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Wednesday, April 8, 2020

Godwink #4

It occurred to me this morning that I haven't blogged on Godwinking in a while, despite the fact that

God

winks

at me

all the time.

So here goes:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am finishing up the last few pages of a perfect read-while-quarantined-in-a-pandemic book. It's called The Valley of Amazement by Amy Tan.

I borrowed it from my local library in preparation for a trip because I love a walloping thick book for vacation reading. This did not disappoint at 589 pages.

I keep an electronic list of books to read that I update and add to weekly. Currently, it has 335 titles on it, so when picking what to devour next, I have a broad index from which to choose.

So here is where the winking comes in...I am reading this book during the Coronavirus pandemic. The Valley of Amazement spans a period of 40 years in China and heavily features the Spanish Flu which occurred between 1918 and 1920 (I did not anticipate this when selecting this book to read). Known alternately as the Influenza Flu Pandemic, the Spanish Flu infected, per data I found online, 500 million people - a quarter of the world's population at that time. The death toll loomed large, and although appears to be no perfectly definitive number of those who succumbed to it, the high estimates point to around 100 million making it one of the deadliest pandemics in human history. One source even called it a 'medical holocaust', making me shudder.

Amy Tan's book describes what it's like to be sickened by the Spanish Flu. Medically, there was no hospital, no magic bullet, no cure; people stayed at home and dealt with the symptoms as best as one could, with sparsely arranged visits from a doctor if you were wealthy or had connections. In Amy's book her characters employ both Western and Chinese medicine.

Her account not only astonished me with its level of detail and undeniable comparisons to today's sufferings, but as I read, I also took stock, gave thanks and prayed hard for all of the medical personnel which we have in our country fighting for the afflicted so that we don't end up like Amy's late characters.

A Facebook pal of mine named Katie lives in California and she and I have been in touch more than usual lately because we both have underlying health conditions which make us rather vulnerable should this hit home. I used to think meeting people on Facebook was sort of sketchy but Katie has been an exceptionally good touchstone for me over the last four years. She has Lyme disease with Anaplasmosis and I have Lyme disease with Bartonella and Babesia.

Amy Tan also has Lyme disease, so we are in fine company.

I deal with my sickness in a number of ways, some healthy, some not. It helps me to write. I also walk and brood and cry and read for escape and keep a startlingly delicate balance between activity and rest because much of what I love to do physically has been taken from me. My friend Katie suffers wretchedly but manages to remain calm and refined. I swear it's because she is English by birth. She sends me breathing exercises. She has a ribald and wicked sense of Lymie (how serendipitous) humor. Just yesterday she rattled off four different ways to say "died" in less than a minute:

he ceased to be,
he popped his clogs,
he's pushing up daisies,
he ran up the curtains to join the choir invisible...

This sort of quirky jocularity helps both of us deal with the fact that we are regularly repulsed and scared by what, bacterially speaking, lies within us.

Neither Katie nor I are able to work in the traditional sense but she has a home based business which started out as a way to keep herself from going mad while fighting in the trenches of her illness. It's called Insulting Pillows. Yep, you read that right. She has a business Facebook page which you will want to "Like", because she posts hilarious things on the regular and her latest project for shits and giggles is defacing children's books with her witticisms. Laughter is good for the soul. Her designs are, as she describes them, "delightfully offensive".

So, God, thank you for shrewdly guiding my book selection this month.
This web of 'winking' winds around me, Amy Tan, Katie and now, you, the blog reader.

Thank you for honoring me with your presence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here are a few of Katie's creations that I find irresistible:
You can see more at her website: https://insultingpillows.com/

Saturday, April 4, 2020

Shelter in Place

I am writing this in early April, 2020, during a time of coronavirus pandemic in the United States and around the globe. There are, for many states in our nation, orders from governors to "shelter in place". This terminology and our ensuing thoughts makes some of us totally and understandably ill at ease, for we have heard it associated with horrible events in recent times. Shelter in place conjures up images of school, shopping mall and workplace shootings. It makes some think of weather-related emergencies like tornadoes and hurricanes. Because I have never experienced, in person, either a mass shooting or the practice of having to hide in a closet or bathtub as mother nature brings forth angry devastation, I think of my grandfathers, who both became disabled from health conditions early in their lives and had to find solace, refuge and comfort "sheltering in place" at home almost 100 percent of their time.

My Papa had a bad heart and my Grandpa had the double whammy of a stroke followed by a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. For the purpose of this piece, I will tell you about Papa.

I never knew my Papa as a healthy and robust man, although I know he was at one time because I combed through photo albums and boxes of black and white pictures relentlessly as a kid, fingering the wavy edges of images of him with muscles and broad shoulders and a smile so big it made him squint. By the time I was born he had become the grandfather with ankles that would swell unmercifully because his heart didn't pump properly. I knew the sight and smell of an ever-present green and white Sinex nasal spray in his shirt pocket, useful for when he couldn't breathe (which was a lot). I knew his coughing fits, completely wracking his body, at which times I would stand near him and look on, scared that he wasn't going to be able to stop. My Nana, seeing the concerned look on my little face would say to Papa, "Oh, stop it, just stop that." as she averted her eyes from mine alternately rubbing and thumping on his back. She did her best to make me think it was only drama when it was actually dreadful bodily trauma.

Papa was either relegated to home or, on warm weather weekends, to camp. This was the 1970s and medical advances with regard to his condition were not happening, at least not in Schenectady, New York. There were no medicines, no accoutrements, no gadgets to assist those who had only a quarter of their heart in working order. What Papa had were ten dense feather pillows to sleep on at night, propped up at a perfectly geometric right angle so that he didn't drown in the fluid in and around his ticker. What he had were moccasins so that when he swelled up he could easily slip his feet in and out without messing with pesky laces or ties. What he had was a seasoning called "No Salt" so that he could have flavor without consequence. What he had was a ration of shit that he lived with through sheer will and determination. I was told more than once, during the tender decade that I knew and loved him, that he hung in far longer than anyone, medically or otherwise, anticipated.

One positive thing Papa had was television. It was a large contributor to his joy, and eventually my Grandpa's too. When you are required to sit and shelter in place for the rest of your life based on your health and what it allows or prevents you from doing, entertainment becomes tantamount to the quality of your day.

As a small child, I understood very quickly that I wasn't to make any programming requests around my Papa. The tv was his and his alone. These were the days of one television households; when children were absolutely required to stay within the same room as their parents and gracious hosts when visiting a relative or friend. There was no handheld device, video game or finished basement area in which to escape and play. What my Nana and Papa had was a very small living room with a three seat sofa and my Papa's chair. My parents and Nana sat on the couch. I sat on the floor. The house faced a parking lot with train tracks and a regularly scheduled locomotive running behind it. There was a hefty and wide concrete stoop where I was permitted to crouch, but I was not allowed to leave it and explore the blocks of the Schenectady Stockade because of the jakey bums. Every city dweller knew that jakey bums were undesirable men who traipsed down the streets heading toward the local bars with their paper bag covered pints and odorous clothes smelling mostly of sweat and urine. Jakey bums scared little girls, that much I understood.

So, shelter in place we did. My Papa liked game shows during the day and I became pretty adept at Match Game. Gene Rayburn was like a member of the family, I saw him so often as a preschooler. A master of the double entendre, I can recall paying close attention when Papa snickered aloud to questions like "Did you see Dumb Dora? She was sitting at the table putting peanut butter on her BLANK!". Betty White, Charles Nelson Reilly and Richard Dawson were my Papa's favorite guests. They often held up answers, written on large white cards, that got censored; presumably because they made reference to things prohibited on daytime tv in those days, or...genitalia. What the heck was Dora putting peanut butter on? Well, this kid learned pretty quickly what the audience found a lot more amusing than 'bread' and Papa and I would chortle loudly each time one of those placards got buzzed for impropriety.

Papa also enjoyed soap operas. Another World was one that my mother and he would watch together. Rachel and Mac were their favorite characters on the show, and I'd stretch out on my belly in my grandparent's living room on warm summer afternoons, Crayola-ing in my Cinderella coloring book while my mother and Papa discussed whose life Rachel, a most lovable villain, would ruin next.

In the evening, Ironside was the show which my Papa reveled in most. I don't know if it was the entrancing writing or Raymond Burr, or the fact that Chief Ironside, despite being in a wheelchair and unable to walk, solved the cases for the San Francisco PD that Papa loved the best, but when that horribly pitchy, synthesized theme song began screeching from the television set, I knew to pack up my things. It was time for us to leave and make the hour long drive home because there was no talking to Papa once that show started rolling.

Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom was the one bone Papa would throw my way. Marlin Perkins and his crew showed us nature and wild animals we would never otherwise see. I don't recollect ever watching that show at home but at Papa and Nana's it was our Sunday night tradition. As a kid, I didn't know what Mutual of Omaha was but I felt a sense of comfort knowing it apparently was available when we needed it.

If you're reading this, I'm sure you remember that there were no VCRs, DVD players, cable television, or streaming on demand back then. You watched what you watched when it was on, and that was it. There were three main channels, 6, 10, and 13 and one public broadcasting channel, number 4, which was mostly known, at least in our home, for children's television programming and yoga with Lilias.

Sheltering in place right now for us includes lots of ESPN for hubs, and even though they are replaying professional sporting events from years ago, he finds solace in the everyday banter and discussions surrounding what will happen to the Masters golf tournament, our country's major league baseball season, and the Olympics. Sheltering also includes the news, a new season of Ozark on Netflix and an old movie or two each week, streaming. We are lucky to have so many choices at our fingertips. Papa would have been a pro at what we are currently being asked to do and he would have been most thankful to have the opportunity to return to a more everyday existence when all of this is over...an existence where you can go where you want to go and do what you want to do.

With him in mind, I will not complain. I will be grateful.

#1970s #1980s #anotherworld #ironside #matchgame #mutualofomahawildkingdom #schenectadystockade #mushroomtumbler

Thursday, March 26, 2020

Scuzza me, but you see, back in old Napoli that's amore.

Things are understandably a little weird right now.

I look at Facebook; I look at the news, both local and cable, and I find myself teetering on a daily basis between hope and worry. One morning I am thinking all will be well, only to find myself in a bit of a puddle later in the afternoon after reading about how sad people are, how tedious their lives have become, how separated they are from one another, how low hospital supplies have become, how death could be lurking around the corner on the next doorknob I turn.

So...last night my super intelligent and empathetic husband suggested we do what we always do when I am upset...he suggested we watch "Moonstruck".

"Moonstruck" is my absolute, hands down, no contest, 100 percent favorite movie. I wore out two copies of it on VHS after seeing it in the theater three times. I own the DVD. We were able to stream it last night on television. "Moonstruck" makes everything better.

Hubs, God bless him, knows almost every word and I definitely know every word. In fact, a great test for me, if assessing my penchant for dementia in years to come, would be to feed me a line from the movie to see if I can finish it.

Medical Practitioner: "Old man..."
Me: "give that dog another bite of my food and I'll kick you 'til you're dead!"

Medical Practitioner: "Now he's going to play that Vicki Carr record..."
Me: "and when he comes to bed he won't touch me!"

Can you see how well that will work when the time comes? Anyway...

The first time I saw the movie I saw it in the Hellman theatre in Albany, NY. I couldn't get enough of the Italian American kitsch, the way the Castorini home was decorated, the Brooklyn accents, the mannerisms of the players. The first night, I saw it with my Aunt and Nana. The second night, I brought my boyfriend who was of Italian descent. The third time I saw it, I went with a bevy of five girlfriends. Every single person loved it to a fault. I think that's impressive considering it's nearly impossible to get 9 people of different ages and backgrounds to agree on anything.

After getting paid and going to the mall one summer afternoon, I bought it on VHS and drove directly to the house of my cousins. An Italian family of four, it was their first time seeing the film. My cousin Agnes made me stop, rewind, and replay several scenes during the movie to point out china, wall hangings, verbal iterations in Italian, and food items.
"That's the champagne we drink, and with a sugar cube!"
"We had that wallpaper back in the 1960s!"
"My mother cooked our breakfast eggs and toast exactly like that!"
For her, it was like watching This is Your Life.

I don't tune into the Academy Awards anymore because I prefer my entertainment without a side of politics, but back in 1988 I still looked forward to watching them, pen and paper at the ready so that I could create a list of new movies to rent at Blockbuster. When Cher won the Oscar for leading actress, Olympia Dukakis won for supporting actress and John Patrick Shanley won for best original screenplay, I raised my glass and cheered from my heart right along with them.

So last night I watched it for probably the two hundredth time. I find great comfort in knowing what's about to happen; in seeing lives upended and things turning around for the better. I really like to laugh and cry all within and because of the same film. The music is divine (did I mention I have the soundtrack?) and Hubs even croons along with "That's Amore". Dean Martin was a favorite of his late father's. I can see that the song transports him to another time and when he sings, I sing along.

If you know the movie, you probably love it too. If you don't know it, do yourself a huge favor and watch it. If you are reading this in March 2020, I found it in the free movies on Spectrum last night.

I wish you all a safe journey and much amore.

Tuesday, March 24, 2020

I am dreamin' tonight of a place I love even more than I usually do.

You probably recognize the post title - it's from the song "I'll Be Home for Christmas". Some people have suggested we hang Christmas lights to brighten the mood during what we know as the Coronavirus pandemic of 2020.

I like that idea.

Because you, reader, cannot see my Christmas lights, and I cannot see yours, I will post a bunch of my most favorite nostalgic decorative Christmas items and sincerely hope you find enjoyment here.

So, without further ado, here's some neat holiday décor from my childhood:

I don't know why I thought of this first item, but they were among the first things to come to mind.

These are Santa hangtags from when the milkman delivered bottles to the house.

My family did not have a milkman but my Nana saved some of these hangtags from the days when she did and displayed them on her tree.

I still send cards.

Grateful for friends and family, we still receive a good number of printed cards as well.

However, I do miss the days when everyone sent Christmas cards

and they all looked something like this.

Or this.

This holiday dish is a little fancier than what my Mom would put together in our white plastic Tupperware mold but Mom's sure was amazing.

Strawberry jello, canned fruit cocktail, & walnuts.

I would love some right now.

Look at these aluminum cookie cutters!

We had the same ones which we used to make cookies every December.

Mom always put out these amazing hard candies.

My Nana used to offer me ribbon candy, a favorite.

My Moo Moo's aluminum tree with the color wheel looked a little like this.

If you can look close enough to see the prices in this ad you will chuckle.

We still have two of these at my house, one green, one white.

Christmas windows downtown were magical and fanciful. In the community where I live, many merchants still make a grand effort to put pretty window decorations up at Christmastime.

Don't touch these suckers...and don't leave them lit all night on a dry tree, either.

Hot!

My favorite decoration at my Nana's house was her Aerolux filament Christmas light bulb

which she always displayed on top of a doily on the same end table, year after year.

I was totally mesmerized by it.

Cardboard fireplaces were in all of my friend's homes who didn't have actual fireplaces;

ours included, and we had a built in light bulb to provide a nice yellow glow.

Mom and Dad would thumbtack our stockings on the mantle.

We used to call these "sugar" candles because they had a granular surface.

I think we had one Santa one and one manger scene one in our home.

You could put new tall pillar candles in them year after year,

preferably bayberry scented for the holidays.

I know it wasn't much but I hope this provided a little distraction during these odd times.

I find my sadness dissipates a bit with a little trip down memory lane to a simpler time.

Please be well.

Tuesday, March 17, 2020

Part 4: The hands are there for friendship. The heart is there for love.

Walking up the steps to the front door of Ash and Rob's house, I knocked and waited for a minute. I could hear Ash rushing toward the door. She answered with an oversized floppy yellow semi sheer hat on. It was like an accessory from a cheesy 1970s wedding. She chortled and opened the door as wide as it would go.

"Come on in!" she excitedly offered. Unusually jubilant and alert, she led and I followed her into the kitchen where Teddy was set up with a rectangular-shaped plastic watercolor tray with 8 ovals of gummy looking, new and shiny paint, a clear jelly jar of water, a thin handled tiny tipped paintbrush and a fat pad of unblemished white paper. He was looking it all over pensively but hadn't touched a thing.

Ash removed her bridesmaid's hat with a flourish tossing it into the air toward the hallway. She stared me down with a wide eyed Cheshire cat grin, clearly eager for my reaction. Her hair was magenta.

"Wow! Holy cow! That looks great!" I gushed, although it was quite a shock even to me, a girl who had recently had magenta hair, mine made possible with spray-on color the previous Halloween.

"I had it dyed Friday, and hacked too!" She twirled for me, showing me the back where the curls had been undercut in a perky bobbed style, very popular for the day. She fluffed her ends with her fingers and talked about how the salon owner had been excited to try something new and how she herself had loved the results, over-tipping and making a second appointment for six weeks from now. Rob had been less enthusiastic about the overall hue but she didn't care. It all made her feel young and vibrant and a bit rebellious.

"I'm going to take that aerobics class today over at the YMCA." Ash squawked. "You're okay alone with the kids for an hour or so, right?"

I noticed then that she had on black stirrup pants, brand new white Keds and a melon colored sweatshirt which had been cut Flashdance-style at the neck, all perfectly fine for aerobics at the Y.

Certain of my readiness, I said,"Yeah, of course. Go ahead and have fun!"

Ash grabbed for her purse and car keys, kissed Teddy quickly on top of his head and sauntered toward the door, waving wildly like a deranged parade float beauty queen and promising in a lilting voice to see us soon.

As the door shut behind her, I asked Teddy if he wanted to have a dance party in the basement and he nodded, carefully putting down the paintbrush (with which he still hadn't painted). Checking Evvie in her room on the way down, I found her wide awake, holding her sock-covered toes while lying on her back staring intently at her mobile. It had a pig, a lamb, a cow and a horse, with a skinny plastic farmer in the middle bobbing pleasantly amidst the slightest bit of movement. I retrieved her and placed her on the changing table where she babbled nonsensical words as I wiped and diapered her. Teddy, scowling at the mobile, climbed the side of the crib. He swung at it mightily with a pink stuffed bear he'd found on the floor.

"Mine!" he pummeled. "Mine, mine, miiiiiine!"

"Hey!" I cried. "Stop that!" Teddy turned to look at me and stopped but the mobile repeatedly smacked against the wall reeling from the force of the heavily slung bear. He glared for an instant at Evvie and me, scrambling down off the crib and sprinting from the room toward the basement door.

"You! Wait for me!" I yelled after him but disregarding my instructions, he bounded recklessly down the stairs. Quickly, I yanked Evvie's little jean overalls up over her short sleeved pink flowered onesie and we scampered after him.

Sitting in wait on the bottom step, Teddy had his back turned; too short to flip the switch and too scared to venture further into the basement without a light source. I turned it on for him, and then powered up the television to MTV. Teddy didn't lose his gloomy countenance but he made his way to the front of the screen, hesitantly bouncing to the beat of a poppy Whitney Houston song as the box warmed up and momentarily broke the mood by transporting us to a tune-filled world.

I jostled Evvie around lightly singing "How will I know if he really loves me?" She smiled, pronounced "muh muh muh" and lifted her diminutive right arm skyward, flexing her fingers, searching my face for cues. Teddy came over by us when the song was nearly over, grabbed a good sized chunk of the skin on Evvie's leg exposed beneath her pants, and twisted it...super hard! Evvie sucked in her breath and held it, eyebrows aloft, poring over my face searching for an explanation for the pain. As her eyes began to water, she finally yelped tears of hurt and surprise.

"Teddy!" I screamed, looking down at him, "What are you doing to her?" He let her go.

At that moment, I realized he was insanely jealous of Evvie. Somehow, he'd kept it in check when Ash was around but with just me, he had shown his brotherly displeasure within minutes of us being alone. Unsure how to handle his misbehavior, I wasn't provided clear direction with regard to discipline and there hadn't been any need for it on the other days I'd been helping.

"Upstairs!" I commanded. Turning off the television with a flourish and pointing in a way that showed I meant business, I sternly ushered Teddy where he needed to go. He obeyed, looking back several times on the way up, making sure we were still behind him. Rubbing her back, I locked a slightly calmer Evvie into her high chair and hurriedly got out the Zwieback toasts. I placed one carefully on her tray and turned to Teddy who was standing like a soldier at my heels.

"What is going on?" I demanded. Looking me in the eye, he mustered himself with balled up little fists and blurted "Not heppy!" Then he plopped down hard on the tile floor and began to cry. Pointing at Evvie, he made unintelligible noises in the back of his throat suggesting frustration and possibly an overdue for a nap kind of weariness. As I began to squat down beside him, he started to launch his body backward onto the floor. I caught him and quickly pulling him to his feet, despite his body being purposely limp and rubbery, I hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes. Scooting out a chair, I heaved him onto my lap with his jangly legs dangling off my left side. He finally surrendered, leaning his head into my chest. My attempts to soothe him as he sobbed ugly sounds was futile. Evvie began crying again, too, so I rubbed her arm in an attempt to provide comfort when, without warning, Rob walked through the front door. Sensing his presence, they looked at one another and began to wail louder.

"Jesus! What have we here? Where's Ash?" he said, swiftly putting down his briefcase on the floor and scanning the room and hallway.

"She's at the Y taking a class." I stammered. "The kids are upset because Teddy pinched Evvie hard and, well..." I didn't finish. Rob scooped Evvie out of the high chair and positioned her over his shoulder. Then he brought her into the living room and sat on the couch rocking forward and back. Teddy, snorting and wiping his nose on his arm, wriggled off my lap and trotted to join them. I followed, offering napkins and hoping I wasn't in trouble for not being able to suitably maintain the peace.

Rob soothed Evvie and dabbed at her nose while she breathed heavily. Teddy tucked into Rob's side, mumbling about wanting to paint. Rob reached around and rubbed Teddy's back, tucking his blue sweater into the back of his droopy gray sweatpants.

"So what happened, again?" He implored. I explained about the teddy bear fight with the mobile, the running away down to the basement, the pinch, the wailing. Rob acknowledged and listened. Because he seemed to understand so readily what I was telling him about Teddy, I began to feel that this wasn't out of the ordinary.

"He's mean to her sometimes, " Rob articulated. "He gets jealous. He pinches. He pokes. He yanks her arms. We try not to overcorrect because it's attention he wants. Paying attention to it won't make him stop."

"But what if he hurts her?" I said, incredulously. I couldn't believe he knowingly allowed this hurtful, physical behavior to happen.

"It's not a big issue. Don't make it one." Rob shrugged. He pushed his sneakers off with his toes and left them on the white carpet, and then he and Evvie sauntered back out into the kitchen. He snapped her back into her high chair, placating with another biscuit from the package on the counter. He rubbed his elbow, looking at me. He was wearing scrubs. He said he needed to get out of them.

Offering to take Teddy, he guided him down the hall and went to change out of his work attire. He returned wearing jeans and a well worn Lemieux Penguins jersey. His feet were bare. I couldn't help but notice that he had hairy toes. Teddy meandered behind Rob, peering at me as if to assess my level of disappointment in him. I walked over and took his hand, leading him firmly to the chair where his paints were still laid out.

Rob grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down at the table, motioning for me to sit as well; then he started talking about work and how hard it was, how demanding operating in the ER had turned out to be; and how difficult it was to settle down after being in hyperdrive all day. As he talked, Evvie chewed her biscuit, and Teddy bit his lip while thoughtfully making art. Then, he leaned back, rolled a brown vial out of his front pocket, shook a small tablet into his hand, and threw it back with a big swig of Michelob. Then, he shoved the prescription bottle back in his jeans without missing a beat. Feeling slightly unsettled about these seemingly inappropriate actions, I didn't know whether to carry on as though this were a normal, everyday happening, or to ask what it was he just took; I mean, after all there were babies here. Maybe I should know in case he passed out? My mind began spinning with concern and unease.

He thrummed on about work and the hospital staff while I made a solid attempt to look him in the eye as he spoke, making certain his pupils remained the same, unaffected size. Missing much of what he said, but maintaining eye contact, he assumed I was interested in his tale of woe and kept right on talking. Because it was past time for Evvie's bottle, I took one out and warmed it for her. I also poured Teddy a glass of milk and gave him a generous handful of goldfish crackers on a napkin. The kids seemed well at ease. I continued to attend and observe.

Hearing a car in the driveway, I stood erect, mid sentence, and excused myself. It was Ash! Relieved, I couldn't wait for her to come in and figure out what was going on. I got to the window just in time to see her irritably slam the door of her Fiero, stomping toward the door with a gait suggestive of anger. Letting herself in, she threw her purse on the floor announcing, "Well THAT sucked!"

Rob called to her from the kitchen, suggesting she calm down and come join us. She strode past me and stood threateningly, arms on hips, over Teddy's chair. "He's STILL painting?" she said, looking accusatorily at me.

"We had a small problem." I started to explain, nervously.

Rob jumped in, making hand motions that looked like pinching and twisting and said, "Stop. Please? Pinching. Again." Ash, understandably a bit more subdued, said, "Oh, Jesus. That. Well, that just SUCKS too."

Dramatic in her movements, she stepped heavily to the refrigerator, and swung it open. Passing Rob another beer, she grabbed a big green glass bottle of Perrier for herself, unscrewing the cap and swallowing several big gulps. Then she took Evvie's fully drained bottle from her tray where she was spinning it in her sticky little hands, put it in the sink, threw a kitchen towel over her shoulder and lifted her up for burping.

Ash revealed, as Rob had minutes before, that Teddy had a bit of a sibling rivalry-inspired mean streak and that they were doing their best to manage it, although there were no specific suggestions offered as to how. Teddy, nonplussed, smiled at Ash and painted big red, then black, then blue streaks of color across his paper, not bothering to rinse the brush in between colors and smearing it with his hand. He painted over the paper's edge more than a few times and was aggressively composing what appeared to be an abstract design on the table cloth. No one seemed to care. Ash then passed a satisfactorily burped Evvie over to me and politely suggested I take her for a stroller walk. She and Rob would stay behind and watch Teddy. As she sat down next to him at the table, I saw him reach in his front pocket again, rooting for the pill bottle. Disillusioned, I shoved my feet into my docksiders and turned the two of us toward the door, grateful for the opportunity to go.

I dressed Evvie in a tiny red jacket with blue piped trim that was hanging on the hall tree and tied a matching navy knit hat under her chin which I found stored in its sleeve for safekeeping. With her on my hip, we ventured outside and down to the open garage where the stroller was kept. Evvie looked around, gurgling softly as I buckled her into the stiff webbed straps. In her bitty voice she sounded out "buh buh buh" and sighed as I crouched in front of her. That sigh made my heart hurt. It seemed like a mixture of sadness, resignation and an emotion that I couldn't place but deep in my guts knew shouldn't be felt by babies. I straightened her warm hat, pulled up her fuzzy white socks and made sure she was comfortable. Then I took her little doll hands and nuzzled them telling her I wouldn't let anything bad happen. I think we looked at one another for a full minute before I started pushing her down the street.

The sun began setting as we walked block after block, and I kept going, not wanting to bring her back. She sat erect, not fully relaxed because she was engaged in the surroundings: a barking dog, a car driving past, trees, birds, crisp leaves underfoot, children running past bay windows inside well lit houses. About an hour into our jaunt, she purposely turned her face toward the sinking rays, closing her eyes in what appeared to be, eventually, contentment.

Thursday, March 12, 2020

Grease is the Word - Part 1

We’ve got, in our house, what can best be described as two Kenickies and a Sandy.

I’m the Sandy and my brothers Richie and Tinker are the Kenickies. When my parents loaded us in the back of our station wagon for a special night at the drive in during the summer of 1978, I thought Grease was the greatest piece of cinematography I’d ever seen. As Jeff Conaway sauntered across the big screen guffawing, kicking those black boots around, and combing his hair back with a sort of devil may care/hotly aware flair, I felt like I was watching my brothers. I hooted with a little too much gusto when Kenickie had a strawberry milkshake thrown his way as payback for his obnoxiousness. Tinker punched me and told me to settle down.

Along with Kenickie, I watched Sandy with great interest. She was all innocent and choking on cigarettes while the other Pink Ladies sat enraptured at Rizzo’s feet listening to her warble about Elvis’s pelvis. I felt, quite mindfully rubbing my non-pierced earlobes, that this was me…destined for a life of tan pantyhose, a G.I. pen pal turned husband, pink swan shaped guest soaps and the normalcy of a commonplace four door sedan; but then, a miracle happened! Frenchy, who can’t even wash and set old lady hair in beauty school is mysteriously able to transform Sandy into a tramptastic goddess who makes all jaws drop and no one even remembers that a few scenes ago she was crying and attempting to soak up a puddle with a single piece of blue flowered stationery in the driveway. I just knew that I was destined for this sort of transformation, but would need to wait a few years.

We all enjoyed the music of Grease. My brothers liked "Greased Lightening", my parents swooned in their seats to "Blue Moon", I bounced around to "We Go Together". My mother, after days of me pleading, whining and promising to do the dishes every night for the rest of my life, kindly bought me the double album. She also surprised me with the Fotonovel which I devoured on summer mornings while I waited for my friends to come out and play. When the street awoke and the kids came 'round, the neighborhood got treated to front yard Grease skits. I'd lug out my Donny and Marie record player, extension corded from the living room through the window, and we'd dance on the porch. Our nearby residents didn't seem to mind; that soundtrack really had something for everyone.

When the summer waned, I listened to Grease in my bedroom, creating complex routines to all the fast songs. HBO made it so my friends and I were able to watch and enjoy the movie several more times that winter. My mother would sigh loudly when we dashed through the house whooping and hollering that it was on, suggesting we please watch it in the den, with the door closed. She knew the dialogue of nearly every scene would be run through, loudly, word for word; all the while jumping to our feet so we could twist and shimmy during the musical scenes.

With that much immersion and repetition, Grease came to color my life. I walked through the halls in school mentally labeling the funny chubby girls as Jans, the girls who got their periods early and mooned after male teachers as Martys, the girls who swore and sported short haircuts as Rizzos. My friends were the Patty Simcoxs: overachievers, pep rally participants, and ponytailed band geeks. As the year passed by, and boys were starting to populate my radar, I longingly dreamt of a different world where guys who looked like John Travolta would ask me to hand jive and try to give me their class rings while surreptitiously brushing across my chest.

Our first day of Junior High School, after a long hot summer, was a time of great excitement and hormonal awakening. I'd say 99 percent of us were all revved up. The boy in the seat in front of me? You know, the one who sat there all these years because our last names begin with the same letter? Well, unexpectedly, he now looks kind of muscular, a foot taller, and wait, is that a downy moustache? The lip fuzz is what makes me stare and sweat…and not just in my armpits. My, my...was Roger Benjamin this good looking last year? I studied the back of his neck, and the back of his Levis, during the pledge, planning to mention his transmutation to the girls at lunch. To me, he was definitely a Zuko.

Lunch table mates were my sounding board for truth, opinion, and just about everything. We gossiped about teachers, homework assignments, siblings, and rules, both in school and at home which we all found so style-cramping and unfair. This year we also gossiped mightily about boys. At night we'd call each other to finish conversations that we had to suspend at the end of our lunch. It's important to be able to reach someone who is available for talking without interruption. That being the case, we regularly compare notes about who's allowed to use the phone after dinner and for how long. Karen is allowed a half hour once her homework is done. Ingrid can use the phone in her room whenever she wants and for as long as she wants; her dad is an attorney and they have two phone lines in their Tudor style home. Mary and her sister fight incessantly about who gets phone privileges, so much so that their mother uses the phone as a means of punishment between Mary and Lisa and one or both seem to be banned from phone usage every day of the week. Plus, Lisa's always listening on the extension. We can hear her breathing. My house is a challenge as far as our phone time goes, not because of a bratty sister, but because girls are always calling for Tinker. One of the girls who will be calling someday for Tinker is my friend Jenny. Jenny doesn’t fit into the Grease script. She is too complicated for it, even in the seventh grade.

I have adored Jenny since Kindergarten but I am afraid of Jenny’s mother. We have to tiptoe around the house during the day if I am over because she sleeps a lot. I think she has a problem with drinking that is getting worse. By taking the night shift as a waitress at the local 24 hour diner, she has developed sad and bruised looking eyes, sort of like our Bassett hound, Waddles.

Jenny’s Dad has a no-name, backfiring, Bondo'd, and grimy motorcycle with a gigantic yellow Don’t Tread On Me flag, whatever that means, flying off the back. I'm not a big fan of rattlesnakes so I don't look at it if I can help it. He also has a sleazy collection of Penthouse magazines, and a nasty girlfriend who calls and hangs up when Jenny answers the phone. Laura, Jenny’s sister, lives with her grandmother Nana across town. Jenny doesn’t live with Nana, not because the arrangement hasn’t been offered, but rather because Nana is strict and Jenny takes full advantage of being unattended. I don't blame her for not wanting to give up that perk. She's the only one of us with no curfew and no dress code. Of course, she also routinely has no dinner or school supplies but she eats with us a lot and my parents include her when we go to Schatz Stationery for Little Twin Stars notebooks and pencils with fruity smelling erasers. They know the deal.

Jenny adores my brother Tinker. I know he thinks she's pretty because he pays attention to her in ways that make me uncomfortable. I keep telling Jenny he's way too old for her, plus he's gross. The last time she was at our house, he unfastened her skinny gold stretch belt from behind by grabbing onto the shiny disc above the button on her jeans and flipping it expertly between his fingers while she stood at our kitchen counter making a PB&J. He made it look way too easy and her giggly reaction was more invitation than reprimand. I grabbed her and dragged her and her sandwich into the den before he got any other weird ideas.

I warned Jenny that Tinker thinks spanking is hot. I have no idea where or why he got started with all of that but I’ve overheard him and his disgusting friends more than once on our porch talking about girls who like it. I don't believe he has actually spanked anyone, but he will one day, I’m pretty sure of it. I just hope to God it's not Jenny.

My brother Richie, although rough and tumble in his own way, is more of a lover than a spanker. He wrestles on the Varsity team for school, and arm wrestles me for the TV whenever his beloved Red Wings hockey is on. He always wins so I watch the games with him and Dad. They say the more bloody the fights, the better but I usually bury my nose in a People magazine while the fights are happening. While I read about Kristy McNichol, Richie yells at the officials on the screen and his purported disdain for any kind of authority is all puffed up and on display. He pretends to hate anyone telling him what to do but I think it's all a front because Andie tells him what to do on the regular and he loves Andie. She's his girlfriend and then his ex-girlfriend on a rotating schedule because she is a competitive swimmer and always calls their relationship (3 years strong now) quits during swim season. It's a necessary break so she doesn't miss any practices, per her parents and her coach. However, once the meets are over and her red Speedo has faded to a revealing pale pink color from all the chlorine, she will set a land speed record pedaling her Schwinn back into our driveway and she and Richie will engage in their favorite activity, lying side by side in our huge ropy backyard hammock or on the living room sofa, each with one earbud from Richie’s Walkman, listening to REO Speedwagon until she is called home because it’s getting late and almost too dark to safely ride the four streets back to her two story bungalow. I think Andie, who looks like a squeaky clean jelly bean, might be a Cha Cha DeGregorio when they are alone, but I'm not sure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you like this, let me know by commenting and I can do a few more installments of the story. I'm trying to teach myself to write from the perspective of a pre-teen girl right now. It isn't that hard, thankfully.

Thank you for reading!

#1970s #1980s #greaseistheword #sandradee #kenickie #Rizzo #pinkladies #mushroomtumbler

Monday, March 9, 2020

LaChoy Makes Chinese Food Swing American!

Hubs and I sat over dinner this evening conversing about what everyday foodstuffs were in our childhood homes while growing up. We spoke about the ritual of weekly grocery shopping, certain favorite brands, kitchen staples, household treats, and overall abundance (or lack thereof). Great talks like this sometimes spur me to blog, so here goes...

My family's 1970s food storage cabinets, very likely built in the 1920s, were farmhouse style and painted a shade of avocado green, popular for the times. Lined in flowery contact paper, autumnal in color and cut expertly to fit by my mother, there were three spacious wooden shelves within each tall closet-like repository along one side of our kitchen. Although the top shelf was totally unreachable by me as a small kid, even when pulling up a chair and stealthily standing tiptoe on our white sparkly Formica counters, I felt certain that lofty ledge held hidden and forbidden treats (such as Mom's Toffifay candies) but there was really no need to risk breaking my neck nor getting caught climbing about like a scullery marsupial, because the rest of our kitchen held plenty of eats which were fair game for me and anyone else who was around.

We grocery shopped as a family whenever possible, and if Dad wasn't available, I happily accompanied Mom on the weekly trip. From age two 'til five, I was allowed to get a Little Golden Book every time we shopped at the Albany Public Market in Rensselaer, NY. Economically, I'm sure this was a quite a luxurious frill, but mom knew I adored books and encouraged me to learn new stories and words. I had quite a home-based library of my own (and resultant vocabulary) as a little squirt. My baby books state that my most favorite thing to do was read; and knowing Mom was buying me a new book every time I went, I'm sure my second most favorite thing to do was grocery shop.

At the store, Mom would push the cart with one hand while holding onto a handwritten list and tan pocket-sized grocery adder with the other. People wrote personal checks or paid cash for groceries in the 1970s, no one handed over a credit card; and that being the case, sticking to a budget was absolutely critical. Eventually, around age seven, I was given the grocery adder responsibility as we rolled along the aisles. It was thrilling to me!

When we checked out, it took a bit of time. There were no scanners back then, everything got punched into the register; individually keyed, digit by digit, dollar by dollar. Once home, we'd lug the brown paper bags up the back steps and into the house from our driveway and take turns putting things away. All of it is etched in my mind; and even though I haven't lived in that house for 34 years, I'm positive I could put those groceries away tonight just as efficiently as I did all those years ago. Closing my eyes, I see my surroundings clear as day.

In the far left cupboard, we had breakfast cereal, Quaker Oats, Bisquick, and instant Cream of Wheat. My parents ate the Wheaties and I ate whatever cereal I'd been allowed to select for the week. I can almost taste the strawberry sweetness of Crazy Cow and the spongy marshmallows in fruit flavored Kaboom. My absolute favorite, however, was Waffelos with the guitar strumming horse and artificial maple syrup flavor, which I now regard as dietetically rather gross, but damn...my mouth waters looking at that picture all the same. Breakfast was widely varied when I was little because my mother made something for me every morning but by the time I was 12, I had a paper route and cereal and coffee were all there was time for.

The second, or middle, cupboard held things like coffee, baking supplies, Ovaltine, Lipton Iced Tea mix, a dozen or so packets of Kool Aid powder, canned Juicy Juice (which had to be opened with the triangular end of a puncture style opener), and both Chun King and La Choy Chinese food. La Choy makes Chinese food swing American! (Retro commercial below, enjoy!)

The third (far right) cupboard held oil, vinegar, peanut butter, and other canned goods like fruit, vegetables and soup. All preserved soup in the 1970s required the addition of a can of water. We'd open the can with a twisty handled metal can opener, scrape out the contents, add a can of water and stir, stir, stir on the stove until hot. Campbell's alphabet soup provided fun for about fifteen minutes each time it was served. Soup's on, now spell something, and no swear words!

That cupboard also held Underwood ham spread (with the little red devil on the wrapper), tuna fish, and multiple glass bottles of Orville Redenbacher popcorn kernels. When we bought Orville for the first time around 1977, my father, a popcorn aficionado, prepared and tasted it and it became an absolute staple in our home; we never bought any other popcorn brand, or really any other snack, for that matter.

We had a breadbox in which we stored Freihoffer wheat bread and assorted crackers. It was metal and took up a fair amount of counter space. Most people I knew had a breadbox back then. I could definitely use one today.

Our refrigerator and freezer held what I'd deem "regular" everyday items like leftovers, eggs, Dannon yogurts, Blue Bonnet margarine, whole milk, condiments, jelly, sour cream, blue cheese salad dressing, pickled beets, dill spears, fruit, vegetables, wheat germ, mom's Faygo soda (redpop, root beer, frosh and chocolate flavors all in sturdy glass bottles), frozen meat and fish, ice cream, otter pops, TV dinners, pot pies, and port wine/nut covered cheese balls and spumoni at Christmas time. It also always held a gallon jug of Carlo Rossi Rhine wine. My Uncle sold Sweetheart plastic products to restaurants and we could buy samples for very little cost so everyday company was routinely offered a clear disposable party cup full of Rhine upon arrival at our home.

We had no chips, no cookies (with the exception of Christmastime), and no snacks other than the occasional bag of sunflower seeds (in the shells) and the popcorn which was made on Monday nights and weekends to enjoy while watching televised sports. Other than my Moo Moo and my Aunt Rene, both of whom had a wicked desire for sweets, no one I knew had store bought snacks in the house on a regular basis; and no desserts, either. Desserts were for guests and God forbid you cut into that Entenmann's crumb cake on the high shelf if someone were expected. That fare sat untouched, sometimes for a week, in anticipation of visitors. Girl Scout cookies were a once a year treat, and only three boxes were ever purchased. When they were gone, you had to wait twelve months for a reappearance.

I look at photos from those years and we were all pretty slim. Food was fuel and it was not stockpiled. I don't believe BJs or other warehouse grocery marts existed. If we ran out of something, we did without until we bought it on grocery day or if it were needed in a recipe, Mom sent me on foot to the neighborhood market to buy it. Meals were carefully planned. I didn't have a submarine sandwich or restaurant prepared Chinese food until I had my own job as a teenager. We ate when it was time and didn't eat when it wasn't.

We celebrated with dinner at the Red Coach grill on birthdays; we took my Dad's boss to Mama Riso's when he came to town, and occasionally we dined at Friendly's, Howard Johnson's and Sambos, which were three of my Dad's accounts so it was good to bring the family there now and again.

I think of how often I snack and how regularly hubs and I eat at restaurants now. I'm not surprised I could lose a few pounds. All of our food rules about gluten, sugar, organic eating, and carbs intrigue me at first and then frustrate me altogether. I would like to go back to that 1970s kitchen for a few months and see if simpler, less fussy, and overall simplification would do me some good. I'm sure it would.

Later, during the 1980s, my Dad and I began living in our home without my Mom and our grocery shopping took a bit of a radical turn. More on that and some long lost 1980s food provisions next time!

PS Can you think of any 1970s food - perhaps a brand which you always had at your house?
Please share in the comments!
And...I'd be remiss if I didn't thank you for reading. I truly, madly, deeply appreciate it.

#1970s #1980s #lachoy #waffelos #carlorossi #rhinewine #mushroomtumbler