Tag: Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

OUT OF THE BLUE

A Case of the Whys

But without the wherefores

By Deborah Salomon

Several conundrums pertaining to recent events are driving me bats. Help me reconcile.

The Constitution stipulates an age requirement to run for president. I’m assuming an upper number wasn’t necessary because back then, life expectancy hovered in the 60s. Teddy Roosevelt and Calvin Coolidge died at 60, George Washington at 67, James Garfield at 49. Time to revise?

Why are cars built to achieve 80-plus mph in a few seconds when that speed could cost the driver dollars, points, license revocation? It’s like advertising burglary kits or frozen obesity entrees.

Why have the arbiters of women’s hairstyles decided to uglify their groupies with an oeuvre I call The Weedwacker, which starts with a severe middle part and devolves into angles that frame the face like a barbed wire fence? On purpose. But there they sit, six little TV anchorites in a row, fingers plugged into electric outlets to refresh the coif. To my knowledge, the last gal to get away with this austere look was Mona Lisa.

Looming large: the flight plight. Hopefully, the IT crash in mid-July was a one-time deal that shut down American, Delta and others, leaving passengers to sleep on terminal floors. I’m talking about frequent reports of tires falling off, fires breaking out, windows cracking, near mid-air collisions, turbulence injuries, spoiled food. Holy Biscoff! We’re way past recalling bygone days when meals were hot, booze free, “stewardesses” young and friendly, passengers dressed up and on their best behavior. Not even a double Bloody Mary would allay fears when an aircraft packed with 200 sardines drops 10,000 feet in 20 seconds. Maybe calamities were hushed up in the past. But c’mon: On a chilly flight, I was told blankets were only available in business class. So I wrote a letter to the airline’s “customer service” department. They replied with an apology and, of all things, two drink vouchers.

Inflation comes in many sizes. Tucked in the back of my linen closet was a small box of tissues. Must have been there quite a while because the label read 115 tissues. The box I usually buy lists 85 but felt a bit light recently. Sure enough, only 70. The price, however, had crept up. Reduction in contents without shrinking packaging is an old trick now evident in dozens of items, like cookies. Caveat emptor and read the fine print, not that knowing makes a difference.

Thou shalt not drag politics into an “art and soul” magazine. Agreed, but fashion isn’t electioneering. Ever wonder why the vice president prefers pant suits? Hillary Clinton’s situation doesn’t apply. One theory has her being taken more seriously in male attire. Poppycock. European potentates alternate skirts and pants, no problem.

Say it isn’t so. The mighty Charlotte Observer will reduce print editions to three days a week starting in September. Some eras end with a bang, others with a whimper, others with the sad rustle of newsprint.

“Elocution” or “diction” training should be a given for cable TV’s talking heads. Once off teleprompter they wallow in “well . . . uh . . . ah.” At that salary level I expect not only fabulous ties and interesting earrings but complete sentences.

Whew! Feels good with those pesky conundrums off my chest.

Out of the Blue

The Brain Game

Digesting dinner for $1,000, Ken

By Deborah Salomon

When Jeopardy! starts appearing in obits you know it has become part of Americana without being slapstick or offensive. Instead, the 30-minute TV show elevates erudition to entertainment on several levels. This isn’t just another quiz show. This one has heft.

Recently, a deceased fan was memorialized for shouting out loud when he scored an answer. Because it owns the 7 p.m. time slot, family members are still gathered for dinner, so competition gets keen. I’ve visited homes where a kitchen TV enables simultaneous eating and watching, normally forbidden but here allowed as “educational.”

I am a long-term addict as were my kitties Lucky and Missy, who — I kid you not — would appear for their nightly tussle to the opening music.

I’m convinced the mystique began and ended with Alex Trebek, the Canadian-born host, somewhat professorial, yet friendly, in impeccably tailored suits and clipped mustache. No rowdiness or slapstick screech as on Wheel of Fortune or (ugh) Family Feud, which I call “Family Lewd.”

Trebek died in 2020, at 80, having hosted his last show a few days before his death. In July the U.S. Postal Service issued a stamp in his honor. Fittingly, the stamp bears not a likeness, but a question. The answer: Alex Trebek.

Settling on a replacement was a rigorous task undertaken by producers who paraded out a series of pretty and not-so-pretty faces, including the NFL’s Aaron Rodgers. In my book they were all chocolate syrup on chopped liver, but none as bad as Mayim Bialik, of zero charisma, a wardrobe from hell and embarrassing flubs. Bialik proved so painful I stopped watching for a while.

Then came Ken Jennings, the $2.5 million-winning contestant with no hosting experience, only a sweet smile and endearing lisp. OMG, I thought, they’ve got Doogie Howser subbing for Sir Laurence Olivier.

But the little Munchkin in Ivy League uniform has grown on me, although I get the occasional vibe that he’d rather be answering the questions than asking them.

However, other changes — some during Trebek’s reign — don’t fare as well. Categories are esoteric, more specialized. Science, for example, demands professional credentials. I’m not bad at opera, art, food, lit, famous people, politics and vocabulary, but pre-Victorian English kings are just a bunch of Roman numerals. As for geography, I’m lost beyond the Balkans, especially Asia and the Middle East. Africa? Not a clue. But this backfires, comically — upping the difficulty causes contestants to bypass obvious but often correct answers. The result? More players are professionals with photographic memories, sharpening their skills at trivia contests.

I wasn’t familiar with trivia contests. How would you study given the breadth of material? What criteria, I wondered, do the question-writers employ?

Next detraction: spin-offs, almost as prolific as Oreo flavors. Several levels of “masters” tournaments are OK. But daytime Jeopardy!, college Jeopardy!, celebrity Jeopardy!, teen Jeopardy! the “second chance” tournament et al. dilute the appeal.

I learned that how you operate the buzzer is almost as important as knowing the answer. I’ve also observed that, generally speaking, men do better than women, and that a notable number of contestants are attorneys.

Other emotions color my enjoyment. A few champions have been obnoxious, even poor sports when faced with defeat. My heart goes out to those so nervous or under-prepared that they flame out before “Final Jeopardy.”

But Jennings’ ties never disappoint, even if my acuity does.

Whatever . . . watching Jeopardy! is like eating a healthy fudge sundae, even when my critiques hit closer to home than my answers.

Now, here’s one for ya: Whither the name? And why the exclamation mark? Jeopardy is a horse-racing term but the punctuation, forever an enigmatic Daily Double. PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

2024 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Golftown Journal

Dream House

Home, sweet imaginary home

By Deborah Salomon

These days, what with high interest rates and low inventory, house-shoppers are lucky to find anything, let alone a dream house. This shouldn’t keep wannabees from daydreaming.

I do, although unlikely I will ever own another house, let alone anything dreamy.

In the past 16 years, I have written about more than 200 houses for PineStraw, sporting every possible feature, learning along the way that living space often defines a person. I’ve seen a classic mansion built during Pinehurst’s Gilded Age with a walk-in closet retrofitted as a control room for systems — temperature, lights, alarm, locks, music. I’ve seen Alice’s topsy-turvy down-the-rabbit-hole abodes, and kitchens with gadgetry so fantastical it defies explanation. So, it’s only natural that, price notwithstanding, I would daydream my perfect home — and hope that you’ll do the same.

Heading the list: an ultra-powerful generator. I’m not satisfied with juicing up the fridge and the AC. For the duration of any outage I want lights, ice cream, a hot shower and CNN. Sure, I could endure a tepid shower, but without a hair dryer I’d be forced to hide under the bed.

I’d want at least two bay windows, with low window seats so the resident pet(s) could watch the world go by. No blinds, no shrubs to obstruct their view. However, a lilac bush should rise up below the bedroom window so that on cool summer nights I might open it a crack and drink in the perfume. I’ve actually experienced this one and believe me, it’s divine.

The kitchen must have a pot rack low enough for me to reach. This could be a headache for tall folk — I’m 5 feet, 2 inches tall. As for burners and/or sink in the island — also used as a breakfast bar — no thanks. Too much going on, too messy, potentially dangerous. But my island needs an electric outlet for the mixer/blender/processor so I can spread out while baking.

Heated bathroom floors and towel racks don’t make the list, nor does a warm toilet seat. But a heat lamp over the shower exit would be lovely.

With a nod to yesteryear I’d appreciate a cold pantry: a shelved closet with a secure-fitting door and a window that could be opened on winter days to thaw the turkey or cool cauldrons of soup and prevent potatoes from sprouting. Even with two refrigerators and a screened Carolina room a cold pantry is useful, at least during the winter.

I’m a basics gal but might indulge in soft lighting glowing from trench ceiling moldings in living and dining rooms, perhaps upstairs hallways, which I’d leave on all night.

Swimming pools require major maintenance. No thanks. Lap pools, too specialized. But I just discovered plunge pools — long and narrow, 3- to 5-feet deep with submerged benches along the side, perfect for jumping in to cool off, or water walking, which is excellent exercise. A lot less expensive, too.

Now, the kicker: My dream house has only two TVs, neither jumbo. One would have a built-in DVD player for the stacks of perfectly good discs I have saved. They would be linked to a service provider that removes all ads for prescription drugs whose possible side effects include nausea, diarrhea, shingles, cancer, blindness, stroke and death.

Dream on, Deb. Ain’t gonna happen.

But wouldn’t it be nice? PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

2024 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Generation Gaps

You are who they say you are

By Deborah Salomon

Napoleon Bonaparte is credited, perhaps apocryphally, with calling England “a nation of shopkeepers.” One thing is certain: Whoever said it first did not intend it as a compliment. The USA might answer to a nation of classifiers: We lump entire populations/decades under letters of the alphabet (Gen Z) or cryptic headings like “The Lost Generation,” then memorialize them in novels like The Sun Also Rises or The Great Gatsby.

Some categories lump generations together. Does the women’s liberation movement mean suffragettes marching down Main Street or female corporate vice presidents banging their heads on the glass ceiling?

Why do we need these groupings, anyway? The Roaring Twenties and Fabulous Fifties sound good enough. For answers I trolled, what else, the internet.

Ernest Hemingway attributed the term “Lost Generation” to Gertrude Stein in an epigraph to his novel The Sun Also Rises. Tom Brokaw lauded “The Greatest Generation” in his 1998 classic book.

Generational groupings are listed by the Pew Research Center, a non-partisan, self-described “fact” tank that informs the public about “trends shaping the world.”

Golly. Quite the responsibility.

They publish a list which places me, by birth, in the Silent Generation, 1928-1945, then integrates me with the baby boomers, whom I babysat through high school. The boomers, of course, acquired their title after GIs returning from WWII caused the birthrate to explode. Boys will be boys.

Reading on, I learned that Gen X was the first to grow up with widespread cable TV which, I gather, made a difference in their consumption of news, entertainment and prescription drugs.

According to Pew, Gen Z, immersed in social media since toddlerhood, seems nervous when forced to spend time away from their electronic devices. What is lost? Conversation. Books with pages that turn. Department stores. Daydreaming. Doodling. Moving around. Helping out. Folding a map. Playing a board game . . . on a board.

True, we borderline Silent Generationists are known for glorifying the recent past while bellyaching about electronics. We love residential AC and microwave ovens but won’t buy the idea that just because you can do something, you should. That applies to omnipresent, omnipotent cellphones. Which means I’m wary of hand-held electrocardiogram widgets and self-propelling vehicles. I think all drivers should master a stick shift, just in case. Vinyl records are back, so you never know.

And what is air-fried chicken besides an oxymoron?

Too bad advances in AI aren’t enough for Gen Now astrophysicists who float the idea that readying another planet for colonization makes more sense than fixing what’s happening to this one.

There. This Borderline Boomer has had her say. Beam me up, Scotty. PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She can be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

2024 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

In My Time Capsule

What would Indiana Jones say?

By Deborah Salomon

Old folks are guardians of the past . . . now, especially, when life moves at the speed of Google. I don’t mean important things like electric cars and ticket stubs from a Taylor Swift concert. Rather, everyday stuff that after surviving tag sales emerges valuable. Just read about a first edition Corning casserole with cornflower design bringing $1,000 at auction. Not all icons are tangible, however. Some are behaviors, norms, happenings that unless relegated to the cloud, risk extinction.

When archeologists/social historians sifted through Pompeian ruins they weren’t looking for fine art. Rather a pot, a chair, coins. Just as valuable, however, are ancient clay scrolls containing lists, recipes and correspondence. Yale University’s Sterling Memorial Library keeps a collection.

Clay is more durable than thumb drives. The human brain is a likely repository but with an expiration date. Mine, approaching that date, has lately dredged up stuff from a life lived half “up North,” as New York and New England were once called, the rest in North Carolina.

Surely, if the Smithsonian Institution enshrines a Swanson turkey TV dinner I can have a go at . . .

“Y’all want coffee?” Only in the mid-20th century South would a waitress holding a coffee pot descend upon a just-seated table at breakfast, lunch, dinner and in-betweens. I can’t remember if it was free. Probably, since coffee was all one flavor and cost about 25 cents. Folks with “Mr. Coffee Nerves” ordered Sanka or Postum, not “decaf.”
Comic strips: Bankers, senators and surgeons read them, sans ridicule. Whether Blondie or the more cerebral Doonesbury, which still runs in The Washington Post, nobody chided followers. Then, on Sunday, New York newspapers put the funnies section on the outside, so readers could pre-empt the bad news with Penny and The Katzenjammer Kids. Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia read the K-Kids on the radio to children during a 1945 newspaper delivery strike. Why else would the Big Apple name an airport after him? Oh, Charlie Brown, we need your wisdom.
Cafeterias, another Southern delight pre-fast food drive-thrus, are now fewer, fancier, much more expensive. S&W, K&W, J&S once dominated the state. Some are making a comeback with seniors and lonelyhearts with their still-satisfying experience, especially the mashed potatoes, country-fried steak, biscuits, cornbread and pie. Get on it, Smithsonian.
Green Stamps have become collectors’ items: We got them at the supermarket check-out, then pasted them in books to be exchanged for housewares (like that thousand-dollar Corning dish) at Green Stamp redemption stores.
What could be more worth remembering than gas at 25 cents a gallon with a complimentary windshield wipe?
How I long for Saturday curb markets held in dusty vacant lots, where sun-wizened farmers in overalls sold produce from pickup trucks. The non-organic tomatoes! The corn! The runner beans! These days, too many farmers markets resemble foodie boutiques displaying herbs, baby zucchini, purple lettuce, white eggplant to fill shoppers’ French string shopping bags. Anybody for a grilled goat cheese sandwich?
I can no longer reconcile “personal” seedless watermelon, too often pale and flavorless. Mother Nature intended watermelon to be sized for a crowd, with sweet, deep red flesh and slippery black seeds. Nothing tops off a fried chicken picnic better.
Cash: Greenbacks. Two bits. Folding money. A fin. Modern shoppers can go weeks, maybe months, without “breaking” a crisp $20. Just swipe a card, read a chip.
We pride ourselves on time-saving inventions that make life “easier.” Long live the ones that cure disease, feed the hungry. As for the rest, thanks for the memories. PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She can be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

2024 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Climate Confusion

It’s beginning to look a lot like spring, summer, fall

By Deborah Salomon

Climate change is a phrase fraught with enigma. Is the change beneficial? Difficult? Misinterpreted? Catastrophic? Earth Day, another relatively recent concept celebrates . . . what? Is it the “good earth” or an Earth dying under the blistering sun, washed away by powerful floodwaters?

The seasons have jumbled, with buds appearing during a January warm spell, then blown off the branches by an “unseasonable” winter hurricane.

Scary.

What’s also unsettling is that the last two generations — be they called X, Y or Z — have mixed memories of anticipating, or dreading, seasonal benchmarks.

Spring makes me want to remember, before the icons become a mirage.

Spring brings joy for itself, also for winter’s end. I grew up in damp, cold New York City, where children wore scratchy woolen leggings or cumbersome snowsuits because we walked to the park, or at least the subway station. No dashing from the front door to a waiting SUV that had been pre-warmed remotely. Hats with earflaps were de rigueur, as were short-sleeved cotton undershirts. I begged and pleaded to ditch them the first warmish weekend. Nothing doing. Did I want to “catch my death of a cold”? No, but I tingle at the memory of standing close to the fire my Tar Heel granddaddy built in the grate, which toasted my front while my back froze. Gas fireplaces offer no such sensation.

Spring was “just around the corner” when the local bakery filled its counters with shamrock-shaped cookies iced in green. My mother was strict about sweets; I was allowed only one. I can still feel its buttery richness crumbling in my mouth.

After St. Paddy came, in immutable order, crocuses, daffodils, tulips and irises.

Years later, as an adult living in New England, I foraged for fiddlehead ferns, which grew by the swollen streams. You had to catch them just before they unfurled, usually late March. Sautéed in browned butter . . . quintessential spring freshness. I even put them on pizza.

Longer days meant spring asparagus, which I hated as a child, adored as an adult.

Finally, I was allowed to shed the undershirt, run outside to welcome the Good Humor ice cream truck, which commenced its rounds when school ended. No oratorio, no symphony rivaled its bells as the truck turned the corner, bringing raspberry popsicles called I-Sticks and bittersweet chocolate sundaes. June meant big, dark purple Bing cherries from Washington State. Chilean cherries, now “in season” in November, disrupt, as do seedless green grapes, my circadian-like rhythm of produce.

Catching lightnin’ bugs in Mason jars and spitting watermelon seeds represented the best of summer. The worst was staying home to avoid polio. Thanks, Dr. Salk, for giving summer back to children.

Daffodils may be my favorite flower but autumn, not spring, is my favorite season. Toast it with apple cider, fresh from a cider mill that emits a fragrance unrivaled by French perfume. Not even Dom Perignon goes down easier. No technology rivals a yellow oak or crimson maple. Maybe the azure Caribbean, but that’s far from the front yard. Please, Mother Nature, don’t take autumn. Bad enough that Sept. 11, 2001, is also remembered for perfect weather — cool, crisp, dry, blinding sunshine. Please leave us the chilly starry nights and chrysanthemums. And football.

Football isn’t my favorite sport but for two glorious autumns my son was the star running back on his high school team. He is gone, but the crystal-clear air and bright leaves remind me. Through the sadness, I smile.

Polar bears don’t burn fossil fuel. The blame for climate change rests with humans. Its acceleration is truly frightening. I’m worried that when billions of cicadas emerge from the ground in a few weeks they will look around and burrow back down, like animals running for higher ground after sensing an approaching tsunami.

Just don’t whine we weren’t warned. Instead, bid farewell to fiddleheads, maple syrup, clover honey, daffodils, dogwood, strawberries, dandelions, hummingbirds, snowflakes, ducklings, apple cider and a thousand other simple pleasures brought forth from and supported by the good earth. Because like the woolly mammoth, once gone, never will they return. PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She can be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

2024 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

The Cat Who Came to Dinner

A welcome guest makes herself at home

By Deborah Salomon

In the past year both Lucky and Missy, my precious companion kitties, entered a pain-free eternal sleep. I estimated their ages at 15-16; I adopted them from the street 12 years ago. Coal-black Lucky had golden eyes and more dignity/intelligence than some politicians. Missy, my devoted dingbat, was happiest anchoring my lap.

I’m an animal person, a lifelong rescuer, whether a skittish retired racing greyhound or a starving mama trying to feed her kittens.

Finally, I was finished. Friends urged me to adopt again. But a young cat would outlive me — never a happy situation — and an older cat might incur massive health care bills.

“No,” I joked. “The only way I’ll adopt is if a homeless kitty knocks on my door one freezing night.”

The thermometer read 28 degrees that night in January. Crouched against the front door as though to draw warmth was the most beautiful cat I’ve ever seen: long, thick white fur, blue eyes, pink nose and mouth. I had noticed her outside several times but didn’t worry because she was wearing a collar. But I offered food anyway, which she gobbled.

And now, in dire straits, she turned to me. How could I refuse?

I opened the door. She scampered in, checked out the apartment and sat down where Lucky and Missy’s bowls had been. Poor baby wolfed down a whole can of cat food. While I prepared the litter box she curled up on the couch, exhausted, and fell asleep.

I named her Snowball, after my grandfather’s Samoyed.

I asked around. Several neighbors had seen her; nobody knew where she belonged.

Tests, inoculations and $200 later the vet certified her a healthy female, 2-3 years old, not microchipped.

I could feel her rib bones.

Cats have personalities as distinct as humans. I’m used to plain-Jane short-haired tabbies. This Princess Diana is a feisty little madam. Her primary activity is eating, which includes her mealtimes and mine. If food appears, she’s on it.

Mmmm, scrambled eggs. Grilled cheese. Tilapia. Tiny bits of baked potato with butter. She jumped on the counter and, with a delicate Barbie-pink tongue, pre-washed the vanilla ice cream dish.

At bedtime, she leans on my legs but, so far, doesn’t paw me awake, for which I am thankful. But you can’t jump on the computer, honey. That usually ends in disaster.

So far, Snowball shows no interest in going outside. Bad memories, I guess. No fear of strangers, either. My previous two dived under the bed when the doorbell rang.

Then, the litter box, a Charlie Chaplin tragicomedy. She’s not satisfied with fulfilling its purpose. Afterwards she performs an Irish Riverdance routine, which sends litter flying every which way. But so far scratch damage appears only on an old wicker chair.

Finally, after three weeks, Snowball has started to play with Missy’s ball-on-a-string, which makes me sad. Missy loved that toy. I will tuck it away and buy a new one.

Snowball is my first talking kitty. She talks almost constantly, with appropriate inflections, usually plaintive, as she follows me room to room. I thought food was her objective but maybe she is lonely, like I was before she leaned on the front door. But nothing — and I mean nothing — would tempt me to provide a playmate.

Lucky and Missy had a loving if subservient relationship. He was the boss, she the handmaiden. I can’t see Snowball bowing to any tomcat or sharing her new turf with another female.

So for now, the lady rules. She has found a “nest” in a closet corner where an old sweater fell. She takes long naps, enabling me to work. She chatters at the birds pecking the cornbread I throw on the grass under the window. I presume she means no harm when swiping me with those super-sharp little claws.

Maybe this mysterious princess is just what I needed. PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She can be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

2024 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Holiday Mother Lode

With an extra day to celebrate

By Deborah Salomon

Every so often I, as the saying goes, “wax philosophical.” The most likely result is a criticism of some innovation that captures the minds of techies. You know, the ones who stand in line all night to purchase the latest iPhone that promises everything south of open-heart surgery. This time, the trigger was February, which owns far and away more holidays than any other month.

Americans start by hounding a groundhog, continue to boozy Mardi Gras, somber Ash Wednesday, Chinese New Year, Super Bowl Sunday, Valentine’s Day, Presidents Day (formerly Lincoln and Washington’s birthdays). February has been designated American Heart Month as well as Black History Month, although Martin Luther King Day is Jan. 15, his birthday. Each observance has a story which, in days gone by, grade-schoolers would research in an encyclopedia, perhaps for a “project.”

Now they push a few buttons, skim the results, copy, paste and move on to something else.

I doubt cherry pie or the Gettysburg Address would be part of a combined Presidents Day experience. More likely a long ski weekend which, I’ve heard, suggested its creation. I’m thinking Washington and Lincoln deserve their own days, as might FDR, JFK. Otherwise, the new holiday on the third Monday of the month includes all presidents, some less than celebratory.

Obviously, holidays are promoted for commercial gain. In cities with significant Chinese populations, an eight-course New Year’s Chinese restaurant extravaganza makes our Thanksgiving repast look like Pop-Tarts. The candy/greeting card/floral industries thrive on Valentine’s Day, despite the untimely death by decapitation of its patron saint.

I understand how Heart Month plays off Valentine’s Day symbols. However, a typical Valentine’s dinner will include a well-marbled steak, potatoes dripping butter and, for dessert, a hardly healthy heart-shaped cheesecake.

At best, holidays give texture to a society while preserving its heritage. To my knowledge, neither AI nor a 3-D printer has replicated any of the above.

Commercial or not, holidays serve a greater purpose. At best, they bring people together, even blot out horrors. Somewhere in Ukraine, world-famous hand-painted Easter eggs will surface in March.

For 21 years I lived in Vermont, where Blacks make up about 1 percent of the population. Every February the university hosted a soul food dinner, its menu prepared by volunteers. Tickets sold out in a day. Participants, Black and white, came from all over the state to eat chitlins, fried chicken, greens, macaroni and cheese, cornbread, “shiny” beans and peach cobbler. I attended to write a story but had a fantastic time remembering Southern preparations with 20 inches of snow on the ground and temps in the single digits.

February even has a quirky conclusion. Because 2024 is a leap year, this shortest month at 28 days will boast 29, enabling people born that day to have a once-in-four-years celebration.

Because the way things are going, who knows where the world will be next time leap year rolls around? PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She can be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

2024 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Makin’ a List

And what it says about you

By Deborah Salomon

We are a nation of lists. January is the logical time to make them: new year, fresh resolve, second chances. Remember, this is the month when Medicare supplement ads give way to weight-loss schemes.

Lists, sometimes in the form of resolutions, reveal much about their authors. Long ago and far away I wrote a column after finding a list scribbled on an envelope crumpled in a shopping cart. The list was long, barely legible, full of abbreviations. Yet from it I reconstructed the life of the writer: She had young children (silly cereals, milk by the gallon, Popsicles), attempted health-consciousness (both mushy white bread and 100 percent whole wheat), braved unpopular veggies (frozen Brussels sprouts), and had at least one cat — a finicky eater, to boot. Her husband, I surmised, worked in an office (pick up shirts at dry cleaner). She paid a premium for real Coke and Peter Pan Peanut Butter — not store brands. Wine wasn’t her forte. I was disappointed to learn she succumbed to frozen pizza.

Certain items were coded “c.” A coupon, I guessed.

Remember coupons?

And on and on. By the time my analysis was done I could have picked her out of a lineup.

Something else besides coupons has changed. Today, the wrinkled envelope has been replaced by a cell phone. Not me, not a chance. I can’t afford to donate one hand to holding the slippery thing. Then, suppose I accidentally leave it at home and forget the peanut butter?

Serious lists deserve more than the back of an envelope, maybe a printout to dignify the effort.

Here goes . . .

Clean up my desk. I am neither overly organized nor a neat freak. My desk, flanked with baskets, wooden boxes et al. is, uh, unruly. However, every January I undertake a purge.

On second thought, ditch this list, since I might be held accountable. Safer to compose lists for others.

Taylor Swift needs a new boyfriend. She’s not helping the ballclub. Find yourself a shy accountant, honey.

Joe Biden needs a different barber, to eradicate that rear-view mullet.

The Donald needs a legal secretary.

Mick Jagger needs a rocking chair for his 16-gig tour, sponsored by AARP. Really.

Elon Musk needs to buy a vowel, not an X.

Harry and Meghan need a new publicist. Where have all the tabloids gone?

Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson and Franklin all need a smile — a rare event in portraiture before orthodontics, implants and crowns.

Yes, we are a nation of lists. An entire book series is devoted to the genre. Just don’t leave yours in a shopping cart. PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She can be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

2024 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Identity Crisis

Losing at the name game

By Deborah Salomon

What’s in a name?

The answer, Shakespeare opines, is not much, since “that which we call a rose would by any other name smell as sweet.”

Sorry, Will, but I beg to differ.

My mother decided to name her only child Deborah, after her motherʼs Aunt Deborah, a farmer’s wife famous for her pound cake. She insisted on pronouncing all three syllables. No multi-spelling diminutives allowed, at least in her presence, not Deb or Debi or Debbie or Debby. Especially not Debra or Debora. Despite being instructed on its Biblical provenance — Deborah was a judge and prophetess in Israel — from an early age I was unwilling to assume the mantle.

In the ’40s and early ’50s, my classmates answered to Sally, Susan, Martha, Carolyn, Dorothy, Mary and Jane. I remember one Sharon. In high school there was a fittingly exotic Rachel.

How I longed to be an Ann. Three letters, no possibilities except Annie, which I would have embraced.

That’s not the worst. I also inherited Great-Aunt Deborah’s last name: Boyles, which until I got married made me Deborah Boyles Berney. Before bullying was outlawed, once this trio appeared on a school document the boys (all named Bobby, Bill, Jim, John, Charlie and Mike) taunted me with “Deborah boils before she burns!” That wasn’t half bad compared to a classmate named Emma, who they called Enema.

Somehow I survived. Once at college, out of my mother’s earshot, I became Deb or Debbie. Whew!

But I will say one thing for the original version, which means “bee” in some ancient tongue. All Deborahs were preordained “busy bees.” Right on.

Naturally, I was determined to choose simple, non-negotiable names for my children: Jill (Dianne) and Wendy (Sue) for the girls; Daniel for the boy — an especially good choice, since little Danny morphed into grown-up Dan.

The stonecutter suggested Daniel for his headstone, Danny for the footstone. And so he shall be remembered by his sons, Foster and Cooper.

Funny how names reflect the times. Emma came back strong. The female characters in HBO’s The Gilded Age are Bertha, Gladys, Agnes and Ada, still trailing cobwebs but not for long, I predict. The same producers chose Edith and Sybil for Downton Abbey. We’ll see.

Generations of Southern gentlemen bore mother’s maiden name as their given name: Wylie, Harrison, Tyler, Reynolds, Hunter, Gibson, Sloan. I suspect an inheritance issue. Also interesting, how show biz has come to value real names, no matter how unglamorous. Roy Harold Sherer became Rock Hudson; and Norma Jean Mortensen, Marilyn Monroe. Reportedly, Donald Trump’s ancestors changed theirs from the unpronounceable Drumpf. Yet Meryl Streep’s actor/daughters remain Mamie Gummer and Louisa Jacobson.

Sometimes, a name is played just for laughs: from the Tonys, Silvios, Vitos and Salvatores populating The Sopranos emerges daughter Meadow, a nod to the Earth-child monikers (River, Sky, Forrest, Willow) of the 1990s.

Unisex (aka gender-neutral or non-binary) names continue to puzzle. They are more popular for females, and include Riley, Casey, Avery, Logan, Cameron and Hunter. The very thought would make my grandmotherʼs Aunt Deborah turn over in her Guilford County grave.

But the ultimate philosophical commentary comes from Johnny Cash, in “A Boy Named Sue,” which relates the violent consequences of a name bestowed to toughen up a fatherless kid.

I never thought about changing my name. It sounds OK, even a bit retro-fashionable on a roll call where every third female is Catelyn/Kaitlin/Catelynne. But I did adjust my signature which, except on documents is, in the mode of e e cummings, simply . . . deb. PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She can be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

2023 Department Out of the Blue