Blogging is hazardous to my health

I am addicted to blogging. Before I open my eyes in the morning, unbidden, a blog subject grabs me,  In truth, sometimes I wake up at 3:00 a.m. and have to reach for the flashlight and note pad, that are beside my bed, to preserve the thought that woke me up. Is this normal? I think not.

I know a really, really good writer who writes one blog a week for CNN. ( You can find him on the CNN home page, I'm sure). I receive it as a link from the author, Bob Greene.) He is an excellent columnist and author, and he can limit himself to writing once a week.  What is the matter with his mother who can't get three steps away from her desktop?

It is a terrible interruption for me to have to go to the bathroom.  I have half- lost interest in eating lunch. The sun shines bright in my living room, but I stay in the north-facing sitting room until I have finally had my say for the day.  My bedroom is aglow with sunshine and. once upon a time, I would take a short nap there, or just have an hour lie down. If I rest depends on finishing my blog.

And I can't start to write until I have read Facebook from top to bottom, news feed and live feed both. They suggest more blog ideas. And so it goes.

So I say to myself: "Hush your mouth, once in a while. You can't be interesting every day.  Let your ideas simmer for awhile, they may be richer, like good chicken soup."

Check in again tomorrow. I have no idea if I can quit cold turkey.

The winter of all our discontents

The dark silhouette of leaf less branches outside my windows could be beautiful... if they were seen against a bright blue sky.  But this is Ohio, and the sky is grey, and the wind is strong. If a last leaf might still have been clinging to the limb, it is far, far away now.

I have been thinking about last leaves for a long time. My friend, Lucile Kirk, once told me, over lunch, that she didn't want to be the last leaf on the tree. That was a few years ago, and now she has left us and, as in winter's past, so have Lois and Harry and Bob and Artie and Leonard and Evelyn. If you are ninety as I am, you can substitute your own list of missing friends.

We were once part of a group of seven couples, who met regularly on Saturday night. Now there are two of us, Artie's widow, Jackie, and I.

Not so long ago, I was a class mate of five or six local members of the CSG class of 1937, who met regularly for lunch. Now, there is Caroline Davis and I. We talk on the phone, and we share many intimacies because we have the trust that comes with an eighty year friendship.

At Wellesley, we were a compatible group of young women, who ate at the same table together for three years. (Yes, we had round tables, and table cloths and waitresses!) Now, Alice and I reach out to each other from Boston to Columbus, and she will say, when we have the "last leaf" conversation, "You remember my friend Muriel, from kindergarten" and I do, even though we have never met. I just know she is still on Alice's branch.

It was just a year ago that I saw my wonderful brother, Al, for the last time. That is hard to bear.

It happens, this time and change. I write this, today, not because I am mourning those who are gone, because, of course, I am. But I am celebrating those who remain, and the newer, younger people who have become dear to me.

 And sometime, sometime, spring will come.

Remember Pearl Harbor

I heard FDR say, on a radio where I was visiting with some friends, " a date which will live in infamy"and in a flash, I knew World War II had begun,  I knew my true love had been drafted the previous January, and his tour of duty was to be for one year. He was now an infantry man with more years staring us in the face. I had no idea of where he was at that moment.

He turned out to be in an elevator in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, on leave from Camp Shelby. He took the high road, as always, and joked, "I know Pearl Schwartz, but who is Pearl Harbor"? Then he sent me a telegram, "War or no war, I still love you." I think you paid by the word for a telegraphed message.

 I didn't know that our friend. Leonard York, was actually at Pearl Harbor. He was one of the 1282 wounded that day, and he died many years later of injuries he sustained that day.

I, also, did not know we were part of the "greatest generation".Tom Brokaw had to tell us so, in 1998. At the time, I was hard pressed to believe we were any greater than any other generation. But that was the year my true love died, age 83; and I remembered the details of our lives. We probably were special,  never really talking about that day or those years, but always looking. hopefully, to the future.

So today, I salute us all for our duty to our country, but my eligible grandchildren have no duty to Afghanistan. The way war is waged today is different, but it is still war.

And as FDR also said, "I hate war."

Woe is We

My first thought this morning, before my eyes were really open, hit me right in the blog. If only Obama governed the way he plays basketball, America would, again, be all that it can be.

You know what I'm talking about: that half smile, the joy, the passion, the I-know-exactly-what- I-am- doing, the I'm in charge, get outta my way.  No time for slow deliberations, to pour over every option, devise a strategy.  Just go out there and make a few double-triples (whatever that is) and the game is as good as won.

Can't you see the other team, Achmininajad, Natanyahu, Karzi, and all that bunch, plus Glenn Beck and John McCain and mealy-mouthed Mitch McConnell muttering to themselves, "this guy really knows what he's doing" as they commit foul after foul, time running out, with no chance for them to win

You can think about style and substance. Obama has them in abundance. Style got us JFK. Substance got us Abraham Lincoln. Style and substance gave us FDR, four times.  On the campaign trail, Obama showed us both.  Now, it seems, he is weighted down with the substance and his style is cramped. Even Michelle's smile is beginning to look a little fake.

Come on, try for a few three-pointers, drive hard to the basket, "accidentally" throw an elbow. There are a lot of us cheering for you. Get my blood flowing, which my heart is increasingly unable to do. When you win, we all win. Just put on your Nike's and DO IT.      

Another landmark, down the tube

Even before my first sip of coffee, I got mad, and sad, and resigned to the speed of the changing world. The City of Columbus wants to sell the Champion Golf Course. The course is too difficult, it is losing money, and zoning would permit single family housing.

In an earlier and happier time, that property was The Winding Hollow Country Club. It opened with a nine hole course in 1921, and it was there I learned to swing a three-wood, my favorite club. Sometime, when I have trouble falling asleep, those nine holes are the "sheep" I count.  I can follow myself from one to nine, envisioning every tree, every little creek, every, every rough.

 The course grew to eighteen holes, designed by Robert Trent Jones, in 1948. Bob, my husband, was Club President , and in his official capacity, we drove Robert Trent to the airport after a meeting. Wanting to be gracious and interested, I asked him when he had first decided to become a golf course architect. The "you idiot" look he gave me--it chilled me to the bone.

Public housing was, eventually, built just north, and above, the long 16th hole, far away from the Clubhouse.  A few times, members were robbed at gun point.  The three-C highway was no longer a prime location. Lock, stock and barrel, a new Winding Hollow was built on Babbitt Road, a better address. Beautiful building, tennis courts, snack bar, all the amenities. And then members began to disappear, for even more desirable places. It morphed into a few other incarnations, and I lost complete interest in what was going on.

So why does this news about the sale of the old WHCC bother me?  I truly did not care;  after Bob served as President, we remained members only until after my brother, Al Harmon, had served his term.

But I feel the ground shifting under me with the loss of each landmark. Change is progress, I know, I know. But could just a few places remain a little longer?  My roots grow deep and wide, at ninety. Please don't pull them out any faster than you have to.  Whoever "you" are.

Fair Avenue School

The Columbus Dispatch just announced the closing of nine schools in our public school system. They were well below capacity in number, and most had been rated D by whatever standards they use to judge accomplishment. Children left behind. For all the extra effort of the administration, creative and innovative thinking, the schools are fighting a losing battle. It is sad. Fair Avenue elementary is one of those schools. I believe the news release reported that it was built in 1890.

When I was six years old, I went off to Fair Avenue school-- on foot, holding hands with my six year old best friend, Lois. She lived across the street from me, and she was my cousin, to boot.

 I cannot believe our parents allowed us to walk that far, but this was 1925, and it was completely safe. We walked east two blocks to Morrison, turned to head north to Franklin Park South, and then it was only two blocks east that we arrived at school, no other street to cross. We were scared and thrilled.

As I thought and thought about our journey, I had to turn to Mapquest to be positive that I would not be setting you on a wild goose chase, looking for  two little girls, one with blue eyes, one with brown. But that is exactly where we were for five, wonderful years.

Our principal's name was Miss Hammond, and she always wore purple. To be summoned to her office was the scariest thing in the world. It was in second grade that I made my one and only appearance.  I had gone to the boys' side of the playground during recess.  And I had good reason to go: I wanted to talk to Edward Underwood, a handsome swain whose father was Superintendent of Parks for the City of Columbus and he lived in a house IN the park. He was my very first Prince Charming.

Diversity was never an issue. We were all white, all middle class. But there was one little African-American girl, Annie Ransom. How sad for her,  one-of-a-kind, her dark, pretty little face in a sea of white. She had an autograph book and I wrote. "Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you." And then I went back to stalking Ed Underwood.

In second grade, I also walked across in front of the desks with a pencil in my mouth, lead point first and embarrassed myself, bleeding down my chin.

By fifth grade, our classroom was upstairs. Walking down the wide, wooden stairs, two by two, at days' end, felt, to me, as exalting as changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace.Too much A.A. Milne on my reading list, I guess. And our fifth grade teacher, Miss Schroll, had a broken arm. I wanted one so badly, just to walk down those steps with my arm in a sling.

 At that point, Lois and I moved to Columbus School for Girls.

And CSG was the most phenomenal educational experience I ever had anywhere.

The worst words

In a family conversation, one time, someone said, "I think you should" and I interrupted immediately, by saying, "I think those are the four worst words in the world." I believe they never need to be spoken, even adult to child.

There are much kinder ways to communicate;  I am a Dr. Benjamin Spock graduate who learned, early on, that a parent needs to treat the children with as much respect as house guests. Presuming we are gracious to our guests.

 At this point, someone else chimed in, "I think 'shut up' are the worst of words, and then another nominated "you dirty liar" as their worst.  So if you see the banner on our family tree, know that "I think you should shut up you dirty liar",  stands for the best of us, and judge us accordingly.

 I am sure there are families all over who have had similar discussions, each one with their version of what is unacceptable. They just don't need to tell me that I should like theirs as well as I like mine.