The End of an Era

I feel sad today. It’s as if an era has ended; only no one but me, and possibly my siblings, is aware of it.

Today I learned from my nearly 89-year-old father that he and my mother would not be traveling to their summer home on Cape Cod this year. Or ever again. Moreover, he and my mother have decided to put the cottage up for sale.

Almost as an afterthought, dad told me that he had failed the vision test when he went to the BMV to get his driver’s license renewed.

And then it became clear to me. Because dad has to give up his car keys, and mom no longer drives, they will never again be able to stay up at their summer cottage for months at a time as they had been doing every year since they retired more than twenty years ago. 

The closest of their children is nearly four hours away from the cottage so no one can make a quick run to the grocery store for them. We cannot take their dirty towels and clothes to the laundromat since the cottage doesn’t have the modern convenience of a washer and dryer. And we can’t easily check on them to make sure they are okay and their needs are being met.

My siblings and I are relieved to hear that our parents will not attempt to stay so far away for so many months this year. And we are relieved that there won’t be a repeat episode like last year when my father’s sudden hospitalization left us scrambling to get up there to take care of them.

 

But it still seems like the end of an era to me. 

No longer will we have family gatherings at the cottage that my grandparents built back in the early '50s. 

No longer will we get together for milestone events such as our parents’ 60^th wedding anniversary, which we celebrated only three short years ago. 

And no longer will we hold our annual “Lobster Fests” – that one fun evening where we all sit around the table talking and laughing and dunking succulent pieces of lobster in little bowls of butter.

 

My siblings and I grew up in this cottage. We can remember days long ago when summers seemed carefree and endless. We couldn’t wait until our annual two-week August vacation at Parkwood Beach when we would dig our toes in the sand and jump in the ocean and play in the waves.

When we were young and our grandparents were alive and doted on us. When they gave us coins from Nanna’s change purse and allowed us to race down the street after the ice cream truck to buy ourselves a frosty treat. And when we showed off our swimming and diving skills – or our exemplary sand castle-building skills – to much applause.  To kids with grandparents such as ours, we were talented and unstoppable. And we were well loved.

Eventually, Grandpa passed and Nanna was alone at the cottage. Visiting her was still magical, but we were growing up and some of the carefree sense of our youth was diminishing. Our parents would take a much-needed break from the four of us kids and leave us in the care of our grandmother.  We can recall the times Nanna would pile us all into her big green monster of a car for a road trip.  With her head barely clearing the dashboard, she would shakily drive three hours to Provincetown so that by the time we arrived, the three of us in the back seat were queasy and a bit car sick.

But that didn't stop our adventures. I remember bits and pieces of those road trips, including a stop one afternoon in a Provincetown bar where a bartender sporting colorful tattoos up and down his arms tried to bully the little old white-haired lady into taking her four charges out of his bar. Our diminutive 4'11" tall Nanna stood her ground and eventually the four of us sat at a table picking at the hamburgers he grudgingly fixed for us.

Years later, I wondered about this. Were there no other, more suitable, restaurants open just then? Or did Nanna, once she realized she had taken us to a bar and not a restaurant, refuse to allow the burly bartender to intimidate her?  Either way, it has become one of those fond memories etched deep in my arsenal of “Nanna stories.”

 

And it makes me smile whenever I think about it.

Our trips to the cottage included an annual Deep Sea fishing excursion with our dad. It was a rite of passage and when we turned 9, we were allowed to join the party. I was so excited when I was finally of age to join my dad and older brother, that I forgot to be squeamish about things like threading the fish hook with raw pieces of clam and about squirming fish on the end of my fishing pole and about smelly fish guts.  Or about having to be ready to walk out the door by 6 a.m.

Driving to Plymouth to board one of Captain John’s party boats was a bonding experience with my dad that lasted until a few years ago when Dad was a bit too frail and his eyesight too bad to continue.

The end of that tradition made me sad, too.

As young adults, I remember a time or two when my siblings and I stayed at the cottage by ourselves. It felt odd sitting on the porch having a drink before dinner without grandparents or parents there to supervise, but considering we were of legal drinking age, we quickly got over that and had a wonderful time.

And in my 20s, I remember bringing friends a couple different times to explore the Cape, which was a learning experience for me as well, since my family tended to stick closer to the cottage during our vacations and we didn’t often do the “tourist” thing.

One of my favorite trips was in 2009 when I brought my newly-minted husband to the cottage after our wedding. We hadn’t planned an immediate honeymoon and my parents suggested we take a few days off and drive back with them. I think my dad simply didn’t want to make the long drive on his own and he was grateful for Vince’s driving expertise at getting us there safe and sound (and fast).

We also didn’t relish the thought of sharing our “honeymoon” with my parents. But Vince and I were able to take a couple days to drive down the Cape and explore the area. And we had some wonderful experiences and have some great memories of our time there.

In recent years, my trips to the Cape have been more of a task and responsibility rather than simply a pleasurable vacation. As dad’s vision has steadily diminished, he has gratefully accepted our offer to make the drive for them. Thus, I have either driven my parents to the cottage in June or have driven them back to Ohio in October. Neither of these stays at the cottage is long enough to allow me time to sink my toes in the sand at the beach. Not that I’d particularly want to sink my toes in the sand in mid-October, but you get the idea.

 

So, while I know that every beginning has an end, I am still a little sad that this is the end of an era.

Yet, I have a lifetime of incredible experiences and happy memories to sustain me when I get sad about it. 

And I hope the memories they share also comfort my mom and dad as they say goodbye to a place that has been a part of their lives for so many decades.

Saying goodbye is easy, said no one ever.  But here's one last toast to you, little cottage at Parkwood Beach. Thank you for the decades you protected us and kept us safe and happy. 

And, as Bob Hope (apropros for my folks my parents' age!) once sang, "Thanks for the memories!"

Tribute to Mrs. B

Recently I have been re-watching Friends on Netflix. It was one of my all-time favorite sitcoms, ranking right up there with Cheers and Seinfeld.  

While I watched it when it originally aired in 1994, I hadn't watched every single episode in succession. Without commercial interruptions.

So I watched it all again. 

When the original series ended in 2004, I cried. I guess I identified with the characters on the show since I was only slightly older than they were. Of course, I didn’t have friends who lived across the hall who would burst into my apartment to exchange witty banter to a laugh track. But I recognized the closeness these fictitious characters shared – because I shared that same closeness with my own friends, many of whom I met in college at Ohio State.

I was sad when the series ended because it depicted how life moves on and how we change. Many of those changes are good – we grow up, we move for our careers or to start somewhere anew, we marry, we have children.  But sometimes those changes cause us to lose some of that closeness with those friends who, when we were younger, seemed to be “just across the hall” figuratively, if not literally. It was easier back then when we could drop everything to get together just to hang out for no reason at all or for special occasions like Halloween parties or ski weekends.

Nowadays, we get together less for “no reason at all” and more for things like weddings and funerals. The former is a happy reason, but the latter? Well, it may be the circle of life, but it’s still sad and difficult. And for some of us, it’s definitely a test of the strength of our waterproof mascara.

So yesterday I watched the Friends finale. And I still cried, even though I knew how it ended. After I turned off Netflix and dried my tears – all the while laughing at myself for being such a crybaby – I got to work on the everyday real life stuff: making dinner for my husband, throwing a load of whites in the washing machine and watering the ficus tree.

Then, a couple of hours later, I received a call from my friend Joe telling me that his mom had passed.

And the waterworks began again.

I have so many memories of the lady I always called “Mrs. B.” Not “Mrs. Bressler.” NEVER “Lilly.”  To Alex, Nick and Joe, she was “Mom.” And to all her grandchildren, she was “Nonna.”

And to her I was always, “Janie.”   

My husband Vince and I traveled to North Carolina a couple years ago to attend Joe and Leah’s wedding. Mrs. B was so happy to see us and, as usual, welcomed us like family. We took the requisite photos, of course, and at one point, I aimed the camera at her. She had been sitting on a stool in the kitchen, but when she saw me with the camera, she stood up, walked over to the stove, picked up a pot, leaned against the counter in a pose, and proudly said in her Italian accent, “You take my picture now, Janie. I’m da cook!”

Oh, but she was so much more than that.

Yes, she was a cook. And a seamstress. And a disciplinarian. And a quick wit. She loved Viareggio and her homeland and Italian heritage, but she loved being an American, too.

But mostly? Well, mostly, she was a wonderful friend. And whatever you called her, she was not someone you could ever forget.

For years, she worked at Fabians in Steubenville altering bridal gowns. I visited her there numerous times to see her tiny form covered in a big cloud of white as her nimble fingers added sequins by hand to a bridal gown. I’m guessing you could ask any bride whose wedding gown she altered – even if it was decades ago – and she’d remember Mrs. B. And she’d likely have some stories to share.

Anyone who ever met Mrs. B knows about the “boys from Youngstown.” She’d tell us to be good or she’d get the boys from Youngstown after us. And then she’d lift her finger and make a “rat-tat-tat-tat-tat” sound like a tommy gun. Later, when she walked with a cane, she would lift the cane as a prop and make that sound. And then we’d all laugh, but no one harder or louder than Mrs. B.

Like any self-respecting Italian, food was a priority in the Bressler household.

I remember the first time I visited Nick and Joe in Steubenville and sat down for a meal at Mrs. B’s table. No one had warned me that the chicken she served was only the first course – and not the entire meal.

I know, I know. Rookie mistake.

I spent the rest of the meal trying to eat a respectable portion of all the courses without insulting her – or exploding. It was delicious. But it wasn’t easy.

When I moved to Steubenville in 1998 to work with Nick and Joe, I realized that Mrs. B was just as much a part of their company as they were. She was at every birthday gathering, office Christmas party and event. She sent food over weekly. She would have sent it daily if Nick and Joe had let her. I can still picture Nick or Joe with her big black purse slung over their shoulder, carefully guiding her up the steps to the office so she could regale us with her stories.

Once she learned my cell phone number, that was it. She’d call me several times a week. I’d answer the phone and hear, “Janie!” and I knew Mrs. B was on the other end of the line. “Come pick me up tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock,” she’d say. “I take you to breakfast.”

I soon learned the reasons behind these breakfasts were two-fold: 1) she needed a ride to work, and 2) she was on a fact-finding mission to get the scoop on her boys’ companies. She figured I was a soft touch and would spill the beans.

Usually I was able to divert her attention by asking to see some of her old photographs. Her eyes would light up and her hands would dig into that big black purse – and out would come a baggie filled with black and white photographs of days gone by. Photos of her as a young war bride. Photos of her in a bathing suit on the beach with her legs playfully crossed in a movie star pose. Pictures of her boys when they were little.

And always she had another story to share.

After I moved back to Columbus, Mrs. B frequently called me from her cell phone. It didn’t matter if I were in a meeting or in the middle of an eye exam. If I answered the phone, Mrs. B had license to talk. 

So she’d talk. And talk. Annnnd…talk. But once she was finished, she’d suddenly say, “Janie – I love you. You family.” And – boom! – she’d disconnect the call.

Sometimes she’d jokingly add, “You pick me up tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock? I take you to breakfast.” And then she’d laugh because she knew I wasn’t going to be able to drive from Columbus to Steubenville the next morning by 9 o’clock just to go to breakfast.

It was only in the last year or two that her calls became more infrequent. And then she stopped calling me altogether. And, oh, how I miss those telephone calls.

Seven years ago I first introduced Vince to my OSU friends for a milestone birthday party in Cleveland. He had to go through a rigorous screening process. And the toughest person on the jury was Mrs. B.

But before the weekend was over, she was calling him “Vincey” (a name even I don’t get to call him, by the way!), and he was given the Mrs. B Stamp of Approval.

It was an honor, then, a year later when she attended our wedding. I have many wonderful memories of that day, of course, but one of the best was when – at the urging of Mrs. B – our DJ played, Let Me Call You Sweetheart as the last song of the evening and we all gathered together to sing. The blurry phone camera photos we have of that moment are – to me – priceless. And Mrs. B, of course, was front and center in them all.

The last time I visited Mrs. B was in August with Nick, Beth and their girls. Nick played the piano and sang. Mrs. B looked at me, nodded at Nick and murmured, “beautiful.”

And whenever she spoke of – or looked at – her grandchildren, she’d smile and again mouth the word, “beautiful.”

Beyond the obvious, I think I knew what she meant. She meant that she’d raised three wonderful boys. They grew up, married and raised (and are still raising) beautiful families of their own. She was so very proud of them all.

The fact that they are the kindest, funniest, best friends I’ve ever known is testament to the fact that I think she did a beautiful job, too.

Mrs. B’s dressy occasion outfit was a pair of blue slacks, blue vest or jacket and a white ruffled blouse. Sometimes the blue would be replaced by black, but the white ruffled blouse was a constant. 

 

Now, whenever I see a white ruffled blouse – whether it’s on a model or on a grandmother – I think of Mrs. B. And whenever I see someone walking with a cane, irreverent as it is, I picture the user holding it up like a tommy gun and saying, “Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!”

And it makes me smile.

None of us lives forever. We all know that. But it’s still hard to say goodbye.

Mrs. B used to say, “I’m 90-and change” – so she lived a full, long, beautiful life. But she is going to miss her oldest granddaughter’s upcoming wedding. And she’s going to miss the birth of her newest grandchild. Life will go on without her. But she will always, always remain close in our hearts.

I love you, Mrs. B. You family. And I wish I could pick you up tomorrow at 9 o’clock. I would take you to breakfast.

Reflections

For my parents’ 60^th wedding anniversary a few years ago, I gave them a digital picture frame. On it, I loaded many of their old slides and a slew of family photos past and present. 

When I picked up my parents to bring them to our home for Christmas a few weeks ago, I pulled the memory card from the frame so I could add more recent photos to it.

Unfortunately, I forgot I had the card in the pocket of my jeans, and it went through the laundry. But, fortunately, when I put the card in our digital photo frame to test it, all the photos were intact. Believe me, that was a big “whew!”

So for the past couple days, I’ve been watching all the images of my parents’ lives stream across the screen. And it makes me both happy and a little sad at the same time.

I look at the images of my mom as a young bride and newly-minted mother. I see her hair change from auburn to gray (or “silver” as she used to insist we call it). Interestingly, it got more silver after I was brought into the family. Coincidence?  Dunno. I think I’ll choose to believe it was just heredity at work and it was simply time for those strands to turn silver!

I see photos of my dad as a young father with a full head of hair...er...wait a minute. On second thought, the top of dad's head was a little sparse even back then. While mom's hair turned silver at a fairly young age, dad lost most of his pretty early on. Nevertheless, he always had a big smile on his face as he balanced one or more kids on his lap. 

I marvel at the baby pictures of me and my siblings and photos of us when we excitedly opened our presents from Santa or played on the beach.  I can’t believe we were ever that little.

But I also see pictures of family members who are no longer with us and friends of my parents from the time before I was born whom I’ve never met.

So I see a whole lifetime in those images.

And I realize how short it really is.

At 21, who can picture themselves at 81? I don’t think many of us have that ability. If we did, we’d have probably rethought that whole baby oil suntanning thing we did in the 70s.

But I really don’t think we realize how quickly time passes – at least until we get past the halfway mark and wonder where the years have gone.

None of us, of course, knows when our time has come to depart from this earth. We know it could be any day, but we somehow don’t really believe it. We always think we have another tomorrow on the books.

When you reach my dad and mom’s ages of 88 and 89, respectively, you know there can’t be many tomorrows left. I can only hope that in their senior years, they look back on their lives and know they’ve had a good one. I know they traveled the world while they were able and lived life to the fullest. I hope they look at their children’s lives and recognize they did a good job raising them and that they are all settled and happy. And I hope those thoughts give them peace.

I have friends who have recently lost parents. And I know many people who were missing their loved ones this recent holiday season. So I know I am fortunate that I was able to spend another Christmas with both my mom and dad by my side.

So when I load more recent photos on their digital memory card before returning it to them, I will take a moment to reflect on my life and think about all that I still want to accomplish. 

And I will get to work. After all, as the old saying goes, “This isn’t a dress rehearsal.”

Thanks, Mom and Dad. For the reminder. And for a lifetime of happy memories.

Now it’s time to go make some more.

Remembering Alliance...

There is this group on Facebook called “You Know You’re From Alliance…” and people have been blowing up the site with memories from their childhoods. It’s been so much fun reading their memories and everyone’s comments after each one.

But…I have to say…: “Did I grow up in the same town??”

Either that, or I’ve just forgotten every memory I ever had of the place.

No, that’s not really true. I have wonderful memories of Alliance. But the specific details that people are recalling with names and businesses and locations, well, that’s a little murkier for me. Of course, I can’t tell you all the streets I drive to get myself home every day now – and I’ve been traveling those same streets for nearly nine years. AND I’m an adult.

Besides, as a kid, my tether wasn’t all that long.

I would add some of my own memories to the site itself, but I wouldn’t want everyone coming back at me with corrections. I’d say, “I remember ice skating somewhere near Mt. Union College.” And people would respond with the exact location, the names of the people who monitored the skaters, and the specific thickness the ice needed to be before skating was allowed.

I don’t remember any of that. All I remember is getting new ice skates. I don’t remember where we got them, but it surely was somewhere in town as we didn’t go to the “big city” of Canton for much. It was apparently too far away.

I remember King’s department store and Woolworth’s. I remember taking sewing lessons somewhere down on Main Street. And I remember going to Sugar & Spice bakery after church on Sundays where my dad bought chocolate frosted cream stix every week, which were the best cream stix I ever had. We never ever had maple or vanilla frosted cream stix, by the way. Only chocolate.

But do I remember where Sugar & Spice bakery was located? Nope. I didn’t know then and certainly don’t know now!

When I was a kid, we were allowed to walk or ride our bikes to Buckeye Village Market, which felt like freedom to us since that meant we could cross State Street. I’m not even sure what we bought at Buckeye, unless it was the odd can of corn or loaf of bread that mom needed for dinner that night.

I do remember buying my own birthday cake at Buckeye when I turned 16. My mom was out of town taking care of my sick grandmother and my dad, of course, was working. So I was responsible for making my birthday dinner for the five of us. Dad even gave me money and told me to buy a birthday cake.

Normally, I was the baker in the family, so all our birthday cakes were homemade. (Read: not as good as store bought birthday cakes.) So, even though I was mortally embarrassed to go to the bakery and order a cake for myself, I did it because a store-bought birthday cake was a real treat. And my brothers and sister would’ve killed me for passing up the opportunity. So off I went. Except that I knew the girl taking the order. It was the owner’s daughter – and I had been in the same class as her younger brother. I first told her that it didn’t need any writing on it – but she insisted. “Who’s it for, Jane? Your brother John – or is it for Andrew? Or maybe your little sister?”

“Um, nooo…,” I finally stammered. “It’s for me.”

The look she gave me was filled with pity. “Aw, Jane,” She said. “You have to order your own birthday cake?”

She probably thought my family was horrible.

Interestingly, I have absolutely no memory of getting that cake home. I can’t imagine schlepping a store-bought birthday cake across State Street and down…uh…y’know…that one street...before getting to…um…that other street before turning down Crestview.

Yikes. I need a remedial memory course. Either that, or a map.

But, let’s see – what else can I remember? Oh, I remember some other little store named…um…maybe, Meadowbrook? We’d ride our bikes there to get something cold to drink in the summers. I don’t remember what we got to drink. Other people have remembered the exact old-fashioned drinks they drank and where they drank them. Sheesh. Maybe I should have recorded more about the town in my diary and less about, say, “The Partridge Family” or “The Monkees.”

Wow. So many of my childhood memories are of food stores. Apparently they were the only ones close enough. The stores with the “good stuff” – like clothes and jewelry and shoes – were too far away. Probably why I don’t much care for grocery shopping today, but never pass up an opportunity to hit Macy’s or DSW.

As a kid, we played more in my neighborhood than around town. But I remember having a blast running and pogo-stick jumping and hoola-hooping and tree climbing. And we didn’t come home until we heard Mom ring the bell for dinner. (Yes, sadly, we were summoned by a ringing bell.)

Of course, once we were of driving age, my world opened up a little bit and I have lots of great memories of fun times with my friends. Maybe I’ll try to recall some of those memories next time. Hopefully, it won’t be, “I remember that one time when we were driving around that one place – you know – and we had fun.”

But don’t expect me to remember the name of the street we had fun on. Not gonna happen. After all, I haven’t taken that remedial memory course yet.

And I still don’t have a map.

Mother's Day 2011

I wanted to post a Mother’s Day blog on the day we actually celebrate mothers, but, well, I was a little busy spending time with my own mom (and dad). And that is as it should be, I suppose. Not that mom wouldn’t have appreciated an entire blog devoted to her, but I’m sure she preferred spending time with us. I imagine that watching the back of my head as I sit at the computer and compose a blog would be rather like watching paint dry.

Actually, part of that last statement is not true. No, not the part about watching paint dry – sadly, that part is true. But the part about mom appreciating a blog devoted to her. In truth, my mom is not one for excessive adulation and if she knew I was dedicating a blog to her, it would make her uncomfortable. That’s just the way she is.

Mom would tell you it’s the age in which she grew up. This was during the Depression, and people were just trying to survive. They didn’t waste much time patting themselves on the back (or expecting someone else to do it). You simply did what was expected of you without any thought to the “reward” you would get afterwards. Frequently, there wasn’t any – unless you consider personal satisfaction as a reward.

I kind of like that. It’s nice to be able to motivate yourself rather than expecting someone else to make the reward such that you grudgingly perform the task.

I can remember when I was a kid and, on the rare occasion we did our chores without being reminded, we’d run to mom and tell her about our accomplishment. Her response? “So what do you want – a medal?”

Clearly, that whole pat on the back thing wasn’t a big part of our household.

Not that mom wasn’t proud of us and our accomplishments. But she may have feared we’d get swelled heads if we were praised all the time for doing the right thing; things that we should do as a matter of course as honest, good, intelligent, hardworking people.

On Sunday, Vince asked my mom what some of her favorite memories of motherhood have been. I think he expected to hear the faint strains of violins in the background as mom recalled all the sappy, sentimental times – like when her babies were first placed in her arms, or perhaps when her children graduated from college or even when they walked down the aisle. And he was all prepared to be touched by her response.

And then mom said, “When my children left home.”

You could almost hear the violins screech to a stop mid-note. And the expression on Vince’s face was priceless.

But mom’s comment cracked me up. Sure, there was probably some element of relief whenever another one of her chicks flew the nest because – let’s face it – raising four kids who were within six years of age of each other couldn’t have been a piece of cake. Particularly having to endure us all as teenagers.

But having her children leave the home they grew up in meant that my parents had done their job and had raised children to stand on their own and make their own way. To my parents, that was one of their greatest accomplishments.

Now I’m sure my mom and dad had sappy, sentimental moments when their babies were first placed in their arms and had prideful moments when they watched their children graduate from college and flashed back to memories of their little boys and girls while watching their adult sons and daughters walk down the aisle. (In my case, I’m guessing there were feelings of relief that I finally decided to walk down the aisle. No, I kid. Sort of.)

In our family, I tend to be the sappy, sentimental one – so it’s probably a good thing Mom isn’t just like me. Too much sap and sentiment isn’t always a good thing. But I noticed that mom hugs me extra hard when she sees me these days.

As for me, I cherish every moment I’m able to spend with my parents – even if it’s merely standing in the kitchen together peeling carrots for dinner. And I look forward to our weekly phone calls.

As more and more of my contemporaries lose their parents and no longer have them around to wish them a Happy Mother’s (or Father’s) Day, I know that it’s truly a gift that my parents are still here with us.

{Sappy and Sentimental Alert!}

So, Mom, I just want to tell you that I love you very much. I know we don’t really say that a lot in our family, but I know you love me. And I just want you to know how I feel, too.

I thank you for all you’ve done for me throughout my life.

Thank you for being there whenever I’ve needed you – from the Band-Aids you applied to my skinned knees to the comfort you gave me at the loss of a job.

Thank you for listening to me when I wanted to tell you something funny or sad or interesting or outrageous. Thank you for laughing and commiserating and paying attention and being outraged (all at the appropriate times, too.).

Thank you for instilling in me the values that enabled me to grow into a (relatively) honest, good, intelligent, and hardworking person.

And thank you for embracing and welcoming my husband into our family.

Happy Mother’s Day. Let’s do this again next year. Okay?

Needle Phobia

I don’t have a fear of needles, which is a good thing considering that Vince and I got our ‘flu shots last night.

I know some people who are deathly afraid of needles, which I don’t understand. But then, I also don’t really understand the fear of heights – so what do I know? (Fear of spiders and other creepy crawly things, on the other hand…well, now we’re talkin’!)

But I found it interesting that last night I wore the same expression on my face that I have ever since I was a little girl facing the doctor and getting a shot. (Or, rather, facing away from the doctor. Ha ha…) But I have always refused to acknowledge the pain – or the pinch, as it were, of a needle piercing my skin. Probably I’d be a good candidate for tattoos if I were so inclined to have indelible ink injected under my skin. I am not so inclined, so I guess we won’t be able to test the theory.

Nevertheless, memories of going to the doctor as a kid made me smile – once the Band-Aid was applied, anyway. Mom usually brought three of the four of us at one time. I’m guessing that it was an ordeal – so she figured she might as well get it over with all at once. My older brother, on the other hand, never seemed to be along with us on these doctor visits. Either he was an extraordinarily healthy child or Mom figured he was a project that was best handled alone.

Anyway, once the heinous word “doctor” escaped from Mom’s lips, my sister (younger than me by 5 years) commenced crying. And she never stopped. On the drive there. In the waiting room. And once we reached the inner sanctum and the doctor actually showed up, she ramped up the tears to near wailing.

My younger brother tried to be a little more stoic, but the tears usually began once the doctor arrived.

So I, as the elder and wiser sibling of about 7-years of age, somehow felt I needed to be the mature one. Nary a tear leaked out of either duct. Not that I probably didn’t want to give in to a good cry as I certainly didn’t look forward to having a sharp needle jabbed into my backside.

After the first needle experience I couldn’t really give in to tears anyway since my mom held me up as a shining example to my younger siblings. “See? Jane isn’t crying,” she’d plead. “Try to be brave like Jane.”

Yeah. Like that worked.

Fortunately, the pediatrician had extensive experience dealing with fearful and crying children. He was mercifully quick and, once the torment was over, lollipops magically appeared. And, just as magically, my sister’s wailing stopped almost immediately as if someone pressed a Mute button.

When I think about it now, it makes me laugh.

I don’t know if this is really true, but I can picture my mom – nattily dressed and perfectly coiffed at the beginning of the experience of hauling three sick children to the doctor. And then, afterwards, stumbling to the car holding on to her toddlers’ hands with her hair mussed and an expression of sheer exhaustion on her face.

Probably I should send her a thank you card for all she did for us. Maybe even throw in some flowers. On the other hand, I was the paragon of bravery. So perhaps my sister should be the one sending flowers!

(And if my sister and brother are reading this…um. Oops. Sorry. But this does not give you license to tell stories about me.) I’m quite sure I can tell plenty of embarrassing stories about myself – believe me, I’ve got a lifetime of red-faced moments!

In the meantime, I enjoyed my own little trip down memory lane. And I’ve gotta say – I’m really glad I’m a grown-up now and whenever I have to get a shot, it’s in my arm instead of my backside. Those suckers hurt!

Pick up in Aisle Three (Or Maybe Not)

When we got home from a birthday dinner the other night, I took off my rings and put them on the coffee table. It occurred to me then that I might want to move them to the dining room table next to my keys so I wouldn’t forget them in the morning. But did I move them? Of course not. And did I forget them in the morning? Of course I did.

And it bothered me all day.

How strange that a couple pieces of jewelry can be so much more than a couple pieces of jewelry. My finger felt naked and I couldn’t wait to get home to slip the rings back on my finger. I didn’t feel less “married” – it just felt…I don’t know. Weird. And in the meantime, I hoped no guy was going to hit on me in the produce section at Kroger’s when I went in to pick up some alfalfa sprouts and radicchio.

Oh, wait. That hasn’t happened in a while. And probably not because of the rings on my left hand either.

Oh well – that’s okay. I’m not on the market and really don’t want anyone hitting on me in the produce section at Kroger’s. It happened before back in the carefree days of my youth and, frankly, it was always sort of a creepy experience.

It's curious to me that men hit on women in grocery stores, although I suppose the idea does make some sort of sense. You can tell a lot about a person by taking a peek in their shopping cart. If she has Similac and diapers in her cart, he might want to stay away. If she has the cart filled with things like Trix, Fruit Loops and Spaghetti-O’s, he might want to move on. Because if she doesn’t have toddlers at home, her taste in food probably was stunted somewhere around the third grade and he could have a tough time enjoying an adult meal with such a woman. Unless, of course, he himself is partial to chicken nuggets and Ding Dongs.

On the other hand, if she has a six pack of his favorite beer in the cart along with some steaks and a loaf of crusty French bread, he might take a chance and hit the jackpot. Sure, she could have a boyfriend at home, but nothing ventured, nothing gained – right?

The first time anyone hit on me in the grocery store was back in the day when I wore skirts and high heels to work. Stopping at the grocery store on the way home from work was the norm – and one evening some guy in a ratty old t-shirt and jeans that looked like they hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in a while stopped me in the meat department. How's that for irony? Not the sort of “meat market” I was expecting!

Nevertheless, he chatted me up as I scanned the packages looking for a good deal. Being too polite to tell him to bug off, I endured his patter as he attempted to wow me with his pick-up lines. Which sort of bombed. Lines like, “Hey, that steak looks good – I bet you could cook a nice steak, couldn't you?” And “I love red meat – don't you?” were not exactly knockin' my socks off.

Thankfully, he didn't ask me out so I smiled at him and told him I had to be moving along. I stopped short of sprinting away, but the guy pretty much stalked me up and down the aisles after that, which definitely creeped me out. So I abandoned the remainder of my grocery list and made tracks for the cash register as fast as my high heels would let me.

I stowed the groceries in the trunk of my car – and then saw a car pull up behind me thus blocking me in. Yep, it was the same guy who by then had gotten bold and said he wouldn't move until I agreed to go out with him. Whoa. I never did respond well to either coercion or threats.

I told him in no uncertain terms to move his car, which he took as a sign to continue trying. Just then I noticed that the person who had parked in front of me was leaving – so I jumped in my car and took off in the opposite direction. I can't remember what happened next, though I'm quite sure I didn't drive straight home because I didn't want this character to know where I lived. I probably did my best imitation of Starsky and Hutch trying to lose a tail before finally heading toward home.

Sheesh. Not a great example of a successful pick up in a grocery store, that's for sure!

On the other hand, perhaps some folks have better luck. Hopefully with a little more finesse. After all, true love can be found in the strangest places. For me, it was on MySpace. So the meat department at Kroger’s isn’t outside the realm of possibility. I’m just glad I’m no longer looking.

So I won’t forget my rings again. Oh, and I’m really glad I no longer wear high heels. Take it from me - sprinting through a grocery store in them is not fun.