C.A. Haddad's Blog, page 7

Give Us A Name—But Only One

The other day my husband, who’s in assisted living, told me about a quiz they had where they had to guess the artists who go by only one name.  The artists, mainly singers, were from the twenty-first century.  So out of twenty questions, they got four right.  I think that’s quite a good score.  I have no idea how many I would get.  I know there’s Drake.  And Coldplay, although I think Coldplay is a group.  So here’s a lame confession.  I think I really stopped listening to “contemporary” pop/rock/rap/whatever when the millennium came around.

So, yes, I know artists by their first names.  Ludwig.  I think he’s my favorite, as I’m not a subtle person.  Wolfie, or shall we say, Wolfgang.  Yes.  The operas, the symphonies, the mass.  And Samuel.  Barber of course. 

Single last names are easier to recognize, if one is being tested.  Rossini.  Would I dare call him Gioachino?  No.  Gilbert and Sullivan.  Yes, Sullivan’s first name is Arthur and he was much beloved of Queen Victoria.  But why did he eschew his best work just so he could be considered “serious.”  And where the hell is that lost chord anyway?

I often turn to Offenbach to pep me up, but I would never call him Jacques because my pronunciation probably wouldn’t be French enough.  Respighi, must look up his first name.  Ottorino?  No, not a first name an artist like that could go by.  Verdi?  Too many Giuseppes in the world to call him anything but Verdi.  Let’s not go through the H’s and the B’s, especially the B’s with all those Bachs.

Maybe I qualify for old-fogeydom.  I accept the designation.  I’ve tried listening to the music that’s coming out now.  It doesn’t do anything for me emotionally.  Shouldn’t art connect to one not only intellectually—actually, that’s totally unnecessary—but definitely emotionally?

Hard to believe perhaps but I’m a latecomer to the classics.  In fact, it was a college roommate my freshman year who introduced me to the “Messiah.”  I had never heard it before and I allegedly grew up in a cultured middle class home.  The first time I heard Beethoven’s 9th, my friend Ludwig’s, I cried it was so beautiful.  Of course I was familiar with Rossini’s Willian Tell’s overture because it was the theme of the Lone Ranger.  So I wasn’t a complete musical moron.

I grew up on the outskirts of New York City and was a great fan of acts like Mickey and Silvia, Buddy Holly, Fats Domino, Little Richard, Bo Diddley.  Moving on to college, there was Bob Dylan and other such folk.  And into my forties I followed what was on the radio, except, let us remember how many commercials there were between the one and half minute songs.  How grateful I was then for Bohemian Rhapsody and the Who’s Tommy. But my listening fell by the wayside, I’m sorry to say.  Too bad Apple Music wasn’t around then.  I might have stuck with the newer artists, one name or no.

Now, aside from classical music, I have reverted to the tried and true.  My playlist includes Bruce—Springsteen, Cydni—Lauper, Patty—Smith, Pat—Benatar, David—Bowie, Linda—Ronstadt, and, hate me if you will, Neil—Diamond.  Oh, and yeah, one names like Journey, Queen, the Ramones.

I could go on, but you get the point.  In my dotage, I’m stuck with the oldies, both in songs and people.  But I don’t mind.  When something’s good, it’s good forever.  Right, Ludwig?

I’m an Old Woman

What the cruise has taught me:  I’m an old woman.  I need hearing aids.  I can’t move to Portugal because I can’t walk on their stone-mosaic sidewalks without fear of falling, even with my cane, which I use to push me along when taking my longer walks.

This is not a happy state of affairs.  Like most seventy-nine-year-olds, I tend to feel as if I’m in my thirties, forties on a bad day.  So when reality smacks me in the face, my tendency is to snarl and fight back.  However, when our guide in Valencia was extolling the values of Spanish ham and I thought he was talking about Spanish hats, I know there’s a problem.  Also, where has the mind gone when I ask for a frozen strawberry daiquiri on the rocks?

But back to the cruise and our vigorous outings off the ship, where we were walking between three and six miles a day with no problem—until I hit Gibraltar, literally.  Somehow I was walking along the cut-stone sidewalk, with cane, when I tripped and found myself flying toward my daughter, who was only a few steps ahead. She heard my cry, turned and saw this pink blob (my sweater) tumbling toward her.  Fortunately, for me, she absorbed most of my fall, although I did land on the ground. Also fortunately, a very nice Spaniard, cigarette dangling a la Jean Paul Belmondo, pulled me to my feet with ease. I applaud his strength.  Neither Judy nor I were hurt so on we went, walking, walking, walking.  (Her idea was to rent one of those electric scooters that were everywhere, me riding behind her.  Matricide, anyone?)

Now I am home and am able to consider the cruise from a distance.  While it was good to get away, I found myself starved for something besides ports that welcomed tourists with boutique shopping.  Shopping, I will admit, is not my thing.  What do I need at my age?  I haven’t even bought an air fryer.

We did have a fun experience in Madeira when we went to the 3D Fun Art Museum and took photos of our distorted selves.  But I definitely could have done with something more to stir the brain.

Our Seabourn Shit Show ended the way it began, with confusion and dismay.  Because there were no flights out when we pulled into port for the final time, it was necessitated that we stay a day in Lisbon.  At 9:30 am, we left the ship and were driven to the Four Seasons.  Now, some might think, how great!  Not so great.  The Four Season is nowhere.  Lisbon is hilly, the Four Seasons is up on a hill with nothing around it.  And no rooms available.  If Seabourn knew, as they must, that no rooms would be available until afternoon, why didn’t they keep us on the ship, let us have lunch?  There weren’t that many of us, as the Europeans could make their connections.  It was just the Americans who were stranded.

A hotel cafe?  No. “Brunch” was $80 a person.  Time to taxi the hell out of there.  The concierge suggested an area that had restaurants and shops, and it was indeed a pleasant place.  We went for tapas.  I will admit to never understanding how to order tapas, but we had a delicious tomato/ham on bread for a first “course.”  Then came a speciality of the country, a slab of cod with potatoes and spinach. All I can say is that the spinach was delicious.  And, Portugal, you can do better!

Our room was quite nice when we got it, with a balcony overlooking the city.  Too bad we had no heat in the room.  Lisbon was chilly.  We had to call down for maintenance.

Up too early, we left the hotel at 4:30 am..  The man at the desk insisted I keep my key card as a souvenir.  Note my restraint in not commenting.

Our British Airway flights were underwhelming.  After the sardine-like nature of our flight from Lisbon to Heathrow, we were glad to get off the plane and then—go through security, where both my daughter and I were targeting for extra screening.  I guess makeup is now seen as a potential terrorist threat.  Only when I apply it, folks!  Then the lounge was so crowded, no place to sit, not at all the way I remembered it.  So I had my last bitter lemon, and we meandered around the airport until it was time for our flight.

Who designed business class seats for British Airways? Why, when the footstool is in use, does the person kitty-corner from you have to climb over you to get to the bathroom?

And my poor daughter.  First there was some idiot in her seat.  “Do you want me to move?”  “Do you want me to take my pillow with me?”  Did he think his good looks would make her give up her aisle for his middle seat?  Then her electronics didn’t work.  For her pain she received a bottle of Champagne and ten small bottles of gin.

Now we’re home.  My bathroom remodeling was not completed while I was gone and my poor daughter misses the, for her, excitement of the ship.  Life returns to its normal state of semi-inertia, trying to avoid everything we have to catch up on.

Yes, reality, here it is again.

The Cruise That Wasn’t

I had never been on a cruise before, and I was fated not to go on the one we planned.  I had no idea why we chose the cruise we did or why we selected Seabourn as our line.  But my husband was getting an award in Milan, Italy, he had never been to Venice, so we decided to spend a few days in Venice, then cruise from there, down the Adriatic coastline and back again.  Then it would be on to Milan for his award, for which he bought a new suit.

Our flight from Chicago to Munich went well.  All we then had to do was transfer from that international flight to a local flight to Venice.  Too bad about the buses Lufthansa had on offer to take us between connections.

Have you ever experienced a staircase with uneven steps?  You step down, expecting it to be a certain distance and it’s not?  Well, that’s the Lufthansa buses.  The seating was on uneven steps, so that when I got off the seat to exit the bus I found—what?  I have no idea.  Empty space?  All I know is that I was suddenly on the floor of the bus, and I couldn’t move.  Yes, someone did try to pull me up, but it was a no go.

My ankle was shattered.  Literally shattered.

I was taken by ambulance to a teaching hospital just outside Munich; and how lucky I was, as it was the best medical care I’ve ever experienced.

(Here I should take a moment to apologize to all those on the bus who were anxious to get to Venice.  They boarded their plane, but the plane had to sit there until my husband, wherever he was, identified our luggage.)

Meanwhile, I was in shock.  I can remember shivering like crazy.  As soon as I got to the hospital, I was taken to emergency surgery.  Unfortunately, I could not be put under because I had taken advantage of the guest lounge in the Munich airport, but the nicest doctor did the local anesthetic and held my hand.  Actually, I think he was trying to get me not to look at what was happening to my ankle.

I spent twelve days in that hospital, mostly with a metal brace sticking out in all directions.  They were waiting for the swelling to go down before they could do a second operation.

Meanwhile, I convince my husband to go on the cruise.  What was there for him to do at the hospital?  He went and had a lovely time.  Did it make up for him missing his big award in Milan?  Probably not.  But he’ll always have the new suit, and they did send the plaque.

The doctors, the nurses, everything about the hospital was wonderful.  My only complaint was for breakfast they serviced two hard rolls and nothing else.  I finally asked for fruit.  They were surprised but complied with my request.

Finally, my second operation took place and I was to be released to go home to Chicago.  But first I had to learn how to use crutches.  Being uncoordinated didn’t help.  But I did get a chance to see their physical therapy department.  Do you know they had a swimming pool?

My twelve days in the German hospital cost me $12,000.  My nurses were upset that I had to pay anything.  (And, yes, I had to haggle to get the money back from my insurance company in the States.)  Compare that to the one-hour operation I had at a surgery center outside Chicago.  That cost $14,000.  Insurance covered it with no complaints.  What is wrong with our health care system, you may now ask.

I won’t describe the months in a wheelchair and going up and down the stairs on my hands and knees.  I now have “recovered,” still with the damaged ankle that occasionally makes walking painful.  I nurse very bitter feelings toward Lufthansa and have since discovered I’m not the only person this has happened to.  So beware.  Oh, and of course I had no travel insurance so we lost all the money for the cruise.  Now I have travel insurance for everything.  Another warning from my vast experience.

Since then I’ve taken several delightful Seabourn cruises.  But believe me, I always watch my step.

Being Short—and Shrinking

Believe it or not, and most everyone who knows me won’t, I was the second tallest girl in my class in first grade.  What happened!

I reached the gigantic height of five feet two during the age of my most profusive bloom. Now that the bloom is definitely off the rose, I’m five—uh, five feet nothing.  I could really use those two inches back.

The world is built for taller people.  And I didn’t appreciate that news story that people who lose height as they age are more likely to have heart disease.  My heart is fine, thank you very much, and I intend to keep it that way.  (Besides, who can believe all these studies.  If we did, we’d be immobile for the rest of our lives, as everything we do causes one fatal outcome or another.)

Problems:  Traveling in a crowd for short people?  At best we can do is dart in between moving legs to reach our destination.  I suppose being short for a ballet dancer is a plus.  But what if you’re short and have stubby legs, a longer torso, and baby fat, well, okay, post-menopausal fat.  Where’s the advantage in that?

I still remember my father, over six feet, making the jaunt to visit my house one week.  He did me the “favor” of rehanging all my mirrors so I could see myself better.  Well, he could see himself better.  I couldn’t see a damn thing.  So after he left, my husband and I had to move everything back where it had been and try to patch the new holes in the walls.

Those of us who are chained to the computer for a good portion of the day will note computer chairs aren’t made for short people. Oh, they say they are, and I bought an expensive one, thinking my aching back problems would be solved.  I sit on it now, with a cushion on the seat and an ergonomic memory foam pillow for my back.  It’s—bearable.

I won’t mention not being able to see over people’s heads at the theater or the opera or anyplace really because who’s gone to any of those venues over the last year.  The alleged sight lines in auditoriums are a joke.  If I could bring a booster chair to those events I might have a chance.

The library with those shelves and shelves of books, starting at six feet up.  Well, let’s just say that I shall never be able to read authors whose names begin with A through D, unless I put in a reserve in for them, because I can’t see the titles of the books.

But the worst place of all for a short person is the grocery store.  Most of you can just breeze through and gather ye rosebuds, or whatever is on your shopping list.  I need to get help.  Have you ever tried to get help in a grocery store?  I have two danger zones.  The deli.  If they aren’t calling numbers, I’m out of luck because no one sees me.  Many a time I’m left steaming because someone just walks up and gets served while I wait because I am NOT noticed.

And then there’re the aisles themselves.  I will admit to drinking soda.  Not a copious amount but I like my two-liter bottles.  So why are they always on the top shelves?  Why do I have to search the aisles for someone, anyone to come get them down, unless I can find a kind stranger who is willing to do the deed.  Some stores are better for this than others.  In my town I wouldn’t dare ask.

My house?  I will admit to a kitchen renovation.  Now I have tons of cupboard space, mostly empty because I can reach the bottom shelf only.  Still, I have tons of drawers beneath the counter space, so I consider myself satisfied.

Sigh.  I think I’ve let the angst of the morning escape, so I shall get up and stretch, stretch as high as I can.  And then, when necessary use a step stool.

The Toilet Situation

Does a single woman living alone in a three-bedroom house really need three toilets with bidet seats?  The overwhelming answer to that is—Yes, damn it!

Toilets.  Where would we be without them.  Well, okay, in an open field or down some alley or behind a sand dune, emphasis on the behind.  Been there, done that.

Being from the United States, I prefer the type of toilet one sits upon.  I do not squat, unless absolutely necessary.  Insert here: China and Japan.  And, my first experience with squatting over a nasty hole, Provence in la-not-so-belle France.

Having grown up in crowded conditions, toilet-wise, I always feel that one bathroom per person isn’t so much a luxury as a necessity.  Has it ever worked out that way?  Not until now.  Children gone, husband ensconced elsewhere, I wander my house thinking, which toilet should have the benefit of my ass this hour?  (I drink a lot of water.).  Should it be my office toilet, my absolute favorite?  Or should I climb the stairs to the hall bathroom, where my Toto toilet with the low water pressure sits?  Oh should I—

Well, that’s the problem isn’t it.  My en suite toilet is NOT working.  How did this come about?  An interesting story to be sure.

Here I was, remodeling my 1955-year-old house, which included what is jokingly called the “master” bedroom with en suite.  My daughter and my contractor thought, wouldn’t it be wonderful if Mommy had a no-hands flush toilet with attached bidet seat from Kohler?

I wanted a simple toilet topped by a bidet seat from Costco.  Why did I not stand my ground?

Fancy toilet went in for more than I wanted to spend.  Fast forward past the warranty date.  I flush the toilet and notice water leaking.  What does one do but call the plumber, someone I formerly trusted, who sent one of his minions to ruin my life.  He assured me, while there was an hourly rate, it surely wouldn’t take him more than an hour.  $375 later, he couldn’t fix the problem which he claimed was the bidet and I later learned from Kohler he shouldn’t even have tried. That’s more than the bidet seat cost!

Next, this self-flushing, hands-free toilet went into overdrive.  In other words, it was self-flushing itself to death and me to a higher water bill.  I have just learned that Kohler has been trying to re-engineer its sensor on this hand-waving toilet because the battery pack gets moisture in it.  But after several attempts, Kohler has given up.  Also, my model has been discontinued.  So, while I do have an en suite bathroom, it doesn’t contain a toilet, as of this writing.

Now, you’re probably thinking, what kind of woman writes about not having three toilets to use when Covid is killing the unvaccinated, when people are fighting and dying in Africa and elsewhere, when clean water is at a premium all over the world, when there is drought and famine and wild fires?  Is she totally unaware of the reality of 99.999 percent of the world?

Believe me, I am well aware.  I am well aware that this is a silly, stupid piece of pouting about what is absolutely unimportant.  And yet, damn it, I want my third toilet.  Invitations will ensue for the inauguration.  

The Cheese Is Unappreciated

Hey, ho, the derry-o

The cheese stands alone

Or—

On being picked last

If the first shall be last and the last shall be first, I have a good chance of getting into heaven, even if, because of excessive weight, I don’t make it through the eye of the needle.

As my physical ability declines, thanks in large part to a broken ankle, due to Lufthansa’s uneven steps on their buses, I reflect on a childhood full of snubs regarding my fitness as a team player.

Let me first state that I thoroughly enjoyed game playing.  But I’m willing to face the facts that I wasn’t particularly good at any sport.  Did that mean I had to be humiliated in gym class by being picked last when the best and the brightest were choosing teams?  Well, yes, it did.

Has anyone else suffered the shame of standing alone while the captains, having exhausted all other alternatives, acquiesced to accepting you on their side.  Fullback in soccer, right field in softball, D team in volleyball.  All played in purple bloomers.  So, the cheese stands alone?  Was I Limburger?

Oh, the humiliation of those moments.  No wonder girls as young as five were already claiming to have their periods to escape gym class.

Gym teachers are a special breed, aren’t they.  One of the courses they must have to take for certification is “How to be a sadist,” and they’re already one step on the way if they choose teaching gym as a profession.

Our gym teacher in elementary school was brutal, even more nasty that the girls who wouldn’t pick me to be on their teams.  In fact, one time he even smacked me.  His name was Mr. Sledge.

I suppose in every aspect of life there are going to be those who can and those who can’t and snarky girls who make sure everyone knows that you can’t.  Double dutch, anyone?  Nevermind, I played alone on the jungle gym, where I hung upside down by my ankles.  Top that, rope-burn people.

Let’s not even mention the fitness tests the state and country put out that every child was supposed to be able to pass.  High jump?  When you’re bottom heavy, this is a problem.  Why didn’t they have a fifty-yard crawl instead?  And who the hell puts ropes hanging from the ceiling and expects us to climb them?  So you touch the ceiling.  Big deal.  You had to come down again, where I already was.

Outside of school my physical abilities were also denigrated.  My mother, being the type of woman she was, insisted on piano lessons and dancing classes for her daughters.  I’m going to admit right here that my peasant ancestry shows in my body type, short legs and the aforementioned fat ass.  But I loved ballet class and tried so hard to get every position exactly right.

So it was a bitter blow when Miss Scovel told my mother not to enroll me next year, as I just didn’t have what it took.  I was seven!!!!!  I never got to dress up as an elf in the year-end pageant.  How cruel is that?

This didn’t stop me from taking up ballet again when I was in my thirties.  The park district needed the money.  But then we moved and moved again.  Each time I sought out a ballet school for adults.  Finally, I hit the jackpot in Silver Spring, Maryland with Miss Hessler’s School of Dance.

What fun I had.  What great friends I made.  And the year-end performance that I forced my sister to attend?  Well, it made up for her being on pointe all those years ago.

Speaking of which, when I was forty, a group of us informed Miss Hessler that we wanted a pointe class.  Yes, finally, my dream of a lifetime was realized.  I have those toe shoes still.  I intend to take them with me to the grave.

I still love to dance, even if I’m not great at it.  It’s fun, it’s freeing.  I met my husband folk dancing at Princeton.  Okay, we were both klutzes, but we didn’t care, we country-danced our way into happiness.

And now with a broken ankle and the years creeping up, I nature walk, I birdwatch, I muse, I remember.  In my mind I am the still the Firebird, blazing my way across the stage to glory.

After a Long Absence—Rain!

For weeks that turned into months nothing fell from the sky but sunlight and moonlight.  Delightful as both are, we needed rain.  The trees were thirsty, the grass turned to straw, plants begged for water, the ferns longed for the jungle.

And then the rains came.  At first in five-minute bursts that would leave the ground almost wet, like someone was spitting down at us.  Then came a moderate downfall, where I, returning from an appointment, had all but forgotten how trucks create their own clouds of mist, hard to penetrate while driving.

Today the deluge.  I went out early and saved the newspaper before the spigots were turned on full blast.

I live on a street where there are no storm sewers but ditches that carry the water, allegedly by gravity from the street above, down ours, only to race down to the next street.  Where it goes from there I have no idea.

Looking out my window, I noticed I had a rivulet of water that was cascading through the tunnel under my driveway and into a larger carrier that would wend the water’s way across the street—where the neighbor’s yard was a pool of standing water.  That property had always flooded ever since I’ve lived here, which has been way, way too long. No one ever warns the new people moving in that this will be their fate.  But—

This used to be a cohesive neighborhood, where we all knew one another.  There were block parties and New Year’s Eve get-togethers.  But now, due to deaths and the buying and selling of houses, we’re all strangers.  We nod.  We say hello.  But there’s the absence of community, no trading of plants, advice, gossip.  Oh well, that’s the way of the world now.

When I was growing up, far far away from here, I would have to make my way to school in the morning, home for lunch, back to school and home again in all sorts of weather. There were no long lines of cars waiting to pick up precious cargo, even if they lived a mere four blocks away.  I could name every single person in every single house along the way—and their dogs, especially the ones to watch out for, when walking or riding my bike.

But even in that childhood, things were changing. The city was expanding.  From an ex-urb we became a suburb.  But I was long gone by then, visiting only occasionally.

The house I grew up in turned into a trap for my aging mother, a prison of her own making.  As the house deteriorated, so did she.  It’s sold now to some stranger in a neighborhood of strangers.

But I remember the rain.  The rain on the roof.  Lying in bed and hearing the comforting, cleansing rain.

Now, when I lie in bed and listen to the rain, I wonder.  Is the roof leaking?  Is the basement dry?  Are the sump pumps working?  What about the garage?

It’s hard to be a child with no control over your own life.  Maybe it’s harder to be an adult, where being in control of your own life means being responsible for—well everything.

Still, I celebrate the rain, truly nature’s gift to make of us a multi-colored world.

To Entice a Lord Part II

Is Annabelle getting any closer to enticing Lord Babbington?

While Charity was in a cloud of excitement about the upcoming evening at Squire Malacott’s, Annabelle had slightly different feelings.  Avery Malacott, squire of the county, justice of the peace, took his preeminence very seriously and was known to be a stickler for duty and the proper order of things.  His wife Leticia also knew her place, which she assumed to be higher than anyone else’s, especially the Bellmarshes, with whom they were once more intimately connected.  That was before Annabelle and her family had fallen on hard times.  After that, not that Leticia Malacott cut them.  She was everything that was civil, but her main concern of the moment was marrying off her own daughter Beatrice, who had both looks, position and a handsome dowry.

Years ago, when both children were in leading strings, Annabelle was considered a good match for the squire’s son Henry. That was before Bellmarsh pere made those unfortunate investments, resulting in loss of land and the loss of status.  Not that Annabelle felt rejected in any way.  She had no desire to be attached the squire’s family.  Such a situation would mean living in the Malacott manse, with her every action perused by Leticia, the squire’s wife.

If it weren’t incumbent upon her to make a good marriage, she might not marry at all.   She knew of so few marriages made for love, although, as her mother often said, love comes later.  But what if it doesn’t?

“Do get ready,” Charity broke into Annabelle’s thought.

Annabelle looked at her sister, dressed in a gown with just the hint of pink that brought out the color of her hair.  “You look delightful,” she told her sister.  “I especially like that ribbon in your hair.  So perfectly—”

“Yes, I know.  It so perfectly matches my dress,” Charity said a bit too sharply.  “I see no ribbon in your hair and the lace covering your bodice wouldn’t be exactly enticing to the male of the species, the ones we are trying to attract.  Furthermore, my dear sister, I believe I have seen that dress many many times before.  Are you trying to stress our lack of the ready?”

“I’m taking a backseat to your beauty, Charity,” Annabelle replied with a twinkle in her eye.  “For tonight you’re going to meet your future husband, unless Beatrice Malacott beats you to it.”

“Let her try.  She’ll only make me shine all the brighter by comparison.  But, honestly, Annabelle, don’t look as if you’ve given up.”

“But I have, in a way.  As far as marriage goes.  Someone must manage this estate until Percy returns.”

“Percy can hardly manage himself,” Charity retorted.  “Honestly, let the land go to rack and ruin.  You and I shall marry and move elsewhere.”  She gave that some thought.  “Of course, one of us will have to take Mother.  Ho hum.  A thought for another day.”

“I’m so glad you’re able to sort life out the way you have.  Brava, my dear sister.  But let us face facts.  Upon you will rest the fortunes of our family.  And as far as my dress, the only person the family wants to impress is James Forthwith, and he’s never seen any of our gowns.”

“Girls!”  Their mother called sharply from the stairway.  “The carriage awaits.  Remember the horses.”

The sisters looked at each other and giggled.  They’d have to indeed remember the horses as the stable was nearly empty.  “At least Mother can always wear widow’s weeds,” Charity whispered.  “That’ll save us some dosh.”

“Such cant, Charity.  Let us wrap ourselves warm and go chase your fortune.  Oops, I meant your future husband.”

——

“You could have bought me a commission in the Guards,” James Forthwith, newly appointed vicar of the Harleigh congregation, remarked.

“You read too many books to be in the Guards.  Nor do you have a predilection for gambling.  Also, I did promise Father to see you safe, make of you a gentleman, and that has been my aim.  Remember, our place in society is hardly established.”

“Not established in the establishment.” 

Jeremy Forthwith, the lately elevated Lord Babbington, grimaced in mock despair.  “You see, too clever with words.  That’s why you were sent up to Oxford.”

“While you stayed at home and had all the fun.”

“If running a stud farm along with our father can be considered fun.”

“But the way you ran it has made you a baron.”

Jeremy acknowledged that fact, although he never would tell James exactly why he was elevated to the “nobility,” a nobility their father always sneered at. 

Their father would have done well storming the Bastille, although most likely objecting to the terror that followed.  On the other hand, there were many lords their father would have liked to put an end to, those who waved away any mention of a bill for the Forthwith’s services.  Their attitude was always, well, what are you going to do about it, and what could he do?  Hobble the horses?  He loved horses much more than he loved people.  And in many ways Jeremy followed suit.

Still,  here he was, a baron and also a part of the moneyed class, something one couldn’t say for way too many of those to the manor born, which is why his land holdings increased.  Money bought land even if it didn’t buy respectability. 

Respectability is what his brother would have as vicar at Haleigh, and Jeremy was proud to be able to give him the living.  James would do well.  In sharp contrast to himself, James was blond, slight of frame and elegantly dressed.  He had a fine mind and finer manners.  But as a younger brother he could sometimes be a whiner.  Like now.  “I don’t really know if I’m cut out for the church.  Doesn’t it involve a lot of religion?”

“The church, like the army, like Parliament is mainly politics.  You really don’t have to believe in anything, as long as you say the right words, behave in the correct fashion, and make your way to the top.”

“So then, could you not have bought me a seat in Parliament?  I think I would have liked that.”

“As a Whig?  As a Tory?” his brother questioned.

“Well,” James replied quizzically.  “Does it really matter?”

Jeremy, Lord Babbington, studied his brother, with a wondering gaze.  Were all younger brothers so obtuse?  Perhaps.  “And also it would suit you to marry well, someone who could further your career.  Look for money and position in a wife, James.”

“Not love?”

“If you’ve followed  the lives of your favorite poets, you’ll know that marriage isn’t the only path to love.”

“And yet one hopes—”

“One hopes and then one turns to the practicalities of life.”

“But don’t we have enough money now that I could marry for love?” James wondered.

“I have enough money now that I could marry for love.  Should I be looking.  Which I am not.  For the moment.”

“More mysterious trips to France in the future?”

Jeremy thought it best not to answer.  Instead he concentrated on the night ahead, their first county affair, sort of their version of a come out.   So far he had been “not at home” to visitors, but such social isolation couldn’t last forever, unfortunately.  Not that he was against mingling, but usually his was done in London or on the race track, wherever his horses took him.  Still— “Shall we call for the carriage?”

“I don’t know why we can’t just ride our steeds over.”

“Because we’re gentlemen.  Tonight.”  Jeremy grinned at his brother.  “Now let’s go show them how forthwith the Forthwiths can be.”

Now it was James’s turn to groan.

Garbage Day

How lucky we are to have our garbage regularly collected.  And yet—do I have complaints?  Of course.  Complaints are what I do.

I have no complaints about the collection, but honestly, why can’t people follow the very simple rules of garbage collection.  Not that I belong to the garbage police, but sometimes I wish I did.

Most days I walk around the neighborhood.  Thursdays are especially pungent because that’s our day.  We’ve been issued two containers.  One is for garbage, the other is for recycling.  Why can’t people get this straight?

The rules for recycling are very clear.  No plastic is allowed.  No styrofoam.  And yet, there both are, sticking out of the recycling bins.  Can I give them a ticket?  Well, no.  Should I leave a note?  No, again.  I don’t want to be shot during a garbage-rage incident.

Most grocery stores have places to recycle plastic.  Styrofoam I’ll grant you is a bigger problem. But our city has a recycling center opened one day a week for styrofoam and electronic goods.  Only laziness stops us.  But I wonder what happens when the recycling trucks dump their goods with all these products that can’t be recycled?  Being lazy myself, I shall not investigate further but move on to another topic, re garbage cans.

I. E., placement of the cans, a very serious issue.  Gone are the days when the garbage collector got out of his or her truck and dumped the cans him/herself.  Today it’s done by a pincer-like affair that lifts the cans and dumps them in the truck.  Instructions for placing the cans are quite simple.  Face them forward, leave enough space between them for the truck do it its work.

Why then do people place them sideways, diagonally, every which way when it is so easy, after dragging them out front, to just line them up?

Speaking about dragging them out front, people here have driveways.  Put the cans at the edge of the driveway please!  Why are you putting them in the streets?  But every Thursday, if/when I take out my car, I go through an obstacle course of dodging garbage cans.

Garbage collection is such a miracle of civilized society.  And civilized society is governed by rules to make life better for each and every one of us.  So, damn it, get your damn cans off the road.

Okay, I think I’m through now.

Novels That May Never Be Finished: Part 2

To Entice a Lord:  Part 1

Annabelle Bellmarsh was cursed by the men in her life.  First her father up and died on the family several years back, leaving them to sink into genteel poverty, the estate cut back to just the manor house and the outlying gardens.  Then her brother Sir Percy Bellmarsh came up from town, where who knows what he was up to, and declared he was following his muse to the new world.

What new world was that, Annabelle was anxious to know.  “Don’t you see,” he began to explain.  “My name.  Percy.  It’s the same as Shelley’s.  I’m feeling the call of the exotic.”

“Are you not feeling the call of the Bellmarsh estate?” she asked rather anxiously.  “After all, you are a baronet.”

Percy waved his hand in a languid fashion, probably wishing there was a handkerchief in it.  “What matter is this little piece of England, when the world awaits?”

“This little piece of England is where your sisters and your mother reside,” Annabelle reminded him, trying to keep the distress out of her voice.

At that, Percy, who was ever so much taller than she was, placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “It is a curse indeed to be a woman and not be able to seek out the adventures that await such as I.  My duty is to my soul.  Your duty—“  He gave a weak little smile.  “To marry well,” he concluded.

“And how do you suggest I do that with a dowery even the local deacon would sniff at, and you gone so that I shall have to manage the estate on my own?”  Her face was flush now.  She felt like tearing her unmanageable curly hair out of its imprisoning bun.

“You can always depend on our mother.”

For what, Annabelle wondered.  Their mother’s favorite line when their father was alive was, “Whatever you say, dear.”  Now she was using the same phrase with the same resignation whenever Annabelle made suggestions about managing the estate.

“Is there nothing I can say to persuade you to stay?” Annnabelle wondered, despairingly.

“I shall return a much happier man, a man who will be spiritually enriched.”

“Dare I hope that somewhere on your travels you’ll become financially enriched also?”

Once again Annabelle got a pitying look from her brother.  Then he turned away from her, his eyes misting over with a future that beckoned him on a journey that would not be refused.

———-

“Oh, Bella Bella darling, do not worry so.  It’ll add frown lines around your eyes, and your eyes are one of your best features.  If only you’d use a bit of lemon to lighten your hair.”

The family of women were in the sitting room having tea. Mary Bellmarsh was in her widows weeds, looking pensively at the fireplace.  Annabelle was also looking at the fireplace and wondering when the time would come where she herself would have to chop her own logs and haul them indoors.

Her mother had once told her it was unseemly for a woman to be worried about money.  But with Percy gone—not that he was ever overly worried about the estate and how it was managed—who was left to worry if not she?

Annabelle brought her attention back to her sister Charity.  Three years younger than Annabelle, Charity was what men would call a diamond of the first water.  She was small and delicate, with perfect rosebud lips and a natural blush on her cheeks.  Her hair was lustrous with a hint of strawberry coloring.  Surely any man, any rich man, would see his way to fall in love with the peerless Charity, even without a dowery to mach her beauty.

“Bella Bella,” Charity began again.

“Please desist from calling me Bella Bella.”

“But I always call you Bella Bella.”

“When you couldn’t pronounce my name. I believe that was when you were in leading strings. Since you are eighteen years of age, I would assume you could give full vent to ‘Annabelle.’”

“But I like Bella Bella better.  Don’t you want to make me happy?”

Annabelle allowed her posture to falter as she fell backward into the cushions of her favorite chair.  “What are we to do?” she moaned.

“You should both marry rich men,” their mother said.  “When I was your age, that was the done thing.” 

“Mother, I believe you had a respectable dowery.  Can either Charity or I claim the same?” Annabelle asked with some asperity.

At this Mary Bellmarsh eyes watered.  She delicately raised her handkerchief to her eyes.

Annabelle knew she should apologize.  But it was so easy to cry, to bemoan their situation, but what was needed was action.  Marrying rich would be perfect, if there were anyone rich enough in the county who wasn’t attached already.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Charity said to her sister.  “Who exactly can we drudge up in a county such as ours?”  She gave her tinkle of a laugh.  “But I have already decided to set my cap on someone very local.”

Annabelle’s eyebrows raised enough to take away the worry lines around her eyes.  “And who might that be and what are his prospects?”

“The vicar.”

“Mr. Crammer!  Dear Charity, he is well and truly married.  And his wife is not ailing.  Far from it.”

Folding her hands prettily in her lap, Charity looked at her elder sister with something like pity.  “If you spent less time worrying and more time out and about the neighborhood, for example shopping for ribbons, instead of eggs and bacon, you’d know that Mr. Crammer has been reassigned up north, so that Mr. James Forthwith could take his place.

Annabelle frowned, bringing back her wrinkles.  “Forthwith.  Forthwith.  For some reason that name sounds familiar.”

Mary, who had taken up her embroidery, leaned forward to say, “Isn’t that Lord Babbington’s family name?”

“Of course,” Annabelle recalled now.  A very unladylike sigh escaped her.  She knew little about Lord Babbington other than that he was bringing new meaning to the term landed gentry.  Especially in this county, where he seemed to be buying up pieces of land to establish the largest estate in the region.

No one really knew who Jeremy Forthwith, Lord Babbington was exactly.  Not that the gentry tired of trying to find out. Annabelle wasn’t as immune to gossip as her sister seemed to think.  The green grocers was as good a place to hear gossip as the milliners, so she knew that Jeremy Forthwith was the first in his family to be ennobled, elevated to baron for services to the Regent.  One could only hope it wasn’t for procurement, she thought bleakly.  But everyone thought bleakly of the soon to be George IV.   Still she supposed she would need to huzzah with the rest of the country when he finally became king.

But the future king wasn’t her immediate concern.  Charity’s intrigues were.

“Annabelle,” Charity said a bit sharply.  “Are you listening?”

“Of course.  Don’t I always?  James Forthwith.  To be our new vicar.  Brother of the mysterious Lord Babbington.”

“Who I hear has no wife, no children and no one to inherit, except the man I’ve come to call Dear James—in my heart at least.”  Charity smirked.

“Have you even met this paragon, whom you’ve set your, dare I say, heart on?”

“Not yet.  But I will.  We all will.  Come Friday eve when Squire Malacott is holding a welcoming reception for James, to which, if you ever read anything besides the bills, you’d know we’re all invited.

Such an invitation should excite Annabelle, but all she could think of was how to turn her blue gown into something that looked like it hadn’t been worn a million times.

“Perhaps his brother shall also be there and we’ll get a look at this Lord Babbington,” Mary Bellmarsh remarked.

“Well, I’ve already entwined my fate with James Forthwith, so dear Bella Bella, it’s up to you to entice a lord.”  At that Charity smirked.  Appealingly.