Archive for the ‘signs’ Tag

Signs of the Times   3 comments

I am an inveterate reader – put it in front of me, and I read it. The only thing I don’t read is my smartphone – mainly because I don’t have one. Because of this,  I’m free to read signs – neon signs, metal signs, wood,  plastic and paper – in windows, on walls, up on billboards, on the sides of buses and the walls of subway cars. In fact the subway is where reading all came together for me.

From infancy until I started kindergarten at age 4-1/2,  I spent two torturous two hours riding the subway from Manhattan to Brooklyn ( and two hours back) each Friday to visit my grandmother in Brooklyn. Subways have changed a lot over the years but, back then, as today, passengers avoiding eye contact are prisoners of the ads staring down at them. I still remember the light of recognition flashing at me when I noticed that the letters, c o f f e e on the ad looked just like the c o f f e e on the can in our kitchen. I don’t recall what I said but my mother said it brought smiles to all the fellow N’Yawkers on the train. (I also knew  the word BAR since there was one on every corner in our neighborhood.)

Well, I don’t ride the subway quite as much but I still read signs,  always, all the time, and some of them merit a second look. Speaking of coffee, let’s start with this one.

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Do you remember when coffee was  the flavor?

And how about this in the front of Office Depot.

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Empty cardboard boxes – -$1.00 ( the ones from which they’ve already sold the paper?) .

And now for an internet moment……

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 Note it’s a page with yoga-related links

What I’m puzzled by,  is the box of related links. Hold on, let me enlarge it

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Coffin for sale? Just think –  all these years I’ve been thinking yoga was good for me.

So you see – friends who chuckle and think I’m referring to writing when I say words are my life don’t know the half of it!

Posted October 28, 2014 by virginiafair in Uncategorized

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Signs or Coincidences?   4 comments

It’s not a sign, it’s a coincidence!” this from an ex-boyfriend.” I hate when you start with that sign crap.” Yes, ex. Need I elaborate? And yes, I have always believed in “that sign crap.”

Omens, messages, synchronicity, Call them what you will; those guiding lights that appear at arbitrary times in the most common of places. To the rest of the world it may be something ordinary, barely noticed, if noticed at all.  But to the one for whom it is meant, it illuminates and affirms the path.

I saw my first New York sign on the very first morning in Harrison. Fifteen years of settling for the San Jose Mercury News with my Sunday morning coffee left me ravenous for the Sunday Times. I bounded out of bed the next morning, intent on finding  a deli where I could get the Times, a hard roll with poppy seeds, and coffee. Just the idea of once again having a NY corner deli made  me giddy. I’d asked my brother the night before when he picked me up at the airport where I might find one and he’d said “probably on Halstead Avenue,” the main shopping street.

Jet lag or no, I was up bright and early the next morning and raring to go. Fremont was in the linen closet where he’d be hiding for a few more days until he realized this was his new  home. I dug up  the  baggie full of kibble I’d packed in my suitcase, poured some in his bowl,  then went off on my quest. I started the car, and headed off in what I hoped was the right direction.

I found Halstead, as well as a church, the post office, a car dealership, a drugstore, the VFW post, but no deli.  There had to be a deli. Maybe that initial right turn I’d taken onto Halstead should have been a left. so I turned into a side street to make a U-turn.  Of course I picked  a one way street. I’d have to go around the block to get back to Halstead.  I continued to the next corner where the street sign brought me  to a complete jaw dropping stop.

Fremont Street. It was nothing out of  the ordinary. People living there had most likely rendered it invisible to their consciousness.  But for that one moment, for me, it was a sign. Everything was going to be alright. I  had no job, no prospects, and no idea of when or where I’d  find one, but I’d followed through on my long-held dream, pulled up all my California roots and moved back to  New York.  How could things not go my way?

The years brought success, adventures, many new friendships, and rekindling of old ones. Things couldn’t be better and  then along came Spring 2004. While petting Niles, I felt a lump on his side. Both he and Fremont were due for their shots so I made a double appointment. The vet did a quick needle biopsy and thought it looked like Sarcoma. “It’s your decision,” he said “but this cat is only three years old. You can let it progress and see what happens or remove it and give him better odds. I’d remove it if he were mine.” While I was digesting all this, he examined Fremont and sighed as he felt his leg.

“Him too?” I cried. “Both of them?”

And so both Fremont and Niles underwent surgery and we entered into wait and see. I was terrified to pet either one of them for fear I’d feel a lump. And my fear was not unfounded in Fremont’s case. His lump reappeared with a vengeance. There was no need to feel it,  It was apparent to the naked eye.

I think my mind became unhinged at this point for one  Saturday morning in May, I set out on my morning run and came upon one of the ubiquitous yard sales that bloom every spring in Putnam Valley. This one had a second sign on the fence. Free Kitten to Good Home.I stopped and inquired of a small boy sitting on the stairs and was told the kitten was a female. “Oh, too bad,,” I said, “if it was a male I’d take it.”

Sunday morning, I took the same running route. Free Kitten to a Good home was still on the fence, and there standing in the yard was a little girl with the cutest bundle of striped orange.

“Is that the kitten in the sign?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said with the drama inherent  in seven-year old girls.”I love this cat so much,  but my mom says we have enough animals so I can’t keep him.

“Him?” I gasped. It was a sign!

But in this case it was  a  sign I should have passed right on by.  I think my reasoning followed a line  that  having a kitten in the house to play with would bring new life to my boys. I say think, because I have no idea what the hell I was thinking. And so  Dino became a resident of Fremont’s World. Unfortunately, Dino was a rough and tumble kind, let’s wrestle kind of guy,not what I had in mind, but I kept him. And a good thing I did for Dino turned out to be the crucial  link in the Mars landing.

I do  not want to dwell on a sad time so let’s just say Fremont’s  lump  returned.  On July 30, 2004 Fremont left  his world to Niles and Dino.

But the journey that began with the black and white cat who appeared out of nowhere in that parking lot eleven years prior, the one my brother, Jim, in his final days on the planet,  may or may not have foreseen,  had one more mysterious turn. I’d say it was a sign but it’s going on eight years  now and I still don’t know what to make of it.

My first two cats, O.B. Brat and Joby Cat, as well as my brother’s, dog, Duke, are buried in Hartsdale Pet Cemetery  I make it a point to plant flowers every summer and place wreathes every Christmas. Now I’d being decorating a third grave, Fremont’s.  Straight from the vet’s I drove Fremont’s remains to Hartsdale. This is no simple case of dropping off the animal and being done. No, the staff affords you a chance for closure. You may come back for a very private  good-bye and a respectful burial. I completed all the paperwork and scheduled a day to return

I had every intention of driving straight home but a few miles into the drive, I had an urge to visit my dad’s grave and tell him Fremont was gone. Now my brother, Jim is buried in the same cemetery not far from Daddy’s grave but it was Daddy I wanted to tell and so I stopped at the cemetery.

My usual routine is to park by Jim’s grave, perhaps out of habit since his death preceded my fathers, visit it first,  then walk over to Daddy’s. But on this day I parked near my father’s, said what I had to say, and walked through a row of graves in the direction of Jim’s.

About halfway there, I looked down to my right  and gasped at what was lying there. A stuffed animal. It was bedraggled and mud covered but  here was no mistaking what it was. A black and white cat. Luckily there was no one around on this beautiful hot summer morning to hear me  but I don’t think it would have mattered anyway. I scooped up the toy and ran the rest of the way sputtering  aah, aah, aah. I held it out to Jim’s headstone, asking “did you do this? did you do this?”

Of  course I got no answer.  I visit that cemetery at least four times a year. I walk through the same row of graves.  I see flags,  flowers, Christmas ornaments, statues, but never a stuffed animal. Yes, maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe someone  placed it there for some other departed soul. In that case I guess I should have just left it there. But I didn’t. I brought it home to Fremont’s World.