Ledgie My Ledgie

It was a gorgeous day on the water . . .

. . . and one of my wildest dreams came true.

See her out there at the mouth of the Thames River?

It's true, my friends. Mistah and I took a trip out to visit ol' Ledgie Light last weekend.

Excited? Oh, we were excited.

Because we were on a *boat* . . .

. . . and we were going to finally meet our friend.

You see that tallest, highest, most intriguing part up there? 

You'll want to remember that.

We were warned that on the way out to Ledgie, when we'd arrive at the mouth of the Thames River where it met the Long Island Sound, the waves would be "aggressively splashing." They were and it was fun. And then before we knew it . . .

. . . we were *on* Ledge Light.

On Ledgie!

We kept looking for Ledgie, to get our bearings about where we were in the River, but we couldn't see her. Because we were *on* her.

And then we went inside.

It's a gorgeous building, built in 1909, in the French Second Empire and Classic Revival style . . .

Well wait, let the walls tell you:

The architecture is stunning . . .

. . . and so are the displays:

My favorite is #5. You can't sell booze, but if a stranger arrives bearing booze? Well, be civil and attentive.

And the photos of the Keepers?

They are pure awesome.

I'm not sure . . .

. . . but I think those guys had some fun out there.

And then, up to the top, to the Lantern Room . . .

. . . up where they put the Light in Lighthouse . . .

. . . right up on top of the world.

The lens is just a light bulb now . . .

. . . behind a big reflective thing.  And yes, that is the technical term.

"How do you like the Ledgie Light tour, Ellie?"

"Only one thumb up?"

"Now you're talkin'."

Mistha loved it too.

Well, what's not to love?

We stayed up there a long time, watching the ferries from our new vantage point.

And finally, we headed back down . . .

 . . . and back outside . . .

. . . where Project O was waiting patiently for the likes of us.

(We spied on the crew when they weren't looking.)

It was the most beautiful, magical afternoon out there,  and we hated to leave. . .

Good bye for now, Ledgie.

See you in the Loo.

Fore! by guess blogger Jane

It feels like Dad’s been gone a long time now.  I hate that sentence.  But the passage of time has helped accept that awful reality, and there is a beauty in embracing memories of Dad now.  For a long time it was just so painful that I had to make a conscious decision about whether I could stand to think about it and relive the inevitable pain and grief and loss that came with looking at pictures, telling stories, thinking about Dad.  The answer was almost always yes, but I/we paid a price each time. Now, three years later, I do still get weepy but I embrace the memories, revel in the stories, relish passing them on to my kids.  And am hungry for more.

And yesterday I hit the jackpot.

To backtrack:

This spring mom asked if anyone wanted to take Dad’s golf clubs.  Since I sometimes drive out there and have kids who could potentially be interested some day, I said I’d love them.  So when I went out there this summer, Dad’s clubs came back with me and have been in our garage the past few weeks.  Our son, Noah, is about the same size as my dad, maybe a couple inches taller, so I knew the clubs would work well for him, but Noah is not a big fan of ball sports.  As a kid he tried them all but as we worked our way through flag football, soccer, basketball and t-ball it became apparent that he was a)not interested and b)his skill set ran more along the lines of internal balance versus external spatial sports.  Snowboarding he likes, gymnastics he enjoyed, but he’s found a sweet spot with rock climbing, which he enjoys and excels in.   Anyway, he took a golf lesson or two during the days of relentless sports sampling, and he liked it ok but it never went beyond that. 

So yesterday my kids had the day off and at about 1pm this conversation with Doug took place:

 Doug: “guess what Noah just called to ask me?”

Me: “What?”

Doug: “Can I borrow your golf clubs?”

Me:  “WHAT????”  “Wait, he should use my dad’s!!!!”

Doug:  “That’s what I told him. He has them.”

Turns out a couple of Noah’s friends like to golf and do it fairly regularly and asked him if he’d like to come and he, to our surprise, said sure.  Now the younger, less confident Noah would have steered clear of any activity with potential to embarrass, but Noah’s grown a lot this summer and is trying to branch out and try new things and is, wonderfully, realizing it doesn’t matter what people think or if you look foolish sometimes – it’s more fun to do than to not do.  It’s awesome to watch this transition occur.    So off he went, with his grandfather’s very nice clubs in tow.

When I went to pick him up that afternoon and drop him off at his girlfriend’s house he said, “I found Jidoo’s glasses in the golf bag” and it hit me hard.  This is Dad’s bag, with Dad’s stuff in it, and he would be so delighted that Noah’s using it, and he’s gone.  So I shed a few tears but mostly I loved it. 

When I got home, I brought the bag inside and searched through every pocket and had that rare, amazing encounter when I felt Joe Corey right there in the kitchen with me.

Here’s what I found:

The requisite ID tag with “Dr Joe Corey” written out in that 70’s royal blue Dymo label maker. 

 In the pockets:

  Some  tissues

A golf glove

An unmarked scorecard

A million tees and SGC markers

A few golf balls (apparently there were a lot more when Noah started)

  

  Dad’s glasses

And then I hit the mother load. I literally gasped when I saw it and cried as I went through it:

One very well worn and utterly fabulous

drawstring pouch,  of the Holy Cross Crusaders variety.

 

Inside, I found:

One after-bite stick for those pesky skeeters on the golf course.

One half roll of rolaids.

One tiny retractable knife.  I stared at that one for a while, knowing that that thing must have a specific purpose to be in that bag. I’ve determined that that tiny retractable blade is perfect to cut through the seal of a new box of golf balls.

One pen.

Eleven golf pencils.

And my favorite item, a tiny manual pencil sharpener, because who wants to, nay who can write those tiny golf scores on that tiny scorecard with a dull pencil?

SO utterly Dad.  So utterly awesome.  I miss that guy.  I loved having him in my kitchen yesterday. 

Thanks for the visit, Dad.    Jane

What's in a name?

As I've mentioned in a recent post, I've had quite a few names. I'm not the IT guy at work's favorite employee, as I'm always making him change my profile in some way. I've had 7 email addresses in my 16-year tenure at MedLink. And I may be changing my name again.

But this post is not about my last name -- what it has been or may become. This post is about first names.

I mean, am I really a Beth? Well, I have never felt comfortable with Elizabeth. I mean, it really is a beautiful name. But it's so big, and formal, and emerald-studded, you know?  I used to always use it in work correspondence, but very recently just changed my Outlook signature to Beth. It feels weird when our subscribers and authors address me as Elizabeth, so I'm done with it. Beth feels more authentic to me.

Although, I must say that I don't particularly like the name Beth. (Sorry, mom ;) It's short and lacking in sound. Don't know what I mean? Well I bet Jeff and Seth do. These are names that when you say them when placing your lunch order you ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS have to repeat yourself. At least once. Usually more. If the person doesn't get it after I've repeated it once, I resort to "Beth, like in Elizabeth." Then it usually registers. It's something about the one syllable and the "th" (or ff) at the end. There is not enough there for people's ears to grab on to, or least that's my theory. (An adorable aside: Jacquie's boy called me Bef for the longest time when he was a wee boy. Bef is hard not to love, right??)

But having, as I do, a nickname from a long, grand name like Elizabeth, people do make certain assumptions, or, well, more like stupid remarks. Two immediately come to mind. The first was a guy at the Ziggy Marley concert I was at (with Jacquie and Mr Can) this very Labor day weekend. He asked my name, to which I replied, Beth (Duh!). He then immediately said something like you are definitely an Elizabeth, you are a queen, etc. Queen of the drunk bad pick-up line guys, maybe. But, um, I didn't say my name was Elizabeth, dude. I said it was Beth. This did not deter his love affair with the name Elizabeth. I moved on in the crowd. I mean, let's dance, not talk about dead queen names, k? Plus, you don't even have any dope, dude. (kidding!)

The second comment, which has obviously scarred me for life because it was said about 20 years ago and I remember it like it was yesterday was my Portuguese professor at SDSU asking me what I liked to be called as he called roll for the first time. I told him Beth. (Duh!) His reply was, and I kid you not, "Well good, because Liz is a slutty name." !! In front of a whole class of students. Totally PC, right?  I may have laughed out loud out of shock or despair, I can't remember. But I must say that I think about this comment EVERY time I meet someone named Liz. Sorry, Liz! So sorry about that slutty name, Liz.

But you know, nicknames of Elizabeth have not been my only names. I've had my fair share of fake identities. Well, okay, not really fake identities, but fake ids; you know, to get into the bar when not quite of age. My very first ID was Yolanda something-or-other. Yolanda! I mean, what are the odds? Not very high, right?  Maryland, god bless that state, thought profile licence photos were a good idea. All us under-age drinkers could not agree more. I mean, c'mon, it's hard to tell if you're you by your profile, right? So Yolanda, who was quite a few years older than me, with hair of a redder tint, got me into some of my first bars in Ocean City, Maryland. I loved Yolanda, and loved making my then  boyfriend play along and call me Yolanda. I mean, well, it's not quite Elizabeth, right?

My next ID was Maureen something-or-other (I think. It was either that or Catherine). It was a Pennsylvania ID, and while she did have blond hair like me, the photo was frontal, and well, I guess we didn't look that much alike, because I ended up in the back of a cop car trying to use it one night. The undercover cop took my Maureen away and slapped me with a hefty ticket that involved a suspension my license. My mom had to take me to DMV back in Baltimore to help me get it sorted out. I wasn't really planning on introducing my mom to Maureen, but she met her nonetheless.

The next ID I had I used primarily here in San Diego, and it was again a profile Maryland ID. This time I was India. I friend of mine who was a few years older gave it to me. It worked well, and, who doesn't want to be called India? I loved that ID!! (Can you say, Winston's?!)

Present day, well, um, it's been a long, long time since I've needed a fake ID. I'm Elizabeth getting in the bars these days (as it is my official name). But once in the bars, you never know what people are going to come up with. Recently (again, because people don't know what the hell I am saying when I say Beth) someone thought I was an Evette. He told me how pretty the name was. I told him that wasn't my name. He came back with "Colette?" Also pretty. He didn't quite know what to say when I finally made him understand that it was Beth (Duh!). He looked a little disappointed. (I get it, I don't like it that much either.)

So, to sum this all up, why don't you call me Bef, Queen of the chaste Elizabeth nicknames. Or, if that's too much for you, how about Colette?

You got any good nick names?

Fiddy

Jacquie and her girl called me Wednesday night, just after midnight east coast time, ten minutes into my birthday.

"You're fiddy!" she remarked, quite accurately.

She's right. I am fiddy.

"But," I rejoined, "Is there a sixty-dollar bill? Are there forty united states? Is there a thirty-cent piece?" No. No there is not. There are none of those. Fiddy is special and means something in this country, dammit.

But on a more personal level, it also means Mistah and I take a few days off and hightail it to the beach. The beach-beach. The Atlantic Ocean beach.

 This beach.

 And this hotel.

 The Pleasant View Inn, baby.

Not such a bad place to set up chairs and cooler and grinders for birthday luncheon . . .

. . . even with wacky and foreboding clouds over Watch Hill down the beach a couple of miles.

 But what did we care? We had a room, right on the ocean . . .

. . . and we had champers . . .

. . . and the clouds made for gorgeous high drama.

. . . really, they were the most fabulous birthday clouds ever.

And there is really only one thing to do at a time like that . . .

. . . have a photo shoot on the beach.

Because that is what we do.

Actually, that is what Mistah does.

Geeks? Oh, we're geeks.

Oh, look! In the distance! . . .

A bar! And not just any bar, but the venerable and infamous Andrea, back and better than ever, after Hurricane Sandy.

The sun came back out . . .

. . . our little friend Dylan took good care of us . . .

. . . we got Mistah all fancified . . .

. . . and we had ourselves a Birthday Time . . .

That's 100 years of combined experience and intelligence, 
right there.

And then?

All those clouds made for the most amazing sunset ever seen on the East Coast . . .

. . . a perfect birthday sunset just for me . . .

. . . leading us back to the Pleasant View.

This Fiddy thing isn't half bad.