But – here’s a related thought that came into my mind, that I don’t think most people consciously think about. It came into my mind because I saw it happening to me.  I’ve had this thought a couple of times before in my life and it really hit me this week.

Have you ever been on vacation with friends and felt that you had to see “everything” – and when you did see everything you had to go on the next place and its “everything” and keep running and running to see more and more and more – when you would have been more than happy to take a rest from playing for awhile?

I don’t know about you, but I find that I have to watch my subconscious sense of feeling that I need to “please people” every moment of the day including my rest time!

I may have mentioned, in a previous column that I read a book on organizing, by a woman named Julie Morgenstern. I don’ t always remember to follow her words, which have great merit.   The concept she espouses is to never check emails in the morning. The reason for not reading them first thing is that it pulls you into answering people and, often, into helping them achieve their goals, before paying attention to your own goals.  Helping people is a good thing. However, as they always announce in a plane: put your oxygen mask on first, before trying to help someone else.

Look at your playtime as well as your work time. Think of the time you spend doing things you don’t really have to do. By the way, if you love doing these things, take a look and see if these things could be incorporated into your work life too.  When you’re doing the things you love to do it’s amazing how you get less tired. That said – even when you’re doing things you love to do, taking a break makes sense. Any faith I can think of has a day of rest, a day to go within and be with yourself.

I know many people who are afraid to indulge in “Break Time” even when they’re playing – in some cases, especially when they’re playing.  They’re addicted to saying yes to everyone else. Believe me, I can be this way and I focus on being aware of this when I’m asked to go out to “whatever”.  They can’t bring themselves to say “no” to their friends. I bring this up this week because I noticed how pressured I felt to make every moment count. My birthday was this past Tuesday.  Here’s the list of what I did during the evenings of this past week.

1-   Tuesday, my birthday evening was spent with my wonderful son at a fab tribute to Donald Smith, who recently passed on. He’d headed the Mabel Mercer Foundation and began The Cabaret Convention in New York City. The event was held at Town Hall and the performers included Michael Feinstein, Andrea Marcovicci, Ronny Whyte, Karen Akers, Marilyn Maye, etc. etc. Then my son took me to dinner.  The evening ended past 11:30 PM

2-   On Wednesday night I could feel the love from all the people I knew who brilliantly entertained at the night Dana Lorge honored my birthday at her production of Wednesday Night at the Iguana.  (Okay I’m bragging!) I performed, as did Terese Genecco, Shaynee Rainbolt, Shawn Harkness, Barb Mally, Champaign Pam, Marieann Meringolo, The Great Dubini, Daryl Glenn, Richard Skipper, my incredible son, David F Slone, Esq. and the great Marilyn Maye! (There were many more.)  Several others, of the top spheres of cabaret entertainment, were there to give me a hug. I was honored, touched and blown away by the incredible attention. I got home at about12:40 AM.

3-   Then Thursday night I performed some songs in The Taffy Jaffe Comedy Show at the Cornelia Street Café.   That was a fairly early show, so I washed and set my hair when I got home to make certain I’d be available should someone want to see me on an evening during the next week that was presently free!

4-   Friday I was exhausted. I knew I had this column and a blog post to write as well as a first draft on an introduction to the book I’m co-writing.  When my friend called and asked what I was planning to do on the first night of Memorial Day weekend. I said, “Sleeping!” Of course, within minutes I found myself calling her back and saying I’d go to dinner with her. I knew she couldn’t play much this past week. It turned out to be great – and today, I swore I’d stay home at last!!!!

Okay, I know it sounds like I’m showing off – AND – I want to point out that after all this running and activity and preparation, I’d planned to take, Friday, to keep my foot doctor appointment, etc. etc …BREATH! My Friday didn’t happen – so yesterday, Saturday, I was finally working on what I needed to for me… and……I found myself looking at the discounted cabaret performances available on Play By Play (a seat filling program), in case a friend whom I “should’ see would be listed on it.  I’m glad I caught myself or my weekly column for Here Women Talk would have never gotten written. I had to say YES to me!!! Please remember to Say YES to YOU!!!!

No, it isn't. Freedom is wholly dependant on stockholder dividends, these days.

Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, is a day of remembrance for those who have died in our nation’s service. What most will never know are the true origins of the observance.  In a Dispatch from Nerd Land, (what my friends call it when I share some historical fact learned from good history books), I became enamored with historian David W. Blight who has written no less than eight books on the Civil War.  It was a topic that held little interest for me until frustrated research of my family tree was resolved through an historical epiphany in reading his books.  More later on that.

The original Decoration Day began during the Civil War among freed slaves and other black American families – as a remembrance of the veterans of all races who fought for their liberation.  These freed slaves of Charleston, South Carolina, or “Freedmen”, as they were then commonly known, had cleaned and landscaped the war burial grounds, built an enclosure and erected an arch that read, “Martyrs of the Race Course”.  Nearly 10,000 people, mostly freedmen gathered on May 1, 1865 to honor the fallen – including 3,000 schoolchildren who were newly enrolled in the freedmen’s schools.  These were black children being educated for the first time in the history of our bruised and scarred nation.  Historian David Blight described the day:

“What you have there is black Americans recently freed from slavery announcing to the world with their flowers, their feet, and their songs what the War had been about. What they basically were creating was the Independence Day of a Second American Revolution.”

Pretty heady stuff and honestly, I had no idea until I was hungry for the information.  Memorial Day was officially proclaimed on 5 May 1868 by General John Logan, national commander of the Grand Army of the Republic in his General Order #11 and was first observed on 30 May 1868, when flowers were placed on the graves of Union and Confederate soldiers at Arlington National Cemetery.  The Grand Army of the Republic was a fraternal organization comprised of Civil War Union veterans. It was only through the impeccable records of the Grand Army of the Republic that my personal quest to learn my own very honorable family history became possible.

In General Order #11, General Logan stated the following:

“The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet church-yard in the land. In this observance no form of ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit.

We are organized, comrades, as our regulations tell us, for the purpose among other things, “of preserving and strengthening those kind and fraternal feelings which have bound together the soldiers, sailors, and marines who united to suppress the late rebellion.” What can aid more to assure this result than cherishing tenderly the memory of our heroic dead, who made their breasts a barricade between our country and its foes? Their soldier lives were the reveille of freedom to a race in chains, and their deaths the tattoo of rebellious tyranny in arms. We should guard their graves with sacred vigilance. All that the consecrated wealth and taste of the nation can add to their adornment and security is but a fitting tribute to the memory of her slain defenders. Let no wanton foot tread rudely on such hallowed grounds. Let pleasant paths invite the coming and going of reverent visitors and fond mourners. Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic.

If other eyes grow dull, other hands slack, and other hearts cold in the solemn trust, ours shall keep it well as long as the light and warmth of life remain to us.

Let us, then, at the time appointed gather around their sacred remains and garland the passionless mounds above them with the choicest flowers of spring-time; let us raise above them the dear old flag they saved from his honor; let us in this solemn presence renew our pledges to aid and assist those whom they have left among us a sacred charge upon a nation’s gratitude, the soldier’s and sailor’s widow and orphan.”

General Logan was a man who knew how to wax poetic.  Good poetry there, though.

In 1971, Congress passed The Uniform Holiday Act, creating a three-day weekend for all federally observed holidays, including Memorial Day.  Sadly, when laws like this are passed, the Law of Unintended Consequences takes over.  Instead of keeping with the tradition of remembering those died in the service of our country, Memorial Day has become Memorial Day Weekend.  It marks the start of summer.  It marks the beginning of the family vacation season.  It marks parties.  It marks a huge sale date for big box stores.  It marks the day when it’s socially acceptable to wear white without being accused of a fashion faux pas.

One of my favorite commentators and fellow nerds, MSNBC’s Chris Hayes shared some following facts on his program this morning:

• This year marks the 11th straight Memorial Day this country will observe while waging war – the longest such period in our history.
• 122 soldiers have died in Afghanistan this year alone.
• 164 active duty National Guard and Reserve troops committed suicide in 2011
• Thanks to a change in policy, the families of soldiers who commit suicide receive a condolence note from the President, but only if the suicide occurs in theatre.
• 1 in 10 of the nation’s non-elderly veterans don’t have health insurance and aren’t using the VA health care system.
• There are 1.3 million uninsured veterans and if the Affordable Care Act survives its challenge before the Supreme Court, they will be moved to a system of access for the first time in our history.

No one in my family, to my knowledge, had ever traced our genealogy until I tackled it two years ago with the assistance of my sister, Barbie.  It was not an easy task, given we share the 37^th most common surname in the country…

Our family tree has its share of nuts, and more than our share of heroes.

My Great-Great Grandfather, John Baker had been nearly impossible to trace.  Given that he would have been 28 years old at the time, I began my search of numerous Civil War databases and was gifted with the knowledge that my family had come down on the right side of history.  Accessing records of the Grand Army of the Republic, I learned that John Baker, born near what is now known as Fort Knox, Kentucky in 1833, was the son of Moses Baker and Margaret Flory Baker.  His father was nearly 60 and his mother a mere 13 at the time of their marriage.   When Moses Baker moved his family to Iowa and subsequently died, the family farm was left to be run by Margaret, mother of one son and 5 daughters.  Young John assumed the role of the man of the family and worked hard to assist his mother in creating a meager subsistence for all.  In 1860, a 27 year-old John found himself enamored of a young woman new to the area, the beautiful Maggie Hillan, daughter of a cooper who had just moved his family to Iowa from southern Illinois. John convinced Maggie to marry him and she immediately became pregnant with their first child.  Just a few months later, the Civil War began and President Lincoln requested all able-bodied men of any age serve the Union.  Historical records show John Baker, along with most most of the men in this rural area, would answer President Lincoln’s call.  He joined Iowa’s 39^th Infantry in early 1862, mere days before Maggie would ultimately give birth.  Private John Baker marched off to war without ever seeing his child and never knowing if he would someday.  We learned he fought bravely through many battles and did so walking all the way from Iowa to Savannah’s famed ‘March to the Sea’ under General Sherman.  John then followed General Sherman in the Carolinas Campaign where he marched 425 miles in 50 days.  A short time later, President Lincoln was assassinated, the armistice was signed, Lee surrendered at Appomattox and the war was officially over.  A nation was left in ruins and a weary 31 year-old John Baker was mustered out of the Army in Washington D.C. in June of 1865.  A month later, he returned home to his beloved Maggie and met nearly 4 year-old Sarah Olive Baker for the first time.  “Ollie”, as he would call her, would remain close to her father for the remainder of his life that lasted until the start of World War I.  John and Maggie went on to have six more children and John became a horse and livestock trader in the area, known for his fair dealings in the community.  Their third child, John Albert Baker is my great-grandfather and he too became a horse and livestock trader in the same rural community.  He married a Civil War orphan by the name of Ida Mae Gilbert.  John Albert shares his father’s legacy for honesty and fair dealing.  My grandfather, Ralph Baker, was the fifth born, but only the second surviving child of John Albert and Ida Mae.  Grandpa worked for the county and maintained the roads in and around their community.  Grandpa Ralph had a reputation for being very honest, good-natured and quick-humored.  He and Grandma raised three fine sons in that same little town, my dad being the middle and most troublesome of the three, of course.  My own father was a proud Marine who served this country during the Korean War – I refuse to refer to anything where men spilled their blood as a ‘conflict’.

It was through the military records that I was able to piece together my life story, to understand my heritage by understanding the character of those who came before me.  This research has helped me to understand that my Liberalism isn’t the result of anything but a family heritage of treating others fairly and wanting equality for all.  It is a gift I warmly embrace.

So, on this Memorial Day, I will not vacation,

John Baker's headstone. A simple memorial for a simple man who fought for complex ideals.

barbeque or worry about shopping or fashion trends. On this Memorial Day, I will remember those who served our nation.  I will remember those who took their own lives, in or out of the theatre of war. I will remember those veterans who are hungry and homeless and have no access to health care. I will remember those innocent civilians of other lands who were killed as a matter of “collateral damage”. I will remember and write about all of these things in the hopes that someday, a thinking nation will understand the waste and futility of war. I will remember and write about these things knowing that wars are no longer fought for high ideals, like the end of slavery, or the bumper sticker mantra of “freedom”. Modern wars are now fought for power and profit. I will remember and write about these things in the hope that our nation will see that the fighting and dying is never done by the war profiteers, but by the children of the least among us, who now do so because joining the military was an available job when the war-profiteering plutocrats sent all of our jobs overseas just to increase their profit margin from 10 billion dollars in the first fiscal quarter to 10.5 billion dollars in the second fiscal quarter.

I write to remember.  I write to tell others the truth.

Great-Great-Grandfather, John Baker, on this Memorial Day, I will remember you.

201 Things That Make Me Happy

1. rustic sourdough bread, toasted crisp and served hot spread with melting butter and blackberry jam
2. surprise recurring characters
3. sukiyaki with friends
4. shower puffs and fragrant, foaming shower gel
5. Japanese restaurant décor
6. supportive and encouraging friends
7. the weekly ritual of watching favourite TV shows with my husband while munching popcorn
8. caramel steamed milk
9. a freshly-done manicure
10. a simple Italian salad of fresh sliced tomatos and garlic, drizzled with extra virgin olive oil and sprinkled with salt and freshly-ground pepper
11. unwrapping a Mini Babybel cheese
12. achieving a long-awaited goal
13. a refreshing shower with nice-smelling soap
14. the brilliant green of steamed broccoli
15. “AHA!” moments
16. a place for everything, and everything in its place
17. making a fresh tossed salad that’s a medley of colours and flavours: mixed leafy greens, ripe red tomatoes, red and orange and yellow peppers, white mushrooms, shredded purple cabbage, celery, cucumber, shredded carrots, chopped green onions
18. Nag Champa incense
19. clear, crisp, pure, icy-cold drinking water
20. dried strawberries
21. satiny embroidered Asian handbags
22. paper cranes
23. solving all the world’s problems over multiple cups of coffee throughout an evening
24. a lit votive candle in a clear glass holder
25. black enamelled chopsticks
26. the artistry and beauty and goodness of sushi
27. Simon & Garfunkel
28. watching a dry, thirsty plant come back to life after giving it a drink
29. a successful trip to the library – lots of intriguing books to read, and all for free!
30. rich hot chocolate with real whipped cream on top
31. going blackberrying – buckets full of yummy free treats… making blackberry apple crisp and eating it hot, with whipped cream and strong black coffee
32. glass bricks
33. Grandma’s tiered wooden sewing box… her gift to me
34. milk chocolate
35. stationery and office supply stores… strolling the aisles with my sister, under no time limits or restrictions, with money in my wallet
36. brewing espresso in a pot on the stove… heating and frothing milk… making a perfect little cappucino sprinkled with cinnamon
37. chocolate pudding
38. playing a game or two of Boggle
39. Celestial Seasonings Vanilla Maple tea with milk and brown sugar
40. the purity of clear glass canisters filled with supplies – epsom salts… coarse salt… sea salt… baking soda… cornstarch… skim milk powder…citric acid – for homemade bath products
41. collecting magazine pictures of pretty things
42. the smell of movie popcorn
43. making decoupage light switch plates – mini pieces of art
44. spiral-bound notebooks
45. spicy chai lattes sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg
46. William Shatner’s “Has Been”
47. swirly designs
48. getting “real” mail or e-mail from friends or family – not junk mail or bills or spam or mailing list stuff… but real, personal correspondence
49. plump Shanghai noodles with stir-fried bok choy and spicy pork
50. curling up for a mid-afternoon nap under our “How Do I Love Thee” Boyds Bears blanket
51. paisley
52. the feeling of confidence after having a professional haircut and style with good-smelling hair products
53. a cat’s purr
54. the feel of cool, creamy moisturizer on warm skin
55. peppermint tea
56. a sense of pride in making a good choice
57. cooked beet greens
58. the moment in a song where you start to sing along
59. a special new mug
60. the warm smell of roasting chicken
61. listening to the comforting swish of the dishwasher running in the background
62. cheery yellow, brown-flecked, sweet and juicy, ripe Bartlett pears
63. hours-long conversations with friends at a local café
64. buying fruit and veggies in Chinatown or at a farm market
65. freshly ground black pepper
66. cosy grey-and-red white-heeled-and-toed work socks
67. finished projects
68. flannel shirts
69. little, out-of-the blue kindnesses that take you by surprise
70. collecting pebbles… mottled, striped, spotted, marbled, smooth, weathered… while walking on the beach
71. Sharpies
72. weekend secondhand book store prowls
73. vanilla
74. sitting in a cozy café all by myself… listening to music, drinking black coffee, journalling, people-watching, reading
75. petting a friendly neighbourhood cat
76. cutting open a fresh bag of coffee beans
77. sandalwood
78. writing on black paper with soft milky-pastel-coloured pens
79. handmade crocheted scarves
80. enormous marinated green olives and crusty Portuguese buns with Genoa salami and havarti
81. Moody Bee lip balm
82. knowing how to hand-code HTML
83. small successes
84. Montreal-style bagels, fresh from the bakery in a brown paper bag
85. getting organized in the fall and thinking towards the year ahead
86. fun interior design, home improvement, and craft shows on TV
87. ten unbroken fingernails of decent length
88. being tired in the evening, but knowing you can sleep in the next day without guilt… then waking up in the morning with that delicious feeling of knowing that you can go back to sleep if you so desire
89. the crisp, smoky smell of fall in the air
90. tassels
91. Mom’s Italian cheese ball soup
92. staying cozily inside on a bleak, rainy day and drinking Earl Grey tea with milk
93. sweater season
94. fall leaves in brilliant shades of gold, amber and crimson – gilding the trees, crunching underfoot, being raked into piles
95. the contrast of silent, still, cool night air after leaving a noisy, crowded, hot club
96. butter soft black leather gloves lined with soft white rabbit fur
97. perfect, intricate seashells
98. thinking you have no cash in your wallet because there are no bills… then discovering $10 in toonies
99. creamy, spicy pumpkin pie with rich whipped cream and dark, strong coffee
100. sand dollars
101. closets and drawers full of clean, mended, wearable clothes
102. lightning storms
103. wrapping presents
104. Christmas oranges… sweet, juicy, fragrant, easy to peel
105. playing “Dutch Blitz” with family and/or friends… and being really good at it
106. chocolate-scented MAC “Desire” lipstick in a matte black and silver case
107. getting great coupons for something you were going to buy anyway
108. tiny brown dropper bottles filled with fragrant essential oils
109. the Lee Valley Christmas gift catalogue
110. old houses – coved ceilings, hardwood floors, crown moldings, wood trim, deep baseboards, filigree grilles, built-in cabinets with stained glass doors, dark wood panelling
111. enormous black cherries, sweet and juicy and firm
112. frothy bubbles on the top of a freshly-poured cup of strong black coffee
113. new makeup
114. hot ginger tea with honey
115. the potential of a thick blank book
116. sterling silver
117. thick black cotton turtleneck sweaters
118. spicy incense with lazy, curling trails of soft grey smoke… inside when it’s cold, outside on a warm summer evening
119. White Rabbit candies wrapped in rice paper
120. brown paper grocery bags
121. lazy, cozy, puttering weekends
122. cleaning a chalkboard with a shammy
123. a win by my hockey team
124. Body Shop eye pillows
125. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups – especially the crunchy ones!
126. our 4-CD set of favourite music, played at our wedding reception
127. scented tea light candles – café latte and ginger pumpkin
128. hand-me-downs from my sister
129. the sound of the breadmaker kneading dough… then the warm, yeasty smell of fresh bread baking
130. Indian food
131. flower baskets hanging from lampposts
132. finding all the “freebies” in a handful of sunflower seeds
133. wasabi rice crackers with wasabi peas
134. feeling loved… nurtured… cared for
135. thick white terrytowel bathrobes
136. watching a glassblower at work
137. hot, crisp buttered toast spread with Mom’s pear-ginger marmalade
138. metal-handled Chinese food cartons
139. laughter – laughing so hard it hurts… laughing uncontrollably… laughing until you cry
140. toasted cheese and peanut butter sandwiches
141. making books by hand
142. cinnamon sprinkled over coffee grounds before brewing the pot
143. honey pots with honey drippers
144. Deluxe Scrabble
145. waking up to find my love holding my hand
146. Genmaicha – Japanese green tea and roasted rice… nutty and flavourful, with a few pieces of “popcorn” popped grains of rice included in the mix
147. sleeping in
148. a goosedown duvet and plump feather pillows
149. new shoes
150. unpacking and setting up a new home or office space
151. perfect, seedless green grapes… sweet and firm, almost crunchy
152. a “defined curls” hair day
153. a perfectly straight hair day
154. thick greenish glass bathroom counters with shiny silver fixtures
155. the mixed-up collection of dishes at the cottage… choosing a “special” mug to use throughout your stay
156. aromatherapy facials
157. true freebies
158. the way yarn comes out of the middle of the ball – magic!
159. live theatre
160. More-with-Less Cookbook (Doris Janzen Longacre) – more than just recipes… a whole philosophy of life
161. A&W root beer in a frosty mug
162. the silkiness of loose face powder
163. watching grown men play like little boys
164. brightly-coloured, plastic-coated paper clips
165. twisted ropes of seaweed left on the beach at low tide
166. old-fashioned clawfoot bath tubs
167. a thick, clear glass bowl of ocean-polished beach glass
168. pictures of Greece… blue sky, sparkling blue water, whitewashed houses
169. Kinder Egg vehicles with moving parts
170. old Pyrex mixing bowls and baking dishes with glass lids
171. my love’s smiling blue eyes
172. ocean air… salty, seaweedy, fresh, envigorating
173. thick, fluffy, soft, absorbent bath towels
174. warm raisin scones with butter and honey
175. the soft trickle and bubble of a water fountain
176. cinnamon
177. amber perfume oil in a delicate glass-stoppered bottle
178. pure white, silky-smooth sand
179. organizer wallets
180. burgundy velvet
181. sweet and spicy freesias
182. finding your favourite brand of anything on a phenomenal sale, and having the money to be able to stock up
183. the greyness of the ocean on a rainy day
184. refreshingly soft, misty rain
185. the smell of a secondhand book store
186. fresh flowers on your desk
187. soft ice cream
188. mason jar mugs
189. old round Volvos
190. the aroma of dark roasted, freshly-ground coffee beans
191. basic black
192. speckled enamelware
193. the feeling of satisfaction when a project is completed
194. “Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil” monkeys
195. electric trains
196. wooden back scratchers
197. popping bubble wrap
198. drops of lavender essential oil in an unglazed ceramic jar beside the bed
199. peel-and-stick postage stamps
200. milk in glass bottles
201. discovering a secondhand shop full of treasures and possibilities and bargains

Now, I challenge you to come up with your own list of at least ten things that make you happy! Once you’ve done so, I’d love it if you’d either post the list in a comment below or write out your “Happy List” as an entry in your own blog. (Be sure to share the link to your post in the comments below so that we can all visit your blog and revel in the goodness!)

So, what makes you happy?

I recently received a phone call from a very close friend of mine who was in tears. Her fourteen-year-old Pomeranian, Madik passed. Madik’s unconditional love, brought laughter and joy to the family. He was ill with diabetes that finally took over his life and his quality was no longer what it used to be.

Those who love animals must understand that they do connect with us. Just because they are not in human form does not mean they will not be able to connect. In fact, I had a reading with a man who lost his cat in a fire. He flew in from California for the reading. His cat delivered messages that only the owner was able to understand. Just like I am able to speak languages when in a trance, animals communicate their thoughts as well. It is all about a shift in consciousness.

This morning I wrote to Jill, who resides in Lexington Kentucky and awoke with a message from Madik. He was assuring her that he was where he wanted to be and that was in his home. When Jill returned home she felt guilty that she was not there but was left to find her loving friend on his blanket near his bed. This is the way he wanted to go. I was also being told that Tosan who was killed by a car 6 days before Madik joined the family, the father of my dog that was gifted to me, Cinnamon who was murdered, helped to cross Madik to the other side.

Many times we experience guilt, why wasn’t I there. If I only had done this, perhaps I should have gone by his side. Do NOT beat yourself up. Some animals suffer, some cross over by natural causes and others cross due to accidents. They all have different personalities. They are part of our families.I do not like to judge but in this instance I have a difficult time with people who do not like animals. I feel there is something missing within their character and I only wish I could determine what it is. Some buildings do NOT allow dogs and they look as though they are dinosaurs. Again, I am Not judgmental, however, I think there is something missing, perhaps a cold and unfeeling element that is missing in a human being who can’t feel a connection with an animal. Animals are so intuitive, more so than people. Personally, if someone does not like animals, I tend to steer clear of them only because there is something missing in their character.

There was once this one woman who had cats. She was gifted them from her husband. He loved cats. He came home and gifted her with two kittens. When she learned that the cats contracted fleas, she went into hysteria. She removed the indoor cats and had them live outdoors. The house was cleaned and taken care of from being flea infested. The following morning it was brought to this woman’s attention that a truck accidentally killed one of the kittens. The one lonely kitten returned home on its own. When the mean lady learned of this news she was relieved to learn that there was less to deal with. As I have written in my previous article about Karma. Do you surmise this cold-hearted woman will return to this world? If so, do you think she will be a cat being beaten up on the streets by Alley cats? What will be the ending of this story?

My apologies for the extended silence. The tales of my African Adventures are picking back up, stronger than ever, today. Malawi, the “Warm Heart of Africa” opened to me in so many ways.  This will be an accounting of some of that warmth given to me by both locals and travelers.

It’s Time: Lilongwe, capital of Malawi, is not a cosmopolitan hub; it is small with a mixture of old town charm, of years gone by, and some new mall glitz that does not seem to fit.  In other words I loved it.  The old town market sprawls along the river in a web of paths. It is home to stalls that sell everything imaginable. In this maze I came upon a booth selling a variety of tools. I needed a jeweler’s screwdriver to remove the back of my watch, so I could let it dry out. For the past couple weeks I have been looking through a haze of mist to check the time when needed (rarely).

The Old Market Town of Lilongwe

Two men, Slim and Slimmer, when hearing of my need, pulled out the mother of all combination screwdrivers. It was a double octopus with 16 fold out arms that could hold 6 different heads for various size screws. Not wanting to carry this behemoth I told the fellows of the water in the watch. “No problem, no problem, we can fix it in 10 minutes”.  Let me think. This is my only watch. There will come a time when I really do need it. They have as much experience fixing watches as I do performing open heart surgery, so, what the hell. Go for it. I hand them the watch and they light up.  Both draw into the task with enthusiasm.  Not caring to observe and possibly interrupt with needless suggestions, I wander off to find what I can find.

I return fifteen minutes later, after having a fun conversation and the purchases of a spare pair of sunglasses and hat (my bald head must always be covered in this African sun and I loose hats easily). I find my watch dry and in perfect working order. I tell them I will keep it out of the water. This they took as a bit of an insult, responding “No, we fixed it; you’re OK to go in the water”.

Doctor, Doctor, Mr. M.D. : Ambling along a “sidewalk” in Lilongwe, I feel a person coming up quickly behind me.  Not wanting to be a hindrance I step to the side to make room for passing. In doing so, I feel a slight jab of pain to my left shin. The lady passing me says “sorry”, for what I do not know, but as I look down I see a good trickle of blood emanating from a one inch gash on my leg. In seconds it is down to my foot and not looking to stop any time soon. Noticing a sign for a restaurant, I head that direction to request a napkin to clean up the wound. When they see the blood and cut, the staff pulls out all the stops.

One gets a cloth (looked clean) another brings a pan of water and, after removing my sandal, began to clean the cut. Bearing a huge smile, one lady brings salt to rub in the cut.  This I am not so sure of, but am given no choice in the matter. Soon there is a trio of, (for this moment) highly trained medical staff, saving my leg from sure amputation.  All is well, time to leave.  Not on your life bucko. “Sit down, put your leg up on this chair, and wait until we know the bleeding has stopped”. A round of Fanta is purchased as doctors and patient sit around and shoot the breeze. To date, while it is a painful and red throbbing mass of pus, my leg is still there. Just kidding, it does not throb that much anymore.

Where?  When? How? : The biggest task at hand is to get a skeleton plan of where I will go next, when do I would move from A to B to C and how can I get there. It was time to make a plan that would carry me to Nairobi. The hosts of the Mabuya Camp, Jean and Paul, were well traveled in Africa and were more than happy to assist.

We kicked around some possibilities. The big questions for me revolved around modes of travel and time needed to get to places I wanted to visit. This was the knowledge they brought to the table.  Within 30 minutes a very rough plan was fabricated. They suggested I do some research, make adjustments, and we talk again.

In the evening I reported back my findings. The big plus was purchasing a flight from Pemba, Mozambique to Dar-Es-Salaam, Tanzania. This, they assured me, would save a minimum of three it not four days travel over very rough roads. Later that day I found out what a rough road in Mozambique meant. Thank God for that flight.

The next morning, before I departed, we once again reviewed the long-range plan and made some detailed notes of towns that would carry me to Pemba.  As is most always the case, such plans are fluid (save for the flight) and change as information is gathered, but I am happy to have some inkling what I am doing next. The best part was working with and trusting in these two wonderful people.

I’ll Ask Them: Having made it from Lilongwe to Monkey Bay on Lake Malawi, I decided I may as well push on. Cape Maclear was recommended as a much livelier place to spend a few days. Before I could step off the bus there was a fellow offering transportation to the cape. He assured me his was the best price and that no more trucks were heading that way this afternoon. This is not a new story. One hears it at 98% of bus stations. Nothing like a little wheeling and dealing to pass the time, so I get engaged in barter, knowing full well that he is coloring the situation to his advantage. During the back and forth I notice two young ladies and a fellow walking towards a store.

Cape Maclear - Lake Malawi, Third Largest Lake in Africa

“I’ll ask them” I say to my would-be driver.

“No, no, they are just looking for internet”.

“Just the same, I am asking”.

“We have a ride waiting for us up the road. But we don’t know when he is leaving, or if, but you are welcome to join us”. So much for not knowing anything.

It took some time but finally we were on our way. We land at Fat Monkey and created the least expensive sleeping arrangements possible. The next day some newly-found friends and I took an extensive walk to find a cheap dining place and then to the market. We swam, and read, and shared computers to connect and research.  We all had dinner together one evening at Fat Monkey.

That same evening, after spending a few hours conversing and working on our own supply of brandy (much cheaper this way) we head for Club Gecko to enjoy music and dancing.  How much fun was it?  “Papa” or “uncle”, as I am often called by locals, was at it until 3 AM.  When not on the dance floor I was conversing with a wide variety of other revelers.

Without a doubt I had at least 20 years on the next oldest person there.  With good people it does not matter and just confirms the message on my “business” card – You don’t stop playing because you grow old; you grow old because you stop playing.   So I say, “Play on”

Live, Laugh, Love in Peace -Neil

Real,
you are never wrong for knowing what you want. Be honest with the lady you are seeing but before you go off telling her what you’re not willing to be part of, ask her what she is looking for and what she desires to happen from the friendship you two share. You may be surprised to see she may not be headed in the direction you think she is going.

The most important thing for you to do is to find out why she is dating at this point in her life. Is it for companionship only where there would not be a need to include you in certain areas of her life or is she looking for someone with the goal of finding her perfect mate where an introduction between you and the child are inevitable.

What I don’t want you to do is jump too far ahead however I do want you to keep some realities in mind about some of the expectations any lady you decide to date with kids will eventually have of a long-term relationship.

Being a mother of two, I can confidently say a woman wants a man in her life long-term that is going to be a role model, who is committed to helping her care and guide her children responsibly and respectably. A man who is strong but vulnerable enough to love them both and who is not ashamed to say it, who has integrity and participates in the values he says he holds dear.

For your own personal development, knowing if you care to have kids is something you should take time to explore. If you find you desire to enjoy certain freedoms in your life, it is wise not to enter into a situation that makes you feel bound.

The Dating Mechanic

I want to hear from you! To submit a dating question for the column, email me at info@alashabennett.com

NYC deli slime...

I was in a pickle quandary and have been for many years. Before moving north of Mason-Dixon Line..I grew up loving what I now know as “Bread-n-Butter” pickles. Back home on the banks of the Meadow River, we simply called them pickles, because we didn’t know of a pickle any other way. Then,  I went to NYC and learned the hard way, finding a Bread-n-Butter pickle is about as impossible as finding a needle in a haystack.  Here in New York, they resign cucumbers to a salt brine filled vat and permit them to rot. There are two levels of rot: If  they’re only half-rotted, they are referred to as “half sours”.  But if they are left to soak in the brine until they are totally limp and as gray as the Staten Island swamps, those are the “full sours”. Yankees LOVE them, but I’m convinced it’s a taste acquired at a very early age – VERY early.  My attempts to acclimate to these wholly inedible, limp gray monsters have failed.

Why oh why oh why can’t I find a Bread-n-Butter pickle in this town? Hell’s Bells, I can find Duke’s mayonnaise, Moon Pies, and B-C Powders if I look deep and hard, but my Bread-n-Butter beauties had eluded me – until just recently, that is. One day, I popped into that very fancy food store, Dean and DeLuca, and I looked, as I have for years, to see if maybe , just maybe, a highbrow store might like expand past the typical grocery store pickles… (cue sound of angels and trumpets) Lo and Behold!  There on the shelf were 3 jars of Bread-n-Butter pickles. Miss Jenny’s Bread-n-Butter Pickles. I grabbed all three jars, not giving a rat’s ass if they were good or not, they were Bread-n-Butter pickles and at last I had been led by the Lord to find them!

So, were they any good? Good? Oh, my – they were better than good.  They were the crisp, sweet gherkins of my youth and half-way through the first jar, I began to weep.  EUREKA!  (cue Etta James) At Last, My Love Has Come Along…

Miss Jenny (L) Miss Ashlee (R)

I went to www.missjennyspickles.com and sent a message to info@ and told my sad sad pickle tale, only to have Miss Jenny HERSELF, call me back (because she saw my phone number on my blatant email of self-promotion) . And now, I am also in love with with one Miss Jenny Fulton. Not the mythical name on the jar stuffed with Southern Love, but Miss Jenny Fulton. She is a firecracker with true Southern charm and that Appalachian Mountain accent, just like the pickle packers from Rainelle had.

On this week’s Colin Lively Show, I have the Pickle Princess  herself.  Miss Jenny was also frustrated trying to find a good pickle , like the one her Grandma used to make. Jenny said, “I will just make my own damned pickles!”  She started with her Grandma’s recipe and hand sliced, hand cooked, and hand stuffed the tasty treats in quart jars,and began selling them. And people love them!  Even my half sour and full sour NYC fancy friends have fallen in love with them.

So, MISS JENNY is my guest this week. I am her number one fan and you will be too. She is just as fabulous as her Miss Jenny’s Pickles… Now if only I find some pineapple upside down cake and a hot dog with chili, slaw, mustard and onions  my life would be perfect!! Maybe she can send some up from Winston-Salem with my next pickle order.

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The following is a true story.

My childhood was altered one humid day in what I imagine to have been around March of 1992. The powers that be (i.e. the grownups) surely had my best interest at heart, and could only see the bigger picture of turning their kids into perfect Stepford Children who would thrive as perfect Stepford Adults.

On this day, which began like any other, I was unexpectedly called away from my desk in Mrs.Pollardo’s fifth grade class. I was sent outside to speak with Brindy, a perky blonde girl. The most conventionally pretty girl in class, and, as such, the most popular. We had literally never spoken more than a sentence to one another, in spite of spending the entire year in the same room.

Brindy reached her arm out, maternally, and led me toward the play yard. We walked in a slow rectangle, following the shape of the blacktop.

“Sometimes, I feel sad,” Brindy told me, as if it were a big secret. You know, it sort of was, though. I don’t know if we’re socially aware enough, at age 10, to know that all people feel pain sometimes, even those who seem to live the “ideal” life. Frankly, I have a hard time believing most adults are socially aware of that.

At any rate, I nodded at Brindy’s confession, and she continued. “My grandma died a year ago, and I cried for a really long time. For weeks.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to offer my empathy.

She went on: “Sometimes things happen…that are sad.” She gave me a long look as if to judge whether I was receiving any benefit from our talk, and she finally added:  “But you have to let go and not cry about everything.”

The purpose of the talk was not lost on me.

I was easily the most sensitive child in class, though, frankly, not remotely as sensitive as I am today, as a woman of 29. But almost two decades ago, yes, I did experience a lot of emotions, and I wasn’t shy about showing them. I wasn’t depressed or moody, but yeah, if someone hit me on the playground, I was inclined to cry. Is that weird? I’d cry at 29 if someone hit me the way I got beat up on at that school.

Anyways, the point was well-taken. I immediately changed my tune.  But, in spite of my best efforts, I have constantly been labeled as dramatic and over-emotional. And I’m not a fan of these labels.  It’s a peculiar label as I have the tendency to be “fine” all the time and keep things to myself whenever possible. But as I’ve opened up in the last few years, I can’t help but peering over my shoulder for blonde, perfect, Brindy to tell me that the things that have made me experience a lot of emotions recently are past, and it’s time to “STFU.”  She hasn’t shown up, but there have been several other Stepfords there to tell me of my fatal errors.

Now, there is a very fine line. Frankly,  I have seen people who could use a talk from a perky Stepford. People who always function as a “falling rock” zone—you know that you better watch for falling drama around them. And I’ve learned, from the trenches of one of the first times in my life where I stopped trying to live up to Stepford expectations, that sometimes we need to let the rocks falls around us, and hope that our friends will grab a thick umbrella, and reach out when we need them. Sometimes things suck and it should be okay to acknowledge that and feel however you need to without being labeled as a mess.

When I see falling rocks around my friends, I make it a point to never say, “oh there he goes again. That John and his drama.” Or, “Oh, Stacy, you’re in a bad mood? What ELSE is new? You always seem to be in a bad mood.”

You never really know what someone else is dealing with.  So save the private walk/talk around the blacktop, or the adult-world equivalent. Instead, try a heartfelt, “I’m sorry- that must be difficult.” And mean it. ’Cause at the end of the day, even Brindy probably turned out to an awkward teenager, and I bet if we found her today, we’d see that she’s dropped the perfection act.

My mom was a Russian immigrant whose daily attire consisted of a house dress without jewelry or make-up. And forget about perfume, or anything shiny… it never entered their minds to get “gussied up!” She and her friends were simple ladies, content to go about their daily chores. But, in direct contrast, I lusted for glamour as I fantasized growing up to look like a model or movie star.

Each afternoon after completing my homework, I would sprawl on the living room floor devouring the fashion magazines that were borrowed from the library.  I would muse about their exciting lives and contrast them with our simple life in a low-income housing project in Brooklyn. My mother and her friends were decidedly not role models for a young, dreamer like me, so all I could do was pray that I would never grow up to be like them. And I didn’t!

As it turned out, there was a major plus in this early revulsion. Throughout my adult years, whenever I noticed any indication that I was becoming old or unattractive, I took action to stop that frightening possibility.

Well, here I am over 70, having successfully achieved my dream of life-long youthfulness and glamour. In fact, at 73, I appeared in a bathing suit for a Dolce & Gabbana ad for VOGUE, Harper’s Bazaar and Vanity Fair.  So maybe the fear wasn’t so bad after all. It provided powerful motivation to work at being healthy, fit and beautiful.

Do you need to follow my lead? Of course not. We all have our separate dreams and desires. My deepest prayer is that my story will inspire and encourage you to take on the often difficult, yet always fulfilling journey to lifelong youth and happiness.

Related Articles:

10 Ways To Change Your Attitude & Change Your Aging

Health For A Lifetime-Part I: Making Small Changes for Big Results

Health For A Lifetime-Part II: Adjusting Your Mind For Better Health