Ink Spots Archives - Scott MacDonald https://authorscottmacdonald.com/category/ink-spots/ Author, Businessman and Philanthropist Thu, 22 Jun 2023 15:55:59 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://authorscottmacdonald.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/macdonald-logo@3x_opt.png Ink Spots Archives - Scott MacDonald https://authorscottmacdonald.com/category/ink-spots/ 32 32 122331118 A resurrected column from decades ago https://authorscottmacdonald.com/ink-spots/a-resurrected-column-from-decades-ago/ Thu, 22 Jun 2023 15:55:59 +0000 https://authorscottmacdonald.com/?p=887 By Molly MacDonald When you read this, I will have been traveling again. Not by plane this time but by motor car. Don’t you love the term “motor car?” It’s almost as lovely as “roadster.”  Nancy Drew drove a roadster while wearing a silk frock. I fully intend to motor somewhere in a roadster wearing […]

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]]> By Molly MacDonald

When you read this, I will have been traveling again. Not by plane this time but by motor car. Don’t you love the term “motor car?” It’s almost as lovely as “roadster.”  Nancy Drew drove a roadster while wearing a silk frock. I fully intend to motor somewhere in a roadster wearing a silk frock someday. This non-roadster trip, however, is to Minneapolis to spend a few days with oldest daughter, Heather, and family, to attend grandson Connor’s high school graduation. The trouble is, I will get home a few days past the deadline for this column. Thus, I am cheating a bit and resurrecting a column from a few years ago. Here goes:
Inkspots, February 20, 1985
   Attics are wondrous things. The big, rambling, across-the-whole-top-of-the-house attic. You know, the kind in grandmother’s house.
In my growing-up years, I was blessed with two grandmothers who had houses with huge attics. My grandmother Sullivan, Nana to my sister and me, lived next door in the big gray house her parents built. Our children’s grandmother lives there now, so they, too, know the joys of playing in their grandmother’s attic. The old steamer trunks are still there, filled with feathered hats, crinkly taffeta skirts and blouses with leg-o-mutton sleeves. My sister and I delighted in bringing our friends up there to dress up in the ancient finery.
  Nana’s attic was also the site of our family detective agency. My sister Sheila and her pal Alice started it. They had signs posted all over the attic saying, “Holmes and Watson, private detectives, KEEP OUT.” The last part was aimed at me and my friend Marilyn. We were four years younger and inclined to be pests. Of course, the signs and accompanying verbal threats just spurred us on to do our very best to be as disruptive as possible. I think we managed quite well.
  When Sheila and Alice graduated to curling and combing each other’s hair and giggling about boys, Marilyn and I took over the detective business. We used to sneak around the neighborhood and eavesdrop on enemy conversations, then hustle back to the attic to record the evidence. Occasionally, we would first wrap our notes in wax paper, and bury them under the bushes by the alley. I’m not sure just why, but it seemed the logical thing to do at the time. We were always sure that the whole world was dying to capture our notes, so elaborate precautions were necessary.
  My other grandmother, Mollie Kelly, lived in Emmetsburg, also in a big gray house with a nifty attic. My cousin, Margaret Ann, and I loved to play up there, mainly because of the forbidden tank. The forbidden tank was the winter home of a number of huge goldfish that spent the summer months in a rock pool in the garden.
  The fish tank had four-feet high sides and covered most of the attic corner near the stairs. Whenever Margaret Ann and I headed toward the attic, Grandmother, or one of our mothers or uncles would caution, don’t go near the tank. We’d nod, solemnly, then beat a path to the fish tank as fast as we could, hanging over the sides with wicked delight.
  Just a few years ago, Grandmother Kelly‘s house was sold. Margaret Ann and I were elected to sort through all the things stored in the attic. By this time, we both had become grown-ups, a fate that seemed impossibly far away in our beat-you-to-the-forbidden-tank days.
  Funny thing was, when we settled in to clean out the attic, all of a sudden we were nine years old again. The forbidden tank had long since disappeared, but the delicious feeling of stolen time, a banding together against the world of adults, all came back.
  Our children would have been amazed to see how silly their mothers could be. Someday, though, they’ll understand: the secret knowledge we always thought grown-ups possessed doesn’t come magically at a certain age. The secret is that we all have a touch of Peter Pan in us. We don’t ever really “put away childish things,” we just hide them inside of us.
  And that’s the best part of having a grandmother’s attic as part of one’s childhood. The memories of youthful, let’s-pretend days are bound up with the memories of past generations.
  We need only to climb a couple of flights of stairs to recapture that which wasn’t lost at all, merely hiding.

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]]> 887 Another glitch-less flight and the reason thereof https://authorscottmacdonald.com/ink-spots/another-glitch-less-flight-and-the-reason-thereof/ Thu, 22 Jun 2023 15:53:05 +0000 https://authorscottmacdonald.com/?p=885 By Molly MacDonald And once again, I have returned from a trip to Los Angeles with no misadventures to write about. In my last column, you may recall, I told of flying to California for grandson Dylan’s First Communion with nary a glitch to moan about. Previous trips have included dealing with losing my wallet […]

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]]> By Molly MacDonald

And once again, I have returned from a trip to Los Angeles with no misadventures to write about. In my last column, you may recall, I told of flying to California for grandson Dylan’s First Communion with nary a glitch to moan about. Previous trips have included dealing with losing my wallet and thus flying with no identification (that happened twice, resulting in my becoming Best Friends Forever with a raft of TSA agents); missing my flight because I was engrossed in the New York Times crossword puzzle and didn’t hear the boarding call; leaving my carry-on bag in the airport gift shop; having another suitcase disappear in the LAX terminal for an hour and being unable to call anyone to report my whereabouts because my cell phone chose that moment to become deceased. There were other mishaps which I have mercifully blocked from my memory.
   Last week’s trip was for newest grandson Vincent’s baptism. I think I see a pattern here: if the trip is for a religious occasion, I fly glitch-free. Now all I have to do is come up with some church-related ceremony every time I fly somewhere and apparently my guardian angel will kick into full protective mode and smooth the way for me. There are no more California trips on the immediate horizon, so I’ll have time to think up something spiritual to attach to my next foray into the friendly skies. It will have to be a real deal because I don’t think fooling one’s guardian angel is an acceptable activity.
   The hardest part of going away for a few days is leaving Seamus, my German Shepherd companion. Three years ago, at age seven, he was abandoned in Texas, shipped to a shelter in Clear Lake and from there, came to live with me. He really loves me and has been my constant shadow ever since, clinging to me like velcro. I guess that’s a bit redundant, since shadows necessarily cling without the help of velcro.
  Whatever.
  Be assured, he’s well taken care of while I’m gone, but nevertheless, he is always hurt and grieved when I reclaim him, letting me know my absence is unacceptable. It takes a full day and lots of treats and walks for me to get back in his good graces.
   The stray cats that I feed – namely Christopher Robin, Fiona, The Phantom and Goldilocks –  also miss me a lot. Okay, I realize it’s not me they miss so much as the meals I put out for them. Christopher Robin is the only one who makes himself known, camping on the porch until I bring out the food and demanding a second and third helping. The other three are much more skittish and flee if they catch sight of me.
   I ran out of cat food the other day, it was too late to go to the store, so I chopped up some slices of Spam for them. I know, everyone makes fun of Spam, but I like it, especially when I take the time to sauté it. I didn’t sauté it for the cats and, consequently, they all turned up their noses at it, nibbling on only a few pieces and then heading out for more sophisticated fare.
  Sigh.
  Good thing my feelings aren’t easily hurt.

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]]> 885 Another flight, but this time no glitches https://authorscottmacdonald.com/ink-spots/another-flight-but-this-time-no-glitches/ Thu, 22 Jun 2023 15:50:30 +0000 https://authorscottmacdonald.com/?p=883 By Molly MacDonald   In my column two weeks ago, in case you missed it, I wrote that I was suffering (albeit bravely) with the flu. I have since recovered, so you needn’t send flowers. Unless, of course, you want to.     Upon my recovery, I managed to wing my way to Los Angeles […]

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]]> By Molly MacDonald

  In my column two weeks ago, in case you missed it, I wrote that I was suffering (albeit bravely) with the flu. I have since recovered, so you needn’t send flowers. Unless, of course, you want to.
    Upon my recovery, I managed to wing my way to Los Angeles once again, this time to attend grandson Dylan’s First Communion. And also to spend time with granddaughter Molly and newest grandbaby, Vincent. And, of course, their assorted parents. It was a wonderful trip with absolutely no glitches. Imagine! The only downside of that is, my numerous misadventures when traveling have provided me with fodder for Inkspots. Coming up with topics every two weeks can be a challenge, so even while I was muddling through lost wallets, missed flights, errant baggage and a deceased cell phone, I comforted myself with the thought that at least I’d have something to write about if I ever managed to get home.
   Not so this time. Everything went off like clockwork. I wonder where that expression, “like clockwork” came from? Do clocks work better than anything else? In this computer age, are they still the epitome of smooth sailing? Okay, that’s a bit of a mixed metaphor, but you get what I’m trying to say, right? And now I have an annoying picture in my head of our grandfather clock sailing smoothly across the ocean to Germany, where it came from. I doubt that that will really happen, since the clock has pretty much grown roots in our living room. My sister bought it at a flea market when she lived in Germany in the 1960s. It accompanied her home and has lived here ever since.
   Now I’m wondering where the expression “flea market” came from. It isn’t exactly a glamorous image, and I hate to think the grandfather clock has fleas. Or any other kind of bug. I’m not a fan of bugs. At all. I’ve been known to shriek hysterically at the sight of any insect larger than a gnat. I don’t suppose anyone is crazy about bugs, so we all have that in common, right? Although I don’t suppose everyone shrieks hysterically at the sight of them. Only a chosen few.
   While on the subject of where expressions come from, I wonder where “sick as a dog” came from. When I had the flu, Seamus, my wonderful German Shepherd mix, was perfectly fine. Not sick at all. He also wasn’t much help, as I wrote then. He was only interested in a.) when he would get his next treat, and b.) when he would get his next walk in the cemetery. Riverview Cemetery is our dog park. I can’t take him to the nice dog park in town because he doesn’t like other dogs. So we walk in the cemetery where my Cordingley ancestors reside. Seamus has no problem with deceased ancestors as long as they aren’t accompanied by un-deceased dogs.
   I think I should wrap up this column now in the hope that whoever is reading it hasn’t fallen asleep.
   I’ll include here a picture of Vincent as he greeted me each morning when I gave him his bottle. I think Happy is his middle name.
IMG_4504.jpeg

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]]> 883 Having the flu is not much fun https://authorscottmacdonald.com/ink-spots/having-the-flu-is-not-much-fun/ Thu, 22 Jun 2023 15:46:38 +0000 https://authorscottmacdonald.com/?p=881 By Molly MacDonald   I have arisen from my sickbed to write this. I have the flu, it is no fun, but I’m being very brave. I did a Covid test, but it was negative, thank heavens. Presumably, by the time you read this, I will be back to my usual bouncy self. If I’m not, […]

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]]>

By Molly MacDonald

  I have arisen from my sickbed to write this. I have the flu, it is no fun, but I’m being very brave. I did a Covid test, but it was negative, thank heavens.

Presumably, by the time you read this, I will be back to my usual bouncy self. If I’m not, you’re going to hear a lot of whining. Seamus‘s contribution to helping me is to stare soulfully at me with his big brown eyes, as if to say, “When are you going to take me for my walk?”

I have tried to explain to him that I feel crummy, and probably on my deathbed, and walking him is the last thing on my mind at the moment. He doesn’t seem to get it.

A few days ago, when we had thunder all night, I stayed up with him the whole night, picking up the pieces when he knocked over the little nightstand by my bed, trying to crawl under it to hide from the thunder. The lamp, phone, and alarm clock went flying in all different directions, and the table crashed to the ground with a resounding thud. Not a fun night.

I bring that up so you can understand why his lack of compassion for my being sick is a little annoying. However, I have forgiven him. Sort of.

This isn’t as bad as just a few years ago when we were a family of seven and all of us came down with the flu at Christmas. I’ve written about this before, but you’ll have to bear with me, because it’s very hard to be original when you feel as awful as I do.

That Christmas, my sister came from Vermont and was staying at our Mother’s. Sheila brought over some home-made chicken soup to make us feel better. I had Wade, who was about four, call her to thank her for the soup. “You’re very welcome, Wade – did you like it?”

“No.”

She should’ve quit while she was ahead.

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]]> 881 The Return of Christopher Robbins https://authorscottmacdonald.com/ink-spots/the-return-of-christopher-robbins/ Thu, 22 Jun 2023 15:42:35 +0000 https://authorscottmacdonald.com/?p=879 By: Molly MacDonald For those of you who read my last column, you’ll remember I sadly announced that Christopher Robin, my beloved stray cat whom I have been feeding for several years, had disappeared. Well – huzzah – I am sad no more. The day after I sent that column to the paper, who should […]

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]]>

By: Molly MacDonald

For those of you who read my last column, you’ll remember I sadly announced that Christopher Robin, my beloved stray cat whom I have been feeding for several years, had disappeared. Well – huzzah – I am sad no more. The day after I sent that column to the paper, who should appear on the porch expecting his usual repast but Christopher Robin. He had been AWOL for almost two months, and although I had never given up hope, I was trying to reconcile myself to the possibility of never seeing him again.

He was none the worse for wear, so obviously he had found food elsewhere. He hasn’t told me where he was, but now he presents himself three times a day for a meal. In between his visits, the other three cats I mentioned before – Fiona, Goldilocks and The Phantom, have continued to show up and help themselves either to Christopher Robin’s left-overs or to a bowl of fresh food that I put out because I don’t want them to go hungry. I think I’ll buy some stock in the company that makes the cat food I get – I’m probably boosting their profits enormously.

For beggars, all four of them are pretty picky. They all carefully eat around the dry kibble and eat only the canned food. Even when I mix the dry stuff in with the canned, they manage to avoid the kibble while cleaning up on the canned food. Reminds me of how, as a kid, I would carefully pick out the raisins in all cookies, muffins and any other concoction which they had pushed their way into. Okay, in the interests of truth in journalism, I didn’t do that only as a kid – I just try to be more subtle about it now that I’m a grown-up.

While I was spending much of my time feeding the cats, my sister Sheila was spending her time feeding me. She came from her Vermont home for a visit over Easter and immediately donned an apron and created some delicious concoctions for our dining pleasure. Okay, again in the interests of truth in journalism, I didn’t have any aprons for her to wear but I had an old sweatshirt that protected her blouses.

I wonder if very many people still wear aprons. My mother and both my grandmothers never set foot in their kitchens without one. When I couldn’t think of a birthday or Christmas gift for Mother, I’d always get her an apron. I guess I didn’t have much of an imagination.

I never have had an apron. Of course, some would say that’s because I never cook, but that’s just mean. I do cook. Sometimes. Even when I was preparing meals for the seven in our family, I never had an apron. Maybe that’s why I have never been a very good cook. Maybe there’s some magic in aprons that turns so-so cooks into master chefs. I suppose I could buy myself an apron and see what happens. If aprons are even sold anymore. They probably aren’t.

Let’s go with that.

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]]> 879 On the Arrival of Vincent, his Nana’s newest grandchild https://authorscottmacdonald.com/ink-spots/on-the-arrival-of-vincent-his-nanas-newest-grandchild/ Mon, 06 Feb 2023 17:00:14 +0000 https://authorscottmacdonald.com/?p=813 By Molly MacDonald     Wade, the baby of our family, has had a baby! Okay, technically his wife, Jackie, gave birth to the baby, but  being technical was never my long suit. They have named him Vincent, a lovely name he shares with the Green Bay Packers sainted coach, Vince Lombardi. Since Wade is […]

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]]> By Molly MacDonald

    Wade, the baby of our family, has had a baby! Okay, technically his wife, Jackie, gave birth to the baby, but  being technical was never my long suit. They have named him Vincent, a lovely name he shares with the Green Bay Packers sainted coach, Vince Lombardi. Since Wade is an avid Chicago Bears fan, a love he inherited from his dad, I don’t think that’s why they picked the name. Of course, there is St. Vincent de Paul, who is, I think, the patron saint of used furniture. There also was a Vincent who was a cousin of my mother’s – Vincent Kelly. His son, Father Jerry Kelly, married Bing and me. Vincent Kelly’s dubious claim to fame was he drove like he was competing in the Indianapolis 500 and no one in the family wanted to ride with him.

   As the time for baby Vincent’s arrival drew near, Wade was peppered with questions, concerns and advice on our family text thread from his four sisters. As the baby’s due date of January 7 came and went with no sign of Vincent, the question, “Has the baby come yet?” became almost a mantra. Wade was a good sport and kept all of us in the loop. I was reminded of when Bing and I awaited the birth of our first child, Heather. She was due in August, but didn’t bother to show up until September 20. Bing walked to work every day from our little rental house and every day our neighbor, Chloe, rushed out on her porch and called as he walked by, “Has the baby come yet?” Finally, Bing changed his route!

   Wade is used to having his sisters ask questions and give him advice – he once complained mildly to my mother, “Gran, I have five mothers!”

   Vincent finally made his appearance on January 13, a few days shy of Martin Luther King Day. Which I bring up so I can slip in one of my favorite memories of Wade as a little boy. He came home from first grade with a drawing he’d made in class of Dr. King. He explained to his father and me that, “Arthur Luther King had a dream and his dream was that everyone in the whole world could use the same bathroom.”

   Since the proud parents live in far-off California, I have only met Vincent on FaceTime. Thank God for FaceTime! I greeted him when he was only hours old and, when he heard his Nana’s voice, he smiled! Honest!

   I’ll meet him in person before too long. In the meantime, Wade asked me to send him all the words to “Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” one of the many bedtime songs I happily regaled our children with. Never mind that the song is all about Aunt Rhody’s dead goose – “Go tell Aunt Rhody the old grey goose is dead … she died in the mill pond because she wasn’t fed.” All the verses are equally mournful, but they were great for putting babies to sleep.

   In case all of you, or some of you, or even one of you wonder what young Vincent looks like, I’ll oblige by including a picture of him here, since you’ve twisted my arm.

   Cute, isn’t he?

Inkspots by Molly MacDonald: On the Arrival of Vincent, his Nana’s Newest Grandchild via @ScottMacNotes #baby #grandchild #family

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]]> 813 Inkspots by Molly MacDonald: On the Arrival of Vincent, his Nana’s Newest Grandchild https://authorscottmacdonald.com/ink-spots/inkspots-by-molly-macdonald-on-the-arrival-of-vincent-his-nanas-newest-grandchild/ Fri, 27 Jan 2023 18:47:41 +0000 https://authorscottmacdonald.com/?p=802 Wade, the Baby of our Family, has had a Baby! Okay, technically, his wife, Jackie, gave birth to the baby, but being technical was never my long suit. They have named him Vincent, a lovely name he shares with the Green Bay Packers’ sainted coach, Vince Lombardi. Since Wade is an avid Chicago Bears fan, […]

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]]>

Wade, the Baby of our Family, has had a Baby!

Okay, technically, his wife, Jackie, gave birth to the baby, but being technical was never my long suit. They have named him Vincent, a lovely name he shares with the Green Bay Packers’ sainted coach, Vince Lombardi. Since Wade is an avid Chicago Bears fan, a love he inherited from his dad, I don’t think that’s why they picked the name.

Of course, there is St. Vincent de Paul, who is, I think, the patron saint of used furniture. There also was a Vincent who was a cousin of my mother’s – Vincent Kelly. His son, Father Jerry Kelly, married Bing and me. Vincent Kelly’s dubious claim to fame was he drove like he was competing in the Indianapolis 500, and no one in the family wanted to ride with him.

As the time for baby Vincent’s arrival drew near, Wade was peppered with questions, concerns, and advice on our family text thread from his four sisters.
As the baby’s due date of January 7 came and went with no sign of Vincent, the question, “Has the baby come yet?” became almost a mantra.
Wade was a good sport and kept all of us in the loop. I was reminded of when Bing and I awaited the birth of our first child, Heather. She was due in August but didn’t bother to show up until September 20. Bing walked to work every day from our little rental house, and every day our neighbor, Chloe, rushed out on her porch and called as he walked by, “Has the baby come yet?” Finally, Bing changed his route!
Wade is used to having his sisters ask questions and give him advice – he once complained mildly to my mother, “Gran, I have five mothers!”

He’s Here! The Newest Grandchild

Vincent finally made his appearance on January 13, a few days shy of Martin Luther King Day. Which I bring up so I can slip in one of my favorite memories of Wade as a little boy. He came home from first grade with a drawing he’d made in class of Dr. King. He explained to his father and me that, “Arthur Luther King had a dream, and his dream was that everyone in the whole world could use the same bathroom.”

Since the proud parents live in far-off California, I have only met Vincent on FaceTime. Thank God for FaceTime! I greeted him when he was only hours old and when he heard his Nana’s voice, he smiled! Honest!

I’ll meet him in person before too long. In the meantime, Wade asked me to send him all the words to “Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” one of the many bedtime songs I happily regaled our children with. Never mind that the song is all about Aunt Rhody’s dead goose – “Go tell Aunt Rhody the old grey goose is dead … she died in the mill pond because she wasn’t fed.” All the verses are equally mournful, but they were great for putting babies to sleep.

In case all of you, or some of you, or even one of you wonder what young grandchild Vincent looks like, I’ll oblige by including a picture of him here, since you’ve twisted my arm.

Cute, isn’t he?

Inkspots by Molly MacDonald: On the Arrival of Vincent, his Nana’s Newest Grandchild via @ScottMacNotes #baby #grandchild #family

Our newest grandchild, Vincent!

***
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Purchase Scott’s latest release, Legacy: An Ancestral Journey Through American History, now wherever fine books are sold.
Legacy by Scott MacDonald available now everywhere fine books are sold #genealogy

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]]> 802 Why I Put My Christmas Tree up a Month Ago https://authorscottmacdonald.com/ink-spots/why-i-put-my-christmas-tree-up-a-month-ago/ Sat, 10 Dec 2022 19:14:08 +0000 https://authorscottmacdonald.com/?p=779   Our Christmas tree angel is a little tipsy. I’ll include a picture here so you know I speak the truth. It may be that she’s just tired of being on her perch for so long. Since Nov. 6, to be exact.   I suppose some people think that it’s way too early to decorate […]

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]]>  

Our Christmas tree angel is a little tipsy. I’ll include a picture here so you know I speak the truth. It may be that she’s just tired of being on her perch for so long. Since Nov. 6, to be exact.
 
I suppose some people think that it’s way too early to decorate for Christmas, but I have an excuse. We have for years celebrated “Thankmas,” combining Thanksgiving and Christmas for our midwest offspring, since Bing and I, and now just I, go to California to celebrate Christmas with our youngest grandchildren. Now I realize Nov. 6 is still about three weeks ahead of Thanksgiving, and purists might frown at seeing Christmas lights twinkling when there’s hardly been time to put away their Halloween costumes.
 
I’ve never been very fond of purists, no matter what traditions they espouse. I always feel a little intimidated when told I’m doing something that isn’t quite right. As in, “Well, you know, dear, one never wears white slacks after Labor Day.” I make a point of wearing white slacks after Labor Day, just to spite them.
 
I managed to put together a fine Thanksgiving dinner, in case you were wondering. I know you probably expected to hear of a culinary disaster or two, since I am prone to them, but nothing went awry. The turkey was perfectly done, the gravy delicious, the stuffing and potatoes, and the rest of the meal were quite edible. Okay, the potatoes were a little runny. More like potato soup, really, but there’s nothing wrong with potato soup, right? Anyway, the dinner was a far cry from the first Thanksgiving meal I ever made. 
 
Bing and I were newlyweds and living in Kansas City. We invited two other couples to celebrate with us. Someone at work told me the best way to cook a turkey was in a sack. So that’s what I did. It came out horribly pale, steamed instead of roasted, the resulting gravy was like lard and just sat unmoving in the gravy boat. Bing said he’d watched his mother make stuffing lots of times, so he chopped up dried slices of bread with great abandon.
I cut the roof of my mouth trying to chew his dressing, and after one bite, everyone else pretended they couldn’t possibly eat any more, they were so full.
 Why I Put My Christmas Tree up a Month Ago by Molly MacDonald via @scottmacnotes #christmas #tree #holidays
It was not our finest moment.
 
Meanwhile, I’m praying our Christmas tree angel won’t continue to tilt to the point that she topples to the floor. I had to climb on a step ladder to put her up there, and I don’t care to do that more than once a season. The ladder is a little unsteady, but don’t tell our children that. They get upset at the littlest things.
 
I hope you all had a lovely Thanksgiving. I trust your turkey wasn’t steamed and your dressing didn’t break your teeth off.
 
Who could ask for anything more?
***

Connect with Scott on social media here: Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, YouTube

Purchase Scott’s latest release, Legacy: An Ancestral Journey Through American History, now wherever fine books are sold.

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]]> 779 Of My Late-to-the-Party Shopping Adventure https://authorscottmacdonald.com/ink-spots/of-my-late-to-the-party-shopping-adventure/ Wed, 07 Sep 2022 20:42:53 +0000 https://authorscottmacdonald.com/?p=747 Do you love shopping? I do not. Shopping is not one of my favorite things. Our children would say, somewhat bitterly, that I hate to shop – and they would be right. The reason they are somewhat bitter goes back to their childhood, which they would have you believe was horribly deprived. Because their mother […]

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]]> Do you love shopping? I do not.

Shopping is not one of my favorite things. Our children would say, somewhat bitterly, that I hate to shop – and they would be right. The reason they are somewhat bitter goes back to their childhood, which they would have you believe was horribly deprived. Because their mother hated to shop.

As in, “All our friends, when their mothers take them to the orthodontist, get to spend the rest of the day shopping.” Our children got to spend the rest of the day motoring back home and probably finishing out the afternoon in school.

Wouldn’t you think they’d be over that by now? However, occasionally, one of them brings it up on our family thread, and the rest immediately chimes in, “Yeah, one time my friend Annie’s mom bought her a whole outfit when they were in Fort Dodge after seeing the orthodontist.” “Yeah, my friend Kathleen’s mom bought her a cool jacket.” “And my friend Lisa’s mom bought her some really neat dress-up shoes.”

And so it goes. The only one of our five, the lone male offspring, has no problem with not going shopping with his mom back then. I think I’ll leave him a little extra in my will.

I bring this up now because my I-hate-shopping-genes went on vacation last week when I went on a celebratory trip with friends to, of all places, West Bend. I say “of all places” because I don’t suppose West Bend is considered a sophisticated shopping mecca in the overall scheme of things. However, on this trip, which was to celebrate one of our friend’s birthdays, it turned out to be just that. I not only shopped with the best of them, but I also tried on a couple of dresses (I NEVER try on clothes in stores – it goes against my religion, or something) and actually bought two.

One is a very practical knit sweater dress, appropriate for church, which is about the only place I wear dresses anymore. The second one is a totally impractical, long black velvet number with a lace skirt, satin bow and rhinestone clip holding the bow in place. My friends insisted I try it on, then insisted, “Oh Molly – that’s YOU!” 

Yeah, right.

“Where in blazes would I wear this?” I asked weakly (I was already teetering on the edge of temptation). That didn’t seem to matter to them, so I gave in to the peer pressure and bought the dress. It’s now hanging in my closet, giving the closet a really upscale ambiance. The dress, I hasten to add, was on sale for $6. I figure it’s worth that just as a closet decoration.

Please don’t tell the children about this adventure – it would spark another diatribe on the family thread about how I never went shopping with them. It’s a wonder any of them survived without intensive therapy.

Oh well.

***

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]]> 747 Of Passwords and Evil Cyberspace Elves https://authorscottmacdonald.com/ink-spots/of-passwords-and-evil-cyberspace-elves/ Wed, 24 Aug 2022 20:38:07 +0000 https://authorscottmacdonald.com/?p=745  I have come to hate the word “Password.” As in, “You have entered an incorrect password – try again, idiot.” Or words to that effect. For those of you who don’t spend much time on the internet, I think you are really smart. And a lot happier than those of us who send and receive […]

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]]>  I have come to hate the word “Password.” As in, “You have entered an incorrect password – try again, idiot.” Or words to that effect. For those of you who don’t spend much time on the internet, I think you are really smart. And a lot happier than those of us who send and receive emails, write and send pictures on “threads” and, in general, spend way too much time sitting at our computers, banging away on keyboards.
 The reason for this rant, as you’ve probably guessed, is the sudden, unexplainable decision of my computer to reject all my passwords that I use to gain access to various internet functions. I have done absolutely nothing to rile the cyberspace elves who rule the computer world, but nevertheless, they hate me. I have a list of my passwords, since I need different ones for all the various things in my world that I need to access: the bank, the church, Amazon, the weather channel (which is a dead loss since it never seems to know what’s happening – predicts rain when no rain can be found, predicts sunshine when the clouds are opening up – but I still check it out, ever hopeful they might be right once in a blue moon)
  I saw a funny exchange on Facebook (I think – maybe it was somewhere else, who knows?) where someone mentioned that they had no pets. “Then what in the world do you use for passwords?” they were asked. That was my first clue that I am not the only one who uses names of our pets, past and present, for passwords. I’ve used Laddie, Ivy, Seamus, Tam-O-Shanter (my childhood collie) and others, both alone and in combinations (LaddieandIvy was one that worked for awhile). I also went with Bingandmolly, Mollyandbing and TheFalcon, the name Bing delighted in using when sending postcards to our children. The list gets longer and longer as I have to change the passwords often because I am commanded to do so by the evil elves
  I have dutifully obeyed every command, registering and re-registering new password combinations when told to. I assiduously write down each combination, since committing them to memory is a lost cause. The paper I’ve written them on has become so tattered and scratched out, there’s no way anyone can decipher it. Especially me.
  And so, dear readers, I will continue to limp along, trying out different passwords until I finally hit on one that the elves will accept.
  Meanwhile, you might send me your pets’ names, since I’m running out of ours. Never let it be said that I give up easily.
  Life was certainly a lot simpler when I was growing up.

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