Author Archives: Susan

About Susan

Lover of words; Collector of quotes; Teacher of English (former); Philosopher of the familiar; Devotee of Wordsworth, Hugo (with and without musical accompaniment), Austen, Emerson, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Hurston, Morrison…; Reader of Bryson, Hillebrand, Lee, Peck, Smith…; Follower of BBC; Connoisseur of unfiltered wheat beer; Straightener of pictures; Progenitor of males; Enjoyer of physical comedy and dry wit; Spectator of football; Duffer of golf; Supporter of kindness; Writer of journals; essays; articles; novels.

Writing the stories of our lives

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Our family loves stories.

Whether they come packaged in celluloid or on paper; whether via satellite or wireless transfer; whether fiction or non; we derive profound pleasure in immersing ourselves in good stories.

Through them we breach the barriers of physics and trek through time and space.

Through them we become brave, wise and worldly.

They teach us, better than a dry lecture. Aesop knew that. Jesus knew that. Shakespeare knew that. L. Frank Baum knew that. George Lucas knew that.

George Lucas? Yes. Around our house, some of our most oft-quoted aphorisms are from Star Wars (the original three movies, of course).

Try. There is no try, only do or do not. – Yoda

Luke, feel the force. – Obi Wan Kenobi

So, it is with great delight that the circularity of life granted us three grandsons who make light saber noises as they chase each other through the house. While taking on the evil Darth Vader, our four-year-old grandson said something we couldn’t quite make out, so we asked him to repeat it. It was: Luke, feel the forest.

Okay, that could work too.

Living so far out of town, our family spent a lot of time in the car; still do. I’m thankful we were in the Pleistocene age of technology when our kids were young, for driving our rural highway while cocooned in fine Corinthian vinyl, especially on star-speckled nights, cultivated the perfect atmosphere for sharing stories – our version of campfire tales.

I don’t remember as much about the stories themselves as the thankful wonder for those treasured times with our boys. Our treasured times with our grandsons take place not in a car, but at the dinner table over Friday night spaghetti. Like their father and uncle before them, they cast their eyes up in contemplation when introduced to new ideas, new characters, new places. With their imaginations in high gear, they implore, “Grandpa, tell us another Alaska bear story.”

As anyone who has ever cuddled up with a book under an afghan knows, the best stories don’t need high definition or slick covers; we have the finest high definition ever created right between our ears.

Some of the greatest stories I ever heard were not from books, but from the people in my life. I am thankful for the opportunity to have been told the stories of my grandparents’ lives right from the source. I am thankful for the times that I remember to shut my mouth and open my ears to the stories of the lives of the people I see often, the people I do not see often enough, and the people I have just met.

When we listen to the stories of others, we connect, at a magical mystical level. And in the listening, we give the greatest gift we can give another, our attention. But, we gain so much more through their personal histories: the sense of shared experience, and the knowledge that we are not alone on this journey.

One of the most powerful things stories can do is honor the memory of our loved ones who are no longer with us. So long as we continue to recount their stories to future generations, we keep them alive.

Our fourth grandson is on his way, some time in early February. And, we fully expect him to be a listener, teller and devotee of stories. We can’t wait for him to join us at the table – his own eyes wide in wonder, as his grandpa tells another Alaska bear story.

Our wish for you this holiday season is that you build your own wonderful magical stories with the people you love, stories that will live on through the ages.

With Gratitude to Those Who Look When We Look Away

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Lost between the monstrous frenzy of Halloween and the glittering commercialism of the December holidays is Thanksgiving.

And, I think I’m good with that.

With little more to hype than turkey and leaf-motif linens, Madison Avenue largely ignores Thanksgiving, which leaves the rest of us to enjoy it in the same simple spirit with which it has been celebrated for centuries.

As welcoming as the Statue of Liberty, Thanksgiving invites all to the table, regardless of whether your ancestors arrived on the Mayflower, or you just got here last week. The invitation does come with one request, however, and it is that you join with your fellow diners in gracing the table with gratitude.

For gratitude is something to be ever mindful of in a land where so many of us are so fortunate.

In this blessed place, we enjoy the freedom to speak, to worship, to pursue happiness, and to reach for our dreams amid stunning panoramic vistas.

Yes, this is a blessed place, but the blessings don’t come free.

People on a list of mostly-forgotten names that unfurls from ocean to ocean, and across mountains, plains, rivers and time have paid for them all.

They are the people who give the best of themselves without fanfare or fuss, who push past their own fears to fly into the eye of the unnerving and the calamitous against a tide of the repulsed and the panicked rushing the other way. And, they do so fully aware that the tragedies and the tragic are harsh evidence of their own vulnerabilities and the fragility of their own lives.

They are the people who find in themselves the courage to look when we look away.

They are the first responders to scenes of accidents and of crimes, to conflagrations and to natural disasters. They create order out of mayhem, with the capacity to restore calm to the trembling and the terrified.

They are the volunteers who work with the victims of human trafficking, with the poor, and with the mentally ill. They willingly tackle grim matters of need that many find uncomfortable to talk about, let alone face head-on.

They are the medical workers, who see the person before the disease, who touch without flinching, who heal when possible, and who, when called for, accompany patients on their ultimate journey to death with kindness and humanity.

They are the teachers, who approach special-needs students with understanding and patience and a belief that all children deserve the chance to be accepted and to achieve beyond their potential.

They are the volunteers at shelters and on streets, who see not dirty fingernails and ragged clothes, but wounded human beings. They understand the value of touch, even for those who the rest of us may find untouchable.

They are the eldercare workers, who do not run at the daily reminders of their own mortality in the aged faces of those they serve, but who rather view the elderly as gifts of wisdom and lessons in appreciating each day. They look at them, not by them.

They are the soldiers, who stare into the eyes of the enemy to keep them from our shores, who often die young, before they have had the chance to build their own lives like those we enjoy. They are the ones who in the name of country selflessly bequeath us our freedom.

In America, it is common for us to express our adoration for some of those whom we most greatly admire – our athletes, performers, and celebrities – through riches, awards, and ticker-tape parades.

You won’t, however, find the people on the above-mentioned list in a limo waving to cheering crowds or behind a podium clutching a golden statuette. You won’t find them living in Beverly Hills, or shopping on 5th Avenue. Their financial compensation for their labor is minimal; they clearly do not work for the money or recognition.

Recognition, however, is what they rightfully deserve, and Thanksgiving is the perfect opportunity to convey that – a quiet holiday for quiet heroes.

So, this Thanksgiving, as your blessings circle around the table from generation to generation, from family member to neighbor to friend, please remember to raise a glass in gratitude and count among your greatest blessings those who look when we look away.

You may also view this post online at The Sacramento Bee by following the link below.

http://www.sacbee.com/2012/11/21/5001237/with-gratitude-to-those-who-have.html

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

Tequila Truck Revelations

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Driving to work a couple of months ago, I slipped in behind a tequila truck that had made a delivery to a local restaurant. It was the kind with images of the bottles emblazoned on the back; the logo branded with fire, indicating this was not your ordinary tequila.

As I stared at those images, it occurred to me that at that very moment, somewhere in the world, there were people sitting on crystal-white beaches watching the sun sink beyond turquoise blue waters, sipping tropical drinks from icy glasses with little paper umbrellas in them – and not feeling one bit guilty.

I was jealous, and I don’t even like tequila. Or at least I haven’t since that warm spring night my senior year in college. A few of us were sitting in a circle on the brick pavers that lined the courtyard of our building, flush with the confidence that we had it all figured out – the environment, politics, our fellow human beings, our futures. A large bottle of tequila made several rotations, and so lost were we in conversation that we were shocked to find it empty. Not so shocking was the intimate acquaintance that we made with the porcelain tiles and toilets in our bathrooms later that night.

All these years later, evaluating the ways of the umbrella-drink people is, for me, kind of like studying foreign life forms.

Sleeping through the night and past 6am? Vacationing without an itinerary in places where the only option is to play or rest? Ignoring the news? Ignoring the mail? Not flossing! Leaving the dishes in the sink for the next morning! Fascinating.

I don’t know how they do it; we can’t possibly share the same DNA. Mine is of the Puritan work ethic variety – my ancestors: proponents of delayed gratification or, even more likely, no gratification save the air of superiority with which they departed this mortal realm as their caskets were lowered into the ground. At least that’s what I imagine when I study their grim gray expressions in the photos of them. Those folks were clearly not having any fun.

In our household we mean to have fun. Every once in awhile, we allow ourselves to sit down in the backyard. Of course, we spend the entire time averting our eyes from the tree that needs trimming, and the flowers that need feeding, and the deck rails that need scrubbing, and …

We mean to play hooky and go to the movies in the middle of the week. We mean to take a drive into the wine country. We mean to have friends over for brunch. We mean to come back more rested than tired when we go on vacation.

We mean to, but we are really bad at it.

What we need to do is take serious the ways of the umbrella-drink people, those of the flip-flops and cut-offs, masters of the art of doing nothing. They make peace with irresponsibility. They embrace the random. And, as masters, they do so, without thinking about it. For thinking about doing nothing is doing something. Huh?

Anyway, long past those college days and the hubris of youth, we have barely scratched the surface of figuring it all out. But, we do know that a responsible attitude does not ensure a perfect outcome. We do know that there is no work ethic powerful enough to ward off random acts of calamity. As much as we would like to believe that we are in control, life does not follow a marked path. It does not come with an insurance policy against disasters of the Biblical or boo boo kind. We do know that if we are to have the strength to face those boo boos, we have to do a better job of chilling out.

This we do know, and this we must live.

Does that mean that we are going to toss away our cloak of responsibility? Doubtful. DNA is a powerful thing. And, the world needs those willing to step up and take responsibility.

Does that mean that we are going to hang our responsibilities up in the closet more than we do now?

You bet.

So, stop that tequila truck.

Find me a tiki hut.

And, bartender: bring me a fruity umbrella drink, and keep them coming. I’m just going to sit here and watch the waves roll in and the world roll by.

Fixing Feelings

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The other night, my four-year-old grandson had a nightmare. After his dad comforted him and reassured him that the dreams weren’t real and that he was safe, he said, “Thankths, Daddy. You fixthed my feelings.”

You fixed my feelings.

Would that we all had someone to fix our feelings.

At times it seems as if we live in a broken world determined to break us – hearts, minds, dreams.

As vulnerable beings, I have never met anyone who walked through this life unscathed. For some, the wounds are so harsh and deep that I wonder if there are casts strong enough to mend the broken places.

Others lead lives perhaps more charmed, as my perception of them is that their broken places are just flesh wounds, easily healed.

But, who knows – things perceived are most often not things real.

Like the proverbial bone that after a break knits together even stronger than before, it is said that we too grow stronger from our trials.

But, do we?

Do we arise from those challenges that bring us to our knees with straight spines and a forward outlook? Or, with each test do our shoulders bend just a little more? Does the dimmer switch on our worldview ratchet down a click or two?

I believe that breaks may mend, wounds may heal, but not without leaving scars as living testimony to our rough passages.

I also believe that minimizing the depth of the scar and the slope of the spine requires gratitude, forgiveness, and a willingness to live in the present.

And I believe the greatest determiner of whether or not we keep on keeping on is if we have people to comfort and encourage us as we make our way through the long dark nights.

People to help us fix our feelings.

If we can be nothing more for each other than awake to the times when those with whom we share our lives need their feelings fixed, we have done our job as fellow travelers on this road of trials we all travel.

You can’t just let nature run wild

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Wally Hickel, Governor of Alaska, twice, and Secretary of the Interior under Richard Nixon once said, “You can’t just let nature run wild.”

Huh?

This is certainly not a reflection of the thinking of most Alaskans as they would be the first to tell you that their nature is particularly well versed at running wild, and stopping it is not really an option.

We have been to Alaska many times, a region of indescribable beauty, and animals with really sharp claws and really big teeth.

During our visits, there is never a question of whether someone is going to be mauled by a large beast, but when, and how many body parts will go unaccounted for afterward.

On one of our first visits, a woman decided she needed a close-up photo of Binky, the polar bear at the Anchorage Zoo, so she hopped a couple fences, unaware that the eye of the sleeping bear was trained directly on her.

The photo on the cover of the Anchorage Daily News the next day was of Binky proudly parading around his enclosure with her pink sneaker in his mouth. The woman? Last I heard she had given up photography for basket weaving.

And that was a caged animal.

But what about the un-caged ones: the moose that forage on bike paths and quiet residential streets? The ones that make you declare, “Oh, it’s so cuuuute. It looks just like Bullwinkle.” Well, it’s not. It ‘s cranky, and it will hurt you. Bad .

The wild animals in my community may not have claws that could fell you with one swipe, but they manage to be a menace anyway. Many of us have taken up the Hickel cry, may he rest in peace.

Just ask my dad. Right now he is at war with the squirrels. His body count is over twenty. No. He doesn’t kill them. He traps them and hauls them to the back lake.

He’s a kind trapper, though. He told us that when they are first caught, the squirrels put up a noisy fuss, but he finds that once he gets them in his car, if he plays soothing music, they settle right down.

Our theory is that the squirrels use GPS to find their way back to his house, so he’s actually trapping the same three over and over and over again.

My dad doesn’t go quite so easy on the woodpeckers. Maybe it’s the constant tapping or the thousand holes in his siding, but they have driven him to take a stronger tact. On one visit to his house I noticed a dead woodpecker lying on the path to his front door. When I questioned him about why he hadn’t removed it, he said, “It’s a warning to the other woodpeckers.”

Ooooh. I bet that did it.

I have learned a lot about the wild animals in my neighborhood as I have watched their numbers explode over the past thirty years. I’m an expert on scat, for instance, in the event that you ever need help identifying a pile of poop. I had to become one. (Not a pile of poop, an expert.) I had no choice. Something was leaving a mess in our waterfall every night.

After hours of intensive Internet research, I identified it as the caca of a raccoon, the badest dudes in our hood. So, I borrowed a trap, and caught, ta da, the only cute possum on the planet. I know they normally look like large rats, but Disney created this one, I swear.

As it was being hauled away to a fate of which I had no desire to know, it looked at me as if to say, “It wadn’t me, really. I’m innocent, I tell ya, innoceeeent!” (Why it talked like Jimmy Cagney, I couldn’t say.)

Turns out he was telling the truth. The poop kept coming.

You see, raccoons have their own outhouse system. Once they have staked out their latrine, and stocked it with the latest edition of National Wildlife Magazine – The Swimsuit Edition, they set up permanent residence.

But I showed him. Never mind that our waterfall no longer has water that actually falls, and that it is completely covered by ugly stone slabs. I beat the little sucker.

Ha! Ha! Ha! I showed him that he couldn’t just run wild.

Old Broads – Part II – Signs that you skipped 60 and went straight to 80

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In reflecting on my 60th birthday coming up later this year, I realized that I might never experience 60, because in temperament, I’ve already hit  80. In other words, I am that Old Broad I referred to in my previous post.

The signs are all there:

I have zero tolerance for the general public:

Warning: If you sit near me in a theatre and choose to use a cell phone, whisper loudly to your companion, or even so much as crumble your jumbo bag of popcorn, I will shush you. That is, unless you are scary looking, in which case I will sigh indignantly and move to another row.

Warning: If you act in a manner unbefitting the job that you were hired to do, I won’t let you get away with it. There is a line at Costco that my daughter-in-law won’t use any longer because of that day the checker was giving the woman in front of me a bad time. When it was my turn, I handed the checker my card, and the conversation went something like this: Me: “Are we having a bad day?” Her: “No. Not at all.” Me: “Well, you sure aren’t acting like it!”

My husband won’t go into Apple stores with me any longer – there seems to be a pattern developing here – because of the time we went to one to replace the battery in my IPod. The twenty-something clerk who approached us as we crossed the hallowed entrance immediately set us straight, barely containing his incredulity at the idea of fixing something rather than replacing it with an overpriced something else. He informed me that they are not clerks; they are geniuses who work by appointment only. Silly me. I hadn’t heard that everyone with an IQ over 150 had moved to the mall. That was when I let him know that he was behaving like a condescending little twirp and that I didn’t appreciate it. He responded by hot-potato passing me to the old guy in the back – not a genius. I guess that he thought I wouldn’t attack my own kind.

Driving has become a matter of intensive advanced planning:

Routes are determined by avoidance of tricky merges, congested freeways and light rail crossings. Time of day is determined by availability of natural light.

My entertainment choices have narrowed considerably:

I watch golf on Sunday afternoons – not for the sport, because the British announcers put me to sleep faster than a dozen ambiens.

I watch old sitcoms on TV. Not because the new ones aren’t funny – I really couldn’t speak to that – but because of those hand-held cameras, which make me nauseated with motion sickness without leaving my own couch.

I avidly read the Weekend section of the newspaper, not for what to do, but for what parts of town to avoid. You never know when you might unwittingly happen upon a Rutabaga festival or a Battle of the Really Bad Bands. Again, the general public problem.

I tune in mostly to Sinatra radio, not because I have turned my back on the sixties, but because it takes me to a happy place where everyone could dance, smiled a lot and pretended to have a really good time, despite the fact that, as per usual, people were either pointing and/or shooting at each other all over the planet.

I listen to NPR – not for their politics, but because they use their inside voices.

I won’t even get into the memory issues except to say that they have evolved from being quirky to downright scary. Oh wait; there is one incident that I have to share… So, I was coming out of the local post office and a man held the door for me. Pulling his sunglasses off he said, “Do you remember me? It’s Dan.” (Name changed to protect the innocent.)

“Sure.” I lied, then asked him about his family; told him about mine, all the time smiling and frantically searching my brain for Dan, Dan, Dan? Who the hell are you? I knew that he had something to do with my husband, but it didn’t fit that it was business or his Rotary club. After I got back in my car, I remembered. Oh my God! I thumped my head against the steering wheel. Dan. He was in OUR WEDDING!

When we were having dinner that evening I told the story to my husband, rationalizing that we have been married for 36 years, or is it 37, 38? Anyway, it was a long time ago. His response: “But, don’t you remember; we had them here for dinner a few years ago?”

No. No, I don’t. And yes, yes, I’m 80.

And the award goes to…

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Now that the Tony’s award winners have been crowned and Queen Elizabeth’s 60th Jubilee millinery marvels have been mothballed, the busy spring fawn-over-your-favorite-celebrity season has finally exited – stage left. Another reason to dance a celebratory jig in our bare feet under a summer solstice sky.

I stopped watching award shows several years ago – yes, even the Oscars – Vera Wangy-splattered red carpet and all. It wasn’t a difficult decision – my gut made it for me. I just couldn’t take one more sycophantic tribute or disingenuous thank you. Honestly, twenty minutes in and I felt as if I had eaten my entire bag of candy on Halloween night. Icky.

America’s penchant for creating awards for the sole purpose of watching celebrities puke praises all over each other’s creepy couture gowns is a difficult tradition to wrap my head around. The spring awards shows are obviously one long publicity stunt that seems to work well. So, woo hoo for their bottom line. But, why do privileged people with great jobs need to have their egos blown up like King Henry the VIII’s quadruple chin? It’s not like they cured cancer or saved an entire village from a terrorist attack.

And speaking of good ‘ole King Henry, another thing that I used to have a difficult time understanding was the monarchy. What use were they, other than to provide material for comics, who must have prostrated themselves in humble thanksgiving when Prince Charles reconnected with Camilla.

I am reconsidering my position on the royalty, however, for having resisted the temptation to organize into an international self-promoting guild, say something like the Royal Academy of Rich White People Who Wear Funny Hats.

Imagine that organization’s annual award gala:

“For best wrist wave in an open carriage, the award goes to …”

“For best impersonation of a sincere expression while accepting posies from a street urchin, the award goes to…”

“For bagging the most birds on a grouse hunt in the Scottish highlands, the award goes to…”

The royals are most definitely to be commended for sticking to inspecting the troops and hosting dinner parties for a thousand of their closest friends.

So, where are the awards for the people who really deserve it: Parents who work two jobs, but still summon the energy for meaningful time with their children? Children who suffer from painful catastrophic illnesses, but still flash bright heart-breaking smiles? Soldiers who trudge through the unbearable desert heat and sand in constant fear of IEDs, at the will of a nation that most of the time forgets they are even out there?

Come up with an award show for them, and I’ll be right in the front row.

Taking a byte out of Steve’s apple

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Close your eyes, if you will, and imagine a world without ITunes, IPhones, IPods, IPads, IPots, IPans, IPigs – somebody, stop me! Whew. Anyway, if you were one of the two people who in imagining such a world sighed deeply and thought it would be IPfree Paradise, you would have had your world had I been Steve Jobs’ mother, teacher, employee, friend or guru.

Had I been his mother, I would have grabbed him the minute he came within reach, and locked him in the bathroom until he came out smelling like a garden after a spring rain, so that he would have learned that cleanliness is as much about being cognizant of the sensibilities of others as it is about hygiene.

Had I been his teacher, I would have taught him that winning the race, or demonstrating a superior intellect is but momentary glory, as true fulfillment comes not by engendering envy and awe, but by earning respect.

Had I been his employee, I would have documented, notarized and tucked in a vault everything I ever produced for him or suggested to him, if necessary to be used in a court of law, to make him aware of the rights of others to their own ideas.

Had I been his friend, I would have asked him to step outside his ego, and use his keen powers of perception to see the world from another’s point of view, to tread lightly on the feelings of others, as vulnerability is our common bond.

Had I been his guru, I would have had him meditate on the thought that cruelty is the path to torment; peace comes only through an unconstricted heart, and that we are all chosen, each with our own part to play in the advancement of the human spirit.

The implication is that had Steve Jobs not been allowed to exercise his narcissism, he could not have created an empire that helped take communication a quantum leap forward.

And where would that have left us?

I don’t know, for me, with more questions than answers.

Could Steve Jobs have accomplished what he did without his narcissism? Were cruelty and remorselessness and irresponsibility and his distortion of reality vital to his success?

Was Steve Jobs the only person who could have taken technology to the point of providing trillions of megabytes of both helpful and inane information first to our homes, and then through our phones?

Does the fact that we have to play by his rules, use his Genius Bar, rely on Apple in order to find out what’s wrong with our I Anything, even as simple as needing a new battery in an IPod, mean that Steve Job’s is still exercising narcissistic control of us from his grave?

Was Steve Jobs a technological Messiah or a mere mortal?

Did that apple from which he ate fall from the same tree as Adam’s?

Becoming Emily Dickinson

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I’ve started skimming the front section of the newspaper of late, in the same manner that I watch suspense flicks. I quickly avert my eyes when they alight on images or words that I don’t want stuffed into a brain already overcrowded with unwelcome thoughts that I’m very good at forming without any outside assistance.

The whole “News You Need to Know” thing is highly overrated. Yes, as members of the human tribe, it is important to keep up on world events, but when God created Man, I don’t think She took WiFi into account.

I really don’t need to know every grave error in judgment public figures make. (We eradicated Small Pox, isn’t there somebody out there who can do the same for the Kardashians or John Edwards? I mean that figuratively, of course. And no, I don’t think incarceration will lighten the media onslaught, for any of them.)

I really don’t need to know about the tragedies and anguish of people who should be permitted to grieve in private. It is the kind and respectful thing to do.

I really don’t need to know about every conflict in every corner of every continent. It’s overwhelming. There is only so much data a body can absorb before its circuits overload and start misfiring. And in our 21st Century, we are far past our limit, heading to the danger zone.

This brings me to Emily Dickinson. Now there was a woman who knew how to keep the world at bay. She spent most of her adult years famously outfitted in white and wandering her garden or ensconced in her room. She had what you would call an active interior life – translation: she was definitely an overthinker, and the product of those thoughts was over1800 poems, only a handful of them published in her lifetime.

I think that she liked her little garden world – her poems indicate that she was certainly enamored of nature, even with her limited exposure. Yes, she was a tad obsessed with death but, hey, what poet is going to be taken seriously without dabbling in the morbid?

I would argue that hers was, for the most part, a contented life, and certainly a productive one. It turns out she was far ahead of her time in her writing style, her genius unrecognized until the 1950s. And she did it all without Internet access, or because of it.

Yes. At times Emily’s life sounds mighty appealing, but then it occurs to me that white is really not my color.

Old Broads

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I picked up a call from my answering machine the other day that was an obvious misdial. The voice was cigarette-smoke rough with a hint of Jersey. The message went something like this:

“Susan. Susan. This is Blanche Molina, you know from across the street. Listen, hon, I’ve been going through some of Herb’s stuff, trying to get rid of things, and I found this, I don’t know whatcha’ call it, some kinda Masonic sash thing. I thought maybe since you’re so involved in everything around here, you might have an idea about what I should do with it. Call me, okay, hon.”

I live in a very small community, where when we misdial we often know the person on the other end, which somehow makes it even more embarrassing, but on the bright side can also be good for catching up with a neighbor you haven’t talked to in awhile. I thought I’d better call Blanche to set her straight lest she think that the Susan she was actually looking for was ignoring her call. That conversation went something like this:

“Hi Blanche. This is Susan Snyder.”

“Oh good, Susan. Listen, hon, I’ve been going through the closets, horrible job, and the thing I’m talking about is one of those sashes, you know, with the gold threads and all…”

When she finally took a breath, I said, “Blanche, I think you’ve got the wrong Susan. This is Susan Snyder. I don’t live on your street.”

“Wait, what? Just a minute, hon. This f*!#*ing television! Let me shut it off. Now where is that damn remote?”

Over the sound of shuffling and loud television voices, I thought, Oh, my goodness, Blanche is not your average LOL – little old lady – for all you texters who absconded with what once was a delightful acronym – she’s an old broad.

Old broad. I love the connotation of that – politically correct or not. It represents strong women who march through life like General Patton crossing the Rhine, the kind who may drive you nuts, but who you want on your side in a fight.

I don’t run into many old broads anymore, and that’s a shame. In fact, the world population of colorful characters seems to be in serious decline. Those manufactured for media-sake don’t count. I’m talking about real people, like those of my grandparent’s generation, with names like Shorty Briscoe, Ham, Fast Eddie, Weird Hazel, and the Telephone Girls. How could you be anything but entertained by stories about folks with monikers like that?

Man, I miss those stories.

But then, there is Blanche.

When she got back on the line, it was obvious that she had decided that one Susan was as good as another. She continued, a little out of breath: “You got any ideas about what I could do with the sash thing?”

“Well, I, um,” I answered. “I guess I could ask around.”

“Naw. Never mind.” Blanche abruptly declared me unsuitable for the task.

Too much hesitation in my voice, I guess.

“Now where is that f*!#*ing phone number of hers?” her voiced trailed off.