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.