Yesterday I saw my hairdresser who attempted to make me presentable. Twins surrounded their grandmother hairdresser as she attempted to cut her daughter-in-law’s hair. The boy and girl were chattering as seven-year-olds do, when I asked, “So what do you want for Christmas?”

The little boy rattled off a number of things, some of which I didn’t know. Must have been video games. Then, his twin, spoke, “I want my own Alexa, a cellphone, and art stuff. You know what else I want?”

“No, my dear, but I think you’ll tell me. What else do you want?”

“A baby sister!”

And with that pronouncement, her grandma dropped her scissors, her mom bent forward with shocked looks, and her twin brother added, “We want a baby sister every year for Christmas!”

Much to the chagrin of momma and grandma, my hairdresser and I were doubled over in laughter. Out of the proverbial mouths of babes come the most hilarious things.

May none of us lose sight of the spirit of the holiday season. May we look at our lives through the lens of a child. May we strive to be positive and not defiant. May we embody the best in us and collaboratively work together for ONE REASON: Our Children.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. My next blog will post on January 9.

Like many of you, our parents had a Christmas morning rule. Ours was: Stay in bed until 7:00. In Ohio, it was not even daylight at 7 a.m., but my parents and sometimes visiting grandparents dutifully agreed to leave their warm beds for my brother, Bruce’s, and my anxiousness. Of course, our three-year-old sister had to be awakened to join in our merriment.

Now, for my quizzical mind, the 7 a.m. posed a problem. Obviously, there was no Internet 60 years, so I had no understanding of why or how 7 a.m. was the chosen awake time. Without logical reasons, I concluded time was arbitrary. There were no laws to prohibit the wake up time. All I need to do was advance the clocks. Right after we were sent to bed on the Eve, Bruce and I reset the upstairs clocks.

In those days, digital, atomic clocks had yet to be invented, so one would have to squint at the dimly-lit clock, in a sparsely-lit bedroom to ascertain the time. Our plan was flawless. We congratulated each other with our creativity. The alarms went off, Bruce and I were already downstairs eying the presents and full stockings we were forbidden to touch until the adults arrived. My parents and grandparents yawned and drank coffee before the fun began. My baby sister was left to sleep through this exciting, wonderful moment.

It was a perfect Christmas morning! I enthusiastically opened a box from “Santa.” OMG! It was the clock radio I had wanted. I was so delighted I had to plug it in. In my eagerness. I flipped the dial to listen to my favorite station, WHOT. Probably playing Christmas carols, but we all needed holiday music.

Everyone who knows me is well aware I remain techno-challenged. Thankfully, I raised two techno gurus who talk me through my numerous formatting issues, TV set-ups, and cell phone problems. I could only hear the faint music, so I cranked up the volume dial to the max. The music stopped. The DJ blasted, Good morning, Youngstown! Merry Christmas! It’s Four AM!

Busted! Mom fled to the kitchen to check the stove clock, while my dad dialed the local time and temperature number. Both confirmed it was moments after four. Busted! Yes, I admitted I was the instigator, but it was Christmas. My grandparents, unlike my parents, found great humor in my clever shenanigan. Bruce and I were sentenced back to bed, where we slept peacefully until the aroma of bacon awoke us.

(In keeping with the holiday spirit, my next several blogs will celebrate the “most wonderful time of the year.”)

A usual Saturday night in December over sixty years ago. My parents went to a Christmas Ball; my dad in a tux, my mom in a long gown. My two sibs and I relegated to the care of an old maid babysitter who made us watch Lawrence Welk as we knoshed on hot dogs and mac and cheese. My little ten-year-old brother, Bruce, and I snuck away from the Lennon Sisters to the upstairs in search of Christmas presents. We finally uncovered a stash of wrapped boxes in the under eaves storage attic. I left Bruce stayed. Unbeknowst to me, he opened the end of every package and peeked.

On Monday morning, our mother discovered the partially opened gifts. When Bruce and I came home from school, were confronted by Mom wrath. “Which of you opened the Christmas presents?”

We both responded, “Not me!”

“They didn’t unwrap themselves!” She followed up with the angry “mom-stare.” (Too bad the Elf on the Shelf was yet to be written.)

After several more minutes of Mom’s inquisition, I admitted I did it. Even though I knew Bruce committed the crime, I was the eldest. I should have made him leave before he got into trouble. In those days, the preferred method of punishment was swats to the backside. Thankfully, my mom was not an accomplished swatter, and I survived.

On Friday, our babysitter, who was also our weekly cleaning lady was busily dusting around. “Louiseabelle, do you know what Sue did Saturday night? She opened all the Christmas surprises! I was so mad I paddled her.”

“Mrs. Meikle, Sue didn’t do it; Bruce did.”

“But Sue admitted it.”

“Yes, but Sue didn’t do it. Bruce did.”

When Bruce and I walked in the door after school, we were faced by an angry, firebreathing dragon, AKA Mom. “Go to your room, Bruce, and stay there until your father comes home!”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.” (Classic Mom words.)

Of course, Bruce earned some swats that night, but to this day, it hasn’t curbed his inability to wait until his birthday, Father’s Day, or Christmas. In fact, his Christmas present from my sister and me is sitting on the bench inside his house. According to the picture he just sent, it remains unopened. Doubtful. Fake news!

Most standard dictionaries define commitment as a promise to do or give something–an adherence to which one is bound by a pledge or duty. In our everyday lives, we make routine promises to pick up the kids from school, to pay the electric bill, to bake a pie, and to feed our dogs. However, the pandemic has caused many rational folk to behave in surrealistic irrational ways. Now, as we enter the “most wonderful time of the year”–the holiday season, we must hit the pause button. It is time to stand in our mirror and admit COVID, Q-Anon, and Irresponsibility are the enemies. We must commit to being part of the solution, not fueling the myriad of problems we face.

Whether it be one’s religious or mythical beliefs about the holiday season, we need to forget naughty and be nice. We need to be patient and kind. We need to be thankful for what we have, and if we can, we need to help others.

Even though I’m a white-knuckled flyer, I appreciate the convenience of leaving Phoenix at breakfast and arriving in Pittsburgh for late lunch/early dinner–a trip by car, which would take 3-4 days. Thanksgiving is just days a way; according to some, the busiest air travel days of the year. True to form, Mother Nature may wreck havoc with storms. Airlines may experience delays and glitches. But that does NOT require passengers to punch flight attendants, nor disobey their safety protocols.

Further most businesses face a severe employee shortages. Black Friday will jam retail stores. Restaurants and bars may have long-waiting lines. Inclement weather may clog the highways. Commit to be patient, kind, and understanding. But most of all, be thankful. Happy Thanksgiving.

As the holiday season is upon us, many folk shop for THE gift–the one present that lights up the receiver’s face. The surprise that makes the receiver dance with joy. Of course, shopping for children is easy, once their letters to Santa have been perused. While, of course, when my kids were young, they also got necessaries, like a new toothbrush and underwear. But their elation over a new bicycle, a puppy, or a talking doll was unequaled when compared to a robe or slippers.

Gift giving for adults is much harder. Though I strive to buy one present, which knocks off one’s socks, most adults don’t share their wish list with others. As a writer, I spend a lot of time studying people. My observations help me create characters to advance the plot. The better I know a person, the more genuine my gift. Yet, most of the time, I take the easy way out a buy gift cards.

Last week, though, I needed to up my game. My PCP (primary care physician) and his office manager wife are also members of our trivia team. Not only, can I always get a same day appointment, a prescription, or a blood test, they are just a text message away on weekends. I had to give them something to express my sincerest appreciation. Curiously, they both are frequent users of the quarter candy machine at the bar where we play trivia. Hot tamales and M&M’s are among their favorites.

Last night, another team member and I delivered their own, home candy machine, complete with three of their favorite candies. Never have I seen two, more jazzed adults. They beamed like children gazing at Santa’s delivery, as they enthusiastically filled each container with treats. Then, they both went in search of quarters to try it out.

When we left their house, we waved goodbye to the two big grins. Mission accomplished.

As a child, I had the best of both worlds. During the week, I lived with my parents in the city–a city that then had good public schools, lots of restaurants, and three-floor department stores downtown. On the weekends, we spent a great deal of time on my grandparents’ farm. There were cows, chickens, a pony, pigs, dogs, and six or eight barn cats. There were occasional snakes, the creek was filled with tadpoles and frogs. Sometimes there were foxes and deer. And in the spring, rabbits and groundhogs were abundant.

My grandparents had a large garden in addition to their fields of corn, oats, wheat, and alfalfa hay. I learned to plant and hoe, can and freeze, pick apples and blueberries. I learned to drive the tractor, bag oats and corn for the feed mill, lift hay and straw bales, and even tap a maple tree to boil into syrup. At an early age, I witnessed the birth of calves and kittens, the hatching of eggs, the ringing of pig snouts. And I even watched while my grandmother chopped off the heads of chickens with a hatchet. Not for the faint-hearted, as indeed, chickens do run around after losing their heads!

Once during the late summer, my younger brother and I spent a week at the farm. I suspect our parents wanted a week alone with our one or two-year-old sister. (Believe me, my brother, Bruce, and I would rather be at the farm too.) “Suzanne, tomorrow the pigs will be sent to the butcher. You and Bruce are to stay in the house, when they come to pick up the pigs. I’ll be outside, when they arrive. You supervise Bruce in the house. Suzanne, do you understand?” Grandma must think I’m deaf.

I received the message…but why? We had free rein of the farm to roam the fields, search for kittens in the hay mow, catch frogs. Why did we have to stay in the house?

When I saw the big truck pull in the gravel driveway and my grandmother greet them, I said, “Bruce, come on, let’s go. They’re here to pick up the pigs.”

“But grandma said no, ” he whined.

“Come on, if you’re going, or stay inside by yourself.”

We snuck into the barn and cracked the door that faced the pig pen. My unsuspecting grandmother had no idea we had front row seats! One by one each pig was felled by a shotgun blast. Another guy methodically slit their throats. Blood spurted and gushed across the sty. My stomach lurched, “Bruce let’s go, before grandma finds us.”

When grandma came back to the house, she found her innocent grandkids coloring. She didn’t notice my pale green, about-to-barf face. Thankfully, Bruce didn’t blurt out where we’d been. My grandmother was right; we should have stayed inside. Sixty-five years have passed and have failed to erase my images of the day the pigs died.

Earlier this week, I ran into my friend, Jane, at the grocery store. “Hey, I barely recognized you, Sue, behind your mask.”

“I’ve had 3 shots, but I wear a mask in the case there are others who are ill. I wrote a blog about your mother being scammed out of $5,000 a few weeks ago. No names, just about her grandson needing life-saving surgery during spring break in Mexico.”

“Sue, I need you to write another about my mother-in-law.” Jane talked and I listened. Her m-i-l receives 20-30 pieces of mail per day. The vast majority of them are requests for donations to their alleged non-profits. Each request includes a pen, a sticker, a magnetic calendar, or address labels. Even though, this woman’s income barely manages to pay the rent, she’s so moved by their request and free gift, she sends a $5.00 check.

Thus, Jane and her husband took away the checkbook. Yet, the nonagenarian was not deterred. She sends cash. Yesterday, Jane took lunch to her mother-in-law and saw her outgoing mail. “Mom, I’ll take your mail to the post office for you. Is that ok with you?” After an affirmative response, Jane stuffed two envelopes in her purse. When she got home, she opened them. Each held $25 in cash!

At Jane’s request, I did some research. In 1941, Crime Doesn’t Pay movie short coined the term: Sucker List–gullible folk, who bet the entire savings on “sure thing” horse races. And now, 80 years later, the Sucker List is a sophisticated way to lure the elderly into donating copious amounts to random charities. (Note charity is usually not what it appears to be. It’s a scam! No one should surmise cash donations end up in a bank.) Sucker Lists are sold to other scammers. If an elderly person receives multitudes of such mail, rest assured, he/she is on THE LIST!

The more I researched; the more outraged I became. Certainly, there must be ways to combat the Nigerians (well-known for this charade) and/or other shysters. The first and most obvious problem is that age is public record. If you have a landline, look yourself up on the White Pages and your age is displayed. Many internet searches also display age. How do you think marketeers target teens, newly weds, retirees, etc? Secondly, donate to a well-known charity several times, and you end up on the Sucker List. The same is true of mail-order catalogs. Buy once from Jackson’s and the ads multiply. My mom’s apartment was crammed full of shoe, dress, holiday catalogs.

However, there are several websites which verify the legitimacy of charitable organizations. One is The Better Business Bureau Wise Giving that offers info about national charities. Its phone is: 703-276-0100. Web site : http://www.give.org/reports/index.asp As a word of caution, many victims of a scam refuse to believe they’ve been duped. Certainly, understandable given the current tenor of this country where people believe science, climate change, and election results are fake news.

But Jane has the ultimate solution! Scrutinize and verify every application for a nonprofit mailing status. Regular folk currently pay 55 cents to mail a letter, while bulk rate, non profits is about a nickel. Now, I’ve read the requirements to receive such a benefit and realize it’s rather simple to circumvent the rules. Jane, though, is relentless in her effort to mitigate this problem. She’s gathering firsthand accounts and examples to present to her US Senator. If you can help her, message me for her contact information. Thanks.

While Facebook continues to be scrutinized and subject to criticism, I personally find it useful and amusing. I’ve reconnected with so many folks I lost track of fifty or sixty years ago. Our paths would have never crossed; I’d not seen pictures of their families, pets, or travels. I’d not known their thoughts on controversial issues. In fact, unfortunately, I also see posts of illness, tragedy, and even death.

My high school class and the three universities I attended all have Facebook pages, which keep me informed with interesting articles. My school district’s Facebook page celebrates the many accomplishments of our students. Some of their UTube videos are both entertaining and informative. In sum, I believe Facebook pioneered the power of social media in shrinking the size of the world.

Unlike the outrageous and totally out-of- control challenges on Tik Tok, I find some of the tame Facebook ones, like: I Bet You Can’t annoying. One would have to be a moron to fail. For instance, I Bet You Can’t: Name a US state with no A. (You can if you’re from Ohio or Wyoming.) No girl’s name starts with T and ends in A, prove me wrong. (Duh, the list is endless: Tina Teresa, Tabitha, Tatia, yada yada yada.) Name a fish without an A. (Stupid–trout, grouper, eel. Blah, blah, blah.)

What I can’t understand is why people wast time on such foolishness. Now, of course, I can’t be bothered to solve the math problems, but there are more intelligent questions to raise. Name the states who’s capital starts with the same letter as its state. Hint: There are 4. Think about that instead of a boy’s name without an O in it. Hint: It’s not Robert!

Some of you are far too young to remember Lily Tomlin as Ernestine, the telephone operator, on the TV show Laugh In. Ernestine spent her shift sticking chords in a huge switchboard to connect calls to each other with caustic snarky quips. One of her classic lines was: We’re the telephone company, and we don’t care.

For years mischievous kids delighted in making prank calls or worse. My elderly grandmother once received an obscene phone call. The male caller explicitly told her how he was going to ravage her body. My grandmother shouted into her phone: What? What did you say? I can’t hear you. Of course, the sleaze hung up on her.

Though we’ve come a long way from the antique switchboard and cell phones revolutionized the phone industry, telecommunications morphed into a new era of annoyance. Caller ID is more sophisticated; both my house and cell phone announce who is calling, but why should/would I answer a call from Anonymous, Unidentified, Private, or Unknown? Let alone some random place like Kodak, WV. Every once in a while, a message is left–usually, I’m going to jail for non-payment of income tax, my credit card has been compromised, or my computer needs updated. All scams. In the last several months, my cell phone has been receiving the car warranty expiration bull shit. I was so aggravated I decided to play along. “Oh, my car warranty is expiring? Which one?”

“You know, ma’am, your car.”

“No, I don’t know. Which car? I have over a hundred on my car lot right now, so which one?” He promptly hung up.

Unfortunately, some people fall victim to these scams, or why would we continue to get these calls? I know of one case where the mother of one of my friends received a call her grandson had been badly injured in a car accident in Mexico. Without cash, the life-saving surgery could not be performed. Sadly, Grandma wired $5,000 to the requested address. The next day, she called her daughter to check on Billy. “He’s right here, Mom. Do you want to talk to him?”

Hold on a minute, someone’s leaving a message on the answering machine…. Hallelujah! My mortgage has been approved! What mortgage? I didn’t apply for one. And secondly, no one lends money to an unemployed, old broad on Social Security. Mortgages must be the new scam.

As a septuagenarian, my greatest fear has nothing to do with my physical health. I worry most about losing my mind. I was always in awe of Steven Hawking, confined to a wheelchair, with a myriad of physical disabilities, yet he was brilliant. My mind is the only thing that distinguishes me from a blob of protoplasm. Some will argue, “I’d rather walk than spend my life chained to a wheelchair or lying in bed. Just imagine how many new people I’d meet each day.” Not me. I’d rather lie in bed and be able to recognize my kids, to wish my nurse Merry Christmas, or to read a book.

This week I had my annual physical. Of course, these days it’s called The Annual Medicare Physical–one of the government’s new bureaucracies, which translates as mounds of both physician and patient paperwork.

“Sue, I’m going to say three words: umbrella, typewriter, and guitar. We’re going to continue with the exam, and in five or so minutes I’ll ask you to repeat umbrella, typewriter, and guitar. Got it?”

I’ll spare you the details of poking and probing, but then he looked at my knee. “Dr. A, I have bursitis and maybe a Baker’s cyst.”

“Correct diagnosis, Dr. Sue. Shall I order an MRI? Are you contemplating a knee replacement?”

“Absolutely not. If it gets worst I’ll have a D and C!”

“D and C?”

“Isn’t that what arthroscopic knee surgery is–a dusting and cleaning out?”

He laughed, “And what are the three words?

Even though twenty minutes had passed, I vomited back umbrella, typewriter, and guitar.

“You know, Sue, this simple exercise is well-researched and has be proven in numerous studies to be over 95+% accurate. You show no signs of Alzheimer’s. If you’d missed one or two, I’d ask you more questions. If you missed all three, I’d refer you for more extensive evaluation.”

With the exam concluded and the flu shot given, I completed the inane Medicare questionnaire. Some or hundreds of random data bases now know I have banisters on my stairs, I walk without assistance, I can dress myself, and I still drive. Yet, I smiled all the way to my parked car. “I’m still with the program. I am sane. Hard to imagine three words can have such an accurate assessment.”

Damn it! Where are my glasses?