Tall Tales and Little Fish

My husband was a born storyteller. He honed the skill at an early age by listening to his dad who had a reputation for telling long-winded stories that often left his listeners laughing. Like father, like son. It was also a rare occasion that anyone could pull one over on Don when it came to telling the difference between a tall tale and a truth filled story. Then I entered his life and I believe one of the main reasons Don fell in love with me was because, when we first met, I was able to hook him into a fairytale about my career choice that I dragged on for 3 or 4 weeks before I finally told him the truth.

To this day I don’t know what made me tell Don that I raised tropical fish in my basement and shipped them mail order for a living---probably I didn’t want to tell this stranger I’d just met at a bowling alley/bar where I actually worked for fear he’d turn out to be a stalker or just plain not my idea of a date-able guy. But I kept in character and answered his many questions a lot easier than anyone who values Truth should have been able to accomplish. I didn’t even own a goldfish at the time! I had been researching the idea of setting up a fresh water tank so I had some useful facts and fancy fish names stuffed in the corners of my brain. The rest I just made up on the fly.

Week after week he’d come by when he knew the women’s league I was bowling on would be finishing up and he’d talk me into having a drink with him and his friend. I had a crush on his friend so it wasn't a hard sell. Always, Don was full of fish questions: How did I get customers? How did I ship my fish across the country so they wouldn’t die in route? Would I help him set up a tank? What was my favorite species of fish? “Oh, I couldn’t choose a favorite,” I told him “but the Crowntail Bettas and Black Moors sell the best.” When I finally decided the joke had gone on long enough and I told him he had fallen for a fairytale hook, line and sinker, he got a sheepish look on his face that, at the time, I couldn’t interpret. And the rest of the night he was uncharacteristically quiet so I thought that was the end of it. No more stopping by the bowling alley for this guy.

I found out later on that his friend, who was at the table when I made my confession, had told their fellow co-workers in the diemakers department that a girl had pulled one over on the King of Storytelling. In GM factory talk you can read that as: The king of bullshit just got out bullshitted big time! The following week Don showed up at the bowling alley, again, and he decided as a punishment for my big fish tale we had to go out on a date the following afternoon. Guess what we did on that date. He dragged me to a dime store where I helped him pick out two goldfish and all the supplies that went with the happy couple. The rest, as they say, is history.

This story came out of my memory vault today because I was trying to come up with a theme to write about for one of my infamous (and usually tongue-in-cheek) “Sunday Sermons.”  I had goggled ‘inspirational topics’ but I couldn’t get in the mood for serious thought that might come off sounding preachy if I didn’t write it right. Then I goggled ‘Toastmasters Club topics’ and---bingo---there, I found a suggestion to pull something out of your past that changed your life and work your speech around that memory. One thought led to another and I got to wondering if I had told Don the truth that first night we met---that I worked in the floral industry---would my life have turned out differently? He might not have been intrigued enough without my “unusual career” to keep coming back. He certainly wouldn’t have been kidded unmercifully by his co-workers for being bested by a woman. The King of Bullshit lost his crown! We've gotta meet this girl!

If this blog entry were the bones to a speech I’d written for a Toastmaster’s Club the finished product might hold an audience’s attention, but as a Sunday morning inspirational piece, it falls flat. Instead of teaching the value of being a person of high morals, it holds up an example of where telling a whooper of a lie led to love. Sunday mornings should be a time to reflect on the intrinsic values that hold civilizations together, shouldn’t they? A lie, fib, practical joke---whatever you want to call what I did---is not one of those intrinsic values, so I hope no one with a young, impressionable mind is reading this. It's bad enough that the Angels who look out for soul mates are up there laughing at my hand-wringing dilemma on whether or not I should seek out a confessional booth this fine Sunday morning or to sing their praises for letting a tall tale and little fish bring two people together so many years ago. ©

Fun Parties, Ugly Parties and Taking Personal Responsibility

This weekend I went to a surprise retirement party for my niece-in-law’s husband. It was hard to count how many people were in attendance because his family had rented a small town bowling alley with a sports bar and people seemed to be in constant motion either filling bags with candy or popcorn at the ‘50s theme candy bar or filling plates with hot dogs, salads and cake or getting drinks and bowling for free, of course. I’m guessing there were a hundred guests and all sixteen lanes were filled with bowlers for the entire four hours I was there. I met my husband at a bowling alley. He had set pins at that very place back in high school when humans actually set pins instead of the automated machines we know today. And while my heart wanted to try bowling at the party my head told me I could undo the shoulder surgery that I had a few years ago. My great-niece who had the same labrum tear surgery I had, on the same day as mine, is scheduled back in the surgical room soon.

The retiree’s daughters had asked people to come dressed in ‘50s theme clothing and a prize was given to a girl wearing a poodle skirt, a pink silk jacket, a small neck scarf and a hat made out of an old vinyl record---the skirt was not as nicely made as the skirt I had back in the day but it was fun to see it. (What does that say about my age when the fashions we wore in my youth are now available for Halloween costumes?) On the tables, they had vinyl records, boxes of Cracker Jack, fake sodas, candy cigarettes and, since he retired from the post office, reproduction postal stamps from the ‘50s were everywhere plus ‘50s music was playing nonstop. The lights were kept low and one of those projectors that makes it look like colored bubbles are crawling all over the place was keeping time with the music. What a noisy and busy place! But it was fun and I’ve never seen the guest of honor as happy as he was at the party. That was Sunday afternoon and if not for the party one of my niece-in-laws would have still been in Los Vegas and at the concert where the carnage happened. The posts on her Facebook page the next day were full of glad-you’re-safe kinds of posts.

Monday morning I had a date to go to an art show and lunch with the Gathering Girls. Actually, an art exhibit, a chrysanthemum show and lunch all under the same roof. The sculpture garden was hosting a Rodin show mixed in with Rodin inspired figurative entries into a yearly competition we have in the area that draws artists from all over the world. The garden was just one of 175 venues exhibiting both juried and unjuried art. Five hundred thousand dollars in cash prizes will be awarded this year and the public gets to vote on who gets half of that cash, art experts get to decide who gets the other half. By the end of the three weeks show, 400,000 votes will be cast. Registration to vote must take place in person at one of the venues.

At lunch the seven of us laughed a lot as we always do, but we also talked about the massacre in Los Vegas. I was grateful for the opportunity to express disbelief with others in person but at the same time it felt hollow to be talking about yet another mass shooting after the way our country’s leaders in Washington have sold their balls off to RNA. For example, the only reason the House didn’t vote on the NRA’s wish-list bill regarding striking down an 80 old law that limits the sale of gun silencers is because it was quickly taken off the schedule because of the Los Vegas massacre. It will get rescheduled when things settle down and the Republicans will pass it because Citizens United allows the gun lobby to pour millions into their coffers. (Citizens United was the single worst, country-changing decision ever made by the Supreme Court.) Can you imagine how many more people would have died in Los Vegas if the shooter had had silencers, how much harder it would have been for the police to find the guy and for people to run when he stopped shooting to reload or one of his weapons jammed?

When one of these mass shootings happens we wring our hands, offer prayers and look for someone or something to blame. We might turn off the media and criticize them, too, for “sensationalizing the story.” But where was the outrage when one of Trump’s first acts in office was to undo an Obama era law that made it harder for people with severe mental illness to buy guns legally? Where is the outrage at ourselves for not being outraged enough to get involved in a concrete way? It might be a myth that ostriches bury their heads in the sand but it’s not a myth that we Americans do it when we don’t want to face our own culpability. At the very least, we all should be signed up for MegaVote to get a weekly report on what our own house and senate representatives will be voting on and did vote on. We can’t hold our lawmakers accountable if we don’t know their voting records. And before someone says, “But you don’t understand…blah, blah, blah." I acknowledge that passing sensible gun control laws is just one element in the box of solutions we need to work on if we’re going to turn this ugly trend around. Pick an element---any one of them---and make a pledge to take personal responsibility to help bring about the needed changes!  © 

The Great Wii Bowling Kerfuffle in Independent Living

Social dynamics in senior living communities can be surprisingly complex, especially when everyday activities spark unexpected debates. This post explores how a simple game of Wii bowling led to a four‑day discussion about class, background, and perception among residents in an independent living setting. Through a mix of humor and real‑life observation, it highlights how small misunderstandings can grow into larger conversations—and how easily a friendly activity can turn into a full‑blown kerfuffle. ….AI

Sometimes I feel like I’m living inside a sociology experiment. At least that’s how it felt last week when I got myself tangled in a four‑day…well, let’s call it a social snarl.

It started when our Life Enrichment Director put Nintendo’s Wii bowling on the schedule. Ten of us showed up, and we were having so much fun—cheering, laughing, carrying on—that people wandered in just to see what all the racket was about. Near the end of the game, our resident retired lawyer drifted in. When he learned it was bowling, he said, “I’ll bet Jean is the best bowler.”

By sheer fluke, I’d gotten five strikes in one game—three of them in the final frame when the points really add up. So he guessed right. I was the top scorer.

If you’re not familiar with Wii bowling, it’s a “popular motion‑controlled simulation game for the Nintendo Wii where players use the Wii Remote to mimic a real bowling motion, swinging their arm to roll the ball.” I haven’t bowled since the late 1960s, back in my man‑hunting days, when I was on a league that bowled at an alley with a bar, live music and a dance floor. It was a prime pick‑up spot, and it’s where I met my husband. But that’s a story I’ve already told in Tall Tales and Little Fish.

When The Lawyer left, someone asked, “Out of all of us, how did he guess Jean was the best bowler?”

“Easy,” I answered. “I’m the only person here with a blue‑collar background, and bowling is a middle‑class sport.”

Oh‑my‑god. You’d have thought I’d stripped my clothes off and was about to parade naked up and down the halls. Two ladies were especially shocked and would not let it go.

“Bowling is NOT a middle‑class sport!”
“Why would you say that?”
“I’ll bet he said that because you’re good at Mahjong.”

Mahjong? Bowling? How are those even in the same universe?

Then came the declaration: “We are all the same here. We don’t have classes.”

No, we are not all the same—but I didn’t say that. I also didn’t point out that people living here have been known to donate $1,000 to $5,000 a year to the Benevolent Fund that pays for the care and keeping of residents who run out of money. Or that some residents here take extended vacations, own second homes, buy new cars, or have wardrobes that could fund my grocery budget for a year. Meanwhile, I’m over here worrying that if I don’t watch my nickels and dimes I could be on the receiving end of that Benevolent Fund. And getting my surly face printed in their promotional material like a newly adopted shelter dog is not on my Bucket List.

I couldn’t tell whether they thought I’d insulted them, insulted the lawyer, or insulted myself. But for the next two days at lunch, the interrogation continued. Why did I think bowling is a middle‑class sport? Why, why, why? Others chimed in, but no one backed me up. Most people said, “I'm staying out of this one.”

Finally, I decided to do a deep dive using AI. I came up with two pages of credible information supporting my claim. I printed it out and slid it under my neighbor’s door, planning to catch the other woman later.

The next day, my neighbor greeted me with, “You win. I just never looked at things that way.”

I got to thinking: her husband was career Navy, and they lived all over the world. Maybe she really didn’t see that historically, bowling’s cost structure is geared toward the middle class. Rented shoes, rented balls, pay‑per‑game is far cheaper than golf, tennis, or skiing, which require expensive gear, lessons and often club memberships. And maybe she didn’t see a lot of American TV, where bowling was a middle‑class staple in programs like The Flintstones, Kingpin, The Big Lebowski and sitcoms like All in the Family while golf and tennis were portrayed as the domain of professionals and the well‑heeled.

Shortly after I delivered my research pages, the other woman slid her “research project” under my door: an old Ann Landers column defining class.

“Class never runs scared. Class has a sense of humor. Class knows that good manners are nothing more than a series of small, inconsequential sacrifices… Class can walk with kings and keep its virtue and talk with crowds and keep the common touch.”

And suddenly I understood. Lady Two was equating 'middle class' with 'having no class' and thinking I was putting myself down. Meanwhile, I was simply calling a spade a spade when I labeled myself middle class. She’s probably one of the wealthiest people here but is easily rattled by any hint of controversy. She’s the reason we can’t bring up world affairs or politics. Yes, this tiny woman with the soft voice and her Let’s-Pretend-we-Live-in-Disneyland Retirement Plan sets the tone for the rest of us. Bless her heart, as the southerns say.

And there you have it: another “exciting” episode in the ongoing social experiment I’m labeling, The Four-day Kerfuffle in Independent Living. ©

Until Next Wednesday.

Photo at the top: This was taking in 1969 and I'm the one in the caramel-colored sweater. Until I dug out this photo I'd forgotten that our entire league was made up of left-handed bowlers.

From Mahjong to Music with a Litte Bowling in Between

 

In my last post I wrote: "Many residents here [at the continuum care facility] have taken on self-appointed roles---social director, mayor, florist, management suck-up, food critic, complainer-in-chief …." and it occurred to me today that I've done the same thing. Some people here call me 'Mahjong Jean' but what I ready am is the self-appointed coordinator of a things mahjong. This is not unique around here. We have the Bingo Ladies who put on a once a month game with cash prizes, the line dancing teacher and the Bridge Director who both manages two sessions a week and the Crackers & Cheese fairies for lack of a better name.

Every since I co-taught mahjong classes last year, increasing our number of players from six to twelve, I've taken on the responsibility of text messaging everyone the day before our Wednesday games to see how many are playing so the next day I'll know how many tables and games I need to set up. I've also created a system to randomize who plays with who that as been very popular and I've established a once a month Sunday skill building game. Our latest skill building involves learning how to score our games because I got the (not so?) bright idea to challenge our sister campus in a tournament this fall. 

I've never been to a tournament except for bowling back in my man-hunting twenties when I was on an all-women's leagues at a bowling alley-slash-bar that had live music on the night when our league played. Back then it was thee place for singles to mingle. It's the place where I met my husband but that's a story I've already told in an old post titled Tall Tales and Little Fish.

I wasn't the best bowler, not the worst either but I wasn't there for that particular game. It was the boy-meets-girl part that attracted me to join the league. I had written a letter to Ann Landers---a newspaper advice columnist in case you're too young to know who she was. I was bemoaning the fact that I didn't think I've ever meet my forever guy. She answered with: “Get out and do things you enjoy doing and it will happen.” So I signed up for every leisure time class I could find and I joined the bowling league. The rest is history. 

When I look back on my life it seems like I spent a lot of time searching for a place to fit in and I rarely thought about the idea that others probably did or do the same thing whether it's at a new school or work place, in new neighborhood or church family. We all have experienced carving out a place for ourselves. For me, sometimes it's felt like I was carving in butter like when I helped form a Red Hat Society chapter and other times it's felt like I was carving in marble like being in my late twenties when I was 'man shopping' Ann Landers style.

Looking for my place in the world is such an old habit that I forget to stop and consider that I may have already found it, at least for this era of my life, in this place. Finding our places in the world means finding our purpose in life and that purpose does and must change as our environment and the people around us changes. It's exhausting---the constant looking, especially if we're looking outward for what can only be found by looking inward.

Change of topic: For a couple of days this week I was haunted by a song on a video that I landed on by chance in a Facebook Short Reel. I thought I would write a post about music in general and that song in particular. But the more I searched my memorial bank I couldn't come up with the reason why it got stuck on auto-play in my head. The song was Lady in Red by Chris de Burgh who is an internationally known British-Irish singer/song writer. In 1986 it hit the top of the charts all over the world. But I was never a fan of Chris's music per say. This week I listened to it over a dozen times and in six versions of the song sang at different points during in his career and I literally felt the sensuality of his voice and those lyrics wrapping around me like a hug. Finally I remembered why it resonated with me! 

I was in my mid forties when the song was popular and I had a red dress that I wore to a special occasion one evening and when we got back home that song played on the radio as Don helped me out of that dress as if he was unwrapping crystal stemware---slow and sensual with the red dress ending in a pool on the floor next to the bed. You can guess what happened next. Hearing that song again after all these years catapulted me back into a state of pure contentment, like when you know you are loved and everything in the world reminds you of that scene in the Wizard of Oz when the film goes from black and white to technicolor. And I have tears of remembered joy pooling in my eyes as I'm write this.

No wonder they use music so much over in the Memory Care building. If we are smart we'd all make ourselves a play list of the special music in our lives for when our brains start shorting out because they claim that our memories attached to music are the last thing to go when people get Alzheimer's and it can help us hold on to those memories. I know that to be true because music often blindsides me with an emotional response and a flashback. Usually instantly. No waiting around for two days like they did with Lady in Red and no embarrassing red cheeks when I finally figure out why that particular memory got buried a little deeper than so many others. ©

Until Next Wednesday.

 

                                       1985 original version