I’m one of those people who never smoked. Oh, I tried it in my teens, my cousin and I swiping Parliaments out of the case in her father’s soda fountain where we both worked on weekends. We would lock ourselves in the bathroom and blow smoke out the high little window. In college, I tried again, since most of my sorority sisters smoked. But I still didn’t like it, and I’d rather spend my money on beer anyway. (Back then, a big glass of beer was 10 cents; of course, the beer company was owned by the city’s Democratic machine bosses and so every bar had to carry it. The beer did not exactly taste that great but it did the trick.)
Back to smoking. Maybe it’s that I hate being addicted to anything or anyone. Not even hanging on to things I own. Well, maybe my computer.
My son is a smoker. I hate that and he knows it. I hate it because of what it’s doing to his lungs, his brain. I hate it because his father used to smoke and he’s feeling the effects of it to this day. But my son is an adult with the right to do with his own life and his health as he chooses.
Over on my his weblog, he is assessing the appropriateness of efforts of a Commissioner of the city of Portland, Oregon to institute a public policy that bans public smoking, even on sidewalks.
I left the statement below as a comment on one of his posts.

It seems to me that the public policy debate is very much related to how that public policy affects the health of individuals of that public. Granted, gas fumes are also unhealthy. But that’s another public policy debate issue.


Cigarette smoke is both noxiously harmful and noxiously distasteful to smell. Smokers do get used it it. You can get used to living next to the smell of a garbage dump.


Many health establishments ban people from wearing strong perfumes. The sense of smell is very sensitive in most people, especially non-smokers. Personally, cigarette smoke makes me nauseous and makes my sinuses swell. So does strong perfume. But at least strong perfume is not toxic to lungs. And it doesn’t do damage to brain cells, as nicotine does. And it’s not addictive, either. And it’s easy to embarrass someone wearing such perfume by muttering something about it loud enough for them to hear. Not so, however, with smokers.

There is currently a public “cultural” outcry against smoking by non-smokers for good reasons. Not the least of which are health related. If it takes pushing the empathy button or striking fear into the hearts of those too stubborn and/or addicted to nicotine to break the habit, then I say go for it.

Yes, it should be that anyone who wants to damage themselves by smoking should do it in the privacy of their own homes. That way they don’t wind up being role models for kids and they don’t befoul my air space any more than I already have to deal with.

And if the public pressure gets so bad that they quit, all the better for them. And their families. And the public.

We ban spitting on the sidewalk. And littering. Why not ban public smoking.

It’s bad enough that we’re on opposite ends of the country from each other. Now we’re on opposite ends of a very personal issue.
Feh.

That’s sure what it feels like. It might well go up to 70 degrees here this weekend.
Maybe the folks who can actually do something about the ultimate problems will finally get the message.
Personally, I have this general feeling that the whole of existence is just out of sync, not just the weather. I can’t seem to get into a lot of the things that I’ve always enjoyed. Reading, for example.
I’ve always been a voracious reader. Fiction, mostly. Fiction with kick-ass female protagonists, mostly. These days, instead of actually reading, I take the lazy way out and download audio books from my public library and listen to them as I’m lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. The problem is that the library’s selection leaves much to be desired.
I don’t like the kinds of romance novels that writers like Nora Roberts produce. The library has lots of them. However, Nora Roberts writing as J.D. Robb turns out a series of unqiue sci-fi/romance stories with a great female main character — Eve Dallas, a cop in the next century. The library has a few of those. They also have one of the novels by forensic anthropologist Kathy Reichs. Her series with Temperance Brennan as the main character is the basis for the current Fox television series, Bones. But I’ve already read that one in real book format.
So, the other day I downloaded a series of short stories by Elizabeth Berg. In my days of actual reading, I had consumed several of her novels, my favorites being The Art of Mending. and Talk Before Sleep.
All of Berg’s novels wrestle with the contradictions that suffuse the lives of “ordinary” women. Yet, her characters emerge as truly extraordinary in the management of the details of their lives and their relationships. The short stories to which I am listening these nights include a vignette about a woman whose mother is developing dementia and how the two of them deal with it. It’s told by the woman and shifts between her memories of mother of her childhood and the mother she now has. Obviously, it hit home.
The other stories are just as relevant. I like reading about women who muse, women who amuse, women who love and hate and wonder and know how to kick ass. Women whose living is infused with introspection and honesty.
Occasionally I can get into a male writer. I read all of Dan Brown’s novels — for their subject matter as well as for the roller-coaster writing. I have even enjoyed listening to a couple of Dean Koontz’s eerie tales.
But tonight it’s back to Berg.
I miss my women friends.

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. The sky was rosy pink as I drove down the Thruway just after dusk. That should means that tomorrow will be a nice day.
A halo around a full moon, which there was tonight, is supposed to mean that bad weather will follow.
Just more conflicting premises in a world full of them these days. There’s proof that there’s global warming. There’s no proof that there’s global warming. We are in danger from terrorists. We are safe from terrorists.
What is there to do but take one day at a time, prepare for the worst and hope for the best.
I had a lovely lunch today in Albany with a friend from college. He and I were not really friends back then, but we became such since. It was nice to get away for the day.
And the drive back, despite the conflicting sky, was not bad at all. New non-reflective eyeglass lenses do, indeed, help.

The above title headlined a piece in Albany’s Times Union newspaper yesterday, written by a male U.S. citizen, 61 years old, whose adulthood stands framed by two tragic wars carried out under the banner of stars and stripes unfurled. Thanks to non-blogger myrln for emailing me about it.
The author of the piece, Brian O’Shaughnessy of Troy New York, states:

As a person of faith, I have consistently applied the Just War Theory to our country’s war deliberations. Dating back to St. Augustine, this theory reflects the Gospel presumption against violence and establishes numerous conditions as a firewall to war. All of its conditions have to be met before the expected violence can be morally justified. They include using all nonviolent means to settle a conflict before resorting to violent ones. Also, the good to be achieved must outweigh the probable costs and damages.

While the entire piece is worth reading, at some point it will disappear from the paper’s internet archives, so I quote here (and urge all my readers to widely share) the author’s suggestions for conditions that should be met before we wage any more wars:

I’ve lived here for a year, but, until today, I only had met one neighbor — and the only reason I ever met her was because I would pass her taking her baby for a walk while I make my occasional effort to get some walking exercise myself.
So, when we found an invitation in our mailbox inviting us to a holiday gathering at a new neighbor’s just diagonally across the road, we accepted. We even took my mother along. (Actually, I wanted to go by myself for a while but I was outvoted.) The gathering was in a house that I pass each time I’m out walking. It rests at the base of the mountain, and it has a three-car garage. I’ve always wondered what it looks like inside.
Here’s where the envy comes in.
The living room, dining room, and kitchen are one big area, and the kitchen area is huge, the cabinetry distressed white. But, almost best of all, the living room is all glass-walled, open to a breathtaking view of the tree-lined mountainside. And, even better than that, the living room has cathedral skylights across which the top of the cliffs stretch in craggy granite splendor.
The young family who own it actually live in New York City and comes up here on weekends. They have fascinating jobs, a new baby, and an amazingly well-behaved toddler. Most of the people there were also weekenders. One of these weekend famiies owns a farm on the other side of the mountain, where they keep llamas and chickens and other assorted small animals. I couldn’t help feel a little envy for their lives, their casual wealth.
Oh, there were some of my year-round neighbors, too, and I made a point of going over and introducing myself. While it was a pleasant couple of hours, I resented a little that I had to spend more time “mommy-sitting” than I spent socializing.
But my satisfaction from meeting and getting to know my immediate neighbors overrides my envy. It’s going to feel good to wave to them as they drive by or if we happen to meet up on their occasional walks as well. And, who knows, maybe someday I’ll be invited to another party. If that happens, I’m going to insist on going alone.

The delicious Jeremy Outerbridge has tagged me in the current blogtag game of “Tell five things about you that no one knows.”
It just doesn’t seem fair that Jeneane opted out of her tag. I know that her blog is one of the most truthful out there, but, c’mon Jeneane. There must be something you’re still hiding.
In the spirit of RageBoy’s and Kat Herding’s lists, here are mine. Are they all true? Heh. What do you think?
1. For several years while in grade school, I was the young virgin who led the procession and who carried the crown that went on the Virgin Mary’s head each month of May.
2. I was a virgin until I was twenty years old.
3. I have a passion for RageBoy.
4. I used to play the guitar and my favorite song was “Oh Lonesome Me.”
5. I have never indulged in any illegal substance.
All right.
Now I tag these good bloggers:
1. Roxanne
2. Betsy Devine
3. Doug Alder
4. Elayne Riggs
5. Stu Savory

My father wore a ring on the pinky of his left hand — a star sapphire set in white gold. The word for him in his time was “dapper.” Today is the 22nd anniversary of his death. The Christmas holiday has often been a trial for this family.
Surprisingly, this Christmas was not so bad. There were no arguments. My brother even did the dishes. My mother said it was the best Christmas she’s had in years. She’s right.
This afternoon, she sat at her organ and played Christmas Carols. Then, I sat her in front of my computer screen and linked over from Jack Bogdanski’s blog in Portland, OR, to a video of the St. Stanislaus choir in that city doing a program of Polish Koledy. She watched, teary-eyed, remembering how her brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins would get together every Christmas Eve and sing those same songs. They had beautiful voices and knew how to harmonize. My generation of cousins would gather around and listen. I still remember many of those Polish lyrics.
My mother misses the big family that all used to live within a five-block area where I grew up. Now, there are very few left in her generation, and those of my generation have scattered. We spent much of the day today calling all over the state — and even out-of-state — so that she could wish what relatives there are a Merry Christmas.
I miss my kids a lot –-b!X across the country there in Portland, my daughter and her family in Massachusetts. It just doesn’t seem right not to have been with them all this holiday.
Who knows what will happen in the next year. Maybe next Christmas will be the best yet.

No, that’s not a typo. I really mean “sweeps” not “sleeps” (although she is doing that now).
When I finally got up this morning and went to see what my mother was up to, I found her standing over a pile of stuff she had swept up from the floors and rugs. She didn’t know what to do next — couldn’t remember where the dust pan was.
She likes to sweep because she remembers how to do that and seems to need to do things with her hands. This afternoon she had a couple of rubber bands on her wrists and kept putting them off and on, in between which she wound them around her fingers. I wish I could think of something I could give her to do, but the options are infinitesimal — given the limits of what she is able to do combined with what she is willing to do.
For supper I will go through the Christmas Eve food rituals — a meatless meal of soup made from dried imported-from-Poland mushrooms. and also pierogi, which I bought at Shop Rite. My mother used to make the best pierogi I’ve eve tasted. She had it down it a science. Although she can’t make them anymore, I probably could. But I just didn’t have the energy this year. Maybe next.

Manana.
Merry Manana.

Over at Blogher, Ronni Bennet (of Time Goes By) highlights eight women bloggers in her piece on “Some Elder Women of the Blogosphere.”
And I’m one of them, in extremely good company.
I recently had my fifth year anniversary as a blogger. I used to say that I was the longest-blogging female elderblogger over 65 out there. That might or might not be true; it’s impossible to know for sure.
According to Ronni’s post:

In July of 2006, The Pew Internet & American Life Project published a survey of bloggers titled, A Portrait of the Internet’s New Storytellers [pdf] that is packed with facts and figures.
Fifty-four percent of bloggers are under age 30, reported Pew, and 14 percent are between the ages of 50 and 64. Just a tiny two percent are 65 and older.
But our numbers are growing. When I started my blog about aging late in 2003, I could find only about a dozen other bloggers older than 50. Nowadays, I can barely keep my Elderbloggers blogroll current; I find new ones every day.

Well, with only two percent over 65, I just might be the oldest-longest-blogging women blogger.
But that’s not as important as being included in Ronni’s list and having her write such good things about Kalilily Time.
Hooray for me!

As I was posting about the Wicker Man movies last night, I was remembering the buttons I have stashed somewhere that I picked up at various feminist rallies. My favorite was always this one: