Time Travel

Famously, physicist Stephen Hawking pointed out: “The best evidence we have that time travel is not possible, and never will be, is that we have not been invaded by hordes of tourists from the future.” Can’t you just see that event happening: “Hey Madge, look at this, people used gasoline to keep their cars on the road instead of using banana peels to keep their cars in the air”.

Jack Finney wrote one of my favorite time travel books, Time and Again, in 1970. The protagonist, Simon Morley, is asked to participate in a time-travel experiment developed by Dr. Danziger for the government. (Right away you know there is going to be a problem. When has government involvement ever improved anything.) Simon travels back to 1882; lands inside the Dakota in NYC. Grover Cleveland is President, the Statue of Liberty is sitting in pieces around the island, waiting to be assembled and real babies are drugged and used in department store windows for marketing purposes. As the story evolves, there’s a secondary plot regarding a historical murder, steeped with mystery, that includes a blackmail scheme and a massive fire. The murder mystery itself reverberates through the years to the present. Last, there is Danziger’s touching tale of his parents’ first accidental cute meet at the theater in 1882, which led to their subsequent marriage and, of course, to him.

As anticipated, Simon falls in love with 1882 and with Julia, but Simon's descriptions of the World Wars, the uprising of Castro (and the book’s historically accurate depictions of these events) cause Julia to want nothing to do with the 20th century. Simon wants to live with Julia in 1882 but the government will not allow Simon to do so. Danziger, in the interim, likewise has come to disagree with the government’s handling of his program and how it wants to change the past for a better future. Much drama and plot twists ensue, until Simon recalls how Danziger famously talked of his parents’ first accidental meeting, so you know which way this book will wrap up. 

Could there be a movie or two here, you say to yourself. Absolutely. Remember Somewhere In Time, one of the most romantic time travel movies of all time. Christopher Reeve lives in the present. Through some fluke in the universe, his character lands in 1912 and falls in love with Jane Seymour's character. My heart ached every time that 1979 penny appeared and sent him away from her. As an old lady, in his present, she asks him to come back to her. Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini; still one of the most haunting compositions by Rachmaninoff, plays throughout the movie. How can anyone not believe in time travel after reading that book and watching that movie?

Some years ago, we arrived at Mackinac Island via ferry, where the movie was filmed. I stepped inside the Grand Hotel hoping for some residual magic; ghosts traversing through fairy dust motes, sailing between the afternoon sun’s changing rays, but the only thing we discovered was that the Grand Hotel did not have air conditioning and no car traffic was allowed on the island. It was hot and humid and we walked or rode a bicycle. 

Another book, Einstein’s Dreams by Alan Lightman, in a collection of short stories, discussed Einstein’s theory of special relativity, which suggested that time passes at different rates for different people. One story tells how time travels so slowly while waiting for an engagement with a pretty girl, and how quickly time passes once she has arrived, while another story about a world without a future takes place only in the present. The stories are all about ‘what if’ time does this and that happens or if time does that and this happens. Also, the book is not long, so there isn’t much chance that your brain will explode with all the new thoughts and ideas that the book may counsel. 

One of Lightman’s stories is about the same day taking place again and again with different outcomes at the end of each day. How many times have we said to ourselves ‘if only I had done this, or done that’, the outcome would have been so different. Are there movies to coincide with Lightman’s book. As expected, there are dozens of them; remember Groundhog Day, Edge of Tomorrow, or Run Lola Run. And, in fact, if I had not waited an extra five minutes, I would not have met my husband, but I did wait and have been the happier for it. Time was on my side. 

Recently I emailed a very old photo of our school crowd to a friend. His immediate response was: “who says time travel is not possible”. We were both right there again, in that picture, young and fresh, on the brink of adulthood, with our entire lives in front of us. Is remembering a moment in the past the same as time travel. “If we could do it all again, would we, could we. . . . “ When we look up at a star, we are not seeing it as it is in the present, but as it existed millions of years ago.

Scandals

 Scandals abound all over the world and have done so since the first printing press became available to the masses, or at least to those who could read. The current celebrity scandals appeal to the most salacious gossips, with sex tapes, divorces, rapes and all manner of like prurient interests to such an extent that they have become ordinary. Likewise, on the other coast, every once in a while, a congressman or senator will be exposed as a skirt chaser and the country will again be shocked and appalled at the lecherous and lewd behavior of one who is supposedly the role model for his constituents. And a politician sleeping with a spy is not limited to this country. The Profumo scandal of the early 60’s made its way around the world. But really, there is no scandal like a royal scandal to whet the voyeuristic imagination. Ah, the whispers, the rumors, the innuendos, the ‘dare I say it out loud’ tidbits. While Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s son, was undoubtedly among the first to promulgate such scandalous misbehavior, it wasn’t until King Edward VIII came along, who really gave the world something to talk about. 

By all accounts, the soon to be King Edward VIII, the playboy prince, thoroughly enjoyed the privileges of his princely station. He was handsome, possessed of a serious “trouser snake” and enjoyed the charms of many a lady, single or married; married was even better, less entanglements. Unfortunately, he did not relish the idea of becoming king with all the duties that the role involved and was, in short, as shallow as a saucer. He found his royal duties quite boring and, most alarming for parliament, more often than not, ignored them. A year after his ascension, parliament was pulling its hair out. He felt the same. Wallis Simpson, twice divorced and an American, was the perfect antidote to his regal miasma. In desperation to remove himself from the royal throne, he declared that he could not rule without his love, Wallis, by his side and would not rule without her as his wife and queen. 

Winston Churchill came to his defense: “Why shouldn’t the king be allowed to marry his cutie.” While Noel Coward argued in opposition: “because England doesn’t wish for a Queen cutie.”

As is generally the case, there is a woman behind the man. The woman in question was Elizabeth, soon and forever to become the beloved Queen Mum. She was married to George, Edward’s younger brother. She realized that if Edward abdicated, George would be king and she was most unhappy about that outcome. She was very protective of her beloved husband. He was not in the best of health, he was shy, he stuttered, he had not been prepared for the role that was about to be foisted upon him. Their, and their daughters’, lives would forever be changed. And she was ticked off. No shy retiring English rose was she; she made clear that it was not advisable to incur the wrath of her prickly thorns. She turned to the Archbishop and the Prime Minister demanding a severe outcome if Edward abdicated. 

So, when Edward declared that he must wed his American twice divorced cutie, and step down from the role of King, Elizabeth pulled the royal strings taut. While Edward thought he would step down, then continue partying in his usual fashion with his cutie wife and anyone else who might discreetly catch his fancy, his younger brother King George, and his wife, had other ideas. The new King made it very clear that if Edward wished to continue to receive his very substantial allowance, it would not happen in merry old England. He must leave the country forthwith and not return unless and until invited to do so. Rut-row. (Elizabeth’s Cheshire smile could almost be seen throughout the entire British empire.) Ouch. Edward could not give up his allowance; how would he live in the manner to which he was so accustomed? There was nothing for it, so off to Paris he and his cutie wife went. 

And they lived the good party life in la belle Paree, that is, until they didn’t. The war came along and spoiled everything. There they were, with the Nazis about to march into Paris. “I say, Pardon me”, as he stood on the shores of Calais, waving to his English relatives. “What about me? Please, may I come home. They are bombing the country around here.” This war was inconvenient but ultimately, he thought, this could work out well for them. After all, once home, it would be awkward for the Crown to toss them back out again. Or so he thought. But wait, the Queen (she who must be obeyed) had other plans. She was determined that they would not step foot on English soil, ever! Instead, he was made Governor of the Bahamas and they spent the rest of the war on the islands, without air conditioning. 

After the war, he and his cutie returned to Paris where they lived for the rest of their lives. He was returned to England only after his death, as was Wallis, laid to rest beside him. 

There were certain, albeit minor, parallels between Edward and Wallis’ royal scandal and Charles and Camilla’s royal scandal but the latter paled in comparison to the former. What’s a tampon amongst friends. As the young are fond of saying: “TMI”.

Telephones

 “Operator, will you help me place this call. . . . “ My country grandparents’ long wooden crank telephone was affixed to the wall in the hall off the kitchen. My grandmother would ring to let the operator know that she wished to place a call. A party line served the local community, which meant that the operator could listen to the conversation as could any other nosey party line member. When visiting, even my brother and I would pick up the phone to hear people talking, giggling away until an adult caught us or we got bored with the conversation and hung up.

We lived in a city big enough to support individual private lines. Each year we would receive a free telephone book that listed the name, address and telephone number of just about everyone who owned a telephone. Today telephone books are history as is a busy line, 411 for information, 0 for operator and collect calls. Growing up, these features were ordinary, as were station to station and person to person calls. Also ordinary were the pranks that we kids could play: “hello, do you have Prince Edward in a can? You do? Then let him out”. 

Speaking of arcane, we owned a plain obsidian Blakelite rotary dial telephone that was almost impossible to break. Ours sat on a small wall table in the hallway and was only used to make local calls. Long distance calls were ridiculously expensive and were made only rarely. After returning home from family visits, dad would place a person to person call to himself to let our family members know that we had arrived home safely. In hindsight every switchboard operator was kind enough to allow people to continue with the ruse. 

In the early 60s there was a noir TV show entitled Richard Diamond; a private eye who counted on his sultry voiced answering service operator during emergencies to save him. We never saw Sam’s face, only the back of Mary Tyler Moore’s head and her very long and shapely legs. The switchboard operator’s role appeared so vital that I wanted to be an answering service operator when I grew up. Good thing that romance ended with the TV show since the last cord switchboard closed in 1983.

As a teenager, I would wait by the phone for ‘him’ to call, or calling a girlfriend only to be told that we could not talk for long because ‘he’ was supposed to call her. We couldn’t tie up the line. Vicki Carr singing “Let It Be Him” was meant for all lovelorn young ladies. Everything required so much more time and patience, especially since young boys did not appear to be as talkative as girls. That is undoubtedly why the phone company came out with ‘princess’ telephones and not ‘prince’ telephones. 

Somewhere during the 80s, answering machines came into vogue and became extremely popular. It was so exciting to come home to a blinking light. The days of waiting by the phone were over but the disappointment was still as great when the machine reported “no messages”. 

While living in Europe, I was surprised to learn that all public telephones required a token instead of directly depositing coins. I could buy a handful of tokens and use them as needed. It was a very handy novelty as far as I was concerned. I was never interested in the logic behind tokens as opposed to coins so I never asked; now I wonder. 

Agent Smart clearly was ahead of his time with his shoe phone and his car phone. Cell phones arrived with their instant gratification, thereby removing the last remnants of romance and mystery from telephone conversations. I remember a young man saying that he was not keen on cell phones because his girlfriend called him frequently, which he liked, but he was disappointed too, in their constant communications. He said “It doesn’t give me a chance to miss her.” He longed for the excitement of meeting and catching up because they hadn’t spoken for a day or two. I understood; his remark was sweet and poignant.

Has the technology for anything in our everyday lives changed as much as telephones. Even now, I can pull a coat out of the closet and know its age by the size of the inside cell phone pocket. 

Most Embarrassing Career Moment

 Like everyone, I’ve experienced many embarrassing moments in my life, some big, some small: the run in my pantyhose, the goop that I sat on that ruined a dress, the wrong word said at the wrong time (a lot of those), the mistaken turn onto a one way street, the late date, the forgotten date, etc. 

However, one of the most embarrassing moments of my entire career occurred during the first big case to which I was assigned. I was so thrilled and so terrified. The case was the biggest in the office and required maintaining a discovery calendar, coordinating with co-counsel, preparing and arranging subpoena services with state sheriff offices, informing local counsel, various court reporters and reserving hotel conference rooms for depositions, among other duties.

One day, though, a very rushed attorney, while waiting for his plane, called and asked that I notice the deposition of Van Buren for the following month. Of course, I said, equally rushed; I had another attorney standing in my office, spewing forth even more urgent instructions. In short time, I duly prepared the deposition notice of Martin Van Buren. 

A few days later, I received a phone call from one of our more caustic co-counsel, calling to say that he and other members of the steering committee oftentimes remarked on my superior abilities to keep all aspects of the discovery process organized and commending my extraordinary skills (wow, coming from this guy, particularly known for his acerbic wit, this was a huge compliment; I was practically dancing in my seat) and he was most impressed with my superior subpoena powers that could raise the dead (what? wait, what?). He had a couple of cases where this ability would come in very handy and he would greatly appreciate it if I could send him the relevant citations. (Oh dear, oh dear, what had I done?) He finished by barking confidently that the eighth president of the United States would undoubtedly not present himself for this seance, and then unceremoniously hung up. 

The color did not just drain my face, it left my entire body. I almost fainted, unable to breathe. Horrified, utterly horrified, I sat frozen to my chair. After my heart finished racing and my initial muzziness subsided, I remembered one of the first rules of law, that almost anything can be fixed once it is realized. Plus, once I told my problem to someone more senior, it became that person’s problem. 

I sprinted down the hall to talk with the most junior associate to explain my predicament — out of office. I ran to the next senior associate, who likewise was out of office. I headed upstairs to the junior partner. Again, no one home. I was left with only one option — the senior partner on the case. Unfortunately, I had never met the man. I felt like Dorothy about to confront the Great Wizard. My fear was palpable.

To make matters even worse, his secretary was a mean spirited, spiteful old battle-ax who had worked as his gatekeeper for more than twenty years and hadn’t any problem sneering at me while cackling her “no!” at my request for an audience. She made it clear that he was a very important senior partner who had no time for the likes of a mere paralegal such as myself.

Dispirited, but wily, I noticed that it was nearing the noon hour and everyone knew that she left her desk 15 minutes before her appointed lunch hour to visit the ladies room and primp so that she would be ready when her scheduled lunch hour officially began. I hovered out of her range of vision and when she left her desk I sprang, knocking on his nearly closed door and boldly marching into his office. 

He looked somewhat surprised but said nothing when I walked up to his desk and quickly introduced myself, explaining, in a high pitched, rapid paced monologue, what I had done to find myself in front of him. I did not stop talking until I completed the entire sordid story, including the co-counsel’s humiliating phone call and my stealthy circumvention around his secretary. After I was done, he sat quietly for a moment, staring at my sorrowful face while my entire, short, life flashed before me. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head and I watched, wide eyed and silent, as his entire body rocked with laughter. After he’d calmed, he remarked on the courage that it must have taken to come to him. I thanked him, somewhat disconcerted, hoping that my career was not about to come to an end . . . maybe. He then explained how to prepare an amended notice for the deposition of Robert (not Martin) Van Buren and shooed me out of his office before his secretary returned. He confessed that he was as afraid of her as I was.

In later years I came to know him as a kind and patient man, oftentimes with a twinkle in his eyes. And somewhere along the way, I learned that he had served in the United States Army Air Corps during WWII and had spent years as a prisoner of war at Stalag Luft III. My best guess is that an inane event (like noticing the deposition of a dead president) was an amusing diversion compared to his past life experiences. 

As I became more experienced in my career, I was approached by a local university to teach, pro tem, paralegal discovery procedures. In class, I was very clear that attention to detail was first and foremost in this profession and used the above story as a prime example of what not to do, anytime, anywhere, ever. 

Trains

 Occasionally, summer would find us boarding a train to visit with relatives in far flung places. Trains provided the biggest dose of sensory overload that my brothers and I had ever experienced. We were starstruck; the giant black steel engine revving and raring to go, the accompanying smoke billowing from seemingly everywhere, the bells, the toot toots, the conductor barking instructions; so much to see and hear. Our little brains could not absorb it all fast enough. 

And those were the days of dressing up for travel. Mom wore one of her best outfits, making all her little clucking noises about staying neat and clean while simultaneously trying to corral my older brother and me. Dad, in his blue serge suit, held my baby brother in his arms, hoping the kid wouldn’t throw up on his jacket. Safely ensconced in our seats my brother and I would then scrimmage for the window seat. 

At the time, we were oblivious to the subtle niceties of train travel. Our Pullman seats were firmly cushioned and clean with removable headrest covers. The windows were clear and bright with pull down shades. None of that mattered to us. We were too taken with watching the baggage cart handlers and the people rushing around to find their correct car. The constant movement of people and carts and luggage was enthralling. We heard the conductor call “all aboard”. When the train finally began moving we were so excited we could barely squeak with delight, much less talk.

Once the train was rolling, a redcap walked by to ask our parents if their needs were being met. Shortly afterwards, a conductor came by and punched their tickets. We were so taken with the outdoor moving landscape and the indoor human landscape our little eyeballs didn’t know which way to turn. In due course, though, the steady clack clack clack rhythm and the train’s side to side movements caused us to fall asleep, a much hoped for eventuality by our parents. Hours later, upon arrival, we were delighted and disappointed at the same time. We had arrived at our destination but what had we missed while we slept, we wondered. 

After my school years were over, I hopped a plane to Italy and, after visiting with relatives in Rome, I purchased my first Euro rail pass to visit other countries. To my surprise, European train interiors were designed differently. There was no center aisle, no open seating. Instead, the main corridor was located at one side of the train, with separate compartments that seated six. Sliding glass doors allowed only nominal privacy since anyone could park themselves in an empty seat. Luggage was placed in the overhead rack. The compartments were comfortable but not plush. Back then, trains stopped more frequently. Border crossings meant more officials coming by and checking papers and passports. 

This was the beginning of my ‘grown up’ journey into adulthood. As the year went by and I became more used to the mores of European travel, admittedly the initial thrill of train travel did diminish but I always enjoyed the company of new friends that I made along the way. Oftentimes we exchanged home addresses and the heck of it is that some of those people remain my friends to this day. I remember returning to America with only one regret, but I still live in hope that one day the Venice Simplon Orient Express will count me as one of its customers.

Chickens

 The eternal question of which came first will not be answered here. When my brothers and I were deported to our maternal grandparents’ farm in Woodstock for the summer, we spent our first days running around the farm exploring, marveling at the machinery in the barn, chasing the cats that kept the rodents at bay and wondering at the vegetables (who knew they grew out of the ground) and flowers that were my grandmother’s domain.  The peonies and hollyhocks were her pride and joy; such resplendent colors; much better than any Crayola color set. 

And I remember a very large chicken coop that housed a couple of dozen chickens and a couple of roosters. Those were some lucky roosters. I would stare at the menagerie through the chicken wire for hours, fascinated. Real live chickens, with feathers and beaks. The only chickens I had ever seen in the big city were dead, plucked and hanging or bagged. These hens were plump, round, live and mean. 

Every once in a while the two roosters, Foghorn and Panchito, would eye each other warily but kept to their own territory, more or less; a certain detente prevailed between them. Nonetheless, I often wondered about their conversations: “Did you see that new young redhead?” “You mean the Rhode Island Red? Crow. She’s no spring chicken.”

Each morning my grandfather rose with the dawn to tend to his various chores, ending with feeding the chickens. He had a sack of feed in the barn from which he’d collect a metal panful, venture into the coop and spray the seeds on the ground. The chickens scurried around him, pecking the ground hungrily for their daily meal then would spend the rest of the day scratching for any leftovers. Meanwhile, as they ate, my grandfather nimbly and unobtrusively raided their roost for eggs. Once the eggs were collected he “flew the coop”. 

Like my grandfather, I woke with the roosters’ calls. I’d scramble downstairs and follow my grandfather outside, asking too many questions at too early an hour. Oftentimes I asked to feed the chickens with him but he always answered that I was too little. I took umbrage regarding my stature. I was almost four feet tall. I repeatedly claimed to be big enough. I was sure that I was big enough, I said again and again. Finally, one early dawn, to shut me up, he relented. He allowed me to enter the coop behind him even though he was sure that it was a bad idea. I grabbed a handful of seeds from his pan and looked at what I held in the palm of my tiny hand. Wanting the moment to last, I proceeded to dole the kernels out two or three at a time. The chickens weren’t having any part of my miserly handouts so they pecked at my legs, clucking and demanding more feed. I wasn’t having any of their sass so I screamed and kicked at the chickens who were taking chunks of my body for dessert. No part of this scenario sat well with my grandfather who, horrified, immediately lifted me up above the line of chicken beaks. My screeching and the chickens’ cackling brought my mother and grandmother racing out of the house to see what was the matter. Me sobbing wildly, legs bleeding, while my grandfather held me by the armpits was not a picture that made any sense to them; a resounding round of recriminations ensued. My poor grandfather was no match against three generations of extremely perturbed women. Red faced and dejected, he had no alibi or defense as he carried me to safety, apologizing profusely for what I had done. After all, he couldn’t very well blame me. I was only seven years old. 

To this day, whenever I have the chance to eat chicken, I take my revenge.

Snow

One late summer day my parents took me to visit my paternal grandparents in Timmins, a small town located above the tundra line. After a week of calling on old friends and neighbors, my parents hopped in the car and unceremoniously waved goodbye to me. Wait. . . what? I was five years old.

And so I went to Kindergarten in Timmins. October brought the first snow and the snow seemingly never stopped. I was less than four feet tall so in short time the snow was piled higher than me. It was ordinary to walk to school through snow gulleys so deep that I could not see over them. I counted on my very lanky grandfather to navigate us through the snow canyons. For fun, I would walk right into a snow drift, then wait inside my little igloo until my grandfather found me.

High school winters brought tobogganing parties. Winston Churchill Park provided a two tier tobogganing ride that could launch an errant rider into the stratosphere if the toboggan was not carefully navigated. Fortunately, the deep snow provided a cushion for a somewhat safe, albeit ungainly, landing. City snow was unlike country snow. It was just as pretty while falling but did not provide the same quiet peace of a country road. Nonetheless, I still had to crunch through it (five miles, uphill, both ways) to get to school.

All grown up and living in Los Angeles, I learned to ski on the aptly named Mammoth Mountain; 11 thousand feet high and 3.5 thousand acres of ski runs, although, ironically, the only people who appeared to know about it were the denizens of Los Angeles. While waiting in a lift line, the common question strangers would ask each other was “what part of LA are you from?” 

Annually, we would spend a week long vacation at other ski resorts in the Rockies. During one trip, after occupying the day skiing the various slopes of Aspen, we ended, as pretty much did everyone, at the Little Nell outdoor pub for some well earned hot munchies and cold adult beverages. After a few toddies, the couple with whom we were sharing our vacation suggested a visit to a local shop to look at an outrageously expensive ski outfit. Still dressed in our heavy ski gear, we ambled awkwardly to the shop, the inside temperature of which was the equivalent of a sauna. In a very short while, the combination of roasting indoor temperature, the smell of ski resin, the sweaty ski outfit and full bodied toddies left me much hotter than was at all comfortable so I wended my way outside to enjoy the cold air. It happened to be the blue hour of the day. Aspen village was covered in the silver grey blanket of dusk. Twinkle lights surrounding shopfront windows punctuated the landscape and cast a soft glow on the snow covered grounds. To a less than sober individual, the tableaux was magical. I was taken with the glittery glamor of the moment and delightedly wandered through it. The shops were beautiful and ‘exclusive’. One jewelry shop had an exquisite lapis lazuli watch displayed in the window. Cold sober I would have kept walking, but I was not, so I did not. I entered and asked to purchase the watch, handing my credit card to the keep. The watch was quickly polished and activated on my behalf, then placed on my wrist. While I admired it, the folded receipt and card were quietly slipped to me, after which I was quickly shown the door. As I walked out, still admiring my new purchase, my husband and friends called to me, having been searching for me with some concern. I eagerly showed them my new watch. My girlfriend greatly admired it while my husband asked about the price. The price? Uh, I wasn’t sure. Both men looked through my pockets for the receipt while my girlfriend continued to express admiration and, of course, wanted one too. As she and I looked back at the shop, the keep was pulling down the shades, turning off the lights and turning on the sign that said “Closed" while beneath it, in smaller type read "No returns - no refunds”. 

I do believe the term for this moment is “snow blind”. 

Fun Names

While watching an old movie the other night, I was amused by the exchange between a child and an adult. The adult asked why the child’s goldfish was named Harold. The child responded that she had named it after the angel Harold. “Harold?” “Yes”, the child explained: “Hark, the Harold angel sings.”

I remembered a scene from The Glass Menagerie, where the young ingenue tells the ardent swain that she has plurosis. He mishears and thinks she said blue roses. Befuddlement ensued. 

I suppose we all have misheard or completely misunderstood names. I remember a new student appearing before the class with a name that was so unusual, I couldn’t tell where the first name ended and the surname began. The teacher introduced Filuminaminghini. Later, I learned the first name was Filumina, the surname Minighini. Even then, I couldn’t imagine her mother yelling that name out in the play ground. “Fi-Lu-Mina !!”

After school I spent a year traipsing around Europe with various friends, who came and went like an accordion, depending on their time and finances. 

I was never more interested in, or amused by, the names of the ubiquitous British pubs. During our pub crawling expeditions, I would enter a pub and ask the keep or another pub denizen about the origin of the name of the pub. Inevitably, I would be told that the pub had been in existence for many hundreds of years, since the time of (fill in name of king or queen). The history was well known to the locals so only a traveler would need ask. This brought about an opportunity for the locals to present themselves as learned. At one pub the apparently local learned gentleman (I knew he was learned because he wore the universal tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches and smoked a pipe; this was the late 60’s) sidled up to me and explained that, originally, public house names reflected the history of the country or the area in which they were sited. The price of a Guinness would bring further enlightenment.

He then went on to explain that names from the past tended to be patriotic or royal starting with The Crown. Of course this was representative of the King or Queen (who had spent one night in the now enshrined bedroom upstairs: "Queen Victoria slept here"). The Red Lion name became popular when James I ordered red lions to be displayed outside all public places. He wanted all Englishmen to be reminded that their king was Scottish (where he was known as King James VI). The Royal Oak name only became popular after Charles II escaped during the English Civil War by hiding behind an oak tree (the “merry monarch” was a bit of a wimp if you ask me). And The Swan, which symbolizes harmony, was frequently used in various coats of arms. All swans are owned by the Queen and protected by law; harming one would not provide a harmonious outcome. We continued on in our pub forays listening to variations of the same theme. Eventually, I lost track of the number of pubs with the same omnipresent names.

Then, of course, there were names that defied logic and undoubtedly fell from their original intended course: the Pig & Whistle, the Goat & Tricycle, the Three Legged Mare or (my favorite) the Cat & Custard Pot. Alas, when I asked about the origin of those names, I was given the fisheye. Apparently a rose by any other name, etc. But really, how does one keep a straight face when entering the Poopsie Nancies. 

Amusement Parks or the CNE

 The CNE, the Canadian National Exhibition, always began during the third week of August and ended on Labor Day in September. 

When we were little and summer was drawing to a close, with the dreaded school looming on the horizon, our last greatly anticipated escapade before the rigors and formality of school life began was the CNE. It was our parents’ last “or else” ultimatum card to ensure good behavior. We had saved our pennies all summer long for this great occasion that, of course, would be all the talk when we returned to school and we too had to have our corresponding stories to classmates’ tales of bravado and ingenuity. 

I remember the huge separate covered tents that held various country and industrial exhibitions and contests from cattle weight to flower and vegetable competitions to pies and preserves. Shamefully, at the time we had no interest in any of that stuff. We were city kids. We headed straight for the amusement section of the exhibition. There were throwing contests: rings on bottles, balloons on walls, metal animals that rang when hit. There were different fun houses that we could walk through; scare ourselves in the haunted houses or watch ourselves change shape in the hall of mirrors. There was a huge carousel that spewed out the same world renowned organ tune. The enormous ferris wheel and the massive white wooden roller coaster were sights to behold; equally terrifying and thrilling. There were barkers who enticed us to “step right up” into the separate small tents that held The Tattooed Man, the Fattest Lady, the Bearded Lady, the Snake Man, the Fire Eating Man. (Best guess: those tents are gone today). We listened, all the while bobbing up and down in order to sneak a peek at what was inside, then giggled and ran.

And all the while the smell of sugar coated fried batter and colored cotton candy wafted through the air everywhere we went. While enjoying all this illicit food we were entertained by the sight of the Blue Angels flying above us. We stopped and stared up to the sky as far back as our heads would allow and watched, mouths agape, as the Blue Angels spectacularly twirled and strung their colored smoke tails across the skies. It was heaven to imagine even riding inside an ordinary airplane, but the Blue Angels were beyond the limits of our imagination. 

As teenagers, we finally wandered through the various large tents, pretending sophisticated disdain, but secretly admiring the country accomplishments: the largest home grown melons, the carved butter statues, the hand stitched quilts, the weaving and spinning wheel demonstrations. We watched goat and swine competitions. And while it was all very interesting, at the end of the day we had no desire to participate in sheep shearing. We waited in line to taste a piece of prize blue ribbon home made fruit pie or a preserve. While we ate hot dogs, apple fritters and the very messy but still beloved colored cotton candy, we found our way back to the rides; oh, the rides that were so scary when we were younger were now exciting and waiting for us: the bumper cars, the scrambler, the tilt-a-wheel; all guaranteed, with their height and speed, to allow us to toss our cookies after the ride ended. It was never-ending, unmitigated and joyous fun. The only downside was knowing that school was just a few days away.

As an aside: the CNE began as the Industrial Fair in 1846, moving around geographically among local towns until it landed permanently in Toronto on 50 acres around the lakeshore. In 1912, the Toronto Industrial Exhibition changed its name to the Canadian National Exhibition to better reflect the scope and reach of the fair. It was there at the CNE that patrons were introduced to electric railway transportation in 1883, to Edison's phonograph in 1888, to the telephone in 1890, to radio in 1922, to television in 1939 and to plastics and synthetics in the 1940s. It was not until 1968 that it was opened on Sundays. Today it covers 196 acres with over 8,000 exhibits.

Coffee

 As Frank Sinatra so heartily sang:

Way down among Brazilians, 

Coffee beans grow by the billions, 

So they've got to find those extra cups to fill.

They've got an awful lot of coffee in Brazil. . . .

Really, is there any other product that fills the heart, the senses, the imagination more than a solid cup of hot coffee. Ah, the aroma, the fascination, the romance, whether sipping cafe in Parisian cafes, caffe in Italian bars, or watching Gordon Lightfoot singing for the price of a coffee. And the medicinal purposes: for hangover repair, for boosting the metabolism or for staying up all night. What legal product could be better. Just sipping coffee while remembering the previous evening’s escapades is pure joy or misery.

I’ve drunk coffee pretty much every day of my life. Growing up, there was not one day in memory that did not begin with coffee. I’m not talking about when I was older, I mean my very first memory. Each morning began with a small bowl of caffe latte. Mom would prepare toast, then heat the milk and brew the coffee. We were then served a bowl of equal parts milk and coffee long before lattes were fashionable. It was warming, awakening and fortifying for the cold weather in which we were about to set out to school. Toast and coffee was so much better for us than those other breakfast options that non-Italians consumed. 

I remember a ‘health’ class in junior high wherein the teacher was extolling the virtues of proper nutrition. To prove her point about how breakfast was the most important meal of the day, she asked each student to relate what they had for breakfast. And so, each one of us stood and related what was served for breakfast that morning. The responses were fairly ordinary: cereal with milk and fruit, scrambled eggs, bacon, OJ, grapefruit juice, sausage, oatmeal, etc. An occasional chocolate milk drew titters and attention. How boring. When it was my turn, I proudly and loudly stood and said “coffee and toast”. Wait, what? The entire class silenced. I thought the teacher would faint. I had what? I further explained about the half milk - half coffee concoction that mom served along with heavily buttered toast; what could be better. She stared at me with such incredulity, then moved on to the next student.

Just to be on the safe side though the morning ended with a delicately worded telephone call to my mother asking for an appearance to discuss the ramifications of our breakfast eating habits and how coffee was affecting our bodies. Mom listened patiently, avowed that she had seen the light and would alter her breakfast serving habits. Of course she did nothing of the kind, other than to give lip service to misguided folk who did not understand the benefits of coffee for people of all ages. Unlike those children who had sweet cereals or juices or some other overdose of sugar along with the rest of their morning meal, we did not experience an 11 am crash from an 8 am sugar high. No sir. We were evenly paced, highly energized troublemakers from dawn to dusk.

After my school years passed, I spent a year in Europe, mostly in Italy but traveled to neighboring countries too. Everywhere I went coffee bars abounded, long before Starbucks arose on every street corner in this country. No signs said “we will not serve minors”. Children stood next to adults tossing back their morning coffee. Today the world has caught on to what my mother already knew: coffee is this world’s ambrosia. 

Front Porches

 During the summers, we kids were trotted off to our grandparents’ farm homes, either the Timmins grandparents or the Woodstock grandparents. Our Woodstock grandparents had a screened in three seasons porch that was, in turn, surrounded by an outdoor porch. The three seasons porch was not heated and air conditioning was a long way into the future but it was a lovely room during the summer. It was very big, according to a six year old’s standards of ‘big’. Three walls were covered with screened windows that allowed the early morning breeze to cool the room and the adjoining outdoor porch gave just enough shade to discourage the day’s heat from finding its way indoors. The room was outfitted with a long old sideboard and an equally long wooden dining table that was covered with an oilcloth. The table could seat eight to twelve people on mismatched wooden chairs of various styles and quality. Each morning our grandmother would serve us three “early birds” (“uccellli” she called us in her Italian) breakfast out there while we watched the chickens strutting around outside. It also allowed the adults to watch us running around while they enjoyed their later breakfast in relative peace after we had been shooed outdoors. As an added bonus, we could watch an explosive summer thunderstorm in the relative safety of the screened porch or be afforded protection  from the sunset loving appearances of mosquitos. Come the impending fall, my grandfather, with the help of dad and-or various uncles would all help to install the winter storm windows. Then the door to the kitchen would be shut and that would signal summer’s end and our return to the city.

Our home, like most of the homes in the neighborhood, had a front porch. There were three steps that led to the front door landing. There was a green rail that matched the color of the front door and the white balusters matched the front window trim. 

That front porch could have told many stories during my teenage years but the most horrifying story that the front porch could relate took place during my senior high school year. It was the night of the annual Sadie Hawkins dance. We girls were allowed to ask boys to the school dance and so I invited a certain young lad to attend the dance with me. The evening went well; we danced, we talked, we laughed and then he walked me home. There we stood, on the front porch, hemming and hawing and working up to a big good night kiss when, much to my shock, my father walked out the front door with a shotgun in his hand. My young man levitated off the front porch and onto the street, gulping his “I was bringing her home, sir” as he marched, very quickly down the street. I stood stock still, unable to move, utterly outraged, I was so stunned at what had just occurred. My dad, in turn, looked at me with a vague and vacant “what’s happening?” look on his face. When my mouth finally opened, the only word that came out was “what!?!” He very innocently said that he was on his way to meet a hunting buddy. They had a long drive and wanted to be hunt ready at dawn. Yes, it truly was hunting season, but I strongly suspected that he did that on purpose and that he secretly enjoyed every minute of it. 

Hair Color

Ours was a family of brunettes while school friends and neighbors had various shades of blonde through black. Some teachers had grey hair while others, like the principal, had white hair. 

Admittedly hair color was not anything to which I had given conscious thought until one early fall day, when I was eight or nine years old, my mom took me shopping at a very nice department store. I first noticed an elegantly dressed older lady walking toward us. She appeared to be wearing a fur shrug on her shoulders, with the fox heads still attached. Wow. Continuing to, somewhat rudely, stare at the glassy eyes of her fox heads as she walked past, I lost interest in the animal wrap when I noticed her perfectly pure white hair. But as she walked away I saw that the back of her hair was blue. Blue! Blue hair. I was astonished and said so out loud, much to my mother’s great displeasure. A hushed but stern lecture followed. I did not understand her disdain towards my remark, especially since my mother and her coffee loving girlfriends would whisper asides to each other, such as “she dyes her hair”, implying that whatever lady’s standards were being discussed were not quite up to moral par. This “blue rinse” sighting was fascinating.

Later in the week, during one of my mom’s weekly visits to the hairdresser the nice stylist asked me what was new so, excitedly, I told her about the lady with blue hair. That was when I learned that the Queen Mum, whose sense of decorum was inviolable, used a blue rinse in her hair. This revelation, of course, made blue hair acceptable for the entire older female population of the British empire. After getting used to the idea of seeing older ladies with blue hair, one day I saw a lady with not a blue rinse, but a pink one. Now that lady was living on the edge.

Time passed. As a teenager, during the 60s, when bouffant hair prevailed, my mom got a call from one of our neighbors asking if she knew anything about hair color. My mother's first reaction was "of course not", but prevailed by asking what she could do to help. It seemed that her daughter had rinsed her mousy brown hair with peroxide but rather than the glorious blonde shade that she was envisioning, her hair had turned orange. At least some of it had turned orange, while the rest turned into various streaked shades of blonde and brown; the outcome being something of a deranged Kabuki player appearance. A furtive trip to the beauty salon ensued and, when they returned, most of her hair had been cut into a short pixie bob. It was quite the scandal, even then. At our house, mom repeated that cautionary tale whenever I looked longingly at a blonde temptress on TV or in a magazine.

Finally, all grown up, I moved to California. This was not just a change in country, or climate or time zone, this was a landing to another dimension entirely. No one, but no one had grey hair, regardless of age or sex, grey hair did not, and still does not, exist in California. Even today as I watch Tom Selleck on Blue Bloods, I see that he does not have grey hair and he is 78 years old. Hair color has advanced from being whispered about in kitchen klatches to out loud ordinary. Nowadays, people appear to change hair color as often as they change their socks. 

Last, I remember one particularly hilarious phone call with my brother who had just returned home from visiting with our mom. He was somewhat chagrined that our mother had asked him to dye his greying hair because his grey hair was making her look old. 

 

Personal Pet Peeve

 My personal pet peeve is that I have absolutely no sense of direction. I can barely differentiate between left and right but N-S-E-W leaves me standing still. When I was a little girl my older brother showed me a compass, professing that I could never get lost as long as I held a compass. His explanation about magnetic north meant nothing. While he talked, I saw that the compass always pointed north, no matter in which direction I stood so how was I supposed to go anywhere but north. The compass made no sense. 

During my teenage years, some of my more affluent friends had cars, or access to their parents’ cars. I remember a ride up to one of the beach towns. We all met at a friend’s place, whose father was allowing us the use of his Chevrolet for the ride up to the cottage. In those days, cars were huge and seemed to easily seat eight or ten. As his father gave last minute instructions, I quietly listened to the directions. “Head north for 30 miles, then turn east for another five miles, and look for the orange mailbox; that will alert you to the residence location”. I was so grateful that those directions were not aimed at me because the only thing I understood was the orange mailbox. Remarks such as “you know which way is east because the sun rises in the east”; meant nothing. What if it was a cloudy day? What if it was dark outside? I always felt like Charlie Brown listening to an adult talking: wah, wah, wah, wah.

Finally, all grown up, I moved to Los Angeles and bought a car. My first accoutrement to the car was the purchase of a Thomas Brothers map book. I knew how to read maps and I understood street signs and landmarks. I could understand “drive down Mulholland until you see the Arco gas station; turn right at the gas station, that will put you on Sunset. Travel along Sunset until you see the big green Santa Monica Blvd. sign. The restaurant is on the near right corner.” With those kinds of instructions, I could get from point A to point B. All other times, I would listen politely to east blah blah blah, then south blah blah blah, etc. I would nod my head, then look up the address in my map book and away I went.

Today, of course, my lack of direction pet peeve has been replaced by an even greater pet peeve: GPS. So, while using the GPS, most of the time I can easily get to where I’m going, even though I don’t know where I am. Every once in a while I make a turn and find that annoying little voice saying ‘recalculating’, which makes me wish Thomas Brothers map books were still around. While the GPS knows how to travel as the crow flies, it does not account for such anomalies as the Chesapeake Bay, so turning east on Mulberry Street in St. Michaels and traveling for 17 miles would have me floating in the Miles River. My pet peeve regarding my sense of direction has been replaced with my pet peeve regarding GPS. 

Shiny Bugs

Probably because Canada has ten months of winter and two months of something resembling summer, I don’t remember that there were a lot of bugs; too cold to live long in those northern climes, but I always loved shiny bugs. I remember watching one particular Twilight Zone episode with my brother about a very shiny scarab bug that kept a woman young. The old lady in the show talked about the bug’s long Egyptian history. It later turned out that the old lady was the young woman’s daughter but by that time my brother and I were too fascinated about the shiny bug to remember how the story ended, although we knew it could not have been good. We looked up the bug in the library’s encyclopedia and were so disappointed to learn that we were not going to live forever.

In the summer we were shipped off to our maternal grandparents’ farm near Woodstock. My grandmother loved peonies and had a huge garden filled with several varieties. I loved those flowers too and would lay on the grass for hours, watching the ants eat the sugar off the buds, then wait for the flowers to bloom. When they did bloom, I would stick my nose in the flowers to smell their perfume and inevitably some errant ant would find its way up my nose. It was worth it. Even today, I keep a bed of peonies at the front of the house. 

Summer nights in July would find me walking among the magical fireflies. I imagined myself a fairy princess as they blinked on and off around me. My brother’s attitude towards them was somewhat more prosaic. He constantly tried to catch them in jars; an exercise in futility, I thought, since the fireflies would not glow on demand as he wanted them to do. When fall arrived and I was back in school, I learned that fireflies are really bugs and not flies. These days, I see them around here during the long summer nights. They are still magical and I would still like to be Malificient. 

As a young adult, I headed west to California and joined the Sierra Club, not because of any particular ideology, but because the Sierra Club sponsored a semi-weekly five mile twilight hike through Griffith Park during the summer months. The hike took us through various parts of the park, allowing us to see the Griffith Observatory or the Hollywood sign up close,  and that was where I saw my first batch of glow worms perched on the side walls of the hiking trails. The girls were a shiny pink color that glowed to lure their boyfriends. I was fascinated by them.

Much to my hiking group’s amusement and/or pique, since I can’t carry a tune, I would nonetheless sing to the glow worms as I passed them by, remembering the old song Glow Little Glow Worm by the Mills Brothers:

Shine little glow-worm, glimmer, glimmer

Hey, there don't get dimmer, dimmer

Light the path below, above

And lead us on to love!

Admittedly, I never found love in Griffith Park but I did find glow worms, which are not worms, per se, but too are bugs. 

My First Playmate

He was my brother, who was only one year older but was so much smarter than me, so he always said. Competition and admiration coexisted on my part. He taught me to play chess, various board games, cards and how to ice skate. He also took apart my dolls to see how they worked.

Because of the long cold Canadian winters, we had a finished basement, as did everyone else. Ours was divided into three segments. There was a laundry area, a cold storage room and a rec room. The most commonly used room for we three kids was the rec room where we would play board games, read comic books or play cards. Mum would manage well enough with just our four year old baby brother in tow but all three of us was too much so downstairs we older two went.

We usually played well together except for one (well remembered but never spoken of for years) blustery winter afternoon when my brother was eight and I was seven. My brother and I had played the battleship board game for a few hours but I had consistently won each game, which frustrated him no end and goaded him into another type of competition. Game on, kid. The cold storage room held the winter eatables, which included a giant pinwheel of cheese, a number of hanging cold meats and a barrel of home made wine that was aging over the winter. My brother opined that he could drink more wine than I could. I, of course, disagreed. We spent the next hour exchanging sips of wine until mum let us know that dinner was ready. 

Dad was seated and talking with our baby brother. Mom placed a plate of spaghetti in front of me. I quietly stared at it, noticing how the noodles seemed to be moving. Actually eating the stuff was another matter. I picked up the fork but tended to miss the plate, alternately I picked up the noodles but would miss my mouth. Dad finally looked at us and asked mum “what the heck’s wrong with these kids”. My brother chose that moment to jump up and loudly proclaim “I drank more wine than she did”. Undaunted, I too stood up and said “he did not”. Unfortunately, the “not” corresponded with the moment that I tossed my cookies onto my dinner plate and a few other nearby utensils. Not to be outdone, my brother unceremoniously did the same thing. Mum jumped up, bug eyed, open mouthed and utterly horrified, while dad looked absolutely furious, although he couldn’t exactly decide in which direction to focus his anger. Bedlam ensued. Mum moved to quickly remove us to the bathroom while dad demanded to know how the hell we had managed to find our way into the storage room. Our baby brother, in the meantime, sat quietly, observing the chaos with a look on his face that clearly said “I want another family”. 

We were cleaned up and put to bed. The next morning dad had a very stern sermon for us (I blamed it all on my brother) while mum was still so agitated and embarrassed, demanding that this episode never be spoken of again lest the church excommunicate the entire family. 

And it was never spoken of again, at least until we were adults. Looking back on it, my brother and I both thought it was very funny and it had the added value of putting us off alcohol long after our school friends were imbibing. And likewise, we conceded that if something like that had happened today, probably child protective services would have removed all three of us from our family home and placed our parents in jail, but that was then and this was now. 

Renovations

When I think of the word ‘renovation’ I remember an old Norman Rockwell painting of a young girl with pigtails sitting in front of a mirror with a propped up magazine picture of an impossibly elegant movie star, undoubtedly wishing that she too could transform herself into the elegant lady in the photo. 

That little girl could have been me. When I was in the third grade I was skipped up to the fifth grade, which made me the youngest kid in the class. I managed to keep up with the school work so when mom asked how I was doing, I said school was fine, and it was — until junior high. 

I found myself the sole eleven year old in the entire junior high school. Boys were a different species altogether which meant that I completely ignored them, but none of the other girls in my classes had time for me either. And it wasn’t that any of them were ever mean or rude to me, it was just that they were all so much more grown up. I was still wearing a tee shirt under my blouse while they wore bras. My buster brown hair cut, which was so great during the summer suddenly was out of place. The girls in my class had lots of puffy ‘teased’ hair. Most wore stockings while I wore socks and loafers. And some of them even wore lipstick. 

Life was horrible. If anyone needed a renovation, it was me. I was lonely during those two years and often spent my weekends at the library. Mom would listen to my tales of woe, of course, but all she could do was say to be patient; that I would grow soon too, just as my brothers had spurted up almost overnight. Then mom would commend that it was more important to be nice and polite than it was to be pretty. I knew that was a lie. I would hear the girls in the school bathroom talking about slumber parties and junior tea dances. When they saw me, they would look through me. I didn’t even exist to these girls unless it was to borrow my homework. 

And one horrendous weekend Mom thought it would help if she took me to an elegant department store and bought me a training bra. I was horrified. What was there to train. It was a new low. I was almost 12 and had just had my first period. I couldn’t imagine how life could get worse.

The next two dismal years came and went and while I had grown taller I was still as skinny as a rail. My brothers were now much taller than me, which was no consolation whatsoever. I did not want to be very tall and very skinny. Olive Oyl was not my role model. That was a whole other nightmare. I wanted to look like a coca-cola bottle. 

High school was coming up in the fall and I was not looking forward to it. Occasionally, though, I did notice that my blouses were tighter and my waist bands were loose. Finally, my mother suggested that her little girl was disappearing. It appeared that my personal renovation had begun.  

The Ferry Boats

If we remained in the city during the summer and were not hoisted off to one set of country grandparents or another, mom would take us to the beach so that we could spend our sun filled days paddling around in the lake water, building castles in the sand and turning brown. She would pack the food and all the accompanying paraphernalia that was required to herd three young children around town. 

The electric street car would deposit us on Lakeshore Boulevard. From there we would take the ferry boat across the harbor to Center Island. Toronto had a magnificent ferry boat that still exists and now delivers passengers all year round from the mainland. At the time, it only ran from the beginning of May to the end of September. It was glorious. Each fall it underwent an annual facelift that rendered it shiny and clean for the spring. The wood was painted white, the teak rails were stained and the metals were polished over the winter.

In those days the ferry ride was free. It was about a 15 minute ride each way. There was a man who stood on the top deck and manually counted the number of people who were walking onto the boat. Once the capacity was reached, he would yell ‘stop’ and whichever people didn't make it onto the current ride would wait for the next ride.

The ferry ride itself was full of fun and wonder. After mom admonished us to not stand on the rail or we would fall and kill ourselves, we were left to roam the entire ferry unaccompanied. It was two stories high. We would climb up to the second storey to watch the city become smaller and smaller, then rush to the other side of the ferry to watch the island grow bigger and bigger. The wind blew in our hair and the water sometimes sprayed in our faces, but we loved every minute of it. Oftentimes, we would meet school friends who were likewise spending their day the same way. 

Looking back on it, I can’t imagine how no one was killed or maimed on those ferry boats. There were no safety screens or stair railings, no cautionary speeches from authorities about donning the life jackets that hung from rafters in case of emergency; only our mothers telling us to be careful “or else”! Then again, no one wore sunscreen either. 

Years later, as young teens, our little gang would walk our bicycles onto the ferry and all day we would ride our bikes around the island. And I remember one day particularly, our little gang ferried across to the island, looking forward to a lovely long day  bicycling by the water's edge. Somewhere in the early afternoon, it began to rain; one of those short warm summer rains that would end soon, we hoped. 

We took shelter inside someone’s unlocked screened back porch. No one locked their back porches then. The homes were all summer cottages.  They were not intended for full time living and in fact no new cottages could be built on the island. Current cottages could be repaired but not expanded. The city fathers intended that the island be used for recreation only.  When a cottage fell into such disrepair that it could not be restored, it was sold back to the city. We were very apologetic about the intrusion when the cottage owner stuck her head out her back door, explaining about the rain, but since we were all nice looking kids, she let us stay until the rain stopped.

After an hour, we agreed, disappointedly, that the sun was not returning; our day was over so we headed back to the mainland. While riding back on the ferry boat, we watched the rain and could hear somebody’s transistor radio playing a Nat King Cole tune. The other four were caught up in their own spirited conversation when my friend leaned over and gave me my first kiss. On the rare occasion that I hear 'That Sunday, that summer', I still think of that little magical ferry boat ride.  

Radio

 Back in the early ‘50s, we would pile into the family sedan and would drive from our big city home to my maternal grandparents’ very rural farm house, which boasted a kitchen pump that counted as indoor running water and a Rayburn stove that was responsible for keeping the entire home warm. There was a party line telephone that served as that generation’s facebook. And last, there was an outhouse. However, we children were too small to use it without adult assistance and at night were relegated to the potty under the bed.

The very formal parlor which, again, we could only enter when an adult was with us, contained the most magnificent radio that I had ever seen. It was almost two feet across and over a foot high. The frame was a very shiny mahogany color and the pale yellow screen lit up when the radio was turned on. Equally fascinating were the half dozen lines across its screen. We didn’t know what the letters or bands meant. My brothers and I nonetheless whispered to each other; Why wasn’t it on? What was it for? What were these extra letters? None of our friends had radios like this one. They all had radios like ours; an AM-FM that, when turned on, as every six year old knew, meant we would soon sing and dance along with the music. Radios were for fun. But this radio was different. We knew it was more important than ordinary radios because it sat on its own little table atop a hand crotched  doily.

Another adult mystery was the fact that this radio would sit silently all day long. It would be turned on very late at night, long after we had been sent to bed. But, we could see the adults and listen to their conversations through the floor grids. It was weird to us that they didn’t seem happy when it was turned on; everybody liked music, but this radio did not play music. We could hear the click when the radio was turned on. Then we could hear static noises, then voices in different languages as the tuner was moved across the screen, until my grandfather finally found the station they were looking for; the all important RAI - Italian radio broadcasting. 

At the time, of course, my brothers and I were too young to understand about international shortwave broadcasting or the reasons for the vigil that our families kept around the radio. Although WWII technically was over, we had family members who still lived in Italy and the adult fears that communism would take over Italy, as it had the other eastern European countries was their very real concern. They would listen intently to the news, then silently turn it off and find their way to their own beds. The next morning the commentary was of concerns that left no room for us in their conversations.

But the years went by, prosperity eventually returned to Europe and our remaining family members arrived on these shores. Our grandparents prospered and moved to a boring house with indoor plumbing, central heating, a refrigerator and a single line telephone. As we were growing older, our own lives took over in importance. I don’t know what happened to my grandparents’ magical mysterious magnificent radio but I wish I did. It was beautiful for so many reasons.