Easter Morning

When I was small, we had a little brick path that followed the side of our house, weaving between a narrow garden and the hedges and forsythia bush. I remember walking this path after church one Easter morning and the crocuses were just starting to bloom. It looked like a garden of Easter eggs.

Friday Night Video

Tonight's video is a clip from Pee Wee's Playhouse. I used to watch this every Saturday morning with Helaina and Rachael, often while bouncing each of them on my knees.

Things seemed a lot simpler back then.

Stories Of My Youth

I had a flashback just now, back to my days in Boy Scouts- actually, Cub Scouts, to be specific. Maybe it has something to do with the weather being so nice outside and I have my window open. From across the street, I can hear screams and laughter from the school yard as the kids play outside. Or maybe it’s because it’s close to Easter. Whatever the reason, I had a flashback.

Before I begin, let me first say that I have great respect for people who are in Scouts- kids and adults alike, but I was not what you might call “Cub Scout Material”. Being in Cub Scouts involved working with other people, having an amount of creativity and all too often, it involved some kind of physical activity. All of these things were against my nature.

I’m not sure how I ended up in Cub Scouts. I know it wasn’t my idea. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Dad’s idea either. Many years after the Great Scouting Experiment crashed and burned, I remember Mom making some remark, probably to Dad, about how she thought Dad didn’t help it any by his snide remarks. These weren’t her exact words, but it’s close enough. If Dad had been making snide remarks, I don’t remember them. And anyway, they would have been completely unnecessary as it was already clear to me that I was getting volunteered for something that I wanted no part of.

Maybe this scheme was to get me to make friends, maybe this was to teach me something. Most likely it was to get me out of the house... and anything beyond that was a bonus. Whatever the reason, I knew it wouldn’t work- not because I was going to prove it wouldn’t work, this implies some amount of effort was involved. I knew it wasn’t going to work because it would severely conflict with my screwing off time, and that alone doomed it to failure.

Despite all my complaining, or maybe because of it, I got forced into it anyway, along with all of the humiliation that was included.

Not all of it was bad. There was the night that all of the troops (or "packs" or...something) were, for some reason watching some movie in the auditorium of Harris School. I don’t remember anything about the movie, naturally, other than there were some guys on a boat and at some point, they were eating chicken. For some reason, Bruce Kempton and I found this hysterical and despite trying to stifle our laughter, the Scoutmaster finally had to stop the movie.

Dad was with me and never got mad about it, which is another reason I love Dad. And I suspect as I write this, that Mom might have been right in her remark to Dad. But if he tried to sabotage things, I don’t think it had anything to do with me. Knowing Dad, he would have been the only person there that was even less interested than me in being at Harris School- let alone on a weeknight.

Anyway, another thing I liked about Scouts was something called the Pinewood Derby. For the Pinewood Derby, every kid was given this little block of wood about 10 inches long, along with some wheels. It was our job as Scouts to carve this block into something hopefully resembling a car, and then paint it. Then we would all race against each other to decide who the losers were. On the night of the big race, I remember the elaborate wooden track getting set up, once again at the Harris School auditorium, and racing the cars, maybe 6 or 8 at a time. This went on through multiple rounds of elimination. I never went past the first round, but that was ok. What I liked about the racing was that each round devolved into people getting pissed off and wanting it done over- along with yelling and allegations of cheating- not by any of the kids, but by the fathers. So, that was pretty cool.

Other than that, pretty much everything else was a lesson in humiliation- rope climbing, playing sports- you name it. All of these things, my brother would have been great at, which is to say, I was not.

One of the most humiliating things was fundraiser time. This is where you had to lug a carton of candy around and knock on doors and try to sell a box of chocolates for a dollar. I made it half way around my neighborhood and gave up. I sold one box (not carton, but box), and I think it was to Dad. I’m pretty sure that after he paid for it, I ate all of the chocolates.

My failure at this exercise was reinforced at some similar get together like the Pinewood team building exercise, except it was during the day, and outside. The people who were best at mooching off of their neighbors and those with the most free spending relatives were richly rewarded with merit badges and recognition. I was rewarded with recognition too (“Wait, he only sold one box? You mean carton?” “No, I mean box!”), but no merit badge.

This humiliation was second only to a performance we had to give in front of the other troops- once again on the stage at the Harris School auditorium. The idea was that each troop would come up with some sort of skit or demonstration to perform on stage in front of everyone else. My Den Mother was Jacky MacDonald’s mom. I remember liking her well enough and she seemed to really care about us, so I’m not really sure what went wrong. With the distance of time, I’m wondering if she and Mr. MacDonald had just gone through the nastiest divorce in the world and she now thought all males were scum. I’m not saying she was wrong, but I’m curious as to why she hadn’t come to this conclusion earlier.

Anyway, Jacky MacDonald’s Mom’s idea for this event was that we were all going to make Easter Bonnets and have a fashion show... No, I’m not kidding. I’m not convinced that this would have been a good idea for a pack of Girl Scouts, but I knew even then, especially then, that this was definitely a bad idea for me. To make it worse, if that’s possible- I’m not even sure that it was anywhere near Easter.

So, while the other troops spent the weeks leading up to the big night practicing their science experiments or refining their judo skills, my group spent our time in Mrs. MacDonald’s basement decorating our felt fedoras with fake jewels and day-glo colored feathers while we tried to fight off the constant feeling of nausea mixed with borderline hysteria.

Finally, the big night came and all of my weaseling-out skills had failed me. I remember having to line up with my troop back stage, waiting as the kung foo fighters finished up before us. I remember resigning myself to the fact that there was no escape at this point, and finally donning my purple fedora decorated with bright yellow feathers. I remember the applause from the audience as the kung foo fighters finished and filed off the stage and our troop was announced. I remember us having to go out on stage- one at a time (Yes, just to make sure this was as absolutely painful as possible, we were not allowed the comfort of hiding behind each other. We had to face the firing squad as individuals). I remember the announcer (i.e. Mrs. MacDonald) calling our names one by one and as we stepped into the spotlight, and she commented on our hats, using adjectives such as “smart” and “stylish”.

And I remember when it was my turn on stage and all I could see was the bright spotlight and being made to turn around and my head was swimming and I was thinking, “This must be what it feels like when you drown”.

What I don’t remember is what the audience’s reaction was. Were they remotely impressed? Was there stunned silence? I have no idea.

After many long years I have successfully managed to block it from my mind. But as I sit here, I wonder why I’m thinking about this now. I think it has something to do with both Easter coming up and the way the weather feels. And, unfortunately, I have the uncomfortable feeling that it also has a lot to do with the screaming and laughter that I’m hearing from the kids outside my window.

Food for Thought

All of this is from my drawer at work. Everyday I fish through these to find the broken open box of staples or a loose paper clip from the empty box that long ago scattered it’s contents amongst all of the other junk in my drawer.

I’ve held onto this stuff longer than I should have, and I’m a little surprised to see how much of it I have. I’m sure at one point I figured I could use some of it to spice up something else that I was having for lunch. But in the rare instances where I even eat lunch lately, it usually ends up being a cup of noodles- and it doesn’t occur to me to go rooting through the paper clip drawer to find some condiments to liven up that already exquisite dish.

I know when I first tossed these in the drawer, part of me felt like these were going to come in handy some day. I figured if I was ever stuck at work over a prolonged period time (whether due to a snowstorm or nuclear attack), I, at least, would survive longer than my coworkers- they having died after begging in vain for just one ketchup packet- which I would have denied knowing anything about, despite my ketchup stained lips.

It seemed like a great idea at the time, but now, I’m hesitant.

As I look closer at these packets, I see there is a possible flaw in my master plan: I have no clue how long this stuff has been in the drawer. I’m not so worried about the taco sauce, since the last time I was at Taco Bell was only several months ago. And even if none of these were from that particular visit, I’m pretty sure they’re all within Taco Bell’s strict fourteen year expiration date requirement. Besides, I don’t think taco sauce ever really goes bad. It’s the other packets that I’m worried about.

To begin with, the mustard doesn’t look quite right to me. I’m no expert on this, but to my color blind eyes, these don’t match up to any of the several hundred varieties of mustard currently crammed into my refrigerator. And I notice that on several of the packets of ketchup, the ketchup is starting to eat through the foil side. This is almost never a good sign.

Out of all of these, the mayonnaise seems to be in the best shape... but who knows? I’m never completely comfortable even buying mayonnaise off the shelf in the grocery store- there’s too many things that can go wrong when something's made with raw egg yokes and it’s left sitting on an unrefrigerated shelf. Trust me. This packet is impossible to see into and it seems to be ballooning slightly. Maybe it was that way when I got it, but maybe not.

There’s some numbers at the bottoms of each of these packets, but none of these numbers make any sense to me. The mayonnaise, for instance, says “”5171106-001 4”. What the hell does that mean? Do they hope that if they find the half empty packet next to my cold, lifeless body, they can alert the public to be on the lookout for this condiment number? Why isn’t this an expiration date? Isn’t all food required to have one? Have the anti-government regulation zealots succeeded in having this job killing expiration date requirement removed from condiment packets so that the job creators can get back to their real work of focusing on the economy?

Whatever the reason, I’m left with a pile of condiments that I can’t bring myself to throw away but I’m too afraid to use. I could put them back in my drawer, but I think for now, I’ll just leave them in the break room.

Bedtime Stories

Favorite books from my childhood that I read to my kids...

Why I Love the Beatles

Just four guys. No back-up band. No theatrics.

Friday Night Video

I grew up (physically, that is) in the suburbs of Boston. A large part of the weekend mornings of my childhood was spent watching a show called "Boom Town". As a kid, I liked the host, Rex Trailer. As an adult, I've been even more impressed by him. Mr. Trailer passed away at the beginning of this year. There's a nice right up of him here. He was an extraordinary man, as you'll see if you take the time to read the article.

The clip below is not from his show, but instead showcases some of his many talents.The world could use more people like him.

Betty

I saw Betty at the grocery store the other night. It must be 10 years or more since I last bumped into her. The last time I saw her, she was coming out of CVS while I was heading in. Back then, we chatted for a few minutes. This time, I didn’t bother to say hi. It’s been so long, I’m sure she wouldn’t recognize me, let alone remember that we briefly worked together over fifteen years ago.

Years ago, a division of the company I was working at was going through its death throes and since I was lucky enough to be staying on, it was decided I would move my office to another division. This other division was in an old building about a mile away. I knew a little about the place, but not much. When you walked into this place, you would first go through a small vestibule and then go immediately into the main office. The main office was a large room divided by some old grey filing cabinets, interspersed by three or four older steel desks. Betty sat at one of these desks, the one over by the door. The owners, Abby and Duane, sat at two of the other desks. Abby was the daughter of the former owner. Duane was her husband. They were in charge.

My new office was was on the far side of this room, as far from Betty as you could get and not be out in the shop. This new office had been a former closet that someone had attempted to clean out in preparation of me moving in. As closets go, it was pretty big, even with two desks occupying the space. It would have been worse if my direct boss ever showed up for work, but since he seldom did, I had the space pretty much to myself.

Anyway, the door to this closet was left open all day long. And even though I couldn’t see anyone in the main office, I could easily hear them talking to each other throughout the day. The monotone of Duane’s disembodied voice was usually the loudest, not because of his bartone but because his desk was closest to me. And even though Betty was the furthest away, I could hear her all day long, helping customers or answering her bosses in that sing-songy voice of hers.

After a few days, it was pretty clear to me that Betty was the lynchpin of this operation. I would hear Duane call out to Betty asking her something like where the paperwork was for some customer account and Betty would know right where it was. Or Abby might have a question about payroll and Betty would know exactly what to do. When a customer would call or stop by, Betty would always have the right answer. Not only would she have the right answer, but it was always delivered in the same sweet, polite, manner. I don’t know how long Betty had been with the company but I know it was a lot longer than I had been there, and I had been with them for over fifteen years.

After being there about month, the outside office conversations slowly became the white noise that anything tends to turn into when you’re around it long enough. One day, as noon approached, the machines from the shop wound down as the workers out back stopped for lunch- just like they did every day. From the office, I heard Abby and Duane get up to leave for their lunch, just like they did every day as well. I heard Abby say, “We’re heading out for lunch, Betty. Be back a little later.” “Oh, don’t worry.” Betty said. “I’ll be here all day.” This, apparently, was amusing to all. Duane and Abby chuckled as they left through the small vestibule.

With Duane and Abby gone, and the machines silent, this was the “quiet time” of the day. A minute or two of silence passed and then, from the outer office came... “THAT’S IT! I’ve had it with this effin* place! This is B.S.*, I’ve had it, I’m movin’ to Florida. I can’t stand this effin place anymore! Who the eff do they think they are? Eff them! Eff this place! I’m done! I’m outta here! I’m going to Florida! Efffff this!” ( *Betty was using the expanded form of “Eff”. Same with “B.S.”)

What the hell was going on out there, I wondered. Did someone come in? Who’s she talking to? I sat in stunned silence for a minute, afraid to make a move. Finally, when I thought it was safe and I started to exhale, it started all over again. “Eff them and their effin’ three hour lunch! This is B.S.!” ...and on it went.

When it finally seemed to quiet down after the fourth or fifth time, I worked up the courage to take a peek into the office to see what was going on. Barely leaning into the doorway, I could see no one was there. No one except Betty. Was it possible that she didn't realize she was saying those things out loud? Did she know I was still there? It didn’t look like it, but who knows?

This performance kept up for the whole “effn’” three hours, until Duane and Abby came back from lunch. “Anything happen while we were out?”, they asked as they sauntered by Betty’s desk. “”Nope,” Betty sweetly replied, “It’s been pretty quiet.”

I began to wonder if this really happened. It was like a switch had been thrown. The rest of the day, or what was left of it, played out like the morning- uneventful and, well, normal.

The next day, it was the same thing all over again- as it was the day after that, and the day after that and on and on. Why had I never heard this before? Was there some probationary period going on when I first moved in?

After several months, I moved on to another company and I lost track of Betty- until some five years later when we talked outside of CVS. She asked me how I was doing and I told her. I asked how things were going for her and apparently they were going pretty well. Yes, she was still working at the same place, but not for much longer it seemed. She had made up her mind. She was going to be moving to Florida. I acted surprised- not being sure if I was supposed to be aware of her rants from the years before. I told her it sounded great and wished her luck.

That was the last I saw of Betty until the other night. There she was at the grocery store, surveying the fruit. I felt like I should have been surprised to see that she was still around, but I wasn’t. I watched her as she seemed to be checking out each and every orange and I can only guess that she was thinking about how much better the oranges must be in Florida.

Ars Gratia Artis

Another one from my private collection-

Title: "Rachael Lying On The Beach"
Artist: Rachael, Age 5
Dated: October, 1994

Wrong Number?

I had a missed call on my cell phone the other day. It was from a number I didn’t recognize. When I pressed redial, a gravelly voiced woman picked up on the other end and barked: “House of Corrections”. Assuming it wasn't an inmate, I told her that I just received a missed call from that number. She “politely” informed me that she had “no way to know who that was!”. After a chilly 1.5 seconds of silence, I thanked her for her help and hung up.

Afterwards, I wracked my brain trying to figure out: a) Who do I know that might have been arrested, and b) Who would have been foolish enough to waste their one phone call on me?

Since I had just returned from Mom’s, I was pretty sure it wasn’t her, so I went back to watching TV.

So far, no one’s called back.

Ok, You Win. Now Put Them Back On

I see in today's news that Madonna is calling on the Boy Scouts to drop their discrimination against gays. Nothing surprising about that. What I did find shocking was that apparently she didn't use the occasion to once again strip off her clothes in some bizarre show of support that only makes sense to her. I guess that alone is worthy of getting her name in the news.

Another One From the Scrapbook

This is one of my all time favorite notes. I had been at my "new work" for a little over a year when this was written. On this particular day, it was Helaina's turn to come to work with me. Back then the day would be spent drawing on over-sized paper, playing on the computer, visiting the vending machine, playing with some wood scraps and eventually going to lunch at Friendly's ("frenalies") before stopping at the mall and heading home.

Friday Night Video

This wonderful feature is from the great Fleischer Studios, produced in the early 1940's (well before my time). I loved watching these as a young kid and I remember being captivated by how different and how much better they were than the cartoons of my day. These were moody, with dramatic angles and lighting. The motion was so fluid, so different from what I was used to watching on Saturday mornings. Oh, and these were made back in the day when Superman's "S" still had a black field behind it instead of yellow, which to me was a better fit. And he didn't fly, he leaped, as he originally did in the early comics- again, before my time. For some reason, I thought leaping was much cooler than flying- it was more interesting and certainly more challenging.

Whatever TV channel they were on, they weren't on for long. After a brief period of maybe several months, they were gone. Maybe it was due to the relatively small handful that were produced. Whatever the reason, thanks to the modern day magic of the internet and DVDs, young children do not have to suffer the pain and loss that I endured.

This one runs about ten minutes. Prepare to be thrilled.

Ars Gratia Artis

From my private collection-

Title: "Man With Shorts On"
Artist: Jakey, Age 5
Dated: October 6, 1997

Thought for the Day

It make me uncomfortable when I make eye contact with myself in the mirror.

Rainy Day

Waiting for Rachael.

Small Talk

I just had a fascinating conversation with a co-worker, if "conversation" is the right word to use when only one person is doing the talking. It seems that the kitty litter that he's using just isn't doing the trick. Oh, it releases the heavily perfumed smell as advertised, but unfortunately it does nothing to mask the underlying offensive odor. Believe it or not, this is actually making it worse!

I'm not necessarily complaining that I'm hearing about all of this, but I'm curious as to why someone would bring this up at all. Is this your biggest concern at home? What makes this a topic that you think anyone might be interested in, let alone me? It's not like I own a cat. Was this on your mind when you came to work or is there something about me that reminded you of this? Maybe I just have "that look".

The sad thing is that I found this more intriguing than almost anything else I've had to deal with today. And in some weird way, I'm wondering what the next installment will hold. Will this be a continuing story or will there be a dramatic conclusion? Something tells me this saga is far from over.

Another Friday Night Video

Another blast form the past...


And by the way, is it me or does Gumby's father bear a disturbing resemblance to the leader of North Korea?

Seconds Please

I'm sitting here at lunchtime thinking about the visit to the hardware store that Sam and I made the other day. We went to get a new shade for the hall and while we were killing time waiting for it to get cut, we were looking at the various foods and feeders in the bird food section. I'm reminded of this because as I eat yet another cup of shrimp flavored noodles for lunch, it occurs to me that these "shrimp" look almost exactly like the bag full of dried meal worms I saw there.

From My Scrapbook

When I was a kid, I ran errands every Saturday with my Dad. The first stop was always this bank. Dad would lift me to watch the tellers as they pressed the keys and pulled the lever on their giant adding machine.

This postcard is from (slightly) before my time, but except for the old cars and the stop light in the center of the intersection, I remember it to be exactly like this.

Daylight

It's nice to finally see some signs of daylight as I head into work, ready to face another awesome day!

Leftovers

One of the many treasures buried in  my car.