LOfT LIFE: The whole tooth

I am the queen of root canals, and that’s not a title I’m happy to report. It’s a long story, and just thinking about the “why” brings back some pretty hefty unresolved resentments.

You see my dad was the dean of Temple University School of Pharmacy, and the pharmacy school shared a building with the dental school. That meant, for some reason, that our family got “free” dental care a la dental students. It took three hours to fill one tooth, and there was an hour’s commute each way to and from our home to North Philadelphia, which meant getting carsick and missing a whole day of school. Little me would sit dutifully in the dental chair, wait for a student to do a partial bit of work, raise his hand (don’t remember seeing any women there), wait for a professor to arrive, follow the next piece of advise--which usually involved drilling deeper, and then raise his hand again, wait again, and see the next professor raising an eyebrow saying something on the order of: “Hmm, maybe a little too deep.”

I was young, not deaf or stupid. So, when I was 16, I decided, enough! I took my babysitting money and hired my own local, actual gradated, dentist. This brought no end of ire from my mother, who could not understand my lack of appreciation at the free services they were providing due to my father’s prestige and hard work. How was she (or I) to know that this “free” dental care would cost me tens of thousands of dollars, not to mention extreme pain and suffering. We won’t even mention how my mother added sugar to everything, even iceberg lettuce, in an effort to encourage nutrition.

I want to make clear, I have deep respect for my father’s brilliance, hard work, provision and prestige (he was actually world famous in pharmacology, which I found out when he died and we got telegrams from around the globe). However, that said, I did not appreciate being the guinea pig for the students, even though I know they have to practice somewhere. I mean, maybe a bad hair cut at a beauty school. It grows back. But teeth! My first real dentist pointed out that my teeth were filled so deeply that I would probably find myself having a series of nerve dying experiences as my roots met my fillings in my young adulthood. He was correct. I probably have root canals in half my teeth, and now in my advanced years, the originals are beginning to need redoing. That mean new root canals, and then new crowns also because the aging ones are in need of replacement.

Enter new world! No longer do we have to succumb to bridgework, false teeth, and gaps like our parents had to. There are now nifty things called implants. Evidently, many people elect to have implants for cosmetic reasons, because insurance companies do not cover them, nor their accompanying crowns. 

I hardly know an over 50 woman who does not have dental implants, or is not about to get them. It almost seems when an over 50 man or woman visits a dentist, you can see the $10K figures dancing in the eyes of the “team” of dentists and periodontal specialists who will solve the problem of broken and diseased teeth. It is around $2K for each implant, then charges for extraction, bone grafts and crowns round out the party.

I’m not begrudging these talented practitioners their living. They do good work, they train for years, and they do have big expenses in their practices. It’s just that $10K out of pocket is no small consideration. 

So when one of my molar root canals cracked, then became severely infected to the point of complete bone loss in that area from gum infection, I became a statistic. 

Note: I told my very capable and understanding periodontist about my blog, Spinning Straw into Gold, and he sent me a note saying he spins mouths into gold. Indeed. At least we can laugh about it.

In any case, I needed two implants, and though it still was caused by disease, we do not have dental insurance to cover this. It is all out of pocket. 

My dentist and my periodontist have both been understanding and gracious about our self-pay status. Both are very competent and kind. But, the whole tooth--these implants will most likely not be the last of the implant saga. I have almost a dozen more root canals to expire before I do--at least I hope that is the order.  So, goodbye more trips to Europe, hello “open please.” And, that is: open wallet as well as mouth.

LOFT LIFE: Travel traumas

Looking forward to my early March trip from CT to IL, I had worked up not a little stress. Between concern for the unpredictable weather of late winter, and warnings and horror stories about getting through security with dignity, I really considered not traveling at all by air.

But, duty calls. I have clients to see, columns to write and interview for, and friends waiting to offer me their considerable hospitality. So I booked it.

As so often happens, the stresses I prepared for didn’t happen at all, and the ones I wasn’t expecting did.

First, I have to tell you that the TSA agents at Bradley have to be the nicest in the country. Not only are they helpful and kind, they smile and relate to people as though they are human. 

I began by quizzing agents on the way to the gate on how to avoid radiation. Since my CAT Scan, equal to 400 X-rays, I have decided not to do the new scanners at all. I do not want additional, cumulative radiation permeating my body every time I fly. But, at Bradley, I had no worries. The scanners were not on, and I merely entered my body through the old-fashioned metal detectors, business as usual. I do have to wonder about the actual security this provided, however, since neither my gold bracelet, nor the quart-sized plastic bag containing my personal items, that I forgot to get out of the luggage, set off any sensors or alerts. I understand from reports that security detection is actually failing 70 to 100% of the time. Box cutters, yes, shampoo, no. Hmm.

I wasn’t so sure about what my experience would be at O’Hare for the return trip. I stood in the security line with some nurses returning from London after a medical missionary trip to the U.K. or somewhere...didn’t eavesdrop soon enough to find out where. Anyway, they were discussing the scanners, and said, “Do you know how much radiation it takes to picture your internal organs?” Answer, “A lot!” Not to mention the time standing there is way longer than we would stand for with x-ray treatments at a hospital or dentist office. And, no lead apron for the airport ones. And, no trained radiologists operating the equipment, which may leak or malfunction before passengers would even know it. I expect some day they will say, “Oops. We didn’t know they would be that invasive.” Or to put it in the words of the nurses, “Sorry about your cancer. We didn’t know.”

In any case, I elected the pat down. Now you know the horrors being told about this process. Talk about invasive. Body parts and undergarments explored to a degree that some have reported is not only humiliating, but so personal as to be compared with groping and assault one would report to authorities. But, these ARE the authorities. Flying is a choice that involves submitting to this or the radiation.

I decided a pat down was better than cancer. I do agree with the comedian who suggested maybe they should allow us to have the opposite sex pat us down, so we could at least enjoy the humiliation somewhat. But, no. Not an option.

I didn’t realize the pat down agents are not readily available. When requesting this procedure, they have to call for personnel. 

“Female,” they yell, and everyone in line is now informed that I will be awaiting a pat down. My agent arrived a few minutes later, making me realize that extra time to make it to the gate will have to become a part of my planning. This option could add twenty minutes to the security thing. I was asked to step into an area. I had requested my purse and luggage be in my sight, and not sitting unattended. They complied and moved me to the other side of the metal detector so that I could see my things had been placed on the counter. Then Nicole, Agent T, I promised her I would not print her last name, proceeded to begin explaining what she planned to do to search me.

“You’re just doing your job,” I assured. “I don’t need you to explain things, just go ahead and do it.”

Nicole raised her eyebrows, and frowned a bit. I think she was supposed to give the narration as she searched, but she was taken aback. She began by putting on her plastic gloves--an omen to be sure--and starting the physical patting along my outer frame. Then she had to explain that she would be feeling along the waistband of my trousers. 

“Okay,” I repeated. Then she had to explain that she would be feeling along the bra-line where the underwire is. Geeesh. I never thought of people hiding things in underwire. 

There was no invasion of undergarments, or private parts. And, Nicole was very businesslike about the whole thing. 

Frankly, if this agent were typical, I can’t imagine anyone complaining or being humiliated. The full body scan is much more revealing than this experience for me was, not to mention, again, the health risks.

In any case, this was nothing to fear. I will be much calmer now about flying.

What did happen unexpectedly, however, was in my car rental experience. As I drove the Mazda out of the Rockford Enterprise lot, the car was chugging and dragging, and I had to keep putting it into gear. This was a semi-automatic. 

Now, now. All of you know I should not have gotten a car that requires any kind of mechanical, visual, or coordination skills, right? If you don’t know this, see Finding My Way, or the DMV story.

In any case, not only did they give me a car with semi-automatic controls--which I think means I have to manually override the automatic settings sometimes, but it also was a smoker car, reeking of smoke. Enterprise claims all their cars are non-smoking, but this is the third reeking one I have had, so, um, I don’t think so.

So here I am chugging up to Roscoe, with the car going from gear 2 to 1 to 3 as it tried to find one that worked, all the time, wondering if I should just stop driving and find out why this was happening.

By morning, as I turned on the ignition, there was a picture of a car with lines under the tires, like it was dragging--which I didn’t need a picture to tell me, from my experience the night before. I don't really know what the picture meant. 


I pulled out of the driveway, finding the chugging, the dragging and the picture still there. I thought maybe after I got from the broken up roads of the subdivision to the main street--smoother, but narrow, it would all be better. Not. The ride became bumpier. Oh dear. Flat tire. Why didn't it have a flat tire picture? I had to go forward until I found a shoulder area wide enough to get off of the road, but it was sloped and gravelly. 

I called Enterprise and they said they would be happy to swap out the car, but they didn’t do tire changing and the car would be my responsibility until the spare was on.

I called AAA, and thankfully, this was covered by my membership. Frustrating anyway, since I could see a Mobil station less than a half mile from where I had pulled over. My appointments for the day were booked non-stop from 9:00 am to 3 pm, and I could have walked to the first appointment faster than waiting for AAA; but, of course, I stayed with the car.

AAA arrived 45 minutes later, actually not bad, considering i was not their first call. The guys assessed that even on the slope with the gravel, they would have to chance it, rather than moving the car. The tire had already separated from the rim. After removing it, they showed me the rusty nail, and told me most likely that had been in there when I picked up the car. Unfortunately, the spare was also separating from the rim, and I was told not to hit any potholes and to drive under 50 mph. Right. No potholes, in Rockford.

Luckily, Jessica’s, where my breakfast appointment was still waiting, was less than two miles away. I avoided potholes. And, as soon as I arrived, I talked to my media rep, Roz and said, “You know, I bet you know about cars.”

She did. Her analysis was that the car didn’t know what gear to find because the air was leaking out of the tire, making the ride uneven. So the tire was probably going flat from the time I left the car rental. That sounded right. Later they claimed they didn't need to check for pressure, because Tire Pressure Monitoring Systems are now in place on all tires. What I think they don't know, is there is a threshold before the monitoring system kicks in. Or, maybe there was a little light on, Omega shaped, that I had never seen before. Oh oh. My husband pointed that out when I told him the story. Well, it didn't have a picture!

So, back to breakfast. I called Enterprise from my breakfast meeting in Roscoe, and here is where I have to say that in spite of the problem: I would NEVER use any other car rental company than Enterprise if I have any choice at all. They sent an agent with a swap car, a PT Cruiser, who came into Jessica’s, handed me the keys, no questions asked, and told me I could return the car to the other location, no problem. Now that is service! My morning continued, seamlessly, with no more problems. 

The Cruiser was fine, except for I never did find how to open the trunk. Oh well.

So, lessons learned: Choose pat downs and get an agent as kind and respectful as Nicole; join AAA; always choose Enterprise for car rentals for trauma free travels; and notice that little Omega sign if it lights up.  Bon Voyage!

LOFT LIFE: Stonecroft's a stone's throw from our favorite little town

Not much happens in February at our house. Even Valentine’s Day is somewhat understated. I usually buy myself a gift for my husband to give me--taking the pressure off, and then he is happy to bring chocolate or something fun to make an effort at this commercialization we have fallen prey to. Really, I know he loves me, and the small gestures are just fine. 

We really didn’t do much of our weekend traveling, because in a couple of weeks, our neck of the Connecticut woods accumulated about 50 inches of snow.  Besides, we had ballroom dancing on Valentine’s weekend, and I will update you on that soon.

We did celebrate February with another sweet weekend in good old Mystic, discovering a new, very lovely Bed and Breakfast, Stonecroft Country Inn, where we stayed in The Orchard Room in The 1807, which was the estate of a sea captain, Shubel Smith. There is also The Grange, which is a remodeled meeting house, now made into luxury suites.

Winter rates were very reasonable, so we were excited to see what this historic place had to offer.

What we found was attention to detail, of an order that makes me wonder why all the B&B’s don’t follow such simple keys to customer satisfaction: there were snacks and coffee available downstairs, 24/7. Now, you know that what makes hotel life difficult, is getting that snack attack at 9pm and having nothing to munch on. These offerings were simple and homey. Trail  mix, raisins, candies. Just like home.

There were bathrobes in the closet, extra pillows on the bed, free wireless without glitches, and warm, comfy, blankets that were clean and white. Some B&B’s that are historic sites seem to have linens that are leftovers from the good old days. We like clean.

Our room had a wood-burning fireplace, which we didn’t end up using, but still really appreciated.

The grounds were lovely, and even with snow-covered lawns (which we were told keeps the snakes away), just lovely to look at and imagine in spring, summer and fall--which we may return to see.

Breakfast, too, was simple, but very satisfying. Fresh fruit, juice, and coffee, of course, or a selection of herbal and fine teas. And, a choice of breakfast entree--either French toast or vegetable frittata. We chose the latter, and found it delightful and well-prepared.

Service from greeting through breakfast and checkout was gracious, friendly and truly made us feel like welcome guests. Our welcome hostess and breakfast server, Ava, who came to the U.S. from Poland, and stayed. We’re glad she did--even though she’s the one who mentioned snakes. 

We read in the literature that Stonecroft also offers wine dinners, Friday night dinners, Saturday dinners with classical guitar entertainment, Sunday brunch, and other special occasions. We will certainly be candidates for these too, when we have it in the budget.

Thanks to Innkeeper Jason Crandall for taking care to offer a romantic getaway worth remembering.

LOFT LIFE: Memories, like the corners of my mind

My husband and I are soon going to start taking ballroom dancing lessons. We’ve talked about doing this for years, but the opportunity didn’t plunk itself right in our faces, so we didn’t search it out. That’s code for: I do the planning and if I don’t schedule it, it’s not likely to happen, unless it’s a motorcycle race or something related.

When we first moved into our loft apartment, we took a walk around the area and noticed an Arthur Miller studio on the way. That reminded us of our long-intended goal, but the place was vacant and so still it was a no go. Whew.

So when our pastor announced that in our church we have a certified ballroom dancing instructor, and he would begin instructing interested couples in February--somewhere around Valentine’s Day, my heart beat a little faster. Not from excitement. From terror!

It seems for most couples, it is the husband who resists ballroom dancing instruction. For us, I am the one who secretly hopes it will never happen. My husband has always wanted to do this. 

Dancing for me has always turned out traumatic. First of all, I am dyslexic. That means that left and right are a big problem. It is truly amazing I don’t run into walls more than I actually do. I put the car in reverse when I mean forward, because the gear thingy is forward on the floor panel. Oh, I don’t do it every time. Just when I am stressed, or tired, or confused. In other words, often. I shudder to think how many times I almost went forward in a parking lot when I meant to back up, or the other way around.

Couple that with my eye problems (I could barely see anything until I was 14), and a complete lack of hand-eye coordination, it is truly a marvel that I have escaped major injury over the course of my life--so far. “Don’t push it,” a little voice seems to whisper.

I am trying to psyche myself up for this. I have about two weeks. It isn’t like this is going to be at an anonymous site where I don’t have to see the people again after I make a complete...well, fool isn’t really the word I want here. It escapes me, as I wish the lessons would.

My memories of dancing are certainly in the corners of my mind, but they are hardly misty or watercolored. They are cobwebbed and scary.

I remember my sisters giggling when I practiced dancing for school dances. Their deriding was almost unbearable. I knew I was awkward. I knew I looked clumsy. And, the thought of stepping on some guy’s feet was terrifying. But, I somehow got through it until in seventh grade my “best” friend announced to me that she couldn’t be best friends with me anymore, because I was too tall to dance with. The shock of that still hasn’t completely worn off.

It may be difficult for you coordinated people to grasp the level of horror this brings to me. It is cold sweat, panic-attack fear. No kidding.

I tried some dancing in clubs with my husband when we were dating. This was not a rewarding experience. I told him we both looked dorky and maybe we could find some other avenue of expression. That didn’t seem to dissuade him. He seemed impervious to the insult. Whereas I feel a level of fear so deeply rooted that now, when the actual commitment to this nears, I find myself running a self-improvement monologue through my brain to gear up. I mean, how bad could it be? How long could the humiliation of it last? Hours? Weeks? How many people will be looking at us anyway?

But, this is church. The center of my life. Where all my good friends are. People I will see every week. It could be bad, very bad.

OK, what are my options? I could get sick. No. I hate being sick. I could refuse. No. That would make me look bad too. I could move. Obviously not a real option.  I could hold my breath until I turn blue and faint. That actually sounds like a plan. At least I might get some pity instead of the laughing.

I could practice at home. Hmm. Wasn’t that the beginning of the source of this humiliation? One of my friends told me she was really looking forward to the class to have a lot of fun. Fun! You know all those songs about live, love, dance or something like that? Well dancing doesn’t belong in that list for me. 

I think I will just have to take the plunge and put to the test this unconditional love these church people talk about. I may have to just allow myself to look silly, be laughed at, and laugh along with them. After all, it’s just a dance lesson. Get a grip. And, I don’t mean a white knuckled one on the side rails. Self, it’s time to conquer this fear. I doubt I will get to it being fun. We all have limitations. No one is asking me to sign up for Dancing with the Stars. It’s just a lesson. 

I know this is a step in the right direction for not living my whole life terrified of dancing.

LOFT LIFE: Missing the bus

Let’s start right out saying I realize my frustrations are not life threatening, not terminal in any sense, and, in the light of truly tragic situations, rather minor. Still, frustration is frustration.

I remember my friend Sister Rosalia telling me that even when you miss a bus, in some sense, you do go through the stages of loss and grieving. That stopped me short. Really! She said every loss does take its toll on us.

Thus, in my ever positive imaginations, I assumed that when AT&T told me my problem was solved, I believed them. When they told me I would no longer have to make the half hour phone call, which always begins somewhere in Southeast Asia, and, miraculously ends up in good old Connecticut, I have such a good feeling--until I receive the following month’s bill for our DSL wireless service.

We contracted at a promo rate, and my first month’s call cleared up part of the problem, that the company still bills me the full rate, and then it should get adjusted--without me calling. After she explained to me that they “made up” an account number that “looks like” a CT phone number, so that they could sell me wireless DSL service with no home phone, I better understood which of the several number series to give them on my monthly complaint-problem-solving calls. 

This nice woman, let’s call her Betsy, assured me all was corrected, and it would not happen again, and on the following month, I would see the discount prominently displayed on my bill. (Are they kidding? Does AT&T really not know how to sell a product like DSL wireless without connecting it to another product?) But it was now solved.

Right? Of course not. The next month it was still the full amount--no discount. there. So I called again. This half hour tete-e-tete resolved another problem, which was that my Southeast Asia call was totally unnecessary, being the general customer service number, not the DSL-only service. Whew. That should save at least 15 minutes a month, I thought, trying to stay positive. But, this very nice woman, let’s call her Mary, assured me it was really fixed now, and I would never have to call again.

UH-HUH. Right. Wrong. My third call, which unfortunately still began in Southeast Asia, because I forgot which of the several customer service numbers on my bill was the DSL number (far be it from me to ask for labels on something so trivial as a half hour--per month--of MY time).

So 16 minutes later, I was happily connected with Leslie, another lovely CT customer service rep, who gave me more nuggets of wisdom on the venerable AT&T system: My CT phone-account number is not visible to our friends in Southeast Asia, nor are the account notes being made monthly after my calls. But she could see them. So not only did she easily follow and understand my dilemma, she “fixed” the billing code to reflect the promo code, rather than the regular billing amount. Amazing. Was this not obvious to the first two people? Anyway, my SKYPE disconnected me from Leslie, right as she informed me that all was well. So even though I didn’t actually get to the part where she would assure me that I would never have to make this call again, I imagine all is still well. She said it was fixed. And, we all know, it is. I have confidence in Leslie. She is smart, has a sense of humor, and assured me she really didn’t understand why it wasn’t corrected from the beginning, but was now. It’s OK--at least until February. 

My frustration and loss is once again comforted. No, I didn’t miss a bus. And, truthfully, I have wasted more than an hour and a half playing Bejeweled, and such. I guess speaking with AT&T personnel isn’t any worse way to spend my time than video games. 

But, this loss is about losing confidence in the system, yearning for the days when customer service actually meant something. 

It's a loss to feel we are becoming just a number. It's a loss to realize we will never return to that feeling that we matter to these huge corporations. It really is loss, even if no one has died.

LOFT LIFE: Waxing nostalgic

I miss Philadelphia. I used to call it Philly until I heard someone on Internet radio announce that people from Philadelphia don’t call it Philly. Hmm. Well I do...er, did. Far be it from me, me who lived there from six years old till about thirty, to stray from the crowd. I also used to say S.L.O., for San Luis Obispo, which is now referred to as SLO, apparently because the college kids say it that way. It’s a trend that the under 30 crowd is now defining things, and we over 30s seem reluctant to challenge that. Maybe we fear earlier retirement, “rest homes,” and such. 

But, I digress.

I miss Phill...er...Philadelphia, so I listen to Philadelphia stations on the Internet just to reconnect. Hearing Dom Giordano mention hometown names, and frankly, just hearing the accent, brings a smile.

People from Philadelphia have a lot of things to connect on: Philly (hey, there it is) steaks, Lebanon bologna, shoo-fly pie--well those last two are really a bit of a stretch if you’re talking the City of Philadelphia, which none of us from the suburban areas ever are--scrapple (which I hate, but is still a memory), hoagies, and Tastykakes. Tastykakes, as we speak are endangered--financial woes so bad, and Tandy cakes, butterscotch krimpets and the like are so loved, that Philly talk show hosts have challenged listeners to buy up the yummy treats, deliver them to the station so they can be sent to the troops. I mean the governor wants to lend $1M to prolong the life of the Tasty Baking Company. There’s a call to action Facebook page...well, you get it. Philly Phans are stockpiling the little cakes, militant about this like all their favorite foods and the companies who produce them. Philadelphians connect on a level unlike many other places. 

I applied for a job in California in the ‘80s and I know I was hired because the manager was from Philly and we bonded immediately on that basis. I bought my Jaguar on EBay from a Massachusetts resident from Philadelphia, who upon hearing of our common ground was determined I should own his beloved racing green sedan. We still see him, and he runs out to greet me just to tell me another incident he has experienced in New England that “would never happen in Philadelphia.” Like the other day, someone on public transportation didn't offer a seat to an older lady. I had to chuckle. No amount of logic that maybe it’s just the new generation could convince him. "Philadelphians just wouldn’t do that," he insisted.

Prolly most of us Americans like connecting with people from our hometowns after we move away. But I have lived in a lot of towns, and none so far has shown me this kind of  strong family-like common bond.

It’s one of those cities that creates a small town atmosphere in a big city, which garners loyalty formed in small  groups, a device most organizations know produces strong bonds.

So even being away from Philly for the past few decades, and even though it is not the city of my birth, and though I only lived there for less than a quarter of my life--and counting, I love the place, miss it, and find it curious that the mere sound of a fellow Philadelphian pronouncing words like probably as prolly, and granted as granite, still makes me wax nostalgic for the City of Brotherly Love.

LOFT LIFE: LG

I’m fascinated with a company that calls itself LG, which I believe stands for Life is Good. For me, Life IS Good, not because of technology--of course I do like tech stuff--but because God is Good, and I'm truly enjoying my life here on earth, with my dear husband, my wonderful children, and lately the leisure and wherewithal to travel, even to local destinations.

We're taking quite a few weekend trips (at least monthly, sometimes more) to some new areas, and returning to some of our very favorite new places:

Mystic: We love Mystic. Not just for its pizza, which is, by the way, very good. We originally found our way to “the pizza that made the movie famous” on my birthday two summers ago, when Jay surprised me with a dinner date there. Ever since, the eatery has been a regular on trips there, along with great bakeries like Bartleby's, and The Blue Squid and Village Beanery we found in the Olde Mystick Village, plus, of course, great seafood clam and crab shacks, like Ten Clams in Olde Mystick and The Cove. If you haven't yet had whole belly fried clams, that has to go on your bucket list.

But Mystic offers so much more, and more than two people could possibly undertake in one weekend trip. So on our several trips there, we have explored the Maritime Studies center at the Williams-Mystic college, where even a walk around is quite enjoyable with its sprawling campus and visible oceanic scenery--breathtaking.

We love combing through the antique shops and the favorite is a thrift store for nautical items, close to downtown, where Jay picked up a ship’s barometer that he loves so much, and where we watched shoppers discuss ocean conditions and weather with the shopkeepers, who seem more likely to engage with locals than shoppers.

We joined Mystic Seaport this year, and have been there twice to board the last wooden whaling ship, the Charles W. Morgan, which Jay again absolutely loves. Though my hubby is a motorcycle man, and you couldn’t get him to “be” a whaler man, he does so enjoy seeing all about it and reading nautical books. Our friend Hewitt Schlereth has penned many books on celestial navigation, and our sailing friends, Larry and Pam in Huntington Beach, CA have all contributed to our fascination with the sea and all things nautical.

Our B&B experience at Pequot Hotel Bed & Breakfast in Mystic with Innkeepers, Jim and Nancy Mitchell, was a treat also, where their historic home was beautiful and they welcomed us like old friends--which I think we may become if we stay there a couple more times. Nancy was a flight attendant and Jim is an engineer, so travel and engineering are grand topics of conversation. They have a barkless dog, and we enjoyed a “pet” someone else cares for. 

We take some trips to Foxwoods, for a few slots, but also concerts and gelato, the Mac Store, and other shops, and also to Mohegan Sun, where the Irish pub, The Dubliner, there has become a destination even with no slots. They sent us a $15 coupon which we will surely enjoy. I tried to convince the managers that Irish beer is the “domestic” one and should be the cheaper, and the American beers are the foreigners, and though they agreed and got my humor, they still charged it up the other way. Even Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napoletana famous for his clam pizza has found its way to Mohegan, so really, even for just dining, it is a great place to visit. 

On Thanksgiving we sauntered up to the Lamb Buttery in Brooklyn, CT, where we had a hayride with a song leader, a lovely lamb dinner with all the trimmings. Turkey was an option, but lamb will always win out with me. This dinner-theatre is the former home of the Booth family, founders of the Salvation Army. They also do madrigal dinners, and other musicals. As my daughter pointed out, it’s the New Yorker destination to the country where culture is still offered, but in a rustic environs. Pricey but fun. Maybe a just a tad too pricey once we do wine, cider, tax and tips, which almost doubled the already steep ticket.


Speaking of cider, one other great visit in Mystic, we toured B.F. Clyde's, the oldest steam powered cider mill in the United States, since1881, we not only could watch the cider being made from thousands of apples of many varieties, we also, not to sound like boozers, with Irish beer, Sam Adams, and now cider wine, had to buy some of the exciting apple and cranberry wines in the gift shop, which also make great hostess gifts.

Christmas week, we will do the aquarium and we look forward to the seasonal exhibits, especially the jellyfish and the Beluga whales. We tend to join things so we cause ourselves to return more often. So far in Mystic, it is the Seaport and the Aquarium, the cider mill, and seafood, but we've not finished with Mystic yet.


Christmas week this year also took us to Stockbridge, MA to see the Norman Rockwell museum, which was a lot of fun. They were expecting 20 inches of snow, so we left early, not worrying about missing the whole basement of Saturday Evening Post covers, because as members, we will, God willing, return. Plus membership here gets us invites to a lot of events and parties. What’s not to love? We also stopped in at Prime Outlets in Lee, MA for a shopping spree, spending only a third of what a trip to New York City would have cost us.

Several fall trips now, we toured the Berkshires, but the first year, we made it to Jiminy Peak in the Appalachians just too late for fall foliage, but still a blast. We realized when we made it to Lake George that these things are very close to each other. Now we just need to find out what is in Albany, where West Point is, and when the race track at Sarasota opens. Ha ha. Not kidding. We think that too would be a lot of fun.

On my birthday last year, we did the Berkshire theatre scene, and enjoyed Bernstein’s Candide, in good form at this highbrow summer stock location. Then we gorged on meat at the local steakhouse and really contemplated how understandable it is for New Yorkers to have their outpost residences in places like this.


Yankee Candle shop and factory in Deerfield, MA has a great Christmas shop that is, year round. But at Christmas the candles are on sale, and we scurried around stuffing our cart with many goodies for friends, family, and US. We visited there with our dear friends Bill and Mary early in December, and they knew just what we should see, including waiting for "fake" snowfall at one room's decorations.


On our way back, we visited Northampton (known to the locals as "Hamp" for music, Southampton for pizza and used books, and realized these Hamps could use up more than a day all by themselves.

Our trip to Newport, Rhode Island to see our friend Andi run her full marathon, was also a lot of fun. We hadn’t crossed that BIG bridge (you all know how I LOVE bridges--see Finding My Way), but I was almost calm with Jay’s competent driving and his actual LOVE of bridges. Since Newport was so much fun, we returned to Coventry, close by, but not across the bridge. Actually, we are still using Marriott points for some trips, but this Fairfield is so reasonably priced for seniors, we will pay, get more points, and still be only a half hour from Mystic, Foxwoods, Mohegan Sun and Newport, each. 

This is why we love New England. Nothing is more than 2 hours away, and most things are reasonably priced and really provide a lot of entertainment for the money.

I give all these details to you all, because most people come here and think they need to get to Boston or New York for finding anything worth doing. Okay, I do admit that I am among those who love New York with its endless cultural opportunities, and its easy access to more than one mere mortal could do in any weekend. But, my new home area, though not as vast as New York, is indeed a worthy destination. We have found so much here, we can’t really do it all, so we still haven’t made it to New York City.

We have made it to Boston, one weekend for the Freedom Trail, where we learned more about Jay's ancestor, Billy Dawes, who rode another way from Paul Revere, and as family legend has it, got though to warn of British soldiers because he pretended to be drunk so they let him pass through. Another weekend we did a brewery run at Anheuser-Busch in Merrimack, New Hampshire, and then on to the Sam Adams brewery in Boston, where when you call for directions, they, half jokingly say, “Congratulations on thinking you can find us by car.” They weren’t kidding. We got so lost, but laughed ourselves silly at the warning, even before imbibing beer samples. We really must check out Boston again, to see if Brew Moon is still there in the theatre district near Boston Common. And, yes, someday, hopefully soon, after we save up the $1000 it will take to stay overnight, eat well, and attend a couple of great events, we will make it to New York.

Until then, we will continue to explore our own area, and we have only just begun. New England is LG for sure. And, we thank God for every day of our loft life and our wonderland surroundings. 

LOFT LIFE: Addicted to friendship

When I was 12 years old, a new girl moved into the house catty-corner to mine. I took the first opportunity to greet her, say welcome, and went a bit farther in stating that since she was new, and probably didn’t know anyone, I would be happy to be her friend.

Her response: “That’s weird.”

Okay, so she didn’t appreciate my bold beginning. I guess that’s when I learned that people need you to walk them into things gradually, like in The Little Prince, where he learns that even though he wants to befriend the fox, he has to tame him first. Seems like a lot of energy for what you know is a done deal, but then, socialization has always been my weak area.

So I haven’t repeated that social faux pas in 50 years, dutifully taking the time to behave as though we have to do the taming thing. Until this fall. That’s when I met Sue T. at a trade show booth in Hartford, CT. My instantaneous intuitive assurance that this was going to be a good friend took over.

Strangely, we had booked a weekend in the Lake George area, and the only room available in the Lake George area in order to attend a Christian conference my husband found out about. The problem was, I read the reviews for this motel, and the reviewers said it was dirty, smokey, and “don’t stay there.” Ick. So I was reluctant until discovering the Lake George booth at the expo. The Lake George booth was the ONLY tourism booth at this trade show. Now tell me THAT is a coincidence!

So for some unknown reason--ok, it is a known reason for anyone who truly knows me and my wild intuitions--I said to this perfectly normal looking woman--”Hey, haven’t you always wanted to have a B&B?”

She looked a bit shocked, and then admitted that she really had thought about it. I wasn't shocked at all. As I said, I am intuitive. In the Myers-Briggs thingy, I am one BIG "N" (intuitive). The other areas pale in comparison to my somewhat mystical (Christian) awareness of the spiritual.

“Well,” said I, “this is your chance to try it out. Why don’t we pay you instead of this horrible motel, and we could stay at your house.”

“I don’t think so,” she replied, a bit taken back.

“But, really, it would only be sleeping there. We will be at this conference all  day and most of the evening--and it’s only for three days.”

She was silent.''


I suppose caution is necessary. I mean, there are axe murderers and such out there. So I in no way begrudge the hesitation, even though I knew she knew this was an intriguing, and positive, offer. I thought I would help.

“Do you pray?” I asked

“Um, my husband does,” she answered. And there was more discussion about the merits of Promise Keepers for our men, because it was that org that got her husband and mine praying regularly.

“Well, here is my card. Why don’t you ask him to pray about it, and get back to me. Oh, and would there be breakfast too?” I pushed, chuckling to myself that even I really could see how strange this sounded.

About a week later, after what I suspect was much churning, and maybe some praying, I got a lovely email telling me that she had a gut feeling this could be OK and that we could, indeed, stay with her family, in the spare room.

Wow. I was a tad uncomfortable that my nudging had really resulted in affirmation, but I, like her, had a gut feeling. This was a person I could relate to, and she was someone I really saw as becoming a long-term friend. And, she reads my blog. And, she LOVES making breakfast.

So we stayed, and upon arrival, I think there was an appraisal by Sue's husband and son that perhaps we weren't axe murderers, even though this request was a bit scary in this strange world of ours. It was a lovely two nights with amazing breakfasts--better than at most B&B's, made with such TLC that I know this will not be the end of Sue's breakfast culinary career.


We had a lovely weekend at the conference, but truthfully, I was more excited about finding Sue and her family than the messages, albeit inspiring, at the conference.


Sue and I have become correspondent friends. I don’t know if I will ever actually see her again, but I hope so. She is a fabulous cook, and I suspect that a little encouragement will find her doing what she loves--cooking for people and sharing her talent for seeing the exceptional in the ordinary, which she applies with flair in the kitchen and on the domestic front.

“You could be the next Rachael Ray,” I encouraged.

“I was thinking more, Martha,” she said.

I guess that says it all. Deep down inside she knows she is destined to share her homemaking talents with many. I hope I have been a catalyst to get her moving sooner in that direction. That’s what friends do. What a trip!

LOFT LIFE: I am loved, or Count your many blessings

It’s the little things that count when I add up life’s bounty. Maybe it’s because I discovered, after reading Gary Chapman’s book The 5 Love Languages, that my love language is gifts. 

That’s the one where it’s not the size or dollar value of the gift that matters, but the fact that someone thought enough of me during their travels, or their day shopping, or their work day, or their drive home, or whatever, to remember some little memento of their love for me.

I think God knows this is my love language, because He is constantly remembering the tiniest things I need, or care about, even my whims--like the boxing trainer I’ve already told you about here on Spinning.

There are a lifetime of things to recount, but I’ll tell you a score of them, because maybe it will encourage you to see that you, too, are loved.

For starters, I was big time stressed out over seeing a periodontal specialist. But, there was no need for worry. Not only was my specialist really smart, and trained by the very best at NYU, he’s also from my hometown, Philadelphia, and he believes in miracles. ‘Nuf said.

Then there was my arrival too early at The Clocktower inRockford, where I decided to use the wireless in the lobby. I did, but also got to see an old friend, and she sweetly made me a cup of coffee--the good kind the employees get--which I was just wishing for. Amazing. This is the same lobby where I was forced to walk to a farther away ladies room, only to find a computer and printer on my way back to catch the bus to the airport, and where I printed out my boarding pass which saved me the ten minutes I ended up needing not to miss my plane. Great lobby.

I’m thankful for friends in so many places--as far away as Spain, old friends in California, Philadelphia, Florida, Illinois, Wisconsin, New York, New Jersey, Minnesota, and now so many wonderful new friends in Connecticut and Massachusetts. (and if you are my friend in a state I didn’t mention--you too!!)

I feel pampered, loved and richly blessed by God and all of you!

LOFT LIFE: Light green

I have to admit, buying my new recycled stainless steel kitchen utensils, responsibly manufactured from countries around the world, and providing a safe and healthy (it’s really healthful folks) environment, fair labor practices, and environmental protection for those who want to live sustainably (no kidding, this was all on the label) all tied up in those cute little pieces of hemp twine looped through the utensil hanger holes, felt good. I like the little twine especially.

Truthfully, I don’t think much about being green, living sustainably and making sure everything I buy is tied to fair labor practices. I mean, it’s not that I’m into destroying the planet or littering, or not supporting farmers or anything. I just use common sense. And, as we’ve already established, I’m a conservative, in most senses of the word, and especially re-using things, and not wanting to overspend, and getting as much out of a purchase as possible.

But, I guess I am kind of light green when it comes to being militant about this green, saving the planet stuff. I do not think there is anything we can do about any sort of planet warming, and I believe the so-called “research” has been research by press release, mostly for the gain of certain politicians who have hugely profited over the scare.

It is Biblically prophesied that our planet will someday burn up. So, sorry guys, but there you have it. I seriously doubt you can stop that merely by discarding your plastic in the right bin. And, again, I'm not against doing that. I do it. But, it won't SAVE the planet. Only God can do that, and He has actually given us the blueprint for that, which I don't believe included recycling. I don't think He's against recycling either. He just doesn't save us like that.

On the other hand, why not get into “natural” fibers, instead of manufactured synthetics? It just feels better. Who wouldn’t rather untie a very attractive hemp cord from new utensils than some plastic wirey tie thingy!!

So, I’m not lobbying for anything here. Just use your own common sense, enjoy the earth, while it lasts, and if it makes you feel better to swing your dollars toward helping farmers in Central America or something, or, hey, even farmers in North America--do it! We all live here, and we can all benefit from anything that makes life prettier, cleaner, and longer lasting.

LOFT LIFE: Is it just me?

I am unnerved. Maybe it’s October, the month of witches and devils. I always try to find something in October to distract my consciousness from those spirits that invade my calm. They are there you know. Whether you believe in them or not, they are still real.

Anyway, I am always a little edgier in October. I feel like something is going to happen; something feels weird.

I try to put even more into my mind that is edifying than on other months. Lately I’ve been reading about holiness, about how our hearts can be made of stone or flesh, depending on where we are with God. That can be a comfort or a concern. 

Anyway, whenever I get serious about focusing on God and His kingdom, good things start to happen. 

Like this is the month I have gotten to know my new friend Melvin. He is 26, smart, handsome, and ready to invest his life in  building a fortune. He believes our meeting was Providential, and so do I. We are talking about doing businesses together--land, properties, and other entrepreneurial enterprises. 

That is exciting.

Melvin is teaching me about currency trading. This isn’t easy for me to wrap my brain around, but it is exciting to keep learning.

This is also the month my husband and I have begun learning Italian at Adult Ed in our town’s high school evening class. What fun!

So, now I am thinking: if this is working so well in October, why don’t I do this all the time? Melvin has somehow kick started my self-discipline. I play cards less often, Bejeweled less often (and we all know how hard that is to give up), and I am reading more, praying more, thinking more.

Maybe it’s just me, but if this is what happens when I reach October’s occult  pull and seek to make something good of it, then let’s make every month like October!