A Night at the Gallery...

Tonight at Gallery 15 at 15 E. Main St. in Peru, Indiana...

Come and join us!

...and...

 

"Are You Sixty Yet?" by Liz Flaherty

"Are you sixty yet?"

I wish I'd grinned at him and said, "Just." But I didn't. I gaped and then I grinned and said, "Well past it, but thank you."

I usually forget to ask for the senior discount available in a lot of places, and I think servers and cashiers are reluctant to offer it because they don't want to insult anyone by (1) referring to their age or (2) being wrong about their age. They also don't want to open themselves to the flak offered up by people who don't even want their age noticed, much less acknowledged. I don't blame anyone a bit for not stepping into that particular fray. 

There are downsides to being well past sixty, many of them having to do with worn out joints, deteriorating senses, medical appointments, and pillboxes on the counter. Forgetfulness, slowing reflexes, and invisibility create fears not unlike the ones in adolescence, when it seemed as if no one liked you, everyone was cooler than you, and your parents didn't understand squat. 

With the downsides, there are sometimes tradeoffs. Losing people is incredibly hard, but having had them is like the sun rising and setting--it's a gift every single day. Generally retirement income is less. Sometimes the kind of less that means choices between food and medication, food and new shoes, food and rent. The discount that is often offered is both appreciated and, in some cases, necessary. While being invisible to so many can be hurtful, sometimes being left alone is a blessing. Privacy offers benefits.  

I have to admit, for some of the over-sixty crowd, age is open season for being rude, for feeling entitled, for disrespecting every demographic except their own. As much as I despise hearing Hey, Boomer, I sometimes understand the reason for it. I still remember the man standing in the express line at Marsh in Logansport with his full cart of groceries. He'd stood in line all his life, he said, it was "their" turn now. Behind him, on the feet I'd been standing on for eight hours, I didn't appreciate him a bit. I still don't. 

Just speaking for myself, of course, I don't think anyone's entitled to that kind of rudeness--even ones like me, who are...well, almost 60.

I know I've talked about age a gazillion times on this blog. I can almost hear there she goes again whistling in on the cool October wind. But mostly I just wanted to tell about Ed, the guy with the smile at My Pizza My Way, who said, "Are you sixty yet?" and made my day. I wanted to thank him. 

On the 25th, stop by Gallery 15 from 6:30-8:00 PM for a book signing with Debby Myers, Kathy Oldfather, Joe DeRozier, and me. Buy a book or two, listen to the readings at 7:00, peruse the beautiful art, and visit a while. 

Have a good week. Notice somebody--and be nice to them. 

Those Greens Won’t Hang Themselves by Donna Cronk

 

There are not four but five seasons in my year. Nestled between the crisp Hoosier October and the icy winter chill of January is the holiday season.

     We’ve entered that annual period that is distinct from the other four. From Thanksgiving preparations on, there’s much to be done from parties to Christmas luncheons and gift exchanges with friends, relatives, and organizations we’re involved with.

     There are menus to plan, treats to make, Christmas plays and performances to watch live and on TV. There’s so much more besides.

     But first, at my house anyway, comes the whirlwind transition to Christmas décor.

     For a day or two, pumpkins and angels awkwardly share space as everything orange, yellow, and brown are put away, and the green swags come out, along with tabletop baubles, and at our house, two artificial Christmas trees. By the way, who started the rumor that artificial trees don’t shed?

     There are also wreaths for the front door, outdoor windows, and a pasture full of at least a hundred lambs—the decorative kind that go onto the dining room tree.

     Just a few weeks ago, I told myself that maybe this is the year I’ll stop getting myself swept away in this frenzy of activity. Maybe I will give up the nine-foot-tall artificial tree that takes a full day to assemble and trim. Or I’d skip the lamb tree for a season. No one would care, correct?

     Well, I would. Yet each year it feels a little harder to brace myself for the work involved.

     A nice pre-decorating snowfall is a wonderful attitude adjuster. Of course, I’ll dig out the decorations and put it all up. Naturally, I’ll go through every tub of décor and find places for most of it. I’ll think about how there’s just too much, and then I’ll buy more at one bazaar or three of them.

     I look into the future and envision the day when I’ll place a beautiful wreath on the front door and call it a day. But not yet.

     Turns out I’m not ready to give up anything about the special glow of swags draped around the entryway and staircase, and I can’t put the lambs out to permanent pasture.

     Since I’ve got all those wreaths for the outdoor windows, yes, I’ll just go ahead and put them up yet again.

     I don’t know why I feel compelled to quickly usher all the fall doodads into storage and get the Christmas things out, but I do. The decorating police won’t show up to make sure everything is in place.

     Still, I attack the whole of it as though it’s a military operation and I’m the general.

     Mom didn’t decorate my childhood home every year until around Dec. 10.  I used to nag her about when we were going to get out the colorful porch lights, tree ornaments, and tinsel swags.

     She felt as certain about waiting until we were well into December as I do about getting it all up and plugged in before the calendar flips to the twelfth month.

     It helps because I don’t go out to shop on Black Friday. I ignore that cultural phenomenon and spend the day working at home. And on Small Business Saturday, I’m all about the busyness of evenly distributing multiple strands of lights on the larger of our trees.

     After all, those greens aren’t going to hang themselves.

     For this weekend, I’m not thinking about gift-buying or menus, it’s all about making things pretty. The shopping and wrapping will all come in due time.

     The decorating process is not pretty. My house will look like, as my mother would have described, “a cyclone hit it.”

     I’ll gather all the tree ornaments from our parents and from 45 years of Brian's and my marriage. They’ll go onto the tree and the rest distributed throughout the house. And I’ll promise myself that I need to downsize this operation.

     But, of course come next year, there will be a day when a few snowflakes fall, and I’ll start dreaming of doing it all again.

     Pendleton resident Donna Cronk spent almost four decades on newspaper payrolls. In retirement she writes a column for three newspapers that deals with aging, family, and life. Her most recent book is her memoir, There’s A Clydesdale in the Attic: Reflections on Keeping and Letting Go, available on Amazon. Connect with Donna at newsgirl.1958@gmail.com.

Long Live the Delete Key by Liz Flaherty

I just wrote an entire post in one sitting on Friday morning. I researched what I was writing, gave good quotes to prove my point, thought about what pictures I'd use, and went in to eat my breakfast. (Egg sandwich, in case you're looking for ideas. I love them with a little Dijon mustard.)

I came out an hour or so later, a faint mustard-colored spot on the front of my tee shirt, and deleted the whole post. 

Because sometimes that's just the right thing to do. Like everyone else, I have opinions, and I'm lucky enough that here on this blog, I also have a platform on which to present them. Occasionally, though, stating opinions crosses a line into pontification (another great word--I love words!) and the writer gets to believing what she says is more important than it is. I crossed that line and I then crossed it all out. You're welcome.  

I hope you've had a wonderful week. That you've enjoyed the beautiful colors of autumn and the warm days that have slipped in as an extra little something from October. 

Mary Morgan

Since I have virtually nothing new to say today, here is a cookie recipe I stole borrowed from Mary Morgan. I haven't made them yet, but I've been salivating ever since I read it. 

Apple Spice Cookies

Ingredients

3 cups sifted all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
½ cup of nuts (your preference and optional)
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened

 2 eggs

 1 cup brown sugar

½ cup molasses
¼ cup apple cider or apple juice

Directions

1. In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and nuts, if using.

2. In a mixing bowl, cream together the butter and sugar. Add eggs and beat until combined.

3. Beat in the molasses and apple cider.

4. Stir in the flour mixture until smooth.

5. Cover the bowl and refrigerate for 1-2 hours.

6. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

7. Place parchment paper on two baking pans.

8. Drop one heaping tablespoon of dough onto the baking pans.

9. Bake for 10 minutes. Remove onto wire racks to cool.

Makes approximately 35 cookies.

I sincerely love cookies. They are just one of the most satisfying things in the world. Actually, they are synonymous with grandchildren. They're sweet, with rich flavors and differences. They always make you feel better, but time with them goes so fast. You're left with an empty plate and memories of just the best times--as well as the hope of having more soon.

Have a great week. It is the time of year of great music, delicious fundraiser dinners for local causes, orchard visits, and craft shows (Nancy Masten and I'll be at the fairgrounds on November 4 from 9 to 3--I hope to see you there.) Get out and about if you're able--friends and neighbors are wonderful gifts. Not quite as good as grandkids, but you get my drift. 

Be nice to somebody.

Bob Bryan: The Myth, The Legend, The Writer by Debby Myers

There are people in your life you meet and size up. They make an impression from your first interaction. Often, it turns out to be completely wrong!

I met Bob Bryan 20 years ago in 2003 when I went to see Driving Miss Daisy at Ole Olsen Memorial Theater. I’d been involved with the theater for five years, but I’d not been introduced to Bob. I didn’t like him.

Seven years would go by before we’d cross paths again. I was holding auditions for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which required 13 men. It was a steep hill to climb, but actors flocked to the depot to acquire one of these coveted roles.

Bob was one of them. Long story short, he got the part of Scanlon, a patient who was admitted to the asylum because he wanted to blow things up. Bob had few lines, but he was on stage nearly every scene, and his facial expressions and grumbling were what the part needed.

However, Bob and I began to disagree about what he was doing and when. My first impression was right. It became difficult for us to work together. He was openly vocal and stubborn, trying to bully me into having his way. When the show wrapped, we were both relieved. I felt certain that we wouldn’t be doing another play together.

Much to my surprise (or dread), Bob came to auditions again for another of my shows. I once again needed men for Of Mice and Men. I gave him a small part, worried that we’d end up having the same problem. We did. Bob was distant and resigned to my direction, and the performances came and went with a strain between us.

Fast forward to a year later. I acted in Dixie Swim Club, and I was in the receiving line trying to avoid him, but he left without saying a word. I thought he was rude.

Our next interaction was when I was casting Drop Dead. I wasn’t going to give him a part! He auditioned and waited patiently for auditions to end. As he approached, I started to walk away when he stopped me. He said he’d been writing scripts, and he’d like to drop a couple off for me to read. As shocking as it was to me, I agreed.

As I read, I got insight into who Bob Bryan really was. He was a lonely soul. No spouse, no children. He lived alone in front of an old typewriter with a dream of writing a play worthy of the Ole stage. He’d spent years as a reporter for the Peru Tribune. When he left when they downsized, he spent his time writing at home. His scripts were witty and dark in their content, much like Bob himself. But in his mind and the body of those stories, plays did exist.

We began to email to talk about the show I was working on, or the latest script he was writing. We communicated better in writing than we had in person, and we both acknowledged that there were creative differences we would have to agree to disagree about when it came to our visions of directing.

Fast forward to last fall. Bob went to the Ole Board of Directors and submitted a play he’d written, The Ballad of Granny Siler. The board approved it as the last show of the season. Bob also put on two extra shows under the umbrella of the group he’d formed "No Frills Theater."

Bob asked me to help with his show The End. He’d cast my granddaughter and his assistant had health concerns. I agreed. A couple of weeks in Bob had health concerns of his own. He was weak, forgetful, grumpy, and tired easily. Evening rehearsals made it hard for him to stay the full two hours and he’d leave early. Finally, he stopped coming at all. After encouragement from me and friends, he went to the doctor, but didn’t get a diagnosis.

He began to feel better and was at all the performances. He thanked me for helping and asked me to help him cast The Ballad of Granny Siler a month later. The turnout wasn’t what we hoped for. Ole Olsen no longer has a pool of actors to choose from. And he wanted me to help him direct this play, and because my husband had been cast, I again agreed.

Jumping ahead to today. I’m now directing the show without its writer/director, Bob Bryan. He went in the hospital for several days before rehearsals began, and he finally got a diagnosis. Congestive heart failure. It wasn’t what any of us hoped for. It was then that Bob turned the show completely over to me. I’ve continued to communicate with him about casting changes I’ve made and rewrites I’ve added. Like always, he voiced his opinion. He doesn’t agree with all of them. He wouldn’t be Bob if he did!

Bob was moved to Blair Ridge for therapy after he left the hospital. He’ll move into assisted living there soon. He’s on oxygen, but getting stronger. So is his Ballad. We open the show tomorrow night, and we are excited that Bob gets to be there opening night!

A man I didn’t like working with and obviously didn’t know has become a man I think of and worry about daily. Now I feel like his dream is in my hands. At 83, he still hasn’t abandoned the idea that he may direct another of his plays. He’s also inspired me to begin writing a script of my own.

The moral of this story is two-fold. Your first impression doesn’t have to be your last. And you can turn someone you dislike and despise into someone you love and learn to accept for who they are.

Please put Bob in your prayers. Lift up my cast to put on a show he can say fulfilled his dream and brought his Ballad to life.

****

Debby Myers has enjoyed writing since she was a little girl. She has just completed her third novel, the last installment of “The Vee Trilogy.”

In her spare time she directs plays for Ole Olsen Memorial Theater. She is a member of the Indiana Thespians judging high school theater competitions. Debby’s favorite pastime of all is spending time with her five grandchildren.

Her books are all available now on Amazon or get a signed copy directly from her by contacting her on her Facebook page “The Vee Trilogy.” 

The Top Shelf by Liz Flaherty

Yesterday at Kroger, I couldn't reach the top shelf. Or maybe it was the next to the top shelf. As I stretched, trying to make five-two-and-a-half into something it isn't, a voice from behind me said, "May I help you?" A young woman in the six-foot range with dark-framed glasses and a smile reached for what I needed, and I told her she made me think of my granddaughters. Like their mother, they are tall girls who get things off top shelves for others. 

This is Memorial Day weekend. It's the week of the Race. Other places call it the 500, or the Indy 500, but I will always think of it as the Race. I've never been there because I don't like racing, but I do like that it's a tradition, that people enjoy it, that it's a point of pride in a state that...well, I won't go there. Not today. Did I mention tradition? 

Our wedding anniversary, the 52nd, will be in a few days. It was a good time to get married, because we knew we'd always have a three-day weekend. 

We'll see most of our family this weekend, although at least half of the Magnificent Seven won't be around because they live Away. They are happy. That's enough for their grandparents. Right now, I'm glad the guest room is occupied as well as a blow-up mattress in the office. It's a time of celebration. 

Mostly, though, it's a time of remembrance of those who have paid the ultimate price for service to the country, so that we can have traditions and celebrations. 

It's easy, in "times like these," to forget the good parts. Although some of us don't feel about our country quite the way we used to and every day seems to bring new disappointment, those feelings don't dim the gratitude or the reverence owed to fallen veterans.

They are the ones who've always gotten things off the top shelf for all of us. 

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody. 

  Liz

Joe, Dr. Suess, and an Ikea Couch by Joe DeRozier

I was going to write a post this this week...no, really, I was. But then I read this essay by Joe DeRozier and decided it would be a good Saturday morning for me to just sit back and enjoy--so I asked him if I could borrow it! I hope you enjoy it, too, and I hope you let me come back next time after reading this. Have a great week and be nice to somebody. - Liz

I was sitting on the mini-couch in my wife's Pipe Creek kindergarten class while perusing Dr. Seuss 's Hop on Pop. For just a second, I smiled as I fondly reminisced about the days when my kids could hop on me without causing lethal internal damage.

I fidgeted slightly on that multicolored, mini-couch because I was just a little nervous as I prepared to read this very book to 18 kindergarten students. They can be a tough crowd at that age...and my wife, their teacher, would be there watching my every move... 

...and I fear the Greek girl. 

She had to keep a close eye on me to ensure I'd behave myself because she knows firsthand just how fun, or as she says, immature I can be. 

Walking in single file, my soon-to-be audience quietly entered the room. They were all quiet because they were startled by the ugly, dusty, old man sitting on their uncomfortable, multicolored, mini-couch. 

Mrs. D corralled the students with just a few words and they automatically settled onto the large, round carpet that sported numbers and letters, sitting "criss-cross applesauce" in what must have been designated seating locations. So firm was her command, that I found myself sliding off the Ikea-made, uncomfortable, multicolored, mini-couch to sit on the carpet...though "criss-cross applesauce" was completely out of the question. 

After regaining my bearings, I sat up and introduced myself. A couple of the children had visited me in the back of the bakery at one time or another with their parents, and simply knew me as "the donut guy." Others knew me as Mrs. D's husband. 

My nerves gradually faded as I started to read the book while sharing the pictures on each page. It occurred to me that our maturity levels were on an equal playing field as I discovered I was as intrigued by the book as much as they were. 

I'd read a page, then point out any obvious absurdity. One rhyme had a puppy flying over trees as he jumped over a cup, and another rhyme had a few fish in a tree. Both scenarios were highly implausible and the second one was even more confusing since the word fish didn't need to rhyme with anything else, so could have been easily replaced by bird, squirrel... 

...which caused me to ponder what the good Doctor was doing recreationally¹ while writing his books. 

The responses from the class varied as some claimed their doggy could indeed jump over trees and quite a few considered the fish in a tree not to be all that unlikely. 

There was an unfortunate rhyme involving a Dr. Seuss character sitting on a bat... I'm sure Mrs. D breathed a sigh of relief when I stifled my initial reaction to the picture, but I did mention that by sitting on the bat this way, the odd Dr. Seuss character would experience butt pain... That last sentence made every elementary school teacher reading this story, cringe... 

...because I said butt. 

Chaos ensued and I had to do some quick damage control as the whole class roared. Butt seems to be a magic word to five-year-olds. My wife's and her assistant's eyes rolled to the backs of their heads as they envisioned hearing butt for the rest of the day. I quickly created a diversion by making funny voices for the next rhyming pages, and butt was temporary placed in hibernation. 

Gaining confidence, I went through the rest of the book with my voices and observations...until I got to one of the final pages when I had to read a couple words that "Pop" could pronounce. The words were Constantinople and Timbuktu. I was caught off guard since the rest of the book consisted of mostly one syllable words. I hesitated momentarily as I sat on the small, Ikea-made, uncomfortable, multicolored, mini-couch. I struggled temporarily with Constantinople, making my adult audience snicker. 

After I finished reading, I spent the next 10 minutes just talking to the kids about what they were learning. I was amazed at the things they knew how to do and enjoyed observing all of their personalities. One young man had a lot to say, but his questions were very intelligent and I loved his thirst for knowledge. 

One young lady was much more timid, but I could see her eyes absolutely dance when I asked questions. When she raised her hand to answer a question, I immediately called on her. She was nervous to talk at first, but I kept encouraging her and she quietly told me her answer. She's going to be something else when she comes out of her shell. 

My heart was full as I bid adieu to my new friends. As they lined up to go to lunch, I suddenly remembered the the mocking sniggles² I heard while I attempted to say Constantinople. Thinking quickly, I obtained the attention of the most boisterous student in the class. With a grin, I bent towards him and quietly whispered... 

...butt.

¹ I made up that conjugation

 ² Sniggle is an actual word. I was surprised, too.

A repeat business of the week is DeRozier's Bakery. Not only are Joe DeRozier's pastries worth an extra turn around the block if you're counting those calories and steps I mentioned above, Joe is one of the kindest and most generous people around. A conversation at the table in his back room is a great way to start the day. He's an entrepreneur, an extraordinary donut-maker, and a gifted storyteller. 

The bakery phone number is (765) 473-6688 and the Facebook page is https://www.facebook.com/DeRoziers-Bakery-235272106981456 Stop in for a donut, some conversation, and a copy of one or all of Joe's books. He'll even sign them for you!

Thank you, Joe.