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!