To Be Frank

It was May 17, 1990. We were sitting on the couch in our apartment in Virginia, Mr. Ginley and I, testing each other's trivia skills. Having a good 'ole time. When the telephone rang.

We looked at each other. He paled. Something was wrong, he knew it instinctively. He went to pick up the phone.

His Dad, who'd been on vacation with his two brothers and his Mom, had a heart attack and passed away on a walk through Zion National Park. He was 70 years old. 

The first time I met Francis Ignatius Ginley, Jr. was a shock. My then-boyfriend warned me that his Dad hadn't warmed up to any of his girlfriends. I shouldn't feel bad if he nodded at me and went into the other room to read the paper. But that ain't what happened.

I walked in the front door of their home and was immediately greeted by his Dad who gave me a big kiss and a hug. I don't think I had a chance to give him a hug back, I was that startled. This didn't seem to bother him in the least. He put his arm around me and led me into the house. I then met Bill's Mom and his sister, Mary. The rest is a blur, but there was no question I'd been accepted into the fold.

Like my Dad, Frank was a veteran of World War II. He saw a lot of action, but didn't talk about it much. Clearly, it shaped who he became. By the time I met him, the edges had softened. He was tired and retired. He'd been through a lot.

Sadly, I only had four years with the man who became my second Dad, but they were eventful years. Mary passed away after bravely battling lung cancer. And his son followed me to Virginia to start a new life together. Mr. and I became Mr. and Mrs. but, as we came to regret, our parents weren't there to witness the nuptials.

On our last trip through town before he died, Dad made Mr. promise to take care of his Mom if anything happened. Which is why we ended up back here. 

I only wish our son could have know his Granddad. I know in my heart of hearts the two of them would have gotten on famously. I hope wherever his spirit lives (and I know it does) that Dad's watching over our boy.

Today, as we mark the 35th anniversary of his passing, I remember sitting in church for his funeral, feeling bereft. When in my head, I heard Frank, loud and clear, say, "Who the hell goes to Utah to die?" 

That was Frank. We love you and miss you like crazy, Dad!

Weekend Getaway

 Last weekend was lovely. 

Rose-Breasted Grosbeak
photo attribution below

I took a trip to Columbus to see my sisters. I stayed with Diane and John. Diane and I shopped, we did jigsaw puzzles while John played DJ, and we (sans John) watched a Hallmark movie. 

The bird watching was a treat. If I had the skills of my friend, George, I'd share a pic of the rose-breasted grosbeaks that frequented her feeder on their way through town. (I cheated a bit and nabbed this online photo.)

Denise stopped by, and we all noshed on fish and chips from a place called Bag of Nails. Yum!

Sometimes you need to get out of Dodge, and this visit did not disappoint.

For those of you who are biting your nails and wondering, "How did Mr. Ginley fare in your absence?" – I assure you, he survived. Thanks, in part, to stocking up on his favorite snackables. Alas, the fruit I cut up remained untouched, but I suppose that was to be expected. 

To give him his props, Mr. was a good sport about being deserted – he encouraged me to enjoy my family time in C-Bus. 

To make up for last weekend's frivolities, I need to catch up on all the stuff that didn't get done in my absence. We got our T-Dap vaccines yesterday in anticipation of the arrival of our granddaughter.  I cut the lawn, which will please the neighbors no end. And we will be visiting various libraries to return books, stopping at Savers to drop off used items, and doing our semi-annual shopping for health and beauty items. 

And, oh yes, buying a microwave to replace our old rusted-out version. Although, admittedly, it's been nice having the extra counter space, we've decided we're not ready to do without this modern appliance. But it will be a more petite model than the behemoth we ditched. (If it takes a little longer to defrost the hamburger, so be it. We're not going anywhere.)

If you're still awake at this point, I can only offer my deepest gratitude. You get bonus points for fortitude and a winning attitude.

Did I use the Google to find a "tude" word to end this mess?

You betcha. I have quite the aptitude for wordery, eh?

Photo attribution: Paul VanDerWerf from Brunswick, Maine, USA, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Who Were These People?

So many times I've been talking with Mr. Ginley and said, "I wish I could ask Mom (or Dad) about that." 

It's probably an aging thing (or perhaps it's our impending grandparenthood) but we find that we're reminiscing more about our parents. And there's so much more I want to know.

But all I have are faulty memories, photos, mementoes, and a lot of baggage.

I mean, who as a teenager thinks to ask their Mom or Dad what hopes and dreams they gave up to raise us kids?

I did learn that my Mom had a yen to pursue art. She told me once that she wished she'd gotten formal instruction. In another time and place, she probably would have. But she had six kids instead. Don't get me wrong, she said she had no regrets, and we knew she loved us. Still...you have to wonder about unfulfilled dreams.

As for my Dad, he was such a hardass when we were growing up, as many men of his generation were, and reluctant to talk about any dreams that were left behind. He went right from high school to service to his country to marriage and fatherhood. What would he have pursued if the expectations of his time hadn't existed?

I also think about my parents' relationship. They didn't argue much in front of us. Dad sometimes yelled at Mom, which would upset us. But it wasn't until later in life that I realized how deep their love for each other went. He sang "You Are My Sunshine" to her every night before bed, until the dementia came. Mom looked after him for the rest of his life, talking to him as if he understood everything. And, who knows, maybe somewhere deep inside, he did. 

In the end, it turns out we really don't know our parents at all. We make assumptions about who they were based on our own telescopic perception. Did we mistake discipline for a lack of love? Did we think our parents were too hard on us? Or not hard enough.

In the end, we have to acknowledge that our folks, with all their faults, did their best. As those of us who are parents understand all to well.

And hope that our children cut us a break for the mistakes we've made.

Or, as Mr. Ginley was fond of telling our own son, "This is nothing that years of therapy won't cure."

Brown Out

The two of us don't often have an evening out, so when we do, you know it has to be something special.

"Hold my coffee"

In the case of Wednesday night, it was Alton Brown who lured the Ginleys out of their cave.

The event was called "Alton Brown Live: The Last Bite." We sucked it up, plunked down a wad of cash, and planned our big night out. 

The first roadblock came up when we tried to get a parking pass. We found out too late that the parking garage was sold out for the evening. 

The second roadblock came in the form of a Cavs playoff game, which was going on at the same time as our show and would no doubt push parking prices through the roof. 

Given that neither one of us are adventurous when it comes to driving downtown (let alone trolling for parking), we began to stress a bit. Sure, we could take the rapid downtown, but that would mean schlepping back to Public Square afterward at 10:00 at night along with whatever Cavs fans were also hitting the happy trail.

What's a codger to do?

Well, this codger pulled out her computer and emailed her favorite livery service (aka Axel Hoyer) and arranged for a ride home.

So that was settled.

Fortunately, the weather cooperated. It was a lovely evening as Mr. and I headed downtown. We were lucky because there were no issues with the Rapid, and we made it downtown in good time. From there, we headed out of the Terminal Tower, reminiscing about all the stores that used to be there. (Remember the Warner Brothers gift store? Brooks Brothers? The record store?)

As we strolled down Euclid Avenue, we recalled the other stores and fast food joints that are mere ghosts in our memories. Peterson's Nuts on the square. Remember that smell? It was a little bit of heaven, and damn near impossible to pass by without nabbing a quarter pound of cashews. 

We had decided ahead of time to nosh at Heinen's, so we walked to 9th Street and went in to see what good eats we could find. (Alton Brown fans will appreciate this reference.) I'd heard there was a Michell's Ice Cream shop inside, so I was all set. Mr. Ginley found a pasta salad, a bag of chips, and an orange soda. We sat and ate our goodies and people watched. 

Who knew so many people in the CLE were wine connisseurs? A lot of the grape was sold that night.

As showtime neared, we headed over to the State Theatre (aka the "KeyBank State Theatre").  I guess everything is for sale these days.

I decided to grab a coffee, and we headed upstairs where we stood for half an hour waiting for our semi-nosebleed seats to become available.

They turned out to be quite good seats, all things considered. We both had a clear view of the stage, and Alton Brown did not disappoint. I wish my brother, Paul, could have been there. Alton did an entire schtick on Cap'n Crunch Cereal, choosing the proper bowl size, and milk. (Also, there was a funny bit about buttermilk.) He talked about watching Saturday morning cartoons, which those of us of a certain age could totally relate to.

There were other entertaining skits, an intermission, and the finale, which featured Barnabas Brown's Weiner Wonder Machine. Team Cleveland just squeezed into the 10th spot. (You had to be there.) 

All in all, a good time was had. And when we exited the theatre, there was our ride. 

"Wow, people are going to think we're somebodys," quipped Mr. Ginley. 

Not likely. Still, we did feel quite special being picked up at the door. In no time at all, we were winging our way homeward, chatting pleasantly with Mr. Hoyer about grandchildren and such, and we arrived back at the Casa de Ginley weary but happy.

We may not be spring chickens anymore, but it was fun flying the coop if only for one night.

Eggs-treme Nostalgia

I wish I could hop into the wayback machine and travel to my childhood.

This would be the day when my siblings and I decorated Easter eggs.

My Mom would present us with pristine white hard boiled eggs, ready for the dunking. She'd divvy them up to provide eggs-actly the same number to each child. (That's how we rolled in the Schrimpf house.)

One of the elder sibs (most likely Diane) would pour the boiling water into bowls along with vinegar and the fizzy color tablet.

We'd each pick out a metal dipper, which we'd bend into shape.

If we were so inclined, we'd use the waxy crayon to write a clever or possibly profane message on the egg before dunking it into the colorful liquid. 

You could dip the egg halfway in for a dual-color presentation or go all-in for one overall solid color. The more patient you were, the darker the shade. 

Once the eggs were colored and dry, you could add stickers or rub-on transfers.

The best part was critiquing each other's eggs. Someone (Paul) invariable went for the ugliest egg, which was achieved by dunking the egg in multiple colors that didn't blend well. The result would be something resembling baby shitz. 

After the eggs dried and we'd all lost interest, Mom would put the eggs in the carton and store them in the refrigerator until the Easter Bunny hid them later that evening. In those days, there were no worries about eggs going bad. Unless one wasn't discovered and the EB forgot where it was hidden. Then we'd all chime in with, "Well, if we don't find it, the smell will give it away in a few days." 

But it never came to that. 

These days, Easter for the Ginleys is just a day when many of the stores are closed. No decorated eggs, no Easter bonnets, no big Easter dinner.

But now that I've taken that stroll down memory lane, I don't mind. A nice, quiet day at home and maybe a walk in the park actually sounds kind of nice.

As an added bonus, we won't be eating hard boiled eggs every day for the next week.

The tradition carried over to the next generation.
(My niece, Melissa, is sitting on her mom's lap.)

A Thrifting We Will Go

I know you've been biting your nails, wondering what I did on my day off. 

Never mind that you didn't know I had the day off. Work with me here.

We were doing our bit to save the planet. In other words, we were thrifting.

If you've never experienced the serendipity, the pure wonder, and the "what-the-hell-is-this?" of the thrifting experience, I can't recommend it highly enough.

Today's finds included two pairs of sweat pants, a fancy jacket for me (tags still attached, kaching!), some books, three jigsaw puzzles, and a few CDs. We hit Savers, Half-Price Books, The Exchange, and Value World.

Of course, the hunt is the best part, and there were some finds we left behind. The Value City glass brought back memories of Mr. Trusken and my brother, Paul. It was nifty, but I knew it would sit in my cupboard with all the other cool dishes I never use. 

I enjoyed trying on the hats. Mr. and I had just had a discussion earlier about our Dads and how their hats were an integral part of their work attire. 

Thrifting also gives you the opportunity to play "name that article." There were old telephones, 8-track tapes, and coffee cups from now-defunct restaurants and such. On a former trip, I discovered a box of piano rolls. The kind for old player pianos. 

Of course, there's no accounting for the odd folks you encounter in such establishments. But that just comes with the territory. It's best to just let them be. Avoid eye contact, and under no circumstances should you take them home. 

Unless you're the one who brought them.

Going Down in Flames

"Let's have a Viking funeral," suggested Mr. Ginley the other day.

Frank Bernard Dicksee, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

"Yes, the news is a shitshow, but I'm not sure I want to check out just yet," I replied. "And besides, how would we off ourselves, where would we get a boat and who would shoot the flaming arrow?"

We discussed the possibilities at length. 

"You could smother me, then take a bunch of sleeping pills," Mr. helpfully suggested. "But, of course, we'd make sure the cat had plenty to eat. And maybe we could send a postcard to someone telling them to check in on us. The way the postal system is these days, it'll take a week or two for it to get there. By that time, it will be a done deal."

I pondered this. "Well, that could work. All I've gotta say is, if for some reason I did pull through, I'd be charged with murder, and I don't want to eat bologna sandwiches for the rest of my life."

"Look at it this way," he replied. "At least you wouldn't have to worry about where your next meal was coming from. And you don't make it outdoors much these days, anyhow."

Hmm. True enough. But that still left the question of the logistics. As to the boat, it needn't be anything fancy. A leaky rowboat would do. It wouldn't need to stay afloat all that long. But the person shooting the flaming arrow, that's another kettle of fish altogether.

He suggested a few possibilities, but I pointed out the obvious: none of them had likely ever even picked up a bow and arrow. I imagine there's an archer out there somewhere who would be willing to do it if you paid them enough, but how would one go about finding them? And could you trust them to keep quiet and follow through when the time came?

There are also the legalities to consider. We could get around some of these by being cremated ahead of time. That would solve for the law against burning a body in public. But we'd still have to find a private pond to do the deed because most public places prohibit folks from setting boats alight on the water.

As is my wont, I googled Viking funerals, and it seems we aren't the only ones who find the idea appealing. Unfortunately, the blogs I read were less than helpful. They were full of suggestions on how to have a Viking-esque funeral. Also, they pointed out that the whole concept wasn't accurate, and that Vikings didn't send off their warriors in a blaze of glory.

Just go ahead an burst my bubble, why don't you.

When the time comes, I imagine we'll employ our runner-up choice of disposing of our earthly remains: toasted and tossed.

In the meantime, we'll dream of moving to a more enlightened country where they value things like education and affordable healthcare and kindness.

P.S. If any of my readers are archers and you'd like to make a little extra scratch, let me know.