?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Dutchy

Posted on February 9, 2024

In freshman year of high school, Robert Dutchik was my main crush. We called him “Dutchy” then, but the obituary I read a couple days ago referred to him as Bob.

High school was a long time ago, and I don’t remember much about that romance other than the kiss we shared in the alley a block from my home. When school let out, I was fourteen and headed to Europe for the summer. His family moved to Arkansas. By autumn, it was over.

Until 2013.

We didn’t reconnect as a romantic item that year. Rather, we reconnected at the first-ever Cathedral Grade School Reunion which some of us organized fifty-seven years after our graduation. Bob and his wife, Ginny, were the first to arrive and he brought two class photos from eighth grade that stirred memories in all of us. But they were about our adolescence.

I learned a lot more about Bob the adult from his obituary. He and Ginny were married 51 years. He never moved from Arkansas, but hunted all over the states and Scotland. He had one son, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and five siblings. He worked for Capital Welding and Airgas until he retired.

We’re all pushing or pulling eighty at this point, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that one of our classmates passed away. But it did, and I’m glad we got to reconnect a decade ago. Thanks for the memories, Dutchy.

 

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Dive Bar

Posted on February 8, 2024

A friend and I had lunch at a new restaurant this afternoon. When I asked where she wanted to go, her response was “Surprise me.” That’s hard to do when we both eat out regularly.

Additionally, many restaurants don’t open for lunch anymore. Given what’s happened to the restaurant industry since the pandemic, it probably isn’t very financially remunerative.

But I’d heard of AJ’s Bar and Grill from various sources; had checked the vibe on its website; and decided that a dive bar in the otherwise very conservative community of Berrien Springs was just the thing.

It was dark and quiet when we entered the door, and the bartendress broke the quiet by calling out for us to sit where we wanted. We passed up the back of a modified pick-up truck and chose a high-top halfway down the wall across from the bar. The place had “Country” written all over it, down to a copy of the Pledge of Allegiance on the wall and ads for the upcoming acoustic country star’s weekend performance. I doubt the recently deceased Toby Keith ever played there, but he would have felt right at home.

The bartendress doubled as our server and brought menus promptly without being overbearing. As is typical in restaurants these days, our choices brought a barrage of questions: How did I want my burger cooked, what did I want on it, what side did I want, what about a beverage besides water?

And when my friend chose chips to go with her patty melt, she had to choose between house made and commercial. I almost wondered if we had to choose the type of plate we wanted: plastic or a basket?

As we sipped our beers we waited for the moment of truth to arrive. Would our order meet our expectations and garner return visits? Or would this be a one visit relationship?

There was no question. My burger was cooked exactly as I’d requested (medium rare, which is often hard to come by), while her patty melt looked like something Earl would have loved. We both agreed our guys would like AJ’s and that this surprise – since I’d not been there before either – was a great one.

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More on Macy’s

Posted on February 7, 2024

My displeasure with Macy’s is long-standing and didn’t begin with the current credit card issue. In fact, when Macy’s purchased that Chicago department store icon, Marshall Field’s, in 2005 I vowed I’d never set foot in any store with Macy’s name on it.

And I haven’t. Well, actually I have, but I’ve never purchased anything there until this past January. I found the merchandise cheesy, the displays tacky, and the staff uninterested in service.

But I’d been looking long and hard for joggers – that contemporary term which has displaced sweatpants. Joggers that fit and were reasonably priced. And I happened across some on the internet, paying little attention to the source of the product.

Which is how I came to order three pair from Macy’s, all of which confirmed my original opinion of the store. I sent them back, expecting the same kind of refund I’ve gotten from Wal-Mart, Joseph A. Banks, and my local grocery store (which certainly operates on a smaller margin than Macy’s).

Instead, I got a gift card. It is bright red with the phrase “Happy Returns” printed across the bottom. In four point print (which is barely readable) the various provisions for using the card are explained. And one of them says that the only way to use it is until the cash value is exhausted. There is no option for going to Customer Service and asking for my money in cold, hard currency.

Earl and I once opened a new jigsaw puzzle we’d ordered and proceeded to put it together. After a frustrating week, it turned out there were 21 pieces missing. We slipped white paper under the puzzle, and I wrote the numbers in the white spaces before photographing the entire thing and sending it to the puzzle company. I wanted my money back, but the puzzle company sent a mealy apology instead and gave me a certificate for another puzzle.

Macy’s has used this same tactic, but my reaction is the same. I bad mouthed the puzzle company ad nauseum and plan to do the same with Macy’s. What I do about the gift card in the end remains to be seen.

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Buyer Beware

Posted on February 6, 2024

It’s that time of year where I return items purchased for Christmas that didn’t make the grade. There’s the shirt from Joseph A, Banks and the three joggers from Macy’s. I was very pleased with how the former handled a refund, less so with the latter.

Joseph A. Banks wasted no time in crediting my charge card. Case closed. But Macy’s doesn’t credit your card; instead it gives you a credit for a purchase that is the amount of the items you returned. Actually, I don’t want to purchase other items from Macy’s based on the experience I had. I want a refund.

But today I received in the mail the credit card loaded for the amount of the items I returned. I’d planned to go to my closest Macy’s and purchase something under the amount involved and then ask for the remainder in cash. But the fine print on the credit card says it’s only good for merchandise.

We’ll see.

But, if I can’t redeem the card for cash, you can be sure I’ll never shop at Macy’s again. And I’ll let the company know. In fact, this blog is the first salvo.

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Mondays

Posted on February 5, 2024

I have always loved Mondays, even when I worked. Most people think of them as the start of a long week, after a weekend off. They dread returning to work with five days ahead filled with meetings, reports, and confabs at the water cooler.

My take is that Monday is for organizing what you do the rest of the week. It’s like an extension of the weekend where you focus on what needs to be done in the next few days. But it isn’t really about accomplishing anything; it’s about getting organized.

Case in point.

I’ve spent most of the past five weeks dealing with pneumonia. So things have piled up. My passport needs to be renewed; there is a suspicion charge on my credit card; the appointment with my tax accountant is looming; and I need a permanent.

So today, I made a list of things that need to be addressed this week. There are 23 of them, which means I need to do about five a day to stay on target. Did I do any? Given it’s Monday in my world.

Yes, I did. But I chose the most benign and easy to accomplish lest I defy my opinion that Monday is for organizing and not doing. With pneumonia still lurking in my background, I don’t want to exert myself too much.

That said, Tuesdays are for really doing.

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Writer’s Block (Originally Published in 2001)

Posted on February 4, 2024

The dog-eared paperback caught my eye.  It lay on the shelf at shoulder height, so that I couldn’t miss it, as I searched for something else on my jam-packed bookcase.  Seeing her book, Writing Down the Bones, made me realize I hadn’t read Natalie Goldberg in a long time.  I wondered what she’s writing about these days, or maybe she’s taking a break.

I hope not, because I need a good example right now.

My friendship with Natalie is one-sided.  I am simply one woman in her larger reading audience who has found a friend, a supporter, for writing.  Write every day, she urges.  Even if it is only for ten minutes, just to keep the wrists supple and the creative juices flowing.  Write everywhere, she encourages.  Great words hang out near coffeehouses and park benches and window seats.  Use a writing instrument instead of a computer, the better to feel the process.

Write about anything.  The dirty collar on the shirt of the man in front of you on the bus.  The ending to the dream you were having when the alarm shrilled reveille.  The happiest moment of your life.  The most miserable.

Mostly, forget about being famous and write as if your life depends on it.

Once I spent a whole year writing like that.   Got one of those blank books with lines in it and filled them with ten minute blocks.  Every day.  At first the blocks consisted of neatly arranged words that resembled a carefully planned flower garden, each letter just so.  But soon, more like weeds, they filled the pages. Finally, clinging like kudzu, the words spilled over from one page to the next, choking the lines.  According to Natalie Goldberg’s instructions, they were uncensored, unedited, unfettered.  I even gave my book a title that reflected where I was in life: Halcyon Days.

Halcyons are mythical birds that nest on the sea where it is peaceful and calm during the winter solstice.  And that’s what my life was that particular year.  By choice, I was alone.  My problems with my second ex were more memory than reality, and no one else had vied seriously to take his place.  There were no obligatory television shows to watch together or after-work dinners to share.  No commitments either.  Only long evenings on my hands.

So I turned inward for company and spent hours reading.  I renewed my acquaintance with authors who were old friends and took up with some who were new to me.  Even when I didn’t fully appreciate their work, I admired their tenacity; for if reading is a solitary experience, how much more so is writing.

I’d always struggled to find both the time and energy for it, especially when I was emotionally involved with someone.  The interest was always there, but often it lay fallow for months at a time.  Several spiral notebooks are crammed on another shelf to prove it.  All of them start with the following entry or some variation on the theme:

“Today is [Fill in the date; it doesn’t matter what date] and I am launching my writing career.  I know I’ve said this before, but this time it’s for real.  I can do it.”

A couple notebooks are painfully empty beyond the first few sentences.  Others have several pages filled with my curly handwriting.  But none is more than half filled.  What they really proved was that I was miserable at meeting self-imposed writing deadlines and the years were slipping by.

That’s when I decided to follow Natalie’s advice.  Among the several books she’s written is Writing Down the Bones, which I had given my mother in paperback as a birthday gift.  As was her habit, Mother gave the very same book back to me for a Christmas gift a couple years later.  What could I do but accept that Natalie’s book was really meant for me?  I read it in a minimum of sittings and, filled with inspiration, tried once more.  The first entry in Halcyon Days reads:

May 30  “Memorial Day with Kevin and Elizabeth.  Golden Nugget.  Breakfast.  Montrose Harbor.  Sun.  Jade Dragon. Tattoo.  Leona’s.  Pizza.  Home!   . . . and summer begins.”

This time there were no promises of filling notebooks.  It wasn’t about wanting to be a writer as much as it was simply starting the business of being one.

That was five years ago.  I’ve done a lot of writing since then.  I’ve had several essays published and many more returned.  I sent the novel that represents another year of my life to an agent, only to have it rejected too.  Soundly rejected, with a whine in the voice that I’d bothered her in the first place.  And that’s the reason I’ve used for not sitting down and writing this past month.  Besides, the seasons are about to change and I’m not inspired.

Until now, when Natalie’s book caught my eye, like a former teacher you run into on the street who silently reminds you of your potential.  Who rejects that old excuse called Writer’s Block.

Ah, Natalie, you are here when I need you.  I don’t even have to take the book off the shelf.  I know what you will say.

You will tell me to begin again.

 

 

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Procrastination

Posted on February 3, 2024

Anyone who’s read this blog recently  knows my “streak” ended after two days and before the new year. It is now February 3, a good five weeks since my last entry; and I’m channeling Natalie Goldberg to get back on track.

I could blame pneumonia or the inertia pneumonia brings with it. After all if your lungs aren’t working at full capacity, the rest of your body parts suffer from lack of oxygen to do their jobs. I could blame the doldrums of January in Michigan with its grey skies, freezing temperatures, and uninspiring outlooks. Or I could just admit it: I didn’t feel like blogging under the circumstances And at my age I give myself permission not to do those optional things I don’t feel like doing.

During  naps I thought of topics for blogs. Even made a list in Word. But then I closed that file and never looked back. Until today. As I dozed on the couch in front of the fireplace, I heard a voice say, “Just begin again.”

I recognized those words, because I’d written them over twenty years ago in an essay about Natalie Goldberg and her encouragement to errant writers. I was errant then; I am errant now.

Natalie’s message in Writing Down the Bones is to simply sit down, even if it’s only for ten minutes, and put words to paper. She wasn’t keen on computers back then; she championed pencil and paper as part of the process.

I rose from my nap and found the essay I’d written about her. Read it slowly and recalled that time in my life and how creatively satisfying it was. Checked Google to see if Natalie were still alive. She is.

Then I sat down and began again.

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Cue the Confetti

Posted on December 31, 2023

In any given year, December 31, gets short shrift. It’s got 24 hours, just like all the other days in the calendar; but most of it is spent prepping for the arrival of the new year and not reflecting on the old.

To accommodate the crowd in Times Square, hundreds of volunteers haul 3000 pounds of confetti to rooftops before the appointed hour. Then when the ball drops they throw it “overboard” on the revelers below. But this project starts with a test run at 11 AM. It isn’t exactly a time to reminisce about the ending year.

Senior diners queue for dinner at 5 PM, while party animals make reservations for later in the evening. Babysitters must be in place, beverages must be curated, and  credit cards must be ready. No time to think about the past year here.

And while most Americans are still in bed, Christmas Island in Kiribata, an island country in the central Pacific Ocean, is the first time zone to welcome 2024 at 5 AM on December 31 on the East Coast.

This year I’ve been sick with a serious head cold, so there will be no partying for me. I probably won’t even make it to midnight. Which gives me some time to ponder about the last day of the year instead of the first one for 2024.

Happy New Year everyone.

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A Streak of One

Posted on December 30, 2023

Four years ago today, I quit the blog I’d written and published since May, 2004.I’d taken breaks every now and then, but always returned to it with something else to say.

But at the end of 2019, that wasn’t the case. We’d endured four years of Trump; an ominous virus was on the rise; the economy was tottering. And I was exhausted. I’d commented on the humorous and the horrific, the mundane and the mighty, the trivial and the transcendent. And every blog began to sound like the previous one.

Now it seems to me – four years later – there are new things to observe: the decline of political politeness, the advances in artificial intelligence, the changing world stage. So I’m venturing into blog-dom again.

Sports has a penchant for streaks: there’s Joe DiMaggio’s 56-game hitting streak in 1941; Cal Ripken’s 2,632 consecutive game appearances; and Rocky Marciano’s 49-bout wins over nine years. He retired undefeated.

I’m not sure what my current blog streak will be. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.

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Break

Posted on December 30, 2019

I’ve decided to take a break from blogging, because it’s felt like a chore lately. And since I’m of the age where one can pick and chose how to spend one’s time, I’m exercising that option. Someday my interest in the blog form will most likely return; it almost always does.

Till then, here’s to 2020.

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