Over five years ago, I did a series of blogs highlighting special people in my journey through life. I’m very gregarious and have friends from every walk, and once in awhile I stumble on someone who is a shining example of humankind. Now, those persons don’t come along often, but when they do, I know it. Sara is one of those rare shells I search for at the beach.

Even though I’d lived in the hood for almost thirty years, I’d never been inside The Cheers Bar and Grill. It was Trivia Night that drew me in, where the food was great and the folk were nice, so I became a regular. Last fall Sara was hired as the manager.

If ever there is an Energizer Bunny, it’s Sara. To watch her perform makes me weary. Not only can she handle orders, mix and serve drinks, deliver food, and bus tables, but she knows everyone by name. I’ve never seen her approach a table of eight to ten people and say, “Who ordered the BLT on sourdough?” She just knows. Her customer service is impeccable, as she balances bartending, serving, cashiering, and managing her staff with humor. Her effervescent smile and attentiveness to her customers is refreshing in this day of mean, cranky people, who complain about minutia.

Perhaps, because she’s also a yoga instructor with the physique that screams gym rat, she doesn’t rattle easily. She probably meditates through rude jokes, loud jukebox music, roaring televised sports, and occasional rowdy behavior. How else could one survive the chaos of managing such a high-energy establishment with a smile?

Yet, her most extraordinary example occurred Friday night. Granted, I usually take an elderly, lonely man to Cheers every Friday night for clam chowder and fish and chips, but I couldn’t do so that evening. At 6:15, I received a text: Sue, are you and Brad coming for dinner? When I replied we weren’t, her immediate response: Just checking, We are running out of fish, and I instructed the server to hold back on orders until we checked on you. OMG! Where else can I get this kind of service?

The pandemic, followed by the shortage of employees, has wrecked havoc on small, independent businesses. Local pop and mom specialty stores have closed or gone bankrupt due to quantity pricing and the convenience of internet shopping. Sure, you can eat and drink your way across America and even abroad at chain establishments, but if you dare to step aside your box, you will discover an amazing world of wonderful, friendly, caring people, like Sara.

Do unto others….

My next door neighbor’s son, daughter-in-law, and grands are visiting this week. On Wednesday, my neighbor said, “I can’t believe I’m free all afternoon. Sandi (her d-i-l) is preparing dinner this evening.”

“Nice. What’s she making?”

“Lasagna with bread; I guess it’s some new recipe using bread instead of pasta.”

“Hmm.” My mouth is thinking mushy, gummy bread slathered with tomato sauce and cheeses. “Really? I’ll be anxious to hear about how it tastes.”

“You can come to dinner.”

NO! “No thanks, I have plans tonight.” I couldn’t imagine ever eating anything like that! Plus, I’d have to pretend that I liked it, even if I could barely swallow mushy goo.

On Thursday evening, my neighbor came over to have a beer, and I inquired about the lasagna dinner success.

“Oh, Sue. You know I’m hard of hearing, and I wasn’t really listening. It was Lasagna with garlic bread; bread being on the side!”

And we laughed and laughed. The joys of old age!

Let me say from the onset, I do not rue paying taxes. I have benefited greatly from Medicare, particularly during my dance with the devil. I’m grateful my garbage is picked up curbside every week. I find great comfort in knowing either the police or the fire departments are a phone call away. And I adore I live within the boundaries of a fabulous school district. I fully understand these services are solely a result of paying taxes–no free lunch. However, I do have a BIG issue with IR$.

No, it’s not the amount of money I have to pay yearly; it’s the copious amount of paperwork and time-consuming preparation work. When my life did a 360 years ago, I knew there would be no way I could do my own taxes. I was not so naive to know I couldn’t add numbers, nor even begin to understand the tax laws. (The instruction booklet must have been written by writers from The Twilight Zone!) Thus, I hired the most reputable CPA firm I could find; my worst nightmare is the IR$ showing up at my front door and carting me of to jail for income tax invasion.

Yesterday, I spent over four hours sorting through piles of paperwork to take to my accountant. This yearly effort could be easily simplified if the IR$ would just send me a bill. Once a month, quarterly, or once a year. Just send me a bill! But no, I have to itemize my donations, deductions, interests, ad nauseum. Why? Big corporations, Bezos, Trump, and Gates pay no taxes, but schleppy Sue has to spend four hours on paying her pittance. Why?

The government knows full well how much money each of us earns per year, and I don’t think the feds should care how much we donate to charity, nor gamble at the casino, Just charge us all x-percent (including billionaires) whatever X is.

After seething about this, I did some research and found that the federal tax code has become a tome. The IR$ employs 75,773 folk and their average salary is $79,831. That’s in excess of $60 million. God only knows how many CPA’s, cottage accountants, and national HR Block firms there are. My epiphany! Long gone is the opportunity to restructure and simplify federal taxes; too many people would suddenly be unemployed. Colleges and universities would no longer need accountancy and CPA studies. Damn, America might even collapse.

So for the rest of my life, both you and I will spend hours amassing paperwork each spring to pay our convoluted bill to Uncle Sam.

I’ve had cabana boys for ten years. In the past, each has been a friend of my youngest. They move into my modest unattached guest quarters, where I charge no rent, willingly do their laundry, and feed them occasionally. They, in turn, would change a light bulb I couldn’t reach without endangering my life, house/dog sit when I was away, and keep well-entertained with their take on the world.

I had been without a cabana boy for almost six months, since the former graduated from college. Then, in November, I was approached by the daughter of a 91 year-old guy. His wife of 52 years kicked him out and wanted a divorce because she had a boyfriend! I agreed to what I thought would be a temporary arrangement until the couple reconciled. However, nothing has changed. And obviously, I’ve had to seek out new light bulb changers and dog sitters because “Grandpa” is not capable.

Since he’s almost twenty years older than me, I think he’s Dickens’ ghost of Christmas Future. As I watch and listen, I wonder if that’s my inevitable. He stopped driving years ago, rarely knows what day of the week it is and tells me the same stories over and over. On Saturday afternoons, I drop him off for free Texas Hold ‘Em, and he rues losing all of his chips.

We usually go to the neighborhood bar for Fish Fry every Friday. Last Friday night, the owner came over and sat with us. Her server brought our dinners and a huge wad of napkins. When we finished eating, “Grandpa” asked: “Sharen, what do you do with all these napkins that she left on our table?”

“We have to throw them out.”

“Oh,” he said, “May I have them?” Sharen nodded, and we ambled back to my car with a fist full of napkins! I was tripped out; my insides were shaking with laughter. Thank God, it hadn’t been catsup packets!

So if you ever see me with napkins hanging from my purse, you’ll know I’ve fulfilled the prophecy.

So, if I’m out to dinner with you and I randomly begin picking up napkins and stuffing them in my purse, be assured, I’ve lost my mind!

As many of you know, I’m originally from Youngstown, Ohio, an industrial hub and steel town. By the early 1930’s it was the forty-fifth largest city in America, hence its nickname “Biggest little city on earth.” During my childhood, even on the darkest night, the skies were red from the glowing blast furnaces.

In the early 1950’s, I entered public school kindergarten and matriculated through the system until I graduated. I was somewhat a minority student because I was a white, Anglo-Saxon protestant, and the vast majority of my classmates were first or second generation Americans. Their families had immigrated from such countries as Ireland, Wales, Poland, Ukraine, Slovenia, Croatia, Germany, Italy, Greece, Hungary, and Serbia. Many of them had intriguing last names that hadn’t been Anglicized by some intake official. As a seventh grader, I fell hopelessly in love with John, and I practiced over and over again spelling his last name: Asimakopoulos.

I feel very fortunate to have experienced such a culturally rich childhood, where I was welcomed into so many unique family traditions. My mother’s cooking skills were far exceeded by most my friends’ mothers’. And tonight, I remember the wonderful afternoon when my friend’s Ukrainian grandma showed us how to elaborately decorate an Easter egg. And tonight, I marvel at how well everyone got along in my school, and how we shared our heritages together. But most of all tonight, I pray for peace in the Ukraine. Years ago, the renown Walter Cronkite posited: War itself is, of course, a form of madness. It’s hardly a civilized pursuit. It’s amazing how we spend so much time inventing devices to kill each other and so little time working on how to achieve peace.

Join me in praying for peace.

At my age, I have to make decisions based on my longevity. After working the math, I decided I could get one more puppy and probably outlive it. Thus, Harper Q Lee, a mini goldendoodle came to live with the five others in my pack two weeks ago. (Q stands for QUITS!)

While some relish puppy breath, I love the shenanigans. There’s never a dull moment between puppy naps, as she harasses one of the others. Even though she was accepted by the pack within an hour, she tends to overdo her acceptance. Of course, there are downsides, like needle-sharp teeth that rip right through my weathered flesh, and a tiny bladder which hasn’t mastered house training. Yet she knows her name, and 90% of the time comes when she’s called. Baby steps.

However, the greatest gift I’ve received from Harper, as well as my other canines, has been unconditional love. Obviously, something that’s solely lacking in this “Mixed up, muddled up, shook up world.”

Unfortunately, this is a true story that occurred at my nail appointment this week. I’ve been a bi-weekly patron at this nail salon for ten years or so, and every once in a while I’m assigned to the guy nail tech. Due to the close proximity I was wearing a mask.

Our conversation began when he asked, “How did you get here today?”

What? I look at him incredulously. “What do you mean how did I get here?”

“How did you get here?” He repeated. “Who brought you?”

“Duh, I drove my car to the salon.”

“You still drive?” He looked at me with disbelief.

My sassy self took over, “Yes, I drive, and I even drive at night!”

“Hmm. How old are you?”

Since I’ve never been one to lie about my age (except when I was in college), I said I was seventy-three.

Another stunned look from my 40-45 year old, “My father’s seventy-one, and he doesn’t drive. Of course, he’s blind.”

Blind? I hope he didn’t drive! The Sun City Q-tips were bad enough.

“You know most women that come in here are driven by someone else.”

I looked around the salon. Both the pedicure and manicure stations were filled with primarily women who were at least twenty years younger. Believe me, I wanted to rebut his comment, but I replied, “Yan, you’re not going to get a tip if this conversation continues.” I laughed, but I was peeved.

In retrospect, it was a good thing I was wearing a mask. Damn, if he saw the rest of my wrinkles, he would have called me a cab. My Botox guy can easily rid my forehead of the deep crevices, and I will be sure to request anybody but Yan next time.

“If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, it expects what never was and never will be.” Wise words from Thomas Jefferson.

As I watch from the sidelines the attack of public school curriculum, I can only conclude America is awash with ignorance. In Oklahoma this week, a parent requested the school district drop Biology courses for the subject is immoral. American history courses are being cleansed of references to race and the Holocaust. Archived pictures of victims of Auschwitz have been removed as too graphic for teenage-eyes. Revered classic literature has been banned from reading lists and school libraries. Even though, the Supreme Court ruled in 1982 in Islands Trees School District v Pico that removal of books from libraries violates the First Amendment. (One would think an attorney educated at Harvard Law, Ted Cruz, would indeed know that prior to today’s rampage!)

But the most ludicrous example of how far this has gone occurred at Perry High School in Chandler, Arizona, this week. A culinary arts teacher had to notify parents about her upcoming lesson on the anatomy of poultry because she was going to discuss the breast bone and breast of poultry. Board policy requires such notification if any sexual terms are going to be used, and parents can opt their children out of class during the discussion. (I’m not kidding; this is true.)

I’m aghast that any parent whose child has access to TV, video games, the internet, and/or cell phones, would think their kid does not possess adult knowledge. My Lord, our former POTUS talked about pussy on national TV! And who can forget his mockery of a disabled man? Children know the difference between a chicken leg and a chicken breast. Tik Tok and other social media are their favorite sources of sexual information. Books are not the problem; your naivete is! And by the way, a book didn’t kill kids at Columbine or Sandy Hook.

I’ve listened to the ridiculous arguments about returning to the three R’s–reading, writing, and rithmetic. But what will our kids read and write about? Dick and Jane? Spot and Puff? And rithmetic will have to simply be basic operations, for God forbid, math teachers would teach high-brow inquiry that requires highly developed reasoning in these Stepford children.

Sadly, these clueless parents have been indoctrinated with wing-nut notions, which can only result in raising another generation of stupidity. Their children will not be equipped with essential knowledge to compete at the college level or in American industry. About the time their child tells a university prof, he/she can’t read that novel, study this philosophy, dissect the cadaver, or research the atrocities of Mendel’s experiments, the professor will remind the student to “do it or drop the class.”

I suspect America is on a more sinister path constructed by powerful, conniving thieves. Morons can be manipulated through empty promises. The rich will get richer, and the poor will be grateful for the scraps. God help the unsuspecting fool who orders Rocky Mountain Oysters.

While I fully realize the shortage dilemma, due to ships stranded along ports without docker workers to unload their cargo, there are some things I don’t understand. For example, yesterday I was in a large major chain grocery, and there was only spaghetti pasta. No noodles, no rigatoni, no macaroni, no shells. Further, there was not one pound of hamburger, nor Italian sausage links.

Today, I ventured to my ‘hood small grocery, where the Gatorade shelf has been vacant for over a month, as well as some bottled juice shelving. Further the packaged cheese choice was limited to mozzarella and American. Even certain brands of beer were missing from the cooler. Suffice it to say, cleaning products, paper towels, toilet tissue, and dog food are scarce commodities.

Now, I can only surmise these shortages are due to lack of employees from canneries, to factories, to truck drivers. It seems almost all institutions have staff shortages, i.e. schools, hospitals, retail, and even volunteer programs. Except for one….

Politicians. I swear they multiply every night! Why is that?

This week I received a writing prompt from Story Worth, How do you spend your Saturdays? At first, I scoffed. Saturday? At my age, I’m lucky to differentiate the days of the week, but it did cause me to reflect on how my Saturdays had evolved.

As a child, my Saturdays equaled freedom. I went to birthday parties, played with my friends, and was forced to watch Lawrence Welk if we had a babysitter. As a teenager, it was usually date night with my current boyfriend at the movies or hanging out at someone’s house. When I was in college, half of Saturday was spent sleeping, playing bridge, and perhaps writing the paper that was due on Monday. Saturday night was reserved for some kind of foolishness, like fraternity parties or playing drinking games at a college bar. After I graduated from college and had a real job, my Saturdays were spent grading papers, designing lesson plans, and doing graduate school assignments.

When I became a mom, Saturdays changed drastically. I morphed into a party host, driver to the mall, softball coach, dance mom, tennis mom, and cheer mom. It was rare if our home wasn’t a whirlwind of activity. Fortunately, during football season, my then-husband and I managed to go to ASU games, but for the most part, our kids dictated Saturdays.

Now Saturday just blends in with the other six days of the week. My married friends, of course, still go out for dinner, to the movies, to parties, but my Saturday has no significance. COVID has certainly squashed my urge to go mingle among a mass of people.

So to all my young readers, who are in the manic Saturday stage, remember there will come a time when you miss the frenzy of Saturday.