WW1

This week I went to my first Walnut Wednesday.

The weather was perfect, and the place was hopping. Seventeen trucks were parked around what is now officially called "Perk Plaza at Chester Commons." Music was playing, and the lunchtime crowd waited in long lines to procure their eats.

I switched lines after Mr. Ginley found the truck we missed the first time around. We had gone online ahead of time, and I wanted to give Umami Moto's Korean burrito a whirl. Mr. wanted to go for the pizza, but thought it was too much for one person, so he settled instead on a hot dog with Cincinnati-style chili.

Seating was at a premium. Some diners took their finds back to the office with them, but lots stuck around, chatted and and chowed. We moved around some, eating our tasty entrees on a bench in the sunshine before finding a spot in the shade where we devoured our desserts -- cupcakes and donuts, made fresh by loving hands. I kept telling myself that my burrito had lots of wholesome ingredients in it, and they would make up for the sugary treats. But I don't think any of us really believes that.

Back in the day, the area was simply called "Chester Commons." There were grassy knolls and concrete structures to sit on. But you had to bring your own lunch. Unless you wanted to eat from a hot dog cart. And on Friday nights in the summer there was the "Party in the Park," complete with a band and, as I recall, beer.

Overall, Downtown is so radically different from the gritty city of my days working there. Case in point, the waiting list of folks who want to live downtown. The emergence of a fancy grocery store (Heinen's) in the old Cleveland Trust bank building. And the fact that you can walk down East 4th Street without looking over your shoulder every few feet.

There's not much left from my time there to remind me. Just shadows and ghosts.

Our old office building, the Statler, went condo. The JBR store on the corner of 9th and Euclid is many years gone. As are the eateries and hangouts that were part of our experience back in the day.

It is much cleaner and nicer now. The jury is out on Public Square, though. It looks pretty, but they really screwed up traffic through the heart of the city.

The Rapid still runs. And the Terminal still stands. Plus, the library, as always, is a jewel.

So, although there are things I miss, overall, the old lady looks pretty good in her new duds.

And I look forward to a second Walnut Wednesday.

This is My Town

It's been an interesting week in my city.

For the first time in 52 years, one of Cleveland's major league sports teams won a title.

One million three hundred thousand people flooded the downtown streets to watch a parade and rally.

Photo courtesy of Joe Ginley

There was lots of cheering, back-slapping and hooraying for our town. And I think it's all very wonderful.

Everyone who knows me knows I'm not a huge sports fan. I do love the Indians, although I haven't been to a game in a few years. I cried bitter tears of anguish when they lost the World Series in 1997. I still haven't gotten over it.

But the Cavs? I'm pretty "meh," as the kids say. However, I am thrilled for those who love basketball and I bask, just a little, in their glow.

My husband and son watched the game from a local bar. I turned the TV on and off to stay updated on the score, so I knew when it was all over. (The neighborhood fireworks were a good indication, too.) On Wednesday, I dropped my son off at the Rapid station at 6:45 am so he could attend the doin's downtown.

I was happy for the local businesses who would profit handsomely. I was thrilled for the fans. And I shared the joy of my live-in sports nuts.

But I did have one beef with the whole mishegas. The recurring theme that, now that we've won a championship, we're not a city of losers anymore. Like we were all so insecure, we didn't love this screwed up berg all along. It's like having a child: you can criticize your own kid all day long, but if anyone else tries to wail on them, you're having none of it. That's how it felt to me this past week.

Cleveland is a great town. It was a great town before the Cavs won, and it's still a great town. And it would have been a great town even if they hadn't won. I don't want to sound like the Visitors' Bureau or anything, but there are lots of cool things to do in this berg if you look around. My younger coworkers are always talking about local festivals, art shows and other events that embrace the creative talents and diversity of our city. Did you know there is something called "Take a Hike" that does tours throughout the week in the Summer? Areas of interest include the Warehouse District, Playhouse Square, the Gateway District and the Canal Basin. University Circle is chock full of museums and points of interest. The Flats are making a comeback. And the MetroParks have so much to offer that so few people know about.

Who knew I would be the cheerleader here? We've come a long way from our Mistake on the Lake days, when all we could do was throw slogans onto t-shirts and hope for the best. (Cleveland's a Plum? Really?) We've actually cleaned up our gritty city and made it a cooler place to be.

No apologies necessary.

Anyone else up for Walnut Wednesday?

I'm all in.

Bugging Out

Standing in the Target parking lot this week, I couldn't figure out what the noise was. It sounded like the flying saucers in those old B-movies from the 1950s.

Then I remembered Chris saying they sounded like the Star Trek phasers, and I realized what they were...

CICADAS!

After 17 years of hanging out below the surface of the earth, they've risen to make a nuisance of themselves.

Driving up the freeway after work, they pinged my car like little scuds, decorating my windscreen with bug guts. Washer fluid didn't cut it. Only a thunderstorm with massive amounts of rain removed the remains.

The last time the critters emerged en masse was 1999. I don't remember much about that time. Or about 1982. But I do remember 1965.

The street of my childhood was canopied in the summer by giant maple trees. The cicadas loved hanging out in them. I have vivid memories of riding my bike down the street and being terrorized by the flying menaces. And the added bonus of the sound effects made by their shells...crunch, crunch, crunch. I had nightmares for weeks.

This year, I haven't seen or heard any in my neighborhood. It seems to be an all-or-nothing proposition. Some folks report mass sightings in their yard, while others have seen none. I have witnessed a few -- and their shells -- in the parking lot at work.

MetroParks' social media has been positively giddy over them. I had signed up for their Instagram posts, but then decided to un-follow, after receiving photo after graphic photo of the mini-beasts. One was a gif that showed them in action. Nature is a wondrous thing, but I'm not all about bugs, and I don't need to see them up-close-and-personal -- unless they are butterflies. Butterflies are cool.

Before we know it, the cicadas will be history, and we'll all settle down and forget about them for another 17 years.

I'm ready.

Reading Labels

Someone posted a ha ha on Facebook the other day. The crudely drawn character said something to the effect that before we had electronic devices, the only thing to read in the bathroom was the label on the back of whatever personal care item was handy.

Of course, if you were prescient enough to have brought a paperback with you, there was no need for this. But, for the rest of us, reading material consisted of such riveting copy as “Noxema will soothe your dry skin and leave it feeling soft and smooth.”

On the label, you were instructed to slather the stuff on your face. Then remove with a tissue or by splashing your kisser with warm water and gently toweling dry. Or somesuch.

I became an avid label reader. Frequent material included such popular brands as Vaseline, Aqua Velva, Colgate, Aqua Net, Nair and Alberto VO-5. (Does anyone lather, rinse AND repeat?)

Maybe that’s what planted the seed in my brain that would later grow into a talent for writing product descriptions. With a battery of adjectives at my disposal, how could I go wrong?

Smooth, sleek, shiny, lovely, soft, bracing, neat, clean, brisk, attractive.

And let’s not forget the allure built into each product, that ability to attract the opposite sex. (Okay, potty minds, I’m not talking about the Vaseline now.)

These days, I’m often armed with my smart phone or Kindle when I plan to spend a little time in the powder room. But one day recently, I ventured into the nearby cupboard and pulled out some reading material: a small bottle of lotion.

There wasn’t much copy. What was there was very small. Maybe it’s because they had to translate it into French, too. But it was the bare bones. Just something about applying it generously and keeping it out of the reach of children. Plus lots and lots of ingredients.

I decided to try again. This time, I selected a room freshener. The copy wasn’t any sexier. It was chock full of cautions and environmental facts. Half of it was in Spanish.

Does anyone else ever try to cop a quick language lesson by comparing the English wording to the Spanish?

Maybe it’s just me.

It usually is.

Making Time for My Buds

I sat for awhile with my flowers yesterday.

There were little red roses and lush irises and showy peonies. They bloom at the same time. But not necessarily every year.

Their incredible blossoms are so short-lived, I just sat there admiring their loveliness and trying to imprint their essence into mine. The roses petite and pretty. The irises soft and pungent. The peonies puff balls of aromatic white petals -- just watch out for the ants!

In front of me was the entire life cycle. Buds ready to bloom, flowers in full glory, and wilted flora at the end of their performance. I couldn't stop thinking about how short-lived everything is, relatively speaking. And, at the same time, how clichè my thoughts were.

Instead, I decided to just sit and soak in all the loveliness, admire the setting sun and the warm spring evening.

And let it go at that.

Many Happy Returns

Last Sunday, my son accomplished something his father and I never had: he graduated from college.

The weather was picture-perfect, the diploma was secured, and we spent the day basking in the glow of our son's achievement. It was a day for the ages.

The next afternoon, I was at the house my son and five other college students rented. My mission: to help pack up and clean out. I decided to work on the kitchen. I gathered up plates and glasses, pots and pans, many of them slightly sticky to the touch, and realized all would need a bath after they arrived at our house. I enjoyed a happy reunion with several of my travel mugs that had migrated. And I was pleased to learn that we had acquired a Keurig coffee maker and a toaster. Both would also need to be cleaned.

Then I moved on to the foodstuffs.

First, I disposed of anything that had been opened. A few boxes of cereal. A bag of flour with a plastic bag halfheartedly draped across the top. A little pasta.

Next, I tossed anything that had expired.

Finally, I sorted the boxes and bags and cans into two groups: things I was willing to take home and things I would donate to the hunger center at the local church. Falling into the latter category were the gigantic package of Ramen noodles, two boxes of macaroni and cheese, some Hamburger Helper and the like.

I peered cautiously into the refrigerator, and reminded my son that we would not be transporting the hamburger that had been aging ungracefully in the freezer. Also not making the journey was the 80-pack box of freezer pops and a 12-pack of light beer.

In the pantry I found bags. Hundreds of them. Plastic and paper and canvas. A lovely coaster with a peace sign on it. And some bean bags from a corn-hole set. As an added bonus, at the bottom of one of the bags I discovered packages of paper plates and plastic utensils.

I still don't know how long the green Skittle was stuck to the floor. Or why one of guys left a term paper behind the microwave. It will forever be a mystery why there was half a jug of dishwasher pellets under the sink in a house that has no dishwasher. And we may never figure out how and why that pop tart landed on the top shelf, in the back, so forlorn. It could tell no tales and obviously didn't make the trip.

The next day, the rest of the house was packed and ready to move. Thanks to a good friend of our son's, a truck was made available and the contents schlepped in two trips. There were casualties. The bed didn't come home. It's an old mattress and box spring set, and no one had the stomach for a third trip.

Let me say, I am grateful, as was the landlord, that the house was left in reasonably good condition -- certainly far, far better shape compared to the previous tenants. I was also pleased to hear that the police didn't find it necessary -- even once -- to visit the place. But I could feel my son's sadness in saying goodbye to his first non-dorm home-away-from-home. Living with us again will certainly be less expensive for him, but also a little like moving backward in time.

But it's awfully nice having him around until he flies the coop.

I give him six months.

Not For The Birds

Bird cams have become quite the thing.

A number of wildlife preserves, in an effort to satisfy the voyeuristic cravings of bird watchers, have installed "cams" over the nests of certain species.

The problem is that, well, birds will be birds.

This week, there was an article in the paper about a pair of osprey that were in the eye of the camera. Everything was just hunky dory until the mother became mommy dearest, alternately ignoring and abusing her offspring.

That's when the watchers turned into vigilantes. They emailed demands that the chicks be rescued. They threatened to take matters into their own hands.

Imagine Marlin Perkins and Jim Fowler prowling the wilds of Africa. Marlin is speaking in hushed tones to Jim, explaining how the lion has hunted and is now snacking away on a zebra it has captured, encouraging Jim to go in for a closer look. Suddenly, an angry viewer appears in front of the camera, raving about how cruel Marlin and Jim are for allowing the zebra to be killed.

It's like that. Some bird cam addicts seem to think the cameras are filming for Disney. That birds should behave like they do in the highly edited version. Trouble is, these cams capture everything. And nature ain't always pretty.

Ultimately, the osprey cam was turned off. And the watchers found another camera in another state on which to view their bird porn. And the osprey were left to do whatever it is they do without surrogate helicopter bird-parents swooping in and making their demands.

And we've proven once again that bird brains aren't only found in species that fly.