Shadows in the Classroom

We wandered the old classrooms, partly in search of mementos, partly in search of old memories.

Yesterday, Mr. Ginley's old grammar school began selling off old desks, chairs, textbooks and other classroom materials. They closed the facility a few years ago, and we weren't sure if the sale signaled the end of any hopes of another school coming in. If new owners had other plans. Or if it meant the building was going to be demolished.

I took the day off so we could take a look-see.

Mr. began pointing out the classrooms he had been in. The cloak room where he removed his soggy boots before class. The windows that used to be casement style and opened in the early fall and late spring, now permanently sealed shut. Bits and pieces of memories. But mostly, he walked through deep in thought.

I trailed, feeling sadness at the silence. No shuffling of feet. Or chalk dust. (Just dust.) No cacophony of young voices. No lingering energy. Just classrooms filled with chairs tucked neatly under desks. A former science room. A music room that housed percussion instruments and a box filled with sheet music. A primary classroom with blocks and bric-a-brac for creative learning. All of it for sale.

We had decided ahead of time to select a couple of chairs. We'd picked up two of them from another sale at another school many moons ago and found them to be very useful around the house.

So, as Mr. reminisced, I began to search. At the end of our journey, we found stacks of old wooden chairs with metal legs. We selected three, which turned out to be slightly different in size. It was a challenge to find three that were in decent condition (no wobbly back or legs). And that did not have initials etched with a pen knife. Or male genitalia in graphic detail. (How did they manage to carve all that without the teacher noticing?)

Included in our purchase were maps of the building by floor. And an old yardstick -- there was much speculation about whether any of the marks on the well-worn implement could have been made by use of force on Mr. Ginley. (At our school, the nuns used rulers, but when I asked, my husband pointed out the additional 24 inches increased the range of reach.)

We paid for our purchases and loaded them into the car. It will be bittersweet for my husband to have a piece of his childhood living in our home. A comfort, in a way.

But also a reminder of the shadows that live only in memory.

Imagine That

I saw paper dolls at a used bookstore the other day.

They weren't vintage or anything. But they did spark a series of flashbacks.

I played with a lot of paper dolls back in the day. And their hipper, stickier offshoot, Colorforms.

Hours and hours were spent dreaming up scenarios for my paper (and plastic) pals. For the paper variety, the dolls, their wardrobe and accessories had to be painstakingly cut from a book, taking care not to cut off the tabs that held their duds in place. If the doll was printed on paper, it was also necessary to find a piece of cardboard to glue her to so she could stand up.

There were also kits that included backdrops and props as well as characters, so you could set up a whole diorama. My mom bought a set to keep in the attic at my grandmother's house. When we got whiny and bored, she'd send us up to the attic to play with Popeye and Olive Oyl and Bluto/Brutus.

Colorforms came mostly ready to roll. You had to remove the parts from a pre-pressed sheet of plastic. I had Willy the Weatherman. My sister had Miss Cookie's Kitchen. I'm sure my other siblings had their variations, too, although I can't picture them now. I can, however, remember the feel and the smell of the plastic. Predicting the weather with Willy. And helping my sister bake cookies and cakes in the cardboard oven that opened and closed.

I cannot fathom how we played that long with toys that didn't "do anything." Somehow, our imaginations carried the day.

My son, born of Luddites, didn't get a lot of electronic toys to play with as a child. Happily, his favorite was his Thomas the Tank Engine wooden train set. For many years, it was his go-to entertainment. "Cinders and ashes, Thomas, we're going to crash!" I still have the trains, their paint chipped and faded from being over-loved. What an imagination he had. And has.

I know you're rolling your eyes at this point, thinking I'm going to rant about kids today and their electronic toys. Nope. You're smart, you get it.

Instead, I think I'll head over to E-Bay and see if any of the relics of my childhood remain.

That's the irony, of course. That it takes an electronic resource to bring back a piece of my stone-aged past.

That's okay. This old dog likes new tricks, too.

Cruising

The motorheads were in their glory. Mr. and I were strictly amateur, but we enjoyed the ride.

It was the St. Pat's Cruise In. Featuring a few dozen classic (and modern classic) automobiles.

My beloved and I tried to peer knowingly into each engine and nod approvingly. Then we'd take a look-see at the controls, the upholstery, the amenities. It was interesting but not personally engaging.

Until it was.

I stopped in my tracks. Could it be? I had to ask the year. 1966. Chevy. Impala. Station. Wagon. Oh, yeah. Now it was personal.

The car I viewed at the show was gold, although the owner said they also had one in blue. BLUE! I sighed.

The car formerly (and forever) known as "Big Blue" was purchased new by my parents. It seated nine (three bench seats), so it was big enough for the eight of us. When we traveled together, my parents sat in the front with my youngest brother between them (in an over-the-seat contraption that could never be called safe). My two sisters and I sat in the center. (I sat in the middle on "the hump.") And my two older brothers sat in the rear seat, which faced backward. On long trips, my folks would put down the back seat, and the boys were allowed to recline. They would stick their feet out the back window, but only in the country. My mom would admonish them to retract their tootsies when we traveled through a town, so we didn't look like rubes.

When I came of age, I drove Big Blue for a time. But it wasn't pretty. I had to sit on a cushion to see over the steering wheel, which amused other drivers no end. There was no power anything in that car, so I acquired a few extra muscles turning the wheel. And parking it was like trying to dock the QE2. What amazes me is that my mom drove that car for years, and she made it look easy, even though she wasn't much bigger than I. It was really her car. Later, my younger brother became its proud master, and he would squire Big Blue all over town.

It's funny what you forget, though. When we were at the Cruise In, I noticed the step-ups on the back of the car. I'd forgotten they were there...one on either side of the back drop-down door, to help you get in and out. Thinking about it now, you had to be fairly agile to maneuver yourself into the rear seat.

At work the next day, we were talking about classic cars, and the younger folks were recalling the car in which they learned to drive. Dana remarked that somehow, she didn't think people in the future would be quite as nostalgic about their first car.

The first automobile I owned was a Toyota Tercel. It was a great little car, and I loved the hatchback and rear wiper, but there hasn't been a time when I've thought about trying to buy a restored model.

Mr. asked me, "So, if you won the lottery, what classic car would you buy?"

My first thought was, Aston Martin. He scoffed. He pointed out that it has a stick shift, which I can't operate. And it has too much power for me.

I pointed out that it would be perfect for zipping up and down Big Sur after I bought that beachfront property in California. Also, I could learn to drive with a shift. If I had a real incentive. Like an Aston Martin.

Back to reality, I know my next car will likely be a Corolla. At this stage of the game, reliability wins out over fun. And, let's face it, I would just look old and silly behind the wheel of a convertible sports car.

But somewhere, deep inside, there's a part of me that can just feel the wind whipping through my hair, the ocean breezes calling me, zooming along coastal roads. Channeling my inner Kim Novak.

Oh, yeah.

Wire-less

I have some of the most exciting vacation days ever.

Like this past Wednesday, for example.

"Really?" you ask incredulously.

I'll let you be the judge.

I rose bright and early (well, okay, early) and dropped off my kid at the Rapid station. Then I sat with my cell phone on the porch, ate my breakfast and read, waiting to hear from the internet service provider who was coming to fix my wonky connection. (I won't give them away or anything, but I will say their company name is comprised of three letters and an ampersand.)

My adventure began a few weeks earlier, when my internet connection deteriorated to the point where it kept cutting out halfway through various tasks.

We've had problems with squirrels chewing the line to the house. Also, there was a tree branch that encroached from another property and was scraping the wire. So, after we paid to have the tree trimmed, we called the internet provider and asked them to come out and replace the line.

The guy arrived. He tested the line and said it was fine. He went up on the pole, fiddled with the connections there, declared there had been some extra loops in the wire, and everything was great now.

He left. The problem came back.

I called my friends once again, very calmly explaining that we wanted the line replaced or we were taking our business elsewhere. I even said we were willing to upgrade if they would replace the line. My new-best-friend assured me that, if I went to the souped up plan, I would, as a matter of course, get a new line to the house.

I now believe the service rep would have promised me his grandmother's gold teeth and his first-born son to get me to stay. And I had about as much of a chance of getting either of those things as I did of getting a new wire. But I am getting ahead of myself.

There I was, sitting on the porch, when I heard the phone ringing inside the house. This was the first bad sign, since I had specifically instructed them to contact me on my cell phone.

The next indication that something was amiss was the surly service guy, whose response to my new-line inquiry was "we'll see." (Anyone who grew up in my house knows that "we'll see" means "no.")

He proceeded to rewire the inside of our home. He never got up on the pole or looked at the wire. He installed a behemoth of a modem that is more than twice the size of the old one. And he assured me the line was clear and operating nicely.

No, he was not going to replace the outside line.

Oh, and by the way, his company was going to ask me to take a survey, and could he count on me giving him a "10".

I must have looked like someone slapped me in the face with a ham steak. Was he kidding? He was rude, dodgy and condescending. And I was supposed to give him top marks for this?

I pointed out that someone had lied to me about installing the wire. He said the survey was based on his performance, not his company's. I held my tongue. I did not point out that his attitude was awful. He continued to press, and I continued to dodge.

You will find this as funny as I did, I'm sure, but I never did get a call from the company asking what I thought of their service.

And, last night, the internet connection got slow and stopped for awhile.

Soon I will have the opportunity to speak with them again. I predict we will be getting service from their competitor.

That log cabin in the woods is looking mighty appealing right now.

Magic Fingers

Like many things I said I'd never do, getting a massage turned out to be one of my favorite things.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad...or, more to the point, when I have a birthday.

It's become a once-a-year thing to have my body kneaded by a stranger. There was a time when the idea did not appeal to me at all. But that was before I experienced the pure joy of fingers digging deep into my muscles to unleash the knots and soothe my stressed body.

Frankly, I did feel a little out of place when I walked in. I waited patiently while the lady-who-lunches in front of me described in detail the travails of her week. Which included a dog that got skunked and her sadness at him having to forego the pool she bought him because the vet advised her he would smell every time he got wet, at least for the next month or so.

When my turn came, the receptionist asked if this was my first visit to their new digs (it was), where the bathroom was and to help myself to treats. My bladder being my bladder, I decided a trip to the ladies' would be a good idea. By the time I got back, my masseuse was waiting. (No treats for me.)

The massage room (I will not call it a parlor, thank you) was dimly lit with New Age tinkle music playing softly in the background. Once I divested myself of most of my clothing and plopped my body down on the bed, the magic fingers lady knocked and appeared.

It was a full body, hour-long Swedish massage. The name always brings to my mind pictures from a James Bond movie. So not like that. No one walking on or karate chopping my back.

Just the fingers, digging, digging, digging.

She started with my scalp and worked her way down. I could feel the knots dissolving under her expert touch. I told her about messing up my knee a few weeks ago. She said it still felt warm and I should ice it and probably have the doctor look at it if things didn't improve in the next week.

Then, time to work on the flip side. I turned onto my stomach and put my kisser in the "face cradle."  (I just love that name.) It's shaped like the letter "U" so you can rest your head comfortably and still breathe.

I will admit, I did squirm when she worked on the bottoms of my feet. But I noticed afterward that they didn't hurt like they had when I walked in.

Yes, I know it's an indulgence. And most folks would not include it on their list of must-haves. But I have added it to mine. At least once a year.

All I can say in my defense is, "Ahhhhhhhhh."

Calling for Back-Up

My son has, at last, realized he needs his driver's license.

For the past several weekends, I have handed over the keys to the Ginleymobile and we've toodled around town. One afternoon, we even began working on the dreaded maneuverability.

In my day, it was parallel parking. Which I was lousy at (then) and passed only because the driving instructor's car stalled out mid-backup and the tester got testy and said I would have made it anyhow.

Someone decided that, since parallel parking is seldom used these days, we should test drivers-to-be by having them back through a series of orange cones. You can go slow, but you get points taken off every time you hit the brake. And if you hit a cone, you are toast.

I've been asking around, but haven't had much luck with tips and tricks. A trip to Ace Hardware may be in order to purchase some cones. There was a creative solution on YouTube that involved shoes and baseball bats, but I don't have enough of either to implement.

When I spoke with my sister about my dilemma, she told me a story about her own experience with parallel parking. She was married when she finally worked up the nerve to take the driver's test for the second time. (Having been traumatized the first time by the BMV test-giver.) Her husband's friend said he could teach her in 15 minutes. He and my brother-in-law made a bet, and, sure enough, Bruce K. had my sister parallel parking in no time.

I don't know how much the bet cost. But I'm willing to pay up so my kid can pass the test and move on with his life.

Anyone?

What a Wonderful World

I was driving home Friday, listening to a random selection of 60’s classics on a CD I picked up a couple of weeks ago. Louis Armstrong began to croon the classic, What a Wonderful World.

I let it play through. Then again.  And one more time.

And I thought to myself, “What a wonderful world.”

Louis Armstrong lived through a lot of traumatic events in his day. The Great Depression. Both World Wars. More wars. The race riots of the 60’s. Segregation. The assassinations of Martin Luther King. JFK and Bobby Kennedy.

And yet, he crooned that beautiful song. It calls out the joys of living. Of loving our world and its fellow travelers.

It’s been a bad week for America.  I have no answers, no solutions. If I have a wish, it’s that Americans remember that we are all Americans. Some of us are very good, others very bad. Most of us are somewhere in the middle. Our friends and neighbors may be Christians or Muslims or Buddhists, straight or gay. They could be African American or Asian or Indian. Maybe they believe in gun control or they feel safer with a gun in their home.  They may not look like we do or speak like we do or have the exact same beliefs. But  in our hearts, the vast majority of us want the same things.  To enjoy some measure of happiness. To create a safe environment for ourselves and our children. To go about our lives without fear. To have a roof over our head, plenty of food to fill our stomach and enough in our wallet to get us through the week.

If we could refrain from labeling one another, quit setting up camps and spitting vitriol at the folks on the other side of the fence, and take the time to see each other from the inside out, just think.

What a wonderful world.