tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87572951685044709912024-03-05T06:08:04.408-05:00Making the Time to WritePenny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.comBlogger97125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-47427891094440880582023-05-21T12:46:00.000-04:002023-05-21T12:54:25.326-04:00The Passing of Time<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik89IAuXbIRz5GThh7rwSM8PQf-2BUlkzs022f7Z1VVLsSOGY-Nqe9FOembY2vV5LwbcD_cHaYFmIdYyvxkgWmadpXaGz-NXjSPA6fYcCF-fxBTeXFXQSvbVdMtIg4lv2-8HBeVYTfL4jS3dzHIUH7k6zcI2M1OfCoKLiIJw57D5JzV8XraA7uThGj/s383/Tim%20and%20Penny%20001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="286" data-original-width="383" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik89IAuXbIRz5GThh7rwSM8PQf-2BUlkzs022f7Z1VVLsSOGY-Nqe9FOembY2vV5LwbcD_cHaYFmIdYyvxkgWmadpXaGz-NXjSPA6fYcCF-fxBTeXFXQSvbVdMtIg4lv2-8HBeVYTfL4jS3dzHIUH7k6zcI2M1OfCoKLiIJw57D5JzV8XraA7uThGj/w226-h168/Tim%20and%20Penny%20001.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>It's been quite a while since I took pen to paper. Fingers to keyboard is more apt, but doesn't have the same ring to it, does it? At any rate, I've been in a reflective mood lately. There is much going on in my husband's family right now concerning his mother who just turned ninety-five. It's a very emotional time. And, as with any emotional time, emotional memories come flooding back. Tomorrow is the 55th anniversary of the day we lost my brother, Tim, in Viet Nam. And as I am going gray (not that one would notice, thanks to Ms. Clairol) and moving into these delightfully decrepit years, I can't help but wonder what Timmy would look like now. He'd be seventy-five, if my basic arithmetic hasn't failed me. Would he have gray hair, too, or be going a little bald like my father. Would he be a little paunchy? Would his smile be the same? Would he be silly and funny and charming still? I like to think so. Would he be a published poet or, perhaps, a philosophy professor? Questions I'll sadly never know the answers to. But my memories are of him the way he was are lovely. Tall and handsome. Vulnerable and child-like in many ways. Always a friend to anyone who needed one. And the best brother a girl could have. So, I think I'll put the questions that can't be answered aside and just remember the beautiful boy he was. Fifty-five years are not enough to forget him. He is still in my heart always. Dear Timmy, you will always be missed.<p></p>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-79029466837893127842021-09-22T11:30:00.000-04:002021-09-22T11:58:53.837-04:00Dating Back in the Day<p> </p><p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;">My husband and I were sitting
on the deck the other day, enjoying a beautiful afternoon and sipping a little
Vodka and tonic refresher. Not sure how we got onto the subject, but after fifty
years of marriage it’s a miracle to find something new to talk about. But we
did. The topic turned to dating in high school.</p><p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;">High school dating is not
easy, at least it wasn’t for me. I was shy and in those days a girl had to wait
by the phone to be asked out, so there was a bit of waiting. However, I managed
to go out often enough and some evenings were actually pretty enjoyable. I got
to see <i>Charade</i> with a nice guy at the beautiful Lowe’s Palace Theater in
Washington, D.C. And enjoyed fireworks on the Fourth of July on the Mall with
my junior year boyfriend. There were picnics and basketball games and dances
and a lot of movies. But there are a few that stand out for other reasons -
names shall not be mentioned to protect the innocent!</p><p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpvmtS25mYN1fEpS8Wjspdnuw73zkvex4499VijMuMvXftNPNYMHs2kaSqe6scxOfBOcP68eAE7gT6L_g_KLLwJVBQX919U6oy2r3A4E_lzF5Q7vuU3bfEhK9JCHxdfH0YeBePnRdvSw/s695/1g.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="672" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpvmtS25mYN1fEpS8Wjspdnuw73zkvex4499VijMuMvXftNPNYMHs2kaSqe6scxOfBOcP68eAE7gT6L_g_KLLwJVBQX919U6oy2r3A4E_lzF5Q7vuU3bfEhK9JCHxdfH0YeBePnRdvSw/w153-h159/1g.jpeg" width="153" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in high school</td></tr></tbody></table>When I was just a freshman, I
was asked to several dances. One was Gonzaga High School’s Purple and White. If I remember correctly, this was a blind date, so expectations weren't high. However, my mother had made me a beautiful red velvet dress and it should have gone well. But the boy who took me was shier
than I was. We did not say one word the entire night. This is not an exaggeration.
He didn’t even ask me to dance. We just stood there likes lumps on a log until the
ordeal was over.<p></p><p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;">And then there was my senior
prom. The evening was fine - a wonderful dinner at a dear friend’s home and the
dance and parties afterward. But it could have gone all wrong if my
sister-in-law, Lynda, hadn’t saved the day. My BFF and I went to a very upscale
salon in Bethesda to have our hair done. I had short hair at the time and had seen
a picture in a magazine that I loved. A few large curls gently cascading from
the crown of my head. Well, Ann, my hairdresser, felt that a lot of rather tight
curls piled on top was just what I wanted. It looked like a plate of hairy egg
rolls. As I was getting up the nerve to say, “Can’t you fix this?” when the owner of
the salon looked at my hair and said, “Ann! Perfect!” I was stuck. </p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;">I was doubtful, but, well, it
was ‘perfect’ apparently, so how bad could it be? And then I got home. I walked
in the door and my mother said, “Oh, they left the rollers in,” at which point
I burst into tears and said I couldn’t go. Lynda sat me down and proceeded to
undo the curls and arranged them to gently cascade from the crown of my head –
just like the picture in the magazine and the evening was saved!</p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;">But the date that really takes
the cake was the St. John’s High School Regimental Ball. The Ball was a big
deal. It was my first very formal dance. I was asked by a senior. My mother
made me a beautiful blue satin dress. I was excited. And then my date called to
say he had asked someone else whom he’d rather take, so sorry, but it’s off. You really have
to wonder if his mother was aware of his shenanigans. </p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;">I had just gotten used to the
idea of not going when a friend of my brother’s called and asked me to the
dance. Well, I had the dress, so sure. But when he picked me up, I found out that
we were doubling with the first Bozo who had asked and unasked me. His date
found this out and was furious with him. I didn’t much care. I was just happy
to be dressing up and be going to the dance and seeing The Shirelles sing <i>Soldier
Boy.</i> And kind of looking forward to sitting down at a nice restaurant
afterward, like my friends were. More fool me! The big spenders capped off the
night by taking us to the Little Tavern, a hamburger joint where they sold a
bag of ten burgers for a dollar. We ate in the car. I still laugh thinking of
my parents’ faces when I told them of my big night. Thank God I’ll never have
to date again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-48990803151146598432021-09-20T15:10:00.000-04:002021-09-20T15:10:22.631-04:00COVID inertia may be over<p> Well, here I am, actually putting words into the computer
once again. I seem to be coming out of some sort of COVID inertia which caused
me to, more or less, stop in my tracks for the last year and a half. I see
light at the end of a very long tunnel. I just hope it lasts. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUN3RQo0TchtNROqvsBQMrSgwzb-lB_A7cSZP2rUBkoA4zYDoPEqsIfrFGH1iekfl_jpeVN2WMFmC0OqViC2PRkIKoieGPR8wf_CoEvscn1nz32Y3rnqWI82j2DdNWDCFK82h1vFxv55M/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img data-original-height="200" data-original-width="273" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUN3RQo0TchtNROqvsBQMrSgwzb-lB_A7cSZP2rUBkoA4zYDoPEqsIfrFGH1iekfl_jpeVN2WMFmC0OqViC2PRkIKoieGPR8wf_CoEvscn1nz32Y3rnqWI82j2DdNWDCFK82h1vFxv55M/w200-h146/image.png" width="200" /></a></div>This summer helped a lot to bring me out of the doldrums in
good ways and really annoying ways. Cicadas! I am not a fan of cicadas. I do
not find them interesting or captivating. The incessant noise almost drove me
to distraction which, if nothing else, did cause my blood to start flowing freely
to my brain thinking up new and nefarious schemes to kill each and every one before
I careened right around the bend. I didn’t kill any. And they finally shut up! <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Tom and I celebrated
fifty years of marital bliss. Our children, Rachel Anne and Matthew gave us a lovely
party. Lots to eat, the very best company, a beautiful cake and an ice luge to
make sure we didn’t go to bed sober. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then, of course, we had our glorious month of vaccinated, mask-free
shopping, dining, and visiting. Tom and I were able to get out on the bay quite
a few times. And, best of all, we had a family vacation! Four houses filled
with family and friends. Three of my sisters were able to join in. Happy hours
every night with delicious cocktails and tasty treats on the beach, music and
dancing and a lot of laughter and love. It was life-affirming. </p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;">However, the start of our
little jaunt to the Outer Banks could have gone better. It was raining as we
set out, not horribly, but you like a vacation start to be sunny and carefree. We
were rolling along nicely until we stopped about half-way for a rest room
break. Coming out of McDonald’s I noticed that our moonroof was up. We had not
put the moonroof up. In an effort to put it down, Tom and I managed to open it
about a good three inches. We couldn’t get it closed. </p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;">So, fingers crossed, we got
back on the road hoping that the rain, which hadn’t been much more than drizzle,
wouldn’t get any worse. We were on a stretch of highway with nowhere to pull
over when, of course, Mother Nature decided that what Tom and I really needed
to get our vacation rolling was a good downpour. If you haven’t had the experience,
I’ll just let you know that driving with rain pouring onto your glasses is not ideal.
It makes for an unhappy drive. We ended up cruising along with me holding a
small towel over Tom’s head and getting pretty well soaked. Finally, the sun
came out and we dried off and arrived in a surprisingly good mood. The moonroof
continued to amuse us all week, opening and closing at will adding a hint of
mystery to a wonderful vacation. </p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;">And now a word from my
sponsor. My <i>Cocktails to Die For</i> is, at this very moment, available at
Amazon for any who might like to try some rather tasty concoctions favored by
the Forrest sisters and get a brief introduction to my Daisy&Rose Mystery
Series. And, of course, the Daisy&Rose Mysteries are also available at
Amazon, Barnes and Noble and wherever fine books are sold. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-42446693068378139952020-08-11T15:50:00.001-04:002020-08-11T15:50:30.011-04:00Living la Vida ‘Rona’<p>The other day a
strange package was delivered to my door. It was large, slightly unwieldy and
the return address was from some company in China. I didn’t remember ordering
anything from China, but then again, I do an awful lot of ordering these days.
Tom and I circled it for a bit mulling just what it could be. I gave it a
little nudge with my foot for no apparent reason and finally decided that it
was safe to pick up – gloves and mask on, of course. Guess what - it was the
toilet paper I ordered back in March when we were all terrified that we might have
to drip dry forever more and were ordering anything that Amazon said was in
stock. And only six months late. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyRbb7yRS7hyphenhyphenu8rNufqrGQvUfQtBlmWjD9SHDWLZesvLA6Lv-_mqsbmVoCLyiE9V6hYv8p7M7iQfI6P5gpjlD0kTL0sikMowNbApeBuL5JOCWCahXAvtzKJ2EatcZPPHrIKXXEtSHT9k/s431/TP.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="230" data-original-width="431" height="94" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyRbb7yRS7hyphenhyphenu8rNufqrGQvUfQtBlmWjD9SHDWLZesvLA6Lv-_mqsbmVoCLyiE9V6hYv8p7M7iQfI6P5gpjlD0kTL0sikMowNbApeBuL5JOCWCahXAvtzKJ2EatcZPPHrIKXXEtSHT9k/w177-h94/TP.JPG" width="177" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in; tab-stops: 0in;">As with any
crisis, you learn to make do. Hair has become an issue for many of us and my
hair has become a rather strange sight. My sister gave me a perm at home. It
turned out pretty well even though it took three separate orders to get all the
parts needed. So, the next logical step in haircare was a bit of pruning of the
tresses which I did myself. I now have what I call an old-lady mullet. I found
that’s quite difficult to trim the hair on the back of your head while looking
in a mirror backward. But as I am going nowhere and seeing nobody, but my beloved
Tom and our cat, it doesn’t really matter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in; tab-stops: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p>Food has been quite
an issue. After months of cooking every damned dinner every night, I laid down
the law. We were getting take-out on our anniversary. Tom had been leery of take-out
and delivery fearing, possibly rightly, that germs would be on the packaging. I
think he was just waiting to see if anyone we knew was getting sick from having
food brought in. Well, it turned out just fine. We had a lovely meal delivered
free of charge from the Old Bowie Town Grille, a local restaurant. It’s been a
game changer. We order take-out on a regular basis. My mood is not now quite as
ugly as it has been. </p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in; tab-stops: 0in;">I, also, have grocery
ordering down to a fine art and I believe that Harris Teeter has the best curbside
pick-up service in the area. The only place I actually get out of the car to
shop is the nice produce stand down the road. I’ve become quite chummy with the
owner. We discuss how very hot it is, what flowers the deer like to eat, and
would I like a receipt? The other day he gave me a free tomato! It’s the little
things in life.</p><p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in; tab-stops: 0in;">All silliness
aside, I believe this virus has cast a pall over all of us. It’s hard to plan
your day when your day looks just like the one before. When weekends are the
same as weekdays. When the job you just got back to has lost the personal
connection that made it fun, even though it didn’t pay very well. When you can’t
play with your grandkids or have tea with your neighbor. When you can’t hug a
friend who has suffered a loss. When it really doesn’t matter what time you go
to bed because it doesn’t matter what time you get up. I think to myself, this
too shall pass, but it seems unlikely it will pass very soon. In the meantime, I’m
trying to focus on all the good in my life. I really have nothing to complain
about. We’re healthy, have food on the table and a roof over our heads. I just
miss my kids and my family and my friends. I miss picking out my own produce
and chatting with the pharmacist or the woman at check-out. And then I tell myself
that in the grand scheme of things, it could be worse. I could have a Mohawk!</p><p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in; tab-stops: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalIndent" style="margin-left: 0in; tab-stops: 0in;">PS: A major shout-out to my favorite new author, Matthew T. Petersen. If you haven't already read any of his work, check out www.matthewtpetersen.com. You'll find some outstanding poetry, a series called the <i>Chamonix Chronicles,</i> and a glimpse at his first novel, <i>The Walk Down</i>.</p>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-7669600844355234012020-05-23T14:44:00.000-04:002020-05-23T14:45:03.051-04:00The loss of a friend<br />
Often when I most want to say something, words don’t seem to
come to mind. I lost a dear friend in April, a woman I’ve known since I was a
teenager and I have been struggling since to find those words. I read a piece
by my son yesterday on writing authentically and I guess it inspired me to give
it a try today.<br />
<br />
Jean Garner Fullenkamp was one of a group of nine friends I
have had the privilege of being a part of. Women who have managed to remain
close friends through the years. Some of us met in high school, some in grade
school. As with any group we have our differences. Lord knows, we’re not all on
the same page on a variety of subjects. And to be quite honest, perhaps if we
met now for the first time, we might not even become friends.<br />
<br />
But we are friends. We make the effort to keep together. We’re
here for each other in the hard times and good times. And we’re here for each
other now as we try to find our way through this first devastating loss of one
of our own.<br />
<br />
Even though we got together only a few times a year Jean was
a great part of my life. Always kind, generous and loving, Jean could be
counted on to host any occasion, to be late for lunch dates, and ready with a
compliment. She liked to laugh, enjoyed a good glass of wine, and was always
dressed to the nines. She loved her family and her religion. She was passionate
about the environment and worried about what the future would hold for her
grandchildren. Like all of us, she had good days and bad days, but managed to
muddle through, spirit intact. Jean was simply a lovely person. And I, as well
as so many others, will miss her.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0in;">
Keep your loved ones close, don’t
forget to let them know just how much you care, and cherish each day as it
comes. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-21628957447131495502020-05-06T12:20:00.000-04:002020-05-07T08:43:22.990-04:00The Boys of Summer Are Back – in South Korea<br />
The Boys of Summer Are Back – in South Korea<br />
<br />
Well, for those of us who miss Opening Day, who miss
this year when the Nationals should be basking in World Series glory, who miss
the 7<sup>th</sup> inning stretch, the wave, popcorn, peanuts and Cracker Jack,
South Korean baseball is here!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KGtGMRhOC3SXvZoCEHc4Gy7KRsnd8dTCcF_S80afk42q4Bt3HJzIM6OQeTxyMvfq3J3z76BeESMBE230Xf7478QcUJF34yWkuglNjYWmIclktBgOUjt-fGQy5UUz5GPax64BEV-0Y20/s1600/th.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="189" data-original-width="307" height="123" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2KGtGMRhOC3SXvZoCEHc4Gy7KRsnd8dTCcF_S80afk42q4Bt3HJzIM6OQeTxyMvfq3J3z76BeESMBE230Xf7478QcUJF34yWkuglNjYWmIclktBgOUjt-fGQy5UUz5GPax64BEV-0Y20/s200/th.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
Granted this season will be unusual. The coronavirus
has seen to that. But South Korea feels confident enough that the season has
begun – within coronavirus restrictions, of course. Games will be played in an
empty stadium. Umpires wear masks, as do the cheerleaders, and most of the players.<br />
<br />
Playing to empty stadiums must be difficult. Players
thrive on the energy of the crowds, the excitement that seems to vibrate through
the stadium. So, Korea has gone to great lengths to simulate the thrill of the
game. Stadiums are filled with placards of fans, there is an announcer is doing
his utmost to inject animation into his narration, and cheer leaders are gamely
rooting on the home team.<br />
<br />
I think they can do more. With a little ingenuity I’ll
bet they could make everyone believe they are really at the ballpark. First, the
crowd noises. You need the roar of the crowd when someone hits a dinger over
the right field fence. And the roar - then moan when a ball looks like a
homer, but is actually in foul territory. <br />
<br />
Then, of course, an entire litany of catcalls, boos,
hisses <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">is a must. They could add the rude, raucous taunts one might hear today, but I think they should keep it family friendly and channel</span> <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">that classic William Bendix movie </span><i>Kill the Umpire.</i> A few ‘are you blind’s, ‘he was safe’, and ‘throw the bum out’ would add color. Also, a few of the placards leaning over the low fence and interfering
with the play would be good.<br />
<br />
Speaking of the placard fans, I think they should
figure out a way they could do the wave with the appropriate whoosh sound we
all love to make. It would be a sight to see because they would all actually take
part and it wouldn’t just die a somewhat anemic death like it, sadly, often
does.<br />
<br />
The 7<sup>th</sup> inning stretch would be great. All
the placards could pop out of their seats and sing along to <i>Take Me Out to
the Ballgame</i> or <i>Country Roads</i>. I’ll bet they could figure out a way
for vendors to toss hot dogs and peanuts to the ‘fans’. A tee-shirt toss would
be a wonderful sight, but they’d have to be careful about the velocity.
Knocking off a placard’s head with a tee-shirt would be a downer for sure.<br />
<br />
Think of it, relaxing in those pajamas which you haven’t
gotten out of for three weeks, sipping a Baseball Pleasure at four in the
morning because ‘what else do you have to do?’, and flipping channels until you
find Korean baseball. It’s a gift. Let’s root for the home team!<br />
<br />
Baseball Pleasure<br />
(a Daisy and Rose special)<br />
In a highball glass with ice mix:<br />
2 oz. Vodka<br />
4 oz. orange juice<br />
Add:<br />
1 jigger Amaretto<br />
1 jigger Whiskey<br />
Mix well and garnish with a little pennant supporting
your favorite team. Go Nats!<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-19411686688943178722020-03-24T14:50:00.000-04:002020-03-24T14:50:34.389-04:00Coping with ConfinementWell, here we are caught in coronavirus hell. I have been trying to think of amusing little anecdotes to write about, but I'm afraid they aren't coming to mind. I just find this scary and depressing. As my older sister, Heather, reminded me, I'm no spring chicken. This virus is taking aim at the likes of me.<br />
<br />
I am so very fortunate that I really have very little to complain about. Tom and I are financially secure, able to stay home, and are managing to get along. Staying at home is what we normally do. So why do I feel a burning need to go somewhere, anywhere?<br />
<br />
My sister, Chris, calls this the 'snowplow syndrome'. You know, when a big snow is coming and you are absolutely ready for it. You're well stocked with toilet paper, milk, coffee, and tea. The pantry is filled with pop corn, the makings for s'mores, and Pepperidge Farm cookies. You have plenty of wine, beer and strong drink on hand, and eight DVDs of<i> Columbo</i> and a complete set of Jane Austen movies, jigsaw puzzles, crossword puzzles, and a fully loaded Kindle. So why are you looking out the window and wondering where in the hell the snowplow is?<br />
<br />
I have found that, like I'm guessing many of you have also, much of my day is now consumed with grocery delivery. First thing in the morning I check Safeway, Harris Teeter, Whole Foods and Giant to see which grocery store has a delivery slot open during the upcoming week. If I find one, I quickly grab it and proceed to order everything I can think of.<br />
<br />
I'm becoming a pro at this. I started off naively placing an order with Harris Teeter last week which was delivered in a timely manner. It was a fairly normal order, no hoarding, just what we might need for a week or two. I got a call that morning from a man who informed me that they couldn't fill everything on it. I said, "Fine. Just deliver what you have." Well, the order was a tad short - consisting of a fairly disgusting cucumber, two bags of croutons, salsa, rye bread, and a couple of other items I didn't really need. The saving grace was the bag of Tootsie Roll Midgies. I've now caught on and order accordingly. I'm not hoarding, but I cover a broad spectrum of goods giving the store a lot of leeway for choosing what I might really want.<br />
<br />
And Tom and I have actually been, sort of, rationing our food. While we are in no real danger of starving, as the virus picks up steam groceries may very well be more difficult to get. So we're pacing ourselves. And what we've found is that we really eat too much! And we throw away too much! And we should be much more thankful for what we have.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I just thought I would check in with all my friends and let you know I'm still here. Please everyone, stay safe, comply with social distancing, stay home if you can, be mindful of others, and take care of yourselves.<br />
<br />
<br />Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-35086268109514996772019-08-16T16:28:00.001-04:002019-08-16T16:47:41.737-04:00It's my birthday and I'll cry if I want to!<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Fair
warning, this post is not for anyone who doesn't want to hear all about the joys of
turning seventy. That's right, I said seventy. Seventy. I figure if I keep
repeating this number, it will lose its potency.</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 7;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuAiqqwIko2T5i00xwK5-KgVZJOIDdipNmr9YGHMY-UsRLi-YtyFJIIVmQlM33XG8Hb_enZj-FpCAx-WxmemtJqZzBXCpW0_RdSW9Jqd81hnBJ2IHFvl0Suxk0kJJ-K8jCZ0iPQ3Dpus/s1600/IMG_6185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="360" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuAiqqwIko2T5i00xwK5-KgVZJOIDdipNmr9YGHMY-UsRLi-YtyFJIIVmQlM33XG8Hb_enZj-FpCAx-WxmemtJqZzBXCpW0_RdSW9Jqd81hnBJ2IHFvl0Suxk0kJJ-K8jCZ0iPQ3Dpus/s200/IMG_6185.JPG" width="112" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="color: black;">When I woke up this morning, did I
bound out of bed and shout, "Hooray. It's my birthday?" No, I did
not. I sort of rolled out and stood up and groaned. My knees hurt. Why? This is
a bit of a conundrum to me. What in heaven's name can my knees have been doing
all night that I wake up and they feel as if I have just climbed the foothills
of the Blue Ridge Mountains. This is only one of the many mysteries I've encountered
as I quickly approach 'old age'. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;">Well, I guess I am actually there,
aren't I? There are a number of things I've noticed in the past year that are
not particularly amusing and that scream, “Boy, are you getting up there!” For
one, my skin has lost all elasticity. I mean I have become walking crepe paper.
You could decorate a school gym for the big dance with me if only I had some
color.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">And let
face it, things are drooping – badly. Knees are sagging, butts are dragging. I could send semaphore messages with my arm flaps if I knew the correct formations. Because
this is a family blog, I will not go into the hideous result of not wearing a
bra. Suffice it to say, it is not pretty. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">My hearing
is an in and out affair. My end of conversations with Tom consist of a lot of, “What?”,
“Sorry, what did you say?”, and “I can’t hear you when the waters running.” Or
really any other time. </span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Tom, whose
hearing is a bit more in and out than mine, thinks he’s a bit of a comedian. So,
his end of the conversation is always a treat. Instead of just asking what I
said, he likes to repeat what he thinks he heard, but knows damned well he didn’t.
There is really no reason I can think of that I would ask him if his liver had
been dyed. He is a card.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">My memory
is a bit off. This is putting it kindly. If I don’t write it down, it doesn’t
get done. I actually forgot what I was going to make a note of the other day in
the time it took me to pick up the pen. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Also, I
have an affliction which I call ‘noun aphasia’. I sometimes cannot remember
nouns. This leads to a lot of interesting conversations that consist of
charades and word clues. Such as, “You know, that stuff you put in a glass to
make the drink cold.” “You mean ice?” “Yes, ICE!”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Tom and I
had a kind of funny experience visiting the optometrist. We had already been to
the ophthalmologist, so we only needed to have our vision tested. We both went
into the exam room together and met the doctor. We hadn’t seen him before, but
assumed it would be a quick ‘read the chart’, write the prescription, and Bob’s
your uncle. At least he was mine. We were not expecting the third degree.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">I was
first in the exam chair and the doctor started peppering me with questions
about my medications and other health issues. I hesitated while I tried to
remember exactly what I took and for what reason I took it. Luckily, Tom was able
to fill in the blanks. I felt a bit of an idiot. And I’m pretty sure the doctor
agreed with me. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">On
reflection, I think it was the chairs fault because when Tom sat down he couldn’t
remember a damned thing and I had to fill in the blanks for him. It was like a weird
marital cross-talk act. I’m pretty sure the doctor was happy to see us go.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Seventy. Let’s
say it together – seventy. Well, I’m finding that the adage is correct. Old age
is not for sissies. And the other old adage is also correct. Being seventy is
better than the alternative. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-64543594924100674582019-06-05T10:44:00.000-04:002019-06-16T10:40:06.254-04:00Crazy Old Ladies<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">I'll
start with my favorite old lady joke. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">Jane and Regina went out for a
drive, Regina at the wheel. The day was clear and bright, the traffic was
practically non-existent. They were tooling along as they came to an
intersection with a bright red traffic light shining right at them. Regina
tooled on through without a pause. Jane thought this a bit odd. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br />
At the next intersection with another glowing red light, Regina didn't hesitate
for a second. She just cruised on through. Again, Jane thought this a tad on
the odd side as Regina was usually a law-abiding kind of person. </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br />
When Regina sailed through the next red light, Jane finally spoke up. “Regina,
honey, why the hell are you running all these red lights?” </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br />
Regina turned to her and said, “Was I driving?” </span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">Well,
that’s what I ask myself much of the time. Was I driving? Am I in charge of
anything? And does anyone know I’m here? </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br />
My sister Chris and I recently went to Florida for the wedding of my younger
sister Martha's stepdaughter. Since the security crack-down resulting from
9/11, we now fly under assumed names. We assumed them at birth. We were named
Jane Christine and Regina Penelope by our parents. No one calls us Jane and
Regina. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsC4l0PZUFaR2o0PpZ5ngfFpQEISRF_hI1ITePmSBh43pVU_Lpo2i97c_s-i7w0RCuSswBgWFnVxPQCmUpvwbkZFEs0T0ZgxRHwaltH8RtJDjKOg02s-q23-Fcy06CSHHFfjSAOsQAnBs/s1600/NewYork+sisters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1078" data-original-width="1280" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsC4l0PZUFaR2o0PpZ5ngfFpQEISRF_hI1ITePmSBh43pVU_Lpo2i97c_s-i7w0RCuSswBgWFnVxPQCmUpvwbkZFEs0T0ZgxRHwaltH8RtJDjKOg02s-q23-Fcy06CSHHFfjSAOsQAnBs/s200/NewYork+sisters.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martha, Penny and Chris</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">The
wedding was on Memorial Day weekend and flights that suited our timing needs,
were non-stop, and weren’t exorbitant landed us with Spirit Airlines. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">Spirit
Airlines offers a number of fine amenities. It has reserved seats in which you
can sit up very straight without crossing (or even moving) your legs for the
entire flight just as mother used to encourage - for a price. If you care to
travel with more than a toothbrush and change of undies, you can carry-on or
check your baggage - for another price. Most of all, you can, and are
encouraged to, make all transactions on their very fine website. No need for
pesky interactions with other humans. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">Well, we
started our adventure by trying to purchase tickets on-line. This was not to be
and here was the first pesky interaction I had to make. The answer to why I was
unable to purchase tickets on the website was, ‘So sorry the website isn’t working
properly today. I’ll be glad to sell you tickets for $5 more than the
advertised price on-line.’ I didn’t quibble. I bought the tickets.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br />
Second pesky interaction. A few days later, we decided to take one suitcase and
check it, this being quite a bit cheaper that carrying on two bags. Nope. Could
not do that on-line either. The nice woman told me the price. It was a few more
dollars than the on-line price, so I questioned her a bit abruptly. She
offered, ever so graciously, to give me the on-line number because the website
was being updated and wasn’t working properly. I was getting the picture. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br />
Third pesky interaction. I decided that we had better purchase seats. Our luck
with Spirit hadn’t been too good so far and we did want to sit down while in flight.
You guessed it. The website was still being tweaked and, no, I would not care
to pay more than the advertised price. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br />
The next convenience for our flying pleasure was the joy of self-tagging our
luggage. It couldn’t be easier. We just go to the kiosk, print out the tag and
drop tagged bag at baggage drop-off. Well, of course there was a fairly
long line for the kiosk. Then a longer line for baggage drop-off and when we
finally got there, the attendant needed to see our IDs and tickets and then she
weighed the bag. So why had we tagged it ourselves? Because if we hadn’t, we
would be charged if the attendant had done it. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br />
In the past five years Chris and I have flown Delta and have been TSA
pre-checked. We were not this year, meaning we had to go through the regular
security line. We were x-rayed or whatever that weird machine does when you put
your feet on the feet spots and hold your hands up in the air. And then we were
both patted down. Clearly, we looked a bit sinister. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br />
Luckily the flight was uneventful. We landed on time and had a good weekend. I
got to visit with my sister, Martha, her husband, Roy, and my great-niece,
Madeline. The wedding was lovely. We visited the Dali Museum which is certainly
worth seeing. Martha chauffeured us around and generally took care of us. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br />
One quick word about Florida drivers – there are evidently only two kinds.
About 2% of them seem to be perplexed as to whether they have actually left
their driveway. They move along in a bemused sort of way and annoy all other
drivers on the road. The other 98% (of which Martha is one) apparently believe
that they have actually taken the on-ramp to the Indy Speedway and just
realized that if they don’t step on it they will never catch up to the pack.
Our trips to and from the airport were a lot like Mrs. Toad’s Wild Ride. Chris
and I were put in the back seat and told to ‘Shut up and READ A BOOK!’. Speed
aside, Martha is a good driver and I appreciate all she did for us last weekend. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br />
Finally, we started home and we must have looked equally sinister because once
again we were x-rayed and patted down. At least, I was – sort of. By the end of
the weekend my left knee was telling me in no uncertain terms that it was not a
happy camper. I limped through security, planted my feet and raised my arms
once again, and was told to wait for my pat down. The woman looked at me (a
fairly bedraggled specimen at that point) and asked if I were in pain. I
mentioned my knee. She patted one hip briefly and moved me along. My Kindle, </span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">forgotten by mistake
in my purse’s zipper compartment, </span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">also made it
through without detection in spite of the dire warnings from the official about
leaving such items hidden in one's bag. I’m beginning to wonder just how
efficacious all this screening is. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">We made
it home in one piece. I drove us from the airport in the dark and I stopped for
every light whether I needed to or not. Just kidding. I'm pretty sure I
knew I was driving.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 14.66px 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-54262539356364932612019-05-22T05:00:00.000-04:002019-05-22T09:01:07.130-04:00Remembering my big brotherOn the anniversary of a death, it's very easy to recall all of the shock, the disbelief, and finally the deep sadness that the day evokes. And <span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">I am afraid I sometimes dwell too much on the event and not enough on the life. </span>I have written before about May 22, 1968, that last light of day when my brother, Tim, was taken from us. Now I would like to recall other days when we were very young, before teenage angst and civil unrest and the Viet Nam War; some good, some not so much. But they were mostly brighter days that bring a smile.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8mScsHE3eKKAoarlmzbfw-Qu-iKzbyrsrnYVRvmjq1rNMWpd6ANSGcbMt_uQlXDTwPRQFnTd2dYSB-7Nkv4K10EOFWdIymh2WHrc7pQTgq5ZO7dhni4QIRIhrcTUz3lXTo7Xi_2Y28ME/s1600/Old+Houses+for+mary406122018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1234" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8mScsHE3eKKAoarlmzbfw-Qu-iKzbyrsrnYVRvmjq1rNMWpd6ANSGcbMt_uQlXDTwPRQFnTd2dYSB-7Nkv4K10EOFWdIymh2WHrc7pQTgq5ZO7dhni4QIRIhrcTUz3lXTo7Xi_2Y28ME/s200/Old+Houses+for+mary406122018.jpg" width="153" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim Clover, maybe 5 years old</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I was born two and a half years after Timmy and we, apparently, were in sync from day one. For example, I didn't talk until I was well past two years old. The doctor seemed a bit worried, my mother did not. According to Mom, I didn't need to talk. Tim did all my talking for me.<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">When we were small, we lived in a row house on 20th Street in Washington D.C. right off Dupont Circle.</span>Washington was a small town then. Small enough that mail addressed only to Mr. Clover, Washington D.C. was actually delivered to my dad. Small enough that Tim and I, and eventually my little sister Chris, were allowed to play outside unsupervised for the most part.</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
I remember a friend in the neighborhood. We called him "Mr. Man Across the Street". I have no idea who he was or where he lived, but we would wave and holler 'hello' to him as he strolled down the opposite sidewalk. He would smile and wave back and on good days he would roll nickels across 20th Street to us.<br />
<br />
There was the old lady that lived next door in a house that sat far back from the street. <i>She</i> did not smile and wave. It certainly never occurred to us that she might send a nickel our way. I never saw her dressed in anything but black. Someone (very possibly my older sister) convinced Tim and me that she was, actually, a witch, although I never saw a broom and I don't remember any warts. But we were pretty darned scared of the poor woman who probably just wanted to be left alone.<br />
<br />
Summers were fun. We stayed outside most of the time playing with our neighbors, Bobby and Earl. Occasionally, the city would open the fire hydrant in front of the house so we could run in the water. High old times indeed! <span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Tim and I got to share a popsicle on the front steps once a week. We caught lightening bugs and went with my dad when he fished in the Tidal Basin. We watched fireworks on the Mall and bought ice cream cones that came with ice cream cubes from the Peoples Drug Store around the corner. On very hot nights </span>Mom would rub on our backs with alcohol to cool us off so we could get to sleep. I can still remember the smell.<br />
<br />
Christmas mornings were special. We had no fireplace, so our stockings (Dad's socks) were hung on the end of our beds. Tim, Chris and I got to open these before anyone else was moving. It was our special time. And now that I think about it, I don't understand why the custom didn't continue. It certainly gave my parents an extra half hour or so before we charged into their bedroom. <br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">I remember that Tim and I spent several nights one winter synchronizing our dreams. We'd decide before bedtime to dream of the same thing and our stories always meshed in the morning.</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
I have one particular memory of that little house and my brother. I was a rather trusting little girl. We were playing inside, so I'm guessing the weather was coldish. I was sitting in the big chair in the living room and Tim decided he would do a little target practice. I was the target. My little toy broom with the red handle was the projectile. He <i>promised</i> that he would miss. So I sat there and let him throw it. Well, his aim was a little off and he whacked me right in the forehead. Copious amounts of blood and a none-to-pleased Mother ensued. He did feel bad and his aim certainly got better over the years, but I never agreed to be a target again.<br />
<i></i><i></i><br />
We went to Calvert School which was the parochial school attached to St. Matthew's Cathedral where we went to church. We walked to both. And much of what I remember centers around them.<br />
<br />
My most horrid memory was the day he fell on the playground and hit his head. The playground for the girls, if it could be called that, was the small yard in back of the school. The boys played in the small yard across the alley from our area. I was in first grade and standing by myself when there was a bit of commotion and suddenly I saw two eighth-grade boys carrying my brother, unconscious, possibly dead for all I knew, across the playground into the school. I have to hand it to the nuns, they did an excellent job of ignoring me. Not one of them thought to reassure me that he would be okay, which, thank God, he was. But that picture is engraved on my mind to this day.<br />
<br />
Much more amusing memories come to mind. Tim was an altar boy at St. Matthew's which is a large church with a large altar. Well, his first time out, he must have been all of eight years old and on the small side, he went behind the altar to get the water and wine as was done in those days, and he didn't come back. The priest finally had to go get him. We never found out what he was doing. Perhaps he saw something that struck him as interesting? Or he simply forgot that a whole church was waiting? Who knows? This was my brother to a tee - easily attracted to foolishness, as one nun told my parents. But, really, he was a little boy with a vivid imagination and no sense of time.<br />
<br />
I love one particularly ridiculous story which I'll preface by saying that as a whole, we were fairly literal children. My mother and our neighbor, Mrs. Smith, shared the walking to and from school responsibilities. Someone (probably Mother) from our house got us there and Mrs. Smith walked us home. I'm a bit fuzzy on whether I was part of this particular screw up or whether I wasn't yet going to school. At any rate, my mother was fond of singing and, apparently, was belting out "I'll be down to get you in a taxi, honey" as Tim was leaving for school. When Mrs. Smith got there in the afternoon to walk him home, he refused to go with her. He told her Mom was coming in a taxi and he had to wait for her. She, of course, had to drop whatever she was doing, pack up my sister and, probably me, and fetch him - sans taxi. She dined out on that story for years.<br />
<br />
It's been over fifty years, but I still miss him. I miss playing in the rain and coming home to tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I miss our Sheena Queen of the Jungle and Tarzan act as we ran through the woods near our home in College Park. I miss being arctic explorers trudging through a foot of snow for what seemed like hours. And I miss his smile, his laugh, and his always being there. I want his grandchildren to know what a glorious nut he was and what a wonderful big brother I had. Rest in peace, dear brother. You are not forgotten.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-14419690251906770542019-03-19T14:41:00.000-04:002019-04-30T16:02:36.429-04:00Some vacation or Who was that masked man?<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">Well, he wasn't masked, but he was a man. Here's the story.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">As summer
approaches and I mull over our vacation options, I’ve been reminiscing a bit about
vacations past. Warm, sunny days spent at the beach getting sunburned and
bitten by sand fleas. Crazy weeks spent in log cabins hiking trails, dodging
bats, and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. Long car rides to state parks with
no air conditioning to a chorus of, “She’s touching me.” Fourteen sweating people
in Nagshead, NC sharing a non-air-conditioned cabin. Colicky babies. Hurricane
evacuations. Emergency room visits. High old times all. But one vacation sticks
in my mind particularly.</span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">Probably
because it was it was my first ‘adult’ vacation.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It was the summer of 1970 and my best friend,
Linda, and I decided we would go on a real vacation by ourselves. After much
mulling on what would be fun and, most importantly, cheap we settled on camping
in Massachusetts. God only knows why. </span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">I now
think of it as a learning experience. We learned rather quickly that we did not
like camping. We learned that neither of us is particularly fond of the great
outdoors. We learned that both of us had, and still do, deep reservations about
any proximity to bugs of any kind.</span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">But it
was an adventure. We set off one morning in late June in my little yellow Opel
– the worst car in the world - loaded down with every conceivable camping
accoutrement Linda could get her hands on. She was working at Atlas Sporting
Goods at the time and had ample opportunity to select among other things,
matches that would still light when wet. In case, I suppose, we decided to
cookout in the rain.</span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">We set
out on a bright sunny morning and wended our way up the East Coast toward
Boston. Now, I must admit that my memory is a bit hazy. It was forty-nine years
ago and I haven’t gotten to that stage of dementia where I can remember past
events clearly, but nothing from yesterday. I simply can’t remember either much
of the time. Anyway, we got to Boston and spent a lovely day walking around the
city. Saw a matinee of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hair</i> and felt quite
urbane. </span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">From
there we went to Gloucester, Salem and Plymouth. We visited Hawthorne’s birthplace,
saw the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mayflower II</i>, stood off the
shore and stared at the spot the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hesperus</i>
wrecked, and watched a lobster boat bring in its catch. Word to the wise, if
you see the odd lobster claw on the ground you probably do not want to pick it
up, stick it in your trunk, and take it home as a souvenir. </span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">We spent two
nights of our adventure sleeping in the car. One because we saw a large bear in
the camp grounds which turned out to be a medium sized dog. The other because a
vicious mosquito had gotten into our tent. We had one emergency car repair and,
believe it or not, didn’t have one drop of alcohol the entire week. What were
we thinking? </span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">However,
all of these were just stops on our way to lay in the sand at Cape Cod and
frolic in the ocean. When we got there, we found out that there is no ocean
beach at Cape Cod. At least none that we could find. There is just an
incredibly rocky shore. No wonder the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hesperus</i>
wrecked. We finally located a small sandy beach on the bay side of the cape. It
wasn’t really what we had hoped for.</span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">The
highlight of the week, if you can call being scared silly a highlight, came
when we went walking on the sand dunes. The dunes in 1970 were pretty
spectacular. Miles of rolling sand mountains under a gorgeous blue sky. I don’t
know if they have since been eroded by wind and tourists, but back in the day
they were really something.</span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">We seemed
to be the only tourists in the area that day. We were trudging along, up and down
the dunes, giving our legs quite a work-out when a man approached us from out
of nowhere. Suddenly, there we were all alone on a vast expanse of sand with
this weird little man. It felt uncomfortable right away. But we said hello politely
because we were polite young women and walked on. But he felt the need to chat.
He informed us in a, frankly, scary kind of way that four bodies had been found
not long before right where we were walking. </span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">I now
know that he was not the murderer because that man had already been arrested.
But at the time, Linda and I weren’t sure just who we were conversing with. Was
this guy implying that he actually had planted the four bodies and was
wondering if we would like to make to six? Or was he just an ass with a warped
sense of humor? Or, perhaps, a self-appointed tour guide? Whichever, we were
not sticking around to find out. We just smiled goofily and made tracks back to
the car as fast as you can make tracks when wading through the sand. No doubt
he had quite a little laugh at our expense.</span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">The rest
of our journey was unremarkable other than a rather exciting drive down a
mountain followed by a semi without his load who really would have preferred us
to go a lot faster. We made it home in one piece, and icing on the cake, have
remained best friends, but have never even considered camping again. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-34374325937818019022019-02-21T16:47:00.001-05:002019-02-24T16:17:59.114-05:00Pride and Prejudice, the rest of the story<br />
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20y7u3Y4VHpPOvw8UXjB6fbpu9QDcAMWlNsIFpmZukFvhVFok2SpFvsqaaQPqYVa7RHO5b2S7y-FD0elDt1Xn7tcfRCDHONTrsDRGEsUcoszt7avcH0GO3aDwOpJLlNkHr2vmM9Qgvxc/s1600/Pride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="510" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20y7u3Y4VHpPOvw8UXjB6fbpu9QDcAMWlNsIFpmZukFvhVFok2SpFvsqaaQPqYVa7RHO5b2S7y-FD0elDt1Xn7tcfRCDHONTrsDRGEsUcoszt7avcH0GO3aDwOpJLlNkHr2vmM9Qgvxc/s200/Pride.jpg" width="150" /></a>What can I say? I love Jane Austen. I’ve read all of her books
and seen many of the film versions of them. I simply love the words. I love reading them and hearing them. I love
the characters and the setting and the manners. </div>
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
My favorite is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pride and
Prejudice</i> which I just finished watching for the umpteenth time. The BBC
version, of course, with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle. Perfection.</div>
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
As I sighed at the end – Elizabeth and Darcy’s rather chaste
kiss as they were driven away from Longbourn – I got to wondering about just what happened to all the Bennet daughters.
What were their lives like? Did they all marry well? Did Mrs. Bennet confine
herself to her room for the rest of her life enjoying fits of vapors? These are
things I would dearly love to know. I wish Miss Austen had written a sequel. As
she didn’t, I have filled in the stories for myself. </div>
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
I am quite sure that Elizabeth and Darcy had a passionate
marriage lasting at least sixty years. No doubt they died in each other’s arms,
having had simultaneous heart attacks while attempting some rather athletic
love making. Not a bad way to go.</div>
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
Jane and Bingley had a long happy marriage. Not quite so
passionate as that of her sister, but with quite as much love. They had six beautiful
children. And as Mr. Bennet predicted the family was a happy, and luckily,
quite wealthy one, for they were much too good-natured and trusting for their
own benefit. </div>
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
Mary, quite naturally, married an impecunious curate in a
rather obscure parish. She spent her life piously boring the congregation to
tears and playing the piano badly.</div>
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
A good marriage was arranged for Kitty to a dull, but suitable
young man. They lived an unremarkable, but satisfactory life together. The only
fly in the ointment was that Kitty threw a fit at least once a year because her
husband steadfastly refused to take her to Brighton.</div>
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
And then there is Lydia. She, I think, had the most
interesting life. Wickham died of syphilis deeply in debt to various merchants
and bookmakers ten years into their marriage. Luckily, he had lost interest in Lydia
before he contracted the disease. Having estranged herself from her family
entirely, even her mother had given up on her, she was left with only one
hundred pounds a year and saddled with her three children who had inherited all
the worst traits of their parents. One can only imagine what gems they were. While
she was hopeful that her father would pass away and she would come into a
portion of his estate, Mr. Bennet seemed not to care to accommodate her in
this. Thus Lydia, using her most impressive talents, became a fashionable
madame catering to the military stationed in Brighton under the name, Mrs.
Flanders.</div>
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
Mr. Bennet did Mrs. Bennet the favor of out-living her so that
she should never be thrown out of Longbourn by Mr. Collins. The dear lady actually
had real heart palpitations one afternoon, but no one noticed as neither Jane,
nor Lizzy was there to take her a cup of tea. Afterward, Mr. Bennet found that
life at Longbourn without any females in residence was so peaceful and so free
from worry that he managed to make it to one hundred years old, also out-living
Mr. Collins.</div>
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
So, there you have it. Is Jane Austen turning in her grave or
having a good laugh? I rather think the latter.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 16px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-38634020723755833262019-01-10T13:48:00.001-05:002019-01-10T13:48:52.368-05:00Happy New Year
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, it’s 2019 and sadly nothing is looking particularly
rosy. The world of politics is a shambles. PBS has little to offer in the way
of new mysteries. The weather is unfortunate. And I think I’ve run out of stories to tell. I happen to
be closing on seventy years and am realizing that most of my adventures are behind
me.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I did fall down the other evening. I had a package to return
to L. L. Bean and the UPS man pulled up across the street. It was after dark,
so I trotted down the driveway, continued on the sidewalk, walked up to the
truck, and scared the bejabbers out of the driver. I am paraphrasing his own
rather descriptive words. Apparently, I move rather stealthily. Who knew?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At any rate, on my return to the house I took a short cut across
the lawn because it was a tad chilly. Tom was watching my progress from the
window. He, of course, turned away just as the flowering cherry in the front
yard deliberately stuck out a root and viciously tripped me. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Down I went, banging the hell out of my knee
and wrenching my wrist and shoulder while narrowly missing cracking my head on
the landscape tie bordering our bed of ivy. No one came to my rescue because no
one saw me go down.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After quietly assessing my various bumps and bruises and confirming
that nothing was broken and celebrating the fact that my bones must be in pretty
good shape, I limped into the kitchen. “I fell down,” I said.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My wonderful husband Tom is a master of denial, especially
when it comes to my health. So, “No you didn’t,” was his response. And he
believed it. Problem solved.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I assured him that the problem was not solved and that
I actually had fallen and would appreciate a bag of ice for the knee which was
rapidly swelling, he got me the ice. But then had to tell me exactly where I
went wrong. If I had just stayed on the sidewalk and come up the driveway
instead of cutting across the lawn, I would not have tripped on a root.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not an idiot. I had already figured this out. I was well
on the way to understanding my mistake as I was flying through the darkness. I
was saying to myself, “Why the hell don’t you look where you’re going?” </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why do men do this? It’s not just Tom. It’s well documented
that men need to instruct even when it’s clear you already have the picture. I
don’t understand why can’t men just give you a hug and say, “Here’s the ice, sweetie.
Twenty minutes on, twenty off.”</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At any rate, I have to admit that after his initial
reluctance to acknowledge my little mishap, he was very solicitous. He finished
making dinner and cleaned the kitchen. Which is why I’m pretty sure we’ll make
it through 2019 together, politics and PBS be damned.</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-35576180162420642842018-10-08T14:34:00.000-04:002018-10-08T14:37:53.071-04:00The one that got away<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNnIz-wpCKiegwEzRkrOIeliYCYwS7WOArCMRZMyVm8bLnBpF7SCdXOibQorG_paLQGMSrPYzdYQGMIjkiJGLdzwZzDVoBhC-ibM4aiqcjAULtTpWnq9BBpi2Fc5toCup2o-nAadelOY/s1600/boat+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNnIz-wpCKiegwEzRkrOIeliYCYwS7WOArCMRZMyVm8bLnBpF7SCdXOibQorG_paLQGMSrPYzdYQGMIjkiJGLdzwZzDVoBhC-ibM4aiqcjAULtTpWnq9BBpi2Fc5toCup2o-nAadelOY/s200/boat+003.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%; margin: 0px;">
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
I would really like to
tell you about the very big fish my husband caught – and lost – last week. Last
Wednesday we decided to take our boat out for what very well might be the last
time before we have to put it away for the winter. The day began well. A
light breeze rippled the water softly. Puffy white clouds decorated the azure
sky, as the sun gave just enough warmth to make it comfortable.</div>
<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
We made our way from Harbour
Cove where we keep our boat, up Rockhold Creek and past the rock wall into the gorgeous
Chesapeake Bay. The water level was high after all the recent storms, but the
waves were gentle. Tom put out the two planers and we slowly glided north
toward the Bay Bridge reveling in the quiet and serenity. We seemed to be the
only boat out there. It was lovely.</div>
<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
The only thing marring an
otherwise perfect outing was that there were no fish to be had. So, after a
couple of hours Tom began pulling in his lines. He had pulled in the first line
and had just picked up the second when he caught a big one! A very big one. </div>
<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
Now, I must preface this with
the fact that I am not, by anyone’s estimation, nautically savvy. I cannot
drive the boat. I cannot swim. And, honestly, I cannot even stand up on the
damned thing without becoming perilously close to going over the side.</div>
<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
Tom on the other hand has
always had what are referred to as ‘sea legs’. He’s a wonder. He can pretty much
bring in fish or hand me a soda or steer the boat and do many other amazing
feats without difficulty while standing up. I’m always in awe of this ability.</div>
<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
That day, however, just
as he was pulling in the line, shouting for me to get the net, a speed boat
roared past and its wake caused our little eighteen-footer to roll dangerously.
Tom lost his footing and over the side he went.</div>
<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
Normally, I don’t do well
in crisis situations. I am usually the first one to panic. So, I am proud to
say that in this instance I did have the presence of mind to turn the key and
stop the engine. Then I dithered around, trying to keep my balance, and
wondering what to do next.</div>
<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
Tom, who thank God hadn’t
hit his head and does know how to swim, was treading water. As he directed me with
some agitation to toss him one of the seat cushions that floats so nicely and
extend the ladder so he could climb back in to the (well, I won’t quote him
verbatim here because my granddaughter may read this) colorfully described boat,
I’m pretty sure he was wishing he had married someone a little less cerebral
and a lot more physical. </div>
<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
However, I managed these
feats without joining him in the water and he climbed back on board, dripping
and not in the best of moods. The fish, after having a good laugh at our
expense, departed to depths unknown taking the planer with him. On the bright
side, Tom was all right. And he had managed not to lose his glasses or his
wallet. And he is still speaking to me. So, I call that a win.</div>
<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
As I said at the
beginning, I would like to tell you this story. It’s way more interesting than
my real life. However, in all honesty I can’t. We did go out. It was a
beautiful day. No one went over the side. Tom didn’t catch a fish. He didn’t
even get a nibble. The most exciting thing that happened was my sighting of a
huge stork that turned out to be some guy pulling in a crab line. I have an
appointment with the eye doctor next month.</div>
</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-27132706862034736222018-09-18T14:59:00.000-04:002018-09-18T15:31:57.226-04:00Long life to Mrs. B<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlK6-Ks4L8PuHVGkiGLpqSbAHufL1WEwj2Zzf0Bany1ogrpX104UXTtB7SS44VXHGCgxOcyVwuhssW3vJzxDdDse-oorUF3nlr91VKW7UOs3CFthBN65wlfHDCLiyVmJlcGg8OYJFmzE/s1600/Mrs+B.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlK6-Ks4L8PuHVGkiGLpqSbAHufL1WEwj2Zzf0Bany1ogrpX104UXTtB7SS44VXHGCgxOcyVwuhssW3vJzxDdDse-oorUF3nlr91VKW7UOs3CFthBN65wlfHDCLiyVmJlcGg8OYJFmzE/s200/Mrs+B.JPG" width="200" /></a>Cats are curious
creatures. Well, of course, they are. Who hasn’t seen a cat nose into things
better left un-nosed. But what I am referring to is that cats are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">curious</i> creatures – peculiar,
remarkable, bizarre little animals who can be at the same time both needy and
independent. They can be affectionate one moment and ready to take your hand
off the next. Cats enjoy being unpredictable, a trait that I firmly believe that
they cultivate from kittenhood. They are also wonderful little pets that the
world would be a sadder place without.</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
As some of you may remember
at this time last year I had three little cats. They started life under my shed,
born to a feral mother. I adopted them as outdoor kitties. Alas, two met unfortunate
ends within weeks of each other leaving me with Mrs. B. </div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
Dear Mrs. B. started life
as a little male kitten known as Bigglesworth.
When the vet informed us that Bigglesworth was not a he, but a she, she was
renamed Mrs. Bigglesworth and, as is usual with longish names, soon became Mrs.
B. </div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
Mrs. B. is now fifteen
years old. Translated into human years she’s a grand old lady of seventy-six.
Interesting how the computation is made. Cats age most quickly in their youth. The
first year of a cat’s life takes her all the way from infancy to mid-teens. Second
year she jumps up to mid-twenties. Then she ages four of our years for each additional
birthday celebrated.</div>
<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
I have recently come to
understand one of the more mysterious things I have seen cats do. Have you ever
seen a cat jump up, run into the middle of, say, the driveway clearly with a
definite purpose in mind, only to stop dead, sit down and clean his ears? I finally
figured it out! They are doing what I do all the time. I am at the kitchen sink
and need clean towels. I leave the kitchen for the purpose of getting clean towels.
I get upstairs only to find that I have no idea why I am standing at the top of
the steps. At which point I sit down and clean my ears. Not really. I go back
to the kitchen and stand at the sink until I remember what I had forgotten.
Maybe cats do the same.</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
At any rate poor old Mrs.
B. is now into her dotage and getting a bit senile. And I can certainly sympathize.
She’s a little greyer and a bit slower. She complains a lot. Her meow has
changed. It’s a throaty meow that sounds as if she is coming down with
laryngitis. She cries for food after she’s just eaten because I’m pretty sure
she’s forgotten that she just ate. She’s a bit lonely. I think she still misses
her siblings. With any luck Mrs. B. will be around for another few years. I
hope so. Each morning I walk out the kitchen door and say, “Good morning, Mrs.
B.” and she comes running from the deck to get her breakfast. I dread the day
she doesn’t.</div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-53359082827886156952018-09-07T11:36:00.003-04:002018-09-07T12:05:34.840-04:00Moving on and writing again<br />
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
Well, I’m finally in the
mood to get back to writing – at least, I think I am. It’s been a long couple
of years with enough distractions to completely throw me off whatever game I
may have had. Some good things, sadly
more bad things, have been keeping Tom and me up nights and running around
days. But these things are settling down a bit and I feel like I can catch my
breath and try to focus.</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
Mainly because Tom’s
cousin’s house was sold last month! And Eileen herself is ensconced in a shared
apartment with 24/7 help. While she is not always happy about it, she is safe,
sheltered and looked after. And this is a major load off our minds.</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
Emptying the house was
fun! I am being facetious. It was not fun. I freely admit it, Tom and I are too
old for this crap. The house was dirty and dusty and there were a fair amount
of mouse droppings in rather strange places, always a joy to come across. But
it’s done and in the hands of some other poor schmuck who can deal with the
water in the basement and the windows that won’t open. Yay!</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
And so, as I said, I am
trying to return to writing. And I think I will begin with my list of pet
peeves and just get some much-need venting out of the way. I’m clearing my
mind, so to speak. And my mind could certainly use some clarity. Here we go in
no order of importance whatsoever.</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
1 - People who back into
parking spaces when they just could just pull through. I don’t understand this
phenomenon, but see it all the time. A practically empty parking lot. Tons of
spaces where you can just pull through to face out. But no, these people back
in. Why? I would really like to ask one of them someday, but my husband fears
for my life (or possibly my sanity).</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
2 - Bathroom stall doors
that open in! Who thought this up and why? There is no room in those little
spaces. We spend our time trying not to touch anything and yet to get out we
must back into the toilet. It’s just yucky.</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
3 - Waiters who ask, “Are
you finished working on that?” If they think the food they have just served you
needs to be worked on, then they should just apologize for serving it. How
about, “May I take your plate?” instead.</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
Here, I must admit that I
am rather a grammar-hammer. I love the English language and it hurts to hear it
used badly. So, the next few are grammar related.</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
4 - The use of ‘I’ when ‘me’
is correct. This misuse has become rampant. I heard our eloquent President
Obama misuse it at Senator McCain’s funeral. It’s not rocket science. “Tom and
I went to the store.” “Matthew went to the store with Tom and me.” When in
doubt, take out the other name. ‘Matthew went to the store with I.” No, he didn’t.
He went with me.</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
5 - ‘LIKE’ every other
word. </div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
6 - Using there’s (singular)
when you mean there are (plural). Newscasters, among many others, say this all the time.</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
Well, now that I’ve
vented and my mind is clear, I will try to come up with interesting tales of
life in the slow lane to regale you with in future posts. Right now, I am
running to Target run where I will certainly see someone backing into a space
muttering, “It’s like real hot out there.” Wish me luck.</div>
<div align="left" style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-4529145758058241212018-06-12T12:27:00.000-04:002018-09-07T23:31:19.573-04:00Forty-seven years and counting<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">Forty-seven
years and counting. Yes, today marks forty-seven years since Tom and I
exchanged vows and rings. We were incredibly young and pretty naïve. </span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">But we
were in love and ready for our </span></div>
big adventure.<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">I have to admit that after all
these years there are times that I miss that crazy passion of youth when we
couldn’t keep our hands off each other and everything was new. Emotions
overwhelmed us. It was intoxicating and powerful. </span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">But then I look over at this nutty
guy I've lived with for forever, belt loosened, gently snoring in his La-Z-Boy,
occasionally muttering in his sleep (the other night it was something interesting
about 4000 hot dogs) and I realize I wouldn’t go back there for anything.</span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">Because
with all the passion of those first years, it’s easy to forget the angst, the
hormonal ups and downs, the stupid arguments, and the tears. </span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLlrTIbRM5BBLNN8qPQL2_waELMLJDszEHn3v9jcO8ws7vcFNMHi9IP51e6a2W_HTbB3CpHapdn3vX6SBzaBch2AEw7WilpCR-TpoAbZG4wTUyiLdrDb3lDg8j3tGOmq_CqzZGMtNuSNc/s1600/2hh.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLlrTIbRM5BBLNN8qPQL2_waELMLJDszEHn3v9jcO8ws7vcFNMHi9IP51e6a2W_HTbB3CpHapdn3vX6SBzaBch2AEw7WilpCR-TpoAbZG4wTUyiLdrDb3lDg8j3tGOmq_CqzZGMtNuSNc/s200/2hh.jpeg" width="133" /></a><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">Even at its
best I think marriage has a fairly sharp learning curve and we’ve certainly had
our ups and downs – <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>births, deaths,
family upheavals, illness – all the things that most of us deal with at one
time or another. What we’ve learned is that simple courtesy, thoughtful timing,
and keeping our mouths tightly closed lest we say something that cannot be
taken back, seem to be the key to muddling through. That and remembering why we
married each other in the first place. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">So, as I
look over my best friend and my rock, emotion once again overwhelms me. It’s
not just comfort and contentment that I feel – though I think that comfort and contentment
are often under-rated – it is deep enduring love.</span><span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;">Happy
Anniversary, Tommy. With so much love. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;">PS: Shameless promotion - for any of you who are beachbound, I will be signing books at Bethany Beach Books on Wednesday, June 20th from 6:30 to 8:30. I'd love to have you drop by.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-70401025793857220222018-05-24T11:39:00.000-04:002018-06-05T10:05:53.072-04:00Book Club doesn’t disappointYou know how it is when all you want is to go to a movie,
sit back with your popcorn, and get ready to have a really good laugh, only to
find that the advertising was specious and those hysterical scenes in the
trailer were the only ones in the movie? Well, <i>Book Club</i> is not one of those
movies. <br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
My sister and I took the afternoon off yesterday to watch
<i>Book Club</i>. Between personal heartbreak, political chaos, and a level of societal
animosity that I’ve never seen in my sixty-eight years, she and I needed a good
laugh. And we got one! </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
If you are looking for depth, substance, and an deep
discussion afterward, perhaps you should choose another picture. <i>Book Club</i> is a
solid B movie with a great cast and nothing to make you think. It’s the story
of a book club made up of four old friends, women of a certain age as we say,
and their responses to Vivian’s (Jane Fonda) selected book – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fifty Shades of Grey</i>. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
The weakest plot line is that of Vivian and Arthur (Don
Johnson) who were lovers forty years ago who meet once again. Sadly, there’s
just no chemistry between them. One scene where they end up in a fountain
together was painful to watch, really. Seventy-year-old people (the average age
of the cast) don’t do cutesy very well and Jane Fonda and Don Johnson are too
dignified to be asked to do it. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Diane (Diane Keaton), a widow, has a wonderful encounter on
a plane where she meets Mitchell (Andy Garcia) and the attraction is immediate.
Keaton is funny, but Andy Garcia steals the scene with his charmingly wry
reaction to her antics. The relationship proceeds as it should with a bit of a
hiccup and nice resolution. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Carol (Mary Steenburgen) and Bruce (Craig Nelson) are a long-married
couple facing a difficult time in their relationship. Carol’s efforts to revive
a stagnant love life has some hysterical side-effects, and Bruce’s admission of
insecurity and purposelessness after retirement is, I thought, the most poignant
moment in the movie.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
And then there is Sharon (Candace Bergen). I love this woman.
Divorced for eighteen years, a highly successful judge, she is quite happy without
a man. She never the less agrees to try on-line dating and ends up on a show
stealing date with George (Richard Dreyfus). Sharon is self-assured, self-doubting,
witty, sardonic, and vulnerable. She is clearly the most interesting character
and Bergen plays her beautifully.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
As I said <i>Book Club</i> is a good B movie. It is predictable.
The end is as it should be, everyone is happy. And it was worth every penny of $9.50. I laughed out loud. I left smiling and
light-hearted. I had not one minute of existential angst. It was just what my
sister and I needed on a Wednesday afternoon.<br />
<br />
Catty PS: It is to be noted that men, apparently (at least these men), age so much better than women. And someone please tell Diane Keaton that tunics are the way to go.</div>
<i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-14469794200238119372018-04-12T10:41:00.000-04:002018-04-12T10:41:09.337-04:00Losing Another Friend
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Well, springtime seems to be, once again, a difficult time
for our family. My brother-in-law, Mike Dillon, passed away March 29th. It was
somewhat sudden and I think we are all in still in shock.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Mike was quite something – a true gentleman, a loving and
supportive father, step-father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and uncle, an avid
antiques collector, an ethical businessman, a basketball phenom (I consider
anyone over the age of fifty who still plays a phenom), and a bit of a
free-spirit. When I met him thirty or so years ago, he was rocking long hair,
peace medallions, and designer jeans. And pulling it off with aplomb, as he
continued to do. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB3ajHCwLY6uMCiLZI_A9WW4OKof5BLcpbt9ktbDb-pUu7GgZa759dW5lllMvx_KjRxDdsvcGxsJbTYr4lgzYYpRNe1KLgPtI23I-5AdjIC7fkGmShiWWSXU0xJkd8QXkVcpw6_Q8XOMs/s1600/Dillon+3+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 16px; margin-left: 16px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
For my husband, Tom, he was his conversation/discussion guy.
Mike always had an interesting viewpoint, strangely interesting in some cases,
but always thoughtful and considerate of another’s perspective.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
For me, though, he was the man who loved my sister and gave
her great joy. I think I will always remember his voice clearly. It was so
smooth and melodic, an actor’s voice. And I can hear him clearly now talking
about Chris. He was so proud of everything she did from making biscuits from
scratch to her beautiful artwork. They had thirty years of happiness together for
which I am so thankful. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Mike was truly one-of-a-kind and he will be missed. </div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB3ajHCwLY6uMCiLZI_A9WW4OKof5BLcpbt9ktbDb-pUu7GgZa759dW5lllMvx_KjRxDdsvcGxsJbTYr4lgzYYpRNe1KLgPtI23I-5AdjIC7fkGmShiWWSXU0xJkd8QXkVcpw6_Q8XOMs/s1600/Dillon+3+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-82158451055881067522018-01-23T16:41:00.001-05:002018-01-26T10:39:52.963-05:00Cell phones and the Technologically challengedI have been having a rather uneventful time lately. No unfortunate tumbles on public streets, no gluing fingers together, no more dead cats. While this makes for a peaceful life, it does not make for a good story.<br />
<br />
I have, however, rocketed into the new century and bought an iPhone. Why, you may ask. Because I found myself looking wistfully at those lucky few - well, many really - who, while at dinner with a friend who is wondering what the GDP of Uganda is, can tell them in a few short taps on a handheld mobile device. This was just so intriguing. All that information at my fingertips anytime, anywhere. I couldn't resist. And so I went big and got myself an iPhone 5 or it could be an XS.<br />
<br />
Well, nothing is easy, is it? Other people don't seem to have these problems. I was so excited. I was going to use this new technology to call someone, maybe even text! But my beautiful new iPhone with the pink butterflies on the cover wouldn't shut up. It kept talking to me. Telling me to do things. I didn't know why. It demanded that I 'Tap twice.' I would do just that, but it didn't help. It just kept telling to tap until I thought, perhaps, it actually meant I should throw it into the garbage disposal.<br />
<br />
I don't think I'm alone, although I am probably only joined by people over sixty, in that I like paper manuals. Everything used to come with directions on paper. You went to the index, looked up troubleshooting, found the problem, and voila! But new technology does not come with paper. God forbid they stick a little user guide in there with the stupid phone. <br />
<br />
After a few hours of having the damned thing yak at me, I calmed down and thought, "What would my daughter do?" She would sit down at the computer, log onto the world wide web and type, "How do you get the damned cell phone to stop telling you to tap twice?" Which I did. And it did. I can't remember now what it told me to do, but whatever it was worked. My phone became a source of endless amusement. I became a texting fool. I looked up inane information about the cast of Leverage and how to make Eggs Benedict. All was well right up until New Year's day when the phone just sort of froze.<br />
<br />
I did not freak out this time. Inconvenient, yes. A little annoying, yes. But I already knew the GDP of Uganda and nobody calls me anyway. So I waited a couple of days and took it to my local AT&T store after dire predictions of needing a new battery from my beloved and that I should not pay more that $25 for it. It was not the battery at all. A very nice man fixed it in just a minute. Apparently, I had somehow gone into settings and told the phone that I was blind. I don't know how I managed this. I do not recall going into settings, but then I am, apparently, getting a little doolally.<br />
<br />
The best part is how the nice man fixed this little problem. He tapped it <u>three</u> times, just like Dorothy and her ruby slippers. So now we know, tapping your iPhone can do all sorts of things, but I still wish they would write it down on paper.<br />
<br />
(In case you're wondering the GDP of Uganda is $27.53 billion USD. If you want to know what a GDP is, get your own iPhone.)Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-78764746175605233592017-11-01T11:56:00.002-04:002017-11-01T11:56:49.292-04:00A Feline TragedyI spent the weekend trying to come up with something to write about on my blog. And then my week got off to a rather rocky start. And now I have something to write about. Fair warning, it isn't pretty.<br />
<br />
Monday morning I lost one of my little furry friends in a really horrific way. For those who are unaware of my feline situation, I was the owner of three semi-feral cats. They were born under our garden shed over fourteen years ago and I knew them from kittenhood. I had them spayed and neutered. My husband built them a cat house and they become my outdoor friends. Mrs. Bigglesworth or Mrs. B for short, Buster, and Flufster. <br />
<br />
Well, about two months ago, I noticed that Buster had lost a lot of weight. He was still a sweet, gentle, purring kitty, but not an eating one. Then one day he wandered off and didn't return. It was sad, but expected. And he was happy until the end.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTO2963jyRRRnNLcY-GSEov5p-RYKHrvFDvO3YWnDhhHs9d_HYg9ZVcFDLSKxImVd68hETw6B1VeDq5-yGnJKwPtLn8tjiCnbeQWAG2fKw_hgc3_n8jXont2FubDY049_vT4E_J5KQTqc/s1600/Buster.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTO2963jyRRRnNLcY-GSEov5p-RYKHrvFDvO3YWnDhhHs9d_HYg9ZVcFDLSKxImVd68hETw6B1VeDq5-yGnJKwPtLn8tjiCnbeQWAG2fKw_hgc3_n8jXont2FubDY049_vT4E_J5KQTqc/s200/Buster.JPG" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So long, Buster</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But last Monday was a different story. Two large dogs, Huskies, I believe, got loose in the neighborhood. I think you may guess where this is going. And I'm afraid you're right. They attacked little Flufster. She was losing her hearing and so, she was slow off the mark. <br />
<br />
It was a brutal attack. Tom and I ran outside and tried to chase them off. Even as we were doing this I was thinking, "What the hell am I doing? What if they turn on us?" But they didn't. The dogs were after our cat. It took Tom turning the hose on them to finally get them gone.<br />
<br />
Our poor little cat was terrorized and dying. My heart was breaking and I very stupidly tried to pick her up. At which point the little thing attacked my hand. Well, after the burial in the backyard she knew so well, there was the trip to the doctor.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFsRra7IE-Yf3hyzG_F0yAuGeL7SERBLwsH9407GfaUMk7RAyAarTmkkcGY5pbUW0_E_ENZMzfp8-Oby_MK2Ktee1zQw9y4Ni7PJRVAvoyYue2EviDGnuK35UOnbWcekzwwYiCNwVaww/s1600/100_0587.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1315" data-original-width="1600" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFsRra7IE-Yf3hyzG_F0yAuGeL7SERBLwsH9407GfaUMk7RAyAarTmkkcGY5pbUW0_E_ENZMzfp8-Oby_MK2Ktee1zQw9y4Ni7PJRVAvoyYue2EviDGnuK35UOnbWcekzwwYiCNwVaww/s200/100_0587.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RIP Flufster</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For those of you who are not right on top of the latest medical news about feline bites, they are much more prone to infection than the canine type. By the time I got into the office Tuesday morning, my hand was red and swollen. I got through the visit with a minimum of tears as I related my sad story and managed not to pass out on the floor (as all my sisters are prone to do) when I got a tetanus shot. Then home with an antibiotic to nurse my very sore hand and to take a much needed valium.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPKmVnWi_OtbA8DlFJctVicXhYYd_ZZqPBhbyocTFpphHysegIimUaZoSiwb17N-qOw45nNEQF-yweJQi9fVlsRGrGhOSC-ZpsfMQthSFzfuH7QnQl6hDUlYIomKoMEXQA1c5OodwPuMc/s1600/Mrs+B.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I'm still sad, as is Mrs. B. who will now probably die of obesity because I keep feeding her to make up for our loss. I know Fluff was only a cat, but she was my cat and it was a terrible way to go.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPKmVnWi_OtbA8DlFJctVicXhYYd_ZZqPBhbyocTFpphHysegIimUaZoSiwb17N-qOw45nNEQF-yweJQi9fVlsRGrGhOSC-ZpsfMQthSFzfuH7QnQl6hDUlYIomKoMEXQA1c5OodwPuMc/s1600/Mrs+B.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPKmVnWi_OtbA8DlFJctVicXhYYd_ZZqPBhbyocTFpphHysegIimUaZoSiwb17N-qOw45nNEQF-yweJQi9fVlsRGrGhOSC-ZpsfMQthSFzfuH7QnQl6hDUlYIomKoMEXQA1c5OodwPuMc/s200/Mrs+B.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mrs. B., last kitty standing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-55348053976338596482017-10-13T12:09:00.001-04:002017-10-13T12:23:52.703-04:00Reunions and other happy events<br />
As some of you may know the past year has been less than stellar for our
family. In fact, it was a very difficult time. I could go into detail, but I
prefer not. Because in August I had a birthday marking the beginning of a new
year for me. I turned sixty-eight. I know. It's hard to believe. I don't look a
day over sixty-seven. But I am and since then things are looking up. I’ve
had a reunion and I’m looking forward to a book launch, and my son’s wedding in
March!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj97tY-d34e2CyHdRZUuLlrGJQLpCMc58o3f0aR_slMNyutxERl6avHOTyhXwp71HLBnuDvfPaqwwDNN-spxGkJ2wbo7GyprkL1M23mwwzLc607egkXFgiSZeBBgdCeSj3SzrXDVqJXHWU/s1600/1+-+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="321" data-original-width="310" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj97tY-d34e2CyHdRZUuLlrGJQLpCMc58o3f0aR_slMNyutxERl6avHOTyhXwp71HLBnuDvfPaqwwDNN-spxGkJ2wbo7GyprkL1M23mwwzLc607egkXFgiSZeBBgdCeSj3SzrXDVqJXHWU/s200/1+-+logo.jpg" width="193" /></a>Just last weekend I attended the 50th reunion of Regina High
School Class of 1967. Regina was a small all-girls Catholic school in Hyattsville,
Maryland, now defunct. But back in the day it was a good place to be. It
was our extended family. And I am so lucky that I’m still close to my best
friends from that time. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And that time was a bit different from today. We wore saddle shoes and brown
woolen uniforms causing the school to smell like a large wet dog on rainy
days. Slacks were forbidden and skirts were supposed to touch the floor
when kneeling. There was actually a smoking lounge for seniors. But the
basics were the same. We went to class, complained about our uniforms, cried
over boys, and worried about exams.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The reunion was a lovely event. An excellent turn out of thirty-one
attendees out of a class of one hundred and three. We all looked fabulous! And,
magically, we were all still friends. It was a warm and intimate weekend and,
sadly, it was probably the last time we’ll have such a party. After all, we are
in our 69<sup>th</sup> year. And we have already lost quite a few. So, I will
treasure the memory for as long as my memory holds out.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Now for a little shameless promotion - Upcoming Events. November 4th, 1 p.m. join me for a Mystery Author Extravaganza at the <a href="http://hclibrary.org/locations/miller-branch/" target="_blank">Howard County Library</a> in Ellicott City or for a Sisters in Crime author panel on November 12th at 2 p.m. at the <a href="https://www.aacpl.net/location/crofton" target="_blank">Crofton Library</a> in Crofton.<br />
<br />
And my newest Daisy&Rose mystery,
<em>Pushing Up Daisies</em>, is being released December 15th. It’s available for
pre-order and just to whet your appetite, I’m including a little glimpse into the
Forrest ladies’ new adventure. I hope you will enjoy.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
An excerpt from <em><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Pushing-Daisies-Daisy-Rose-Mystery/dp/1940758653/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1507910826&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Pushing Up Daisies</a></em></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Rose handed her
a large martini glass filled with a dark purple mixture. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Daisy grabbed
the glass and downed half of it. She threw herself into a chair, decorating her
sweater with a good bit of the drink, and gulped what was left. “Do you have any
more of this stuff?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“That good, hmm?”
As she refilled Daisy’s glass, Rose took a good look at her sister. “Daisy, what’s
the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Daisy squeezed
her eyes shut and grabbed her short blond curls with both hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Daisy, what in
God’s name is wrong? Did you have an accident?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I saw one.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You saw an
accident? Was someone hurt?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Daisy opened her
eyes. “A ghost.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“A ghost was
hurt? What are you talking about?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I saw a ghost.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You did not see
a ghost.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I did too. So
did Malcolm and Percy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“There are no
such things as ghosts.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yes, there are.
And we have just seen one.” She took a sip out of her newly filled glass. Her
voice sank to a whisper. “It was so weird. We’d dropped Mother off at the
airport and I decided to take the back roads home. We were on Laurel Road coming
up to Holly Hill Mansion. It looked so beautiful in the distance, glowing in
the moonlight. I was thinking how much I liked being a docent there and of how
much we still had to do to get ready for our Gothic Evening when a huge ball of
fog rolled right across the road. Kind of like a bale of hay, only it was fog.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Daisy, there’s
no fog tonight. It’s crystal clear outside.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Well, there was
fog on Laurel Road. The dogs started howling when an even bigger bale of the
stuff rolled out of the woods. I couldn’t see the road. It was freaky. I had to
pull over onto the grass. Then the dogs shut up in mid-howl and started climbing
onto my head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“We sat there in
this eerie muffled silence until the fog rolled away.” Daisy thought a moment.
“Well, it might have been muffled because the dogs were covering my ears. Anyway,
it was so spooky I just wanted to get out of there. When the fog cleared a
little I got the mutts back in their seat, gripped the wheel, and edged the car
back onto the road. And there she was. I almost hit her!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Hit who?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Sophia Amelia Meade
Long. She was all wreathed in mist, standing right in front of the car looking
at me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
A deep voice
asked, “Who?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Daisy jumped about
six inches, completing the sweater decoration. “What the …? Peter, I didn’t see
you there.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Peter Fleming,
Rose’s handsome friend, had been sitting quietly in the corner of the room.
“Sorry I startled you, but who is this Sophia Amelia whatever?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Peter, don’t
encourage her.” Rose got a napkin and mopped up a bit of Spooky Juice from the
floor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Well, she
clearly saw something that frightened her. Why not a ghost? Who is this woman, or
I guess I should say, was this woman?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Rose snapped,
“There was no woman. She probably saw a tree.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I think even
Daisy can tell the difference between a woman and a tree.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Daisy pointed at
herself and shouted, “Hey! Right here. And I did not see a tree.” She puffed
out a sigh. “Just what the heck did you mean ‘even Daisy’?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Sorry. Bad
choice of words. I meant, of course Daisy can tell the difference.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Daisy gave him a
look. “Hmm, mmm. I’ll bet. Well, Sophia Long is the woman who bought Holly Hill
Mansion in 1790 and I saw her standing in front of my car not an hour ago. So
either it was her ghost or she’s looking incredibly good for being two hundred-some
years old!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-40350826337943531702017-05-21T07:41:00.000-04:002017-05-21T16:21:56.678-04:00Losing a Friend<br />
I lost a good friend last week. My sister-in-law, Jane Petersen
Mongelli, finally surrendered to cancer after a two year battle she always knew
she would lose. But fight it she did because that was Jane. She left
us peacefully with her beloved daughters at her side on Wednesday May 17th. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
When I met my husband, Tom, I was a bit of a mess. I was all of eighteen, shy
and insecure, lacking quite a bit in the way of social skills. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxmFEvv_9_Eyvx0BFN98Vnjjl_4yeD_NKBpw9IONEx2aU58b9y03ouN94QyytjuFtqT3P896C5fM7vSkmsKhCHpLFHW8zjCO36Wdj1TT5J3Uw7uFtBNmcCGn8Pjw-VDa9S39kaih_hdE/s1600/95a+%25282%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxmFEvv_9_Eyvx0BFN98Vnjjl_4yeD_NKBpw9IONEx2aU58b9y03ouN94QyytjuFtqT3P896C5fM7vSkmsKhCHpLFHW8zjCO36Wdj1TT5J3Uw7uFtBNmcCGn8Pjw-VDa9S39kaih_hdE/s200/95a+%25282%2529.jpeg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Penny, Matt, Jane, Terry, Tom, Courtnay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
And so as much as I love Tom’s family now, I have to say that at the time we
were first introduced I found them all incredibly intimidating. But Jane
reached out and took me by the hand and made my entry into the Petersen clan a
little less daunting.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Looking back, I think part of this may have been Jane making sure that her
brother wasn’t dating some lunatic who would break his heart. She was always
protective of those she loved.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I am so fortunate that we became close friends and have remained so for almost fifty years. Jane
could on occasion a bit of a handful. She could be stubborn and hard-headed
one minute, laughing and helpful the next. But she was always Jane. There was
never pretense, no dissembling. With Jane what you saw was what you got. And
what you got was a woman fiercely loyal to her family and friends, who loved a
good party, good food, music, political discussions, and a bit of catty gossip.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And of course, Jane loved her girls, Courtnay and Terry, and her grandkids,
Ben, Nick, Abby and Grace. They made her life complete. She was so very proud
of them all. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Well, I firmly believe that Jane has now been reunited with her husband,
John. He is singing a little Willie Nelson as he brings her a cup of coffee. She's smiling. And
she’s keeping a close eye on us all.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-41382756708560491702017-02-03T10:42:00.001-05:002017-02-04T09:29:16.096-05:00How I learned the Infield Fly RuleI know it's only the beginning of February, but what better time to start thinking about baseball? The political climate is dismal, the sky is grey, it's chilly outside, but not cold enough for a good snow, warm fire and hot buttered rum. I am not a football or a basketball fan. But I do love springtime and the boys of summer. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;">When
my husband, Tom, and I met we differed in one major respect, our choice of
recreational pursuits. Tom has always loved sports. He played sports in
grade school. He was Gonzaga's shortstop in high school. His playing career may have
ended with high school, but certainly not his love for most things sporting. He
watches baseball, college basketball and football. He likes throwing balls
around. The man has been know to golf, play tennis, racquetball, swim and water-ski - and enjoy it. He fishes, for crying out loud. Being
smelly and sweaty, standing in the hot sun, appears to be his idea of a good
time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;">Whereas, I have always been the kid in left field praying that
the ball will in go any direction, but toward me. I can't swim. I have no depth
perception. I am a klutz. I can trip over my own feet anytime, on any surface. If you mention water and fish
to me, I think hot shower and canned tuna. I have always believed that sweating is to be avoided. The great
outdoors is for picnics under trees and slow walks around lakes sporting the intoxicating scent of Eau d'Backwoods OFF.
I had no interest in sports and, to a great extent, still don't. But I now have to admit a strong liking for baseball. And it's due to having a kid.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUTDFCNNADKDbJbyGCQw1fCOXJFMZCak_tp6srtv33WkOjWo6nocq2S7C1hD44eNRpxDTgcrgOCj1Y1n00ybfgN5pjP-zZHLAV47wpDaI00su57OVszwX7_1wVpcgB0uVuLG1XIhVfnY/s1600/41a+%25282%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUTDFCNNADKDbJbyGCQw1fCOXJFMZCak_tp6srtv33WkOjWo6nocq2S7C1hD44eNRpxDTgcrgOCj1Y1n00ybfgN5pjP-zZHLAV47wpDaI00su57OVszwX7_1wVpcgB0uVuLG1XIhVfnY/s200/41a+%25282%2529.jpeg" width="128" /></a><span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p>Tom and I have two wonderful children. Rachel Anne, our first, is a lady after my own heart. We love dancing, singing, theatre, fantasy, and movies. All the things my dear Thomas will never really comprehend. But he was always immensely proud of Rachel knowing her to be the best at whatever performance he was watching - plays, dance recitals, speech contests - which (and this is a completely unbiased opinion) she often was. But Tom was as much at sea about the finer points of stage presence, leg extension, and speaking from the diaphragm as I was about tackles, punts, and traveling.</o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimK_L7N-VILHXFeyrcDSZaG1EoR76BrxnIJdzgPvhQhRyLU70Q5i5x_AjOSqScxNW40cXwjcaaaEQzlVAfQFKzm_9Fqe5YZNeuIuXRKKWo5w1NNLfBDRd_SEuT9-Fqv5hVfeBjrd1jJjA/s1600/42+%25283%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimK_L7N-VILHXFeyrcDSZaG1EoR76BrxnIJdzgPvhQhRyLU70Q5i5x_AjOSqScxNW40cXwjcaaaEQzlVAfQFKzm_9Fqe5YZNeuIuXRKKWo5w1NNLfBDRd_SEuT9-Fqv5hVfeBjrd1jJjA/s200/42+%25283%2529.jpeg" width="132" /></a><span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p>When Matthew, our second little bundle of joy arrived, he was (I really hate this term, but...) All Boy. He dug in the dirt, fought off bad guys, ran, jumped, kicked, climbed. He was an active, happy kid. But nothing prepared me for the look of pure joy on Tom's face when Matt, at three years old, let loose a cannon in the back yard. Tom walked into the house and said, "He can throw! And he's left-handed!"</o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p>Matt played soccer, basketball and baseball. I cheered him on the soccer field, but never did understand the off-sides thing. Basketball was a bit better, but the smell of the gym and the squeaky noise their shoes made were off putting. </o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p>Matt was pretty good at all three, but he loved baseball best. And so did I. Baseball is a wonderful game that teaches kids structure, patience, strategy, leadership, and teamwork. All the practices and games also meant that he was dog tired at the end of the day, always a good thing.</o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p>Not understanding much of what was going on myself, I marveled at the fact that the kids seemed to have absorbed the rules and the etiquette of baseball as if by osmosis. They learned the art of pitching, hitting, fielding, stealing, bunting, sliding into base without damaging themselves. They tipped their hats, ran home run bases with straight 'just doing my job' faces, and were gracious in victory or defeat (mostly). We saw the Orioles play during the Ripken era. It was exciting and just plain fun. And in time I came to appreciate the elegance of the game. </o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p>Matt isn't playing any more, he's coaching. We root for the Nationals and I fully expect to see them make it to the Series this year. What I am most proud of personally is that, while I still don't get a lot of the intricacies of the game, I do know the Infield Fly Rule. For a girl who has never swung a bat or caught a fly ball, I think that's pretty good.</o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8757295168504470991.post-35279677458388193322016-12-07T11:29:00.002-05:002017-12-11T16:55:27.067-05:00A Happy Holiday Story, sort ofWell, it's the holiday season once again and, once again, I am trying to find some of the spirit that it should bring. I am having a more difficult time than usual this year. The hate, divisiveness, and ignorance that seems to surround us is just really getting me down. <br />
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<br />
So I have been wracking my brain, something that has become increasingly hard to do as the little grey cells seem to be dying off at an alarming rate, and I have remembered a Christmas that made me smile. I have no idea why, except that it was so typical for our family.<br />
<br />
When our girls were little my sister, Chris, and I would plan a Christmas outing. My mother, trooper that she was, would go with us and pretend to enjoy the chaos. <br />
<br />
In the particular Christmas season that I am thinking about we chose to take the girls to lunch and then on to see <em>The Nutcracker</em> at Lisner Auditorium. Rachel, my own little angel, must have been about four, and Erika, Chris's little sweetie, about seven. The girls had their new holiday duds on and I like to think they could pass for extras from <em>Miracle on 34th Street, </em>but probably they looked like a couple of the Herdmans straight out of <em>The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. </em>And so, tickets in hand we made our way into the big city for a delightful afternoon.<br />
<br />
Well, no one can ever accuse me of over-planning anything. Lunch did not go off well. I did not think to make calls to find out if restaurants in the area were actually open. (Note to the IPhone generation - there was a time when there was no internet, no GPS, no Siri, no cell phone of any kind. My family had to rely on a half-witted event planner (moi) to make actual phone calls on a land line, no less, to various eating establishments to find out hours, menus, etc. It was a cruel, uncaring world!) <br />
<br />
Needless to say, on a Sunday afternoon in 1978 very few restaurant options in the GW campus area were to be had. We finally found an eatery in a hotel. The kids menu boasted hot dogs. This sounded like a safe option. Of course, they were foot-long hot dogs. They were also VERY expensive foot-long hot dogs. So did we do the rational thing and get one for them to share? We did not. They each got their own rather lousy, expensive, hot dog. They did not finish their lunch. They did not appreciate the cuisine. This set the tone for the rest of the day.<br />
<br />
After leaving our ghastly repast, Rachel, being a card-carrying member of the Clover family klutz club to which we all belong, promptly tripped and fell on the sidewalk ripping her new tights. This took valuable time to sooth, as we were running late due to the search for a restaurant. She was quite upset about the tights. The skinned knee seemed less of a problem.<br />
<br />
We finally made it to Lisner just as the orchestra was beginning the overture. Of course, we had seats in the nose-bleed section. We were halfway up the steep steps to our little aerie when all the lights in the theatre went out. All of them. It was dark. Pitch. There were no little safety lights on the end of each row. There were no lights at all. I know this didn't last more than a minute before the curtain came up, but if you had been there I am sure, unless you happen to be a mountain goat, you would have agreed with me that it was a minute of sheer terror. I latched onto my daughter, at least I assumed it was my daughter, and climbed on hands and knees eventually making it to our seats unscathed.<br />
<br />
The rest of the afternoon apparently went fairly smoothly, as I don't remember any other hiccups. Yes, <em>The Nutcracker</em> seemed to go on forever. But it was colorful and festive and, best yet, neither girl had to go the restroom during the performance. We made it home in one piece. We had our family outing. <br />
<br />
We still try to do something each year - see a play, take a White House tour, or just have a cookie day. It's special time with the people we love and memories of holidays past and hopes for the future. <br />
<br />
My wish to all of you - whatever you celebrate - Hanukkah, Kwanza, the Winter Solstice, or Christmas Day - may your memories and the love of the season keep you warm and bring you a joyous holiday and a peaceful New Year. Penny Clover Petersenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18304252542151983952noreply@blogger.com5