Opinions

On a quick trip home for Mom’s 89th birthday, Sabra and I stopped at a Subway for lunch.
The sandwich shop is a good fit for us, especially when we’re on the road.
Sabra typically gets a 6-inch chicken or veggie with a few select toppings. It’s agony for both of us, as she goes down the list asking herself if she should or should not add cheese, if so which cheese, onions or no onions, peppers or no peppers, etc. I can feel myself wasting away while she decides between mustard or vinegar as the final dressing.
Me, I got it down to a science.

While growing up in the suburbs of Chicago in the late 1950s and early ‘60s, the last place in the world you wanted to be on a hot summer’s day was in the house because there was no air conditioning, much less video games. Besides, if you were around, Mom might find a chore for you.

One of the television stations I watch is having another one of their summer essay contests for kids. This one is about their dreams and ambitions for the future. They are to write about what they want to be when they grow up. I’m sure there will be the predictable themes of fireman, nurse, policeman and doctor– people they have learned, early in life, to admire, as well as some of the glamorous occupations– movie actor, astronaut, cowboy, athlete, rock star.

I’ve nearly resolved to stop watching the newscasts lately because a person can absorb only so much bad news without suffering from depression. No, I’m not referring to the political circus going on– that’s probably a good thing. It provides some much-needed comic relief from the increasing pile of tragedies beleaguering the American public these days. I’m talking about all the tragic losses and unpleasantries being thrown at us lately.

Most people look a bit doubtful when I say I can remember when my sister Betty was born. I was a mere two years and three months old at the time, and I agree memories don’t usually go back that far. I do think, however, when something really momentous happens in our lives at such an early age we are likely to remember at least parts of it. I have lots of what I call “implanted memories,” that is memories of things I have been told about either so often or so dramatically I think I remember them.