Sylvia Baumgarten (1933-2024)

To the many fans of "Life Lessons from an Old Bitch" blog: Sylvia passed away peacefully on February 1, 2024, surrounded by her family. Thank you for your years of support for our Mom and her insightful and provocative "only Sylvia!" posts over the past decade. We have pasted her obituary below.

With love,

The Baumgarten Family

Sylvia Baumgarten (née Rosen), author, raconteuse, queen bee of the bridal salon, and "Maw," died peacefully at home surrounded by her loving family on February 1, 2024, two months and two weeks after celebrating her 90th birthday. Sylvia was the very definition of indomitable – a powerful, independent woman of towering intellect, exacting standards, and strong opinions. She was also defined by her sharp wit, irrepressible sense of humor, and love of punnery. She loved being the center of attention and would readily engage with a stranger in a restaurant or on the subway, who would know her life story after ten minutes and become a friend for life. She had a million expressions for every occasion. She died wearing her favorite sweatshirt, which read, "I'm not bossy. I just know what you should be doing." As she would say, "That was Sylvia all over."

Sylvia was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer in September 2022. It says everything about her fierce nature that she beat the odds by a mile and was in relatively good health until only the last few days.

Under the pen names Ena Halliday, Louisa Rawlings, and Sylvia Halliday (all derived from her maternal line), she authored 15 historical romance novels, aka "bodice rippers," that were highly reviewed and translated into multiple languages. Her first book, Marielle, was chosen by Pocket Books to launch Tapestry Romances, their historical line. Awards include 1986 and 1987 Gold Medallion Finalist Awards from the Romance Writers of America (RWA) for Forever Wild, a novel set in 19th-century New York State as well as the Paris of the Impressionists; 1989 Reviewer's Choice Award from Romantic Times magazine for Promise of Summer; and 1994 RWA RITA Award Finalist for Wicked Stranger. She had a devoted following of fans. Later, she took a job as a saleswoman of wedding gowns, first at David's Bridal in Queens and then at Macy's Herald Square. She loved nothing more than "throwing the veil over young brides' faces and watching them burst into tears of joy." As with her readers, many of "her brides" became lifelong friends.

Throughout Sylvia's adulthood, her "lists" were always close at hand – 4" x 6" blank white tear-off pads (decades before PostIt Notes were invented) along with perfectly sharpened No. 2 pencils. She kept track of every detail of her life with her lists, right up until her final days. She remembered every holiday and the birthdays and anniversaries of every friend and family member, including cousins, nieces, nephews, in-laws, and grandchildren, and sent a cheeky Hallmark card or, later, a musical Jacquie Lawson e-card, without ever missing a single occasion.

Sylvia loved the theater, especially musical theater (Brigadoon and Finian's Rainbow were two of her all-time favorites and never failed to bring her to tears), opera, ballet, and classical music. She was an accomplished actor in college and played the piano. She loved words and wordplay. She was an expert crossword puzzle constructor and famously had a July 4 Independence Day Sunday crossword published in the New York Times. She painted, crocheted, sewed, and knitted. She had a brief career as an interior decorator. She was known for many famous dishes: gourmet fare like her salmon mousse, with which she entertained at parties, and Pears Belle Helene (chocolate-covered pears), as well as everyday specialties, including her notorious "pink macaroni" (aka "Mom's mac") and "train wreck," better left undescribed. For Independence Day, she would make an angel food cake in the shape of an American Flag, with blueberries, strawberries, and whipped cream forming the Stars and Stripes.

Sylvia was a woman of inestimable talents. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of trivia and was a contestant on the game shows "Jeopardy" and "Who, What, or Where?" She also loved her feline companions, especially her last cat, Mr. Magoo, and his predecessor, Boris. In her 80s, Sylvia started a blog, memorably titled "Life Lessons from an Old Bitch," a characteristic mix of reminiscences, nostalgia, commentary on society's moral decline ("We no longer teach people thoughtfulness, courtesy, respect. It's all about ME!" etc.) and good advice for younger generations.

She was born Sylvia Rosen in Toronto, the second of three children, and raised in West Warren and Springfield, Massachusetts. Her father, Harry Rosen, was a self-made millionaire textile printer, and her mother, Hilda (Banyard) Rosen, a busy homemaker. Sylvia adored her mother, herself a woman who always had a silly pun at the ready. She cherished equally her older brother, Louis, and her younger sister, Deena. Her father was a difficult, mercurial personality, from whom Sylvia inherited her incredible resilience and toughness.

Sylvia attended Pembroke College (now Brown University), where she studied art history and French. There she met her husband, Sidney Baumgarten. Their first child, Doug, was born in Germany, where Sidney was stationed with the military, and they traveled around Europe with their closest friends, the Larsons, before returning to the states. They lived in Far Rockaway, Queens, where sons Fred and Roger and daughter Julia were born, and in Manhattan. They were married for 47 years before divorcing in 2002. Their four children were Sylvia's pride and joy always. She usually signed her letters and e-mails to them "Maw." After she and Sidney separated, Sylvia lived in Forest Hills, Queens, until moving to Atria La Jolla senior independent living in San Diego in 2020 to be close to Julia. She wrote for and edited the Atria newsletter and enjoyed participating in play readings. The staff at Atria were very good to her, as were her doctors and nurses at the Scripps Clinic. The family also thanks the staff of The Elizabeth Hospice for their loving care in the final week of Sylvia's life.

Sylvia is survived by her children Doug (Beth), Fred (Jenny Hansell), Roger (Barrett Sheridan), and Julia Foster (Greg), sister Deena Mazer (Harvey), former husband Sidney Baumgarten (Terry), grandchildren Michael and Sabra Starr, Jessie Mironenko, Jaimie Hullihen, Abbey and Ari Hansell-Baumgarten, Alex and Thomas Baumgarten, and Logan Foster, and great-grandsons Cash McLaughlin and Kai Hullihen. She was predeceased by her brother, Louis Rosen.

A celebration of Sylvia's life will be held on an upcoming date. In lieu of flowers, donations in her memory are encouraged to the La Jolla Playhouse, Attn: Philanthropy Department, P.O. Box 12039, La Jolla, CA 92039; Tunnel to Towers Foundation, 2361 Hylan Boulevard, Staten Island, NY 10306; and/or The Elizabeth Hospice, 800 W Valley Pkwy, Suite 100, Escondido, CA 92025.

There are far too many Sylvia stories and "mom-isms" to fit into one obituary. They would fill at least 15 books and be full of intrigue, show tunes, swashbuckling romance, and operatic endings.

YOU'RE NEVER TOO OLD . . .

. . . to make changes in your life. Usually these are gradual changes, comfortable adjustments to accommodate the years and your experiences. But not for me.

In February, 2020, having worked for 17 years full-time at Macy's Bridal Salon in New York City, and having reached the age of 86, I was not unduly unhappy when the salon closed. Time to retire, I thought. Time to see more of the Broadway shows I loved, visit the many museums with their marvelous collections, try out new restaurants with the group of friends I had in the region. Visit my 4 children all over the country. All without dealing with work schedules and vacation days. 

But just a few weeks later, the pandemic hit New York and the entire city was on lock-down. In those early days, we knew so little about COVID that we were afraid to go out---certainly not someone in my age group. As I stayed in more, my body, so used to hours on my feet at work, walking around, carrying heavy dresses, got weaker and weaker. I tried doing exercises that one of my sons, a fitness professional had sent me, but it was difficult to maintain the interest and enthusiasm alone. 

I shopped from Amazon for incidentals and Instacart for my groceries. I even avoided going downstairs in my busy apartment elevator for my mail until after midnight, and I did my laundry at that hour also. (Goofy story about that. Needed a few more quarters for the machines. Too far to walk to the bank. Called another son and asked him to send me a few dollars worth of quarters. He agreed. Ha! A few days later, I got a very heavy box from him. Inside, wrapped in a couple of old T-shirts was a plastic bag filled with quarters. On the outside of the bag it said, "5 pounds of quarters." I could do laundry for years before I used them up!)

Total isolation for months. An out-of-state friend, who lived in a small town, commiserated with me and suggested I make a picnic and meet a friend in a local park. I gently explained to her that I lived in New York. 1.) I had no park near me, or even a back yard. 2.) I didn't own a car. 3.) I was not about to ride on the subways or buses! and 4.) in New York, close friends, by and large, don't live close, within walking distance.

I had one neighbor in my building who mailed my letters for me (my "quarters" son had sent me a huge batch of stamps, as well!), and occasionally ran errands for me, but otherwise I was in total isolation.

As the months went by, I assured my kids by phone that I was fine. I thought I was, having carved out a brand new, independent life for myself 20 years before, after I divorced my husband. You have to understand where I was coming from. As a published author, I had spent years being supported by my husband while I was working on a new book, and until I sold it and was paid for it. Now suddenly I had to recreate an entirely new life, depending only on what I earned. And I had managed to get the Macy job while continuing to write, first the books and later this blog.

I not only had my own circle of old friends, but I had made oodles of new friends from the brides and bridesmaids I had helped. "You're fun," they'd say. "Do you hang out?"

"Sure," I'd say. So we did dinners, theater, movies, etc. together. I was so strong and independent that many of the young women I met said, "I want to be YOU when I grow up!" 

But as the months dragged on, and my isolation continued, I found that I didn't want to eat very much. I had no appetite, and the food didn't taste very interesting, even though I often cooked my favorite recipes. And I drank more wine. And I was beginning to lose my hair.

Then an unfortunate accident happened.

I had gone down in the elevator at midnight, as usual, to get my mail. Approaching the staircase in the basement, I decided to take at least one flight of stairs up because I really needed more exercise. Halfway up, my slipper slipped on the step and I fell backward, hitting my back and head on every step on the way down. 

At the bottom, I was slightly winded but not really hurt. I called my friendly neighbor, praying she was still up. "I fell," I said. "I'm in the basement. No problem, but I need help."

She came rushing down to me. "Are you okay?"

Yes," I growled. "I'm fine. But I'm too damn old to get up from the floor without help. Can you give me a hand?" I was more pissed than anything.

A few days later I had a routine visit from a nurse practitioner supplied by my Medicare Advantage company. I was fine. Blood pressure fine, all else normal. She examined the bruises on my back and said I would be sore for awhile (I was!). At the last minute I mentioned about my lack of eating and appetite, and my hair loss. "But it's nothing," I said.

"Honey," she said, "I work in nursing homes. I've seen that lots of times. Trust me. You're depressed."

Wow! I found that hard to accept, but after thinking it over for a few days (and swallowing my pride and my sense of confidence) I called one of my four children. 

"Just want to vent," I said. "Don't share with the others."

Ha! Snarky, busybody crew! (That's said with love not criticism.) Within the week they had had a 4-way Zoom call, and had decided that I had to move from New York to San Diego to be near my daughter.

They were concerned that I would be sorry to leave New York for San Diego, but I wasn't. The city had ceased to be what I had loved for much of my life. But I was reluctant to move because of the chaos of moving and dealing with many years of accumulated stuff in my apartment. (When you work full-time, it's enough just to clean, cook, shop and deal with everyday issues, let alone spending time sorting and dumping old stuff! I know lots of people can agree with me on that subject!)

"Don't worry," they said. "We have already hired a company to help you."

 Oh, people! Everyone should have a company like that! For two months, three hours a week, a young man came to my apartment. He would work on a cabinet. or bookshelf or a set of drawers. He had giant bags at the ready. Stuff to dump, to go to Goodwill or Salvation Army, to sell, to donate to upscale sites that would give me a tax write-off. 

He boxed all my office stuff (and carefully marked the boxes) and put small strips of blue tape on everything that would be packed by the movers. He even came in the day after I left for San Diego to supervise the moving company and make sure all the boxes were properly marked. (Though I 'm sure the movers were surprised by the large box he had marked Crazy Hats and fans. I have a collection of hats and fans I culled for many years from all over the world. Bengal Lancer helmet, gondolier's hat that I bought off the head of a gondolier in Venice, Amish hat, etc.  And a beautiful lace and blue flower fan that I found in Florence, along with assorted antique feather fans.) Can't wait to unpack hats and hang them on my walls!

In the meantime, youngest son and wife were coming in from Pennsylvania to help me prepare to leave. COVID-19 test for me (vital for the place I was going to), plus a doctor's appointment to be sure my still-sore back was healing. (It was.) Trip to the vet for my cat, Mr. Magoo, who would need a shot and papers to travel. (At the airport, he had to be out of his travel box and on a leash so he could WALK through the security gate! You gotta watch out for these terrorist cats!)

And funny cat story, aside from his name. Name? He is part Albino, snow-white and, like many Albinos, is sensitive to light. So he often squints. The shelter that found him and put his picture in the supermarket (where I fell in love with it) called him Mr. Magoo. The name was so apt that I kept it.

Anyway, Mr. Magoo, in the nearly ten years I've had him, has never meowed. He opens his mouth and looks like he is doing it, but no sound comes out. I checked his neck once and found what appeared to be scar tissue. Perhaps he got in a fight with another cat and his larynx was damaged. But when my son picked him up by the scruff to put him in the cat carrier for the vet, Mr. Magoo let out a meow that was so loud I nearly fell over! (It reminded me of the old joke of the child who had never talked for years, and they believed he was mute. That is, until they wanted to give him some new type of food. "No," he said. When asked why he had never spoken before, he replied, "Up till now there was nothing to complain about!") Magoo only meowed loudly when he was put in the carrier, but with me he still is silent!

Okay. we were almost ready to go. (Son and wife were flying out with me and the cat.) I called in my helpful neighbor and pointed to the freezer. "It's filed with steaks I will never eat. Take them. And here are extra boxes of wax paper, Saran wrap, foil, etc." Everything that was useful, but not worth packing, I begged her to take. (Born in the Depression and lived through WWII. Really hate to waste anything!)

Trip out uneventful. Got to San Diego. Met daughter here, who took me to my new home. 

Good stuff---It's a Senior Living facility, with totally independent apartments, but the whole place is geared to seniors. Meals supplied if you don't want to cook, cleaning service, plumbing, electrician, any kind of work that I might need around the place. 

What's new---besides the place---the weather. A garbage disposal in my kitchen (illegal in NY State---never had one before!), a Microwave---never wanted or had room for one in my NY kitchens!

What do I miss? The weather. (I know, Californians, I'm an iconoclast!) Grew up in New England---always loved the change of seasons. 

Great snow stories. Came home from hospital with second son. Huge snowstorm. Street had not yet been plowed. Had to get out of car and walk home in the snow, baby in my arms!

Second snow story: Baby daughter is a few months old. needs milk. Heavy snowstorm. Street not plowed for days. (That was the storm that destroyed Mayor Lindsay's presidential hopes.) Milkman couldn't deliver. Husband and sons go out, looking for a store that might still have milk for the baby. They find a milk truck stuck in a snow bank. Offered to help push him out of the snow if he gave them milk. They did and he did!

Will I miss the theater? No. Daughter works for La Jolla Playhouse. Will have all I could wish for when the theaters open up again.

Silly incidents in new home: Phone woke me up at 4 in the morning a couple of weeks ago. Front desk. Very worried. "What is your emergency?"

"None," I answer, still groggy and bemused.

"But your alarm bell rang!"

That's when I realize that, near my bathtub, there is a red cord with a red pull for emergencies. And my cat loved to play with it! (Emergency cord is now raised higher than his reach!)

Names: Everyone who works here knew my name almost at once. Can't figure out how they do it, especailly since all of us are in masks. Quite intimidating, especially since I am very BAD with names! During my husband's  political years, we went to many affairs. I am very visual, so I visually remember many things. But I am terrible with names. 

And I would see a woman I had met before. We would shake hands, and I would say, "Hi there. I love you in that red dress. Even prettier than the blue one you wore last year." (Because I could still SEE her in the blue dress.) But all the while I was thinking, "And who the hell ARE you?"

But I'm adjusting and beginning to enjoy myself here. It's terrific, after so many months of isolation, to be surrounded by people, even if we are all still masked and distancing. 

So what is the life lesson here? Roll with changes. View them as new adventures, not terrible disruptions in your life. Accepting changes can make you stronger. Make every day count. 

In some ways, change is more difficult for us because life has become so easy that we have grown soft. In the months I was going through so much upheaval in my life, I occasionally reminded myself of my grandmother, when I was feeling sorry for myself.

She came from Minsk, around the turn of the last century. Her husband had left and gone to Canada to escape being drafted into the Tsar's army. He had sent her a limited amount of money to join him.

She traveled alone through Europe with two babies under her arms. Often walking, often begging for help. She finally reached Liverpool in England, from where her ship would sail in the morning.

She had no money and it was cold. (She loved to tell this story!) So she went to the Liverpool Zoo and hid in the lion's house until the place closed. It was warm, and the babies could sleep. But she could barely close her eyes all night, hearing the large cats pace around their cages, growling and scratching the floor.

Next to that story, my relocation seems trivial!

One small P.S.

Has nothing to do with this topic, but when that young man was going through my old papers with me, he found a poem I had written for a contest for New York Magazine, which was published.Thought I would add it here.

Van Gogh sent an ear from the side of his head

To a lady well noted for vice.

"I'd love to reciprocate, folks," she said,

"But with what can I match Vincent's Price?"

 

 

DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

That line comes from many second-tier celebrities who are ego-driven, ambitious and insulted when they are treated like "normal " people. They can't believe they aren't as famous as they're sure they should be.

But what about the first-tier people?

My ex-husband and I, having lived rather interesting lives (he was a political big-shot in NYC, I was an award-winning Romance writer) have run into lots of "famous" people through the years.

I thought it might be fun to tell some of those stories, as well as some stories from famiy and friends.

Let me start with a delightful anecdote about Dr. Ruth.

We had been invited to a fund-raising event at the Plaza Hotel, I think. Summer Fancy Food Show, involving celebrities partnered with chefs who cooked their favorite dish. (Complete with take-home recipes. I still have Gloria Vanderbilt's Raspberry Chicken recipe.) It was quite formal, so I was in an evening gown. 

Approached Dr. Ruth Westheimer's table and sampled her cook's food. (A nice brisket of beef, as I recall.)

At that point, Dr. Ruth said, "What a beautiful gown. Very romantic." 

I responded, "That's because I'm a Romance writer." 

She asked for my pen name. I gave her both my names---Louisa Rawlings and Sylvia Halliday.

Her response? "Well, as long as your husband knows who he is getting into bed with each night!"

And, as a romance writer, I got to meet Barbara Cartland. (She sold millions of her books and also was the step-grandmother to Princess Diana.) She was coming to America and wanted a book-signing party here in NY, but she didn't want the "common people." The party was arranged through our Romance clubs, and only published authors were invited to the book-signing. My favorite memory of that afternoon (besides Barbara in her inevitable"Cartland Pink" dress, was drinking far too much wine with one of her sons, who was her business manager. We both got slightly looped while he told me he HATED working for his mother!)

Another story? Was in Colorado, where my daughter was the fund-raiser for the Vail Valley Foundation. Big fund-raising dinner. Stood at the door with her to help her greet the guests. 

In came Jack Kemp. (Look him up---sterling guy.) I recognized him, but couldn't remember his name. So I said, "Didn't you used to be a politician?"

He grinned and said, "Now I'm a statesman!"

And then there's a story about my mother, who was a nut, as I'm sure I've mentioned many times. (Look up my old blog from 2015 or 16---JUST FOR FUN). She and my dad had come to Germany to visit with me and my husband. They then sailed back to the United  States on the USS United States, which was making its maiden voyage. 

Of course there were many celebrities aboard. My mother was introduced to the Duke of Bedford. She turned, held out her hand, and said (not in greeting, but as an exclamation), "Good Lord!"

And one of my favorite memories: Ex and I were at a Tony Award dinner. at a midtown hotel---can't remember the name now, but you took the escalator up to the lobby, then had to go down to the coat check. In front of us was Ray Bolger (Dorothy's scarecrow). He turned and said to me "We go up to hang up our coat?"

"No," I said, "We go DOWN to hang UP. "

He loved that. We spent the next five minute trading DOWN/UP snarky comments!

(That same evening, my ex came back from the men's room and said, "I just peed next to Walter Mstthau!")

A slightly more downbeat celebrity story.

My ex was the president of a prison-connected drug program. Stay'n Out tried to reach the druggies in prison and begin to train them to live in the outside world. (Very successful program.) 

We were at a Stay'n Out fundraiser. Very crowded. Donors, but also family members of drug addicts. Ex and I separated for a time. I turned. There was Louis Jourdan, the gorgeous French actor. I had been in love with him from my young days, going to movies every week with my buddies.

He would have been in his 50's at that point. I knew that one of his children was into drugs and was probably in a drug program, which was why he was there.

The place was crowded. He looked lost. 

Now I have a good memory and I'm old enough to have seen many, many movies. So when I meet a celebrity, I can usually immediately refer to what I've seen them in recently, and stroke their egos. (See next story.)

But Jourdan looked gorgeous. And I remembered that he had, for years, been open about being one of the first Hollywood stars to get a face-lift.

So I tried to think of a movie I had seen him in, in order to open the conversation. But all I could think of were movies I had seen 20 years before. That would have indicated that I knew how old he was! As I racked my brain and tried desperately to think of a reason to speak to him, I couldn't think of any movies. So I turned away, in spite of his silent, desperate plea.

Felt guilty about stiffing him for a very long time!

Better connection. Had a theater matinee with a friend. Went to Sardi's for lunch before the performance. (Fun Sardi story to follow.)

At the next table, Jeremy Irons with a young lady. He was then starring in "Brideshead Revisited", which had made him a star. But I had followed him since an obscure Masterpiece Theater performance in "Love For Lydia." 

As he and the young woman were just having coffee, I approached their table and told him how much I had followed him since "Love For Lydia."

He was delighted! "I didn't think anyone watched that show!"

So since I had gotten him into a great mood, I took the occasion to ask another question.

It seems that, in the early years of scarce color TV sets, my husband and 3 sport-minded sons had always watched the baseball games in color. I was consigned to the kitchen and the small black and white TV set to watch Masterpiece Theater.

So I asked Mr. Irons if he could tell me, in a scene when one of the young ladies walks down a castle corridor, what color her gown was.

He laughed and indicated  his companion. "You can ask this young lady. She's the costume designer." What a fabulous chat she and I had over the Brideshead costumes!

Sardi story. Pre-cell phone days. Husband was now out of City Hall and working for Phoenix House, a well-know drug rehab organization. Situated in the West 70's or 80's We had a dinner date with downtown friends. I was coming from the suburbs.Would pick up my husband in front of Phoenix House and then we would drive downtown. 

I crossed the bridge from Queens to the city. Car suddenly dies. Indicates that battery is kaput. Pull over to side of the road and park.

Can't leave car till after 7, or will get a ticket. Hit phone box after 7,  but no answer. Ex has probably left Phoenix House and is probably already waiting on the street for me.

Flag down cab. Get to ex waiting on the street. We cab back to parked car. Call car service people to come for car. They determine that car needs new battery. But they need payment in advance. 

Ex says he used up his cash for the wine we were bringing to friends. I used my cash for cab rides. (Again, no cash machines in those days. You went to the bank and wrote a "cash" check for yourself.)

Here we are, in disabled car, hooked up to car-service jack, sitting precariously at an angle. 

Ex tells service people the address of Schubert Alley (next to Sardi's) We ride there, tipped up. He runs in, grabs Vincent Sardi, and has him cash a check for the amount we would have to pay the company to replace battery!

 A crazy adventure, but it worked out fine!

Now perhaps the saddest story, and a weird coincidence.

I had just left my husband. My daughter in Brooklyn was coming into NYC to do a number with a musical/comedy group. I had arranged to meet a friend at the place.

Got there early. As I was looking around the room for my friend, a little toddler came up and grabbed my legs. I couldn't shake him off. Finally looked into the room to see who he belonged to. There was my son from Pennsylvania! To my surprise (and many happy tears) I realized the toddler was my grandson, and that my son had come all the way from Pennsylvania to see his sister.

We watched the show, visited with my daughter and then left.

We were on the Upper West Side.

Because his toddler son had been in a car for a few hours, my son decided that his son should have a chance to run around before they drove home.We went into nearby Central Park. 

 It was in the area where John Lennon's memorial stood. Lots of people laying flowers, mourning Lennon, etc.

My son, who was dedicated to John Denver, (flew out from Pennsylvania just to see him in Colorado!) marveled at the mourning after all these years.

"With no disrespect to John Lennon," he said, "I'm a huge fan of John Denver." (Who was very much alive at that point.) "But after 17 years  after his death, I'm not going to be moping around like these people." We laughed, he left with his son and went home.

That night, within an hour of our conversation, John Denver died in a plane crash. I don't think my son got over that horrible coincidence for a long time.

One more memory.

Went to England. Had dear friends, titled.

Went to their daughter's wedding. (Lovely affair!) But were told that Dudley Smith, a friend of the family and a titled aristocrat, made an "ass of himself" that day.

For those involved in history, Robert Dudley, the first Earl, was Queen Elizabeth I's special lover.

I do have one more fun memory: During the Bicentennial celebrations in 1976, we were on the flagship in NY harbor when the tall ships went by.

On  our ship was Princess Grace and the entire Monaco family. Still have her autograph---"Grace de Monaco". She was very gracious to give it to us.

What is the point of all this?

Mostly to remind people that the really famous people can afford to be themselves---often gracious, open, and lovely.

Only people with less self-esteem have to trumpet their importance.

Life Lesson? If you get to the top, don't forget to be human and humble. 

Incidentally, people, if you have your own "famous people" story to tell, don't hesitate to contact me here!

                                                                                                                                   

   

WARNING!

I just had two of the most frustrating days in my recent life. (As if self-quarantine for 16 weeks isn't bad enough!)

I want to tell you about it and also warn you to be careful. I myself was a bit too trusting at first.

To begin, I had a phone call two days ago. I should tell you that I never pick up my phone unless I know who is calling me. But this call, on my phone log, said it was coming from Spectrum, who gives me my TV, Internet and landline phone in a package. So I picked up the phone.

(I have since learned that ANYONE can change their name to make people think they are calling from somewhere else.)

OK. Phone call. Man on line, named Walter, told me he was calling from Spectrum. He said that I was paying a great deal of money for my service, (Which I am. Thank you, Spectrum! Sarcasm.) He said that he could offer me a far lower rate because  I was a long-time Spectrum customer. Gave me a really nice lower figure, so I asked him to go on. He asked me lots of questions about my service, including asking me for my full name and address. This surprised me. I asked him to check with Spectrum's main files and he would get all the info. 

He said he was from the Promo Department and it wasn't easy to access Spectrum's main files. I accepted this but was a bit concerned. The lower price was quite extreme, and he also said I would get a $100 gift card. Still, it sounded pretty good. (Stupid me---there are no free lunches! And I should be old enough to know that!)

He then went on to explain that a new cable box would be sent to me and that if I called him (number is 845-203-1475---make a note of that), he would walk me through installing the box.

He then asked for several things---my birth date, my drivers' license, and the specific services I was receiving from Spectrum TV. He sounded very thorough and official. He mentioned that AT&T would be supplying me with the new box. (Not being a techie---I am 86, remember---I assumed AT&T worked with Spectrum on TV service.)

He told me the new box would arrive in three days, and that I would be called before then to set up the delivery. He finally asked me for a credit card number, since I would have to pay for the Activation Charge of $20. I gave him my card number. We discussed the whole process a bit more and then I hung up.

But then I began to wonder. Why did he know so little about me and my service if I've been with Spectrum for ages?

I called Spectrum. They said they had no "Promo Department", the phone number Walter had given me was not connected to their company, and also that they did not deal with AT&T. 

I did two things immediately. I called my credit card company to see if anything had been charged against my card (it hadn't), and I had them put the card on hold. The second thing was to call Walter and tell him I was cancelling my order. He argued with me, tried to tempt me with the low price, etc. But I said that he had lied to me and I was cancelling. Told him I had frozen my credit card. At that point, I simply thought he was an over-ambitious AT&T salesman.

In the next day, I got half a dozen calls from that number, but the call log no longer said Spectrum, it listed a city or town somewhere in NY. I ignored those calls. 

But today, two days after, I decided to pick up the phone when they called again. The man on the other end said that they were delivering the box tomorrow. I said I had cancelled my order within two hours of first speaking to Walter. Again, he tried to tempt me with nice prices, but I said I didn't care. Walter had said he was Spectrum and he wasn't. And I didn't want to switch to AT&T. I told him if the box showed up at my door I would refuse to accept it. He said they would leave it outside my door. I said I would dump it and call my lawyer if they harassed me further.

I hung up. Called AT&T, meaning to complain about their aggressive salesmen. After going through hell trying to reach a supervisor (and having to summarize the whole damn story endlessly for every intermediary--oh for the days when we dealt DIRECTLY with real people at the outset!), I finally got a supervisor. Gave her my name, address, phone number. 

She said I was not in her system, which meant I was not being scammed by an AT&T salesman who wanted to get me to switch from Spectrum, but was being conned by an actual scam artist.

At this point, I called my local police. The detective I spoke to said that the phone number I gave her came up on a list of people who had already been scammed. She said that because of the info I had already given the con artists, my credit might already have been compromised. She advised me to call a credit advisory company and gave me a phone number to Trans Union. 

I spoke to them and they have put a lock on my credit and will send me my credit report for free. The lock means that if anyone tries to use the info I gave them to open a credit card, the application will be denied.

It has been a harrowing couple of days, and I'm glad I was wary enough to have responded to the situation, albeit later than I should have.

But if there is a Life Lesson, it's this. 

Keep your eyes open and mistrust anything that sounds too good.

And if you feel you have been made a fool of (which I was), don't be embarrassed by your stupidity and hide under a rock. 

Fight back!

HOLIDAYS

You remember how my last blog referred to Memorial Day triggering lost memories. Well, the recent Fourth of July holiday not only recalled old memories, but led to me dredging up old memories from many different holidays in my lifetime. 

So here goes, in no particular calendar order.

The Fourth first, of course. When I was a kid, during and just after WWII, we were so proud of our country and what we had done to save the world that the sight of a flag in a parade was enough to bring me to tears of pride. So I did a bit of crying this weekend when I saw Fourth of July tributes on TV.

As a young mother, I always made a flag cake on the holiday for our cookout (impressed the kids so much they often invited their friends over for dessert). Sheet cake baked in 9 x 12 pan. Lines of strawberries for stripes, massed blueberries in star area. At the last minute, white Reddiwhip squirted on for stripes and stars. Also--- neighbor, a fireman, always had firecrackers that he had confiscated (rules were a lot tougher in those days!) that he shot off in his yard. Great holiday for years!
                                                                                                                             
The first day of summer, the Simmer Solstice. We were in England. As an art student, of course I wanted to see Stonehenge. Arrived early, driving up a sloping hill to the site. Lovely morning. Fantastic view coming up the hill. (Only Chartres Cathedral in France had a more awesome hillside approach!) We hadn't realized it was the solstice. Astonished to see, at some distance, hundreds of tents of people who had camped out to see the stones on this particular day. (Check Stonehenge site info---the stones and sun are supposed to align perfectly only on that day.) It was a bonus for us. Also the fact that, in those days, there was no fear of vandalism and we were able to go up and through the stone circle, touching the stones as we passed.

Christmas. I know I have mentioned in old blog entries about how wonderful our holidays were in Germany, when we were invited to share the holidays with our German friends and neighbors.
 But I don't think I ever mentioned two stories. 

One was silly and fun. The other was ultimately embarrassing.

The fun? Don't remember for sure if it was Christmas or New Year, but it was a holiday that in Germany was celebrated with fireworks, though we didn't in the States. Neighbors---the local baker who let me cook casseroles in his oven during the summer when I only had a hotplate, and my coal stove with oven was not active (too hot for the summer months)---anyway, neighbors invited us over that evening. We watched the outdoor fireworks from a distance, then repaired to their kitchen with them and friends. Hot mulled wine. Small "inside" fireworks. We were instructed to cover our glasses when one of them was lit, since the ashes would fall into our wine. And an especial memory of that evening---a firework that was a small cement dog with a large asshole. The small firework would be inserted into his asshole and lit. Whereupon it oozed forth very realistic-looking dog poop!

The embarrassment? Invited back for Christmas to our previous German family from whom we had rented a room. Very excited. We had bought lots of presents from the Army PX that I had wrapped in fabulous wrapping paper (lots of decorative foil---very new), fastened with Scotch tape and attached with bows and ribbons. 

When we untied the ribbon and unwrapped the presents that our landlady and family had given us, they carefully refolded the paper and put it away with the ribbon. Too late, I realized that they had probably saved their wrapping paper for years, especially during the war years and after. And when they had to tear our packages because of the Scotch tape, I remember feeling very embarrassed. There was simply not enough left to save.

Thanksgiving. I think I've mentioned before that we called it Bird Day, because my nutty mother always came into the dining room bearing the turkey and singing "Happy Bird Day to Us"!

Veteran's Day in November---we called it Armistice Day before the Second World War. It represented the day and hour (the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month) when the troops of both sides put down their arms in 1918 to end the first World War.

Halloween. Great memories. Through the years we gave many Halloween costume parties. While still in high school, my brother and I gave a great one. (I made a sari, dyed and gold-painted nine yards of fabric and wrapped it authentically, according to an article in Life Magazine. I even gave myself a "bindi" that mark in the middle of my forehead that many Indian women display.) One school friend was a young man, very handsome, but with a pronounced sloping brow line. We teased and sometimes called him a Neanderthal. Well, he came to our party in a fur loin cloth and nothing else! Looked perfect! (Too bad in those days it seldom occurred to us to take pictures.)

College-age party. Both I and boyfriend, later husband, in school (I finishing Brown, he starting law school), but we met at my parents' in Massachusetts to go to their country club Halloween party. We came as Salome and the head of John the Baptist. (Will explain at some point in the future how we did this, but it was very authentic-looking! Have a picture somewhere if I could find it!) We won first prize. A bottle of champagne. Couldn't accept it because we were both under 21, which was the age allowed to drink alcohol in those days!

A much later party, when we were a married couple. Had a wonderful friend who came from Florence in Italy. She told fortunes. Sadly, after one of her fortunes, the father of one of our guests died the next day. The following year, our friend said that if our fortune teller was coming to our party, she would not attend. (Spooky!)

And finally, the most spooky holiday story. My father's younger brother was a dear man. Served in the Canadian Army during the war. Came home and married. (Eventually moved to the States and worked for my father in his business.) He married a wonderful woman who was my favorite aunt.

She was born on March 17, St. Patrick's Day. They married on December 7, Pearl Harbor Day. Her first child was born on January 1, New Year's Day.

We used to tease her about it. Her reply? "Just so you won't forget me!"

She died young and unexpectedly. We all went to her funeral, then sat around in someone's house mourning her loss. 

Someone brought up the coincidence of all her holiday dates.

Then we realized that she had died on October 31, Halloween! 
It gave us a moment of laughter and joy, saluting her wonderful lifetime.

What's the Life Lesson here?

Memory.

Go back to your own memories of holidays. See how many touching, fun and oddball things happened through the years.

Just to remember is a joy.

P.S. Do leave a response on this site if you can, and share your own memories here.
                                                                                                                                                                           

GARBAGE IN MY HEAD

Head garbage. That's what's going on in my head, here in my solitude. Sitting here alone, week after week, with not much seeming to change, I've discovered that all kinds of oddball trash bits have dribbled into my brain, triggered by the most useless and trivial bits of outside influence.

None of it vital, none of it earth-shaking. It just pops into my head. Garbage.

This past Memorial Day. Suddenly remembered that, when I was a kid, and before WWII, it was called Decoration Day. In the little mill town where we lived, there would be a small procession to the town park, where people would lay bunches of flowers. Can still see them in my mind's eye, though I don't remember what they were placed on. Maybe nothing but just a spot of ground, since there were only a few swings and seesaws in the little park.

But of course the holiday was to remember the men who had fought in WWI. I was born just 15 years after the war ended. I'm old enough to remember legless men on the street, on little wheeled platforms, begging for money. And dazed men wandering the streets, seeming slightly out of their minds. "Shell-shocked", my mother would tell us.

And everybody wore poppies to commemorate the day. Where did that come from? Check out the poem, "In Flanders Fields" by John McCrae, written during the war. "In Flanders fields the poppies blow. Between the crosses, row on row."

What other garbage? Listening to the news programs and the talking heads and pundits, though it sometimes gets to be depressing. But that's not what I notice. I 'm a writer. So I listen and cringe. Trivial garbage again. 

Check out those talk shows and interviews. 

"Where did you go?"

"SO I went to the store."

"Who was there?"

"SO I saw a few men."

"How many were there?"

"SO I counted four."

Caught that? Almost every answer today starts with the unnecessary SO. Check it out the next time you're  watching TV news shows. I suspect that the SOs will start to drive you crazy too!

And don't get me started on the Latin phrase et cetera. Most pundits don't even really know its literal translation. ("et" means "and" and "cetera"  means "the rest.")   They almost always say "Ek cetera." I gnash my teeth, since I have too much time to spare! Have been noticing for weeks, and maybe ONE person in all that time on TV has pronounced it correctly.

And what about "en route"? The correct pronunciation from the French is "on root". But everyone always pronounces it "enn rowt." Grr! (A route is NOT a rout!)

And another thing on TV that always rings my bells---when a guest's interview is over, and the host thanks him/her, the guest almost always says "Thank you for having me."

But my nutty mother (check out an early blog, JUST FOR FUN) would have answered thus if someone said, "Thank you for having me." 

"Thank you for being had."

Another forgotten memory: From the time I was a young woman, I've always sent greeting cards---birthdays, baby births, weddings, anniversaries. Kept a card list that I would check before every upcoming month, then bought all the cards and marked them when to send. Can't do that anymore. I don't go out. But I have a subscription to an online card company, which sends out lovely sound cards.

My ex-brother-in-law's birthday came up recently. Knew he was a bird-watcher, as was my middle son. Sent him a card with birds on it.

He thanked me for remembering that he was a bird-watcher. That triggered a delicious memory. (I have his Okay to tell this story!)

It was in '71, he has reminded me.  He was in his mid to late 20's and his mother (my then mother-in-law) was getting impatient about him finding a girl and getting married. We were all at her apartment for dinner one night. He had just come back from a summer trip to the Grand Canyon and a visit to the Audubon Sanctuary in Wyoming.  So he was, of course, sharing his adventures, especially with my son.

In exasperation, my mother-in-law said, "Birds. birds, birds! Is that all you can talk about?"

His reply (with a straight face): "Well, not all the birds are in trees. For example, there is the Double-breasted Bed Thrasher."

My teenage sons nearly collapsed in embarrassed laughter, but she never got it!

What other garbage? A dear friend who lives in San Diego sent me a link to a place called "Sylvia's Bookshop." She was tickled to find it.

But it triggered a very old memory.

1955/56. Husband drafted into the Army, sent to Germany. I followed him.

We traveled quite a bit with a dear couple we had met. Traveled cheaply, of course, because we didn't really have that much to spend with Army pay. But this was Europe and we were very excited to be travelling. In that era, only rich Americans had begun to travel abroad. (I was an Art Major. Had packed all my Art notes, so I knew what I wanted to see!)

We were in Florence, April 1956. Feeling very classy. Had eaten at a posh Italian restaurant.(Customers dipped the tips of their knives---not their fingers---into the salt bowl and delicately sprinkled the salt onto their food!) Of course we simply ordered the antipasto and then dessert and coffee, to save money. But we still felt very elegant!

Step out onto the Piazza. Across the way, outdoor cafe. Man singing opera. Divine! Sat and ordered (cheapest)  wine, listened to the music. Felt so fricking "Continental" we were ready to burst! Europe, the heart of Florence, fashionable cafe. (We were only in our early '20s---this was a big adventure for our age group at the time.)

I was pregnant. (We drank and smoked in those days, even pregnant.) But I have to go to the Ladies' Room. Go inside the cafe. Find the loo. Clean, beautiful, elegant, modern. Inside the toilet bowl is stamped the name of the manufacturer of this magnificent porcelain piece.

SYLVIA

Another oddball memory. Another friend in San Diego. Wrote that she had an infection and had to take antibiotics. Not serious, but she found it a nuisance. Reminded me of when infections were far more serious and deadly.

Fall, 1948 or '49. Not sure. I had probably banged my shin at some point. Since I was skinny, there wasn't much fat on my leg to cushion the blow and it probably didn't get enough blood to drain the bruise. (It actually didn't really turn red, as I recall, though it was a long time ago,)

My father was, as I'm sure I've mentioned, in the textile business. He took me on a day-long trip to several of the mills in Eastern Massachusetts. Fabulous trip. Saw block printing, screen printing, weaving, brocading, dying, etc. Was on my feet all day, walking around.

By the next day, the spot on my shin was swollen, with red streaks darting out from it. Blood poisoning. In those days, it was often fatal. The doctor immediately had me in bed for two weeks, leg elevated, ice pack on the bruise constantly. Definitely a scary time. I could have died, and we all were aware of the danger.

But penicillin had just been invented. Doctor had no faith in the brand new drug, but visited me every two days to administer it with an uncomfortable shot in the ass---quite new for a generation that mostly was used to arm shots. if any shots at all! (I had mumps, scarlet fever, measles, whooping cough! And had friends who had had polio and limped.)

The doctor really didn't trust the new drug, so I still had to be immobile for the next two weeks. He would come with the shot, then mark on my leg with an X the spots that were no longer sore or red. (With the penicillin, I probably could have gotten up in a few days, but who knew?)

When I sent this story to my friend, I told her to be grateful for antibiotics!

So what is the Life Lesson here?

With nowhere to go, we all have time for a change. Time to dredge up silly bits of trivia, to search our memories and revel in past experiences,

Enjoy the memories. Share them.

It helps to pass the time and it reminds us that we are still vital, thinking human beings, with lives that are worth living and remembering.    

LET ME COUNT THE WAYS . . . .

. . . . WORLD WAR III?

It's difficult not to be emotional in these trying times, yet it's not easy to be upbeat when we hear so many sad stories on the news.

So I  thought I would simply try to be objective, and pass on some interesting stories, to try to take our minds off what is happening.

On the other hand, maybe I can do both.

To begin, I was struck by how often commentators and news sites and others tried to compare the Covid-19 disaster to World War II. I mentioned it to one of my sons, Fred, who said, "Mom, that's the perfect topic for your next blog!" And I think he was right. so, as Shakespeare said, "Let me count the ways."

I was born in 1933. I lived through the Depression. I was 8 when the war started. How was it different from today and how was it similar?

WWII Rationing: Because so many products had to go to the troops, we were rationed. We received monthly coupon books for many products, limiting us to a certain amount. If you ran out before the end of the month? Tough noogies! (We didn't say that then, of course. That's a much later bit of slang.)

What was rationed? Coffee, sugar, butter, meat, gasoline for our cars. Maybe more, but I can't remember. I don't recall being too bothered by this. My mother must have been very practical. I don't remember being deprived of anything. I do remember, however, that, because of the butter shortages, margarine was invented then. (Oleomargarine, it was called.) Colorless---a washed-out pale yellow---and tasteless. We tried to avoid it by saving our butter ration for what was important.

I remember about the gasoline rationing because my uncle, Goody Rosen, who played for the Brooklyn Dodgers, was a National League All-Star in 1945. But the All-Star game was cancelled that year because people couldn't easily travel with the gas rationing. (The game was played in 1963 as an Old-Timers game in Baltimore.)

Today's Rationing: We don't really have "rationing". In the war years, the shortages had a purpose and we had time to get used to them and adapt. Today, the crisis came up so quickly that panic set in and people became selfish hoarders. (Maybe if we had rationing, things would work out better!) But the sense of community that galvanized us during the war may soon kick in, and our shelves will not be so bare. I'm not referring here to the shortages of hospital supplies---that's a different matter entirely.

 But the almost psychotic run on toilet paper is baffling. In the old days, we were quite content to find substitutes, especially during the Depression, when everyone was poor! My grandparents' bathroom floor was covered in newspapers. When you were done, you simply tore a piece of the paper on the floor and used that! (The only setback was that, if you were reading a story while you were sitting, you could suddenly find that the end of the story had been torn off to be used for TP!) So why the desperate need to hoard rolls and rolls of the stuff?

In our present situation, because we can't go out to shop easily, we are learning to be more careful with what we have. For example, I'm now using old printed documents a second time by turning them upside down and putting them into my printer. In the same vein,"making do with what we had" was a habit we had already learned during the Depression, when no one had enough money for everything they needed or wanted.

During the war, of course, we were free to shop. No fear of going out and getting sick. And we could usually find what we were looking for at the store, as long as we had the ration points. So it was maybe better then. (Though I remember that, for several years, it was impossible to get bubble gum because of the shortage of sugar!)

And in some ways it was certainly better. In the matter of our personal freedom, for example. Businesses and factories stayed open. (Rosie the Riveter became a heroine, filling in at the factory for the GI's who were at war.) Except for the blackouts, which mandated that we douse all lights, we could go out, live our lives, shop, visit with friends and family.

Today's isolation and mandated distance is stressful, not being able to visit, be with, share special events with friends and family.

On the other hand, modern technology has kept us connected today in ways that would have astounded WWII people.. Television, the Internet, Facebook, Facetime, Zoom, etc. etc.

In those days, we had radio and the telephone, though not everybody could afford it then. That's it. Yes, we could go out, shop, visit, etc. but our world was narrowly limited. Because of the gas rationing, we were pretty much confined to our local community for companionship.

But of course all that refers mostly to  here in the US. as we compare our WWII experiences to today. But I wonder how aging Europeans, suffering under the virus, would compare their lives now to their lives at the time of the war.

Londoners who endured the blitz, Parisians who were occupied by the Nazis, Germans who were bombed into defeat, Hiroshima citizens who saw their city destroyed by an A-bomb. How would they compare today's Covid-19 troubles to the devastation of their past? With a little less sense of doom, I suspect, having lived through difficult times.

What couldn't we get, that people can get today? Silk, for one thing. It was largely made in Japan, our wartime enemy. It's why women took to drawing a seam down the center back of their bare legs to simulate the seam of silk stockings. (That's how stockings were made in those days. No pantyhose, of course,  but a stocking sewn up the back with a visible seam.)

No rayon or polyester was available or invented in those days. And, more important, parachutes were made of silk. So whatever was available had to go to the war effort. My father was in the textile business. He made silk screens. But he had seen the possibility of war coming, and had bought excess parachute silk a year or so before. So while other silk screen makers had to recycle their screens, he was able to use fresh silk.

What else couldn't we get? Too much clothing, because fabric went for our troops'uniforms. I think that's why dresses got shorter and shorter as the war years went on---to use up less fabric. In England, they even had laws about using too much fabric on clothing. No ruffles, extra skirt fabric, extra trims, etc. Printed dresses became popular, filling a shorter skirt with interest. My father became very successful during those years, since he made the screens for those printed fabrics.

And an interesting sidebar---during the war in England, servicemen were getting married very quickly. And alas. Not many wedding dresses were available because of the fabric shortages.  A woman   who worked, I believe, officially for the UK government, started an organization that collected used bridal gowns and loaned them out to brides for  their weddings. Who was she? Barbara Cartland, world-famous Romance Writer and step-grandmother to Princess Di. (Look her up. She's a hoot. Since I'm a romance writer, I met her a few times.)

What else was rationed, by necessity not government fiat, that compares to today? Doctors. In our case, it was all the good doctors who were drafted into the Army. What was left for us civilians were the old, the near-retired and the semi-competent. My mother had a bent middle finger for much of her life because our only local doctor, an alcoholic, burned off a wart on her finger and severed her tendon.)

The Scare Factor: Perhaps today it's more scary because it's so random. Yes, we had to keep a bucket of sand in the attic of our house in case of incendiary bombs, and we had regular blackouts that darkened our town against possible enemy attacks, but the war was so far away that it affected us but didn't really come close.For my brother and me, blackouts were fun. We would leave the movie theater and have to walk home in the dark. At home, the drapes were drawn and we read our books and papers by the light of the fireplace. My future husband's father was a Fire Warden, who put on a special hat and walked around his neighborhood knocking on doors if he saw any light coming from a house.

The only scare factor for us kids was the uncertainty of our own parents. My father was in his 30's with 3 kids, past the draft age. But if the war had gone on another year, he would have been drafted as the troops began to need more and more reinforcements.

For my relatives, however, the scare factor was a little stronger. Several of my uncles, who were all in Canada, were in the  Canadian Army.

One of my uncles was somewhere in Europe in 1944. He wrote his wife often. (Letters of course being heavily censored by large black spaces, so that you knew someone had already read them.)  But she had not heard from him in weeks. She was a nervous wreck. Her sister insisted on taking her to the movies to help her relax. In those days, every movie program included the News of the Week. And there on the screen was a segment announcing the recently concluded Battle of the Bulge.

And who was in the filmed footage? Her husband!

After the last show, she and her sister went to the manager.and told her story. He ran the clip again and, when she determined that the picture was truly her husband, the manager removed the film and clipped out one frame for her to take home to have made into a photo. She still didn't know at the time if he had survived the Battle (he did---unscathed) but at least she knew where he was.

And a story I particularly treasure from those years. One of my other uncles was in England, where my grandmother had come from. He looked up our distant relatives in Cheshire. At that point, my personal recollection is still strong in my mind.  I vividly remember helping my mother wrap care packages for those relatives.

Instant coffee, which was fairly new, and teabags, which had just been invented. (Probably made of rayon fabric packets, since there would not have been any other material that would have existed in those days.)

The Cheshire relatives were clearly delighted with our package. They wrote back this: "How clever of you Yanks to have figured out how to pre-measure tea!" They had opened a teabag, measured its contents, seen that it was exactly one teaspoon, and proceeded to open every single teabag that they needed and dump the loose tea into the teapot, as they had always done! (My mother, of course, wrote back to explain how this new invention was to be used.)

My ex-husband used to tell the story of his uncle, who was in the Army, who rode in the bombers as a photographer, taking pictures of the bombing sites as the action took place. And my ex, as a young boy, kept a scrapbook of those pictures, plus maps and photos of the progress of our troops through the battles that took place.

(Fascinating sidebar---when husband and I were in Germany after the war---see previous blog entries for stories---our German landlady kept the same kind of scrapbook that involved her son in the service, complete with maps, letters and assorted stuff. (Including a picture of Hitler in the front. She was not pro-Hitler, I don't think, but she felt that, to maintain historical accuracy, the picture had to stay.)

Do I have a Life Lesson after all this?

Yes, perhaps I do. This is it. The world has ALWAYS been filled with tragic, unexpectedly difficult times and situations. One of our problems today is that we have had so many years of relative calm and good times that we can't deal easily with this current difficulty. But perhaps we should stop to realize that our unhappiness and panic comes from a surfeit of good times, and that we have grown too soft and complacent. We should also accept the fact that for most people through the ages life has been far more difficult than this. We should toughen up and adapt and face the difficulties with wisdom and reason.

We will make it through. We're stronger than we think.