LEAVING THE NEST WITH GRACE or The way I did it, kicking and screaming at Kohl's

Thanksgiving 2019 should have been a lovely, fitting farewell to six decades of family life in a 1957 tri-level tract house on Buckingham Road. In some ways, it was lovely. The turkey dinner thoughtfully provided by Whole Foods was excellent and my mom, at age 99, was both appreciative and cooperative about downsizing decisions needed to allow her to fit into a one-bedroom apartment in a brand-new assisted living facility. There were just enough irritating issues - clogged toilet – leaf build up that prevented opening backdoor requiring Toby to become a mountain goat to get to the grass – insane thermostat that turned the downstairs into a sauna during the nightly marathon watching of Perry Mason re-runs – that should have made me eager to finish sorting, pack up and leave. But that’s not what happened. Instead, I spent most of each night lying in the bed I’d once occupied at my grandmother’s house, staring at the herald trumpet saved from a Junior Theater play some fifty years earlier and remembering. We left our cozy bungalow on Yost Boulevard (I know, an amazing coincidence) and moved into the construction in Ann Arbor Woods in 1959. I left all my friends and classmates in my fifth grade class to switch to Pattengill Elementary in the spring which meant that the first order of business was to find new friends. Accordingly, I hopped on my bike at every opportunity and cruised the neighborhood. I was lucky enough to find what I was looking for: Libby Tupper on Medford Court, Nancy Piepenbrink on Manchester. Kathy and Kay Bradley, on Nottingham, Susan Woods and Charlotte Maxwell directly across the street from each other on Essex. A couple of years later, my best friend from the first grade, Sally Strack, moved into a house on Essex and my joy was complete. My other early memories involve building forts. I created a crater in the top of a mound of construction dirt across the street that was like an eagle’s nest. My friends and I would meet there. My sanctum sanctorum at home was not my large, light-filled bedroom but the attic hideaway (plywood planks on the garage rafters accessible by two-by-four steps. I’d take a flashlight, molasses cookies and a Nancy Drew book up there to read. I loved watching my dad from my bedroom window shoveling snow under the street light on our corner. I loved the scent of grass when he cut the lawn in the summer. I loved watching him “spank” the tomato plants out of their containers to put them in the ground under my window. I loved the tetherball court he set up for me and my friend Anne Johnson. I loved the scent of my mom’s elegant perfume in my parents’s bedroom. And I loved the nearsighted family members had of removing our glasses and gazing at the glowing colors on the Christmas tree. When all the houses were built and filled with families, my folks and the others initiated picnics, softball games in the court, spoon-and-egg races, fireworks watching on the fourth of July and all sorts of get-togethers. It was a wonderful neighborhood to grow up in and, though I can no longer name all (or any) of the families on the street, the memories of the Dickinsons, Olsens, Mirageas, Margesons, and Kolbs, remain. Although I did few chores around the house, I nearly always had a job. My dad was a major networker and year after year he’d find me in the lounge chair in the backyard on the first day of summer to announce that he’d gotten me a job as a babysitter, a camp (Michigania) counselor, a salesgirl (John Leidy’s), a printer’s apprentice (Miracol), or a librarian at the Ypsilanti Press. In retrospect, I am grateful. I left the house for the last time last Saturday, going through the side door to the car parked in the driveway where, for years, I bounced a tennis ball against the garage door (breaking more windows that I can count.) I noted my mom’s ancient tobaggon still in the rafters and, for the last time, I touched the signature left on the wall by the brother who died in 1986: David E. For some reason, leaving the house I ceased to live in in 1972 was harder than the one in which Pete and I raised our children in Northern Virginia. Not that I am leaving Ann Arbor, my spiritual home. I will continue to come see my mom, but it will be different. I will be a visitor. Oh, for those of you who managed to muddle through my maudlin memories thinking they would be funny, the Kohl’s story is this: I’d ordered huge pallets of moving boxes from Amazon only to discover they weren’t needed, but to get a refund I had to haul them through Kohl’s to the Amazon return line. It was not a pretty sight and, in the midst of it, I got a call from my mother reminding me to stop at the Produce Station to pick up cole slaw (informational point – cole slaw is seasonal) and then another from my well-meaning brother to shop the Black Friday sale at Best Buy for a new TV for my mom. “And she says don’t forget the new set has to get the Perry Mason channel.” .

FEEL THE BERNIE

I’ve always liked Senator Sanders because he’s a passionate curmudgeon. But I fell in love after reading of his interview with the editors of Cosmo. My favorite exchange was this one. “Cosmo: What’s your skincare routine? Bernie: Not much. Cosmo: Do you moisturize? Bernie: I put on something. I got something, the doctor gave me something years ago, I put it on. I’m not quite sure…” That’s when I knew that Bernie and I were siblings on the skin. I can’t tell you how many home skincare parties I’ve attended (to help out friends trying to start a home business or, in some cases, under coercion.) I used to always come home with a pink bag full of boxes and wands and jars and lipsticks in appealing sounding colors like Peach Parfait (who could resist that?), and peppermint ice cream and coral glaze (doughnuts) – do you see a pattern here? Anyway, the societal push for skincare is intense. Not just moisturizer but products for cleansing, pore opening, overnight repair creams, hydrating lampoules, illuminating face oils, cleansers, face masks, eye masks, toners, active serums, eyecreams, sunscreens, collagen extract, etc. Purify, detox, balance that blasted ph. The list goes on. My favorite question at these home parties (aside from the request for you to schedule the same sort of event in your own home with the same set of friends) is the same as Bernie’s: What is your skincare routine? I never answered “not much.” There was a time that I confessed the truth and replied, “uh, soap. Diale soap. In the shower.” The response I got was not as forgiving as the one Bernie received from Cosmo, but then he’s a true star. I haven’t been invited to a skincare party in years but the miracle-slash-curse of internet shopping has seduced me into buying dozens of containers and tubes of various miracle products promising to make the wrinkles disappear and bring the roses back to your cheeks. I’ve ordered them, paid for ‘em and have set them up in a tray in my bathroom. But I still don’t use them. All except Peach Parfait. Seriously. It tastes like peaches.

MIXED NUTS or Random thoughts about my new life as a Buckeye

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR Whenever we had grilled cheese and milk (when I was a child) I pretended to be Heidi, living in the Alps with her grandfather and her two goats, and staring up at the stars at night from a bed next to the window. I am still eating grilled cheese and drinking milk and I still think about Heidi. My bed is next to a window (it’s a pretty small room) and I live on an Alp. People say “you’re so lucky to have that great view and still be able to walk into town.” I guess they’re right. I think we’ve made the .3 mile trek twice on foot but we can see the library from our living room and almost hear the falls. BE CAREFUL OF WHAT YOU FEAR I spent thirty six years in the same house in Virginia and, outside of my family, my dearest wish was to keep my friends and neighbors close. I died a thousand deaths every time someone important to me announced she was going to move. I mean, really. I just closed up and lurched into denial. Last week I met one of my new neighbors, a lovely woman named Colleen. She welcomed me, offered any help needed and added with a smile, “you know, Pam, who lived in your house? She was my best friend.” The next time I met her, Colleen invited me to come drink wine on her front porch. OUTLAWS CAN BE THE BEST Our move took us to within a few miles of the other set of grandparents which made me wonder if we would wind up in cage matches to get time with the tiny granddaughters. It hasn’t happened. Apparently there are enough hours in the day (and week) for all of us. In addition, those outlaws have ushered us closely and carefully and supportively through some major events, i.e. installing a wireless carrier, installing a television and chauffeuring us to the rather intimidating Cleveland Clinic. They are also our friends. NOTABLE CONVERSATIONS My favorite conversation since we’ve arrived was with Abby. At her five-year-old check up, the new doctor told her to eat more green. She told me this with a speculative look in her eye. “Nannie, is ice cream green?” “Sometimes,” I said, cautiously, wondering where this was going. “There’s mint chocolate chip. That can be green. And lime sherbet.” “What’s lime sherbet?” I explained as best I could. “What about marshmallow cakes?” I have, for some unknown reason, started to use up the marshmallows I brought from Virginia by adding a Skittle on top and calling it a cake. Abby is very fond of the concoction. “Not green,” I said, regret in my voice. “White. Oh, but there’s another one. Pistachio. Can you say pistachio?” “Fistachio.” Pause. “What is that?” “It’s green ice cream that has nuts in it. Pistachio nuts.” “Oh.” Another pause. “Nannie? Have I ever ate-en it?” “Probably not.” “I know,” she said, jumping off the couch. “You can make me a marshmallow cake with a green Skittle!” “Sure,” I said. “That’ll make the doctor happy.” UNPACKING PROGRESS REPORT: Large basement still filled with unpacked boxes. Large garage filled with unpacked flatpacks from IKEA. Two week countdown until new baby.

TRIAL OF A NOVICE SELLER or I LOVE THAT MY TRACT HOUSE IS CONSIDERED REAL ESTATE

The last time I sold a house I told a prospective buyer she could not look in one of the bedrooms as there was a baby sleeping and thus sacrificed a chance to unload a property in the depressed market of 1983 Michigan. I wouldn’t do that again. Actually, I wouldn’t do any of this again. (Famous last words, right?) Keeping to the baby theme, it occurred to me that preparing a house (with 36 years of skin sloughings, dust, moldering books, furniture, ancient towels and thread-bare sheets) is akin to labor. It doesn’t hurt as much but it lasts longer and you have the same driving wish “I just want to get up and walk away from all this.” I’m sort of joking. The fact is, I’ve met an angel. Bill Moyers said once during an interview that he had been helped in his career by unseen hands. Well, these hands are seen and they are busy. This realtor – a gift from my daughter – is helming the whole, messy process, from getting in competent, efficient repairmen, painters, carpet-layers, etc., to buying new fixtures (updating), to gently suggesting disposal of ancient, rickety things (piano, inherited furniture, broken bookshelves) and then bringing and LOADING a pickup truck to take to GoodWill or the dump – many times, to pruning the bushes, to decorating my house with items I’d never think of in a million years – like a four-foot Buddha. Love that Buddha. I may ask to keep him. My agent (I’ll call her Franci Bissett) offers suggestions, solutions and sympathy whenever they are needed. It was not an easy decision to trade the comfort and familiarity of two generations, the concrete stylings of my children in the driveway, the memories of those family years and a hundred years of furniture passed down from New England to Ann Arbor and Virginia. It was (and is) very, very hard to leave the dearest friends in the world. But Franci and her crew have kept me on track to move forward. And life, apparently, is all about change. Just ask the Buddha.

RE-LOCATE? IT'S EASY THEY SAID

I didn’t have much to do last weekend so I bought a house. Eventually, I mentioned it to my husband. “This online shopping has gotten out of hand,” he complained. “First it was just vitamins and batteries then it mushroomed into shorts and sheets and gnomes (don’t ask) and now you’ve bought a house? Where will it end?” With the house, probably, seeing as I failed to allow for the fact that the funds for it, coming out of an IRA account, will cost us half again in taxes. And because this means that not only do I have to de-clutter/repair/clean the house we’ve lived in for thirty-six years, we now have to move. Yikes. My mandate, dictated by age, infirmity and a desire to hang out with some of my grandchildren, was to find a ranch-style house in a neighborhood near one of my adult children. The closest potential neighborhood was five-and-a-half hours by car (long-distance move, i.e. leaving behind dear friends) and the house in question turns out to have a steep staircase from the lower-level garage to the first and only floor of the house. Oh, yeah. There’s a steep stairway to the basement, too, and another to the front door. Because of it’s yellow siding and red shutters, I have named it the Overripe Banana. Banana for short. “Why did you buy a house with stairs?” The not unnatural question came from my mother, who is ninety-eight. “Because Emily liked it.” “Why did you buy that house?” This question came from son number one, Adam. “Because Emily liked it and I liked it.” “Why did you buy any house online?” This from son number two, Ben. “Because Emily liked it and I just needed to land the plane on some aspect of my chaotic life.” He seemed to understand. “You are gonna love this house,” said Emily, my daughter, who intends to purchase a house a mile away from the Banana. “I knew it the moment I walked in.” She’d called me on Facetime to show me how much I would love this house that I’ve never seen in a town where I’ve never been. “It’s got a great kitchen and a sun porch. And it’s small. You won’t have to bring the ironing board.” I admitted those were selling points. I failed to ask whether it had a bathtub. Or even bathrooms. Or (gasp) air conditioning. “And it’s got a big basement,” daughter continued. “Plenty of room for your books.” For the record, I have never lived in a house with a basement and I usually associate that part of the house with The Tell Tale Heart. I always think there will be a body in the wall. Part of the explanation is my natural competitiveness. This is a quality that has seldom served me well. Hours after I’d facetimed the Banana, someone else made an offer on it. It was a good offer, too, and if I wanted it, I had to act fast. And generously. My excellent realtor (she really is) and I decided we’d have to go well beyond the asking price to have any chance of winning. Naturally, I gave her carte blanche. I like to win. Twenty-four hours later I found I was the owner presumptive of the Banana. Would my furniture fit into the small rooms? Would my books? Would I, as an alum and third generation fan of the University of Michigan be happy in Buckeye country? Could I survive in this cute neighborhood with its ratio of 2 to 1 Republicans? What about the patched Midwest roads? What about the drinking water that comes from Lake Erie? What about my local newspaper? What about my lifelong friends??? Belatedly I asked Emily, the only blood relative who has actually seen the house, other questions. “Is there a sidewalk? You know I like a sidewalk. You know, for my bigwheel.” “No sidewalk,” she reported. “But there isn’t much traffic. You should be able to play in the street.” “What about a dog fence?” “Er, no. But you can put an invisible fence in the backyard.” I caught a quick mental image of Toby’s fat little body leaping into the air from an electrical shock each time he sauntered outside. “It’s a great school district, mom. And the library’s across the street.” I thought about the hundreds, probably thousands of dollars I’d spent buying books from Amazon during the last ten years. Maybe the house would pay for itself. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t happen before my 60-day grace period ran out and I had to pay those pesky IRA taxes. `

CASEY'S BIG ADVENTURE

“Mugs was always sorry, Mother said, when he bit someone, but we could never understand how she figured this out. He didn’t act sorry.” This James Thurber observation is my favorite of all time with the possible exception of this one from Jean Kerr: “Now the thing about having a baby – and I can’t be the first person to have noticed this – is that thereafter you have it.” But this column is about a lost dog, not parenthood, except that the lost dog in question belongs to my daughter and her family and that we (Pete and I) rescued her. Unfortunately, it was not in time to prevent her from having a rap sheet complete with mug shot. This is not my first rodeo with a delinquent dog. During the 13 Bandit years (aggressive Aussie) we were gifted with three – count them – THREE – drop-ins from the local cops. The subject was biting. Once she bit a baseball coach on our front porch who was trying to deliver a cabbage. Once she bit a kid playing flashlight tag in our backyard. And then there was the time she took a nip out of a cyclist’s leg and he and the baby in the carrier seat, sprawled on the ground. Oh, and once Bandit bit our eight-year-old son on the head. After each incident we (Pete) decreed we were going to send her back to the breeder. But other (I won’t say cooler) heads prevailed. Okay, so this is the story of the recent rescue. Pete and I were sitting in a doc’s office (a common location for us these days) when our daughter (I’ll call her Emily for the sake of the story) called to announce that her eleven-year-old lab mix, Casey, had run away. To tell the truth, while I was worried about Casey, I didn’t mind postponing the opportunity to schedule a colonoscopy which is my least favorite medical event, including childbirth. As I wheeled out of the doc’s parking lot my husband said, “when there’s someplace you want to go you’re like a teamster) and headed for the neighborhood around Emily’s home. It’s a planned community full of townhouses and good Samaritans so I figured someone had already rescued Casey and I was right. We found the rescuer PDQ and jetted off to pick up the scofflaw at the animal shelter down by the dump. After about forty-five minutes of red tape this very nice young man produced Casey who flew past us toward the door. Outside she raced for the car so fast I was flying behind her in the breeze. Needless to say, Casey learned her lesson about leaving the backyard. But then, she’s a smart doggie. Several years ago when our golden retriever, Lucy, got out of the house I walked/drove around the local streets asking folks if they’d seen a golden that looked like an Irish setter. One neighbor laughed. “Yeah. She ran by here about twenty minutes ago,” she said. “If it’s any consolation to you, she looked really happy.” I don’t want a reward for the rescue but I have decided to take it as a sign that I don’t need a colonoscopy this year. Or ever. Feel free to call me in the spring about your lost dogs.

HEY WEIGHT-WATCHERS-WATCH THIS

You know how a song gets into your head and seems to just lodge there among the synapses, playing itself over and over again? Songs like Baby Shark and Memory from the musical Cats and the William Tell Overture? The other day, just before a long-awaited lunch with friends, another song from the past presented itself, not while I was standing on the bathroom scale without a stitch of clothing in sight but immediately after. Anyway, it was that old Gene McDaniels song from 1961: “He took a hundred pounds of clay, and he said, hey listen. I’m gonna fix this world today, because I know what’s missing..and he rolled his big sleeves up and a brand new world began, he created a woman and, lots of lovin’ for a man. Yes, he did. Whoa whoa. He took a hundred pounds of clay.” Except in my mind, prompted by heaven knows what, the lyrics came out with a slight variation. “He took two hundred pounds of clay…” There are those in my life who grow impatient with my fixation on weight but they are not the people who have to keep buying larger sizes of jeans. My 100-pounds of clay hairdresser, Jen, who says, unsympathetically, “who is it that keeps shoving the wrong kinds of food in your mouth?” My 100-pounds of clay mother, Helen, who says, “any luck on the new diet?” My 100-pounds of clay daughter, Emily, who says, “could you please stop serving Boston cream pie, chocolate fudge cheesecake, and salted milk chocolate caramels for dessert on Sunday?” (Answers: me. No. I don’t think so.) Okay, so I get to lunch at Panera and, out of the blue, Judy says, “when my husband goes into a doctor’s office and is told to get up on the scale, he just does it, without removing his shoes, or his jacket or his wallet or his keys!” We gasp, momentarily suspending the intake of food, although it was fake in my case. My husband does the same thing. “My husband always challenges the nurse,” Bev said. “He tells her he weighs five pounds less at home.” Yeah. Like five pounds would make a difference. “No matter where I am weighed,” Susan says, “I take off my glasses.” “I take off my watch and earrings,” said Bev. “I take out my hearing aid,” I said. “Or, I would if I had one. As it is, I take off my wedding ring.” “Well, at least we’re all eating vegetables,” Susan says, looking with satisfaction at her soup and not at her hunk of bread. “Especially you, Ann, with all that lettuce.” I glance at my salad, a bowl of thick, ranch dressing and the BLT on the side. “And we’re having diet sodas,” Judy said. I remained silent on this, since I’d chosen lemonade. “And we had to pace around the restaurant for a good six minutes waiting for this booth,” Bev pointed out. “Think how many steps that is.” I checked my Fitbit and found the number still in double digits. “We should celebrate our efforts,” Judy said, producing a large baker’s box. “They’ve got a new fudge brownie and I got one for us to share.” “I got one, too,” Susan said, producing her own box. Bev and I said nothing but we set our own boxes on the now-crowded table. Everyone was silent for a moment. “I know,” I said, “we can make up for the brownie by walking back to the beverage bar for lattes to go with.” “Great idea,” Susan said, looking at her Fitbit. “And listen to this, girls. We’ve already been here for three hours. Just a couple more and the brownies will count as supper.” “Good plan,” Bev said. “It’s not so much what you eat as when you eat.” I wasn’t so sure. “We’ll probably be pretty hungry in another two hours,” I pointed out. “Why don’t I pick up a dinner menu when we go back to the line for coffee?” “Excellent idea,” Judy said. “And we can get another brownie, too.” On the drive home I consoled myself with this thought. By 1961 I’d already weighed more than a hundred pounds. Bring on the sculpting knife. And the Baby Shark.

CRIME SHOW CRIME

An egregious thing happened last night. It was six-thirty and spouse and I had finished our healthiest meal of the week (under-cooked salmon, leftover green beans, pre-made mashed potatoes and Boston cream cake) and, left over because I had failed to serve it to company on the weekend). Having had enough of the Trump melodrama, I clicked to Amazon Prime and a jolly little series I'd found. It's called WAKING THE DEAD.” I am okay with death and murder and blood. I’m a big fan of police procedurals and all kinds of mystery, from cozy to grim so I was not fazed by the shot of a lone gunman in three-story garage who massacred a dozen or more people on the street in the opening scene. The problem came when the cold case unit re-examined the case of the convicted murderer seven years later and, in a flashback, showed him romping on the heath with a golden retriever. The dog bounced off into the woods and there was a blind gunshot. I felt a clutch of fear and glanced at spouse who was, of course, asleep. A moment later we, the viewers, were treated to a vision of a dead golden retriever. I repeat, A DEAD GOLDEN RETRIEVER. Spouse woke, briefly, when he heard my outraged shriek. In the shock of the incident, the dog owner picked off a dozen people from a third story perch and, you know what? I did not blame him. It’s bad enough that dogs have short life spans (including the one in the television show who, while not really murdered, is no doubt dead by now of natural causes since the show was produced in 2003.) It is completely unnecessary to remind us about this evolutionary mistake. Dead dogs are out. Verboten. Unacceptable. In fact, if the show's writers had wanted to redeem themselves, they could have woken the dead dog. I am not alone in my conviction on this. I am currently reading a writing process book called Save the Cat Writes a Novel. The title comes from a universal truth which is that readers want to root for a hero and if that hero is danger of becoming unlikable, the easiest fix is to have him or her rescue a cat. I don't think it's too much of a jump to apply the same thing to golden retrievers. Always save the dog. I supposed I could send a copy of the book to Britbox. Or maybe just a strongly worded tweet: KILL A PET, LOSE A FAN #Nomoredeaddogs!!!!!

WHO SAYS MARCH IS THE WORST MONTH? NOT ME

The Ides of March have nothing on March 5. Consider this: March 5, 1948 – my cousin Bob’s birthday. (Happy Birthday, Bob!) March 5, 1977 – my first and only wedding to a shaggy-haired Associated Press reporter March 5, 2001 – birthday of the late, much-lamented golden retriever, Lucy March 5, 2019 – the release of A DOUBLE-POINTED MURDER, the second (or third depending on who is counting) book in a cozy mystery series set in the Finnish-American community in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. This one is my favorite so far, possibly because it includes Nazis. Accidental detective Hatti Lehtinen is all set to investigate the murder by knitting needle of a barmaid who was found in the bed of her ex-brother-in-law, Lars, when a television company comes to Red Jacket to film a pilot for an Antiques Roadshow knock-off called What’s in Your Attic? Hatti, recently elected temporary head of the local chamber of commerce, frets that she won’t have time to clear Lars of the murder rap AND host the out-of-towners. But a series of clues, including another shocking death, lead her to suspect that the TV people and the barmaid’s death are connected. Here’s another fun fact: A DOUBLE-POINTED DEATH is listed NUMBER ONE on Amazon in the competitive category of cultural, ethnic and regional humor (new releases.) Check it out. Meanwhile, I’m going to spend the day celebrating an anniversary with my

FARE WARNING

Now that I am firmly lodged in the Sunset Years (my age? Let me just plagiarize a character from “Mame” and say, oh, somewhere between forty and death), I am surprised and frankly disappointed that I don’t look more like Jane Fonda. After all, I have her 1980 workout tape. I have enrolled in a yoga class that always seems to get pre-empted by snow or skipped by me for some excellent reason (too tired, too lazy, my friends aren’t going) and I have a rowing machine, as yet, unassembled. As you can see, I take this weight thing seriously, even though it has hit me, avalanche like, out of the blue. One day I was tipping the scales at ten pounds more than when I was married and the next, I was ten pounds over my nine-month pregnancy weight. What in the H-E-double-hockey sticks happened? As soon as the most recent (and most appalling) number appeared on the scale at my nurse practitioner’s office (and right after I lifted her off the floor) I started to research and absorb information about diets. Especially those written by celebrities of a certain age. (I don’t count Oprah as she has made it clear she has a personal chef.) I read Sheryl Crow’s “If It Makes You Healthy,” Kris Jenner’s “In the Kitchen with Kris,” Dolly Parton’s “Dolly’s Dixie Fixin’s,” and “Entertaining with Kathy and Regis” and I still don’t look like Sheryl, Kris, Dolly, Kathy Lee or even Regis. (I considered “Kill It and Grill It,” by Ted Nugent who is not only my exact age but from my exact state but I decided it was a bad idea to mix diet and politics.) The bottom line (no pun intended) is that I don’t look like any of those celebrities. I don’t even look like their children. I suppose it would help if I’d cook the recipes and do the exercises but that seems like a stretch, and, anyway, these books are supposed to work like magic. I paid my $19.95. Where’s my magic? I’ve ordered probiotic pills, skinny tea and protein bars and I’ve fantasized about joining weight watchers. The trouble is that you have to swallow the pill and skinny tea must be accompanied by scones with clotted cream, protein bars taste like dog food (don't ask) and the prospect of getting weighed every week in front of a roomful of humans is unpalatable. If they had a weight watchers for dogs, I’d go. We'd both go. Toby is too fat, too. And that brings me to another complaint. Everyone said, “get a dog! A dog will force you out of doors. A dog will need (multiple) daily walks and you will automatically exercise!” Well, everyone was wrong. I managed to get the world’s only dog that isn’t interested in walks. I’m not kidding. He will run after a bicycle in front of the house or fetch a thrown ball which is more than can be said of me. The ridiculous part of all of this is that it shouldn’t have happened. Genetics are on my side. None of my grandparents was fat, nor were my parents, brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles. None of my children is fat. It’s too early to tell about the grandchildren. Everybody’s cute at four. Even I was cute. I mean adorable. We’re talking Shirley-Temple cute. Nowadays I don’t look as good as her, either, and, well, you know she’s dead. I think about food and my problem with it, all the time. (Except when I’m thinking about other worries.) Last night hubby and I were watching a Scandinavian film noir in which a coroner removed bits of tree bark from the body of a victim and it sparked an idea. “Say,” I said, “Think I’d lose weight if I went on an all-bark diet?” “All bark?” Just then a police dog appeared on the screen and Toby, as always, responded with a set of hysterical yelps. “It could work, if only because I’d shut you up in the basement and there’s no food down there.” I gave him my Mona Lisa smile. Obviously he doesn’t know about the leftover Snickers bars and the tin of Christmas cookies I stashed down there and, until now, had forgotten about. That’s another delightful aspect of ageing. My thighs may rub together when I’m taking a walk but when I’m in my favorite position, cross-legged on the couch bingeing on “Waking the Dead” and munching on salt carmels, I don’t care. Luckily, that’s most of the time. Here’s a “diet” verse from my late, great, not-fat father, Dick Emmons. FAREWELL FUDGE My diet makes me give up cakes, All sorts of tortes I’ve quit Meringue-topped pies said their goodbyes And the banana split.

RALLY ROUND YE OLDE ARTIFICIAL TREE

Apparently you are never too old (or too depressed) to learn lessons from a family Christmas. Of course some should have been self-explanatory. I figured out I’d overdone the gifts when, on December 31, I wrote a three-figure check to UPS to package and mail the ride-on steam shovel, skate board, magic castle, etc. Solution: Don’t spoil the grandchildren. Another was in the disappointment of learning that neither daughter nor daughter-in-law nor anyone else in the family wants my monogramed silver and Royal Copenhagen dinnerware (inherited from in-laws) or the 1840 secretary and the Victorian sofa inherited from grandparents, or the watercolor set-designs done by my late brother in the 1980s. Solution: Read “The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning.” And then there was the most serious issue. Uncertainty. Remember, said one child, life is not easy. There are unpleasant times ahead that have to be faced. Solution: Practice meditation. Other highlights of what may have been our last Christmas at the home we’ve lived in for 35 years: Julian, who just turned five loved the Minion comforter I got for his bed, dismissed the balance board I bought and wrapped (I already have that, Nana. I don’t need it), laughed his way through an indoor obstacle course with his four-year-old cousin, operated a tree-loving drone out in the yard with Uncle Ben and surprised me by being able to read Toby’s collar which says “Best Dog Ever.” Abby, four-and-a-half, who tore the (supposedly) permanent ribbon off the outdoor light display then apologized to me, played school with Uncle Ben (sending him to the office to “think about it,”) curled up next to me to watch the first half hour of “Home Alone: Lost in New York,” told me sternly that I had fed Casey (dog) too many treats and she had thrown up all night, held her sister’s hand at the playground and, on Christmas night, yelled, “Nannie, Nannie, Elliott is eating Toby’s food!” (Toby, a picky mini-goldendoodle, gets his kibble served in a round plastic contraption with little covers. I mean, in all fairness to Elliott, it looks just like a kid’s game.) Molly, two-and-a-half, asked for time alone with me to watch Baby Shark and Rock-a-bye baby on the upstairs computer, put her shoes away in a drawer and cleaned up after Play-Doh (she is very neat…must get that from my mother) painstakingly painted a rock in a rainbow of colors and gave Grandad a hug and a kiss good night. Elliott, almost two, alternately loving and fearing the two dogs, toddled around amusing himself, mostly by “reading” entire books by himself, looking for Abby, and finally, finally consenting to watch several episodes of his favorite show, Peppa Pig, with ME! There were other notable moments, like when I discovered mouse droppings under the Christmas tree skirt and when I realized that some of my carefully chosen gifts had never made it out of the box. But there were many more great times, like some rare time alone with my beloved daughter-in-law and the fact that the kids either prepared or paid for nearly all of our meals and listening to the guys talk about the Spiderman Movie and watch the Cleveland Browns lose to Baltimore. I have learned in recent years that life can be unexpectedly hard and the road zigs when you think it will zag but these family times seem to make everything worthwhile. The memories will sustain me for a long time. I hope the same is true for all my friends. I’ll close with the words of someone much funnier than I. “Adults can take a simple holiday for children and screw it up. What began as a presentation of simple gifts to delight and surprise children around the Christmas tree has culminated in a woman unwrapping six shrimp forks from her dog, who drew her name.” – Erma Bombeck