He’s Mine…Not so Fast there
I met her on a first date via a dating service. We are both members of AARP and we both have two marriages on our resume.
This story is the tale of her securing her second husband.
The red head, previously a blond and brunette, and her first husband moved here from Brazil to go to school in the early 80’s. That marriage faltered when he chose to return to Brazil and she did not. New to the country and needing connection, the red head joined a support group for divorcees. There she met and made her next best friend, Mary. For many years they attended parties together and acted as supports for each other as they traversed the terrain of their lives.
My red head worked as a consultant before taking a civilian position with the Air Force at the Pentagon. One evening she and Mary attended a black tie party at Ft. Meyers. While in line for a drink, a man ten or more years older than the red head approached her and offered that the other line was shorter. For unknown reasons the red head turned him down. Undaunted the man asked if he could give her one of his cards and maybe at a later time they might get together. Cards were casually exchanged.
Later that evening they reencountered each other and shared part of an enjoyable evening together on the dance floor.
Meanwhile, Mary was having her own good and interesting time. At the end of the night Mary and the red head reconnected and rode home together. The red head shared the story of her evening, “I met a very interesting man that I think I would like to see again. He gave me his card.”
I don’t know if the story resonated with Mary immediately, but she followed with her evening story as well. “I met a man too that I really liked,” and she paused. “He gave me his card too,” and she went to pull it out. No surprise, the same man gave each of them his card, but now what?
Mary told the red head, “ I lay claim to him. It’s only fair. You have been married.”
Red Head, “I am not backing down from pursuing this man. I think we could have something.”
They debated the situation for some time before the red head offered a solution, “He has both our numbers…Whomever he calls gets first shot at him.”
They agreed. He called the red head, married the red head and had a child with the red head. Mary did not talk to the red head for 6 months. Eventually all was forgiven and the three of them were able to laugh at the events.

​ Anyone who has had a puppy, knows all too well the early races from the kennel to the outside. Initially there are many innocent piddles, but in due time the glory of bladder control evolves and the piddles dry up.
Taylor is a young man movin on up. He has a condo. He has a girlfriend who will become his wife. And now he has a pointer puppy. He is very responsible about his potty training job. He sets his alarm for 3 am four hours after the last piddle at 11:00 piddle curfew.
The challenge that he never wins is owning a condo on the 8th floor. On the 3 am piddle trip, he and his puppy, Sunny, are usually lucky and any mistakes ride the elevator down without company. But many times with the cute little Sunny in his hands, unsuspecting elevator companions who are either headed out to or returning home from work, encounter Sunny’s innocent elevator piddles.
Each ride down Taylor decides whether to hold Sunny close to him with the possibility or likelihood that Taylor will return to the condo a bit wet or he holds him with outstretched arms knowing that the elevator floor will receive Sunny’s gift forcing the elevator mates to move back against the wall.
From what I understand Taylor shows no shame. He and Sunny regularly force the other riders to step back. But if he were only more aware of others, he could announce, 'BEWARE of leaky dog. Enter at your own risk.'

Being divorced and exploring the dating world is an “adventure.” Online dating, eliminates some of the adventure but not all of it. Like too many things in life, the answer to some experiences is, ‘this can’t be happening to me.’
On this night I am enjoying the company of a woman who I had broken up with before and will again at a later date. But tonite things are good and we are enjoying a glass of wine on the couch in my living room.
By now technology has progressed to the phone being mobile within the confines of the house, but still predates iphones. That mobile phone interrupts our couch scene. I wander to the kitchen to answer it and stroll back with the phone in hand. On the other end, “Tom, this is…, you don’t know me but I am a friend of Lynn’s and I thought you should know that she has been stalking you. She has been in your backyard. She has been to your beach house.”
I ask several question both as a way of calming myself and to absorb the reality of being stalked. It does not work. Then I realized the numerous hang up calls I had been receiving had probably been her.(this is before caller ID)
Then next day I call the police to learn there is nothing they can do unless she threatens to harm me. Ah, the great paradox; I know the, ’who’ but there is nothing that can be done until the crime is committed.
I begin a vigilance of looking out my windows, looking in my rear view mirror of my car and sadly not looking at the ocean but looking to see if Lynn is stalking me at the beach.
Sometime later I am at the beach with my supervision group, one of whom set me up with the stalker! I see Lynn walking up the beach. I keep my head down while keeping a close vigil on her. In retrospect, keeping my head down was like a little kid playing hide and seek thinking if I close my eyes and I can't see her, then I can't be seen either. She passes along the shore north up the beach. She would need to walk by on her return.
And on her return her acting is horrible. She feigns surprise to run into me on the beach, “Tom, what a coincidence to run into you here on the beach.”
'Lynn, don’t kid yourself. I watched you walk up the beach and back. I know you have been following me. You need to stop stalking me and move on.” I don’t remember the rest of the conversation other than she eventually left.
My father, who always has my best interest in mind, watched the exchange from afar but did not hear it. After Lynn leaves, he fatherly offers, “She seemed like a nice lady. You plan on seeing her? Maybe you could invite her over tonite.”

... How to End Bullying
Told by an anti bullying heroine
I am 20. I am 6 feet tall. I am woman. I roar…Ah if it were so easy.
My story begins in Japan where my parents were university professors. My third grade class was homogeneous, all Japanese, but me. Now I tower over many. Then the height differential was even more striking.
Meet my adversary who I call ‘my bully’. He was like a woodpecker constantly jabbing me with verbal slights. ‘What dinosaur family are you from? Is there any air up there?’
Japan did not employ an anti bullying policy. While each peck always hurt a little, I knew better than to react until one day the stars aligned for me and... fell for ‘my bully’.
I realize now that I had 4 advantages that led to the demise of my third grade bully.
First and second were the length of my arms and legs. My third grade lanky body gave me excellent leverage against my pee-wee bully.
Third, ‘my bully’ never wanted me to react beyond a tearful downpour. He hoped to gather a crowd as I gave into his pecks and broke into tears or countered with my own attacks.
Lastly, I was the surprise beneficiary of Japanese cleanliness. Every night the school was cleaned as if the Emperor’s children might stop by the next morning. The floors shined cascading reflections in many directions.
The day of the end of ‘my bully’ began when we entered the class first thing in the morning. As usual, “my bully’ had something to say to me. Maybe because we were face to face or maybe I just had had enough, I reached down with my long arms, bent knees and put my hands on his tiny chest. With the quick extension of my arms and legs, his feather weight body and a wonderfully slick floor, he went sliding backward on his ‘ars’ across the classroom floor maybe 20 feet. That is a Guinness Book of records for discarding a bully!
I wish I could say I leapt into the air as if I had bowled a strike. Instead I pulled my hands to my face and watched in dismay at how gracefully and effortlessly I sent him across the floor. No one else said anything as he slid out of control backward until a desk stopped him. First there were a few muffled chuckles and then laughter broke out. ‘My bully’ sat there stunned for a moment or two. Then he grabbed his shame and exited the door we had just entered through.
Now I tour elementary schools lecturing about how to end bullying. Not really. I am actually applying to dental school.

​ The Cost of the Aspirin
Their names were to Cecile and Leonel. To me, my grandparents were Cele and Dampop. The latter created by an older sibling who could not say grand pop. She was from Birmingham and he from Opelika, Alabama, a postage stamp town. They grew up riding in open Model T’s and finished flying to Paris on the SST (3 hour flight). Montgomery was home for their married life. Their house had a grand spiral staircase and wonderful places for grandchildren to hide and play great imaginary games. Both were very attractive. Their young pictures were out of the screening for the Great Gatsby. She was the character. But this is about him.
My grandparents lived until I was in my 30’s and achieved great grandparent status. Dampop was “retired” my entire life. In his retirement he oversaw his 4000 acre farm, that my brother and I worked on one hot Alabama summer, managed his stocks, travelled, fished, hunted quail and played chess with me when I visited in the summer. Dampop was very selective in the words he spoke. Those select words commanded significant import when imparted.
In his late 70’s while he was hunting quail in a jeep, he fell and broke his back. Luckily he was not paralyzed but in the fall he hit his head. As a result he developed what was called ‘water on the brain’. The increasing pressure on his brain became life threatening. Despite being the capital of Alabama, Montgomery was a small town. Its medical expertise was even more provencial. Again lucky for him, one of the doctors knew of a new procedure to deal with his water on the brain by inserting a shunt to drain the fluid. The procedure was done and was a complete success. He lived another 20 years.
However, despite his being on Medicare, there was a balance to pay. I have in my possession one of his old notebooks that accounts for every penny (I mean every penny) spent when he was a young businessman. It lists dime and nickel purchases. Of course 10 and 5 were worth more the than now but…
In reviewing the hospital bill for the medical care that saved his life, he noted that he was charged for some aspirin that he was sure he never took. There was some go around with accounting and eventually THEY took the aspirin off his bill. A man of few words unless he had something to say!!

While I was listening to ashes to ashes…
Every experience at a funeral home is a challenge. It’s one of the most difficult parts of life and… it’s big business. After my dad passed away, I was offended by my walk through a room of Cadillac caskets, the GM models and bringing up, “the rear our least selling model the plain pine box”.
I have not experienced the process when cremation is the final choice, but recently my cousins recalled their experience after their dad passed away at 94.
My four cousins met at the funeral home in Montgomery, Alabama to learn and discuss the cremation options. As Margaret, my cousin, described, they waited in the room off the entrance for their “sales person”. While waiting Margaret’s surreal experience was abruptly interrupted by her cell phone. I don’t know if it was an important call or not, but after your dad dies, maybe every call is important. To avoid disturbing anyone, she walked from the hall and wandered into another room to continue her conversation. As she recalled the experience she chimed into her phone, “Ther..theres…theres a dead person in here…” She came scattering back into the room sharing her unnerving discovery with her sibs. Her brother, Jim, enjoyed a pleasurable laugh as he had already encountered the “dead man” and allowed her to wander in there anticipating the memorable reaction.
They were spared the anguish of being shown the Cadillacs, GMs and pine box, and instead faced selecting a “container” for their dad’s ashes. Not only were Cadillacs, GMs, pine boxes available as containers but they could also choose a “mailer.” A mailer, literally meant the ashes were mailed; but not to a PO Box. With cremation two containers must be chosen (which I think means bought). A container is necessary for the ashes but a container is also required (to be bought) for the body to be transferred to the crematorium . Again there are different qualities, metal, wood and I think cardboard.
Having made their choice, Jim was designated as the signee of the necessary paper work. He first signed off on, ‘this process is irreversible.’ Jim, in his humorous way, shared the obvious with his siblings .
Then unfortunately, the sales person noticed in the paper work that the service was at a temple and that the deceased lived on Fernway Dr. Never to miss a sales opportunity, he responded, “We have serviced a number of Jews on that street recently,” as if to say business is good on your street. All four looked at each other with “I can’t believe he just said that' look.
Unfortunately the salesman had not played his dumbest card yet. When they returned a few days later to retrieve their father’s ashes, he invited them into his office. Receiving your fathers ashes deserves respect and honor, “Well, here’s your dad,” as he off handedly pushed the ashes across the table. The four shared another look of 'I can't believe this.'
Happily, their dad’s service was incredibly moving, respectful and honoring. Unlike the salesperson, the military ceremoniously gave his widow, my aunt, a flag honoring his service on Omaha Beach, the Battle of the Bulge and the liberation of France in a powerful demonstration of how to honor the fallen.