The 70-Something Blog

Big Bank, Little Bank

I closed my account at one of the country’s biggest banks after its ATM swallowed my card.  I wasn’t in an actual bank when it happened so I picked up the phone next to the ATM that would connect me to customer service.  After waiting on hold for thirty minutes, I hung up and left, hoping the next person couldn’t use my card to take money from my account. 

But the other day when I needed cash and my new little bank’s ATM machine was being serviced, I decided to pay the $2.00 charge and get my cash from the big bank’s nearby ATM.  It wasn’t until I got home that I realized that 2/3 of one of the $20 bills I received was missing.

After thirty minutes on the phone with the big bank’s customer service, I finally got a person who told me that my little bank had to dispute the transaction before I could get my $20.

So the next day, I went to my little bank, fully aware that I’d already wasted more than $20 worth of my time.  To me, it was the principle.  I went to customer service, showed a very nice man my partial $20 bill and my big bank’s ATM machine receipt.

He checked my ID and told me that they would dispute the transaction and deposit the $20 in my account.   “It should be there in about a week,” he said. Then he excused himself for a moment and returned with a crisp new $20 bill.  “I don’t see why you should have to wait,” he said.

Now, that’s customer service and that’s why I’ll stick with the little guy.

We're Not Dating Any More

We have a nice tradition with our next-door neighbors who are, shall we say, of our generation.

We have a drink together a couple times a month—at their house in the winter in front of their fireplace and on our patio in the warmer months.  We plan on an hour and keep to it.  Snacks are whatever is in the house. No fuss.

At our last get together, the four of us had a great conversation about the world in general and our lives in particular.  We laughed a lot.

When we got home Peter and I retreated to our appointed ends of the sofa to read.  We exchanged very few words for the rest of the evening.  When we headed to bed, I mentioned what a nice time we had had with our neighbors, but that we hadn’t said much since we got home. He reminded me that that he doesn’t ever say much.

“It’s OK,” I said. We’re not dating any more.”

Was I Meant To Be a CEO?

I started college in the undergraduate business school.  My father was a businessman, and I liked our dinner table conversations.  So why not go to business school? 

A freshman requirement was a boring course called “A History of Business in the United States.”  That did it.  I switched to liberal arts after one semester and graduated with a political science degree.

On Thursday I watched a DVD about the 50^th anniversary of women at the Harvard Business School.  In 1963, when the first women were accepted at HBS, there were eight in an entering class of eight hundred.  On the DVD, one of them recalled that a professor (male, of course) berated her for taking the spot “of a man who needs to make a living for his family.”  

In 1965, when my interest in business re-surfaced, I applied to HBS and was not admitted.  Not that I thought I would be, but in 2012, with 40% of the class female, I might have had a better chance. 

Instead I went to graduate school in education, and I am still working in the field that I love.  But when I saw an interview with an HBS alumna who manages 20,000 people on Wall Street, I asked myself…

Was I meant to be a CEO?

Boston Strong Women

The Boston Marathon bombing occurred seven weeks ago, and I no longer think about it every day.  But the lives of those who lost loved ones or those who were injured are irreparably changed. They live it every day.

I recently saw a TV interview with the six women who lost limbs.  They were remarkable. 

Erika, the pre-school teacher from Maryland, was the last to be released from the hospital, just in time to be in her best friend’s wedding this weekend.  All six are at home now, but still on pain pills, with much more adjusting ahead. They are worried about the life-long financial costs from their injuries, but they talked about their futures with hope and confidence.

They had been inspired by visits from military veterans who are doing well with their artificial limbs and by the incredible support of family, friends, and utter strangers.  Erika’s students tell her they can’t wait to ride in her wheelchair.  The dancer told us she will dance again. 

A few tears were shed during the interview, including mine.

$5,000 or $47,000?

I heard a talk by Geoffrey Canada on Wednesday.   

Having grown up in poverty as one of four children of a single mom, this 61-year-old New York City educator understands the struggling families in the one hundred block square of Harlem that he calls the “Harlem Children’s Zone”.  Now, as its CEO, he is changing their lives.

In his Promise Academy Charter School, the children go to school from 8:00 am to 4:00 pm and there is an after-school enrichment program every day and sometimes on Saturdays.  There is one adult for every six children in the classroom.  And the children get only a three-week vacation in the summer.

Canada guarantees to parents that if their children come to the Promise Academy, they will get into college and he boasts a 95% success rate in meeting that goal.

The Harlem Children’s Zone offers “Baby College” to new parents so they can learn how to help their children come to school ready to learn “like the rich folk do”.  They offer health services in the school and healthy meals in the cafeteria to help fight obesity.  They stay in touch with their graduates and offer them help when they struggle in college.

It’s expensive, but Canada is a tireless fundraiser.  He counts on $5,000 a year to educate each student.  But, he explains, it costs $47,000 a year for each inmate in a penitentiary.  For $5,000 a year, he keeps young people out of the penitentiary.  And these people go on to be productive members of our society.

Everybody wins. 

The Red Line Train

After visiting Boston’s Institute of Contemporary Art on a recent Sunday, Peter and I were on the subway to Harvard Square. Sunday is the day that track repair happens on the Red Line, and that Sunday was no different. 

When the train pulled into the Harvard Square Station where we get off, the driver announced, “This is the Red Line train to Braintree” when he should have said “This is the Red Line train to Alewife.”  We knew that meant that the train was turning around three stops early because of track repairs. 

But apparently the announcer needed to drive home his point.  So we heard,

“This is the Red Line train to Braintree.” Pause…“This is the Red Line train to Braintree.”  And once more, “This is the Red Line train to Braintree.”

After the third time I turned to Peter to ask, tongue-in-cheek, “Where is this train going?”

At the same moment, Peter turned to me to ask, “Where is this train going?”  We burst out laughing after the “Where”.  Fellow passengers stared.

Some couples finish each other’s sentences.  We start them.

Have we been married too long?

 

 

 

You're Not !

I enjoy shooting the breeze with Maureen who has worked at our dry cleaners as long as I can remember.  She remembers our address and that Peter doesn’t like starch in his shirts. Clothes with stains that didn’t come out get sent back, and she never forgets our senior discount. 

But yesterday when I took in armfuls of winter clothes, we chatted a bit more than usual while she wrote up a very long ticket.  I mentioned that one of these days I would quit my job and never have to look at some of those clothes again.  “Not you”, she said.  “You aren’t ready to quit,”

I replied, “Well, I am seventy-five.”

“YOU’RE NOT!!!!!!”

Like I said, I enjoy shooting the breeze with Maureen.

Saturday Morning

Peter was reading the newspaper on the computer when I came downstairs on Saturday morning.  He did manage to look up and say “Good morning.”  He was sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee.  He looked quite content.

While he read, I hand-washed two sweaters, sorted the laundry and started the first load, watered the plants, gathered piles of winter clothes and coats to take to the cleaners and straightened up a bit from our dinner guests the night before.

Then I had some toast and coffee with him. 

When I was cleaning up from breakfast, I noticed that there was a lot of water puddled on the stovetop.  To mop it up, I had to remove the grates and the trays under the burners and make several trips to the sink with dripping sponges. 

Now, I don’t mind doing the laundry, watering the plants etc. while Peter reads the paper. But there was something about all that water that got to me.   So I said in my most obnoxious voice—“I don’t mind doing the laundry and watering the plants and getting the cleaning ready while you sit with the paper and your coffee, but don’t you think you could have at least cleaned up the water on the stove when the tea kettle boiled over?”

Yes, even our almost-perfect forty-five year marriage has it bad moments. But I immediately regretted speaking angrily to the man who bakes me great gluten-free bread, mows the lawn, listens to my endless stories about work and gave me two great sons among other things.

I decided that I should have kept my mouth shut.  So I apologized, hugged him as hard as I could and said, “You are one awesome eighty-three year old.”

He is.

Apples to Apples

On Mother’s Day weekend when we were visiting the kids in Maryland, a torrential downpour interrupted the Saturday night barbecue party next door. Neighbors from around the corner joined us to wait out the rain at our kids’ house, and someone suggested a game of Apples to Apples.  We had no idea how to play, but it is a cinch to learn. See http://bit.l/rqZA9

The ages of the ten players ranged from six (our grandson Grady) to eighty-three (Gramps, aka Peter).  It’s hard to imagine that a game could entertain a kindergartner, a third grader, an eighth grader, an eleventh grader and six adults, but Apples to Apples requires little more than a sense of humor. 

People were competitive, but friendly.  Some lobbied the “judge”.  Others reprimanded the lobbyists.  We laughed a lot.

The rain stopped.  We kept playing. 

I won.

Gluten-free Mother's Day Weekend

I could write about how great it was to be with our son Jeremy and his family in Maryland for Mother’s Day.  I could say how amazing the grandchildren are, how much I enjoyed Leo’s soccer game, the barbecue at their neighbor’s, the visit with a childhood friend, our Mother’s Day brunch, and Seth’s Mother’s Day email from Berlin which, of course, made me cry.   All good.

Instead, I want to write about gluten. 

We went to lunch after Leo’s soccer game.  The kids and Peter went to Five Guys, a hamburger place, and Katrina and I went to Sweetgreen next door  where  the counter staff composed a gluten-free salad per my direction but put a piece of bread on top of the greens.  “No,” I shouted—you’ll have to start over—I said I needed gluten-free.”

“Not to worry”, they replied.  “It’s gluten-free bread!” 

We took our salads next door to join the males.  Five Guys makes their French fries in a dedicated fryer and they are therefore gluten-free.  I ate my first fast-food French fry since my celiac diagnosis fourteen years age.  It was heavenly.

That night the neighbors offered piles of barbecued pork and chicken brought in for their party.  I planned to stick with the raw veggies.  But my daughter-in-law called the barbecue place and they said I could eat all but the bread. 

The one disappointment was at Costco’s on Friday night where Peter and Jeremy each had a huge ice cream dipped in chocolate and crushed almonds.  The woman at the counter didn’t understand what gluten was so I couldn’t join them.  Peter admitted it was fantastic.  I sulked.

But when Jeremy called Costco customer service after our Mother’s Day Brunch and learned that, in fact, that bar is gluten-free, we took a quick detour on the way home, and Jeremy bought me my own ice cream bar dipped in chocolate and crushed almonds.  Delicious.

Life is gluten-free and good.