Author: Susan

It was years before I discovered why we got married in February.

When planning our wedding, hubby-to-be didn’t care to have much input. But, he said, “I want to choose the date.” Okay, I thought. Not a big deal.

When he chose February 19, I remember thinking it was kind of an odd choice, but okay.

Years later, I’m not sure how or why it came up, but the truth came out.

My husband is a huge sports fan. I knew this going in. It’s okay. I come from a family of sports fans. He is pretty much interested in all sports, but baseball and football are his passion. Turns out there is a very small window in any given year where no football or baseball are played. (This year there were only twelve days from the super bowl to the start of spring training.) Guess what date falls in that small window.

When I realized this, my response, of course, was, “So, you didn’t want our anniversary to interfere with any of your sports?”

“No, baby,” he said in his always hilarious style. “I didn’t want sports to ever interfere with our anniversary.”

How could I be mad? I actually admired his ingenuity, which, by the way is still working 25 years later. We returned three days ago from our celebratory cruise, which “just happened” to coincide with opening day of spring training.

Play ball.

That little piece, written in January 1998, would ultimately cause me to change paths with reverberations even into retirement.

Not only did I learn how great an outlet writing could be, but the response I received when the article was published really touched me. Friends, family, neighbors, even strangers reached out.

Shortly afterwards, I started thinking about going back to school.

A friend connected me with a professor at the University of Central Florida (UCF). After reading some of my writing, he asked, “Why do you want to come back to school?”

“Because I want to be a writer,” I told him.

“But you’re already a writer,” he said.

It’s amazing how those simple words affected me. It’s not like he said I was a good writer. And, he actually even added, “I’d stay away from poetry.”

But I took it and ran. It was as though I was waiting for any nugget of encouragement.

By the end of the year, I was enrolled as a full-time student in English at UCF.

At my “retirement” party from the Kennedy Space Center, the cake read: “You’re Doing the Write Thing!”

They were right. Although it was not the most financially sound decision I could have made, I have never regretted it.

And, I learned to always be generous with those nuggets of encouragement.

A neighbor I don’t even know stopped by while walking her dog and asked, “Will you get another dog?” I get the question a lot. After all, I was rarely seen without a Golden by my side for thirty years; I even started SusanScribbles professing my love for my trio of canines. It’s a fair question.

When I told a friend that one of the reasons I haven’t taken the plunge is that the heartbreak is so difficult, she said, “But, they’re worth it.” She’s not wrong. But you do get to the point where the heartbreak is, well, too heartbreaking. One friend told her husband, “Seal up the dog door; I can’t take this anymore.” (Remember, Kath?)

I will say, however, that even though we are technically petless, I have somehow been reaping the benefits, and rewards, and responsibilities of having one.

When my 86-year-old neighbor adopted a puppy (you may recall, Shame on Me), she asked if I would help train Tasha, the Standard Poodle. This has been a challenge, to put it mildly. I took her to six-week obedience training, which turned into 12 weeks. She graduated, but I have to say they must have graded on a curve. A big curve. Put it this way, we are still struggling with training to this day. She is adorable though.

Then, a couple of months ago a tiny little orange kitten showed up in our shed. After spending two weeks coaxing him to eat from afar, I was still not able to get close. So, I borrowed a trap. I’m not sure who this stressed more. I then spent two days in the bathroom with him trying to get him socialized – all the while fighting off falling in love. I called him Jules and he was beyond adorable. With two upcoming trips fast approaching, I made the very difficult decision to find another home for him. He is now called Pistachio, and he lives with a loving family that also includes a feline sibling.

Fast forward to today. We just returned from delivering a ten-week old puppy to our aunt and uncle in Connecticut. I know what you’re thinking, but we did it for love. Ten years ago when they could not find a reasonably priced Dachshund pup, we did the same thing with much success, but their beloved Moxie passed away in November. They were heartbroken. So, off we went again to a breeder in the middle of the state. We were reminded of all the reasons we would never get a puppy for ourselves. But, besides the sleepless nights, potty training, vet visits and mounds of laundry, there has been some comic relief.

At one point I was voice texting with a couple of my fellow retired co-workers when hubby mentioned something about the pup going “pee pee.” It wasn’t until one of these former vice presidents texted back, “Well, when you have to go, you have to go” that I realized the “pee pee” comment was picked up in my text.

Then during my exercise class on Zoom, the little devil zoomed across my keyboard. A few minutes later, the instructor said, “Someone’s mic is on.” I was forgiven when at the end of the class I introduced the culprit that interrupted yoga, the adorable and rambunctious, three and half pound Charlie.

So, I can safely say that although we have not yet adopted a pet, we’ve had no shortage of fuzz therapy or fuzz responsibility since my retirement.

          TASHA                JULES/PISTACHIO             CHARLIE

I could not let the passing of Jimmy Carter go by without weighing in. Most of you know I have a special fondness for the 39th president because of my chance meeting with him more than four decades ago. But, now I’m reading “A Full Life” – which he wrote at ninety – and finding even more reason to respect him.

Most of us know Carter as a farmer, but did you know during his time in the Navy, he was hand chosen to help design and build the original nuclear power plant? On a submarine, no less! I was impressed with all aspects of his life, like at twelve years old when he was finally “permitted” to break land in the field using a plow and mules, which was “the most boring and challenging duty.” By his account, his mind was “relatively unfocused,” so he would compute how many miles he would have to walk before completing the task (between 22 and 25). He said of this time that he “enjoyed a sense of accomplishment and self-satisfaction, knowing that (he) had done all that was humanly possible.”

Born in 1924 in the south, Race, of course, played a part in Carter’s life. He credits his mother, Lillian, for “never observing the principle of white supremacy,” which helped shape his commitment to the protection of human rights. This commitment, along with “keeping the peace” were Carter’s primary goals for his administration – admirable goals for an admirable man.

Carter’s gentle demeanor and down-to-earth persona were evident when I was fortunate enough to have that encounter with him one snowy day in Washington, D.C.

The story goes that when I worked for the Secret Service, my office was in the Old Executive Office Building, which is connected to the White House. On days when it was snowing or raining, I would cut through the White House as I made my way from my bus stop to work.

I was so dumbfounded one morning to see the president coming toward me down that long hallway, that in my twenty-year-old naiveté, I said, “What are you doing here?”

He had the biggest grin on his face as he stopped and shook my hand saying, “I live here. What are you doing here?”

I have to wonder if he relayed that story to anyone afterwards laughing at the silly young girl in the hallway. I know that in my office of wise cracking secret service agents, I didn’t soon live it down.

I must say if I am to have only one significant VIP encounter in my lifetime, I can’t think of a nobler person than Jimmy Carter with whom to have it.

Welcome, 2025. Farewell, fun.

Well…at least for a while.

Like many people, I get serious about “shaping up” in January. Then, for the most part I try to stay focused until December when all bets are off.

This past year was no different. Well, it may have been a little worse. Maybe it was the European vacation at the beginning of the month that kicked things off, next level.

Eating cookies for breakfast; skipping exercise class; ordering wine with lunch; celebrating happy hour in the middle of the week; hell, we even ordered dessert the other day! I was like an out of control 18-year-old who just arrived at college with no guardrails for the first time. (Hopefully I didn’t also gain the dreaded “Freshmen 15.”)

The party is officially over. Dry January has started, the cookies are all gone, and I am back to my regular exercise classes.

In looking for a bright spot (behind the good health thing, of course), there is actually a huge one. Since I’m now retired, this is the first time I do not have to go back to work after the December break. And this year, because of the way the calendar fell, it was actually three full weeks off, so it would have been really hard to face that Monday morning.

Now, that’s what I call a bright side.

Happy New Year!

I was trying to avoid posting for Christmas. It’s a lot of pressure to come up with something that hasn’t already been said “many times, many ways.” But then my biweekly Tuesday post day fell on Christmas Eve so now what?

There’s always the grateful thing… But I’ve done that (maybe ad nauseum), and I did not want to make you endure yet another telling of how grateful I am. (Very!)

Favorite Christmas movie? So cliché.
(Charlie Brown’s Christmas, with A Christmas Story as a close second.)

Favorite Christmas song? So many great classics, but the relatively new (1989) Grown Up Christmas List moves me every time with its touching and relevant lyrics.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Jax1ZmfOXE

How about a simple Merry Christmas? I do hope your Christmas is all you want it to be. And, I sincerely wish you and your loved ones good health in the new year.

Extra prayers and thoughts for those of you who are struggling this holiday season as I know it can sometimes be a tough time of the year.

I also want to thank you for reading my blog and indulging me as I practice my writing. I so appreciate the support.

S.

The saying goes something like, The best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry.

I was reminded of the line from the Burns poem when the best laid plans of our recent European vacation took a couple of left turns.

It was a good opportunity to remember my favorite advice/mantra/lesson about control and how little we ultimately have. I try to focus on the most important part of that lesson, which is that we do have control over how we choose to react to those left turns. This choice can make the difference between things going “awry” or not.

So, ask me how my vacation was and I will tell you, Wunderbah! The primary purpose of the trip – the 60th birthday celebration of a favorite German family member – went as planned in a fabulous villa on the sun kissed jewel of the Mediterranean that is Mallorca, Spain.

The vibrant city of Barcelona did not disappoint with its incredible churches, cathedrals and city history, not to mention the Sangria and the great fun that was paella making.

And, finally, the winter wonderland of Bavaria – to me one of the most beautiful places on Earth. Being there so close to Christmas made it even more special. Some folks thought us crazy for visiting in winter, but even for this Floridian who does prefer to be warm, it was a welcome change, especially since we were properly outfitted by the best hosts ever.

We were treated so kindly by all, had great fun along the way, arrived home safely, and the cat survived!

What left turn?

I can’t remember the last time we went out for dinner and a movie. It’s a big decision to get out of your comfy clothes and actually leave the house nowadays. But, “Hey,” I said on a recent rainy Saturday night, “let’s do it!”

The first sign that it was maybe not my best idea was when we somehow got the time wrong and showed up an hour early (stupid computer does that to us sometimes). We killed time walking around the grocery store next door. (On the upside, I found some plant-based eggs I’d like to try in the future.)

When we finally got into the theatre, the temperature was set to freezing. (Not just by my standards either. My brother later said, “I bring my winter coat when I go there.”) So, I schlepped all the way out to the car (he did offer) to get jackets that barely helped.

As the movie started, the house lights went up rather than down. Not a good sign. Ten minutes later it was obvious that no one else was making a move, so I made the trek to the concession stand to ask them to turn them off.

Two thirds into the movie when one of the main characters visibly aged, we looked at each other and said, “thank goodness it’s almost over.” (It was a much anticipated movie with one of our favorite actors, but it was not at all what we expected.)

Onto the next part of our adventure: pizza! We sat next to what appeared at first glance to be a family of four. Before long, we were convinced it was some type of “group home” outing, which is fine as long as there is someone responsible leading the group. There wasn’t. The guy we thought might be “in charge” said much too loudly, “Shut the F up and eat.” Only he didn’t say “F.” It was difficult to ignore this group as we were seated very close. When their food came, the woman opened (and I mean unscrewed the tops) of all of the spices on the table and poured them over her food. At one point, the cook actually came out of the kitchen and asked her, “Is that all oregano?”

Feeling like it was just a matter of time before something or someone imploded at that table we quickly ate our pizza and hightailed it out of there.

Once home, we immediately got into our comfy clothes and onto our comfy couch and put on Netflix.

Now, I don’t want to say the answer to the age old “whether to leave the house” question is a definitive no, but, maybe for a while it will be. And in the future, we’ll definitely be a lot more careful with the planning.

Postscript: I will say that the pizza was really good, and there’s no better way to have it than piping hot right out of the oven even when you have one eye on a guy who is palming a piece of pizza as he chews the cheese off the top.

We just returned from a birthday celebration in Georgia for my 85-year-old friend, Mary.

Mary is the kind of friend that James Taylor songs are written about.

I think it’s safe to say that if you’re 85-years-old and black in America today you’ve seen your fair share of strife. I know Mary has not had an easy life, but a more positive and inspiring person, you will never find.

Mary is always telling me how much she appreciates me, but the truth is, I am the benefactor in this relationship. Whenever I need a little pick me up, I call Mary. Talking with her leaves you feeling wrapped in her love.

There were 200 people at that birthday party. Along with Mary’s kids and grandkids many of them got up to speak and they all described a version of what I am saying here. It was amazing to see how many lives she has touched. Amazing, but not surprising. I’ll bet Mary ends her phone calls with all of them just the same as she ends mine, “I love ya, Boo, and tell Joe I love him, too.”

Postscript: One of Mary’s dreams was to own a mink coat. Being an animal lover, I don’t love this, but, it’s Miss Mary. At least her kids went with used when they decided to pool their resources to make their mother’s wish come true. I must admit she looked like a million bucks. Now I’m kind of glad she made the move to Georgia as church days would have been pretty unbearable in a mink coat in Florida.

One of my summer commitments was to swim each day for 20 minutes. (Thank you for the idea, P.) Somehow this challenge stretched past September and into October. (I probably missed a total of ten days.)  Now when I say swim, I’m being very generous. What I do does not even remotely resemble the stuff they did in the pools (and rivers) of Paris this past summer. It’s more like a scene out of the movie Cocoon minus the bathing caps. I call it aquasizing with a side of creative writing.

I like to say that I haven’t been bored since I was seven years old. This “aquasizing” could have easily changed that if I hadn’t found a way to “write in the pool.” I’d think about ideas for posts, or if I already had an idea going, I would work on how to improve it. (The challenge there was remembering when I got out of the pool.)

This “summer” thing turned a lot more challenging when October rolled around because now the pool is no longer a balmy 86 degrees. This is especially ironic since I recently contemplated one of those Cold-Water Plunges that are all the health rage. If you’re not familiar, it’s a big barrel filled with 40-50 degree water in which you submerge yourself. Proponents say this “cold therapy” can help muscles recover, improve mood, boost metabolism, reduce inflammation, and more. For me, it would be just another effort to help my “maturing” skin. Alas, who knew my cold plunge tolerance was 78 degrees?

So now that the summer challenge is (thankfully) coming to an end, I must find a new activity to spark my creative juices. According to Bruce Springsteen, writing is magic – you simply take something out of the air and make it physical. If that’s so, I suppose any activity will suffice. I’m thinking lying on the lounge chair sounds good.