November 21, 2018 – I’m a food snob about cranberry relish.

         I was born in Massachusetts.  As a kid, my parents took me and my siblings to the Ocean Spray place one time. Back then, I think it was merely a gift shop on a busy road on Cape Cod.  But, it was cool that cranberries were grown in Massachusetts and I sure am a proud Massachusetts-ite all these years telling people where they are grown and by whom.

         But, when it comes to Thanksgiving Day – I require, I must have, or the world will come to an end – if I don’t have fresh Ocean Spray cranberries.  I am a 100 percent Ocean Spray cranberry snob.

         This trait was imprinted on my culinary soul as a youngster by just one little stop to the Ocean Spray place in Cape Cod – who would have thought it.

         Add this adult life snobbery of the cranberry jelly out of a can that my Mom used to buy and chill for Thanksgiving Day my entire childhood into my teens seems so bizarre to tell it.  My job, even as a small tike – when I could carry dishes and silverware to the table, was to set the table for the Thanksgiving Day guests.

         As I aged, I took on the full table setting including the tablecloth, the silverware, the dishes, the pickles and olives in their own special “split” dish.  The antique saltcellars and the crisp celery chilled in an upright container.

         Then, when my Grandma and Grandpa Nixon arrived, it was time for me run out and greet them.  I got their hugs and kisses and then as I opened the door for them into the kitchen, Grandma would present the homemade mincemeat pie to Dad.  It was his favorite, and Grandpa would put his grey felt, black banned fedora on my head.  I felt so classy in his hat every year. 

         I’d take their coats to my parents room and lay them out on the bed, just so, and after admiring myself in the bureau mirror of how excellent the fedora looked on me, I’d place it on the bed pillows.

         Returning to the living room set up for dinning, Mom would have me open the chilled can of cranberry jelly [both ends] so that it would slide out on to a crystal plate. I would slice it once from top to bottom, and then into 3/4^th inch slices creating half-moon shapes then add the spoon and set it on the table.  Within moments, we would be ready to sit down as Father carved the turkey at the table – just like a Norman Rockwell painting.

         “You’ve come a long way baby . . .” as the Virginia Slims commercial used to say – yes I have from that last Thanksgiving Dinner at my parents’ house as a teenager to my first solo performance at cooking my first turkey when I set up housekeeping.

         That first Thanksgiving, I read the back of the fresh Ocean Spray cranberry package and followed the instructions for making cranberry sauce. Came out perfect and I never looked back at the canned cranberry jelly.

         Over the years, I always make homemade cranberry sauce and have for over 40+ years. Today was no exception.  In the past I’ve made if for ham, roast beef, turkey of course, and one Thanksgiving I actually served scallops.  I have it as a side dish.  It is pretty, it is tart-sweet, it is a taste of “home”, that was never like “the home” I had as a kid – but it my tradition.

         In the last few days, one of the news channels was bantering about a recipe for Cointreau Cranberry Relish.  I still had a splash left of Cointreau in the liquor cabinet and that recipe sounded like it would have a “bright” taste.  I prowled around the internet and ended up on a very simple recipe at:

https//www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ted-allen/cointrea-cranberry-relish-recipe-219365.recipePrint

I changed the recipe up a little bit [**] to suit me:

Into a saucepan I combined one 12-ounce bag of Ocean Spray cranberries [washed of course]

1 peeled and diced apple

Two knobs of fresh ginger peeled and diced fine **

1 cup sugar

Zest from one large lemon**I cooked it in

The juice from the large lemon** instead of the water

¼ teaspoon of allspice** instead of cinnamon

¼ teaspoon of ground cloves

- after it cools – ½ cup of Cointreau

I brought it to a simmer and then a slow boil – stirring so that it did not scorch for about 10 minutes.  I scraped the sides of the pan and allowed it to cool a bit before I added the ½ cup of Cointreau.

Still warm, I spooned it into a glass crock that has a clamp lid and the 3 or 4 tablespoons that wouldn’t fit – into a navy blue ramekin for the culinary cook, Moi.

         Later when it was cool, I popped the jar into the refrigerator for tomorrow and my little ramekin – cool enough to taste – I plied a small spoonful on my husband and he said – “hmmmm” [passing muster].  And, me, I savored the leftover ½ a spoonful at a time melting on to my tongue.  Sheer Nirvana.  The Cointreau simply “does it” – Perfection.

         I wish everyone a wonderful Thanksgiving Day!

        

November 20, 2018.  It is getting to be a lot like Christmas . . .

          I saw the Energizer Bunny on TV today.  It is a simple little 15 second spot that makes me smile as the drum is being beaten by a candy cane that shatters a bit and at the end the bunny tips his head back and looks at the camera for a closeup.  Those 15 seconds transform me into a little kid for a few moments. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ecctpF0Nf8c

          Christmas is on its way when this pink bunny commercial comes on and I hear the Christmas music in the grocery stores.  Then, yesterday, the tree arrived at the White house . . . a 19.5 foot live Mountain Top Fraser Fur tree from Newland, North Carolina.  How nice – for our state.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_2SxA_-xf8

          The next thing I need to do is start on the Christmas cards.

          I wish everyone a wonderful Thanksgiving day and weekend.

November 15, 1018 – Snow – a bit early . . .

         I padded to the door in my rag wool socks to let the dog out this morning.  No, I had not heard the school bus go down the road yet and I had not paid attention to the time.  I was only paying attention to my dog dancing in a circle wanting to go out. 

         Surprise, I’ve about a half inch of snow or what looks more like wet snow or better described as SLUSH on the front steps and in my flower beds.  That is a first - usually the non-sound of snow coming down wakes me up. [See March 12, 2017, blog about the stillness of fallen snow.]

         Snow on November 15^th seems early to me.  We usually have our serious killing frost in November [Even though the garden magazines tell us it is back in early October . . . many years we can slip past those if we protect/cover something we want for a few more weeks as I do.]  

         But, last week the Persian Shield, Strobilanthese dyerianus, turned to stalks of black hanging leaves. It had managed the light and heavy frosts since October.  Now it looks like a hulking black ghost standing in a pot at the corner of the patio.  It has given me a bit of a start when I sweep open the sliding glass door drapes this last week.  Every wet morning for the last several mornings, I’ve mentally told myself – go out and snip that thing down and cut down the rest of the frosted-mush plants or attend to my end-of-fall clean up.  For the last several days it has rained and I’ve peered out on many occasions and opted for the warmth and comfort of my easy chair and a good book.

         The dog came in, wet, I wiped him down and the bus must have been on delayed status – it came after 8:00 a.m.  I have things to do today “uptown” as I revert to my childhood nomenclature.  I hope the temperature rises quickly to clear the roads.

         If it would just stop raining; I have the frosted Banana tree, Musa basjoo, to cut down as well.  It is a bigger job every year, but my husband adores that plant and I don’t know why.  Does he imagine he is in a jungle when he is watering it? Does he expect a wild tiger to poke it’s head out and look at him?  I don’t know – but that is for another blog someday.

         I can’t remember the last time it has snowed this early . . . I try to flip back in my memory.  I wonder – and yes, I searched the internet and up popped a North Carolina Climate Office with a Winter Storm Database.  The link is below, A few notes from scanning some of the history for Rutherford County, North Carolina:  Earliest snow fall since I’ve lived in the county – 1985.

         November 2, 1999

         November 6, 1998

         November 11, 1995

         November 17, 2002

         November 18, 2000

         November 21, 2005

         November 25, 2013*

         These are in date order, but the last one was 5 years ago and closer to Thanksgiving Day.  Yes, the data reminds me we have had earlier snows, but then again, my last recollection was more towards the end of November.  I best locate my boots for today’s errands.



         Check out the North Carolina Climate Office website – below is the link to the Winter Storm Database – all counties from January 1, 1968 through June 17, 2017 – done by county maps marked red -  [Tip – you’ve got to know the location and shape of your county or you are sunk.]  It is an interactive map – nifty!

http://climate.ncsu.edu/climate/winter/search_results?county=all&start_month=1&start_day=1&start_year=1968&end_month=6&end_day=17&end_year=2017&page=7

November 14, 2018 – The charm of the movie Casablanca

         There are two camps – those that know the movie Casablanca, and those that don’t know the movie or even that there is a movie called Casablanca.

         I remember I once mentioned “Casablanca” in the course of a business lunch conversation with a young man [not really young – he was 40 or so, married with two children] and he didn’t know who I was alluding to when I mentioned Sidney Greenstreet – “The fat gent” . . . as Humphrey Bogart called him in the movie Casablanca.  What was I alluding to?  Greenstreet on two separate occasions in the movie, picks up a fly swatter and snaps at a fly . . .  I had been doing the same thing at the outdoor venue using a manila folder – unsuccessfully I’ll have you know.

         First, he didn’t know who Sidney Greenstreet was and secondly, he didn’t even know there was a movie entitled Casablanca.  And, even if he had, I now doubt that he or many other casual movie goers notice the fly swat incidents.

         I later asked if he knew about the movie “Gone with the Wind” and he admitted he had heard the name, but never saw the movie. Two for Two.

         That cemented the facts. I realized there was a great gulf between the business people I communicated with and myself. Another time, I used the phrase, “Rose colored glasses” that fell flat as a reference point and I knew I’d fallen into a bottomless pit for old dinosaurs.

         On the flip side, several weeks ago I went to a writer’s workshop on dialogue and us participants all seemed to know what we were alluding to – genre, writers, or ideas.  In the middle of a discussion about dialogue style, several in the group tossed out a movie to clarify a writing style.

         The author running the class asked those who hadn’t spoken up what their favorite old movie was and why.

         When he got to me, I wistfully said,  “Casablanca – black and white – there is everything you need to know about life in that movie.”  I watched his face as I said it. He was a great “eye contact” teacher – or maybe it was just that he was a man who hadn’t witnessed my vivacious self before or meet anyone like me.

         He nodded and said, “One of my favorites, too.”  He had a warm smile on his face and asked me as if we were completely alone in a street café in Paris having coffee, “What is your favorite scene?”

         “Every time you watch it, you see different things. . .” my mouth still open I was not ready to finish my thought. I paused for the longest moment and debated if I should finish my sentence. Our eyes were locked. He was waiting for it; he was looking at my lips. He could “read people” and his knowing eyes coaxed me on.

         “It’s like the changing afternoon light,” I finished in a breathy voice which sounded like it was meant only for a lover’s ears.

         Everyone around the table fell into a hushed silence – staring at me or staring at him looking at me as his head nodded in soul mate understanding. They had noticed it too – had I been flirting with him all afternoon – or had he been flirting with me. Had everyone noticed it but me? Or us?

         I was surprised how attentively he had listened.  He looked around the table at the others in attendance, and commented, “Did you hear what she said?”  He re-quoted me, “Like the changing afternoon light,” in a soft lingering voice sounding much like a lover’s reply.  He left that line floating in the air among the dust motes of the library conference room for all to savor for a few moments.



         A few hours later, my spouse asked me how the writer’s “thing” was.

Enlightening.

A surprise.

A lovely respite.

November 13, 2018 – Assorted Book Reviews

         I made note to you in my November 5, 2018 blog that I have been embracing the mantra:  You must read in order to write well.

         This is a book review column of what has passed over my lap in the last few weeks.  DISCLAIMER: Beware, this list is clouded with the eyes and mind of a Republican.  If you think you will be offended because you are a Democrat – don’t continue your reading – skip off to something else in the internet hemisphere that will amuse you.

               Ship of Fools: How the Selfish Ruling Class is Bringing America to the Brink of Revolution by Tucker Carlson.  My dear brother, Ken, bought this book and after he read it, he sent it down to me for a read.  He thought it was a little dull, not HA HA laughter. I considered it interesting, but not exactly that humorous either. Written in plain English anyone can understand,  Tucker covers the entire spectrum of what is happening today in America along with some pointed history.  If you like Tucker Carlson and admire his full head of hair – this book will confirm that he is not just a pretty face – he has brains hidden under that full head of hair.

               When my brother Ken, said he would send me the Ship of Fools book, when he was done, I happened to be in a large city for the day – Spartanburg, SC, where there is a REAL bookstore and picked up Judge Jeanine Pirro’s book entitled Liars, Leakers, and Liberals – The case against the Anti-Trump Conspiracy.  You can hear her voice in every sentence.  Reading it is like having her sit across the room and the two of you are casually discussing politics.  Then, to make an emphatic point she tosses out “straight talk” statements.  It is an entertaining and FAST read.  Upon reading, I sent this book to Ken as he sent the book noted above to me.  Inter-mail library lending is what I will call this sending books back and forth by mail to family.

               Killing the Deep State – The fight to save President Trump by Jerome R. Corsi, Ph.D.  This book I received as a gift for subscribing to The Newsmax Magazine.  A few months ago I was chastised by someone telling me that I was biased as they felt I was only watching Fox News.  So, I expanded my news input and now subscribe to The Weekly Standard, Newsmax and the local newspaper, The Daily Courier.  I will admit this is “DEEP” reading just as the title indicates it is about the Deep State.  I found it fascinating.  I particularly like that it has an index – so you can flip back to something to re-read.  It was not a quick read like Judge Jeanine’s book. There is much to ponder in this book.

               Discovering that our county libraries lean to the Democratic side more than the Republican side, I was surprised when I found the book entitled: The Russia Hoax – The illicit scheme to clear Hillary Clinton and frame Donald Trump by Gregg Jarrett.  Inside back flap places Jarrett living in Stamford, Connecticut.  Possibly, in Elitist land and he even admits in the Epilogue he is a Democrat – but felt he had to write this book.  It walks one through the entire shenanigans of the so-called Russian collusion situation that we’ve daily watch unfolding in the news for the last two years.  It is a good read – little draggy in places, but it connects lots of dots. 

               I always like to have a self-help book or a book that can explain some of my rough edges or improve on my rough edges and I noticed a book at the Rutherford County Library.  The picture of a lone sheep on the front cover of a desolate landscape much like the opening cinematography of the television show “Shetland” on PBS.  Party of one – The Loners’ Manifesto by Anneli Rufus, a paperback with 2003 print date. I found the 18-page Introduction excellent reading.  Now I understand why people get on my nerves – I have little in common with many people and I gravitate to those I have common interests with – normal herd mentality.  It confirms that I prefer my own company; I like to be alone and now I know why I like to be a loner and that there is “nothing wrong” with me. 

         But, what I had not identified until All Souls Day is that most of my like-minded friends have died.  It used to be one or two – then a handful – then two handfuls, but even counting on my fingers and my toes – the close friends that have died in the last 10 years is more than I had realized until I was updating my All Souls Day prayer envelope list. 

         It is not easy to replace those type of friends because of my current geographic location as well as not being out in the work place.  Those two key factors I realized but didn’t mix those factors with the of deaths of so many friends.  So, if you are feeling you are not communicating with your fellow man or woman – I suggest you give this book a read.  It is nicely chaptered with names like “village people” and “the sleeve said” – about clothing.  Again, an interesting read – and just snagging the book because of the lone sheep on the front made it a nice surprise.

               Lastly, The collected Stories of Colette – translated into English, edited, and with an introduction by Robert Phelps. The book is a mere 605 pages of short stories or essays to wander through or pick one or two out by an interesting title and inhale. In the past I read one of the Colette biographies and enjoyed it.  This book has charming vignettes – of course, the situations are dated, much like Guy de Maupassant which are even more archaic.  But, a well told story, is still a well told story.

         As part of my retirement goal I promised that I would read the books I never got a chance to read because I worked long hours with long commutes and usually fell into bed exhausted.  Other nights I was too tired to sit and read.  I now wander through the classics. The first on my hit list was Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier.  The oldies, the classics . . . I love the language used in them.

         I am reading across the spectrum – classic, self-help, current affairs, political . . . mixing it all up.  When I get tired of that – I might find me some modern novels or mysteries to keep my mind limber this fall and winter when it is cold, rainy or snowy.

         Since I haven’t found any new friends to replace the memories of many cherished friends who have died – I’ve gone to books which are easier to find.

“Books, like friends, should be few and well-chosen.”

- Samuel Johnson

November 11, 2018 – September Morn

         Recently during a workshop on dialogue with a visiting author from Atlanta, we [the eight attendees at the workshop], were coaxed into an exercise about people lying.  The instruction was write a piece of dialogue where someone is lying.

         Often a writer hears the phrase, “write about what you know.”  So, I paused a moment and tried to recollect the biggest LIE I’d ever told and it made me smile and chuckle.  Obviously, I was off and running with the assignment.

         Drats! I can’t get my fingertips on the rough dialogue I wrote that afternoon, but is was someone asking about the painting by French artist, Paul Emilé Chabas entitled Matinée de Septembre – “September Morn” completed in 1911.  An amazing 7 million reproductions were made of it.  Stewed by controversy there is a 19-page treatise about the painting and artist on Wikipedia for those interested.

         Yes, it is risqué – but now it is considered “charmingly innocent” and possibly the most familiar nude painting in the world.

         The original measures 64.5 inches by 85.2 inches, my copy – a lithographic copy on canvas is a mere 18 x 24. For many years, I hung it without a frame – just the stretched canvas – in a bohemian way.  Later when we moved to a home that had a “wet bar” I upgraded it with an expensive gold/linen edge frame.

         Often, when guests visited our home they furtively glance at the painting prominently displayed and most guests are surprised and hesitate to ask about it.  A few look at the painting then quizzically at me. I easily answer their unaired question.

         “September Morn, is the name of the painting.” I cast out to see if I get a nibble.  If I hook a gullible fish, I’ll start my yarn.

         “I imagine you are wondering about the model?” That piques their interest more and launches me into a tall tale that usually goes along these lines:

         “My mother when she was a young girl.” I and my mother have the same coloring.

         “Who is the artist?”

         “Oh, I’ve forgotten his name, but he was a close family friend, it’s in the corner,” is how I answer and usually rise from my chair or move closer to the painting to claim validity of that statement.

         “Yes, Paul Chabas,” I point to the artist’s signature in the lower left corner, then I knowingly add,

         “It was painted out at Bare Hill Pond, in Harvard, Massachusetts.”  The comment adds a thick layer of credibility because everyone knows I am from Massachusetts.

         “Don’t you just love the way the foggy morning mist rises up from the water?”

         “How old was she?”

         “Young, 14 or 15, I believe is what she told me.”

         If someone challenges me that it looks like a lithograph I answer, 

         “Of course it is a copy, do you think the artist gave the painting to his model?  No, he sold it and only years later when it became famous could my mother get a copy of it to cherish.”

         When they ask where the original is I answer that too.

         “The Met has it now.  Every few years they rotate it out and put it on display.  Hasn’t been up for several years though, such a pity.”

         My husband is savvy to this hoodwink-joke of a lie, and he backs my play.  He touts the history of Bare Hill Pond including the fine fishing which makes it all the more authentic.

         Once, my mother was actually at my home for a party and the painting at that time was in the living room.  [She knew about this big lie for years.]

         My mom was reclining against the huge pillows of the chintz couch within feet of the painting over the mantelpiece.  Her short naturally curly hair was a foxy mix of auburn and white. My mother of small stature actually resembles the model with not much cleavage.

         At that house warming party, my boss introduced himself to my Mom, and he turned to look around my new home and his eyes fell upon the painting.  He scrutinized it for the longest time and when his eyes came to look for me to ask about the painting I’d already stepped behind my Mom.

         “You’ve noticed our family treasure. It’s called September Morn. You are so fortunate that the model is here with us tonight”. 

         I draped my hand over my Mom’s shoulder and she reached up and clasped it giving him her soft, shy smile.

         He looks at my Mom and then at the painting.  He sips his cocktail.  He scrutinizes my mother closely and looks back at the painting.

         “It was so cold that morning. I couldn’t drink enough hot cocoa to get warm,” said my Mom right on cue.

         Later after the party broke up my Dad remarked it must be a great party icebreaker all those years moving from one corporate job to another. We have pulled this gag for decades.  It charms my Mom and makes my Dad smile and shake his head not believing people can be so gullible.

         Now that I’ve divulged one of my most famous lies – what is yours?

        

Link to Wikipedia:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/September_Morn

November 7, 2018 – “And then . . . I cancelled my account”

         Years ago standing in line at my local bank, near Christmas time with a hand-written paycheck, I watched a scene unfold that was unforgettable.  It taught me one of life’s most valuable lessons.

         If you don’t like how you are treated by a bank, merchant, or service provider – you can close your account and take your business elsewhere. That is what the free market system is – competition among like services.

         It was a powerful lesson on how to manage anger at entities that don’t treat the customer correctly.  Let me tell you more.

         This was in the early 1970s when there were smaller branches, fewer banks, and longer lines.  There was no direct deposit then, no free checking accounts, and the lines were long around Christmas time.  This one branch stayed open until 6:00 p.m. because it was in the shopping district, but being a small branch, had only one teller.

         I was about 4th person back from the stylish middle-aged women at the counter.  She had a “cultured voice” – that voice of intelligence and polish and charm all rolled into one voice that I yearned to acquire myself.  She was making a withdrawal and dealing with a young teller - a male teller.

         What caught my attention was how loud he was counting out the cash she was withdrawing.  I could clearly hear it three people back, which was at least a dozen feet away. [Years ago, people in lines kept a conservative three-foot distance between themselves and other patrons.]

         “One, two, three . . .” he counted out a loud as he snapped crisp bills into a pile, and concluded with “one thousand.”   That perked my ears – my weekly paycheck was $97 and some change. My mind raced with what I could buy for Christmas gifts if I had $1,000 cash in my hot little hand!

         I leaned to one side, watched him count another pile of money and wasn’t expecting his announcement of two thousand.  He continued counting.  The people in front of me became interested as well and they leaned slightly sideways to watch the stacks of thousands running across the teller’s raised ledge in front of the woman. In the end, the male teller announced, “Five thousand”.

         “You’ve just announced it to the whole world.  Now, how am I supposed to safely get to my car, without being robbed?”  Her voice was clear and polite, yet was dripping with indignation. I remember that I and the three or four patrons behind the woman, nodded our heads or shrugged our shoulders in agreement. 

         The man in front of me turned and shared his surprise with me by raising his eyebrows and rolling his eyes.

         Stone silence filled the bank as everyone waited for the male teller to say something. All eyes were on him. The look on his face was recognition that he had screwed up trying to be so “meticulous”.   I don’t remember what he said, or if he said anything.

         But, I will never forget what the woman said to him.

         “Verify my balance – I am closing my account – now.”  She said it crystal clear.  I heard audible gasps in the bank – not sure from whom – but the line would be backed up for some time as I and everyone else watched this saga unfold.

         The panicked teller called the branch manager over from his desk in the corner alcove.  The branch manager tried his best to smooth over the woman’s concerns, offering to personally walk her to her car.  That did not suit the woman and she declined and again requested her balance and announced closing her account adding she would take her business elsewhere.

         The branch manager verified her account and offered it in a cashier’s check and she acquiesced, because he didn’t have enough cash on premises to close her account.  He typed the cashier’s check himself and escorted the woman to her car.

         During this process – the “audience” – the line of bank customers turned and looked at each other and smiled and shrugged our shoulders – but no more than a small whisper here or there was conveyed amongst us.

         It was a stunning revelation to me.  The woman had every right to be angry and she did something instantly about it.  WOW!  What power!

         I mentioned the incident to my friends and family for the next few days and everyone was as impressed with her action.

        

         Fast forward to yesterday and I was “up-to-there” with the satellite TV people.  They had re-scheduled me – over a week later – to come and install a new post and new satellite because my tree canopy was interfering with the signal and I refuse to cut down my trees. 

         The new technician that finally showed up – after I waited most of the day, didn’t have that on his work order.

         The ensuing conversation with the technician, who could hardly speak two words of English, went toxic immediately due to the language barrier.

         Exasperated I told him to leave – as he didn’t have the post or equipment to rectify the situation.  He was stunned that I told him to leave.   But, he stood there immobile.

          I finally had to shout the word – “vamoose”.  He didn’t understand that word and I said, “Leave – Go.”

         He still stood there in shock not certain what he should do and wasn’t even trying to smooth my feathers or figure out a way to make it right for the customer.  He could only mumble that it wasn’t on his work order.

         “How interesting – since the previous technician simply ran out of poles so late in the day, that he couldn’t fix the situation and he put the new service order in for me.”

         “Go,” I waved him away, “You have lost my business – your company isn’t the only satellite TV company in the area.  You’ve lost my business – now GO!”

         ANGRY – yes I was angry.  But, it didn’t take me but two steps into my house until I remembered that stylish middle-aged women who closed her bank account . . .

         MY REVENGE – I called the competitor and set an appointment for what I want, when I want it – and, as a bonus, at a cheaper price. 

         Yes, free market competition – such a splendiferous thing.     

    

November 6, 2018 – Newspaper delivery service

         Flipping through my bills, I noticed I forgot to pay the 12 week newspaper subscription to The Daily Courier.  I write the check and immediately drive to the newspaper office.  The gal at the front desk is friendly – every 12 weeks I drop in to pay my bill and it seems I rarely have the same gal. 

         “I am late on my payment, but the carrier is still delivering.  Make sure my carrier knows I’ve paid.”

         The gal is looking at her computer screen and taking my payment and possibly making some sort of note – I am not sure what her bill receipt software can or can’t do.

         I don’t ask for special customer care very often, but I’d been getting the paper for over 20 years at this residence and the blue newspaper box is faded, cracked, and now lurching back to one side. 

         “Could you mention to the delivery person if they could fix the paper box upright. It is sort of leaning back and catching the rain.  The last few weeks I’ve had wet papers when it rains.”

         “The carrier is not putting your paper in a plastic sleeve?” The gal asked concerned.

         “No.”

         “They are supposed to, when it is raining,” she said with a frown.

         “Yeah, I know the rules; I actually delivered The Courier for a very short time, years ago.”

         “I’ll make a note for them to fix that.”  She clicked some more keys and I said,  

         “Thanks.”

         “No, we thank you - you’ve been a valued customer for many years,” was her highly professional customer service answer.

         As I left I wondered if my customer file indicated how long I’d had uninterrupted service with The Daily Courier, as I mentally calculated, 20 years at this house and 11 at the last house - that is a long time to be a continuous customer.

         Later that night stretched out on my bed watching TV late into the rainy night, I notice lights swing around the corner and stop near my mail box.  I look up, thinking, it’s the newspaper carrier delivering tomorrow morning’s paper.  But, then I hear a vehicle door open and close and then a second one open and close.  I hear a metal pounding sound.  Oh, they are fixing my paper box.  How nice.  The project completed I hear one vehicle door slam and then another door slam and the lights disappear.  How comforting, The Daily Courier must have a wonderful message system with the carriers – same day fix after a request. I wonder if it has anything to do with the tip I add into my bill payment.

         I think nothing of it the next morning when my husband comes in from walking the dog; he has retrieved the paper and drops it in my lap. 

         “We have a new paper box. I wonder why.”

         “New?”  I lean over, pull back my lace curtain, and see a white paper tube now close to the mailbox.

         “How about that.”  I smile knowingly. How nice, a new box after all these years.

If you want a laugh:  Visit my December 23, 2017 blog entitled: Newspaper Boy for a cute story on how I ended up delivering newspapers for a short period.

November 5, 2018 – President Trump  and “Where have you been?” 

         Yes, I am back.  I have literally taken it to heart that in order to be a better writer, I am embracing the mantra: You must read.  So, I’ve been reading, and reading, and reading. And, then I run out of time to write.

         I have to schedule my time better.

         And – drum roll please – I attended the Trump Rally in Charlotte, North Carolina on 10/26/18.  Yes, I got to see President Trump with my own eyes – at a distance of about five car lengths.  He sure can work a crowd.

         Yes – that was certainly a big check mark beside a bucket list item for me.  Years ago I went to a Train-stop rally in South Carolina for President George H. W. Bush- 41 – which was also awesome. 

         I survived the 45-degree drenching rain in a poncho waiting in line from 1:30 p.m. until 3:30 p.m. for a 7:00 p.m. rally. [They felt bad for us and let us in early.] The rain splashed the hems of my pants and I was sopping wet up to my knee caps.  [No I didn’t melt or dissolve . . .]

         The people in line in front of me and behind me were educated – not a bunch of rednecks as the liberal news media wants to portray. Everyone was polite and everyone wanted to talk Trump politics. The 5 women nearest me were college graduate, white women from the suburbs – also not what the “fake news” is dishing out. We also had young business millennials and retired veterans  -  all types of people – except I didn’t see any crazy people.

         We had the added bonus of college students coming along with their video smartphones interviewing us waiting in line for their class projects.  We sure told them what we thought.  The more questions we answered, the more they asked.  We covered every aspect of the platform for them and then some.

         Inside it was truly a Red-White-Blue Rally.  By the time President Trump arrived, all the seats were full.   Security was more than ample and they were circling like sharks among the people.

         One thing you can say about President Trump – he knows how to give a crowd a compliment.  He tossed out about 5 compliments making us happy we had braved the lousy weather. And a 8,600 person crowd is rather awesome to see and hear.

         And, here is a picture of me in my red/white/blue scarf.  It was a long day, but it was worth it to be among people that think and vote like I do. 

         Not only did I have to weather the rain, I had to weather the following snarky comments from so-called friends who are on the other side of the political aisle when I mentioned the rally to them:

         “I am going to the Trump Rally in Charlotte tomorrow!”

         “Why would you want to?” she answered.

         “I am at the Trump Rally in Charlotte – got  a few hours to kill waiting on his arrival,” I texted to a friend.

         He texted back:    “You are an educated woman, did someone hog tie you or kidnap you and force you to go?”

         So, you can see how divided the country is – even among the people I know.  

         If I have the chance to go again – I will go.   President Trump calls it like he sees it.  So what if he isn’t a wordsmith and doesn’t talk elegant.  He uses street language, the language of the common man.  I have just as many flaws as he has – which makes him REAL – not like the FAKE NEWS.