Hotel memories

A recent getaway had me reminiscing about accommodations. My first stay in a hotel was when I was in 6^th grade. We drove from Buffalo to New York City on our way to Long Island to visit family. About the vacation I remember the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, the automat and a bus tour of the City that went through Chinatown, and my cousin’s house with 2 indoor staircases to the second floor. What I remember about the hotel was the noise outside and the shower. The only other shower I’d seen was at summer camp for back then homes had only bathtubs.

Since then, because of music, work, and wanderlust, I’ve stayed in monasteries, bed & breakfasts, people’s homes, lavish individual hotels, rural lodges, and major high- and low-end chains in nine countries around the world. I am grateful for each business trip and vacation and consider my life blessed to have had such opportunities.

My first lengthy stay was at the Madison Hotel in Madison, New Jersey when AT&T tapped me to work on a yearlong taskforce to plan for and monitor the breakup of the Bell System. We could go home every other weekend, and on my second trip home I packed up some of my sheet music. After that I was often found playing the piano in the hotel lobby. The taskforce created two pilots of what the post-monopoly service center would be like, one in St. Paul and the other in Omaha. From my New Jersey home away from home I also established a base at the Thunderbird Inn in Omaha and was at the St. Paul Hotel when Torvill and Dean earned their perfect 10s skating to Ravel’s Bolero.

Just a couple of years later I was one of four consultants who for months drove from Chicago to Ft. Wayne, Indiana on Sunday night and returned on Friday afternoon after a week of facilitating team building at the new General Motors plant. We stayed at the Marriott, where the staff let me store empty milk gallon jugs in a janitor’s closet so I would have them to do water aerobics in the swimming pool. Later that decade, while working on a project for the Alaska pipeline, I was at a hotel in Anchorage where the rooms included a small kitchenette. For other work assignments I’ve spent a week at hotels in Toronto, Galveston, Calgary, Denver, Istanbul, Tulsa, Dublin, and Howey-in-the-Hills. Such assignments accumulated points that resulted in free nights in Oahu, Seattle, and Auckland.

As a female traveling alone, I have gently reminded many front desk clerks not to announce a room number but to write it on the card they were giving me. I learned to request a room above the ground floor and that it is ok to ask for a room change if something is not satisfactory, particularly before most rooms were converted to non-smoking. Yes, I once got burned with scalding water and in Ireland had to call to have the water turned on. I have been irritated with a gazillion pillows on the bed and disappointed with mediocre room service and non-responsive porters. I have complained about noisy neighbors next door, kids running unsupervised in the hallway, or the lack of adequate heat or air conditioning.

I came to appreciate when something novel, like mints on the pillow or built in blow dryers became the norm. I found that most staff are helpful and want to make your stay in their establishment memorable only in a good way. But overall I am grateful for the scores of hotel rooms I cannot recall. For those with a comfortable bed, adequate water pressure with enough hot water, and whose construction ensured quiet. And, having been a maid at a Howard Johnson’s for two summers during college, for those that met expectations of cleanliness.

If you travel this holiday season perhaps your own hotel memories will surface. May they make you smile.

Marilyn

Friday night fish fry

When I was growing up the choices for eating out were limited.  There were family owned diners and the food counter at Woolworth’s. There were sub shops like John and Mary’s or pizza joints like Jacobi’s for after school or post football games, and if the family wanted exotic food, you could find Chinese. Few fancy restaurants and tearooms spotted the landscape.

Going out to eat was a big deal. This was the era when one dressed up to go shopping, so a lunch or dinner at a restaurant required one’s Sunday best. Except on Friday nights when families went to bars and children were welcome. All for a fish fry. In Buffalo, this meant battered haddock, French fries, and coleslaw. My parents had beer and I could order a Shirley Temple.

Over the years, as meatless Fridays were no longer the norm and a plethora of restaurant chains offering burgers, tacos, chicken, pasta, and salads appeared, eating out became more common. Most bars stopped the traditional fish fry so VFWs adopted Friday nights as a way to make money while providing people with a reasonable dinner and a chance to gather. Broiled became an option for the fish.

This came to mind because last week I was talking to a small business owner who has a seafood restaurant in Chicago and he mentioned they offer a Friday night fish fry. When I asked what fish he uses he said haddock. Then, on Friday night some friends and I ended up at a 60+ year-old restaurant with that neighborhood feel and lots of comfort food on the menu. Two of us had the ‘all you can eat’ fish fry. Turns out they use cod, and while it wasn’t the best plate of food I’ve ever had, included in each bite were the memories of all the previous Friday nights with family and other friends, and I savored every morsel.

Hope something delicious tickles your taste buds, be it pierogis or fried rice or spaghetti and that it provides a sweet nostalgia as we enter the holiday season.

Marilyn

PS: If you are in the Chicagoland area, check out New England Seafood Company (www.neseafoodcompany.com) not just for haddock but great fish every day!

More than five senses

Perhaps you are like me and didn’t get the memo about the time and place they were handing out the sense of direction gene so consequently I have none. From the time as a new driver when I got lost on my way to a babysitting job to last month coming home from Evanston, I take wrong turns and usually have no idea whether I should go left or right – and please, do not tell me north, south, east or west!

Do you go through times when it seems like your sense of humor has deserted you? As I sit here trying to recall the last time I laughed until I cried, one instance popped into my head, reminding me of a sense of connection with others.

Lately I’ve been missing a sense of accomplishment. While yes, in my new home everything has found a place and I gave myself a high five when I flattened and recycled the last box, there are still so many things on my to-do list, and at work it seems that nothing of high priority actually gets finished.  However, at both home and the office I do have a sense of place.

On some days I see so many indications in society that we’ve lost all sense of propriety, but I ask myself if that is all bad. I do worry however, about the lack of a sense of responsibility and accountability that reflects a diminished sense of right and wrong. Just reading the headlines backs me up on this.

As my generation begins to face trifocals and hearing aids and other issues with our five physical senses, we also share a sense of loss when each elder dies and now have deeper holes in our lives as we lose peers.

I'm sure you know other senses that should be mentioned and hope you'll share as I close with one that concerns me greatly. We have lost touch with our sense of wonder, collectively and individually. A colleague’s two and a half year old ran down the alley last Thursday and with glee yelled, “It’s snowing!” as she twirled with arms outstretched and face looking up at the sky. This week, let’s all concentrate on reconnecting with that sense of awe we had when we were that young and that takes us out of ourselves and into the sweet wonders of the world that is always around us.

Marilyn

I don't know about you, but...

…my mailboxes – electronic and snail mail, both inbox and outbox – are not as full as they used to be and I’m not sure what that means.

…I find most of the choices for entertainment, escape, and education on the growing number of network channels more disturbing than intriguing.

…if I start falling asleep in the chair, somehow, by the time I get to bed I am wide awake.

…I am scared that the parts of myself I do not like will become more dominant as I age and no one will admonish me for them.

…as much as I believe in our democracy, something is broken and I don’t know what it is going to take to fix it because we cannot legislate common sense, kindness, or grace.

…despite decades of progress there are more we/they divisions in our country than when we were marching for rights decades ago.

…a turtleneck feels different in October than in March.

…there is always one place in my house or office that, no matter how hard I try, is always cluttered.

…I enjoy seeing license plates from other places and if someone else is around, I point them out.

…it’s good to be back!

Marilyn

 

 

 

 

 

When the words don't come

Whether it’s what to write on a condolence card or a five letter word for ‘fracas’ to complete a crossword puzzle, we all occasionally struggle to find the right word. Stressful times impede the mental search for that illusive phrase that would be a great response.  Aging contributes to that ‘now what was his name? I can picture his face…’ memory game.  When we realize we are playing that game more and more, we worry about what that might mean.

Our commercial, fast paced, and electronic society shorthand us out of the connections made through thoughtful wording. Often my illegible handwritten missives begin with ‘Just a note to say…’ which automatically define them as brief. A reply feature makes it easy in our emails and texts to share LOL and J or L feelings. We peruse the greeting card aisle for just the right picture on the outside and tone on the inside, and often pay a little more to not have to write anything except our name because the card says it better than we could. We let others ‘speak’ for us and I fear we are losing the subtleties of well-crafted sentences.

I’m told that my mother’s father was a great letter writer and his notes often included poems appropriate to the recipient. I have only a few examples. But who’s got the time these days when it is much easier to post something on Facebook, a blog, or a tweet? Well, if the thoughts don’t flow, or a particular sentence doesn’t come together, or the right words don’t come, it doesn’t matter what the method of communication.

It amazes me that each week something strikes me as an idea for a musing; it’s a rare week when the concept just isn’t there. More common is the struggle to put one sensible word after another and to find the proper spin that reflects what I want to say. But as long as ideas come along I’ll keep encouraging my brain to strain for that right word, except for the next month or so. Apologies to those who have indicated they look forward to the Monday musing notice in their inbox, but I’m taking a short break. I will resume musing in October and look forward to hearing from you in the interim. And, should you face an instance where the right word is on the tip of your tongue, remember the words of Mark Twain who said, “The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.”

Marilyn

Taking a Break

Most of us are taking a break from our labors, or at least from our routines. Today is a holiday, a word derived from the Old English word hāligdæg, meaning holy day.

Throughout the world there are holy days, days that are set aside for religious purposes. Whether it be a solstice, Ramadan, Yom Kippur, or Easter, there are centuries of traditions that are honored. Countries often formalize a holy day, such as Christmas, by making them also a legal holiday. Most countries have other mandated holidays, such as today in the U.S., that have been incorporated into their culture for a variety of reasons, usually politically motivated.

In our country we have holidays while in others, people go on one. Whatever the language, today we stop our hunting and gathering to rest. To celebrate the dignity of all work and give thanks for the opportunity to provide for ourselves and our family. To thank those who must labor today and while we hope the firefighters, police, and emergency medical staff will not be needed, we fear they will be. We think of those who are without meaningful work or any income-generating work at all, and those who are under- or over-employed.

Whatever phase of life you are in now, muse on Pearl Buck’s words, “to find joy in work is to discover the fountain of youth.” And, as you go about your holiday, take a moment throughout the day to offer a thank you for what you are enjoying. To the inventor of that grill. To the farmer. To those who made the meal. Think of a funny story related to your work and share it around the table. Lift a glass and give thanks for those in your life who labor for you and to those who paid you for your labor. Work, whether paid or volunteer, helps make and define a community, so, finally, toast yourself for all of the labor you have done on behalf of others and, recognize that you do deserve a day of rest. Tomorrow’s work will come soon enough.

Marilyn

Ice Cream Socials

Creating ‘just because’ moments around the office is part of my job, so last week we had a surprise ice cream social. Colleagues gathered for about 20 minutes and enjoyed the sundae they had made, a popsicle, or a cone. I kept the ice cream choices fairly basic – vanilla, chocolate, neopolitan, and cookie dough – and the toppings traditional.

That fun afternoon break reminded me of past ice cream moments. When I was a kid, a friend and I could walk to the corner store where Skippy cups (a small cardboard bowl of ice cream with a wooden spoon affixed to the bottom) and popsicles (2 sticks) were 5¢. Grape and root beer were my favorites. Fudgesicles (chocolate) and dreamsicles (an orange sherbet and vanilla ice cream mixture) were 8¢.

When my mother and I would get dressed up to go shopping in downtown Buffalo we would stop at the W.T. Grant’s counter for a BLT and an ice cream soda. By junior high school there was a group of us that would visit walk from house to house after Christmas to look at each other’s presents and end up at Howard Johnson for marshmallow sundaes (chocolate ice cream with marshmallow sauce). My parents once hosted an ice cream social for the church’s youth group and 25 teens filled the house and yard before we played croquet.

I remember when ice milk was introduced, a product with not as many calories as the real thing. It was ok. Then more exotic flavors started appearing and one of my family’s favorite was butter brickle, rich ice cream with small chunks of chewy brittle. Now we’ve got exotic flavors and a TV show where people compete for prizes by making ice cream with strange ingredients. As talented as my mother was in the kitchen, homemade ice cream was something she never tried.

Several years ago on a vacation in Cancun, we met a family from Western New York. Somehow the conversation got around to ice cream and I mentioned that we used to go to the small town of Alden to a shop that had the best and most unusual flavors of ice cream. It was a real treat – the Sunday afternoon drive kind of treat – when we would head that way for black raspberry or cantaloupe. They told me it was still there and still the best.

In these dog days of summer somehow musing about ice cream seems appropriate but, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a Skinny Cow in the freezer calling my name so it’s time to stop writing. Wish you could join me to share your ice cream memories as we see who can make theirs last the longest!

Marilyn