But I don’t always look on the bright side. To be honest, when things turn to worms, my immediate reaction is to stomp and slam cupboard doors, cursing my bad luck and snapping at the nearest living thing — any person, animal or even plant. (Though I do try to be nicer to my plants, because unlike people or pets, they don’t snap back.)

However, after I get that initial reaction out of my system, I default to the “bright side.” Things have turned to a bucket of worms? Good. Let’s go fishing. Life gave me lemons? Yay, let’s make lemonade.

That’s what happened in the IGA parking lot while talking with a friend. I heard the squawks of dozens of seagulls and,of course, I looked up. When I looked at my friend to say, “Don’t look up!” a seagull, or perhaps seven, let loose. On me. Direct hit. Hair, back, front, head to toes. People tried to help me but all that stuff does is smear. I drove home, cursing the whole way, wrapped in IGA grocery bags and threw out those clothes on my way to the shower.

How is there a bright side to being a target of an aerial poop bomb? Because it could have been worse. Way worse. Just a splitsecond before the assault I was gazing upward, mouth open, talking. Are you picturing it? Obviously, that’s the target they were going for. But the lemon-icing on the bird splat is that my friend bought me a souvenir T-shirt covered with fake seagull droppings. Yay me!

Often, when I force myself to look on the bright side, things turn out better than I’d ever expect, or dare I say deserve, which is what happened with me and Bruce Springsteen. Yes. That Bruce Springsteen.

He was on his “Born to Run” concert tour, and we got free tickets through Coecles Harbor Marina because Billy Joel was their customer. After a threeplus- hour drive to the Meadowlands, we were to grab our tickets at will-call. Since the tickets were free, I was expecting nosebleed seats, but that was okay because, Bruce plus Free equals Jackpot! But “Yay me!” turned into a bucket of worms real fast when our tickets were not at will-call. And the show was sold out, which was probably a blessing because even the cheap seats were hundreds of dollars.

Who knows if it was name-dropping “Coecles Harbor” or “Billy Joel,” but after a few minutes we were handed off to a lady with a clipboard and a walkie-talkie who said, “Follow me.” I wiped my tears and we followed as she led us not up, but down, down, down, to the rows of seats in a dark area behind the stage. By then I was sputtering, “Forget this! Let’s go home!”

My companion tried to calm me by saying, “Calm down!” (In recorded history, when has saying “Calm down!” ever worked?)

I tried though, telling myself that the bright side was a nice ride from Shelter Island to New Jersey. And back. Yay me.

And just like that, things got brighter as we followed Miss Walkie-Talkie past the back of the stage to the floor level, finally stopping in the high-rent district, at two front-row seats just feet from the stage. So close I could look up Springsteen’s nose and by the end of the concert, when he was drenched and spraying sweat, it landed right on me. I kid you not. I could have reached out and touched his boot if it wasn’t for the mean-looking security guard who was already keeping an eye on me. What started out as a bummer turned into a great night.

A more recent “bright side” event happened last month after I’d donated a purse to a thrift shop. I’d swing through every week and it bothered me enormously to see it still there, forlorn and rejected by other thrifters. Finally, I paid the stinking $5 and bought it back. So what’s the bright side of that, paying again for a purse I didn’t want and no one else did either?

Tucked inside was a hundred-dollar bill I’d forgotten that I’d stashed into the deepest pocket when I bought the purse (the first time). Yay me! Of course, my “bright side” cheated some other thrifter out of their “Yay me!” moment, but come on, they had three weeks.

If there’s a lesson here, I guess it’s to try to always look on the bright side. And also in the deepest pockets.

Joanne Sherman is a Shelter Island resident and longtime contributor to Times Review Media Group.

The post Guest Column: The bright side appeared first on Riverhead News Review.

Of course, government shutdowns are never good, but we’ve been through similar events and many of us — unless we’re not being paid — have become a little “Ob-la-di, ob-lada” about them.

But during one particular shutdown, pandemonium ensued. At least on Shelter Island. It was the fall of ’95, right before Thanksgiving. On the first day of the shutdown, Shelter Island was thrown into turmoil, but not over what was happening in the government. Our own version of “shock and awe” occurred at 2 Grand Ave., aka Louie’s Barber Shop, on Nov. 14, 1995, and I had a front-row seat.

Back then,I did my writing in an office next to Louie’s. Not just next to it, but attached. My space and the barber shop were like conjoined twins.I’m sure Louie paid no attention to what happened at my half of the conjoinment, but I never stopped watching what was going on over there. And during that government shutdown,that shock and awe was compounded by calamity, chaos and some downright shaggy-looking men.

My window faced the sidewalk to the shop and I’d stare out, mulling, because that’s what writers do when we don’t feel like writing. However, staring and mulling did help me conjure up a murder mystery and about four newspaper columns — five if we count this one.

The shutdown started on a Tuesday, always a busy day at a barber shop that’s closed on Sunday and Monday. I sat at my desk, mulling, and watched an older gentleman walk toward the barber’s door. Nothing unusual — it happened at least a dozen times a day.

But this guy stopped at my window. I assumed he was waiting for someone to exit the shop. But no one did. He just stood there as if frozen, arms dangling by his side, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, like, “Huh?”

It was as if he was pretending to be a statue. But why? Only little kids do that, not old men. Then it dawned on me: He wasn’t pretending to be a statue. This guy was having a stroke.

Fortunately, I’d read an article about what to do if someone had a stroke. It was the Reader’s Digest condensed version, further condensed because Inever finished the article. But a little help is better than none, right?

Before I could get to the door another man showed up and as it turned out, medical intervention was not necessary. The first man spontaneously recovered and started talking and pointing at the front of the barber shop. Then they stood still and stared, both of them, frozen, but I wasn’t falling for that again. After several minutes, they left.

Of course I went outside to see what had caused that near stroke and collective consternation. There it was, handwritten, all caps: BARBER SHOP CLOSED!!! ON VACATION!!! SEE YOU IN THREE WEEKS!!! While the rest of the country dealt with the government shutdown, Shelter Island was rocked by its own crisis. Each day, progressively shaggierlooking men walked up that narrow sidewalk. They would stop and stare in disbelief. They just couldn’t get over it.

Sometimes they’d open the screen and try the door knob. Still locked. One or two of them even rapped on the glass pane. Hard! The knock of desperate men whose wives told them at the end of Octobwwwwer to “please!” get their hair cut.

Some were accompanied by their wives. That first guy, the one who didn’t have a stroke? He showed up the next day with his wife and pointed to the sign. She had her hands on her hips and her mouth was drawn into such a tight, angry line, her lips disappeared. (Mulling writers notice those things.)

When her lips reappeared, I could read them. She said, “Ya big dope! I told ya last week to get your hair cut. But did you listen? Nooo.”

That government shutdown lasted four days, but here the pandemonium continued. For three weeks I watched as dozens of men stopped short at the door of the barber shop. Some came a couple times a day. A few cursed. Groups of them would gather in a row, like sullen crows on a fence. Unshorn and forlorn, they’d stare at that sign. They’d wander off only to reconvene the next day and the day after that.

Following that short shutdown, the government went into another, even longer shutdown. But by then, it didn’t matter here because the lights were on at 2 Grand Ave. Louie was back and, once again, all was right with the world… At least our world.

Joanne Sherman is a Shelter Island resident and longtime contributor to Times Review.

The post Guest Column: Shutdown appeared first on Riverhead News Review.

“This isn’t going to end well,” I was warned by my nearest and dearest.

I’d volunteered to substitute for an ailing Sunday school teacher, minding her class of 5- and 6-year-olds. All I had to do was teach kids to cut out paper angels with blunt scissors. Come on. How hard could that be?

Nearest and dearest was concerned because at that time our boys were in high school, so I hadn’t had recent experience with little ones. “It’ll be fine,” I insisted. “Our kids survived.”

He walked away muttering, “Was that because you were their mother or in spite of it?”

Since the jury was still out, I took the high road, ignoring the comment.

Performance anxiety kicked in that Sunday morning when I was handed a three-page lesson plan.So much for cutand- paste.Turns out these kids didn’t go to Sunday school to make paper angels. They were there to learn about holiness and saintliness. From me. And for that hour, 13 wee souls were in my hands.

I expected this baker’s dozen would march in, single file, like good onward Christian soldiers, but they tumbled in and never once did I get all the soldiers’ bottoms on their little chairs at the same moment.

Instructions said I should start with the Lord’s Prayer, but as I did, Nolan began to cry. Joleen told me it was Nolan’s week to lead the prayer. That was OK by me, so I put away my prayer cheat sheet. (Just kidding, I know it, calm down.)

Every kid has their own version of this prayer. Nolan wiped his eyes and runny nose on the back of his hands and holding them solemnly together, snotty little fingers pointed towards the ceiling, gave us his: “Our Father has a car in heaven …”.

It got worse but I let him finish, then, recited the prayer the proper way. Thirteen blank faces stared up at me. Clearly they preferred Nolan’s version.

“Today’s lesson is about the good Samaritan,” I told them and read the parable, which had been paraphrased to be more easily understood by youngsters. But whoever did the paraphrasing didn’t know squat about youngsters or that certain words cause pandemonium. It was the part of the parable where the man is stripped of his clothes and left naked at the edge of the road that the room exploded with screams, giggles and mayhem.

“Naked! Oh, gross!” Completely naked or only partly naked? These kids wanted all the sordid details and it became a rowdy competition to see how often each could screech the word “naked” in a sentence.

So I lied and said that the robbers let him keep his underwear and that calmed everyone down.

I continued reading, but no one listened. Three of the boys were engaged in a contest to see who could flick spitballs across the room into the straw collection basket. Fancy was busy braiding Ruby’s hair and several of them were trying to see how far back they could lean in their chairs without tipping completely backwards and cracking open their tiny, fragile skulls. Attention focused on me again at that part of the parable where the good Samaritan put his clothes on the semi-naked man.

“Does that mean now the good Dalmatian is naked?” Lucille asked. They assured me and each other that under no circumstances would they ever walk naked down the street leading a donkey. I lied again and said he was wearing long johns.

The Golden Rule lesson went haywire because every kid wanted to shout their favorite: Wash your hands after the bathroom. Don’t put the kitten in the dishwasher again. If Mom says no, ask Dad.

“Those are all good,” I said, “but they’re not the Golden Rule. Who knows it? Don’t shout; please raise your hands.”

Elvira raised her hand and shouted, “Do under others what they do under you.”

I explained that Elvira was kind of correct, but it was too late. She was already crying because Nolan called her stupid, then Ruby cried because Elvira was her best friend.

“Be quiet!” I shouted. Twentysix frightened eyes widened and 13 chins trembled, but God bless them, they got quiet. So quiet the teacher from the next room checked if we were all right.

After she left, I handed out the blunt scissors and taught them how to cut out angels. When Sunday school was over they were smiling and in my book, that’s a win.

Author’s note: The following year I became their weekly Sunday school teacher and – so far – they’ve all survived. Was it because of me or in spite of me? The jury’s still out.

Joanne Sherman is a resident of Shelter Island and a longtime Times Review columnist.

The post Column: Tales out of (Sunday) school appeared first on Riverhead News Review.

I’m a hack addict — a hackoholic, if you will — and the internet is hack heaven! Got a question? Need a solution? Is there a better way? Just ask Google, or Siri, or my own best friend and adviser, Alexa.

It wasn’t always this easy. In the old days we had two sources: our mothers and Reader’s Digest.

Most often our mothers’ comments would end with, “So, if your friends are jumping off a bridge, you’re gonna do it, too?” That’s probably why we ignored our moms and turned to the how-to articles that popped up in the Digest, such as: Five-ways to remove blood splatter off a wall; how to convert that bridesmaid dress into cafe curtains: or 50 ways to leave your lover (not only pre-internet, but pre-Simon & Garfunkel).

Because I’ve collected hacks, even before they were called that, I’ve had my share of wins and fails. Mostly fails.

I should have known that the tip to “save that broken nail with superglue” might include complications because of an incident years earlier that involved my husband. We were going to the Navy Ball. Life was fancy for us in those days. He in his dress uniform and me in a long gown, big hair, plus a tiara.

As we were leaving the house his front tooth, a cap, fell out showing a big gap when he smiled, and a metal post. He grabbed the superglue and filled the hollow in the tooth, then jammed it into place. But when he tried to remove his thumb and finger, they were glued to his tooth and, worse, so was his tongue.

Long story short, he pried his fingers free and left a big patch of tongue skin on the back of that tooth. We were late for the ball, but that was my fault. I had laughed so hard I had to change clothes. Fortunately, in those fancy days, I had a closet full of long gowns. And tiaras. I still laugh when I think about it. Not him, though.

My own superglue “event” happened on the ferry to Greenport. I figured fixing the broken fingernail would be easy-peasy. I used my right hand to apply the glue to thebroken nail on my left hand, which rested on the center of my steering wheel. By the time the ferry docked, the glue had dried and my left hand was superattached to the steering wheel. I was all the way to Mattituck before I’d pulled my hand free. There was some blood, but my broken nail looked wonderful, so I put that hack on my win side. Lord knows where that car is now, but wherever, a clump of my DNA is still firmly attached. The instant face-lift hack was a fail. “Don’t bother with expensive serums or plastic surgery. Whip up a raw egg white until frothy, then apply to your face and let dry. Wrinkles, crows feet, frown lines — all gone!”

Just as my DIY facelift was dry my husband came into the kitchen and I asked, “How do I look?” through clenched teeth because my skin was stretched so taut I couldn’t really move my mouth and I didn’t want to ruin the “lift.”

“Like a glazed donut,” he said. “What!” I said, feeling my instant lift crack and crinkle in a dozen places, so I looked like a smashed glazed donut. And adding insult to injury, I smelled like the worst part of a two-day-old lemon meringue pie.

Perhaps my worst fail (to date) was the chicken cutlet hack. I saw it on “Oprah.”

“Don’t waste two minutes pounding those cutlets thin,” Oprah’s chicken-hack guru advised. “Just place the cutlet in a plastic bag, then place the bag under your car’s tire and run it over. Voila! Instant flattened cutlets.”

My chicken did not flatten, it vanished. The bag was still there, but the chicken was gone! Apparently, the guru drives a lighter car than mine because $6 worth of chicken breasts had shot out of the bag and slammed themselves against the side of my house. Worse, they weren’t just hanging there. My house has cedar shingles and the shredded chicken hit with such force, it was embedded in those shingles. I tried getting it out with tweezers, but most of it stayed there. Not a big deal until the sun hits that side of the house.

I should know better now, right? I guess I’m just a slow learner. That being said, “Alexa! How many washings does it take to get mayonnaise out of someone’s hair? Asking for a friend.”

Joanne Sherman is a resident of Shelter Island and longtime Times Review columnist.

The post Guest Column: Totally hacked appeared first on Riverhead News Review.