Note: I do not ordinarily post more than one item per day. But an unexpected news event has caused me to break with custom and issue this extra “Extra” a couple of days early, with an explanatory postscript. - Brendochka
Remember a series of books first published in England around 1986 originally called “Where’s Wally?” (the name was later changed to “Where’s Waldo?” in the U.S. and Canada), in which readers were challenged to pick out the Wally/Waldo character in drawings of large crowd scenes?
Wally, a.k.a Waldo
Well, forget about Waldo. What the whole world wants to know now is: Where on earth is Yevgeny Prigozhin?
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
This scary dude — who just a few short weeks ago was almost single-handedly directing the most successful (and brutal) campaigns of Russia’s “special military operation” against the sovereign nation of Ukraine — is suddenly everywhere . . . and nowhere. “He’s in Rostov.” “Now he’s in Belarus.” “No, he’s in St. Petersburg getting his money back.” “Or is he in Moscow meeting with Putin?” “Maybe he’s been arrested.” “His plane is in Belarus, but is he on it?” About the only place he hasn’t been spotted is in Tupelo, Mississippi, with Elvis. Maybe he’s using body doubles, or disguising himself with some of the hairpieces he allegedly kept in his St. Petersburg mansion.
“Will the real Yevgeny Prigozhin please stand up?”
As time passes, the real question becomes, not where is he, but whether he is still alive. No one is talking. But one thing is becoming clear: he no longer appears to be in charge of his “private military company,” the Wagner Group — a collection of some of the most brutal, murderous, inhumane barbarians imaginable. So, if not Prigozhin, then who is in charge?
According to Vladimir Putin himself (as reported by The Telegraph in this week’s news), that would be a stocky, middle-aged, grey-haired, former Russian army artillery colonel by the name of Andrei Troshev. Oh, goody — another brute for the world to get to know, hopefully before he too gets carried away with his presumed position and tries to acquire more power than Putin is willing to allow. It’s business as usual in Moscow.
Andrei Troshev
Meanwhile, we’re still left asking, “Where’s Yevgeny?” Perhaps he’s alive and well, being “recycled” for some as-yet-unrevealed, nefarious purpose; or perhaps, as the ultimate irony, he’s locked away with his two polar opposites, Kremlin nemeses Alexei Navalny and Vladimir Kara-Murza. Is it possible that the Fates really have such a diabolical sense of humor? Time will tell . . . perhaps.
Just sayin’ . . .
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Postscript: This “Extra” was scheduled to be published on Friday. But since completing it (I thought) yesterday, a news alert has appeared on CNN concerning the alleged appearance of Yevgeny Prigozhin speaking to his Wagner troops in Belarus at dusk yesterday (7/18) or dawn today (7/19). The video of the event is “grainy and filmed in low light so CNN cannot definitively say the speaker is Prigozhin or when it was filmed. CNN has so far been unable to geolocate the footage.” But the speaker — and let’s assume for the moment that it is Prigozhin — first explains why they are in Belarus, and that their stay there may only be temporary. Then he adds, “We should prepare, get better and set off on a new journey to Africa.”
Sounds like “recycling” to me. Or could it be a means of making him “disappear” into deepest, darkest Africa? Again, only time will tell. And in the meantime, we keep our eyes open for any sign of this latter-day “Waldo.”
Remember that little ditty from your childhood? Well, maybe not, if you’re under 60, but I remember it clearly. And some of my fondest early memories revolve around, or at least include, a huge double-dipper in a sugar cone . . . with sprinkles, please.
Perfection in a Cone
But this week I ran across a horrifying headline implying that America has fallen out of love with ice cream. EXCUSE ME??? What parallel universe are we living in, and how quickly can I get back to reality? As I read on, I saw that the author was focused only on regular, full-fat ice cream — not low- or non-fat, and not sherbet or frozen yogurt, which aren’t ice cream anyway. But still . . . this cannot be true. The article went on to cite U.S. Department of Agriculture statistics indicating that the average American’s annual consumption of regular ice cream has dropped from 18 pounds in 1986 to only 12 pounds in 2021.
Clearly, I was not included in that study.
I was a child of the 1940s and ‘50s. A favorite family treat was a simple thing in those days: a drive into the countryside, a stop at a farm to buy some fresh vegetables or pick a couple of quarts of blueberries, and finally a detour to our favorite ice cream stand for a cone. And later, in high school, no movie date or school dance was complete without an ice cream sundae afterwards, or the ultimate treat: a banana split, with three scoops, a whole banana bisected lengthwise, mashed pineapple and strawberries, chocolate or caramel sauce, whipped cream, and three maraschino cherries — one atop each scoop. (I was never a fan of the chopped nuts, but they were available if you wanted them.) That was Heaven in a dish.
Calories? Never heard of them.
Tastes change; people’s habits change; and a lot of traditions gradually become dim, distant memories. But not ice cream. If the USDA thinks I’m going to conform to their description of “average” when it comes to my favorite dessert, they’re nuts (chopped or otherwise). Consider this: 12 pounds of ice cream per year equals just one pound, or 16 ounces, per month. In any given month, that’s around half an ounce, or a single tablespoon, per day. Yeah . . . right.
Today, in 2023, if you ask me to name my favorite dessert, I will unhesitatingly reply, “Ice cream.” I do love pie, cake, cookies, donuts, cobblers, baklava, and tiramisu. But if I have a choice, it’s ice cream every time. In fact, my principal guilty pleasure these days is a small (3.6-ounce) cup of Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream. Every evening, after dinner. No exceptions. And I finish each day with a contented smile . . . calories be damned.
Warning: Contents May Be Addictive
Now, if you take those 3.6 ounces and multiply them out by 365 days, we’re talking about 1,314 ounces, or 82.125 pounds, of high-fat, sugar-sweetened, cholesterol-packed, sinfully delicious malfeasance. And I don’t give a damn. This world is tough, and I think that I — in fact, we all — have earned the right to a little treat, don’t you? I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs, I drink very little alcohol. And I’m sticking with my Haagen-Dazs addiction. End of discussion.
And as for you, U.S. Department of Agriculture: I suggest you take my 82.125 pounds of ice cream and go . . . factor them into your calculations. Because I’m not quitting as long as I can still lift a spoon.
No, I haven’t suddenly become disoriented — no more than usual, anyway. But I read on Sunday (in CNN’s regular “Week Ahead” column) that tomorrow — Wednesday, July 19th — is National Hot Dog Day. That in itself is not big news to me — I certainly don’t have to run out and buy someone a Hallmark card. But it reminded me of all of the other “days” out there that someone has taken the time and trouble to memorialize, and I was actually curious enough to ask Google for some help. As usual, it came up with way more information than I needed, so I had to make some choices. And now, in the words of the immortal Jackie Gleason, “. . . awa-a-ay we go!”
“Where’s the Beef?”
Naturally, the first date I checked was my own birthday, March 18th. Apparently, I merited two memorable events this year: National Biodiesel Day, which I won’t even try to understand, and . . . wait for it . . . Awkward Moments Day. Yup, you read that correctly: a day tailor-made for yours truly. Whoever chose to create a day devoted to the sort of person who falls down in the middle of the street during the Cherry Blossom Parade, passes out in restaurants, and regularly “opens mouth and inserts foot” — and then assigned that event to March 18th — well, that individual had to be thinking of me.
“Awkward!”
And now that I’ve stopped ROFLMAO, I can’t wait to check out the rest of the year; it has to be epic. But as it turns out, even choosing one event from each month would make this post mind-numbingly long. So I’ll give you a sampling, and then I’ll give you the link to check out the rest for yourself. First, of course, is . . .
January. This was a tough one to decide — so many good options. But while I was tempted to choose Penguin Awareness Day (they’re just the cutest birds), or National Squirrel Appreciation Day (because the nasty little rodents don’t get any respect), I settled on . . . January 30th: National Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day. Seriously. How many times have you practically gone into a trance while absent-mindedly popping those airy little circles until your fingers ached? Even if you don’t appreciate its value as a protective packaging material, you have to recognize the amount of simple pleasure it brings into the world. And if you get chilly, you can always wrap yourself in it.
2,149 . . . 2,150 . . . 2,151 . . .
February. I’m a little puzzled by National Toothache Day (are we for it or against it?); and World Spay Day has me wondering whether we’re talking strictly about our pets, or if we’re trying to revive that ghastly Eugenics movement of a century ago (Heaven forbid). So I skipped right over them, and landed on . . . February 18th: Pluto Day. That poor confused little hunk of space rock has been through so much: “It’s a planet.” “It’s not a planet.” “It is so a planet.” “It is not either a planet.” “Fine — then let’s just call it a dwarf planet.” Talk about an identity crisis?!! Or maybe I’ve misunderstood the whole thing, and Pluto Day is just the birthday of a Walt Disney dog. Either way, I’m all for it.
“When did I become a planet??”
July. Skipping along to the current month, there’s no contest. Although I momentarily considered National Be a Millionaire Day, it seemed the odds of that happening were too slim to worry about. And International Town Criers Day is clearly obsolete. So the winner is . . . July 23rd: National Gorgeous Grandma Day. (Hello! The “Applause” sign is on now, and I am taking my bows, thank you very much.)
“I’m a rock star!”
So you can see how many causes for celebration we have to choose from, and perhaps we could even lobby to have a few designated as national holidays. If your curiosity has been aroused, you can check out the rest at http://www.calendarr.com. (No, that is not a typo.) In the meantime, I will spend the remainder of today, July 18th, celebrating World Listening Day — if someone will please just tell me what I’m supposed to be listening for.
When I retired in 2016, I had been living for 29 years in a 1,500-square-foot apartment in a suburb of Washington, D.C. — 25 of those years by myself. There were two big bedrooms plus a smaller den, two bathrooms, and a large living room, dining room and kitchen. And tons of closets, which was one of its big selling points. That’s a lot of space for one person, but in more than a quarter century, I had no problem filling it with furniture, decorative pieces, clothes . . . and a wide variety of other “stuff.”
Favorite Room
What’s that — you want me to define “stuff”? How much time have you got?
During the three years that my sister was ill and I was taking care of her, I confess that I neglected my own life to a large extent. Medical and dental appointments became less frequent, as did housekeeping chores, which is why there are maid services. And when I’m stressed, I invariably turn to two things that I hope will make me feel better (but seldom do): eating and shopping. On this occasion, the eating wasn’t too big a problem because I didn’t have a lot of energy for cooking or noshing. But the shopping — well, thanks in no small part to Amazon, UPS, and the Internet, I may have gone just a wee bit overboard.
In all fairness to myself, though, a lot of the boxes that began arriving in my building’s package room contained household necessities, like bulk paper products and cleaning materials (for all the housework I wasn’t doing). But a lot more didn’t. For example, it was my honest intention to start cooking and entertaining again. But it turns out the road to Hell really is paved with good intentions, and I wound up with three Crockpots of different sizes, an air fryer I had no counter space for, several uniquely-shaped baking pans, and more beautiful serving dishes than the White House would normally require for a state dinner. And when I finally began preparing to move out in 2020, many of those things were still in their original boxes. They made great Christmas gifts for some very appreciative friends.
Then there were the clothes. When I worked in a law firm, and was doing a lot of travelling, I had an extensive wardrobe of beautiful jackets, silk blouses, trousers, cruise clothes, shoes, scarves, handbags, and jewelry. But when I retired, I found myself short of casual, hang-around clothes. So I started ordering jeans, sweats, tee shirts, sneakers . . . you name it. And a couple of times, when I hadn’t had time to do my own laundry because I was busy doing my sister’s, I found myself running low on clean underwear . . . so I simply ordered more to tide me over until I could get to the laundry room again. (TMI?)
“Help!”
When my sister passed away in 2017, I told myself that I would get to all of that backlog of mine . . . as soon as her estate was settled and her condo sold (I was her Executor). So I enlisted some help and began clearing out her apartment. Have you ever had to do that? It’s not only heart-breaking; it’s just plain hard to decide what to do with everything. In all, it took just over six months. Most items were sold or donated, but there were things that had great sentimental value to me, so they got packed into boxes . . . and added to the stack in my apartment! It was beginning to look like my very own Mexican border wall.
*. *. *
Here’s a word of advice. If you ever find yourself overwhelmed by all the “stuff” you’ve amassed over the years, and you’re not actually a hoarder who just can’t let go of things for some deep psychological reason, then there’s an easy way to deal with it: move. I don’t just mean “move it” as in “get off the couch and get going” — but really move. To another location, another state . . . or another country, if need be. Then you have no choice other than to deal with all the crapola.
As it happened, that turned out to be my best option — not another country, and not just because of the “stuff,” but to another state, and because of my encroaching physical limitations. So I was forced to make the hard choices. And there was another consideration: I was moving from my 1,500-square-foot apartment into two rooms of my son’s home — two rooms that total about 300 square feet. One big bedroom, an adjoining, slightly smaller bedroom that serves as my den, my own bathroom, and two decent-sized closets — one for clothes, one for storage. A nice little “apartment”; but with all of my stuff? Oh. My. God!
About 300 square feet
Furniture was no problem. I took with me what I needed, sold or donated what I didn’t. Electronics — TV, laptop, iPad, iPhone — also a no-brainer. Pictures, fairly easy. I had a lot of wall space and thus a lot of pictures, but a good many fit nicely onto the walls of my two rooms and the connecting hallway; the rest — the family photos and such — are still in boxes in the attic. You don’t get rid of family stuff, gifts, or mementos of travel and special occasions. You let your kids deal with them after you’re gone, and since they’ll feel guilty about getting rid of things that meant so much to you, the boxes will probably wind up — again — in an attic. It would be interesting to see how many generations will continue to pass them along before someone actually looks at them, says “I have no idea who these people were,” and finally has the guts to donate them to the local historical society or simply throw them away.
But what do you do with things like table cloths, candy dishes, and that jar of buttons you’ve been saving since before you were married? Or the eight pairs of sunglasses that never fit quite right but might be useful in an emergency . . . or all of that other stuff that “might come in handy someday”? Like the Tupperware containers with missing lids, music CDs you haven’t listened to in years, and office supplies from when you worked at home. Or the yarn you bought to knit a baby blanket when your grandson, who is now 20-something, was born. Or . . .
Get the point? And I haven’t even mentioned the books — literally hundreds of wonderful, well-worn repositories of all the world’s wit and wisdom. It broke my heart to have to purge myself of the majority of those; but it shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that in the three years since I moved, I’ve started building up my collection again, little by little. I can live without cruise clothes and air fryers . . . but not without the comfort of being surrounded by my books.
“What’s an eReader?!”
I suppose the best advice I can offer to someone young and just starting out on your own is not to get burdened with a lot of stuff in the first place, and you’ll never have to pack it all when you move, or get rid of it later in life when the time inevitably comes for you to downsize. But remember this — and I recently read this on a tee shirt designed by an anonymous individual so it must be true: “If it’s books, it’s not clutter.”
There was one item that took pride of place in my move: not in the moving truck, not even the rear of the big van we packed full and drove to my new home, but the front part of the van, closer to me and carefully wrapped in a mile of bubble wrap. That was a big, incredibly heavy urn made of pink Himalayan salt, which used to recline on my coffee table and now sits on a shelf above the fireplace mantle in the living room. It contains my sister Merna’s ashes — the one thing I cannot make myself part with. If that makes me an ash hoarder, or a crazy person, then so be it. But she and I had a “ribbit pact” — a name inspired by a little pillow we each had, depicting two frogs and the legend, “Together ‘til we croak.” And since I haven’t croaked yet, she’s not going anywhere either.
Merna (Post-mortem)
And now here I sit, among my pared-down possessions, secure in the knowledge that I will never again have to move all that accumulated “stuff.” And even better — I no longer have to dust it! Take heed, though, dear reader: your day will come. You might even want to get a head-start on it. If so, I suggest you begin with those sunglasses and buttons.
There was an article in the news yesterday about a group of around 100 tourists who were trapped for a few hours inside the British home of the late, great mystery novelist Agatha Christie. It seems the one access road to the house had been blocked by a tree knocked down in a storm while the group was touring the house.
In an Agatha Christie novel, the tourists would have been stranded overnight; the power would have failed, leaving them with only a few candles for illumination; and people would have been killed off, one by one, by a mad cousin of the home’s owner hidden away in the attic. But this was real life, and all ended happily: no one was murdered, the tourists received tea and British hospitality, the road was cleared, and everyone had an interesting story to bring home to their friends and families at the end of the day.
But my train of thought leads me from Ms. Christie’s home to some of my favorite old mystery TV shows, and to some of the amusing gaffes that went undetected and continue to show up in the reruns. A prime example would be the hit series of the 1980s and ‘90s, “Murder, She Wrote,” starring Angela Lansbury as small-town-school-teacher-turned-successful-mystery-writer J.B. (Jessica) Fletcher, in which homage is frequently paid to Ms. Christie and other renowned masters of mystery.
I recall one such blooper that occurred during a conversation between J.B. and a friend in Chicago. J.B. had called this friend from her home in Maine, and was apologizing for phoning so early, saying she had forgotten about the two-hour time difference. Wait . . . what? Has Chicago moved west? Or perhaps Maine has floated one time zone out into the Atlantic. But the last time I checked, there was just one hour’s difference between Eastern time and Central time. That show’s editor appears to have been asleep at the switch.
Possibly my favorite goofs were the ones that took place at a fictitious writer’s convention in Moscow (yes, that Moscow) at which the eminent J.B. Fletcher was an honored speaker. To begin with, while she was out strolling — in mid-winter, no less — in front of the Bolshoi Theatre, she told her Russian host that she’d like to walk over to Novodevichy Monastery, which according to her map was nearby. Fact check: the actual distance from the Bolshoi to Novodevichy is 6.4 km., or just about four miles, and is an estimated walk of around an hour and 20 minutes, not accounting for snow and ice. Of course, if you’re a schoolteacher from Maine, and you’re accustomed to the sub-zero, snowy winters, maybe that’s considered “nearby.” But not in my book, J.B.
Novodevichy Monastery
In that same episode, a murder inevitably occurs while J.B. Fletcher is in the vicinity (would you invite her to your house?), and she becomes embroiled in the investigation, single-handedly taking on the KGB and solving the crime. Here the writers have her entering the U.S. Embassy directly across the street from the Kremlin — not even close in real life — and later wandering unaccompanied through the Russian Foreign Ministry. No comment on that one! I guess the writers just figured most Americans wouldn’t know the difference, and went bat-shit with literary license.
Those geographical goofs are rampant in TV shows and movies, and can be quite funny if they take place in a city you’re familiar with. I’ve lived most of my life in the Washington, D.C. area, and I just love it when a car being driven over the Memorial Bridge from Virginia into D.C. immediately finds itself sailing past the U.S. Capitol Building — in real life, wa-a-ay across town from one another — or passes the same landmark twice on the same trip.
*. *. *
In one oldie-but-goodie movie, “No Way Out,” starring Kevin Costner, there is a lengthy chase scene, on foot, in which Costner is being pursued by the bad guys through various parts of Washington. He runs along the C&O Canal towpath, into a side entrance to the Georgetown Park shopping mall . . . and makes his escape by hopping onto a waiting Metro train. Fact check: There is not, nor has there ever been, a Metro station anywhere in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington. When the Metro lines were being designed and built, the homeowners in the elite, historic enclave refused to allow a station to blemish their sanctum sanctorum. And thus it has remained.
Georgetown Park Mall on the C&O Canal, Washington, DC.
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So maybe I am a little OCD; I don’t deny it. But these things — along with misprints, misspellings, and grammatical errors in books and magazines — can drive me bonkers. So I try to make a game of it and catch as many flubs as I can. Maybe one day I’ll apply for a job as editor for one of the studios or publications that turn out these mistakes — they really do need my help.
And now I’ve got you thinking about it too, don’t I?
That simple sentence can be read two ways: first, the absence of any news means that at least there’s no bad news; but alternatively, it could mean that there is news but none of it is good. Unfortunately, the second circumstance is the one we most frequently encounter in newspapers, TV broadcasts, and onine. Doom and gloom prevail. If it’s good, it’s just not news.
Since I am admittedly a news junkie, I recently began a second series of blog posts I call “Extras” (concurrent with my “Reflections”), briefly commenting on bits and pieces of the news of the day. And I have found — not surprisingly — that there’s not much to write about that isn’t depressing or downright frightening. And then I remembered: CNN has a column called “CNN’s Good Stuff,” printed online every Saturday and featuring stories about the more pleasant, cheerful, often heartwarming side of life. It’s a delightful departure from the norm, and I decided to refer to it this morning for inspiration.
Saturday Morning Ritual
But wait a minute! Is this the best they could come up with today, from the whole of last week? Two articles about Barbie; the story of an AI program that tried to follow crochet instructions and didn’t do so well; a recommendation of some off-the-beaten-track national parks; one nice story about a couple who met in a chocolate shop in Brussels 40 years ago and are still married; and — most interesting of all, but ultimately depressing — the tale of a sea otter who is going to be relocated as soon as they can catch it because it dares to snatch the surfboards from people who are intruding upon its watery home in the first place. (I’m rooting for the otter.)
“Aawww . . . c’mon!”
Then, reading to the bottom of the column, I see that CNN is “opening the floor” to readers for their “heartwarming” real-life stories so that CNN can “spread the positive news.” And I’m thinking: OMG, they’ve actually run out of good stuff to write about and are reaching out for help! The well is dry. There is no joy in Mudville . . . or anywhere else, apparently. Life officially sucks.
But hopefully not. I’m basically a realist, which means that I have a dual personality: both optimist and pessimist, ideally in fairly equal proportions. So I’ll try again next Saturday, and see how successful CNN’s search for good news turns out to be. And maybe I’ll even try to submit an uplifting item myself . . . if I can come up with anything. Maybe the otter will outsmart the people who want to evict it. Wish me (and the otter) luck.
As the Russian Navy’s “training class” ship sits docked in Havana’s harbor, we are now told that it is there for a four-day “visit,” during which its crew will “carry out a wide range of activities,” and Cuban citizens will be invited aboard, for . . . what? Tea and blini?
Havana
Prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, Cuba was largely dependent upon its relationship with the Soviet Union to shore up its fragile economy. Since that time, the Cuban economy has faltered and virtually collapsed. President Obama saw the opportunity to help Cuba begin throwing off the shackles of Soviet authority by restoring diplomatic relations and easing existing economic sanctions previously imposed by the U.S. Unfortunately, Donald Trump, in his presumed superior wisdom, did away with all of that by reversing Obama’s reversals. And President Biden has done virtually nothing to improve the situation.
So now, Cuba is ripe to become, once again, a vassal state of Russia. Its current President (more accurately, dictator), Miguel Diaz-Canel, himself a staunch Marxist-Leninist socialist, stands firmly behind Putin’s Russia, loudly voicing approval of the “special military operation” in Ukraine and opposing NATO’s proposed inclusion of countries in close proximity to Russia’s borders, such as Sweden and Ukraine itself. Sound like someone else we know all too well? Perhaps a man who has been much in the news lately, one of Vladimir Putin’s many puppets: Aleksandr Lukashenko, the President of Belarus.
The presence of the Russian warship in Havana is only one of a recent series of Russian incursions into Cuba. The island nation has lately been the recipient of tens of millions of dollars worth of desperately-needed oil, along with the promise of future development and investment. No savvy businessperson could seriously think that this is all being offered out of the goodness of Putin’s (or anyone’s) heart. There has to be a tit-for-tat in there somewhere.
“Santa Putin”
This may all seem to be business as usual for Russia — except that it is happening on America’s doorstep. Is it “deja vu all over again”? If so, let us hope that we — the United States — don’t make the same disastrous mistake we made following the breakup of the USSR some 30 years ago, when so many wanted so much to believe that the new Russia was now our trusted friend. Or just last year, when Putin expected us to accept as fact the preposterous claim that the enormous buildup of Russian troops on Ukraine’s border was merely a routine military exercise. I would hope that we’re smarter today, and that we recall the words of Sir Winston Churchill: “Those that fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”
A few years ago I finally retired, and after careful consideration and consultation with some of my family members, made the decision to leave my home of 65 years in the Washington, D.C. area, and travel south to the unfamiliar land of Georgia to be with family. And after one year here, I jotted down a few thoughts on my impressions of my new home away from home, to send to a Washington friend.
But first, for those readers who may be from the heart of Dixie, I sincerely hope I haven’t given offense — that is not my intention. It’s all in good fun. This is really a lovely place, filled with warm, friendly, good people. It’s just that it isn’t Washington, and it’s hard to change 65 years of habit, and impossible not to miss some things as they were. So, taking that into consideration, here we go . . .
“In them old cotton fields back home”
“The great Tom Lehrer — one-time Harvard math professor turned songwriter/satirist/balladeer in the 1950s and ‘60s — wrote a shamefully irreverent song about the American South. He called it ‘I Wanna Go Back to Dixie,’ and if written today, it would have gotten him hanged from the nearest live oak tree, and not undeservedly so. A small sample:
‘Old times there are not forgotten, Whuppin’ slaves and sellin’ cotton . . .’
“He called the South ‘that y’all and shut-my-mouth land’ (rhyming it with ‘southland’), and summed it up with the immortal, ‘Be it ever so decadent, there’s no place like home.’
“Lehrer was from New England, and as far as I know, never lived in the South. I’ve been here in rural Georgia for just over a year [at the time of the original writing], and not in Atlanta or any other large city, but out in the country about 30 miles from Savannah; and I can tell you that Tom Lehrer pretty much nailed it (except, of course, for the part about the slave-whuppin’). This is a place like no other I’ve encountered in my travels throughout the U.S., or anywhere else, for that matter. And they tell me this isn’t even the deepest of the deep South! The scenery is beautiful, but the lifestyle . . . well, it just isn’t Washington. Here are some of the differences that jump out at me:
Instead of: Apartment Buildings Georgia has: Trailer parks
Instead of: Department stores Georgia has: Dollar General stores
Instead of: Smithsonian Museum Georgia has: More Satellite TV
Instead of: Uber, Taxis, and Buses Georgia has: Trucks and motorcycles Instead of: Food delivery Georgia has: Curbside pickup
Instead of: Four distinct seasons Georgia has: Two seasons: Summer, and Hell’s Front Porch
Instead of: The King’s English Georgia has: ‘Y’all,’ ‘sho’ nuf,’ and words with no “g” on the end
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“Again, I’m talking about the rural South, not cities like Atlanta and Savannah. And lest you form a completely negative impression of this exceptional bit of country real estate, let me assure you that there are many very positive aspects as well, such as:
– Peace and quiet.
– Light traffic (except when some clown in a pick-up tries to beat the train through the crossing).
– Low stress level . . . really low.
– Low crime rate. (Everyone owns and carries at least one gun, which is supposed to serve as a deterrent to the occasional would-be criminal. It seems to work — around here, at least.)
– Deer in the back yard.
Actual photo, right here in the neighborhood.
– Deer poop in the back yard (maybe not so great).
– Low Country Boil
– Those fried green tomatoes — scrumptious!
– The sweetest, juiciest peaches in the world.
– Tybee and the other Islands
– People who call you ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’ and hold the door open for you.
– Did I mention peace and quiet?
– And guns?”
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So what do I do with all of this peace and quiet? Well, for the most part — in case you haven’t already figured it out — I write. There’s this blog, and poems to an old friend, and a book (which may even be published one day, if I’m very, very lucky). All of which I never seemed to find the time to do when I was living in D.C. and gainfully employed. Now, if I could only find a way to get paid for it . . .
But no one ever told me life was perfect.
A much younger, idealized version of me
I kid about the differences between country living and city life — and they are very, very different. But that doesn’t make one better than the other . . . just different. And those differences — just as with the differences among people — are what give life its zest. And what give me something to write about. As they say in France: Vive la difference! So, au revoir until next week.
July 12, 2023. As is my habit, I checked the online news headlines when I awoke this morning — o.k., shortly before noon — and was shocked to see a report of a Russian warship that had arrived in Havana, Cuba, just the day before. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and I even checked the calendar to be sure I hadn’t somehow been transported back to 1962. What was this: the Cold War, Part Two?!!
“The Russians Are Coming! The Russians Are Coming!”
Well, yes . . . maybe . . . sort of. We’re not talking about live missiles being sneaked in under cover of night and hidden under camouflage. But we are looking at a strengthening of ties between Russia and a desperately poor, needy island nation just 90 miles off the coast of Florida, at a time when even the larger, stronger country — Russia — sorely needs a booster shot of self-esteem. And what better place to stage a little saber-rattling toward the United States than from a former Soviet dependency just a stone’s throw from our shores?
Those of us born before 1950 can never forget those 13 days in October of 1962 that became known as the Cuban Missile Crisis. We Americans — particularly those of us on the East Coast — lived every moment in fear of Armageddon being rained down on us. I lived in Washington — the presumed first-strike target of any enemy attack — and did not sleep for those two weeks. And even after President Kennedy stood his ground, and Nikita Khrushchev finally “blinked” and — realizing that his effort at intimidation had failed — withdrew his missiles, it was many months before most of us felt any sense of security again.
Is that what we’re facing now? Is this the Cuban Missile Crisis, Redux? We all hope not, of course. But, as we have seen so clearly this past year and a half, first with the invasion of Ukraine, and now with the confusion surrounding Yevgeny Prigozhin’s attempted rebellion against the Russian government, no one really seems to know what Vladimir Putin is thinking, or what he is capable of doing. I certainly don’t pretend to have the answers, and it’s probably too soon for even the experts to know what’s going on. But I do know this: I’m not going to sleep quite so soundly tonight.
No, I don’t believe we’re at the stage when we should start digging our fallout shelters, or teaching our school children to “duck and cover” (that’s obviously useless anyway). I guess I’m just sharing this because it’s what people do when they’re nervous — we seek comfort in the company of friends. And we hope for the best.
So you’ve worked your whole adult life, taking care of business, taking care of your family, doing all the right things — just so you could retire someday and take it easy. And now, at last, that time is right around the corner, and your friend at work asks you what you’re going to do when you don’t have to get up early and come to work anymore. And you say the first day you’re going to set the alarm clock as usual, and when it jolts you awake at 6:30 in the morning, you’re going to pick it up and hurl it across the room and roll over for another couple of hours of blissful sleep. And then for the rest of that day you’re going to hang around in your pajamas and watch TV and eat raw cookie dough until it’s time to go online to GrubHub and order $100 worth of Chinese takeout for dinner.
Then your friend asks, “And what about the second day?” And you don’t have an answer.
“Now what?”
But then you remember: you do have a plan, of sorts. You’ve been smart and made your bucket list well in advance, so you go and find that list when you get home that night, and remind yourself of all the things you’ve been wanting to do: climb Machu Picchu, take that cruise around the Greek Islands, sign up for Salsa dance lessons, read the entire set of Great Books you bought 25 years ago . . . maybe even write a book of your own, or take up painting and become another Grandma Moses.
That’s if you’re single.
If you have a husband, wife, or live-in significant other, that’s a whole different ballgame. Let’s say you’re a man who’s lucky enough to have been happily married to the same lovely woman for 45 years. The kids have long since moved away — well, except for the one who keeps running into bad luck and coming back home from time to time — and you and your wife now have to decide on activities you’ll both enjoy. You’d like to rent that RV and drive to Alaska for some salmon fishing; she wants to renovate the kitchen. Or you want to build that sexy little red sports car out of spare parts; and she’d rather take French cooking lessons — in Paris.
Or if you’re a woman who’s been putting up with . . . oh, excuse me, happily married to . . . the same wonderful man for those 45 years, just reverse the above examples. And don’t forget to retrieve that honey-do list that’s been buried in the junk drawer since Jimmy Carter was President. And you both need to remember that everything has to be planned around the dates you promised to babysit with your six — or is it seven now? — grandkids so their parents can take their dream vacations.
“Are we having fun yet?”
So you sit down together and once more fall back on that solid ingredient of every successful marriage: compromise. One for him, and one for her. First, will it be salmon fishing or a new kitchen? Considering the length of that ride to Alaska with the two of you confined to an RV for weeks on end, the traffic you’ll encounter, days of bad weather, only to wind up catching cold from the damp, rainy Alaska climate, and ending up with a couple of fish you could have bought at the local fish market at home for maybe $25 apiece . . . well, this was probably not the best idea.
“Look, honey . . . dinner!”
On the other hand, a new kitchen will last the rest of your lives and add resale value to your house so that your kids will see a bigger profit from it when you’re both dead and gone. So, score one for the wife: new kitchen it is.
Next: sports car or trip to Paris? Admittedly, two round-trip tickets to Paris, plus hotel and meals, the cost of the cooking lessons, and the likely shopping trips (because who goes to Paris without buying a few couture items you’ll probably never wear but will make your friends green with envy?) — well, that’s all horribly expensive. But what else have you been saving and scrimping for all your lives? To leave it to those same ungrateful kids? No? Okay, then — maybe you can afford it after all.
But how about that little red bomb you’ve been dreaming about since you were 16? You already know where to get the parts, you’ve got the manual on how to build it, and you could work on it in . . . oops, wait a minute. The garage! You’ve forgotten about that. It’s jam-packed with a lifetime’s collection of stuff — mostly junk, but not entirely, so it would have to be carefully gone through and cleared out, some of it to be donated, some to be offered in a garage sale, some to be trashed . . . That’s a shitload of back-breaking work before you can even start on the car. And if you manage to do all that, and you actually finish creating your beautiful, sleek little chick magnet, when and where are you ever going to drive it? To the orthopedist’s office? The supermarket? The courthouse to pay the speeding tickets? Suddenly, Paris is starting to look really good. So, score one for the wife.
“Oo-la-la”
Hey — wait just a damned minute! That’s two out of two for the wife!!!
You’re not seriously going to try to tell me you’re surprised, are you? Face it, buddy — marriage after retirement isn’t much different than the first 45 years, except that you spend a lot more time together. So just call in the kitchen designer, and while your wife is busy with that project, you can start reading the guide books to seeing Paris on $100 a day. (And good luck with that!)
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But let’s say that life has thrown you some curves over the years and you’ve lost your soulmate too soon; or maybe you’ve kicked the bum out the door years ago, and you’re a single woman again. Time to revisit those earlier options: Machu Picchu, the Greek islands, Salsa lessons, the Great Books, a second career as a writer or painter or whatever you’re good at. At least you don’t have to worry about having to compromise with anyone, although there still may be the issue of the grandkids. But what the hell — you’ve done your years of child rearing; let their parents take care of them and wait their turn for retirement. Now is your time; it’s okay to be a little bit selfish.
First, those trips to Peru and Greece. Both sound heavenly! So it’s “eenie-meenie,” and you decide on the Greek Island cruise, buy the latest travel guides, and hunker down for an evening of pizza and planning. First, do you want to ask a friend to go with you, or would you rather go solo? Having a friend along would make sure you don’t ever have to dine alone on the ship, but might also create some of those compromise issues, and could get in the way of your meeting a gorgeous, suntanned, gray-haired Greek shipping magnate and indulging in a thoroughly scandalous romantic interlude. So, solo it is. And you’ve found exactly the trip you want, and it’s only . . . HOLY SHIT!!! It can’t cost that much, can it? Well, sure it can. First, there’s the round-trip plane fare to Greece, then the single stateroom on the ship, and although the meals are included, the drinks, tips, amenities, shore excursions, shopping, taxes and fees are not. OMG . . . there goes a big chunk of your 401(k), right out the porthole.
“Come back! Come back!”
So . . . okay, let’s consider a Plan B. Maybe you could meet Mr. Hunky at Salsa lessons. But your left knee isn’t doing so well, which is why you didn’t choose Machu Picchu in the first place, and you’d hate to make a fool of yourself on the dance floor. And how likely is it that any guy taking Salsa lessons by himself is going to be more than a “5” on a “10” scale anyway? So, where else can you go to have a little fun and maybe meet someone interesting? You’re clearly too old for the bar scene. Church? You already know all those people and they’re mostly married couples. Online dating? Good God, no!! Not in a million years — not with the horror stories you’ve heard. So, if there is to be a second love in your life, you’re just going to have to hope you’ll find him squeezing melons at the farmer’s market at the same time you are.
“Where are you, Mr. Right?”
Now we’re down to reading, writing, or arts and crafts. How thrilling! Have you really worked all your life to end up with your nose buried in a book or a pottery wheel? Hell, no . . . so let’s try again.
Night classes at the local college? Lots of interesting subjects out there that attract both men and women: history, foreign languages, politics, auto mechanics, English lit., computer science. A definite possibility, though there is the issue of homework. So, score “maybe” on that one. Or there’s volunteer work — so many people needing a helping hand. Good one. Or even a part-time job, something fun instead of just a paycheck. But that’s too much like the past half-century of alarm clocks and commuting. Sigh!
So what is the answer?
Well, it seems the answer is . . . there is no single right answer for everyone. Because all of our lives have been different, all of our current situations (and limitations) are different, and all of our likes and dislikes are different. So whatever seems to suit you, stop with the excuses, get off your behind, and just go for it. Only one word of advice: Make the most of whatever time is allotted to you. Like the money through the porthole, time has wings . . . so enjoy.
Oh, yeah . . . and one more thing: Lay off the cookie dough before you can’t get up off the couch!
The Blog About Everything … and Sometimes Nothing 