Unsafe At Any Speed, Really?

In his lifetime, as far as I know Dad purchased only one new car. As luck would have it, it was a Corvair, the car made infamous by that consumer watchdog rascal, Ralph Nader. I remember the day Dad drove that beautiful white vehicle down our lane. We waited on the front porch while he parked it, then we ran like lemmings to examine it.

           

What I recall most is the delicious new-car aroma. Although I can’t stand the smell of plastic in new cars of today, in 1960 the fragrance was more exhilarating than toxic. The gray seats were as slick as a toboggan run, and everything was perfect. The radio worked, the windshield had no cracks, and with a minimum amount of effort the windows cranked up and down. According to a March 8 entry in an old diary, I was even impressed by the heater that actually threw out heat. 

           

We all piled in and went for a ride, but there was no stopping for ice cream cones or hamburgers. Mom declared eating in the car was absolutely forbidden. My siblings and I agreed, knowing perfectly well that rule wouldn’t last longer than a week.

Mom didn’t have a driver’s license, but such a minor snag didn’t hinder her from driving our old car to the mailbox at the end of the sideroad. Once she mastered the Corvair’s stick shift, there was no stopping her. She never ventured to the Soo, but she was no stranger to Six Mile Road as she zoomed to Jaeger’s grocery store in Brimley. Well, maybe zoomed is taking poetic license. I’m sure Mom crept along, keeping a sharp eye out for the sheriff.

If I remember correctly, we didn’t have that fancy Corvair very long. I rechecked my diary to see if I could find when and why the vehicle vanished, but no such event was worthy of an entry. If my sister was still with us, she could have given me chapter and verse on every detail regarding that car. Jude had an amazing memory and a phenomenal eye for detail. She passed away a year ago and although her gift of gab often drove me crazy, she was a trivia encyclopedia. As it is, the Corvair experiment is dependent upon my pencil scribbles and a story I wrote years ago.

Two lines read like this: “I run my hands along the Corvair’s body and for the first time ever, I’m not afraid of getting cut on rust. The car drives like a team of fresh horses pulling together.”

Nader might have been right about safety, but he didn’t know a thing about a kid’s delight in a new car.            

       

Pulling an "Uncle Francis"

In the autumn of 1971, my husband and I moved back to Michigan from Colorado. While our real estate agent searched for a home we could afford, our lodging was the upper flat in a brick two-family home on Marlowe Street in Detroit. Aunt Marie and Uncle Francis rented the lower apartment. I was happy to be back in Michigan, and my aunt and uncle were happy to help finance our down payment. Everything went smoothly until one Sunday in December. What happened that morning has come to be known as “pulling an Uncle Francis.”

My uncle was a rather spoiled fellow known to the family as an uppity Boston Irishman. His roots were probably much the same as ours, but he envisioned himself as a dandy. Aunt Marie doted on him. In His wisdom, God did not bless them with children. My uncle’s nerves would never have survived the commotion offspring often bring. Unlike Dad who was apt to see the humorous side of things, Uncle Francis was more or less slave to his quick temper. Being in a snit came as naturally to him as breathing.

           

Anyway, for some unknown reason the paperboy failed to deliver the Sunday News to my uncle. Chuck and I popped in for our weekend Irish coffee and visit prior to going for a walk around the neighborhood. Uncle Francis requested a newspaper, and we promised to bring him one. What we didn’t realize was our commitment to the task involved a time limit. As we walked and laughed and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at a restaurant on Grand River, Uncle Francis waited.

           

He watched the hands of his wristwatch crawl around the numbers. The longer he waited and watched, the more upset he became. Unknown to us, with each passing minute his anger increased until he was ready to explode. Chuck and I didn’t mean to upset the apple cart. We were simply a young couple out for our Sunday walk and a nice breakfast.

           

Eventually, we purchased a paper and headed home. By this time, smoke was billowing from uncle’s ears. Aunt Marie met us at the door and whisked away the newspaper. She appeared frantic. When we inquired if there was anything we could do to help, she told us we could vanish. Later that day she explained Uncle Francis had expected us to return with the paper, pronto. It never occurred to him we would be gone two hours. It never occurred to us to return in five minutes.

           

So, “pulling an Uncle Francis” means we lose patience if our request is not immediately satisfied. Feel free to use this expression as circumstances warrant.      

           

The Whirl of Winter Flies

I was settled in bed the other night, all set to read another chapter in Maeve Binchy’s “The Lilac Bus” when I heard the whirl of a winter fly. You know what I mean. As the weather warms, those half-dead flies hidden throughout the house start to surface. The one trying my patience was spinning around on its back on the ledge beneath my bedroom window. I threw off the covers, grabbed a Puffs, and put the creature out of its misery.

As I returned to my book, it wasn’t long before another fly decided to interrupt my reading. This fly, I’ll call him George, was alert enough to know better than to land on his back. He was walking around the perimeter of the lamp above my head. Once again, I put down my book, reached for a tissue, and attempted to terminate the fellow, but George outsmarted me.

He flew to the ceiling light and took up lodging in the glass shade. Well, I thought, I might as well leave him alone. I’m not going to stand on the bed, hit my head on the low ceiling, and most likely break the shade as I reach for George. He wasn’t making any noise so I found my place and continued reading.

Naturally, I fell asleep. When I was a kid, I used to marvel that Gram always fell asleep while reading. The book or magazine she was enjoying ended up covering her face, and I wondered why she didn’t awaken. Now I understand. There’s something about growing old and falling asleep while reading that puts us in a deep trance. It takes more than a book across our nose to awaken us. It takes the humming of a fly.

George had left the safety of his hiding place and decided to walk on my glasses, a fatal mistake on his part. With great care and a minimum amount of movement, I caught him in my hand. If you’ve ever held a fly you know it’s not a pleasant sensation. I quickly deposited him in a tissue and washed my hands.

By this time sleep had left me, as had my interest in Maeve’s story. I put some crackers in a bowl and turned on Netflix. It was 11:30 p.m. I found a rather dull documentary and munched on Spicy Buffalo Wheat Thins until I gave myself heartburn. Then I took a Prilosec and turned off the television. As soon as my bedroom was dark and quiet and I was ready for sleep, I heard the whirl of another winter fly attempting to upright itself.

I knew the night was going to be a long and sleepless one.                

              

Shopping Carts Gone Wild

Do you ever get the feeling you’re out of step with modern life? I try to fit in but I can’t seem to get the hang of it. Some folks my age probably slid into the 21^st century without a second thought. They’re the lucky ones. Some of us oldsters have a hard time adjusting to the current way where basic etiquette rules are ignored. I’ll give you an example.

Before Flash left for his final season on the Great Lakes freighter, Joseph L. Block, he gave me his cold. I told him to keep it, but he insisted on sharing, so for eight days I was trailer bound. Last week I felt good enough to drive to town. Naturally, I stopped at Walmart, and that’s where I found shopping carts gone wild. Some were facing each other as if preparing for a duel. Others had formed random circles, blocking parking places. Most were scattered helter-skelter, and a few had toppled from the wind.

The majority of carts were inches from their corral.

It mystifies me why shoppers empty their cart and leave it standing instead of corralling it. As I age, I’m becoming more like Mom every day, and I heard her say, “Are people too lazy or just too stupid to push the carts where they belong?” Well, maybe I’m stretching things a bit. I don’t recall if it was Mom’s voice or my own I heard.

Perhaps I was perturbed because Flash’s cold was still lingering or maybe I was simply out of patience. Either way, if there’s one thing that bugs me it’s shopping carts blocking parking spots. It only takes a minute for a person to walk a few more steps and leave the cart where it belongs. If they’re in one place, I imagine retrieval is much easier for the fellows who round them up. Shopper ignorance or laziness forces employees to chase after carts as if they were a herd of delinquent cattle.

Shopping can be fatiguing and financially draining so it’s understandable why some folks lack the energy to take another step. My solution is simple. Walmart should consider hiring college students to act as Certified Cart Pushers. These agile youngsters would assist tired shoppers who don’t have the strength to push their cart to their vehicle, let alone continue walking to the cart’s designated return. Think of the aggravation this would eliminate for people like me.

Everyone would win. Employment opportunities for the young would increase. Student loans would decease. Lazy folks would remain unnoticed. Rude behavior would disappear. And never again would I have to channel Mom when I couldn’t find a parking place because of shopping carts gone wild.

             

               

The Bliss of Spring Cleaning

If there’s one thing I love it’s a clean house, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s house cleaning. It’s an endless, thankless task. It’s never done. As soon as the breakfast dishes are washed and put away, it’s time to prepare lunch, and the process begins all over again. We sweep the floor at 8:00 a.m. and by bedtime it’s ready for another swipe with the broom. How does this happen?

           

I live alone unless you count the cat, Little T. If I have a difficult time keeping my trailer neat and tidy, how do women manage with kids, dogs, and a husband? Do they give up, admit defeat, and wade through the wreckage? I’ve always been a neat freak, but as I rapidly head towards 70, I’m beginning to see the merit of throwing in the towel.

           

Keeping a house clean is impossible. As my kitchen table grows stuff, so does everything else. Maybe I just have too many belongings. Do I really need 45 cookbooks, eight throw pillows on the couch, four ottomans in the living room, nine lamps, and five magazine racks? Yes, of course, I do. Without the comfort of my familiar things, I might as well live in a tent.

You know what I mean. We grow accustomed to the piles of old newspapers and kids’ toys scattered throughout the house. Pets sometimes stain the carpet, leave a trail of food behind them, and turn a table leg into a scratching post. We overlook these irritations because we love Spot and Ms. Kitty and wouldn’t dream of parting with them. Getting rid of a spouse is one thing. Banishing an animal is entirely another.

Every spring and fall I do what women of generations before me did. I give the place a thorough cleaning. I dust and polish and spray and vacuum until everything sparkles. I wash the furniture shrouds where Little T left enough cat hair to knit a sweater. The tub gets a good going over until it looks like new. Dust is removed from cloudy mirrors. Uncarpeted floors feel the squirt of Holloway House’s Quick Cleaner and Quick Shine, the best floor care products on the market. The dust mop discovers miscellaneous items from underneath the beds. Even the leaves of my philodendron are rubbed free of grime.     

When I’m finished, I congratulate myself on a job well done. There’s only one problem. I know perfectly well within a few days dust will descend, cat hair will float from chair to chair, and tamarack needles will litter my shiny kitchen floor.

There’s no way around it. Living is a fairly messy business.

                         

           

Welcome to the Red Hats

An old friend from my Lincoln Park days is a member of the Red Hat Society (RHS). Shirley posts pictures on Facebook of herself and friends dining at restaurants and wearing hats that range from the beautiful to the absurd. Red Hats “are a global society that connects, supports, and encourages women in their pursuit of fun, friendship, freedom, fulfillment, and fitness while supporting members to get the most out of life.” Or so says their mission statement.

Membership in the RHS was originally restricted to gals who had reached the half-century mark, but over the years the rules relaxed. Women younger than 50 who want to participate in the group are now invited to join, but they’re required to wear pink hats as a symbol of their youth.

Giving a nod to Jenny Joseph’s poem “Warning”, aka, “When I am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple,” Red Hat ladies do just that. They wear purple outfits and red hats and wave at people who think they’re just a wee bit left of center. Many groups do more than dine and visit. They get involved in all sorts of community activities where they contribute their time and expertise to various causes.

           

I called the 800 number listed on their website and inquired if there was a Red Hat Society in our area. There are two across the border in Ontario, but both are closed to new members. Maybe it’s time someone started a RHS in the Soo. I don’t have time for such an endeavor, but if anyone is interested in pursuing this, go ahead. If Sonja Norris were still with us, she’d be first in line to organize a Red Hat Revolution. Friends of Sonja will remember her remarkable get-ups that often left us speechless. What a delightful tribute the Red Hat Society would be to her memory.

There’s a RHS magnet proclaiming “Stop Acting Your Age.” It’s a pseudo edict to us oldsters to forget the number of years we’ve been weathering life’s storms, and enjoy the time we have left. It’s an invitation to thumb our nose at all the heartaches and disappointments living has inflicted on us.

It’s a call to slap on a red hat, down a Manhattan at Maloney’s, and cheer old age. All things considered, it’s a pretty good call.  

Remembering the Departed

With all the fuss given to an extra shopping day at Walmart, the true meaning of Memorial Day may have changed over the years. Today folks are eager to fire up the grill and invite family and friends to a backyard bar-b-que. It’s another three day holiday for workers, filled with fun and frivolity. A time to enjoy good company and lots of sunshine after a long, harsh winter.

But before the merriment begins, some families take time to honor their departed loved ones by placing flowers or a flag at the gravesites. Remembering the deceased is a nice tradition, but in our busy virtual world, it’s often difficult to maintain family rituals. This is especially true as older generations pass away, taking long established customs with them.    

Losing loved ones to natural causes or unexpected accidents is hard enough, but enduring the loss due to war must be nearly impossible. It’s not just Flanders Field in Belgium or the many other American cemeteries throughout various continents that carry the pall of death, it’s all those unknown sites where combat victims fell. I was taught never to walk on a grave, but I wonder how many unmarked resting places people have tread upon without realizing where they were stepping. 

Although soldiers who lie beneath the soil of distant countries and sailors lost during battles at sea may not have a local tombstone, they have a much more precious place than beneath cold granite or icy water. Their memories have safe haven in the hearts of the folks who loved them especially if they are listed as MIAs or POWs. 

On this Memorial Day, may God bless our volunteer military and keep them from harm’s way. And may those who sacrificed their lives in the service of their country find a peaceful home in heaven. 

What's Life Without A Laugh

Sometimes you get the giggles when you should be serious. You know what I mean. You notice something comical during a solemn ceremony. I remember the first time I laughed in church. Although we always went to St. Francis Xavier in Brimley, some summer Sundays Dad drove us to St. Joseph’s in Rudyard. I was in my teens and often saw the funny side of things at the wrong time.

After communion it was customary to kneel in our pew until the host melted on our tongue. The people in front of us had flipped up their kneeling pad. When they returned from communion, they forgot the pad was up not down. As they knelt, they fell to the floor like dominoes. No one was harmed, but the mishap struck us as funny. Mom tried to look serious as she grinned and shook her head at me. Dad pretended to hide his laugh in a cough which only made our feeble attempt at proper decorum all the more hilarious.

Then there was the time I attended the wake of an elderly relative. I didn’t know him when he was alive and his passing didn’t affect me one way or the other. When I knelt to pay my respects, I noticed Cousin Leroy was wearing glasses which created in me an immediate urge to chuckle. 

I wasn’t being rude, but I saw the absurdity in his final sendoff. Why in this world or the next would he need glasses? It made no sense, but I realized the poor fellow had no say in the matter. I’ve left strict instructions my spectacles are not to follow me to the undertaker’s.

Laughing in the face of somber or embarrassing situations is one way of dealing with them. If we’re nervous or afraid, laughter is as good a release as any and better than some. It’s the old “Whistle a Happy Tune” syndrome and no one will suspect your discomfort. The Irish are a great lot for finding humor in the midst of tragedy. Other than turning to drink, how else could we survive our troubles?

Flash and I have laughed our way through many an argument. He’s as Irish as I am. We balance our tempers and melancholy with humor or we never would have endured 15 minutes let alone 15 years. Often folks who appear the most carefree are just putting on a show. There’s no point in being a sad sack or a wet blanket. Nobody’s interested in someone else’s tale of woe because everybody has their own.

 When you can’t do anything about your disappointing plight, dig deep and find the humor in it. It’s there somewhere.