Adventurous Weekend

Two weekends ago I visited the shore to see how the restoration of the beach and boardwalk were coming along. At Point Pleasant Beach, the commercial section of the boardwalk is almost all open and the residential sections are under active reconstruction. Good news! Of course, things may look like they are returning to normal on the outside, but inside many homes there is still much work to be done.

boardwalk above Haven's Beach

view from the ocean toward the boardwalk

Houses along the inlet are still in bad shape

I enjoyed the sunny but crisp day and then went to the brick house to stay overnight. Everything there looked fine--I walked around the house and no leaks or problems.  We had survived the winter intact.

As often happens to me when I'm on my own, I got sucked into the computer and ended up working until almost midnight. I collapsed into bed in a restless sleep. Was it too much spice in my dinner from Spike's takeout? Was it the feeling of being in a strange house with unfamiliar noises of the heat turning on and off? I wrestled with my pillow for a while and then sat up, startled by some noise. I peeked out the blinds because it first sounded like birds chirping. It's 1 AM, my rational self scolded me. Were these jet lagged birds just back from a European vacation?

I sat perfectly still. I strained to hear the chirping again, but this time it sounded like heavy breathing. I poked my head cautiously out into the short hallway which connected the smaller bedroom to the master. The hallway seemed eerily long and threatening. It's a small house, I said to myself, yet it seemed like Jack Nicholson might suddenly pop out from the bathroom, wielding a butcher knife. Get hold of yourself, I reasoned. I heard thumping now and peeked out the windows to see if there was anyone outside. Slowly, I crept down the hallway to the master bedroom and jumped into bed. All quiet. I breathed a sigh of relief. Wow. The imagination is a powerful tool.

...And then all hell broke loose. Thumping, banging into walls, running in circles--there was definitely something in the attic. When the sounds momentarily lulled, the chirping, chattering returned and then, as if a whistle had been blown, the running recommenced. Squirrel olympics? rabid raccoons? These sounds registered decibels above the mere skittering of field mice. I wasted no time and threw on my clothes, started up the car, (remembered to open the garage door), and wheels screeching, shattered the quiet of the streets. It was 1:30 AM.

Surprisingly, the parkway was crowded, but I stuck to the right lane all the way home and let the DWI's streak by me. It was 3 AM when I finally exhaled and arrived home sweet home. I fixed myself a snack and heard familiar snoring from upstairs. The next morning I woke at 8 and found my husband sitting at the breakfast table, just finishing up the Sunday sports section before heading off to work. He was surprised. What are you doing home? I pointed to the note I'd left for him on the counter and my coat and bag on the chair.

Oh--I missed them. 

You probably would have missed it, too, if a van pulled up last night at 3 AM and emptied out the entire first floor. 

I married a man who would have slept through the minor annoyance of a squirrel olympics with no problem.

My trapper arrived on Tuesday. You're not allowed to kill wildlife, so Balance of Nature promised to trap and remove whatever animals you were harboring. I was drawn to the ad for Nuke 'em Pest Control, but I figured, despite the oddly comforting image on their trucks of a mushroom cloud surrounded by dead pestilence, that even they would have to follow state regulations.

My main concern was that the trapper might not be able to find the small holes through which the animals had entered. Was I wrong! Stevie Wonder could have found the three big holes in the roof near the gutters. Walking around the house I had missed them because basically I was looking below the gutters. Step back 10 feet and look up again and you can't believe it. They found fresh evidence of squirrels, older signs of raccoons and a bird's nest to boot- a veritable menagerie. Previously I would have loved this picture which a wisecracking friend sent me. Now it just looks sinister.

How can you not love me?

Easter

Had to force the forsythia to bloom this year because of an early Easter

I always loved Easter. When I was growing up, we would drive down from Upstate New York to my grandmother's house in North Bergen and later in Jersey City. The forsythia were already blooming in New Jersey--showy yellow bushes, even along busy Route 17, which was a shopping mecca even then. We passed signs for towns with exotic names--Ho-ho-kus, Moonachie--on our way across the Meadowlands on Paterson Plank Road, originally a toll road in colonial times with broad wooden planks over the marshy stretches. It was one of my father's favorite routes and allowed him to tell the story of how Secaucus was once dotted with pig farms.

We always arrived on Good Friday evening in time for a dinner of canned Franco American Spaghetti and fish sticks or tuna salad on hard rolls. Saturday we ventured into New York City--my father and brothers and me--while my mother stayed with Grandma and my aunt and went visiting. My father loved the city and had his favorite haunts--the old Barnes and Noble and Scribner's bookstores on lower Fifth avenue, the odd lot stores on Vesey Street, years before the area became the World Trade Center. He always had a must-see exhibit on banking, stamps, coins or equally boring subjects to a young girl.

I was fortunate when my brother reached the age when he could shepherd me around the city on his own. He was probably 16 and I was 10. We went to the Museum of Natural History and I weighed myself on the different scales representing each planet. We didn't have a pen or pencil on us, so my brother had an elaborate system of bent pages in a sightseeing booklet to keep track. When we got back to Jersey City it was a little confusing. Was I 13 pounds on the moon and 189 on Jupiter or vice versa?  We always met my father afterwards and ate at a "nice" restaurant -- one even had fingerbowls which I managed to use correctly without embarrassing my siblings. I was dressed in my Easter finery, a yellow spring coat with cape sleeves and looked lovely until you noticed my black sneakers peering from below. My mother's motto had always been "be comfortable."

Easter Sunday we attended Sacred Heart Church in Jersey City, a beautiful, dark, mystical church with huge columns and small overhanging chandeliers. My uncle sat by himself (why?), while my aunt and grandmother and the rest of us squeezed into 'their' pew.  Dinner was the traditional canned ham with creamed corn and other staples of the 50's and early 60's. I had eaten candy all day long, so the menu was unimportant to me.

As time passed, the Jersey City neighborhood deteriorated and the park around the corner where we had played became off limits. A trip to the local store to get milk became less carefree, as we plotted our course to avoid the people hanging on the street corners, particularly near the corner bar.

Easter Monday was a glorious day. We would pile in the car to go to the shore to visit two sets of cousins--but never together. The early day was spent at one house, after an agonizing wait in the car, while my aunt did the shopping for the party--hotdogs, sauerkraut, cheetos, ice cream. As the sky darkened, we headed to our second cousin's house, a few miles away. As a kid, you don't really question things, but it was odd. My two aunts had a long standing feud which went back to some rivalry over their first borns. Eddie's new shoes or Patty's new dress had not been sufficiently praised. Years passed and life went on around the dispute.

We returned back to Grandma's late Monday night, exhausted and happy. The next day it was back up the Thruway and home, feeling happy and a little lighter knowing that our next trip would be to go "down the shore" for a long, leisurely summer.

Match Puppy: FB seeking companionship and love

During my wonderful week with Kona, my daughter and son-in-law's FB (French Bulldog) , I found my texts to the nervous, vacationing parents had begun to sound like a personal ad on a dog dating site. Yes, believe it or not, there are a number of sites, including MatchPuppy, DateMyPet and PetsDating.

Here's Kona's description:
Svelte, fun loving French Bull Dog may look sad, but she's happy go lucky.

Princess Kona on her sheet covered couch

Enjoys long walks around the neighborhood, especially if there are lots of cars and kids;

eating twigs but not earthworms;

snuggling on the couch;

watching TV especially Golf channel and ESPN (or maybe that's just on a lot in our house);

playing incessantly with a green squeaky ball;

eating peanut butter and treats (venison/sweetpotato);

is afraid of stereo speakers, white safety gates and her reflection in the sliding glass door (that other bad FB);

dislikes going in her crate (I'm in jail!), and mornings when she realizes her parents have abandoned her.

Where is that ball?

Sleeping in the sun

Seeks another FB or similar small dog for chasing down leaves, barking at strange sounds in the night and romping through the neighborhood.

Are we having fun yet?

Kona and Gary

Urinetown

Urinetown was a popular send up of musicals a few years ago. Not really that good, as I recall. But I experienced my own personal Urinetown last week.

A 24 hour urine test is not a big deal at all, compared to the multitude of tests, scans, biopsies and procedures you can have. You simply collect all your urine from a 24 hour period, excluding the first one of the day. Why then did I have so much trouble?

The medical technician presented me with a one gallon orange receptacle, similar to a bottle of Tide. "Maybe I need a bigger one," I joked.  "I can give you two," he quickly responded. Yikes, how much urine can one person produce in a day? It's not a question most people often contemplate, unless you've recently been on a Carnival cruise.

"You can store it outside or on the porch--that way you don't need to refrigerate it," my helpful tech continued. "That's a relief," I said. Not that you'd mix up the orange jug with your orange juice, but it's preferable not to have close proximity.

Deferring to the female anatomy, my tech included a hard plastic urine cup. I put that in the upstairs bath and set aside a softer plastic cup in the downstairs bath. The orange container rested in my mud room. All set for the next morning.

I soon learned the advantage of the official hard plastic urine cup, when I squeezed the softer one and was sprayed with ...yes. Enough said.  I got better during the day with a well organized system of transferring urine to gallon jug from various bathrooms.

When Gary got home from work, I said, "Hold on. I just have to go to the bathroom." I quickly stripped down to my underwear and disappeared into the powder room.
"What??"
I explained the splash problem and noted that I had already generated some extra laundry, so this was my new system.
"Not familiar with that as a problem," Gary replied.

Far from filling the bottle, I registered a mere two inches at the bottom of the jug. Poor production, I thought. How weak. I momentarily considered watering it down. I didn't want to make an embarrassing showing--not that it was a contest. I did have to make up for the spillage factor. Finally decided to stay the course, as Gary raised the spector of kidney biopsies or further tests to explain strange results.

'Should I just dump this then and start a new 24 hour period?" There was some discussion involving the words--obsessive behavior, and latent potty training trauma--so i wisely concluded to drop off the jug and move on.  My cute, young med tech was not there when I delivered my specimen, so I didn't share any experiences with the stone faced woman who replaced him. Perhaps best all around.

Got my results and here's the best part. I get to do it again next month!

Where is your spouse?

Hate to joke about a serious crime story like the fall of Olympic star Oscar Pistorius and the death of his beautiful girlfriend, Reeva Steenkamp. Pistorius' bizarre description of the events that evening made no sense--how dark does a room have to be before you realize someone is not in the bed? Wouldn't you check with your loved one, if you heard a noise from an intruder? Wouldn't you ask who was in the bathroom before pumping three shots through the door? Absurd.

Then, last week we had a similar experience (without the gun).

Gary got home around 4:00 one afternoon, just as I was going out for my walk. He decided to take a "chair nap" in the family room, since he had an evening dinner meeting to attend. I was out for over an hour, relishing my new-found energy and raising the bar considerably from my daily walk to the mailbox. I puttered around the yard, picking up detritus, previously hidden by the snow, and then ambled down the street, crossed the little bridge over the creek and entered the park and municipal ball fields.

By the time I returned an hour later, it was getting dark. I tiptoed through the darkened family room, surprised that Gary still slumbered. I went to the living room to check my emails on my computer; then into the kitchen to round up some food. I thought I'd better wake up Gary for his meeting. I flipped on the lights.

No Gary on the couch.
I yelled upstairs to the bedroom.
No Gary upstairs.
I checked the garage for his car.
No car.

I can imagine what a police officer would say if Gary were suddenly a missing person:
So you came back from your walk and how did you get into the house?
I walked through the open garage door.

And which garage door did you walk through?
Well...the one for my car...I think.

And was your husband's car still in the garage?
Well....I thought so.

And when you walked through the family room, you saw him on the couch?
Well....I thought so

It was dusk, not midnight. Your husband is not a small man. Did you see him or not?
Well...I thought so.

I understand your husband is a noisy sleeper. Did you hear him snoring, breathing loudly or making annoying guttural sounds?
Well...I passed through quickly.

And at what time did you go into the kitchen?
Well...maybe 5:30.

I see. We checked your computer and you sent an email at 5:14. Where do you think your husband was between 5:14 and 5:30? 
Well....maybe he went upstairs to change and then left the house without me noticing.

And isn't the living room right next to the stairway to the second floor?
Well...yes.

So how could you have not heard him?
Well...he may have just awoken and gone directly to the car, realizing he was late.

But you heard no noise.
Well....not that I recall. On second thought, maybe he said his meeting was at 5:00. Then he would have already been gone.

But your statement says you saw him in the family room sleeping?
Well...maybe that was a different day after all.

You can't remember what happens from one day to the next?
Well....

Luckily for me, Gary was not a missing persons case and I was not under suspicion for any felony charges--maybe just the crime of not noticing a spouse, a practice I'm betting is fairly common. He comes, he goes. I have to start noticing!

What a difference a day makes!

The week started out badly for me. I woke up Monday morning and couldn't put any weight on my left foot. Did I ninja-kick the wall during the night? Trip on my way to a midnight run to the fridge and not remember it? Fight off aliens who tried to beam me up?

It was puzzling. I was not happy.

It's amazing how hard it is to do things when your left leg is useless and everything becomes an effort. I bottomed down the stairs to the kitchen, sat down to breakfast and realized I forgot to bring my coffee over to the table. Where were my raisins?--still in that cabinet that was so far away. I was exhausted by the time I finished eating and then thought of all the things I had left upstairs--my favorite foot cream, my book, my chapstick, my comfy socks. I would just have to do without.

I sat down to my computer and the rest of the day went pretty well, since that's how I usually spend it anyway. Meals and bathroom trips were a trial, but Gary was helpful when he got home.

The next day was more of the same-crawled to the bathroom at night, since I didn't want to deal with the cane and felt sorry for myself that I would probably just be this way the rest of my life. Ponderings at 2 AM tend to be melodramatic.

By Wednesday morning, I was actually feeling better, could put some weight down on the foot and limp around without a cane. Problem was I had the orthopedist scheduled at 4pm. Should I cancel now? Best to get the xray, I thought, but I was actually embarrassed to be feeling so much better. I decided to still use the cane and, like one of those bad comedy sketches, I limped into the office, sometimes favoring the wrong foot. To be honest, I don't think any of the staff really cared. I was one of many "add ins" at the end of the day, so they had one eye on the clock.

Good news is the xray was fine. I was diagnosed as having an "overuse injury", due to going to a museum on Sunday, walking and standing more than I usually do. That's overuse? Pathetic. I'd feel better if I could at least attribute it to a 10 mile run or a strenuous hike. I guess I need to push past my current exercise regimen of walking to the mailbox every day.

I was so excited today on my new found mobility that I've been up and down stairs at least a dozen times. "Look at me," I want to shout. I can do anything! (except maybe get out of my pjs before noon)

Valentine's Day

I love this Valentine card/fan that my grandfather sent to my grandmother when they were "courting."

To my Heart's Elect. Sweetheart think of me.

What the bee is to the floweret,
When he looks for honey-dew,
Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.

What the bank with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.
                                Moore

With love and devotion. My heart's gift.


I googled the poem and found out it was written by Thomas Moore, the Irish Catholic son of a Dublin grocer, and published in Irish Melodies between 1807 and 1834 with accompanying music.

According to allpoetry.com:  Moore, despite his humble background, "became the fashionable versifier of Regency England. His Irish Melodies ... were an immense success, and for many years his wit, charm, liberalism, and singing voice made him a brilliant figure in literary and social circles, especially among the aristocratic Whig reformers. The same qualities made him one of Byron's closest friends. He wrote numerous satires, lampoons, and prose pieces." This poem was sung to the tune of The Yellow Horse, an Irish melody described as a "lively dance tune."

The card and its history seem fitting for James Connell, a working class Irishman in 1908, from Jersey City, to send to his 27 year old sweetheart, Miss Mary (Daisy) Bailey of Hoboken.

I also love the handwritten note on the back of the fan:
"Miss D. Bailey Feb14th 08 From Jim"

An elaborately scripted letter F (which could have started out as an L)  makes me wonder if my grandfather debated signing the card "Love". But, I'm not sure that would have been a popular closing in 1908, where more formal language and customs prevailed. (I think that's part of our collective fascination with Downton Abbey--we are enamored of the formal manners of society, both upstairs and down--and, of course, the British accents help.)

As a footnote to the valentine, my grandparents were married two years later and raised six children in Hoboken and later North Bergen. My grandfather worked hard as supervisor of a large department of workers at the local power company. He died in his early 50's of a heart attack, when my mother was just graduating high school at age 16. My grandmother Daisy lived until age 91 and loved to sing. Her favorite song? --- Not The Yellow Horse or What the Bee is to the Floweret, but Daisy Bell with the familiar chorus of Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do.  Perhaps that was how James proposed?