I was watching the final edition of the Larry King Show on CNN and feeling nostalgic. I met Larry for the first time when he was hosting "Breakfast at Pumperniks", his first radio interview show, on Miami Beach. That was back in the late 50's and in my new role as owner of my own pr firm,I represented hotels,nightclubs and restaurants. That's all that really was available on the Beach in those days.

Larry was set up in a booth at Pumperniks, on the corner of Collins Avenue and 74th Street, for those of you who know Miami Beach. Pumperniks was a popular deli/restaurant frequented by everyone, particularly entertainers appearing at the various hotels. I spent a lot of time shuttling the famous and not so famous to be interviewed by him there and a few years later when he moved up in the radio world to a mid-nite to 2am interview show on WIOD. Miami Beach was a late night town in those days and nobody seemed to mind showing up at mid-nite and talking for an hour or two. Even at that hour, he had a huge listener audience. Come to think of it, I was a lot younger and thought nothing of being out until all hours of the morning. Wow, has that changed.

What always fascinated me about Larry was the fact that once he ok'd one of my clients to appear on the show, he never wanted any advance information other than how to pronounce their name correctly and what was I "pushing" pr-wise that I wanted him to mention on air. Usually the name of the hotel, theatre or nightclub that I represented where the interviewee was staying or appearing. He was always great about that, and believe me, it was much appreciated. I once had a reporter do a front page story in the Miami Herald that I had gone to a lot of trouble to set up, and he neglected to mention the name of the hotel where the event occured. Needless to say, my client, the owner of the hotel, was mightily pissed and I was ready to kill myself for all the wasted work.

In the mid-60s, Larry became our neighbor on Keystone Islands. His house backed up to our side yard. We had first hand knowledge of his numerous marriages and live-in girlfriends via the kids in the neighborhood. I can remember Andrea, at 10 or 12, coming home from playing outside, to offhandedly remark at dinner that "there's a new set of kids at the King house."

The other thing about Larry that I always found interesting was that while he was an incredibly good interviewer while he was on air, the moment the commercial break would come on, he would ignore the celebrity and turn to me to discuss the latest Miami Dolphin game. An avid Dolphin fan, he knew we had season tickets and was much more interested in discussing my thoughts on Sunday's game than anything the non-plused celebrity had to say.

Yes, he wore the horn rimmed glasses and the suspenders, even then. I've marveled at his meteoric rises and catastrophic falls over the years. I knew him before his gravy years with CNN, but you always knew he was something special.

Interesting memories. I think I may e-mail him and wish him well.

A fashionable tale. . . .

Go ahead and laugh. I just bought myself a pair of "jeggings". At Costco, no less. For you non-fashionistas, jeggings are the new hot clothing item, a cross between jeans and leggings. Worn best with knee high boots, but of course.

OK, so most 81 year olds aren't wearing knee high boots, much less jeggings, but on sale for $15.95, by Gloria Vanderbilt you should excuse me,who could resist??? It just so happens that I realized recently I actually own a pair of knee high black suede boots, left over from my apres ski past life, I guess. I tried tucking a regular pair of black boot leg jeans into them but ended up looking more knobby than usual, so the knee boots went back in their box.

Then fate intervened!

The significant other and I were perusing the aisles at Costco yesterday when it was necessary to cross over from paper goods (toilet paper, paper towels, coffee filters) to the produce department (fresh fish, lamb chops, strip steaks). To do this we were forced to cross through the area reserved for odds and ends of clothes. . if you are a Costco aficionado, you know the drill. When I hesitated before a pile of black jeans, Benard made the mistake of asking me what jeggings were, and that's all she wrote. I dithered for a few minutes longer and finally threw a Size 8-Short (at 4'11" you thought I buy Longs?) into the basket. The deed was done.

Honestly, they're not bad. . .and with the weather this week ridiculously cold here in Miami, I'm actually getting to wear them. We have a holiday party tomorrow evening and I plan to look totally chic with my boots and jeggings. . .if I can just figure out what to wear on top. I'll bet I'm the only octagenarian at the event sporting such avant garde fashion. Naomi Campbell, eat your heart out.

As a parting thought I have to share with you something I tore out of a magazine recently. . it's a quote by someone named Diane Ackerman, I have no idea who she is. . but it really struck a chord with my take on life and maybe explains the jeggings. It goes this way. . . "I don't want to get to the end of my life and find that I lived just the length of it. I want to have lived the width as well."

To that I say "Amen".

Monkey business. . .that's art, folks!!

Miami's been awash in art this past week with the annual arrival of the international Art Basel and all it's attendant creative excitement. Basically, everyone is doing something art-y and that goes for Fairchild Botanical Gardens where the newest art installation is a group of sculptures by Les Lalannes. . .Claude & Francois Xavier LaLanne, to be exact. (Actually, I never heard of them either, so don't feel bad, even though they are apparently very famous.)

When Benard did his Friday morning tram tours of the Garden this week, I went along to see the installation and also practice up on my own tour. As soon as I get up the courage to take my "test". . .show off my tour to Julie, the lady in charge of tram tour guides. . .I'll be doing my own one of these days. Benard drives the 72-passenger tram and talks at the same time. . .I am not such a multi-tasker. . .If I have to drive and talk, there's a good chance I would kill people as well as plants along the way. For that reason, I have had the good sense to only sign up to talk. I'm no fool.

Anyway, the Les Lalannes' sculptures are very whimsical and absolutely delightful. They range from Francois-Xavier's "Very Big Thoughtful Monkey" whose lap I am casually sitting on in the photo, to Claude's famous "Very Large Cabbage With Chicken Legs". This one is an enlarged replica of her famous original 1964 sculpture where she metalicized a real cabbage and was the talk of the art world. I swear I'm not making this up.

There are also two herds of wonderful LaLanne sheep in various areas of the garden, moutons, for all you Francophiles. That's Benard with "Wapiti" or stag in English. All in all, it's a delightful installation and you can't help but smille as you come upon each one. Fairchild's decision to feature "art in the garden" has been wonderfully successful. It all started with an installation of glass sculpture by Dale Chihuly two years ago. . .since then we've had a succession of artists. . .the last one was a famous Japanese lady sculptor who lived in a mental institution and was obscessed with polka dots. . .not our favorite. As tram guides, we get to talk all about them. But this new installation is a winner and I strongly suggest you visit the Garden if you are in Miami.

By the way, in January, Yoko Ono is coming to the Garden to install her "Wishing Tree" in one of our ficus trees. She's apparently done this in many places around the world. When you visit you can make out your wish and hang it on the tree. . periodically the wishes are gathered up and all stored together in a kind of rocket up in Alaska. But of course. I would expect nothing less from John Lennon's widow.

You gotta admit, Fairchild is not your grandma's style of garden.

Ramble on down to Fairchild Gardens

The "Queen of Carnivorous Plants" returned to her post last Saturday. It was Fairchild Tropical Gardens' Annual Ramble time, and this was my 6th year hawking all manner of meat-eating (do bugs qualify as meat???) plants to wide-eyed children and equally fascinated adults. The Ramble is an institution in the Miami area, and is the Garden's main fundraiser.

I can tell I've become somewhat of an institution at the carnivorous plant booth because Bob, the man who grows all these varieties we sell once a year, welcomed me back by name. This year I worked the Saturday 9-1 shift, arriving at 8:30 to help set up, and spending the morning explaining about the various plants, how they feed themselves, and how to keep them alive, especially the Venus Fly Traps that the kids tend to kill within a day or two.Teaching is as important as selling at the Ramble, and the kids are fascinated to hear everything we have to say. For a woman who lives in a highrise condominium and can barely keep a potted plant alive on her balcony, it's amazing how much I know about all kinds of exotic plants and trees.

This year I worked alongside a young man named Jamie who is studying theater and dance at the New World High School of The Arts in Downtown Miami, and a very nice senior citizen gentleman named Egon, who also volunteers on a regular basis at the Garden. I think you can tell from the photo just who is who. No, I wasn't standing in a hole when they took the photo, although I do believe the ground was a little uneven. At least I'd like to believe that.

The plants you see hanging all around us are varieties of Nepenthe, a pitcher plant that traps its dinner in hanging cups filled with a sweet liquid that apparently is to flies and bugs what a good martini is to a habitual drinker. Once the bug enters the "pitcher", it gets stuck in the sticky stuff, and as I tell the kids, "that's all she wrote." They understand perfectly. Nepenthe, by the way, is a Greek word meaning "absence of sorrows". I bet a bug stuck in a pitcher might have something to say about that.

At 12:30, Jamie and I snuck out of the booth for a few minutes to witness the release of two turkey vultures that had been rescued from Biscayne Bay by Wild Life Rescue of Dade County. Turkey vultures can't swim, and no one knows why a whole flock of them ended up in the bay. The rescue service, whose slogan is "Keeping Dade County Wild", is run by a Viet Nam vet named Lloyd Brown. They do amazing work. Don't laugh, but I'm thinking of volunteering there. They need help with their website and I love animals, so it sounds like a good match.

The "significant other" spent the morning driving one of the solar-powered shuttles, hauling visitors around the Garden and to the parking areas, so when both of us finished our shifts at 1pm, we made a bee-line for the booths offering food samples. Benard tends to be picky, but I am an equal opportunity sampler,from sticky Thai orange ribs and my all time favorite Arepas, to Key Lime pie and double chocolate cheese cake. It's not a day to count calories.

If you've never experienced The Ramble, you don't know what you are missing. Put it on your calendar for next year. I guarantee it's worth the trip. You'll find me at my usual carnivorous plant stand. . . .good thing I'm not a vegan.
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Photo: Jamie,Me and Egon. . . .can we interest you in a killer plant????

Check off one more item on my electronic "bucket list". I just installed Skype and am ready to have a video chat with any of you, just ring me up!

Why, you ask, have I gone out and bought a web cam for my computer when the bulk of my acquaintances these days hardly can manage e-mail? Because I will become a great grandma in 2011, and by golly, if I can't be in Jacksonville in person, I am definitely planning to be there via video.

Our family is an interesting study in contrasts. I had to literally walk my technically challenged daughter Andrea through the installation of her webcam only to find out that my older sister Fran has had Skype for several years. She installed it herself when her grand-daughter Laura was in Prague for a semester. So much for thinking the new technology is only for the young.

Anyway, I had my first video phone call with grandkids Adam and Amy last night. The two of them were in their usual post-work positions, side by side in bed, each with an open laptop on their lap. I even got a cameo appearance by my grand-dog Layla and a video tour by Adam of their new enclosed sun room. What a hoot!

I suddenly realized there will be no more sitting at my computer in my nighgown, or worse still, my underwear. Vanity insists that I put on a full face of make-up and be sure my hair is looking good before I make or answer a call, so don't be surprised if I don't answer on the first ring. It takes a village these days to get ready for the camera. . .a village named Bobbi Brown, Maybelline, Clinique, etc. etc.

So ring me up please, I need the practice. . .my Skype name is ggjojo11. . .that's greatgrandmajojo11 (Jojo was Adam's name for me when he was very little. . .he long ago shortened it down to just Jo) and the 11 is because Skype added it. . .don't ask why.
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Photo: Add your name to my list, please!

Living large on Lincoln Road. . .

We did Halloween on Lincoln Road again this year. It's a definite experience, but I think we'll take a pass in 2011. It used to be a real hoot to sit "ringside" at a restaurant table and watch the passing parade stroll by. No one does Halloween like Miami Beach's gay community, and that includes their dogs of every size, shape and breed, dressed to the nines.

Daughter Andrea was in town for a family bar mitzvah and joined us for the Sunday nite ritual. I think she's been living in North Carolina too long, because she looked slightly dazed by the crowds that were so dense it bordered on mass chaos.

Still,everyone was having a ball, from infants in their mother's arms to a great dane dressed as a ballerina. This year there were lots of Chilean miners, whole bands of terrorists sporting plastic machine guns, lots of nudity and every conceivable costume. But the real stars of the evening are always the drag queens
in their incredible outfits. (See photos! That's Benard & Andrea, watching with awe, at our "ringside" table. The "feathered goddess" was at least 6'5" in her platforms.)

We weren't in costume at our table, although our friend Doree was sporting a pair of furry ears that added a certain cache to her outfit. I,on the other hand, came equipped with my elegant silver "star" wand, trailing multi-strands of silver tinsel, that was awarded to me as "queen" of last year's big birthday party. I just couldn't throw it away and sure enough it was a winner on Halloween nite as I graciously waved it at the costumed passerbys, tapping those on the head that I felt were worthy of my royal attention. You had to be there to truly appreciate.

We actually don't get over to Miami Beach very often these days, even though it's less than a half hour drive from our home in Coconut Grove. In truth, while people come from all over the world to experience South Beach, we've grown blase about its charms and tend to avoid its crowds. So it's fun every once in a while to do the scene and remind outselves that we live in a truly remarkable place. True, English is spoken less and less, and sometimes you're not sure if you are still in the U.S., especially when the cashier in Publix gives you your total in Spanish and looks annoyed when you ask her to translate,but for sheer interest, color and excitement, it can't be beat.
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Westward ho. . .

I just returned from a week in Sedona, Arizona, visiting my friend Alice and her husband, David. Relaxing? Not exactly. Great fun? Absolutely.

If you think I keep busy, you haven't met Alice. I arrived on Wednesday evening after a five hour flight and a 2 hour drive from Phoenix Airport to Cottonwood, the scenic little town outside of Sedona where they now live. After settling into the guest room and meeting the newest member of the family,an adorable Malti-Poo named Shayna (as in Punim or Maidlich, if you understand Yiddish),I was informed that we were leaving at 9 in the morning for a "training session" at the site of the weekend's big annual art fair. Alice was scheduled to work in the tent for "smart shoppers", the polite designation for big spenders, and had volunteered my services as well.

Apparently I passed muster in training because I was entrusted with serving stuffed French toast out of a pair of commercial size food warmers,fashionably attired in a red Festival tee-shirt, red baseball cap, and an identifying sticker. (See photo. . .that's Alice on the left). Five of us worked the tent like our lives depended on it, serving brunch from 10 to 12, with Alice out front taking tickets, me hawking the french toast, Patty pushing the egg burritos, Joanie on the coffee and juice, and someone named Debbie taking care of the dirty dishes. The art show, by the way, was spectacular, lots of wonderful Southwestern and Indian art. I fell in love with a hand carved hat rack topped by a bug-eyed moose head, but was persueded not to buy on the grounds it wouldn't fit into my luggage.

A few nights later I was back in waitress mode. Alice had volunteered us both for the Film Festival's showing of the original 1929 black & white silent film of "Phantom Of The Opera" starring Lon Chaney. Everyone was urged to come dressed as if they were going to the opera in 1929 and the outfits were wonderful. We looked pretty spectacular ourselves, dressed respectively (in Alice's description of us) as a flapper and a high class Madam. Since I'm not big on short skirts, you can assume I was the Madam. Teetering on 3 1/2" spike heels, the kind I'm not used to wearing these days, I roamed the theater lobby serving platters of plump strawberries to arriving attendees while David poured wine and Alice took tickets. The film was a gas, with a live orchestra playing appropriate music to accompany the over-the-top acting of the silent screen stars.

In between volunteering we visited art galleries and enjoyed the incredible scenery. Sedona is red rock country and the views are unbelievable in every direction. Oh yes, we even attended a meeting of her book club one morning. . fortunately I had read the book, "Sarah's Key". . .I recommend it.

My visit ended with a 3am pick-up by the shuttle to the airport to make a 7:50am plane back to Miami. The plane ride was great. I slept the entire way home. Can't imagine why.

By the way, Tuesday is my birthday. . can you believe it's a year already since my big celebration into the world of the octogenarian??? Don't feel a bit older, thank you.
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Teacher, teacher. . .

NBC has been touting"Education Nation" this past week,broadcasting news about the current state of our nation's schools and talking a great deal about the importance of good teachers. Although my school days, and that of my daughter and even my grandson, are long since over, my granddaughter-inlaw, Amy, is a third grade teacher in Jacksonville,FL, so I found myself paying close attention to what they were saying. Over and over again they talked about the difference a good teacher can make.

I know one thing for sure. The kids in Amy's class are lucky kids. Her school apparently realizes it as well because she was recently a finalist in the Teacher Of The Year awards. I am well aware that Amy often reaches into her own pocket to buy colored markers and various items for the science, math and social studies projects she plans for the kids in her class. Apparently, most caring teachers find themself long on ideas and short on funds these days.

I know what the kids are doing because Amy writes a blog called "31 Thrilling Thinkers" (there are 31 students and two teachers in this class)that goes via the internet to the parents of all her kids. I'm grandmothered in. By the end of the term I feel like I know each of the children in the class via the still photos and videos that she films, captions and posts. Imagine how fabulous this must be for the parents. . some of whom are in the service overseas. . to be able to actually see their sons and daughters working on the incredibly creative projects that Amy finds/thinks up, to illustrate a subject they are studying at the time.

If they study American Indians in Social Studies they make sand paintings and create Navaho-style arrowheads. The kids get really involved in the science projects, currently they are growing stuff and carrying out all sorts of complex experiments. I never cease to be amazed at the creativity that these kids show.

Not all the projects are so serious. Recently the kids were told to draw a picture of their two teachers. . just one catch. . they had to use their non-writing hand. The photo on the left is "Mrs. Anker by Emily". The one on the right is just in case you don't know what Amy really looks like. Bet you never had a teacher that pretty when you were in school.

Flash forward. . .think back

I signed up to attend a workshop on "Writing Flash Fiction" at Books & Books in Coral Gables on Saturday afternoon.For my non-Miami blog readers, Books & Books is a throwback to when book stores weren't called Borders and Barnes & Noble, but were warm, welcoming places where the owners knew your name.

There was a mixed bag of about 30 people in the workshop that was run by a successful young author named Michelle Richmond. Most were fairly mature although a young man who looked like a college student sat directly in front of me. In all truth, I had never heard of "Flash Fiction" which is described as an ultra-short story, under 750 words, containing A,B,C,D & E. . Action, Background, Conflict, Development and End. After reading and discussing several examples, Michelle put us to work writing.

First she told us she was going to call out a "thought" and we were to write our own take on that "thought" in the space of 30 to 60 seconds. First thought: "Think of something beautiful. . .then "Think of a sound". . . "Think of the future". . ."Think of a lie". . ."Think of a body part". . . "Think of a color". . . ."Think of the best food you ever ate". . ."Think of a promise you broke". . . "Think of a kitchen from your childhood". . ."Describe snow in 3 words".

What a fascinating exercise! I'm sitting here reading over my scribbles and it's amazing what jumps into your mind when you only have a minute to write and no idea what's coming next.

Another exercise that yielded really strange results started with instructions that "you have one minute to write down the names of everybody you have ever known!" The results were mystifying. . some people found themselves writing the names of grade school teachers. .others came up with childhood friends. . . I ended with a list of relatives that I haven't thought of in 60 or 70 years although I managed to throw in the names of two ex-husbands and my oldest friend Judy, her present husband and her ex. Don't ask me why. What really struck me as odd was that I started with my Mother and Father and didn't get to my daughter Andrea and my grandson Adam and his wife, Amy, until very near the end of the 60 seconds. Basically, in one minute I had journeyed back to my childhood and my 20's. Weird!

We didn't have time to think about it before we had to start writing, but I challenge each of you to grab pen and paper now and start writing names . . just be sure to stop at 60 seconds. I'd love to hear what each of you comes up with. . .bet you'll be as surprised as I was.
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Reaching for the stars .. .

I just returned from spending the morning trying to make myself useful at the Wednesday morning session for vision impaired children, really babies, from 2 to 4 years old, at the Miami Lighthouse for the Blind. I am humbled by the courage of the Mothers that accompany these children, many with profoundly damaging birth defects, and awed by the loving care provided by the professionals who run the program and also visit the children in their homes.

Each session has a theme and today it was Stars. (Last week we did bubbles.) We begin by sitting on the floor in a circle on a colorful rug and sing "Good Morning" to each of the children and the adults and clap hands. I probably have the worst singing voice in the world, but I sing along and introduce my self when my turn comes. Today we also sang Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, and passed around a velvety soft stuffed star that the kids can hold and smell. Touching, smelling and tasting supply stimulation when there is no vision, and are a big part of our morning program. Some of the children have very low vision so bright colors and moving lights provide visual stimulation, and the room is full of toys and items especially selected for their ability to create a response.

While Isabella and Krizia are the truly inspiring professionals who really run the program, I learned today that Yaneth, whom I thought was also a pro because of the wonderful way she has with the children, is actually a senior at the University of Miami and the president of her sorority, Delta Gamma. She has made the Miami Lighthouse her sorority's personal project and the members raise money and volunteer on a regular basis. I'm impressed, guys.

As for me, I am getting to know the children. . .beautiful little Crystal Marie who was never supposed to survive infancy. . .sweet Allisio. .we all applaud and murmer "Good job" when he responds with a tiny hint of a smile and a widening of his eyes to a moving light. . . .active little Dino with his brand new eye glasses, the ones with the neon yellow rims, firmly affixed to his head. . .first time visitor, Alexa, who loved sprinkling colored sugar on bread stars. Isabella explained that they are working to get her ready to enter regular school even though she is legally blind.

The Miami Lighthouse today, under the direction of my friend and neighbor, Virginia Jacko, is the most amazing place. I am fascinated with the technology that abounds in every room of this bright and airy building. . .braille typewriters, computers that speak back to the user, a professionally equipped recording studio and a marvelous crafts workshop. In the summer, they run a kids camp that this year went kayaking for the first time.

If you can use a little inspiration, I recommend Wednesday morning at the Miami Lighthouse. You can join me in singing "Good morning to you". We could use some good voices, not to mention helping hands. # # #

Caption: Yaneth & Kristin help Alexa decorate her stars with colored sugar.

Grandma's on a roll. . . .

Three generations of the Spector/Anker family went bowling in Jacksonville Saturday afternoon. Grandma Jo (that's me), daughter Andrea, grandson Adam and Adam's wife, Amy.

The last time I picked up a bowling bowl has to be close to 50 years ago when I was a newcomer to South Florida and we belonged to the Bay Harbor Bowling League. If I remember correctly, I was a pretty respectable bowler in those days, snazzily decked out in a shirt that proclaimed "Joan" on the front and the league name on the back. Apparently, bowling is like bicycle riding. You never really forget how. Sort of.

My aim actually wasn't too bad. At least I can still see the pins at the end of the alley. That's a plus. It was the total lack of oomph as the ball left my hand and started down the alley that was the problem. As my daughter Andrea sweetly noted, by the time my ball finally reached the pins, it had forgetten the reason why it was there. The result was not exactly an impressive explosion of power, ala grandson Adam's succession of strikes, but rather a gentle journey guaranteed to do a minimum of damage to the pins and a maximum of damage to my score.

OK, so I didn't break 100, actually, I didn't break 80, but I managed to bowl two full games and still have strength to go shopping afterwards. I felt I deserved a handicap of at least 10 pins, considering my venerable age, but Adam wouldn't give an inch. So much for all those Dolphin games, Heat games and Panther games I took him to when he was a kid.

The Bowl America lanes where we played were much more colorful and comfortable than I remember about the alley where we bowled in the 60's, but the rental shoes were just as grungy. Yuk. Today's scores are totally computerized and show up in color overhead. In my case, not a good thing. I'm from the school where one member of the team was designated to sit at the little table facing the alley and write down the scores with pencil on a big paper grid. Oh well. Time marches on.

Game anyone???? I'll be glad to spot you a few pins.
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Photo captions: #1 Grandma gets ready to roll. #2 Amy & Andrea watch Adam roll a strike.

The weather channel is out my window.. . .

It's 9:30 in the morning. I'm sitting at my computer and the view from my window is zero. Biscayne Bay is a blur and I can barely see the tops of the palm trees on the deck below. Tropical Storm Bonnie has come to call, and the electricity just blinked off for a second, making me wonder if I should get out some candles and check the batteries on my flashlight before I continue writing.

Bonnie is not a full fledged hurricane, thank goodness, but she's looking and sounding pretty ugly right about now and according to the TV, she's going to intensify as the day goes on. Our dinner plans at a fancy restaurant just went out the window. The new plans are for a pot luck dinner at the significant other's apartment with two other couples. One is in charge of vegetables. The other is bringing salad. Benard is doing the main course. . .a side of salmon he just happens to have in the refrigerator. The man never ceases to amaze me. I, of course, will be setting the table with my usual style and elan. I'm also in charge of wine, so no sneering at my contribution to the occasion.


Thankfully, Bonnie is no Andrew, or even Wilma of two years ago, but I can't help remembering my pre-Andrew days in Miami when we innocently thought that hurricanes were an occasion to have a party. In the early 60's we lived on the man-made Keystone Islands in North Miami. Since they had never been hurricane tested, one time when a hurricane threatened, ten or twelve couples, complete with kids and dogs (we had two at the time) booked rooms in a bayfront hotel to ride out the storm and party hearty. What were we thinking??? Could we have chosen a worst place??? Fortunately, the storm wasn't as bad as projected.

Wisdom came the hard way in August of 1992 with the arrival of Hurricane Andrew. As an island in Biscayne Bay, Grove Isle is an evacuation zone, so I confidently packed up my two cats, Pasha & Sasha, and drove southward to daughter Andrea's home in the Kendall area. Another great choice. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say that two very frightened women, one 14 year old boy (that was you, Adam) and 5. . .count them. . .5 very scared cats. . (yes, we are a cat family and Andrea had 3 at the time). . all spent a very sleepless night praying that the front door would hold and the roof wouldn't blow off.


In retrospect, you do some strange things when you are up against nature. We had no storm shutters and the entire rear wall of Andrea's house was made up of glass paneled french doors. The only thing we could find to protect ourselves from the threat of flying glass was a series of huge cardboard posters that were part of the decoration from Adam's recent bar mitzvah. We had no electricity during the endless night hours of the storm, but every time the lightning lit up the room we were faced with lifesize portraits of Adam in various sports outfits, since his love of all sports was the "theme" of the bar mitzvah party. Pretty funny, now that I think about it.

Not so funny was the fact that Andrea's neighborhood was without power for some nine weeks after the storm. Neighbors took turns sitting in front of their damaged homes with rifles on their laps and the mood of the day was "You Loot. . We Shoot". Life became a round of finding gasoline to fuel the generator that allowed a choice of some airconditioning or some electricity during the searing heat of late August in Miami. We would go on gas runs to Broward County where gas stations had not been damaged by the storm. Andrea used to say you could tell a hurricane woman by her perfume: "eau d' kerosene". Teen age Adam was in charge of keeping the generator going and became very adept at handling the 5 gallon gas cans.

That was 18 years ago, but memories die hard. Blow your heart out, Bonnie. I've seen worse. You're no big deal. At least I hope not. # # #

Thoughts on exercising. . .

It was raining this morning,so I couldn't go out for my morning walk. Since the "significant other" had made his famous linguini with clam sauce, plus garlic bread, for dinner last night, it was imperative that I do something to reduce the calorie damage. I decided to go to the gym in our complex and maybe do a few miles on the stationary bike.

Apparently, Grove Isle has upgraded its equipment since the last time I set foot in the gym. For one thing, what used to look like a mechanical bike that you got on and started pedaling, now has enough controls to qualify as a NASA shuttle cockpit. The pretty young blonde on the machine next to me took pity after five minute when I still couldn't find the start button, much less set the speed and change the channel on the flat screen TV that persisted in listing how fast (slow) I was going, my heart rate and several other frightening numbers. If it asked for my age, I was going to bash it with one of my Nikes.

I managed to keep pedaling through a truly boring Today show interview with Elizabeth Edwards. I would have changed the channel but I still wasn't sure exactly how. The blonde was still calmly pedaling away at twice my miles per hour when I called it quits on that machine, took one look at the new elipticals and decided they would really be my undoing. At this point I was yearning for a nice brisk walk around the island where I'm in total control of my physical well being. This place was starting to scare me.

I marched myself into the next room where the machines looked more familiar, did a few sets on two or three of them, but I could tell I was losing heart. Even here there was a brand new machine that could easily qualify as a torture chamber in some medieval prison. Just looking at it made my latent claustrophobia kick in. I settled on several sets with wimpy 3 lb. weights, smiled brightly at anyone I saw, and headed for home.

Back in my apartment, I found both cats sound asleep in my bed. Next time it rains, I think I'll join them.
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Photo caption: Ginger's editorial comment on exercising.

Ticket to celebrity!!!

The paparazzi came to our art class the other morning. I, along with the three other members of my class, are about to be featured in a magazine article about "active" senior citizens. Would you believe.

Let me give you the back story. My friend Jackie and I go to art class on Thursday mornings at OLLI, an acronym for Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. OLLI is under the aegis of the University of Miami and located on the UM campus in its own building. OLLI offers a full program of classes and lectures, but Jackie and I are only signed up for the Advanced Acryllic Painting Class. She's the advanced one, I'm a newbie, just doing the best I can and having a great time painting away llike crazy.

This week when we arrived at class we found a photographer with a lot of serious equipment and a young woman named Kathleen who represented the monthly magazine published by AV-MED the giant HMO insurance company. Neither Jackie nor I have AD-MED insurance, but that didn't seem to matter, since the article was to be about little old people who managed to stay active and weren't sitting around waiting to die.

Kathleen seemed slightly nonplussed that there wasn't one gray, or better still, snow white "cauliflower head" amongst the four of us. We also weren't on walkers or nodding off as she spoke. As a matter of fact, we are a pretty lively and very diverse bunch, ranging from effervescent red-headed Patt, in her early sixties, who has a penchant for doing marvelous mural sized paintings, to quiet, brown-haired Diane, in her mid-seventies, who does beautifully detailed water colors although this is billed as an acryllics class. Then there is elegant Jackie, who has been painting for years, and just celebrated her really big birthday that makes her the same age as moi. Neither of us has a gray hair on our heads, thanks to excellent hairdressers in the area. (A low bow to you, Louis.)

I think the fact that we were all wearing jeans and tee shirts was also slightly upsetting from a visual point of view, but Kathleen gamely carried on, asking us questions and watching us work.

If the magazine wanted "active" seniors, they got a full dose of them that morning. Danny, the professional photographer, had trouble keeping up with us, but by the end of the session had done an incredible job of catching the essence of each of us as we painted, checked constantly on each other's work in progress, and absorbed suggestions from our instructor Daphne, who is an award-winning artist in her own right.

The magazine article is due to come out in August. I'm expecting a call from a reality tv show, or at least an invitation from MOMA. Actually, I'll be more than satisfied if they spell my name right and use a flattering photo. Just in case they don't, I had the "significant other" take a photo of me with my latest painting.

Title it "The Senior Citizen Artist At Work".

My automotive tale of woe. . .

I've been spending a lot of time worrying about my car. Worrying that it might be time to get a new one, even though I love the one I have. It's a classic little silver sports car, vintage 1999, and Lexus doesn't make this model any more. My grandson's been patiently waiting for me to give it up and hand it over to him, but for the most part it looks great and runs perfectly.

At least until recently.

A few weeks ago the airconditioning in the car developed a strange whistle. My regular garage was digging up their gas tanks and inaccessible, so I stopped by another local mechanic to have him diagnose the situation. He informed me I would have to leave the car and he would have to remove the engine or some such to determine my terrible problem. I saw big dollar signs and decided I could live with a little whistle.

A week or so later, I noticed my regular station had reopened and I drove in to ask their opinion because the whistling was starting to drive me nuts. Angel, the owner, was not available, but an older gentelman who seemed to be Angel's father, asked me my problem. He looked under the hood for a second, sniffed, and slammed down the hood as I anxiously looked on. He then climbed into the car, leaned over to the passenger seat, and flipped open the air vent. The whistle stopped. My jaw dropped open. More than a little embarassed, but extremely relieved, I thanked him profusely and drove away.

This morning being Tuesday, I made my usual 7:30 am drive to WLRN to read on air to the visually impaired. Two hours later when I strolled out to the parking lot to get my car, it wouldn't start. The battery seemed to be ok but the starter was making a weird sound and the steering wheel was locked up. Frantic, I did what any technically challened woman would do. . I called Benard, my significant other, and started to cry. Calmness personified, he suggested I call AAA and in the meantime I should try rocking the car back and forth to dislodge it from its locked position.

Did I mention I am 4' 11" and it had been raining so the car was soaking wet, and by this time it was 90 degrees out, but I gamely tried by bracing my back against the chain link fence in front of my car, standing on one foot and placing the other on the bumper. I know this will come as a big surprize, but the car didn't budge..

In between pushing, I kept trying to call AAA. By this time I was not a happy camper and in retrospect was not handling the situation with my usual aplomb. Actually I was close to hysteria because every time I tried to dial on my fancy new phone, the virtual keyboard kept disappearing. Finally, I got through to AAA and an automated voice told me to press #1 if I needed help. You're damned right I need help, I muttered, but the keyboard was gone again and no #1 was in sight. By my umpteenth attempt to complete the dial, I was hyperventilating and screamed at the operator when she sweetly told me they were having a busy day because of the rain and to expect someone in about an hour.

At that point my knight in shining armor, aka Benard, showed up, and together we rocked the car into submission. Me in the front, he in the back. It must have been a pretty funny sight, but it worked ! When the wheel unlocked and the starter turned over, I once again believed in God.

My car is at the garage as we speak. . Angel says I just need a new battery, there's nothing wrong with the starter. Big deal! Give me the best one you've got. I saved a bundle on the air conditioning whistle, didn't I? I feel like I'm ahead of the game. Sorry Adam, looks like you will have to wait a little longer for the car.
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Photo caption: Home again, safe & and sound!

A lesson in humillity. . .

I've upgraded my cell phone to the kind that receives and sends e-mail, can text more easily, can Twitter, tells me how the market is doing, and even has a GPS app. Not so terrific is the fact that there isn't a real keyboard anywhere in sight. Everything is done on screen , they tell me, through the heat of your fingertip. Yeah. Riight.

Have you ever sat next to a 12 year old with one of these phones? They are texting away with their two thumbs while looking in the other direction, talking on the phone and eating a McDonald's hamburger, all at the same time. I refuse to believe I am not as smart as a 12 year old, but let me tell you, this has been a humbling experience.

It's taken a few days but I seem to have mastered the e-mail situation, both reading and replying. Can't vouch for my spelling.. .that damn virtual keyboard! I must have very hot fingers, because 50% of the time the wrong letter pops up. I can take photos and send to my computer (see photo of Ginger, asleep on my desk and annoyed that I woke her with the flash). I can also answer the phone just fine, if I realize it's ringing. I was used to the melody on my old phone and tend not to recognize this new one just yet.

My real problem seems to be making a phone call. The nice young lady in the Sprint storedownloaded the phonebook from my last phone. . . and by the time I scroll through what seems like a thousand names, to find who I'm looking for, I've forgotten who I'm calling. Under A, for instance, I have four people named Allan, and under S, several people named Sergio, all with no last names and all with different phone numbers. I think I need to do a little housecleaning in that departmen

My old phone had a "quick dial" function and I knew the location of those ten numbers by heart. I also knew how to find anyone else in my contact list. I'm sure there's an easier way of doing this, but this morning, in the car, I desperately needed to call Benard before he left for Costco, and couldn't for the life of me find him in the "People" list. Since I needed one hand to drive and two hands to actually try to dial his number on the virtual screen, I gave up trying. (I tried sending him a "virtual" mind message, but I doubt that it worked.)

I taught my daughter and my grandson to always say "yes, I can" to something new, and then figure out how to do it. And boy, am I trying to live up to that wise advise. It's an interesting exercise. . a few minutes ago I found that I can actually watch CNN news on the phone. . .amazing.

Now, if I can just figure out how to find your name in my "People" list, I'll be glad to ring you up and tell you all about it.

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Photo caption: Photo taken from my new phone and whisked to my computer! The wonders of technology!

Sharing your Six Word Memoirs. . .

Dear Blog Readers: Your response to my call for your "Six Word Memoir" has been great. Some of you sent more than one, so I've taken the liberty of choosing my favorites from anyone who sent multiples. Here's a new one from me to start it off:


I blogged. You responded. Many Thanks. . . . . . Joan Spector


Experienced more than I ever imagined. . . . . . . Nancy Haynes
I'm here. I'm happy. I'm content. . . . . . . . . . . . . Susie Chase

Honor. Kindness. Family. Doggies. Health. Cash. . .Lorna Swartz

Poor little planet. Peopled by idiots.. . . . . . . . . . .Irene Arnold
Perspicacious, positive, pithy, peppy, playful, Paula. . Paula Rosenblatt
Father, friend, brother. Aloof to others.. . . . . . . . Howard Gold
Blessed, grateful, loving, happy,serious, witty. . . . . . .Crystal King

Much laughter. Some tears. Great life. . . . . . . . . .Judy Levine
Lucky twin. Thankful for beautiful life. . . Muriel Sonnenblick Perry

Twin, loving, family, sharing, happy, living. . Jean Sonnenblick Saklad
Learn, listen, love, create, and enjoy. . . . . . . . .Louis
Look! My life is an open book!. . . . . . . . . . . . . .Bill Adams
I believe. I can. I do. . . . . . . . . .Alice Goodhart

Backward, no. . Forward, maybe. Today, YES!. . .Faith Sandstrom
Life is a journey, not a destiny. . . . . . . . Jill Permutt
Life is many wins, some losses. . . . . . . . . . . .Ralph Spector

Still looking for peace and tranquility. . . . . . . .Andrea Anker

I took the road less traveled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Steve Kaplan

I am great mother and friend. . . . . . . . . . . . .Robin Rubin
World's most self-absorbed egoist. . .unbelievable!. .Dan Samuels
If you're okay, so am I. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Benard Rosenblatt
Born to do it. Did it!. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . Allan Krieff
Did the right thing. Was wrong. . . . . . . . . . Ray Holt
Spread joy, reinforcements, dare to care. . . . . . Pat Soto

You only live once. Let's party!. . . . . . . . . . .Doree Fromberg

Lucky lady, living life I love. . . . . . . . . . . . . .Mary Chichester


And finally, in the immortal words of Mel Brooks. .

It's good to be the king!

I need your thoughts. . . .

I was listening to Public Radio the other day and there was a woman being interviewed who has written a book called "The Six Word Memoir". It's a collection of thoughts by famous and not so famous writers. Here's what Google says a Six Word Memoir is:

A six word memoir is a statement that tells a story about who you are and how you live your life. . .it expresses your identity, personality, emotions, personal interests, wisdom, beliefs, professions and experiences. It can be anything you want to say. . .but you must say it in only six words.

Hmm, I thought. How would I describe myself, and in six words, yet. Makes you really stop and think. OK, here's what I came up with for myself. I'm not sure it's important if you recognize me. . .but here we go. . . .

Adventurous lady. Don't believe I'm eighty.


Great life. Many loves. No regrets.


Mother's writing gene. Shaped my life.


Run, Joan, run. Time's running out.

While I was coming up with my own list, I asked a few of the people closest to me to send me their six words. I loved my nephew Bobby's response that Julius Cesear said it best. .

"I came. I saw. I conquered."

Do you think Julius knew he was uttering a six word memoir????


It's an interesting exercise and it does take some thought, but I've decided to ask all of you who read my blog to take a few moments and send me your six words. There's no cash prize for the best memoir, and I won't even print them if you don't want me to, but I would love to hear what you have to say about yourselves. ( And besides, I'm curious to see which one's of you respond. . I'm taking bets with myself on this one!)


I'll close with my sister's rather profound six words: I think, therefore I am, Fran.


Start thinking, guys. I'm looking forward to hearing from you!!!

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Me & The Mariel Boat Lift, 30 years later

Today's Miami Herald trumpets a front page story about the success of the Mariel Boat Lift: 30 years later. I read every word of it with interest, and more than a bit of disbelief. Because I was there, in May of 1980. On the docks. Not as an arriving refugee. Or even as a member of a Cuban family behind the barbed wire fence, yearning to see the familiar face of a family member.

No, I was there, along with my photographer, Nancy Kahn, as a pr representative for Phillip Morris Tobacco Company. Basically, I was there to hand out Marlboro Cigarettes to arriving Marielitos. Cubans are big smokers, and boy, was I popular.

Let me give you some background. In 1980, my pr firm served as "man (woman?) in Miami" for a major NY-based pr firm named Ruder & Finn. It was a cushy relationship, with the NY company sending us well paying jobs in the South Florida area for their big national clients. One morning in May I received a phone call from my contact at the company informing me that I needed to round up a photographer and fly down to Key West as fast as possible. We would be met at the airport by the Phillip Morris distributor in the area, who would supply us with cartons of the popular cigarettes and hand us impossible-to-get entry passes to the Truman Annex docks, the area where the Mariel boats were beginning to arrive on an hourly basis.

Our job: take publicity photos of Cuban refugees gratefully accepting free Marlboros courtesy of Phillip Morris, USA. Not exactly a task to be proud of, in retrospect, but those of you old enough to remember, President Jimmy Carter had sent out a call to major US corporations to help the escaping Cubans.

A nice thought, except there was something very strange about these arriving refugees. As the first overloaded boat arrived at the dock where Nancy and I stood, there was not a single woman or child among the passengers. Nothing but 20 to 30ish men, all wearing the same cheap shiny rayon shirts in blue, red and green, with the creases showing that they were all brand new. As the first smallish boat pulled up to the dock, I graciously, and stupidly, extended my handful of cigarette packs. The men rushed to the boat's edge, almost overturning it. Believe me, I didn't do that again, opting to wait until they got off before allowing Nancy to get her photo ops.

After the arrival of the first two boats, I found myself standing next to a youngish man in civilian clothes who seemed to be mentally taking notes on the new arrivals. I got to talking to him and it turned out he was a Commander in the US Navy. I asked him why he wasn't in uniform and he told me because the men on these boats were afraid of uniforms, and after the first day he realized he was better off doing his job in civilian clothes. He then asked me if I felt there was something strange about the men on these boats and did I notice what they all did the moment they got off the boats?

I said yes, I noticed they all headed for a building next to the docks and emerged a few minutes later wearing different shirts. He nodded and told me the clothes in that building were donated by Cuban families already in Miami, who were hoping to see family members on the arriving boats. The shirts these arrivals were getting rid of, as fast as possible, marked them not as regular Cubans, but as dangerous prisoners and mentally ill, released en masse by Castro from Cuban jails and asylums, and sent to the US as some horrible joke. For every one decent human being he let leave, 100 prisoners received passage.

Over the next six months, more than 125,000 refugees left from Mariel and arrived at the Key West docks. While in the end, many law abiding Cubans arrived to welcoming families, and 30 years later represent a true American success story, Miami's jail population also swelled with a new crime wave sweeping over South Florida. Ultimately, Castro agreed to take back 1,840 of the criminals and insane that he sent to our shores.

Nancy and I flew back to Miami later that day. We had our photos and Phillip Morris was ultimately lauded for their good deeds. I sometimes wonder about the whereabouts of those men that I so blithely handed out cigarettes to. Not one of my prouder jobs, to be sure, but certainly one of the more interesting ones.

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hoto caption: On the Key West docks in 1980, handing out cigarettes to arriving Marielitos.

A Passion For Puzzles

I'm a two-a-day crossword addict. I get my fix from the daily edition of the Miami Herald and on line at the L.A. Times. Why else would I know that the entrance to a mine shaft is an adit, that a fancy needle case is an enui, or that a medley of things is an olio??

If you do enough of these crossword puzzles, you become the proud possessor of an amazing amount of extraneous and totally unuseable knowledge. You also end up with a helluva vocabulary. Lately,the word bolus keeps showing up as the definition for a large pill. Try working that into a conversation. There is no question that puzzle writers have favorite words that they use over and over again. Any puzzler worthy of the game knows that a Canadian hockey player is always Orr and a Giant heavy hitter is always Ott. Beware of a clue with a question mark after it. Inevitably its answer is going to be a clever play on words.

Nirvana for puzzlers, of course, is the Sunday New York Times. There's nothing to boast about until you can honestly say you've done every word of the Sunday Times puzzle. Years ago, I got a valuable lesson on doing crosswords from my friend Judy who truly does whizz through that weekly lesson in puzzle humility. I was visiting her in her Connecticut home and she had thoughtfully xeroxed a copy of Sunday's puzzle for me so we could companionably work side by side. A few minutes had passed and I was still stuck on 1 Across when she looked over at me and said impatiently, "Move on, Joan. First do all the words you know. Then go back and worry about the ones you don't know."

Excellent advice. I've followed it ever since, at least when I'm working on a puzzle, if not always in life. You out there who also love puzzles would do well to remember it as well. By the way, as long as I'm admitting to my addiction, I confess that I only work in pen, never pencil. A form of arrogance? Perhaps. I just prefer the feeling of a pen. Towards the end of the week, as the puzzle gets harder, the page may end up with multiple write overs. Fridays are always the worst. Monday's the easiest.

I was fascinated to learn that there is actually an annual "superbowl" for crossword players. Check out the 2006 documentary "Wordplay", that focuses on the world of crossword puzzles, those that construct them, those that love to solve them, and those that compete in the annual competition.

I'm not sure I'm ready for puzzle prime time just yet, but I'm working on it. Just need to fill in a couple of more spaces. . .does anyone out there know a six letter word for a stunted ear of corn??

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Photo caption: Miami Herald puzzle page, Wednesday, May 14th

To the Northwest and back. . . .

Just back from six days in Seattle/Vancouver and I'm still trying to warm up. My sister and I went to spend the Passover holiday with her son and my favorite nephew, actually, my only nephew. We still call him Bobby, although I believe he just passed his 60th birthday and has three grandchildren of his own.

Seattle is a fascinating city. The weather changes on a dime, from brilliant sunshine to grey and drizzly, but we charged onward regardless, and I do mean charged. Bobby gives no quarter and attaches no age to his mother (my older sister) or his aunt. Flattering, yes. Tiring, you bet.

We arrived on a Friday at noon and were out on the streets sightseeing and visiting two winerys by mid-afternoon, ending the day at what passes for a food court in Seattle, but seemed more like a middle-eastern/far east array of distinctly foreign food offerings. Forget Miami's Cuban food fetishes, this is Indian, Vietnamese, Japanese and Chinese, all rolled together, with a little Russian and Polish thrown in for good measure. Dinner, actually, was delicious, especially since we were joined by Bobby's son Mark, wife Kate, and adorable grandkids, Sam and Caroline.

Saturday morning at 7:30am we were on our way to the train station and the 8:30 train to Vancouver. The 2 1/2 hour trip was visually wonderful. . the northwest is magnificent with towering trees and lots of lonesome farm houses. After checking into the hotel where we would spend the night, we were off again, boarding a tiny, toy-like ferry to Granville Island where we had lunch (this time the food was Greek) and enjoyed a rare bit of sunshine in a large3 open patio, serenaded by a street musician who looked like a homeless person and seemed to be playing a giant stick. (See photo)

Vancouver is actually a spectacular city and we enjoyed every minute there before boarding the train on Sunday evening for the trip back to Seattle. Bobby allowed Fran and me to relax on Monday. Actually, I relaxed, my sister started cooking for the Passover seder we were having that evening.

I made the mistake of agreeing to take a "walk" with Boomer and Bosco, Bobby's two dogs. I put quotes around "walk", because neither Boomer nor Bosco have ever heard that word. They only know "run" and maybe "run fast". Boomer is a gorgeous Siberian Husky and all he needs is a sled to compete in the Iditerod. Bosco is a giant size brown lab, extremely sweet, but as Bobby admits, he has "issues". Basically, he's nuts. He specializes in qucik bursts of stop and go followed by a need to wind his leash around your legs. There was no way I could keep up with Boomer so I won Bosco. A couple of miles and 45 minutes later, on a steep hill, I called Uncle. . or rather Aunt. . and handed Bosco's leash back to his father.

On Tuesday we did the Tulip Festival . . acres and acres of absolutely gorgeous color. . .and Wednesday we drove to Tacoma to visit the incredible renovated courthouse, once a train station, (did I mention Bobby is a lawyer?), plus the marvelous Glass Museum. Tacoma is the home of Dale Chihuly, the glass artist, and I spent several months as a guide of the wonderful Chihuly installation at Fairchild Tropical Gardens, so it was very exciting to visit the source of all that beauty.

Wednesday evening we boarded the "red eye" and flew back to Miami, arriving at 7:30 in the morning, 4:30am, Seattle time. My inner time clock is still confrused, but it was a fun week. Miami's warmth feels wonderful. Did I mention it was in the low 40s most of the time?

The Northwest is spectacular, no doubt about it. But as I sit at my computer I am looking out the window at Biscayne Bay, the sun is shining and there are jet skis and fast moving power boats moving across the skyline. If you don't mind, I think I 'll stick with Miami.
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Photo captions: Top left: Gorgeous tulips everywhere. Top Right:Boomer & Bosco showing me love. Bottom left: The sisters in front of a field of daffodils. Bottom right: Street singer on Granville Island, Vancouver.

The view from up here. . . .

Don't mess with me, guys. I have a new professional commendation to add to my resume, delivered by the owner of the tour company that hired me to tour a group of 36 through Vizcaya Museum & Gardens yesterday.

"You have a very commanding presence," she said in all seriousness, at the conclusion of the tour as she handed me my check. All 4 ft. 11 1/4 inches of me, I said under my breath.

Commanding is not exactly how I would describe my less than towering height, but I do have a helluva loud speaking voice, a major plus with a large tour group. It must be that extra 1/4 inch that I'm desperately hanging on to, as gravity has its way with the 5 ft. stature I have endured since the age of 12. I was always the smallest kid in the class when they lined us up by height and I haven't made much progress since then..

Suzanne, the lady from the tour company, had e-mailed me that this could be a difficult group. . .it was something called The League, and she was finding them to have a bit of an "attitude". I wrote her back, not to worry. That was before I realized I had such a commanding prescence, and in truth, I was a trifle concerned. While I'm not new at guiding at Vizcaya, I am new at getting paid for what I've done for free for the past eight years. For free, if they didn't like me, that was their problem. This could ultimately be mine.

My apologies for channeling Sally Fields at the Ocars, but I think they liked me. . they really liked me. I could tell by the enthusiastic clapping at the end. We professional guides know that's always a good sign. They turned out to be a very nice group, well traveled. and fascinated with this wonderful seaside mansion that was built in 1916. Excuse me also for taking the opportunity to plagiarize Renee Zellweger and tell you, without an ounce of shame, that I had them from the "Hello, my name is Joan, and I will be your guide this afternoon. . ."

My new career as a professional tour guide is moving right along and I'm really getting the hang of it. It doesn't pay as well as my regular work, and I'm definitely not getting rich, but I am having fun. And growing taller, by the minute.
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Photo caption: Standing tall with the 6' 1" significant other. And I was actually wearing 3" heels in this photo!

Me and my computer. . . .

I'm not sure, but I think I was just scammed.

My computer has been running very slow lately and I was becoming increasingly annoyed watching that little blue circle go round and round. I found myself deleting more e-mail than I was reading, rather than sit here, tapping my foot, waiting for the latest joke (that I had already received last week) to download.

Every time I would turn off my computer, which is actually rarely, a window would come up for something called Cyber Defender, offering a free scan. Today I decided to click on it and when the scan was complete I was informed that I had. . and I'm not making this up. . .980 problems in my software. And for $34.50 they would do a complete cleaning that would absolutely, not a doubt in the world, make my computer run faster. Because I was so frustrated, I decided to go for it, entered my credit card information, and downloaded the cleaning program.

When the receipt came in the next e-mail, I had apparently made a total purchase of $54.95, not $34.50. I am not altogether an idiot, so I called the number on the receipt to question how the amount changed so quickly. Apparently I had not "opted out" from the check mark on something called "Optimizer". . .and lo and behold, my computer has been Optimized. OK, it seemed to be running a helluva lot faster and I was willing to go for the extra charge.


Except that the very nice woman named Patty from Cyber Defender, who told me she was my Personal Activator, informed me that I had a terrible virus that was eating up my files and for $279 I could have one year of technical support that would include a $50 Visa gift card. I said thank you very much but I didn't want to spend that much and didn't need a Visa gift card.


Patty assured me that this virus could do away with my entire computer in the next five minutes and since I only wanted a one time technical help to rid me of the file devouring creature, I could have a special price of $235 without the Visa gift card. In desperation, because she sounded so concerned for the life of my computer, I agreed to have the work done later in the afternoon when I was back in the office. She told me she would personally call me before any virus extermination was begun.


My computer program is Vista and it occurred to me that I had seen a free program called Malware on it that will scan for viruses. I pulled it up and scanned. It took a little more than 5 minutes and the damned thing actually scanned 50,501 items. And guess what? It didn't find a single virus. Not to mention that the computer is now running fine. It obviously did need a cleaning.

I just called Cyber Defender back to cancel the $235 technical program. Not so easy. I have now spoken to three different people and still haven't gotten confirmation that they will give me a refund, even though they haven't done the work. My next call is to Master Card to inform them that I am disputing the charge.

Like I said at the beginning. I think I just got scammed. And I bet I'm not the only one this has happened to. The threat of my computer crashing was enough to talk me into anything. Talk about co-dependency. Not too smart, guys. And I'm not even blonde.
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Photo: Can't live with it. Can't live without it.

Will wonders never cease!!!

I think I've stumbled onto a new career! It's not going to make me rich, I'm sorry to report. But I thinks it's going to be an interesting adjunct to my resume.


First the back story. More than ten years ago the significant other and I went to a friend's fabulous birthday party at Vizcaya Museum & Gardens. For those of you not familiar with this extraordinarily beautiful waterfront estate here in Coconut Grove, it was the home of industrialist James Deering. It was built in 1916 at a time when Miami was literally a jungle.

We were so awed by the mansion that first Benard, and two years later, I, studied to become unpaid, volunteer guides. Both of us loved guiding at Vizcaya on Friday afternoons right up until December of 2009. If I say so myself, we were both damned good at it.

I won't go into our reasons for quitting, but suffice to say that the new administration didn't feel my heart was in the required new tour that they had instituted. They were probably right. I thought it was better suited to 5th grade kids and an insult to the guests . I guess it showed. But that's beside the point. What was the point was that I gave up doing something I loved and did for free for eight years.

Fast forward. In February, out of the blue, I received a call asking if I was a "professional" Vizcaya guide. "Hmm," I said to myself. "What the hell. Sure", I answered, "why do you ask?"

Seems the lady on the line was calling from a tour company in Naples, Florida and desperately needed a guide for a group she was busing over, two days hence. When she told me it paid $125 I almost burst out laughing.

The tour went great and I had a ball. I walked away with check in hand and a date in March when she would be needing me again. Now, another phone call, this time from a Miami-based tour company, asking if I would be available to do an evening tour about Miami on a bus taking a group to Vizcaya and then tour the mansion. Sure, I said, so now I'm an instant maven on Miami history, thank you Google. She was paying $25 an hour with a minimum of four hours. Wow! And also, by the way, did I know another Vizcaya guide who might be interested?

Did I know one? I practically live with one. A quick call to the significant other, and we're both on the dotted line. Not to mention potentially $200 richer. My accountant will be impressed.

I'm thinking of revamping my website to reflect my new career path. I've made myself a very professional name badge on the computer so the guests will know who I am, and I'm good to go.

"Welcome to Vizcaya, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Joan and I will be your guide today. ."
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A few thoughts on my life. . .

I've been trying to write my biography for the past year and a half. So far I've gotten up to 1959 and the fact that I missed being stuck in Havana for Castro's revolution because we had a New Year's Eve party in Miami. Those were the days when I went regularly, once a month, to review the new shows at all the major Havana hotels and nightclubs for a man named Paul Bruun who was the Walter Winchell of Miami Beach. I'd write the reviews for his newspaper, the Miami Beach Sun, and he'd put his name on them. My Mother never understood that. Since we were dirt poor at the time, my husband and I understood it very well, especially when the checks arrived.

But back to my biography. Although I am sure nobody will ever read it except, I guess, my daughter, and maybe my grandson under duress, I seem to have this need to put my life down on paper. Maybe because, as my sister Fran always says, she and I are the only ones left who were actually there, at least in the early years.


Years ago, when Alex Haley's "Roots" was brought to television, my Mother decided to write down her family's history. She typed it on her manual typewriter and made carbon copies for Fran and me. It is a fascinating account of a Jewish family's trek from a small Hungarian village named Gyngos, to New York City, at the turn of the century. Mother was actually born in NYC and her description of growing up in what was literally an immigrant society is truly a treasure. All the grandchildren have read it and we are so glad she did write it all down.


Mother was a whiz at typing. She would have loved the computer with it's ability to make instant changes and print out gorgeously clean, multiple copies. Believe me, I remember when one mistake on a finished press release meant you had to go back and do the whole damned thing over again, regardless of erasers and white-out. Incidentally, Mother made both my sister and me take typing in high school because, as she told us, "you can always make a living if you know how to type." Gee, Mom, looks like I'm still doing it.


What's interesting about trying to write your biography is the fact that you are forced to review different times in your life where decisions you made, rightly or wrongly, ended up making a huge difference. At times, it's an exercise in humility. You find yourself wondering, why in hell did I decide to do that. What was I thinking? At other times, I find myself saying, gee, I did that pretty good, didn't I?

I've decided I'm a very lucky person. Don't want to give myself a "kina hura". . the spelling is probably wrong but hopefully you get my meaning. . if not, ask someone who understands Yiddish, it has to do with putting a curse on yourself. . . I've had a really interesting life, and in fact I still enjoy every day. My kids are wonderful. My health is good. I can still do two crossword puzzles a day (sometimes with a little help from the significant other), can't jog any more but still walk miles several mornings a week, and clients still hire me to write for them. I'm the one they hire when they need someone to write "rich". . .that's a joke, they should see my bank balance these days.


I promised myself I was going to do some work on my biography this morning, at least get through a few more decades, but now I'm all written out. Besides, I have to go to Publix and buy cat litter. . .the kind we didn't win in that ill-fated Pet of The Month Contest. Ginger and I are still pissed off about that fiasco, but that's an old story. I'm also thinking I need to finish up on my latest attempt at being a painter.

No wonder I'm still on 1959.
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Photo caption: The first page of my bio on my computer's desk top. . .at least I've done that much.

You go, girl. . .

I was out watching the annual ING Marathon at 7:30 this morning. The route from downtown Miami takes the runners right past the entrance to our street in Coconut Grove, so we routed our morning walk to be able to watch them run by. I marvel at the speed of the front runners, but I really relate to the slower ones who are out there just to prove to themselves that they can actually run 26.2 miles without dying in the process.

Watching them this morning I had a vivid memory of the first race I ever ran. I gave up smoking and took up running on my 50th birthday. By the end of the first year I could run a mile fairly easily but had never considered running in a race. That September, Spector/Anker Associates, our public relations firm, was handling the International Auto Show and someone came up with the brilliant idea of kicking off the show with a 10k foot race that started and ended at the Miami Beach Convention Center.

We got a local running club to organize the run and even got Don Shula, the coach of the Miami Dolphins at the time, to be our honorary race marshall. When the guys from the running club heard that I was a new runner, they insisted that I run in the race. I was frightened at the thought of runing 6.2 miles but I told myself I had a month to get ready and all I had to do was train.

With a few other things on my plate like handling all the pre-publicity for the show and taking care of other clients,, I never got further than 3 miles on any morning run. I tried not to think about the fact that the race was more than twice as long. The wife of a friend of ours was also running in the race. The fact that Jen was in her early 30's, and 20 years younger than me, bothered me a bit, but it was her first race also and at least it was someone who wasn't going to run away from me at the starting gun. It was a gorgeous day, the sun was blazing, and the route took us down through South Beach and back again. As we started out, my clearest memory of the moment is of my two year old grandson (yeah, that was you, Adam) sitting on his grandfather's shoulders, waving to me as I ran by. That was the last good moment I had.

By 4 miles into the race, the sweat was poring down and I was sure I was going to die. What kept me going was that every time I looked at Jen, I would say to myself, "you will not let her run away from you just because she's 30 and you're 50. You will keep running even if it kills you." Jen actually finished the race a minute or two ahead of me. I made a triumphant, if exhausted , finish accompanied by all the members of the Runner's Club who came out to escort me in.

You are not going to believe this, but I actually won lst place in the Women's 50 and over category..Admittedly, I was the only one running in that category that day, but I still have the trophy sitting proudly on my shelf. The best part was Jen's comment as we relaxed in the hot tub on our patio after the race. She told me the only thing that kept her running was watching me and thinking to herself "if that old lady can keep running, damnit, I'm not going to quit."


We ran in lots of races after that, and I still have the tee-shirts to prove it. My running days have slowed down to a brisk walk, but watching the guys and especially the girls at the back of the pack this morning, really took me back. Believe me, I know just how they felt. Totally exhausted but totally determined. Try it some time. Makes for great memories.
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Photo caption: Thumbs up, after a successful race, circa 1981.