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.