Leaps and Bounds

Dinah Shore was a leapling. I hope she has a piece of birthday cake, wherever she may be today (she passed in 1994).

Yes, Dinah was one of those folks born on Leap Day.

As you probably know (because you're smart), each year we have an excess of approximately six hours, so every four years we add a day to compensate so the seasons don't go all cattywampas. (Yes, that's the technical term.)

However...this doesn't quite get the job done, so on certain years ending in "00," we don't leap at all. If you're still around in the year 2100, you'll see what I'm talking about.

According to Guinness (the record book, not the brewer), there was only one recorded family with three consecutive generations of Leap Babies -- a British family by the name of Keogh (1940, 1964 and 1996). Meanwhile the Henrikson family of Norway holds the record for most number of children (three) with a Leap Day birthday (1960, 1964, 1968).

Thanks to our Irish friends, Leap Day, as you probably also know, carries a tradition whereby the woman can ask the man to marry her. According to legend, this came about thanks to St. Brigid, who struck the deal with St. Patrick.

Apparently, the Irish weren't the only ones to have this idea (or, more likely, it was stolen from them much the way their land was back in the day). Named "Bachelor's Day," the guy was expected to pay up if he refused a woman's hand in marriage. Society's elite got in on the gag by saying if a woman was turned down on Leap Day, she could expect to receive a dozen pair of gloves from the guilty party. It's theorized this was to cover the hands of shame that weren't wearing the coveted wedding band.

If you've made it this far, as my TV aerobics instructor says, hang on, because you'll make it to the end.

The Scots, ever the upbeat bunch, considered being born on this day bad luck. The Greeks think the whole year is unlucky for weddings, with Leap Day being the unluckiest. And I'd say St. Oswald was trying to steal the show by dying on this day in 992 and making it his saint's day, but February 29th wasn't a Leap Day thing at that point.

I hope you've enjoyed this little romp through Leap Day trivia. And the best part is...you can be (pretty) sure the topic won't come up here again for another four years!

Yay!

I Lift My Lamp

As my relentless purging of reading material continues, I came upon yet another book I didn't know I had.

Called Famous Americans, it's one of those Dover Clip Art books. There are 75 pages of famous folks, mostly men. The woman who are featured are largely president's wives. However, there were a handful of others, and these were the women who intrigued me.

I decided one of them would be the subject of this blog. Without looking at the names, I peered at each picture until I came to one that stopped me. Then I looked at her name and claim to fame.

It was Emma Lazarus, 1849-1887.

Emma is the poet who wrote the words that appear at the base of the Statue of Liberty, part of a sonnet she penned entitled The New Colossus. The piece was written in 1883 and donated to an organization that auctioned it off to raise money to help pay for construction of the pedestal for the Statue of Liberty. (The French provided the statue, but not the base). A bronze plaque with the words to The New Colossus was affixed to the pedestal in 1903, six years after Emma's death from Hodgkin's Lymphoma. 

Born into a wealthy Jewish family with roots firmly planted in America (she had ancestors that landed here way before the Revolutionary War), Emma enjoyed a private education and comfortable home life. Her love of words was evident from an early age, and with her father's help, a book of her early poetry was published in 1867. She continued to write poetry and prose all her life. 


In her later years, Emma began to explore her Jewish heritage. She was appalled by the Russian pogroms in 1881 that followed Tsar Alexander's assassination. She began to advocate on behalf of destitute Jewish immigrants, helping to establish the Hebrew Technical Institute in New York, which provided vocational training. She also founded the Society of the Improvement and Colonization of East European Jews.

Emma was just 38 when she died. But she certainly made the most of the years she had.

Here is Emma Lazarus' sonnet, in its entirety:

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. 

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Memories of Flannel

We were wandering the mall, and I told Mr. Ginley I wanted to buy a flannel nightgown.

"You want a 'granny gooch'?" he asked. "The kind my mom used to wear?"

"My mom wore them, too," I said defensively.

Which opened a whole can of memories.

As a little girl, my grandmother used to sew us flannel nighties every year for Christmas. They were made of thick flannel and kept you toasty warm over the coldest winters. At some point, I switched over to pajamas. But I always had fond memories of that old-fashioned nightwear.

We never called them "granny gooches," though. That comes from the Ginleys, and who knows where they got the term. I googled the phrase, and there's a person on social media who calls herself "Granny Gooch." No nighties by that name.

But I digress.

Maybe it simply says I'm growing older and love comfort more than style. Then again, I've always been more of a comfort-over-fashion gal.

At the end of our shopping journey, I managed to find my flannel nightgown in JC Penney's clearance area. There was one left. It fit. It was a fair price. Everybody was happy.

Except...it is a much flimsier flannel than I remember. I'm thinking of buying a pattern and weightier fabric and making my own nightie. It will take some work and some time.

But it will also give me an opportunity to remember my grandmother. And winter nights growing up. Heart-to-heart talks with Denise while Diane told us to go to sleep.

I imagine getting nighties for Christmas wasn't very exciting back in the day. But now I understand. Grandma, who couldn't be with us at Christmastime, was keeping us warm and cozy, letting us know we were loved, just the same.

So...do I choose the flannel with little yellow, pink or blue flowers?

Thrilling it to Snail Mail

Kirk Douglas passed away this week. Of all the stories and articles about him, one in particular struck a nerve.

Douglas wrote a piece about the joy of corresponding the old fashioned way.

Of course, his correspondents were more notable than my own, but I had to agree with him that the written word is a powerful, enduring thing.

In our paperless society, we've grown accustomed to communicating electronically. (And yes, I understand the irony, given that I've kept this blog going for over seven years.) There are certainly advantages to texting and emailing, and they do have their place.

But so too, I believe, do written letters.

Being the sentimental beast I am, I keep lots of old cards and letters from friends and family. I know I should go through them, and one day soon, I will. Maybe. Probably.

The other day, I came across some letters my brother, Paul, wrote me when I was living in Virginia. Maybe I saved them to use as blackmail. In any event, I'm glad I did, because they are a hoot and a half. The envelopes were addressed to me and tagged, variously, "Woman of La Mancha," "Pineapple Queen," "The Brains Behind Spam," and "The Crusher," to give a few examples. I look forward to reading through them again. Hopefully, they will still make sense, given that a lot of them allude to references I made in my letters to him. (Mysteriously, there's also a check for $5.00 that I never cashed. Do you suppose it's still good?)

They say the younger generation is abandoning letter writing. That may be so. But in the past two weeks, I've received thank you notes from two of my nieces, Claire and Rose, and I was touched by both. When you take the time to send a note to someone, you may not realize how much it means to them.

What I wanted to do was send a "thank you" to them for their thank you. But that's just silly, I know.

Still, I want them to know I appreciate their taking the time to write. And put a stamp on the envelope. And put it in the mail.

Such a little thing. And such a big thing, too.

Oh My My

I'm not sure I would have put money on the bet that albums would make a comeback.

There are maybe four dozen or so that have been gathering dust in my record cabinet. (Yes, I have a record cabinet.)

©1973 Apple Records

It's easy to forget what a prize these vinyl beauties are. The work that went into designing the covers, many of which are legendary unto themselves. And the inclusion of the lyrics, especially helpful when there's an artist who's difficult to understand.

I remember sitting in my bedroom as a teen, headphones on, poring over the album cover as I listened to a record for the first (or fifteenth) time.

So when Mr. Ginley left Sunday afternoon to spend time with this brothers, I got out an album I hadn't listened to in quite some time.

It was Ringo Starr's third solo album, post-Beatles, released in 1973, entitled Ringo. My brother gave it to me as a gift for my birthday(?) or Christmas(?). The record went Gold in the U.K. and Platinum in the U.S.

As I was washing dishes, I let Ringo take me back, singing along to lyrics I'd not heard in quite awhile.

I'd forgotten all of these things...

• How involved the other three former Beatles were on this record. There were songs written by all the previous mop-tops, with John, Paul and George also performing various singing bits with Ringo.

• About the kazoo on "You're Sixteen"

• That Ringo was only 32 (and all he wanted to do was boogaloo). Wow, at 32 the guy had been drumming for this legendary rock band and was now making a solo go of it (with a little help from his friends).

• Step Lightly, a lilting tune that included a little tap dancing.

• The album-sized booklet that was enclosed with the record featuring Klaus Voorman's illustrations for each song, along with the lyrics. (Tim Bruckner did the painting featured on the album cover.)

Isn't it grand when you rediscover something you've had all along? It was a good day, indeed.