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 |  A Baby-Boomer STILL alive and living in senior housing...
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The random thoughts of a Baby-Boomer STILL adjusting to life in senior housing (after five years)... Almost exactly nine months after World War II ended, one historian writes, “the cry of the baby was heard across the land.” More babies were born in 1946 than ever before: 3.4 million, 20 percent more than in 1945. This was the beginning of the so-called “baby boom.” In 1947, another 3.8 million babies were born; 3.9 million were born in 1952; and more than 4 million were born every year from 1954 until 1964, when the boom finally tapered off. By then, there were 76.4 million “baby boomers” in the United States. They made up almost 40 percent of the nation’s population. - www.history.com |
| Ugh! I’m shrinking…went to my doctor for my annual physical and got weighed and heightened. I used to stand 5’9-3/4” – now I’m 5’9”. I don’t feel any lower, but apparently I am. However, I have noticed my pants seem a bit longer of late; I attributed that to clothing manufacturers – perhaps I am wrong about that? Maybe my showers are too hot and they’re causing shrinkage? I may have dropped almost an inch in stature, but I made up for it around my waist – there I gained almost an inch. This must be Mother Nature’s cruel trick to keep our measurements total constant throughout a lifetime…once we reach adulthood, she makes note of height and weight and stores that information. As we grow older and shorter, she adds inches to other body parts so as to not mess up the mathematical life-formula. If this keeps up, I’ll soon be rounder than I am tall. Sigh. Life is good. |
| Ugh! One nice thing about living here at The Home is that our heat is included in the rent, which means we can keep our places as toasty as a beach or as cool as an iceberg. The neighbors on either side of me prefer the tropical setting; I’m more along the lines of northern Canada. As a result I must have my windows open all year long. In fact I run my window fan in my bedroom every night – some nights it won’t turn on because the thermostat says it’s too cool. That happens when the outdoors temperature drops below 20F. My theory about comfort is that one can always get warmer; i.e., throw on extra socks, sweaters, blankets. However, when it comes to cooling, the farthest one can go is to get naked. When I was younger, summer was my favorite season of the year, followed by winter; spring and autumn were just means to get from one favorite season to the other. Now that I’m aging, my favorite seasons are spring and fall; winter and summer are nuisances to be avoided by any means. Sure, summer has its highlights – thunderstorms are always exciting; winter can be nice during a snowfall, but once the snow stops coming down, it’s a hassle, and after a few days it looks ugly. On the other hand, spring and autumn are nice transitional phases that delight all of our senses. Living at The Home has its disadvantages. I’m not outdoors as much as when I was younger, so I see the change of seasons from the comfort of my home, rather than experiencing them on the flesh. That’s okay when the weather is foul, but I miss the thrill of stepping outdoors on a crisp, clear day in the middle of August after a three-week-long heat wave and a night of thunderstorms that issues in cool Canadian air. Or the joy of an unseasonably warm day in January when it seems spring is just around the corner but in reality we still have three more months of winter. I guess all this comes with getting older. What once was fun is now a hassle: snow used to mean a day off from school – now it means being fearful of driving. Hot and humid summer days used to mean a day at the beach or pool with friends – now it means sitting alone inside in front of the air conditioner and worrying about the electric bill. The trees outside my apartment are now almost completely void of leaves; they’re flowering pear trees and they’re the last to lose their foliage. I’ll be afforded a new view once they’re gone for the season, so that’s something to look forward to. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Ran into Complaining Connie and Rascal outside while having a smoke and reading my Kindle. She wanted to know about my Kindle. I explained how it worked and she asked to see it. So I handed it to her. She held it for a few seconds then said, “I wouldn’t like it. It’s too heavy.” Sigh. After she wheeled away with Rascal in tow, I went back to reading Oliver Twist for a few minutes. My mind wandered for a brief moment like it does more and more frequently here at The Home, and I was reminded of an occurrence when I worked in a bookstore in Philadelphia. This was before home computers, the Internet, and especially amazon.com. I saw a teenaged girl in the classics section perusing all the titles. She was there for about five minutes pulling book after book off the shelves, looking at them, then putting them back. I went up to her. “Can I help you find something?” “I’m looking for Test of the Devariables. I need it for school.” “Test of the Devariables? Let’s go to the college testing section; that’s probably where it is.” I had never heard the title; I was familiar with Kaplan’s and other test guides, but not that particular one. “No, my teacher said to check in the classics section.” I was stumped. “Who is the author?” She looked at a piece of paper she pulled from her purse. “Umm, Thomas Hardy?” she sort of asked me. So we went to the “H” authors. She saw it before I did and snatched it off the shelf. It was Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Sigh. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I decorated my place here at The Home for the holidays yesterday. It took me about three seconds. I went to my kitchen cupboard and pulled out my 23-year-old K-mart holly-painted coffee mug. Done. Fa-la-la-la-lah-la-la-la-lah. Meanwhile, downstairs, Catherine of the first floor put up a tree in the lobby. It was nice of her to do so, but it would have been even nicer had she been in a better mood. I walked past a few times during the process and she was swearing and cussing about this and that and the other thing. She attempted to get me to assist her; I declined saying I had to decorate my own place. It wasn’t really a lie; I hadn’t gotten my mug out at that point… I took a walk through the building on one of my trips outdoors to have a smoke; some people adorn their doors with wreaths and signs. Others, like me, don’t do anything. Storage space is not abundant in the apartments, so to have lots of festive doodads means sacrificing in other areas of one’s life. I’m already creative with storage in my apartment. I have two closets; the one in my bedroom holds all my clothing, shoes, laundry supplies, bed linens, vacuum cleaner, and suitcases. The one in the main living area contains a shelving unit housing all my kitchen appliances, pots and pans, cleaning supplies, paper products, tools, and bakeware. There is no room for Christmas stuff. Catherine must be a better space manager than I am. She mentioned that the tree she was putting up in the lobby was an extra one she had. Two Christmas trees? Yikes! I cleaned yesterday, too. My apartment doesn’t smell like an ashtray anymore, so I thought I’d do the obligatory dusting and wet mopping. A few weeks ago I purchased a Swiffer Wet Jet for my kitchen and bathroom tile floors. After several uses, I noticed it did a good job of pushing dirt around – not a good thing. Out came my bucket, rag, hot water, and Pine-Sol. Scrub, scrub, scrub…now when I come in from a smoke, my home smells not so much like a pine forest, but rather a disinfected portion of a hospital. I can live with that, though. Fa-la-la-la-lah-la-la-la-lah. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I made the decision to give up on “Crime and Punishment” after reading 41% of the book and finding myself completely at sea. At that point the crime had been committed, so that was okay. But I think Dostoevsky’s idea for the rest of the book lies in punishment for the reader. Here is a sampling of some of the characters I’d encountered thus far: • Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov (the main character), AKA (also known as) Rodya, Rodan, Raskolnikov, Romanovich Raskolnikov, Rodion Romanovich • Sofia Semyonovna Marmeladova, AKA Sonya, Sonja, Sonechka, Mrs. Marmeladova, Sophia Semyonovna, Sophia Marmeladova • Avdotya Romanovna Raskolnikova (Raskolnikov’s sister), AKA Dunya, Dounia, Avdotya Romanovna, Dounia Raskolnikova, Dunechka, sister • Pulkheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikova (Raskolnikov’s mother), AKA Pulcheria, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, mother, Mrs. Alexandrovna Raskolnikova, Pulkheria Raskolnikova That’s only four out of about 30 characters encountered. Dostoevsky constantly interchanges the names, which resulted in utter confusion to this reader. So I give up... Now I’m reading “Oliver Twist.” Dickens isn’t exactly a walk-in-the-park, but he’s a whole lot better than Dostoevsky. At least I’m able to follow the story! Life is good. |
| Ugh! We had snow yesterday, but it stopped in time for the trip to my sister's house where I enjoyed a feast with her, my brother-in-law (who did the cooking), my nieces and nephew, Princess the Cat, and Miss Raven, their excitable black Lab - lots of good food and lots of laughter. When I returned to The Home, the hallways smelled fantastic! And here on the third floor, Susie hosted her family (eight people) for Thanksgiving. They commandeered a table in the common area and chowed down. It was nice to see. Here's something I found to brighten the day: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EYAUazLI9k Life is good. ____ carlton607 - looking to free-up brain space |
| Ugh! The weather forecasters in this region are not being cooperative today – there is a call for frozen precipitation beginning this morning and lasting throughout the afternoon. Thank goodness I only have to travel a few blocks to my Thanksgiving feast. My earliest Thanksgiving memories involve a big family gathering; a big feast with a huge turkey; a big table for the grownups and a small one for the kids; and big, boisterous banter. We met at my grandparents’ house at noon for the meal, after which the men retired to the den to watch football games and nap while the women cleaned up in the kitchen, then we all gathered again around six for round two. All the aunts added to the meal – side dishes, pies, cookies. And Aunt Nancy always arrived, out-of-breath, just as we were ready to eat, with her contribution: a bowl of green Jell-O made from one box of the gelatin – hardly enough to feed 22 people. After Pappy died, Thanksgiving was celebrated in our house with Grammy the invited guest some years on a rotating basis. The set-up was basically the same with the table for adults and a smaller table for children. Ditto with the food and noise level and routine... Now that is over. We kids have families and in spread-out houses, new traditions are being formed. I hosted one Thanksgiving for friends when I lived in center city Philadelphia. It was about 25 years ago. I attempted to replicate the traditional family-like feast from my childhood. All went well until it was time to take the turkey out of the oven. One of those disposable aluminum foil roasting pans held the bird – I didn’t, and still don’t own a roaster of my own. Combine numerous bottles of wine, Trivial Pursuit, weed, and lots of laughter and you end up with... Everyone gathered in the tiny kitchen as I pulled the oven rack out. We all “ooh”ed and “aah”ed as the browned fowl made its appearance. Applause added festive sounds as I grasped the sides of the pan with my mitt-covered hands and lifted. The pan bent in half. All the juices spilled onto the hot oven floor where they spattered and bounced around for an instant. Then the smoke started to build. The applause stopped. “Uh-oh” and “oh my God” emanated from the gathered masses. The smoke billowed and filled the kitchen with burnt turkey juice smells. The fire alarm sounded. One brave soul helped me rescue the bird before it toppled to the kitchen floor. We managed to wrestle it to the counter top as others ran to open the windows to allow the gobbler-smog to escape. The phone rang; it was the concierge desk asking if everything was all right – “I see your smoke alarm is going off.” “Everything’s under control.” “Should I call 9-1-1?” “No need to do that. There’s no flames.” Not quite the tradition I was aiming for. But we all had a good time. Except for the turkey. Now I rely on the kindness of others… Happy Thanksgiving! Life is good. |
| Ugh! Last week I made the decision to no longer smoke in my apartment. I came back from the laundry room. When I walked inside my place, it smelled like an ashtray. So now I go outside to smoke. I’ve already cut back to less than a pack a day – down from two packs/day. Eventually I’ll quit. I hope. Going outside provides some benefits and/or drawbacks, depending on one’s point of view: - Fresh air - Exercise – I walk down AND I walk up the stairs instead of using the elevator - Meeting neighbors Yesterday I met Billie, Bernie, and Andrew – only one of them is male. Guess which one? They live right near me and we met in the hallway at various points in the day. Billie walks slowly using a cane and has her dog, Carly – a little, 15-year-old pug that grunts and is blind in one eye. Carly only looks down. She took a liking to my feet. Carly did, that is, not Billie – but who knows? Maybe Billie liked my feet, too. Bernie has a bird somewhere in her apartment. Sometimes I can hear her bird squawking about something or other – not sure if it can talk because I’m not close enough. I’ll try to learn more. I don’t know much about indoor birds. Andrew has a dog. He didn’t share any name with me – just referred to “she” and “her.” I did hear from Complaining Connie, though, that Andrew has a “vicious Scottie.” Being that that information came from CC, I’m not so sure about its reliability. I’ve never seen nor heard Andrew take his dog out for walks. Can dogs be potty trained? Odd. He lives right next door to me and moved in about six weeks ago. So far he’s very quiet – a good thing. I made a sweet potato pie for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving feast at my sister’s place. She was kind enough to invite me to spend dinner with her family. I made the pie yesterday in case it didn’t turn out; then I’d have today as a back-up. No marshmallows. The apartments here at The Home are quite small – mine is about 500 square feet total. All are one-bedroom flats. I know of two apartments that have two people in them – one is a married couple. I can’t imagine two people living in this small of a space, but I suppose if you’ve been married for a LONG time, size doesn’t matter. The man in that apartment spends a lot of time outdoors – in his car in the parking lot. When I’m outside puffing, he is sitting in the passenger seat of his car with the engine running and the radio blaring – it’s some Spanish station. Yesterday I heard him talking to Al as he returned to the building. He was complaining about the cost of gas: “It costs me $10 a day to keep my car running!” Well, I guess so. Strange. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Went outside for a bit of fresh air and ran into Rascal and Complaining Connie outside the front door. Exchanged hellos and then Connie asked me how I was. I said, “Fine. And you?” In ten minutes, she said: - “I was watching this doctor on FOX News and he mentioned that if you have high cholesterol and have white deposits around your eyes, your heart attack risk is raised 50%. I wish I hadn’t seen the report. Now I’m depressed because I have those deposits.” - “My daughter invited me for Thanksgiving but I’m not going. I don’t like to drive at night. My eyes are bad. I need glasses. I can’t see anything anymore. I wish she would visit me. She comes to town to eat out and to bowl and to drink, but she can’t stop in to see. So I’ll be alone on Thursday.” - “I saw another report on FOX News about sodium and how we get it from all sorts of foods – not just potato chips. It mentioned pasta and chicken are high in sodium. And lunch meats. I don’t add salt to anything and my sodium is high.” - “Rascal sleeps all day long. He doesn’t do anything.” - “I can’t cook anymore. My arthritis is so bad. I spill things. There’s no counter space in my kitchen. I can’t reach the cupboards.” - “I have to ask my doctor to give me angioplasty. My heart rate is too high. It’s about 130. I get palpitations because my veins are clogged. He can’t give me medicine. But angioplasty hurts, so I’m not sure I want to do that. The doctor on FOX News said angioplasty is the answer.” She talks fast. I told her I had a cake in the oven and had to get back to my apartment. Before I left I suggested she watch something other than FOX News – maybe a movie now and then or a funny show – something to make her feel better. She replied, “But I like watching it.” Sigh. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I’m up since 2:55 a.m. Somewhere in town there is a fire. How do I know this? The fire engines from Ladder Company 1 left the firehouse just down the street from The Home at that hour. They woke me up. As I lay in bed, my mind started racing and I couldn’t fall back to sleep. So here I am, drinking coffee and typing. Today is a day of remembrance. It was 47 years ago, November 22, 1963, that John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas. I was in elementary school. Mr. May, our regular teacher, was out sick, and Mrs. Knauss substituted for him. She cried as she told us what had happened. We got out of school early that day. I recall being confused about how I should feel. It was an incredibly sad time, but I didn’t know how to express whatever it was I was sensing. It was the first time I’d experienced the death of a person in my young life. Our neighborhood seemed shrouded in a heavy sadness – heavier than the threatening autumn air. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. I remember the day as cold and overcast in our part of Pennsylvania. We got home from school and I changed into my play clothes. That was back when we had three sets of clothing: Sunday best, school, and play. I met up with Judy and we walked around and around our block talking about the president and where people go when they die. We didn’t fully comprehend what death was other than that the person was no longer here and it was sad. It was foreign to us. We didn’t laugh or fool around as we walked and talked; it was somber – pretty heavy stuff for two kids. And then Dad called me in for supper. Our house was relatively quiet that evening. I’m sure we ate a healthy meal and probably watched TV some, but I can’t recall if what we watched was news out of Dallas and Washington. That was before cable so we only got a few channels on our TV thanks to the antenna on our roof – we got ABC, NBC, and CBS out of Philadelphia and could pull in some stations out of New York City if the weather cooperated, but it was nothing like the 24/7 news of today. Back then news was generally reported after things happened – rarely as they happened and little or no speculation of what might happen. The events over the next few days are kind of a blur. I’m not sure if what I recall now from the days following the assassination come from actually watching events unfold live on TV or if my mind has been corrupted by watching old newsreels of those occurrences year after year on this anniversary: the caisson slowly proceeding along the streets with just the sound of the horses’ hooves, Jackie urging John-John to salute, Lee Harvey Oswald being shot by Jack Ruby – was it live or was it Memorex? The day of the assassination, though, is indelibly imprinted in my psyche. I think for most Baby Boomers, it may be the single event that stands out from our formative years. It was a shock to all of us. How could it have happened? Why did it happen? Why is it we can remember tiny details of that day – where we were, what time it was, what the weather was like, etc.? Heck, now I can’t remember where I was last Thursday, let alone the weather! The event seemed to have set off the tumult the rest of the 60s provided us. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the only catalyst, but it definitely was a dividing point – it was a wild ride right through 1969. Most of the major players are gone now. Jackie and John-John are no longer with us. LBJ is long passed. I lost track of Judy. Now I have one set of clothing – there is no delineation. TV antennae are rare if not existent. Instead of three channels on TV, I now get over 500. But death still confuses me. Maybe I’ll canvass my neighbors today to get their remembrances of that long ago day. Or maybe I won’t. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Here at The Home we have three shopping carts rescued from a local grocery store that went out of business years ago. Residents use them to transport groceries from their cars to their apartments. When not in use, they’re stored in a little room off the lobby. Occasionally, I’ll find one in the stairwell here on the third floor. When going out, I always walk down the stairs; when coming in, I use the elevator. I know, I know, I should use the stairs in both directions, but usually when I come back into the building, I’m carrying something and it’s just easier to use the elevator. If I do find a shopping cart in the stairwell, I return it to its storage space, necessitating using the down elevator. About a month ago, I returned from a trip to the farmer’s market and grocery store with four bags of goodies. I lugged the stuff from my car to the front door, through two security doors, through the lobby to the elevator. I pressed the up button, the doors opened, and I was met with ALL THREE shopping carts crammed into the elevator. Sigh. It is not a big elevator – I think it’s occupancy maximum is like four people, so whoever put the third cart in there really had to finagle to get it situated. My immediate thought was disappointment. How lazy can people be? It’s just common courtesy to return a borrowed item to its rightful place. So, I put down my bags, removed the carts, pushed them to the storage room, returned to my bags and had to wait for the elevator. Someone else came in while I was doing all this and commandeered the elevator. She didn’t have the decency to save it for me. Sigh. Speaking of shopping carts, why is it that people do not return them to the store front or put them in the cart corrals located in parking lots? My car has so many dings and dents on it from being bumped by renegade carts, I can’t count them. I’m careful when I park; I try to stay away from the cart corrals because sometimes the carts “escape” from them. The farmer’s market I use is very popular with senior citizens. The parking lot is a nightmare! I have seen many fender-benders there – people just back their cars out of slots without looking and CRASH! When I do park, I make sure I can pull straight out instead of backing out – and still it’s an ordeal. I am amazed each week to see people who can barely walk, get into cars and drive off. And nine times out of ten, they leave their shopping cart exactly where they left it – in the middle of the parking lot. Sigh. I like the fresh produce and meats/fish at this farmer’s market. The items are mostly local during the growing season and during the rest of the year, their produce looks fresher than the stuff in the big-chain grocery stores. I’m pretty sure they send trucks to the docks in the big city each morning to bring in fish and produce. But the prices of their groceries are higher than the big chains, hence I make two stops on each trip – one for meats/fish/produce and one for the rest of my needs: staples, paper products, frozen stuff, etc. One phenomenon I’ve noticed at this location happens every Thanksgiving. I’ve never, ever seen this happen in any other store, and I’ve been in a lot of stores throughout my life. I first observed it about 10 years ago when I made the mistake of going to the farmer’s market the day before Thanksgiving. I should have been leery when I got there and the parking lot was filled. There was not one space available. Not one! I had to park a block away on a residential street. Once I got to the store, there were no shopping carts available. Not one! So I waited until someone left. I retrieved the cart where they left it in the parking lot. Sigh. But the odd thing about that trip occurred in the baking aisle. As I made my way through the shopping cart traffic, I noticed a portion of shelving that was void of any merchandise. The shelves surrounding this section were filled with items, but these shelves were bare. I looked at the little labels stuck to the shelves and read, “Marshmallows.” Aha! I surmised that a lot of people were going to be served yams with marshmallows the next day! There was not one bag of marshmallows left. Not one! Despite the hassles of shopping on the day before Thanksgiving, I’ve been back and every year the same thing happens. I suspect the generations following us Baby Boomers will change that tradition. My grandmother used to make yams with marshmallows, but my mother didn’t, and I don’t. By the time my nieces and nephews have grandchildren of their own, yams with marshmallow will be long forgotten. But I’ll bet there will still be shopping carts standing idly in the middle of grocery store parking lots. Sigh. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I am NOT a hoarder. Repeat, I am NOT a hoarder. Okay, now that that’s out of the way, read on… The process of downsizing was arduous, to say the least. I’ve always been an avid reader. One of the earliest pictures of me is me sitting in my crib reading a cloth book. That was back when cloth books were really soft – almost like a security blanket. Today, those books are made of a rough material; I don’t know if little kids like them as much as I did… Books – up until I moved here to The Home, I never threw a book away. Throughout the years, my collection continued to grow. When I first moved away from home, I took with me my three-shelved bookcase I’d bought for $1.99 when I was a teenager. It contained a gift my parents purchased for my 15th birthday – paperback editions of The World’s 100 Greatest Books. Those books fed my fantasies as a teenager. Most of them cost 35 or 50 cents each! Try to find a paperback for that price today! As I moved from apartment to apartment through the years, the biggest boxes held books I’d amassed. Along with my original bookcase, various types of shelves accompanied my books – from the bricks-and-planks-of-wood contraptions to free-standing bookcases (2-, 3- 4-, and 5-shelves) to milk crates to an antique “folding” bookcase from the 1920s. I just couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of my tomes. “Someday I’ll re-read them,” is what I told myself. That only happened with two titles, though: “Gone with the Wind” and “Sheila Levine is Dead and Living in New York.” I did get brave during one move – I disposed of old textbooks. Why I carried them with me, I’ll never know. I suppose part of it was the cost I had to put out when I was attending night school; college textbooks are not cheap! For four years in the 1980s, I worked for two different bookstores. I hated the retail aspect of the job, but every time we got in a new shipment of books, I felt like it was Christmas morning opening those cartons; I couldn’t wait to see what was inside. With my employee discount, my collection grew by leaps and bounds. I had 100s of cover-less paperbacks – if they didn’t sell in the store, the publisher only required that the cover be returned for credit; the books themselves were then trashed. I used to buy a cookbook for one recipe! Hence, I ended up with over 300 cookbooks – most of which I never used. Having those cases of books in my living space was comforting. It felt “right” to have them surrounding me, even though I only touched them when I packed to move or unpacked in a new location. When I moved here to The Home, I realized there was no way I could move all my books. For days I sifted through my collection deciding what to keep and what to give away or toss. A good many of them went to my sister’s family along with the bookcases so they could start a library of their own. Some were donated to Goodwill. And 100s were merely given to the landfill to be reabsorbed into nature (I hope). The only ones I kept were my old high school yearbooks, dictionary, my collection of leather-bound Harvard Classics, and five cookbooks – they all fit into one carton for moving day. I just don’t have the room here. I splurged and bought a Kindle from amazon.com. And I am learning to love it. Initially, I missed the heft of holding a book and turning the pages and the smell. As time goes on, I’m getting used to using my left thumb to “turn” the pages. It’s nice in that I can store several hundred books on it; it’s portable – I take it with me to doctor’s appointments; and, my favorite, there is a built-in dictionary that negates me having to lug out my big dictionary to look up a word. The Kindle has 100s of free books, but if I “have to read” a new release, they’re much cheaper than purchasing a hard copy. So now my library almost entirely fits snugly in one hand. I still have that original bookcase. It holds my slimmed-down collection of cookbooks. But some days I gaze at the mostly empty shelves and long to fill them up. Sigh. Life is good. ____ carlton607 - looking to free-up brain space |
| Ugh! I’ve noticed most of my neighbors own cell phones. They use them in the hallways, outside on the bench, in the parking lot, in their cars despite a ban in our city, and in the laundry room. I don’t understand what could be so important that they need to have that device jammed up beside their heads all the time. You see, I do not own a cell phone. Yes, I’m one of the few left who rely on a land-based line for telephone calls and high-speed Internet. Now, my home phone is ordinary as standards go; it has 12 BIG buttons on it: 1 thru 0 plus * and #. I’ve never used the * or # buttons that I can remember. It also has a built-in answering machine with a loudspeaker somewhere in it that I can use to screen phone calls, which I use because I don’t subscribe to Caller ID from Verizon. When I moved to The Home, I had to order new phone service. I did it all online through the Verizon Web site. It was quite an ordeal that required me to make a phone call to them because the options I wanted were not easily acessible. I needed assistance. All I wanted was a dial tone. No long distance. No local-long-distance (whatever that is). No caller ID. No Voicemail. No call forwarding. No three-way calling. No incoming call notification. Just a dial tone so I could call my sister who lives five blocks away and receive phone calls from her. When I called Verizon, I was VERY reluctantly guided to a “secret” Web page that listed all available options. I finally found a dial-tone only option and selected it. Yay! I can remember growing up in the 1950s and our phone. Our phone number was 3282. Don’t ask me why I can still remember it; I just do. It was a party line. Our ring was 2S3L: two short rings followed by three long rings. I can’t recall what the other configuration was; all I know is that no one answered the phone on the first ring because we had to wait to make sure the call was for our house. I have that original phone here in my apartment. Dad gave it to me several years ago when he and Mom were clearing out the basement. It is black. All phones were black – there was no choice. Brown-mesh material covers the cords from the receiver to the base and from the base to the wall. It is frayed now, but it’s still there. The dial is metal and the holes are big enough for adult fingers to fit snugly in order to turn the dial when making a call. And the receiver is HEAVY! It could be used as a weapon compared to today’s lightweight sets. If we wanted to make a long-distance call, we had to dial 0 and tell the operator the number we were calling and she made the call for us. Then she’d call back once the connection was made. We rarely made long-distance calls, but, when we did, I can vividly recall the first few seconds of each call with both parties saying, “Can you hear me?” The phone company then was local. It was in a little building in the next town. It contained all the wires and switchboards, the operator, a counter where one paid the monthly phone bill, and one parking spot out front. The operator did everything; if we went to pay the bill, we had to wait for her if she was already on a call. The average phone bill was about $2. When I finally found my dial-tone-only plan with Verizon, I was pleased with the price they charged: $6.89/month. However, I was shocked when I got my first bill from them: $23.94! The additional costs were taxes and fees. But I’m stuck with it. There’s little I can do. Every month or so, I get a solicitation from Verizon trying to sell me an “upgraded” plan. They tout “FREE long distance!” Big deal. The last long-distance phone call I made was back in 1998. If I need to get a hold of someone who lives far away, I use email. If they don’t have email, I write a letter and put a postage stamp on it. Oh, that’s another thing. The cost of postage! But that’s for another time… Life is good. |
| Ugh! I’ve only been here a short time, but I’ve gotten to meet a few of my neighbors. The first person I met, on move-in day, was Angie, 73. She was in the lobby as I came in with my pet carrier holding Miss Bessie Smith, my elderly cat. Angie peered inside and said, “Oooh, she’s pretty,” and smiled. Miss Bess promptly hissed at her. It didn’t bother Angie; I learned she has two cats in her apartment; however, I haven’t learned their names as of yet. She only refers to them as “my boys” whenever we run into each other. Angie is not very talkative; I get the impression she likes to be alone. Volunteering to walk other people’s dogs is something she performs every day. During one conversation we had, she told me her father was a bootlegger in his day. Interesting… Bill, about 62, is the owner of Lucky, his mongrel dog that greets everyone with a little yip, but no touching is allowed. The no-touching rule comes from Bill. I don’t quite understand why, though; the dog seems friendly enough. Bill does not cook; he’s lived here for 16 years and has never used his stove. Every morning I see him leave for Dunkin’ Donuts a few blocks away; lunch is from Subway, a few blocks in the other direction; and the local Domino’s delivers dinner. Rosie lives down the hall from me. She is about 70, has extremely short dyed-black hair, dresses in male clothing (suit, tie, wingtips) and doesn’t talk to anyone. I’d love to know the story behind her! Monica, 89, lived across the hall from me. When I first moved in, she used to knock on my door every Thursday afternoon to give me food. At first I thought it was a nice gesture, but then I started to feel guilty about accepting it. I asked her why she was giving it to me and she replied, “My daughter brings it but I don’t like it.” Then she’d back up her motorized Scooter, bang into the walls and crash into her apartment. She told me she was originally from England, had married a GI during WWII, worked in a bomb factory, emigrated with her late husband to USA, and raised her family across town. Monica disappeared mysteriously about five months ago – on the same day, strangely enough, that… …Modesta, 85, who lived down the hall disappeared. She was hard-of-hearing, but loved to talk to anyone and everyone. She was funny as all get-out, but it was such a chore conversing with her. I had to shout every word, which she couldn’t understand so she’d yell back, “What?” and after five minutes she’d pull out a little tablet and hand it and a pen to me. Tedious to say the least, but she made me laugh. Her husband lives in a nursing home. Modesta told me he couldn’t see and with her hearing loss they made a complete person together. She had a Post-it on her door that read, KNOCK LOUD WAIT KNOCK LOUDER WAIT She had a framed picture of a creepy clown draped in an American flag hanging on the wall outside her door. I don’t think Monica and Modesta ran away together – I didn’t know them well enough. If they did, though, it shouldn’t be hard to find them: follow the crashing sounds from Monica’s Scooter and trails of paper from conversations with Modesta… I miss them both. Finally there’s Complaining Connie, 61, and her mangy dog, Rascal. She lives one floor down from me and is confined to a wheelchair. She’s a chain smoker and never has a nice word to say about anything. If it’s warm, it’s “too hot;” if it’s chilly, it’s “too cold;” if the sun is shining, “we need rain so bad;” if it’s raining, “when is this storm going to stop? We’re going to get flooded.” For some reason, Rascal has taken a liking to me. When I come back from shopping sometimes, I can see Complaining Connie’s plume of smoke rising from her place outside the front door; I usually groan and try to stall, but Rascal is already barking excitedly and jumping up-and-down awaiting my arrival. So I’m almost forced to say something as I walk past them. Complaining Connie always asks me what I bought; if it’s toilet paper, it’s “how many ply do you buy? I have to get four-ply;” if it’s fresh vegetables, it’s “I can’t eat fresh vegetables; they give me gas;” if it’s skim milk, it’s “I can’t drink that. It looks anemic.” Sigh. That’s six people I’ve met so far. There are 47 apartments in the building. Yay! Life is good. ____ carlton607 - looking to free-up brain space |
| Ugh! Well, the time has come and passed. I'm now officially in my, perhaps, last home (barring the dreaded REAL HOME; i.e., assisted living). Going from a three-bedroom, three-story, duplex with yard, garden, attic, basement, and on-street parking (I won't miss the hassles of THAT!) to a two-room apartment in a converted underwear factory was quite a chore. But at least it was MY choice - no family members were involved in the decision. My old house at 607 Carlton Avenue - get it? - was built in 1919 originally as a small hospital. It operated as such until 1929 when it was converted to a duplex with an odd configuration. Both sides were mirror images except my bathroom jutted into the other side just above their living room by one foot. I never understood the reasoning behind that...unless there was a supporting beam for the structure that couldn't be toyed with? Anyhow, there was no problem there until my newest (the other side changed owners quite often) neighbors tried to take me to court to have the property lines redrawn. The nerve of them! For more than 80 years it was okay. For some unknown reason they wanted to claim that one foot as rightfully belonging to them... My attorney contacted them and told them to forget about it. They did. I loved that house except for one thing - paneling. Every single wall, save one in the front bedroom, was covered with dark-wood paneling. The long-time owners I bought it from in 1998 had "remodeled" the place in the early 70s. The original plaster walls were covered with the stuff. And, in keeping with the times, they had shag carpeting installed along with it. Oh, and they put drop ceilings in, too - not that that mattered so much; it was still about eight feet from floor to ceiling. When I told my younger sister about the purchase and the paneling and shag carpeting, she squealed, "Shag carpeting? I've never seen that! I can't wait!" She was born too late to appreciate the stylishness of it in its heyday. (She wasn't impressed once she did see it.) Anyhow, the place had high ceilings, big windows, modern kitchen (remodeled in 1995), and most importantly to me, a washer and dryer! It was a first for me - no more laundromats! That sold me on the place. After years and years of renting, I wanted my first home to have all the amenities, meaning washer and dryer. There was a tiny postage-stamp sized backyard: one side had a six-foot high fence, the back wall was made of stone, and the other side was a concrete retaining wall. The neighborhood was on a steep hill and I was situated near the middle. The house next-door, not the other side of my duplex, but the actual house next door, was higher than mine - their living room window looked into my front bedroom on the second floor. My previous owners had sod placed in the backyard as a selling point. I didn't own a lawnmower, so I killed all the grass and converted the space into a garden. At first it looked ugly but as time went by, the perennials I put there, grew into a lush living space. I had three bird feeders, which were VERY popular. And I befriended Mr. Squirrel, who ate peanuts out of my hand every day when he sojourned into my yard. But, the neighborhood changed over the years. It was located a few blocks from the campus of a university and slowly but surely, all the single-family homes were being sold to real estate people who were converting them into rental units. I didn't like that because it messed with on-street parking. Where once there was one car per household, now there were three or four per house. Many nights I ended up parking a block-and-a-half from home. That bothered me immensely. When I had lived in city situations before, when I was younger, that fact was not a big deal. However, now I wanted to be able to carry my groceries quickly from my car into my house - not have to schlep a block-and-a-half UPHILL (funny, there was always parking downhill from my place) every few days. So, knowing I'd be quitting work soon, I researched senior housing in my city. I couldn't afford the really nice places, I quickly realized. So I started looking a step lower in the financial arena. And then lower still. And as price went down, so did size - naturally. I did some hard thinking and realized I didn't need a lot of space to live in anymore. I found this place online, made an appointment to see it and wasn't blown away on first viewing. I viewed similar places and learned that this place was the place for me: high ceilings, big windows, secure building, but no washer and dryer in my apartment. However, there is a laundry room on the first floor, so that's okay; I won't have to visit a laundromat in my car. Preparing for the move I had to decide what to keep, what to sacrifice. Goodwill made out pretty well. I was very generous with my contributions. Moving day came - I hired movers to do the job for me. Everything got moved in except for my sofa - it didn't fit through my apartment door. :( My sister got that the same day. :) Over the next few days, as I unpacked stuff I "couldn't live without," I made many trips to the dumpster once I realized I could live without it. Now I live in two rooms in a converted underwear factory. I have my computer, my flat-screen TV, my HD-TiVo, NetFlix subscription, a collection of over 500 DVDs, my Kindle, and peace of mind. My neighbors are quiet, thank goodness. There is a police station half-a-block away, a fire station across the street, a major hospital three blocks away, and my sister and her family live five blocks away. I'm home. Life is good. ____ carlton607 - looking to free-up brain space |
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no pun intended!
or just need to keep the old frame greased and moving more. Otherwise, the rust sets in and gravity is like a magnet on the iron joints constantly pulling down.