Christmas Letters Revisited

As we were getting ready to label our Christmas cards this year, we stumbled across one of our old Christmas letters.

Those of you familiar with this yearly missive may join me in waxing nostalgic. Or perhaps you will give thanks that we dispensed with this particular tradition. (In which case, you should probably stop reading right here.)

In any case, I thought it might be fun to do a "greatest hits" from the yearly letters, which were written over the course of 21 years, from 1992-2012.

I've included some recurring characters. The scores from the OSU games have been omitted (sorry/not sorry, Mr. Ginley).

So, without further ado...

October 1992
Bill and Barb buy a new house. It has five bedrooms and two bathrooms. A small Korean family moves into the basement.

September 1993
As Barb's due date draws near, Bill begins to shop the local Sears' baby department. He finally locates a baby that looks like a keeper. He is named Joseph Francis and he bears a remarkable resemblance to his dad. Best of all, he is 50% off the ticketed price. (Bill always was a smart shopper.)

December, 1994
The family prepares for the holidays with a visit to Santa Claus. Unfortunately, Jolly 'Ole St. Nick is hitting the eggnog a little too hard. Looks like Mother is getting strippers, Bill will receive tickets to the Children's Farm to see the calves play, Barb can expect scented bass oil and Joe is getting a big purple Barney Fife.

April 1995
After being pushed, pulled and whacked on the head repeatedly by Joe, Marge [the cat] quietly plots her revenge. Bill is able to stop her just before she slips a little vodka in Joe's juice.

June 1996
Barb's sister, Diane, comes to stay while working at a job in Strongsville. Her first night, she locks herself in her room and wails, "They're nuts, God help me, they're nuts!"

March 1997
The Korean family firmly established elsewhere, the Ginleys decide to rent out their basement to Magnus ver Magnusson, formerly the World's Strongest Man, whose presence comes in handy when it's time to clean behind the refrigerator.

October 1998
Joe meets the President of the United States [Bill Clinton]. (For real.) He doesn't realize whom he has shaken hands with -- he only gets excited when Bill tells him he can tell his friends. And no, you rotten cynics, Joe didn't wash his hand afterward!

April 1999
Bill is surprised on his birthday when Meg Ryan stops by to wish him a Happy 40th. Just as she is about to bestow pleasures heretofore unimagined, Barb wakes him up.

April 2000
Forced by powers beyond their control, the Ginleys visit the Bide-a-Wee Cat Shelter, where a saucy feline performs the Vulcan mind meld. They are compelled to take her home and call her "Mabel."

January 2001
Having been informed by his doctor that he must lose weight and exercise, Bill says, "So long, Mr. Goodbar," "Au Revoir, Dr. Pepper" and "Goodbye, Mr. Chips."

April 2002
Joe hits a foul shot from the foul line at the Gund Arena after a Cavaliers game. They offer to sign him up, but Joe's agent holds out for that "sixth year."

May 2003
For our 15th (crystal) anniversary, Barb sells her CD player to buy Bill a watch crystal. Bill sells his watch to surprise Barb with a Crystal Gale CD. O. Henry!

March 2004
Barb finally receives a coveted promotion to Copy Manager. Xerox promptly sends her a complimentary ream of paper.

September 2005
Rather than celebrating his birthday, we instead celebrate the completion of Joe's first rotation of Jupiter around the sun (which happens once every 12 years).

March 2006
Joe, along with his Uncle Michael, visits his Uncle Brian in sunny LA, while Barb and Bill pine away for him in cold, snowy Cleveland. Joe visits the San Diego Zoo, Disneyland, Universal Studios and the Rose Bowl. Barb and Bill visit with Big Boy, Burger King and Colonel Sanders.

March 2007
Barb wins the Achievement of Excellence Award at work, entitling her and Bill to cruise the Caribbean. An unhappy Bill realizes the u-boats that once missed his Dad will now have a shot at him.

October 2008
Mr. Clean dies. In his memory, we decide to throw all of our garbage in the corners and refuse to clean the house. We fly a dirty dish rag at half staff for the entire month. The first man we knew who wore an earring. He will be missed.

October 2009
Looking for something a bit more sophisticated to participate in at school, Joe joins the Billiards Club at St. Ignatius. "Now we got trouble, right here in River City..."

March 2010
Romper, bomper, stomper do. Who'll no longer be watching you? Miss Barbara. That's who. Miss Barbara from Romper Room passes away. At last, finally free to be a "Don't Bee!"

September 2011
Our warranty runs out on the 22nd. I guess we'll just have to keep Joe now. Sears wouldn't even take him in trade on a newer model!

August 2012
Joe starts his college career at John Carroll University. With Joe now in a dorm, we invite Chuck to come back home. Oh Happy Days!

Thrifting, Not Gifting

Christmas is turning into a second Thanksgiving of sorts for me.

Given that we are celebrating on the down-low, I have many things to be thankful for. There is no need to join the fray of crazed shoppers in a quest for the perfect gift. I didn't have to strain my noggin to come up with a list of stuff for my loved ones to buy me. And I've had to give zero consideration as to whether to acquire an ugly sweater to wear to a work function.

Mr. Ginley and I will spend our December 25th in our sweats, noshing and watching a selection of classic movies we've already procured from our local library. We'll talk about Christmases past. Laugh about the time his mom had a little too much wine but awoke with no after-effects. Or when my sister came home from a date and caught my little brother scoping out the loot one Christmas Eve.

The lack of hoo-ha may not be everyone's cup of tea, but it works for us.

Meanwhile, to support my original theme of giving thanks, I've compiled a list of The 12 Gifts of Christmas I will be thankful not to get this year.

1. Scratch the World Travel Map. The theory is, you scratch off the places on the map you've visited over the course of the year. Given our heady jet-set romps, the map would remain largely unscratched, except for Ohio, which would be obliterated.

2. Bambüsi Bamboo Cheese Board. Our personal food guru is Alton Brown, who says you should avoid purchasing a gadget that does only one thing. It just clutters up your kitchen cupboards, and when you do need to use it, you'll forget where you put it.

3. Skin Gym Facial Roller. No one will be surprised that I'm not up on make-up trends. Apparently, this little knick-knack rolls over your face to do something that makes you look younger. To me, it looked like the rollers we used during paste-up to keep copy in place on mechanicals. (Chris and Kim and Judie will know what I'm talking about.)

4. Name Earrings. In all the years I worked for a jeweler, I never did get my ears pierced. Mostly because my hair was so thick, it covered my ears, so you wouldn't be able to see the earrings anyhow. Also because it was one more thing to have to think about in the morning. Even if I did have pieced ears, however, I would not get eponymous earrings. The cashier at Heinen's already knows my name, it's on my checks.

5. Golden Girls Chia Pet. Some would argue that Chia Pets are a classic holiday gift. I've even known folks who read the instructions and followed the progress of the sprouts as they sprang forth. Different strokes, I guess. I never had a pet rock, either.

6. Tiki Tunes. A pair of wireless speakers depicting tiki torches may be the star of the show for someone's outdoor luau, but I'll pass, thanks. Aloha (meaning "goodbye," in this case.)

7. Long Distance Touch Lamps. The perfect gift for the helicopter mom, one lamp remains at home while the other, presumably, sits in her child's dorm room at college. Equipped with wi-fi, when one person touches their lamp, the other lamp lights up. Ah, I can picture the tender scene, young Sally sitting in her room on Saturday night, periodically tapping her lamp, so Mom knows she is thinking about her. I can't think of any scenario where this doesn't end in heartbreak for Mom. So, nope.

8. Candles. I love candles, but I confine their use to bath time, when I can close the door and keep the cat out. Kitties are fascinated by the flame, and I've had nightmares about Maggie catching fire and running around the house, setting the place ablaze.

9. Darth Vader Clapper. Clap on, clap off, welcome to the dark side, Luke. I'll grant you, this has high kitsch value, but once you've done your parlor trick for guests, it would get old pretty quickly. Perhaps if it had a 30-day return policy...

10. Genetic Ethnicity Test. Mr. Ginley and I have done lots of genealogical research. His family hails from Ireland. Mine is mostly from Germany and Switzerland. No need for an expensive test. That was easy!

11. GPS Smart Dog Collar. Also an easy "no thanks," given that we don't have a dog. Although it might come in handy for Maggie the Magnificent, who can make herself magically disappear and reappear with a casual, "Oh, you were looking for me?"

12. Wireless Home Security System.  If Santa wants to know if I've been naughty or nice, he'll just have to figure it out the old-fashioned way.

A very Happy/Merry/Jolly Christmas/Hanukkah/Festivus. I hope you all find peace and solace in whichever way you choose to spend your day.

And I hope Santa brings you all your heart desires!

Mr. Gets His Due

"You never write about me," complains Mr. Ginley every time I struggle for a blog topic.

Of course, we all know this isn't so.

But it's also true that I've devoted a larger portion of my blog to my son and my cat.

And so, in the interest of fairness, I've decided to devote this space to my life partner, the man who is king of the vast Ginley estates, the only one I know who can document every important event in our lives based on the sporting event that took place that day.

I've come up with some of the (repeatable) phrases that have either tickled my fancy or elicited an eye roll. Or, sometimes, made me glad us two quirksters found each other.

Bon apetit.

"If it weren't for me, you'd be living in Lakewood with 50 cats."

"Here's how it works: If I ask, it's begging. if you ask, it's nagging."

"This all becomes academic if we win the lottery and become millionaires in the next couple of weeks."

"Cat, I'm gonna beat you like a red-headed mule."

"You married me. Isn't that the act of a desperate woman?"

"I gotta go where the goddam dirt is."

"I beg to differ. And I beg a lot."

"I saved you from a life of loneliness and desperation."

"The proposal of record is the one where you asked me to marry you, because every time I asked you, you said no."

"Even a blind squirrel finds a monkey every now and again."

"Joe was acting up today, so I demoted him to house plant. I told him to stand in the corner and photosynthesize."

"Cats don't live in your house, they live in your heart."

Bing and Rosie and Danny and Vera-Ellen

Sisters, Sisters, there were never such devoted sisters...

My own sister, Diane, used to sing this (sans the feathers). If you're a fan of the movie White Christmas, you know what I'm talking about.

It being the season to be jolly and all, I got a copy of the Christmas classic from the library and watched it last night. Mr. Ginley took a pass, but he stayed in the other room and didn't make any comments, so it was a win-win for me.

I kept oggling at the costumes and marveling. Yes, I discovered, they were indeed designed by Edith Head.

The dancing was fun. Vera-Ellen was quite the hoofer. She even managed to recover from Danny Kaye tripping her once. I couldn't believe those legs. I don't think I've ever seen legs that loooonnnng. Fun fact: Back home in Cincinnati, Vera-Ellen used to carpool to dancing classes with Doris Day.

The real life ages of the actors were all off. Bing Crosby was old enough at that point to be Rosemary Clooney's dad. And although she played Vera-Ellen's older sister, Rosemary was actually several years younger in real life.

(Yes, the Google is an amazing thing.)

I do enjoy the fantasy of a classic song-and-dance musical. I can't think of any modern film that can compare. There's not much dancing and singing in movies anymore.

Unless you count Mama Mia. Which, sorry to any fans out there, I just couldn't get through (not even the first one).

I'll probably be watching a lot of other holiday flicks in the coming weeks, but I won't torture you with the details or fun facts.

But for now, I have two more tidbits. Bob Fosse was the choreographer for White Christmas. And they used a grown-up photo of Carl Switzer (aka "Alfalfa") for the photo of Benny Haynes, the sisters' brother.

Sorry, one more fun fact. Irving Berlin, the composer of the song White Christmas, was the only Oscar winner to open his own envelope at the awards ceremony. What was Berlin's acceptance speech?

"I'm glad to present the award. I've known him for a long time."

Reborns, Not Newborns

This headline in a buy/shop Facebook ad stopped me in my tracks:

My Betsy

In search of reborn baby for sale.

I'm sure you're all much smarter than I, and you already know what the ad is about -- and it has nothing to do with purchasing a newly-baptized infant. It's about a baby doll - one that is very lifelike.

Maybe it's because this isn't anywhere near my radar screen -- I don't have a child who's begging for a reborn baby for Christmas. I'm not a doll collector. And, having experienced the live model many years ago, I don't feel the need for a plastic stand-in.

Still, I once was smitten with my dollies, so I understand the appeal. I decided I needed to know a little more. So I went to my friend, the Google, to investigate "reborn babies."

I immediately got 16,700,000 results.

I chose one of the top selling websites and clicked onward. There I found scores of dollies, made of what was described as GentleTouch™ vinyl. (If it's trademarked, it has to be good, right?)

The site boasts the dolls are so realistic, you won't be able to tell the difference between them and real babies. I'd argue that a real infant breathes and hollers and eats and poops, thus making it pretty obvious who's the real deal.

But I digress.

The amount of detail that goes into making these dolls is quite remarkable. Hair that is attached one strand at a time. Birthmarks, veins, eyelashes and fingernails are all part of the doll's DNA. In addition, the dolls are weighted with plastic beads and other filler to give them the right heft.

Fun Facts: The artists who make these dolls are called "reborners." And the process of making them is called "reborning." The industry has been around since the early 1990s.

Most of the dolls are Caucasian, although I did see some African American and Asian babies. And a Hawaiian girl.

The dolls are priced from under $100 to nearly $1,000. Many have been discounted for Black Friday.

Some are cute, some are creepy. Some have eyes that are permanently closed, which seems sad.

None of them will be coming to my house to stay.

If I need a dolly fix, I need only dig through the back of my closet and find my childhood companion, Betsy (no Wetsy). Although she will never be mistaken for the real thing, she'll always be my baby (doll).

A Healthy Attitude

People always say, "At least you have your health."

And we always take it for granted. Until we get sick. Then we swear we'll never take it for granted again -- much the same way someone who has one drink too many swears they will never imbibe again. Ya, right.

Mr. and I started this cycle last week. First, he was sick, then I. Our symptoms didn't match exactly, but I'm pretty sure we shared the same jimmy germs.

He threw up. I didn't. I got laryngitis. He didn't.

But we both had plugged up heads. I can't talk, neither of us can hear very well. Comedy ensues.

Mr. Ginley purports "some" might look upon my inability to speak as a bonus. By "some" he claims it's the cat. (We all know who "some" is.)

Meanwhile, our conversations run something like this:

Mr. Ginley: Did you get my phone out of my pants?

Me: Honey, I'm just not up to that right now.

Mr. Ginley: What?

Me: I'm not feeling very frisky.

Mr. Ginley: What's that got to do with getting my phone out of my pants?

Me: Oh, I thought you said...

Well, you get the idea.

Yesterday, we had to venture out to do a couple of errands. I just wasn't up to cooking, so we stopped at Subway for dinner.

I tried to order.

"She can't hear you. Speak up." Commanded Mr. Ginley.

"This is as loud as it gets," I replied.

And so it was, Mr. Ginley had to relay my order as I croaked it at him.

This will all go away soon, and we'll no doubt return to our full volume lives.

I feel confident and blessed this will be so for Mr. and me.

For those who are not so fortunate, I send comfort and love and and a wish for relief from suffering.

For all of us...the sun is shining today. Don't miss it.

Leave it to the Snow

I had all the best intentions of cleaning up the leaves in my backyard.

There weren't a lot of them, but enough that something needed to be done.

Then we got some snow this week, covering the leaves, and effectively enabling me to put off the whole issue of, "should I rake or should I leaf-blow."

Life is funny like that. The stupid stuff you worry about often takes care of itself.

Now, notice I said "stupid" stuff...there are things you should worry about. Like your health, for example. The cashier who is having trouble counting out your change. Or the driver in front of you who is weaving back and forth across the double yellow lines.

"Stupid things I will not worry about," as defined by moi, include (but are not limited to) the following:

• The many calories in that rare piece of chocolate cake in which I indulge.

• What the person in the car next to me at the stoplight thinks when they see me bopping my head, tapping the steering wheel and singing along with the Beatles.

• Housework. As an old friend once told me, "The dust will be around forever, but I won't."

• What the Millennials are saying about the Baby Boomers. Every generation thinks they have all the answers. The Millennials will have their turn. Their kids will kick them in the ass one day, too. (Plato...or was it Socrates?...made the same observation.)

I welcome any and all comments about you think is worry-worthy (or not).

As for me, I'm going to engage in a little cat therapy tonight. It's been a busy day, and I love it when Maggie curls up under my chin and purrs.

Even if she does have tuna breath...I'm not going to worry about it.

Closeted Memories

"I remember sitting in the backyard with my Mom in the summer, sipping iced tea. We'd add some sugar, and used these spoons to stir.  They were the perfect size for the tall glasses."

Mr. Ginley held up a spoon with a long handle.

It's funny how the strangest things can make us nostalgic. Well, not everyone. Some people are not sentimental that way, but Mr. and I are.

We've been trying to jettison the stuff we've had stored in closets or the basement for year upon year. The treasures come to light now, only to dredge up memories.

The vase and candy dish I bought, part of a collection of display items for sale when I was at JBR.

The full set of dishes I purchased before I married husband #1, which I've barely used.

Coffee cups I got for Mr. Ginley from airport gift shops after attending press checks.

The countless plastic cups taken home from 30+ years of sporting events.

Some of the treasures went back into the closet, to be deep-sixed after we are. Others were wrapped up, to be shared with friends or donated. A lucky few will be incorporated into our current dinnerware menagerie, best described as "eclectic."

I can identify most of the pieces, when I got them and where, yet I can't remember where I left my phone half the time.

Memory is a funny thing.

In the meantime, our overstock is slowly making its way to new homes. Funny thing is, we still seem to have an abundance of stuff.

I think the house has magic powers, and things we've stored in the closet are prone to multiplying while we sleep.

Maybe I should put a few dollar bills in the closet and see what happens...

Imperfect Timing

It's that time of year again -- time to gripe about the time.

Sunday morning at 2 am, most of us in the U.S. will be turning back the hands on our clocks and enjoying another hour of sleep.

Some of us will welcome the extra shuteye. Others will complain that it throws off their sleeping patterns. And still others will bemoan the darkness that comes earlier in the day.

In a couple of days, the noise will end, and water cooler conversations will get back to what really matters: Whom will the Bachelor choose? Why do we have to start advertising Christmas so early? (it used to be the day after Thanksgiving); and, always a hot topic in my local Facebook group, is this the week when bulk items are picked up on garbage day?

A Little History

Daylight Saving Time (DST) has been around since 1905, invented by a New Zealander who wanted to shift the time by TWO hours. (Imagine the outcry THAT would cause here.) His idea morphed into the one-hour method, which was picked up first by a couple hundred Canadians in 1908 (props to our neighbors to the north). It wouldn't be until 1916 that Germany and Austria got on board, and they did it for practical reasons -- they were two years into the Great War and wanted to save fuel for the war effort. 

Other countries followed over the ensuing weeks. The practice was discontinued after World War I and was not taken up again until the start of World War II. (Here in the States, we didn't enact a law until 1918, but it was so unpopular, it was repealed after seven months, only to be brought back as "War Time" during WWII.)

From 1945 to 1966, there was no federal law regulating Daylight Saving Time. So states and local governments could decide willy-nilly whether or not to observe DST and what times it would begin and end.

Understandably, this was a nightmare for certain industries, particularly broadcasting and travel.  Railroad timetables, for example, were changing constantly. And if you happened to be taking a jaunt along a 35-mile stretch of Route 2 between Moundsville, WV and Steubenville, Ohio, you had to put up with seven different time changes. 

Congress finally stepped in and said "enough" in 1966, establishing one pattern for Daylight Saving Time that applied to the entire country. However, they also stipulated that if an entire state wanted to remain on Standard Time, they could do so. (Indiana didn't adopt DST until 2006).

These days, the debate continues, with camps divided among those who want to keep DST, those who want to abolish it, and those who want to go to DST all the time.

I'm in the third camp. I would rather have a little more light at the end of the day. I don't need the sun to make an appearance uber early. For example, if we abolish DST, on the longest day of the year, the sun would rise at 4:52 am and set at 8:04 pm. 

Doctors say all of this changing messes with our innards. I suppose that's true if you're on a rigid schedule, but I'm not. I would imagine one could mitigate this by hitting the sack an hour later tonight, but perhaps I oversimplify. (I do know animals are messed up by the time change, so Maggie will be in my grill at 6 am for sure.)

Whatever camp you may be in, enjoy your extra hour of sleep. 

You can rest up for next spring, when the battle over DST begins anew.

It All Ads Up

Cutting back on cable has left us with the basic channels. Which means we are seeing a lot more commercials these days.

Most of the time, I'm able to tune them out, but some of them get to me after awhile, particularly as they are repeated over and over.

For example, there's the GMC truck commercial. Apparently, this particular model has a fancy-schmancy tailgate that folds in all kinds of crazy ways, like a Transformer toy.

In the ad, the truck sails down the road, and as it passes an off-brand truck dealership, the mouths of the two salesmen drop open, and the tailgates on a line of trucks fall open, too. Clever, that.

This was all well and good, until the next iteration of the ads came out. While a chorus of "na-na-hey-hey-goodbye" chants in the background, a smug thirty-something guy stands on a mountaintop while thousands of men, women and children carrying plain old tailgates scale the mountain toward their swami.

I get this is supposed to be someone's idea of powerful imagery, but all I can think is, "So, what happens to all the tailgates when those zombies reach the mountaintop? And what about those now-tailgate-less trucks that are doomed to wander the highways and byways while the contents of their flatbeds spew across the road?"

Then there are the lawyers who advertise. All the commercials start out the same way. "If you or a loved one..."

I suppose you could argue these ads are educational. The nasty chemicals you pour into the earth are carcinogenic. (Shocking.) Mesothelioma is caused by asbestos. And you shouldn't put talcum powder in your hooch because it can cause cancer.

But perhaps my favorite of all the ads that come screaming across my television screen are the ones for prescription drugs. The ones you are supposed to ask your doctor about. They tell you about the terrible side effects while people frolic as if to belie the awful things they are in danger of experiencing.

Studies have shown the happy-go-lucky actors in these ads really do go a long way to alleviating people's fears.

"Oh, look, my boyfriend has a crippling gastric disorder, but he still made it here to meet my parents, and we can take walks in the meadow, and he doesn't have to run to the can every five minutes, thanks to this drug he's taking."

Oh my.

I should count my blessings, I suppose. At least we don't have cigarette commercials anymore. Those didn't end well.

Just ask the Marlboro Man.

Moment by Moment

Mr. Ginley printed out an article for me to read yesterday.

(You never know what wildlife you'll encounter)

It's all about keeping things small. Not "one day at a time" but "one moment at a time." Small bites. Something I always say but have difficulty achieving.

Tough to look at this moment, right here, and not worry about what's going to happen down the road. I'm a champion worrier from way back, and boy-howdy, do I excel.

And yet...yesterday we took a walk in the MetroParks. The sky was a brilliant blue, the trees were walls of color, almost too much to take in. We sat on a bench by the river and watched the Canadian geese do their thing. And chatted.

And I thought, "this moment."

So, I get it, and I'm trying to keep my perspective. I'm blessed to be doing some work. And I trust that soon my calling will find me.

In the meantime, I'm moving slowly, taking baby steps. Crunching the leaves. Taking in the fall air. And believing it will all come right in the end.

The other night, we were watching an old western starring Randolph Scott, called The Tall T. After killing three bad guys, Scott turned to the woman/love interest, who was sobbing, and said, "None of that. It's going to be a good day."

Yep, that's about it.

Happiness is an Old Game

"Oh, look, they have the Happiness game!" I gushed to Mr. Ginley

We were at a church rummage sale, and this prize was only $1.

In return, I got a blank look. Obviously, he could not relate to the significance of my find.

"Paul and I used to play it when we were young," I explained. "And I'm pretty sure he still has the game. Maybe he can take this one and replace any pieces that are missing."

Mr. Ginley shrugged. It was only a buck.

One of the workers at the sale asked me if the game brought happiness.

"Well, I was playing a board game with my brother, so yeah, sure, of course I was happy. Delighted. Giddy."

She gave me "the look" I've come to know well from people who don't know me well. And sidled away.

Later, I emailed my little brother and told him the good news. His reaction wasn't what I expected.

"Holy f***, HAPPINESS?" he replied. "I think I may have burned it in a fit of unhappiness. No idea where that thing is. Think I will pass. Not my turn, the game."

Ah, well. Purchase in haste, repent at leisure, as they say. Or something like that.

As I see it, I have three choices:

1. Force Mr. Ginley to play it with me once, then relegate my new purchase to the closet with my Barbie Queen of the Prom Game.

2. Sell it on ebay.

3. Or, most likely, put it with the pile of stuff going to Goodwill.

Guess I'll just cross Happiness off my list of things to look for.

Looking in the Mirror

For the next phase of my genealogy project, I've been poring over my parents' high school yearbooks, scanning the pages on which they appear.

It's funny how yearbooks have names. My parents' yearbook is entitled "The Mirror." Mine was "The Bayeux," presumably like the tapestry (my high school being named "Normandy"). It was always mispronounced -- it should be "buy-yuh" not "bay-you."

But I digress.

My father graduated from high school in 1942. Inevitably, he was drafted and served in World War II. His high school picture is a delight. In it, he is beaming at the camera, his hair perfectly coiffed, his plaid tie an interesting contrast with his pin stripe suit. "Full of youthful exuberance" is the phrase that comes to mind. His career is listed as "commercial," his hobbies as skating and bowling. And he was in something called the "Hi-Y Club." Which, as far as I can tell, involved shenanigans at the YMCA.

Who is this guy? I think it would be great if we could go back in time and see what our parents were like growing up. I have a difficult time picturing my dad as a carefree young lad, attending social events and joining clubs and dating girls.

Oddly enough, my dad also kept his college yearbooks. I say "oddly" because he was clearly all business. No extra curricular activities. Thanks to the GI Bill, he was able to get a college degree after the war was over. But he told us he felt out of place, so much older than his classmates, and having experienced so much the younger set couldn't relate to.

By the time my dad graduated from college in 1950, he was married to my mom, and my brother was two weeks from being born. In his senior college photo, he is sober, unsmiling, all business. What a difference those years made.

(No, Mom, I'm not using your school pic)

My mom didn't attend college. She went to work for Western Union. I have her test results from her training, as well as her certificate of completion (also scanned).

I remember my mom hated her senior photo. (It's not very flattering, I think she was a stunner.) Mom was in the Glee Club and something called G.A.A. There's a little ditty under her name: "She's liked by all. She's on the ball."

Yep, that's my mom.

It was a little disappointing that there are only signatures in the yearbooks, no messages or clues about how they were viewed by their classmates. Were they popular? Shy? Probably somewhere in between.

All in all, I feel blessed to have these tangible items of my parents' youth. My friend, Rachelle -- her parents were Holocaust survivors. Hers is an oral history. Heartbreaking and tragic, with no little keepsakes as reminders.

Only the things she can keep in her heart.

Love Letters from Long Ago

There is a letter, undated, to my mother.

My aunt, mother and grandmother

I can narrow it down to 1929-1930, the time my grandmother was in a sanatorium fighting tuberculosis. She lost her battle in June of 1930. This would put my mother's age at the time at either three or four.

Here is what the letter says:

Dear Little Mary Rose,

I wonder how you are? Are you Daddy's little lady? I know you are. You love Mother, too, don't you?

Mother is trying to get well so she can come home to you. Then we will have a time, won't we?

Come up and see Mother when you can. Did you like the paper dolls? 

I must go to bed now, or the nurse will come and scold me. 

Good night, sweetie. I send lots of kisses and hugs.

From Mother

There is so much love and longing in this letter, I wanted to cry. (Okay, maybe I did).

The fact this letter still exists, in my mind, is nothing short of miraculous.

After my grandmother died, my mother and her four siblings were raised by my grandfather, who had help from relatives and neighbors, until my grandfather remarried in 1932.

Someone had to vouchsafe this and the other correspondence, as well as the photographs. Was it my grandfather?

It makes me wonder what will become of our legacy in the hands of the next generation. Will they be as careful to preserve these windows into our souls?

We are such a disposable society. We trust that technology will keep a permanent record of our doings. But as technology becomes outdated and replaced, isn't a fair amount of it lost to old electronic methods of preservation? Is it really better than these nearly 100-year-old letters I'm holding in my hand?

Time will tell. It always does, I suppose.

We Loved You (Yeah, Yeah, Yeah)

John, Paul, George and Ringo, together again in my living room, were performing in their first live American television performance on the Ed Sullivan Show.

Surprise, pleasure, happiness and a bit of cheek, all came through the screen. I don't remember their first appearance per se, although I do have a vague recollection of my older siblings wanting to watch the new sensation from Britain and my folks being less than enthused.

The date was February 4, 1964, and the British Invasion had begun.

When all was said and done, my dad hated them and my mom liked them. So my brothers were allowed to play them in their room, nearly non-stop (it seemed to me) for the next several years.

That's why I'm a Beatles fan. Why I can still sing along to most of their songs. (I Am the Walrus is still a bit sticky for me, I admit.) And why I re-watched that first show last week and felt so much that I could never describe adequately to my son or anyone else who wasn't there.

Here was the playlist, performed in two different sets on the show:

All My Loving

Till There Was You

She Loves You

I Saw Her Standing There

I Want to Hold Your Hand

At one point, they put captions under each mop-topped band member. Beneath John's, it said, "Sorry, girls, he's married."

As well as musical groups, Ed Sullivan showcased comedians, jugglers and all manner of performers. Much like Vaudeville, it really was a mixed bag of "wow" and "not so much."

The Beatles' first appearance was no exception. In fact, it was touch and go whether the upstart British band was even going to get top billing.

One of the other acts was the London cast from the play Oliver, which performed two songs. In the first, the Artful Dodger and his compatriots belt out I'd Do Anything. And whom, you might ask, played the Artful Dodger? None other than Davy Jones, who a few short years later would go on to play one of the Monkees in the hit TV show that started out as a spoof. Then it turned out the Monkees really could play their instruments.

But I digress.

Other fun facts from this first episode...George had tonsillitis and missed the rehearsals for the show. Standing in for him was Neil Aspinall, their road manager in the early days. He didn't play, his guitar wasn't plugged in, but a few days later, an American magazine proclaimed he "played a mean guitar."

Ed Sullivan announced the Beatles had received a telegram from Elvis Presley. In truth, it had been sent from Colonel Tom Parker, who wanted to jump on the Beatles bandwagon early. Elvis did not like the Beatles.

Other performers that night included a pair of comedians, Charlie Brill and Mitzi McCall, who bombed. Fred Kaps, an engaging magician who was quite good, despite having to immediately follow the then-toughest act in show business. (Although, I believe his segment was taped, so that helped.)  Frank Gorshin, soon-to-be TV's The Riddler, then a talented impressionist. (Are there still people who do impressions?) Wells and the Four Fays were "comedic acrobats," who vaulted about the stage, contorting their bodies in ways mine has NEVER been able to.

And then there was Tessie O'Shea, a 50-year-old Welsh singer, whom, on any other night, would have stolen the show. She played a banjolele and sang, Two Ton Tessie from Tennessee (the reference was to her talent, not her weight). I thought Tessie was amazing. Online, I found a picture of Tessie with the four lads, and she autographed it, "Cheers & Love, Tessie O'Shea and her favorite boys."

Mr. Ginley and I went on to watch the remaining Beatles' appearances, which were great, but not quite as fascinating as the first, which was viewed by 73 million Americans in front an audience of 728.

Will we ever again experience something like Beatlemania?

It doesn't seem possible.

French Detection

It's pronounced, "Kay-Dee O-Fay-vor-a," I told Mr. Ginley.

Quai des Orfèvres is the location of the Police Judiciaire de Paris. It's where our fictional hero, Chief Superintendent Jules Maigret, has his office.

We'd been watching Maigret (pronounced "May-Gray"), a French mystery series starring Bruno Cremer. Since this version was performed with French actors, we were using subtitles, but frankly, they speak so darned fast, you don't always hear the French pronunciation.

Thus, I turned to You Tube so I could properly pronounce Quai des Orfèvres.

Isn't French just the ginchiest language? Although, I've gotta say, I doubt they get anywhere near as much satisfaction from spitting out "merde" as my grandma did saying "shit." (It was her favorite swear word. She said no other expletive felt as good to say when she was really worked up.)

We also noticed the subtitles didn't translate exactly. French is by no means our native tongue, but even we figured out that the actors were saying a lot more than what was showing up in the subtitles. I suppose they captured the gist of it, but we did feel just a little cheated. Who knows what the subtitlist decided wasn't germane to the story? 

It made me think of all those Japanese imports we were exposed to as children. "There goes Tokyo, Go Go Godzilla." The monster would be tearing it up, while the actors stood there reciting what appeared to be the New York City phone directory. But the English words coming out of the dubbed-in actors' mouths were, essentially, "We're screwed, this giant lizard means business."

But I digress.

Once we'd made it through the entire French production of Maigret, we decided to start on the British version. It was fairly well done, but I must admit, it's a little off-putting hearing Parisian arrondissements spoken with a Brit accent. I suppose Michael Gambon did a serviceable job, but we still preferred Bruno Cremer. The French version just captured the whole noir thing beautifully.

Naturally, being the bibliomaniacs we are, the next step was to begin reading the books the two series were based on. There are 75 of them. Thanks to the Downtown Cleveland Library, I believe we will be able to accomplish this task, given the time.

Meanwhile, we will cast about for a new/old series to latch onto. We've watched a couple of Italian mystery series, so it doesn't have to be a PBS production or anything.

We're open to suggestions.

Merci beaucoup!

Woodstock Turns 50

Having watched the Live Aid footage, Mr. Ginley and I decided to give equal time to Woodstock, the granddaddy of music festivals.

We chose the Blue Ray edition of the movie Woodstock. Thankfully, we rented it from the library so we could give it back.

After viewing the first few minutes of the film, we fast-forwarded through the rest. Yes, we can see there are a lot of people (400,000+) flocking to the festival at Yasgur's Farm. Here are a bunch of people climbing over the fence because they don't want to pay. There are the Port-O-Potties, and look, someone left their cane in one of them. Mostly, the film shows lots and lots of 20-somethings milling around, stoned or inebriated. But, for the most part, behaving themselves, mostly happy and enjoying the event. (No guns, imagine that today.)

Some of the participants are bathing in a lake. Oh, look, many of them are naked. See how the camera zooms in on one naked young woman with a nice bod. "Just think," observed Mr. Ginley. "She is probably someone's grandma now."

Also in the lake is a blonde woman, whose body remains underwater, as she talks to the camera about peace, love, etc., while several young men follow her like sharks, hoping to get a look-see at whatever is below the water level.

Fast forwarding to the end of the film, we move on to the acts.

The performances are chopped up and feature lots of annoying special effects. I'm sure they were swell at the time, but now they are just distracting. Weird split screens, zoom zooming in and out and lots of orange lighting. It did help that the disc featured the individual acts under the "special features" section, so you didn't have to sit through Melanie, for example, if you just wanted to see Crosby, Stills & Nash.

We managed to see the performers we were most interested in. I got to watch Janis Joplin, Mr. Ginley got The Who. And we partook of Jimi Hendrix, including his famous rendering of the Star Spangled Banner.

The weirdest was Sha Na Na, doing their usual shtick of 1950s hits. I wondered who thought that was a good idea. Not that they weren't entertaining. It just struck me that it was like Jimi Hendrix opening for the Monkees. (That wasn't a winning idea, either, and it also really happened.)

All in all, I couldn't help but feel sad. So many of the performers would be gone in a few short years. Janis, Jimi, Keith Moon. And when they panned across the hundreds of thousands of fans, I wondered aloud how many of those young men had served and died in Viet Nam, which hadn't yet reached its deadly peak.

In retrospect, the whole thing was quite a feat. Here are some of the numbers:
3 days
32 acts
2 deaths (one insulin usage. the other a tractor ran over a guy who was sleeping in a field)
2 births (one of them in traffic)
4 miscarriages
400,000+ attendees
600-acre venue (dairy farm)
2 hours - duration of Hendrix's performance

And, of course, there were those who were invited but did not participate. Bob Dylan, who lived in Woodstock. Roy Rogers, who was asked to perform Happy Trails at the end of the festival. The Moody Blues because they were performing in Paris.

And Frank Zappa who declined, saying, "A lot of mud at Woodstock."

Fiddling Around in Yiddish

The opening strains of Traditsye are unmistakable. And while I don't understand the Yiddish words, I've seen Fiddler on the Roof enough times to comprehend what is being sung.

Thanks to my Facebook friend, Rachelle, I recently became aware of Fiddler on the Roof in Yiddish. She's already seen the play -- this recording was made with the 2018 Broadway cast.

Now, I grant you, I was raised Catholic, and while I suspect I may have been Jewish in a prior life, I have no ties to this culture in my current life. That is, aside from the few Yiddish phrases I've picked up from Harry over the years.

But knowing that "schvitz" means sweat, a "pischer" is a greenhorn and "meshugga" means crazy does not a fluent speaker of Yiddish make.

And yet, it doesn't matter. This recording touches all kinds of nerves. The humor and angst, love and sorrow, joy and frustration -- all resonate with this shiksa -- or is it "goy"? (There's a lot of blowback over the word "shiksa," as I discovered doing a quick search of the word.)

Maybe someday I will be fortunate enough to see the play. In the meantime, I can enjoy the music. I downloaded the soundtrack from the library, but soon, I'll go out and buy the CD.

Lekhayim!

A Visit from the Spirit of Concerts Past

"You realize," I told Mr. Ginley, "that we were our kid's age when this was going on."

We'd been skimming the four DVDs from the Live Aid Concert, which aired July 13, 1985.

"Can you believe that pink suit? Look at those shoulder pads!"

Madonna was the original cutie pie, bedazzling in costume jewelry, big hair and punky wardrobe.

Freddie Mercury then David Bowie, each in turn owned the audience. They didn't need strobe lights or special effects. I'm not too proud to say I cried. They don't make 'em like that anymore.

We watched The Who, and Roger Daltry in all his hunkinesss.

Elton John, banging away on the piano. I still have a hard time deciphering his lyrics. And so odd when he sang the duet with Kiki Dee, he on the keys, she on the opposite side of the stage.

Dire Straits doing Money for Nothing. And Sultans of Swing -- a real crowd pleaser.

Eric Clapton performing Layla (he was separated from Pattie Boyd by that time).

Duran Duran...I wonder if my brother, Paul, still listens to them every now and again.

Tom Petty. (Sigh.)

Mr. Ginley asked me, "Do you ever look back and feel like you were a different person?"

No, I don't think so. But sometimes I do ache for my younger self. For the echoes of music past. For a time when I rocked and rolled with the punches.

I think I'll put on my bolo necklace, fluff up my hair and carpe diem like a rock star.

I love rock 'n roll.  Sing it with me, JJ.

The Past Becomes a Present

Gazing out the window this morning at the lightening sky, I knew I just wanted to get out and enjoy the day.

But first, I had to do the breakfast thing. And write a little something. So here goes, then I go.

This week I came across some quips I typed up that belong to my son when he was 4-5 years old. They have aged quite well. So today, I'm giving you all a break from my ramblings and sharing some of his. 

Bon appetit!

Age 4:

"Suddenly, I realized it was bedtime."

"That's not an option, Mom."

  

Joe was riding with his Dad in the car, trying to work out the mysteries of the universe.  An Elvis Presley song was on the radio in memory of Elvis' birthday.

"Dad, why do they celebrate Elvis' birthday if he's dead?"

"I don't know, Joe. I guess they just want to remember him."

"Dad, is Elvis in heaven."

"Yes, Joe."

"Are Elvis and Grandpa Ginley together?"

"Well, I guess so."

"Dad, who plays the guitar?"

  

"Mom, Daddy ate all the cheese crackers. Now you have to go to the cheese cracker store tomorrow morning and bring me some cheese crackers before you go to work!"

Waving skyward, "Hi, God!"

Joe brings home his Thanksgiving project from school, on which his teacher has written, “Joe is thankful for trees.” I thought that was really nice, having a son who is so concerned about the environment. On Thanksigiving Day, I ask Joe again what he is thankful for. He says, “I’m thankful for TREATS!”

Age 5

While playing with his Thomas the Tank Engine wooden train set, we overhear: “James said, ‘Thomas, would you help me pull my train today?’ And Thomas said, ‘Why, I’d be delighted.’”

  

Being chastised for holding up Marge (our cat) and going “vroom, vroom!”  Joe says, “But Mom, she was just pretending to be an airplane!”

“I love you to the moon and the stars and the planets and back again.”

Opening each Christmas present:  “Whoa, just what I always wanted!”

When asked to put his Superman away (it was positioned near the nativity scene), “No, Mom, can’t you see, Superman is watching out for Baby Jesus!”

  

We attended Palm Sunday mass. After listening to the (long) gospel reading about Jesus riding through the town, Joe turns to Bill and asks, “Dad, did He live happily ever after?”

Apologies to my kid if this embarrassed him. Well, no, I'm not really sorry. He can exact his revenge someday when he writes his memoirs.