“I got down like this,” he says easing his eighty-something-year-old body into a squatting position nestling the umbrella he is using as a rifle into the crook of his shoulder and looking down the “barrel.”

I’m not sure if I was more impressed by my uncle’s incredible memory of the day he was shot in Germany during World War II, or his ability to maneuver his body into that position. On this particular biennial family visit to Uncle Rudy’s home on the island of Curacao, I brought along a list of questions and a video recorder.

Because of his jovial and fun loving nature, the telling of that fateful story was lightened considerably when Uncle Rudy joked about the bullet just missing the “family jewels.” But as I rewatch the video I am reminded of the gravity of the stories that followed about his friend who died next to him after taking off his wedding ring thinking the glint was giving away their location, and when Uncle Rudy describes what he was most proud of — following through on the promise to “leave no man behind.”

The only thing I regret is that I didn’t have the foresight to interview my own father about his experiences in the Korean War. Dad died young before I was astute enough to realize the importance of such things.

On this Veterans day, I salute all those who served and remind everyone — military or not — to ask questions. It doesn’t have to be a formal interview (ours has my loud and boisterous family in the background as we try to shush them).

We were so lucky that Uncle Rudy lived to be almost one hundred, and luckier still that he was jovial and fun loving right to the end, breaking into song often, grabbing the knee of whomever sat next to him as he laughed that great laugh, and always telling his wonderful stories.

*“Odyssey of Odysseys” is the title of the autobiography Uncle Rudy wrote for friends and family 

There’s something about St. Augustine.

Maybe it’s the architecture. Not something I typically pay attention to yet I find myself googling like an idiot when I’m there. The history-rich town is considered a “masterpiece of Spanish Renaissance.” And the homes ooze charm with the largest concentration of late-Victorian-era residential architecture.

Maybe it’s the churches – the abundance, the beauty, the history….and oh those church bells.

Maybe it’s the sheer mix of, well, everything. There’s rich and poor; black and white; old and new. There’s a Senior Community next to what has been called one of the most beautiful college campuses in the United States (where apparently only beautiful people attend) next to a homeless shelter where the maybe not so beautiful people attend.

Maybe it’s all the cats. St. Augustine has tons of them, but they all seem friendly and well cared for.

Maybe it’s the silly fact that there’s a street with the same not-so-common name as the one where I grew up: Oneida.

Maybe it’s the history. St. Augustine is the oldest city in the U.S. You can enjoy audio tours, walking tours, boat tours, trolley tours – even ghost tours, and more than 25 museums.

Maybe it’s the trees which seem to speak to you as you walk beneath them.

There’s something about St. Augustine. Maybe it doesn’t really matter what it is.

I’ve written about my neighbor and her crazy dog, so I thought I’d share this little story published in our local neighborhood magazine. I hope you enjoy it.

Postscript:  A reader told me, “You forgot to mention the liverwurst she ate before we could even taste it!”

Honestly, there was no shortage of new material since I wrote the article. I think the most entertaining thing about Tasha is how smart she is. As soon as she hears the telephone/doorbell ring, she heads for the kitchen knowing that the “gatekeeper” is shall we say distracted.

We recently traveled to the beautiful New England countryside, which included visits with loving family and the opportunity to check off a bucket list item. After watching episodes of “Carnival Eats,” Hubby has always wanted to experience one of America’s great fairs to sample all that crazy carnival food.

Family members and I willingly joined him on that “gastro” ride indulging in fried butter (surprisingly delicious), fried tacos (one of my faves), and even a bite of a hamburger wrapped in deep fried uncrustables (yes, peanut butter and jelly filled). I know that sounds kind of gross, but it was really quite good.

“The Big E” is the world’s only multi-state fair representing all six New England states, with entertainment, unique foods (of course!) and the Avenue of States, which features exact one-third scale replicas of each statehouse where visitors can enjoy local foods, crafts, and tourism info from Maine, Rhode Island, Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts and Connecticut.

Ironically, the book I happened to be reading at the time was the true story of Annie Wilkins, the self proclaimed “Saddle Tramp,” who in 1954, at the age of sixty-three set out on horseback (along with her dog) for California from her home in Minot, Maine. Our travels through Connecticut and Massachusetts had me thinking about Annie and the courage it took to take such a journey.

In 1954, Annie lost the last member of her family along with her farm and her good health, which was beginning to fail. A typical proud “Mainer,” the last thing she wanted to do was to take her doctor’s kind offer to arrange a bed for her at a state-funded charity home. Instead, she set out on what could no doubt be called a bucket list item.

From the time she was a little girl, Annie remembered her mother saying every year as winter crept in, “You know, we should just quit this place,” her mother would say. “Hitch a horse up to a buggy and head west. Out to California. I would love to see that Pacific Ocean at least once in my life.” Her mother never made it farther than New Hampshire, but when Annie evaluated her lack of options, she knew all she needed was courage.

Ignoring her doctor’s advice, Annie bought a cast off brown gelding named Tarzan, donned men’s dungarees, and headed south in mid-November, hoping to beat the snow. Without even a map, Annie and her faithful mutt relied on the kindness of strangers and sheer moxie to make it the 5,000 miles in approximately 14 months. I’m not really sure how I got this far in life without ever hearing the story about gutsy Annie Wilkins, but I’m so happy I found her even though it makes me cringe with embarrassment to think of the nervousness I felt driving those roads in a cushy car along modern highways with a GPS telling us exactly where to go.

Hubby and I have a favorite expression: “I know I’ve told you this already, but I don’t care.”

With that said, if you know us you’ve probably already heard our “origin” story, but on this 30^th anniversary of our blind date, I think it’s worth repeating.

Sister-in-law L was playing in a softball tournament where this handsome young man happened to be volunteering to keep score while conveniently getting the word out that he was available and looking to meet someone to “do stuff with.”

I had been divorced around four years by this point and the subject of my being set up had never come up so when L called me that day to say she met someone, I, of course asked her, what about my brother? To which she said, “For you. You idiot!”

I was, shall we say, a little “mature” by this point to be going on a first blind date, but nervous, nevertheless, so I roped the whole family into joining me. My brother asked, “Why do we all have to be subjected to this torture?” To which, I said, “Shut up and get in the car.”

The date went well and a second was attempted but the phone company (there was only one back then) was doing work in my neighborhood and they crossed the wires between my house and a neighbor a few blocks away. Now I know this sounds like a bad 1970s sitcom so you can imagine what that handsome young man thought when he called the number he was given only to hear this lame-sounding story. But he soldiered on until he finally connected.

Then on that second date the handsome young man shows up at my house to find me with two little kids. “I thought you said you didn’t have any kids,” he said nervously. I told him they were my nephews and said, “By the way, I have to be home by ten to watch them because that’s when my brother needs to leave for work.”

And yet the handsome young man kept coming back. So not only did he know what he was getting himself into with this family of mine, but more importantly, who wouldn’t fall in love with a handsome young man who was willing to take a chance that just maybe this was the girl he would want to “do stuff with” for the rest of his life.

Welcome to my new subscribers and apologies for letting you sit out there in the ether for so long. I’m the first to admit I’m pushing my limits with technology doing this blog and so when they changed the way you’re notified about new subscribers, well, I dropped the ball. Nevertheless, I’m thrilled to have you here. It’s been two years since I started my blog. Here’s what you missed:

The feedback from “Weighty Lies“ tells me it was my most humorous post.

Although one of the shortest, this Christmas post may be my Most Sentimental.

Biggest Flop ~ Let’s just say it’s a good thing I have no aspiration to be a mystery writer.

Metrics were actually used to declare this my Most Popular, but as I said in my one year anniversary post, it may be because of the very “googled” title. It will always be one of my favorites.

As always, thanks for the support and thanks to all for going along with me on this ride.

I’ve always been a big fan of the “jump around.” It’s even one of my favorite dance moves. (At a wedding a few years ago a girlfriend was watching me on the dance floor and said, “You can tell Susan has never had kids.”)

Seeing any group of grown ups jumping around together is just pure joy, which is why Hubby called me in the other day to see how the Red Sox outfielders celebrate a win.

For my 60^th birthday celebration I was out there with all the kids dancing to the sounds of NYOC (miss hearing you guys play, by the way), and apparently, I hadn’t really given enough thought to the bouncy dress I had on until a girlfriend called me over and said, “You’re flashing us, Susan. Please stop.”

So, as I log another trip around the sun, my advice is to jump around for as long as you can. Just take note of what you’re wearing first.

Apparently, I’ve been jumping around since at least 1996!

This time of year has me thinking of summers gone by, and the wonder of how on earth we all made it out in one piece.

Long Island beaches are unique in that they run east and west facing the open Atlantic Ocean, which means they generally have stronger surf, powerful undertows, and shifting rip currents. A rite of passage growing up on Long Island was getting caught in the undertow. This would have you scooped up and tossed around, much like I imagine it would feel being in a washing machine on the heavy duty cycle. Then the mighty Atlantic would spit you out depositing you on shore dazed and confused. I remember it well. Sand in every crevice of your body and a walk that was slightly loopy as you tried to make your way back to your towel.

One of my brothers experienced the washing machine effect when he was about seven years old. He swears he saw me standing on the shore and he wondered why I wasn’t rescuing him. I actually think he was seeing his life pass before his eyes.

We would then lie on a towel applying baby oil so we could get the best burn possible. The real fun was when the sunburn – which may even have been considered second degree – began to peel. We would entertain ourselves by seeing who could tear the biggest sheet of skin from each other’s back without it breaking.

That same brother fell into the pool of a family we were visiting one summer and sunk like a rock. Luckily another sibling saw what happened and jumped in, fully clothed, and saved him. While this was going on I was sitting up at the picnic table trying to find out how hot a napkin might get if I waved it over the candle. (I think I’ve been up front with the fact that Miss Scribbles wasn’t the brightest bulb back then.) I’m sure that family couldn’t get rid of us fast enough.

Good times.

We just returned from a summer road trip that had us reminiscing about one we took twenty-five years ago to Georgia, North Carolina, Long Island, Connecticut and into New York City to spend a few days with a good friend.

We strolled across the Brooklyn Bridge, went to Ellis Island, took in a Met game at good ole Shea Stadium, and walked in awe around Time Square where a little old man wacked hubby in the calf with his cane saying, “Move it, Sonny. We’re not all on vacation!” This made us step aside so we could laugh hysterically at the stereotypical New York experience. Actually, most New Yorkers were super nice even offering help as they saw us struggling with the subway maps.

We casually strolled past the World Trade Center (WTC) barely giving the iconic buildings a second glance. We did, however, buy this street art that highlights the twin towers perfectly. Little did we know that in just two short months those towers would disappear from the New York skyline forever.

Say what you want about Gen X or Gen Z, or whatever they’re called but they are far more evolved than my generation when it comes to sharing their feelings. I love how young friends hug each other and say I love you. Nothing bad can come from this. When I grew up the words, “I love you,” were not bandied about like this. Case in point: When I told a childhood friend I loved her, she said, “Oh god, Susan, am I dying?”

We didn’t hear those words growing up much in the 1970s. It just wasn’t a thing. But something happened when I left home that changed that. I started receiving letters like these on a regular basis, which still mean everything to me fifty years later.