I wrote about annoyances at the supermarket deli.  My husband read my piece and disagreed with almost all of my complaints.  I learned that I had been living with the enemy all along.  I want customers to be brief and direct.  My husband, however,  enjoys deli chit-chat.   It’s important to him to share information regarding how he plans to ultimately use the meats and cheeses that he is buying.  He explains that perhaps the person working can give him advice regarding the best selection or best cut.  Regarding the perfect cut, my husband also feels that it is the customer’s prerogative to guide the deli employee in finding the perfect thickness setting on the slicer.  He likes it when the employee presents the initial slice so he can offer a thumbs up or a thumbs down.

My husband is also a fan of the deli free sample.  Exploring new varieties of meats and cheeses is fun, and no one should have to commit to a new item without getting a free taste of it first.  “After all,” he said, “Not all country hams are created equal.  I don’t ever want to bring home country ham that doesn’t conform to my standards.” 

I am the chief food shopper in our family.  I share my husband’s love of deli foods, but he has not suffered as I have.  He has not stood patiently, holding the number 230 ticket while “Miss Number 224” blathers on about what she considers to be the perfect pastrami.  My husband has not witnessed abuse of the free sample privilege.   He hasn’t waited, as people unreasonably fuss over the setting on the slicer, and then want to eat the mistakes as free samples.  If it is good enough to eat now, it could have been eaten at home and they should have paid for that slice.  My husband has not watched people’s frustration when their order is 0.17 pounds over.  Seriously, what is the additional cost, maybe 15 cents?  Remember, a “third of a pound” is an approximate amount.  If the weight comes in just a little high, take it and eat it. 

Where do my husband and I find common ground?  Hairnets.  Employees often cover only half of their hair with a net.  This immediately downgrades hairnets from a safety measure to a sorry, sorry fashion statement.  Since deli items are rarely heated after they are purchased, sanitation needs to exceed what is found in the seafood and butcher’s departments. 

I miss the deli computer kiosk at the front of my old grocery.  I’d enter my order, and pick up my food in a case near the deli about 15 minutes later.  I was able to completely skip the pageantry of the deli.  I really miss those days. 

Becky Reil is a lover of art, architecture and good food.  Traveling with her husband and friends is her favorite way to enjoy all of her interests.  She ate her way through thirteen countries and has several trips planned for the near future.  Local food is her passion, and she will reluctantly share her "secret" sources for sausage, beef, grits and produce. Becky is constantly working to enlarge her fabric stash and enjoys quilting and collecting textiles.  A graduate of Radford University, she has worked as an Art Teacher and as a Job Coach for disabled persons.

In my mid-30s I gave up cigarettes. Last week, in my mid-50s I gave up “overt” sugar — cookies, candy, cake, pie, and ice cream. Just like when I quit smoking, I’m still in the one day at a time mode, hoping that in time I will lose my fondness for my abused substances. Maybe it’s me in the moment thinking this, but I always think I preferred a good piece of apple pie to a cigarette — even back in the day of cigarettes.

For those who have given up cigarettes, you know that at first you stand next to smokers to get some second hand smoke and you think it smells good. Over time you join the ranks of the obnoxious people you used to hate by thinking cigarette smoking actually smells bad.

Has anybody out there given up sweets permanently? Does the equivalent thing eventually happen? Do you look at the dessert tray and get to a point where you’re disgusted by the empty calories that can do so much damage to a body? That’s what I’m counting on.

Just like a smoker can’t halfway quit, I know I can’t halfway quit my love affair with sweets.

Meanwhile, my family, friends and coworkers should beware … either be really nice to me or stay out of my way. Withdrawal is ugly.

PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY ALLAN LIBBY, TOWN OF SURF CITY, NC

            TOPSAIL ISLAND, NC – The temperature’s still warm. Not brutally hot, as it has been most of the summer, but warm. Good enough to make you sweat even in a T-shirt and shorts. The ocean is warmer still, at least in a relative sense. The water remains in the ‘80s, even as the nighttime air temps drop into the ‘60s.

            Yet there’s a decided feel that summer is ending. The practical end of summer – Labor Day – is still a week away, and the date that the calendar chooses as the finish date is still more than three weeks away.

            But on this small island, as up and down the North Carolina coast, you can feel it.

            The summer crowds aren’t merely dwindling. “The people just disappeared this week,” the lady who runs the gift shop next to the IGA in Surf City said Saturday. “They’re gone.”

            Likewise, the young woman at the register of Island Treasures down in Topsail Beach said, “Where is everybody? Nobody’s here.”

            They both know why. Most North Carolina children returned to school last week. Most college students had already returned. Vacations for those families are over, as far as the summer of 2010 concerned. Shops are having to make do with only Virginians and those from farther north whose children don’t return to school until after Labor Day.  By next week, those, too, will be gone. All that will be left are those couples too young or too old to worry about children getting on the bus.

            And the concern has shifted to hurricanes, whose peak season runs from late August through September. Danielle passed without fanfare this weekend, though the waves Saturday night were up, crashing around the Jolly Roger Pier in Topsail Beach. Now the attention is on Earl and Fiona and whoever will follow.

But there is another sign of summer’s impending end, just as telling as the dropping temperatures or the dwindling crowds or the threatening storms.

That is the inestimable sadness of summer’s end.

Autumn is a wonderful time on an island, to be sure, and many prefer it. But it is a different, less exuberant, more restrained time than summer. For those who fancy themselves summer people, fall’s arrival means nothing less than the departure of the island’s spirit. Cold weather is around the corner now. Soon another year will have passed. On an island, there is nothing sadder than the calendar rolling into September.  

That is in the air these days, palpable, and it is a bad feeling.

I thought my search for a rescued dog would be a breeze.  But I contacted many rescue groups and the responses I received were sometimes surprising.  One group took over two weeks to respond to my emails.  Sometimes I’d see postings for local dogs, but they were actually several states away.  Occasionally there were postings for dogs who were deceased.  Rescue groups used the post as a memorial and an opportunity to ask for a monetary donations.  Often groups required me to submit a lengthy application before they would respond to questions regarding specific dogs.  I’d spend over an hour filling out the application, only to be told later that the dog was permanently on “medical hold” or had already been adopted.  In the end, I found the right animal rescue organization for me, and ultimately, the right pet.  Here is what I learned about doing a careful pet search.      

Be honest with your lifestyle and dog requirements 

Spend just as much time determining your needs as you do picking out your dog.  For at least one month, reflect on your lifestyle.  Research dog behavior.  Think about dog traits that you like.  Think about the dog traits that you find annoying and make a list of all of these determining factors.  These issues are more important than the appearance of the dog.  Don’t worry, there will still be many cute dogs that meet your requirements.  My list required a housebroken dog small in size, who didn’t require a fenced yard or a very active lifestyle.  A low maintenance coat, very little barking, no food guarding issues and being able to be alone for five hours at a time were also on my checklist. 

Do your own background check

Not every rescue group is organized or reputable.  See how long the group has been in operation.  Call your animal shelter or SPCA and see if they have heard of the group and approve its track record.  Meet with the group in person.  If the group takes longer than 24 hours to respond to your email or hesitates to meet with you in person, move on.  For safety reasons, Many groups only meet with individuals at planned group events.

Use extra care when considering a purebred rescue organization  Often these groups re-home animals that were breeding stock from puppy mills.  These dogs need homes, too, but you may not want an animal without social skills as your first pet.  For example, I took in a 4 year old dog who had never lived inside and had little contact with people.  It took over six months to housebreak him.  We spent at least a year working on leash training.  If you’re not extremely dedicated, patient and consistent, consider a dog who‘s behavior has been tested in a foster home first.  Purebred rescue groups do great work.  Just make sure you contact a group who is forthcoming about the background of each dog. 

Consider fostering a dog  Owning a dog is a huge commitment.  You will be responsible for its care for years-maybe even decades.  If you are not sure if you are ready, be a temporary guardian for a dog while they are looking for a permanent one.  If you are not sure what traits you are looking for in a pet, this is a good place to start.  Fostering a dog usually requires signing a contract and agreeing to show the dog to interested persons at adoption events.

Be Patient

There is a lot of information you need to sift through before you find your perfectly matched pet.  Take your time.  It’s more important to find the right dog than to bring home a pet quickly.

Becky Reil is a lover of art, architecture and good food.  Traveling with her husband and friends is her favorite way to enjoy all of her interests.  She ate her way through thirteen countries and has several trips planned for the near future.  Local food is her passion, and she will reluctantly share her "secret" sources for sausage, beef, grits and produce. Becky is constantly working to enlarge her fabric stash and enjoys quilting and collecting textiles.  A graduate of Radford University, she has worked as an Art Teacher and as a Job Coach for disabled persons.

As I posted earlier, when I can’t find anything to watch on television I screen the adoptable dogs available On Demand.  Comcast offers three minute videos of dogs that are waiting for a home at the SPCA.  Three months ago, I saw the world’s most unadoptable dog.  It was ugly.  It was blind and deaf.  It needed daily eye drops.  Its matted hair was a tangle that would require a shave or a traumatic series of brushing.  It quivered in the lap of the person as she explained that the animal wasn’t socialized and was at least 12 years old.  I explained to my husband that we HAD to adopt this dog.  After all, who else would adopt such a sad case?  He wasn’t moved by my plea.  I kept asking, and he kept saying, “No.”  I would interrupt his television shows with the On Demand video of the pitiful dog, and I reminded him that we were its only hope.  He said no, and listed good reasons for why it was a bad idea. 

On the sly, I went to visit the dog.  It formerly belonged to an animal hoarder who lived in a mobile home and kept more than 100 animals.  Later I explained to my husband that I visited the dog, who seemed nice but traumatized.  He dug his heels in, sensibly.  He explained that there was no way that a herd of dogs in a trailer were housebroken.  He was right, the dog wasn’t housebroken. 

Still, I kept asking.  I kept checking On Demand, and no one adopted the pitiful dog. Finally after months of badgering, my husband agreed to go and look at the dog.  We visited the SPCA and to my surprise, someone adopted the unadoptable dog.  Somehow, I felt sad and disappointed.  Something had changed inside me.

The year before had been a horrible one for me.  At its close, I decided that I could not care about anything.  I did not vote.  I didn’t recycle.  I had so many aggravations and disappointments that I had to stop caring.  We still gave to our favorite charities, but beyond that, I didn’t care.  The best I could do was to change my bitterness into just not caring.   But this feeling changed when I saw the world’s most pathetic dog on television.  Even after the dog slipped away, I was left to face the fact that I had changed.  I could care again.  I do care again. 

I spent the next month looking for another pitiful dog.  I haven’t kept up with my blog.   I couldn’t type;  my hand hurt from all of the online searching for the perfectly overlooked dog.  I couldn’t focus on anything else.  I searched and searched for a new dog to befriend my sweet Greyhound, Sofie.  I yearned.  I carefully researched and corresponded with several rescue groups.   And now I have Maggie, who I care about very much.  

Becky Reil is a lover of art, architecture and good food.  Traveling with her husband and friends is her favorite way to enjoy all of her interests.  She ate her way through thirteen countries and has several trips planned for the near future.  Local food is her passion, and she will reluctantly share her "secret" sources for sausage, beef, grits and produce. Becky is constantly working to enlarge her fabric stash and enjoys quilting and collecting textiles.  A graduate of Radford University, she has worked as an Art Teacher and as a Job Coach for disabled persons.

In a woman's life, certain events mark a special passage that you think about for the rest of your life. The big days are the births and weddings of your children — and another one really is when your child goes to college. Especially when the last child goes.

Saturday was that day in my life. That day Jared took residence at Christopher Newport University (CNU) in Newport News. It was about as perfect a day as it could be.

Jared and I had our own goodbye and conversation, which was nice, but then it was time to pack the bags in the car and go.

After we left the dorm, we drove to Fredericksburg for an outdoor Styx concert where we joined other family members for a beautiful night. It was an awesome, fun concert and a beautiful evening.

Before I reveal the next part of the story, it's important to know a few things about CNU:

        * The logo for the school is a sailboat, (being near the beach and named after Christopher Newport).
        * The students there are called Captains.
        * Everything there is themed around sailing and captains.

I can sing along to several of Styx songs even though beforehand I couldn't probably name one hit without help. So the big song of their evening was "Come Sail Away." Bittersweet as it is for Mom, Hollywood couldn't have given me a better score to remind me it's Jared's turn now to be independent. As Styx sang, I thought of Jared:

I'm sailing away
Set an open course for the virgin sea,
'Cause I've got to be free
Free to face the life that's in front of me,
On board, I'm the captain, so climb aboard,
We'll search for tomorrow on every shore,
And I'll try, Oh Lord I'll Try, to carry on....

A gathering of angels appeared above my head 
They sang to me this song of hope
And this is what they said,
Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me, lads.

(NOT ACTUALLY MY BOOKCASE, THOUGH IT ALMOST COULD BE)

           You can’t pick up a magazine or newspaper, stroll through a bookstore or watch an afternoon TV show without seeing something about clutter.

            “Experts Share Their Secrets on De-Cluttering”

            “33 Ways to Organize Your Closet”

            “Get Rid of Your Junk – and Get Back Your Life!”

            And why not? We baby boomers are the perfect target for such help. As the most affluent generation this country has seen, we’ve bought the most stuff. And as a perhaps the most self-obsessed, we’ve kept it.

            Maybe that’s too much psycho-babble. Maybe we’re just flat-out pack rats. Or just too lazy to throw stuff away.

Doesn’t matter. Point is, some of us have too much junk. Too much stuff.

And by “some of us,” I mean me.

Vicki and I are in the process of cleaning out at least some of the junk in our house. Some of it’s hers.

And by “some of it,” I mean 5 percent.

Most of us it’s mine. I’ve been going through hundreds and hundreds of books, getting rid of enough to stock a library. I’ve been getting rid of old clothes I haven’t worn in years – no, clothes I probably haven’t SEEN in years.  We’ve made numerous drop-offs at Goodwill.

Doing so, by the way, is just what all the experts say: a liberating feeling.

You do begin to feel that maybe, one day, your life will be your own again.

The hardest thing has been the old papers. Stacks and stacks of them. Notes, bank records, the children’s fourth grade reports. Whatever. Piles and piles and piles of junk.

I should just shred them all and be done with it.

Instead, I find myself going through each one, as if it one will prove to be an original copy of the Declaration of Independence.

So far, none has.

I take it back: The hardest things to get rid of came yesterday: a pair of basketball shoes and a pair of softball cleats.  Haven’t worn either of them in five years.

Maybe 10.

In essence, I guess,  I was acknowledging my ball-playing days are gone.

But I figure, what the heck.

If the Yankees sign me to play centerfield, I’ll buy another pair.

The worst day of any vacation is always the last one, a day of paradise lost and of the impending intrusion of the real world. Why does it have to end so soon?

So it was for Vicki and me as we drove away from our annual vacation Saturday.

Ah, but it would get so much worse.

When we arrived home in Richmond, we saw … well, not our home.  

Not at first, anyway. The yard was full of tree limbs and leaves, obscuring the house from the street.

When did this become a rain forest?

Ordinarily, we might get a glimpse down the driveway. The driveway, though, was now a parking lot for heavy equipment. A massive dump truck, the biggest “bucket” truck I’ve ever seen and two other pieces of equipment filled every square foot.

It looked like they were building an interstate.

We hadn’t been caught completely off-guard. A neighbor had called to say a storm came through Richmond Thursday night, and a pair of big trees now were laying – very gently – on our house and deck. It appeared damage was minimal, if any.

Others clearly had fared worse. As we neared our home Saturday evening, we saw one home that had been almost split in half by a tree.

But trees had continued to fall after the storm. Now four or five were down near our house – and these are 40-to-50-foot trees. The roots of one one were pulled from the earth.

Our daughter and son-in-law, chainsaw in tow, had cleared a walkway. But this is now a major project. The side of the house is damaged. The roof might be. The big boys, with that big equipment, are to begin taking care of it today.

Insurance is paying for it, of course. In fact, I just re-upped our policy the day before we went on vacation. I even saved $85 a year.

I did that by increasing the deductible on our new policy – the part we pay if we put in a claim – from $500 to $1,000.

Do I have timing or what?

So many people fight aging in a physical way like no generation before has had the opportunity or maybe the will to do. Let's face it, nobody wants to look in the mirror and see that the years have gone by and the physical beauty of youth is lost.

There's another beauty of youth that is overlooked so much because it's not as easy to see. It's real, just goes by less noticed. It's the beauty of the young mind or the young spirit. Young people like to play. You never need to remind a young person to play more computer games, or skateboard more, or joke around more. You remind them to work: do homework, hang up their clothes, walk the dog.

As you grow up and have kids, and jobs and bills, it's no wonder people forget how to play. They don't have the time to. Many people seem to lose the ability to chill out, relax, and enjoy. There's truth to the adage about all work and no play...  It's like they grow 

up, and the life and spirit gets sucked out of them somehow in the process.

When I was younger there were two older people (like my age now) that were so different from the rest of the grown-ups I knew. One was my Aunt Frances, a mother of six children, married to the small town grocer. Aunt Frances never worried about money and the fact she didn't have much, or worry about anything at all as far as I could tell. She was unflappable. She knew and loved just about everybody in her town of 10,000 people. She giggled at any of the jokes her kids told her but could never tell a joke without messing up the punch line — then she'd laugh that she messed up the punch line.

Nancy Carson was the mother of an old boyfriend and she was just incredibly lovely — interested in everything in the world, positive about hearing about anything anybody else had going on in their lives, and busy volunteering at many different charities. She was well off but completely unpretentious and liked people from all walks of life. Nancy saw beauty in so much that others took for granted. When I was in my 20's she made me wish I was in my 50's so I could be like her.

Both women seemed ageless to me - in spite of their lack of cosmetic surgery or overt attention to physical aging. It wasn't that they played like they were children, but they found joy and stimulation in hobbies or pursuits and never forgot to enjoy life. They had a lift to them — an interest in other people — they weren't perfect people but they were interesting and fun to be around. And they were both unforgettable.

It's funny that looking back - it never dawned on me that people were old or young because of a wrinkle free forehead. It was their spirit that was young.

We settled into a lovely lunch with friends at Heiligenkreuz Abby, just outside Vienna.  We lounged al freco while we waited for our stuffed schnitzel to arrive.  Conversation meandered as we sipped and debated our radler style beer.  I suddenly remembered something I just saw on the news before we left the states.  It was on the tip of my tounge, which I bit before I blurted it out.  The Soup Nazi had just reopened his shop in Manhattan.  Our friends would have been interested to hear about the famous soup vendor that had been featured in Seinfeld.  His tiny shop had been a destination in some of our earlier travels.  But my inside voice yelled, “Don’t say Nazi.”

This same inner dialog happened again the next day.  We encountered a humorless ticket taker on the train.  I almost complained to someone that the man was being a…

”DON’T.” My inside voice stopped me.  “Don’t joke about it.  JUST DON’T.”

I wondered if I was being overly sensitive.  I came to the conclusion that I was not.  It turns out that I had just grown complacent in my humor.  Popular culture and media led me down the wrong path, beginning with Hogan’s Heroes reruns.  Comedians and my friends both use the term Nazi to describe a humorless and strict person or situation.    An unhelpful nurse in the emergency room, for example, might earn the Nazi slur.

But I was wrong in joining the crowd and assuming that Nazis could be a punch line.  By making flippant comments about things being Nazi-like, I diluted the sacrifices our allies made in WWII.  I belittled the memory of the six million people who died in concentration camps at the hand of the Nazi party. 

I vow to stop using the word Nazi as a synonym for uptight, brutally regimented things.  Instead, when I need to make light of an uptight situation, I’ll revive a reference that has become mostly forgotten. I will mention Nurse Ratched.  I think the time is right to reintroduce One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest back into popular culture.  I will leave the Nazis where they belong — in the history books.      

Becky Reil is a lover of art, architecture and good food.  Traveling with her husband and friends is her favorite way to enjoy all of her interests.  She ate her way through thirteen countries and has several trips planned for the near future.  Local food is her passion, and she will reluctantly share her "secret" sources for sausage, beef, grits and produce. Becky is constantly working to enlarge her fabric stash and enjoys quilting and collecting textiles.  A graduate of Radford University, she has worked as an Art Teacher and as a Job Coach for disabled persons.