Keeping Fit in Pitt (Part 2)
November 28, 2009
I was wrong in yesterday’s post about Pittsburghians not knowing that it is good manners to say “hi” to strangers when passing. It is not Pittsburghians who are ignorant on this point; it is just the ones on the part of the Montour Trail that runs behind Susan’s house.
Today I took the trail where it continues on the other side of the highway, and almost all the folks walking and biking it said hello to me before I had a chance. I will not have to try to elevate their culture after all. They were a different group: not so focused on building their muscles and seeing how much wheezing they could handle before cardiac arrest set in. They were the mom-and-dad type with little kids, or the I-am-just-out-for-a-stroll-to-enjoy-the-weather-and-I-don’t-care-if-I-elevate-my-heartbeat-to-its-maximum-potential-or-not type.
I simply cannot get used to all these houses built into the sides of the mountains. We’ve got some of the same in Door County and the east side of Lake Winnebago in Wisconsin, but most of our state is mildly hilly or fairly flat. I also cannot get used to how some houses’ front doors open almost directly onto the highway — or else have a goodly flight of stairs up to the door. I would be a lean muscle machine if I lived here permanently. If the up-and-down-hill walking did not do it for me, running from the copperheads in the summertime would.
I am developing a theory: even driving the hairpin turns and up-and-down slopes burns calories. It would be possible to be quite athletically fit in Pittsburgh even without consciously exercising — if it weren’t for Chick -fil-A to ruin it all at the end of the day.
Susan has always been mystified by part of the local culture. Although their home is only fifteen minutes from the heart of Pittsburgh, many people from their area –even very youngish people — have never been to the City. Even more of them have not ever been to the other side of it. They just live and die in their own small corner of the suburbs (suburghs?).
If Susan had wanted to know the answer, all she would have had to do is ask. One of the natives explained it to me. They all get lost if they travel outside of a certain small radius. You see, because everything is in the mountains, there is no such thing as square city blocks. All the roads wind this way and that, without any organization, rhyme, or reason. Finding your way around — especially around the city to the other side of it — is nigh-on to impossible. So they all just stay in their township and the couple of townships nearby. It is completely a safety issue. There now. That makes sense to me!
You might ask, “But what about one of those little GPS gizmos? Wouldn’t that take care of the problem?” We tried the GPS gadget to get us to Pittsburgh from Wisconsin. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It tried to tell us Susan’s address did not exist. After awhile, it decided the existence was a distinct possibility, but the directions given were not sensible. If we had listened, we would have ended up on the wrong side of the city, lost forever, never to find Susan or Wisconsin again.
So, I understand. I would behave myself and stay in my suburb too.
Keeping Fit in Pitt
November 27, 2009
As I explained yesterday, we have been visiting in the rural outskirts of Pittsburgh.
I have been doing quite a bit of walking, partly out of desire to see some scenery, partly to find temporary solitude. There is a hiking path about one-half mile from Susan’s house. Getting there is semi-dangerous, as there is only a narrow shoulder along a sharply curving highway to walk on, and traffic is clipping. I take consolation in not seeing many wildlife corpses on the road, which probably means that if I keep my eyes open, I will not end up as roadkill either. I instruct the family before leaving that if I am not back in two hours, it is time to mount up a posse and come looking for me.
The hiking trail is an old railroad line, with a long tunnel cut through a hillside for added interest. Woods adorn both sides, and Susan’s house is up on a bluff overlooking a creek which cuts between the trail and the residential area.
It seems that Pittsburghians do not behave quite like Wisconsinites. The folks out on the trail are mostly intense types. They jog, they stride energetically with arms flailing wildly, they are pulled along by unruly pitbulls, but they do not acknowledge each other’s existence as they meet. My mother taught me as a small child that when we pass someone on the street, we smile pleasantly and say “hi.” Pittsburghians appear to be very serious about whatever they do, including conscientiously obeying their mothers’ instructions never to speak to strangers. I perversely insist on accosting them with a ”hi,” although I quickly discovered this is not kosher. The typical response is a surprised stare, as if they have discovered an intriguing new species of insect and are not quite certain whether to squash it or let it entertain them. I keep trying, in hopes of improving their standard of civilized behavior, and I sometimes even get a response, but it is difficult to change a culture in a mere week’s time.
The trail is not heavily traveled in November, so I feel a little nervous about encountering lone men when no one else is in sight, especially in the dimly lit tunnel. I am alert to my surroundings at all times, and listen carefully to assess the danger factor. If the guy is breathing heavily as he approaches, that is probably good. Loud snorting, wheezing, asthmatic gasping, and pre-cardiac arrest noises are even better. All of these mean I can run faster than them, and that predator tactics are the last thing on their mind.
One of Susan’s friends informed me that in the summertime, the men are not the main alarm factor on the trail. When it is warm, the copperheads enjoy sunning themselves smack dab in the middle of the road. When they get too warm, they cool off in the tunnel — and no doubt lie in wait for silly Wisconsin women who never once imagined that a ten-foot-wide gravelled road would be a snake resort.
I passed a pleasant elderly couple along the trail one afternoon. (They said “hi” back and smiled — probably natives of Wisconsin, not Pittsburgh.) I suppose they were in their seventies. She was round and he was very lean — like Jack Sprat and wife.
As I approached the tunnel on my return leg of the hike, I encountered Mrs. Sprat peering intently around the edge of it. Jack was on the other end, poking around in some weeds. Shortly after I entered, what I thought was a teenager tore past me in the fastest sprint I’d ever seen outside of the Olympics. But it wasn’t a teenager. As he got nearer, I realized it was Jack. Seventy … spry as a youngster … faster than a speeding bullet … no red cape or other super hero props though.
“How’d I do?” Jack asked, lightly puffing.
“Thirty-one seconds,” Mrs. Sprat replied.
But the light puffing didn’t subside or even continue evenly. “EEH-HUH! EEH-HUH! EEH-HUH! EEH-HUH!” Jack commenced gasping in high-pitched apparent distress. I wished I had remembered to bring the cell phone. Obviously Jack was going to need an ambulance, and no telling how long it would take one to get there and whether the driver would know that he could disregard the hiking trail rule, “no motorized vehicles allowed.”
I turned to gaze in horror. Mrs Sprat giggled. Jack didn’t giggle. He just kept on with the “EEH-HUH! EEH-HUH! EEH-HUH! EEH-HUH!” At that point I figured that either she was rather looking forward to an early widowhood, or else Jack and the Mrs. just hang out at the tunnel on a regular basis, waiting to show off their stuff for whatever unsuspecting Wisconsinite comes along, hoping to scare the daylights out of their victim.
I headed on down the trail, and I noticed when I got to the end that the Sprats, with no “EEH-HUH! EEH-HUH! EEH-HUH! EEH-HUHs” in earshot, were not far behind.
Where the Wild Things Are
November 26, 2009
We are visiting Susan and family in Pittsburgh for a few days. They do not really live in Pittsburgh, just in one of the rural, wooded suburbs that surround the city.
I am in the midst of being a very cool grandma. As everyone knows, cool grandmas come in a wide array of colors and shapes, but they are only really cool if they get artsy-craftsy with the little ones. I have about three things in my artsy-craftsy arsenal, so it’s good that I am a long-distance grandma and can spread those three things out over my entire career.
Hence, I came prepared with a bucket of seashells and a huge jar of popsicle sticks. We made treasure boxes by gluing the sticks together in dizzyingly-high layers until we reached the attention span limit. The seashells became lid decorations. The small fry will remember my visit fondly forever. Now you know how to be a very cool grandma, if you didn’t possess that information before. Isn’t the Internet wonderful?
Jason Upton sings, “Do you really want to know … where the wild things are?” I know. They live in suburban Pittsburgh — both inside and outside the house. We arrived to find Susan and her husband in a massive battle with squatters — an army of mice. These are brazen rodents: they do not wait until we are all snuggled in bed with the lights out to reconnoiter. They watch us from corners, waiting for the very moment we leave the room, whereupon they scramble from their bunkers in search of plunder. The killer beagle is not concerned. He should face a long stint in the brig for dereliction of duty.
Francis Scott Key described the battle he witnessed as “the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air.” Here it is more like snap, crackle, and POP — sounds of mice rummaging through the cupboards and their eventual demise in the cleverly positioned booby traps.
I commented darkly that we should consider mouse croquettes for dinner some evening. I’m not sure that is any more of a gross idea than escargot or frog legs, but it was merely a conversation starter, not an idea to be seriously entertained.
The house has a history of wildlife intrusions. Last summer Susan found a baby snake coiled among the children’s toys. Her heroic husband strode to the rescue, scooped the viper up in a box, and hurled him down the hill to the creek. I’m not sure it was a real viper. Chris said you can tell whether they are poisonous or not by how slanted the eyes are — but he didn’t examine the eyeballs intently enough to find out. He’s a very just-get-the-job-done kind of guy.
Incidents of this sort must be why Susan once announced that she would much prefer to live in an apartment with concrete all the way up to the foundations and not a blade of grass or a tree in sight.
“Awake, O Sleeper”
November 14, 2009
I grew up in a liturgical church. I’m not there now, but I have fond memories – one of which I’m sharing today.
Our congregation went through an abrupt transition from a perpetually smiling, always gentle shepherd to a vacancy pastor who had missed his Marine drill sergeant calling. I’ve noticed that people in nondenominational churches don’t put up with such things. They just leave if the pastor doesn’t suit them or if the preaching gets too hot. But in the church of my youth, we hung in there by our fingernails for the sake of denominational loyalty.
We couldn’t do without our pipe organ, and our elderly organist thought we couldn’t do without her, either. Mrs. Leidenfeist must have been installed along with the pipes seventy years before. Her possessiveness of her organist position had increased proportionately with the percentage of clinker notes we now endured through each Sunday. She fussed if anybody else ever touched the keys, and she never took a vacation for fear of finding a permanent replacement on her bench when she returned. The elder board, not knowing how to turn her out to pasture without devastating her tender sensibilities, piously reminded complainers that forbearance was a virtue.
One summer Sunday, it all came to a head. Keeping the congregation alert in a sanctuary with no air conditioning was a challenge for the pastor, but he excelled at strategically punctuating his sermon points with thunderous emphasis, so most of us kept our eyelids up. Still, it must have been unbearably hot in the choir loft, where the organ and Mrs. Leidenfeist resided. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John would have had a hard time keeping awake up there.
The sermon finally ground to a conclusion, and ending the service required just a little more liturgical dialogue between congregation and pulpit.
“Let us pray,” intoned our pastor.
We all waited for our organ cue to respond in song. Deafening silence lingered for an eternal twenty seconds, while the pastor shifted impatiently from foot to foot. Every child, parent, and granny in the building was probably dying to turn around and check out what had gone haywire in the balcony, but the mamas of our denomination had drilled into their children for ten generations past that looking behind us or laughing in church would net us ten thousand years in purgatory – and we didn’t even subscribe to that doctrine!
“I SAID, ‘Let us pray!!!’” the pastor shouted, as he glared towards the choir loft.
The organ lady hit the keys with a full body slam, at the same time tromping down hard on the volume pedal. I know the Bible says the resurrection of the dead will be announced with a trumpet blast, but if it had said “organ,” this would have done the job. Mrs. Leidenfeist recovered quickly, and the traditional notes were duly sounded. Not a snicker was heard. How many prayers shot heavenward for divine aid in giggle suppression can only be guessed, but the liturgical response, done with the usual perfect decorum, prevailed over all temptation.
No doubt the pastor consulted his Excedrin and Maalox bottles for the rest of the day, while the laity enormously enjoyed chicken and Mrs. Leidenfeist’s embarrassment for dinner.
Anniversary #31
November 4, 2009
Today was our wedding anniversary — thirty-one wonderful, adventurous, romantic years together. Paul provides the wonderful and I provide the adventurous. The romantic just is. I thought I’d give a report on our day, so that all of you who don’t have the first idea how to have a great anniversary together will get a few pointers.
Gifts — For weeks I pleaded with Paul to give me some ideas of what he wanted. My eyes glazed over when he mentioned the technology items. I don’t do technology. It mortally confuses me.
Finally he announced the need for a new set of dress trousers. I had just about simultaneously gotten the same brilliant idea, having noticed a huge white wear spot on the pocket of his navy blue slacks just that morning as he stood at the front of the church. The entire church family saw the need at the same moment I did. Humility is not something I have to strive over-hard for. Opportunities abound.
So I thought the problem of an anniversary gift was solved. Not. Finding Paul trousers is a monumental challenge. He is long and thin. The trousers available have the dimensions switched around. 32 x 34 will work; 34 x 32 will not. I was still looking today without success. Fortunately, I had a book stashed away for his birthday, which had to do anniversary duty.
When he hauled out several presents for me, I felt like a heel — until I opened them.
Gift #1 — A homemade Fernando Ortega CD case — without the CD. “Thank you, Paul. I have always loved Fernando Ortega’s CD cases. Usually they come with a CD inside.”
“Oh, did I forget the CD? Duh.” He ambled off to his man-den in the basement to retrieve the music portion of the Fernando gift. He had downloaded the music (legally) from the Internet and made a lovely case and all — just forgot to put the CD in it.
Gift #2 – A Hershey Milk Chocolate-flavored lip balm — with instructions to smear it, but not to eat it. I normally do not use lip balms. Petroleum jelly out of a jar serves the same purpose quite effectively. Beebee asked if I knew how to use lip balm, or if she needed to demonstrate for me. She probably just wanted the first lick.
Gift #3 – A bag of Lemonheads. Yes, exactly. The same candy they sell at swimming pool concession stands.
I now understood why, whenever I had pleaded for gift ideas, Paul had consistently stated he only wanted a bag of circus peanuts and a tube of braunschweiger to make him blissfully happy. He had hoped to put our gifts on an equal plane.
(The man gave me roses and truffles, too, but Lemonheads and CD-less CD cases are more fun to talk about.)
Other festivities – We spent a romantic afternoon together at ShopKo Optical. I have needed new glasses for a while, not being able to see overmuch out of the old ones. They had a huge 25% off sale, and Paul generously offered to buy me any $49.95 frame in the place. (Actually, I was the one who opted for the $49.95 pair. The $99.95 frames looked a little nicer, but the price tag hanging from them wasn’t near as elegant as the one on the $49.95 pair. I know cool when I see it.)
We dined on petite sirloin at Applebee’s. It was a weird experience having the cook bring our steaks to the table and stand over us, demanding that we cut it and make sure it was done to our taste. He refused to leave until we had done so. It must be a custom peculiar to Applebee’s. A few minutes later, the waitress came by and asked in a whisper if we had “cut our steak for anyone yet.” I’ll bet it has nothing to do with whether the steak is done to perfection. They probably don’t trust the customers to handle knives without supervision until the management is sure they are mature enough to manipulate sharp objects alone. We were being tested. I got so nervous I tried to cut with the serrated edge up, but they let me keep my knife anyway.
While I demonstrated my knife-wielding prowess for the cook, precious seconds were lost, and the butter ran off my baked potato and into the zucchini. I was disappointed. If they had wrapped that potato in traditional foil, the butter would have stayed put. Sigh!
We dressed up for our big occasion. Paul wore a sweater and white jeans (because I could not find dress slacks for his anniversary present, no doubt). I wore my beautiful hunter-green tunic with the Nehru collar. I fell in love with it and its $3.00 tag at Goodwill three years ago. I look ever so chic in it, but have not had the courage to wear it in public, since I don’t see other ladies flaunting football player-size padding in their jacket shoulders right now. I keep hoping such fashion will come back into style eventually. (Beebee tells me it is coming back, but only young ladies who have never yet had opportunity to do huge shoulder pads are allowed to wear such things. Old ladies who had their chance back in the 80’s do not get a second shot at it. I will never understand the rules of fashion.) Anyway, I figured nobody at Applebee’s would know me or care, so I wore it and enjoyed myself. I sashayed around Target after dinner in it, too — again looking for the elusive 32 x 34 trousers necessary to restore my man to respectability.
Recommending a Blog
August 20, 2009
I don’t read a lot of other blogs, mainly because I don’t have time. But there is one that has captured me in recent days, thanks to a featured post at WordPress about it.
The blog is by Nancy Bailey, who has a couple of Morgan horses and a few other critters, along with some super animal artwork.
I’ve always loved Morgans, and always would have liked to have had one. I ended up with a 1/2 Saddlebred instead, and that was over thirty years ago.
Anyway, the photos of Cliffy, a beautiful Morgan, and the artwork of the lady who owns him caught my interest. And then I got involved in their story as well.
Do yourself a pleasure and visit Cliffy’s Mom’s Blog. If you love horses, I guarantee you are going to like this one.
Elevator Dialogs
July 11, 2009
Hospital elevators are interesting places. You are stuck with a bunch of other people who might have the next epidemic exuding through their pores and who wouldn’t mind sharing the wealth. We didn’t get the contagious crowd this last time, however: we got the nutcases.
I have no idea if they got on at the psychiatric floor, but I know they did not get off there. As soon as Beebee and I entered and the doors closed behind us, the fun began.
“I eat a whole banana cream pie every night before I go to bed.” I glanced at the elderly man who announced this randomly to anyone who wanted to know. He did not weigh 500 pounds. Either he had the metabolism of a hummingbird or he was at the hospital to have his brain waves tested. Perhaps he wanted to let us all know what the secret of his longevity was.
One of the elevator riders decided to be nice. She giggled and replied, “I like banana cream pie, too.” But she didn’t chirp a peep about eating a whole one every night for bedtime snack.
I restrained myself from commenting that I loathe banana cream pie. It would not have been sympathetic, and may have made someone angry, which is not a good situation in an enclosed box that cannot be immediately evacuated. I also restrained myself from asking, “Oh, banana cream pie syndrome. Is that why you are here?”
The elevator opened at the third floor, and when no one got off, a young man among us asked, “We’re at ground level. Why aren’t we all getting off?”
The woman next to him explained, “This is the floor where they have babies, not ground level.”
He thought about that a couple of seconds and then decided the thirst for knowledge must be satisfied. “Don’t they have babies on all the floors? I thought they did.”
I’m not sure what was bouncing through his mind, but I was personally glad that baby-bearing was confined to one floor, and that it was not allowed in the elevator, even if nutcases were.
Mrs. Banana Cream Pie then announced, “In our hospital back home, people can’t have babies at all.” Before I could wonder if they were missionaries temporarily on leave from the African jungles or if they had a huge infertility problem in their area, she volunteered the name of the rural city they came from. It was the same place that hit the national news twenty years before because all its grocery stores ran entirely out of ice cream for a day. (It was a kinder, gentler world back then, when we all cared immensely if some town in Wisconsin didn’t have ice cream for a whole day.)
She went on to explain that people in their town had to drive sixty miles to get to a hospital where they could have babies. This brought vivid images of certain intolerable scenarios to mind. I have an idea that no one of child-bearing age lives there anymore. It is probably entirely inhabited by older people who eat whole banana cream pies before bed each night.
Let’s just hope what happened with the ice cream twenty years ago never repeats itself with banana cream pies, or there could be a violent uprising.
Facebook — It’s Addictive
June 12, 2009
I have revised my opinion about Facebook. My initial impression was that it was a complete waste of time and about as delightful as eating brussel sprouts. But I have since discovered that some of my friends do have more interesting things happen to them than, “Nicole is brushing her teeth.”
I discovered that those friends who only leave comments behind about brushing their teeth and backing out of their driveways can be conveniently blocked from appearing on my home page. By thus editing out the nonessential material, I make it easier to tune in to the soap opera lives of my remaining friends. This can be most entertaining.
Sometimes it is downright embarrassing, though, as I involuntarily become witness to family spats carried on for all the world to see. I do wish those who quarrel would do it through their private mailboxes, but I guess the idea is, if you’re mad, defacing the offender’s wall with snide remarks is more fun. Perhaps by defacing cyber walls, people restrain themselves from taking a can of spray paint to the offender’s real-life siding.
But on to happier thoughts – the entertaining side of Facebook. I learn the most interesting things there, that no one would otherwise bother to tell me. I am now aware that my son-in-law carries six-foot-long black snakes around the church parking lot on the end of a stick when he has nothing better to do with his time. And, that my daughter was tempted to save the state of Pennsylvania years of penal institution costs by personally administering a lethal injection to a defendant there. She figured he deserved it, and besides, she didn’t want to have to sit on the jury listening to the rest of the gross details of what he had done to deserve life in prison (or lethal injection). I learned that several people I thought were gentle souls harbor secret desires to murder bunnies in their backyard — all for the sake of saving a few petunias. (This, however, is probably not as serious as desiring to give the arrested personage a lethal injection.) I now know the intimate details of certain people’s surgeries, and can only hope they will not upload photos to further enlighten us all on their “procedures.”
I have discovered which of my friends sit down to Facebook at 6:00 a.m. and do not unglue from it until 11:00 p.m. I also know from the nonstop quizzes they take about themselves
1.) Which of Jesus’ disciples they are like (so far, no Judases)
2.) Which celebrities they look like (so far, no Phyllis Dillers or Jimmy Durantes)
3.) Which cartoon character best fits their personalities (“You are Piglet — a faithful friend to the Pooh Bears in your life, but your voice is rather squeaky, and you have cotton batting where your brains belong. However, cheer up! Your congeniality makes up for your intelligence deficiencies, so everyone loves you just the way you are.”)
I know who joined the “Save the Brazilian three-footed pygmy toad from extinction” group, who sprinkles Skittles on her oatmeal, who consults her horoscope and ought to know better, and who slathers ketchup on his shredded wheat.
It’s a strange world. Thank you, Facebook, for widening my horizons.
The Cure for Swine Flu
June 1, 2009
I know, I know. Nobody is freaking out about swine flu anymore. But, the experts are direly predicting a comeback of this hysteria-producing disease, come autumn. Consequently, just in case they are right, we should all protect ourselves with a little common-sense preparation.
I’m not sure if everyone knows this, but the surefire antidote to swine flu is bratwurst. Yes, bratwurst – not the turkey or the beef kind, mind you. It’s gotta be the pork variety. It’s a very simple concept: fight swine with swine.
Before you roll your eyeballs right out of their sockets, think about it. What did they do to stop the polio epidemic? They injected everybody with a weakened polio virus. How did they devastate measles, mumps, and chickenpox? Same story.
I’m not suggesting that we inject bratwurst into anyone’s veins. Swine flu is a most virulent disease, and a weakened dose of pork will not do the job. The bratwurst must be applied full strength via the digestive system, in large doses. Besides, immunologists are just beginning to realize that the more fun a vaccine is to take, the more effective it is. Modern science is wonderful, isn’t it?
This is why in Wisconsin, where we are progressive and savvy about most things, every man, woman, and child will be porking up on bratwurst all summer long. Cumulative dosage is key to jump-starting the immune system. Here in the Badger State, we are anticipating eating an average of 39.35 pounds of brats per capita between now and Labor Day.
You may ask, “Why, if bratwurst is such a wonderful cure, was Wisconsin the #2 state in the nation for swine flu cases in the spring of 2009?” Obviously, if you have to ask such a question you do not understand the culture and climate. The swine flu hit before it was warm enough to grill brats outside, and we were caught off-guard. Besides, you didn’t hear of anybody in Wisconsin being seriously harmed by swine flu, did you? This is because, as soon as the cases started appearing in hordes at our hospitals, the medical personnel knew exactly what to do. They started stuffing Nesco roaster-loads of brats down the patients’ gullets. They power-dosed the victims by force-feeding them quarts of sauerkraut (loaded with vitamin C for immune system boost). It worked, and they all went home feeling euphoric about the whole recovery experience. Nary a complaint was heard about the deplorable state of hospital cuisine.
As everyone knows, not all drug brands are alike. Sometimes those generic versions do not work as well. This is why it is important for Americans to understand that not all brats will work equally as effectively in protecting against swine flu. Johnsonville brats are still at the top of the heap, and their priceyness is well worth it, if you want to stay healthy. Klements are a somewhat distant second in efficacy, while the low-income or exceptionally frugal-of-heart individuals will have to muddle along the best they can with the greatly inferior store brands.
A tragic epidemic among people of lower income could be averted if President Obama would merely issue an executive order allowing the federal government to seize ownership of the Johnsonville Sausage Company. He could then declare free brats for everyone to make sure all is fair and square. As a by-product, many jobs would be created, as the company would have to go through enormous expansion to meet the demands for all that free food. The new jobs would mean more income for the IRS to abscond with, thereby creating a bottomless barrel for pork projects dear to the hearts of politicians. More pork in the barrel would mean more swine flu antidote, and the cycle would spiral ever upward into an increasingly healthy economy.
So there you have it, folks. Bratwurst – the answer to all the nation’s problems, from swine flu to the economy. You heard it here first, and I don’t mind at all if you share it with Wall Street and the American Medical Association.
