TheWay it was Then - Part #14

July 8, 1983

A few not-favorite things

Maybe it’s the heat… maybe not.

It just seems that a lot of things bother me lately.

Maybe it’s just creeping old age.

Like standing in a long 10-item-or-less express line, waiting to check out one carton of milk, counting the items in the woman’s basket in front of me and coming up with 29.

Like trying to find a seat in a crowded theater that isn’t in front of or behind a person who’s talking … incessantly and loudly.

Like settling down on a quiet stretch of beach only to be joined, blanket to blanket, by a young couple blasting hard rock from a portable stereo.

Like finding that purple blotch of bird dropping right on dead center of my freshly-washed burgundy-colored car.

Like finding dried mud kitty paws all over the seats of the car after leaving it, windows open, for a few hours.

Like being kept awake during the wee small hours by the unrelenting barking of a neighbor’s dog.

Like buying a pink skirt in one store and finding, under the lights of another, that it’s pale lavender.

Like settling down in front of the TV for a rare night of viewing a favorite old movie only to find it chopped to bits and interspersed with inane commercials.

Like repeating an order over the fast-food intercom to be sure it’s right and then finding a crucial item missing … after I get home.

Like being beaten into a front-row parking space at the mall by a little car that zips in front of me after I’ve waited, signal on, for the leaving auto to clear out.

Like people at a bank drive-up window who ties up traffic by transacting lengthy and complicated business.

Like customers who are rude or nasty to checkout clerks for any reason whatever.

Like parents who think malicious mischief on the parts of their darlings is “cute.”

Like the guy in front of me at the toll booth on the Parkway who needs directions to Timbuktu … and argues with the toll-taker about how to get there.

Like the casino buses on the expressway that zoom up on a law-abiding motorist, follow too closely for a short while and then pass doing about 85.

Like the state troopers who don’t see buses speeding—only auto drivers.

Like digital alarm clocks that go blink, blink, blink when the power goes out in the middle of the night, making me late for work when I oversleep in the morning.

Like finding that my name has been sold to a million junk mailers, all of whom send official-looking letters asking for money.

I’m sure you all could supply me with reams more of this fun kind of complaining.

Life is more interesting because of the situations we run into day after day, but sometimes it all gets to be just too much.

Just once, I’d like the line I move into at the supermarket or the bank to keep moving instead of stopping while the person in front ties us all up.

Just once, I’d like that short-cut I took to get somewhere faster to really be short.

Just once, I’d like a speaker who says he’ll be brief to be brief.

And just once, I’d like the driver of the car that comes to a stop at an intersection ahead of me to let me know, before the light turns green, that he intends to turn left instead of making me wait until he gets a break.

Dream on.

 

 

The Way it was Then - Part #13

July 1, 1983

Just a sprinkle of pixie dust

Peter pan had the right idea.

Well, maybe not the right idea completely ... after all, there is some growing up required of us all. Enough to get bills paid, kids fed, mortgages paid and responsibility taken for our own actions. But it's not written anywhere either that we have to abandon all the joys of being kids.

The above is a rationalization for my behavior last weekend. What it really comes down to is the cold fact that I'm a teeny-bopper at heart. A screaming, clapping, dancing, singing, unadulterated fan. Grownups snicker and point at old people like me who don't know enough to "act your age." I, in turn, pity those folks who don't let much of anything really turn them on.

Chicago (that's the rock group, not the city) really turns me on.

My girls and I had tickets to their concert at the Mann Music Center in Philadelphia last Friday night. We bought them one hour after they went on sale the Monday after Mothers’ Day. The seats were terrible for some reason, but the music was better than ever.

For the uninitiated, the group has been around since the late 60s. Some of their classics include Saturday in the Park, Color My World, If You Leave Me Now, etc., etc. Sixteen albums filled with music produced by a group of professional, highly trained, incredibly talented people.

Since 1977, only one year as gone by that my kids and I have missed seeing the group live somewhere in the area. And that year, Chicago didn't tour, due to the sudden death of one of their members and the need to regroup, redefine their purpose and try to recapture the magic.

Last weekend, they proved again that the magic is still alive. More vibrant, a heavier sound, perhaps, but as stirring and inspired as ever. After some trial and error with people to replace Terry Kath …  including a best-be-forgotten teaming up with a flashy, loud and unclassy guitarist … the group has come together with Bill Champlin, a well-known composer, guitarist/keyboard pro, who brings a new dimension to Chicago’s music. At the rate the band is going, with its new depth and old creativity and style, Chicago will be around as long we want it to be.

Not only did the girls and I enjoy the band in Philadelphia, we fit in another of their tour performances at the Garden State Arts Center in Holmdel the next night. And there we found out just how different we are.

Imagine, if you will, an outdoor concert bowl, seating several thousand people, with lawn space available for several hundred … filled to capacity (except for the odd side seats that never sell because the stage isn’t visible from that vantage point). Filled to capacity with people who are unmoved, unenthusiastic and unemotional. What the band saw from that stage was a throng of motionless bodies, hands folded in laps, an occasional sway or clap from someone back at the top. With three exceptions. The girls and I … on our feet … enjoying their music to the hilt … and letting them know it.

Our enthusiasm merited a wave from the lead singer as the one and only encore reached midpoint. We realized later that it was a kind of apology to us because the band left the stage permanently after only one number. Why, after all, stay to expend such energy on a crowd that seemed so bored? Those people paid dearly, as had we, to hear Chicago. Obviously, they were not caught up in the spirit of the music as we were, but they could just as easily have stayed home and listened to an album.

Hopefully, Holmdel will remain on the tour next year, in spite of its coldness. No matter, the girls and I will be wherever the band is, waiting for the magic to repeat itself so we can, for one or two nights out of the year, forget worries, troubles, work, studies, anything that isn’t joyful, and immerse ourselves in the fabulous music Chicago produces.

Each year, I’m reminded by someone that it isn’t mature and adult of me to act like a teenage groupie at concert time. Each year, I listen to this band and experience the thrill of their talent and say phooey on anyone who can’t appreciate to the fullest the impact great music has on one’s soul.

Next year, the seats will be better and the three of us will be ready to enjoy the concert again.

I just may never grow up.

 

The Way it was Then - Part #12

 June 24, 1983

And the Circle Gets Smaller

Friends are a rare commodity.

The older I get, the more my friends mean to me. Chalk it up to the realization that life is often too much to bear alone, and that the love and loyalty of good friends are constants that can be counted on when all else fails.

Distance doesn't diminish friendship.

Of course, I know that's true.

Distance makes it more difficult to see, be with and share the enjoyment of a friend.

And that's what makes parting so emotionally wrenching.

On Sunday, I spent my last day with Doris.

Qualify that. On Sunday, I spent my last day in her home in Trenton, among the familiar things I have grown to love over the past twenty-three years, in the surroundings that have so clearly reflected her personality.

From her spoiled cat to her myriad, thriving plants, to the paintings by her artistic mother, to the oak bookcase-china closet that once held the psychology books she had in her office at the college... all of them are imprinted as images that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Doris is a psychologist. She is a psychotherapist and a teacher. Her acceptance of and empathy for people have no equal in anyone I've ever met.

During those years, she has been friend, mother, sister, confidante, conscience and mirror.

When she first came to Trenton State College in 1960, I was a freshman nearing the end of my first year. We didn't have any counseling services on campus then, and many of my friends and dorm-mates needed the kind of support Doris provided to troubled young adults. I was no different than they, but it quickly became apparent that Doris and I had more to our relationship than client-counselor. It wasn't long before I was Doris's student assistant, an aide during her doctoral dissertation research and a companion and friend.

It's hard to describe to people the bond between us, when a generation separates us in age and experiences.

Suffice it to say  I believe everyone needs uncomplicated, simple and totally accepting love from someone in his or her life. Doris provided that to me from the first day I met her and her cherished support gave me what strength I have had in all the years of adulthood that have passed or are still to come.

On Sunday, I couldn't tell her any of that.

In fact, I couldn't face her leaving without telling myself over and over again that the move is in her best interest and that I am delighted for her that she has the wherewithal to realize the goal of her life's work ... she can be in her beloved Florida, in a home of her own, near her son and friends of her youth, doing the kind of work she chooses when she chooses to do it.

So we had the kind of day we normally have when we get together to catch up ... a long talking time, dinner at a good restaurant and more talking time.

But finally, when the day was ending and it was time for me to head back to south Jersey, none of the words that told her how I care would come out, because they were all so final.

To put into words the depth of my feeling for her would have been to acknowledge that our relationship will be profoundly changed. Not in emotional quality, but in geographically-determined quantity.

It's been easy over the years since I left the campus to respond to a tone of voice on the phone and zip up to Trenton to sit and talk out her problems. It's been equally easy for her to leave the door unlocked so I could slip in when the stresses of my life left me in tiny pieces and I needed her healing caring to glue me back together.

That's over.

That phase of our relationship will be replaced by something different, the distance that will force a change in the way we rely on each other.

I'm not sure I can handle it.

I'm not sure I'm ready to go through day-to-day worries without the knowledge that she's there to prop me up when I falter.

I'm not sure I can pull off my bravado at her leaving.

But I am sure that this is a good move for her to make. She'll be in a climate that encourages better health. She'll be among hordes of friends and family where her life will be easier.

I am sure I can get down to see her at least once a year.

And I am sure she's leaving me a priceless legacy ... self-confidence and the ability to live without fear.

Previous few people are as lucky as I have been to have had her so near for so long. As the circle of cherished people in my life shrinks, she is one to whom I will not say goodbye.

Just so long for a while.

Something just wasn't right

 Something just wasn't right this holiday season.

As a matter of fact, something just wasn't right about 2023.

Seems so much happened even when the pandemic was supposedly over and we were encouraged to kick-start our lives again as if nothing had happened.

But I couldn't do that. I'd lost two dear friends in 2023 and still feel their absence keenly. 

I'd had some health issues, the main one requiring hysterectomy surgery on November 29, 2022. I walked into the hospital feeling fine and then came home to recuperate for weeks from the aftereffects. Who does that? Who voluntarily gives away months of one's life in exchange for the removal of an annoying mass on an old, tired ovary? Me.

Once surgery was in the rear-view mirror, along came demon sciatica. It's a crippling malady that totally puts your life on hold. Walking, sitting, standing, lying down... everything is painful. Six weeks of physical therapy were for naught. In fact, PT made the pain worse and finally the therapist suggested other avenues... like a pain management practice or surgery (again!!!).

I won't bore you with the saga of my attempts to get an epidural to relieve the pain. It went on and on and on... until finally in July, I received the first injection. Relief lasted about two weeks; then the pain returned. The second injection a month later provided even less relief. It was discouraging to say the least.

Then suddenly, the pain disappeared. By the end of the summer, I was doing well... just a twinge first thing in the morning or last thing at night, but pain-free the rest of the time. Either the injections had worked or the sciatica had resolved itself. I didn't care which.

Then on December 7th, along came a brief bout with vertigo that caused me to fall on the hardwood floor and bang my head. A visit to the ER ensued, where I was pronounced okay, no head injuries, no concussion. But for days, a headache persisted and made doing anything a chore unless there was a lot of Tylenol involved.

So back to my introductory sentence. Something just wasn't right when the holiday was suddenly upon us. Christmas shopping was done online; cards barely made it in the mail in time and my customary family letter was composed by my nine-year-old cat (with a bit of help). The tree got trimmed and the house decorated, but the specter of doom hung over everything, every day. What would be next? 

Worst of all... why didn't it feel like the Christmases of past years? My daughters, son-in-law and grandkids were with us for the holiday... we had lovely dinners for which I was not responsible. Should have helped. 

But nothing did. Nothing brought out the "Silver Bells," "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" spirit. There was no snow (not a bad thing, really) and my various ailments kept us from a lot of visiting and taking part in holiday activities. 

It's 2024 now... the start of a new year. I'm determined it will be a good year. I'm determined to take charge, rev up my positivity and meet the challenges with confidence. 

Something tells me something will be just right by next holiday season. At least I hope it will.