The Beatles

themightylandshark.com

themightylandshark.com

 

 

The Beatles were the first wave of what was to become a virtual tsunami of British rock and roll bands to capture the imagination of American teenagers in the 1960’s.

Like most people of a “certain age,” I clearly remember their appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show—the appearance that fanned the fires of the phenomena called Beatlemania.

The shaggy (by 1960’s standards) hair, the fitted, collarless suit jackets and the songs—“I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, “I Saw Her Standing There,” all were different and exciting. Even then, I knew that something amazing was happening. Their music was energetic and artistic at the same time. It was fascinating watching girls in the TV audience swoon and faint because they were seeing The Beatles in person—and wishing I was there, too.

Full blown Beatlemania took over the lives of most teenage girls (and many boys) of the time.

I remember going to the Friday night dances at a local Catholic High School, which cost fifty cents to get in. Whenever a Beatles record would be played, the girls would scream and run onto the dance floor as if possessed. You would’ve thought the four lads from Liverpool were there at the Bishop Timon High School Auditorium by the way we acted!

Then there was the day one of my classmates brought a three foot long poster of John, Paul, George and Ringo into Latin class, and laid it on the floor like a red carpet. Luckily, I sat in the same row as she, so I got to gaze upon the adorable countenance of Paul McCartney during class—which was a lot more fun than declining Latin verbs.

Who can forget choosing their favorite Beatle? Mine was Paul, because he was so cute, played guitar left-handed, and looked like an extremely good-looking boy next door.

My parents, who were pretty laid back about most stuff, decided to ban us from listening to Beatles music in the living room.  We had to go to either the basement or one of our bedrooms to play our newly acquired Beatles records. This ban lasted until my Mom began to sing along with the records…suddenly, the Beatles were, once again, welcome in the living room.

When their first movie, “A Hard Day’s Night” was released, my Dad loaded me, two of my sisters and a bunch of our friends into the station wagon and took us to the Drive –In to see it. I overheard him tell my Mom when we got home that, “The movie was pretty good, and the music wasn’t too bad.”

Beatlemania took on many forms—collecting Beatles cards in bubble gum, buying John Lennon’s book of poetry as well as all sorts of memorabilia,  and of course, reading about The Fab Four in fan magazines. We poured over articles about their home lives, and how they got started.

The fact that John Lennon was married and had a child, and that Paul McCartney had a serious girlfriend was downplayed at first. I suspect that was in order to support fan’s fantasies about that chance meeting that would turn into a romantic encounter.

Perhaps the strangest Beatles fan at that time was my Grandfather, who lived with us.

When my parents got weird about us watching the Beatles in the living room, we would go to Grandpa’s room and watch The Ed Sullivan Show with him. Later, after the Beatle ban was lifted, Grandpa would call downstairs, “Hey Kids, them Beagles is on!” That was our cue to hurry up to his room to watch the Liverpool Four with him. The only problem with this scheme was that Grandpa thought that any rock and roll group that remotely resembled our heroes were “them Beagles.” So, we got to watch the Dave Clark 5, Gerry and the Pacemakers and many other British Invasion groups with Grandpa.

I have so many memories of The Beatles, ranging from loving their music, feeling saddened by their breakup (and knowing it Yoko Ono’s fault), the shock of John Lennon’s murder, the genuine grief when George Harrison died…

I still love hearing their music and remembering the happiness of those more innocent days.

 

 

 

 

 

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Aunt Alice

 

 

 

When I was a kid, nothing created as much excitement as a visit from Aunt Alice.

My mother, who was Aunt Alice’s much younger sister, would announce her impending visit sometime in the afternoon.

And the countdown began.

Aunt Alice always visited late at night, never during the day.

One of the reasons for the flutter of excitement was that we could stay up late—way past our normal bedtime. I can remember sitting on the living room couch ready for bed, in my pajamas, waiting for the arrival of the fabled Aunt.

And soon she would arrive—in a taxi! Talk about drama and excitement! Virtually no one we knew, even our parents, ever rode in a taxi.

She would enter the room and I would be mesmerized by her exotic appearance. She was tiny, less than five feet tall, and wore a lot of makeup. Her hair was shoulder length and as black as a raven. She wore her hair in a 40’s vintage hair style, a modified pompadour in front and curled under in back, secured with tortoise shell combs. She had ruby red lips, and two dramatic “beauty marks,” one placed just so on her chin and the other under her eye. Her clothes looked like party clothes and she wore jangly earrings, bracelets, and high heels.

She didn’t look like anyone’s mother—although she was married and had two daughters, Marie and Barbara Ann. Barbara Ann, who was very quiet and not as exotic as her mother, usually accompanied her on these nocturnal visits. Barbara Ann was older than us—we were little kids, and she was a teenager. Like her mother, Barbara Ann was dark and seemed to have an aura of mystery. (Later when I became an adult, I got to know her better and found her to be a warm and loving woman who resembled my Mom.)

Aunt Alice was always happy to see us and would compliment Mom on our manners and looks.

After the hellos, we were allowed to have whatever treat Mom had baked for Aunt Alice’s visit—and then we went to bed.

I would lie awake wondering about this Aunt who was so unlike my other aunts.

Was she a Gypsy? Where was she when she wasn’t at our house? Who was her husband? (I actually didn’t meet him until I was much older.) Why did she wear so much makeup? Why did she have those beauty marks? Why was Barbara Ann so quiet? Did Barbara Ann go to school? Did she live with Aunt Alice? Why did they ride in taxis? Were they both Gypsies?

They often stayed until after midnight, when Dad would return from his shift at Bethlehem Steel Plant. Soon after that, he would drive Aunt Alice and Barbara Ann home.

And I would dream of the next visit from Aunt Alice.

 

 

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Empty or Full?

That is the question…whether to unload the dishwasher…or to use the clean dishes as needed from the machine.

What is it about unloading a dishwasher that strikes terror into the hearts of even the most fastidious of housekeepers?

Is it the idea of sorting the silverware, or placing the plates in their size-appropriate stacks in the cupboard?  Because, when you think about it, these are easy chores and certainly are not challenging mentally.

I know I am not the only person who avoids this task. An informal survey of my circle of friends leads me to conclude that leaving clean dishes in a dishwasher is as common as divorce.

On my worst days, I have stacked up to three days worth of rinsed dished in the sink, waiting for the perfect moment to unload and then reload the machine. Sometimes, I even opt to wash the dishes by hand, rather than to remove the plates from the dishwasher—which is strange, because I hated hand-washing dishes when I was a kid. But then again, my two or three dishes are nothing compared to the 11 dinner plates, 11 glasses or cups,  33 pieces of flatware, numerous serving bowls and cooking utensils that were a typical load of dishes when I was growing up. (My Mom never had a dishwasher until most of us were grown and out of the house.)

So the dishwasher and I have this dance that we do. I rinse and place dishes in it and it hides the mess. Then finally, it’s time to add the detergent and turn the machine on, listening to the comforting swishing and spraying that assures me that I will have clean cups, saucers and lunch plates the next day.

When I rise the next morning, the glowing green light on the front of the machine assures me that it has kept its part of the bargain.

Now it’s my turn.

Will I turn my back on the clean dishes and find the one last clean glass and one last clean plate in the cupboard—or remove only what I need from the interior of the machine? Or will I do the right thing, and relieve the dishwasher of its burden of shiny,clean cutlery and crockery?

If my past history is a predictor of the future…well, let’s just say that the answer to that is in my hands.

 

 

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Hopes and Dreams

 

It’s been almost a year since my novel, Loving Christy was published. I worked night and day to make it a wonderfully readable novel—one that I hoped would fly off the shelves, and would be downloaded onto hundreds of Kindles and Nooks.

Lately, reality has set in. Loving Christy sits on Amazon.com, gathering dust, waiting for someone to take a chance on it. I have been able to promote the book, one at a time to people I know, and I have placed it in a few bookstores.

I’ve even received royalty checks—and was able to pay CASH for a Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast!

Promoting a novel is hard work and it takes hundreds of hours, a lot of energy—and it helps to have connections.  I’ve had some success with my novel in my community and have received great feedback from people who have read it. Several book clubs have invited me to attend as a guest author. What a fantastic experience it is to meet with readers of my work.

All of that is rewarding.

Knowing that my target audience is enthused by Loving Christy is (to me) success.  Now I am at a crossroads. I need to get people excited about my book again.

So here’s the deal. If you’ve read Loving Christy, I am asking you to write a review—it can be just a few sentences—and post it on Amazon. I know that many of you have already—my humble and grateful thanks.

My hopes and dreams are centered on my writing. Writing is what makes me feel most alive. It is my gift, and I’ve spent years nurturing it.

And now, I hope that you, too, will appreciate my gift.

 

 

 

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I’m Back!

As regular readers of this blog know, it’s been several weeks since I’ve posted anything new. I haven’t given up on the blog—it’s just that typing with the “hunt and peck method” using one hand is tiring. Why am I using such an inefficient method to type this blog entry? I had surgery on my left shoulder, basically immobilizing that arm and hand for an indefinite period of time.

So here I am, tediously typing this entry.

Like all of life’s experiences, I’ve learned from this one. I’d like to share some of my insights.

First, always ask your doctor if there will be much post-surgical pain. I didn’t and—well, let’s just say I was quite surprised—and not in a good way.

Second, ask your doctor how long your recovery will take. My doctor told me I’d need a few weeks of rehab (substitute months for weeks).

Third, under no circumstances should you mentally substitute easy for endoscopic. They are not synonyms.

Fourth, as difficult as it might seem, you can learn to bathe, dress, shampoo your hair, cook simple meals, and do laundry with one arm immobilized. It’s not easy, but it can be done.

Fifth, if and when your friends offer to help, say “yes.” No matter how well you are coping, it is heavenly to have help.

Like all challenges, you can survive this kind of surgery with prayer, a little moxie, a lot of determination and especially, the help and support of family and friends.

 

 

 

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I’m on the Radio!

I recently had the opportunity to be interviewed for an on-line radio show, the Authors Show by  host, Don McCauley. It was an interesting experience, to say the least.

In the interview I answered questions about my novel, Loving Christy. If you’d like to listen in, the interview is accessible by clicking on the link below:

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Becoming Uncool

 

Recently, I saw an article about the new words that have been added to the Dictionary. Among the terms was “dad dancing,” which is defined by Wicktionary as “The making of embarrassing flamboyant dance moves to pop music by middle-aged men.”

H-m-m, I thought. Middle aged men—that means Baby Boomers, right?

What a revelation! Up till now, I thought that we Baby Boomers had the market cornered on being hip, cool and trend setters. I was shocked to find that we have become the thing we feared most, out dated fuddy-duddies. Yes, Baby Boomers, we are officially uncool. Never mind that we started the Free Speech movement, the Save the Earth Movement and moved politics to the left. Never mind that we were the demographic everyone wanted to cater too.

Now when we dance, we embarrass our children—and they can’t wait until we all leave the wedding reception (so we can be in bed by 10 p.m.) to play their music—you know, the music that hurts our aging ears.

Because I live in an active adult community (read aging Baby Boomers), I still go to dances where the music is from 50’s, 60’s and 70’s and yes, we all “dad dance.” And we have a really good time doing it! And no one is embarrassed. In fact, we think we’re still cool, even with our sagging chin lines, pot bellies and sensible shoes.

When I read that definition of dad dancing, my first reaction was, when did my generation become uncool? And then I realized, cool is indeed in the eye of the beholder.

So dad dance all you want, Baby Boomers. Youth is fleeting and soon those who coined the term dad dancing will become uncool, too.

 

 

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One of of My Favorite Things

 

 

“Whiskers on kittens…” I wish one of my favorite things was as whimsical as the adorable objects Julie Andrews sang about in “The Sound of Music.”

Let me explain.  One day, I was getting a purse out for a special occasion. When I opened the clutch to place the required comb and lip gloss inside, I found a crumpled cocktail napkin.  It was decorated with flowers and curlicues. It was pretty—and unused. One of my favorite things.

I like to keep what I consider to be fancy napkins. Any napkin available at a gathering that isn’t plain white and one ply, I consider to be too elegant for its defined use.

It’s too pretty to use, I think. I should keep this and use it for…I should just keep it.

I then stick the napkin in my purse (or sometimes in my pocket) and find something else to use to dab my mouth. I’ve even resorted to using a surreptitiously nabbed paper towel instead of a napkin emblazoned with Happy Birthday. Or, if no plebian napkin substitute is available, I take a second (again, sometimes by stealth) “fancy” napkin to keep.

I’m not sure why I do this. We used napkins at home when I was a kid. And on holidays, my Mom had cloth napkins!

Sometime later when I discover the napkin I’ve nabbed, I think that maybe I should collect all of the pretty napkins I get and then make a collage out of them. Imagine a lovely floral arrangement of embellished and Happy Birthday napkins framed and hung—well, I’m not sure where.

This is when reality sets in. The napkin sits in my hand in its pristine glory.  I study it for a while, and try to recall the party or event where I got it. Occasionally, I use it to blot lipstick or wipe up a spill, telling myself that at least I didn’t waste the napkin. Finally, I ball it up and toss it out.

I think the next time I’ll just use the napkin, and admire the pretty flowers, patterns and embellishments and thank  my hostess for all the effort she has gone to.

Or maybe, I could collect the napkins and make them into one-of –a –kind book marks that I could sell at Craft Fairs…

 

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She Who Must be Obeyed

 

I’m

Here she is--Queen Sparkle

Here she is–Queen Sparkle

being subjugated , put down and ordered about—by my 15 pound Yorkie-poodle mix dog, Sparkle. Perhaps it’s the name. If I had called her Wendy or Cutie or Moxie or, well just about any other name, perhaps she would not have assumed the role of the Queen of the Household.

I think her power has increased dramatically since my husband passed away. After all, she had him well trained and then she was left with just me—the one who thought that she was in charge. So now Sparkle had a real challenge on her paws. How to get “mommy” (yes, I answer to that) to do the Queen’s bidding.

It started out slowly. First it was demands to be petted for long periods of time. Okay, I could do that once or twice a day. Now, I get a few minutes off each hour from the petting duties.

I used to like to sit on a recliner to read for a while. I can’t do that anymore. Why not, you ask.

Well, it’s because Sparkle wants me to sit on the end of the couch with her while she lolls around so I can pet her for the required hours of petting. If I don’t do this—she sits at my feet and whines in a tiny, annoying voice. (Thank God I never let my daughter whine like that! H-m-m. Do you think I’m onto something?)

Of course there are also the required walks—I do try to exert some control over that—until she comes up and bends her expressive ears back and cries and vocalizes her approximation of “out.” So off we go for our half hour to 40 minute jaunts while she does all the regular doggie stuff and sniffs every square inch of the route. A few times I tried to encourage her to try to wait a while. Do not do this at home if you have a dog! I have an emergency “doggie –diaper” pad in the utility room for emergency use. Well, it seemed like any procrastination my part was an emergency for a while. When Sparkle would see the tell tale evidence , she would  look up at me with her big innocent eyes , cock her teddy bear face my way as if to say, “Who did THAT?”

We usually top the day off with a very active play session in the lanai which consists of me cheering her as she catches various toys mid–air, runs around—and get treats. Lots of treats.

I’ve thought of getting her one of those cute little doggie shirts and having “She Who Must Be Obeyed” emblazoned on it. But I think she would fight wearing it, and then chew it up. Just like the adorable red dress I got her for her first Christmas and all the bows and scarves the groomers put on her. Sigh.

But when we finally turn in for the night, she cuddles next to me, gives me doggie kisses –and I’m happy to know that I have her with me. Of course, I curtsy before I get into bed—royalty you know.

 

 

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The Ice Queen

 

Pain surrounded her every day. She saw it in their faces, heard it in their voices. Sometimes when she administered medications or wheeled them into a treatment room, she wished she could go somewhere else—anywhere but this place.

Many patients were wizened and confused from aging; their faces like the little apple dolls she saw at craft festivals. Others, the younger ones, were wasted from disease, their faces gaunt with skin drawn over their cheekbones.

She had to ignore their whimpering pleas, “Not again, nurse, please let me be.” At times like that she couldn’t talk, her voice would begin to break and quiver. She never said anything, knowing that tears would overcome her. She feared her tears. She imagined them flowing like a waterfall rushing over a steep cliff, carrying her away. Then she would no longer be capable of healing.

 

At one time she could force her feelings into the little box she had created in her mind. Even when her patients’ bodies seemed broken and drained of all humanity, she told herself that she was an angel of healing and that they would die without treatment.

Now there were nights when she couldn’t sleep, her patients’ suffering haunted her and kept her awake. On those nights she would rise from her rumpled bed and drink glass after glass of wine until their voices were stilled and the pain in her soul was muted.

 

 Sometimes she took out old photo albums. Her favorites were the ones in which she smiled and seemed happy. In a few of them she had her arms around someone who had been part of her life then.  Those days, those people and their names  had faded from memory.

 

One early morning, as dawn lit the eastern sky with pink, lavender and blue, she wondered if ice water had replaced the warm blood in her veins. She examined her hands, half expecting her skin to be covered with a silvery frost.  Yes, she was made of warm, soft flesh. She pinched herself. Yes, she felt pain. She traced the light blue veins on her arms that showed through her seemingly transparent skin. Yes, she was human—made of flesh and blood. Placing her hand on her chest, she felt her heart beat.

 

Tears welled in her eyes remembering the day when a patient with hands like claws had desperately begged, “Just let me die.” The nurse had gently pried the woman’s gnarled fingers off her sleeve and had given the old woman yet another injection. After a few minutes, the woman had fallen into a fitful sleep, and the nurse hoped it would be the last time she would have to push a needle into that withered arm.

 

Lately, it had become just about impossible for the nurse to ignore their pleading eyes, to loosen their desperate grip, to turn an un-hearing ear to their supplications.

 

As the nurse sat in the early morning listening to bird song, she was overcome with weariness. 

 The nurse knew the day was coming when she would have to leave the pain and suffering behind. She prayed that it all would become a memory; and she would have to force herself to recall their anguish.

Then she could be human again. And maybe, just maybe, she would smile. And she would let the sun warm her, and the ice water in her veins would thaw.

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