Have you been hugged lately?  I took this picture recently of my dog Courtney and her little sidekick Gracie.  As they were snoozing together in the car I saw Courtney put her little arm around Gracie and I quickly snatched the picture!

Are you a hugger?  There is something so genuine as a good solid hug.  My students all know that I love to hug them as they enter and leave my office.  I read recently that there are 7 benefits of hugging:

7 Benefits Of Hugging:

1.  Reduces heart disease

2.  Diminishes stress

3.  Promotes longevity

4.  Strengthens social ties

5.  Lowers blood pressure

6.  Lowers heart rate

7.  Benefits the hugger and the huggee equally

Back by popular demand one of Melitas’ posts from the past…she is still healing with her sore leg so I wanted to rerun a blog that she posted in the past….enjoy!!

POTS AND PANS AND OTHER STUFF                                 JUNE15, 2011

     For as long as I can remember, I can recall how the JEWEL TEA CO. salesman would come around every month knocking on the door, and then sucker my Mom into buying some thing. Of course, she bought some tea since her Mother and Father …..Granny and Grampa Moore…..had come to live in America from England so tea was very large on the menu at 509 No. Pomona Ave. in Fullerton, CA.   Tea in the afternoon, and then tea at dinner time.

     There were other things, though, that she would buy:  spices and grocery items, cleaning supplies, cookware, china…..you name it.  The Jewel Tea Co. had it.  When it came to the more costly items like cooking utensils or glassware, or dinnerware (if she wasn’t getting free dinnerware at the local theater on Wednesday nights) Mom had to spread out the payment at the rate of 25 cents a week so Dad wouldn’t know she was spending all this money on stuff he probably would consider uncalled for.   It was Dad that took care of the finances.  He would give my Mother the money for the weekly groceries,  and big items were a joint shopping effort.  So you see, she was having to filch these quarters out of her weekly budget to pay Mr. Jewel Tea Man.  She had an envelope in which she put the coin(s) in each week, and then the salesman would mark her payment down on a card to keep the running balance.  I guess what my Dad didn’t know, didn’t hurt him.

     Dad would be the one to slip my younger sis, Vivian, and me the dimes for the Saturday afternoon movies, and nickels for the ice cream or candy, or even pennies because those pennies bought one of those delicious licorice

whips.  How I loved those!

     Also lurking around in those early years were the WATKINS salesman and the FULLER BRUSH man;  however,  I would venture to say that it was Mr. JEWEL TEA  getting most of her business.

     This routine went on for years.  While I was still living at home, Mom gave Viv and me a comb and brush set.  That should have come from the Fuller Brush Man.  Today, I do not have that set — the bristles wore out years ago, and is lost in the shuffle.  After I moved out to do my stint for the WWII effort, and was living in Santa Monica on 19^th St. just off Santa Monica Blvd. in a duplex with 4 other ex-softballers whom I had convinced WE had to do something for the war — and especially since my Mom and my Aunt Mae would not let me join the Navy so I could get myself decked out in one of those adorable uniforms — and we were sweating away working at Douglas Aircraft — Mom would add something to her quarter weekly bill and give me another helpful item.  One time it was a cooking pot with lid and a separate steamer basket.  Now I would say that was a very sturdy pot.  It is in my cupboard …  as I type this, this very minute at my usual 80 WPM.

***

     In order to understand about the 80 words per minute you will have to find all about this in my Memoir titled “World War II Years.”

***

     Another great, useful gift from Mom was of all things, a make-up type mirror which has regular mirror on one side, and the flip side is the magnifying side.  Now one thing is certain:  I could NEVER let that get

busted.  Just think of the double whammy of all those years of bad luck.

I use that thing every day  –  to this very day.  I think Mom was trying to tell me something — “spruce yourself up with a little make-up.”  You know, in those old days I can remember the powder puffs and rouge, but I just never really got into all that.  Just not my cup of tea.  Oh, oh, there’s that Jewel Tea guy sneaking in for one last mention even though they haven’t been around since 1981.  It’s just as well — Mom went to Heaven in 1973 — so

that meant his business must have been slipping,  and he was ready to retire, anyway.

     You know, I have forgotten about how my Dad passed away in 1943, and so Mom took over the finances, and had her own little check book for thirty years.  Now that puts me in a quandary as to how she paid Mr. Jewel Tea.  Did she still make him wait for all those quarters out of habit — or did she just sit down and with a great flourish, write him a check for the full amount? —  In her most beautiful penmanship, I might add.

     I will never know how many quarters she was paying all those years, but there is always a warm feeling when I think about it.  And wouldn’t you know,  my ancient brain department has just now remembered that the Corning Ware stuff in my cupboard was another gift from Mom.

     Another gift she gave:  All the love.

Completed:  June 16, 2011                                    Melitas Forster

I bet she was a cute kid!

“The Meanest Mother”      I had the meanest mother in the whole world.  While other kids ate candy for breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs or toast. When others had cokes and candy for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich.  As you can guess, my supper was different than the other kids’ also.      But at least, I wasn’t alone in my sufferings.  My sister and two brothers had the same mean mother as I did. My mother insisted upon knowing where we were at all times. You’d think we were on a chain gang.  She had to know who our friends were and where we were going.  She insisted if we said we’d be gone an hour, that we be gone one hour or less–not one hour and one minute. I am nearly ashamed to admit it, but she actually struck us.  Not once, but each time we had a mind of our own and did as we pleased.  That poor belt was used more on our seats than it was to hold up Daddy’s pants.  Can you imagine someone actualy hitting a child just because he disobeyed?  Now you can begin to see how mean she really was.    We had to wear clean clothes and take a bath.  The other kids always wore their clothes for days.  We reached the height of insults because she made our clothes herself, just to save money.  Why, oh why, did we have to have a mother who made us feel different from our friends?     The worst is yet to come.  We had to be in bed by nine each night and up at eight the next morning.  We couldn’t sleep till noon like our friends.  So while they slept-my mother actually had the nerve to break the child-labor law.  She made us work.  We had to wash dishes, make beds, learn to cook and all sorts of cruel things.  I believe she laid awake at night thinking up mean things to do to us.      She always insisted upon us telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if it killed us- and it nearly did.      By the time we were teen-agers, she was  much wiser, and our life became even more unbearable.  None of this tooting the horn of a car for us to come running.  She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates and friends come to the door to get us.  If I spent the night with a girlfriend, can you imagine she checked on me to see if I were really there.  I never had the chance to elope to Mexico.  That is if I’d had a boyfriend to elope with. I forgot to mention, while my friends were dating at the mature age of 12 and 13, my old fashioned mother refused to let me date until the age of 15 and 16.  Fifteen, that is, if you dated only to go to a school function.  And that was maybe twice a year.
Through the years, things didn’t improve a bit.  We could not lie in bed, “sick” like our friends did, and miss school.  If our friends had a toe ache, a hang nail or serious ailment, they could stay home from school.  Our marks in school had to be up to par.  Our friends’ report cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for failing.  My mother being as different as she was, would settle for nothing less than ugly black marks.       As the years rolled by, first one and then the other of us was put to shame.  We were graduated from high school.   With our mother behind us, talking, hitting and demanding respect, none of us was allowed the pleasure of being a drop-out.      My mother was a complete failure as a mother.  Out of four children, a couple of us attained some higher education.  None of us have ever been arrested, divorced or beaten his mate.   Each of my brothers served his time in the service of this country.  And whom do we have to blame for the terrible way we turned out?  You’re right, our mean mother.  Look at the things we missed.  We never got to march in a protest parade,  nor to take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a million and one other things that our friends did. She forced us to grow up into God-fearing, educated, honest adults.       Using this as a background, I am trying to raise my three children.  I stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my children call me mean.       Because, you see, I thank God, He gave me the meanest   mother in the whole world. written by Bobbie Pingaro (1967)

A SHORT STORY                                                                                        MAY 7, 2012

JoAnn Yett is a friend of mine from golf at Indian Springs.  At her behest, I wrote and gave a “little talk” at her Sam’s Club Samboree gathering which was held at the Antelope Valley Fairgrounds up in Lancaster.  She has been the head honcho of this group for awhile.  It was February 8, 2011 The “little talk” was about the Forster Family in Early California , then on to some of my personal life to the present day.  I had the audience mesmerized — it could’ve been they were simply asleep — since I droned on for about an hour.

Next morning, as we checked out trying to make a quick getaway because it was colder than a bygone with the north wind blowing a gale and struggling to get into the car, I noticed a young man walking towards us from his car.  He wanted to know if he had heard right at the checkout desk when I said “Forster” checking out because that was his last name also.  He was Daniel Forster, so we jabbered back and forth about where we were from — he was from back east somewhere, and it didn’t  register in my brain although I was only 92 + 10 months at that time.  Or maybe the wind blew it in one ear and out the other.  Or maybe the batteries were dead in my ear plugs.  I gave him two of my cards:  one has the picture of me at 5 years old, the other with me at 90 years old with address, email information.  Then off we drove south towards home and warmer climes.

Now fast forward to May 4, 2012, and I am looking through my email, and there is one from “grandma.”  I know a gobs of grandmas, so opened it, and after a cursory look, I thought “oh, oh, this could be one of those emails where some fake relative wants me to send money immediately.”  However, as I backed up and really concentrated on what was there, it wasn’t that at all.

Grandma’s name is Mary Forster Reber, telling me how her brother, Robert Forster, was telling her about his son, Daniel Forster, running into me and giving him 2 cards, and he had only recently given them to her, and she couldn’t  wait to contact me to see if we might be related.  Her family has been hanging aroundAlbany,Minnesotafor years.  And my family has been hunkering aroundMexicoandSouthern Californiafor over 4 centuries.

Here’s something else to add to this tale of relatives(?)  My older sis, Emery, had a daughter named Claire, and she married a guy by the name of Paul Reber.  Now Mary Forster Reber’s husband can get into the act.  I don’t know where Paul was from.  He kinda acted like a guy might act fromMinnesota. But what do I know? — I don’t even know a guy fromMinnesota.

I’m going to send Mary a copy of my “little talk,” and she can read it as she goes to bed, and she will absolutely have the best sleep of her whole life.

THE END

Noticing Synchronicity Interconnected Experiences

Many times in writing we look back upon our childhoods and examine pictures.  We look at and wonder what we were thinking and who we have become.

What are those things that have made you who you are?  It is something to look at and examine and write about our beginnings.

Grab some pictures and write what you see and what you remember!

 One of my students this year is Diane Gore, otherwise known as DD.  If you have attended a class with her you know you are in for a treat.  She says some of the funniest things.

Several weeks ago DD invited me to the home of her sister and brother-in-law, the former Governor of Alaska.  I was served fresh Alaskan Salmon that was caught by them!  I have to say that I have never tasted a more delicious piece of fish!

A few weeks after that wonderful dinner I was invited to attend dinner at the annual GG Weekend.  The GG weekend stands for Gore Girls and these are the nieces of DD.  Every year they trek to Palm Springs from all the different parts of the world in which they reside.

Since DD has been loving her memoir classes she wanted me to meet her family.  I was thrilled to meet each of them and we had a wonderful dinner at Cafe Italia.

All of the Gore girls were amazing, one of the Gore girls represents the state of Alaska as their state senator, Lisa Murkowski.

The GG Weekend represents family with lots of laughter and fun.  I now know why they all guard this weekend and look forward to it each year.  To connect with family is something unique to each of us.

 I have just returned from an amazing trip to Miami, Florida.

I have never really been around Cuban Americans before and I was introduced to a whole new group of friends by my traveling companion.

I was able to run 3 of the days of my trip, clocking in 0ver 25 miles in those 3 days.  I was introduced to cafe con leche and was taught how to dunk your toast in it, cuban toast of course.

The most beautiful part of my trip was being a part of the cuban culture.  My new group of friends are warm and amazing.  They welcomed me with open arms.  Even though I didn’t always understand all of the conversations (since they go back and forth from spanish to english so quickly that my ears were numb)…but the beauty of a smile and a kiss and a hug is universal for everybody.

I was touched by the stories I heard from how they came to America.  Each was different but my heart ached as I learned of their plight.

I am changed forever by the beauty of these amazing friends…I can’t wait to visit them all again! 

I’M B-A-A-A-A-K!                                                             APRIL  30, 2012                                           

Okay, awright, awready!!!  I was on a sabbatical, of sorts — not of my  choosing by any means, and I will make a disclosure as to what was going on … whether you want to hear the gory details, or not.

Three weeks ago, I awoke with a terrible OUCH pain in my right knee, so off the Warden drags me to the ER, only to be told after an ultrasound that I had a Baker’s Cyst in back of my right knee — and I couldn’t remember when the last time was that I had spent any time in the kitchen baking.  A week later, the dumb thing ruptured and it oozed down into my leg where it disguised my leg as a great big huge balloon.  I could’ve printed “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” on it, then stick the leg up in the air — it was supposed to be kept elevated anyway.  Anyone stopping by would’ve wondered who sent me that?

So it wasn’t the Gout as one Doctor (?) kept telling me, and still maintaining it was last week.  My very own wonderful Doctor kept maintaining it was NOT the Gout.  We went along with her thoughts since I didn’t have any painful big toe, or any other joints, and I’m going along taking a wonderful antibiotic — and you know what that means.  No Tequila for me.  Oh, dear!  What will my body do?  It’s been going along quite well, thank you.  No Tequila since the 9^th, when that Doctor (?) said it was definitely the Gout.

My favorite Forster family of all the Forster families inSan Juan Capistrano— they pay lots more attention to me, and I have them snowed into thinking I am very wise.  (If they only knew!)  My brothers offspring — Niece-in-law  Anita (widow of dear, dear Mickey) and her brood:  Michael, Michele with grandson Josh, daughter-in-law Kathy whose hubby, Robby, had to slave away and couldn’t make it, then Roberta who is probably Chief Organizer of the entire bunch..  All this gang surprised me on Sunday, the day before my birthday.  So there was not one person, not even the Warden, who thought I shouldn’t have my usual Tequila on the rocks in salted glass, and lemon squeeze (the Mexican lime tree is busy making some new limes for me, not quite ready, but the lemon tree is filled to overflowing, thank goodness.) I was so happy to have them arrive, and they brought me gifts, and the real fun one is a tee shirt which says: “Out of Tequila.  Life is crap.”

It’s been quite stressful around here.  “It’s 5 o’clock inPhoenix” has been forgotten.  The 5 o’clock clock is not in sight.  The Warden is taking all this to-do very serious.

Now I want to tell you what I had planned for the past 3 week ends here in theCoachellaValley.  Every year there is the Coachella Valley Music Festival, and this year they devoted 2 weekends for it, then after that there is the Stagecoach Music.  They are presented at the huge Empire Polo Grounds.  Hordes of music(?) lovers show up, maybe 95,000.  These so-called concerts bring folks from everywhere.

One day while standing in front of the mirror, rubbing wrinkle cream on — this particular wrinkle cream does not take away the wrinkles, it just adds more —I decided that I show a resemblance to Willie Nelson, so I tied a bandana around my wispy, barely-there head of hair, and found a very small guitar to finish off the “Willie Nelson” look. Then the Warden clicked a picture of me in my W. N. disguise.  Do you see the resemblance in the accompanying picture?

I was going to amble over to the Polo Grounds where the 3 up-coming concerts are heard, very deafenly (I know that is not a word, but it works for me.)  I would leave the hearing aids at home.  They would let me in at the Performer’s Gate, thinking I was ol’ Willie himself.  I shouldn’t call him “ol’ Willie,” he’s probably at least 20 years younger, but then he IS ‘ol to all the younger set.  So there I would be wending my way through the mob of music (?) lovers.  They would be clamoring  for my autograph.  They would ask about the teeny weeny  guitar, and I would say “ All the easier to get through the madding crowd so everyone had a chance to even just get a glimpse of me.”

All my plans went bye-bye when the fat leg arrived on the scene.  I couldn’t walk, and if they saw me  with Traveller — the wheels that get me around — they would know I was just a fake Willie.

THANKS to all of you who missed my stories, and were concerned about my well-being.  I love you all,  Melitas

A message from Tammy Coia:

I know, I know, you don’t really want to hear from me today…unfortunately Melitas is still on the mend and I gave her another week to rest up.

Today Melitas turns 94, I will be seeing her later and will post a picture in tomorrows blog!

Please leave your birthday comments for Melitas here on the blog…I know she will be checking them and I look forward to hearing what she wants to share with us next week!