HUSBAND MORPHS INTO BACKSEAT DRIVER

If my husband ever needs someone to drive him around again, he will have to hire a chauffeur.

Three hair-pulling, teeth-gritting, stomach acid-producing weeks as his driver-in-chief were enough to last a lifetime.  Suddenly, I had been thrust into this role when he injured his right ankle while playing tennis, never dreaming his normally calm, pleasant disposition would morph into that of the proverbial backseat driver.. Only he was not sitting in the back; he was right next to me in the front passenger seat, sitting rigidly, at high alert, eyes darting to and fro.

His transformation started with a little complaint at a stop sign.  "You just made a California stop!  You could have gotten a ticket for that.  You're supposed to make a full stop, not a rolling stop!"  

"I made a quick stop, true, but it was a complete stop," I reassured him, as I continued to drive along a totally deserted road. 

One early morning, driving along the 101 in Del Mar, I noticed two bicyclists riding abreast about a block ahead.  The one on the outside, in his purple and orange skin-tight outfit, which hid nothing but what God gave him, kept zigzagging slightly over the bike lane line.  As I started to change lanes, John suddenly jerked his head around and sucked in his breath with such force he was lucky there were no flies around.  "Why wait till you're right up on them," he complained.  "Couldn't you have moved over to the left lane way before this?"

Tensions kept escalating.  Sometime during week number two of my sentence, one of the traffic lights I'm well-acquainted with decided to turn yellow as I approached it at 50 miles per hour.  I knew I could very safely make it through the intersection before the light would turn red.  "You should start slowing down immediately when a light turns yellow so you can stop in time," John instructed, "not gun the engine and race through the intersection.  You were just fortunate that light stayed yellow long enough; some of them change fast.  One of these days, a camera's going to catch you racing through a red light."

By week three, every time I pressed the brake to slow down, John would jam his left foot into the floor mat, brace himself by pushing one hand against the dashboard, and stop breathing.  "Where did you get your license," he asked in an exasperated tone, "at Sears and Roebuck?" 

Even backing out of a tight parking space unnerved him.  "You're too close, you're going to scrape our car!"

""Know what?" I responded,. "I'm glad you inhaled so deeply, you narrowed our car!"

Now was a good time to listen to one of my language tapes instead of arguing.  Before I pushed the start button, John spoke up.  "That's going to split your attention.  Driving is a full-time job."

"I could learn Spanish," I said.

"Yeah, the Spanish Hail Mary!" John quipped.

One evening, when John's ankle was almost healed, I was driving along, listening to his usual moans and groans when lights started to flash behind me.  "Oh my goodness, that must be for me," I grimaced.

"Of course, it's for you.  I knew you'd get a ticket one of these days," John barked.  

The cop, who had emerged out of nowhere (as they notoriously do) asked the routine question, "Do you know how fast you were going?"

"Not fast enough; you caught me," I managed to smile.  Not amused, the cop informed me that I had been driving 14 miles over the speed limit. 

"But, officer, if you only knew what I've been through, driving my husband around for three weeks.  He kept whining that I'd never get him to where he's going in one piece.  I guess I pushed the pedal a bit more than usual as a reflex action."

Later that day, when we finally got back home alive, I vowed never to play his chauffeur again, and he wondered why his left foot kept hurting so much and he felt dizzy.

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                                                                  LEGACIES

More than a century ago, my great-great grandfather Pietro built an abode from straw and clay on a sliver of land in Abruzzo, Italy for his seven children, his wife and himself.  His humble pinchara had one room for sleeping and the other for cooking, cheese making, bread making, meat smoking, and chestnut roasting. At night, the family huddled around the hearth to soak up its warmth and talked and sang to distract themselves from the cold.

What possible legacy could this very poor man have left that still survives for so many generations?  In what way does he continue to inspire his descendants?

Pietro’s essence is captured in one of my father’s poems, entitled “Nonno Pietro,” which appears in part below.

     One day, the son who had improved his lot
     Asked Nonno to move to his shining new house:
     “There are rooms to spare, it’s modern in style.”

     Nonno Pietro flashing a broad smile,
     “But why would I?” he said to his son.
     “How can life get better than this?

     All the comforts I need are here,
     Here, in this glorious pinchara:
     My daily loaf of crusty bread,
     My daily bottle of fine red wine:
     The vision of my family ‘round the hearth,
     My bride, my children seven ─ all of them ─
     Memories of strife and pains,
     Losses and gains,
     Strength, love and joys.
     You see, my dear son,
     How can I leave all of this?
     How can life get better than this?”

What a beautiful legacy Pietro left!  Want what you have!  Be thankful for the gift of life!  Choose to dwell on all that is good and wholesome and beautiful!  As to the rest, accept and adjust!. 

Pietro remained in excellent health, working on his farm and driving horse and buggy to the market, until one fateful day when he tripped on a stone while walking, fell, and broke his hip.  He never fully recovered (the best medical care was not available) and just slipped away at 94.

FAVORITE STORY ABOUT PIETRO

Pietro had a special method for disciplining his four sons.  Whenever one of them misbehaved, he would wait until the middle of the night.  Then, he would get up, quietly pull up a chair alongside the boy’s bed, tap him on the shoulder, and begin to talk.

He would talk on and on, in a low, calm voice, until they would say, ‘I give up, okay, you’re right’ and beg him to just let them sleep.  If they started to doze off, Pietro would tap, tap, tap them on the shoulder again and launch into part two of his lecture.

He would let them know exactly what they had done wrong, why it was wrong, and how they could improve.  No arguments ever occurred because his sons were too tired to formulate one, and Pietro never once raised a hand against any of his sons.

Pietro wanted a captive audience who could do nothing but listen.  During the day, when growing boys are so easily distracted, it would have been a waste of his time and energy to try to keep their full attention and extract a genuine promise to improve, and he had much work to accomplish before the sun set.

How wise of Pietro!

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                                                          BEACH WALKS

MYSTERIOUS FLOWERS  

One morning at sunrise, I walked the beach, barefoot, alone.  An arc of flame surged from the ocean, on the distant horizon.  Shafts of gold light-sped across the water.  Triumphantly, the sun arose and spread its life-giving light. As I concentrated on the surrounding natural beauty, I felt as if I were on a mini-vacation. 

Suddenly, a few yards ahead of me, a single long-stemmed, bright pink carnation, which was lying on the sand, caught my eye.  Unable to resist its beauty, I bent down to pick it up.  To my surprise, within another half minute or so of resuming my walk, a creamy white rose beckoned me from its sand bed.  After a few dozen steps more, I spotted an exquisite fuchsia dahlia, then another rose, this one ruby red, and so on ─ until I had gathered enough flowers for a startlingly beautiful bouquet.

Long-stemmed fresh flowers, in perfect condition, were strewn for about a one-mile stretch along the beach in a straight path, where the sand was dry.  Who had discarded these flowers?  

The flowers were new, fresh and lovely.  They couldn’t have been on the beach more than several hours, which means they were tossed some time during the night.  For what possible reason had they been so purposefully and carefully placed, one at a time?  Why at the beach?

Many scenarios popped into my mind as I pondered the mystery ─ A bridal bouquet caught by a hopeful bridesmaid, who later took a solitary walk on the beach following a lovers’ quarrel?  Flowers ordered to celebrate an occasion that was cancelled at the last minute? Flowers too lovely to throw into a trashcan, but which were no longer needed after having served their purpose? 

Possibilities begat possibilities.


HUNGRY WALKS

I was ravenously hungry one September afternoon as I started my beach walk ─ As a result, all the usual activity at the beach reminded me that I shouldn’t have skipped lunch. 

Shorebirds searched for nourishment along the ocean edge, where waves caressed the sand, while seagulls hovered over the shallows of the shoreline looking for food.  Pelicans skimmed swiftly over the swell of the surf, then veered sharply, yet smoothly, in the air to snatch morsels floating with the breeze.  Starved sand flies buzzed hungrily around seaweed clusters on the moist sand.

Under an overcast sky, it was easy to imagine being in a dimly-lit restaurant.  A long, high wave crashed, spreading dozens of white lace, intricately patterned tablecloths across the shallow water.

Long, thin strips of sea grass, coiled in heaps upon the sand, looked exactly like cooked spinach linguini.   Clam and oyster shells reminded me of an oyster bar.  Tiny crabs that scurried over the sand would grow into the delicious Dungeness crabs I so often enjoyed.

Soon, everything that caught my eye was related to food: a bright orange picnic basket ready to be opened by a laughing young couple, an empty potato chip bag that had just missed the huge trashcan near the rocks, and kelp bulbs the color of delicious, spicy Dijon mustard that broiled in the intense heat.  

A few puffy white clouds were dollops of whipped cream on top of fresh blueberries.  Suddenly, the sun found a spot to break through, and the self-luminous star became an egg yolk, reminding me of the fluffy yellow scrambled eggs my husband and I love for breakfast, along with toasted bagels swished with light butter. 

I hurried to the car and zipped home to my waiting refrigerator.


MOMENTS IN TIME

One time, I just happened to be walking by the ocean as a young surfer stumbled from out of the ocean toward me screaming for help.  Bright red blood was streaming down one of his legs.  His leg had been cut deeply by his surfboard fin. 

Some people pointed, some stared, and some kept doing whatever they were doing.  The boy cursed and screamed at the top of his lungs.  I ran as fast as I ever have in my life to the lifeguard station several hundred yards ahead.  As I explained what had happened and quickly pointed toward the severely injured teenager, two lifeguards jumped up and rushed to help him, while another called for an ambulance.

But I wondered what would have happened to that surfer if I had not been there at that exact moment in time.

One week later, I returned to the same lifeguard station to inquire about the boy’s welfare.  I was told he would have died if help had been delayed even a few minutes more.  His parents had left a note that said, in part, “It’s not simply being in the right place at the right time, it’s about also taking the right action.  We thank God you did.”

I thank God I was able.


                                           *****

 

                                           ANNOYING CHANGES

“Once you reach your 50s, everything kicks in ─ tons of annoying, quirky, sometimes painful things going on both inside and on the surface of your body, from head to toe,” blurted out Cassie.

"And the list of mysterious physical changes is open-ended.  Every day, it’s something else.”

“Wait till you hit your 60s,” Barb grimaced.

Cassie continued her diatribe.  “I now know that my vital organs are plugging along just fine and all my aches are just part of aging ─ after being scanned and scoped, plus spending a small fortune.  Nothing horrendous is going on, but all these little bodily annoyances are enough to keep me much too busy and drive me to distraction.”

“Many of the aches and pains we have,” said Barb, “were just destined to be.  We’re genetically predisposed to getting certain ailments, which can be triggered at any time, sometimes suddenly.

 “So you’re saying that if I had never taken up running, I might never have developed chondromalacia in my knees?  That the act of running was the trigger?” I asked.

For you it appears to have been,” said Barb.  “What I’m trying to explain is that with certain right triggers, our predispositions descend upon us full blast.”

“I do know that fibromyalgia can be triggered by either physical trauma or severe illness,” I agreed.  “In my case, a car accident preceded the condition.  After five years in and out of physical therapy, I finally was able to manage it.  That same accident also exacerbated the arthritis in my neck to the point that it became painful for the first time in my life.”

“If you already had arthritis in your neck before the trauma,” confirmed Barb, “it is highly probable that eventually it would have become painful anyway, but the accident hastened the process.”

“Stone age men and women did not have arthritis in their 50s and 60s the way so many of us do today.  We must be doing something wrong,” I threw in.

“The way I look at it,” said Cassie, “we are genetically programmed to develop certain maladies and malfunctions, which are quietly lying in wait, like a crouching tiger behind a boulder ready to pounce on us.  The challenge is not to do anything that can trigger them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

“What I don’t understand,” said Barb, “is why a post-menopausal woman would still be going through temperature fluctuation extremes.  During the course of one night, I can go from shivering (I have to heat my nightgown in the dryer for 60 seconds before I slip it on), to feeling on fire (I must step outside on the patio in the middle of the night to cool down).   And I still get occasional mood swings.  At unexpected moments, I feel as if my nerves are ripped raw and exposed from head to foot.  I thank God this doesn’t happen often.”

“What does your GYN think?” I wondered.

“She tells me I’m one of a small percentage of women for whom the end of menopause does not mean the end of menopausal symptoms.  Lucky me!”

“I was looking forward to the end of hot flashes; I hope I’m not like you when I’m in my 60s!” piped in Cassie.”

“That’s not all,” said Barb.  “Another thing that has kicked in is fuzzy memory.   Sometimes while I’m driving, I suddenly ask myself, ‘Where am I going?’  Post-its on the passenger seat take care of that.  The other day at home, I kept repeating out loud my list of things to do.  By the time I got up the steps and walked back to our bedroom, I caught myself saying, ‘Rinse the bedroom, air your mouth.’”

“I know exactly what you mean by annoying changes that take place in us as birthdays accumulate,” I commiserated.  “The first thing I find myself doing wherever I go, is locating the nearest ladies’ room.”

“At our stage,” said Barb, “doctors are truly puzzled by the nebulous symptoms and vague complaints we report.  They really don’t know what to do with us.  Subtle changes don’t lend themselves to quick categorization.

“Face it, in ten minutes, doctors can’t possibly know you.  And it’s rare to even be able to speak with physicians in between visits, guarded as they are by a battalion of nurses and receptionists armed with scripted answers and saccharin tones. 

“They can only prescribe for the medical conditions that jump out at them.  The rest, they either will guess at (in which case, my guess is probably better than theirs), or schedule a procedure for.

“We have to be our own health advocates and do our own investigative research so we can go to them prepared with precise questions and descriptions.  My internist would not even recognize me without my notebook and pen,” Barb concluded.

“I’m my own doctor too,” I said with a wide smile.  “Belgian dark chocolate non-pareils are my new ‘take two and call me in the morning’ favorites.

“Speaking of procedures,” I decided to add, “one we all have to go through at least once per decade is a colonoscopy.  The prep is worse than the procedure.  When I had mine, I literally stayed in the powder room with a stack of magazines for three hours, cautiously advancing to the kitchen every 10 to 15 minutes for yet another glassful from the gallon jug of nauseating laxative solution.” 

“How about the annoying changes in our husbands?” Barb brought up.  “Drew has now started snoring, which doesn’t bother him at all, but nettles me.

“When I suggested he might have a deviated septum which needs fixing, he retorted that  he doesn’t want anything added, subtracted, repositioned, or fixed unless absolutely necessary.

“Maybe a loss of hearing that occurs only during the night will be triggered in me and then I won’t be bothered by his snoring.”


                                                                               *****

 

 

                                                        TAKE IT ALL IN!

                       In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.
                                                                                                             ─ Aristotle


During my cool-down along the beach, just before sunset one evening, I tried to take it all in ─ the majestic beauty, the marvel and the mystery.

The setting sun played hide-and-seek with cloudlets,
Spattering their fringes with embers of yellow-orange and red.

As I walked, I fantasized that the uncountable grains of sand that supported me represented parallel universes, zillions of parallel universes.

I thought about Horton Hears a Who and worlds within worlds.  Maybe we’re in a universe that is within something else much larger that we cannot even imagine.  Relative to infinite space, our universe could be like Horton’s dust speck, which would make us smaller than quarks, a millionth of a billionth of a billionth of a billionth of a centimeter.  And yet, we have this strong sense of our own importance.

The setting sun crept along the beach and o’er the sea.
In the dusk half-light, around sand and water,
Seagulls pierced the sky like phantom shadows.

From these thoughts, my concentration shifted to the scene about 20 yards ahead.  As I slowly approached, I could see that some two dozen seagulls had formed a circle around a gloriously all white, massive seagull.  The towering bird was eating a big chunk of fish that had washed up on the shore. 

Close by its side was another seagull that acted like a bodyguard, flapping its wings and lunging at any of the other gulls who tried to take a quick bite of the morsel.  Finally, when only a little bit of fish was left, the loyal bodyguard seagull attempted to take his well-deserved reward.  But the kingly seagull let out a piercing screech and actually pecked his own body guard.  Though he was satiated, he would not allow his loyal comrade even one small taste of the good life.

Amazing, I thought, some humans are like that...but not all, not all.

I circumvented the seagulls and continued to walk, pondering why we humans are compelled to gaze at the water so much.  I knew exactly what my husband would answer, as quickly as a flash, “Well, we’re 80 percent water…and the majority rules!”

The setting sun slowly, silently slipped under the horizon line.
The glory of the moment swelled my heart
Like rediscovered friendship long forgotten.

Kelp bulbs popped underneath my weight as I approached the parking lot.  A homeless man, wrapped in a worn blanket, pulled a bit of soft bread from inside the roll he was eating and offered it to a hungry sandpiper.  No, not all are selfish, not all, I rejoiced. 

The evening breeze, a barely audible laughter,
The gentle lullaby eternal of the sea,
Kept whispering, “Take it in,
Take it all in,
Take it all in!”


                                                                             *****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just the thought of an upcoming trip by airplane and I can easily contemplate the addition of a tenth circle around Dante’s Inferno where the eternal punishment would consist of boarding airplanes, enduring long flights, deplaning, and then starting the whole process all over again.

Say you’ve got a flight scheduled to leave at 7 a.m.  This means you will actually have to set your alarm clock for 3 a.m. in order to get ready, drive to the airport, find parking, and check in from one-and-a-half to two hours before your flight.  Then you might grab a three-dollar banana and visit the restroom.

Ah, yes, the restroom!  This is where a toilet can suddenly start flushing with such force that its contaminated water splashes your exposed skin before your jeans are pulled back up.  Of course, the sensors that activate the flushing, hidden underneath the tile flooring, can be in an unknown spot.  In that case, you might make it to the door, start to unlock it, and then get splashed all over the back of your outfit.

When it’s finally time to board the plane, my anxiety level increases.  Whom will I be forced to sit next to this time ─ a rumpled, unshaven man who coughs and sneezes throughout the entire trip, ensuring I will come down with whatever he’s got within a day or two?  A 60-something woman wearing a purple acetate top, who rambles on about her “non-communicative” son as I, her captive audience, stare endlessly at the same page of my book?  An aging hippie who cleans out his mouth with his forefinger, first on one side, then the other, after eating a bag of peanuts?

Once, I was seated next to an athletic-looking young woman whose eyes fixated upon the Pepsi I was about to drink as she informed me that the airline attendants neither rinse nor wipe the tops of soda cans before they pop them open.  “Just think, whatever dust or dirt that resides inside the circular groove of those can tops gets washed right into these little plastic cups as they pour our drinks,”  she said.

“You’re right,” I agreed, “and you can also just think about all the viruses and bacteria that are circulating in this airplane cabin.  Better cover your sandwich with a napkin to protect it from all the microbes hovering around it.”

Not to be topped, she proceeded.  “The headrest of your seat could be covered with lice from the previous passenger’s hair and you would not even know it.  Why don’t the airlines provide disposable headrest covers?”

The aisle seat used to be my first choice.  I could get up every hour or so to stretch and walk up and down the aisle, thus decreasing the chance of clots, without having to squeeze past any fellow passengers’ knees. 

Now, my first choice is the window seat for two good reasons:  during one trip, a passenger in an aisle seat was clobbered on her neck and shoulder by a heavy piece of luggage clumsily pulled down from the overhead compartment by a man in a hurry and, during my most recent flight, the attendant actually reached over me with a scalding hot cup of coffee, intended for the person next to me, after the pilot had acknowledged, loud and clear, a sudden patch of turbulence.  (Luck was with me that time.)

Shortly after I take my window seat, I wonder whether the plane will take off on schedule or be forced to wait on the Tarmac for four other planes lined up ahead of it.  Then I will miss my connection again.

When the attendants finally come around with snacks, I decline, having brought my own.  Whatever they offer will be super-high in sodium, saturated fat, sugar, and unknown artificial ingredients. 

You can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she eats and by their food choices.  If they gobble the greasy chips and chomp the high-calorie cookies, or if they hold their sandwich with unwashed hands and lick their fingers afterwards, they just might not be health conscious.

Unobtrusively observing the eating styles of passengers can even become a form of airplane entertainment.  Those who read while eating must have strong digestive systems.  The ones who wolf everything down noisily are not sensitive to others around them, while the ones who pause between bites have manners. 

It’s easy to spot someone who chews with his mouth open, crumbs falling on his lap, or a person who takes bites so huge, he fills his mouth to capacity.

Since I must continue to fly to visit distant relatives and friends, I am trying to develop an optimistic, bring-it-on type of attitude.  My plan is to spend the entire week before any future trip buttressing my immune system.

 Any self-respecting germ on an airplane would be fool to even try to take on my vitamin C overdosed cells.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I've come to the conclusion that I will never get everything accomplished in this lifetime that I want to do, have to do, and should do.

Case in point:  I leafed through my 1998 schedule book (which I discovered at the bottom of a box while attempting to clean out our garage) and at least four of the identical things I'm still struggling to get done now were in that book.  It gets worse.  Not only have the same unreachable stars followed me from year to year, but new unreachables have sprung up to form a galaxy of undone things.

Next, I took a look at last year's schedule book to analyze where my time has gone.  Bottom line: it was swallowed up by a host of multifaceted little things that are not even measurable, things that defy you to classify them. The interminable, self-perpetuating, never-ending To-Do Lists RULE.  First, there is the grand master list of all my projects and, of course, the sub-lists of steps to be taken for each project.  Then come the shopping and errands list that I carry with me, birthday and important dates lists, the bills to be paid list, as well as the Post-Its all over the house.  What I need now is a list of my lists!

The undone things follow me around and haunt me, just the way that black cloud always hung over one of the characters in the old Lil' Abner comic strip.

With a smile, my husband asks me, "Are you spending more time on the doing or on the listing?"

"Probably on the listing because the doing has become too frustrating," I fuss.

Everyday living is riddled with so many time-and-energy-zapping moments, it's semi-miraculous when you can accomplish any project that transcends the mundane.  To make a simple phone call and reach a human being, you have to first get past menus, sub-menus, and Burt Bachrach.  When you do reach a person in real time, they want to transfer you to another department.

It practically takes an act of Congress to get anything done right any more.  To get something, anything, repaired, you've got to wait out the "window of time" during which a repair person might arrive.  When and if they do, you know deep down that it's highly unlikely they will fix it correctly the first time.  No, there will usually be a second or third visit.

I can't even tell when my car will reach downtown San Diego in heavy traffic, but scientists know to a fraction of a second when Venus meets the sun every 122 years.  I'm in the midst of doing all the funding of our revocable trust, trying to figure out which plans are best for our mobile phones and house phone, and learning to cohabit with my computer.  If it were not for the joy of blogging, I'd have my way with this Gateway Table Top and hoist it out the window.

It took me three nights to wade through the user guide to my new cell phone.  And a few days later, I cound not for the life of me recall how to send text messages, make phone book entries, send pictures, download help menus, or program different ringer tunes for each contact.  (Speaking of electronic devices, did you know they actually disrupt our natural biorhythms, our energy levels?  Their  electromagnetic fields release chaotic energy, according to an article in a scientific magazine.)

These days, you'd better bring along a carefully prepared list of questions, as well as comments based on your own investigative research, when you go to see your doctor.  This list will increase your odds for a productive visit during the 10 minutes you're lucky to squeeze out of your clock-watching doctor's day. 

Of course, the important and the urgent things must be done.  But I read somewhere that the speculative and imaginative things you would like to do "some day" aren't worth the constant angst of carrying around, copying and recopying.  A list is not a life sentence.

So I guess that just because I have wanted to do something for years doesn"t mean it is still worth doing.  I'm going to have to reassess my master list.  Here's to the survival of the fittest!

I should have worn my hat today at the beach.

Early this morning, I was greeted by a low tide, overcast sky, and only a few vacationers.  Good, I thought, I won't even need my hat; my zinc sun lotion is more than enough protection for my face.

So...I happily started my routine of fast walking, interspersed with some calisthenics.  After some 30 minutes, I was completely relaxed, my mind absorbed by the sights and sounds of the beach:  a canopy of stratus clouds over grayish-green water, receding wavelets revealing sand patterns that looked like a quilted bedspread, a few surfers, a kayak, kelp bulbs that popped under my weight, and the plaintive cries of seagulls.  All was right with the world.

And then, I looked up at a couple of Blue Herons flying directly over my head.  SPLAT!

I really should have worn my hat today at the beach.

The comeback of so many of the songs from decades ago, used in current movies, plays, and commercials, makes me nostalgic about the summers I spent while growing up on the east coast.  Those summers of firefly-catching contests or talking the evenings away while sitting on the front porch were not supposed to end.

Funny how certain moments from the past stay with us as vividly as if they just happened.  I can still remember a profoundly strong feeling that suddenly came over me one night when I was about 12 or 13.  It was the middle of a hot, sticky summer and the only thing on my schedule that night was catching more fireflies in my jar with the punch-holed lid than my friends could get.  I had perfected the art of focusing on one specific lightning bug at a time as it glittered. Then, at the precise second it lit up again, I 'd snatch it with my right hand. 

Since my jar was the first to be totally filled with fireflies, I won the game.  Then, as always, all of us opened our glass baby-food jars and watched as the tiny beacons flew away, flashing their lights.  (We valued those little insects, without knowing that one day some scientists would extract the substance that produces their light and use it to try to track and destroy cancer in human cells.)

On that one particular night, as I watched the last firefly break free from my container,  a sensation washed over me:  that time and possibilities were everlasting.  Although I was realistic enough to know that my wonderful summer would, in fact, end, I felt as if a layer of peace suddenly had been laid on top of earthly time limitations.  I savored the feeling until I fell asleep hours later that evening.

Now, I find it difficult to focus on one thing at a time.  Typically, while I'm trying to accomplish a task, dozens of thoughts about other subjects dart in and out of my mind.  Even when I'm working out at the health club, I can't fully enjoy the experience.  I'm thinking of what I've got to do next and checking my watch at sporadic intervals.

Flashes of light.  That's what our lives are.  Look, they're here; look again, they're gone.  Just like the knack for catching fireflies, you've got to concentrate hard, then grab for the moments of light that the people in your life emit. 

As carefree as my youthful summers were, they also were sweltering and humid in the years before relief came from air-conditioners or those large window fans our dads proudly installed.  I'd lie awake at night for hours, clad in sleeveless, shortie pajamas, flat on my back, barely able to breathe, skin glistening with perspiration.

And sure enough, just as I would finally start to feel sleep taking over, the perpetual mosquito would locate me.  The high-pitched zzzzzzzs as the insect circled above my exhausted body would jolt me awake just as the blood-sucker started its Kamikazi dive.  Pulling the sheet over my head, with just a small air hole,  I'd wait for it to give up and leave me alone.

Do I really want to go back in time to  my childhood home?

I recall a lady who called the popular radio show, Car Talk, one day.  She told the hosts, lovingly known as Click and Clack, that she had felt nostalgic right before "an important middle-age birthday" and had decided to purchase a Volvo just like the one she had driven in 1961.  She bought it on the internet for $3,000. 

"The ad said it was in perfect driving condition, but the brakes don't work," she wailed.

Click and Clack's answer:  This just goes to show you can never go back home.  And in this case, she can't even get out of the driveway.!

One of the most frustrating challenges about moving, at least for a woman, is finding a new hairdresser.  It’s almost as aggravating as finding a new GYN. 

I am convinced that most hairdressers only know how to do about three or four hairstyles and you are going to come out of their salon with one of those styles.  It doesn’t matter how much you gesticulate in front of the mirror while explaining what you want, or how many magazine pictures you show them, or how much they assure you, again and again, that they understand exactly what you want.

The first hairdresser I tried stared at my shoulder-length hair for a couple of minutes with a pained expression.  “Look at all these split ends,” she was finally able to utter.  “Your roots are showing and you’re even beginning to sprout some nasty, stark white hairs in your eyebrows.”

“Here’s a picture of the kind of hairstyle I’d like,” I said, handing it to her. 

“Oh, this is you,” she smiled, it's definitely you.  I’m going to take care of all your problems, just relax.”

Two hours later, I left the salon hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew on the way to my car.  I grabbed my sunhat to cover my butchered hair and donned sunglasses to hide my pitch black, thick, Groucho Marx-style eyebrows. 

While waiting for my hair to grow out, I still needed a hair colorist.  One of my neighbors recommended someone and, for several months, all went well.  Until one day.

“Your ends matched the rest of your hair when you left here last time," she proclaimed.  "I had your haircolor even all over and perfect.  I remember. 

"Now you come back four weeks later and your ends are darker,” she continued, accusingly.  There is no way your ends could be this dark without something with color pigment in it having been applied to your hair or rinsed through your hair.”

She signaled to another stylist to consult about my hair disaster.  Finally, after standing over my head of hair and deliberating for several minutes, while referring to hair swatch charts, the other stylist asked me, “Are you taking any medications?”

Well, I’ve stopped taking hormones, I thought, and that has caused everything else to go haywire, why not just add my strange haircolor change to the list!

My hairdresser was adamant.  “Tell me, are you using any special rinse or other product on your hair?”

“I’ve only been using the shampoo and conditioner I bought from your salon and nothing else,” I answered.  She clammed up.

To break the awkward silence, I offered, “Well, maybe little aliens are kidnapping me at night and coloring my hair.”

No laughter.  “In all my years as a colorist, I’ve never seen anything like this,” she retorted.

So you can see why I had to change hairdressers yet again.  The new one solved my haircolor dilemma during my first visit and immediately started working on my limp crown hair problem. 

“I’m adjusting your hair’s aura,” he assured me in his strong French accent.  “Look how happy the hair in your crown is now!”

Now I ask you, can I pick a great hair stylist or what?