A Drink with Jam and Bread

Apparently, the old chestnut about real men not eating quiche is a total fallacy.

Mr. Ginley consumed quiche, albeit reluctantly. (I believe "choked it down" is the phrase he used.) It was during high tea. Yes, he went to a tea place with me, for the second time I might add. And ate little sandwiches and cakes and drank rooibos and chai teas. We talked for two hours and had a lovely time. I guess it was pretty girly, but it didn't feel that way. No, I did not make him raise his pinky. But he did hold my chair for me. When I went to the ladies', the women at the next table complimented him on his chivalry. It was a most enjoyable afternoon.

The tea was part of an extended birthday celebration for me. The joy began on Friday when I was presented with a blanket that Stephanie crocheted. Decorated in cats and mice with pink and black yarn, the blanket is a wonder that still chokes me up. I cannot believe she spent ten months making it for me. If I live to be a gazillion years old, I can't imagine any gift I could come up with that would approach the wonder of hers.

On Saturday, I hit the road, headed for Columbus. It was hot. Stinking hot. My two sisters and I went to the rib/jazz fest that was downtown. Right after we parked the car, it began to pour. Equipped with bumbershoots, we ventured forth. Diane predicted the rain would stop. It did. The sun came out, and we roasted. In the meantime, we walked around, took in the music, and ate ourselves some ribs in the lovely shade of a tree. I confess to being the one who cracked first. I was sweating from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet. The sisters took pity on me, and we went for ice cream, then back to Diane's place, where we sat in the sun room (moon room at that point?) and yacked it up until Denise called it a night.

Sunday morning (my actual birthday) I rose early and returned home, where I had breakfast with Mr. Ginley. The day passed pleasantly enough, and ended with dinner in the company of my husband, my son and his girlfriend.

Monday was the day of the tea. In the morning, after taking my car in for its required service, I went for a massage. There was a time when my smug self would do the eye roll and swear I'd never partake of such nonsense. Having experienced the joy of someone working out the knots in my stressed-out muscles, I now know what a treat it can be.

The rest of the week, I went to work and did the usual. Friday I had lunch with my brother, Gary. It was good to catch up and spend a little time together. I always learn at least one technology nugget when I talk to him. He's good company.

Which brings me back to...Doe, a deer, a female deer...and the end of my tale (tail?).

Marquess of Queensbury Rules, If You Please

Where hath our civility gone?

Sometimes, it's the little things that get you through the day.

When someone holds the door for you, a clerk admires your jewelry or a young guy flirts with you.

Other times, it's just when others obey the basic laws of civility.

It's unlikely anyone who is reading this is guilty of any of these travesties. But maybe you can just commiserate with me as I rant a bit about some of the signs that our civilization, if not lost, has perhaps taken the wrong fork in the road:

If one is picking up one's child/spouse/whomever (the one with the perfectly functional set of legs), one has absolutely no excuse for parking and waiting for their passenger in the fire lane. Even if they are "just going to be a minute." Any officer witnessing such a blatant disregard for the law should order said driver to move to the the farthest spot in the lot.

If a library patron is unable to read and follow the instructions on a sign that says, "line starts here," said person is in the wrong establishment and should be ordered to put their books down and go home.

There is an ancient Chinese curse that says something like, "He who refuses to fix their pet and lets them wander the neighborhood to reproduce with others of their species willy nilly will return in their next life as a female who is perpetually giving birth to litter after litter." (Honestly, I read this on the internet. At least, I think so. Maybe.)

Toilet seat liners are for one use, only. Toss and flush, please. Do not leave butt paper on the seat for the next person to dispose of.

At sporting events, the fetching of foodstuffs should occur between plays or during a stoppage of play. One should expect to be pelted with angry words if one sashays down the row and obstructs the view of other patrons just as a ball has been belted out of the park by the home team.

Talking at great length about one's recent gastrointestinal surgery and subsequent recovery while dining in a public place is never kosher.

It is unconscionable to sit directly in front of someone in a movie theater, unless the place is packed. Also, anyone who doesn't understand the concept of silencing their cell phone or keeping their commentary to themselves should be booted.

Luring others into reading one's rants under the pretext that one will be entertaining, when all it is is an opportunity for one to vent one's petty spleen, is reprehensible.

Oops.

This would be a good time for a diversion.

Anyone else want to go get some ice cream?

I promise not to stir it up and let it melt until it looks like chocolate milk.*


*My Dad's pet peeve.

Nuptials in the Old Dominion

It was a picture-perfect evening in Leesburg, Virginia. A little warm, a lot humid, but to be expected in July in that part of the country.

The important thing was, unlike the day prior, there was no rain to dampen the proceedings. And the roofers pounding away on a nearby house called it a day just in time for the ceremony to get underway.

Officiating was our niece, Megan. Tying the knot were our nephew, Ryan (third in line in the Ginley-Hyland dynasty) and his beautiful bride, Meghan. (Yes, things get confusing, especially considering that my sister-in-law is a Meg.) I loved the songs chosen for the ceremony, particularly the Israel Kamakawiwoʻole version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow, which always makes me teary.

There are lots of grandchildren in this branch of the Ginley clan. By my reckoning, eight so far (and one more on the way). All of them were part of the procession up the aisle and did a fine job. It was nice to see how they've grown since we last saw them.

The nuptials went off without a hitch, toasts were toasted, dinner was served and dancing commenced.

We decided to sit in the garden and visit with the other guests, watching the sun set and the full moon rise. The air cooled just enough to make it a pleasant evening. I partook of a gin and tonic (or three), while we tried to name the tunes the band was playing.

The bride was gorgeous, and although we haven't had the joy of knowing Meghan for long, we are impressed by her beauty, inside and out. Our Ryan is a lucky guy. And yes, he knows it.

My brother-in-law prepared a slide show for the couple (which he has done for his other married children), featuring snapshots of the bride and the groom as children, culminating in a series of "today" photos of the two of them. He always does such a nice job with these, not a dry eye in the house.

Weddings make me think of families...where we are now and where we will be in years to come. Who will marry next. What life will hold for us all.

A reminder of just how important is the here and now.

Cheers!

Training

We hadn't planned to be at the Terminal Tower on the 87th anniversary of its opening. It just worked out that way.

Last week, we took the Rapid Transit on our way to Walnut Wednesday. As we strolled through the Terminal Tower, we paused to look at a restored train schedule on the wall. Admiring the bronze handiwork, I began to imagine what it would have been like to journey by rail in the golden era of train travel.

This led us to pick up something at the library about Union Station. It is a reproduction of a book originally published in 1930 after construction of the Terminal Tower was completed.

As it happens, the idea for the station began as a way for the Sweringen brothers to get downtown. They lived in Shaker Village and wanted to build a rail system between their digs and their office. The plan expanded, with the result being a terminus that, in its heyday, had 23 platforms and 34 sets of tracks for the railroad and the Rapid Transit.

The interior of the station was constructed of Botticino marble (walls and columns) and Tennessee marble (floors) and lots of bronze. If you were waiting for a train, you could dine at the Harvey restaurant or lunch room. Get a haircut or shave at the barber shop. Browse the book shop. Or pick up sundries at the drug store.

I suppose some would argue that it's just as pleasant to pass the time sipping a Mocha Venti in an airport waiting area. But, in spite of the advantage of speed, I can't see it.

The magic of moving from one place to another is lost on our generation. It has only been in the last 100 years or so that traveling has become more about the destination than the journey.

If I could time travel, I'd love to go back, dine at the station, and be giddy about my impending trip. Then revel in the anticipation as the conductor called "all aboard!" and the train gathered momentum on its way out of the station and on to adventure.

Somewhere, unbidden, come strains of Arlo Guthrie singing City of New Orleans. I gaze out at a breathtaking sunset.

Then, the daydream ends, and I'm back in my car.

Speeding along to nowhere.

Twinkle, Twinkle Momma Star

I wish my mom had taken pictures of all the birthday cakes she made for us over the years.

My Aunt, Mom, Grandmother

The most memorable was the guitar cake she made for my brother, Gary, for his 17th(?) birthday. That one there is a photo of, but I'm pretty sure he has the only copy. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a cowboy hat on, trying to look like hot stuff, seeming uncomfortable at having his picture taken. The cake was great.

We would put in our request, and mom would do her best to comply. There were kitty cats and dogs. I used to like snakes, so I remember one year she did something with a snake and basket.

Mom made our birthdays special. There may not have been a ton of expensive gifts, but birthdays were always something to look forward to. Like being queen (or king) for a day. I think we got to pick out the dinner for our natal night, too.  

Today is Mom's birthday. And I'm sitting here wishing I could bake her a cake. I did one year, and I put "Twinkle, Twinkle, Momma Star" on the top. It wasn't decorated in any fancy way, but  my heart was in the right place. I'm not the creative genius my mom was.

"Little Boo" Cake for My 17th

It's funny to think that 91 years ago my grandmother was giving birth to her second daughter (and last child, her fifth). You don't think of your mom as a baby, as the one who was swaddled and cradled and such. My mom only had her mother for a few short years before she died of tuberculosis, right around my mom's fourth birthday. In fact, one of her relatives told her they were going to a party, and mom thought it was a birthday surprise for her. It was her mom's funeral.

Maybe that's part of the reason why mom tried to make our birthdays happy and special.

Wherever you are today, momma, thanks. I hope I was a good enough daughter. Because you were and are the best mom ever.

Happy Birthday!

ABS

It's that time of year again. Well, actually past that time of year, based on the ninety degree weather we had last week.

The wallet

I was digging through my closet, looking for the tub of summer clothes, when I happened upon a container labeled "ABS."

Now sidetracked from my original task, I dragged out the big plastic bin with my dad's initials on it and peered inside.

It's been some time since I packed up all of this stuff and and put it away. This is my dad's collection of souvenirs, photos and whatnot. (Mostly "whatnot.")

Like a good Catholic, my dad carried a missal to church with him. He also had a book of works by St. Alphonsus, although this was dated 1911, so it must have been his dad's. I have his baby book, which is a treasure, filled with photos of my dad holding various cats, dogs and rabbits, others with his sisters, and entries from my grandmother about his childhood milestones. There are mementos from high school days, including his diploma, ticket stubs from high school football games and some pictures of his friends goofing around in the stands. A packet of postcards from Milwaukee -- not sure if he went there or someone else did -- and from Euclid Beach Park.

Then there is the war stuff. His Selective Service Registration Card. Three handmade leather items -- two look like they could hold a pack of cigarettes, the third is a wallet. I think all three are Moroccan. A brochure from the Office Marocain du Tourisme. And a flyer that is titled "Morocco," but someone has written "Galleries De Lafayette" and "Mi ami" on the front.

Dad with his sisters: Jean, Rosemary and Pauline.

Then, there's the notebook. It is inscribed with a series of dates that follow my dad's time in the service during World War II. The first is: "January 25, 1943 - arrived induction center Camp Perry. Home for weekend 1-30." The final entries are "June 10, 1945 Transferred to P.B.S. Army" and "June 14 Naples." It struck me as odd that the list ended with this entry. There is an earlier mention of D-Day, but nothing about the bombing of Japan in August of 1945. The only other notations in the notebook are addresses of army buddies, some with APO listings, others with street addresses in Nebraska, Pennsylvania and Ohio.

Lastly, there is his address book, which looks like he used it from the time he was in grammar school until he got out of the army. One page is torn out. I wonder why. And who are all of these people? Are they all gone now?

I know this is so cliche, but I wish I could sit down and go through all of this stuff with my dad. He was never very communicative with us kids growing up. In my youngest days, I was afraid of him. His temper was quick and fierce. I knew that he loved me, but I didn't want to press matters. It wasn't until I reached high school, when he began to mellow, that I started to forge a real relationship with him. Even then, I didn't know of the existence of these items. I knew he'd been to Morocco and Italy in the war. We teased him about the Italian signorina he left behind. He would smile that faraway smile and reveal nothing.

I don't know, maybe I'm getting this way because tomorrow is Father's Day. As I'm sitting here typing, I look up at the cheesy reproduction painting of the sexy Spanish flamenco dancer that my mother loathed, but my father insisted on hanging in the dining room. And I smile.

I love you, dad. Happy Father's Day.

Whose Sari Now?

Mr. Ginley was watching a sporting event the other night. I was reading my book.

Cricket Bat (Artist's rendering)

A typical scenario in our humble home. Except that the voices coming from the TV were Hindi (or some form thereof.) It was a commercial for insurance, in which the husband was trying to find some for his mother-in-law. Success! The right company was found, Mrs. was happy, fade to black.

As often happens with me and sports, I was drawn in not by the event but by the commercials.

And so it was that I found myself planted on the sofa watching cricket.

I'm still very foggy on the rules of the game. There is a cricket bat and a ball. A pitch, a wicket and a bail. They play innings (plural, even if they're talking about one). And can rack up lots of points if they hit the ball to the boundary (four points by land, six points by air).

Listening to the announcers was great. And then one of them said something about a great googly.

Wha?

A googly is a way to deliver a pitch. When they pitch, it's called "bowling."

My head was starting to spin. Time for another commercial.

This one promoted a show that looked like the Indian version of American Idol. Several performers in saris had the stage and were belting out a tune and making the moves. I was mesmerized.

I didn't watch for long, but long enough to feel as though I'd stepped into another world and back. Which is one of my favorite things.

I don't know if it's a coincidence, but lately I've been drawn to all things Indian. The dulcet tones of the Hindi language are velvety soft. I love Raj on Big Bang Theory. I found myself looking at a sari the other day, trying to imagine if I could pull off that look. There's a mini gamesh on my desk at work that I picked up recently. And then there's that clothing booth at the Hooley, where I purchased two garments from a woman who was from that part of the world.

Maybe it's a phase. Maybe I was Indian in another life.

Maybe it's time to find out what jalebi tastes like.

Stay tuned!