The Magic of Branding

Harry Potter is getting his own show on Broadway.

Oh, to be J.K. Rowling these days.

It's hard to believe our friend Harry has been around for over 20 years -- the first book made its appearance in 1997. The seventh -- and final -- book of the series was published in 2007. Since that time, Harry Potter has become a franchise, popularized in movies, theme park exhibits and various and sundry merchandising. And, of course, there are the other books, the spinoffs, with stories about Hogwarts and Quidditch and such.

Admittedly, I was a big fan of Harry Potter. I rabidly read the first six books. Then slogged my way through the seventh, desperately cursing the lack of editing (the book should have been half the size). My son made it halfway through the last book and then bolted. I don't think he ever finished it. There came a point for me when I just didn't care anymore what happened to Harry. Who he ended up with. Or how his life turned out. Cold, I know. But we all have that moment when a beloved character jumps the shark.

I did take my son to see the first movie, but I haven't seen any of the others, and I probably won't. The original books were fresh and fun. But when you beat a dead horse, well...

Alas, Harry isn't the only abandoned fictional character. Many authors have a difficult time coming up with how to take a popular character of many novels and keep him/her from getting stale. On the one hand, it's a great problem to have, because you've already developed a character people are interested in. On the flip side, if your character doesn't live up to expectations, things can quickly get ugly.

I wish Harry all the best on his Broadway show. It's been a hit in London, which bodes well, I suppose. It would not appear that Pottermania is going to let up anytime soon. The kids who read the original Harry Potter books are having kids of their own. A new generation of fans, ripe for the picking.

J.K. Rowling, when asked what she considers the primary genre of the Harry Potter books to be, replied "death."

But I don't envision Harry Potter taking a dirt nap anytime soon.

Smiling Faces

I don't know why I find it so annoying when people tell me to smile.

Apparently, I'm not the only one. A coworker experienced this situation last week, and it prompted a lively discussion.

Admittedly, I am not a smiley kind of gal. There's far more snark than sunshine in my demeanor, an observation that will surprise no one who knows me.

Having a stranger telling me to smile sends my hackles into overdrive. What am I, a doberman pinscher? "Bark! Sit! Heel! Good dog!"

Perhaps it's that old chestnut of how women need to be pleasant and friendly and try harder to make the boys feel comfortable and not threatened. "Now girls, you have to play nice, or the boys won't like you!"

How many times are men told to smile?

All of this, of course, just deepens my scowl.

Fortunately, at this stage of my life, those who know me would not suggest that I show my pearly whites. I mean, if my mom couldn't get me to smile, it's unlikely the general populace will have better luck.

One year, when I was pissed at my mother, I refused to smile for my school picture. We'd had a fight about my hair. She insisted on pulling it away from my face ("you look so pretty"), I wanted it all one length and around my face. So I protested by sulking in the photo. In hindsight, she was right, of course, as moms generally are. I have a lot of hair and a small face, and it did look better pulled back. Wherever mom is right now, I'm sure she's smirking.

And, if I could have her back right now, I'd smile for her, all she wants.

But anyone else can stuff it. I smile when I feel happy or someone makes me laugh.

Otherwise, I'm gritting my teeth.

And yes, you can tell.

Foul Language

Today's rant comes with a PG-13 warning. If you're sensitive about bad language, you should probably hit the back button now.

I've often wondered who decided which four-letter words would constitute swearing.

I understand "damn" and "hell," because of their biblical references.

But why "shit" and not "poop"? Or "crap"? 

And, the granddaddy of them all, "fuck." It seems like this one is the most heinous of all swear words, though I can't think for the life of me why one word should be so powerful. Is it because the most common meaning is to fornicate?

I still remember coming home from grade school one day and asking my mom what it meant. I'd seen it spray painted on the school bus. My mom, who was never one for frank discourse, simply told me it was a bad word and never to use it.

Fast forward twenty-five plus years, and I am getting a report from a fellow parent about my son, who, ever helpful, when asked by a classmate what the "f word" was, obliged by telling her. The other parent was aghast, partly because she actually believed her daughter didn't know what the word was (hah) and partly because the revelation took place in front of the Blessed Virgin Mary statue after mass. I mused that at least he hadn't put the word "mother" before it and "er" after it. But I don't think it would have appeased her at all.

In my upbringing, swearing was a capital offense. My mother, to my knowledge, didn't swear at all, while my dad used other words instead, which had the same sting, if not the same zing. (Remembering him saying, "You dumbbell!" still makes me cringe.) Although I'm certain that when he worked on his home improvement projects with my mom, he did not hold back.

My grandmother, who was less prudish than my mom, could be heard to mutter "shit" under her breath. Which resulted in censure from my mom and an eyeroll from my grandma.

Personally, I believe swear words were designated as such based on the satisfaction you receive by uttering them. "Goldarnit" just doesn't have the chops that using the lord's name with "dammit" does. And, quite honestly, there are just some times when I would like God to damn something. I mean, what's so awful about damning a knife that slices your finger open? I think even Jesus would agree, this is pretty harmless.


Admittedly, there are some words I do not like and will not utter. For example the "c" word, which uses the female anatomy in an angry way to demean and belittle.

But I have to say, "asshole" and "son-of-a-bitch" are two of my favorite go-to words, especially when I'm driving.

I'm not proud of my potty mouth. I imagine in my dotage, I'll be dropping the "f bomb" left and right. And the nurses will probably chalk it up to my being a crazy old cat lady.

But we'll all know better.

It's just how I roll.

Hoofing the Towpath

An old railroad crossing signal. A giant piece of metal pipe. A section of trestle cut from the Cleveland Shortline Railway Bridge that was built in 1907.

Along with scenic views of the defunct Ohio & Erie Canal and the Cuyahoga River, these were a few of the things we saw during a walk along the towpath trail.

We'd been there before, but it had been a number of years ago. My brother-in-law, visiting from California, wanted to take a walk. After some deliberation, this is where we landed.

It's always cool to rediscover places like this in your own backyard. The park is really in the city, yet you could walk or ride your bike for miles and barely realize it. The space is open and mostly flat, making it ideal for old knees to traverse. And, although it was chilly and windy that day, being in a valley helped protect from some of the bitter elements. The sun helped, too.

My brother-in-law was particularly taken by the train bridge that soared high above us. We saw three different trains pass overhead.

I tried to imagine traveling the canal by boat. What sights and sounds might have accosted me. No airplanes, cars or trains. Just mules to pull the boat. And elbow grease to propel the vessel through the water. Maybe I'd have been too busy working to think about the sights and sounds around me.

To wrap up our mini adventure, we went into the Canalway Center. Drank a cup of hot chocolate. Watched the birds and critters outside the large windows. And planned where we'd go next time.

It's easy to take for granted the amazing park system we have in our neck of the woods.

I hope I never do.

Winged Birthday Wishes

Butterflies of all colors and varieties dipped and soared around us in a joyful dance.

The birthday girl is hiding behind my hair.

Yep, it must be Denise's birthday.

Or, rather, it was, a couple of weeks ago. But yesterday was the day for the sisters celebration.

To mark the second annual celebration of my second-oldest sister, we made our first stop the Junk Bash at the Ohio State Fairgrounds. Luckily, it was an indoor event, since it was a very cold, blustery March day. Billed as a "Vintage Boutique," the venue boasted a number of artisans who displayed everything from jewelry made from spoons, typewriter keys and watch innards, to bird houses crafted from license plates and doorknobs.

We surprised the birthday girl with a purse she admired. The front featured a photo of the Beatles from the Rubber Soul album; the back was a vinyl album. The material that lined the inside of the purse had musical notes on it. I surreptitiously went back and bagged the prize, and it wasn't until the end of the evening that Diane and I presented it to her, amid oohs and aahs of joy and delight.

Back to the Junk Bash...the three of us each purchased a necklace. Diane got an octopus, Denise an elephant and weirdo me got the girl made of spoon parts.

Because I didn't want to forget about my significant other, but I knew he wasn't looking for scented soap or a salvaged mailbox, I brought him back some caramels made with Irish whiskey. (They lasted about five minutes, if you're wondering.)

Next on the agenda was the Franklin Park Conservatory, where we observed flora and butterflies. It's Denise's go-to place to relax and unwind. There wasn't a whole lot blooming outside, but inside it was all lush and tropical, an ideal environment for the flying beauties. Alas, there were no monarchs flitting about to help us celebrate. But plenty of other species, none of which I could name, many of which my sister could.

Italian was the cuisine of choice for dinner. Very yummy. Followed by ice cream at Graeters. I would say I'm not going to eat for a week, but we all know better.

All in all, I'm pretty sure my sister had a righteous birthday celebration.

My sisters rock.

And, seriously, I'm not just saying that because my birthday is next.

A Manual Labor of Love

My Smith Corona Corsair manual typewriter, circa 1960s, arrived last week. It was in mint condition, with the original cardboard box.

Two days later, the replacement ribbon I ordered was delivered.

I was pumped.

I blame it all on Tom Hanks. And the California Typewriter Company. They were featured in a video called, appropriately, Typewriter. Partly about the history of the machine, more about aficionados and collectors and the revival of the typewriter, the video got me thinking. Then wanting.

My first typewriting class was in junior high school, eighth grade. That first year, we practiced on manual typewriters. As you would imagine, punching the keys on a manual is a lot more work than tappety-tapping on a computer keyboard. But the satisfy rap of each key on the paper is music to my ears. And there is a certain romance to creating something manually. You can't just go back and edit as you go along. You have to put it all out there, then go back and edit and retype your work. So there's a tangible record of your creative process.

My mom used to type on a 1930s Smith Corona typewriter, which I believe my sister has now. When we were in school and had to type our papers, that was our go-to machine. Back in the day, you weren't allowed to use correction tape or fluid, so if you made a mistake, you had to go back and retype the page. And if you wanted more than one copy, you had to use carbon paper. (That part I definitely do not miss.)

I'm not sure what I'm going to type on my beautiful teal Corsair. It is in our bedroom, positioned so it looks out of the front window, waiting for me to begin my story.

Trite it may be, but I think this is going to be more about the journey than the destination.

Clickety-clack, indeed.

The Homecoming

Maggie has arrived.

Last Saturday, our world, if not turned upside-down, was thrown off its axis with the arrival of a 6 pound, 11 ounce ball of fur.

Unlike her predecessor, our beloved Mabel, she did not immediately adapt to her environment.

Maggie spent the first couple of days in the rafters in the basement.

Tuesday morning, I got a call from Judy at the shelter asking how she was doing. The prognosis: not good. She was hiding all the time, not eating and barely drinking. Judy suggested we put her in a small room with all of her stuff and see if that helped.

So, I stormed the basement, dragged Maggie from her hidey hole, put her in the carrier, and shuttled her up to our old bedroom. It's small but warm. And it has a day bed in it, perfect for kitlettes to hide under.

The change was dramatic.

After I got her settled, complete with classical music, I sat in the rocking chair, read my book and waited. Ten minutes later, she was on my lap, in my face, and wrapped around my heart.

Shortly after lights out, I heard a crash. She'd discovered my jewelry. I found it strewn on the floor. Lesson learned. I scooped it up and put it in the drawer. I had neglected rule #1: cats seldom play with the toys that were intended for them.

Because there were few men at the shelter, it took Maggie a little longer to warm up to Mr. Ginley. But she has now. She sits in his lap and turns on the motor full throttle.

Last night, we opened up her world just a little to the whole upstairs. She jumped in and out of our bed, and we could hear her exploring her expanded environs.

Maggie is now eating and drinking heartily. She purrs a lot. And she loves rolling around on the carpeting. We are happy and relieved that she is adapting.

We'll have to see how things go when she gets to the first floor. I already know she does not like the television, so that will be an adjustment. 

I just want to keep her out of the rafters!