Sounds of Distant Memories

When we think about which of our senses bring back memories of our youth, we generally think of smells or tastes. That’s probably because much of our early years are spent in the kitchens and dining rooms of the homes we grew up in. Of course, our sense of sight also comes to mind, especially when we’re looking at photo albums (paper or electronic).

I particularly remember the smell of lilacs and honeysuckle, which grew behind our house. My bedroom window faced our backyard and it was almost always open on summer nights. And of course, I think of the smell of a freshly cut evergreen when we brought the Christmas tree into the house. That’s what I miss most now that I’ve done the previously unthinkable and gone artificial. Just one more capitulation brought about by an aging body.

When we reflect on our past, most of us rarely think of the sounds of distant memories. But they can be just as powerful as sights and smells and tastes. When I was watering the plants on our deck this summer, a sound caught my attention. We had several small Amercian flags attached to the posts on the deck railings. What I heard was the flags gently snapping in the breeze. A wave of nostalgia washed over me. It took a minute to understand what was happening.

I was remembering warm summer days on the lake where I grew up. On weekends, I’d take my board boat out to a quiet area along the rocky shore, drop the sail and lie in the sun. The wind on the lake was highly changeable. On the trip to my chosen spot, it often shifted direction with little warning, setting the sail to flapping with a sound much like the flags were making. That small snippet of sound brought back such wonderful memories, ones that seldom bubble up to the surface. Memories of other boats I owned, other places I sailed years ago.

We also have a wind chime out on the deck. The tinkling sound it makes is soothing. It, too, brings back memories, though I’m still trying to figure out where they are taking me. I know it’s somewhere I loved to be. Perhaps it was the first house I owned with my former significant other. My sister gave us a Woodstock chime when we moved in. After we went our separate ways and I had a house on my own, I hung wind chimes as a welcoming gesture to myself. I often give these as house-warming or wedding presents to friends. It’s impossible to feel stressed when you hear a wind chime.

Some sounds send a slight chill up my spine, a frisson of pleasure remembered. One in particular that does that is the whining sound of motorcycle gears shifting in the distance. Then the sound of the machine accelerating, heading farther away from me. It reminds me of summer nights during my college years. Several young men I dated had bikes. I’d sit behind them, arms around their chests, as we headed off on some adventure. That sound is somehow melancholy, especially at night. I think it’s because it’s what I’d hear after the adventure was over, when the young man was heading home. These days I’m sad because I’m not on the back of the bike that I’m hearing.

Some sounds trigger bittersweet memories. That happens when I hear metal scraping on asphalt. My best friend died of lung cancer when she was just sixty. She’d never smoked a day in her life. She’s been gone eleven years now and I still cry when I think about our lost friendship. We met when I lived in New Jersey and we both worked at a large corporation in Manhattan. For a short period of time before she moved back to Rhode Island where her husband lived, she stayed with me.

The first week she was there, I was startled one night by sound of a metal trash barrel being dragged from behind the house, down the driveway to the street. It turned out that in Rhode Island, folks put their barrels on the curb on trash day. Not so where I lived in New Jersey; the men came around the house to get them. We were both laughing as we dragged those cans back up the driveway, making that distinctive sound again. Often when I hear that now, memories of my funny, smart and loyal friend come back to me. I cry a little; I smile a lot. And I’m grateful for all those sounds of distant memories.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

"Fishing" for Seniors

Many of you will have heard of “catfishing.” It’s the scam used on social media sites wherein a person pretends to be someone totally different from who they really are in an effort to get personal information from strangers. I recently read about “dogfishing.” That’s a ploy that singles use as a way to meet other singles. They borrow a cute dog from someone and take it to a public place, hoping to catch the attention of someone who might not otherwise notice them.

The thinking is that cute dogs are irresistible, making their owners more attractive. Of course, this is a bait-and-switch game, since the person who borrowed Pepper doesn’t have a dog of his or her own. But the hope is that by the time the ruse is exposed, a legitimate connection will have been made. This seems harmless enough, so I decided to adapt the concept especially for single seniors.

My husband and I live on a golf course, but we don’t play. It turns out many of our neighbors don’t either and some of them are single. This gave me an idea. If you happen to be similarly situated, don’t let this prevent you from attracting the attention of a desirable mate. Just go “golffishing.” Borrow a bag and some clubs from a friend or neighbor. Position yourself near the golf cart rental station and wait for a potential mate to strike up a conversation. You might have to tip one of the staff if you plan to be there awhile, but it will be worth it.

“Golffishing” not your game? Here’s an option anyone can use: “cheffishing.” Even if all you can do is boil water, you can work this one to your advantage. Invite a group of single seniors to a brunch to sample your favorite appetizers. Order them from one of those on-line delivery services. Be sure to toss the food containers into your trash bins in the garage before anyone arrives. Scatter some appropriate recipe cards around your kitchen counter. The saying is that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Truth is: women are just as taken by a man who can cook, especially if he cleans up after himself. By the time anyone figures out that you ordered in, you’ll likely have found some other common ground to mitigate your deception.

Let’s work with a quality many folks are drawn to: physical fitness. For this one, invest in some famous label exercise gear. Under Armour is popular now. Get yourself a senior membership at a local workout place, preferably not the Y. Suit up and go “gymfishing.” This is another ploy that will work equally for both sexes. Someone who is an exercise fanatic normally won’t look twice at a person who is out of shape. And let’s face it, most seniors are. But if you seem like you’re serious about toning up, it’s a whole other ballgame. Nothing says serious better than  $150 worth of spandex and a pricey gym membership.

If physical fitness isn’t in your wheelhouse, how about reading? Even faux intellectuals can pull this one off. Joining a book club may seem obvious, but unless you’re a widower, it’s not a good idea. First, you’d have to actually read the selected book if you expect to last more than one session. Second, if you’re female, you’ll be in competition with several other women. Many of them will be vying for the attention of the scarce men to be found at these gatherings. The best places for bookfishing are your local library or a quiet park bench. Wear your reading glasses.

Of course, the ultimate come-on for most seniors is the doting grandparent. Women in particular find that irresistible. If you have grandchildren of your own, borrow them for this gambit even if they drive you crazy. Don’t have your own? Ask around your neighborhood. There’s bound to be a harried mom somewhere who’ll be grateful to have you watch Junior for a few hours. The trick with “grandfishing” is to find the right venue to settle into with your charge. Indoor malls where seniors go to walk in small groups is a good place to start. With just one little fellow in tow, you’ll have the chance to check out several potential matches.

These are just a few suggestions to get you started. Pay attention to what seems to interest the singles in your community and you’ll get other “fishing” ideas that could work for you. Of course, there’s always that universal lure—“dogfishing.” Why not borrow a dog from the local shelter? At our age there’s no shame in what we do for love. You might even decide to adopt for real.

Copyright 2019 Elaine M. Decker

Redacted Revisionist Obituary

My last blog, revisionist obituaries, was inspired by something I read about a former colleague. It described his wife as the love of his life and him as a devoted father and grandfather. Definitely not the man I remember, and I wrote: “Talk about a revisionist obituary.” I then proceeded to write my own, well in advance, I hope. The post received many comments, quite a few of which seemed to think my essay was an accurate description of me. In the spirit of full disclosure, here is the redacted version of my revisionist obituary.

Throughout her life, as she clawed her way up the corporate ladder in a male-dominated profession, Elaine was anything but easy-going and non-confrontational. She was often described as having brass ones. She was known for her quick wit and sense of humor, which frequently sank into the gutter. Her lengthy work hours and long commute gave her an excuse for not keeping a tidy home, though she did clean twice a year or whenever she was expecting company.

She didn’t even try to follow in her mother’s footsteps as an outstanding baker. As for her cooking—she had a handful of meals that were generally edible. But she did a great job with her mother’s recipe for Italian meatballs and pasta sauce.

Elaine had an on and off relationship with exercise and had a similar relationship with being trim and fit. She would probably have needed to wear Omar-the-tentmaker muumuus were it not for her good genes, growing up with lots of outdoor activities, and a short but intense few years as a fencer during high school. The ship of her seven-minute mile sailed when she was in her forties, and she huffed and puffed her way through a twenty-minute mile from her sixties onward.

Her skill level in the distaff arts was indeed unsurpassed. Sewing, knitting, crocheting. You name it, she did it well. It is true that she won first prize in Colgate Palmolive’s Holiday Doll Pageant thirteen years in a row for outfits she designed and made for dolls going to disadvantaged children. In her later years, however, she failed miserably in learning to use a glue gun. Her crafts were full of those telltale spider-web strings, a sure giveaway that she didn’t let go of the trigger quickly enough.

Her community service was hit or miss, since she never had much patience for politics, but she was a dedicated supporter of animal rescue groups. A refrigerator magnet reading “Patron Saint of Senior Cats” would be a nice token of remembrance, if anyone wants to get one made.

Elaine had several long-term relationships in her life. In her later years, she learned that a few (not the ‘many’ of her revisionist obituary) men secretly thought of her as the love of their life. Women called her a true and faithful friend. All would tell you (with a straight face) that they never exchanged a mean word or had a single heated argument in all their years together. Then they’d laugh until tears rolled down their cheeks.

Though she never had any children of her own, Elaine was beloved by her nieces and nephew and grandnieces and grandnephew. “Aunt E” could always be counted on to make everyone laugh. Their memories of good times with her, along with the hundreds of books and essays she published, will guarantee that she will not be forgotten any time soon.

Actually, I think this last paragraph was fine as written. At least I hope so.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

Revisionist Obituaries

Recently I came across the obituary of a former colleague. We’d worked together decades ago at a large corporation. Our respective positions occasionally found us traveling together to various U.S. locations. On more than one of these trips, the colleague, a married man, tried to hit on me. He was known to be a prolific skirt chaser, so I wasn’t surprised. What did surprise me, however, was what I read in his obituary. “He is survived by his wife of 53 years, Anna, who was the love of his life.”

“Really?” I thought. He was also described as a devoted father and grandfather. That didn’t exactly track with what I remembered him telling me over drinks at more than one hotel bar. He often mentioned that he was missing yet another birthday party. He joked that his travel schedule gave him an excuse to avoid attending his kids’ sports events. Talk about a revisionist obituary.

I’m sure his family wasn’t the first to sanitize the facts of their deceased loved one’s life. I doubt that my relatives would do the same for me. It’s not that they don’t love me or that they wouldn’t want to put in the effort. It just would never occur to them that I might want a few of my questionable choices over the years to be revisioned. I’ve decided that the best way to handle this is to provide some choice paragraphs for them to keep on hand for my own obituary. So, here goes.

Throughout her life, even as she clawed her way up the corporate ladder in a male-dominated profession, Elaine remained easy-going and non-confrontational. She was known for her quick wit and sense of humor, which never sank into the gutter. Despite her lengthy work hours and long commute, she somehow managed to keep a tidy home.

Although it took decades for her to manage it, she eventually followed in her mother’s footsteps and became an outstanding baker. What can we say about her cooking? Well, she had a handful of go-to meals that were several notches above just being edible. At the time of her passing, well into her 100’s, she was working on a variation of her signature recipe for Italian meatballs.

Elaine had an on and off relationship with exercise, but was surprisingly trim and fit, given her build. She credited this to good genes, growing up with lots of outdoor activities, and a short but intense few years as a fencer during high school. Though she rarely shared this factoid, she could still do a seven-minute mile when she was in her eighties. Ever considerate of her slower senior neighbors, however, she chose not to run when anyone was with her.

Her skill level in the distaff arts was unsurpassed. Sewing, knitting, crocheting. You name it, she did it well. She won first prize in Colgate Palmolive’s Holiday Doll Pageant thirteen years in a row for outfits she designed and made for dolls going to disadvantaged children. In her later years, she became an expert in the use of the glue gun to create unique crafts that she gifted to appreciative friends or donated to local charity bazaars.

Her community service was so impressive that she was named “Woman of the Year” a dozen times by various organizations throughout the Northeast. Unfortunately, any evidence and details of these awards did not survive her last few household moves. We assume that many involved animal rescue groups. A magnet on her refrigerator read “Patron Saint of Senior Cats.”

Elaine had several long-term relationships in her life. Many men thought of her as the love of their life, even though she probably didn’t know it. Women called her a true and faithful friend. All insisted they never exchanged a mean word or had a single heated argument in all the years they spent together.

Though she never had any children of her own, Elaine was beloved by her nieces and nephew and grandnieces and grandnephew. “Aunt E” could always be counted on to make everyone laugh. Their memories of good times with her, along with the hundreds of books and essays she published, will guarantee that she will not be forgotten any time soon.

Feel free to use my revisionist obituary as a template for your own. You’ll be gone when it gets distributed, so go for greatness. Lord knows, I just did.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

Final Arrangements—New Options

The older we get, the more we hear about deaths in our circle of friends. For many of us, that leads to thinking about our own final arrangements. Given the cost of funerals and the overcrowding of cemeteries, more of us are opting for cremation. That still leaves open the question of exactly how those we leave behind will dispose of our ashes.

That issue is often complicated by local laws, increasing pressure from environmentalists for ‘green’ burials, and logistics. For starters, you have to find someone who loves you enough (or owes you enough favors) to deal with it. Not everyone has an Aunt Edna who is willing to have a decorative urn with you in it on her mantel. And you can’t just dump cremains into a sand trap. If you’re considering cremation, you should decide in advance on the disposition of your ashes.

I’ve been tuned in to new ideas on this subject for years. I even have a file on it. A recent N. Y. Times article presented the newest offering in final arrangements: composting. That’s right. Composting. Washington is the first state to legalize the environmentally friendly “aboveground decomposition” process. Check out recompose.life. Once you’ve been turned into compost, you can be spread in a garden or wooded area to promote new life. If composting doesn’t turn you on, stick with cremation and look into companies that will scatter your ashes in peaceful, wooded areas.

The recent movie Poms is a chick-flick about senior women in a retirement community who start a cheerleading club. The instigator is a newcomer who has terminal cancer. One night she sees a commercial about having your ashes shot into the atmosphere as part of a fireworks display. “What a glorious idea!” thought I, so I Googled fireworks cremains.

HeavenlyStarsFireworks.com claims to be the market leader in the incorporation of ashes into fireworks. Unfortunately, their market is the United Kingdom. In the U.S., I found the GreenlawnFuneralHome.com, headquartered in Missouri. One of their packages is the aptly-named “Go Out with a Bang.”

Moving in the opposite direction, geologically speaking, your cremains could create a coral reef. The Neptune Society has established a 16-acre reef off Miami that’s certified by the Green Burial Council. You can see photos at nmreef.com. EternalReefs.com is a 501c3 option. Their first “Reef Ball” project was near Ft. Lauderdale. They claim to have projects in 70 countries and to have placed more than 70,000 reef balls. I haven’t been able to find out what those other countries are, but maybe this could be your chance to finally spend time in Fiji.

Most of the above options don’t enable loved ones to pay their respects to your remains, in whatever form. Good news! There are choices that let them keep you literally close to their hearts for eternity. Cremation jewelry is big business and teardrop pendants are especially popular. Perfectmemorials.com has more than 5,000 items to choose from, priced from $5 to $2,950. My own suggestion is to have your ashes embedded in Lucite key rings to be handed out at your memorial, sort of like those mementos you get at weddings.

Here are some other ideas to consider. Have your ashes mixed with tattoo ink, but be aware that it would take full body art to use up all of them, even if your portly Uncle Biff is your designated canvas. A British company will press the ashes into a vinyl record of the song of your choosing, giving new meaning to “oldies but goodies.” InTheLightUrns.com will put cremains into an hourglass after your time has run out. I assume they sift out the residual bone chunks before they fill the glass.

Personally, I like the idea of embedding ashes within a whimsical stone-like statue for the yard. I may do that with my cats’ ashes. I already have several decorative critters around our perimeter. No one would be able to tell if one of those were really a cremains container. Plus folks can easily take the statues with them if they move.

As you can see, there are several new options for when we shed this mortal coil. So many choices! One of them is bound to be perfect for you. Best to plan your own final arrangements now. And hope the person you choose to handle them outlives you.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

The Power of the Rule of Three

A GMC ad for its line of SUVs mentions the rule of three, referring to the generally accepted opinion that three of something is inherently pleasing or has special power. Anyone who has used a stager to help prepare a house for sale will be familiar with this. Stagers always want to group setouts in threes. It’s a cardinal rule of real estate, right behind “location, location, location,” which, you’ll note, is always stated three times.

The power of three may have its origins in religion, or maybe the world’s religions picked up on an already-existing rule. Christians have the holy trinity—the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Hindus have Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva (the creator, the preserver and the destroyer). Even some Wiccans hold a tenet known as the Three-fold Law, meaning that the energy a person puts out into the world will be returned to him three times. That holds for negative energy as well as positive, so keep that in mind.

Whatever its source, there are many examples of the rule of three throughout history. Take the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria for example.  The Santa Maria carried most of the crew. The Nina had the food provisions. The Pinta carried all the wine and was said to be the fastest of Columbus’s three ships. It was christened under the motto: vino por celeritas, which I think translates to “Quick! Pour the wine!” OK. I made all this up, but you have to admit it makes sense.

Staying on the subject of Italians, let’s not forget the custom with Sambuca Romana, the anise-flavored liqueur. It’s traditionally served with three coffee beans. Not two; not four; but rather three. That’s the recipe for health, happiness and prosperity. If someone serves it to you any other way, consider it an insult. Or else they’re stunad.

I attended a wedding years ago which was the third one for the groom. I was at a table with several other friends of his. After imbibing a fair amount of wine, one of them joked about the number of the groom’s marriages. Another pointed out the expression: “Never two without three,” meaning the third wedding was to be expected. To which yet another friend said: “That could go for divorces, too.” We all laughed, but some years later there was indeed a third divorce.

My own life bears witness to the rule of three. I’ve published three volumes of my Retirement Sparks blogs (RS, RS Again, RS Redux). Though I’ve occasionally considered putting out a fourth, it never felt like I had enough good material to justify that. Some folks might say I didn’t have enough to publish the first three either, but I prefer to ignore them. Besides, like the Pinta, that ship has sailed.

Another example of the rule of three in my life is my cats. I started with two. Along the way, a third cat—my first boy—adopted our family. Luke was the only one left when we moved to Connecticut. Though I didn’t plan to start another feline family after Luke died, I eventually adopted two senior girls whose original mothers couldn’t keep them when they moved to nursing homes. Eventually, a boy joined the family. I can’t explain how. It just happened. I chalk it up to the power of the rule of three.

Decades ago I drew a cartoon that relates to this. The captions read:

Why does everyone insist that two cats are enough for one family? If my parents had only had two children, I wouldn’t be here today! (I think I just answered my own question…)

My brother and I were born just 350 days apart. I was in my thirties before I got my mother to admit I wasn’t a planned baby. She quickly added: “But once we knew you were coming, we really wanted you.” I’m not so sure about that, though I do believe they eventually got used to having me around. But they didn’t have a choice. This matter was out of their control. The reason I’m here today is the power of the rule of three. Let that sink in for a minute. No matter what your parents told you, if you’re the third of three in your family, it wasn’t a choice. The power of three is stronger than all of us. Embrace it.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

Nicknames I’ve Known and Loved

Two reports in a recent NY Times daily news flash caught my eye because of hilarious nicknames in the headlines. I want to appropriate both of them. I’ve had quite a few affectionate labels applied to me over the years, but I’m ready to add some new ones, ones I’ve selected myself.

The first was a moniker adopted by Priscilla Villarreal, whose colorful posts on Facebook have brought her notoriety. She reports on activity at the Laredo, TX border and calls herself “La Gordiloca,” or “The Crazy Fat Lady”.

My family already thinks of me as The Crazy Cat Lady. My late brother-in-law gave me a sleep shirt years ago with that phrase emblazoned on the front. I still wear it. I’d need to change just one letter to make it match my new nickname. Well, not actually, because the label I really want is La Gordiloca. I’ve been complaining about my weight for years now, and I’ll be the first to admit I’m crazy. Saying this in Spanish would sound sexier.

Moving on to the second item in the Times that day. It had to do with the brilliant pianist in the hit movie Green Book, Dr. Don Shirley. The article by David Hajdu reported on an exchange between two of Dr. Shirley’s friends. They used the initials F. B. in referring to the pianist. It stood for “Funky Butt,” composer Luther Henderson’s nickname for the pianist. Seriously? The article didn’t explain exactly how the term of dubious affection came about. I don’t really care. I want to co-opt it anyway.

I have good reasons to do this. My freshman boyfriend in college called me Bugle Butt. I swear I wasn’t prone to farting, so you can wipe the smirk off your face. That wasn’t the source of the nickname. I weighed about 110 pounds at the time, but I had a lot of junk in the trunk even then. The boyfriend had an unusual talent. He could make sounds like a trumpet just using his lips. I assume that he tried out Trumpet Butt for me first and quickly changed it to the alliterative Bugle Butt.

In my first marriage, I would dance around, singing “la, la-a-a…” and shaking my behind, earning me the pet name Fabulous Fanny, the Famous Flamenco Dancer. My husband even gave me a Steiff mouse dressed as a Spanish señorita for Christmas. Fanny and Bugle Butt don’t have the same allure as the more provocative Funky Butt.

Around the same time, I had a friend I didn’t see often, but we spoke for hours on the phone. Stay with me now. I gave her a white bear that we named Pasha (it somehow looked Russian). It was a companion to my bear, Fanny. When I phoned, I’d identify myself as Fanny Slanders, all set to gossip, and I’d ask how Pasha Galoop was doing.

This brings me around to my very first nickname. My parents called me Suzy Potts. Or at least that’s what I thought it was. Sometime in my twenties I learned what they were really saying. It was tu sei pazzo. In my mother’s southern Italian dialect she pronounced tu like thu. She was saying: “You’re crazy!” That’s my earliest claim to ownership of the “crazy” label.

My mother bestowed other variations of pazzo on me. After I learned what Suzy Potts really meant, my mother migrated to telling me I was pazzo che lupo—(loosely translated as) “what a crazy wolf.” I have no idea why Italians think wolves are crazy, but it works for me. Many Italian jokes using southern dialect feature a man named the Anglicized Pacha Galoop. And that’s how my friend’s bear became Pasha Galoop.

So, now you can see why I’d consider La Gordiloca and Funky Butt a step up in my history of nicknames. Well, Gordiloca anyway. I’m still not sure what makes a butt funky. Until I figure that out, I may just keep that one on hold.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

In Defense of Legacy

The recent college admissions scandal has brought attention to various ways that applicants get preferential treatment. In the scam, wealthy parents paid huge sums to circumvent normal admissions procedures in order to get their children admitted to select universities. They paid to have sports experience faked and SAT answers changed or even to have someone smarter take the tests.

Students who played fairly and were denied admissions were not the only ones affected by this. The negative fallout from the scandal has also cast a shadow over students who were accepted following the rules but now have folks wondering about them. Several subsequent opinion pieces criticized legal ways to get preferential treatment, particularly legacy admissions.

For some, “legacy” seems to have become a four-letter word. They see it as a way to stack the deck and to prime parents for big donations. They wonder why schools have legacy programs to begin with. In fact, it’s not about elitism; non-elite schools have legacy programs, too. The answer is as simple as family unity, “team” loyalty and chest-thumping, button-bursting pride.

My alma mater, Brown University, is one of the schools known for its legacy admissions. I wasn’t one of them and I’m happy to report that Brown was not one of the schools involved in the scandal. I’ve been active in their fundraising and I have some knowledge about how things work there. I’m speaking out in defense of Brown’s legacy program and legacy admissions in general.

The percentage of Brown legacies that get admitted is not as high as many might expect. Unofficially, Bruno accepts them at roughly three times the rate of non-legacies. Unqualified legacies are not admitted. Moreover, not all legacies come from wealthy families. I know several parents who were so angry because of this that they disengaged from Brown completely. On the flip side, I’ve seen alumni families on campus taking multi-generational photos. Their joy was palpable.

My high school had something called Girls’ Sports Night, with two teams, one for each school color. If you had an older sister, you could choose to be on the same color team as she had been. Others were assigned to a color randomly, by lot. The option was a form of legacy favoritism. I, along with many of my classmates, took advantage of this. It helped promote sibling unity, avoiding rivalry. It also kept parents from having to cheer for two teams, or no team.

Legacy college admissions can promote family unity. Consider the news features about professional football brothers (or coaches) on opposing teams. Their family members sit on a different sideline when the teams meet. Or maybe they move from one side of the field to the other at half time. Without legacy programs, the same would be true of hundreds of parents of college athletes around the country.

Earlier I said that legacy is also about pride. Think about how many people have Junior after their name. Or II or III. Why does a father want his son to carry his same name, and his grandson and so on? It’s because of pride in what that family name signifies, the generations of accomplishments. It’s also the expectation to have Junior carry on traditions. Similarly, Jewish parents often name their babies after deceased relatives. It provides continuity. It’s a way to honor those who have passed and preserve their memory. This custom is also a form of legacy, and a touching one, at that.

Legacy is not a dirty word. Neither are pride or loyalty or unity. Scam and fraud, on the other hand, are. Don’t debase legacy admissions by equating them with the unfair practices exposed in the recent college scandal. Those scams were perpetrated in the shadows. Don’t elevate them by conflating them with legacy programs that have openly promoted family unity for generations.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

Savoring Small Pleasures

In preparation for retirement, I jettisoned many possessions. Some were more difficult to part with than others. If I had a do-over on my downsizing, I’d approach it differently. After several years in our condo, I’ve begun to accumulate “stuff” again. I realize this contradicts advice from experts and flies in the face of popular tidying up trends.

As part of my downsizing process, I went through multiple closets of clothes, shelves of books, and every nook and cranny in the kitchen and pantry. My collecting long ago jumped the shark to become hoarding. I managed to downsize my collections by getting rid of them in their totality. I couldn’t pick certain items to keep, because I would feel bad for the ones I would be getting rid of.

Not long after our move, I found myself looking for a particular garment that would have been perfect for a certain occasion (funeral, any one?), only to remember it had been donated. Ditto for some book that I hoped to reference. Then there were those cooking utensils, unused for twenty years of marriage, needed for a recipe Jagdish was concocting in our condo. This was further complicated by the fact that I’m still not sure where I stored things after the move, making me wonder whether an item survived the downsizing.

AARP the Magazine had an article by Suze Orman, the financial guru, wherein she provided seven guidelines for a “sunny” retirement. What caught my eye was number 6: Spend Wisely. Orman recommended setting up two buckets, one for needs and one for wants. Then you use each only for what it’s been set up to do. This presumes you’ve done a proper job of estimating your needs so that bucket is adequate. It also assumes that what you consider to be wants (rather than needs) doesn’t change over time. Good luck with that.

When Marie Kondo gives advice on tidying up, she tells us to get rid of the things that don’t bring us joy. She’s focused on folks long before their golden years. With my great purge well in my rear view, I realize that what warmed my heart when I was still working was sometimes different from what gives me pleasure in retirement.

This is partly because I now have time available for what used to be considered frivolous activities—wasted time back then. I’ve learned to savor small pleasures. Not simple pleasures—small pleasures. Little things that wouldn’t even have been on my radar when I was working. I’m discovering classic TV series like Monk that I never watched in their prime. I’m reading more. Many days I take afternoon naps without feeling guilty.

Here’s a shocker. I’ve become a fan of the Dollar Tree. I used to joke about people who shopped there. Now my husband and I are in one a few times each month. I discovered that they sell jigsaw puzzles, a hobby I enjoyed in my preteen years. At first, I bought them as stocking stuffers. Now I do about two puzzles a week myself. A small pleasure with a small price tag.

Then there’s EBay. I didn’t appreciate the appeal of buying there. I did, however, see it as a good place to sell items that brought me joy when I acquired them years ago but no longer give me even a tiny frisson of pleasure. While I was on the site, I did some searching of items for sale, to get a feeling for prices of things I planned to list. Since I was searching anyway, why not check out some Christmas ornaments?

I started thinking of the time doing this as “window shopping” and I could do it for hours. Eventually I started buying one or two ornaments now and then, but only when the prices were low. After all, I’m retired and on a budget. You can guess where this wound up for a person who has four Christmas trees, including two just for her cats. At first I felt a tad guilty about buying things I didn’t need just because I wanted them. But they made me happy. Opening the little shipping boxes was fun.

Suze Orman and Marie Kondo are wrong. Retirees should start their planning by making ample room in their lives—in their budgets, their homes and their schedules—for buying and doing the non-essential things they want. Small pleasures, not expensive ones. “Wasted” time, not productive tasks. Embracing clutter that is emotionally rewarding. If your retirement planning doesn’t allow for this, rejigger your plan. Expect to die sooner, if that’s what makes it work. At least you’ll go out happy! Don’t deprive yourself of small pleasures. Learn to savor them. They’re what will bring you joy.

Banned Words and Phrases 2019

It’s time once again for my annual list of banned words and phrases. As per the past two years, politics, media and pundits have inspired most of them. Jumping right in…

Let’s start with ‘lock (anybody) up.’ I couldn’t believe I hadn’t banned this yet. I read through my four most recent lists and it’s not on any of them. I should be locked up for allowing this go on for so long, but I’m making amends by putting it in the number one spot on my 2019 list.

Let’s also prohibit ‘impeach’ and ‘impeachment’. I realize it’s tempting to fling those around as the Democrats take control of the House of Representatives. I’m in the camp of those who feel the mention of the “I” word is counter-productive. No matter how odious the language and behavior of our 45^th president have been, for now it’s a long way from likely grounds for impeachment. When the investigation dust has settled (including whatever the new House decides to look into), we can revisit this topic. For now, it just energizes voters who wouldn’t care if 45 shot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue.

In a similar vain—I mean vein (Freudian slip), I have ‘narcissist’ and ‘narcissism’ on this year’s list. No matter how appropriate those words may seem, we must all refrain from using them. Those labels are reserved for licensed psychiatrists and psychotherapists, and only the ones who are professionally treating the person to whom the labels are being affixed. Considering the medical professionals recently in 45’s orbit, I don’t expect that diagnosis to come any time soon.

The previous two banned items protect our leader-in-chief. The next five have been provided by him. You’ll notice that although I’m banning ‘impeach’ and ‘impeachment,’ I haven’t prohibited the use of ‘investigation.’ We’d barely be able to have a conversation in 2019 without access to that word. I am, however, banning two ways that 45 describes the various forays into his potential wrongdoings.

The first of these, words that I’m delighted to put on the lexicographic ash heap, is ‘witch hunt.’ I have no idea how 45 is going to survive the rest of his first term without this phrase, but I’m eager to find out.

A related expression being tossed overboard is ‘fishing expedition’.  Some of those investigating 45 may indeed be on such an expedition. But experienced fishermen are careful to spend their time in waters that are well stocked with big ones.

I’m also putting the kibosh firmly on ‘rogue’ in 2019. No longer will you-know-who be able to refer to Robert Mueller as a ‘rogue prosecutor’. He likewise will have to find another way to describe the Saudis who murdered Jamal Khashoggi. They cannot be described as ‘rogue operators’. Perhaps MBS can provide alternative descriptions; 45 should have Jared find out.

Next I’m taking away ‘we'll see what happens’ and the closely related ‘wait and see.’ To see, or not to see… That is the question. We know from two years of experience that once these words have been uttered, we will almost definitely NOT see what happens; we will instead wait forever to see.

Another phrase favored by 45 that I’m refusing to allow is ‘maybe he did; maybe he didn't.’ On its face, this provides no useful information. It’s definitional when it refers to anyone’s behavior. It puts me in mind of a joke that went around in college. What did the masochist and the sadist say to each other? Masochist: Beat me! Beat me! Sadist: Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t. We can be quite certain that we’ll never find out from 45 whether anyone did or didn’t. It will take investigative powers to tell us that.

I’m also saying goodbye to the latest segue of choice favored by the media or those being interviewed, specifically ‘having said that.’ If we’ve been paying attention, we’ll know he just said that. If we’ve been doing a Sudoku and listening with one ear, we’ll wonder: having said what? and we’ll expect whatever comes next to put the lie to what came before.

The only non-political and non-media-related phrase on this year’s list is ‘no problem’. This seems to be the new catchphrase for young soon-to-be couples on Hallmark romcoms. That means people on the street will be saying it soon, too. Maybe this is just an age thing, but ‘no problem’ sounds phony to me. A real man would say: “Happy to help.” And a woman would say: “Is there anything else I can do?” And they’d each be thinking: “I’d love to do that for someone as (fill in the blank) as you.”

That’s this year’s list. If you find it entertaining, be assured that I’m happy to do that for someone as (fill in the blank) as you.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited