It All Ads Up

Cutting back on cable has left us with the basic channels. Which means we are seeing a lot more commercials these days.

Most of the time, I'm able to tune them out, but some of them get to me after awhile, particularly as they are repeated over and over.

For example, there's the GMC truck commercial. Apparently, this particular model has a fancy-schmancy tailgate that folds in all kinds of crazy ways, like a Transformer toy.

In the ad, the truck sails down the road, and as it passes an off-brand truck dealership, the mouths of the two salesmen drop open, and the tailgates on a line of trucks fall open, too. Clever, that.

This was all well and good, until the next iteration of the ads came out. While a chorus of "na-na-hey-hey-goodbye" chants in the background, a smug thirty-something guy stands on a mountaintop while thousands of men, women and children carrying plain old tailgates scale the mountain toward their swami.

I get this is supposed to be someone's idea of powerful imagery, but all I can think is, "So, what happens to all the tailgates when those zombies reach the mountaintop? And what about those now-tailgate-less trucks that are doomed to wander the highways and byways while the contents of their flatbeds spew across the road?"

Then there are the lawyers who advertise. All the commercials start out the same way. "If you or a loved one..."

I suppose you could argue these ads are educational. The nasty chemicals you pour into the earth are carcinogenic. (Shocking.) Mesothelioma is caused by asbestos. And you shouldn't put talcum powder in your hooch because it can cause cancer.

But perhaps my favorite of all the ads that come screaming across my television screen are the ones for prescription drugs. The ones you are supposed to ask your doctor about. They tell you about the terrible side effects while people frolic as if to belie the awful things they are in danger of experiencing.

Studies have shown the happy-go-lucky actors in these ads really do go a long way to alleviating people's fears.

"Oh, look, my boyfriend has a crippling gastric disorder, but he still made it here to meet my parents, and we can take walks in the meadow, and he doesn't have to run to the can every five minutes, thanks to this drug he's taking."

Oh my.

I should count my blessings, I suppose. At least we don't have cigarette commercials anymore. Those didn't end well.

Just ask the Marlboro Man.

Moment by Moment

Mr. Ginley printed out an article for me to read yesterday.

(You never know what wildlife you'll encounter)

It's all about keeping things small. Not "one day at a time" but "one moment at a time." Small bites. Something I always say but have difficulty achieving.

Tough to look at this moment, right here, and not worry about what's going to happen down the road. I'm a champion worrier from way back, and boy-howdy, do I excel.

And yet...yesterday we took a walk in the MetroParks. The sky was a brilliant blue, the trees were walls of color, almost too much to take in. We sat on a bench by the river and watched the Canadian geese do their thing. And chatted.

And I thought, "this moment."

So, I get it, and I'm trying to keep my perspective. I'm blessed to be doing some work. And I trust that soon my calling will find me.

In the meantime, I'm moving slowly, taking baby steps. Crunching the leaves. Taking in the fall air. And believing it will all come right in the end.

The other night, we were watching an old western starring Randolph Scott, called The Tall T. After killing three bad guys, Scott turned to the woman/love interest, who was sobbing, and said, "None of that. It's going to be a good day."

Yep, that's about it.

Happiness is an Old Game

"Oh, look, they have the Happiness game!" I gushed to Mr. Ginley

We were at a church rummage sale, and this prize was only $1.

In return, I got a blank look. Obviously, he could not relate to the significance of my find.

"Paul and I used to play it when we were young," I explained. "And I'm pretty sure he still has the game. Maybe he can take this one and replace any pieces that are missing."

Mr. Ginley shrugged. It was only a buck.

One of the workers at the sale asked me if the game brought happiness.

"Well, I was playing a board game with my brother, so yeah, sure, of course I was happy. Delighted. Giddy."

She gave me "the look" I've come to know well from people who don't know me well. And sidled away.

Later, I emailed my little brother and told him the good news. His reaction wasn't what I expected.

"Holy f***, HAPPINESS?" he replied. "I think I may have burned it in a fit of unhappiness. No idea where that thing is. Think I will pass. Not my turn, the game."

Ah, well. Purchase in haste, repent at leisure, as they say. Or something like that.

As I see it, I have three choices:

1. Force Mr. Ginley to play it with me once, then relegate my new purchase to the closet with my Barbie Queen of the Prom Game.

2. Sell it on ebay.

3. Or, most likely, put it with the pile of stuff going to Goodwill.

Guess I'll just cross Happiness off my list of things to look for.

Looking in the Mirror

For the next phase of my genealogy project, I've been poring over my parents' high school yearbooks, scanning the pages on which they appear.

It's funny how yearbooks have names. My parents' yearbook is entitled "The Mirror." Mine was "The Bayeux," presumably like the tapestry (my high school being named "Normandy"). It was always mispronounced -- it should be "buy-yuh" not "bay-you."

But I digress.

My father graduated from high school in 1942. Inevitably, he was drafted and served in World War II. His high school picture is a delight. In it, he is beaming at the camera, his hair perfectly coiffed, his plaid tie an interesting contrast with his pin stripe suit. "Full of youthful exuberance" is the phrase that comes to mind. His career is listed as "commercial," his hobbies as skating and bowling. And he was in something called the "Hi-Y Club." Which, as far as I can tell, involved shenanigans at the YMCA.

Who is this guy? I think it would be great if we could go back in time and see what our parents were like growing up. I have a difficult time picturing my dad as a carefree young lad, attending social events and joining clubs and dating girls.

Oddly enough, my dad also kept his college yearbooks. I say "oddly" because he was clearly all business. No extra curricular activities. Thanks to the GI Bill, he was able to get a college degree after the war was over. But he told us he felt out of place, so much older than his classmates, and having experienced so much the younger set couldn't relate to.

By the time my dad graduated from college in 1950, he was married to my mom, and my brother was two weeks from being born. In his senior college photo, he is sober, unsmiling, all business. What a difference those years made.

(No, Mom, I'm not using your school pic)

My mom didn't attend college. She went to work for Western Union. I have her test results from her training, as well as her certificate of completion (also scanned).

I remember my mom hated her senior photo. (It's not very flattering, I think she was a stunner.) Mom was in the Glee Club and something called G.A.A. There's a little ditty under her name: "She's liked by all. She's on the ball."

Yep, that's my mom.

It was a little disappointing that there are only signatures in the yearbooks, no messages or clues about how they were viewed by their classmates. Were they popular? Shy? Probably somewhere in between.

All in all, I feel blessed to have these tangible items of my parents' youth. My friend, Rachelle -- her parents were Holocaust survivors. Hers is an oral history. Heartbreaking and tragic, with no little keepsakes as reminders.

Only the things she can keep in her heart.

Love Letters from Long Ago

There is a letter, undated, to my mother.

My aunt, mother and grandmother

I can narrow it down to 1929-1930, the time my grandmother was in a sanatorium fighting tuberculosis. She lost her battle in June of 1930. This would put my mother's age at the time at either three or four.

Here is what the letter says:

Dear Little Mary Rose,

I wonder how you are? Are you Daddy's little lady? I know you are. You love Mother, too, don't you?

Mother is trying to get well so she can come home to you. Then we will have a time, won't we?

Come up and see Mother when you can. Did you like the paper dolls? 

I must go to bed now, or the nurse will come and scold me. 

Good night, sweetie. I send lots of kisses and hugs.

From Mother

There is so much love and longing in this letter, I wanted to cry. (Okay, maybe I did).

The fact this letter still exists, in my mind, is nothing short of miraculous.

After my grandmother died, my mother and her four siblings were raised by my grandfather, who had help from relatives and neighbors, until my grandfather remarried in 1932.

Someone had to vouchsafe this and the other correspondence, as well as the photographs. Was it my grandfather?

It makes me wonder what will become of our legacy in the hands of the next generation. Will they be as careful to preserve these windows into our souls?

We are such a disposable society. We trust that technology will keep a permanent record of our doings. But as technology becomes outdated and replaced, isn't a fair amount of it lost to old electronic methods of preservation? Is it really better than these nearly 100-year-old letters I'm holding in my hand?

Time will tell. It always does, I suppose.

We Loved You (Yeah, Yeah, Yeah)

John, Paul, George and Ringo, together again in my living room, were performing in their first live American television performance on the Ed Sullivan Show.

Surprise, pleasure, happiness and a bit of cheek, all came through the screen. I don't remember their first appearance per se, although I do have a vague recollection of my older siblings wanting to watch the new sensation from Britain and my folks being less than enthused.

The date was February 4, 1964, and the British Invasion had begun.

When all was said and done, my dad hated them and my mom liked them. So my brothers were allowed to play them in their room, nearly non-stop (it seemed to me) for the next several years.

That's why I'm a Beatles fan. Why I can still sing along to most of their songs. (I Am the Walrus is still a bit sticky for me, I admit.) And why I re-watched that first show last week and felt so much that I could never describe adequately to my son or anyone else who wasn't there.

Here was the playlist, performed in two different sets on the show:

All My Loving

Till There Was You

She Loves You

I Saw Her Standing There

I Want to Hold Your Hand

At one point, they put captions under each mop-topped band member. Beneath John's, it said, "Sorry, girls, he's married."

As well as musical groups, Ed Sullivan showcased comedians, jugglers and all manner of performers. Much like Vaudeville, it really was a mixed bag of "wow" and "not so much."

The Beatles' first appearance was no exception. In fact, it was touch and go whether the upstart British band was even going to get top billing.

One of the other acts was the London cast from the play Oliver, which performed two songs. In the first, the Artful Dodger and his compatriots belt out I'd Do Anything. And whom, you might ask, played the Artful Dodger? None other than Davy Jones, who a few short years later would go on to play one of the Monkees in the hit TV show that started out as a spoof. Then it turned out the Monkees really could play their instruments.

But I digress.

Other fun facts from this first episode...George had tonsillitis and missed the rehearsals for the show. Standing in for him was Neil Aspinall, their road manager in the early days. He didn't play, his guitar wasn't plugged in, but a few days later, an American magazine proclaimed he "played a mean guitar."

Ed Sullivan announced the Beatles had received a telegram from Elvis Presley. In truth, it had been sent from Colonel Tom Parker, who wanted to jump on the Beatles bandwagon early. Elvis did not like the Beatles.

Other performers that night included a pair of comedians, Charlie Brill and Mitzi McCall, who bombed. Fred Kaps, an engaging magician who was quite good, despite having to immediately follow the then-toughest act in show business. (Although, I believe his segment was taped, so that helped.)  Frank Gorshin, soon-to-be TV's The Riddler, then a talented impressionist. (Are there still people who do impressions?) Wells and the Four Fays were "comedic acrobats," who vaulted about the stage, contorting their bodies in ways mine has NEVER been able to.

And then there was Tessie O'Shea, a 50-year-old Welsh singer, whom, on any other night, would have stolen the show. She played a banjolele and sang, Two Ton Tessie from Tennessee (the reference was to her talent, not her weight). I thought Tessie was amazing. Online, I found a picture of Tessie with the four lads, and she autographed it, "Cheers & Love, Tessie O'Shea and her favorite boys."

Mr. Ginley and I went on to watch the remaining Beatles' appearances, which were great, but not quite as fascinating as the first, which was viewed by 73 million Americans in front an audience of 728.

Will we ever again experience something like Beatlemania?

It doesn't seem possible.

French Detection

It's pronounced, "Kay-Dee O-Fay-vor-a," I told Mr. Ginley.

Quai des Orfèvres is the location of the Police Judiciaire de Paris. It's where our fictional hero, Chief Superintendent Jules Maigret, has his office.

We'd been watching Maigret (pronounced "May-Gray"), a French mystery series starring Bruno Cremer. Since this version was performed with French actors, we were using subtitles, but frankly, they speak so darned fast, you don't always hear the French pronunciation.

Thus, I turned to You Tube so I could properly pronounce Quai des Orfèvres.

Isn't French just the ginchiest language? Although, I've gotta say, I doubt they get anywhere near as much satisfaction from spitting out "merde" as my grandma did saying "shit." (It was her favorite swear word. She said no other expletive felt as good to say when she was really worked up.)

We also noticed the subtitles didn't translate exactly. French is by no means our native tongue, but even we figured out that the actors were saying a lot more than what was showing up in the subtitles. I suppose they captured the gist of it, but we did feel just a little cheated. Who knows what the subtitlist decided wasn't germane to the story? 

It made me think of all those Japanese imports we were exposed to as children. "There goes Tokyo, Go Go Godzilla." The monster would be tearing it up, while the actors stood there reciting what appeared to be the New York City phone directory. But the English words coming out of the dubbed-in actors' mouths were, essentially, "We're screwed, this giant lizard means business."

But I digress.

Once we'd made it through the entire French production of Maigret, we decided to start on the British version. It was fairly well done, but I must admit, it's a little off-putting hearing Parisian arrondissements spoken with a Brit accent. I suppose Michael Gambon did a serviceable job, but we still preferred Bruno Cremer. The French version just captured the whole noir thing beautifully.

Naturally, being the bibliomaniacs we are, the next step was to begin reading the books the two series were based on. There are 75 of them. Thanks to the Downtown Cleveland Library, I believe we will be able to accomplish this task, given the time.

Meanwhile, we will cast about for a new/old series to latch onto. We've watched a couple of Italian mystery series, so it doesn't have to be a PBS production or anything.

We're open to suggestions.

Merci beaucoup!