When Gerald R. Ford Shows Up in My Dreams (and Brings Idioms Along)

Jean’s dreams are the ultimate mash‑up artists. They splice together antique booths, travel trailers, and idioms like “cloud nine” or “pissing contest,” then they hand Jean the footage at 8 a.m. with a note that says: “Good luck making sense of this.” What follows is her attempt to decode the subconscious circus — with a little help from etymology, memory, and one very insistent dream‑dog. AI….

I’ve always been intrigued by my night‑time dreams. Some are so “out there in left field” they’re impossible to figure out. (I’ve used that idiom all my life and only realized recently that it's a baseball reference!) Some dreams are easy to trace back to their source, while others are—well, as I started to say before I interrupted myself—truly “out there in left field.” 

This morning I woke from a dream that was “as easy as pie” to interpret: I was in a vintage travel trailer with a shirtless stranger, tying ribbon bows onto merchandise for a vendor booth in an antiques and collectibles mall. The ribbon was the kind with wire running along the edges, and the trailer itself was a 1950s model with a desk inside instead of a bed. A collie I had when I was a kid was with us, too, whining at the door, and when we let her out she left a huge, yellow puddle in the mud.

And here we go again with idioms: “as easy as pie” first appeared in Zane Grey’s 1910 novel The Young Forester, though a variation—“as nice as pie”—was documented as early as 1855. I’ve always found it fascinating how certain phrases catch on and stick around for centuries, serving as a kind of lazy shorthand for self‑expression. Probably because it's easier to say “as easy as pie” or “out there in left field” than to come up with something original so it makes sense.

Back on topic: the day before my travel‑trailer dream, I attended a lecture here at my CCC about Gerald R. Ford. I went in feeling pretty cranky—so much so that I almost skipped it—but when it was over I walked out “on cloud nine." Sitting in that lecture I kept wishing I had a paper and pen with me to take notes because the speaker was so inspiring. And yes, I’m going to tell you about the origins of the “cloud nine” idiom. It comes from the U.S. Weather Bureau’s cloud classification system, where the highest, most majestic cloud is #9. The phrase entered everyday language in the 1950s when movie star Betty Hutton said she was “hovering on cloud nine” after landing a major film role.

The trailer in my dream resembled the one Gerald R. Ford used as his “traveling office” in the 1950s, back when he was a congressman in Michigan's 5th District. During the Q&A, I asked the speaker—the director of the Ford Foundation—if they still had that trailer. I then shared how Ford would park it near my home, and my dad would take me (age 10 or 11) along to talk with the congressman. Constituents like my dad lined up at the camper door, waiting their turn to enter Ford’s customized office with its plywood paneling. My dad, a union representative, would discuss worker concerns while Ford listened and took notes. A mobile office that was moved every day was novel in those days, and I suspect Ford’s accessibility contributed to his longevity as a congressman. He served as our representative for twenty‑five years. After the lecture, four or five people told me they enjoyed my story or were glad I shared it. The word “sweet” came up more than once. 

The antique‑booth in my dream came from an email I’d received from a friend in my old neighborhood. She still runs a booth in a mall, which brought back memories of when Don and I were vendors too. I miss having that 'booth owner' label as part of my identity. I should write a post about all the labels we lose and find as we age.

The ribbon with the wire in it came from one of my fellow residents, who was having a hissy‑fit over how many bows she had to make for our annual “Decorate for Christmas” event here at the CCC. She worried she couldn’t finish before going to the hospital for a medical procedure. She’s one of the reasons I don’t participate in that event. The first year, I actually planned to help. It’s a big place, requiring many hands to put up the Christmas tree, decorate the fireplace mantle, swap out a row of two dozen green plants for poinsettias, and hang wreaths, garlands and bows throughout the public areas. But that first year, she and an ex‑florist and two other women were locked in a “pissing contest” over creative control. It was clear there were too many chiefs and not enough Indians and with my twenty year history in the floral industry, I knew I wouldn’t have the patience to work that way. Watching those four people debating where to hang a single ornament on the tree was my breaking point. I left and have avoided the event every year since.

And if you think I’m going to let the “pissing contest” idiom slide without background, you’d be wrong. It’s been used metaphorically since the 1940s, originating from boys literally competing to see who could urinate the farthest. Over time, it came to mean any pointless rivalry or public dispute. But here’s a curious fact I uncovered while researching: in 17th‑century Irish and Belgian literature, there’s a story about women competing to see how deep in the snow they could urinate. Now, aren’t you glad you stuck with me until the very end to learn that utterly useless tidbit?

By the way, that dog whining to go out was simply my unconscious self telling me it was time to get up and use the bathroom. Oh, and the shirtless stranger was Dayan Kolev, the "gone vital" jump rope guy from Bulgaria. With him in the trailer with me is it any wonder it took me so long to wake up when nature called? 

One last parting thought: the term "gone viral" has not yet been established as an English idiom. It takes ten years for something like that to stick around before it's consisted to be dictionary worthy. ©

Shame, Gratitude, and the Gods of Irony

 

Every morning begins with a ritual, whether we choose it or not. In Jean’s world, the clock strikes eight and the silence breaks—sometimes by footsteps, sometimes by birds, sometimes by memory itself. What follows is not just a recounting of routine, but a meditation on gratitude, irony, and the curious cast of characters who share her continuum care community. This essay invites us to laugh, to wince, and to recognize the strange ways history and personality collide in daily life.  AI…

Every morning at precisely eight o’clock I roll out of bed. Not because I want to, or need to, but because the world around me finds a need to break the silence born in the night. It might be a daughter or son collecting a parent for breakfast or an early morning appointment. It might be my 95-year-old, upstairs neighbor who stomps around like an elephant and who lives with military precision. Sometimes it’s the birds outside—or simply the clock inside my head. Whatever the cause, I’m never surprised: the clock always reads the same, morning after morning, for as long as I’ve lived in this continuing care community.

As I slip on my slippers, my second thought is also usually the same: another long, boring day ahead. Nothing new, nothing exciting to look forward to—just more of the same. Then humanity kicks in, and that second thought is quickly chased by a third: shame. Shame that I don’t give thanks for the day ahead, that I often fail to see it from another perspective. After all, I could be waking up in war‑torn Ukraine, the Gaza Strip, or an inner city, where the first sounds would be rush‑hour traffic rumbling over the bridge above my cardboard shelter.

Do you ever feel ashamed that you don’t give thanks often enough—to appease the gods of fortune, or God if you’re religious? On Thanksgiving, I had dinner here at my CCC with six other residents. As families often do on this day, we went around the table sharing what we were thankful for, and I had to go first. I said I was thankful for the opportunity to be with friends for the holiday meal, and for living in a great facility. I meant it—but I could have said so much more. 

I could have said I’m thankful that, if I’m careful, my money should outlast my time on earth. But that seemed too personal to share with neighbors. Admitting that could have also brought me down, because my financial situation might have gone the other way if not for the 2008–09 TARP package that saved the auto industry under President Obama. For the two years it took to iron out the restructuring of the Big Three we lived in constant fear of losing Don’s pension and our health care insurance. And we watched several of Don’s co-workers die from the stress. 

The government, by the way, got all its loans back with interest, and GM funded a retiree health‑care trust—a bone of contention right up to the very end of negotiations. Try as I might, I can’t forget those years—the most stressful of my life. Irony has me living in a facility with one of the negotiators who worked for the Big Three automakers—against the UAW union negotiators. If she had gotten her way, I might literally have ended up living under a bridge. The evil side of me is secretly delighted that she doesn't like living here. One of the few I've run across that doesn't. It seems to happen to those whose children strong-armed them into moving to a CCC. In her case she moved across the state to be closer to her kids and grandkids.

To this day, Ms. Negotiator insists it was wrong to make the Big Three continue paying pensions to pre‑2008 retirees and to fund our health‑care trust. We should have been collateral damage for "the UAW's greed in fighting for worker benefits." Having spent her whole career as a management negotiator, she carries that mindset into her life here. She’s known for her stubbornness, her refusal to admit that she’s ever wrong, and for her lavish wardrobe. She seems to like me though. I think because we can bicker over trivia things like jigsaw puzzles protocols which probably gets her adrenaline going. I don’t cut her any slack. I love to wind her up like an old fashioned clock, only I do it with humor. Outsiders probably see us as two old ladies with banter fit for a Saturday Night Live skit. She knows nothing about my connection with the Big Three. She never asks questions. She has her opinions, and by God, nothing will change them.

Have you ever noticed how many people don’t ask questions? You can talk to some people for two hours, and know their entire life story but they’ve learned absolutely nothing about you. Asking questions is the key to having great conversations—especially if people give each other equal time to answer and ask them. 

We have an ex‑kindergarten teacher here who asks so many questions that I sometimes inwardly growl. “What’s your favorite color?” “Your favorite Thanksgiving memory?” “Your favorite day of the week?” “March or October—pick one?” But she’s a sweetheart, a Cheerleader around here and you know when she’s at a table there will be conversation. It will be frivolous, nonsensical conversation—but there will be laughs.  She’s a multi‑millionaire—judging by the sales of her ocean-view Florida home, her Lake Michigan cottage and her local home—yet she takes penny‑pinching to a whole new level. 

Yes, we certainly have some interesting characters living here. Married three times—divorced one husband, buried two—when Ms Cheerleader moved here she sold her big bed and replaced it with a twin. "I'm through with men," she says, but she's the only widow resident here who has gone on a few dates. We have a guy who started dating his realtor after he moved in here and his wife died. It might not be fair to say that the ink was barely dry on the death certificate before the 'love birds' started up but that's what I'm thinking. 

So back to square one: every morning at eight, when the silence breaks and my older-than-dirt slippers go on, I remind myself that even the noise, the irony, and the stubborn neighbors are proof of life continuing. Gratitude doesn’t erase the boredom, but it re-frames it. And maybe that’s the real gift—the gods of irony nudging me to laugh, to argue, and to keep listening for the questions that make conversation worth having.  

Until next Wednesday.  ©

Shrimp-Shaped Carrots and Other Thanksgiving Crimes

Thanksgiving isn’t always Norman Rockwell turkeys and frilly aprons. In Jean’s world, it’s turkey rolls at the CCC, shrimp-shaped carrots at the culinary college, and relatives who think pet rats make great dinner companions. From flaming coffee to child-sized toilets, her holiday meals have been less “Hallmark” and more “sitcom blooper reel.” This year, she’ll be celebrating in sweatpants with a festive headdress, proving once again that widowhood comes with its own brand of holiday misadventures. AI….

I started The Misadventures of Widowhood blog in 2012, just after my husband passed away, and I’ve written a Thanksgiving post every year since. I just re-read them all back-to-back, and it made my head spin. I’ve gone from feeling sorry for myself because I couldn’t buy a turkey leg to fix for little old me, to last year silently bitching because my CCC served a turkey roll of pressed white meat instead of a golden skinned, whole turkey. And in between, there were all those years of being invited to an assortment of relatives’ homes for the holiday meal.

The last time I saw and smelled a whole turkey cooking was three years ago, when my great-nephew invited me and my brother to eat with his family of what felt like a million kids under six or seven, plus two large dogs, four pet rats, and a cat so fat I thought it was ready to deliver a litter of kittens—until I was told that was impossible. “Do you want to hold my rat?” I was asked before I even got my coat off. I replied, “No, thank you” when I wanted to scream, "Eek!! Get that thing away from me."

That day, the turkey was cooked in a smoker. Almost as delicious as the smoked turkey was the smoked Philadelphia Cream Cheese my great-nephew made. Who knew you could smoke just about anything and make it taste like heaven. Like his father and grandfather before him, my great-nephew has turned into a great cook. He and his wife would welcome me back again, but I refuse their holiday invitations because their guest bathroom literally has a child’s-height toilet, and my ancient knees won’t let me squat that low. Not to mention, I’m too old to have the patience to spend the afternoon with a flock of home-schooled kids who compete for my attention.

Sometimes I regret that the foodie gene skipped me altogether, and other times the selfish side of me is glad I escaped ever hosting a Christmas, Thanksgiving or Easter dinner. But no one who ever saw the things I collected in my Hope Chest during the ’50s would have predicted my life would turn out the way it did. Least of all, me. Back then, unmarried girls like me thought we’d happily spend holidays wearing frilly cotton aprons trimmed with rick-rack and carrying a Better Homes Cookbook—with its classic red-and-white cover—tucked under our arm. We’d make our husbands read page 258 on "how to carve a turkey like an expert at the table" and we'd serve Jell-o ring salads like on page 285. (Yes I still have my very first cookbook. I think buying one was required before we could pass high school home economics class.) Back then, meat carving was the division of labor between the sexes when it came to holiday dinners. If you were lucky, you could get a guy to mash the potatoes, since that did take some brute strength. At least now, Mr. and Mrs. Host share much of the cooking and cleaning and guests bring the side dishes. Young women don’t know how lucky they.

Last week, twelve of my fellow residents and I went down to the culinary college here in town to eat at their fancy-ass restaurant, where future chefs must spend a semester working on the wait staff—and all eight students serving that day were male. Times are changing. Although chefs in five-star restaurants have traditionally been male, the chefs in places like where I live and in family restaurants haven’t been as male-dominated in the past as they seem to be today. And then there’s the whole distinction between chefs and cooks. 

I’ve been to the culinary college restaurant three or four times since my husband died, but it’s not easy to get reservations. They are fully books through the holidays, and our Life Enrichment Director is looking to book us another outing around Easter. You go there for the experience as much as the food.  It’s the kind of place where, if you order tea, they bring a cart to the table and make a production out of educating you about your choices, then leave you with a pot of hot water, a three-tube timer and a loose tea holder. I once ordered a coffee from their coffee cart, and they lit it on fire—the coffee, not the cart. That was fun. The dessert cart, of course, is my favorite. 

I’m guessing the students have to take a class on the art of arranging food and sauces on the plate. One of the ladies at my table ordered something that came with carrots and they were carved to look exactly like shrimp. You pay (through the nose) for the visual aspect and drama of the meal, and you risk going home to make yourself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because you’re still hungry.

The photo above is of my beef with-fancy-name-I-don't-recall entrée with potatoes. The bill came to $37, which included a scant cup of soup, great breads (3 half slices per person) with custom butters, the entrée, and a chocolate dessert about the size of a golf ball and it was to-die-for delicious. I drank water and I left the college student-future chef a $10 tip. 

This year I’ll be eating a turkey roll again here at the CCC, along with other courses that will please my taste buds—but they’ll be lucky if I trade my sweatpants for polyester. I will be wearing an Indian head dress (or Native American head dress if you want to be politically correct). Since moving here, I’ve accumulated a collection of holiday headbands. Don’t worry, I won’t look out of place, surrounded by fellow residents in their holiday-themed sweaters and shirts. When in Rome act like the Romans.  ©   

Until Next Wednesday, Happy Thanksgiving!

This is a clip of a classic pray that was featured in an episode of ‘Father Knows Best’ while they were celebrating Thanksgiving with a meal of hamburgers .