The Life of Amy An almost lifelong resident of Fairfield, I will share my thoughts on the everyday to the extraordinary and may even impart some of my "wisdom" along the way. I promise some updates on my twin daughters and whatever else "you need to know."
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In my many years of living here, I have never been so wind blown.
I am really tiring of the gusts that blow off my hat while walking the dog, twist my towels until they look like spaghetti noodles drying on the line and generally play havoc with my allergies.
For many years the blessings of the wind have been preached. “It keep us from those sweltering days,” I was often told. Apparently people spreading this story aren’t aware that we can get some pretty evil north winds here that only seem to add the heat.
I remember a former co-worker who, after a few days of triple digit temperatures, would look west and if she saw a fog bank in that direction, she said the south winds were coming in to cool us off.
I found her to be a much more accurate weather forecaster than those who are on TV and make much more money that we in the newspaper business.
I look out my window as I pen this and see the tree branches swaying with the frenzy of someone in a Metallica mosh pit.
I’m getting tired of this view.
I don’t want to have to hold on to my hat with one hand the dog harness with the other. I want my towels to just stay where they are put on the line and I want to get off allergy medications.
I can handle breezes of 10-15 miles per hour. But I’m really growing old of the 30 mph of gusts that seem to be the rule.
Remember that scene in “Titanic” where Kate Winslet’s character tells her fiancee that the ship doesn’t look much bigger than the Mauritania and he replies something along the lines of, “you can be blasé about some things Rose but not about Titanic.”
Thursday night I felt like Rose’s fiancé, played by Billy Zane. And, I thought of my husband as Rose, though he thinks “Titanic” is the worst movie ever made.
While traveling to mom’s, I spotted what I believed was a gas station selling gas for $3.99 a gallon. I continued on my way contemplating whether I should be driving while having such visions.
An hour or so later, I traveled by what is usually the cheapest gas in Fairfield to see it priced at $4.17 a gallon, which is still a bargain in my book compared to $4.50 a gallon.
So, I made my way back the station selling gas for less than a McDonald’s value meal. Yep, I had read it right the first time.
To my surprise there was no line of cars waiting to purchase gas at this price. I pulled in, and while filling up chatted with the woman who was across me, also filling up her vehicle.
I got my receipt and got out of there like the proverbial bat of you know where. I figured someone was going to come looking for me and tell a mistake had been made.
Once home, I ran in the front door, clutching my receipt like it was the vial of life, all the time telling my husband to get on his reading glasses.
My enthusiasm was overflowing when I made him sit at the table and pointed to the receipt where it read the actual price per gallon.
His reaction was swift just like Rose in “Titanic.”
I’m still rattling on about the bargain of the day and he tells me, “I’ll be excited when it gets back to 99 cents a gallon.”
The odds of gas being 99 cents a gallon again are about as good as the Titanic seeing the light of day.
Nonetheless, I’m still bragging, hours later, about gas being $3.99 a gallon and what a bargain I found.
I used to feel old when children I baby-sat became Daily Republic carriers.
Now, I know I am ancient Sam Roberson Jr., a young man I wrote many stories on in the mid 1990s has penned a play about his bouts with cancer that runs this weekend in Minneapolis.
Sam is now 25 and will marry in a few weeks.
His plight is one of the most unforgettable stories I’ve written in my long career here.
On the phone with him, I recalled the first time I met him in his Fairfield home as his mother administered medicine to him while he lay on a couch. The year was 1994.
A few months later, myself and a photographer trekked to Oakland’s Children’s Hospital as he under went a bone marrow transfusion, using his own marrow.
We watched as the family held hands in prayer prior to the transfusion. I was grateful his parents invited us to be there for such a private moment.
In December, 1994 the two of us were on hand again as Sam marked his 11th birthday
And, in May, 1995, I was there with another photographer when he returned to K.I. Jones School, with a cheering crowd greeting him.
It was three years later when I caught up with him as he was playing Baby John in the Justin-Siena High School production of “West Side Story.”
His story was also updated when he finished high school and college.
I’m ashamed to admit I had been in touch with Sam for the last year or so and had intended to do a story on his role in “The Lost Boys of Sudan.” I would send him e-mails, he would say “call me” and I dropped the ball.
So, when the phone rang Thursday afternoon at my desk and I heard the familiar voice of Sam Roberson Sr. I was relieved. I jokingly told him I figured Sam Jr. had given up on me by now.
He filled me in on his son’s newest play, shared e-mail addresses and phone numbers. I called Sam Jr. immediately and left him a message. Then, I sent an e-mail.
Within 30 minutes he called me back. The rest is now a news story — a story that I have been privileged to be a part of for almost 15 years.
This has been a very nasty allergy season for me. And, the bad air quality doesn’t seem to be helping.
What is even worse is the stupid packaging I have to deal with to get my over-the-counter allergy meds.
Yep, all three are those stupid little square packaging with perforations around the edges. After you separate one pill from the rest of the pack, the nightmare begins.
All three must have been designed Earth dwellers who don’t have allergies. You have to fold over one corner, pull of a back, then push the pill through the remaining foil.
It’s gotten to the point I need to keep a pair of scissors in the bathroom to cut one of them open. The bend and tear routine gets me nowhere. I have to cut then push the plastic.
With another medication, the paper doesn’t always come off entirely, so the little pill doesn’t get pushed through the foil. I just leave these be. They are too small to attack with scissors.
The last one gives me the least amount of problems. Maybe because it’s a gelcap and much smoother than the other two. Generally I get off all the paper backing and the pill neatly pops out of the foil.
Unfortunately, I can’t do with just the one.
If we can put a man on the moon, and I know women who wonder why we can’t put all men on the moon, why can’t we have pill packages that even the simplest mind can open.
Is it too much to ask?
There are just some things that defy explanation.
For me, it’s diet tea.
Most brewed tea, hot or cold, has less than one calorie Now, when you start throwing in things like sugar, that’s another matter.
I’m a purist when it comes to tea. I don’t want that fancy flavored stuff like raspberry or peach. Don’t bother to pass the sugar, either.
And, if you pull out a powder mix, I’m likely to start a lecture.
Just give me a freshly brewed glass of black or green tea over ice and I’m one happy gal. A twist of lemon is fine but not necessary.
Based on this, one could say I’m drinking diet tea.
This is how I see it: Just drink the tea without adding anything to it. Not only does it have less than one calorie, it doesn’t need to be called diet.