Playing with Words

I used to do a lot of word puzzles. I would buy one of those books that had all different kinds of brain teasers, choose the ones I liked to do, and skip the rest.

My mom was a big fan of the Jumble in the newspaper. We'd compete to see who could get the answers first. 

My grandmother liked doing the ones where you find and circle the words. I was never a big fan, although I am willing to revisit.

Mr. Ginley is a big fan of crosswords, a passion ignited by his older brother, Michael. But these days, Mr. Ginley will only do the Los Angles Times' puzzles that appear in the newspaper later in the week. Monday through Wednesday, he says, are too easy. Also, he's been going back and printing out Plain Dealer puzzles from earlier eras (thank you, Cleveland Public Library and their reference database). He began with the 1940s and is now working on the 1970s, choosing randomly. Sometimes the frame of reference is tricky, as one might imagine. He sometimes calls on me when he's done all he can do, to see if I know any of the answers. Occasionally, I do. 

I'm thinking maybe I should start doing crosswords again, particularly since I've not had much writing work, and I need to keep my brain in shape. My one gripe with them is they often contain clues that are foreign words or obscure references for things of which I have no knowledge. For me, I like the challenge to be a memory jog, not me having to resort to checking random words in a crossword dictionary to find the one that fits.

Also on my list of revisits are logic puzzles. I got pretty good at those, and they, too, are good exercise for the mind.

Some will say I should pursue my puzzles online, and there's something to be said, I suppose, for the instant gratification of knowing the answer is correct. On the other hand, it seems like cheating, somehow.

I'll probably do the "boomer" thing and pull out the old paper and pencil.

And yes, I'll be keeping the eraser handy, too.

Thinking Backwards

There are a lot of nostalgia Facebook pages out there. So no matter what town you may hail from, you can probably stroll down memory lane any time you like.

Bessie became a strip mall.

I decided to join the group from my own little corner of the world. It has been fun hearing about places I'd not thought about in years. Someone had a post the other day about a restaurant called Bessie Miller. Although I don't believe I ever ate there, I passed by every day on my way to school.

It turns out, Bessie Miller was quite the hot spot. Other FB members spoke of stepping on clam shells in the parking lot. The restaurant (according to a cookbook printed mid-last-century) resided in a 150-year-old farmhouse and was "famous for its clambakes and chicken dinners." 

Doing a little more digging, I discovered the joint was in business for 42 years, from 1935 to 1977. As an interesting side note, in 1951, Bessie Miller's brother, Samuel "Gameboy" Miller, was issued a subpoena by the Senate Committee to Investigate Organized Crime in Interstate Commerce. (There was some talk that the restaurant was somehow implicated in shenanigans associated with the mobsters, although I couldn't find anything conclusive from the Congressional Record.)

But I digress...

Funny how you see something every day for years, then it isn't until much later, when you strain to recall where you've heard the name, that it all comes back to you. The mind is a wonderful thing, although I am finding the memory part more challenging as I age.

I guess that's what these FB pages have become, a sort of memory game for me. The Minnie Pearl Chicken place near our house. The stores at the mall that was demolished a few years ago. Uncle Bill's. Grant's. The old movie theatre where my mom would deposit my younger brother and me to get an afternoon of peace.

Someday, I imagine, I may be nostalgic for the things in my current neighborhood.

Will I care so very much at that point? Or is nostalgia largely a bi-product of one's youth?

In these days of isolation, I'm beginning to wonder if the local places I've come to enjoy and take for granted will still be around a year from now.

Time will tell.

Musical Musings

"You liked Tony Orlando and Dawn, I bet you watched them on one of those musical variety shows," opined Mr. Ginley.

©Columbia Record Company

Then he started singing Knock Three Times.

I was immediately transported back to December 31, 1970. My sister and I always listened to the WIXY-1260 Top 100 Countdown. They played the #1 song at the stroke of midnight. That year, we both groaned when Knock Three Times was chosen at the song of the year.

Really??? Those insipid lyrics. The silly melody. And the stupid sound effect of a wrench hitting the water pipes.

Yikes.

"But I liked that song," protested my purported better half.

I started singing Tie a Yellow Ribbon. He does NOT like that particular Tony Orlando tune. It got a lot of play, and became an anthem a number of years later for the Iranian hostages. This in spite of the fact the ribbon in the song was being tied for a guy who was getting out of hoosegow, not for an American being held in a foreign prison.

In fact, many times, anthems have been created from songs whose original intention was quite different. Usually it's because the refrain is so persistent, folks forget the rest of the lyrics.

Born in the USA is a good example. People who haven't listened to all the words think it's a flag-waving tribute that is a rah-rah, let's go get 'em for the good old United States.

Nope.

This Land is Your Land, seemingly custom-made for car commercials, was also a protest song back in the day, written as a counterpoint to Irving Berlin's God Bless America, which was a flag-waver.

You Are My Sunshine, an old country tune, is really about a woman who left her man high and dry, and at some point in the lyrics, he says "she'll regret it some day." I guess if you stick to the first stanza, it's all good. A lot of folks think so, as it's one of the most enduring American classics.

Last Train to Clarksville, the upbeat Monkees tune, was about a guy leaving on a train, his ultimate destination Viet Nam. ("And I don't know if I'm ever coming home.") As was Leaving on a Jet Plane.

Of course, sometimes performers in the same band don't agree on the meaning of the lyrics. American Woman was either a protest song about the Viet Nam war or a slam on American ladies in general. Either way, it was certainly not an anthem for the power of American women.

A catchy tune goes a long way to carrying a song whose lyrics are not what you want them to be. It's easy to overlook the words when the music is so good.

I have to say, although I'm a big Beatles fan, and I do like the music of Paul McCartney, his lyrics are not among my favorites. Maybe that's part of the reason why he and John Lennon made such a good team. John's acerbic wit and Paul's optimism blended into something bordering on magic, as far as I'm concerned.

Ya, ya, ya.

Delivering a Momily

"Your kid wants to know what you want for Mother's Day," Mr. Ginley said last Thursday.

"I'm easy to buy for," I say breezily.

That's when I get "the look."

In her happy place.

"You are the most difficult person ever to buy for," he informs me. "You never want anything, and you always say you'll be happy with whatever you get."

All of this is true. It's also true that the one thing I always ask for -- to sit across the table and share breakfast with my son -- isn't going to happen this year. Instead, in the immortal words of Ohio Bell Telephone, I will "reach out and touch someone" albeit via Skype. Which, I'm sorry, just isn't the same. But it's the safe and responsible thing to do.

Thinking back on what we got our mom for Mother's Day, there was always a card. In our younger days, they were handmade. Later on, we bought funny or sappy Hallmark or American Greetings cards. And maybe a little chocolate for Mom (giving us an excuse to treat ourselves, too. After all, we were the reason she celebrated Mother's Day.)

My mom has been gone for eight years now, and I still think about her all the time. I converted a VHS tape of her and my dad at our son's first birthday party, and watching it really gave me a jolt. Captured forever are images of my mom -- her voice, her laughter -- that continue to live in my heart. That's where she's alive and well -- and gently nudging me when I get "too big for my britches."

For all of my friends who are moms, my wish tomorrow is for a quiet day, with someone else doing the cooking, and a chat with your offspring, whether you be in the same room, across town or across the country. For those of you with the four-legged variety of children, I hope they show their love and appreciation for all you've done for them. (Yes, kitty cats, even you can break out a lap sit and a purr for Mother's Day.)

And please, oh, please, let's not have snow tomorrow.

Mom wouldn't like it snowing on her garden.

Comic Conversations

Mr. Ginley struck up a lively conversation about comic books last night.

Anything to not talk about the current state of the union.

And so it was that Betty versus Veronica became an actual topic of discussion, with Mr. Ginley leading the interview:

Mr: Who did you like better, Betty or Veronica?

Me: Betty. Veronica was too much like the girls I knew in high school with too much money and too little empathy for wallflowers like me. Betty seemed nice, if a little vapid.

Mr: Who would you have been attracted to, Archie, Reggie or Jughead?

©1966 K.K. Publications

Me: Archie, by default. Reggie was too snarky, Jughead too dopey. But I wouldn't have been as moony over Archie as the girls in the comics were. I equate him to Richie Cunningham from Happy Days. A nice guy, fairly down-to-earth. But nothing to get the blood pumping through my adolescent veins.

Themes like this have become de rigueur at our home. And I've found myself addressing other mind-blowing questions, such as:

Did you ever want a boyfriend like Ned Nickerson (Nancy Drew's boyfriend)? No, I admired Nancy but Ned was just a prop, really.

Pick one: Speed Racer or Driver X. Meh, I guess Driver X because he was mysterious.

Which superhero did you think was hot? None, I wasn't into superheroes. I'm still not.

At this point, Mr. Ginley points out I have a stash of comic books in the closet from my childhood. There are old Superman comics, many without covers. But these were the ones that belonged to my whole family. There is a bizarre range of themes here, including a Classics Illustrated edition of H.G. Wells' The Food of the Gods, the cover of which still gives me the willies.

©1967 Gilberton Company Inc.

My own personal comics, in a separate well-worn paper shopping bag, were more along the lines of Bugs Bunny and TV shows -- most notably, The Man from Uncle. And, no surprise, The Monkees. I only kept a few...the rest of the items in the bag are fan magazines, now, sadly, sans their glossy photos and posters, which adorned the wall of my childhood bedroom.

Now, I will answer the next inevitable questions, as yet unasked.

Illya Kuryakin. And Davy Jones.

May your days in isolation be filled with equally stimulating conversation.

Rants and Raves

Although Mr. Ginley and I are no strangers to the idea of social isolation, there are signs that tensions are ramping up in these days of Covid-19.

It's not like we were hanging around in bars or going to sporting events or parties. We'd already done a lot of cutting back and had become accustomed to spending most of our days at the Casa de Ginley.

But I believe the closing of the libraries was a bridge too far for my other half. Aside from accusing the cat of threatening to rip out his throat with her "talons of steel," lately, he has taken to yelling at the television and his I-Pad.  Well, okay, he's always done this to some extent, but lately it's been getting worse.

I'm learning how to cope.

For example, I've found it's best if we watch DVDs rather than live TV. This precludes having to sit through rants about the commercials. Permit me to share:

"What kind of parents are you, your kid fills up the sink to overflowing and you think that's cute? Now you're going to have to mop up that monsoon and hope you don't have to call a contractor to fix your ceiling. That kid is asking for a spanking."

"Who takes a dog to a car dealership? Leave your dog at home, what's wrong with you?!"

"Don't be stupid. Stop putting baby powder in your..."

Well, you get the idea.

Also, every time an ad comes on selling one of those "ask your doctor" medications, and they list all the symptoms, without fail, Mr. Ginley says, "I've got all that. I must have (fill in the disease/disorder)."

Worst of all is the news, which turns him into a fiery ball of frustration -- with politicians, meteorologists and vapid reporters.

Sometimes I laugh. Mostly I shrug and let him blow off steam.

It seemed like a good idea to air him out, so we went for a drive through the park. The skies were blue, the trees budding, Mother Nature in all her loveliness. What is there to kvetch about?

"Hey, Lance Armstrong, get out of the middle of the road."

"How come when I see a jogger, it's a dude, where are all the pretty girls?"

"Stop tailgating, Mario Andretti -- if you were in a hurry, you should have taken the freeway!"

And so it goes. The soundtrack of my life.

Serial Thrillers

"One Saturday afternoon, you'd watch a Dick Tracy short, and there he was, sailing over a cliff in the last frame. You'd wonder all week how he was going to get out of that fix. Then, next week, in the opening shot, you'd see Tracy jump to safety at the last possible second."

According to my Dad, that's how serial pictures kept you coming back. He'd explain on rainy Saturday afternoons, when we were stuck indoors and watching old movies together on TV. (He loved Tarzan -- especially the stampeding elephants.) His favorite line to deliver, at the suspenseful climax of any movie or TV show, was something like, "He's in for it now. I guess this will be the last show."

Of course, it wasn't. And our hero lived to face another day of treachery and mayhem.

I imagine serials have been around as long as storytelling has existed. Even ancient peoples were curious about what would happen next.

Today, we have binge watching. Where you don't have to wait until next week to see what happens. You can stay glued to your device for hour upon pointless hour.

On some level, I understand this guilty pleasure. On the other hand, there is something delicious about having to wait to find out.

I know some people are like this with books, too. They turn to the end to read the final chapter. Admittedly, I've been guilty of this on occasion, but only with books I was having a difficult time slogging through. So if it had a bad ending, I would just bail. I know this is cheating, but, well, it's my book and I'll peek if I want to.

Today, the sun shines, the snow melts and I'm not going to be watching television this afternoon. In spite of the cold, I hope to persuade Mr. Ginley to take a walk with me.

But maybe later, I'll dip into the archives and partake of a bit of noir...even if it's something I've seen before.

Half the time, I can't remember the plot, anyhow.

Oh well. Enjoy your day. I'll be back next week with another exciting installment!