Macanudo came to us a little over a year ago as a birthday gift for my husband. I worried and fretted for weeks about how this surprise gift would be received because we had decided to remain petless for awhile when our Rusty, our Springer Spaniel, passed on to the great doggie park in the sky. Ultimately, however, Mac has been a wonderful addition, so much so, that he has become Carl’s raison d’etre.

Carl is VERY particular about EVERYTHING Mac. His feeding station, his food, his toys (can’t be squeakers), his need for a dog bed in every room in the house, his treats, his collar and his leash. ALLLLLL have to meet certain standards. Up until a few days ago, we’ve been using Rusty’s 100% leather leash. It should be noted that it is a twenty-year-old leash. It should also be noted that we have OTHER leashes, more stylish . . . Even a seasonal designer Vineyard Vines Christmas leash that has NEVER made it out of the junk drawer. Upon returning from the routine late night walk, Carl announced that Mac should have a new leash of his very own.

“Oh! I can stop by PetCo on my way home tomorrow if you’d like,” I offered in an attept to be helpful.

“NO!” he retorted, “I don’t want a leash from a pet store!”

“Um,” I began cautiously, “where would one expect to FIND a suitable leash if not at a pet store?”

“A tack shop!” he exclaimed as if he’d just discovered plutonium.

“What?!” I exclaimed, “Mac is NOT a horse. He’s a DOG!”

“I know, but he NEEDS something nice . . . And sturdy!”

The next afternoon Carl and I took Mac out to exercise in the front yard. Mac playfully ran between Carl and me, chasing his red rubber stick until he had exhausted himself. As we sat and let Mac rest for awhile, he started barking at seemingly nothing.

“What’s all that about?” I asked him, following his gaze toward “the offender.” Well . . . some potted rose trees on the neighbors’ front porch were swaying in the breeze . . . Like dancing lollipops. Mac thought they were alive, thus all the protective barking and growling, growling and barking.

. . . And THIS, I thought, is what needs a special leash from a tack shop!!!

As it happened, Carl hit a dead end with the tack shop. It went out of business years ago, so Carl had to employ Plan B in his quest for a leather leash. He battled every instinct he had and found himself perusing the aisles at PetCo. As predicted, no leather leashes could be found among the merchandise. There was everything else, though: Nylon leashes, heavy duty chain leashes, retractable leashes, embroidered leashes, training leashes, leashes with muzzles, padded leashes, slip leashes, reflective leashes, waterproof leashes. . . Everything but leather leashes. After quite some time, Carl finally selected a sturdy, black, round rope leash with a looped handle reinforced with rubber.

Once home and still not satisfied with the type and quality of his purchase, Carl disappeared into his office to shop on line for the elusive special 100% leather leash for his special dog. He simply HAD to find a LEATHER leash. After what seemed like forever, he pointed, clicked, added to cart and proceeded to checkout and emerged from his man cave with a satisfied smug on his face.

“Mac WILL have his leather leash in three to five business days! It is hand-crafted leather, made by the Pennsylvania Dutch artisans in Amish country!” he announced, full of self-satisfaction. (The fact that the Amish refuse all modern conveniences, the irony of them having a website upon which to sell their wares was not lost on me, but I remained quiet. I was just happy that a suitable leash had been ordered . . . Amish or not!)

The leather leash crafted by the Amish has indeed arrived, but alas! It has been deemed inferior, both in quality and expectations. It has fallen w-a-y short of Carl’s standards for something “special” for his special dog! The Amish leash, come to learn, is too narrow, too thin and too short! (Perhaps he could donate it to someone with a Chihuahua . . . or a cat even!) This leash is SO inferior that it has been relegated to the junk drawer along with the perfectly suitable Vineyard Vines leash . . . A fate worse than death for a leash!

While Carl continues the search for the perfect 100% leather leash with the correct dimensions and thickness, he has resorted to using the rope leash from PetCo. This black leash is about 3/4” round, the looped handle is reinforced with rubber lining, and it measures approximately 9’ in length. Carl and Mac just returned from their morning walk.

“How was the leash?” I asked.
“It was o.k.,” Carl began, “but it’s got a little give to it!”
“Give? What do mean ‘give’?”
“Well . . . It’s got a little elastic in it or something. It stretches!” He explained.
“You mean like a bungee cord?” I exclaimed, “You mean to tell me if Mac sees a squirrel or something else ‘chase-worthy,’ he can bolt and the leash will stretch?”
“Ya, sort of,” Carl replied, hating to admit the truth.
“So . . . Let me get this right . . . . You and Mac are out walking, you light up a pipe while at the same time Mac bolts off toward a squirrel . . . He reaches the end of the elastic ‘give’ and snaps back toward you with full force knocking you flat on your butt?”
“It’s not THAT bad,” he said, “but . . .there IS some give!”

And so . . . The quest continues for the special leash for the special dog!

Although meditation has been practiced for thousands of years as a means of connecting to the the spirit world, people today use it as a means of relaxation and stress reduction. I have never been one to meditate. Quite the contrary. My go-to method of stress reduction has always been physical exercise . . . aerobics, modern dance, group step or barre classes and, back in the day, Jazzercise. Life certainly can deal out tremendous pressure and without some sort of release valve, we run the risk of both mental and physical unwellness. Recently, Life walloped me with an unwelcome, uninvited and very difficult situation. For months, I delved into my default coping mode and exercised, walked, toned, lifted light weights and jazz-danced every single day with little or no improvement in my level of stress and distress. My good friend, concerned about me, invited me over for a heart-to-heart talk and encouraged me to try a short session in meditating. She even streamed a sample study for us to try together. Following the instructions from the leader, I quieted myself, closed my eyes, rested my hands atop my knees, palms up, inhaled and exhaled a few times, focussing on my ribs expanding and contracting to her slow, hypnotic voice, “Inhale . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four. Notice your breath as it fills the space in your body. Exhale . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four. Visualize the gust of air that escapes through your lungs.” The soft music of a sitar in the background calmed the tone of her soothing voice into a sort of lullaby, creating an even more relaxing feeling in the room. At the conclusion of the introductory class, I had to admit that I felt a little lighter and more at ease.

A couple of days later, remembering the calm I felt from meditating, I decided to try it by myself. Admittedly, I’m never really by myself at home. A very goofy Bernedoodle named Mac lives with my husband and me. Mac must be wherever we are. It’s just who he is. He lays by my side, head resting on my feet, when I’m watching TV or sitting at my desk. If I get up to leave the room even for just a minute, he’s right behind me as if tethered on an invisible leash. He “helps” with whatever I’m doing. Since my husband was out, I realized that Mac would definitely be with me during my meditation. I gathered some toys and treats for him to play with as a distraction, just as I did when I had toddlers at home. I selected a 10-minute meditation session on my Mirror (an in home exercise device similar to the Peloton), and although the instructor suggested that we position ourselves on the floor, sitting on our legs and feet to give a little height, I opted to sit in a chair, thinking that I would be less tempting (and above Mac’s eye level) for Mac.  Come to find out, that didn’t matter.  Nope.  Not one bit.  The distractions I provided to keep Mac busy for the short 10-minutes were useless. He wanted no part of them. He wanted ME! Of course he did!  

Eyes closed, hands resting on my thighs, palms up, quieting myself and listening to my breath, I felt the weight of his dog toys being dropped, one by one, into my lap followed by furry nudges.  Ignoring him, I thought I’d been successful only to feel little nips on the toes of my slippers.  I kicked ever-so-gently in an attempt to discourage the invitation to play; however, THAT was interpreted as part of his game!  The little nips became heavier, almost to the point of becoming actual bites, as if Mac had caught a rabbit or some other small, unfortunate creature.  I peered open one eye (not wanting to make eye contact with him) and observed him looking up at me upside down!

The peacefulness and serenity intended by my attempt at meditation was replaced with innocent playfulness, love, devotion and affection. I reached down and hugged Mac, smiling for the first time in weeks! I’m now quite sure that meditation with Mac is the best medication for whatever Life throws at me!

“What’s the matter with you?” asked my golf partners midway through a competitive match, “you’re an absolute wreck! You haven’t been yourself all day and your putting sucks! Now, pull yourself together! We still have a chance at this!”

They were right. I was a wreck. I hadn’t eaten or slept well in days. I was distracted by anything and everything and I knew beyond a reasonable doubt that when my husband found out what I had done, I’d be served with divorce papers within minutes, maybe seconds! If I could undo that one little thing, I would, but . . . I feared it was too late.

Over the past holiday season when impulse decisions pummeled the air like rapid fire, we (actually I, to be more correct) almost pulled the trigger on one ourselves. A twelve-week-old tricolor Bernedoodle needed a home. His intended situation collapsed since the breadwinner of the family lost his job and one more mouth to feed was too much for their already strained budget. When I saw a picture of the puppy, I was instantly sold. “Wally,” short for “Walter” (was it too presumptuous to name him?) would fit in perfectly with us. My husband loves four-legged creatures more than most two-legged ones and bringing a new, energetic puppy into our home may just provide our seventeen-year-old Springer Spaniel with a renewed raison d’etre . . . perhaps for a few more months, maybe even a year!

“Oh my gosh!” I gasped, “he is the most adorable dog I think I’ve ever seen? What do you think? Should we take him?”

Never thinking that Carl would pass on such an opportunity, I was shocked and disappointed with his response.

“No. No. We’re not getting another dog. When Rusty goes, that’s it. You’ve always insisted that he’s your last dog, so . . . No on the puppy. We’re done. You said that our next dog would be made of cement, would sit near our front door with a cement basket of cement flowers in his mouth and that his name would be Rocky. We’re not getting another dog.”

“But . . . ,” I began, not knowing how to oppose an argument I’d made for years. He’d thrown my words right back at me and I didn’t like the sound of them! But Carl was right! I really didn’t want another dog after Rusty. We’d be free. We’d have no restrictions or responsibilities to tie us down. We could travel, go away for a long day, a long weekend, two weeks, a month! There would be no dog hair to sweep up every day, no barking whenever someone passed by the window, no yard to clean up, no fleas to worry about. Thank God for Carl yanking me back to reality! The final word was NO on the dog!

The holidays passed, the new year launched and Life in the West household hummed along perfectly with no pings in the engine . . . until a text message buzzed into my phone.

Hey, Peggy . . . Thought you might like to know . . . The breeder who had the Bernedoodle you liked so much at Christmastime has another litter . . . Just born . . . Mid-sized Bernies . . . Gonna be about 45 lbs. fully grown. Here’s her contact information in case you’re interested.

A collage of Wally’s photo floated through my mind, hijacking my thoughts for a few minutes. Visions of the cutest puppy I had ever seen sent me reeling.

Should we have gotten him? Do I REALLY NOT want another dog? Rusty’s definitely on the decline; he can’t hear, his arthritis is crippling and he sleeps away 95% of every day. Do we really travel that much? No, because we have a dog. But is that truly the reason? Carl’s birthday is coming up? Would he like a puppy? Ugh! Would I like a puppy since I’d probably be the one doing most of the work? Bernedoodles don’t shed . . . They’ve got hair, not fur!

A vigorous shake of the head brought me back to reality. Carl proclaimed in front of God and all our neighbors that we were NOT getting another dog . . . because I said my next dog would be cement. Period. He had spoken.

That text message haunted me for weeks. Compounding the issue was Carl’s upcoming birthday! He always goes way overboard in celebrating my birthdays but he never wants much fanfare around his. Besides, he just buys whatever he wants anyway, so surprising him with something he wants is impossible. One year I planned to give him the newest, latest and greatest MacBook Pro upgrade. I had an appointment at the Apple Store and was all set to make the purchase. I grabbed my purse and was setting the home alarm when he walked through the door with a big Apple bag hanging from his hand.

“What’s that?” I asked, disarming the alarm.

“Look, Honey! I upgraded my MacBook Pro!” he said with excitement. “Mine was so outdated and I’d been thinking about getting a new one for a long time. I just thought ‘the Hell with it,’ and went and bought one.”

So much for that! Another time I planned to replace his old, age worn leather briefcase with a new one. I researched lots of different brands, and I subtly asked about his preferences with regard to style, color, size and possible monogramming. I was very close to finalizing my order when he popped my balloon again. A large box delivered to the front door contained an exquisite leather bag conforming to Carl’s personal specifications and choices, and yes, it was monogrammed.

So, I mused, it seems I can’t ever surprise him. I’ve tried to get him something he wants, but he always gets it for himself. I refuse to buy him cigars because that’s like contributing to some sort of Death Fund; same with Scotch. The only other thing in the world he likes is dogs! Should I really get him one? Even though he said No? He only said he didn’t want another dog because I’ve been so against one, so . . . What harm is there in just giving the breeder a call . . . At least to find out how much she wants for the puppies? I’m not committing to anything . . . just ‘doing research.’

Instantly, an angel and a devil appeared on each of my shoulders, whispering in my ears their reasons for or against a puppy.

Good Morning, my query text began, I learned of you through a friend of mine. He told me you have a new litter of Bernedoodles . . . .”

Still not entirely sure which apparition had more influence over me, but I initiated contact with the breeder. What began as a scouting mission and information-gathering exchange ended with me wiring a non-refundable deposit on one male, Phantom Bernedoodle that I named Macanudo. (I figured that if I refuse to buy cigars for Carl, the least I could do was to name the puppy for one!) From that point on, I was a nervous wreck.

Another missed short putt prompted my golf partners (also college sorority sisters) to demand an explanation. On the short walk to the next tee, the floodgates opened. I shared my tale of woe about securing a puppy for my husband’s birthday despite his explicit declaration against ever having another dog other than one cast in cement.

“O.K., that’s it!” they said, “here’s the deal. You’re going to tell him toNIGHT that you bought him a puppy for his birthday. If we don’t receive a text message from you by 10:00 p.m., we’re going to call him ourselves and tell him what you did! Got it?”

“But his birthday isn’t for another three weeks!” I protested, knowing all too well that they’d make good on their threat.

“We don’t care! You won’t make it another three weeks like this! Tell him . . . Or WE WILL!” And that was that. I had my orders.

A disappointing finish at the eighteenth hole left us miles away from the prize table. My thoughts, however, were not on the golf tournament but rather on how and when I was going to come clean about the dog. I had a 10:00 p.m. hard deadline.

I suggested dinner at one of our regular haunts. Our cocktails typically arrive at our table before we do, which is a nice touch. On this evening in particular, I was especially happy they were there. As soon as we were seated, I guzzled a deep draw of liquid courage.

“So . . . Your birthday’s coming in a few weeks!”

“Nah . . . It’s not a big deal,” said Carl.

Sucking down a second swig of courage, I said, “Ya, well THIS one IS kind of a big deal!”

“I really don’t need or want anything,” said Carl, continuing to downplay the event.

“Look,” I said, on the verge of sounding not nearly as agitated as I was, “you ALWAYS go above and beyond my wild expectations for any event that has to do with me. You NEVER let me do anything nice for you! You’ve just got to stop saying that you don’t want anything! I can’t just get you some twenty-five dollar book from the New York Times Best Sellers list!”

And with that, I reached into my purse and pulled out the engraved ID tag I’d made for Macanudo and put it on his plate.

“What the Hell is this? I didn’t bring my glasses!” said Carl.

I finished off my cocktail and answered, “Um . . . It’s an ID tag. . . . for a dog collar,” I barely whispered.

Silence screamed throughout the restaurant for what seemed an eternity while Carl examined the bauble.

“You got me a DOG for my birthday?” he asked with incredulity.

“Well . . . <ahem> If it’s a good thing, then yes. I DID get you a dog. If it’s a bad thing, then we just eat the deposit,” I somehow managed to stammer, unable to look him in the eye.

“No, no, NO! It’s a wonderful thing! You really got me a dog? And not one made of cement?” he asked.

“Since it’s a wonderful thing, then yes, I REALLY got you a REAL dog . . . Made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails!” I said, finally able to breathe again. “And his name is Macanudo. You know I refuse to buy you any cigars, so I thought we could name the dog after one. Are you sure you like it?”

“I LOVE it! What kind is it?”

And from there I explained how it all came to be. When Carl excused himself from the table, I quickly texted my friends just before the 10:00 deadline.

“So . . . Have you ever wondered why the word ‘Awesome’ ends in m-e? It’s because I gave Carl a puppy for his birthday and HE THINKS I’M AWESOME! And Girls . . . By the way, a Macanudo is NOT just a fine cigar!”

I was one of the lucky ones to have found my dream job, teaching high school. I paid my dues in other grade levels, but high school and my personality blended like peanut butter and jelly, like hot chocolate and marshmallows, like ice cream and hot fudge. Somewhere along the line I must have done something so outstanding that Karma rewarded me with a job at my alma mater, a small, private, Catholic, college preparatory high school for girls. The two-day New Teacher Orientation didn’t really apply to me. I was already highly familiar with the campus, I understood the rotating block schedule and some of the teachers and many of the nuns were still members of the faculty. In fact, even Sr. Joan, the principal when I was a student, was still the principal. As the other new teachers toured the campus to get their bearings and met with the Dean of Curriculum to become familiar with the two-week alternating class schedule, I remained in the library with the veteran staff visiting and reminiscing about times past.

During my first couple of years, I was charged with two sections of Advanced English I, one section of English I and one section of English as a Second Language. My fifth class rounding out my full-time load was Computers/Keyboarding, a freshman requirement. As I quickly learned, most of the girls, if not all of them, had mastered keyboarding long before middle school, making the lessons for the first quarter of the school year from the required textbook, The 1958 Gregg Typing Manual, utterly useless. Six weeks of lesson plans were immediately abandoned in favor of more current typing games, like Letter Invaders and Typer Shark, spreadsheet and database exercises and the newest presentation software, PowerPoint. While the girls soaked in all the new material with ease, for me, scaling Mt. Everest without a pick-ax would have been easier than climbing this learning curve. I finally mustered the nerve to request an additional English class rather than fumble my way through another year of teaching a class that was clearly beyond my expertise (and interest).

“ . . . but Sr. Joan,” I implored, “I can diagram any sentence you throw at me; I can teach the difference between a gerund and a participle and other modifiers . . . even misplaced and dangling ones, I can run circles around plot development, iambic pentameter, dramatic irony and Byronic heroes any day of the week!  What I can’t do, is stay even a half step in front of these kids and their knowledge of computers!  PLEASE may I teach grammar and literature!  Please, Please, PLEASE!” 

And so Karma blessed me once again, with a full load of English . . . two sections of Advanced English I, two sections of English I and one section of English as a Second Language. I was happier than a unicorn eating cake on a rainbow!  No more computers!  Five sections of English!  It didn’t matter to me that I’d just encumbered myself with massive paper grading outside of class time! I was ready!  

Classroom appeal is just as integral to learning as the course curriculum itself.  When the environment is stimulating, student performance rises, the material is mastered and both the teacher and the students succeed.  Even though I shared a classroom with other teachers, I accepted the responsibility for keeping the bulletin boards fresh, the resources cataloged, the blackboards and erasers cleaned and the consumable supplies plentiful and available.  Regular, pre-cut bulletin board decorations had no place in our classroom.  The boards were always three-dimensional.  On Back-to-School Nights, parents always commented on how vibrant and creative the bulletin boards were.  A few of them even asked if they could audit a class just so they could be in the room on a regular basis.  In addition to an uplifting learning environment, I believe that humor is integral to learning.  Keeping the students’ attention for fifty minutes each day for five days each week is no easy task.  In order to maintain the upper hand with a room full of teenagers, I kept them uncertain as to whether I was teasing or serious.  

“Good Morning, Ladies,” I began each session on the first day of school, “My name is Mrs. West, this is Advanced English I (or whatever class it was), and I don’t smile until at least Thanksgiving. The poster of a bald American Eagle with the caption I AM Smiling that was taped to the front of the lectern silently validated my words.   

“I am distributing the syllabus for this class.  Homework assignments will be posted on the board each day upon your arrival.  You are responsible for making sure the homework is completed by the due date.  Please note the work that is due tomorrow.  You may have a minute to copy it down into your notebooks.” 

I could hardly keep myself from laughing, but I needed to impress upon them the fact that I was the boss and I meant business. 

“One more thing,” I continued as they were scribbling in their assignment notebooks, “once the bell rings and you are seated at your desks, there will be no reason to leave until the end-of-class bell rings.  (Of course I said this remembering how Rita and I used to game the system on a regular basis using the “I have cramps” excuse!)  “If you are thirsty or hungry, eat and drink before class.  If you need to use the restroom, again, make sure that’s taken care of prior to entering.  If you happen to forget your textbook, your homework or anything else necessary for class, you will not be excused to retrieve it from your lockers.  Instead, you will be given a zero for the day.  In fact, you will not be excused from class for ANY reason except if you are bleeding from every orifice in your body at the same time.  Now, are there any questions?” 

The slow tick of the minute hand on the clock blasted like dynamite through the silence.  I scanned the classroom to assess the impact of my Day 1 speech and was satisfied by the looks of sheer terror on the students’ faces.  

“O.K. then.  Please open your books to Lesson 1 . . . .”  

The first few weeks of school passed, not without several attempts at testing my rules, but eventually the students and I struck a collaborative constructive rhythm.  There were very few, if any, tardies, the girls came to class prepared for discussion and from time to time I even broke Rule #1 and cracked a smile or two.  

“Gerunds and participles are just verbs with -ing endings,” I began the lesson, “gerunds are nouns and participles are adjectives.” 

Emily, one of the more outspoken in the class, muttered under her breath.  

“Oh, Brother!” she whispered, rolling her eyes, “When in the world are we ever gonna need to know this stuff?” 

“In case any of you are wondering when and if you’re ever going to have to know the difference between these two word forms,” I continued and just to let Emily know I’d heard her complaint, “I am 100% sure you’re going to need it for the semester exam.  I’m also confident that you’ll need to retain it for the PSAT and the SAT; other than that, Emily’s right, you probably won’t ever need it.” And I couldn’t help but laugh. 

About this time, a new toy had exploded into the market.  It was, for that time, a small, state-of-the-art electronic robot that resembled a cross between an owl and a hamster, called a Furby.  Every child between eight and ten years old clamored for a Furby.  Parents stood in line before stores opened, hoping to purchase at least one to delight their children at Christmas.  Hysteria over the Furby far surpassed the Cabbage Patch Doll frenzy of the late ‘70s by a country mile.  As the girls filed into class each day, I heard them chattering about how all their little brothers and sisters wanted for Christmas was a Furby.  I had seen the toys advertised on television and I had to admit, they were very cute.  In fact, I sort of wanted one, too!  

Furbies were interactive.  Right out of the packaging, they spoke gibberish, but the more its owner conversed with it, the more its language developed, eventually evolving into words. 

“Brrrrrrrrrring, brrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrring,” it chirped, blinking its eyes and flapping its wings.  

Reluctantly, my husband found himself standing in a long line of parents outside a nearby Montgomery Wards that had just received a large shipment of the coveted Furbies. 

“How old is your child,” a parent in line asked, just trying to pass the time.  “My daughter is 8 and a Furby is the ONLY thing she’s asked Santa to bring this year.” 

“My kid is six,” offered another, “if there isn’t a Furby under the tree for him, I’m afraid he’s going to think Santa Claus is a huge failure!” 

Again someone tried to engage Carl, “ . . . and your son or daughter?  How old?” 

Without hesitation, he responded, “Well, (he paused) she’s 45 years old and she’s my wife.”

Stifled gasps and muffled whispers about “that guy’s WIFE” and the inappropriateness of someone like that denying a toy for a child at Christmastime whooshed through the line.  However, my husband has never been one to be affected by gossip or peer pressure.  He held his place and as it so happened, was able to purchase the last Furby in that particular shipment.  He carried the bagged treasure past the remaining line of disappointed parents, tsk-ing and admonishing him with disapproving facial expressions as he passed.  

“Brrrrrrrrrring, brrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrring,” warbled the Furby from the front corner of the teacher’s desk.

“YOU GOT A FURBY!” screamed the girls in absolute delight.  “WHERE DID YOU GET IT?  IT’S SOOOOOOOOOOO CUTE!” 

“I thought you might like to teach him some English while I TRY to teach YOU some English!” I said. “What do you say?” 

“Oh my gosh, Mrs. West!  You’re the BEST!” They sang. 

“Wait a second!” shrieked one of the students, “My dad stood in line for three hours trying to get a Furby for my little brother!  What if THIS Furby could have been my brother’s?!  Don’t you feel bad?” 

Rejecting the guilt that was hurled at me, I said, slowly and gingerly, “Well . . . nooooooo . . .  I don’t feel bad that I have a Furby.  Think of it THIS way:  my husband stood in line just like everyone else.  The store’s supply was eventually going to run out and  . . . not everyone was going to get one.  If I didn’t have this little Furby, it wouldn’t be sitting right here on my desk and we wouldn’t be having fun right now, would we? We’d be slogging through the grammar workbook and you guys would be unhappy.” 

Giving only a split second’s consideration, she agreed, “O.K., ya, you’re right.  My dad can go try another store.  It’ll be fine!  My brother’ll live.”  And she cooed at and petted the Furby.

Admittedly, the Furby was quite a distraction, but a fun one.  The robot flapped its wings, batted its eyes and jabbered throughout the 50-minutes of class.  During the last few minutes remaining, the students quieted down to copy the homework for the next day, and Furby commented. 

“Boring! Boring!” in between snores. No one had spoken to him in minutes.  

As my class filed out and the next group of students filed in, I tucked the Furby into the second drawer of the desk.  The man with whom I shared the classroom was particularly fastidious, buttoned up and task-oriented.  In other words, he was no fun at all!  Ted Johnson would certainly have out-Felixed Felix Unger.  He followed his lesson plans to the tee, never deviating for any reason at all.  A Furby on the desk during his teaching time would never do.  I understood our different teaching styles and, wanting to respect his authority in our shared classroom during his time, I sequestered the toy from sight. I gathered up all of my materials, exited the classroom and retreated down to my office to read a set of essays. Well into the stack of papers, an earthquake rumbled noisily down the stairway.  Within minutes at least fifteen students poured into my office, laughing and giggling with excitement. 

“Oh my gosh, Mrs. West!  You’re NEVER going to believe what happened!!” They said, “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my GOSH!  So, you know we had Psychology in Room 28 right after your English class and, well, you know, it’s with Mr. Johnson, and . . .”

“What happened?” I asked. 

“O.K., so, you know how boring he is and how much we hate psychology, so  . . . well . . . we were all just sitting there, sort of half asleep and we heard this snoring noise!” 

Uh oh!  I knew what was coming. 

“And . . . ,” they continued, “Mr. Johnson was like, ‘what’s that noise? And who’s snoring?’ and we were like, ‘we don’t know,’ so he walked around the classroom toward the noise and he opened the desk drawer and he pulled out this Furby and right when he opened the drawer, it said, ‘Ooooh!  Bright Light!’” 

They were talking so fast I could hardly keep up with them.  While we were all laughing together, my desk phone rang.

“Mrs. West’s office,” I answered.  A terse Mr. Johnson was at the other end of the line. 

“May I have a word with you?” He asked.  

“Sure,” I said, “I’ve got an office full of students, so let’s talk during Block 2 . . . If you don’t have a class.”  

When I replaced the receiver into the cradle of the phone, we ALL broke out in hysterics.  

“Girls . . . That was ‘Professor’ Johnson.  He’s NOT HAPPY with me!” I explained. 

 “We know,” they said, “we could hear him!”  

It wasn’t too long after that that ‘Professor’ Johnson made arrangements to share a classroom with someone else!!  Good riddance, Mr. Bug-Up-Your-Butt!

Furby was a big hit in the classroom and turned out to be a valuable asset in terms of language development.  He learned several words but definitely needed to learn when it was his turn to speak.  After the episode with Mr. Johnson, I never left Furby unattended.  He accompanied me everywhere, lest we encounter another unfortunate event with an even less amenable colleague.  

The Library was the heart of the school.  Students reported there to study, to take make-up exams and to do research.  Teachers who did not have their own offices used the tables to sit and grade papers during their prep times.  The Library was also Sr. Joan’s pet.  She knew every book, every film, every pamphlet, every entry in the card catalog and which books were housed on which shelves.  If there were a book out of place, she’d detect it in less than a minute of her entering the room.  She was also fiercely adamant about adhering to complete silence within its walls.  An unexpected sneeze or a muffled cough would be reason enough to be ejected from this hallowed space.  It was a wonder that a vow of silence was not required upon entering.  

My class had just ended and, rather than schlepping all the way down to my office, I thought I’d spend my prep time in the Library.  I commandeered a table, placed my materials on top, and laid Furby quietly within the pocket of my briefcase while I graded some vocabulary quizzes.  Several students from other classes pored through research binders, gathering information for upcoming reports.  The librarian hustled about, directing students to their specific areas of study.  With all of that activity comes some degree of noise.  The students asked questions of the librarian, they exchanged information with each other, and by and by, attention drifted from their individual assignments to their collective social conversation.  The Library’s Code of Silence had been severely violated.  In fact, it was noisy!  Two upperclassmen plopped themselves down at my table. 

“Psst . . . hey Mrs. West,” said one not even attempting to whisper, “we hear you have a Furby!” 

“I do!” I said, “wanna meet him?  I’ve got him with me!”

And so . . . Furby emerged from the darkness of my briefcase, opened his little eyes, flapped his little wings and greeted the girls. 

“Brrrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrrring!” he said. 

By this time, the noise in the Library had escalated so much that without the sign on the door that read “LIBRARY,” the room could have been mistaken for the cafeteria.  

“SR. JOAN IS COMING!  SR. JOAN IS COMING!” whisper-screamed someone.  

Everyone clamored for a seat, books opened and most everyone looked independently busy . . . except for me!  I had a fully-awakened and alert Furby on the table in front of me!  I quickly threw Furby behind some books high up on the fourth shelf directly behind my table, sat down and pretended to grade my quizzes, hoping Furby would remain quiet . . . or at least unheard.  As if right out of a movie, the Library door flew open and Darth Vadar dressed in a nun’s habit stomped angrily into the room! 

“What is going on in here?” she bellowed.  “This is a Library!”  She glared at each and every one of us, causing panic, trembling and fear as her laser beams seared our souls.  “And WHY are these books out of order?” 

With that, she pulled the books that were shielding Furby off the shelf. 

“Oooooh!  Bright Light!” squealed Furby.  

The Library erupted in uncontrolled laughter.  I put my head in my hands and braced for what came next. 

“Mrs. West . . . Come.With.Me.” hissed Sr. Joan through clenched teeth. 

And there I was, once again summoned to the Principal’s Office.  No matter the number of years that passed, fifteen-year-old-me occupied the chair directly across from Sr. Joan seated behind her formidable desk, Furby perched silently between us, blinking but not speaking. 

“It seems we’ve been here before,” Sister opened, “many, many years ago.” 

My palms began to sweat, my heart raced and I had all I could do to keep my entire body, much less my words, from shaking.

“Of course you know this isn’t the first time this little creature has been an issue,” continued Sr. Joan.  “I’m sure you’ve already noticed that you are no longer sharing a classroom with Mr. Johnson and THIS,” she emphasized, piercing her laser-sharp glare directly through Furby, “or rather, YOU, are the reason why.” 

“Aw! C’mon, Sister,” I pleaded, “it’s a Furby!  It’s harm–. . .”

She cut me off. 

“I’m not finished!” she clipped in full staccato. “Classes are confined to fifty-minute sections, clearly insufficient to cover the material required.  That fifty minutes is designated to each individual teacher to use as he or she chooses in order to satisfy the course curriculum.  When some outside influence interferes in that endeavor, there is a breach of that teacher’s authority.  You and this . . . CREATURE are guilty of committing that breach.”  

“But Sist . . .”

“I am NOT finished!” she continued, voice rising in anger. “What the consequences of this breach are are yet to be determined.” 

The silence lengthened.  I sat immobile, petrified in fact, that Furby would either start snoring or begin chirping its usual pre-nap word, “Borrrrrrrrrrring, borrrrrrrrrring, borrrrrrrrrrring!”  I was also afraid to offer anything in my defense again, thinking Sr. Joan’s reprimand was still in process. 

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” she finally asked. 

“Oh, yes, of course, Sister!  I have a lot to say!” I said, my voice shaking, betraying my utter fear.  

“You see, this little Furby is interactive.  The more it is spoken to, the more it speaks back and ultimately, the more words it ‘learns.’”  So far, I could tell Sr. Joan was not impressed.  

My speech quickened. 

“I brought it to class, uh . . . during MY fifty-minutes of designated teaching time, to use as a sort of teaching aid, uh . . . for the freshmen, you know . . . uh, freshmen are basically just little kids in big girl bodies, and I uh . . .  I thought I could stimulate and encourage their interest in learning English grammar by showing them how fun it was to teach . . . uh . . . the Furby!  And . . . (feeling my voice begin to break into a cry, but refusing to allow it and also realizing how foolish my explanation was) . . . I have to tell you . . . it was working!

“At first, the Furby only speaks gibberish . . . like incoming freshmen who don’t really speak properly . . . then, little by little, the Furby’s language develops  . . . similarly to the freshmen!  I know you probably think this is a huge stretch . . . and you’re probably right . . . I mean, you’re ALWAYS right, ya, I mean . . . I KNOW you’re always right,  . . .  but gosh, Sister!  You should see how excited the girls are to come to class!

“And as far as my breaching Mr. Johnson’s authority during HIS fifty minutes of class time, I feel that I was VERY respectful!  As soon as the bell rang, I placed the Furby into one of the desk drawers so neither he nor his students would even know it was there!  I had NO IDEA it would start snoring . . . and I didn’t even know it had learned the word ‘boring’!

“I know you don’t want me to say that what happened during his Psychology class wasn’t my fault because it WAS (but I didn’t really believe that!), so that’s why I always took Furby with me after that happened . . . to prevent any more disruption to his class!” 

Sr. Joan remained silent and motionless in her chair.  

Should I keep talking?  Had I said enough?  Had I said too much?  Was she sympathetic to my situation? Had I wriggled out of this predicament or was I going to be fired on the spot?  

After an endless lull, Sr. Joan finally spoke. 

“And, may I ask how this Furby, as you call it, wound up behind the reference books on the upper shelves of the Library?” 

“Sure,” I said, “the shelves of the Library.  Yes, of course.

“So . . . I went to the Library to grade some vocab quizzes and Sr. Jane Marie brought her entire history class in to do some research.  Mrs. Stanley (the librarian) was explaining where . . .”

“THE SHELVES!” roared Sr. Joan, “HOW DID THE FURBY GET ONTO THE SHELVES?” 

“I put it there,” I said, completely bereft of excuses and of the energy to create any.  “O.K. I put it there.  When I saw you pull open the doors and charge into the Library, I could tell you were in a bad mood and I knew that if the Furby were flapping its wings and talking, it would make you even madder, so I quickly hid it behind some books totally out of sight!  I was just hoping that it wouldn’t snore or say anything while you were close by!  There.  That’s it.  I’m guilty.” 

A tear escaped from my eye and trickled down my cheek.  I dropped my gaze, willing the Hoover Dam of tears built up behind my eyes not to gush over.  

After a few minutes, Sister said, “Would you like a Kleenex?” her arm stretched out offering a tissue. 

“No, thanks, Sister,” I sniffed, “I’m fine. But thank you.  I think I’m o.k.” 

The motion of Sister’s arm reaching toward me awakened Furby. 

“Oooooh! Tell me a story!” it uttered, flapping its wings, blinking its eyes and turning its neck right and left.

Stunned, Sister and I both looked at the Furby and then at each other. 

Sister, suddenly seeming no longer angry, and I, still apprehensive but no longer on the verge of tears, chuckled. 

“Well,” said Sr. Joan, “it looks like your ‘mother’ has been telling a story . . . and I mean a whopper . . . since she sat down in that chair!”  

I agreed to remove the batteries from Furby after each of my classes and to take it with me whenever I left the classroom.  Mr. Johnson and I remained in separate classrooms for the remainder of that school year and I miraculously kept my job.  

A well-spent childhood, obedient to my parents’ draconian mandates, did not prepare me for a summons to the Principal’s Office during my sophomore year in high school. Despite having been a consummate goodie-two-shoes, I was no stranger to harmless hijinks and the occasional practical joke. My parents enjoyed an intermittent date night, leaving my sister and me in the care of our older brother. Both of my siblings played free and loose with the family rules, so I appointed myself as the household police in my parents’ absence. I chronicled the multiple infractions on a list I kept hidden in the pocket of my flannel housecoat, putting check marks next to the crimes they committed more than once.

• Joe called Pam on the phone. (two checks)
• Ann ate ice cream AND put Bosco on it. (one check)
• Ann let Rags (the dog) sit on the couch. (three checks) 
• Joe changed the channel to The Twilight Zone even though you told him NOT to because he knows it scares me (highlighted and underlined)

Just before crawling into bed, I folded the list and tucked it beneath my mother’s pillow, satisfied that I had performed my surveillance responsibilities with aplomb. 

It was this firm commitment to good behavior that shielded me from suspicion when rules were broken.  No one ever thought I would engage in aberrant behavior. 

*    *    *    *    *    *   

Rita and I were best friends in high school; birds of a feather; two goodie-two-shoes doing what we were told when we were told.  However, as we grew more comfortable with the open and trusting school administration, we began to take a few liberties.  Neither Rita nor I particularly enjoyed our foreign language class.  Rita was already almost fluent in Spanish, so repeating simple vocabulary words and asking simple questions like “Donde esta el libro?” seemed pointless.  I grew up watching cartoons broadcast in French from Ontario, Canada, so I experienced the same boredom in French I.  “Ou est le livre?” was just not piquing my interest.  

“Oh brother,” I said as the end of recess bell rang, “You’ve got Spanish and I’ve got French!  I don’t think we really made good use of recess!  Why don’t we go to class, each wait fifteen minutes then tell the teacher we’ve got cramps.  They’ll let us out and we can meet behind the auditorium and have  . . . an extended recess!” 

“That’s GENIUS!” replied Rita.  “Let’s do it!” 

Our plan worked like an absolute charm.  We checked in, were present for roll call, each suddenly experienced debilitating cramps and were both excused to go to the Nurse’s Office (but never quite made it!)  We were so successful that we used that ruse quite often in the months ahead with different teachers.  Sometimes we were allowed out of class to retrieve forgotten books from our lockers; sometimes we lied about another teacher asking for our help on a time-sensitive project and sometimes we presented a note from the Principal (forged, of course) requiring our appearance in her office.  

One of the responsibilities of the Student Body Treasurer was to replenish the vending machine in the outside patio.  During one of our trips to the Nurse’s Office for non-existent “lady problems,” we watched the student officer dutifully stack the spring-loaded columns in the machine, then store the remaining candy and snacks in the Principal’s Office for safekeeping.  That’s when another scathingly brilliant idea was born. 

“Whoa!” I said, “Look at all that leftover stuff!  And look where it IS!”

“What about it?” asked Rita.

“Think about it!!!  Why should we pay ten cents for a Three Musketeers when we can have a whole box for free?” I said, not really acknowledging that I was suggesting grand theft.  “Tomorrow when we’re not wasting our time in Spanish and French, let’s do it . . . let’s get some candy!  Sr. Joan teaches a class at that time, so . . . it’ll be easy!” 

We hatched a plan: Rita would engage the front office receptionist whose desk was dangerously close to Sr. Joan’s office door. I would crawl into her office on my belly, stash the goods in my backpack, then wriggle back out as fast as I could. 

“I’ll tell Mrs. Harvey that my locker won’t open,” said Rita.  I’ll tell her that it’s been getting harder and harder to open and I’ve been getting in trouble in some of my classes because I can’t get my books!  She’ll get the master key and we’ll probably even go to my locker so she can open it!  You’ll have plenty of time, but HURRY!”

Shortly after that first foray into the Principal’s Office Rita and I started our own little business.  Eating all those candy bars and snacks caused our uniform skirts to shrink so we fenced the stolen snacks for five cents each!  Soon after, no one used the vending machine and we were rolling in nickels.

In the weeks ahead, the skies turned blue, the air was warm and there was just no way we were content to endure another 50-minute class. 

“Hey!  Let’s go swimming during biology today!” I said.  “Same plan . . . I’ll get a migraine and you double over with cramps.  Meet at the pool.” 

Like clockwork, fifteen minutes later we arrived at the pool, disappointed that the gate was padlocked.

“That’s o.k.,” I said, “my dad says that if a dog can get his head underneath a fence, he can wiggle the rest of his body through.”  

“You’re kidding, right? You want us to squeeze under that fence?” asked Rita.

“Yep.  Easy-peasy!” I assured her. 

Not yet convinced that this was such a good idea, Rita said, “O.K.  You go first!”  

So I did.  I laid down on the cement, carefully tilted my head this way and that until it cleared the bottom rail of the chain link and began to push . . . and push . . . and push. 

“C’mon!” screamed Rita in as quiet a voice as possible, “Sister John Edmund is coming!”

Fear and panic paralyzed me.  Sr. John Edmund, the sternest, fiercest, meanest, scariest nun on the planet, rounded the corner on the walkway on her way to teach a class.  If we were caught, we’d surely be expelled . . . Or killed, no doubt about it. 

“C’MON!” pleaded Rita, “She’s getting closer?  Meet me in the locker room!” 

Suddenly I found myself alone, head stuck under the gate, pigtails caught in the chain link, face toward the pool, listening as Sister’s approaching footsteps shook the ground like Godzilla trudging across the ground.  There was no way she wouldn’t notice me! 

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” I heard Sister’s question in her signature monotone voice.

“Oh!  Hi, Sister!” I said, trying to sound casual, innocent and cheery as if what I was doing was not out of the ordinary.  “I left my watch on the bench here during P.E. today and I just came back to get it!  It’s a fancy watch that I just love.  My parents brought it to me from their trip to Japan.”  I stammered over each word, trying not to cry, but drowning in my own sweat and dying inside.

“Very well.  Carry on!” she said, and she walked away.  

A miracle had occurred.  My prayers to St. Jude, Patron Saint of Impossible Causes, had been answered.  Sr. John Edmund actually said ‘Very well, Carry on!’  I pinched myself to make sure I was really awake and alive! 

“What happened?” asked my fair-weather friend as she tiptoed ginergly from her hiding place. 

“There IS a God!  She said, ‘very well, carry on!’” I said, still in disbelief.  “Now help me get my head out from under this fence!” I ordered. “And by the way,” I continued with an understandable sense of betrayal and anger, “how COULD you?  How could you just leave me here?  We are SO not friends for the rest of the day!” 

I vowed then and there NEVER to ditch class again . . . or to do anything bad again!  Sometimes, though, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

The high school I attended was run by an order of nuns who lived in a private wing of the enormous facility.  Of course this area was off limits, but that’s exactly what made it more intriguing.  Rita and I gathered the courage to sneak beyond the big wooden doors and were amazed at what we saw.  There was a private dining room, a community room furnished with overstuffed furniture, a television and other amenities consistent with a comfortable family room, a small chapel and individual bedrooms.  

I really don’t know what came over us or even why we did what we did, but . . . I can only say that “the Devil made us do it!”  We short-sheeted the nuns’ beds!  I’d learned the technique from personal experience.  My brother honed his short-sheeting skills on my sister and me on a regular basis and I thought it would be fun to try it out on someone else!  Just as we exited the forbidden hallway into the common area, my heart skipped a beat. 

“Oh no!  RITA!”  I gasped, “We’ve got to go back!  I left my popsicle stick in Sr. Joan’s room!”  Why I didn’t toss the frozen treat into the trash before venturing down the hallowed halls, I will never know!

“You WHAT????!!!!” responded Rita in abject horror.

“My popsicle stick!” I repeated, “I put it on the nightstand and I forgot to bring it out with us!” 

“You’re the one going back in,” she said, “I am NOT going back in there!  I’m staying right here!”  I don’t remember Rita ever being that disgusted with me.

At that pivotal moment when I was once again about to risk my continued enrollment in the school, Sr. Joan ambled down the hallway in our direction. 

“Hi Sister,” Rita and I sang in unison, like the angels that we weren’t.

“Good Afternoon, Girls,” she said, “Have a nice rest of your day!” and with that, she disappeared into the cloistered convent.

“Oh GREAT!” said Rita, admonishing me. “We’re doomed!” 

“Not necessarily!” I said, “Maybe she won’t notice the popsicle stick.”

“Well, Einstein,” continued Rita, “she may not notice the popsicle stick but there’s NO WAY she’s not going to notice that her bed’s been short-sheeted!  We’re the ONLY suspects she’ll have!  It’s as bad as if we were caught in the act!”   

The next morning during Homeroom, the last announcement over the P.A. beckoned the two of us, for the entire student body to hear, to report to the Principal’s Office . . . immediately.  

We arrived, each pushing the other to be first to enter.  

“Come in, Girls.  Please, sit down.” 

We dropped into the chairs across from her, her desk protecting us from a horror that was sure to come. 

Silence ricocheted off the four walls for what seemed like hours.  Rita and I sat, unable to speak even if we’d wanted to.  Sr. Joan sat opposite us, resting her chin in her hands, elbows on her desk.   The pounding of our hearts nearly drowned out the screaming silence. 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” asked Sr. Joan, hands slightly covering her mouth.  

It was then that the dam burst.  We babbled, confessing everything we’d done since Freshman orientation, before we’d become friends, before either one of us had even thought to circumvent the Three Musketeers from the vending machine or to ditch French and Spanish to have a longer recess or to violate the sanctity of the convent.

Sr. Joan burst out laughing!  

“You two did what?” she asked through her laughter.  “I had NO IDEA you did all that!  How did you get the Three Musketeers?” 

“From the box on the floor of your office,” we explained through our sobs, “we took them and we sold them for five cents!  We’ll pay for them . . . ALL of them . . . and we’ll pay the full ten cents for every single one!  And for the Fritos, too!” 

“But please, oh PLEASE!  Don’t make me tell my mother!” I begged. “She’ll hate me for life!  It’s true!  She’ll totally disown me!”

An agreement was made. The sum of fifty dollars to cover the cost of all of the candy bars and bags of Fritos was donated to Santa Margarita (our sister school in a blighted area in the inner city), seventeen Our Fathers and thirty-four Hail Marys, along with a promise NEVER to enter the cloistered halls of the convent. My mother went through the rest of her life thinking that her youngest daughter was a perfect angel.

(adapted to tune of Allan Sherman’s ‘Camp Granada’)

Hello Friends, and Hello Strangers

We are faced with brand new dangers!  

We have living, all around us

Something scary called Coronavirus!!

 

Where’d it come from? Maybe Wuhan

It’s in China, I’m not foolin’

Items in those open markets

Have turned us into perfect human targets!

 

I went shopping for some groceries 

Shelves were empty, ’cept for chickpeas! 

People grabbing toilet tissue 

Had no idea what I’d gotten into!  

 

Next I went for soaps and hand wipes

Clorox good but so were all types

Nothing left there on the shelves

Nothing left with which to clean ourselves!

 

Thought I’d gather lots of produce 

Fruits and veggies . . . put to good use! 

Lettuce, onions, peas and carrots 

But in that aisle people truly went nuts!  

 

“That is MINE!” and “Gimme that!”

Growled a lady set for combat! 

And all around her there were those 

Fighting food wars with ripe tomatoes!

 

Back at home now, safe and sound

With my husband and my hound 

Watching Netflix and some Prime

What else are we to do with all this time? 

 

It’s gotten crazy, so insane

Stay out of crowds, off planes and trains! 

Keep safe distance, don’t shake hands

And PLEASE DON’T GO TO FOREIGN LANDS!  

 

So listen strangers, listen friends 

Things like this do meet their ends

We’ll confront this Coronavirus

It’s bad, it’s mean, but it won’t survive us!  

 

Everyone remembers significant events in their lives with exacting, precise detail.  Whether it’s the first day of kindergarten, the day your Little League team won the championship, your high school prom, graduation, your wedding day or the birth of your first child, you can recall what you were wearing, who was with you, what the weather was like, certain smells, sounds and probably even what the newspaper headline was on that particular day.  The memories are so clear, so vivid, that it’s like it happened just yesterday.  Those milestones are forever etched in our memories with fondness and sentimentality.  And that’s the way it should be.   However, for Inga, thinking back on the day she got her first hole in one will be anything but.

For starters, due to circumstances beyond her control, Inga could not attend her niece’s wedding in Europe.  How frustrating it was to have planned and prepared to travel over six months prior to the wedding only to have all of her efforts thwarted by unnecessary, tedious government red tape.  That kind of mental annoyance is a hindrance to any golf swing!  Secondly, Saturday golf for women has been growing at such a rate that three tee times are booked to accommodate up to twelve golfers.  But on this particular Saturday, like a harbinger of doom, only three showed up.  Maybe more like only one-and-a-half.  One of the golfers suffered from a pulled hip muscle and could barely turn through her swing.  The other, concerned with possible rain showers, worried about being electrocuted if water were to sprinkle down on her hearing devices.  All that mental distraction simply does not belong on the golf course, let alone bode well for good scoring!

The threesome teed off, agreeing to Baseball, or Nines, as the game of the day.  Everything seemed to be going well for the first several holes.  Of course, tightness in the hip caused a few errant shots, real or imagined rain drops blocked positive swing thoughts and rough, patchy greens all but preempted those hole-winning one-putts.

“Ugh!  I just can’t get my body to turn all the way through,” cried Roxanne.

“<GASP!> I think I just felt a rain drop!” whined Peggy, visions of lightning bolts burning through her head, causing a lobotomy.

“No,” corrected Inga, “that wasn’t rain.  It was probably just bird droppings!“

“BIRD DROPPINGS?” thought Peggy, now more worried than ever!  “That’s probably worse than rain!!  That’s ALL I need . . . with this Coronavirus wreaking havoc, what if it mutates and becomes the BIRD FLU!  Should I quit playing now and go home?”   

But a birdie on Hole #6 turned her thinking around!

“I think I’m going to quit after 9,” Roxanne announced.  “I just can’t turn right.”

And so, the round continued, Roxanne feeling an increasing pinch of pain and Peggy hyper-fixated on the sky, watching for rain clouds and now, birds.  Inga was the only one of the three focused on golf.  She parred Hole Number 7 while the other two wrestled with their issues, one physical, the other mental!

Up on the 9th tee, the threesome assessed the pin location and the weather conditions before committing to club selection.  Peggy, convinced that another drop of “something” had just landed on her head, was the first to play.  She hit a solid shot, but thoughts of electrocution, brain death and bird flu precluded a fluid swing.  Her ball landed in a right green side bunker.  Next up was Roxanne.  She selected the perfect club for a front green pin placement, but the “hitch in her get-along” impeded her process and she, too, ended up on a right green side bunker.  The two of them stepped aside for Inga to play her shot.

“Oh my gosh!” whispered Roxanne, “I have to go home and use the roller on my hip!  It’s so tight that I just can’t play today!  I lunged into a lateral stance at tennis yesterday and that’s when I felt my muscle tense up!”

“O.K.,” agreed Peggy, “it’s no fun playing golf when your body doesn’t cooperate!  I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to play anyway!  I keep thinking I feel rain drops on my head!  I don’t want to get stuck way up the canyon on the Back Nine when it starts to downpour!”

While the two of them performed their post mortems on their poor tee shots, Inga was left to play her shot alone.

“It’s IN THE HOLE!” she cried.

“What?”  exclaimed the other two, Peggy thinking she’d said, “Where’d it go?”

“IT’S IN THE HOLE!  I JUST MADE A HOLE IN ONE!” she screamed again. “Didn’t you see it?”

“NOOOOOO!  We were talking about our shots!  DO IT AGAIN!” they said.

“Oh my gosh!” cried Inga, “I get a hole in one and NOBODY sees it, except me!  You two are over there talking, there’s no caddy and I watched and watched and watched and the ball hit the green, rolled closer and closer and then dropped into the hole!  I can’t believe you didn’t see it!”

“We can’t either,” they said, greatly apologizing.  “Inga, you need better friends!  We’re so sorry!  Come on . . . we’ll take your picture when we get to the green!”

“That’s the best zero-putt I’ve ever had!” exclaimed Inga gleefully!

“I guess that takes a little bit of the sting out of not being able to go to your niece’s wedding, huh?” said Peggy.

After snapping several photographs, numerous High-Fives and a group text to our gal pal golfing friends, Roxanne peeled off to nurse her hip, leaving the remaining twosome to play the Back Nine hoping to beat the rain.

“I can’t believe it,” began Inga walking down the fairway, “My very first hole in one and nobody sees it, nobody came out to play today and nobody but you to help me celebrate!”

“I know,” agreed Peggy, “and to make things worse, you and I don’t even drink!  Of ALL the people for you to be stuck with today, it’s me!  That’s o.k., we’ll have champagne together when we finish, I promise!”

After finishing the round, Wendy congratulated Inga and agreed to join us for a celebratory glass of bubbly.  We posted our scores, changed our shoes and arrived at the bar upstairs only to realize that the Grill was closed!

“This CAN’T be happening!” Inga whimpered, “it just keeps getting worse!  I get my first hole in one and we can’t even have a drink?  Are you kidding me?  The BAR IS CLOSED?!”

“No,” said Peggy, “we’re going to have a drink!  You can bet there’s at least one bartender back in the Men’s Locker Room!  We’ll get one of them to bring us something!”

A quick visit to the front reception desk and one phone request to the Men’s Locker Room solved the problem.  Two individual serving size bottles of champagne were delivered to the bar, just for us!

“Cheers to you and congratulations on your first hole in one, Inga!  I’m so sorry there aren’t more people here!” said Peggy.

Wendy arrived shortly after the initial toast, but there was enough champagne left in each of the two bottles to pour one more glass!

“Here’s to you!” began Wendy, “your game just keeps getting better and better!  You’ve taken how many strokes off your handicap in the last couple years?  You are wonderful, amazing and a true gift from God . . . here’s to you!”  And three glasses clinked in honor of that spectacular hole in one.

Milestones are indeed memorable, indelibly etched into our minds’ photo albums.  They are to be celebrated in grand style with lots of pomp and circumstance.  In no way should Inga’s first hole in one be discounted because of her rag-tag playing partners of the day.  But . . . everyone can agree that a hole in one should be MUCH more fun!

 

 

Lots of things annoy me.  I’d never given much thought to my pet peeves before, but lately, it appears that they’re multiplying!  I’ve always been a neatnik, putting everything in its place and making sure that my house is arranged “just so,” so those peeves are long-standing.  They’ve been around for so long that they aren’t really a problem . . . for me, anyway.  My husband, on the other hand, claims otherwise.

“I’m coming right back!” he explains as he sets an empty glass on the kitchen counter, “Don’t wash it and put it away!  I’m going to refill it!”

Or

“I left that book on the chair because I’m READING IT!   Why did you put it back on the bookshelf in the den?”

Yes, admittedly my penchant for neatness can be an issue for those around me.  However, messy, cluttered spaces are not the biggest of my pet peeves.  No, sirree.  What bothers me greatly are errors in punctuation, more specifically errors in apostrophes, and the chronic use of cliches.

Since when, I ask, have apostrophes been used to indicate plural nouns?  Have schools stopped teaching punctuation and usage?  It would appear so.   Eats, Shoot and Leaves, by Lynne Truss (2003), illustrates quite clearly how the rules of punctuation in modern society have been relaxed, so much so, that meaning is obscured.  In 2019, Benjamin Dreyer wrote Dreyer’s English, An Utterly Correct Guide to Clarity and Style, explaining punctuation with great wit and humor.  Perhaps if these types of books were used in classrooms as required textbooks, the written word would be clear, succinct and unmistakably intelligible.  Until then, however, we will continue to be bombarded with errors such as:

The cracker’s in the pantry are stale.

Then phone’s started ringing off the hook’s!

They store their golf club’s in the garage.

Ugh!  Can you just hear fingernails scratching down a chalkboard?  

Parents, make sure your kid’s don’t forget to bring their baseball mitt’s to practice.

This is particularly annoying since the adult writing this reminder should know better!  Have schools been failing us for longer than suspected?  Oh!  STOP the bleeding!  

With blatant errors like these going unchecked, uncorrected and unnoticed, I worry about the future of the English language.  I absolutely refuse to use the shortened versions of words in text messages, too.  With spelling and punctuation errors already at crisis level, I cannot contribute to the accepted usage of shorthand English.  One will never read “C U later,” or “btw” or “omg” in my texts.  Correct spelling and usage prevails on my smartphone!

While incorrect grammar and usage are two of my greatest pet peeves, the one that sits at the forefront even more is the use of cliches.  Have people become so reliant on catchphrases and buzzwords that they can’t come up with their own colorful descriptions?  Are they simply THAT lazy?  While these boilerplate sayings are heard every day and everywhere, it is the evening News talking heads that I believe are the biggest offenders. Not even five minutes into the programs, I feel like turning off the television.

“It’s been baked in the cake!” we hear over and over and over.

“The report was finally released and it turned out to be a NOTHING BURGER!” (Is there such a thing as a ‘Nothing Burger?’  It might have been cute the first couple times you said it!  Now it’s just annoying!  STOP IT!) 

“At the end of the day, he’s going to  . . . . ”  (Excuse me!  We’re AT the end of the day!  Tell us what he’s going to do!)

“Don’t kid yourself . . . this is just the calm before the storm!”  (Stop spinning this.  We’re NOT kidding ourselves.  We just can’t trust what we hear from you guys!)

“Buckle up . . . we’ve got a lot to report tonight on the Fake News Media Mob!”  (Buckle up?  Fake News Media Mob?  Aren’t YOU part of it, too?)  

“Let not your heart be troubled . . . .” (Sorry, Bub . . . too late!  I’m troubled.  VERY troubled!) 

Before I work myself up into a frenzy in addressing these issues, all I ask is that you please don’t pet my peeves!

 

 

 

 

A recent trip to New Zealand surpassed all expectations of beauty and fascination.  It was indeed a once-in-a lifetime experience.  As usual, however, one must expect the unexpected, especially when I am involved!  What follows is a brief record of my time in “the land of the long white clouds” in six installments:

1. A Day Early and a Visa Short

This bucket list trip to New Zealand had been meticulously planned for over six months.  Every little detail, from airlines to accommodations to quality attractions, had been reserved and confirmed so long ago that it felt like January 28 would never arrive.  Final itineraries, green fees and gratuities, airplane meals and seat selections, transportation to and from airports, resorts, golf courses and attractions . . . everything was solidly in place.  Arrangements on the home front were also confirmed.  Rusty’s life would continue marvelously at home with no disruption to the luxurious dog’s life to which he’s become accustomed.  He would be fine . . . probably much happier with his top-of-the-line caregiver than he is with me.  [Hmmmm . . .  I might have to upgrade my petting techniques, frequency of walks and doggie biscuits and general overall treatment of the family pet.  Maybe . . . but that’s for later].  

Air New Zealand Flight NZ05 wasn’t scheduled for departure until 8:00 p.m. PST.  [Part of the Master Plan!  We could board the plane, enjoy a late supper then sleep for most of the 14-hour flight.  Reminder to Self:  Compliment Carl on his strategic and thorough travel planning].  

Since we had the entire day to spend prior to our flight, I readied to head out to one last bar method class before putting the last few items in our one shared suitcase.  I’d finally come to terms with the fact that Carl and I were packing light and taking only one suitcase for a two-week trip.  That’s right . . . ONE SUITCASE for a TWO-WEEK TRIP!  But I was fine with it . . . finally.  Well, not completely fine, but accepting of the proposal and at least willing to give it a try.   Solidly supportive?  No.  Cynically skeptical.  Absolutely.  I had painstakingly culled clothes from my closet, making sure they were all constructed from wrinkle free fabrics, folded them neatly and placed them into a 16” x 20” nylon packing envelope I’d received as a Christmas gift.  Satisfied with my little parcel, I placed it in the one suitcase we were taking for our l-o-n-g two week trip.  

“There!” I thought, “That’ll do it!  Carl’s going to be so impressed!” 

But impressed he was not! 

“Hmph!” he began, “I see you’ve taken up most of the suitcase!  I haven’t even started packing yet and there’s hardly any room left!” 

Uuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmm . . . . don’t say a word!  Don’t do it!  Don’t open your mouth!  Just walk away, Peggy! 

But sometimes I just can’t help myself.

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” I shrieked, “Look at that!! One TINY packing envelope . . . ONE . . . for TWO WEEKS!  THERE’S PLENTY OF ROOM IN THAT SUITCASE!!!  I can’t help it if boy clothes are bulkier than girl clothes!  I can’t scale down any further!” 

“No, no, no, no, no,” Carl backed off, “I didn’t mean that!  I just meant that I’m going to have to really think about what to take.  You did fine, Honey!  Just take a deep breath, count to ten . . . everything’s going to be fine!”

“I’ll count to ten.  I’m going to Bar.  I’ll see you in an hour,” I said as I clomped out of the bedroom. 

“Oh, hang on a sec,” said Carl.  “Do you have those visas I told you we needed?  I thought I printed them out but now I can’t find them.” 

“Oh, Brother!” I said, panicking and rolling my eyes at the same time, “You never gave them to me.  I asked you MONTHS ago if we had them and you said yes.”

“I know I paid for them and I thought I had them, but  . . . I can’t find them!” he said.

“Well, you didn’t give ‘em to me!!  Now what do we do?  Why don’t you call the guy at the travel bureau you used and ask him for help?”

“I sent him an email.  If I have to, I’ll drive to the New Zealand Consulate in Santa Monica and get some.”

Adrenaline coursed through my body at such a level that the thirty pushups required in bar class seemed like five.  I aced the bicep curls, tricep stretches, thigh and calf stretches, and even took the challenge options on all the ab exercises.  PTSD from missing our flight to Ireland loomed in the back of my mind, thinking that there was now a very real chance that we’d also miss our flight to New Zealand because of a missing visa and possible red tape at the consulate in Santa Monica!  I couldn’t beLIEVE this was happening. 

“Oh well,” I thought mid-exercise, “I guess it won’t take that long to UNpack!”

Upon returning home, I learned that the crisis was over.

“I went on line,” Carl explained, “and discovered that I’d been scammed!  The website I used to apply for those visas was a phony, so I got onto the right one and filled out the applications.  We should be getting an email confirmation within the next couple of hours that they’ve been issued.”

[Let’s hope so!]

Again due to PTSD from the Ireland trip freeway fiasco and missing our flight, I insisted that we leave for the airport at 3:00 p.m. for our 8:00 p.m. flight.  I didn’t want to take ANY chances that there’d be another lunatic jumper on a freeway overpass or any other traffic nightmare blocking our route.  I’d rather be there and wait instead of sweating it out in Los Angeles gridlock.  As luck would have it, we found ourselves sitting in the Star Alliance lounge, fully checked in, boarding passes in hand and cleared through TSA a short fifty minutes after leaving our house.  We had four hours to kill!  

At least I was comfortable . . . For awhile, that is.  I’d purchased a posture perfecting T-shirt from the trunk show following last week’s President’s Cup and thought it would be a good idea to wear it on the long flight.  It would keep me aligned.  A strong built-in front panel pushed my shoulders back, while a stronger built-in back panel kept them from slouching forward.  My posture was PERFECT!  I felt stronger, taller and very, very fit!  I even had more energy!  I think I may have noticed a few women jealously noticing how good I looked, sitting there in the lounge all “posture perky” and all. 

[Eat your hearts out, Girls!]

For awhile, Carl and I each took care of business on our electronic devices; he making sure the visas came through and answering emails from lawyers on pending cases; me texting friends and catching up on Team results, etc.

“We’ve got 2 1/2 more hours before we can board the plane,” Carl said.  “I’m going to go have a smoke.” 

“Really?  REALLY???  I don’t think so!  This is a non-smoking airport!  Your smoking is like having another person along on our trips!  We ALWAYS have to accommodate it!” I replied.

“Trust me,” he said, “I’ll find a place!  It’ll be 14 hours before I can have another one once we get on that plane!  I’m going to have a smoke!”  And with that, he disappeared in search of a smoking zone.

As I waited for him to return, I slouched down on my couch, only to be pulled by my T-shirt back up into a perfect posture position. 

[Uh oh!!!  This could have been a mistake!!!  I feel like my seat is in the full upright position and I’m not even on the airplane yet!  This can’t be good!  Not good at all!]

Each time I relaxed or reclined just a bit, that T-shirt snapped me back into full attention! 

[Yep . . . Bad idea.  I wonder how I’m going to sleep on the plane!  Maybe I should ask the flight attendants to prop me up in the coat closet!  What a waste of those business class sleeping pods!!  I’m going to be board stiff!]

With the clock winding down to just minutes before boarding time, I sent one last group text:

“Hey . . . I know this is a day early, but tomorrow is National Curmudgeon

Day!  Make sure you do something nice for your curmudgeons!” 

I may have been a day early with the message and a visa short for the trip, but . . . Boy oh boy, my posture is perfect . . . And will be for at least the next fourteen hours!

2.  We’re Not In Fallbrook

Fourteen hours later, Air New Zealand’s Boeing 777-300 gently touched down on the tarmac in  Aukland just as the sun was rising.  The long leg of the journey was behind us, but we still had to claim our luggage, navigate through customs, check-in for our puddle jumper to Kerikeri, then sit and wait two hours for take-off.  Once there, Stephan from Black Robin Transport was scheduled to greet us at baggage claim, then drive us the one hour distance to our final destination, Kauri Cliffs.  Everything was pre-planned, prepaid and perfected.  

“I’m going to go have a smoke,” said Carl, not ready to tackle the long line at customs.

“Oh, o.k., . . . Finnegan!” I said, “I’m naming your smoking habit, Finnegan.” 

“Finnegan?” he asked, “why Finnegan?” 

“Because Teri [a friend of mine] had a Scotty dog named Finnegan, and when he died, she got another one, just like him and named him Finnegan Again.  When Finnegan Again died, she got another one and named him Finnegan Again Again.  I think it’s perfect . . . You go find places to smoke again and again and again and again!  So, FINNEGAN it is!”

He smirked, uttered a near silent inaudible then headed out to deal with Finnegan.  I perused the duty free shops waiting for their return.

Upon clearing customs, Stephan met us at the marked “way out” (not “exit”), hoisted our golf clubs along with our one shared suitcase into the back of his van and ushered us into the roomy backseat.  As we pulled out of the loading zone and through the airport complex, Carl asked Stephan to stop at an ATM somewhere along the way so we’d have some New Zealand money.

It was nice to be on the ground enjoying our new surroundings.  We passed several small and quaint sheep and cattle farms before entering a village in search of the ATM.  The scenery was beautiful, serene, charming, rustic.  Certainly nothing like we have at home. 

“You know,” Carl said to me, “everything is always the same.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked, somewhat taken aback by the irony of what I was experiencing.

“Well, every time we go somewhere, I mean, EVERYTHING’s always the same . . . Airports are the same, there’s people everywhere.  There are crowds and lines, workers, taxi drivers, buses.  Cities are cities, no matter where you are.  Countryside is countryside, wherever you are.  Just look out the window!  This looks just like Fallbrook, don’tcha think?” 

[My head exploded into a million pieces!]

😳😳😳🤯🤯🤯

“FALLBROOK?” I shrieked, “FaaaaallllllBROOK???  FALLLLLLLLBRROOOOK??  Are you kidding me?  We just traveled through eighteen time zones, we squished all of our clothes into ONE SUITCASE, I spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours bound in a straight jacket, not able to sleep for more than ten minute intervals because my posture was so straight that my pinky fingers went numb and all we had to do was jump in our car and take a two-hour road trip down the 15 Fwy. to wander through FALLBROOK?  FALLBROOK???  REALLY?  You are unBELIEVABLE, Carl West!!”

By the time I’d finished my rant, we’d arrived in a small town.   A sign on a sporting goods store caught my eye:  Fishing, Camping and Tramping.   

[Now THERE’S something you don’t see in Fallbrook!]

For a split second, I smiled at a possible meaning of “tramping.”  Of course, according to my take on the word, one could be found “tramping” down Hollywood Boulevard, clad in a gaudy, flamboyant lime green sequined miniskirt, a feather boa draped around the shoulders, patent leather platform shoes, perhaps a wig, fake eyelashes, rhinestone encrusted chandelier earrings, a cigarette holder and a thick band of bright lipstick drawn across the lips.  I couldn’t resist:

“Stephan . . . What’s ‘tramping?’” I asked.

“It is an activity associated with the outdoors,” he said, “taking a tent and supplies for a few days and living in the wilderness.”

“So . . . Camping.” I confirmed what I already knew.

While Carl negotiated the currency exchange, I got to know Stephan a little better.  A giant of a man, standing well over 6’ tall, well-built and brawny, I wondered how comfortable he was being a driver, sitting in a van day in and day out.  He had dark brown hair, brown eyes and strong, chiseled features. He spoke with a thick accent, much like Arnold Schwarzenegger.  In fact, he looked very similar to The Terminator.  During our conversation, I learned that he’d come to New Zealand twenty years ago from Frankfurt for a gap year and never returned!  I wondered how many young people spent THEIR gap years in Fallbrook, never to return home! I’m guessing a big zero!

Upon our arrival at Kauri Cliffs, The Terminator offloaded our luggage and, as if on cue on a movie set said, “I’ll be back . . . on Sunday to collect you for T’ara Iti.” 

We turned to enter the resort but were immediately greeted by two men welcoming us to Kauri Cliffs.  We were definitely not in Fallbrook!  The beauty of the resort is beyond description.  The best I can do is to compare it to the popular ABC television series of the 1970’s and ‘80’s, Fantasy Island.  Adrian (Mr. Rourke) and his assistant (Tattoo) received us at the entrance and gave us a small tour of the main resort area.  We were invited to sit in the living room while he retrieved refreshments for us, after which they gave a brief presentation of all that was available at the facilities.  Only twenty-eight guest cottages currently at 80% occupancy make this an extremely private, intimate experience.  In fact, it is SO much like Fantasy Island, I was waiting for Adrian to ask us, “So what’s YOUR fantasy?”

“Canapés and cocktails are offered for our guests right in this room every afternoon from 5:00-7:00 p.m.  Dinner is available, no reservations required.  You are scheduled for golf . . . . . “

Following our official welcome, a shuttle transported us to our cottage . . . #22.  Corey, the shuttle driver, is from Nova Scotia, working here for the season.  Adrian (aka Mr. Rourke) hails from France, and “Tattoo” is from Perth, Australia.  The more staff members we met, it became clear that many, many people fell in love with New Zealand and have yet to return home and I can understand why!  Our cottage is nestled amidst a tropical rain forest, birds and cicadas chirruping.  No city sounds heard at all!  The ocean views across the golf course best those of Pebble Beach, Hawaii, Ireland and yes, even Fallbrook!  

All guests attended a beach bbq last evening down on the property’s Pink Beach.  The sand is not sand at all.  It is composed of millions and millions of crushed sea shells, giving the beach a pink hue.  During the evening, we mingled with the other guests and lo! and behold!  The world became smaller!!  There is a woman here from Sherwood Country Club who was my opponent in Team last season!  (We’re playing with them today!) We met another couple, Manfred and Petra, from Germany who are “on holiday” for thirty-five days!  As the evening drew to a close, all of us admiring the beautiful beach, the sunset and one last nightcap, it became eminently clear that we are not in Fallbrook

3.  Bonnie and Clyde

Our last day on Fantasy Island’s Kauri Cliffs drew to a close with one last dinner with Manfred and Petra, Paul and Amy.  Just prior to meeting them for cocktails at 6:00 p.m., Carl wanted to hop in a golf cart and drive around the back nine one more time.  Of course the scenery was breathtaking and I’d already snapped over fifty photos during our rounds played, so I didn’t quite understand the need for another jaunt around the course.   It sounded like fun, however, so I took my seat and readied for the ride.  We veered way left off the cart path on Hole #10, coming to a halt where the fairway ends and the gorse begins.  The same thing happened on Hole #11, only we went right this time and stopped near the deep fescue.  We stopped again on #12 right beside a huge tree and a fence.  On Hole #13, we got out of the cart and took a selfie with the ocean and islands in the background.  When the cart stopped again on Hole #14, I finally asked what we were doing.

“I wanted to come out here one last time,” said Carl, “to say good-bye to all the balls I lost!  I don’t want them to think I don’t care!”  

Richard, not The Terminator, arrived early the next morning to transport us by motorcar to our next destination, T’Ara Iti.  I was quite pleased to meet my very first Kiwi.  Everyone else I’d met had come from somewhere else and I was beginning to think there were no native New Zealanders other than the indigenous Maoris.  Richard Parsonson was born in Kerikeri just south of Kauri Cliffs and had made his living as a men’s clothier until retiring at the age of 58, a short fifteen years ago.  Now he plays golf most of the time but drives people like us from resort to resort to resort for a little extra money.  Richard, like Stephan, was extremely friendly and offered bits of local lore as we motored from town to town.  While Stephan resembled Arnold Schwarzeneggar, Richard was a dead ringer for Telly Savalas.  The only two clues that prove he’s not Kojak are (1) he had no lollipop in his mouth and (2) he spoke the Queen’s English mixed with a bit of an Australian accent.   

Of particular interest was a small, seaside village that was preparing for National Maori Day this coming Thursday.  Preparations were in full swing with entire tribes of Maoris staking out their areas, erecting tents, campsites and dancing areas.  Maori motorcycle biker clubs roared into town, announcing their arrival with a flourish.  Young Maori children jumped and played and local police cruisers patrolled the area, keeping it safe for all to enjoy.  Definitely not a sight you’d expect to see in Fallbrook!

As we continued toward T’Ara Iti, Kojak ran through his duties with us for the next couple of days.  It became clear in very short order that we’d left behind our leather-bound travel binder, containing hotel vouchers and our domestic plane tickets!  When Carl called Kauri Cliffs to make arrangements for them to messenger that binder to us by express post, he learned that he’d also left his brand new blazer on the chair back at breakfast!  

“You left the binder AND your jacket behind?” I asked a little surprised at his forgetfulness.

“I did.  You know, you should have noticed the binder on the dresser and you should also have noticed the blazer on the chair!  I count on you to be a little more responsible, you know!” he said, deflecting the blame onto me. 

“So now all of this is MY fault?” I asked, not one bit pleased with the accusation. 

“ExACTLY!” Carl and Kojak agreed simultaneously.  “Our wives are our better halves . . . we NEED you!”

T’ara Iti (named for a sea bird) sits on 6,000 acres of land with eleven miles running along the ocean.  Its facilities are stunning and the links course along the water would probably even intimidate Tiger Woods!  The best way to describe the overall feel of this place is to take the Pacific Dunes course from Bandon Dunes OUT of Oregon, plop it down at Kaanapali in Maui then get rid of all tourists and golfers except for about fifteen!  That’s T’ara Iti.  Each cottage, no more than 20, is complete with two golf carts for the guests’ convenience.  As we finished parking our cart at the club house for dinner, a young female employee emerged from the Concierge building.  I suppose under other circumstances I would describe her as attractive and sweet, however, I took an immediate dislike to her. 

 “Excuse me,” she began, “Is THAT a pipe?”

 “Yes,” said Carl, “I’m sorry!  Is that o.k.?  Am I not allowed to smoke here?”

 “No, Not at all!  Of COURSE you can smoke here . . . I LOVE a man with a pipe!!!  It makes you perfectly gangster!” she encouraged in her oh, so British/Australian accent.

[Gangster?  GANGSTER?  What the heck???  Is that a compliment?  Is she actually flirting with MY husband?  What a little tartlet!  If Carl’s a gangster, what does that make me?  Who are we now, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?  Am I the Bonnie to his Clyde?  The Carmela to his Tony Soprano?  Who knew that Carl and Finnegan were now gangsters and that I’m some lousy floozy side-kick!]

Super Bowl LIV is alive and well, even down here in New Zealand!  The Head Pro solicited bets this morning as the golfers warmed up on the driving range.  

“Choose your team, then go out and play.  We will take your net score minus the score of your chosen team.  Lowest number wins!  Good luck, mates!”  

Heck yes!!  Bonnie and Clyde are IN on that bet!  GOOOOOO ‘49ers!!

4.  The Pied Piper of Huka Lodge

Kojak drove up to the concierge building at T’ara Iti at exactly the prescribed time to transport us to our next stop, Huka Lodge.  It wasn’t his fault that we’d been waiting his arrival for nearly an hour and a half.  Not wanting to be rushed, we moved our tee time up, knowing that we’d have to wait a bit.  That was fine with us.  We’d just hang out in the concierge hut and relax.  What we didn’t count on was the possibility that Christina, the gangster groupie, would be on duty! 

“Good Afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. West! It’s such a lovely pleasure to see you again!” she cheerily greeted directly at Carl as if I weren’t even there.  “It is Richard that will be fetching you today, is that right, Carl?  I hope you enjoyed your stay here with us!” 

[“Oh, brother!!!” I thought, “Go get your own gangster!  In fact, I’ve got one for you . . . go look for Jimmy Hoffa!!  That’ll keep you busy for awhile!]

Because I was included in no part of the conversation, I opened my crossword puzzle book, turned the page and immediately almost burst out laughing.  The clue to 1 Across read: Union boss Jimmy _______.

“Hey, Christina!” I said, inserting myself into her full-court flirtation, “Do you like crossword puzzles?  Here’s the first clue for 1 Across:  Union boss Jimmy blank.  Any idea who that could be?”

“Uh, no . . . sorry . . . I’m not very good at puzzles,” she responded, a little put out that I’d spoken to her.

[“Thought so, you little groupie!”  I thoroughly enjoyed the irony!]

Richard provided a continuous travelogue pointing out different interesting sights during our 2-hour trek to the Aukland airport.  We were booked on the 4:50 p.m. flight to Taupo where we will stay for the next two nights.  Again, all was proceeding quite nicely . . . no traffic problems on the route there and no problems checking in and getting our boarding passes.  All we had left to do was check our one shared suitcase then our golf clubs at the oversized luggage counter and wait to board the plane.  It appears, however, that Finnegan pulled a fast one!  The clerk behind the counter scanned our bags, loaded them onto the conveyer belt and pointed us toward the boarding area.  Almost there, a uniformed security officer beckoned for a Mr. West to report to the oversized baggage area.  There was a problem.  His golf clubs did not pass the x-ray test! 

“There’s a problem with your bag, Sir,” he began in a very officious police voice, “ would you please remove the contents.”  

Carl rifled through the golf bag, opening each zippered pocket, exposing the contents then repacking until the cop identified the problem . . . a butane lighter. 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he said “this cannot be in your bag.  Just put it in your pocket, that’ll be o.k.” 

“Finnegan AGAIN?” I asked,  “SEEEEE? It’s a problem.  There’s ALWAYS something going on with him!”  

The rest of the journey to Huka Lodge was uneventful.  Upon our arrival here, a lodge representative escorted us to our cottage spelled out the dining protocol for the evening.  Each group dines in their own private dining area with their own private waiter.  I didn’t know what to expect, but I did know that we were in a very special, special place! 

We settled into the suite then took a walk down to the river’s edge, enjoying some mixed nuts from the minibar.  The current flowed quite swiftly drawing our attention to two little ducks trying to paddle from one side to the bank of our side.  They finally pulled themselves up onto the bank, fluffing their feathers, quacking and cheeping.  I tossed a cashew at one of them.  Then another . . . and another and another.  Suddenly I had two new friends.  All the nuts tossed and eaten, I returned back into the suite to shower before dinner thinking the ducks would go along on their way.  But they didn’t!  They were waiting for me INSIDE THE SUITE . . . on the carpet!  

“No, no, NO, you guys!  You can’t come in here!!!  Get out . . . shoo!” 

(Carl and Finnegan were out for a walk).  

Our dinner assignment was to an upstairs room looking out onto the magnificently beautiful river.  The room itself housed mounted African animal heads perched on the walls . . . in an homage to the the sister lodge in South Africa.  An enormous water buffalo watched over the room from above the fireplace.  Our table was set just inside the bay window adjacent to a small terrace.  Framed photographs of the Queen of England and Prince Philip sit on one of the coffee tables along with African masks and other such pieces of art.  The Queen stays at Huka Lodge when she’s in New Zealand and has signed the official guest book several times.  

“You know,” said Carl, “some people would probably think that this setting is really romantic!” 

“They would, would they?” I said, “they might say that because IT IS!” 

Our waiter, Elian, offered us our choice of water, “Monsieur et Madame, would you like some water?  I have sparkling and I have flat.”  

Of course I chose sparkling and, of course, Carl chose flat.  Sometimes even water describes people!!  We knew we were in for a five-course “tasting” dinner, but it was far beyond our expectations.  Prior to the first course, Mercury Bay Kingfish, Elian presented us with an amuse bouche.

“Here we have a petite rice waffle with avocado, anchovy paste, creme freche, juniper seeds and lavendar petals,” he said in a beautiful French accent as he gently placed our dishes in front of us. 

“What the hell is this?” said Carl as soon as Elian disappeared.

“An amuse bouche,” I said. 

“A WHAT???” he said a little more loudly.  “What the hell is a mooz boosh?”  

I laughed a little, “An ‘amuse bouche,’” I repeated, “it’s French for a little something to please your mouth before you begin the dinner.” 

“O.K., then I’m in WAY over my head!  Whoever heard of amuse bouche?” he said as he picked up the little rice waffle.

Course after fancy course came and went before we learned a little something else that will stay with us forever.

“May I present you with your pre-dessert?” said Elian, placing what looked like a miniature sidewalk sundae encased in a small glass cake plate on top of frozen black rocks in front of each of us.

We marveled at the concept . . . a PRE-dessert!  How genius!!  Why hadn’t we thought of it?

“Gosh!” I said, “so now, when you grab a handful of cookies before you go back and scoop yourself some ice cream, we can say you’re just having your ‘pre-dessert’!  What a GREAT idea!” 

We drank the last drop of wine, finishing the dinner and the day.  

I brought my two slices of dry sourdough toast back to the room with me from breakfast this morning for my two new duck friends.  They were nowhere to be seen, so I started tearing one piece up and scattering it near our patio deck.  From literally out of nowhere, Mama Duck and four young ducklings flew in from across the river.  I couldn’t tear the bread fast enough!  They pecked my shoes, cheeping and quacking in anticipation!  At least this time I knew enough to close the sliding doors.  They followed me all the way from the water’s edge back to the room!  

Our itinerary showed a 10:00 a.m. tee time at Wairakei Golf Club.  This particular course is among the top 50 courses in the world, making it yet another exciting thing on our trip.  What we learned, however, was terrible.  A former groundskeeper who’d been fired for who-knows-why, snuck into the maintenance area, poured corrosive chemicals into the fertilizing sprayers so when the gardeners sprayed the greens, all the grass would die!!  The greens on the entire golf course were ruined!  Temporary greens have been mowed for use in the interim, but . . . what a tragedy! 

Before returning to Huka Lodge following golf, our driver dropped us off at Huka Falls, a natural water fall down river from our accommodations.  We snapped several photos, then walked the half mile back to the lodge.  

I am now sitting on a chaise lounge just off the riverbank, writing this recap . . . along with Mama Duck and her four ducklings.  I have no bread to offer them, but they refuse to believe me.  One of them has been stealing the little felt cloth that I keep inside my tablet to clean the screen, begging me for something to eat.  A couple others are beneath my seat, pecking at my butt and Mama Duck has hopped up onto the bottom edge of the lounge and is sitting between my feet!  I suppose I am the Pied Piper of Huka Lodge!  I have to stop writing now and get them some mixed nuts from the minibar!  It’s so nice to be needed

5.  Shades of Meaning

English is undeniably the world’s universal language.  Because it is the official language of more than seventy countries, English helps to increase effective communication, trade, business and travel.  Tourists are better able to navigate through foreign countries without the need to learn a particular foreign language or to rely on phone apps for translation.  Hence, someone from New York should be able to visit England, let’s say, with no language barrier and vice versa.  People from Hong Kong should have absolutely no trouble communicating in the United Kingdom.  Further, those in Canada would ease right into the swing of things in the United States.  Of course it’s true that some idioms and terms may vary, but the overall meanings are not changed.  It follows then, that Carl and I would find no difficulty in New Zealand.  Problems occur only when mispronunciation and shades of meaning confound language.  

I began to notice a few glitches in effective communication through a common language early on in the trip.  Young people, either still in college and taking a semester off to travel, those already graduated off experiencing the world before they settle into adulthood or those neither ready nor willing to accept the responsibility of being completely self-supporting and independent, staff most of the resorts we’ve visited.  When asked how long they’ve been in New Zealand, the common response is, “I’ve been here for three months now.”  They’re on work visas that expire six months from the date of issuance.  They are happy to move on from these seasonal jobs, then pick up and find temporary employment in some other country for another six months.  

“They have wonderlust,” Carl said one evening over our dinner discussion in the ultra-romantic setting in our private dining area with our own private waiter.  “They are young, not tied down to any responsibility and they just want to travel.  We never even thought of that!  We finished college then either went straight to graduate school or started working.  These kids don’t do that . . . they’ve got wonderlust.” 

“I think you mean “WANDERlust,” I said, of course feeling the need to correct him. 

“What the hell’s the difference?” he said, “they want to see the world.  ‘Wonderlust’ or ‘wanderlust’ . . . it’s all the same. 

“Actually it’s not,” I pressed.  “‘Wanderlust’ is a compound word . . . a word made up of two words to form one new word . . . ‘wander’ and ‘lust,’ . . . means that there is a strong desire (lust) to wander or travel.  Yep.  Compound word.”  And I took a satisfied sip of my wine, completely destroying any hope of reviving the romantic ambiance of the setting.

[I’m sure he just wanted to flick me away like a piece of lint from his sport coat!]

“WONDERlust just doesn’t make any sense at all,” I continued, “that would mean a strong desire to wonder. . . . like ‘Oh my gosh!  I REALLY have this huge urge to think about something . . . I’m lusting for wonder!  Do you get it? ‘Wonderlust’ isn’t a word at all!” 

Luckily, Elian arrived at just the right time with our amuse bouche which halted any further discussion on word derivation.  Instead, I took the opportunity to segue into words adopted into English from other languages . . . just like amuse bouche and crudités.  It was also at this dinner that we learned of “pre-desserts,” but there was no confusion on that meaning at all . . . we were fully aware that eating a pre-dessert is just code for eating the first of two desserts, and we welcomed that concept wholeheartedly.  

The second instance of word confusion occurred the following day.  We had been served such rich and lavish gourmet meals since our arrival, so I felt compelled to dial back on the food and calorie intake, at least for breakfast and lunch.  After holing out on eighteen at Wairiki Golf Course, we ordered a cold drink from the snack counter . . . Carl decided on a Scotch and water and I chose an iced coffee.   I gasped when the waitress served my drink!  Instead of a tall glass of cold black coffee poured over ice cubes, I was presented with a large soda fountain glass full of thick vanilla ice cream topped with a few coffee beans and a fluffy cloud of whipped cream.  A straw stuck straight up from the thickness.  If I’d wanted a Venti Caramel Macchiato, I’d have ordered one!

“Excuse me,” I said to the waitress full of wonderlust, “I didn’t order a milkshake.  I asked for iced coffee.” 

“I know,” she confirmed, “that’s what that is . . . iced coffee!” and she turned on her heels and padded away.   

There, directly in front of me, sat my entire calorie allotment for the day!   Apparently “iced coffee” in New Zealand means “MILKSHAKE!”  This was confirmed this afternoon when talking to a young staffer from Massachusetts manning the snack shop at Cape Kidnappers. 

“You won’t beLIEVE this,” I said to her as I explained my iced coffee story.

“Oh, ya,” she said, “when I first got here, I ordered a smoothie down in town.  You know, a smoothie has berries, fruit juice and yogurt in it, right?  Maybe some protein powder, too!  Well . . . I got berries blended in vanilla ice cream, so basically I got a milkshake, too!” 

Just then, one of her co-workers (a Kiwi) passed by. 

“Hey, Trevor,” she called, “what’s in an iced coffee?” 

“Vanilla ice cream, coffee beans and whipped cream,” he answered. 

“O.K., so then, what’s in a smoothie?” she continued.

“Vanilla ice cream and berries of some sort, I suppose, and whipped cream.

“O.K., then what’s in a milkshake?” she asked again.

“Ice cream and milk . .  oh! and whipped cream!” he answered, like we should already know all of these things.

“Then . . . what’s the difference between an iced coffee, a smoothie and a milkshake?” we asked in unison, wondering why he didn’t see why we were confused. 

“I guess nothin’, actually,” he said as he wandered off to more important things.  

Another instance of language nuance occurred with our caddy.  Grant offered to take our picture out on the sixteenth tee which overlooks steep cliffs and Hawkes Bay in the background.  He told us of an instance where a golfer for whom he caddied remarked at the beautiful vista as he pointed out to the ocean. 

“The vista?” Grant queried as he stared out into the ocean.

“Ya!  The vista!!  Just LOOK at it!  It’s spectacular!” 

Not understanding what he was supposed to be looking at, Grant asked, “I’m sorry, Sir, could you please point to it. I don’t see it!” 

The golfer then explained that vista and view were the same thing! 

A fabulous tour of the 6,600 acre Cape Kidnappers property in a Can-Am ATV got me thinking about language, nuance and the inherent problems of a universal language.  There are over 4,000 sheep, 2,000 head of Angus beef, scads of rabbits and countless species of birds living on the grounds.  We heard the distinctive voices of the Tuis (birds that sound like R2D2 from Star Wars) and the sea gulls and gannets.  We heard the moo-ing and baa-ing of the cattle and sheep.  I wonder if they, too, experience mispronunciations and shades of meaning or if they have a true universal language

6. It’s Always Something

As has been heard over and over again, “All good things must come to an end,” and so it is for this magnificent dream trip to New Zealand.  

Upon checking in on-line twenty-four hours ahead of our scheduled flight time, Carl received a notice from the airline advising arrival for the long flight to LAX an extra hour ahead of the already recommended two hours due to heightened airport screening.  We assumed it was probably because of the coronavirus outbreak.   One of the cruise ships coming into port at Napier (the village closest to Cape Kidnappers) was possibly under quarantine, we’d heard, so it held that the airports were being extra cautious.  

The domestic flight from Napier to Aukland finished without a hitch.  We arrived in plenty of time, checked the luggage with no interference from Finnegan (largely because there is no security check for domestic flights), collected our golf clubs and one shared suitcase at the other end and found ourselves snaking through security for the international flight.  We were so close to smooth sailing for the long last leg of our journey.  

“Step over here, Ma’am,” the agent barked at me in his officious Aussie/Kiwi accent.  “What’ve you got in your pockets, eh?” 

“A FitBit,” I responded. 

“Give it to me,” he instructed, “then pop into the cylinder right here and raise your arms up in direction with the guide on the wall.” 

Alarms beeped again.

“All right, Ma’am,” he said as he handed me over to a female agent, “I’m showing four suspicious points on your body.  You’re going to have a full body pat down.  You can either remain here or we can escort you behind the privacy screens.  Please select your option.” 

I felt like I was in a SNL skit illustrating how ludicrous TSA screenings are!  I had NO contraband, nothing left in my pockets except lip gloss and no reason for the full body personal pat down.  I could just hear Roseanne Rosannadanna: 

“It’s always somethin’,” she’d say, “if it’s not this, is that . . .!”

The female agent, I’m sure, was a WWF wrestler in her off time!  She was big.  She was burly.  She was strong. And she was ugly!

“Stand right ‘ere, Luv.  I’m gonna pat you down with me ‘ands.  Don’t be wiggy ‘bout it.  I’m gonna use the backs of me ‘ands.” 

[As if that made me feel better!  “I’m headed for the Pokey!” I thought.]

Of course she found nothing.  She then pulled out a wand that looked very much like a taser, but I sort of knew it wasn’t.  At least I hoped it wasn’t! 

After a completely thorough wanding over my entire being, she concluded that the problem was with the zippers on my Athleta cargo pants . . . four of them!  She chuckled a little, then excused me to collect my belongings at the end of the conveyer belt.  

“Betcha won’t be wearin’ those trousers on another flight, eh?” she chortled as I turned my back on her and sped away.

All the while I was being frisked, Finnegan had caused another set of problems.  Carl’s backpack didn’t clear the x-ray test.  It was set aside behind at least ten other items that raised the eyebrows of the hyper-vigilant security agents.  

“Let me guess.  Finnegan again?” I asked as drolly as possible.

“It’s probably my butane lighters,” said Carl.

“Ugh!!  WHY DON’T YOU JUST USE MATCHES?” 

“It’s not that big a deal.  Most of the time I get through!” he insisted.

“No, you don’t!  You didn’t clear through at Taupo and that was just three days ago!  You either don’t clear security and the lighters are confiscated OR they get stolen by the TSA guys.  I just don’t understand why you don’t use matches!” 

And sure enough, the two butane lighters were confiscated . . . again.  

We FINALLY found ourselves parked in the Air New Zealand Lounge where we could relax and recover from our brush with the law and near incarceration into the Pokey! 

Boarding began at 18:40, but who knows when THAT is??  I’m so confused, not only with the time, the time zone change (trying to figure out what time it is at home compared to what time it is in New Zealand, and temperatures in Centigrade!!  WHY CAN’T WE ALL USE THE SAME . . . EITHER FAHRENHEIT OR CENTIGRADE?  WHY CAN’T WE ALL USE THE SAME METHOD OF TIME?  I have been doing more math on this trip than I EVER dreamed!!  Converting temperature, time, money . . . Sheesh!  It’s enough to give anyone a migraine headache!  So many word problems!!! 

Finnegan and Carl were out for a walk.  I checked the boarding pass one more time and started  doing my mental math.

“Boarding is at 18:40 o’clock.  O.K.  WHAT IS THAT????  Twelve noon, one o’clock is thirteen hundred, two o’clock is fourteen hundred,  . . . . OH, NO!!!!!  We’re supposed to be boarding NOW!” I gasped.

Just then Carl and Finnegan returned.

“We gotta go!” they said. 

A quick look at the monitor showed Flight NZ06 “boarding now” at Gate 17 (15 minute walk).

My pace quickened from a power walk to a speed walk.  I mowed people over on the walking escalators, pushed toddlers out of my way and cursed my ineptitude over calculating the time! 

Another EXTRA security check of our backpacks slowed us down one more time! 

“Good God!” I thought, “What could I have possibly smuggled in after Brunhilda patted me down?”

Huffing and puffing, we reached Gate 17, fully relieved that we hadn’t missed the flight.  The ticket agent informed us that boarding would begin in ten minutes and that the monitor screen was in error.  While we were waiting to board, we learned that everyone else there waiting was on a flight to Houston!!  WE WERE AT THE WRONG GATE!!!!  THE MONITOR WAS WRONG!!!!  

Gate 15 was the correct access point!!  We scrambled once again, arriving just in time to board the flight!!  

Now that we’re seated, carry-ons stowed in the overhead bins and a glass of wine on my tray table, I can say I agree with Roseanne Rosannadanna . . . “It’s always something!”