Becoming "It"

It seems to be a generational thing that the older we get, the more nostalgic we get about our summertime childhoods.

attribution below

Ah, those were the days. Playing outside all summer long until dark. Mom making up a batch of Kool-Aid (1 packet + 1 cup of sugar = a little slice of heaven on a hot day). Summers seemed to go on and on, playing and chasing fireflies and such.

This makes me wonder what the current crop of kids will be nostalgic for when they get to that certain age.

"Why, in my day, my parents wouldn't let me have a phone until I was five. And it was only an Apple 15. Can you believe it?"

While I still occasionally see kids playing catch with their dads or riding bikes, things are certainly different than they were in the beforetimes. Activities are scheduled and regulated in a way they seldom were back then. And I think it's a little sad that many of the traditional games and rhymes have been lost over the years.

I'm not sure what sparked it, but the other day I began reciting, "Engine, Engine, Number 9, running down Chicago Line, if the train should jump the track, do you want your money back? Y-e-s spells yes (or n-o spells no), and out you go into the deep blue sea, you dirty old dishrag you."

Mr. Ginley says he remembers the first part, but not the dirty dishrag part. (I couldn't find that part on google, either, so maybe it's something unique to our freaky family?)

For those of you who are scratching your head at this point, permit me to explain.

When you were choosing someone – for example, the kid who was going to be "it" in Tag – each of you would hold out your fist, and the designated leader would tap each hand as he or she recited the above. At the end of the question, the person whose hand they landed on would answer "yes" or "no," and the tapping would continue until the leader tapped the final fist. That's how someone was chosen.

There were also a lot of ditties that we jumped rope to. (Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black, had silver buttons, buttons, buttons, all down her back, back, back...)

I'm fairly certain it was an older sibling who taught me these things, but I wonder who taught the oldest kid? 

Memory is a funny thing. So many childhood memories are cemented firmly into our minds, while current bits and pieces are lost in the ether.

Oh, well, thanks for strolling down memory lane with me. Feel free to share your own childhood rhymes!

Photo attribution: Agriculture And Stock Department, Publicity Branch, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Shoop, Shoop

We were driving down the street last night when Mr. Ginley whooped.

Miss Swivel Hips*

"Hey, somebody back there was playing with a Hula Hoop!"

Boy, howdy, did that take me back.

It's hard to explain to someone not of our generation how cool the Hula Hoop was. My sisters and I each had one. I spent hours spinning it around my waist. Ah, those were the days. When I had a waist.

For the uninitiated, the Hula Hoop was a circular tube with some kind of magic inside that made a "shoop-shoop" sound as you wiggled your hips and tried to keep it aloft. You could do tricks with it, too. If you spun it on its side, you could get it to come back to you.

Seriously, this was cool stuff in the beforetimes.

Of course, these days, I'm sure the Hula Hoop would be looked upon with disdain, much like jump rope and Kick the Can and Red Light, Green Light and tag.

But once upon a time, it was a prized possession.

For years, I kept it in the basement here. I even tried to get my kid interested in it. No such luck. I don't remember who I gave it to, or if I threw it away. Once I had a baby and my waist went away, so did my ability to rock the Hoop.

Ah, well.

I'll just have to be content to hear the shoop-shoop sound in my dreams. 

 

*My Mom wrote the caption for this photo. 

Living in the Wild

It occurred to me recently that I'm the only one in my immediate family who doesn't garden.

I've been to everyone's home at some time, and my eyes have been treated to beautiful blooms and lush greens and, occasionally, vegetables to boot.

I, on the other hand, cringe to think what the former owners of our house would think if they could see how nature has run amok over just about every square inch of our property.

Yes, I cut the grass. But the original flowers that sprung up every year have sadly been choked out by overgrown shrubbery and weeds. 

The only good thing is that we have a pretty small yard, so the carnage goes only so far. But I can see the neighbors across the street, they of pristine lawns and impeccably trimmed hedges, shudder a little when they look this way.

Someday, you'll see me on the news: "Crazy old cat lady wields a chainsaw, goes postal on her shrubbery. Film at 11."

I suppose I should (and do) take some joy from seeing wildflowers in vivid colors poke their heads from the foliage. And you can just imagine my delight when I discovered something called "foraging." You go around your yard and pick a bunch of weeds and wildflowers and interesting greenery, then arrange them artfully in a vase. (Or place them in "forage foam," – yes it's a real thing). The only downside is you're supposed to identify the stuff you pick. I don't suppose "teeny yellow flowers" or "those big purple things" will cut it.

Oh, well.

On the plus side, my lilies of the valley have managed to survive nigh onto 30 years of neglect. They still come up next to the house every May. They're just so stinkin' cute, I have to take the time to pay them homage. Today, after mowing the lawn (it doesn't really qualify as "grass"), I paused to admire them and take a snapshot. 

It made me a little sad because they reminded me of my Mom. She of the original green  thumb who grew flowers and fresh produce with abandon. Tomorrow will be my 13th Mother's Day without her. And boy, howdy, is she missed.

I hope all you moms (including those of the 4-legged, furry or feathered variety), have a lovely Mother's Day. 

And if you're missing your Mom like I am, know that I'm sending you hugs. 

But alas, no flowers!

Happy Mother's Day, Momma

Puzzled

I swore I was never going to get sucked into the whole Wordle thing. 

Attribution below. Don't attempt unless you know Frisian.

Day after day, I'd see others posting their Wordle score on Facebook, and for years I resisted, certain it was a time-killer and I didn't have any of that to waste.

But, as usual, I was the latecomer to the feast, and here I am, digging hungrily into this new pastime. 

If it stopped there, it wouldn't be a big deal. But now I have the New York Times' puzzle app on my phone, and I'm a goner.

"How in the world did I get here?" you may wonder. 

I blame my subscription to the NYT newsletter. One day, at the bottom, it talked about a new game called "Strands." It's a word search but the words go every which way. Maybe I was bored that fateful day or whatever, but I decided to try it.

That was my undoing. I quickly got hooked, and decided to download the NYT puzzle app so I could do it every day.

Alas, the new word game isn't part of the app, as I discovered after downloading it to my phone. However, there are several other games, including Wordle, Connections, Letter Boxed, Tiles, Sudoko and a mini and maxi crosswords. To top it all off, there's the diabolical Spelling Bee, in which you try to make as many words as you can from a set of letters. 

While most of the games take only two or three minutes to do, the Spelling Bee is a real time suck. Mr. Ginley has growled at me over this repeatedly. 

"Are you playing that damn game again?" has become a refrain. Well, and sure, isn't he doing the crossword, Sudoko and anagram puzzles in the newspaper every day? (Okay, I do the Jumble and ScrabbleGram every day, too, but that's beside the point.)

I suppose all this puzzling is due to my being a word nerd, which can't be helped. We'll call it an occupational hazard.

And when I retire? 

I'll tell you it's keeping my brain going. As hobbies go, it's dirt cheap.

Just don't ask me to share my scores on Facebook!

Photo attribution: Kees Swart, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons. Fun fact: the name of this puzzle is Slangesiker puzel Wâldsang, or "Snaking Puzzle," as translated from Frisian, a nearly-defunct West Germanic language that's spoken spoken primarily in the northern Netherlands in the province of Friesland (Fryslân). Now, you know the rest of the story!