Here's to the Dads

 "How do you get him to take his dishes out to the kitchen," someone once asked my husband at a family function.

Mr. Ginley replied, "He knows what's expected of him, and he just does it." But I could tell Mr. was pleased. 

That was many moons ago, when our son was very young. Now he has a child of his own. We were blessed to meet our granddaughter last Sunday. It's obvious that our child is smitten with her. He didn't turn up his nose at changing her diaper. He sends me photos of the two of them, snuggling, drowsing, or crying open-mouthed (a pose reminiscent of his own childhood). Dadhood suits him well.

As this Father's Day approaches, I've been thinking a lot about our son and his father. Mr. Ginley was a stay-at-home Dad, a more radical role than it is these days. "Well-meaning" people made fun of him, berated him, and told him he would regret it. 

He never did.

Six weeks after Joe was born, I went back to work. It was heart wrenching to hear of their adventures. They'd do the planet walk in the MetroParks. Get pizza slices and have a picnic. Or play games. Mr. was aware of my sadness, and frequently drove the 35 miles to my office so the two of them could have lunch with me. It always made my day.

Of course, parenthood isn't all moonbeams and unicorns. It took two coats to paint over the "bad boy corner," where many tears were shed during a time out. There was the epic destruction of the Playstation after many warnings about abusing time limits. And there was a lot of gnashing of teeth when someone proclaimed he wanted to be a writer when he grew up, and his Dad made him pen one page every day on a small yellow legal pad for an entire summer. (We still have those pages, and yes, his writing got progressively better.)

Mr.'s goal was always to be a father, not a friend. "You'll have lots of friends in your life, but only one Dad," he always said.

I may have felt conflicted about not staying home to raise our son, but I never believed it was the wrong decision.

I feel very lucky for all the Dads in my life. My own father was a hard guy, but he did his best. He got through the Depression, fought in World War II, and raised six kids on a meager salary. His father was absent from his life much of the time and died too young to help his son out much. 

But we're all doing what we can.

Mr. heard a quote recently that kind of sums it all up.

"Anyone can be a father. Not everyone can be a Dad."

Happy Father's Day to all the Dads, whether your offspring is biological, chosen, or four-legged and furry. Hug 'em if you've got 'em!

Photo Attribution: Dorothy Hope Smith, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

P.S. I'm not posting pics of my granddaughter out of respect for my son and daughter-in-law's wishes. They're concerned about sharing photos on social media.

Heaven Only Nose

"Make it smell like Christmas, Daddy!"

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This has become the battle cry whenever Mr. grabs a can of Glade, post bathroom visit.

The trouble is, someone doesn't know when to stop spraying. Soon, the whole house is doused in the scent of pine.

Don't get me wrong. A whiff, a hint, a sniff of pine is all well and good. But too much of a good this is, well, too much of a good thing.

A little pine does invoke memories of the holidays. Just as Play Doh puts me back at the kitchen table, my Mom admonishing me not to get it on my clothes, in my hair, or in my mouth. (It only took one time eating Play Doh to realize that although it looks yummy, this is one instance when pretend-eating is clearly the way to go.)  

Unlike airplane glue, there's no rule about not huffing Play Doh. That scent lingers in my memory, along with other smells I've carried around in my brain over the years.

The musty smell of my grandma's attic. where she kept the games and paper dolls we played with on our visits.

The scent of Crayola crayons. (Also not a delicacy.) We sat at the table and colored for hours. I always colored outside the lines, in spite of my siblings' admonishments. A clear indication of my future subversive nature.

When lily of the valley blooms next to our house, I can't resist sticking my nose in them. Mom used to pick them for me to take to school. And lilac, too. 

And the unmistakable aroma of Wind Song that, inexplicably, wafted from the perfume bottle my grandmother gave me, long after the contents were gone.

So, what do we call this? Nasal memory, perhaps? I don't know. 

But I am happy to share that the scent of old books is beloved enough to have earned its own name: "vellichor."

That's a story for another time.

Harry Whittier Frees, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. This photo has nothing to do with the topic, I just came across it in my travels and thought it was stinkin' cute. 

Dotty for Deco

I'm not a joiner by nature. 

photo attribution below

This doubtless comes as a shock (not really) to those who know me. In high school, at the insistence of my mother, I joined the ecology club, attended one meeting, and promptly dropped out (without telling my Mom). 

There was that time when Jan and I joined a racquetball club. We went there a few times and played, then stopped and let our membership lapse.

When my kid was in grade school, I was a member of the PTU . It was incredibly insular, however, and I never felt welcome. Don't get me wrong, the other members (mostly women) put on a good face, but I couldn't help feeling like I was in school myself, facing down the popular kids. I stuck with it for a couple of seasons, then gave up.

The years flew by, and other than signing up for AARP, I didn't feel the need to join any organization.

Then one afternoon a few years ago, I attended a symposium hosted by the Cowan Pottery Museum. I'd been smitten by the Jazz Bowl, created by Viktor Schrekengost (subject of another blog post of mine), and Mr. Ginley encouraged me to learn more. By the end of the talk, I was hooked. Today, I'm a card-carrying Cowan Pottery Museum Associate.

The Cowan Pottery collection is showcased in the Rocky River Public Library. Not surprisingly, Mr. and I are there pretty much every Sunday. I'm particularly taken with the Art Deco pieces. So when I heard this year's symposium focused on this genre, I knew I had to attend.

The main focus of the event was the 1925 Exposition Internationale in Paris. Art Deco (although it wasn't called that until years later) was the theme of the Exposition. It was a fascinating presentation, with lots of photos of the buildings and art that were showcased. Fun fact: only two major countries didn't participate: Germany and the United States. 

Sadly, it's difficult to get a real feel for what it would have been like to attend the event in person because black and white was the primary photographic option. There are a few brochures that remain with artists' renderings. But Art Deco is rife with vibrant colors like Egyptian Blue, so the absence of color is disappointing. (One exception is the photo featured above, which is quite lovely.)

The color issue was somewhat mitigated by another guest speaker, Joseph Davis, a local collector who brought several Art Deco pieces from the period and discussed the provenance of each. 

The symposium wrapped up with a contest. The presenter showed photographic details from Art Deco buildings around town, and the audience was tasked with determining where they were taken. Of the dozens of photos, I recognized exactly one. And that's only because it was from the State Theatre, and we'd just been there the week before.

Am I closer to being an expert after attending the symposium?

No, but that's okay. It was fun to just look end enjoy. 

I'll leave art experting to the experts. 

Photo attribution: Boudoir from the Hôtel du Collectionneur, at the 1925 Paris Exhibition, by Émile-Jacques Ruhlmann. One of the rare color photos from the event.

For your viewing pleasure, below are photos of some of the items brought to the event by Joseph Davis Decorative Arts and Antiques:

Dear Advice Columnist

I've always been intrigued by the advice columns in the newspaper.

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Presumably, I'm not the only one, because, in my local rag, there's a proliferation of this genre. Where once Dear Abby and Ann Landers ruled, we can now get advice from Carolyn Hax, Dear Annie, Asking Eric, Meghan Leahy, and Heloise (she of the "Hints" for better living).

Reading these columns is a sort of guilty pleasure. It's comforting to see that other people have the same problems as I do. Or different problems that are much worse than mine. Or petty concerns that make me roll my eyes and say, "I should be so lucky if that's all I had to worry about."

Me being me, I can't stop from ruminating beyond the stories presented in these tales of woe-is-I. 

For example, there's the "he-said, she-said" factor – you're only getting one side of the story. Yes, there are times when the snarkiness or evil intent of the writer comes through loud and clear. But there are other times when I can't help wondering how the person on the other side of the table perceives their behavior. After all, it's not difficult to stretch the truth when pleading your case. I'd love to see a column where the other person had an opportunity to rebut.

"Jane, you ignorant slut!" (If you don't get the SNL reference, feel free to look it up.)

I'm not the only one in this house who enjoys reading these columns. (And no, I don't mean the cat.) Mr. Ginley partakes of them all, and he watches a lot of these sagas on YouTube. He will even talk back to the TV, when the narrator asks, "AITA" (i.e. "Am I the A-hole). His answer is most frequently "No!"

Why do we love peering into the lives of others? Does it make us feel better that we're not the only ones experiencing whatever it is we're going through? A "count your blessings" scenario, realizing others have it much worse than we do? Or a superior "get a life" reaction because we know our troubles are much worse than the idiot who's whining about her wedding cake being the wrong flavor and how her day was totally ruined.

As for me, I can't imagine ever writing a letter to an advice columnist.

I mean, as it is, Mr. Ginley occasionally says something like, "I saw your letter in Dear Abby today. I would never grab your ass in a fancy restaurant." 

I simply don't need that kind of drama.

Attribution: Alfred Stevens, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

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
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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."