Carrie On

Let’s just say it’s been a tough week.

Carrie Fisher’s death, followed by that of her mom, Debbie Reynolds, crushed me.

Not so much because Ms. Fisher was Princess Leia. In fact, it had little to do with her work as an actress and everything to do with who she was as a person.

I’m a big reader, so it’s no surprise I’m a fan of Carrie Fisher’s writings, both “fiction” and memoir. She was so outrageous, so witty, and when I lecture my son about every word being gold, I can think of her and say, “yes, she knew.”

My favorite Carrie Fisher book is Wishful Drinking. But I enjoyed the others, too. She had a laser-sharp tongue, which she used to cut through the Hollywood B.S. Much of her charm could be attributed to the fact that she was so honest about herself, describing situations in her life that would incinerate anyone else, but which she turned into a series of dark comedic scenarios that had me laughing and crying at the same time.

I will miss hearing about her life and adventures. When you know that much about what a person has endured – and triumphed over – when they leave this world, their loss is yours, too.

And so, I add Carrie Fisher to the guest list of women I’d like to share a meal with in the next life. I will put her at the head of the table, sit back and savor every word.

Here’s to you, old friend I never met. 

I hope I have that privilege in another time and space.

Christmas Ale

Mr. Ginley: Why is there a six-pack of beer under the Christmas tree?

Me: It was one of my Christmas presents.

Mr. Ginley: Whaaaa?

Me: What's the big deal? I was 18 at the time, so I was legal.

Mr. Ginley: Your parents got you a six pack of Genesee Cream Ale for Christmas?

A discussion ensued about the appropriateness of this particular gift. I said it was on my list, and no, I didn't think my parents were encouraging me to be an alcoholic. I just liked beer.

This segued, naturally, into a discussion about what else I received for Christmas. My memory was jogged by a photograph in which I was holding up a stuffed tiger and sporting brand new yellow slippers. Nothing too crazy there.

By that time, my sister had married, so it was just my brother Paul and me.

And what did he get? Well, it was the year before he got the Kan Klip, a device to hold his collection of pop cans. Which he kept in the garage, and which my dad, on more than one occasion, had toppled trying to get into the car to go to work (at 6:00 a.m.)

Although Paul would know better than I, his booty no doubt included a box of Cap'n Crunch.

I was interrupted here by Mr. Ginley, who said, "Let me get this straight. Your parents bought your brother cereal for Christmas?"

Yep. My mom refused to purchase the sugar-laden breakfast bonanza on a regular basis, not because it could rot your teeth from 50 paces, but because it was so expensive. Thus, it was a treat my brother enjoyed once (maybe twice -- birthday?) a year.

All of this made my husband's holiday gifts (socks and underwear, a winter coat, one banana bike) appear normal by comparison. This seemed to please him. In any family, normal is good.

This year, as I sit gazing at our own little tree, I'll be visited by many ghosts of Christmases past. I'll marvel at my mom's ability to decorate the house, bake cookies, and manage gift giving for a brood of six (later expanded to include many grandchildren). I'll toast my dad, who wrangled with a live tree for years, cursing under his breath and badgering us until he stood it up as straight as it could be, its worst flaws hidden in the corner. I'll imagine my parents sitting on the couch, armed with cups of coffee, watching us unveil our loot. I'll think about the early days of squirming through 6:30 a.m. mass -- we had to wait until afterward to open our presents. And the wrapped presents cascading from under the tree. Not high-priced mega gifts, but lots of this and that, enough to create wonder and anticipation.

Cheers to my siblings, nieces and nephews who've shared the holidays with me. And to my husband and son, who make the here and now merry every day.

And to my mom and dad, who live always in my heart. Wish you were here. No Genesee Cream Ale required -- I'm not much of a beer drinker anymore.

But I'm pretty sure Paul misses his Cap'n Crunch.

Merry Happy Christmas Festivus Hanukkah Kwanzaa Holiday to one and all!

Pressing Matters

I find ironing cathartic.

The Sprinkler

When I'm in the mood. And I have the time. And it doesn't involve pleats.

There's something about smoothing out wrinkles that feels therapeutic. The steam, the iron gliding across the surface of the material, is a kind of magic.

If I didn't have steam, like my mom in the early days of her shift, I probably wouldn't like it so much. She had an elephant sprinkler that she filled with water to wet the clothes. Mom spent hours every week pressing clothes and sheets and handkerchiefs. She welcomed the age of permanent press with glee.

By the time I reached junior high school, my siblings and I were wearing clothes that didn't require pressing. And sheets no longer needed an iron. So her weekly routine was mostly about my dad's work shirts. His job as a purchasing agent required him to wear a dress shirt and tie every day. By that time, handkerchiefs had been replaced by tissues, which were far more sanitary. Although, in my memory, it seems my dad still carried a hanky in his pocket for quite some time after they went out of fashion. And handkerchiefs continued to be a staple Christmas gift from my grandmother. (My mom kept the unopened boxes in a dresser drawer for years.)

These days, Mr. is the one who does the lion's share of ironing in our house. He cranks up Bowie and presses on. I know it's not his favorite thing to do, but he does a fine job. Alas, I am not as meticulous as he. While I love the way the imperfections on the surface of the fabric magically disappear, I know that most days I'm going to be one big wrinkle before I get halfway through my workday. I'm just a slob that way.

Oh well.

I imagine that one day in the not-too-distant future, ironing will go the way of the 8-track tape player. That wash and wear, even with shirts, will become de rigueur.

And future generations won't take the time to smooth away the wrinkles. 

Comfort and Joy

We ordered Pippo from a local bookstore when my son was about three years old.

Tom and Pippo is a series of books by Helen Oxenbury. Gentle, sweet but very boy-like. Tom is the lad in the stories and Pippo is his plush monkey. Tom and Pippo go for a walk, hang out on the beach, make a mess, and do all of the things little boys and their first friends are wont to do.

When we first saw Pippo, he was part of a display, and the saleslady said we would have to order him through the store from someplace in England. Which we did. And gave to our son for Christmas(?) or his birthday(?) -- I can't remember which. But the connection was immediate.

Pippo went everywhere with us. There were a few close calls. The time he was rescued after falling at the science museum. In Columbus, when he was left behind at my sister's house -- fortunately, she drove like the wind and caught up with us at the library before we left town.

One of my favorite stories is when my son was still young enough to take an afternoon nap -- which he always needed but still loathed. We listened at the foot of the stairway as he talked to his friend:  "Daddy and Mommy are mean, Pippo. You're the only one who loves me."

Originally, Pippo had velcro on his hands, presumably so he could hug better. But the velcro wore off, and his hands became tattered, requiring me to add "gloves" to cover the worn spots. Aside from that (and countless washings), Pippo has earned the love-worn work he sports today.

Along with a menagerie of other plush pals, Pippo slept with our son every night for many years. But Pippo was always #1 in the hierarchy. When the sad day came and Pippo was no longer required at bedtime, he moved to the top of our dresser where he resides to this day.

I find myself saying good morning or goodnight to him. And telling him we love him.

And yes, I believe. That a stuffed monkey can have a soul. Just a little one. To give a small boy such comfort and joy.

And his parents, too.

Giving Us the Bird

For the first time in many years, we spent the Thanksgiving holiday away from home.

A Neighborhood Fairy Door

Our friends, Lisa and John (and son Karl), invited us to join them in Ypsilanti. We had been trying to settle on a date to pay a visit, so this seemed like a very good opportunity.

Upon our arrival, we were greeted by Ruffles, their middle-aged pooch, who was disappointed that we didn't remove our footwear. As we witnessed later on, he has a shoe fetish, and will claim your loafer as his own, snapping it up and carrying it off to his "den" under the chair.

The other pet resident is a cat named Ruthie, who spent most of her time hiding from us. But that's okay, we're used to persnickety feline behavior.

After watching lots of football on TV, their neighbor arrived. An earlier conversation in which parsley exchanged hands revealed that she was going to be on her own because she had to stay home to nurse her cat, who had been involved in a vicious fight with another animal of some sort. Then John's mother arrived, and we were ready to roll.

The food, prepared mostly by John, was amazing. It was nice to have a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. I seldom have turkey because my guys don't like it much. But Mr., in spite of his meh attitude toward the bird, had more than one helping. Which gives you an idea of the quality of the cooking.

Unfortunately, my kid wasn't able to make the trip, and that was really the only sad thing for me about the day. As a consequence, Mr. made a point of teasing Karl mercilessly...Karl is a few years younger than Joe, and he was a good sport about putting up with the robust ribbing. Fortunately, he is an avid Ohio State fan, so he and Mr. got on famously.

We didn't want to inconvenience our hosts, so we spent the night at a nearby Red Roof, and met up with Lisa the next morning. The original plan was to head into Ann Arbor to shop. But we never made it out of Ypsilanti. Lisa insisted that we visit a store called The Rocket. We spent a lot of time (and several clams) in that establishment, before we continued with our battle cry of "shop local." No malls for us on Black Friday.

Once we had exhausted the shops in the area, we had lunch at a place called The Crossroads, which is right next to the train tracks. The food was yummy, and we toasted our buns by the fire as we ate. After driving us around her town and pointing out the various areas of note, we went back to the house to pick up our car and head home.

Sometimes when life gets crunchy and you think all the good has been sucked out of it, you get invited to your friends' table to share an amazing meal. And you realize there are still lots of good folks out there. It was a nice reminder on the traditional day to give thanks.

And...we've been invited back next year. So I guess we were okay guests!

P.S. The fairy doors were Über cool!