Posted on August 5, 2019
I am an inveterate list maker. By the day, by the week, and by the when-I’m-caught-up-with-the- day-and-the-week. If you’re wondering what this last category is, it’s all those projects I want to do but don’t have a deadline for. Or maybe a soft deadline, which is one that isn’t on my calendar but lingers in my head.
Currently, here are some of the items on this last list.
- Clean the furnace filter. This should be done every month for optimal operation of our furnace and AC, but I’m extremely lax here. Actually, it’s on my calendar for the first day of every month; but this is August 5, and I still haven’t done it.
- Genealogy for my cousin Charlotte. At my family reunion last month, I promised the historian of the McDonald Family that I’d update her records of our branch on the family tree. I’ve done nothing except make that promise.
- Apply for TSA’s permanent Pre–check status. This requires a visit to some bureaucratic office in Kalamazoo so that I don’t have to undress – shoes, jacket, belt, hat, etc. – every time I go through security at an airport. It’s $85 for five years; given the amount of travel I might do, this is definitely worth it.
- Clean the garage. Actually, this one can stay on the list indefinitely.
- Stock up on lightbulbs. Sounds easy enough, except that light bulbs have gotten complicated in recent years. I know what I like, but I don’t know what it’s called on the lumen spectrum. I also know what I don’t like, and I don’t like the modern bulbs. Period. This item will probably get my attention when we start working in the dark.
- A myriad of other items. There’s making notes on our July 2018 visit to Alaska. The photos are all aligned in an album, but there are no words to accompany them. There’s an item to study my relatively new (maybe a year old) iPod instructions, and one to contact Comcast to reduce our monthly bill.
Some of these things will probably never be finished. But keeping them on the list keeps them in the background of my consciousness at least.
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Posted on August 4, 2019
There have been two mass shootings in the last twenty-four hours in our country, one in El Paso and the other in Dayton. We are the only country in the civilized world that has had more than 250 mass killings in 2019, with five months to go before the year winds down. When will it end?
At the same time, I’ve tried to concentrate on the small, gentle things that happened to me today as I learned of the national scene.
One, I swam for half an hour and it felt good. I swam with friends, and that felt good too. Two, my gladiolas continued to unfold, a sign of nature’s resilience. Three, my gardener friend, Mike, came by to admire our mutual handiwork over the summer. Four, my son brought an appetizer from a brewery for the first course of tonight’s dinner.
These are small wonders indeed when you’re reading about mass killings. I relish them because they are becoming fewer and fewer in our national mindscape.
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Posted on August 3, 2019
When I was in grade school, an ice ball was what the boys lobbed at the girls on the way home from school. They were harder than snowballs and left a temporary permanent mark if one connected with an uncovered leg or arm or cheek. The main battlefield occurred around Elsworth’s Drug Store, where we often stopped for six cent single ice cream cones as a reward for enduring Sister Mary What’s-Her-Name another day. Truth be told, the girls loved to be pummeled by the boys because it was a sign of adolescent affection.
Today, ice balls have another more adult meaning. I first became acquainted with them while visiting my son Kevin in Fargo. We’d gone to a new bar to sample the wares. I don’t remember what I ordered; what I do remember is that it arrived in a cocktail glass with a giant round ice cube floating in it. At first I was intrigued by the single cube and the logic that it could keep the drink cold while not diluting it. It has a sleek look too.
Lo and behold, the ice ball has arrived in Benton Harbor, MI, several years after I first met it in Fargo. That same son, Kevin, and I visited one of our local haunts a couple days ago. We always sit at the bar where he orders the Corpse Reviver straight up and I order a Buffalo Trace Old Fashioned on a rock. The rock does not disappoint.
The other night the cocktail server told us you can get the molds for ice balls at Meijer, so this afternoon I went in search of them. At first, all I found was a mold for five-pointed stars. Then a mold, believe it or not, for crushed ice. At last, I found the ice ball mold on a BOGO sale; and currently there are four of them solidifying in my freezer as I drink my Southern Comfort with ice chards for the last time.
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Posted on August 2, 2019
I received a postcard this afternoon that was really a bunch of coupons stuck together for me to use at my local Meijer store. What I noticed most about these discounts was that they were sealed with rubber cement.
I rolled it off into a little ball with my finger and wondered if there is much of a market left for this product. The only other time I’ve seen it recently was when my new credit card arrived in the mail stuck to instructions on how to activate it.
But back in the day, which in this case is the nineteen eighties, rubber cement was a staple of my professional life. It was glue but with the unique property that the two items glued together could be unglued. This was invaluable in laying out brochures and flyers before the age of cut and paste. Now everything is done on a computer, so perhaps there’s not much market for a glue that can come unglued.
I didn’t research this, nor have I lost sleep over it; but I do hope the manufacturers of rubber cement have other products in their inventory.
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Posted on August 1, 2019
Two months ago I relished the thought that summer was about to appear. Lazy days of sunning, gardening, reading, napping, and swimming. Oh, and physical therapy, doctors’ appointments, medical bills, and therapeutic massage.
Actually the former activities made the latter ones tolerable, and summer has flown by with progress on all fronts. My garden blossoms; my napping has become gourmet quality; physical therapy has given me back my right arm; and the medical bills are under control.
So this summer was most productive. And, in Michigan, the public schools are mandated by a 2006 law to start after Labor Day. Which means there are four more weeks until classes begin.
Still, I see the creep of autumn. Trees and bushes and crops are bulging with greenery. Some of my flowers are telling me they’re done. School bus companies are seeking drivers while shopping excursions have become all back-to-schoolish.
Was it like this years ago, that fall started the beginning of August? That summer seemed truncated. That vacation frenzy ran rampant. I really don’t think so. In this age, however, we’re always looking ahead, plotting our steps, making plans for the future.
Which means Christmas will be here before we know it.
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Posted on July 31, 2019
Both Earl and I are only children; you would think that makes us kindred spirits. It doesn’t.
Instead, each of us thinks our way is best. We know the best way to set the table, park a car, handle a cell phone problem. We are sure our way is better in using a vacuum cleaner, washing dishes, doing laundry, even arranging the rug under the kitchen sink.
(I know. We’re acting like only children . . . emphasis on the last word here.)
The rug under the kitchen sink has become a flashpoint. I want it positioned so it’s centered on the double sink; Earl wants it so it’s abutting the cabinet under the sink. Both are logical as we discuss this issue. Still, neither of us will give in, which leads to a repositioning of the rug umpteen times a day.
Finally, we agreed that on the even days of the month Earl would rule how the rug sits. And I would have the odd days.
We arrived home from our road trip this afternoon, and I promptly positioned the rug how it was meant to be. After all, this is July 31.. Earl was in complete support. And tomorrow, August 1, is also an odd day. So I get an extra opportunity to have the rug the way I want.
Rereading this, I’m torn between mentally chiding us for such silliness and considering the even/odd arrangement for future disagreements.
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Posted on July 30, 2019
We used a GPS on our recent travels, but the truth is I prefer road maps. So we also brought along the 2019 Road Atlas purchased at a truck stop earlier in the year. It’s filled with information GPS doesn’t need to get us to a destination. And that’s precisely the stuff I’m curious about.
For instance, as we were driving through Ohio I learned the population of the entire state gave it seventh place on the population list for the entire fifty. It made us wonder what was ahead of Ohio and what was behind.
So, in order of population in 2019 (not an official census count), we have California, Texas, Florida, New York, Pennsylvania, Illinois, and Ohio. To round out the Top Ten, there is Georgia, North Carolina, and Michigan.
None is in the middle of the country. Except for Georgia, they all touch the Great Lakes, or the east and west ocean boundaries, or our Canadian and Mexican neighbors. For the record, at the other end of the spectrum the least populated states are Wyoming and Vermont.
Given that we’ve already entered the political season for the 2020 presidential election, I imagine a lot more people will be paying attention to the statistics of a road atlas than a GPS to win the ultimate prize.
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Posted on July 29, 2019
If you live in Michigan, which we do, the sight of billboards dotting the highway is a familiar one. Car dealers, health clinics, pet stores, hotels, even the billboard owner tout the merits of this kind of advertising. In fact, Lamar, owner of a gazillion billboards, uses one to say: “83 percent of drivers say they read billboards.”
I don’t know how Lamar arrived at this statistic, but it’s really not relevant. It doesn’t address how many readers actually purchase the product due to billboard marketing.
The thing is, other states have fewer billboards. We saw none in New York, Pennsylvania, or Ohio, and only two lone sentinels in Indiana. Of course, it could have been the particular routes we traveled. But these are among our country’s most populous states, so you’d think the Interstates would be rife with advertising.
I decided to see which states actually ban billboards and was surprised that there are only four: Alaska, Hawaii, Maine, and Vermont. I couldn’t find information on which states have the most billboards – perhaps it’s not something to brag about – but there are about two million of them in the United States today (This according to Google®).
I can’t speak for everyone in my generation, but Earl and I agree that we look to billboards to provide information about hotels and restaurants when we’re on the road. Especially if we haven’t made a reservation in advance. I suspect younger generations rely on their apps for the same thing. Which makes me wonder if the billboard will eventually become an endangered species.
Perhaps in some areas, it already has.
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Posted on July 28, 2019
Every year the extended McDonald Family has a reunion. Nobody seems to know exactly when it started, but I’m guessing it was at least 30 years ago. I remember returning to Lowville for it with my husband and my son in 1990.
I’ve been back only occasionally; the last time was 15 years ago. The town hasn’t changed much; nor has the number of people who live there. The cemeteries have more residents, mostly members of the older McDonald generations; the local schools still teach the younger ones.
I wondered whom I would know this afternoon at the local Fairgrounds. I certainly didn’t expect anyone to know me, other than my cousin Charlotte who keeps in touch. But I knew everyone would be a descendant of one of the thirteen offspring of Patrick and Johanna McDonald, my great grandparents.
I had reviewed the thirteens’ names and set them to memory. So when I was introduced to someone my point of reference was always, “What is your relationship to Patrick and Johanna’s children?” It was cumbersome, but it worked.
“My grandma was Patrick’s daughter Kate McDonald Kelly.”
“My grandpa was Patrick’s son Henry McDonald.”
“My grandpa was Patrick’s daughter Loretta McDonald O’Neill.”
As for me, my grandpa was Patrick’s son James Francis McDonald. He died in 1952 when I was eight years old, but I remember him clearly. My own mother was Jim’s daughter, who’s been gone 23 years.
Time doesn’t just march on anymore; it races by. Which is why we really came.
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Posted on July 27, 2019
This farming community, nestled in the Black River Valley in upstate New York, was where my great-great-grandfather, William McDonald, settled after leaving Ireland during the Potato Famine of 1845-1849. Legend has it that he walked in from Canada and stopped walking when he saw rolling hills and verdant fields that reminded him of his home across the Atlantic.
William’s son, my great-grandfather Patrick, never set foot in Ireland. Regardless, the genetic pull that attracted his father to the area remained. Ultimately Patrick and his wife, Johanna, had seventeen children, thirteen of whom reached adulthood. Twelve remained in and around Lowville, while the thirteenth, my grandfather Jim, left to pursue a medical career. Collectively, the thirteen had 52 children.
This brief history doesn’t begin to explain the genetic pull that still exists. Because I am the granddaughter of the one son who left the area, I myself never lived in Lowville. But whenever I return, the ghosts of William and his extended family accompany me. It’s been that way since I first visited as a little girl with my uncle somewhere around 1950.
I have lived in 34 different places; most of my relatives stayed put. It’s a foreign concept in my own life, but I glad to know there is a place in the center of Lewis County, NY, that we all can call home. We spent the day visiting and reminiscing there.
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