Presented by the Coastal South Carolina Chapter of the American Red Cross.

Saturday, March 3rd
8:30 am – Noon

The celebration begins with breakfast at Travinia Italian Kitchen at The Market Common accompanied by your fairy godmother and all your favorite princesses.

• Parade to Grand 14 Cinema
• Redcarpet photo opps
• Snacks and goody bags

All princesses must wear a costume in order to participate. For tickets or information, please contact Nanci Conley at conleyN@usa.redcross.org or 843-477-0020. Tickets: $25. All princesses must be accompanied by an adult.

Sascalia is a self taught mixed-media artist who was born and grew up in rural France. Influenced from an early age by her love of horses and the surrounding countryside, Sascalia was inspired by fairy tales she listened to as a child. At the age of eleven her family immigrated to England, and she began studying in school and learned to speak and write in English. After studying Art and Textiles, the artist married and had three children. Once her youngest child reached school age, Sascalia re-discovered her passion for art and began selling her artwork online. Her business quickly grew, and art became her full time occupation. Working from her home studio in semi-rural Southeast England, she creates her artwork using a variety of mediums. Her work is both rich in color and contemporary yet has a whimsical vintage feel, bringing magical dream-like visions to life. To see more of Sascalia’s work, visit her Etsy shop at http://www.etsy.com/shop/Sascalia.

I scrambled onto the checkout line at the home improvement store behind a man holding about fifty of the same outlet cover. This would be fast. The cashier should enter one, then say “Sir, how many of these do you have?” input the quantity and hit total. I’d be next.

The cashier lifted one and passed it over the scanner.

Beep.

What happened next was so far away from how I’d imagined it that I almost needed a taxi to get there.

She lifted another and repeated the process.

Beep. Then a third. Beep.

My shoulders tensed. The cashier was merely a teenager, perhaps a new hire. Was this larger quantity situation a first? Maybe her training had overlooked the method I’d considered. A familiar anxious twirl circled in my gut, the wind-up before the pitch during the moment when words exit my mouth which shouldn’t.

“Excuse me,” I finally said.

She looked up.

“Can’t you just scan one then put in the total quantity?”

The customer with the outlet covers nodded in solidarity. But his tight lips suggested he wasn’t going to utter a single word to help plead my case. The cashier tucked one side of her long straight hair behind an ear and gave me a stare so cold it could have made ice shiver.

As the mother of two teenage daughters, her silent gawk left me undaunted. “You could enter fifty items at $3.50 each, and the register will calculate the total amount.”

Her lips twitched. “No, ma’am. I have to do each one.”

She scanned the fourth one. Beep.

The man behind me exhaled a weary sigh.

I turned to him. “Just a recommendation. If you ever see me in a line again, head for a different one.”

“Let me know where you’ll be going next,” he grumbled.

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to me. And this time, like all the others, I gritted my teeth, thought about everything else I needed to get done that day and waited out the transaction.

I’ve been born with the uncanny ability – whether at McDonald’s, the supermarket or the bank – to consistently make the wrong choice when it comes to any type of check-out situation. And I never take them in stride.

I sigh, tap my foot and pass nervous glances at other lanes to see if a strategic switch is in order. I watch the lucky ones on the line next to me zip through fast and problem-free. Do they have a sixth sense for the speedy queue? Each incident leaves me tense and frustrated.

But two days after the outlet-cover incident, during a long overdue routine medical check-up, I received some humbling news.

Glancing over his half-framed reading glasses, my doctor said. “You suffer from hypertension. High blood pressure.”

His grave expression made me nervous. “How bad is it?”

“It’s waaaaay too high. Have you been feeling stressed lately?”

“No.” I said with a defensive clip. “Well, no more than usual.” The encounter from two days earlier was still fresh in my thoughts. “Guess I do get aggravated easily.”

“That’s not good.” He shook his head, a silent tsk. “What’s going on?”

Nothing new, I thought. But maybe, now that I was over fifty, my body was sending me a message. A little hint it didn’t have the wherewithal to get so hot and bothered over every little thing.

“I suppose I don’t handle stress well,” I admitted.

“Hmmm. Well, first, we need to put you on medication.” He grabbed the prescription pad, scribbled something and handed it to me.

Then, without a word, he began jotting notes on a second prescription sheet. Anxious and curious as to what he was writing, my leg jiggled against the examination table.

He tore it off. “This is just as important as the medication. You need to learn to relax.”

I studied his note. Count to ten. Take a yoga class. Exercise. Think big picture. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

“I don’t have time to do yoga,” I said, aggravated by yet another thing to add to my to-do list. “And I know how to relax. Besides, shouldn’t the medication alone fix the prob-” I stopped when it hit me; he was right.

He pointed to the first item on the list, and I nodded. “One, two, three…”

Oddly, it worked. I returned home with a renewed attitude; confident that with age (and hypertension) comes some newfound wisdom. And it started with a new outlook at the one situation which I seemed to have the least control; my lane holdups.

Now, the stretches of time I spend waiting to check-out at a store or make my bank deposit are referred to it as my newfound “free” time. When delayed, I skim a magazine where I catch up on the latest celebrity gossip, memorize a new recipe or catch a few tips on how to “spice it up” in the bedroom.

Or I scan the impulse purchase end cap where I assess my household’s battery and lip moisturizer needs.

Sometimes, I consider the rates on six month certificates of deposits and calculate how much interest I might make.

In fact, I’ve decided maybe it’s my destiny to be there, to take a second to enjoy the view, to breathe, to relax and not take such an insignificant moment in life so seriously.

This more Zen-like approach has brought me a surprising measure of peace which had been missing before. After all, why am I in such a big hurry? Even if I have an important destination, what’s the worst that could happen? Will stock markets crash, governments crumble or anarchy develop across the nation? Not likely.

So now, if you do find yourself delayed on a line one day, look around. If you see me there, tap me on the shoulder. We’ll do some relaxation breathing together.

Domestic Violets
by Matthew Norman

Domestic Violets, by Matthew Norman, is one of the funniest books I have read in a long time. It is the first novel Norman has written and is filled with wit and humor while giving us great characters and a poignant plot.

Tom Violet is thirty-five years old, has marital problems, hates his job and can’t finish the novel he’s been working on for years. Maybe that’s because his father is a Pulitzer Prize winning author. Tom always thought he had it all but the reality is quite different. However, he decides to make some changes and take control of his own happiness. This is where the reader becomes hooked with quick humor and endless fun and surprises. Norman captures many emotions we’ve all felt at some point in our lives, or have asked ourselves. How did I get this kind of life? It is easy to laugh quite often while enjoying this book, but don’t be fooled. There are circumstances where your heart is touched, and you may shed a tear as well. Everyone can relate to many experiences in this book as Matthew Norman so genuinely and thoroughly pulls us into characters we root for and come to love. Domestic Violets is fast paced, fun and hard to put down!

“Your balance is $24.86,” the grocery store clerk said.

The woman’s mouth dropped open. “But I just slid my card through. I shouldn’t owe anything.” She put her hand on her hip and said, “I need to see a manager.”

I fought the urge to sigh. I was the next one in line, and I was in a hurry. I debated finding another check-out lane, but I’d already put my purchases on the conveyor belt.

The woman behind me caught my eye and smiled. “It looks like it might be a while.”

“He’s not good at waiting,” I said, gesturing toward my three-year-old son, Nathan.

The woman smiled. “I remember those days.” She tilted her head toward her own son. “He’s eight now, so it’s less of a problem.”

“What’s a problem?” The little boy asked with a toothless grin.

I smiled back and said, “This is Nathan, and he doesn’t like to wait. He’s going to be a total wiggle worm in just a second.”

“Oh, well, I’m Jimmy, and I’m a wiggle worm too. Can I play with Nathan?”

I nodded and watched as Nathan allowed Jimmy to look at the Thomas the Train toy he’d brought with him.

I smiled at Jimmy’s mom and said, “Hopefully this won’t take too long.”

She nodded. “And hopefully, Jimmy and Nathan can keep one another entertained while we wait.”

The boys played with Nathan’s train for a few minutes, but just as I feared, Nathan’s wiggle worm tendencies kicked in. After checking with Jimmy’s mom, I handed each boy a lollipop, hoping to buy a few more minutes.

While we stood there, I kept waiting for the woman in front of me to apologize for the wait. I would have felt bad for holding up the line, but it didn’t seem to faze her.

A full ten minutes later, the manager finally arrived. I knew I was on borrowed time with Nathan’s patience level and hoped the situation could be resolved quickly. But when the manager found out what the problem was, the situation only got worse.

“You can’t use a food stamp card to buy candy,” the manager explained.

“But it’s Christmas candy,” the woman said. “Don’t my kids deserve to have candy in their stockings?”

I sighed and heard Jimmy’s mom do the same. My attitude was going downhill fast.

“Everyone knows you can’t buy candy with a food stamp card,” I muttered and rolled my eyes at Jimmy’s mom. “Why is this woman wasting our time?”

The manager just shrugged. “Yes, of course your kids deserve to have candy at Christmas, but you’ll have to use cash to pay for it.”

The woman’s hand went back to her hip. “I don’t have any money. I only have this food stamp card, and I want to use it to buy this candy for my kids.” Her voice cracked for just a second before the defiant look returned.

“Ma’am, I don’t make the rules,” the manager said, “but I do have to enforce them.”

“Then put the candy back,” she snapped. “I’ll just tell my kids that the rules made sure they had empty Christmas stockings.”

“Empty stockings?” Jimmy said with wide eyes. “Who’s going to have empty stockings?”

Jimmy’s mom looked at me. How can you explain food stamps and bureaucratic rules to an eight-year-old boy?

She whispered to him for a minute, but the wide eyed look didn’t go away.

“But what about Santa?” Jimmy said.

The woman looked right at Jimmy and gave him a small, sad smile. “Santa hasn’t been to my house since my husband died,” she said quietly.

I swallowed and exchanged a guilty look with Jimmy’s mom. Jimmy, of course, focused more on the lack of Santa than the lack of a husband.

Jimmy turned back to his mom. “Can I just pay for her candy? I mean, if Santa doesn’t come and the lady doesn’t have any money, then her kids won’t have any candy, and that would be really sad.” He grabbed his mom’s hand. “Please, Mom? I can use my birthday money.”

I felt tears spring to my eyes as I watched Little Jimmy beg his mom to let him spend his birthday money on candy for kids he didn’t know. His kindness made me feel ashamed of my own behavior. I was in a hurry, and the poor woman in front of me had been nothing more than an inconvenience.

But an eight-year-old boy saw her as a real person. He put himself in her kids’ shoes and offered to help. I could hardly believe my own hypocrisy. It hadn’t been too many Christmases ago that I myself had been a struggling single mom. I’d walked a day in that woman’s shoes, and yet I’d judged her without even knowing her.

I reached into my purse and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. Jimmy’s mom tapped me on the shoulder and I passed her money to the woman as well.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “About your husband…and my attitude.”

The woman’s tough façade cracked before my eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured. “My kids thank you too.”

The woman used our money to pay for her kids’ Christmas candy, and before she left, she turned to smile at Jimmy’s mom and me. “Thank goodness for people like you,” she said.

And thank goodness for kids like Jimmy, who make the world a better place, even at eight years old.

Several years ago, when my power mower had broken down, I found an old push mower in the garage and decided to give it a whirl. The quiet whoosh of the blades and the smell of freshly cut grass took me back to my childhood, and I’ve been happily sweating over that old grass cutter ever since. One day last June while pushing the relic through a thick carpet of green, I stopped dead in my tracks. There on the ground was a baby starling that had fallen from its nest. It barely moved as I scooped it up and carried it into the house.

“We can try to keep it alive,” I explained to my wife, “but there’s probably a ninety percent chance that it won’t make it. So I don’t want you getting too attached to this bird. There’ll be no cute little names. No pampering. We’re going to try to keep it alive. And if this bird does make it, we’re letting him go. He’s wild and deserves to be set free.”

My wife agreed. Completely.

The next day I picked up a dozen books on bird care from the library. “Raising an orphan bird can be quite rewarding,” one book stated. “With care, patience and time, you can see nature develop before your very eyes.” I was encouraged. “With proper feeding and environment, your little friend will soon be able to be set free.” It all sounded so simple…until I reached the last line. “Of course, without the proper example of other birds, this fledgling will stand little chance of survival in the wild.”

“Just what does that mean?” my wife asked.

“In bird lingo, it means his goose is cooked,” I replied.

By the end of the second day, I broke my own rule and began calling the baby bird “the Cheeper” because of the sound he made when he was hungry, which was every fifteen minutes. This baby bird ate like a horse. So when I wasn’t feeding him, I was crushing hardboiled eggs, grinding parakeet food, mixing sugar water, and cleaning the Cheeper’s towel-lined shoebox home.

Cheep, cheep, cheep.

Two weeks later, the Cheeper was not only surviving, but growing feathers and attempting to fly out of his box. I called a local nature group and explained the situation.

“You can’t keep that bird! You don’t know what you’re doing with birds. Bring him to us. Now!” a woman’s voice screeched. Where had I heard that voice before? Then I remembered. She sounded just like the Wicked Witch of the West. “We’ll get you…and your little birdie too!”

I called a second group. This time a kindly voice suggested that I bring the Cheeper to their animal rescue facility, where they would take care of him, have him socialize with other birds, and then return him to us to release. It was like sending him off to college. We enrolled him.

One month later, we returned to find our cute little Cheeper transformed into a fully grown starling that didn’t look very happy to see two strangers peering into his cage. Nevertheless, we took him home, deciding to release him on Independence Day. We opened the cage and in an instant, he was gone.

“And he didn’t even remember us,” my wife lamented.

After three hours, we were still sulking on the front porch, when we heard the sound of fluttering wings. We looked up to see…the Cheeper! He landed on my shoulder and jumped onto my wife’s head. Cheep, cheep, cheep. He flitted about us, dancing a feathery little jig before he flapped his wings and…was on his way. It was a kind of farewell thank you, I guess.

Although we haven’t seen the Cheeper since the summer, I haven’t given up hope. So if you happen to see a bearded man and a curly haired woman calling up to the treetops and whispering into the shrubbery, “Cheeper? Cheeper? Is that you, Cheeper?” we haven’t lost our marbles. We’re just missing our bird.

I am blessed with wonderful memories of living and working in different parts of the country. Having lived two-thirds of my years in the Deep South and one-third on the central Eastern Seaboard, working in the Southwest, the Pacific Northwest, the Northeast and the West Coast provided me a new perspective of our country: areas which were still rugged around the edges, not yet completely tamed by man. I began jotting down snippets about my adventures in my new surroundings and later converted them to Word documents. Last evening, I ran across a forgotten electronic folder entitled Journal Entries. It had 10 entries made over a 6-year time span, from Maine to South Dakota to New Mexico and points in between. I’m thankful I made these “journal” entries. When I read them today, it was like opening a gift from the woman I was then to the woman I am now – my memories, a gift from the past.

***

Wednesday August 27, 2003 – Casco Bay, Maine

It’s my off day today and it’s perfect. It’s 10:15 am, and I have no desire to be anywhere else in the world. Nowhere! I’m sitting on the deck of a ferry hopscotching from island to island across the Casco Bay. My bike is secured below on the freight deck, and I’m on my way to an adventure: exploring Great Chebeaque Island, the outermost island in Casco Bay.

The ferry is headed north, the wind is out of the west and the sun is at mid-morning position in the east. There is a slight chop on the water and the combination of the height of the wave with the angle of the sun produces a pattern on the water of gulls in flight – silver gulls. Hundreds, then thousands of flickering, silver gulls as the eye moves toward the horizon in the east. Just before the horizon, the silver gulls all meld into one vast mirrored surface.

The day is singing, and my heart joins right in – I may not recall the words my heart sang in my younger days, but I remember the tune. I want to remember this morning forever. I thought I’d forgotten how it felt to be truly “in the moment” – I was afraid I had become a woman anesthetized by the rush, rush of modern life to the point I couldn’t feel beauty. Thank God, I still can. For some, the ability to feel beauty IS joy.

I push my bike off at the dock at Chebeaque and ride to the northern tip of the island to have lunch at the Old Chebeaque Inn constructed in 1924. This “new” hotel replaced the one built in the 1800s, which burned in 1920. The white wood frame structure is three stories with a veranda (that’s what they call a covered porch in Maine) running the entire length of the building and wrapping around both ends. The dining room faces the harbor, but there are only a few patrons.

Maybe they heard the menu is a piece of fiction. Neither of my first two menu choices is available: all I can get is a hamburger. However, the disappointment with the lunch fare is quickly dispelled by the fascination of sitting on the veranda of that old hotel with a glass of wine listening to music from the 1940s. How historically fitting as Casco Bay was the U.S. North Atlantic Fleet’s refueling center during WWII – the last stop for fuel before crossing the Atlantic Ocean. German U-Boats lurking close to the bay entrance sank an untold number of U.S. ships, and the locals have lots of stories about these times and the red horizon lines at night. U.S. losses were never publicized.

Even though I cannot see them on the veranda, I can feel the long-ago presence of young servicemen in uniform escorting pretty young ladies in feminine summer dresses and sling-back pumps. Everyone is smoking Luckies or Camels. My fantasy even has sound effects: lots of laughter and ice tinkling in glasses. The couples dance – not fast dancing, but very slow and with bodies very close. Even an imaginary spectator can sense their electric sense of urgency: they are temporary people in a temporary situation. It’s a very haunting experience, even if self-fabricated. I won’t forget it.

After lunch, I explore the hotel’s first floor nooks and crannies and find a collection of yellowed sheet music stacked behind the glass doors of an old wooden bookcase. One piece is entitled “The Rose of a Navy Man” (was the rose a tattoo or a woman?) along with other titles I have never heard before. The piano and bench were all that was salvaged from the 1920s fire. Had this sheet music been stored in the bench? The collection had to date back to World War I or even earlier. I carefully fold the ancient paper and replace it in the bookcase.

I hate to leave, but there is a ferry to catch and I’m not a strong swimmer.

***

A 2011 update on The Chebeaque Island Inn: The grand old dame was completely renovated in 2005 and enjoys a five-star historical hotel rating as well as a #11 ranking of the top 50 small hotels in America. I went back in 2007, but it was closed for some unknown reason. All I could do was peep into the first floor lobby windows. The common areas looked upscale English Country Estate. But I missed the slightly worn carpets, the rump sprung chairs and old books on the shelves. I do hope they didn’t trash the old telephone switchboard, it was a classic. Someday I want to go back, sit on the veranda, have a glass of wine and find out if the spirits of the servicemen and the young women of WWII return – or whether the renovations removed the power of their memories to draw them back to this place. For me, I must go back.

The mailing envelope sits on the table in front of me, open and empty. My cell phone, five years old now, lies next to the envelope, but I can’t bring myself to put it inside. I don’t know why I hesitate over this last step because really, the hard work is already done.

A month ago, I decided to buy an iPhone. It’s my first smartphone, and it’s about time. My old phone is so small that everyone, upon seeing it, would say one of two things: “How do you open it?” and “How do you text on that thing?”

But I loved it, as much as a person who doesn’t really like talking on the phone or texting could actually love a phone, I suppose. The phone suited me: Small. Compact. Simple – with no bells and whistles – but functional, with several handy hidden features.

And yet, I envied those iPhone owners with their fancy gadgets packaged in nifty cases. I envied the iPhone’s amazing functions, and I soon began to worry that I was being left behind. So one day, when I came across a deal that I couldn’t resist, I bought an iPhone. That part wasn’t so bad. The hard part was getting rid of my old cell phone, which I had to send back, all my information erased, in order to get a rebate on the iPhone.

I’ve always had an above-average tendency to attach myself to objects. I slept with a teddy bear until I was 16, I put 200,000 miles on my first car, and sometimes it’s hard for me to throw away a toothbrush (I’m only sort of kidding on that last one). You could say that these attachments are my way of keeping constants in my life, my way of feeling secure or safe or comfortable. And that would all be true. But it’s also about holding on to, and remembering, my past.

I do this in the obvious ways, too: photographs and journals, videos and scrapbooks. I think about the reasons I feel a strong need to document my life, and I always come back to the same thing: I don’t want to forget.

My childhood best friend can recount entire conversations we had in 3rd grade; meanwhile, it’s a coup if I can remember what she and I talked about yesterday. It’s not as if I have no long-term memory; there’s a lot I remember about my childhood. But so much of it comes from photographs and the retelling of stories. These are my memories. All the rest – all the stuff that made up my day-to-day life, all the details – they’re lost. And that makes me kind of sad.

But what happens when some things are lost forever, and the memories are all we have? I’ve given this a lot of thought lately. My best friend, David, died last year. Days after his death, in a panic, I began writing down everything about him that I could remember. I saved digital photos of him to at least three different places, and printed out hard copies as well. I searched through the archives of my email, and read through every message he ever sent me, imagining what his voice would sound like if he spoke the words.

His voice: I had saved a voicemail he left for me a few months before he died, and every 21 days, as my phone’s messaging system asked if I wanted to delete the message, I would listen to it again, and press “9” to resave.

Every 21 days for nearly a year I listened to this message, until I decided to buy a new phone. Almost desperately, I asked the salesclerk if I could transfer my saved voicemails onto the new phone, and his words hit me like a dead weight, square in the chest: “No, I’m sorry; all messaging is erased in the transfer. We can’t save voicemails.”

I went home and rethought the decision to buy a new phone, telling myself I didn’t really need a Smartphone, telling myself that my old phone worked just fine. And it did.

But here’s the thing. I knew that I couldn’t hold onto that phone forever. The voice inside the phone? It was David’s voice, but it wasn’t David. Keeping that phone wouldn’t keep David with me.

And so, I did the only thing I could think to do: with my camera, I took a video of my cell phone as it played David’s voicemail. The audio is a bit muffled, but I was able to record his voice.

I don’t listen to that recording every 21 days. In fact, I haven’t listened to it in months. I understand that my memories of David will begin to fade – in fact, they already have. I spent months battling that inevitability, trying everything in my power to keep David’s memory alive and fully present. But finally time – and a new cell phone – helped me to store my memories in a place where they belonged. I began to accept that some things would be lost and forgotten, but also that there would be some things I’d always remember. And it is this acceptance and understanding that will allow me to move beyond my past, and steadily into my future.

At this moment, my old cell phone is still sitting on the table, next to the open envelope. The voicemails are gone, the texts are wiped clean, the photos erased. It no longer stores my memories, and I no longer need it to. I’m ready to fill a new phone with new memories. But every once in awhile, I will find that video of David’s muffled voice, and I will listen to it. Because there are some memories that I will always keep.

Don’t you hate it when you forget things? I’ve noticed an increase in that problem lately, and since I’m a Baby Boomer approaching Geezerdom, it’s especially worrisome. Oh, I don’t forget serious things – I rarely call my dog by my son’s name, and I do remember my wedding anniversary – but little stuff often seeps from my brain like air from a tire with a slow leak. Things like…what was the name of the star of that movie? And what was the movie’s name anyhow? And why did I go upstairs? It seems the only way to remember is to retrace my steps.

This past weekend I was getting ready to go to a meeting of my writers’ group. My husband, Bob, sat in his recliner, reading, while I showered, dressed and prepared to leave. I brought my notebook downstairs and…oops…I’d forgotten my cell phone, charging on my nightstand. I dashed back up to get it. As I descended, Bob looked up, smiled, and went back to his book. Then I realized that I’d meant to pick up the pages I’d planned to take with me. Back upstairs to fetch those from the printer. Back downstairs my husband looked up, raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. The third time up was to get a newspaper article I’d clipped to share with the rest of the group and left on my desk – in full view, right by the printer, where I couldn’t possibly forget it.

This time Bob stared at me and shook his head.

I heard his thoughts and answered, “The reason I haven’t gained any weight is that I spend my days going up and down the stairs, fetching things I’ve forgotten.”

A wise man, he refrained from commenting on that statement.

That’s when it occurred to me that I might be onto something – something I’m calling the Boomer Exercise/Memory Program – or BEMP for short.

I thought of how many calories people of a certain age burn every day when they’re retracing their steps to retrieve forgotten items. Misplaced Kindles, grocery lists, checkbooks – our trips back and forth and back again to retrieve those things add up to an amazing number of steps, especially for Boomers who live in two-story houses. I’m sure I’ve burned thousands of calories just searching for my eyeglasses alone, both from the steps I’ve taken and from the frustration of trying to find the aid I need for seeing – when I can’t see to find it.

And that’s just at home. There are my walks up and down the aisles of the grocery store, trying to remember the one item I drove there to get but that won’t reveal itself. Was it some kind of fresh vegetable? Should I be looking in the bakery section? Or maybe we’re out of toilet paper? I’ll confess that I’ve called my husband more than once to see if he can give me clues as to why I’m wandering around Safeway. (His cell phone number is programmed into mine. Otherwise, I know I’d never be able to recall it.) Those are definitely BEMP calorie-burning moments.

Then there’s the search of the parking lot for my car. Pushing an over-laden cart up and down rows of almost identical silver Honda and Toyotas and Chevys – clicking the remote entry gadget, hoping the car will blink its headlights and beep to reveal its hiding place in the herd – that results in more exercise. A friend wishes someone would invent a car that comes when called or that she’d tied a red helium balloon to the door handle when parking. Good ideas, but the car-hunt exercise has the positive effect of increasing BEMP numbers in both the steps-taken and frustration categories.

As you can see, applications of this program are endless. And this morning I discovered scientific research that takes my BEMP idea a step further. An article in Science News magazine, published earlier this year, touts the advantages of exercise for seniors as a way of actually improving memory function. To quote from the article:

“A year of moderate exercise doesn’t just bulk up muscles – it beefs up the brain, too, a new study finds…Study participants who got their heart rates up performed slightly better on a memory test and had higher levels of a brain-aiding molecule called BDNF, the researchers found…This whole idea that something as simple as exercise can actually benefit the brain and offset some of the changes that occur with normal aging is an emerging frontier – that’s what’s exciting about it.”

It seems that in a twisted sort of way, forgetting things (and the resulting exercise needed to find the things you’ve forgotten) can help your brain remember!

I’ve decided to send details of my BEMP program to AARP and maybe to Doctor Oz. Perhaps the retiree group will feature me in their magazine, or Oprah’s esteemed diet guru may invite me to be guest on his TV show. I’ll contact them this afternoon, if I can just remember where I put their email addresses….

Science News link:
http://www.sciencenews.org/index/generic/activity/view/id/69370/title/Aerobic_exercise_boosts_memory