Day 9/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

My mother always enjoyed buying Valentine's Day presents. 

My father did, too. 

When I was a child, my mother and I each received a vase of beautiful flowers on Valentine's Day, courtesy of my father and delivered from our town's local florist. I could always count on seeing Dad's big loopy signature along with an X and and O, festooned like he was signing a very important document on a small rectangular card tucked into its clear plastic pick. It was such an extravagant gesture, especially during a time of great inflation when the cost of ordering flowers was so exhaustively high and my mother was reusing tin foil and patching (and re-patching) all the knees in our jeans to make them last just a few weeks longer. 

My senior year of high school, I photographed my very last red rose bouquet from my father atop my dresser, unintentionally surrounded by an array of 80s hair products. It's a snap in time and I am very grateful to have that picture.

One of the other Valentine's Days I often reflect upon has, at its core, the item that I won't be buying today...it's Englebert Humperdinck's After the Lovin' record album.

My mother purchased this popular album for my Nana and my Papa in February 1977 and on Sunday the 13th, we jumped in the car and drove it to their home. Up past all of our bedtimes the evening before, Mom traced and cut out pink paper hearts and taped them to the album's cellophane covering. In her careful, deliberate, upper case penmanship, Mom wrote cute candy heart sayings like TRUE LOVE and BE MINE. With Englebert's features peeking through the pink paper hearts, the whole presentation was fun and visually gratifying. I was excited when Mom asked me to hold it in the car and I recall repeatedly flipping it over, reading the tracks, and finger-tracing the zippy script of the Epic logo. The anticipation of giving this gift to my grandparents made our ride seem extra long.

Nana opened the door and Mom gleefully presented her with the record. A big fan of Englebert, Nana smiled broadly, looking as pleased as I felt! We ambled into the house, all the adults professing love for the way he sang. At seven years old, I said his name aloud, stretching out the syllables and giggling to myself under the din.

After appreciating all of the handmade hearts, Nana swiftly turned down the television, sliced the cover open with her metal nail file, lifted the lid of the record player, and, with both hands, placed the album carefully onto the turntable. After The Lovin', began, with its swelling orchestra, and pinging xylophone. Nana had the volume generously high and she stood next to the record as it spun 'round and 'round. Her smile was sassy, like she was hiding a secret, and the corners of her eyes crinkled with delight. She moved her arms from side to side and sashayed her slippered feet to the mellow groove singing the words she knew out loud. Papa, from his chair, watched and grinned, his gold capped teeth glinting from the gentle backlight of the nightly news and their amber hobnail table lamp. My parents listened from the couch, enjoying Nana's little impromptu recital and I settled on the floor, my perpetual spot at any relative's house, with my legs bent in angles behind me on the braided oval rug, patched denim knees front and center. The smells from our Polish dinner of kielbasa and sauerkraut filled the room and our collective joy bubbled over, supported by a popular love song played on a simple hi fi that probably cost less than the bag of groceries I bought last night. 

Replaying this scene is important to me because moments like this are the greatest gift my family ever gave me, and if I were buying this album today, dropping that needle on the vinyl would bring me right back to that living room and a time where a perfect evening could be borne of something so simple.

So tonight, when you are picking a syrupy love song for your Valentine and you, maybe you'll consider dialing up one of Englebert's serenades. I hope the music feels as sweet for you as it did for me, back on that night in February 1977.

 

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Day 8/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

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My friend John stated that the "Things I Won't Be Buying Today" series, with the concept started by him and borrowed by me for this month-long writing exercise, is an ongoing list of "perpetual materialistic longings". Aptly put, dear sir.

So, although I immediately rattled off, 8 days ago on an envelope, 24 items I wouldn't be buying and am hen-picking one each day, this list could really go on into perpetuity.  

PERPETUITY.

I apologize in advance. 

But here we are on Day 8. You might not have felt any particular kinship with the other 7 things I've posted about but maybe today, on day 8, in the spirit of the upcoming holiday, you might experience a nostalgic ping in your heart for this little fella. Today is about a short, bald cartoon man with a dog named Fuzz and an outlook that alternates between sweetly positive with rainbows and sunshine to sourly pessimistic with quips about Mondays and rain and coffee that brews way too slowly. 

You guessed it, it's little pink-domed, u-nosed, beady-eyed Ziggy. 

And today I won't be buying him. 

 

Back in the 70s and 80s, Ziggy was insanely popular. He found himself on greeting cards and calendars; birthday party decorations and clothing. There were plush Ziggys, Ziggy jewelry, Ziggy lap desks, Ziggy trays and Ziggy cork boards. And if that weren't enough, you could buy a Ziggy mug, Ziggy beer glasses and a Ziggy poster. 

My mother and I used to make homemade valentines for my elementary school classmates out of red cardstock and white paper doilies; that is, until Ziggy valentines showed up in the local stationery store and we retired our scissors and glue and bought those instead. 

I mean how could we resist? He is so darn cute (and he rarely wears pants!). Now, you see, Ziggy had this habit of SWAKing everything. Do you remember that? S.W.A.K., or "sealed with a kiss", was this non-threatening pre-teen way of being lovey-dovey without invading your crush's personal space or getting weird.

So, after a couple years of buying and delivering Ziggy valentines to the desks of my classmates, and seeing the Zigster all over the mall in his various and sundry iterations, I dreamed I'd someday have a boyfriend who would gift me a Ziggy item (preferably SWAK-printed) for Valentine's Day. You know, like this:

Or this:

 

Or this:

 

All of which are on eBay right now.

But, as I'm sure you have figured out, I never received a Ziggy for Valentine's Day. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, 'cause I've been lucky in the Valentine department, but I can't help but wonder if all the people selling their SWAKY ol' Ziggys have lovely pre-teen love stories about how they came to acquire them. 

I'll bet they do.

So Happy VD from me and the Zig man. Now, go plant a kiss and watch love grow. 

 

Day 7/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

If you have been reading me a while, you know I am a child of the 70s and feel most comfortable in surroundings that are retro, antique and vintage. My retro fascination applies heavily to kitchens (though admittedly, I do enjoy the conveniences of my modern dishwasher, new refrigerator and new-ish stove, so appliances don't count); but as far as decor goes, please give me some old school Butterfly Gold Corelle dinnerware with the kitschy trim around the edge, some avocado-colored Pyrex mixing bowls and please please please give me this Merry Mushroom set.

Between 1970 and 1987 (which, incidentally, is exactly my favorite 'era' for just about everything on this planet) retail giant SEARS developed over 250 items for its Merry Mushroom line of kitchen coordinates. It's such a popular collectible, even now, because almost everyone in my demographic knew someone who had and loved at least one piece of this set.

According to the merrymushrooms.com website, which I just discovered today and will be visiting at length when I have more time, Merry Mushrooms was one of the largest and most successful lines in all of Sears' retail history.

So, although I won't be buying this today, I plan, someday, when I have the money, the space, the time and the energy, to decorate and properly outfit a retro kitchen with this and the aforementioned Corelle and Pyrex that I love so dearly. 

It just feels like home to me...and a feeling of "home" is very important to my day to day happiness. 

Do you have any special or vintage kitchen items? What are they and why do you love them so?

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Day 6/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

Were you lucky enough to have a parent who enjoyed and encouraged arts and crafts?

One of my favorite art activities to engage in, with Mom's help back in the 70s, was Makit & Bakit "stained glass" ornaments.  

So today, although it looks like it would be great fun, I won't be buying these, though there are quite a few to choose among on eBay. I'll just be reminiscing with you and hoping you have stories to share about Makit & Bakits, too. 

We'd place the crystals in the frames on an old baking sheet, reserved for this purpose (and probably Shrinky Dinks, too), using tweezers and a steady hand. 

We made the frog, the mallard duck, the butterfly, and the unicorn. I also recall making a few Christmas themed ones though detail-wise, I can't remember what they were. Santa, maybe? Did they hang in the window or on the tree? Those specifics escape my normally on-point recall.

I found my completed unicorn one about 5 years ago, white body and rainbow mane, and threw it in a box destined for the Salvation Army. I sincerely regret that move to this day. 

Do you remember these kits and which ones did you make? (I see on the packaging that they were made in Quincy, Mass. so this might have been an East Coast 'thing'.)

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Day 5/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

"O Captain, My Captain!"

Today I was strolling through the market and came upon a dear Facebook friend. You know her, she's the one who routinely posts her healthy, spinach-filled smoothies. Her newly adopted non-toxic lifestyle is seriously admirable and her dedication is fantastic. 

The last time I read one of her posts, I was drinking my sixth cup of coffee, after unsuccessfully hunting for an old, half eaten bag of chocolate chips in the back of the pantry. Admittedly, I feel like her healthy breakfast ideas speak directly to me, reminding me I can do better. 

I can definitely do better.

So when I saw her, I gave my grocery items a quick sweeping glance thinking, "Oh shit." It was like running into an AA group leader with my head in the beer cooler, but thankfully all I had was fruit and the ingredients to make a lasagna. 

But hey! What was that in her cart? A family-sized box of Cap'N Crunch?

Yeah, it sure was. And honestly, I'm kind of relieved that she is she is still occasionally eating junk like the rest of us.

'Cause who doesn't love a great big box of children's cereal? I mean, really, what was better on a Saturday morning as a kid than sitting in front of cartoons with a bowl of the Cap'N? My best friend had a pantry full of fun cereals at her house. On Friday nights, we'd stay up late, trying on her mom's makeup, splashing too much Jean Nate, giggling about boys and acting generally goofy. Then, in the morning, lo and behold, we'd wake up and sweet Jesus, there he was on the kitchen table with his naval sword hoisted over a bowl of nuggets that "stayed crunchy, even in milk!" O Captain, My Captain!

We'd have two bowls each while we watched Captain Caveman as long as her mom wasn't paying attention, and we knew we'd be spending the rest of the day with sore mouths because those crunchberries tore up our palates something fierce. 

Then we'd go listen to the Captain and Tenille while we brushed our hair and got dressed for the day. 

Now that's a triple captain morning. 

So, although Cap'N Crunch cereal is one of the things I won't be buying today, I feel like if you are particularly nostalgic for childhood, in the wake of all that we've gone through these last two years, you might want to stop shaming your choices and go get yourself some 1970s cereal, have a sleepover and a dance party and dial up some YouTube cartoons. 

I won't blame you one bit.

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Day 4/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

There are well-meaning folks who decisively declare that the best two days of boat ownership are 'the day it's bought and the day it's sold', but their sardonic stance has never dulled my desire for this particular beauty. 

It's the item I won't be buying today: the 1937 twenty-five foot Chris Craft Triple Cockpit Runabout.

Some want a party barge. 

Some want a fishing boat. 

Some want a luxury yacht. 

But me, I want a mahogany girl with copper fuel lines and flame red leather seats. I want double flags and chrome gauges and a rumbling engine that sounds like the purring ambassador of a bygone era. I've wanted the sound and smell of a boat like this since having been introduced to one at the age of fifteen by some affluent friends; friends that included me, much to my middle-classed delight, in their highfalutin', moneyed adventures.

Fortunate to have grown up when and where I did, I know what poor looks like. I know what middle class looks like. And man, do I know what rich looks like. Being around the well-to-do as much as I was as a young teenager made an indelible impression on me. You know how baby ducks imprint on whatever is around them at birth? Well, I am pretty sure I unwittingly imprinted upon things like Mercedes Benzes and antique Chris Crafts when I was hitting my hormonal stride. My taste preferences for cars and boats have always been above my budget and, yes, I know precisely from where those preferences come.

Today's case in point: I had friend whose family was chummy with a New York State Senator, and damn if he didn't have the nicest restored prewar beauty, which he entered yearly into summer shows. My friend and I scored an invitation to a show that summer and were directed to sit in the senator's boat and answer whatever questions we could (while also discouraging any boat defacers) as he walked about, hobnobbing, perusing, and socializing with other big money boat owners. 

In my madras shorts and docks with no socks, my legs were mid-July tan and my collar was half-popped in that lazy "Yes, I just wandered in from prep school" way. I gelled my hair into a ballet dancer's bun and, with my pearl earrings and Tom Cruise Wayfarers, looked like any other teenager lucky enough to be from a family with an antique wooden masterpiece stored in their boathouse on the lake. Except I wasn't. I was just along for the ride in this upper class world, acting as though I belonged there, blase' in my appearance while discussing things like the best options for charitable giving and Peter Gabriel's Biko album.

Walking around that afternoon, I encountered my most favorite, to this day, wooden motorboat. Running my hands back and forth over the thickness of the varnish, I hovered, I suppose, too long, stunned at the luxuriousness of it all; so sleek and powerful, with its marbleized banjo-style steering wheel, and flawless bench seats heating up in the midday sun. Stupefied, and frozen in place, I felt the vibrations of all the years that this boat had been owned and prized, its history rolling up my legs from the floorboards. I saw myself in the water with the hull splitting the reedy grass of the shallows, and I knew in my bones I belonged on it. But, as I grew uneasy in the owners' collective gaze, I also knew I'd probably never have one. Families with money will act like something is no big deal even though they are showing you something that is a very big deal.  

Me: gesturing about the 1937 Chris Craft, "I love your boat."

Rich Guy: "This boat? Oh (chortle) Gooby ordered this from Algonac in 1937 when he graduated from Brown and had it delivered all the way to Rhode Island. You know, all soooorts of water in Rhode Island! The perrrrrrfect spot for a tool around the bay! Econometrics, right, Lovey?"

Rich Guy's Wife: "Old Gooby! Yes, Econometrics from Broowwwn. Gooby was the best, darling, simply the best."

Family members aboard the boat: (clinking Waterford flutes) "Three cheers for Gooby!"

As I stepped away, I remember committing to memory, specifically, 1937. Specifically, the triple cockpit. Specifically, those red leather seats. Maybe I could have one someday.

Well, here we are, well past 'someday' and I'm not buying one, though I do love thinking about it. The desire got lodged in my developing brain where it sits, occasionally kindled back to life when I spot one of these classics either in person or online. I suppose there's no harm in letting that desire remain there.

If you were lucky enough to have a Gooby who bought, and maybe even left you one of these, I raise my glass.

Cheers to Gooby. Simply the best.

 

 

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Day 3/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

Today I won't be buying a Trapper Keeper, even though they are sold, in an updated form and fashion at Walmart and Amazon. 

I also won't be paying eighty five dollars for an original one, dug out of someone's basement junk pile and posted on ebay.

But, I do love a good school supply and this one was the best.

I bought my Trapper Keeper with my babysitting money and it lasted me through all of middle school and high school. Each September my friends and I would go to Schatz Stationery store in our local mall, buy new multicolored Mead files and reams of loose leaf paper, wipe our Trappers down with a little soap and water and the things were like brand new.

Did you have a Trapper Keeper? I sure hope so. Was yours plain, like mine, which was cobalt blue and white, or did you have one of the more decorative ones with rainbows and unicorns or glossy animal photographs?

One of my favorite sounds back then was the satisfying rip of the closure. When the entire class tore them open at once it was like a beautiful Velcro symphony. 

Do you remember that fat white plastic paper clip, sort of fashioned like a clipboard? It was super helpful for holding homework papers...and secret notes from friends. 

The original commercial, from 1980 and still circulating on YouTube, is cute, with a simple 60 second conversation between classmates. The more I re-watch it, the more I feel my original desire to have one.

 

 

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