Author Archives: kzmclain

Thursday Thoughts

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Bright, Shiny Things
While we were in Estes Park celebrating our anniversary, we stopped into one of our favorite shops — a shop that sells blown glass items that they make right there. You can, in fact, watch them make the items. Bill suggested we have her make us something to commemorate our anniversary. However, it turns out that what we know about glass blowing could fit on the head of a nail. The whole process takes a few days. So, instead, he suggested I pick out a lawn ornament, and he would buy it for me. It took a long time, because they have so, so many pretty items. But given that yellow and pink are two of my favorite colors, that’s what I chose…..By the way, two seconds after he snapped this photo, it began to rain. We made it back to our room just before the skies opened up!

Nighty Night
I’m pleased to inform you that we actually went out yesterday afternoon and bought a bed. We have joined the masses of life partners who sleep on a king-sized bed. I clung to our queen-sized mattress for as long as I could. Of course, with upsizing one’s bed, one must also buy a new headboard, frame, bed linens, and so forth. And as long as we’re getting a new bed, I might as well get a couple of bedside tables on which I can place my iPad every night after I find I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. This, by the way, is usually about two minutes after I get into bed. Anyway, it will be delivered on July 8, and I’m very excited.

Pout Master
I had sushi lunch with Alyx and the kids yesterday. As we were preparing to leave, Cole asked if he could come home with me. I explained that I was going bed shopping and he would find that very boring. He begged and begged. He was very sad. I didn’t take a picture of him yesterday, but Court took this photo recently, and he nailed it. Cole is the master of the pout…..

Sweet Things
And if Cole is the master of the pout, Bill is the master of the cinnamon roll. There is no one who likes a good cinnamon roll more than he. I have written before about the cinnamon roll place in Estes Park, called (cleverly) Cinnamon’s Bakery. It is run by a retired midwestern baker, who moved to Estes Park a few years ago to open this business that operates from 7:30 a.m. until 10, or whenever they run out of cinnamon rolls (which they do nearly daily around 8:30). Bill has heard me speak about the amazing cinnamon rolls, but had never had the chance to try one. He got the opportunity this past week when we visited for our anniversary. This photo tells it all…..Ciao!

Get Your Motor Runnin’

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You may have noticed that it is June 26, and I have not yet written a single word about my beloved scooter. You KNOW I love my scooter, and by now I’m usually waxing eloquently about feeling the wind in my (very-short-and-covered-with-a helmet) hair as I buzz around town on my scooter with all 50 cc’s purring.

Towards the end of last summer, I began to notice a scraping sound somewhere in the neighborhood of my front wheel. It didn’t happen all the time, but when it did, it made me extremely nervous. My scooter (as most scooters) is noisy with many unidentifiable vibrations, but I can live with that because SCOOTER. This was different, because despite the fact that I didn’t take a class in scooter maintenance last week, I was pretty darn sure it had something to do with the brakes. One thing scooters cannot do without is brakes.

The thing is, it didn’t do it every time. So I would regularly come into the house after a trip to the grocery store on my scooter and tell Bill that it had happened again. He would dutifully get on my scooter and ride it around the block, only to return home and tell me it worked fine for him. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe me (or at least that’s what he told me), but it’s hard to diagnose something that doesn’t happen. My mom always said Bill was a genius, but even geniuses can’t solve nonexistent problems.

As soon as it got warm enough this summer, I blew the dust off the scooter, batted my eyelashes and got Bill to start it up for me, and took it for a ride. Sure enough, the scraping sound appeared, only this time, it seemed to make my front wheel immobile. I had had enough.

“Enough!” I shouted, and called Sportique Scooters. You need new brake pads, he told me without hesitation. (Mom might also call him a genius.)

I was too afraid to ride it to the scooter place. And though Bill offered to ride it for me, I’ve grown fond of him over the years and wasn’t eager to hand off the keys, saying with squinting eyes like Clint Eastwood, Do you feel lucky, Punk? Well, do you?

Instead, I arranged to have it towed to the scooter place. And yesterday, I picked it up and rode it home. The wind was in my (very-short-and-covered-with-a helmet) hair, and I was very happy. The brakes didn’t scrape. The tune-up they gave my little buddy gave me some get-up-and-go, though I assure get-up-and-go with a 50 cc engine means you might be able to hit 40 mph if you’re going downhill. But that’s just fine with me.

When I first got my scooter in 2001, I would ride it to the office. I wouldn’t have the nerve to do that today. But the fact is, I spend a lot of time in my ‘hood. I am happy as a dog with a new bone just to ride it to the grocery store or a neighborhood restaurant.

Nana: Born to be wild….

Shhhh

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I’m taking a class at our church called The History of the Catholic Church: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Just kidding. That’s not what it’s called, though perhaps that should be the course name. Actually, it’s just called The History of the Catholic Church. I’ve only gone to one class so far, and it was pretty dry. I can’t wait until we get to the Renaissance Period. That should spice things up a bit. Pope Leo X had more kids than Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. He paid for those kids by charging cash money for forgiveness of sins and time off in Purgatory.

Anyhoo, about a half hour into the class, someone’s cell phone rang. I’m very careful about silencing my cell phone and my Apple watch when it’s appropriate. In fact, I’m so scared that my phone will ring during Mass that I leave it in the car — TURNED OFF. You can’t be too careful. However, I recognize that mistakes can be made, and people can inadvertently leave their cell phones turned on and not silenced. I assumed that after it rang, the person — probably terribly embarrassed — shut off the phone. Au contraire. About a half hour later, that same phone rang again. Sigh.

I have written many words bashing millennials. But I will tell you that while I don’t know whose phone was ringing, I do know there was not a single 20- or 30-something person in the room. I expect the median age of the class participants was 75, and that’s only because I brought the median age down. It’s possible a few of the class attendees might have been grandchildren of Pope Leo X.

I believe Baby Boomers have many good attributes. For the most part, we are honest, patriotic, hard-workers, and love God and our grandkids (perhaps not in that order). I will admit, however, that there have been a couple of occasions as of late that have exasperated me, and they have included Baby Boomers.

Yesterday afternoon, I went to see Late Night, a movie starring Emma Thompson and Mindy Kaling. I like both actors very much. I loved Mindy Kaling in The Office and I was probably the only Baby Boomer who watched her (and laughed out loud) in The Mindy Project. Bill and I had tried to see the movie on Sunday, but all the seats except for those in the very front of the theater were sold out. I don’t love Mindy Kaling and Emma Thompson enough to watch them for an hour-and-a-half with my neck bent backwards at a 90 degree angle.

Yesterday, however, I was literally the only person in the entire theater at the 1:10 showing. The only person, that is, until two woman in the 70ish age range came into the theater talking to one another at the same decibel they would use if they were having coffee at Starbucks. They will stop when the movie begins, I thought to myself. Once again, au contraire. (I have never said au contraire twice in a blog post in my entire life.) Nope. They chatted to one another throughout much of the movie. At first I thought perhaps they didn’t know that there was another person in the theater. So I coughed a few times to let them know I was sitting right there. They didn’t seem to care. Finally, about halfway through the film, they apparently became engrossed enough in the story to keep silent.

So, Millennials, perhaps I owe you an apology. Maybe you all need to teach your grandparents some manners.

Gift-Giving

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We should give as we would receive, cheerfully, quickly, and without hesitation; for there is no grace in a benefit that sticks to the fingers. – Seneca

As we often do, at this weekend’s Mass, we had a special speaker. He is a missionary priest who serves a community in a very poor area in the mountains of Peru. The area he serves is so mountainous, in fact, that the 5,280 altitude of which we are so proud is a mere hill to him. He lives in an altitude over 11,000 feet. That, in and of itself, should reserve him a place in heaven.

He told this story: He grew up in Miami, Florida, where he went to school with one of the priests who serves our parish. He graduated from high school, then went on to earn his college degree. He had a comfortable position at a big company in Miami, where he earned a more-than-comfortable living. And then, God called him to be a missionary.

I have mentioned in the past that the nuns who taught me in my formative years used to tell her students to pray every night that God would call us to be priests or nuns. Instead, at night, my heart full of sheer dread, I would beg God to not call me to be a nun. True story. I lived in fear that I would hear God’s voice telling me to join a convent. I think I might have had a bad attitude, and as such, God wouldn’t have called me in a million years.

This priest, however, answered God’s call. He quit his lucrative job and left to be a missionary in Peru. In time, God called him to be a priest, and unlike me, he answered the call. He became a priest, and serves 40,000-some people who are poor as church mice. They live in shacks at best. They scarcely have enough money to feed their family.

He asked for money. In fact, he begged us to look into our hearts and give until it hurts a bit, or even better, until it hurts a lot. His parishioners are as generous as they are able to be, and yet his total weekly collection barely reaches $100. It’s hard to meet the needs of a intensely poor parish on a C note a week.

Bill dug in his pocket and put cash in the basket as it came around. I was happy for his contribution because my purse was in the car and I was unable to contribute even a cent. Isn’t that so convenient? My purse is in my car. That’s as lame as the check’s in the mail.

I try to be generous, both financially and in spirit. I’m often unsuccessful, however. As I examined my conscience during the sermon, what I decided is that what I lack isn’t a desire to be generous; instead, it’s a lack of creativity. When someone comes to me with a request for money, I generally give. That’s a good thing.

Still, there is so much more to generosity than reaching in a purse or wallet and pulling out some cash. There is generosity of spirit. There is generosity of prayer. There is generosity of time.

The other day, as Bill and I walked to our car, I was holding a box full of the leftovers we hadn’t eaten at the restaurant. I saw a man sitting in the corner outside of one of the stores. I have seen him before in that same spot, and he appeared to be homeless. Before I could chicken out, I went over and offered him my leftover BBQ ribs. I held my breath, hoping like the dickens that he wasn’t just a fellow who lived in one of the expensive apartments nearby having a bit of a sit-down. But he happily took the package, and thanked us for our kindness.

I’m not patting myself on the back for that effort. Instead, I’m writing it to remind this oh-so-lucky woman that generosity comes in all forms.

Saturday Smile: I’m in the Mood For Love

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This week Bill and I celebrated our wedding anniversary in Estes Park, CO. Being married to the most awesome fellow, and being able to celebrate with him in one of our favorite places, is what made me smile. Here’s a shot of one of the most beautiful views in the park. Can you believe how much snow is still on that mountain?…..

Before going to Dunraven Inn for dinner, my sister Jen took this photo of us as we stopped for a quick one before heading off to dinner…..

Being able to still have fun with this man — and getting a couple of free drinks from the bartender to boot — made me smile.

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: The Long and Faraway Gone

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Author Lou Berney wrote one of my favorite reads so far in 2019 — November Road. Because I liked that book so much, I decided to give one of his earlier books a try. I liked The Long and Faraway Gone just as much. Thumbs up to Lou Berney!

Back in Oklahoma City 1986, two very sad fictional events transpired. Five employees working in a movie theater are shot and killed execution-style. Inexplicably one of the teenaged employees isn’t shot. He has no idea why he was spared, but as you can imagine, the notion that he didn’t die while everyone else did haunts him. In the meantime, a young woman, who is visiting the state fair with her younger sister, goes missing and a body is never found.

Years later, both the surviving theater worker and the surviving younger sister set out to find closure by solving the cases themselves. The author has the two meet at a point in the book — a clever move — but other than that, the two stories are not connected.

Berney’s writing makes for an interesting story. Like November Road, I was unable to put the book down until I could learn the outcomes of their individual stories.

I highly recommend this book.

Here is a link to the book.

Thursday Thoughts

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One More Year Behind Us
This isn’t just any ol’ Thursday. Today happens to be the 27th anniversary of my marriage to Bill. I would love to say that every single day with Bill has been nothing but wine and roses, because what marriage is? But he has brought so much laughter and fun and romance (in his own inimitable style) into my life. I am blessed that he puts up with me. This photo was taken on June 20, 1992. Look at those four kids in the front row. Now they have 11 kids among all of them! I wonder if the priest said something like “Be fruitful and multiply” during the wedding Mass, and they took it to heart.

Happy Place
To celebrate said anniversary, Bill and I drove up yesterday afternoon to one of our favorite spots — Estes Park. We love to stay at the Deercrest Inn because the grounds are beautiful and the sound of the river is relaxing. Our whole family has lots of great memories of Estes Park. The first year when Jen and Bec and I were there, I had made a peach pie to enjoy after we grilled our steaks. While eating the pie next to the river, the proprietor came over and commented on how good it looked. I gave him a piece. He proclaimed it to be one of the best pies he’s ever eaten. So taking a pie with me has become a bit of a ritual. Given the time of year, this time it’s a blueberry pie…..

And yet another photo of a homemade pie.

Bon Appetit
Yesterday, our grandson Alastair came over to mow our grass. He finished up the back yard, and I asked him if he wanted to go have lunch before he started on the front yard. He’s a 13-year-old boy, so what do you think his answer was? We decided to go to Larkburger, but when we pulled up, it wasn’t open. In fact, it looks quite like it will never be open again. So there was a French café right next door and we decided to give it a try. As we walked in, I told him I was going to have him order lunch in French, since he takes French in school. He declined; however, it was unnecessary. Though the name is Café de France, it wasn’t terribly French when it came to the food. I had, for example, a Rueben. Alastair had a Monte Cristo, which was about as close as it came to French food. But it was very good…..

Mahalo
And speaking of food, the other afternoon I took Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole to a poke restaurant that I knew served Dole pineapple whips. It was hot, and it sounded refreshing and delicious. As we pulled up, Mylee cried out, “They have spam misubi!” What? She asked if she could get one, and I told her she could. You may already know what that is, but I certainly didn’t. Spam misubi is spam, marinated and lightly fried, on sushi rice and wrapped in seaweed. It’s a Hawaiian snack food. Though she was somewhat reluctant to share, I convinced her to give me a bite. It was, frankly, quite good. Kaiya could barely sit at the same table. “I don’t like canned meat,” she informed me…..

Ciao!

Secret Messages

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I’ve noticed recently in movies and television shows the presence of easily identifiable MacBooks. If a character is working on a computer, it almost invariably is a Mac. Well done, Apple.

I don’t know if subliminal advertising works (although I don’t know if subliminal is the right word, as the apple with the bite out of it is front and center, no subtlety about it). This sort of advertising is pretty common. I watch a lot of movies on Netflix and Prime, and many of them are from the 70s or 80s, a time in which it was not unusual to have a character drinking a can of Pepsi or a bottle of Budweiser, with the logo easily identifiable and the actor smacking his/her lips with obvious enjoyment. It seems like there was more of that going on then than there is now.

There has always been controversy about whether or not actual subliminal advertising really exists. Is it true, for example, that Coca Cola puts some kind of subliminal advertising in the commercials shown at movie theaters that makes viewers want to run out to the concession stand and buy enormous buckets of Coke and vats of popcorn, buttered please? If so, I miss the message, because once I’m sitting in my seat, nothing makes me budge (well, unless Cole whispers, “Nana, I have to go to the bathroom. Now.” Nothing subliminal about that). When I go to a Regal theater, the Coke and popcorn commercial just prior to the beginning of the movie takes the viewer on a roller coaster ride, a trick that is entirely unsuccessful where I’m concerned as my eyes are closed the entire time. I don’t like roller coasters, even animated rides.

What does have an impact on me however, is food and drink. You might recall that it was watching Frank Reagan of Blue Bloods fame that got me started down the road of whiskey drinking. And if I watch a movie or TV program in which someone is eating a certain kind of food, I can’t get to that food fast enough. I watched a movie in which the main character was a chef who prepared Cuban food. I was jonesing for a Cuban sandwich for days, until I finally satisfied myself at a Cuban restaurant.

I’m not alone. Some time back, Bill began reading a series of mystery books featuring a sheriff/ex-sheriff named Cork O’Conner, authored by William Kent Krueger. In the books — which take place in northern Minnesota — Cork drinks a lot of Leinenkugel’s beer. Leinenkugel, of course, is brewed in Minnesota. Well, for quite some time, Bill drank Leinenkugel right along with Cork. He did the same thing when he was reading Harlan Coben’s series featuring Myron Bolitar. Bolitar drinks Yoo-Hoo, and so did Bill. It didn’t take a lot of persuasion, of course, because Yoo-Hoo is a chocolate beverage. Leinenkugel is easier to find than Yoo-Hoo. Just sayin’.

I read recently that companies pay a ton of money to get their products featured in movies or television programs. So the advertising must work. The article went on to say, however, that the cost of getting a product mentioned in a book is significantly lower. The obvious reason is the difference in numbers. Millions of people will see a book or watch a television program. Far fewer people read books and/or pay any attention to what the main character is eating or drinking.

All I can say is that as I am bingewatching Downton Abbey in preparation for the movie that will be released in September, I have an inexplicably curious desire to drink port out of a tiny glass with my pinky finger raised.

Sinking Hearts

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My sister Bec is leaving later this week to spend some time in Washington D.C. and NYC. She loves both cities, and given that she lived in the D.C. area for 30 years, she has lots of friends to visit. This time, instead of getting a hotel room, she decided to go the VRBO route. She has rented what appears to be a cute little apartment near the Dupont Circle area, an area with which she is both fond and familiar.

The other day she told me that she received a call from the landlord of the apartment. He explained that he would not be around when she checked in (which will be in the neighborhood of 10 o’clock p.m.). He told her when she arrives (with nearly two weeks worth of luggage) she will need to take the stairs down and retrieve her key from where it will be hanging on the wall. She must then go upstairs (with nearly two weeks worth of luggage) a few floors to the apartment.

“I’m not crazy about the fact that the key is hanging where it is accessible to anyone who has diabolical intentions,” she said. (Well, she might not have used the word diabolical because that seems more like something I would say than she, but you get the point.).

And then we began talking about whether or not we were getting too old for this kind of business. Perhaps, she speculated, she should just do as she’s done in the past — have a cab or Lyft driver drop her off at the front door of a hotel where a doorman would handle her luggage and she would get a key from the front desk which would open the door to her predictable room.

“And I would have clean sheets every day and wouldn’t have to make my own bed,” she added.

VRBOs seem like such good ideas at the time, when you are sitting in your recliner and dinner is in the crock pot.

Bill and I have often talked about how we are so grateful that we did our three-month European excursion in 2008 instead of waiting until now. Because our experience wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun. If I checked into VRBO in Barcelona today and the second floor apartment in which we were going to spend our next couple of days was literally sinking onto the floor below (and that’s a true story), I wouldn’t have laughed about it as I did during those first few days of our trip. Instead, I would have turned around and walked to the nearest Holiday Inn Barcelona and spent a few boring days there, looking at beige walls without a single story to tell.

I can’t exactly explain why, but rolling with the punches is so much easier when you’re in your 30s or 40s or even 50s. Sixty-five is too old for much punch rolling. In fact, I’m beginning to think that I need a footman and a lady’s maid and a cook and a butler, but perhaps I’ve just been watching too much Downton Abbey. (I would, however, get tired of having to wear a dress and long gloves to dinner.)

Barcelona was our first stop when we got off the ship, looking at three months of travel ahead of us. Bill had made all of the arrangements, and I will admit that when I saw the sinking floor in Barcelona, my heart sank just like the floor. I’m happy to say, however, that during the remainder of the trip, all floors were solid and all apartments were highly satisfactory.

As I’m sure Bec’s will be.

My Heart Belongs

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He adopted a role called Being a Father so that his child would have something mythical and infinitely important: a Protector. – Tom Wolfe

Bill has a wonderful memory of his dad. When Bill and his siblings were young, the family would drive nearly every Sunday from their home on the south side of Chicago to Hobert, Indiana, where his mother had grown up and his maternal grandparents still lived. The drive took about an hour each way. His grandmother always made fried chicken, so it was likely very worth the drive. After the meal, the family would sit around and talk, and his dad may have done a few fix-it jobs around his in-laws’ house. It would be late when they left, and the kids often fell asleep in the car. The memory Bill has is of his father lifting sleepy little Billy up in his arms and carrying him upstairs and putting him carefully into his bed.

Bill has frequently told me he would love to feel that way again, but I always tell him I wouldn’t be able to lift him. Still, that sense of total protection and safety is wonderful. My dad could bring that feeling to me too, and often did.

I was very close to my mother. A mama’s girl, really. In fact, as I said goodbye to Dagny and Maggie Faith as they left yesterday for summer camp, I explained that I would have been so sad to leave when I was a child. Why? Maggie asked me, because she was so excited to be leaving that she could hardly sit still during the Father’s Day lunch. Because I would have been sad to be without my mom for a week, I explained. I’m pretty sure she rolled her eyes.

But while my relationship with my mother was always in the forefront, I could count on my dad to be my guide. When I was going out on my very first date at age 14, I was terrified. I was dressed up in my fancy velvet and lace, but when the doorbell rang, I ran into the kitchen and hid behind the refrigerator, refusing to come out. It was my dad who came and coaxed me into leaving my hiding place and facing the music.

I still remember being 5 or 6 years old, and Dad running along with me as I rode my bike without training wheels for the first time. Don’t let go of me Dad, I yelled. He promised he wouldn’t. But then, of course, he did. I went off on my own with my dad looking on. It was not the last time I went off on my own with my dad looking on.

It was also my dad who — a few years later, when I was about to take my driver’s test — took me to the big parking lot at the Agricultural Park just east of town to teach me to drive. A few years after that, he helped me buy my first car.

When Bill decided to ask me to marry him, he asked my dad’s permission (despite the fact that I was in my mid-30s and had been married before). Mom and Dad had been to dinner with us, and on the way, they had witnessed a fight between Bill and me. I drove home in my car with Mom (still angry), and Bill drove home with Dad in his. Bill dove right in and told my dad that he wanted to ask me to marry him. Dad was quiet for a few beats, and then said, “Well, it’s fine with me, but I wouldn’t ask her tonight.”

People grow up successfully without dads or father-figures, but there can be no denying that having that kind of a protector figure in your life can set you on a good path. It’s nice to have someone who is always your champion. I, for one, could always count on my dad to be mine. I know he still champions me in heaven.

And cheers to the other fathers in my life…..