Kiddies' Fun Day

                Combine lazy days of summer, little kids, an amusement park and anything can happen.

 I recall back when you could still find a few cars with running boards along the sides, my town’s police department hosted “Kiddies Fun Day” at the local amusement park.  Somehow, amid the crowds and rides, I lost track of my mother and, ever the obedient child, found one of the many policemen who were there that day and explained my plight.

            He asked me to describe my mother. Without hesitation I declared she was “fat, grey and wearing a pink skirt and red blouse.” Now Mom was not fat and the only grey in her hair was a deliberate stunning streak of white; the pink and red outfit was one of her many stylish “ensembles.” After the police announced my name, a woman came forward to fetch me. She was my mom’s cousin Barb, but because I rarely saw her, when the policeman asked me if I knew her, I said “no.” – and he gave me to her!

            As soon as I spied my mother coming towards us, I let go of Barb’s hand and ran to hug her. Unfortunately, the sharp end of the barrette in my hair scraped open her cheek while we embraced. Later, as we were leaving, a policeman standing near the exit started to laugh.

            “I don’t think it’s funny!” my now totally aggravated mother exclaimed.

            “It’s not that, lady.” He shook his head as he continued to chuckle and muttered “fat, grey, pink and red.”

            Right then, my mother accidently turned the wheel just enough to lodge the running board on a rock. The narrow platform then sheared off while she drove forward. As she pulled into our driveway fifteen minutes later, congealed blood on her cheek and her hand grasping the  running board as it knocked against the side of the car, my father ran forward, asking “What happened?”

            With a bit of a growl, she said three words “Kiddies’…..Fun……Day.”

Fifty Pianos on the Run

            Last week, I stood in the room where I once played in piano recitals. Although time has altered the room’s purpose, its unchanged appearance brought a flood of memories.

             Long before two world wars marred the twentieth century, my then teen-aged Grandfather learned to play the French horn in Kaiser Wilhelm’s army. At the beginning of the twentieth century, my grandparents emigrated from Germany to America where Grandpa found work in the tool and die industry. Still, he never lost his love of music and was determined his daughter would become the professional musician he never could. To that end, he purchased a baby grand piano made by Aeolian Company in East Rochester (if you’re into makes and models of pianos) and made my mother practice three hours a day. Mom, a pretty terrific pianist by the time she graduated high school, couldn’t wait to find a job and finally have some fun. Grandpa, disappointed she did continue her musical education, declared she would never take possession of the baby grand UNLESS she had a child who played piano.

             My fate was sealed before my father even met my mother.

            The year I turned seven and could count up to six (kids progressed slower in the mid 20^th century), she had my dad knock out a wall in our small post war bungalow, so she could nestle the piano between the dining and living rooms. It was there I practiced “only” an hour each day for the next ten years while Mom became the neighborhood piano teacher and joined the National Piano Teachers Guild.

            One year the Guild joined forces with a music store to present a huge concert in the city arena. The store supplied fifty pianos and the Guild provided one hundred students. Mom paired me with one of her students and the two of us joined the other forty nine duos as we practiced our piece for weeks. We were all jammed in a room that was crowded with pianos on the second floor of the music store. Again and again, one hundred kids sweated through that piece while the conductor waved his baton and counted out loud. I can’t recall the name of the composition but I do remember that performance.

             We all began together, on the right note and the right beat. Things progressed well until somehow the tempo quickened. We started to go faster. I knew we were ignoring the conductor, but if I slowed, I would have tripped up the others. Instead, 100 kids played faster and faster and faster, like a runaway train, until we all finally crashed onto the last note.

            Many years later, when I resumed piano lessons, my teacher suggested I play in a recital. I smiled sweetly and said, “I’m an adult now and can say…..absolutely not.”

             

Dandelion Revisited



            I cannot tell a lie. I don’t like gardening. The only plants I purchase are perennials because I want to plant only once. I dig a hole, stick the plant in the ground, add water and pronounce: “Good luck. Live or die, you’re on your own – bona  fortuna.” And that’s that. You could describe my landscaping as “the Darwinian Style.” In other words, it’s the survival of the fittest in my yard.

            That explains my effort to upgrade the lowly dandelion from weed to flower. You will notice that  flowers need coaxing to thrive. Weeds just bloom where they’re planted and where their seeds wander or fall from the claws of birds.  I think their heartiness rates applause. They’re low maintenance.

            Of all the so called weeds, only the dandelion looks pretty with its bright yellow flower. Given half a chance, these hearty blossoms will spread a golden carpet over lush green grass from one end of your yard to another. Low maintenance.

            But that’s not all! One can make wine out of the dandelion, which I am told is quite tasty. Not only that, the dandelion greens added to a bit of olive oil and garlic can be savored alone or made  to grace a salad. If you are still not convinced the dandelion rates an upgrade, consider that the University of Rochester – a leader in science, medicine and fine arts - adopted the dandelion as its official flower. Yes indeed! The University even celebrates “Dandelion Day.”

            Now really, what more evidence do you need to protect these hearty flowers from becoming an endangered species? Why attack them like Enemy #1?

            I mentioned my philosophy to Good Neighbor Dave who lives next door. He agreed a dandelion salad is just delicious and kindly invited me to help myself to all his dandelions. Hmmmmmm. I wonder if that conversation went in the direction I planned.

           

Always a Crime Fighter

            When we were dating, my future husband wrote me unique letters. The best part was his hand drawn cartoon about the adventures of “Chicken-man, the Crime Fighter.” Chicken-man was a plucky forensic chicken who experienced many adventures.

            My real life crime fighter certainly had his adventures but he was no chicken.

            One afternoon he stopped at a popular watering hole in the city for lunch. The place drew saints and sinners alike. There were representatives of the legal professional as well as their customers who were not currently in “public residence,” so to speak.

            Gene was sipping his after lunch coffee when the waiter wiped a nearby table and held up a small clear plastic bag, about the size of a large postage stamp. He waved the thing in the air for all to see the white powdery contents. No one looked up at what was clearly a street drug.

            “Does this belong to anybody?”  he asked. Without hesitation Gene approached the waiter.

            “I’ll take it.”

            He left the restaurant and drove to the lab, all the while checking his rear view mirror. He tested the little white goodie and sure enough, heroin.

            Someone’s “tip for the waiter” ended up in the right place! Chicken man indeed!

Homely

            I like the word “homely.” My dictionary says “homely” means not attractive or good looking. Yet it’s the secondary definition that appeals to me: simple or unpretentious; plain, and finally, characteristic of the home. People tend to value perfection and unblemished beauty, which is understandable, but I think those qualities have their limits. A wild flower is exquisite even though it waves its petals over hard scrabble ground dotted with weeds.

            Reality is homely. We treasure cracked china cups because they remind us of our grandparents who brought them out on special occasions so friends and relatives could sit around an old scarred kitchen table to celebrate a special event. Or, what about the faded quilt with the too large quilting stitches – far less than the desired twelve to an inch? Homely. Not quite perfect…isn’t supposed to be.

            I find a lot of homely items when I browse the antique stores. They appeal to me because I remember many from my childhood. For me, an antique becomes more desirable with a homely edge to it. I recall my father flipping down the side of the metal toaster to turn the bread over to toast the other side and I remember pink plastic transistor radios. These things aren’t pretty; they’re even a little ugly or funny looking now, but they make me smile.

            Have you ever seen a dog or cat so quirky looking you had to love it?

            Homely has a place in our lives. It has its own wild attraction. Things that are homely don’t demand much from us. We don’t need to polish or insure them. They are a large part of the fabric of our lives and perhaps we lose something when we discard them for something perfect.

           

Birdbrain at Work

            I’m worried about the cardinal bouncing on the holly branch across from my husband’s office window. Every few seconds, she flies toward the window pane, flutters against the glass and returns to her perch. She returns every day to her branch and repeats the attacks for hours, never concluding she is getting nowhere, will never accomplish her task and really should move on and get a mate or a life – whatever it is that makes a bird happy. 

            We assume she sees her reflection and thinks she is approaching another bird. On the other hand, if she is seeing what’s IN that room behind the window, she may be entertaining thoughts of nesting. Goodness knows there’s enough stuff in that room to make a bird want to move in and stake a claim for life. 

            As I’m tisk- tisking about her little bird brain draining her energy and time in a fruitless endeavor, I realize there may be a lesson here for me. I want to tell the bird, “move on and get a life; you’re getting nowhere here!” Instead, I think it would be wise for me to direct that pearl of wisdom back to myself. For years I’ve been cajoling, begging, encouraging – OK nagging- himself to clear out his man-cave. I’m like that little bird, making one useless foray after another.

            I’m no birdbrain. I’ve got it now. I’m moving on.

Life With a CSI

            My husband Gene was a CSI long before the occupation became popular. Years ago, he needed to explain what a “forensic chemist” was to someone who asked what he did for a living. Of course, after forty plus years in the crime lab, there are stories – lots of stories and many are downright funny.

            One cold wintery evening, Gene gulped a quick dinner before leaving in a blizzard to testify at night court in a rather distant county. His car no sooner disappeared into the swirling white mist, when the district attorney called to inform him the proceedings for that evening had been cancelled.  This was before the era of cell phones so I had no way to call my honey back to home and hearth. I did what I thought was the next best thing.

            Knowing he would need to take the Interstate for a bit, I called the State Troopers and began with,”Now I know this isn’t an emergency, but….” Since troopers bring evidence to his crime lab, it did not seem unreasonable to ask them to help their colleague. I got a tired, “we’ll do what we can lady, but….” from the officer on the line. “Just keep an eye out for him when you patrol, that’s all I ask.” My request seemed quite reasonable to me.

            A bit later, Gene opened the door and chuckled as walked into the kitchen. It seems he arrived at the courthouse and decided since he would be the last to testify he would kill some time and enjoy a banana split in the local diner.

            “I was sitting there with my ice cream and out of the corner of my eye I see one state trooper car after another drive by with lights flashing. I thought it must be a raid or something. When I got back to the courthouse, there was a trooper standing by his car.

            “Where were you?” he asked me. “We were patrolling for you. The court was cancelled for the evening. Your wife called us.”

             Then there was the time………….