Don’t tell the tax assessor, but we have a new residential unit on the Forseter homestead. It’s a single occupant birdhouse, lovingly painted by our grandson Finley.
I naturally was quick to hang it up next to the bird feeders and promptly sent off a picture to Finley’s parents, only to be cautioned that the little fellow used water color paint that needed a coating to insure it would not wash off in the first rain. A quick trip to the paint store solved that problem. So far, however, I haven’t noticed any birds taking up residency. Of course, this balmy spring-like weather could be the reason the vacancy sign is still lit.
I have noticed, meanwhile, that the Winter King Hawthorn tree we planted in our front yard in Finley Hawthorne Forseter’s honor has been attracting birds and even squirrels eager to munch on the red berries that sprouted on the branches in the late fall. Though horticulture Web sites say the berries last through the winter, when I looked outside a few minutes ago I noticed the berries were all gone. Ah, well...
Barking Up the Wrong Tree: Did you catch the latest craze, as in crazy. Seems some Jewish families are celebrating their dog’s “bark mitzvah” when the critter turns 13 in dog years, roughly when it is two years old. I kid you not. They drape a small prayer shawl over the canine’s body and place a yarmulke on the dog’s head. Here are mutt-shot views of some religiously-garbed hounds: http://www.google.com/search?q=bark+mitzvah&hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=7dy&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&prmd=imvnsu&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=9hcLT9m1KuLL0QGe6si3BQ&ved=0CGAQsAQ&biw=1215&bih=583. The potential for more excruciatingly bad puns—”muzzle tov,” chanting the “arf-Torah”—abound.
Several Christian denominations hold annual church services where all manner of animals are blessed, but for pure exhibitionism and, in my view, mockery of the religion, I can’t find a more silly and inane practice than that displayed by some of my co-religionists. See for yourself. Here are two examples of bark-mitzvahs: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PsNjEzblZDw and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHyKrJgpQqM&feature=related. As one viewer commented on the second video, “The dogs are the most intelligent animals in this video.”
Maxxed Out: Has anyone else been amused by the choice of Pepsi Max to feature the NY Jets in one of its latest commercials? The gist of the spot is an inspirational half-time moment in the Jets locker room that exhorts them to victory.
Well, we all know the Jets failed to make the playoffs this year, the year coach Rex Ryan guaranteed a Super Bowl victory. Based on his size, Ryan no doubt would be better off drinking a reduced calorie beverage. But we also know from Jets players and other team observers that their locker room was far from a unified sanctuary. Indeed, rookie quarterback Greg McElroy labeled several players as selfish, not team-oriented. “I think the fact that we struggled at times this year really led to a really just corrupt mindset within the locker room,” McElroy told an Alabama radio station.
Pepsi Max is not the first, and surely won’t be the last, marketer to have a celebrity endorsement explode in its face because of inappropriate behavior or some other event beyond its control. My personal favorite happened in 2005. American Express built a campaign around Andy Roddick’s quest for the U.S. Open Tennis championship. It engaged then-budding comedian/actor Nick Kroll to play Roddick’s “mojo.” After Roddick would be shown going to sleep, his mojo would party and otherwise use his AmEx card to have a good time.
Based on his reaching the quarterfinals during the prior four U.S. Opens, American Express expected Roddick to play deep into the tournament. Kroll’s friends and acquaintances were eager to follow his mojo performance (we’ve known Nicky since our children went to school together— Dan played basketball with him on their championship elementary school team—and I’ve interviewed his father, Jules Kroll, the well-known financial investigator).
Someone, however, forgot to tell Roddick’s opening round opponent, Gilles Muller, about the multi-million dollar ad campaign. He knocked Roddick, and his mojo, out of the Open, in straight sets. I imagine AmEx executives and their ad agency contacts drank something a little stronger than Pepsi Max when that happened.
Showing posts with label Winter King Hawthorn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Winter King Hawthorn. Show all posts
Monday, January 9, 2012
Friday, April 15, 2011
Spring Cleaning
Thursday was the type of day we’ve been longing for in the Northeast—temperature hovering near 70, balmy breeze, sunny. A reminder spring is a season of rebirth. Almost time to shed my socks, figuratively if not literally.
As I drove around, lots of trees were issuing early blooms and leaves, but the Winter King Hawthorn we planted in our front yard last May is a slow starter. Its branches reveal traces of life, nothing spectacular as yet. Too bad. I would have liked to show off its buds to daughter-in-law Allison and grandson Finley, both of whom share Hawthorne as a middle name, when they arrive Monday for Passover.
More than in the past, this year our yard has been visited by robins. They’re not interested in the seed I put out for wild birds as they’re into beetle grubs, caterpillars, fruits and berries. I spotted one robin taking a bath, splashing around in a puddle left over from Wednesday’s rain. I was kinda piqued by its choice of watering hole, as the birdbath I paid good money for stood just a few feet away. Not sure if it was the same bird, but this morning, now that the puddle has dried up, a robin was enjoying the birdbath.
I’ve noticed one other aspect of robins in the ‘hood—they really do bop along, preferring to bop-bop-bop, rather than fly away, even when the unknown can be lurking in the form of a human.
Spring is heralded as a season of cleaning. Gilda is no exception to this annual rite. I’ve loaded up several bags of discards for the dump or the Salvation Army. She wanted to dispose of a pair of sterling silver salt and pepper shakers (four containers in total, in case you’re confused by my wording), hand-me-downs from my mother that we haven’t used in years, mainly because we didn’t take care of them properly and they tarnished.
I applied commercial silver polish to one Tuesday and brought back its luster, reversing years of corrosion and Gilda’s appreciation for them. Thursday I treated the remaining three shakers, but first consulted Haley’s Hints, a guide to chores using everyday items you’d find around the house. Combining a quart of hot water, a tablespoon of salt, a tablespoon of washing soda and a strip of aluminum foil, I removed the tarnish. They’re not quite as shiny as brand new, but they are presentable.
Before tackling the salt and pepper shakers I undertook a different spring cleaning task—I went for my semi-annual dental check-up. “No cavities, Mom!” My dentist now takes digital X-rays. Very cool. Clearer pictures. Ready on the spot.
I complained that often my molars sting when I chew bread. The dentist was baffled it only happens with bread. Perhaps it’s Dr. Atkins sending a message from the hereafter that carbs are not good for me. Return to the program, he’s counseling from the beyond.
Before the dentist smoothed out an old filling with a slight chip, I asked if I needed any novocaine. I didn’t, but I’m always cautious since one of the editors who worked for me 29 years ago needed his first-ever root canal treatment. Peter had just returned from Singapore and didn’t have a regular dentist. A friend referred him to a father-son dental practice, advising to pick the son. He didn’t listen.
The septuagenarian dentist asked Peter if he believed in new-fangled treatments, you know, things like novocaine. Ever the traditionalist, Peter said no, that whatever the dentist thought necessary was okay by him.
Now, anyone who’s ever had a root canal knows it’s one of the more painful treatments you will undergo in a dentist’s chair. Think Marathon Man. It's definitely not safe. Many times over. Peter came back to the office lamenting his dual decisions to sit for the elderly dentist and to believe him when he said it wouldn’t hurt.
What always amazed me is when Peter returned for the required second and third treatments, he continued to allow the senior dentist to work on his mouth—without novocaine!!!
As quickly as I could I arranged his transfer to another publication. No way I wanted someone with that amount of judgment working for me.
As I drove around, lots of trees were issuing early blooms and leaves, but the Winter King Hawthorn we planted in our front yard last May is a slow starter. Its branches reveal traces of life, nothing spectacular as yet. Too bad. I would have liked to show off its buds to daughter-in-law Allison and grandson Finley, both of whom share Hawthorne as a middle name, when they arrive Monday for Passover.
More than in the past, this year our yard has been visited by robins. They’re not interested in the seed I put out for wild birds as they’re into beetle grubs, caterpillars, fruits and berries. I spotted one robin taking a bath, splashing around in a puddle left over from Wednesday’s rain. I was kinda piqued by its choice of watering hole, as the birdbath I paid good money for stood just a few feet away. Not sure if it was the same bird, but this morning, now that the puddle has dried up, a robin was enjoying the birdbath.
I’ve noticed one other aspect of robins in the ‘hood—they really do bop along, preferring to bop-bop-bop, rather than fly away, even when the unknown can be lurking in the form of a human.
Spring is heralded as a season of cleaning. Gilda is no exception to this annual rite. I’ve loaded up several bags of discards for the dump or the Salvation Army. She wanted to dispose of a pair of sterling silver salt and pepper shakers (four containers in total, in case you’re confused by my wording), hand-me-downs from my mother that we haven’t used in years, mainly because we didn’t take care of them properly and they tarnished.
I applied commercial silver polish to one Tuesday and brought back its luster, reversing years of corrosion and Gilda’s appreciation for them. Thursday I treated the remaining three shakers, but first consulted Haley’s Hints, a guide to chores using everyday items you’d find around the house. Combining a quart of hot water, a tablespoon of salt, a tablespoon of washing soda and a strip of aluminum foil, I removed the tarnish. They’re not quite as shiny as brand new, but they are presentable.
Before tackling the salt and pepper shakers I undertook a different spring cleaning task—I went for my semi-annual dental check-up. “No cavities, Mom!” My dentist now takes digital X-rays. Very cool. Clearer pictures. Ready on the spot.
I complained that often my molars sting when I chew bread. The dentist was baffled it only happens with bread. Perhaps it’s Dr. Atkins sending a message from the hereafter that carbs are not good for me. Return to the program, he’s counseling from the beyond.
Before the dentist smoothed out an old filling with a slight chip, I asked if I needed any novocaine. I didn’t, but I’m always cautious since one of the editors who worked for me 29 years ago needed his first-ever root canal treatment. Peter had just returned from Singapore and didn’t have a regular dentist. A friend referred him to a father-son dental practice, advising to pick the son. He didn’t listen.
The septuagenarian dentist asked Peter if he believed in new-fangled treatments, you know, things like novocaine. Ever the traditionalist, Peter said no, that whatever the dentist thought necessary was okay by him.
Now, anyone who’s ever had a root canal knows it’s one of the more painful treatments you will undergo in a dentist’s chair. Think Marathon Man. It's definitely not safe. Many times over. Peter came back to the office lamenting his dual decisions to sit for the elderly dentist and to believe him when he said it wouldn’t hurt.
What always amazed me is when Peter returned for the required second and third treatments, he continued to allow the senior dentist to work on his mouth—without novocaine!!!
As quickly as I could I arranged his transfer to another publication. No way I wanted someone with that amount of judgment working for me.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Catching Up
Am I the only one who thinks the leaves have stayed on the trees longer this year? Maybe it’s the relatively warm autumn? Maybe, it’s because there have been few windy rain storms, like the one the other night? Maybe it’s global warming? Whatever, it seems the foliage has stayed with us deeper into this season than in years’ past.
By the way, our Winter King Hawthorn tree held onto a few leaves through Finley Hawthorne Forseter’s first birthday on Tuesday.
I failed to mention last week my mother’s 93rd birthday would have been celebrated last Thursday (she was born Nov. 11, 1917, in Lodz, Poland, arriving in New York about four years later). My mother enjoyed a good adventure yarn, in print or on film. One of her favorites, which she passed down to me, was The Scarlet Pimpernel. She made me read the book and we enjoyed watching the Leslie Howard-Merle Oberson film when it showed up on TV. It did so again this morning and I took the opportunity to spend some time with youthful memories.
My mom would be just slightly older than the women to whom I deliver meals each week. I always ask if they need assistance reaching something on a high shelf. No, they reply. Whether in a single family home or an apartment, they live in a one-dimensional world. Nothing of importance, nothing not needed for everyday life—plates, cups, linens—is stored outside their immediate reach.
One of the stores we frequented when our children were young was Danny’s Cycles. We bought Dan and Ellie their first bikes there. Also my first two-wheeler (a story for another day). We always said hello to Danny, whose father named the store after him and who had given the store to Danny by the time we began patronizing it.
A few weeks ago, in need of new pedals for my exercise bike, I stopped into Danny’s and asked Steve, who had been with the store for about 20 years, since he was a teenager, where Danny was. He was in Florida, retired. I was shocked. Danny couldn’t have been more than 40-45 years old. He’s doing volunteer work there, having been bought out, said Steve. I was pleased to see new ownership had retained Steve. Pleasure turned into satisfaction when Steve told me he was the new owner.
One of my relatives, who shall go nameless lest I embarrass the poor soul, recently sent me some “great literary taunts,” among which comes the following which makes perfect sense when applied to Tea Party members:
"They never open their mouths without subtracting from the sum of human
knowledge."
--- Thomas Brackett Reed
No doubt my relative will not be amused, being of the conservative persuasion, to the endless regret of the relative’s spouse. But if you can’t take a joke, what’s the point of sending jokes?
Conservatism creeps up on you. It’s commonly understood that as one ages one becomes more conservative, more set in one’s ways. Probably true. What I used to accept as acceptable college age behavior I now tsk-tsk at. My recent admonition against Four Loko and other alcohol-caffeine drinks might fit into that category if it weren’t for the real danger those mixtures pose. Glad to see the FDA agrees and is forcing the makers of such potables to cease and desist.
Troubling is the reaction of too many (underage) college students to stock up on the brew while it’s still in stores.
Finally, I will not embarrass myself by revealing what infinitesimal percentage of Twitter followers my blog has compared to the 5.3 million who breathlessly await the latest nail-clipping, bra-busting, hair-splitting, pout-mouthed tweet from Kim Kardashian (please, nobody say they don’t know who she is, but just in case, here’s a link from today’s paper: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/18/fashion/18KIM.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=kim%20kardashian&st=cse).
Kim, if I may be so bold to call her by her first name, might have started her notoriety with a sex tape, but she’s one helluva marketer.
By the way, our Winter King Hawthorn tree held onto a few leaves through Finley Hawthorne Forseter’s first birthday on Tuesday.
I failed to mention last week my mother’s 93rd birthday would have been celebrated last Thursday (she was born Nov. 11, 1917, in Lodz, Poland, arriving in New York about four years later). My mother enjoyed a good adventure yarn, in print or on film. One of her favorites, which she passed down to me, was The Scarlet Pimpernel. She made me read the book and we enjoyed watching the Leslie Howard-Merle Oberson film when it showed up on TV. It did so again this morning and I took the opportunity to spend some time with youthful memories.
My mom would be just slightly older than the women to whom I deliver meals each week. I always ask if they need assistance reaching something on a high shelf. No, they reply. Whether in a single family home or an apartment, they live in a one-dimensional world. Nothing of importance, nothing not needed for everyday life—plates, cups, linens—is stored outside their immediate reach.
One of the stores we frequented when our children were young was Danny’s Cycles. We bought Dan and Ellie their first bikes there. Also my first two-wheeler (a story for another day). We always said hello to Danny, whose father named the store after him and who had given the store to Danny by the time we began patronizing it.
A few weeks ago, in need of new pedals for my exercise bike, I stopped into Danny’s and asked Steve, who had been with the store for about 20 years, since he was a teenager, where Danny was. He was in Florida, retired. I was shocked. Danny couldn’t have been more than 40-45 years old. He’s doing volunteer work there, having been bought out, said Steve. I was pleased to see new ownership had retained Steve. Pleasure turned into satisfaction when Steve told me he was the new owner.
One of my relatives, who shall go nameless lest I embarrass the poor soul, recently sent me some “great literary taunts,” among which comes the following which makes perfect sense when applied to Tea Party members:
"They never open their mouths without subtracting from the sum of human
knowledge."
--- Thomas Brackett Reed
No doubt my relative will not be amused, being of the conservative persuasion, to the endless regret of the relative’s spouse. But if you can’t take a joke, what’s the point of sending jokes?
Conservatism creeps up on you. It’s commonly understood that as one ages one becomes more conservative, more set in one’s ways. Probably true. What I used to accept as acceptable college age behavior I now tsk-tsk at. My recent admonition against Four Loko and other alcohol-caffeine drinks might fit into that category if it weren’t for the real danger those mixtures pose. Glad to see the FDA agrees and is forcing the makers of such potables to cease and desist.
Troubling is the reaction of too many (underage) college students to stock up on the brew while it’s still in stores.
Finally, I will not embarrass myself by revealing what infinitesimal percentage of Twitter followers my blog has compared to the 5.3 million who breathlessly await the latest nail-clipping, bra-busting, hair-splitting, pout-mouthed tweet from Kim Kardashian (please, nobody say they don’t know who she is, but just in case, here’s a link from today’s paper: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/18/fashion/18KIM.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=kim%20kardashian&st=cse).
Kim, if I may be so bold to call her by her first name, might have started her notoriety with a sex tape, but she’s one helluva marketer.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Creature Habits
If you’re not careful, it’s easy to fall into slovenly habits when you no longer commute to an office. While I haven’t shaved every morning, I have fastidiously showered and washed my hair daily to avoid any appearance of seediness. But a little more than a week ago the NY Times ran an article about people who blithely let days go by between showers and shampoos, or even an application of deodorant, what we used to call in summer camp a “marine shower” (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/31/fashion/31Unwashed.html?scp=1&sq=daily%20showers&st=cse).
Especially as we flow through the parched-skin fall and winter months, the option of not subjecting my (sensitive) outer layer to excess water looms as a very appealing morning option. After all, how grungy could I get just hanging around the house, or running the occasional errand?
Well, I’m not going to tell you what I decided. Next time you see me, though, I won’t take offense if you keep your distance, or at the very least sniff the air around me before approaching.
Three Birthdays: Last Saturday Gilda and I went to two birthday parties. We started the day at the bar mitzvah of the youngest son of one of the doctors in Gilda’s office. Michael made his parents proud.
Saturday night we helped celebrate the 85th birthday of our friend Milton. He was the art director of my publications for close to 20 years. Several of his paintings hang in our home, my favorite being a self-portrait that, to me, makes him look like a Portuguese fisherman. I become transfixed whenever I gaze upon it.
Over the years I worked with many art directors, none who possessed the love of literature Milton did. Moreover, he always took the time to read our stories before designing a page. Never an easy man to get along with—cantankerous would be a mild description of his usual workplace demeanor—Milton has mellowed, even becoming quite sentimental. He reads poetry to his partner of many years, Marianne, as they walk along the Hudson River. To the assembled friends and family at his party, he read the following poem by Robert McCrum:
I have learned, in short, that I am not
Immortal (the fantasy of youth)
and yet,
strangely, in the process I have been renewed
in my understanding of family and, finally,
of the only thing that matters:
Love
Next Tuesday will be the first birthday of our grandson, Finley Hawthorne Forseter. It’s a race to see if the tree we planted last spring, a Winter King Hawthorn, will lose all its leaves before the milestone day. It’s also a race to see if Finley will master walking by then. He’s already able to stagger about before dropping into the arms of his parents. Any day now he will permanently defy gravity. For a video of his latest efforts, visit http://findingfinley.blogspot.com/2010/11/walker-arlington-ranger.html.
Rocky and Friends: I really like watching squirrels. I know they’re rodents, as Gilda repeatedly points out to me. But they’re industrious. Extremely smart. Resourceful. And cute.
Squirrels are attracted to my bird feeding stations. They feast on seeds indiscriminately dropped to the ground by the birds. Of course, being rather self-centered creatures, squirrels prefer to eat seeds straight from the feeders, but I’ve prevented that possibility by strategically placing inverted funnel-shaped plastic squirrel guards along the chains above two of the main feeders that hang from nearby trees.
The other day as I was eating breakfast, I looked out the window at my new bird feeder, a white house with an A-frame metal shingle roof hanging from one of our pine trees. It recently replaced an open gazebo-style feeder that surprisingly never interested the squirrels. The new feeder was promoted as squirrel proof—its perches are levers designed to close up the seed area under the weight of any bushy-tailed scavenger that might pull up a chair, so to speak, to the dinner table.
The new feeder had been up for about 10 days without incident, but on this morning I was brought up short in my Cheerios-crunching by the sight of a squirrel busily munching away on bird seed while it rested comfortably on the perch. Four or five times I shooed the squirrel away, only to witness its methodical return. The squirrel would climb up the pine tree, scamper across the limb from which the feeder was suspended, and shinny its way down the chain till it plopped onto the roof. The last straw was when it didn’t even bother to sit on the lever. Rather, it hung upside down from the roof to casually chomp away at the cache of seeds at its disposal.
My daily rounds that day included a trip to the wild bird store to purchase yet another plastic baffle to baffle and confound the squirrels. Only the squirrels were not content to go down without a fight. For the next day they repeatedly crawled down the chain from the tree limb until they’d get to the edge of the squirrel guard. At the bottom of the guard, the widest part of the funnel, they were forced to leap for the house. But it was too steep an angle. They’d tumble four feet to the ground, shake themselves off, climb back up the tree and try once more. It took several unfortunate falls before they learned they could not get around the squirrel guard.
But perhaps they could avoid it. So the most resourceful did his best impersonation of Rocky the flying squirrel. He jumped from a tree limb toward the feeder. Alas, for him, at least, I had placed the feeder too distant for a successful aerial assault.
Granted, outwitting a squirrel might be considered an insignificant achievement, but it sure beats the office political games I once had to play.
Especially as we flow through the parched-skin fall and winter months, the option of not subjecting my (sensitive) outer layer to excess water looms as a very appealing morning option. After all, how grungy could I get just hanging around the house, or running the occasional errand?
Well, I’m not going to tell you what I decided. Next time you see me, though, I won’t take offense if you keep your distance, or at the very least sniff the air around me before approaching.
Three Birthdays: Last Saturday Gilda and I went to two birthday parties. We started the day at the bar mitzvah of the youngest son of one of the doctors in Gilda’s office. Michael made his parents proud.
Saturday night we helped celebrate the 85th birthday of our friend Milton. He was the art director of my publications for close to 20 years. Several of his paintings hang in our home, my favorite being a self-portrait that, to me, makes him look like a Portuguese fisherman. I become transfixed whenever I gaze upon it.
Over the years I worked with many art directors, none who possessed the love of literature Milton did. Moreover, he always took the time to read our stories before designing a page. Never an easy man to get along with—cantankerous would be a mild description of his usual workplace demeanor—Milton has mellowed, even becoming quite sentimental. He reads poetry to his partner of many years, Marianne, as they walk along the Hudson River. To the assembled friends and family at his party, he read the following poem by Robert McCrum:
I have learned, in short, that I am not
Immortal (the fantasy of youth)
and yet,
strangely, in the process I have been renewed
in my understanding of family and, finally,
of the only thing that matters:
Love
Next Tuesday will be the first birthday of our grandson, Finley Hawthorne Forseter. It’s a race to see if the tree we planted last spring, a Winter King Hawthorn, will lose all its leaves before the milestone day. It’s also a race to see if Finley will master walking by then. He’s already able to stagger about before dropping into the arms of his parents. Any day now he will permanently defy gravity. For a video of his latest efforts, visit http://findingfinley.blogspot.com/2010/11/walker-arlington-ranger.html.
Rocky and Friends: I really like watching squirrels. I know they’re rodents, as Gilda repeatedly points out to me. But they’re industrious. Extremely smart. Resourceful. And cute.
Squirrels are attracted to my bird feeding stations. They feast on seeds indiscriminately dropped to the ground by the birds. Of course, being rather self-centered creatures, squirrels prefer to eat seeds straight from the feeders, but I’ve prevented that possibility by strategically placing inverted funnel-shaped plastic squirrel guards along the chains above two of the main feeders that hang from nearby trees.
The other day as I was eating breakfast, I looked out the window at my new bird feeder, a white house with an A-frame metal shingle roof hanging from one of our pine trees. It recently replaced an open gazebo-style feeder that surprisingly never interested the squirrels. The new feeder was promoted as squirrel proof—its perches are levers designed to close up the seed area under the weight of any bushy-tailed scavenger that might pull up a chair, so to speak, to the dinner table.
The new feeder had been up for about 10 days without incident, but on this morning I was brought up short in my Cheerios-crunching by the sight of a squirrel busily munching away on bird seed while it rested comfortably on the perch. Four or five times I shooed the squirrel away, only to witness its methodical return. The squirrel would climb up the pine tree, scamper across the limb from which the feeder was suspended, and shinny its way down the chain till it plopped onto the roof. The last straw was when it didn’t even bother to sit on the lever. Rather, it hung upside down from the roof to casually chomp away at the cache of seeds at its disposal.
My daily rounds that day included a trip to the wild bird store to purchase yet another plastic baffle to baffle and confound the squirrels. Only the squirrels were not content to go down without a fight. For the next day they repeatedly crawled down the chain from the tree limb until they’d get to the edge of the squirrel guard. At the bottom of the guard, the widest part of the funnel, they were forced to leap for the house. But it was too steep an angle. They’d tumble four feet to the ground, shake themselves off, climb back up the tree and try once more. It took several unfortunate falls before they learned they could not get around the squirrel guard.
But perhaps they could avoid it. So the most resourceful did his best impersonation of Rocky the flying squirrel. He jumped from a tree limb toward the feeder. Alas, for him, at least, I had placed the feeder too distant for a successful aerial assault.
Granted, outwitting a squirrel might be considered an insignificant achievement, but it sure beats the office political games I once had to play.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Down But Not Out
I’m soooooooo bummed out!!!
After failing to qualify for numerous senior citizen discounts because we’re only 61, Gilda and I were told earlier today we were too old to be bone marrow donors. Seems you have to be between the ages of 18-60 to physically save a life.
Of course, a financial donation also helps save lives; we’ll give to the Gift of Life Bone Marrow Foundation through the Matt Fenster Donor Circle, http://www.mattfenstercircle.org (donor kits cost $54 each to process. Interestingly, 54 is a 3x multiple of 18, the numerical value of the Hebrew word chai, which means life).
Matt Fenster is a father of four young children. He was stricken with AML, acute myelogenous leukemia in April. I’ll be including Matt in my prayers.
Walk to Defeat ALS: We weren’t the only Forseters trying to put an end to a dreaded disease this weekend. Our daughter Ellie was part of the 5K Walk to Defeat ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, commonly referred to as Lou Gehrig’s Disease). Ellie’s boyfriend’s father, Don, was recently diagnosed with ALS. Don retired from the U.S. Air Force. He was a pilot for the Strategic Air Command, based in Omaha.
Three of Don and wife Rachel’s children live in the NY metro area. Along with their younger sister who's considering moving here as well, their spouses and children, relatives including Aunt Laurie, and Ellie, they walked as a team on Saturday. Granddaughter Rachel, standing beside Don, helped cut the ribbon as the camera crew from Fox News NY (Channel 5) videoed the start of the walk for broadcast on the 10 pm news (regrettably, no link is available).
I’ve added a new piece of jewelry to my right wrist, a watermelon-colored flexible bracelet stamped with the words “Strike Out ALS.” For more info on ALS and how to make donations, visit http://www.alsa.org.
Happy Half-Birthday: Finley Hawthorne Forseter turned six months old Sunday. He’s officially reached the adorable stage (not that he wasn’t cute before, but I’ve often said that babies don’t really enthuse you until they are able to do things. Lately Finley’s been rolling over a lot, smiling, enjoying the swing, and even eating some solid food.
I still haven’t finalized on a name. Don’s family suggested Granpa No Socks. Might be hard for a little kid to say, but it does have a certain je ne sais quoi quality to it.
For those interested in seeing how Finley looks these days, here’s a link to his blog: http://www.findingfinley.blogspot.com/
Hawthorn Tree: Hard to resist buying a tree that for all intents and purposes shares a name (minus an “e”) with your daughter-in-law and grandson.
To fill out the barren space in our front yard caused by the sudden and still unexplained decision of our neighbors to cut down their perfectly healthy tree that graced our property with its canopy, leaving a nine foot slingshot stump as a remnant of their foul action (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/04/fear-of-falling.html), Gilda and I have been scouring local garden centers for the right tree to place on our side of the property line.
We looked at pear trees, cherry trees, Japanese maple trees, Thundercloud plum trees. Last week we chose a Winter King Hawthorn. We planted it today (a note of accuracy in reporting. When I say “we” I did not mean Gilda and I. Let’s get serious here—though Gilda is a force of nature to be reckoned with in the garden, I have as much horticultural knowledge and ability as your left big toe.)
The tree looks great. No word yet from our neighbors.
After failing to qualify for numerous senior citizen discounts because we’re only 61, Gilda and I were told earlier today we were too old to be bone marrow donors. Seems you have to be between the ages of 18-60 to physically save a life.
Of course, a financial donation also helps save lives; we’ll give to the Gift of Life Bone Marrow Foundation through the Matt Fenster Donor Circle, http://www.mattfenstercircle.org (donor kits cost $54 each to process. Interestingly, 54 is a 3x multiple of 18, the numerical value of the Hebrew word chai, which means life).
Matt Fenster is a father of four young children. He was stricken with AML, acute myelogenous leukemia in April. I’ll be including Matt in my prayers.
Walk to Defeat ALS: We weren’t the only Forseters trying to put an end to a dreaded disease this weekend. Our daughter Ellie was part of the 5K Walk to Defeat ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, commonly referred to as Lou Gehrig’s Disease). Ellie’s boyfriend’s father, Don, was recently diagnosed with ALS. Don retired from the U.S. Air Force. He was a pilot for the Strategic Air Command, based in Omaha.
Three of Don and wife Rachel’s children live in the NY metro area. Along with their younger sister who's considering moving here as well, their spouses and children, relatives including Aunt Laurie, and Ellie, they walked as a team on Saturday. Granddaughter Rachel, standing beside Don, helped cut the ribbon as the camera crew from Fox News NY (Channel 5) videoed the start of the walk for broadcast on the 10 pm news (regrettably, no link is available).
I’ve added a new piece of jewelry to my right wrist, a watermelon-colored flexible bracelet stamped with the words “Strike Out ALS.” For more info on ALS and how to make donations, visit http://www.alsa.org.
Happy Half-Birthday: Finley Hawthorne Forseter turned six months old Sunday. He’s officially reached the adorable stage (not that he wasn’t cute before, but I’ve often said that babies don’t really enthuse you until they are able to do things. Lately Finley’s been rolling over a lot, smiling, enjoying the swing, and even eating some solid food.
I still haven’t finalized on a name. Don’s family suggested Granpa No Socks. Might be hard for a little kid to say, but it does have a certain je ne sais quoi quality to it.
For those interested in seeing how Finley looks these days, here’s a link to his blog: http://www.findingfinley.blogspot.com/
Hawthorn Tree: Hard to resist buying a tree that for all intents and purposes shares a name (minus an “e”) with your daughter-in-law and grandson.
To fill out the barren space in our front yard caused by the sudden and still unexplained decision of our neighbors to cut down their perfectly healthy tree that graced our property with its canopy, leaving a nine foot slingshot stump as a remnant of their foul action (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/04/fear-of-falling.html), Gilda and I have been scouring local garden centers for the right tree to place on our side of the property line.
We looked at pear trees, cherry trees, Japanese maple trees, Thundercloud plum trees. Last week we chose a Winter King Hawthorn. We planted it today (a note of accuracy in reporting. When I say “we” I did not mean Gilda and I. Let’s get serious here—though Gilda is a force of nature to be reckoned with in the garden, I have as much horticultural knowledge and ability as your left big toe.)
The tree looks great. No word yet from our neighbors.
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