A Visit from Santa Claws

Being the socially responsible folks we aspire to be, Mr. Ginley and I did the Skype thing, Christmas edition, with our son and (soon to be) daughter-in-law.

It was nice in a way, because no one had to navigate the eight inches of snow dumped on us during what meteorologists like to refer to as a "weather event." 

Earlier in the week, our son picked up our wrapped presents and dropped off theirs so we could have a virtual gift exchange. Admittedly, we did miss seeing them in person, but it was the next best thing.

And let's just say the kids outdid themselves with the gifts.

Mr. Ginley received a book, but the real surprise was the brilliant gift from our son's future bride. 

In 2018, the Caps won the Stanley Cup. Some enterprising soul had the idea to scrape ice from the rink where the Cup was won and put it into a miniature glass facsimile of the Stanley Cup. It came complete with a Certificate of Authenticity and now holds a place of honor on our mantel.

I received a book and a necklace. And a picture of a pair of kitties that got me going.

My son picked up the print at a vintage store in Lakewood. The artwork was sketched and colored, and included the artist's name. I couldn't decipher the signature, but Mr. Ginley, the penultimate researcher, figured out what her name was (Meta Pluckebaum), where she was born (Dortmund, Germany in 1876) and when she died (1945).

Naturally, I had to know more.

Meta studied with Hermann Pohle and was one of the first members of the Düsseldorf Artists' Association. She met and married fellow artist Carl Pluckebaum, settling in Düsseldorf where they shared a studio.  Over time, Meta became famous for her paintings and etchings of cats and dogs, although she also sketched flowers and children's portraits. Over time, she illustrated a number of children's books.

Her most prolific period was the 1920s through the 1930s. From what I gather, the print I have was likely from the 1920s. It has the original Deco frame. Too cool.

But there I went, down the rabbit hole, taking you with me.

Anyhow...

Whether you celebrated Christmas or not, I hope you all had a peaceful, enjoyable day.

Later, I'm going to dig out my car. 

But first, one more cup of java.

Snowy Perspective

Modern technology and social media do have their upside.

From the last big snowfall we had

For example, when a Facebook friend posted a "ha ha ha, we don't miss the snow now that we live in South Carolina" message, I was able to reply with a witty meme of Jennifer Aniston blowing raspberries.

Just think, a mere 20 years ago, this would not have been possible. Don't we just live in the best age ever?

In the old days, I would have witnessed her glee only if she sent me a Christmas card with one of those "what the family has been up to this year" letters in it. There's nothing like Facebook for up-to-the-minute hold-the-presses updates on everything going on in life. (You'd miss my entertaining comments, I'm sure.)

As I pumped gas yesterday morning, I had the opportunity to look around and admire the fluffs of snow alighted on branches and swathed across rooftops and fields. It was a pretty sight. (Admittedly, it helped the roads were clear and it wasn't blisteringly cold.)

I wondered if I'd miss wonderland visions like this if I lived in a warm climate year 'round.

Probably.

Also, I'd have some other natural act of contrition to deal with. Hurricanes or forest fires or scarcity of water.

We all have our stuff.

So I guess once again, I'll adopt my one-day-at-a-time attitude, keep an eye on the weather conditions and take it as it comes.

The latest word is, we may have a white-ish Christmas. And I'm going to be home all day anyhow.

So, let it snow.

And Happy Holidays to all my friends (including Kate, who understands my snarky sense of humor).

May your days be Merry and Bright. 

We certainly have earned it this year.

If Only in My Dreams

Thumbprints were always a staple cookie at Christmas. Mom made both regular and chocolate batter (guess which was my favorite), each little crater filled with a dollop of sugary icing colored red or green.

"Surprise" cookies were wrapped around a center of chocolate chips or a cherry or a walnut half. The walnut was the clear loser among my siblings. In fact, we asked my mom why she bothered putting the nut in the middle, because it wasn't a very happy surprise. She would shrug and tell us to get over it.

And then there were the sugar cookies we iced ourselves. Quite the holiday tradition. As we aged, our designs grew weirder to reflect our teenage snarkiness. But the act of decorating, complete with holiday music and derisive comments shot across the kitchen table, was pure magic.

The tea ring was also a family favorite. Its yeasty goodness filled the house with the smell of cinnamon as it baked. The delectable treat also featured raisins and was drizzled with icing and topped with cherries.

Each holiday season, my mom would choose a day to decorate the house. We'd come home from school to discover she'd turned the joint into a winter wonderland. Mom loved making the place festive -- we were just the innocent bystanders who got clean-up duty on New Year's Day.

I miss my mom every day, but during the holidays I miss her most of all. How I'd love to be sitting in our living room tonight, staring at the big-bulbed lights on our live tree and breathing in the delicious scent of real pine, a cookie in each paw.

Every year I say I'll make a bunch of cookies, but I can't quite work up the will to get it done. Also, there are just the two of us now, and I am trying not to overdo.

At least, that's my excuse.

In my mind, I hear my mother admonishing me for my lack of domestic skills. But, hey, mom, you always knew I'd never live up to you in that department.

But you loved me just the same.

Wish Books

 One of my guilty pleasures is browsing the hometown page of my Facebook account.

Props to Dawn Reed for photo

There I've found lots of nostalgic fare, and these days a trip back in time to my childhood is a nice touch of escapism.

This week the Parma Memories page featured the cover a Sears toy catalog from 1966. And boy, howdy, did that bring back a flood of memories.

In my mind, I can smell the printed pages of the catalog, each wafer-thin sheet filled with possibilities. How cool would it be to own this or that. Some of the toys had been featured in TV commercials. Others just looked like they would be fun to play with. 

Board games, dolls, race car sets, puzzles and all manner of joy, were tucked into a catalog jam packed with gift ideas for good (well, mostly good) children everywhere.

I knew in my heart of hearts that most of these treasures would never be mine. With five siblings and a limited budget, my mom would do her best. But what would show up under the tree would never live up to the dreams promised in the Sears catalog.

And yet, oh what fun it was to imagine the Christmas morning that existed only in my head. It was the anticipation, the reaching for the unreachable, that was the magic. Poised with a crayon to circle my favorites, I'd pore over the catalog for hours.

And in the end, I didn't really miss getting a Chrissy doll (with hair that grew and grew). Or the board game Mystery Date. Or Mouse Trap. Not too much, anyhow.

These are the days of instant gratification, where you can get anything you want online (rather than at Alice's Restaurant).

If you got that last reference, you know what I'm talking about.

Just for chuckles, I went on ebay and searched for the old Sears toy catalogs. Someone is selling them for $19 apiece. On a thumb drive.

I think I'll pass, thanks. There are some experiences electronics just can't replicate.

Shopping in the Time of Covid

I can't honestly say I've ever enjoyed grocery shopping. But it's a task that must be done, and since I'm the head chef at the Casa de Ginley, it only makes sense that I'm the official gatherer.

Public domain image

Of course, this task has been complicated by the raging pandemic. You know, the one we hear about daily but have grown numb to.

So, like my fellow shoppers, I don my mask and (mostly) follow the directional arrows at my local supermarket.

The social distancing thing is quite a dance though, isn't it? You're waiting for your turn at the banana bin, dodging the stockers and fellow shoppers. Turning your head away and mumbling "sorry" as you reach for the fruit you hope will be the right shade of yellow/green. Then bobbing away, moving along.

The deli counter is problematic. The workers are positioned far enough away they can't hear you place your order. So you will find yourself shouting, "A QUARTER POUND OF ROAST BEEF, SHAVED." And once again, "ROAST BEEF."  And "QUARTER." And "SHAVED."

Then you will reach across the abyss and snag your meat baggie and toss it into your cart.

The aisles are clearly marked so you know which way to go. But, yes, I admit I'm guilty of sneaking the wrong way down the aisle to grab something that's only a few steps in. (While still properly social distancing, naturally.)

Pre-Covid, one of the things I always marveled at was the voluminous variety of brands and types of food. During the pandemic, this has changed. One can no longer be fussy about brands. You get the beans or the cheese or the toilet paper they have in stock that week. 

Speaking of TP, I still haven't figured out why things like bathroom tissue and Lysol are flying off the shelves. Are people using their toilets more during the pandemic? Maybe it's because they are eating off-brand beans?

Who knows.

Someday, soon I hope, things will return to normal and all of this will just be an unpleasant memory.

And once again we will be able to shop in pairs, sans masks, and dart willy-nilly down the aisles of our local supermarket without fear of infection.

That'll be the day.

Go Lightly

Earlier this year as the crazytown train was gathering steam, I received an email from The New York Times. 

Ms. Littman (public domain photo)

They inquired if I'd be interested in receiving a regular newsletter from them that covered the biggest news stories from their paper. I'm not much of a news hound, but I thought I'd give it a try.

And so it was that I found myself devouring the newsletter six mornings a week (they don't publish on the seventh). 

One of the features I've enjoyed is a "lives well lived," section that touches on someone who has passed. Sometimes it's a famous person. But often it's someone I've never heard of. 

One such was socialite Marguerite Littman. 

She hobnobbed with the likes of David Hockney, Gore Vidal and Truman Capote. It was Capote who used Littman as the inspiration for Holly Golightly, Audrey Hepburn's character in Breakfast at Tiffany's. 

Littman was friends with a whole host of celebrities. Her own career as an actress originally stalled because of her thick Southern accent, a byproduct of her upbringing in Monroe, Louisiana as a member of one of the city's oldest families. The accent became an asset when she was overhead at a party by Elia Kazan and Tennessee Williams, who recruited her as a speech coach for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

She lived in New York City, wrote articles for national magazines and worked with Richard Avedon, a photographer who took on social issues in America in the 1960s.

In 1965, she married Mark Littman, a British barrister and Queen's Counsel. Marguerite took up residence in London, dividing her time between the US and Britain.

It was from her office across the pond that Littman would embark on her crusade, creating an enduring legacy.

In the 1980s, AIDS victims were being shunned and vilified by the public. Following the death of her close friend, Rock Hudson, from this terrible disease, Littman began her mission to raise awareness and support for AIDS patients.

In 1986, she sent letters to 300 influential friends and associates, asking them for £100 each. She only received one "no." Six months later, she hosted a gala to officially launch the AIDS Charitable Trust, and the donations began to roll in, and contiued to do so for another decade.

Princess Diana, herself an advocate of AIDS causes, gave Littman her wardrobe to auction off, raising millions for the cause just two months before her death in 1997.

Two years later, the Trust was rolled into the Elton John AIDS Foundation, where Littman served as a director.

She passed away October 16th at the age of 90. Alas, I couldn't find any indication that Littman wrote her memoirs. 

My guess is they would have been quite a read, indeed.

Random Thoughts from the Chair

Nine months between haircuts is too much. 

But with this whole Covid thing, I wasn't in a hurry to get my locks chopped. Everyone has a breaking point, I suppose. And by last Saturday, I'd reached mine. It was either get a haircut or shave my head.

So, off I went to my "hair artisan" to get the job done.

Since my last visit, the salon I frequented had closed. The owners bailed, but the hairdressers got together and opened a new place. Fortunately, my stylist was one of the participants in the new venture.

And thus it was that I found myself sitting in a salon chair, fully masked, waiting for my hair color to magically transform to a more youthful hue. 

Probably, I should have brought a book to occupy my time. I did check Facebook a few times, but honestly, it's been too exhausting lately. Scrolling and scrolling in search of my friends between all the ads and "suggested for me" posts is getting old.

So I opted instead for quiet contemplation. I was facing a large mirror that reflected the street. Traffic zoomed by, and I wondered where they were all going in such a hurry. That particular observation ran its course pretty quickly.

Closing my eyes, I listened to the buzz of conversation around me. I learned what my fellow salon mates were up to, their plans for the upcoming holiday season and all about their work woes.

Checking my watch, I saw that 15 minutes had elapsed. Halfway to the time before my hair guru would reappear.

Then I made eye contact with myself in the mirror. These days, I'm farsighted, so having my glasses off didn't hinder my view. My mask covered my face from below my eyes to below my chin. 

That's when it occurred to me. Given that my grey hair was adequately quashed and the mask took care of my neck wattle, my actual age was no longer discernible. 

Imagine that. Folks who didn't know me might think I was 50. Or even 40. 

Cool beans!

This belief was reinforced a few days later at Target when I purchased my Stella Artois. The cashier, a 30-something guy, was apologetic when he asked to see my ID to purchase the alcoholic beverage. He had no idea how old I was. 

Frankly, I was delighted.

So I guess there's some reason to be glad I'm wearing a face covering. 

But I'll still be ecstatic when we've eradicated the beast and masks are no longer necessary.