Big Hairy Deal

                                                                                   

     I once read that you need to laugh 120 times per day to stay healthy.  From my extensive research, I've learned that laughter releases endorphins, which are natural feel-good chemicals, reduces stress, improves circulation and the immune system, and even burns calories.  However, according to the Journal of Hospital Medicine (I know you Tiztalk readers demand cold hard facts), the average adult laughs only fifteen times per day.

    My husband chuckles at YouTube videos of people jumping out of closets or "statues" that suddenly come to life on crowded streets.  When my sister reports yet another instance where she had to buy gas while barefooted and in her pj's due to a frantic call from a family member, I often can't catch my breath from laughing.  This keeps us all healthy, right?  Obviously, we all need to laugh more.  I hope I can help.  Let me tell you what went on at my house recently......

      Bob and I invited three couples over to play cards.  This night only consumed two days of  my life.  I baked two kinds of cookies, a cake, made a bean dip, sliced up fruits and vegetables, washed wine glasses, filled candy bowls, and got out my fancy placemats.  I cleaned the bathroom, vacuumed, swept the floor, made coffee, sorted the decks of cards for Euchre, washed my hair, turned on the front porch light, brought in beer from the garage fridge, and welcomed my guests.  

    It turns out that only I knew how to play Euchre, but I did my best to explain the right bower and the left bower.  The evening was going well.  We were playing in two rooms, four to a table.  My guests were behaving themselves.  Suddenly, I heard sounds coming from the other room.  People were gasping.  Was someone choking on a jelly bean? Had one of them told a story that was THAT funny?  Unlikely.  I know those four.  Had one of them had a heart attack?  That was entirely possible. The sounds came and went in swells.  I thought I heard my name whispered, so I decided to investigate. The reverberations only got louder and more disturbing when I arrived.  The four of them appeared to be having a simultaneous conniption fit.  What was going on???

    Everyone was looking at my guest, Bob (I know, I know, I have a lot of "Bobs" in my stories), who was enjoying one of my delicious molasses cookies.  Or was he? Wait a minute.  He was holding it in the air. Wait a minute.  He was holding it in the air by a hair.  A lovely silver hair (where did that come from?) was baked into the center of his cookie.  I'm told that he had to "unfurl" it, but I don't believe that.  The group seemed to think that this was worth falling out of their seats over.  My husband Bob and the other couple had to come see what all the fuss was about.  The other couple joined in, making sputtering fools of themselves, too.  My husband Bob wasn't the least fazed.  He announced, "Oh, this happens all the time", which sent the group into yet another round of guffaws.

    Consequently, I have done extensive research on hair in foods. I know, I know.  I'm too studious for all of you. Here's what I've discovered.  A single hair is unlikely to cause harm.  Your body won't digest it.  Perhaps it's a new and inexpensive fiber supplement?  My friends could certainly use that. Fifty to one hundred hairs fall out of our heads every day.  They must go somewhere besides the bathroom floor, right?  It's only logical that a few will fall into your food every day  Really, what's the harm? Furthermore, we eat bread that contains cysteine.  Guess what that is?  It's dough conditioner that is made out of -- are you ready for this? --- purified poultry feathers.  Perhaps my friends would rather discover a chicken feather in their cookie?  Unless you ingest a hairball --- and I do have nice thick hair --- you are probably okay.  We should all watch out for hairballs, but a single silver strand?

    When I sent my daughter Moly the photo of my guest Bob with the cookie, she though that he was performing a magic trick.  My "friends" are still laughing about that.

   

                                                                                    

These hairy thoughts reminded me of something that happened many Christmases ago.  I had just returned home to my family from a 300-mile trip.  Molly greeted me with these words, " Mom, there's hair in the lemon squares."  Mind you, this minor flaw didn't keep them from eating each and every one of them, but my children and their spouses seemed to delight in pulling out a hair each time one was consumed.  I decided to memorialize their trauma with this little ditty:

I was accosted the moment I walked in the door.

You'd think they'd never seen their mother before.

They couldn't wait to fill my ears

with words that might bring other mothers to tears

They gleefully, evilly recounted their tale

of something they'd found that made them wail.

In front of my new son-in-law Cody,

they made me look downright nasty and grody.

There was a little problem,  you see;

they pointed their fingers directly at me.

What they'd found was long and dark and frizzy;

it could only belong to someone named Tizzie.

Tim spouted off, "I found a hair."

Molly chimed in, "in a lemon square."

Megan admitted, "I did, too."

Then Nancy whined, "I didn't know what to do."

Now, mind you, it didn't stop them a bit.

They just pulled out the hairs and went on with it.

They scarfed down the lemon squares -- every last one,

then picked on me just for fun.

At my age, I'm glad I still have hair.

I've never mentioned THEIR hair that I find everywhere...

So, friends and family, please beware.

Carefully inspect your lemon square.

And if you find a hair in there,

tell someone who gives a care.

Hairy and merry,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Elizabeth/Mom/Tizmom/Grandma/ Grandma T.

    

    


 

Raising Cane

 Dear friends, family, and frenemies,

This is a totally true story that involves some friends of mine.  I know you want to know the deets (What else do you have to do?  After all, you are currently reading Tiztalk.).  Here goes...

Bob and his wife Marj signed up for a cruise to Greece, Italy, and Spain to take place in September. Despite having had twenty surgeries in the past thirty years, Bob is a trouper.  He and Marj have traveled a lot.  Around Christmas, Bob's back started acting up.  Badly.  He finally decided to undergo surgery.  Marj is in my exercise class; we ladies in the class were following Bob's progress with great interest.  The question "Will Bob be well enough to go on the cruise?" consumed us.  Marj really, really wanted to go.  We really, really wanted them to  be able to go.  A Medicare glitch postponed his surgery for a few months, but there was still time for Bob to recover.  He went through painful and demanding physical therapy.  He came to the gym and walked with his walker with braces on his legs and a big black belt around his waist and chest.  Slowly, he seemed to improve.  When September arrived, he was off the walker and walking with a cane.  Marj and Bob decided to go ahead with the trip.  We all heaved a sigh of relief.  However, secretly we wondered, "Should Bob really be going on that trip?"

For ten days, we recreation center ladies chattered  about how Bob and Marj might be doing on their trip.  What if he fell?  What if he had to go to the hospital?  Was it worth the trouble and worry?

When Marj came back to class, we were eager for details.  How did it go?  Did Bob have any mishaps? Were they able to go all the places they wanted to?  "Well, said Marj, " the trip was fine.  We just had one problem."  We were all ears.  Here's what happened....

They were able to go on most of the excursions.  Bob maneuvered uneven sidewalks and cobblestones just fine.  Things were going well until one afternoon in Barcelona.  It was a holiday, so the streets were crowded.  The group had just finished a tour and was lined up to board their bus.  Bob was near the end of the line.  Standing beside him was, in his words, "a little 5' 2" woman" (I'm a bit partial to those myself.)  She had a crossbody bag on her shoulder with the bag part on her back.  Suddenly, a young man appeared, grabbed her billfold out of her bag, and threw it in his backpack.  She noticed and started grabbing for the backpack.  She and the man had a tug of war with the backpack.  Bob sprang into action.  After a loud exclamation of "What the hell is going on?", he took his cane and poked the man in the face.  Stunned, the thief fell back.  Bob held up his cane menacingly.  The young man ran off, leaving his backpack.  Bob said that he was relieved that the guy didn't challenge him, as he would most likely have have fallen over with a slight push.  When Bob's tour mates learned what had happened, they broke into applause.  He became the darling of the bus trip.  His fellow travelers, and especially the little lady, were so glad he was there to save the day.

This story has been repeated a few times since their return, including several times by me.  Like most of my stories, it gets a little better every time.  Bob's heroics grow with each retelling.  I mean who doesn't like a tale about an eighty-year -old hero?

 At his last appointment, Bob's doctor saw great improvement in his walking and balance.  The culprit?  Lots of walking on the tour and especially on uneven surfaces like cobblestones.  You go, Bob!

Tizhaps:

Target has new carts.  That's right.  And they have roomy red plastic buckets on them, just the right size to put a purse in and leave it there.  That's just what I did recently.  Upon realizing my error, I had to sprint (I use that term very loosely) across the parking lot doing the "grandma run."  If you've been reading this blog long enough, you'll recall that I used to do the "Mom run" when I got into trouble, which was bad enough.  But the "grandma run"?  Well, use your imagination. 

Blabbing and gabbing,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Elizabeth/Tizmom/Grandma/Grizzie

Making Connections

 Dear friends, family, and frenemies,

A basket. A fan.  A bag of bubblegum. What do these things have in common?  Hmmm

My husband and I have often sat behind a lady at church.  I don't know her, but I've seen her around for years.  She could probably say the same thing about me.  Last year, when the collection basket was passed to me,  I wasn't paying attention.  (Long time readers know that that is a recurring theme in tiztalk). When I grabbed the basket to pass it, I accidentally hit her in the head with it.  I apologized profusely, and we both had a hard time keeping from giggling.  After Mass, we laughed heartily,  and now we've made a connection.  Now when we meet, we smile and greet each other warmly  I wonder if I've happened upon a secret for developing fellowship...

My father and my uncle owned and operated a grocery store in Paris, IL, for nearly fifty years.  When my dad died in 1995, many people came to pay their respects and tell their stories.  One lady's story has stuck with me.  When she was a young mother of several children, her husband was a truck driver.  He wasn't due home for another week and she was out of food.  She didn't know my dad, but she asked if she could get just what she needed for the week, and she would pay for the groceries when her husband returned.  My dad agreed.  She was careful to only get necessities to tide over the family. As she was walking out the door, my dad threw in a big bag of bubble gum.  She said that she knew at that moment what kind of man he was, and she had never shopped anywhere else.

Last August my sister and I, her 14-year-old grandson, my daughter-in-law, and my nine-year old grandson went to Washington, DC.  We weren't sure how the boys would get along due to the age gap and the fact that they didn't really know each other.  Remembering how hot D.C. is in August, I had purchased  battery-powered fans that you hang around your neck. You can also fill them with water to spray your face. They are nifty little gadgets, and I got one for each of us.  Little did I know that their value would far exceed their ability to keep us cool.  The boys got a huge kick out of spraying each other as well as the adults. The 14-year-old is an agile athlete who could spray the mini-fan behind his back, under his leg, under his arm, you name it.  Of course, these sprays came when you least expected them.  He would pretend to look over his grandma's shoulder as she was looking at the map and then surprise her with a spray.  The nine-year-old was very sneaky and liked to administer full face spray attacks. We grown-ups were also able to spray the boys when they were sleeping through a museum presentation or refusing to wake up.  We ladies also enjoyed spraying each other. These surprise attacks kept us laughing for four days.  Of the many photos taken on our trip. the one voted the best is the one above. It shows my great-nephew spraying his grandma as she throws her head back in a laugh. While we saw many interesting attractions in Washington, D.C., the fun we had with those spray fans is something we will always remember.

It's hard to predict when item or action will create a connection among people.  It can be a mishap, a small act of kindness, or a random purchase. We need to cherish these connections however they occur.

Praying, saying, and spraying,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Elizabeth/Tizmom/Mom/Grandma

Notes to Self

      

  

 Dear friends, family, and frenemies,

The directions read: "Take out the neck and giblets from the two body cavities of the thawed turkey." Sounds simple, doesn't it?  It doesn't sound like that process will involve knives, tongs, multiple trips to the sink to warm up my hands, a wrestler's arm muscles, gritty determination, ice chunks flung on the floor, and vocabulary that would not pass the tiztalk censors. Yet I fall for this ritual every year.  What is my problem?  Last year I told myself to put a turkey breast in the Crock-pot instead.   Why didn't I follow my own advice?  That's what I'm trying to figure out.

    A few years back I started writing notes after each Thanksgiving to make the next year's get-together better.  They can be very helpful.  For example in 2017 I noted that my son-in-law Cody likes IPA (indie pale ale).  That one is simple.  In 2024, I note that "Cody likes wine and doesn't need beer."  Okay, that's even easier.  Other notes seem to remind me of past fiascos:  no bowls of M & Ms for the kids, absolutely no stickers.  This year I'm reminded to "buy more ice cream for Declan."  How tragic to run out of ice cream at Grandma's house! I don't want that to happen again.  So, I have bought a few extra tubs this year.  The only problem is that my husband has discovered them, and there may yet be an ice cream shortage.  A girl can only do so much.

    In 2019, I advised myself to offer only one pie, one cake, and one kind of cookie.  Then in 2024, I said, "Forget pie and cake; everyone only eats grab-and-go items." Hmmm.  I'm okay with forgetting the cake, but no pie on Thanksgiving? So, I've compromised and bought a Mrs. Smith's apple pie just in case. And won't the kids be disappointed if I don't make chocolate chip cookies AND lemon squares.  All are in the freezer, as well as brownies and oatmeal cookies. I advised myself to forget the fresh vegetables; they are too much trouble.  That one I can do.  I've also eliminated vegetable soup for the day before Thanksgiving.  We now go to Shakespeare's Pizza instead.  And, in case you are interested, my notes claim that five large pizzas will feed us all and provide supper for another night.  Smart plan.  I am learning.

    I told myself to buy store-bought potatoes, gravy, dressing, and green bean casserole.  Would anyone really notice?  I don't think so. But I have already prepared the green bean casserole and dressing.  What is wrong with me? I will attempt to make gravy, but I have two tall jars of it, just in case my efforts fail.  Nancy has agreed to mash the potatoes.

    The hardest one to cross of the 2024 list is the red Jell-0 with bananas and whipped cream.  No on seemed to want it last year.  I grew up eating this before sitting down for Thanksgiving.  It was our appetizer.  Ask my siblings.  I loved putting a dollop of whipped cream on each guest's serving and sprinkling it with colored sugar.  My kids have enjoyed that task, too.  While my childhood pre-Thanksgiving cocktail of apricot nectar and ice cream (my sister will confirm, this, too) has gone by the wayside, the red Jell-O appetizer has remained.   The Jell-O does take up a lot of room in the fridge, and no one seems to care about it....Can I do it?  Can I cast aside my family tradition  to get with the times that don't recommend added sugar, artificial red food coloring. empty calories, and high fat content?

    Well, I could go on, but it is the day before Thanksgiving, and I do have a few things to do.  Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours, and don't forget to take notes.

Gabbing before gobbling,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Elizabeth/Tizmom/Grandma

There's more...

Tizhap:

You have to keep this one to yourself, okay?  My husband doesn't know about this one.

A while back I lost my car keys.  However, my daughter had attached an Apple Air Tag to them, for just such an instance.  I was in luck. Once I figured out how to search for them using my phone -- I won't say how long that took - I began my quest.  The phone beeps showing you where the keys are.  Remember playing Hide and Seek and being told when you are getting "hotter" or "colder"?  It works something like that. It's not an exact science, but at least I knew the keys were at my address.  My beeping phone took me through most rooms of my house, up the stairs, down the stairs, into the garage, into every crevice of my car, back to the house,  back into the garage.  Of course, I was trying to do this without anyone noticing my actions.  Who knows what other  dumb things I had done that day?  I hate to make myself look too bad.   Anyway, I finally determined that the keys must be in the garage.  Holding my phone like Sherlock's magnifying glass I was directed around the garage.  Finally, I landed at the one place I did not want to investigate: the garbage can.  I took out the first bag, rifled through it, and there they were.   Had I waited one more  day to search for the key, my trusty Air Tag would have led me to the city dump.  Now that would have been a good blog.    

Walkers and Stalkers

 

Dear friends, family, and frenemies,

    "Watch out when you walk by the tavern.  Men will beckon you in to have a drink.  Don't fall for it," my mother warned me and my siblings when we walked to and from school each day.  While this never happened to any of us as far as I know, I always imagined that it might as I peered into the dark smoky bar.  I was also warned not to interact with the old men who sat all day on the low concrete fence that surrounded the courthouse.  Perhaps they were harmless, but they seemed scary to me. I can still picture one of them: a very tall man with a bum leg who had longish hair and wore dirty overalls.  He would wander around downtown and sit and smoke as we walked by.

    At the end of the school day, the principal would announce "north line" or "south line." I have never been able to tell directions, but I knew I had to get into the "south line." The patrol boy in a white belt would lead us single file for a few blocks, helping us cross the street.  After that, we were on our own. 

    A lot could happen on that daily two-mile trek that my two older brothers and older sister and I traveled each day.  As the youngest, I had to work hard to keep up with the rest, lest I be left to the old men sitting around the square.  I remember window shopping at Woolworth's and stopping at the gas station for a paper cone full of water.  When my brother got into junior high, he would hand me or my sister his lunch and tell us to wait until he had walked the long block past the high school by himself.  He didn't want to be seen walking with his little sisters or carrying his paper lunch bag.

    My husband told me a tale of what happened to him when he was seven or eight. I think my grandkids and their parents would flip if such an experience happened to them.  So, here goes.

    This story takes place in New Jersey circa 1957.  Bobby was eight or nine.  One day the Varone brothers, identical twins who were a few years older, blocked his path.  While Michael and Robert Varone had the same face, one's face was very long, while the other's was very wide.  Can't you just picture it? They told him that he was in trouble and that they had orders to take him back to their leader at the school yard.  Bobby didn't know what they were talking about, but he went with them.  He was scared. When they got to the school yard, their "boss" was furious with the Varones.  He said that he needed them to bring him Jimmy O'Connor, not Bobby O'Connell. They had nabbed the wrong guy.  Bobby went home and told his mother.  She was furious.  She called Mrs. Varone and let her have it.  How dare her boys mistreat Bobby?  Who did they think they were? She was tempted to call the authorities. It turns out that Mrs. Varone had just gotten home from the hospital when Bobby's mother called her.

    Flash forward a few days.  The Varone Brothers - one with a long face and one with a wide one -- caught up with Bobby at the baseball field with nary an adult in sight.  He was standing beside his bicycle.  They were very mad that Bobby's mother had called and upset their mother.  They said that he had to pay for what his mother had done to their mother.  One of them said, "Just let me punch you one time in the face, and we'll call it even."  Bobby reluctantly agreed.  As the big Varone brother pulled back his fist to land his punch, Bobby stepped back at the last minute.  The brother fell over Bobby's bike, knocked it over, fell flat on his face, and began to wail.  Bobby's friends laughed as the crying twin and his brother ran off.  I'm not sure if Bobby told his mother this part of the story, but I hope he did.

    The culture of walking to and from school is mostly gone now.  Kids are dropped off and picked up from school by parents or day care vans.  In the U.S., about 11% of kids walk to and from school. Unlike past generations, they haven't lived through the varied, rich, and sometimes scary experiences that fending for oneself at a young age can provide.

Walking and talking,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Mom/Tizmom/Grandma/Liz

\

How You Look at It

Dear friends, family, and frenemies,

    Kids often remind us that life is more fun and interesting than we think it is.  Recently, my six-year-old grandson Finn announced that the three happiest days of his life were these:

1.  The day he found Papa's wallet

2.  The day he was born

3.  The day he married his first-grade classmate Nadine

I hadn't been invited to the wedding, so I had no comment on number three.  I agree that number two was quite remarkable.  But I burst out laughing when I heard number one.  I remember that day very well.  Finn and I were in our swimsuits waiting for Papa Bob to come home from his workout at the recreation center so that the three of us could go back there and swim.  Bob drove in the driveway and announced that he couldn't find his wallet.  As we say in our family, here comes "ye olde wallet search."  He had already checked to see if it had been turned in at the recreation center, but it hadn't.  He wondered if he had left it elsewhere.  I did my part: I called Starbucks.  Meanwhile Bob and Finn searched the car.  You haven't searched for something until you've searched with my husband.  He would make a zealous posse of cops with a search warrant look like slackers.  He can turn over and disrupt more space in no time flat than a toddler let loose with a shelf of books.  Flashlights were engaged.  Car rugs were overturned, shaken, and thrown on to the driveway.   The console was emptied.  The seats were moved and inspected.  Debris was removed and tossed from underneath the seats.  The plastic bag of garbage was perused.  The trunk was scrutinized.

Next it was time to search Pap's briefcase.  The contents were dumped on the table and carefully inspected.  No wallet.  Things were getting serious.  The next step was to go back to campus and retrace Bob's steps from the parking garage to Starbuck's.  At this point, I suggested that Finn and I just go swim while Bob continued  his search.  But Finn wasn't having it.  He wanted to go with Papa.  They walked carefully through the parking garage and along the sidewalks, looking behind pillars and underneath bushes.  When they arrived at Starbucks, they questioned a potential witness -- the manager -- regarding the billfold's whereabouts.  He had no information.  They went to the booth where Bob had sat and thoroughly examined the seats and floor, before heading to the bathroom.  No luck.  They trekked slowly back to the parking garage with eagle eyes.

Bob decided they should go back to the recreation center and check again.  They went in and scoured the dressing room, gym, and everywhere in between.  Still no luck.  Finally, Bob decided to ask another person behind the desk at the recreation center if his billfold had been turned in.  Guess what?  It had.  It had been found in the parking lot.  It was minus $30, but is was otherwise intact.

Various theories were put forth about how the wallet had landed in the parking lot.   Had Bob dropped it it as it he had gotten out of the car?  Had he left it in the dressing room and the thief had taken the money and then dropped it in the parking lot?  Had someone at the desk taken the money?  All are intriguing questions that gave us plenty to discuss.  Finn? he didn't mind that he never got to go swimming.  He had been on a quest.  And the quest had ended successfully.  Who needs to play Zelda or read Lord of the Rings when you can go on a real live expedition with your grandfather?  And that, my friends, is why Finn considers the day they found Papa's wallet to be the happiest day of his life.

Tizhap

I went to the recreation center yesterday as I usually do.  When I was leaving I got to yakking with a friend.  I picked up my keys and left.  Usually, I go right home, but Bob had gone with me, so I needed to kill time until he was done.  I chatted with a few more people and walked three laps before we went to the parking lot.  It was then that I discovered that the keys I had were not my own.  I ran back in the the rec center to discover a very distraught fellow exerciser with a friend who was offering her a ride home.  They were very glad to see me. My actions had only kept her in a complete panic for about twenty-five minutes.  One of these days I will pay attention to what I'm doing  Really.  I promise.  Until then Tiz will just keep "hap" -ing I guess. .

Questing and jesting,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Elizabeth/Mom/Tizmom/Grandma

Twice-Told Tales

Twice-Told Tales

Dear friends, family, and frenemies,

                    "Why do you tell people that story?  It makes you sound ridiculous," remarked my husband.  Why, indeed?  I guess I am just unable to resist telling a good story, even if it does make me look bad.  And if I must sacrifice my pride to get a good laugh, a shocked expression, or a look of incredulity, I'm happy to do that.

                    I'll start with the story that garnered my husband's comment.  If you've known me for long, you already know both of these tales but maybe I can add a few new details.  It was March of 1986.  I had a five-year-old and a nine-month-old.  I was working part-time for a publishing company.  I was scheduled to go from St. Louis, MO, to New Orleans for an educational conference to work at the booth.  I was excited to get away for a few days.  I had received Garrison Keillor's Prairie Home Companion for Christmas, but I hadn't managed to read a word of it in three months.  I was looking forward to a nice long plane ride to read and relax.  And I did get a nice long plane ride and plenty of time to read, just not in the way I expected.

                    I arrived at the gate in St. Louis early and settled in to read my book.  No one enjoys peace and quiet quite as much as a young mother suddenly set free from her duties.  I may have even laughed aloud a few times, but I'm not sure.  I waited for my flight to be announced.  When those around me got up to board, I joined them.  I found my seat, sat down, and continued reading.  A man appeared and claimed that I was in his seat.  I showed him my boarding pass, and he showed me his. These things happen.  He disappeared.  I kept reading.  In those long-ago days when flying was less routine, I generally introduced myself to my seat mates.  However, on that day, I wasn't in the mood; I just kept reading.  I leaned back as the plane taxied.  The captain greeted us and announced, " We will be arriving in Washington, D. C. in ..." I turned to my seat mate and asked, "Is he joking?" The person looked at me strangely and said no he wasn't joking.  I stood up, raised my ticket, and exclaimed, "But I'm flying to New Orleans."  People turned and stared.  Perhaps you remember the E.F. Hutton commercial with two passengers on a plane discussing their financial advisor.  When one man says, "My broker is E.F. Hutton," everyone  stand ups and stares at the speaker.  My situation was something like that.  I wasn't exactly a celebrity, but I did get a lot of attention.  The flight attendant rushed back.  I felt sure that once the error was realized that I would be taken back to the gate.  That was not to be the case.  Did I mention that there was a Door A and a Door B at the gate?  It turns out that I had gone through Door A when I should have gone through Door B.

                    Now I was in a pickle.  I was supposed to be in New Orleans to cover the booth that afternoon.  I wondered if I would have to pay for the extra flight.  Not only was I not going to earn a day's pay, I was also going to have to buy a ticket.  Well, what could I do?  I sat back and read my book.  When we arrived in Washington, I got off the plane, bought a postcard, and mailed it to my friend whose boyfriend lived in D.C.  "Guess where I am? " I scribbled. Lucky for me, the plane and crew went directly back to St. Louis.  Not only did I not have to pay for the flight, but I was entitled to free alcohol.  What a deal.  I ordered a Bloody Mary.  The flight attendant said that I was the best-natured person that this had ever happened to.  That made me feel good.  I leaned back, sipped my Bloody Mary, and kept reading.  I arrived at the same gate in St. Louis where I had begun six hours earlier.  Eventually, I got to New Orleans.  Our most famous author was at the booth.  He was a quiet and serious man.  When he heard my story, he laughed until he cried.  It was a good day.

                    You did notice how I was able to read through anything in the story above?  This next story shows my strong powers of concentration once again.  I just don't seem to be concentrating on the world around me.  This story took place in the summer of 1975 in Champaign, IL.  Some friends and I went to McDonald's.  Rantoul Air Force Base was nearby.  There was a display of replica airplanes in the glass case across from the order counter.  While my friends ordered, I turned my back to the order counter and looked in the display case. The case was mirrored. Instead of looking at the model planes, I was taken by my own hair.  I turned my head a few times admiring what a good hair day I was having. When I turned around, the place was empty and completely silent.  I was taken aback.  My friends eventually appeared.  They were quite worked up.  "Why didn't you take cover?" they asked.  "Cover from what?" I inquired. They told me that a masked and armed gunman had come in and robbed the place.  Had I been looking at something other than my own hair,  I might have seen him in the mirror... I used to have the newspaper clipping to prove that the robbery occurred.  I wasn't called to be an eyewitness.

Titivating and tizivating,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Elizabeth/Tizmom/Mom/Grandma