Swing And A Miss

Hello World, Happy July! It certainly does seem as if time is just scurrying by, helter skelter, and dragging us all along in its wake, kicking and screaming, and I don't mean that in a good way. On the other hand, we all know that things can always be worse, and in fact often are, especially in those time-sensitive businesses that have to deal with deadlines or perishable items. Recently at church, we ordered an assortment of carnations for Fathers Day, and the order confirmation arrived with helpful information about the care and handling of our flowers, as well as this curious disclaimer: ============================================== ORDERS FOR MOTHERS DAY 2016 CAN NOT BE CHANGED ============================================== So for anybody who wanted to go back in time 13 months and revise their flower order for dear old Mom, I'm afraid they would be out of luck. Tempus fugit and all that, you know. Speaking of going back in time, I recently saw part of the movie "The Legend of Bagger Vance," from the creative talents of Robert Redford in 2000, and the story is set way back in 1931. It tells the tale of an epic golf match between iconic players Bobby Jones and Sam Snead (apparently when there isn't any actual golf going on, The Golf Channel shows golfing movies instead) and is lovingly produced with meticulous attention to period details, down to the tiniest degree. So you can imagine my surprise, in this evocative tribute to those halcyon days of yore, to see the character playing Sam Snead wading into the edge of a pond after an errant golf ball, and nervously regarding a nearby alligator, as one would a ticking time bomb with a short fuse, I don't mind saying. (For his part, the alligator appeared to be sizing up the duffer less as an unwanted interloper, and more for his potential meal options.) So it seems that the dangerous modern version of golf, with its rampant alligators and exploding blimps, is not so new after all - I guess in the old days, people just didn't much care if the gators chomped on a few golfers here and there. Bon appetit and all that, you know. As long as we're in a time-traveling state of mind, Bill and I finally became about the last people in all of civilization to go see the new "Wonder Woman" movie, which not only opened to glowing reviews and huge box office success, but was already being widely praised long before it even opened in the first place. I honestly can't remember the last time any film (much less a superhero film) was heaped with such universal acclaim, so that going to see it was more like a religious obligation, and throwing accolades at its feet was a foregone conclusion. We were sorry that we waited too long to see it in glorious IMAX 3D, from whence it had been unceremoniously bumped by the new "Transformers" flick, and had to settle for watching it in regular 3D instead. But in retrospect, and with apologies to the ponderous weight of public opinion in opposition, it made no difference because we hated it, from start to finish. It's possible that it only felt interminably longer than it really was, but I am sure that it was exactly as boring as it seemed - with a sorry cast of unlikable characters, implausible situations, and unsatisfying resolutions that in no way would entice me to go see the next related offering in this repertoire, but rather send me fleeing in the opposite direction, with my cape and golden lasso flapping behind me. Mind you, I cut my teeth on Wonder Woman comics from my childhood and adored them, and like "Thor," I was prepared to jump aboard this latest incarnation, and all of its attendant compatriots in the DC studio multi-verse yet to come, and enjoy the wild (if perhaps bumpy) ride. But this dreary and ill-conceived dud proved to be a humorless and maundering slog through an uninteresting series of obstacles, that it seemed to me, would utterly fail to attract both old-time fans like me, or newer audiences alike. Even worse, despite a veritable world of digital special effects at their fingertips, there wasn't an invisible airplane in sight (get it?!) while her erstwhile partner, Steve Trevor, was basically reduced to nothing more than a footnote. The gods were not smiling on this misbegotten mess, and in fact, rather than battling against the weapons of evil Nazi scientists in their midst, they should have been more concerned about thunderbolts being hurled at them from the angry deities on Mount Olympus. Donder and Blitzen and all that, you know. Wrapping this up on a positive note, we have the following inspiring tale from the wonderful world of golf, which has almost nothing to do with golf. It seems that during the 2010 AT&T National at the scenic Aronimink Golf Club in Newtown Square, Pennsylvania, hometown-boy-turned-pro Sean O'Hair was making a late run up the leaderboard, and hoping for a strong finish. But on the 18th hole, his blistering tee shot rocketed wildly off course, into the trees, and soundly clocked one of the spectators taking refuge in the shade, right on the noggin and knocking him flat. Providentially, the victim was a healthy young college student, who seemed none the worse for wear, but emergency personnel who pounced on him at the scene immediately raced him to the nearest E.R. as a precaution. There, he was tested for concussion, and kept under observation to see if he developed any symptoms. It was while he was there that doctors noticed a suspicious lump on his thyroid, which turned out to be a malignant tumor, and because it was detected so early, they were able to remove it easily and the lad happily made a full recovery. Of course, it might have been a completely different story without that unplanned hospital visit, and left untreated, it would not have taken long for the scenario to turn into a much more dire situation. Through it all, Sean O'Hair knew nothing about what was going on, since the paramedics had whisked the youngster away on the spot, and leaving the anguished O'Hair no chance to find out anything about the injured spectator, or whatever happened to him or her. It was a year later at the same tournament in 2011, when club officials arranged a meeting between the two, and after O'Hair's heartfelt apology for his errant shot, I'm sure he was surprised when the fellow cheerfully replied, "No, I should thank you for hitting me," and then proceeded to recount the entire amazing experience, which ended with him crediting the golfer for essentially saving his life. So there you have it, sports fans, a genuine PGA miracle, where a terrible tee shot turned out to be the best thing that could have happened under the circumstances for one lucky bystander, and even better, not an alligator to be seen. Or more accurately, Alligatoridae Mississippiensis and all that, you know. Elle

Table of Contents

Hello World, Merciful heavens! Can it really be true that we've gotten to the last weekend in June already, and for those of us going on vacation in July, to say that the clock is ticking and time's a-wasting would be an understatement of epic proportions, believe me. Even more alarming, the summer solstice pranced in right on schedule, earlier this week on Wednesday, and astoundingly, this means that the days have already started getting shorter, when poor summer hasn't really even had a chance to get off the ground yet, heaven knows. It should be obvious to anyone of even the meanest intelligence that we're all going to have to get a move on, if we're ever going to make the most of all that lemonade, watermelon, hammocks and beach balls before it's time for the jolly old elf himself and his 8 tiny reindeer at the most wonderful time of the year - and which, at this rate, will be here before you know it, I dare say. Candy canes and egg nog, anyone? In other seasonal news, I was confronted with a curious sight around town last week, which I found both surprising and ingenious all at the same time. Of course, there are many fine establishments that offer dining al fresco to their patrons in nice weather (al freso is Italian for "gritty food with car exhaust and hold onto your napkins") giving them a chance to enjoy the great outdoors and watch the world go by. This makes sense for waterside venues with a captivating view, or spacious eateries with a patio to spread out tables under shady trees. But suppose you're a tiny ethnic joint crammed into a storefront on a busy street, with only a sliver of sidewalk to work with, and nowhere else to go, whether up, down, or sideways? What to do, oh, what to do? [Please insert cartoon chef with elaborate hand-wringing here.] It turns out that someone's got you covered (literally) after all, and figured out that not everybody has room to fit large tables and big umbrellas for outdoor dining, even if they wanted to, without giving up on the idea completely. Outside of a local Peruvian restaurant, they have small tables on the sidewalk with colorful half-umbrellas that only open up on one side, so you can push them right up against the building. These aren't regular umbrellas that have been squashed into a small space out of necessity - you can tell by looking at the spokes that they have been specifically designed to open only on one side, so they can be placed flush against a wall in the back, and still provide plenty of shade in the front. I thought that was so brilliant. What won't they think of next, I ask you. Speaking of food, we have Bill to thank for the following tidbit from his online calendar: ======================== ON YOU VILL ENJOY IT Home and Garden Calendar Today From the Garden to the Table Nancy Brown will demonstrate how to make a delicious Gestapo with herbs and veggies from your own garden ========================= Honestly, sometimes you just don't know whether to laugh or cry, and I don't mind saying that wailing and gnashing of teeth might not be out of the question either. One can only presume that what Nancy was attempting to demonstrate would have been more along the lines of gazpacho, and less in the way of Gestapo - and hopefully a whole lot less of the latter, while we're at it. Seriously, you wouldn't think it would take much of an editor to realize that the elite German military forces, though technically spelled correctly, would still be the glaringly wrong word in an article about food, nein danke. That also reminds me of a recent Facebook post from a former co-worker, who was enjoying a meal at the locally famous Sedona Tap House, and where they invited me to take advantage of what they described as their "pre-fix menu." I admit that curious phrase has me over the proverbial barrel, and all that springs to mind is perhaps a selection of broken items before they have been repaired, or alternatively, a rigged sporting event before the fix has been put in for shysters and bookies. Here again, one can only suppose that what they meant to recommend would be their "prix fixe menu" instead, which has a long culinary history of simplifying meal options, and involves nothing broken or illegal whatsoever. It might be too much to hope that our friends at Sedona Tap House would be conversant with a somewhat obscure French term not in widespread use even in the hospitality business - but it would be a welcome improvement if people didn't just bandy about words or expressions that they obviously do not begin to understand. At this point, any normal person would be forgiven for assuming that would have been all of our table talk for one week, but not so! Alert readers may recall that just about a year ago at this time, Bill was invited (along with about 300 other satisfied customers) to a patient appreciation dinner hosted by one of the premier medical institutions in our midst, and held at the plush DoubleTree Hotel in Elmsford. This time around, the annual shindig was being tossed at the even more lavish Renaissance Hotel in the bucolic woods of West Harrison, and they didn't have to ask us twice, I can tell you that. Although the weather was sloppy, it didn't seem to cut down on the crowds at all, or dampen their spirits, and unlike last year, the parking was a lot more convenient besides. We were prepared to sit through a bumper crop of boring speeches in exchange for our free meal, but it turned out that the keynote address was not only relatively brief, but also actually pretty interesting. On the other side of that coin, however, was the musical entertainment for the evening (and I use that term in the loosest possible interpretation of the phrase, heaven knows) who was a young man noodling away randomly on an electronic keyboard, sounding for all the world like the vapid synthesized music behind countless video games, and I ought to know. But we had a very nice pasta primavera dinner, including salad, rolls, coffee, and a decadent triple chocolate mousse for dessert, so we weren't going to quibble about a few sour notes along the way. Last year, we were seated at a large table with several other couples, who turned out to be a very convivial bunch that we enjoyed very much. This time, our tablemates were a more subdued group, but still nice enough, I'm sure. My favorite part of the whole event was out in the hallway, where they had set up a photo station where you could have your picture taken - including a comical assortment of goofy props like silly hats, feather boas, pennants, and costume eyeglasses - and then they would hand you a print of it right on the spot. I was all decked out in pink, so I picked the glasses with rabbit ears and cute pink bunny nose, while Bill (a veritable fashion statement in brand new sport coat and coordinating shirt and tie) opted for the pirate glasses with mustache and one dark lens so it looked like an eye patch. The whole effect was pretty darned funny, all things considered, and for anyone who elects to doubt the veracity of that observation, please be advised that I actually have that picture and I'm not afraid to use it, by golly. It goes without saying that a fine time was had by all, and we left full and happy, and not a bit averse to going again next year, should the occasion arise. As for the Gestapo, they'll just have to fend for themselves, and that goes double for the feather boas. Say, who let Sinter Klaus in here? Elle

If They Could Bottle That

Hello World, Happy Fathers Day weekend! Sunday is the time for all of those special men in our lives, all too often unsung, to get their due - or in the immortal words of famous dad Fred Flintstone, "Yabba dabba doo!" It may be true that every dad is not perfect, and Time magazine may not come along and crown him as their "Man of the Year," but the troubadours of yore were not just whistling Dixie when they crooned, "For he's a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny," and that's good enough for me. Of course, June has much more to offer than just The World's Best Dad, that's for sure, some of it behind us already, and others still to come. And it goes without saying that you know it's June, not only when stores everywhere are awash with back-to-school displays on every side, but it seems that you can't get away from promotional messages from every Tom, Dick, and Harry peddling their 2018 calendars, like there's going to be some kind of run on them, and procrastinators who wait too long might miss out. On the other hand, normally when a person says, "You know it's June when," it would follow that the weather would be one distinctive indicator, with glorious sunshine and balmy breezes that put us all in mind of sand castles and suntan lotion, and make life worth living, thank you very much. Not so fast! The ongoing weather conditions in the region have been so absurdly ridiculous that a colleague waggishly observed, "We have been calling it Juneuary." (Thanks, Jim!) We also have June to thank (such as it is) for Flag Day, which waved in on the 14th as per usual, and you can be sure that The Flag Brigade was all over that like a bad suit. The early morning started out somewhat inauspicious, but it soon cleared up into a beautiful day, and you can believe me when I say that the patriotic hues upstairs and downstairs lent a welcome note of flying colors to the neighborhood that had been sorely lacking up to that point, by George. And once again, in spite of the local conditions, the flowering extravaganza continues unabated, with our spectacular tiger lilies putting on a multi-color show that would be hard to beat. Around town, you can spot hardy corn flowers sprouting up through the cracks in curbs and sidewalks, while endless ranks of Asiatic lilies brighten up the flower beds of parking lots and commercial properties on all sides. Also immune to the weather conditions, you know it's late enough in June when even the basketball and hockey playoffs have finally wrapped up, this time with the Golden State Warriors spoiling the Cleveland Cavaliers attempt at a repeat, and winning their second championship in 3 years. Speaking of repeats, it was the mighty Pittsburgh Penguins hoisting Lord Stanley's Cup for the second year in a row, derailing the Nashville Predators thrilling but unlikely run through the playoffs, after besting such heavyweights as the Blackhawks, Blues, and Ducks along the way. So now June, which used to be known as a "one sport" month, can settle into a steady diet of baseball, as well as football mini-camps - where all of the drama takes place off the field, in a noxious atmosphere of tantrums, name-calling, lawsuits, and scandals that would put Peyton Place to shame. (Now there's another of those vintage references lost on young people nowadays, I dare say.) Right now it seems that controversy is the name of the game, and football is just tagging along for the ride, alas. Obviously we can't let June slip past without mentioning the U.S. Open, spotlighting the world's best golfers from the lovely Erin Hills course in scenic Hartford, Wisconsin - where presumably they have no alligators to threaten the players or bystanders from their watery hideaways. No, this time the danger came from above, as an advertising blimp crashed and burned nearby in a colossal explosion of flames and thick black smoke that sent spectators scurrying, and even the most laid-back players looking around for safe shelter. As I keep pointing out, this is certainly not your grandfather's boring sport of yesteryear, in so many ways, although whether the dangerous modern version of golf could be considered an improvement by any means, is clearly open to interpretation, I must say. In other June sports news, it was a foregone conclusion that there would be no Triple Crown this year, when two different horses won the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness, and the only mystery would be if one or the other would trot away with the 149th Belmont Stakes, and salvage at least two out of the three. Not so fast! It turns out that both Always Dreaming and Cloud Computing were no-shows at Belmont, leaving the field open for the unheralded Tapwrit to claim the prize instead, in another one of those racing seasons where three different horses win the three races. Frankly, it didn't seem like it was going to be much of a contest, with 3-1 favorite Irish War Cry leading from the start against very little competition, but toward the very end of this very long race, somehow Tapwrit miraculously appeared as if out of nowhere, and blew past the front-runner like he was standing still, and crossing the finish line with 2 lengths to spare. Irish War Cry galloped in second, while the scrappy Patch, the one-eyed fan favorite from the Kentucky Derby, finished a strong third out of twelve. In the end, it was only the stalwart Lookin at Lee who ran in all three races, finishing 2nd at the Derby, 4th at the Preakness, and 7th at the Belmont. In fact, out of 29 total horses, there were 10 who ran only in the Derby, 3 who ran only in the Preakness, and 4 who ran only in the Belmont - while 3 horses ran in the Derby and Preakness but skipped the Belmont, 4 horses (including Tapwrit) ran in the Derby and Belmont but skipped the Preakness, and 2 horses who ran in the Preakness and Belmont but not the Derby to start with. Just like the alligator-infested, blimp-crashing golf of today, horse racing has certainly changed from the elitist Sport of Kings in a bygone era, and that's not just the evil spirit of Affirmed talking, believe me. Meanwhile, alert readers on social media lately may have noticed this Twitter post from our environmentally-responsible friends at The Plastic Bank: ========================= Our partner Be-O is crowdfunding a reusable bottle line Every white bottle sold, Be-O donates $1 to Plastic Bank ========================= Excuse me??? Your friends at Be-O needed to seriously reconsider their name before they started a crowdfunding campaign for a food product, while their regrettable name makes those of us "of a certain age" think of nothing except body odor instead, thanks not. I realize that not everybody thinks like me and our old friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery (whose raucous laughter and ill-mannered knee-slapping can be heard from anywhere, heaven knows) but surely there must have been someone, somewhere along the process, who heard that name, rather than seeing it spelled out, and must have known better than to let that slip through the inter-generational divide until it was already a done deal, for pity's sake. Heck, you may as well call yourself "Cooties" or "Pinkos" if you want to just blithely go ahead and re-purpose old slang expressions from the past, and expect people to just ignore all of their unfortunate connotations from olden times. (Some of which were not so very old, I don't mind saying.) But for forward-thinking fans of revisionist history, and defenders of the environment everywhere, I invite you to go right ahead and support these earnest (if odoriferous) ecologically-correct merchants, in spite of the dinosaurs' derisive guffaws and elaborate eye-rolling. You can tell them I sent you, because after all, I am - Chief Cook & Bottle Washer

I Never Promised You A Rose Garden

Hello World, Brrrrr! I can tell you that if June was like this 200 years ago, nobody would have ever said, "What is so rare as a day in June," and the month would not have gone on to fame as the balmy bailiwick of brides and dads, proms and grads, not by a long shot. Earlier in the week, overnight temperatures were hovering around the 40's, and even when they tried to convince me that daytime highs were 70 degrees or so, you can believe me when I say that these old bones weren't falling for that, and I kept my hoodie on all day at work. Ordinarily, I would rather cut off my arm than turn on a heater in June, of all things, but when even flannel and fleece were inadequate against the chill of our drafty old white elephant, I was grateful for the added warmth of our little ceramic heaters, believe me. The cats were all over the radiators like chicken pox, and outside, the squirrels were burning twigs in the driveway, while the starlings and grackles were decked out in scarves and long johns. The houseflies that had popped out the previous week when it was in the 90's, were all scowling at me like it was my fault, and our resident honeybees had stooped to the level of extremely rude gestures that needed no interpretation, I can assure you. It's no wonder that the skeptics refuse to buy this whole "global warming" malarkey, by golly. Happily, the ridiculous weather has had no ill effects on our landscape, and our mountain laurel has literally exploded in pale pink blossoms on every side. All of our rosebushes have burst forth in a riot of colors from the creamiest whites to the deepest maroons, and everything in between. Recently Bill and I were remarking about how you don't see clover anymore - one of the more ubiquitous mainstays of our childhood - but then we discovered numerous small patches of it in the driveway, so it has not completely given up the ghost after all. Probably nowadays it's considered a weed, and summarily jettisoned from lawns by the handful, but I can't help but harbor a sentimental attachment to it from my youth, and that goes double for our resident honeybees, I'm sure. Speaking of weeds, several weeks ago, I was looking up a citation online about weeds, and I happened across a fascinating article in The New York Times Magazine by Michael Pollan called "Weeds Are Us." He begins by explaining his position that a weed "is not a category of nature but a human construct, a defect of our perception. This kind of attitude, which draws on an old American strain of romantic thinking about wild nature, can get you into trouble. At least it did me. For I had Emerson’s pretty conceit in mind when I planted my first flower bed, and the result was not a pretty thing." He then goes on to describe, in great detail, his intent to create a natural-looking garden by scattering flower seeds randomly in an irregular area, and developing a laissez-faire attitude about any weeds that might spring up among them. In fact, he found many of the weeds, like Queen Anne's Lace, to be just as pretty as the flowers he bought in packets and sowed deliberately. He quoted poets and philosophers, like Ralph Waldo Emerson, Walt Whitman, and Henry David Thoreau, who sang the praises of wilderness, over the cramped and artificial strictures of orderly perfection above all else. Unfortunately, there's a good reason why some plants are known as weeds, and even he finally admits ruefully, "My own romance of the weed did not survive a second summer. What had begun as an idealized wildflower meadow now looked like a roadside tangle and, if I let it go another year, would probably pass for a vacant lot." He realized that he had no choice but to arrest the process at “country roadside,” before it degenerated to “abandoned railroad siding.” [Here he makes no mention of herds of errant Thomson's gazelles like in our backyard, but otherwise, I understand his situation completely.] He begrudgingly came to the same conclusion as countless romantics before him, that weeds are, by their very nature, different from desirable plants because “a weed is an especially aggressive plant that competes successfully against cultivated plants.” Oddly enough, in his research about weeds, he was surprised to discover, time and again, their preferred habitat described as: “waste places and roadsides”; “open sites”; “old fields, waste places”; “cultivated and waste ground”; “old fields, roadsides, lawns, gardens”; “lawns, gardens, disturbed sites.” His conclusion is nothing short of a revelation: ================================= This list suggests that weeds are not superplants: they don't grow everywhere, which explains why, for all their vigor, they haven't covered the globe entirely. Weeds, as the field guides indicate, are plants particularly well-adapted to man-made places. They don't grow in forests or prairies — in “the wild.” Weeds thrive in gardens, meadows, lawns, vacant lots, railroad sidings, hard by dumpsters and in the cracks of sidewalks. They grow where we live, in other words, and hardly anywhere else. Weeds, contrary to what the romantics assumed, are not wild. They are as much a product of civilization as the hybrid tea rose, or Thoreau’s bean plants. They do better than garden plants for the simple reason that they are better adapted to life in a garden. For where garden plants have been bred for a variety of traits (tastiness, size, esthetic appeal), weeds have evolved with just one end in view: the ability to thrive in ground that man has disturbed. And at this they are very accomplished indeed. And yet as resourceful and aggressive as weeds may be, they cannot survive without us any more than a garden plant can. Without man to create cropland and lawns and vacant lots, most weeds would soon vanish. Bindweed, which seems so formidable in the field and garden, can grow nowhere else. It lives by the plow as much as we do. Or perhaps that should be put the other way around. “If we confine the concept of weeds to species adapted to human disturbance,” writes Jack R. Harlan in “Crops and Man,” “then man is by definition the first and primary weed under whose influence all other weeds have evolved.” Weeds are not the Other. Weeds are us. ========================================== Well, I have to say that certainly shines a whole new light on the overall understanding of weeds, and not at all what I expected. Although when you think about it, if you go hiking along a trail and go far enough off the beaten track, you will never see any dandelions or false asters along the way - they simply don't thrive in that sort of natural environment. In fact, he makes the point that all of the weeds we take for granted nowadays were unheard of in the entire country before European settlers arrived here in the colonial period, which is certainly a whopper of a cautionary tale if I've ever heard one. So much for blaming my rampant alien mutant poison ivy on intergalactic space aliens, Euell Gibbons. (Now THERE'S a pop culture anachronism that's lost on young people nowadays, I dare say!) Meanwhile on the local scene, last week I had a follow-up appointment with the cornea specialist, where they were glad to report that I was continuing to make slow but steady progress in the right direction. As in, YAY!!! But I did notice that they must have sent everybody to one of those employee workshops on customer service, if only because every single person in the entire place made a point of telling me how pretty I looked. Mind you, at the time I was wearing your average garden-variety blouse and skirt as usual, not distinguished in any way from what I ordinarily wear anyway. And admittedly, I'm vain enough to believe it, when the first person said it to me, and I found it very flattering. But by the time it got around to the 4th staff member telling me the exact same thing, well, the jig was definitely up, even for an old softie like me. So I've decided against ordering my sash and tiara just yet, in spite of the seemingly unanimous accolades heaped upon me at the cornea specialist (where you would expect that they could see well enough to know, after all) and stash their compliments with my collection of wooden nickels, the deed to the Brooklyn Bridge, a pig in a poke, and placards from the International Conference on Climate Change. Say, who let our old nemesis Comrade Mischka in here? Elle

Family Affair

Hello World, Happy June! It's hard to believe that we've gotten to the halfway point of the year, and the end of the school year, and what have we got to show for it, I ask you that. (Don't answer that question!) Of course, Memorial Day weekend is widely recognized as the unofficial start of the summer season, so we all know what that means - the sudden stampede of summer blockbuster movies, all hitting the local multi-plex at the same time, and don't spare the popcorn, my good man! If it's anything like previous years, we can expect to be inundated with a steady stream of remakes, reboots, sequels, and prequels, whether anyone wants to see them or not (talking to YOU, "Baywatch!") because apparently nobody in Hollywood has had an original idea in their head since "Citizen Kane," I dare say. Godzilla, anyone? Our friends at the Word-A-Day calendar remind us that the Islamic holy period of Ramadan began at sunset last Friday, and continues until Eid Al Fitr on June 26th. They go on to explain: "Because Islam adheres to a lunar calendar, Ramadan is observed 11 days earlier each year, so that in a cycle of about 33 years, it passes through all the seasons." Objectively, it doesn't seem to have much to recommend it - not only that it requires fasting every day from dawn to sunset - but notably lacking in any popular attractions such as parades, fireworks, funny costumes, or green beer, for instance. Even in a region where "any excuse for a party" is their motto, this would be a hard sell, and it's no wonder that the entire retail establishment, usually so quick to jump aboard any merchandising bandwagon, gives them a wide berth instead. Ramadan peeps, anyone? In other timely topics, the venerable Indianapolis 500 came off without a hitch on Sunday, and in spite of inauspicious weather forecasts since last week, conditions at the track were perfectly fine, and had no effect on the race, with all 500 laps being completed. Taking the checkered flag was Takuma Sato, the first Japanese winner at The Brickyard in over 100 years of racing there, just barely holding off Helio Castroneves in the closing laps, in a bid for his 4th Indy victory in 15 years. Considering that there were over 30 cars competing (including one driven by the plucky Pippa Mann, who finished 17th) there was only a scant handful of crashes - although a couple of them were pretty spectacular, and necessitated substantial repairs to the fences and safety barriers. For all of us old-timers who can recall the fabled Mario Andretti from the Andy Granitelli era, his namesake racing team, Andretti Autosport, has been responsible for 3 of the last 4 winners of the race. The sluggish 155.3 MPH average speed would get no one's attention, especially compared with the blistering 186.0+ MPH pace in 2013 and 2014, so it was certainly unremarkable in that regard. But it didn't rain, there were no casualties, and nobody was chased by alligators, which only goes to prove that it's already safer than golf, as far as I'm concerned, and that goes double for the bogeys, I don't mind saying. STP, anyone? Obviously we can't let the holiday weekend pass without mention of my sister's legendary BBQ at the cabin, still going strong in its 45th year, and that's not just the mojitos talking, believe me. My other sister from Long Island and I made the trek to the woods on Saturday, and it started out being a lovely day, and we were glad to bring the cheerful sunshine from home to our friends in the forest. But it wasn't long before the clouds rolled in and stayed all day, and the temperature dropped so much that pretty soon everyone was reaching for their hoodies and lounge pants, in place of their shorts and tank tops. Because it was the 45th, there were more people there than usual, even early on Saturday, and from farther away places than they generally come, in the off-years - although truth to tell, even in off-years, it still attracts literally hundreds of guests from all over the country and (way) beyond. It's been going on so long at this point, that we now have children and grandchildren of the original attendees coming on their own, like salmon returning to their original spawning grounds every year, and probably just like the salmon, have no explanation for why they keep doing it, I shouldn't wonder. Also like the general population at large, there's a certain amount of divorce and remarriage, so you have sometimes 2 and 3 halves (or thirds) of the original pair, all bringing their new spouses and blended children, step-children, half-children or what-have-you, in a dizzying array of complexity. This cast of characters complication is in no way helped by a seemingly endless supply of beer and cocktails, and sometimes you can't help but wonder if strangers have just wandered in off the street, and have no relation to anyone there to begin with, past or present. This was brought home to me in textbook fashion when I was standing on the front porch with both of my sisters, and we were all talking at once, the way we do, about some nonsense or other, the way we do. Our hostess was called away to attend to some situation in her official capacity, and my other sister went with her, and one of the ladies on the porch turned to me and asked, "So, how do you know Linda?" I blurted out, "I'm her sister," without thinking about how it might make this woman feel embarrassed, but it dawned on me that while I already realized that I didn't know her and she didn't know me, she also didn't know my other sister - who as a 45-year veteran of these clambakes, should certainly be known to everyone by now. I was thinking of bringing back my other sister, so the woman could ask her how she knows Linda, but I decided that would be laying it on a little too thick. But it occurred to me that next year, we need to do something to make ourselves look a bit more related to each other than we apparently do now. Matching T-shirts, anyone? Meanwhile, keeping the home fires burning on Monday and Tuesday, the plan was for the stalwart Flag Brigade to run up the colors on both days, upstairs and downstairs, as per the usual protocol at this address. Monday was Memorial Day (observed) thanks to the federal Monday holiday folderol from 1971, and Tuesday the 30th would have been the actual Decoration Day from all of the previous decades, back when holidays had the good sense to stay put, by jingo. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortuitously might be the more accurate term under the circumstances) we were drenched with rain on both days, and Old Glory was left safe and dry inside, and not carelessly plunked outdoors in the pelting rain all day. Regarded objectively, this is what I might consider a reprieve for the poor over-matched Flag Brigade these days, and probably just as well that they were not put to the test, only to be found wanting after all. In fact, it reminded me a lot of the bad old days of baseball ineptitude at cavernous Shea Stadium, where the hapless Mets would be in the midst of a lengthy losing streak, so that if any game was rained out, we would count that as a "technical win." Peanuts and Cracker Jacks, anyone? Elle