tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28019457240876863102024-03-06T00:32:13.139-05:00Liz's Continuing Blog Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.comBlogger158125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-15945593239689761172020-08-26T13:51:00.002-04:002020-08-26T14:37:44.284-04:00Burned skin and cigarettes <div class="separator"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">L</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">ast Sunday, I spent a lot of the day outdoors. It was very sunny, I spent the day bent over the garden, and in my bathing suit; I managed to burn my back from the sun. That tightness across my back, the smell of the dirt, the air and the sun on my skin transported me back to a time when I also burned my back in the sun.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span>When I was a wee girl, my family would rent a cottage in <a href="https://www.kincardine.ca/en/index.aspx">Kincardine</a> - a small town on Georgian Bay, Lake Huron, Ontario. As the name implies, the town has Scottish roots. My mother's Scottish family would also vacation there when my mum was a wee girl. So, it was natural that she would want to </span><span>retu</span><span>rn there. </span></span></p></div><div class="separator"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="No description available." height="200" src="https://scontent-lga3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.15752-9/118209491_748806225693803_1873439626265313186_n.jpg?_nc_cat=101&_nc_sid=ae9488&_nc_ohc=iRVHviQHOOQAX8eIf_-&_nc_ht=scontent-lga3-1.xx&oh=7cb29619e5421a352c35bc4949878e43&oe=5F6D5446" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Mary Margaret Kincardine 1930s" width="150" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mary Margaret Ross Nicoll on Bruce Beach, Kincardine - 1937<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></p></div><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It was a sle</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">e</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">py town in the 1960s and had a beautiful beach. My brother and I would play on the sand, look for stuff in the creek that ran down to the lake and generally h</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">ave a magical time. My mum, smelling like the sun lotion Bain de Soleil, would watch over us, feed us and generally try to keep us from running wild.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">My skin was often
burned. I don't remember putting on sun screen and it wasn't as if I was lying
in the sun trying to get a tan. I used to insist on putting on a new bathing
suit if mine was too sandy, or too wet or it was uncomfortable ( I was 4 years
old) against my burned skin. The cottage (where my dry bathing suits were located) was perched
on the top of the hill overlooking the beach. You had to walk up many wooden
stairs, under a canopy of trees, to get from the beach to the cottage. When I
would insist on putting on a dry bathing suit, my mother would ask Kevin (my
brother) to help me find one. So, he would begrudgingly accompany me up the stairs
and into the cottage to help me. Invariably I would have trouble with the whole
process because a wet body and a dry bathing suit are two incompatible objects.
So, I would make Kevin help me get encased in a new suit. He was six and such a
good boy when I think back - and I was such a little brat. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">We weren't rich. My dad
had to work during the week to pay for the holiday. But, he would drive up on
Friday nights for the weekend. Pulling his huge car (at least it seemed huge to
me) into the parking space in front of the cottage was a time for celebration;
he was always ready for fun and adventure. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">He was the one who made me walk down those wooden steps to the beach slowly - so that I could inhale the air tinged with cedar. He made me look at the sky through the leaves and watch for birds and down into the creek to see the minnows; to listen to the cicadas at night and try to hear the owls in the distance. And he told me to remember those smells and sights and feelings. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">In Kincardine there was a tradition (still is) of having bagpipers parade down the main street</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> every Saturday night. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">So, we would always go into town to watch. Sometimes we would get dress</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">ed up and go to dinner at a restaurant. I can still feel the stiff cotton dress brushing against my (burnt) back as I wriggled into it. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="113" src="https://scontent.fewr1-5.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/p960x960/56558675_2316045271768221_4964839764470530048_o.jpg?_nc_cat=107&_nc_sid=e3f864&_nc_ohc=TGk_8bDui2sAX_cLTtY&_nc_ht=scontent.fewr1-5.fna&tp=6&oh=2058224b82866416d8585ebb3bcbce5f&oe=5F6CE133" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bagpipers in Kincardine</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Now, this is in
the 1960s - in Canada – so we are not talking about a fancy restaurant. Nevertheless,
it had menus, linen tablecloths and napkins and we were greeted and seated by a
host. As we drove in to have dinner dad would remind us how to behave; we were NOT to disappoint him. We were to participate in the
conversation, not squirm (even though my back was burned), place our napkin on our lap immediately upon being
seated, look the waiter in the eye and clearly enunciate our order. We were to
butter our (still warm) roll on the bread plate (not in our hand) ,sit up
straight and not order the most expensive thing on the menu. While this might seem
hard for a four year old, you had to know my dad. These dinners were always
fun - he would tell jokes and treat like us adults. It was so much
fun. </span></p><p>
</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="200" src="http://www.hindfoils.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/01/Cigrate-foil-1.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Smoking kills - don't forget</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span>After dinner, he would
sit and have a smoke at the table while we waited for the bill. This was
a time when ashtrays were everywhere and smoking was practically
expected. Sometimes, my dad would dissemble his cigarette pack, take out
the foil lining, turn it so the white side would be on the outside and
roll the paper into two long cylinders - so they looked like two cigarettes. He'd then light them briefly so the ends were red. Then he would hand them to
me and my brother so we could join him in a "smoke”. </span><span face=""> </span><span face=""><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I think he liked to shock the patrons. I know I loved pretending with him. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Times change. Ashtrays are not available in restaurants and behavior like my father's might find him at odds with Child Protective services. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">But, I was lucky to have a dad who understood that I could behave like an adult at 4, that I could commit to memory the smell of warm skin in a cool cedar forest, and that I could appreciate being part of an inside joke on the world. I was luckier still to be able to spend summers with a family that adored each other. That family taught me how to love the family I created with my husband. Memories like those that get me through these tougher times in 2020. I hope that you can find solace in a sweet memory </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">from </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">your past, too. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> PS - Despite my dad's "efforts", I never became a real smoker...though I occasionally pretend. </span></p><p></p>Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-48042202550807827612015-12-12T16:21:00.002-05:002015-12-12T16:21:17.284-05:00Elephantine Luck<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqIdDmMEcFUtQKvmDEcK35dtDtr1XYWO8C5hx-K3wh8wF05to6OEe698l8YCP_MTg65WfmegcfPQPBeEGNRagsmAFmvQWZYjcVlZfgnw1SAqaQNRMn2YOxUXTQwlZAZsY8roG4o3smxwg/s1600/IMG_1883.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqIdDmMEcFUtQKvmDEcK35dtDtr1XYWO8C5hx-K3wh8wF05to6OEe698l8YCP_MTg65WfmegcfPQPBeEGNRagsmAFmvQWZYjcVlZfgnw1SAqaQNRMn2YOxUXTQwlZAZsY8roG4o3smxwg/s320/IMG_1883.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Denis & Marilyn</td></tr>
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Forty five years ago, my Uncle Denis gave me a jade elephant pendant on a gold chain. I adored my Uncle Denis and knew he was about the coolest person I would ever meet. It was 1970 and he was ultra-hip. He lived in Yorkville, a very bohemian part of Toronto, and he had a super mod girlfriend. My grandmother wasn't happy that her son was 'living together' with his girlfriend, but she accepted it. Why? Because Denis could get away with it; he was <u>that</u> cool.<br />
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Christmas presents from Denis were always extra special and unusual. I didn't know I wanted a jade elephant necklace until I opened the box from him - he had found me the perfect gift. And, I wore it just about every day for the next 40 years. I remember a friend of mine found me in a crowded library because of that necklace; my hair and hands were hiding my face, but the necklace was clearly visible.<br />
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I had the belief that the elephant brought me luck. I ALWAYS wore it when I traveled because I believed it kept me safe. Exam time? Never took it off. Childbirth? You bet I wore that necklace into the delivery room! Then, on our first trip to India, I learned of the elephant god, Lord Ganesha. He is one of the best known and loved Hindu gods - and is the Lord of good fortune! So, of course I felt an immediate connection. His image was everywhere in India and I took lots of photos. Before we left, I purchased a small gold charm and began to wear Ganesh around my neck as well.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr22gw_2SVHKzV0rSwltqrs70DIisU9QeVzOI4TIWlo5M-ZIJvaG-4OBa5rqfCPXL5sDGoDCUlD1-tEK8pLXkRSNNAIreXamQJLbjfntWu3Yx4MZuYsvE4nIT_NA8EJcFRyJfwOYAOZ_U/s1600/IMG_1880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr22gw_2SVHKzV0rSwltqrs70DIisU9QeVzOI4TIWlo5M-ZIJvaG-4OBa5rqfCPXL5sDGoDCUlD1-tEK8pLXkRSNNAIreXamQJLbjfntWu3Yx4MZuYsvE4nIT_NA8EJcFRyJfwOYAOZ_U/s320/IMG_1880.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lord Ganesha and the Jade Elephant with a broken trunk</td></tr>
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Shortly after that trip to India, the jade elephant's trunk broke when I dropped the necklace on a marble floor. I was really upset that the necklace was flawed, but I took comfort in the fact that Lord Ganesha's tusk is also broken - so somehow those two pendants would have a connection. There are a few interpretations as to why Ganesha's tusk is broken - but my favorite is where Ganesh breaks his own tusk in order to use it as a pen so that he could continue taking dictation from a guru.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXBbLVc5mAvmfgk4BPgxnJdI2ejtJsFho_zXjEbf0bGudZtilxG3QueGYispLW9_-wjlhbkZDEh25MybYgIjoSwFF49TDSKhkmQqUdtoBVhB4yrsg_o7WtmqyLMhwi2J6zUdk1-9EBpTc/s1600/IMG_1881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXBbLVc5mAvmfgk4BPgxnJdI2ejtJsFho_zXjEbf0bGudZtilxG3QueGYispLW9_-wjlhbkZDEh25MybYgIjoSwFF49TDSKhkmQqUdtoBVhB4yrsg_o7WtmqyLMhwi2J6zUdk1-9EBpTc/s200/IMG_1881.JPG" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6bGSmKtS0T3sXgcSZ4rVRbFn4JTK8REboTB3yNPYZsx02yUJLspr4lnAuRjBb3etCGNvTm9FG-FDdxHnh7rVqCePdfJ250rGZBiZdglHzRcEC0_sHjTNXVw_2CGSNijp4haw7PuYVLPE/s1600/IMG_1872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6bGSmKtS0T3sXgcSZ4rVRbFn4JTK8REboTB3yNPYZsx02yUJLspr4lnAuRjBb3etCGNvTm9FG-FDdxHnh7rVqCePdfJ250rGZBiZdglHzRcEC0_sHjTNXVw_2CGSNijp4haw7PuYVLPE/s200/IMG_1872.JPG" width="150" /></a> Over the years, friends and relatives have given me gifts of elephants. My mother especially loves to find elephant themed gifts for me. I adore then all. My house is full of elephants! You can't even get past the threshold without meeting the first one.<br />
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A few years ago, I gave the jade elephant necklace to my daughter, Emma because she was going through a rather difficult time. She was living in the Annex in Toronto, interestingly a hop, skip and a jump from Yorkville - from whence the necklace had come. It was hard for me to give up my lucky charm - I had worn it for such a long time and so far it had proven itself worthy of my faith. But, Emma is the woman I love the most in the whole world and I figured she needed it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqHn1R3J3BnlAHJTkPwhZlWLqG-jXKW0foOThAwN-S9A5iu75YZhyKLbRTePZ8b6Za6pjO7nmsz5EX9Auh1bMfDoEzJi6SnBjp9eu-QD2bTBwFSOIt9fJ1lFhkKTBXn2yEjupCGeTKR8/s1600/elephant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqHn1R3J3BnlAHJTkPwhZlWLqG-jXKW0foOThAwN-S9A5iu75YZhyKLbRTePZ8b6Za6pjO7nmsz5EX9Auh1bMfDoEzJi6SnBjp9eu-QD2bTBwFSOIt9fJ1lFhkKTBXn2yEjupCGeTKR8/s320/elephant.jpg" width="139" /></a>And, guess what? Even without my jade elephant, my personal talisman, I continued to live a charmed life. I was even able to fulfill my lifelong dream to ride an elephant in India! So, maybe it's not the necklace that holds the key - maybe it's just the belief.<br />
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<br />Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-64323243488519916842015-12-10T21:52:00.000-05:002015-12-10T21:52:47.460-05:00Hospice VisitTonight I visited a friend who is dying. I suspected that her condition was incurable, but did not know for sure as she is an intensely private person. However, she recently moved from her apartment to a local Hospice facility. That was my clue.<br />
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Our relationship began about 20 years ago - we worked together. During our work-life together she was always outspoken, candid and tough minded. We got along well even if we didn't always see eye to eye. She did not mince words or suffer fools and talked smack about people all the time. In other words - my kind of work buddy. After her retirement we continued to meet for lunch where we would inhale Italian food and gossip about people that we knew. She would love to tell long tales (although she'd often begin with "to make a long story short"). The best stories were the ones that started with "between you and me" as I knew these were particularly juicy - but not necessarily confidential. Interestingly, she loved to know details of others lives while maintaining a certain aloofness about her own. </div>
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Her stories would often ramble off into other directions as she thought of other details or connections. But, she would always come back to the heart of the tale.</div>
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I entered her room tonight with trepidation. She didn't know that I was coming, and she didn't know that I had figured out that she was dying . So, I was hoping she wouldn't be angry with me for coming without an invitation. But, there were others in the room, so it eased my entry. She was sitting in bed looking rather frail - but still cutting a rather imposing figure. She was trying to eat some melted ice cream and told me that they hadn't served any Italian food to her yet. She was cogent... sometimes. She would use the wrong words for objects and repeated words and phrases that didn't fit the conversation. But, during her lucid moments we laughed and she was completely aware of what was happening.<br />
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I was so happy to see that she was in a facility that was warm and inviting with a lot of artwork that I knew would please her. She has very elegant taste and furnished her apartment with objets d'art from her travels and books .... lots of books. She appreciates things like silk scarves, cashmere sweaters, leather gloves and old jewelry. We reminisced tonight about some especially fine soap she had purchased many years ago in Italy .<br />
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<a href="http://www.optage.org/images/hospice-pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="http://www.optage.org/images/hospice-pic.jpg" width="320" /></a>Tonight she was clothed in a hospital gown - but her nails were done a lovely soft shade of grey/brown. I had brought some very fragrant hand lotion and rubbed it into her graceful hands. She inhaled deeply; I knew she appreciated the scent, and I was happy I had thought to bring it.<br />
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As I left I leaned in for a big kiss on her cheek and told her I was ignoring her privacy issues and was going to tell people her new address. She didn't object.<br />
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Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-82319250819679616282013-07-02T19:39:00.001-04:002013-07-03T08:56:54.763-04:00Music MemoryI listen to Toronto's JAZZFM 91.1 every morning on the way to work. Heather Bambrick, the morning host, has a feature where she asks listeners and musicians if they have a 'music memory' they could share.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96rkRbPHOAZZsQUdfGE5B0nyWAVFP3u_6P7WEASfpcd2jn78ynf1TTU4QGgD5oCVUEPXw0ktIow5x20nfPYLuuGGOrq4gaBsa25jHJT_DzsOPAKGI1NmHgNCtjTfPuC90JHihhJHN1cQ/s640/emma.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg96rkRbPHOAZZsQUdfGE5B0nyWAVFP3u_6P7WEASfpcd2jn78ynf1TTU4QGgD5oCVUEPXw0ktIow5x20nfPYLuuGGOrq4gaBsa25jHJT_DzsOPAKGI1NmHgNCtjTfPuC90JHihhJHN1cQ/s200/emma.JPG" width="150" /></a>As I listened to today's installment, I was transported back 22 years to the sound of Bill singing to a restless, wee baby girl. Emma was a horrible sleeper and always had a hard time falling asleep on her own. I would usually start the process by breast- feeding her until she fell asleep in my arms. The minute I laid her down in her crib, she would wake up; Mummy's warm embrace was no longer there to comfort her. She would look at me with those soulful eyes wondering what on EARTH I was doing leaving her alone in her crib.<br />
<br />
Enter Bill: man of boundless energy. He would lift her up and walk with her until she fell asleep - long after I had collapsed.<br />
<br />
It was a strange period in our lives. Emma was our first baby -and she was a mummy's girl from the very beginning. Bill sometimes felt unnecessary and, unfortunately, I did not help the situation. I think I managed to make him feel like a second class member of the family - Emma always came first.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRGgNcbRXNEyRJE1KltLghN9TCvOjkfA96djA-ucLOc3mQM7tDgi0HwrB3nBJVZzYXCKZ0ZcCQ58JOjckt75Tz91lg2gpZWS9dtX1SPSIhPtespeSC734jrDSIkgm8n8kvsOvtKtp4UYg/s600/stroller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRGgNcbRXNEyRJE1KltLghN9TCvOjkfA96djA-ucLOc3mQM7tDgi0HwrB3nBJVZzYXCKZ0ZcCQ58JOjckt75Tz91lg2gpZWS9dtX1SPSIhPtespeSC734jrDSIkgm8n8kvsOvtKtp4UYg/s200/stroller.jpg" width="133" /></a>However, Bill was often the only one that could get her to sleep and stay asleep. You see, Emma loved to walk. She was most content in her stroller and she would often take naps there - rain or shine, hot or freezing. We had purchased one of those 'pram' type strollers which was quite roomy and a bit imposing. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP_QVKbioJ6w5DEY3ehLDEnkS43xw99lDrwHABdT0N-3cA8PZVcyOZBDTD_6TijLw_aCy_L2zAGQ4zNGJN7h8N7gXW1tzEwQoO2jt9AhwvdXGXfszcwahBMafwPP0LE3hhX-aj1NAJPY4/s400/stock-footage-father-with-baby-in-stroller-go-through-forest-winter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP_QVKbioJ6w5DEY3ehLDEnkS43xw99lDrwHABdT0N-3cA8PZVcyOZBDTD_6TijLw_aCy_L2zAGQ4zNGJN7h8N7gXW1tzEwQoO2jt9AhwvdXGXfszcwahBMafwPP0LE3hhX-aj1NAJPY4/s320/stock-footage-father-with-baby-in-stroller-go-through-forest-winter.JPG" width="320" /></a>She loved to be in that safe, little compartment. She and Bill would go for long walks around the neighborhood. And, more often than not, she would fall asleep while cruising through Delaware Park.<br />
<br />
On nights when the weather was bad and Emma wouldn't go to sleep, Bill would do 'laps' of our first floor. Slowly, he would increase the angle of her seat until she was in a horizontal position in the stroller. The dining room was right under our bedroom - and I would listen to the stroller wheels hit the wooden floors after rolling silently on the carpet. Bill would also sing to Emma to help the process and the monotony. I understand that normal people sing lullabies to babies. Not Bill. He preferred leafing through his memory banks of jazz standards. The song that worked the best was "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sfe_8RAaJ0">Good Bye Pork Pie Hat"</a>, Mingus' elegy to Lester Young. It is, shall we say, a somber tune. Bill is a great musician but a lousy singer - however, this song, with its limited range was mastered by Bill. Even with a floor separating us I could recognize those plaintive notes.<br />
<br />
Today, whenever I hear that tune, I envision that stroller wearing wheel treads into the dining room carpet while a blissful Emma is lulled to sleep by her adoring father. And Bill, no longer superfluous to the baby raising process, has found that his love of jazz a very useful tool.<br />
<br />
<br />Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-8191116698500698782013-04-25T21:10:00.000-04:002013-04-25T21:10:11.154-04:00This I believe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmsY2ut1ryEwdWe-tUm76OrVD1DIe9U5bkqaSQQAuBYpmquj7TySCzVOSSTZxkZhN_125zlHaz19KTXgBsG7z4vXX_QOAIHCFCX_Tpy4hnv6cUi1BiXmLYC1vrKIE5kOuR35jwAS0_iQ/s1600/hands_of_god.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmsY2ut1ryEwdWe-tUm76OrVD1DIe9U5bkqaSQQAuBYpmquj7TySCzVOSSTZxkZhN_125zlHaz19KTXgBsG7z4vXX_QOAIHCFCX_Tpy4hnv6cUi1BiXmLYC1vrKIE5kOuR35jwAS0_iQ/s320/hands_of_god.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I don't believe in a God in heaven. I believe 'God' lives in all of us and that if you want to feel closer to God you need only look inward. If you need strength you can find it within yourself - because it is there. You need to breathe and be silent and know yourself. Mostly, you need to understand that this life is fleeting.<br />
<br />
I also believe that most people are basically good and I tend to see the glass half full. I guess I'm an optimist.<br />
<br />
But, I'm not a Pollyanna by any means. A dear friend of mine recently asked me "if I knew me, would I be friends with myself?" My answer was "if I could stand the judgment". I am horribly judgmental of others. But, I am much, much harder on myself. I don't spend a lot of time thinking about my feelings, but, like most women, I focus on my failings and frailties and never revel in my accomplishments.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFpnhjR0yo0_U4wyANLGPfORQWnDvon91Wetdrfpq4bcTU84TZ8JmdakO_FRJLqbrYXniDXgspEgxXpMFAThFP0oYIOqH4WVL26kHlrKlwywlK3ChfHLAA-y3uLhQfEei-kOhSuTbCCQ/s1600/appreciate23a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFpnhjR0yo0_U4wyANLGPfORQWnDvon91Wetdrfpq4bcTU84TZ8JmdakO_FRJLqbrYXniDXgspEgxXpMFAThFP0oYIOqH4WVL26kHlrKlwywlK3ChfHLAA-y3uLhQfEei-kOhSuTbCCQ/s320/appreciate23a.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
However, one thing I'm really good at is knowing when things are good. And, I'm ever better at stopping to appreciate those times. Those are the times that I feel nearest to God. Those are the times that make me cry - not because I'm sad but because I know how precious the moment is. Whatever that thing is that makes me stop and reminds me that life is sweet, that life is short and that we MUST be kind to one another... that's what I call God. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25D_alxLMRk22KU-PEo7Y2xdOezSxPgygr9BrZlErMnC5HzJQ03FenUP_FW0wRdHsRVz73Zf7KUPofEAKQTSR88zLdsMumVWzm7FGP8a5YintB6FQTKi1tj7dXbvsOxKrmqJtNr1aY-Q/s1600/bill+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25D_alxLMRk22KU-PEo7Y2xdOezSxPgygr9BrZlErMnC5HzJQ03FenUP_FW0wRdHsRVz73Zf7KUPofEAKQTSR88zLdsMumVWzm7FGP8a5YintB6FQTKi1tj7dXbvsOxKrmqJtNr1aY-Q/s1600/bill+2.JPG" /></a>And that presence is there when I look at Bill and tell him I love him. <br />
<br />
<br />Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-87725686666368812702013-04-04T17:20:00.003-04:002013-04-04T17:20:54.459-04:00The fine art of leaf removal<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlkNqxtN-5SOYn3NdjZosYFfnwpKYxz56Z6xZvc0GH2shp-D6O0wVItra8aZFhA7OvSo2XsvK226HA85a_xQqdB8tRz4u_ukb1wdLDgUM1hQeZV8jb707-4dfYEObvnTt1JRXvy4oKhV4/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlkNqxtN-5SOYn3NdjZosYFfnwpKYxz56Z6xZvc0GH2shp-D6O0wVItra8aZFhA7OvSo2XsvK226HA85a_xQqdB8tRz4u_ukb1wdLDgUM1hQeZV8jb707-4dfYEObvnTt1JRXvy4oKhV4/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The photo doesn't show his breath,<br />
but I clearly saw it this morning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I got to work this morning I noticed the truck from our new lawn service was in the driveway. I was puzzled since it's (a) only April; and (b) 34 degrees. What could they possibly be doing here?<br />
<br />
Once I got into the office and took my first sip of coffee, I heard a particularly jarring sound. Was it a a<a href="http://www.travelsinparadise.com/thailand/bangkok/pictures/pb260091-tuk-tuk.jpg"> tuk tuk</a>, or perhaps a ski boat or maybe a rocket ship was launching? Since I wasn't in Thailand, by the lake or near Cape Canaveral, I deduced it was a leaf blower.<br />
<br />
A couple of years ago, my pal Randy Strauss gave me one of his leaf blowers (he had a few to spare). He is a marvelous gardener and took pity on me and my tedious method of raking. As you know, Bill does not participate in any gardening chores so (happily) it all falls to me.<br />
<br />
I picked a particularly lovely warm fall day to start the process. Randy had given me explicit instructions about the gas to oil ratio and how to start the machine. It involved priming, choking and then yanking on the cord. Then you had to allow the engine to warm up a bit. Having grown up on a farm and dealing with the idiosyncrasies of balers and tractors, I took it all in stride.<br />
<br />
I must have yanked on the start cord 40 times. Pulls number 20 through 30 were accompanied by some choice words that easily flowed from my lips. Pulls 30-40 mostly involved screaming some phrases that would curl Satan's hair. I can just imagine the neighbors as they had their breakfast :<br />
"I used to love these quiet fall mornings ... until that crazy bitch down the street started working in her garden."<br />
<br />
I was about to throw the leaf blower in the trash when I spied a neighbor in his driveway with whom I was slightly acquainted. I swallowed my pride and walked down the street with the blower. He looked at me quizzically and, without a word, started the blower -WITH ONE HAND!<br />
<br />
That was humiliating.<br />
<br />
Blower in hand, I walked back down the street determined to get the job done. This was going to be fun!<br />
<br />
As I started to blow the leaves out of the flower beds and onto the grass, I noticed that I was also blowing all the (expensive) wood mulch out of the garden and onto the grass. What the heck?! That wouldn't do. I was perplexed and stood there, mouth agape, trying to figure it out. PS - I didn't dare turn off the blower while I contemplated my dilemma. So, I maneuvered my way out of the garden bed and walked to the backyard to see if I could tackle the leaves in the yard.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVR7RlSRGgUv_ZfRfISCHZZvNP-4m-a5S0NhIuT6cbsSqr6IniJ_l7_pVQnSvGiwegeqgNgQ4LkEvq55vQ1e2JDqbQDWANE3hGwKyHCAfjbldX82r6XldIEVESqsAOFNSxpyzXiYy53UA/s1600/Autumn-Baby-Wallpaper__yvt2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVR7RlSRGgUv_ZfRfISCHZZvNP-4m-a5S0NhIuT6cbsSqr6IniJ_l7_pVQnSvGiwegeqgNgQ4LkEvq55vQ1e2JDqbQDWANE3hGwKyHCAfjbldX82r6XldIEVESqsAOFNSxpyzXiYy53UA/s320/Autumn-Baby-Wallpaper__yvt2.JPG" width="320" /></a>I began to use the back and forth sweeping action that Randy had described and was seeing some progress. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my neighbors new baby in their backyard. I could tell he was crying because his wee face was all scrunched up and red. I couldn't hear him ... because the damn leaf blower was so unbelievably loud.<br />
<br />
I flipped the switch and turned the thing off. <br />
<br />
Immediately, the baby's face relaxed.<br />
<br />
I took the leaf blower back to the garage, grabbed my rake and happily began the tedious but quiet process of removing leaves. <br />
<br />
Never used that leaf blower again.<br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">CODA: </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTa5WJRzltZrrR0uKoLEzA3cnqTxXGMwXXcZxUkc8lV6kcnttkBfuOj7lkNJkBYTPh3cjgITxqN99hNVhkJqCCzPIBZXeB5TRDipTqlF__EWlKgIcdIuGJ4u1VOiTAEAS0i_qeL0AEaA/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTa5WJRzltZrrR0uKoLEzA3cnqTxXGMwXXcZxUkc8lV6kcnttkBfuOj7lkNJkBYTPh3cjgITxqN99hNVhkJqCCzPIBZXeB5TRDipTqlF__EWlKgIcdIuGJ4u1VOiTAEAS0i_qeL0AEaA/s320/photo+(2).JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo captured later this morning. The professionals<br />
still haven't figured out a way to eliminate the rake!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-40540788811796735972013-03-25T11:53:00.000-04:002013-03-25T19:25:36.437-04:00My hat is off to Will!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM_UQEqHFMCMZVKpL8MsiAeJUpzh_QN1-8cMcIyXHnvoQFRppCSzS26x39S9HZ8GXGUOlZijd6I89Iq-VPyyo8D7XB5PwgmM0DO1v0qB8xWfaijIturKkxk5Y95pBSjoqbH_NQ0EHk9IM/s1600/will2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM_UQEqHFMCMZVKpL8MsiAeJUpzh_QN1-8cMcIyXHnvoQFRppCSzS26x39S9HZ8GXGUOlZijd6I89Iq-VPyyo8D7XB5PwgmM0DO1v0qB8xWfaijIturKkxk5Y95pBSjoqbH_NQ0EHk9IM/s320/will2.jpg" width="219" /></a>Our son, Will came home for a few days during spring break. He was a little reluctant since none of his pals had the same week off and because he knew that I wanted him to help me purge some stuff out of the basement. Never one to mince words, he told us that he was basically lazy and really wasn't looking forward to helping! He can be SUCH a little piss-pot (that was one of my dad's favorite descriptive words - originally I think it meant a 'drunk' but it morphed into meaning a 'little shit' in my dad's lexicon) but Will's<i> joie de vivre </i>is infectious and I love having him home.<br />
<br />
One of the best things that happens when Will comes home is that the piano is played. He and Bill set up in the living room and play jazz together. The house fills with music and I can feel my entire body relax. Even as I'm washing up the dinner dishes, the sounds soothe me. I'm not sure if it's the music itself or the fact that it's those two guys playing the music together.<br />
<br />
I go to bed much earlier than Will. His sleep schedule is like most other college kids - insane. Even though our rooms are fairly far apart, I can hear him laughing at things he reads on Reddit - his news agency of choice - and other websites he frequents. His laughter, while not quite contagious, is very hearty and appreciative... and loud. One night, too tired to get out of bed to tell him to keep the hilarity down, I texted him:<br />
<br />
"Either close your door or try to be more miserable".<br />
<br />
Will and I do talk seriously. However, we mostly banter with sarcasm and jokes. He loves to bait me - I pretend to have hurt feelings then I try to zing him right back.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7VerxfbOWZ7G8k9BS3QlIrjmwcGjjmhPTyEC8GaNYgw0lpX6RysFxtkfdWcP31V_6AXKXxT8NN9AgA8qLgYgqzOdRpzBJSgXQHmiBTx-cD1bv801kO1nykyQPPSuTV6YrZ2KjAZlHu6U/s1600/goodwill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7VerxfbOWZ7G8k9BS3QlIrjmwcGjjmhPTyEC8GaNYgw0lpX6RysFxtkfdWcP31V_6AXKXxT8NN9AgA8qLgYgqzOdRpzBJSgXQHmiBTx-cD1bv801kO1nykyQPPSuTV6YrZ2KjAZlHu6U/s320/goodwill.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
We did finally tackle the basement together. It sounds awful (actually it was pretty horrible), but working with Will made it fun. Half way through the hilarity he drove to Dairy Queen to reward us both with Chocolate milkshakes -- he knows my penchant for chocolate milkshakes! He willing took orders from me while I tried to determine what was garbage, what was for the donation pile and what we should keep. He even loaded up the van and made a quick trip to the Goodwill truck.<br />
<br />
We took a break from the basement and the dust (we both have dust allergies and needed some Kleenex) to clean out his closet. We found all kinds of odd things - <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXViga3LJHG9AaDX3YzDwrmQawbb-6423RaEjqhKbMu8buX5LZek4zaKJ9ghnrqKFPVsa6_wWHqytxOVn9OWN3KMSgCbaYUMF0pSwAd2s20KjU-fY808GXTCDtWDUwBw02YOb01Yip74/s1600/hat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXViga3LJHG9AaDX3YzDwrmQawbb-6423RaEjqhKbMu8buX5LZek4zaKJ9ghnrqKFPVsa6_wWHqytxOVn9OWN3KMSgCbaYUMF0pSwAd2s20KjU-fY808GXTCDtWDUwBw02YOb01Yip74/s200/hat.JPG" width="150" /></a>including an old sheepskin/leather hat that my dad used to wear. Will didn't know that it belonged to my dad. The interior of it says "proudly Canadian". Ha! I don't even know why I have the hat. PS - we also found one of my dad's shirts from the laundry - still in the plastic casing - dated 2002. Guess it's time to donate that one!<br />
<br />
I suddenly remembered that my Uncle Tom had taken a picture of my dad on Christmas day -wearing said hat. Our family was staying at my Grandpa's farm house in Cobourg, Ontario. Circa 1972.<br />
<br />
I rifled through some photo albums and found the photo - thereby proving to Will that it was indeed the hat of Paul P. Martin!<br />
<br />
Will liked the photo so much that he wanted to recreate the look.<br />
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In the original, my dad is holding a shepherd's crook - the crook part is just out of view (PS - we lived on a sheep farm so it wasn't entirely insane) wearing a very colorful housecoat of my mother's and a plaintive expression. He was pretending to be Joseph (as in Joseph's coat of many colors). I'm not sure what the poinsettia is all about. I don't think our dog, Macushla had a clue either. Needless to say, my dad had an odd sense of humor.<br />
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As we didn't have the crook or poinsettia, Will substituted an old paddle and an aloe plant. It's not an exact replica - it is still distinctly "Will" but it has enough <a href="http://lizsavino2011.blogspot.com/2011_11_01_archive.html">Pauly P.</a> in it that my Aunt Janet recognized the recreated picture without seeing the original.<br />
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Anyway, Will wore the hat around the house the rest of the day.<br />
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So now Will is back at school, the house is quiet, the basement is tidy, and in just a week we will mark the 10th anniversary of my dad's death. My heart is heavy.<br />
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I think I'll wear that hat today.<br />
<br />Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-52723696810005229552013-03-12T20:57:00.000-04:002013-03-12T21:06:03.009-04:00Weighing my options<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgACvGNcQUnAKW87CMtRTLZvQp8DSG1GsemvlxugB9j0bsz8JUy6gofiOQQxZqWWR5sxVKr5j6j6pJdi3pBbM-ZWUPKnGZBL6bW4ihymUjGFibc5L6pan6C9A-tMYBfvyoBet5OrRg319Q/s1600/scale-cartoon1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgACvGNcQUnAKW87CMtRTLZvQp8DSG1GsemvlxugB9j0bsz8JUy6gofiOQQxZqWWR5sxVKr5j6j6pJdi3pBbM-ZWUPKnGZBL6bW4ihymUjGFibc5L6pan6C9A-tMYBfvyoBet5OrRg319Q/s1600/scale-cartoon1.jpg" /></a>Since January, Bill and I have been having a 'weight loss' contest. The biggest hurdle for me was writing down my starting weight. I have NEVER told Bill how much I weighed... IN MY ENTIRE MARRIAGE. I can barely acknowledge it to myself. When I get on the scales at the doctor's office I pretend to be distracted with the art work so I can't make eye contact with the nurse (and thus to ownership of the number). You know how some people have to look away when their blood is drawn? That's me on the scale.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgBPeg1nhzze8ruBCL5ny0ou5iJEzdvj9rVZfTxwiWgKnNMOXk7O_Sp3VhNE2eKRBaFKMqaKbfbhMSsEoLOrE7p-J908siTCJXr37U5C2F-h5mfpMUKmCLGsRUXAD9RtfAU5KETUMzAo/s1600/weightlossgraph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgBPeg1nhzze8ruBCL5ny0ou5iJEzdvj9rVZfTxwiWgKnNMOXk7O_Sp3VhNE2eKRBaFKMqaKbfbhMSsEoLOrE7p-J908siTCJXr37U5C2F-h5mfpMUKmCLGsRUXAD9RtfAU5KETUMzAo/s320/weightlossgraph.jpg" width="295" /></a>But, once I confessed to Bill and wrote the number on the chart, I felt strangely lighter - it was kind of cathartic. Plus, Bill can keep a secret, so I knew I was safe. We've been keeping track each week; weigh-in is on Wednesday morning. We have weekly winners and year to date winners (there are no prizes - just the privilege of lording it over the loser for the week). So far he is winning the "year to date". But, we both have been see-sawing on the weekly number. One week he was a huge winner - but it was also the week he had his colonoscopy... so, that one really shouldn't have counted. He gained most of that weight back on the next weigh in.<br />
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When I think about it, this "contest" is really just a system to keep track of our weekly weight - rather than tracking our stupendous progress.<br />
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Bill has also been obsessive about weighing our dinner portions. He has a lovely little scale and is quite accurate. Today he packed my lunch (leftover Indian food that he made the night before, Trader Joe rice (delicious), and baby asparagus. However, the portion size appeared to be designed for a construction worker not a sedentary office worker. Even though I questioned the amount when I took my seat at the lunch table, I managed to chow down and eat the whole thing. It didn't click until much later... he heavy loaded my lunch because weigh in is tomorrow!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirewMmgcK7Ys1Forc7t6x_8AdwBMgASqDtxUyQGD059K9jeuVVHLvnc7MVR0Eg-e1erlYlSHtW23THVuzL-bqhGBjvmuYMbOWTGu0UFnSS7YolouXdENy0rUsCHFBKQjNcDlMSYw2DGyI/s1600/cel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirewMmgcK7Ys1Forc7t6x_8AdwBMgASqDtxUyQGD059K9jeuVVHLvnc7MVR0Eg-e1erlYlSHtW23THVuzL-bqhGBjvmuYMbOWTGu0UFnSS7YolouXdENy0rUsCHFBKQjNcDlMSYw2DGyI/s200/cel.jpg" width="132" /></a>But, I may have the last laugh. He is at a function tonight and I'm on my own for dinner.<br />
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I think tonight it'll be water and celery.<br />
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<br />Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-24075308778447083412013-02-25T15:55:00.000-05:002013-02-25T19:31:11.812-05:00Musings from the control towerI am a control freak. I know a lot of people describe themselves this way, but I truly have a problem. Friends have tried to help me by explaining that everything is actually outside of my control and that what little control I have is merely an illusion. An interesting concept I have yet to embrace.<br />
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I think most control freaks also hate crowds precisely because it's impossible to control a mob. I also hate lines (can't control what's in front of you). And, I hate vacationing spots where other vacationers are vacationing - I prefer to maintain another illusion that I'm the only one enjoying the scenery. Ludicrous, I know.<br />
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Busy airports make me nuts - there are lines and crowds and vacationers - an unfortunate combination for my control issues. My mother has gently suggested that I ask my doctor for tranquilizers when I travel in order to allay my stress levels. What she fails to understand is that when you're tranquilized, you lose control even more.<br />
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Yesterday, I flew home from Florida with Bill. Typically, I opt for the aisle seat (more control issues). As I sat down, I spied a couple of people who had taken the seat behind me and to my left. These two were going to be the key to my happiness since their conversation would be the one I was most likely to overhear. They were clearly fighting with each other - I know that 'slow burn' look. Their state of distress, however was my good fortune: if they weren't on speaking terms I wouldn't be bothered by their inane drivel (PS: I'm judgmental, too). Unfortunately, a chatty Canadian who was also on the same cruise as the unhappy couple sat down in the third unoccupied aisle seat. Thus, began a long and tedious conversation which I had the misfortune of overhearing ( and passing judgment upon) during takeoff and the slow ascent.<br />
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Luckily I had remembered my iPad. Earlier this year my son, Will had downloaded a bunch of albums for precisely this type of situation. I fished around for my earphones in my huge carry-on (which I call a "purse"), plugged in and tuned out. My first selection: Miles Davis - <i>Birth of the Cool</i>.<br />
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To me, this is an almost perfect album. The only thing I would've left off was the last track: "Darn that dream". It has vocals and stupid lyrics. Since I was trying to drown out the chatter of my fellow travelers, listening to this song just made me mad. So, I switched to an equally incredible album: Herbie Hancock - <i>Maiden Voyage</i>.<br />
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Just as "Dolphin Dance" began, the airline attendant came around with my gin and tonic; I paid her with my Southwest coupon, raised my glass to my sleeping husband (the perfect traveling companion) and slipped into a 15 minute blissful nap.<br />
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I had successfully manipulated my surroundings to create the illusion of tranquility.<br />
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Just what my mother wanted for me.<br />
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<br />Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-11739995254376928172012-10-21T11:51:00.000-04:002012-10-21T11:51:01.454-04:00Mentorship Moments<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Madeleine Albright is famous for saying that there is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women. I'm guessing she's referring to women helping other women in the business world - and that if a woman "makes it" she has an obligation to help other women achieve success. That makes sense. I agree with her since historically it has been so hard for a woman to compete. It's gradually becoming easier, but there are still some very real boundaries in the business world.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I think Madeleine was on the right track, and she spoke from her heart and probably from experience. However, I think she got derailed. I believe that if you have achieved any measure of success, or can impart some knowledge to someone who needs it, you have an obligation to help - not just to someone with whom you share the same sex.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This lesson was brought home to me most recently by a chef at a Buffalo country club. He was chosen to speak at our 2nd annual TEDx talks.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh19dmKqaWpbW02k_yBBDkdJGjeCA2AX-6_q9IshmkUfi3qabx39jlF2NqRiLvqFvHKjbqp9d5NqhKdaMQW2gOorpswVEfeUxZrSii04titwBbwSahTUa80pyu_pcnk6ldpPqT2oxRn5LI/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh19dmKqaWpbW02k_yBBDkdJGjeCA2AX-6_q9IshmkUfi3qabx39jlF2NqRiLvqFvHKjbqp9d5NqhKdaMQW2gOorpswVEfeUxZrSii04titwBbwSahTUa80pyu_pcnk6ldpPqT2oxRn5LI/s1600/images.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhywd0mEpgKYDvzkeQZ0tjh1CVfl8YewNMs6GLfGcUHQ0XwA0I0q7UwP8c_pCYP2pTha4XA509ZhE_pSVNhP62NoXoIsDMgtehIMpbhdPcpFn6R97wNiAiFPQ7PBpbHnIEoGRj5GFZOX0M/s1600/Chef-James-Roberts-300x270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhywd0mEpgKYDvzkeQZ0tjh1CVfl8YewNMs6GLfGcUHQ0XwA0I0q7UwP8c_pCYP2pTha4XA509ZhE_pSVNhP62NoXoIsDMgtehIMpbhdPcpFn6R97wNiAiFPQ7PBpbHnIEoGRj5GFZOX0M/s200/Chef-James-Roberts-300x270.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">For those of you who are unfamiliar with TED, please take the time to visit <a href="http://www.ted.com/">TED</a> and browse through the topics. <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px;">T<span style="font-family: inherit;">ED (which stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design) started out as a conference where experts were brought in to do chats of 18 minutes that were designed</span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> to change people's way of thinking. Its mission was to spread ideas. Now that conference has morphed into mini sessions at local levels. Recently,</span> Buffalo</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 21px;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">hosted its own conference and James Roberts, the aforementioned chef was chosen to speak about mentorship. When we first met James, Bill and I were struck by his passion for food and his general affability. He was more than happy to share kitchen tricks and recipe ingredients even with amateurs like us. Check out a short video about his work </span><a href="http://vimeo.com/50143641#" style="font-family: inherit;">here</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I know that some people are born to be teachers. But mentorship is so much more; not only do you have to have the knowledge and be able to impart it, you have to be a role model and you have to be able to recognize the give and take in mentorship - for, as in any relationship, a mentor will inevitably gain something from the mentee.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the perqs of being married to Bill is that his love of teaching has helped me to grow. He is happiest when he is in front of students (whether formally at UB, informally with pals, or just with his family). He can expound on WWII military aircraft, the ingredients of garam masala, what happened at Stalingrad, whether Brian Mormon was the most valuable player for the Buffalo Bills, the changes in Giant Steps, the flying buttresses of Notre Dame... you get the point. His eidetic memory allows him to converse on a host of subjects and this ability has allowed him to have a series of mini-mentorships with many people - for he has figured out that you can learn from others ALL THE TIME. He, in fact, had manufactured his very own personal TEDx before it was even invented. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once, when I picked Bill up from the airport, he was so excited to tell me what he learned from his seat mate that the usual 'how are the kids' dialogue was forgotten. He immediately launched into the composition and virtues of concrete because he had spent that last 90 minutes with an expert.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And, even though he will list out those that provided valuable mentorship to him, he would strenuously object to being called a mentor himself. I would have to disagree - for he has been a true mentor to me. We have a wonderful relationship that is based on love, but it is also rooted in a give and take of learning and growing. Bill has shown by example that you can learn things from everyone that you encounter, that you should never stop inquiring and that you have the ability to create your own personal TEDx experiences every day. That's a lesson that I will never forget and that I feel an obligation to pass on. </span>Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-86245131951791874182012-10-08T21:10:00.001-04:002012-10-08T21:10:55.049-04:00Canadian Thanksgiving<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My friends and family in Canada are celebrating Thanksgiving tonight. Living in the northeast, it seems a more appropriate time to celebrate the harvest since it is actually harvest time. Perhaps I should start a rebellion and petition to move Thanksgiving in the US from November (where it competes with Christmas shopping) to October. How hard would it be to get something like that accomplished? How does one go about doing this? I wouldn't know where to start. Perhaps a grassroots movement in my favorite rust belt city? I think almost everyone I know in Buffalo has at least one Canadian relative or, at the very least, enjoys visiting Toronto every so often. Spacing out the turkey/mashed potato/pie intake might be prudent, too. </div>
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Thanksgiving in Canada is really the best holiday because it is all inclusive. There are no religious obligations, no ethnic overtones, no political agendas - it's a holiday for everyone. The whole Pilgrim/Indian sit down never happened - so there's not guilt either. Canadians didn't co-opt the idea of Thanksgiving from their southern neighbors, either. One of the first Thanksgiving in Canada occurred when Martin Frobisher, a famous explorer studied by all Canadian students, was searching for a northern route to the Pacific Ocean (good GOD that must have been frigid). Somewhere on Baffin Island he gave thanks, not for food, but for his mere survival during his expedition. That was in the late 1500s. </div>
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Today, Canadians are merely required to eat, drink, assemble family and friends and say a big thank you. Some may also be lucky enough to have water nearby to have a celebratory paddle.</div>
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As I examine my ever increasing girth, I'm thinking I should say 'no thank-you' more than I should say 'thank-you'. However, we all understand that Thanksgiving is about being thankful for all our gifts - not just the plentiful harvest (although I understand the apple harvest will be scant this year). Taking time to be thankful is always a good idea and, unless you're in the enviable habit of saying 'grace' at each meal, or your prayers each night, it's something that we just don't do enough. </div>
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Listening to my co-worker list the heart-rending issues with her extended family this morning, I was once again thankful for the incredible luck I have had with my family, our kids and my husband. Our troubles are few and minor in comparison to others. </div>
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So, even though I did not eat a feast tonight (although Bill did whip up another tasty meal), I am thankful for my friends, my co-workers, my family and my many blessings. Even though it isn't Thanksgiving stateside, I hope you are in a position to give thanks, too. </div>
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Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-77973786716154628372012-02-16T18:12:00.000-05:002012-02-17T15:43:54.643-05:00Healing HandsAhhhh... a massage. Even the word is calming. Maaaaaaassaahhhhhhhhhhhge. It's a beautiful thing.<br />
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Last weekend I used a gift card for a massage to alleviate the ache in my head, neck and sinuses. I was lucky enough to get gift cards from Bill for Christmas. And, then I was lucky enough to have a wonderful therapist lay hands on me at<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.spa400.com/index.php">Spa 400 in Williamsville.</a></div>
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I explained to Gina that I've been suffering from sinus headaches and that if I get up too quickly I suffer from vertigo. So, she spent the next 1/2 hour kneading my head, scalp and neck. That’s THIRTY whole minutes where the entire focus was my head. Then she spent the next 20 minutes on the rest of my body. As a special treat, she spent the last 10 minutes on my scalp. She did all this with an oil base lotion infused with eucalyptus. I left in a state of bliss.</div>
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It’s Gina’s theory that if everyone started and ended each day with a massage there would be no war. </div>
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I believe her.</div>
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Bill hates getting massages. He is uncomfortable with the whole process. Only once did he ever agree to a massage. We were in Chiang Mai, Thailand and we found this small establishment that specialized in ‘couples’ massage. It wasn’t some kind of weird sex trade thing. Believe me, I was skeptical. It was completely legitimate. No oils were used and we were completely clothed during the whole procedure. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8vkEwtI22Zh0cblQ87LdFn0O_tD68sSG7rOlSA1_5_yc_UjE59G0Ig8K9Pk6iGPuaVIn8d4gTey4V_Y3ygnueblcrpLn1fz5VqVauId5IyhfO1u5ftLA3ii3st9o6Qiag6tkfy8OstU/s1600/300px-Thaimassage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8vkEwtI22Zh0cblQ87LdFn0O_tD68sSG7rOlSA1_5_yc_UjE59G0Ig8K9Pk6iGPuaVIn8d4gTey4V_Y3ygnueblcrpLn1fz5VqVauId5IyhfO1u5ftLA3ii3st9o6Qiag6tkfy8OstU/s320/300px-Thaimassage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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We both lay on straw mats on the ground - surprisingly comfortable. Then, two small Thai women worked on me and two tinier Thai women worked on Bill. And when I say 'worked on' ...it was work. The Thai massage is more of a give and take. The masseuse puts you into what I would describe as yoga-like poses and then proceeds to stretch and pound you. She will also walk on you and press her feet into your muscles.</div>
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I tried to achieve a meditative state during the poses but it was impossible because of Bill’s gyrations, snorts and laughter. He said it tickled and that he couldn't stand anyone touching him ("ahhh .... dear! That's what a massage is!"). He just could not take it and suffered through the whole experience. His two ladies found the whole thing hilarious; they whispered non stop to each other in Thai and giggled behind their hands. What was supposed to be a ‘sensuous’ experience turned into a laugh riot.</div>
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That very same night, we went to a Thai cultural center where women in traditional garb danced the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-sPJ-lIwGMI">fingernail dance</a> or <i>Fawn Leb.</i> They have REALLY long nails. And, they click them a lot. It's all ABOUT the hands. </div>
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Bill swore he saw the woman who massaged him up on the dance floor. </div>Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-11892827458567923912012-02-07T22:32:00.000-05:002012-02-07T22:32:43.339-05:00The fine art of writing a thank you note - dedicated to DanielleYou know how much you love to get a package in the mail? <a href="http://lizsavino2011.blogspot.com/2011/02/amazoncom.html">Even when you've ordered it for yourself?</a> Well, I love getting thank you notes 100 million times more. It's a gift all wrapped up with kind words.<br />
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The art of writing a thank you note is not a difficult one to master. Sincerity is key - so is promptness. Mention the gift/the dinner/the outing/the thing for which you are expressing thanks (hereafter "it"). Tell the recipient of the note why you liked "it" or how much you would love for "it" to happen again or how much you'll use "it". Then add a line about your relationship and why it is special. Finally, close with something genuine.<br />
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Don't use graph paper or lined paper or something ripped from a memo pad. Get yourself some stationery or a pre-printed thank you card. I guarantee that when the card arrives all mixed up with circulars and bills and political requests for contributions your letter will be the first one ripped opened. The tactile experience of examining the envelope, looking at the return address and slipping the card from its envelope is just too delicious. A simple pleasure. You will create a smile and a warm spot in the heart of the recipient.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEnRZ2E4B4fsdF_8_e6H7Lv7ep4obkI5ZvUKfmDtZRlkXhkNzRmRUoIX_HTSOBLkEvPgcgehXqdArqrSTX7DzIq6P0wd8imTcukl5qT3Rlq5bw6QASF3OPyqMShPsY9-1e8RS8-74ymuE/s1600/danielle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEnRZ2E4B4fsdF_8_e6H7Lv7ep4obkI5ZvUKfmDtZRlkXhkNzRmRUoIX_HTSOBLkEvPgcgehXqdArqrSTX7DzIq6P0wd8imTcukl5qT3Rlq5bw6QASF3OPyqMShPsY9-1e8RS8-74ymuE/s200/danielle.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjln3-dYQJ08AXRI6gAWFR6pm735-TXhEFKXjBEBh6C8YX2r7A9BNCGaYYPDUnA0_78MAXMua7iGx4RmGYV0MBOn907YVzo4lL30ezctzIyJfg2wQDQz0XWLGmZIK_LzEjjxgUxwauRH-k/s1600/hoyyo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjln3-dYQJ08AXRI6gAWFR6pm735-TXhEFKXjBEBh6C8YX2r7A9BNCGaYYPDUnA0_78MAXMua7iGx4RmGYV0MBOn907YVzo4lL30ezctzIyJfg2wQDQz0XWLGmZIK_LzEjjxgUxwauRH-k/s200/hoyyo.jpg" width="200" /></a>Sure, sending an email is okay to acknowledge a gift or a favor. I use email all the time to express my appreciation (I'm a sucker for a <a href="http://www.hoopsandyoyo.co.uk/pages/ecards.php?action=view&code=43&history=5">hoops and yoyo</a> e-card). I think most people under 40 generally rely on email for most correspondence. But, there are some stalwart younger souls out there who still believe in the old fashioned pen to paper method of expressing gratitude. Maybe we have their mums to thank? Or maybe they just know...<br />
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Oh! The bonus is that the <a href="http://www.thestreet.com/story/11390600/1/us-postal-service-unsustainable-situation-leader-says.html">post office needs our help. </a>:)<br />
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Try it out soon..especially on someone who would least expect it.<br />
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<br />Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-75261830130799714382012-01-23T18:38:00.000-05:002012-01-23T18:38:39.046-05:00A love letter to EmmaEarly on in our dating life together, Bill and I discussed having children. True, we weren't 'betrothed' but we both avowed that having a family had to be part of the marriage deal. Although I was uncertain about whether I was actually maternal, I knew that Bill would make a great father. He loved to teach - and he was so passionate about so many things that I knew he couldn't help but share his<i> joie de vivre </i>with the next generation of Savinos.<br />
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I was right. <br />
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I am thankful for so many things that Bill has brought into my life but, the best part of our life, bar none, is the fact that we were able to have two terrific kids. We were lucky that we agreed on parenting tactics and values. We rarely disagreed about issues with the kids - and we are fortunate that we didn't have to deal with any huge problems. <br />
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My pregnancy with Emma, our first born, was touch and go. I think that that fragility and uncertainty made me appreciate her even more when she was eventually ripped from my gut. The first year of Emma's life I took a leave of absence from law school and stayed at home full time. That was probably the best year of my life. She was a dream baby. In fact, her name, Emma, came to me in a dream when I was pregnant with her. <br />
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Emma was not a popular name 22 years ago - it was pre "Friends" and it was kind of old fashioned. Her name is actually an acronym (E for Elizabeth - my name; MM for Mary Margaret - my mother's name; and A for Antionette - Bill's mother's name). The acronym part is what I dreamt about. I woke up with a start and announced to Bill that the baby was going to be named Emma. He loved it even though we didn't know if she was female. (PS: Don't you love what your brain can do when you're asleep?!)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf4F3i_Ky4_lthuWKZT5EplLNQRj65CLelln1scfVa2J3FTDubpfeafQr5rT1q4K7CeA8trL-g7SpC5s5plFlSTG6srYidbWACEaFhnIBz8wgVWXZEw1CJMCAyNF6TgH_6orpJvW4zO0o/s1600/Belize+071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf4F3i_Ky4_lthuWKZT5EplLNQRj65CLelln1scfVa2J3FTDubpfeafQr5rT1q4K7CeA8trL-g7SpC5s5plFlSTG6srYidbWACEaFhnIBz8wgVWXZEw1CJMCAyNF6TgH_6orpJvW4zO0o/s320/Belize+071.jpg" width="320" /></a>Twenty-two years later, my love for her is only outweighed by my respect for her. She is such a great daughter and an even better sister to Will! I have no doubt that whatever she sets her mind to do, she will accomplish. And she'll do it with flair! She is so smart and organized and beautiful and determined and caring and frugal and unspoiled and genuine. She and her father often butt heads - I think it's because they share so many characteristics. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNby4Y3g-h_LKNfg4cInKg_gARzYdVBx2eYNSwZHQH1AYkGXaE-qlHbPZamk0Gar7YLsSzcdyMP7lxPBHL9ZtEsCJr-jBxWs7HRslMM3YntWdkO245SHw5-6R9VBn_YvwMFsXDwecPST4/s1600/emma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNby4Y3g-h_LKNfg4cInKg_gARzYdVBx2eYNSwZHQH1AYkGXaE-qlHbPZamk0Gar7YLsSzcdyMP7lxPBHL9ZtEsCJr-jBxWs7HRslMM3YntWdkO245SHw5-6R9VBn_YvwMFsXDwecPST4/s320/emma.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
She's in her final semester at the University of Toronto. The world is open to her and I can't wait to see what she will do. It's such an exciting time of life for her and I know she is stressing about all the choices that are ahead of her.<br />
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It's funny how a little more than 22 years ago I was just fine with life and the people in it. And now, I don't know how I ever lived without her.<br />
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Our own wee Emma! We love you so much!!!<br />
<br />Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-73589844700836587722012-01-16T19:11:00.001-05:002012-01-16T19:11:20.241-05:00In the blink of an eye<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was a busy weekend this weekend - that's the way Bill likes it. I usually have to negotiate with him to get an evening off and he loves to be booked every Friday and Saturday.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHDpFoO-UcJp7qJCp-FZpG9Wwqy29u1R_t4q2vw8TBMWcAHoNB61dX9Um9l4e0twYjoSNUh5aijJ6gKwjhE9J20U4ifdemdQ87r6JmOELQ9HNgHF-RwLlS79KyvTimVksQ7z9O0ZyZHko/s1600/hour-glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHDpFoO-UcJp7qJCp-FZpG9Wwqy29u1R_t4q2vw8TBMWcAHoNB61dX9Um9l4e0twYjoSNUh5aijJ6gKwjhE9J20U4ifdemdQ87r6JmOELQ9HNgHF-RwLlS79KyvTimVksQ7z9O0ZyZHko/s200/hour-glass.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">Friday night we spent with some great people at a really lovely birthday party. We were celebrating the 65th birthday of a guy who could easily pass for 50. When the guest of honor spoke to the revelers, he said that those 65 years had passed in a 'blink of an eye'. And, even though I often reflect upon how fast life seems to fly by, for some reason his words resonated deeply with me that night.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA43i0OTvr9YQR7gyxs7HEXxTHejlk49roHmpDKCjKzeOvcHPNolSLJxo1-v7y4ASfNPEgRhvyzru4waKm0DsnOptK9UgoyqxYeUKxZXpGsYfRWUwcigmGZUlTJqGdFEIKm1br7YhiE_0/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA43i0OTvr9YQR7gyxs7HEXxTHejlk49roHmpDKCjKzeOvcHPNolSLJxo1-v7y4ASfNPEgRhvyzru4waKm0DsnOptK9UgoyqxYeUKxZXpGsYfRWUwcigmGZUlTJqGdFEIKm1br7YhiE_0/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I climbed the stairs to bed that night, I looked at the 'rogues' gallery of pictures on the wall. Those pictures chronicle much of our life and I felt like I was looking at people I knew - but not very well. It was almost like those photos were of someone else's life. The kids have grown up and Bill and I have grown old and I don't know what happened to the time in between.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Luckily, I married a man who does require me to negotiate with him to have a day off. He is intent on living life to the fullest and to jamming as much as we can into a day. Which is why our weekends leave me little time for laundry and cleaning and the other mundane but necessary parts of life. Our vacations are no different. If we're in Paris, damn it we're going to see every corner of the Louvre and read every word about the architecture. If we have to catch a plane, we'll get there at the last possible minute so as to not <a href="http://lizsavino2011.blogspot.com/2011/03/half-fun-is-getting-there.html">waste time at the airport (I believe I may have written about this issue before?)</a>.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_HgT6QeSNJMH-dTH3J6nvtQuXFs1G2fGuCgHLHNHcm6aa0EP9kzGf4ruMvPlfCbjirioqxE2CyCkf7cbFvafhviPQQcqwOE0Zo0NkFxZLI_-jtjhYM7ZfR3XFy6T6_RCrbyfZW7YSTsM/s1600/greece-1863118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_HgT6QeSNJMH-dTH3J6nvtQuXFs1G2fGuCgHLHNHcm6aa0EP9kzGf4ruMvPlfCbjirioqxE2CyCkf7cbFvafhviPQQcqwOE0Zo0NkFxZLI_-jtjhYM7ZfR3XFy6T6_RCrbyfZW7YSTsM/s200/greece-1863118.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe that's why I can't seem to recall details of the last 25 years; I just have too much stuff packed into that ever shrinking gray matter. Before I met Bill I thought I was pretty adventurous and full of life. But, after that fateful night we met at Jimmy Mac's (Dec. 20th, 1985) it was never quite the same. Echoing the sentiment in the Frank Sinatra tune "The best is yet to come", Bill insisted:<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <i style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">I<span style="text-align: center;">'m gonna teach you to fly - </span><span style="text-align: center;">We've only tasted the wine - </span><span style="text-align: center;">We're gonna drain that cup dry.</span></i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hopefully, if I'm the least bit lucid in my waning years, I'll be able to recall all the fun that we had. And, I'll be thankful that Bill is a much better negotiator than I</span>.Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-78813386635979226202012-01-09T17:42:00.000-05:002012-01-09T21:14:17.780-05:00A night of firstsIn my second half century, it has occurred to me, more than once, that I have become a little jaded - nothing excites me the way it used to when I was young. Things just aren't 'new' anymore. I am very rarely surprised. Fortunately, life taught me a lesson this weekend.<br />
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Saturday night I stayed out late - very unusual for me. It started off innocently enough - dinner and the hockey game. Our friend, Pete (not his real name - no really, it's NOT his real name. His real name is Allen but everyone calls him Pete) took us out for a night on the town.<br />
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We started off at a relatively new eatery on Amherst Street called the <a href="http://www.blackrockkitchenandbar.com/menu.php">Black Rock Kitchen and Bar</a>. We feasted on tongue tacos and bone marrow among other things. Our server was very happy to find patrons who appreciated a good tongue. Fortunately, Pete had the foresight to begin the meal with a large and lovely Belvedere martini. Believe me - it helped all that raw protein go down. Pete is always introducing us to new things. In fact, it was Pete who ordered me my first gin martini many, many, MANY years ago.<br />
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We rolled out of the restaurant and drove down to the HSBC center. Oops I mean the First Niagara Center, for the Sabres game. Pete had fantastic seats; we were so close that Bill eyeballed Center Nathan Gerbe and proclaimed him to be a real short ass. In comparison, Nathan did appear to be quite a bit shorter than the rest of the players - especially when he skated a shift against a huge Jets player named Antropov. Antropov looked like a lumbering ox next to nimble Nathan. Our row seatmates (apparently Jets fans) frequently called out "get that big, dumb Russian off the ice".<br />
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Bill quickly googled the Sabres website and found that Gerbe was listed as being 5'5" tall. Wikipedia proclaims that he is, in fact 5'4" and THE SHORTEST player in the NHL.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nathan number 42 at 5'5" or so (maybe with his skates on)</td></tr>
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Nathan is now Bill's hockey hero. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEaS1Nvk1bVpgJbJn_BnY6ONmMvNYxmRkDr_8DfUGaUnSURHitoHbNqqLImkgGjZpzDVGZ7p-XCmhnyGMC9geqjShyphenhyphen4q3YVuJhZJnpjuLso2b7mxTPzstb8j19imy47EXMO0mEW6e-J8/s1600/aaaaaa.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEaS1Nvk1bVpgJbJn_BnY6ONmMvNYxmRkDr_8DfUGaUnSURHitoHbNqqLImkgGjZpzDVGZ7p-XCmhnyGMC9geqjShyphenhyphen4q3YVuJhZJnpjuLso2b7mxTPzstb8j19imy47EXMO0mEW6e-J8/s320/aaaaaa.JPG" width="240" /></a>After the game we headed uptown to the <a href="http://www.theelmwoodlounge.com/sites/home.html">Elmwood Lounge</a>. I haven't been there in years. It was nice to see the decor has not changed. Saturday night the legendary "Lance Diamond show" is on the menu. Lance explained to us that we might notice a photographer taking pictures. Apparently, the Buffalo News was doing a story on him - I can't wait to read it. The photographer giggled all night long, clearly enjoying his assignment. Artvoice, another local newspaper, has declared Lance the Best Genre Defying Act. That about sums it up. You have to see Lance to believe him. On Saturday, he wore a lovely green 3 piece sparkle suit. At one point in the evening he gave away his cuff links to a cute service-woman in the audience. He is smooth!</div>
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We stayed through his first set. Amazingly, Bill turned to me as the set was winding down and told me he couldn't stay up any longer... I had to take him home. That was the FIRST time in 26 years that he pooped out before me. I got up from the bar stool, said thank you to Lance and drove everyone home.<br />
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At 51, it's nice to know that I can still be surprised and do new things. Especially when friends like Pete remind me. Thanks, Pete. </div>
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</div>Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-34837467691397927062012-01-02T21:13:00.000-05:002012-01-03T11:09:27.627-05:00Acts of kindnessWhen I was little I was afraid of the dark. I'm still not entirely comfortable with being in complete darkness - even at the ripe old age of 51. Bedtime was not a happy time for me. I always fought when it was time to go upstairs to bed.<br />
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Remembering my issues with sleeping alone, I was always easy, some thought too easy, with my own kids: reading to them until they were almost comatose and lying beside them until they fell asleep. As a mum, I knew that I was probably promoting bad habits with my kids - but selfishly, I loved this time of day. As a working mother, I grabbed any time I could with the kids - and lying beside a sleeping child is a small piece of heaven.<br />
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Sometimes they would wake up, and, finding me gone, they would find their way into our room. I would put one hand under their butt and lift them into bed without a word. They would fall asleep immediately - and so would I. Half the time, or maybe more than half the time, Bill would have no idea that there were 3 (or 4!) in our bed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_S3xR3UOCS5h4T4d4X52w1B6EqvMeqSdRPggOzTp-2fg8RVY6r5jZ9A88KlOifajNBh1R8Jze-ERyDZTEWk9MZlXHH9pd3KskhUg8kpwyMOgLwNj0xc3MZBiTrfEGZgP8-iACT6u7PNo/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_S3xR3UOCS5h4T4d4X52w1B6EqvMeqSdRPggOzTp-2fg8RVY6r5jZ9A88KlOifajNBh1R8Jze-ERyDZTEWk9MZlXHH9pd3KskhUg8kpwyMOgLwNj0xc3MZBiTrfEGZgP8-iACT6u7PNo/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a>Eventually, the practice stopped. The kids didn't need me to read to them or even to tuck them in. Despite my questionable mothering techniques, they outgrew the need for companionship in the middle of the night. I don't regret my behavior - not one bit.<br />
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As a child, I remember lying awake looking around my room and feeling afraid to move. Only my eyes moved - surveying the doorway, the closet, the cupboards, the toys. I knew that "sanctuary" was just beyond my door and in the next room. I just had to gather my courage to leap out of bed and run as fast as my little legs could carry me to my brother, Kevin's room.<br />
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Once there, I would wedge myself into his single bed, and he would pull the covers over me. He didn't exactly welcome the intrusion nor could he have appreciated the fact that I squished him up against the wall, but he didn't ever kick me out either. Even after I vomited all over him one night. Kevin knew I was terrified of the dark; he never taunted or made me feel silly. He just resigned himself to the fact that every so often I would squeeze in beside him. I had made up some weird belief system that as long as a part of my body touched his body I would be safe all night. Usually it was my foot on his knee. I'm not sure he knew how much I appreciated his indulgence.<br />
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He was a great big brother. When he could have been mean he showed kindness - and tolerance. He's the same way today. He looks past my idiosyncrasies, and, if he judges me, he never reveals what he may think.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiruLl95xYn0vIFYvSG0T5rg7ovkhjcz88obpj7X2iXn1_ekvkyMv8J8xGahoIsqBWkKAWAeLpcTrxPEYck1CQi2cOqkhCw8ARGy0qVuiFgZbAPix8AoX1WCM5QLFPwETqaOZGbEEqqACo/s1600/photo+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiruLl95xYn0vIFYvSG0T5rg7ovkhjcz88obpj7X2iXn1_ekvkyMv8J8xGahoIsqBWkKAWAeLpcTrxPEYck1CQi2cOqkhCw8ARGy0qVuiFgZbAPix8AoX1WCM5QLFPwETqaOZGbEEqqACo/s320/photo+%25282%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a>And that brings me to my NEW YEARS RESOLUTION! Which amazingly was reinforced today at the Grand Island bridge. I resolve to perform an act of kindness to someone in need at least once a day. If I do that, I will have made at least 366 (remember it's Leap Year this year) people a little bit happier in 2012. Just like the toll taker at the Grand Island bridge today. She flashed me a big smile and wished me Happy New Year! She made Emma's day, too.<br />
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So, Happy New Year everyone! Let's hope that you receive a kindness every day too!Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-29321947260419878732011-12-12T17:48:00.000-05:002011-12-12T17:48:12.013-05:00Decorating for the holidaysI have a huge section of my basement devoted to Christmas decorations. Over the years, I've amassed quite a collection of "Christmas crap" (what Bill affectionately calls my Christmas decor).<br />
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When the kids were little I loved making the house festive. And, I think they enjoyed it just as much as I did. Will used to love putting small birds (not live! ha!) and sugar plums on the stair railing after wrapping it with cedar boughs. Both Emma and Will would spend hours arranging and rearranging the miniature houses in the Dickens's village. Every year we would add a house, or some fencing, or more people or a bridge. And, of course, like millions of people, hanging ornaments on the tree was always special. It was a magical time.<br />
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This year, I spent the Sunday after Thanksgiving hanging lights outside - on the bushes, trees and fencing. My adult children waved to me from the comfort of the living room as I teetered precariously on the top step of the ladder. I think they were laughing. Clearly, the magic has gone.<br />
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Since no one else seems to care, I haven't done my usual vomiting of greenery, pine cones, miniature trees and ribbons in the house. I'm perpetrating a fraud: the outside of our house looks like we are all set for Christmas, but, inside all I have done is put wreaths on the front and back doors. When people visit, I'm compelled to make excuses about the lack of holiday spirit.<br />
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This year, I don't think I'm even going to put up a tree. Without the kids, and with Bill's lack of enthusiasm, I don't feel like I should do it just for me. It seems like a lot of work just to satisfy my inner elf. Besides, every day I get to work at a beautiful mansion where the Christmas decor is stunning. My co-workers and I decorated one morning in early December: Check out our music room:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">CTG at Christmastime<br /><br /><br /></td></tr>
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I don't know. There are still a couple of weeks left before Christmas. I might change my mind. Bill has me booked with various parties over the next 2 weeks so I won't have any time after work to run up and down the basement stairs with my plastic tubs of Santas and garlands.<br />
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However, it is Christmas, a time for miracles... Maybe Bill will be infused with the spirit and help me!<br />
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</div>Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-211641254786498822011-12-02T10:48:00.001-05:002011-12-05T10:53:57.766-05:00In the middle of the road<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> drive down Main Street almost every day to get to work. It may not be the fastest route to my office, but it's the most direct and my brain can cruise into automatic pilot, a welcome occurrence first thing in the morning. I know the traffic light patterns like the back of my hand and I even think my car changes lanes by itself.</span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Last week I noticed a single black suede running shoe in the middle of Main Street - right where Parker and Amherst and Fillmore come together to create a grid lock every weekday. I sit there through 2 light cycles and often check my email at that point. But, one day last week, my phone was in my purse in the trunk so I was unable to flip through my emails. Instead, I gazed out the window and noticed that the lone shoe was still lying in the middle of the road. I calculated that it had been at least 3 days that it had been there. </span></b></div>
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<a href="http://pursuitofhealthfulness.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/still-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://pursuitofhealthfulness.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/still-2.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My mind wandered a bit at the stop light and pondered how on earth that one shoe had found its way to the middle of Main Street. I imagined someone hobbling in North Buffalo with one shoe wondering just what the HECK had happened. Or, did someone get so mad at the grid lock that they whipped their shoe out the window in disgust? It was a perfectly fine looking shoe, so I didn't think it had fallen off a garbage or Goodwill truck. Did someone get hit by a car and an importance piece of evidence was left at the scene? Was someone running away from such a bad situation that going back for the dropped shoe was just not an option? Was a serial killer randomly distributing his prey's belongings? Like I said.... my mind wandered.</span></b></div>
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<a href="http://www.argos-gallery.com/Argos_Site/IMAGES/Levin_10/167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.argos-gallery.com/Argos_Site/IMAGES/Levin_10/167.jpg" width="258" /></span></a><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Ok, here's a strange bit of synchronicity: The very day that I was pondering about the owner of the shoe, I was also slated to play squash at a downtown athletic/social club. While I was changing into my gear getting ready to play, I overheard one of the fitness instructors telling a humorous story: Early on Thanksgiving morning, she had opened up the fitness area (she is the lifeguard). She noticed a vagrant sleeping in the entrance way to the club. At least she thought he was a vagrant. But, apparently he was well spoken and had nice manners. Turns out he was a college kid who had lost his way from the downtown drinking establishments and had stumble bummed (one of my dad's phrases) into the protection of the entrance of the club. (Aside: The night before Thanksgiving is traditionally one of the biggest party nights in Buffalo - since kids are returning home from college and are anxious to reconnect with high school pals). </span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Get this: He had lost his SHOES! BOTH of them - it turns out. Since he was still far from home and his socks were destroyed, Betty (the fitness gal) rooted around and found him some white soled squash sneakers that the club kept as extras. She figured he may still be a bit drunk but at least he could navigate his way home with his feet covered.</span></b><br />
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<b>So, the black shoe on Main Street probably wasn't this kid's shoe... but, Betty's story added yet another possibility to my list of scenarios. Can any of you think of other possiblities? And, can you posit why you tend to only see one shoe <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDeHAM93fuc">in the middle of the road</a>?</b></div>Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-50885027905193184372011-11-28T21:21:00.001-05:002011-11-29T19:51:51.970-05:00Happy Birthday, Pauly-P<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Today would have been my dad's 81st birthday. He and I were almost exactly 30 years apart. He was fond of telling me that the older the parent, the smarter the child. I took that under advisement.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUgLPiznqJb1UX8nAmIJZ_vEyFLCv-wiMdDLEs_e8hKbv9sGCLNMPoJISQiGgmCSh608clWFMRCtlmsNkdxEyv01s31D3a7EgcIWwX7XFyISaz9FzmauXgjbAjvRbkeJ8JCset9fQBkuw/s1600/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUgLPiznqJb1UX8nAmIJZ_vEyFLCv-wiMdDLEs_e8hKbv9sGCLNMPoJISQiGgmCSh608clWFMRCtlmsNkdxEyv01s31D3a7EgcIWwX7XFyISaz9FzmauXgjbAjvRbkeJ8JCset9fQBkuw/s200/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" width="150" /></a>I adored my dad. It wasn't hard since he was my biggest fan, too. He used to say that he became a member of the "Women's Lib" movement the day I was born. He told me I could do anything I put my mind to. Powerful stuff for a young girl! He taught me how to hammer a nail, wallpaper a room, tell a joke, paint a baseboard, fix a fence, plant vegetables, estimate due dates of pregnant ewes (that involved crouching low and cocking your head to one side), and drive a tractor. He also taught me the rules of hockey, to appreciate the many shades of green on a single leaf, to breathe deeply and remember the smells of nature, the power of a Shakespearean sonnet, and to always ask for the order at the end of a sales call. In high school he would discuss my English papers with me until late into the night. We spent a lot of time together talking and debating. He tried to teach me to paint, but, alas, I had zero talent - my brother inherited all the artistic genes. He spent a lot of time with Kevin, too. </div>
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One of the best lessons Dad taught me was not to be afraid of bullies. Although the subject of bullying is <i>au courant,</i> it is truly an ancient topic. I vividly recall the bully on our street: his name was Tommy and he had a little brother named Nicky. I have no idea what kind of horrors Nicky had to endure living with an evil brother, but 3 doors up from them, I was living in fear. My dad told me that I was smart and that I should use my head when dealing with Tommy... so I did. The last time that Tommy ever bothered me was the day he wouldn't let me pass him on the sidewalk. He held out his arms wide, legs akimbo, and dared me to go past him to get to my house. I remembered my dad's words: I backed up, bent forward at the waist and ran full force with my head into his gut. Tommy never bothered me again. I'm still not afraid of bullies (and, yes they're still around even in my cohort), but now I use my head the way my dad originally intended! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7R9vfhorijQgkXLLJZPv1UqDBTL03o0tfZZNhARkHAtUZi0ruY29QCT4Yhr0Gm6gt8k742P69ovLEOZNsihgfSw_1w9EhxSuXcYNtgyxOLNXwJjDyp4fO5KskiPsQdEyryruXxTl4iIc/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7R9vfhorijQgkXLLJZPv1UqDBTL03o0tfZZNhARkHAtUZi0ruY29QCT4Yhr0Gm6gt8k742P69ovLEOZNsihgfSw_1w9EhxSuXcYNtgyxOLNXwJjDyp4fO5KskiPsQdEyryruXxTl4iIc/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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I had the good fortune of moving back in with my parents after I finished university. It wasn't a difficult decision - I had no money and I loved being with my parents. It gave me a chance to interact with them as adults. And, I learned to appreciate what it was that the two of them had - a mutual respect and admiration and a deep, abiding love. I still view that time with them (all to myself) as a gift.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvXjiR9oTxGTQDBvZZV57jVwOJxPOiMFKYlLlI00FiHtljY0DxSln03ZZ6zY_O5r_pb2ghcfMAN6VXZ4PXm4Dg98XUWD0JiS6kBTyscOPJ3wteIu98N3TTldgrZ3mZZwSCGaZ7JGURbA/s1600/photo2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvXjiR9oTxGTQDBvZZV57jVwOJxPOiMFKYlLlI00FiHtljY0DxSln03ZZ6zY_O5r_pb2ghcfMAN6VXZ4PXm4Dg98XUWD0JiS6kBTyscOPJ3wteIu98N3TTldgrZ3mZZwSCGaZ7JGURbA/s200/photo2.JPG" width="150" /></a>My dad and Bill had a tempestuous relationship. It's not surprising - they were very similar. I knew that I would end up marrying someone like my dad because I loved him so much. Luckily, I found my version of my dad all wrapped in a feisty lawyer from Niagara Falls.<br />
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Dad died too soon; he was only 73. He was plagued by melancholia in his later years. He searched for contentment his whole life and, even though most people would have thought he'd found it, it remained elusive to him. In the end, I think he just 'gave up the ghost' and succumbed to his head problems. He felt things deeply, reacted irrationally and sometimes blew his cork, and would often say outrageous things to strangers just to get a reaction! He was a passionate man to say the least.<br />
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But, he taught me how to love unconditionally - by example. I was so lucky to have him as my father. I miss him to this day.</div>Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-84628674503311777642011-11-20T16:16:00.001-05:002011-11-20T17:01:26.373-05:00Autumn Leaves - Part DeuxWill is home!! I don't know why he got to come home so early from school, but he is here almost a full week ahead of his cronies. <br />
After a few bear hugs from me (and some eye rolling from him), I put him to work almost immediately.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfwhCWwsmgr9M24MS_zztOA5xXtIP_-s50Wysh7hDQDiEYiJ5f175dyzDkhqSCxxkIY2OZJlDMdaukOE7zlMzZtnI3vBX92Dmorh9Uo2KosMyRbgxI6eZ_HLoGgZlj9rJzFE6_7rBFZM/s1600/trohpy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfwhCWwsmgr9M24MS_zztOA5xXtIP_-s50Wysh7hDQDiEYiJ5f175dyzDkhqSCxxkIY2OZJlDMdaukOE7zlMzZtnI3vBX92Dmorh9Uo2KosMyRbgxI6eZ_HLoGgZlj9rJzFE6_7rBFZM/s200/trohpy.jpg" width="150" /></a>Those leaves never did get done by my well intentioned husband. He (conveniently?) came down with a cold and has been nursing his throat, etc. for a few days. Which, come to think of it, didn't stop him from staying out late for a Texas Hold 'Em tournament a couple of nights ago (he came away with the trophy). He completely lost his voice after that night. <br />
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Back to the leaves. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few hours of raking (yes, all those piles are from our house)</td></tr>
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Will and I tackled those suckers like seasoned professionals. In about 5 minutes we had a system down that would rival anyone on our block - maybe even any landscaping service. And, we didn't use a leaf blower. I cannot believe how we motored through all the debris with sheer brawn and determination. <br />
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In terms of working in the garden, Will has always been my 'go to' guy. He was the first one to come outside with me during the October storm (Buffalonians will remember October 2006 for a long time) to shake the snow off the Chinese Red Maple leaves, thereby preventing all the branches from snapping. Later, he hauled limbs from the back yard to the front in order to clear out all the fallen trees. He was 14 and indispensable to me. Come to think of it, Bill was in bed with a cold that week, too!<br />
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Emma and I spend time in the garden - drinking coffee and beer and gin (not always at the same time), sunning and reading - but we don't tend to work together. I'm not saying that she doesn't help around the house. She is an incredibly hard worker and keeps things from getting too cluttered or crazed. She has been my life-safer at cleaning out and tossing so many times. <br />
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I guess she's my inside man - and Will is my outside man. <br />
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And Bill is ... well... in the words of Judy Garland, Ethel Merman, Peggy Lee and Ella Fitzgerald (to name just a few) - "I got my man, who can ask for anything more."Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-69579225558749298472011-11-17T15:21:00.001-05:002011-11-17T17:34:42.951-05:00Something's up<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
Last night I got home rather late. Usually, I am very aware of my surroundings when I pull into my driveway - but the late hour, my aching muscles and tired brain rendered me completely unobservant. I made a beeline for the door - and subsequently to bed. It had been a tough day.</div>
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Had I opened my eyes, I would have noticed some heavy equipment in the neighbor's yard - adjacent to our driveway. Today, in the light of day, and with 8 hours of sleep under my belt, I saw this:</div>
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(Notice - my neighbor has not raked HIS leaves, either!)</div>
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Bill had not said anything about the equipment when he came in last night (after me) either. Not that I would expect him to notice anything. He had been out to his "Men's Book Club" (read "eating and drinking with the boys club"). Curiously, the "book club" doesn't meet in a salon or a library or even a member's home. No, they meet in a drinking establishment. Last night it was "Mother's." </div>
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So... he did not notice this ORANGE behemoth in the neighbor's yard. </div>
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Nor did he notice this other piece of equipment located just beyond our garage:</div>
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OK, here's the funny part. </div>
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This morning, after I had taken notice of the equipment and snapped these photos, I got into my car and started to pull out of the driveway. Just as I started to back out, Bill ambled out of the front door. He came over to my car, motioned for me to put down the window and said "good morning". We hadn't spoken yet since I had to be at an early morning meeting - I got ready silently so I wouldn't wake him. We chatted about logistics of the day and said good bye. I purposely watched him go back into the house.</div>
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Do you know he never even GLANCED at the heavy equipment next door?</div>
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I still can't figure him out. It'll be 25 years I've been married to this man (next week) and I cannot fathom how he couldn't notice!! If anyone out there wants to reply with a reason why these neighborhood intruders don't even REGISTER with Bill, please educate me.</div>
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I await your responses.</div>
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<br /></div>Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-61987704049684750482011-11-14T09:11:00.001-05:002011-11-14T13:21:55.660-05:00Autumn Leaves<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNPGXHj7CrcumvC-SjoYFC7CzcoBnLnAImOAr5kF834wmnzcMGxA5s3cUicAhbJ3mbKjyDRpG0RIvPRy8k25FPqz1P43EQqgmOnO_dIv90h6DJ3kiuOwBKb_IJphqpVqANcVcPsK3ctOY/s1600/barbra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNPGXHj7CrcumvC-SjoYFC7CzcoBnLnAImOAr5kF834wmnzcMGxA5s3cUicAhbJ3mbKjyDRpG0RIvPRy8k25FPqz1P43EQqgmOnO_dIv90h6DJ3kiuOwBKb_IJphqpVqANcVcPsK3ctOY/s200/barbra.jpg" width="200" /></a>The first rendition I ever heard of "Autumn Leaves" was by Barbra Streisand from her album "Je m'appelle Barbra" . I was just a kid - maybe 7 or 8 years old. I remember staring at the album cover and thinking how odd Streisand looked. And, what was with those nails?!<br />
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I know this scene was repeated by kids all over North America.<br />
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Even today I can clearly recall Herb Albert's whip cream laden babe (scandalous at the time), the Carpenters sitting side by side uncomfortably on a rock ( I couldn't figure out why Karen didn't line her dress), and a crazy calypso album (Yellow Bird was my dad's favorite song after a trip to Nassau). After I had learned the words, I would get an uncooked piece of spaghetti, put it to my mouth like a microphone, and belt out the tunes on the records. That high fi created a sound stage for me. I really thought I could mimic Barbra perfectly on 'Free Again'. Lucky Lucky ME AGAIN!!!<br />
Wow, the memory of that embarrasses me to this day.<br />
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When Fall comes and the leaves whip down the streets, I can't help but hear Barbra (and my 7 year old voice) in my head.<br />
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Last night, Bill and I went for a quick walk through the neighborhood. Most of our neighbors had already moved their leaves to the curb. I had not completed this task yet. Even though the weather this weekend was perfect, I just didn't have the time to rake. Yes, I have a blower that my friend Randy gave me, but I HATE the noise. It's absolutely deafening and I think a huge intrusion into the lives of my neighbors. So, I rake.<br />
But, not this weekend.<br />
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As we approached our house, I said to Bill, "Man! Look at those leaves".<br />
"Don't you pay someone to take care of them?" Bill queried.<br />
I looked at him. This is a typical Bill remark. He doesn't take care of any household related items (except cooking and groceries) and is virtually blind to anything that occurs in and around the house (this includes rearranging furniture, anything in the garden, water lines, heating ducts, downspouts, flooding, major repairs.. you get the picture).<br />
"No, Bill - I rake the leaves", I responded.<br />
"Do you want me to do them?" he asked. "I could stay home tomorrow and go in at 10:00 a.m."<br />
I laughed.<br />
If you think you can rake all those leaves by 10 a.m. - go for it!<br />
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As I backed out of the driveway this morning, I noticed that the leaves were still there.<br />
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Automatically, the record needle in my brain found the groove line where Barbra belted out "But, I miss you most of all, my darling.... when autumn leaves start to fall".<br />
<br /></div>Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-17408831460770049222011-11-02T21:34:00.001-04:002011-11-02T21:34:31.995-04:00To Sir (Bill) with Love<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggV5YOPNoi_tV8T7ESB4Sx_zph1ZQ_vbN0op8mSH2GPqOgnt9e4NgnzVjIHo-ZDK00Bpjc4UCDBm33O1o0vGMsHUR7G3-zREMaFjGMTUGu0ISDEibWRptgQFgl4XE8lSLCkjlQeMUvZ_E/s1600/teacher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggV5YOPNoi_tV8T7ESB4Sx_zph1ZQ_vbN0op8mSH2GPqOgnt9e4NgnzVjIHo-ZDK00Bpjc4UCDBm33O1o0vGMsHUR7G3-zREMaFjGMTUGu0ISDEibWRptgQFgl4XE8lSLCkjlQeMUvZ_E/s200/teacher.jpg" width="140" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggV5YOPNoi_tV8T7ESB4Sx_zph1ZQ_vbN0op8mSH2GPqOgnt9e4NgnzVjIHo-ZDK00Bpjc4UCDBm33O1o0vGMsHUR7G3-zREMaFjGMTUGu0ISDEibWRptgQFgl4XE8lSLCkjlQeMUvZ_E/s1600/teacher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">I remember when I was in high school I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>took one of those 'career tests' - I believe it was called the <em>Kuder Preference Test</em>. The results indicated that I should either be a lawyer, an actor or a teacher. Being rebellious, I chose to study biology after high school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those four years of university may have got me slightly off track, but I firmly believe that I had to get it out of my system. It was important for me to prove that I could study the sciences and do well. </span><br />
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<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, today I am a lawyer, and I spend a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>portion of my time teaching our managers - albeit over the phone using WebEx, but teaching nonetheless. Dr. Kuder was right - I really enjoy practicing law and teaching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not so sure about the acting part, though.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_uthuaRaZTQJSqs4SYQQnQBeTGw4zO1zPtD6MnPGR0wrbgzNGGukPxt85kjD0IfW41N1orrXF9rg0LwE-oyz9c9GgEjmvGboHp0I-08k6JfIdb6c7qXV3M4q-lHxooVm1Bp52YOmKEQ/s1600/to-sir_mylespaul_com_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_uthuaRaZTQJSqs4SYQQnQBeTGw4zO1zPtD6MnPGR0wrbgzNGGukPxt85kjD0IfW41N1orrXF9rg0LwE-oyz9c9GgEjmvGboHp0I-08k6JfIdb6c7qXV3M4q-lHxooVm1Bp52YOmKEQ/s320/to-sir_mylespaul_com_.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bill has been teaching for eons - I think over 30 years in the management school at University of Buffalo and a bunch of years at UB's Law School. He's masterful. For one thing, he knows the material cold. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_uthuaRaZTQJSqs4SYQQnQBeTGw4zO1zPtD6MnPGR0wrbgzNGGukPxt85kjD0IfW41N1orrXF9rg0LwE-oyz9c9GgEjmvGboHp0I-08k6JfIdb6c7qXV3M4q-lHxooVm1Bp52YOmKEQ/s1600/to-sir_mylespaul_com_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">For another he's got memory that rivals anyone I know. But, mostly it's his depth and breadth of knowledge that makes him special. And, the students can tell right away that he's 'one of a kind'. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Teaching at night presents<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>unique problems - mostly having to do with keeping the students engaged and awake. It's important to keep the lecture lively. I started teaching a evening class to some Human Resource professionals last night at Empire State College. It's kind of involved as to why I'm teaching this, but I'm really glad that I had the opportunity.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjogcalozMsFzngBjvpKDoPT70OCBYMPdH_1ALWJSElmw2_iPOOgNayjocc8665twJvk82mK2goan45UV4pIhk9IEM3052ph0hyphenhyphen1K8se20wa2oRbJhrxJux4E2nm35TV5X4hCa4mgrS3_g/s1600/hans_franz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjogcalozMsFzngBjvpKDoPT70OCBYMPdH_1ALWJSElmw2_iPOOgNayjocc8665twJvk82mK2goan45UV4pIhk9IEM3052ph0hyphenhyphen1K8se20wa2oRbJhrxJux4E2nm35TV5X4hCa4mgrS3_g/s200/hans_franz.jpg" width="157" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I drove to class, I started wrestling with self doubt. Did I make enough notes to myself; did I cover the chapter thoroughly; should I have prepared more questions?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, as I drove down the 33 I called Bill </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">- because I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>knew he would PUMP ME UP! And he did. He gave me the necessary pep talk and made me feel better. He should probably teach other husbands how to do that. I am so lucky that he's ALWAYS in my corner. ALWAYS!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was fairly confident about the material but I didn't have a good grasp of how long it would take me to get through it. Between my fast talking and my underestimation, we finished 40 minutes early. I don't think the class had a problem with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm ashamed to admit that I enjoyed teaching the class. I liked being 'on stage' and I loved when I could make the students laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Come to think of it, maybe Kuder was three for three.</span></div>
</div>Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2801945724087686310.post-16682128856385672382011-10-26T09:24:00.000-04:002011-10-26T09:24:56.080-04:00Love across the milesIt's raining in Buffalo. I was awake at 5:30 a.m. and could feel the cool hand of depression reaching through the windows. I looked over at Bill (who was sound asleep) and cursed my overactive brain. Who needs sleep when you can lie in bed and beat yourself up with the "would've, could've, should've" debates?<br />
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I dragged myself out of bed and decided today I would dress in black (OK - that's pretty normal - I have a lot of black clothes).<br />
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Getting into the car to make my short trip to work I spied a CD that Bill had found and left on the passenger seat.<br />
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I had forgotten about this home made CD. Will had burned it for me when he was still in high school. It contains a lot of current upbeat music that he was listening to at the time, as well as some David Bowie and Queen. <br />
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OK - one look at the disc and my mood elevated - not so much for the music it contained, but for the fact that Will had made it for me. You can actually feel the enthusiasm in the writing on the face of the disc. (PS - I'm "MamS" to Will).<br />
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Will. He is one of a kind. LOVE HIM TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH.<br />
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Although he is miles away he lifted my spirits and my heart! THANKS, WILL.<br />
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<br />Liz Savinohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16379312967901855807noreply@blogger.com0