A Sickening End to 2023

Well, the good new is, I didn't have to work last week. The bad news is, I was sick throughout my time off. 

public domain photo

My symptoms have been many and varied and included pretty much all the classic cold/flu nasties except gastrointestinal distress (Yes, I'm knocking wood right now). I do know it's not COVID, and I had a flu shot.

Whatever did we do to diagnose ourselves before the Google came along? I'm not sure if I'm headed for a life-threatening case of pneumonia, if I simply have a persistent cold that refuses to relinquish its hold on me or I've acquired RSV. Fun fact: most insurance plans don't pay for the RSV vaccine, even though those TV commercials tell you that getting one is a smart idea (at $200 a pop).

Fortunately, Mr. Ginley seems to be getting better, and I think he's a couple days ahead of me, so there is hope.

In the meantime, I'm going to continue to hunker down, eat chicken soup, drink tea with honey in it and cross my fingers that I'm well enough to work by the time the New Year rolls around.

I hope all of you are doing okay. Feel free to chime in with any home remedies that have worked for you. 

As for me, I'm going to go watch another Hallmark movie. Talk at you next year!

When Christmas Goes Viral

Being sick over the holidays is nothing new. Everything old is old again, as I struggle with the creeping crud, aka a sinus infection.

The Christmas dress, post-mumps

It seems that every year at this time, I catch something or other. One of the most memorable Christmas illnesses struck when I was in fifth grade. 

Mom made me a dark green dress for the holiday, and I couldn't wait to wear it. I jumped out of bed to go to church that morning and donned the dress, ignoring the discomfort that was beginning to radiate from my throat. If I ignored it, everything would be grand.

Of course, Mom took one look at my peaky (not to mention bloated) face and informed me I wasn't going anywhere but back to bed. 

"You've got the mumps," she proclaimed. Sure enough, when I looked in the mirror, I saw a blowfish. Or, to be more precise, a blowfish that was crying copiously. 

Now, I know what some of you are thinking. Oh, the vanity. Ya, well, I was 10 years old, so give me a break here, okay? I was never terribly pious, even at the best of times. I'd squirm through Christmas mass, counting down the minutes until I could go home and unwrap my pile of gifts. I loved Baby Jesus as much as the next kid, but He had some pretty stiff competition. Nonetheless, my Mom insisted we do the right thing and pay homage before turning into greedy little monsters. Ah, well.

Meanwhile, here in 2023, we're fortunate that my family got together last weekend, and we were okay for that. Unfortunately, we had to postpone the holiday celebration with the kids. The last thing we want to do is share our jimmy germs with them. So that's disappointing, but it will give us all something to look forward to when this gunk goes away.

I hope you all find peace this holiday season. And that your health is one thing you don't have to worry about.

Sending hugs to everyone. I'll be home watching Christmas movies.

I'm sure we have a few around here somewhere... 

Pea Picking Moments

I was making vegetable soup the other night. I've come up with a very simple recipe. The base is V-8, I throw in some beef bullion and cabbage. And a 12 ounce bag of frozen vegetables.

photo attribution below

But here's the rub: Mr. Ginley won't eat peas.

So there I was, trolling through a bag of frozen veggies, removing all the peas. As I was doing so, it occurred to me that this activity was much like sorting puzzle pieces. It's a bit tedious overall, but also possibly therapeutic. Or, at least it would be if I weren't in a bit of hurry to get dinner going. Fortunately, I enjoy peas, so the little greenies won't go to waste or anything. No harm done. 

As I pea-picked, I ruminated. I've noticed that some brands of frozen vegetables have more peas than others. For example, the last bag I excavated was Green Giant (or maybe Birds Eye?). There were far fewer peas than in my Giant Eagle bag. I began to wonder if maybe peas were more (or less?) costly than other vegetables.

I decided to go on the internet and check it out. But alas, the Google failed me. You may find this difficult to believe, but no one (that came up in the first few Google SERPs) mentioned anything about the combination of vegetables in national brands vs. local brands. Hard to believe, right?

In the meantime, I did learn that private label frozen veggies account for the largest share of the market, followed not-so-closely by Birds Eye. Coming in much further down was Pictsweet Farms, then Green Giant, then everyone else.

I know what you're thinking...absolutely fascinating, right?

Still, there was no answer as to which brand had the fewest peas, so I was right back where I started. 

Mulling it over later, the obvious solution presented itself. If I purchased one bag of green beans, one bag of corn and one bag of carrots, I could assemble my own mixed vegetables and save myself the pea picking. 

Well, as my old buddy Homer would say, DOH!

All that was left was to figure out how much of each vegetable would comprise 12 ounces. Here, the Google was actually helpful. There are 1 1/2 cups of veggies in a 12 ounce bag. Therefore, I would need 1/2 cup each of the carrots, beans and corn. 

And y'all thought taking maths in school was a waste of time. All those stinkin' word problems I hated in fifth grade finally came in handy.

Here's one for you to try. If Mrs. Ginley buys two Mounds chocolate bars and gives one to Mr. Ginley, how many does Mrs. Ginley have left? 

The answer? Two...Mr. Ginley hates coconut, so he gave his back. 

And that wily Mrs. Ginley didn't have to share.

Photo attribution: David Adam Kess, CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Greeting-Less Seasons

I suppose it's inevitable that in our zoom-zoom society, holiday cards would go the way of the Dodo bird.

Lavishly-designed cards sprinkled with glitter used to be an integral part of the holiday season. My Mom had a crafty card holder for awhile. It was made from a Pringles potato chip can with strands of yarn strung from top to bottom. We'd sit and flip through the cards to discover greetings from relatives and friends near and far. Some included letters summarizing their year. Most were simply signed. 

I imagine these days it's just ONE MORE THING that folks just can't cope with. I get that. For several years, Mr. Ginley sent out the cards because I just couldn't manage it. But this year, I took on the task. 

The danger in sending out cards, of course, is that you risk irritating people who feel compelled to send you a card simply because you sent them one. Just to be clear, I don't mail my greetings in a pathetic attempt to guilt people into returning the favor. Although I do enjoy getting them.

Somewhere in my pile of stuff I have stacks of old greeting cards of yesteryear. I'm thinking of pulling them out and looking at them again. It'd be nice to see our folks' signatures and imagine them being with us in spirit this holiday. The world is just such a frightful place these days, I could use a little comfort, even if it comes from a distant past.

The holiday season really is a mixed bag, eh? So much merry and melancholy in one messy bundle. Oh well. 

Whatever holidays you may be celebrating (Christmas? Hanukkah? Festivus?) I hope you find some peace and joy in the season.

And if I haven't sent you a holiday card and you'd like one, let me know. 

I still have a bunch left.

And All That Jazz

Many people float in and out of our lives. Some are there for life, others barely make a ripple in our existence.

Then there are the ones who come into your life when you need them most, save you, and disappear. One such person in my life was Jan.

I have no idea why she's been on my mind so much lately, let alone why I feel so compelled to write about her. But I've learned to follow my instincts, so here we are. 

Jan and I met when we worked in the accounting department at J.B. Robinson Jewelers. I was nearing the end of my first marriage. Aside from work, Jan and I found common ground in books, the Beatles and a love of England. 

At some point that I can't exactly recall, the dream of traveling abroad was bandied about, and the two of us began to make plans. Jan took care of the travel arrangements, I convinced my husband I needed the time away to think and put up my share of the cost. This was happening!

We joked about being so excited about beginning our adventure that surely our side of the plane was bobbing about with us jumping up and down on our seats. (It was figurative, of course, neither of us being outwardly demonstrative.)

There were many adventures to be had, and we had as many as we could in that delightful week. We spend most of the time in London, but also took a day trip to Dover and Canterbury. It's the one of the few times in my life that I was a full-fledged tourist, taking in as much as I could stand. I declared my favorite place to be Westminster Abbey. Jan was partial to St. Paul. The trip turned out to be a once-in-a-lifetime extravaganza, and I am still awed that we did it together. 

After our return, life went back to normal for a very short while, before it became apparent that my marriage was not mendable. But what was I to do? Jan floated the idea of moving in with her. It was eventually arranged, and we moved in together. I could never have moved out on my own – my finances at that point were in sorry shape. Jan was my lifeline at a time when I needed one most. I've never forgotten that. 

Over the years, we lost touch. She switched jobs and moved in with another friend. I moved to Virginia, got married, moved back and had a kid. I didn't see her much, and then not at all. At one point, I sent her a picture of my son and I think I told her about my blog. But I never heard back. 

I don't know why she's been so much on my mind lately, but I hope somehow she sees this and knows how thankful I am to have had her in my life. And how much she's meant to me.

Love you, Jazz!

P.S. I have a wonderful photo of the two of us in London that sits on my dresser, but I decided not to show it here, in the interest of preserving her privacy.

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

Working from home means I spend every day with Mr. Ginley. While this is mostly a good thing, it is nice to have "me" time. 

So when our son whisked Mr. off to help work a sporting event, I was tickled. A day to myself. Whatever would I do?

As it turned out, work, mostly. I took on all the tasks that I'd been putting off because I was persuaded they could wait.

First off, I put the storm window in the basement. Next, I tackled yard work. Three bags of yard waste and a sore back later, I called it a day. (After I put the grill in the basement. No more cookouts this year, alas.)

To reward myself for my labors, I watched a Hallmark holiday movie. My sister, Diane, observed there are a few different types. One is the travelogue, as we experienced last week, watching A Heidelberg Holiday. The title character was Heidi Heidelberg. (I shit you not.) The scenery was breathtaking, and it was surprisingly well done. The one I watched yesterday was based in Colorado, called, appropriately enough, Christmas in Colorado. The acting was pretty bad, but I like horses, so there was that. 

Moving along...the next thing to tackle was the budget. I balanced the checkbook (yes, I still do that religiously) and paid some bills. That's when I remembered I was supposed to bake a pumpkin pie. The one I failed to make on Thanksgiving because, honestly, it was a bridge too far that day. I started with a frozen crust (my sister, Denise, is the crustmaster in our family), so it was in the oven pretty quickly. 

Then I took on the dishes. Thanksgiving dishes. To make the task palatable, I pulled out some vinyl – specifically, the Beatles' White Album – and listened to it from start to finish. (Skipping over Revolution No. 9, which I will never listen to when home alone because it just creeps me out.) The double album serenaded me through Christmas tree decorating. I cranked up the volume and sang right along, thankful no one had to suffer through my caterwauling. (I mean, it doesn't bother me, I'm used to it.) I figure I'll know when I'm losing it when I forget Beatles' lyrics – and we're talking about ALL the lyrics, not just those to Wild Honey Pie and Why Don't We Do it in the Road. 

It all worked out quiet nicely, as the boys pulled up in the driveway just as the strains of 
Good Night were weaving their way through the airwaves. (It's the last song on the White Album.)

Sure, and you're probably thinking it doesn't sound like a great day spent alone, but I was content. I got a lot accomplished and fed my spirit to boot.

Special thanks to John, Paul, George & Ringo.  I hope we passed the audition.

Photo attribution: Marjory Collins, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Tiring Solutions

At some point before I began dating Mr. Ginley, he faced an odd conundrum. It seems every time he took his car to the local Burger King drive-thru, it would stall out, and he'd have trouble starting it again.

He put the problem to his Dad to see what his take on the situation was. Perhaps his father would attribute it to the fates, to an evil spirit inhabiting his car or a sinister Russian plot.

After considering the problem, my future father-in-law gave his verdict.

"Don't go to Burger King."

I was reminded of this a few Sundays ago when I was heading across town to meet our son for breakfast. About halfway there, my tire malfunction light came on. This has happened in the past when the weather changes, but it still kind of freaks me out. When I arrived at First Watch for our breakfast rendezvous, Joe assured me everything was fine, reminding me that I was the one who told him about this snafu with the tire light. Nevertheless, he checked all four tires to ensure they were inflated properly. They were.

Fast forward three weeks, and once again I'm making the trek across town to the east side. Once again, the light comes on. This time, it remains on until I'm heading home, just about the point in time when I cross the border from the east to the west side.

When I arrived home, I shared the phenomenon with Mr. Ginley. 

He pondered my situation carefully and made his determination.

"From now on, have Joe come to the west side to have breakfast," he declared.

In the immortal words of Elvis (along with a hefty helping of sarcasm), "Thank you. Thank you very much."

Everybody Wang Chung Tonight

For someone who soaks up emotions like a giant sponge, recent events have been a bit much.

Photo attribution below.

I won't go into the laundry list of awfuls – suffice to say, it's things like people blowing each other up in foreign lands, the climate going cattywampus and state leaders who won't stop trying to subvert the will of the people, even when it's clear what that will is.

It all makes me realize why it took me over 100 years to reincarnate. 

Now I know most of you don't believe in reincarnation, but I've gotta say, when I went to a psychic many years ago and she told me I was disillusioned in a prior life and that's why I was so reluctant to return, it made perfect sense to me.

But I digress.

My point is, when one feels like life has become a huge band-aid being ripped off again and again, how does one cope? 

I've done the following:

• Spent time in the park with Mr. Ginley, walking, talking and driving.
• Reduced my time on FB, except for keeping up with friends' personal posts, my "I Love Puffins" group, my puzzle group and several nature photography groups I follow.
• Worked jigsaw puzzles.
• Watched Hallmark movies and British mystery series.
• Read novels.
• Listened to musical favorites, old and new.

As to the last item on my list, it's been my mission to scour the libraries in search of new things to listen to. My success rate is meh, but I'd say overall, it's been worthwhile. I discovered a Mark Knopfler CD that I've listened to a bazillion times and am putting on my Christmas list. Also, I stumbled on Cat Stevens' remake of Tea for the Tillerman, which is also going on my list.

And sometimes it's about rediscovering a lost gem. Mr. Ginley watches a lot of YouTube, and one night a couple of weeks ago, he stumbled on the video for Everybody Wang Chung Tonight. The video was made at the height of MTVs innovative era and features funky stop-action techniques that could no doubt be accomplished by AI in a fraction of the time. But back in the day, it was state-of-the-art.

Anyhow, we both toe-tapped our way through the Wang Chung extravaganza and agreed it was a mood-lifter. A few nights later, I was working on a puzzle and Mr. was watching YouTube when he said, "Hey, we haven't heard this tune in awhile." And yes, you guessed it, we started to hum along once again to Jack Hues, Nick Feldman and their merry band of musicians. It's become a nightly ritual that hasn't gotten old just yet.

We all need coping mechanisms, and I figure Wang Chung is pretty harmless. Better than eating a pint of ice cream or getting lost in a bottle of schnaps. I suppose there are music critics would disagree, but then, they can be pretty disagreeable people, so there you go.

I hope y'all have equally effective (and tame) coping devices. Feel free to share.

In the meantime, let's all Wang Chung Tonight. 

Photo attribution: Bartolomeo Pinelli, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

So Long, Shirley

People tumble in and out of your life. Some are front and center for awhile, then suddenly disappear. Others hang around in the background, like the scent of lavender – there, but not always top of mind. Shirley Edmiston fell into this second category. 

(photo attribution below)

I found out this week from a mutual friend that Shirley passed away. True to form, she didn't want a fuss made over her passing. No funeral, no hullabaloo, just a quick cremation. Shirley didn't have children, and her two brothers predeceased her – although there are in-laws and nephews and nieces to mourn her loss. But I couldn't let her final departure go by without saying farewell.

I met Shirley when I started working at Sterling (could it possibly be?) over 40 years ago. By that time, she was firmly established as part of the old guard. It took me awhile to get to the real Shirley. She pretty much said exactly what she thought, which was both refreshing and a little intimidating. Over time, I realized she had a heart as big as the state of Texas – but you messed with Shirley at your own peril. If you broke her trust, you were toast.

Thanks to Facebook, I was able to keep up – albeit from a distance – with Shirley's goings-on after she left Sterling in 2016. That's how I knew about the dozens of art classes she took. She posted her work, and it was really good. She did pieces for friends, too. A drawing of Harry and Ilene's beloved dog, Daphne. A painting of a picnic basket for Anne. And she shared several of her tole paintings with Julie (whose husband lived next door to Shirley growing up. Shirley shared a picture of Julie's hubby in a diaper. Cue "It's a Small World.")

I asked a few folks for their favorite memories. Shirley spent a lot of years at Sterling, but what I found really cool was that no one mentioned work stuff. All the memories were of her artwork and the things she did outside of – and after – Sterling.

So, what is my favorite Shirley-girl memory? On the day I gave birth to Joe, Shirley and Terrie came to see us in the hospital. They brought me cake, and Shirley said, "You missed your baby shower." I was so touched that they came all that way. And brought cake. Ever after, Shirley asked how Joe was doing and fussed over him when he came to the office. 

One thing we all agreed on was that Shirley's beloved Butch was there at the Pearly Gates to greet her. She outlived him by 20 years, and she missed him like crazy. Her Facebook page has a lot of old pictures, and her favorite photo of him became her profile picture.

Shirley was one of my most faithful blog followers. If she's reading this now, I hope she approves. 

Rest well, Shirl.

Photo attribution: Mogens Engelund, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Some Bunny Done Me Wrong

 "But I don't want to put pesticide on the poison ivy. The bunny might eat it and die," I protested.

My older brother and sister had both told me, independently, that getting rid of the poison ivy was priority #1, and the bunny would have to avoid munching on it or pay the consequences. Their rolling eyes over my protests told me they weren't concerned about my adorable woodland neighbor.

If I had known what a poor neighbor Mrs. (or Mr.) Bunny would turn out to be, I would have thought twice.

Apparently, digging up people's lawns is the downside of resident rabbits, and my backyard has taken the chew as a result. Not that it was going to be showcased in BH&G anytime soon, but the lawn was green and grasslike. 

Now it looks like a war zone.

I've had to let go of so many things, that having a decent yard is just one more. I must accept the fact that there'll never be a time when I look out my window and admire the view altogether. There are bright spots, of course. The rosebush that I planted this year that hasn't died (yet). The Rose of Sharon bush that bloomed all summer long. And the burning bush, which is now turning a spectacular shade of red. (Max assures me the Rose of Sharon and burning bush are invasive species. I'm sure the word is out among the flora about me and my lax gardening skills.)

another invasive
species

Sure, I could moan about my disorganized wreck of a life, but instead I decided to follow Mr. Ginley's lead this week. The MetroParks are so close, there was no excuse for missing the stunning display of foliage this year. So off we went to drive, walk and sit in the park and admire nature's fireworks display. On Wednesday, Thursday and Friday he said, "This will be the last nice day of the season. We'd better get out there and enjoy it."

I'm thankful we did. Today it's raining and the leaves will be gone in no time. 

And, hopefully, my destructive neighbor will hibernate when the weather turns.

Please tell me that rabbits hibernate!

Technology, Schmechnolgy

I really hate labels, and "Boomer" is no exception.

Sadly, I do fit the Boomer profile in many ways. I prefer to read physical books.  I like to be home before it gets dark outside because I'm not comfortable driving at night. And I'm not quick to jump on the tech train.

That's not to say I don't know how to use my smarty-pants phone, stream shows or work with AI. I can do all these things, but I don't embrace new technology without hanging on to prior iterations. The problem comes when I don't consider that others may have moved on.

Case in point. I burned a CD to share with someone. Mr. Ginley said, "You know, that's a nice gesture, but how do you know they have a CD player?"

Honestly, it hadn't occurred to me, largely because the person I'm sharing with is also a Boomer. But he had a point. As if to sear that point into my brain, I saw the following headline in the New York Times today: Where Can I Buy a DVD Player?

I was gutted. While I do know how to stream movies, I still mostly watch them on DVD, because, contrary to what the youngsters tell you, not everything streams – or streams when you want to watch it. 

In a corner of my dining room are stacks of DVDs filled with some of my favorite all-time shows. I can pluck any one of these, pop it in when the mood hits and enjoy it commercial-free and without it pixelating when my internet connection is cranky. 

I should have realized that DVDs were on the way out when I worked for Axel, and we were starting to convert old VHS tapes to USB because customers didn't have a way to watch discs. 

Still, it makes me sad. Maybe I should go out and buy a DVD player or two. 

If I survive the apocalypse, I could make a fortune.

A Thrifting We Will Go

"We haven't been there in awhile," Mr. Ginley mused. He was gazing outside the window of Nate's Deli, where we were enjoying lunch.

"You may love it but the cat won't."

The "there" in question was a second hand store. While I knew in my heart of hearts there wouldn't be anything there we needed and we shouldn't be dragging home more stuff, the thrill of the chase is difficult to overcome. 

So, off we went, across the street to see what treasures we could find.

Mr. noticed right away that in spite of posted signs with prices for each category, many of the items had stickers with a number and dash after it. Like "5-" I thought perhaps this was some kind of code but agreed we should ask the cashier when we got to the counter. Turns out, Mr. was correct. I was peeved. There was nothing on the sign that said "except where marked" or "the actual price may be 5x what the sign says."

Anyhow, amidst the flotsam and jetsam, Mr. and I managed to find several things, some useful, others not so much. 

Not a clue.

And yes, I got a jigsaw puzzle. It was the price of doing business, as they say.

I'm just happy I didn't get talked into the green hoot owl picture, the oversized Thomas the Tank Engine toy (for our someday grandkids), the outfit for the cat or the big German beer stein. 

Admittedly, I was tickled to find this kitty-themed nightwear. 

Although I think the pom poms are a bit much, don't you?

Nostalgia Ain't What it Used to Be

As the Battle of the Boomers vs. the Alphabet Generations drags on, it becomes increasingly obvious there will be no clear winner.

As seen in our local library.

Scrolling through Facebook, I see my peers waxing nostalgic about playing outside all summer long without supervision, the absence of screen time (unless you count Saturday morning cartoons) and the overall wholesomeness of a childhood spent in the golden age before technology took over and AI threatened our very existence.

While this bucolic view of growing up in the 1950s/1960s/1970s is lovely, it shows but one side of the coin. Flip it over, and you see that most of us are lucky to be alive. My brother tells a story of going into the woods with friends and blowing things up using dismantled fireworks. Holding onto car bumpers and sliding down the street on snowy days was a thing. And no one thought anything about riding in cars without seat belts (until seat belts were invented, at which point, my mother insisted). 

If I look back honestly on my growing up years, I recall a lot of boredom.

Conversations with friends went something like this:

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know, what do you want to do?"

Just don't ask Mom, because she would "give you something to do," and you wouldn't like it.

Sure, we had real music. Serious rock 'n roll. Bell bottoms and tie dye.

But we also had disco, polyester clothes and weird knitted/crocheted items. Also, baby puke green and orange décor. Plus stinky air and polluted rivers (pre-EPA). 

And let me tell you, many of the TV shows we thought were the bomb at the time simply bomb when you watch them today – a la The Flying Nun, Three's Company, BJ and the Bear. 

So, yes, there are things to look back on with fondness, but like any generation, there are cringe-worthy memories, too. 

I wonder what the current generation will look back on with awe: 

"Remember the before-days when there was no AI to help with your homework?"

"When I was a kid, we only had 162 cable channels, no streaming services."

"Sometimes, we'd go to the store to buy stuff."

Well, there I go, getting all Boomer snarky on you. 

I suppose my point is, there are great and sucky things about every generation, and we should just get over this divisive "my generation is better than yours" thinking.

After all, my parents survived the Great Depression and World War II. And they raised six kids on a very tight budget. 

We really can't top that.

A Star is Born

In Marie's family, they were told that when people die and go to heaven, you can look up in the night sky and they'll be among the stars. 

Open your eyes, Denise

A new star was added to the heavens this past week when my sister Denise's husband, Tim, passed away.

Tim was diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer in May and was gone in four months. Tim was stoic and not the mushy, touch-feely kinda guy. He hated public displays of affection. He kept his feelings under lock and key, often hidden behind a wicked dry sense of humor that enabled him to prank newcomers without suspecting he was the one behind the shenanigans.

But those who'd been around him long enough knew how deep he went. 

Tim Trusken came into my life when he started dating my sister. I was in high school, and Denise and I were very close. It was pretty clear from the start that Tim was "the one," and on my birthday in 1976, they got married. I was in the wedding party. "Party" was the right word, because their shindig was a blast. Polka, polka, polka! 

Four years later, I embarked on marriage #1 and my Then-Mr. and I moved into a house that was two blocks over from Tim and Denise. This gave me plenty of opportunities to spend time with my sister. Tim was a shoe salesman at Value City, working his way up the ranks to upper management. Meanwhile, Melissa and Christine were born (Kimberly came along a few years later), then the family moved to Columbus. It was hard to see them go, but it was a good move for the Truskens.

Columbus would be Tim's home from that day forward. Like all lives, theirs were filled with challenges and triumphs, but they got through them together. Tim's last gig was making car seats, but he never complained that his job was too menial for his smarts. Instead, he mentored his younger coworkers, letting them work on their cars in his driveway and use his tools. Did I mention Tim also had a classic car that he worked on his spare time? Quiet relaxation was not his default setting.

Eventually, two granddaughters arrived on the scene, and Tim took to his new Grandpa role in no time.  They took to him, too. Fortunately, Christine made sure there are plenty of photos of him with the girls to remind them how crazy he was about them.

Tim was one of those guys who's just always there in the background, but he saw and he knew. When I got laid off, he wanted to know how he could put his handyman skills to work to help us out.

Tim was Mr. Fix-It. So when our dining room ceiling started to come down, I took him up on his offer to help. He worked with our son to patch up the ceiling. Every time I walk through my dining room and look up, I think of Tim. And Joe got an invaluable lesson on how to drywall. 

Last Christmas during our family get-together, we talked about AI, which has been a hot topic for many reasons. He was fascinated with new technology, and he, I and my brother Gary had a robust discussion. Then we shifted to other tech, and I told him I was thinking about getting a streaming stick for my TV, and asked which kind he recommend. Tim went into the other room and came back with a Fire Stick. No charge. That was Tim. If he could do something for you, he didn't think twice. He just did it.

Yesterday was the funeral. It was a tough day, but there were so many warm memories shared, so many laughs over Tim stories. On the way out of town, I remarked that Menards stock was likely going to take a big hit now that one of their best customers was gone.

Now I worry not about Tim but about my sister and nieces, who have to try and navigate this strange new Tim-less world. He was one of the good ones, and it just sucks so much.

One of my favorite memories is from the early days, when Tim suggested to Denise that they take me to the original Star Wars movie. It was the talk of the town, and although I wasn't big into Sci-Fi, I took him up on the offer. The movie was amazing, and we went for pizza afterwards. So cool.

A few days after the news came of Tim's passing, I walked out into the early morning and looked up at the sky. It was clouded over, but there was a single star, shining bright. I teared up and said, "I love you, man."

And somewhere, from deep inside my heart, I heard a voice say, "I know."

Thank Heaven for Second Moms

I've known my second mom most of my life.

Marie and her husband, Don, daughter, Linda (my soon-to-be-best friend) and baby son Donnie moved into the house two doors down from ours in the early 1960s. Another daughter (Donna) came along later – she was the same age my younger brother, Paul. 

All through our growing-up years, Linda and I played together. There were stretches when I teamed up with other kids in the neighborhood, but by high school, it was Linda and me. We didn't hang out at school (she was a grade behind me), but we owned the summers. We walked to McDonald's, hung out on her front porch watching boys go by or worked on our "moon tans" in her backyard pool. 

Like most moms, Marie was in the background, quietly playing a supporting role. She was always cooking or baking something amazing (food = love). I remember she'd make us caramel corn late Friday nights, and Linda and I would watch Big Chuck and Hoolihan. Marie was much younger than my mom, and her taste in music was rooted in the 1950s. (She let Linda and I play her old records.) I seldom saw her get angry (although I do remember seeing her get steamed every once in awhile). In high school, Marie was the only person I trusted to cut my hair, a task she continued to do for awhile even after I got married. 

I didn't keep in touch with Marie for many years, and Linda and I drifted apart, too. But at some point, I was visiting my Mom and walked over to say "hello." After my parents passed, I began to call her up periodically and ask if I could visit. It's only been two or three times a year, but when I'm able to visit her,  it's like wrapping a big, cozy blanket over my shoulders. 

Marie and I talk about anything and everything. I can tell her my worries, and she shares them and helps me process what's going on in my life. We can talk about politics without rancor, and between the two of us, I'm confident we could solve all the world's problems.

I went to see Marie this past Thursday, and like always, she was a balm for the soul. As a bonus, Linda called during our visit, so I got to talk to her, too.

I hope everyone has a Marie in their life. And if you do, give her (or him) a big hug for me.

Losing My Garbles

The realization has dawned on me that I've become Emily Litella. 
But then, so has Mr. Ginley.

It's no surprise that one's ability to hear wanes over the years. Talking from room to room simply doesn't work, and the two of us have tried to change old habits by waiting until we're close by to ask a question or impart a bit of important information. Otherwise, the speaker risks the listener misinterpreting or missing the conversation altogether.

"We're having cashier's chicken for dinner?" I'd hear after Mr. was told what was on the menu that night. Or "You want me to grab your what?"

While we're able to josh one another, the whole issue of not being able to hear things correctly is truly frustrating. 

Fortunately, there's closed captioning. Most DVDs and TV shows have them, which is a godsend, especially when we're viewing British  shows. It's nice not to have to reverse and rewatch recorded shows. Or turn the volume up to ear-splitting levels (which doesn't help when actors mumble).

Comparing notes with my siblings, I've discovered they, too, have the subtitles turned on. 

None of this is surprising. What is, however, is that I recently learned 50% of viewers use closed captioning on their television – and this includes the majority of young folks.

Say what?

It turns out the reason for the increase in subtitle usage is the poor sound quality on televisions and streaming apps.

Televisions used to have those big old speakers on the front that boomed the sound out to you. Nowadays, in an effort to make slimmer, sleeker TVs, the speakers are hidden at the bottom or behind the TV – not optimal for hearing purposes. 

As for streaming apps, there is a technical reason why the sound sucks. I read an article in the New York Times about it, and you can look it up if you want to. The upshot is, the sound on apps isn't regulated the way it is on network TV, so there are wild inconsistencies from one streaming service to another. And the streaming process itself presents challenges to the way sound is rendered.

You can remedy this somewhat by purchasing a speaker for your television, which will make the sound louder but not more intelligible. If you want to know what mumblers are actually mumbling, you'll need to activate your closed captioning.

The downside to this, as I have discovered, is that you're reading a movie rather than watching it. So you miss a lot in the way of subtle facial expressions and visual details. It can be difficult to immerse yourself in a film when you're trying to discern whether the actor just said "I married a woman with four children" or "I married a woman for children."

The real problem, as I see it, is there's too much violins on television. And not enough Emily Litella. 

Still missing you, Gilda Radner...

photo attribution: Original cartoon created by Van Beuren Studios, captioning created and added by the uploader Torindkflt, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

You're Soaking In It

"I was watching a game show the other night," said Mr. Ginley. "They were talking about Madge. Remember Madge, the Palmolive lady? Did you know she did her commercials in a bunch of different languages?"

No, I did not. But I wanted to know more. So off I went, down the rabbit hole.
Long before Progressive's Flo, there were a number of iconic spokespersons. Mrs. Olsen for Folgers. Mr. Whipple for Charmin. ("I think he had a fettish," speculates Mr. Ginley.) And Madge for Palmolive Dish Soap.

(screen capture, fair use image)

Long before dishwashers became a common household appliance, dish washing soap was a big seller. For those of you in the younger set, you probably don't know that Madge (played by actress Jan Miner) shilled for Palmolive.

The Madge character was a manicurist, and the schtick was that ladies would come into her shop, she'd tsk tsk over their dry hands and stick them in a bowl to soak. She'd then tell them they should ditch their cheapo dishwashing liquid and switch to the hero brand. (Which was conveniently located on her table, so the camera could do a close-up.) Once Madge delivered the pitch, she'd then quip, "You're soaking in it." The client would express disbelief and pull her fingers out of the bowl (because she had inexplicably never seen the commercial, although it ran for 27 years). At which point, Madge would press the woman's hand back into the soapy mixture and reassure her that all would be well now that she'd learned the secret to softer, smoother hands. Each ad ended with a super* that read "two weeks later," and the happy dishwasher returning to tell Madge that Palmolive was all that Madge said it was.

Unlike other spokespersons who worried about typecasting, Jan Miner embraced her role. She even learned to perform her character in French, German, Dutch and Italian so she could recreate her role in various countries:

• France (as "Francoise")
• Germany, Switzerland and Austria (as "Tillie"),
• Finland and Denmark (as "Marissa")
• Italy

A different actress did the part in Australia and New Zealand.

How persuasive was Madge? The fact that they kept her around so long as a spokesperson must mean something.

All I know is, Mr. Ginley uses Palmolive, and he never complains about dishpan hands, so there you have it!

Take a trip down memory lane – you can watch one of the original commercials here.

*Type that appears over the image on the screen.

Branching Out

Some people have an aversion to going to the library to look for books. They insist that ordering books online works just fine for them.

To each his own, but I say they don’t know what they’re missing.

There have been so many times Mr. Ginley or I have picked up a book that we would never have thought we’d enjoy, and found a new favorite author.  Mr. has even found the occasional treasure for me.

“Read this,” he’ll say, pointing to the flyleaf. It sounds like something you’ll like. 

One such time we were at the Lakewood library, and he held up a book called The Fairy Tale Girl. The author was Susan Branch. I’d never heard of either her or the book, but I was smitten when I started paging through the book. It was beautifully written and illustrated. 

I took it home with me and spent the next week or so reading a chapter at a time. It told the story of her love, her marriage and its eventual dissolution. At the end of the book, she’s getting on a plane to head to Martha’s Vineyard.

Of course, I had to get the next book in the series, Martha’s Vineyard, Isle of Dreams. It continued to tell the story of Susan Branch, how she found herself and built a life that was hers alone. The next book in the series, A Fine Romance, covers her travels in the English countryside with her second husband. 

Each book has been like a hot fudge sundae, and I’ve savored every bite.

For my birthday, I got Susan Branch's book of quotes, Distilled Genius. She had me from the very beginning, when she quoted the line from the song, The Rainbow Connection. “Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers and me.” (Lyrics by Paul Williams.) I know it’s silly because Kermit is singing it and he’s a Muppet and all, but I always tear up when I hear that song.

So now I’m savoring this book, too, reading a quotation from it every now and again, pausing to drink in the illustrations and consider the quote she’s chosen. It’s quite the eclectic assortment.

The words of poets, scientists, authors, actors, philosophers, musicians and many more are represented here. 

As it turns out, Ms. Branch, like me, is a fan of Elizabeth von Arnim, who once quipped, “Nor would I miss the early darkness and the pleasant firelight tea and long evenings among my books.”

Sounds like a plan to me.

Stormy Weather

"I blame this all the on the New York Times," I told my brother at lunch yesterday.

He looked doubtful. I pressed on.

"They just published an article the day before the storm that talked about how lucky we are to live in the Great Lakes region because we're spared the catastrophes that other parts of the country have to suffer through.

"Well," he pointed out, "we don't experience hurricanes, tsunamis, big earthquakes and wildfires."

Point taken. We did get a tornado the other night, but no one was killed, and I suppose getting water in your basement, while nasty and destructive to one's property, hardly qualifies as a life-threatening event.

Still, you want to blame someone, right? Facebook was rife with those who called out  Mother Nature for flooding and power outages. Who could blame Her if she's pissed for the way we've treated her? On the other hand, I find it highly unlikely that she pointed at us and said, "I must smite those folks. I'll send some torrential rains to overload their sump pumps and ruin their rec rooms."

One community pointed the finger at local government, which has failed to resolve sewer issues in spite of repeated flooding. There's a little more logic to that finger-pointing, which brings up an issue that's been a continual thorn in the side for officials.

Admittedly, I did feel bad for the church that had its roof taken off by a tornado. They seem like good people, I hope they get it sorted out quickly. Also, those whose cars were smashed when a parking garage collapsed. And the folks who were up to their knees in water and wondering how much it will cost to fix the damage to their homes.

We were fortunate that we only got an inch or so of water under the porch in the corner of the basement. Sure, it was a pain to dry it out, but the shop vac ultimately did the trick, and it was dry by morning, so I'm not complaining. (Well, not unduly, anyhow, except I'm writing a blog article about it, so maybe I am a little bit.)

At the end of the day, it's all relative. I think about the people in Hawaii, floating in the ocean and watching their world burn. 

Compared to that, managing the aftermath of thunderstorms doesn't feel so bad.

Photo: Bain News Service, publisher, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

A No-Frills Existence

I readily admit that I've never been a snappy dresser.

Sure, I gave it the old college (well, high school) try back in the day. I mimicked my classmates, wearing what we called "elephant pants," huge bellbottoms with about 5 extra yards of material in them. They were hip-huggers, and I wore mine with a series of body suits that snapped at the crotch. (Not terribly convenient when one had to "wee" in a hurry.)

When I started working in an office, I wore dresses and skirts with pantyhose. (In those days it was unthinkable not to wear hosiery.) I did my best to dress like an adult, but there were still days when Judie would give me the Judie look and say, "Barb, brush your hair."

I just wasn't that into myself. 

Things went from not-so-bad to really bad when I began working from home. 

My first attire of the day is workout pants, white socks, black athletic shoes and a bright blue wicking (not wicked, alas) workout shirt. I admittedly have ventured outdoors in this get-up, but only to take out the garbage cans or retrieve the empties. No one is out at that time of day – except for Mr. S., who takes his daily constitutional about that time. Fortunately, he's too polite to question my choice of wardrobe or ask what in god's name possessed me to step outside the house looking like that.

Before reporting to work, I don sweat pants or pajama bottoms and a t-shirt or sweatshirt. If I'm going to be on a conference call, I will wear the obligatory company t-shirt to self-identify. I'll also brush my hair and make sure I'm holstered. 

Do I neglect my feet? Why, no I don't. I slip into my ever-faithful fuzzy slippers, featuring some sort of animal I haven't quite identified. (Sheep? Llama? Hedgehog?) I took a snap of them so you can decide for yourselves.

I figure the only person who sees me is Mr. Ginley, and while he may find my lack of attention to my appearance disturbing, he is generally too kind to say anything. 

None of this would matter much, except that I do occasionally have to dress up in my big girl pants which, unfortunately, have shrunk since I gave a shit what I looked like. Soon, I will have to buy at least a few new pairs of pants that fit. 

Also, it's about time for me to get my hair cut so I don't look like I've been coiffed by a Mixmaster.

Somewhere in the ether, my mother is face-palming. She'd never think of leaving the house without putting on lipstick, brushing her hair and changing into a clean shirt.

I guess this apple fell pretty far from the tree. 

On the plus side, think of all the money we save on beauty products.

You're welcome, Mr. Ginley.