The Forecast is for Grey

Rainy days and Mondays got Karen Carpenter down, but grey winter days do it for me.

I'm just not a big fan of winter in general. Add a pandemic, political upheaval and economic anxiety, and, well, yikes.

I try to focus on other things. It was lovely to usher in a new administration this week. Fingers crossed.

The Bernie Sanders meme was a nice distraction for awhile. Like a few hours. Although, admittedly, I'm done at this point. 

I miss walks in the park, but I really hate the cold. I'd love to read, but my dry eyes have made even that difficult.

It's just all this grey. A little sunshine would be nice. 

Maybe it's just not a good day to be writing for this space. Too much whine. Not enough cheesecake.

Oh well. I hope you are all staying safe and warm. And maybe binge watching something fun.

I just looked out and saw a piece of blue sky. So maybe there's hope.

Sorry for the lame post this week. I'll try to be more entertaining next week.

Artsy Fartsy

At some point, Mr. Ginley, in a fit of ennui or whatever, took down most of the decorative stuff hanging on our walls.

Artist: Michael Bedard, 1982

"It's time for a change," he declared.

And so we began to go through our collection of posters, artwork and such to freshen up the look of the place. (Yes, painting the walls would do a better job, but that's not happening anytime soon, so...)

"How about the Bedards?" suggested Mr. Ginley. 

My grandfather's pictures moved upstairs to the sewing room, accompanied by another Bedard, Sitting Duck, an appropriate commentary in light of the the debacle that was 2020. (Spoiler alert: the bullets missed.)

Other items that went up included a portrait of my grandmother as a girl, a poster from Bowie's Serious Moonlight Tour of 1983 and a photo of Bill's great-great-grandfather, a captain in the Civil War.

In our room, Bowie made more appearances, his eyes following us around the room. (I don't get dressed in our bedroom, so it's not weird or anything.)

The kitchen was pretty much off limits as far as changes go. Thiebaud's cakes are safe, the Three Little Kittens remain and the cut-out Chinese gentlemen continue to hold their places of honor. 

And, oh yes, the spice rack that precipitated the Great Spice Bottle Wars of 1993. I was prepared to ditch the old spice rack, but Mr. Ginley came up with the idea of filling the bottles with colored sand, thus creating works of art. The trouble began when I insisted the sand should be layered, while Mr. contended shaking the sand was the way to go. A compromise was reached, and to this day, bottles reflecting both methods sit peacefully, side-by-side.

But I digress...

We still have a blank wall or two that could use a little something. Maybe a Doisneau. Fortunately, our closet is chock full of artwork acquired from this museum shop or that garage sale.

I'm confident that one day soon, we'll go through all of it, sort it and decide what stays and what goes. (Mr. Ginley opined, "It all stays.")

Ha Ha.

More than likely, someday Joe will be going through all this stuff, thinking over and over, "What possessed those two to buy this POS?

All Hail 2021

Everyone was thrilled to see last year come to a close. 

Unfortunately, the after-effects of 2020 were like when you eat something you shouldn't, say, a corn dog at a carnival. The immediate effects are bad enough, but the aftereffects, boy howdy, they sure are a kick in the gut.

Much like our first week of 2021.

Enough has been expostulated about the horrific goings on these last several days, and frankly, I don't have the stomach to bring all that up again. 

Like you, I'm hoping things settle down quickly, that the presidential transition is smooth and that our leaders get back to the business of running the country. Also, that they do a better job of playing well together. (A girl can dream, can't she?)

In the meantime, I have my own problems to deal with.

Case in point, the skirmish that has become the Breakfast Wars of 2021.

I thought I was being benevolent, giving Mr. Ginley Cap'n Crunch for Christmas. For several days afterward, he blissfully consumed this sugary, (almost) totally-devoid-of-nutritional-value "cereal. "

Alas, all good things must come to an end, and the return of Cheerios to the breakfast table did not come with a hearty welcome.

"Why do I have to eat this sh*t?" is the question I've faced every day this week. "Why can't I have the granola you used to make?"

For the umpteenth time, I explained the granola has a bunch of sugar in it. And the nuts are one of the things people with kidney stones are supposed to avoid. Both of these, as well as the high calorie count,  offset the health benefits of the oats. 

"You know," Mr. Ginley postulated, "I used to have potato chips, yogurt and pop for breakfast, and I turned out just fine."

This earned him a look over the top of my glasses.

"And...that's why you're taking meds for diabetes?" I inquired.

Then I gave him the lecture about breakfast being the most important meal of the day.

"Well, does that mean I can have a cheeseburger for lunch? If breakfast is the most important meal, that means dinner is number 2 and lunch is the least important. So I can eat anything I want for lunch, right?"

At this point, I threatened to take him to a dietician, who could deliver the lecture much more effectively than I.

He grumbled and ate the rest of his Cheerios.I finished my oatmeal. And things settled down again. For now.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that I invested in the family size box of Cheerios. 

That would just be plain cruel.

Oops.

In the Background

Maybe I'm just experiencing Facebook photo overload, but lately I find myself taking in the backgrounds of photos as well as the subjects.

Grandma S. at a cousin's wedding

For example, one of the guys I follow is John Skrtic, a researcher at Cleveland Public Library, who posts a lot of old photos of our city. 

As well as taking in the 1912 photo of the Euclid Arcade, for example, I tried to read the signs in the windows of neighboring buildings. I took note of the combination horse-driven and horsepower vehicles in the street. And looked for pedestrians to see what they were wearing.

Maybe I've picked this up from Mr. Ginley. When we watch DVDs, he will stop when he sees someone reading a newspaper to see what the headline reads. If there are books on the shelf behind the actor, he will pause to see the titles. 

As I've mentioned before, one of my favorite FB places is a hometown memories/nostalgia site. There I've discovered that Christmas cardboard fireplaces were more prevalent that I'd thought. That we weren't the only kids to receive a life-size Yogi the Bear punching bag from Santa. And that window "snow" stencils were a tradition in other homes besides ours.

Seeing women in bouffant hairdos and guys in crewcuts is entertaining, but what about that crazy wall hanging in the background? Is that a floor-stand ashtray? Do you remember those cat clocks, the ones with the eyes and tail that tick-tocked the minutes away?

Maybe it's boredom. Or a sign of old age. 

I prefer to think of it as honing my powers of observation.

There are times when I wonder what the next generation will think when they look at my photos.

In all likelihood, they will simply wonder why we took so many pictures of the cat. 

But maybe, just maybe, they will be amazed by all the books in the background. 

Assuming by that time books are still cherished for their soulful tactile qualities, as well as the words they contain.

I've said it before, I'll say it again. There's nothing like sticking your nose in an old library book and inhaling. 

I'll never get that kind of rush from an e-book.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to chase some kids off my lawn.

A Visit from Santa Claws

Being the socially responsible folks we aspire to be, Mr. Ginley and I did the Skype thing, Christmas edition, with our son and (soon to be) daughter-in-law.

It was nice in a way, because no one had to navigate the eight inches of snow dumped on us during what meteorologists like to refer to as a "weather event." 

Earlier in the week, our son picked up our wrapped presents and dropped off theirs so we could have a virtual gift exchange. Admittedly, we did miss seeing them in person, but it was the next best thing.

And let's just say the kids outdid themselves with the gifts.

Mr. Ginley received a book, but the real surprise was the brilliant gift from our son's future bride. 

In 2018, the Caps won the Stanley Cup. Some enterprising soul had the idea to scrape ice from the rink where the Cup was won and put it into a miniature glass facsimile of the Stanley Cup. It came complete with a Certificate of Authenticity and now holds a place of honor on our mantel.

I received a book and a necklace. And a picture of a pair of kitties that got me going.

My son picked up the print at a vintage store in Lakewood. The artwork was sketched and colored, and included the artist's name. I couldn't decipher the signature, but Mr. Ginley, the penultimate researcher, figured out what her name was (Meta Pluckebaum), where she was born (Dortmund, Germany in 1876) and when she died (1945).

Naturally, I had to know more.

Meta studied with Hermann Pohle and was one of the first members of the Düsseldorf Artists' Association. She met and married fellow artist Carl Pluckebaum, settling in Düsseldorf where they shared a studio.  Over time, Meta became famous for her paintings and etchings of cats and dogs, although she also sketched flowers and children's portraits. Over time, she illustrated a number of children's books.

Her most prolific period was the 1920s through the 1930s. From what I gather, the print I have was likely from the 1920s. It has the original Deco frame. Too cool.

But there I went, down the rabbit hole, taking you with me.

Anyhow...

Whether you celebrated Christmas or not, I hope you all had a peaceful, enjoyable day.

Later, I'm going to dig out my car. 

But first, one more cup of java.

Snowy Perspective

Modern technology and social media do have their upside.

From the last big snowfall we had

For example, when a Facebook friend posted a "ha ha ha, we don't miss the snow now that we live in South Carolina" message, I was able to reply with a witty meme of Jennifer Aniston blowing raspberries.

Just think, a mere 20 years ago, this would not have been possible. Don't we just live in the best age ever?

In the old days, I would have witnessed her glee only if she sent me a Christmas card with one of those "what the family has been up to this year" letters in it. There's nothing like Facebook for up-to-the-minute hold-the-presses updates on everything going on in life. (You'd miss my entertaining comments, I'm sure.)

As I pumped gas yesterday morning, I had the opportunity to look around and admire the fluffs of snow alighted on branches and swathed across rooftops and fields. It was a pretty sight. (Admittedly, it helped the roads were clear and it wasn't blisteringly cold.)

I wondered if I'd miss wonderland visions like this if I lived in a warm climate year 'round.

Probably.

Also, I'd have some other natural act of contrition to deal with. Hurricanes or forest fires or scarcity of water.

We all have our stuff.

So I guess once again, I'll adopt my one-day-at-a-time attitude, keep an eye on the weather conditions and take it as it comes.

The latest word is, we may have a white-ish Christmas. And I'm going to be home all day anyhow.

So, let it snow.

And Happy Holidays to all my friends (including Kate, who understands my snarky sense of humor).

May your days be Merry and Bright. 

We certainly have earned it this year.

If Only in My Dreams

Thumbprints were always a staple cookie at Christmas. Mom made both regular and chocolate batter (guess which was my favorite), each little crater filled with a dollop of sugary icing colored red or green.

"Surprise" cookies were wrapped around a center of chocolate chips or a cherry or a walnut half. The walnut was the clear loser among my siblings. In fact, we asked my mom why she bothered putting the nut in the middle, because it wasn't a very happy surprise. She would shrug and tell us to get over it.

And then there were the sugar cookies we iced ourselves. Quite the holiday tradition. As we aged, our designs grew weirder to reflect our teenage snarkiness. But the act of decorating, complete with holiday music and derisive comments shot across the kitchen table, was pure magic.

The tea ring was also a family favorite. Its yeasty goodness filled the house with the smell of cinnamon as it baked. The delectable treat also featured raisins and was drizzled with icing and topped with cherries.

Each holiday season, my mom would choose a day to decorate the house. We'd come home from school to discover she'd turned the joint into a winter wonderland. Mom loved making the place festive -- we were just the innocent bystanders who got clean-up duty on New Year's Day.

I miss my mom every day, but during the holidays I miss her most of all. How I'd love to be sitting in our living room tonight, staring at the big-bulbed lights on our live tree and breathing in the delicious scent of real pine, a cookie in each paw.

Every year I say I'll make a bunch of cookies, but I can't quite work up the will to get it done. Also, there are just the two of us now, and I am trying not to overdo.

At least, that's my excuse.

In my mind, I hear my mother admonishing me for my lack of domestic skills. But, hey, mom, you always knew I'd never live up to you in that department.

But you loved me just the same.