I haven’t really had any “I want to go home” moments since we’ve moved. However, tonight I am really struggling. Rick has been gone since Sunday afternoon. For the most part he’s been in Las Vegas at a conference. Don’t feel too badly for him. He’s been watching fountains timed to music and lights. He’s gambled and won. He’s eaten at Quark’s and been kidnapped by Klingons. Right now he is at our mountain cabin in Colorado. Our very most private place in the world. Without me. It hurts. Even if the pack rats had taken over Beastie [our muck-around-pick-um-up-truck-with snow plow we left at the cabin], he is now in Laramie WY, sold. Not our Beastie anymore. Pretty sad. Beastie was well named. I can’t remember one time that we didn’t drive that truck into Laramie that he didn’t break down on the way back. Beastie always wanted to stay in Laramie. Now he has his wish.

There is no phone now at the cabin. Rick had to drive into Laramie to even get a signal strong enough to call me. I’m sure that tonight he is feeling about the same way as I am. Alone. Alienated. Except that he gets to see and talk to people that I miss. Larry and Donna. Ed. I miss them, I really do. Almost every weekend we went to the cabin. We had more company visit there than we did at our home down in Ft. Collins. I knew those far-flung neighbors better than the my neighbors I lived with on a daily basis. Until this job in NJ came up, we were going to move to the cabin full time. It seems a lifetime away.

I don’t really regret moving here. I love NJ. But, at times like this when I am reminded of the cabin and all the fun times, I get a bit weepy and nostalgic. It can’t be helped. Especially as I see our friends in Colorado slowly drifting away, forgetting us. I’ve seen it before when we moved to Europe both times. It just happens. Still, it’s very sad.

After the day I had today [see future article on how the dogs treed Momma bear and cubs in our yard!] I am feeling very sorry for myself. And homesick. Or is it more like cabin sick, because I miss the cabin more than I miss my old house. C’est la vie.

I had another conversation with Rick at the dry cleaners yesterday. No, not Rick as in husband Rick; Rick. You know, he owns the dry cleaners. What? You don’t know anything about Dry-Cleaner-Owner-Rick? Sure you do, I’m certain I mentioned him [maybe just in passing]. I guess I’ve been remiss in telling that story and the other stories along the same lines.  I guess I always meant to, but just have not sat down to do it. Some days I get the urge to write and others I just don’t. The words don’t come. Today after having another one of those kinds of days when people just strike up conversations, I think it needs to be said. I must have a sign on me that reads “Talk to Me.” What is it about myself that encourages people, strangers mostly, to talk to me? I don’t think I look all that friendly. Is it something about my body language? Am I wearing a goofy smile I don’t know about? I honestly don’t know. But talk to me they do. We’ll start with episodes about a month ago that ties in with the one with Rick today that reminded me I need to write about this.

There are two dry cleaners within a close distance of the house. The first time we needed dry cleaning done I had to choose between the two. Each is located at a strip mall next to a grocery store. Both groceries are different, and maybe one is closer than the other. It’s pretty much a toss-up. One looks all industrial and like a typical “Chinese laundry” and the other looks less hectic. I chose the smaller, less hectic one because I was going that direction. On dropping off the clothes, the guy behind the counter says he’s doing a survey because he’s done some advertising lately [probably trying to keep up with the other cleaners who are always busy] and wants to know why I chose to come to his. I hate admitting I’m new to the area, but it’s the truth, so I tell him the truth. I said, I’m new to the area and I had my choice between shopping at Shop Rite or the A&P today. The A&P won, so here I am. He then asks where I came from. When I told him we had moved from Colorado, the next thing I know he’s asking me for advice about which ski town they should take their winter vacation in. Vail or Aspen? We have a long discussion about this [I say Aspen is the place] and he recommends an Italian restaurant that he likes. He tells me they had his son’s communion celebration there. He welcomes me to the community.

I was just browsing the magazine rack in our local Eckard drug store. A man was on his knees stocking magazines. He asked if he was in my way. I said, no really, you’re fine. He said, actually I’m not fine at all. My knees are killin’ me. I really need a knee replacement but I’m taking this medication for my heart, so my doc says no go on an operation. Too risky. I murmur my regrets and say something about being sorry. He goes on to tell me more. About how he needs to have these injections [some new technology that is less invasive than surgery but better than cortisone shots] but for one reason or another [you see, I am not that good a listener!] he can’t have the injections just yet, he has to wait. In the meantime he’s just miserable and he can’t exercise like he used. to. He used to do a mile a day, jogging. Not now. He was losing weight before his knee started up. He was really proud of himself and the doctor even commented on his loss. All through this I am just nodding and interjecting, gosh, how awful or some such inane chatter. I don’t think he cares what I say, he just wants someone to talk to. After about ten minutes or so, he looks up from his task of changing out the magazines and says, I’m really sorry for keeping you like this and telling you all my troubles. Thanks for listening to me. I say, no problem at all, glad to help.

Not two days after this Rick [as in husband, not the dry cleaner owner]  and I are in the grocery on a weekend doing our shopping. An elderly woman looking rather confused came up to me and asked if I knew where the pastina was? I must have looked at her a bit strangely, as she said, you know, it’s the tiny pasta, do you know where it is? I’m over 80 and I hate shopping these days. I can’t seem to find anything. I tell her she doesn’t look her age. She giggles like a girl, and goes on to tell me she’s been married for 60 years and her husband is not doing very well. She needs the smallest pasta for him because it’s the only thing he can eat anymore. It’s a trial she tells me, looking out for him. He’s not what he once was and can’t remember much. I don’t remember much either unless I write it down, and most times I can’t remember to write it down. She shakes her head sadly. Rick by now has come looking for me to see what it taking me so long. I tell her I think it’s in the next aisle over. When I leave her she is still looking in the same spot. So, I go over to the pasta aisle, find her pastina for her and take it to her. Is this the right thing? I ask her. She says YES! this is what I was looking for, thank you so much!

Yesterday I dropped off the dry cleaning and Rick was at the counter. This is only the second time I’ve seen him. He asked where my accent was from. Accent, me? Really? I don’t have an accent I think to myself, or is it the abscence of a New Jersey accent that tips him off? The minute I say I’m not from around here, he’s ahead of me and says, You’re my Colorado customer, I remember now! Which town did you tell me, I can’t seem to remember. Was Aspen or Vail the better place to go? I need to write it down so I don’t forget. We straighten out his vacation and he asks me how I’m liking it here in NJ. He asks if I’m ready for our heat wave coming this weekend. I say no, and he says oh, it probably doesn’t get that hot back in Colorado, huh? I straighten him out on that one too and our conversation reverts to snow removal on the streets. We compare NJ to Colorado. Ten minutes of chit-chat later and I’m on my way.

I’m not complaining. I don’t mind taking the extra time to chat with people. And if I can help them in some small way, either by listening or lending a helping hand, all the better. I also learn by listening and exchanging information. But I’d still like to know if this happens to everybody or is it just me?

Last night, just as I went to bed we had a thunderstorm. It figures. All the dogs now collectively hate thunder. They bark and come running upstairs to be with me. Milli wants on the bed, so I boost her up.  I think they know about lightening too. They see the flash of light and seem to almost hold their breath, their lips caught on bottom teeth, frozen in position, waiting for that loud rolling BOOM! that follows. It’s okay, I soothe them, it’s just God bowling. At least that’s what my parents used to tell me. Kind of a silly concept, don’t you think? What happens if his bowling ball falls through the clouds from heaven and lands on my head? Would that be called a gutter ball? Does he play on a mixed league with angels? I don’t remember how they explained away the flashes of lightening. Maybe we could say they were sparks flying off his ball as it rolls down the alley on its way to that strike? Whatever. The dogs aren’t buying it either. As I lay there watching the windows light up every few minutes behind the curtains, listening to the cracks of thunder with three dogs on the bed with me and the rest panting on the floor, I wish like heck they’d fnish the tenth frame and go to bed and let us get some sleep. Amen to that!

What is she talking about? Has the heat addled her brain? Nope, just staying inside and cool today as temperatures soar into the 90s here in NJ. It’s even too hot to go in the pool. I’ll take a dip later when the day cools off some.

It was still pretty steamy inside as Troy Donahue and Suzanne Pleshette made their way through Italy in the movie, Rome Adventure. The year was 1962 and sex was not really openly shown in movies or on TV. Still, they have no problem getting the point across to the audience that they shared an attraction to each other. And that’s putting it in 1962 terminology! Funny how little you can show and leave the rest to your imagination. I’ve watched it many times, and I still cry in the ending. But don’t mind me. I start crying in Out of Africa the minute I hear the music for the opening credits.

The soundtrack is magnificent, with the theme song Al Di La sung in Italian, one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard. It sends chills up my spine. After catching this movie on satellite a few years back I became obsessed with obtaining the soundtrack, which is of course, long out of commission. I finally found it on eBay and Rick cut me a CD from a not-too-scratchy vinyl LP. I treasure it.

If you aren’t familiar with the movie, Suzanne Pleshette plays a school librarian that has a run in with the rather straight-laced staff at the snobby girl’s school where she works. The book she loaned to a student has been banned by most schools, and is called “Lovers Must Learn.” They think the book is scandalous because it has the word “lover” in it. She disagrees and quits her job, hops the next boat to Italy and meets dreamy Troy at a pensione in Rome.

Throughout the movie Suzanne wears the kinds of dresses I never got to wear. Sweet little dresses belted at the waist with skirts that flare out as she walks. Little Jackie-O-esque suits and pillbox hats. It’s like watching a time capsule, and life appears simpler then than it does now.

Their somewhat “illicit” no-sex love affair seems very tame in today’s world. They take a vacation together and the bus tour has them listed as Mr. & Mrs. Porter, so they end up with one room instead of two. She gets the bed; he gets the balcony outside. Another time the inn keeper mistakes them for a couple on their honeymoon and wants them to have the bridal suite. They try to explain but they end up with rooms next to each other anyway, connected by the balcony with a gorgeous view. Oh, the scandal of it all! Makes me blush just to think of it. Then, the worst thing happens. While shopping for cheese for their impromptu picnic, Suzanne stumbles upon her mother’s friend in the market. Thank goodness Troy is out rounding up the bottle of wine and not with her! She’s supposed to be on tour on her own! Gasp! She motions to Troy frantically to back away and then they both run like guilty lovers out of the market place as fast as they can so they won’t be discovered. If her Mother found out!! Little did they know that in a few years “free love” and drugs would be prevelant. Thank goodness they had no clue.

Okay, maybe Troy isn’t the best actor around, but he sure is soothing to the eyes. I’ve always thought he was almost too good-looking. I looked him up on the web and was sad to learn he died in 2001. What I didn’t know was that in 1964 he and Suzanne Pleshette got married! Not too dissimilar from today’s stars that act in a movie together, get married and sadly get divorced, as Troy and Suzanne did a year later.

I won’t spoil the ending here in case you decide you want to rent it, but the tacky candelabra he buys tableside plays an important role throughout the last half of the movie.

Enough Adventure for one afternoon. I’ve poached some pears in red wine, cloves and a cinnamon stick. I’m off to assemble my salad of frisee lettuce, poached pears, Maytag blue cheese, walnuts, and a strawberry vinaigrette. After that I think I’ll go for a swim.

I’ll bid you Arrivederci with a “time capsule” photo from our very own Rome Adventure back in 1984. Taken at the Coliseum.

Okay, unless you watch a certain popular dance show you won’t get my title. So be it. It seemed to fit. There is an ongoing conversation happening between my Mother and me. It’s all about swimming. For some reason she doesn’t think I can swim. How does this come about? you might ask. Good question. When you figure it out, please tell me.

When we first opened up the pool, Mom said to me that she was surprised I was so excited, after all I didn’t really know how to swim now, did I? I don’t? I replied, funny, I thought I could; always have! Where did you learn to swim? she asked. Mom, don’t you remember? I took lessons as a kid. I remember going and passing my tests. In fact, I think I still have a card stuck in my baby book that certifies I passed a swimming course. Well, I can’t remember you taking lessons, she tells me, and furthermore I don’t remember a public pool anywhere around where you might have taken lessons. Where else did you swim?

Well, Mom, we went every year for a while to Florida on vacation. You know, that large body of water that exists right next to Clearwater Beach, the Gulf of Mexico? Yes, she says, but you can’t really swim in the ocean very well with the waves and all. Where else did you swim? Gee Mom, let me think…well, after we moved to Florida there were lots of opportunities besides the ocean. My friend Kathy had a pool and we went swimming in it. Hmm, okay, but where else did you swim? Memom and Poppy [what we called our grandparents] had a pool, I remind her. Yes, she says, but it was too small for any kind of real swimming.

You can see where this is going. Absolutely nowhere!

Your sister can’t swim, she adds as if this will seal with certainty the fact that I cannot either. Must be the family genes. My Mom can’t swim, my sister can’t swim, therefore I should not be able to swim either. [I distinctly remember my sister taking lessons with me. If she can’t swim it’s her own fault.] Finally she says she’s going to ask my Aunt Emma where there might have been a pool in Hyde Park for me to take lessons. Great Mom, you do that.

Next time we talk on the phone she tells me that Emma remembers a seminary she thinks had a pool. Seems an unlikely place to me to take swimming lessons, but okay, maybe. Little prepubescent kids couldn’t be too much of a distraction to would-be priests and ministers. [or could they??]  I don’t remember where I took lessons, just that I did. My Mother didn’t drive when I was small, so she can’t imagine how I arrived at my lessons either. I think I remember something about taking a bus. There’s nothing for it now except to at least prove I actually did take lessons. Have to find that baby book of mine!

Last time I saw my baby book it was in the closet upstairs in the office. Mom had brought it with her on one of her yearly visits out to see us in Colorado. That seemed a convenient place to put it. However, since then we’ve moved. I haven’t seen it in any of the boxes marked “office” yet. The search begins in the basement. You need to see our basement to truly appreciate the enormity of this task! Boxes piled here and there; boxes on top of more boxes. Not only is it a challenge to find those marked “office” but we had a rather annoying guy packing us up. He would put things in any open box where he thought an item might fit, never mind where it came from. So, you never know when you open a box what you might find. A real “mixed bag” or box, I should say.

After much searching and opening of boxes, I finally found a box that was not marked at all, and lo and behold, there was my baby book! As I thumbed through all the childhood drawings with ribbons attached from having won a placement in a school contest, report cards and group class photos from Grades 1-6, glowing letters from teachers that I’m certain they just copied the same words for every student in the class, I finally found what I was looking for. A small card, 3.75 x 2.50 inches, stating that indeed “LYNN MONROE [okay, they spelled my name wrong!] has received swimming instruction at EYMARD SEMINARY POOL” [hey, Aunt Emma was right!]. On the back of the card my many swimming achievements are ticked off and certified.

Finally, proof. I rushed to the phone to call Mom. Hey, Mom, guess what? I found my swimming instruction card! Emma was right, it was the seminary pool! Well, I’ll be, Mom declares. As for me, I am just glad that we can now put this particular conversation behind us.

Weeks have passed. Yesterday while chatting with Mom on the phone she asked what I had done that morning. I swam, I said, about 12 lengths or so of the pool. You can see what’s coming, can’t you? Surely it’s inevitable. I hear a pause on the other end and brace myself for what she’s going to say next.

Well, she says, I just can’t wait to come down there and see you swim for myself. I still don’t believe you can swim!

SIGH. Oh well, I tried. I truly did.