Social Distancing

My neighbor’s son, David, is the quarterback of our local football team, a very personable and good-looking young man. 

“Football is a rough and tough sport, isn’t it?” I commented one day, full of sympathy. This was many years ago, when “Social Distancing” hadn’t been invented yet.

He looked at me puzzled and pondered my words. Then he laughed and exclaimed, “Sure, it’s rough and tough. That makes it a great sport! In football you’ve got to be rough and tough.”

Now it was my turn to ponder his words.

David had pinpointed the very essence of Human Nature. Men as well as  women crave contact with other people; we covet close connection with our friends; we cherish a friendly hug. 

Is it surprising then that social distancing is so challenging for us? Had we succeeded in social distancing in the early spring, a pandemic would not have happened. As it is, the numbers of new cases are climbing daily. It shows how burdensome it is for us to overcome our innermost nature and desire to be close to one another, and yet not to be told. 

Keep well,

Until next time,

Rosi 

 

A Witch

“My grandmother was a Witch,” Fannie explained while we were walking on the beach. 

“A witch?” I repeated in obvious shock.

“A good witch, of course,” she clarified when she saw my startled face.

“A good witch?” I asked. This was even more surprising. I knew witches from Grimm’s Fairy Tales — wicked witches all of them, not a good one among them. “Tell me more,” I was all ears. “A good witch? I never heard of good witches.”

“Yes,” she laughed, “a good witch. She could heal people and brew medicines for them. That’s why they called her a Witch. She also had great intuition. One day a young farmer came to her with a bloody, swollen cheek.  “One of the cows kicked me when I was milking her,” he told her.  

“Not a cow,” she replied. “It was a girl, … a girl in a green dress, wasn’t it? She threw something at you.”  

“How did you know?” the young man replied nervously. “You weren’t there.”

“Bring me the item she threw, and I’ll make you a good medicine,” she said. Then she cleaned the wound, and reminded him to come back with the item the girl had hurled at him. 

The young man came back an hour later and handed her a girl’s shoe.

“I thought so,” she said, and smiled. “Let me make you an ointment, and then go and return the shoe to the young girl. But remember, if you don’t return that shoe to the girl, the ointment will not cure you.”

Several months went by when Fannie’s grandma, the Witch, received an invitation from those two young people. They were getting married.

    

        Keep well,

        Until next time,

        Rosi

 

Mimi Stuart, American Artist of the 20th & 21st Century

         Most artists discover their talent and their desire to paint when they are in their teens or twenties, some even much later in life, or when they aren’t under pressure anymore to make a living. Mimi discovered hers when she was a year old. She was to nap in my cabin—we happened to be on a sail boat at the time—when she found my lipstick and set about painting her face, then her t-shirt, and her legs. Then she fell asleep with the happiest of smiles.

Throughout her school years her paintings won many prices. But not so at Berkeley University. Her art teacher at Berkeley wanted to see big blobs of grey and black; he deeply frowned upon her bright and cheerful colors. 

Mimi’s father objected to her painting ‘on principle.’ In his eyes, painting was a waste of time. Being an only child—his father had died when he was four years old—he was not even allowed to play with other children; he had to read books. When Mimi was hired during her summer vacation to lead a class in painting, he was furious and did not allow her to accept it. He wanted her to have a ‘proper’ job. He made her get work in a library.

I often wonder where Mimi got her talent. Not from me. My talent for painting is less than non-existing. We had a wonderful art teacher, though, a gracious and lovely nun. She appreciated art and felt its impact with all her heart and soul. I’m still puzzled that she gave me an A-.  I suspect that she loved my dancing—I did many solo dance performances/fundraisers for the Convent school I went to. Dear Sister Euphemia, she must have said many Pater Nostrums to atone for giving me an A-. And I can’t help thinking that it was her who saw to it that my daughter Mimi would be endowed with a great talent for art.

Mimi enrolled in Art School, but never went there—her father found out and made her go to Berkeley and enroll in Economics. After graduating, her father made sure she worked in a library. But luckily dear Charlie came along and married her. They found an old house that was affordable but totally dilapidated and needed every moment of Mimi’s time to restore it. But at night, Mimi sneaked into her study and painted. I was a great admirer of her art work and created a website for it. A few months later we discovered that a person in Texas was selling her paintings for good money. He had discovered her website, made photo copies of her paintings, put his name on them, and sold them. He certainly was “creative,” well, dishonestly creative.

One day, a gallery owner in Maui discovered the quality of Mimi’s paintings and offered to exhibit them in his gallery in Maui right by the ocean’s edge; and this is where they have been hanging and selling now for many years. 

Mimi still travels the world showing her paintings, which by now are in many galleries. She has lost track of the number of paintings she has painted or sold. She’s too busy painting and completing commissions. In the meantime, Charlie, her dear husband, has turned into a marvelous cook. “You know,” he told me the other day, “Mimi is so happy when she’s painting! She wouldn’t eat if I didn’t cook.”

Until next time,

Rosi

Visit from Russia

        At last the telephone rang. Natascha had safely arrived at the San Francisco Airport. I had prepared a sandwich and a bag of fruit for her since she had been traveling for two days and two nights and was bound to be hungry. 

And there she was, sitting on the designated bench outside the Airport. Very pleased I hopped out of the car and embraced her. “Welcome to America, Natascha.”

In spite of her tiredness, her shock at my demonstrative greeting was obvious. She looked at me sternly and embarrassed, and mumbled something. Probably just as well that I didn’t understand it. But then her face relaxed and she looked not unfriendly. 

We stowed her smallish suitcase on the back seat. It was tempting to put her next to it, but I resisted the temptation.

I handed her the bag of food I had brought. “Eat and enjoy. You must be hungry,” I said, “and then close your eyes and sleep if you like. We’ll have plenty of time to talk.”  I had to grin about my long speech, knowing full well that she didn’t understand a word. On the other hand, much of the meaning of what we say comes from the tone of our voice. It conveys our feelings and emotions, much more so than words can do.

It’s strange and challenging to have a guest with whom you cannot communicate. I turned on the classical music station to soothe the embarrassing silence. 

She did not open the bag of food I had brought; so I opened it for her and took a good look at her features while encouraging her to eat. She was much shorter than I, about 5’1” and slightly hunched forward. Her expression was stern, tired and emotionless. She looked a bit intimidating which was probably the way I looked to her. She wore no make-up and her skin was remarkably unblemished, though quite wrinkled.

She still was not eating and I urged her again to do so. At last she took a bite and her face brightened. 

It was time to drive home.

My office is Natascha’s room now. It’s the only warm room in the condo and the only one that has a door. All the others, kitchen, library and living room, and my upstairs bedroom have high ceilings and are open and difficult to heat. I usually spend the day in my office, happily working at my desk. 

The week of Natascha’s visit passed quickly and pleasantly. We walked the beach, went sightseeing and cooked. I taught her a few English words. She enjoyed learning, but it remained a big handicap not to be able to communicate! There was so much I wanted to know, and I’m sure she did too.  We used Laura to translate for us, but Laura was a busy lady and most of Natascha’s questions as well as mine remained unanswered.

When the time for her departure arrived, another obstacle raised its head. Natascha could not get a boarding pass. She had no valid visa; no way she could go back to Russia, they said. Besides, she had entered the country as a refugee.

What now?

We went to the Russian Consulate and sat there all day. And then to the German Consulate. Both visits in vain. 

One last avenue, the Office of Immigration. They looked at me in disbelief. Apparently, no one had ever petitioned NOT to be admitted to the USA. And that was what I requested; it seemed to be the only way to get Natascha home. As much as Natascha liked it here, she did have a granddaughter in Russia whom she fervently hoped to meet one day. We went from office to office, explaining her sad story over and over again—she was homesick and didn’t speak English … 

To my surprise, Natascha was eager to go home. She missed her comrades, and the little place she called her home. But most of all she missed hearing her language, the familiar sound of Russian.

On our third visit to the Office of Immigration I ask for someone who spoke Russian; and that did the trick. The lady was most kind and helpful. She spoke with Natascha and wrote the perfect letter for her, explaining that Natascha could not immigrate to the USA—she had to go back. And so, after a month in this country, Natascha was able to return home to Russia. I was delighted she had come. And so was she. 

       Would we ever meet again?

Letter From Russia

I held a letter from a Russian cousin in my hand! From the daughter of my father’s sister. At the end of World War II father’s young and beautiful sister, Rena, a nurse at the local hospital, had been loaded unto a truck and taken to Russia. We never heard from her again. I poured myself a cup of tea to restore my equanimity.  Then I sat down to read her letter:

Dear Roswitha,

Your father and my mother were brother and sister. For many years I have dreamt of tracking down your name and address one day, and finally I have succeeded. I was born and grew up in Russia and recently, after turning 75, I was aloud to retire and allowed to travel to Germany. 

Rena, my mother, grew up in Germany.  World War II had just ended and Russian troops occupied  our town. She was working in the local hospital when Russian soldiers came and loaded all doctors and nurses onto trucks and carted them off to Russia. They were taken to labor camps where they had to work. I was born in the first camp. 

While Mother worked in the fields, she tied me around her front to protect me from the whip of the foremen because she often collapsed from hunger and fatigue. She and others spent nights in a cave to be protected from rain and cold. It’s only thanks to her love and caring that she and I survived. She never let me out of her sight, because hunger was so acute that the other prisoners would have gladly eaten me if given a chance.

She taught me to read and write. But very little, because it was not easy. We had no books, no paper, no pens. Nor did we have time; as soon as I could walk I had to work at whatever I could do. A friend wrote this letter for me, because for many years I have been speaking only Russian—ever since mother died, long ago. 

During the winter they truck us to factories to work there. Sometimes little, sometimes much. We never know. Life is unpredictable. Mother had more children, I did too. But they were taken away. I think one of my granddaughters may still be alive. They do not want us to have children or friends. We are always separated and put in different camps. We rarely know where we are. Russia is very large. They did not school us, only when necessary for work we are doing. 

I have a train ticket to return to Russia in two weeks. I do not know if I can stay longer in Germany. Can I see you? 

I would very much like that.

 
          Natascha.

A hundred questions flooded my mind. Should I send her a plane ticket to come to America? Would she get a visa? Once here would she ever be able to go back? Or would she be stranded here? Should I travel to Germany and see her? Would we be able to communicate? I didn’t speak a word of Russian and she not a word of English. If I sent her money would she get it? Every letter to or from East Germany used to be opened and read by the Communists. It took many months to get mail from East to West Germany. Had it changed after Germany’s reunification? Worse, Natascha was a Russian citizen who had worked in labor camps all her life. I wondered how much freedom or privacy she was allotted. 

Truth can be stranger than fiction.  I decided to sleep on it. 

Until next time,

Rosi

Why Not?

         Wayne, my grandson, is graduating from grad school today. 

          I still remember his graduation from his first school, many years ago. His family lived in Sun Valley and I was visiting them. Just before breakfast, Wayne, eight years old then,  knocked on my door and ask me to knot his tie. He was wearing his dark blue Sunday suit and a T-shirt, with a yellow tie wrapped around his bare neck.

“Do you have a shirt,” was my logical question.

“I do, it’s at the cleaners, but this T-shirt is fine.”

“Do you need to … do you want to wear a tie?”

“Yes,” he said, “you need to wear a tie when you give the graduation speech.”

“You’re giving the graduation speech?” I asked surprised; he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. “May I read it?”

“No need; you’ll hear it soon enough,” he smiled.

         Frantically, we all searched for something shirt-like for Wayne to wear, but we couldn’t find a thing.

“Actually, I like your T-shirt, Wayne,” I mused. “It has character. Let your Dad do the tie. He’s better at it than I.”

So eight-year old Wayne gave his speech wearing a dark-blue suit,  a white T-shirt and a yellow tie nicely knotted around his bare neck. He carried it off majestically. And I’m still smiling whenever I look at that photo of long ago.

After thanking all his teachers, he also thanked his friend John for bringing him lunch. 

        My daughter was sitting next to me and audibly inhaled, “I always fix him lunch,” she whispered deeply embarrassed. In a small town where everyone knows everyone, word would spread quickly that Alison didn’t fix lunch for her son.

“Wayne,” she said when she saw him, “I always fix your lunch!”

“Yes, Mom, I know, but I eat your lunch during my first break at ten. I’m hungry again by 12 and am really happy that John brings a big lunch for me.”

Audibles: Condo Living & Staying Young

I’m thrilled to announce that two of my books, “The ABCs of Staying Young,” and "Condo Living" are available now on audible.com. They are read by Blair Seibert, a professional narrator with a most delightful voice. "The ABCs of Staying Young" is brief and to the point, and cannot fail to keep you feeling vibrant with the energy of youth. "Condo Living" clarifies the differences between living in a house or a condo. Both books abound with humorous anecdotes. Enjoy.

Staying Young

The more we learn, the more we realize how little we know, and how much remains for us to explore. 

Whether we read about the latest technology or the wisdom of the ancients, whether we contemplate the mysteries of the cosmos or the secret world of nanoparticles, any type of learning activates and enhances our brain functions. The body of human knowledge is immense. It provides a bottomless well for the curious and inquiring mind. 

Curiosity and eagerness to learn are traits of the young. Whether you’re curious about the recipe of a tasty dish or a better way of taking care of an orchid, never hesitate to ask. Every person knows something that we don’t; it’s a matter of asking.

It may require putting away our cell phone once in a while and engaging in conversation with a stranger, for instance when standing in line. You may be pleasantly surprised about the intriguing ideas you may hear and how quickly time passes. 

When shopping for fish the other day, I noticed a lady buying a large amount of it. Amazed and curious I asked her, “You must be having a big party?” 

“No,” she replied. “I freeze it.”

“My home-frozen fish tastes awfully fishy,” I replied.

“Put it in a plastic bag and cover it with water, then freeze it,” she advised.

She was right. It made all the difference! Now that I freeze fish covered with water, it tastes like fish fresh from the sea. 

Can We Stay Young?

Can we stay young?  Yes, we can, in spite of age and a few wrinkles—and amazingly so. 
Try it. A new book and audio book, “The ABCs of Staying Young,” gives you some four dozen tips how to stay young and enjoy life. Both are available at amazon.com. The audio book is beautifully read by Blair Seibert.

Art, Glorious Art

Would History have run a different course if Adolf Hitler had never become a politician? If the Vienna Academy of Art had accepted him as a student? He ardently longed to be an artist. Yet the Academy turned him down for lack of talent. What irony of fate. What tragedy for millions of people.

In his despair Hitler deserted his roommate Kubizek, who had been selling his paintings for ten shillings each. He walked the streets, slept on park benches and for six long years ate in charity kitchens. Yes, Adolf Hitler.

In 1914, when World War I broke out, Hitler hurried across the Austrian border, changed his citizenship and joined the German Army. To vent his pent-up feelings he wanted hands-on battle. He earned the Iron Cross First and Second Class. They became his proudest possessions that he wore until he died. 

Yet painting remained Hitler’s foremost passion. As soon as WW I ended, he hurried back to Vienna and applied again at the Academy of Art. But, again, he was turned down. His fury was boundless, and he swore revenge. It must have been one of his most gratifying moments when a few years later he deprived Austria of its independence and annexed it to the German Reich.

More ironic, the government sent him to oratory training so he would spy for them on communist activities. Yet wherever he went he gave fervent hate speeches against the government.

The founders of the new German Labor Party heard one of his tirades, and were so impressed, they made Hitler a Committee Member. Hitler renamed the party the Nazi** party, the gruesome embodiment of tyranny.

What would have happened if Hitler had been more artistic? If the Academy had accepted him? If he never had become a politician? We'll never know. But it may have saved the world from years of agony and destruction at his hands.

Until next time,

Rosi

*      based on the book, "The Madman & His Mistress."
**    Die National Sozialistische Deutsche Arbeiter Partei.  

Schatzi, my Chaperone

Schatzi was the tiniest dachshund I’d ever seen, with beautiful long curly hair, but he was sharp as a razor blade. He felt it was his mission in life to protect me. I was barely thirty then with two little daughters. My husband had left us, and since this was the swinging seventies when a single woman was considered free game, protection was a good thing to have.

I was the editor of a small German newspaper then and well aware that our advertisers were our most important asset. Our biggest client was Mr. Holze who imported alcoholic beverages from Germany. Mr. Holze was in his sixties, stately and of the old school. He had lost his wife a year or two earlier, but he continued buying the same two season tickets for the San Francisco Opera as he had done for years—the Opera needed to be supported he felt. 

One day he invited me to see La Boheme. Somewhat reluctantly I accepted his invitation—there was just too much work to do and not enough time for my children.  But La Boheme is one of my favorite operas, and I invited him to have a home-cooked dinner beforehand. 

We placed him at the head of the table, my two little daughters to his left, I to his right, and Schatzi, our dachshund, positioned himself strategically between the two of us, keeping a sharp eye on Mr. Holze. 

Mr. Holze, aware of his vast store of knowledge and experience, and my lack of it, proudly held forth with good advice. All very good counsel of course, and most likely I needed it.

Once in a while, and for greater emphasis when he’d explain that I must always do so and so or must never do this or that, he would pat my arm. 

The wrong thing to do—Schatzi did not approve of touching. He uttered a sharp, prohibiting yelp! Dear Mr. Holze quickly retracted his hand, while I could barely keep from bursting out laughing.

the Joys of Aging

“It’s annoying to get older,” Mary looked disapprovingly at the mirror.

“You wouldn’t want to remain a baby all your life, would you?” She frowned at the absurdity of my answer.

“Not a baby; but in my twenties!”

“I like getting older and hopefully wiser,”  I laughed.

“But we’ll be old one day,” she shot back.

“And wiser.”

“Old or dead,” she grimaced. “At what age are we old? 45?”

“Of course not! But then, some people look sad and elderly at 45, some are still youthful at 80.”

She looked at me quizzically. “How can anyone feel young at 80. Pretend?”

“Of course not!! But it would be depressing if we felt as old as we look;” I grinned and added, “I keep my bathroom suitably dark — it makes me look 20 years younger. Try it.”

To tell the truth, I had never felt happier. Less work, fewer responsibilities, fewer deadlines; yet more leisure, more kindness and more time to do what I want. Every morning I get up with a smile, thrilled to be still alive. I walk on the beach, and am delighted when I have walked two miles. I invite dinner guests and if a dish isn’t perfect, who cares? We laugh. Actually, after so many years of cooking, dinners turn out pretty well and pretty effortlessly. Yes, life couldn’t be better.

What makes Us the Way we Are?

Is it genes or environment, ancestors or teachers, food, Karma, or our place in the family that determines who we become or who we are? Or do all these factors have an impact?

The latest epigenetic research suggests that our genes may be the prime suspect. 

This may be good news or bad, depending on the type of characteristic we are looking at. We have thousands of them, some good, some not so good. 

Suppose we are inherently lazy. Does it mean we can sit back and point at that gene of ours as an excuse? 

Not necessarily, unless we are willing to favor that lazy-gene and strengthen it. Because our genes have epigenetic characteristics—they can be influenced, slowly, over time, and with plenty of effort. 

Practice makes perfect, they say. It’s an encouraging motto. If we practice tennis or playing the piano regularly and long enough, we are bound to get better. However, it will not change our genes, nor will it turn our children into tennis champs, unless they themselves practice, practice, practice.

It’s a pleasing thought that we need not be born with great talents, but that we can achieve greatness with our own effort if we so desire.

Free Will or Predestination

Philosophers have argued the question of Free Will versus Predestination for centuries. Are we free to choose? Or is our destiny written in the stars?

Strong arguments can be made for and against either case. 

We certainly are free to decide whether to eat a second piece of cake or not, but it’s a different matter to choose our career. Opportunity, talent, connections, effort—all play a role.

From early childhood it was my fervent dream to become a prima ballerina. I happily performed for many charitable events while mother played the piano for me. The life-long, all-consuming effort to become a first rate ballerina did not deter me. 

Opportunity, however, was a different matter. When a dance company asked me to join them, my father irrevocably said no. And to disobey my father was out of the question. Predestination? No. Lack of opportunity? Yes.

Yet opportunity and effort do not define predestination, though they do cause definite limitations.

Maybe our first question should be what is the purpose of life? Is it to become a better person? Or is it to atone for our sins in our distant past? Or is it to evolve on the timeless, mysterious ladder of evolution?

We may never know the answer, but it confronts us with the question of reincarnation. Is reincarnation a fact of life? Will we be born again, on this planet or another? Looking about me, life appears to be continuous. Even the weeds reappear every year; why should the human spirit simply perish?

Let us suppose then that our fate is not entirely predestined. Predestination has its limitations—many factors that speak for it; yet many factors speak against it. Could it be influenced by our actions? The thought of karma comes to mind. It is we who sow the seed of what we will reap. The more we practice playing the piano, the better we learn to play it. The more we practice self-discipline, the easier it is to decline that extra piece of cake.

How about free will? 

Are we able to freely exercise our will? I fear free will has many limitations too. Some factors speak for it and some speak against it.  And yet, with enough effort and patience—possibly over many life times—we may eventually achieve what we are striving for.

 
Perhaps our basic yet most important endeavor should be to become a better, kinder person. Kindness encapsulates what most religions preach.  Treat a person with kindness and they will—in most cases—treat you with kindness too. Or, as we are told, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Of course, we all know from experience that not all people will respond in this fashion—probably because they have never known kindness. But then, kindness is never wasted. Kindness is the most quintessential of all virtues. 

Life may not be easy, but the more we learn to accept it and try to make the best of it, the happier we are bound to be. As Goethe said, "Wer immer strebend such bemueht, den werden wir erloesen." In plain English, Try and try again, and you'll succeed. 

The Benefits of Age

       It’s true, getting older means getting wrinkles, being less agile, getting tired more easily.

       Yet age also has benefits. People tend to be more courteous to you, more respectful, more solicitous. 

       I must admit though, it does come as a shock when a gook-looking young man walks right by me without even noticing me. And then I remember my age—I could be his ma’, maybe his grandma.

       The other day a six- or seven-year old boy truly warmed my heart. He and his friend were joyfully running out a door. When he saw me, a total stranger, he stopped, thought for a moment, and then hurried back to open the door for me. May his parents be blessed.

       One of the benefits of age is having survived the years of Sturm und Drang, of having found a niche and a direction. We are more certain about our future. We rarely get rattled anymore.

       You may still not like the idea of getting older. Then think of the alternative—no, not of getting younger though it may sound appealing, but of saying farewell to family and friends, to the eternal blue sky and to life itself. It may still be worth living. We’ll never know.

       Until next time,

       Rosi

What a World!

         It’s Saturday morning; I’m sipping my coffee reading the paper:

Venezuelans facing economic crisis, Russians interfering, flooding in the Northeast, Trump venting about press, Bangladeshis offended by lovers kissing, trade tension, racist comments, pressure mounting, …

         I sadly shake my head: What a world!

         I get up to stretch my legs and walk to the store, Trader Joe’s, my favorite store. 

         It’s sunny in California and our coastal town is pleasingly cool. I patiently wait on the sidewalk to let the traffic pass; but no, cars stop and insist that I cross the street first. It happens often. People are amazingly courteous, so different from what I read in the papers. 

         I went shopping yesterday, and don’t need a thing—well, maybe some cheese and a bit of chocolate. With a contented grin I stand in line.

         “That’s all you have?” the two ladies in front of me ask. 

         “Yep, chocolate and cheese, wouldn’t mind living on it,” I smile.

         “Do go ahead,” they insist. “Do go ahead.”

         “What a wonderful world!” I muse.

Until next Time,

Rosi

Pigeons

I like birds and secretly wish I could fly too.

But today, my affection for birds was severely shaken. Pigeons had designated my smaller and rarely used balcony as their outhouse. When I went to water my plants on it, there wasn’t a spot where I could safely put my foot—it was covered with you-know-what. 

The floor, the walls, the glass, even my coveted plants were soiled. With a large needle I cleaned the netting of the screen door. Come to think of it, how in the world do they soil a vertical surface?

After two hours of scrubbing and cleaning I was determined that this was not going to happen again. I googled “how to keep pigeons from nesting on your deck” and adapted some of its suggestions. Instead of buying owls, I found five plastic water bottles in my recycling bin. I painted big black eyes on them. 

Then I strung a line across my deck and hung the bottles from it—some higher, some lower. They are gently moving in the breeze now looking downright threatening. For added effect I took off my black plastic gloves and tied them to the line too, hoping that the pigeons will take them for hungry black ravens. Then I sprinkled hot cayenne pepper on the banister and floor.

I straightened my back and looked at my work with satisfaction, wondering what the condo board will have to say. 

In the meantime, one thing is for certain — pigeons won’t visit me anymore.  

Until next time,

Rosi

Getting Fit

I just came across this story a friend sent me eleven years ago. I laughed so hard I could barely read the last paragraph. Let me share it with you. I wish I knew its author.

For my sixtieth birthday my daughter gave me a week of personal training at the health club. Actually, I am in great shape having been a cheerleader of our high school’s football team 43 years ago, but I decided to give it a try.  

I called the club and made reservations with a personal trainer named Belinda, a 26-year-old aerobics instructor and model for athletic clothing and swim wear. My daughter seemed pleased with my enthusiasm to get started! The club urged me to keep a diary to chart my progress.

MONDAY: Started my day at 6:00 a.m. Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it. Belinda was waiting for me at the health club. She looks like a Greek goddess—blond hair, dancing eyes and a dazzling white smile! She gave me a tour and showed me the machines. After my workout I watched her conducting her aerobics class. Very inspiring! Belinda encouraged me as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in whenever she was around. This is going to be a FANTASTIC week !!

TUESDAY: I drank a whole pot of coffee, but finally made it out the door. Belinda made me lie on my back and push a heavy iron bar into the air. Then she put weights on it! My legs were a bit wobbly on the treadmill, but I made the full mile. Belinda's rewarding smile made it worthwhile. I feel GREAT!! It's a whole new life for me.

WEDNESDAY: The only way I can brush my teeth today is by laying the toothbrush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it. I think I have a hernia in both pectorals. Driving was OK as long as I didn't try to steer or stop. Belinda was quite impatient with me. She said my screams bothered other club members. Her voice is too perky for early in the morning. My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Belinda put me on the stair 'monster'. Why the h*** would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators? Belinda told me it would get me in great shape to enjoy life more. She said some other s*** too.

THURSDAY: Belinda was waiting for me with her vampire-like teeth exposed as her cruel lips pulled back in a full snarl. I couldn't help being half an hour late, it took me that long to tie my shoes. Belinda took me to work out with dumbbells. When she wasn’t looking, I ran and hid in the restroom. She sent another skinny b**** to find me. Then, as punishment, she put me on the rowing machine. I sank it.

FRIDAY: I hate that b**** Belinda more than any human being has ever hated anyone! A stupid, skinny, anemic, anorexic little cheerleader. If there were a part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would hit her. Belinda wanted me to work on my triceps. I don't have any triceps! And if you don't want dents in the floor, don't hand me the D*** barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich. Next the treadmill. It flung me off and landed me on a health and nutrition teacher. Why couldn't it have been someone softer, like the drama coach or the choir director? 

SATURDAY: Belinda left a message on my answering machine in her grating, shrill voice wondering why I didn’t show up today. Just hearing her made me want to smash the machine, but I lacked the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up catching eleven straight hours of the Weather Channel. 

SUNDAY: I'm having the Church van pick me up for services today so I can thank God that this week is over. I will also pray that next year my daughter will choose a gift that is more fun—like root canal or a hysterectomy. If God wanted me to bend over today, he would have to sprinkle the floor with very big diamonds.

Until next time,

Rosi

Enjoy Life

Our Earth is a planet of infinite beauty. Visualize the serenity of a starlit night, the brilliant colors of a maple leaf, the crystals of snow glistening like diamonds in the sun. Think of the expressive eyes of a faithful dog or the inviting smell of dinner.

Do we take the wonders of life for granted? Do we get too engrossed in the paltry concerns of the day?  Are we oblivious to the joys of this world?

It might be a sign of aging, a trend that can be reversed. Why miss the joys of living? Life can be tough enough; we need the lift that Joy can give us.

         To reverse this trend, pretend to be an artist. Look for an intriguing detail worth depicting on the canvas of your mind. Beauty abounds all around us. Being aware of the ever-changing world will keep us young and smiling. For nothing remains the same.  We and the world around us are ever changing.

Deja Vu

Power, Party, Politics! 

Do we ever learn from history?

It seems as if it were yesterday that my father watched distraughtly as the sun disappeared behind an ominous weather front. Was it an omen of Germany’s political future? In 1939, politics was on everyone’s mind, but to discuss it, even in the privacy of one’s home, was impossible. Amidst political uproar and turbulence Hitler had risen to power. In the process, Germany had become a police state.

Father turned to Edith, his wife—his pillar of joy and strength. She was smiling, her eyes focused on her children in the garden below.

“Faster,” my brother shouted, “faster!” He was sitting next to me as we clutched the side-rail of our new rickshaw. H Peter, our older brother, was pulling us, galloping in wild exuberance up the gravel walk, across the lawn, around the rhododendron bush – and over we went! Maxi, our beloved shepherd dog was wagging his tail. We scrambled to our feet ready to continue the wild ride. But Maria, our faithful housekeeper, intervened. It was time to come in.

Moments later we joined our parents on the balcony for strawberries and cream. We were still beaming from our adventures with the rickshaw.

“Did you ride by the Forbidden City? Did you bow low to the Chinese elders?” Mother bowed in Chinese fashion and we laughed in delight.

Maria reappeared at the door, “Telephone from Berlin, Sir.”

Father’s smile vanished as he followed Maria into the house. When he returned ten minutes later, he was in uniform, wearing a long, military coat with a saber at his side. He looked handsome, but deeply somber. Even Maxi looked grave. Did they perceive the darkness that would soon engulf us? Father patted us goodbye and left- Thunder began to rumble in the distance and the first raindrops drove us inside. Why goodbye, we wondered? We were five, seven, and nine.

Three days later, World War II was declared. The curtain on our happy childhood had fallen.

* Part of this piece has been taken from my best-selling book about Hitler, “The Madman & His Mistress," available on amazon.com.