PUPPET-HEADS

Forget plastic surgery...is there a New Puppet Head/Face Store somewhere out there? And are women converging on it in droves, stealthily having puppet-head surgery to replace their old faces with new (and not-so-improved) ones?

If anyone caught a glimpse of Bernadette Peters hosting "Downton Abbey Rediscovered" last month, was it as difficult to watch as it was for me? Face utterly frozen EXCEPT for the lower jaw, enabling her lips to squeeze out some words as the rest of her face just sat there, unmoved and unmoving.

"C'mon, Bernadette, you can do it, c'mon, move those facial muscles!"

Don't these talented, accomplished women realize they look just.like.puppets??

Not to mention that it took about 25 Nutrisystem commercials before I realized that their spokeswoman "Marie" was none other than Marie Osmond! Wait...what happened to her old face? Did she exchange it for a brand-new one, discarding all vestiges of her former (pretty) countenance?

We lost Joan Rivers this year, the self-admitted Queen of Plastic Surgery. But at least Miss Rivers was brutally honest about it and poked fun at her own excesses:  "If I have one more face-lift, my belly button will be on top of my head!" Rest in peace, Joan, you truly were one of a kind even if your face was in multiples.

And the last time I saw Cher as a presenter on an awards show, the camera was so far away, I needed a telescope to actually see her face. Cher, the natural beauty with  those adorably crooked front teeth, perfectly fine lips and a nose that needed no improving, had to spoil it all by subjecting herself to an orthodontist, plastic surgeon and fish-lip injections, turning her into just another Hollywood puppet-head. Cher, don't you realize that all those girls who wanted to look just like you back in the Sixties are now IN their sixties and know that you are too? Hell, I'd still want to look like you, minus any and all work you may have had done.

Now I'm not saying that, if I had the money, I wouldn't indulge in a little puppet-headry myself...an eye tuck would be grand so I could wear eye makeup again without looking like the shades are pulled down to my lower lid. And I might even go for one face-lift, if only to tighten up the saggy-baggy look of droopy jowls now plaguing my lower jaw. But I'd definitely stop at one, no more! Who am I kidding? I'm two years away from 70 and have no intention of even attempting to look a day under 50. I always wanted to "age gracefully" but now that the process is in full swing, well...

All of this insanity makes me wonder if Charlie McCarthy had a slew of illegitimate children back in the day who are now invading Hollywood en masse, and avenging old Charlie for any perceived injustices?

Break out the Botox, kids, and have a ball!

CHRISTMAS DAY AND OLD SOULS

Funny, that I should be writing this on the one day of the year when friends and family gather together to celebrate ~ not just the birth of one of the most astonishing and beautiful people ever to walk the earth, but also our love for each other.

For as long as I can remember, there was always a part of me that shied away from such gatherings; it was almost too much for my heart to bear.

There are some of us who feel so deeply, even a joyful occasion can bring tears to our eyes and touch an exquisite pain buried so deep inside, we would rather spend the day alone than put up yet another brave front while we're trying to keep it glued together before the dam breaks and a torrent of tears flows out.

I've fled many a Christmas Day conclave for just that reason, crying all the way back to the safety of home and solitude. People say "you should never be alone on Christmas Day." But I never feel alone, and maybe that's because I possess an 'old soul' and never really am alone. For some, difficult to understand, but for me and those like me, even more difficult to explain.

And so I hear "Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow ~ hang a shining star upon the highest bough, and have yourself a merry little Christmas now..." and decide to do just that.

Have myself a merry little Christmas. Alone (and safe) with my memories of better times, happy times, the company of a beautiful animal (all of whom possess old souls,) my own ancient spirit, and maybe even a few tears squeezed out to relieve the indescribable pain that is as much a part of 'joy' as a smile.

To all who read this, I wish you a merry little Christmas too...

THE (DREADFUL) ANNUAL HOLIDAY LETTER

"God, please don't let them read that damned thing out loud..."

Dear Friends and Family,

Well, we sure hope this finds you all healthy, wealthy and a lot wiser than it did last year. We don't mean to be immodest, but we're all of the above ~ but especially much wealthier, if we must say so our obnoxious selves!

Hmm, where shall we begin?? Well, one month after Christmas Past (2013) we took a family vacation (thanks to Hubby's generous holiday bonu$) and a wonderful time was had by all!

Gay Paree and Bella Roma were utterly charming ~ but Muffin and Jimmy Joe decided to ski in Gstaad while Hubby and I enjoyed the sights, sounds and gastronomical delights of Paris and Rome...and it looks like I'll be hitting the downstairs gym before any pool parties at our place this summer. (Not to worry, no Fatties will be on anyone's horizon...including invited guests if you get my drift.)

However, upon our return, we found that our lovely home was invaded by a virtual army of La Cucaracha. EEEEEEEKK!! We were devastated, to say the very least. How disgusting!! We can't imagine how this happened, except for the fact that we're totally clueless on how to clean without Rosalita and Seraphina, our maid and housekeeper. Since they were both on holiday at the time of our departure, who knows? We may have left a few dozen sandwiches, snacks, and unfinished dinners around the place...

March and April were pretty uneventful, and then May happened! That is when our own little Muffin confided to us that she's pregnant with our very first illegitimate grandchild! We could not be more pleased!

Meanwhile, Jimmy Joe has been helping his Daddy at work, around the house, and especially at our Foo Foo Country Club, so his probation/community service hours are just whizzing by. (We've increased his allowance so  that he will not find it necessary to ever commit armed robbery again.)

We received our annual visit from Hubby's family this past summer (here's the part about not saying anything at all if you can't say something nice.) Let me just say that if my sister-in-law had to be described in one word, well, she'd rhyme with the word stitch...or witch...or ditch. Or...ah hell, she's just a BITCH, plain and simple.

June-July-August, zoom! Before you know it, sailing into yet another lovely autumn soon to be followed by Christmas again! Goodness gracious, where does the time go??

So we all ~ Hubby and I, Muffin (including the one still in the oven,) Jimmy Joe, Rosalita, Seraphina, and even our top-notch exterminators, Don't Bug Me! ~ wish you exactly what you wish us. And then some!

(As a precaution, please check your blood sugar. Some past recipients of our annual holiday letter have been known to contract diabetes, although I never could understand why...)

A CONUNDRUM FOR ALL SEASONS

Conundrum: Something hard to understand or explain.

Hard to understand or explain? Try living dead center of one. Particularly during the "most wonderful time of the year" when family and supposed loved ones gather to celebrate.

Or, if you happen to be the artist among them, silently commiserate. With yourself. In virtual hiding.

One of the best Thanksgiving articles I've ever read was a New York Times piece tagged with the hilarious title "The Annual Gathering of Tension." And family gatherings will always guarantee tension, that's for sure. That unmistakable feeling of unspoken words hanging in mid-air whenever you enter (or leave) a roomful of relatives. Accompanied by the thought is it me, am I being paranoid, or is my sixth sense picking up on the reality of the situation? 

Then again, that "desire to hide" is pumping up your sweat glands, firing neurons in your brain, and activating the fight or flight response, so it's probably a combination of all of the above. The desire to communicate accompanied by the desperate desire to just get the hell out of an uncomfortable situation and find the nearest rock to dive under and stay there until the coast is clear.

When you're still of a tender age, you can handle the stress of communicating, if only to have a sense of belonging. As the years pile up, though, safety and peace of mind take precedence and you no longer care about "belonging"...you just want to get through the day sans sweating, and the excruciating exhaustion of small talk when all you want, to quote Simon & Garfunkel, is "the sound of silence."

"Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again. Because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping. And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains within the sound of silence..."

Which leads us back to "something hard to understand or explain." 

Yeah, that about covers it. And then some.

So, this Thanksgiving, I give thanks to D.W. Winnicott for allowing something hard to understand or explain to be understood. And explained.

Peaceful Thanksgiving!

NAH!

One Christmas, not so long ago, in an effort to finally receive a gift that a) I could actually use, and b) wasn't already predestined for the Goodwill donation bin, I thought it would be a good idea to suggest to a cousin a gift that I could really use.

"How about all of you chip in" (said I) "and get me one present ~ a digital camera ~ instead of everyone buying individual gifts?" Again, said I silently, "most of which I can't use or wouldn't be caught dead wearing."

"NAH!" was her delicate and sensitive response.

NAH?? WTF? This, from a cousin (and family) upon whom I lavished gifts over the years/decades ~ and not just gifts, but presents in which I invested a lot of thought and care so the recipients would not only be happy to receive them but also be able to use...from color to fabric to practicality to personalized artwork, not a stone went unturned before a final decision was made. I cared not that I was racking up credit card bills that would eventually render me bankrupt. This was Christmas and a family that I loved, who cared if I couldn't afford the million gifts I brought to them every year?

And after all of that, I receive NAH! in response to a simple request?? Anyone else shaking their head in disbelief or am I just a bit hypersensitive?

It took me a (long) while but I finally smartened up and began buying for myself what I needed and wanted, and stopped the insanity of giving so much more than I ever received. Besides, Christmas is supposed to be about giving, not receiving, and no one embraced that belief more than I did. Obviously.

The end result was a general boycott of all things Christmas, to the point that I preferred staying home alone rather than sharing a most special holiday with a bunch of insensitive, self-centered and selfish people, family or not.

The first Christmas  I did that, I received a call from the matriarch of the bunch: "Paula, no one should be alone on Christmas Day...please come over."

To which I replied: "NAH!" 

THE WILD, WILD (DIRTY) AMERICAN WEST

"Clean water extra"...?? How disgusting! So if a person doesn't have "extra," that means you get to bathe in somebody else's dirty bath water? And, if clean water was such a rare commodity, what on earth does that say about laundry facilities and clean clothing?

All together now: EWWWWWWWW!

As a kid growing up on 1950s (sanitized) television shows and cowboy movies, I ~ like so many other kids ~ had a romantic vision of what the 'Old West' must have been like. Sure, it seemed romantic ~ wide open spaces, stage coach travel, saloons filled with good-looking, rootin' tootin' cowboys ~ who could want for anything more?

It was quite a rude awakening to discover the UNsanitized version and totally different story it presented. What I never realized was how downright dirty those times were. Depending on the weather, those packed dirt streets were either in your-face-and-throat dust or swampy, soggy mud that left a thick coating on anything that touched it...including those long dresses worn by women of  that time. How attractive!

Spittoons were also a common factor of the day. All those hits and misses leave me gagging at the thought of what the floors must have been like...one big slimy ash tray.

And the prevalence of body odor had to have given rise to a whole new industry: anti-antiperspirants and deodorants. Good old American ingenuity.

So, Cole Porter's "give me land, lots of land under starry skies above, don't fence me in" was just another way of saying "you smell, your habits are abominable, stay far away from me!"

Happy trails to you...and if we do ever meet again, for God's sake, please have that "extra" for clean bath water!

"NEITHER A BORROWER NOR A LENDER BE"

Often attributed to Benjamin Franklin, this wise quote is actually the property of William Shakespeare.

"Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry." ~ Polonius, Act I, Scene 3, Hamlet

Ah, yes, and in hindsight, even more so. Number One on that list would be, of course, money. Running a close second? A favorite book. Following those two list-toppers would be household items. "Okay if I borrow your...?" and whatever it may be, you can almost count on never seeing it again. So how does one say NO without risking a friendship? Well, would you rather risk losing any of the afore-mentioned or a friendship? Depends on what they're asking to 'borrow' and on what kind of friendship it is.

I've been on the loan/losing end far too many times to count. Money, favorite books, household items, not even Amazon.com would be able to replace all that has been lost over the years. Which pisses me off because I am the kind of person who would never not return a borrowed item. And if I couldn't return the original, then I'd make damned sure I returned a replacement.

If the borrowed item is money, prepare to spend a lot of time (and even more money) on court appearances and fees. And even if you "win" in civil court, the job of collecting what's owed falls on you. Try making sense of that. Okay, I won, so how do I collect what's been judged to be mine? "We can't force him to pay you..." Well, what the hell is the point of asking a judge to decide what's rightfully yours, win, and then still be left wanting? What do I do now, round up a posse and, with flaming torches, go after the villain myself? In which case, I would probably be arrested for violating a borrower's 'civil rights.'

Which only reinforces the quote about borrowing and lending. As for saying NO and risking a friendship, I offer another quote: "Forewarned is forearmed." And what is it about N-O that you don't understand, anyway?

Whoops, there goes another questionable friendship. KER-PLOP!

 

BOOMERANGST*

The Scream ~ Edvard Munch

*A once-in-a-while blog/column covering the common angst of Baby Boomers (we're not all dead yet) in a drastically changing world. If Edvard Munch were alive today, his famous painting would have to be altered to something unrecognizable.

VOICE MAIL: THE RUINATION OF CIVILIZATION

The absolutely worst techno-invention in the history of the world. Two recent attempted telephone contacts left my brain feeling like it was trapped in a kaleidoscope gone berserk.

Example #1: Attempting to reach AARP...and don't you just love the way their little packets instantaneously appear in your mailbox the very second you turn 50 years of age? Do they have disenfranchised Santa Claus elves working around the clock, just waiting to drop-ship those things, informing us that we have one foot in a cemetery plot and the other on a 50,000 gallon oil spill?

Well, wasn't I surprised to find that AARP ~ whose core membership is comprised of mostly technologically-challenged seniors and/or "retired persons" (as if anyone can retire these days) ~ is utilizing uber-sensitive, voice activated voice mail! "Voice activated" meaning that, if you clear your throat, put down a cup of coffee, or a fly buzzes by, the AARP robot sweetly informs you "I'm sorry, I didn't understand your response. Let's start over, shall we?" and it's back to Square One for the second, third or fourth time...if you haven't already SLAMMED down the phone in total exasperation and resemble a latter-day model of Mr. Munch's The Scream.

"I JUST WANT TO TALK WITH A REAL, LIVE #!!***##!! PERSON!!"

Example  #2: Calling my local telephone provider and discovering that they too are now utilizing voice mail, including the afore-mentioned voice-activated version of same! Pardon me, but you are the TELEPHONE COMPANY. Why would a communications business require robots to answer the very people who subscribe to their services?? They also ask that you "please speak or push the corresponding digits" of the number about which you are calling. And then, when you've finally found your way through the labyrinth of voice mail features to a breathing human being, you are asked AGAIN to  provide the same information. WTF?

Most voice mail systems also have robots informing you that your call "may be recorded for quality assurance. Really? Do these companies ever listen to their recordings?

My favorite, though, is the computer-generated message "All of our operators are busy now. However, your call is very important to us, so please continue to hold. Thank you for your patience." Patience? Assuming a lot there, aren't they? And if my call is so "important" why don't they hire MORE PEOPLE to cover their call volume?

Guinness, take note: This is one technological "advance" that can easily take the title for Worst Invention In The History Of The World.

Pardon me while I scream...

CHICLET TEETH, TRANSVAGINAL MESH AND BOUNCING BLADDERS

Lately, it seems like the pharmaceutical industry is going absolutely bonkers with new products (which generate new, and quite unusual lawsuits) and either too-much-information and/or ridiculous commercials featuring an animated bouncing bladder (boing!) complete with skinny arms and legs to accompany its poor sufferer, as it's pushing the latest drug for leaky bladders.

Does anyone really believe that whiter-than-white teeth are in the least bit convincing? "Wow, your teeth are just gleaming! Did you include them in your last laundry load of bleached whites?"

But if you happen to have a filling or some other imperfection in your old teeth, guess what? When your post-yellow teeth resemble a new  package of peppermint Chiclets, those old problems kind of resemble the above photograph...snow white with your very own unique pattern of discolored polka dots mixed in.

As for transvaginal mesh lawsuits, please! I don't even want to know what that's about. But, along with Big Pharma's relentless commercials, every greedy law firm in America is bound and determined to inform every last one of us exactly what it is.

Aside from yellow/white teeth, I am not, in any way, shape or form, making light of the very real problems of transvaginal mesh deterioration (is that what it's about??) and faulty bladder issues. However, these snippy-snappy, blunt, in-your-face days really cause me to long for a time when such things were only discussed in the privacy of a physician's office, and not obnoxiously advertised on television every single commercial break.

Archie Bunker had a point as he cried out "AW, JEEZ!" whenever a delicate subject matter was embarrassingly brought up in mixed company.

I just feel sorry for parents who watch TV with their kids these stupid TMI days. "Mommy, can I have a bouncing bladder for Christmas? And can my Barbie Doll be fitted with deteriorating transvaginal mesh so Ken can be a lawyer and we can play make-believe court lawsuits??"

No! But go chew some Chiclets and wait for your teeth to turn make-believe white.

AW, JEEZ!!!

I'M OLDER THAN YOU, I DON'T NEED YOUR ADVICE!!

If you happen to be born with a sibling already in existence prior to your arrival, particularly a sibling who may be just a tad on the demented side, chances are you may have been on the receiving end of those endearing words.

You may have also been the recipient of unsolicited (and unwelcome) advice too many times to count.

Ever notice how that very same sibling just gushes, like a newly discovered oil well, with advice they never seem to heed themselves?

That brilliant battle cry is "I'M OLDER THAN YOU, I DON'T NEED YOUR ADVICE!" 

Say what? Since when does a few extra years on this planet automatically (and permanently) make the younger child the dumb one in need of 'mature' guidance and the older one oh-so-much-wiser? Perhaps in the early years when a tiny and vulnerable brain has not yet matured and gained the ability to come to its own conclusions. But decades later? Something is seriously amiss here...

Age does not necessarily equal wisdom, as so many of us have discovered in our journey through this thing called life. Wisdom is earned ~ through every experience of misguided trust, a broken heart, shattering disappointments ~ as well as the many positive adventures that eventually combine to make a human being the sum total of their parts. And whatever the road taken to arrive at that final destination, it is a road best traveled alone for the most part, not with an older brother or sister negatively interfering every step of the way.

So, for every older and know-it-all sibling out there, you may want to consider the words of Bob Dylan:

"Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now..." 

And if that doesn't make sense to you, here's another Bob Dylan quote:

"Go away from my window, leave at your own chosen speed. I'm not the one you want, babe, I'm not the one  you need..." 

Time to rewind your own tape and start all over again!

AUTUMN...BEAUTIFUL BUT BITTERSWEET

Autumn is upon us once again, and with it, all the attendant emotions of yet another year coming to an end.

"And the days dwindle down to a precious few, September, November..."

Gone are the days when, walking to grammar school, I'd head for the biggest pile of fallen leaves I could find and delight in the crisp crunch of dried and discarded leaves beneath my schoolgirl shoes. Back when all of life was ahead, not behind, and those leaves signaled the advent of a new season ~ something to look forward to with the innocent thrill of childhood, and not that unsettling lurch in one's tummy ~ the very definition of bittersweet ~ wondering just how many more autumns, and piles of leaves, we have left in our lives?

I was always emotionally torn about my birthday falling in early October. Yes, it's a beautiful season; but that beauty soon turns to the cold and dreary days of winter. I've often wondered how differently I'd feel about turning another year older if, instead, I'd been born in spring or summer, both seasons signaling the beginning of something sweet and warm? Would I celebrate it differently, feeling joy rather than that vague but deep melancholy sadness that seems to have accompanied just about every birthday for as long as I can remember?

Ah, but that is not for us to question for there is nothing we can do about the  date of our entry into this world. We can only wonder, and guess. And remember...

"And these few precious days I'll spend with you, these precious days I'll spend with you..." 

CREATIVE PEOPLE, ONE TO TEN

As to number 1:
...yup, which is why my mind is already restlessly moving on to the next blog subject.

Number 2: 
Ah, but those risks are so much easier when they're taken at a decidedly younger age.

Number 3:
But we were rewarded for coloring inside the lines back when we were just learning the basics of coloring. Hey, we wuz robbed!

Number 4:
Herein lies the heart that has been mercilessly trampled upon for thinking with it and not taking better care to protect it.

Number 5:
Mistakes? MISTAKES?? My life is a monument to "mistakes" ~ if I charged admission for this questionable monument, I'd be having tea with Bill and Melinda Gates on a regular basis.

Number 6:
I was born hating the rules. Hated them as a kid, adolescent, adult. And still hate 'em now. Which explains my troubled life.

Number 7:
Too independent for my own damned good.

Number 8:
Who, me, change my mind? At least 60 times in the space of one minute might be the record-breaker. Guaranteed to drive the obsessive-compulsive among us stone cold nuts.

Number 9:
"Have a reputation for eccentricity" ~ maybe, if 'eccentricity' equals my early life label, 'weird.' Hell, it's better than being predictable. And boring.

 Number 10:
Absolutely big. HUGE. HUMONGOUS. Grandiosity reigns supreme. Dream small, you get small. Dream big, hey, who knows...?

This blog, since its inception, has reached in excess of 10,000 hits worldwide. Never would have happened without somebody dreaming BIG!

Okay, I'm bored now. NEXT.

PARDON ME, IS THAT AN OSTRICH ON YOUR HEAD??

Or a hat? Good grief! What on earth were American women thinking at the turn of the 20th century? It's no wonder they had to fight for the right to vote. They probably couldn't fit their heads into the voting arena.

It's one thing to be a slave to fashion; quite another to adorn oneself to resemble Big Bird or perch an overflowing cornucopia on top of your body in order to be stylish. And that's not including the torture-chamber corsets that made their waists an impossibly tiny size, and the bustle-backed gowns...how did they sit in those things, on whoopee cushions?

Our Victorian Era sisters could not possibly have been comfortable even if they were snazzy. Those high-necked dresses and wrist-covering sleeves in the hot, sticky heat of summer? The dainty parasols that inevitably accompanied their outfits? They may have blocked the sun but they sure couldn't cool off much else.

I guess it was either that, or go for refreshing comfort ~ forfeit any chance of a 'good reputation' and become a dance hall girl.

Wait...what? And what would the lovely lady above have asked about our fashion styles??

Pardon me, is that a beehive gone berserk on your head???

No, I'd have to respond. It's actually Diana Ross and ALL of the Supremes sitting atop my silly 17-year-old head, circa 1964.

I stand corrected!

MICK JAGGER WAS RIGHT!

"What a drag it is getting old..."

If the person who coined the brilliant phrase "golden years" is still around, he/she should be pummeled into a state of unconsciousness. More like the "rust years" if you ask me.

Your gears creak and groan, your head decides to shed its hair, sending it to decidedly less attractive places (like your face, ears and nostrils) and the attendant creases and wrinkles of too many suntans and dumb decisions, made during the years of arrogant and cocky youth, slowly wend their way throughout your body until you begin to resemble crepe paper. Oh, and let's not forget that your thickening mid-section slowly turns you into Humpty Dumpty's twin. What's so golden about that?

In addition, varicose veins cause your legs to resemble a map of the NYC subway system. You gain a painful understanding of how and why the expression "old bat" came into being because all you have to do is raise your old arms and flaps fall down, enabling you to fly. Charming. Oh, and let us not forget "old age spots," formerly known as liver spots, appearing all over your body. UGH.

My generation, the infamous Baby Boomers, may take cold comfort from the fact that so many of us are experiencing the same thing simultaneously. And I still think Mick Jagger, James Taylor, Neil Young, et al. are hot sexy guys, even if they continue to command young chicks, perhaps more attracted more to their power/money than their wrinkled countenances, as we old chicks/broads rapidly fade into oblivion.

It is said that "with age comes wisdom." But, if I had my druthers, I'd rather be young and stupid and be able to glance at a mirror and without cringing at the sight.

Easily understood, then, why...

"Mother needs something today to calm her down,
And though she's not really ill, there's a little yellow pill,
She goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper . . .

Doctor please, some more of these,
Outside the door, she took four more
What a drag it is getting old!"

Thanks for the warning, Mick. Too bad we were too young (and dumb) to believe it at the time.

"WEATHERWISE, IT'S SUCH A LOVELY DAY..."

Thanks to Frank Sinatra, Jimmy Van Heusen and Sammy Cahn, that line from "Come Fly With Me" will always be remembered when discussing the weather.

And if there is one thing people around the world have in common, it's weather...cold, hot, miserable or lovely, we all share it, like it or not.

Having just survived a dreadful spell of heat + humidity, while my best friend lives in the 'dry' heat of Arizona, got me thinking about this universal collaboration. I once told another desert-dweller "Well, it's dry heat, so it can't be as bad as humidity, right?" He told me to turn on my oven to 120 degrees, wait 5 minutes and then open the door. "It's still hot, isn't it?"

Well, yeah, but what's better? Dry heat/oven temperature, or slimy humidity that makes your skin feel like it's sliding off into the vat of heated Crisco where your entire body is submerged? Think I'll take the desert.

So, if you're into cool weather, Siberia, Alaska and northern Canada come to mind, to name a few. If you like it hot sans humidity, there's Death Valley, the afore-mentioned Arizona and surrounding states (ie, Texas, Nevada, New Mexico.) If you really do like heated humidity, try southern Florida, Mississippi, Alabama, Louisiana, et al. And if you prefer variety, you can find it in California, with its ever-present threat of earthquakes, drought, wildfires/monsoon rains, or New York City and its four seasons of bitter cold, sweltering summers exacerbated by cement and tar-covered streets, and MIA spring/autumn.

"Just say the word and we'll beat the birds down to Acapulco Bay..."

Don't mind if I do!

MIND OUT OF TIME

(Title inspired by Bob Dylan's brilliant Grammy award winning-recording, "Time Out Of Mind.")

Ever feel like you were born in the wrong time and place? More specifically, in the wrong era? I sure do. Having just watched an old "Cold Case" episode that took place in 1943, dead center of World War II, I found myself longing for that time, ardently wishing I could have been a part of it.

There are some who believe that identifying with a specific time and place means that you lived it in another life. May be, who knows? It's not exactly deja vu, but rather a will-o'-the wisp daydream that results in one's heart pining for the simplicity and innocence of what came before you.

The fashions, the hair styles, the music, the dances...oh what a time it was! Victory Gardens, the emergence of "Rosie the Riveter" and women, most for the first time, working outside the home, our "boys" fighting the good war overseas, people pulling together for the greater good, it was a time in America's history that, sadly, will never be repeated.

Of course, it was a time of hardship, too, and of heartache for all the families who suffered the unspeakable loss of one (or more) of their own in a foreign land. And it forever changed America, robbing it of its righteousness and chastity, paving the way for the cynicism and distrust that followed the "last necessary war" as Ken Burns' documentary interpreted it many years later. Before the powers-that-be of this country realized that war = money and turned us into a nation of all war, all the time.

But I stray from the original reason for this piece. I was born one year after the official end of World War II and fully embraced my own generation's joy and angst that accompanied the sea changes following that war. I loved rock & roll, identified with disenfranchised youth (Marlon Brando, James Dean) and celebrated the Sixties' social revolution that upended every belief of the generation before mine. And now that I am older, and wiser, I have come to understand the distress and enormous loss that earlier generation must  have felt as their simple and innocent world slowly disappeared. Much like the relative innocence of the Fifties faded as compared to the deeply troubled times of today.

I may continue to leap up and dance to my generation's music, but I'd much rather do the Lindy (or the Jitterbug) to the sweet sounds of the Big Band music that personified a wonderful era, now all but forgotten except by those who remember it, even if they weren't  part of it...

"STRONG FOR TOO LONG..."

It's no secret among my family and friends that I've struggled with depression most of my life.

When, in my 20s, I could find no comfort, my dear friend Ginny told me, "Paula, when you break a leg or an arm, people can see the cast and sympathize. But when your heart or mind is broken, they can't see it, and are unable to understand." I never forgot the wisdom of her words.

I was diagnosed with "major clinical depression" at age 19, but it started long before then.

My very first memory of crying due to depression was when I was only 5 years old. It was Christmas night, my aunt and cousins had left for home, and all the joy of the season also left my heart. My father came into my room and said quite harshly, "Why are you crying??" I did not understand my own feelings, so I told him how sad I felt that Christmas was over. He snapped at me, "Well, STOP it or I'll really give you something to cry about." I was confused and terribly frightened, but it did not make me stop crying. I just learned to do it quietly, face smashed into a pillow or some place where they couldn't see or hear me.

Italian families tend to view crying as "weakness." Then I stumbled upon this quote by Johnny Depp, and realized how right he is. Afraid to anger my family, or be the victim of their mockery, I tried to be "strong" and deal with it by myself. But, by the time I was 19 years old, I knew that if I did not seek professional help, I was going to be in big trouble...another sad statistic.

I clearly remember, in 1969, standing on West 57th Street in NYC on a frigid winter day, waiting for the bus that would take me to my first appointment with a psychiatrist, and violently shaking all over...not just from the cold, but also because I was filled with fear about what I was going to do. Upon my arrival, a very kind woman interviewed me, and asked why I was there. When I tried to explain my family background, I could not get a word out ~ just deep, heaving sobs that would not stop for over a half hour. The woman said, "That's okay, you don't have to explain anything right now, just get all that pain out."

Later on that year, somehow my father found out that I was seeing a psychiatrist and snarled at me, "You're going to wind up just like Rico." My mother's brother, my much-loved Uncle Rico, had returned from World War II a shattered soul. When he could no longer take the flashbacks and horrific memories, he committed suicide in 1964. Five years later, and I was given the same death sentence by my own father because he could not tolerate the "shame" of having his child require psychiatric care. Not long after that, he told me to leave home,that he did not want me there any longer.

And so I did, and my first roommate was the aforementioned friend, Ginny. When I visited my parents, my father looked through me, as though I were a plate of glass. He was furious that I had moved out and, again, "shamed" him in what was then an Italian-American neighborhood where "good" girls did not leave home unless they were in a bridal gown. Didn't matter that he told me to leave, even if it was a bluff. I called him on his bluff, and did not deserve to be acknowledged.

The very worst thing anyone can tell a person suffering from depression is "SNAP OUT OF IT!" And that is all I ever heard from my mother...as though I could just snap my fingers and my heart (and mind) would be healed.

I'm sorry to say that it just doesn't work that way. A kind word, a hug, some sort of understanding does so much more than the dismissive "snap out of it" which reduces one's suffering to almost nothing.

So, from age 5 to my present age, 67, I continue to seek help, but not all the professional help and new medications in the world can erase the agony of a broken heart because of a terrifying childhood.

And, once again, I remember Vincent Van Gogh...

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN...?

This photo was taken at Kensico Dam, upstate NY in 1965 by my very first "serious" boyfriend, initials R.A. I was 17 years old when we first met, and he was 22...impossible to imagine, even more impossible to forget.

At that time, we were crazy in love, but how can anyone that young even begin to know what "love" really is?

We only dated approximately 1-1/2 to 2 years; it was a troubled relationship, filled with arguments, mutual antagonism and unnecessary provocation, even a touch of violence...something, given my background, I could not, would not tolerate. And so, sadly, we broke up.

But now, almost 50 years later, bittersweet memories of those sunlit, happy days come flooding back into my mind, along with the question, what might have been?

We stayed in touch even after breaking up, until one day he told me he wanted to "settle down and have children" and did not want me to interfere with the new relationship he was cultivating at the time. Still, when I heard the news that he had gotten married around 1971-2, it hit me hard, like a punch to the heart. We had once loved each other, how could he just plan to marry someone for the sake of "settling down"? I refused to marry anyone until I was 48 years old, smack dab in the middle of an emotional breakdown. Needless to say, that didn't last long...all of 7 weeks.

But one night around 1975-6, I was living alone in a sweet little Riverdale apartment when the intercom alerted me to a visitor downstairs. To my enormous surprise, it was R.A. and his best friend, Bobby. They were looking for someone else and noticed my name listed among the building's residents. As they explained, they looked at each other and said "could it be??" And so it was. It was a happy visit, and I was sincerely glad to see them both again.

After that, R.A. continued to stay in touch, if sporadically. He had moved upstate with his family, but always called when he traveled to NYC, and sometimes we'd get together for lunch or a walk along the boardwalk of a local beach, or just visit at my home. Nothing romantic, just old friends getting together to share memories, talk and laugh.

Then, one day in 1992, he called and there was an urgency in his voice that I could not ignore. We made a date for him to come visit, and he brought along a still-unreleased recording by Amy Grant (for whom he was working at the time) titled "I Will Remember You." At his request, I listened, not really hearing the words until he was gone. That night, I played the tape again and my heart broke into a million pieces...

I will be walking one day down a street far away, and see a face in the crowd and smile,

Knowing how you made me laugh, hearing sweet echoes of you from the past,

I will remember you...

Look in my eyes while you're near, tell me what's happening here, see that I don't want to say goodbye

Our love is frozen in time, I'll be your champion and you will be mine,

I will remember, I will remember you

Later on when this fire is an ember, later on when the night's not so tender, given time though it's hard to remember, darling, I will be holding, I'll still be holding you,

I will remember you

So many years come and gone, and yet the memory is strong, one word we never could learn...goodbye.

True love is frozen in time, I'll be your champion and you will be mine

I will remember you

So please remember

I will remember you
I will remember you...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RAolVR5qHRw

If my heart "broke into a million pieces," how must he have felt when I "listened" but just did not hear what he was trying to tell me until he was gone, this time forever?

It is said that first loves are never forgotten. They're tucked away into a corner of one's heart, like a scrapbook, and taken out every so often to 'remember.' 

So, my dear R.A., my very first serious boyfriend, if by chance you are reading this some day, please know that I do still love you and always will. And I am so very, very sorry for not being old enough, wise enough, and sensitive enough to hear the poignant words you wanted so much for me to understand.

You told me that, when you first heard this song, you told Ms. Grant "Amy, you just wrote the story of my life."

It is now also the story of my own...

THE UNCOMMON COLD

Okay, before you start looking like freaking Rudolph, you awake one night to the feeling that someone has struck a match at the back of your throat.

AAAGGGHHH, is this a cold coming on??

If you're able to fall back to sleep with your throat on fire, you'll wake up the next morning semi-deaf, and sneezing your brains out. Oh, it is, indeed, a cold. Lucky me!

"Common" or not, it's a bitch to contend with because after the deafness comes a complete shutdown of your taste buds. "Oh, was that red-hot tabasco sauce on my scrambled eggs? Why, I didn't taste a thing!"

Then comes the helium balloon-head, attached to your neck by the thinnest of strings. After buying $1,000 worth of cold supplies ~ from nose drops to 'Breathe-Right Strips' (that cause your nostrils to look like red caves...) to 40 boxes of tissues to cough medicine, ad infinitum, your voice becomes either becomes thick and raspy or disappears altogether.

But people say "You sound sexy!" Really? Well, I feel like crap on a cracker, but thanks anyway...

And when the cold seems to be on its nasty way out, you develop a hacking cough that could wake up the dead 50 miles away. Charming...

Forget about putting a man on the moon. How is it even possible that we're now able to SKYPE with people around the world, but continue to suffer the common (and uncommon) cold?

There's an old saying about colds..."One week coming, one week with you, and one week leaving."

So far, I'm only into my second day of "with you" and I am not looking forward to what's up next.

If you have a cold, God bless you!  

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

I've always felt an enormous affinity for F. Scott Fitzgerald. Some may say "you may have known him in a former life" and if that were true, I'd be thrilled but humbled. Others, simply that I can identify with his prolific writings.

He not only gave the "Jazz Age" its name, he and wife Zelda Sayre symbolized it. It was a heady time to be young, talented, and in love. It was also a time of tragic artistic dissipation.

I recently came upon a quote from "Babylon Revisited" ~ "Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go according to any rules. They're not like aches or wounds, they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material..." (And if you've ever had a skin split on one of your fingertips, you know how unbearably painful it can be.)

Yet another arrow through my heart. It's been a very long time since I broke away from my natural family, for one reason or another. But time does not do a thing to heal the gaping wound of being a 'man without a country' or, in this case, a woman without a family.

The barbed arrows received from my family are still entombed in my heart. But so is the love I felt for them so very long ago. So the above quote from Mr. Fitzgerald holds true:

All life is just a progression toward, and then a recession from, one phrase--"I love you."

But how do you stop loving people you once adored? And how do you accept the fact that, regardless of how much you loved them, that same love was never returned in its (your own) peculiar intensity?

F. Scott Fitzgerald died at a young age...he was only 44 years old, but drinking (probably to literally drown the inner pain he must have felt) brought him an early death and, I sincerely hope, peace. I envy him that...

As for family, I will end this with another quote from the great Mr. Fitzgerald:

"It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory."

With love, in all its inequality,

Paula

"BECAUSE SOMETIMES, YOU'RE NOT THERE..."

...responded one of my oldest neighborhood friends when I asked why he didn't call more often. Understood. And well appreciated.

But, if he (or you) were inside my head and/or in possession of just some of the memories it carries, I can assure you, none of you would want to "be there" either.

"But Paula, you're such a creative person!" Really? Really? If I had a choice of being "creative" or a complete, talent-less dolt, just take a guess which choice I'd make?

Because, in most cases, with 'talent' comes some form of suffering ~ you think too much, feel too much and too deeply, forever questioning what cannot be answered.
And rarely have the good fortune of making enough money to escape the torment. So you choose to "not be there" more often than not because you just can't be there...the pain can be crushing, which often makes casual conversation impossible.

I once attempted to give an enormously talented and creative person a 'pep talk' to rally him out of his despair. I never forgot his heated answer: "TELL IT TO VAN GOGH!!"

Ah, but Vincent Van Gogh took his own life at an early age...had he stuck around, who knows what could have been? Or is that yet another unanswerable question?

I can only hope that poor Vincent found the peace he wanted...and that he has no way of knowing the obscene amounts of money that are paid for his brilliant work today.

In this world, more often than not, 'creative people' are worth more dead than alive.

A cruel irony if ever there was one...

ECCENTRIC, CONCENTRIC CATS!

Miss Quincy, the Quintessential Cat

Just what is it with cats and beds? How do they find the exact center of the bed, regardless of where you're sleeping, and nestle in, forcing you to navigate every square inch of your own bed in order to be able to fall back to sleep (if you can sleep at all)?

I've slept in so many different positions in order to accommodate Miss Quincy: head on pillow, legs diametrically sticking out of one side or the other; one leg over Quincy, so as not to disturb Her Royal Highness; feet squished into one tiny corner, only to wake up and find she's now confiscated even that limited foot space. One has to be a contortionist to sleep with these little screwballs.

I once had two cats, Francie and Neeley, who became earmuffs on either side of my pillow...and on a hot, sticky, summer night, so it wasn't for the warmth of my head. And my sweet little Joey, who hooked his leg over one of my ankles, just to make sure his rescue from the harsh streets wasn't a dream from which he'd awaken. And Jerry, another desperate rescue, who slept so close to me, we seemed to be purring in rhythm.

I will never understand why some people "hate" cats. To quote Leonardo daVinci, "Even the smallest feline is a masterpiece."

I've known many cats in my time, and I've loved every single one of them unconditionally. And they may not show it, as dogs do, but they return that love ten-fold.

You just have to understand that they're psychological animals, and communicate on a whole different level than other animals. Or as I once saw on a greeting card...

"Cats ~ merely animals, or a higher life form?"

Couldn't have phrased it better myself.

Okay, time to wrestle some bed space from Quincy.....! Good night and GOOD LUCK.

THE BLUES...

The "blues"...a human condition confined to just a select few, or do we all experience that unidentifiable sadness on a somewhat regular basis?

And just how long are the blues supposed to last? A few days, weeks, months...or years on end?

I learned about the blues before I even knew what to call them...from musicians and their music, which I found comforting because I didn't feel so alone.

Then I found out that prolonged blues are called "chronic depression" and that there are magic pills one can take for that particular condition. But is that cheating oneself of an exquisite, if excruciating, life experience or saving oneself the agony of too many blue periods far too many times?

People are quick to give advice about those long stretches of blue periods. "Don't let them get you down" or "This too shall pass" or "It's just part of the human condition, get used to it" etc. etc. etc. And, in some cases, they're correct.

But do they know, deep down inside, the horrific suffering the blues can cause a person's soul...? Do they know that there are days when you'd rather be stone dead than feel that abyss of not knowing when, if ever, they will end? If they did, I don't think they'd be so cavalier about dismissing them.

And then I learned that there is also an explanation for chronic sadness:  Dysthymia.

From the NY Times: "For more than 7 million Americans, life is no bowl of cherries, the glass is nearly always half empty, the clouds have no silver lining. They have a little-known and often medically ignored yet treatable emotional disorder called dysthemia.

Dysthymia (pronounced dis-THIGH-mee-a) is a mild but chronic depression that can spread a veil of sadness over people's lives for years, even decades, seemingly from the cradle to the grave."

From the cradle to the grave ~ I'll say!

So what if those magic pills stop working? What if that "treatable emotional disorder" is, in the final analysis, not treatable at all? What then? Do we just curl up into a ball and hope to die, or keep trying to find yet another magic potion that will cure this monstrous 'disorder'?

I don't have the answer to any of the above questions...just more questions. When-where-how-why?

I'm pretty sure I know the answer to when, where and how. But I'll be damned if I know how to answer why...

"But I could have told you, Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you..." ~ Don McLean, Starry Starry Night.

GRAVEYARDS AND SO MANY STORIES

This may sound morbid to many, but I've always found graveyards to be places of profound peace. And deep reflection.

To know that so many lives were lived ~ with all the accompanying hard times, anguish, and pain ~ and are now resting quietly under the ground, all of their cares and worries over and forgotten, is somehow comforting to those of us who are still part of this world and perhaps suffering the same agonies as they once did.

I think it must be nice, for a change, to have wildflowers growing instead of tears flowing...don't you?

And I do reflect on each and every name I read, their dates of birth and death, and wonder about their lives...were they good people? Were some ever so in love that it bruised their hearts? Did they have children who mourned their loss, mothers, fathers, family...? And were they, too, all gone now, their stories forever buried with them, never to be told? So many lives lived, so many stories untold.

I used to visit Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx a lot, and aside from the famous (and infamous) who are buried there, I once came upon a very old grave; when I read the inscription, I cried...deep heaving sobs. For it was the burial place of a young girl, perhaps four or five years old, and her parents had words inscribed on her headstone that would tear up even the coldest of hearts. And then I thought, "But they're all dead now, gone, and so is that awful pain they felt over losing their child." It was comforting to think that, and allowed my tears to subside.

Because, in the final analysis, that is where we all wind up, be it graveyards or urns or scattered to the winds of time. And even if one is famous enough in this life to leave something behind that will be remembered, does it really matter once we're gone? Or will the passage of time gradually wear away even the most celebrated of names?

I find it very amusing, in a macabre kind of way, to see those enormous mausoleums that are erected in cemeteries, names prominently etched on the front, as though proclaiming to every chance passerby, "Look, I made it! I became rich enough and famous enough to be able to afford a small mansion when I'm gone so I will NEVER be forgotten!"

But you're still dead, aren't you? So mausoleum or tiny ground marker, what's the difference in years to come? Not much, I'd say.

Except for the stories...so very many stories, all dreadfully important to each and every one at some time, only to become distant memories for some, or completely unknown to others.

As for me, I envy those people long gone. I envy the quiet and the peace and the wildflowers growing over their sleeping bodies. And, most days, I long to finally join them.

But Robert Frost was right about "miles to go before I sleep" and so I must wait my turn, and can only hope that it won't be long before I, too, am blessed with eternal peace...









 

I WANT TO GO HOME...

Summer, 1957

...to a time and place that no longer exists except in my memories.

And I want to return to a sweeter, more innocent time of life...when the only thing I worried about was which new song was going to be #1, what color-coordinated outfit I was going to wear the next day, or if I had done my homework correctly.

As you can see by the brick wall behind me in this photo (the front of our building,) we didn't live in a palace, but I never cared about that. In retrospect, the first ten years of my life were the happiest I can remember, and I cannot seem to find even a vestige of that kind of joy any longer. The simplicity of a little red portable radio was all I ever needed...and friends, so very many friends, all scattered to the winds now, if not dead and gone.

This is a very scary world in which to be alone. People think "family" guarantees company or some kind of mysterious and unbreakable bond, something I could never find within my own. I guess I was too much trouble and far too complicated a little person for most people to understand, embrace or tolerate. As I grew older, I'd take my books and walk to Botanical Garden, where I found comfort in reading, animals and nature .Or find solace literally 'up on the roof' where I could be alone with my thoughts, my feelings, and that aching loneliness that began to envelop and haunt my soul every hour of my life.

And as I grow older, I also began to learn how to hide it. I was never much good at doing that, my emotions were too powerful and overwhelming. But I did the best I could until all the tears of those early years came at me like a ferocious tsunami, and irrevocably broke something inside of me.

Most people fear death...not I.

As Katharine Hepburn wisely observed, "If nothing else, it's a long delicious nap."

And if there is a place called 'heaven,' I know precisely where and when mine will be.

And then, at last, I will be home again, free of all the grief and indescribable heartache of this thing called life.

THE AGE OF WEIRDNESS

Having just watched Martin Scorsese's 'The Age of Innocence,' what better title for this, my latest report from outer space?

Once was a time when people used to gather at kitchen tables or in living rooms, and converse. Be it world or local news, cousin Dingbat's engagement, or somebody's day at work, conversing was the act of exchanging information with other human beings via that old-fashioned thing called talking.

These days, everywhere I go, someone has his or her head glued to a damned computer of one kind or another. Visit someone at home? Guaranteed, somebody in the house is zoned out, staring at a computer screen, completely oblivious to the fact that they may have 'company.' Take a walk outside? Tiny little computers in the form of stupid and annoying cell phones, ad infinitum-nauseum. Go shopping? Same scenario. Buses, subways, cars, homes, it truly is like an invasion of brain-dead zombies, unaware of anything that might be going on outside their demented little self-absorbed worlds.

Makes me long for the good old days when television was accused of the same. And although TV was the beginning of the end for civilized behavior, at the very least, one usually watched TV with others.  Now today's idiots get their news, weather, love and "friendship" via computer. They claim to "hate" television, but can somebody tell me what exactly is staring at a monitor all day (and night) long?

"Come look at this with me!" says zombie at computer. NO, how about you TELL me about it over a cup of tea or something to eat?

These sorry-ass weirdos eat-sleep-shit and breathe with their computers by their side. Early morning to late at night...how deranged is that??

I will be one happy soul when I finally get the hell OUT of this world gone completely insane. And if there is an afterlife, hell will have internet and cell phone access.

LITTLE BABY

                                                                                                                 

 

My Bimbo, 1956

It was early summer, 1956. After cajoling me into a trip to the corner candy store to get her favorite treat (chocolate licorice) my mother and I curled up on the sofa to watch "Looney Tunes," a popular children's show hosted by Sandy Becker.

Sandy always talked about animals; that particular night he told his young audience how lucky they were if they had a pet, and how important it was to take good care of it.

My head resting in the crook of my mother's legs, I looked up and quite innocently said "I guess I'm not lucky." Both my parents adored animals, but for some reason we never had a family pet.

That same year, early October, I was playing with my friend Marilyn in the courtyard of our apartment building when my father suddenly appeared. "C'mon, kid, let's take a walk." Sensing his good mood, I asked "Where to?" and he answered, "Sears & Roebuck for your birthday present." My tenth birthday was approaching. A devoted rock & roll kid, I had asked for a portable radio (if I couldn't have a puppy.) It looked like the radio won, but I was still excited. I parked my doll carriage in the alcove near the building's entry steps, asked Marilyn to please watch it until I returned, and set out with my father for the long walk along Fordham Road to Sears. I was always happy to be with my father when he wasn't angry.

We chatted along the way. Suddenly, I noticed a dog sitting in a parked car, window slightly open. Always unable to resist any living creature, I ran to the car to play with it. When I returned to my father's side, I again told him how much I wanted a puppy and did he think we could ever have one? "That's up to your mother," he replied. I drew in my breath and said, "But Mommy said it's up to you!" He noncommittally answered, "We'll see." I could feel my heart jump with promise!

We were close to our destination when we came to a pet shop opposite Fordham University. There were puppies in the store window and, like a magnet, I was drawn to them, mesmerized. Peripherally, I noticed my father entering the shop but I stayed by the window a little longer and then followed him inside, mystified as to why he had gone in. As I entered, I heard "Oh, and this must be the birthday girl!" The woman at the counter was speaking as she walked over to a holding cage, tenderly picked up a tiny black Cocker Spaniel puppy and put him into my arms. He was all over me, licking my face, wiggling up on to my neck! I was totally confused, still thinking of the portable radio, when she and my father told me that my real birthday present was the puppy. The intense joy of that moment still lives in my heart.

My father and I walked back home, the puppy bundled in my arms all the way. I couldn't wait for my friends to see him.

The first week he was with us, he didn't have an official name. My mother, sister and I all contributed ideas but my father recalled a beautiful Boxer he befriended at a family picnic who had the unusual name of 'Bimbo.' And that is how Bimbo got his name. (In those days, the word did not have the negative connotation of today. Loosely translated from the Italian 'bambino,' bimbo is actually an affectionate nickname for a little baby.)

Anyway, it was my job to walk him ~ he was the family pet, but my present ~ and he loved to snuffle in the snow. One winter morning, about 15 months later, we awoke to one of those huge 1950s blizzards I remember so well. I dressed Bimbo in his little red turtleneck sweater, and we went for a walk up the block where there were enormous snowdrifts. I picked him up so he could dive into the snow and then come snuffling back out so we could do it over and over again.

A week or so later, Bimbo began having convulsions. We took him to a veterinarian, Dr. Fletcher, who said it was some sort of rare blood disease that had attacked his brain. Completely panic-stricken, I overheard him telling my father, "Only one out of ten dogs survive this, he really should be put to sleep." I screamed out, "What if he's the one dog who survives? You can't just kill him without giving him a chance!" The vet said they'd keep him for a couple of days' observation, and hope for the best.

It was a cold and gray Saturday morning when we returned to the vet's office to pick up Bimbo. I had taken a plaid woolen blanket to keep him warm on the way home. I guess they placated me, allowing him to come back home, but he suffered four more convulsions that night.

The next morning, my sister and I were reading the Sunday comics when, as he was leaving for the vet's office, my father asked, "Aren't you going to say goodbye to Bimbo?" I thought he meant "until he comes home again" so I patted him on the head and said, "Good luck, Bim."

The next day, February 11, 1958, I arrived home from school and everyone was in the kitchen, very quiet and solemn. I asked, "How's Bimbo?" and my mother, sobbing, told me that he had another convulsion at the hospital and didn't survive. (With great kindness, everyone was sworn to secrecy that Bimbo was euthanized. I didn't find out the truth until I was 21 years old and a neighbor slipped and that's when I learned what I had long suspected.)

Unable to stand the pain, I ran out, first down to the cellar of our building where I could be alone, and then up the block to an open lot, where I sat on a big rock and cried and cried until I was so cold, I had to go back home. As I looked around at all the places Bimbo had made his own, the emptiness was unbearable. I remember my father leaving for work that night, crying as if he had lost a child. I was angry with God but my mother explained that maybe a young child in heaven wanted a pet, and so He chose Bimbo. When I went into the bathroom to get ready for bed, I saw my red and swollen eyes in the mirror and asked God, "But why did you have to take my puppy?"

A few weeks later, I was walking to the public library for a school project and saw an elderly gentleman with a black Cocker Spaniel. I played with him and quietly said, "Bimbo? Bimbo?" If he responded to his name, I was just going to have to tell that man that he was my dog, and I had to take him. (I fantasized that maybe he had escaped from the animal hospital and somebody found him, maybe he really didn't die...) But the dog did not react, so I sadly abandoned my plan.

I think that was my first experience with a shattered heart. I can still feel the anguish, a lot of it due to feeling responsible for his illness...maybe playing in the snow that morning caused him to get sick. In reality, it was distemper, and I never forgave the vet who told us that he had "all his shots."

And  to this day, every February 11th, I still cry as I remember my little baby, Bimbo.