Think

I was reminded again this week how deeply personal music is.

The passing of Aretha Franklin meant saying goodbye to another icon of my musical life. Not too long ago, I watched The Blues Brothers again, and reveled in her performance of Think. It was chock full of rich vocals and energy, brilliantly performed and choreographed.

Music has always been embedded in my life experiences. Popular music was the soundtrack of my formative years. When I listened to the Fifth Dimension in the car last night, I was transported to a summer long ago.  I can hear any Beatles song and something vibrates deep in my soul.

It's not surprising that when I watched the movie Hard Days Night with my son, he was able to view it dispassionately, puzzled by all those screaming girls. It was disappointing to me that he didn't feel what I did, but then, why should he? The feeling of something new and revolutionary happening, the heart-pumping reaction evoked by the four lads from Liverpool was rooted in my past, not his.

Going back a generation, this week I hit upon Arte Shaw's iconic Begin the Beguine in my playlist. It made me wonder what my Mom and Dad felt listening to it in their adulthood. Did it carry memories of school dances, dating and friends long gone?

Ms. Franklin could sure belt out a song, and that was a gas. But I really enjoy her soulful renderings, too. Sadly, I do not have a lot of her songs in my collection.

But I plan to remedy that.

In the meantime, I'm going to go back and watch her performance again in The Blues Brothers.

And take in Natural Woman. Until You Come Back to Me. Freeway of Love...

Better Luck Next Time

Although my wish is to be cremated, if I were to have a headstone, these are the four words I expect would appear on it:

Better Luck Next Time.

I see these four words almost every time I play the lottery. Except when I "win." (Collecting $2.00 at least pays for the stinkin' ticket, I guess.)

How many times have I experienced some bizarre coincidence in my life and said, "What are the odds of that happening?"

Apparently, occurrences such as these are limited to things that will not make me rich.

Yesterday, in a whirlwind of hope and desperation, I purchased not my usual one but three lottery tickets.

I plead with the lottery gods. I will do good with my winnings. I won't go all Johnny Depp or Michael Jackson. I will not buy 16 cars and 7 houses or an island or the bones of the Elephant Man.

I will pay off my debts, my son's debts and donate a portion of the winnings to charity. I will do good works.

My needs are simple. I don't need 200 million or even 50 million. I could be very happy with, say, 2 million. I'd be a responsible curator of the cash, truly I would. If just given half the chance.

It's fun to fantasize about what I'd do in the astronomically improbable event of winning a boatload of cash.

Alas, I know in my heart of hearts that I'm bound to slog my way through life the old-fashioned way.

"Winning that much money just causes other kinds of headaches," quip well-meaning friends. Although the headaches they cite, when challenged, are things like, "people will want money from you" and "there are the taxes to deal with."

Oh, boo hoo. I say, bring it on. With that much money, I could buy a case of Tylenol, change my name and move. Hire an accountant. And a second accountant to watch the first accountant.

Oh well.

Just for the record, those three tickets I bought yesterday...not one single number matched. I probably should have waited until the end of the weekend to check.

Now I already know I have to go to work on Monday.

Vetting the Cat

I'm pretty sure Maggie knew that something was up.

Mr. Ginley advised me she spent most of yesterday following him around, looking for reassurance.

Then, right before bedtime, up from the basement came the cat carrier (aka, "The Pet Porter, Jr."), and the jig, as they say, was up.

I placed a towel inside the carrier and left it in the living room. Maggie steered clear of it the rest of the evening.

This morning, we went about our routine without any sign that something was different. I came out of the bathroom and looked down to find my feline friend stretched luxuriously on the rug before me. Speaking softly, I scooped her up, carried her downstairs, and pushed her into the carrier.

Then into the car, where I buckled her in and whisked her away.

Mild protestations were uttered, but she didn't have any mishaps in the carrier. Into the vet's office we went. The only sign of her distress was a loud (for her), plaintive wail. Just one.

When they called her name, we headed for the examination room, where the weighing in took place. Porky had gained two pounds since she joined our family, a clear indication that she has succumbed and become a true Ginley. Another sign was an abundance of ear wax (something we all have, in spades).

Our four-legged roommate checked out just fine. She got her shots, a manicure (she decided to skip the pink nail polish), was given a flea treatment, and pronounced good to go.

I really like the vet. He's taken care of all three of our cats at various times over the last 25 years or so. He's compassionate and perceptive. And the office staff is pretty great, too.

But I digress.

The doctor said Maggie might be a little lethargic the rest of the day. I wanted to ask him how we would be able to tell the difference from any other day, but I let it go.

The bill was paid, the Ginley Mobile was loaded up, and home we went.

They say when you put a cat in a carrier, they think you are going to abandon them. I guess that's why, when we were headed for home, Maggie Lou seemed a lot calmer. It was clear I wasn't going to dump her anywhere.

I think we've both recovered.

Maggie seems content. And the claw marks on my shoulder, inflicted when I held her in the vet's office, seem to be healing nicely.

Birthday Bliss

First of all, my faithful readers, thank you for your support as I abandoned this corner of the world to spend the day with my sisters. And thank you, Mr. Ginley, for filling in for me.

I did, indeed, have a fabulous time celebrating my birthday with Denise, Diane and my sister-in-law, Kay.

During our birding extravaganza in April, Diane had planted the idea that Yellow Springs might be a place I would enjoy. After reading up, I agreed, and Diane set the itinerary for our merry band of revelers.

I drove to Columbus and rode the rest of the way with my two sisters. We rendezvoused with Kay at Young's Dairy Farm. There, we played putt putt, and somehow, I managed to win with three (yes, you read it right) three holes-in-one. Then came lunch, an unexpected behemoth of a meal, which included my first experience with fried cheese curds, a specialty at the restaurant. I chose to order the all-day breakfast. My sisters thought a half sandwich and salad would be lighter fare, but the salad turned out to be the size of Montana. Also, it was de rigueur for each table to receive applesauce bread, a bowl of applesauce and cole slaw.

On the one hand, it was a lot of food. On the other, it prepared us for the longer-than-expected hike we were about to take.

Steps

Donning appropriate foot gear (cool, I got to use my hiking boots again), we went for a walk along the trails of Glen Helen Nature Preserve. We descended down into the park via many, many stairs, which fortunately were not slippery when wet. There is always the sinking feeling that what goes down must also go up, but I was game for adventure, so I put this thought aside. There was much loveliness, from the primitive feel of the deep woods and small caves to the waterfalls, large and small, that we came across. Quite heavenly, really. Until the downpour.

It happened when we got to the raptors. These birds, once wounded, were housed in oversized cages because they could not survive reentry into the wild. Owls, hawks, a falcon, an eagle, turkey vultures, all stared back at us, some preening, as we admired their plumage. At this point, the heavens opened up and torrential rain poured forth.

Up went the umbrellas. We stood by the raptor learning center (not open that day). There was just enough of an overhang to shelter us. We hooted at the owls and waited for the rain to cease.

"I think five more minutes will do it," declared Diane.

Eventually, we gave up and decided to venture forth. But which direction? There were no trail markers or signs anywhere.

After hoofing it for awhile, we pulled out our cells and asked the little angel in the phone to help us navigate. Heading back in the general direction of where we had just come, we got back onto the trails and found the way to our point of origin. (And yes, the end of the walk involved going up all those steps.)

Harry, if you are reading this, you will appreciate that I may have achieved some sort of record for shvitzing. Diane kept handing me napkins to mop the river of water that was pouring off my face and soaking my hair. I looked like the proverbial drowned rat, even though my umbrella protected me from the rain.

Our adventure had taken two hours rather than one, but all-in-all, it was a fun romp.

After sharing a well-earned cold drink at the Underdog Cafe, we did a little shopping, then settled in for dinner at a local hot spot. The food was good, but the company was much better.

The finale, of course, involved ice cream. Back to Young's Dairy Farm for a yummy hot fudge sundae.

Thanks to my sisters (I'm including Kay here) for making my birthday memorable. Can't wait to see what Diane has cooked up for her birthday!

Oh no, not this guy again!

Once again My Lovely Bride intends to abandon me for upwards of twenty-four hours!  

 I have been asked, to fill this space which you are so kind as to read but again without any financial remuneration from the usual author, whose work you usually find in this space.

She is spending the day with her sisters in a place named "Yellow Springs," which I understand is a real place somewhere around the City of Dayton, Ohio.  But as she has yet to show me, on an Ohio map, I have my doubts as to whether this is an actual town.

When I asked her what exactly this party of sisters intends to do in this mythological place, she replied, “Stuff.”  

To which I returned, “What kind of stuff?’ 

“You know, girl stuff.”  

You, dear reader may (Or may not) be surprised to learn that I was once a boy.  I do not know what this “Girl stuff” could possibly be.  When I tried to make My Lovely Bride aware of my concerns, she just turned to me, batted her kind, sweet eyes and said unto me, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it!”

More importantly, it was only through the kindness of a mutual relative that I was able to survive her last sister’s extravaganza!  How will I be expected to survive a similar trip?  When she asked me, what I will do for the time we spend apart.  I told her that I would just find a corner to roll myself in and cry until she would return unto me!

Of course, I had to travel through the five stages of grief:

1.     Denial:  I could not believe that My Lovely Bride would abandon me for 24 Hours.

2.     Anger:  I skipped this one.

3.     Bargaining:  I offered to go along with her, and be a “One of the Girls’ for the  trip.  I even offered to just sit in the trunk of the car and quietly read a book.  But she wasn’t interested in bargaining with me!

4.     Depression:  I think I’m going to skip this one.  But I will miss her.

5.     Acceptance:  I hope she has a wonderful time with her sisters.

You may ask yourself, as I did “What is the reason for this trip?” 

It is the occasion of My Lovely Bride’s 32^nd Birthday.  As I grow older by the second, my Sweetheart just keeps going along with a smile on her face and a song in her heart!  

 I am a truly fortunate guy to have married this doll.  I have enjoyed most every moment of our life-long journey together.

And I hope she will find good weather, warm companionship with her loving sisters and a day that she can look back at with great fondness.  

Enjoy your birthday.

It Never Gets Old

On June 7, 2018, the Washington Capitals won the Stanley Cup.

From that day to this, our house has become an homage to this achievement.

The goal, says Mr. Ginley, is to have something in every room that celebrates the event.

In the kitchen, which is largely my domain, I negotiated having just a refrigerator magnet. (After all, the refrigerator, loaded with hundreds of magnets, is Mr. Ginley's creation.)

In the office and in the living room are banners. There is a miniature Stanley Cup. Two Tervis tumblers with the official logo on them. A framed photo of the team on the ice with the Stanley Cup.

And then there are the t-shirts. The hat.

And, God and JoAnn Fabrics willing, there will be a blanket made out of material (yet to be created) of the the Capitals/Stanley Cup logo.

Mr. Ginley made a pledge to the Hockey Gods that if the Caps won, he would wear some item of Capitals clothing every day.

The hat has worked so far. But there are aspirations.

When the prices come down a little, there will be socks in our home, too. And, if someone decides to manufacture them, underwear will follow.

I do, however, draw the line at tattoos. (No worries there, Mr. Ginley hates needles.)

There will be trip to our second home town soon. A visit that will yield yet more memorabilia.

I don't mind. After all, I am a Caps fan, too. And while my passion may not match that of Mr. Ginley, I admit it's all been a wonderful distraction. A reason to celebrate something.

And, let's face it, the Great 8, Nicky Backstrom and all these guys are so easy to cheer for.

The Man Who Put the Beat in Beatles

It was always Ringo.

Not John. Not Paul. Not George.

Maybe it was his soulful blue eyes. His "aw gosh" smile. His short stature. Or perhaps, somewhere deep down in my bones, I knew I was going to spend most of my life in the jewelry industry.

Whatever the reason, I love Ringo. (Oh yes, I do.) There he'd sit behind the drums, mighty ringed and shaking that marvelous head of Beatle hair to the music, smiling away, and I was lost.

Mind you, I was never a screamer. I would just watch, rapt, and sigh. And dream of the day we would meet.

It wasn't by any means a romantic desire (I was far too young for that) but more of a puppy love. Ringo looked like he would be fun and sweet to be around. Plus, he always seemed like the underdog of the group, and I am a sucker for a guy who knows what it's like to have missed out on being the most popular. Although Ringo never seemed to mind. From my perspective, he was enjoying the ride, content not to be the one who wrote the most songs or got the most girls.

I think what sealed it for me was seeing the movie "Help." Twice. Between shows, my older siblings phoned my parents and asked if we could watch it again. A quiet afternoon without five kids, and only the baby* to watch? Sure, go for it.

In fact, I believe it's time to watch "Help" again. It really was Ringo's movie to Starr in.** And today is his birthday. So, Happy 78th Birthday, Richard Starkey! May you happily live many more.

Ya, Ya, Ya!

*Sorry to my little brother, Paul who missed seeing it. But thanks to the miracle of DVD and streaming video, you can watch it all you want. And being the youngest is now a very good thing, indeed.

**Let ye who would not have made this pun cast the first stone.