WEEKLY WEIGH-IN

Please note that what happens on Raccoon Ridge stays on Raccoon Ridge, no matter how dirty your shoes are.

(17 March) Give me the microphone - it's time for my Sunday weigh in. I'm down .6 #. Make sure you see the decimal, six tenths of a pound. I am so ok with that, that's nearly 2 1/2 cubes of butter coming off of somewhere. I just hope it's coming off symmetrically. I am all about the asymmetrical hemlines, but I don't need one haunch noticeably bigger than the other.

I went to geriatric pinochle last night, and although it sounds like a simple outing, I assure you it is fraught with obstacles for someone who is carefully and unobtrusively counting her points. Every attendee is instructed to bring food - it is basically a potluck. 

Stuffed mushrooms are standard fare, and there are always ribs of some sort in a crock pot. Breaded orange chicken is also a frequent flyer, and meatballs often make an appearance. As at any potluck, chips and crackers (with their accompanying dips, salsas, and cheese) abound and deviled eggs are plentiful. I have brought my famous brownies so many times that one person even told me to branch out, as I would not want to be known as a "one trick pony". I love to bake, but I have tried to avoid temptation in the past ten weeks by bringing a vegetable tray instead. This ensures that there is something with which I can fill my plate. To top off this feeding frenzy, there is always pie at the end of the evening. The main event is pinochle, if you forgot. After playing six sets of double deck pinochle, players are expected to indulge in a piece of pie, usually served a la mode. As I previously pointed out, the table presents multiple hazards for the point counter.

Last night was no different. I ate my 3 point chicken and guacamole sandwich before I left the house in an effort to not arrive wanting to chew my arm off. Waiting until most people had already dished up ensured that only small plates were left. I hoped to trick my brain into believing that my full plate meant lots of food. I filled it with carrots and pea pods. Someone had brought pineapple slices, and that was a delicious addition. In a weak moment I snagged a small ball of orange chicken, but it was also a strong moment in that I only snagged one. There was a beautiful plate of barbecued pork with hot mustard and sesame seeds, and I figured it would be ok to take one slice of pork. If you have made it this far through my drooling reminiscence,  I may as well confess to you that I love chips more than anything. There was a big bowl of those Food Should Taste Good multi grain chips that was calling my name all evening. I did indulge in some chips. At a moment when I was feeling incredibly weak in the choice making department, I discovered a bowl of Southwestern salad. It consisted of black beans, corn, peppers, onions and cilantro, among some other ingredients. It was exactly what I needed for minimal points. I may or may not have had seconds. In the end, this made all the difference for me and I was able to avoid the chocolate pie. 

I could wistfully write about each and every tempting delicacy at the table and whether or not I ate one, and maybe you are sure that I already have. (Have I written about all the food or have I eaten it?  That is up to you.) This post is not turning out as witty and clever as I had initially expected, but I hope it serves as a reminder to my future self, as well as to those on my same journey, that it is OK to eat that piece of orange chicken, or snap up a chip.  It is all about moderation.  I may not have had a big loss this week, but I still had a loss. Trust the process. Track those points, people!

 

Sunday Weigh In

What happens at Raccoon Ridge stays at Raccoon Ridge.

(10 March) Sunday weigh in: I lost 2.2#. I'm pretty happy with the weigh (har har, sorry) things are going!

I have gone shopping in my closet and found a smaller pair of jeans - Girl14.5 was getting really disgusted with my others because they were quite saggy. I did not want to put on the smaller size because for me they are "skinny jeans" (not what the kids would call skinny jeans -these just are not standard straight leg jeans), but after wearing them where I wouldn't be seen by anyone I know, I realize she was right.

If you are still reading this you may be interested in my report of the "Weight Loss Regime" snacks. A couple of weeks back they were having a free shipping sale, so I thought, why not? I bought some Peanut Butter protein sticks, and a 3 pack of snack bars, the flavors are S'mores, Peanut Butter Pie, and Chocolate Caramel. Each of these items is worth 2 points.

First of all, you have to be prepared for the size of the bar. It is not the standard size of any bar you have inhaled before. Maybe it is half the size. However, you can make it last with tiny bites and savoring it. WARNING! If you aren't paying attention, you can wolf this baby down in 2 bites, maybe even 1 in an act of desperation. You should probably keep them in a lock box so you don't pillage the pantry in a hangry moment.

I am not a fan of the protein stick. Of course, I will finish the box (because I'm not a quitter), and when it is the last flavor left, the box will disappear like hotcakes (ohhhh... hotcakes...). Of the snack bars, Peanut Butter Pie is by far my favorite. It has a crunchy crust and a really good peanut butter flavor. The S'mores is right up there too, with a crunchy crust and it's quite tasty. The chocolate caramel is my 3rd choice. It is a little too fudgy (no one is going to believe I said that) - that is the best way I can explain it. I am happy to do some more research so I can explain it to you more articulately.

I have discovered that you can order the "WLR" brand snacks from Amazon, and if you have Prime it is free and FAST shipping (my original shipment from the "WLR" took a lot of hungry days to get here). By now I have lost a lot of my readers so I don't feel bad confessing that I ordered 2 more boxes of Peanut Butter Pie bars. Originally I had the kind hearted idea that I would give one to my mom, who is also participating in the WLR, but now I am thinking I may have to dole them out to her sparingly. I also ordered some WLR Cranberry Oatmeal and I will be happy to give a report on it next week. I think my Sunday delivery just got delivered, so I'm off to try my new breakfast. Happy Sunday, everyone, and track those points!

NOT-SO-PRIVATE MOMENTS

Since Girl13.75 was in the single digits, she has felt no qualms about being in my bubble.  This means lounging on my lap, sleeping in my bed, being at my side nearly every minute of every day.  I am certainly not saying this is a bad thing.  Put your eyebrow down, Dear Reader.

However, there are a few moments during the day when a person would like a smidgen of privacy.  The bathroom is a realm in which those moments occur.  I call them Private Moments.  Sometimes I would have to shoo Girllessthan10 away, shouting, "I am having a Private Moment here!" For some reason I have not been able to instill the notion of privacy into Girl13.75's head.  This short post is to chronicle some of the more outrageous, and YES, TRUE! things that she has said to me IN THE BATHROOM while I was having a Private Moment.

"Do you know where my socks are?" I cannot tell you how many times this, or a variation of this, has happened.

"Does my outfit match?" Ditto.

"Can you braid my hair?" That is gonna be a no, Dawg.

"Hoover has thrown up a really long piece of grass and it is all red!" Hoover is our 22 pound cat. Truth be told, this happened about two weeks ago, when she was Girl13.70.  Fear not, Delicate Reader, Hoover had been eating grass outside, as cats do, and then came in and tried to eat dry cat food.  Connoisseurs of cat food will know that often times that food is red, or brownish red.  You can probably put this together without my assistance.

"Can you sign my practice record?"  This is the proof that she practices her saxophone every day during the week and must be signed by me and turned in to her teacher.

"What is for dinner?"  Really?

(At 6 am within the past year) "Your nightie is on backwards."  I replied, "I don't need that kind of negativity."

The classic spoiler of Private Moments, the one to which I compare all the rest on the list:  "Does this milk smell bad?" Yes, Disgusted Reader, she brought it in with her.

Please note that not one of these situations necessitated my immediate attention.

If you will excuse me, I have some business to take care of.

BREAK A LEG

Dear Reader,
I have been a bad friend.  I have not called or written in a very long time.  You must be nearly sick with worry. Calm yourself, caring compatriot, all is nearly well in my world.  I say "nearly" because my Girl13.5, my offspring, my baby, broke herself.

I wish I could tell you that she had been playing soccer in a cow pasture, or playing basketball at the Ice Capades. I long to regale you with a tale of her running through the forest with a cougar hot on her heels, and how she outwitted and outran the fierce feline.  I am a truthful sort, so I will have to confess how the event came about.  Brace yourself.

She was running in her P.E. class.  She was doing what she was supposed to be doing.  Indoors.  On a wooden floor.  Wearing running shoes.

With her broken fibula has come a variety of accessories, including crutches and an air-cast.  Since she was a young girl (I would say "small", but she was never vertically impaired), she has loved all sorts of medical equipment, and asked for various implements for Christmas.  Santa has brought her a finger cot, a sling, a wrist brace and a cane, to name a few gifts from past years.  Bandaids routinely find their way into her Christmas stocking (that is no surprise to the loyal readers who remember the Bandaid Nazi, and also that unpleasant episode in Wedding Dress Woes), as do rolls of athletic tape, gobs of gauze, and masses of moleskin. Just last month she was bemoaning the fact that she had not gotten any crutches for Christmas. Less than two weeks later she got her wish.  I am afraid that the sparkle wore off of them after about two days.

We have incorporated the word "stockinette" into our daily vocabulary.  Being the well-read reader that you are, you are probably wondering what on earth we are doing with a fabric usually used to make undergarments (how does nearly every blog come back to this?).  In our case, the stockinette is a very stretchy tube, basically a foot-less sock, that Girl13.5 wears under her air-cast. This stockinette has several very important jobs, one being to keep her toes warm.  Most importantly, it absorbs the disgusting diaphoresis coming from that foot.  Let me tell you, Sensitive Reader, there is some fetid funk that ripens in that sweaty situation.

The day that Poor Girl13.5 had to go to the doctor and exhibit her extremity in that diminutive exam space, the malodor was the biggest thing in the room. We supplicated for a solution from the sympathetic specialist about the surprising stench, but he was as stumped as we were. I am telling you, Sensitive Reader, thank your stars that I have not activated smell-o-vision on this blog or you would be staggered by the stink.

I know that you, Empathetic Reader, are feeling uncomfortable for Poor Girl13.5 being exposed like this.  Please know that there is a happy, and informative ending to this nasty narration.

It so happened, after purchasing Gold Bond Foot Spray (smells good, we agree on that) and Anti-Monkey Butt Powder (we were desperate), we found in our own pantry some Shoe-Pourri. Another Christmas stocking surprise, its purpose is to de-odorize shoes.  In our house, this can mean any number of athletic shoes: soccer cleats (an outdoor sport in the Pacific Northwest, need I say more?), basketball shoes, volleyball shoes, track shoes with spikes, even hiking boots; and they all smell bad. Shoe-Pourri's motto is "Just a spray takes the stink away" and they are not kidding. This spray is magic.

We now have a nightly routine.  Girl13.5 removes the offensive apparatus and carefully creeps through the house to do her nightly lavation.  I vigorously spritz the neoprene part of the air-cast and hang it near the wood stove to dry.  I put the exo-skeleton of the cast on the boot dryer after applying a couple of quick squirts to it. Whereas before I could not approach the accoutrement without gagging, the administration of the Shoe-Pourri has really been life-altering. Girl13.5 can now go to school without worrying that her classmates will identify the effluvium issuing from her foot.  Additionally, and perhaps most notably, we can ride in the car together with the windows up.

She has informed me that, as soon as her ankle has healed, she would like to take up LaCrosse.  I said, "Knock yourself out!"

PINOCHLE PROTOCOL

As you have been following my Pinochle adventures for a while now, Dear Reader, you know that, as in other facets of my existence, my behavior has remained quite rigid.  In fact, I have set some rather fastidious rules for myself regarding conduct at the monthly card party.  The rules cover rituals enacted prior to arrival as well as comportment at the actual event. I have written them on an index card and added that to the contents of my Pinochle Purse, so as not to commit any infraction.  In no particular order, I exhibit them below for your perusal.

Study Ahead of Time.  For at least the week before, I commit to practicing counting meld at www.powerpinochle.com. I also have a tattered sheet of paper on which I took notes regarding meld bids, which I thoroughly review and memorize. I beg my friends to quiz me but usually this is not very successful, and I end up arriving at the venue feeling frustrated, anxious and unprepared.

Dress Up. I believe in respecting the tradition of the Pinochle Club and those who have been members for such a long time.  Clean clothes are a must, no rips or tears, no jeans or t-shirts. Good hygiene goes hand-in-hand with this standard: freshly brushed teeth, clean fingernails, no open sores (remember the icky blister in Pinochle Purse?), and good hair is desirable but not always achievable.

Sport the Pinochle Purse. This is really part of the previous rule.  It goes without saying that the purse is packed properly (see Pinochle Purse if you don't know what this means).

No Eating.  This is due to the many possible calamities that can befall me if I attempt to consume edible material.  The list includes, but is not limited to, food in my teeth, heartburn, sluggishness, flatulence, and bad breath. Several of these catastrophes defy other edicts. Not only is this a tenet for the affair itself, but it is a statute for the hours, and usually the entire day, leading up to the event.  The disadvantage to this precept is that it can bring on dizziness and disorientation, which can trigger misjudgment at the card table.  Faced with the disgraceful alternatives, I will risk the possibility of feeble-mindedness. This rule has been amended to include not accepting home-made Beer-itas graciously offered up by a hospitable host, and not attending local wine festivals prior to arrival.

Good Posture.  The meme is funny, but in all seriousness, this goes back to respecting my fellow Pinochle players and the tradition, and conveys my concentration on the game. Sitting ram-rod straight on a folding chair for four-plus hours explains why I can barely move for the next two days. It means no slouching - standing or sitting, no rounded shoulders, no hanging head, no Donald Duck butt, and no hanging on one hip.

Best Manners.  This also goes without saying.  Please and thank you are obvious, as is good grammar and no mumbling. Greet hosts by name, thank hosts before departure, learn the names of the other participants. A cheerful demeanor and smile are preferable, but sometimes difficult to muster if tension is high (please refer back to the first rule in the list).  An overly toothy smile, or one in which the lip is stuck to the teeth, is often a sign of anxiety. Keep conversation pleasant, brief and quiet, as others are mentally counting cards, and sizing up their opponents. Overly raucous behavior is not welcomed, nor is vulgar language.  Reader with an eye for detail and a mind like a steel trap, you will have read Moratorium and know how difficult this can be.  See the list of deal breaking conduct below.

Respect Differences.  Understanding the disparities between the manners of Bridge and the culture of Pinochle is key. In Bridge, cards are dispersed one at a time, and players do not pick them up until all are dealt.  In Pinochle, cards are distributed two and three at a time, and players snap them up as soon as possible.  To me, dealing two or three cards at once contradicts the act of shuffling.  I am determined to no longer remark on this fact, or lecture on how many standard riffle shuffles are necessary for optimal randomization of the cards (seven). Both topics seem to generate a more heated discussion than necessary for a genteel game between friends. Looking at someone else's hand in the game of Bridge is unthinkable, yet nobody seems to care at the Pinochle table.  In fact, everyone has the opportunity to see what cards everyone else has when they are splayed out for the meld. Just as it goes against my every grain to inspect the cards placed on the table for the meld, I automatically avert my gaze from the dealer's hands, as usually I am able to see which cards are being dealt to whom from my vantage point.

Anti-Confinement Clause. This is a rule that was initially not on the list, but was added out of necessity.  I have been trapped in at least one powder room and maybe more, and I am not the only one. This is not to say that I was trapped in there with someone, Naughty Reader, but that someone else was trapped in a different washroom.  A reminder will not prevent the entrapment.  It does, however, make one more aware of other escape routes, notice who is near the door on the outside in case one must hiss through the keyhole, and remind one that perhaps merely closing the door is adequate instead of risking the lock.

Deal Breaking Conduct. The following behaviors are beyond the pale. The expulsion of gases is out of the question, whether in the form of flatulence, hiccups or burps. Intentionally cheating in any way is strictly prohibited. Prattling loudly and incessantly is frowned upon by players desperate to remember what is trump, who played the last ace and if their partner is out of spades. Gloating at the end of the evening does not seem very sportsmanlike.

Have Fun. After all of these guidelines for propriety, try to have fun.  After all, it is one evening a month to fraternize with friends and neighbors and engage in a lively game of Pinochle.

MORATORIUM

I am the first to admit that I have a proclivity to perorate with profanity; to squawk and swear; to blaspheme unbiasedly. Generally this profanatory performance is brought on by a disagreeable development.  Examples of these intolerable incidents include getting the mower mired in the mud at the bottom of a steep slope; sustaining a surprise sideswiping scratch from a feisty feline; bearing a brutal bite from the aforementioned malicious mouser, or slopping the sweet sustenance of sentience, otherwise known as coffee, on one's sweater. The imprecations rarely implicate an individual, they are only howled in hopes to free the frustration that has formed.

I have my prized profanities with which I punctuate persistently. My favorite four-letter words are generally not really composed of quadruple characters.  Made up of stops, fricatives and affricates, they just feel fine flowing out of my mouth.

Several weeks ago, Girl11.67 had had enough.  "I don't want to come from a cabin that curses!", she cried.  Thus began the moratorium on maledictions.

I endeavored to educate myself on equivalent epithets.  I have experimented with the ensuing examples and I have provided context.

Fiddlesticks, I left my keys at home!
Zooterkins, that refrigerator smells!
Gadzooks, you frightened me!
Gadsbudlikins, that hurts!
Cheese and Rice, will someone tell me what's going on?
ARGH!  Son of a motherless goat!
Shut the front door!  That really happened?

I was really doing well, I had not uttered anything unpleasant in several weeks.  On the day in question, I was readying my Rock the Crock rations, trying to open a tin of tomatoes.  The can opener was cranky and after completing one circle around the cap, it still wouldn't open more than a crack. I tried tipping out the tomatoes through the tear, but this was not a triumphant technique.  Then, I had a terrific thought:  I would carefully crush the can, thus altering the aperture to an oval, allowing more to ooze out.  I squeezed with all my strength.  Suddenly, the Sicilian sauce spewed on to my sleeves;  liquid landed on the laptop; fruit was on my front. After being pent up for so long, the profanity poured out.

$%#@^&*<%#!#@^&*>?!

SPEAKING IN TONGUES, Part 200

February rolled around and I was invited once again to the Pinochle Club.  After my January performance, I was just a little surprised to be invited back so soon.  I figured it would have taken them longer to forget my transgressions at the table. As usual, I studied from dusk until dawn every evening prior to game night.  I had had several conversations about bidding strategies over the month, had a new attitude about taking the bid, and I was feeling pretty confident about holding up my end of the partnership.

It was at the last table of the night, Table #4, when my world came crashing down. Once again, I was partnered with Melvin.  His eyebrows already looked pretty high on his forehead.  He had partnered with me previously at Table #1 and it had been ugly.  I had not brought my A Game to Table #1, and maybe not even my B Game.  I just did not have the cards to work any magic. Then we moved to play against each other at Table #5. The cards were still not respecting me, and he and his partner outplayed me and my partner.  They may have even each had one hand tied behind their respective backs, for all I know. Between my late night lassitude and the witty wordplay happening around me, I was having a concentration crisis. Melvin had not seen me at my most super, but maybe witnessed me at my worst.  

Back to Table #4, it was Melvin's turn to open the bidding.  He looked into my eyes, leaned forward a little, enunciated slowly and clearly with a very serious tone, "Six Hundred."  Yes, I could hear that capital H.  I stared back into his eyes.   His face was exhibiting no emotion and his eyes continued to bore into mine.  Dear Reader, it was as if the entire room had frozen and we were the only people in it.  "Holy Crap!", I thought.  "He is speaking to me in a secret code!"  It was then that I realized my folly.  "He thinks I speak that language!"  

For the 22 hands before this one, I had been cheerfully chirping bids with not a care in the cosmos.  Foolishly, I had thought I was speaking my partners' language, when in actuality, I was speaking Pig Latin. While I had been bidding to be polite, they were all sending smoke signals to me, trying to communicate the marriages, slugs and Pinochles in their hands. 

My eyes did not leave Melvin's eyes.  "Pass", I choked out.  Melvin's eyebrows shot upward to what should have been his hairline.  He took the bid at six hundred, called the trump and then proceeded to give me a dressing down at the table.  "When I bid Six Hundred, I expect my partner to give a meld bid, if you have any decent hand at all, even just a good slug!" he started in.  I set down my meld of two marriages.  "I didn't have anything", I squeaked. I glanced at his meld as he laid it down and proclaimed, "I have a Thousand Aces!" (Dear Reader, this means eight aces, two in each suit.) My mouth may or may not have been hanging open as I thought, "How on Earth was I supposed to know that Six Hundred meant a Thousand Aces?????"  We easily won that hand, and the last hand of the night as well, letting our competition have only four and nine tricks out of fifty, respectively.  Dear Reader, this was a most excellent thing.  

When it was all over, Melvin was once again all smiles, and his eyebrows had returned to their natural habitat.  He was especially jolly as he had come up as the Big Winner of the night.  He proudly proclaimed to anyone who would listen, and even those who wouldn't, how I had helped him earn that title, as well as the $24 kitty. He clearly felt personally responsible for all of the successful progress I had made since October, downplaying any of the hard work I had done on my own in the wee hours.  Obviously, I was Eliza Doolittle to his Henry Higgins.  I held back the impulse to break out in the classic song from My Fair Lady, Just You Wait.

I left the February game feeling exhilarated for holding my own, yet full of trepidation. March was just around the corner and I had less than a month to become fluent in a new language.

SPEAKING IN TONGUES, Part 100

Pinochle has become my latest obsession.  Specifically, monthly Pinochle with a group that has probably been meeting since before I was born. I am sure that several of the nonagenarians are original stakeholders, while other players were born in to membership. Then there are those like me, drafted into service due to a shortage of professional participants.  Eager to play again, I have instructed my family and friends that my calendar is hereby cleared on all Saturdays, to ensure my availability up to the last minute.

As I explained in Pinochle Purse, I was called with less than a week before the October gathering and challenged with the question, "Are you trainable?"  There is really no way to answer that other than "yes", and thus began my whirl-wind education. That week in my crash course, I learned about marriages, slugs, and of course, the Pinochle.

By the time the January game night came around, I was so hopped up on caffeine and sugar that I could barely speak.  I had not played since the October game, and I felt rusty.  I had studied all day with cards, notes, the computer, texting and even a few frantic phone calls.  I was confident in my ability to count meld, but hopelessly inexperienced with regard to bidding.  With a helpful formula in my head, the mathematician in me was able to hesitantly, and reluctantly, bid a couple of times with some success.  Or so I thought.  

It was the 24th hand, the last hand of the night.  I sorted my cards into suits and began methodically counting my meld.   With my best comportment on display, my back ached from sitting ram rod straight on the edge of my chair all night.  My mouth was dry and my lips were sticking to my teeth.  The smile that I had pasted on in the hopes of looking pleasant had surely turned to a grimace by now.  My heart started to race. Normally cold, I felt a trickle of sweat run down my neck.  Great Balls of Fire, I had Double Jacks Around!  (For the Uneducated Readers, this means eight jacks, two of each suit.)  I knew this was something big, but I had never come across it in my meld training, or in the wild, and I had no idea how much it was worth. I glanced around, hoping to see a Pinochle Rules brochure hanging from the light fixture by some dental floss, or being used as a shim under a table leg.  Although I authored Pinochle Purse less than a month before, I failed to follow my own advice; my rule book was at home, simulating a coaster. 

It was my turn to bid.  The other three people at the table looked at me expectantly, if not a bit impatiently.  I coughed.  "Er, I don't know how much my hand is worth."  The competitor at my right smiled indulgently at me.  "You haven't counted your hand yet?"  I cleared my throat.  "No, I don't know how much this particular, er, phenomenon is worth."  My partner frowned.  Melvin always looked worried when paired with me, and tended to fidget annoyingly when he thought we were doing poorly. The others at the table looked around.  "Trudy!", someone bawled into the kitchen where the desserts were being cut.  "Come and help her count her hand!" I held back a groan and hoped that I had not ground my teeth so loudly that Melvin could hear.  

Trudy, the dessert knife in her hand and a kitchen towel on her arm, leaned over my shoulder.  I could feel her breath in my hair as she counted my cards.  I tapped my jacks.  "I don't know how much that is worth," I mumbled.  "Sweet Jesus!", Trudy exclaimed in a whisper.  "That is worth four hundred points, and your Double Pinochle is worth three hundred", her voice grew louder in my ear, "you could take the bid up to eight hundred!" I stopped breathing.  I had not even spotted the Double Pinochle.

The bid normally starts at five hundred, and I had never bid more than five hundred thirty.  My stomach did a flip. Harry had opened at five hundred, my partner Melvin had passed and Harry's partner had passed.  It was up to me to win the bid, declare trump and control the hand. "Five ten", I said, confidently.  Harry immediately countered with five twenty, and I quickly responded with five thirty.  Harry continued easily to five forty. I glanced at the reflection in the picture window and saw that Trudy was still standing right behind me with the knife in her hand. I was secretly scared of Trudy, and I suspect I was not the only one. There was nothing to do but bid.  I glanced at Melvin, who was not so subtly giving me the thumbs up sign.  I came back with five fifty.  Harry smoothly drove the bid up and each time I countered with a little more catch in my voice, after checking the reflection. Trudy had forgotten about the desserts and was standing guard.  Smelling my fear, she was not about to let me lose the bid to Harry.  Meanwhile, Melvin was nervously tapping a tattoo with his cards on the table. To me, the sound was like a deafening death march.  Harry finally shook his head and I took the bid at Six Ninety, a number I could barely rasp out in my nervous state.  The bidding over, we counted the meld and began the play, all of which became a blur of relief.  Melvin and I easily won that last hand, with a crowd of curious onlookers nodding their approval. When it was over, Melvin's worried face melted away and he was all smiles. He clapped me on the back, congratulated me, and then ambled into the kitchen.  He had worked up an appetite for dessert after all.

The crowd dispersed and I remained in my seat, suddenly overcome with cold.  My stomach felt hollow. My teeth chattered. My hands were shaking.  I wondered, "What have I gotten myself into, that I look so forward to and yet afterward end up a shaking mess?"  I took a long shuddering breath to calm myself before slipping unseen out the front door. 

The next day I got an email from my dad.  It said, "Be careful! Pinochle is just a gateway drug to Bridge!"

PINOCHLE PURSE

I have always been a Canasta girl. I grew up collecting 8 of a kind, making runs and melding.  I became a pro at 12 when I spent the summer in Germany. Not only did I learn to count in German, I quickly learned to appreciate, and look forward to, the custom of kaffeetrinken.

Both sets of my grandparents were Bridge players.  As a kid, I was dragged around to afternoon Bridge Club and Friday night Bridge with the Proffits (the best part of which began with hamburgers from Bill and Bea's). I lurked around the table, trying to decipher such mysterious comments such as One No Trump and Two Clubs.  I have always been perplexed by the bidding.

Since Girl11.5 came along, my card playing has been restricted to Go Fish and Crazy 8s. When the call came, I eagerly accepted, although the question does not sound complimentary.  "Are you trainable?" (Really, you had to ask?) The local Pinochle Club needed another player and I had less than a week to get down to brass tacks and learn the game.

Saturday night came, and although I wasn't sure I was ready to play with the likes of the veteran players at their 50 - plus year old club, off I went. I had my little black velvet cross-body purse with me, and I was armed with the basic necessities. I have come to the realization that this purse and this specific combination of contents are perfect for nearly any occasion.

1) Pinochle rule book. If I had to, I would excuse myself to the bathroom and study up. (Yes, Dedicated Reader, the bathroom has always been my Safe Place, and once again makes an appearance in RRR.)
2) Bandaids. I had recently acquired, through hard work on my roof with a rake and broom, a blister on my thumb.  Said blister was oozing and had turned black.  I was convinced I had MERSA and did not want to raise the anxiety level in the nonagenarians who had gathered that night to play cards and booze it up.  I have such a fat digit that the Bandaid did not stay secured for long, so I needed a healthy supply to keep my secret. Again, the bathroom would be my refuge for these covert ministrations.
3) Gum. The stakes were high and my panic level was higher.  Stress Breath was not something additional I needed to worry about. I naturally feel better smelling the mint emanating from my reticule, so I had a sizable supply of Trident pieces, the small ones.
4) 24 quarters.  There is a way to get penalized in a hand of Pinochle.  At this club, the penalty is a quarter.  I had no idea how many quarters to take.  I asked Girl11.5 her thoughts on the matter.  "How many hands will you play?"  "Well, there are 6 tables and so we will play 24 hands."  "Take 24 quarters."  Her lack of confidence in my abilities, as well as her honesty, were a bit disconcerting.

A recap is now in order. The contents of the black velvet handbag were clearly designed for my comfort that evening, but are applicable to any outing.  

1) Rule book - you may not need to know how much a round of jacks is worth, or what the secret code bid is to tell your partner you've got a bust for a hand, but you never know when you need a piece of paper to write a phone number, or wipe your nose, and the pages from this book will suffice in a pinch.
2) Bandaids - I wore new shoes to my brother's graduation from Pharmacy School.  We parked a few blocks from the venue and by the time I got on campus, I had a bloody mess in my beautiful new ballet flat. A stranger serendipitously offered me a Bandaid, that is how bad it was.  At no time did I supplicate in public, it was good samaritanship at its finest. My heel has regenerated, but the flat was ruined.  You can never be over-prepared in the Bandaid department, either for yourself or someone in unfortunate circumstances. If you don't believe me, check out my post titled "The Bandaid Nazi".
3) Gum.  I should not have to say more than one word:  HALITOSIS. However, I shall point out that this sticky substance is also useful for attaching notes to windshields ("Next time you decide to park so close to someone, leave a can opener!"), making friends in close quarters, repairing eyeglasses (or anything else broken), and, when chewed, reducing the acid reflux in your mouth and thus preventing vomiting.
4) 24 quarters.  That's $6.00. You can buy a pack of gum (refer to #3), a cup of coffee, or make a phone call. You can also make a small ring out of a quarter (Google it), or in this case, 24 of them.  You may channel your inner David Copperfield and make them all disappear, perhaps on a street corner and thus earn tips in the process.

There you have it.  The perfect combination of purse contents for every situation.  You can thank me later.

HOOVER'S HEGIRA

This is Hoover.  He does not look like he has any special talents, but looks can be deceptive.

Hoover adopted us some time ago and Girl10 and I, along with a lot of effort from Auntie Mary, have been trying to socialize him.  He now enjoys our caresses and ear scratches, and responds to our lilting voices by rolling back and forth on the ground.  I prefer to think of it as not writhing in anguish, but happily wriggling.  These bouts of affection are always accompanied by some sort of food.

When he eats, Hoover dives into the dish and food flies out at all angles.  It is like watching a tornado devour whatever is in its path.  Although he makes a mess, he eventually vacuums it all up.  That is how he earned his name.

Hoover spends the majority of his day in the shade of a large bush in the back yard.  He is near enough to the house that he can smell the daily offering as it passes through the door, yet far enough away from garden traffic and hoses.  If One did not know of Hoover's hiding spot, One would not suspect a large, undomesticated feline to be sleeping there.

The summer is winding down and there are many tasks on the To Do list, preferably before school starts, such as but not limited to, cleaning the chimney, pest-proofing the yard, cutting and stacking wood, weed eating jungly corners of the yard, and making crab apple jelly.  A new addition to our list is Take Hoover to the Vet.  If he is going to be a permanent member of our family, Hoover needs a major overhaul, from Top to Bottom.  Emphasis on the Bottom.

The day came that Hoover was to meet Auntie Veterinarian.  I had been coordinating his capture carefully. (In fact, I had made an appointment for him earlier in the year, but he failed to show up at the agreed upon time.)  That morning, I got up and was greeted by Hoovs patiently waiting outside the door for his daybreak vittles.  I retrieved the carrier in which to transport him, and opened its doors.

I reached out to pick up the rangy tom and fully expected him to be as light as a feather.  I admit that I grunted at my miscalculation as I hoisted him.  He was solid and dense, with no fat at all.  As he descended into the carrier, his legs instinctively splayed out and found the edges of the opening.  He was squirming, and not with joy.  His claws, sharpened daily for not only his procuring of a hot meal, but also climbing trees and fighting savage beasts, dug into my arms.  Plan A was hastily aborted.  I deposited him back on to the deck and we stared into each other's eyes.  His were yellow and unblinking.  Mine watered as I felt the burn of the scratches on my arms.  He meowed.  Still hungry, he was not offended enough to part company.  I initiated Plan B.

I put some Seafood Sensations, a staple offered at our house under the brand name of Friskies, inside the carrier and flicked my fingers temptingly.  "Hoover",  I whispered in a soft, most friendly voice, "here, kitty kitty kitty."  Suspicious, he sniffed the air inside the conveyance.  His better judgment was outweighed by his appetite.  He ventured inside for a nibble.  I slowly closed the top hatch and then, with one swift movement, shoved the rest of his body through the end opening and latched the door.

He filled nearly the entirety of the pet carrier.  I realized how much of a wild animal Hoover really was as I watched him scrabbling to get out.  He was running around and around in circles, like the tigers in the tale of Little Black Sambo, who eventually turned into butter.  I took one more look at the rocking crate and then rushed to prepare for liftoff.

Not even five minutes later, I could here the pounding of Girl10's feet down the hallway.  She burst into the bathroom shouting, "Mama!  Hoover got out!"  I found myself hoping that this was her version of April Fools' Day in August.  There was doubt in my voice.  "Are you sure?"  She squealed in indignation, "I saw him on the couch!"  I instructed her to close all of the bedroom doors while I quickly got dressed.

Sure enough, Hoover was lurking around any furniture he could fit behind.  I opened the sliding door and stationed Girl10 between the den and the kitchen, where she assumed a defensive stance.  "Go on, Hoover," we encouraged in soothing voices.  It became painfully apparent that he was much less tame than we had let ourselves believe, and getting him back into his natural habitat became more urgent.   Hoover took a look at me, faked a dodge in Girl10's direction, and then leaped four feet straight up in the air to get through the open doorway to freedom.  Had he been a few inches to the right, he would have smacked into the glass window.  I looked at the transport box on the floor, which had not been touched or moved in the excitement.  It was flipped on its side.  Both doors were latched shut.

Hoover probably ran to the county border that day.  We did not see him again until the late afternoon when he showed up, suspicious and hungry.  It took a few days to gain back the trust we had so carefully built all summer.  We are now back to friendly words and pats, and many conversations utilizing MEOW - just as it was before Hoover's Hegira.

BREAKING THE ICE

Girl9.67 and I were recently invited to our friends' house for a party.  We had not been to this house before, and the hostess was eager to make a good impression (please note that this was certainly not necessary, we were not there in Inspection Mode).

As we drove up the driveway, we remarked to one another about the beautiful paint job (they finished it last fall), the well tended yard, and the overall beauty of the house itself.  The inside did not disappoint.  The spacious rooms were painted artfully, and hard wood floors lead into a cozy, tile-floored kitchen.

Girl9.67 immediately melded with the girls, and I drifted into the kitchen, where I accepted the invitation to a glass of wine.  The hostess took a beautiful, tall wine glass from the cupboard and looked at it thoughtfully. She had a twinkle in her eye, and when the host encouraged her with a "Do it, Babe!", she dropped the glass to the floor.

Shards flew around the kitchen as the air was filled with the sound of breaking glass.  I thought I felt a piece zip past my ear.  My mouth may or may not have been hanging open in shock.  The look on the face of the hostess, however, was priceless.  She was frozen in the middle of the tile-floored kitchen, her eyes wide with pure surprise, and her hand suspended in mid-air.  She stammered for a few moments while the rest of the guests chortled.  "This is supposed to be shatter resistant!", she exclaimed with dismay.  The tweens all rushed in to see what the commotion was, while the adults waved their arms and shouted, "No! No!  Stay out of the kitchen with your stocking-feet!"  The host brought in the vacuum while the hostess swept.  Other guests kindly picked up nearby shards or pointed out sparkling bits for the clean up crew.

Once the mess was cleared up, the host took another wine glass from the cabinet.  I was thinking how nice a sip of wine would be at that moment, when I heard him say, "Babe, you must have had the wrong kind!" as he flung the glass to the tile floor.  Again, the air exploded with a crack and the fragments flew.  Still standing in the same spot from which I had witnessed the first mishap, I speechlessly looked at our host.  He had the same stunned look that his wife had had a few minutes before.  There was a moment of silence and then time started up again.  The girls stampeded toward the kitchen and the other guests and I motioned them back.  The hostess reappeared with the vacuum.  I was thinking what a good commercial this would be for their Dyson.  Again, the guests laughingly pitched in by gathering particles and spotting others to be removed.

I did wonder if I was ever going to get that glass of wine, but I need not have worried.  Another glass, from the same set, was procured and poured without incident.  The discussion continued to revolve around the difference between shatter proof and shatter resistant, if the floor material mattered, whether or not the glasses had been washed in the dishwasher, and the ease of returning the remaining five glasses from the set to the store from which they were purchased.

It all came back to the demonstration that the host and hostess had witnessed at the store, she explained to us as she uncorked a new bottle of wine.  She retrieved a glass for herself from the box and washed it. Before she poured her wine (her first drink of the evening, if you were wondering), she tapped it against the counter.  "I can't figure it out", she shook her head. "He was banging it really hard on the counter in the store, like this!"  She continued to knock the glass against the counter, striking harder with each blow.  I cannot speak for the other guests, but I was flinching at every swing she took.  When the glass broke I was only surprised that it had not fractured sooner.  The girls did not even dash in to the kitchen this time.  Only the hosts' own daughter sauntered in, glumly surveyed the scene, and wandered out again. I heard her report, "It was my mom this time!"  I suspected that this was not what she considered acceptable parent behavior at her birthday party.

The purposeful destruction of three wine glasses certainly did not ruin the party.  One might even say that it was a good ice breaker, and that the party was a smashing success.  I am convinced that there is a moral in this story somewhere, something about people who live in glass houses - no, that is not quite it.

People Who Live in Houses Should Not Throw Glass.

ACCOUNTING 101

You may know, Alert Reader, that I spent some time in the hospital a while back.  Leading up to my admittance, I suffered from nerve pain that was unrelenting, unpredictable, and unbearable.  I had sought help from a new medical provider, and thankfully, she listened.  She knew better than I when she prescribed the Vicodin.  I very nearly turned it down, not wanting to become someone who goes to the doctor just to load up on pain pills.  (For the record, it had been so long since I had been to the doctor, that my previous provider sold the business, started a new clinic, moved to Arizona, and then retired.)  As I awaited my insurance company's approval for an upcoming MRI, the pain got worse.  I was tempted to try one of my ten Vicodin.  I learned that one Vicodin by itself was of no use to me.  I discovered that two Vicodin barely took the "edge" off of the pain.  I would not try for three.  After receiving the MRI results and realizing that I would have to wait for a couple of weeks before meeting the neurosurgeon, I asked for more Vicodin.  During those weeks, I counted the days and the pills over and over, saving and scrimping to ensure that I made the pills last until my appointment.  It was becoming harder and harder to sit in a chair, and riding in the car for any amount of time was torture.  In my standard driving position, my right hand was between my shoulder blades and my elbow pointed at the sky.  The neurosurgeon understood my plight, and after reviewing my MRI and planning my surgery, I was given a prescription for Oxycodone.  Every day I counted the pills and my remaining days.  When I realized that I was going to come up short, I limited my pills sometimes to just one or two a day.  Dear Reader, I am telling you all of this so that you know how I nursed and preserved those pills so carefully.  It never crossed my mind to ask for more, I knew I had to grit my teeth and bear it until the surgery date.

Fast forward to my arrival in Pre-Op.  I sat quietly, in my curtained space, dressed in nothing but my gown and slippers.  The poor man next to me whispered about the coil in his brain popping.  An older woman across from me hunkered under her covers and tried to sleep.  We all were hungry, thirsty, in pain and eager to get on with our procedures.  A new patient arrived and things picked up.  Her daughter was a Loud Talker.  Her voice cut through from behind the privacy of the curtain and extolled the virtues of her kid's school's online grade book.  It was so wonderful that she could check on her son's attendance and grades with the click of a button.  Her conversation was not limited to such mundane topics.  I learned that her mother, the patient, was hard of hearing and had lost her hearing aids.  We all heard that the daughter was leaving her mother with an iPad so that she would be able to watch Netflix in her hospital room, and that the mother was hoping to watch romance movies, much to the daughter's vocal disgust.  What caught my attention was when the nurse, who must have drawn the short straw, was bound by her duty to review the list of medications that the woman was taking.  Although I could not see through the curtain, I was sure that there were at least three pages when the nurse said, "OK, I will go through this list one at a time."  She then proceeded to ask the patient when the last time each medication was taken and how big the dose was.  As the patient was hard of hearing, we all heard the laundry list.  I so wanted to write it all down, because it was as if she had watched every TV commercial for medication and then gone to her doctor for it.  It was when the nurse said, "Oxycodone?" that my ears perked up.  Apparently everyone's ears perked up, because I heard the Brain Coil's wife hiss behind the curtain, "Oxycodone!!!"  The patient replied "three".  The nurse asked when were these taken.  The patient responded, "oh... 9:30".  Based on my last month's experience, I expected that she would add to this by saying, "and 1:30 and 4:30".  When I realized that she would not be adding to her times, it hit me.  She obviously had not been scrimping and saving, if she had taken three pills at a time.  In my discomfort (I had not been allowed any pain pill that morning), I felt more than a little annoyed at the woman, who seemed to have had a full dispensary at her disposal.

My next stop was a second Pre-Op room.  In this space, my IV was started, I was covered with a heated air mattress called a Bair Hug, and I was flat on my back.  As my surgery had been postponed for two hours, I was hungrier, thirstier and in more pain than ever.  I could hear the woman across from me, chatting to the doctor about how he looked just like her Norwegian nephew.  I could hear the woman to my left, talking about her unfortunate experiences after surgery a month ago.  She was quite graphic about how she had been throwing up ever since.  A nurse came along to inquire about my medications.  Had I taken my 1/2 tablet of beta blocker that morning?  Yes, I had.  Had I taken anything else?  No.  With nothing else to say to me, the nurse moved on to the perpetual vomiter.  She, too, must have had a huge list of medications, for the nurse spent a long while with her.  It was when she asked about oxycodone that I became interested.  My neighbor stated that she had taken twelve.  Did you read that?  TWELVE!  The nurse asked when this was, and the woman could not even remember.  There I lay, flat as a board under that hot air mattress, aching with pain and in a fury.  How was it that I was the only one who had been parsimonious with my painkillers and managed my meds?  I knew exactly how many I took, when I took them, and how many were left at any given time.

I thank you for your indignation on my behalf, Dear Reader.  Please dial it down with the knowledge that after my 4 p.m. surgery and spending the night in the ICU, things began to look up.  I was discharged before 11 a.m. without ever graduating to a real room.  Within two days I was walking laps and within the week I was back to 2+ miles per day.  Without painkillers.  I wonder if my Pre-Op roommates can say that?

IF THE SHOE FITS...

Remember my flood of fashion faux pas?  How about those mortifying moments?  Have you forgotten the Floss Fiasco, the schmutz on my shorts, and the mane mess?  I am the first to admit that I am not a fashionista.  When presented with the Sparkly Butt Challenge, it took me a year to meet the deadline, and when I did, nobody else was blinging their bums.  The last challenge I was issued involved buying boots.  It has been two years, but I have finally found success.

I had been investigating the Internet, searching cyberspace for the perfect pair.  I am particular about buying bovine boots and I was insistent about them being black, with a bit of definition of the back of the boot, the heel.  I finally found some fantastic footwear.  The new boots arrived just in time for my return to work, dressed as Cruella Deville.

I loved the boots from the moment I opened the box.  The left boot fit as if it were made for me.  The right boot, well, fit as if it were made for someone with a skinnier foot.  I figured it was because my right foot is my bigger foot.  There was no way I was sending those boots back.  Maybe they would expand with wear, I thought.  If necessary, I would even take them to the shoe man down the street to get stretched.

I wore the boots with pants tucked in one day, and with a skirt the next.  I felt like a new me. Never mind that I hadn't been to work for six weeks and I should have felt that way, I attributed my hip outlook on life to my new boots.  The day I went to the Museum of Glass to watch famous glassblower Dale Chihuly, I felt so artsy in my boots and skirt that I spent a ridiculous amount of time in the museum bathroom, trying to take a picture of myself rocking my outfit.  Due to my inexperience at selfies, the best picture was blurry. [Upon reflection, I realize that I have spent a good portion of my life playing at one thing or another in bathrooms, see my admission here.]

Even with all of the action my boots were getting, that right boot remained considerably more snug than the left boot.  One day there was even some extra residue on my sock when I pulled my foot out of the boot, and I thought that it was leather crumbs caused by the friction of my Smartwool sock inside the tight boot.  I figured a few more outings in these bad boys would fix that problem.

Last Monday morning I was deeply engulfed in my morning routine.  I had saved my contact lens insertion for last so that I could read important documents, like the lunch menu and the weather forecast, with ease.  As I was bending down to zip my boot, I noticed something light-colored and wrinkled in my boot.  My first thought was that it had been so tight that I was somehow folding the leather down into the foot compartment.  I leaned further down for a closer look and to smooth out the wrinkled leather.  LO AND BEHOLD!  I reached in and pulled out the cardboard insert!  I felt like Little Jack Horner, but a lot less messy.

Aunque la mona se vista de seda, mona se queda.
Dress a monkey as you will, it remains a monkey still.
                                                           

TAKIN' CARE OF BUSINESS

I know I am not the only busy person in the world.  Today made my head spin.  Stop reading right now, Dear Reader, if you are not up to wading through my combination Pity Party and Victory Dance (to the tune of my theme song, "Takin' Care of Business", as you already know).

5:45 a.m. Hit SNOOZE to stop the guy on the radio talking about when he found out his mom was really his sister.
5:55 a.m. Turned off the alarm before it came on again.  Jumped out of bed after having a premonition of how busy the day would be.  Fed the cats.
6:05 a.m. Threw ingredients into the Crock Pot (it is #3, if you are wondering which of my five I used) for tonight's dinner.
6:15 a.m. Barely escaped falling into the chest freezer while digging out hamburger for tomorrow's Rock the Crock event at work.
6:20 a.m. Wrote myself a note to take out the garbage and prepare the Crock to Rock.
6:22 a.m. Made Girl9's breakfast.  Toaster waffle with peanut butter and syrup.  Breakfast of a champion, and in my estimation, should be what every 4th grader dreams of for breakfast.  My opinion seems to be only that - my opinion.
6:25 a.m. Made my lunch. Hummus and turkey on diet bread.  An apple.  Lunch of a dieter.  Threw in that bag of M & Ms that has been calling me ever since it mysteriously opened itself.
6:35 a.m. Packed a basketball gear bag for Girl9.  Shorts, shirt, shoes.
6:40 - 7:00 Met my own basic needs, including showering, dressing, eating a bagel and slurping the sweet nectar of life, in the form of instant orange cappuccino.
7:05 Grabbed my lunch, my voter's ballot, another child's coat to be reunited with its owner, and reminded Girl9 to snag her basketball bag, backpack and wear a coat with a hood, as she would be walking to her school from my work.  Hoods are necessary to combat precipitation in our climate.
7:18 Arrived at work.  Mailed my ballot.  Unlocked the door for two boys to do some work on a project in my classroom.
7:20 Wrote a note to allow Girl9 to be picked up at school by someone different from the norm.
7:45 Escorted a parade of small children to my classroom to await departure to their own school.
8:15 Greeted my first class.  They greeted me with complaints about their late work not earning full credit.  Upon inquiry, discovered that boys who worked in the classroom before school did not really do any work.
8:20 Sent small children to walk to their own school.
8:20 - 11:10.  Taught large children while enduring complaints about grades and amount of homework.  Gave quizzes to three classes.  Corrected them throughout the day.
11:10 Supervised a boy working on his project in my classroom.  Let us call him Logan.  This was supposed to be my lunch time.
11:40 Wolfed down hummus sandwich and sucked up more nectar of life.
11:45 - 12:45 Attended a training meeting.  Was called out at one time to clarify how Girl9 was getting home.
12:45 - 2:00 Attended a team meeting.
2:00 - 2:45 Recorded grades in grade book.  Picked up scissors, tape and string from the floor where Lunchtime Logan had left them.
2:45 - 2:50 Walked to Girl9's school.
3:05 Attended Girl9's teacher conference.
3:30 Attended another conference for Girl9.
4:00 Returned to my own workplace, lugging a large bag of fundraising items sold by Girl9.
4:05 Attended a union meeting.  Ate a bunch of those M & Ms previously mentioned.
5:15 Picked up Girl9 from basketball practice.
5:30 Arrived home.  Threw rice in rice cooker.  Fed the cats. Brought in a load of firewood.  Started a new load of laundry. Read note.  Took out garbage.  Thawed meat for tomorrow's Rock the Crock.  Cooked meat for said event.  Dished up dinner and ate it.  Encouraged Girl9 to practice the piano and requested backup on laundry duty.  Girl9 was kind enough to fold a load of clothes.
7:00 Wrote a worksheet for tomorrow's class.
8:30 Cleaned up kitchen.  Collected ingredients to make tomorrow's Rock the Crock at the crack of dawn.  Fed wood stove.
9:00 Fell asleep while watching TV.

R.I.P.

If you are hoping for a laugh today, you shall have to look elsewhere.  Please come back another day for a chuckle or two.

Class of 1983, I sat with you today.  The last time we were all in one place was June, 1983, at our high school graduation ceremony.  We sat on folding chairs on the football field.  A light breeze whiffed our tassels.  Today we sat indoors on plastic chairs with a flag-covered wooden casket before us.  Those who could not be here held us close in their thoughts with heavy hearts.  Today we mourned the loss of our childhood friend.

We came to show our love and respect for Jeff and his family, but we also came to support each other.  In the days before this, we have been lighting up Facebook, as well as the phone lines, consoling and comforting one another, checking on each other, sharing our memories.  Today we held hands, hugged, and shared Kleenexes.  Those who could make the trip, both physically and emotionally, witnessed a wonderful tribute to our classmate.

I have never before attended a funeral with so much pomp.  There were firefighters from at least three districts in their dress blues.  At the beginning and again at the end of the service, all uniformed firefighters were required to go outside and form a line along the route the casket took between the fire truck and the door to the building.  There was an honor guard, the members of which took turns standing at the casket.  The honor guard also ceremoniously folded the flag that was draped over the casket and presented it to Jeff's mother.  There were bagpipers who played while the casket was being brought in by the honor guard, and they played Amazing Grace while the casket was being taken out.  The firefighters' rituals were fascinating, and I wished that I knew more about them.  It was a beautiful ceremony.

Jeff's brother-in-law showed a video that he had created using photographs and scrapbook pages, and set to music.  We saw Jeff as a baby, we saw the Jeff that was our school mate, and we saw Jeff as the man he had become.  So many of those younger pictures of Jeff made it all seem like yesterday.  Basketball games, dances, parties - when did that time fly by?

Several people spoke about Jeff.  We can all agree that he had a wonderful smile and a kind heart.  We learned how dedicated he was to his profession.  His generosity knew no bounds - we heard how he emptied his entire wallet to a family who lost everything in a fire.  No matter who it was, everyone had a funny tale to tell us that reminded us of the boy we knew: he could belch the alphabet, he always wore two pairs of socks, he loved to play with fire, he could defy the rules of food preservation and eat anything with no fear of unpleasant consequences.

Class of 1983, I sat with you today.  You helped me become who I am now, and I hope I had a teeny part in helping you become who you are.  We are not the same group who sat on the football field in June of 1983. We are five fewer.