Been thinking about Mom this week. Hard to believe she’s been gone since 2004. Where did those 16 years go? She died when she was 77, following her third bout with non-Hodgkins lymphoma. Ugh. Awful. My sister Mona died two years ago when she was 75. As I zip towards my milestone birthday of 70, I ponder my own longevity because the numbers are not encouraging for the females of my family. Looks like 76 might be a done deal for me. Dad made it to 91. Can’t factor Larry in this equation because he was killed when he was 12. Hmmm.

So my complicated mom. She was a loner, but friendly. Kept her problems (and grief) to herself. Had a difficult time letting acquaintances become something more in her life. Her inner circle was the same size as mine apparently. Minuscule. She was overly kind and compassionate to the elderly, they were her people. She doted on them her entire life. Mom’s mom died before she and her twin brother were 2 weeks old. Perhaps being raised by two sets of grandparents set the tone in her life at an early age.

I remember this particular Sunday as though it were yesterday. I’m snuggled up on Mom’s right at Calvin Christian Reformed Church for morning services in the mid-1950’s. We kind of had our own ‘pew’ area. Looking from the Narthex, on the left side, a few rows from the back. After we left Calvin and joined rival First Reformed in 1961, (insisted by me, an 11 year old brat) Mom and Dad chose the same general vicinity they would call their pew home for the next 50 years.

Mom (gloves included), Mona, Ed & Dad, Calvin Christian Reformed, 1960

Why do people gravitate towards a certain area in the sanctuary week after week, year after year? Something familiar that is a comfort to them? The same folks sitting nearby? I think my parent’s decision to always sit in the same area was based on Dad finding us amongst that big congregation. He was voted as an elder multiple times and the Consistory met for a few minutes before the morning service. By then, Mom and I had been seated for several (long, very long) minutes. If we were always within a row or 2, with Mom posted in the aisle seat, (waiting to move over when the elder arrived) Dad could easily spot us. Here we lived 3 blocks from church yet Dad insisted we arrive before 9 am when church didn’t start for another 30 minutes. Even back then, I understood their reasoning, but wasn’t crazy about sitting quietly for an extra half hour.

Mom rarely carried a purse but had her own version of toting essential items to church. Dad kept our weekly monetary gift in our family’s numbered church envelope, secure in the inside pocket of his suit coat. He would often hand me some loose coins before the deacons got to our row to add to the collection plate. The rules for this were explained beforehand. “Don’t you dare throw the change in and make a lot of noise.”

Mom’s wearing a pretty dress, modest length below the knee, nylons with a dark seam down the middle of the back of her leg. (girdle too, what a struggle on Sundays, although it was pretty funny to watch her gyrate around their bedroom, trying to tug it on. I think it was made of flubber. Vowed at a very young age never to put myself through that miserable ordeal-even for God. I would soon become less than enthralled with skirts/dresses/nylons/garter belt/heels in general). Then Mom would add clip on earrings, maybe a necklace and high heels, pulling the whole ensemble together. Making her even/steven or a titch taller than 6 foot Dad.

She would have shopped for the dress in Sioux Falls, (probably Shriver’s) hoping (praying fervently) no one else in the congregation had picked out the same lovely frock because that would definitely put a damper on the service. She never wanted to see the same outfit she bought (or wearing at the time) on someone else, especially someone she knew and attending the same service. If that happened, she would be less inclined to ever wear that particular dress to church again. I never thought of Mom as remotely vain though she might have been about her Sunday wardrobe.

If it wasn’t hellfire hot she’d be wearing a pair of short gloves, perhaps a hat, but on this day in my memory bank it was stifling in church. Benout. Dutch word for hot, humid, airless. She was holding 2 items in her hand. One was a freshly laundered, crisply ironed, sparkling white handkerchief which was beautifully bordered with colorful tatting. One corner of the hankie bulged out with a large, loose knot securing a couple of pink peppermints inside. Not the white ones, they were too strong and minty. The pink ones were perfect. They were not shared nilly-willy with her youngest child just yet. The peppermints were doled out as a distraction during the lengthy sermon/scripture/prayer part of the church service. And I was forewarned before getting out of the car to suck on the peppermint, not to bite it, disintegrating it in less than 30 seconds.

I was fascinated with the object in her lap at the moment, since the peppermints were off my snack list for the time being. In her hand rested a lavender patterned metal object about the length of a teaspoon and not very wide. There was a seam down the middle. Although both ends were closed, one end was clasped together and could be separated. When unhinged and spread apart a thin pleated accordion type colorful paper appeared, making the perfect Sunday-go-to-meetin’ fan. To aid in drying up any perspiration that might appear on Mom’s scorching forehead, rendering it shiny from her face powder, which had melted away in the heat. Although she wouldn’t let me play with the fan, (I would have wrecked it in a New York minute. What fun) there was an added bonus. When the heat became unbearable, (usually just before the long prayer) she’d open up her magical fan as unobtrusively as humanly possible and start waving her right hand, causing quite a stir. Like manna from heaven the air surrounding Mom and her unruly child would instantly drop a couple degrees. Actually caused a sigh of relief.

I’m constantly amazed at the obscure memories that niggle their way in when I’m thinking of Mom. Something I hadn’t thought about in ages. Our first church. Mom wearing fancy dresses that she prayed were not duplicated. Dad with the collection envelope in his jacket pocket. A precious, purple magical fan that cooled us on a sweltering hot Sunday morning. Extremely long prayers which meant sucking (not chewing) pink peppermints…

I’m not someone who’s glued to their TV. Except for 30 years of afternoon Cubs games, I’ve not watched daytime TV since some racy soaps during the 70’s. I’m particular about the shows I watch and tend to be very loyal to the series which I’ve become attached. There’s a period of mourning when something I’ve invested time in gets cancelled. Certain characters I’ve grown fond of and not ready to have them jerked from my life without prior knowledge or consent. It would be infinitely better for the networks to call me before chopping one of my favorites.

Most of the time I’d rather be reading or writing than watching TV. Still Hubs and I can usually be found after supper, hunkered down in our comfortable Lazy Boy recliners, (don’t even think about sitting in my chair-we’re not savages) doling out oral arguments on why one program is more worthy of our time than another at that given moment. We record everything so we can zip through the commercials (there are a few commercials I recall seeing through the fast forward blur for months and wondering what they were actually hawking) Sometimes Hubs asks which program I want to watch, other nights he just pushes play on one of his preferences.

There’s about 40 shows on our priority recording list, which are broadcast during different times/seasons throughout the year (not at all like when I was a kid. You missed your favorite program any week on one of the three (yes 3) networks, you were out of luck unless you caught the reruns during the summer. Who had time for TV when the weather was perfect? Then again most network shows ran from September to May, with breaks for Christmas specials, so maybe 25 or more episodes a year. None of this 8-15 shows a season, which is why you grew to love the characters so much. They were a bigger part of our lives.

Of these 40 I’m partial to a dozen. I refuse to give one minute of my valuable time (hahaha) to several on our recording list. Anything involving Oak Island, gold under the Great Lakes, digging for gold in Alaska, Australia or the Bering Sea, fishing for tuna, king crab or minnows, any talent show, Alaskan pioneers or people from the backwoods/swamp shooting gators. I have zero interest and will not be coerced. I have standards. Not all that high, but still.

There’s something comforting about watching a favorite series from year to year. You dread/anticipate the season ending cliffhanger because one of the show’s regulars may not make it. A couple of times losing one of the stars has been a dealbreaker for me and I stopped watching-cold turkey. No regrets. The one that pops in my head right now is Glenn from The Walking Dead. When Neagan smashed him to smithereens using Lucille, I said, “I’m done,” and walked out of the room. Haven’t watched a minute of the series since and I’m still ok with that decision.

Those season finales linger for months and keep me wondering how it’s going to turn out when the new season returns. Almost every regular cast member’s life was hanging in the balance on the last episode of Yellowstone when it aired a couple months ago, which has me worried about the longevity of my viewing pleasure should one or two of my favorites bite the dust. My saving grace has been that Rip appeared unharmed, which awarded me some sense of peace this fall, while impatiently waiting for next summer.

Just read in my new TV guide (yeah, it’s still a thing) one of my favorite shows in their rookie season has been cancelled after they renewed it in May. Butthead network. It was called Stumptown and I loved every character. So was Bluff City Law, dang. And my favorite doc, Neil Melendez on The Good Doctor, (Sorry Shaun) croaked in the last few minutes. What about Max Goodwin and Helen Sharpe? Will they ever get together on New Amsterdam?

Things other folks do throughout the year seem to hold very little appeal for us. One is watching old series like Gunsmoke, Golden Girls, Hill Street Blues. Once in a while Hubs will try one like The Lone Ranger, which I find hysterical. Their clothes are immaculate after riding for hours and rolling around in the dirt. Nary a scratch/bruise on their clean faces after a fistfight. I just can’t. Hubs recently added The Honeymooners to our watch list. I couldn’t finish one episode. Jackie Gleason was mean and a bully, at least in the beginning. After belittling Alice for every conceivable thing under the sun for 10 minutes, he says, “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.” That’s it. No, you’re an abusive asshole. Again, I just can’t.

The other thing is binge watching. The closest we’ve ever come are a couple series on Amazon like Jack Ryan which I think was offered all at once. You could watch/binge as fast or slow as you wanted. All these new series like Hanna, Bosch, Goliath, For all Mankind, Ted Lasso, The Widow, The Boys, The Morning Show are limited and have only about 8-10 episodes per season, which appeal to bigger stars because they’re not in a long, time consuming commitment. I think we watched all 8 measly episodes of Jack Ryan within a couple weeks for the first 2 seasons. But I do better with the standard weekly premise. Stretch it out.

Until the pandemic roared into our lives.

Like the rest of the country, early this spring, Hollywood shut down (now if they would just shut up). Some series didn’t have a season finale, they just sort of stopped. And the series which normally carried us through like Suits, The Mayans, Queen of the South, (I’m dying here-has my favorite dude James been resurrected to protect/love Teresa Mendoza after being AWOL last season? Definitely saw his handsome mug during the season finale for 2 seconds) but the summer fillers haven’t returned to the lineup either.

So I get these regular emails from Amazon Prime and Apple TV, letting me know what’s on that might pique my interest in returning hits or new series, plus movies galore, some free, some pricey. I noticed one that did pique, mostly because 5 seasons were included in Prime. We were hooked after the first episode. It’s called Chicago PD and premiered in early 2015 for 15 weeks. An ensemble cast in the intelligence unit who take on special cases in that crime ridden city. Led by Sargent Hank Voight, part criminal/part softie/full of empathy.

We watched 2 or 3 episodes a night for about 6 weeks, and didn’t want season 5 to come to a close. I guess as far as the real definition of bingeing, it wasn’t like we watched an entire season a night, but by our standards this was a very different way for us to watch TV. We’d look at our watch list or what we’d recorded, then just mosey over to Chicago PD, night after night.

Spoiler alert! Watching 5 seasons in 6 days or 6 weeks does not have the same affect on viewers (at least this one) as watching this series from January, 2015 to present. I’m just not as invested in the characters like I would be over the course of 5 years as opposed to 5 weeks. When Erin Lindsey left at the end of season 4, I shed no tears. (Probably my fault but her voice drove me bonkers. Big hearing loss here). No matter how far I turned up the volume on my cordless headphones, I always missed some of her dialogue because of her annoying, whispery voice.

However when Al (Elias Koteas) got shanked at the end of season 5, I felt really bad because he was such a neat character (plus Hank’s best friend/partner in crime with just as much empathy and very appealing). But had I watched detective Alvin Olinsky over the course of 5 long seasons with months in between the start of the next one, I would have been shattered for days about his death, not minutes. Dude I only knew and loved you for a couple weeks. Apologies.

Now we’re in a pickle because season 8 of Chicago PD is about to start, but I want to see seasons 6 & 7 first, yet not pay for every episode or stream it on my dinky iPad. What to do, what to do? Well I used some of my newly honed detective skills acquired during this binge fest to discover USA network plays Chicago PD continuously a couple days a week. I jotted down season 6 and 7 episode titles and have found at least half of them are on this week. They’re not all in the right order and include commercials but we will be caught up before much longer.

As far as binge watching goes, we just might be too old to adjust to this new fangled format. Too set in our ways and unwilling to change. However, the pandemic did get us to semi-binge and we found a new favorite show in the process. There’s that…

The kid packed a lot of life into 12 years, 2 months and 17 days. I’m on the cusp of observing my 70th birthday, yet he was awarded a mere 12 birthday celebrations here on earth. Wasn’t fair. Even worse, I was 4-1/2 years younger than him so I got shortchanged. The rest of the family had him longer than me, his biggest fan. I missed so much of his tragically short life.

The house where I hatched (youngest of 3) was on the west edge of town. Not a lot of homes or kids, so many days I followed him from sun up until the lightening bugs did their ritual dance in our backyard at dusk. He didn’t complain about his bratty little sister stalking him. He was my protector, advocate, friend and the boy who stopped me from eating rabbit turds beneath their cage when I was not yet 2 because someone convinced me they were raisins.

Because he was older, after we moved near the heart of Rock Valley’s downtown area, he could go farther from home with his friends, be away longer and stay out later. Trips to the sandpit, shooting his BB gun at the dump, exploring the Rock River, bike rides out in the country to look for wildlife, find new places to catch pigeons while I was not yet in school. Still, he often had friends over to our house (backyard usually). Our long driveway was mostly hardened pea gravel, with a few blades of grass and weeds in the center where no tires tread. Which made a perfect spot for shooting a game of marbles. I never understood the game, but Larry was a great southpaw shooting marbles. I watched him and his friends from the living room window, teasing and arguing as coveted marbles moved from one player to another.

After he died Mom would periodically take out Larry’s marbles and other mementoes. I think it was one way of keeping his memory close to us. We’d hold the marbles, remembering ones that were his favorites. His marbles were in a large tin can with a lid. I don’t remember if it was an old coffee can but it was heavy. Shooters, cats eyes, agates, clearies, pearlies. I believe Mom gave away his marbles, comic books and baseball cards. I imagine the cards (and comic books) would fetch some serious cash now, sporting baseball players from the 1950’s. Wish I had some displayed in my antique bookcase where I keep the things that were important to him. When Mom passed away I brought Larry’s clothes, trinkets, billfold, (filled with classmates school pictures), his baseball glove and BB gun home with me.

Larry borrowed my bike on that beautiful fall Saturday morning, because it had a basket. As he was peddling away from our house, he turned and yelled, assuring me he would give me a dime (and a surprise) when he got back for letting him use my bike. (He never made it home).

He was hauling some stuff he bought from town to our grandparent’s house on highway 18. Highway 18 was a wicked stretch of road. Why someone would design highway roads with added curbs was puzzling. In this case, deadly. I’ve heard many renditions of Larry’s accident. The version always given to me by my parents was a car’s tire caught that curb, which made the car swerve up on the shoulder where Larry was riding, striking him and killing him instantly. Flung far from Larry’s lifeless body was my broken bike with a caramel apple near it (my surprise for him using my bike).

Though I was not yet 8, there are many things about Larry which remain crystal clear to this day. I remember how he talked. He always called mom Mother but couldn’t pronounce his r’s, so it come out like ‘mu-tha,’ or quarter rolled off his tongue like ‘quaw-ta.’ Larry picked out and brought our Christmas tree home after we moved. I believe there were fresh trees for sale near the Western Auto across from Koster’s grocery store. For Christmas one year he bought Mom (mu-tha) an 8 inch frying pan and lid from money he earned catching and selling pigeons. That pan was her pride and joy for years, even after the black composite handle fell off in chunks leaving bare metal, which got hotter than a pistol, so you had to use pot holders all the time. She always made our popcorn in that pan, shaking it back and forth over the gas burner, dividing it up in bowls, then melting real butter in the pan for our popcorn topping.

I can still picture him and dad in the backyard playing catch. Larry was the only lefty in our family and it looked odd to have him throw left handed and wear his glove on his right. He was crazy about our mutt, Spitzy and the feeling was mutual. Larry was the only one who slept downstairs, so Spitzy stayed with him at night.

He would take a couple of his baseball cards and attach them to the bicycle frame next to the spokes (with a clothes pin)? so it made this clicking noise. All the boys did it. (Hope it wasn’t a Mickey Mantle rookie). There were days we ‘went to town’ together after school, stopping at the dime store to buy candy, doled out by weight on a scale. We each got a good sized bag of Malt balls, chocolate covered peanuts or chocolate stars for a nickel.

But there are some things about Larry which I no longer remember either. For the life of me, I can’t picture him eating at our supper table. (Our family sat down for supper together every night). I want to see him eating left handed so bad, but it’s just not there. After I started school, I don’t remember walking to school with him ever. I only went for half days during kindergarten and I can remember walking with 2 neighbor boys, Arlyn and Gary but never Larry. I think he probably rode his bike.

So some memories of Larry remain fresh while others remain just out of my grasp. While he wasn’t a part of my life for very long, he left a lasting impression. I miss him still-even more on the day of his death-62 years later…

You ever feel like a segment of your life passed before your eyes and you didn’t even get a chance to blink? For me that swath of time lasted almost 2 decades. Holy Rip Van Winkle. Oh I was there for those 20 years and busier than a one-armed-paper-hanger. From approximately 1980-2000 it’s safe to say, I missed a lot of stuff. Too busy with motherhood mostly. Our completed family numbered 5, resulting with two harried parents who were now in the minority. Yikes! For this unorganized gal, my job was time consuming. Hauling kids around, doctors, sports, and never ending meal planning, cooking for appetites which were never sated.

During my 20 year time-out from what was going on in the rest of the world, all subjects-politics, wars, price of gas, celebrity marriages, fashion, took second fiddle because I was consumed with performing a decent rendition of raising 3 kids. But 20 plus years after the last kid headed for college, one of the things I missed the most during those busy years-was music.

I grew up on music. No kid in their formative teens (during the 1960’s) can say music wasn’t a huge part of their lives. Best music era ever. The Beatles, Beach Boys, The Doors, Rolling Stones, The Who, The Kinks, CCR, Simon & Garfunkel, Mamas & the Papas, Neil Diamond, Johnny Cash, Glen Campbell, Elvis, Roy Orbison, Aretha, Sonny & Cher. The list was endless. Yet ‘new’ music and groups were the first thing eliminated when I was pushed for time.

What was the catalyst that ‘woke’ me from my music malaise? There were 2. First I started walking in early 1998 to help with my diet and general health. Walking became a healthy habit-ok-obsession. At the time I was loathe to admit it, but all of my favorite songs from the 60’s-70’s had me bleary eyed and bored to tears. Simply heard them way too many times. I needed a kickstart. And there he was, my middle kid, Joshua swooping in for the rescue. Pretty sure I was still using a cassette player but would soon move to the next level of fine-tune listening-the iPod. Josh made tapes of singers and groups I’d never heard of. He knew the most important feature was a great beat to keep my feet (and butt) moving. Then he set me up to discover hip-hop and buy my own walking music.

Maybe I didn’t prioritize the time for new groups and songs because I became totally enamored with the Chicago Cubs in the early 80’s. We were living in Davenport (160 miles from Chicago) and one of my friends in town had grown up with the lovable losers from Chicago’s Northside. I’d like to believe when I became a diehard fan their luck changed for the better. Sandberg, Sutcliffe, Smith, Davis, Denier, Sanderson, Eckersley, Grace, Trout, Matthews, Moorland would win the National league’s Central division a couple times during the 80’s and should have played in the ’84 World Series against the Tigers. Guess I wasn’t the muse I thought huh?

Mary Ellen’s daughter lived in Chicago so we attended several games every summer because we stayed at Laurie’s place. (We always did projects for her, painting or refinishing antiques for her apartment). Good times. Those fabulous day games at Wrigley Field came flooding back to me this week as a side note to my niece Kelli’s husband’s post about the death of Eddie Van Halen. (Jason was an ardent fan). Van Halen was huge when music was not in my life. How could have I missed pertinent tidbits about Eddie through the years? He’s Dutch. I’m Dutch. Goodness, he was born in Amsterdam when I was 5 years old. I should have been a big fan, but was too busy with homework, meals, laundry and baths. I knew he was married to Valerie Bertinelli and they had a kid named Wolfgang. I remember reading when Eddie was diagnosed with throat cancer quite a few years ago.

But the real trigger for Van Halen with me was our Cubs connection. You could count on the beautiful ivy in Wrigley’s outfield, Wayne Mesmer singing the National Anthem, Milo Hamilton, Harry Caray, Steve Stone, Lou Boudreau, Dwayne Staats and Vince Lloyd up in the TV/radio booths. Just before the starting lineup was announced, Van Halen’s “Jump” could be heard throughout the city of Chicago. When I commented on Jason’s, Van Halen post I said it was the Cub’s theme song during the mid 80’s for years to come. But after I wrote that I thought, no I think it was WGN’s theme song when they broadcasted the Cubs games.

I didn’t know squat about Van Halen. Missed the revolving door of lead singers Hager and Roth and whoever else might have been in the group during their peak years. I have had “Jump” in my musical library since I started buying songs and always have it on one of my playlists. Whenever that catchy synthesizer beat begins, I smile and belt it out with Van Halen!

I get up, and nothin gets me down, you got it tough, I’ve seen the toughest around.

And I know baby just how you feel, you’ve got to roll with the punches and get to what’s real.

Ah, can’t you see me standing here, I got my back against the record machine

I ain’t the worst that you’ve seen, can’t you see what I mean?

Might as well jump, (jump), might as well jump. Go ahead and jump, (jump) go ahead and jump.

Eddie Van Halen, you still rock…

You’d be hard pressed to hear me criticize McDonald’s. (Who’s got the best fries, right)? Wasn’t crazy about the giant corporation, but I worked for a fabulous owner/operator for several years. I’ve blogged about both the job and ‘da owner, so I won’t rehash that story. Suffice it to say it was great working for him. I was just a lowly crew person but I loved it. If you wanna catch up on the years I was with McDonald’s, here ‘ya go. http://dvb517.blogspot.com/2014/08/the-boss.html

A couple weeks ago I wrote about some of the odd adventures on my (mostly fabulous) walking path I utilize everyday. My biggest concerns are stones that find their way on the blacktop path from the road’s shoulder, where I have the unlucky knack of placing one foot or the other in exactly the wrong spot resulting in a nasty spill. I use a walking stick which helps, but I’m constantly watching the path right in front of me to ensure I make it back home sans injuries for another day. Another dicey concern is how close the walking path is to the road at times, which is busy with distracted drivers and has a speed limit of 50.

A couple days after posting that story, I was on the last leg of my walk (3/4 mile from home) when I heard sirens. I’m profoundly deaf so I’m listening to funky music through headphones which are pretty jacked up. (I’ve tried several varieties of ear buds. I hear nothing through the left one and the sound in my right ear is like someone provided me with with a string and 2 cans. One can is at the bottom of the pond and the other is hooked over my ear. Tinny, muffled, garbled are all appropriate adjectives that fit).

I have an awful time differentiating which direction noise is coming from but soon see a couple sheriff’s department vehicles and an ambulance zoom past me from behind. When I’m about a half mile away I notice all cars/trucks are hitting their brakes. Soon I see what has caused the ruckus. A tan Ford Bronco has jumped the curb and is resting smack-dab on the walking path right in front of McDonald’s. Had I been 6-8 minutes earlier the tan Bronco would be sporting a mega sized, white haired hood ornament. Namely me.

Before the Ford got to his embarrassing resting spot, he hit a smaller SUV (with considerable force) who was trying to turn into the entrance of McDonald’s. That poor dude got hit so hard, it was resting in the south lane. Upside down. A deputy noticed me slowing down, (hard to notice, I walk the speed of sloth) ambled over as I was taking off my headphones and said, “ma’am, could you either turn around or use McDonald’s parking lot to get to the corner?” “Sure, no problem.”

This particular ‘still frame’ remained etched in my head for several days. You just can’t help but think-I’ve walked that exact spot hundreds of times. My number would have been up for sure and it wouldn’t have been pretty. Yikes. (Why did I not take a picture? I’m the only person who never takes pictures of these moments as they happen. There was nothing gory to see as I approached).

Three days a week I see a couple guys about my age (Lord they seem much older but gotta admit they probably aren’t. Sigh). They drive to McDonald’s, park their car and walk part of the path. I usually stop and talk for a minute (goes against everything I believe in about my walking protocol, but they are nice and I’m trying to be kind. It’s a stretch. The struggle is real). I usually pass them going in one direction or the other which is astonishing. But I’ll take it.

Just a few days after the Mc-upside-down-car vs. Dude-I’ll-park-on-the-Mc-sidewalk-and-show-you fiasco, I’m nearing the two gents, about to overtake them with my great speed and agility, so I give them a hearty hello and zip right by them. I have Meniere’s which causes fluctuations in my inner ear, causing balance issues, so I use a walking stick to help steady me. Meniere’s usually affects one side of your head/ear. Mine causes a lot of racket in my left ear, leaving it virtually useless other than keeping my glasses on my mug straight. Looking right causes no problems but glancing left is better served when I come to a complete stop and slowly turn my head back and forth.

As I’m closing in on the McDonald’s drive through entrance I glance up to make sure no one is in the middle turn lane on the road, then make a quick swipe left to eliminate someone from behind who might have their blinker on and turn in front of me. (I know the pedestrian has the right of way but there are numerous walkers, joggers, bikers, runners who are dead from having the right of way). I step from the walking path to the McDonald’s cement entrance and get about 2/3 the way across when my peripheral vision picks up something huge on my left side. I pause, look left and a car has run into the curb, six feet from where I stand. I look at the driver who gives me a scathing look and throws up his arms in disgust. What the hell! How could he not see me? I’m as big as a barn and wearing a bright salmon colored jacket.

I start walking again, glancing right at the McDonald’s exit (some of these folks have come close to hitting me too. They’re digging in their McDonald’s bag for the hash browns and bacon, egg and cheese biscuit and don’t always remember to look both ways as they stop (or not) to avoid adding me to part of the Walking Dead outtakes). I stop at the corner, look both ways, cross, happy to have 3 more blocks before home. But I’m shaken up as I relay the story to Hubs.

Two days later I bump into the two walking dudes and both hold up a hand, indicating ‘stop woman.’ “Ah, after you went ahead of us on Monday, do you realize how close that car came to hitting you?” “No not really until after I got home. Looked pretty close from behind did it?” “Yeah, lucky he ran into the curb. Guess he didn’t see you until he was turning in.” (Oh my goodness. Thanks God).

After confirming the car nearly hit me, I couldn’t stop stewing about another close call on my seemingly safe, carefree walking path. There must be some way to eliminate all these hazardous crossings which seem determined to undermine my wellbeing from day to day. There is a second exit at the back of McDonald’s lot which I walk past everyday. I could just bypass the front entrance and exit. It would mean walking the perimeter of McDonald’s parking lot. Since COVID the parking lot is nearly empty because the dining room is not open. Some customers do go into the lobby and order, so there are a few cars in the lot but 90% use the drive through lane. I would be sharing the front entrance for a few feet to get back on the walking path, but it would be off to the side and head on from my view.

I hashed it over with Hubs and decided that’s what I’d try. Can’t imagine anyone from the store confronting me about walking in their lot for 2 minutes and no one has this week. A maintenance man was cleaning/sweeping the lot one morning and said good morning. Have gotten a couple strange looks from customers who run in for food, then eat in their car. Must feel like I’m intruding or invading their space. I try not to make eye contact because I’m concerned what lies ahead for my feet, but also keeping a watchful eye on cars that might be backing up. That would just be my luck, right?