"All We Had Was Old Men" - Q&A with my Moo Moo about WWII

"All we had was old men."

This was one of the answers to a series of questions I asked my 93 year old Moo Moo when I spoke with her last week about living in the US during the 1940s (wartime).

I'm writing this on April 14, 2020 at the height of the Coronavirus pandemic, our cases arching upward, peaking like a small boat on a big wave while we watch it hoping, daily, that it begins to flatten or, even better, sail down the other side.

I haven't had this much daily tutelage in bell curves since graduate school...not a big fan then, not a big fan now.

I called my beloved grandmother, one of the rocks in my life, for a number of reasons. I checked in to tell her that hubs and I are okay. Also, I had told her a few days prior I would be calling to pick her brain about tough times, about being in a multi-year state of want/need/lack/despair/tragedy/grief/longing/etc. Honestly, I really wanted to talk about all the directives we are being asked to adhere to, all the civil liberties we are being asked to reconsider for our own safety and the safety of others. Kind of like arguing with your spouse about who left the butter on the counter overnight where the cat would invariably find and lick it and then getting an unexpected call from a relative who is filing divorce papers and trying to figure out where to live, I wanted a serious reality check and a huge kick in the ass guaranteed to help me feel better about this uncertain time in life.

Plus I wanted to write a good blog post.

So I asked her 8 questions. Her answers, some surprising to me, are herein.

Q1: V: "What was the worst thing about World War II and living in Rensselaer, {NY}?"
M: "All we had was old men."
V: "Umm, what?"
My Moo Moo then went on to explain that in a square city block, during her teenaged years, every boy around her age, some as young as 16, went off to war. The only people she saw for 3 years whether home or out were young girls and older couples. There were no school dances, no proms, no lindy hops. 
At family weddings, my Moo Moo always danced the jitterbug with her sister, my Great Aunt Ginny and not my grandfather. As a child this was curious to me but now I understand. They grew up dancing together as teen girls.

Q2: V: "What did your parents tell you about what was going on?"
M: "My mother told me to pray, especially for the families who sent all their boys away."
Moo Moo clarified that during WWII, many families in Rensselaer sent ALL their sons to war. My grandfather and his brother, the only sons of my Great Grandma and Grandpa Hamlin both enlisted. "Pray hard for the Hamlins." is what Moo Moo remembers most about what my Great Nana taught her. 

Q3: V: "What items were scarce?"
M: "Oh! Gosh! Many things. Coffee and sugar for sure!"
I'm not surprised she remembered those first. Pity the fool who gets between my grandmother, her coffee and her sweets. Moo Moo observed that you had to shop only at your neighborhood grocery store and at your particular store things were rationed and available only on certain days of the week and/or in limited supply each month, for example: if you bought two pounds of sugar the first week of the month, you couldn't get more until the first week of the following month. During this time, her brother was off to war, so that left 4 girls and my great grandparents in the family household. She excitedly recalled a very special dessert made from bread, canned milk, and sugar pressed into a cast iron frying pan and cut into triangles. It was a delicacy in those times. 

Q4: V: "You mean you couldn't go to East Greenbush to get groceries if you wanted to?"
M: "No, no, no! You had to stay local. I can't remember how but if the grocer didn't know you then you had to prove you lived around the corner or no farther than Columbia Street."
As strict as that seems, Moo Moo didn't seem to think that the grocery boundaries caused too much of a ruckus. She harkened back to those at home being generally accepting of what was going on and carrying on; coming together for the good of the city, country and world. 
Edit: There were ration books that proved your location. I learned this after a Google search a few hours after writing this. 

Q5: V: "Did your parents keep their jobs during wartime?"
M: "Oh yes! My father worked as an auto mechanic and my mother was a nurse for Doctor Wilkie. Both of them were very busy during those years."
She also informed me that when townspeople came in with, say, cars that needed fixing or an ailment that needed tending to but had no cash on hand, both the auto shop and doctor's office would float a personal loan to people who had sons or spouses in the service, knowing that soon a paycheck would be received and the bill immediately rectified. People offered and kept their word with a simple handshake. Business owners felt comfortable having known and trusted everyone within their towns or neighborhoods for the entirety of their lives. 

Q6: V: "Can you tell me about where you worked?" (This is a favorite story I've heard dozens of times. It never gets old.)
M: "I welded bombs for the American Meter Company at 80 State Street in Albany with my sisters and my girlfriends. It was a great job. We felt like we were doing something very important for the boys overseas. We would take the finished ones and write messages to the boys in CHALK on the shiny surface telling them we loved them and missed them and couldn't wait for them to come home. We drew hearts."
She apprised me of a little secret this time: these girls knew the boys wouldn't see the messages because these were shells that needed to be filled with explosives and by the time they actually went through the additional manufacturing processes and got to the troops the chalk would have long worn off...but the idea of chalked love letters made the girls feel giddy, and giddiness felt good after standing on your feet and crafting cold steel weaponry all day, so they did it. 

Q7: V: "I expected sad memories. This coronavirus is making people so depressed and it's only been a month and a half that we've been isolated. Don't you remember WWII as a time of great sadness?"
M: "Well you know I try to keep everything happy. I try to only think about the good memories. And, we were lucky because all the boys in our neighborhood came back home."
She added that some were never the same, including my Great Uncle Bill, but they made it back...and that was something to be happy about.

Q8: V: Do you remember victory gardens?"
M: "Oh yes! I remember families planting all sorts of things and sharing. My father planted onions and tomatoes, specifically, and my mother had no room for her beloved flowers because he took and used every one of her flowerpots for green onions! {scallions}"
Victory gardens are making a comeback, which is why I asked. We plant veggies every year but this year we'll make an even greater effort.

I really expected Moo Moo to tell me of great hardship, of great sacrifice, of wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth, but instead she shared what was good about the time: neighbors praying and looking out for one another; sharing and caring; moments of laughter during long days of uncertainty; sugary bread as a dessert families could look forward to once in a while.
Bringing the boys back home.
Weddings and babies. (Gratefully, that's where my Dad comes in.)

Reflecting on her spirited replies, I will, if asked about this crisis in years to come, try my very best to recall the good things that happened as a result of having to pause our lives: taking stock of what really matters; eating more clever and homecooked meals together; an appreciation for the wonderful lives we have; exponentially increased respect for our freedoms; a renewed focus, for some, on prayer and God; and learning to find enjoyment in the moment. For me, in particular, it's also been a creative boon.

Please feel free to share in the comments what good things you are learning or taking from this uncertain time.

Thank you for reading and please be well.

#1970s #1980s #thegreatestgeneration #victorygarden #americanmetercompany #rensselaerny #mushroomtumbler

Easter in Connecticut

I know, I know...it's supposed to be Christmas in Connecticut, right? Well, we had to travel 3 and a half hours from our home to my Great Aunt and Uncle's place in Connecticut so we went at Eastertime, not at Christmastime; better roads, and more daylight for sure!

My father texted me this morning suggesting that I craft a post about Easters in Connecticut with my mother's family. So, here goes...thanks for the suggestion, Dad.
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As a child, I spent my Easters in New Britain, CT at the estate of my Great Aunt Nelly and Great Uncle Edvardo. I use the word "estate" because their brick house felt huge to me when I was little. Nelly and Ed had no children and utilized a downstairs bedroom for their own, so the entire second floor, consisting of three large bedrooms and a bathroom was akin to an underutilized wing within a English country home in one of my little girl books, resplendent and bourgeois. Excusing myself to wander from room to room, peeking in and snooping around, I can remember re-decorating the well-heeled enclosures in my mind, updating them from their conservative 1950s style to more modern day colors and textures.

But wait, wait, wait - I'm getting ahead of myself here - let's start at the beginning.

Late Easter Sunday morning, my parents and I would take off in our car, en route to New England. We dressed up in a pleasant style back then, me usually in a beribboned hat of some sort which I'd hold on my lap in the car to keep the elastic from pressing uncomfortably against my throat. Upon arrival Dad would park in one of two sprawling cement parking spots in front of a large white 2 car garage. A generously sized, pristine garage was sort of an anomaly, at least in my family, in the 1970s but my Great Uncle had one. The garage held his large vehicle, always an American-made Dodge 4 door sedan, always in a generic shade of blue.

My Great Uncle was a practical man, born in 1920 and nurtured during the depths of the great depression. He eschewed any item or process other than those completely utilitarian in nature. His snow white hair was tinted a more youthful buttery shade with the water from cooked yellow vegetables. Proud to grow and grind his own horseradish root by hand (always outdoors - never EVER inside the house); he'd color it with hot pink beet juice and if we didn't cry tears of pain and snort pitiably from deep in our sinuses due to its pungency on Easter Sunday he considered that year's batch a miserable failure.

Uncle Ed grew rows and rows of organic vegetables which, when we visited in the summer, would be plattered and served naked so that we could taste their earthy goodness. My Dad's (and my) favorite crop was the raspberries, an entire acre of them, which Uncle Ed and Aunt Nelly would pick and freeze. They were mostly used for ice cream, hand churned utilizing salt, ice, a wooden bucket and a steel crank. That homemade ice cream was used for Easter dessert, scooped out aside fancy fruit shaped marzipan candies and a festive basket cake which my mother would make using a round bundt pan and the same faded pastel handle off of an old Easter basket from years gone by.

No one dared buy rainbow Paas tablets for the Easter eggs. Brown eggs, bought from a farm family down the street, were dyed with the skins of two dozen crimson onions, peeled off and saved in a paper bag for weeks prior to Easter. The water was boiled, the skins were thrown in for an hour or so, and then the eggs, a pinch of salt, and a splash of vinegar were added. Upon completion, their hue was one shade lighter than what you might describe as Indian Red, which, not coincidentally, but rather pointedly, has always been my very favorite Crayola crayon.

All of the guests at Easter dinner looked forward to and were delighted by our egg tapping game which we were told, by Aunt Nelly, originated in her mother's native Poland. The rules were simple, whomever won the previous year would hold a hard boiled reddish egg and the person next to him or her would attempt to break it, point to point, without breaking one's own. One egg would break. The other would stand tough. This went 'round and 'round the table until a new winner was crowned. My Nana (sister of my Great Uncle Ed) had a well known knack for tapping and winning, nearly every year. She would then declare that the prize was a long, long life. There may be some divine truth to that as Nana only recently died at the grand age of 95.

I never saw my Great Aunt Nelly in pants. Honest to God, I don't think she owned a pair. Every Easter she handily rolled up and hairpinned her waist length Gibson girl style hair, naturally a shade of deep sooty silver and donned a fancy dress which she smoothed repeatedly beneath her plain white apron, bleached and tied at the waist, until someone noticed it and complimented her. Wearing a smile that was both wide and unsure, she'd begin to tell us where she bought it (always G Fox) and before she could tell the details pertaining to what day it was bought or what she paid for it, my Great Uncle would interrupt, sternly instructing her not to brag. She would wring her hands and stammer, "Oh well, yes, oh well..." before returning to the kitchen to check the meal, recollecting that a once a year dress was a privilege and not something to be flaunting before others. I wished that just once she would have told us the whole story of a new expensive dress, from soup to nuts.

Our dinner fare was traditional - ham, potatoes, green beans, bread, eggs, horseradish, wine. We also had homemade Polish kielbasa which my Nana and Papa would transport and present with great aplomb directly from Schenectady, NY. In preparation for the feast every year, we would gather a week before Easter at their house and work as a family to make it ourselves. This is not the kielbasa found in the grocery store. This is kielbasa made from well marbled boneless pork shoulder, bought at the Avon Meat Market on Van Vranken Avenue, a short distance from my grandparent's home in the Stockade district. My Nana would select the meat along with about 30 feet of hog intestines which she politely referred to as "casings". It was my job as a small child to pull the stomachy guts from the 3 hour old rinse water and cut them with sterile kitchen scissors to just the right length. Then I'd pass a casing to my mother and she would thread it on the spout, extremely careful not to pierce it unintentionally. Whosever's turn it was to crank the grinder would grab a fistful of meat, accented with garlic, marjoram, (no) salt* and pepper, and shove it down mightily into the metal receptacle. Crank, smooth the intestines, gently guide and pull, then slide it off and pass it to Nana to knot when it's full. Grab a new casing and do it all again. I had no idea as a kid that not everyone did this. I thought the whole world made Polish style sausage for Easter.

After dinner, depending on the weather, there was either Anisette, coffee, dessert and gathering time in the living room to hear about Uncle Ed's job at Pratt and Whitney where he made airplane engines or if it were nice out, we'd first wander around the outside of the property, listening to him describe what would be planted in the early Summer, where and when.

The end of the evening was always difficult for Aunt Nelly. She'd scurry about putting glass jars of homemade horseradish into paper lunch bags for all of us. She would hug and hold us, forcing the breath from our lungs in an embrace which felt like love tinged with loneliness and peppered with frenzy. I recognized this sort of embrace within myself years later as a childfree woman who said goodbye to her "adopted for the season" camp kids at the end of every summer, knowing I'd see them again in 8 months and grasping onto them, weighty and breathless in my heart, tying to capture the moment and sustain it until the next time.

Easters in Connecticut stopped when I was a sophomore in high school due to a changing family dynamic that made me less available on holidays. For a while thereafter I enjoyed the newness of simpler Easters with my other grandparents and our family friends. It wasn't until college when my Nana invited me to her apartment for a small and intimate evening of pre-Easter kielbasa making that I felt the hole in the belly twinge of traditions that had been lost, never to be recovered.

Life moves forward and our paths, if we are lucky, move us across and in between the paths of other wonderful people. I have been blessed by 35 additional years of inclusion in others' Easter customs, including my husband's family which introduced me to my very first plastic egg hunt and bodacious decorations like 5 foot tall plywood bunnies on the lawn painted in florescent colors. Hubby and I have tried a few Easters at our house over the years. I think we've done all right.

My Great Aunt passed away in 1993, my Great Uncle in 1997. I Google Earthed their home tonight to look at while I wrote (because I have a mind replete with addresses I very easily recalled it) and was saddened to see that it wasn't quite as palatial as I'd recalled. The grand old garage is still standing. There appear to be no raspberries on the property.

What a shame.


* No Salt was special salt for Papa. You might recall reading about it in my Shelter in Place post here: https://mushroomtumbler.blogspot.com/2020/04/shelter-in-place.html

#1970s #1980s #mushroomtumbler #NewBritain #GFox #PrattandWhitney #polishtraditions #kielbasa

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:
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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/

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Speaking of Asian books, I can't get enough of them. Me in the library...with Asian books at my disposal...well, I'm like a koi fish in a well stocked pond.

Here are some goodies (and several of my reviews):

The Chinese in America by Iris Chang: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/3050157660?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Bone by Fae Myenne Ng: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2581392855?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Mona in the Promised Land by Jen Gish: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2581392295?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Street of Eternal Happiness: Big City Dreams Along a Shanghai Road by Rob Schmitz:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2331865462?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua:  https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2189053905?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Snow Hunters by Paul Yoon:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2160980789?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Peace is in Every Step by Thich Nhat Hanh:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2123712675?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Free Food for Millionaires by Min Jin Lee:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40727626-free-food-for-millionaires?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=1Am6VxRzer&rank=1

The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane by Lisa See: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2011103378?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Falling Leaves: The Memoir of an Unwanted Chinese Daughter by Adeline Yen Mah: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/54529.Falling_Leaves?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=D130Z76nC8&rank=2

Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1800393820?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

The Last Chinese Chef by Nicole Mones:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1790260743?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Sisters of Heart and Snow by Margaret Dilloway:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1669398656?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Mambo in Chinatown by Jean Kwok:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1737865311?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

American Born Chinese by Gene Luen Yang:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/118944.American_Born_Chinese?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=Rf6grDoGk1&rank=1

The Ghost Bride by Yangsze Choo:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507319125?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Girl in Translation by Jean Kwok:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507314703?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

China Dolls by Lisa See:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507319213?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Peony In Love by Lisa See:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507306582?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Dreams of Joy by Lisa See:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507316961?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

On Gold Mountain by Lisa See:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507306576?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

The Samurai's Daughter by Rei Shimura:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507306557?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Face by Aimee Liu:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507308504?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Cloud Mountain by Aimee Liu:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507307595?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Eating Chinese Food Naked by Mei Ng:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507304768?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

Flash House by Aimee Liu:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2794057-flash-house?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=x8wukNCB7b&rank=1

Shanghai Girls by Lisa See:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/5960325-shanghai-girls?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=noDT8JFrOW&rank=1

The Concubine's Children by Denise Chong:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/231573.The_Concubine_s_Children?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=5Yp7mxP4Zr&rank=1

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40873273-snow-flower-and-the-secret-fan?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=0zmaB4gWD3&rank=1

China Dog and Other Tales From a Chinese Laundry by Judy Fong Bates:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/155055.China_Dog?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=eJQhuq2jJD&rank=2

Trail of Crumbs by Kim Sunee:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507309152?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

The Interpreter by Suki Kim:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507304759?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

The Love Wife by Jen Gish:https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1507304954?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1

The Bonesetter's Daughter by Amy Tan:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12555.The_Bonesetter_s_Daughter?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=SUF5kuf95K&rank=1

The Kitchen God's Wife by Amy Tan:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12557.The_Kitchen_God_s_Wife?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=Xx2KbqtMDM&rank=1

The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan:https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7763.The_Joy_Luck_Club?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=swcteKBPPV&rank=1

Women's QuiGong for Health and Longevity by Deborah Davis: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/727734.Women_s_Qigong_for_Health_and_Longevity?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=HUKuimFCet&rank=1

#1970s #1980s #amytan #asianlit #insultingpillows #goodreads #spanishflu #pandemicreading #lymedisease #bartonella #babesia #anaplasmosis

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

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.

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. 

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.