Beautiful Old Broads enjoy summer

Hello dear ones,

This will be my last blog post for the summer.  I started this blog 18 months ago and have posted most every Friday...unless life interfered.  So I'm going to take a break from writing the blog but I love doing it and plan to start writing it again in the fall.  I've enjoyed all your feedback and thank you for taking precious time from your day to read it. I'll leave you with a poem that I posted a few months back.  Much to my surprise it won third place in a little library writing contest I entered. I'm sure it will ring a bell with you and perhaps leave you smiling. 


       Hanging On The Line  
                         by  Patti Ross 

She said

Due to the large volume of calls, there is a wait for the next available agent.

I said

Due to your company’s lack of hiring enough personnel, the phone lines are clogged

She said

Thank you for your patience

I said

What patience?  I’m not patient.  I’m irritated and angry and fussed

I’ve been on this line for ages punching one and punching two and now…now I’d like to punch you.

She said

Thank you for your patience.  And then scratchy recorded music bombarded my ear.

I said

I’ve been holding so long, my arm is numb and I fear for my circulation.  I hammered on O and pounded on keys but its no use.

She said

Due to the large volume of calls we are presently experiencing there is a considerable wait.  Thank you for your patience.

I said

I’m about at the end of my rope.  I may hang…up.  Wait. I hear something…a live person speaking to me.  Really!

She said

My name is Lorilei.  How may I assist you?

I said

Due to the lengthy wait, I can’t remember why I called.  Please hold while I look for my notes.

Thank you for your patience.

Beautiful Old Broads vote to be vocal

Dear Ones,

The media natters on and on about how divisive our population appears.  They stress the fact that we’re contentious.  It’s one of their favorite topics. We all look around guiltily and nod our heads. Yes we do seem to disagree on many fronts. 

 Well, good for us, I say.  We are only following in the footsteps of our august forefathers…and mothers. Just take a long look back in history.  Exactly when was that period when we all held hands and sang “Kumbaya”???

 Not at the birth of our democracy when the original 13 colonies absolutely abhorred the idea of a federation. It was only after much wrangling and debate that finally in 1789, our Constitution was ratified and slowly we began to pull the oars of government together.  But then came the civil war and states jumped ship. And in the 1850’s the senate was deeply conflicted due to the slavery issues.  So much so that on one occasion Senator Foote from Mississippi drew a pistol in self defense when the burly Senator Thomas Hart Benson came rumbling down the aisle. Open carry was NOT an issue.  Wisely, Vice President Fillmore quickly adjourned the session that day and the two senators quickly cooled and apologized.

Not in the years before WW1. There were riots and strikes early in the century and then there was bitter disagreement on whether we should be involved “over there”.  Leave them fight their own wars, many said.

Not in the late thirties.  Though FDR wanted to stand beside England, the American people were, as usual, divided.  It wasn’t until Japan invaded and Germany declared war on us that we united in defeating Japan and Hitler.

History shows that we Americans are noisy, opinionated and outspoken.  And so we should be.  How sad if we were silent and complacent or if we stopped caring about issues or were afraid to debate topics.  Yes, maybe the media is correct in saying we do disagree more often than not.  However, one of the Latin meanings for dissension is to think.  So hopefully Americans will continue to think, to care, to stand up and voice their opinions and to argue for ideals close to their hearts.  I say…good for us.   History also shows that when we do decide to stand together, we are a powerful nation.

            “A government big enough to give you everything you want is strong enough

             to take everything you have.”             Thomas Jefferson                   

Beautiful Old Broads say goodbye to May

Dear Ones,

I began the merry month of May with a post about May Day and May altars.  As this is the last of May, I decided to write a poem called "May Night"  Hope you like it.

                                                  May Night

                                                            By patti ross

                                    Thunder trembles eyes closed tight

                                    Against the rumbling night

                                    Hold fast…don’t slip into the storm

                                    Wind thrashes lashes wet with tears

                                    Ripping fast the sheets that cleat us here

   

                                    Adrift, alone, to see no more

                                    The years of Mays piled up on shore.

                                    Hold fast…sweet May

                                    Stay another day.

Beautiful old broads discuss fifty shades of gray

Dear Ones,

We may eschew needle pointy Manolos.  We may not wear bandage wide skirts or teeny brief shorts anymore, but when it comes to our hair; we still have much in common with our younger counterparts for women of all ages obsess over hair.  Too curly, too straight, too thin, too, just too too.  From the time we start peering into the mirror, we begin to adjust and cut and blower and spray and later perhaps bleach, rinse, highlight, dye.  You name it, females have done it to their tresses.  A memory I have is doing my mom’s hair.  Every Saturday morning I would shampoo her hair and then open a small packet of bluing and mix with water and pour it over her head.  After rinsing, I’d set her hair in small pin curls.  Anyone remember pin curls or that blue rinse?    

Any doubt in my mind about how much females ponder their hairdos and it was put to rest by a google search of  ‘dying hair’   More sites to check out than there are hairs on a head.  Yes, this is a topic close to our hearts…err I mean heads. The long list of subjects covered everything from how to dye your hair with kool-aid to (and I quote) “Does dying your hair kill lice?”  Ah, the magic of the internet! 

So should BOB’s highlight, dye or alter their hair or embrace the gray?  Should they imitate Emmylou Harris (yes she’s 68) and revel in the beauty of silver.  Or the opposite end of the spectrum was Joan Rivers with her blinding gold head.  Truly, there are fifty shades of grey from ash and platinum to titian to cool blonde. No more blue thankfully. 

Go for it.  If it pleases an older woman to lighten, darken or highlight, then do it.  At our age we should follow our instincts.  By now we know what’s best for ourselves.  And at the bottom line if it makes you smile and you’re happy--do it.  After all, we are hair today…gone tomorrow. 

                        “Everything you see, I owe to spaghetti.”   Sophia Loren

Beautiful Old Broads look for quiet

Dear Ones,

Shhh!.  Hush.  Be quiet.  What do these words convey?  Perhaps you picture a library, the theater, or church.  Quiet is also used as an unforgiving tool. Giving someone the cold shoulder or withdrawing your words in anger and saying with satisfaction—I’ll never speak to you again.  Another negative take on silence. 

Then focus on solitude, a word that conjures up negative images too.  Think solitary confinement or for a child…time out. And we all know what it means to be labeled a LONER.   Tsssk, tssk.  Not good.  No. In our wired, networking, multi tasking universe, one should embrace social contacts, be upbeat, be friended on facebook.  In short, always be out there.  Wherever that is?  Our culture doesn’t particularly revere silence and stillness and time alone.  And let’s not go to multi tasking.  You see it all the time.  In the restaurant folks texting and talking on their cell and eating a sandwich and oh yes…listening to you.  Not really.  Distractions leave us scattered and inefficient and tense.

Stillness and silence and solitude, far from restrictions or punishments  are anodynes to the soul. A value can’t be placed on the calmness, these pursuits bring to our life. The mystics and wise men/women have practiced meditation and sought solitude down through the ages.  So why don’t we seek out stillness and aloneness more often? We can go to great lengths to ‘not be alone’.  It’s a conundrum.

My take on it is that society places such a high value on being busy.  Being retired (which most of us BOB’s are) we should have ample time to pursue stillness and solitude but many of us are busy busy bees.  Here I must say that in no way do I mean one should close the door and stay inside. What I’m saying is we need time to ponder, time to watch the butterflies or just stare at the wall and find inner stillness.   To define solitude, the best way to put it is that being alone is a condition where you are by yourself.  Lonely is how you feel about it.  Seeking solitude enriches us and literally fills our pitchers when they become empty.  Quiet time, contemplation, Quakers call it centering.  You can do it out in the garden weeding or in your favorite reading chair or by walking.  This practice of quietness recharges us. The benefits are numerous and its so easy.

Not really.  All these profound sayings make it appear easy.  Oh yes.  But the hard fact is that life butts in.  Everywhere there is noise and distractions and one gets caught up in a tangle of activity.  For to be silent is a challenging discipline and to look inward can be uncomfortable. 

Upon reflection, its all about balance isn’t it?  Balancing the outward and the inward life.  Balancing duties with pleasures.  Balancing needs and desires.  All through life we strive for that perfect mix.  A challenge.  Growing older, it should get easier…but does it? 

            “There is a solitude which we carry within us more inaccessible that ice cold mountains, more profound than the midnight sea—the solitude of self.”

                                                                                    Elizabeth Cady Stanton

        

Beautiful Old Broads remember May

Dear Ones, 

I was buoyed by all the comments about my post last week on May altars and thrilled that some of you BOB’s shared your memories.  Am passing their reminisces on to you all.

Susie who grew up in Fort Worth remembers helping her dad plant rose bushes and beating a tennis ball against the garage wall when she wasn’t struggling with confirmation classes at church.

Another Texas gal remembers walking home from school to her grandmothers.

In the backyard pecan tree, she rigged up a trapeze that she made from a metal mop handle.

Mary Ann,(who grew up in central Illinois, shared a charming story about her May Day.  Little girls made vases out of construction paper and hung bouquets on neighbor’s doors. 

Memories are so precious and so individual.  And we BOB’s were clever gals.

Thanks for sharing and I have one more moment about my May memories to share with you. Last week I wrote that I was going to sing more and sing loud too.  I sailed right in to sing some of those old Blessed Mother hymns from long ago May days.  Only problem was except for the chorus and a few snatches of notes, I couldn’t remember the words.  Humming was not an option so ta-dah…You Tube to the rescue.  I googled Queen of the May and like magic, the song popped up on my screen with all the lyrics.  Then the magnificent voice of Irish tenor, Frank Patterson filled my study.  What a reaction that triggered in me.  My eyes filled…and overflowed and as he sang all the verses, the words swept me back to St Theresa’s and those long ago Mays and I just about flooded the room with tears (okay I exaggerate) but I did weep.  The music resonated inside me and I wanted my mother and my sister and my childhood all back.  Hard to explain, just a yearning. It was a bittersweet few minutes.  Music truly has the power to touch the soul and stir the heart.

Enough of the past…on to the present and a sincere warm wish that all of you sisters and mothers, and daughters and aunts have a beautiful Mother’s Day.

                        “Oh better than the minting of a cold-crowned king

                        Is the safe-kept memory of a lovely thing.”    Sara Teasdale

 

     

Beautiful Old Broads Celebrate May

Dear Ones,

            In case you didn’t notice, April is National Poetry Month and yes…I have a poem.  Hope it will  APPEAL to you. 

Address An Orange

                        by    Patti Ross

Good morning orange.

Cupped in my hand like a glowing orb, I cuddle you

And growing warm you emit a pungent sweetness

I lift you to my nose and sniff it in

Inhale the pungent fragrance of your skin.

Good morning orange.

I sit you on my plate and peel the pith

With fingers sticky and stained I watch

The peel drop away like darkness at the dawn

your nakedness revealing juicy jewels of gold

waiting to be swallowed like the day ahead.

A cool slice curls my tongue and citrus fills my mouth

I chew you

Good morning orange.

Pay attention to the day for like the orange it will slip away

Eaten by the gods of time

Beautiful Old Broads write stories

Dear Ones,

Writing stories in my head is something I’ve always done.  Some stories are real, others, make believe. A recent article pointed out, we all write our stories.  Personal narratives, they are labeled.  What’s more, these stories in our head help us make sense of our lives and so how we compose the story is important. 

The article which goes into depth about two studies done by psychologists states that if the story you conjure up in your head about an event in your life is positive, then voila!  You will be happier.  They interviewed hundreds and calculated and weighted and suggested a course of action to aid in reframing your narrative from negative to positive mainly by paying attention to the narrative you create and examining it.  Is the story really true?  Can you change it?

After reading the complete article, I could take a page out of E.B. White and condense that study down to a few succinct lines such as:  When the world gives you lemons—make lemonade.  Or always see the glass half full instead of half empty. Or how about when the door shuts, somewhere there is a window opening.   Tons of these cheery adages do help us and yes while we know they work, when the bird of paradise poops on our parade, those upbeat sayings can curdle our coffee.  But as the article points out, feeling helpless and moaning is pointless and uses up our energy that we could better employ making a plan.

So I decided to write two narratives for the same morning.  Here goes.

1.  It’s a crappy morning, humid and drizzly.  My knee hurts.  I’m sick of going to the neighborhood park for my walk.  Same old…same old.  I want to run barefoot on an ocean beach.  Fat chance.  I can’t jog anymore and I can’t see any ocean beaches in the near future for me.  What’s more, my step has slowed, and I get occasional glitches in my hips.  I’m blue today and I don’t want to go over to the park and beam good morning to other walkers.

2.  Wow!  So thankful it’s not snowing and icy like many places.  I can walk over to our small park and I think my knee is improving. I’m lucky to have a safe pleasant place close by for walking.   Plus saying a cheery good morning to fellow walkers usually improves my spirits.  After all you have to return a smile.   Yeah, I do walk slower but that gives me a better chance to spot a finch or a cedar waxwing in the pecan tree.  Thank goodness my eyes are okay.  I’m blessed.    

Interesting, isn’t it?  Same day, same person, same issues to deal with…yet two different narratives.  One researcher said “You can’t impact every event in your life but you have a choice in how the narrative is played out.  You tell the story and the story really matters.” 

By our age, all of us have composed many narratives in our heads.  However, it was revealing to me to examine my stories and maybe do a little rewriting.  Try it.

                        “I remember things the way they should have been.”

                                                                    Truman Capote 

Beautiful Old Broads meditate on Good Friday

Dear Ones,

Last year on Good Friday I posted John Donne's famous meditation on death which he preached at St. Paul's Cathedral in London.  Nothing I could say could be more appropriate for the day so I'll repeat the post this year.   

“Now this bell tolling softly for another, says to me, Thou must die.  Perchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill as that he knows not it tolls for him.  And perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that.  The church is catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does, belongs to all.  When she baptizes a child; that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that head which is my head too, and ingraffed into that body, whereof I am a member.  And when she buries a man, that action concerns me.  All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated.  God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God’s hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again, for that library where every book shall lie open to one another; as therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come; so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness…The bell doth toll for him that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute that that occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God.  Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises?  But who takes off his eye from a comet, when that breaks out?  Who bends not his ear to any bell, which upon any occasion rings?  But who can remove it from that bell, which is passing a piece of himself out of this world?  No man is an island, entire of itself: every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

                                                it tolls for thee.”

       

Beautiful Old Broads are icons.

Dear Ones.

When generations gathered around our kitchen table for birthdays and holidays, the talk eventually turned to the immutable fact that “they just don’t make things like they used to.  Plastic is what they use nowadays.”  Grey haired heads would nod in agreement.  Being a younger whippersnapper, I’d eye my dishwasher and self cleaning oven  and quietly chuckle.

Fast forward a few (okay quite a few) decades and I can hear myself echoing those same sentiments.  Oh my, those old dears are no doubt laughing their halos off somewhere out in the cosmos when I bewail all the new technology that swamps my brain.

Take the washer (I wish someone would).  It has a plastic button to turn it on and it sticks at times.  Once on though, the lid locks up like a dog’s jaw when you want to give him a pill. Leaving the lid open while you check the clothes hamper is not an option either.  The machine empties out with the lid open.  My old machine was much simpler. It had metal knobs to turn on and off and I could open it any time.

Moving on to my new printer.  Let me be clear.  I’d jolly well like to hammer and beat it into small pieces. Where to start.  That’s my first complaint.  Starting it takes longer than my dad’s old Plymouth to warm up on a winter morning.  Just like that old car, the printer gurgles and churns and grunts.  I’ve learned to push the button and then go brush my teeth while waiting for it to rumble into print mode.  And turning it off?  Simple you’d think.  No way.  To turn it off…you turn it on.  Really.  There are 12 functions on the top of the printer plus a small display screen.  Not one of them says OFF.  No.  To turn it off you press ON.  And if you don’t press it hard enough, oops, the next time you use the printer, a snarky message in the display warns you that printer was turned off improperly.  The rest of my thoughts about this printer are…..unprintable.

 Living in an icon studded world is stressful for word folks.  I yearn for dials and knobs that are easily identifiable.  Instead there are pictures that befuddle me.  My DNA is not wired for icons.  Take lips.  Yes lips.  When I see a picture of lips I immediately think of lipstick or kissing.  How wrong is that?  Let me explain.  A few years back I bought a GPS and the clerk said all I needed to do was pop it into the car and plug it in.  I should have been wary of anything that simple but I’m an optimist and off I went, plugged it in and wham, he was right.  It was very easy if you were Polish.  That’s right.  Every thing came up in Polish. I hit all options but failed.  So short of learning Polish, I needed help.  A phone call brought clarification.  Go to Menu and hit on the icon showing lips.  Excuse me but why lips I asked?  That’s the option for language.  Of course, anyone knows that except me.  I hit on lips and up came the language selection.  So easy if you’re an icon person. 

So it goes as we wade through oceans of new technology and try to stay afloat which I manage…just barely.  One thing gives me satisfaction.  The fact that a few decades ahead there will be oldsters gathered somewhere in a Starbucks sipping their decaf lattes and complaining about the state of the new technology and wishing they could have more naps and less apps.   

                        Survival is a succession of temporary measures”

           

Beautiful Old Broads March Along

Dear Ones,

March …many weathers….and many events.  There’s March Madness and The Ides of March and Nation Pi Day on 3-14.   Add to that  the first day of spring and spring forward day which I understand was dreamed up by no less than Benjamin Franklin.  A pox on old Ben and our Congress. It’s a disturbing and disruptive practice leaving millions sleep deprived each spring.

 My favorite day in March is the 17^th, the feast of St. Patrick.  I settle in for Irish music from my albums and lately from Pandora too.  It was a challenge to find Irish music on the radio. Now with streaming and the internet, it’s not a problem but years ago, not so easy to find the traditional Irish music my mother yearned for.  Except for the beloved Karl Hass.  Without fail every St. Pat’s day he would do an hour program of classical Irish music.  Mother would beam as his melodic voice filled the house.  He’d chat about the Irish composers and then that haunting lyrical music would coddle your heart. 

Nowadays, while listening to the music, I first get down the Irish Belleek teapot which is lighter than the voice of an Irish tenor.  It almost glows with ivory translucence.  Next I set the cups and saucers out.  Each cup is so delicate weighing about as much as one green shamrock.  Then I warm the pot and pop in an Irish teabag and wait while the brew steeps.  Not to be rushed, my Irish tea.  Savoring that first sip stirs up the memories and I settle in for a talk with my mother.  That’s been my custom, these last few years.  I usually get a wee weepy as memories flood my mind.  My dad used to say I had the Lakes of Killarney stashed behind my eyelids because I’d cry easily.  Now I don’t cry as often.  Takes something major.  I wonder.  As we age, do we keep our emotions tighter in check?  Less likely to share, more guarded about opening up?  Do you agree?  But not when I sit with my dear old mother.  I tell her all.

When the tea grows cold and the music ends, I put the china back on the shelf.  You’re probably thinking it’s on to an Irish dinner but the sad fact is I somehow didn’t get that strand of DNA that spelled boiled dinner.  I do not like corned beef and cabbage.  Yes, I cooked it for years…till Mother died.  Then I made a brave announcement.  No more corned beef and cabbage.  Perhaps lamb chops and green asparagus.  I think it’s the smell of cabbage that turns me off.  Don’t tell my mother…please.

We all have traditions; some cherished family ones, others recently acquired that though newer are meaningful and reassure us that there is a pattern to this unfolding of daily life.  Many are connected to the seasons.   Take the hummingbirds.  I put my feeders out mid-March and yesterday, they were at the feeder causing my spirits to lift and flutter just like their tiny wings and promising months of bird acrobatics. Also March means Lent to me and Lent means hot cross buns.  I can’t wait till I see them at the bakery.  That memory goes straight back to childhood.  Anyone else remember this song?

‘ One a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns, hot cross buns.  If you have no daughters, give them to your sons.  Hot cross buns.”

On that note, I’ll close and say Happy Spring.

                        It is in the shelter of each other that the people live

                                                            An Irish Proverb

               

               

Beautiful old broads go remembering

Dear Ones,

What causes memories to pop into your head?  Unbidden, like apps on a i-pad, they appear without warning tossing you back years or decades to some distant place in your past.  A snatch of a song, a familiar scent or maybe a voice can catapult one down the memory lane. On a recent misty drizzly morning, it was a voice, my mother’s voice that did it.  Oh what a moist day it is, she’d say whenever the rain came down.  No matter if it was a deluge-- to her it was a moist morning.  And it was indeed I thought zipping up my rain jacket and pulling down my hat and letting my mind drift back to those growing up years.

On a rainy afternoon, I’d race in from school, change out of my navy uniform and settle at the kitchen table with a library book until Mother appeared and airily announced she needed carrots or maybe sugar for my sister was bringing home someone for supper. But Mother, I’d complain, it’s pouring outside.  Then she’d lift off her apron and step out on the back porch to proclaim, tis only a moist day. I’d mutter and groan to no avail.  Finally I’d get on my raincoat and rubbers and head three blocks past the church and then turn on Grand River Ave. and there one block up was the A&P. where we shopped.  Along the way I managed to splash through lots of puddles pretending I was Gene Kelly dancing and singing or Elizabeth Taylor racing her horse.  I truly didn’t mind the rainy errand for I knew when I got back home, mother would fuss over me and make me cocoa and spoil me. She always did.

Mother liked the rain probably due to her Irish upbringing but the heat was another story.  How she disliked it.  If the temperature in Detroit hit 80, she considered it a heat wave.  Once the temperature went up, at our house all the shades came down, we had cold cuts for supper and I was instructed to play in the shade on our front porch lest I get sunstroke.

Now the drizzle was turning into a steady downpour putting an end to my walk and I ran for the car.  But first I looked up into the trees where perhaps mother’s ghost was hovering and said, Yes, mom, it is a most day and all this remembering has given me some moist eyes.

            Into each life some rain must fall….that’s why I have a rain barrel    

            

Beautiful Old Broads talk about home

Dear Ones,

At a recent book club meeting, the selected book was “Howard’s End”.  The discussion touched on many subjects  (as it usually does). The topic of home came up and some of the members offered their thoughts on houses and homes.  The consensus was that their favorite house was the place where they spent a large portion of the years raising children.   Memories entwined with Christmas stockings being hung and Easter egg hunts quite naturally are cherished ones.  One woman remarked that she didn’t even like to drive by the house where she’d raised her son for it triggered too many memories.  Another said that when her and her sisters went back to their childhood farm house, one sister refused to go up the gravel road to the house saying that she wanted to remember it just as it was when she was a child.

We all have different outlooks on home.  For some, home is one particular grounded place.  A place where they have cherished belongings and family events wrapped around  solid timbers and walls.  Others don’t form such deep attachments.  Perhaps they were in military or a job demanded many moves and they became inured to moving day.

Whatever the reason, we all have different views of home and moving and roots.

One of my favorite poets, May Sarton wrote a journal called “The House by the Sea”.  In it, she told her readers, how she fell in love with Wild Knoll, her rambling seaside home in Maine and how she knew from a few days after moving in that “I have slipped into these wide spaces, this amazing piece of natural Heaven and haven.”  In her years at “Wild Knoll” she is nourished by the sea and feels her life expanded.  Lucky her.  Not many of us get the opportunity to live on a secluded rocky Maine coast.  And of course many of us would not choose to do so. Too isolated, too cold, too whatever…we all have our quibbles when it comes to houses.

Shifting to a warmer sunnier coast, another writer, Anne Lindbergh shares her experience writing from her small simple cottage on the edge of the Gulf and her journey of discovery on Sanibel Island, Florida. Like all homes, this is a temporary one for her.  But then aren’t all homes temporary?  For though we put down roots and gather possessions, we’re all just passing through this life.  In “Gift From The Sea”, Lindbergh seeks to make sense of her life and to be at peace with herself.  She compares herself to the little hermit crab who sheds his shell and carries his home with him. 

Upon reflection, I think I’m more a hermit crab than say an oyster bed.  I’ve carried my shell on my back from place to place.  Each place has harbored unique experiences that I treasure.  New friends, new options.  But certain things must remain constant.  I  can’t do without sunrises, sunsets, my swing, my teapot, my books. 

The deepest stirrings I felt for home were the ones that overcame me when I sat on the worn step of my mother’s house on Edward Street in Baltinglass Ireland.  I felt her presence strongly and pictured her sitting there with her sisters on a summer evening. The house itself is old but well preserved.  A two story stucco with the back facing the Slaney River.  A house my mother told me about many times.  My Irish family.  Home. 

            “This corner of earth smiles for me beyond all others.”   Horace.

Beautiful Old Broads watch sunrises

Dear Ones,

Winter morning sunrises are ever changing and prompted this poem about promises.

                                                      Winter Sunrises
                                                                     by Patti Ross


                      Winter sunrises are Mona Lisa things
                      Full of roses and reds spreading promises
                       Across my windowpane

                       Like politicians on the campaign trail
                       Winter mornings often fail to follow up their promise
                       Of a perfect afternoon

                       One ponders what the day will bring
                        After all it isn't spring
                        But the pinks feed our hopes and spirits rise

                        Hoping for a pleasant day ahead
                        Instead fierce clouds blow in and then the wind
                        Where's the promise of dawn all rosy and red

                                                                                    GONE

                         Still I eye the sun painting streaks across the sky
                         Unfurling frissons of purple shades with glee
                          And pray she will not lie to me today

                          For hope can't be squashed by wind and cold
                          Not even when you're old
                          It blossoms on my windowpane with each new
                                                                                      
                                                                                     DAWN    

Beautiful Old Broads browse the aisles

Dear Ones,

Have you ever gone into the book store or (remember the record stores?) to buy a particular title only to exit store with an entirely different title in hand?  Of course you have.  We do it all the time.  It’s called browsing.  Spending an aimless hour or two at the library or bookstore where you probably will stumble on a gem of a book that isn’t on your To Read list but you gotta have it for it looks so interesting.

 Happened to me a few years back when I stumbled on one of my all time favorite reads.  I was standing in the library aisle when this book literally fell off the shelf.  When I bent to retrieve it from the floor, the title gave me pause.  “Learning To Fall”.  Could I possibly ignore a sign like this?  I checked the book out, went home and after reading two chapters, proceeded to order the book from Barnes and Noble.  The book sits by my bedside and is worn from reading and re-reading. I found this while browsing. I would never have looked in particular for this book on Amazon or Kindle or Google.   

Not to say I don’t use these tools.  I do.  But mostly, I ignore their Preference Engines that automatically generate computerized lists of ‘my favorites’.  So far I have never bought a “book you might enjoy”.  Thank you very much but I’ll decide, not Amazon, what books I want on my Kindle.  Yes, I admit that shopping for a book on my Kindle is a great timesaver and I delight in downloading it in seconds, yet when I have time I much prefer to wander the library or bookstore shelves and browse. 

And then there is Netflix.  Streaming is the latest and again I love the convenience but gosh, I remember going to our neighborhood video store on Friday evening and strolling up and down the aisle.  Often I’d bump into a neighbor and we’d start chatting about movies and before you could be kind…rewind, I’d have a movie to watch.  Now Netflix likes to show me my favorites.  They aren’t.  For instance, I entered the actress Helen Mirren in the search space but the movie I wanted wasn’t available to stream.  Never fear though, Netflix had a zillion other choices for me.  Mostly to do with the royal family.  Don’t they know I’m a little Irish girl who isn’t keen on the royals?  Erin Go Bragh!

For me, I will continue to browse whenever possible for I don’t see it as frittering time.  I see it as exposure to a wide world of music and reading and movies and art.  An opportunity to broaden my knowledge albeit it a fact that today, a wide portion of Americans prefer pushing a button to browsing.   Don’t know why.  Search me?  

                        “No two persons ever read the same book.” 

Beautiful Old Broads talk about texting

Dear Ones,

Bet you didn’t know that ringtones are so OVER.  Yes, those dulcet sounds that emit from your purse in the supermarket or the familiar notes that float up from your pocket while you’re walking are outdated.  Well, I didn’t know either but it appears the younger generation don’t use cell phones to talk.  They find that quaint and old fashioned.   Talking has gone the way of  video cassettes or the phone booth (remember those).  Now the major part of their communication is done by text.  Texting is the terse telling of some event or detail in your life in a few sentences and no ringtone is activated.  Just a slight burp.

I’ve texted occasionally and reluctantly, hampered by eyesight, glare, and keys tinier than pinheads that are on my cell phone.  And when I hear that burp, I can’t just pick up my cell and say hello.  I’ve  got to hunt for my glasses and then for some odd reason my creaky cell phone develops an appetite for texts and eats part of them up, never to divulge the contents  again. There is a use for texting.  Just not my use.  I can’t see why one can’t speak into the phone.  Much superior than telegrams

Remember telegrams.  As the story was told to me,  my father telegraphed my aunts in Ireland when I was born, though for the relatives that lived stateside, he choose the telephone.  He could transmit his happiness and assure mom’s family that she was well and he could give them details and answer their questions immediately. 

Mankind has strived to improve communication since the Indians sent smoke signals.  In 1837, Samuel Morse sent this message across the telegraph wires.  “What Hath God Wrought”.  Could he have envisioned the Internet and e-mail and texting?   Indeed, he might have said this time around, “What have humans wrought?” 

I write this at the risk of being labeled a Luddite but heck, I’ve been called worst things and I was heartened to read I’m not alone in my aversion to texting.  Here’s what a champion football coach from Alabama says, “If you can’t see someone face-to-face and look them in the eye, the next best thing is to call somebody and have a conversation.  It’s a lost art today.”  According to Pew research, teens sent an average of 60 texts a day in 2011 and that number is growing like apps on an i-pad.

Whew!  We need to talk.  That’s what connects us and comforts us..  So keep those ringtones singing in your purse and call me soon.  Please.

      “The whole art of life is knowing the right time to say things.”  Maeve Binchy     

Beautiful Old Broads are patient souls

Hello Dear Ones,

On a chilly cold January afternoon in the Hill Country.  Last week we talked about doing something positive for the New Year and I made some suggestions. Also got some feedback.  One person is being more thankful while another is going to attempt to take criticism with a cheerful heart.

 I’ve pondered and decided on Being Patient for my resolution.  At least for the next few months I’ll try to be more patient and as a reminder I’ll put the words up on my mirror and my fridge…and on my dashboard.  Yes, I can go zonkers when I’m in a hurry and the person ahead of me doesn’t pull out quickly enough or so I think.  Patience. And what about the person in front of you in the express lane at the market with a zillion items in her cart.   And then she can’t find her checkbook.  Ah…Be Patient. 

After making the decision to be more patient, I came across a column about a book called “Atchison Blue” by Judith Valente in which the author spends time at a Benedictine Monastery in search of silence and detachment.  One of the rituals that the nuns perform stuck me as so moving.  Before beginning any task together, the sisters bow to each other and say “Have patience with me”.  Such a small gesture and yet what power it projects.  How humbling to ask each other for patience.  Made me realize that small gestures can and do make a difference.  Else these nuns wouldn’t be saying that phrase to each other.  They know how humbling it is to ask of someone, the gift of patience and to give it.  To take a breath and smile and graciously overlook failures or stumbles or mistakes and say “No problem”.   

Imagine if everyone exiting a crowded parking lot had patience or how about the airport security line. Perhaps we should erect signs in public imploring. ‘Have Patience With Each Other’.  After all, we’re all walking each other home.     

Please tell me what you choose to do. You can always email me your comments.  I’m off to post my reminder on the fridge.   

  

         "I don’t want to get to the end of my life and find that I just lived the length of it.

             I want to have lived the width of it as well.”   D. Ackerman

Beautiful old broads start the new year 2015

Dear Ones,

My blog is one year old this week.  For all of you who follow the Friday postings, I m so thankful. I know there are so many tugs on your time these days.  I strive to keep each post brief but meaningful and always appreciate your feedback.  Earlier in the fall, I envisioned having a Beautiful Old Broads Birthday Celebration.  Life, however, dictated differently and most of the autumn I dealt with my husband’s health issues. He is healing.  At our age, health is a precious commodity to strive for and savor..  If not, we make adjustments…right.  I pointed out in a previous post that humans are in the constant state of loss.  Accepting it with grace is the challenge we all face daily.

And now we face another year and  2015 stretches out before us.   The calendar is blank, ready to be filled with appointments and schedules.  We fill it with notes and reminders knowing full well that in a blink, a whoosh, it can all change.  Still we jot down reminders prompted by the urge to feel in charge.  It gives us a sense of permanence to firmly write down in ink our schedule.  A tactile way to say we’re in control…even if we’re not.

Do you make resolutions at the beginning of the year?  The papers and TV and internet  are awash with interviews, opinions and ideas for improving ourselves.   Many times lofty resolutions  drop off the radar by the end of January.  So I aim for a less spectacular goal, a small achievement.  Here’s my plan for 2015:

Pick a word or phrase and post on your fridge  door. Last year I wrote down, “ DON’T JUDGE.”   I stuck it up and for awhile whenever I opened the fridge, I took notice.  Of course, eventually one ignores it or the note falls off.  So post another one.  Believe me, I had a struggle with judging.  Seems I judge A LOT!   Seems I can be pretty opinionated and narrow minded.

This year of 2015, what phrase or word will I write on my post-it note?  I’m pondering on that today.   So many choices.  Pick one.  

           

            LISTEN          SMILE MORE         PAY ATTENTION          FORGIVE

            DON’T CRITICIZE            DON’T INTERRUPT           GET INVOLVED

            SING…LOUD             BE PATIENT          HUG           HUG MORE

            LOVE MANY               BE SILENT                  GIVE  THANKS  

         Beginnings offer opportunities to define ourselves anew......Happy   2015