As we welcome the new season, I'm remembering my friend Pat who passed last week. She was super smart, funny, energetic, and modest, shrugging off compliments. 

Image based on Rosie the Riveter. 

Remembering Pat

Pat knew things before anyone else in our office did. She knew who was getting promoted, moving to another department, and leaving the company by choice or not. Our boss nicknamed her Radar after the character in the sit-com M*A*S*H who possessed an uncanny sense of incoming wounded before hearing the drone of helicopters.

Last week, I found out Pat had died at age 71. 

I admired Pat because she said what she thought, and she cared deeply about the work and the people with whom she worked. During her more than 30-year career, she mentored countless colleagues from the students who worked for her as exhibit tour guides to her bosses over the years. She was also my mentor and friend.

Pat knew how to get things done through the back channels. Often, she’d shake her head at any signs of my naivety about the way things really worked.    

One day, she saw a copy of “The Titleless Leader: How to get things done when you’re not in charge” on my table. She harrumphed as if she could have written this book. Of course, she had real-life experience and didn’t need this book.

Pat worked hard and underplayed her contributions. Unfortunately, I other colleagues take her for granted, robbing her of the respect she had earned, rising through the ranks. She explained some co-workers didn’t acknowledge her current position because they still saw her in her first role. She deserved better treatment.  

As I recalled, she earned a degree from Wharton, along with street-smarts too. She had endless ideas that she gave away, a jaded sense of humor, and a profound work ethic.     

She arrived at work early before most of her coworkers. Even on that icy winter day when her Toyota Tercel slid and crossed the median facing oncoming traffic, she wasn’t late.

Another thing, she dressed in style. This woman’s wardrobe was the envy of any professional businesswoman – a vast collection of suits, dresses, jewelry, scarves and shoes. Pat wore pumps, while I sported sneakers most days because they were comfortable, and I was lazy.  

Nearly every day, she popped into my office to discuss an unusual speaker bureau request or the odd behavior she witnessed in the museum. Besides our museum we had temporary exhibits highlighting historical artifacts like railroad bonds. Usually, we held an opening event, which brought the media, the public, and the regulars. One such regular was a woman who came prepared with plastic baggies to take home her share of leftovers from our events.  

Pat made our public events successful, memorable, and fun. Our first big event together involved buying a ham at Reading Terminal market to introduce the public to the newly redesigned currency. Every several years, U.S. currency was redesigned to fight counterfeiters who have become more sophisticated. She helped roll out all the dominations with facelifts including the $100, $50, $5 and $10 bills. Her knowledge of both bills and coins was remarkable.

             Now, I didn’t know much about Pat’s hobbies beyond work. She liked the shore, enjoyed gardening, and baking at Christmas. Her homemade festive peppermint white bark chocolate was popular in the office. In fact, the candy was so popular that a co-worker asked Pat to make it for his friends. She did of course. Her kindness wasn't a weakness at work, it was her strength. 

           Surely, Pat had a spot reserved in heaven. I hope she understands how much I respected  and admired her during her time here. 

 

Did you invent imaginary friends as a kid? 

    My two best fictional friends were Chip 'N Dale. These celebrity chipmunks became my playmates.  

    “Don’t sit on them,” I’d yell, warning any unsuspecting adult.  

    I only pretended to see the characters running around my room. The adults in my life played along. Now, I’m not sure how or when I was introduced to these cartoon characters. They first appeared in television shows in the 1940s-1950s, before I was even born.

    But these two furry, smart siblings charmed their way into my circle of pretend friends.

    It’s common for young children to have had pretend friends, according to Web MD. The reasons are varied but often kids need a special person to listen and support.

    For me, the two mates appeared before I attended kindergarten. (As best I recall.) Maybe I conjured them up because I was lonely. My brother didn’t come alone until I was six years old.

    One of my favorite films was “Harvey” featuring Jimmy Stewart, who befriended a giant pink rabbit named Harvey who followed him around. In this 1950 film, Stewart’s character enjoyed Harvey’s company more than that of his own family.  

    That wasn’t my experience.

    Chip 'N Dale were friendly, quiet, and weren’t troublemakers.

    Today, my many imaginary friends in digital form have been obnoxious, loud, and troublesome. Pinging, ringing, dinging. Everywhere. All the time.

    But have they enriched my life with their constant cheers, reminders?

    I received a clapping hand emoji each time I logged my meals. An exercise coach texted commands like stand up, move, do the hokey- pokey (just kidding about that last one.)  If I’ve had a great exercise day, I’m treated to my skinny super hero avatar lifting off the screen.

    Woo-hoo!

        Another constant companion has adopted a habit of embarrassing me. She transcribed dictation in a way that has made me question her grasp of the English language. I’ve learned to proofread better before hitting send. More importantly, I have learned to laugh at her bungled messages but sometimes her racy interpretations often made me blush.  

    Now, a real live friend would apologize, right? Instead, she showed up for work without any apology. 

    I appreciate the confident voices of travel apps who have saved me from getting lost. Though when ignored, these voices take a testy tone with me. It’s their way, which is usually the highway. Over time, I realized they don’t know the short-cuts or the roads where a left turn is impossible. Still, I have continued to employ them for my safety and security.

    Speaking of security, we have a full roster of employed apps to monitor the inside and outside of our house. All the recordings starring foxes, racoons, deer, and birds captured around our home have been entertaining and solved the mystery of whose been chomping on the flowers, nibbling on the bushes, and prowling around our perimeter.  

    Could I sever a relationship with my fake friends? Of course, but I have grown accustomed to artificial company, however, they won’t ever replace real friends.

 

 

Are you having a brat summer?

I’ve devised this brief unscientific quiz, which is clear as slime, I mean lime green for you.

1.      What does having a brat summer mean to you?

a.      Self-reflection

b.      Trying new trendy experiences

c.       Self-destruction

d.      Brat isn’t just a seasonal attitude for me.

2.      Who is your favorite green fictional character?

a.      Kermit the frog

b.      Philly Phanatic 

c.       Oscar the Grouch

d.      Really?

3.      If you had an Olympic brat team, who would you recruit?

            a. All the athletes

            b. Breaking (break dancing)

            c. Sharp shooting

            d. Artistic swimming or any water sport

4.      What’s your summer drink?

a.      Spinach smoothie

b.      Lemon-lime Gatorade (an original)

c.       Sparkling water with a slice of lime

d.      Whatever the bar tender comps me.

5.      Did you read any of the following books?

a.       James by Percival Everett

b.      Come and Get It by Kiley Reid

c.       The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese (Picked it up and added it to your weight-lifting routine.)

d.      Do audio books count?  

6.      What does brat really stand for?

a.      Did the definition change? I’ll look it up and get back to you.

b.      Winning

c.       Being. Right. All the Time.

d.      It’s a secret.

7.      Word up: Whisper the word of the summer.

a.      Hot and humid (Two words that meld together)

b.      Demure

c.       Fierce

d.      “I might say something stupid.” Therefore, I refuse to answer.

Disclaimer: The results were an exercise in humor rather than defining your status as a bonified brat.

If your answered mostly “a” then you aren’t fully embracing the brat trend. Those who have marked more “b” answers are trending upward.  Anyone who tallied more “c” responses aligns with brats. Finally, those quiz takers who dominated the page with “d” are embracing a brat attitude.

If you made it to the end of this post, you are the best brat friend I could ask for.

 

Are you superstitious?

Yesterday morning, I threw salt over my left shoulder after knocking over the salt shaker while wiping down the table. It’s an automatic response, but I’m not the only one who does this odd ritual, to ward off evil spirits, am I?     

I became smitten with superstitions at an early age thanks to reading Greek mythology. Books with magical twists, characters, and worlds fostered my imagination. Many rituals were rooted in keeping people safe, like hand washing and not talking to strangers. Some stories that made people afraid had merit. If you spoke to strangers who (fill in the blank) you would suffer (fill in the blank again). The choice was yours.

Superstitions also prevented people from challenging authority, belief systems, and sacred ways. Consider those fables filled with falsehoods in order to explain the unexplainable.

Stevie Wonder warned us that superstition 'ain’t the way' in one of my favorite songs of his titled “Superstition” released in 1972.

My fun-loving, superstitious father, known for pranks, encouraged me to follow superstitions. Let me assure you, he wasn’t serious. Emphasis on the word “fun.”

Dad insisted visitors use the same door to enter and exit our house. Otherwise, it’d bring bad luck upon us. Thankfully, we only had three options: front, back, and garage doors. Two Buicks hogged the garage. Anyone with a wide girth would need to scoot sideways between the car and wall. Garden rakes, hoes, tools, three bikes, garage bucket, and forgotten junk filled the perimeter. The space smelled like fresh dirt spiked with oil.  

Only family, close friends and neighborhood kids knocked on the garage door. The way in through the kitchen. We had woods and a winding creek in the backyard where all the neighborhood kids would tromp and play. We came in through the garage, that absorbed our outdoor grime.    

Our front entrance greeted acquaintances, neighbor kids selling fundraiser candy, and evangelist strangers. Strangers who my dad on a whim would invite in to discuss and debate their beliefs. Dad enjoyed engaging them and wasn’t mocking them. Perhaps he felt sorry for the dark clothed folks in suits and ties walking around in the summer sun.    

Today, a few strangers stopped by inviting us to worship. However, we received our share of clipboard salespeople pitching us window installation, lawn mowing services or driveway paving.   

Last week, the bell rang on a weekday afternoon. I opened the door. A girl wearing a bicycle helmet gave me a tentative smile. She looked about eight or nine with messy hair.

Her hands were empty—no candy bars, raffle tickets or boxes. Was she looking for a lost dog?   

“Would you like to buy some lemonade or cotton candy?” she asked with a confident soft voice. She didn’t waste time introducing herself.

She told me both the blue or pink cotton candy and lemonade were a dollar. I watched as she made her way around the neighborhood. Her friends, not at all shy, yelled instructions and questions at her from the street. "Go to the next house!" 

Yes, I visited the entrepreneurs’ stand an hour later, bought a drink, and left a tip. The cotton candy machine was a smaller version than those found at fairs. Just seeing the pink sugary cylinder made me long for the sweet melt in my mouth funnel cake with powdered sugar.

**

Our current house has three doors and a gate to the backyard. Usually, I ushered friends in and out of the same door. Old habits were hard to break, I supposed.

Now, I don’t recall why we, or Dad, started this same-door superstition, but I know it applied to everyone — family, friends, neighbors. People accepted this odd custom because they understood that if they wanted to leave, they must comply. Friends who cared about leaving on good terms laughed and went along. It was our house, our rules.  

When I forgot the ritual, which I often did, I’d shrug it off. I didn’t really believe or take responsibility for exposing my family to bad luck. Bad luck was always on the prowl. Walking under a ladder, a black cat crossing your path, and breaking a mirror, all brought bad luck if you believed. And breaking a mirror caused a spell of seven years of bad luck. Linking some unexpected event to superstition wasn’t logical.

Yet, I haven’t abandoned those ingrained superstitions.  

Why risk it? Over the years, I have followed basic behaviors to ward off evil and cheat misfortune. I pocketed coins facing the right side up for good luck.

When traveling far, I wore a St. Christopher necklace and took my self-blessed penny. As a Methodist, I figured I was not guaranteed the same saintly protection as good Catholics. I lost the necklace and carried coins, and lucky pieces from my collection.  

Have you ever adopted a superstition after something magical happened to you? For example, you hit a home run with bases loaded and your team won the championship.

How do you recreate or repeat your fortune? Do you rely on what you were wearing, doing, or thinking at the time? Did your crazy socks get credit for the soccer goal? Did you whisper a chant three times, or do a dance after your team won? Were you thinking positive thoughts?  

Just for fun, I even adopted some zany superstitions of my own. I touched the car’s ceiling and made a wish if I ran a yellow traffic light. My wish was: Please don’t let me get a ticket. Does it work? Yes, a clean driving record stands as proof. What other wishes had I made? Probably meeting my deadline, or stumbling into a substantial sum of money. I can’t claim it always worked.

Superstition ain’t the way, but it’s been fun.

 

Earlier this summer we found a treasure worthy of adoption. Whether I go to an estate, yard, or garage sale, my experience is that great finds are few and far between. I'm happy when objects find me when I'm not even looking.  

What have you rescued lately? 

“Let’s go look!” I said, after my husband told me he spotted something I might like. Something worth saving.

We drove down the street and stopped at our neighbor’s driveway. There stood a handsome oak rocking chair soaking up the sun. We circled around, admiring its plain design and the wavy wood grain. The arm rests were as wide as those old-fashioned school desks. Although it looked sturdy, it creaked when it rocked.

We could fix this.

We loaded our newest rescue in our vehicle, eager to bring it home. I removed the fur-covered cushions and found the rocker even more beautiful. The neighbor has dogs, and I imagined his two chihuahuas cuddling together in their special place. Next, I washed away layers of dust and cobwebs. Not too bad, as judged by only one sneeze.

Why was this beauty abandoned?

I had seen plenty of useful objects left curbside on trash day. I learned apps exists (of course they do) alerting people to unwanted free items that need a good home. But my plan has always relied on Ms. Serendipity (not an app), who appeared ah, randomly, and discovered wonderful pieces for me to adopt.

As for my latest treasure, it lives in the library, poised to catch sunbeams while I rock and read.

I have a fondness for old-fashioned buffets and on a whim, we sat down for a lunch buffet at our local grocery store. Buffets satisfy my craving for a huge helping of nostalgia. But since I've discovered dim sum, both brunch and the buffet have strong competition in selection, taste, and the fun factor. I'll muse about my Sunday dim sum experiences in the future. But belly up to the buffet with me today that takes less time than a buffet lunch! 

What’s your favorite comfort food at the 

all-you-can eat buffet?

For me, Jell-O salad in all its jiggly wiggly colorful glory wins. Red squares ready to be scooped up, or orange-flavored gelatin with whipped topping and fruit, mini-marshmallows, and coconut. Really, isn’t it genius to market dessert as a salad?     

You may believe that these buffets are on the endangered eating list. But buffets are out there my friends, as mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, fried chicken, and cherry pie as my witnesses.

Buffets are for those with enormous appetites and tiny budgets. In college, I frequented the cheapest all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet with my radio station friends. Let’s call my buddies Burt and Marcie. Burt was a big bear of a guy who took care of the transmitter and all the college broadcast equipment. He was smart, soft-spoken, and never one to rush.

Marcie was high strung with her thoughts moving at the speed of light. She was petite and her twig-like body was deceiving because she ate like a bird. In other words, she ate alot.

As for me, I was a student working at the radio station to get experience and a small paycheck. Inside, the savory smell of bacon and sausage, wakes us up. We leave content because breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It is my only meal that day. We slugged back with heavy bellies.

Although I enjoy brunches, I prefer buffets. The food and more so the people watching. Sure, brunches are more sophisticated—the menu, service and the clientele. But as long as I’m in good company, take me to the buffet.

However, as a teenager, I would have rather jumped off a cliff than spend what seemed like hours at the buffet with my relatives. For them, the buffet was a Sunday treat. For me, the experience was like eating a side order of embarrassment.

Those days are gone, but not quite forgotten.      

Last week, my hubby and I checked out the Hennings Market. It’s a throw-back lunch buffet featuring soup to a self-serve ice cream bar. Yep, over 100 items. Lunch is one price. Seconds are included.

We picked up the black plastic containers and headed for the hot bar. One thing I learned is to walk around the buffet prior to filling your plate. Scope out the scene. Have a plan of attack.

I avoid public salad bars, but this display looked fresh and appetizing with a large number ofdessert salads. A separate section featured Jell-O offerings, puddings, and slices of pie ranging from common cherry to shoofly. The choices made me feel dizzy.

Did I have a Jello-O salad? You bet and it passed the test, bringing sweetness with flecks of coconut.

 

 

 

 

 

Can we save monarch butterflies?

    Seeing the first monarch of the summer makes me feel both hopeful and sad. As I watch the majestic orange and black butterflies fluttering around the backyard, I consider their uncertain future as a species. Humans have poisoned, plowed over, or encroached on their habitat, making it more challenging for the monarch. Milkweed is less plentiful and it’s the only plant where monarchs lay their eggs and a primary source of food. (They also eat nectar from other plants.)  

    Did you know that not all monarchs migrate? Mother Nature decides what colonies will make the arduous journey, say the enthusiastic guides at the LaDew Butterfly House in Maryland. Ladew’s staff and volunteers are serious about their role as caretakers of native species of butterflies and moths and as educators for visitors, like me. Last July, the tour guides pointed out itsy-bitsy white butterfly eggs dotting the underside of milkweed leaves.  

    Monarchs that migrate embark on a 1,200 up to 2,800 mile journey from their homes in U.S. and Canada to the forests of Central Mexico. Migratory populations decreased by 59 percent in 2024, according to the World Wildlife Fund. Each year, their numbers decrease.

    Many butterflies are near extinction. The Poweshiek skipperling, once common in the Midwest, is one of the rarest butterflies. Nearly 1,200 of these endangered butterflies are back in the wild this summer, thanks to the John Ball Zoo in Grand Rapids’ program.  

    I grew up in the Midwest. As a young girl, a small white butterfly with papery wings and a cheery disposition, befriended me. Was it a skipperling? I am not sure.  But my winged friend, small and delicate, waited for me on the windowsill every morning and danced by my shoulder. One morning, the windowsill was empty, and I felt empty too.

    Of course, I didn’t know then that a butterfly lives only a few days or weeks depending on the species. Now, I realize that these precise creatures’ lives depend on us.  It’s up to us to ensure there are butterflies for the next generation.  

    **

 https://wildlife.org/mexico-monarch-numbers-plunge/

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/25/realestate/gardening-milkweed-plants-butterflies.html?unlocked_article_code=1.AU4.AwSl.5xhT4oLzqTdy&smid=url-share