What a Card

We pulled into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn and found a space in the back. The place was jammin' with sports collectors.

My kid is in this photo, too.

After paying our admission, we entered a room crammed with sports memorabilia. Uniforms, helmets, baseballs, footballs, hockey pucks and other paraphernalia autographed by stars and lesser known players. And, of course, there were bubble gum cards. Billions and billions of them. In every sport. And, for the benefit of spouses or friends who were there merely to lend support, there were the cards of our youth from TV shows and, of course, musical groups.

While Mr. Ginley wound his way through the sports-laden labyrinth in search of a prize, I picked up a binder and began to turn pages. It was bursting with plastic sheets, each equipped to hold eight cards (nine on each side). This particular binder contained Beatles cards. John, Paul, George and Ringo grinned, leered and sneered their best in shot after shot. Larking about playfully together. Giving a solo come-hither look. In concert or in the studio or in a taxi or running from screaming girls.

I enjoyed looking at them, and I was tempted, but I didn't buy any. I knew that I'd spend $3 or $4 or $5 for a card that I would put in a drawer somewhere. Mr. Ginley suggested I buy a few and frame them together, but I couldn't find the right combination. He managed to find a few things he wanted to purchase, so we did and took our leave.

Later, I began to wonder. My brother and I had collected a ton of cards. Back in the day, we'd even enjoyed chewing the rectangular wafer of bubble gum that was part of the package. So, where did they all go? Some gave their lives to the spokes of our bicycles. (I'm sure that thwack, thwack, thwack sound drove the neighbors nuts.) I had a vague recollection that I'd kept a handful. So I went a-lookin'.

There, in my Fox's Biscuit tin, I found what remains of my once-impressive collection. Approximately 40 Monkees cards. About half were from one series (with concert dates and "Monkees Questions and Answers" on the back); the rest featured a piece of a puzzle on the reverse side. The idea was to collect the entire series to form the puzzle. I don't think I ever quite managed this. There was always at least one elusive card.

Also in my tin I found some newer additions. Cards featuring scenes from the Andy Griffith Show, one with Carlos Baerga and a few Animaniacs.

Fortunately for the neighbors, I don't have any left that I'd be willing to part with. So, the clothes pins will remain in the basement, and I won't be riding my bike around at 8 am making that lovely noise.

But I was tempted, just for a second.

Millennial Musings

The millennials are in the news again.

Millennials are the new baby boomers. Now that more of them are coming of age (and are earning their own keep), they are the target of marketers everywhere. This is proving to be a tricky proposition. It would probably help just a little bit if someone could nail down the definition. Consulting the Google, I see there is no consensus, just that a millennial's year of birth is anywhere between 1980 and 2000. Doing the math (which, on good days, I can do without a calculator), this means people between the ages of 16 and 36.

In a newspaper article this week, I read that millennials won't be marketed to. They don't like it when older adults try to talk to them like they talk to each other.

As a member of the Pepsi generation, I had to laugh. Marketers have always tried, with mixed success, to sell stuff to the reigning youngsters.

This week, in a blunder of epic proportions, an AMC executive suggested allowing texting in movie theaters to attract millennials. Apparently, he believes encouraging young folks to sit in a darkened theater and play with their phones, distracting others who actually want to watch the show, is a swell idea. God bless social media: Twitter and Facebook blew up and told AMC in no uncertain terms how unpopular this decision would be. AMC is backpedaling. Fast.

The other topic that's been newsworthy is trigger warnings, particularly on college campuses. The upshot is that kids want to be protected from bad ideas and people who say things that offend them. Apparently, we've raised a generation of doofuses. College is supposed to expand the mind, to expose students to a variety of experiences. Our children need to learn about the world and its history, warts and all. How can you address what needs to be fixed in the world if you don't know what's wrong? After they graduate, are they going to head out into the real world with their hands over their ears, singing la la la la so they don't have to hear anything unpleasant?

Okay, okay, I know, I'm doing my cranky old lady thing again. But this old lady (and the old hard ass beside her) didn't raise no stinkin' whiner. Our son was taught to think for himself. To be self- sufficient. He's learned lessons in the classroom and, just as importantly, outside of it.

He may think we're out there, and that we have a lot of old people ideas. But that's okay. He gives us hope for the next generation.

And hope that, someday, he will raise kids who are just as awesome as he is.*

*And, no, I'm not just saying this because he's coming home to cut the grass this weekend!

Sew What

When it comes to crafty projects, I am the master of procrastination.

The original quilt

For what has become a few years, since I took a class in making quilts out of t-shirts, I've been promising Mr. Ginley I would create a quilt with all of his favorite sports teams.

A couple of years ago, he dug out the shirts he wanted to use.

Last year, I went looking for the instructions from the class. I found one of the pages.

So...now I am thinking I will try to find a class at one of the local fabric stores (again), and, hopefully, complete his quilt over the summer.

I wish I could be like my friend and co-worker, Stephanie. She is a master crocheter, zipping through projects like a pro. I envy her talent and tenacity.

Alas, I'm a slacker.

My intentions are good, it's just that when I come home at the end of the day, make dinner and set my fanny on the couch, I'm done. And on the weekends, I am like a whirling dervish, dashing to errands here and there.

Maybe today, snowbound here in April, will be a good day to create a plan of attack.

Or maybe it will just be a good day to read. To watch old movies on TV. To wait for the snow to melt.

And imagine the wonderful project Stephanie is creating.

Lack of Intestinal Fortitude

I know other writers have phrased this better than I, but, unfortunately, it's the crappy stuff that happens to you that makes you really appreciate the good.

This thought was rattling around my head last night as I sat and paid homage to the porcelain goddess.

At first, I thought it was food poisoning...again. But, at 4:30 a.m., I decided there was probably something more to it than that.

I was sacked out on the couch while Mr. Ginley rummaged through the kitchen cupboards in search of the Imodium A-D I was absolutely, positively certain I'd bought sometime in the last year. Or so. Then I remembered something about our son maybe taking it with him to school. The rummaging continued, as Mr. Ginley called out a litany of useless drugs and their mostly-expired dates.

At 6:00 a.m., I arose once again to do what was necessary, then consulted my favorite faux doctor, the Google, to see what I could do until a trip to the drug store was possible. I was told to nibble on a salty cracker and sip water.

Neither of those stayed around for long.

So here I am, woozy and rumbly. There will be no cat duty for me this morning. Hopefully, it's nothing contagious that I'm going to pass to Mr. Ginley.

And later, when things settle down, I'm going to remember to send up a big thanks for my overall fine health. In spite of the achy knees, acid reflux and occasional illness, I know I've got it really good.

Sorry, gotta go!

Here's Johnny...

Cass Elliot was talking to Johnny Carson on TV last week. During a commercial break, as has become our habit, we Googled to read a little bit more about her.

The show aired on May 7, 1974. Cass died on July 29th of that same year.

We've been watching the old Tonight Show episodes, which have been airing nightly on one of those channels that shows nothing but reruns and sells stuff to old people. I feel a little like a voyeur, peering at these comedians and singers and actors and some regular folks, too, knowing what is going to happen to them in the years to come. If they will marry (or stay married), have children and, in too many cases, when and how they will end their days.

Watching Robin Williams in his prime. Could there be anyone funnier? And Richard Pryor, almost subdued, but hilarious. And now, Gary Shandling. These are the comics of my time, and I struggle not to cry, even as I laugh. They were amazing.

There are times of irony, too.

An actress called Kay Lenz was chatting with Johnny about how her career came first and she had no interest in marrying anyone, etc.  I did my Google magic. The show was filmed in 1976. The following year, she married David Cassidy. (And divorced in 1983.)

Then there are the icons of my parents' generation. Jack Lemon. Jackie Gleason. Betty Davis. Shelly Winters. And on and on. 

Maybe I'm the only one who feels this way. It's possible other people watch the reruns and turn off the television without a thought. But these folks stay in my head.

Sometimes I imagine my own life flickering away on a screen in my mind. How will it all turn out?

Stay tuned.

Being A-Mazed

Judd Nelson (as you saw him in The Breakfast Club) wanted me to meet him at Applebee's on Lorain Road. I was much younger, unmarried, and willing.

So began my very vivid dream the other night.


I thought meeting Judd would be a piece of cake. I know where Lorain Road is, surely I could find the Applebee's.

Nope.

First of all, for some reason, I was on foot. Then I found myself wandering through car dealerships, a street carnival (complete with merry-go-round) and a whole host of stores. I asked for directions but got no help. In the end, I awoke, frustrated that Judd and I would never get together, wondering if he was sitting in an Applebee's somewhere in his dreams, waiting for me.

The thing is, I get lost a lot in my nocturnal rambles through dreamland. I don't know if it's because I have such a lousy sense of direction, or if incidents from my childhood are coming back to haunt me. Although I wasn't in the habit of getting lost, there was that one time...

My parents and younger brother and I went to the art museum so my folks could culture us up. I was at the surly teen stage (much to my everlasting shame and embarrassment). I did not want to be seen with my family. I was so cool (not ever). Anyhow, I wandered away to admire the treasures all around me, and I was pulled into the labyrinth of paintings and sculpture and such. Then I realized I was well and truly lost. In a panic, I began searching for my folks, zipping from room to room, each time ending up in the same place I'd started. Eventually, one of the guards stopped me and helped me to find my clan. My father was furious. My mom was relieved. I don't recall my brother's reaction, but he was probably disappointed that I'd come back.

Karma is a you-know-what. We were shopping with my young son, when he decided to hide under a rack of clothes and "surprise" us. He was definitely surprised when he got a crack on the rear end for scaring the crap out of us -- along with the lecture every parent gives their child about strangers and such.

The more famous disappearing act our son pulled was during an autumn trip to a farm with his preschool class. There was a hay maze, and Mr. Ginley was waiting patiently at the end of it for the lad to come out. Then he was waiting not-so-patiently, and asked another child if he'd seen our kid. The boy replied that there was a child in the maze who was sitting and crying because he was lost. So Mr. went in and got him. (Can a sense -- or lack of sense -- of direction be hereditary?)

We all get lost sometimes. Finding our way out of the hay maze can be very trying.

 I just hope that whenever I'm lost, there's someone who wants to find me.

It doesn't have to be Judd Nelson.

Singing Right Along

In a fit of nostalgia, I grabbed a Mitch Miller CD on my way out the door the other morning.

As is the case with a lot of old songs, I was singing right along (which is what you are supposed to do with Mitch Miller, after all), when I began to pay attention to the words.

It may seem odd to you that a professed writer hadn't given much thought to the lyrics before. But for some reason, the songs of my childhood soaked into my brain, seemingly by osmosis, and stuck, without question. But on this particular day, I started to listen as I sang.

And then I laughed and marveled at how things change.

She's got a pair of hips just like two battleships. I give her everything to keep her in style. Well, well, well, she wears silk underwear, I wear my last year's pair. Say, boys, that's where my money goes.*

Huh?

Then there was a song, a master of innuendo, called Sweet Violets.

There once was a farmer who took a young miss
In back of the barn where he gave her a...
Lecture on horses and chickens and eggs.

I began to listen and pay attention to the rest of the tunes. The "next" stanzas.

For example, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, which always seemed like a nice tune about a woman pining for her man who'd gone off to war or something. Stanza three goes like this:

Behind the door, her father kept a shotgun. 
He kept in the springtime and in the month of May
Hey, Hey, and if you ask him why the heck he kept it
He kept it for her lover who is far, far away.

Hold on there, Tonto. I decided to go to my friend the Google and learn more. I found a crap-ton of versions. One involves a baby and calls the MIA in question a cowboy rather than a lover (although he was apparently both).

Well, now, this was an eye-opener.

Finally, I came to You Are My Sunshine. After my dad passed away, my mom told me he would sing this to her in bed every night.

Apparently, he only sang the first verse.

The tune is about a guy who is pining because the love of his life left him. At one point in the song he even issues a mild threat about how she'll be sorry.

Holy Cats!

When my son was a toddler, he listened to Raffi and Mary Poppins and such. Although, to be fair, Mr. Ginley did expose him to a fair amount of rock and roll. So I suppose it could be argued that our boy listened to his share of inappropriate tunes.

But, if they were appropriate, Mr. Ginley would often change the lyrics and render then unsuitable anyhow.

That's how we roll. And that's how we've given our son more material for his future based-on-real-life TV sitcom.



Notes:  *From a military variation of a folk song called My Gal's a Corker. Sweet Violets was penned by Joseph Emmet in 1882.   She Wore a Yellow Ribbon is derivative of a folk song/poem that goes back many generations. You Are My Sunshine is attributed to Paul Rice, who sold it to Jimmie Davis, who made it famous in 1939.