The Santa Claus Challenge

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th-2Most of us remember when one of our classmates declared that Santa wasn’t real.  Some of us ay recall the famous Dear Virginia editorial response published in the New York Sun in 1897.  Even though, I’m old, and even though I’m currently living through the most turbulent, hateful times I find deplorable, I still believe in Santa.

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Santa Claus is a spirit, who resides within most of us. When we were children, he miraculously answered our letters on Christmas morning.  In most cases.  I didn’t get a pony, but a got a Schwinn bike.  I didn’t receive a drum set, but I got a guitar.  Surprisingly, I was never disappointed.  I was happy with all my gifts–except the underwear.

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As I aged, my experience led me to a greater understanding of Santa.  A mythical figure, who lived in a dreadful climate, who urged children to be good, who fulfilled wishes, for what?  A plate of cookies and a glass of milk?  Doubtful. Santa Claus , St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, or whatever your moniker, came to teach.

His lesson embodied the Golden Rule–do unto to others.  But Santa tweaked it a tad.  Do unto others with anonymity.  For me, there’s no greater joy than giving without acknowledgement, nor accolade. And yes, there are a myriad of ways to get a tax deduction without revealing or bragging.   Trust me, I know.

Inside of each of us is Santa Claus.  In times of disasters, strangers help others; sometimes risking their own safety to render assistance.  With the holiday season fast-approaching, I urge you to accept the Santa Claus challenge.  Do something for someone anonymously.  You’ll be surprised by the joy you receive.    I double-dog dare you.

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I Am a Regular!

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I recently read an article by Mark Alan Burger, entitled: The Lost Art of Being a Regular: Why You Should Become a Regular Fixture at Your Local Restaurant or Bar. Though, I’d lived in Phoenix for over 25 years, when I got divorced, my group of friends changed. No longer was I invited to couples’ events, Happy Hours, or weekend parties; I was hesitant to walk into a restaurant and say, “Table for one.”

About thirteen years ago, in the midst of July heat, I couldn’t bear the thought of cooking dinner or driving through a fast food joint for a greasy taco with tainted lettuce. Even though my youngest kid had warned me an eon ago to never go into El Mar, I was hungry, and I did. Not only was it not the biker, dive bar she’d described, but it was filled with folk who looked like me all enjoying a leisurely meal in a comfortable, yet festive atmosphere.

The food was good, the staff was excellent, and they offered Trivia Tuesdays. Within weeks, I became a regular. My neighbor and I formed a trivia team, and we became “fixtures” at El Mar! Just as Burger addresses in his article, there are advantages to being a regular:

  1. The owners and the staff not only know my name, but bring my beverage choice to the table before I sit down. We exchange meaningful conversation because we’ve shared our life details, i.e. our dogs, our kids, our vacations, and our occasional dirty jokes!
  2. I’ve met so many interesting people who live in my ‘hood that I would have never encountered elsewhere. Among them include: the head of maintenance at the apartment complex on the corner, an attorney at the State Attorney General’s office, two pediatricians, a talented ceramic artist, and numerous owners of diners and other small businesses. I know the lead singer/guitarist in a cool band, the head of supply chain management for a national sportswear company, a retired police officer, a retired Marine, and a veterinarian technician. All of them have enriched my experience, and some of them ended up as characters in my last novel: Justice for Jeremy.
  3. As a byproduct of engaging with all of these neighborhood folk, I learn a lot of neighborhood news–some gossip, but some valuable info.
  4. El Mar is a place of celebration, too, where we all join in to sing Happy Birthday or Country Roads when the USA soccer team wins.
  5. But what I like best about El Mar, its staff, and its customers is their spirit of community and their commitment to giving back–to the neighborhood public schools, to the animal shelters, to the women’s shelters, to the Christmas toy drives, to Veterans’ organizations, and to summer water drives for the unhoused.

As I reflect on my experience, indeed, it took guts to walk into El Mar alone. Yet, I’m so thankful I did. In this disconnect, insular world of texts, polarization over race and/or economic status, and downright abject hate, it is exhilarating for me to walk into an establishment, where everyone greets one another with a smile or a hug. Yes, I’m a “fixture”–something permanently attached to El Mar, and they will have to scrape me off the wall if they decide to: 8677!

A Woowoo Experience

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I’m not a believer in Karma, Tarot cards, fortune telling, or Ouija Boards, but I had very weird things happen over the last few months. It began with a phone call from my sister who lives in Texas.

“Sue, Cal is going to visit Mount Vermillion next weekend.”

Cal? Her eldest grandson who was born and raised in Houston suburbia was visiting a very small Ohio university in the winter?

“Why?”

“He’s being recruited to play football, and he knows one of the coaches there.”

Granted Mount Vermillion does have an exceptional Division I team, but a big city guy, who’s never lived in winter in a small town, may find the Midwest weather and its culture challenging.

Several months later, Cal phoned. “Aunt Sue, I’ve committed to Mount Vermillion.”

Woowoo! Fifty-six years ago, I graduated from there. Both my brother and my ex-husband went there. “Congratulations, big guy! Perhaps, I’ll come and visit you.”

This week I was dealt the ultimate woowoo. My sister texted: Cal got his room assignment. He’s going to live in Colter Hall.

WTH? Colter Hall? Where I lived as a freshman sixty years ago? Where I watched my brother jumped off the roof a couple years later after a panty raid? Ye, Gods! I texted my college roommate, who resides in Mount Vermillion’s town: Cal is going to live in Colter Hall!

Her response: On our floor?

I responded: No. He’s on the first floor. Do hope the U has remodeled those rooms in 60 years.

The next morning, she called. “Don’t worry, Sue. Our names, cigarette burns, and etchings on the restroom stalls were vanquished years ago.”

“But what about the washer that Hansen threw up in when she couldn’t find the bathroom?”

“Damn it, Sue! Stop with the memories! Have you ever heard of a 60-year-old washing machine? Are you losing it?”

No. Woowoo.

Dirty Myrtle

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Last week was family vacay. We’d originally planned a trip to Bah Mar in Nassau, but given the impending arrival of grandson number 2, we opted to remain stateside–and close to the hospital. As usual, this nervous flyer was sitting at the bar in Charlotte, NC, awaiting her next flight, when the bartender drawled, “Where y’all headed?”

Y’all, I thought. Is she talking to me? “Me? Myrtle Beach.”

“Ah, Dirty Myrtle. That’s a wild place. Y’all staying where the action is?”

OMG! I’m a septuagenarian! Do I look like I could handle action? And what’s this Dirty Myrtle stuff? Granted, I hadn’t been there in fifteen years, but I don’t recall it being dirty. “Where’s the action? I’m staying at Sands.”

“Good for you. You’re a ways away from the action.”

Hmm. Maybe. But maybe, I was missing out on something. Damn, at my age, I can’t afford to waste time; I have FOMO. So I need to research this. Unfortunately, there seems to be no definitive explanation for Dirty Myrtle. Some say there was an old popular beer by the same name. Others suggest it’s due to the Atlantic Ocean’s color on this stretch of the beach, which is murkier than the water to the north or south. Yet, its nickname could have come from the 90’s, when Myrtle Beach was known for its strip joints and nightclubs.

After reading all of this, I was intrigued. I’d have to drink a Dirty Myrtle, gaze at the brown water, and go in a strip joint. Much to my disappointment, I didn’t find Dirty Myrtle Beer, nor did I even see a strip club! Thankfully, though, the Atlantic was clear and blue–probably due to lack of rain. We had great time beaching it; my grandson loved it; the weather cooperated.

I saw no evidence to corroborate the Dirty Myrtle nickname, until I was Ubering toward the beautiful airport:

Buc-ee’s?

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The first Buc-ee’s Truck Stop is scheduled to open in Arizona this week, and I’m struggling to understand the feverish excitement. Since I’m old, I’ve been to my fair share of truck stops on turnpikes and interstates across the United States. Yes, I’ve been through Texas, too, but never stopped at Buc-ee’s. On June 22, Buc-ees will open its first west of Texas, 74,000 square foot, 120 fuel pump, restaurant, and convenience store in Goodyear. All of the surrounding hotels have been booked, and traffic patterns have been rerouted to facilitate the expected crowds. According to its news release, fans can line up at 6:00 AM, with the grand opening scheduled for 8:00 AM. With temperatures predicted to be in excess of 100 degrees, patrons are advised to bring water bottles and chairs for the anticipated long lines.

Personally, I am mystified by all this hoopla. Granted I got up at 4:00 AM on Black Friday in search of a Furby. Years later, I stood in a short line with my youngest to buy the newly-released Beanie Baby. But this septuagenarian has NO interest in renting a hotel room and the next morning standing in line at a truck stop to buy a beaver tee shirt or a bbq sandwich. And given the debacle in the Middle East, they’re certainly not giving away gas! Why bother?

Kudos and congratulations to Buc-ee’s for employing two hundred Arizonans. Kudos and congratulations to your marketing department for creating such a outstanding success. And perhaps, someday when I road trip to San Diego, I’ll make a pit stop at your establishment.

I Choose You

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In April, 2024, a friend and her nine-month-old puppy, Orion, moved into the casita on my property. Orion quickly assimilated into my pack of five, but certainly preferred his “Mom” over me. When the election results of November 2024 were posted, I was incredulous. My disbelief festered. I didn’t want a psychiatrist, nor a pill. I needed a puppy to rid me of my angst. So I chose:

R. Bader G., and she liked both the pack and me for a while. But over time, she gradually gravitated to my friend, G. What was at first an occasional sleepover in G’s casita bloomed into full-time residency. Eventually, Orion had had enough of sharing attention, and he decided to bunk in with me. Needless to say, I was slightly miffed, until I realized I couldn’t force her choice. Perhaps, that’s a lesson our legislators should learn.

“There’s NO Such Thing…”

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CLIMATE CHANGE? FAKE NEWS!

As many of you know, I grew up in the city but spent my weekends and summers at my grandparents’ farm. I had the best of both worlds. On one hand, I had the city conveniences of restaurants, movie theaters, shopping malls, and good schools. But on the farm, I received an education! Just like Mark Twain opined: I never let my schooling interfere with my education.

At the farm, I witnessed the stillbirth of a calf, I watched a barn cat deliver ten kittens, I fed the chickens, I helped slop the pigs, I milked a cow, I planted seeds and sapling trees, and I drove the tractor during haying season. I was overwhelmed by the amount of work farmers did: 24-7, 365 days of the year. In fact, I asked my grandmother, “Why don’t you and Grandpa take a vacation?”

“Suzanne! You know why. Cows, chickens, pigs, cats, dogs. Do they ever take a vacation? Plus, there’s crops to grow, gardens to plant, picking, and canning. And then there’s the weather. Will it snow or rain? Will we get enough? Or too little or too much?”

Fast forward to May, 2026. We regret to inform you that our fruit stand will be closed this summer and fall due to a late frost. We are unable to offer any fruits or vegetables. Years ago, a friend of mine recommended this market, who brings in truck loads of fresh, delicious apricots, tomatoes, red and black raspberries, cherries, blueberries, and peaches from Utah. The Angelo Peaches are undoubtedly the best I’ve ever had! I’m really bummed I won’t get to bake a peach cobbler and smother it with vanilla ice cream.

What can we expect? We shoot more pollutants into the air; we abuse the Earth; we mock Mother Nature and defame science. But what I do know this: Dr. Suze can’t bake a cherry, nor a peach pie. Sorry, Billy Boy, your father was right. I’m not wife material.

Very Sad

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Certainly, there are many times our lives are overtaken by sadness. The death of an elderly family member, the sickness of a spouse or a child, the loss of an heirloom due to a natural disaster, or the cancellation of the perfect event. But this week, when I was at the veterinarian with one of my sick dogs, I was undone.

As a dog person, I get almost as upset when one of dogs is ill, than when one of my children was ill. Admittedly, I was stressed as I sat in the waiting room clutching my Cavapoo, Bader. Then I saw her: grim-faced, older woman walk through the front entrance cradling an old dog.

“Right this way, Mrs. Carson,” said the receptionist, as he lead her to an examination room.

“Shit,” I thought, “I’d been in that room last summer. The euthanasia room.” Water dripped down my cheeks.

“Dr. Suze, this way.”

I followed the receptionist back, while my friend carried Bader. After examining Bader, the vet decided the vertigo was due to an ear infection. “We’re going to treat both of her ears and prescribe a low-dose steroid to clear up the infection. We’ll take her back to our lab and do a Valley Fever blood draw too. We’ll bring her out to the waiting room when we’re through.”

“Whew,” my friend, G, said, “That’s a relief.”

“Yep. An expensive one too.” Just as we sat down to wait, we heard the unmistakable wailing of human pain. It was so mournful that I felt I was intruding on someone’s sorrow. “G, I’ve got to step outside.”

Through the large glass windows, I saw a very distraught woman exit that room. As she walked outside, I mumbled, “I’m so sorry.” What else could I say? She certainly wasn’t ready to hear: all dogs go to Heaven.

She shook her head.

There was a time when I had only one dog, not six. When she passed over the rainbow bridge, my emptiness was unbearable. I hope that woman had another dog waiting for her at home to ease the pain.

What’s for Breakfast?

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Since I was a child, I’ve never been a fan of breakfast food. I didn’t care about snap, crackle, and pop! I just wanted the toy buried within the cereal box. Oatmeal? No thanks. “Green eggs and ham,” bacon, or sausage made me gag. Pancakes? Too mushy. Orange juice, meh. Apple juice, an absolute no-no.

“But, you have to eat something, Suzanne, before you go to school.”

“Why, Mom?”

“Because your teacher will think I’m a bad mother.”

“I won’t tattle. Just don’t make me eat that stuff. May I have a chocolate chip cookie and a cup of coffee instead?”

“No! Your grandmother lets you drink coffee on Sundays, but not in my house! You’re only seven-years-old.”

I rolled by eyes, “Then, may I have a cookie?”

“Fine!” She was visibly mad, “And then, go brush your teeth again.”

By the time I got to college, breakfast was a thing of the past. I became a strict, two-mealer, and an occasional late-night snacker. In fact, for forty years, my morning go-to was simply cafe-au-lait (coffee with cream) from a regular coffee pot–not an overpriced coffee shop. On rare occasions, I might indulge with a half of donut, a bagel with cream cheese, or a cookie.

Now, my morning rarely begins until 10 AM, so I simply need a half-cup of coffee to jump start my engine because in a couple of hours, it’s lunch time. That is. unless…. There happens to be some homemade, peanut butter cookies with a Hershey’s Kiss baked on top. My absolute morning go-to repast. Guess that proves, old habits don’t die with age!

Bon appetit!

66-26

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Before you crazed, conspiracy theorists get your knickers in a knot, my blog is neither an elementary schoolyard chant, nor a death threat. It’s about high school graduation–you know it’s that time of year when hopefully, most teens manage to earn a diploma. Somehow I did in 1966. Sixty years ago!

Sixty years ago we had: rotary-dial phones that plugged into the wall, transistor radios, and black and white TV’s. We knew how to read our analog watches, return soda bottles to the grocery, load film in our cameras, and use a map if we were lost. We learned to type on a manual typewriter, calculate with a slide rule, and use the card catalog, encyclopedias, and dictionaries. The vast majority of our parents kept us under watchful eye. We were expected to be polite and respectful. We were expected to go to church. And if we got in trouble at school, our parents rarely debated our innocence.

And while I was elated to graduate in 1966, my guy friends faced the uncertainty of being drafted and sent to Vietnam. Food prices soared sparking protests and picket lines around grocery stores. Little did we know that our thriving city would die a slow, painful death eight years later when all of the steel mills closed. Thankfully, NO member of our 400+ class is on the Vietnam War Memorial. Thankfully, over half of us are still alive and struggling through health problems, operating our frustrating high-tech devices, and bragging about our kids and grandchildren.

Even though I’m old, I have great faith in the future. Just as I was sixty years ago, 2026 graduates are faced with uncertain times, rising prices, war, and serious socio-economic and environmental issues. But please know the majority of we oldsters are rooting for you to confront and confound these issues and to champion peace. Congratulations.

Random Mom Thoughts

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The first modern American celebration of Mother’s Day was in 1908, but it wasn’t until 1914 that President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed it a national holiday to honor mothers. Through the years, greeting cards, flowers, gifts, and dinners became the norm to recognize mothers’ patience and unconditional love.

I am very fortunate to have been a mom for over forty years to two, very accomplished daughters, and proudly state I enjoyed most of it. However, there were times I thought I’d not survive. The tween-early teen years were challenging. You know what I’m talking about–those years when Mom didn’t know anything. In fact, my eldest said to me recently, “Every teenager hates their mom; it’s just part of the maturation process.”

“How well I remember, my dear. I rid the house of dictionaries and encyclopedias because you knew it all!”

Perhaps because my professional career was in education, motherhood came to mean much more to me than my kids. I morphed into an advocate for our kids, regardless of race, color, ethnicity, and zip code. Our children are our greatest natural resource. Our children are our future. Our children are our only hope to affect positive change. Our children should not suffer from malnutrition, homelessness, nor poverty. Our children should have equal educational opportunities.And our children don’t need to die from unnecessary diseases because they weren’t vaccinated, nor do they need to die from senseless, pissing contests by megalomaniacs.

I don’t believe any woman has to actually birth a child to be a mother. (Mother Cabrini? Mother Teresa? Mother Goose?) But every woman can make a significant difference in the life of children through coaching, volunteering, mentoring, helping, employing, and leading our young.

Today is May 10, 2026; Mother’s Day. Be a mom to someone who needs you. Thanks, Dr. Suze