Tag: Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Smoothing Out the Kinks

With 40 winks

By Deborah Salomon

Everybody understands what “Stop and smell the roses” means. That’s easy.

What about “Stop and take a nap”?

Naps aren’t a sure cure for fatigue, like peanut butter and jelly are for hunger. Neither is sleep a bodily function activated by command. Sometimes it comes as soon as head hits pillow. Other times, the brain dredges up worries . . . like having trouble falling asleep.

I love naps, perhaps because of a 25-year deprivation. A quick nap wasn’t worth removing contact lenses. After my eyes finally rejected the invasion I had surgery that restored vision except for reading, when I wore glasses. What a joy to hit the couch for 15 minutes of shut-eye. No more panic if I drifted off during a Blue Bloods rerun.

Naps are especially important given my sleep patterns in place since high school: rising (way) before dawn to bake, care for pets, fold laundry, exercise and write. I once had neighbors call the police because they heard noises coming from my apartment at 4:30 a.m.

Burglars, they discovered, don’t empty the dishwasher.

But sleep, even short-term, can be tricky, as Hamlet warned . . . “perchance to dream, aye, there’s the rub.”

No scientist, not even Freud, has successfully codified the origin of dreams. Maybe Scrooge was correct when he attributed Yuletide nightmares to “a crumb of cheese.” Lately, I have noticed a shift. My dreams have taken on minute details of weather, clothing, dialogue as in paintings displaying count-the-hairs realism. People I haven’t seen in ages appear and reappear — soap opera dreams, I call them, most with upsetting plot lines that may cover years during a quick nap. Others create a need, like to cook what I’ve dreamt about. That’s me, stirring up arepas at midnight. I’ve never been to South America, where these cornflour pancakes are staples, but I’ve read about them and, conveniently, had the ingredients on hand.

Then, after a long-ago surgery, I learned from medical staff that Demerol, a pain medication, invites jungle animals into the unconscious. Sure enough, here come the lions and tigers.

These deterrents don’t keep me from a 15-30 minute nap most early afternoons, a practice left over from having three kids under 4, who needed a snooze almost as badly as Mom.

As luck would have it, I can sleep through the bumpiest flight, especially if we steerage passengers are allowed blankets on cold, dark mornings. But please give me an elbow when I doze off in a waiting room.

Naps are part of certain cultures, notably Spanish, where a siesta — entirely different from a quick “power” nap — following the midday meal, usually heavy, has been credited for a 37 percent reduction in coronary mortality due to reduced cardiovascular stress. Closer to home, some woke businesses provide partitioned nap rooms with recliners and headphone/alarm clocks for their employees, resulting in a happier, more productive workforce.

But NASA offers the most convincing stats. Their study concludes that a 40-minute nap improved astronauts’ alertness by 100 percent, performance by 34 percent.

Unfortunately, sleep can be addictive, withdrawal unpleasant. Life interferes. Having a cat helps, since naps are a hard-wired behavior they gladly share.

I’m painfully aware that some mental health professionals view sleep as an escape. Maybe so, in excess. But what’s wrong with a little non-drug, non-alcohol induced escape?

While you ponder that, I’m going to turn the phone off, plump the couch pillow, pull up the fuzzy throw, summon my kitty and speak only in ZZZZZs. PS

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

Out of the Blue

Batting Cleanup

Spotless . . . in the eye of the beholder

By Deborah Salomon

By June, “spring cleaning” should be done and dusted . . . right? The windows gleam, the carpet wafts shampoo. Begone dust bunnies that overwintered under the bureau. Same to soap scum ringing the tub and spilled jam glued to the refrigerator. The sofa has been moved, revealing kitty’s favorite toy and some petrified Halloween candy. All the shelves Swiffered, even the highest, uprooting a mosquito graveyard.

These tasks were accomplished on a sunny Saturday by family members, conscripted, cajoled or bribed.

Pizza for lunch, maybe?

Ah, spring cleaning, that archaic rite which, it seems, survives in name only. Because “clean” is a touchy subject — everybody wants clean surroundings, but nobody wants to do it.

I wanted to do it. Having three children in three-and-a-half years — then adding a rambunctious Airedale puppy — interfered. Nevertheless, every morning I gave the bathrooms a once-over, and late every afternoon, with most of the toys put away, I managed to vacuum, which gave the illusion of clean when Daddy came home to a hot supper. Then baths, stories, bedtime and collapse.

That’s just the way we did things in the ’60s.

Finally, I hired a “cleaning lady” who came every second Friday, from 9 to 3. Anna had emigrated from Eastern Europe to Canada after World War II. I assumed she flew in from heaven on huge white wings, to ease my travail. Anna, well into her 50s, was big, strong, energetic. She tuned her transistor radio to a Polish language station and attacked my house with a vengeance, I think in gratitude for the lunches: a big bowl of hearty homemade soup, rye bread for dunking, a meat sandwich, and garlicky coleslaw from a European deli. She finished off with a bearclaw (Danish filled with almond paste) and strong tea.

Food talks, even inspires.

After lunch I went out grocery shopping. When I returned, Anna was gone and the house smelled like Ajax and Pledge — more glorious than Chanel.

Anna demonstrated that cleaning isn’t just a profession or a necessity. It can be an art.

After she retired I hired helpers, since I was working full time, then gave up. They weren’t any more energetic than I was. Their clean didn’t squeak. They weren’t Anna.

Now, cleaning services are the mode. A crew of young men and women spill out of a truck with a snazzy logo. They bring supplies and implements, breeze through a big house in an hour or so, collect the cash and fly away, like Mary Poppins on her aeronautical umbrella.

They definitely don’t want lunch.

Some folks take clean to an obsession. I envy them, sort of. They are a ready market for Roomba (self-propelling vacuum) as well as Swiffer diversifications for wet and dry floors, blinds, hard to reach tchotchkes, et al. They remove stains with Mr. Clean Magic Erasers and suck up spills with Bounty paper towels. The aromas wafting through their hallways come from plug-ins, not meatloaf.

Others are neat freaks, where everything has its place and the kitchen harbors no junk drawer spilling over with twist ties, rubber bands, birthday candles and packets of soy sauce.

How do you live without a junk drawer? I have two.

Age has sapped my energy. The kitty and I don’t make much mess in our small apartment. I’m still fussy about the (one) bathroom and (tiny) kitchen. I push the carpet sweeper more often than the vacuum. The oven cleans itself, and I don’t keep jam in the refrigerator. Maybe books and magazines pile up, but so what? Makes me look literary. True, sometimes the late afternoon sun reveals a film of dust on the coffee table where I keep stylized animal figurines, collected over many years, many miles. So I close the blinds and the dust disappears.

Spring cleaning? Never got around to it. I’ll wait till fall. 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

Out of the Blue

Forever, My Lucky

Elegy to a black cat

By Deborah Salomon

About eight years ago I began dedicating January columns to my two cats — their habits, antics, stuff like that. In each, I reprised our history: Lucky, a sleek all-black male with talking eyes and a brain borrowed from Einstein had been left behind when his family moved. Neutered, front claws removed . . . somehow he fended for himself until the day he peeked into my front door. Black cats are my weakness. I established a feeding station on the porch. He dug himself a nest under the bushes.

After an adulthood of befriending needy animals, I had retired, not anticipating the loneliness.

That was December 2011. On July 4th I invited him in. He strolled to the kitchen, sat down, waited for his supper, hopped onto the couch and fell asleep.

I named him Lucky, for obvious reasons. He was calm, quiet, stoic, intuitive and totally affectionate.

A year later, a wide-bodied gal with a nasty temper and a clipped ear signaling a spayed feral tried the same trick. I learned she was a neighborhood kitty, fed by many, housed by none. I let her in, too. She repaid me by hissing for a week so I named her Hissy, modified to Missy when she came around. But she lacked Lucky’s intelligence, his communication skills. He tolerated her, more so after she became his handmaid. They formed a bond.

A cat’s age is hard to ascertain. The vet and I estimated that, as of 2022, they were both 12-14.

I suspected Lucky might have early-stage diabetes last fall, when he began drinking and peeing a lot, so I made an appointment. Then in October, I broke my wrist. Managing my large carrier was almost impossible. I put off the exam until my pain subsided. Lucky seemed fine — ate well, enjoyed a nightly tussle with his gal-pal.

The kitties had a routine. Lucky pawed me awake at about 4 a.m. I got up soon after, fed them, then weather permitting, they went out, rarely beyond the yard. On the morning of January 12 Lucky refused breakfast, ran directly to the door with an insistent cry. I let him out.

He never returned.

I called him all day. I put up signs, talked to the neighbors, inquired about predators, contacted the Humane Society. Lucky didn’t like rain or cold.

A friend put a notice and photo in the paper. About once a year Lucky would take a “vacation day” but always came home at dark. He would never go into another house.

I slept in a chair by the door for three nights.

I felt lost, panicky, then desperate. I missed seeing him in the many “nests” he had made throughout the house. I missed him leaning on my shoulder in bed, hopping onto my lap while I watched TV, sitting on the windowsill guarding the house until I came home. Missy followed me, clung to me, went in and out, in and out, looking for her buddy. She hardly ate for a week.

I have never had an animal companion disappear. They all led long, healthy, happy lives and went to that final sleep in my arms.

Missy is adjusting. I am not. My eye spots something black in a pile of sweatshirts, or on a porch chair. I imagine him licking my ear, another surefire wake-up tactic. But I accept, through my tears, that he is gone.

Perhaps he left to die, as some animals do. If so, something good died with him.

I pity people who cannot form a relationship with an animal. They are missing the unconditional love not always available elsewhere.

Missy will be my last kitty. I could not inflict what happens to pets when their human dies. But of all the dogs and cats I have rescued, placed in homes or adopted myself, Lucky stands out. We understood each other. He made me laugh. He needed me. I loved him.

Good-bye, my sleek, handsome friend. The hurt may fade, but you will live forever in my heart. PS

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

2023 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

The Land of Pods

What’s old is new again

By Deborah Salomon

Until recently, I knew pods only from the English peas growing in Granddaddy’s garden . . . and tent-like enclosures E.T. might take camping.

In mankind’s insatiable quest for the new, the shiny, he-she-they occasionally turn up a relic that, when dusted off, can be recycled, then touted as le denier cri. I speak of podcasts which, in generations before Gens. X-Y-Z, were called radio: Sit down in front the wireless, the transistor, the boom box, and listen to people talking, music playing, ad jingles, news and weather, whatever.

Relax. Close your eyes. You could be listening to The Fat Man or The Jack Benny Show. More recently, on road trips, I enjoyed NPR’s Car Talk, international news, and a show where listeners challenged a chef to contrive a recipe from unlikely ingredients.

I understand why Gens. X-Y-Z prefer podcasts. Podcasts are chic, informative, entertaining. But thinking they invented the talkie genre, no way.

As for the name, Google informed me that it attaches iPod — the delivery hardware for the original product — to broadcast, an ancient verb turned noun. Though still confused, I stand better informed.

My first podcast experience was on TV. At the end of HBO’s mini-series The Gilded Age the audience is invited to stay tuned for a podcast exploring the show. What followed was a conversation between writers and producers. On the screen remained a still of the opulent set. Like when the picture freezes. My brain, accustomed to multi-stimulants, tuned out.

Better Google a definition before proceeding: “A digital medium consisting of an episodic series of audio, video, PDF subscribed to and downloaded through Web syndication or streamed online to a computer or mobile device.”

Discouraged but still intrigued, I booked an in-person conversation with Frank Daniels IV, The Pilot’s radio/podcast-meister who was still a teenager when podcasts came into being, circa 2004. His tutorial filled me with shock and awe, as would a neurosurgeon explaining how to cut open a brain. He explained platforms, monetizing a famous or ordinary name, how 60 percent of Americans have listened to at least one podcast, creating your own, accessing subject matter, even libel vs. slander dispensed by hothead podcasters like the infamous Joe Rogan. He spoke on lack of filtration (censorship), when and where people listen (forget the bathtub), the appeal for children who can don headphones and run around or fall asleep while listening to Grandma read a story.

Really, Daniels knows more about podcasting than I know about chicken soup. Always smiling, he convinced me podcasts were the modern-day World Book Encyclopedia.

Like baking bread and knitting, podcasts grew in popularity with better-educated housebound techies during the pandemic. Only disappointment: no loaf, no sweater.

Daniels concedes that the medium has gone in too many directions. Millions exist, some super-interesting and educational, others mere ego trips. “But it won’t burn out; podcasting is here to stay,” he says.

Not sure I am, however, despite Daniels’ patient and enthusiastic tutorial. Obviously, podcasting makes him happy while just making me anxious, same as artificial intelligence and deep-fake videos. Have you heard about the new program that writes an essay or report from inputted facts? There goes my job. Besides, not sure my Android cell is au courant, or compatible. No Sirius or laptop, either, just a rickety old PC, a non-smart TV and an AM-FM radio. Can’t grasp RSS feeds. Too much up and downloading. Too many choices, like looking for a good beach read at the Library of Congress. Besides, ear buds render me slightly dizzy.

So I’ll stick with my little portable radio, a go-to during power outages. NPR survives storms and, even Daniels concurs, nothing lifts the spirits like classic rock. Should that pale, I’ll dig up old-time podcasts of 20 Questions, The Jack Benny Show and Breakfast with Dorothy and Dick, the must-hear news and gossip hour consumed 1945-63.

At least until E.T. invites me for a weekend camping. PS

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

2023 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

The Nose Knows

Sniffing down memory lane

By Deborah Salomon

Mmmmm — something sure does smell good.

That’s because the holidays extending from late January to late February maintain food links: Chinese New Year, Jan. 22; Valentine’s Day, Feb. 14; President’s Day, Feb. 20; Mardi Gras, Feb. 21. Black History Month is celebrated throughout February, often with soul food dinners, proof that food carves out a place in the brain’s memory centers.

The aroma of meatloaf or apple pie baking, coffee brewing or chicken frying might do the trick. Lacking the aroma, I have seen a grown man cry at the mention of his mother’s strawberry jam simmering on the back burner.

Olfactory memories die hard, or not at all. Who knows, maybe cavemen wept recalling wild beasts on the spit.

Of all the ethnic cooking in January and February, Chinese revs my engine the most. The memory is as clear as what happened yesterday — maybe clearer.

I grew up in New York City in the 1940s. My parents weren’t much for restaurants. However, since my mother was not an enthusiastic cook, I practically grew up at the Automat. PBS recently aired a two-hour documentary about these landmark cafeterias that, I’m sure, left a great many grown men crying.

Once a year, on my birthday, my parents took me to the original Ruby Foo’s, in the Theater District, not Chinatown. We had soup, rice and pressed duck. The French call these succulent ovals quenelles. To me, they were pure heaven, but what did a 7-, 8- and 9-year-old know about Asian cuisine?

I clearly remember wearing my dress-up coat and leggings (January is cold in Yankeeland), the dark restaurant interior with leather banquettes, how the waiters presented each dish with a flourish, especially to the birthday girl. I didn’t mind that I never once had a birthday party with friends. Nor did I figure out that going to Ruby Foo’s was so much easier for my mother.

She liked pressed duck, too.

For lunch at the Automat, it had to be a liverwurst sandwich and baked beans in a small brown crock. Weep, Boston, weep. This crock contained beans baked in a sweet, tomatoey sauce which formed a crunchy crust. Decades later, I spotted a similar crock in an antique shop. Everything came rushing back as the dealer ran for the Kleenex.

My husband grew up in Brooklyn. We met at Duke. What fun, recalling our favorite Automat dishes, except his were hamburger steak and mashed potatoes, mine fried scallops and creamed spinach, not an encouraging sign.

I doubt subsequent generations display such emotional attachments to food. How could they, with such a variety? Where is the purism, the authenticity? The old aunties with specialties are dying out. The local Chinese buffet is an international smorgasbord of spring rolls, French fries, mac and cheese, corn on the cob, sesame chicken, apple cobbler and chocolate pudding. Pizza concocted from a cauliflower crust topped with kale has lost its Italian accent. Valentine’s Day may still suggest filet mignon and cheesecake, but fading fast are happy memories of chitlins.

Yet Groundhog Day felt the need to field a commemorative dish called Groundhog Pie, which, thank goodness, contains beef, not ground groundhog.

I almost threw up, learning that Turducken (chicken stuffed inside duck stuffed inside turkey) gets a boost at Thanksgiving.

What must that smell like, roasting?

No . . . I want my turkey stuffed with homemade cornbread laced with celery, onions and fresh sage. Ah, the aroma, the memories that smell triggers, both sad and happy. Make some this February; it’s never too late. PS

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

2023 Feature Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Creators of N.C.

Kittyspeak 101

When a look says it all

By Deborah Salomon

Welcome, once again, to the annual January kitty column — the ninth, I believe.

I am a lifelong animal lover/advocate. All are welcome except foxes and coyotes. Once I kept a caged snake in the garage for my son’s friend while he was at summer camp. I cannot count how many forlorn, destitute kitties have come to my door, instinctively knowing they would be fed, adopted, cared for, loved.

The all-black ones with kind, intelligent eyes are my weakness.

Like Lucky, who showed up in 2011. He had been neutered, declawed and abandoned when his family moved. After feeding him outside for weeks I opened the door. He strolled into my house, my heart. A year later a pudgy half-tabby with a clipped ear signaling a spayed feral began hanging around for handouts. She rewarded me with hisses. I couldn’t ignore her limp so I opened the door. Lucky — who doesn’t have an aggressive bone in his panther-esque body — just stared, stoically. The half-tabby hissed at us both for about a week, then turned on the charm. Now Hissy Missy anchors my lap as I write, leans against my leg when I sleep, and treats Lucky like Meghan Markle does Prince Harry.

In public, at least.

Though intelligence-wise, she’s a dozen Rorschach ink blots beneath him — I should have named him Mensa — they each communicate, ask, answer, demand, complain in subtle, non-verbal, kittyspeak.

I remember seeing an interview of Academy Award actress Kate Winslet, who spoke of a director who criticized how she delivered a line. “Don’t worry, I can say it with my eyes,” Winslet snapped. My Lucky’s huge yellow eyes speak reams, convey a range of emotions: contentment, questioning, fear, acquiescence, warning and, rarely, displeasure. He lacks a loud purr, but stretched out across my lap, his dreamy eyes convey love. If I’m gone for too long I sense reprimand. As feeding time approaches his stare becomes an urgent frown. When the doorbell rings, his eyes warn.

But sometimes eye-talk isn’t enough.

A paw reinforces his query. I feel black velvet stroke my foot as I work on the computer. Pause. Repeat. If no response, a slight mew. I rise, he turns and leads me to his bowl, the back or front doors. Impossible to ignore the polite but insistent paw at 3 a.m. Lucky knows I keep treats in the bedside table.

So does Missy, but she wouldn’t dare.

Lucky also displays a heightened awareness of his surroundings. I broke my wrist recently. When I appeared wearing a cast Lucky was all over it, licking. Did he feel my pain? Was he expressing sympathy or just curiosity?

Missy is more self-absorbed. In fine weather (her definition of temp/humidity) she likes to sit on the back porch table and watch the birds and squirrels nibble peanut butter sandwiches. While Lucky dozes on a chair she remains alert for danger. Like blue jays.

Missy’s maddening method of getting my attention is circling my feet, often resulting in a stepped-on tail. She never learns.

The best is watching them communicate with each other via long, penetrating stares. At least once a day she washes his face. Play may be beneath Lucky’s solemn countenance, but she occasionally shadowboxes — tabby vs. the sphinx. Other than that, Missy defers to him in all matters.

A glass ceiling-smashing bra-burner this gal is not.

I need an animal relationship. Through the years this has been fulfilled by dogs, cats and my children’s pets who knew my home as their own. As for folks who brand kitties cold, aloof and mean, let me remind you that an animal companion often reflects its master’s personality/behavior.

True, I’m neither dignified nor stoic like Lucky. Not a Missy flibbertigibbet either. But at least, day in, day out, through thick and thin, rain or shine, we speak the same language. PS

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

2023 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Holiday Healing

A season in need of warm and fuzzy

By Deborah Salomon

No surprise that “the holiday season” descended on stores before the first Halloween pumpkin went under the knife. Merchants know that inflation will quickly gobble up dollars earmarked for gifts, parties, travel. Charities may suffer. Good causes will falter. Santa’s bag may be lighter, and New Year’s Eve won’t feature prime rib and Champagne.

Still, people crave this annual reprieve, especially after two holiday seasons dampened by COVID and its spin-offs.

We deserve some warm and fuzzy.

To be fair, holidays that comprise the “season” are unrelated, save for proximity. Christmas, of course, has deep and abiding religious significance, which no slapstick flick can trivialize. Yet it has been commercialized beyond belief — not all bad, many non-believers believe, since events bring people together, create memories.

Secular Christmas, it’s called — a perfect oxymoron.

Hanukkah, also falling in December, joined the trio big-time during the ’70s, swept in by diversity awareness, gobbled up by Jewish families like mine, with children who felt left out. Its symbols — candles, coins, food fried in oil — appeared for eight days, often culminating in a sizable gift on the last night.

Hanukkah commemorates a military victory, freedom of religion and a miracle whereby oil sufficient to illuminate the altar lamp for one day lasted eight.

Inspiring, significant, hardly warm and fuzzy.

Kwanzaa, which falls after Christmas, celebrates African American history and culture. The observance, initiated in 1966 after the Watts rebellion, is based on African harvest festivals. Candles are lit, special foods served, small gifts exchanged but, according to website definitions, Kwanzaa is non-religious and non-political.

My gut says this year we really, really need a holiday season. The world is in terrible shape. Cruel winter descends on a Ukraine with uncertain power, heat, water, food. A drought in Somalia forces mothers to trek hundreds of miles, often burying their infants by the dusty road. In Nigeria, catastrophic floods sweep away crops and farm animals. This year, we can’t dismiss these unthinkables as “over there.” Over here antisemitism has come roaring back, along with gun massacres in churches, supermarkets and, most horrific, schools. Run-up to midterm elections brought out the worst in politicians and their often rabid followers. Truth has been mocked. The nuclear threat changes everything, everywhere.

Of course other holiday seasons have weathered hard times. The Battle of the Bulge was fought at Christmas time. Bob Hope entertained U.S. troops in Vietnam. On Thanksgiving good souls feed and warm the ever-increasing homeless population. But I feel something ominous looming, a shift affecting lives and customs heretofore immune. I feel almost like Ebenezer Scrooge upon viewing a Christmas without Tiny Tim.

Or, maybe this downer will awaken gratitude for whatever remains.

So light the candles, trim the tree, fry the latkes, sip the eggnog, wrap the gifts, hug the kids, hum the carols and bring on the warm-and-fuzzy because this holiday season, however defined, we desperately need it. PS

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

2022 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Picture This

A voyage into the past

By Deborah Salomon

What follows is about pictures.

As a reporter for 40 years I learned to call them photos. Sounds more professional, like “film” instead of “movie.” But lately, watching families sift through the contents of burned out or flooded homes, I’ve reverted to pictures, which better describes amateur snapshots memorializing . . . everything — the first baby’s first bath, toddler birthday parties, a basset puppy named Duffy, skiing, football, school plays, beach vacations, graduations. I have a picture of my mother, born in 1902, with her parents and baby brother, taken in 1906. My father brought back reams of sepia-toned pictures from World War I, in France, including one of the ambulance he drove. I went wild with my own grandchildren; every week the drugstore got a roll or two. Doubles, please, so I could mail some off.

Must be thousands, crammed into plastic under-the-bed boxes. Sometimes I pull one out, like slipping through a door overgrown with ivy into a secret garden. Remember Bert who drew a better world in sidewalk chalk, for Mary Poppins to jump in?

If only we could jump back into our pictures.

Often a picture will prompt a memory not altogether pleasant. That’s me, in Rome, feeding the famous Forum cats, who live on handouts. Sad.

Recently I wrote two features about couples in their 90s who had lived noteworthy lives. In preparation for the interview, each had spread scrapbooks and photo albums on a table. True, the pictures only depicted good times although, inevitably, happy turns sad as the generations pass.

At least nobody handed me a cellphone to flip through.

A picture/photo is tangible, printed on sturdy paper. It can be framed, tucked into a wallet, affixed to a refrigerator or, as non-agenarians do, mounted with caption in an album. I’m amazed the black and white photos I took with the first Polaroid camera (early ’60s) have not faded. Otherwise, I endured the wait, whittled down to an hour, until the film had been developed. Then I would re-live the event, perhaps from a different perspective. Like the hilarious pictures of my grandson on his first birthday. He dug into a piece of chocolate cake with both chubby hands, smearing it all over himself, the high chair and whoever came near. Now, I can smile. Then, I had to clean it — and him — up.

Digital cameras, and cellphones, have changed everything. I know, I know. Phones are omnipresent, meaning you never miss a shot. Photos can be sent by text, emailed. Cellphones and cameras can be plugged into other devices that print, albeit on flimsy copy paper. I’m sure there’s a way to back them up into some cloud or facility located in Never Never Land, but do you actually do it? Furthermore, cellphones are slippery little things that slide out of pockets and purses. But I don’t know anyone who routinely prints out the day’s catch to store under the bed in a long plastic box.

Not that plastic would protect against fire and floods. If climate change continues to destroy homes and lives somebody will hawk a secure metal container on late-night TV. As for albums/scrapbooks, I’m not that organized. Instead, to select pictures for this page I pulled out two dusty boxes, sat on the floor and went through hundreds of pictures, helter-skelter, taken over a 120-year span, from a grandmother I never knew to high school friends I had forgotten. I saw my first prom dress (scratchy net), all the apartments and houses I’ve lived in, cats and dogs I’ve loved, a ferryboat-sized Buick station wagon and a spiffy Olds convertible. I relived college graduation — mine and my daughters’ — and my son’s wedding. Yes, that’s me interviewing (Princess) Grace Kelly, during the filming of her last movie, in Asheville, in 1955.

Two boxes down, one to go, maybe another day when a storm has paused all electronic activities. Because getting lost in the past cuts both ways. I found pictures of gravestones, of healthy classmates who have withered with age. Of styles that now look silly: Mondrian-inspired mini-dresses, go-go boots and extreme bell-bottoms.

Kinship with homeowners poking through the ashes for a wedding picture, a son in Army uniform or a 50th anniversary cake runs strong, as does recalling the anticipation of picking up developed film. Digital isn’t the same, at least for me. Because, after all these years, one picture is still worth a thousand pixels. PS

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

2022 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Meds on Parade

Art for the heart — and everything else

By Deborah Salomon

Illustration By Miranda Glyder

We call PineStraw magazine “The Art and Soul of the Sandhills.” There it is, written on the cover. Soul is amorphous. Art, however, wears many guises. It’s called the “art” of politics — at least in part — because if candidates can’t put on a good show they ain’t goin’ nowhere. They deliver artfully crafted scripts often, per Macbeth, “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” They choose well-tailored costumes in (except Nancy Pelosi) conservative colors. I almost fainted when she deplaned at midnight in Taiwan wearing a bubblegum-pink pantsuit.

But this art commentary doesn’t concern MAGA caps or power ties. Rather, the drama rampant in TV ads for prescription and OTC medications.

Now Pelosi’s pantsuit appears Pepto Bismol pink.

This dates from 1997 when the FDA relaxed rules governing direct advertising to consumers, as long as side effects receive prominent billing, along with “Consult a physician.” The U.S. and New Zealand are the only countries that allow direct ads.

Sounds like a win-win-win for patients, docs, ad agencies, drug manufacturers and “everyman” actors. Because, with a few exceptions, glamour-pusses don’t have eczema or hemorrhoids.

Truth be told, drug and health-related ads have taken over prime time TV once dominated by Tony the Tiger. To document this I sat down with pencil, paper and stopwatch. My findings indicate that a typical 2-minute ad break will have four or five commercials, at least three of them drug-related. No more white-coated “physician” or “pharmacist” dispensing advice. These are on-location productions with multiple actors, cartooning, music, special effects. Some are melancholy, offering cancer patients “more time” without suggesting a cure. Others push prevention or detection, hence the now familiar Cologuard logo. The toughest to watch are anti-smoking, where the spokesperson is missing a jawbone or larynx, followed by a black screen announcing “Joe Smith died in 2020.”

Pets help. A drug that renders HIV-AIDS “undetectable” avoids the click-off by showing a couple bathing a white dog. Most drug ads, however, feature healthy-looking folks at weddings and graduations, none experiencing the dire side effects listed by the voice-over.

Manipulative? Who cares? Big pharma’s goal is to have you clamoring for the drug by name — if you can pronounce and pay for it. Trade names lean on consonants, particularly X, Y, Z and Q minus the U. Pronounce Cibinqo for me, please. At least the trade name Rinvoq is easier than generic upadacitinib.

I finally found an MD willing to comment, albeit anonymously. Slick, unrealistic, exaggerated, providing false hope by innuendo was his verdict, although he chuckled at the one for a bone strengthener, where grannies narrowly avert accidents like tripping on a pine cone or falling off a ladder.

OK, so almost all’s fair in war and medications. I still draw a line below the belt.

Remember diving for the remote when Viagra burst onto the market? Now, usually around suppertime, the menu includes bent carrots, misshapen zucchini, wacky bananas and cukes simulating Peyronie’s Disease. Look it up. After that, a “stool softener” which compares the ailment to “passing a pineapple,” unpeeled, of course, seems tame. But I do laugh at the one where a woman opens the car door only to find a toilet replacing the driver’s seat, followed by the same substitution for her office chair.

At this rate, it’s only a matter of time until Mona Lisa’s smile will be co-opted to confirm a satisfactory, uh, outcome.

As the evening wears on, hucksters hawk a battery-operated ear wax cleaner called Wush and a dainty ladies’ shaver for “down there.” The men’s version for “groin grooming” is called Lawn Mower. Ugh.

But is this ad art? Or are we creating culture icons? Will the Charmin bears join Pooh and Paddington?

Possibly, considering Christie’s sold Andy Warhol’s painting of a Campbell’s condensed soup can, painted in 1961, for $11 million. Today’s artist might immortalize a fancy organic brand.

Literature has its Pulitzers, Broadway its Tonys, films their Oscars. Ads earn statuettes at the annual Clios, which recognize creativity/excellence in advertising. Health care has its own category.

Clio usually takes the high road, honoring foundations conducting medical research. My vote still supports the nerdy Preparation H spokesguy who insists, coyly, that my derriere “deserves expert care.” PS

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

2022 Department Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Lumpy, Frumpy, Beloved

It’s the little duffle that could

By Deborah Salomon

Carpet bags were actually made of carpet. Remember Mary Poppins’ arrival toting a magic one? Steamer trunks were once a necessity on long voyages, per Titanic. Suitcases accommodate everything but suits, which travel in hanging bags.

Collectively, call it luggage. Fancy-schmancy, call one smallish piece a valise.

For the past 15 years I have flown to Canada to see my grandsons five or six times a year. More when they were younger, less now that they are grown men. I don’t stay long — two or three nights. But I bring a lot, including food (cheese, frozen shrimp, deli roast beef, homemade cookies), gifts (car magazines, T-shirts), seasonal candy, dog toys and funny stuff they might like — as well as my own bulky cold weather clothes.

Checking baggage isn’t an option since missed connections and re-routing happen regularly, not to mention the cost. So I bought a roller carry-on, first with hard sides, then semi-soft. They slid easily into the overhead compartment but held a finite amount. Surely none of the passengers scooting from gate to gate pulling aluminum siding on ball bearings had hungry grandchildren.

So I added a small duffle to hold the overflow plus my purse, since only two carry-ons were allowed. Except the duffle didn’t attach to the roller bag and kept falling off, a real pain.

I looked again, this time for something uber-expandible that could still be stuffed into the overhead compartment. Appearance didn’t matter. I’d pull one adorned with Betty Boop if it worked.

About five years ago I spotted the perfect bag at Stein Mart. Tacky, verging on ugly, its loose canvas body was as suitable for stuffing as a Butterball. The white canvas printed with black stars made it immediately recognizable in a row of sleek, monochromatic, ball-bearing, aluminum-sided roller bags — an ugly duckling in a pond of svelte swans. Nobody ever grabbed my bag by mistake.

So what if people snickered. At least it had a zipper pocket on the outside to separate my lunch and my socks.

Because anybody who pays $12 for a tuna sandwich en route is just plain nuts.

Unlike airport tuna, my valise was cheap, maybe $20. I soon discovered why. The wheels rattled. The handle required a yank. Once stuffed, the valise wobbled, even toppled. Despite malfunctions I still loved its capacity, which amazed security personnel.

“I’ll remove the food,” according to regulations, I told the officer. He watched, wide-eyed. Out came the cookies, the candy, the cheese, the frozen shrimp, Reese’s Peanut Butter Halloween pumpkins, taco rice and salsa, leaving my sweaters, shoes, nightgown, hair dryer.

Remember the old circus gag where a dozen clowns emerge from a VW Beetle?

“What else ya got in there?” the officer grinned suspiciously.

I grinned back and offered him a chocolate chip cookie.

Once inside the aircraft, however, my bag-o-tricks faced another challenge. This valise was heavier than it looked. Much heavier. Could I lift it into the compartment? When no Lancelot appeared, darned if it didn’t squeeze underneath the seat in front.

On the return trip, grandkids’ goodies were replaced by three dozen of the world’s best bagels. This, the inspectors understood.

All these years and only one accident. My daughter loves Stouffer frozen spinach soufflé, not available in Canada. I always bring a single-serving box secured in a resealable plastic bag. On a recent trip it thawed, then seeped through the box and bag, tinting my jeans “Exorcist” vomit green.

Alas, this ugly saddlebag/rucksack/duffle/carry-on hybrid is showing her age. Canvas corners are threadbare. The zipper sticks. The main compartment is lined with cat hair, since Lucky stows away in it between trips. Perhaps he detected a faint tuna odor. My grandsons may have outgrown silly socks and peanut butter pumpkins. But, unless a wheel falls off or the zipper derails, this trusty travel companion will chug along behind me, clickety-clack, on every flight until the last. PS

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

2022 Department Out of the Blue