Out of the Blue

Falling for October

And putting the summer behind us

By Deborah Salomon

At last. . . October!

The word, hardly mellifluous. The image, glorious, when oaks and maples flame yellow, orange and red before browning and blowing away. The chill of an October morning washes away the humid, fetid air of summer like a wave upon the Maine seacoast.

I fell in love with October at age 5, maybe 6, when my parents took the train from Manhattan, where we lived, to a dude farm in southern Vermont. Here, post-harvest, the Jones family rented out one-room log cabins to city folk hungry to pet a pig, pick a pumpkin, milk a cow, feed a chicken, skip a stone across the pond and eat at a long communal table in the farmhouse.

Heaven, especially breakfast, served farmer-early: pancakes drenched in local maple syrup, maybe fried apples from trees bordering the meadow.

My parents weren’t big on vacations. This is the only one I remember, ever.

The cabins had neither electricity nor running water. Every morning a metal bucket appeared on the tiny front porch, with a skim of ice around the edges.

Good thing we brought flannel pajamas.

How humans are wired into cycles of the sun and the seasons never fails to amaze. All I know is the images and flavors of this weekend left an imprint, which may explain why, for a lifetime, I have risen before dawn and gloried in October.

For me, the rapture of April and May signal only hay fever . . . and dreaded summer. September . . . unpredictable.

This summer wasn’t too bad, weather-wise, until August’s last gasp of 90-plus degree days. But it was a disturbing summer, almost too disturbing for October to erase. The COVID’s welcome slide became a surge, especially among children. Images of families — hot, hungry, unwashed, desperate — waiting for evacuation from Afghanistan led every newscast. I can’t erase from my memory the infirm grandma being pushed down a dusty road in a wheelbarrow. Leaders proved that common sense is not necessarily taught at Harvard and Yale. Katrina’s cousin Ida struck New Orleans with a vengeance. Providing near-comic relief, the royal family bickered and whined while Ben Affleck, to the paparazzi’s delight, rediscovered J-Lo.

Is that Shakespeare rewriting himself, “This was the summer of our discontent . . . ” from his grave?

Octobers of yore meant watching my son score touchdowns, a pot of homemade veggie-beef soup in the fridge, McIntosh apples and corduroy. As a child I wore corduroy overalls, jackets and hats, as did my children. Their navy blue became faded and soft from many washings.

Whatever happened to corduroy?

Any day now the air will feel scrubbed clean in the low afternoon sun. Temps and humidity down, bugs (except yellow jackets) almost gone. AC off, windows open. True, fall foliage is not a Sandhills’ forte. For that, plan a brewery-crawl in Asheville. But October still imparts not only beauty but relief . . . summer is over, winters here are nothing to dread.

October is the dividing line. I’m oh-so-ready to hop across.

Welcome, October. And thanks.  PS

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

Out of the Blue

Shopper’s Remorse, Kinda

To browse or not to browse, that is the question

By Deborah Salomon

If shopping were an Olympic sport, I’d win the gold medal. I can happily while away an hour just looking at stuff, be it books or blouses, now called “tops.” Yet when the news that Target might be coming to Southern Pines roared through town I couldn’t muster much excitement.

Maybe the thrill is gone. Maybe Target drowns in too much stuff.

The thrill, in my case, has less to do with buying than with the experience characteristic of the shop-till-you-drop USA. My brief forays abroad indicate that in most cultures, people shop to satisfy a need — like socks or wine or paper towels. They look around, find something acceptable, pay and leave.

I shop as a pastime, a learning experience. I look at colors. I read labels that reveal where the merchandise was made and what it is made of. I ponder prices. In small stores I ask questions.

This doesn’t make me popular with proprietors answering my questions, always pleasantly, while sensing I have no intention of buying those stunning handcrafted silver earrings, for $65.

I enjoy shopping the big boxes, too. A bundle of dresses is still smashed from the box where it was packed by hands on the other side of the globe, then shipped across many oceans in boxcar-sized containers. That makes me remember when Walmart et al. began adding groceries to smashed dresses. At first, the sight of cauliflower and ground beef sharing a cart with jeans, house paint and mittens seemed odd.

It still does, really. Convenience hath its price.

I’m not an organized shopper. I rarely make a list. That way, I can wander, hoping that seeing Tide on sale will remind me.

Wandering is a luxury afforded by age. I retain mixed memories of weaving in and out of the aisles with a toddler in the shopping cart seat and two others, only slightly older, dashing ahead, begging, “Can we buy this, Mommy? Please, please . . . ”

Stop to read a label and they’re climbing the shelves in pursuit of some repulsive purple cereal.

I remember, too, the times my elderly father visited. Supermarket trips were a thrill because he appreciated food, having grown up poor and often hungry. He would feign outrage at the prices, which never kept him from eating what I bought. But as we approached the check-out, he’d disappear.

“I’ll meet you at the car.”

Seeing the total was just too painful. And that was when grapefruit were four for a dollar and sirloin, $1.25 a pound.

I never minded shopping for clothes but despised try-on rooms with their three-way mirrors; an unexpected full rear view can ruin the experience. Therefore, half my untried-on purchases went back.

I thought about that last winter, when the virus closed dressing rooms and returned purchases were, I guess, restocked. Not a pleasant thought.

Shopping for a new car . . . another story. Takes me about 15 minutes to find one I like, another 10 to do the math. The salesperson always looks disappointed at not having to cajole, convince, bargain, use all those snappy phrases learned at training sessions. So, if I can decide in 25 minutes, why does the paperwork take 45?

Still, I’m suspicious of shop-at-home dealerships advertised on TV.

Shopping online guarantees pleasures and perils. You can’t feel the fabric (is it scratchy?) or see the color (duller than expected). Return postage is exorbitant (except for Amazon, with drop-offs at Kohl’s), so I usually end up keeping the borderline-satisfactory purchase.

That’s why, with all due respect, I don’t really care if Target comes to town. I’ve shopped their Greensboro store. Nice housewares, OK selection of packaged groceries, good pet supplies, not much fresh stuff. I couldn’t relate to the clothes.

Sorry if I sound negative. Not my intention. I grew up in the fab Manhattan department store era: B. Altman, Lord &Taylor, Macy’s, Gimbel’s, Best & Company, now just names engraved on tombstones. They had lovely cafés for lunch, free delivery, nice rest rooms. Perfume counters sprayed samples, and elevator operators wore white gloves.

Years later their arty shopping bags were exhibited at the Museum of Modern Art.

Now that was shopping, neither convenient nor quick. Not even price-conscious, although shoppers probably bought less.

I thought about those department stores and primordial supermarkets (A&P, Piggly Wiggly, Gristedes) during a recent safari through the enormous Harris Teeter in Taylortown, where I spent 15 minutes finding shoe polish — same time it took to select my last car.

No, retail therapy isn’t what it used to be. “The customer is always right” maxim has been maxed out. But if a new Target the size of two football fields stocked from A (apples) to Z (zippers) pushes your buttons, go for it.

Me? I’ll hold out for the $65 earrings. Gift-wrapped and carried home in a frameable shopping bag, please.  PS

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

Out of the Blue

Windsor Knots

These are the ties that bind

By Deborah Salomon

Back in the day, ancients believed their leaders descended from the gods, therefore possessed “divine right” to rule. Those chosen few — observing the lifestyle royalty affords — furthered their cause by concocting stories that reinforced the myth.

And so it went. Wars were waged between competing “royals.” Contenders (who perpetrated a similar myth) beheaded each other with frightening regularity. Kings solidified their positions by marrying only royal maidens who, failing to produce male heirs, were booted to a chorus of “Hit the road, Jack(ie), and don’t come back no more, no more . . . ”

Revolutions happened, monarchies tumbled in favor of republics, democracies, socialist states, yet even when they possessed only ceremonial power, kings and queens, princes and princesses survived, mainly to christen ships, open orphanages, attend Ascot and feed our fantasies. Their subjects still bow and curtsy. A sign of respect, I’m told, sometimes good for a giggle: The queen is not allowed to vote or express partisan opinions. But she’s allowed a lady-in-waiting to carry her hankie and bouquets, as well as to clear the loo before a royal visit.

Have you guessed where I’m heading? Down the solid gold brick road to Buckingham Palace. Windsor Castle. Balmoral. Sandringham. Clarence House.

Shocking that 2020-21 was both the Year of the Pandemic where millions suffered and died and the Year of the British Royal Family, who provided audiences with a mud-wrestling extravaganza. No wonder Mr. Trump feels deserted. Royal tribulations regularly shove him off Page One. The BBC put out a casting call for courtiers. Any news will do, from the tragic death of a consort to the tragic death of a puppy. A misstep President Biden makes in Her Majesty’s presence becomes a headline so imagine the kerfuffle over her eldest grandson (Princess Anne’s offspring) getting divorced. New babies keep popping up, Prince Andrew’s scandals keep going down.

And that’s in addition to Harry and Meghan’s carefully scripted Oprah-fest.

Don’t get me wrong; I think Queen Elizabeth is a fine old lady who performs her duties with grace and distinction. After all, it’s a pretty good job which includes room(s) and (a groaning) board, transportation (gilt carriages, maroon Bentley limo, a stable of Range Rovers and Thoroughbreds, private train and aircraft) plus health insurance, paid vacation, a generous pension and, most important, uniforms.

Who cares, if you can’t order Chinese at 10 p.m.?

The thing I’m not buying is royal “blood,” the “lineage” that sets them apart.

Sadly, recent events have suggested those veins need transfusing.

I also notice a dereliction of duty on behalf of the royal-watching media, who used to remain tight-lipped regarding improprieties. Now, like hawks and fishwives, they screech the latest scandal from towers and turrets. Do we need to know that granddaughter Zara Tindall gave birth on the bathroom floor? Or that Kate Middleton’s brother is suffering from depression? Some mean-spirited cartoonist has even dredged up those old separated-at-birth head shots of Prince Charles and MAD Magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman. To balance the negative — and spur competition — tabloid hacks jumped on the bandwagon driven by Prince Edward’s wife, Sophie, newly identified as the queen’s BFF, confidante and spokescountess who, obviously, prefers her crumpets buttered on both sides.

So it shall continue, because Americans are hooked, mostly on the clothes, those incredible outfits with flying-saucer hats and deadly stilettos worn by young royals, not to mention Her Majesty’s neon ensembles. I am hooked because I’d rather read and write (shamefully three times in 12 months) about soap operas played out across the pond than the political tragi-comedies underway on home turf.

Still, enough is enough. Diana and Philip are dead. William’s bald head is old news. Jeffrey Epstein’s buddy Prince Andrew has been benched. Harry’s changing diapers, eating corn dogs and drinking Coors while Charles, wearing (shudder) tartan kilts, weeds his organic garden. But the queen, God bless her, still sips a gin and Dubonnet with a twist before lunch, wears Mad Hatters and runs on Energizers.

I’m thinking she just might outlast us all.  PS

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

Her favorite book is Sophie’s Choice by William Styron

Out of the Blue

Bless My Mess

To ease my stress

By Deborah Salomon

I remember, as a child, “putting things” in a corner of my closet. They could be anything: a scratchy sweater; a comic book; last summer’s worn-out sandals. I wasn’t hiding them, exactly. I just wanted them safely out of sight. In a heap, not neatly stacked.

From time to time my mother told me to “throw that stuff out” or at least “straighten it up.” No way.

That pile initiated a long line of “junk” drawers, basement repositories, currently a spare bedroom where all the dishes, towels, lamps, magazines, boots, crutches, quilts and clothes that I couldn’t part with during the last move are stashed.

That “last move” happened 14 years and many dust bunnies ago.

This is neither hoarding nor collecting. It is, perhaps, the seminal clue that indicates failure as a crazy clean/neat freak — not that I aspire to either. Most of the genuine crazy clean/neat freaks I’ve encountered are driven . . . by a chauffeur named Freud. They rarely have pets, fonts of dirt and disorder. I feel badly for them.

This conundrum only matters when the traits travel to the workplace. The desk I occupied in a busy newsroom for 15 years, its drawers and the wall shelves above it, were obliterated by stacks of envelopes, printouts, clippings, press releases, notebooks, cookbooks, etc. — barely leaving room for the antique computer monitor, tower and keyboard. I couldn’t even claim “but I know where everything is” because I didn’t.

Every Friday afternoon I would straighten the piles, dust around them and fill a wastebasket with things I probably, hopefully, wouldn’t need.

When I retired, they brought in a dumpster.

A friend recently emailed me 50 historic photos from the past 100 years. Among the horrific war scenes and aftermaths of earthquakes was a photo of the Wright brothers’ liftoff and the first self-serve supermarket, a Piggly Wiggly in Tennessee. The photo that stopped me cold was Albert Einstein’s desk and shelves, taken on the day he died, in 1955.

They were a mess.

Please don’t think I’m correlating a messy desk with genius. I’m just saying the inability to maintain order is not fatal, cognitively or emotionally, something my mother didn’t understand. Every surface in her house was covered with stuff, neatly stacked and arranged, never messy, dusted frequently.

No wonder I, the rebellious daughter, kept a pile in a dark closet corner.

The other thing that struck me about Einstein’s desk was no electronics, not a telephone or adding machine or typewriter. Just papers, his pipe and tobacco. Numbers covered a blackboard behind the desk, which indicates most of his conclusions were reached manually.

Take a hike, Alexa! Adios, Siri! The cloud? Clear skies today.

Obviously, I’m trying to justify (excuse?) a bad habit. So, every few days I stack the notebooks neatly, dust behind my monitor. But don’t anybody touch my Word archives because every so often I really, really need a story from 2004. Besides, I’ve learned that anything resembling a purge is like feeding a stray cat that reappears same time tomorrow.

I should know, after adopting two strays who showed up at the same time 10 years ago. Wish I’d named one Albert.

Clean is glorious, necessary, fulfilling. Nothing puts joy in my step like pushing a vacuum. I’d rather sniff Mr. Clean than Chanel No. 5. But neat? A slippery slope ending, I fear, at OCD.

In the dark corner of my closet lie a few old sweaters awaiting disposal. Stray kitty found them, made this soft, quiet corner his bed. Which proves that a little mess left undisturbed goes a long way . . . in the right paws.  PS

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

Out of the Blue

From Cover to Cover

When time was marked by magazines

By Deborah Salomon

Life’s steep and winding highway begs mile markers. On mine, look for magazines.

Because you are what you read, from childhood on. I remember more about Mary Poppins than Earnest Hemingway. But those are books, to curl up with on a rainy Saturday, or dissect in a college lit class.

Magazines, in contrast, provide quick reads: facts, opinions, critiques, humor, all au courant.

I grew up in a magazine-rich household. Highlight of the week was arrival of Life. What or who would rate a cover story? Eisenhower? Marilyn? Castro? Ali?

My mother rated Look a notch below Life, therefore unworthy of a subscription. Thank goodness she approved of Reader’s Digest. I beelined to the “Laughter, the Best Medicine” feature.

This affection began with Jack and Jill, first published the year before I was born. I aced the page where animals or objects were “hidden” in an illustration. Soon, much to the chagrin of parents, pre-teen girls developed “crushes” on movie stars. We passed around Photoplay and Modern Screen until pages, stained from Coke, went raggedy. A year or so later, we moved on to racy, fabricated confessions in True Story, purchased by older sisters and sequestered under the mattress. Pure trash . . . but a deliciously grown-up transition.

I was interested in food even then, probably because my mother wasn’t. I recall begging her to subscribe to Ladies’ Home Journal and Good Housekeeping in the early ’50s, when anything cooked in cream of mushroom soup rated “gourmet.” Meatloaf was a hot topic. Garlic, not. Cakes had three layers; salads were “tossed” and fresh herbs, absent.

Never caught the Seventeen bug. Just too 17-ish.

As a Manhattan kid transplanted kicking and screaming to Asheville, I craved the edgy. With babysitting money, I subscribed to The New Yorker in high school, mostly for the cartoons and covers which, unlike now, were timely but gentle. From these pages printed in a recognizable font I learned about profiling, which helped later on when, coming full circle, I profiled my favorite New Yorker cartoonist, Ed Koren, for a news syndicate.

I continued that subscription for more than 50 years until the articles became too long and the covers, too mean-spirited. I tried skimming my husband’s Sports Illustrated after hearing that the writing was top drawer. Maybe, once you plowed through the jargon.

Then, the Newsweek mandate.

My mother was a high school math teacher and politics maven. She had strong opinions better expressed in Newsweek than Time. I had disappointed her once, by an indifference to math and disinterest in the teaching profession. She certainly wasn’t going to cede her only child to even a smidgen of pop journalism. So, after I married and moved far away, she gifted me with a perpetual Newsweek subscription. Our phone calls usually included a “Did you read about . . . ”

Still checking up.

The subscription ran out after she died.

Magazines in their original form also declined, victims to the internet, podcasts and 24-hour cable news. TV Guide, where my father checked off the week’s best ball games, became superfluous and The Saturday Evening Post a collector’s item. Playboy endured, as if anybody really looks like that naked.

This highway has a happy ending. When my older grandson was about 9, he displayed a keen interest in history, geography, outer space and other exotic destinations. So, for his birthday, I subscribed to National Geographic but had the copies sent to my address. That way I could skim the stories and discuss them with him. He already knew most of the stuff, but loved to argue facts and opinions, whether tribal cultures or marine life in the South China Sea. What a joy, to be out-litigated by a fourth-grader. I subscribed until he was 15.

“Nanny, you should see the pile of National Geographics I have stacked up,” he said, when moving into his first apartment. By then, he had traveled and/or studied in two dozen countries including China, Japan, Australia, Thailand, Vietnam, Eastern Europe, Central America. He speaks three languages, graduated from law school and passed the bar, all by 23. I take no credit, except for sharing something beyond comic books and chocolate chip cookies.

I can’t remember a time when a few magazines weren’t stacked on my coffee table — always PineStraw, occasionally something else. Occasionally, I read The New Yorker online. My dentist gets an impressive array, including Our State and Southern Living. I arrive early, on purpose, to copy recipes that I never make. At the supermarket checkout I notice that magazines have become terribly specialized, more like grown-up picture books. And horribly expensive.

I don’t subscribe to anything anymore. The house where I wallpapered a bathroom with New Yorker covers is long sold. I haven’t the heart to ask my grandson if he discarded the National Geographics.

But the thrill endures because look where I ended up: writing about magazines for a magazine.  PS

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

Out of the Blue

Hands Off My Keepers!

In defense of not quite hoarding

By Deborah Salomon

I’m not a hoarder but have always owned a modicum of . . . well, things.

Not big things. Not expensive things. Just non-essentials found at Goodwill-type outlets, yard sales. This includes books, dishes and things to hang on the wall. 

They are NOT junk. Some are interesting, artistic. Many represent places I have been, people I have met or written about, like the tin can artist. Others fall into categories, thus qualifying as “collections.” For decades I collected masks, including a papier-mâché lady from Venice and a clay one from Florence, both mementos of 10 glorious days in Italy. Yet I also see value in now extinct Hellmann’s mayo glass jars with metal screw-on lids that hold a quart of homemade soup for a sick friend.

Where is Andy Warhol when you really need him?

However, as a recreational observer of humanity I know the difference between save (including collect) and hoard. Frugal people save. Eccentrics hoard. People who stockpile twist ties don’t deserve a classification.

The pandemic blurred definitions, leaving the late-night comedians reams of toilet paper to ridicule. Keep laughing, guys. Should COVID circle back you’re not getting any of mine. But I will share an inventory of what’s stored in the corners, pantry, closet, even the trunk of my car:

Jars: Besides Hellmann’s I hang onto glass maple syrup containers, with finger hooks at the mouth. Faux canning jars filled with pasta sauce are nice for storing anything, wet or dry. Remember the jelly jars that became kiddie glasses, often fought over? Kraft spreadable cheese still comes in them but the kiddies, even the grandkiddies, are long grown and gone.

Canned goods: I cannot resist a sale on canned tomatoes — crushed, stewed, whole, herbed Mexican or Italian — which I use for many recipes. A tower of cans fills a corner of the pantry because you never know who’s coming to dinner. So, should the virus provoke another quarantine and you’ve got an urge to make spaghetti sauce, I’m your gal.

Dishes: I saved a few dishes from every set I’ve owned, a mishmash of family history, plus single bowls, plates, mugs, soup crocks, cake plates I couldn’t resist. Definitely a hoard, but precious.

Socks: I could outfit a centipede. Being from a frigid climate, I know the value of warm feet. About 40 years ago I found a pile of men’s cashmere sock “seconds” (mostly unpopular colors) in a department store basement, for $2a pair. I bought at least a dozen. My husband wore them, my kids wore them, I wore them skiing until they disintegrated. I still have one pair, in red. I’m told the devil wears red socks. Me, too.

Buttons: Many sweaters, coats, blouses and other apparel come with an extra button or two, in case of loss. Great idea. Couldn’t possibly throw those away although I can’t recall using a single one. Sometimes I rifle through the jar, trying to remember the long-gone garments they matched. 

Boxes: Internet shopping means boxes . . . handsome, strong cardboard hopefully recycled after this single use. I want to adopt each one for kitty condos, pirate ships, footstools. When my kids were small, I would drive around on garbage day, looking for a washing machine or dishwasher carton reinforced with wood to keep in the garage for a rainy-day fort or playhouse.

Business cards: On my desk, four piles held together with rubber bands — probably 300 cards total. I only use two or three but what fun to flip through them, trying to recall when and why they were obtained.

Magazines: Everybody laughed when I hoarded/collected years and years of The New Yorker covers. Then, after moving into a new house I wallpapered one bedroom wall with the first batch and, in another house, an entire powder room, where guests sat a while and exited laughing.

Black pants: A girl can’t have too many: wide-leg linen, skinny stretch with or without stirrups, tailored synthetic, yogas, charcoal denim, crushed velvet gauchos, marled sweats for all seasons, all occasions formerly served by the little black dress.

Goofs: When LED and fluorescent light bulbs took over I read that regular incandescents would be phased out. No! The newbies hurt my eyes. So, I laid away a supply from 15-watt nightlights to 3-way floor lamps.

Well, the purge never happened. So I’m set for life.

Things I wish I’d hoarded: Money.

Things I wish I’d collected: Comic books, from the ’40s and ’50s, now worth big money.

Spring cleaning is the collectors/hoarders nemesis. We divest, reorganize.

Things I’ll throw out: Any of the above?

Not a chance.  PS

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

Out of the Blue

Let It Be Over

Enough is too much

By Deborah Salomon

Seldom have Richard III’s words rung so true: “Now is the winter of our discontent . . . ”

Carol-less Christmas because singing spreads the virus.

Party-less New Year’s Eve. Midnight hugs prohibited.

Thanksgiving and Super Bowl Sunday spent with live-in family, forget about chili and party platters. Romantic Valentine’s Day dinners were take-out, including the martinis.

No snow, only rain, rain, rain. Cold winter rain owns a special misery.

An epic storm brings the Lone Star State to its knees: No heat, no water, burst pipes, dwindling food — almost enough to make Texans forget COVID-19 which, as a result, will surge.

In late February, parts of an engine fell off a United Airlines Boeing 777 just after take-off from Denver, bound for Hawaii. The cellphone videos matched the pilot’s shaky voice as he declared, “Mayday, Mayday.” Yet he returned to Denver with all 240 passengers safe. Nothing that dramatic since Capt. “Sully” Sullenberger landed a Charlotte-bound USAirways flight with zero engine power on the Hudson River in 2009.

Except now, a new fear of flying — not that anybody much is.

Ah, yes, the virus itself, which has crept like mold through . . . everything.

The winter just ending was chill, dreary and definitely damp. Never in 12 years have I worn my down parka and cashmere socks as much.

My two kitties looked in vain for the sunny spot on the porch to warm their old bones. I remember a few nice days when golfers surfaced without mufflers and knitted caps but even more when the birds seemed especially thankful for their daily ration of shelled sunflower seeds, which in a month doubled in price.

Several prominent people died since autumn, notably Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Alex Trebek. Jeopardy! is now a Travesty! The older a person gets, the more he or she muses on passings. I turned 82 in January.

But, when push comes to pushover, the deepest discontent remains the November election, with an aftermath that festered, then exploded on Jan. 6, when the Capitol was ravaged by its own citizens. When the actions of a defeated president flabbergasted — there is no other word — and embarrassed Americans expecting at least a modicum of civility. Back to Shakespeare: “Something is rotten in the state of . . . ” not Denmark, as written. Maybe Florida. D.C., for sure.

The cherry on top has to be what the Brits are calling Megxit. I knew from her first curtsy that Miss Markle planned to bag her prince and drag him back across the pond. In February, they sealed the deal with a cheeky note to the Queen: Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Being the dressed-to-kill Duchess of Sussex wasn’t enough. What she wanted was to be Queen of Hollywood, living in a seaside mansion more opulent than any British castle — and not half as drafty. So, Harry sold out his granny, his brother and his mother’s legacy for a green card, a year-round tan, tacos on demand, Lipton Orange Pekoe and driving his Range Rover on the right side of the road.

But will it last?

However, this tragic winter provided one belly laugh: Ted Cruz, with long hair and beard looking the part of an aging matador in search of a bull, pretending to chaperone a bunch of girls to Cancún instead of handing out water to his constituents. If only Jackie Gleason was alive to recreate the part.

All things considered, this April I won’t complain about pine pollen, hay fever, awakening day for the ants or new cheek wrinkles the bright spring sun reveals. I’ll try not to dread the summer heat, which will loom large. Because to have survived this winter upright and lucid makes anything seem possible.   PS

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

Out of the Blue

Matinee Idyll

A screen shot from the good ol’ days

By Deborah Salomon

I miss the movies. Not art films, or chick flicks, or computer-generated blockbusters. Certainly not superheroes or chatty corpses. Just an engrossing story played out over two hours.

Movies represented a simple but profound part of my childhood, teens, parenting, grandparenting and old age. Here’s how.

Growing up in a New York City apartment before TV and without siblings could, Mary Poppins notwithstanding, be boring. I pounced on Life magazine each week, hoping for a new Disney film ad. My mother objected but usually relented. Yet she exposed me, barely 10, to Laurence Olivier’s Hamlet. Amazing how easy Shakespeare goes down on screen. Sir Larry became my first movie-star crush (obligatory for little girls in the late ’40s), followed by Gregory Peck, after Gentleman’s Agreement. Redford, Cruise and Clooney melted down and reassembled as Brad Pitt couldn’t hold a candle to either.

The situation was different in Asheville. I was 12, plenty old enough to sit through Singin’ in the Rain and a parade of other silly musicals with friends at the lavish Art Deco Imperial Theater. Admission: 9 cents. One mother would drop us off, another pick us up. To my everlasting embarrassment, Mario Lanza — The Great Caruso — replaced Olivier and Peck.

The upside: By 13 I felt comfortable with Shakespeare and Verdi.

Soon, local fellas with hot-off-the-press driver’s licenses usurped Mario and the Bard. Movie dates were the thing. I can’t remember a single movie . . . maybe Sabrina and the original A Star is Born . . . only being panicked he’d try to hold my hand, now greasy from popcorn.

At least we were spared nudity and expletives.

I drew the line at Westerns, war and horror flicks which, compared to current offerings, look like Looney Tunes.

The early ’60s found me busy with three babies and James Bond — a new installment released almost every January, for my birthday. What better gift than a babysitter, steakhouse dinner and 007? When Sean Connery departed, so did I. Some things, like the scent of roses and fresh-squeezed orange juice, can’t be synthesized. Neither can “Bond . . . James Bond” in a low growl.

The babies grew up. I was the only mom on a block of 10 children that had a station wagon big as the Hindenburg plus the patience to herd/referee. Their pestering started as soon as a cartoon feature opened. Lessons learned: “Sugar high” is serious science. And no two kids ever have to pee at the same time.

Watching the first 3D (House of Wax) and IMAX reminded me of the “What have they done to my song?” lament. What have they done to plots and acting? Whither movie dates, Photoplay magazine, musicals, James Dean in Cinemascope and Marlon Brando in black-and-white?

Time passed. Films adapted. Rainy Saturday afternoons were spent with my grandsons at the multiplex, a phantasmagoria of arcade machines that swallowed dollars like Jujubes. The movies I endured there had no plots, no acting, only special effects. When the boys were pre-teens, out of desperation I took them to The Blind Side, where they sat, rapt and wide-eyed.

“That was a really good movie, Nanny,” the older one said. Now an attorney, he still remembers it.

During the pandemic some releases go straight to streaming, to be watched “in the comfort of your home,” where interruptions happen. The sound of the toilet flushing breaks the spell. Marie Osmond interrupting Daniel Day Lewis is blasphemy.

Therefore, I watch faves only on commercial-free channels.

So, which have survived?

The envelopes, please:

Best performance by an actor . . . ever: Philip Seymour Hoffman in Capote.

By an actress: Meryl Streep: Sophie’s Choice.

Best chick-flicks: Bridges of Madison County, (sob) and The American President (yay!).

Best musical: Timeless, happy-sad, plot-intensive Fiddler on the Roof.

Best feel-good: The King’s Speech, where in my scrapbook Colin Firth replaces Olivier, Lanza and Peck.

Best all-round movie; The Godfather, but only the first installment and the prequel from Part II. I know the script by heart. And I always add a little sugar and a splash of wine to my spaghetti sauce.

Runners-up: The Shawshank Redemption, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, The Help, Philadelphia.

Most Overrated: Titanic, aka Gone with the Wind gone to sea.

Obviously, movies need some technology/methodology, which limits Citizen Kane, City Lights and Casablanca — all fine period pieces. But when the lights go down and the corn pops up I want to be transported, entranced, disturbed, inspired and even challenged. Crying is a good sign. Snoozing is not. Private Ryan — out. Oskar Schindler — in. Sean Connery, dead, never to be replaced by nice guy Tom Hanks.

The last satisfying movie I sat through was Doubt (2008) starring, no surprise, Meryl Streep and Philip Seymour Hoffman; Viola Davis copped Academy Award and Golden Globe nominations for 10 minutes onscreen.

So there’s hope, I hope.  PS

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

Out of the Blue

The Day of Doing Nothing

And being all the better for it

By Deborah Salomon

People bandy the word stress like it’s vanilla ice cream . . .  you know, commonplace, ordinary. So if everyday life is stressful, what happens when a pandemic on top of political chaos on top of financial uncertainties happens?

Hide under the covers.

By comparison to most old ladies, my stress appears manageable. I’m in reasonably good health, have a satisfying part-time job I can accomplish from home. My grandkids are doing well. I can just about pay my bills and haven’t lost my car keys in years. But stuff happens: a serious family illness, an expensive dental procedure. A misspelled name. All of a sudden, I’m sliding down that slippery slope, now more twisty than an Olympic luge run.

Suppose I contract the virus? Suppose one of my kitties falls ill? What if my creaky computer or my 8-year-old car breaks down?

Fatigue sets in, caused partially by the ungodly hour I rise every morning, a lifelong habit for which going to bed early no longer compensates. Mind and body demand respite. Not tomorrow or over the weekend. Now.

After the kitties had been fed, let out and in; after the emails had been answered, the news watched, the coffee and toast consumed, I turned off the phone and crawled back into bed with my arthritic shoulder on the heating pad. Ahhh . . .

The clock frowned 5:15 a.m. Lucky and Missy looked at each other, puzzled. They are cats of habit. Morning naps are their purview, not mine. Then they hopped in beside me.

The hell with everything.

Slowly, my painful neck and shoulder relaxed. I slept until 8:00. Glorious.

Now what? A second breakfast. I love breakfast, mostly the unconventional kind like cold macaroni or a grilled cheese, tomato and spinach sandwich. Nobody’s watching, might as well. Maybe I can sleep a bit more.

As I lay there, eyes wide open, the sun climbed higher and higher on the wall, illuminating one picture, then another. I glance at them every day but haven’t studied them in a while; my daughter at about 10 months, like a cameo, displaying the beauty that would blossom and, after years of illness and suffering, fade. A house that had provided so much pleasure — but not for long. An enormous Chagall poster, wedding-themed, as he was wont to paint, with animals floating among the clouds and his omnipresent fiddler. A clay mask from a pottery shop in the serpentine lanes of Venice. A photograph of my mother, her parents and her baby brother looking grimmer than grim, as subjects did in 1906.

I stared at each until they absorbed me into their background.

And then I nodded off.

I awoke around noon, disoriented, but with no compulsion to get up. Time was out of joint, yet I felt rested, empowered to continue looking at the objects I see every day; a snapshot of my grandson, frowning intently, from the sidelines of his soccer game. Not many people keep photos of frowning grandkids but this one displayed the concentration and the will that propelled him through grueling years of study, culminating in a law degree, at 22.

Silly, but I still have three artifacts from Duke: a pin (the attached ribbon long disintegrated) freshman girls had to wear during orientation, a small felt banner and a stuffed, baby Blue Devil that sat on my bed for four years, and on my other daughter’s for her four years there.

Then I looked straight up, at the rough stucco ceiling. What is that black dot — a fly, in December? I stared, hard. The dot began to move towards the wall but never arrived — an optical illusion with a name, probably. I had to find out, since I don’t put much store by the unexplained. I once heard that Mona Lisa’s eyes follow the person walking by her roped-off enclosure in the Louvre. Unfortunately, she and I failed to make eye contact, or maybe I was distracted by her small size (less than 30 inches) and poor lighting.

Again, Google failed me.

By now the winter sun was dropping low, the kitties agitated for their supper, the pandemic and politicians were still raging and I had accomplished absolutely nothing the entire day. Except for this: less tension in my shoulders, less fatigue in my brain. Less stress.

Stress is difficult to define. What one person can absorb sends another over the wall and under the covers, to watch a black speck not crawl across the ceiling, to squeeze memories from photographs.

Beats pills, any day.    PS

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

Out of the Blue

New Year (of the Cat)

Cameos for Lucky and Missy

By Deborah Salomon

Seven years just flew by since I first designated January as Cat Column Month. This was necessary because otherwise, my companions Lucky and Missy (formerly Hissy) would creep in regularly. Mustn’t let that happen; I realize some people don’t appreciate cats, or even animals.

As the French say, à chacun son goût. To each his own (taste).

My affection traces back to a lonely, only-child childhood in a New York City apartment. My parents finally relented to a puppy. I was too young to walk him alone. That lasted about six weeks. Next came Dinky, a quite manageable stream turtle who lived to 10. When we moved into a house elsewhere, I was allowed a cat named Horowitz, for pianist Vladimir, because he walked across the keyboard on the piano I hated to practice. Sadly, when I returned from a month at sleep-away camp, Horowitz was gone.

Thank goodness my grandparents had an ever-pregnant kitty and a sweet dog.

I made sure my children had pets — big, friendly dogs. Then, after they were grown with big, friendly dogs of their own, a youngish calico showed up at my door. Since then, I have been home sweet home to a parade of kitties, usually two at a time, who just showed up, usually in dire need.

I decided to retire in 2008, when the last one crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

Then, one December, a hungry black kitty with fur as sleek as a seal peered in the window. Black cats are my weakness — especially their forlorn eyes. Lucky made himself a bed under the bushes. I fed him outside until July 4th. Then, in a moment of weakness, I opened the door. He has rewarded me with 10 years of affection, intelligence and antics.

A year later, “Everybody’s,” the wide-body gal fed by many, spayed by one, got wind of my open door policy. At first she rewarded my kindness with hisses and growls. That lasted about a month. Now Hissy, renamed Missy, drips sugar.

I discovered that Lucky — neutered and declawed — had been abandoned by his family when they moved. He gave Missy a long, hard stare which, I surmised, established the ground rules. They have been best buddies since, rather like an old married couple: she, a fussbudget; he the head of the household.

Wish I’d named them Archie and Edith.

Just because cats can’t speak doesn’t mean they can’t communicate. My Lucky’s eyes plead, smile, show surprise, fear, displeasure. He is a man of dignity, of routine, governed by a solar clock. He asks to go out just as the warm winter sun hits his chair on the porch. After sunset, he begins leading me to the bedroom because I keep kitty treats in the bedside table. I dole out three morsels. Upon hearing “That’s all,” he retreats to the down comforter folded at the foot, where he sleeps until 3 a.m.

During this ritual, Missy sits at a respectful distance, knowing her time will come. A feminist, she’s not.

Speaking of time, every night at 7 p.m. I watch Jeopardy! The kitties have chosen this moment for their daily aerobic workout, triggered by the Jeopardy! theme music, which triggers some angry-sounding music of their own. They pounce, roll around. Then, like a summer thunderstorm, it’s over. He lowers his head and she licks it clean before they trot off together.

Cats, especially elderly ones, sleep upward of 20 hours a day. Mine have nests, some self-styled, others mom-made like a fuzzy blanket in a box.

Lucky prefers a dark corner of my closet. Missy sleeps around. The first chilly days I position two heating pads on the bed. I started with one, since Lucky has an arthritic hip. Missy claimed half. Now, mesmerized by heat, they nap there for hours. I barely cop a corner for my arthritic shoulder.

Another behavioral oddity concerns the water bowl. I feed them in the kitchen — two feeding dishes, one water bowl. In the winter, they spend so much time on the heating pads that I put a water bowl beside the bed, a wide soup bowl decorated with flowers. Lucky will walk from the kitchen into the bedroom for a drink. Same water, changed twice a day.

Cats . . . aloof? I can’t sit down to watch Wolf Blitzer without a lapful. A pause in rubbing and scratching nets a paw. OK with Lucky, but Missy has claws.

Food is usually an issue with cats. I mix best-quality kibble with best-quality canned, or something I’ve cooked for them, like chicken, liver or fish. I once had a kitty who accepted only cod and pork liver — wouldn’t touch tilapia or chicken liver. People tuna costs half as much as Fancy Feast, so sometimes they get a spoonful. Of course they have favorites off my plate. Missy goes berserk if I’m eating slivers of smoked salmon on a bagel. Lucky loves to lick the cover of a Greek vanilla yogurt container. The best is watching him lick the salt off a potato chip, leaving it limp. Spaghetti with plain tomato sauce is another winner . . .  just a strand, because I wouldn’t want to spoil them.

No, cats can’t talk. They fascinate with wordless actions, instincts, habits. Connecting with an animal is a proven therapeutic. I can feel the tension flee my shoulders as I stroke Lucky’s satiny fur. Missy makes me laugh on the grimmest day. Best of all, a trust once established endures.

Too bad the same cannot be guaranteed with humans.  PS

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