Tuesday, July 31, 2018

Someone's Knockin' at the Door, Somebody's Fallin' Off the Porch

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston


When my new neighbor appeared on my front porch and peeked in through the screen door, my hopes were raised. We had met briefly when he moved in with his wife and dogs a few weeks earlier, but we had not had time to get to know them. I walked to the door with a smile and greeted him with a cheerful, “Hi Brett.”

As soon as I smelled him, I knew this was not going to turn out well.

I grew up in a close-knit community with awesome neighbors. The three-story houses that we all called home were nestled behind deep grassy front lawns along the tree-lined street secreting elaborate backyards which were adorned with gardens, swing sets, treehouses and basketball hoops.

Kids spilled out from the homes onto the street chasing each other in games of tag or racing bikes along the sidewalks. Most of my childhood days were spent outside running around and through all the yards of our eclectic neighbors alongside all the kids I considered my friends.

In poor weather we hung-out indoors writing and producing plays that we put on for the neighbors, selling tickets to all who would hand over the 25-cent admission. We had sleepovers and shared meals. We visited the older folks listening to stories while we gawked at all their bric-a-brac and sucking on the hard candies they gave us.

We had epic block parties.

Those parties were the times when all the families gathered and talked, shared drinks, ate potluck style, and square danced in the twilight of those annual summer evenings. Before we do-si-doed and swung our partners round and round, the artists mingled with the blue and white collared workers that inhabited the pretty homes on our block.

The kids decorated bikes with tissue paper and raced up and down the middle of the street. The barriers that blockaded our street freed us from the confines of the sidewalks. It was an amazing feeling to speed down the center of the street that was forbidden the other 364 days a year. Our bikes rode smoother and faster on the open road. The air rushing through our unhelmeted heads was cooler. We were cooler.

These times and people made the less happy parts of my childhood bearable.

I wanted my kids to have the same happy experiences. I wanted them to find a community of friends and adults whom they could trust. I wanted to hear their laughs and screams of fun radiating off of the houses up and down the street. I wanted to ply the other kids with Kool-Aid and homemade chocolate chip cookies.

When it was time to buy a house, I purposefully picked a home on a street where the houses were close with the grassy yards intersected so my kids could run through the neighborhood with the other kids under the protective eye of all the families on the street. I wanted to have annual block parties and recreate the happy times I had for them.

Things did not work out as I had envisioned.

Though several neighbors have kids who played with my kids, the reality is that times have changed, drastically. Most kids are too busy with extracurricular activities to play outside in the deep backyards until their parents call for them to come in for dinner or baths and bedtime. Most parents are too protective to let their kids roam freely fearing the worst. Most adults are too busy to form trusting relationships with their neighbors.

Whether its sports or school work or video games, kids do not spend endless hours riding bikes and playing tag up and down the street. Every once in a while, a neighbor kid would come over for a smore or splash in the sprinkler. Sometimes we would have kids over to catch fireflies or wave sparklers in the warm summer evenings. Occasionally, my kids and the neighbor kids would build a snowman together.

Mostly, there was silence. 

Kids didn’t roam the neighborhood. In fact, when I did hear kids outside, I wondered what mischief they were up to. “What are those hooligans doing out on the sidewalk in front of my house,” I’d ask myself. I felt like old Mr. Wilson.

We did become close with a few neighbors.

We have had parties and barbecues with neighbors. We watch football games together. We've celebrated holidays together whether it is a turkey on Thanksgiving or viewing fireworks from our roof on the 4th of July. We watch each other’s kids and dogs. We look out for each other.

A few have stayed for the long haul, but most have moved on.

I suppose all good things must come to an end. Now that my girls are teens, they are not looking for playmates in the neighborhood. They just want rides to their friends’ homes who live on the other side of town. While they may not mourn the loss of good neighbors, I sure do. I miss having those spur of the moment adult interactions like sipping wine on the patio as we share funny stories about our day.

Losing our next-door neighbors created a void in our lives we have been waiting to fill. 

When the first set of replacement neighbors started to unload their things, we rushed over and enthusiastically welcomed them to the neighborhood. The woman told us she was a single mom of a teen boy who was staying in another town for the first two months.

We anxiously awaited the arrival of this presumably nice boy who might be convinced to cut our grass or walk our dogs when we left town for vacation. Needless to say, when he appeared with his pants slung below his butt and his cap askew his bowed head covering his eyes, he strode into the house with an arrogance of complete disrespect for all other humans, our hopes were dashed.

This 16-year-old father of two was just released from juvie. Having received his High School certificate while behind bars he had nothing to do all day but lay around, play video games, sell and smoke weed (and who knows what else) and sneak in and out of the house with his friends at all hours off the day and night. We installed curtains and cameras and prayed for them to move out.

The day they left, our new neighbors moved in. Hurray!!

This new neighbor stood before me on our front porch. As my nostrils burned from his aroma, I noticed his drooping eyelids and bloodshot eyes. I watched him sway and try to steady himself by leaning on the porch swing. He slurred something about wanting to invite us to have a beer or go to bed. I hoped it was the beer. As it was just noon, I graciously declined and suggested he may have had his fill of beer and that he might want to take a break. 

He disagreed a left in search of that beer.

He reappeared an hour later even more intoxicated. It took him a good three minutes to make it up the four steps to our front door. Once swaying in place in front of our screen door, he proposed the beer idea to my husband. Feeling that is was not a good idea, my husband suggested they talk about it in the driveway. The neighbor turned to leave, tripped over his own feet and took a header off our porch, plummeting three feet below knocking his shoe from his foot which landed a good ten feet from where he sat dumbfounded.

It took him considerably less time to go down than up.

My husband tended to the dazed and confused drunk man who sat on the pavement with his headphones resting askew on his forehead. My husband tried to explain to the numbskull that he was on the ground because he fell.

I dialed 911.

The cops gave him the ultimatum, “You can go to the hospital or you can go to jail. Your choice,” I realized any chance of having a good relationship with our new neighbors vanished with the ambulance.

At least I have the neighbors on the other side to commiserate with. We share texts and laughs about all the goings on in our little hamlet. I’m sure one of us will move eventually. Until then we will talk through the fence and enjoy the occasional drink fireside while our tweens and teens embrace their inner child and catch lightning bugs and play spud in the evening light.



Tuesday, July 24, 2018

The Inn Keeper Who Wore No Pants: Why We Choose B&B’s


By:
Elizabeth Redhead Kriston



Have you ever entered a hotel lobby only to be greeted by the front desk agent in his underwear? No? Well, then you must reconsider the places you stay when you travel.

Before we were married, my husband and I started traveling together. Our first trip was a long week driving to Maine. We meandered up the never-ending majestic coast. The vistas were spectacular. The lobster shacks became a second home.

Aside from driving and eating our way up the coast, we decided to go without a plan. We thought it would be a fun adventure to find places to stop and stay along the way.

The first place we stayed, a colonial inn situated in a small, quaint town on the rocky coast was quintessentially beautiful. The cheerful, fully dressed desk agent assigned us to a small attic room with sloping ceilings, hardwood floors covered with oval rag rugs and a teeny attached bathroom that contained a tiny clawfoot tub/shower and a pedal stool sink. The room was appointed with a giant antique four-poster bed which took up almost the entire room and required a step stool to enter.

It was perfect. It was romantic. It was cheap.

The innkeepers were kind and helpful. They directed us to good restaurants and even gave us grass mats we could spread on the small local beach as we soaked in the waning late August Maine sunshine. The barkeep in the rustic basement bar, in his thick New England accent, regaled us with hilarious anecdotes and directed us to places up the coast we should see, including the best lobster shacks.

The intimacy of this inn charmed us. Being able to talk with and share stories with amiable locals made the trip so much better than if we had lodged at some chain hotel on the highway.

We felt like close friends to these strangers by the time we left. We launched out on the remainder of our journey armed with inside information and a better understanding of what it was like to be a Mainer.

After that experience, we decided to stay in Inns and B&B’s whenever possible.

Over the last 24 years, we have found quaint places to rest our heads and feed our bellies and souls in towns like Geneva on the Lake, Ohio; Napa Valley, California; Harpers Ferry, West Virginia; Ithaca, New York and more. All of these Inns offered unique experiences and many funny memories for Jim and me.

We learned lessons about life and different cultures like just put just a few drops of bubble liquid in a hot tub. If you forget, open all the doors and windows and scoop the mountain of bubbles out as fast as possible. Don’t sit in a hot tub while the wood fire place blazes especially after consuming lots of red wine. The drowsiness you experience is definitely a drowning hazard.

Simpler lessons were learned like, whipping cream cheese into eggs makes the most delicious scrambled eggs. However, not everyone who owns a B&B can actually cook tasty food. Mostly, we learned to sleep-in since breakfast isn’t until 9:00am.

We have met fellow travelers from all over the world. So many interesting people have entered our lives over croissants, fruit salad and French toast.

Alas, not all people who stay at or own small inns and B&B’s are nice or even sane, but that’s okay. It just creates more interesting stories and experiences. It makes each trip unique and special, like our most recent adventure.

Jim and I decided to use those dusty passports and travel “abroad.” That’s right, we journeyed all the way to Canada. Not just Canada but French Canada, Quebec. We wanted to experience a taste of Europe with a shorter plane trip. We landed in Montreal with dreams of experiencing French culture including delicious food. To make this dream a reality, we booked a room in a small inn in the heart of Montreal run by a French pastry chef.

Ken, before we arrived, was enthusiastic, responsive and accommodating via his email exchanges with Jim. He promised a comfortable stay in his lovely inn. He ensured that any and all dietary restrictions would be handled. He promised to get us to where we needed to be. He suggested restaurants and provided ideas for things to do and see on our long weekend stay.

Most importantly, he assured us that he would be happy to let us stop by early on our first day to drop our bags before we ventured out to explore his beautiful city of Montreal.

Perhaps the fact that he knew we would be arriving late morning that day was what made that first contact so confounding and concerning, or maybe not. Peeking around a slightly ajar door, Ken greeted us with a look of surprise on his face. “You're early”,” he bellowed as if this was news to him. “Hold on. I’ll be right back,” he blurted before slamming the door in our faces.

A minute later he returned and opened the door wide exclaiming, “Welcome! I’m in my boxers.” Having not slept the night before and after traveling for seven hours, we were a bit punchy. Glancing at Jim, I communicated through my bloodshot eyes, “Did he just say he was in his underpants?”

The question was and continues to be, what did he need to attend to when he disappeared back into his home after the initial greeting that did not involve pulling on some trousers? Was he naked and put on his boxers? Did he take his pants off? What was more important than dressing so he could greet his out-of-town guests who were strangers?

After three days, the answer became apparent. Ken preferred not to don pants. He not only greeted guests in his skivvies but he liked to cook breakfast in his undies. Yes, he wore an apron and a shirt, just not pants. Canadian health codes must be lax. Or, maybe all chefs prepare meals sans pants.

Ken’s tendencies for bare minimum went beyond just his clothing. The decor of his inn could be described as divorcee bachelor whose ex-wife took all the nice stuff. His ability to be kind and thoughtful was scant. His willingness to accept my gluten intolerance was marginal. Seriously, he taunted me and tried to bully me into eating the croissant he served me each morning.

Ken’s meager hospitality made relaxing at the inn impossible. He had only one small common area, the dining room, which he purposefully put the chairs upside down on the table after breakfast to discourage guests from lazing around where he might have to engage with them. He relaxed that unspoken rule if you offered to share a "good" bottle of wine with him. Then he was more than happy to shoot the breeze while standing around his kitchen, pantsless.

Not even the antics of Ken can convince me to return to boring, ubiquitous, boxy hotels. If we had chosen some grand hotel on the main streets of town, we would never have met Ken. I would have never known that not all innkeepers wear pants. I would have never known that Ken prefers the snug fit, but full coverage of the boxer brief.

A Song to Remind You Why We Wear Pants






Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Centenarians Just Want to Have Fun

A Book Review by Elizabeth Redhead Kriston



The 100-year-old man who climbed out the window and disappeared was a pretty interesting guy who, despite a rough early life, grew-up to be an extremely influential political figure quite by accident. For a guy who avoided the topics of politics and religion, Alan Karlsson deeply influenced many world leaders over his long and eventful life.

In fact, Alan’s life was reminiscent of another well-known fictional man, Forest Gump. Happy accidents and a very easy-going attitude were all it took for Alan to live through many harrowing and volatile situations. He survived wars, prisons, starvation, and nearly freezing to death by simply going with the flow. Of course, he used creative thinking and resourcefulness to overcome many of his life’s obstacles.

Who knew that drinking vodka and learning to blow things up would allow one to live such an amazing life? This book becomes a history lesson told through the eyes and adventures of the centenarian main character. Since I am not a history buff and had no interest in fact-checking, I cannot guarantee the history presented by the author is 100% true. However, the basic history lessons about presidents and dictators, the arms race and wars seemed plausible enough to believe the author, Jonas Jonasson, incorporated actual historical events into this comedic saga.

I wouldn’t call this historical fiction per say, but history does play a major role in the 100 plus years that the old man lived. This book, translated from Swedish, is exceptionally funny. Cheers to the translators for being able to maintain the dry humor and extremely smart jokes embedded into the dialogue and narration of this book. The imagery and character flaws of all the hooligans our old man meets throughout his life did cause me to laugh out loud many, many times.

Because this was a book written in flashbacks, I found it a bit hard to stay focused on the storyline. The history lessons became cumbersome. I enjoyed the storyline taking place in the present much more than the recollections.

The characters that our guy met along the way were each interesting and well fleshed out by Jonasson. Throughout his meetings of the various flawed men and women, Alan escapes death and tragedy in very comical ways. He is like the guy who walks down the street in old films while to world falls apart behind him as he whistles a happy tune oblivious to the destruction that lies in his wake.

This book taught me a few things. 1. Don't force centenarians to live boring, boxed-up lives. 2. Learning to go with the flow will most likely provide you with a much more interesting life. 3. Maybe I should learn more about explosives. 


The adventures of Alan and his band of misfit cohorts is expertly narrated by Steven Crossley in the audiobook version. This book might be best read versus listened to due to the intricate historical details. It was hard to focus both on driving and attending to all the minutia. 

According to an internet search, Will Ferrell is making this into a movie. That will be worth seeing for sure!


Tuesday, July 3, 2018

CBD and Me: My Quest to be Pain Free

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston


Disclaimer: I am not a doctor. Sometimes I act like I know more than I really do. Though I am a skeptic, I also really want certain things to work to help me and the people I love with the pain and suffering our bodies and minds inflict upon us.

I never liked the feeling of the high from pot. I only ever smoked it a handful of times. That’s pretty impressive since I lived with and around a bunch of pot-smoking hippies for a big chunk of my life.

When all of my chronic sleep and pain issues began and then persisted, years ago, I tried virtually everything and anything to bring me relief. I was open to all types of traditional and non-traditional methods. The only thing I couldn’t do was smoke or eat pot.

People tried to convince me that this was the answer. “Eat a brownie made with pot butter, it’ll knock you out,” they pleaded. Reluctantly, I accepted the suspicious pastry and then gagged violently at the smell. Disgusting.

My doctors prescribed pill after pill and I took them trusting they were giving me a scientifically sound, safe and thoroughly tested drug. I mean my insurance company paid for it and my medical doctor prescribed it so it must be great. Yeah, not so much.

In addition to my multitude of health problems, I have another annoying trait. I suffer from all of those side effects listed on the package or recited in gibberish on the commercials. Though I have never had anal leakage. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

What this boils down to is, I am not a good candidate for drugs, prescription or otherwise.

When all the talk of medical marijuana started to become part of our nation's conversation, I was intrigued but not excited. I heard the stories of children not having seizures after doses of this “schedule 1” drug. I've heard of cancer patients gaining relief from nausea. I've heard of combative children on the autism spectrum being able to calm and focus. I've heard of folks with anxiety not needing to take psychotropic drugs after trying a form of cannabis-derived medicine.

The game changer for me was when I heard of people suffering from chronic and severe pain, finding real relief for the first time in their lives. This hit home. I started to pay more attention. Many in my family suffer from severe and debilitating chronic pain. I inherited the back disorder that my mom, aunts, uncles and cousins also live with.

Still skeptical and reluctant to try the pot I knew from the past, I opened up my mind to the possibilities of the new cannabis alternatives. I started to listen, to read and to think. The form of cannabis that intrigued me the most was the easily accessible CBD oil or Cannabidiol.

Many of my coworkers and friends started to share anecdotes of how this oil change their lives by helping with their personal pain and suffering or that of their child/children. Being a believer in alternative medicines and using natural approaches as much as possible, such as diet and exercise as well as aromatherapy or medicinal oils, it didn’t take much to convince me that this was a method I needed to try.

The major roadblock for me was fear of the unknown. Where did I go to find it? Who did I buy it from? How much did it cost? How did I take it? What did it taste like? Would it actually help me?

I thought about going to my local health food store and buying some but my ignorance caused my confidence to waiver. I didn’t want to be given something I didn’t want or need. Since I didn’t have time to read, or I would forget to research it until somebody reminded me of its existence, I continued to suffer from my daily pain.

So, what changed? Like most things, someone who I respect and know reached out and offered information. Through my work and my kids, I have met amazing and knowledgeable professionals and parents whom I trust. These women have kindly shared with me their experience, knowledge and wisdom for so many things over the years.

My friend Sharon introduced me to therapeutic botanical oils. Now my allergy symptoms and hot flashes are under control. My friend Tereasa reached out and shared her very personal experiences with CBD oil. Knowing she is not one to jump into things blindly and that she takes the health and welfare of her children and herself very seriously, I was confident that if she was using CBD oil, then I should be too.

One week ago, I started ingesting cinnamon flavored CBD oil produced by the company Green Horizen.  My friend Tereasa started to sell the oil because not only does she believe in the product, but she needed a way to help cover the cost so she and her family can benefit from its amazing effects.

Click here to learn more about Tereasa and her journey 

To be invited to the group, just tell her I sent you.

Since taking the oil, I have experienced a drastic reduction in my chronic pain from degenerative disc disease. I can bend to do mundane tasks like tie my shoes or switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer. Moving from a sitting to a standing position used to cause shooting, horrible pain through my body. Those days are over! 

More of my day is pain-free than it has been in years.

For about $60.00 (including shipping) for a mid-strength dose which might last me a month, I am no longer suffering. I used to pay 4 or 5 times that a month in chiropractor, acupuncture and/or massage treatments!

It is not perfect, I am still trying to figure out how to manage my sleep with this new oil. Overall, I highly recommend you doing the research for yourself and deciding if this might help you. I am still learning so much myself and am reading more every day.

Find someone you trust and ask all the questions you have.

“Facts” of CBD Oil

-Not US government regulated
-Should not get you high as many have no significant amounts of THC
-Different doses and applications exist
-The cinnamon flavor I chose is yummy
-More research needs to be done to determine its effectiveness and safety
-Like all medications, natural or not, tell your doctor.
-Like all medicines, natural or not, they can interact negatively with other medications so be smart and safe.
-Not everything works the same for everyone
-Side effects both positive and negative are possible
-Read, question and read more

Some links to get your research started

(More helpful links are in the text)