Christmas Musings

It's pretty quiet here at the Casa de Ginley. Mr. is still snuggled safely in his bed. The chili is snuggled safely in the crock pot. The cranberries are gurgling on the stove. And the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the scents of cooking food to create a pleasant aroma.

Christmas 1966

The weather outside is dismal. But at least folks won't have to drive through a raging snowstorm to share the holidays with loved ones. (Assuming COVID hasn't shot down their holiday plans.)

As I enjoy the quiet of this Christmas morning, I look back on other, noisier mornings of years past. In my childhood, my parents piled us kids into the car to attend church at 6 a.m. Wriggling all the way through mass, the specter of gifts under the tree was stronger, alas, than the birth of a child millennia ago. Savior of the world or no, the presents held a more immediate allure that no amount of dirty looks from my parents could assuage. My sadistic parents would make us change out of our "good" clothes, brew themselves a cup of coffee and settle in before the wrapping paper rip-fest began.

Then there were the years with Joe in the house. Waking up early, waiting in anticipation to see how he would like his gifts. I guess it's a good sign that he wasn't greedy, but it was also a little unnerving that our kid would open one gift at a time, examine it and want to go play with it before opening the other packages. Not sure where he got that from.

Flash forward to this quiet morning. I finally put up the tree a couple of nights ago. There are a few things in Mr. Ginley's stocking. I renewed some subscriptions for him and bought myself three Alice Guy Blaché DVDs. And the gifts from the exchange yesterday with Joe and Jill are sitting in their pretty gift bag under the tree.

Today I'll watch a few Christmas movies, imbibe some hot chocolate and take it easy. If I'm lucky, Maggie Cat will sit on my lap. 

I hope all of you enjoy a wonderful, safe, healthy holiday season, however you choose to celebrate. Or not. 

Be it Christmas or Hanukkah (belatedly) or Festivus (for the rest of us).

Perusing Thomas the Tank Engine Storybook

Addictions

I don't know if it's due to genetics, upbringing or past-life experiences, but I don't appear to have any harmful addictive tendencies.

Last one before its demise

It may have something to do with the fact that my body doesn't tolerate mass quantities of alcohol. I've never been tempted to smoke. And I'm leery of taking painkillers. 

On the other hand, put me in front of a plate of Christmas goodies, and watch out. 

I suppose I've always known this about myself, but it became obvious last weekend at my family's holiday gathering.

With Diane driving, I was en route to Denise's home, where the festivities were to take place. I was cloistered in the back seat of her car with the twin tea rings she had baked the night before. I admit to getting high on the aroma of yeast and sugar. It was all I could do not to rip off the plastic covering and stick my face in it. Still, I prevailed, and both tea rings made it to their destination intact (although they didn't stay that way for long).

Later, after Denise pulled thumbprint cookies out of the oven and placed the plate within reaching distance, I was compelled to gobble some of those, too. 

In between the two incidents, there was other food, which I sort of remember. Pulled pork, mac 'n cheese, etc. But it's the classic desserts that reel me in every time.

Some of it is surely nostalgia. Tea rings and cookies were mandatory Christmas treats in our house, and when I see them again, they bring back mom...and boxes of cookies of various kinds, the Hershey's miniature countdown wreath, live Christmas tree and fake fireplace.

This time of year is when I feel most acutely the absence of my parents. When I gobble the goodies, I suppose it's my way of remembering and celebrating holidays past.

So, thanks, Denise for hosting. And Diane & John for putting me up. (And putting up with me.)

And may you all find a measure of happiness in the weeks to come. Let's hope next year brings the good kind of surprises.

Speaking of surprises, my brother boasted that he has some tea ring in his freezer. Maybe I'll show up on his doorstep one of these mornings to see if there's any left. 

I'm sure he won't mind...

Snitches Get Stitches

Am I the only one who thinks the whole Elf on the Shelf thing is just creepy?

public domain image

For the benefit of those who are childless or who have been living under a rock for the past several years, here's the skinny on Elf on the Shelf.

Some sadistic soul thought it would be a great idea to invent a stuffed elf, place him around the house and tell their kids that they'd better behave because the elf was watching them. Each night leading up to December 25th, parents are supposed to wait until Junior heads off to dreamland, then move the elf to a different location. The point of this exercise is to keep junior on his toes. If the kid screws up, the Elf rats him out and Junior's going to have a lousy Christmas.

I envision an awful lot of future therapy sessions for people traumatized by this red-suited buttinski who mysteriously turned up in random places around the house, ready to snitch on them for any transgression they may have committed. 

Trying to swipe an extra cookie? Sneak a peek at the presents Mom stashed in the closet? Watch a little more TV than you're allowed? Watch out, cause there's a blabbermouth in the house.

Honestly, growing up, we never needed a stupid Elf because Mom was on the job. She could smell cookies on our breath, hear the rustle of wrapping paper at 50 paces and knew when it was time to throw us out in the cold to get some fresh air away from the television screen. 

Anyone who has watched Bewitched knows that Gladys Kravitz was not a sympathetic character. Nobody likes to be spied on. As far as I'm concerned, Elf on the Shelf is just a big old snitch. 

And, like that old chestnut goes, "Snitches Get Stitches."

I thought I was being original, but to my chagrin I discovered there is actually a shirt that features this saying with a black-and-blue Elf.

Suffice it to say, there'll be no elf on any shelf in the Casa de Ginley. It's not that I've been naughty, mind you. 

I just don't want any elf up in my business. 

I Wanna Be Like Treva

I imagine there are few among us who haven't daydreamed about a particular career and thought, "I would LOVE that job."

[1] Photo attribution

Over the years, I've thought I'd enjoy a number of other careers, including audio book reader, library page and bookseller. But the one job that I surely would have pursued if I'd had the wherewithal is comedy writer for a sitcom.

Recently, I read a book called Mary and Lou and Rhoda and Ted: And All the Brilliant Minds Who Made The Mary Tyler Moore Show a Classic. It showcased the breakthrough nature of the show, and in particular its female writers.

The Mary Tyler Moore Show (MTM) launch in 1971. It almost didn't get off the ground because TV executives were concerned about a show that starred an unmarried woman at age 30 whose focus was her career, not nabbing a husband and settling down and starting a family. The original premise had Mary Richards, the main character, as a divorcee. The producers were told Americans weren't sympathetic to divorce and pushed hard to change Mary's status to single, having recently broken up after a long-term relationship.

Keep in mind, up to this time, lead female protagonists in sitcoms included a witch, a genie and Lucy, the lovable goofball whose antics defined slapstick. Yes, I Love Lucy was groundbreaking in some ways – featuring a pregnant Lucy, the first time any woman was actually shown on TV with a bun in the oven. But Lucy was still beholden to Ricky, always trying to please and being chastised by him just before the credits rolled, sending that message that the husband knew best.

It's hard to believe now that when the Mary Tyler Moore Show was being created, the idea of hiring women comedy writers was radical. Male TV executives couldn't believe that women could write comedy. 

Treva Silverman proved them all wrong.

Before Treva, there had only been a handful of women writers. After Treva, there would be plenty more.

It was Carol Burnett, who saw Treva at a comedy club in New York and gave Treva her first break in TV, writing for a show called The Entertainers. Being the only woman writer, it took awhile before Treva became "one of the boys." Once she was accepted, the door creaked open and other women were allowed in.

Before signing onto the MTM Show, Treva's writing credits included episodes of The Monkees, Room 222, That Girl, and, regrettably perhaps, Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp.

But it was The MTM show where Treva was able to shine, picking up two Emmy Awards during her stint there. Having women writers on the show meant that issues were addressed from a woman's perspective. Many of the stories for the show came from Treva's and the other women writers' personal experiences. The characters on MTM were full dimensional, the issues often complex and the friendships binding.

Alas, while The MTM Show was groundbreaking, it gave way to a string of insipid television that did nothing for the image of women as relatable, fully-formed people. It was all about mindless, escapist entertainment – a la Three's Company, Charlie's Angels and The Brady Bunch. 

Eventually, this would change, divorce would lose its stigma, the Pill would become an acceptable topic for discussion and married couples would sleep in the same bed.

But it's Treva Silverman's career that I would love to have had. 

You know, that's me. Always living vicariously through others...

P.S. Other fun facts about Treva:

• She was a musical prodigy who started her career as a singing pianist in bars.
• She always wanted to be part of the Algonquin Round Table.
• Treva saved the movie Romancing the Stone by suggesting Kathleen Turner talk baby talk to her kitty at the beginning of the film. (Audiences who'd seen previews of the movie hated Turner's character for being too hard. This one scene changed the tone Turner's character and rescued the film.)
• She was a big fan of 1930s screwball comedies, which inspired her writing.

[1] Photo attribution: By Greg Gjerdingen from Willmar, USA - Mary Tyler Moore Statue, Downtown Minneapolis, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=69245269

 

Season's Eatings

Straightaway, let me say that yes, I did borrow the title of this from the SNL Schweddy Balls sketch, which just happened to appear last night on the Best of SNL Christmas special. But I'm pretty sure "Season's Eatings" has been used many times.

public domain photo

With that out of the way, let's get down to the business of food. 

Thanksgiving invariably brings out all the classic family dishes of our childhood. Someone recently talked about a cucumber/onion/Miracle Whip/vinegar concoction they swear is delicious. (Maybe you had to be there.) Some rave about the iconic green bean casserole with Campbell's Soup cream of mushroom soup and those crunchy onion things, created in 1955 by (you got it) someone from Campbell's Soup kitchen. (I tried making this. Once.) The cranberry debate rages this time of year – canned jellied or fresh cranberries? (I make the latter but use honey to sweeten). 

I'm not even going to get into the stuffing/dressing discussion. Which inevitably begins with "up the bird's ass or no?" and involves a plethora of "secret" ingredients from chestnuts to sausage to seafood. 

Desserts are a little more straightforward – until you get to the topping. There are clearly two camps: Cool Whip and Reddi Whip/fresh. (I read the ingredients on the Cool Whip container once and never bought it again.)

This week, we kept our Thanksgiving on the down-low, as we often do these days. Just me and Mr. Ginley and Maggie Lou. I tried to make it a day off, but I still did a little bit of work baking the cinnamon rolls (well, yes, they were pop & bake, but it's the thought that counts). And the cranberry sauce. The turkey, admittedly, came from Honey Baked Ham. The pumpkin pie was a ready-bake Marie Callender (but it was awfully good, especially with the REDDI WHIP on top). 

I miss the Thanksgivings of my growing up years. My mom was a good cook, and her meals were traditional and tasty. No crazy 1960s trendy BS, just solid classics. Her tea ring, just wow. And her gravy was always to die for. I think good gravy-making is a lost art. 

I thought about my folks a lot on Thanksgiving. Maybe I felt a little like I let my mom down by not making more of an effort preparing the meal. 

On the other hand, I think she understands.

News of the Day

Last night, an episode of the evening news evoked a volley of expletives from Mr. Ginley. Yet again. 

public domain image

Yes, it's good to be informed, but it can also be overwhelming to experience wave after wave of death, disease and mayhem and know there's not one stinking thing you can do about it.

Taking a different road, I decided perhaps I would get my news from the local rag. Here are some of the headlines I found:

Ohio Job Situation is Said to Improve
Complete Revision of U.S. Tax Bill

Premiers to Meet on Irish Question

Tells History of Free Love Colony

Makers of Swiss Cheese to Meet

November's First Visible Snow Works No Wonderland Magic

Cleveland-Akron Road is Dedicated

Ignatians Lose to Bellevue

Here Are Six Comedies Well Worth Looking For

More Advice for the Cold Weather Drivers Here

Some Who NEVER Should Marry

Woman All-Around Champion Wins Sock-Darners' Medal

Of course, there were the usual ads for Christmas shopping, advice on cooking Thanksgiving dinner and comic pages.

All-in-all, pretty typical news stuff. 

The date of the paper I was reading – Sunday, November 21, 1921. 

Yes, there were signs that times have changed, particularly in attitudes towards women. In the article about the woman who darned socks, the gist of it was she was rabid about juggling her achievements with caring for her family. Maybe we've moved the needle* a little bit. On the other hand, aren't mothers still feeling guilty if they don't put their families first?

What did amuse me is there were several "women's" pages of fashion and such, which appeared in the paper BEFORE the Sports section. Take that, Babe Ruth.

So, what was the biggest difference between the PD 100 years ago and today's version? The older paper was a whopping 86 pages. 

I imagine how many writers it would take to put together an 86-page newspaper. All tip-tapped on manual typewriters, the copy set by Linotype. And it makes me sad to wonder how much real news is not being covered.

You might surmise that reading the newspaper would be a better choice for Mr. Ginley's blood pressure.

Alas, no. He yells at the fish wrap, too.

*Pun intended.

Contrary to popular belief,
Christmas advertising also started
before Thanksgiving back in the day.

Passing Amusements

They're replacing the Antique Car Ride at Cedar Point. With a restaurant. Another vestige of my childhood down the crapper.

For the uninitiated, the antique cars ran along a set of metal tracks. You "steered" the car and hit the gas to go. There was no brake – the car stopped when you lifted your foot off the gas pedal. 

Granted, I haven't been to Cedar Point in years. All the same, it was nice to know that the antique cars were there, teaching a new generation of youngsters how to rear end their siblings to make their heads snap back. And yes, it was worth it, even if your folks were standing by the sidelines yelling your name and telling you to knock it off.

In all likelihood, I probably wouldn't recognize Cedar Point anymore. Amusement parks are all about the coasters. Ya, I did my share back in the day, but I liked the sky buckets better (unlike Mr. Ginley who was terrified of the height.) I also enjoyed the real steam train that ran between Frontier Land and the rest of the park. 

Anyone of a certain age will tell you the Frontier Paddlewheel Boat Ride featured little tableaus along the riverbank, with a cabin "on fire" and a "bear" chasing a guy onto the roof of his house. My friend, Axel, has some footage from that boat ride that's pretty solid. CP probably got the idea for this from our friends at Disney, who used a lot of these techniques in the early Disneyland days – before they got all jiggy with modern technology.

And now the antique cars are gone, too, as well as the Turnpike Cars, a racier version of the same genre, which featured convertible mini MG-look-alikes. (Who knew MGs could get smaller?) I was so cool behind the wheel of one of those little beauties. 

Other rides that are just a memory include the Space Spiral (a revolving glass cylinder that rose to give you a view of the whole park); Shoot the Rapids, a tame water ride that gave you a soak, which was a boon on hot summer days; and the Sky Slide, for which you'd haul a burlap sack up a LOT of stairs, then choose a lane, plant your seat on the sack and race your siblings down a hilly track to the bottom.

In my earliest Cedar Point memories, each of us kids got an equal number of tickets (much like the dinnertime "1-porkchop apiece" rationing system my mother employed). A few years later, CP came out with bracelets you had to show to ride the rides. My parents, who didn't care about the rides (except the train and overhead buckets), would spend the day watching the shows that the summer college kids performed. Then they would meet us for the picnic lunch Mom had prepared and left at the picnic site. (Hot dogs and baked beans and potato salad.)

Aside from magically appearing for lunch, my oldest siblings would scram, while my sister, Denise, got stuck with me and Paul (when he was old enough to do the rides). We usually spent some time in the Arcade, too, playing (or watching others master) pinball games and Skeeball.

Ah, well. We all move on to big people cars and SUVs and mini-vans. 

Still, I'm a little sad to know I won't be able to watch my future/potential grandchildren slam into each on the Antique Car ride.

I sure hope Memphis Kiddie Park doesn't go away anytime soon.

Getting Chippy

"Can I get one, too?" inquired Mr. Ginley.

public domain image

The backstory: He was referring to the microchip Maggie got as part of her insurance coverage. When she had her teeth removed, we were told it would be less exorbitantly expensive to pay for insurance for a year than it would be to pony up for just her dental stuff. Coverage included implanting a microchip in case she ever gets lost or runs away from home (or from Mr. Ginley). 

Anyhow...his comment started me to thinking, "Wouldn't microchips be a good thing for people to have, too?" 

Naturally, as I always do at such times, I turned to the all-knowing Google and asked. And, once again, it seems I'm woefully behind the times. 

Microchipping humans is a thing. A very controversial thing, as it turns out. While those wacky Swedes are at the forefront of the technology – using microchipping to access railway travel and to store social media information – here in Dan'l Boone's home country, we're taking it slower.

In an odd twist of fate, in 2017, it was Wisconsin (transplanted homeland for millions of Swedes) where one controversy sprung up when a vending machine company offered employees the opportunity to get chipped. Lawmakers there freaked out and started writing bills that would prohibit human chipping. 

Then up popped the conspiracy theorists, who promoted a totally wacko theory that Bill Gates was planning to use the COVID vaccine to chip people for tracking purposes. Before anyone goes running to FB to warn friends, family and neighborhood strangers (not that I think any of my regular readers would do this), be assured this bizarre theory was DEBUNKED. Apparently, the Russians got in on this spurious bandwagon, too, and tried to spread it around. (I know, I was shocked and surprised myself.)

Lawmakers here are watching closely because they have security and privacy concerns. Eleven states have already banned mandatory chipping. These fears are legitimate because, like any electronic technology, microchips are ripe for thieves and employers who want to use personal and financial information for evil. (For example, there are concerns your boss would use the chip to track how much time you spend in the potty or at the water cooler.) 

No controversy would be complete without the contribution from the lunatic fringe known as the far religious right. One God-fearing West Virginia worker refused to use an implant to clock in at work because he equated the device to the "mark of the beast," believing it could link him to the anti-Christ. Naturally, when he sued his employer, the plaintiff won, and the company was told it couldn't force Backwards Billy to get a chip.

In case you're interested, the average price for getting a microchip implanted in your hand (between thumb and forefinger) is $150. The chip is about the same size as a grain of rice. 

When I told Mr. Ginley all this, he simply said, "I don't care about having all that personal stuff on a chip. I just want to be chipped in case you try to lose me, so someone can bring me back home."

Having a chip actually seems like a good idea for Alzheimer's patients, who are prone to roaming. And for small children who tend to wander away from mom and dad. On a more unsavory note, it would help police identify dead bodies.

In any event, it looks the only chips entering Mr. Ginley's body will be of the potato or corn variety.

Besides, I suspect he thought he'd have the implant in his shoulder, like the cat, not in his hand, where he would purport to feel it.

Every. Single. Day.

Jingle Jangle Jingle

Someone posted a list of the first line of old advertising jingles on FB the other day.

I was able to sing them all. 

This is not a surprise, given that I also know the theme songs to TV shows, like Top Cat, a cartoon from my childhood. My brain plays host to many of these worthless ditties. And while on some level I think it's pretty keen that I can remember them, on the other hand, I'd rather have an aptitude for remembering, say, important dates in history. Or how to change the settings on my phone. Or the name of that guy, you know, that guy...

Ah, well, I suppose we have to be happy with the gifts we're given, even though we may not find them terribly useful.

Maybe it's because commercial jingles were part of the soundtrack of my childhood. Or maybe because they were so stinkin' catchy. I can't think of many companies that use jingles anymore. Which I think is a pity, because they really did build brand awareness. If you don't believe me, ask someone of a certain age what's on a Big Mac.*

Anyhow, I thought it would be a lark to see if my reader(s) were interested in playing along. So here's a list of the jingles I picked up from that FB post, plus a few bonus ones just for kicks.

1. My bologna has a first name
2. I don't wanna grow up

3. Gimme a break, gimme a break

4. The best part of waking up

5. Sometimes you feel like a nut

6. I'd like to teach the world to sing

7. Reach out and touch someone

8. If you dare wear short shorts

9. They're magically delicious

10. Meow, meow, meow, meow

11. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is

12. So kiss a little longer, hold hands a little longer

13. If you think it's butter, but it's not

14. Roll on, Big O (this is a local favorite)

15. Double your pleasure, double your fun

16. You deserve a break today

17. Mmm-mmm good, mmm-mmm-good

18. Be all you can be

19. What walks down stairs, alone or in pairs

20. A little dab'll do ya

Well, I hope you had fun. Let me know if you come up with any more to share with the class!

*Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.

Who's That Mascot?

"Slider reminds me of Baby Huey," I remarked recently on a chat with coworkers.

public domain image of wtf is this mascot

I am probably going to roast for saying this, but the Indians' mascot, who will remain with the team after it becomes the Guardians, is not my favorite: a big pink muppet with a nose like a furry casaba melon. I'm not sure if Slider or Phillie Phanatic came first, but I suspect they are somehow related. (Phillie, by the way, was at the top of the list of most popular mascots, according to NBC Sports.) 

To be fair, I'm not a fan of mascots at all. Many of them just seem creepy to me. I think about what's going on inside that suit, some sweaty person bounding around, cannoning t-shirts at fans and whipping small children into a frenzy, and I just can't muster a lot of affection. 

I do have one question: What prompts a team to take on a live mascot?

I thought it would be interesting to assemble a list of some of the more well-known mascots. Just to clarify, I'm only talking about the ones that are in a suit, so this doesn't include the Notre Dame Leprechaun or Georgia's real-life bulldog:

• OSU's Brutus Buckeye: This is one of the weirdest mascots, to be sure, considering a buckeye is an inanimate object. 

• Akron University's Zippy: Okay, I will concede this guy is pretty cute. Maybe because he reminds me of Saturday morning cartoon characters from my childhood.

• Padres' San Diego Chicken: This was listed as the second most popular mascot by NBC Sports. This giant chicken-headed mascot debuted in 1974. No cute factor here. Maybe it was KFC fans stuffing the ballot box?

• The Mets' Mr. Met: Not many points for name originality, but he is pretty cute. Also, he gets props for likely being one of the first MLB mascots, with roots that go back to 1963.

• Kansas City Royals' Sluggerrr: Apparently, they had to add the extra "rrr's" because this critter is supposed to have some kind of Lion King vibe. It loses its jungle cred, however, by having a built-in crown in its head. The crown looks like a series of upward-facing stalagtite-like tonsils – stalagtonsils? I can't imagine what illicit substance was present at the creation of this guy.

• Montreal Canadiens' Youppi!: Montreal's version of Slider, his name means "Yippee!" in French. Youppi! is a carryover from the Expos. 

So, why have a mascot? It's a way to bring kids to the ballpark, I suppose. That and the nachos. As an added bonus, kids can clamor over one another trying to get one of the free cheapo t-shirts the mascot shoots out of a cannon. The big kids can join in on this, too. Plus they have beer and selfies, so there's something for everyone at a professional sporting event. 

Besides, it's too loud to talk about the game with the person next to you. 

So what else are you going to do at a ballgame? 

I Laughed, I Cried

Several months ago, my D.C. brother-in-law (at our request) started sending us "Daily Dose" emails. Each one features a YouTube video of a comedian. Most are stand-up routines, although there are a few sketches and SNL snippets.

Used by permission:
JeanneRobertson.com

The humorist who quickly became one of our favorites was Jeanne Robertson, who  told stories about her life and her family. In particular, she talked about her husband, Jerry, whom she referred to as "Left Brain" and her son, Bailey (aka "Beaver").

We found out recently that Ms. Robertson passed away in August at the age of 77, two months after her husband (he was 83). 

Admittedly, I feel a bit cheated that we didn't know about Jeanne Robertson sooner. On the plus side, her comedy lives on, thanks to YouTube. (The internet isn't all bad.)

Although I learned a lot about Ms. Robertson from her videos, I thought I'd do my thing on the google and get the whole scoop.

In addition to being a humorist, Jeanne Flinn Swanner Robertson accomplished much during her time here:

    • Miss America North Carolina 1963 (also Miss Congeniality)

    • Basketball Player & Graduate, Auburn University 1967

    • Physical Education Teacher

    • Professional Speaker

    • Author of Three Books

    • Producer of Four Videos

    • Benefactor of Elan University (along with Left Brain)

As to her personal life, from which she garnered much of her humorous material, she married her first husband in 1965 with whom she had her son, Bailey Bowline. The couple divorced in the early 1970s, and she married Jerry Robertson in 1974. Ms. Robertson has two grandchildren.

In researching this article, I found more nuggets of her appearances, including a very recent podcast and an interview she did with her son, during which they told a hilarious story about chicken parts he locked in the trunk of his car.

I'm sad that Jeanne Robertson won't be sharing any new stories. Her gentle wit has been a refreshing change from some of the raunchier, mean-spirited comedians that have come down the pike. 

Thanks, YouTube, for keeping her spirit alive.

Everyone Knows It's Wendy

When Mr. Ginley's California brother, Brian, paid us a visit last week, I decided to take a day off so Mr. and I could show him one of our MetroParks.

But, which one would it be? 

Then I remembered my friend, George, had been to Wendy Park and remarked that many improvements had been made – including a new pedestrian bridge, expanded all-purpose trails and additional parking.

Our destination became clear. And so it was the three of us trooped off, with me driving. Wendy Park isn't hard to find these days. Well-marked signs guide you off the Shoreway and along twisty roads and a traffic circle ("no, we're not going to Edgewater") and on to Wendy Park. It's tucked away, off to the east a bit, along the lakefront. 

Given that we'd seen the refurbished former Coast Guard station the last time (Brian checked it out later that day), we instead chose to try out the new trails. Soon, we were hoofing it over the pedestrian bridge and admiring the view of the Flats, Downtown Cleveland and environs.  

We watched the activity near the salt mine for a bit and chuckled, remembering how Mr. Ginley told our son he'd have to go work in the salt mines, that we'd buy him a metal lunch box and a thermos, but the 4-year-old wasn't having any of it. (He opted to go to Pre-K instead.) 

We clip-clopped our way to the other side of the bridge and walked a bit further until we came to the next bridge, an ancient behemoth that lifts so boats can sail underneath to continue their journey to Whiskey Island on the Cuyahoga River. 

Walking single-file across that bridge then back again, we had nearly made it when we heard the signal that the bridge was going to begin lift-off. We scurried the rest of the way and watched from the sidelines as its deck rose ever so slowly to let a large salt barge pass. Ginormous chains pulled up the deck of the bridge, clickety-clack until the deck was all the the way up. Then a tugboat at the rear of the freighter powered it past us and docked near the piles of salt we'd seen earlier.

As we headed back along the path, we noticed a second lift bridge, its deck supporting train tracks. Our luck continued, as a choo-choo pulled up a half-mile or so away and waited for the deck of that bridge to descend, at which point the train chugged its way across. 

The boys were in hog heaven, and admittedly, I enjoyed the show, too.

It helped that the weather was picture-perfect. 

Sometimes I get busy and lose sight of all the cool stuff we have in our berg. 

Tuesday with Wendy gave me the opportunity to recall, relax and enjoy.

Sucking It Up

I got the call at work last week. "This vacuum cleaner is a piece of s**t," growled Mr. Ginley. "I'm not surprised that a**hole Dyson doesn't show his face on TV anymore. I'd be ashamed to sell this crap, too."

I waited for the dust to settle before I promised to go in search of a new model.

"I want a Hoover," Mr. Ginley declared. "One with a bag. I'm sick of cleaning out these stupid filters."

Fair enough. I had to agree the whole idea of having to wash out the filters in a vacuum cleaner makes no sense to me. It feels like a step backwards. Certainly, it's not labor-saving. Using all that water is not environmentally friendly. A paper bag that you toss every couple of months is a quicker and easier solution – and it will eventually disintegrate in the garbage just fine.

And so my quest began. The tricky part was finding a place that sold the old-style Hoover upright with a bag. I tried the big box stores first, figuring that was my best bet.

No such luck. I even (heaven forfend) tried Walmart. No go.

Well, shopping local is always a good plan, so I googled small vacuum cleaner stores near me. And voilà, there was one and it had my vacuum. One quick call, and I was ready to pay a visit to All Makes Vacuum. The second voilà came when I realized it was located one block over from the Lakewood library. 

It was meant to be.

After dropping Mr. Ginley at the library, I headed over to pick up my new appliance. There it was, my new Hoover Windtunnel, all shiny blue plastic. With a bag.

I completed the transaction, and the next day I was able to assemble my new Hoover upright, easy peasy. Screw in the handle, slap on the attachments, and we were good to go.

Let me just say, I was happy that I:

• was able to find the right vacuum.
• could shop and support a local merchant.
• got it done in a day.

The new Hoover works like a dream, although no, I didn't finish vacuuming the living room.

I didn't want to deprive Mr. Ginley of all the fun.

This week's blog idea came from my boss, who asked the musical question, "Why do Clevelanders pronounce Carnegie as Car-nay'-gee, while New Yorkers and other say, Car'-neh-gee?"

Andrew Car-nay'-gee
(public domain photo)

Naturally, being the curious soul that I am, I had to investigate. And so I hobbled over to the google and asked.

As it turns out, Clevelanders get it right. "Right" is defined by how Mr. Carnegie himself pronounced his name, if you assume the person whose name it is knows how to pronounce it correctly. (Which I do.) It also helps that folks who live in Scotland, where the name originated, also say Car-nay'-gee.

You never know, when you set out to learn the correct pronunciation, what you will find. 

The Carnegie discussion led to a related topic, i.e., why small towns in America sometimes adopt the name of another known city, then change its pronunciation. I give you:

Lima (Ly'-mah)

Milan (My'-lan)

Medina (Med-eye'-nah)

Louisville (Lou'-iss-ville)

The list goes on, but you get the idea.

Some have theorized the pronunciation was done intentionally so the locals would know when a visitor was amongst them. But I think this is pretty lame. After all, it's been my experience that small town folks know all their neighbors. It wouldn't take the mispronunciation of their berg to tip them off to a stranger.

As someone who grew up with the name "Schrimpf," which almost no one gets right (except Axel), I've always been a little sensitive about saying names correctly. I've come to realize that even simple names can be mispronounced. 

Just to clarify, I say it's "Gin-lee." If you say it's "Jin-lee," you're wrong.

Let's call the whole thing off...

Finger-Laking Good

Last weekend, Mr. Ginley and I ventured into the Finger Lakes region of New York for the East Coast celebration of a West Coast wedding. The bride and groom were our niece, Megan and her beloved, Liam. 

Like most of our road trips, this one involved Google maps and a lot of swearing.

Also, like most of our road trips, all's well that ends well. And the party in the park was definitely worth the trip. 

The actual exchanging of the vows took place last month among the redwoods in California. Our son and daughter-in-law represented for the family, but Mr. and I decided to attend the east coast celebration instead.

The bride wore her wedding dress, a lovely chiffon-skirted and lace topped dream that suited her nicely. The groom chose not to recreate his wedding day attire. A video of the ceremony was projected on the wall, and the slide show the bride's father put together was also shown, to the tears and applause of an appreciative crowd.

The weather cooperated, and we were able to feast and visit to our heart's content. The venue was Taughannock State park near Ithaca, on the Finger Lake known as Cayuga. It was a beautiful spot. The kids and dogs were able to run around and play like, well kids and dogs. The adults were able to visit and catch up. It was a picture-perfect event.

Alas, the day went by quickly, and we made our exit before darkness arrived. We only got lost once on the way back. And yes, it was dark way before we were back on the lighted freeway. 

But we made it back to civilization just fine, and with our happy memories intact.

Rocking the Bedazzler

"It looks like his wife got him a Bedazzler for Christmas," Mr. Ginley quipped last night.

The Bedazzler (photo credit below*)

We were watching episodes of The Midnight Special, a musical extravaganza of the 1970s that featured all of the popular pop/rock acts of the day.

The Bedazzler comment was made in reference to a member of Aerosmith, whose shirt sparkled with gewgaws. Back in the day, the Bedazzler was used to affix said gewgaws to items of clothing.

As well as sparkly shirts, vests, jackets and pants, performers were bedecked in large bellbottom slacks (which we used to call "elephant pants"), karate-style pantsuits, frilly shirts in yellows, pinks and baby blues and, of course, the requisite platform shoes. 

Plus lots and lots of guys with open shirts. (Not a bad thing for a young Peter Frampton, for example.)

While we enjoyed the trip down memory lane, and we were certainly guilty of some of the fashion OMGs we saw on display, it was all a bit sad, too, as the refrain became, "Is he/she still alive?" and "Whatever happened to...?" Along with, "Wasn't Graham Nash the lead vocalist for the Hollies at some point?"

So, as we listened to the music, I went a-googling.

"Which one of the Bee Gees is still around? (Barry Gibb). 

"Is Helen Reddy still alive?" (No)

"What song did War do besides Cisco Kid?" (Low Rider)

We also discussed the lyrics to Patti Labelle's Lady Marmalade, which was quite racy at the time but today wouldn't even raise an eyebrow. Mr. Ginley, having mastered three years of French I, translated Voulez-Vous Coucher Avec Moi to: "Will you sleep with me?" 

John Denver did a duet with Mama Cass. Ironically, it was I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane (although John Denver's final flight, as I recall, was a prop job).

I also commented on how one guitarist (who shall remain nameless because I don't know his name) must have a little willy because it seemed to me he was trying to overcompensate with an electric guitar that was an über-fancy double-neck behemoth.

And on we went, late into the evening, skipping over a bunch of the artists but savoring the likes of Peter Frampton, Robert Palmer and Blondie.

It was fun traveling back in time to our "yutes" (as Joe Pesci pronounced it in My Cousin Vinnie). But a little sad that so many of our fellow travelers are gone.

And I'll never again wear elephant pants or platform shoes. 

I guess it's true that every cloud has a silver lining.

*This image, which was originally posted to Flickr, was uploaded to Commons using Flickr upload bot on 25 October 2013, 21:38 by Ke4roh. On that date, it was confirmed to be licensed under the terms of the license indicated.

Bowling for Art

At the Rocky River Public Library there are several displays of artwork created by Cowan Pottery, a company founded in 1927 by R. Guy Cowan.

Photo attribution below*

The collection is housed in the library as an homage to the pottery company, which was located in Rocky River, Ohio. One of the pieces that kept attracting my attention was a bowl entitled "New Year's Eve in New York" created by Viktor Schrekengost. 

My curiosity getting the better of me – as it is wont to do – I took a book out of the library about Cowan Pottery and sought to get the whole story about the bowl.

In 1931, shortly after Viktor began working at Cowan Pottery, a request came in from a gallery in New York for a punch bowl featuring a "New Yorkish" theme. The patron who made the request was not named. Viktor chose to take on the project.

In Viktor's mind, New York was all about the nightlife. He saw the city in blue and black, lights and jazz music. He was inspired by Harlem's Cotton Club. And Josef Binder, an artist renowned for his stunning poster designs. 

In Cubist style, Viktor created the Jazz Bowl, employing the sgraffito technique, which he'd learned in Vienna. Sgraffito is created by covering a white clay base with a black clay. The design is then etched into the black clay, exposing the white base beneath. The bowl was decorated in stylized images that celebrated the Jazz Age: stars and neon signs, skyscrapers, ships, a bottle of Champagne and a cocktail tray. Once the design work was completed, the punch bowl was glazed in Egyptian Blue. 

The completed piece was shipped off to New York. In response, a letter came from the patron, who turned out to be Eleanor, wife of then-New York governor Franklin Roosevelt. Eleanor so loved the bowl, she commissioned two more. One was to be placed in the Roosevelts' Hyde Park Home, the other in the White House. (Presumably, she was confident FDR would be living there soon. Two years later, he was.)

Viktor ultimately crafted ten of these bowls, although not all were in the Jazz style. One featured a fox hunting scene with matching plates, each plate with a different rider. To find the fox, the bowl had to be emptied – the fox was situated at the bottom of the punch bowl.

Now that I knew the history of the Jazz bowl, I became intrigued with Vicktor himself.  

Victor Schreckengost was born in Sebring, Ohio, in 1906. At an early age, he followed in his father's and uncles' potter-professioned footsteps, making toys out of clay and using crayons as the glaze.

At The Cleveland Institute of Art, he earned his diploma in design in 1929. He studied for a short time at the Kunstgewerbeschule in Vienna, where "Victor" became "Viktor." He returned to Cleveland and in 1930, joined the faculty at the School of Art. Three years later, he started the industrial design program there, which was the first of its kind in the U.S. Generations of industrial designers were taught by Viktor, including a man named Joe Oros, who was the chief designer of the 1965 Ford Mustang. 

Viktor was called to serve his country during World War II. While in the Navy, he aided in the design of radar-dectection systems and later, artificial limbs.

Espousing a credo of "function first, form after," Viktor Schreckengost designed a wide range of everyday items. Some of his more well-known pieces include:

• 1930s: A china pattern for American Limoges called "Flower Shop"

• 1933: The first cab-over-engine truck

• 1930s+: Children's streamlined pedal cars

• Mid-1960s: Sears Spaceliner bike

Other everyday items he designed were baby walkers, golf carts, flashlights, furniture, fans and lawn mowers.

Viktor passed away at the age of 101 in Florida. At the time of his death, he was an emeritus professor at the Cleveland Institute of Art, where he'd taught for 78 years.

It's theorized he would have been world-famous had he abandoned the shores of Lake Erie for, say, The Big Apple. But I have a sneaking suspicion Viktor was pretty happy with the way his life turned out.

What a great ride, and a truly cool Cleveland native.

*This image was originally posted to Flickr by Tim Evanson at https://flickr.com/photos/23165290@N00/39517173152(archive). It was reviewed on 6 January 2019 by FlickreviewR 2 and was confirmed to be licensed under the terms of the cc-by-sa-2.0.

Hating Meeces to Pieces

"Why does she just stare at it, why doesn't she kill it?" asked Mr. Ginley for the umpteenth time.

I explained once again that our cat is not a mouser or a bug killer. She will stare in the general direction of where her "prey" is located, like a lab technician stares at germs in a microscope. Never really engaging in the whole activity, just observing. She'll look at you, look at the prey, look back at you. Like she's done her job, and it's up to you to dispatch the offending critter.

So off I went to the store to acquire a mouse trap. On my first trip, I had a choice of two types. One was the traditional version you see in old cartoons. A little too graphic for me. The second, which I chose, was semi-covered. I went with that one.

I went home and set it up behind the stove, where the last-known sighting had occurred. Later in the evening, as we sat watching television, I heard a snap.

"What was that?" Mr. Ginley inquired.

And just like that, Mr. (or Mrs.) Mouse was dispatched to the great beyond. 

Unfortunately, given that the trap was somewhat exposed, I was witness to a pair of beady eyes, suspended in the throes of sudden death, that will haunt me for quite some time.

The mate to the now-deceased vermin turned up at 1:30 a.m. in a garbage can. Mr. was able to take care of him/her without using a device. But the next day, I went to a different store to look for a new set of traps.

This time, I found a model that's completely closed. So if any of these critters show up and take the peanut butter bait, I won't have to look into its accusing eyeballs. 

I'm knocking wood...so far, no more bodies. Given it had been several years between sightings, I hope we don't have to deal with this problem again for another 10 years or so (if ever). 

Critters are free to roam outside. But if they come in my house, all bets are off.

I'm a stone cold (rodent) killer. 

As long as I can't see their eyes.

Day Break

Every morning I wake up and go over everything I need to do that day.

What articles am I going to write? Do I have any appointments to keep? Any errands to run? Bills to pay?

All this consumes my waking moments until Maggie Cat starts banging her head against mine, and I drag my sorry ass out of bed to start the day.

This morning, I got up and fed Maggie. Passing the windows to the backyard, I heard the crickets still at it, and Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal chirping back and forth to one another. I  went back to bed and snoozed a little more, then I rolled over and looked out the window. It was Saturday-morning quiet. A little bit of traffic noise and a choo choo. But mostly just birds. 

And a glorious sky.

I lay on my side for some time and watched the clouds shift and crawl across the heavens, the sun winking in and out like a child's peek-a-boo. Instead of reviewing my itinerary, I watched the specs that were birds soaring up and about, and I wondered what it would be like to fly. 

And wouldn't it be so cool to take a train someplace today. Where would I go? Whom would I see?

There are times when I miss having cable television and Netflix. 

And then there are mornings like this, when Mother N. provides all the entertainment I need.

Plumb Amazing

She was the perfect foil for the saccharine-sweet Shirley Temple. Franklin Roosevelt admired her ability to mimic him. And she sold a lot of cleanser. 

Jane Withers, a child star whose career took some interesting twists and turns, passed on this week at the age of 95.

Pushed by her mother, a wannabe actress, Jane Withers began in vaudeville at the age of 2. By the time she reached the age of 4, she was starring in her own radio show called Dixie's Dainty Dewdrop. Her specialty was imitating celebrities and other famous people. 

At 6 1/2, Withers headed to Hollywood, where she started applying for the roles that would make Shirley Temple a star. Temple, with her buttery curls and icky-wicky sweetness, was the soothing balm to a country dealing with the Great Depression. It turned out that Withers was the perfect salty to Temple's sweet. 

The two came together in Bright Eyes, with Temple playing the poor little orphan to Withers' bratty rich girl, a character that must have been a hoot to perform. Eight-year-old Withers bangs on the piano, chases Temple on her tricycle, makes rat-a-tat machine gun noises and tears a doll apart so Temple can't have it.

Withers appeared in several films during the remainder of her childhood, including one with W.C. Fields. Playing out a 7-year contract with Twentieth Century Fox, Withers gradually eased away from her bratty persona, acting in films, doing hilarious impressions and performing song-and-dance routines throughout the 1930s. 

There were bit parts and voiceovers. A leading role in a low-budget flick. And a hiatus during which she had three children and focused on family. One marriage ended, another began, and Jane returned to the screen with a role in the blockbuster film Giant. Other films followed, but it was TV that saved Withers' career.

From 1963 to 1974, Withers was the spokesperson for Comet cleanser. As Josephine the Plumber, she played a friendly, down-to-earth character who demonstrated the power of Comet to clean stubborn stains. Some have said she was the precursor for Progressive Insurance's "Flo."

Withers made appearances in a number of lightweight TV sitcoms in the 1960s and 1970s, and she took on voiceover work for Disney. Occasionally, she did interviews and appearances at conventions. 

Withers' second husband, with whom she had two children, was killed in a plane crash in 1968. She married again in 1985. Her third husband passed away in 2013.

Outside her acting career, Jane Withers took part in charitable work and animal rescue activities. She taught Sunday school. And Withers collected a ton of movie memorabilia, including a pair of Fred Astaire's (autographed) dancing shoes and a dining table owned by Mary Pickford.

Withers' daughter summed it up nicely: 

"My mother was such a special lady. She lit up a room with her laughter, but she especially radiated joy and thankfulness when talking about the career she so loved and how lucky she was."

Benchmarks and Bookends

My mom was the same age when I was born as I was when my son was born.

This fact has given me pause from time to time, as I consider where my mom and I were in relation to where my son and I are now.

At my current age, my mom was working at Hill's department store part-time and my dad was nearing retirement. I had just moved to Alexandria, Virginia, having accepted a job at Kay Jewelers, which had bought out J.B. Robinson. Mr. Ginley followed me there later in the year after his stint at JBR came to an end. 

Flashing forward to the present, my son started his dream job at about the same age as when I was moving to Virginia. 

All of this is apropos of nothing, I supposed. It's just that we always think of our parents as being older than we are. It never feels like we're going to catch up with them. But here I am, facing the same challenges they did at this stage of the game.

I heard the Simon & Garfunkel song, Old Friends the other day. And the words struck me, Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a park bench quietly, how terribly strange to be seventy.

Simon & Garfunkel are seventy-nine.

Well, time flies and there you are. I guess the moral of the story is, don't squander your time. It's so cliché but it really does fly. 

I confess I didn't cut the hedges this week. Instead, I went to a cruise-in where I bopped to old music, chomped a cheeseburger, savored some ice cream and admired vintage automobiles, which are pure art, as far as I'm concerned. Today, I went to Lakewood Arts Festival and strolled among throngs of other art fans looking to enjoy an event that didn't happen last year because of you-know-what. Not exactly setting the world on fire, I grant you that.

Still, I'm not quite ready to sit on a park bench, lost in my overcoat, waiting for the sunset.

There's time enough yet for that, I think.

(Old Friends, lyrics by Paul Simon)

Giving THanks

Spoiler alert: Tom Hanks did it for free.

public domain photo

The Pain Squealer (aka Plain Dealer) did a story about the Tom Hanks video for the Cleveland Indians' name change to the Guardians. 

Unless you've lived under a rock all your life, as soon as you heard the voiceover on the video, you knew it was Tom. 

It was Woody. Josh. Forrest Gump. Mr. Rogers. Capt. Miller. Sam Baldwin. Chuck Noland. Jimmy Dugan. Ben Bradlee. Paul Edgecomb. Andrew Beckett. Jim Lovell. Carl Hanratty. Charlie Wilson. Robert Langdon. And yes, well, Kip/Buffy Wilson on Bosom Buddies. (Which I never watched, but want to include in case it brings back fond memories for anyone.)

I've always been a big Tom Hanks fan. You have to try really hard not to like the guy. Plus, he collects typewriters. And he wrote a book about them. Two thumbs up in my book.

Tom (I hope he doesn't mind if I call him "Tom") just strikes me as being one of the good guys. Like George Clooney. Keanu Reeves. Jimmy Stewart. 

I've read my share of biographies about famous folks. So many times I'm disappointed because some very talented people are a-holes in real life. You might try to justify their behavior by pointing out the amazing music or entertainment they've provided excuses them. 
I don't know about that. 

On the other hand, if someone put my life under a microscope, how would I fare? Thinking back on some of the things I've done that I'm not proud of, I'm kind of happy to be a nobody to the general populace of the world. If someone wanted to pick out certain aspects of my life and blow them up, they could make a case for me being a jerk.

Ah, the price of fame.

But I digress (as I often do). Back to Tom and the Guardians.
Tom was traveling in Greece with his family when he was asked to do the voiceover for the video. He said he'd try reading the script on his phone. He also offered to go into the studio to record it. Turns out, he did such a nice job on his phone, he didn't need to.  

As a writer, I can only imagine the kick the writer got out of Tom reading her copy. Also, as I writer, I feel compelled to give credit here to Tara Hewit, the Indians Asst. Director for Content and Entertainment Strategy. Nice job, Tara!*

Suddenly, I'm getting a hankering to watch Sleepless in Seattle. 
"Hankering." See what I did there?

Hope I don't piss off Tom. He seems to have a pretty good sense of humor. Also, I've said a bunch of nice things about him. 

Are we cool, Tom?

*Not to slight anyone, the video portion was produced by Steve Asbury. Nick Gambone, Asst. Director of Creative Production, arranged the visuals.

Another Year

So, here we are. Since last week, I added another number to my age. It's no big deal, really. At least I'm on this side of the ground.

Admittedly, I was a little miffed the Indians decided to announce their name change on my birthday. It's causing quite the kerfuffle, and while I personally think The Guardians is a fine name, there are a lot of folks who don't agree. (Sorry, boss.)

Also, I learned on my birthday that one of my new coworkers is leaving. Fine, Justin. Go ahead and pursue a better opportunity. Sheesh. Be that way. (Seriously, I wish him well, but I still feel bad because our team will really miss him.)

As things generally happen in threes, I was waiting for another dramatic announcement from somewhere. Thankfully, the rest of the day was quiet. 

Mr. Ginley and I walked up to our local haunt, something we haven't done since pre-pandemic. We had drinks and noshes, and it was nice. My margarita was the first in a long while, and it was tasty. The eats were okay, but I think we both realized our every-Friday-night routine will not resume. Given my new job situation, I don't feel the need for that weekly wind-down like I did in the final days of my old full-time gig.

Thanks to all of you who sent along natal day wishes. And a "Happy Anniversary" shout-out to my sister, who got married on my birthday a bunch of years ago. 

They say a birthday is just a number. And while I wish mine was a little lower, I'll take it just the same. Creaky bones aside, I feel pretty good for this stage of the game.

I may not have a mansion or a Mazeratti or gold records on the wall. I don't go to parties, sometimes until 4. No worries about handling fortune and fame.

Still, life's been good to me so far... 

Being Like Katie

Normally my New York Times morning newsletter is about Covid. Or politics. Or climate change.

public domain image

The other day, the newsletter featured Katie Moser. And now, I can't get that article out of my head.

Fifteen years ago, Katie knew she had genetic predisposition to Huntington's Disease. She wanted to find out if she was going to get it.

She was 25 years old. Testing revealed she had the gene and will begin to show symptoms by the time she's 50.

Not one to sit back and cry in her beer, Katie set out to live to the fullest. She travelled when she wanted to, never holding back and saying, "I'll do that next year." Because she knew next year she might not be able to. 

At one point, Katie wanted to have a child, going so far as to plan artificial insemination with a donated embryo. There were three possible embryos. All three had the gene for Huntington's. Becoming a parent wasn't in the cards for her.

July 14th was Katie's 40th birthday, a date she shares with Woody Guthrie, who died of Huntington's at the age of 55.

Katie is wonder, and she made me think about my own path. 

Would I have wanted to know my life was going to be cut short? Would I have seized the day, as Katie did or would the knowledge have crushed me? What in my life would I have done differently?

I am guilty of getting hung up on the day-to-day dramas of life, and they often consume me.  Stupid human things. Worries about the car or work or paying bills or what to make for dinner. Sulking over the abundance of rain this week.

I don't have the itch (or the scratch) to do a lot of traveling. But I could take some time for myself. Spend a few hours in the park, watching birds. Take a long walk around the neighborhood. Or watch a chick flick. I did all of these things in abundance, years ago, before I got bogged down with all the crap. 

Maybe it's time to get in touch with that Barb again.

That's the funny thing about people like Katie Moser. They don't really know how many others they touch and inspire.

Thanks, Katie. I wish you well.

Return to the Improbability

I've been taken lately with puffins. I don't know why, perhaps because they're so stinkin' cute.

In a fiction tale I've been reading, the protagonist finds a wounded puffin and takes him home. The vet advises her to return the bird to the flock once his wounds are healed. 

A puffin being separated from the rest of his improbability (which is what a group of puffins is called) started me thinking about the past week. And the 24 months preceding it.

As most of you know, I was "separated" from my job of 25+ years in 2019. Since then, I've been looking for full-time employment in my field with little success. Initially, I didn't make the cut because no one believed I could write about anything but jewelry. 

Fortunately, a friend brokered a gig with a small company that does website design. I was able to write web content, learning a little something about SEO along the way, and thus boost my experience. 

Then Covid came along. And, well, you all know what that was like.

Thankfully, Axel took me in and let me work at Enjoy Again, where I learned to convert video tapes to DVD and MP4 files. This was a godsend, enabling Mr. Ginley and me to enjoy all the luxuries of life, like eating, keeping warm, making car payments, etc. In my time with Axel, I learned not only how to convert old media, but to fix broken VHS tapes and get fussy equipment to work (yes, I talked to them).

Also, I saw people's memories flash by in the form of births (not my favorite), school plays, sporting events, concerts, Christmases, First Communions, Disney vacations and a few Bar Mitzvahs. It was a great experience, and I'm thankful to Axel for the opportunity. Also, I will miss working at the ranch, although I won't miss some of the wildlife. (When he told me one day, "I don't know where the mouse went," I had to consider whether he meant the furry variety or the computer device.) 

Axel's been a great boss. I will miss the beer, the ice cream treats and the Friday evening German bar song. 

Meanwhile, in the past few months, with the easing of Covid restrictions, more jobs started popping up. One of those was from OuterBox, looking for an SEO Content Writer. The interview I had with them was the first I'd had where I said, "I really, really want to work there."

I started this week. And it's been great. 

Returning to the puffin thing (I know you were wondering), joining OuterBox feels like coming home. It's great to be writing full-time again. And there is so much energy, intelligence and quick wit among my coworkers. 

I really missed engaging with other creative writers, and I can't tell you how much I am enjoying the experience. And hanging with others who appreciate my sense of snark. Although I don't know much about gaming or modern music, I like listening in.

It's great to be part of the improbability once again.

Progress Shmogress

I was toodling through a book from the library called Midcentury Kitchens, when it occurred to me.

public domain photo

Where are all those space age appliances we were supposed to have by now? I mean, my ideal growing up was Jane Jetson, who just pushed a few buttons, and voila, out came dinner. I feel cheated somehow. And don't get me started on Rosie the Robot. Alexa/Siri? Not even close. 

So, where have all the innovators gone? Sure, we have spiffy electronic devices that have gotten more sophisticated over the years. But what about my kitchen? Why did we stop at the microwave?

As I work to throw together dinner in quicktime, it occurs to me I'm no better off than my mom. It takes us the same amount of time to cook stuff. The microwave speeds up some things. But it's not a life changer.

The same with cleaning and laundry and other household chores. You can buy a Roomba, I suppose. They have the added advantage of being a carnival ride for cats (according to the internet). But I wonder just how good a job they do. How does a round appliance get in corners, for example? Do all your nooks and crannies end up crammed with the cat fur your Roomba can't reach?

This was supposed to be the age of better technology and more leisure time, but frankly, I'm not seeing it. Sure, I can shop from my couch, but I still have to get off it if I want to eat or fetch something. 

Going back to my book, I see all the promise of a new space age. Alas, here we are. 

So I have to ask the question, where is that American ingenuity we used to brag about? 

Alas, I guess I'll just have to get used to my kitchen of yesteryear. 

And be thankful I have no appliances in avocado green. That's one trend from the last century I was happy to skip.