No more noodle necklaces

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My daughter, the 21-year-old, calls them "noodle necklace gifts," the Christmas presents you open every year that you have to pretend to like.

"You know how in school little kids make necklaces out of noodles and bring them home and wrap them up and give to their mothers on Christmas day and mothers act as if they're the best present ever?"

I know. We all know. A noodle necklace from a child is a great gift, a combination of ziti, glue and love. But a noodle necklace from a boyfriend or a husband, a grown man who's supposed to be perceptive and warm and considerate - this is a whole other story.

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Mr. C sings for her - always

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"Is he still handsome?" That's what people always ask. That and "How old is he?" and "Can he still sing?" and "Is he really as nice as he seems?"

Yes, he's handsome. He has thick gray hair, twinkley eyes, a great smile and a younger man's trim build.

How old is he? He's 30-50, my sister-in-law would say. Eighty is how the world translates it. But the number deceives.

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Guys, offer a holiday hand

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t arrived in the mail, compliments of a good friend. "Christmas Ease -287 Top Tips for a Delightful Stress-Free Holiday" by Michelle West, certainly piqued my interest, but it was, I thought smugly, just a bit premature. It was only October when I found it in my mailbox. The days were still balmy. Leaves clung to the trees. Roses bloomed on the vine. Christmas was eons away.

I stacked the book on top of another my friend sent, on how to get rid of cellulite. I realize now that if I'd opened both when they arrived I would not be in the shape I'm in today.

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Money doesn't buy manners

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So there you are at the theater, with your family, having spent a couple hundred dollars for the privilege of sitting in the rear of a balcony, now called a mezzanine, because at $55 a seat, mezzanine has a far sweeter sound. The French word is elegant - and also deluding.

But you don't care, because this is a Special Occasion. You're here to relax, to enjoy yourself and become immersed in the performance.

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Look how sensitive we have become to the sounds around us

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The noise has stopped, finally. Or is it only an intermission?

I look out the window and see the men across the street, talking together. Half the yard is still covered with leaves. They and The Machine have been working for hours. The whining, unremitting drone awakened me early, far too early on a non-work day. The sound was like pain. I wanted to run from it. But I couldn't. It filled the house. It filled me.

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The Waltons may be fictional, but loyal fans don't think so

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The Waltons may be fictional, but loyal fans don't think so

Fact and fiction. They blend. A person steps into the sun at high noon and he and his shadow are one. Both exist. Both are seperate entities, but for a moment they merge.

Schuyler, population 400, is fact. It's a tiny town nestled among the mountains in Nelson County, Virginia. Walton's Mountain is but a shadow of Schuyler, a creation of its most famous son, novelist and screen writer Earl Hamner.

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It's after the birth of a child when the worries really begin

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I phoned her the other day to ask how her pregnancy is coming along.

"I'll be glad when it's over," she said in a weary voice. "I'm a nervous wreck. There are so many things that can go wrong. I can't wait for this baby to be born."

My friend is having her second child, but this is her third pregnancy. A year ago she miscarried, so all during the early weeks of this pregnancy the possibility that she might again miscarry kept her joy on hold.

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Looking for someone to blame

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t shouldn't have happened. This is an unarguable fact. Julie Tobin, of West Roxbury, should be alive, not dead.

She was killed on Sept. 6, 1987. The 17-year-old had spent the afternoon at a family reunion of a friend held at Norwood Country Club. Shortly after midnight, she left the reunion on foot and was standing in the breakdown lane of Route 1 talking to some friends in a van when she suddenly ran around the front of the van and onto the road. She was hit by a car and died the next day.

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Who steals their smiles?

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In pictures they're smiling. Check out the magazines. Notice the ads. Look at the pretty girl with the good-looking guy - no worry on her face, only a smile.

On TV it's the same, and in movies. Smiles, smiles everywhere. Everyone is grinning. Everyone is cheerful. Everyone is having a good time. This is what we are supposed to be doing - smiling, connecting, enjoying life.

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20th Century's greatest figure is still up for debate, vote

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It began with a sign - not a spiritual one, but a billboard. At least that's how I think it began. The billboard was at Disney World, and it asked visitors to consider who they believe had made the greatest contribution to the 20th Century.

Maybe the wording was different. Maybe it was vote for the man of the century. I don't remember. But I found myself mulling over the question, then posing it to everyone I knew.

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Denial only makes it worse

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They don't want to believe it. Or if they believe it, they want to forget.

"Why do you have to keep bringing this up? Why do you continually talk about it? It does no good. It's over. It's in the past. Why can't you just get on with your life?"

They don't understand why at birthdays and holidays and christenings and baptisms, she continues to arrive late - after he's gone. They don't understand why she refuses his gifts, why she's still in therapy, why she has night sweats. They don't understand why sometimes in the middle of the day, when it all comes back to her, she sits and sobs.

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Media `pigs' wallow in mud, meanness

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The reason that pigs wallow in mud is because their skin is fair and thin and the hair covering their bodies is sparse and offers little protection from the sun. During the day, pigs burrow in the ground to keep cool. At night they find a stream or a puddle and clean themselves. There is a purpose for what they do.

What, I wonder, is our purpose?

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What's in a name? Plenty it turns out

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Everyone recognized him but no one knew who he was.

"Well-known Quincy man dies unknown," the headline said in Saturday's Patriot Ledger.

The story that followed told of a man who frequented Wollaston's businesses, who, every weekday bought the $1 breakfast special at Newcomb Farms; who, every weekend sat at O'Brien's bakery and drank coffee and ate pastry; who talked with clerks and nodded at passersby and bought scratch tickets at the Hancock Street Pharmacy and even shared, when he won, part of his $400 with the girl who'd sold him his lucky ticket.

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Let's get organized _ not!

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I bought the book - a small book stuffed with 19th century wisdom on ways to economize - at Sturbridge Village, because when I opened it, there was a suggestion on using ear wax as lip balm and I thought: This is disgusting.

There's got to be a column in it.

And there is, I know. The book would make a great column. But guess what? I can't find it. The book has disappeared.

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This play taught its performers joy of harmony

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There is not even an attempt to keep them quiet. They swarm into Concord's Alcott School auditorium, at 10 o'clock on a Friday morning, all of them happy because they're missing something - arithmetic or social studies or science; most of them chatting, a few of them shouting. The din is festive, chirpy, happy, full of kids' sounds.

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