True Confessions

 "What could the average third or fourth grader possibly have to confess?" I mused the other day over a Big Boy® Burger and fries. 

Obviously, the priest's side of the confessional.*

Mr. Ginley and I were discussing our childhood as Catholics in training. Specifically, the Sacrament of Confession.

"My go-to confession was taking money out of my mom's purse," said Mr. Ginley. "It was always a quarter or dime or some small change. But I couldn't always think of something to confess, so sometimes I said I did something I didn't do because I felt pressured. I always wondered if the penance I was given covered me for lying to the priest. I mean, at the end, you do say, 'for these and all of my sins, I am heartily sorry.' On the other hand, it does give you something to talk about at your next confession."

"Yeah," I concurred, "But that could get awkward if the priest started grilling you about why you lied, and you'd probably get a lecture. Seems like more trouble than it's worth. Better to make it a sin of omission."

Mr. nodded his agreement. It was my turn to spill.

"I always told the priest that I was mean to my little brother, which was pretty much always true. I could be a shitty big sister," I confessed to Mr. Ginley. "And I'd say that I lied to my parents. I don't recall the priest asking me for specifics, but if he did, I probably made something up. We weren't allow to take the Fifth."

Looking back, confessional duty for youngsters had to be a pretty crappy job for the parish priests. Did they draw straws to see who was going to get stuck listening to a litany of childhood transgressions? 

"Sorry, Francis, you're on the hook this week," I can hear the other priests snickering.

When we complained about going to confession, my mother would always say, "I know it's hard to go, but don't you feel better coming out of the confessional?"

Well, sure, because the ordeal is over for another month or however long it might be till your next confession.

And if your mind wandered as you said your assigned 3 Our Fathers and 4 Hail Marys for penance, who was to know?

Nowadays, priests are encouraged to better align penance to fit the crime. You have to tell your Mom you took that money from her purse and pay it back and promise never to do it again.

But then, geez, what the heck do you confess next time? 

*Attribution: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f3/Wikiolo_in_Liechtenstein_%2883%29.jpg

Senseless Fashion

I think we can all agree that I'm not a girly-girl. 

In an earlier time in a universe that existed long, long ago (aka high school), I dabbled in makeup, eye shadow, lip balm, and nail polish. I even wore the occasional dress because I had nice gams back in the day. 

These days, I seldom put on makeup, my fingernails are a wreck, and I have a closet full of clothes gathering dust. Recently, I went through and gathered two garbage bags full of items to donate, but I'm going to have to do another pass. I just have too much stuff, and I don't have plans on wearing it anytime soon.

Now that I work from home and spend almost all of my time here, I tend to wear the same clothing over and over. In a thrift shop a few months ago, I found a very colorful top made of fleecy material. It was love at first sight. Up until the last week or so when temps soared up into the 80s, I was wearing said top quite frequently. 

At one point, Mr. Ginley felt compelled to step in.

"I draw the line at the fleecy top with the Cat Taco pants," he proclaimed. "It's not a good look."

I cast my eyes downward to the other beloved article of clothing I'd acquired recently. It could be argued that the two aren't a combination you'd describe as pleasing to the eye. 

Still, they each in their own way make me happy.

I simply shrugged. "No one's going to see me but you."

"But I have to look at it," he said. 

I'm willing to concede this point. And so, I'll have to find a different companion for each of my favorites. Something more neutral. 

For the foreseeable future, it'll be too warm to wear the colorful top, so I'll have a few months before I need to find a companion for it that doesn't offend. 

As for the Cat Taco pants, well, I'm wearing them now. With a paisley top. 

I may need to work on this combination.

So Fast

 Mr. Ginley is forever telling me to slow down.

Look, Teeny Strawberries!

"Where is the finish line?" he queries. "Why are you in such a rush to get there?"

I know he's right of course. There's plenty of evidence right in front of me. Every day on the news, some famous figure that I grew up with has passed on. This week it was Brian Wilson and Sly Stone. Sure, they were in their 80s, but that's not that old. 

Is it?

Don't answer that.

It's such a cliché that time flies, but it really does. I may grumble and wheeze and roll my eyes when the exercise queen Leslie Sansone talks about how fast a workout has gone by. But then, before I know it, I'm playing the DVD again and doing the workout again, and ya, so fast.

It's hard to slow down, though, when you've had the zoomies all your life. Getting up, having breakfast, going to work, coming home, making dinner, spending family time, going to bed. Getting up on the weekends and running all the errands I didn't have time to complete during the week. 

Slow down. Breathe. 

I'm trying, I really am. Maggie just showed up, purring. Reminding me what's important. I gaze into the backyard. It stormed earlier, and now raindrops are kissing the leaves of the bush outside my kitchen window. There's a cool, welcome breeze blowing in. And church bells. The coo of a mourning dove. A snapshot of something lovely.

If only that bush weren't blocking my view, I really am going to have to get out there and cut it back. And just look at all those weeds taking over. I wonder if the blackberries are ripening yet? 

Maggie turns around and whacks me with her tail.

I know, I know. There aren't that many miles to go before I sleep. If I don't slow down, I'll miss all that lovely scenery.

And wouldn't that be a shame.

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!"

attribution below

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.

attribution below

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