Category: Hats

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The Old, The Infirm, And The Creaky Knees

Me, as an old fogey.
This is the sign in the train car we rode to/from the Bruce concert.

I have transformed the title of an early Bruce album called THE WILD, THE INNOCENT, AND THE E STREET SHUFFLE into the title of this Portland/Bruce post. Indeed, age and health and general creakiness became my inadvertent personal themes of our less-than-ideal recent getaway. All I wanted to do was go to a concert. That was it. It was a completely innocent endeavor. But all along the way, I was found out for who I apparently am—at least corporeally. My mortal husk is not the husk it used to be.

It began when I dragged my carry-on bag to my seat on the plane in SLC. I bent down to lift the bag up and into the overhead baggage cabinet, when—for the first time in my traveling life ever—a young (?) man (probably in his early 40’s) asked if I would like some help hefting the relatively small piece of luggage up into its proper spot. I was taken aback. But I said, “Yes, thanks. I guess I should start to use my ‘old lady’ ticket’ whenever possible.” I was joking—or was I? The very same thing happened to me on our return flight.

When we boarded the train after the Bruce concert, the sign in this photo adorned the train car we were in. I wasn’t standing in the train more than five seconds when a woman I swear was my age offered me her seat. How old am I? A few minutes later, she offered it to me again. How infirm am I? A couple of train stops later, a woman sitting closer to where I was standing asked if I needed to sit down. This was getting weird. What the heck did I look like—Grandma Moses? Methuselah? The Crypt Keeper?

Much later, back in Utah, I asked Suzanne, “Just how old and/or infirm do I look?” Of course, I did test positive for COVID-19 a mere few hours after we got home safely. I suppose I maybe just looked ill the whole trip. I felt like crud most of the time, and I felt worse when we got home—which is why I took a COVID-19 test in the first place. The test was positive, positive, positive. Aaaaarrrrgggghhhhh! But once I remembered COVID was nothing more than a complete hoax and conspiracy, I felt 100 % chipper immediately. So I simply look ancient, I guess.🤣 Stay tuned for one more Portland post, in which I was also old—but still hip.

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Right After The Springsteen Concert

This is a selfie of me at the Portland airport, waiting for our flight home. It has nothing to do with what this post is about, but the correct photos are currently missing.
I’ve never met a zoo I didn’t like. Until now.

Permit me, please, to completely jump over the main event—the concert we flew to Portland to attend, for just a bit longer. Now I want to tell you what happened when the concert was done and we hopped on the train which would drop us off a mere two blocks from our hotel. So when we left the Moda Center, we were sardine-packed into the train back to the city’s main drag (That word is still legal here, right?). After a couple of stops, enough folks had disembarked from the train so that we could breathe again. HEAR ME, PEOPLE! There is a little—although highly important—thing called the social contract which we all tacitly agree to make with each other. It is unspoken and unwritten, for the most part. And yet, this contract keeps chaos and anarchy at bay as we go through every day of our lives on this planet. Part of this social contract is that we agree to stay out of each other’s personal and mental space—unless otherwise invited. We live and let live, and do our best to leave each other alone. What I’m getting at here is how we can co-exist amiably while literally being stuck together in small spaces like a train car, for example. I want to formally introduce to “some” clueless people two of the infinite parts of the unspoken, unwritten social contract we share with each other as our paths cross in the bigly world. Pay attention, folks! Here’s the wisdom: When you know you’re going to be breathing near herds of other breathing human beings, WEAR DEODORANT and SUCK ON A MINT. It’s just polite. It isn’t difficult to do. When you are in a group, close to other people you might or might not know, these are just two more ways for you to love your neighbors. Just sayin.’

The real obstacle to our plans that night had to do with getting back to our hotel, by way of public transit. Long story, short. There was a malfunctioning sign in our train car, which resulted in Suzanne and I—and a bunch of other concert-goers—missing our correct stop in the dark. By the time we all figured it out and got off to catch a train back the way we just came from, we were miles away from our destination. We were also underground and had no idea where we were. We were in a strange city none of us knew very well. We soon learned that the train we had been on was the last one scheduled for the night going in that direction, and the last train going back in our direction had already gone before we even got to wherever we now were.

We took the elevators up to see precisely where we were. This wasn’t gonna be good. And it wasn’t. We were at the Oregon Zoo! The closed zoo! The deserted zoo! Besides our little gaggle of Bruce-lovers, there was not one other human around! The zoo at midnight! Surrounded by wild animals we couldn’t even see, and we knew they could certainly see us! Un-walkable miles away from our hotel! Stranded with strangers who could’ve been a band of Springsteen-loving, roving serial killers, for all we knew! I called a cab company and couldn’t even tell the dispatcher an exact address where they could fetch us. I told them, “We’re at the Oregon Zoo.” But remember that freaky storm which showed up earlier in the week? Yup, the storm was a problem still. Cabs were few and far between. The wait for one was going to be lengthy, if a taxi showed up at all—which it didn’t. Suzanne eventually called a Lyft, which did show up—after the longest, coldest time. While we waited and waited some more, the temperature dropped bigly, the wind came up, and the snow began to fall. We had no shelter. Finally after another long wait, a vehicle arrived to save us.

By the time we got back to the hotel that night, Suzanne and I were not speaking. We weren’t upset with each other, or anything else for that matter. We were simply done with the complications of our day. There was not one word that either of us had any reason or energy to say. That was a first for us.🚃

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But We Found An Open Restaurant

Suzanne took this photo at CHERYL’S ON 12TH.
This is the place, for good breakfast eats.
Just taking a seat for breakfast in Portland. Suzanne snapped this photo, too.
Doesn’t Suzanne have the most serene face?! She calms my sometimes too-wild mind with her Lasso o’ Being Serene.
The decor at CHERYL’S was funky and welcoming at the same time.
You can look up a mannequin’s skirt on your way in and/or out the door at CHERYL’S.
My old face is getting soft. My skin is resting more and more of the day and night now. It’s been very busy all of my life. I don’t mind it one bit.

Bow Tie o’ the Day was hungry. This short jaunt to Portland was not turning out to be the easy, relaxing trip we had planned. There were no dangerous or sketchy or unconquerable things happening, but it seemed like no matter what we set out to do or see, there was a clear impediment. We still had a ball. We just had to go to Plan B every single time we tried to execute our Plan A’s. I shall forever refer to this trip to Portland as “Vacation Heck, By A Thousand Small Snags.” Our trip’s constant need for finagling and maneuvering did not quite fall far enough to reach the level of Vacation Hell, but still…it merits its own name.

CHERYL’S is a restaurant our hotel people recommended, and they were right to do so. It was a local diner-type place, just a few blocks from the hotel. It would have been a pleasant walk to get there, just minutes away—except for the biting wind which hung around after the bigly snowstorm which left ice everywhere. The wind, of course, was not at our backs as we made our journey to food. Brushing the windblown ice crystals out of my eyebrows as we walked into CHERYL’S, I told Suzanne I did not care if wherever we were going next was only a block away—we were going to go there in a cab. I recall saying at some point, “I am too old to be cold if I don’t absolutely have to, even if it’s for less than a minute.” Of course, after we had eaten a full meal in a warm place, and had lingered and laughed at our cozy table for a while, I didn’t mention my newly declared MUST. TAKE. TAXI. EVERYWHERE. ON VACATION. WHEN. IT’S. CHILLY. OUTSIDE. rule. We just buttoned up our coats and acted like the brave LDS pioneer children who are our cultural ancestors and we sang as we walked, and walked, and walked, and walked, and walked—through the wretched, freakish Portland cold—wherever we went that day. And a good time was had by all.🤠

BTW I must disclose that CHERYL’S served dreamy beignets that were lighter than helium and yet chock full o’ sweetness. Eat there once, if only to eat one of their beignets.

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The Other Reason To Go To Portland

Since we were going to have to travel somewhere to see a Springsteen concert, we knew we needed to examine other factors when choosing a city for our destination. What led us to decide in favor of seeing Bruce in Portland was a bookstore: Powell’s. Powell’s is not just any old bookstore. Powell’s is the largest independent new and used bookstore on the planet. It covers an entire Portland block. I have longed to gaze upon its tall shelves and get lost in its maze of stacks ever since I heard about it years ago. To me, Powell’s is every bit as bigly a deal as Bruce Springsteen himself. As far as they are both cultural icons, they represent important values to me.

So we braved a day of flight delays, stormy weather, tires-spinning-nowhere taxi rides, and closed restaurants, to bundle up and trudge through bitter winds and across whole blocks of sidewalk and road ice—for the purpose of making our pilgrimage to the Holy Grail of those of us who are called to read. (Yes, reading is a calling.) We made it to Powell’s! Only to be met with this disappointing sign on the door. I was speechless. Even the little choo-choo train of weak swear words that show up in my head sometimes when they are perfectly appropriate—even those bad words couldn’t manage to blurt out a thing. I just stood there at the locked door. I wanted to cry, but my tears would have immediately turned to drops of ice in the freezing wind. I was glad I had this diamond-point Bow Tie o’ the Day to be with me through this bleakest of literate moments.

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We Got To The Portland Airport Safely

After our flight from SLC, we found ourselves at the Portland airport for much longer than we had anticipated. We were surprised at how chilly it was as we patiently waited in the line for a taxi to our hotel. Now, remember we were already nearly 4 hours late getting to Portland because our flight had been delayed a number of times in SLC. We were only sixth in the taxi line, but almost forty-five windy, freezing minutes later, we were still still standing there and still sixth in the line. Where the bleep were the taxis? My butt was frozen and my dentures chattered. Eventually, we finally scored a taxi without pulling any dirty tricks. It was early evening and we simply wanted to get to our room and vegetate for a bit, then go out to eat.

What we did not know at that point is that the Portland area was experiencing an unusual snow and ice storm, especially for this time of year. Honestly, it didn’t seem nearly as gnarly as most of the freakish Utah storms I’ve driven in. But for Portland, this storm was a bigly deal. Once we were on the road to the city, it was a ride of inches. We were going nowhere slowly. On the bright side , we were warm. It took us probably an hour to drive maybe 2 miles. We were at a 4-way intersection at the foot of a hill and we were undeniably stuck. Cars were stuck all around us. Our taxi driver tried valiantly to dig us out of the predicament, but he was also part of the problem because he didn’t seem to know any of the tricks for getting unstuck in snow. He didn’t understand the art of rocking the car as you lightly give it gas. And, yup, he was a desperate pedal-to-the-metal wheel-spinner. The snow was flying high and wildly from our taxi tires. Because of insurance concerns, we couldn’t offer to try to drive us out of snow and ice. We waited. We didn’t move for at least another hour. You can see the taxi fare meter at $100.06 in one of these photos: we went nowhere, and the fare kept adding up. But we were warm. This is the place in the story where I must admit I had to strategically get the lower half of my body far enough out of the stuck taxi at one point to relieve myself in the darkness. Our driver had called his friend to bring another taxi with bulkier winter-driving muscles to come rescue Suzanne and me. We waited some more, and the second taxi dude eventually showed up—unstuck and warm—a ways down the block. (FYI When we switched into the second taxi, the first taxi driver said we owed him nothing. But he had worked so hard for so long to get us unstuck that we couldn’t not give him a robust tip.) We transferred ourselves and our bags to the heavy-duty taxi, hoping our hotel hadn’t given our room away already because we were long past our check-in time. Suzanne had called the hotel earlier to let them know we would be very late. Even so, messages don’t always get to the right people, so you don’t know for sure until you show up. The second taxi delivered us to our hotel safely and without problem. For exactly $100.

At the Hotel Lucia, our room was waiting for us exactly as reserved. We knew our hotel did not have its own restaurant, so as we checked in, we asked if any restaurants nearby were still open. We needed to grab some dinner. They were not. Everything had closed down earlier than usual because of the storm—in order for workers to get home before the weather situation got worse. Our hotel clerk told us the Hotel Lucia had agreed to give rooms for the night to some restaurant workers who couldn’t get home in the storm. In return, the restaurant manager sent trays of the day’s leftovers to the Hotel Lucia. Our hotel clerk told us we were welcome to some of the gourmet food the hotel had been given. We jumped at the generosity, and a clerk brought up two overflowing trays of a variety of yummy foods right to our room. Everything was lukewarm, but we did not complain. In fact, I ate at least four slices of some of the best prime rib I have ever tasted. All in all, we had a rather bumpy day getting from SLC to our destination, but it ended with a prime rib cherry of generosity on top.🍒

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A ValenTIE, A Poem

Heart-breaker Tie o’ the Day is a reminder that love has its pains. This poem, written by the American poet, Jane Kenyon, is a love poem about an ordinary day filled with ordinary events—and how these simple things become extraordinary when spent in the company of one’s beloved, especially when time is running out. Kenyon wrote the poem while she was fighting a losing battle with cancer almost thirty years ago. The poem speaks to me. I hope it speaks to you. Love on, my friends.💝💝💘

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A Million-Dollar Simple Idea

Right after college, I briefly considered taking a job with a hoity-toity advertising company (whose name I now forget) in Chicago. The salary was sweet, and Chicago would have been mine for the taking. I was sure I was full of brilliant advertising ideas. But, ultimately, I wanted to be a poet, a storyteller—a real writer—so I decided to be poor and go to graduate school at the University of Utah. Which I did. And I am—poor and a writer, I mean. I do, however, still get ideas for creating and/or marketing products. Why am I telling you all this ancient information about a job I turned down? Puzzle pieces Bow Tie o’ the Day is in search of the answer to that same puzzling question. Well, it has to do with a product idea I cannot quit pondering. How has no one made this happen yet? I guarantee it would be a profitable venture. It comes down to this:

The company that makes Head & Shoulders shampoo should market a body wash called Knees & Toes? It’s a no-brainer. You could market it to adults and kids. The logical commercial jingle is already written and in the public domain. It’s sung wherever you find a toddler learning about body parts. The song gets easily stuck in your head, which is exactly what advertising tries to do. Admit it: the song is stuck in your head, even as you read this. Somebody pay me. Just sayin.’ 👤

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Like What You Like

I have been accused of being a wee bit infatuated with paisley. I used to deny I had any such propensity—until Suzanne bought us some paisley sheets. Much to my dismay, I discovered I now have trouble sleeping every night the paisley sheets are not on the bed. Hi. My name’s Helen, and I’m a paisleyholic.

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And Then There’s The Top Of My New Hat

I got a most unusual phone call early one morning last week, and it was from Suzanne. She had been in her office for about 20 minutes when she called. My phone announced who was calling me, and as I searched the living room for where I had set down my ringing gadget, I figured Suzanne was probably calling me to say she’d left something home that she needed me to bring to her office. Suzanne forgetting something she needs is a rare happening, but it has happened on occasion. No bigly deal. Having found my phone, I answered it. I heard breathing, but no words. After a few moments, I heard mumbling that vaguely sounded like it came from Suzanne. She spoke in slow motion. It sounded like she was drunk—2 or 3 times over. Sloshed Suzanne. But how could that be? It was a tad after 8:00 AM, and she had seemed just fine when she left the house only a half hour before. With tortoise-like slowness and inebriated-sounding slurring, Suzanne said, “Will you go upstairs and check to see if I took my night medication instead of my morning medication?” I checked out her medication organizer and, sure enough, her morning meds for the day were still there. She had, in fact, taken her night meds instead. The PM meds had an obvious soporific effect on Suzanne—which is fitting for bedtime, but not for the start of the work day. I told Suzanne she would not be driving home, but that I would come fetch her from work immediately. By the time I got to her office about 15 minutes later, Suzanne was unable to walk on her own. Two of her colleagues had to help her get downstairs and out of the building. Likewise, it took them both to get her propped upright in my truck. Suzanne seemed every bit the drunkard. She tried to speak as I drove homeward, but I couldn’t understand most of what she slurred on and on about. I did understand her ranting at the creeping UTA bus in front of us as it was going 10 mph below the speed limit for no reason at all. (I was ranting the same rant in my head.) I got her home and up the stairs. I managed to pull off her boots and help her finagle her drowsy bones into the bed—where she slept and snored for the rest of the day. When Suzanne woke up, everything was back to normal—except it was almost bedtime, which meant it was almost time for her to take her night meds again.

If I get my way, Suzanne will alter her meds logistics, so the AM and PM meds are no longer in the same pill organizer or even in the same room. You live, you learn. Suzanne’s meds incident is now firmly in the past—no harm, no foul—and we find it merely an amusing anecdote from the little “book” we’re living, which we like to call THE CHRONICLES O’ HELANNE (“Helanne” is our self-designated “famous couple name,” like Bennifer or Brangelina). Suzanne’s meds faux pas was simply a could-have-been-worse occurrence neither one of us wishes to be part of again. You think I’m a circus to live with? Clearly, living with Suzanne is never boring either. I mean—she made an entertaining not-drunk drunk without even being conscious she was putting on a show. And it was a riot.

FYI When I see a cap such as this, I expect to see a pompom. A hat of this ilk is incomplete without the jaunty flair of a poof ball. A pompom is this hat’s punctuation mark.

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A New Suzanne-made Hat

Tie o’ the Day is my version of a 21-doughnut salute to the crafty Suzanne, who crocheted me this amazing new hat one evening. I’m smitten by it, which means you’ll be seeing it again and again. It’s double thick—for those mega-chilly days when the cold stabs me to the bone. Suzanne is my hero, and she gallantly treats me like I’m her hero. At least one of us is a very lucky human being, and I’m positive it’s me. Note to self: Make it a point to thank Suzanne each day for all the bigly and little-ly things she does to make my life incredible. I suggest that if you’ve got people who treat you like you are the most magnificent creation on the planet, let them see your gratitude now. We’re only here temporarily. 🐝🦋