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.