“Well, I’m a storyteller,” I replied, “My name is Bess Chappas.”

`”Yes, you’re the one I am looking for.  I read an article about you in the newspaper.  I’m interested  in the storytellers group.”

“Unfortunately, there hasn’t been a storytelling group in Savannah for several years now.”

“ I can’t believe, that in Savannah, where there are so many stories and so much history there isn’t a storytelling group,” said Janice Shelton.  I couldn’t believe she said that because that is exactly
 what I have been saying ever since our group dissolved.

Right away, this enterprising lady,  got a  group of others  together who are interested in storytelling, and tentative plans are to hold a storytelling workshop Thursday, February 16, 10am to 12noon..  If you are interested, call her at 912-224-2904  If you don’t make this workshop, chances are there will be another. My contribution will be to help organize and lead the workshop.

Here’s the history of” The Savannah Storytellers”.  Twenty or so years ago, my friend Virginia Huber and I joined a group of storytellers  who met downtown at the Mullberry Inn. It was a small group of very different individuals who liked to tell stories.  Most were local. In addition, the
 management  of the Inn invited  guests  to come to our meeting to participate or just to listen. It was interesting because you never knew who would be there or what type of story would be presented.  After a while,  some tellers left  town, others lost interest, and it seemed the motel became  less 
accommodating and we sometimes had no place to meet.  At some meeting, no one came.

Virginia and I decided to take the idea to the south side of town.  We recruited others and met in several different places,  our homes, church meeting rooms, etc… The group expanded and we gave it a name, The Savannah Storytellers, and joined the Southern Order of Storytellers, based in Atlanta, and their parent group, The National Storytelling Association.  Being connected gave us information and ideas.  We began to have a annual program called Tellabration each November.

Tellabration started with an audience of 40-50 people of family and friends 
and grew to 100-200 for several years.  We even invited nationally  known  storytellers to be our featured tellers at our zenith.  Then for inexplicable reasons, members started dropping out.  Our audiences began to shrink and one day, I found myself the only one standing.  This was about five years ago.  I missed it, of course, but I was involved in writing children’s books and didn’t have time to grieve. But, what a shame in a city like Savannah where we have so many stories to tell and so many tourists to  tell them to, not to have an organization of real old-fashioned storytelling

We seem to be the only large city in the south east not to have a group or to have some sort of storytelling celebration.  There are so many festivals around us that we can visit.

SOUTHERN ORDER OF STORYTELLERS, the  group we once  belonged to, is having their festival this month, Feb, 17-18, in Decatur, Georgia.  Featured teller is Bill Harley. Website gives schedule of performances and workshops.
     There are  many others to attend:  You can look up the following and others under “Storytelling Festivals” on the Internet.

STORYTELLING FESTIVAL OF CAROLINA:   Laurinburg, NC, March 29- April 3, 2012.  Featured tellers: Donald Davis, Gene Tagbar, and Doug Elliott

STONE  SOUP STORYTELLING FESTIVAL: Woodruff, SC, April 20-21, 2012. (864) 476-8770

BACKPORCH  STORYTELLERS  in Charleston, SC, a non-profit organization to support groups of adult storytellers, 782 Piccadily Driv  843-795-3061.

CLEMSON AREA STORYTELLERS, Clemson, SC.  Celebration March 6, 2012. 864-653-4932 www.Storyartscenter.org.

ALABAMA TALE-TELLING FESTIVAL:  Held in Selma, ALA in October (No date given)

OCALA STORYTELLING FESTIVAL: Held in Florida in October (no date given) at Center Pt. Church
THE

NATIONAL STORYTELLING FESTIVAL:  The biggest and claims to be the original festival.
 Sponsored by  The International  Storytelling  Center. Held in Jonesboro ,TN October 5-7 2012.  This is the 40th year.  Featured tellers are Donald Davis, Carmen Deedy, and Rex Ellis.

Maybe you don’t like to perform, but you like to listen to stories.  Well, that’s okay.  We need listeners, too. You can support storytelling in many other ways in the organization.  If you want to help us get a Savannah  storytelling  group going, call Janice.  Again her number is 912-224-2904.

The pictures are of Jonesboro, TN at one of the national festivals several years ago. If you go, you will never forget it.

I hope your holidays were absolutely fabulous. Mine were low-key, but good.  My wish, for all of us, is a HAPPY and HEALTHY 2012…and that the jokers up in Washington, DC will stop squabbling and do what they were sent there to do, instead of only looking out for themselves.  Let’s vote them all out, I say!

My faithful readers will remember that my son lives in the Orlando area and I go to visit him once a year.  The last couple of years, I have run afoul of the Florida law.  One time, I was lost (what else is new?) and in my hurry to ask for directions, I rear-ended the car of a Florida State Trooper. After that story came out in Coastal Senior, someone ( a man, I think) wrote to say “she shouldn’t be allowed on the road”.  I loved it.  The next year, there was a disagreement with a security guard on Disney property about where I could park.  So, thinking that they may have my picture posted on store windows, I decided to take the train.

It was a great experience.  I left Savannah at 6:50am on the Silver Meteor.  The trip took approximately five and one-half hours, less time that it takes me to drive there because I like to stop at least once.  The coach chairs were comfortable with lots of leg room and the personnel couldn’t have been more helpful with the luggage. I had breakfast in the dining car on the way down, surprised that the price was so reasonable. The train was on time both ways and I arrived fresh and rested. I enjoyed it so much, I vowed I would never drive to Orlando again.

On the return trip, my friend, Pete, came to pick me up at the railway station.  I was already in his truck with my luggage stowed in the back, when I realized I didn’t have my cell phone. I jumped out of the truck and ran back to the train where passengers were still boarding. I told the conductor who was taking tickets that I was going back in to find my phone.  He nodded.  At first, I couldn’t find the phone.  Several women sitting close to my vacated seat tried to help me, when one suggested that she call my number.  At that point, a different conductor came down the aisle to see what was going on.  After explaining the situation to her, she reached between the seats and handed me the phone. This must have happened before.

Suddenly, she stared at me.”   Didn’t you get off  in Savannah?  The train is already moving.”

“I told the other conductor I was coming in,” I blurted out.  In my haste to find the phone, I had not felt the train begin to move. They must have stopped the train and hustled me out, because the next thing I knew, I was on the platform and the train behind me was picking up speed on its way north.

Pete had left his truck and was standing on the platform several feet away, his eyes as big as saucers.  When I ran up to him waving my phone, he said, “I was wondering if I was going to have to drive to Charleston to pick you up.”

Maybe the conductors won’t recognize me when I take the train again next year.

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How do you feel about people holding seats at shows or sport events?

A while back, my friend, Lois, and I went to see a production of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ at Savannah Arts Academy.  We went early, thinking there would be a lot of people there.  Evidently, we weren’t early enough because by the time we got into the auditorium, it was difficult to find two good seats together.  Everywhere we searched, people were holding seats, even entire rows.

The seats we found were behind a whole row of empty seats held by one woman.  I watched to see how long before the others in her party would come. They came just a few minutes before the show started. I’m sure we weren’t the only ones who would have liked to have one or more of the better seats, but no one said anything.

This bothered me.  I can see holding one, or maybe even two seats, but an entire row? Was this fair to the ones who came early?

I’d love to hear what you, my readers, think. Please click on the ‘comment link’ at the end of this article for an unofficial survey.

June 27, 2011, My cousins, Takie, Noni, and Della ( Della came to join us from Long Island during my second week there), and I drove from Athens to Kalamata, the city where both Taki and I were born.  The trip took only four hours on a modern four lane highway.  I couldn’t help but remember the miserable ride on a local bus back in 1973 that took nine hours on a narrow road, around and around the mountains.

Kalamata is the second largest city of the Peloponnese in southern Greece and located at the head of the Messenian Gulf.  It is known for the succulent dark olives, honey figs, and the honey-covered sesame sweet called pasteli.  It is also known for its many beaches on the Mediterranean Sea and its beautiful dark-eyed women.  It is a busy city of more than 85,000 people living and working there.

We are staying at the Elite Hotel which is across the street from the beach.  It has all the necessary amenities, including a restaurant downstairs that serves coffee very early in the morning, thank heaven.  The breakfast buffet is incredible: fruit, eggs, ham, bacon, lukoumathes, muffins, and sweet rolls, pancakes, and the most fantastic yogurt I have ever eaten.  Behind the hotel is a grove of olive trees.

From the window of the room I share with Della, we can see the beach on the right and the mountains of Mani on the left.  To reach the beach, there is a tunnel under the street.  A waiter can take a drink or food order and run under the tunnel to the restaurant and bring back the order.  We sit under umbrellas on the pebbly beach and watched the clear blue water of the Mediterranean sea while drinking wine.  What a life!

On the beach side of the road is a boardwalk that curves around the bay for what seems like miles, with hotels, stores, and tavernas.  In the evening,  people are out, walking  and eating in the tavernas.  No one stays inside and watches TV.

We go into the city to visit a famous old church, Ypapandi.  The corner stone was laid in 1860 but the church was greatly damaged in the earthquake of 1963. The historic church has recently been  restored.  Behind the church is a small nunnery where 20 nuns live.  The nuns weave scarves and other small items to sell. They have an incredible rose garden in the courtyard, but I notice the gardener is a man. Hmm?

We also go by the property that once was my grandparent’s  house.  I remember playing outside on the dirt street in front of the house when I was very young.  Now the dirt street is a double lane boulevard with imposing stores and apartment houses built on each side.  One of those apartments, built on the site of the old house, belongs to my cousins.

We drive up the mountains to Mani, the area where my husband’s people are from.  The ride up, going around and around the mountain, is beautiful. The area is covered with green foliage and  tall trees , unlike the dry rocky terrain of Athens and Kalamata.  Unfortunately, I am too car sick to enjoy it.  I know I am susceptible to motion sickness but, carelessly, I leave my medicine back at the hotel.  I feel okay as soon as I get out of the moving vehicle.  We have gone up there to visit the Vlychada Cave in Diros, Mani.   It is an interesting cave  with brilliant white stalactites and stalagmites that were formed thousands of years ago.  The cave was first discovered in 1900, explored in 1949, but has yet to be completly  charted.  I’ve been in the cave on a previous trip, and since going through necessitates riding in a small boat, I opt not to go inside.  Cousin Taki stays to keep me company.

After Noni and Della exit the cave, we look for a taverna  in a nearby village.  My system is still a bit rocky and I am looking for soup, but the only soup they have is fish soup.

Suprisingly, the fish soup is not only delicious but it settles my stomach.  The Maniati are known for their pottery so we visit some of the shops and purchase a few pieces to bring back home.

Back in Kalamata, we enjoy our last day on the beach and shopping for souvenirs before starting back north to my cousins’ condo in Saronida, near Athens.  Now, it’s time to think of packing and going home to Savannah.

With regret, I say goodbye to the land of my birth and my dear cousins, Noni and Taki.  There are no words to describe what they have given to me these two weeks.  They have given me a place to stay,  taken me to places I want to see,  fed me continuously, but most of all they have give me so much love. I feel I can never repay them.  But, I will try.

Luckily, the airplane ride home is uneventful.  Fantastic as the vacation was, it’s good to be home.

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Best Wishes for a Blessed Christmas and a Happy and Healthy New Year.

June 20, 2011 – Saronida, Greece

We get an early start this morning to board a ferry for the island of Paros.  We are the last to board and have trouble finding seats.  The good part is that our vehicle is the last in and the first out when we arrive four hours later. We have reservations at a hotel, the Archipelagos, but our GPS has no signal so we ask directions.

I must tell you that asking directions in Greece is a chancy thing.  A Greek will never admit that he doesn’t know the way, so many times, a traveler is sent on a wild goose chase.  A policeman at the quaint little port gives us directions but we do not trust him, so we call the hotel and get directions from the desk clerk.  Thirty minutes later, we find ourselves back at the port.  This time, we try the policeman’s directions and find the hotel.

The hotel is inland and sits on a little hill, a one story white building, shinning in the strong Greek sun. It has all the modern amenities, modern bathroom, telephone, mini fridge, WIFI, air conditioning, large pool, and a rear balcony to enjoy the amazing sunsets each evening. We find out later, that we could only get Internet at the coffee shop, not in our rooms.

The only other negative is that the coffee shop does not open until 8:30 in the morning.  My cousin, Takie, and I are early risers, and having to wait for coffee does not make us happy. The coffee shop personnel isn’t Greek.  They are imported young people from other countries and do not speak Greek.  They stand around with their arms folded and refuse to serve us coffee even though we know it is ready because we can smell it. No one has taught them Greek hospitality. Noni is not bothered much because she does not get up early.         

We tour the island the next couple of days and discover villages of snow white houses trimmed in Mediterranean blue, built close together as if they were anxious for company.  Flowers spill out of large pots and window boxes at every house, bouganvillia, geranium, poppy, iris, daisy, lavender,citrus, and many others I can’t identify.  A small church stands sentinel at the edge of every village.  We find a small beach to swim where the water is clear and surprisingly buoyant. It’s impossible not to float.  Close by, we find a place to eat (a taverna).  Food is served family style. When we find a taverna we especially like, we go back again.

The last day in Paros, I open my door to the balcony and breathe in the cool fresh air.  The view outside is spectacular, cerulean blue water and sparkling sun reflecting on the white buildings across the inlet.  A perfect picture wherever one looks.  I feel good, except for some swelling in my ankles, something that has never happened before.  I attribute this to the large amount of fried food I am consuming.

I usually hide from the sun, but now my skin has turned a darker shade under the strong island sun.  It isn’t a pretty smooth brown but speckled. For the first time in my life, I have freckles.  My skin has become as dry as the Greek countryside.

June 22:  We take the ferry back to the port of Pereas and Saronida, tired but happy.
The story continues next month with the visit to Kalamata, the city of my birth.

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A  reminder  about  the  Greek  Festival:  Come one and all to enjoy fabulous Greek Food, watch the Greek Dancers and enjoy the music. There will be pastries for sale to take home, the Bakaliko, that sells Greek grocery items, the Gift Shop, jewelry, and many other features.

I will be there most of time. Look for me so I can say “Yassou” to you.  I will be autographing my children books, “Kiki and the Red Shoes” and “Kiki and the Statue of Liberty”. If you haven’t purchased them already, this is a good time with Christmas just around the corner.  They are the perfect gift for any child in your life.  Also for sale at the gift shop,  will be my CD, “Ghosts and Other Stories”.  Hope to see ‘ya there.

For more information on the festival, please visit www.savannahgreekfest.com

A couple of the passengers ask me, “Are you going to Greece on business or pleasure?”  I reply that it’s mostly pleasure but I do have a mission, to locate the house in Athens that I lived in when I was a child, the one that is mentioned in my book, “Kiki and the Red Shoes”.  I meet my seat mate, a retired doctor from Texas.  He is going Greece to meet his wife, who is already there visiting relatives.  We discover that we both like to write. This leads to lively conversation all the way to Athens, with the exception of the time he sleeps.

We are hardly in the air when the service begins.  We are given a blanket and a pillow.  Not, the little dinky pillow given in economy, but a regular size pillow and a full size blanket. The attendant wants to know what I want to drink and offers champagne. I have the bubbly and get crab dip and crackers with it. One glass is all I can handle because I suffer from motion sickness on any moving vehicle.  This was followed by a salmon dinner. It was good, but not exceptional.

7:45 p.m.  Everyone is settling down with their pillows and blankets.  After help from my seatmate, I extend my seat to almost flat position. Passengers are turning off their lights and snuggling down for sleep.  Oh my god! What will I do?  I never sleep this early.  I’m too excited to even close my eyes. I get up and go looking for my cousin, Noni, in the other cabin, and talk with her for a while.  Back in my chair bed, I try to read but it’s difficult to adjust the light on my book.  I try my mini-computer but that doesn’t interest me either.  I shut my eyes tight and count sheep.  That doesn’t work so I toss and turn for hours.    At least, I can stretch out and won’t get leg cramps or irritate my back. Fortunately, the night is short when crossing the Atlantic and the International Date Line, and soon it was time for breakfast. I have a headache but feel better after a couple of cups of coffee.

3:30 p.m (Athens time). June 16:  Going through customs is quick and painless, especially since I have Noni to help me.  My maternal first cousin, Taki Karabinis, meets us: we pick up our suitcases and step out into a beautiful sunshiny day.  The ride to their condo in Saronida, a small town outside of Athens, is short. Dragging suitcases, we climb two sets of stairs to their lovely summer home.  I have my own little room with a personal balcony that looks out into their neighborhood.  Trees and flowers are like picture frames around the houses nestled in the hills across from their condo. The sky is cerulean blue.  Taki promises me barbounia (fish) and ouzo for dinner but that doesn’t happen because I am so tired, I go to sleep early. 

June 17: The next morning, my cousins and I try to find my childhood home.  We use maps, the Internet, the GPS, and we ride around and talk to folks who have been around a long time. No luck.  Either my information is wrong (which is possible) or the whole area has been leveled by WW2, or by progress and has disappeared. We don’t go down town Athens to the court house, because there are riots there and Taki does not think it safe.  That evening, I get my barbouni dinner.   The fish, a kind of mullet, is red and is served with the tail and head.  It is cooked crisp on the outside and yummy on the inside.    Along with the fish, we have greens (fleeta) and sautéed vegetables, and an accompaniment of fresh baked bread and butter.  Desert or fruit after dinner is usually complimentary.

June 18: Slept late today.   We drive to Sounion, the temple dedicated to Poseidon, the god of the sea.   The ruins are of Doric design and stand on the cliff at the tip of the Attica Peninsula. It’s a great place to take photos. According to legend,  mythical King Aegean threw himself off  the cliff at Cape Sounion because he mistakenly believed that his son, Theseus, had been killed by the Minotaur.

That evening, we are invited to have dinners with cousins from the Chappas side of the family. We meet them at a large restaurant and enjoy roast lamb and seasonal vegetables. Not having seen them in 13 years, there is much to catch up on.  This side of the family originally comes from Mani, a part of the Peloponnesus which is near Kalamata, the city where both my cousin, Taki, and I were born.

June 19: Today, we hang around Saronida, rest up, and get ready for our ferry ride tomorrow  to the island of Paros.  Read about the rest of the trip next month, right here on my website.

PS.  It’s very sad that Savannah Morning News has discontinued printing the monthly magazine, Coastal Senior. It will be greatly missed by seniors. I will miss writing for CS, as I have been connected with it since the middle 1990’s.  Any comments on this?

Dear Readers, I recently returned from two a week vacation in Greece, and I promise you will hear all about it, including pictures.  However, my time clock is still confused and I am sleeping all day and staying up all night.  Since, I can’t do justice to a piece about ‘the food of the gods of Olympus’ right now, I offer the following, which I found in a folder labeled ‘ideas’. I’m not sure where I got it, but because it was in my handwriting,  it didn’t come over the Internet. Maybe I read something similar and wrote my own version. I probably saved it because it’s about walking as exercise and I have been a walker for more years than I care to remember.

I began walking in my neighborhood, graduated to Lake Mayer, and ended up at Oglethorpe Mall with its year round climate control. I think the following is funny, and maybe we all need a good laugh or two right now, especially in the middle of this long, hot summer of 2011.

THE FUN OF WALKING

1. Walking 20 minutes each can add to your life. This will enable you, at the age of 85, to spend an additional five months in a nursing home.

2. My grandpa started walking five miles a day when he was 60yrs. old. Now, he is 97 and we have no idea where he is.

3. I like long walks, especially when they are taken by people who I don’t like.

4. The only reason I would take up walking is so I could hear heavy breathing again.

5. I have to walk early in the morning before my brain figures out what I am doing.

6. I joined a health club last year to lose weight but haven’t lost a pound. Apparently, you have to actually go there.

7. Every time I hear the dirty word ‘exercise’, I wash my mouth out with chocolate.

8. I do have flabby thighs but fortunately my stomach covers them.

9. The advantage of exercising every day is so when you die, they’ll say “Well, he looks good doesn’t he?”

10. If you are going to try cross country skiing to lose weight, I suggest you start with a small country.

11. There is a good reason I haven’t exercised very much lately. Getting “over the hill” was exercise enough.

12.Everytime I start thinking too much about how I look, I have some wine.  After a couple of glasses, I look just fine.

13. It’s only natural that we get heavier as we get older because there is a lot more information in our skulls.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

14. Laughter is the best exercise.

Stay cool!

This article can also be found at Coastal Senior HERE

Manhattan was the last leg of the trip I took back in April.  My brother accompanied me on the train from New Jersey.  He didn’t think I could make it on my own, with two suitcases to carry and having a history of getting lost wherever I go.  Cousin Della had instructed us to come up from the train to the 36th Street and Broadway exit. Since finding a parking space in that area of Manhattan is a fantasy, she would drive around the block, and we were to stand on the corner until she could stop and pick us up. Miraculously, she was parked right across the street.

After visiting for a little while, Brother, Pete, went back underground and took the train to his lovely quiet and shady street in New Jersey.  He hates the city as much as I love it. Working there for thirty years can do that.

Della and I drove to Cousin Vivian’s studio apartment on 70th and Broadway where we stayed for a couple of days.  Again, my very resourceful cousin managed to find a parking place close to our building. We had to feed the meter, but it was less expensive than a garage.

The studio apartment was on the fifth floor, one large room with a bath and a small kitchen. A picture window looked out to taller, more impressive buildings, some with balconies. As I gazed out of the window, I wondered who lived there and what kind of lives they led.  This is where I wanted to live when I was young and ambitious, with dreams of writing for a paper or a magazine.

The next two days were magical. We walked around the neighborhood, and found we were three blocks from Lincoln Center and within walking distance to Central Park. We discovered two great restaurants, the Italian, “Pomodoro Sosso”  and the French,”Cassis” and took advantage of both.  Mmm!

The first evening, Friday, we went to see a new musical,” Wonderland” playing at the Marquise Theater. We found the play delightful and were especially charmed by the little girl in the play.  I thought she had the best voice in the entire cast. I was also impressed with the very inventive costumes. Unfortunately, the critics didn’t agree, because a few weeks after coming back to Savannah, I read that the show closed.
The next day, we took a cab to the Metropolitan Museum of Art where we were fortunate to see two special exhibits.  One was an exhibit of paintings by French Impressionist, Cezanne, his “Card Player” series. The other exhibit was called “Rooms with a View”, a collection of paintings featuring an open window. The paintings were by nineteen century artists from Germany, France, Russia, and Denmark.

The weather turned ugly Saturday evening.  For that terrible stormy night, we had purchased the last two tickets available for another new play, “War Horse”.  It was raining so hard and the wind was so fierce that we tried to get a cab to Lincoln Center. That being impossible, we walked in the deluge and arrived at the theater soaking wet. Everyone there was in the same condition, so we forgot about being wet and joined in the excitement of the evening.

This was an entirely different type of production. It was a sad story about horses that were used during the Great War.  The horses on stage were huge, built of some kind of mesh that took three men to operate.  The horses moved so realistically that after a few minutes you forgot that they were not real. (Think “Lion King”) The acting was superb but the story was so intense I left the theater feeling sad and unsettled.  The critics were generous in their praise for “War Horse” and this play has received several Tony Award nominations.  I can brag I was there for the opening of a play that will be talked about for a long time, but personally, I’ll take a musical anytime. As Leonard Bernstein so aptly put it – and in music – “New York, New York, It’s a Wonderful Town”.

This article can also be found at Coastal Senior HERE

My trip was divided into three segments,  first to Raleigh, NC to visit cousins, Peter and Noni ,  second to New Jersey to visit my brother (the Yannie in my ‘Kiki’ books), and  third to meet another cousin, Della, in Manhattan.

If you fly US Air, you can’t go anywhere unless you go to Charlotte, NC first. It’s their hub, like Atlanta is for Delta. I’ve heard many complaints about the Atlanta airport, but I prefer it to Charlotte.  In Atlanta, once you figure out the underground rail system to get from concourse to concourse, it’s simple.  However, in Charlotte, nothing is simple.  The airport is large but poorly arranged.  There is only an electric cart system to get passengers from place to place and the system is disorganized and unreliable.

I don’t mind walking, but on the first leg of the trip, the flight from Savannah to Charlotte was late and I didn’t see a cart, so I literally had to run a long way to a gate in another concourse.  When I arrived, panting and exhausted, I was informed that my gate had changed. “Didn’t you hear the announcement?” asked the attendant?” With all the noise of passengers  screaming into their cell phones, announcements made over the loud speaker by people who obviously need elocution lessons,  how could I possibly hear while I was running?   There was nothing to do but turn around and run back six gates.   My name was being called as I neared the gate and I was the last passenger to board.

Ten days later on the way home, I was back at the Charlotte airport. Since I had plenty of time between flights, I found a cart and gave the driver my concourse and gate number. After a couple of minutes, I realized we were going the wrong way. “Umm…Excuse me. Isn’t concourse C in the other direction?”

“Yes”, she said “I need to pick up another passenger so I will let you off here and you will be picked up by another cart”. The second cart seemed to be going in the wrong direction, also, but I dared not say anything

After short ride on the second cart, the driver stopped and said, “This is as far as I can go.  You can take the escalator or the elevator to the next level.” I’m glad he didn’t add “Have a nice day”. That would have really annoyed me.  So, I dragged my carry-on suitcase, my computer, and my purse down the escalator and walked fifteen minutes to my gate.  If this gate had been any farther out, it would have been on the tarmac. Enough said about the Charlotte Airport.

My point of departure from NY, the last leg of my trip, was Kennedy Airport.  Kennedy  is a very busy airport and in the confusion of taking off my shoes and jacket and putting plastic bags of medicine and toiletries on trays, I left my carry-on bag unattended for a minute.  While I was Xrayed and patted down, I saw security searching through my bag. What could he be looking for I wondered?  Finally, he pulled out the jar of cold cream, that I had purchased in Raleigh to replace the one I forgotten to pack back in Savannah.   He read the label, opened it, sniffed it, and decided to confiscate it.

I had been concerned I might lose my tiny sewing scissors, my nail clippers, or maybe my sharp eyebrow pencil, but never dreamed that the most innocuous item in my luggage, a jar of cold cream, would be considered dangerous.

Of course, I realize air travel security is serious business and the rules are executed for our  protection. If security personnel were not diligent, I wouldn’t feel comfortable about flying. Yet, I couldn’t help but laugh the irony of this experience.

This article can also be found at Coastal Senior HERE

Since I enjoy young people,  and as grandmother of three boys in their early twenties, I want to understand them.  So, I try to keep up.  I read the paper and watch the news on TV.  I watch “American Idol” and  “Glee”.  I even know who Justin  Bieber is.  I joined Facebook  to see what it was all about  but haven’t figured out how to unsubscribe.  I still get messages from people who want to be ‘my friends’.

Having said all the above, there are two things that I just don’t get about young people.  
The first is their love affair with body tattoos.  It used to be that only convicts, sailors, or bikers sported tattoos.  If women had tattoos, there were always hidden. Today, body sculpture is everywhere. You can see it on the street, on TV, and in the movies, and not just one tattoo, but several, covering arms, shoulders, back and legs. Children and teens see their favorite actors or pop stars covered with tattoos on TV, magazine covers, and in the movies .  It’s the style and they can’t wait to be old enough to get one or more themselves.  It’s my body, they think, I can do whatever I want with it.  Yes, it is the style, but styles change and tattoo removal is not as easy as shortening a hem or buying boot cut jeans instead of straight leg ones.                                                   

Some tattoos cannot be removed, especially colors like red or purple.  And the ones that can be removed require many hours of pain and discomfort. Yes, again, it is their body but do they realize that their body will be with them the next fifty, sixty, and even seventy years?  And,  with the increase in longevity, maybe even longer. Will they still be happy when their tattoos are out of style?

Have these young people, who proudly exhibit their so called body art, thought about what they will look like when they are old and their skin begins to sag? A couple of years ago, I   saw a lovely young woman at the mall.  All exposed parts of her body were covered in colored ink.  Her most prominent tattoos were a pair of pistols on her chest, pointing downward.  I couldn’t help but think the tattoos will look like rifles when she reaches her seventies.

The second thing that puzzles me is today’s popular music.  I can’t see nor hear any musicality in what is out there today.  On ‘American Idol”, I’ve noticed that the more a contestant screams when he sings , the more the judges like him.  The focus isn’t on who has the best voice or can articulate the words of the song, but who can jump around the stage more, wear the most outlandish costume and do that knee bend thing that all pop stars do.  Screaming is a requisite for success. Then, there is the excessive volume of the music.  This is causing hearing loss for many young people way before their time. I will not even dignify ‘wrap’ as a music form.

I realize my feelings are not new. When ragtime was introduced in the early 1900’s, most adults were horrified, and when we liked rock music and danced the jitterbug  in the 40’s and 50’s, our parents  were sure  we were going to hell in a hand basket.  Yet, most of us managed to turn out okay.  I’m sure these kids will, also.  Still, I shudder to think what is next in the way of popular music.

Of course, I am preaching to the choir when it comes to tattoos and todays music.  Or, maybe  not.  Comments, pro and con?

This article can also be found at Coastal Senior HERE

I tell my friends not to send me any “forwards” on the computer.  They take up too much space on my hard drive and I really don’t have time to read them.  I certainly will not forward them .  However, I still get some and this particular one hit home.   I don’t know if this is a real disorder, but this forward is too funny not to pass on. I don’t know who wrote it, but I have changed some of it to fit my personal “disorder”.

One morning, I went out to get my newspaper.  As I was picking it up, I noticed that the fern hanging on the eaves of the porch needed water.  I went back inside and filled a watering can with water, when I noticed the mail on the table that I had brought in yesterday. I placed the watering can on the table and looked at the mail.

I separated the junk mail from the bills and went into the kitchen to put the junk mail in the trash can.  The trash can was full so I thought I would take the trash out and pay the bills later.  But no, I decided, since I have to go out later, I can take the trash out then and pay my bills now.  I took my check book out of my purse, only to find that I had only one check left.  My extra checks were in my desk in the other room so I went to my desk where I found a cup of coffee that I was drinking earlier. I picked up the cup of coffee so I wouldn’t spill it when I look for the other checks and realized that it was cold.  I decided to put the coffee into the microwave oven to warm it up.

As I headed toward the kitchen with the coffee, I discovered my reading glasses that I had been searching for all morning.  I decided I better put them back on my desk, but first I need to warm up my coffee.  I put the glasses on the kitchen counter and suddenly spotted the TV remote I had evidently left on the kitchen counter. I realized that later tonight I would be looking for the remote but won’t remember that it’s on the kitchen counter.  I put it in my pocket to take it to the den where it belongs. 

But first, I had to water the fern.  I went out to the porch and tried to water the fern, but the basket was hanging too high and I spilled most of the water.  I went back in, set the remote back on the counter and got some old rags to wipe up the spill. I came back into the house and headed down the hall trying to remember what I was planning to do.

At the end of the day, I hadn’t brought in the newspaper, the fern did not have enough water, the trash was still in the kitchen, the bills were not paid, my coffee cup was in the microwave, there was still only one check in my check book, I didn’t know where my glasses were, and I couldn’t find the remote. When I tried to figure out why nothing got done, I was really baffled because I knew I was busy all day, and I was really tired.

I realize this is a serious problem and I’ll try to get some help, but first I’ll need to check my email……

It’s okay if you’re laughing.  You may not have this disorder yet, but don’t worry, your day is coming.

This article can also be found at Coastal Senior HERE

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A note about the doves.  I’m sorry to report, the doves that nested in my old green hanging basket for three consecutive years, disdained the ‘Chappas Motel’ this spring.  They have arrived in Savannah and I see them drinking water from my fountain, but they didn’t move into the basket. They must have found better accommodations somewhere else in the neighborhood.