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Looking Back

Michael Leave a comment

Sometime toward the end of last year I mentioned the Real Reality Show Blog turned five years old. That happened on November 7 but I didn’t get around to mentioning it until much later that month. Shortly after that it became December and life got turned upside down for me. Again. I ended 2016 two days shy of actually being home from three separate hospital stays during the last month of last year. Hanging around for so many days in a hospital bed leaves one with only so many things to do. Read. Watch TV. Work a crossword puzzle or two. Roll over on top of the nurse call button. Think about life.

I hate thinking about life. Here’s why. Why is because thinking about life interferes with life. While I was lying about wondering “what had I done to deserve this” I got to thinking of life and the life I specifically had last year.

It started celebrating the end of the holiday season in a strange place. For the first time in 29 years I wasn’t in my old, wonderful house with a Christmas tree in every room highlighted by the 12 foot job under the cathedral ceiling of the natural wood finished sun room. And worst of all, I didn’t have all 37 of my nativities displayed. That’s because for the first Christmas after 29 years I was celebrating it in a miniscule one bedroom apartment so I could move about and function better in my new “challenged,” – screw that, make it disabled! – state. But then but the end of the year I got used to those not that miniscule quarters, I got used to working around the complex, I got used to hanging out at the pool, I got used to my new neighbors, and I missed those, that, and them when I wasn’t there in December.

In April I turned 60. I didn’t think anything of it. But for some reason my sisters thought I should have a party to celebrate that milestone. I look at milestones for birthdays years like 16, 21, 30, maybe 50, definitely 75, and by all means every year from 80 on. But I figured, why not. At least I knew I’d get a more extravagant meal than I was planning for myself and maybe even cake. Now, it happened that the last party I had thrown for me to celebrate a birthday was indeed at 30. (Hold that thought.) The selected venue for last year’s event had a guest limit of 25.I got to thinking how I was going to limit a guest list to 25. I pulled out my address book and mentally started drafting explanations to those who wouldn’t make the cut. After much serious review, and even more serious reflection, I handed my sister a list of 22 names. Thirty years previous there were three times that many people on hand to commemorate my becoming a thirtysomething. Had I or anyone got around to hosting a 50 year party I could imagine at least one guest for each lived year. Now, I couldn’t scrape up two dozen friends to watch me move another year closer to Medicare. And then the day came and those few all showed up and I realized these were mostly the same people who were around to see me turn 16 and a few years later, 21, and would have been among the crowd at 50. Friends. Old friends, close friends, real friends. Friends who saw me move not only from year to year but from trials to successes to failures to challenges to successes to every high, low, dull, and exciting phase of life. My life. And I hope they’ll all be there for 75, 80, and every one from then on.

Sometime in August I was at a routine doctor appointment. One of those that you get ready for a week before by going from lab to x-ray to CT to have as much of your insides available for the doctor to review as your outsides when you get there. She looked at the numbers and then at me and then back at the numbers and declared that I had a year, maybe, before my kidneys would go the way of so much else in my insides and I’d need the use of a dialysis machine to do what comes naturally to most others after a couple of cups of coffee. She was off by just a little. About 8 months. It was, in fact, while I was thinking all this in the hospital sometime in early December after I had been transported back to my hospital room from the dialysis unit after the second or maybe third of what would become a new thrice weekly event for me. But it wasn’t that much later that I reminded myself that the reason any doctors were even looking at lab and x-ray and CT scan results for the state my kidneys was that 15 years ago I was diagnosed with a pretty rare, chronic condition that feeds of internal organs like kidneys and if they found just the right treatment for me I had a 37% chance of living longer than three years. Somehow they hit it right and I was one of the lucky ones who got at least 12 more years so I could have a birthday party in a non-milestone year and all I had to do now was give up a dozen hours a week that I wasn’t doing anything with anyway and maybe make it to 75, 80, and a few more after that.

See, those are just a few reasons why I hate all this “looking back.” It just ends up finding the silver lining instead of dwelling on the uncontrollable like human beings are supposed to do. And it means I spent the entire 500th post of the RRSB talking about me. Instead of talking about the me you got to see in the past 500 posts. I guess I’ll do that next time.

Hmm. Five hundred. Not as compelling as 75, or 80, or all the numbers that come after that. But I bet somewhere there’s a word for that.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

All Dogs Go To Heaven

Michael 1 Comment

Dog gone it if it isn’t the most useful day of the year. Today, the third Monday of July, in the midst of the dog days of summer, is … hold that thought for a minute.

I have spent no telling how many electrons celebrating useful, special days that only a special interest group could dream up. There are days that deserve to be recognized and often get left in the shadows, like Groundhog Day (Feb. 2). There are days to honor those who truly should be but the governments of the world collectively have dismissed them, like First Responders (there are First Responders Appreciation Days and they vary by state and whether it’s an election year but Sept. 27 seems to be a popular choice). There are days to honor people you’d think could do with just their salaries as honor enough like Talk Show Host Day (Oct. 23). There are so many special days that 365 calendar days aren’t nearly enough so just about every day has multiple recognitions although sometimes you wonder if whoever assembled them had really wanted a special day to commemorate irony (like April 7 which combines National Beer Day with National Alcohol Screening Day (technically the first Thursday in the first full week of April, and isn’t that a designation that only the collective governments could come up with, which this year happened also to be April 7).

All of them worthy of being called special – if for nothing else than their dog and pony show aspects – but certainly not all commendable for their usefulness. So what about today would make one jump up and shout “Hot Diggity Dog!” It is in the recognition that even though you may not be able to teach an old dog new tricks, you can make sure that every dog has its day. And today that lucky dog is the one that is up to his neck in doggie doo.

The one in your dog house is today’s luckiest dog because today is Get Out of the Doghouse Day. For today to work the one who done the wrong has to do the heavy lifting. You know who you are. Put down the bone and apologize. While you’re at it, put down your cell phone unless you are going to use it to actually make a call. You don’t want to trust a chance to get back in somebody’s good graces to an e-mail, a text, or (Heavens, don’t even think about it) a tweet. You need a personal touch.

It’s a dog eat dog world out there. Let sleeping dogs lie and get back in the fight. You might have to work like a dog today but if you end up being man’s – or woman’s best friend again, it’s all worth it!

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Fishing For Memories

Michael Leave a comment

Trout season begins this week. Saturday specifically. In my state. I’ve never fished for trout. I’ve fished for walleye, I’ve fished for bass, I’ve fished for compliments. But I’ve never fished for trout. And that’s unusual for around here because there is a lot of trout around here. Of course, to catch trout around here you have to fish around here and I’ve never done that either.

Around here is huge on fishing. The county I live in issues more fishing licenses than anywhere else in the state, odd for an urban area but the numbers don’t lie. Even though the county sports only 10 percent of the state’s population it has ranked number 1 in fish licenses since 1919. Probably before that but that’s as far back as I could find records. For most of those years there were more fishing licenses issued in this one county than in the rest of the state combined.

I’m not a real fisherman – or fisherperson as the TV reporter reminded the viewing public of the start of trout season put it. I fish, or fished, once or twice a year and at what could at best be called sporadically over 40 years or so.

My first fishing memory was of my father taking me up into the mountains for an overnight trip with two friends of his and their sons. I didn’t catch anything. I’m not sure that anybody caught anything. I remember cooking something outside for dinner but it was probably hamburgers. After dark we piled into someone’s station wagon and went deer spotting and that night slept in someone else’s hunting cabin. That was the first fishing memory I have. It is also the first memory I have of doing something special with my father.

My second fishing memory came 20 years later and 20 states away. Floating in the middle of some lake in the middle of Texas were me and an Army friend in a rented bass boat. It had all that was required for fishing for bass. We had the trolling motor attached to the bow, the big Merc mounted on the stern, the electronic fish finder, the funny chairs that looked like bar stools. We got just far enough out to finish our to-go coffees and were when his pager went off. Return to base. His unit was being mobilized. In less time to write about it we were back at the dock, secured the boat, gotten to the car, and were two-thirds of the 15 minute drive to base. That’s when my pager went off.  Later that day we found ourselves as parts of one of the largest training exercises our base had mounted in years. We ate in the field that night but it wasn’t fish.

Another 20 years and in the middle of another lake, this one called Erie, I was one of a group of five pulling in our 30th, and last, walleye. After years of doing so, my friend had the planning down pat for this trip. We left the day before for the drive north, now mostly highway making it a relatively quick trip. Quick enough that we got there hours before anyone else. We picked up our licenses, checked into the hotel, and asked for wake up calls for 4 the next morning. That gave us twelve hours to meet the rest of the gang, have a few beers, have dinner, retell our lies from previous years’ trips, make our ways back to the hotel, and turn in for the night. What was much more than but felt much less than a couple of hours later we were back in the lobby with our coffees and headed for the dock. Our hired captain and his boat were waiting in the dark and we clambered in for the ride to where the fish waited in the dark. The lines weren’t all in yet when the first walleye struck. As he was being brought in another line was hit. The first fish was landed, pictured, and chucked into the well when number three hooked on. And so it went. Nobody remembered a year when the fish came so willingly to us. We had reached our limit and turned back to the docks before some other boats had begun their day. The picture of us with our racks straining under the morning take was on the captain’s charter company’s website the following day. A copy of it is still on one of my walls. A week later we reassembled in my friend’s back yard to fry fish and tell lies. That was the last fishing memory I’ve had. Three weeks later I was in the hospital where a surgeon took longer than we did to fish for his limit.

Trout season starts this Saturday. I’ve never fished for trout.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Let’s Stay In Touch

Michael Leave a comment

It’s much too early to make any New Year’s resolutions.  (If you haven’t already, you can see our thoughts on New Year’s resolutions at “Revolving Resolutions (Dec. 30, 2013), Resolving to Keep It Real (Dec. 31, 2012), Be It Resolved (Jan. 2, 2012), and/or Be It Further Resolved (March 22, 2012).)  However, it might be just the right time to make a New Year’s Eve resolution.

It was sometime last week when there were five people and four oh-so-smart phones at the table all at the same time.  This was He’s extended family and usually that group can never find any of their phones.  But for some reason, on that day everybody but one (and oddly enough that was the youngest of the group and a true card carrying member of the “Don’t Leave Home Without It As Long As It Is a Phone Brigade”) had his or her cell phone strapped, perched, or holstered onto his or her body or close by.  Miraculously, nobody’s phone made a peep during the meal which is why all of them were at the table at the same time.  But the site of all that electronic wizardry did start a story.  And so it went.

Once upon a time, staying in touch was easy.  If you wanted to speak with someone you called that someone.  Landline and then cell phone calls were an easy push button distance to just about anyone.  If nobody answered there was usually an answering machine or voice mail willing to take a message.  Even as home computing became the norm, e-mail was available and handy for sending large amounts of information or even sharing files.  And thus we managed quite well getting our lunches planned, our rides scheduled, and our points across.

And then the madness struck!

It was even before the smart phone revolution.  Texting.  At first, only the 13-18 demographic texted.  It made perfect sense.  Texts were free.  Calls were still charged by the minute.  Parents knew about every call made.  Parents cared less about texts.  They showed up on bills as numbers of but followed by NC – No Charge.  HW!  (How Wonderful).  As the 13-18 year olds aged, their favored means of communication improved.  Texts became faster and clearer.  And as the texting became easier, the parents and other fogies suddenly realized they too could be saving time and money.  What two better things are there to save.

With the time saved they all became users of Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, Linked In, Skype, YouTube, and YouNameIt.  Many, many ways to stay in touch.  Then problems started arising when people started realizing they were on too many services to stay on all of them as much as they wanted.  And thus, each picked a favorite.  All different favorites!  But they rarely shared which was their favored favorite.  So if you want to reach your best friend you have call, leave a message, then text, then private message on Facebook.  At least one of those will be ringing, humming, or vibrating your recipient’s phone.  If all else fails, there’s always e-mail and maybe a landline phone call, possibly to the work number.

So what’s the resolution?  For the callee, everybody should resolve to tell everybody they really want to hear from how to reach them.  And don’t get miffed if someone picks the wrong means.  Stuff happens you know.  And for the caller, make certain you listen to all your contacts and somewhere mark their preferred means of…. No, how about once you send out the message you give your intended recipient enough time to get back before you…. No, make sure you’re using the right platform for the right…. No, how about don’t assume that your favorite means of being gotten hold of is everybody’s favorite…. Oh heck, was it really that important anyway?

Tell you what, have your people get hold of our people and we’ll do lunch.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

The Last Minute – A Special Piece of Real Reality

Michael Leave a comment

Regular readers know that Real Reality strikes on Mondays and Thursdays.  If you didn’t know that it doesn’t make you irregular.  You just have to read more often.  And/or more regularly.  Anyway, for this to show up on a Wednesday you know it must be something special.  Well, tomorrow is something special so that could make today special too.  It certainly makes today down to the wire.  (No race track analogies in 2015.  Three in a row are plenty for any couple of years!)

Regular readers also know that in Realityville, Christmas Eve is not a shopping day.  Christmas Eve has enough of its own tasks and charges.  You have had plenty of shopping days going back to Black Friday Eve (aka Thanksgiving).  Ask any major retailer.  If you’re not done by now you are on your own.  But don’t bother asking any major retailer.  They lie.

Back to Christmas Eve.  Don’t you have more Christmassy things to do today than shopping anyway?

There are Christmas Eve dinners to attend to.  Is the most recognizable Christmas Eve dinner the Feast of the Seven Fishes?  Perhaps so.  An Italian tradition on a day that Italian Catholics abstain from meat, this vigil meal will be served in many households.  In Eastern Europe, many cultures add a couple more meatless dishes to their Christmas Eve dinner to make nine or eleven choices.  Russians prepare twelve selections of fish and grains.  In Germany and Austria, Christmas Eve may be spent preparing carp, potatoes, and salads for dinner after sundown.

You’re not a big eater you say?  Then you’ll probably spend today wrapping all the presents you carefully selected and bought with plenty of time to get under the tree before Christmas.  Did you know that, television families with piles of beautifully wrapped presents under their trees weeks before the big day excepted, most holiday wrapping happens on Christmas Eve.  Much of the gifts planned for destinations outside the home if not wrapped sometime on Christmas Eve, usually during cooking breaks, are wrapped the day before and sometimes the day of the planned giving.

If you happen to be reading this in Sweden you aren’t wrapping your gifts today.  You’ll be unwrapping them since the day you exchange Christmas presents is today!  That would be in Sweden and many other countries where the wrapping happened yesterday in anticipation of exchanging them on Christmas Eve.

In Australia where it’s nice and warm today, many people will be out caroling this evening.  While singing they will light candles together hoping for a clear night that their light can join the stars.

And if your wrapping and cooking and eating and singing all get done early and you are still looking for something to do besides more shopping, today would be a good day to thank God for getting us all through another year.

Merry Christmas.

Now that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you.

 

Let It Snow

Michael Leave a comment

We’re writing this on December 21.  That’s the first day of winter.  In fact, according to the weather people here it was sometime a bit after 12:30pm that the earth was at its absolute farthest from the sun making that day the shortest, the darkest, and the least absorbing of the sun’s warmth.  It’s going to be 61 degrees today.

Sixty-one degrees might be an ok temperature for Florida for the first day of winter but we’re north of the Mason-Dixon Line.  Our average temperature for this date is 30 degrees.  Three days ago when it was still fall it was 18 degrees during the day, 10 or so at night.  There was also snow.  Lots of snow covering every non-driving surface around.  (What can we say?  We have some decent road crews.)  Today there is only rain and it has melted all of the snow.

The day before the first day of winter the weather people were predicting highs in the 40’s for Christmas Eve and Christmas.  Not nearly cold enough to make for a white Christmas.  And that’s exactly how all of them led off their reports.  “They’ll be no white Christmas this year,” they all said.  One could almost hear the collective wails of every child in the greater metropolitan area.  How will Santa get their booty to them?

Then on the first day of winter, the one with a predicted high in the 60’s, the one on which the local weather people had less than 12 hours earlier declared no white Christmas, the local forecasts now called for temps in the 20’s on Christmas Eve including the possibility of snow and perhaps accumulated snow for Christmas morning.  We think it’s a conspiracy.  Somebody from the North Pole got to those weather people and made them change their forecast.  So what if they turn out wrong.  They usually do!

Actually, what we really think is, does it really matter.  Will the children find the holiday less holiday-ish without snow?  The parents will appreciate being able to drive to church and then to Granma’s on snow-free roads even if their town doesn’t have a crack road crew.  And the road crews will get to enjoy the holiday too.  Speaking of church, even though there was some snow there a few weeks ago, snow isn’t the norm in Bethlehem.  If those on the first Christmas were able to do without the white stuff, we can manage also.

Christmas isn’t about how white it can be, how many presents are under the tree, or how many new cookies were thought up for the year.  It’s a time to be with family and with cherished friends and companions.  It’s a time to unwrap one of the best gifts of all, love.  And it’s a time to wish a very special One happy birthday.  Snow or no.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Family Time

Michael Leave a comment

For the first time in a long time She and He were not out in public as the We’s.  We were out in public, just not together.  It’s an unusual feeling, but then, we’re not your usual couple.  Not only were She and He not doing our things together, even the Children of We were off doing their own things, sometimes in completely different states.   Let’s take roll.

He of We is mostly responsible for the disparate activities in WeLand this weekend.  He set out for the waters of Lake Erie with Friend of He and three others on their annual fishing trip which precedes the annual Fish Fry and the annual how high can you get your outdoor flame contest.  Actually, that is not a sanctioned competition and only happened one year.  The fishing trip happens every year and there are no she’s connected to any of the he’s there there.  So that started out the weekend early Friday with He of We and Friend of He blazing the trail for the others to follow, getting licenses, checking into the hotel, and timing the route from hotel to dock so we know what time to leave in the morning to be there at 5am, our assigned departure time.  The trip was wildly successful with the fisherpeople maxing out in record time.  So fast were the limits caught that when the group returned to the dock there was actually a wait for the cutters and cleaners to come in and turn the haul into groceries. But even with an early return, getting up at something after three in the morning made for needing much sleep the rest of Saturday and Sunday and therefore few she’s saw anything of any of their he’s who were part of that group.

So there you have the impetus for the We-free weekend.  But there were still others among us who managed to spend their weekend times without the rest.  For example, Daughter of He spent her Saturday in running gear running past those who would be lobbing powder-based paint at her and the others taking part in another annual event, the Color Run.  The Color Run is too hard to explain here but it involves people who run a fairly normal 5K fun run circuit except they are clean at the start and look something like bad graffiti at the finish.  Daughter of She was doing this about 150 miles from home so that shot her day with any other family members.

Sons of She weren’t there to put the family in family time either, both taking part in one of their many shared interests, golf.  For two brothers who act like brothers as much as two brothers can act like stereotypical siblings, they have remarkably similar interests.  They both golf, they both enjoy the presence of a pool in each of their respective backyards.  They are both fond of eating out but with different partialities.  She of We often has told the story of them as mere toddlers in restaurants, the older would order for both of them with “I’ll have the steak and my brother will have the shrimp.”  They both like vintage toys and as we found out for the first time last week, they both like being at the racetrack.  But this weekend they were both golfing and even if they both managed to keep all four wheels of the carts on the cart paths and no errant drives found their ways through either’s sun roof (both potential topics for this very post), it would still be a full day affair because that’s how they do it.  Whether separately or together.

So now you see why She of We was We-less through the weekend.  Before it was over, the Children of We did manage to find their respective ways to the respective parents and made less than token appearances, because that’s what our kids do.  And She and He of We managed to find some hours together either by phone or by text to keep each other up to date with their We-free Weekend because that’s what we do.

Even if none of us were able to get any of ourselves together for just a weekend it would be fine because we happen to know that for this small group of people, all adults, all with their own lives, we still keep it together.  For us, any time is family time, and all the time is quality time.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

The Ambassador and the Triscuit Inspector

Michael Leave a comment

Recently we stayed a few days at a Sheraton hotel.  At most Sheratons there is a club suite for the Starwood Preferred guests.  Go to the web-site and sign up and after the first stay or two you move into the preferred category or most touring stays will add you to that list.  It’s not a terribly exclusive club,  no more than many hotel and airline members-only clubs.  But this one was different.  This one came with a host who falls into the “Now that was an interesting person” category.  You decide how to define interesting for yourself.

Our host for our evenings at the Sheraton was a former Triscuit Inspector.  We don’t know if he actually had a numbered slip that he popped into each box or a personalized stamp that emblazoned the inner seal so we can’t go into the archives to confirm that but that is what he told us.  For years he worked at the local Nabisco plant as the Triscuit Inspector right up until they closed the plant and he had to make a decision as to how he should earn his keep until Social Security took over.  Since this story takes place in the general area of Niagara Falls he thought tourism.  And quite logically.  So now for the past while he has been the Sheraton’s Starwood Suite host and sees that the cracker plates are full (we didn’t notice any Triscuits), the cheese platter is balanced, and the beer and wine are cold and chilled respectively.  But what makes him interesting wasn’t the Triscuit background or his ability to keep the yellow and white cheeses equalized.  It was his willingness to share his background and his stories of when he worked at Nabisco, where to find the cheapest wines in town, and where the best smoke-free slot machines are in the casino.

Interesting people always find us. We already spoke of our tour guide in Puerto Rice who regaled us with stories of real life on the island, his life. We saw his home town, heard tales of his family, were told of his wife’s cooking, and saw his favorite beach.  All that while he managed to extract tales from those he was touring.  Another interesting soul from that trip was our hotel’s lobby ambassador.  Do resorts still have such a character, the cross between concierge and man on the street?  Not a day went by except the one he was off that we weren’t greeted by name by this giant of a man who split his life between Puerto Rice and New York and was a diehard Giants football fan but took a Steelers wrist band from us and wore it at least while we were still there.

It was also on that trip that we found the artist in his gallery in Old San Juan telling the tale of how his wife came to visit her sister six years before and still hadn’t gone home.  So he painted each town with his stories in each.  We made sure to bring a piece of his back to grace a wall.  There it joins two local artists’ works.  Both of those artists have gone from favorite artist to favorite story teller to favored member of our circle.  We spend much time when we see either of them at shows and we can now pick out the one’s husband who is a shadow in every piece she does and know what room of his grandmother’s house the other used as a mental model for the window in the painting that becomes a window to his memories of her backyard, real and imagined.

There are many, many others. Most people have their favorite people who aren’t necessarily a part of their circle but make the circle more interesting.  We’ve been blessed that almost everywhere we go we can find that person and eventually find him or her again.   The pleasantries are shared, new stories are spoken and heard, and ultimately our circle grows.

So if you should be travelling in the Niagara Falls, NY area and you happen to stop into the Sheraton there, make your way to the Starwoods Suite and ask to speak with the Triscuit Inspector.  Grow your circle a bit too.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Will the Real St. Valentine Please Stand Up

Michael Leave a comment

Sunday evening we were at home having our Valentine’s Day dinner.  (Steak au poivre, green beans sautéed in butter and olive oil with onions and mushrooms, baked potato with a pepper cream sauce, and a salad of mixed greens with strawberries, walnuts, and feta.  We never made it to dessert.) (Yes, we go out a lot but we still know how to cook and cook we do when it’s a truly special occasion.)  Work schedules and other conflicts forced us to hold our celebration off for a few days.  It happens.  And it was worth the wait.      

While we were dining we wondered what is it about this Valentine guy that has made greeting card companies, florists, jewelers, and for some, restaurants so much money around the globe and over the years.  The most common story is that of Valentine, priest and martyr of third century Rome during the reign of Claudius II, also known as Claudius the Cruel.  He believed that his army was not giving its all because the men were more attached to their wives and families than to their emperor.  To solve that little problem he banned marriages.  No marriages, no families, strong fighting men.  He didn’t count on Valentine still performing marriage ceremonies even under the ban.  Valentine was imprisoned and ordered to be executed.  While in prison Valentine became enamored with the daughter of his jailer and legend goes on to say that on his last day in prison he wrote her a farewell letter and signed it, “With Love, Your Valentine.”

We sort of like that story.  It has a love interest, a creepy villain, a secret plot twist (priests aren’t supposed to fall in love with women, even in the late 200’s), and a story that hangs around even after almost 1,750 years.  But there are other stories.  There were other Valentine’s, other Valentines who were priests, and other Valentines who were martyred and became saints.  We still like that story.  And it is St. Valentine of Rome whose feast day was set to the day of his execution, February 14.

But how did that get from there to a Hallmark moment?  Let’s fast forward some 1100 years from the 270’s to the 1370’s and to English poet Geoffrey Chaucer.  In the poem Parliament of Foules he wrote, “For this was sent on Seynt Valentyne’s day Whan every foul cometh ther to choose his mate” and thus linked February 14 as the day we go in search of our best link.  In fact, it was already becoming common in late 13th and 14th century England and France for lovers to exchange letters, poems, and gifts in mid-February as the weather lightened.

There are many Valentines who have been canonized by many Popes over many years. (There was even a Pope Valentine.  He served for only 40 days in 827.)  In all there are 12 St. Valentines, the most recent, St. Valentine Berrio-Ochoa, a Spaniard who served as bishop in Vietnam until his beheading in 1861, was elevated to sainthood by John Paul II in 1988.  Twelve Valentine’s, twelve months.  We didn’t do the research but you can probably find a St. Valentine Day almost any time of the year if you, like us, were busy on February 14.    

Then, when you have another one as special as we have in each other, every day can be a day to celebrate your love for each other, even if it isn’t the real Valentine’s Day.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Calling Mrs. Petrie

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The Robert Petries did it.  The Darren Stevenses did it.  Even the Major Nelsons did it.  And so did our parents and probably yours.  The classic American house party.  Where has it gone?  We’ve seen some modern versions of it, a backyard fish fry, a deck party, a holiday open house.  They all have most of the elements of the landmark shindig just missing Rob and Laura pushing back the furniture and dancing to the three piece combo invited just for the occasion.  Then we got involved!

Our merry band of friends and relatives attempted a revival of it last fall.  Now some three months later people still talk of it.  Twenty or so revelers all came over within 15 minutes or so of all the others and all left within 15 minutes or so of all the others and while they were here there was mingling and snacking and drinking in celebration of absolutely nothing in particular.  There was live music just for the occasion and attempts at impromptu dancing.  (And promises of real dancing at the next one.  See, they were already planning on us having another before this one spun it last.)  We had no magician but we had sing-a-longs.  We had no charades.  Please, no charades.  And when the last of the party-goers got up and went it was such a quick clean-up that, looking back on it, the prop guys must have helped.  We’re certain Laura, though a little jealous, would have been quite proud.

We’re both of an age that we remember our parents having friends over and someone playing some instrument and someone else singing along.  Food was plentiful but trying to recall specific menus gets us not much farther than cheese and crackers.  There were games.  Cards and dice seemed to play starring roles in these efforts though maybe someone tried to talk others into at least one round of charades.  Men ended up in one room; women in another.  Somehow, probably by magic, everyone knew when to go home.  And they all talked about it until the next gala.  These were most likely the models for those television version house parties that had to be just a bit more extravagant than our folks could have managed.  Those television versions were not at all the planned model for our merrymaking but in retrospect might have subconsciously been.  And we managed to be just a bit more extravagant than they.

So, with a tip of our hat (worn at a jaunty angle) to Mrs. Petrie, we’re going to continue our revival of a grand American tradition.  Next time we’ll push the furniture back and roll up the rug.  Maybe Rob and Laura will do a soft shoe in celebration of nothing in particular.  They’ll ask us just how we do it time and again.  And the band will play on. 

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?