Old Home Week

Hello World, Happy Autumn! The fall season is officially ushered in on September 23, and about as welcome as, well, a breath of spring, I guess - if only six months later and on the flip side of the equinox, that is. There's certainly no complaints about the weather around here, that's for sure, and each day seems to be more picture-perfect than the one before. The leaves have yet to start changing here, and most of the summer blooms have long since lost their luster, with just a few holdouts like late roses, straggly petunias and pansies, and of course, Bill's exquisite dahlias. Adding fresh color to the landscape, now we have fall crocus, also known as saffron, and my giant funkia, which is a type of hosta that has been a remarkable stalwart in the garden, in spite of numerous obstacles to its success. (Not the least of which was some of our new neighbors a while back, whose gardeners inadvertently dug it up and replanted it elsewhere in their yard by mistake, so that I had to traipse over there and ask for it to be returned to its rightful spot, thanks not.) It won't be long before the frost is on the pumpkin, as they say, so we should all be sure to get out there and enjoy the bounty of the season while it lasts, by golly. And speaking of nature's bounty, we have the following from Bill, after I cast aspersions on the whole idea of "house" mosquitoes: ==================================== I thought you came down a little hard on the house mosquitos, though. It occurred to me that maybe the article was talking about the mosquitos' houses, not ours. They might be right at home someplace and our environs could be just a vacation bungalow. (I wouldn't be surprised if they had little stickers on the windows next to their doors that said "I undonated blood".) ==================================== Come to think of it, he might very well be on to something there. In other wildlife news, we have this curious entry from a day last week on our Cat-a-Day calendar: =================================== People anthropomorphize their cats, even when it comes down to musical preferences. But while numerous people swear that their cats like listening to the same kind of music they enjoy, others have had the turntables turned. One cat owner who regularly left her radio set to an easy listening station claimed that her Siamese cat changed it to hard rock every time she went out. Another woman, who owned a Russian Blue, said her cat would run out of the room unless she was listening to Mahler. =================================== Our cats seem oblivious to music for the most part, although we did once have one who would bat at the puck whenever we watched hockey on television. Nowadays, I think ours are too intent on their diabolical schemes for world domination, to be concerned with such mundane matters as music and sports. And while we're on the topic of popular entertainment, I am reminded of this amusing tidbit from the Golden Age of Hollywood: ================================ A MOVIE DIRECTOR'S MOST DIFFICULT ASSIGNMENT One of the great American movie directors was the late John Huston, whose films included The Maltese Falcon, Moby Dick, Annie and the one he described as the toughest assignment of all, The Bible. He said that he found the Creation scene and the Noah's Ark Flood scene especially difficult. "I had a terrible time doing them," he said. "I really don't know how God managed it." With thanks to The Preacher's Illustration Service ================================ Ya gotta love it! Speaking of God, here's a classic cautionary tale about legendary playwright Moss Hart, who rose from humble beginnings to the loftiest heights of the Great White Way, which supposedly prompted this observation from his long-time collaborator, George S. Kaufman: ================================== After his first Broadway smash, Hart’s life morphed from the grim black-and-white of poverty to Technicolor. Vowing that he would never take the subway again or get up before noon, Hart splurged in out-of-control fashion. As Look magazine noted in a 1940 spread, “The play’s the thing that has brought prolific Moss Hart a big bank account, two museum-like houses and radiant smiles from every antique dealer in Manhattan.” His prodigious spending provided fodder for his friends. After visiting Hart’s manicured 87-acre country estate, one of Hart’s pals quipped, “It shows you what God would have done if He'd had the money.” ================================== Indeed! And finally, we have this wonderfully restorative commentary from The Plague and I by Betty MacDonald, who somehow managed to put a cheerful slant on her harrowing treatment for tuberculosis, as endured in a grim sanitarium way out in the isolated wilderness and far away from any pleasures of civilization: =================================== I roomed with Sigrid for a month and she was the perfect roommate. Always pleasant, always courteous, never emotional. I was all jagged peaks of ecstasy, deep chasms of depression. She could have been graphed with one straight line. As I read a great deal and seemed contented doing it, she asked to borrow my books as soon as I finished them. But after reading a few pages, she tossed them all aside as "too fanciful." For anyone who thought The Grapes of Wrath "too fanciful," I didn't know what to suggest. =================================== Well, that certainly hits home in more ways than one, I dare say, and homeward bound is exactly where we should all probably be wending our weary way at this point. That is, unless your home is the residence for all of the local house mosquitoes, and then all bets are off. Elle

For Better Or Worse

Hello World, Ah, what is so rare as a day in September, indeed! We've been enjoying some absolutely glorious weather in these parts, that would make even the least poetical among us exclaim, "If only you could bottle this, by golly!" The spectacular days and crisp nights are more than a tonic for what ails you, and ideal conditions for seasonal events of all kinds, like fairs, concerts, carnivals, craft shows, harvest festivals, hay rides, and not to mention, fall foliage excursions on all sides. It certainly has been the perfect embodiment of football weather, which is just as well, since the NFL pre-season wrapped up in August, and the regular season got underway for real on September 4th, to the delight of frenzied fans the world over. So far, most teams managed to split their first two games, although a handful - like the woeful Giants, thanks not - are already 0-2, while the hapless Tampa Bay Buccaneers hold the lead in ineptitude with their 0-3 record, right out of the gate. Five teams are still undefeated across this great land of ours, from the Liberty Bell quarters to the gulf stream waters, and from - well, whatever Denver and North Carolina are famous for, I guess. They obviously didn't make much of an impression on the late and lamented Woody Guthrie, although in fairness, he was probably not much of a football fan to start with, I shouldn't wonder. Of course, you can always tell it's September when special events crop up all over the region, such as the famous Oktoberfest at Bear Mountain, which inexplicably rolled out the barrel beginning on September 13, in direct contradiction to the actual name of the occasion - and which, like Cinco de Mayo, you would think would have the good sense to stay put when it was supposed to happen, and not just traipse around haphazardly all over the darned calendar, like any old movable feast. Like March Madness (which now happens in April) and Russia's fabled October Revolution (which is now celebrated in November) if people can't bring themselves to observe the thing when it's supposed to take place, they may as well just change the name of it, and not go around making themselves look ridiculous and confuse the heck out of the rest of us. Future archaeologists would be deeply grateful, I'm sure. Now is also the time for political primaries, in advance of the general elections in November. Here in the Empire State, we found ourselves with a gubernatorial challenger of the same party taking on the incumbent governor, with the unlikely moniker of Zephyr Teachout, of all things, which is certainly a name to conjure with, if nothing else. Personally, this sounds to me more like a made-up comic book character than anything else - although come to think of it, "Governor Teachout" would be a great name for an alternative rock band, as our old friend Dave Barry always says. Meanwhile, speaking of things to conjure with, I received an urgent email from some close personal friends (NOT) in Nigeria, who apparently wanted my help in a financial transaction involving the sum of $12,570,000.00, and for which assistance, I would no doubt be handsomely rewarded. The reason I noticed it was the somewhat startling subject line of the message, which announced: "Hello Please Choke Your Email!" I couldn't help but agree that those would be my sentiments exactly, and harmonious international relations notwithstanding. I was thinking of forwarding the message to Zephyr Teachout, but even the Nigerians probably wouldn't believe that was a real person, I'm thinking. And while we're on the topic of things that make no sense, here's a healthy tidbit that recently appeared in our local newspaper, in an article about National Wellness Week, which also occurs in September: ==================================== Ossining Public Library is offering Beginner and Intermediate yoga classes for teens and adults on Saturdays at 11:00 AM Classes are taught by certified instructors, and attendees are asked to please a mat and towel ==================================== Frankly, I've never had much luck with pleasing a mat or a towel, and trying to please both of them at the same time, I'm sure would be nothing but an exercise in futility, I dare say. Of course, it's all too easy to scoff at the foibles and failings of newspapers nowadays, and we've all long since learned that the spell-checker is not going to help you if you get all of the words right, but just plain leave out the ones that you really need. And it certainly does no good to decry the lack of standards, heaven knows, because the one thing that remains true through it all is that things can always be worse, rather than getting any better. So I'll close with this parting shot from the wise and witty Pastor Miller, whose words to live by appear on my Twitter feed: "Start leaving the world a better place, by leaving the living room a better place." There being no way to improve upon that, all I can add is, "Amen, brother!" Elle

On The House

Hello World, Happy September! In the local area, we've finally had a few days with 90 degree temperatures, which we didn't through the entire summer, now that it's September, thanks not. Odd weather. Speaking of odd, now is normally the time when I would be wishing everyone a very happy Jewish New Year (or "Kung Pow Bok Choy," as they say in the Chinatown district of Jerusalem, I think) but it turns out that would be wildly premature, since due to one of those random calendar peculiarities (personally, I blame those darned Druids) Rosh Hashanah will not actually happen until the very end of the month - when often it's check-by-jowl with Labor Day itself - and Yom Kippur has been unceremoniously shanghaied all the way back to the trackless wastes of October, for heaven's sake. I always say, this is what comes of having movable feasts, you give them an inch, and they take a mile. Of course, that would be 5,775 miles in the Jewish calendar, while in the Chinese calendar, it would be The Year of the Kilometer instead. As for the darned Druids, don't even get me started on Stonehenge, I dare say. And speaking of the time being out of joint, especially with the thermometer and humidity finally starting to feel like summer around here, it was with no small amount of surprise (and here, consternation would not be too strong a word) that we greeted the promotional announcement on MSG network for the upcoming professional ice hockey season, of all things. Yes, they are indeed touting their "Back in Blue" coverage of the New York Rangers for the loyalists and die-hards throughout the region, with the first televised pre-season game on September 22 - and which, as Bill pointed out, is basically right around the corner at this point. Naturally, we want to wish them well, as they embark on a shiny new season bursting with promise, and spreading out before them like a dazzling carpet of glittering stars, and no storm clouds gathering on the horizon of their undimmed visions of success. Although admittedly, it's a little hard to get in the spirit of the thing, when the sweltering conditions inspire dreams of pools, lemonade, hammocks, and watermelon, and the Zamboni is about the farthest thing from our minds, by golly. On the other hand, and happening right on time, Labor Day weekend came and went, giving us all a chance to honor the memory of Samuel L. Gompers and countless labor organizers before and since, whose tireless efforts on behalf of down-trodden workers introduced so many of the benefits and protections that everyone takes for granted nowadays. It was one last time for The Flag Brigade to run up the colors upstairs and downstairs, including the old ratty New York State flag from time out of mind, since I couldn't get a replacement for it at the fair the previous weekend, and also the naked flagpole with no decorative patriotic finial at the top, which was another quest that turned into more of a wild goose chase than I was expecting - and I don't mind saying that I have an awful lot of experience with chasing wild geese, believe you me, as my mother used to say. The good news is that the flags did go out and come back in again, right on schedule, with no problem, and which is not something that we can always count on with the rather addle-pated Flag Brigade, and that's putting it mildly. On the downside, frankly, I think poor old Mr. Gompers would be nothing short of aghast to see what has become of the employment situation these days, when ordinary people are faced with working long hours, odd shifts, holidays, weekends, and even in the middle of the night, all to satisfy the demands of a non-stop consumer culture run amok in the land. So if you did not have the opportunity to rest from your labors in the proletarian spirit of the long holiday weekend, I hope at least that you got out there to shop 'til you drop, and the President's economic advisers thank you, I'm sure. And while we're on the subject of the federal government, only the petty and captious would complain about the supreme leader of this great nation (or POTUS, as they refer to him in media shorthand - which is "President of the United States" for the rest of us dinosaurs, and you know who you are) touching down in this area last weekend to attend a couple of high-priced fund-raisers, as well as a sumptuous celebrity wedding. Needless to say, this snarled traffic and caused widespread headaches on all sides, making it almost impossible to conduct routine business or get around on the local streets, as the security precautions surrounding the Leader of the Free World were understandably enormous and rigorous, I shouldn't wonder. Luckily it was only for two days, but for anyone who got caught in the cross-hairs (that admittedly was a poor choice of words under the circumstances) it was a nightmare that would make no one want to start a fan club for the Chief Executive, and that's not just the presidential seals squawking, by jingo. Even worse, which you would think could not be remotely possible, the newspaper reported that the (after 2016) former First Family was actually looking for a house in New Rochelle, which has traditionally been renowned for its sophistication, history, diversity, educational excellence, and suburban charm, while still being, as the song goes, "only 45 minutes from Broadway." I said to Bill that with our luck, they would decide to buy the vacant house next to us (very alert readers will recall the exploits of Cinna-Mooch the famous feline freeloader, whose family skulked out of the neighborhood in the dark of night 2 years ago and their property has been abandoned ever since) which I expect would turn into a disaster of epic proportion, and I say that on the basis of no political partisanship whatsoever. I mean, between the KGB agents monitoring my email (whose name is legion, heaven knows) and then the shadowy cadre of Secret Service agents underfoot at all hours of the day and night, this would be just what we need, thanks so very much not. I can't help but feeling that somewhere the evil spirit of Affirmed is hard at work behind the scenes here, and don't try to convince me otherwise. Also in the spirit of friendly persuasion, there was a front-page story in the local paper about staying safe in the face of summertime hazards, such as sun exposure, heat, allergies, dangerous insects, and plants that should be avoided. Of course, they brought up biting insects such as ticks and wasps, and the media darling of the moment, the dreaded Asian tiger mosquito, which is not only invasive, but transmits a host of viruses in its path. But, they were careful to point out, we should also be on the lookout for what they referred to as the "common house mosquito." Excuse me??? What the heck would be a house mosquito, as if this was just another environment where they have adapted to, and have taken up residence, like termites. I'm pretty sure that the mosquito has been around since the dinosaurs and I were still splashing around in the primordial ooze among the vast unformed land masses of prehistoric eons, and they certainly didn't develop an affinity for houses in their formative years - or at least the first 15 billion years or so, that is. And unlike prehistoric dogs, cats, horses, and hamsters, I reject out of hand the notion that our ancestors came along and domesticated the wild mosquito, so that they can no longer live by themselves in the great outdoors, but instead must be cosseted in our very abodes, like pampered pets or unwanted relatives. Heck, you may as well go ahead and distinguish pachyderms as the Asian elephant, the Indian elephant, and the common house elephant, for all the sense that makes. It's simply preposterous on the face of it, and I will not countenance such absurdities in the name of spurious science being foisted on an unsuspecting public, and I ought to know. Actually, I'm not really worried about it, in fact, I thought of a way that I could put it to good use and turn it to my advantage. When the President's real estate agent comes around to look at the house next door, I plan to have a big sign in the front yard that says: "TESTING LABORATORY FOR COMMON HOUSE MOSQUITO," and I figure that should do it. Take that, Affirmed! Elle

Fair Game

Hello World, Happy Labor Day weekend! Here's hoping that you will have the opportunity to rest from your labors, and enjoy the last long holiday weekend of the summer season, before getting back to the grind as September looms on the horizon. Normally I would take this time to warn everyone about the impending specter of back-to-school, but as anybody on FaceBook can attest, we've already long since discovered pictures posted from our friends and relatives far and wide, where their children, grandchildren, or any old friendly youngsters were summarily marched back to school already, while it was still technically August, and not even after Labor Day, thanks not. I can tell you that never used to happen back in what we laughingly refer to as "the good old days," although in fairness, our old friends the dinosaurs have pointed out that fire might have been invented a whole lot sooner if it did, not to mention the wheel, and they could be onto something there. The previous weekend, we decided to take a trip down Memory Lane, and revisit the venerable Dutchess County Fair in Rhinebeck, still going strong since 1845, where we hadn't been for several years, and longing to give it another try. Our friends from the Albany area were up for a rendezvous and hike around the fairgrounds, so we met at the Eveready Diner in Hyde Park for brunch to kick things off. The day could not have been nicer, and the weather could easily have won awards from just about anybody, with the possible exception of our old nemesis Comrade Mischka at the controls of the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, no doubt. After a delicious meal, we braced ourselves for unrelenting traffic to the venue - which we remember from previous visits and have been stuck in, often at great length, time and again - but were pleasantly surprised, if confused, at the lack of any congestion along the way, and we arrived at our destination without a hint of trouble. It was almost 10 years since our last foray in fair-land, and not much had changed that we could tell. The vast grassy fields were a sea of parked cars, as always, the fair was crowded with merry-makers, and there was so much to see and do, it's no wonder that they take six whole days to cram everything in. Of course, there's the usual carnival rides and midway attractions, plus livestock exhibits, horticultural displays, canine demonstrations, vintage farm equipment, talent competitions, arts & crafts, a dizzying welter of vendor booths, educational or entertainment options of every sort, and more food than you could shake a (fried-Twinkie-on-a) stick at, and that's not just the cotton candy talking, believe me. We started out in the exhibition halls, which are some of the only permanent structures at the fairgrounds, and wandered through the seemingly endless aisles of merchants selling everything from the daintiest hand-made jewelry to the brawniest trailers for your semi, and everything in between, I dare say. There's always interesting things to see on all sides, from the tried-and-true to the newest-of-the-new, and some stuff that can only make you shake your head and wonder about the future of humanity, at least if this is any indication. Anyone can tell you that browsing through a capacious and motley cornucopia of paraphernalia (which could be described as the canvas equivalent of window shopping) is hungry work, and we were soon scouting about for some snacks to tide us over. Fortunately, you can't take two steps without tripping over food at a fair, much of which is only to be found at fairs to start with, and we were soon munching funnel cakes, soft ice cream, and fried Oreos to our hearts' content. Unlike previous years when the inhospitable weather conditions or overwhelming crowds made it impossible to perambulate the whole complex and see everything there was to be seen, this time we pressed on with gusto and enthusiasm, and determined to drink in every last drop of what the fair organizers provided in the way of features, exhibitions and attractions, according to their helpful brochure. In the end, I'd say that we accomplished our objective, and more than got our money's worth out of the experience, although we were sorry to miss what the brochure identified as their "Chicken Clucking & Rooster Crowing Contest," which was only happening on Sunday, and more's the pity, I'm sure. Of special interest was Century Museum Antique Village, full of items from the 1800's, such as tools, machinery, carriages and household goods, plus mannequins dressed in period clothing - and all in such lovingly preserved condition that you couldn't help but feel you had actually stepped back in time to see them in their prime. Admittedly, it was a bit jarring to see people taking pictures of these antiquities with their cell phones, but the dinosaurs will tell you this is what they call progress, and I ought to know. There was no lack of vendors hawking their wares at every turn, in just about every conceivable category a person could possibly desire, as if the national economy was booming, and products were just flying off the shelves to the extent that even the great outdoors couldn't contain them any longer. Unfortunately, after we tramped the fairgrounds from one end to the other, we could only come to the inescapable conclusion that what we fondly recalled as a mainstay of the fair, the curiously fascinating Army surplus tent, wasn't anywhere to be found anymore, nor had anyone stepped in to take its place - and where disappointed fair-goers were expected to find their decommissioned helmets, canteens, gas masks, and hand grenades is a complete mystery to me, I don't mind saying. I was on an assignment from The Flag Brigade, and was hoping to snap up a new patriotic finial for the top of one my flagpoles, plus a replacement New York State flag, so I could finally retire the ancient one that had been in the family for untold decades, now reduced to nothing but shreds and tatters, and not fit to be seen in public at this point. Alas, The Flag Brigade was destined to be thwarted in their efforts, but not from lack of trying on my part, heaven knows. And speaking of being thwarted in the effort, what happened next was certainly one for the books, and that's not just a lot of combat boots and K-rations, by golly. After we had seen just about all the fair had to offer, and it was starting to get late in the day, all four of us decided to take a chance on finding some likely spot for an early dinner before going our separate ways. Between both of our cars, we have two different GPS devices, and they both assured us there was a Denny's restaurant handily nearby in Saugerties, a mere 6 miles away, even though we had never seen or heard of the place in all of our previous sorties into the area. But we figured we had nothing to lose, so we asked our helpful devices to lead the way, and they seemed more than willing to oblige. Once again, we were surprised that the traffic out of the fairgrounds wasn't as bad as we feared it would be, and we were soon on our merry way to our destination with high hopes. Not so fast! Our eagerness soon gave way to an ominous foreboding, as we navigated through smaller and smaller streets, away from the main roads, across some derelict freight tracks, and off into the wilderness, where no giant corporation in its right mind would locate one of its franchise operations under any circumstances. Sure enough, once we reached the terminus of a dead-end in the middle of nowhere, both GPS recorded voices happily announced: "Arriving at destination!" Now, this was not our first time at the rodeo, as they say, so we weren't falling for that, and realized that once again, we had fallen victim to what we refer to as the Zombie Apocalypse version of GPS directions, where the all-too-fallible technology inexplicably leads you astray and into some sinister-looking wasteland straight out of a movie set full of chainsaw-wielding lunatics. All that's missing is the ingenue in her lingerie going into the basement with the broken flashlight, and the psychopath in the hockey mask jumping out of the bushes, and it would be the perfect Hollywood nightmare, thanks not. At this point, we did the sensible thing and checked our cell phones instead, which only proved what we already suspected, that there wasn't a Denny's within 40 miles of the place, and we were just being led down the garden path and all the way around Robin Hood's proverbial barn, for no other purpose than the malicious amusement of our GPS devices at our expense, and once again, thank you so very much not. Unanimously deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, we threw in the towel and let our friends depart in peace, while we headed off to the Denny's in Newburgh, which we already knew was actually there, and not just some figment of the GPS maker's over-wrought imagination. Frankly, I've been trying my hardest to blame this on our old nemesis Comrade Mischka at the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, but to no avail - although the dinosaurs have pointed out that it certainly seems to have the evil spirit of Affirmed's dastardly hoof-prints all over it, and I can't say that I disagree with that one bit. Or bridle. Elle