​This week we attended Callithump, the local Great River Shakespeare Festival’s loud and riotous annual fundraiser and talent show. We arrived super early for the good parking (yes, we’re that old) and were nearly first in the door for the “Green Show” which is, before regular Shakespeare plays, like a warm-up to get you used to listening to Shakespeare language and introduce you to the plot. For Callithump there was instead ample opportunity to buy raffle tickets for numerous drawings to be held throughout the evening, most winnings in the form of gift certificates from local businesses. 
  
Before I hit the bar I purchased a string of those tickets from a gentleman greeter near the door, each ticket number beginning with a two. After all, it’s a fundraiser and as the saying goes, you can’t win if you don’t play. My heart was happy to have enough funds to join in. Tickets stuffed in my handbag, drink in my fingers, we grabbed a cute little round cocktail table for two, complete with its own black tablecloth and ambient lamp, and the relaxing and sipping and people watching began. 
  
A startlingly beautiful cast member we’d seen perform in Pericles two nights before approached to sell us raffle tickets. “We already got ours,” I chirped as I pulled the string of tickets from my handbag as proof. “But you haven’t bought any from me,” she replied, “and I have lucky hands,” she added with complete confidence. She wove her lucky hands in a hypnotic pattern. Alluring. “But I have to pace myself,” I said with limited funds in my wallet. I knew there would be other opportunities to spend throughout the evening, such as live auction items and voting with dollars to determine which of three questionable fates the higher ups would endure while we all laughed at their ridiculousness. (In this case it was Karaoke and we voted on the song they had to perform to.) Off she sashayed to the next table.
  
Sippity sip. Slurpety slurp. Visions of hands dancing in my head. I surveyed the room and fiddled with my cocktail napkin to distract from my latest surprise obsession with lucky hands.
  
But try as I might I could not stop thinking about those dancing beauties. They were delicate, smooth and captivating. Exotic, really. Her assurance in their lucky capabilities. (Never mind she was an actor, but whatever.) I became convinced her hands were indeed lucky—maybe even magical—and after a few more gulps and possibly a chug I launched out of my chair to track her down in the now busy and crowded room humming with possibilities. 
   
“I came to buy tickets from your lucky hands that I cannot stop thinking about,” I blurted, sounding urgent and a tad too loud. She laughed as she again verbally confirmed the magical luck of her hands which she, with a flurry, again swarmed in front of my eyes. I walked away with my new strip of tickets, each ticket number beginning with a nine. I swear I felt my handbag tingle as I stuffed them in with the others.
    
I was still zipping my bag when I sat down. “You bought more tickets?” my husband asked, eyeing them sticking out the top. “Yes. It’s a fundraiser and these are the lucky ones.” (Insert George’s sigh here.)
    
Four different times throughout the hugely enjoyable evening they stopped to draw a bunch of numbers. The first three sessions, nothing. Even though time was running out for me to cash in, I remained hopeful. If I didn’t win I could take comfort in the fact I’d contributed to the fundraising pot and that the evening apart from “luck” was a great gust of much needed enjoyment. Laughter galore. Such a gift. 
    
Then came the last session and my TWO WINS within a few minutes of each other: a fifty-buck gift certificate to a fun restaurant and another for twenty-five smackers to a cool bar and musical venue. Both winners began with the number nine. Nine, sold by those lucky mesmerizing hands. 
    
After the first win, I just “knew” I was going to win again! I know no other way to say it than that. Assurance? Wizardry? Looney tunes? Intuition? Psychic capabilities? Grace? What do you call luck other than inexplicable forces and/or random synergy?
    
My Grandpa Challie always claimed he was lucky. He loved to laugh and wink when he said so. He died when I was a teen and I’ve always felt I was the lucky one to inherit his luck. I have won far more than my share of drawings. Truly, I always believe I’m going to win!  But this is the first time I can recall feeling compelled to hop on someone else’s mesmerizingly assured lucky train. A parlay, if you will, of energies, belief and … luck.
    
When was the last time you believed or claimed you were lucky? Or jumped into something with the energy of magical thinking? Or cheered like genuine crazy when your friend won, allowing his or her joyful moment to spill into you? Laughed when you lost saying, “Well, at least I was IN it to win it and that alone was enjoyable!” 
    
Or…
    
Are you the one who always utters “I never win”?  Who slumps and sinks into the depths of This Will Be One More Miserable Loss? Do you toss excellent fortune cookie news touting your good prosperity into a trash bin with an “As if”?

No matter which approach one takes, win or lose, for me the hopeful ones feel like the lucky ones. In the end they might lose (I do that plenty too) but they get to enjoy the joy of possibilities while they last. “Next time!” feels like a very hopeful ending to a loss.
  
I can hear some of you screeching. BUT I AM A REALIST WHILE YOU’RE A LA-LA-LANDER!
 
But I challenge you: even a realist can get lucky on occasion, right? Even our own hands can become the “lucky ones” that create, or assist, or scrub something until it sparkles, hold a dear one’s chin or reach for another’s longing and empty hand thereby gifting them with a winning warmth.
    
So good luck, TwinkleGrammers! Good luck remembering and giving thanks for all the ways faith or fairies, cosmic forces or grace help usher you through the muck. Even in the midst of a terrible grief over the loss of my brother, I feel both blessed and lucky to have allowed myself some magical thinking. Winning was merely the frosting on the cake.

Peace and grins and Lucky Hands in the midst,
Charlene

​While spending a large portion of my working life traveling to speaking gigs and book signings, often city to city, I was a packing/traveling machine. I knew the best hacks, owned slick travel bags and slid through security in auto pilot.
 
But since 2012, when I sort of retired (when you’re a writer you don’t suddenly “declare” such a thing because the first thing you’ll want to do is write about it), my snappy flying days basically ended. Even for vacations. Even though we have registered for and once renewed TSA Precheck.
 
As air travel got “less fun,” Big George and I delighted in throwing as much crap as we wanted--helter-skelter style to boot—into our SUV. Wanna last-minute take a giant cooler and case of Doritos, a bottle of tequila and accoutrements? No problem. We could leave when actually ready, not when flight alert said. We could stop when we felt like it. Change course because we wanted to ditch traffic. Bad weather up north. Let’s take the southern route. Discover countless back-road diners and small-town delights. Or, we took Amtrak, which I’ll talk about another day, just to prove I can now be ridiculous at that too.
 
When one hasn’t flown for five years (and only a couple times for 10 years previous to that), one gets rusty. Really rusty. I’d compare us to beyond oil-can-fix rusty, but that obviously would not be TSA approved (I haven’t lost all sensibilities) so skip that metaphor. Let’s get straight to all the humiliations. Let me remind you that I am 80 and my husband is 87. AND we have both fallen down in the last year.
 
This new bout of “let’s fly again” launched when I saw an ad that Allegiant, a “low-cost” airline, added a La Crosse WI to Orlando/Sanford route for $35 one way. Regional airport to regional airport. We live in Winona MN and my beloved cousins in Oveido FL. Each airport is only about a 25-minute drive for each of us. How handy and low-stress is THAT?!
 
The $35 fares were gone but there were tickets available for $54. Snagged! Then upgrade question ensued. Would you like to sit down? That will cost you! (Okay, that wasn’t really a choice, but it felt like it.) By the time we said yes to selecting our seats and taking a carry on and added some “package ‘deal’” and insurance (review our ages) we checked out at $630ish. Since that’s about how much Minneapolis to Orlando airports would have cost us on a legacy airline, it still felt like a deal because of the convenience minus major-airport drama. Reservations were made and the cousins’ texting excitement began.
 
Next up? OMG I cannot remember how the plastic bag thing works! Click. Read. Click. Read. Yes, I can load up that bag with a dozen little containers with all my old-lady potions and lotions as long as it will zip. Halleluiah! The scout for empty pill bottles and the largest quart-size bag I could find began. (BTW, it’s the freezer ones. I don’t know why, but they seem to hold more.) Moving on to which of our old bags should we take and will they fit in the overheads? Where’s the tape measure and where did that link go??? Next up: HOW WIDE ARE THE SEATS NOW? News coverage often yammering about the need for a second seat and seatbelt extender made Very Fluffy Me very nervous. (Rereached for tape measure to wrap around my widest zone.) Hm. I changed my flight clothes to a pair of parachute-type-material slacks for its slick sliding-into properties. Shoe-horning glide, if you will.
 
Since we’re really old, we wanted to arrive at least a couple hours early, grab a bite to eat. Even though parking was only eight bucks a day, our neighbor agreed to drop us and pick us up upon return for the promise of a meal on the way home. Door to door. Check! Check!
 
Our flight was to arrive in Sanford at 10:37 p.m. After dark but not too far to drive, so yay!
 
Last-minute reminder: George! We need to wear support stockings! And TAKE A MASK! Because of a major health issue, he is vulnerable and the global news before we left was not great. Plus everyone we know who’s flown recently comes home sick. From toe tips to noses, we were armed for survival—although the last-minute pants change made pulling my old support stockings up impossible. Thus the photo of how I thought I’d rigged the system by rolling up my tight slick pant legs (they'll look just like 3/4 pants!) to hold the stockings in place. The photo is exactly how I came off the plane: wearing my grandmother’s legs.
 
Before we left for the airport, I received a notification from Allegiant that our PAID FOR seat selections were no longer valid. See an agent. I filed that under not good. Then delayed notifications began arriving. The flight was moved back 90 minutes. By the time we arrived the restaurant was closed. Hello dinner: survival energy bars.
 
Our driver said she wouldn’t drive in the dark, if we didn’t make it out and needed to be picked up. As backup, I called our son who cheerfully said of COURSE they’d get us, if need be. “That’s why we had kids.” (Our grandgirlies are 21 and 19. They appreciate their dad's humor.)
 
The agent for our new seat assignment explained “We had to change planes, and this one is smaller, so not all seats are the same.” We’d moved from row 2 to 22! Calmly I stated that I’d paid dearly for those upfront seats. I asked him to explain how it was possible row 2 had disappeared. He clickety clacked on his keyboard for a very long time and finally moved us into 10E & F stating we should have the row to ourselves. (BTW there were people SITTING in 2E & F when we boarded, so what the what?!) I didn’t feel like arguing about pricing because already I could feel my support hose slipping, so we moved on.
 
This is when the downside of the ease of regional airports struck me: if we didn’t get out on Allegiant that night (because the delays continued), their next flight was the next evening at the same time since there’s only one a day. At that hour, there were no other choices to reroute us. Fingers crossed.
 
The TSA pre-check “line” was the same length as the regular line, which was nobody. I fumbled around getting my boarding pass and ID and plastic bag readied. Turns out you no longer need a boarding pass to get through security. When did that happen? I got all my stuff in the plastic bin when the agent, who studied me, asked me to remove my cardigan. Then he asked if I had anything in my pockets. “Nope. Only my driver’s license.” He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. I’m thinking GADS! Nothing dangerous. Then he said, “Well now, that would be something in your pocket.” With apologies and an epic sense of dumbshittery I tossed my license in the bin.
 
My husband has had two knee replacements and I score one. Into the arms-raised machine we went. We both had to be patted. My offense was nothing in my control, thank goodness. A pocket zipper in my slick pants. George lit up four areas, none which made sense. At 87 and with TSA precheck he still had to remove his shoes as they scouted. Nothing was found but they even patted his privates. By the time we gathered our items we were both exhausted and dropped onto a nearby bench to rest and recompose. Then the slog for a bottle of water and a place to plant ourselves for what we thought would only be two hours before departure.
 
BWA-HAHAHAHA!
 
We arrived at Sanford Airport around 3 a.m.. Then the long wait began for a ground crew—this after looooong delays both boarding and after boarding. (Mechanical. Some commotion about a woman with oxygen, who eventually deplaned.) Then the long waiting continued for a Jetway. The one great thing I can say is that there was no complaining or episodic bad behavior. Everyone remained bleary-eyed but calm.
 
I’m sure by now you regular flyers are wondering why I am even mentioning so much “usual” disruption, but after five years, it was easy to have forgotten.
 
Most of our first day of our three-day visit was lost to naps and incoherent grunting. But nonetheless the hugs were worth all of the humiliation and hassle. Our return trip home was uneventful and right on time. 
 
The idea of choosing to fly again anytime soon has not won us over. Next up again for us: Amtrak. Stay tuned.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

For today’s missive, let me begin the tale about one of the latest great “romantic” adventures of Big George and myself. We were invited to a FREE lunch date. I knew George would be in (FREE) so we RSVPd our energized yes and away we went. I don’t recall any batting of eyes or sparkly winking, but nonetheless we both ended up in the same car during the drive and that’s close enough.
 
The event was held at a local and (wait for it) well-respected funeral home/celebration-of-life establishment because, well, that’s what the talks were about following the complimentary soup and sandwich buffet, complete with beverages and dessert. All the tables were nearly filled and since most of us were of a certain age, we all behaved with decorum and gobbled up most of our meal before the presenters began.
 
Each attendee also received a really nice FREE ballpoint pen with a soft rubbery phone knobby-tapper thingie on the end. This was especially timely since every other FREE pen we’ve accumulated over the years was running dry. Each pen was clipped to a folder containing follow-up information and a couple survey sheets to fill out with our Cadillac version new pens which didn’t even leak or smear. Oh, and the folder also contained a photocopy of a “Dear Abby” article about a family member who’d very much appreciated her mom, who’d recently passed, having made all her own funeral arrangements, including prepayment.
 
I am a huge fan of this type of planning. My desire is to be helpful, even after death. In the process of full disclose, it also enables getting “the last word” even after I can no longer speak. (hahaha) I already have a bunch of takers lined up for “my help,” including that I’m a registered body donor to Mayo Clinic for their research. Since there are “things” that can disqualify your body, though, I even have a backup plan. It says right on my driver’s license I am an organ donor. But make that first call to Mayo because after they’re done with their research, they pay for FREE cremation (my desire anyway, and a parting gift to George, should I go first, because it’s FREE cremation!), return the cremains to the significant others and hold an annual FREE (parlaying at its best!) luncheon for the families of donors. I’ve heard terrific, warm and meaningful stories about this. If you’re keeping count here, the funeral home, which owns its own crematory, is sort of third in line for all my “gifting.” Well, they’re actually second, if Mayo declines and I do “get to” donate some organs, because there will be, well, the rest of me to contend with, and I am currently a super-size fluffy.
 
But back to the part where I’m still alive and have finished our FREE lunch, while we were eating, on the projection screen they listed a few housekeeping items, including the ever-repeated SILENCE YOUR CELL PHONES. While we chewed and browsed our brochures, for at least a half-hour that request was in everyone’s vision.
 
And don’t you know that shortly after the presenter began, a loud cell phone began ringing. It took a while for the table of folks with said ringing to figure out it was at their table. They were at the front of the room (of course) and it seemed everyone figured out it was them before they did. (Presenter keeps talking but all eyes and attention are on the action at the table.) It took them what seemed forever (raised eyebrows, shrugged shoulders, waving hands) to figure out the phone was in a handbag, on the floor, of a woman sitting across the table from the man whose feet were near the handbag.
 
If the presenter delivered the secret to beat death, we all missed it. By the time the handbag holding the ringing phone made its way around the table to its owner, of course the phone stopped ringing. We ALL saw that one coming! And do we think she turned the sound off? You just know it rang again.
 
But even after all of that, we enjoyed the presenters, learned a few things, took some notes with our FREE new pens and have continued conversing about our Final Arrangements. I’ve even used my new pen to fill out a few more items in the SORRY, IT’S YOUR PROBLEM NOW BECAUSE I’M DEAD spiral booklet containing my personal info, accounts and wishes I bought to further get in more last words, even after my lips no longer move.
 
Isn’t old age romantic?

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​A young (well, comparably, since he’s mid-fifties) friend of ours tore up his knee in an off-road motor bike accident. He and some buddies were out in the middle of nowhere rodding it up when ba-bam, he was down. Unable to walk and with no sensible-transport-for-an-injury vehicle parked nearby, his pals helped him remount his bike. GRIT! In ongoing heroic efforts, he figured out how to pick up his leg under the thigh and drop it down to help himself throttle or clutch or whatever and ride for help.
  
The drama! The mind over matter to overcome the pain! The focus. The heroics! The unbelievable achievement.
    
 And now we fast forward.
  
 For several weeks post-op (all kinds of repairs and pins and kneecap wizardry) he is not allowed to bend the knee or put weight on the leg. For an action type of guy—or anyone, for that matter—this is not a good time. It’s a crutches-and-brace laden time you must gird your loins with humility and depend on dependable people to help you along with daily functions such as carrying your plate back to your recovery encampment, if you can manage to not tip yourself over while filling said plate. Everything is exhausting. I remember this well after my knee replacement back in 2017.
    
His wife had to travel for business for a week and thus a spread sheet was put in place for dependable volunteers to sign up and check in, do whatever, keep him company. Being the mature, retired and dependable types, Big George and I signed up for three slots between us. 

The evening after George arrived home from his last shift, he realized he’d left his metal water bottle behind. The patient’s  wife was returning home the next day, so we waited another day so as not to immediately bug them with trivialities, before we called and asked if they could set it out on the front porch for our retrieval. 
   
Mind you, I had no harsh words (mostly, as I recall, or I suppose, er, I hope, maybe that's possible) for George’s lapse since he’s spent a good portion of his life retrieving items I’ve left behind. Glasses. Jackets. My water bottle on dozens of occasions. Credit cards. Purses. Any sense of decorum or brilliance.
  
During the “waiting day” between leaving his water bottle and picking it up, we attended a local play held in a church sanctuary. When we got home, guess who didn’t have her water bottle? The next day calls began to the theatre folks and church folks and everyone I could think of asking if anyone had seen my easily described, crumb-bummy looking, sticker-laden yet sentimental water bottle. Yes, it was in the church lost and found where someone probably took it with prongs, if they were smart.
  
On Double Retrieval day, we two dependable volunteers made our physical list on the back of an envelope. At this age, I tend to stockpile errands so we “have to” grab lunch or breakfast along the way because there are just “so many errands.” It’s like a build-in incentive and reward system which I highly recommend. 

When we arrived home from the marathon, I went to take a swig from my water bottle which is when I realized (checked the list) that we dependable people had missed that task since apparently, I’d crossed it off on the way TO the task (because it was crossed off) and lost track of the actuality of the situation since… crossed off means done. 

We were just too pooped to head out again so we added it to the next day’s agenda with the FOCUS of ONE TASK and ONE TASK ONLY: get my water bottle. GROAN!
  
The drama! The Mind over Matter to, eventually, overcome ourselves. The lack of focus. The questionable guys in our own story. The unbelievable old people's follies. 

Yet, here we sit, side-by-side in our lounge chairs, just sipping away from our water bottles, as though we are perfectly normal folks. 
  
Dependable. Eventually.