That's How We Role Here

I wonder if we will ever get to the point where we can stop putting people into little boxes and slapping labels on them.

Facebook is rife with posts about this article or that article that makes sweeping statements about what women should do or men should do or parents should do.

I think, here at the Casa de Ginley, we not only broke the mold, we smashed it into itty bitty pieces.

My husband began our son's life as a stay-at-home dad. When were were discussing how our child would be raised, Mr. G. said he didn't want him to be raised in a day care setting. He would stay home and raise him. Many sacrifices were made, but I must say, our son turned out remarkably well.(So far. Don't screw it up, kid!)

We took a certain amount of flak for our decision, often from quarters we had not expected. But in the end, they had to admit, it was an arrangement that worked for us.

I knew things were a little topsy-turvy when my son, who was about five years old at the time, chided me for taking down the curtains to wash them. "That's man's work," he insisted. That's when I knew we were on to something.

So, what am I trying to say here? That this model works for every family? No. I'm just saying this is what worked for our family. And if someone had come to me and implied I was less of a mom for going off to work and leaving my husband and son to navigate domestic matters, I would have told them to piss off.

Which is why I don't feel I have the right to tell anyone else how they should be a family. If it works for you, great. Whether mom stays home or dad stays home or both parents work, or if there is only one parent who plays both roles, or if there are two moms or two dads in your family, it's all good. And even if your family doesn't include children, it's still a family.

Everybody has to find their own way in this life. And as short as our years on this rock are, they should be as happy as we can make them.

Do I sound a little preachy here? Oh, well, it happens sometimes. Since I'm on my high horse, I'll finish with this: Go give your family a hug. That's an order!

It Takes a Village...

Pam and I had lunch the other day. I love Pam, she's got a good heart, and she's a good friend. It reminded me of our shared history, which began at J.B. Robinson Jewelers.

I started at JBR in 1980 in the accounting department. I was the secretary (yes, secretary, not "Admin,") to the Controller. Later, I moved to Advertising, where I eventually ended up working for Pam. Which is where I stayed until the company was bought out by Kay Jewelers in 1986.

Larry J.B. Robinson, the Diamond Man, was at the helm. He took over the operation of a single store after his father's death and built the company into a respectable chain of jewelry stores. He espoused a philosophy of "customer first" long before it became a mantra. He believed in doing things the right way. He was a brilliant businessman, sometimes hard on sales staff, and somewhat quirky. He owned the radio airwaves for decades in Cleveland. There are still many folks who remember his catch phrases..."Are you engaged or thinking about becoming engaged?" and "You'll find a far larger, more valuable diamond for less than you'd expect to pay at J.B. Robinson Jewelers." And, of course, there were his buying trips to Antwerp, when he phoned in and recorded the calls for his radio spots.

J.B. Robinson Jewelers attracted a core of employees who were smart, dedicated, and bad ass. I hope I may count myself in this group. We worked hard, groused, and laughed a lot. Back in the day, we had to take yearly lie detector tests. The guy who administered the test would ask, "Did you ever falsify your time card so it didn't reflect the actual number of hours you worked?" We all said "Yes." When pressed, we would say it was common practice for us to punch out and continue working. He would roll his eyes and say, "Get out of here. What's wrong with you people?" We didn't tell our bosses we were doing this. It was an unspoken thing. The work had to get done. You did what you had to do.

Of course, working hard and playing hard go hand in hand. So, we get to the Village parties.

The Village was a hole-in-the-wall bar in Lakewood whose main attraction was its ability to host a sizable group of semi-rowdy 20-somethings who were looking for a way to unwind. There are many stories I'm not at liberty to discuss. Many of these I've heard from my husband, who started at JBR a few months before I did. The invitations were informal, usually a notice on the bulletin board in the lunch room. During the last year or so, I got to write the invites (Pam did the art).

A few of us got together some months ago (Sue, Damir, Frank, Tom, and Pat) and told stories about JBR. Most are familiar, some were new to me. I'm not sure what it was about the place. It was more than a job, it was a common cause. You did it the right way because if you didn't, you were screwing the people who were second in your heart only to your closest relatives.

Before there was "No I in Team" there was JBR. And there ain't been nothing like it since.

Fifty Years and Counting

There's been a lot of hooplah about yesterday's 50th anniversary of the Beatles' arrival on our shores.

The adults in the room, for the most part, were unimpressed with the four mop-topped lads. I have a vague recollection of my own family gathered around the TV set. I was only five at the time, so my memories are sketchy. But I know that my two teenage brothers were the driving force for Beatlemania in our house. After watching their performance, we were all fans, in varying degrees -- except for my Dad.

The first Beatles album I owned.

My father's music appreciation included Mitch Miller and Mantovani, with a side of Herb Alpert. He never did embrace rock and roll music. My mother, on the other hand, was open to new kinds of music. She liked a lot of the early Beatles stuff, but her enthusiasm waned when they got to the hard stuff.

My brothers were dia-hard fans all the way. They would go out and buy the latest Beatles album as soon after pressing as was possible. Then they would bring it home and play it. And play it. And play it. Which is probably why I can sing the lyrics to most of the Beatles songs. I consider it a blessing that my brothers didn't have headphones. My dad did not share my enthusiasm.

Many of the memories of my childhood are tied to Beatles music. Paperback Writer is associated with summer. I remember listening to Michele as I gazed at our Christmas tree. And, later on, when I had my own collection of Beatles albums, I remember being home alone and playing Revolution #9 and scaring the shit out of myself. I also remember seeing the movie Help when it first came out. We were at my grandmother's house, and my parents had dropped us off at the movie theater. My brother called to ask my mom if we could sit through it a second time. We did.

The Beatles were a balm to me, their music made personal in the memories I associated with it. I was not an outgoing child, I had an overactive imagination, and many times the Beatles felt like long-lost friends. Just listening to their music made me feel right somehow.

There were other musical groups I enjoyed. The Monkees diverted my affections for a time.
In school, my love of the Beatles was viewed as a little weird by my peers, who were into the Partridge Family. For a brief time I liked Bobby Sherman (he was dreamy in a dopey kind of way). But my go-to band was definitely The Beatles.

My sister, Diane, despaired of me ever growing out of my love for the Fab Four. At one point, she and my brother-in-law gave me a Bad Company album. It was good. I still have it. And my tastes have expanded significantly since then. I like hard rock, soft rock, a little bit (a very little bit) of country, some jazz, some classical, some New Age. I don't like rap in general, but there have been one or two pieces that I've found catchy. In general, I don't dismiss an entire genre of music because there's usually something there that I like.

But it always comes back to the first four.

Uma Thurman, as Mia in Pulp Fiction, tells Vincent (John Travolta), that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who like Elvis and those who like The Beatles. She said you can like both, but when it comes right down to it, there's no contest. Linda, my best friend, growing up, would choose Elvis every time.

In My Life, it's The Beatles. Ya, Ya, Ya!

The Clothes on My Back

I've never been much of a girly girl about make-up or clothes or accessories. At least, not always. There have been times in my life when, many pounds lighter and several years younger, I found joy in shopping for and trying on fetching new styles.

Not so much these days. Now comfort is key, and fashion is something I admire on younger women.

I hadn't realized how bad I'd gotten over the years until I saw an older Saturday Night Live "commercial" in which they poked fun at "Mom Jeans." And I'm sitting there thinking, "Now, those jeans look pretty good." It made me feel a little nauseous. I used to laugh at that skit, but this time, it made me uneasy. I started to take a mental tour of my wardrobe, and realized that my winter clothes consist of slacks and jeans, all with the word "relaxed" in their name and in a size that would have made my 23-year-old self weep. Then there are the oversize sweaters and tented t-shirts to cover an abundance of too-many-donuts syndrome.

Although my weight is certainly a factor, style is still a problem. If I did lose the weight, would I be any more stylish than I am now? Or would I just get smaller sizes of the same mom-style fashions I currently don?

The truth is, I just don't have the style sense -- or the the energy -- to become a fashionista at this stage of my life. I have friends in my age range who continue to carry it off beautifully (you know who you are, Pam). I, alas, am not so blessed.

Someday, maybe, when I shed the weight, I will reward myself by trolling the internet for the perfect ensembles to show off my new svelte self. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll wear clothes that make me look sophisticated, elegant, happening.

End of dream sequence.

In the meantime, I need to head over to the department store to pick up a couple pairs of pants for work. Time to don my blinders so I only have to see myself  one-way in the three-way mirror. And remind myself not to peek until all surfaces have been covered.

Wagons ho!

I've Got a Fever for a Cabin

Well, here we are, buried in the snow again. For the time being, we are still talking inches, not feet, but the day is still very young.

I wonder what we will do today. Probably read some. Play with our Kindles. Watch TV. I was pondering the term "cabin fever" this morning. Although I haven't researched it, I would expect it came from pioneer days (not from being stuck in an airplane on the tarmac for 2 hours waiting to take off).

Most of my ancestors have been here since the early 1800's. I suspect several of them traveled in covered wagons and endured brutal winter conditions. Days like this make me feel like a wuss. I imagine us as pioneers, me baking and cooking while my man builds a big 'ole fire so we don't all freeze to death. Bundled in animal skins and shivering. The only upside would be that there were no driveways to shovel. Unfortunately, the downsides were numerous. Hungry wild animals would make it tricky to step foot outside. No 7-11 within walking distance. No Disney movies to keep the kids occupied.

There we would be, huddled close together by the fire. Him asking me what's for dinner. Or is there anything left over that would make a good snack. Me thinking we're just going to have to smell bad for awhile 'cause there's no way I'm sticking my hands in freezing cold water to wash anything. Then, to distract ourselves, we crack open something by Dickens, and he starts to read to me. We know all of the lines by heart. So, as we would in modern times while watching Rio Bravo, we start to recite certain well-loved parts together. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."

Back here in modern day, snowed in, Mr. is still in bed. Our son is away at college, no chance of getting our driveway shoveled. (Don't be that way, Joe, you know we miss you.) I suppose I'll get talked into baking something this afternoon. Maybe we'll shlep to the library (which is four blocks away). Or, more likely, Dunkin' Donuts, which is situated at the corner of our street. Or maybe we'll just close the curtains and dream of warmer days.

Spring Training is only a month away!

Starting Over

I've been writing these blogs for a little over a year now. So, while at first my subjects were plentiful, I find it more difficult to glom onto topics about which I feel passionate.

Today, for example, I started to write about near death experiences. It's something I've been reading about lately. I also found myself online, perusing various articles about a whole host of experiences. Trying to get an overall feel for the topic. But I just erased everything I wrote.

I'm not sure I want to go there today. But I seem to be drawn to wonder about that inevitable time when we are no longer walking the earth. My takeaway is that, after life experiences are closely tied to one's personal beliefs. If you're a Christian, you get Jesus and angels, if you're of another faith, you see the God you've prayed to. Most of the experiences were positive, which is nice to know. I talk to deceased folks a lot. And I feel them with me. Good feelings, like peace and wisdom and quiet joy and, most importantly, I feel their support. Is this just because I believe or because they are real? What is real?

But there I go, off the rails again. I didn't want to write about this today. But now I have. So I guess I believe that there is some compelling reason for this choice of topic. Maybe I need to remind myself to be present. To pay attention to the here and now. To live for the moment, not look ahead to what may or may not be. Let the future take care of itself.

Be here now. (My personal mantra.)

To anyone who chooses to read my ramblings today, I apologize. I hope you are in a good place today and that you are warm and safe and dry and able to count your blessings.

I'm counting mine now. And no, I'm not going to look at the weather forecast!

A Look Inside

Certain Native American tribes believe the camera steals your soul. Well, you can understand why. I've looked  into the eyes of people photographed a hundred years ago and gotten lost in them. They no longer walk the earth, but their image remains, and I can't help but wonder where they were in their lives when the shutter snapped. I've been intrigued not only by my own relatives but by people in books and in museums.

Photo of the Smithsonian painting of General Giles

Painted portraits have the same effect on me. There was one in the National Portrait Gallery that I still remember from many years ago. It was of a gentleman called General James Giles, painted by Joseph Wright. At the time I discovered the painting, there was no easy way to learn more about my General Giles  -- the internet was not yet public. I asked the museum if they had any information -- they did not. So it was only until very recently that I learned he was a commissioned member of the Continental Army in the Revolutionary War and that he served under the command of the Marquis de Lafayette. He was born circa 1759 and died in 1823.

What was it that made him so memorable to me? There was something of his soul there, deep in his eyes. What I think is very cool is that here I sit, wondering about someone who died 191 years ago. He lived in extraordinary times, yet he is remembered not because he did anything that landed him in the history books, but because someone painted his picture.

It's human nature to want to be remembered and thought about by future generations. To leave some sort of footprint in this world, so that others may wonder what we were like, what were our loves, our aversions, our losses.

 In the years to come, how, or even will, I be remembered at all? Kind of puts things into perspective, it does.

P.S. One interesting side note:  General Giles died on July 23rd -- my birthday.

Today, the Smithsonian, thanks to a dogged, researcher (identified only as "Laura"), has a mini biography posted of General Giles. Many thanks to the individual who illuminated the man's life for me after many years of wondering.