Where My Nose Begins

As we were cringing our way through an entire hour of neighbors shooting off fireworks over our house last weekend, I was reminded of a saying my mom espoused.

 

It was something to the effect that your freedom to swing your elbow is limited by the proximity of the other guy’s nose.

 

This phrase came to mind the following morning, when I ventured out and discovered bits of paper and plastic strewn across my lawn and my roof, with the added bonus of a layer of sulfur and shards of paper covering my car. 

 

Fortunately, this was annoying and not permanent. We only lost an hour of our lives gritting our teeth with every boom. My cat eventually came out of hiding. 

 

But I couldn't help wondering about others, for whom fireworks are a positive terror. Veterans with post traumatic stress disorder, for example. (I always thought it was odd that the same patriots who hail our military members as heroes are dismissive of veterans who suffer from this debilitating condition.)

 

My neighborhood Facebook group was split between those who loathe fireworks and those who love them. The latter group insists it is their patriotic right to enjoy fireworks, anywhere and anytime, and those of us who don't enjoy them are just old spoil sports who are trying to take away their freedom. (To be clear, I don't think anyone was advocating for no fireworks at all, just for confining them to the actual Fourth of July.)

 

The elbow-nose quote can't be definitively attributed to any one source. It's a universal truth that has never been more true than in this country's current bizarre environment, where wearing a mask is seen as a threat to freedom. The only freedom I can perceive we are trying to curtail is people's freedom to infect everyone around them.

 

I can only shake my head.

 

My mom taught us to be good citizens. Treat others as you'd like to be treated. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. Be kind to animals. 

 

And make sure that, in pursuit of your kicks, you keep your elbow away from the other guy's nose.

Daddy-Oh

We all have filters, and yours truly is no exception.

I view my life through my own recollections, keeping some things and discarding others. Most of this is done as a defense measure by my brain, not through any conscious effort.

There are times when a memory will come back to me with such force, it takes my breath away. This week, in the process of washing my hands in the prescribed fashion, I suddenly recalled my dad's hands, covering mine in suds. We were washing up together before dinner. His hands were much bigger, of course, and when they covered mine, it was comforting. I felt protected and safe. 

Other dad memories cropped up. Like the time he put the swing in the garage for me. (And dutifully moved the car out so I could swing to my heart's content.) Or when he played Mitch Miller for Paul and I on the Sundays we were too young to attend church with my mom and older siblings. And, in later years, his taking us to the "Secret Place" (usually Dairy Queen) on a Sunday afternoon.

I know there are other memories, too, and I let them lie. He was quick to anger, and often left it to my mom to make the peace.

But he was also sensitive, something he tried to hide.

One time in high school, I started hanging out with Peggy and her family. I would yackety yack about them, especially her father, who was a nice, easygoing guy. Afterward, my mom asked me to cease and desist because my dad's feelings were hurt. I was stunned.

There was so much about my Dad I didn't know.

So, here we are on the eve of Father's Day.  I wish my dad was here so I could give him a hug. 

And, if only for a minute, be "Little Boo" again.

Fixing a Hole

Many years ago, we had a housewarming party for my boss, Harry. Arguably the best gift he received was a tool box. When opened, he discovered it contained just one item: the local Yellow Pages.


We all had a good laugh, and Harry admitted he would probably get a lot of use out of this particular gift. 

When I texted Harry last night, I reread a message from him back in January, in which he told me about doing demolition in his basement. (He was still having professionals come in and do the reconstruction, so the Yellow Pages, albeit in the form of the Google, would still come in handy.)

I'd been thinking about this recently while pondering the hole in our dining room ceiling. For some months, cracks had formed, and it was just a matter of time before chunks of plaster began descending. Fortunately, none of them landed on us (or the cat).

When we first purchased our home, Mr. Ginley did a lot of painting, some plastering, and even repainted and stippled the living room ceiling. But that was many years ago, and before he began battling vertigo.

Which is why our first inclination was to leave the ceiling alone and let nature take its course.

"It's a conversation piece," asserted Mr. Ginley. "If we just paint the lathe white, it will barely be noticeable."

Normally, I would agree that this could simply go on our list of things that we can't afford to fix right now. But my sister intervened and offered the services of her husband.

And so it was that last Saturday, Tim arrived on our doorstep with a whole host of tools and whatnot. Our son very graciously offered to help -- it seemed like a good idea, given he's been thinking about buying a home of his own down the road.

A few hours later, the original hole was patched, and a second spot in the ceiling, which in all likelihood would have needed attention in the next few months, was also patched. Tim gave Joe instructions on the next steps, which included a sand/plaster routine that would require three additional visits.

After all this is over, I wonder if my son will still want to buy a house.

And if he does, will a toolbox with the Yellow Pages inside be the perfect gift?  

Someone Else's Shoes

There's an old tale about a man who made a basket for his father, who was becoming old and infirm. When his son asked him what he was doing, the man explained he was going to put the old man in the basket and take him to the top of the mountain and leave him there. 

Artist: Grant Wood; public domain image

A few days later, the man saw his son diligently at work making something. When the father asked what he was doing, the son said, "I'm making a basket for you so it will be ready when your time comes." 

The father went back up the mountain and brought his father back home, where he cared for him the rest of his days.

What the world needs now is...Empathy. Kindness. Respect. 

I don't have any answers for all the turmoil in the country right now. 

I only know that if I can put myself in the other guy's shoes, I have the best chance of doing the right thing.

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.