Mar 282018

March 28, 2018 — With the annual ritual of baseball’s opening day, hope does indeed spring eternal in the human breast, to quote the poet. New fields of dreams form during spring training in Florida and Arizona where Snowbirds pray an errant ball doesn’t break the windshield of their rented van.

I appreciate the anticipation of the romance of baseball, especially on days when the news is bleak, and the weather is gray. Growing up in a family that loves baseball, I know nothing is as comforting as a lazy afternoon or evening listening to the jabber of a Major League baseball game.

When I was a child, we had an Arvin AM box radio my dad got for college graduation in 1953. My brother and I played catch outside, while Dad listened to Ernie Banks and the boys. The Amazin’ Mets grabbed the “W” in 1969; it was their time. Dad’s beloved Cubbies would not have their day for a long, long time.

While I preferred my family’s visits to the Detroit Art Institute to see the Diego Rivera murals over watching Denny McClain pitch at old Tiger Stadium, some of the love of the game rubbed off on me. I married baseball fan, but his dreams were forged by a Big Red Machine with guys named Rose and Perez and Bench and Morgan. My parents were not wholly shattered that I married out of the Cubs family. It could have been worse. My intended could have followed an American League team.

My father was a high school teacher and took students on senior trips to New York where he witnessed day games at the original Yankee Stadium. Men in white shirts and ties watched guys named Maris and Mantle in the house that Ruth built. At 87, Dad’s lived long enough to witness his beloved Cubs win the World Series. I held my breath for most of the 2016 final World Series game; I wanted the “W” to wave above Wrigley for my father.

I’d been holding my breath since Rick Sutcliffe made questionable playoff pitches and since the unfortunate fan caused a missed catch. I hadn’t breathed since Harry Caray hung from the announcer’s booth swinging the microphone, and a “one and a two. Take me out of the ball game” echoed from the iconic rafters of Wrigley.

My husband and I presented my father with his first grandson on Opening Day of the 1990 season. The Reds won the 1990 series. On vacation in Florida, we photographed our eight-month-old son in his Reds uniform on Clearwater Beach, to honor his first World Series. During his childhood, we visited great American monuments, like the Green Monster at Fenway Park.

Like his father, our son embraces the Cincinnati Reds like a religion, and we return annually to the altar on the Ohio River to hope against hope, that this will again, be the year.

Why don’t more people embrace the slow grace of baseball? The game is easily understandable and requires athletic prowess in pitching, catching, hitting, running and jumping, as well as the slide into base. In a world that moves nearly at the speed of light, who could not enjoy the slower pace of a baseball game, butt in chair, local brew in hand? If you are lucky, your team may even win.

Before the National Football League became big business, Major League baseball was our national pastime. Forbes noted, “The 2017 MLB regular season marks the third consecutive season of total attendance declines and five out of the last six that saw drops.”

Critics often list baseball’s flaws, including the cost of taking a family. MLB may outprice some, but many cities and towns have farm and local teams. If you can’t see the Green Monster in Boston, try the Mud Hens in Toledo.

Spring comes bearing daffodils and optimism. Somewhere a child picks up his first baseball mitt and takes in the magic of a truly American game.

What will the season bring? In our house, it’s all about the Reds. The Reds will go as far as their pitching will take them, my husband says, and he says it almost every year. Snow falls and rivers rise, yet the faithful believe there will be joy in Mudville this year.


Forbes article:

Author Bio

Amy McVay Abbott, a retired health care executive, writes for Senior Wire News Service and has been published in Salon, The Broad Side, Making Midlife Matter, Tribe Magazine, and others. She is one of 40 writers in “Laugh Out Loud,”  the first anthology of humorists published by the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop, University of Dayton, this spring.

Feb 172018

By PenCooper93 (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (], via Wikimedia Commons

February 16, 2018 — I do stupid things.  I’ve contemplated the reasons and developed a list:

  1. Russians disguised as people from Ohio or West Virginia made me
  2. Senior Moment
  3. Hyperspeed Alien Abduction and Return
  4. Genetics
  5. Candy Crush Dependency

Several days ago I realized I needed new pillows.  I like my pillows arranged just so. When the pillows age and flatten out, my system is ruined.  Happens overnight, one night your pillows are fluffy, and eight hours later, utter devastation.

I shopped at Wally World for cough drops and red onions this week, and I thought, I’ll pop over to the Home Goods department and pull two pillows out of the first discount bin I find.  Did I give it any forethought or did I just randomly pull out the first two I saw? (See list above.)

An end cap, labeled “Made in rural China by four-year-olds who haven’t eaten in days” and featuring “Dust Mites and Bedbugs” drew me in.  I selected two, each $2.79.

I didn’t think another thing about it until my husband said before we went to bed, “You gonna lay your head on those things.  They look  disgusting and filthy.”

I consulted with our 82-year-old housekeeper Doreen who advises me like a California psychic. She suggested a “My Pillow.”  She bought one for her husband, and now he sleeps well.  Each pillow has a forty dollar price tag if you can find it on sale. That seemed a little above my current retiree pay grade (ah, for old days when I coveted the Westin Heavenly Bed and accompanying luscious bedding on business trips.)

I figured somewhere between “Not Fit for Homo Sapien Use” and “For the best nights sleep in the whole wide world, try My Pillow dot com” there would be something acceptable to this Purveyor of the Perfect Pillow System. (Sorry for the earworm from the “My Pillow” commercial.)

This ain’t your grandmother’s online shopping trip.  She didn’t have to deal with the Memory Foam Revolution.  We once bought memory foam mattress which came with two memory foam pillows.  For about three weeks, I had a severe asthma attack every night.  After multiple attacks, we figured it might be the memory foam.  By researching, I learned about “off-gassing” defined below by AmericaSleep.


Memory foam smell comes from a reaction called “off-gassing.” If you’ve ever smelled fresh paint, dry cleaning, or the inside of a new car, that’s off-gassing.

New foams and many other manufactured products experience off-gassing. It happens when “volatile organic compounds” (VOCs) break down. As opposed to being stable, these “volatile” (or unstable) compounds break apart, most commonly forming gasses — hence the term off-gassing.

In mattresses, the most common place to find VOCs is in the foam and adhesives. They can include chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs), formaldehyde, benzene, methylene chloride, toluene, trichloroethane, naphthalene, perfluorocarbons.

We returned the mattress (100-night guarantee) and bought a  foam mattress that didn’t expel toxic fumes.  The vendors insisted we keep the pillows, which even the cats found off-putting.  A new pillow is catnip for a kitty, but not the feral possum smell of the memory foam.

Researching appropriate foam pillow options, I turned to one of the best finance magazines in the world, “Forbes.”  Why not “Good Housekeeping” or “Foam Pillow Monthly?”  (See list above.)  Read “Forbes'” take on the best pillows here.  Between interviews with Donald Trump and discussions about inflation, do editors sit ’round a long, mahogany conference table with their heads bowed on various pillows, sampling the latest wares?

Recommended as the number one pillow for most people by “Forbes” is the  Xtreme Comforts Shredded Memory Foam Pillow.

“supportive without being too firm or stiff, and testers appreciated that its moldability accommodated each sleeper’s specific contours. The Xtreme Comforts averaged the highest ratings among most of our testers, but it wasn’t everyone’s favorite. So while one of the competitors might be a better pick for you, we’re still confident that the Xtreme Comforts won’t steer you wrong.”

That sounds great, but $49 a pillow was out of this retirees’ annual pillow budget.  (Disclaimer to  friends with $10,000 electronic mattresses and two remotes, a vintage lamb’s wool duvet made by blind Argentinian nuns in the last century and five thousand dollar Icelandic eiderdown pillows: get over yourselves.)

I wonder if the “Forbes’ recommended pillow is pricey (by my low rent standards) because of the extra cost “shredding” the memory foam involves?

  • Who is doing the shredding?
  • Are their bureaucrats in the industry who regulate the conditions of shredding memory foam?
  • Why does memory foam need to be shredded?
  • And the most disturbing question to this asthmatic is when memory foam is shredded by professionals does it disperse more of the toxic garbage including chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs), formaldehyde, benzene, methylene chloride, toluene, trichloroethane, naphthalene, perfluorocarbons?

Disappointed, I compromised with a set of two Beckham Hotel Collection Gel Pillows, Dust Mite Resistant and Hypoallergenic. That name just implies romance, doesn’t it? The label said, “Made in Denmark by well-fed adults with national health insurance and liberal vacation days.”

Amazon Prime won’t deliver the pillows until Tuesday.  For now,  I’m stuck with Chinese Dust Mites, all flattened out.



Feb 122018

This piece was published on the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Website on February 11, 2018 — The retired life is resplendent with richness and meaning. It does not, however, free one from the tasks of ordinary life. I often must rise from my red velour chaise lounge, set the peppermint bonbons and glass of sherry aside, and attend to the mundane duties of the household.

I am well trained for these responsibilities, having had an All Important Position for more than 30 years, and of course, the Most Important Job of a mother for 18 plus years.

The All Important Position required me to carry a tiny box, a box that sent me messages, much like Billy Mumy on “Twilight Zone.”  I was also expected to know things, and especially important that I answer questions from those who reported to me.

Did I turn in an expense report last July 3? Look it up on your computer.

I can’t, a bear ate my computer, and I must connect to the Mother Ship through your docking station. Now, what’s my password?  Call the help desk.

What’s their number?  It’s 1-800-How-Many-Days-Until-I-Retire?

As a mother in the Most Important Job, I was expected to know things, and especially important that I answer questions from those who once resided in my uterus.

Where are my car keys? On the kitchen counter where you left them.

Where is my Scout sash?  In your closet on the hanger with your uniform.

What did I do with my Biology book? Did you look in your backpack?

These high-level skills now transfer to my Really Important Job as retiree wife, where I’m expected to know things and answer questions from my helpmate of 34 years.

Where are my car keys? On the kitchen counter where you left them.

Where is the can opener?  In the same drawer, it’s been in since we moved here in 1996.

What did I do with my work calendar? Did you look in your briefcase?

My skills, along with everything I learned in graduate school, have increased my value at home beyond answering questions since my retirement. Tonight, I’m descaling our pod coffeemaker.

In the olden days when our coffeemaker broke, we went to Wally World and bought another plastic Mr. Coffee for $20. Our first Mr. Coffee, a wedding present, lasted more than two decades.  The newer ones, not so much.  But for a year of great coffee, $20 is not excessive.

I had to get all fancy when the pod coffee makers came out. Now I’m in descaling hell.  I’m sorry no one was home to hear my obscene-laden cries when I read the instructions, which were glued to the bottle. When I pried them off, they stuck back to back on the Chinese instructions.  Thankfully, I still had the manual from the pod coffeemaker, so there you go.

How to descale a coffeemaker in 143 easy steps:

First, dump all the water out of the coffeemaker. No instructions on this.  I gingerly picked up the red monster, turned it upside down, and poured all the water in the sink.  I’m not sure if there’s a secret reservoir I’m missing.  I then poured in the descaling solution which is made of arsenic, old tires, Pepsi and dishwashing detergent.

The next step is completing two cleansing brews. Thankfully I was doing cleansing breaths while waiting for the cleansing brews. This took about 10 minutes and had it not been for my cleansing breaths, I might have been more irritated.

Instructions dictate the coffeemaker sits with the lethal slumgullion baking inside the reservoir for 30 minutes.

Great, I’ll soon be finished.

Not so fast. Because of the unknown contents of the toxic brew (possibly elephant sperm, pizza rolls, battery acid and dish detergent?), a dozen OR MORE cleansing brews are necessary.  Seriously, what the he** is in that stuff?  Do I really want to drink the coffee that comes out of it after all this?

I have four Wally Worlds within six miles of my house. I could have put on a bra, shoes and my parka, driven to Wally World and purchased a new coffeemaker and paid for it in the regular not the scanner line, gone to Zaxby’s Chicken for a three-piece chicken strip meal substituting cole slaw for French fries, eaten my dinner in the car, driven home, and made new coffee in the time it takes to descale this bad boy.

But I’m going to complete the housewifely job when the 30 minutes is up.  I may be up all night running cleansing brews. This is bad for me because tomorrow I will need considerable energy to rise from my chaise lounge, put aside the lemon drop martini and bruschetta, and head to the deck to clean the ca-ca off the top of the bird feeders.

— Amy McVay Abbott

A retired health care executive, Abbott is a Midwestern writer and author of four books. Her online home is


To see the original posting click here.


Battle at Squirrel Vista

Battle at Squirrel Vista

January 21, 2018 — The battle continues. Each side remains vigilant, fighting with weapons, creative and traditional. My objective in this daily skirmish is feeding the birds. I lack proper tactics because I don’t fully understand the enemy. I am not sure of his motives or his strategy. He frequently changes his patterns of attack.  The […]

The Glint in His Eye

The Glint in His Eye

January 17, 2018 — When I was in my twenties, I visited my great aunt Zoe Trucia Evans at her Denver home. Aunt Zoe, my grandmother’s sister, and lifelong nemesis moved to Colorado from Indiana in the 1930s. Zoe’s husband Everett had a respiratory condition and needed the Colorado climate. Throughout their lives, the sisters quibbled […]

Bitter Cold

Bitter Cold

January 15, 2018 — Do you remember the metal ice trays your parent kept in their freezer?  Do you remember the sticky touch of the metal against your skin when you pulled the lever to open the tray?That feeling of metal against skin describes precisely how our last week of cold weather feels to me. […]

Winter Nights in the Recliners

Winter Nights in the Recliners

January 3, 2018 — My retirement vision hasn’t quite met reality yet. In my apparition, I’m reading a leather-bound volume of “War and Peace.” I’m writing handwritten epistles to friends with a crystal nib and brown ink from Siena, Italy.  I’m taking long baths, getting frequent facials, and walking briskly in the mall at 8:30 a.m. […]

My Constipated Cat

My Constipated Cat

Written January 2016, published January 2, 2018 — I am buying Metamucil for our cat as instructed by our veterinarian. Fala, our aging Tom, has gastrointestinal distress. I’m hiding behind the magazines in the drugstore line, like the pimply-faced teenage hero of “Summer of 42.” I’m stacking random items, a greeting card, razors, gum, and toothpaste, […]

The Struggle to Assemble a New Vacuum

The Struggle to Assemble a New Vacuum

December 23, 2017–Our housekeeper, who is 82 and has been with our family for 25 years, is here today (Friday). We’re both pretty afraid of her (and you would be, too).  We love her to pieces, but she has strong opinions that we consider, or she will not be happy. We want her to be […]

Rejected Holiday Television Specials

December 13, 2017,  — Twice ousted Judge Roy Moore’s Sweet Home Alabama Christmas Special, featuring the Young Girl’s Chorale of Opp, Alabama sings “Carol of the Children.” Also starring the grown-up Cosby Kids, dancing with life-sized, animated Jello pudding pops. The Holiday Program showcases a family uncovering why cousin Eddie doesn’t look like Grandpa […]

Memories of W and Ds

Memories of W and Ds

There was only one real Santa Claus.  He used the pseudonym Phil Steigerwald, but we all knew he was the only Kris Kringle.  He had the roundest, kindest face you’ve ever seen, and welcomed you to his red-covered chair in the middle of Wolf and Dessauer’s Department Store in Fort Wayne, Indiana. His beard was […]

Fear Itself

Fear Itself

November 18, 2017 — As a child, I feared a tornado could pick up our tiny  house and send us into the ether, like in “The Wizard of Oz.” The house had neither a basement or a crawlspace. My fears grew after the 1965  Palm Sunday tornado. Our town wasn’t in the path of the multi-funnel […]

Tit for Tat

Tit for Tat

November 17, 2017,  Three points on the national discussion about sexually inappropriate behavior. OUR PARTY AT ALL COSTS.  Roy Moore could make love to a sheep on the roof of the Truman Balcony and some Republicans would defend him.  POTUS once said he could shoot people on Fifth Avenue and he would still be loved. […]

Nana and Her Smart Phone Are Digging the Scene

Nana and Her Smart Phone Are Digging the Scene

REFLECTIONS November 2017 The Raven Lunatic  Senior Wire News Service — I rarely, rarely comment on our son’s posts. Okay, I break that rule all the time. Last night our son went to see Apocalyptica in Washington, D.C., so I commented on the picture he posted. Do I know Apocalyptica from a hole in the ground? […]

"Lower-price, high quality health care options"

“Lower-price, high quality health care options”

10/14/2017 — Earlier this week, the President of the United States signed an executive order to cut subsidies to insurance companies through the ACA (Obamacare.)  45 said, “[I am instructing the government] to take action to increase competition, increase choice and increase access to lower-priced, high-quality health care options.”  These payments are subsidies required by […]

Sweatshirt Weather

Sweatshirt Weather

October 6, 2017 — This piece is from my first book, “The Luxury of Daydreams,” )2011). Mature corn, ready for harvest, stands in neat, geometric rows in Indiana fields. The Hoosier sky has gray clouds outlined in an almost black line etched against a blue-green sky. Sometimes the clouds look surreal as if painted with […]

Watching the Long Arc of Justice

Watching the Long Arc of Justice

September 27, 2017 — I woke up this morning thinking about events at Kent State University in 1970. I was 13 years old, a late Baby Boomer, a child in the sixties. (If you don’t remember, read about it here.) My father taught high school in northeastern Indiana. Some members of the senior class wore […]

Charlottesville, Many Sides?

Charlottesville, Many Sides?

August 12, 2017 — Something terrible happened today in our country, in the university town of Charlottesville, Virginia.  In times like these, we await our leaders for comfort, direction, explanation and possible condemnation. George W. Bush stood in the middle of “The Pile” after 9/11 and shouted to the world. Ronald Reagan eloquently read the poem […]

And They Said it Wouldn't Last

And They Said it Wouldn’t Last

August 6, 2017 — My husband and I disagree on the exact date we met. In my enhanced version, it was August 16, 1977, the day Elvis died. Makes for a better tale. My Beloved says it was ten days earlier because I anticipated my bridesmaid role in an August 13 wedding.  I like my version better. Either […]

Breathing, Part Two

Breathing, Part Two

June 3, 2017, crossposted on Medium — Every morning when I check the bird feeders, I see a plume from the factories on the river. What’s going into the air we breathe? Will our President’s willful rejection of the Paris Climate Accord make our environment worse? I’ve contemplated this for years, like most people I’m fond […]