My dad, the Poet Laureate of…well, of our house

My sister and I thought our dad was the funnniest man on earth, and he never once wore a fright wig or a big spherical red nose. But his sense of humor was bright and bold, and he had the rare gift of being able to laugh right along with us without self-consciousness, even if we happened to be Eating Out which was not an everyday occurrence in our young lives. People would stare at us and most of them couldn’t help smiling just to see a family having so much fun. I suppose it’s appropriate that a whole lot of the best tidbits he handed us were about food.

Of course, we truly believed that he made up all the funny things he was always saying.It wasn’t until I was all grown up that I finally realized he was, much of the time, just sharing what he’d picked up along the way. It didn’t matter, anyway. My sisty ugler and I laughed ourselves to tears over and over at the same old jokes and the same crazy couplets. We still find ourselves occasionally thinking of one of his bright sayings at exactly the same moment and we break into laughter remembering him and the joy he gave us.

Some of our favorites (I’d give credit but I have no idea where the originals came from, if not from Dad, and most of them have a little of him twined in there somewhere, anyway):

Broccoli, though not exoccoli, is within an inach of being spinach.

I eat my peas with honey, I’ve done it all my life. They taste a little funny, but it keeps them on the knife.

The woman can’t say five words without going off on a tangerine.

(Yes, there were a lot that didn’t have to do with food, too. I just happen to like these.) 

Probably 99 percent of Dad’s jokes came from the pen of Ogden Nash or one of the other witty folks who graced our lives in the days when stand-up comedy didn’t require one to blush at every other word and a book could be a best-seller just because it was fun. Now we’ve gotten “sophisticated” and “earthy” and not nearly as funny as we used to be. I guess I’m horribly old-fashioned, because I still prefer the nice, clean slapstick variety that we used to get from Dad. He was an absolute delight; we lost him too soon.

Red Skelton, where are you when we need you?

I’ll see you again, after the commercial.

The Goodie Box

Tags

Candy, coffee, honesty

Once upon a time I believed in the essential honesty of people. I decided, out of the goodness of my heart and the depths of my pocketbook, to provide a box of candy bars, granola, even some fancy hot chocolate and gourmet coffee and other tidbits for my 15-20 fellow office workers. Good ol’ pre-Costco Price Club was the source of the goodies, which overall only cost me about 35 cents each. I placed each item carefully in a big plastic storage container in the breakroom, and added a cheerful note to suggest that a donation of 40 cents (about half of market price at that time) would henceforth keep the box refilled for future foragers. I set a styrofoam cup in the center to hold the money.

Day One: Goodies removed from container–32; Donations to fund–$7.00 and an IOU that said “I’ll get the next round” (with no signature). Hmmm, maybe I should take a walk around the office and check for chocolate breath…

At the end of the day, I neatened up the box and added more goodies to bring it back to its original enticing appearance. I also amended the note, adding a P.S.: Come on, guys, I can’t do this all on my own! with a little happy face just to show that I realized they’d (surely!) simply forgotten to donate. I replaced the styrofoam cup with a cardboard box labeled “40 cents each, please!”

Day Two: Goodies removed from container–40; Donations to fund–$8:37 and a lavender-scented note card that said, “Thanks, Anita. This is a great idea!”

This was going downhill fast. I neatened up the box and added more goodies to bring it back to its original enticing appearance. I also amended the note, adding a P.P.S.: The goodie box disappears tomorrow unless those of you who have forgotten to pay come up with the money!” Somehow I neglected to put the happy face on that one. I also taped across the top of the box leaving just a slit to put the money through.

Day Three: Goodies removed from container–everything except an open package of peanuts and my note; Donations to fund–variable. Variable? When I checked the box before noon, There s eemed to be quite a bit of change rattling in the box. By 3 o’clock, there was no rattle. . .and no box.

Day Four: Container conspicuously absent from breakroom table. Instead, there was a note: Goodie Box Out of Business. 

I have to say, I did get some of the money I was owed. Our highest-paid salesman, who could obviously afford to buy his own candy bars, sheepishly handed over twenty bucks. “I think I might have forgotten to come back with the change a couple of times.” But I never heard a word from the two rather large ladies in the south office (who were known for the vast collections of office supplies stored in their desks). I’m pretty sure it was because they knew their chocolate breath would give them away.

I’ll see you again, after the commercial.

A sprinkle of cinnamon isn’t enough

Tags

breakfast, cinnamon toast

You don’t find many restaurants these days that offer cinnamon toast. I suppose it isn’t a high-volume item, anyway, nor one that allows a huge markup in the price. Although, come to think of it, plain old toast and jelly isn’t cheap when you partake of it at your local eatery. We won’t mention the heights to which the 10-cent cup of coffee has risen on the menu.

Cinnamon toast, though, is a special thing. It is and always has been one of the comfort foods from the early childhood years. Not only was it sweet and smelly-good, it was a particular treat because, in our house, it wasn’t just a sprinkle of cinnamon and sugar on top of your toast. That’s usually all you get at the diner, if you can find it on the menu at all.

Real cinnamon toast is a labor of love from mother to child.. White bread. Yes, I know, but this is one of those few instances where nice, flavorful, healthy, filling multi-grain just doesn’t cut it. Butter. Real butter, cold from the fridge and sliced ever so thinly to fit like puzzle pieces to cover the top of each bread slice. Sugar. Plain old white sugar, a generous sprinkle atop the nice yellow greasy butter. Cinnamon. We never had the fancy gourmet stuff, just McCormick right off the grocery shelves, with little holes in the top of the can that let us kids darken our treats to suit ourselves. I have to say my sister’s usually turned out a beautiful overall tan color, while my contributions were less aesthetic and more enthusiastic.

Eight slices fit perfectly on a cookie sheet. Into the oven at 350 degrees until the aroma made it impossible to leave them there any longer. Mine never quite made it to what some people consider “toast”, being more along the lines of “hot cinnamon bread”–I always begged Mom to let me take mine out early. It had to be at the exact point where the oven heat caused the butter to melt and the sugar to puff up and the cinnamon to release its fantastic fragrance, but the bread still lacked crunch. Perfect. Sister’s went back into the oven for another minute to crisp toasty brown on the bottom. She always did have strange tastes.

All in all, cinnamon toast probably didn’t take more tha a couple of minutes longer than getting out the toaster, popping slices in it two at a time, and spreading mundane butter and jelly. But cinnamon toast days made us feel special and loved, especially if this wonder occurred on school days, and most especially if it was instead of oatmeal.

I hope your mom made you cinnamon toast. I hope you make it, with love, for the people you love.

I’ll see you again, after the commercial.

More tidbits from the archives

Tags

archives

 

Wow, I never knew I was so poetic! Here are a few tidbits from the armoire, bits of wisdom I scribbled years ago, figuring that one day they’d be catchwords for the world. Now that I’ve been around a while, I find that everything has already been said by someone else in words pretty close to my own. If that makes my sentences less unique (wait a minute, I don’t think “unique” is modifiable…), so be it. I still believe them all.

• You can’t alter what you refuse to see.
• My heart sees things my eyes sometimes miss.
• If you wait for happiness to find you instead of creating it in yourself, you take a chance on missing it all.
• The most formidable foe of progress is apathy.
• Sunset is unspectacular without clouds.
• Lack of excitement may be boredom, or it may be contentment. It’s your choice.

Everyone has a list like this, even if they’ve never written it down. Yes, you do, too. Search your armoire, or your memory, and share your list with me.

I’ll see you again, after the commercial.

Some notes from the armoire archives

Tags

archives, ironing

 A lovely dark cherry wood armoire sits in my bedroom, part of a set we purchased when we got the new house nearly twenty years ago. I had no idea what to put in it, but it was pretty, it matched the other pieces we were buying at the same time, and best of all, we actually had space in the room to put such a luxurious thing and still have room to walk. Over the years it’s held all kinds of clothes, shoes, and handbags; you name it and it’s probably had a home there, at least for a short while.

The top shelf has always been a repository for my scribbles. It would be great to say that some of my writing actually turned into a book, but somehow the bits and pieces seldom quite gel into complete stories. Still, it pleases me to go back and look over some of the tidbits every once in a while. My mom, bless her, would remember some piece from years ago and tell me, “Why don’t you take that one out and work on it some more? It was always one of my favorites.” I don’t think I ever wrote anything that wasn’t her favorite.

For now, the short story sections still sit there like cast-off body parts, waiting for a strong torso to hold them together. With any luck,I’ll be around long enough to stitch some of them up and share. In the meantime, there are always slice-of-life bits like this, which I wrote many years ago. It’s still pretty much true.

THE IRON

I got the iron out yesterday. It was like meeting someone from long-ago high school days and feeling only the slightest tinge of recognition. That’s the way I like it.

I do remember the days when Monday was for washing and Tuesday for ironing, but in that long ago past I was a mere child who got paid for ironing—10 cents for a blouse, 15 cents for a pair of jeans, and a bargain price for a handful of handkerchiefs. Now when I go shopping I choose carefully among the clothes on the rack at May Company and make sure I actually carry home only those with the greatest likelihood of being truly wash-and-wear. My garments are permanent press, my iron is permanently stored away.

Actually, I bought a new iron last year, one with a large price tag and a list of features that would do justice to a luxury car. I figured that all the options would make my life easier when I finally have to deal with the few Ironables I still own. It spritzes. It sprays. It steams. It has a thousand and one heat settings ranging from “Why bother?” to “Are you nuts?” The only thing it doesn’t do is crawl back and forth over the fabric by itself. I put it in the cupboard the day I brought it home, and I’ve never taken it out again until now.

It’s a heavy thing, with dozens of steam vents in the soleplate and a clever connection designed to keep the cord from tying itself in knots as I grumble myself through the stack of Ironables that’s been accumulating for months. When I picked it up yesterday, I remembered why I had ignored it for so long.

I picked it up. I set it down.

I contemplated the shirts and skirts and pants I hadn’t worn for ages. I held the first blouse up to the light and decided that I really don’t like wearing this one after all—it went into the rummage bag. Those green pants were probably too small anyway, and NOBODY wears that kind of skirt anymore . . . In a very few minutes, the rummage bag was full and the ironing pile was empty. The lovely, expensive, heavy iron was still cold.

I wrapped the cord neatly and tucked it into the handle. The iron went back into the cupboard, where it sits quiet and ready on the third shelf in case I ever need it.

Just the way I like it.

I’ll see you again, after the commercial.

Emma makes me laugh

Tags

format, procrastination

Finally, the garage sale is over, a success on many counts, and I have time to get back to the fun stuff. Blogging has taken a back seat recently and I find myself in the embarrassing position of owing several people my reads and likes and comments and responses to awards. I’ll take care of that in the next few days, I promise. In the meantime, here’s a draft that I’ve left sitting for a while as I wait for the flash of illumination that will help me format it properly. Hasn’t happened, probably won’t; so, here it is regardless.

My friend Emma, whom I’ve never met except on these pages, writes a delighful blog called

In other words 

(I have no idea why this paragraph wants to format this way. I did warn you that I’m no good at this)  Hers is one of the few I follow because I can always count on a good read and usually an out-loud laugh.

A few days ago, she posted  Occasional? Once-in-a-while? Random? Sometimes? in which she bemoans the burden of trying to deal with the intimidatingly-named “Blog-a-day discovery.” Been there, done that.

At first, the delight of the blogging existence was in finding new voices to brighten my day. It didn’t take long for me to realize that there are a whole lot of voices out there clamoring for my attention, many of which are (gasp!) consistently better than my own. How depressing! And how wonderful.

What keeps me pecking away at the keyboard is an acknowledged wish to have someone else find the same kind of fun in my scribbles without meeting face-to-face. That way, I can occasionally enjoy a “like” or, even better, a comment from my readers without worrying about utter humiliation. I’ve noticed that comments, by and large, tend to be favorable–or left unwritten–and I have yet to see anybody’s posts geting a blatant “UNLIKE!”, even though some of them surely should. Fear of Failure is sort of pushed off to the perimeter when one is insulated from direct confrontation.

All of this leads to an embarrassing admission on my part. I not only don’t post a blog every day, I also don’t read blogs every day. For that reason alone, I know I miss a huge amount of good writing from talented people (along with an even greater amount of vulgar, poorly-phrased, poorly-spelled, parenthesis-laden copy, of course) and it’s all my own fault. I’m going to work at it, though. I’ll finish the first cup of coffee every day just to get my brain in gear, then I’ll pop into WordPress and go in search of the next blog to follow.

In the meantime, I’ll keep checking out the few people I already follow, because they are a joy in the morning. You know who you are.

I’ll see you again, after the commercial.

A voice from the past

Tags

Colorado Springs, Girl Scout Senior Roundup

I made a call yesterday to a friend I haven’t talked to in 50 years, We didn’t say anything impostant, but it kind of rewove a thread in my life fabric (a little poetry there, I’m sorry) and it made me feel so good that I smiled about it for hours.

The whole thing started when I was going through old photos and I found a slightly mildewed ribbon holding pins from my Girl Scout days: a Brownie pin, a Mariner pin, a World Friendship pin, and a Senior Roundup pin, along with membership year pins adding up to more than 30 years with the organization. Lots of good memories, one of which was a girl named Celeste, and a cake that said Auf Wiedersehen when it should have said Arrivederci! (more about this in some other post)

 I only knew Celeste because of Girl Scouts. She lived on one coast, I on the other, and the chances of our meeting were, to say the least, very small. But for one week in 1959, we came together, along with about 10,000 other Girl Scouts from around the world at a gathering in Colorado Springs. They called it Senior Roundup, and it brought girls from every state and quite a few different countries to share tents and outdoor showers, open-fire cooked food and uncomfortable sleeping bags–altogether a wonderful experience.

Our families saved pennies to pay for the trip. We collected newspapers to return for cash. We wrote to our City Council to ask for trinkets and souvenirs of Long Beach to take with us to trade. Our group got little bitty balsa wood orange crates, complete with fake oranges imbued with fragrance–essence of orange blossoms–and stickers that said something like “Souvenir of Long Beach!” The local mortuary gave us pens and notepads and some discreet advertising. From other girls in other places we got back postcards and tiny beer barrels and maple syrup jugs.

In our particular encampment we had a group from Long Beach, California, a group from Connecticut, one from New Jersey, and one from Michigan. Our group traveled by train, as did most of the girls and their leaders. That in itself was a new experience. But I think what impressed me most about the whole thing was the instant connection we made with the other girls. Imagine, ten thousand 16-18 year old girls! We laughed and sang and swore that we’d write and be friends forever.

Forever lasted a couple of years. Then we got careers and husbands and other diversions–mine were named Elizabeth and Robert–to fill our time and our thoughts. You know how it goes, we always planned to call “one of these days” just to say hello, but long distance charges weren’t in the budget for a long time. I thought of Celeste every time I took out the lasagna recipe she sent me from her mom’s dictation, and remembered that special time. But I never called.

After a while, I didn’t call because I figured Celeste had forgotten me by now. I lost track of the others as well, even my own Long Beach group. How could I have let that happen, when a phone call would take only a moment? Lest I beat myself up too much, I should say that they didn’t call either. Somehow, we lost that part of our history. And now, in the fading memory accompanying my old age, I’ve lost even the names. I was lucky with Celeste because her name was unusual. I’ve found a couple of others on Facebook because they use maiden names as well as married names, probably to help with reunion plans

So, if you were ever a Girl Scout, if you ever had a friend, a teacher, a fellow traveler, someone you’ve lost touch with, someone you cared about–give them a call, if you can find them. What’s the worst that can happen?

“I don’t remember you.”

“Well, I just called to say hello, and let you know that someone remembers you.”

It might bring a smile to both of you. I promise you, it doesn’t hurt a bit.

If you were at Senior Roundup 1959, please reply to this post!

I’ll see you again, after the commercial.

Foremost Dairies–a picture from the past

Tags

childhood, photography

When my daughter was about 16, she arranged for the four of us to have a family portrait taken–the only one we ever did. You know how it is, the females saying, “Oh, no! I never take a good picture!” and the males muttering, “If I knew I was going to have to put on a suit…” But the picture came out better than I expected and I still carry it in my wallet.

I have to say, though, that the best pics of my kids didn’t come from any formal studio. The fun ones, of course, are things like naked little butts cavorting around a blow-up swimming pool or a toddler making himself dizzy with a circular ride in his Krazy Kar (which I believe we called a Big Wheel) or Daughter playing with her dog Scooter. The only time we came close to portrait quality was when the Foremost truck was in the neighborhood.

“What in the world was a Foremost truck?” you ask. Well, usually it was a truck that delivered dairy products of the Foremost line.  About once a year, though, a flyer appeared on the porch that announced The Truck will be on your street Tuesday! That was Mom’s cue to get the kid’s hair cut and make sure he was well rested on Tuesday, because The Truck with a mobile photographer would be there to immortalize the little darling.

Oh, we sometimes still had the guy with a pony and a Brownie show up in the neighborhood, but no one expected those pictures to be anything much. The Foremost guy was a real, professional picture-taker, with a mobile studio–backdrops, reflected lighting, toys and all–who somehow performed his miracle and made the kids enjoy the whole process. A week or so later, you got a free calendar with your cherub’s countenance front and center and a little discreet advertising top and bottom. You also were offered a set of “finished proofs” which were actually very nice quality photos. For these, of course, you had to pull out the baking powder can and make inroads on the contingency funds. There were also full photo packages available, at even more cost. Still, the prices were reasonable, and that meant a lot to young parents in those days.

The Foremost truck is gone now, as is the Foremost Dairy, which merged out of existence sometime in the 1980′s, I think. By that time my kids were past the hold-up-the-teddy-bear-and-smile stage anyway, so we hardly noticed the absence of The Truck. It’s a shame, though, and I wish some other company would resurrect the idea. It’s good business. Not only would the calendar stay on the wall for a year, complete with scrubbed and smiling children’s faces (and advertising) but the goodwill generated was tremendous. Certainly we counted pennies, but if the Foremost brand was reasonably close in price to competitors, most of the shoppers I knew would choose to buy the brand that cared about us–and our children.

I’ll see you again, after the commercial.

I suppose I should really rename the dining table

Tags

furniture

I have this old oak table, you see, that’s been around for about seventy years (as I have) and it sits in the middle of what is laughingly called my dining room. Once upon a time it was a dining table, first my grandmother’s, then my mom’s and for the last thirty years or so, mine.

But we don’t “dine” in the dining room anymore. Well, not often. Occasionally we have company for a holiday dinner, but we usually end up with Hubby constructing a b-i-i-g table in the living room so it can hold all the goodies. Our dining room table can hold plates and silverware for six if two of them don’t mind winding their feet around the clawfoot table legs, but there just isn’t room to also have serving dishes. I don’t know about your family but our group likes having seconds readily available, so there’s none of this nonsense about leaving the rest of the mashed potatoes in the kitchen in favor of a pretty table.

I don’t mean to imply that my table is a skimpy little thing. It’s perfectly adequate as tables go, and it has been a joy for several generations of kids who have eaten and studied there, have drawn pictures to delight their parents, and played many a game of Scrabble or Monopoly on its surface. The table is basically long and skinny, but wait! There’s a little ring on the side that just calls out to be pulled, and when that happens, the table shakes a little and separates in the middle, and lo and behold a secret leaf pops up from its hiding place under the tabletop.

My grandmother had the table when I was very little, and I can remember the first time I discovered the ring. All the cousins were there visiting (as we often did) and we played games around, on and under the table. (We knew enough to be careful, but if the furniture got scratched, Grandma didn’t worry too much; kids were more important than wood.) I spotted the ring and asked the others what it might be.

“I don’t know,” Danny said, “and I don’t care. It’s my turn to be the Sheriff.” We had only one cap gun, so we had to take turns. Well, as long as he was going to be that way, we girls would just stop playing cowboys and investigate this intriguing new toy instead. We invited Grandma to join in, and she revealed the secret of the ring. We were entranced by this engineering marvel. Imagine a table that had extra food space just hanging there underneath it!

For many visits after that, the table featured in our play. If we had a store, it was the checkout counter. If we wanted to go camping, a sheet over the top created the perfect tent. Sometimes we’d surprise Grandma by picking her some flowers–from her beloved garden of course–and they got snipped and clipped and vased and put in the place of honor, in the middle of the table.

Eventually, we all grew up, and the table reverted to, well, just a table. I sit there sometimes to write my stories, sometimes to pay bills, sometimes to pull out one of the big boxes of old photos and spread the memories out on the smooth surface. I know it can’t be worth a lot of money. My family never had enough to buy the high-quality stuff. But it’s worth a lot to me. After all, it is (as I am) an antique.

I’ll see you again, after the commercial.

Wow! I need to finish planting the veggie garden!

Tags

bargains, coupons, marketing, prices, Ralphs, sale

Doesn’t this look like a good thing? Guess again. From what I can read in the little blurbs they’ve been sending me, it amounts to a noticeable change in the way they do business. Somehow, though,it doesn’t appear that I, the customer, will be the one to benefit. The basic elements seem to be these:

• The Rewards Card will no longer accrue points to be redeemed later for grocery purchases. Now you’ll be able to use them only at Ralph’s and Shell fuel stations. In essence, you spend $100 on groceries, gaining 100 points which you can then redeem for a 10-cent discount per gallon on their gas. Let’s see: for a 20-gallon fill-up, that’s a whole $2.00 off their price. Considering that Shell prices around here range from 20 to 30 cents more per gallon than Arco (and others), it doesn’t feel like much of a bargain.
• If I wish to continue receiving Ralphs Reward Certificates (the food-redeemable points mentioned above), I must make my purchases using their own Ralphs rewards plus Visa card. I choose not to have another card, thank you. If I do decide I want one, it won’t be one I’m coerced into buying. As a side note, Ralphs isn’t the first to offer less-inflated prices for house credit card users; many retailers do it (think Kohl’s, Macy’s, JCP) but it hits home when it applies to food.
• They will accept manufacturer’s coupons at face value only. Back in the day, Ralphs (and several others) gave you double value for your coupons. The last few years, they’ve already changed the policy from TRUE DOUBLE VALUE to DOUBLE VALUE UP TO $1.00 (face value) to DOUBLE VALUE UP TO $1.00 (total value); a $1.50 coupon that was worth $3.00 a few years ago is now worth half that. On top of the face value the retailer gets a handling fee of (usually) 8 to 10 cents per coupon.

Of course, it’s been a game for quite a while. All the markets offer “Sale” prices if you have a club card. (They simply increased the “regular” prices to account for the difference.) The card gives them a fair amount of personal information about you and allows them to tailor ads to suit your buying preferences.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against goods and services providers making a profit. If I had an idea to make a profit myselft I’d certainly go for it. But I would never try to trick people into thinking they’re getting a bargain when it’s really a matter of paying what they should have in the first place.

The solution, as I see it, is just to grow all the veggies I can and laugh all the way home from the market. Their plastic tomatoes can’t match the flavor of the ones outside my back door anyway!

As for the real LOW PRICES! they are announcing, we’ll wait and see. I’ll give you a report in a couple of weeks. Stay tuned.

I’ll see you again, after the commercial.