An Unexpected Guest

All sorts of things turn up in my back yard.

Usually it's stuff I don't want to see. Like weeds. Or maple trees. Or poison ivy.

But this year, into what Mr. Ginley refers to as "the f***ing rain forest" sprouted something highly unusual.

A Rose of Sharon bush.

Funny thing is, I haven't seen one in the neighborhood, so I'm not certain which wind carried its seeds to my yard. Also, it's growing in the middle of my holly bush, which I've subsequently pruned, to give Sharon room to grow.

Mr. was all for pulling it out. But I prevailed, and this week I was rewarded with the first lovely blooms. 

There's a reason for my soft heart toward this plant. My mother's petite back yard was home to a Rose of Sharon bush. My mom would yell at us for using it as third base. After a number of years, it gave up the ghost and had to be cut down. But in its prime, it was lovely, with dozens of blossoms (and a whole host of bees -- they loved it).

Thus, my reluctance to uproot Sharon in my own yard. It feels like my mom is reaching out to me. I know it sounds silly, and so unlike my snarky self. 

But I believe. 

I look out every morning and watch another flower emerge, and it gives me hope. Like Mom is out there somewhere, rooting for me to keep going, because I still have some blooming to do.

Thanks, Mom.

Counting Sons

In a fit of nostalgia, I picked up Season 3 of the old TV program, My Three Sons.

Theme music by Frank De Vol

Mr. Ginley was cozily situated upstairs while I watched the 1960s sitcom. It's better that way -- he's not around to poke fun, insert inappropriate dialog or raise troubling questions.

Alas, my solitude didn't last. Mr., on some pretext or other, came down to talk to me. I put the program on pause while I waited for him to finish his conversation.

Pointing to the television screen, he inquired, "who are those chuckleheads?"

"There's Bub, that's Mike and there's Robbie," I explained.

"Where's Uncle Charlie?"

"Bub (William Frawley, formerly "Fred" on I Love Lucy) was on the show until he got sick in 1965 and was replaced by Uncle Charley (William Demarest). Uncle Charley was purported to be Bub's brother."

"How was Bub related to the family?"

"He's the kids' maternal grandfather. Steve Douglas is a widow, and Bub is his father-in-law."

"Isn't there another son?"

"Yes, there's Chip, but he's not in this scene."

"What about Ernie?"

"Ernie was adopted later, after Mike left the show."

"Why did Mike leave the show? Was it because he killed Bub?"

"No, Mike went off and got married."

"So, okay. We have Mike, Robbie, Chip and Ernie. I count FOUR. Don't you think Ernie felt slighted, like being adopted didn't count? Why wasn't the name of the show changed to My FOUR Sons?"

"Because there were only ever THREE sons on the show at any one time. 'Mike' was like 'Chuck,' the brother on Happy Days who went off to college and never came back."

Unsatisfied, Mr. finally trundled back upstairs, mumbling all the way, "I still say it should be called My FOUR SONS." 

His grumbling did make me start to wonder what happened to the actors who played the characters during the show's 12-year run.

Mike (Tim Considine) went on to become a writer, photographer and automotive historian. Robbie (Don Grady) took up composing music after his acting career ended. He died of cancer in 2012. Chip (Stanley Livingston) was a producer and director before retiring from the business. Ernie (Barry Livingston) is still a member of the Screen Actors Guild.

For anyone who was a true fan, you might also wonder about the love interests of the sons. Mike's wife was played by Meredith MacRae, who continued her career until brain cancer took her life in 2000. Robbie's wife was played by Tina Cole, who went on to become an acting coach and who also sang with the "King Cousins." Chip's wife was portrayed by Ronne Troupe, the daughter of jazz legend (and Route 66 star) Bobby Troupe and the step-daughter of Julie London (torch singer and head nurse on Emergency).

Remember when they tried to lift sagging ratings by marrying off "Dad"? Beverly Garland was the actress who took the role of "Barbara," Steve's second wife. (I remember being mesmerized by her uber-long eyelashes.) Ms. Garland continued to act, primarily on television. She passed away in 2008. Her TV daughter, "Dodie," was played by Dawn Lyn, who -- are you ready for this -- is the sister of 1970s teen pop idol Leif Garrett.  Dawn supported her mom and her brother until he became a household name.

Of course, we can't leave out Fred MacMurray (aka "Steve Douglas"), a terrific actor who had some juicy noir roles back in the day. Folks forget what a wonderful SOB he played in the movie Double Indemnity. Check it out sometime.

Oops, and Tramp. The dog. He was a briard, a breed that dates back to the 14th Century. (Aren't you glad you asked?)

P.S. Props to Mr. Ginley, without whom the idea for this blog would not have materialized. Complaints should be addressed to him in care of this station.

Fourthwith

"What mail are we getting today?" inquired Mr. Ginley this morning.

He was referring to the email we get from the U.S. Postal Service. They image every piece of mail being delivered that day. It's not always accurate, but it gives us an idea of what's coming.

"We're not," I replied. "Today is a holiday."

"Oh yeah, that's right."

These days it's easy for us to forget holidays. They're not special when you're doing the same things at home you'd be doing any other day. If you're not working, taking a day off is pretty anti-climactic. 

Particularly this year, with no Fourth of July parade down Lorain Road. Although, of course, there will be fireworks, as there have been non-stop throughout the week. 

Doubtless, 2020 will go down as the year of the Bummer Summer. 

Hopefully, we'll all be around to remember it ten years from now. Then we'll be celebrating mask-free and this crappy year will just be one of those things we look back on from our rocking chairs on the porch.

Happy Fourth!

Where My Nose Begins

As we were cringing our way through an entire hour of neighbors shooting off fireworks over our house last weekend, I was reminded of a saying my mom espoused.

 

It was something to the effect that your freedom to swing your elbow is limited by the proximity of the other guy’s nose.

 

This phrase came to mind the following morning, when I ventured out and discovered bits of paper and plastic strewn across my lawn and my roof, with the added bonus of a layer of sulfur and shards of paper covering my car. 

 

Fortunately, this was annoying and not permanent. We only lost an hour of our lives gritting our teeth with every boom. My cat eventually came out of hiding. 

 

But I couldn't help wondering about others, for whom fireworks are a positive terror. Veterans with post traumatic stress disorder, for example. (I always thought it was odd that the same patriots who hail our military members as heroes are dismissive of veterans who suffer from this debilitating condition.)

 

My neighborhood Facebook group was split between those who loathe fireworks and those who love them. The latter group insists it is their patriotic right to enjoy fireworks, anywhere and anytime, and those of us who don't enjoy them are just old spoil sports who are trying to take away their freedom. (To be clear, I don't think anyone was advocating for no fireworks at all, just for confining them to the actual Fourth of July.)

 

The elbow-nose quote can't be definitively attributed to any one source. It's a universal truth that has never been more true than in this country's current bizarre environment, where wearing a mask is seen as a threat to freedom. The only freedom I can perceive we are trying to curtail is people's freedom to infect everyone around them.

 

I can only shake my head.

 

My mom taught us to be good citizens. Treat others as you'd like to be treated. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. Be kind to animals. 

 

And make sure that, in pursuit of your kicks, you keep your elbow away from the other guy's nose.

Daddy-Oh

We all have filters, and yours truly is no exception.

I view my life through my own recollections, keeping some things and discarding others. Most of this is done as a defense measure by my brain, not through any conscious effort.

There are times when a memory will come back to me with such force, it takes my breath away. This week, in the process of washing my hands in the prescribed fashion, I suddenly recalled my dad's hands, covering mine in suds. We were washing up together before dinner. His hands were much bigger, of course, and when they covered mine, it was comforting. I felt protected and safe. 

Other dad memories cropped up. Like the time he put the swing in the garage for me. (And dutifully moved the car out so I could swing to my heart's content.) Or when he played Mitch Miller for Paul and I on the Sundays we were too young to attend church with my mom and older siblings. And, in later years, his taking us to the "Secret Place" (usually Dairy Queen) on a Sunday afternoon.

I know there are other memories, too, and I let them lie. He was quick to anger, and often left it to my mom to make the peace.

But he was also sensitive, something he tried to hide.

One time in high school, I started hanging out with Peggy and her family. I would yackety yack about them, especially her father, who was a nice, easygoing guy. Afterward, my mom asked me to cease and desist because my dad's feelings were hurt. I was stunned.

There was so much about my Dad I didn't know.

So, here we are on the eve of Father's Day.  I wish my dad was here so I could give him a hug. 

And, if only for a minute, be "Little Boo" again.

Fixing a Hole

Many years ago, we had a housewarming party for my boss, Harry. Arguably the best gift he received was a tool box. When opened, he discovered it contained just one item: the local Yellow Pages.


We all had a good laugh, and Harry admitted he would probably get a lot of use out of this particular gift. 

When I texted Harry last night, I reread a message from him back in January, in which he told me about doing demolition in his basement. (He was still having professionals come in and do the reconstruction, so the Yellow Pages, albeit in the form of the Google, would still come in handy.)

I'd been thinking about this recently while pondering the hole in our dining room ceiling. For some months, cracks had formed, and it was just a matter of time before chunks of plaster began descending. Fortunately, none of them landed on us (or the cat).

When we first purchased our home, Mr. Ginley did a lot of painting, some plastering, and even repainted and stippled the living room ceiling. But that was many years ago, and before he began battling vertigo.

Which is why our first inclination was to leave the ceiling alone and let nature take its course.

"It's a conversation piece," asserted Mr. Ginley. "If we just paint the lathe white, it will barely be noticeable."

Normally, I would agree that this could simply go on our list of things that we can't afford to fix right now. But my sister intervened and offered the services of her husband.

And so it was that last Saturday, Tim arrived on our doorstep with a whole host of tools and whatnot. Our son very graciously offered to help -- it seemed like a good idea, given he's been thinking about buying a home of his own down the road.

A few hours later, the original hole was patched, and a second spot in the ceiling, which in all likelihood would have needed attention in the next few months, was also patched. Tim gave Joe instructions on the next steps, which included a sand/plaster routine that would require three additional visits.

After all this is over, I wonder if my son will still want to buy a house.

And if he does, will a toolbox with the Yellow Pages inside be the perfect gift?  

Someone Else's Shoes

There's an old tale about a man who made a basket for his father, who was becoming old and infirm. When his son asked him what he was doing, the man explained he was going to put the old man in the basket and take him to the top of the mountain and leave him there. 

Artist: Grant Wood; public domain image

A few days later, the man saw his son diligently at work making something. When the father asked what he was doing, the son said, "I'm making a basket for you so it will be ready when your time comes." 

The father went back up the mountain and brought his father back home, where he cared for him the rest of his days.

What the world needs now is...Empathy. Kindness. Respect. 

I don't have any answers for all the turmoil in the country right now. 

I only know that if I can put myself in the other guy's shoes, I have the best chance of doing the right thing.