Pining for Christmas

Christmas 2014 walked up to me this morning and tapped me on the shoulder and said hello.

And I said hello back.

At 5:30 a.m., as I was taking Parker for his daily stroll, I walked by our neighborhood firehouse. The lawn was full of Christmas trees for sale; stiff and straight, branches held with twine like closed umbrellas, they leaned against yellow sawhorses, waiting for eager purchasers.

It wasn't so much the sight of them that started to stir my Christmas spirit. It was the scent of them, the musky, green smell of fresh needles and sticky sap.

As a youngster, I don't remember buying the family Christmas tree, mostly because we weren't privy to that particular piece of the holiday magic. See, when we were kids, Santa brought everything: presents, trains, decorations and yes, even the tree.

My brothers and I would go to bed Christmas Eve with exactly two things in place in the house, our stockings and the creche. 

When we awoke Christmas morning, St. Nick had not only fulfilled our every wish, but he had festooned every corner of the living room with spangly, sparkly specialness.

As I got older, I was let in more on the behind-the-scenes prep, and Dad would take us to the local fire station and buy a tree there.

Our tradition of putting the tree on a platform, with a ring of trains around the base, made purchase a bit difficult. We could not manage the seven-foot behemoths that were dazzling to the eye. I can still hear Dad saying, "Eight-foot ceilings minus three feet for the platform means no bigger than a five foot tree." It's a mantra I still employ when we shop for our own tree now.

When my older brother was in high school, he was part of a volunteer crew that worked at a nearby special-needs school. As a fundraiser, the school sold trees every year, and in return for donating his time, he and the other students got their "pick of the litter" when it came to Tannenbaums. He would bring home the most picture-perfect trees I have ever seen.

The tradition of obtaining a tree morphed as the years went on. When Eileen and I moved to Montgomery County, we were very near a tree farm that enabled cutting our own. Mom and Dad would accompany us, and we finished the day with a hearty lunch. These outings were eventually accompanied by grandchildren. Dad and I often teased about how little we paid for our trees; "Mine was only $10," he would joke.

"Wow," I'd counter. "Mine was $12, but I got it drilled and baled for nothing."

"Hmm. You drive a hard bargain." **wink**

Welcome Christmas. You're beginning to stir my heart once more.

Coasting...

Rite of passage for our family this past weekend.

In turning 18 in September, Claire had one request for her birthday. She wanted concert tickets. Having never been to a mass-audience, big-scale, arena-type night of music, she wanted to go.

We bought her tickets to Demi Lovato at the Giant Center in Hershey, Pa.

The logistics were daunting. I would have to take a half-day vacation to leave enough time for arrival before the 7:30 show. And then, because I had 0 interest in attending the concert itself, I would cool my heels in the parking lot for the intervening hours until the show was over.

I wasn't looking forward to it but was willing to make the sacrifice.

We pulled into the Giant Center somewhere before 7 p.m., and I sent Claire and her giggly-with-excitement friends inside.

Within 10 minutes, nature called. 

I banked on the fact that I could get into at least the lobby of the Giant Center without a ticket to use the bathroom. No soap.

I walked toward the adjacent Hersheypark, which looked dark in the distance. Between the Giant Center and the park was a public bathroom, and I made that destination my immediate priority.

Afterward, I decided to keep walking toward the park, just to stretch my legs.

When I arrived at the gate, it was bustling with people. Hersheypark was holding a Halloween-themed opening, advertising the rides and shows as a "Park in the Dark" experience.

I thought about how to fill the next four hours and decided immediately to buy a ticket. The price was a little hefty ($38), but the boredom relief made it worth the expense.

I entered amid an array of Halloween-themed decorations and troops of toddlers in costumes. The carousel was ablaze in lights (and swamped with riders), but I was happy to hear that the carny-like music was Halloween tunes (ala, "Purple People Eater"), set to an oompa beat.

I wandered a bit, just to see what was open and running and what was not. The coasters were in full operation. The waterpark was not. 

I love rollercoasters. But at age 51 (almost 52), I am now a little more hesitant than I used to be. The last time we were in Disney, I rode both Rock-n-Rollercoaster and Expedition Everest, and each time, just prior to launch, I sat there and looked at the teenagers I was sharing the ride with and thought, "What the heck am I doing here?"

But the thoughts were always short-lived, as we rocketed forward.

And at the end, I loved those coasters. So the opinion of what other riders thought of me didn't really matter.

Some of that feeling still followed me to Hershey, so I hesitated a bit.

Coasters remain one of the only "boardwalk"-style rides I can do anymore. I have never liked anything spinning, even as a kid. So now, a half-century behind me, they are absolutely out of the question. But for some reason, coasters -- even those that flip riders upside down -- are still within my comfort zone.

Eventually, the call of a wooden racing coaster was too difficult to avoid. I figured it was a good starting point and that I would make a decision on what else I was willing to try after successfully tackling one of the older models.

I strapped myself in. It was a great ride; as if this old, slatted beauty was saying, "I may be retro, but I can still give a kick."

Boy, could she ever.

Having delighted in one, I couldn't resist the call of the others. The finally tally for the night was five: Three wild wooden ones and two high-tech steel ones.

The Hershey event ended at 10 p.m., and as the crowds made their way to the exit at the end of the night, I walked away with my pulse still pounding from the thrills of the night.

Demi Lovato... Two thumbs up for the night of entertainment you provided.

As Thumbs Go, Decidedly NOT Green

My hands are currently an itchy mess.

They're also caked with a pink salve that is supposed to stop the itching and heal the soreness.

Last weekend, I was back in the garden.

Major mistake.

First a little history: I hate gardening. I hate everything about it: The back-breaking work, the sweat, the swarm of gnats that tries to push itself up my nostrils as I'm working. The existential conundrum that tells me that as soon as I pass over a patch of lawn with a mower, that those persistent little grass shoots start growing all over again. Same with the weeds that I yank out of the soil. It's the nightmare of the Myth of Sassafrasyphus.

I'm not even thrilled with the results. Not a big fan of sculpted hedgerows or rose bushes clipped into the form of swans.

Our home has a bed out front that runs just about the entire length of the house.

Over the years we've owned the home, this has become a battleground. Our builder had a few plantings in there, mostly to boost curb appeal. But over time, none have proven very hearty. We swapped a bush here for a ground-covering plant there, but nothing that would get us the cover of House and Garden.

We've gone nuclear in there as well: Yanking out every formerly green thing in the bed and "starting over." I remember a weekend spent dragging out the cloth weed barrier that the builder put in. It was like wrenching an ancient carpet that had been permanently glued to a hardwood floor. 

And then there was what our girls now refer to as "Mulch Day." We would get a Mount Everest delivery of mulch and spend a Saturday spreading it everywhere. The girls would "help," which meant sprinkling chips with their out-of-season plastic snow shovels, but at the end of the day, it was usually just me... out there... alone... and miserable.

I've weeded, seeded, watered and worried. 

And after a while, I've given up. 

Mind you, it's not exactly in my genetic code to care that much about green things. As a kid, lawn-cutting duties were passed from my dad to my older brother, from him to the middle brother, and from him to me.

To whom I was able to pass off onto... exactly nobody!

So I soon began to resent my time behind the mower. Delving into home-ownership for myself didn't mitigate the pain.

We reached a point where we would pay someone to care for the bed for us, and I would watch with a mixture of understanding sympathy and barely contained glee as a crew attacked our weeds and overgrown bushes. I marveled when, as they finished, the front of our home no longer looked like 1313 Mockingbird Lane.

But this luxury was swept away by budgetary crunches. The past few summers, we weren't even mulching, in an attempt to keep finances under control.

This year, however, there was sufficient room to purchase a few bags of mulch. And last Saturday, after Eileen expressed utter disgust at what the bed had become (a weed-a-torium!), I rolled up my sleeves, donned some gardening gloves and dug in.

Several hours later, with the beginnings of a backache nagging, I was finished. And I'll admit it looks better. But now, I arrive home and give a glance and think: If I see one friggin clover pop its ugly head above that mulch, I'm attacking it with a shotgun!

Thus far, the clover and other weeds are keeping a low profile.

But they have had their revenge. I know what poison ivy looks like (thank you, Mom Cub Scout Den Mother). And I did wear gloves by working. But somehow...

Ugh.

 

Time Capsule

The idea that this blog could potentially sit here in cyberspace for decades intrigues me.

A lot.

I think of my grandkids reading it.

How cool is that? The ability to read family history first-hand?

How I would have loved for my ancestors to have had this ability.

My father's father was a master at telling stories, but so many of them now are blurry in my memory.

There was some tale he loved to tell about taking the train to the Jersey Shore and departing for home on the same railway, toting a bag of live crabs caught in the bay. Apparently, the bag wasn't secured, and the crustaceans escaped, crawling among the passengers with clicky-clacky indifference to the mayhem they created.

It wasn't Snakes on a Plane but, rather, Crabs on a Train. Coming soon to a theater near you.

But the details are gone, taken with him.

Same with his story about getting a ticket down the shore for appearing on the beach without a shirt on.

And his recollection of the common practice of renting a bathing suit when he'd go on a day trip. Not only was hygiene not much of a consideration then, but neither, apparently, was comfort. I remember him telling us these suits were wool and that they never quite dried out from the swimming activities of the prior occupant.

Ick.

But the thing I find cool is that unless this whole interwebs thing collapses in a heap of 3G junk, my words will stretch forward into history.

An electronic message in a bottle.

So hello, Weckerly grandkids. Enjoy the year 2050. I'll be 87, Lord willing. I may ramble with my stories by then. Or I may be gone altogether. But they'll be here. Waiting for you. Stop by and listen to my voice.

Before you hop in your flying car.

...lucky stiffs!

 
 

Title, Please

Movie-geek hat is on again today, folks.

I love a movie that will grab me from the very titles. If a filmmaker has taken the time and expended the artistry to come up with a memorable title sequence, I'm all in.

Here are some of my favorites:

One Hundred and One Dalmatians. I think this was the opening of my eyes to what a title sequence could be. The marriage of imagery and content (colorists' names are brought on with a wash of color, etc.) was first brought home to me here, and I've been paying attention ever since.

Pink Panther series' titles were also clever and funny.

One of my dad's favorite films of all time was the mega-comedy It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World. The credits are terrific. Thank you, Saul Bass.

 

Beetlejuice has the advantage of a great Danny Elfman score playing underneath. The spider gag at the conclusion surprised and delighted me when I first saw it.

Speaking of great themes to accompany a movie's opening, I've always loved the Mancini score to Charade. Again, take a bow, Mr. Saul Bass.

 A clip does not seem to exist on YouTube, but The Adventures of Tintin have a sequence something like that for One Hundred and One Dalmatians. I like the John Williams score, too.

Here's a recent favorite, The Adventures of Tintin.

And last, for pure laughs, here's The Naked Gun 33 1/3, The Final Insult. Artful silliness.

  

And as far as end credits go, The Incredibles takes the cake.

 

Decade of Destiny

I'm almost through the six episodes of CNN's The Sixties, finding it an incredible trip through a watershed decade that I barely remember.

Having been born in late 1962 (very late, December 27), my recollections are understandably fuzzy. I was in the crib when JFK was assassinated and only heard the stories of that day from my mother, who reportedly wept at the ironing board as she watched the wall-to-wall coverage.

Vietnam was played out for me more in 1970s color than 1960s B&W, with Walter Cronkite telling my parents just how bad it really was.

And as far as civil unrest, I remember seeing coverage of what I've come to learn was the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. As a five year old, the sight of fire hoses and teeth-baring dogs was frighteningly beyond my understanding.

The CNN retrospective, however, has filled in a lot of gaps. The details of Dallas were known to me, especially after I visited Dealey Plaza on a business trip, and found it an amazingly small crucible for such a sea change in America. (Side note: The Texas School Book Depository Museum, however, is highly recommended.) But somehow, seeing the reports of that weekend strung together in an unbroken thread of disbelief made the impact more palpable, especially when insult met injury in the killing of Oswald.

I'd also obviously studied the civil rights movement and again benefited from the first-hand experience, having visited Memphis, again on a business trip. The preserved room of the Lorraine Motel and the attached National Civil Rights Museum told me a lot about the struggle. But the CNN coverage underlined the violence and hatred and reminded me that the quest for freedom almost always involves the payment of a huge price.

The remainder of The Sixties involved the British Invasion (which, passed me by, too, as I remember more of the druggy Beatles than the moptop Beatles) and television, which did catch, for obvious reasons, in my consciousness. Lost in Space, Batman, I Dream of Jeannie, My Three Sons, and others of their ilk are common threads in my childhood, either first-run or in syndication.

As the upheaval of the 1960s was fully dawning on me in my teen years, I remember asking my mother: "With all the horrible things going on, the assassination of President Kennedy, of Martin Luther King Jr., of Bobby Kennedy; with the seemingly non-sensical war in Vietnam; with the race riots and burning cities... how did you hold it together? How did you not go running into the streets screaming?"

I'll never forget her response:

"Many of us did."

 

All Comes Out in the Wash

I recently had the pleasure -- and by pleasure, I mean responsibility, and by responsibility, I mean soul-crushing duty -- of needing the services of a laundromat.

Our dryer went on strike. The drum would still tumble, but the motion was accompanied by a metallic shriek that echoed through the entire house and scared the dog.

Thinking that discretion was the better part of valor, we pulled the plug.

But in a house with three girls who can't seem to wear an outfit for more than 10 minutes without tossing it into the wash, and a Labrador Retriever who has an affinity for slopping into rain puddles, causing a steady rotation of towels through the laundry, doing without was not an option.

And for some reason, my idea to string a clothes line across the backyard and let Old Sol do the heavy work was met with equal measures of scorn and laughter.

Go green my eye!

So for about two weeks, the drill was to send the clothes through the washer (still operational, thank you), load the damp output into laundry baskets and shlepp it to the laundromat for the industrial-sized dryers there.

I am not unfamiliar with the charm of the local laundromat, unfortunately.

About a year ago, our washer went on the fritz, and for the same reasons noted above, deferring laundry for any length of time had to be avoided at all costs. So armed with a fistful of quarters taken from my coin-saving jar (which always seems to get raided, despite my assertions to the family that it is to be used only to collect coins that we will someday redeem on a trip to Walt Disney World), I entered the magical world of do-it-yourself commercial clothes cleaning.

It's a weird place, especially for a male. I got a lot of stares. And side-glances. And smiles from women I didn't know or want to know. Kids were bouncing around, and I was reminded about what a lousy place a laundromat is for kids.

A claim I make from experience.

You see, beyond my recent exposure, I've got history with laundromats.

Back in the Stone Age, when our family vacation consisted of two weeks in a crackerbox of an apartment in Ocean City, NJ, Mom would schedule one day -- and one day only -- for a trip to the laundromat. Among the amenities our seaside palatial estate did not have (air conditioning, post-1953 furniture, more than one bathroom), laundry facilities were one of the most dearly missed. We were promised year after year by our landlord that they were "...coming next year for sure!" But they never arrived.

So the jaunt to the laundromat at the shore was a yearly ritual.

It was also hell on earth.

And why I was roped into this particular chore, I'm not really sure. Without fail, the designated day sported outside temperatures and humidity levels in the triple digits. So entering a cramped room where dozens of hot air dryers were humming in unison made comfort impossible.

Mom would stake her claim, and I remember a lot of jostling and elbows, getting two machines next to each other. She'd fill the drum, jam in her change, toss in soap and shoot the slot home.

My recollection is that the machinery was spacious, but achingly slow. Processing a week's worth of laundry for a family of five took the better part of an entire morning. I remember being placated by the purchase of a few comic books from a grocery store next door, but not even that pacifier was really sufficient, as the stock seemed to comprise nothing but that wimpy Richie Rich brat.

 Dump. Sort. Wash. Dry. Fold. Repeat.

It was dull at the shore.

And it's even duller at home, where there was no promise of "hitting the beach" when finished.

Luckily, our dryer at home has been repaired, thanks to an able fix-it guy who replaced a melted ball bearing. 

So we're now back in fluffy operation under our own roof.

And my change-jar is again safe.

Unless, of course, I get a sudden urge to revisit Richie Rich comic books.