Just Another New Years Eve

New Years Eve has been my least favorite holiday for quite a few years now.

I loved New Years Eve as a little girl. I remember New Years Eves of the late 60’s and early 70s where family and friends got together at our house for elaborate parties thrown by my parents. My brother and I would wear our New Years hats and carry canes and dance to celebrate the new year.

As I left my teens and moved into my early twenties, I found myself spending New Years Eve with friends at parties where I would make every effort not to remain sober. During those years, friends were plentiful and I always had somewhere to go, whether it was a house party or a club party.

Mid to late twenties...fun, fun, fun! I decided I would throw my own parties (I hated driving on New Years Eve) – successful ones for a few years running. One of the best ones was the first one I ever threw. I lived in the attic of a Victorian house at the time. One of the guys asked if he could bring his guitar – he sure did, along with an entire band that ended up jamming in my bedroom because I had nowhere else to put them. I had about 40 people in my 3-room apartment and received noise complaints from the drunk downstairs (who we placated with a huge plate of food). Ironically, the born again Christians living in the same house never complained.

My dislike of New Years Eve began in my early thirties when my friends had begun to have children and were less interested in going to parties. My parties had begun to mellow out anyway, although in a good kind of way. The last few were held in the house my husband and I had bought and had really become respectable.  Food, not alcohol, had become the primary focus, although living in a cold climate allowed for beverages to be chilled outside. However, my parties had run their course. My friends were settling down and raising families and were not interested in parties.

Since my parties ended, New Years Eve has become a lost day for me. For a few years, my husband and I tried the “partying in the big hotel” thing, but unless you have a table full of people that you know, it really isn’t too much fun. The fancy hotel ballrooms pack 10-12 at an overpriced table. We found ourselves sitting with strangers with whom we spoke because we were proximal, not because we had anything in common. The most amusing part of the evening was the entertainment value of amateurs being overtaken my alcohol.

In our last few years in New York, we would spend New Years Eve at my parent’s home – full circle. We would eat dinner, then watch the ball drop and call it a night shortly after. Those are the ones I enjoyed the most.

However, for so many years, New Years Eve has never sat right with me. I end up going over the year prior in my mind and giving myself a mental flogging for all I haven’t accomplished. I blame society for leading people to have higher than normal expectations, including leading a glamorous life that doesn’t exist.

It is what it is.

Don't look so sad

It's not so bad, you know

It's just another night

That's all it is
It's not the first It's not the worst you know

We've come through all the rest

We'll get through this
We've made mistakes

But we've made good friends too

Remember all the nights

We spent with them?
And all our plans

Who says they can't come true?

Tonight's another chance to start again
It's just another New Year's Eve

Another night like all the rest

It's just another New Year's Eve

Let's make it the best
It's just another New Year's Eve

It's just another Auld Lang Syne

But when we're through this New Year

You'll see, will be just fine
We're not alone, we've got the world you know

And it won't let us down, just wait and see

And we'll grow old but think how wise we'll grow?

There's more you know, it's only New Year's Eve
It's just another New Year's Eve

Another night like all the rest It's just another New Year's Eve

Let's make it the best
It's just another New Year's Eve It's just another Auld Lang Syne

But when we're through this New Year

You'll see, will be just fine

©Barry Manilow

A Bug's Life...er...A Life with Bugs?

Living in a sub-tropical climate has its advantages, such as walking out on a sunny December day without a jacket. On a really warm December day, one is even able to go swimming.

When I moved to Florida, I had to get used to all different kinds of critters -- bobcats, foxes, black bear, lizards, bullfrogs, tortoises, and a host of other creatures I was not used to seeing as often up north.

Unfortunately, I discovered an entirely new group of beasts that I have no desire to share any of my space with.

Bugs.

You see, the warmer the climate, the bigger the bugs. Since I have been down south, I have seen some of the biggest bugs I have ever seen in my lifetime. Some of the bugs here are bigger than birds. I remember when the two boys next door were playing in their garage, a beast of a bug flew into their space, causing them to scream like girls as they ran out as quickly as their little legs could carry them.

The grasshoppers are enormous. My first spring here, I saw one of them on the outside of the screen of my lanai and I was terrified to go outside because I was afraid to be near anything that large. Wolf spiders take up a special section of real estate all their own and if that real estate happens to be your bathroom, well, you have...issues.

The biggest offender of my bug world is the palmetto bug.

Palmetto bug.

The name sounds so sweet and innocent, doesn't it? The name "palmetto bug" creates the illusion of a beautiful, colorful bug that one may possibly find in a palm tree, perhaps as dainty as a ladybug or as beautiful as a butterfly.

Unfortunately, the palmetto bug is neither beautiful nor dainty. The palmetto bug is designed from the stuff that nightmares are made of; and, unfortunately, they are a common occurrence in a sub-tropical  climate. This hideous beast is what a typical palmetto bug looks like.

They find their way in by the sneakiest of methods. They like to hang out in door jams and in other tight places where they feel "secure." They seem to appear out of nowhere. For example, one night I was setting up my coffee maker for the next morning. I saw a bit of coffee that I thought I spilled on the counter and when I leaned in closer, I realized that it had legs. There was one of this horribly ugly creatures, flipped over on its back, legs wildly kicking.

I don't worry so much about the upside down ones because those are the ones about to die. If they are flipped over, that means that they are about to die and that they are slowly drying out. Just leave them there to die on their own or nail them with ant and roach spray and have the husband remove the carcass later.

It's the right-side up ones really freak me out. You haven't lived until you have lifted up a box of cereal and seen one scurry towards you or sat on the commode only to see antennae (one of their favorite places to hide is around the toilet bowl). Finding one in the shower is another personal favorite of mine.

They don't do much. As far I I know, they don't bite and they don't multiply in the same numbers or speed as the city cockroach does. On average, I see three a week. However, they are bigger, uglier, and harder to kill than their city counterparts. Step on a palmetto bug and the beast lives on.

I realize that my fear is somewhat irrational. In fact, my entire thought pattern regarding bugs is irrational. The bigger the bug, the greater the fear. Using my logic, I would not be in the least bit fazed if a black widow crawled on me, but would run screaming if a palmetto bug came within a few feet of me.

It's a life with bugs.

North vs. South...Barbeque!

When I was up north, I remember sitting at a bar with the lunchtime crowd when the discussion of barbeque came up. There were two southerners amongst the group, obviously outnumbered. Being a northerner, I figured this would be a quick discussion -- how much of a discussion could they possibly have about barbeque? I sat there for an hour and a half and listened to both sides. Once each side moved past the language gap, the conversation  proved to be very interesting and educational.

Up north, barbeque means one thing -- to cook outside.  Up north, if you are invited to a barbeque, you are invited to someone's house for summertime comfort food...hamburgers and hotdogs, sometimes with sausage and steak.

No so in the South. In the South, barbeque has a culture of its own. Not only are people proud of their cooking (a number of folks have huge smokers outside where meat can can be smoked for hours), but they are serious about their sauces. They have actual contests and events featuring sauces. For a good many of the southern people, the hotter the better.

Yesterday, my husband and I sat in Sonny's, a popular barbeque chain here in Florida. I had acquired a ravenous taste for barbeque since I moved down south, so much so that it constantly competes with my ever present sushi hankerings.

My husband commented that I never use sauces. No...I don't. I am not a sauce person when it comes to barbeque. I like my sliced pork "straight up," thank-you-very-much. I find the sauces too sticky and besides,  I hate messy foods.

"But that's the whole purpose of barbeque! The sauce!" he countered.

Yeah, maybe he's right. Then again, he was talking to the same person who does not butter her grits and drowns them in milk with no other toppings added!

What can I say?

I meander to the beat of a different drummer.

Over 40 Years have Past...

Growing up in that late 1960's and early 1970's wasn't bad. The war in Vietnam was raging full steam ahead, but my brother and I were both too young to notice or care. My father was well past the age of getting drafted and the nightly newscasts of the events in Vietnam and Cambodia served only as white noise in the soundtrack of my existence.

Summer was my favorite season, not only because school was in recess, but because I had the opportunity to spend a week with my grandparents by myself in New Jersey (my brother and I were allotted each separate weeks to visit in order to retain my grandparents' sanity).

My grandparents only lived an hour's drive away from me, but in my childlike mind, it seemed as if they lived 3000 miles away. I lived in New York City and they lived in southern New Jersey -- an area punctuated with corn fields and farms, pine barrens and lakes. Their grocery stores had odd names. My grandparents lived in a development in which each street was named after a bird and when I walked down the street, strangers would wave at me and I could wave back without feeling weird. In the evening, the night sky would get so black that if I looked up, I could see all the stars in the sky. At twilight, the chorus of the crickets, locusts and cicadas was deafening.

I slept in a pull-out bed in my grandparents' living room. I believe the sense of smell is one of the strongest senses in which to bring back memories. Even today, if I closed my eyes and let my mind drift back to 1972, it would be 11pm and I would be crawling into bed, smelling the fresh aroma of my grandmother's sheets. I cannot describe the scent except to say that it was a distinctive, light floral. I have only smelled that scent one time outside of my grandparents' house and that was on the day my grandmother died. I was sitting in Applebee's with my husband and as I was trying to fight back my tears, a gentle breeze carrying that scent drifted gently past my nose. I believe it was her coming to tell me everything would be ok.

In the mornings, I would wake up early and join my grandfather on the porch in order to watch the birds begin their day. I can still see the birds zipping back and forth, following their morning routines, blissfully unaware of their human spectators.

I was a child of the water and loved to go with my grandparents to a tiny freshwater lake called Lake Whiting. The lake was so small that one could look across the entire lake and see the opposite side. As my grandparents explained, we would sit on the "good" side of the lake -- the side where the water was clearer and there were fewer stones at the bottom. I remember opening my eyes underwater and seeing the sun shine through the water onto the pale, gold sand that was the bottom. I can still hear my grandmother call out, "Remember! Only up to your armpits!" and every so often I would stand up in the water as my grandparents sat on their beach chairs on the shore line and hold my arms up as if to say proudly, "See! only up to my armpits!"

The three of us would go to this lake every day, but the most special day of all was the one day of "my" week that my grandfather and I would go to the lake early in the morning on our own. Sometimes he would go in the water with me and sometimes he would not. In between swims, we would just sit and talk about anything and everything and nothing in particular. I was so young then and didn't realize that years later, I would give anything just to hear his voice once more calling me his "little sugarplum."

Dinner time was a favorite as we always had fresh tomatoes and my grandmother cooked all my favorite foods. At home, I always had a limit as to how much I could consume, but no so at my grandparents' house. At my grandparents' house, I was welcome to take seconds, thirds, and fourths...and I did! We had my favorite -- mashed potatoes, every night. My grandmother made them extra creamy with slabs of butter and heavy cream with never a lump. I always drank ginger ale for dinner -- only Schweppes. My grandfather would pour my ginger ale "just right" into one of their glasses which had a picture of a bird on it. No one could pour ginger ale the way my grandfather did.

Later, I would follow my grandfather to the communal garbage pails in order to dump the night's trash. All the neighbors joked with my grandfather by calling me his little shadow.

Later on in the evening, we would have ice cream treats we called "super dupers" which were ice cream cones filled to capacity (and I mean filled to capacity) with ice cream and topped off with sprinkles. My grandmother would stand in the kitchen and pack each cone with ice cream as tight as she could, daring even the slightest bit of air to infiltrate any area of the cone in which ice cream rightfully belonged.

Neither the Watergate hearings or Hurricane Belle could ruin my summers at my grandparents' house, but all good things had to to an end. I remember deciding that once I turned thirteen I would be too old to spend "my" week with my grandparents. I distinctly remember making up my mind as if it were an important, life-altering decision. In a way, my decision to end my trips to my grandparents was a milestone -- I was a "big girl" now and spending summers at my grandparents seemed so "little girl."

Years later, during my 21st summer, I spent a week at my grandparents, although under an entirely different context. I was on break from college and my grandfather had been stricken with cancer and was being operated on. My parents were in California on vacation and my brother, who was already married and out of the house could not take leave from his job in order to stay with my grandmother, who we assumed would be receiving bad news after my grandfather's surgery.

My grandmother and I took trips to the hospital every day, trying desperately to be strong for one another and failing miserably. I remember one evening as night was falling, looking out of the windows at the nursery, where nurses and new mothers were cradling newborns and wondering as my grandfather lay dying, new lives were beginning.

Years have passed and both of my grandparents are long gone. Their house is now owned by another family and the little babies I saw in the nursery all those years ago are all grown up now. Life changes, but within our hearts we always hold dear those things which no one can every take away from us -- our memories.

Florida Comes Alive...

Seasons Greetings....from the Sunshine State.

Now that the weather is nicer, more people are out doing things and spending more time outside. Sounds so strange compared to this time of year up north, where I used to spend most of my time indoors hiding from the grey skies and shielding myself from the cold weather.

Down here, November is the time where things come alive...by the time November arrives, I have so many things to do that I find it difficult to choose, especially during the weekends. Outdoor events overlap each other with insane frenzy.

Christmas time is wonderful here. Last night, we spent a few hours strolling through Venetian Gardens looking at the light show. Afterwards, we sat on the grass and watched the holiday boat parade out on the water. I sat outside wearing a tank top while the temperature stayed at a perfect 70 degrees.

The sole purpose of this entry is to extoll the virtues of the warm southern climate -- nothing more, nothing less.

Not a big thing to those readers who were born and raised in warmer climates, but to those of us who froze every year during northern winters, this is a dream come true.

Bittersweet Memories.

Thanksgiving Day is the unofficial beginning of the Holiday Season. A time for joy, for getting together with relatives and friends, and a time to gobble up everything in sight with reckless abandon and nary a pang of guilt.

When I was a child, I used to wait with unfettered anticipation for the holiday season, as the time of year always included yummy treats, trips to my grandparent's house, and special traditions.

Life was so simple then.

So what has changed? Why does the holiday season appear less joyous to me as well as to so many others?

Youth is a loan that must gradually be repaid each year as we advance into our journey to old age. Youth allows us to take our experiences for granted. As a 5 years old, I imagined my life as never changing; in fact, I could not fathom a future  20, 30, 40 or more years into time! I could peer far into the future and see everything as exactly the same as it always was.

Unfortunately, adulthood is a thief that swipes away childhood idealism and innocence. While we are unaware, the angst of adolescence grabs hold, followed by more changes as we move through young adulthood, middle age and old age. We have no time to say goodbye to our childhood innocence or the footloose and fancy-free experience of our young adulthood.

As we step further ahead into time, people begin to leave our lives. When I look at pictures of family gatherings long past, I see people who have passed on years before -- frozen in time. Sometimes it feels strange for me to tell my husband about people he never met who were such an integral part of my life. We often talk about remembering voices of those taken from us and sometimes we replay those voices in our heads so we won't forget.

Time adds people as well. When a younger generation comes along, I eye them with a bit of jealousy. My father always used to say that youth is wasted on the young. I remember feeling angry in my younger years every time I heard him say it, but no truer words were spoken.

The young are blissfully ignorant.

Years ago, my brother and I were helping my parents clean out my grandmother's house shortly after her death. The experience was surreal. Every time I looked up, I expected her to come walking into the room. Everything I saw brought back a pleasant memory. My mind flashed back to holidays spent at her dining room table and if I listened closely enough, I could almost hear the laughter. In my mind's eye, she and my grandfather were together again, here with me, instead of in some other place where they would always appear forever out of my reach.

I snapped out of one of my mental journeys and found myself staring at the faces of my two young nephews. I could tell that they were wondering why I had drifted so far off and why they had to literally wake me out of a dream.

They looked so young. So innocent.

I found myself opening my mouth to explain why we should not take time for granted and why we should realize every day of our lives that time changes everything...that nothing ever remains the same. I wanted to tell them that they should treasure every moment. I wanted to tell them how I felt as a 5 year old as compared to now. I wanted to share my knowledge with them so they would not take people and events for granted as I had once done.

I ended up closing my mouth and saying nothing. There was nothing I could say that would make them understand.

Maybe the holiday season is "less joyous" because of the bittersweet memories of the past. If we go back far enough to ask our great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents about how they felt about the holidays in adulthood, I am sure they would say the same thing.

Treasure every moment.

Color My World

Too much time has passed since I last published a blog.

Must be the southern weather...

September starts to cool down here quite a bit. During the day, the temperature dips down to the mid-80's and the evenings become downright chilly as the temperatures go way down into the 70's (and on a real chilly evening -- the 60's). Last Sunday morning, my family and I left the house to greet a most frigid 55 degrees.

All of the above is written tongue in cheek of course; although, at times, the temperature in the 70's seems chilly to me. On Sunday evening, I caught myself grabbing a light sweater as I left the house.

Seriously, there are some things I *do* miss about the cooler weather up north. I miss the foliage -- A LOT. When I lived in New York, I lived in a house that sat on a lot surrounded by 18 trees. Each October, colors would burst forth in exuberant shades of reds, yellows, and oranges. When the leaves fell, they would blanket the ground in a vast array of autumn brights. As a child, I would lie on the ground surrounded by fallen leaves, eyes looking toward the treetops into the endless blue sky and dream I was in a magical autumn wonderland.

Don't misunderstand me. I love palm trees in all their glory and I thank God that I can live here where I am so lucky to see them every day. I am happy not to experience the bitter breezes and cold rains that autumns of north can bring.

This week, New York City should be experiencing peak foliage and I am not there to see it. This week, if only for a day, I would be willing to trade a palm tree for a burst of autumn color.

I'm surprised at how cavalier people are here regarding lightning, given that we are the lightning capital of the world.

Here, people are very willing to run out into a raging storm as they dodge lightening bolts. Since I have moved to Florida, I have seen lightning hit more things than I ever did when I was up in New York.

I only had one really close call in New York. About 17 years ago, I was driving home from work. I smoked at the time and had my window open. I had a cigarette in my hand which was partially out the window along with my elbow. It wasn't raining yet, and there was thunder rumbling in the distance. All of a sudden, all I saw was lightening, and at the same time, all I heard was thunder crashing around me. After it all was over, I felt as if time stood still. My arm was numb and for a few days after that, it was sore.

Close call.

That day, all those years ago, I gained a new found, utmost respect for lightning.

Another thing I don't understand is people using umbrellas during a thunderstorm.

HELLO????

Can you say lightening rod?

Sure you can.

Just thought that since the lightening is so bad here that people would have a bit more respect for mother nature.

A lot more respect.

Happy Birthday! 104 more....

Wednesday was a special day.

Someone who I never met until that day turned 104 years old and I was able to celebrate her birthday with her.

I had a choice that day of going to a local chamber of commerce luncheon to network and to listen to a local senator drone on ad nauseum about a political stance with which I strongly disagree, or going to a 104th birthday celebration. I did not know he was supposed to be the speaker until that day; however, I had been leaning toward going to the birthday anyway.

Anita Doebler turned 104 on Wednesday, July 25.  She was born on 1908 and lived to see countless changes and advancements take place. She was surrounded by her friends and family for a nice dinner and a birthday cake. The mayor of Eustis was there to present a birthday proclamation.

104 years young. Her "only" health problems are a touch of arthritis and a bit of trouble hearing. If I could live to be that age and be that healthy, I would be happy to do so. Her mind is intact and she still lives independently.

As an impromptu gesture, I pulled out my camera and snapped a few pictures of Mrs. Doebler and her guests during the celebration. I am not a newsroom staffer, but I sent the press release and photos to the correct parties for publication.

I'm glad that I went. I will probably never see her again, but I felt so privileged to have met her.

My Legacy

For the record, I am short and stocky. Even when I was "thin," I had never really felt that way. 

A few months ago, my husband and I took a ride with my parents to visit old friends, Tina and Joe. Tina was raised by my grandparents. My paternal grandmother (Frieda) was like a mother to Tina and my paternal grandfather walked her down the aisle on her wedding day.

When I got out of the car, Tina and I greeted each other. 13 years had passed since we had seen each other.

"Oh my God! You are looking more like Frieda every day!"

I cringed.

I loved my grandmother dearly and she was one of the most wonderful, strong, and loving women I knew, but I didn't want to really look like her.

She was certainly not ugly, but she had a stocky German figure that I prayed I would never end up having. In fact, I starved myself all through my 20's in attempt to avoid the inevitable.

I always knew I looked like her. At her wake, when I saw a picture sitting on top of her casket, for a split second, I thought it was me. The picture was of my grandparents on their 25th wedding anniversary in 1951.

I always wanted to have my mother's petite frame. When I was in my 20's, I would have given anything for my mother's figure.

My entire life has been a struggle to be thin but as I age I seem to be losing ground by gaining inches. My slow metabolism and my medication don't help much.

Tina looked shocked at the crestfallen look on my face.

"Frieda was the most beautiful woman I knew," Carla told me as she turned around and headed into the house.

Before The Bridge....

That's what we called native Staten Islanders. "Native" meaning that they were born before the bridge or that their parents were living on Staten Island before the bridge.

"The Bridge" is the Verazzano Narrows bridge which links Staten Island to the other boros, specifically Brooklyn. At the time that it was built, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world...so long that the engineers had to consider the curvature of the earth in the planning and construction.
The bridge changed the entire Staten Island landscape. It made Staten Island very accessible and soon people from Brooklyn and other boros were moving in. The landscape began to change...slowly at first as the farms dotting the countryside were replaced with houses and roads; and much later - highways.
I noticed the change in the area where I grew up. When I was very young, my street was not busy at all. The corner of my street had a stop sign and there were no paved sidewalks. There were trees as far as the eye could see. Eventually, the trees began to be replaced with homes, the sidewalks were paved, and a traffic light replaced the stop sign.
For my entire life on Staten Island, there was an "us" and "them" mentality. We were the natives...the mentality was so strong that when I began dating my high school sweetheart, his mother asked me if I was before or after the bridge. Had I been after the bridge, his parents would have forbidden him to date me.
I alreadys remember there being resentment from the natives regarding the newcomers. My feelings were mixed. Many of my friends were "after the bridge" and many post bridge folks became community leaders and worked tirelessly at preserving the history of our Island as well as its natural beauty.
Still, Staten Island changed so drastically over time that it wasn't even a shadow of it's former self anymore. So few natives remained that I didn't feel bad when I left.
It wasn't the Staten Island I once knew.
In the community where I had my store -- the story was the same. There was no bridge; however, an influx of new residents had created a similar situation...resentment from those who had grown up in an area which had drastically changed.
Now here I am in Leesburg, Florida and I can't help but think that the people who lived here for years and whose families have long histories may resent folks like me. It's because of folks like me that there are highways where farms once stood and that new houses and shopping centers are being built.
I no longer belong on Staten Island, but I don't belong here either. I don't plan on leaving and I want to assimilate rather than stick out.
I could go on and on, but I'll leave it at this brain dump.

So here it is...my very first post!

I decided to start a somewhat professional blog as I know that I will have some interesting (or not) stories to tell.

A bit about myself...I am a recent transplant to Florida, having been born and raised in Staten Island all my life. I worked for 16 years at a newspaper there and then up and started my own custom picture framing business in 2004 which I shuttered in December of 2010. My husband and I moved here to Florida after visiting with my snowbird parents. I left with not much more than an overnight bag and decided I would not return to NYC to live again.

What can I say? I am a sucker for palm trees and warm weather.

I'm also a sucker for adventure.

I realized we had to find a place to live, so I got a job at a collection agency (let me tell you, you have not *lived* until you have worked as a bill collector! ) where I was spoken to by debtors in a vernacular I didn't even *think* in, much less speak in.

While I was collecting bills, my husband headed back to New York and completed the incidentals...the house, etc.

Which leads me to here. I'm back where I started, as a multi-media sales account executive for a local daily newspaper.

And that's where I'll leave off.

A little history goes a long way...

Until next time!