Yesterday, three things happened to me.

The first thing was that Bill and I went and got our second booster shot. I wasn’t sure that I was going to get another booster vaccination. I’m not an anti-vaxxer by any stretch of the imagination. I was knocking over little old ladies to get in front of the line to get my the original vaccination. I got my first booster shot before Dr. Fauci even had the words “65 or older” out of his mouth. But I find that I really am no longer afraid of getting COVID. In fact, there’s probably a good chance that I’ve had it and don’t even know it. But I had some time to kill yesterday morning, and both of my sisters had gotten their shots. Let’s face it; being 68 years old doesn’t change the fact that I feel like anything they can do, I can do better. Just as with the other two shots, I didn’t have a single side effect. I’m not convinced the doctors aren’t just giving me shots of Jello.

The second thing that happened to me was that I had a brief visit from my dad. Of course, I know he’s been dead for 12 years now, but every once in a while, I will have a strong memory of him that’s almost like a visit.

His visit came while I was making homemade dinner rolls. I found a recipe for a small batch of four rolls. You make the dough, and then you divide the dough into four even pieces. You roll each piece into a ball, and place the balls in a tiny little 6 X 6 in pan. I had gotten to the point where I was rolling the dough into balls, and I had a flashback of my dad making dinner rolls in the bakery in Columbus. He made a heck of a lot more rolls than four, as you can well imagine. He made dozens of dinner rolls every day. He worked on the side of the workbench that allowed him to see who was coming in and out of the back room (the area where the actual baking took place). He had a scale that looked somewhat like this, but much sturdier and considerably older. It had been purchased many years before when my grandparents came to Nebraska and opened the bakery…..

He had a large metal mixing bowl that contained the dough. On one end of the scale, he had the appropriate amount of weight for each roll. In the blink of an eye, he would pinch off two pieces of the appropriate amount of dough — which he just eyeballed but almost always was on the money. Using both hands, he would roll the dough into perfect circles and toss them onto a large sheet pan lined with parchment paper. I’ll bet each time he did that, it didn’t take more than 10 seconds. As I rolled my single piece of dough into an imperfect ball, I noted that it took me considerably longer than 10 seconds.

I sent my brother Dave a text, telling him about my flashback. I’ll bet you roll dinner rolls into balls just like Dad, I told him. He responded. Yep. Just like Dad.

Oh, and the third thing was that I got another closet cleaned out. We have already taken six or seven bags of clothes to Goodwill, and we will be taking many more over the summer as we prepare to make a big move into a new stage of life.

Very often, when we have dinner at the home of Bill’s son Dave and his wife Jll, following dinner, someone will bring out a board game. Or perhaps it will be a deck of cards with an invitation to play Hearts. They are a game-playing family.

I grew up in a household that didn’t play many games. I think we had a Monopoly game that someone might drag out of the closet biennially, blow off the dust from the box, and dibs the top hat. One or two of us might have grudgingly agreed to play along. Inevitably, one of us would get bored about 35 minutes into the game.

On occasion, one of us might challenge another to a game of gin rummy. My mother taught me to play the game. However, if I ever took too long switching my cards around into sets of runs or threes-of-a-kind, I got the evil eye. She would compare me to the character Billie Dawn (played brilliantly by Judy Holliday) in the 1950 movie Born Yesterday. If you’ve got four minutes to spare, it’s worth clicking on the link. I guarantee it will make you laugh. My mother could never announce that she had “Gin,” without doing it in the squeaky voice of Judy Holliday’s character.

My dad taught all of his children how to play Cribbage. I was never very good, and I didn’t really like the game all that much. I’m not very good at doing addition in my head, and I felt silly counting on my fingers. I don’t need a game to remind me that I hate math. Plus, I’m pretty sure my dad cheated. God rest his soul.

I never learned to play Bridge, but I always envied the women playing the card game in the living room of my sorority house. They looked so grown up and smart. One card game I always thought I’d like to learn to play is Pinochle. My grandfather played Pinochle. After Sunday dinners, the card deck would come out and my dad and his sisters and brothers-in-law would commence playing. I can’t remember if Mom ever played along. I’m sure I could find someone to teach me, but I have very little doubt I would quit after 35 minutes.

For reasons I can’t explain, neither my parents or any of their children were/are very competitive. Strangely, we all married into very competitive families. Perhaps that’s because most people — being citizens of the United States of America — are competitive. Whatever it takes to win.

Bill and his children excel at trivia games. One night very long ago, Bill and I played Trivial Pursuit. We were on opposite teams. I have a vivid recollection of him pulling one of the cards and making a show of saying, “Oh My God. This is soooo easy.” The question was who was president of France during the Cold War. After Bill’s pronouncement, there was no way in hell that I would be able to pull up the name Charles de Gaulle out of my already-ticked-off brain.

Bill and I no longer join in games, reindeer or otherwise.

Bill and I are pretty quiet folks. Dull, really. We may have the occasional family dinner over a weekend. Perhaps he and I will go to a movie (Maverick was sensational!). For the most part, however, we sit at home, staring at one another, wondering what the grown ups are doing.

This weekend we were grown ups.

I hadn’t been to downtown Denver for two years. The last time I stepped past Speer Boulevard was pre-COVID. I knew things would have changed. In fact, I have read how much things are changing the closer you get to downtown. COVID’s aftermath hits urban areas more than suburban areas. This weekend, however, I had purchased tickets for not one, but TWO comedian performances at the Paramount Theater just off the 16th Street Mall. One show was on Saturday and one show was on Sunday.

Saturday afternoon, Bill and I drove to our neighborhood light rail station. We got there early, as we always seem to do. Both benches were filled, not with Rockies or Avalanche fans, but with a homeless man spread out on each bench. We joined the throng of fans who were attending the Avalanche game at Ball Arena and the Rockies game at Coors Field standing near the tracks. (The Avalanche won; the Rockies lost. No shock about either.)

We got the last seat on the train, where another homeless fellow had taken an entire seat to sleep. It might have been my imagination, but the train seemed dirtier and less pleasant. I used to love taking the train downtown. It made me feel hip and urban, and it was ever so convenient. Apparently not so much any more.

I am not criticizing homeless people. The numbers of homeless seem to have escalated. But the fact is — whether it’s fair or not — citizens can’t feel safe when directly faced with the reality of homelessness and obvious drug use.

At any rate, we ate $20 hamburgers at a restaurant that had tavern in its name, but wasn’t really a tavern at all. We walked across the street to the theater and watched Kathleen Madigan perform her extremely funny act. It was being filmed for a Netflix special, so perhaps in addition to being hip and urban, I might be a television start if the cameras caught me mid-laugh.

Sunday, after watching Dagny’s confirmation ceremony at Wellshire Presbyterian Church, we met Jen at our house. She and I again took light rail downtown to watch another very funny comedian — Leanne Morgan. Her show was very different from the previous night’s show, mostly in the demographics of her audience. Here was her demographic…..

I’m not a bit reluctant to tell you that Jen and I fit right in. From beginning to end, we laughed at Morgan’s take on growing old. She hit the nail on the head.

Jen and I took light rail both directions, and lived to tell about it.

I wonder if Leanne Morgan and Kathleen Madigan were as tired last night as I was.

Temperature Shock
Bill and I arrived safely back in Denver yesterday evening. The temperature was barely 59 degrees. It was cloudy and overcast, and it looked like it was going to start raining at any moment. Might I remind you that it was June 1. Contrast that with the 100 degree temperatures we left behind us in Phoenix as we waved goodbye from the air. I was too tired to listen to the Colorado weather news. I would guess, however, that the temperatures are going to warm up in the next few days. I hope so, at any rate.

Cool Baby
Our air conditioning repairmen left our AZ house around 6 o’clock Tuesday evening. They fixed the air conditioner, but it took them about six hours to do so. Needless to say, the cost made me light-headed. Still, for the first time in three days, we had a cool and comfortable night’s sleep. Not quite as cool and comfortable as last night, when the temperature got down in the 40s.

AIRPLANE
I never get onto an airplane where I don’t look around for the Singing Nun. I never can remember if that was from the movie Airport or Airplane. Still, honest to God, if I ever noticed a black-clad Catholic nun carrying a guitar get onto a plane, I would lose my mind. I’m pleased to say there was no such person on yesterday’s flight. Or perhaps I just didn’t notice as I was distracted by the 3-year-old behind me who kicked my seat for the entire two hours we were on the plane. I really didn’t mind. It was better than the crying child a few rows up. And Bill gave me a window seat, so I enjoyed the entire trip because it was a clear day until we got a few miles out of Denver. Bumpity bump.

It’s Aliiiiiive
From what I could tell, all of my outside plants lived to see another day, despite the fact that I didn’t ask anyone to water them. I guess it’s been cool and wet enough in Denver to satisfy them. My Swiss chard, however, that I dutifully brought inside, is deader than a door nail. Oh well. I would like another trip to the nursery tomorrow anyway.

Ciao.

As I’m writing this post, it is May 31. As you might recall from previous posts, in AZ, springtime weather in AZ is in February, March, and most of April. After that, summer hits with a vengeance. So, guess which appliance in our AZ house decided it was going on strike? Yes. You guessed correctly. It is our air conditioner. The first day, I was in denial. It’s just not used to working this hard, I thought to myself with a nod to the outdoor temperature that hit 102, with a wink at 103. It will get itself back on track and start cooling our house, I tried to convince myself.

It didn’t. So, Sunday afternoon — yes, the day before Memorial Day — I called the company that had installed our air conditioner and left a voice message begging for assistance. I didn’t have a lot of hope, but by golly, the owner of the small company called me back that night with many apologies for not having called sooner. No prob I told him; after all, it’s Sunday of Memorial Day weekend. You’re beating all of my expectations. That doesn’t happen often these days.

We are preparing to leave this very afternoon to return to Denver. Nevertheless, it would be idiocy to leave a house with no air conditioning at all. We generally turn the temp up to 85 or 90 and keep our fingers crossed that the appliances don’t melt over the summer. Leaving it unfixed was not an option.

The nice young man who came out to check out our unit on Monday looked almost sheepish when he told me what was wrong with our air conditioning. He slowly and clearly told me what was wrong and what had to happen to fix the problem. He may as well have been speaking Japanese because I didn’t understand a word he was saying because I don’t speak Appliance Repair. I did understand, however, when he broke the news about the price. Aha. I understood his sheepishness. Of course, I’m not generally into killing messengers, and swallowed hard and told him to go ahead and do the necessary work (after checking with our fellow homeowner Jen). Miracle of miracles, he was able to find the necessary part. The fact that it wasn’t stuck somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean was shocking.

As I speak, the house it 88 degrees. However, my new BFF Marc is installing the part, which will take several hours. God willing, we will have a cool bedroom our last night in the desert.

Oops. The house temp just went up to 89. Denver, here we come.

Yesterday was a busy day that allowed exactly zero time to write a blog post. But this article from Buzzfeed was fed to me, and I found it interesting/amusing, so I’m sharing it with you.

https://apple.news/AZjdMtuxxSJekurhoKccnyA

This weekend is the first Memorial Day weekend in some time that we aren’t going to be able to make it out to Fort Logan Cemetery to place flowers at Mom’s and Dad’s headstones. They don’t mind, because they’re in a better place anyway…..

Have a wonderful Memorial Day.

I clearly remember the day — some 30 years ago — when I realized that the Muzak they were playing in the background at the grocery store in which I was shopping wasn’t Perry Como or Montovani, as I was used to hearing. Instead, it was the music I sang and danced to in high school. That was the first time I remember thinking “I’m getting old.”

The other morning I was grocery shopping at our nearby Basha’s. It was early, just after 7 o’clock because I wanted to be done before it became too hot to walk to and from. Because of this, there were very few people in the store. As I made my way past the dairy, the song You’re So Vain began playing over the intercom as background music. I have always liked that song, and know every word. Without stopping to think, I began singing along. I wasn’t singing loudly; I was, however, singing loud enough that someone close by would hear me. People! The store was empty. Suddenly, around the corner came a woman about my age pushing a cart and holding the hand of someone that I presume must have been her grandson. She was singing along to the song as well.

I started to laugh, and so did she. “I guess they are playing music for Baby Boomers,” I said to her. She smiled back and agreed. “It was the best music,” she said. “And I always liked this song, and Roberta Flack.”

“Oh, oh,” I thought. “Should I let her error go uncorrected? After all, in the scheme of life, it doesn’t matter that it certainly isn’t Roberta Flack singing this song. And I’ll never see this woman again. So I should let it go.”

My friends, I was unable to let the error go without correction.

“I think that’s Carly Simon singing,” I said.

She agreed sheepishly, and went her merry way. She was probably thinking you’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you.

Have a great weekend.