Shtekshikh (or for those of you who don't know Yiddish)-Houseslippers

As I slipped into my well-worn slippers this morning to clean the yard from the "presents" my dogs leave me first thing in the morning, I looked down at my slippers-my big toe  had poked up a hole through my right slipper and they slanted in funny directions as I walked.  I thought about how these old, misshapen slippers were really one of my best-loved garments, offering comfort when I wake up and again, at the end of the day.  I can't even bear to think that these slippers may soon have to be replaced.  It takes years to wear in a good pair of house slippers!

Slippers are worn by every culture in every part of the world.  What we know today as slippers take their origin from sandals and sandals in turn go back at least to ancient Egypt.  In European history, the mention of slippers occurs in England in the 15th century and refers to soft shoes that the foot can easily be "slipped" into, as opposed to boots and other footwear that needs to be laced, tied, etc.


So, even my grandparents had "shtekshikh" and I thought about my grandfather's old leather slippers and my mother's more fashionable ones-her Daniel Green "comfies" with room for the toes to stick out and my dad's stiffer leather slippers, that he actually wore far less than the boots he used as he tromped through the cattle pens on our farm.  I've noticed that most men are far more reluctant to wear their houseslippers than women.  Can somebody tell me why?


My son and his wife don't like people to wear their street shoes when they visit their home. So, they have placed Walmart bargain slippers at the front door for guests.  I am reluctant to "slip" these on-they are stiff, don't conform to my foot and I'm afraid I"ll break my neck in them.  So, at their house, I just 
"sock" it.  


What brings you comfort when you come home at the end of the day?  I believe, if you are a homebody ( and probably a woman) you slip on your "shtekshikh" don't you?  

A Poem A Day

I challenged myself to write a poem a day.  Some days are better than others, both in creativity and mood.  Here are a few samples:

A friend asked:
"How Was the Funeral?"

People hugged and signed their names
The seats were filled
The music played
There was some laughter
Elbows prodded
Necks craned
To see who else came.

Some looked older
Others still young
And children whose journey
Had just begun.

The Rabbi spoke
And family too
They said some wonderful
Things about you.

Tears were shed
The folks filed out
The pallbearers lifted
Their burden.

The grave was dug
So squared and stout
The coffin lowered with a creak
The dirt thundered down
In hollow sounds
To put you to eternal sleep.

And your beloved granddaughter wept
Because her heart was broken
Her tears and sobs more eloquent
Than any words that had been spoken.

Something lighter:

Cyber world
of tweets
And posts
and blogs

Fast food world
of sliders
and Grab n' Go

Love world
of Match.com
And winks.

Old slow world
I miss you so.

The Mailbox

I really used to look forward to the arrival of the mailman.  That was before I had to worry about bills and sorting through lots of junk mail to make sure I didn't miss any.  I'd get postcards from my kids if they were traveling; cards from cousins, photos taken by friends and best of all, once in a great while, a letter actually written by hand.  But that was long ago......Today e-mails replace the personal forms of communication so the mail is largely bills and ads.  So I have radically adjusted my excitement quotient when going to the mailbox and figure it's a good day if a magazine I actually ordered arrives, or if I get coupons that save me money at local restaurants.

But going to the mailbox today was a real downer.  I retrieved a magazine, one bill and a cellophane-wrapped packet of cards that looked like it might contain some good coupons.  So I ripped open the cellophane and at first, things didn't look too bad.  There was an ad for people 60+ for a 12-day cruise to the Caribbean, some things about furnace and floor cleaning, but it went rapidly downhill from there.  I WAS THE RECIPIENT OF TARGETED MAIL FOR OLDSTERS!

I kid you not--this is what followed:  I  could order a "hand-painted, fully sculpted holster and revolver replica inspired by the one John Wayne carried in his Classic Westerns OR I could "discover the best of times in Good Old Days magazine with a "free issue."

Then, things started getting somewhat depressing:  I  could "instantly take 10 to 15 pounds off" with "magnetic slimming panties"; order non-binding socks for my chronic foot problems; get "easy beautiful, affordable wigs and hairpiecess s"; and most promising of all (although I am not a man) I could call about the "Vacurect" vacuum erection device which is reimbursable by medicare and comes with a lifetime warranty!

It got worse as the cards starting asking me frightening questions:  "Do you have constant ringing in your ears?"; COPD?  chronic bronchitis? emphysema? asthma? back pain?  Offers followed: mechanical remedies for all these chronic conditions such as "gentle catheters", traveling oxygen, hearing aids and hearing aid batteries, life alert buttons, bathtubs with doors to step in, "Hoveround"power chairs and adjustable beds.  I could also qualify for a free blood pressure or a blood glucose monitor.  What luck, I thought.  This was starting to get good, something for free.

But the best was yet to come--the most ingenious device of all-the "Solution ComfortSeat" which helps you "if you are having trouble wiping" due to physical challenges such as arthritis, parkinson's, obesity, hemorrhoids, strokes, AND MORE.  What more could there be?  This ingenious device "allows users to wash themselves clean with the press of a button.  No plumber required!" (I didn't know I needed a plumber to stand by when I went to the bathroom, although I have known several obese persons who probably could have used one).

Then, just when I couldn't stand to see the next card, peace arrived-cremation for only $880.

Tomorrow is Sunday, for which I am very grateful.  No mail delivery.  Maybe ceasing mail delivery on Saturdays IS a good idea.

"The Looking of His Face"

It's been a very long time since I posted. Lots of changes in my life. Returned to Denver and my house; new job; new dog added (Summer, my white dog, passed away in December, 2009), significant other, gone. How does a 67 year old woman respond? Match.com, JDate, Senior People Meet, OKCupid, Chemistry.com, etc., etc.

My son Oliver suggested I write about seniors and dating. Some things are very funny if you don't cry. Other stories will come, but I thought it appropriate to start with this:

When my son Joseph was two or three years old, there was another little boy that he didn't seem to like. Joseph was a friendly kid, so this attitude about the other little boy was quite surprising. His Dad and I inquired as to why he didn't like this kid, to which Joseph promptly replied: "I don't like the looking of his face."

That honest and innocent statement made us laugh and has stayed with me throughout the years. It contains an insight about human nature that endures whether you are two years old or ninety-two.

Malcolm Gladwell wrote about this in his book, "Blink", where he asserts that humans often make a decision about somebody or something in the wink of an eye. We take in what we see and that first impression becomes something very hard to dispel. It is unconscious, but often the basis for a correct decision. However, because this is an unconscious process. the cultural values and prejudices that reside in our conscious mind often negate the unconscious decision.

This insight is probably applicable to the difficult process of selecting a person to communicate with on these dating sites. I have noticed how this process operates in me and obviously, in the opposite sex.

When I am given a "match" to check out, I won't respond to anybody that hasn't posted a picture. It is natural to want to see what you are going to get. When I peruse those gentlemen who have posted pictures, I find myself becoming more particular: looking at the faces before I read the profiles. Like everybody else on these dating sites, I want to find the person whose initial appearance appeals to me. But on second thought, that could be very wrong. I usually read the profiles that accompany the pictures and I am often surprised to find that the person I found homely or slovenly is a person I would really like to meet because he sounds like he has similar interests and abilities.

When I find somebody that appeals to me, I try to write an interesting e-mail that points out what about that person is appealing to me and why I think we would have something in common. More often than not, these lively e-mails go unanswered. So I have been asking myself, is it because these men (many of whom certainly don't look or sound like Prince Charming) don't like "the looking of my face."

This experience has saddened me. Very few people who are in the age ranges of 65-75 are still handsome or beautiful, the way we would hope they would be (with the possible exception of a Clint Eastwood or Meryl Streep). Yet, I find pot-bellied men, bald-headed men, men with canes, thick eyeglasses seeking "toned, beautiful athletic woman....." who is "sensuous, adventurous, passionate."

I saw a great question on one of these sites written by a younger woman and repeated by an older man: "where are all the real people?" Most of us are the real people who have made mistakes in their lives or have lost the loves of their lives unexpectedly. But our culture and values are still telling us to search for the beautiful people.

Oh well, guess I'll have to wait until that special man does "like the looking of my face"!

My Days

My days are a study in contrast. When I awake:

DogSongs

Ruff and rush through door

Scatter stones, flutter wings

Rabbit-scurry.  Morning.

When I drive to work:

The Unsung

Walk the paths

Drive the streets

Look around

Dirt and concrete

Weeds and cactii

Brick, adobe

These abound.

 

Occasional dog

Mother and child

Old lady pushing a cart

Group at bus stop

Trucks and cars

Signs and buildings

Relentless heat.

 

Behind the doors

Dark and shuttered

The old squirm

In their diapers

Waiting for some relief

From hunger, boredom

Pain and hopelessness

Their lives have come to grief.

Sign of the Times

Yesterday, I made my usual quick right turn and then an immediate left into the little shopping center where I pick up my morning coffee on my way to work.  I got a parking place right away, which felt great since it was 10 a.m. and already 95 degrees.  I needed that boost of an iced coffee.

I got out of the car and noticed that the three little outside tables and chairs were gone.  I decided it was too hot to sit outside.  I got up to the door of the shop.  A white piece of paper scotch-taped to the inside of the door:  "business is closed" was scrawled in hurried, crooked, printed letters.

I peered inside.  Tables, chairs, armchairs gone.  Display case, bins with coffee beans, serving counter, cappuccino machine, gone.  Some trash near the front door and some cabinetry at the back.  All that remained of the little coffee shop I had faithfully patronized for two years.  Usually, I'd run in, order a coffee and leave but sometimes, I'd steal fifteen minutes, sit down with my drink, do a little writing while inhaling the wonderful fragrance of the coffee being brewed and enjoying the friendly ambiance of staff and customers.

The owner of "It's A Grind" was a pleasant, dark-haired burly young man in his 30's who had tattoos up and down both arms.  I guess the tattoos mistakenly led me to believe he was an employee until I saw him training a new hire.  I always spoke briefly with him but never found out his name.   It was clear he was proud of his business.

Seeing that sign on the door told me that another set of dreams and aspirations was lying on the floor along with the small amount of trash left behind.  What you couldn't see, but only surmise, was the amount of time and money invested and lost.

As the owner of a small commercial building, I thought about all the work that went into this little venture.  Business plans, loan applications, investors being sought out.  Lease negotiations, meetings with contractors, architects and designers, equipment purchases.  Striving to meet health department regulations and nervously watching inspectors, training staff, developing and starting a marketing plan.  Finally, opening the doors.

Planning the new sign for your business is a big deal.  The sign has to meet city or county codes; it has to be properly installed and it has to stand out from the others because it is your calling card.  When a business closes, the big sign is usually left behind because it is attached to the building and becomes the property of the landlord.   

So the traffic continues to drive by and since the sign is there, people stop, only to be shocked by the little handwritten notice "business is closed".  There are lots of little signs like this all over America.  It's the sign of our times. 

What Objects Tell the Best Stories in Antique Shops?

Old Chairs? Pots and Pans? Books?  Kitchenware?  Paintings?  Linens and Lace?

I love to amble down the aisles of all kinds of antique shops.  Some shops are musty; the objects lie akimbo, dusty and forgotten and jumbled on shelves.  

In other antique shops, it feels like you've entered a world of elegant rooms from the past. There are finely displayed antiques in beautiful old china cabinets alongside elegant diningroom tables and upholstered chairs.  The bedrooms show heavy walnut beds with canopies and marble tables with pitchers and bowls used for sponge baths.  Or you might find kitchen tables from the 1950's with steel legs, formica tops and chrome sides and matching chairs upholstered in plastic to match the formica on the table.  You get to see lemonade sets or those wonderful metal tumblers that made cold drinks seem colder-my favorite colors were the red or purple ones.  

In fine antique stores, the objects are labeled-to tell country or region of origin, when they were created, perhaps even who created them.  But that is only part of the story.  You don't know anything about the lives of previous owners, unless of course, the items are museum quality.

But in the jewelry cases of antique shops, I like to look at charm bracelets because they give a hint of the owner's past-where that person traveled or when she graduated high school or attended the senior prom or what her prizes or hobbies were.  Then I wonder why such personal items ended up in a store instead of in the hands of people who loved and cared for her.  Did she marry?  Have children?  Or did she lead a single life?  Did she give up her own charm bracelet because she has repudiated her own past?   Interesting questions to ponder.

Last week, I visited several antique stores with my son and daughter-in-law.  And in each one, I gazed at the charm bracelets and was bothered by these questions.  So I went home and retrieved the charm bracelet I have been keeping for at least forty years.  I got it out and reviewed every object on it and recalled the memories each charm brought up.

There is the longhorned steer (trips to Texas with my father as he bought cattle),  the armadillo (we saw them on the roads in Texas), a bicycle (for the hundreds of bike races I watched Oliver and Ephraim compete in), a squirrel (Ephraim's favorite animal was squirrels and he particularly loved the book called "The Adventures of Squirrel Nutkin"), the ship's lantern (for the numerous times we returned to my beloved New England after living there for five years), the pine cone I found in a little store in West Yellowstone Montana, a howling wolf that reminds me of the wolf dogs Oliver and Joseph raised, a dog and turtle because dogs have been my most constant companions and Cozy, my turtle, whom Spencer adopted in 1980 and who still hangs out with me.

There is a rowboat and oars I found after rowing down wonderful little streams in Michigan, and two charms from Mexico because I loved the trips I took down there with Eli, and a little boy charm, purchased when my first grandson, Isaac, was born, and finally, an old-fashioned, coal-burning stove that looks just like the one I watched my grandmother cook the very best food in the world on every Friday until her death at age 78. 

There is still a little room left to hang some more charms.  I think I'll find one that shows an open book because.....oh, well.  You can guess that one.  And I do hope that when I go, one of my kids will retrieve the bracelet and not let it end up forgotten, in some antique store.