Nov 17, 2015 - Retirement    No Comments

Practicing ’til it hurts (my partner)

Ellen Bradley wears a football helmet to play tennis – when I’m her partner.

My first serve during a recent match bounced off her noggin and popped over the net, but for some reason did not qualify as a “let.” The second almost took off her ear. The third, she assured me, only grazed the edge of her racquet.


                   Ellen practices her defensive
                          tactics with Barbara

Ellen is lucky that my serve has all the power of a thrown noodle. And I’m lucky to play doubles with an incredibly patient and encouraging group of women.

Toss higher, I was advised. Point your feet toward the net corner pole, was one suggestion. “Give me a second to get out of your way,” pleaded my next scheduled partner. Take up tiddlywinks, thought everyone else.

This summer I took tennis lessons, hoping to surprise my fall league-mates with a big girl serve instead of the side-arm Lob of Death. Smalls     Sometimes I win the point because the receiver has dozed off waiting for the Lob of Death to land, but each time I feel like Smalls in “The Sandlot” when he hand-delivers the ball instead of throwing it.

Our league plays “first in.” If it’s your first serve of the set you get as many attempts as needed to reach the service square. My opponents have time to get a pedicure, air dry their toes and re-tie their laces before smashing my Lob of Death down the alley.

I’m reluctant to name my tennis teacher, because it’s not her fault that I’m in the Double Fault Hall of Shame. “What should we work on today,” she would ask. “Everything,” I’d reply, feeling like everyone in “Groundhog Day” except Bill Murray.

The other day my father re-told a story about a not-very-good golfing buddy in Florida who bragged that he was the No. 2 golfer at Kings Point. My incredulous father said, “If you’re No. 2, who’s No. 1?” “Everyone else,” his pal replied.

That’s me on the tennis court, with a well-earned lack of confidence.

A friend recently asked if I’d like to learn bridge. I’m tempted. In bridge, it’s no insult to be the dummy. No one’s ever been injured by a crazy card shuffler. The only thing hurt by a poorly played hand would be my pride.

But I’m not ready to retire my racquet. Despite Einstein’s riff about insanity, I’m determined to keep trying. Please watch out, Ellen: Don’t endanger that great smile by looking my way.

Nov 13, 2015 - Family    3 Comments

Playing the cards you’re dealt

“I like to sit at the edge of my bed and think. It looks like I’m davening, but I am just thinking,” my father dictated as I sat beside him with my laptop earlier this week. “Sit back, Jerry, sit back, everyone says. You’re going to slide off.”

unnamededitedDavening, pronounced dah’-vening, is Hebrew for praying. I remember his mother, my Bubbi, nodding in frequent prayer. My father, however, is often just nodding off. And the other night – whether davening or dozing — he leaned on his recliner’s remote, which tipped him forward until he did slip­­­­ off.­­­­­

Dad is slipping – slipping away. And he knows it.

So I was glad when I visited the next day that he agreed to let me type up his thoughts. In recent years, my 85-year-old father has written up lots of stories about his growing up and his take on life, but his fingers and eyes aren’t cooperating like they used to. His mind, however, remains sharp. Read more »

Nov 4, 2015 - Retirement    No Comments

Retirement is a full-time job

This vacuum sucks.

And not in the way a vacuum would consider a compliment.IMG_1748 (2)

After taking out and shaking out the floor mats and dropping six quarters into the machine at the corner Mobil gas station, I expected crumbs, seeds, kernels, fuzz, leaf bits, gum wrappers and dirt to leap off the car floor and into the blue hose. I expected a suction that, if accidentally aimed at the cat, would require the screeching feline to be retrieved from the machine by its tail.

This vacuum had all the pull of John Boehner.

But in my semi-retired status I have no semi-valid excuses for a dirty car. And on this decent fall day, I was desperate to do something semi-useful while continuing to avoid raking our leaf-carpeted lawn.

After the disappointment at the gas station, I decided to give my aging Kenmore upright a shot. First I had to move the grill, bicycle and old patio chairs (replaced but, true to form, not discarded) to the other side of the garage to be able to pull the car in near an outlet. Then I lugged over Old Faithful and plugged her in.

I guess none of has the suction we used to. Still, she did better than the Mobil vacuum, with no quarters required, and Ms. Kenmore toppled over onto the concrete floor only five or six times, without cracking her plastic body. Next I dusted off a spray bottle of leather cleaner from the first Roosevelt administration and spruced up the seats, shined up the dashboard and successfully killed another afternoon.

Having checked off a chore that wasn’t even on my to-do list, I suddenly remembered one that was: staining our two cement steps to protect the repairs made in the spring by Tom, a mason by trade and my go-to guy for anything more complicated than changing a three-way bulb.

My painting ability begins and ends with knowing which end of the brush to hold, assuming someone has correctly handed me the brush. But Tom assured me this is something I can and should do.


My first mistake was agreeing with him. My second was, in a spurt of newly retired enthusiasm, buying a can of stain and a sprayer, knowing deep in my heart that having to mix stain with water, fill a sprayer, and spray was a disaster waiting to happen. Suddenly it was two months later and three weeks into October, with colder, darker and wetter days looming and the window of opportunity closing.

I called Tom in hopes of a bailout. You can do it, he repeated, encouragingly. You should have bought stain that you don’t have to mix with water. Use a two-inch brush. Be sure to clean the steps with bleach first. Remember you need a pod (whatever that is) to hold the paint and water. Get a good drop cloth and it will last you the rest of your life, he added, while I’m thinking that lifetime guarantees don’t impress me at this stage of the game.

To my surprise, Tom showed up 20 minutes later at Sherwin Williams, where I was fretting over brushes, drop cloths and non-diluting stains, and guided me through the purchase. To my surprise, he still expected me to do the job myself. And to my surprise, I did.

Now, darn it, I’ve got to pick up the rake.


Oct 31, 2015 - Family, Saratogian Archives    No Comments

Chocolate-coated guilt is not a bad affliction

(An extended version of this post originally appeared on Nov. 2, 2002 in The Saratogian)


What a sad sign I saw on my morning walk: mini Snickers and Crunch bars still in their packages, one here along the sidewalk, another near the curb, one nestled in fallen leaves beneath a shrub, little lost treasures no doubt dropped by careless trick-or-treaters, strewn about like chocolate-covered, plastic-coated seeds.

Ah, Halloween.

The richest and fattest country in the world thinly disguises its children and sends them door-to-door to beg for candy. You can’t beat it.

Halloween 1999 - Vertical

Joe and David celebrate Halloween in 1999.

Of the few good reasons for having children, #1 is so you can steal the dark chocolate and coconut from their Halloween bag without them minding or, if necessary, without them knowing.

My kids are at that touchy in-between age – young enough to want candy, but too old to look cute in a costume. When both decided not to go trick-or-treating, I panicked.

Would I be reduced to lurking in alleys, snatching pillow cases from pint-size princesses to satisfy my mounting Mounds mania? Of course not. I would wear a white jacket, carry a clipboard and claim to be the City Department of Public Safety’s Candy Inspector. Read more »

Oct 26, 2015 - Family    3 Comments

Practicing the punchline for dad’s funeral

Barb and siblings with Gerry

Jerry looks comfortable with his three kids, Steven, Barbara and Robin.

Are you comfortable?
A reasonable question to ask of my 85-year-old father for whom so much has become difficult: hearing, seeing, walking, breathing.
But he’s the one who likes to do the asking, a set-up for a punchline that he’s trained his children, grandchildren, aides, friends and even his rabbi to deliver, with a shrug: Eh, I make a living.
The other day he and Rabbi Dan spent more than half an hour together in the furniture-packed living room of my dad’s apartment. Afterwards, the rabbi told me my father instructed him to practice the joke he wants told at his funeral, with specific directions that the punchline be shouted from the pews by those of us in the know.
Yes, at his funeral. Which, the doctors say, could be days, weeks or a very few months away. The other day my father learned he has a malignant tumor that he decided not to treat. Don’t worry, he said, cancer won’t kill me. Not being able to breathe will.

My father likes to point bit by bit from head to hip, reciting which parts are gone, dead or dying. He outlived his wife, and he’s lived with diabetes, kidney disease, two bypass surgeries, the addition of a pig’s heart valve, macular degeneration, hearing loss, the replacement of a hip and now, cancer. When he tips forward in his medical recliner and suddenly zonks out, we think, today’s the day. Then he gets a second wind in time to catch the Off-Track Betting station’s replay from Belmont. Give me my sheet, he demands, checking to see how well he fared following favorite trainer Linda Rice.
My father had a premature wake of sorts four years ago when the doctors promised he was a goner. Turned out, as the rabbi explained, God wasn’t ready for him and, as my brother assured him, neither was my mother, may she rest in peace. Nonetheless, after being told death is imminent, accepting the end and saying all his goodbyes, it took a while to come to grips with still being around.
This time is different.
And so, Rabbi Dan needs to practice. Read more »

Oct 23, 2015 - Saratogian Archives    No Comments

Nuisances of today’s social media age

(The following column originally appeared in the Fresh Ink blog on March 31, 2014)


I did not send you a friend request on Facebook, not that I don’t like you.

I did not win $90,000, not that I’d be averse to that.

And I did not realize how impossible it would be to let Facebook know my account had been compromised.

While I was sitting in a corporate meeting of editors recently wondering when the afternoon coffee and cookies would be wheeled in, someone somewhere created a faux Barbara Lombardo Facebook page and invited my Facebook friends and email contact people to be my friend. Some also received exciting but unfortunately false news about me winning $90,000.

The responses varied from curious (“Hey, sister, did you send out a friend request? We’re already friends”), to concerned (“I got a weird message from you that didn’t sound like you”), to creeped out (“Ugh, the boss asked to friend me”).

So, I changed what I hope are all of my passwords for email accounts, Facebook, Twitter, Tout, Storify, Pinterest and Instagram. I’ve run out of places of birth; favorite teams, movie stars and athletes; significant dates; lucky numbers; pets, dead or alive; street names and special cities; and schools, workplaces and organizations. I had to start a paper folder called “P*******S — DO NOT LOOK IN HERE.” Read more »

Jul 23, 2015 - Saratogian Archives    No Comments

After 38 years, it’s a wrap

(The following post originally appeared in Barbara Lombardo’s Fresh Ink column with The Saratogian.)


This afternoon I’ll help put together The Saratogian’s Pink Sheet racing section for Opening Day at Saratoga Race Course, and then call it a day for the final time – ending 38 years at my full-time workplace since grad school.

I was in college during the Vietnam War and Watergate and was stirred by the power of the press to do good. I discovered journalism was fun, and I was good at it.

07.23.15 Barb final Day

On Barbara’s final day, her desk was still mess.

I lucked out landing a reporting job at The Saratogian (where Linda Glazer Toohey was my first of 11 publishers) and rose up the ranks in a great place to live and work. Christy Bulkeley made me one of the few women managing editors in the country; there was never a line at the ladies room during national editors’ conferences.

I’ve loved most of the job: the chase of a “good” story, depth reporting and strong writing, news that somehow makes a difference, the simple joy a well-written headline that fits in print, helping staffers improve their craft, the hectic deadline-driven environment, meeting interesting people who do amazing things, getting to know (at least a little) about a lot of stuff.

After years of running The Saratogian newsroom, I was promoted in 2014 to be top editor also of our sister paper, The Record, merging the two newsrooms into a single reporting and editing operation and striving to serve the audiences of both dailies, not to mention the readers of our weekly Community News in southern Saratoga County. Read more »