December 17, 2018--I've Been to This Rodeo Before

"Today's my first day, but not to worry, I've been to this rodeo before."

We are in Florida for my cousin Murray's funeral and drove up from Delray to the New Jersey Pizzeria. It's been about a year since we were there and had a craving for their home-cooked Italian fare. It's a funky place and the food is fresh and delicious.

The new waitress, who introduced herself as Kathy, appeared to be loving every minute of her orientation to the restaurant and to serving the customers at all five tables. She also took the calls for takeout and served as cashier for those at tables as well as those who came in to pick up their orders.

To each and all, almost with a"Yippie," she announced, "I've been to this rodeo before!"

When things quieted down, we had a chance to talk with her and to get a bit of her story.

"I was born in Massachusetts," she said, "and came here about ten years ago. The guy I was with at the time had family in the area and wanted to get away from the cold winters. I went along, one might say, 'for the ride.' 

"No surprise, things with him didn't work out and after about six months he was as tired of the weather as he was of his family and so he next wanted to move on to Arizona. I said, 'No more drifting around for me. I want to plant roots somewhere and this place is as good as any. So, Adios amigo.' He left and here I am ten years later still slinging hash. Though in this place hash tends to be eggplant parm.

"And, how could I forgot--he did leave me with something--I was three month pregnant when he lit out. Talk about planting roots!"

"Some story," I said, "Florida's full of people looking for second chances."

"Or a third or fourth," she laughed. 

"I'll be right with you sweetie," she said to a fully tattooed couple waving for the check.

In a minute she was back. Still all smiles.

"It hasn't aways been easy making ends meet," she said, "My nine year-old is on the Autism Spectrum. Not the high end, thank God, but bad enough. Though there is some state and federal money to help with kids like him it's not nearly enough so I have to work hard just to pay the bills. I'm not complaining though. Lot's of people have it worse than me. I know folks who live on Spam and worse. So I do the best I can. You see, I'm not really trained for anything. All I know is this," she gestured taking in the whole restaurant, "As I said, I've been to this rodeo before. I mean waitressing. In fact, right now I have this job two nights a week and another job waiting tables in Lantana, the next town north of here. At another pizzeria. That's my specialty, I suppose, pizza places." That tickled her and she shook with laughter.

"That's a lot," Rona said.

"That ain't the half of it," she said.

"The half of it?"

"I have five other jobs." She held up her hand to display five fingers.

"Five?"

"Let me list 'em for you." She wiggled her pinky. "I work over there by the bridge to A1A in a memory unit three afternoons a week. As I said, I'm not trained or licensed so mainly I clean up their slops. Not elegant but it plays 15 an hour. And then," wiggling her ring finger she said, "Then there are the two old folks in Boca who I baby sit another two afternoons a week. I don't know if that counts as one or two jobs since I do it freelance and have two families ordering me around."

"That's a lot," I, this time, said.

"There's more," she said, playfully flipping me the bird with her middle finger, "I also clean houses. Again freelance for two other people. I do this only once a week for each. Four five hours a condo. So it's not that bad. But both of them are bossy. So I usually count them as two separate jobs since with them I have two folks more telling me what they want me to do."

"Wow," Rona said, "You're amazing."

"That adds up to five, no?" She said.

"To tell you the truth," I said, "I lost count."

The phone rang and she raced to the counter to write up a ticket for a takeout order.

"It's the same couple who came in at lunch time today for a medium pizza. And now they want a large pepperoni. Some diet," she said, "You don't have to be trained as a nutritionist to know that if they keep that up they'll be dead before they know it." She slapped her thigh, amusing herself.

"If I may," Rona said softly, "You have one more job you left out."

"What's that one?" she asked.

"Your son. He may have some professional help but I assume most of the responsibility for his care--"

She cut Rona off. "I didn't put it on my list of jobs intentionally because I don't consider it a job. I'm his mother and we're a family. That's the whole story. I love him more than life itself."

I was glad the phone rang again and she got lost in taking an order. I didn't want her to see me tearing up. She's too busy to have to deal with what I was feeling. As she said, she's waitressing and her job description doesn't require her to handle that. Seven jobs is enough. I was on my own.

January 6, 2016--Landing

We are settling in in Delray and so I will not be posting very much today.

On Thursday and Friday I will report about the drive south--

Thursday, about  The Ava Gardner Museum.

Friday, about Checking Out At Publix.

But I can't resist offering a brief comment from the campaign trail--

Donald TRUMP has managed to neuter the Clintons, especially Bill.

TRUMP's response to Hillary's calling him out for being sexist was to point out that she is married to and lives with a sexual abuser.

TRUMP was right about that.

(And, by the way, how feminist was it for Hillary not dump Bill after he was caught fooling around with a 20-year-old intern?)

So Hillary announced that she is no longer going to talk about TRUMP as sexist.

Then in New Hampshire the other day, Bill, let loose to campaign, when pressed by reporters, refused to talk about TRUMP. He instead spoke blandly in support of his wife's candidacy.

How many more times do you think he will be allowed to campaign?  Certainly not in South Carolina.

January 1, 2015--Best of Behind: Temporarily Suspended

We begin the drive to Delray Beach Friday morning and, as I do each year, I made a round of calls to the cable, Internet, and telephone companies to suspend service while we are away. Since I had the same kind of frustrating experience I had in December, 2010, I thought to reprise the Snowbirding piece I wrote on that occasion--

It seemed simple enough. We spend winter months in Delray Beach as snowbirds and thus need to forward our mail. It also makes sense, and saves money, to suspend our utility services.

So one cold afternoon before heading south we trudged over to the post office to fill out the mail-forwarding forms and I made a round of calls to Verizon (for our phone) and Time Warner to suspend cable and Internet service. And, I also phoned Con Edison to ask about turning off our gas.

When I had done all of this I proudly announced to Rona that by my estimate we would save at least $750 while sojourning in Florida. She smiled and said, “That’s good. But of course you know this amounts to less than what we pay for one week at the house.”

“But we love it there,” I retorted, “And we never thought about how much it costs until just now when I figured out a way to save some money.”

“That’s they way I am,” she confessed, “If you raise money as an issue it sets off my money-spending anxieties. But we’ll be more than fine. We can easily afford whatever it costs. You did very well,” she was smiling affectionately at me, “But it’s always good to be careful about money. And why give Verizon and Time Warner and Con Ed money they don’t deserve?”

I sensed she was about to go off on a corporate-greed rant, and so I put my arm around her and said, “We’ll have a wonderful drive south and everything we be ready for us when we arrive. You know how much you love the beach and . . .”

“And, I know what you’re about to say, ‘No matter how much it costs!’”

After an easy four days on the road, we are now settled in and as part of our routine, in addition to stocking up on groceries and household goods at Publix and checking to see if last year’s favorite restaurants are still in business (so far, they all are), we have been making a series of phone class to check to see if Verizon and Time Warner did what we asked them to do.

My first call was to our New York phone to find out if the recorded message was correct, especially to see if the forwarding number is as it should be. They did get the Florida number right but the message says that our phone number has been “changed,” not, as I asked, “temporarily suspended at the customers request.” So I called customer service.

The representative agreed that they had used the wrong message for our phone and that she was changing it while we were speaking, though it would take until the end of the day for the proper message to be in place. Ignoring for the moment why one of the world’s leading telecommunications companies with all the latest technology couldn’t do this virtually instantly—I try to relax while down here by the ocean—I thanked her and told her I would check the message that evening.

Which I did and found it still to be incorrect. Over two days, four attempts later, one of the customer service managers told me that, yes, it is true, that earlier in the year when we were in Maine and had our number temporarily suspended the message said that to anyone who called us but recently Verizon had changed its practice and now there were only two options available—the number has been “changed” or the number has been “discontinued.” “Temporally suspended” was no longer an option.

By now, much less relaxed when this all began, I tried to get them to explain the logic of this seemingly unfathomable change in practice. What, I more and more insistently and heatedly wanted to know, is the logic behind this? It certainly couldn’t be a cost-cutting strategy. Verizon’s systems are all automated. What was the big deal? In fact, as I steamed about it, I thought it probably cost them a few dollars to eliminate the “suspended” option.

No one of course could tell me. So we are living with it. Maybe a person of two who calls us in New York during the next few months will wonder if we have left the city permanently rather than snowbirding for the winter. But then they will also hear about our “new” 561 Florida number and if they call us and wonder what’s going on we will take aggressive pleasure in telling them the story and how, how else to put it, arbitrary and even stupid a company such as Verizon can be.

Verizon had the chutzpah to call us the next day, after my final exasperated conversation with them, to see if there were any additional services of theirs in which we might be interested. I said, “Yes, in fact there is--a call forwarding message that says our number, at our request, has been temporarily suspended.” Needless to say, even for an extra fee, that service is not available.

I next called Time Warner to check about the suspension of our cable and Internet service. “Oh,” the first person I managed to actually speak with me said (up to that point I had been routed trough a series of automated options—“To continue in English, press 2; to change service, 3; to . . .”), “weren’t you told, when you called us before leaving that it is only possible to suspend service for 90 days?” No one had. “Or that since your building is a coop in order to suspend your service for even 90 days a board member from your building has to write to us to ask permission to do so?”

“What?” I couldn’t help myself from screaming. Relaxation was out of the question. “Why do I have to have their permission? What does any of this have to do with the coop itself? I’m your customer; not the board or the building's.”

“Well,” the well-trained and calm representative, clearly from her accent and the static on the line based in Bangalore, said, “in truth the building is a customer of ours. We offered the building a special rate if more than half the residents ordered their cable service from Time Warner. So, in order to suspend any resident’s service, we need the approval of the board. To give the building the benefit of the special rate everyone has to behave the same way.”

“I was never told that. And by the way what does this have to do be behavior? I find that offensive. The point is that I was never informed about this arrangement. If I had been I would have switched our service to Verizon. [Forgetting for the moment the fiasco with the call forwarding.] Or had a Direct TV satellite dish installed or given up TV altogether. Watching it makes me aggravated anyway. Almost as much as talking with you!”

“I am sorry to hear that sir. But of course you are free to do whatever you want with your TV service. You are in America, aren’t you? The land of freedom.”

I did not sense that she was mocking me or America and decided I needed to hang up before risking a stroke and that it was time for a calming walk on the beach.

When I got back and told Rona what had happened she said, “Why are you aggravating yourself? You know how these kinds of things work these days. It’s all about big companies figuring out ways to make as much money as possible. Actually, to extract as much money as possible from people like us. But I too am trying to remain calm and don’t want to get into one of my rants about the current state of capitalism.” I was pleased to hear that. “So I think I’ll go for the mail. I’ll be right back, I want to check to see if our mail is being forwarded.” And with that she left.

By then I was feeling quite calmed down. The beach walk was just what my cardiologist ordered.

But when Rona returned it was immediately clear that she was not the same serene person who ten minutes before had left for the mailbox.

“What’s going on?” I asked as she stomped about the house.

“Here, take a look at this.” She tossed a handful of mail at me.

“What is it?” I was rooting around on the floor to gather all the letter and envelopes that had missed the kitchen counter. I could tell from the yellow forwarding stickers on the envelopes that the mail was being successfully forwarded. “It looks as if this is mail that was sent to our New York apartment and was then sent on to us by the post office. No? Am I missing something?”

“Indeed you are. But take a look at this.” She ripped a letter from my hand. “It’s from the postal service. Here, read it.”

“I will if you give it back to me.”

Instead, she read, “See what this says. It’s from the postal service: ’A customer temporarily moving may have mail forwarded for a specific time, not to exceed twelve months total duration.’”

“And?” I asked.

“And,” Rona said, they are claiming that by February 17th, our forwarding will have ‘met,’ to quote them, ‘the one year maximum duration.”

“This I do not understand,” I said, again feeling my blood pressure rising. “Is there anything we can do about this?”

“Read further. See, down at the bottom.” She was still holding onto the letter and I couldn’t in fact see. “They apparently have something they call Premium Forwarding Service, and there is an 800-number to call to find out how it works.”

“So let’s call them,” I said, trying to sound chipper and optimistic.

“I’ll do the calling this time,” Rona said, “Considering how you did with that person in India, let me handle this one.”

Surprisingly, it took only a few minutes for her to talk with an actual person. Rona, smiling, mouthed to me, “I think she’s an American.”

But then I heard her saying with increasing ire, “What do you mean you don’t know anything about how this works? How the 12 months is calculated? By February we’ll have only been here two-and-a-half months, not twelve.” Rona was rolling her eyes up in her head and in frustration holding the phone about a foot away from her ear.

“But this is the number the letter said to call about Premium Service and you’re telling me that not only can’t you tell me about how the 12 months is calculated—and as I said in February we won’t have been here for even three months—but that you also don’t know about this special forwarding service? I am totally confused.”

I passed Rona a note saying, “Go for it!”

“What do you mean you have to open a ‘complaint file’? I’m not complaining, I’m just trying to understand. But you’re saying this is the only way you can get the information to me? Unbelievable,” Rona exasperated sighed.

“So, OK, open a complaint file.” She covered the phone with her hand and said to me, “Can you believe this? I think I’m going crazy.”

“Remember,” I said, “we’re here to get and remain calm. Now both of us have high blood pressure.”

“I am having the nightmare,” Rona said, holding he head, “that we’ll have to go to the city every week or two to pick up our mail after they stop forwarding it in the middle of February.”

“Or, maybe we’ll have to find someone who can go to the apartment and mail us whatever seems important.”

“This is some way to relax,” Rona said, sounding defeated. “What? Can you say that again?” She was back on the line with the person from the postal service. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Rona said, and with that hung up.

“See what? Believe what?”

“She told me that I will hear from someone in two working days. That’s how they handle complaints. What are the odds that . . . ?” Rona let her question drift off into space. “I think I need a nap.”

While Rona was napping, tossing and turning on the bed, I masochistically decided to call Con Edison to see about the suspension of our gas service.

“What do you mean it was already suspended?” I was incredulous when the Con Ed customer service representative told me that there was no service to suspend. That we did not have gas service and thus there was nothing to cut off. “We’ve been living in the same apartment for 19 years and we’ve had gas all that time. How else would we cook?” I didn’t tell her that we eat virtually all our meals out and thus rarely do any cooking. But we do do some. Mainly, in truth, we boil water for tea or heat up soup that we take in from our local Ukrainian coffee shop.

“Our records show no gas usage for the past six years,” she said, calmer than I. “So there’s nothing to suspend.”

“That’s not true. That’s impossible.” By then I was shouting and woke Rona who staggered into the living room.

She mouthed, “What’s going on? Why are you yelling?”

I asked the Con Ed person to hold for a moment and, covering the phone, told Rona what they were telling me.

Rona said, ”You’re being silly.”

“What do you mean?”

“You asked them to suspend service so we could save, what, $15 a month and they are telling you it’s already being suspended and we haven’t used any gas for years, whereas we have--at least a little—and thus haven’t been charged for gas for all that time. So, if you convince them we have had service and have used gas won’t they then want to back-charge us for years of service? And who knows, maybe apply additional charges and penalties? You want that?”

We both pride ourselves as being honest and never wanting to take advantage of anyone or anything, but after our experiences with Verizon and the post office and Time Warner, I said to the Con Ed woman who had been holding on the phone, “Sorry to have bothered you. Have a very nice day and a happy holiday season.” She was as nice as could be.

“While we’re on a roll,” I said, “let me make the one last call, again to Verizon, but to a different division, to check about our hopefully-suspended telephone land line.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Rona solicitously asked, “Haven’t you, we I mean, haven’t we had enough aggravation for one day?”

“As I said, we’re on a roll after Con Ed and the gas so let me take care of this one last thing. How complicated can that be? Though maybe they’ll tell us they haven’t been billing us for five years.” Rona glared at me. “Just kidding I said,” and dialed the Verizon wireless 800-number.

Again I was drawn into the proliferating world of automated responses. I pressed 2 to Continue in English, 4 to Suspend Service, and then 3 to Get Information about it. Zipping right along, feeling pleased and surprised that all was going as I had hoped, I pressed 3. What harm could there be, I thought, to see what I could learn without speaking to an agent, even one based in America.

From recorded messages I learned that there were a variety of options about how to proceed and all, after our previous experiences with Verizon and Time Warner and the postal service, seemed sensible and varied enough to cover all circumstances—there was no 12-month rule, no need to seek anyone’s permission, and no need to file a complaint. All I needed to do, I was directed, was talk to a representative about whether or not I wanted to suspend service "with or without billing." Curious about what that might mean, I pressed 0 to talk with an agent.

She was as polite and articulate as I could have hoped. She assured me that my service was already suspended and that it would be resumed, just as I had requested, in April. No problem at all with that. “Good I said. I am so happy to hear that all is well. You don’t want to hear about my other experiences with Verizon. Or Con Edison or the post office.” I could hear her chuckling knowingly. She was obviously very experienced and had heard it all.

“But, there is one thing I’m confused about.”

“What’s that?” she asked compassionately. “That why I’m here. To answer all your questions.”

“It’s about the billing-no-billing option.”

“Oh that. Many of our customers are confused about that. I can help you understand the differences. It’s all rather simple.” I could feel my blood pressure dropping to the normal range. “With the no-billing option you do not pay any monthly fee; with billing you pay your monthly fee.” She sounded as if she was smiling, satisfied with herself.

I could feel my heart beginning to thump again. “About this I am now totally confused. You sound like a very nice person and I know it’s not your policy but Verizon’s, but why would anyone opt for the billing option when suspending service? Why would anyone want to continue to pay the monthly fee while not getting the service? That doesn’t make any sense at all.” I paused to let this sink in. “That is,” my suspicions had quickly returned, “unless there is a difference between the two options. Maybe if I choose the no-billing option I’ll lose the telephone number associated with it?”

“No, sir,” she said, still as chipper as ever, “that won’t happen. There really is no difference from a customer’s point of view. I could sense her smiling even more broadly.

As nice as she was, I couldn’t control myself. “You, or should I say Verizon, are making me feel that I’ve lost my mind. First you took away my temporarily-suspended option and now there is this crazy billing-no-billing deal that makes no sense whatsoever. You understand that since this is so ridiculous on the surface that someone like me, of for that matter any of your customers, would be suspicious that something else is going on since no one in their right mind would want to pay for something they’re not getting when they can avoid paying for the same thing they’re not getting. Am I making any sense?”

By then, hearing me shouting into the phone again, Rona had returned to the living room where I was talking on the phone while pacing about and gesturing wildly. “You’re going to give yourself a stroke,” she whispered to me in an attempt to calm me down. “What’s going on?”

“Here. You talk to her,” I said handing the phone to Rona. “The Verizon customer service person. Ask her about the billing-no-billing option for our phone.”

Frustrated with me and my behavior Rona snatched the receiver and after a minute she too was stomping about the room and gesturing wildly, “This is crazy,” she said, echoing what I had just been saying, “It makes no sense at all. But to end this once and for all, to retain our health and sanity, we’ll go for the no-billing option and not pay the monthly fee. That’s how it'll work, won’t it? The service will be suspended and we won’t be charged for it?” She was nodding her head. “Good. Thank you. And, yes, you too have a wonderful day.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” I said. “We both could use the beach.”

“One good thing,” Rona said with a wink, “when they stop forwarding the mail in February we won’t be getting any bills from Verizon for our monthly charges. Or from anyone else.”

“Didn't you just take care of the no-billing option? And I thought you already took care of mail forwarding.”

“Dream on,” Rona said. “But let’s forget about all of this. We’re here to relax.”

April 10, 2014--Snowbirding: Half-and-Half

Parking at Walmart in Delray is more likely to get Rona and me spatting than even my tentative approach to left turns.

For example, yesterday--

"You park like you're an old man."

"I'm just trying to be cautious. With people backing in and out and others pushing shopping carts all over the place in the roadway, I think it's smart to be extra careful."

"I think the way you park is the way old men drive."

That would be enough to get us not talking to each other and leave me on my own--as I then was--to creep up and down the aisles looking for a space that I could squeeze into that wasn't filled with abandoned shopping carts.

And yesterday, making matters worse, there was a truly old man in the road in which I was waiting to pounce on an empty space, attempting wobbly to navigate a motorized wheelchair in the basket of which was stashed a folded walker.

"I wonder what he's doing," I said, knowing Rona was ignoring me and I was in effect talking to myself. "I can't believe he's looking for a car. From the looks of him they shouldn't even let him drive one of these electric scooters." I was aggravated and not feeling compassionate.

"He's probably . . . can't . . . This makes me . . . I don't know." That was Rona sputtering to herself.

"What did you say?" I was hoping to break the ice by having us talk about someone with even more driving issues than I.

"He's probably a Silver Alert person." Puzzled, I looked toward Rona. "You know, someone who has Alzheimer's, or something, who wandered off and the police and his family are looking for him. This makes me crazy. I think of myself as understanding and empathetic but this is . . ."

"You are. You are." I thought if I said it emphatically Rona would believe me and we could resume being civil to each other.

"Look. He found his car. Can you believe it? He's trying to get into it. He can't drive a scooter, but a car?"

I sighed in agreement.

"You know I love being here and I love you, but I'm glad we're heading north at the end of the week. I need a dose of New York. And I know--you don't have to say it--after three weeks I'll want to leave Manhattan and hide out in Maine."

"Let's make a quick hit here." I had finally eased into a parking space. "All we need is some bottled water and laundry detergent. We could have avoided Walmart and gone to Publix, but we were in the neighborhood and so I thought . . ."

"That's OK, love," Rona was at last smiling, "I can handle one more trip to Walmarts. Ordinarily I really like them. But it's just so hot, I didn't sleep well last night, and I guess in spite of myself I'm having some separation anxiety. It won't be easy to leave your mother. She's not doing as well as she was back in January and at nearly 106 you never . . ."

"I know. I know," I sighed.

"Let's get this over with quickly and head home. I think we both could use a nap."

"Deal." We exchanged high-fives.

Once inside we quickly rounded up the water and detergent. "Can you believe it, this laundry soap is less than $4.00. At Publix it would be twice that. I suppose that's why we're here like millions of others."

"Billions," I corrected her.

"It is a little funny," Rona said, "to be here on Equal Pay Day. Walmart's a case in point about why we need that--more equal pay regulations."

"Indeed, indeed." I noticed I was repeating everything. Another sign of aging that annoyed Rona. This time thankfully she let it pass.

"I almost forgot."

"What's that?"

"We need a small container of half-and-half. We have three more breakfasts before we leave and I ran out this morning. I don't remember where they keep it. We never buy it here."

"I think over there where they have the orange juice. Sometimes we get our Tropicana here. The prices again are . . ."

"Yes. I see the refrigerator chest over there by the wall." Rona cut me off, clearly having had enough talk about comparison-shopping. We were soon to be back in about the most expensive place in the world, New York, where my yogurts are by now probably $2.00 rather than the 72 cents we paid for them last week at Publix. Rona understandably, before the fact, didn't want to make the sticker-shock worse that it inevitably will be.

I pushed the shopping cart toward the juice and cream chest and stopped a few paces away. "Where do they hide the half-and-half," I muttered, scanning the shelves. "It must be near here somewhere. Ah, I think it's over there right by the whipping cream."

"I see," Rona said, "But what's going on over there?"

"I don't know."

"There," she pointed, "There's an old man holding onto the door handle of the other refrigerator. It looks like he's having a seizure or heart attack or something."

Concerned but not knowing what to do, I asked, "What do you mean? He looks like . . ."

"Like he's holding himself up by clinging to the handle."

"Maybe I should tell someone who works here that . . ."

"Before you do, let's see if we can help him."

By then we were within five or six feet of where he was obviously struggling with something. Maybe Rona is right, I thought, that he's experiencing some kind medical incident.

"Do you hear that?" Rona whispered. She had stopped and held onto the cart so I wouldn't push it any closer.

"Shouldn't we . . . ?"

"Quiet. I want to listen."

"Listen to what? He looks like he's in trouble."

"I forget you can barely hear anything. But I think he's OK. He's talking. He must be using a cell phone. Like in New York, you remember, all the people walking in the streets who appear to be talking to themselves but are on their iPhones."

I did remember that. In fact I hate it. But how unusual, I thought, that someone who looks as if he's at least 90 should be doing the same thing that twenty-somethings do so routinely.

But I did hear him talking. Actually, it sounded as if he was having an argument.

"If I told you once, I told you a thousand times," he yelled, hunched for privacy close to the refrigerator door, "leave her be." He was gesturing with his free hand. "You don't need this. No more. Enough."

"I think . . ." I said.

"Quiet. I don't want us to disturb him. And also, I want . . ."

"I know, to listen."

"Like I told you," he continued, still agitated, "she's no good. No good. What did she ever do for you except make your life miserable? Miserable. You did this; you did that. Always thinking about her. Her good-for-nothing husband. Her children who never raised a finger to help. You, always you. Always you." His shoulders were heaving and it looked as if he was about to cry.

Rona moved us half a step closer and held a finger up to her lips to shush me.

"Remember when she came home from the hospital. After her hipso-memory operation. Who took her in? Who took care of her? Nursed her? Bathed her? Took her back and forth to the doctor?" His whole upper body throbbed. "You. You. You. No one else. You. Who gave up your bed for her and slept on the sofa? And for how long? Days? Weeks? No, months. Months."

I noticed, like me, he too was repeating himself.

"For days and days after she was strong enough to go home. If I didn't put my foot down she would still be living with us. Even though she's dead, she'd still be living with us. Wanting you to take care of her. To do her every bidding." I heard the beginning of a sob.

"And now? What now?"

By then there was someone else standing next to us who apparently needed some orange juice, But she too didn't advance further and stood patiently next to me.

"Gone. Everything is gone. Everyone gone. Over. Nothing is left. Fartik. Turned to scheisse. Scheisse. Shit!"

With that he let go of the handle, turned, and, trembling with tears, shuffled unsteadily toward the front of the store.

Rona stroked his back as he passed close to her. I looked the other way at the woman who was loading a quart of juice into her cart.

There was no cell phone.

February 24, 2014--Snowbirding--At Publix

Rona was planning to bake oatmeal cookies and needed a few ingredients--sugar, dried currents, oat meal, and butter.

Publix was not crowded and it took just 15 minutes to round things up. Even the checkout lines were shorter than unusual--it was a beautiful afternoon and we assumed everyone was either at the park or on the beach. But after paying and halfway to the parking lot, Rona slapped her thigh and said, "Butter!"

"Butter?"

"Can you believe it, I forgot the butter. Sit there for a minute and I'll go back to get some."

The "there" was a bench right by the entrance which is usually where elderly folks sit while waiting for the bus to take them back to their assisting-living places in west Delray. I had never sat there or wanted to be seen anywhere near those benches--I didn't want anyone to confuse me with the ladies from Brookside.

"I'm fine hanging out here by the ice cube chest. You'll only be a minute so I'll be fine and  . . ."

"You look exhausted. We've been running around all day and it's hot and humid. Sit. It won't kill you."

"If it won't kill you maybe it won't kill me," a woman on the bench who looked to be well into her 90s called to me and patted the space just to the right of her.

She sensed my hesitation and smiled, tapping the cushion again. "Come. As your niece says, you look exhausted."

"She's my wife," I said, examining the bags of ice cubes, humming to myself.

"Sorry Dearie. My eyes aren't what they used to be. Nothing is like it used to be," she laughed, "But I can see, if I squint, that she's maybe older than she looks. And maybe," she was quick to add, "you aren't as old as I was thinking." Again she chuckled. "Living here everyone, everything looks old. The only young people I see are the aides where I live and some of the shoppers. Which is why I sit here. The bus takes us to shop but I don't shop. What do I need from Publix? Brookside gives us everything we need."

She pointed again at the seat next to her and nodded her head toward it to indicate it was for me.

I was tired, that was true, and so with a shrug of resignation I plopped down next to her.

"Isn't that better? Rest while your wife does the shopping. What else is there to do." She didn't pose this as a question.

"Well, actually, lots of things." I didn't want to appear to be agreeing with her. "All we need is butter. We, she, Rona is baking oatmeal cookies and we forgot the butter. And I'm . . ."

"Like you said, doing 'lots of things.'" She smiled knowingly.

About what she was knowing I wasn't sure, but it felt as if she was having fun at my expense. There was an edge to her, which I generally like in someone her age. But not when directed at me, especially when I'm overtired. All we needed was a pound of butter. What I needed was a nap. I hadn't been sleeping well and the humidity and pollen in the air were getting to me.

"So you live here?"

"Not really. We're here for the winter primarily to be near my mother, who is quite old. She's good, but still . . ."

"I know the 'but still' business. My son lives in Chicago and comes four or five times a year for visits. He's retired and could be here more; but . . . "

"I also know the 'but' business." I thought fair was fair in the needling business.

"I know what you're thinking. But still it's better this way."

"What way is that?"

"Visiting, not living. Though, like you he could be a snowbird. It's so cold in Chicago." She sighed, then added, "To tell you the truth, I'm glad my son only comes for visits. I don't want him to turn into me."

"To tell you the truth . . . ," I tried to say.

"The truth is that you actually like it here." I attempted to remain expressionless. "You don't want to admit that. You say you're here because of your mother, but I can tell. You look to me like you're enjoying living here in spite of yourself."

"I don't live here." I didn't understand why I had allowed myself to be drawn into this. I was tired and . . .

"OK. I misspoke. You don't live here. Have it your way. But, you do like it here? No?"

"In a way," I confessed under my breath, hoping she wouldn't hear. And then, to change the subject, I said, "I wonder what's keeping Rona. All she needed was butter."

"But you hate it, don't you, that if you told people you live here or spend half the year here they'll think you're an alta cocka, which means . . ."

"I know what it means."

"That you don't like. For people to think of you that way."

"Do you?"

"I hate it." The intensity of her response surprised me. "People look at me, actually they avoid looking at me because they think I'm just a little-old-lady. They know nothing about me but that's all they see. Or rather try not to see. Like I don't exist." She paused then said, "I hate being old. Living the way I do. With people half of whom don't know who they are or only talk about their 'conditions,'" she made air quotes, "and their grandchildren. They're like clichés--complaining about how their children never call or visit."

"I know what you mean," I said softly.

"So you're lucky to still have your mind and such a beautiful wife. Even if she wasn't so beautiful you would still be lucky. Just having someone is lucky." I was glad to see she was smiling.

"I don't know what to say. But I am . . ."

"Lucky. Say it. You can say it."

I said, "Lucky."

"Does that make you feel better?" She had turned to face me.

"Yes, but . . . not really."

"Because?"

"Because that means that tomorrow I could be just as unlucky as I am lucky today."

"That sounds very complicated--lucky today, unlucky tomorrow. Remember I'm a little-old-lady with only half a mind."

"That I doubt."

"Doubt what?"

"The half-a-mind business."

"So why did he put me in Brookside?"

"He being?"

"My wonderful son."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Partly," she confessed and then interrupted herself, "Look. See what I mean?" She was pointing to a thirty-something couple with two young tow-headed children who had entered the store. "That's why I like sitting here. See how happy they look. It reminds me of when I was younger and looked forward to the future. Now to me the future looks less happy. In fact, not happy at all."

"But you're . . ."

"Like I told you, a little-old-lady."

"In a nice place, well taken care of, with a son who calls and visits, and . . ."

"A little-old-lady," she repeated with a flat voice.

"Old, yes," I said, "But not little."

"If I could stand up I would show you little."

"That's not what I'm talking about. Not how tall or short you are but . . ."

"I appreciate you're trying to make me feel better. That's very sweet of you." She touched my arm. "But soon you'll see what I mean. I mean you won't turn into a little-old-lady, but there is the inevitable." She sighed and said, "I don't know what made me say these things to you."

"That's all right," I said, "I understand."

"Maybe yes. Maybe no. Well," she began to get up using her walker for support, "I think I see my bus. They're here to collect me. To take me back." She shook her head about that prospect.

"Can I help you?" I stood up and reached out to help her.

"I'm fine thank you. That is, for a little-old-lady." She laughed as she shuffled toward the door.

At the same time Rona reappeared. "What you been up to?" she asked showing me the butter.

"Nothing much," I lied. "Just hanging out waiting for you."

December 6, 2013--Breakfast

For 30 years Rona and I, almost every morning, have gone out for breakfast. Let me correct that--not almost every morning but every morning.

It was less about the coffee and food than the people. At Balthazar, in Manhattan's SoHo, for nearly 15 of those 30 years, until last year, every day, at table 85 in the bar area, we would join friends who, like us, were seeking community and companionship.

Some days those friends could number more than a dozen and we would push tables together to accommodate all of us. Since the group included people from a variety of backgrounds, interests, and professional life--filmmakers, interior designers, book publishers, performance artists, Wall Street lawyers, anthropologists, novelists, chefs, actors, carpenters, opera directors--with breakfasters from such a wide range of callings, discussions ranged from the serious (what to do in the Middle East and the results of friends' colonoscopies) to the sly (gossip about who else was in the room--"Is that Yoko?").

It was sweet and stimulating, which, like other evanescent realities, succumbed to time and changing circumstances. For one, Balthazar became a go-to place for breakfast and brunch and it was no longer possible to hold so many tables because Jonathan Miller or Nigella Lawson had just arrived from London and might pop in to join us.

Then also, as with Rona and me, work realities shifted, schedules needed to be adjusted, and some of us were no longer so much in town. In our case, we essentially moved to Maine and Florida and retained just a loving, periodic connection to Manhattan and Balth.

In Maine there is the Bristol Diner, a perfect place for a simple breakfast and a gathering place, like Balthazar in its own way, for an even more diverse group of local and seasonable residents--from lobstermen to orthopedic surgeons to federal judges to telephone linemen. So, when there, we can be found almost every morning in one of  the Bristol's five booths, sometimes ensconced for two or three hours as friends drift in and out.

And in Delray Beach, we have a similar reality at the Green Owl. Breakfast in both places for us is an ideal way to emerge to full morning consciousness among people we care about and with whom each day we eagerly look forward to spending time and exchanging stories--some real, much made up.

But then, in New York, all of this has suddenly changed--we are having breakfast at home.

And loving it.

The other morning Rona said, "After nearly 30 years of going out for breakfast, which is very luxurious, having breakfast in my pajamas with the newspaper delivered to our door, feels really luxurious."

"And," I agreed, "we're saving a lot of money."

"That's true, but not really what's important to me. We're doing what we want to do. No pressure to get up and out. That's what's important."

"True. But still I like the idea that we're saving at least $15 a day. That really adds up."

Rona turned her attention to the Style section.

"Really," I said, "Add it up. What did we have this morning? You had an egg (which since it was organic cost about 30 cents and was cooked in maybe a nickel's worth of butter) and pumpkin bread toast (about 50 cents worth) and English breakfast tea (say, 25 cents for the teabag). And I had a--"

"Do we really have to do this? I was having such a sweet time and all you can think about is how much butter I used."

"We don't have to do this, but I'm only trying to make a point."

"Go on then. But please, make it brief."

"I had a croissant with jam (I think we paid $2.75 for that at Dean and Deluca) and a mug of Medaglia D'Oro instant espresso (which cost maybe 20 cents, plus about a dime's worth of warmed half-and-half)." Smiling at Rona, I said, "I'm done."

"How much was the jam and what about the gas and electricity we used to defrost the croissant and cook the egg? Did you figure that in?"

Not realizing she was making fun of me, I thought, "Maybe 15 cents for the jam--it's from France--and we'll see about the gas and electric when we get the next Con Ed bill. But don't forget we don't have to pay tax at home--what is it, about 9 percent?--or leave a tip. I think you leave at least $5.00 every morning." Rona nodded.

"So let me do a quick calculation." I went to get paper and a pen. "At Balth my double espresso is, what, seven dollars and the croissant $4.50. And your egg and toast would be at least $5.00, plus your tea would be $2.00 more."

"Two-fifty. And half a grapefruit, if you're crazy enough to order it, is $10. Ten freaking dollars!" Rona said under her breath.

"So at Balth the same breakfasts plus tax and tip would go for about $25; whereas here it cost us only about $4.00, not including utilities." Self-satsified, I smiled toward Rona who by then was buried in the crossword puzzle.

"I mean, in addition to being delicious and nice and so schmoozy to have breakfast in pajamas, we saved at least $20, which means, if we did this only five days a week (and at the moment we're pretty much eating in every day) we'd save more than $100 a week. Which adds up to real money."

"Agreed," Rona admitted without looking up.

"So what about tomorrow? What are you in the mood for?

"Must we? I'm just trying to enjoy this morning."

"Let's see, we have eggs of course and can make wonderful French toast from Agata & Valentina's pumpkin bread. Or have some of those terrific Bay's English muffins; or waffles--we have Eggos for old-times sake but also the ones we bought the other day at Fairway in Red Hook that are made in France; and we also have various kinds of bagels--you like bagels sometimes; and your McCann's steel cut oatmeal, which you've been serving with brown sugar and sliced up dried figs; and granola; even oat scones from the Balthazar bakery and--"

"Enough! I just ate and already you're talking about eating."

"I only . . ."

June 24, 2013--Ed Iacobucci

Some people know how to live, others how to die, and then there are those very few who know how to do both.

Ed Iacobucci was in that rare, latter category.

Anyone who knows anything about the history of computing and big data knows about Ed's life's work--first, as the leader of the IBM team that developed the OS/2 operating system that ultimately made personal computing possible; and then as founder and CEO of Citrex, which provides server and desktop virtualization, software-as-a-service, and cloud computing technologies, including Xen open source products.

Many of the original founding members of Citrex had participated in the OS/2 project. Ed's vision was to build OS/2 with multi-user support. IBM was not interested so he left and was offered a job at Microsoft as chief technical officer of its networking group; but he turned it down to start Citrex.

Rona and I got to know Ed as a breakfast companion at the Green Owl in Delray Beach. We know lots of regulars there, and enjoy and love many of them; but when we would spot Ed at the counter working on the crossword puzzle we knew the morning would for certain get off to a good start.

He was fun, he was informed, he was interesting, he was provocative, he was playful, creative, and optimistic. Just what one would expect of someone who had been so professionally inventive and successful. But unlike many who were, Ed was as comfortable talking with Ernst the chef as he was with Harvey, the owner of a local insurance agency. When Ed was ready to leave for work, unique among all of us, he would always head for the kitchen to let the staff know how much he enjoyed the food and to ask how things were with them.

Just last week we learned that he was terribly ill and in hospice care. His wife Nancy told us that he had been battling pancreatic cancer for the past 16 months.

I was shocked and almost before expressing my concern, blurted out, "How could that possibly be? We saw him as recently as a few months ago and he was the same old Ed."

"He didn't want to burden anyone with his struggle," she said. "He didn't want to be treated as a sick person. He wanted to keep living as normally as possible until that was no longer possible."

"For what it's worth," Rona said to Nancy, "he achieved his goal. All we noticed was his hair loss. Other than that he was fully himself. He told us he shaved his head to inspire his employees. He told them, he said to us--clearly not sharing the truth of his condition--that he would keep doing that until his new company, VirtualWorks, achieved a certain level of profitability."

"That was Ed," Nancy said when she called to tell us he had died, "He was as inspiring at the end as he was during the 20 years we were married. And I wouldn't trade those years for anything, with all the ups (and some were very big) and downs (these also could be very substantial)."

"We know," I said, "He, and you, rode that roller coaster with great spirit and style. I can only imagine what all those years were like with him. I too wanted my 20 years of Ed."

"One story and then I have to go," Nancy said, sounding as good as one could be in these dreadful circumstances, "You know he was a big Miami Heat fan and wanted to live long enough to know how they did in the finals. The seventh and deciding game was Thursday night. I had the TV on in the bedroom and though he was losing consciousness every few minutes he would ask the score. It was a close game and not decided until the end of the fourth quarter. When time ran out, he awoke again and I was able to tell him the Heat won. He smiled and patted the bed next to him, indicating he wanted me to join him. Which I did. I held him in my arms and after a few sweet moments he stopped breathing."

"Same old Ed," Rona said through her tears.

April 23, 2013--Sweet Sorrow

The worst thing about the way we live is the way we live.

Moving with the seasons from place to place to place to place. And then the following year, doing it all over again. Spring in New York, summer in Maine, a fall sojourn back in New York, and then winter in Delray Beach.

We are so fortunate to be able to live this way. It would be perfect except for one thing--in all places we have friends and family who we care about and love, and thus we seem always to be saying goodbye.

Of course, a great part of being fortunate is knowing so many wonderful people. But then there are the goodbyes.

At this point in our lives, we know that as we move about, saying goodbye to some is not just for a season or two but forever. It is hard enough to have to part in Florida from Charlotte and Vicente and Ernst and Ed and Harvey and Esther and my mother; and difficult to know we will not see Reggie and Melissa and John and Karly when not in New York; or Al and John and Sue and Ken and Patty and Crystal in Maine. But the final goodbyes are devestating.

In New York last year we said goodbye to Valerie knowing it would be for the final time. When we left Maine in early November, we suspected we would not ever again see Rod, and then Jack in Delray was not there when we returned in December.

Rona reminds me that this is just life. And also, she reminds me that eternal partings do not occur in order. My mother prevails though she is close to 105, but Rod was 20 years younger and Valerie younger yet.

I know Rona is right, but still I hate it.

Thus I am feeling blue.

We head north tomorrow. I will try to keep this going from the road.