The View from the Porch

It was such a beautiful morning, albeit a little muggy, that I decided to blog on the porch.

The thought of sitting in the office with an artificial light on and the fan blowing on me did not appeal. From here I can hear the birds -- as well as an airplane, the Rapid, an ambulance and a whole host of traffic. The only sound I miss is my wind chimes (there's not a breeze to be had).

My decision to move my gig outdoors came about when I looked out the window and saw a bunny -- a big, chubby, bunny. I guess I wouldn't be so admiring if he/she was chomping on my garden. Fortunately, I don't have a garden. But I did have a few carrots, so I tossed them into the yard. Even bunnies need a treat, right?

When the day gets wound up, I'm guessing it will be a scorcher. For now, it's just good to be hanging on the porch.

It's amazing how a simple change of venue can change your perspective. You get used to looking at things a certain way, and then the view changes. Or you change.

I had a dentist appointment this week, so I took the opportunity to drive by the house I grew up in. I shouldn't have. My street used to have tens of towering maple trees, their leaves forming a lovely canopy in the summer, cooling us as we played or rode our bikes down the street. Most of the trees are gone now. Left are the rows of little box houses, looking a little forlorn. My parents' house looked tad shabby. I heard from a neighbor that they tore out all of my mom's flowers. The lawn looks like the Serengeti. The only good thing is that the magnolia tree still stands.

Maybe you can't go home again.

Or maybe it's best to just visit in your mind. There I can run and play tag and kick the can and zoom along on my bike with the baseball card stuck in the spokes to make that clickety-clack noise. On rainy days, we could play board games in the garage and roller skate on its slate surface. And sometimes, when I got a little older. we would walk up to the school, my brother to play baseball with his friends and me to read under a tree.

Someday I know my perception of this house will change. Maybe I will ride by in the car and wonder what it looks like inside, how they've made it their own.

And just maybe I'll remember the warm summer morning when I sat on the porch with my coffee and my computer and marked this moment in time.

A Sporting Chance

Those who have known me since way-back-when will not be surprised when I say I haven't always been a sports fan.

In fact, truth be told, I'm only a fan today because I live with two sports-crazed men, one husband, the other son. When other topics were touchy for them, sports has always come to the rescue. They can kibbutz for hours about players, coaches, teams, referees, the draft, and pretty much any topic that is news on ESPN.

During my son's growing-up years, and to this day, the two of them sit at opposite ends of the couch, groaning, shouting and, on those rare days when God smiles on Cleveland, fist-pumping and woo-hooing.

Over the years, I have learned to appreciate many sports. I can follow football, baseball and hockey. Not so much basketball or soccer. And, while I don't get nearly as wound up as my two cabin mates, even I wept in frustration at the conclusion of Game 7 of the 1997 World Series. (I still want to curl into the fetal position when I think about it.)

While I mark milestones with things like, "Oh, that was the year we bought those ceramic mugs from that artist in Occoquan," Mr. G. can pinpoint any occurrence in our lives based on the sporting event that took place at the time. This includes, but is by no means limited to, the day we got married (Stanley Cup, Game 3, Campbell Conference Finals: Detroit 5, Edmonton 2) and our first trip together to Niagara on the Lake in 1986 (Ohio State Lost to Washington, 40-7).

The past few years, Mr. has had his friend, John, over to witness the carnage every Sunday afternoon during Browns season. By the end of last year, neither one had the stomach for it. We would find other things to do, occasionally turning on the radio, grimacing, and turning it off again.

To my guys, sports is more than, well, sport. There's a passion that, although I don't always share it, I do understand.

Mr. always says, "A bad day at the ballpark is better than a good day almost anywhere else."

And I have to admit there is nothing quite like sitting in the sunshine on a summer afternoon, munching a hot dog slathered with stadium mustard, watching a baseball game unfold lazily before me.

A Good Stretch of the Legs

I love taking walks. You see all kinds of things you wouldn't normally see if you were speeding along in your car.

A view from the MetroParks

And, unlike driving, I prefer to do my walking sans audio accompaniment. Unless you count the birds, lawn mowers and passing traffic. I like to get the full experience of all of the senses.

With my workplace a 40 minute drive away, I spend enough time in the car. I like to get out in the open air and get a snootful of (hopefully) some quality atmosphere. Plus, I notice little details like the design in the bridge I'm crossing. Or a wooly bear caterpillar crossing the sidewalk. (How's it going, Dick Goddard?) Faded chalk hopscotch lines. An abandoned tricycle. And, as a bonus, I occasionally stumble upon a yard sale. (Which is cool, as long as I don't fall in love with a table or lamp or something BIG.)

Walking does more than stretch my legs. It stretches my mind. Calms me. Helps me to feel one with the universe. Connected.

It looks like a beautiful day out there. I hope you don't mind if I cut this short.

There's a bird out there calling my name!

Dancing Fool

It was a little green tutu, made of a scratchy fabric, but I loved it. In my imagination, I would grow up to be a ballerina, pirouetting with a grace that was breathtaking. Oh, the applause, the adulation.

In those days, dance lessons were not an option. With five other kids to worry about, a limited budget and the fact that I was short, stubby, and not particularly graceful, my lofty ambition never made it out of the gate.

But I could still dream. And I did.

I remember watching Shirley Temple movies. Sometimes I'd tippety tap with my patent leather dress shoes, pretending I was on the Good Ship Lollipop. Later, I developed a little crush on Fred Astaire. He was so smooooth. And Ginger Rogers, with that dress made of feathers. They floated. They dipped. They soared. Wow.

Then there was the couple who lived on our street...they had square dances in their basement. I think I could handle square dancing. Or maybe line dancing. I like the idea of kicking up my heels in cowboy boots.

My parents danced together beautifully. Like they were one person gliding around the dance floor. I don't know how they got that way. To my knowledge, neither one of them had lessons. Maybe it's a generational thing. I'm lousy at slow dancing. I always try to lead.

Fast dancing I can manage, but any idiot can, really, especially if you don't care how you look. I can do the Twist, Swim and Jerk. And the Freddie. But no, I never got into the whole disco thing. As for belly dancing, that's one activity my husband has encouraged me to undertake. But I'm no Naemah. (With a nod here to Vicki.)

I wonder if, given dance lessons, I'd ever improve. I could take ballroom, but I know Mr. would not be interested. And I don't want to hit the floor with a stranger.

So, back to square one. I'll just dance in the privacy of my own home.

And I'll take a twirl at weddings.

I can do the Chicken Dance. Just watch me.

Stargazing

As I went out on the porch to retrieve my newspaper this morning, I gazed across the vast Ginley estates and thought, "Who needs Sean Connery?"

Well, okay, it didn't happen EXACTLY that way. What did flash through my mind was what it would be like to wake up in the Scottish countryside, birds chirping merrily, sun shining, and Sean Connery across the table from me, winking slyly and chuckling that throaty chuckle of his.

The truth is, I'm happy with my life and my husband and my son. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to romp about with the rich and famous.

Not ALL the rich and famous. I can't think of any young male actors at this moment that I'd want to dally with. (Jon Hamm is 43. George Clooney is 53. Cary Grant is dead). And yes, in this fantasy of mine, I'm 30 pounds lighter and 20 years younger. It's MY fantasy, I can do that.

My daydream extends to having bff's whom I can call and kvetch with. ("That director was such a douchebag.")  I'd like to meet Sandra Bullock. And Jody Foster. I'd love to chat with Shirley MacLaine.  But I don't get the Kardashians.  (Any of them. At all.)

And I've never wanted to adopt Honey Boo Boo.

"Being a non-celeb has its advantages," I tell myself. I can sit on the front porch in my pajamas with my bird's nest hairdo and drink my coffee and read the paper and no one is snapping pics of me to send to the tabloids. While I need to watch my weight, I don't have to obsess. And I don't have to worry about Angelina Jolie calling me asking for contributions to this or that cause.

No, none of that drama for me. Just the usual day-to-day stuff that makes up my life.

But I can still dream about hitting the bridle path with Robert Redford on his mega-acre ranch, laughing into the wind, as he smiles admiringly at the riding skills of my 25-year-old self.

Sigh. Oh well. A ride in the Toyota to the CWRU book sale with Mr. Ginley will have to do for this old dreamer.

Hi-Ho, Silver, Away!

Change Matters

Grocery Clerk: Your total is $125.42.
Me: I'd like to write a check for $30 over.
Grocery Clerk (looking uncomfortable): Let me get a calculator...

As we move closer and closer to Idiocracy, I ask myself, "When did we start to go off the rails?"

I blame New Math.

For those of you who grew up in my age bracket (you know who you are), you probably remember the birth of New Math. This was when we had to start circling pictures of objects to put them into "sets". It was the advent of "Base 8."  All of it was supposed to make it easier to teach math to children. It was convoluted and, to this day, I don't understand the point of it.

For the most part, New Math is just a bad aftertaste, left in the mouth of a generation of Baby Boomers. But, somehow, I think that bad taste translated into an overall lack of common sense in teaching the next generation.

These days, public school students have to pass a proficiency test. Since I haven't taken one, I can only rely on what frustrated teachers are saying about them -- that kids aren't really learning much, that they are memorizing facts and figures just so they can spew them back, pass the test, and move along into the real world, where they will be someone else's problem. ("Let me get a calculator.")

We seem to have lost the ability to make education relevant. How to balance a checkbook. How to make change. How to figure out what that shirt is going to cost after the additional 40% off.

And, of course, how to know if 16 mega sized rolls of toilet paper at $17.99 is a better deal than 24 large sized rolls of toilet paper for $12.99. (I confess, I do need a calculator, or at least a piece of paper to figure this out.) Most people don't bother to work it out. When I'm in a hurry, I admit that I don't either. This is what "the man" is counting on. You not counting.

We need to get smarter. And we need to start by teaching our kids how to think.

When my son was much younger and struggling with his seven times table, my husband told him, "That's easy. Sevens are touchdowns with the extra point. What is your score if you have three touchdowns?" My son replied immediately, "21!"

Now, that's math you can use. 

Let's All Go A-Rummaging

Maybe I should have been called "Second Hand Rose." I love the hell out of rummage sales and garage sales and flea markets and Ebay.

Is it the thrill of the chase? The belief that the one thing I've been looking for all of my life will be at the next sale I go to?

When I was a young lass, my sister used to create scavenger hunts to entertain the younger crowd. She would leave clues for us to follow and at the end, there would be some sort of prize. I used to love trying to decode the messages. To this day, I enjoy solving puzzles. Is this the same gene that makes me want to seek out a gem from among all the crap?

And yes, Virginia, there is a lot of crap at these sales.

Then, just when you are about to give up, you find something amazing. Like the late 1940's Three Little Kittens set that's hanging in my kitchen. Or the 1950's Bopp Decker dishes. Or the souvenirs from faraway lands I will never visit. My house is home to kitsch of all kinds. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your point of view), my husband collects things, too. Which is why in our back room (which serves as a mini man cave), there are little statues of all of the presidents up through Lyndon Johnson, various maps, and a framed photo of the Elvis stamp.

It may be an addiction. But I don't care. I gotta go take my shower and get ready. There's a rummage sale today, and it's starting and I don't want to miss anything.

Besides, it's in Westlake, and those suburban folks always get rid of good stuff...