I’m writing this from my dining room table, not the Seminole County Jail. Since returning home from Alaska last week, I’ve been catching up on everything – laundry, sleep, correspondence, sleep, grocery shopping, sleep, and one bit of business that my mom, who lives with us, saved for me to do for her.
While we were away, Seminole County Supervisor of Elections had postcards delivered to verify our street addresses and signatures. Mom’s was a little different because she likes to vote by mail. She signed the card verifying the address and I sent it off for her. It was also time to re-up her request for a mail-in ballot. I tried to do it online, but encountered a glitch (truth be told, I put in my dad’s last four instead of hers) and couldn’t complete the form. They are very picky about getting the facts straight, and I’m glad.
I got my numbers straight, but still the site wasn’t cooperating, so I went old-fashioned and used the phone. Mom prefers for me to make her appointments and handle things like this for her as she does not have a smart phone, and those flip phones are exhausting to operate. Usually, I just say I’m her and take care of business. It’s easier and she doesn’t care. Her dermatologist doesn’t care; Walgreens doesn’t care; her hairdresser doesn’t care. But apparently the Seminole County Supervisor of Elections Office cares.
When their office answered my call with “who am I speaking with,” I gave my mother’s name. I tried not to sound too peppy because Mom is 97. I answered all their questions just fine until they stumped me and I needed Mom’s help. As I was walking into Mom’s room, the conversation went like this:
Me – “I’m sorry. I’m lying to you. This isn’t really Pauline, it’s her daughter. Mom can’t handle the prompts of press this number or that because she has a flip phone. I’ve just walked into where she is. Mom, please state your name.”
We were met with silence, obviously hung up on. You know how when you accidentally give someone misinformation and then you realize it and say, “Oops, I’m lying,” and set it straight? Perhaps one shouldn’t do that when dealing with anything to do with a political election.
I tried their website again, but it continued to glitch, so I had no recourse but to call, this time with Mom by my side and we set the record straight. I even told the woman who answered this call what had happened, and she seemed understanding. Perhaps she cares for a nonagenarian like I do. Either way, Mom is all set up to vote by mail in the next general election.
As the day went on, I thought better of impersonating my mom by phone when dealing with government agencies. Those thoughts rang loud and clear when a knock came on our front door mid-afternoon. We weren’t expecting anyone, and we’re in the back of our neighborhood, so we don’t get many drop-ins. So naturally I thought, it could be someone from the Supervisor of Elections coming to take me in. Thankfully, it was a friend bringing flowers to my mom. I’ll keep her in mind in case I need a character reference down the road.
After three days in the inside passage of Alaska, the first leg of our trip is in the books. This leg was all about recovering from the four hour time difference while enjoying the scenery and looking for whales. We spotted a pod of humpbacks with our binoculars. So cool.
The Lions Gate Bridge in Vancouver
After boarding at Vancouver, the first port was Juneau, where we disembarked to enjoy a cool, sunny afternoon in Alaska’s capital. The port shops were packed so we opted to go up for the views.
Meanwhile, back on the ship…
Every nook in that wall had a briefcase in it with a game inside. 
We did a fair amount of eating, sleeping, and playing games in the library. The highlight of the trip so far was at our specialty dinner to celebrate our 50th anniversary.
Today is Saturday. I know this only because the ship is kind of enough to change the elevator floor mats every day.
Our land excursion starts today as we disembark in Skagway and get ready for our next adventure. 
Bob and I on our wedding day August 2, 1975, in MarylandWe celebrated our 25th anniversary in Hawaii. Celebrating our 50th anniversary in Alaska. 
We are on our way to celebrate our 50th anniversary in Alaska and some surrounding areas in Canada. It was a long but nice day of travel from Orlando to Vancouver BC.
Tomorrow (Wednesday) we board a ship for part one of our trip. But tonight we are in a hotel near the airport which is where in the morning we’ll meet transport for our cruise.
Bob is an excellent planner but even he was surprised to see that our hotel is right across the street from a Costco. What a great start to our adventure! I’d never been in a Canadian Costco. Now I have.
I don’t think anything could’ve gotten me back on my feet and out of the hotel except for this. Costco does have a draw! But the best part of Costco today was hanging around the food court and eating ice cream with our new friends Tiger and Erica.
This Costco was packed so sharing tables was helpful. We tried to take a selfie so our kids could make fun of us, but our lack of coordination was on display so Tiger offered. He told us we were so cute, he was happy to step up. This was a first and I guess appropriate as we are now that old couple who has been married fifty years. It’s kind of like the first time someone calls you ma’am.
Tiger peppered us with questions about what makes a lasting marriage, asked about taking care of family and choosing a career. We told him that Jesus was foundational for marriage and a good sense of humor doesn’t hurt either.
I asked for a picture before we left. Tiger wanted a copy of it as well. This sweet couple are just dating and so friendly and warm. I pray God‘s blessing on them- the first friends of our new trip. We left a little Jesus with them.
On our walk back to the hotel, we saw our first wildlife. I’m getting excited!
It was a simple procedure – an arthroscopic fix of two tears in my meniscus. The doctor said he’s done this same surgery on many of his colleagues, and they are typically back at work in a matter of days.
It’s a good thing I don’t have a job to go to. I also wonder about the peer pressure inflicted on the poor chaps who work at an orthopedic surgical center and who must go through repairs themselves. I’m sure many brave faces accompany those folks who wish they were home with their feet up.
As for me, my doc, who I really do like, said I’d be on crutches for a couple of days to ensure that my knee didn’t buckle and cause a fall. I’m happy to report that I never fell, even though I did have the occasional knee buckle. That was to be expected, so I was told. He also said that after six weeks I’d feel pretty much like my old self. I thought it inconsiderate of him to mention that I’m old, but you don’t have to have great bedside manner to be a good surgeon.
After six weeks, I paid a visit to my doctor. I felt like I was letting him down in that I had pain and swelling, but he assured me that I was on track. The pain I was feeling was arthritis – another reminder of the serious number of birthdays I have accumulated. He offered a shot of cortisone, but I decided to wait it out as he said it takes three months to fully recover. I know myself, and I never finish anything early.
Since our household was on the upside-down side between my knee and my mom’s long recovery from shingles, I was relieved that I didn’t have to go to physical therapy. But I did exercises at home. I amazed myself at my commitment to get better. I haven’t exercised this much on my own since, well let’s just say it’s been a while. I also haven’t done regular things like weed around the birdfeeder. The evidence of this , I am quite enjoying. I never planted sunflower seeds, but the birds discard a lot of them. 
Thing I learned from my knee surgery:
Our shower head can move. Since my first couple of showers were taken while sitting down, I wiggled the shower head mount to lower it to where I could reach it. I had a measure of success with that. I could then reach it, but only because I pulled the whole thing off the wall. Bob told me that the knob on the side was to loosen the head so it could slide to whatever height I wanted. This was information I could have used before he had to remount the shower head, and for sure would have been good to know before I was standing on one leg while trying to put the shower head back together. We have lived in our house for ten years, so it’s kind of sad that I didn’t know this earlier.
I don’t like to exercise. This was not new to me, but additional evidence of why I don’t use my gym membership.
Just because the exercise sheet says for me to stand at a counter and raise my involved foot to my butt and grab it (the foot) by the hand and pull until I feel a stretch, that doesn’t mean that I can do it. I stood at that counter and dangled my arm behind me like I was fishing, but I didn’t catch a thing. When I looked to see how far I was from reaching my foot, it was sad. I tried with my other leg, but alas that knee is on deck for its meniscus repair. At least I could reach my foot, even though it did elicit a fair amount of pain in my “good” knee. The big realization is that I don’t have a good knee and a bad knee. I have a bad knee and a better knee.
My bad knee is getting better and is becoming my good knee. Today I can reach my foot when I reach back, but I cannot yet pull it up. I rigged a yoga band to make a pully system for my foot, but all I managed to do was tangle the yoga band.
When you have swelling in your knee and try to swim in a pool, the knee tends to float thereby making it impossible to swim in a straight line. Actually, it was impossible to swim at all unless I flipped over on my back because I am pretty uncoordinated. I’m happy to report that I am swimming like my old self again. Yes, I used that word intentionally.
On August 8, I will reach my three-month mark, and I expect that I will have made enough progress to make me glad I did the procedure. When I think back, I already am in much better shape with much less pain, so I’m thankful. Bob and I will be in Alaska celebrating our 50th anniversary when I hit that date. That should be the official litmus test, especially if we have to run from a bear or a moose, not that I’m hoping for that. Really, I’m not.
Our youngest grandsons came for a visit, and I was prepared, except for the part where I wasn’t. I pulled out a few of our saved toys and placed the Brio train set where there was plenty of room for them to spread out and build a train village. And then it happened. Felix, our ten-year-old, wasn’t interested at all, but Oliver, who is six, sat right down and started creating. He put several tracks together and glided the trains around them. It took me back to earlier days when I’d watched his dad play with those very tracks. It was sweet, and after about fifteen minutes, it was over. I didn’t even get a picture!
When I say over, I mean the beloved train set which my children and older grandchildren had spent hours of enjoyment playing with, no longer was needed in our home. It was the end of the line. Our grands are so used to playing games on phones that these old relics didn’t cut it anymore. I began to notice the transition several years ago with our now 13-year-old granddaughter Layna. The five grands before her were more used to floor play and actual toys, but when they started to use video/computer games more, her interest in traditional toys waned as well. Felix and Oliver followed suit. That is the state of things. I shudder to think of creativity lost, plus the art of bartering for the favorite train. These were foundational play opportunities.
Hello? Is anybody there or are you already on your phone? I’m as guilty as anyone when it comes to time on the stupid cell phone. But I didn’t see this coming, which happens more often when your grandkids don’t live near you. You lose track of what they’re into at any given time. But for me, this was not only the end of the line – it was the end of an era.
Perhaps I could have prolonged the termination of our train set if I could have gotten down on the floor and played with Oliver. That is what I typically would have done, but my current knee issues have already derailed anything that requires floor time. Since my recent knee surgery, I didn’t think it wise to put my caboose on the floor and play lest I needed an engine (or in my case an engineer) to help me back up.
At the end of the visit, the train was up for grabs. I always thought I’d give it to the youngest grandkids, but they are not interested, and I am okay with that. That train has left the station, albeit all too soon for this grandmother. But, with only one text, it has been rescued from the certain uncertainty of Good Will by my daughter-in-law Dacia who is only too happy to keep it on hand for when her boys have boys and girls of their own. Success!
These boys are in their late teens now, but I love this picture of them.
I sat on the couch with Felix and watched him play some kind of card game on his phone. He wanted to teach me, but my meager capacity to keep all those numbers and cards straight was more than I wanted to admit to him. I told him I’d learn it by watching him; he could teach me that way. It didn’t take. Now I knew how Oliver felt after fifteen minutes of the trains. It was enough. I’m beaten on both fronts.
It’s a good thing we have a pool. The boys don’t have easy access to one from their North Carolina home, so it makes up for a lot. I did play Marco Polo with them, though I don’t move as fast as I’d like. They didn’t care. We had great fun.
Any time with our kids and grandkids is special and I’ll play whatever they want me to play, except for Felix’s crazy card game or Clue. I do have limits. If I’ve never mentioned it before, my brain doesn’t work during the game of Clue. My kids took us to an escape room and my brain melted down like I was captive in that board game, trying to keep a good attitude when everyone was writing stuff on their stupid little clue sheets and I was making a grocery list on mine. Maybe that is why I never won.
I don’t like to come off as overly dramatic, but Bob does. I also don’t typically like to throw my husband under the bus, but if I did, he would insist it was a greyhound and not a school bus. It makes for a better story.
We’ve been together almost forever, but I can still remember the first time we went to the beach and I saw a big scar on his chest. He explained it was from a knife fight. That was hard to believe, but Bob assured me that the kid up the street from them made it a point to try to beat him up as many days a week as he could. Thankfully, Bob was quick – speed can really be a help to little guys like Bob who were on the skinny side as a kid. I was horrified that he would have to grow up defending himself to the neighborhood bully, especially one that wielded a knife. Bob took it in stride. I was reminded of a definition of comedy – tragedy plus time equals humor, but this wasn’t funny.
I’m not sure if it was one of his sisters or his mom who gave more insight into this scar years later, but the truth came out that the alleged knife wound came from going over the handlebars on his bike. The handlebars were missing their hand grips so that rough metal pipe sliced his chest open.
I will barely mention the scar on his hand that resulted from another knife fight. This one was with a pumpkin that he was carving for Halloween, but it was another story worth embellishing. Pumpkins can be aggressive.
Flash forward about 50 years and I hear Bob telling the story of someone with whom he had an encounter. It was a rough day because the other man had actually slit Bob’s throat. He pointed to the scar while the wide-eyed listener must have been wondering who would do that to a senior citizen. The answer was a surgeon during a disk fusion.
This all adds up to why Bob is fine with going to the doctor, though he’s not as fanatical about it as his father was. Those visits can yield good stories, and that is the sort of fodder that people of a certain age need to relate with their peer group and confuse their grandchildren.
Bob making a big splash for our grandsons.
Speaking of his father – Bob will never catch up with that man when it comes to wanting to go to the doctor. When Dale was ninety, we were returning from a dermatology appointment. (I took him to his appointments back then because he lived in an assisted living facility and Bob was still working.) He told me that he believed it was time for his colonoscopy.
I looked at this blind man who also had mobility issues and said, “Dad, I don’t think you could handle the prep.”
As he began to lodge a protest, I added, “You know, something’s got to kill you. You’re not getting a colonoscopy.” He gave in on that one, but only because he couldn’t make his own appointments.
I think about caring for our parents and hope it will help me when I’m in their shoes. Bob’s mother died suddenly in her mid-eighties. As for the other three of our parents – two out of three did not always make it easy on us as their care-givers. They weren’t too bad, and I know they were grateful, but it was hard for them to receive help and, therefore, challenging for us to give it. We want to learn from that. Aging is hard – very hard. Let’s try to do it gracefully like one out of every three parents. (Thanks, Mom!)
May has been a mixed bag. Bob took me for a get-away in Jamaica at the start of the month – just a few days to ourselves. What we didn’t count on when the trip was booked (and rebooked twice because of conflicts) was twofold. One, my mother, who lives with us, had contracted shingles a week before we left. She was put on antivirals, and my sister was here, so I only had minor guilt about leaving her. Two, my knees have had their own agenda this year. That agenda includes giving out on me at times and other times just being so painful that I don’t want to walk.
But we pressed on with our non-refundable trip, and in hindsight I’m glad we did. Time alone together is a premium. Bob booked wheelchairs for me at every airport leg with the hope that my walking strength would be conserved for leisurely walks on the beach. Being pushed around an airport in a wheelchair was a new experience. I didn’t like it at first, but now I think it’s the way to go – especially in the Miami airport because that place is a maze.
We arrived at our lovely resort and right away realized – Jamaica, we have a problem. The room chosen for us was on the second floor with no elevator access. That was fairly easily remedied to a first-floor unit. While I was unpacking, Bob went to check on something in the lobby and when he left, our doorknob fell off. I immediately ceased unpacking. A young man came and fixed it. He assured us that it was fine, so we put our suits on and headed to the pool. Thankfully, we felt like we should check to make sure it worked with our key, because it did not.
House arrest in Jamaica: This time they sent two men to fix the doorknob. One of them was armed with a computer and used YouTube as his tutor. We didn’t feel comfortable leaving all our things in the room while the door was propped open and these guys went in and out, so we waited. After an hour, we requested another room, and amazingly they were able to accommodate us on the second floor near an elevator. A mere three hours later, we were set to begin our vacation.
I was not in a great frame of mind for this trip. Mom was home with shingles and three days after we returned home, I had arthroscopic knee surgery scheduled to fix my badly torn meniscus. But I hobbled along bravely sitting by the pool and having drinks brought to me. I’d hardly call it suffering! We even tried to swim in Montego Bay, but the sand was hard on my knees, so we only took a token dip in the turquoise blue water. Four days of sun and relaxing, and the best part was I did not have to plan or prepare any meals. Score!
On Wednesday afternoon, two days after returning home, my mom had an incident, probably a TIA, and she had to go to the ER. It was scary, but she pulled through, though she continues to deal with shingles. We were thankful she didn’t need to be admitted, plus the doctor said her shingles were resolving and she wasn’t contagious. That was nice to hear.
My surgery went well – so they tell me. I went home with a bandaged leg and used crutches the next two days until I could uncover the wounds – three little places each requiring two stitches. You wouldn’t think it would be that big a deal and it truly wasn’t. It was just more than I thought it would be hobbling around on my other knee (which isn’t great). Plus, that left Bob and my sister to tend to Mom, who was still weak from shingles and the supposed TIA. I don’t like being sidelined, but sometimes it’s good for me.
One of the weirdest challenges post-surgery was removing the permanent marker tattoo, as they called it, from my leg. It took six of us to figure out that it said left, indicating the left leg was the one they were working on. My friend Maria suggested I get it off with Windex, My Big Fat Greek wedding style. Contrary to pop-culture movie advice, that didn’t work.

I think my brain hurt more than my leg did. Okay, maybe it was a tie for the first several days, but it’s been two weeks and I’m coming out of it. I can even sit at the table and bend my knee comfortably enough to type. Yay!
I have many friends going through lots of physical ailments right now, and this reminds me to pray for them and helps me to keep my stuff in right perspective. I’m thankful for the surgery, but I’m not quite ready to do the other knee yet. Maybe in the fall. I should say – maybe in the autumn. I don’t like to use the word fall.
Now that we had our share of shopping and lunch, it was time for the leaders to tee off. We left our chairs and headed to the third hole. It was a rather long walk, and we were surprised to find no chairs available. That’s why Bob and I now have chairs of our own. We arrived in time to see Rory and Bryson DeChambeau. They walked right past us in their pursuit of a green jacket.
As soon as the leaders were finished, we scrambled over to hole #6 to catch that action. Now we’re toting chairs, of course, but we always had a seat and the crowds were growing.
One of the most exciting things about the tournament was the roar of the crowd, which you could hear all over the course whenever anyone made an amazing shot. There also was the moan of the crowd whenever an easy shot was missed, but this was nowhere near as loud as the roar. It was exciting and I have to tell you I’m glad I didn’t have a cell phone to try to capture this. It couldn’t have done it justice.
At long last, we went back to the Azalea hole to locate our other set of chairs. We made ourselves comfortable waiting for the leaders. We were not disappointed as it was a noteworthy hole, even if in a negative sense. Rory got a rare double bogie on that hole – unlucky 13, I guess. Bob explained that that never happens. It’s almost as rare as a hole in one – almost.
I had quite the golf coaching staff at this point. The gentleman to my left had binoculars and was relaying the play by play. To the left of him was a man who was attending his 57th Augusta National. Then between Bob and me a man about our age showed up. There were no empty chairs, so Bob offered one of our folded ones. That’s how we met Barry.
I know much more about Barry than you might think, and I’ll spare you the details of his life (which we were not spared). Barry was traveling solo and was very happy to find friends. He thought the alliteration of our three names was cool, and I have to admit I like alliteration and at this point that might have encouraged Barry a little too much. Barry showed me his chemo burn scars which were hidden under his long sleeves on this warm day and asked me if that grossed me out. He said he needed to stay out of the sun, which made our shaded location ideal. He talked a lot. I didn’t think you were supposed to talk that much at a golf tournament, but I guess since we were on the fairway we weren’t disturbing any golfers. I started leaning into binoculars guy to help me pay attention to the golf, but Barry was leaning in to us.
At some point, unbeknownst to me, Bob offered to give Barry a lift back to his car, which was at a shuttle area. Bob told him we were leaving after the leaders finished this hole and Barry was all good with going with us. By now he had noticed that I had a cane and Bob told him I had knee issues. Now Barry took on the job of making sure I was safe and carried the other two chairs. I looked at my sweet husband and reminded him that we weren’t going straight to the car as we needed to stop at the golf shop. Barry was good with that, too. He stuck with us through it all, even followed Bob into the men’s room (hopefully not too close).
Barry has slowed down since the chemotherapy and liked my slower pace just fine. He was especially grateful for the handicap golf cart which sliced some time off our walk back to the car. Barry piled into the backseat like one of our kids and oozed with gratitude. He gave us his card, in case we ever get to Chicago. He told us he wished we could get together later for dinner and cards, and he told us he loved us. Honestly, I didn’t know what to do with that. By now it was six o’clock, and I was running on empty, so we gently parted ways and went back to our VRBO to rest.
Highlights from The Masters:
Seeing Rory.
Seeing Scottie Scheffler, of whom I am a fan since he was wrongly arrested on his drive into a tournament last year. I loved the way he handled that.
Talking with people along the way.
Eating Georgia peach ice cream sandwiches.
The grounds – a golf course plopped into a southern garden or maybe vice versa.
Seeing men waiting in long lines to use the restroom.
Watching my husband enjoy this day – that was the best of all.
It doesn’t get more southern than Augusta, Georgia, in the Spring. Everything is blooming, especially the azaleas; but we didn’t go there to take in the beauty of the blooms. We went for the Masters.
Last Christmas, our son Jesse surprised us with this opportunity. He had secured a pair of tickets to this coveted event. Jesse planned out the four-day tournament, which six of us would attend in daily shifts. Sunday was Bob’s and my day. I honestly felt like I was taking somebody’s spot as I don’t play golf and only watch when Bob’s watching and I happen to walk into the room when it sounds like somebody made an amazing shot or Bob pauses it because I just have to see this!
Nevertheless, Jesse wanted me to go with his dad, and I’m glad I did. This is tradition at its finest, and I love traditions. It was such fun to accompany Bob as he took in the course and watched his favorite golfers do their thing.
Getting into the event was an event in itself. We arrived mid-morning as the leaders wouldn’t tee off until after lunch. Since I am currently experiencing knee issues, we sought a handicap parking spot, but they were all full. I guess handicaps at the Augusta National are not a thing. So, we walked in, me with cane in hand in case my knee wanted to do its thing. Having that cane saved us about a ten-minute portion of the walk, as it was advertising that a ride would be lovely. We hopped on a waiting golf cart to shorten our walk.
This gave us a brief time to rest before we got to the course itself. It took about twenty minutes to get inside the gate, including the obligatory search of the bags to ensure we didn’t bring in any contraband. Contraband would include cell phones or cameras. They are strictly verboten. We knew that going in, so it was not an issue, but I wondered what life would be like without a phone all day long. Would it really count that we were at the Masters if we didn’t capture it on camera and post it on social media? Yes. It counts.
First order of business was to get in the switchback line to go into the golf store. This was another twenty minute wait, but I was happy to do it because you gotta have swag. It really wasn’t swag in the truest sense of the word though, because we all didn’t get some things. They sell out and nothing is free, of course. The big deal of the day was the Masters gnome. They stock the tournament gift shop with these fresh each morning, but when they’re gone, they are gone. These sell for about $50, but you can pick one up today on Ebay for upwards of $400.
Jesse was able to secure a gnome one morning, but on our day Bob and I were not willing to get up earlier than necessary to get a gnome that we’d have to carry back to the car because it’s too big to lug around the course. We were concerned that my knee would decide it was finished before Bob was finished, so I opted out of trying to get a gnome. Yes, I opted out. It was a rare moment of common sense winning the battle to get a collectible to display in our garden or sell on Ebay. Who am I kidding? I’d never sell it.
By the time we entered the gift shop, there was talk that gnomes might be found in the back corner, but alas, that was a rumor. The upside – we didn’t have to trek back to the car. And when I say we, you know I mean Bob. We did purchase can cozies (a collectible that is manageable and lightweight), ball markers, mugs, and hats. I think it is required to spend a minimum amount of money at the shop. I’m sure the Masters folks work that into their budget. They’d have to because the food is so cheap.
Everything is permanent at Augusta National. That includes the grandstands, scoreboards, concession stands, bathrooms, and phone banks. Everything. And you cannot see any of these things from the actual course. There’s nothing to distract the golfers. Plus, nobody is asking them for a selfie along their way. People are watching the tournament through their eyes not their camera lens. It is so well thought-out.
Bob and I placed our official Masters chairs along the fairway of the 13th hole, also known as the Azalea hole. It is aptly named as I’ve never seen such a beautiful display. I plopped down for a rest while Bob explored the course. This is another brilliant thing about the Masters. They sell camp chairs emblazoned with their emblem. (We didn’t have to buy chairs, because Jesse had already done that.) When you want to get up and wander, you just leave your chair (make sure you mark it as yours) and go sit in someone else’s chair. Of course, there are grandstands, but all the holes are lined with green camp chairs, so seating is easily accessible, at least during the first half of the day. If the original owner returns, you get up and move along. At the end of the day, you take your chair home with you. The Masters encourages you to purchase a chair, set it up, and take it down, all for the low price of $35. They actually get the patrons (not fans or customers) to pay up and do the labor. That’s brilliant.
Bob returned from touring the course and we set out to get some food. The concessions and restrooms were in the same area. I should add that this was the first time I had seen lines to the men’s room triple the lines to the ladies’ room. Retribution!
The phone banks were interesting. I think most people were using them so they could call someone and have Augusta National show up on the caller ID. I didn’t think of that, but then again, I only know two phone numbers and Bob’s is one of them.
Lunchtime was simple – egg salad and pimento cheese sandwiches with Georgia peach ice cream sandwiches for dessert. These are the must-haves if you want to immerse yourself in everything Augusta National, and they’re cheap. While I don’t really understand the appeal of a pimento cheese sandwich, I did try it and found it to be worth every penny of the $1.50 we spent. I did a little research and discovered that the pimento cheese sandwich debuted in 1947, and it cost a quarter. That is the humble beginning of this Augusta National craze. I prefer the egg salad, which is also a bargain at a buck fifty. The peach ice cream sandwich, that’s a tradition I can get behind.
This is Part 1 of 2. Part 2 will offer a look at the people we met during the tournament.
Buying a new appliance? How about a new car? Well, there’s an app for that.
We have recently done both of these things and I’ve discovered that the simple life is over. They may bill all these new-fangled things attached to modern appliances as time-saving or efficient, but I’m not sure.
I’m not complaining about new features on cars or appliances – these are great. But can anyone explain to me why I would want to access my washing machine remotely? It’s not like I have a robot to put the clothes in and fold them at the end. I don’t understand and have decided not to download the app out of spite. It works quite well when I walk into the laundry room and push the buttons. It’s so satisfying, too. I feel like Jane Jetson.
photo credit: nypost.com
If I thought the computerized laundry centers were challenging my computer-resistant mind, I was taken to a higher level when we shopped for a new car. The computerized cars of today have taken Bob completely out of the car-repair business. He used to be able to fix anything on our cars. He even fixed our transmission once, but those days are gone the way of dial-up internet.
When we talked to a Toyota salesman, who was likely 30 years younger than me, and he waxed poetic about the app for the car we were considering, I questioned myself briefly before I blurted out that I didn’t want to start my car with my phone. He looked at me like I had two heads.
He went on, “It’s free for the first three months, then only $90 a year after that.” I may have blanked out at this point, or I could be misremembering the numbers, because I can’t keep a number other than my phone number and address any more, but you get the point. I think it takes a lot of audacity to ask for what is basically a subscription to add to the convenience of using a phone to operate a vehicle that costs way upwards of $30,000 and comes with a key fob as part of the package.
“Why would I want the convenience of the phone in my purse when I already had the convenience of a key fob in the same location?” I asked.
He didn’t get my point, perhaps because he doesn’t carry a purse, but I’m sure he thinks I didn’t understand him either. He was excited to leave his keys at home so he wouldn’t ever lose them and running the car totally from his phone was really cool to him. I thought that anybody who couldn’t keep his keys in place has no business owning a car like this, but I kept that thought to myself, which only happened by great restraint on my part. Finally, I told him how old I am and hoped he would drop the discussion.
It was when I revealed my age to make a point that I (and maybe I’m speaking for my generation) might not like that add-on, and he should save his breath in trying to sell it that I realized how stubborn I am, but he kept going on about it. Apparently, it was a battle of the stubborn but I think I won because we left without a Toyota or an app.
I will say that it is fun to watch Bob as I maneuver these discussions. Since this car will be primarily driven by me, I lead the discussion and Bob joined in to fill in the blanks and ask questions which I would not have considered. Bob did add, “You will never need to figure out how she feels about anything.”
At the Hyundai dealership I liked our young salesman so much I wanted to adopt him. He understood that I didn’t want an app and was so respectful that I almost bought a car to make him happy, but even though the car that I was looking at was a Kona, which makes me think of Hawaii, I had to admit that it wasn’t right for me.
My first thought had been to buy another Ford Escape. I loved my 2014 Escape, and I’m sure I would have been happy with one, except they haven’t changed anything on them in the last eleven years. I didn’t want to fork out that kind of dough and not realize I was in a new car. Maybe next time, Ford.
We ended up with a Kia Sportage. I wouldn’t even have thought of Kia except we had one for our rental car in Hawaii and I really liked the dashboard. It is like nothing I have seen before, and the rest of the car is not too shabby either.
The sky changes as the sun goes down.
The respectful and not-too-pushy salesman even had the right tactic to make me put the app on my phone, not that I’ll ever use it. It’s free with Kia, so take that Toyota.
The Test Drive: Remember when you used to get in a car, any car, place your foot on the brake and turn a key in the ignition? Well, that’s over. Remember when the front seat passenger was like a co-pilot who would yell at you if you were wandering out of the lane or if you missed the fact that the car ahead of you had pulled away? That’s over, too. My Sportage has push-button ignition (I know that’s not new), lane corrective technology to literally keep you in line, and a chime if the car in front of you has pulled away from the traffic light. Since bringing the car home, I have discovered that the steering wheel will rumble if there is danger nearby. I don’t even need to keep my foot on the brake when stopped anymore. It’s all a little disconcerting to learn all this while driving. Next time I test drive a vehicle, I’ll be sure to drive recklessly with the salesperson in the backseat so that all the safety features will have time to show off.
Technology is amazing and there must be happy engineers all over the car industry trying to figure out what else they can add to the driving experience. My advice, if you are over sixty and haven’t bought a new car in the last decade or so, go get one now while you still have the ability to adapt to all that is new. It will blow your mind.
Case in point: One young lady of about 17 years who showed us a Kia was chatting from the backseat about electric vehicles. She said, “I sold an EV to a man who was 71, and I was so scared that he wouldn’t be able to figure out how to use it. I spent a lot of time with him going over all the features.”
My 71-year-old husband and I glanced at each other, feeling like we just had a compliment even if she didn’t know she gave one. Of course, we had the good sense not to push it with an EV vehicle for me. Even though I’m sure there is an app out there that would walk me through using one, we all know I wouldn’t use it.
Life on the Lighter Side 