Some things have to be said. . .

I decided this morning to count how many presidents there have been since I was born.  I remember my Father saying that I was born the day the stock markets crashed in 1929, and that Herbert Hoover was the president at that time.  According to Google, there have been 14 presidents from Hoover to Obama, with Trump being the 15th when he is inaugurated in January.

My parents were both born in the United States of immigrant parents.  They taught my sister and me to have the utmost respect for the leader of our country, and in truth, since my first vote for Adlai Stevenson over Dwight Eisenhower, I have always totally accepted whomever is elected, regardless of whether they were Democrats or Republicans.

I am having a problem with Donald Trump.  I want him to stop tweeting stupid things and start to act presidential.  I want him to understand how important his new position is to the people of this country, whether they voted for him or not.  So far, he's acting more like he did on "The Apprentice".  Actually, I wish he'd say "You're fired!" already to Kellyanne Conway, who is really starting to piss me off.  I am a confirmed feminist, but her disrespect for Mitt Romney (who I also didn't vote for), is totally uncalled for.  We understand you are rooting for Rudy Gulianni, but don't be so obvious.

I have never used my blog for political purposes, but this morning, after hearing about Donald's tweets about "Millions of fraudulent votes that was the only reason Iidn't win the popular vote", I'm having a hard time marshaling that "respect" my parents taught me.

I'm hoping I'm wrong and that he will eventually rise to the role.  (Or at least he'll stop tweeting.)
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How dare he!!!

The Bank of Malaysia just e-mailed me that a gentleman named Lee Fui Fui (pronounced Phooey Phooey where I come from) wants to transfer my very valuable Bank of China fund into his account.  He insists I have authorized him to do so and promises to take care of all the legal fees. 

All I have to do to stop him from this dastardly act is to send another gentleman named Andy Lau all my banking information.  You know.  Things like my account number and my password.  Nothing really important.  Not to mention that I wasn't aware that I had a valuable fund in the Bank of China.  However did that skip my attention????  I tend to forget names and an occasional word these days, but an entire bank fund?????  Pshaw!!!

Mr. Lau is waiting for me to get back to him immediately so he can proceed with the transfer process.  I hope he isn't holding his breath.  I do wish he'd given me a phone number so I could find out how many millions I am getting.  It must be a substantial sum or why would Mr. Fui Fui be trying to steal it?

For a person who has a hard time getting even one number right on a Florida Lottery ticket, it certainly seems like my luck has changed.

Sorry, Mr. Phooey.  Maybe next time.
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I love a parade. . .

I admit it.  I'm watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  Always do.  The parade is celebrating its 90th year and I remember by Mother and Dad taking my sister Fran and I to New York City, when we were little kids, to watch the parade. It was a really big deal for us then.

Thanksgiving in those days was in Mt. Vernon, New York, where Fran and I grew up.  There was no such thing as the "extended families" we have today, where my daughter is in Charlotte, North Carolina, my grandson and his family are in Jacksonville, Florida, and I'm here in Miami.  Our whole family lived in the Mt. Vernon area and everyone came to Thanksgiving dinner, whether it was at our house or one of the aunts and uncles.  It was family time.

Standing in for my kids today will be my sister Fran's family up in Fort Lauderdale.  My niece Vicki knows better than to ask Aunt Joan to cook something, so I've been charged with bringing cupcakes.  I spent a lot of time picking them out.  I don't want Fran's grandkids and great-grand daughter to think badly of me.  I always remember once asking my grandson Adam when he was a teen-ager whether it bothered him that his grandmother didn't bake cookies.  His reply?  "Hell, no.  You have great seats for the Dolphins, the Miami Heat and the Florida Panthers.  I can buy cookies."

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. . .make it a wonderful day!  My thanks for sticking with me and my blog for so many years.
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Ready to go!

Another walk down memory lane. . . .

I picked up the Miami Herald the other morning to find an article on the front page that an old friend had passed away.  Charlie Cinnamon was a rare holdover from the days when PR guys. . public relations people. . . made the world go round on Miami Beach. 

I remember it well, because I was there.  In 1958, I was the PR director of the Barcelona Hotel and Charlie was the PR director of the Empress Hotel, right next door.  We were compadres, meeting often on our rounds to deliver press releases to the Miami Herald, the Miami News, the Miami Times and the Miami Beach Sun.  Newspaper relations were incredibly important in those days, and Charlie and I made it our business to have good friends at all of our stops.  How else did you make sure your release got printed???

Hotel PR wasn't really a full time job and both of us had other clients whose names and businesses we spent our days pushing.  Charlie was hired by Zev Bufman, the owner/producer of the young Coconut Grove Playhouse, to promote productions at the Playhouse.  Coconut Grove was not exactly a metropolis in those days.  Actually, it was a little bohemian village with lots of artists in residence, when Charlie came up with the idea of a Parisian-style art festival along the main street leading to the Playhouse.  The idea was to promote attendance for a new show.  The end result was the world famous Coconut Grove Art Festival that still brings thousands of visitors to the Grove today.

The obit in the Herald talked about his remarkable career as well as his genuine likeability with friendships that numbered stars such as Liz Taylor and Richard Burton among his close friends.  Charlie liked to call himself a press agent and he was definitely one of the best. At 94, he was still actively involved in "the business".   Although my career veered away from the hotels and nightclubs I represented in those early years, with builder/developers, trade shows and financial clients the bulk of my business, whenever we ran into each other, it was always time for a little reminiscing about those crazy early days.

 
It made me sad to read of his passing.  If I know Charlie, he's probably already promoting    a group of angels in some fabulous new Christmas show.  You will be missed, Charlie.  That's for sure..
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Halloween must be coming. . . .

I went to the doctor's office today to cry a little about the sciatic nerve in my left hip and was greeted with a strange looking gentleman offering a delicious variety of candies.  I gladly accepted his offer.

Then I sat down to wait to hear my name called across from two gentlemen, one wearing a khaki hat, who seemed to have lost a great deal of weight.  Actually, he was literally all bones.

My hip felt better already. 

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Lots of interesting people out there. . .

I've written in the past about my volunteering as a guide at The Kampong, the former home of the renowned horticulturist, Dr. David Fairchild.  We do walking tours at The Kampong and I never know until I arrive who will be in my group, where they come from, or anything about who they are.

My group today was truly memorable.  It was listed as The Pedro Pan Society and it consisted of eight very elegant women who were exceptionally bonded together.The bonding was understandable, because as they explained to me when we were initially introduced, all eight of them arrived as teenagers in Miami in 1962 as part of the Pedro Pan exodus from communist Cuba.  The shared experience created a very special friendship that has lasted for more than fifty years.

We talked a bit before we started the actual tour and the women were fascinated to hear that I spent a great deal of time in Havana before the revolution and represented the Tropicana Nightclub here in the U.S.  I will love them forever for questioning how could I have been in their country before the revolution of 1960, since I obviously would have been much too young to be working that many years ago. When I assured them I was very much an adult then, and am now a great-grandmother, they wanted to know my secret.  I told them "good genes", but to be honest, it's more like denial, especially since I have a birthday coming up next month.

The ladies loved The Kampong, asked lots of questions and didn't seem to mind that tramping through the garden, still quite wet from last night's rains, was playing havoc with their very fashionable shoes.  I took pictures of them with their cameras as well as with my iPhone.  It was close to 90 degrees out and almost all of them were wielding fans as we  walked along. 

One of the delights of being a guide at both Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden and The Kampong is the ability to meet the most interesting people from literally all over the world.  I remember very well hearing about the arrival of the Pedro Pan children, young and alone, without their parents, who sacrificed so much to keep them safe.  It was a pleasure meeting these eight ladies today and having the opportunity to tell them about this wonderful garden.
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The Pedro Pan ladies keep cool.

I have a complaint. . . .

I'm losing my favorite tram driver at Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden starting this week and I'm not at all happy about it.  Ted Weiss has been my driver-of-choice for the last three years for the tram tours I narrate every Friday morning. He knows me well.  He understands I am incapable of getting the top off the water bottle.  I return the favor by filling a cup with little pretzels that we share throughout the morning.  Most of all, he knows where during my tour I like the tram to go slow and where it's hurry up time because I have nothing more to say.  Lastly, when my mind is starting to go blank on the third tour, he throws me the name of those funny looking Bald Cypress knobs that I keep forgetting.

In short, Ted is a great part of my Fairchild volunteer experience and I shall miss him.  I told him he had no right to go have a hip replacement when I needed him to drive for me on Fridays.  He absolutely agreed and promised to come back after the first of the year.  I'm holding him to that.

I know I write about my Fairchild experiences fairly often, but I never cease to be slightly awed at this remarkable place and consider myself lucky to be even a small part of it. To give you some idea of its international identity, here's a look at our tram passengers this past Friday morning.

On the 10am tour I was introduced by one of our members to his guest, a young man from Egypt.  I made sure to point out the Egyptian geese when we got to the Lowlands.  At the start of the 11am tour, I welcomed a couple who were visiting from Austria.  And on the 12 noon tour, one whole car of the tram was occupied by a perfectly delightful group of mature ladies and one gentleman who were visiting from Surinam, a tiny country on the northeastern coast of South America.  (Ted had to remind me that it used to be a Dutch colony. See, I told you, I need him.)

My favorite tram driver

If you have never visited Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden, I urge you to do so the next time you're in this area.  Come on a Friday morning and I promise you an interesting tour.
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The beauty of Fairchild

 

I've got a problem, folks. . . .

I have a new addiction.  I admit it.  It doesn't come in a bottle or from a syringe.  It's more in the form of an app on my cell phone and I can't stay away from it.  If this keeps up, I may have to consider rehab.

It's called Magic Puzzles and it is turning me into a jigsaw fanatic.  At last count I have successfully completed 46 individual puzzles in the last two months, plus one additional "free" puzzle for each day of July and August.  Not to mention the fact that I have worked my way up to the next-to-highest difficulty level.  I definitely need help.

I'm starting to relate to the kids you see glued to their cell phones playing Pokémon and all different games.  This morning I finished off two puzzles from the Wild Animal series while supposedly watching Meet The Press.  One was a picture of a Madagascan lemur, the other a pygmy sloth from Panama.  Don't ask me what they were talking about on the TV, I was much too involved to pay any real attention to the latest on Donald and Hillary.

I've always loved a good crossword puzzle and the day wouldn't start right without my two cups of coffee and the Miami Herald's daily offering, but this new addiction is getting out of hand.

Any suggestions out there for a cure, short of losing my iphone????

Bad Stuff!  Stay away from it.

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Memories are made of this . .

I went to the Wolfsonian Museum on Miami Beach today.  If you've never been there it is the result of the astonishing collection of memorabilia from the 1850's through the 1950's by Mickey Wolfson, the very wealthy scion of one of Miami's first families.

The collections change every few months and the premier one right now is titled "Promising Paradise: Cuban Allure, American Seduction."  For me, it was a walk down Memory Lane, revisiting the years 1958 and 1959, when it was part of my job to fly to Cuba once a month and review all the major night club shows in Havana for the entertainment editor of the Miami Beach Sun. 

Paul Bruun, the man who hired me for this fascinating job, was the "Walter Winchell" of our town in those days, and it was his name that appeared in the newspaper on my written  reviews, but my name that appeared on the monthly check that he paid me. He also paid all my expenses to fly there and back and stay at one of the top hotels, either the Havana Riviera,  the Havana Hilton, or the Havana Nacional.  (The only thing he wouldn't pay for was my husband's airfare on Cubana Airlines, $25 round trip!  We managed to begrudgingly come up with that.)

But it was one particular nightclub in the exhibition at the Wolfsonian that mesmerized me today.  An entire room was dedicated to Havana's famous Tropicana Nightclub, and I knew it very well.  In addition to reviewing its incredible shows, held outdoors under the palm trees, with gorgeous showgirls  parading on catwalks through the trees, my public 


Exhibit at the Wolfsonian

relations firm was also responsible for representing the Club in the American press.  For that reason, I spent more time there than any of the other clubs we visited.

The Tropicana's gambling casino, in fact the entire club, was overseen by a man named Lefty Clark.  In truth, Lefty represented the Mob, the true owners of the club, but he was a very likeable guy who was extremely nice to me and my husband Ralph, who always accompanied me on my trips to Cuba (much to the annoyance of my client, Mr.Bruun, who was a well known lecher.)

We would usually show up at the Tropicana on Friday evening for the midnight show, having already reviewed the 10 o'clock show at one of the hotels, and would go on to do a 2am show before quitting for the night and heading back to our hotel room at close to 4 in the morning. Three in a night was my limit, and we would do another three shows on Saturday night before returning home on Sunday.  (Remember, I was a lot younger then!)  Since all the clubs knew who I represented, and that I was there to review, we were always seated next to the stage and I would just sign the bill for whatever we ate or drank. That was a good thing, since we were not exactly in the chips in those days and these were expensive places.

My favorite memory of the Tropicana:  Lefty Clark welcoming us on our arrival, giving me a hug and simultaneously handing my husband a $10 roll of quarters. "Go play the slots, Ralph,"  he would say, patting him on the back.  "Joan has to work." 

We were scheduled to go to Havana for New Years of 1959 but decided not to go because we had a party in Miami we wanted to attend.  It was a good thing we didn't.   If you know your history, Castro and the Revolution arrived on January 1st, 1960.  Haven't been back since, but I did have many memories looking at the Wolfsonian's presentation today..
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Menu/program cover
 

Desi and Luci. . . he played the Club very often

 

Ginger's upset she wasn't invited. Wasabi couldn't care less.

Friday evenings are traditionally "Wine Down Time", here at Grove Isle.  Especially if you own something with four legs and a full coat of hair.  In the winter, when it's cooler, the parties are held at our waterfront dog park.  Now that it's so hot, we've been making it to the bar at the  Grove Isle Club, but a nasty new rule that no dogs are allowed has made life difficult for our group.

I know, you're thinking now, "She doesn't have a dog.  What's she talking about?"  You're right, I don't.  I proudly represent the Feline Owners at our community, and although we're not actually invited, by this time the dogs all know me, so I manage to pass.

Last night the party was very special.  It was hosted by Henry Goodman, Sheila's malti-poo, and was held in his apartment (and believe me, it is his), and attended by four of his best friends.  Also along were their assorted owner/parents, but they were just there for the good wine and food.  It was the "four paws" night and they enjoyed it thoroughly.

Herewith the guest list:


Henry, the host (with his Mommy)

Brindle

Chloe

Mila

Oliver
 

Will somebody tell me why I wasn't invited????

Wine & writing. . .a great combination

My friend Sheila and I spent an unusual evening last night.  We both received an e-mail that the Miami Book Fair was holding something called First Draft: A Literary Social, described as "a monthly series of informal writing events that turn happy hours into great stories".   If that didn't inspire us enough, the fact that it also mentioned that drinks were on the house, had us up and moving.

We arrived at the Langford Hotel in Downtown Miami at 6:30 sharp to find a roomful of interesting looking people, mostly women but quite a few men.  With glasses filled  and bowls of pretzels on every table,  host Julie Anne Howe, explained that the evening's theme was "All The Rage", and that we would have ten minutes to write on one of three subjects:  "What I Won't Wear."  "What I Will Wear."  and finally "My Personal Style Monologue".

When the 10 minutes were up, the first 5 or 6 of the 10 or 15 people in the room would come up to the microphone and read what they wrote.  One girl wrote "I Won't Wear a Frown".  Very deep.  Sheila wrote "I Won't Wear Turquoise."  I had no idea she felt so strongly about the color.  Here's what I wrote. . you kinda had to hear it out loud to understand the deep emotion it conveyed.

"WHAT I WON'T WEAR" by Joan Spector

Who decided that women's pants had to be skinny?  A 20 year old, no doubt.  One of those Millenials we're always hearing about lately.

Skinny pants are for kids, or at least girls with Kardashian butts, not elegant adults.  We wear boot cut trousers, or flowing slacks that provide a little defense for those of us who still remember Gloria Vanderbilt's famous comfortable jeans.

No, I won't wear those skinny minnies.  So what if that's all I can find in my local department store.  I prefer to stand up for my rights, not to mention my octogenarian legs.

So I say, senior ladies, unite!  We have nothing to lose but our former good bodies.

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Not one of my finer pieces of writing but I actually got quite a round of applause from the audience.  It was truly a fun evening and the wine was fabulous.  Can't wait to go again next month.

My phone keeps ringing. . . .

I received an urgent phone call this morning informing me that I am in deep trouble.  My student loan has been flagged by the government, and if I click on the #1 button, I will be informed of a special plan to help me pay it off.  I can just imagine.

Since my last day as a "student:" of any kind came in early June of 1949, (I remember the date well, because I got married on June 12th of that year), I didn't bother clicking.  Actually, I wasn't aware that I still had a student loan. As a matter of fact, I never had one.

From my high school year book, ready to go to
college without a student loan!

In my day, your parents started putting away money for your college enrollment from the day you were born, and there were no such things as student loans.  Then again, unlike today's astronomical college prices, if I remember correctly, Syracuse University cost my parents about $250 a semester, plus the cost of my dorm room and food in the school cafeteria.

By the way, I've been on the "Do not call" list for ages, but apparently that's not stopping anyone calling from India or the Mid East.  Yesterday, the call was from the IRS, warning me, in a heavy accent, that I was again in serious trouble and had better call a certain number with all my information ASAP.  I guess that hefty check I sent back in April just wasn't good enough.

One of my favorite Miami Herald columnists, Fred Grimm, wrote recently about his annoyance with unsolicited phone calls at all hours of the day and night. He is on both the Federal and State "Do not call" lists, and what doubly annoys him is that the calls are all "robo calls", so there's no one on the other end of the line to hiss at or complain to.

That's my problem as well.  With the IRS call, I found myself shrieking obscenities into the phone although I knew full well there was no one actually there.  Obviously the scammers have long since done away with the "Do not call" lists, and somewhere I've landed on a lot of "Do call" lists.  Nice to know I'm so popular.

Just for the hell of it, I tried calling back one of the robo-call phone numbers.  According to a robo-call operator, "That number is no longer in service."  Gee whiz, what a surprise. I guess my student loan will just have to go unpaid for another 67 years!

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No expense spared. . .

Wasabi and Ginger are rescue cats, but they have long since turned into spoiled pets who run my household with iron paws.  The one thing they both insist on is availability of their favorite toys.  I'm not sure my bank account can keep up with their pressing needs.

Wasabi not only plays incessantly with his favorite "toy", but God help Ginger if she tries to even touch it.  Ginger, on the other hand, never heard the word "No!". . .not from Wasabi or me, her Mother.  Much hissing and snarling goes on over any attempt to as much as sniff his prized possession.  I admit to a little snarling of my own over the results of Ginger's favorite obsession.

I couldn't resist taking photos of each of them with their expensive playthings.  Thank you, Charmin, Cottonelle and Costco. What would the three of us do without you???.

Wasabi, on guard.  Don't dare touch!

Ginger, The Destroyer, at work.

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It's mango chutney time! Chop. Chop.

I've been a walking guide at The Kampong, the former home of renowned horticulturist Dr. David Fairchild, for several years now, but the weather has gotten so hot that tours have been suspended for the summer.  The Kampong, located in Coconut Grove, has been a well kept secret, but with the advent of Groupon, it's becoming a very popular tourist spot.

Dr. Fairchild was responsible for introducing the mango into the United States, bringing back various species of the fruit from his many worldwide expeditions during his time as Chief of the Plant Introduction Department of the U.S. Department of Agriculture.  He used a good portion of his Miami home's 7 1/2 acre property as a "laboratory" for his various finds, and as a result, The Kampong has an extraordinary collection of very fruitful mango trees.  Thus, the need to do something with each year's huge crop.

The answer?  Mango chutney, of course .  Unbelievably delicious .  If you're not familiar with it, you don't know what you are missing.

That's me cutting away.

I got the call to please come by this Friday and help with the chutney production.  Just the chopping, not the actual cooking.  (They know better than to ask me to do that.)  At the end of two hours, I was chopped out, or rather my hands were screaming "No mas!  No mas!" 

I promised I'd return to help with the labeling of the jars, once the cooking was completed.  And to collect my payment for all the heavy chopping. . .my own jar of the best chutney you ever tasted.

On my way out, I soothed my aching hands by stopping at the Lotus Pool for a second and photographing this gorgeous lily in full bloom. 
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Just a small sample.

Cooking time.



Soothing the senses.

90 is the new 70. . . .

My regular Wednesday afternoon mah jong game is off for the summer as three of our five players are on summer vacation trips.  So I've been filling in on Tuesday afternoons at the request of my neighbor Elaine, in a game where they are missing one of their regular players.

I'm still pretty new to mah jong and this game "goes by the rules", or so they tell me.  That means they play significantly differently than my group and to tell you the truth, I find it a bit daunting at times.  That's why, during a recent game, I requested the elegant lady on my left. . .her name is Thelma and she is always perfectly coiffed and made up. . . to please go a little slower.  I was having a little trouble keeping up.

Thelma was very nice about my request, and assured me she would make every effort to slow down a little.

Game over, on the way up to my apartment in the elevator, Elaine asked me if I had any idea how old Thelma was.  Nonplussed at the question, I said why???  "Because she's 92," was the reply.

And I just asked her to go slower.

Amazing, yes.  Even more so because we've become good friends.  Thelma is a hoot, funny and full of life.  Yesterday she invited me to lunch as her guest because I had given her two passes to Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden when her daughter came to visit.

We were going to a restaurant she wanted to try in Coconut Grove along with another friend of hers. Friend Joyce turned out to be much younger. . only 90.  Jeez, I was the baby of the group!

 We had an absolutely lovely lunch.  Thelma drove.

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Thelma

Thinking back. . .

I never got around to writing a blog about our trip to Paris in April, mostly because so much happened that I ended up not writing anything.  It was a blast, and Paul and I had a great time aboard our Viking River Cruise from Paris to the Normandy Coast.  I highly recommend it.  It was a wonderful trip.

Oddly enough, two different events that stand out in my mind took place in Paris during the three days we spent there before embarking on the ship.

First, was the day we decided to visit the Eiffel Tower and had bought tickets ahead of time for a 1pm entry so we wouldn't have to wait on a long line.  Viking's itinerary took us to the Marais in the morning, and after leaving the group, the two of us headed for the Metro to take to the Tower stop.

 Except it turned out our directions were wrong and we shortly found ourselves totally lost.  In desperation, we stopped a group of young English speaking men to ask directions.  Turned out, that's where they were going as well, and invited us to join them.  They were Brits from Leicester, who looked like a 60's rock group, with lots of spikes in their ears and noses, but friendly as could be. Unfortunately, we soon discovered they were as lost as we were.

We apparently wanted the train, not the subway, and after tramping up and down endless flights of stairs and through various train platforms, our "leader" ascertained we were at the right place.  By this time we had added a young Australian couple to our group who were also lost.

Heaving a great sigh of relief, we watched as the train pulled into the station.  The door opened, and the polite Brits motioned to me and the Australian girl to get on, followed by four of the guys and a rush of strangers who were also waiting for the train.  And then the door closed.

Paul told me later that he wished he had a camera to freeze the look of sheer horror on my face as the train pulled out of the station and he was still standing on the platform.

The good news was that the Brits who were on the train were now my new best friends, staying with me and the Australian girl at the station where we got off until the rest of the pack, including Paul, arrived some ten minute later on the next train.

One last memory from that wild day.  When we all went to leave the station, the turnstile at the exit suddenly decided not to work.  This did not deter the Brits who simply climbed and jumped over the apparatus.  It also didn't deter Paul, who is over 6 ft.  You might remember that I am not exactly towering in height and the turnstiles were quite high.  Climbing was just not an option.  Another photo, thank goodness, he didn't get:  Joan, elegantly crawling her way under the turnstile on all fours.  Paul didn't dare laugh.

The second event I remember with less fondness was the night we ate at a very lovely seafood restaurant near our Paris hotel.  I love fish, and since the menu was all in French, I asked the waiter for his suggestion.  He was exuberant about the "fish of the night" and I said fine.

My dinner arrived and it looked very delicious.  Except, when I went to take my first bite, I hit a solid sheet of bone.  Calling over the waiter, he explained to me that "You must flip it over, Madame".  Flip I did, and began eating.  It was quite interesting, different than any fish I had ever tasted, and I was curious.  Already half way through the serving, I called over the waiter and asked what kind of fish it was.  He answered by telling me he would bring me a picture.

He did.  I was eating a Manta Ray.  Needless to say, that was the end of that dinner.  Paul, who rarely eats fish, couldn't stop laughing.

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Marching through the Metro

My new best friends!

OMG!  My poisonous dinner!

Remembering "The Great One". .

It was February of 1964 and I was at my desk at the Barcelona Hotel where I was hired to handle public relations and edit a daily newsletter that was distributed to hotel guests. One of our regular guests approached me and asked if I would like two tickets to "the fight" that evening.

I had never been to a boxing match in my life, but I thought, "what the hell, they're free!" so I said yes and thanked him for his generosity.  Little did I know what an earth-shaking event I had just signed on for.

Next, I called my husband at his office and asked him if by any chance he wanted to go.  His response?  "Are you kidding, Joan?  That's the championship bout between Cassius Clay and Sonny Liston!  Of course I want to go. I'll pick you up at the hotel. For god's sake, don't lose the tickets!"  All of a sudden, I was a hero to my husband.

I was aware that Clay was training at the 5th Street Gym because every morning during the past few weeks, as I drove from my home in North Miami to my office on Miami Beach, I would see this young black guy, in shorts and a tank top, running down Alton Road on his way to the gym.  These were times when blacks were still not allowed to stay overnight on Miami Beach, and Clay would actually run all the way from his hotel in Overtown to his morning workout. (It wasn't until Frank Sinatra made a stand about allowing Sammy Davis Jr. to stay at the Fontainebleau, when they were both appearing there, that the restriction was finally lifted.)

Our seats that evening at the Miami Beach Convention Center were fabulous.  Everybody who was anybody was there in the arena to watch hulking and silent Liston, the undefeated world champion,  make mincemeat of this young, big-mouthed upstart.  For the very first time, the crowd saw what it meant  to "float like a butterfly. . sting like a bee".  Liston looked more and more confused, right from the opening round, and when he finally refused to come out for the 7th round bell, the place went wild!

It was a night to remember and I relived it this morning when I heard about Mohammed Ali's passing.  He was truly a remarkable man and I followed his career with great interest after that very memorable night.  We were very lucky to have had the opportunity to be there on that very special evening..
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A few quick words . . . .

I'm dressed.  I'm packed.  I've got my boarding pass in hand.  And as usual, I'm too early, so I think I'll spend the time writing a quick blog.

Where am I going?  Oh, just to Paris this afternoon, for three days in that gorgeous city, and then on to a Viking River Cruise up the Seine to the Normandy coast.  Nothing unusual.

Just kidding, guys, I'm really looking forward to the next 11 days, and yes, I'm going with Paul, and we plan to have a great time.  I'm told that visiting the Normandy beach where the US troops landed on D-day, is a very emotional experience.  I have a feeling I'm one of the few reading this that actually remembers that pivotal day in World War II, especially since two young men we knew who lived in our apartment building in Mount Vernon, NY, where I grew up, died there that day.  I'm actually going to look to see if I can find their graves although my sister Fran says only she and I are still around to remember them.

On a happier note, I am looking forward to revisiting Giverney, Monet's incredible home.  Went there 30-some years ago but wasn't into painting in those days, so this will definitely be an interesting experience.

I worry about leaving my two cats for such an extended period of time even though I have arranged to have them fed daily and the litter cleaned.  Please look at the attached photo to see how really upset Wasabi and Ginger are at the idea that Mommy is leaving.  The towel on the bed was to protect the bedspread, not to hide Wasabi's head. 

I'll be back on the 24th and have a full report on my trip.  'Til then,  au revoir,everyone!
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That's Wasabi under the towel.

Yappy Hour. . .I'll drink to that!

I attended Yappy Hour last night.  It was billed as "An Event for people and dogs to benefit Miami Lighthouse" and it was not only very successful, but definitely a hoot.  Held in the outdoor patio of a Midtown restaurant called Apeiro Kitchen & Bar, it was attended by about 75 humans and some 40 dogs.  Frankly, I lost count after the second glass of Pinot Grigio.

I loved the fact that both the bar and all the tables had a bowl of inviting looking little crackers on them.  If you weren't careful, you might not realize they were treats for the dogs, not for the two legged guests.  I'm sure more than a few were bit into, if not consumed, before reality set in. 

Everyone with a dog received a tote bag full of goodies, once again for the dogs, not the owners, and believe me, the dogs were having a ball.  My friend Sheila, attending with her malti-poo Henry, won the prize for "Best Dressed Look-Alikes" in their matching outfits.  Henry loves a good party.  We call him a "bar hound" around the Grove Isle clubhouse.


Congrats to the Miami Lighthouse, and marketing director Cam Sisser, whose idea it was for this terrific event.  I don't know who had more fun.  The dogs or their owners.

Sheila & Henry, front and back!

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Not so much fun to fly these days. . .

I have two airline flights coming up in the next month, so I wasn't exactly delighted to hear on the news last night that travelers should be prepared for even longer security lines as summer approaches.

What did we do before we had cell phones?

Longer?  Jeez, I thought they were pretty ridiculous already.  Last month on my way home from visiting daughter Andrea in Charlotte, NC. I literally crawled forward on line for 55 minutes before getting up to the actual security area.  Everyone on the line, including yours truly, spent the time staring at their cell phones, making last minute calls, playing Words With Friends, reading e-mail. . .anything to help you not notice how slowly the line was moving.

The only laugh I got out of the thoroughly unpleasant situation was hearing the guard at the start of the line who checked your boarding pass shouting over and over again directions about removing your laptops and taking off your shoes.  Each time he got to the shoe part he would shout out "If you're over 75 you don't have to take off your shoes."  So I didn't.

When I finally approached the booth where you go in, put your hands over your head, and get zapped with something that shows your insides, the lady in charge scowled at me and said "You didn't take off your shoes!"  For a moment, I considered thanking her for the compliment.  Instead, I hissed, "I'm over 75."  I'm not sure she believed me because I got patted down on the other side when I emerged.  Obviously, I looked suspicious.

I have great memories of luxurious air flights, when you dressed for the occasion, dined and drank at leisure as you flew to your destination, and were treated like celebrities by gorgeous flight attendants.  Those days are gone forever, that's for sure.

Today's Millennial Generation would have no idea what I'm talking about, that's also for sure.
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A morning to remember. . .

I've been a tram guide at Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden for almost ten years now, but this morning's tour was a very new and wonderful experience for me.  Alicia Hartsack, the young staff member who works in the education department, asked me if I would consider being the narrator for a set of tours designed for autistic children.  My answer was yes, although I admit to being nervous about exactly how it would go.

My driver, Ted Weiss, and I, were at the Phillips Gate when the families began to arrive at 9:45 this morning.  I got to help put name tags on kids and parents alike, and everyone was obviously excited.  As one mother said to me as I pasted a sticker with her name on her chest, "This is such a special day for all of us."

She was so right.  It truly was a remarkable day for us, the volunteers, as it was for the families.  Upon arrival, everyone went to the Science Village where a classroom was set up with snacks, drinks, crayons and paper.  When we were sure everyone had arrived, close to 50 altogether, including a small group of Down Syndrome teen-agers, everyone headed for the tram and the promised tour.

With everyone seated, kids and parents alike, I put my headset microphone on, walked out of the cab to stand on the road in front of them, and started to talk.  Forget about my usual speech, this one was for the kids.  I don't know where it came from, but they listened to every word of my welcome and then we were off.  This was a fun tour from start to finish, especially when we got to the giant baobab tree, stopped the tram, and invited the kids to get off.  Take a look at the photos.  That tree never had so much love as these autistic kids and their siblings climbed all over it and danced around it. 

One of my favorite moments at the baobab stop was when little Christopher marched over to me, reached up for my headset, and told me in all seriousness that he had "an announcement to make".  Next came Menajem with his wish to make an "announcement".  Boy, did they love that microphone.  In the end it was Christopher who took over my job and announced in a loud, clear voice, that everyone should "get back on the bus. . .we're leaving."

With the tour over, we all headed back to the classroom in the Science Village to make glass terrariums with plants and butterfly stickers.  By the end of that part of the morning, I had butterfly stickers on both hands, but I also got lots of kisses in return.

The last part of the morning was spent in the Exotic Butterfly Garden.  I wish I had photo of all the kids, absolutely awestruck at the hundreds of gorgeous butterflies everywhere they looked, but by that time a young man named Derrick, part of a family of six, had me firmly by the hand, and I was much too busy to take my camera out.  I did get a photo of his whole family at the very end because by this time I felt like I knew them all.

It was an incredible morning, and Fairchild is an incredible place.  I am so lucky to be a part of it.
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Enjoying the baobab tree!

Boy, could these kids climb!



Christopher uses my mike to make his announcements

My new friend Derrick and his brother Brandon

Menajem takes his turn at the mike.

I don't think I stopped smiling the whole tour!




The Garcia Family in the Exotic Butterfly Garden. 



Sebastian and Robert work on their terrariums.