Take a Bow, Rose Marie

Rose Marie died this week.

She had an amazing life, but it still makes me sad to see that generation of performers slowly fade away.

Rose Marie Mazzetta was born in New York City in 1923. She began her show business career at the age of three, singing on the radio. She worked in vaudeville, on Broadway, in Las Vegas, in the movies and on television.

Rose Marie's most famous role was on The Dick Van Dyke Show, as Sally Rogers, a wisecracking writer for a TV variety show. Teaming up with Morey Amsterdam, who played Buddy Sorrell on the series, she was one of the first women on a television sitcom whose career was the focus of her life. Ironically, Mary Tyler Moore played the housewife/mom on the show, and would later be lauded as a pioneer for career women for her role on the Mary Tyler Moore Show.

Recently, Rose Marie came forward with her own #MeToo story. During the making of the film "Top Banana," she was propositioned by one of the producers. She responded, loudly, in front of the crew, "You couldn't get it up if the flag went by." Her musical numbers were subsequently cut from the film, and she had a difficult time for awhile getting roles.

Rose Marie was married once, to Bobby Guy, who was a trumpet player in Kay Kyser's band. He was only 48 when he died of a blood infection in 1964. She was devastated. They had been married for 18 years and had one daughter, Georgiana.

She called Al Capone "Uncle Al." Rose Marie's father worked as an arsonist for the gangster, burning down the warehouse of anyone who crossed Capone -- a fact she wasn't privy to until years later, when she worked in Las Vegas with Bugsy Siegel. 

The signature bow she always wore in her hair was donated to the Smithsonian in 2006. When asked what its significance was, all Rose Marie would say was that it was very personal, and she didn't want to share.

 Rose Marie wrote a memoir in 2003, called "Hold the Roses." And there's a 2017 documentary called "Wait for Your Laugh."  I'm looking forward to reading/watching them both.

Some of the most fascinating people are on the periphery of major stardom.

I think Rose Marie qualifies. What a run, indeed.

Sleeting Moments

I awoke this morning to the ticka-ticka-ticka of frozen precipitation hitting my window.

Bundling up, I prepared to retrieve my newspaper from the lawn, where the carrier normally throws it. Imagine my surprise when I opened my front door and discovered the paper on the porch. Which was very pleasant, indeed, considering the icy drops were coming down fast and hard, and I didn't want to add boots and an umbrella to my ensemble.

Like it always does, the question went through my mind: What's the difference between sleet and freezing rain? Only this time, I did something about it. I went to the Google and asked the National Weather Service.

Obviously, my search was not unique, because the answer popped right up.

Both forms of precipitation start out as just raindrops. The distinction comes when they hurl earthward. If the layer of freezing air is thin, you get freezing rain. The water doesn't freeze in the air, it does so when it hits the ground, making it a real challenge to clean your car and walk around without landing on your ass.

Sleet, on the other hand, reaches the earth in the form of frozen droplets -- confirming that this morning's precipitation was, in fact, sleet. (Now it's turned to snow. I certainly know what that is.)

It's entirely possible that this little weather lesson was an education only to me. I was probably taught it a long time ago during my school years, but it was lost in a haze of other knowledge, most of it useless, that is taking up space in my cranium. (Just to note, some people do think remembering Beatles lyrics is worthwhile.)

Oh well. I figure if I learn something of value every day, no matter how trivial, I can feel a little less like I'm rocketing my way toward a doddering old age.

Speaking of being an old fart, I decided, just for shits and giggles, to go to our 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica, Volume XXV, to see what it had to say about sleet.

Pretty much the same thing, it turns out, with one notable exception: It says that in some cases, sleet may actually begin as snow, not rain, with the transformation taking place as the precipitation encounters an air temperature just above the freezing point.

I'm sure the National Weather Service just decided this level of thoroughness wasn't necessary, that most folks would be satisfied with the edited version. But it does make me wonder how much of the knowledge we get from the internet is condensed in order to keep it mainstream enough for the person of average intelligence.

I'm not a big fan of abridged books, either. I prefer to get the whole story. I'm not comfortable with someone else deciding what's important to me.

But once again, I digress. If digression were an Olympic sport, I'd win the gold every time.

I'm sure there are those who would argue I need to be abridged. Maybe so. But it's my blog, and I have the luxury of bloviating to my heart's content.

Read at your own peril. You've been warned!

I Just Have Something in My Eye

I've never been a fan of Harlequin novels.

I do enjoy the cozy murder mystery now and again. But sappy romance novels? Not me.

So I am grappling with the realization that I am becoming hooked on the Hallmark Channel.

I don't know, maybe it's the time of year. Doesn't everyone get sucked into formulaic stories and happy endings during the holidays?

Or maybe it's just my age. I've heard from coworkers, whose moms are of a certain age (e.g. same as me), who are also hooked on Hallmark.

Or perhaps it's the rancid political climate. The Oh-My-God-I-Just-Can't-Watch-It-Anymore, pit in my stomach feeling that comes from too much CNN.

Could it be that it's just a guilty pleasure? It's relaxing, at the end of a stress-filled day, to sit back and watch two people meet in a small, friendly town, overcome some hurdle(s) or other, and find they want to spend the rest of their lives together.

I need a break from people crashing cars and bashing skulls. From fart jokes and parents who are dumber than their kids. From really, really bad football. From zombies and foolish teenagers who don't know enough NOT TO OPEN THE DAMN DOOR.

And, you know, it's okay if I cry a little at the end. It's all good.

So, now that I've confessed, I will also admit that The Ref is still one of my favorite Christmas movies. That I'm just a little bit in love with Chili Palmer. And Stranger Than Paradise is still my favorite local flick.

So I'm not a total mushy heart.

Now hand me the tuner. I want to see if Uncle Bernie and his bookstore are going bring Sean and Gina together in time for Christmas.

In Search of Holiday Spirit

In the deep recesses of my skeptical heart lives a tiny glimmer of holiday spirit that has not been destroyed by the relentless push to buy, buy, buy.

Chris' Handiwork

Last night, we watched a holiday movie on Hallmark. And yes, I say unashamedly, we got a little teary, as the movie reached its inevitably happy ending. Girl breaks off engagement with Mr. Wrong. Mr. Right is stopped before he boards the plane. The actor formerly known as Fonzie plays the uncle who knew it would happen this way all along. And the too-cute child actor comes to believe that Santa is real. Everyone goes to bed happy.

Today, my quest for the holiday spirit continued. The morning dawned cold and frosty, as Mr. and I hit the freeway and headed to the other side of town. He was dropped off at the library to amuse himself for two hours, while I attended a Christmas Tea, hosted by my coworker (Chris') Presbyterian church.

I went to the Tea several years ago and was happy once again to have been included in the fellowship of these women to celebrate the season.

After a delicious pot lock buffet style breakfast, we adjourned to the church where hymns were sung and bible passages read. The guest speaker was a woman who played the part of Jesus' grandmother in a captivating piece she entitled, "My Grandson Really Does Walk on Water." It was a thoughtful and entertaining take on Mary's conception, Joseph's understandingly hurt reaction, and the ultimate coming to terms by all concerned. It was intriguing to consider how the real-life scenario might have unfolded.

Walking out of the church with the other women, I felt blessed to have been included.

Maybe there is hope for my Christmas spirit, after all.

Mabel's Tale

Thanksgiving morning, I hoisted myself out of bed, stepped into my slippers and groggily worked my way downstairs. Time to feed the cat.

I waited for her morning howl, that, "where have you been and where's my food, you lazy so-and-so."

Then I remembered. She was gone.

For 17 of her 20 years of life, Mabel was my first touch point of the day. Change the water, fill the food dish, clean out the litter box.

Flashing back to April 8, 2000, when we visited what is now called Stay-A-While Cat Sanctuary, our soon-to-be-adopted Mabel was sitting way up high, on top of the refrigerator.

"She doesn't like the other cats," we were informed.

Hmmm...anti-social and bearing a strong resemblance to Marge, our last cat. Sounds like a winner.

"Can we get this one? Pleeeeze?" begged Mr. Ginley

The shelter folks told us she was between 2 1/2 and 3 years old, and her name was "Alley." (That we would quickly fix.) Arrangements were made. She was relatively new to the shelter and had to be spayed and vaccinated. She'd be ready for pick-up on April 21st. Good Friday.

I left work early that afternoon for the shelter. When I arrived, Mabel was pacing back and forth.

"She's been waiting for you," they said.

All the way home, she kvetched at me. When we finally arrived, I opened up the carrier and set her free.

"She'll probably hide for a few days," I had told my then-six-year-old son.

Nope. Not our Mabel.

She went upstairs, downstairs and all through to house, ascertained there were, in fact, no other cats present, jumped up on the couch and all but said, "Yes, I suppose this will do."

At that moment, it became her house and remained so the rest of her days.

When we first considered getting a cat, it was supposed to be for me. But she quickly became my son's. We were sure that when he went off to college, Mabel would lose her will to live. But she actually adapted to his absence better than Mr. Ginley or I.

Over the years, as she slowed down and sleeping became her primary activity, Mr. Ginley would talk to her all day as he went about his chores. He'd sing to her. Or play Bowie for her. Check her eyes for goopies and her paws for bits of litter.

It will be hardest on him, I think.

Last night, as we prepared to watch the latest installment of The Great British Baking Show, Mr. Ginley turned to me and said, "But Mabel won't know how it ends."

Someday, when the time is right, we will adopt another grey tabby. But she will be her own cat. No one can replace Mabel (or Marge) in our hearts.

That's the funny thing about pets. You think you're giving them a home, but really, they are the ones who adopt you.

And once they get their little claws into your heart, that's all she wrote.

Age-Related Issues

Recently, I was on my favorite social media site, and I spied an article belittling us Baby Boomers.

It poked fun at Birkenstocks and flip phones and mocked us for not understanding the newest technology.

I suppose it was meant to get back at the older generation for bemoaning the shortcomings of the Millennials. Some of it was comically true. Some of it was wrong. At the end of the day, I guess every generation thinks those who came before screwed up the world for them. Boo hoo.

On the other hand, I am also tired of reading rants from my generation about how the Millennials are going to ruin the world because their eyes are glued to their devices while the world goes to hell around them. Boo hoo.

The first order of business is to stop labeling one another. Stop identifying others by their age or their gender or color or their religion or their political stance. Step two is to respect each other. Even though we may not be on the same page, we're all reading from the same book.

There are plenty of assholes embedded into each generation. Conversely, there are lots of fabulous human beings, old and young, that I've been lucky to have known. (You know who you are.)

The newer generation will grapple with things we never imagined. On the other hand, they cannot fathom the things we had to deal with to bring them to this point in time.

So, let's leave it at that, shall we?

As to the Facebook post and the snarky article about my generation, my reply was this:

Just wait. Someday, many years into the future, there will be a post about all of the things that Millennials held dear and all of the things they got wrong.

And the world will spin on.

What's the Beef?

"I'm over a hundred years old, and I've never had an accident," proclaimed the wizened woman in the bank.

She was having a gripe-fest with the teller, and, because I couldn't help it, I had to listen in.

"My son wants me to quit driving. The insurance company is raising my rates like I'm a teenager. I'm a good driver. Why do I have to pay more to drive my car?"

I looked out the window toward my vehicle and sent up a silent wish that I hadn't parked anywhere near her. Maybe she hadn't ever had an accident. Maybe she couldn't remember. Either way, it seemed like she was tempting fate. And she'd be leaving the bank before me.

"The other teller got this deposit wrong," the woman continued. "I gave her everything, I just don't know how she could have messed it up."

The current teller spoke soothingly, trying to give a simple explanation as to how the mishap could have occurred. Apparently, there was no harm done, and the woman's banking was completed without further incident. Although she did continue to rant through the processing of her transactions.

I began to wonder, as I waited my turn, if I would live to be that old, and if so, would I be that cranky? Was the woman always irascible, or was this an age-related thing?

Also, I wondered about her son. If she was 100, he was probably somewhere between 65 and 80 years old himself. Meaning he had his own health issues to worry about. What was his frame of mind? Did he get along with her, or did he sit at home and watch "Throw Mama From the Train" over and over?

This is the way I'm wired, I guess. I watch life's little dramas unfold, and I wonder about the strangers who put their lives out there, unaware that they are being emotionally dissected by a random observer.

I suppose my takeaway from the incident was to hope that, if I do reach a ripe old age, I am as in control of my faculties as the old bird appeared to be, but without the poison. Yes, I realize that, given my present level of snarkiness, it seems unlikely I will grow old without that "get off my lawn, you rotten kids" thing going on.

I just hope I could still find things to laugh about. And love about. And wonder about in this crazy world of ours.

Then, I wouldn't mind hanging around so long.

Chucking Chuck

I've always thought of myself as the queen of recycling. Mother Nature as my constant companion. Lover of animals. Patron of the parks. Hugger of trees. Sniffer of roses, etc.

Crime Scene

Then she came along. Mrs. Woodchuck.

Digging holes in my lawn. Waddling from side to side, she traversed my little backyard with all the grace of a hippo in a tutu. (Shades of Fantasia.)

In the spring, I saw that her number had tripled. She had two offspring with her, galumphing in her wake.

I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping a compost bin in my backyard. In my naivete, I didn't at first realize that the probable cause for the contents of the Rubbermaid bin's quick composting ability was because of my unwanted live-ins.

Until I read that ground hogs can smoosh themselves down to be nice and skinny and get into places you do not want them to get.

Aha.

So...in my attempt to be earth friendly, I had inadvertently been feeding this oversized rodent and her brood. Thanks, Mother Nature. Nicely played.

Now I have a bigger problem. While I wasn't quite so concerned when Chuckarina took up residence in the neighbor's shed, I was royally pissed off when I saw that she was starting to prepare a little vacation getaway under my back porch.

Off came the gloves. On went the Critter Ridder.

It worked for a little while. Unfortunately, once the smell wore off, my woolly friend returned. I piled bricks over the gap and put up some fencing, but all she did was dig around and under. I would go out to see that the bricks were moved, the fencing upended.

Curses, you rotten fur-covered burrower.

I did a lot of reading about woodchucks/groundhogs/whistle pigs/land-beavers. Unless I am willing to trap the beast and cart it off to a place more than 5 miles away (they do come back) or pay someone a chunk of change to do the dirty deed for me, this thing will likely stick around.

For my final act of defiance, I got some hot pepper from Chris to sprinkle around my porch. I made sure to put a bunch of it through the crack so it is under the steps, hoping that if the rotten creature makes it past my line of defense outside, she will be so overcome with sneezing that she abandons her new hibernating digs and goes back to the neighbor's shed.

Time will tell.

My other fear is that, much like the hobos in days of old, the Chuckster will leave a telltale sign for others of her kind (or other wild critters), indicating that my yard is a swell place to hang out. About a month or so ago, I saw a pair of oversized raccoons in my backyard. They turned and gave me a reproachful look.

I hope it was because I'm not putting food in my compost bin anymore.

Take that, you rotten rodents. And tell the others to go back to the MetroParks.

There's nothing for you here...nothing but a snootful of hot pepper.

Me Not Talk So Pretty

"I'm really glad you finally got to meet the guy, but I can't believe all you talked about was penises," said my groom of 29 years last night, as we walked out of the State Theatre.

It had been a really great evening, in spite of the rain and the fact that Mr. Ginley discovered earlier that he was coming down with some kind of virus.

Being the fossils that we are, it isn't all that often that we venture downtown to see a show at night. Earlier this year, we'd gone to see Alton Brown, who is one of Bill's favorite celebrities. Last night it was my turn, and David Sedaris was the headliner.

We had originally planned to have dinner downtown. However, we'd had a substantial lunch with our kid in Ohio City, and we hadn't yet worked up an appetite. Instead, we braved the raindrops and headed over to Heinen's before the show and shared a couple hunks of tiramisu in the store's mezzanine. We people-watched the wine drinkers and late grocery shoppers, and Mr. pointed to the murals above us and said he read they were painted by a guy who died on the Titanic.

When it got close enough to show time, we walked back to the theatre. I knew Mr. Sedaris would be signing copies of his books, but I figured it would be after the show. However, when we walked in, we saw him already at it. I ran back and bought one of my favorite books of his so I could get it autographed, but by the time I returned, the line was closed off, and the bouncer told me I'd have to wait until afterward.

I enjoyed the show very much (the overlong story about diarrhea notwithstanding). Mr. Ginley is not quite the fan I am, but he did laugh out loud through much of it.

Afterward, he nudged me to run out to the lobby and take my place in line. Unfortunately, four score other people had the same idea, and I waited for about an hour to get my book signed.

Mr. Sedaris was eating a dinner someone had provided and chatting amiably with others in front of me. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but there were smiles and laughter. He had some rubber stamps and was signing books and doing doodles in them.

When he got to me, he said, "Barb" and began to doodle. I don't know why, but somewhere during that long wait in line, a memory came to me.

During the show, Mr. Sedaris talked about how he never got a driver's license but he did miss the experience of yelling at others from the driver's side when they behaved badly in traffic. He spoke about people he met in Europe and all of the unique curses they would fling at other drivers. Many of these were graphic, some of them pretty awful. Not quite the old familiar suggestion ("go f*** yourself), but let's just say the male body part played a prominent role in most of the curses.

So when it came to my turn, I shared that years ago I worked with an Israeli gentlemen, who said in the country of his birth, they used to shake rubber penises at others when they were behaving like  jerks in traffic. Mr. Sedaris paused for a moment, then shared a Hungarian epitaph that he'd heard, and said the two sentiments may be related. I agreed.

He then pointed to the artwork in my book and said, "It's barbed wire." I nodded and smiled to acknowledge I got the play on words, and thanked him.

"Are you here alone?" he inquired.

"No, my husband is back there," I replied and waved vaguely behind me.

"It looks like he's biding his time on his cell phone."

I glanced around and saw it wasn't Mr. Ginley but a grizzled old guy who was, in fact, on his cell phone.

"Oh, that's not my husband," I murmured. "He must have wandered off. Thanks again!" And went in search of my significant other, who was engrossed reading about the artwork in the theatre.

On the way home, we navigated the drive-thru at McDonald's, because we were hungry by that time.

All it all, it was a wacky but enjoyable evening.

So appropriate for a David Sedaris experience.

Lastly, Through a Hogshead of Real Fire

Standing in the library last weekend, the conversation went something like this...

Mr. Ginley: Oh, look! It's the movie, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. In Blu-ray. Want to watch it?

Me: I've never seen it. The movie really got panned when it came out in, what, 1978?

Mr. Ginley: I thought it was pretty good. You know it has Peter Frampton in it. And the Bee Gees.

Me:  Well, Peter Frampton was pretty easy on the eyes. Barry Gibb, too. Okay, we can give it a shot.

So, Sunday evening we popped in the the disc and began to watch.

The premise was plausible enough. One Brit and three Australians, alleged natives of Heartland, U.S.A., take up the name of a band that was popular during the first half of the century, and start playing Beatles tunes.

Peter Frampton plays Billy Shears. The Gibbs brothers play the Hendersons. (Late of Pablo Fanque's Fair). Billy Preston plays Sgt. Pepper.

The music was reasonably well done. But someone was smoking something mighty powerful when they came up with the premise.

We watch as the improbable (certainly not a strong enough word) plot unfolds. A record deal is signed by getting the lads boozed and doobied up. They move to Los Angeles, where they are seduced by a team of, frankly, pretty skanky looking women. They party, they record, they go on with their lives oblivious to the fact that back home, the bad guy has stolen the town's instruments that were said to keep the moral fiber of the town on the straight and narrow. The town turns into a modern day version of Sodom and Gomorrah. Billy Shears' girlfriend (her name is Strawberry Fields) packs up and departs to the strains of She's Leaving Home to bring back the boys and save the day.

In the meantime, there is a van equipped with robots, Alice Cooper sings Because to his classroom of robotic followers, and Steve Martin, as Dr. Maxwell Edison, croons Maxwell's Silver Hammer. And, oh yes, Aerosmith plays a bad-boy band (big stretch) singing Come Together.

Spoiler alert: The lads return to the home of their birth and save the day.

Throughout the flick, Mr. Ginley says, "That's not from the Sgt. Pepper album, is it?"

"No, that's from Abbey Road," I reply. Or the White Album. Magical Mystery Tour. Let it Be. Revolver. Rubber Soul.

There are a lot of clever references to Beatles lyrics. Mr. Kite, played by George Burns, is a featured player. (Yes, THAT George Burns. He dances AND sings. Bless his heart.) The bad guy is named Mean Mr. Mustard.  And there is a Lucy. In the sky. With diamonds.

When we at last get to the boisterous, happy ending, the whole town comes out to sing. And, inexplicably, their are many familiar but up-to-that-point-unseen, faces. Carol Channing. Keith Carradine. Wilson Picket. Helen Reddy. Bonnie Raitt. Tina Turner. Peter Noone. Etta James. And many, many more. (Presumably to mimic the cover of the original Sgt. Pepper album, which featured a hodgepodge montage of celebrities.)

Well.

It was at this point that I reminded Mr. Ginley of his earlier opinion of what a good movie this was. His defense was his age and circumstances at the time he saw it. (i.e. There may have been alcohol involved.)

He also pointed out that our son, having viewed Paul Blart, Mall Cop, proclaimed it was the best movie he'd ever seen. Of course, he was not an adult at the time, so he may be forgiven (if still teased about it).

Did I enjoy the show? I can't say it was 113 minutes of my life well-spent. But there were elements of nostalgia that I suppose made it somewhat palatable.

On the other hand, we didn't pay good money for the movie, we could take it back to the library. So that's a plus.

A big plus.

At the Hop

One week ago, I was winging my way toward Columbus for the third and final sisters birthday extravaganza of the year.

I was on a high. The Indians had just won Game 2 of the series in a heart-stopping finish.

The weather was perfect.

And my sister, Diane, chose the perfect venue to celebrate her birthday: The Short North Gallery Hop. The three of us welcomed my sister-in-law, Kay, to the festivities.

We assembled at The Eagle, a restaurant that serves comfort food. Fried chicken, corn bread, mac and cheese and such. As one would expect on a football Saturday, the OSU game was on all of the big screen TVs. Only occasionally did I glance up to see the score and (another) Buckeye touchdown, before I resumed my participation in the conversation. It was nice because they seated us upstairs, away from the rabid fans, so we were able to visit and yack without too much hoo-ha.

The Gallery Hop is held the first Saturday of the month. The local art galleries stay open late, as do the many shops. Diane purchased a small pen and ink drawing. Denise fell in love with a painting of a monarch and its ascent to butterfly-dom, but the $2,000 price tag made it a no-go.

We each (except for Kay?) bought a little something from one shop or another. Handmade soap. Dangly earrings. Wax lips, a candy necklace, Elvis cards and a magnet (Big Fun).

The street was packed with folks of all ages (but mostly young uns), strolling and gazing at art in motion. It was bustling, fascinating and a lot of fun.

Sadly, Kay had to depart before we got to the ice cream. Our destination was Jeni's, but when we arrived, the line was around the building, and there was no place to sit and eat it. And we really wanted to sit at that point, so we went to a different Jeni's in another part of town. There were still several people enjoying their desserts, but plenty of room to sit. It was goooood.

The next morning, after a lovely breakfast with Diane and John, I headed for home. Wondering what next year's birthday adventures would bring.

And thinking maybe we shouldn't wait for a birthday to get together again.

Say What?

One wouldn't think that in traveling 30 miles one would encounter idiosyncrasies in language.

Devil Strip?

And one in particular that I still cannot abide: the absence of "to be."

As in the sign someone posted on the fax machine that said, "needs fixed." I wanted with all my might to add "TO BE" between the two solitary words, but I refrained.

However, as anyone who has ever worked on my team knows, the absence of "to be" is guaranteed to launch me into an agitated chorus of, "to be, to be, to be, to be!!"

I was convinced this must be a regional quirk, since I hadn't heard this particular usage anywhere else, even when I lived in the Old Dominion.

The other night, my suspicions were confirmed when we attended a talk by Edward McClelland, who penned the book, How to Speak Midwestern.

It turns out, Cleveland and Akron are in two different zones.

Cleveland folks, whom he terms "Inland North," originally migrated from New England.

Akron natives ("Midland") originally hailed from Pennsylvania.

And yes, the whole "to be" thing is also a Midland thing, originating in Northern Ireland with the Scots-Irish.

I felt slightly better knowing there was an origin to the phenom, and it wasn't just because someone got lazy along the way and decided to drop the "to be." (Although that certainly could have been the original motivation, who knows?)

Other quirks between our two cities include the phrase "devil strip" used to describe what I grew up calling a "tree lawn." Mr. McClelland theorizes it was originally called a devil strip by coal miners who wanted their kids to be afraid of getting too close to the street.

As time goes on, and we become a more mobile society, many of our twangs and quirks are blending and disappearing. In a discussion we had at work, some of the younger folks said it was their parents or grandparents who had certain idiosyncrasies in their speech that hadn't been handed down.

I know that when I lived in Virginia, I didn't think I had an accent at all, until I hit a word with a twangy "a" sound, and the entire room burst out laughing.

Which I found amusing, since I had been talking to folks who hailed from Thailand, Venezuela, Israel and Germany, as well as places all across the U.S.

Who knew I had an accent?

Buy Buy Baby

"Do you notice any difference," my husband asked.

He took them off and handed them to me. I put on the yellow-tinted glasses and looked out onto the road.

"Nope," I replied. The street lights are more yellowy but it doesn't improve my night vision any.

And so, once again, we are disappointed by an "As Seen on TV" miracle product.

Like our ancestors, who also perhaps fell prey at some time or another to snake oil salesmen, Mr. Ginley and I have purchased our share of highly-touted products that did not deliver as promised. In spite of the claims by the ordinary-looking folks on TV who swore they were the best thing EVER.

Of course, being in advertising myself, I should know better. But something primal within me wants to believe that the Ginsu will be the best knife I've ever owned. (Not so much.) And Mr., who begged to try the amazing callous remover was quite disappointed. He inserted the batteries, turned it on, and watched the roller spin around...until he pressed it to the heel of his foot. At which point it stopped. Pulled it away, it spun, touched his foot it stopped. It was good for comic relief, but not much else.

A few years ago, I got caught up in a demonstration by a guy who was shredding cheese with a battery-operated gadget. I was mesmerized. Mr. Ginley whispered it my ear, "You won't be able to get it to work the way he does."

"But it also comes with all those attachments, and look, he's giving away free apple corers, and look at how nifty they are."

I feel only slightly better knowing that being a sap for these pitches runs in Mr. Ginley's family, too. His mom once purchased a set of encyclopedias from a door-to-door salesman.  His dad managed to halt the delivery of the entire set, but they let her keep the first volume. (Henceforth, when he and his siblings wrote reports for school, the subject had to begin with the letter "A.")

We're getting a little better. The other day, when Mr. Ginley paused at the "As Seen on TV" wall at the store, he said, "I wonder if Joe could use this antenna-thingy. It says it picks up all of the local channels, and he doesn't have cable, so it could come in pretty handy."

I pulled out my phone and asked the Google if it was any good. Nope.

And thus, I was able to save us a few clams.

But if we ever see a Car Cane, I'm pretty sure he's going to make me buy one.

Experiencing Technical Difficulties

For the second time in two months, our 3-year-old computer flat-lined, and I had to take it to the tech doctor.

Hard wear.

The first time, the hard drive was toast, but a team of surgeons was able to extract most of our data and reload it onto a new hard drive.

"So," you are going to ask, as did the tech who serviced our machine, "did you back up your files?"

Well, we thought we did. Until we discovered the back-up drive, which is supposed to do its thing automatically, had pooped out sometime in April. After that, anything we hadn't backed up manually was available only on the damaged hard drive.

As I said, we were lucky, in that we were able to recover our data. Luck came with a $200 price tag.

Fast forward to this past week, when our computer once again displayed a dark screen with a different but equally ominous error code.

Before taking it in, I did an online search for the error code, and found that all I had to do was insert the recovery disk for my operating system. The disk that didn't come with my computer. The disk that, according to Asus, the manufacturer of my laptop, they no longer send to their customers free of charge. A woman with a foreign accent assured me that I could buy something that might do the job. Not feeling the love, I told her, "no thanks."

The other alternative, according to Microsoft forums, was to download something that would fix my computer. Unfortunately, I couldn't get to the internet to download the fix because all I could get on my computer was the black screen of death.

Into the shop it went. Turns out, it was a corrupted Microsoft update. This time, because it was a different error and thus not covered by the warranty from the last repair, it cost me $45 to fix. (Et tu, Microsoft?)

Fearful that a third mishap could be around the corner, I ordered a recovery disk from ebay. Hopefully, this will appease the Electronics Gods, and I won't ever have to use it. But I will be prepared, just in case.

Technology is a wonderful thing, really it is.

But I gotta say, I do wax nostalgic sometimes for the days when I wasn't a slave to hunks of metal with sketchy recall. 

When the only faulty memory was my own.

Failure to Communicate

Trolling through my favorite muse (Facebook), I saw a post from a friend about email classes being taught in college.

A discussion ensued about the relative merits of communicating via email versus the other snappier methods such as instant messaging.

While I have always espoused the theory that brevity is the better part of valor, I have to take exception to the idea that the best way to communicate is by eliminating vowels and peppering one's messages with emojis.

I cannot tell you the number of times I've received an email communication that has left me scratching my head, wondering what the sender was trying to convey. It was obvious that their fingers did the thinking, that the brain took a powder while the message was being typed.

I hate to sound like a codger here (I know, that ship sailed long ago), but back in the day, when you had to type out every letter of every word, then reread your missive and correct it, all before sending, the world was a better place.

It's all too easy to fall into the trap of firing off an email/text/IM without taking the time to review it to make sure it makes sense. And yes, even I have been guilty of same. But it's not the way the circus should be run. (Monkeys, monkeys everywhere!)

I think teaching email writing is a swell idea, but I would argue this should happen in high school, not college. And that the course should include basic do's and don'ts. For example, do speak in complete sentences with wholly-formed words. Do use correct grammar. Do reread your email before you hit the "send" key. And never -- and I do mean never -- send an email when you're pissed. Write the email, get the bile out of your system, then hit the "delete" key. You'll thank me later.

Also, just to note, a well-written email (or cover letter or résumé) is critical if you are applying for a job that is centered around communications. Please, for the love of God, understand the difference between "your" and "you're." It's not that hard, it really isn't.

For those who think the business world is stuffy and that we should get on board with instant communication, well, I don't think we're quite there yet.

And if you send me a message with a lot of gobbledygook, don't expect me to take the time to try to figure out what you're trying to say.

I may be a codger, but I can hit the delete key with the best of them.

Getting Rocked

"Pop!"

I shifted my eyes slightly to the right and swore. Repeatedly.

Bright and early Monday morning, a rock hit my windshield, leaving a small hole and spidery cracks radiating from it. In one of the worst possible spots on the windshield, in my line of vision.

A call to my insurance company, a recorded message, and a transfer to the company they contract with to makes glass repairs, assured me that mine was a common occurrence.

The next day, Glass Guy #1 met me at my car in the parking lot at work, confirmed that I did not just want him to prevent the crack from getting worse, that I wanted to replace the windshield. The following day, I rendezvoused in the same place with Glass Guy #2, who scanned my credit card, and did the job on site.

Back to my Monday.

Like hateful bookends, the conclusion of my workday came with a visit to the dentist. After my plea for double the novocaine (a standard request because I have very sensitive nerves, I don't care if there was a root canal in that tooth), I sat in the chair for an hour and a half while he and his assistant did their thing. He drilled. And drilled. And drilled a bunch more. They took molds of my tooth. They crafted a temporary crown. I sat the whole time, my heart racing like a rabbit, fearing that the drill would hit a nerve.

Yes, I'm a big baby in the dentist's chair.

And so I took my sore jaw home to my Mr. He was appropriately sympathetic. Boo hoo me.

Then I took a look at my Facebook page. I saw the photos of the devastation in Houston. Not rivers, but oceans of water cascading down city streets and through neighborhoods. People in boats, rafts, being rescued. Neighbors saving neighbors.

And I realized a bigger lesson, not just about the relative nature of our pain, but also about randomness. About how quickly things happen, big and little, to cause us irritation (my case) or irreparable damage (Houston).

I go along every day assuming nothing will change. That I'll go to work, come home, eat, go to bed. With minor variations, it will go on and on and on. Then the realization that something can happen so quickly without warning and apparently at random. A rock. A storm. The passing of a life.

No way to prepare. But maybe the point is to be aware of where I am now. Of all that I have. The people who make my life hum. The birdsong. Squirrel chatter. Beautiful warm days and cool weather nights perfect for sleep. Enough money to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. And so much more.

Sometimes a small rock can teach a large lesson.

Bridging It

Who knew that a tour of the bowels of a bridge would be so popular?

The bridge celebrates its 100th year

Last Saturday, thousands of Clevelanders were permitted to enter the lower level of Detroit-Superior Bridge for a self-guided tour. This used to be an annual event. But repairs made over the last four years had derailed the tour. (Pun intended, thanks.)

Mr. and I queued up with a lot of other folks and their families to walk back and forth along the lower level of the bridge to see what we could see. This is the area where streetcars (AKA trolleys) carried passengers into and out of Downtown Cleveland. The streetcars ran from 1917 until 1954, when the automobile effectively eliminated its once-robust ridership. Just to note, the upper level still carries car/bicycle/foot traffic.

As well as enjoying a good stretch of the legs, we got a view of downtown that was enjoyed on a daily basis by commuters back in the day. I sensed the ghosts of Clevelanders past, imagined their feelings as they rode to work or to do a little shopping. Or maybe they were on their way to school or a baseball game at League Park. What were their worries? Their dreams? Their joys? The streetcars were in service through two world wars and the Great Depression. I imagine folks had a lot on their minds besides what to make for dinner.

We saw the place where the overhead wires lived that carried the electric power that drove the cars. The front of a streetcar. The recessed lighting in the walls. And the concrete and steel that came together to create this wondrous structure.

The tour complete, we headed for the exit.

As we walked along the tunnel with the white tiled walls that led us out, I thought about the other feet that walked this way decades earlier.

Up the stairs and into the sunlight. Back to hearth and home.

Newsiness

I have to admit, I kind of miss the grocery store rag, News of the World.

There were always sensational headlines with photoshopped images.

Who could forget the giant head of Satan in a mushroom cloud with a prediction about the end of the world?

Or the world's largest baby.

As we stood in line waiting for our turn to check out, we would laugh about the ridiculous claims that were touted in 72 point headlines. It was entertainment. So outrageous, no one with a smidge of a sense would think the stories were true.

Fast forward to the present. Just in the last week, I have gotten inundated with unsolicited ads that have titles like, "The cancer prevention food that pharmaceutical companies don't want you to know about."

Today, I got a post with "The 15 fast foods you don't want to eat." I decided to bite. Reading through the stories, there was one recurring theme. Not one of them quoted a trusted expert, or even a spokesperson from the establishment in question. Invariably, they all started out with something like, "According to a former employee..." Now, you've got to ask yourself who these former employees are and why they left/were fired. Or if they even existed.

In addition, the article makes sweeping statements. Like, it's difficult to clean out soft drink machines, so there could be e-coli in the pop you get from a fast food restaurant. Also included are comments about how food is microwaved (big surprise) or it arrives at the restaurant frozen (so shocking).

The trouble, of course, is that some of the claims sound like they could be legitimate. But no one has made an effort to verify them. So, you are left feeling vaguely queasy about ever eating out again.

I'll bet that a lot of folks walk away believing every word of it.

This is the danger of internet "news." And why reputable journalists keep harping on the importance of sticking with a news source you can trust, and investigating vague claims by questionable sources.

I think Abe Lincoln said it best: "Don't believe everything you read on the internet."

Vision: Accomplished

E-V-O-T-Z-2

I watched while Mr. Ginley took his eye test yesterday, reciting line after line of jumbled alphabet letters and numbers. The giant robo glasses were poised before his eyeballs, as the doctor shifted one lens, then another and repeated, "Better or worse?"

Anyone who has been to the eye doctor knows the drill well. 

Fun fact: If you are nearsighted, your distance eyesight improves as you grow older. The doctor told Mr. Ginley that he just has to live to 105, and his vision will be 20/20.

Good to know.

I am well versed in the various eye tests and whatnot that are performed at the ophthalmologist's office. Over the years, the technology, as one would expect, has become amazing. For example, there is a machine that can plot my optic nerve, so they know if there has been any change since the last time I was there. (I am prone to glaucoma, although, thankfully, there is no sign of it yet.)

One thing that has not changed is the drops. Which is part of the reason I was driving Mr. Ginley to the eyedoc yesterday. With pupils that enlarged to take over his irises, he was in no condition to drive. (This did not preclude us, however, from visiting the book store located across the street.)

Those of us of a certain generation who can be classified as having "four eyes" remember well the first pair of glasses.

For Mr. Ginley, it was an epiphany. He read street signs all the way home, until his dad told him to shut up. He asked his dad if the signs had always been there, because he'd never seen them before.

I was 11 when I got my first pair of glasses. I couldn't see the blackboard. After I got them, I still couldn't see the blackboard, because I refused to wear them. My specs lived in the little silver and black case I hid in my desk. I would surreptitiously pull them out when I absolutely had to. Most of the time, I faked it. The glasses were a brown tortoise shell that made me look like a total geek.

It wasn't until my mom took me to the eye doctor four years later (and the guy yelled at me and accused me of ruining my eyesight), that I finally agreed to wear glasses all the time. By then, the prescription was so strong, it felt like I could see for miles. The sidewalk looked so clear, I had trouble walking until I got used to my new specs. I didn't mind them, because they were wire frames, just like John Lennon's. They didn't overpower my face, they were actually a bit of okay.

For a time in the early 80's, I wore contact lenses.  I very much liked the way they looked and the fact that my peripheral vision kicked ass. But my eyes got so dry, if I didn't get home from work by 6:00 to take them out, they drove me nuts. After awhile, I gave up and went back to glasses.

These days, I'm waiting for the cataracts to grow. I've been assured that post-surgery, I'll have fabulous vision again. I may not need to wear glasses all the time.

We'll see.

In the meantime, I'm thankful to live in an age when eyeglasses are possible. If I were in a time machine, I'd go back and slap that vane youngster upside the head and tell her no one cares about her stupid glasses, just put them on and get on with life. Too many calories wasted over something stupid.

These days, eyeglasses are fashionable. The dark frames we hated as kids are very much in style. The doctor told us yesterday that some kids are actually disappointed that their vision doesn't require them to wear glasses.

Who would've seen that coming?

Just This

I've gotten so used to blocking out the world so that I can concentrate, it has begun to occur to me that I am missing things.

Walking out into a lovely world to get the newspaper, I put my life on pause.

Donned in my snazzy pink and black pajamas, I sat on the slightly damp porch chair and gazed upward. Ginormous clouds scuttled by, north to south. They covered the sun for a bit, but I could see the light sitting on top of them. Instead of wondering what the world looked like from up there, I concentrated on my own little corner.

Engaging in an exercise I haven't in some time, I closed my eyes and just listened. At first, I heard a few birds. Then a persistent cricket. A siren. A car driving by. Then the subtler sounds. Wind through leaves. A train engine. Different birds, farther away. I acknowledged each and went on to the next.

Then I opened my eyes and looked. The tops of the grass wet with dew. A spider web glistening in the streaks of sunlight. A flock of starlings gathering in the tree across the way. A neighbor playing catch with her dog.

Then I just breathed for awhile. I didn't think about work or the day ahead or the day behind.

I did let the thought creep in that I should do this every day.

Then I forgave myself and went inside to have breakfast.

A Drink with Jam and Bread

Apparently, the old chestnut about real men not eating quiche is a total fallacy.

Mr. Ginley consumed quiche, albeit reluctantly. (I believe "choked it down" is the phrase he used.) It was during high tea. Yes, he went to a tea place with me, for the second time I might add. And ate little sandwiches and cakes and drank rooibos and chai teas. We talked for two hours and had a lovely time. I guess it was pretty girly, but it didn't feel that way. No, I did not make him raise his pinky. But he did hold my chair for me. When I went to the ladies', the women at the next table complimented him on his chivalry. It was a most enjoyable afternoon.

The tea was part of an extended birthday celebration for me. The joy began on Friday when I was presented with a blanket that Stephanie crocheted. Decorated in cats and mice with pink and black yarn, the blanket is a wonder that still chokes me up. I cannot believe she spent ten months making it for me. If I live to be a gazillion years old, I can't imagine any gift I could come up with that would approach the wonder of hers.

On Saturday, I hit the road, headed for Columbus. It was hot. Stinking hot. My two sisters and I went to the rib/jazz fest that was downtown. Right after we parked the car, it began to pour. Equipped with bumbershoots, we ventured forth. Diane predicted the rain would stop. It did. The sun came out, and we roasted. In the meantime, we walked around, took in the music, and ate ourselves some ribs in the lovely shade of a tree. I confess to being the one who cracked first. I was sweating from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet. The sisters took pity on me, and we went for ice cream, then back to Diane's place, where we sat in the sun room (moon room at that point?) and yacked it up until Denise called it a night.

Sunday morning (my actual birthday) I rose early and returned home, where I had breakfast with Mr. Ginley. The day passed pleasantly enough, and ended with dinner in the company of my husband, my son and his girlfriend.

Monday was the day of the tea. In the morning, after taking my car in for its required service, I went for a massage. There was a time when my smug self would do the eye roll and swear I'd never partake of such nonsense. Having experienced the joy of someone working out the knots in my stressed-out muscles, I now know what a treat it can be.

The rest of the week, I went to work and did the usual. Friday I had lunch with my brother, Gary. It was good to catch up and spend a little time together. I always learn at least one technology nugget when I talk to him. He's good company.

Which brings me back to...Doe, a deer, a female deer...and the end of my tale (tail?).

Marquess of Queensbury Rules, If You Please

Where hath our civility gone?

Sometimes, it's the little things that get you through the day.

When someone holds the door for you, a clerk admires your jewelry or a young guy flirts with you.

Other times, it's just when others obey the basic laws of civility.

It's unlikely anyone who is reading this is guilty of any of these travesties. But maybe you can just commiserate with me as I rant a bit about some of the signs that our civilization, if not lost, has perhaps taken the wrong fork in the road:

If one is picking up one's child/spouse/whomever (the one with the perfectly functional set of legs), one has absolutely no excuse for parking and waiting for their passenger in the fire lane. Even if they are "just going to be a minute." Any officer witnessing such a blatant disregard for the law should order said driver to move to the the farthest spot in the lot.

If a library patron is unable to read and follow the instructions on a sign that says, "line starts here," said person is in the wrong establishment and should be ordered to put their books down and go home.

There is an ancient Chinese curse that says something like, "He who refuses to fix their pet and lets them wander the neighborhood to reproduce with others of their species willy nilly will return in their next life as a female who is perpetually giving birth to litter after litter." (Honestly, I read this on the internet. At least, I think so. Maybe.)

Toilet seat liners are for one use, only. Toss and flush, please. Do not leave butt paper on the seat for the next person to dispose of.

At sporting events, the fetching of foodstuffs should occur between plays or during a stoppage of play. One should expect to be pelted with angry words if one sashays down the row and obstructs the view of other patrons just as a ball has been belted out of the park by the home team.

Talking at great length about one's recent gastrointestinal surgery and subsequent recovery while dining in a public place is never kosher.

It is unconscionable to sit directly in front of someone in a movie theater, unless the place is packed. Also, anyone who doesn't understand the concept of silencing their cell phone or keeping their commentary to themselves should be booted.

Luring others into reading one's rants under the pretext that one will be entertaining, when all it is is an opportunity for one to vent one's petty spleen, is reprehensible.

Oops.

This would be a good time for a diversion.

Anyone else want to go get some ice cream?

I promise not to stir it up and let it melt until it looks like chocolate milk.*


*My Dad's pet peeve.

Nuptials in the Old Dominion

It was a picture-perfect evening in Leesburg, Virginia. A little warm, a lot humid, but to be expected in July in that part of the country.

The important thing was, unlike the day prior, there was no rain to dampen the proceedings. And the roofers pounding away on a nearby house called it a day just in time for the ceremony to get underway.

Officiating was our niece, Megan. Tying the knot were our nephew, Ryan (third in line in the Ginley-Hyland dynasty) and his beautiful bride, Meghan. (Yes, things get confusing, especially considering that my sister-in-law is a Meg.) I loved the songs chosen for the ceremony, particularly the Israel Kamakawiwoʻole version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow, which always makes me teary.

There are lots of grandchildren in this branch of the Ginley clan. By my reckoning, eight so far (and one more on the way). All of them were part of the procession up the aisle and did a fine job. It was nice to see how they've grown since we last saw them.

The nuptials went off without a hitch, toasts were toasted, dinner was served and dancing commenced.

We decided to sit in the garden and visit with the other guests, watching the sun set and the full moon rise. The air cooled just enough to make it a pleasant evening. I partook of a gin and tonic (or three), while we tried to name the tunes the band was playing.

The bride was gorgeous, and although we haven't had the joy of knowing Meghan for long, we are impressed by her beauty, inside and out. Our Ryan is a lucky guy. And yes, he knows it.

My brother-in-law prepared a slide show for the couple (which he has done for his other married children), featuring snapshots of the bride and the groom as children, culminating in a series of "today" photos of the two of them. He always does such a nice job with these, not a dry eye in the house.

Weddings make me think of families...where we are now and where we will be in years to come. Who will marry next. What life will hold for us all.

A reminder of just how important is the here and now.

Cheers!

Training

We hadn't planned to be at the Terminal Tower on the 87th anniversary of its opening. It just worked out that way.

Last week, we took the Rapid Transit on our way to Walnut Wednesday. As we strolled through the Terminal Tower, we paused to look at a restored train schedule on the wall. Admiring the bronze handiwork, I began to imagine what it would have been like to journey by rail in the golden era of train travel.

This led us to pick up something at the library about Union Station. It is a reproduction of a book originally published in 1930 after construction of the Terminal Tower was completed.

As it happens, the idea for the station began as a way for the Sweringen brothers to get downtown. They lived in Shaker Village and wanted to build a rail system between their digs and their office. The plan expanded, with the result being a terminus that, in its heyday, had 23 platforms and 34 sets of tracks for the railroad and the Rapid Transit.

The interior of the station was constructed of Botticino marble (walls and columns) and Tennessee marble (floors) and lots of bronze. If you were waiting for a train, you could dine at the Harvey restaurant or lunch room. Get a haircut or shave at the barber shop. Browse the book shop. Or pick up sundries at the drug store.

I suppose some would argue that it's just as pleasant to pass the time sipping a Mocha Venti in an airport waiting area. But, in spite of the advantage of speed, I can't see it.

The magic of moving from one place to another is lost on our generation. It has only been in the last 100 years or so that traveling has become more about the destination than the journey.

If I could time travel, I'd love to go back, dine at the station, and be giddy about my impending trip. Then revel in the anticipation as the conductor called "all aboard!" and the train gathered momentum on its way out of the station and on to adventure.

Somewhere, unbidden, come strains of Arlo Guthrie singing City of New Orleans. I gaze out at a breathtaking sunset.

Then, the daydream ends, and I'm back in my car.

Speeding along to nowhere.

Twinkle, Twinkle Momma Star

I wish my mom had taken pictures of all the birthday cakes she made for us over the years.

My Aunt, Mom, Grandmother

The most memorable was the guitar cake she made for my brother, Gary, for his 17th(?) birthday. That one there is a photo of, but I'm pretty sure he has the only copy. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a cowboy hat on, trying to look like hot stuff, seeming uncomfortable at having his picture taken. The cake was great.

We would put in our request, and mom would do her best to comply. There were kitty cats and dogs. I used to like snakes, so I remember one year she did something with a snake and basket.

Mom made our birthdays special. There may not have been a ton of expensive gifts, but birthdays were always something to look forward to. Like being queen (or king) for a day. I think we got to pick out the dinner for our natal night, too.  

Today is Mom's birthday. And I'm sitting here wishing I could bake her a cake. I did one year, and I put "Twinkle, Twinkle, Momma Star" on the top. It wasn't decorated in any fancy way, but  my heart was in the right place. I'm not the creative genius my mom was.

"Little Boo" Cake for My 17th

It's funny to think that 91 years ago my grandmother was giving birth to her second daughter (and last child, her fifth). You don't think of your mom as a baby, as the one who was swaddled and cradled and such. My mom only had her mother for a few short years before she died of tuberculosis, right around my mom's fourth birthday. In fact, one of her relatives told her they were going to a party, and mom thought it was a birthday surprise for her. It was her mom's funeral.

Maybe that's part of the reason why mom tried to make our birthdays happy and special.

Wherever you are today, momma, thanks. I hope I was a good enough daughter. Because you were and are the best mom ever.

Happy Birthday!

ABS

It's that time of year again. Well, actually past that time of year, based on the ninety degree weather we had last week.

The wallet

I was digging through my closet, looking for the tub of summer clothes, when I happened upon a container labeled "ABS."

Now sidetracked from my original task, I dragged out the big plastic bin with my dad's initials on it and peered inside.

It's been some time since I packed up all of this stuff and and put it away. This is my dad's collection of souvenirs, photos and whatnot. (Mostly "whatnot.")

Like a good Catholic, my dad carried a missal to church with him. He also had a book of works by St. Alphonsus, although this was dated 1911, so it must have been his dad's. I have his baby book, which is a treasure, filled with photos of my dad holding various cats, dogs and rabbits, others with his sisters, and entries from my grandmother about his childhood milestones. There are mementos from high school days, including his diploma, ticket stubs from high school football games and some pictures of his friends goofing around in the stands. A packet of postcards from Milwaukee -- not sure if he went there or someone else did -- and from Euclid Beach Park.

Then there is the war stuff. His Selective Service Registration Card. Three handmade leather items -- two look like they could hold a pack of cigarettes, the third is a wallet. I think all three are Moroccan. A brochure from the Office Marocain du Tourisme. And a flyer that is titled "Morocco," but someone has written "Galleries De Lafayette" and "Mi ami" on the front.

Dad with his sisters: Jean, Rosemary and Pauline.

Then, there's the notebook. It is inscribed with a series of dates that follow my dad's time in the service during World War II. The first is: "January 25, 1943 - arrived induction center Camp Perry. Home for weekend 1-30." The final entries are "June 10, 1945 Transferred to P.B.S. Army" and "June 14 Naples." It struck me as odd that the list ended with this entry. There is an earlier mention of D-Day, but nothing about the bombing of Japan in August of 1945. The only other notations in the notebook are addresses of army buddies, some with APO listings, others with street addresses in Nebraska, Pennsylvania and Ohio.

Lastly, there is his address book, which looks like he used it from the time he was in grammar school until he got out of the army. One page is torn out. I wonder why. And who are all of these people? Are they all gone now?

I know this is so cliche, but I wish I could sit down and go through all of this stuff with my dad. He was never very communicative with us kids growing up. In my youngest days, I was afraid of him. His temper was quick and fierce. I knew that he loved me, but I didn't want to press matters. It wasn't until I reached high school, when he began to mellow, that I started to forge a real relationship with him. Even then, I didn't know of the existence of these items. I knew he'd been to Morocco and Italy in the war. We teased him about the Italian signorina he left behind. He would smile that faraway smile and reveal nothing.

I don't know, maybe I'm getting this way because tomorrow is Father's Day. As I'm sitting here typing, I look up at the cheesy reproduction painting of the sexy Spanish flamenco dancer that my mother loathed, but my father insisted on hanging in the dining room. And I smile.

I love you, dad. Happy Father's Day.

Whose Sari Now?

Mr. Ginley was watching a sporting event the other night. I was reading my book.

Cricket Bat (Artist's rendering)

A typical scenario in our humble home. Except that the voices coming from the TV were Hindi (or some form thereof.) It was a commercial for insurance, in which the husband was trying to find some for his mother-in-law. Success! The right company was found, Mrs. was happy, fade to black.

As often happens with me and sports, I was drawn in not by the event but by the commercials.

And so it was that I found myself planted on the sofa watching cricket.

I'm still very foggy on the rules of the game. There is a cricket bat and a ball. A pitch, a wicket and a bail. They play innings (plural, even if they're talking about one). And can rack up lots of points if they hit the ball to the boundary (four points by land, six points by air).

Listening to the announcers was great. And then one of them said something about a great googly.

Wha?

A googly is a way to deliver a pitch. When they pitch, it's called "bowling."

My head was starting to spin. Time for another commercial.

This one promoted a show that looked like the Indian version of American Idol. Several performers in saris had the stage and were belting out a tune and making the moves. I was mesmerized.

I didn't watch for long, but long enough to feel as though I'd stepped into another world and back. Which is one of my favorite things.

I don't know if it's a coincidence, but lately I've been drawn to all things Indian. The dulcet tones of the Hindi language are velvety soft. I love Raj on Big Bang Theory. I found myself looking at a sari the other day, trying to imagine if I could pull off that look. There's a mini gamesh on my desk at work that I picked up recently. And then there's that clothing booth at the Hooley, where I purchased two garments from a woman who was from that part of the world.

Maybe it's a phase. Maybe I was Indian in another life.

Maybe it's time to find out what jalebi tastes like.

Stay tuned!

Was You Ever in Ypsilanti?

If we were visiting our friends and the year was 1809-1829, we would be pulling up in our covered wagon to Woodruff's Grove.

(That's Lisa, on the right. Hi, Lisa!)

However, it being yesterday, we instead drove up in our Toyota. And the name of the place was Ypsilanti, called such to honor Demetrius Ypsilanti, a hero who fought in the Greek War of Independence, waged against the Ottoman Empire.

It was not a love of Greek heroes that took us to this fine city, but rather a desire to visit our friends. And go to a yard sale. Or, to be more precise, a whole crap-ton of yard sales (66, to be precise).

According to my tracking device, we traversed over three miles of city streets of the Normal Park neighborhood of "Ypsi," and stopped at damn near all of the sales.

Ypsilanti is a unique berg. The community is welcoming to all kinds of folks, and they really mean it. Walking from street to street, we saw people of many colors and races, gay and straight, young and old. We chatted amiably with one and all. (Except the Pittsburgh lady -- Bill made me pay her the fifty cents for our purchases.)

All told, we didn't spend a ton, but managed to find a respectable amount of booty. Alas, we did not pursue the Pepsi cooler, but we did get, among other things, The Year of the Tiger (an album from 1968) and a Winter Classic Program for Mr. Ginley, and some kids' books and tchotchkes for me.

The real reason for our visit, of course, was to visit our friends. (Walking all over creation in search of lost treasure was just a happy consequence.) Lisa has been friends with Mr. and me for many moons, and is godmother to our son. John is her husband and Karl her teen-aged son (whom my husband teased and cajoled -- resulting in much eye-rolling).

Friday night we went into Ann Arbor to eat at Zingerman's Deli (at Mr. Ginley's request). We walked around the college town for awhile afterward, chatting and shopping book stores.

Saturday evening we stayed in Ypsilanti and ate at Sidetrack, a popular local joint situated next to the train tracks. This was my choice, based on how wonderful it was the last time we visited. The conversation was punctuated by lots of laughter, the food was tasty, and the margarita was muy delicioso.

Last night, back at their homestead, we were ready to call it a night and head off to the Red Roof. John was nodding off, and we were all feeling the effects of the day. Including Lisa, who performed the duties as Bob Barker at her own yard sale. ("That chair is really comfortable, isn't it?" And "My son only wore that once!" And, at the end of the day, "All prices are negotiable!")

So, thanks to Lisa and John and Karl for their hospitality.

A fabulous time was had by all.

Even Karl.

I think.