a little 'decompression' time together. The weather was either too hot or too rainy, but that didn't keep us from walking all over, anyway. We saw the Franklin Institute, but not much else, because of long lines. It's better to sight see in Philly after school is back in session, I think. It was especially nice to come home! After such a long absence, the only casualties were a few house plants Robert forgot about on his rounds with the watering can.</div><br /><div></div><div><strong>Our houseguests:</strong> My friend from college, Susan Khanzadian, called to say that she and her husband, Gagik Ginosyan, were finally ready to come for a visit. This was not an optimum time for us, of course, but I didn't want to say no. A few years ago Susan asked me for help locating Gagik's father's grave. When Gagik was about fourteen, his father Stephan came to the United States. He lived in Los Angeles. Stephan sent money to the family, then stopped. Gagik's family told Gagik his father had abandoned him, and he never heard from Stephan again. Years later Gagik found out from someone else that the reason his father had stopped sending money was because he had been sent to prison. Every new discovery was a harder blow. His father had received a life sentence for murdering a man in New York. By the time Gagik found out about this, his father had died in prison.<br /><br />In 2003, Susan called me to ask me for help trying to find out what happened to Stephan Ginosyan, as he seemed to have been transferred around a lot. He had been at Attica for awhile, but was transferred to a prison only about twenty miles from our house! It was ridiculously difficult to get any information, even with a power of attorney. But I finally found out that he was buried on the prison grounds, because no one from the family claimed his body when he died. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>I tried to arrange for Susan and her husband to visit the grave, and that was a hassle. At one point someone told me in order for me to get permission, I would have to send them a certified copy of Gagik's Armenian birth certificate. I asked the guy what that would prove to him, as Armenian doesn't use our alphabet and he probably wouldn't be able to read it anyway. But sheer will won out, and permission was obtained. Susan and Gaigik planned to come, but unfortunately, Gagik suffered a heart attack, and they weren't able to make the trip until he had recovered enough. </div><br /><div>Susan had contacted the prison to let them know they were coming. People had kept promising her they'd get back to her about the arrangements, but they never did. So we decided to go to the there and wait for an answer. I think the whole prison facility was in an uproar because Susan told them they want to be able to disinter the body and remove it to an Armenian cemetery in Fresno. Everybody kept sputtering and fussing and saying,"Well, we don't know. We'll get back to you on that." They also said that no one ever asks to visit graves there. </div><br /><div>At the prison, we sat and waited until a supervisor came out. He was apologetic, and eventually, two other supervisors showed up, and they got in a truck and we followed them around the prison walls, past the excercise yards and watchtowers with armed gaurds. It was like something out of a movie. We then went down a dirt road, lined with cornfields, to a little graveyard. The prison walls were no longer visible, the sky was brilliant blue, the corn was a deep green, and in the sky dozens of blackbirds were reeling around. It was peaceful and pretty, except for the bleakness of the gravestones. They were made of cast concrete with nothing but a number on each one. Susan immediately started rummaging through her purse, looking for a paper with Gagik's father’s prison number on it, but Gagik jumped out of the car and ran directly to the correct one. That was kind of spooky.</div><br /><div>It was a very emotional scene. Gagik broke down. He and Susan burned incense on the grave and laid flowers across it and said special prayers. I had to ask permission to take photos, promising the supervisors I would only take a picture of the single gravestone, and nothing else. The three officials were very polite but distant, until I went up to them and told them Gagik's story. I said that his family had lied to him about what happened, what a shock it had been to him to find out, and about everything Gagik had done to find his father. After that they were very nice and bent over backwards to be helpful. As a surprise gift for Gagik, I had a brass plate made up, showing Stephan's name and the dates of his life, which the supervisors helped us attach to the headstone. Gagik was really touched by that. </div><br /><div>So, both Robert and I were very glad to be able to do what we could to help Gagik gain some closure, even though this wasn't the easiest time for us to have company. I think the wheels are turning regarding the legal work necessary to move the body. We're glad to have been able to help. </div><br /><div><strong>Keeping busy:</strong> Sugan, Gagik, Robert and I went to Atlantic City. I tried playing slot machines and was reminded again that I am way too Scottish to be able to enjoy gambling. But it was a pretty day to be at the beach, and fun to walk through the very opulent casinos. Robert and I had our palms read by a gypsy fortune teller. Susan and Gagik had a great time, and Robert won enough money at roulette (about $200) to pay for our travel expenses and meals there. The best part of the trip happened when we were getting ready to leave. Robert pointed to the night sky, where little points of light were swooping around in a column, five hundred feet high. It looked as if the stars were going crazy. But it was really hundreds and hundreds of sea gulls, lit from below by the casino lights. I had no idea gulls flew that high. I suppose they're always up there, but we can't see them against the sun. </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Susan and I have been looking at photographs from college, where we both hung out with foreign students, wondering what happened to our old friends. I decided to try to locate Moncef Majbri, a very sweet guy from Tunisia. The last time I saw Moncef was in the very early 80's. He was a translator at the United Nations, in French, English and Arabic, and he took me to lunch in the Ambassador's Cafeteria there. Then he moved and I lost contact with him. Through the magic of the internet, I located a phone number, and called him on Saturday morning. A darling little girl's voice answered the phone, and she said it was the right address. I asked if I could speak with Moncef. There was a long pause, then a PIERCING shriek, "DADDY! DADDY! WAKE UP!" followed by Moncef's mumbled, "Hello?"</div><br /><div>So I had to apologize to him for that. He was very pleased to hear from me, anyway, and we made plans to visit him. I've also located some other Saudi friends that I hope to see soon. </div><br /><div></div><div></div><div>Well, that's enough for now. Wish me luck in my job hunt. Write soon.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>F and R </div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-35280245613166130422007-07-29T08:53:00.000-07:002007-07-29T18:37:16.272-07:00July 29, 2007Life gets harder sometimes. I have been scrambling around, trying to find a new job and getting prepared to say good-bye to all the people at work I am so fond of. It’s been difficult even to think about that without getting teary-eyed. Then something happened that knocked that whole stressful scene out of the park.<br /><br />My Mom has been having a terrible problem with severe dizziness. It is worse when she’s sitting up, so she spent weeks and weeks lying flat on her back, and as a result she lost a lot of muscle. That’s a dangerous thing when you’re nearly eighty years old. Although she has Brenda to help her, Brenda told me Mom needs more help than she is able to give. In the week before I lost my job I had been trying to hire someone else to fill in for Brenda (believe me, that made losing my income even more upsetting to me). Eventually, Mom ended up in the hospital when she was unable to get out of bed. The hospital resisted admitting her at first, because she is apparently completely healthy. All the tests they have done to figure out what’s happening in her head have been inconclusive.<br /><br />On Friday the 13<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> I called her to say hello. Calls to her have been short because her arthritis makes it uncomfortable for her to hold the phone to her ear, but she talked to me for about forty minutes. She gave me her instructions for her funeral and messages to give other people. She said, "I’m dying. I can feel all my systems shutting down," although no doctors agree with her on that point. In fact, a decision had been made to send her to a special facility for intensive physical therapy, but she indicated she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">wasn</span>’t going to bother with that, as she was going to be dead in a few days. If she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">didn</span>’t agree to participate and make progress, she would be booted out of the facility. As she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">doesn</span>’t have the financial ability to hire full-time help (and neither do her children at this point) that would mean she’d end up in a nursing home.<br /><br />Robert and I immediately drove to Michigan. We met with my brothers and Mom’s priest, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Jannell</span> Glennie, who gave us good advice on how to deal with someone in my Mom’s state of mind, to get her focused on getting better. I am glad to say we were able to use that advice and she’s doing much better now, and working very hard at physical therapy. She can walk for quite a ways with her walker, but balance is her main problem, and she needs help standing up and sitting down.<br /><br />The main reason she is feeling better is that she has some hope her dizziness may be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">correctable</span> with surgery. We are waiting for an August 14 meeting with neurologists, and have asked for a consult with an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">opthomologist</span>. I don’t know what will happen if it turns out there <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">isn</span>’t anything we can do for her. She always has to be hopeful, and she has so many plans for the future. She loves living in her house and having kitties around. So please keep her in your prayers, that she’ll be able to do that soon.<br /><br />I had been wondering how the hell to find the silver lining in the black cloud of losing my job, but I guess it is that I have the ability now to stay with my Mom and do what I can to help her through this tough time. (Robert had to go back to work--Mom’s friend Ed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Noonan</span> has lent me a car so I can go back and forth from the facility to see her.) I also get to help my brothers, who are going to be carrying the load of her care after I go back to New York (around August 15). I have been collecting all the stuff she needs for her medical visits and keeping her mind occupied.<br /><br />I am also working almost around the clock sorting through boxes and boxes (and they go up to the ceiling in some of the upstairs rooms) of papers that my Mom, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">archivist</span>, has collected. She has saved photographs and news articles about all the things our family has been involved in for over fifty years, and THAT’S A LOT --Boy Scouts, bagpipe band, city politics, St. Katherine’s Church, hundreds of museums projects and business ventures, and artistic pursuits. She also seems to have saved every graduation announcement and wedding invitation (for every wedding) of every kid we ever knew. Many of those things are more important to other people than they are to any of us, so I am sorting out zillions of piles of things that we will eventually spend billions of dollars in postage, sending out to millions of friends and relations.<br /><br />This has me feeling overwhelmed at times. I’m afraid that last night a small bottle of vodka and some orange juice (and brother Chris, too) helped.<br /><br />The most overwhelming part is knowing that the work my Mom has done is valuable, but I don’t know to whom. She has been working on a history of her family and the little town in Kansas where she grew up. She has rolls and rolls of microfilm copies of old newspapers, and boxes of ancient photographs, and she has typed up perhaps 100 years' worth of old letters and diaries. I feel a great weight of responsibility to make sure it goes where it is supposed to go, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t feel that Andy’s kids are very interested in this history, and Tim’s Lindsey is too young to be interested. All I can say is, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Argh</span>!"<br /><br />Anyway, I have to get ready to go to see Mom. I am trying to spend about six hours every day with her at the facility. I have been reading old family letters to her, then I’ll box them up and send them to the Kansas contingent of cousins, as many of the stories in them are about their childhoods. I have also been reading Mom letters from her sister Joanne, who died only three weeks after Mom got married in 1949. Joanne was only one year younger than Mom, and was the sister she was closest to. Mom said she was so upset about Joanne’s death (she had an unexpected allergic reaction to a medication), and felt so terrible that her sister <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">didn</span>’t get to have her own family and live a longer life, that she has hardly ever spoken about her. To her surprise, Mom has found she enjoys hearing the letters. They’re all about boyfriends and dances and "wolf hunts," and she realizes now that Joanne packed so much into her twenty years of life that it makes it easier to think about her.<br /><br />When Mom was at her very low point, she asked me to take her cats. This is the only time that Robert, always supportive of me, raised an eyebrow. He loves me and knows I love my cats, but poor Alice’s latest blunder (she has decided the place to take a dump is in our new library, and she soaked a shelf of his books, ruining them) (I say, hey, that’s one way to get rid of some books around here...) has been rough on him. Creaky old Alice will actually tinkle in the l<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">itter</span> box downstairs, then crawl up a flight of stairs to do this other business on the carpet. What the hell is going on in her senile kitty head? Thank God I have a carpet cleaning machine that works like a dream.<br /><br />Mom has five cats, and with the exception of her kitten, they are quite timid. I’m not saying her cats are DUMB or anything (cough-cough) but even if I get one calmed down enough to pet it, it fails to recognize me the next day as "that nice lady who petted me," and I’m once again, "The intruder! Oh, God!" Not only do her cats not recognize me from day to day, they don’t recognize me from room to room. "Intruder in the dining room! Oh God!" "Nice lady with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">cat food</span> in the kitchen. She’s probably OK." "Oh no! Intruder in the bathroom! Hide! Hide!" In spite of this, I am getting quite fond of one she calls <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Pookie</span>, who looks like a big white watermelon with golden eyes. Let’s hope, for theirs and Mom’s and Robert’s sake, it will be absolutely <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">unnecessary</span> for her kitties to move anywhere.<br /><br />Anyway, I have to run. My Mom likes to get cards and letters, if you want to send them, to Patty <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Hogg</span>, at 401 High Street, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Williamston</span>, MI, 48895. Keep those good thoughts <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">comin</span>’!Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-11701926165531099672007-07-01T18:18:00.000-07:002007-07-10T18:22:12.670-07:00July 1, 2007<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcXBhalWjAMNcOz2Eucp1ShMrLSPY7qLBavOHkRaf7sHVt9Zwzd-5OPPQrRyQekjPGCK2yuHuh-qjDI9PXNs4sH5YiSG9goJx0E7w0sWWAV0vH8ppAbXi2K70anjxtayySSxwmtEc2j9W/s1600-h/DSC00273.JPG">Even before I got the June letter ready to go out, new things happened that required another letter. So there are two of them here for you. Also, more photos, out of order. </a><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5083657176841647042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcXBhalWjAMNcOz2Eucp1ShMrLSPY7qLBavOHkRaf7sHVt9Zwzd-5OPPQrRyQekjPGCK2yuHuh-qjDI9PXNs4sH5YiSG9goJx0E7w0sWWAV0vH8ppAbXi2K70anjxtayySSxwmtEc2j9W/s320/DSC00273.JPG" border="0" /><br />This is a view from the footpath, that might give you some idea of how steep the slopes were, on our way to the falls. Or maybe not. Those were <strong>really tall</strong> trees.<br /><div><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082419431691449266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJdRTaSz_eSdS_43xJo9o435S-PGIx0laP6G3qNVbhss4mOwKVRgk7uKnwhfZ2NUe0Ni1BVn-JBrWTr_GccTUz0vR_6YxISPzyp6qBEdCQadc_hiFBcgACACBEP3qm5bom0jA0Li2lVvL/s320/DSC00283.JPG" border="0" /> </p><br /><p></p><br /><p>This is the very top of Kaaterskill Falls. It is hard to get perspective in a photo, but this top tier is 175 feet tall. There is a shelf, about fifty feet deep, at the bottom of this, that you can walk on. There's a shallow pool there, then the water falls an additional 85 feet to the ground. Kaaterskill Falls are taller than Niagara Falls, but perhaps with just a bit less water volume...</p><br /><p></p><br /><p>Anyway, here's the July 1 letter:<br /><br /><br />I think no day goes by, for the past two years, that I don't thank God for giving me the gift of my job at Robert's firm. It is so pleasant to work for such competent, decent, generous people, and my job is relaxing and fun. The best part has been that Robert and I get to work together. Our long commute have been wonderful for our marriage--we have that block of time every day that we get to spend all alone, to talk about everything and make fun plans for the future. It has been a dream job for us.<br /><br />So we were EXCEEDINGLY BUMMED when, on Friday, they called us in to tell us that they were going to have to let me go because of some upcoming changes in the firm. Two of the partners had announced their intention to retire at the end of the year, then a recent Supreme Court decision has made it just about impossible for people to bring class action lawsuits against companies who lie to their stockholders. About half of the firm's business has been representing employee retirement funds against companies like Enron, to try to avoid disasters like Enron. (Apparently, having to deal with pesky lawsuits that prevent the sacking of people's retirement funds is is bad for big business.) Anyway, most of the work I've been doing has been reviewing documents for these gigantic cases. With the current case load, and nothing big on the horizon, they no longer needed two litigation assistants. Other support staff are also being let go. This is bad news, but at least I'll have three more weeks at work, then six weeks' of severance. Then God knows what. It is also possible that Robert may lose his job later this year. (We are keeping that from Robert's mother, for the meantime, because she'll fuss too much.)<br /><br />This makes everything scary, because without my job, we can't afford our car payment, and without Robert's job, we can't afford our house. Even though I'm sure we will ultimately be fine, I am so depressed out about this you can't imagine. I'm sure we won't be able to match our previously ridiculously high salaries, and with two elderly mothers, we desperately need the vacation time we've both finally accrued. With new jobs you have to start all over again, at zero. But I have always believed that God really likes me, and always has an interesting plan for me, if I will only keep my eyes open for the opportunities shown to me. After all, at one point, God revealed my good pal Robert to me in a different light than I'd ever looked at him before, and you know, that turned out pretty good! I think this change is an opportunity in disguise, if only I look at it the right way.<br /><br />Even having that understanding and faith, I had a pretty crappy weekend, working desperately to fend off panic feelings and depression. We went to see Pirates of the Caribbean on Friday night, thinking that might help. I have loved these fun, swashbuckling movies, but the third one was a bit ponderous. Also, I couldn't get that heroic music out of my head, and I had dreams about sword fights every time I closed my eyes. That, and worry, kept me from sleeping. I think I finally dropped off at 5:30 a.m., but woke up an hour and a half later, unable to go back to sleep.<br /><br />I decided to avoid thinking about it (HA!) by keeping busy with yard and house work on Saturday. At about two p.m. I decided a glass of wine might be just the thing, and I ended the day in such a stupid state, I couldn't believe it. It was fireworks night in Beacon, so we went to the sports field where they are held. We were planning to meet up with our friend Roy and his squeeze, Anne, so I brought a big bedspread for us all to lay down on. Roy wrote the next day in an e-mail that he was sorry they couldn't find us in the crowd. I told him that was not surprising. Impaired by too many glasses of wine, I had not dressed appropriately for the after-dark temperatures. Also, my head was throbbing and spinning so much, I laid on the grass and rolled myself up in the bedspread like a mummy, only peeking out at the end to watch the quite fabulous display in the sky. I'll tell you, alcohol for medicinal purposes is a crap shoot. I felt like crap and had a headache later, but I slept like a sack of rocks!<br /><br />By Sunday, I was ready to give up on feeling sorry for myself. Robert and I took a drive into the Catskill mountains, to Kaaterskill Falls (In New York place names, the suffix "kill" is the Dutch word for "stream"). It was a pleasantly cool day, in fabulouly gorgeous surroundings. In spite of a bad beginning (Robert had researched three different well-critiqued restaurants for us for lunch, only to discover that ALL THREE were closed, and for sale), we had a lovely adventure.<br /><br />There are signs posted all over Catskill State Park, advising people to stay on the trails to "prevent fatalities." The hiking books are also full of dire warnings about how many people plummet to their deaths there every year. So we started on the trail through the gorge to the falls, with no intention of doing anything but sticking to the path. It started out very rocky and steep, but forest service workers have moved the huge rocks around to make natural-looking stairs. We followed those along a pretty stream, for about half a mile, enjoying the lush forest scenery. Then the terrain changed a little, and we had to concentrate on the path, that had smaller rocks and ropey tree roots sticking up out of damp and crumbly-shale earth. We finally made it to the bottom of the falls. In all, they are too tall to get in the frame of any single photo, and without much water volume. From a distance they looked like a long, wispy feather against the rock face. </p><p>We could see people walking around at the very top of the falls, and sitting on the deep rock ledge. We followed what appeared to be the trail upward, but about halfway, we started running into places where the path appeared to go in two or three directions, and there were no flash marks. In retrospect, it was easier going up than coming down because when you are focusing on what's above you, you don't really realize what's below you. It was easier to jump over that two-foot space where the path had crumbled and slid down the hill, when I wasn't looking at where that earth ended up. </p><p>At the rock shelf we were on good old granite, and had a nice chat with a couple who were having a picnic there with their two teensy kids. The kids were eating a mango and were covered from head to foot with mango bits and juice. There was a large, shallow pool of clear water there, where they could get cleaned up. We took more pictures, then started the trek down.</p><p>Oh, my God.</p><p>That's all I can say. I can't recall being so scared out of my wits than I was on that walk, except maybe the time a few years ago when Robert and I found ourselves on the freeway, with a speeding car hurtling toward us in the wrong direction. It was impossible to find a clear path, and hard to find sure handholds in soil and loose gravel that frequently gave way to landslides. I found a whole new meaning in that term, "tree hugger." We did a good deal of the descent sitting on our butts, aiming toward trees and things that might break our fall. (I have a great photo of the back of Robert's pants, taken afterwards, but I didn't use the digital camera...) We would follow what appeared to be the safest route only to find ourselves at the edge of a six foot drop-off, to a two-foot shelf, above a thirty foot cliff, with no way to go back up the way we came. It was just dreadful.</p><p>But I guess it's the kind of dreadful we'll do again. </p><p>I guess that's enough for this post. Send a line! Let me know you're alive!<br /></p></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-77480312707077891392007-06-27T04:13:00.000-07:002007-07-01T18:03:47.752-07:00June 26, 2007I still can't figure out how to stick the pictures in where I want to stick them. Sigh.<br /><br />The picture below is Dave, me and Sally, at the Vanderbilt's little cottage on the Hudson...<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlcCPsOuE1Bz7lFkiDjsVF87k_RBu4P5n5QnWtyqnzr5HYTf6pKDJVJptHcwKm_z-kpszAKogOhEOhyphenhyphengif9ox3_K8YrNLMEeyt3n0I-KLZdneexprTXi2a3bbtaRn0OUdLgsv1BAkBM8v/s1600-h/vanderbilt.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5081450697522869154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlcCPsOuE1Bz7lFkiDjsVF87k_RBu4P5n5QnWtyqnzr5HYTf6pKDJVJptHcwKm_z-kpszAKogOhEOhyphenhyphengif9ox3_K8YrNLMEeyt3n0I-KLZdneexprTXi2a3bbtaRn0OUdLgsv1BAkBM8v/s320/vanderbilt.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Here's a fairly current picture of ME. I'm so beautiful...<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEZi6WmfDVYNKIEtVKt8TnPcRf3sSkZJYeWlE2cTg_YLqaBiZuOEgQGioxTlexS7MAbrKMR-5aWXJFd-DjWdLrvf0Aqp4OldrpxW8E0Dsvd12ZZ7ru519PlN7BTjxVb1dQdZh5c6nkhYd/s1600-h/fahl.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5081449598011241362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEZi6WmfDVYNKIEtVKt8TnPcRf3sSkZJYeWlE2cTg_YLqaBiZuOEgQGioxTlexS7MAbrKMR-5aWXJFd-DjWdLrvf0Aqp4OldrpxW8E0Dsvd12ZZ7ru519PlN7BTjxVb1dQdZh5c6nkhYd/s320/fahl.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Here's a picture of my neighbor, Pete Seeger, at the Strawberry festival. He's beautiful, too.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6y68vw-ELJQP1uCK65tHPfNf4NktaH47tdSTdWCO9AHy10w2z3c4waZzuHQyegcC_xK3wdxzecDhF0_RFCgTXbBB55SUaOjeLHklMGX1_1zomUV23etWVSx5XfAk4oXzCwddmp7HTODtx/s1600-h/peteseeger.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5081448515679482754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6y68vw-ELJQP1uCK65tHPfNf4NktaH47tdSTdWCO9AHy10w2z3c4waZzuHQyegcC_xK3wdxzecDhF0_RFCgTXbBB55SUaOjeLHklMGX1_1zomUV23etWVSx5XfAk4oXzCwddmp7HTODtx/s320/peteseeger.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />And finally, the letter!<br /><br /><div>Howdy, again! I just got back from a short but nice visit with my Mom in Michigan, and seeing a lot of old pals at my 35th high school reunion. The days prior to the party were spent toiling on my magnum opus, a 70-page update on the lives and deaths of about 100 former classmates. I sent out a questionnaire to the people for whom I had an address. It was a lucky break that I’ve been in a lull at work, so I had plenty of time to sit at my computer, searching through cyberspace for people and news about them. I found several who had been lost. Then I scrunched all the information together into a nice little booklet to hand out at the party and to mail out to the ones who couldn’t make it. People were very pleased with it. I tried to make it light and humorous, and I hope I haven’t offended anybody too deeply! </div><div><br />If I didn’t have so much else to write about, I’d tell you about the amazing transformations of some of the people I knew, and my observations about high school reunions. Suffice it to say that at this point in our lives, most of us seem to be over the fierce competitiveness of earlier reunions, and the general spirit seems to be that we were all happy for one another’s successes. In all the pictures, everyone is grinning absolutely honest grins. I continue to be surprised with the "quiet" ones at school, who now lead such interesting, exciting lives, while some of the "golden ones" seem to be living the most boring lives imaginable. (Golf? Country clubs? What’s WRONG with you?) Also, it was interesting to discover how many cute guys named ME as their secret crush! I must have been BLIND!!!! (And we used to make fun of my brother Chris for that sort of obliviousness . . . perhaps it’s genetic.)</div><div></div><div><br />Last weekend we had house guests. My old college buddy from Fresno, David Johnson, and his wife Sally came to visit. Robert and I had such a fun time when the Johnsons took us exploring through the boondocks of western Pennsylvania when we visited a few years ago, we were looking forward to returning the favor. We showed them some of our favorite restaurants. (And now I must tell you, because Dave made me promise I would over Sally’s emphatic objections, how Sally caught her menu on fire at the Canterbury Inn. I was amazed at the many clever ways Dave was able to rub her nose in that over the course of the rest of the visit!). We also took them on favorite drives along the Hudson. We visited the headquarters of Gen. Henry Knox, near what is now West Point, and the headquarters of George Washington, right across the river from Beacon. We’d never been there before (it’s always been closed when we’ve tried to see it). I was surprised how moved I was to be there, walking on the same floor boards as the brilliant men who founded this country. </div><div><br />Important things in history happened all around where we live, but there seems to be so MUCH of it, that it’s overwhelming. I really enjoyed reading the Alexander Hamilton biography (or actually, listening to it on tapes in our car). As it got nearer the end, I found myself getting more and more upset, because I knew my hero was going to be senselessly murdered by Aaron Burr, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I found the book must have had a similar effect on other people. While Googling for images of the people we were reading about, I found and appreciated a very well-researched blog by another Hamiltonite, who refers to Alexander Hamilton as "my dead boyfriend." I know how she feels. Anyway, Robert and I are getting a book on tape about the life of Benjamin Franklin, next. (I probably won’t think of him as my dead boyfriend. But who knows?) [Robert remarks: He was kind of old by the time we got to know him.] </div><br /><div>In addition to the trips to Revolutionary War sites, we took Dave and Sally to the Vanderbilt Mansion and the Roosevelt home, in Hyde Park. It was too late to go inside the houses, but we got to explore the flower gardens and magnificent lawns. We had tried to think of things to do with our guests that they can't readily do up in the woodlands where they live. We thought a boat ride on the Hudson would be nice, so we went to see Bannerman’s Island (yeah–that’s the thing the guy was wearing on his head at the hat Parade). We tramped around, looking at the remains of the castle there. It was a bit too much climbing for Sally, I think, and we weren’t allowed on the deck for the boat ride, but it was still interesting. </div><div><br />What else? The weekend before THAT, was the Strawberry festival. I spent the day painting kitty faces on cute little kids, while the other ladies sold T-shirts and the buttons and other things I’ve been making. We made a nice chunk of dough, and it was a pretty and pleasant day. They hold the festival in a park on a little spit of land on the River. Of course, my other "boyfriend," Pete Seeger, was there. [I think he’s the same age as Ben Franklin, honey.] </div><div><br />We had to drive my old car for about a week while our Prius was at the dentist’s, getting new front teeth. I hit a very large raccoon while driving many months ago, that took out the grill, punched a big hole through the front fender and tore up the underside of the car. We kept putting off getting the car fixed, until the act of hitting a cardinal turned a tiny chip in the windshield into a dangerous crack, and we really had to do something. (We have been calling the car our "faunacide-mobile" lately). I was surprised such a little bird could do that to a windshield. I don’t know what would have happened if we’d hit that low-flying turkey that decided to fly right at us in the middle of a thunderstorm! </div><br /><div>Anyway, the repair job was supposed to take three days, mostly to allow time for the new paint to cure, but the repair shop kept putting us off, day by day, saying "Tomorrow, for sure." Robert got grumpy about it on day six, and demanded to know what the problem was. It seems they had to disconnect the car’s battery as a safety precaution before working on it, and then couldn’t figure out how to turn the thing back on! I can’t tell you how many times it has happened at oil change places, where, when I hand over my keys, I always ask if they know how to drive a hybrid electric car. I get all kinds of manly snorts in reply. Then, thirty minutes AFTER they said the job would be done, they send some kid out to ask me how to start the thing. Anyway, she looks nice with her smile back. </div><br /><div>We had a sad loss this weekend. Nothing big, but I’m surprised how bummed we both continue to be about it. Robert’s brother-in-law made us a bluebird house a few years ago. Our yard is a little too small and crowded for bluebirds, but last year it became the home of a resourceful little house wren. It was a very tiny brown bird, and we enjoyed sitting on the back porch, watching him (or her) struggle to pull sticks and bits of grass through the opening of the birdhouse to make a nest. Then there were babies, who rested their little yellow beaks on ledge of the top of the walls and waited for their parents to come with food. (The birdhouse had a hinged roof lid that I didn’t close all the way, so we could see them peeking through that opening.). But this week our intrepid huntress, Mabel, caught the bird unawares and killed it. (Yes, Mabel’s getting a flea collar with a bell on it this weekend!) I feel very guilty about our dear little friend. I checked in the bird house and the nest was not finished, so at least there aren’t baby birds starving somewhere, as far as I know. </div><br /><div>Another little garden friend I am having second thoughts about is Munchie the groundhog (we called them woodchucks in Michigan) who moved to our yard after people cleared a brushy lot down the street and deprived him of his previous wilderness home. At first, I welcomed him, because it's fun to watch him waddle around the gardens. In a yard crowded with plants of all kinds, I will never understand how he knows EXACTLY which plants I DO NOT want him to eat, because those seem to be the ONLY plants he’s interested in. [Robert queries: What’s to understand? The guy’s got taste.] I’m not just talking things like the cucumbers (now surrounded by unsightly sawhorses and chicken wire) and parsley (now protected with a chunk of fencing, after being mowed down by groundhog teeth to a height of exactly three inches). Munchie capped my beautiful black-eyed Susans, that make such a spectacular golden show when all of the other flowers have faded. I don’t know if the plants will be able to survive with only three inches of stem and about twelve leaves. I AM SO BUMMED! Damn you! Damn you, Munchie! </div><br /><div>Now Munchie has dug a new den under the fence near our neighbor’s garage which looks about large enough to rent out to tenants. Maybe I’ll wait until NEXT week to get Mabel that flea collar.... I love her in spite of her murderous tendencies. </div><div><br />Well, it’s time to hit the hay. We hope you are all well and happy. We are!<br />(Honest! Honest! Those library pictures are coming NEXT TIME!!!)<br /></div><div>Love F and R</div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-39864749801229811072007-06-01T07:07:00.000-07:002007-06-01T09:32:55.597-07:00June 1, 2007Well, OK. Maybe we're not quite cooking with gas. Perhaps I'm using charcoal.<br /><br />I promise I will eventually figure out how to put pictures where I want them in this blog, with titles under them and everything. The following are pictures of:<br />1. my beautiful front porch with azaleas;<br />2. the guy wearing a ferry boat and an island (with a ruined Scottish-style castle on it--it's in the middle of the Hudson--you've got to see it!);<br />3. me, in my stunning cat hat.<br /><br />On my hat, two cats are lying amid flowers. One carries a sign that reads "Mid-Hudson Animal Aid - Beacon," and the other one says "Don't Litter! Spay or neuter!" I'm also wearing some of the kitty-face pins that I'm making. I expect to wear this ridiculous get-up while attending functions on behalf of the shelter. Will I frighten away the children?<br /><br />What else? We are on our way to Maryland to visit my mother-in-law for the weekend. We're listening to a great book on tape--the biography of Alexander Hamilton. I think I have a new national hero. When you tally up all the things he did, it's amazing any one person could have done them. It's too bad he died young and he had so many political enemies, who were able to tarnish his reputation after his death. One bit of interesting information we have learned about Alexander Hamilton--he used to live in Beacon!Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-90545038912100900802007-05-30T13:27:00.000-07:002007-06-01T09:29:02.844-07:00May 30, 2007<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPo5fuwE49e_A38sjme8GxWKZy2S0mdSjmdSI_nOJRHyQyp0re86DSoO8iwUUrgrqLle0qqpOSHoIjYqsVcBh7Oegi2cPM9GD3_ZQRMhpZD5_jD-no3qyGTHiwaim6KNjVGY-h9zWQg1n/s1600-h/front+porch+with+azaleas.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5071060597092177810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPPo5fuwE49e_A38sjme8GxWKZy2S0mdSjmdSI_nOJRHyQyp0re86DSoO8iwUUrgrqLle0qqpOSHoIjYqsVcBh7Oegi2cPM9GD3_ZQRMhpZD5_jD-no3qyGTHiwaim6KNjVGY-h9zWQg1n/s320/front+porch+with+azaleas.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmziSSMDj-LvKJAwZ7EqctFyJL0cz21ODu8atPrcSN_xsKNGeMIRAZhQJQmahGpQe8fspALuazawJVxPFgaUJOyhCjUYyt55NQNkaAq2HP65q4HVlMSp1hkEV8XBHlpQhmHpNNyfi_LMfW/s1600-h/hat+day+parade+--+bannerman"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5071060382343812994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmziSSMDj-LvKJAwZ7EqctFyJL0cz21ODu8atPrcSN_xsKNGeMIRAZhQJQmahGpQe8fspALuazawJVxPFgaUJOyhCjUYyt55NQNkaAq2HP65q4HVlMSp1hkEV8XBHlpQhmHpNNyfi_LMfW/s320/hat+day+parade+--+bannerman%27s+island+hat.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEknTA84osKAEizSDrnQZEpf1a_9fZMBFGTr9-PBeUUh1EKG1jL9T10lwUoxF8NhQxOHIbxqMViUmroCGajSx3kkVZ7NhY9Y3uiK9x9bz1e73qjLYnUf0PuRRmlsFgCQux2DBWHys08DB_/s1600-h/franny+in+kitty+hat+2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5071060025861527410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEknTA84osKAEizSDrnQZEpf1a_9fZMBFGTr9-PBeUUh1EKG1jL9T10lwUoxF8NhQxOHIbxqMViUmroCGajSx3kkVZ7NhY9Y3uiK9x9bz1e73qjLYnUf0PuRRmlsFgCQux2DBWHys08DB_/s320/franny+in+kitty+hat+2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>OK! Now we're cookin' with gas! I hope this is an easier way for you to read my letters and see my pictures, too! I've put the May 17 letter on this blog, as well as a letter about the last leg of our Mexican trip. Robert put in some pictures--they're not ones I would have chosen, but he tried to show some of the things I wrote about. The first picture shows the Queretero acquaduct, and the second one is the Temple of Quetzalcoatl. We haven't figured out yet how to put in photo captions.<br /><br />I've been extremely busy lately with volunteer work--most of it involving the cat shelter. When I get home at night I make dinner, then disappear into the basement, where I'm putting together hundreds of pins and magnets shaped like kitty faces. I make them out of painted poker chips, on which I glue whiskers, noses, ears and eyeballs. I'm also making "grown-up" kitty pins, of two cats with their arms wrapped around one another. These are cut out of clay, cured in an oven , then painted. They require a lot more work. I'm also crocheting dozens of colorful pouches, to be worn around the neck, and used to stow sunglasses or cell phones. I've got to get all of this stuff ready for Beacon's hippie-dippy Strawberry Festival on June 10, where I'll be manning a booth, selling the pins, T-shirts and other cat stuff. I may also be painting cat faces on kids again. I am expecting I'll be good and exhausted after six hours or so of that.<br /><br />The Strawberry Festival is a fun day, down on the waterfront, with music and lots of kids and dogs running around. It is run by the Beacon Sloop Club, an environmental group. They sell homemade strawberry shortcake and give free rides on their sloop, "Clearwater." Later in the year the same group puts on a Corn Festival and a Pumpkin Festival. I hope we have good weather.<br /><br />Two weekends ago was the Beacon Hat Parade. Beacon was once a big hat manufacturing center, and the home of many famous hat designers, back when everybody wore hats (Quick! How many famous hat designers can you name?) (Yeah. Me, neither...) and the parade is supposed to celebrate that part of the town's history. I thought it might be a good opportunity for some goodwill for the cat shelter, so I made myself a chapeau covered with cats and flowers. You would think a hat this gorgeous would have won an award, but I couldn't compete with the guy who wore a ferry boat and Bannerman's Island, or the lady wearing a horse barn and paddock, or the guy who had a whole working puppet theatre on his head. It was still fun.<br /><br />This last weekend I volunteered to work at the SCATS sale. This is a combined yard sale, held by an animal rescue organzation across the river. They run a second-hand shop, and once a year they set up a huge yard sale in the parking lot of a pet food store, and invite local rescue groups to set up tables there. At the end of the day all the money is pooled and divided among the groups, and best of all, SCATS loads up all the stuff that doesn't get sold, and hauls it back to their store! We had about a dozen people there from our cat shelter, working all day. We worked hard, got sunburned, and made about a thousand dollars.<br /><br />I also offered to sell raffle tickets for a Mets baseball game to the millionaire attorneys at my office. You know, it's DANGEROUS, trying to sell Mets tickets-- to Yankees fans! I practically got blasted out of a couple of offices!<br /><br />You would all of these activities are enough volunteer stuff for one person for one month, but no. My high school class is celebrating its 35th reunion, and I offered to put together a booklet, updating what my classmates have been doing all this time. The internet makes it a little easier, I suppose. It has been fun, trying to find people. I've sent out a lot of questionnaires, but people are taking their time to respond. I'm afraid I'm going to get buried in them at the very last minute.<br /><br />I called my Mom to tell her that Robert and I will be driving in on the weekend of June 23rd, for the reunion. She then called me, twice, to ask if we couldn't possibly come on another weekend, instead. Our dear pipe Major, Ken Jones, was being honored at the Highland Games in Alma, Michigan, and his three daughters were coming up from Virginia for that. There was going to be a band reunion of sorts, and Mom wanted the whole family to go to that, also she said there was going to be a family get-together involving my nieces from Chicago. So Robert and I changed plans. We told her we'd drive out for the Memorial Day weekend (Robert HATES to travel on holiday weekends, with the increased traffic) and I bought a non-refundable plane ticket for myself, for just one day, so I can attend the reunion later on. We had theater tickets that we couldn't change for a different date so we gave them away (the THIRD play we would have missed this season from our season ticket subscription) and got vacation time approved and did all the stuff necessary to take off on Thursday after work.<br /><br />Then everything got confusing. It seems there wasn't really any family get-together planned, and Mom wasn't planning on going to the reunion. We decided not to drive out, under those circumstances, and we'll try to do that later on thjs summer. Maybe we'll throw a big party to celebrate my mother's new deck. So Robert and I spent the long weekend doing what we NEEDED to do--backed-up house and yard work. Our neighbors saw us, still at home, and insisted on giving us our theater tickets back (a musical based on Jekyll and Hyde) so we got to go to that, and enjoyed it.</div></div></div>Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-943913447600206065.post-61127296565804567382007-05-20T20:21:00.000-07:002007-06-01T09:38:31.272-07:00May 18, 2007<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitN3Kp-jw0sLRDGwHSf6Ft66LQjP-6qVbQBv4JWbU9EYFFXXAM3-u-BwURvvY_HVsAAGkrbR5-_Olu77cjeUH89BDjGvp5mR91eqMcLG9H3x0DTEvf3oUqkZziMfkgWuEuDP3O058Gq22o/s1600-h/DSC00137.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066849888464590674" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitN3Kp-jw0sLRDGwHSf6Ft66LQjP-6qVbQBv4JWbU9EYFFXXAM3-u-BwURvvY_HVsAAGkrbR5-_Olu77cjeUH89BDjGvp5mR91eqMcLG9H3x0DTEvf3oUqkZziMfkgWuEuDP3O058Gq22o/s320/DSC00137.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />May 18, 2007<br /><br />Here’s the rest of our Mexican trip:<br /><br />The third city we visited was Querétaro. This is an important city, historically. It is where Emperor Maximilian was executed, among other things. Previously, Robert had us booked at a fancy hotel, but there were no rooms available when we had to reschedule the trip, so we stayed at someplace that SOUNDED like it might be interesting. It was touted as an eighteenth-century former convent, but they managed to cover up or destroy any vestige of that past when they turned it into a hotel. Our room was literally four times the size of the one we had in San Miguel, and four times as expensive. It was like a McMansion hotel room, with soaring ceilings, a second floor “loft,” and a whole lot of wasted space. It also had two TVs and two leather couches. It seemed to me they designed over all the things that might have made it interesting. There had originally been a huge central courtyard, but now they use it to drive cars through, so it wasn’t very pretty, and they installed a lackluster bar and restaurant in the middle. Although some of the rooms opened onto little courtyards, with perhaps a small tiled fountain in the middle, all the window glass was frosted, so you couldn’t look through them. There were topiary trees in pots, but hardly any flowers. Even the tulips in vases on the restaurant tables were fake. There was no place to sit down in the courtyards, to enjoy them, and no shade plants on the roof.<br /><br />We went for a walk and saw more plazas and churches, and a very ancient and impressive two-mile long aqueduct. We also walked around the Pantheon of Heroes, with statues of famous people who’d lived in Queretaro. It made us wish we knew more about Mexican history. My impression of the town was that it is about as interesting as downtown Fresno. I especially didn’t care for our hotel, and I think we paid way too much for it. However, on a walk we passed by an intriguing place that looked like a Moorish palace inside, with a courtyard filled with flowers and fancy tiled walls and fountains. I commented to Robert about how lush and gorgeous it was, and he told me that was the place he had originally intended us to stay. Pooh! I bought some postcards of it. It would have been fun to stay there.<br /><br />We visited a museum called Casa de la Zacatecana. It is an old hacienda that had belonged to a wealthy couple from Zacateca, a nearby city. There’s a rather dramatic history to the house. The woman’s husband went away on a business trip and never came back. Later, she was found stabbed to death in the street. She had been murdered in the house, and hauled outside. People didn’t like her because there had been a rumor that her husband didn’t just disappear–that she had actually convinced her servant to kill him for her. So the neighbors strung her body up in front of the house and more or less let her rot there, as a warning to others about being evil. Years later, when someone bought the house, they dug up the garden and found the remains of both her husband and the servant, so I guess la Zacatecana deserved her post-mortem shame after all. Now her house is supposed to be haunted. The docent showed us a place where, if you look up at a reflection from a little round window in a tower, you were supposed to be able to see her face. (We didn’t.)<br /><br />Anyway, the place is now a museum featuring antique furniture and decorative objects. We started our tour watching a fairly high-style movie of the story of the Zacatecana, then walked through the house. Rooms were done up in different styles and time periods, and a couple rooms held collections, such as one with was completely covered with crucifixes. The darkened rooms lit up as you approached the doors, so it was rather spooky to approach one with 120 antique clocks in it, because you could hear all the furious ticking before you ever saw the contents.<br /><br />We walked into several impressive churches, including one I really liked that looked as if it had been wallpapered throughout with pink and red patterned paper. It was really stenciling, but looked very nice. I think that church was called San Antonio. We also saw one that didn’t have an impressive main altar (it had been “improved” and modernized) but there were five older altar retablos on the side walls that were absolutely amazing. They were roiling with life-sized saints and angels, and cute little cherubs who were playing peek-a-boo with one another.<br /><br />We decided to cut our visit to Queretaro shorter, to spend a little more time in Mexico City. We took a bus, then a taxi to the airport, where our hotel was. It was too early to check in, but they held our luggage for us, and arranged for a driver (Enrique) to take us to Teotihuacan. Enrique was a big guy, very nice, and he and Robert talked about religion and cannibalism in Spanish on the way there (about 55 miles). He took us to a small anthropological museum on the way, where we saw 12,500-year-old skulls, then to the ancient city. I had been there once when I was a little girl. My Dad was curator of exhibits at the MSU Museum, and he made a diorama of one of the pyramids, with hundreds of teeny little Teotihuacanians climbing all over it. I didn’t remember much about the actual place, except that there were pyramids and scary snake heads made of stone.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5qaf-AfKtAGdEos_8h5KI8-YJC7MIZDEEIr0IUaE5JBhkahuEnEJMJT3MxDtH9BjB0oBPPh_wwQAR0N23sRUxz-dywwkdUTx8SZDg2Pc_kJJqXqHwq9NUm0CR7ROLgopds0_-26yEKyB/s1600-h/DSC00141.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066850223472039778" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5qaf-AfKtAGdEos_8h5KI8-YJC7MIZDEEIr0IUaE5JBhkahuEnEJMJT3MxDtH9BjB0oBPPh_wwQAR0N23sRUxz-dywwkdUTx8SZDg2Pc_kJJqXqHwq9NUm0CR7ROLgopds0_-26yEKyB/s320/DSC00141.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />We walked to the top of the Pyramid of Quetzalcoatl. This gave us good views of the two-mile-long Avenue of the Dead, lined with hundreds of smaller buildings, and two large Pyramids at the far end. Instead of being made of big chunks of stone, like at Chichen Itza, these pyramids are fashioned out of smaller, irregularly shaped stones, mortared with lime. In the mortar joints, tiny red stones have been pressed in a design, so it is very colorful and pretty. Over that, there had once been a thick layer of lime, brightly painted. The pyramids are very attractive and architectural.<br /><br />Instead of walking (which we could have done, because it was pleasantly cool) Enrique drove us around the compound to the Pyramid of the Sun, the tallest one. The steps varied but most of them were about 12" high, so that was hard on my “old lady” hips. We went up to the first level. I told Enrique that was far enough–we had no desire to climb it, but he grabbed my hand and HAULED me up to the next level. I was glad he did, later. The views were great, and we walked around to the back of the Pyramid. Going back down was scary, in general, but not so bad if Robert and I held hands, and only looked at the next step we were stepping on, otherwise–aaaargh! There is a sort of optical illusion you experience staring down from the top of a pyramid–it feels as if you are on a sheer cliff, even though you know you aren’t. So even though the steps here are wider than those at Chichen Itza (about ten inches wide as opposed to about eight) and there was a raised handrail you could use, not just a chain lying on the steps, it still caused increased heart-pounding.<br /><br />We got back in Enrique’s van and he drove us to a factory where they made obsidian objects and silver jewelry. A woman showed us the different colors of obsidian and explained how they carve and polish it. She also showed us how they smelt silver and make tiny chain links, and later we watched an artist put them together to make chains and other jewelry. The most interesting thing she showed us, however, was the maguey.<br /><br />A maguey looks like a six-foot-tall aloe plant. When the plants are eight years old, people cut out the newest growth in the center, and use a tool to scrape the inside. The cavity fills up with sap, providing about two liters a day for each plant. In a matter of only a few hours, the nectar ferments into a kind of natural beer called pulque. A few hours after that, it’s spoiled, so it has to be drunk fairly quickly. After about three months of being used to make pulque, the plant dies.<br /><br />Then the leaves are crushed and the fibers woven into fabric. There is a transparent layer inside the leaf that can be peeled off and used as a type of nearly indestructible waterproof paper. It dries hard and feels a lot like plastic. Also, the spine on the end of the leaf can be cut off in such a way that a few long fibers are left attached, and they use this as a pre-threaded needle! What a useful plant! We each had a tiny sip of pulque–very good! The nectar of the Aztecs tastes quite a bit like champagne.<br /><br />We visited a very nice museum that explained all the phases of habitation of the area. It went from a population of 85,000 at its heyday (one of the largest cities on earth at the time!) down to about 2,000 when the Aztecs finally took it over. There were a lot of beautiful pots and pieces of murals on display, but the most impressive exhibit was a model of the entire complex, completely filling a room about 60 feet long by thirty feet wide. You crossed the room by walking across a glass bridge, so you could look down at the little temples under your feet. It was the same thing my Dad made for the MSU museum, multiplied eight-hundred times. Quite amazing!<br /><br />We arrived at the Pyramid of the Moon just as it was closing. There, it was possible to go inside the pyramid, but all we could do was peer through roped-off doorways at some murals and beautifully-preserved carved columns. Oh well, next time.<br /><br />We were starving by then, and Enrique suggested a restaurant. I had been noticing the topography as we were driving around. It looked as if there were dry stream beds running alongside the road, with the sides pitted with small caves. We arrived at the restaurant–that appeared to be the size of a two-car garage, until we walked up to it. Rather than being a hole in the wall, "El Gruto" is a hole in the ground. It is a 100-plus-year-old restaurant situated inside a giant cave. What a fun surprise! The floor of the cave was filled with tables, covered with bright pink, orange and green tablecloths, and the chairs were painted very bright colors, too. It was too dark to take a good photo. Too bad, because it was a marvelous sight. Waiters were running up and down long flights of stairs, carrying trays, and there was a stage where native dancers perform. This time, however, the stage had been taken over by a bunch of energetic little kids, who were showing off, dancing to the Jalisco music. They were cute and funny.<br /><br />The menu was interesting. For thirty dollars we could have a small serving of "Mexican caviar." Robert said this was actually ant eggs. Enrique did his best to get us to order some, but it was a little too expensive for us, even for a special treat. We had great meals, perhaps the best of our whole trip. Robert had lamb, cooked in a pulque sauce in a buried clay pot. He said it was very tender. I had beef with mole sauce that was extremely chocolatey, and also delicious. It began to rain while we were there, and when we left, we saw a neon-orange sunset–just huge–with bands of navy blue across it.<br /><br />We drove back into Mexico City at dusk. The traffic was tight. You couldn’t pay me to drive there. We saw what looked like a bad accident–a little car more or less embedded into the front of a bus. Earlier in the day we saw three police cars and six policemen trying to capture a scared little spaniel dog that had gotten onto the freeway. He was cowering in a corner while they tried to coax him out of danger.<br /><br />It was a treat to see Mexico City at night. It’s the second largest city on earth now, I think (up there with Sao Paulo and Shanghai). Little lights covered the entire floor of the valley, and completely covered two mountains. The air was less polluted than I remember as a child, but maybe we were just there on a good day.<br /><br />We went to the hotel and got checked in. Our room was nice, but I didn’t sleep well because I was worried about whether we’d make our flights from Mexico City to Acapulco, and from there to NYC. Rather, I was nervous that our luggage wouldn’t make the flight. We only had about an hour and a half to get our stuff off the domestic flight and onto the international flight. I was worried about being stuck in Mexico (during Spring break–God knows when there might finally be room for us to get on another flight) and about not finding our car keys and all sorts of stuff like that. I kept waking up. But when we got to the gate in Acapulco with NO TIME TO SPARE, we found our departing plane had not even arrived yet. It had been delayed. [Robert cannot help interjecting: It was an airline flight in the 21st century, yet somehow it had been delayed! Who would have guessed!?] There is a God! Our flight home was hitchless.<br /><br />Well, it’s late now, and I’m going to bed! I’ll let Robert read this in the morning and add comments if he wants. As ever, we hope you are feeling well and happy.<br /><br />Love, F (and R)Frannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01974843334382508268noreply@blogger.com0