Let's All Get Potted

There is no denying I have a black thumb.

While others may tenderly place their plants in nutrient-rich soil, then nurture and coo at them, my style of plant care can best be described as survival of the fittest.

One coworker gave each of us a flowering plant again this year. It was a thoughtful gift -- although not thoughtful as far as the plant was concerned. I could almost hear the poor blighter scream as it neared my desk, sensing the souls of plants past, once green and lush, now perished from too much/too little watering, overexposure to light or work-related stress.

There are those who may not be great with houseplants but are a whiz with their gardens.

Alas, these skills have passed me by, too. Only the hardiest of plants have survived over the years: the ones that conquered the weaker varieties -- the chokers, the insidious vines, the creepers. Bullies and badasses hold the keys to the kingdom that is my yard.

Yes, I have tried to cull the herd. I hack and chop and bludgeon. But still they rise again. And the little, pretty ones, blocked from the sun and unable to cope, simply stop appearing. Until one day, I think, "There used to be a tulip here. And wild strawberries over there. Hmm."

I have this dream. It's to cultivate an herb garden. I will grow thyme and lavender and all sorts of exotic varieties. I will plant them where no animals can pilfer them and where my predatory plants can't get at them.

Sigh.

We all know better, don't we? While I love flowers and trees and green things, I just need to step away and rely on the talents of others. Or visit the MetroParks, where Mother Nature has created her own soul-stirring works of art.

To be honest, I think the plant kingdom is cool with that.
 
 

Afraid of the Dark

I feel like Charlie Brown. It's Christmas, and I should be happy, but I'm not.

I tried to sort it all out in the car on the way home last night. 

Then all evening I tried not to let it bother me, but it just snowballed, and I didn't mean to, but I took it out on Mr. Ginley.

Then I felt worse.

So I got up this morning, determined to be happy. I thought I would read the paper for inspiration for my blog. I read a story about a pastor battling cancer and a drunk driving victim who's in a wheelchair struggling to keep up with his 1-year-old son.

Then I felt worse. How could I be feeling sad when others had so much more to be sad about? What a schmuck!

I'd thought about writing about Lillian Vernon, who passed away last week. With her family, she escaped Nazi Germany, came to America and founded an empire.

Then I felt worse. What have I accomplished? I go to work every day, slay dragons, come home, make dinner, and crash on the couch. I can't even keep my eyes open long enough to watch an hour-long dvd. Then I go to bed and work all night in my dreams.

So here I sit, caught in a continuous loop, feeling guilty because it's Christmas and I'm blue, feeling bad because others have it worse than I do, then beating myself up because I could be doing so much more than I am.

Deep breath. Cup of coffee. Do a little Reiki. Stretch. Stop comparing. Open the pressure valve. Count some blessings. Be kind. Forgive. Myself.

There, that's a little better.

I'm going to the cat shelter to work this morning. Engage in a little cat therapy. Then spend the day with my husband, who knows me so well and loves me anyhow.

Maybe I'll find a little merry here after all.

Yule Be On My List

A headline in today's newspaper states that 36% of us have not yet begun to do our Christmas shopping.

This no doubt includes my brother-in-law, who, in his growing-up years with my husband, was famous for his last-minute forays at the local drugstore where his only gift options were things like the Pocket Fisherman, Old Spice gifts sets and the (then) ubiquitous soap-on-a-rope.

For the record, I have made major strides in my gift shopping. This is made easier by the fact that my son is grown, and I no longer need to go elbow-to-elbow with fellow moms who are also on the hunt for the Toy of The Year.

Aren't gift cards just the ginchiest invention?

The internet has made things simpler, too. Rather than troll the mall for that perfect something, the world is your oyster at Amazon or E-Bay. I game the system by going to Giant Eagle, buying a gift card for either of these places (thus getting points which translate into big savings on gasoline), then go online and pay with the gift card. The other upside is my credit card gets a little rest.

I try to get to the mall at least once during the holiday season. The urge is overwhelming, even though I know I'm going to have to park in the next county, be jostled by gawkers who are reading inane texts from other gawkers, and ultimately leave with one or two things I bought for myself as a reward for surviving the experience.

Shopping locally has become more popular over the past few years. I think this is a great idea, and I put a few of my holiday surprises away in May, when I shopped booths set up at the Hooley in our neighborhood. Hopefully, I'll be able to find them before Christmas.

In the meantime, I do have a few odds and ends to pick up to complete my shopping. So, although I'm not part of the 36%, I cannot yet hold my head high and crow about having everything crossed off my list.

Ho, ho, ho...happy trolling to all!

Sentimental Journey

If the media and my own personal experience count for anything, the Millennial generation hasn't a sentimental bone in their collective bodies.

On the other hand, I, at the tail end of the Baby Boomer generation, am sentimental to the point of ridiculous.

I have kept boxes of old greeting cards from people I haven't seen in years, a pre-teen scrapbook, dolls and toys from my childhood, company newsletters from former places of employment, a closet full of photographs and much, much more.

As if it weren't enough that I've dragged this flotsam and jetsam around with me, I've also inherited some of my parents' treasures. After my dad passed away and my mom went to live in a nursing home, we went through and chose the things of theirs we wanted to keep. After everyone was finished and we were down to the things that were headed to Goodwill, I sighed, took my mom's paint-by-number bird pictures, and put them in the trunk of my car. I also have their yearbooks and even my grandmother's address/date book.

I'm just a girl who can't let go.

Contrast this with my son and his generation. I am not the only parent to lament that their kids don't care much about the toys of their own youth, let alone the items their parents or grandparents cherished in days long gone. The dishes and photos and mementos don't seem to mean all that much. And when we talk about selling our house and moving one of these days, our son does not get teary-eyed as I would have as a young adult.

Oh well.

When it's time for me to move on to whatever my next existence may be, I know most of my treasures will hit a landfill somewhere. Or a Goodwill. And maybe my sadness at that thought is just vanity. We all want to believe we're leaving something behind, but it doesn't matter. We won't be around to know.

And, not having lived in my era, who will understand my fascination with Little Kiddles. Or cardboard puzzles. Or the original Nancy Drew series of books.

In the end, it's all just stuff, right?

Maybe I'll spend an hour or two going through some of those boxes this weekend. Maybe this time I'll throw some of that junk away.

Sure I will...

What's My Line?

There was an old game show with panelists who tried to guess what the contestant's line of work was.

Each panelist would ask a "yes" or "no" question, and the contestant would simply sit there and answer accordingly.

The show came to mind this morning because I was thinking of how we all get boiled down into digestible bite size brain bytes.

Consider how you imagine the people in your life. As a child, you assume your parents are like everyone else's parents. It's not until you get older (sometimes much older) before you see them as complex human beings, shaped by their past experiences.

In truth, we're all a mixed bag. Yet we are compelled to take the people we meet and slot them according to our preconceived notions. This is fine, as long as we remove them from the slot as we take the time to get to know them.

In high school, I was the quiet, smart kid. I know this is how I was perceived because these words appear multiple times in my yearbook. They were written by the people who didn't know me all that well, fellow classmates who could only base their opinion on the three seconds it took to slot me.

On the other hand, I've been at the same place of employment for well over 20 years. I know how I'm perceived based on the way people introduce me. In addition to my title, I have been called the Queen of Compliance. Which I am. But it's so one dimensional, so dull. Just once, I'd like to be called the Wizard of Wit. Or at least be given props for something other than my keen eye for disclaimers and legal text.

If this sounds a bit whiny, I agree. And in the grand scheme of things, I guess my life would be considered pretty dull. But I'm okay with it. I've gotten to know a lot of fascinating people who would have been slotted as ordinary. But scratch the surface, and be amazed.

Like my friend, Rose, who works with me at the cat shelter. She has rescued many dozens of cats. She's gone into crummy neighborhoods to do this, plus she has 10 cats of her own at home. She cleans cat shelters by day, then goes home and cleans up after her own brood. She looks like a grandma. She's quiet. But she's full of surprises. She told me last week that she still has her Halloween decorations up because it's her favorite holiday, and she has a Jason mask that makes scary noises.

My husband, in his youth, worked with an older gentleman at a carpet store. He struck up a conversation with him after he saw the numbers tattooed on the man's arm. The gentleman didn't say much, just remarked that he had been in a Jewish prison camp.

We're not stick figures. Everyone has a story.

Sometimes, you just have to ask.

The Lesser Knowns

I'm listening to the audio version of  Sarah Vowell's book, "Lafayette in the Somewhat United States." I enjoy reading her work because she talks about people who, over time, have surrendered their spotlight to the brighter stars around them.

Let's face it, it's tough to compete with George Washington.

I've often found that the people in history who hang around the famous folks are often just as fascinating. In this particular tome, I have heard about a handful of minor players who were not on my radar screen but who made contributions to the Revolutionary War. As usual, Mr. Ginley, who is exceedingly knowledgeable about American history, recognized these characters, but I daresay they remain strangers to too many Americans, who are still fuzzy on whether the Civil War or Revolutionary War came first.

My point (that I'm taking so long to get to, sorry) is that it's often the people behind the scenes who get things done. The unsung heroes, who may or may never get a mention in a history book. The worker bees. The terracotta soldiers, fashioned after real, living souls who walked the earth in anonymity but whose faces survive, centuries later, captured in clay.


If the squeaky wheel gets the grease, in history, its often the larger-than-life figures who get the press. I don't take anything away from George Washington, who was an amazing human being or Lafayette, a real character. But it's cool to be reading about others, too, who made a difference in a quieter way. They didn't have meetings, they didn't talk about how great they were, they weren't plotting to take over, they just quietly went about the business of helping a new country establish a place in the world.

Flash forward to today and the cacophony that the media has become. It's easy to contribute to the noise, but not easy to be heard.

Who are today's heroes lost in the hoo-ha?

The Lost Letters

In the ongoing march to Idiocracy, we've decided it's a good idea to stop teaching cursive.

The brain trust behind this one believes that students use computers anyhow, so they don't need to know how to write in cursive.

No, we don't want our children's children to be able to read historical documents. Or their grandparents' old letters. Or to sign their name to anything. (If an "X" was good enough for any ancestor who never had the opportunity to go school, it should be good enough for the next generation.)

Following this logic, I've come up with other curricula we can eliminate from our schools. No sense in our kids learning stuff they're not going to use every day, right?

So, here we go:

1. Scale back on the math. Young folks don't balance their bank accounts anyhow. Why would they need to? The bank would never shortchange anyone. They never make mistakes. And cash registers scan your purchases and tell the cashier how much you need to pay. The money magically comes out of your debit or credit account. All you have to do is swipe your card. Anyone who really wants to know all that number stuff can take an accounting class. We'll leave it all to the accountants and bankers. They've done a marvelous job so far. (If you don't believe me, ask the Google to look up "2008 banking scandal".)

2.  Don't bother teaching proper English. That's what spell check is for, right? And with a couple taps on your keyboard, your Word program very kindly check your grammar, too. It may not correct all your mistakes, but who cares? The reader will know what you meant. If they can't figure it out, it's on them.

3. History is boring. There's plenty of it online. Just ask Wikipedia. Whether it's right or not doesn't matter. As long as you can say you saw it on the internets, you've got credibility. Or you can watch the History Channel, which broadcasts plenty of shows with educational value. Like Ax Men, Hunting Monsters and Big Foot Captured. If those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it, we're screwed.

Well, you get the point. Dumb children equals cooperative children. Put an idiot in the highest office in the land, convince an uneducated populace he's the smartest person in the world, and they will follow him anywhere.

Is it too early for a drink?

Snaps

Whilst digging through boxes of pictures looking for something else, we found a book of old photographs from 1976-1977.

JC is watching me.

At the time, I took a quick glance and set the book aside. Last night, I took a second look, then a third. Not just peering at the subjects in the photos, but the backgrounds, too. My childhood home. The neighborhood. My grandmother's place, her lake, my brother with the tiny fish he caught. Each photo a snapshot of a place and time long extinct.

The idea dawned on me that my parents, in the photos, were younger than I am now.  My self at that moment, as a senior in high school, had no idea what was ahead. No inkling of a husband or a son or career. Or anything that was to come.

My parents at the park.

Little things. The big maple trees that used to arc over the street in glory, almost all cut down now. The hallway in the background of two photos that clearly shows my mom's handiwork. (I still remember coming home from school and seeing green sponge prints on the wall, an idea she got from one of her magazines.) Me dressed as Groucho Marx for Halloween. My much-younger siblings, long-haired brothers and bell-bottomed sisters.

All captured in fading snapshots.

How bittersweet that such technology exists.

Mom, Kelly and "The Wall"

Carry Me, Mommy

Sometimes it sucks being an adult.

When I'm sick or life kicks me in the nasty bits, that's when I need my mom most. I want her to make me some chicken soup or hand me a candy bar and tell me I'm beautiful and everything is going to be just fine.

Mom has been gone for over three years. I don't think you ever get over losing your parents. They are the lighthouse when you're on turbulent waters. When the light goes out, you're left to wander the seven seas alone.

I do talk to my folks on a regular basis. Sometimes I can feel them nearby, other times, not so much. I sense my mom when I'm trying to sew something or I'm trying a new recipe. I'll contemplate taking a shortcut, and I'll hear her admonishing me. Or I'll be bringing in too many bags from the trunk of my car, and I'll hear her whisper, "Lazy man's load," right before I lose my grip and drop one of them.

Looking back, I wonder how she did it. With few exceptions, my mom held it together very well. Until the last few years of her life when her mind failed her, she was the glue that bonded our family. She was counselor, master hugger, comfort food maven and the source of seemingly bottomless love for us.

This morning, I was thinking about how much fun she made holidays like Halloween. She decorated the house, carved the pumpkin, and managed to keep us from chomping all the candy before the trick-or-treaters arrived. She helped us go through the limited selection of costumes and applied makeup where necessary. Then she kept an eye on us after we'd schlepped door-to-door to make sure we didn't consume all of our candy that night.

I wondered if Mom knew I was writing about her. I had a feeling she did. So, I decided to ask her a question.

"Hey, Mom, is all of this stuff in my life going to work out?"

"We'll see," she said.

Of course.

Scouting it Out

Every now and then I have weird flashbacks to my childhood. Lately, I've had the Ma Ku Ay song going through my head.

I'm not sure if it was the twilight stroll through the MetroParks last week. Or what exactly started this particular soundtrack going through my brain. But once it did, I had to dig a little deeper.

Following in my sister Diane's footsteps, I signed up with the Girl Scouts. I only lasted about two years or so, but it was enough to learn some cool stuff. Like a traditional Maori stick game. Thanks to the Google, I discovered the GSA calls them lemme sticks, but what they actually are is Ti Rakau. (Lemme sticks are part of a gambling game.) Stick games were used as a way to train young men in spear fighting.

We just called them Ma Ku Ay sticks, after the song that's chanted as you tap the sticks on the ground, click them together, or toss them to a partner:

Ma ku ay ko e tay O way ko e ta no
Ma ku ay ko e tay O way ko e ta no

My dad fashioned our sticks from old ladder rungs.  Back in the day, you didn't just go out and buy stuff like that. You went to your folks, told them what you needed, and they hauled something out of the garage or the attic and made it work. (In those days, EVERYTHING was recyclable.)

Also part of the Girl Scout experience was the "sit-upon." My mom made one out of an old Charles' Chips can. The concept is pretty ingenious, actually. You put your stuff in the can and carried it around by the rope handle mom put in the sides. You could use your sit-upon to plant your butt in front of a campfire. If I'm remembering correctly, mom even spray painted the can so that only we knew it was the can that wasn't returned to Charles when he delivered his next round of chips. (Yes, back in the day, CC delivered snacks to your door. When you returned the can, you got a deposit back).

Sometimes I wish I'd stuck it out with the Girl Scouts a little longer. We didn't do enough camping or hiking to suit me. But I enjoyed what we did. (Except for the outhouse thing. I still remember trying to hold it in until morning because I didn't want to have to wake up my "buddy" to walk with me through the dark.)

Unfortunately, Mr. Ginley's idea of roughing it is basic cable at a Motel 6. So I probably won't be doing any camping anytime soon.

But maybe we can take another walk in the park. I can crunch some leaves. And sing the Ma Ku Ay song to myself as we stroll.

Falling Fast

One day this week, I was driving down the street and noticed a few leaves changing color. Two days later, BAM, the leaves had burst into yellows and oranges and reds.

Must be autumn in Cleveland.

Like most seasons, the best part is here and gone so quickly, you can miss it if you blink. While that white stuff that shall-not-be-named seems to linger on and on.

I would love to enjoy this time of year, if only it would stick around long enough. If we're lucky, we'll have a few more days of warmish weather and some sunshine before all the leaves turn brown and it's time to rake. It feels like the statute of limitations is running out on hot apple cider and colorful drives through the parkway. Although I won't be able to experience the smell of burning leaves, a childhood favorite, since the practice has been outlawed. (Yes, I know, it's not good for the environment, but there was something about that aroma.)

So, before I have to go extract my rake from among the seldom-used tools in the basement, I think I'll make a pledge to take a stroll through the park or grab an apple or raise a glass of pumpkin ale and make a toast to this oh-so-short-lived season.

But, with my sense of direction, I think it's best if I stay out of the hay maze!

Do You Know Where You're Going To?

Our senior high school class song was the theme from Evergreen. Diana Ross belted out "Do You Know Where You're Going To?"

Let me be clear, this was not my choice. And, while the first few lines are appropriate, the rest of the lyrics dissolve into a what-used-to-be-wonderful-in-our-lives love story.

The irony is, for me it turned out to be perfectly appropriate. I had NO idea where I was going -- figuratively or literally.

As for the latter, I have never had a good sense of direction. If such a thing is hereditary, I believe I got the gene from my aunt. She told a story of a time she was invited to an event at someone's house with a group of people she'd corresponded with but never met. She got to the general area and kept driving around the neighborhood until she saw a house with a bunch of cars parked in the driveway, and figured she must have reached her destination.

She went in, introduced herself, and had a perfectly lovely time.

A few weeks later, she got a note from her group, saying they were sorry she wasn't able to attend. She never did find out whose party she crashed.

This is me all over. Mr. Ginley learned long ago that if I was navigating and told him to turn left, he should turn right. If I were a bird, I'd spend all my winters freezing my tail feathers off in Canada. I simply don't have the inner map that tells me where to go. (Although there are a number of folks, I am certain, who would love to tell me.)

Any journey to a new destination in which I fly solo involves excruciating planning. I consult Google maps and print out enlarged views so I know what the cross streets are before my point of arrival. Thanks to Mr. G., my skills have improved somewhat. He's said when he's no longer crawling the earth, I should probably get a GPS. Of course, those things aren't infallible. There was a tour bus in England that drove into a lake because the GPS said there was a road there. (It had been removed.) So one must still use one's noggin.

And Google maps are far from foolproof. One of the directions we were given in getting to my nephew's wedding was, "Drive over the Key Bridge and do a U-turn." During rush hour? Seriously? No, we didn't do that. We weren't feeling suicidal.

My problem is that not only do I have a difficult time navigating new territory, I also have to stop and think where I am going in familiar places. When we drive around Parma, for example, my spouse will spout, "But you grew up here! What do you mean you don't know which way to turn?" At which point I tell him the particular street we are on is not one which I frequently traveled, and, anyway, I didn't drive most of the time I was growing up, so I didn't have to pay attention. I could sit back and let Dad do the driving.

All of which just goes to show, I really do need a chauffeur to drive my sorry ass around town.

One with a very good sense of direction.

A Question of Memory

Witnesses are notoriously unreliable. If five people watch a crime being committed, you will get five different accounts of precisely what happened.

The same is true of meetings. If you sit through one with four of your coworkers, and if someone doesn't summarize what the action steps are, you and the other four folks will come out with differing opinions of what has been decided.

"The Outtake"

We all have built-in filters. Our experiences are run through them before we decide what to remember. We keep the things that resonate with us and discard those that do not. It's just how we are wired.

 When I was in my teens, I talked about a memory I had of our car running out of fuel and my Dad leaving my six-year-old self parked on a big hill while he went to get gas. He was horrified. He told me he never would have done that. I realized it must have been a nightmare, one that was so vivid, it became a memory. I'd held on to that nightmare for years. (I still get cold and clammy when the gas needle dips below a quarter of a tank.)

My husband tells a tale of our wedding, totally fabricated. It is certainly more "interesting" than the true story. He says if he tells it over and over often enough, when I'm old and senile, it's the tale I will tell to our grandchildren. (I think certain politicians espouse this "story-often-told-becomes-the-truth" theory.)

If you really want to test the waters on this memory thing, talk to the people you grew up with. Discuss your perception of what it was like being a child in your home. You will get as many variations as you have siblings. We choose our memories and horde them like bits of precious metal -- some of it radioactive. The golden bits are evidence that we were loved. The radium proof of the slights we endured.

In the end, what you keep is as telling as the memories themselves.

As I get older, I struggle to remember lots of things. And I wonder if the memories I hold dear are real or imagined. Then I decide it really doesn't matter, especially if they are happy. We're only hoofing it on this big rock for a short time, and often it's the good thoughts that keep us going.

In my book of childhood memories, I'm going to keep "dancing" to Mitch Miller records with Paul, listening to John and Gary play Beatles albums over and over, doing scavenger hunts made up by Diane, and late-night chats with Denise.

And I'm going to hope my son does the same kind of filtering with his childhood. Lucky for us, he doesn't have any siblings to compare notes with.

Since "Chuck" went off to college and never came back!

The Weighting Game

Oh so many moons ago, when I was living in Virginia, I won an honorable mention in a poetry contest. The subject of my poem was weight control. I decided to attend the award festivities, so I asked my friend Judie if she'd like to come with.

Farewell, my lovelies...

She obliged.

The evening was joyful and unique. As I recall, there was a dinner and a lot of awards, and they read each of the entries aloud. The crowd was predominantly older. (Okay, a lot of them were octogenarians.) But they were all so delightful, I still have warm memories of my then-30-something self participating in the magical night.

What strikes me now is that I wrote a poem about weight loss. I scoff. I really didn't need to worry about losing a lot of weight at that time in my life. Maybe I was just being prescient.

In any case, I've decided I've had it with feeling like a stuffed sausage, avoiding mirrors and huffing and puffing after climbing two flights of stairs.

It's time to take back my life! No, seriously, I mean it this time.

So, why publicly declare my intentions? Part of my master plan involves shame. If I tell all of you that my goal is to drop weight, maybe you will raise an eyebrow when you see my hand reaching for that luscious Boston cream donut. Or you'll gently clear your throat when I make more than one trip to the Tupperware container with the fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. (For the record, I only had one yesterday.)

I realize that ultimately it's up to me to drop the pounds. I will feel better and look better and all of that. And no one else is responsible for my weight.

 But sometimes, it takes a village to save an idiot from herself.

So, please, won't you help? One look, one tsk tsk is all it takes.

I thank you.

O-H-I-O

In today's news, Ohio has decided to lower its expectations for students.

It's kind of like giving every player on the team a trophy just for showing up.

Unlike other states, Ohio has adopted a less rigorous standard for its students. Apparently, too many of them were not qualifying as "proficient," so what do we do? We change what we label as "proficient."

It's brilliant, really. No need to look at how we teach or why our grown children can't count out change without the help of  a cash register. Or, as a friend, discovered, why they don't know that England is part of the United Kingdom. (He was trying to ascertain if his phone would work in England. After being told that England was not on the list of countries, he had to tell them to try looking under United Kingdom.)

No, we'll just say that what used to pass for failure is now success. That's how we roll. It's not about the education, it's about the testing.

You may point out that I'm not a teacher, and I don't know my ass from my elbow about modern education. What I do know is, the best teachers I've had showed me how to take the material they were teaching and apply it to everyday life -- which didn't include test-passing.

Just to end on an up-note, Mr. Ginley read about Ohio State University's football team, where they conduct "Real Life Wednesdays." Student athletes are taught practical things such as how to write a resume, balance a checkbook and other basics of personal finance. Like what FICA means on a pay stub.

Of course, you'd have to pass the college entrance exam first.

Ah, there's the rub.

Riddle Me This

I love doing puzzles.

Jigsaws, crosswords, logic puzzles, mazes, quote-acrostics.

But, hands down, anagrams are my favorite. I love to take the mixed-up letters and help them to find order in a chaotic world. I do the Jumble in the daily newspaper. And I love to play Scrabble. (Although, admittedly, I'm not a champion player because I get a bigger kick out of finding a spot for a good word than I do from racking up the points for teeny, obscure words.)

I've wasted countless hours on my Kindle unscrambling letters. I used to tsk tsk at people who spent chunks of their lives playing Farmville or Candy Crush, but honestly, I am just as bad. I tell myself that I'm working my brain, so that must be a good thing. But maybe it's just obsessive behavior.

You would think that after putting words together all day at work, I'd want to veg out in front of the TV in the evening and sit slack jawed while others did the work for me. And, yes, I do that on occasion. But oftentimes, even when Mr. Ginley and I watch together, we choose a mystery that requires our participation, and we sit there speculating aloud who the culprit is. More puzzle solving.

Fortunately, my better half also enjoys doing puzzles. He works the crossword and the Sudoko that appear in the newspaper. And he does the Jumble after I do (we compare notes over how difficult we found it to be that day).

And, one day soon, I'm going to clear a space on the table so we can put together a jigsaw puzzle. I have about 30 of them sitting in the basement, just waiting to be assembled. Mabel, our geriatric feline, may be to the point where she won't knock the pieces on the floor and skitter them under the sofa. I'm ready to test the theory.

What I will not do is one of those jigsaws where all of the pieces are the same color. There's no skill in guessing. Maybe I'll try the one we got at a rummage sale, the one that features a map and tourist spots along Route 66.

Hopefully, all of the pieces are there. My grandma used to indicate when she had a jigsaw with a missing piece -- she'd mark where the missing piece was located by drawing an approximation on the back of the box.

Well, we'll see. If you hear growls of frustration, you'll know I'm a piece or two shy of a full puzzle.

Of course, you may think that anyhow...

Upcoming Attractions

Even though I ate them one at a time, the Snow Caps were gone before the movie even started.

I always do this.

Mr. and I buy our tickets and enter the theater 10 minutes or so before the flick begins. We choose our seats and get settled in. They we are assaulted by a barrage of ads carefully constructed to look like entertainment. In fact, they even do a little summary at the end, where the slightly-over-the-hill model grins alluringly and says something like, "Thank you for watching this endless series of commercials. In case you thought you had escaped, here is a summary of the advertisers who made it all possible." And then plays snippets from all of the "stories."

Just when you think you're cooking with gas, the parade of previews gears up. Our routine never varies. Mr. and I watch each one, look at each other, and say, "We'll be skipping that one" or "That looks like it might be good" or "Maybe, but only when it gets to DVD." (Which will be about five minutes after it stops showing in the theater.)

I remember a time when commercials were on TV, not on the big screen. When the popcorn didn't taste like the container it came in. And before they had to tell you things like, "Hey, don't be an inconsiderate douchebag, turn your phone off."

The good thing about going to the movies on a Tuesday afternoon is the tickets are cheaper, and there's not much of a crowd. In fact, there was only one other guy who saw Man from U.N.C.L.E. with us. Not a bad way to spend a sultry late-summer afternoon.

And, I have to say, the stadium seating is a whole lot nicer than the pop-up seats and sticky floors of the theaters of my youth.

No need to yell, "Down in front" or "Hey, lady, remove your hat."

If you said, "huh?" never mind. My fellow codgers know what I'm talking about!

Oh, You Kid!

“The children now love luxury. They have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders and love chatter in place of exercise.” 

So said Socrates. And adults before and since. The truth is, the "yutes"* of today are really no different than at any other time in history.

As I was rooting around looking for something else, I found a packet of postcards that had been sent to my grandmother. They are dated from 1907 to 1911. I have no idea why she chose to keep these particular postcards. They are from different people, none of whom was my grandfather.

What the postcards do contain is youthful chatter that would not be out of place in a Twitter posting.

Although they lose something in the translation (the cursive writing in fountain pen is very cool), you'll get the idea:

"The other side"

"Hello you kid. How you was? Say could you come to Cridersville Sat eve? Drop me a postcard with the word yes Ha Ha. and I will be there. This is my best for you. Look on the other side. Well I will haft to close. S.W.A.K. as ever."

"Hello Ethel or I mean Jack. Ha! Ha! I haven't any dates in my book yet have you? I was sick when I got your postal with the sore throat. Are you coming down to the fair this week? I hope I will see you there. Well I'm glad your sorry for it. I'm not. Gill."

Back in the day, there were pithy sayings called "Ginger Snaps." They appeared, among other places, on postcards. There's one in the packet that says, "Usually when a man gets down to business he soon gets up in the world. -- Ginger Snaps." On the back, someone wrote, "Good to eat snaps." 

I wonder who these people were and what their lives were like. My grandmother would have been 15-19 years old when she received these postcards. She was 20 when she married. And 37 when she died of tuberculosis. I'm happy to have these small glimpses into her life, but sad to know so little else about her, especially her youth. Have any of the postcards she wrote to her friends survived? I don't suppose I'll ever know.

So what happens to our children's grandchildren when they go to learn about their grandparents? Will they be able to access old Twitter accounts? Will they laugh over the way the posts were written? Or, because there is so much electronic information, will the task of sorting through all of it be too tiresome?

Well, time will tell, and it won't be my story to share. For now, I'll go back and reread these treasures and enjoy a glimpse into days that have passed with youthful musings that will remain youthful for always.

*If you've seen My Cousin Vinny, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you haven't seen it, you should.

Don't Fence Me In

Folks are naturally averse to being caged, incarcerated, walled or fenced in. American settlers kept a-movin' across the land until they had infested every acre of this vast county. The irony, of course, is that they sequestered their predecessors on reservations, thereby relieving them of their freedom to move about the country.

As long as there have been fences and walls and prisons, there have been people going around them or over them or breaking out of them.

Which is why I think it's hilarious that some think it's a great idea to put up a fence on our southern border.

And what do they point to as the poster child for successful restraint? The Great Wall of China. The fortress that took countless lives in the building, cost untold sums of money and stretched for thousands of miles. It was built to keep the Mongols out. As a structure, it's a wonder of the world.

The six million dollar question is...did it restrain the Mongols? Were the Chinese able to fight off the vicious invaders from a position of strength? Did the Mongols manage to breach the wall?

Nope. They bribed their way in.

So, what have we learned from this little history lesson? Nothing, apparently. Except that walls don't stop people. Nor do fences. Even when they have big red signs with words like "DANGER" and "KEEP OUT" and "YOU'LL GET HIT IN THE HEAD AND KILLED BY THAT BIG, FAST, GAZILLION-POUND ROLLER COASTER IF YOU COME IN HERE." (So tell me, friend, what kind of reception does your cell phone get in heaven?)

If people want to get past the barriers, they will. And putting up a wall or a fence isn't going to stop them.

So what would keep people from entering the U.S.?

Well, you could put Trump at the border and tell the potential emigres that our country is seriously considering him for president.

That might just do it!

Old School

I am firmly convinced that my mom and dad belonged to a super-secret society exclusively for post-World War II parents.

How else can you explain the oddball, quirky habits that are shared by the parents of others in my age group?

Organic social media (i.e. actually talking to my friends) has confirmed that my folks weren't alone. Some of these habits can be attributed to a childhood spent surviving the depression. Others may have appeared in Family Circle or Woman's Day, two affordable go-to magazines that were widely read by housewives (and which were located near the checkout counter at Kroger).

Here are some examples of what I'm talking about.

My mom used to save empty milk cartons and bread bags, put the bread bag in the milk carton, and stuff banana peels and other garbage into it. Then, when it was full, she tied up the bag and took it out to the garbage. Presumably, this was so that the garbage wouldn't stink up the rest of the trash.

Growing up, I didn't think much about this. But one day at work I got to ruminating with friends about the oddity of this particular habit. And, here's the weird part: my friends said their moms did the same thing. Which brings me back to wondering, how did they know to do this? It wasn't something that was handed down from earlier generations, because, of course, half gallon cardboard cartons didn't exist then. It just reinforced my theory about a secret society where moms shared tips and tricks.

Facebook, my secondary go-to social media source, featured a photo of a t-shirt that asked how many of us had received corporal punishment from a wooden spoon. Yep, there's another one. My mom was famous for wielding her wooden spoon. Me being me, all she had to do was threaten, and I'd sign over all my worldly possessions if she would refrain from striking me. This bit of theatrics usually worked -- my mom would be trying so hard not to laugh, she gave up being pissed at me.

The point is, wooden spoon? Really? A simple back of the hand wasn't enough? How did moms know to rummage through the drawer and choose a wooden spoon? Granted, it was ideally suited in shape and size, but they could just as easily have chosen a spatula. Of course, for awhile my mom did use a paddle from one of those hit-the-rubber-ball-with-a-paddle toys for her implement of punishment. Unfortunately, it met its match on the posterior of my younger brother (the crack heard round the house), and it was back to  the wooden spoon.

Other stuff: pouring fat from the pan into a soup can and putting it into the refrigerator to harden, then throwing it away so it wouldn't mess up the pipes. Re-purposing anything and everything, including bags from boxes of cereal. And refusing to wear new underwear until the old ones were in tatters.

And one more, this time from my dad. He used to flatten big cardboard boxes and put them on the garage floor to prevent oil from ruining the concrete.

It's pretty magical, actually. They didn't have the internets or infomercials to guide them.

Then again, they did have Heloise Hints. Hmm. That's something to look into.

I wonder if she has a website...

Duty Bound

There are a number of two-word phrases that make you groan: Pop quiz. Tax return. Disabled vehicle. Routine procedure. Special project. Fun challenge.

And...jury duty.

A few weeks ago, I received my summons in the mail. I went online and completed the necessary paperwork, then called when I was told to call. Monday: not needed. Tuesday: not needed. Wednesday: not needed. Was I in the clear? Was I not going to have to serve? Hope rose.

Thursday: report for duty at 8:30 a.m.

So, I cleared the decks, caught up with my work as best I could, made arrangements for a second-in-command, and had Mr. G. drop me off at the Rapid Transit station.

It's been awhile since I road the Rapid. They've gussied up the stations, but the trains still clickety-clack along beside the backsides of buildings, many scrawled with graffiti. Then, after West 25th Street, the stunning view of Downtown Cleveland, picture perfect -- or would be, but for the scratchy windows on the aging cars. What surprised me was the small number of rush hour commuters. Many moons ago, when I road the Rapid daily, it would be packed to the hilt with downtown workers. On this trip, I was able to get a window seat.

After arriving at the Terminal Tower, I walked out into a beautiful, sunny day. And a tableau of construction equipment and barriers. They are working on Public Square. So, I had to schlep around and work my way back to Ontario Street to get to the Justice Center.

I've served jury duty a number of times before, so I knew the drill. Stand in line, give them your card and ID, then go sit in the juror's lounge and listen to the presentation by a very earnest clerk, who explains the honor and thrill of being a juror. Her speech was lost on a Diana Ross diva type in dark sunglasses, who kept insisting that if she got on a trial, she wasn't going to be able to show up Monday, and with whom should she speak. The clerk patiently explained that if she was summoned to the courtroom, she should express her concern to the judge. Then she told her again. And one more time, before the woman huffed off to sit in a chair with her laptop, which couldn't pick up the piss-poor WiFi signal.

Then we all waited. An hour later, an officer came in with a list, and 16 jurors were called. I was not among them. (Diana Ross was, ha!) I wasn't sure if I was relieved or disappointed, but it really didn't matter. The remaining jurors had to sit in the lounge and wait until the jury had been selected.

In the meantime, I read my book and tried not to listen to Fox News on the TV. It was then that I decided I would rather have been called to serve on the jury. Ugh!

Lunchtime came and went. A fellow juror started berating the clerk. "I want to go get lunch, but what if they dismiss us? What will happen to my lunch? How much longer is it going to be? Five minutes? Two hours? Don't you have any idea?"

The clerk patiently explained, in polite terms, that she was not able to predict how long it would be.

It turned out to be another couple of hours before we were released, certificates in hand as proof that we had been there, and our assurance that we would not have to serve again for another two years.

After the two-year period, my name will be put back into the system for the random name drawing. It seems like some folks never get called, while others, like me, have been chosen multiple times. 

I should be so lucky with the winning lottery numbers!

Gone to the Dawgs

Anyone who knows me (or has read this blog) knows my love of sports, such as it is, is driven by a loyalty to my husband and son.

So, when my offspring called and offered to take us to see a new live show about long-suffering Browns fans, I was fairly "meh" about it. I can get by with rudimentary knowledge about the rules of the game. And, while I don't remember every one of the dreaded Browns' milestones (millstones?), I can tell you EXACTLY where I was when "THE Fumble" occurred on January 17, 1988. (In the parking lot of our apartment complex in Alexandria, returning from seeing a movie by myself because I was not up to watching the ill-fated game with Denver. Six floors below our closed-up apartment, I could hear Mr. Ginley screaming.)

In any case, my kid asked us to go with him, and my husband was game, so off we went.

Dawg Pounded was a great romp from start to finish. Considering the topic, it should have been a real downer, and in a few spots it was, but overall, it was so stinkin' funny, I laughed myself silly. Personally, I enjoyed the songs the most, a collection of parodies that were brilliantly written and delivered by a lively cast. But the dialog between the two main characters, Paul (Tom Hill) and Otto (Greg Mandryk), who spent much of the time in pain before a TV set we never saw, was equally entertaining. And Don Jones, as "Pittsburgh Pete" was convincingly annoying. (My son assures me he is a Browns fan in real life.) Props to Tim Tyler, who is the creator of the play.

Back in the day, I wrote lyrics for our Managers Meetings (such ditties as Hello Larry and Everything's Coming up Diamonds), so I have a pretty good idea of how challenging it is to get the words and the cadence just right. (Props to John Krol, Dawgs' music director.) If they ever come out with a soundtrack, I'm getting a copy.

Okay, okay, no, I am not auditioning to be the next Maven of Playhouse Square. I got a little sidetracked here because I think it's important to give credit where it's due.

The point is, sometimes you've just gotta do something that's outside of your comfort zone. I am so glad I did. Thank you, Joe, for treating your mom and dad to a delightful night out.

Woof, woof!

Kitchey in Pink

Here's to you, Don Featherstone, creator of the pink flamingo. Don passed away last month, but his brightly colored lawn ornaments will remain in our hearts for all time.

Especially those of us who grew up in Parma, where pink flamingos, white socks and polka music were the iconic symbols of a suburban post-World War II era, chock full of eastern European immigrants who headed west in search of work at the Chevy plant.

For those who wanted to inch their way a little higher on the social scale, there was Seven Hills. The ubiquitous pink bird was frowned upon there, where the neighborhoods were peppered instead with chrome balls on pedestals, which I always found to be just a little pretentious. 

And, don't you just adore the moniker, "lawn ornament." It sounds so lovely. Not quite descriptive of a duck with a gingham hat or what has become known as the "lawn jockey," the little guy, often black, who holds the lantern aloft. (Props here to Sherri Lofton on her Halloween costume a couple of years back.)

There have been those folks, and most of us have had at least one in our neighborhood, who cover every square inch of their yard with plastic and plaster. Maybe it's to keep people at bay. Or it's diabolically clever -- no need to fire up the lawn mower at Crazy Charlie's house!

My sister, Denise, once bought a home whose basement was littered with pink flamingos. One of them was used by my Dad in a brilliant prank he played on the neighbors. But I, alas, am flamingo-less. (Although I do possess a plunger with the fuchsia-colored bird's head perched atop the handle.)

My lawn ornaments decorate the inside of my abode. I wouldn't want anyone to walk off with my gnome or my Chinese guy.

Aside from which, the way I care for the vegetation in my yard, my treasured ornaments would probably get swallowed up by a hedge!

What I Did on My Summer Staycation

Well, I didn't go spelunking, but at least my two vacation days this week were spent doing fun stuff.

Following the lead of local author Erin O'Brien, we took an urban hike through Cleveland's Flats, exploring the bridges via a route she had mapped out. It's easy to forget that there are breathtaking things to see right in your own neighborhood. When we lived in the Washington, DC area, many of my co-workers hadn't been to a Smithsonian museum or the monuments for years. I used to think this was odd. But this week, I realized I'm just as bad. I'd never seen this particular view of the city of my birth.

The story is really all about the photos, a few of which I'm sharing here. Our goal is to go back to the Scranton Flats and do the path that hugs the Cuyahoga River.

Thanks to the internets, I also discovered a new favorite place to shop in Lakewood, called The Lion and Blue.  Lots of cool, woo-woo stuff. Crystals and scarves and trinkets and stuff.

On the second day of my glorious absence from work, we decided to go see a movie. The cool thing was it was discount day, so we only paid an arm to see the show and buy some treats. Plus, the theater was nearly empty, which suited us just fine. No loud talkers or wailing babies. We sat in the back row. Playing on the big screen in 3D was Minions, the prequel to Despicable Me. Great fun, indeed, especially if you lived through (or simply "get") the 1960s. Lots of sly references, very Bugs Bunny.

What amazes me about today's movies is all of the commercials. The cinema companies put together a short film to "entertain" you while you wait for the 17 movie previews before your film begins.
This short is a bunch of ads cobbled together. We usually get settled in our seats 10 minutes or so ahead of time, so we get to view most of this. Fortunately, there is a summary at the end, so we can see the ads we missed. Me being me, most of my snack has disappeared before the opening credits of the the movie.

It's nice to stay in town and toodle around. You save on the expense of transportation and lodging. No packing or unpacking. Of course, you still have chores nagging you to be completed. But they could  wait.

And they did.

Instant Carma

During my ample commute, I have lots of time to ponder the universe. And other things. Like the rudeness of my fellow travelers. 

I find myself wishing that some divine power would smite the drivers of those offending vehicles. 

That's how I came up with Instant Carma.

Say someone is tailgating you for miles. You're not in the fast lane (in fact, there's no one in the fast lane), yet this ying-yang has taken it upon herself to school you for not going 20 miles over the speed limit. You glance into your rear view mirror, willing her to back off. You tap the brake, nothing works. You have visions of a quick stop and her mini van ending up in your trunk. You finally pull over into the speed lane so she can pass you in the slow lane. Then you get behind her.

And...it's Instant Carma to the rescue! A 1993 rusted out Chevy pulls up to HER back bumper and hovers there. The driver grins maniacally. Of course, he has no insurance. His car is a disaster. He may even tap her back bumper. A few times. Before he races away with a wave. 

In our next scenario, you're driving on crowded city streets. There is traffic ahead of you but no one behind you. The guy races up and cuts you off. Here comes Instant Carma, pulling in front of the driver and going 5 miles under the speed limit, ensuring he is boxed in and can't get around. Of course, it means you have to go slow, too, for a mile or so. But just imagining the other driver's white knuckles and the veins popping out of his neck are compensation enough.

Then we have the distracted driver. She is on the phone or putting on her makeup or eating her breakfast. She gets on the freeway doing 35 and weaves back and forth, so you're afraid to pass. Then, just as you make your move, she finishes her task and guns the engine so you can't get around her. In this case, Instant Carma appears in the form of a police car and hefty speeding ticket.

Of course, the irony is, I'm probably bringing myself bad karma for wishing ill on others. 

But honestly, I don't want anyone to be physically hurt or anything. And I know that it probably wouldn't change the way they drive. Hmmm. Maybe more drastic measures are called for.

What if Instant Carma removed the driver from the vehicle, confiscated it and gave it to someone who couldn't afford a car but would drive responsibly.

Now, that's good karma!

P.S. My idea, like most, is not really new or original. As anyone knows who has seen W.C. Fields and Alison Skipworth in If I Had a Million.

My Paperless Porch

Today I can have me a watch that employs all the wonders of a Univac and much, much more. It can tell me where to go and what to buy and what Aunt Freda in Germany is up to and how far I've walked and how many calories I've burned.

But I can't get a newspaper delivered to my front porch. Like it used to be. For most of my adult life.

I grumbled when they stopped delivering The Plain Dealer every day. But at least, I figured, I was still going to get it Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. I still enjoy holding a newspaper in my hands, sitting in my easy chair, and reading what's what.

Yes, I have a tablet, but reading the e-edition on a hand-held device is a tedious task*.

So, when I get a paper newspaper, I relish it. But lately, getting the newspaper has been a chore.

We had one carrier for years and years. He was a gem. I never had to think about the paper showing up on my doorstep at 6 a.m. I could stick my arm out the door and grab it, no fuss, no muss. But for the last several months, getting my newspaper has been an adventure -- one I'd rather do without. When it does come (which, without me calling and complaining to an automated system, is about 75% of the time), it arrives by 8 a.m. and it's tossed onto the driveway in a plastic bag. When it rains, it often sits in a puddle until I retrieve the sodden mess. Some days there have been sections missing. One day this week, I actually watched the guy come up to my porch, place the paper on it, get back in his truck and depart. I was impressed. Until I realized only half of it was there.

I know what some of you are thinking. That I'm focusing on a little thing. That civilization as we know it isn't going to crumble because my newspaper delivery sucks. And, while the neighbors might raise an eyebrow or two, me having to trot down the driveway in my pajamas is really not big deal.

My fear is that the little civilities are getting lost. And that, like the vital bumblebees that are slowly, quietly dying, it is the disappearance of the little things that do us in. Cutting in lines and cutting each other off in traffic. Leaving a measly tip for good service. Watching an old man trying to get his foot up and over a curb without helping. (Something, I am proud to say, my son did NOT do.)

Matt Groening once said something like, "If you keep your expectations tiny, you'll go through life less whiny."

I've lowered my expectations. But the world keeps lowering the bar.

THAT's why I'm whiny.

But, just for today...I will be glad my newspaper arrived, safe and dry, all pages present. And I will go forth and read Sally Forth.

And I wish all of you a Happy Fourth!

*This is for my sister, Denise. (Inside joke!)

Happy Stumbling

Whenever my husband is tearing the house apart looking for something, I always tell him it will turn up when he's looking for something else.

My going-away card, designed by Randall.

This was the case for me this week when I was searching for a copy of a letter from my grandmother to my mom. I didn't find it, but I did find a ton of old stuff from my pre-mom era. A going-away card from my last day at Kay Jewelers in Alexandria. Postcards and letters from Julie & Brook's trip around the world. A transcript of my grades from high school. Writing samples and school papers and projects. Various minor awards, including the one from an Advertising Age contest and an honorable mention from The National League of American Pen Women (that's a whole other story).

And much, much, more.

This rainy day will be perfect for plunging myself into the past, trying to associate faces with the names on cards signed by everyone in the office. Glimpses of life 30 years ago from people my age, their futures all ahead of them then. I wonder where life took them, if they are happy with their lot, if they ever look back and see me.

Postcard from Greece

One more share before I toodle off to re-explore my past. I was in Parmatown Mall, and there was a bespectacled gentleman with a huge computer and punch cards. For a small fee, he said he would analyze my handwriting. Skeptical but intrigued, I agreed to give it a try. I signed my name on a card that was fed through the behemoth, which spit out a sheet of computer paper. Here's what it said:

YOU HAVE A VIVID IMAGINATION AND SHOULD PURSUE A WRITING CAREER. WITH YOUR HIGHLY RECEPTIVE LOGICAL MIND, YOU ARE RARELY FOOLED BY OTHERS. YOU HAVE A KIND, GENTLE HEART AND ARE EXTREMELY KID TO ANIMALS. IN LOVE RELATIONSHIPS YOU CAN BE VERY EMOTIONAL AND HIGHLY PASSIONATE. YOU NEVER HOLD A GRUDGE AND ARE THE FIRST TO ADMIT YOUR MISTAKES.

Honestly, I don't think Siri could have done any better!

But I still haven't found the letter I was looking for in the first place. I guess I will have to think of something else to search for.

Now, where did I leave my coffee cup...

P.S. Here is what Julie wrote on the back of the postcard (above): We wanted to send this "Greek God" to you in person but unfortunately, he is too buy posing for pictures.

Unicorns and Rainbows

I love Facebook. It keeps me in touch with relatives and friends and the Japanese photographer I love to the bottom of my soul.

Then, I hate Facebook. It sucks me in with stories designed to raise the hackles. Stories that have not been vetted to confirm they really did happen.

Artist's rendering (or why I'm not an artist)

In today's example, there is a woman in Baltimore who says she got a hate note from a neighbor because she put multi-colored mason jars in her yard. The neighbor accused her of being "relentlessly gay" and invoked GOD as frowning on her little yardly display.

Now, if this is a true story, the neighbor is a flaming a-hole, and the woman has cause for indignation. What she did next, however, makes me go, "hmmm."

She set up a "Go Fund Me" page to rainbow-ify her yard. So far, she has collected in excess of $37,000.

Some are lauding her for her ingenuity. Others are questioning the veracity of her claim. (The quirky capitalization on the note that matched her original Go Fund Me page, since edited, was called out.)

I decided to hold off contributing to her cause. How much rainbow-ing will $37,000 buy you? I supposed she could acquire a mini van and paint it like the Partridge Family bus and park it in her driveway. Frankly, her indignation might carry more weight if she donated her money to an organization like Forty to None, which helps gay and transgender youth who are homeless.

The lessons for all of us may be: 1. Don't assume what you read on the internet is true. It may be, but, unlike newspapers in the olden days, there's no certainty a story has been fact-checked before it goes viral. (Snopes.com is a good source, but they haven't weighed in on this story yet.) 2. Of course, you can donate your hard-earned cash to whomever you wish, but it's a good idea to check their bonafides to make sure the cash you're forking over is going where it's supposed to go. One source is http://www.consumer.ftc.gov/articles/0074-giving-charity.

Okay, okay, I'm climbing off the pulpit now.

It's almost time to go hang out at my own favorite non-profit. With the cool cats. To embrace the inner purr. And, of course, scoop the poop with the gang.

Movin' on Up

On the way to breakfast with my son yesterday morning, he said, "I keep hearing this song in my head. Maybe it's a dream I had or something, I don't know. The words 'movin' on up' are in it, and there's a chorus of African American gospel singers doing the vocals."

Seems like it was just last month...

Then he hummed a few bars. It was, of course, the theme song from the 1970s TV show, The Jeffersons. (We watch a lot of ME TV.)

I began to sing along, assured him it was a real tune, explained its origins -- and noted it was a good musical selection for moving day.

My son and his buddies rented a house on the east side of town near their college campus. His two closest friends helped him schlep his worldly goods to his new digs. Like most student living spaces, his will be outfitted with what we like to call "shabby chic," although "chic" is doubtless a stretch. In addition to his "heirloom" bedroom suite (a twin bed and mismatched desk and dresser plus a night stand acquired at a rummage sale), he is bringing along some outdoor wicker furniture and a table purchased from a friend (who got it from the now-newly-remodeled restaurant where he works).

I've been replacing my vacuum and other minor appliances and contributing my old ones to the cause. (Okay, I hear the chuckles, yes I actually think he may, at some point, vacuum. It's my fantasy, just let it be.)

The hardest part of all this was not the actual move, but the fact it's taking my son one step further from his childhood. On the one hand, I'm happy for him, starting out on his latest adventure -- and, I'm certain, learning experience. On the other hand, there's a part of me that misses things like story time and hot chocolate and being smarter than he is.

I know I'm not going through anything most parents of children his age are going through. And yes, I know I sound like an old fogey. (See? I just used the phrase "old fogey!")

I'm glad that he's movin' on up. And I really hope that he gets a (big) piece of the pie!

Between the Lines

I was sitting in the dentist's waiting room, waiting for my son, listening to some dreadful satellite radio station and admiring the gewgaws on the walls, when my eyes landed on an area set up for the youngest patients. And there they were -- a stack of coloring books and the 64-count box of Crayola crayons.

It was all I could do not to run across the room, seize a coloring book, and inhale the intoxicating scent of my childhood. I wanted to take the burnt sienna and the blue-violet (or was it violet-blue?) and color up a storm.

As a child, it seems I had the same few coloring books. For some reason, I never finished an entire book. There were always clean pages crying out for splashes of color.

Sorry to say, I was not a neatnik. I did not confine myself to conventional colors, and, in spite of my sister's admonitions, I was never able to stay in the lines. I was too impatient to get the colors on the page. To see how Mrs. Beasley would look in a pink dress (instead of blue). Or to see Buffy in green hair. Or Mr. French with hair.

Then, on the internet, I stumbled across a coloring book for adults. (No, it didn't have naughty pics in it, get your head out of the gutter.) These coloring books had elaborate patterns using floral and geometric themes. Admittedly, I was intrigued. I am even toying with the idea of going out and buying a coloring book. Not of the adult variety, however. I have a notion that coloring all of those teeny-tiny spaces would counteract the therapeutic benefit.

I'm hoping that: 1. They still make coloring books for kids. 2. That I can find said books. 3. That they have things in them that I want to color. (Yes, shut up, it matters.)

The next question will be whether to use the tin of broken crayons I have here, or to indulge myself in a brand new deluxe box of 64 Crayola Crayons.

And the final question...does it still have the built-in crayon sharpener?

To the Max

My brother and his wife were stunned when, at age 46, they were told they were going to be parents for the second time. 

Their first-born, at 13, was also stunned to hear the news she was going to become a sister.

Fortunately, it was Max who made his appearance, so everyone was cool. (Even though my brother grimaced when he took Max for his first haircut and the barber called him "grandpa.")

Here we are, 18 years later, and Max is graduating from high school. Through the wonder that is Facebook, I've been able to follow him on his adventures through scouting, music and high school. Through photos and stories, it's been possible to know Max better, even though he lives in a different city and I only see him once a year or so. It is surprising that so much can be told through a social media device that mostly features pictures of cats and dogs and squirrels and people doing ridiculous things.

Thanks for allowing me to "friend" you, Maxwell. I'm proud to be called your aunt. And I look forward to following you through college and beyond to the someday when you are also called "meteorologist."

As long as you're on Facebook, I'll be there with you, come rain or shine!