Last blog from Paradise

The last thing I should be doing is writing, but shoulds should be eliminated.(Yes, I meant it to read that way)

Packing day, beautiful, sunny in the 80's, much like NY City.

Skip enjoyed his Jet Blue plane trips and time with his kids in MA. He is off at the Waffle House with Kay and Neil for breakfast. I just successfully balanced my checking account. I'm about to clean out the refrigerator, except for dinner stuff, throw or pack clothes, books, papers and collectibles into bags. If the Buick is overwhelmed there is always UPS, a route many people take.

If there were only more time...... I'd photograph some wonderful, (recent purchases are always wonderful, aren't they?,) in-expensive, but can't-live-without purchases. The fake snowy owl, looking like a stuffed owl, probably made out of pigeon feathers, with bright yellow eyes, perched on a fake log. ($15.00) It replaces or stands in for the painting that hung in the kitchen at 11 Spruce, the Beardsell of the Snowy Owl, primitive style, not exactly folk art. I think Virginia Beardsell was a trained artist. I hoped the family would leave a couple of her paintings, but I understand why they didn't. A WELCOME ABOARD life preserver, priceless, but actually ten or fifteen bucks. Other five to fifteen dollar items. The Weiner-mobile plastic bank was a great find. Years ago, in the 70's when I was collecting stuff, good stuff, postcards, photo cards, photographs, books, etc. a friend and I opined about the fact that someday people would be collecting plastic.

Back in the 70's postcards could be bought for $0.10, that's right ten cents. Now any slightly interesting card I've seen lately is a few dollars. Never thought I'd be the person talking about the good old days or as it's said now, "In the day." They weren't necessarily good old days. They were simply different days. As in, it is different now than it was then.

Cutting this short. Terrific day alone yesterday birding the North end of Fort DeSoto with many male, hooded (look it up in a bird book to get a visual, Olive back,Bright yellow underneath with a (duh) black hood, yellow cheek patch, much brighter in real life than in books, the contrast between the yellow and black is striking)warblers hopping around on the ground, in the trees at eye level or below. Beautiful views of Prarie warblers, bright yellow black stripes on their sides. White-eyed vireos, male and female. Bald Eagle, yellow crowned Night Heron, Reddish Egret doing its feeding dance, White ibis, wood storks, King birds, a Brown-crested flycatcher, a life bird for me and the best sighting of the day, nearly - a yellow rat snake.

It crawled out from behind a small palm tree, stretched itself across the dirt path many beachgoers were taking to the beach. I took some photos I'd like to send to you, if I only could get this blog/photo thing to work. I guarded the snake, knowing some, (I'll try to be nice) "kindly" old guy would come over and try to beat it to death with a stick.

The not-so-kindly grey-haired elderly "gentleman" came over as predicted, picked up a stick and began to poke at the snake. I spoke up, "You wouldn't like someone poking you with a stick, would you?" (I could have chosen my words better, but I was speaking first, thinking later) He looked at me, not too kindly.

He thought it might be poisonous. He was going to save others from getting hurt. I told the man, "This snake has as much right to live as we do. They are beneficial creatures. I don't think it is poisonous. I think we should leave it alone."

He, at his wife's urging went off looking disappointed, his opportunity to help others, poke a snake and who knows what defeated. As he left he said over his shoulder to me, "If someone steps on that snake, gets bitten and dies, it will be your fault."

I said, "That doesn't make a lot of sense."

At that point a nice family arrived, father, mother, a couple of kids. I suggested they walk around the snake. The woman said, "I hate snakes!" Not helpful. Everyone walked around.

As I stood there wondering what I was going to do a man came rushing up in a white shirt all excited. He had seen the snake from a distance. The snake was about three feet long, yellow and brown stripes totally spread across the path, maybe a couple of inches around, sort of. Other people went around, this guy started talking. He used to catch snakes as a kid, brought one in the house which crawled into his mother's bed. he was grounded for two weeks, etc.

Turns out his name is Mark. He's 54. I don't know why he told me that, except he mentioned that in relation to the fact he was out trying to get in shape, doing his "thousand steps" when he was accosted by three black men. "I try not to stereotype ( I think he said), but when that happens......" Luckily, he switched his thoughts back to the snake.

"I can pick it up and get it out of the way, where it won't get hurt," he said. "Hooray," I thought. I like snakes, but I have little expertise picking them up.

He picked up a stick, but he gently persuaded it to move out of the path. I had nudged it's nail to get it to move a little earlier, but it seemed quite content on the white, sand path. The snake coiled up, raised it's head and looked a little threatening. About then a huge truck pulled up with a park worker in it. Mark, optimistic Mark, thought the park guy would come over and help the snake. The park guy didn't like snakes. He was there to cut up some tree that had fallen somewhere nearby.

The snake, which I surmised might be a rat snake, too big for a garter snake, had come out in the sun and it almost looked like it had a diamond pattern inside the brown stripes on its side. "That could by a pygmy rattlesnake," the park worker informed us. "Did you see the signs about rattlesnakes over in the trees?"

I had spent the last two hours walking around in sandals under the trees, looking up at birds, occasionally down to avoid the fire ant mounds. I had seen no snakes and no signs about rattlesnakes. Facing off against a pygmy rattlesnake sounded like a bad idea to me, but Mark was undeterred. "Stay where you are," he shouted, I've got something in the trunk." He ran off. I stood by the snake, out of striking distance, I hoped.

He returned with some snorkel equipment, a white plastic bag and his cell phone. "Would you take a picture of me and the snake?" he asked. "I want to show this to my wife." "Of course, " I replied.

Mark, whose name I did not know yet, positioned himself near, but not too near to the snake. In the view finder of his cell phone I could not see the snake. I told him that. He seemed very dejected. "I'll take some photos with my camera and send them to you," I told him. "Would you?" "Great."

Hoping this was not a pygmy rattlesnake or if it was I was hoping this guy, Mark, was not going to be bitten by it, I positioned myself, as best I could to get the two of them in the photo. I took one, Mark didn't have his glasses, couldn't see in my viewfinder. I took another.

Just after the photo session, a woman approached me, seeing the binos around my neck, my long pants, long-sleeved shirt, etc. "Where were you seeing the long-billed curlew today?" she asked. I told her I remember where it was seen a couple of years ago. She smiled. "There are so many people on the beach I doubt it is in this vicinity," I suggested. She agreed and went off in another direction. She told me it had been sighted two days ago. As she left she said, "Nice yellow rat snake." "Yes!" I thought. None of us will be taken to the ER, at least not from this snake.

About then the snake, without the benefit of Mark's attention, uncoiled and started to slither. I guessed it was a climber. "You're right, You're right!" Mark, who talks as if he's in the middle of an emergency situation at all times and not handling it too well, calm as he was with the snake, sort of. The snake climbed the small palm and started up the oak tree. "Take a picture." Mark nearly shouted at me. Dutifully, I took a photo and a few more for good measure.

Mark gave me his e-mail address when I pulled out pen, paper. "Just like my wife." he said. "She carries everything with her." Turns out he lives in Newburyport, MA. He was married in Hellcamp Swamp on Plum Island where I've done a lot of birding over the years. He's a landscaper with 3/4 of an acre and a small white house he bought a year or two ago. "I waited until I knew I could afford it." He's built a huge butterfly garden everyone is amazed at, besides planting a list of plants he rattled off that didn't even sound vaguely familiar. "I love nature" Mark, picked up his snorkle stuff, his white plastic bag that was going to hold the snake while he transported it over to a more snake-friendly environment and headed for the beach where his wife was probably beginning to wonder what had happened to him. "You made my day," he shouted over his shoulder. I smiled and took one last photo of the snake sprawled across the branches of an overhanging tree, out of sight of beach goers.

Gotta go. Gotta pack. FAN

Truce

After some reflection, not a lot, no input from others, I've decided to establish a Moratorium on negative thoughts about Republicans, members of my family or other families, friends, strangers, etc. This isn't going to be easy. I'm not even sure it is possible to accomplish, but I know it is worth trying.

Negative thoughts, expressions, actions, don't help me on my journey. It is easy to be negative. It is easy to find fault with others or oneself. Complaining doesn't go very far toward solving problems. Thinking of solutions, taking positive steps to solve problems makes more sense to me. Stop bitching and do something!

After making this decision earlier today or yesterday or whenever it was, I was walking through the parking lot at Crescent Beach, Siesta Key, this evening. The beach nominated or designated as the Most Beautiful in the contiguous 48 states recently. It's O.K., but I like Katama or any beach on the South shore of the Vineyard as much or more than Crescent Beach. Crescent Beach is certainly wider. The sand is very fine, like powder almost. I like the sand I grew up with on the North Bluff or South Beach or The Bend before it was replenished.

But I digress. Walking through the parking lot with Kay, soon to be 85, Bradford, I spied a bumper sticker that said, "Think of something to do, Do it and Don't Bitch about it." Right On!

Why do I mention Kay's age? Because at almost 85 she is younger than a lot of people I know who are in their 50's or 60's. I wanted to go the the Sunday drumming event, which I've missed each Sunday. About 2 hours before sunset people arrive at the beach, some with drums, some without. Tonight there must have been a couple of hundred people. More dancing than drumming, but you get the picture. Guys in dreadlocks, women in tie-dye. Men with grey hair, women with jangley stuff around their hips doing a little hip-shaking. Young, teens, twenties, men, women, little kids dancing to the beat of all the drums and percussion instruments. Kay and I stood behind a line of drummers who had their back to us facing the dancers.

A policeman brought a beautiful child about 6 with jet black hair in curls though the crowd carrying her on his shoulder. The drums stopped. She was lost. A call went out, "Is anyone missing this child?" No response. The young girl looked over the heads of the dancers, drummers and bystanders. She was not smiling, but she did not look scared or teary. She looked around, no one came forward. Another call, "Is anyone missing a child?" Finally from the direction of the water past the edge of the on-lookers someone emerged and a cheer went up as the young child was reunited with someone. The drumming began again.

Kay and I bounced gingerly up and down to the music. Too many people around us to really dance. The drumming was pretty monotonous, but very tribal too. As the sun began to set for real we walked away from the crowd to see the large red ball sink into the distant ocean. A few people nearby applauded. The drumming continued. Kay and I both wished we had drums. I began thinking about the kids in NY City who beat on plastic pails with anything they can find. That's what I would like to do. Find a good sized empty plaster pail and hit it with a stick. Maybe I'll try that when I get back to NJ or the Vineyard. Why not? The last thing I need is more stuff. A drum? Buy a drum? I don't think so.

Back to being nice, talking nice, writing nice. Being critical or judgmental? Leave that to the professional critics. Constructive criticism can be helpful, but tearing things or people down might feel like fun, but think again. What does it accomplish? Often tearing others apart serves some people's need to make themselves feel better, but is it constructive or destructive? To others? To oneself?

Good Karma. Don't we all want to have Good Karma, not Bad Karma? The old expression, "What goes around comes around." Be good. Do Good.

Be mean. Say bad things. Think negative thoughts. Take negative actions. It all comes back to bite you, as in Bad karma.

So today Kay went to Sunrise Services out in front of the condos by the large swimming pool. I was invited by a couple of people, but I told them not to count on me. I missed the sunrise by a few minutes. I heard the sun rose out of the fog, looking like it was rising out of the water. Too bad I missed that, but missing the services was a positive for me.

Kay had nothing to do today. Everyone, or nearly everyone here has family visiting so they are occupied. I had planned to go to St. Petersburg today on the last day of the Fernando Botero show. When I found out they had a brunch I asked Kay if she would like to go and she was delighted. I'm not one for going to brunches, but the Museum of Fine Arts in St. Petersburg had their brunch in a lovely setting in the foyer. Napkins the color of Easter Eggs. Lots of food choices. It was leisurely and fun.

After brunch, 11:30 to 1:30, very leisurely, we toured the Botero exhibit. I was totally unfamiliar with his "Baroque World." Born in 1932 in Columbia Botero lives in Paris, New York, etc. etc. Plump, stubby figures are peculiar to his style of painting. Easy to see his influences, spelled out for us by the wall signs. Sculptures in bronze, marble kinda smallish, but large paintings. I love his bold colors, but I'd like to read more about him and his art. I'm not an instant fan, even though I admire many of the artists he admires.

After a tour though the permanent collections we took a drive around the marinas, past the SPYC. Lots of large sailboats docked, not moving on a lovely, warm afternoon. As I walked into one gallery in the permanent collection wing, I found myself facing a painting of a woman standing in front of the Harbor View Hotel in Edgartown. That was a nice surprise! The artist, Joseph Konopka. The women, perhaps his wife, painted in 1969. The painting titled, Harbor View. It consists of a large face-on or front view of the Harbor View from the path to the lighthouse. The Hotel almost overpowers the woman in the foreground, at least for me, whose interest was in the Hotel, not the woman. 1969, the year Kennedy went off the Dike Bridge. Who is Konopka? What was he doing there then? Where is he now?

Gotta go. Always too much to do. I haven't cracked the Times. I'd like to get a look at the 6'8" woman basketball player for Baylor. I need to get up early to get to Fort DeSoto in order to catch warbler migration coming in from the Gulf before the beach goers hit the beach, etc. etc. To say nothing about the amount of packing I need to do. Ouch!

But, I've got to say as easy as it was to get into St. Petersburg, it was not easy getting out of St. Petersburg. Kay and I could not find 275 South. We asked fellows wearing t-shirts lettered, Puerto Rico, who consulted with other Spanish-speakers before directing us around corners, down side-streets, a fellow selling papers on the corner who directed us toward the Tropicana Dome or whateverit is, two cops who looked like they were in the middle of a drug bust- two cruisers, two unmarked cop cars outside a house with red flashing lights on the roofs of the unmarked cars, when I shouted, "We're lost. How do we get to 275 South?" The cop's reply, "We're a little busy here." Then he pointed back toward the way we had come, across Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd., a fellow, who needed to zip up his fly, directed us down an alley, past the piles of clothes on the sidewalk outside a shelter and St. Vincent de Paul donation center, past a very pregnant woman, men sitting in the shade, until finally we found a sign we eventually led us to 275 South.

After a quick swim in the pool, shower, the drumming, sunset and some expresso chip ice cream for dinner, a load of darks in the washer, now the drier it's been a busy day. I'd like to make these posts shorter and more readable, but I don't have the time. FAN

Loneliness

Forget about Hunter and his leather pants, for the moment. Forget about the cocktail party I had on Sunday night for 15 renters and owners here at Sun Rise Cove. I'll get back to those thoughts another day.

Let me tell you what happened to me recently. With any luck I can do this in five minutes. I want to get out to sit and read by the pool while the sun is shining, even though the NW wind is still blowing. Time by the sun is about 3:00 p.m. We leave this Paradise or Hell or Earth-it depends on my thoughts at any particular moment, a week from today.

Really it was a feeling, not a thought, that came over me. Loneliness. Out of the Blue. I haven't felt lonely in a long, long time. I'm not sure what prompted it. It has disappeared, but when it did appear it was, as my father might have said, "A son of a gun."

The last pages of Cheerful Money involve a son/father talk. Tad with his father, Dorie, or Day, as he called him. It was about his father's inability to communicate or his lack of communicating his feelings to his son, an old WASP trait, remoteness. I won't spoil the ending.

After reading the last few pages of the book I thought back on the remoteness of my family, the lack of outward affection, growing up feeling unloved, unwanted. I thought about those things a lot in my twenties. I thought I'd never surmount the loss of my father when I was 10, the only person I was pretty sure loved me. But, all that has been behind me for years. I rarely think about it or when I do I don't get sad. It was simply the way it was. Times change. Parents die. Life goes on.

My friends became my family. "You can choose your friends. You can't choose your family." I found that saying comforting. Often my friends chose me. That isn't always the best way to go about the friend thing.

Skip leaves tomorrow to spend Easter with his family, in this case his daughter, son-in-law, two grandchildren and perhaps his son and his wife and three kids. I'm happy to see him go off and spend some time with them. I am very happy to have some time alone. I grew up alone. I learned to enjoy my own company around my late twenties. My early twenties were not so happy.

Suddenly I realized how all alone I am. My parents are dead. My brother and his wife are dead, this last year. My sister should be dead, (Just kidding) My sister is far away, physically and emotionally. I have no children, luckily. I find my marriage to be more of a caretaking job or maid's job than anything else. Exactly what I always thought about marriage-a bad deal for a woman, at least a traditional marriage.

My husband-of-the- moment's kids, I'm told, I've offended. They are concerned about their father, but, I'm told they think I'm "deranged." I'm not counting on them for any solace. In fact I feel a little like it is Me against Them. Them being my husband and his children.

My friends are far away and have lives of their own. Today none of this sounds bad, but a couple of days ago I was hit with a strong wave of loneliness. After being surrounded by Republicans for two months It is a wonder I'm not certifiable.

Smiling, making conversation with very nice people, people who play tennis, as I do, sit by the pool, as I do, who read the papers or, at least, listen to the news, as I do, isn't so bad. Until those same "nice" people try to convince me there is no such thing as climate change or the health care "bill" is a "disaster." These people are worried about their premiums going up. They are worried they might have to pay more taxes.

What I would like to say to them is one of those pleasing to say things like. "Hello" There are people dying and going bankrupt because they lack health insurance while you sit near the pool complaining about your premiums going up.

Actually, the pleasing thing to say, for me, when confronted with a "I've got mine, How are you doing" kind of Republican who claims to be a Christian, but hopes not to see or hear about the poor, is "Drop Dead." I find that expression hits home with the elderly. They are so close to dropping dead and maybe hyperaware of their mortality or not. Somehow "Drop Dead" might feel as good as a forehand passing shot, but I wouldn't engage in that kind of talk.

A friend, who shall remain nameless, might simply tell the Republican, we won't cooperate, crowd to "Go Fuck Yourself." But I wouldn't say anything like that. I'd be accused of being crude. How crude is it to deny healthcare to 31 million Americans? Or pull up the gangplank after you are safely on the ship. The hand of compassion extended to the poor does not come from any of the Republicans I've met.

And I was doing so well about the divide between Republicans and Democrats. I had decided to call myself Independent so I could vote either way depending on the candidate and what the issues are, but let's face it. Can anyone who is a thinking, feeling human being vote Republican? I know I have lots of friends who do vote Republican. I try to look for the good in them and ignore the Republican in them.

Is there a Republican out there who cares about the poor, the Immigrants, Freedom of Choice, The Bill of Rights, The Constitution? Is there a Republican out there who doesn't live in a gated community? Do any of these Republicans know anyone who is poor or was poor? Perhaps they were once poor themselves. Have they forgotten what that is like? Have they ever lived in an inner city? How would they survive without amenities and The Wall Street Journal?

After this blog I may be feeling a little lonely, as all my Republican friends disown me, but after being among Republicans, mostly, for two months, I'm, quite frankly, sick of being around them. Sick of being nice to people who, I think, aren't very nice to whole sections of the population.

I'll carry on about loneliness later. I'm going for a swim. I'm reading Proust, Swann's Way and The New York Times, that Liberal Rag, taking a break from the Republicans.

FAN

Puttin' On The Blog 3/29

Courier type font today. Because I had to spend the best part of an hour downloading photos from my camera and I only had an hour to spend with the computer, I'll have to make this short, if I only could.

My latest idea for the leather pants? I'll wear them to Allen Whiting's open house, around the first Sunday of July or last Sunday of June or whenever it usually is. Everyone stands, mills around outdoors. Weather could be perfect for leather pants, cool to cold. From my observations over the years women in leather pants do not sit down nor do they want to. Stretch is the problem. Those men and women who wear leather pants and I'm not talking about riding leathers, as in motorcycles, who do sit down - stretched out leather in the rear area. Not good.

These pants are not, Thank God, skin tight. I had a friend, a fellow skier the year I ski-bummed in Vermont, Hunter Eng. Haven't spoken with him in so many years, have no idea what happened to him after he married a woman out on the West Coast. I was invited to the wedding, but couldn't make it. I remember doing an odd thing. I didn't R.S.V.P. in a timely manner, so I thought it logical to call. On his and her wedding day I called whatever number was on the invitation (invitations don't usuallly have phone numbers on them, do they?) and spoke with someone I'd never met or heard of. I wished them well. Funny, I remember where I was standing in the kitchen at 10 Kinnaird ST, Cambridge, but I don't remember much else.

Until I got married I had a real aversion to weddings. (No time to talk about Hunter Eng and his leather pants or how I feel about weddings these days. Later.) I had a real aversion to funerals also. I had to attend my step-father's funeral in 1977, which made it slightly easier to attend my mother's funeral in 1979. I've attended many, many funerals since of people I know/knew and never knew. Being married to a lawyer or attorney, if you prefer, who works with trusts, estates, which encompasses wills makes for attendance at a lot of funerals. At least it did over the last 12 years. Funerals have become much easier to take. Weddings I can usually take them or leave them.

Until my own wedding I didn't understand 1. How much they cost. (ours was remarkably inexpensive. $2,500 tops, I think) compared to people who spend $25,000. What a waste of money, I think, but to each his own. If it takes $25,000 to put on the type of celebration you want and you have the dough - Go for it. I think the money could be better spent on other things, but even people who work in the wedding industry have to make a living, I suppose.

The trouble with weddings or the thing that bothered me about them from the time I had to R.S.V.P. myself was this. You had to get "dressed up". I never liked getting dressed up. I never had anything to wear. I never wanted to spend my money on clothes suitable for a wedding.

Often I suspected the marriage was not going to last. Often they didn't. I didn't see weddings as happy events. I saw them as an end to each person's independence. Why would anyone want to get married? To legitimize the children? IS that necessary? Can anyone really predict and promise they will spend the rest of their lives with one person? At what emotional cost? What about death? Something omnipresent in my life. What about divorce? 50% divorce rate in the US was the statistic I read many years ago.

One of my father's favorite songs played by him on our family piano was, "Wedding Bells Are Breaking Up That Ole Gang Of Mine." I felt the pain in that music when I listened to him play the tune. I was under the age of nine.

Because I wanted to please my friends, they invited me I had to assume they wanted me there, I often would R.S.V.P in the affirmative, but on the day of the wedding I would look in my closet in a panic to find something to put on and find NOTHING TO WEAR. I would stay home rather than embarrass myself, my mother and my friends, by turning up in jeans or a denim skirt, my usual dress. This was my pattern back in the 60's, 70's.

For my family I did show up after the first wedding occurred and I displeased numbers of family. I missed my niece's first wedding because my mother, knowingly or not told me the wrong date. I didn't get an invitation of my own so I had to rely on her to tell me when it was. She told me it was on a Sunday on the Vineyard with the reception at the Harbor View in Edgartown. I thought Sunday was odd, but because I had a job which required me to work every other weekend and couldn't take a day off, easily, I replied to my mother telling her I can't make it.

Imagine my surprise when I was on the Vineyard the next weekend to find out the wedding had been on a Saturday. Duh! I was the only member of the family not there. My grandmother, in her 80's was even there, a big event at the time, and every one else, but me. Running into my brother at the Portuguese Feast was not pleasant. He didn't smile, didn't seem very happy to se me. I never explained to him what happened until the day after my mother died many, many years later. My brother and I were driving up to the funeral home to pick out her casket. For some reason I choose that moment to tell him what happened. I never did explain it to his daughter, my niece. My mother's dead, so is my brother. Too bad not to discuss it while we were all alive. I felt at the time my mother didn't want me to be there. I didn't get an invitation because, I assumed Deborah was saving on invitations, it is assumed in my family, or was, that of course the invitation is extended to my mother and silently to me. I never felt part of any family so I was not sure anyone wanted me there. I did find out by not going I offended numbers of people, I guess. It is hard to know what to do or it was difficult to know what to do. My choice was loyalty to work. I needed a job to support myself. I had no idea whether my family cared about me or not. I certainly found out from the cold shoulder I got from my brother that whether they wanted me there or not I was expected to be there, whether I got an invitation or not.

Funny thing was I met the guy Deborah was marrying sometime before the wedding. I was horrified, perhaps that's too strong. I was disappointed when I met him. I didn't take a liking to him. That's better. A Dentist to be. A friend of mine told a joke to him. It was not a very PC joke, but it was a funny joke as some non PC jokes were in the early 70's. This guy could not have been less amused. Something about him put me off, but I never mentioned it to anyone in the family. They got married without me and divorced without me. I did feel a little better about not attending when I heard the news. However, I felt terrible for my niece because she took the marriage vow thing so seriously. It was difficult for her, brought up Catholic with all the guilt that entails, to fail.

Gotta go. North West wind blowing, again. Better temps predicted for later in the week.

FAN

About the leather pants.

How I came to buying leather pants is, I hope, a short story. I've got a book to finish and I would like to get a good night's sleep.

Barbara and I were in Encore, the consignment shop on Main Street in downtown Sarasota. This shop helps to support the Women's Resource Center, which helps women retrain themselves and obtain employment. I'm pretty sure there is counseling for women, maybe a safe house, somewhere, for battered women, although there is probably a more PC name now, other than Battered women.

We had stopped in the Episcopal Thrift shop earlier and I found a couple of tennis tops for $2.00 each. Can't beat the price for a Bolle product. You can imagine our shock when we first went in to Encore, checked out a blouse and found out it was priced at $52.00!

I tried on a Cinderella type gown with a wonderful lime green organza full shirt and black velvet top. I was very happy it did not fit perfectly. It cost #155.00 and I don't really have any place to wear a Cinderella gown, at the moment. Another bright orange gown was also, not flattering and a novelty, at best. Barbara found a sale rack down in the back and handed in to the dressing room I occupied a black Eileen Fisher skirt, which fit perfectly. Cost $10.00. She also handed in the size 4 black or brownish leather pants. Cost. $14.00 I put them on and went out into the store. Barbara and all the ladies present decreed they fit perfectly. I wasn't sure. I'm still not sure, but it was obvious they had been there for a long time, being marked down over and over again until someone came in who could fit into them. I am that person.

What do I do with leather pants? For $14.00 I can wear them anywhere I please. I don't have to worry much about them. I do have to apologize for them, probably, because that's the way I am. I don't want anyone to think I went out to buy them specifically, nor do I want anyone to think I had them made, nor do I want anyone to think I think it is O.K. to wear leather pants.

What am I doing with these pants? They fit me, I'm told. That much I know or at least I'm told they fit me. One of the women shopping said they had been waiting for the right person to come along and the right person was/is you/me. I'm wondering where exactly I'll venture out in these pants. Time will tell, but when I do I'd appreciate an honest opinion. Do they fit me, really?

If they don't I can gladly donate them to someplace. If they do and I trust Barbara (I don't know all the ladies who were in the store)I'll have to adjust my attitude or maybe I'll wear them to someplace, sometime a couple of times and pass them on to? Maybe I'll enjoy wearing them. Who knows?

When I woke up this morning I had a number of topics in my head which I yearned to put on paper, which translates to putting on the blog. I like the idea of Puttin' on The Blog, as in Puttin' on the Ritz. I'm forgotten them now. Hooray! I can go back to my book. If I were to start opining about the reaction to the passage of the Health Care bill into law I might be here awhile. Aloha, FAN

Halleluejah! (SP) A swim in the pool

Finally, after spending an hour, not on the court, but at the court this a.m. I did play a few times in the overcast. The fog lowered until I could see it sweeping across the court, nearly hitting the deck.

Returning to the condo after 11 a.m. I began attacking the laundry. That done, I jumped into my faithful blue suit, took the book about Waspdowm I'm still reading, I headed to the pool about 3:15 p.m. The tennis crowd had taken over the good corner shielded from the wind, facing the sun. I said, "Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello, etc. and seeing not an empty seat among the people I knew I found a chaise lounger in the sun, shielded from the wind, among strangers covered it with my two towels. It was warm enough today to take off my terry cloth robe and sit in paradise with a book for almost 2 hours. Two hours out of how many days, weeks, months? A great two hours.

During those 2 hours I put down the book and plopped into the 87 degree pool, alone, except for one woman doing very slow laps or some sort. I breast-stroked one way, scissor-kicked on my back another way. Got my hair good and wet, unlike all the women who bounce around in pool on a noodle up to their necks in the water wearing sun glasses and a visor, never wetting their perms or wave or whatever it is they are trying and succeeding in perserving.

Not for me, bobbing about with a noodle. I like to get wet For God's Sake. If I'm going for a swim, I'm going for a swim, not a Bob. I don't feel compelled to swim laps. I like to swim a little, float a little, look at the sky, the clouds, enjoy the temperature, color and warm of the water.

When I get out I don't want to rush into a towel. I like to drip dry. I walked over to my lounger, plopped down, closed my eyes and drank in the feeling of having taken a swim, the cool of water on my skin, the sun drying the water. Nothing I had to-do for the moment. No worries. Simple pleasures. At last!

The book is going well. I spent a couple of hours reading passages to Skip the other night. He told me he thought Tad Friend, the author, is a great writer. I think so too. Writing for the New Yorker takes a certain level of competence, if nothing else. Skip doesn't believe some of the stories in the book are true. Why he thinks they aren't true is not clear to me. And, frankly, who cares? They are great stories. Besides, why lie? Some of the stuff would be hard to make up. It is a memoir of Tad's life growing up in a WASP family. It is hilarious in places and oh so tragic. Like so many families. His description of WASP traits and events in his family I can relate to in my family, Skip's family and other families I've encountered over the years.

Yesterday I spent with my friend Barbara. It was a day we have once a year. We meet. We go to thrift shops, consignment shops. We have lunch. We look at stuff more than we buy. We enjoy ourselves. I came home with a couple of real bargains. I also came home with a sense of renewal. I'd had a day to be myself with a friend. Nothing beats that. Well, something might, but at this stage of my life, Nothing beats that.

Prepare yourselves. I bought something I rail against- a pair of leather pants. I could not live with my conscience if I ordered a pair of leather pants made to fit me. I would never pay to have leather pants made. I think of leather almost the way I think of fur-exploitive. I don't care to wear clothing that caused animals to be slaughtered for my benefit.

I do not eat veal. I try my best not to eat lambs. I don't want to eat pigs- they are reportedly smarter than dogs. How can I eat something that knows what a pig knows? People have taught pigs to type. I don't always hold out. I sometimes order a BLT. I might have two scrambled eggs and bacon. I have a great recipe for Hoppin' John that brings you Good Luck all year long for New Year's day. It contains chopped ham. So I'm no saint.

I do eat beef, if I eat any animal. At least only one animal is killed and lots of it's parts are eaten and used. Unlike eating scallops, where many, many living beings are killed so one human can eat one meal. Not good if you are against killing living beings. Each and every living thing has aright to keep on living as we have a right to keep on living until the body fails.

Who gave us, as humans, the right to kill things? Don't go to the Bible and start quoting scripture. It means nothing to me. It was written, most of it by men. You'll have to come up with a better reason than that.

I eat chicken and I'm not happy doing that. Chicken is probably less healthy than most things. Think of all that Salmonella running around on it and the eggs. I eat Salmon, wild caught if I can afford it. I can afford it because I don't buy veal, lamb etc. Of course I do buy lamb, ham etc to feed Skip, but I don't buy it for myself.

If I could walk the walk as well as talk the talk I would be a Vegan. I could have a clear conscience. But, I grew up eating meat. I'm served meat when I visit people's homes. I choose to eat meat myself sometimes when I go out to eat. I don't beat myself up about it. I enjoy it when it is served to me, but do I feel good about eating an animal with a face, big eyes, a heart, a brain, nerve endings and who knows what else? NO, of course not.

Could I kill an animal if I were hungry. I'm sure I could, but I would not choose to do that. I would and do avoid killing things. I'd rather eat rice, vegetables, fruit, cheese. I like nothing better than a good salad. Of course if I were a Vegan I'd have to give up Coffee ice cream. That would be painful. And I'd have to give up all dairy products. Not likely that I'm going to do that any time soon. Maybe a trip to India, immerse myself in another culture with other vegetarians and all those wonderful spices. If someone would show me how to cook like that. If I'd grown up eating Indian food, then I'd have a head start on the vegetarian thing. As it is now, it's very difficult to cook food I don't understand and sometimes don't even know what to call it. Better to buy Indian stuff from Whole foods in pre-mixed packages for around $3.00 Cook rice, heat the mixture. Voila Instant Vegetarian meal. No worries.

Back to the day with Barbara, but Wait. I'm suppose to be over at Kay's saying hello to some friends of hers. I'd better go. Later. FAN

W.W. Elvis

Webdings ThiT

The above type font was not feasible, nor all the other languages available. Why doesn't this blog have more choices for type font? I want to know.

Let me set the record straight about "Elvis" whose real name is Paul D. He lives up on the 4th floor and drives the Bright Red Corvette with the license plate W.W. Elvis. Asked by a friend to find out his story and curious myself, I happened to be opening the trunk to the car as Paul, lets call him Elvis though, patted the white Cadillac parked to the left of our car, two cars to the left of his. He explained to me why he had to pat the car and look up at someone in the doorway up on the 4th floor, but I really didn't understand exactly what he was saying.

Somehow I mentioned the Elvis plate and told me I was curious about it. He explained: It stands for World Wide Elvis, his business. He started collecting Elvis Pressley record jacket fronts years ago. Then he moved on to the backs, then to records issued in Japan, South Africa, etc. Pretty soon he had lots of Elvis records(not sure about memorabilia too). It began to get expensive, the collecting. He began to sell duplicates and found he could make money doing it. Years he spent doing the flea market circuit.

When I mentioned visiting Graceland with a group of Yale Alumni, he told me he had never made it to the house. He went to Memphis to a show, I guess. By this time he had 5 employees. Everyone became ill. He had to work the show alone. He figured out his expenses, travel, housing and figured he could have made more money staying at home.

Finally he has been liberated, in a sense, by the Internet. He has an office in Gulf Gate and a warehouse somewhere. He does all his business at his WW Elvis. com website, mails stuff off, collects money. I told him I had a friend who sells Civil War daguerreotypes, collectibles who held out keeping his shop for the contact with his customers, for one thing. Elvis told me he found people were more apt to spend thousands of dollars on Elvis CD's etc. over the Internet rather than person to person.

All the time I talked with Elvis I had a difficult time looking at him. It seems to me, but what do I know, Elvis has had a great deal of facial cosmetic surgery. I had a hard time looking at his face without feeling I was staring at his face. I'm not sure what he was attempting or the doctors were attempting, but something is a little amiss. I could not bring myself to ask him about that. I doubt I can ask him if he'd mind me taking a photo, but maybe that situation will change.

He wasn't reluctant to answer my questions. He seemed to enjoy talking about how he came to have the business he has. We talked a little about collecting. I told him I had gone from collecting post cards to collecting refrigerator doors and then cold-turkeyed on the collecting. He told me the oddest thing he had ever encountered people collecting was barbed wire.

There is a fellow I know who belongs to the Montclair Bird Club who has a small collection of barbed wire in his very, neat cellar along with lots of farm implements. I admired the different types of barbed wire he has, surprised to see the different twists and turns involved. Elvis understood about collecting, of course. Almost everything is collectible now, to someone. What he found amazing was an entire stadium full of people whose only collectible was barbed wire. I had to admit that was a powerful image.

So now we all know something more about Elvis/Paul, but I'm not sure I want to personally find out any more. I would like to take a photo of him sitting in his car, but it isn't likely I'll have the opportunity. We'll see.

About the Migration. Visited Pinecraft Park today and found four members of Sarasota Audubon looking around for the Swainson's Warbler spotted yesterday by another SA member. I'd read about it on the e-mail hot line and wandered over with Skip. I've never seen a Swainson's Warbler and I still haven't seen one.

However, I did spot an ovenbird, a Louisiana Waterthrush, a few vireos, red-eyed, blue-headed, white-eyed calling and yellow-throated. Two wonderful Barred Owls calling to each other. They have a couple of owlets in the park someplace. Not seen today. An alligator on the bank of the little stream, a couple of other migrants. The e-mail suggested Migration has begun. From what I saw I'd agree. That's encouraging.

Gotta Go. Got to get back to the great book I'm reading, tennis in the a.m. and lunch with Simone and her husband who are driving up from Naples. Plus I've still got a few things on the to-do list.

The only way to have a real vacation is to pack a book, binos, camera or not, a bathing suit, shorts and a couple of other items of clothing and fly to the Carribean, I think. Leave the to-do list, the phone, the computer, etc. behind. Or go North/West to ski country with a limited wardrobe and kindle. Another possibility. Maybe next year. Or India with or without a cushion. That might be best. FAN