I just finished reading a book – The Edge of Eternity, by Ken Follett, which I will review tomorrow – that takes place during the time period of the Cold War, roughly the early 1960s to the late 1980s. Baby Boomers will understand when I simplify things by saying the Cold War began with the words of one president – Ich bin ein Berliner – and ended with the words of another president – Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.

Tiny Tears, circa 1955

While I was a small girl during the early days of the Cold War, I was much more interested in wiping the tears from my Tiny Tears doll than worrying about ships bearing missiles headed directly to Cuba and aimed directly at my 6-year-old head. I was thankfully clueless.

My sister Bec is just enough older than me that she remembers that scary time. I feel I must add that not only is she enough older, but she is considerably smarter than I, so she probably knew enough to pay attention. Her Tiny Tears doll’s tears went unwiped. We all have our roles…..

While I don’t necessarily remember the Cuban Missile Crisis, I do remember the assassination of President Kennedy and how the world seemed to stop that day. I was in second grade. Our principal came into our classroom at St. Bonaventure Elementary and told us to get down on our knees. The president had been shot and killed. We prayed, and then were sent home.

The next few days are seared into Baby Boomers’ memories.

What The Edge of Eternity really made me think about was just how much our world changed from when I was a small girl in Columbus, Nebraska, to when I had a child of my own in 1980. I have often thought about the changes my grandmother and grandfather saw over the course of their lifetime, but I saw plenty of changes as well.

It’s hard to imagine that – in my lifetime – black Americans didn’t have basic civil rights, often including the right to vote. Those rights didn’t come easy, and didn’t, in fact, come at all until President Lyndon Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act into law in 1965. I think that’s a reality that our grandkids simply can’t quite understand.

For the most part, married women didn’t work outside the home until the 1970s, and were considered, for the most part, to be secondary citizens to their husbands or fathers. Arguably at least, times have changed considerably. We are likely to see a woman president in my lifetime.

The 1960s and 1970s brought about a change in music.  Remember this?……..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=It3Cctk6BRs

This appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show was all we could talk about the next day in February 1964. I was in fourth grade. I think it’s safe to say music was never the same.

And it’s also safe to say that easy access to safe contraception brought about the sexual revolution. The 1960s were a time of free love, easy access to drugs, and, in response to the Vietnam War, the peace movement.

Although, I feel compelled to mention that I think a lot of these “movements” took place largely on the east and west coasts. Those of us in Nebraska and other “flyover states” were perhaps still a bit isolated.

Anyway, the book just brought back a lot of memories – some good and some bad, and made me realize that the world is always changing. And that’s probably for the best.

But do baby dolls still cry real tears? At fifty dollars a pop, they should.

What memories do you have of the Cold War years?

And meanwhile, back at the ranch, while the estrogen set was planning, preparing, and eating timpano (see November 10, 2014 post), at least some of the testosterone set were watching cars go round and round in circles at the Phoenix International Raceway.

For Fathers’ Day, Bill’s son Dave made arrangements for them to attend the NASCAR race that ran this past weekend. The real gift was a parking space for the RV that he, his brother Allen and his son Alastair drove to the race from Denver. They spent the entire weekend. He couldn’t possibly have gotten him something Bill would have loved more.

Within 24 hours of opening his gift, Bill bought enough tickets to include both of his sons, Alastair, and my brother Dave, and commenced planning.

Bill has been working on the arrangements since June. Saying Bill is somewhat compulsive is like saying that Noah’s flood was a rain shower. I’m talking down to illustrating a to-scale sketch of the campsight.

You think I’m kidding….

He purchased plastic ticket holders on lanyards so that they could wear their tickets around their necks. He bought a huge canopy and tarps to use as sides, and had several practice runs at setting it up. He carefully considered the size of the cooler, how much beer he needed, where he would park the car – should it face north and south or east and west? He made certain there was a camping grill. He planned for the necessary amount of firewood. He made sure he had a Jeff Gordon baseball cap.

But the day before his kids/grandkids showed up in the RV, I offhandedly asked Bill, “What are you guys going to eat for the next four days?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll figure something out.”

Whaaaaaaat?

Now you KNOW if women were planning that trip we would not be worrying about ticket holders or canopies. We wouldn’t have the faintest concern about which direction the car would be parked. There would be no to-scale sketches of the campground. BUT WE WOULD KNOW WHAT WE WERE GOING TO EAT AND WHO WAS BRINGING WHAT FOOD FOR WHAT MEALS.

It’s how we roll.

I’m pleased to report that they didn’t starve, but that’s because our daughter-in-law took care of sending enough burgers, brats, and buns to last the entire weekend. And it’s a good thing because otherwise they would probably have lived on beer and cigars, with the occasional $11 hotdog purchased from concessions. Alastair would have lived on Sprite. Because they think the lemon-lime drink actually has lemons and lime in it.

Here’s how they roll. Within minutes of setting up camp, my brother is lighting up a cigar….

Dave had to leave for 24 hours to attend the funeral of a friend’s father. Bill, Allen, and my brother Dave were in charge of Alastair.

S’mores for breakfast…..

By time a few hours passed, Alastair was all in for the beer and cigars….

Actually, of course, I’m joking, because Alastair was well taken care of in Dave’s absence.  But they couldn’t help but pull our legs by sending the photo of Alastair posing with an adult beverage.

When the long race weekend was done, they came home looking a bit like something the cat had thought about bringing home but decided it was too disgusting.

The verdict? A great time was had by all.

In honor of Veterans’ Day, and in honor of my dad, today’s post is a reprise from Veterans’ Day 2013. Everything I said a year ago is still true. We owe my dad — and ALL veterans — more gratitude than it is possible to express.

Today is Veterans’ Day, and, as always, it makes me think about my dad – that would be Musician 3rd Class Reinhart Gloor, serial number 317-11-31, United States Navy.

I always thought it was funny that my dad, having lived nearly his entire life in land-locked Nebraska (he was born in South Dakota but only lived there for a short time) chose to enlist in the Navy. Apparently he chose the Navy because they offered him the best opportunity to be a musician. He tried out for the Naval Music School and was accepted in the Music Corps. Instead of carrying a gun, my dad carried a saxophone and a clarinet.

You see, though a baker by trade, my dad loved music. It always seemed entirely appropriate to me that my dad spent his military years entertaining troops during World War II. He was stationed on the island of Trinidad.

I wish I had talked more with my dad about his years in the Navy. He had, to my knowledge, never been out of the country. Heck, I would guess he had never been out of Nebraska. Here he was, an inexperienced boy of only 18 or so, sent to basic training in Chicago and music school in Washington, D.C., then on to Trinidad. No friends with him, his mom and dad and sisters far away with no internet or even much in the way of telephones I would assume. He probably was nervous and excited.

He was one of many young boys and girls who were experiencing the same mixed feelings of excitement and fear, loneliness and suffocation from being around other people all of the time. Those soldiers, sailors, airmen/women and Marines needed the comfort of music.

A number of years ago, my husband and I were able to visit the Normandy area of France. We walked on Omaha Beach. I don’t think anything I’ve ever seen has had such a profound impact on me as seeing that enormous section of beach, onto which those men – boys, really – involved in the D-Day invasion had to disembark from their ship and run like hell. Brave, brave men.

And that’s just one example. There are thousands and thousands of stories of young people who have fought in places so, so far from home to keep America safe and free. They have truly sacrificed, and continue to sacrifice, so much for us so that we can bring up our families as we see fit and worship as we please.

My husband also served, in the United States Army during the Vietnam War. Thankfully for him (and for me), he never had to serve in Vietnam. I’m proud of him and his service to all of us. (I don’t have a picture of him in his uniform or I would post it!) In fact, I’m pretty sure all of us know a vet, perhaps more than one. Today is a good day to tell him or her thanks for their service and for helping keep us safe and free.

Happy Veterans’ Day!

Really I think very often my Saturday Smile should just be called Nana’s Brag Sheet. But it’s my blog, and very often it’s my grandkids that make me smile.

This week I learned that our eldest granddaughter, 11-year-old Addie, earned straight As her first quarter as a middle schooler. This is on top of playing volleyball and being a member of show choir.

As a straight A student, she was invited to attend what is called a Pacesetter Lunch with the principal. If the principal asked me, I would tell him/her that they’d better get used to it in the years to come, because Addie will not only be setting the pace, she will be setting the strategies to reach the goals, which she will also have set.

I couldn’t be more proud.

On the other side of the age scale, our youngest grandson, 6-month-old Cole Jonathan, is aspiring to be a Chippendale….

Have a great weekend.

You almost can’t turn on the radio or television, or open a magazine at the hair salon without seeing or reading something about singer Taylor Swift. Her recent album, in which she makes the move from country to pop, has really brought her in the public’s eye. A number of years ago, some unique circumstances brought Ms. Swift to my sister Bec’s small Catholic high school in Alexandria, VA, to perform a concert for the student body. Here is the story…..

By Rebecca Borman

One day this week I turned on a morning talk show, and they were talking about Taylor Swift, who had performed on the show the day before and would be doing so again later in the week.  That afternoon, I was listening to the radio in my car, and Swift’s new song, “Shake It Off” played.  When the song ended, the station went to commercial, so I switched stations, and there was “Shake It Off” again.  I never hear Taylor Swift’s music or read anything about her without being taken back to the spring of 2009, to the day when Taylor Swift gave a private concert in the high school where I taught.

Early in 2009, Swift, a rising young singer, and Verizon wireless teamed up to create a texting contest—whichever school sent the most texts to a particular phone number would win a private Taylor Swift concert.  Presumably, the rising star agreed (I’m pretty sure the idea came from Verizon) in order to promote her new album, Fearless.  And little Bishop Ireton High School, student population 800, won that contest!  But, see, in the meantime, Taylor Swift was no longer a rising star; she had made it big!  Her songs were all over the radio, she was on the internet and talk shows, and she was on the short list for the CMA Entertainer of the Year Award, which, by the way, she won that November.  And, yet, there she was one May afternoon, to do the concert she had promised the school who won that contest.

It’s a great story, and one I’ll dine on for the rest of my life.  Because Taylor Swift gave that concert…and so much more.  You might expect that, having achieved success and not in need of whatever publicity she would get from a show in Alexandria, Virginia, she would dog it a bit.  Didn’t happen.  Instead, she came into the school hours before the show and met administrators, teachers, and lots and lots of students.  She took pictures with all the student government kids and was delighted when the boy who generated the contest in school introduced himself.  In fact, she gave him a big hug!  He’ll never forget that.

And then she gave a performance that lacked nothing in energy or quality.  She could have been performing for the President or a concert venue of 20,000 people.   She talked to our students, noting that only a year earlier, she had been a high school senior.  She thanked the school for hosting her show.  And she told a story I’ll never forget:

One Monday morning she was in the girls’ bathroom and watched a fellow student who was sobbing to her friends because she had had sex with her boyfriend that weekend.  She was regretting it bitterly, sad that she had bowed to pressure, disappointed in herself.  And this is what Swift said to our students:  “I decided then and there, I never wanted to be that girl.  I never wanted to give in to the pressure to do something that I knew was wrong for me.”  Now, teachers and parents can talk ‘til they’re blue in the face, but this was super-star Taylor Swift, empowering our students, especially our girls, to respect themselves and their values.

So, when I hear her on the radio or see her all over the magazines, the internet, talk shows, etc., I smile big!  This is one woman who, it seems, gets it.  She is a role model, not because she’s been told she needs to be but because it’s who she is.

You go, girl!

Nana’s Notes: Here is a link to a Youtube video of the concert, including her interactions with students before the concert. She is sooooo young.

Last week, Bill sadly showed me that one of his favorite shirts had a hole in it – tiny, but noticeable. Apparently some cigar ash had been dropped the last time he wore it. I’m happy to report that he hadn’t gone up in flames, but the hole appeared nonetheless.

The only realistic option was to toss the shirt. But the hole was really tiny, and what the heck? I would try my hand at darning.

Do post-Baby-Boomers even know what darning is?

I don’t sew. I have never sewed. I never want to sew.  Over the course of Bill’s and my 22 years of marriage, he has frequently offered to buy me a sewing machine. I have always vehemently declined. Because, well, see above. I don’t sew.

Just as an aside, I must admit I have sewed a few things in my life. I believe we made things like aprons and tea towels in what was called Home Economics back in 1970. (Now it’s called Life Skills or something meaningless like that.) I also recall that we had a big final project – sewing a piece of clothing. Something substantial like a dress or a suit. I elected to make a pant suit.

Boy oh boy. If I had a picture of that suit now, I think I would have to take it out deep in the woods and bury it (along with my third grade picture as long as I’m burying things). As I recall, for inexplicable reasons, I chose to make the suit out of a heavy, extremely, well, let’s say vibrant red and black WOOL plaid. Big plaid. Massive.

Not only was it ill-made as I had not one teeny-tiny bit of talent, but it was hideous. I never wore it, and I’m fairly certain my mother tossed it out into the garbage at her earliest opportunity.

Anyway, as I threaded my needle and proceeded to attempt to repair the tiny hole, I had a flashback that I’ll bet many of my Baby Boomer readers will remember.

Back in the 1960s, when you got a hole in your sock, you didn’t just throw the sock away. You gave it to Mom to darn. She would slip the sock over an old burned-out light bulb that she had saved for the express purpose of being a darning tool, and proceed to repair the hole. You used the repaired sock, but it was never quite as comfortable because you had that whole bunched up section. You didn’t complain, however.

The same, by the way, was true of holes in the knees of your pants. Mom didn’t toss the pants; she stuck a patch over the knee and you wore them until the patch wore out. Bill has a vivid memory of a school photo in which he has ironed-on patches on the knees of his pants – like a hillbilly, he says.

Our parents lived through the Depression, my friends.

As I was thinking about the darning light bulb, I also recalled Mom ironing and ironing and ironing (something she didn’t do nearly as much of in her later years, and something I almost NEVER do). What I remember, however, is that she had an old glass pop bottle onto which she had screwed some sort of sprinkling head. She would shake water onto the shirts or pants that she was ironing, and swoop the iron over the item. I can remember the smell to this day.

At some point she abandoned the practice of ironing what she called bed clothes – the sheets for the beds.  I have never ironed sheets in my life. But I will tell you a dark and dirty secret. If my name was Mrs. Astor and I was independently wealthy, I would have my hired help (whom I would pay generously) iron my sheets. I love the feel of ironed sheets.

Bill’s mom had a rotary iron mangle through which she could pass clothing and bed sheets with ease. That didn’t make the cut when she moved into her retirement apartment.

We live in a toss-away society now, so all of these notions sound like they are from outer space, but I remember them well.

By the way, the darning project was just somewhat less than successful. If he walks with a hand on his stomach, he might get away with it.

I cast my first vote in the presidential election of 1972. I was 18. I have voted in every election ever since.

Seriously. Every election. President. Congressperson. Senator. State Legislator. Mayor. School Board. Dog Catcher. Well, not dog catcher.

I have voted absentee. I have cast ballots in curtain-covered election booths. I’ve mailed in my ballot.

I’ve worked on campaigns. I’ve handed out literature. I’ve voted in primaries.  I’ve posted yard signs. I’ve been a representative at our state convention.

I believe in the election process. Always have. Always will.

But I am thoroughly and entirely sick of this year’s election. Well, not really the election; the campaign ads. All of them. Republican. Democrat. It doesn’t matter. They are all the same. Annoying.

The “bad guy” in the ad looks devious, sickly, evil, demonic and red-eyed. The “good guy” is handsome/beautiful, smiling, patriotic, and accompanied by music seemingly provided by angels.

Sick of them all. My only blessing is that we were able to leave Colorado a week-and-a-half ago so that we are at least hearing NEW terrible campaign ads here in Arizona.

In Colorado, there is apparently only one issue – whether or not a candidate is or isn’t supportive of abortion. I couldn’t possibly find that more annoying or more offensive in this time when there are also so many OTHER really important issues. Please give women some credit. (That annoys me as much as the IPhone commercial where the women scream until they break all of the glass in the room. I don’t think women scream when they get excited. But that’s a post for another day…..)

Every once in a while, my sister Jen will send me a text in which she states, “Just in case you’ve forgotten, (fill in the blank) is still too extreme for Colorado.”

Believe me, it is seared in my memory. Sick of them.

The ads started really early this year. I think earlier than usual. Bec visited us in July, and I remember talking with her about the ads. Seriously. July. No wonder I’m sick of them.

I imagine lots of research has been conducted on the importance of campaign ads, and I assume they do some good because certainly a lot of money is spent on them. It’s a shame that some of our often-uneducated population uses these ads to make their voting decisions. Not just sad; scary.

But, my friends, Election Day is tomorrow, and I hope and pray that those elected are honest, hard-working, and willing to stand up and let their conscience (and the hopes of those who voted for them) prevail. I am proud of our election process even with its inevitable flaws. We have the best system in the world, despite the commercials.

Don’t forget to vote, if you haven’t already done so. God bless America!

We had a quiet Halloween. We had a sprinkling of trick-or-treaters, but for the most part, our Snickers and Milky Way fun bars will go into the freezer.

As a treat, I watched a couple of old horror movies yesterday. Well, tried to, anyway. I watched Vincent Price in House on Haunted Hill, a movie I well remember from my younger days. One of the television stations used to air what they called “sci fi” movies every Saturday night at 10:30. Mom used to send Jen and me to bed at 10 (we shared not only a bedroom but a bed), and told me if I could stay awake until Jen fell asleep, I could get out of bed and watch the sci fi movie. Sometimes I stayed awake; sometimes I didn’t. But House on Haunted Hill was one I remember watching and being totally terrified! My observation yesterday was that it really would have been kind of scary except that the special effects were, well, not very special.

Next, however, I tried to watch the original NIght of the Living Dead. It was a no-go, my friends. In broad daylight it scared the pants off of me.

Anyway, here is a snapshot of some Halloween goblins….

Dagny is a bride, Magnolia is a witch, Addie is a pioneer girl, and Alastair is a ninja.

Joseph is Batman, ready to fight evil…

…. with the help of his brother Micah, who is Robin.

Kaiya is a zombie bride cat (why be one when you can be them all?) and Mylee is a ninja turtle (with a tutu).

Cole is ready to fight some fires!

Have a great weekend.