A Visit from Santa Claws

Being the socially responsible folks we aspire to be, Mr. Ginley and I did the Skype thing, Christmas edition, with our son and (soon to be) daughter-in-law.

It was nice in a way, because no one had to navigate the eight inches of snow dumped on us during what meteorologists like to refer to as a "weather event." 

Earlier in the week, our son picked up our wrapped presents and dropped off theirs so we could have a virtual gift exchange. Admittedly, we did miss seeing them in person, but it was the next best thing.

And let's just say the kids outdid themselves with the gifts.

Mr. Ginley received a book, but the real surprise was the brilliant gift from our son's future bride. 

In 2018, the Caps won the Stanley Cup. Some enterprising soul had the idea to scrape ice from the rink where the Cup was won and put it into a miniature glass facsimile of the Stanley Cup. It came complete with a Certificate of Authenticity and now holds a place of honor on our mantel.

I received a book and a necklace. And a picture of a pair of kitties that got me going.

My son picked up the print at a vintage store in Lakewood. The artwork was sketched and colored, and included the artist's name. I couldn't decipher the signature, but Mr. Ginley, the penultimate researcher, figured out what her name was (Meta Pluckebaum), where she was born (Dortmund, Germany in 1876) and when she died (1945).

Naturally, I had to know more.

Meta studied with Hermann Pohle and was one of the first members of the Düsseldorf Artists' Association. She met and married fellow artist Carl Pluckebaum, settling in Düsseldorf where they shared a studio.  Over time, Meta became famous for her paintings and etchings of cats and dogs, although she also sketched flowers and children's portraits. Over time, she illustrated a number of children's books.

Her most prolific period was the 1920s through the 1930s. From what I gather, the print I have was likely from the 1920s. It has the original Deco frame. Too cool.

But there I went, down the rabbit hole, taking you with me.

Anyhow...

Whether you celebrated Christmas or not, I hope you all had a peaceful, enjoyable day.

Later, I'm going to dig out my car. 

But first, one more cup of java.

Snowy Perspective

Modern technology and social media do have their upside.

From the last big snowfall we had

For example, when a Facebook friend posted a "ha ha ha, we don't miss the snow now that we live in South Carolina" message, I was able to reply with a witty meme of Jennifer Aniston blowing raspberries.

Just think, a mere 20 years ago, this would not have been possible. Don't we just live in the best age ever?

In the old days, I would have witnessed her glee only if she sent me a Christmas card with one of those "what the family has been up to this year" letters in it. There's nothing like Facebook for up-to-the-minute hold-the-presses updates on everything going on in life. (You'd miss my entertaining comments, I'm sure.)

As I pumped gas yesterday morning, I had the opportunity to look around and admire the fluffs of snow alighted on branches and swathed across rooftops and fields. It was a pretty sight. (Admittedly, it helped the roads were clear and it wasn't blisteringly cold.)

I wondered if I'd miss wonderland visions like this if I lived in a warm climate year 'round.

Probably.

Also, I'd have some other natural act of contrition to deal with. Hurricanes or forest fires or scarcity of water.

We all have our stuff.

So I guess once again, I'll adopt my one-day-at-a-time attitude, keep an eye on the weather conditions and take it as it comes.

The latest word is, we may have a white-ish Christmas. And I'm going to be home all day anyhow.

So, let it snow.

And Happy Holidays to all my friends (including Kate, who understands my snarky sense of humor).

May your days be Merry and Bright. 

We certainly have earned it this year.

If Only in My Dreams

Thumbprints were always a staple cookie at Christmas. Mom made both regular and chocolate batter (guess which was my favorite), each little crater filled with a dollop of sugary icing colored red or green.

"Surprise" cookies were wrapped around a center of chocolate chips or a cherry or a walnut half. The walnut was the clear loser among my siblings. In fact, we asked my mom why she bothered putting the nut in the middle, because it wasn't a very happy surprise. She would shrug and tell us to get over it.

And then there were the sugar cookies we iced ourselves. Quite the holiday tradition. As we aged, our designs grew weirder to reflect our teenage snarkiness. But the act of decorating, complete with holiday music and derisive comments shot across the kitchen table, was pure magic.

The tea ring was also a family favorite. Its yeasty goodness filled the house with the smell of cinnamon as it baked. The delectable treat also featured raisins and was drizzled with icing and topped with cherries.

Each holiday season, my mom would choose a day to decorate the house. We'd come home from school to discover she'd turned the joint into a winter wonderland. Mom loved making the place festive -- we were just the innocent bystanders who got clean-up duty on New Year's Day.

I miss my mom every day, but during the holidays I miss her most of all. How I'd love to be sitting in our living room tonight, staring at the big-bulbed lights on our live tree and breathing in the delicious scent of real pine, a cookie in each paw.

Every year I say I'll make a bunch of cookies, but I can't quite work up the will to get it done. Also, there are just the two of us now, and I am trying not to overdo.

At least, that's my excuse.

In my mind, I hear my mother admonishing me for my lack of domestic skills. But, hey, mom, you always knew I'd never live up to you in that department.

But you loved me just the same.

Wish Books

 One of my guilty pleasures is browsing the hometown page of my Facebook account.

Props to Dawn Reed for photo

There I've found lots of nostalgic fare, and these days a trip back in time to my childhood is a nice touch of escapism.

This week the Parma Memories page featured the cover a Sears toy catalog from 1966. And boy, howdy, did that bring back a flood of memories.

In my mind, I can smell the printed pages of the catalog, each wafer-thin sheet filled with possibilities. How cool would it be to own this or that. Some of the toys had been featured in TV commercials. Others just looked like they would be fun to play with. 

Board games, dolls, race car sets, puzzles and all manner of joy, were tucked into a catalog jam packed with gift ideas for good (well, mostly good) children everywhere.

I knew in my heart of hearts that most of these treasures would never be mine. With five siblings and a limited budget, my mom would do her best. But what would show up under the tree would never live up to the dreams promised in the Sears catalog.

And yet, oh what fun it was to imagine the Christmas morning that existed only in my head. It was the anticipation, the reaching for the unreachable, that was the magic. Poised with a crayon to circle my favorites, I'd pore over the catalog for hours.

And in the end, I didn't really miss getting a Chrissy doll (with hair that grew and grew). Or the board game Mystery Date. Or Mouse Trap. Not too much, anyhow.

These are the days of instant gratification, where you can get anything you want online (rather than at Alice's Restaurant).

If you got that last reference, you know what I'm talking about.

Just for chuckles, I went on ebay and searched for the old Sears toy catalogs. Someone is selling them for $19 apiece. On a thumb drive.

I think I'll pass, thanks. There are some experiences electronics just can't replicate.

Shopping in the Time of Covid

I can't honestly say I've ever enjoyed grocery shopping. But it's a task that must be done, and since I'm the head chef at the Casa de Ginley, it only makes sense that I'm the official gatherer.

Public domain image

Of course, this task has been complicated by the raging pandemic. You know, the one we hear about daily but have grown numb to.

So, like my fellow shoppers, I don my mask and (mostly) follow the directional arrows at my local supermarket.

The social distancing thing is quite a dance though, isn't it? You're waiting for your turn at the banana bin, dodging the stockers and fellow shoppers. Turning your head away and mumbling "sorry" as you reach for the fruit you hope will be the right shade of yellow/green. Then bobbing away, moving along.

The deli counter is problematic. The workers are positioned far enough away they can't hear you place your order. So you will find yourself shouting, "A QUARTER POUND OF ROAST BEEF, SHAVED." And once again, "ROAST BEEF."  And "QUARTER." And "SHAVED."

Then you will reach across the abyss and snag your meat baggie and toss it into your cart.

The aisles are clearly marked so you know which way to go. But, yes, I admit I'm guilty of sneaking the wrong way down the aisle to grab something that's only a few steps in. (While still properly social distancing, naturally.)

Pre-Covid, one of the things I always marveled at was the voluminous variety of brands and types of food. During the pandemic, this has changed. One can no longer be fussy about brands. You get the beans or the cheese or the toilet paper they have in stock that week. 

Speaking of TP, I still haven't figured out why things like bathroom tissue and Lysol are flying off the shelves. Are people using their toilets more during the pandemic? Maybe it's because they are eating off-brand beans?

Who knows.

Someday, soon I hope, things will return to normal and all of this will just be an unpleasant memory.

And once again we will be able to shop in pairs, sans masks, and dart willy-nilly down the aisles of our local supermarket without fear of infection.

That'll be the day.

Go Lightly

Earlier this year as the crazytown train was gathering steam, I received an email from The New York Times. 

Ms. Littman (public domain photo)

They inquired if I'd be interested in receiving a regular newsletter from them that covered the biggest news stories from their paper. I'm not much of a news hound, but I thought I'd give it a try.

And so it was that I found myself devouring the newsletter six mornings a week (they don't publish on the seventh). 

One of the features I've enjoyed is a "lives well lived," section that touches on someone who has passed. Sometimes it's a famous person. But often it's someone I've never heard of. 

One such was socialite Marguerite Littman. 

She hobnobbed with the likes of David Hockney, Gore Vidal and Truman Capote. It was Capote who used Littman as the inspiration for Holly Golightly, Audrey Hepburn's character in Breakfast at Tiffany's. 

Littman was friends with a whole host of celebrities. Her own career as an actress originally stalled because of her thick Southern accent, a byproduct of her upbringing in Monroe, Louisiana as a member of one of the city's oldest families. The accent became an asset when she was overhead at a party by Elia Kazan and Tennessee Williams, who recruited her as a speech coach for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

She lived in New York City, wrote articles for national magazines and worked with Richard Avedon, a photographer who took on social issues in America in the 1960s.

In 1965, she married Mark Littman, a British barrister and Queen's Counsel. Marguerite took up residence in London, dividing her time between the US and Britain.

It was from her office across the pond that Littman would embark on her crusade, creating an enduring legacy.

In the 1980s, AIDS victims were being shunned and vilified by the public. Following the death of her close friend, Rock Hudson, from this terrible disease, Littman began her mission to raise awareness and support for AIDS patients.

In 1986, she sent letters to 300 influential friends and associates, asking them for £100 each. She only received one "no." Six months later, she hosted a gala to officially launch the AIDS Charitable Trust, and the donations began to roll in, and contiued to do so for another decade.

Princess Diana, herself an advocate of AIDS causes, gave Littman her wardrobe to auction off, raising millions for the cause just two months before her death in 1997.

Two years later, the Trust was rolled into the Elton John AIDS Foundation, where Littman served as a director.

She passed away October 16th at the age of 90. Alas, I couldn't find any indication that Littman wrote her memoirs. 

My guess is they would have been quite a read, indeed.

Random Thoughts from the Chair

Nine months between haircuts is too much. 

But with this whole Covid thing, I wasn't in a hurry to get my locks chopped. Everyone has a breaking point, I suppose. And by last Saturday, I'd reached mine. It was either get a haircut or shave my head.

So, off I went to my "hair artisan" to get the job done.

Since my last visit, the salon I frequented had closed. The owners bailed, but the hairdressers got together and opened a new place. Fortunately, my stylist was one of the participants in the new venture.

And thus it was that I found myself sitting in a salon chair, fully masked, waiting for my hair color to magically transform to a more youthful hue. 

Probably, I should have brought a book to occupy my time. I did check Facebook a few times, but honestly, it's been too exhausting lately. Scrolling and scrolling in search of my friends between all the ads and "suggested for me" posts is getting old.

So I opted instead for quiet contemplation. I was facing a large mirror that reflected the street. Traffic zoomed by, and I wondered where they were all going in such a hurry. That particular observation ran its course pretty quickly.

Closing my eyes, I listened to the buzz of conversation around me. I learned what my fellow salon mates were up to, their plans for the upcoming holiday season and all about their work woes.

Checking my watch, I saw that 15 minutes had elapsed. Halfway to the time before my hair guru would reappear.

Then I made eye contact with myself in the mirror. These days, I'm farsighted, so having my glasses off didn't hinder my view. My mask covered my face from below my eyes to below my chin. 

That's when it occurred to me. Given that my grey hair was adequately quashed and the mask took care of my neck wattle, my actual age was no longer discernible. 

Imagine that. Folks who didn't know me might think I was 50. Or even 40. 

Cool beans!

This belief was reinforced a few days later at Target when I purchased my Stella Artois. The cashier, a 30-something guy, was apologetic when he asked to see my ID to purchase the alcoholic beverage. He had no idea how old I was. 

Frankly, I was delighted.

So I guess there's some reason to be glad I'm wearing a face covering. 

But I'll still be ecstatic when we've eradicated the beast and masks are no longer necessary.

Are We There Yet?

Six kids in a 1966 Chevy Impala station wagon en route to grandma's house. 

"Are we there yet?" comes at my mother at frequent intervals during the 3 1/2 hour trip.

Over the years, my mom developed a strategy to mitigate the questions. 

We would count off the towns we went through as we drove toward our ultimate destination: Lima.

In time, we could all recite the sequence: Bellevue - Tiffin - Findlay - Lima.

Invariably, there was always one smart guy in the bunch who would question little townlets like "Republic."

"Isn't it a town, mom? Why doesn't it count?"

"We only count the bigger towns," my mother would reply. "Republic has one flashing traffic light and about five houses. We don't count it."

And it was true, it was a blink-and-you-miss-it experience.

Growing up, I often wondered what it would be like to live in a small town, separated from large cities by miles and miles of farmland. As teenagers and young adults, we were grateful for the anonymity and diverse experiences that cities offer.

As I get nearer to the Medicare years, I wonder again if it would be nice to live in a place where folks know and care about each other. Fresh air and wide open spaces and a slower pace.

Of course, these days, the internet helps connect small towns with the bigger world, so the disparity isn't so remarkable.

On the other hand, I'm not a big fan of shooting for sport, my politics are blue and I'm a big sissy -- I'd miss my city (or what was the city before COVID).

Today's goal is to survive 2020. That's enough of a challenge these days.

Which is probably why our refrain comes back to me today:

"Are we there yet?"

Tricky Memories

Aside from my childhood, Halloween has never been a big deal for me. 

You bet your life it's me

In high school, I did dress up as Groucho Marx. That was pretty fun. I had a Barbie theme going during my former employment. (Retired Malibu Barbie and Moroccan Barbie.) But mostly, I left the creative costuming to others. (A nod here to Stephanie Petroff, who had some of the best homemade costumes ever.)

As far as Halloween parties go, they've never been a big thing for me. 

There are only two memorable soirées that come to mind.

The first was hosted by Mr. Ginley and me. This was our only foray into entertaining on All Hallow's Eve.  We were living in our apartment in Virginia, and it was a last-minute thing. We extended verbal invitations, bought some snacks and waited for folks to show up.

And waited. And waited some more.

The doorbell rang. Huzzah! It was my friend, Judie, a co-worker at Kay Jewelers. Being a designer, as well as a wacky funster, she was the Lucy to my Ethel. That night, she was a bee.

She was also the solo attendee. We had a lovely time in spite of the small gathering and it gave us something to laugh about in years to come.

Undeniably, the most memorable Halloween party took place in 1981 or 1982. 

I was dressed as an exotic dancer, complete with a red one-piece leotard, fishnet stockings, a black boa around my neck and tassels strategically placed. (And yes, by bouncing up and down on my toes and swinging my hips, I could make them twirl.)

The party took place at the home of Cheri, a JBR co-worker, and I was there with my then-husband. What made it memorable was the fact that my future boyfriend and future second husband (that would be Mr. Ginley) were also in attendance. Of course, I had no inkling of this at the time, but looking back, it was pretty spooky. 

Like all JBR parties, there was plenty of alcohol and playing footsie, etc.

Damir was there. Not sure if Sue S. was there. And Ellen threw up in the bushes. 

Good times, as they say.

These days, we're more likely to turn out the lights and spend a quiet night watching a little television. It's bath night for me. And the Buckeyes are on, so we know what Mr. will be doing.

Hopefully, everyone will have a safe and healthy Halloween in these days of COVID.

Save a Milky Way for me!

Good Grief

"In my neighborhood, if you gave a kid a rock for trick-or-treat, it would go through your window."

"If some girl pulled the football away from me, it would be the last thing she'd ever do."

"What's up with the dancing? The one stupid kid is just shrugging his shoulders, clicking his heels and moving his head from side to side."

"Why would you bring home a dead Christmas tree and expect your friends to tell you how brilliant you were?"

"Who names their kid 'Linus'?"

Yes, it was Mr. Ginley expressing these sentiments, in response to my comment that the Peanuts holiday specials aren't airing on local TV channels but only watchable on Apple TV. 

Personally, I enjoy the Peanuts Christmas special. It brings back happy memories of watching the holiday specials with my siblings each year. But I do believe the Peanuts gang jumped the shark when they expanded into other holidays like Thanksgiving and Easter. 

And the whole Great Pumpkin thing got weird fast. It made me wonder if Charles Schultz questioned his belief in the Almighty. (Did he ask the Big Guy for something and wait and wait for it, only to get no reply at all?)

Mr. Ginley did concede that Vince Guaraldi's soundtrack was a high point in the Christmas special.  We agreed on something, at least.

But I know again this year, A Charlie Brown Christmas will be a solo event for me. 

And I'm perfectly okay viewing it without the benefit of the resident critic's running commentary.

Toothsome Kitty

"Maggie is expecting to get a gold tooth when she has her dental work done," Mr. Ginley opined this week.

"Tell her not to hold her breath," I replied.  "Just having the three bad teeth taken out is going to cost an arm and a leg."

Mr. Ginley thought about this. "Aren't they going to put in a bridge or false teeth or anything?"

"Nope. She'll have to use her remaining teeth or gum her food from here on out," I stated.

As it turned out, our beloved Maggie, like a number of her feline compatriots, has bad teeth. We suspected as much from her ever-worsening breath, and most recently, the sensitivity around her mouth.

The vet confirmed this was the case when I took her in. We were encouraged to purchase the pet insurance, as we could then pay over time and would be covered in case any other defects in workmanship were to appear.

Fortunately, Maggie/Magwell/Maggie Lou(is) was only mildly traumatized by her visit to the vet. In this age of Covid, I had to wait in the parking lot while they escorted her inside, did the exam, then brought her back at the end.

It also meant I was able to sit in the comfort and convenience of my vehicle as they listed all of the charges for her impending treatment.

Yes, we both agreed, it's a good thing she's so darned cute. How can you look at that face and tell her to suck it up because things are tight right now?

And yes, of course she snuggles up under my chin, and my heart melts and, well, anyone with a furry (or feathered) family member knows exactly what I'm talking about.

So, no, there aren't any gold teeth in Maggie's future. No New York brim.

No matter how many times Mr. Ginley sings the ZZ Top song, alas, Maggie will be neither "bad" or "nationwide."

Electric Boots, a Mohair Suit

©2002 Mercury Music Limited

I was sailing down the freeway in my automobile last week, singing to Elton John's classic, Benny and the Jets.

Well, okay, maybe I didn't get all the words just right. Perhaps it's me, but I've never been able to make out all of Sir Elton's words. Or most of them. In fact, in the spirit of true confession, mostly I was singing the refrain and mumbling through the rest. 

For once, it wasn't because I was intentionally mangling the lyrics, like someone else I won't mention. Or will (Mr. Ginley). I do know it's "electric BOOTS."

Being of the sort who believes in advanced education, I went to my friend the Google to discover, after all these years, the actual lyrics to the song.

"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit," I said to the cat. "I was nowhere near."

Oh well. I consoled myself with the fact no one was stuck in the car with me and my off-key renderings of the timeless tune.

And it still felt good to do a duet with Sir Elton.

Even if I am no Kiki Dee.

Pioneer Spirit, TV Style

I'm sure it comes as no surprise to any frequent visitor to this page that I possess a fascination with women pioneers.

I'm not talking about those who hoisted up their skirts and headed west on wagons and horseback with children strapped to their hip, although these women are admirable, indeed.

But rather pioneers of new industries, those who saw an opportunity and jumped in with both feet.

I've gushed over Alice Guy-Blaché, for example, the premier French female pioneer filmmaker.  And Hedy Lamarr, who invented the technology that would be used in cell phones.

This week, our country lost another pioneer, at the impressive age of 106. 

Television was a fledgling industry in 1953 when Lillian Brown volunteered to produce an educational program in Arlington, Virginia. She also hosted a children's educational series, which was filmed in the same studio as Face the Nation. 

The producers of the popular political news program noticed that guests on Brown's show wore make-up -- even the men. They approached her to ask if she'd be willing to touch up the guests on their show. For which they would pay her $19. 

She agreed. Her first subject was Sam Rayburn, whose bald spot was a positive beacon under the stage lighting, as Brown saw by looking at the monitors. Lillian added a touch of powder that made all the difference. 

While she was not trained as a cosmetologist, Brown discovered she had a knack for make-up artistry, and continued to work for Face the Nation, even as, in 1956, she became the director of radio and television for George Washington University, where she created one of the first television courses for credit.  

Dwight Eisenhower was the first president to enjoy the benefits of Brown's make-up tools. John Kennedy sat in her chair, first as a senator. Kennedy was himself a pioneer in grasping the importance of how to present oneself on the small screen. He wanted to understand every detail of the process, from camera lenses to lighting to makeup.

Brown also assisted first ladies in their TV appearances, perhaps most famously for Jacqueline Kennedy for her White House tour in 1962.

Not limiting herself to make-up, Brown was also quick to jump in to correct wardrobe faux pas. A screamy tie, for example. Or an unsightly bit of leg when the gentleman crossed his legs. She kept such accessories as ties and knee-high black socks in her bag of tricks.

In all, Ms. Brown served nine presidents. Including Richard Nixon. One of her biggest challenges was preparing him for his resignation speech. She found Nixon a sobbing mess when she arrived. Nothing she said could console him. Any makeup she applied was washed away.

Then she had a brainstorm, recalling a story about a Christmas tree, the President's dog and getting locked in a bathroom by a secret service agent. That did the trick, Nixon laughed, and minutes before the broadcast, Brown was able to complete her task.

Brown once told The Times, “Unlike high-fashion makeup artists who want to make a person look as glamorous as possible, my goal is to make people look exactly like themselves.”

A native of Huntsville, Ohio, there was nothing to indicate where Lillian Brown's life would take her. She earned a two-year teaching degree and worked at a rural school for several years before moving to Cleveland, where she worked at a local department store. She also joined a women's orchestra, playing the violin.

In later life, she continued to teach in a variety of venues, and at the age of 75 published the first of many books. 

When she retired at age 95 from Georgetown University, where she taught a public-speaking course, the school begged her to stay.

A life well-lived by a woman who saw a need and filled it. 

And kept learning all her life. 

Fortitude

One day, my mom's brother, Chuck, called his siblings aside and told them to only take one helping of dinner.

"Dad and Mother won't eat until we're done," he explained. 

It was the Great Depression. My grandfather dug ditches and baked and decorated cakes to make ends meet. 

There were many days when the ends didn't come together.

My grandmother kept a ration book she once showed me. She kept meticulous notes about whose turn it was to get a new pair of shoes, for example. I marveled at her sense of fair play, particularly given that of the six children she was raising at the time, only one was hers. (She was my grandfather's second wife. Two more mouths to feed would arrive during the 1930s.) 

The two of them managed to persevere, and then thrive in the following decades, until my grandfather was felled by a stroke in the 1960s. And my grandmother, with her usual take-it-all-in-stride attitude, looked after him for the next nine years without complaint.

In this, the year of the rat (the Chinese certainly called that one), I try to remind myself that my forebears survived much worse than I have thus far. 

And I try not to boo-hoo about finding a permanent job. Or wearing a mask. Or having to curtail seeing loved ones in person.

I have discovered something about myself.

I'm a big wuss.

I wonder if, given the same circumstances as my grandparents, would I have been up to the challenge?

I hope I never have to find out.

From My Window

2020 can't be over soon enough for me.

In spite of my "one day at a time" philosophy, I'm finding it difficult to stay the course.

I would say the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg was the last straw, but something tells me that, with 3 1/2 months left in this bizarre year, we have a long way to go. 

So, this morning, after I skimmed the newspaper, read the funnies and did my best with the jumble puzzles, I turned my attention to the window to my backyard.

There I found about two dozen grackles, a couple of red winged blackbirds and a few brave sparrows, all vying for the premium birdseed I'd put out.

Alas, my puny feeder was not made for a descending herd, and while the grackles did their best, they were having trouble gaining purchase. So, being the birdie hostess with the mostest, I went out and threw a bunch of seed on the ground.

This did the trick, and soon they all tucked into the banquet in the grass and chowed away, leaving room at the table above for the more petite sparrows.

Inevitably, a squirrel came along to see what he was missing. In a serpentine move, he tried to nonchalantly sashay his way across the lawn toward the feeder. Alas, he couldn't compete with the grackles, so he backed off, prudently deciding he didn't want to risk getting his eyes pecked out.

Maggie and I watched until the show ended.

I know this isn't much of a post today, but I needed to remind myself of the persistence of life, nature's ennui with human concerns and that, in spite of the minefield that is 2020, it's a beautiful day outside my window and I need to go out and enjoy it.

I hope you can, too.

So Ap-Peel-Ing

When they talk about the lack of strong women role models in the 1960s, I can't help but think about Emma Peel.

Public domain image

Diana Rigg as Emma Peel quickly became the star of The Avengers, a British TV spy thriller. Emma, a sleek, sexy but very feisty female character could take care of herself, thank you very much. Alongside Patrick McNee as John Steed (the very definition of dapper), she fought crime as an intelligence agent. The show was suspenseful in an understated way. Not big on car crashes and macho displays of force. Rather, psychological and smart.

A fictional and unlikely character, perhaps, but one of my favorites.

Alas, Dame Diana Rigg passed away this week at the age of 82. But my, what a run she had. 

Leaving Mrs. Peel behind, Rigg took on a role in the Bond Film, On Her Majesty's Service, enjoying the distinction of being the only Bond girl who marries the commitment-shy action figure. Alas, she had to be killed off in the final frame to make way for the next Bond girl. 

A classically trained actress, Diana Rigg returned to the stage many times throughout her career, in a slew of theater productions both here and across the pond.

Rigg hosted the PBS Mystery series for many years, although she professed she wasn't a big fan of the genre herself. And from 1998-2000, she starred in The Mrs. Bradley Mysteries. 

Her swan song was the role of Lady Olenna Tyrell on Game of Thrones, which earned her four Emmy nominations.

Talk about a life well-lived.

Still, I will always and forever look back most fondly to her Emma Peel character. And that fabulous cat suit. 

How I wish I could have EVER carried off that look.

Getting Graphic

 "Here's one about the Beatles," Mr. Ginley intoned.

©1985 by Matt Groening

We were standing in the Rocky River library as he perused the latest graphic novel titles. It's a genre he's enjoyed over the course of the last year or two, observing that the breadth of subjects has expanded significantly in recent times.

"It used to be that comic books were outlawed in the library," Mr. said. Apparently, the librarian would point to the door if you brought one the offending publications into that hallowed space.

Today, graphic novels, the offshoot of comic books, cover a variety of topics and, as in the case of the Beatles book, are not confined to works of fiction. There are bios of Bowie, Elvis and a whole host of other celebrities. Science is now graphically explained. And some authors/illustrators have found a home for their memoirs. All this is in addition to traditional comic panels, mainstream and subversive.

Back in the day, I was a fan of Matt Groening's Binky and Bongo. And Lynda Barry. This was years after my childhood interest in Archie and Betty. 

More recently, I haven't paid much attention to the graphic novel section. But Mr. has been working on me, reading passages from the books he's checked out. So, for the first time, I selected three items from the stacks, and I'm looking forward to digging in.

Two are memoirs, one about NYC, penned by Roz Chast (of The New Yorker), the other, by Tyler Feder, is a tribute to the author's mom. The third is a collection of more classic comics, created by Reza Ferezmand, who has a wicked sense of humor. (Just my style.)

Time will tell if my newfound interest will last. Or if the genre will continue to expand or will die out. Given our society and its obsession with instant visual gratification, I suspect they are here to stay. 

Somewhere, I can hear the age-old argument as to the value of graphic novels to young minds.

"At least the kids are reading," it was argued.

True enough. 

It's a Mystery to Me

"Hey, that's Pussy Galore," exclaimed Mr. Ginley last night. "I sure hope she's not going to murder James Bond."

We were watching a 2005 episode of Midsomer Murders entitled A Talent for Life. Sure enough, the victim-to-be was portrayed by Honor Blackman, who was the character with the smirk-inducing name in Goldfinger. In the 1960s Ms. Blackman was also Cathy Gale in The Avengers (no connection to the Marvel comic book characters). She was 94 when she passed away in April of this year.

But there I go, digressing.

Our interest in Midsomer Murders is relatively recent, and we have a lot of catching up to do. We are on the sixth set, and there are a gajillion episodes to watch. Each opens with a murder in a quaint village located in the fictional British county of Midsomer. It's up to Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby* and his young assistant, Sergeant Troy, to solve the murder.

Seldom, however, is the story limited to just one unnatural death. There are usually two or three that follow the initial killing. While I always thought it would be nice to live in the English countryside, I must say this series has put me off a bit. Considering the murder rate per capita, these sleepy little hamlets are in reality a hotbed of premature deaths. One never knows if the dotty old lady next door is going to take offense at some minor criticism and slip a little arsenic in your tea or a stiletto between your shoulder blades.

At any rate, mysteries are one of the few genres Mr. and I share. I keep my finger on the "pause" button so we can inspect some clue or other. And at times, we will pause and make an observation about who the killer could be. (More often than not, we're on the wrong track, but that's okay.)

For whatever reason, the majority of mystery series we've glommed onto were filmed across the pond, some in French or Italian with subtitles. But most are British. There is the added joy (for me) of listening to their accents. The historical settings are cool. And the countryside is lovely. Just the thing for an Anglophile like me.

Thankfully, there are two libraries near us that stock the entire series, so hopefully, we'll be able to view the whole shebang without a hitch. 

If I can't make it to the English countryside, I can at least visit vicariously through British mysteries. 

It's a whole lot safer, too, I'm sure. 

*Fun fact: In real life, Ms. Blackman had a son named "Barnaby." 

Fame and Fortune

My first wallet was quite a prize.

I still have a red wallet.

Red and shiny, with that new plastic smell, it had the added bonus of a photo of a famous movie star, tucked into the clear plastic pocket. Back in the day, they would put a photo there to illustrate how cool it would be to feature a picture of your loved one in that spot.

I gazed at the black and white photo and wrinkled my nose a little. To my five-year-old mind, he was an old, dad-looking guy. He looked like he would be nice, but I didn't recognize him, so he had no real appeal to me.

"It's Gregory Peck," my oldest sister said, as if that clarified all.

 "Who's Gregory Peck."

"He's a movie star. He's been in a bunch of movies," Diane informed me, rolling her big-sister eyes.

I shrugged, not impressed at all. But since I didn't have a photo to place in the pocket of my prized plastic wallet, Mr. Peck continued to hold his place of honor for as long as I owned it. 

Given that pretty much everything non-edible that came into our house was kept forever, Greg and I became well acquainted.

In real life, I haven't had many encounters with famous folk. More often than not, my brushes with fame have been by association. My son, as a preschooler, met and spoke with President Clinton. Harry, former-boss-now-friend, once ate in the same restaurant as Woody Allen. And my brother-in-law, Brian, has had hilarious meet-ups with Jay Leno (from a manhole during a traffic stop), Jim Carey (while helping to fix his stereo) and Garret Morris (who ran from him because he thought Brian was going to serve him papers from his ex).

 

Admittedly, I do like to read about the rich and famous, although, honestly, I'm more apt to read biographies about fascinating people who were not terribly famous themselves, but who hobnobbed with those who were.

Are there any movie stars I'd like to meet?

Giving it some thought (but not too much), I chose five alive and five not-so-alive:

Alive

1. Sam Elliott

2. Jody Foster

3. Tina Fey

4. Jon Stewart

5. Tracy Ullman

Not-so-Alive

1. Cary Grant

2. Jimmie Stewart

3. Harpo Marx

4. Carole Lombard

5. William Powell

I'd love to hear your favorites. Isn't that what social media is all about? 

Spill! (Please.) 

My friend, Gregory Peck, would approve.

I'm Not Karen

 I want to take a moment to thank the person who chose the name "Karen" -- and not mine -- to represent the stereotypical privileged white woman of a certain age.

Yes, I feel badly for the thousands of Karens out there, who must, every day, face down the stigma, magnified by the relentless memes, of Karen behaving badly. "Karen" shouting that she will not wear a mask. "Karen" standing outside her home, threatening peaceful folks of color with a rifle. "Karen" complaining she didn't want onions on her Big Mac but got them anyhow.

There but for the grace of God, etc.

In the year of my birth, "Karen" was ranked as the #4 most popular girl's name, preceded by Mary, Susan and Linda. My name took the #11 spot. 

I do believe, if we find it necessary to give a name to a woman who behaves badly, why don't we have a male counterpart? It may be because, if you look at boys' names from the same period, they are still in vogue today. During the Karen era, the most popular names were Michael, David, James, John and Robert, all of which are still used today. 

In fact, going down the Top 30 list of boys' names, none jumped out as being dated. Which brings up another question. Why are boys' names timeless, while girls' names can often be pegged by generation?

Jennifer, Amanda, Jessica, Melissa and Sarah topped the list for 1980.

In 1990, the top 5 were Jessica, Ashley, Brittany, Amanda and Samantha.

Fast forwarding to 2000, we have Emily, Hannah, Madison, Ashley and Sarah. 

2019: Emma, Ava, Olivia, Isabella and Amelia.

I will grant you that boys' names have become more diverse over the last 20 years. While William, James and Benjamin still made the Top 10 in 2019, ranking high on the list were Liam, Noah and Logan.

Still, I wasn't able to find a boys' name that is unique to my era. 

If we have a "Karen" we should have the male counterpart to represent the white guy of privilege.

Maybe "Donald" would work.

I'm open for suggestions.

Hello Goodbye

I know these are Christmas socks and it's not Christmas.

But I don't care. Because they make me happy.

Now me and these kitties are taking it on the road. To find a place to walk and enjoy this gorgeous day.

Hope you do the same!

Life in the Slow Lane

Two guys on crotch rockets went flying past me on the freeway last night.

They zoom zoomed and zipped their way around the other vehicles on the road. 

I pulled my heart out of my throat and kept a steady pace, allowing them to go by -- and get far, far away from me. 

I've noticed just about everybody is in a hurry these days. It has a lot to do, I'm certain, with being cloistered for several weeks during the pandemic. All that pent-up energy. 

Being the contrarian I am, my inclination has been to slow down. I went home last night and sat by the kitchen window, looking out at my backyard, watching day turn to night. There was a cool breeze. And crickets. And fireflies flickering their lights. Maggie dozed in her basket. I breathed it all in.

This morning I awoke to a cotton candy sky, all pinks and blues. And birdsong. And squirrel chatter.

Just a gentle reminder that the world will continue turn. The sun will make an appearance every morning. And each day we are given has at least some moments of peace and a little joy, if we look for them.

So, why is this "get off my lawn" gal spouting platitudes? 

Don't get used to it. I'm sure the old irascible Barb will return next week.

Sans the crotch rocket.

TTFN.

Time for Change

Our quest to downsize continues.

We cut the

Canadian coins need not apply.

cord on the cable and have been amazed by the quality of the picture we get from our vintage rooftop antenna.

Eating at restaurants has largely become a thing of the past. I haven't missed it as much as I thought I would. It's nice not to have the chronic, "I don't know, where do you want to eat?" discussion.

My monthly credit card bill for gasoline has dropped significantly. 

I haven't had to buy work clothes. (Bonus: no need to grimace at my hefty self in the three-way-mirrored, brightly-lit dressing room.)

Our basement has grown in size, owing to the diminishing piles of stuff we've donated.

And we've made some scratch selling books, CDs and DVDs.

Casting about the other day for more ways to save, I spied my filled-to-overflowing change dish. 

There's been a lot of noise in the news lately about the shortage of coins in circulation. I decided it was time to do my part.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, I sorted my quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies and started rolling. When I finished organizing my stash, Mr. Ginley brought over his jar of coins. All told, we had enough money to pay for groceries for the week.

Woo hoo!

I know there are folks who swear by those coin machines, where all you have to do is dump in your change and collect the cash. But I'd rather roll the coins myself and keep the percentage they charge for their service.

Certainly, there is enough time. Also, I find rolling coins to be a relaxing sort of activity. And it always feels good at the end to realize how much has been accumulating, not only in my change dish but in every pocket of every coat I own. 

As a special bonus, I discovered Mr. Ginley's wedding ring in his jar of coins. It's a mystery how it got there, but he was very pleased to be reunited with his ring, although it's still a bit too snug for him to wear.

What will my next downsizing project be?

Suggestions are welcome!

An Unexpected Guest

All sorts of things turn up in my back yard.

Usually it's stuff I don't want to see. Like weeds. Or maple trees. Or poison ivy.

But this year, into what Mr. Ginley refers to as "the f***ing rain forest" sprouted something highly unusual.

A Rose of Sharon bush.

Funny thing is, I haven't seen one in the neighborhood, so I'm not certain which wind carried its seeds to my yard. Also, it's growing in the middle of my holly bush, which I've subsequently pruned, to give Sharon room to grow.

Mr. was all for pulling it out. But I prevailed, and this week I was rewarded with the first lovely blooms. 

There's a reason for my soft heart toward this plant. My mother's petite back yard was home to a Rose of Sharon bush. My mom would yell at us for using it as third base. After a number of years, it gave up the ghost and had to be cut down. But in its prime, it was lovely, with dozens of blossoms (and a whole host of bees -- they loved it).

Thus, my reluctance to uproot Sharon in my own yard. It feels like my mom is reaching out to me. I know it sounds silly, and so unlike my snarky self. 

But I believe. 

I look out every morning and watch another flower emerge, and it gives me hope. Like Mom is out there somewhere, rooting for me to keep going, because I still have some blooming to do.

Thanks, Mom.

Counting Sons

In a fit of nostalgia, I picked up Season 3 of the old TV program, My Three Sons.

Theme music by Frank De Vol

Mr. Ginley was cozily situated upstairs while I watched the 1960s sitcom. It's better that way -- he's not around to poke fun, insert inappropriate dialog or raise troubling questions.

Alas, my solitude didn't last. Mr., on some pretext or other, came down to talk to me. I put the program on pause while I waited for him to finish his conversation.

Pointing to the television screen, he inquired, "who are those chuckleheads?"

"There's Bub, that's Mike and there's Robbie," I explained.

"Where's Uncle Charlie?"

"Bub (William Frawley, formerly "Fred" on I Love Lucy) was on the show until he got sick in 1965 and was replaced by Uncle Charley (William Demarest). Uncle Charley was purported to be Bub's brother."

"How was Bub related to the family?"

"He's the kids' maternal grandfather. Steve Douglas is a widow, and Bub is his father-in-law."

"Isn't there another son?"

"Yes, there's Chip, but he's not in this scene."

"What about Ernie?"

"Ernie was adopted later, after Mike left the show."

"Why did Mike leave the show? Was it because he killed Bub?"

"No, Mike went off and got married."

"So, okay. We have Mike, Robbie, Chip and Ernie. I count FOUR. Don't you think Ernie felt slighted, like being adopted didn't count? Why wasn't the name of the show changed to My FOUR Sons?"

"Because there were only ever THREE sons on the show at any one time. 'Mike' was like 'Chuck,' the brother on Happy Days who went off to college and never came back."

Unsatisfied, Mr. finally trundled back upstairs, mumbling all the way, "I still say it should be called My FOUR SONS." 

His grumbling did make me start to wonder what happened to the actors who played the characters during the show's 12-year run.

Mike (Tim Considine) went on to become a writer, photographer and automotive historian. Robbie (Don Grady) took up composing music after his acting career ended. He died of cancer in 2012. Chip (Stanley Livingston) was a producer and director before retiring from the business. Ernie (Barry Livingston) is still a member of the Screen Actors Guild.

For anyone who was a true fan, you might also wonder about the love interests of the sons. Mike's wife was played by Meredith MacRae, who continued her career until brain cancer took her life in 2000. Robbie's wife was played by Tina Cole, who went on to become an acting coach and who also sang with the "King Cousins." Chip's wife was portrayed by Ronne Troupe, the daughter of jazz legend (and Route 66 star) Bobby Troupe and the step-daughter of Julie London (torch singer and head nurse on Emergency).

Remember when they tried to lift sagging ratings by marrying off "Dad"? Beverly Garland was the actress who took the role of "Barbara," Steve's second wife. (I remember being mesmerized by her uber-long eyelashes.) Ms. Garland continued to act, primarily on television. She passed away in 2008. Her TV daughter, "Dodie," was played by Dawn Lyn, who -- are you ready for this -- is the sister of 1970s teen pop idol Leif Garrett.  Dawn supported her mom and her brother until he became a household name.

Of course, we can't leave out Fred MacMurray (aka "Steve Douglas"), a terrific actor who had some juicy noir roles back in the day. Folks forget what a wonderful SOB he played in the movie Double Indemnity. Check it out sometime.

Oops, and Tramp. The dog. He was a briard, a breed that dates back to the 14th Century. (Aren't you glad you asked?)

P.S. Props to Mr. Ginley, without whom the idea for this blog would not have materialized. Complaints should be addressed to him in care of this station.

Fourthwith

"What mail are we getting today?" inquired Mr. Ginley this morning.

He was referring to the email we get from the U.S. Postal Service. They image every piece of mail being delivered that day. It's not always accurate, but it gives us an idea of what's coming.

"We're not," I replied. "Today is a holiday."

"Oh yeah, that's right."

These days it's easy for us to forget holidays. They're not special when you're doing the same things at home you'd be doing any other day. If you're not working, taking a day off is pretty anti-climactic. 

Particularly this year, with no Fourth of July parade down Lorain Road. Although, of course, there will be fireworks, as there have been non-stop throughout the week. 

Doubtless, 2020 will go down as the year of the Bummer Summer. 

Hopefully, we'll all be around to remember it ten years from now. Then we'll be celebrating mask-free and this crappy year will just be one of those things we look back on from our rocking chairs on the porch.

Happy Fourth!

Where My Nose Begins

As we were cringing our way through an entire hour of neighbors shooting off fireworks over our house last weekend, I was reminded of a saying my mom espoused.

 

It was something to the effect that your freedom to swing your elbow is limited by the proximity of the other guy’s nose.

 

This phrase came to mind the following morning, when I ventured out and discovered bits of paper and plastic strewn across my lawn and my roof, with the added bonus of a layer of sulfur and shards of paper covering my car. 

 

Fortunately, this was annoying and not permanent. We only lost an hour of our lives gritting our teeth with every boom. My cat eventually came out of hiding. 

 

But I couldn't help wondering about others, for whom fireworks are a positive terror. Veterans with post traumatic stress disorder, for example. (I always thought it was odd that the same patriots who hail our military members as heroes are dismissive of veterans who suffer from this debilitating condition.)

 

My neighborhood Facebook group was split between those who loathe fireworks and those who love them. The latter group insists it is their patriotic right to enjoy fireworks, anywhere and anytime, and those of us who don't enjoy them are just old spoil sports who are trying to take away their freedom. (To be clear, I don't think anyone was advocating for no fireworks at all, just for confining them to the actual Fourth of July.)

 

The elbow-nose quote can't be definitively attributed to any one source. It's a universal truth that has never been more true than in this country's current bizarre environment, where wearing a mask is seen as a threat to freedom. The only freedom I can perceive we are trying to curtail is people's freedom to infect everyone around them.

 

I can only shake my head.

 

My mom taught us to be good citizens. Treat others as you'd like to be treated. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. Be kind to animals. 

 

And make sure that, in pursuit of your kicks, you keep your elbow away from the other guy's nose.

Daddy-Oh

We all have filters, and yours truly is no exception.

I view my life through my own recollections, keeping some things and discarding others. Most of this is done as a defense measure by my brain, not through any conscious effort.

There are times when a memory will come back to me with such force, it takes my breath away. This week, in the process of washing my hands in the prescribed fashion, I suddenly recalled my dad's hands, covering mine in suds. We were washing up together before dinner. His hands were much bigger, of course, and when they covered mine, it was comforting. I felt protected and safe. 

Other dad memories cropped up. Like the time he put the swing in the garage for me. (And dutifully moved the car out so I could swing to my heart's content.) Or when he played Mitch Miller for Paul and I on the Sundays we were too young to attend church with my mom and older siblings. And, in later years, his taking us to the "Secret Place" (usually Dairy Queen) on a Sunday afternoon.

I know there are other memories, too, and I let them lie. He was quick to anger, and often left it to my mom to make the peace.

But he was also sensitive, something he tried to hide.

One time in high school, I started hanging out with Peggy and her family. I would yackety yack about them, especially her father, who was a nice, easygoing guy. Afterward, my mom asked me to cease and desist because my dad's feelings were hurt. I was stunned.

There was so much about my Dad I didn't know.

So, here we are on the eve of Father's Day.  I wish my dad was here so I could give him a hug. 

And, if only for a minute, be "Little Boo" again.

Fixing a Hole

Many years ago, we had a housewarming party for my boss, Harry. Arguably the best gift he received was a tool box. When opened, he discovered it contained just one item: the local Yellow Pages.


We all had a good laugh, and Harry admitted he would probably get a lot of use out of this particular gift. 

When I texted Harry last night, I reread a message from him back in January, in which he told me about doing demolition in his basement. (He was still having professionals come in and do the reconstruction, so the Yellow Pages, albeit in the form of the Google, would still come in handy.)

I'd been thinking about this recently while pondering the hole in our dining room ceiling. For some months, cracks had formed, and it was just a matter of time before chunks of plaster began descending. Fortunately, none of them landed on us (or the cat).

When we first purchased our home, Mr. Ginley did a lot of painting, some plastering, and even repainted and stippled the living room ceiling. But that was many years ago, and before he began battling vertigo.

Which is why our first inclination was to leave the ceiling alone and let nature take its course.

"It's a conversation piece," asserted Mr. Ginley. "If we just paint the lathe white, it will barely be noticeable."

Normally, I would agree that this could simply go on our list of things that we can't afford to fix right now. But my sister intervened and offered the services of her husband.

And so it was that last Saturday, Tim arrived on our doorstep with a whole host of tools and whatnot. Our son very graciously offered to help -- it seemed like a good idea, given he's been thinking about buying a home of his own down the road.

A few hours later, the original hole was patched, and a second spot in the ceiling, which in all likelihood would have needed attention in the next few months, was also patched. Tim gave Joe instructions on the next steps, which included a sand/plaster routine that would require three additional visits.

After all this is over, I wonder if my son will still want to buy a house.

And if he does, will a toolbox with the Yellow Pages inside be the perfect gift?