Getting Old

When I’m an old lady,

I want to be one of those

women that has a house

By Maria Seruya

full of potted plants and

weird rocks and crystals

with a cluttered garden …

That just looks after her

animals and paints and

minds her own business,

with her crazy hair.

And I’ll go visit my friends

to have tea and they’ll

be happy too.

George Sand Again

As of late there seems to be a renewed interest in one of my patron saints, George Sand. So it is time to pay more attention to her. As far as I am aware, George never felt she was a man, and she certainly—in her ever active sex life—never claimed to be interested in other women as partners. She did however, believe that men should not receive greater privileges than women. And they certainly should not be deferred to. And she just plain enjoyed dressing as a man, so why not? Why not indeed.

“Is it a man, a woman
Is it an angel, a demon?
I am the complete being
I exist by myself alone
And have resolved the problem
Of Plato’s androgynes.”

Verses by Etienne de Jouy addressed to George Sand

Portrait of George Sand, which hangs at Chawton House, Jean-Baptiste, 1847

Born Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin, the French author George Sand (1804-1876) was one of the most popular writers in Europe in her lifetime, with her novels outselling Victor Hugo’s works in England in the 1830s and 1840s.

George is most popularly known as the lover of Chopin. And there was a group (ha! Groupies well before the 1980s) that gathered together, not the least of whom included: Bertie—Bertrand Russell, Franz Liszt, and of course, Chopin himself. It was not a Salon as such. These greats gathered together to play music, read poetry, and discuss ideas.

Chopin and George were together for some time until they were estranged by the interference of George’s daughter who wove herself into their marriage of minds. Solange became a point of disruption to George and Frederic so much so that George left him just two years before his death. She did not attend his funeral.

Many women in Europe wore men’s clothing in public at that time in the 19th century. So much so that a law was passed stating that women could dress as men, but only with permission. George refused to get a permit to dress as she liked. She championed the poor and the working class. She stood for women’s rights and all injustice and inequality.

George was a full and complete person of many talents and expressions. These comments only scratch the surface. There is much more to read of her time here on earth. It is well said that we owe her respect and admiration.

Once upon a time I wanted to change my name to George but felt I could not as both my dad and my brother had the first name of George. I still think it would be fun.


…You just go a little crazy trying to get into your account. Because they are protecting me. Apparently from myself. And mind you, they did an excellent job.

Yesterday at the Diner

I ordered an omelet with home fries (fried potatoes, not really fries) and toast. They serve enough for two meals and pour enough coffee for me to enjoy the play while I am there.

A very heavy-set man at a table across and in front of me to the left, in his sixties or maybe 70s. He has ordered a cup of soup with something else and sits with it until a very good-looking waitress who happens to be the one waiting on me starts past. She is clearly in her twenties. He grabs her hand and she stops. He speaks with her but I cannot hear. She pulls her hand away to gesture with it. He grabs her other hand and she moves into the table, continues to speak with him while he holds her hand. They chat for some time and I can hear her describing her future plans. At last she says, “I don’t know. Sometime I’ll make up my mind.” She extradites herself from him, pulling her hand away and walking towards me. The wedding ring on her left hand sparkles in the sunlight.

She stops at the table behind him to see if they want anything more before continuing on her way. A short time later she walks past and he sees her, grabs her arm. She stops at his booth and again turns her body to face into the table. He continues to hold onto her, begins running his hand up and down her arm. They talk like that for some time as I finish what I’ll eat and push the plate from me. She pulls her arm away as she asks him if he’d like a carry-out box. He says no and returns to his meal.

She turns toward me again and then comes over to my booth. I say to her, “It looks as if he’s never heard of Harvey Weinstein.” “What?” She asks with a blank expression on her made-up face, eyes extravagantly black with false eyelashes and mascara. “I wonder if he’s heard of Harvey Weinstein,” I say. “I don’t know,” she says, her face still blank. I ask for a carry-out box.

She walks away from me towards him and he stops her yet again, pulls her into the table with his left hand and reaches into her apron pocket with his right. He tucks some bills into the pocket. “Oh, thank you!” She says jauntily as she pulls away. “I’ll see you again soon.” After she walks away he struggles to get up from the seat. He looks briefly at me as he turns so he can put both hands on the table and back of the seat for a boost and balance. I look at him thinking I shouldn’t do that but continue with my eyes on his face. He looks down as he continues to struggle, pushes himself up and away. He’s heavier than he had looked and it’s no small feat for him to walk toward the counter checkout. I don’t believe he saw me watching him. I don’t think he saw me at all.

I drink my coffee. Think I should make a note in the book I am reading so I will remember the event. I decide I don’t need to. Today I am finishing the meal she brought my carry-out box for. It’s more than enough for another meal.


As a P.S.#1., I doubt either one of them has heard of Harvey. I wonder if she’s heard of Nicole Simpson. She wouldn’t identify in any case, she’s dark complected and Nicole was a blond before OJ did her in.

As a P,S, #2., I’m going to start calling Tony’s Diner—Dinner Theatre. Or dinner and a play.

A Note

At last I’ve changed the quote after the masthead of this blog. My initial intention was to change it on a regular basis. I never changed it. I don’t know, maybe I will now. I also tried to change my theme but could not. I couldn’t as I still prefer the one I have. So I changed the color. At least that’s something. And that’s about as wild as you’ll see on this Sunday when football made me sad. I’d like a real team. I’d like the Packers to be something again. They need to change their theme.

Birthdays—Late Again

Two birthdays for October 15.

My mum was born on October 15th, back many years ago— in 1904. It’s difficult to think in terms of over 100 years ago. Once someone asked her what the thing was that stood out above all else through the years she had lived. She replied that it was the moon landing. She shook her head and said it was just unbelievable. Think of it, she said. Walking on the moon. Yes indeed.

The other October 15th birthday for today is our pal Freddie’s. Nietzsche was born in 1844 and died just three years before my mother, little Frances E Hansen was born. That’s another thing to ponder, how things move on so very quickly, but only in retrospect.

And still we move on ourselves, contemplating or not, counting the days or not. One day, one birth at a time. In our own way, as only we can.