my musical career

I am not musical. 

Don't get me wrong...I love listening to music.  I appreciate music.  I just can't make music.

But early on, my parents didn't know this. 

In fourth grade, we were required to sign up for a musical instrument.  I don't know how it was decided that I would learn to play the viola, but that's what I ended up trying to do.  I was excited.  I would get to make music.  I just didn't make beautiful music.  My parents encouraged me to the extent that they signed me up for private lessons with my school instructor at her home.  How painful those lessons must have been for her.  I just didn't get it.  I had absolutely no ear for tuning the instrument or playing it.

The next year I joined junior choir in church.  We sang from the balcony in the large sanctuary and our voices carried out over the pews below.  I tried to sing the same notes as the girl next to me, who had a lovely voice, but my voice kept sliding all over the place and amazingly painful noises came from my throat. 

Years later that same church sanctuary became the Performance Hall at the Hochstein School of Music and Dance.  It has award-winning acoustics.  I wonder how well my voice carried without my knowing it, and how many people who were in church when I "sang" still cringe with the memory.

Fifth grade was also the year that my teacher realized I couldn't see the chalkboard unless my nose was almost touching it.  She told my parents I needed glasses.  I got the glasses and vividly remember being up in the choir balcony and looking down to see my parents beaming up at me.  Before having the glasses, I never knew where they were in the crowd!  My fuzzy world was suddenly crystal clear.

Regular RPO concert subscribers, my parents also thought I should take piano lessons.  They bought a piano, a beautiful Wurlitzer piano.  It had a place of honor in the living room.  I took lessons from a woman down the street who had a flourishing business teaching the neighborhood kids and a few others.  Her business was flourishing; I wasn't.  The lessons continued for many years, but my playing never improved too much.  What frustration for both of us!

After Mom had passed away and Dad moved out of our longtime home, the piano needed a new home.  It came home to me.  Our kids took lessons, doing much better than I ever did. I "played" it occasionally during the year, but really ramped it up to play Christmas carols for the family gathering each year at our house on Christmas Eve.  We all "sang" together, with some of us producing more moaning noises than lilting notes.

With our move to the country 13 years ago, we now host Christmas dinner rather than the Christmas Eve gathering.  My annual piano gig has morphed into our singing a cappella, still somewhat painful when my brother and I are in full voice. And now, with no need for a piano in our home, and our kids not interested in taking it, we have gifted it to our cousin.  It now lives happily at her house, where she has two musical children who will enjoy playing it.

Goodbye, dear friend.  Thanks for the memories.  And goodbye to my never-thriving musical career.  It was painful for all of us.

a life well lived

Elliott Landsman

February 14, 1920 - May 5, 2013

The world has lost a wonderful man and we have lost a beloved neighbor.

In 1952, my parents bought land on Canandaigua Lake's Seneca Point and built a seasonal cottage.  When we were children, my brothers and I enjoyed spending every summer there.  When we were a bit older, we went off to camp in Canada's Algonquin Park, but returned to Canandaigua Lake, like homing pigeons, at the end of the summer.

In the 70's, the house to our north was sold to Elliott and Dotty Landsman.  The Landsmans lived in Brighton, but came to the lake every summer, enjoying everything this idyllic location had to offer.  Their 3 girls were grown, but also enjoyed coming to the lake when they were able, sometimes from great distances.

Elliott was a self-made businessman, very successful and yet very low key. He gave generously to the commuity.  And as a neighbor, he was generous to our family, always volunteering his ski equipment, life jackets of every size and shape, numerous tools from his well-stocked tool box, and even the use of his boat.

He had a "ski boat", a boat that could pull up any skier.  We had a "boat" that could pull up most skiers, but which didn't have the power to pull up 200+ pound skiers who wanted to start off on one ski, like my brother Tom.  When Tom really wanted to have a fun ski, he would take Elliott up on his always-present offer to ski behind the Landsmans' boat.

But Elliott's special talent was helping children and even those a little older, who had no waterskiing experience, learn how to ski.  He would talk them through it, and even get in the water beside them, if needed.  He was full of good tips and encouragement and never failed  to get a skier up.  Elliott himself waterskiied until he was in his 80's.

Dotty passed away too early, but Elliott found happiness again with his second wife, Debby.  Together Elliott and Debby continued the tradition of being wonderful neighbors and friends.  Just last summer they included our then-six year old grandson at their Friday evening family sabbath dinner.  Q and Aviva, Elliott's great-granddaughter, became fast friends.

Four generations of both families have spent summers side by side for over 30 years.  Sadly, this summer will be different, and Elliott will not be there to cheer on the skiers or the kids jumping on the water trampoline.  But he will not be forgotten and his spirit will always be a part of our family's summer traditions and memories.  Thank you, Elliott, for being part of our family and kudos to you for a life very well lived.

on the wrong side of the gurney

As many of you know, I am a retired registered nurse. 

After working as a volunteer ambulance EMT and critical care tech for around 15 years, I decided to go back to school to become a nurse.  I couldn't see myself scooping up an MVA victim from the side of the road when I was 50, but I wanted to stay involved in medicine.  My first degree, in Art History, wouldn't be much help in the medical world, but I had worked summers in college as a surgical tech in the OR and my years in emergency medicine would be invaluable.

I graduated from nursing school when I was 40 and was immediately hired to work in the Emergency Department of that same Rochester hospital where I had spent my summers.  Every day in the ED was challenging and rewarding, but my schedule was not family-friendly.  As a part-timer, I was required to work both days of every other weekend, and every other holiday.  Too much of my scheduled time was when I wanted to be with my family.

After six years I decided to look for something new, and almost immediately learned of an opening in the recovery room at a free-standing outpatient surgicenter.  There would be no question of working on weekends or holidays, as the surgicenter was only open Mondays through Fridays.

I applied, was hired, and began working there within weeks.  I couldn't bring myself to give up my emergency nursing just yet, so switched to per diem work at the hospital.  Eventually, the scheduling conflicts became too much, and I resigned from the hospital.

I enjoyed working at the surgicenter on a part-time basis for over 6 years, but then we moved to our current home, about an hour away.  I decided the early morning wake up call and long commute was not going to work for our new lifestyle.  I picked up another per diem job in radiation oncology at the local Canandaigua hospital, which kept me as busy as I wanted to be.  Other volunteer activities were consuming most of my "free" time.  Eventually, it all became too much, and I let my license expire the next time it came up for renewal.  By then I had a full-time non-paying job as president of a women's club in Rochester and was getting ready to open my jewelry gallery, JOOLZ, in downtown Canandaigua. 

It had been a great run and I thoroughly enjoyed working as a nurse.  And while I am no longer licensed, all that nursing knowledge is still in my head.  I am often called upon by friends, neighbors and family to help them sort out medical terminology and conditions. 

And then I was beset by one of my own.

My right knee started acting up while we were in Florida this winter.  A few days before our scheduled departure, I could barely walk due to pain.  I stopped by the local CVS and purchased a folding travel cane.  I called our ortho doc in Rochester and got an appointment to see him 3 weeks after we returned. I also called a family friend, who is an acupuncturist and naturopathic doctor in Canandaigua, to set up an appointment for acupuncture upon my return.  I started taking ibuprofen at night.  I was in pain and not happy.  This wasn't supposed to happen to me; my husband was the one with the bad arthritis.

At my appointment with the ortho doc, I had x-rays and a thorough exam.  He said he thought it was a meniscus tear, as the pain was localized and there was no evidence on the x-rays that there was severe arthritis.  Next up, a right knee arthroscopy.  When and where, I asked.  In 8 days at the same surgicenter where I used to work, he said.  (He has known me since my days in the ED). 

How would I like being on the other side of the gurney at my old stomping ground?  It had been 13 years since I worked there.  Would I know anyone there?  I still see one friend who used to work with me, but I wasn't sure who else was still there. 

It turns out that the current pre-op nurse used to work in the OR when I was there, and the receptionist was also a familiar face.  One of the recovery room nurses started at the surgicenter just as I was leaving, and the holding area nurse who started my IV was the daughter of my sister-in-law's former OB.  In the world of nursing the circles are often overlapping.

The surgery went smoothly and there were no anesthesia surprises. However, the results of the investigation were not what either I or the doctor expected.  There was no meniscus tear, but there was evidence of severe arthritis.  A knee replacement surgery is in my future.  My recovery has been uneventful and after a few days of ice and elevation,

I am now walking around again with a cane.  The pre-op pain, unfortunately, returned once the long-acting local anesthetic wore off.  I am now the proud owner of this:

We're going to try a couple of injections and see if they help.  But I think surgery will be scheduled sometime this year.  What a bummer! 

Guess I'll have yet another opportunity to be the nurse on the wrong side of the gurney.



april 21 - my annual day of rest

Today, April 21, is my own personal day of rest.  I "celebrate" it every year.

On April 20, 1971, I labored for about 6 hours at the Reese AFB hospital, located just outside Lubbock, Texas.  There were two of us in labor that night, and only one OB available.  The two on-duty nurses, who covered labor and delivery, post partum and the nursery, were busy with the OB caring for the other laboring mom.  Her baby was in a transverse position and the OB was trying to rotate it so she could avoid having a c-section.

I labored on, with Larry at my side, but without any medical oversight for some time.  Eventually, I decided the baby was about to be born and asked Larry to get some help.  He had to poke his head into the delivery room and yell for help.  One of the nurses broke away and came to examine me.  The next words out of her mouth were "pant, don't push...pant, don't push."  Had this woman ever had a baby herself?  When you need to push, you need to push. 

She scurried around, trying to find the stirrups that would convert the labor bed into a make-do delivery table.  No luck.  She phoned the on-call flight surgeon to come in.  This was a doc who took care of the pilots, who probably had not delivered a baby since medical school.  There I was, with my legs pulled up on the bed, no stirrups, and an inexperienced delivery man at the foot of the bed waiting to catch my first baby.  I just pushed and then pushed again.

Out came a beautiful baby girl, weighing 7 pounds, 14 ounces.  Larry had been banished from the "delivery room" by this time (remember, this was 42 years ago) and had taken my glasses with him.  So my first glimpse of my baby was blurry, to say the least.  But I knew she was beautiful, and when I had my glasses on and could see her in focus, I saw I was right.  Margaret Hubbard Schenck was a little blond cherub, and still looked like one four years later:

On April 22, 1977, I was at home having what I thought were Braxton Hicks contractions.  I'd had them throughout the pregnancy and while they were slightly uncomfortable, they never amounted to anything.  And this baby was not due for another two weeks.  Marnie had been born on her due date and Peter, who arrived on August 6, 1974, was one day early.  No way was this real labor.

But the contractions continued, so I said to Larry that I thought we should go up to the hospital to get checked out.  When I spoke with the OB on the phone, he said they would examine me and call him to come in, if necessary.  OK with me.  I packed up a small bag and made sure I included my needlepoint.  If this wasn't real labor, I didn't want to be bored.  We called my aunt and uncle to come over and stay with the kids, and off we went to Rochester General Hospital, about a 20 minute car ride away.

The contractions started getting stronger while we were driving, but nothing I couldn't handle.  All the more reason to get checked out.  Larry pulled up to the emergency entrance, they put me in a wheel chair and took me upstairs to the labor floor.  I asked if they would just check me before they went through all the admitting stuff so that we could know whether this was the real deal or not.  The nurse evaluated my contractions and said they were "mildly moderate." Larry was still downstairs parking the car and giving them the admitting info.

In walked Dr. Park, a resident who was not fully versed in the English language.  He examined me as I went through transition and screamed out with a thick accent, "We gonna have a baby, we gonna have a baby!!!"  They then rolled the gurney down to the delivery room at about 65 mph.  I never made it over to the delivery table, my water broke explosively and out came Katherine Taylor Schenck, all 7 pounds, 14 ounces of her.  I had been in the hospital for 10 minutes. Katie was deemed perfect, Larry was still downstairs checking me in and my OB was sitting at home in his Irondequoit living room waiting to see if he was needed at the hospital. Dr. Park was practically attached to the ceiling of the delivery room, he was flying so high. Larry said he would have run a few red lights if he had known Katie was in such a hurry to join the party. Here is cutie pie Katie several months later:

Three babies in 6 years, with the girls being born almost on the same day in April.  That one day in between has become my "day of rest", and each year I think back to their arrivals.  Both of them popped out at exactly the same weight and under less than ideal delivery conditions.  But both of them were happy, healthy babies, and now they have babies of their own.  I hope when their babies are older, they will tell them the story of Nana's Day of Rest.

springtime sightings

As soon as I exited the Rochester airport yesterday, I knew spring was in the air.

I was waiting at the arrivals' curb for my ride when I saw Big Bird crossing to the ramp garage.  A blur of bright yellow, the color of springtime daffodils, was striding across the access road.  It must be Big Bird!

Too stunned to reach for my camera, I'm unable to post an image for you here, but believe me when I say it was a vision to behold.  On further eye-popping examination, I realized it was not Big Bird but rather an enormous woman wearing skin-tight Big Bird-yellow leggings., topped with a cobalt blue waist-length jacket (no hiding those hips).  She waddled just like Big Bird.  Maybe I'm wrong...maybe it really was Big Bird.

When I got home, I had my second springtime sighting.  The crocus plants by the front door were up and blooming:

Spring is definitely on its way.

the best was last

For me, reading a slew of books while listening to the waves lap the shore is the very essence of a good vacation on Sanibel.  And while it's been fun to visit with friends, eat out at good restaurants, do a little shopping and attempt to work some real estate magic for next winter, I have absolutely loved my visits to the Sanibel Library and its extensive New Books section.

I visited the library yesterday morning, my last time to pick up some new books before heading home on Saturday.  My friend Wendy, the circulation manager who grew up in Brighton and is the daughter of good friends of my aunt and uncle, always makes excellent book suggestions and yesterday was no different.

She asked...had I read The Light Between Oceans by M. L. Stedman?  No...and I hadn't even heard of it.

I started reading it yesterday afternoon and just finished it.  I loved every minute of it.  Written by a London attorney who grew up in Western Australia, it's the story of a couple who live alone on an island 100 miles off the coast of Australia, where he is the lightkeeper.  One day a boat washes up on shore....

The resulting story draws you in, is beautifully written, and is filled with moral dilemmas.  Kudos to Ms. Stedman for a magnificent first novel.

(a somewhat fuzzy image of the author)

The Light Between Oceans was the 20th book I've read since arriving on Sanibel almost 6 weeks ago.  And certainly the best was last.



"forever"

Way back in 1976, we moved into our "forever" house on Creekside Lane.  That same summer, our next-door neighbors, Penny and Jim, also moved into their "forever" house.  Little did we know that "forever" meant different things to both of us.

"Forever" to P&J meant until a year later when Kodak shipped them off to Sao Paulo, Brazil.  We were devastated.  Our two kids were the same ages and the girls had gone off to kindergarten together.  Our two-year old boys would play side by side and often together as they lurched through their toddlerhood.  We had found the perfect neighbors and they were leaving us.

Thankfully, they decided to hold on to their house and rented it to a lovely English family who had been sent to Rochester from Rank Xerox. (We even visited them at their home in Ross-on-Wye when we went to England and Scotland in 1981).  But we were holding our breath for P&J to come home.

They did come for a visit about a year later and we were all so glad to see each other.  Penny and I were chatting away on our back porch while the boys were playing quietly in the house.  Soon it seemed that they were too quiet.  We went looking for them and couldn't find them in the house.  Once outside, we saw that Penny's rental car was missing from our driveway...and was on the lawn of the house across the street, with two little grinning boys on the front seat.  The boys had somehow gotten themselves into the car and put the gear shift into neutral.  The slight slope of our driveway gave them enough momentum to roll down the driveway, cross the road and end up on the grassy lawn, missing a huge maple tree by inches.  That was a day Penny and I will remember "forever."

P&J returned to Rochester after what seemed to me was about 10 years, but in reality was only about two and a half.  The kids all grew up together, we added another one, and P&J were Aunt Penny and Uncle Jim to our kids.  Then Jim decided to take an early out from Kodak and they moved to Maryland, after their son graduated from high school.  Once again, we were sad, but we understood the rationale and it was an easier separation; we were older and wiser, I think.  Well, I know we were older... and perhaps wiser.

We visited each other on occasion and then one day we heard that while visiting Florida, P&J had made a somewhat precipitous decision to buy a lot in Lakewood Ranch, near Bradenton, and build their next "forever" house.  They're still there.  Each year during our Sanibel sojourn, Penny and I have met at the Miromar Outlets in Estero for a day of shopping, and more importantly, chatting non-stop to catch up with each other.

This year, we decided to prolong the visit and I went up to Lakewood Ranch for an overnight visit.  What a wonderful time we had: shopping in St. Armand's Circle, where we bumped into a former neighbor who later owned the house across the street where the boys coasted to their stop by the tree; talking non-stop from beginning to end; and finishing up with BROWNIES FOR BREAKFAST!!



What a treat! and what a treat to visit with Penny and Jim.  We had a wonderful time together, telling old stories and showing off pictures of our grandchildren to each other.  We're already planning next year's visit, and will keep our reunions going "forever."  Love you guys!

two of our favorites

Over the years, we've come to love certain things on this island and make a point to visit them each at least once a trip.  Putting cows and birds into the same group would seem a stretch, but they are two of our favorites, especially on Sanibel.  A few days ago, we visited them both in the same couple of hours.

First we went to the Island Cow for an early dinner.  This place opens early and closes late, serving from breakfast through the dinner rush hour.  The best way to get a dinner table without waiting (no reservations), is to plan to arrive no later than 5:30pm.  They advertise extensively and it pays off, because the place is always packed:

The menus are delivered along with a serving of cornbread:



and soon it's time to dive in to a tasty crab burger.  At least I've been told (more than once) that they're tasty.

If you don't plan your arrival time right and have to wait, there's always the bean bag toss on the back patio to keep you entertained:

After the crab burger and my chicken salad sandwich were polished off, we went to the "Ding" Darling Wildlife Refuge to see the birds come in for their evening meal.

One of the best deals out there is a lifetime Senior Pass (for those 62 and above), called the National Parks and Federal Recreational Lands Pass.  For a one time fee of $10, your entrance fees are "free" forever.  We've used the pass on Sanibel and at Yellowstone, among others, and it's paid for itself over and over.  You can get the pass at the entrance gate to any national park or federal recreational land:

It was low tide when we entered the "Ding" and many of the birds were feasting on the small fish that were trapped on the flats:

And as we drove along the one-way road, at the required 15 mph, we saw this anhinga in the mangroves, drying off his feathers:

We had a lovely time that evening, visiting two of our favorites, and we plan to do the exact same thing next year.







a perfect day

Our friends Dotty and Alan live part-time in Ft. Myers and part-time in Colorado.  Dotty and I knew each other growing up and then lost touch when we both left Rochester to go to schools away from home.  We reconnected a couple of years ago, through a mutual Sanibel/Rochester friend.  It was like 45 years apart just disappeared. 

Dotty, Alan and Cody, their 11-year-old dog who is the prince of the family, are constantly on the go.  They love to fish, and after the outboard motor of their fishing boat was stolen (not the boat and motor...just the motor!), they decided to upgrade to a new (used) boat that has better overnight space for them.  They can now comfortably travel by boat up and down the coast and even over to the Bahamas.

Yesterday, they treated us to a day on their lovely boat.

They pulled in to the new Sanibel public boat launch near the causeway, with Dotty as first mate and Cody as supervisor:

With Alan at the helm, we took off for Useppa Island, a two-hour ride through choppy waters:

Boat traffic was heavy as we passed the coasts of Sanibel, Captiva, North Captiva and Pine Island.  I can't image what it's like on a weekend.  The waves were mostly from other boats, but they did slow us down.

What didn't get slowed down was a seaplane.  Just as we approached Cabbage Key, a red and white seaplane swooped in and landed in water just off our bow.  The pilot sure did cut it close and we were all aghast at the near miss.  The seaplane completely ignored us and just taxied on over to Cabbage Key for lunch.  Perhaps they were late for their reservation.

We continued on to Useppa Island, just to the east of Cabbage Key.  Alan and Dotty's neighbors, Bob and Mae, had been 27-year full-time residents of Useppa, but now live across the street from Alan and Dotty in Ft. Myers.  They were renting a cottage on Useppa for a family reunion and very kindly invited Alan and Dotty (and us) to come over to have lunch at the private Useppa Island Club.

Captain Alan radioed to the dockmaster and we were given an assigned slip.  Working the thrusters, Alan backed in and the dock staff helped us tie up. Taking Cody for a little walk was first on the agenda:

We decided to take our own little walk before heading to the clubhouse for lunch.  Here's a view of part of the main dock from the shoreline:

An osprey had made its nest nearby:

and birds of different feather were spotted closer to the water:



As we continued our walk, we ran into Bob and Mae, who were coming to look for us.  With Bob and Mae as guides, we continued our exploration, walking along the pink path made of coquina shells:

Bob knows every bit of history of the island and the club.  We couldn't have had a better introduction to the island and the Collier Inn, which serves as the clubhouse. We had lunch outside on the patio, overlooking the beach and the pool:



After a delicious meal topped off with Key Lime pie, we continued our exploration of the island with Bob and Mae leading the way.  We passed the croquet court, with play in progress.  (The nurse in me is pleased to report that the man lying on the grass is fully alert and is making sure his opponent's shot goes through both wickets):





Down by the water again, we came upon the one-man fire and rescue squad.  I asked him to turn his back for the camera, so we could get the full effect of his working uniform:

As we strolled along, we discovered that Bob and Mae's daughter, Beth, to whom we had been introduced at the pool, and I had attended the same boarding school in Dobbs Ferry.  We weren't there at the same time, but I'm sure we have some of the same memories.

We saw house after house, all designed in the Old Florida style so that the island's architecture is very cohesive.  The grounds are well kept and many club members toot around in their own golf carts....no roads or cars are allowed on the island.  This house was one of the prettiest we saw:

Soon it was time to return to Sanibel. 

We said goodbye to Bob and Mae and thanked them for hosting us on a day we'll never forget.  Back in the boat, we returned more quickly than our trip over to Useppa, as the wind had shifted and the seas were less choppy.  We pulled up to the boat launch and after tying up, launched ourselves up and onto the dock.  Alan and Dotty took off for Ft. Myers:

Thank you, Alan and Dotty, for a perfect day on the water.  And thank you, Bob and Mae, for a perfect day on your picture perfect island.

a real estate merry-go-round

We first visited Sanibel in 2001 and stayed for a couple of nights with our friends Gayle and George.  G&G had been long-time Sanibel seasonal residents, and they were just the right people to introduce us to the island.  They showed us around, from the Lighthouse to Captiva, and we loved what we saw.  We were used to visiting my Dad on the east coast of Florida, where his lifestyle was much more formal than we enjoyed.  Sanibel, we were pleased to learn, was all about being casual and comfortable, but restaurants still served superb food and the shopping was as sophisticated as you wanted.

The next year we decided to visit the Keys, as we had heard they also had a low-key lifestyle.  We soon learned that the Keys are all about fishing (and eating fish, which I don't) and the beaches are rocky, with only a few sandy strips sprinkled throughout.  We did enjoy a lovely lunch on Little Palm Island, and our day trip to Key West was eye-opening, but getting stuck on the Seven Mile Bridge for 4 hours, due to a car bombing, made us realize the Keys were not for us.

As 2003 was approaching, we decided to return to Sanibel for a couple of weeks.  I went online and found a rental agency's website that was full of possibilities.  I had 3 must-have requirements for a rental condo:

1. A view of the water
2. An elevator
3. A BBQ grill

I found a 2-bedroom condo on the top (third) floor of a complex that had 3 buildings with 12 condos in each.  These 36 units shared 3 tennis courts, 4 gas grills and a swimming pool.  All units looked out onto the beach.  It sounded like heaven and we booked it. 

For the next 7 years, we and our family enjoyed staying in that condo, which I found just by chance.  And we got to know 2 other couples on the same floor who rented year after year at the same time as we did.  It was like returning home each winter.

In the fall of 2009, we received a phone call from our Sanibel neighbors in the adjoining 3-bedroom condo.  They told us that they would not be returning in the winter for health reasons, and that they wanted us to have first refusal on renting their larger unit, now that our family was expanding.  We gratefully took them up on their offer and we have been happily enjoying the larger unit for 4 years.

We also have gotten to know the owner of this condo, who is a friend of a friend of my aunt and uncle.  The small world including both Sanibel and Rochester continues to amaze me.  When we received a phone call from Micki in October, telling us she had had an unsolicited purchase offer from someone totally out of the blue, our hearts sank.  She kindly gave us the opportunity to match his offer, and had we accepted, it would have been ours.  But we decided we did not want to own long-distance, hurricane-susceptible property, and would continue to rent. 

We checked in a couple of weeks ago to begin our fourth year in this unit.  And when we went to renew for next year (required on Sanibel within 72 hours of checking in or the unit goes back into the rental pool), we learned that the new owner was going to take the unit for himself during our February/March rental period.  We were up the creek without a paddle and quickly contacted our longtime rental agent.

She worked with us to find another spot and came up with an identical 3-bedroom unit in another building of the same complex that we called home.  We took a look at it, signed on the dotted line and paid our deposit.  Three days later the agent called to say that the owner of that unit ALSO wants to have his unit available for his own use next winter.  Once again, we were homeless.

After a few days, our agent called again to say she had a unit in another complex that she thought we would like.  To make sure we didn't get burned again, she had already called the owner to make sure it would be available for us and that he didn't want to use it himself during our time frame.  He said it could be ours if we wanted it and FINALLY, the real estate merry-go-round started to slow down.

Today we went over to check it out, and we fell in love.  It has a view of the water, an elevator and a BBQ grill. It also is a one-building complex that has only 6 units total, 2 to a floor.  It's three bedrooms, 2 baths and has lanais on three sides.  The amount of light coming into the living spaces is wonderful.  There's a dining table for 6, a kitchen table for 4, 4 stools at the kitchen counter and a table on the lanai with room for 4.  We could feed an army!

We returned the borrowed key, signed on the dotted line and transferred our deposit to this new unit.

If we can't be in our familiar home away from home, this new place is a wonderful replacement.  Finally, our ride on the real estate merry-go-round has come to a stop and we're happily looking forward to staying in our new spot next winter.

clewiston 2.0

How many people in their right minds drive 1500 miles to meet for lunch?

Six, that I know of, including us.  OK, maybe using the term "in their right minds" wasn't exactly correct.

Repeating our successful 2012 foray to the Clewiston Inn, located in downtown Clewiston, Florida near the shores of Lake Okeechobee, we met our good friends Kathy and Bill, and Stephanie and Art, at noon today for Clewiston 2.0.  Three vehicles with New York plates pulled into the parking lot within minutes of each other.  One came from Penfield via Palm Beach Gardens, one came from Canandaigua via Punta Gorda, and we came from Canandaigua via Sanibel. 

We entered the historic Clewiston Inn expecting the dining room to be almost empty, like it was last year:

Much to our surprise, the place was hopping.  Half the dining room was almost full and the other half was empty, waiting for the arrival of several tour buses.  Once those folks arrived, the walls were about to burst.  The new owners, who began running the Inn last year, had certainly worked overtime to bring in customers.

The staff was prepared for the crowd and took orders promptly.  Our food arrived quickly and was delicious.  Amazingly, the bill for all 6 of us was a very reasonable $75.00.  How do you beat that? 

Well worth the drive of 1500 miles, we all agreed this should be an annual event.  We told stories, laughed and giggled throughout the meal, and had a thoroughly enjoyable time. Clewiston 3.0 will be scheduled for March of 2014.

Here's a shot of the participants, minus the photographer.  I think they all look to be in their right minds, don't you?

call the cops!

Last year's vacation on Sanibel was full of medical emergencies - not ours, but the neighbors next door.  Three times they called me to assess and three times I called the ambulance for them.

This year it seems that it's all about calling the cops.

Shortly after we arrived, our friend Gayle told us there had been a string of burglaries on the island, with beachfront condos being entered and jewelry and cash being stolen.  The burglaries were being well publicized in the hope that a tip would produce a lead and then a suspect.

Little did we think we might become involved.

Then yesterday morning, someone pounded on our door.  I went to the door, asked who it was, and the answer came back, "Maintenance!" 

I opened the door to find a man and woman standing there.  The man was holding a large ring of keys and said "they told us this unit was empty."  I explained that we had been in residence for a while and would be here a while longer.  The woman said she wanted to look at the unit to see if it would be a good one for her daughter to rent.  I asked why no one from the rental agency had called to ask if we would let someone in to see the unit.  No answer.  I decided it would not be a good choice to let two unidentified people into the condo and said it wasn't a good time, but that she could come back today.  She said "what time?" and I said 10.

After they left, we called our rental agent and learned she had no knowledge of this couple.  She said she'd do some calling around.

This morning she called back to say she had spoken with just about every rental agency on the island and no one knew anything about these people.  She advised us to not let them in when they returned.

Ten o'clock came and went this morning and no one came to the door.  We talked it over and decided that we should alert the police to our visitors and file a report.

The next knock on the door was Officer Boots of the Sanibel Police Department.  He sat at the kitchen counter so that he could ask questions and write his report at the same time.  After getting all our info about the encounter yesterday, together with the info from the rental agent, and having a quick phone conversation (at my suggestion) with the condo's longtime owner, he called the property maintenance company. 

We all then learned that indeed, the man at the door yesterday was the property company's on-site maintenance man and the woman was a renter in another building who was from Switzerland.  She had approached the maintenance man about letting her into an empty condo, he called his company and they told him ours was empty.  (Not!).  After we declined to let them in yesterday, the company told her of another empty condo and she looked at that one.  She didn't bother to notify us that she wouldn't be keeping her appointment.

The officer handled the situation well, telling the woman at the property management company that there had been a break in the circle of communication and that she should not authorize entry into condos that were occupied.  She told the officer that the rental agencies don't always inform her company when condos are full or empty, so she just sends the maintenance guy to accompany the interested party.  He informed her that especially with the spate of burglaries that had been occurring along the beachfront, we "absolutely" handled the situation as we should have, and that the communication link between the rental agencies and the property management company needed to be fixed.

We thanked him for his time and he left...in his marked car that had been sitting in the parking lot for about an hour...and who knows what the neighbors think now!!

Some time after he left, I went to the Sanibel Police Department website and learned that there is a $25,000 CASH REWARD for information leading to the arrest of the burglary suspects.  What an unexpected coup that would have been, if our visitors had turned out to be the bad guys.  And as the condo owner said, "I thought you were going to break the case."

Not this time, I'm afraid.  And let's hope that the rest of our vacation is uneventful and there is no need to again call the cops!

5 new books

The weather at home can be pretty terrible at this time of year.  And while the skiers are happy to have mounds of snow on the ground, I am not.  I'd be happy if it snowed on December 24th and then all melted on December 26th.  Repeat annually.

So to avoid the snow and resulting unhappy thoughts of shivering, damp, grey days, we abscond to the delightfully laid-back island of Sanibel on the west coast of Florida each winter.  This year is our 12th visit.  And while I know that at home March lasts at least 180 days, here in Sanibel March goes by in a nanosecond.

There are all kinds of vacations; on some we like to do virtually nothing, while on others we are scrambling to immerse ourselves in cultures and places that are different from our own.  Being on Sanibel is all about doing next to nothing.  We certainly get out, see the island, see friends, occasionally drive to other spots in Florida to visit family and friends and eat out more than we do at home.  But we also enjoy the lack of responsibilities and commitments that we have at home. 

A Rochester friend who has been coming to Sanibel for years told us about the wonderful library on the island.  She mentioned that on rainy days she likes to go to the library, sit on a rocking chair on the sheltered porch overlooking the mangroves and read a good book.  Simple pleasures are always the best.

We became fans of the Sanibel Library during one of our first visits here, and learned that visitors can pay $10 annually for a library card.  All the library privileges afforded to permanent residents are then available to the visitors.  We both love to read and we both love this library.

Housed in a bright, modern building, the Sanibel Library is one of the best I have ever visited.  There are stacks and stacks of books, CDs, DVDs, magazines and newspapers available.  The children's section is extensive and there are storytimes scheduled for different ages.  There's a large computer area that always seems to be filled with patrons checking email and doing research.  Meeting rooms are full of folks attending lectures or community gatherings.  But the most impressive part to me is the New Books section:

The image above shows only a sixth of the shelves devoted to new books.  Fiction, non-fiction, biographies, large print and mysteries are all represented here and the selection is wide and varied.  I always walk out with at least 5 books at a time and wish I could read even faster than I already do.  And I am saddened when I think of the New Books area at the library at home.  While the Canandaigua library has struggled financially, it's on firmer footing now, and I hope the New Books section will be upgraded and expanded.  Recently I went to the library looking for new books and saw only 10 books on the shelves.  Seriously. 

Look at the above image and picture this selection in Canandaigua.  Wouldn't it be wonderful?  And remember that Sanibel is a little island with a small year-round population.  It appears that their resources are huge compared to the ones at home.  I'd love to be able to feel like I'm on vacation at home when I go to visit the library.  And I'd love to be able to find at least 5 new books I want to read.

happy hair

My hair, on its own, is a little goofy.  Without the help of a stylist, it wants to be dark, mousy brown and crazy wavy.  I don't like the dark, mousy or crazy parts.

Changing hair stylists is hard for me.  I come to think of my hair person as a member of the family.  And over the years, I have stuck with a stylist until some life-changing event occurred, like the time a Rochester stylist decided he wasn't going to work with me to control the waves, he was just going to cut them off.  I looked like a shorn sheep after that visit, and that was the last time he ever worked on my hair. 

When we moved down "south" to the Finger Lakes, I needed to find someone new.  The hour-long commute back and forth to Rochester was tiresome, especially in bad weather.  By chance, I found Olivia.  We worked well together.  I told her about the quirks of my hair (there are many) and she listened.  Many years passed and we were a team.  Then she decided to move to Keuka Lake and open her own salon in Penn Yan.  For at least a year I made the hour-long commute through snowy hills and dales, but finally I threw in the towel.  While I still loved her, I didn't love the drive.

I decided to call Greyson, who had worked with Olivia in Canandaigua and filled in for her in Penn Yan when she was on maternity leave.  Greyson is a stylist on the move.  By that I mean that his is a movable salon - it's wherever he drives his little Mini Cooper.  Greyson will come to your house, whether it's in Canandaigua or Philadelphia.  He has clients in cities around the country, although now that he's recently married, he doesn't like to travel as much.  Here he is (the blond), with his husband, Josh.  They were married in January.

Greyson has mastered my mousy, brown locks with the crazy waves.  He's a superb colorist and a whiz with a round brush and a flat iron.  I've even purchased a flat iron for myself and can straighten my hair, to a point.  It's not perfect.  It's not Greyson hair.  But it is happy hair, and I've received lots of compliments on it. 

Thanks, Greyson.  And congratulations to you and Josh.



i binged

Over the past weekend, I binged. 

Not on chocolate, but rather on Netflix, where I watched all of the episodes of the new series, "House of Cards."  Loved it!     L.O.V.E.D. it.

I also loved the music, composed by Emmy-winner Jeff Beal.  Later on I Googled Jeff and found out he is an Eastman School of Music grad, so we both have that Rochester connection.  Music scores from his numerous  previous TV series, such as "Monk," are available on iTunes.  I'm hoping the soundtrack from "House of Cards" is there soon.

Then while I was still deep in Francis Underwood"s world, I came upon the following review written by Frazier Moore of the AP, titled "Netflix Series "House of Cards" Viewer Admits To Binging On Kevin Spacey Drama."  Another binger.  And one who wrote about the experience and the series.  I'm going to include it here, all 1000+ words, because I want to save the article for myself and this is a good place to do that:

I binged.

There was much anticipation for "House of Cards," a new original series from Netflix starring Kevin Spacey that arrived in one big helping - all 13 episodes of its first season - on the subscription streaming service last Friday for viewers to enjoy, at their leisure, in the weeks, months or even years to come.

Unless, that is, the viewer just couldn't stop.  Which was me.  I proved incapable of saving some for later, devouring all 13 hour-long episodes over the weekend.  Then I licked the bowl.

Now I'm gorged, and I'm left hanging for who-knows-how-long, deprived of answers to the questions with which the season jarringly concludes.

But more to the point: I love the series.  It hooked me. (Courting bedsores, I took root on the couch last Friday night and watched the first seven episodes in a row.)

"House of Cards" is a loose but respectful adaptation of the 1990s British political thriller of the same name, a TV masterpiece starring Ian Richardson as a conniving, manipulating Parliamenterian who rises to the level of prime minister before meeting his fate in the span of just 12 hours that aired over several years as a trilogy.

The new "House of Cards" is set in Washington, D.C., in the current day.  It finds Spacey as U.S. Congressman Francis Underwood, a shrewd country boy from South Carolina who, early on, describes himself as "just a lowly House majority whip (whose) job is to clear the pipes and keep the sludge moving."

His is a somewhat different self-appraisal than that of Richardson's Francis Urquhart, the Conservative Chief Whip in the House of Commons, an avuncular aristocrat who wields a silver tongue, a twinkle in the eye and a bloodthirsty streak.  With equally false modesty but far more polish, he describes himself "merely as a functionary.  I keep the troops in line.  I put a bit of stick about."

Like the original, the new "Cards" has its particular Francis soon joining forces with a young, hungry and attractive journalist (Kate Mara) in a partnership of subterfuge and mutual convenience that quickly gets personal.

And he, too, has a stong and supportive helpmate, his wife Claire (played by Robin Wright) whom he loves "more than a shark loves blood."

Once or twice, Underwood echoes Francis Urquhart's coy non-quite-confirmation, "You might very well think that, but I couldn't possibly comment."  Then, thankfully, he lays it to rest.

While the original "House of Cards" is irresistible (and readily available right there on Netflix), this "Cards" is waist-deep in today's Beltway melt-down, where Congress is "choked by pettiness and lassitude," as Underwood notes in one of his asides to the viewer.

Underwood (who, in contrast to the right-wing Urquhart, is some semblance of a liberal Democrat) has his eye on a loftier perch than the House, and there seems no limit to the cunning he can muster toward that goal.  Confident but ever-mindful that things can always go awry, he relies on no grand plan but, instead, a thicket of potential counter strikes.  His is a meticulously orchestrated power grab.

The result is a dark, hard-edged thriller whose soundtrack - far from the proud brassiness of the British "Cards" - is a thrumming cautionary bass line.

The intense style of this "House of Cards' reflects the pair who developed it: Beau Willimon , the Oscar-nominated screenwriter of another political drama, "The Ides of March," and David Fincher, Oscar-nominated for directing "The Social Network," a thriller in its own geeky right.

Spacey - once he and the audience get used to his Southern accent - is arresting.  As a politician on the make, he is evocatively deadpan and sad-eyed, as if he wished this wretched world didn't justify his deeds but will damn sure make the best of it.

It's easy to sum up: "House of Cards" is an outstanding, even addictive enterprise.

And this brings us to the way Netflix is giving it to us.  For virtually the first time in television history, a TV series isn't a controlled substance.

Here's a show that isn't parceled out in carefully prescribed weekly doses!  Such an innovation could have major implications, especially with Netflix's all-you-can-eat price structure.  (And, by the way, it could fail.  At least one analyst has cast doubt on "House of Cards" as a magnet to expand the service's subscription base: In theory, you could subscribe for one month, catch all the episodes plus any other goodies you want, then bail).

In either cae, "Cards" represents a brash response to the burgeoning new fad of linking TV viewership with social media in a shared "second-screen" experience, which largely depends on watching TV the old-fashioned way: in synch with everybody else when the network dictates.

One more thing: "House of Cards" poses a new challenge to the media critic.

I have regularly felt awkwardness at critquing the premiere of a TV series without knowing what might lie ahead in future episodes.  It's like reviewing the early chapters of a novel I haven't finished reading and that maybe isn't even written yet.

"House of Cards," with 13 episodes available to me and every subscriber to the Netflix library (another 13 hours are completed but still under wraps), settles that issue.  Now I know where the season is going and how well it gets there, and so can you, whenever you choose.

But what do I, as a spoiler-adverse critic, feel comfortable disclosing, and when, with every viewer watching "Cards" at their own pace?

I can say this: The first episode doesn't capture the power of the series, nor has Spacey yet hit his stride.  But stick around and you'll be treated to remarkable performances, a wickedly twisted plot, and unforgettable moments like what I'll call the bathtub scene in episode 5, one of the greatest moments in film I can recall.

And until the final fadeout of episode 13, "House of Cards" keeps the pressure on.  It's a driving force.  Not unlike Francis Underwood.

With Netflix my enabler, I was helpless to resist.

                             ********

Me too!!!!

a new beginning

Today marks a new beginning...a first entry in my new blog, Brownies for Breakfast. 

Having documented my business, JOOLZ, and my life in my previous blog, JUST JOOLZ...and more, it's time to switch gears and start fresh.  JOOLZ has been closed and I am in the process of dissolving its corporation.  It was a wonderful 7 year ride and I accomplished many of the goals I set for myself in the beginning.  But circumstances have changed and I want to focus more on family, friends and travel.  And I want to write about the things that I love...including having brownies for breakfast.

Now I certainly don't have brownies for breakfast on a regular basis, but once or twice a year, when there are brownies in the house (mostly thanks to Danny, not my baking), I sneak one or two to have with my requisite orange juice.  Chocolate and orange - a potent, delicious combination - and one of my all-time favorites.  You know those chocolate oranges that come in the blue box?  I can scarf up one of those in a single sitting.  Yes, I am a confirmed, card-carrying chocoholic - and it's mainly milk chocolate that does it for me.  Too bad the addiction couldn't be a little bit healthier and I could convince myself that all that dark chocolate going into my tummy was full of helpful antioxidants, but dark chocolate is not my fave.  Bring on the creamy, sinful, delicious milk chocolate.  And amazingly, the caffeine in chocolate doesn't affect me the same way as the caffeine in coffee.  For me, eating chocolate is like taking a Xanax...I'm soothed and happy.

So I'm going to write about things that make me happy.  A lot of that will be about our grandchildren and our travels.  This blog really is for me to keep a diary of sorts, but you can read along with me if you happen to find this online.  Now settle in, grab a brownie, and join me on the next part of my life.