Halloween Confessions of a Siam Princess

Happy Halloween to one and all! I'm cheating this year by reposting something I wrote way back in 2005 as a newbie blogger about how I felt about Halloween as a child. Reading it again brought back wonderful memories, so I'm plagiarizing myself with 'nary a qualm. The pictures, by the way, aren't of me. To my knowledge, we don't have any Halloween costume pictures from the 50's or 60s. Sad. Anyway, welcome to my memories:

When I was a little girl, I could never get to sleep the night before Halloween. It was a couple of notches down from the keyed-up restlessness of Christmas Eve - after all, I didn't have to listen for reindeer on the roof or a big ol' red-suited elf falling down the chimney into my living room - but the butterflies-in-stomach excitement was there all the same.

What kept me awake, I wonder? Was candy such a big deal? Was dressing up as someone or something else worth losing sleep over? I really can't remember what had me in such a dither the night before Halloween.

My mother - my Southern Baptist, right-of-Attila-the-Hun mother - loved Halloween. (This is how I know that all the anti-Halloween right-wing stuff is pure crap.) She dangled the shiny idea of "tricks-and-treats" over our heads the entire month of October. She enjoyed helping us with our costumes and had fun giving out candy to the kids who came to the door. My costume was usually homemade - seems like I was always a gypsy - except for when I was 8 and 9 years old.

One year for some reason Daddy sprung for a Siam Princess costume from the dime store. I think it cost a whopping $2.98, and I remember choosing it. Siam Princess? I liked the mask and the shiny yellow and bright pink coverall with some sort of intricate (to an 8-year-old) sparkly design. Notice I chose a princess who could wear pants, not a fluffy skirt. I got two Halloweens'-worth of wear out of it, so when you amortorize the cost, well - practically free. (Yes, it was a little big the first year and a little small the second.)

The mask was one of those molded plastic jobs with the thin elastic strap to keep it over my face. And I'm sure if anyone had struck a match within 20 yards of me, I would have gone up in a flash. But nobody worried about such things then. (Which make ya' wonder how all of us made it through such dangerous childhoods to a place where folks have their diapers in a wad wondering how they'll take care of us in our old age. Well, just dress me as a Siam Princess and set me on fire, I say!)

I think one thing that kept me awake was the anticipation of being allowed to go door to door, never knowing who'd give you what, trying to set a goal of how many houses you could get to or how big a paper sack you'd be able to fill. We always took paper bags to collect candy - no plastic pumpkins or trendy little totes - except for the big kids (and you really weren't supposed to trick-or-treat over the age of 12 - but some boys pushed it to 14), who carried pillowcases. The idea of collecting candy, or whatever - because you were just as likely to get apples or homemade cookies - was exciting. That stuff just wasn't as readily available to us on a day to day basis. Candy, cookies, Coca-Cola - those were all for special occasions. Like Halloween.

I don't remember getting much chocolate; it was mostly hard candy or wax lips or bubble gum. I well remember the excitement of getting home and dumping it all in the middle of the floor, pooling our resources, trading this or that, with big brother David coming in at the end with a bulging pillowcase (or two) to add to the loot.

As we got too old for trick-or-treating, there were usually parties or the coming-of-age thrill of getting to answer the door and hand out candy.

I tried to provide the same good Halloween memories for Kate when she was growing up, and I think I did. Her costumes were more elaborate, though we did have several rag-bag homemade ones, and the decorations grew well beyond a simple carved pumpkin, though not to the level of many houses today. I don't know whether or not Kate could sleep the night before Halloween - I'll have to ask her.

And tonight? Well, I think I'll sleep tonight without difficulty. The jack o'lantern's carved, the house decorated inside and out, the treats are over-flowing the special Halloween tray. I won't dress up tomorrow night - I have done on occasion, but I will love seeing the little cuties come to the door - some in awe of the whole thing, standing there dumb-founded, some shouting "trick or treat!" so loud they blow out all the candles in the house, the princesses and the clowns and the Batmen and the Harry Potters.

Still, if I lie in bed tonight and try to dredge up the feeling of being an 8-year-old Siam Princess again, who knows? Maybe I won't get much sleep after all.

Be Ye Kind

One of the first Bible verses I learned as a tiny child was "Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another." I was not always kind as a child, and I'll admit that I've not always been kind as an adult. Unkindness usually rears its ugly head as a result of my bone-deep impatience, something I fight against all the time. (Yes, I'm impatient with my impatience.) Still, I'm not comfortable with unkindness in myself or in others. Just as I'm uncomfortable with conflict (it's a middle child thing, I've been told), unkindness is a big boat-rocker for me, and I do like life to run as smoothly as possible.

Unkindness seems to be rampant these days. Basic civility, which in the past helped check rude, mean, insensitive behavior, has flown out the window. There are no barriers to saying whatever one's thinking or acting on individual foibles and prejudices. As important as individual rights of speech and action are (within the law), those rights do nothing to contribute to a more civil society if the individual loses compassion and the ability to see oneself as part of a bigger community.

Maybe kindness seems more elusive now than in the past simply because we are bombarded with human wretchedness 24/7. Yet, it seems too easy to blame the internet and media outlets, though both certainly spread cynicism, anger, and the urge to get revenge on whoever/whatever rubs us the wrong way. I think it runs deeper than that, but I'm at a loss as to an answer.

Nothing I've said is news. and, honestly, I can't do anything about anyone but myself. While I'm certainly free to say whatever I want or act on whatever skewed feelings I may have, I don't have to do either. I can make an effort to check words and actions I may later regret. It's not only about avoiding unkindness; it's about being actively kind.

So, as we head into the season of thankfulness and celebration, I plan to be more intentionally kind. I will do my best to avoid petty arguments over politics, lifestyles, or sports teams and look for ways to a pay a compliment, relieve a burden, or create a pleasant surprise. I will try to remember the words I learned as a little child, "Be ye kind." It's worth a try.

Halloween Monster Rankings

Not all monsters are equal in my book. Some have a full range of incredible powers. Some have ancient histories and have haunted the human race across the sands of time. Some are scary; some are downright lovable. At this Halloween season o' scare, I've run various monster species through the tried-and-true Shorty PJs Monster-O-Meter to see how our favorite supernatural hair-raisers rank. Here are the results, starting at the top.

#1 The Witch. Really. Nothing comes close, even though the witch is technically not a monster. And I didn't even include the warlock, or she/he would've been totally off the charts. Witches have it all - the good, the bad, and the ugly. Whether you prefer the Witch of Salem, Eastwick, Endor, Oz (East or West), MacBeth, Hazel, or the apartment upstairs, she is a constant surprise. Witches are not boring, my main monster-criteria. Why, they can brew, fly, cast spells, change shapes, foretell happenings - an endless list. Warts (or not) and all, I love 'em.

#2  The Ghost. Also not boring. I mean, you never know whooooooooo's going to turn up, right? Maybe it'll appear as a transparent spectre, complete with a chilly cold spot. Or maybe, it'll turn up as a sheet with two eye-holes. Perhaps it's Julius Caesar, Hamlet's daddio, the Flying Dutchman, the Ghost of Christmas Past, dear Casper, or your great-uncle Ned. Never a dull moment with a ghost.

#3 The Vampire. I have to admit that vampires have lost a bit of credibility with me in the midst of the soppy Twilight schlock. However, when I return to classic Dracula funsters, the 1960s-70s B-movie sexy vamps, and Buffy's blood-suckers, the Vampire manages to hold on to third place. Vamps are mysterious, sexy, and slightly humorous. Eschew Twilight and chew Bela, Christopher, and Spike and Drusilla.

#4 The Ghoul. Not to be confused with our friends, the ghosts, these creepies are living creatures who feed off buried folks. Naturally (or un- ), they hang out in graveyards looking for the next big feast. Evil shape-shifters with endless terror-possibilities, so what's not to love? And one of the main reasons I plan to be cremated.

#5 Frankenstein's Monster. Granted, there's only one of these. Well, two, counting The Bride of. But I'll include any put-together-from-dead-parts monster in this category. He's so attractive, especially the neck-bolts. And her hair - well! Awesomeness. You never know how these two will react. One minute all grunts and groans, the next weeping over a flower or a violin tune. (And that's Frankensteen.)

#6 The Mummy. Ancient, ancient, ancient. Was this guy or gal really dead before wrapped, sealed in a fancy box, and buried deep under desert sands or pyramids of stone? Maybe yes, maybe no. But you can bet your bottom hieroglyph that each mummy has an intricate backstory, even the non-Egyptian ones.

#7 The Werewolf. What I love about these furry creatures is that they're usually nice guys in human form, at least according to the film-world. Not sure why sweetie pies are targeted for the werewolf curse, but they are, so it's hard not to find them kinda dreamy. Darn those full moons!

#8 The Zombie. Sorry. I don't care how popular they are right now, I find zombies the most boring of all the monster-world. They are so one-dimensional. They're dead. They look dead. They walk around. Just obliterate their brain, and they're goners. They hardly register a .0001 on my Monster-O-Meter. Yawn.

Other pesky scary things - poltergeists, rat/lizard/seaweed-people, congressmen - are also-rans, at least when fed through the Shorty PJs Monster-O-Meter. Light your jack-o'lantern and save your monster-honor for the superstars - witches, ghosts, and vampires.

The Donald Analysis

While watching The Donald on TV last night, I found myself trying to figure out what makes him tick. Why is he so mean? Why is he always working against the welfare of his community? If he suddenly became the "good guy," would he be as interesting? You know, of course, that I'm talking about Donald Duck, right? (There is no hope in trying to figure out the other Donald, so fuggitabahtit.)

OK, so I'm rared back watching that great Halloween cartoon where Donald goes up against "nephews" Huey, Dewey, and Louie and the incomparable Witch Hazel, and the thought comes to me, hey, wait a minute, how are H,D, & L really related to Donald?

Yeah, I know. It's just a cartoon. All made-up stuff from the mind of "Uncle" Walt. (Really? Why do we think of him as "uncle?" - but that's for another day.) Still, you have to admit there's seemingly no familial relationship between Donald and his "nephews." Are they the ducklings of The Donald's sister? Brother? Why don't we ever see Donald's siblings then, even a quickie shot of them dropping off/picking up H,D, & L at their "uncle's" house?

The more I thought about it - you see how my brain works here? - I think I have the solution. Donald isn't the biological uncle of Huey, Dewey, and Louie. No, there's a deeper secret here. H, D, & L are actually Daisy's sons from a previous relationship (perhaps with the Ugly Duckling?); thus Donald, as in all blended relationships, is known as "Uncle Donald." Wink-wink, nudge-nudge, you know what I mean , Being stuck with Daisy's brats while she's off doing God-knows-what with various drakes and ganders in Disneyville could explain why Donald is always in such a foul/fowl mood. Think about it.

And don't even get me started on Mickey's "nephews" Morty and Ferdie, Daisy's "nieces" April, May, and June, or Minnie's "nieces" Millie and Melody. How does Scrooge McDuck fit into the picture?  I think there's more to all of this than meets the eye. Sayin'. Such complex family relationships these mice and ducks have in the mind of "Uncle" Walt!

Now, if I could only figure out why Donald talks in his scrabbly voice while Daisy speaks like a human, I think we could get to the heart of The Donald's crankiness.

In Search of: A "Real" New York Dining Experience

I'm never sure of what friends visiting from out-of- town want when they say, "Let's go to dinner! I want a real New York City dining experience." Well, hm.

See now, I think I know what they're after. Probably something out of a 1940's Thin Man movie or maybe a hip Sex and the City place, but I have to admit that after living here for 7 1/2 years (has it been that long?), I haven't found those places, either. Or, more likely, I don't travel in those circles.

But trust me, friends, when I tell you that a "real" New York dining experience isn't either of those two scenarios. Want a real New York dining experience? Then grab a slice from the corner pizza dive. Plain cheese is only $1-$2, and the slices are the size of half a medium pizza anywhere else on the planet.

Or grab an environmentally-unfriendly container over the steam tables at a local deli and fill it up with - funnily enough - mostly Chinese food (you really have to search out a Jewish deli these days) and salads. Be mindful of "heavy" foods, because you'll pay anything from $6.99+ per pound at checkout. Live here long enough, and you'll know how to keep your container under a pound.

Or step outside, walk around the block, and see what food trucks are pulled up to a convenient curb. Hot dogs, Halal gyros and lamb platters, tacos, mac-and-cheese, and every kind of waffle/ice cream/doughnut concoction you can imagine are at your beck and call. Pretty much all of it well under $10 and most under $5.

So, yeah. Those are the real New York dining experiences. Somehow, I don't think that's what friends have in mind, though. Do they really want old-school Katz Deli, Sardi's, or the Russian Tea Room? The latest Daniel Boulud/April Bloomfield/Mario Batali venture or something in Chinatown or Little Italy? I'm at a loss.

And Atlanta, where most of the friends are coming from, is a great foodie town in its own right. I always have to think, "Can they have the same experience at an Atlanta restaurant? How is this different from a place back home?" Sigh.

What comes to mind when you think "real New York dining experience" (besides expensive)? Where would you like to eat in the City That Doesn't Sleep?

And I need to know by Wednesday so I can get reservations for Friday night. Thanks!

And Now for the Good News

My goodness, there seems to be a lot of bad news flying around these days. Biblical weather systems, massacres, global flare-ups, Miley Cyrus. Shit seems to be hitting the fan faster than we can wipe down the walls. All I can do is pray for those affected. No small thing, prayer, but it's hard to keep up with all the disasters.

So I propose turning off the poo-spewing fan and following the advice of Monty Python: Always look on the bright side of life. Instead of keeping up with the news, I will over-indulge in my family and good books and celebrate:

Voyager I! I mean, how 'bout that little thing crossing over into, well, who knows what? Launched in 1977 (just like "Annie Hall," "Star Wars," and "Saturday Night Fever"), this little teakettle is farther from the earth than the Sun and Pluto. Much farther. Just tickin' away into interstellar space, with its 70's technology, sending back sounds and pictures. I suggest that whenever the urge strikes to watch the news, just track Voyager I & II. More relaxing. Less violent. 'Way cooler.

Bob Newhart wins his first Emmy! How it took 50 years for this guy to win an Emmy, I'll never know. He is still screamingly funny (as demonstrated with his winning performance on Big Bang Theory) and always brings his A-game. In this age of horror and despair, I recommend a healthy dose of Bob Newhart. Watch his old TV shows. Listen to his classic recordings. You can find his great routines on YouTube. That's right. Turn off the news and turn on Bob.

Autumn! “Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.” - George Eliot. Cooler weather. Colorful trees. Corduroy. Caramel apples. Popcorn balls. Candy corn. Fall carnivals. Halloween. Then Thanksgiving. What's not to love? Instead of watching the news, start planning your Halloween costume, make some pumpkin bread, do something creative with autumn leaves.

Yes, I realize this is the ostrich approach to current events, but I believe it's the only way to save my sanity and blood pressure. Prayers will continue, but they may become less specific and more big-picture, as I track Voyager, laugh with Bob Newhart, and kick through colorful leaves.

If life seems jolly rotten,
There's something you've forgotten
And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing!

No Strings

The other night I got lost on YouTube for several hours, which is the main reason I try to avoid it. But I'd heard a snippet of one of my favorite songs from my teen years at the end of a TV show and wanted to hear the whole song. So, of course, I headed to YouTube.

The song? Chad & Jeremy's "A Summer Song" from way back in 1964. (It was a very good year for songs, by the way.) So I find it and get sucked in - not just by the memories that the song dredged up, but by the lush orchestration that included strings, brass, and some guitar pickin'. Ah, lovely, I thought.

And as always happens with my ventures into the black hole of YouTube, one song led to another and before I knew it, I'd gotten lost for three hours. I moved from Chad & Jeremy to Sergio Mendes &  Brasil 66's version of "Fool on the Hill" and the Fifth Dimension's "Up, Up, and Away" and "One Less Bell to Answer" to assorted Ray Charles, Roy Orbison, and - OK, I'll admit it - Barry Manilow. While, yes, many of these songs were ballads, many weren't. I hit ballads, dance tunes, upbeat, downbeat rock and roll, country, folk, and 60s/70s rock. And while these recordings employed plugged-in guitars, electric keyboards, and drums out the wazoo, at some point, full-on strings and brass moved in to grab me in the gut. And those strings still pull.

Now, I will admit that I don't listen to much new music. Ballads, if there are any, are smarmy and bland (and maybe ballads always are), and the upbeat stuff is all computer-generated thump-thump - perfect for club dancing, but not much for using as my background life-music. Maybe new music does employ more orchestral pieces than I give it credit for, but I'm missing it whenever I tune in.

Yeah, I do sound like an old fogey. But have we totally thrown over real live strings, brass, and woodwinds? Is it a result of computers or format-radio/satellite, something that keeps us in our own genre silos? Who knows? Or maybe I'm stuck in my own geezer-music silo.

Still, those violins really added something to the tunes. And that something seems to be missing now. A world with no strings is less rich. But, hey. "They say that all good things must end someday. Autumn leaves must fall."

Happy Birthday, Queen of Quotes!

Today is my beautiful, funny, loving mother's birthday. She died in 2004 and would've been 97. I miss her every day and wish she were here to be a part of our lives and to see her great-grand children. She had many funny quirks, one of which was her quote-sprinkled retorts.

Whether pulling from the Bible, Shakespeare (which she attributed to the Bible), or a mash-up of something she once heard, she was a great one for tossing out little proverbs and "Catherine-isms," instilling these sound bites of wisdom (or confusion) in her children. Must've worked, because we can still recite them.

So in her memory, a few of her favorites:

True politeness is to say the kindest things in the kindest way. (Usually said to me as I headed out the door to do battle with my 4th grade teacher).

Neither a borrower nor lender be. (Always attributed to the Bible, though we all know it's Polonius' advice to Laertes from Hamlet by that Shakespeare guy.)

To thine own self be true. (See above)

I knew of a man one time . . . (insert whatever we were complaining about) . . . and he died. (Yeah, she was a cut-up. No sympathy whatsoever.)

Gad poor Aleck! (Who knows what she meant? I think it was a sign of frustration.)

Well, Albert Sprouse! (Her reaction if we kept something in it's original box or packaging; refers to an aunt's boyfriend who carried his Bible in the box it came in)

OK, that's just a sampling. I left out all the Bible verses, as well as her version of "shit," which was about 15 syllables and drawn out so long that it lost all shock value. Still, she knew how to turn a phrase. Repeatedly. The fact that I can still quote her Catherine-isms is proof that she won the quote-brainwashing game.

So Happy Birthday, Mother, you Queen of Quotes! I love you and wish you could see all your sweet great-grand babies. And I trust that God and Mr. Shakespeare have straightened you out on the Hamlet quotes by now.

Secrets of the Garden

One of the benefits of living in Spanish Harlem is that I'm 5-minutes' walk from the top end of Central Park. I spend a lot of time in one of the real jewels of the park, Conservatory Garden. Most folk hang out in the much tromped-through lower and mid sections of the park and never get up to this series of gardens tucked just inside the Vanderbilt Gate on Fifth Avenue.

Since I had the day off, I took advantage of a new offering from Central Park Conservancy, a docent tour of Conservatory Garden. It was an opportunity to learn about the history of the Garden through the eyes of its curator, Diane Schaub, and included how seasonal displays are designed, planted, and maintained to shape unique sensory experiences throughout the year. 

 

The tour started at 10, a time I'm rarely in the park - I'm usually there late afternoon - so I literally saw it in a whole new light. We met at the Vanderbilt Gate, which is the actual gate for the old Vanderbilt mansion on Fifth Avenue (on the site of what is now Bergdorf Goodman), and leads into the expansive lawn, fountain, and wisteria-twined pergola.

Conservatory Garden isn't original to the Olmstead-Vaux design .From 1898-1934, it was the site of glass houses (conservatories) for various park flora). By the 1930s, the conservatories were in lousy shape and were torn down. The infamous Robert Moses had a hand in getting the garden going, with help from WPA workers for the construction and planting. Fun factoid: the planting plans for the garden were created by the aptly names Betty Sprout. Conservatory Garden opened to the public in 1937.  

The garden is divided into three types: French (northernmost, with my favorite young girls of the Untermeyer Fountain), Italian (center, the lawn and fountain), and English (southernmost, or Secret Garden), with the lovely crab apple bowers dividing them. 

Diane has curated the garden for 19 years, so she was the perfect guide for its history and seasonal plantings. She described the designing and planting as choreography, since everything has to constantly showcase seasonal color, texture, fullness, and height. She shared drawings of the current season's plantings, carried out by six staff gardeners and many capable volunteers year-round.
 
Perennials and annuals (and bi-annuals) are used, but always removed as the season demands (yes, even the perennials). The plants, seeds, and bulbs come from nurseries on Long Island, upstate New York, and New Jersey, many from seeds and bulbs gleaned from whatever's planted in Conservatory Garden.

I can't remember the names of all the plants Diane pointed out, though I do remember a couple of things. I liked learning that the tree-lined bowers on either side of the Italian Garden is made up of crab apple trees - two different types on either side of the walkways. They provide beautiful shade most of the year, but winter really shows off their twisty, multi-branch trunks. Also (and unsurprisingly), many of the plants are edible (Swiss Chard and varieties of sweet potatoes are used in the garden for color and texture of their leaves). And I didn't know that milkweed is an attractor of monarch butterflies (though it repels most insects). 

If you get the chance to join Diane's guided tour through Conservatory Garden, just do it. Make it a point to get to the northern third of Central Park to spend time in each of the sections of the garden. It is a Quiet Zone and bikes/scooters/skateboards aren't allowed. I love that you can find a shady bench, surrounded by spectacular plants, flower, trees, and fountains, and just think or read. Yep. Right in the middle of busy ol' New York.

 
Join the dance of the Conservatory Garden's plant choreography. You'll be swept off your feet.

 

The Sights a Girl Can See From Brooklyn Heights

About a year ago I discovered "Friendly Native New Yorker Walking Tours" when I was looking to expand on my own self-guided tours of the city. Over late spring through October, our guide Linda offers a range of  topics for her Saturday afternoon/evening walking tours for a mere $15 each, and believe me you get more than your money's worth. You'll walk and learn for at least 2 1/2 hours (usually running over 3 hours), as Linda fills you in on the people, buildings, and events of the tour topic. So on Saturday, I did not hesitate to show up at Brooklyn Borough Hall for Linda's Twilight Tour of Brooklyn Heights SOUTH: War, Churches, and Real Estate!

Yes, I actually crossed the East River and ventured off the Isle de Manhattan  to lovely Brooklyn Heights! I'd been there for a Brooklyn Symphony concert in April, got a taste of the historic area, and really wanted to learn more. Our group met on the steps of Borough Hall, a lovely Greek Revival edifice built in 1848. The building was Brooklyn City Hall until 1898, when the City of Brooklyn was merged with the City of New York and transformed from a city to a borough. (Brooklynites are still bitter about that, by the way.)

We covered the early Dutch history of the area, the British take-over, and Brooklyn's place in the American Revolution, which included a humiliating loss as well as a daring retreat across the East River to Manhattan under the cover of darkness to escape the Red Coats. We learned of movers, shakers, and real estate entrepreneurs like Hezekiah Pierrepont, whose good friend Robert Fulton made it possible to corner the mechanized ferry boat market, easily linking bucolic Brooklyn Heights to Manhattan.

Almost every famous American architect left his fingerprints on the southern end of Brooklyn Heights, with the most obvious examples being the beautiful old churches. St. Ann & the Holy Trinity Episcopal Church (now one congregation, but old St. Ann is still standing as part of Packer Collegiate Institute), Our Lady of Lebanon Maronite Cathedral (with great bronze doors rescued from the French liner SS Normandie), Spencer Memorial Presbyterian Church (now deconsecrated and a luxury residence building), the St. Charles Borromeo Catholic Church on quiet Sidney Place, and Grace Episcopal (Brooklyn cousin of Manhattan's Grace Church) all have interesting histories and spectacular architecture. Don't look for high steeple on these churches.

The buildings pre-date the subway system and once had glorious steeples, which had to be brought down as dynamiting began for subway construction in the early part of the 20th century. And I learned a new architectural term: ashlar masonry, which I shall now try to work into conversations occasionally. (Be prepared.)

The shady streets, brownstone and brick row houses, gated gardens, and trendy restaurants along Montague street afford for easy (on the feet and on the eyes) exploring. But it all culminates on the Promenade. What a view! The Statue of Liberty, Lower Manhattan, the Brooklyn Bridge are spread out before you on this wide, tree-lined walkway. We were there just as the city lights were coming on, and, wow!

Yes, you Manhattan babies must hop one of the 2/3/4/5 trains, get off at Borough Hall, and strike out on your own. Or look for Linda to offer another tour next summer. You won't even have to slink back to Manhattan under cover of darkness to avoid the Red Coats.


 

The Hopefulness of a Cigar Box Full of New Pencils

I kinda get excited this time of year. It's not just knowing that dreadful, hot old summer will soon be on its way, but it's that back-to-school feeling that's in the air. Now, I haven't been back to school or had a child going back to school in a long time, but something about the season makes me want to stock up on notebook paper, paste, and a rarely-used-but-always-required protractor.

Lots of kids hated to see the summer come to an end, but I always looked forward to heading back to school, especially the getting-ready part. In the run-up to the big day - always the Tuesday after Labor Day - we had a long to-do list to get through. We'd pick out fabric at the cloth store for a few new dresses Mother would run up on her sewing machine, then we'd hit the shoe store for a pair of new school shoes and perhaps a new Sunday pair as well. A new raincoat was usually in the offing - something with a hood, because I don't recall having to fumble with an umbrella - since we walked to our elementary school just down the street.

After the clothes were taken care of, the fun really started. School supplies! I don't remember teachers handing out a preferred list of supplies like they do today. Common sense told us we'd need new writing tablets for younger kids and a cool 3-ring binder with plenty of notebook paper for the older ones, a stash of #2 Ticonderogas (aka, pencils), a tube of paste (the kind that tasted good - oops, giving myself away, there), and a brand, spankin' new box of Crayolas (no off-brands, please). If our parents were in a good mood - in other words, if we were shopping with Daddy, we added in a pencil box or plastic pouch that fit into our binders, a box of reinforcements for our notebook paper, and perhaps a ruler.

Once the supplies were gathered, Daddy would set off to find the perfect container for our supplies, which was, of course, a fresh cigar box. I'm not sure where daddies got all these cigar boxes, but they always smelled heavenly (without the smoke!) and everything fit neatly inside. After that, we were ready to go.

The first day was a little anxious, as you checked the list to see which teacher you got and which of your friends would be joining you. But there was always that sense of a new beginning. You could start all over. This would be the year you would master cursive writing or learn all the states and capitals or conquer long division (which took me more than a year, I confess - yeah, I''m blaming you, Miss Abel). It was much more of a New Year's celebration than January 1.

From a mother's point of view,  I remember Kate's back-to-school experience as being much the same. I confess her new school clothes weren't fashioned on my trusty Singer and her school shoes were usually some kind of sports shoe, not leather loafers or mary-janes. But, still, yeah. The binders, the notebook paper and tablets, and pencils were always such fun to gather. And there was still the excitement of which teacher she'd get and which of her buddies would be in her class, or which new friends she'd have the opportunity of making.

I realize that back-to-school loses much of it's charm the farther from elementary school one gets in the educational system, but amidst increasing anxieties of middle and high school were hopefulness and new challenges to be met. Plus, always new 3-ring binders and #2's.

No more school shoes or cigar boxes full of new pencils and crayons for me, alas. Still, maybe I could use a fresh pack of notebook paper and a set of 64 Crayolas.

Now, where can I find a King Edward cigar box?

Self-evident Truths and Unalienable Rights

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

I have a challenge for you today, my fellow Americans. In addition to my annual plea for everyone to take a few minutes to read the Declaration of Independence (it's quite short, so it won't cut into your barbecue-time), think of three things that you love about your country. Instead of getting caught up in petty partisan hatred - and yes, it does seem to be hatred at the moment - focus on three things that keep us together, make us who we are (the positive) at this time and place in history. 

Don't get caught up in hollow bragging or boasting. Dig down for the real stuff. And don't wander off into the negative, the mistakes; save that for another day. Yes, there's a lot wrong. News flash: there always has been, because we're only - and always have been - human. Duly acknowledged. So let's shine a light on what we love about the United States of America today.

--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. 

A couple of months ago, I read Ron Chernow's George Washington. Things almost went to hell in a hand-basket after the American Revolution. It's a wonder the great general didn't throw up his hands and ride back to Mount Vernon to enjoy the life of a gentleman farmer. The arguments and battle of words and deeds among the new legislators sounded an awful lot like what we hear from Congress today. It was ever thus, my friends. So, like good old George, we just have to get up every day trying to make things better - encouraging civil discourse and new ways of doing things - to ensure the foundation holds.
 
And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

Now, how can you ignore that pledge? Go out and celebrate the greatness of our country today, and save your bitching for another time. Happy Birthday, my country!

So Long, Little Tin Pin

It's just a little piece of bendable metal. For 42 years, the white M on a colored circle has been the wearable token that let you roam through the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And while there was a recycle box at the exit , most of us kept all those colorful little pins. Collect 'em all! That was my motto.

But now, the Met is retiring the pins for economic reasons, switching to throw-away-able paper stickers. Sigh. The march of progress, I guess.

I spent the afternoon in the Met. When I walked in and showed my membership card, the woman at the desk handed me a purple metal button and said, "The last one." I almost teared up. Yes, silly, I know. But that iconic M stamped on a colorful disk has been a friendly little piece of art and proof that I was keeping up my culture quotient.

I have a little wooden box filled with lots of pin colors, though by no means all of them. Every once in a while, I find one or two in the bottom on a purse. Now, I will cherish this very last purple button.

So long, little tin pin.