Originally published May 18, 2010

I am the sort of person who always reads the last page in a book first. In fact, when I’m in a bookstore, it’s the last page that usually convinces me to buy a particular book in the first place.

This habit has ruined only one book in my lifetime of reading, but that’s another blog.

What I’m addressing here is my Kindle®. I’ve read a variety of books on it, and really like it; BUT I have not discovered how to read the last page first. Which means my usual pattern with a book is being juxtaposed. I’m sure there’s a way to get to the last page, but so far I haven’t figured it out. Instead, I’m exploring the experience of reading a book from front to back with no inkling of how things turn out.

It’s a strange feeling. And, rather than trying to circumvent it by taking time to analyze the Kindle®, I’m rolling with it. I don’t have enough data yet to see if not knowing the ending affects how I feel about a book, but I do know that it doesn’t affect how I feel about the quality of the writing. If it’s good, then whether you know the outcome or not, you want to read the book for the shear enjoyment of its craftsmanship.

Originally published May 12, 2010

Two weeks ago today I sat in a little trattoria in Rome, Italy, enjoying a light supper and waiting for my son Kevin to arrive. I’d spent the afternoon getting a manicure and pedicure in a typically Italian salon and was admiring Alesia’s efforts to make my hands and feet look gorgeous.

Kevin finally came. We saw, and we conquered. It was a spectacular five days. Then he left for Venice and I came home still sporting the red polish Alesia said was the “in” color for Italian women these days.

Now that I’ve returned to my regular regime of swimming three times a week, the Roman red has faded and chipped. No American version would have held up any better, but I’ve held off removing the remnants because every time I look at my nails I remember a glorious time in Rome with my older son.

We saw the Coliseum, the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps. We ate authentic Italian bread and visited a mozzarella bar, renowned for 27 different kinds of that succulent cheese. We drank and talked and walked and talked and drank some more. Kevin even found an English copy of “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest,” something that’s not yet available in the United States. I read the 700+ page book in one sitting on the airplane home.

My manicure was a special reminder of this trip, but today I conceded to myself that it had to go. The chips were so great that they did a disservice to both Alesia and me. So I dragged out the bottle of remover and slowly wiped each nail clean. The memories, however, cannot be removed.

Originally published March 5, 2010

The day started all right. We woke before the waiter brought breakfast to our cabin. And Earl was bathrobe-ready to let the man in, as I burrowed under the covers and pretended to be invisible. We had coffee on the deck and enjoyed every early morning minute.

But there were a variety of challenges after that.

Such as . . . Earl got lost. Or maybe I got lost. It doesn’t matter. We spent an hour searching for each other onboard the ship. In that hour I left a couple messages in our cabin, walked up and down the Lido deck looking for a man with a Bora Bora baseball cap, and finally decided I should contact the Purser about a missing person. Just as I was about to tell the ship’s representative my problem, who should tap me on the shoulder but Earl. That was when I made him promise I could die first.

Then there was our land tour. It was billed as a river tubing excursion, something Earl and I had done more than once before. What the fine print didn’t mention, however, was that it took over an hour to drive to the put-in point; and that hour included driving over the “mountain” range in Grenada to the Atlantic side of the country.

Now I’ve spent a ton of time in Colorado, where there are 52 mountains over 15,000 feet high. So I know mountain range when I see it. The highest point in Grenada is a mere 1910 feet above sea level. But I can tell you that this country’s “mountain range” is far scarier than any I’ve encountered in the Rockies. The road is narrow; the hairpin turns unpredictable; and – oh yes – our five speed bus burned out its clutch on the way to the put-in. This meant the drive back was even scarier than the drive there.

And then there was dinner. We prefer anytime dining, which means you can go to the dining room whenever you wish, but you are not guaranteed a table for two. Rather, you may be seated with four to eight other people you’ve never met before. Sometimes it’s rather interesting; sometimes not. Tonight was a mixed bag.

Earl had a great conversationalist to his right, and I heard them sharing life’s tidbits. I had a retired dentist on my left; and all we shared were his Vietnam memories and a description of his home in Florida. I believe these two topics were the bookends of his adult life. As dessert plates were being cleared, I kicked Earl under the table. He was gracious enough to reach for my hand and say, “Are you ready?” I smiled, folded my napkin, and pretended he was in charge.

On the way out of the dining room, I thanked him profusely and recalled Scarlett O’Hara’s famous words. “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

Originally published February 1, 2010

In her mid-sixties, my Mother became alarmed about osteoporosis. After consulting her doctor for things she could do to combat this possible health problem, she began walking a couple miles a day. On her next visit, she asked what she could do next.

“Swim,” came the answer.

So, even though my Mother wasn’t particularly comfortable around water, she began swimming twice a week at the local college pool. I always thought this was admirable and also something I would never do.

Fast forward a couple decades and I am now my Mother’s age. I’m not concerned about osteoporosis, but nevertheless I have found the benefits of swimming. I started by taking aquacise classes at our local health club. For a while, they were very enjoyable and provided a great cardio workout. But many of the women in the class came to talk during it, while I came to exercise. After a while, their conversations began to annoy me.

On the principle that the only behavior I can change is my own, I decided to try swimming laps instead. It’s a solitary activity not prone to conversation. That was six months ago. Now I’m quite the devotee and am even taking swimming lessons to improve my form and my efficiency. I feel exhilarated after half an hour’s swim. And perhaps I understand a little better how my Mother felt as she took up swimming to combat her own concerns.

Originally published February 1, 2009

Early last week I came home from somewhere to find Earl had purchased a warm, wooly hat for me. No reason; just that I had once expressed an interest in a really warm hat to replace my black wool knit cap. After all, Groundhog Day is tomorrow and I don’t have much faith in the Groundhog this year. I suspect we’re in for at least six more weeks of winter.

The hat is called a Russian Trooper Hat with faux fur trim. Supposedly it’s trendy and durable and great for the ski slopes. I only know it’s warm and that it elicited a lot of response the two days I wore it to the gym. “I love your hat,” several people said. “Cool hat” was another version of the same thing.

Then I went to Starbucks where the barista looked at my hat and said: “I almost bought that hat at Kohl’s, but my daughter said if I did she’d never speak to me again.” To which I replied, probably too irreverently, “That wouldn’t be all bad.”

I hope I didn’t wear out my welcome at Starbucks!

Originally published October 10, 2009

We’re still bringing items to our lockers, and today Earl accused me of “decorating” the lockers. The truth is, I am “organizing” them. There is a distinct difference.

Decorating is what you do to stamp your own personality on a room, a home, even a wardrobe. It defines who you are. As for me, I’m eclectic, casual, creative. I’ve hung picture frames with no pictures in them, displayed Winnie the Pooh memorabilia, and collected artwork reminiscent of Remington. I’ve agreed to an actual buffalo skull in our living room.

None of this evident in the two lockers we’re filling. Rather, what’s happening is that I want to be able to get something, anything, from the lockers without having to empty them in the dead of winter to find the thing I want. Last year, for instance, we had a locker; and, when we rented it in May, Earl put our holiday decorations at the very back. What happened when November arrived wasn’t a pretty sight, as he and our handyman had to juggle contents in order to retrieve the Christmas lights and Waterford ornaments. We never did find the swag that hung on the front door.

So we’ve taken the shelves that stood in our garage and moved them to the lockers, since we probably aren’t going to have much room in our new garage for anything other than our cars. And, slowly, thoughtfully, we’re filling the shelves. Thereon sits extra luggage, Earl’s boxes that contain his history of the past ten years, a generator, and an ice chest. Huddled close by are the cardboard wardrobes that contain off-season clothing. Soon lawn chairs and bikes will show up; and we’ll figure a way to make them accessible when the season for them arrives once again.

In none of this do I have plans to wallpaper the locker or expose Winnie the Pooh or even hang a buffalo head there.

Originally published September 23, 2009

How excited I was to learn that everything in the new residence is on schedule; and, as of today, we should close in appropriate time to satisfy not only the new owners of our old home but also the lenders of our new. I love it when everything works!

That doesn’t mean there’s nothing left to do. In fact, Earl and our handyman Michael are bringing lost treasures from our storage shed to our garage so that we can cull them and determine what might be worth sending to the auction house. Or not. I never dreamed we had accumulated so much stuff in nine plus years, but we have.

This is the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere, so it’s a new experience for me. In the time we’ve been here, we’ve buried more than one parent and inherited that person’s history in the form of photo albums, legal documents, furniture, and newspaper clippings. What do we do with those items when we’re scaling down and don’t have storage space? Well, we’ve rented his and hers lockers to accept the historical excess and we’ll probably deal with it later. Or maybe our children will be more or less attached to the items when one of us passes away, and they’ll do a better job in less time. There’s solace in this when we pay the monthly locker rent.

Originally published February 16, 2009

I’m in New York City today and tomorrow stripping old wallpaper. Which isn’t exactly my idea of a great time in the Big Apple. But I have no one to blame but myself.

In my “professional” life, I’m the finance manager for Fred Flare, Inc., the retail business my entrepreneur son and his partner created ten years ago. I handle contracts and leases; banking issues and credit card processors; lawyers and accountants. I’m responsible for balancing the company’s various checking accounts to the penny.

But when my son, Keith, was little I loved to wallpaper. So when he and Chris opened a retail store, they decided to have a paper mural on one wall and change it every quarter to match the seasons. They called and offered me the job because it meant I came to New York, and we were able to work together for a couple days and then enjoy leisurely dinners in the evening.

I’ve learned I still love to put up wallpaper, but I do not love stripping the old to make way for the new. By today’s end, my best jeans were covered with glue; my fingernails were sticky; and wallpaper bits clung to my shirt and hair. Thinking of a great dinner in a charming bistro was what kept me going.

Originally published September 7, 2009

I started learning Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” in the grey of last November. I wasn’t learning an arrangement or a dumbed down version; I learned the real thing, the music as Beethoven wrote it. With octaves in the left hand and variations of C sharp minor chords in the right. It’s not for the faint-hearted.

But I forged on. Worked through the six minutes of music and decided the only way I could honestly concentrate on the dynamics was to memorize the notes of each line so that I didn’t have to look at the sheet music while trying to concentrate on the feelings. It took a long time, but I did it. Now I play “Moonlight Sonata’ once a day not only to keep my memory of the piece sharp but also to refine those feelings behind the notes. They are powerful when one understands them.

I’m still learning. But each time I play the piece there’s another nuance, another shading that comes with having mastered the music itself by memorizing it. The rest is interpretation. My life right now is somewhat chaotic, what with work demanding more time and the sale of our house becoming tedious and the pending fall weather with the transition back to grey. Yet, unlike last year when I could barely understand a line of Beethoven’s magnificent sonata, now I use this music to ward off the annoyance of constant emails for work, the delays in the sale of our house, and the falling leaves. For the most part, it works.

Originally published January 8, 2009

I’d heard about book clubs for years, but had never actually joined one until last year. I’m not even sure why I agreed to join then, but I did; and it’s been a revelation.

The upside is that the women in this club are all erudite. They have experiences to share. So we don’t spend time discussing our aches and pains (and many of us are at the age where that could be a prevalent discussion); we don’t spend time whining about other things either. At the same time, we don’t always spend a lot of time discussing the assigned book.

At first, I was dismayed because I wanted to talk about the book, its literary quality, its structure, its message. But as time has passed, I’ve learned that a book club may or may not be focused on the book. And I’ve learned it doesn’t matter, because whatever the topic of conversation this group of women has a variety of opinions, all of which are well grounded. I may not have gotten additional insights into the assignment at hand, but I always come away with insights of one sort or another. Maybe, after all is said and done, that’s the real purpose of a book club.