Being Grateful - Being 60 (week 24 - by Margaret Ullrich)

I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanskgiving.  The weather has given us an extra bit of time to enjoy the outdoors before we hunker down for another Manitoba winter.

Autumn can be a lovely time.  

It can also be a sentimental time...  

A time to look back, see how things went.

So, I'm feeling a little nostalgic.

On the American Thanksgiving Day it's almost guaranteed that, along with the Macy's parade and the Kennel Club dog show, there'll be a showing of the 1947 movie Miracle on 34th Street.  It's a lovely movie which begins with the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.  So that - along with the reminder that Christmas is just around the corner - makes it a perfect film for the day.

I wish there was something traditional for the Canadian Thanksgiving Day.  

With all the multiculturalism in Canada, might I nominate the 1990 movie Avalon as a proper film for the day?

If you haven't seen Avalon, it's a personal story about writer-director Barry Levinson's family.  Either his Dad's or his Grandfather's generation had immigrated to Baltimore.  The movie is about the changes the family went through over the years.

There are scenes in it that, if you are a child of immigrants, really hit home.

As an infant, I had immigrated with my parents to New York.  They came to join Pop's siblings who had arrived before us.  I can remember how important it was for the relatives to gather regularly.  There were struggles, but there was unity.  Everyone worked together.

At first.

Then, I don't know why, splintering happened.

Distance has nothing to do with it.  I get e mails about how this one isn't speaking to that one, even thought they live a few miles apart.

My husband is third-generation American.  He likes the movie, but can't relate to the comfort and pressures that are part of being first-generation.

He understands the splintered branches.

Lots of his relatives are just names on Christmas cards.

Always been that way.

That's just what happens.

No big deal.     

The American way.

Don't get me wrong.  

I'm grateful my family immigrated to America.  After the war, during which Malta had been terribly bombed, it seemed the only sensible thing to do.

I'm grateful my husband and I immigrated to Canada.  New York was bankrupt and losing businesses.  There weren't jobs for couples starting life.  It seemed the only sensible thing to do.

I just wish the splintering hadn't happen.

I wonder if it would've happened if we had stayed in Malta.

Is it something about America or about the people who choose to come to America?

Is it the American way, or is it just the way? 

Anna Sultana, come on down!! - Being 60 (week 23 - by Margaret Ullrich)

No, I don't think I can bring the dead back to life.

But today would've been Ma's 88th birthday and I've been thinking about her.

Ma enjoyed 2 things: cooking and watching game shows like Let's Make a Deal and The Price Is Right.  

She was really good at pricing the merchandise.  If she'd worked as a Wall Street trader with those skills, she'd have made a fortune.  She got such a gleam in her eye as the bidding continued.  

She always said she wished she could be in the audience and that she'd hear the famous phrase: "Anna Sultana, come on down!"    

She would've taken everything.

Another thing Ma loved watching on TV, especially in recent years, was cooking shows.  She had a thing for Emeril and his Bam!  She had said she wanted to go to New Orleans and meet him.

When we visited, Ma would pull out shallots - an unknown item during my childhood - and pass on bits of cooking wisdom she'd learned from the master.  I always brought recipes and we'd try a couple before Paul and I returned to Winnipeg. 

Most of my memories of Ma have to do with food.  One of my earliest, I was about 3 years old, is of peeling onions so she could pickle them.  As the oldest and for 5 years only child, I was her extra pair of hands.  

Ma took to shopping in Manhattan like a duck takes to water.  She would read the ads in the Daily News and plan where we'd get the best deals.  We'd take the IRT to Manhattan, then switch to the downtown train to 14th Street.  I can remember sitting in the train with a ham about my size plopped in my lap, getting woozy from the smell, as we returned from a door buster sale at Kleins.

Ma loved sales.

When they visited us, Ma and I would settle in the kitchen and cook.  Sometimes we'd make something traditional, like ravioli, sometimes we'd try something new.

Once, on the phone, Ma talked about a cake a friend of hers had baked and brought to a Seniors' Club meeting.  Ma liked it and described it.  It sounded familiar, so I copied and sent her the recipe.  Ma baked the cake and brought it to the next meeting.  

Her friend was so annoyed.  

"How did you figure out my recipe," she demanded.

Ma just smiled.

There's Always Next Year - Being 60 (week 22 - by Margaret Ullrich)

Calendars don't mean much to me any more.

A week ago, on September 23, it was the first day of Fall.  We even had a full Harvest moon shining that night.  

How much more official could it get?

But it just didn't feel like Fall.  When we walked through the neighborhood many of the trees had branches full of green leaves.

Seeing is believing.  

It was still summer, okay a wet summer, but summer, no matter what the calendar said.

We'd had a cold night on September 18/19 - turned out to be the coldest time in the month - But, we just threw a couple of blankets over our tomato plants and didn't think much of it.  At most we wore sweaters and enjoyed the sun whenever it appeared.

But yesterday it was official.  The geese were flying south like they'd all just cashed in their airmiles.  We were facing a hard frost night.

Blankets on our plants wouldn't cut it.

Time to harvest and take a tally of the crop.

Gardening in Manitoba isn't for sissies.  We get it all.  Droughts, flooding, whatever surprises Mother Nature has up her sleeve.  

We just plant in the Spring, hope for the best and expect the worse.

Sometimes the crop is a doozy.  

Sometimes it's not. 

I have to admit I've picked more tomatoes than this at the end of the summer.  And in better condition.  The extra rain didn't do much for my tomatoes' quality.

Oh, well.  Could've been worse.

Many are green and will ripen in the basement.  Some have odd spots - probably got nipped the night of September 18 - that can be cut out.  They're not pretty, but still good for a sauce or a steaming bowl of soup.

Aren't we all?

We start out with hopes for the best.  We get through the rainy and dry times.  There's always a frost that leaves a mark.

But, the rest is good.  

Good enough for bowls of soup.

An Uncelebrated Birthday - Being 60 (week 21 - by Margaret Ullrich)

Yesterday was my Pop's 86th birthday.

It was the second birthday we couldn't call and wish him a Happy Birthday.  He died January 20, 2009.

We're still getting used to the changes in our family's dynamics.  Our old guard is passing away.  Only a handful are left.  Our generation is becoming the old guard.  Our babies are now adults, some with babies of their own.

For a boomer, who knew this could happen?

Funny the things one remembers about a parent.  Pop loved gardening and raising rabbits.  For the longest time he had a wall of cages perpetually filled with rabbits along a side of his garage.  Rabbits were a regular dinner item in Maltese homes and Ma cooked Pop's pets the good old Maltese way.  

Pop always wanted to live on a farm.  My parents hated the winters in New York.  They are longer and harsher than the winters in Malta.  

I don't know how we managed it, but Paul and I always lived in rural areas in Canada.  Pop loved that.  He even talked of buying a farm near our house when we lived in British Columbia.  

He didn't love what he'd heard about winters in Canada, but then again, who does.

Yesterday Eddie Fisher passed away at 82.  It seems his biggest claims to fame were his messy divorces and his being the father of Princess Leia.  My parents used to love listening to Eddie sing.  They turned a deaf ear to talk of his divorces.  

A few years after Eddie was an innocent heart throb, his songs became fodder for my High School Glee Club.  We weren't anything like TV's new hit Glee.  Sister Rose Cecelia stuck to family values and having us stand like statues as we sang.  

To be fair, so did the professional Motown singers.   

Well, Sister's idea of a showstopper was having matched songs.  One year she decided on parenthood as a theme.  There were 2 Italian songs about Mama and Papa floating around.  Roselyn Genovese was perfect for the Mama song.  Unfortunately, she was the only Italian in the bunch.

Sister looked at me.  I would sing Eddie Fisher's Oh, My Papa.  With Italian lyrics.  

Sure, why not?  I was studying Latin and Spanish.  What's a few lines in Italian?  I'm Maltese.  I could pass.   

Most of the audience was fifth generation American, from German and Irish stock, so what did they know?       

The night of the concert my parents overheard other parents commenting on "the 2 Italian girls" and how nice it was that they could sing in their mother tongue.

Pop just smirked.  I was good enough to fool the natives.

O, My Papa. 

Who the hell are you? - Being 60 (week 20 - by Margaret Ullrich)

You think you know somebody.

I mean, we've been together since November, 1968.  We've been married since April, 1972.  I thought I knew every nook and cranny, every little twist of how my husband's mind worked.

Phhttt.  I knew nothing.

I had just finished reading Philippa Gregory's latest historical novel The Red Queen.  I zipped right through it.  Couldn't put it down until I'd finished it.  I love the way she makes History - with a capital H - read as good as a paperback you'd pick up before getting on an airplane.

She's that good.  

So, I handed it to my husband.  Paul had always been a History buff.  He also has this weird memory.  He remembers tons of things.  

Sometimes, that's not so hot.  But you take the bad with the good, you know?

Anyway, he took The Red Queen and said he'd read it.  And he did, every night, just before going to sleep.  A few pages every night.

Well, I had borrowed the Queen for the usual 3 weeks.  Seeing that Paul was about halfway through, I tried to renew Queenie.  No dice.  There's a waiting list.

Something - call it a wife's second sight - made me get on the waiting list to get The Red Queen back into our house.  I'm number 93.

I warned Paul that Queenie would have to go in 2 days.

I thought he'd hunker down and do some serious reading.

The kind a kid does the day before a test.

He just smiled and said it was okay.  He'd just read what he could at his usual pace.  Old Red could go back, unfinished.

I couldn't believe it.

He was up to page 265.  Margaret Beaufort was getting high from smelling the musky holy oil they were rubbing on Queen Anne.

There were only 112 pages - covering 2 years, 1 month and 2 weeks - left.

How could he just return a book, unfinished?

He said he knew how it was going to turn out.

Phhttt.  What does that have to do with it?

Love in Winnipeg - Being 60 (week 19 - by Margaret Ullrich)

Julie Powell should've come to Winnipeg.

Okay...  I got into blogging because of Julie Powell and her first book Julie & Julia.

  

I thought Julia's latest book Cleaving, which has as a subtitle "A story of marriage, meat, and obsession" would be a perfect book for this month's theme of Eat Pray Love.  Alright, not much praying, but 2 out of 3 ain't bad.

I mean, how much could a person change in a couple of years?

Hooo, boy.  Plenty.

Julie has a thing for butchers.  Unfortunately her long suffering, super patient husband Eric isn't a butcher.  D, Julie's lover, isn't a butcher, either, but that doesn't seem to matter.  He has, shall we say, other talents.

Julie goes to the Catskills to a family-owned butcher shop to learn the craft under the guidance of a delightful group of "meat hippies".  She gives lots of details on how to cut up cows, pigs and poultry.  Pages and pages of info.  Her lover dumps her.

She drinks a lot of booze.  

She eats a lot of meat.  

She developes carpal tunnel syndrome.

She decides to go on a quest.

Julie goes to Argentina, a country of cattle markets.  She watches the gauchos, goes to stockyards and has some fun with the butchers.  She drinks a lot of booze.  She eats a lot of meat.  She tells a fellow she's looking for "Whatever you've got."

Alrighty, then.

Julie goes to western Ukraine.  Some vampire thing.  She has some fun with the butchers. 
Oksana tells her, "We don't expect so much, maybe.  Or we're happier because we know what we want."  

Julie says, "Maybe."  She drinks a lot of booze.  She eats a lot of meat. 

And some raw pig fat.

Julie goes to Tanzania.  She lives in bomas.  She has some fun with the butchers. 
A woman asks, "What is the center of your life."  

Julie was hoping they'd tell her.  She's almost raped.  She eats a lot of meat.  She drinks a lot of booze. 

And some raw blood.  Cow and goat.

Julie goes back to New York.  Her husband Eric takes her back and makes some beef stew.  The way to a woman's heart... 
Julie makes a date to meet her ex lover.  He rattles off a grocery list of the crazy things she did.  She agrees she acted nuts.

Eric knows Julie met with D.  They hug.  They eat shrimp gumbo.  They drink a lot of booze.  Julie writes about her Jack the Ripper theory and goes back to work with the upstate butchers.  They chat about Eric and his girlfriend.

Oh, and there are recipes. 

  

What does all this have to do with love?

Maybe the women Julie met had it right.  Maybe Julie wants too much.  You have to be pretty well off to go on that trip just to watch butchers in action.  A person has to have a center in life.

And maybe, just maybe, a more balanced diet.  

Pray in Winnipeg - Being 60 (week 18 - by Margaret Ullrich)

Last week I wrote about how food has become more than just something we have to eat to live.  Cookbooks have developed from simple how-to manuals into rollicking tales of adventure the author had, usually in some far off land, while hunting for the perfect peach, wine or bottle of olive oil.   

Ah, to find the perfect _____!!!!  

You fill in the blank.

Lately religion has become a big topic, too.

I don't know if it's because of the Age of Aquarius or if people are just fed up with the scientific approach to life.  There isn't better living through chemistry.  The answer isn't in a pill.

If anything was learned from watching The Sopranos, Psychiatrists don't have all the answers, either.  Hell, sometimes they're even crazier than the patient.  We're a little more complex than Freud had dreampt we are.

Religion, in one form or another, has been with us an awfully long time.  Most religions, at heart, have the same basic ideas: there is a God in charge of everything, we have to be grateful and remember Him or Her with a few annual festivals, and we should be nice to each other.

No problem with those ideas.

  

The problem is that God isn't the only one in the house of worship with us.

Other people are there.  

Some are in charge.  

And some people, shall we say,  are a little odd.

I just finished reading Philippa Gregory's latest historical novel The Red Queen.  It's about Margaret Beaufort, the grandmother of Henry VIII of England.  Feminists would've loved the way she masterminded one of the greatest rebellions of all time, just so her sonny boy, Henry VII, could get the job of King of England.

The thing is, she really thought she was on a holy quest; that God was personally speaking to her and telling her to lead an army just like her hero, Joan of Arc.  According to the book jacket, Margaret was "a proud and determined woman who believes that she alone is destined, by her piety and lineage, to shape the course of history."

I guess the problem of religion being used by a power hungry politician has been with us an awfully long time, too.

Eat in Winnipeg - Being 60 (week 17 - by Margaret Ullrich)

I don't know what's going on lately.  

Food is a basic necessity of life.  

You starve, you die.

Simple.

But in the past few years food has become an art form for some and an obsession for others.  I'm not saying Julie Powell, author of last year's Julie & Julia, is totally to blame.  In 2003 the movie Under the Tuscan Sun made people rush out to buy or borrow Frances Mayes' book, thinking it was a cozy tale of a plucky gal who conquers all while eating a gelati.

Sometimes I wonder why they even bother to buy the movie rights to a book.  Frances' best seller was more about food than plumbing.  

Spoiler Alert: She wasn't a single woman who totally pulled up stakes and plopped herself down in Tuscany.  Oh, no.  The villa was basically her summer cottage, if you please.  Her day job was teaching creative writing at San Francisco State University, along with writing books and articles.

She'd written a college text book.  

That's better than an RRSP.

Frances' book had Tuscan recipes which inspired readers to suck up lots of olive oil, wine and garlic, all the while thinking it would turn their lives into a Fellini movie.

Yeah, right.

I don't have any problem with Italian food.  I never met a noodle I didn't like.

But reading about how Frances would spend a morning searching for the perfect peach for the perfect meal...  I mean... give me a break.

If one wants to spend a vacation in a produce market, I say sure, it's your holiday.  But in a regular day to day, 9 to 5 life, it just doesn't work.

There's more to life than The Perfect Peach.

   

Why is food becoming such a hassle?

Eat Pray Love in Winnipeg- Being 60 (week 16 - by Margaret Ullrich)

This year's big chick flic is Julia Roberts' Eat Pray Love.  Last year I saw Julie & Julia and decided to try my hand at blogging.  

Can I get guidance from Julia Roberts' latest movie?

Well, why not?  

Can that be any worse than when the ancients examined animals' internal organs for guidance?  And they were paid professionals, seeking guidance for kings and countries.  They actually made their living from staring at livers and such.

I'd rather look at a movie than an intestine.

  

Julia shouldn't get all the credit for Eat Pray Love.  It was originally a book, as was Julie & Julia.

Julie & Julia sparked renewed interest in Julia Child's recipes, with her "Cholesterol be damned" butter overload.  That just lead to buying a cookbook.  Or going to a library.  Or just watching reruns of Julia Child on PBS.  

Eat Pray Love is like a Disney cartoon for adults.  There are tie-ins all over the place: kitchen appliances, clothing, jewelry, furnishings and candles.

In other words, with the right props, I, too, can be enlightened.

Or at least look like I'm as enlightened as Julia.

Hmmm...  Maybe this isn't as straightforward as jumping into blogging.

I'm turning 60.  

Time for a review of my life.  Where I've been and where I'm going.  

But, to paraphrase the  message from another classic movie, The Wizard of Oz, maybe everything I need is right here in my own back yard.

Maybe I don't need to buy all the tie-in junk, too. 

Well, maybe the candles. 

Something New - Being 60 (week 15.5 - by Margaret Ullrich)

Welcome to the NEW I'm turning 60...!!!!

Last weekend was a bit hectic, so I didn't have time to post anything for I'm turning 60...

Sorry. 

I missed you, too.

But, maybe it all turned out for the best.  

I was going to write a late post about turning 60 and, well, one thing led to another.  I browsed a few of the gadgets blogger has and decided to update my blogs.

Here on I'm turning 60... I've added cute animal and scenery pictures, tons of offers (coupons - hey, I'm 60, remember?), moon phases, a fish tank, a tetris game and a sudoku game. 

And on Winnipeg is Better Than Chocolate I've also added daily horoscopes, a way to send free e-gifts and e-cards, and monthly updated seasonal foods with recipes (okay, it's from Minnesota, but that's as close as I could get).  Click and enjoy. 

It's also easier to add your comments.  

Please let me know what you think.

Like, now.

Hot in Bed - Being 60 (week 14 - by Margaret Ullrich)

My relatives don't believe me when I tell them our summers are hot.  Hot enough so that we have to use our central air conditioner.

Our summers are hot.

Trust me.

  

We recently had a hot muggy stretch, when our AC was going 24/7 to keep us at a comfortable 21º Celcius, instead of the 40º plus it felt like.  Then we had a rainy day, which got rid of the humidity.  The rainy day was to be followed by a night when it would dip to 8º.      

That's when the shit hit the fan.

When couples are about to get married they usually discuss things they think are important - sex, money, religion.  Big whoop.  They never discuss what really matters.

What's a cool night and how to deal with it. 

I was thrilled when John Sauder said it was going to hit 8º.  To me air conditioning is a poor second to fresh cool air.  I sleep more soundly when it's cool.  The cooler the better.  I wanted to turn off the air and start opening windows.

Paul's reaction to the weather forecast differed from mine.  He repeated "8 degrees" as if we were being threatened by a tsunami.  He wanted the air left on and the windows closed.

We compromised.

I turned off the air and started opening windows.

Paul placed our heavy comforter over his half of the bed so he could sleep through the new Ice Age.  

I made do with the top sheet.  Slept like a log.

Paul got a lot of exercise.  After a few hours he was sweating.  He got up, removed the comforter and carefully placed a doubled blanket over his side of the bed.  After a few hours he was sweating.  He undoubled the blanket.  After a few hours he was cold.  He redoubled the blanket.  After a few hours he was sweating.  He undoubled the blanket.  Then he couldn't sleep. 

I couldn't stop laughing.

Well, he'd thought hot flashes were funny.

Living La Vida Folklorama - Being 60 (week 13 - by Margaret Ullrich)

Winnipeg's 41st Folklorama is starting tomorrow.

If you haven't been to Folklorama, it's a made-in-Manitoba celebration of all the different nationalities that make up Winnipeg.  For 2 weeks Winnipeggers can visit 45 different pavilions and travel the world, while still being able to sleep in their own beds.  

Some of the pavilions are in our neighborhood, in walking distance from our house.  The north end is the most culturally diverse area of Winnipeg.  All we have to do is go for a walk to meet folks from around the world.  

Of course everyone's proud of his own country's culture, food and history.  But, in the day to day life of an immigrant, there are certain problems nobody ever thinks about when he gets on the boat or plane for the big trip.

Canada really tries to respect ethnic origins.  Officially that's no problem.  The problem comes when the immigrant's kids go to school.  Boom.  The Big Bang.   

Kids, no matter where they came from, are desperate to fit in with the other kids.  And parents, no matter where they came from, are sure their kids will be destroyed if they fit in with the other kids. 

The higher standard of living attracts many immigrants.  Food and shelter are no longer enough.  Then there's the bill for the higher standard of living.  Everybody has to help.  A Greek-Canadian comedienne once said Greek families have children to staff the family restaurant. 

A couple of days ago I saw an Indian mom, in a lovely butter yellow sari, delivering flyers.  Her daughter was helping her.  

It brought back memories.  

When I was a kid I helped Pop pour concrete on a new driveway and paint apartments.  I also did my homework in the TV repair shop Pop had in the storefront of his first duplex.  I was there to greet customers, while Ma ran in from our apartment behind the shop.  She was busy taking care of my sister and brother.  Pop was at his day job at Lily Tulip.

Funny, they only show kids dancing and singing in the pavilions.

That ain't the half of it. 

Films, Films, Films - Being 60 (week 12 - by Margaret Ullrich)

This is the weekend of the 'Gimli Film Festival'.  It's been going on for 10 years and includes everything : features, shorts and documentaries.  There are guest filmmakers, industry events and parties.  

It also has a free nightly beach screening.  After sunset - 10:00 p. m. for those not familiar with Manitoba's long summer days - they show regular feature films on an 11 metre outdoor screen on the shores of Lake Winnipeg.

If you've ever gone to a drive-in, you have the general idea.

Gimli is one of our favorite local towns, so we went there yesterday.  We went to walk on the beach and check out the paintings, both in the art gallery and on the beach front wall.  We also dropped by our favorite shops and walked on the beach.

But, we didn't stay for the late show.

Paul and I used to go to drive-ins regularly.  We even went to a few dusk-to-dawn specials.  Picture it - a night filled with 4 movies, with a few bathroom and snack breaks - all for the price of 1 movie.  For a while we owned a truck which we also used for camping.  We'd just back into our spot and stretch out on the sleeping bags which were on the foam mattress on the board.  Our dogs curled up beside us.  Our son slept beside us in his own sleeping bag. 

No problem staying awake through the night.

No problem being alert enough to drive home.

That was then.  This is now.

Lately we've become big fans of the Turner Classic Movies channel.  On Thursday night they showed an old favorite of mine - Tammy and the Bachelor.  Debbie Reynolds, Leslie Nielson, 1957.  It started at 9:00 p.m. and ended at 10:45 p.m.  

We enjoyed it.  By 10:50 we were in bed.  The next morning we staggered around, tired out from our "late night".  

Dusk to dawn?  I don't think so.

The Icelandic Festival - Islendingadagurinn - is happening next weekend.

No, I can't pronounce it.

Folks on the Fringe of Folklorama - Being 60 (week 11 - by Margaret Ullrich)

We've just had the Folk Festival.  The Fringe Festival is in full swing and, in a couple of weeks, we'll have Folklorama.  

Just another Effin Manitoba summer.

When Paul and I first arrived here in '75 we really got into all the festivals in Manitoba.  Didn't matter if we had any genetic connection to an ethnic celebration or not.  Give us an address and we were there.  We felt it was our duty as new Manitobans to take part in any and every celebration.

Okay.  We were 25.  

Okay.  We had more energy than sense.  

Okay.  We were dumb.

We had our reasons.  We'd grown up in New York.  The Big Apple.  To our shame, whenever someone mentioned a popular tourist trap... uh, attraction... we had to admit we hadn't seen it.  Then we moved to British Columbia.  Lived there a couple of years.  Always meant to see the touristy places.  Never got around to them.  Then we left.

Well.  We weren't going to make that mistake again.  We were going to see everything.  In one year.

Our first year was a blur.  We had to see all the Folklorama pavilions.  Back then they crammed the whole world into 1 week.  Saw lots of embroidery.  All I remember was the time we were stopped by a cop.  We were on Main Street.  We weren't drunk.  I had the Folklorama passport in my hand.  Paul was driving and, as he explained to the officer, we were looking for Poland and hadn't noticed that we'd gone past an intersection.

Cops have heard it all. 

Now we're older.  We've seen - and enjoyed - most of Manitoba's attractions over the past 35 years.  We've seen the Queen.  Twice.  

We stayed home when Queen Elizabeth came to town 2 weeks ago.  While we're not as old she is, we didn't think we'd do too well standing outdoors for 10 hours in the heat wave we were having.  And there was a threat of a thunderstorm.       

Back in '75 we'd have been there.  We'd have stood in hail for 10 hours.  Without an umbrella.  

Not no more. 

Been there, done that.

Eclipse that, Kristen Stewart - Being 60 (week 10 - by Margaret Ullrich)

Usually, when we go for our annual chat with our financial advisor, it's a pretty ho hum affair.  She checks off a bunch of stats just to make sure we're 'on target' for our 'future needs'.  

To be honest, who the hell knows?  I mean, we could win a lottery or we could suddenly have a honking big medical bill.  Either of these would make hash out of all those pie charts financial advisors love.

She's a nice lady, so we humor her.

This year when she asked how old I am, I said 60.

Did that ever put a gleam in her eye!

She told me I qualify for their super duper Plan 60 account, which is way, way better than the god awful joint account we'd been using for the past 40 years.  I said I had received a letter around the time of my birthday.  But since Paul doesn't turn 60 until December, I thought we had to wait until we were both 60.

Financial advisors live for moments like that.

Quicker than you could say 60, she called up the product comparison info on her computer while explaining that only one of us has to be 60.  She casually mentioned it's the same for seniors' discounts for shopping and travelling.

At that, I saw a gleam in my husband's eye. 

I have to admit that at 60, I don't quite look the same as I did at 18.  A sag here, a wrinkle there.  So it goes.  Young women do have a certain oomph that fades with time.  But, what time taketh away, banks and businesses giveth.

I qualify for senior discounts.  Now.

A hottie like Kristen Stewart is the stuff of dreams.  Sure.  But we older gals have something she doesn't.  We are an instant discount for everything near and dear to our husbands' hearts.  

And that's something they can take to the bank. 

We're Not in Debrett's, Either - Being 60 (week 9 - by Margaret Ullrich)

Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip are in Winnipeg today.  No, they're not going for another water taxi ride.  That trip they took in 2002 was enough.  In case you weren't here, that boat broke down mid-river and had to be towed by another boat which was carrying her security detail.  

Paul and I, along with a few hundred people, were waiting for her on the St. Boniface shore.  Some of the youngsters were in their Folklorama costumes.  We were witnesses to History, more or less.  Since there wasn't any real danger, we just watched and, truth be known, giggled a bit about how the best laid plans often go awry. 

She was a good sport about it.  All she said was "That was interesting," as she was helped from one boat into the other to reach shore.

I've always admired Queen Elizabeth.  She's like the Energizer bunny - she just keeps going.  Nothing gets her down.  

Long Live the Queen!!!  

I've been reading Philippa Gregory's books about the Tudors and their extended family.  I've also borrowed a few other books about the Royals from the library, just to get the names and facts straight.  What a bunch!! 

I wonder what it's like to go to a library and see your whole family's history, warts and all, filling the shelves.  No need to bother with Ancestry.com for that family.

A few years ago my Pop got interested in our family tree.  He had received a letter telling him that, for a mere $35, he could receive a hard-cover book which was just jam-packed with all the exciting things his family, the Sultanas, had done after they'd arrived in the good old U. S. of A.  

The publishers promised the book would be something we'd treasure and spend many happy hours reading.

Yeah, right.

The thing is, our family hasn't been in America all that long.  Pop's brothers had come over about 10 years before we did.  They hadn't done anything famous or notorious.  After a few glasses of wines, all their tales were told, twice.

I don't know what Pop expected to find in that book. 

What he got was a phone book listing of all the Sultanas in America.  No mention if any were our third cousins or shared any of our great, great, great-grandparents.     

After reading about everything the Plantagenets and the Tudors had done to each other according to the Gregory books and the History books, I came to a conclusion.

Maybe it's best not to know.

Moving from N.Y. to B.C. - Being 60 (week 8 - by Margaret Ullrich)

One thing about getting older - almost every day is the anniversary of something.  Today Paul and I were reminiscing about when we left New York 38 years ago.

We had just gotten married.  Since we'd lived with our parents before the big day, we didn't have much stuff.  Everything we owned fit in our little home on wheels, an 11 foot trailer called Shasta.  It was supposed to sleep 6.  Paul had replaced the couch with a closet.  We were using the slide-down shelf as storage space, so our dinette set was our only bed.   

We were young, so we had a lot of energy.  We needed it to drive from College Point, New York to White Rock, British Columbia in 3 weeks.  Why the rush?  Ma had said she wouldn't be able to sleep until we had stopped driving.  So, we rushed.

People, on first meeting us, ask why we left the Big Apple.  Winnipeggers, especially in the winter, ask why we left British Columbia.  The answer to both questions is the economy.  

In the early 70s New York had gone bankrupt.  City employees, such as policemen, were receiving I.O.U.s instead of pay cheques.  That did not make the policemen happy.  An unhappy policeman is not a good thing.  

After we had lived in B.C. for a couple of years, that tourist trap Canadian Province went into one of its famous busts.  It happens.  You can't eat the pretty scenery or the mild weather.

Paul was in the union, so we moved to Winnipeg.  In February.  That's another story and anniversary.   

My parents had never really settled into New York,  They always said they were going to move back to Malta.  For almost 60 years they complained about how New York wasn't Malta.  Well, duh.  

Learning from their example, Paul and I made an effort to fit into our new home.  We volunteered.  We met the neighbors.  We did the things everyone does when moving to a new neighborhood, let alone a new country.

If we knew then what we know now, would we still have moved to Canada?

Yes.  

But this time we'd take 3 months instead of 3 weeks and tell Ma to take a sleeping pill.

Remembering a Death - Being 60 (week 7 - by Margaret Ullrich)

For some reason Pop decided that everyone had to honor the memory of Uncle Tony by driving upstate and visiting his gravesite every year.  Of course, we'd also drop by Aunt Kate's for a bite.  I don't know how Aunt Kate felt about hosting a barbecue for in-laws and relatives she hadn't seen for nearly 2 decades, but she agreed to fire up the grill.  

Not everyone shared Pop's enthusiasm.

Relatives, especially in a large family, can develop into quite different individuals.  Over a few decades there isn't much they share outside of the DNA.  Some folks like to gather the family around a large dinner table.  Others like to gather with friends around a few bottles.  Different strokes for different folks.  

In a large family you can avoid a relative or 2 pretty easily.  During the 16 years after the 'Fur Coat Incident' my family had settled into a routine.  Some relatives we saw regularly.  Some monthly.  Others just during Christmas and Easter. 

Pop told everyone he expected a real crowd to show up.  No dice.  Our regulars and monthlies had decided they'd done their bit when they went to the funeral.  No sense seeing a guy more after he was dead than they saw of him while he was alive.  

The only relatives who joined Pop on his pilgrimage were our C & E's, a couple who, like Kate and Tony, enjoyed their booze.  Pop was a 'glass of wine with Sunday dinner' fellow.  My boyfriend agreed to come along just to add to the body count.

The gravesite visit went quickly.  

After the barbecue, the elders - including Aunt Kate's boyfriend - just sat around making small talk.  Pop was still annoyed about not being able to rally the troops.  He'd seen the fuss made over the JFK site during the Robert Kennedy funeral, for Christ's sake.  Even without booze, Pop could get sentimental.  

My crowd - Tony's 4 kids, my sister and brother, my boyfriend and I - wandered off.  I had a copy of Cosmopolitan, the Bible of teenage girls in the 60s, and there was an article on Numerology, about what is revealed by one's name.  It filled the time.  We even did the numbers for my Aunt's dog, Mona.

That was the last time we went upstate.

Rest in peace, Uncle Tony.

A Death in the Family - Being 60 (week 6 - by Margaret Ullrich)

    The anniversary of Robert Kennedy's death always reminds me of Uncle Tony's death, which happened the week after Kennedy's.  

    I was working in a card shop, when my boss came over and said my father had just called.  There'd been a death in my family.  My Uncle Tony.  My father would be picking me up.  I had the weekend off, without pay.  Would I like a glass of water.

    I couldn't have cared less.

    We'd lived with Uncle Tony when we first came to America.  After 2 years there was a problem over the weekly split.  Uncle Tony's wife, Kate, was sporting a fur coat.  We were leaving for College Point.  Uncle Tony was moving to upstate New York.  He may as well have moved to the moon.  We never spoke of him again. 

    Here we were, 16 years later, driving to Uncle Tony's house.  Aunt Betty, who'd known Aunt Kate since they were children, had gotten there ahead of us.

    Uncle Tony wasn't even 50.  Cholesterol runs in the family.  That wasn't it.  Uncle Tony had a taxi service.  He had a partner.  His partner had an affair with Aunt Kate.  Aunt Kate wanted a divorce.  Uncle Tony managed to drive to the hospital, where he collapsed.   

    Okay... if you've watched The Sopranos, you know the kind of funeral that was expected.  

    Aunt Kate agreed to give Uncle Tony a proper sendoff.  Small condition... she wanted some company that night.  She was afraid that Uncle Tony's ghost might drop by, for old time's sake.  Aunt Betty was Sicilian and figured no problem.  Ma had a terror of ghosts, so she said I'd help guard the widow.  I knew I wasn't the target, so I said sure.

    Cousin Barbara, as their eldest, ordered the headstone.  She picked a double header, so her parents could rest in peace together for all eternity.  Everyone smirked.  Aunt Kate shrieked, "I'm not dead, yet."

    We had a quiet night.  

    The viewing went as planned.  After Aunt Kate was helped in, she howled, flew across the room and draped herself over Uncle Tony.  Everyone smirked.  The partner couldn't make it.  The prayer cards were taken.  We went to the Mass.  Tony was buried.    

    Our family's first funeral in America.

Ancestry - not .com - Being 60 (week 5 - by Margaret Ullrich)

A little while ago Ancestry.com was running a mini-series about celebrities researching their family trees.  Okay, to be honest, it was a commercial.  They were really hoping everybody would want to climb their family trees with Ancestry.com's help.  
For a fee.

It really was heartwarming.  Big celebrities tracking down their family's history, then traveling halfway across the world and weeping as they trod on their ancestral stomping grounds.  All the while the cameras were rolling.  Everything - library research, traveling and hugging - done within an hour, including commercials.

American movies and television shows are seen all around the world.  The relatives in the ancestral towns hadn't just fallen off a truck.  They grabbed at their long lost fifth cousins and their 15 minutes of fame. 

Without that incentive, long-lost relatives aren't always that hot to hug.

Paul and I had left New York in 1972.  My parents had come for a few visits while we lived in British Columbia.  That was easy.  British Columbia is Canada's tourist trap.  Then we moved to Winnipeg.  To be honest, there are times - like when it's -40º - when even the local citizens don't want to be in Winnipeg.  But my parents wanted to see where we were living.  Pop said Tyndall Park was like College Point.  

We went down to New York a few times, too.  As the years went by, it got more awkward.  Our last visit was the most memorable, reunion-wise.  

The day before we were due to return home, Paul and I were going to take a small walk with Ma.  Then we got a phone call from Pop's sister and her husband.  They wanted to see us.  It was a last minute surprise.  No one had mentioned wanting to see us.  We had been away for 28 years and life had gone on.  No hard feelings.  Just the way things were.

Okay.  We said it would be nice to see them.  We sat down for a cup of coffee and to catch up... or so we thought.  My Aunt turned to me and asked, "So, when are you moving back to New York?"

I said we weren't.  My Aunt seemed annoyed.  Paul and I sat while they chatted about people and events in their lives.  Basically we had nothing to add to the conversation.  We couldn't leave for a walk.  That would've been rude.  So, we sat and listened. 

Maybe, if there had been a camera rolling, it would've been more pleasant.