Is everyone excited about the first day of school?

When I was a kid growing up in Philadelphia, the beginning of each year of elementary school meant a trip to Pliner’s Shoe store on Castor Avenue for a new pair of Buster Brown’s, always saddle shoes until fourth or fifth grade. I can still see them drying on newspaper on the kitchen counter after my mom’s weekly polishing. And new Sacony skirts and coordinating tops from The Debbie Shop on Cottman Avenue, an outing that may have included lunch at the People’s Drug Store lunch counter.

Had to look nice for newly built Louis H. Farrell School, right?

We went back to elementary school knowing who our teachers would be because their names were the back of our last last year’s report card—i.e., “Barbara has been assigned to….” We were issued a school supply list when we met our teacher on the first day. Securing our essentials was our first night’s homework. Ticonderoga #2 pencils—freshly sharpened and with their erasers unblemished and unchewed. A briefcase-style school bag, replaced as we got older with those bungee-esque straps (blue or red) with which we carried our books. A small bottle of Elmer’s glue. Brass paper fasteners. Paper clips, big ones and small ones. And an empty cardboard cigar box to stash it all.

We also needed black-and-white “composition” books. A new box of Crayola crayons—the bigger the better! Or colored pencils. We could get the aforementioned items at my dad’s pharmacy. If we opted for a new school bag or a decorative, zip-top plastic pencil case, that was a Woolworth’s selection. And a custom-cut piece of oilcloth to protect our desks during Art would come from Breslow’s Hardware store.

Sidebar: I don’t remember buying scissors. I think they were distributed as needed in class from wooden holders by students who knew not to run with them.

I especially liked setting up my desk each year. All neat and organized. It didn’t stay tidy long, foreshadowing my later having a junk drawer. Or two.

As we reached the upper elementary school grades, there was the fun of arranging loose-leaf binders (my favorite was denim-covered) and deciding what size grid paper to buy to fill them (I liked the fatter spaces between the lines). Then, carefully sliding the subject labels into the tiny rainbow-colored plastic holders on the dividers and deciding which subject got which color. (This recently sparked a discussion among our granddaughters and myself as they readied their back-to-school folders and spirals—what color do you associate with Science? Language Arts? Math?)

Buying lots of reinforcements—those little white circles to lick and stick around torn loose-leaf paper holes—was a huge necessity for someone who got lazy about properly opening the binder to remove papers and instead often ripped them out. Reinforcements came in a small container that resembled a match box. New style pencil cases, the clear plastic ones with binder ring-aligned holes, could be fastened into the loose-leaf binder along with your ruler.

And while I was setting up my binder, my mom was completing my emergency contact cards in triplicate.

You didn’t have to buy/bring water bottles. When you got thirsty, you raised your hand and asked to go out into the hall for a drink from the water fountain. You were not allowed to eat in class—i.e., no reason for something in which to carry “approved” snacks to have at your desk. You had recess (lower classes twice a day, upper classes just in the afternoon) during which you could eat snacks from home or buy them in the cafeteria—three malty balls or three cheese crackers for a penny.

After first or second grade, I’d stopped expecting new kids in class. In my day, we were homogeneously grouped according to reading and math ability. Classes often exceeded forty kids (and there were four or more classes per grade) and were divided into maybe one or two reading groups, perhaps to accommodate slight differences in learning style (I was a kid, and we didn’t ask those kind of questions). But except for a new kid or two, my classmates remained the same through most of elementary school. So there wasn’t much wondering who would be in my class with me. The only variation year to year was who sat near me, according to height—lots of summer growth spurts!—and ability to see the blackboard.

In sixth grade—my last year of elementary school—first-day excitement included being introduced to the concept of “homeroom” and changing rooms and teachers for different subjects. And being the big kids on campus up on the third floor.

In seventh grade, there were the first-day jitters of attending junior high. I was barely eleven and taking public transportation (no yellow school busses for students in higher grades. You walked or rode PTC/SEPTA). I had to learn how to navigate the fortress that was Wilson Junior High. And deal with a locker. And the teachers’ more specific individual requirements regarding school supplies (yes to loose leaf, no to raggedy, torn out spiral pages handed in for homework). School bags had become passe. I had to remember to buy PTC tokens. I had to bring money (I didn’t pack lunch) because for the first time I could eat lunch at school—no more mid day treks home). Students from different feeder schools in the area presented opportunities for new friendships. I did make new friends from the other schools, but when I moved at the end of the school year, my seventh grade relationships dissipated. Out of sight, out of mind I guess.

I started George Washington (then ) Junior-Senior High School in eighth grade. I had met a few kids in my new neighborhood but hadn’t established enough of a relationship to call them friends. I didn’t have a BFF like in elementary school until sometime late in the school year. God bless Susan Yondorf. She was in my homeroom and lived within walking distance. She remained a steadfast friend for many years, but our circles shifted and I began spending more time with Tobi and Jerrilyn. And of course, Bruce. Susan and I lost touch after high school. I would love to reconnect.

When I was in high school, there was no preselection of major subjects or electives, except maybe for your language class (I chose Spanish). When you reached ninth grade, you chose a track—academic (within which were various levels), general, or commercial—pending your future plans for jobs and college. You took predetermined classes with the teensiest bit of wiggle room regarding teachers (e.g., you only wanted Mrs. Laskin if English was your forte). Math classes were taken in order of difficulty. Algebra. Geometry, Algebra II, Trig, Calculus. I ceased and desisted at Trig, planning to teach elementary school where understanding abstract math concepts would not be necessary.

In the last few years of senior high, if you qualified, you could take Advanced Placement classes (I took AP English). The best educational decision I ever made. A second year with my favorite teacher—Mrs. Laskin—and ultimately a high enough score on the AP exam warranted my skipping introductory college English classes and jumping right into the good stuff (Chaucer, Modern Poetry).

I looked forward to each new college semester . I enjoyed the challenges of my English classes and the camaraderie shared with other future teachers as part of my education training. But in truth, college was mostly counting the days until graduation and our upcoming wedding. I took a few classes like Linguistics and Philosophy that sparked a passing interest in pursuing other fields of possibility. But following the path to a teaching job in Philly seemed the most practical and lucrative.

College for me meant commuting with Bruce or friends. I had some freedom of course selection within the requirements of the elementary education curriculum. But I limited my time on campus owing to safety issues, which meant some restrictions on what classes were available before 3 p.m. when I felt the need to be off campus. I made friends in various classes and we tried to coordinate our subsequent semester schedules. But Temple for me was pretty much high school, part B.

And when I graduated, I was less than seven years from my first first day of kindergarten as a mom.

Prepping our kids for their first days of school bore a strong resemblance to my own yearly initiations. In grade school, our kids also were informed of their next year’s teacher on their last report card. They immediately confirmed who would be classmates—like me, their classmates didn’t change much over their grade school years (now the more accepted term was grade—as opposed to elementary—school). The clothes and shoe shopping expeditions were remarkably familiar—their school wardrobe displayed on their beds for reappraisal, the highest measure of success being, You did good today! The biggest difference between my and their getting ready for the first day of school was I never as focused on having the perfect first day outfit. Then again, I was not made to stand in front of my house every year, the moment captured on film for posterity. Wasn’t something my parents did.

Our kids’ anticipation of their first day of school was heightened by the arrival of the bus cards the week before school started. The orange and white cards confirmed the first pick up date and where to get the bus. All three of our kiddos rode Bus 7 for the duration of grade school. The pick-up and drop-off location changed—sometimes at the corner, sometimes a house or two away from ours. But Bus 7 was our constant.

As was first-day, after-dinner, school supply shopping for the items requested by their teachers. Drug Emporium was a key player. Sometimes Pathmark. (I miss both of those establishments.) Every purchase turned on securing the perfect trapper keeper—that era’s stylish loose-leaf binder that came in a zippered case with pockets and compartments. Looking back, I wonder why buying a trapper keeper became an eleven o’clock project. What didn’t we purchase them ahead of time? Trapper keeper shopping remained part of the first day ritual for many years. As did filling out emergency contact cards. In triplicate. Times three.

Concerning snacks and lunch, our kids alternately opted to take money or pack. This sometimes hyper-raised my poo rule awareness—just how long can foil-wrapped tuna salad sandwiches survive in a cubby or locker?

Our Gen Alphas have perpetuated my traditions—the mandatory attention to detail associated with first-day outfit selection and the taking of a photo in front of the incredible shrinking door. Add to that getting the perfect back pack and water bottle(s). But owing to the proliferation of technology, our six grandchildren don’t find out their teachers until a few days before school starts. Teachers and room assignments are released online. This is followed by a flurry of texts to confirm who is in their class(es)—plural once they hit middle school—as well as specific supplies needed. In our extended family, this seems to be a mostly female phenomenon and sometimes rife with drama.

As our grandkids advance through the grades, they are afforded curriculum choices my generation could never have imagined. I would have been excited to go back to school and take classes in entrepreneurship and graphic art and all manner of creative sciences, not to mention that being in orchestra and choir can earn you academic credit. And speaking of credit, they all have lunch accounts that enable them to make their cafeteria purchases. Several still pack their lunches when the school menu isn’t tempting.

There is still the first-day anticipation of being able to see your friends every day and maybe study something of personal interest—not just because a course is mandatory. But sometimes that is not enough to overcome that universal end-of-summer sadness as sunset arrives earlier and earlier and bed time is once again enforced. The cicadas warned you in July of summer ending and school starting. Damn those raucous harbingers of back-to-school sales.

I still feel it—that September rush of adrenalin as school kicks back in even though I am many years removed from my personal first days as a student and then as a teacher. Hopefully kiddos, one hundred and eighty sleeps from now, you all will be able to say it was the good year I wish you.

I live by the motto, Nothing in life is perfect. The trick is to do all you can to ensure the glitches are small and annoying, not god forbid or catastrophic, and then let them go and not let them spoil the moment. Sometimes this is MUCH easier said than done.

This is especially true for our trips and excursions. I got sick (but not incapacitated) on our honeymoon. Bruce had a vicious attack of vertigo on one of our Aruba trips. All three kids have fallen ill on various vacations. It was sweatshirt cold when we went to Nassau. It rained for five days straight when we went to Turks & Caicos. And then our flight was delayed, meaning we missed our connection, had to stay overnight in Charlotte, and Ali had to start Passover dinner. I will never again plan a trip up against a holiday.

Sometimes the mishaps make for great stories and enhance the experience. Bruce had to fix a shower issue in our hotel room in Puerto Rico on our honeymoon. Likewise on a visit to family in West Virginia. We weren’t informed of a gate and time change for a vacation in DisneyWorld and had to run through the airport, Bruce carrying Ali like the proverbial sack of potatoes. A cab door “ate” daughter Missy’s finger—that’s the Spanish translation she shared of the episode from a family trip to Cancun. Granddaughter Em once fell asleep and face planted in her Caesar salad when dinner service in a restaurant in Aruba was aggravatingly slow. On another Aruba adventure, nephew Eli fell off his bike into a water-filled ditch. There have been cases of sunburn and heat exhaustion.

And there were the imperfections that made for the perfect trip to Iowa to see the Phillies play in the Field of Dreams game.

All plans were made online. Then—me not trusting technology—confirmed with live people from the airline and hotel. I booked us on flights from Philadelphia International Airport (PHL) to Chicago’s O’Hare (ORD) and from ORD to Cedar Rapids, Iowa (CID). And the reverse coming home. We’d fly out early game day (Thursday) and arrive with a few hours to spare before the first pitch. And hopefully with enough time to tour the site and snag some souvenirs. We gave ourselves a buffer day before flying home in case the game was postponed due to the iffy weather forecast and because we wanted to see the few points of interest. And then we’d return on Saturday via the same connections.

Originally, I booked a mid-morning flight from PHL to ORD, but our kids cautioned us that I hadn’t left enough time to make the ORD connection, given the size and the crowds of O’Hare. I switched us to an earlier flight, which meant awakening predawn and enduring an almost 3-hour layover.

The flights were uneventful. United offered a nice selection of films, if only a crappy selection of snacks. I watched Devil Wears Prada 2. Bruce watched Crime 101. We’ve begun utilizing the airline media availability, graduating from downloading movies of common interest onto Bruce’s iPad and sharing splitter-enabled headphones.

We had an early lunch when we landed in Chicago and filled the remaining time playing on our phones. Then the short flight into Cedar Rapids, where we quickly secured our rental car and programmed the Dubuque Holiday Inn into Waze.

It was an easy drive through 68 miles of cornfield-lined highway. I was amused that thoroughfares with names like 210 Avenue were basically cow paths between corn stalks. I was reassured we were heading in the right direction when we saw signs for Dyersville. We were purposefully overshooting Dyersville to stay in Dubuque so we’d have a shorter ride in the dark to our hotel after the game.

The hotel lobby was clean and the staff welcoming, but the room—especially the small bathroom—left a lot to be desired, the hair strand in the tub not withstanding. The sink was slow to drain (I hate the sight of toothpaste floating in standing sink water). There was no safe in which to hide my wallet. No time to dwell on these quickly discovered negatives. We freshened up. We unpacked our new stadium seats—the ones Bruce found to cushion and support us on the Field of Dreams bleachers. I grabbed a bit of cash, a credit card, my phone, and my drivers license and shoved them into my stadium regulation, see-through pocketbook. I hid my purse in the hotel room.

We followed the Waze-determined route. As we approached Farley and Dyersville, we switched to local mobile electronic sign guidance that flashed MLB directions. Parking attendants waved us onto a large grassy field outside the complex. We were the first car on a row along an access road. There were no numbered or lettered signs for demarcation. We just kind of landed, me with a fleeting thought, Um, how are we gonna remember where we parked?

We were shuttled closer to the action on golf carts that hummed around the property like little worker ants. And … there it was! The farmhouse where the Kinsellas brought to life a dream millions would come to share. The barn, now a souvenir shop. The original field on which the ghosts of Mel Ott and “Smoky” Joe Wood and Gil Hodges and Shoeless Joe Jackson relived their glory days.

And the corn.

Random notes of interest. I didn’t take many pictures and still ran out of phone charge. As such, I’ve been pilfering photos from Facebook posts, including one that caught us sitting in the stands.

Bruce was wounded by one of our stadium seats, and we had to beg a bandaid from another Phils fan.

The swag shopping took longer than expected. I was pleasantly surprised by Bruce’s patience. He hates shopping but wanted to bring back a memento. He got a cool hat. I got a shirt. Which meant we were late to the opening ceremonies.

It was a fairly long walk up the bleacher steps, so we didn’t want to make the climb then have to do it again after purchasing our food, available only on the concourse level. We bought dinner and then found our seats. I missed the players coming onto the field through the corn. The joy that followed, however, more than made up for the momentary disappointment.

Schwarber’s home run at the top of the first. All the Phils’ hits and runs, recorded on an old-fashioned, hand-changed scoreboard. Nola’s stellar pitching, marred only by one Twins home run (I still experienced a bit of agita). Kerkering coming in... and not screwing up! Duran coming in to close and the Phils fans immediately reaching for their phones to capture the moment and light his way.

Watching a hovering storm cloud that made former Philadelphia weather person David Murphy keep an eye on the radar on his phone.

The ecstasy of the win.

Bruce making a bathroom stop and standing one urinal away from former Phillie Larry Bowa.

Finding the car. Slightly less than eight thousand fans were in attendance. Figure that meant, what, three, four thousand cars? All haphazardly parked in neat, unmarked rows. There were few landmarks. A storage container. The farmhouse behind us. We did a good deal of searching and key fob pushing to see if we could hear the car’s horn or see its lights flashing. We decided worst case scenario, we would wait until the lots emptied out enough to allow us to spot the car. After some wandering in what we thought might be the right direction, we encountered two police officers and explained our predicament. They asked from what town we’d come. We said Farley, and they pointed out the access road from which we would have entered the complex. We walked toward the road from Farley and there waiting for us was the little blue rental car. We drove back to the hotel without further incident, stopping at a convenience store for a late night snack, only to realize it and most other like establishments were closed at this hour.

The next day—Friday—we asked at the front desk for recommendations for breakfast (being lazy, we’d missed the free breakfast served at the hotel). We were directed to Sunshine, a popular local diner-esque establishment that was straight out of the fifties or sixties and sort of reminded us of Gilchrist in Margate at the beach. It was populated by locals as well as, from their shirts and hats, attendees of last-night’s game. My “progressive” hubby struck up a conversation with a couple seated behind us. And as he frequently has been known to do, he secretly paid for an elderly diner who was eating alone.

We walked the streets close to our hotel to get a sense of Dubuque, the oldest city in Iowa. Dubuque’s architecture was an impressive blend of brick industrial and nineteenth century Italianate—heavy brackets, arched windows, decorative masonry. The streets were void of people and cars, odd we thought for a Friday morning.

We took advantage of the hotel’s free shuttle—a dirty minivan with a broken seatbelt (Gosh, I sound bougie!)—and went to the National Mississippi River Museum. The facility is a tribute to the history of the region and the mighty river that helped shape it. We walked through indoor and outdoor wildlife exhibits, learning there are more than two dozen species of turtles (an animal we particularly like) inhabiting the river. A special exhibit featuring narwhals—aptly nicknamed the unicorns of the sea—included one of their eight-foot-long horns. Old ship parts littered the grounds, remnants of several generations of a now-defunct regional industry. We fed fish and a frisky muskrat. I am forever five years old when it comes to interacting with wildlife. The afternoon passed pleasantly and quickly.

The museum rests along the Mississippi River. The entire trip, for no explainable reason, I was awed by my proximity to this (murky at our location) waterway. So it should come as no surprise we decided to have dinner, with positive recommendations from the shuttle driver, at Timmerman’s Supper Club. Nestled on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi on the Galena, Illinois, side of the river, Timmerman’s is a throw back to sixties dining. Think Kellerman’s of Dirty Dancing. The decor. The spacious room. The bar. The only difference seemed to be attire. I could picture former patrons in suits and mink stoles. When I called for reservations, I inquired about the dress code and was assured “baseball game attire” (basically all I had packed) was acceptable. We dined on prime rib that was adequate—no prime rib can match son Robert’s. Or Tom Saris’ in Arlington.

The highlight of the evening was my ordering a Lemon Drop martini. It just seemed appropriate to order a cocktail like my mom might have done in the sixties at such an establishment. A whiskey sour? A Cosmo? A Manhattan? I liked an occasional Sloe Gin Fizz or Singapore Sling in my VERY early “drinking days.” Now, I do not drink much of anything besides Chardonnay. And that quite meekly. But the martini was on the menu, and I had a memory of tasting one on a work trip and liking the sugar-rimmed glass. My Timmerman’s cocktail was DEElicious. And presumably light on the liquor. I felt absolutely no effect. (A recent reprise drink order underscored how weak it must have been.) It was a delightful end to a delightful day.

Back-timing Saturday’s travel schedule meant an early wake up. The flight, originally scheduled to depart from CID at 11:20 a.m., had been delayed until 12:15 p.m. But we figured we’d get an early start and leave plenty of time to get to the airport (more than an hour away) and return the car and have breakfast before boarding. We were at the airport, had returned the car, and finished breakfast by around 10.

You know you are in a small airport when the overhead sign reads Restaurant, no S. Which had no coffee. While Bruce ordered our food, I purchased our beverages at a kiosk at which a woman paying ahead of me dropped her credit card into the case of water in front of the register, necessitating said case to be emptied bottle by bottle so the card could be retrieved. And the flight had been delayed another 15 minutes.

When it was finally time to board, there must have been ten (no lie!) families with strollers that needed to be checked in, further delaying the flight. And we had to wait again because a crew member was tardy. We didn’t get in the air until after one. There is ongoing construction at ORD.

We missed our connecting flight.

United has no dedicated customer service person to help with such matters. As we deplaned, we were instructed to change our connecting flight online. I tried. I was informed the next/last United flight to Philly for the day was at 6:29 p.m. And had no seats. We sought the help of a most kind general information desk person, asking how to switch airlines in order to travel TODAY. He said our best bet was to find an unoccupied United gate agent and directed us down a less crowded terminal corridor. We reached the last gate where an agent, who was too busy to make our flight changes, helpfully handed us a business card with a QR code that she promised would connect us with a live person. Which it did. The online agent told us there were seats available on the 6:29 flight, despite what the website was indicating. He booked us and waited until I received the email with our boarding passes.

The bustling terminal underscored why O’Hare is designated one of the world’s busiest airports. We had brisket sandwiches at Berghoff Cafe, which I highly recommend if you are passing through. And we chatted with a lovely family from Belgium who were on a three-week tour of the US. God bless them and all of their airport time. I complimented their two school-aged boys on reading, not playing video games, on their screens.

The flight boarded a little late and then crawled down the tarmac, being like four thousandth in line for take off. Bruce and I tuned into our movies pretty much as soon as we were seated. He chose another crime drama and was well into it before he realized we hadn’t yet taken off. I found Coda, the story where three out of four members of a family are deaf. I had wanted to see it since it was released and somehow never found the time. I loved it.

We landed in Philly and retrieved our car from short-term parking without issue. And home we drove to a happy but mellow Cody, who had had three uneventful days with grandson Leo, one of his favorite people. We saw a few marks on his face that appeared to be small cuts from a thorny bush and were not alarming.

Or so we thought.

The next morning on our walk, a neighbor stopped to ask me how Cody was. And then it registered. The marks on his face. She started explaining her dog had accosted Cody. Ali and Leo had decided to wait to tell us about the incident because Cody seemed nonplussed and what could we have done from Iowa?

Like I said, no vacation is flawless. But Cody is fine. And we had a wonderful time on so many levels. For me, in addition to experiencing the halcyon field of my dreams, the Dubuque/Galena experience was filled with nostalgia and appreciation for a time regrettably passed.

I know people have travel horror stories far worse than the minor inconveniences we experienced (we keep thinking of son-in-law Steven and his ba-zillion travel miles). Travel is not (yet) one of our retirement priorities.

Folks are asking about our next bucket list item. I’ll let you know. No rush. There’s always fun, familiar, imperfect Aruba.

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I grew up loving baseball. My dad regaled us with tales of his pitching as a youth and of living within blocks of Shibe Park slash Connie Mack Stadium. There are photos of baby me holding my dad’s baseball glove—photos I should reenact because said glove is still in my possession. And there are memories of my dad taking me to a Phillies game at Connie Mack in the Johnny Callison era, when he felt safe commuting with a young daughter on the Broad Street subway.

I enviously attended my cousins’ Little League games, wishing girls were permitted to play. I had catches with my dad in the common driveway that ran between Fox Chase Road and Strahle Street where I was instructed to not throw like a girl.

Bruce and I caught a Phils game or two at Connie Mack Stadium and then at Veteran’s Stadium (“the Vet”) when Philadelphia baseball built a fortress of a new venue. And then we took the kids and they take us to Citizens Bank Park. CBP was erected, like so many baseball venues in the late twentieth century, to both recapture the look and fan engagement of The Game in its earliest years—lots of “exposed” seating and brick walls. And to maximize the latest technology with huge Phanavision viewing and score keeping and pitch speed and count capabilities and all manner of statistical accoutrements.

We are four generations of Phillies Phans.

I forget whether I first saw Field of Dreams in the theater when it was released in 1989 or on a rented VHS or DVD. It was love at first viewing. The movie quickly rose in status to one of my all-time favorites (Kevin Costner not withstanding) and first among baseball-related films, along with The Natural and The Rookie and The Sandlot and A League of Their Own.

Field of Dreams was one of my first DVD purchases and one of the few where I’ve watched the special features. I learned about Phil Alden Robinson’s impeccable direction. I found out about who had been anticipated to fill roles and who was eventually cast and how, despite worsening illness, Burt Lancaster persisted through filming. And the care with which James Horner composed the haunting orchestral score and the perfect interweaving of popular music from the Doobie Brothers and The Lovin’ Spoonful. I was amazed by how they achieved the effect of cars moving toward the field in the final scene—citizens in the area lined up their automobiles after midnight and were instructed to tune to a particular radio station and, on cue, blink their headlights.

Field of Dreams is downloaded onto my phone for watching whenever the mood strikes. We constantly quote lines, especially when rooting for our nefarious Phils. “Maybe he winked at him.” And “In your ear.” And of course the most famous of the movie: “If you build it…” and “People will come.”

You can imagine my delight when I heard Major League Baseball would begin playing a special, yearly game on the Field of Dreams set, expanded to include a separate stadium that would meet MLB standards. On August 12, 2021, the Chicago White Sox and the New York Yankees played the inaugural Field of Dreams game (the White Sox won). The following year, the Chicago Cubs went up against the Cincinnati Reds (the Cubs won that one). There were no games played on the site from 2023 through 2025 to accommodate expansions and improvements to the new stadium.

And then I heard a Field of Dreams Phils game was on the 2026 schedule.

After an initial wave of excitement, I more or less forgot about it. Bruce had retired and was shifting gears. There was real estate to sell and chores to accomplish. There were kids’ events. There was a knee replaced and subsequent rehab. There was my general reluctance to travel.

Then not more than a few weeks ago, the subject resurfaced. We checked seat prices on SeatGeek. Exorbitant. We checked flights. Nothing straight through to any city near Dyersville, Iowa. We checked hotels in the vicinity. Feasible possibilities were limited. We’d have to rent a car. We two reluctant travelers kept coming up with obstacles. The idea was slowly dying.

And then I was gobsmacked by a huge, Why not? This was a doable. Just a few days. Domestic flights. The game ticket prices were still crazy but coming down—there were still “amazing” seats. We strategized about the most convenient airport and flight times and the safest place to stay.

With basically 2 weeks until game day, we booked United flights through Chicago to Cedar Rapids, rented a car, decided to go with a Holiday Inn in Dubuque (it had a decent rating and was the shortest drive from the venue after the game), and with a deep gulp bought our tickets. Section 403, Row G, seats 17 and 18.

Bruce became Contingency Man. We were informed most seating is on bleachers, so he purchased stadium chairs that hook onto the metal bleachers and provide tush and back support. Most seating also is not covered, so he ordered ponchos. We engaged grandson Leo to house- and Cody sit.

We did our usual 11 o’clock pack the night before, keeping clothing to a few Phillies shirts and coordinating shorts and caps. I wore my Keds baseball sneakers and Phillies watch and took a minimum of toiletries. We were able to get all of our clothes and stuff into one carry on and the stadium seats and ponchos in the other. We looked like seasoned travelers. Glad they didn’t charge extra for the butterflies in my tummy.

The flights out were on time and completely uneventful. It took seconds to rent the car, a small blue Nissan sedan. I put the Holiday Inn Dubuque/Galena address into Waze and in less than 90 minutes we were checking into the hotel. The weather was clearing and the potentially rain-threatened game was on and starting at 6:30. We had a 30-minute drive and wanted time to take in all the site offered.

And oh yes. Again god bless Waze. And the kind folks of Dyersville and Farley who let us drive through their towns and who strategically placed directional signs to guide our path into and out of the stadium area. And increase my excitement.

Parking was provided on grassy fields near THE field. Golf cart-esque vehicles shuttled attendees to and from the movie/game site.

The first thing I saw was the house—the large, white clapboard farmhouse surrounded by a white picket fence with signs that read Field of Dreams and If you build it. There was corn hole for visitors to play. The out buildings of the movie set served as Swag Central. We waited in line in two places. With only an hour until game time, the pickins were getting slim. Bruce got a hat. I snagged a shirt and without warning was overcome by emotion. I could not believe we were doing this.

We posed with actors dressed as the players in the film on the original diamond. I captured Bruce sitting on the original wooden bleachers (he did not fall off eating a hot dog). We walked a path between the corn lined on either side with cardboard cutouts of the players of today’s game, stopping to snap a photo (strangers are so kind about taking your phone to get the picture) with Kyle Schwarber (an omen?!). Bruce posed me in front of the farmhouse. And as we walked, we could hear the iconic soundtrack, key moments in the film wafting through the warm summer evening and my mind.

The best was following the quiet, respectful line of fans through the forest of corn into the stadium. It was funny. No one talked in the corn. There was just you and the quiet swish of bodies passing through the stalks until you emerge, like the ghosts of the ball players.

We bought a hot dog and chicken fingers (our usual ballgame fare) and found our seats. They WERE “amazing.” Right along the first baseline about half way between the base bag and the corn that lined the outfield. Climbing to our seats, we missed the actual moment the players came through the corn into the field—thankfully, Facebook has reprised it infinite times. We were moved by the ceremonies honoring the Hall of Famers, the Iowa National Guard helicopter flyover, the singing of our National Anthem. That alone always gets me.

Drones floated overhead. Bruce loved that in addition to the electronic big screen, the score would be kept on an old-time wooden structure by three kids who physically placed numerals for runs and hits for each inning.

We were crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with Phils fans and Twins fans. Retired Philadelphia weatherman Dave Murphy sat two rows in front of us. Our portable seats were a godsend. We didn’t need the ponchos—the weather had cleared and the temperature was in the seventies. Dave, however, kept an eye on the radar on his phone when clouds threatened.

The actual game is kind of a blur of euphoria (I am loving all of the Facebook posts that help me relive each play). The scoring started in the first half of the first inning. Down two strikes, first batter Schwarber launched a bomb into the cornfield, which he later reprised. He ran around the diamond smiling like a Little Leaguer. It seemed like every Phillie had at least one hit. Nola pitched one of his best, allowing one Twins home run. I guess we had to give them a little something. Final score: Phils seven, Twins one.

There were the moments. Turner was on first, and Harper was at bat. A fan seated nearby shouted, “Bryce, if you hit it, Trea will run!” A young, shirtless Twins fan behind us repeatedly yelled insults à la Stilwell in A League of Their Own. When Duran was brought in to close, several folks tried to recreate his CBP entrances, urging us to take out our phones (mine was too low on juice from all the picture taking). And because they are the Phillies, even though we were ahead by six in the bottom of the ninth when the Twins had their last at bat, there was that disbelief/relief when the Phils secured the win with a fantastic double play. A great game reel is available on YouTube—Phillies vs. Twins: Full Game Highlights.

Our short visit to Iowa disproved the notion of Iowa stubbornness perpetrated by The Music Man (everyone was SO friendly!) and proved how much I can enjoy being out of my comfort zone. Per Terence Mann, this trip to Iowa allowed me to dip myself in magic waters and reminded me of all that once was good and could be again.

Ray, these two people are definitely glad they’d come.

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Like me.

I enjoy finding evidence we had guests at the beach house. A Tootsie Roll wrapper between couch cushions. A misplaced, random game piece or Monopoly money. Hidden notes. A list of winning poker hands. A message in the Guest Book.

Among our rules for staying at The Clubhouse are no food upstairs and all visitors must sign the Guest Book. We are now on our third volume, our eighteenth season of messages. The first to sign were cousins Faith and David, closely followed by Missy and her girls’ weekend friends Ali and Danielle. Amy and Rob (newly married) and their friends Kevin and Alexis. Ali (pregnant with Leo) and Steve and their friends Lindsey and Brett.

And then came cousins Bob and Arlene. After them, my dad—Pops—and Rochelle. Seeing Pops’ entry gives me the warm fuzzies and reminds me why we’ve designated the front second floor bedroom “Pops’ Room.”

Brian and Beth brought in a large crew of family and friends, which led to the addition of a no food left behind rule. Missy’s friend Carla and Steven’s mom and stepdad (Sally and Mike) rounded out the first season.

Not too long after, Rob and Amy celebrated the new year with friends, ensuring The Clubhouse would be a four-season property.

And 6 months later, the first tiny grandchild hand tracing appeared in the guest book. Five more grandchildren were born over the next 6 years who would sleep in the Pink House nursery and leave their marks and messages in our guest books.

There were more New Years celebrations as well as birthday parties and Fantasy Football weekends and family reunions and couples getaways. All documented in our Guest Books. In direct entries. In thank you notes. In a touching letter to the Pink House from Missy. Proof that others love The Clubhouse almost as much as Bruce and I. Whether we are with them at the house or not.

If we aren’t going to be there to welcome guests, I try to leave a stocked pantry of staples and a note to say “Hi!” One time before Ali and crew were due to stay, I wrote a WELCOME acrostic poem on the dry erase board affixed to our fridge. They left before we returned and, to my delight, Emerson had written a reply poem. And so a new tradition began of exchanging poems, most times acrostic, on a beach house-related topic. Here are a few samples.

As a writer, I think things feel more real, more permanent if I see them in print. The thoughts that inspired a decades-old poem composed in 9-year-old penmanship or an impulsive haiku saved to my phone’s notes become tangible. A blog or couplets on an erasable board provide both outlet and validation. Apparently, the talent and desire have in been passed down to a new generation. I couldn’t be happier or prouder.

One last one. With a postscript. That when it’s QUIET, I like to reread all the wonderful words and memories left behind.

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I thought we were on a break.

I have mixed emotions about homework. And limited memories of having done it. Or where. I cannot remember whether I had a desk in my bedroom(s) growing up and if so, what it/they looked like.

Photos uncharacteristically are of little help. I may have had a desk in our first house—otherwise, where would I have constructed my Barbie apartment, the walls configured of encyclopedia volumes? But according to the few pictures taken in my teenage bedroom, in the spot where I think my desk should have been is only a small record player stand with metal dividers for albums. I vaguely recall typing high school papers on a typewriter atop the stand. Did I just lay or sit on my bed to do homework? I’m pretty sure I didn’t work at the kitchen table. When it wasn’t in use for meals, my mom was seated there smoking and reading or playing solitaire.

We were a traditional family. Daddy worked, and Mommy was a homemaker (a housewife, if you will, back then). Overseeing homework fell to my mom. She allowed us to chill after school—play outside, watch American Bandstand—and do homework after dinner. This schedule accommodated our afterschool activities and facilitated a break. I can see myself watching Dick Clark. I wish I could as easily remember sitting with my mom, practicing my cursive writing or doing science projects.

Even if I don’t recall the busy work, I know I studied for tests. Spelling words every Thursday night from first through twelfth grade. Addition and subtraction facts in first and second. Multiplication and division in third. Pennsylvania history in fourth. Explorers and fractions in fifth.

The blur that was one year of Wilson Junior High, then moving and adjusting to George Washington Junior-Senior High. Algebra and geometry algorithms. Periodic table symbols and atomic weights. Uniform motion problems—two trains leave stations that are 120 miles apart. The trains are heading toward each other. If one is going 60 miles per hour and the other 75 miles per hour, at what mile marker will they collide? No matter how much homework I did involving uniform motion problems, I never could solve them.

Being that I am a saver, I have documentation of my unremembered homework habits: my report cards. In Philadelphia, once one commenced from elementary school, we were graded on three aspects of each subject—knowledge of content, work habits, and behavior. I basically achieved decent grades. But one semester in eighth grade, I earned myself an E in work habits (i.e., completion of homework assignments) from my science teacher, Mr. Koch. The E did not stand for Excellence. I guess the drive to complete homework took second fiddle to watching television and piano lessons and a bat mitzvah to prepare for.

My most vivid homework memory is writing up lab reports all through high school. My science labs always fell on Mondays. And my lab partner throughout those years was always Robin Richman. The homework after each lab was to methodically describe the intent of the experiment, the process, our observations, the results, any compromising factors that might have affected the outcomes, and our conclusions. Chemistry. Physics. AP Chem. Every Monday night, with The Carol Burnett Show humming in the background or an album from my Motown collection if the show was a rerun. I would spread out my notes from that week’s lab on the kitchen table and compose my report. My mother played mah jong on Monday nights, relinquishing the space to my endeavors. Sometimes I’d confer with Robin to ensure the accuracy of our data. I liked doing lab reports. I felt productive. I appreciated their purpose. Likewise, I liked studying for spelling and vocab tests. Learning new words was useful. There were never enough hours in a day to complete all of my assignments, so I prioritized by which teacher was most likely to check homework and finished assignments accordingly.

In college, homework consisted of reading and studying. Of prepping for class and exams. Not busy work. If I didn’t keep up, it would be my undoing. Plus, there was time during the school day in between classes and before I got home (I commuted to Temple University) to study on campus. Homework without the home.

As a teacher, I was on the other side of the homework challenge. I recognized the importance of having my students practice the new skill I’d taught. If the lesson was to multiply two two-digit numbers, I got the value (pun intended) of reinforcing the newly acquired ability by having them do ten problems a few hours later to prove mastery or recognize a need for further instruction. Or the value of writing that week’s spelling words ten times. And using them in sentences. The way I had learned a decade before.

As a parent, homework time was my way of sharing my kids’ “Look what I learned today” moment. I also had to deal with the frustration of watching our kids struggle when the division got too long or the Silver Burdett words too complicated. Like my mom, my policy was to give them a break after school and have them do their homework after dinner. This approach sometimes was compromised by afterschool activities that lasted into the evening.

We made sure each child had a desk in their bedroom. When they moved out of their cribs into big kid beds, we got each of them a full suite of furniture—a double bed, a chest of drawers, a night stand, and a desk with matching chair. And unless the homework required parental assistance and/or kitchen table space, they sat at their desks and did their assignments independently. Then I’d check their work. Or quiz them on their arithmetic facts in the tub. Or help prep them for spelling tests. Missy had me sit on her bed with her and she’d spell the word. Ali sat at her desk and wrote out the word and spelled it back to me. Rob sat at his desk or on his bed while I sat on the floor with his spelling list, usually with a dog’s head in my lap.

Our biggest homework kerfluffles were the dreaded “eleven o’clock projects.” The assignments remembered last minute or started too late. The projects that took way longer than anticipated. The great ideas that needed an adult to execute, which meant they may have gotten started with the student but ended with said child going to bed while a parent “finished up.” To this day—way past the homework years— the kids and Bruce and I try to avoid what we still call eleven o’clock projects.

Summer homework is a new phenomenon for me. I didn’t have my first summer reading assignments until ninth grade. E.M Forster’s Aspects of a Novel, a book about Greek mythology, and John Knowles’ A Separate Peace. I barely skimmed the first two and was blown away by the last. Especially when Gene said, “I did not cry then on ever about Finny. I could not escape the feeling that this was my own funeral, and you do not cry in that case.” Oh, the angst! To this day, A Separate Peace is one of my favorite books. That book softened the blow of having summer homework—the reading lists held the promise of my discovering a book I might not have chosen for myself and that I would enjoy immensely.

Reading a few books was all that was required of me school-wise over the summer. I would have read anyway. Probably Nancy Drew early on. And then maybe a few romance novels or Beth Brown short stories. I didn’t really mind the required titles.

T’was the same with our kids. Reading assignments only. But the summer homework commenced earlier—possibly in grade school but definitely by middle school. We were pretty good about securing the books not long after school ended in June. But then came the haranguing, bordering on battling, around the question, “Did you do your summer reading?” The assignments usually were completed, but not until the first day of the new term was hovering over their heads. The more serious the discussions became about first day outfits, the more urgent the need to get through the books. I think their biggest complaints were that the teacher never DID anything to ensure they had completed the reading. A book report they could have fudged (see You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown)? A short quiz? I don’t recall they had to offer proof they had done the reading.

Now our kids have kids. Our kids differ regarding homework timing for their kids. Some do homework immediately upon arrival at home, post snack. Others are okay with down time between school and homework. Extracurricular activities notwithstanding.

Most disconcerting to me is that our grandkids have summer homework to complete—packets and worksheets in addition to having to read 30 minutes a day, just as they do during the school year. Plus, our kids have to sign off on our grandkids completed assignments and reading logs. That’s something neither my parents nor I or Bruce had to do. Yes, we signed our kids’ tests and report cards to attest to our having seen the grades. Maybe having a parent witness the homework process in writing underscores the importance of homework. And the regimentation that may help establish good study habits.

But it’s summer. Granted, I’ve watched our youngest breeze through his required page of math problems in less than 3 minutes. And of course we wouldn’t want our progeny to experience any learning loss over the 12 weeks they are away from their classrooms. And I’m all for curling up with a book in a beach chair under a summer sky. But working on math problems at the dining room table at the shore house just made me kind of … sad.

It’s bad enough snow days have been eliminated from the school calendar since virtual instruction became a thing during Covid. Can’t summer break remain sacred?And I have a somewhat related question: If you are going school virtually, how do you distinguish between working from home and homework?

Just asking.

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Cecily Tynan is the “Chief Meteorologist at Action News” Philadelphia. Bruce and I watch her weather forecasts every night at 11:17. We mock how many times she says dew points. I comment on the length of her hair. Bruce has been known to make rude remarks when Cecily predicts frigid temperatures. She has come into our home via the airwaves for decades. And now she is retiring. I will miss her as I would a departing friend. She has no personal connection to me, other than I ran into her a few times when she lived near our son. It’s more that she has been a welcome constant in our lives. In that sense, a friend. Which sparked some personal thoughts about various types of friendship.

As a child, in addition to my neighborhood friends and classmates, there were older friends—think the Mr. Rogers of our lives. Like the crossing guard Rose. Rose didn’t actually guide me from one side of Fox Chase Road to the other on my way to Farrell School from grades one through six—her post was in the opposite direction from my usual route. But she was a fixture in the neighborhood in her long blue coat and white cap. Anyone who walked by was escorted across the street with a greeting and a smile.

I had little interaction with Rose until I crossed her path in seventh grade on the way to the bus terminal opposite Farrell on my way to Wilson Junior High. One morning, I was not feeling well. She must have noticed something about my expression or demeanor and sat me on a bench until I collected myself enough to walk the short block back to my house. To this day, I am grateful for her solicitation. Like many teachers and mentors, she wasn’t a friend, per se. She was a nice caring lady who would lend a hand or bench to anyone who needed her.

Besides Cecily, I have had other television “friends.” Like Gene London, a local TV personality who was my first media crush. He shared a Coke with me one Friday at Summerdale Day Camp where he made regular appearances (his uncle owned the camp and wanted to promote Gene’s show). Gene had asked for suggestions for segments for Cartoon Corners and rewarded my answer with a sip of his soda. At eight years old, I was convinced we had a friend thing going, when in reality I should have been worried about the germs exchanged.

I am still in touch with several elementary school pals, but I have maintained no contact with anyone I first met in junior high or college. I have a small circle of friends from high school (including my BFF)—some of whom I speak to regularly and some of whom we try to connect with at least once a summer at the beach. A few I would love to see more often. And with a few, running into them only occasionally is just fine. Does that make them not friends?

Neighbors have become our good friends. In Pennsylvania, we’ve grown close with the families who have lived on either side of us for forty-plus years. And there are friends we’ve met through friends that we’ve come to know beyond the original friendship catalysts.

For a while, there were my ORT friends. [Sidebar: Women’s American ORT is an organization that supports technical education.] Not long after we married, I was recruited to become a member of our local chapter. In the course of attending the monthly meetings, I met the wives of my future gynecologist and pediatrician, along with several other women who, like me, were seeking both the satisfaction of charitable endeavors and the companionship of young moms. Otherwise, I was never much of a joiner. I didn’t create many opportunities to cultivate, let’s say, tennis friends or mah jong buddies.

Being at the shore has allowed us to meet new people. There’s more outdoor and free time to see folks and nurture relationships. We often get acquainted with each other through our dogs—Bruno’s daddy once sent drinks over to our restaurant table, initiating an opportunity to exchange owners’ names and begin a new friendship. We now do dinners and such with Lucy’s (may she rest in peace) mommy and daddy. And we miss Harley’s (may she also rest in peace) parents since they moved south, but we stay in close touch.

Sometimes people who perform a service become friends. We invited my mom’s hairdresser Jeannine to our wedding (after all, she created our coiffures). I share book recommendations and certain confidentialities with my stylist, Joanne. It’s funny though—when I speak of her or others who avail me of their talents, I refer to them by their professions—i.e., my haircut lady Joanne as opposed to my friend Joanne. I wonder why?

There have been transient friendships with the parents of our kids’ friends. I grew close to moms through playdates and ride sharing (the old-fashioned kind) and parent-teacher organizations—relationships that blossomed through planning our kids’ school activities from grade school all the way through high school. But with very few exceptions, I rarely socialized with these women—singly or as couples. As much time as we spent together, we didn’t confide intimate details of our lives. We certainly weren’t on each other’s A lists for milestone celebrations. Yet if I say “We once were friends,” it sounds like we had a falling out, which isn’t the case at all. The kids grew up and away from each other. As did we.

Same with work friends. I met Sharon my first year of teaching. I met one Stef my first year in medical association publishing and another Stef my first year of medical editing. All three friendships have withstood the test of time. Then there are all the others with whom I spent a pleasant 8 hours a day, 5 days a week for forever and then… nothing. Are you really friends if you stay in touch with each other’s lives only through social media? You try to do lunch, but scheduling is a challenge, every life phase creating its own demands.

I am amazed I am old enough to have close friends who are in their eighties and nineties. And saddened that our friend circle is shrinking. A common phenomenon. It’s not that I have unfriended anyone. I cherish whatever memories remain of now defunct friendships. For the most part, my motto is, Once my friend, always my friend. But someone passes. Or moves. Or the reciprocity dwindles. An open-ended “We really should get together” goes unanswered. Which may be why we start thinking of TV weatherpersons as friends.

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Instead, when we travel to the shore, we put our daily meds into zippy bags, one for each of us and for Cody. We know our pills’ shapes and colors well enough to dispense them appropriately. The only sad part is that when the supply visibly dwindles, the end of the trip is nigh.

I’ve noticed my bag o’pills is the more festive.

I’d mistakenly thought pills were a relatively new concept in medicine. From what meager information I’ve read and TV westerns I’ve watched, it seemed most medicines of years gone by were ground into tea or concocted by the local physician/snake oil salesman to be administered in liquid form. Turns out, pill-making dates back to 1500 B.C., when plant extracts were mixed with liquids to form hard-to-swallow balls of dough. The tablet concept didn’t come into play until 1843 with the invention of a compressed tablet machine, providing pharmacists a way to compact powders into small shapes. Sugar and gelatin coatings soon were applied to increase ease of swallowing and to keep the tablets from dissolving in the stomach too quickly. In the 1900s, the pharmaceutical industry added dyes and flavorings both to protect ingredients and to improve taste. Branding enhanced marketing Q factor—we’re all familiar with the little blue pill (Viagra) and purple pill (Nexium). Baby aspirin is almost always orange.

For many of us, the first pills we consumed were vitamins. In my day, there were Chocks—bland-colored, chalky-textured and tasting (or so I’ve been told) chewables available in bottles reminiscent of those found in an old-time apothecary. I took Vita Yums (spelling?) vitamins—cherry-flavored lozenges that were individually foil wrapped. I still can conjure the slightly medicinal but palatable taste. Probably because I was a teenager, I never got into the Flintstone vitamin craze that began in the late sixties.

When I had a fever, I chewed St Joseph’s baby aspirin—orange-flavored, of course.

That was the extent of my pill-taking until I was in my twenties. Given my inability to swallow pills until I could vote and drink, it was a good thing I was healthy.

Then came almost a decade of taking nothing but horse pills, otherwise known as prenatal vitamins. From my limited observations, I don’t think Baby Boomers got into taking supplements as subsequent generations now do. You got what you needed directly from food. If your potassium was low, you ate more bananas. Need more vitamin C? Drink more orange juice or have more strawberries. Popeye downed a can of spinach for strength-building iron—he didn’t take Slo-Fe. But I was a good girl about supplementing my nutrition while little people were gestating within me.

Once our three arrived, I worried more about them than me. Their fruit-flavored, chewable vitamins (“Only one works,” I told the kids so they would become proper consumers) contained fluoride to strengthen their teeth—municipalities no longer added it to their water supplies and dentists had stopped offering fluoride treatments. Thanks to the discovery of the association between aspirin and Rye’s syndrome, parents didn’t treat fevers with St Joseph’s. When our kids were feverish as babies and through elementary school, I dosed them with liquid Tylenol and liquid antihistamines and cold meds and antibiotics. Graduating to pill-form medications was sort of a rite of passage.

Meanwhile, I mostly only took antibiotics and Advil and (for occasional allergy issues) Chlortrimeton—in our house, better known as “cheap cheaps,” owing to their inexpensiveness and ease of titration (once every 4 hours). And maybe a Tums or two. All PRN.

As the years passed, vitamin consumption that had been more or less erratic through the years became part of our morning ritual. Prophylactic allergy and analgesics were added as our sinuses and sometimes over-exerted bodies required.

Then doctors began recommending our taking a supplement. Or two. Or three. A few common variety family history- and age-related conditions (gratefully, easily managed) added prescription medications to the mix. Until between us, more than a dozen pills—some taken two at a time—are now part of our daily fare. Asking, “Did you take your pills?” accompanies every sunrise.

And we are two basically healthy people. I can’t imagine how many swallows of water it takes for people with more concerning medical issues to get their meds down.

So here we are. We’ve gone from One-A-Day to having to consume a pill rainbow of assorted shapes and sizes, some before and during but most after our bagels. I consider navigating timing and dosages yet another way, in addition to my morning Sudoku, to keep my memory sharp.

Pills are our travel companions. The badges of our decades. More proof that seventy IS just a number—it’s how many items we need in our pill Baggies to maintain our “numbers.”

Oy.

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Summer, I barely knew ye.

To many mid-Atlantic region minds, summer begins on Memorial Day. That’s when the barbecue grills may first get fired up after the winter hiatus. And the kids shut down their interest in school, if not their Chromebooks. And the heavy sweaters get put away, replaced by T shirts and capris. And shore trips may start, even though the ocean is still toe-numbingly cold and the chill in the air means sweatshirts are beachwear.

Not long after, meteorological summer commences. In the northern hemisphere, meteorological summer goes from June 1 to August 31. The tulip and daffodil plants wilt and the hydrangeas explode. Forecasters hype the potential for hurricanes. The word dewpoint peppers every weather news segment. My hair…. ugh. Let’s not talk about my hair.

Most of us, however, subscribe to the premise of the astrological summer, the period that begins on June 21 with the summer solstice—the longest day of the year and, according to myth or urban legend, the only day of the year you can balance an egg on its end. (A quick Google search upended that story. You can balance an egg any day of the year as long as the yolk and shell texture are in your favor.)

For me, summer starts when school ceases. Summer waxes for a week or two. We really get into shore time. The beach days are glorious. We ride our bikes to breakfast and walk to Sundaze for ice cream cones we savor as we stroll back home in the delightful evening breeze, always saving the krichick (end) for Cody. The heat and the thunderstorms intensify. Then suddenly, it’s July fourth. Summer wanes. I’m scheduling appointments for October. Like the official summer boundaries, it’s barely 12 weeks from when the school bus makes its last appearance on our street in June until it is heard chugging down the street again in September.

When I was growing up in Philadelphia, the school year didn’t finish until the June twenties. It had been hot for weeks. My earliest summer memories as a kid involve Summerdale Day Camp. The first season I was a camper, my emetophobia had not yet become full blown, so I enjoyed the rides to and from camp on the 1940s silver and blue bus. There was lots of singing. I liked making construction paper link chains in art ‘n crafts. And eating lunch in the big mess hall—the canned corn and the white bread smeared with grape jelly. I guess the mess hall was the precursor to the kids’ modern day school multipurpose room—we had activities there on rainy days.

For a few summers, I participated in programs closer to home—I think owing to the expense of my parents now having two kids. One summer I went to a camp held in an aging synagogue at Brous Street and Tyson Avenue in Philadelphia. My mom drove me and packed me a sandwich stored in a giant refrigerator along with the rest of the camper’s. The camp provided juice and snacks. And not much else.

For swim time, we were walked a few blocks to Boulevard Pools. At Summerdale, I had changed into bathing suits with like-aged girls in a rustic cabin and shared swim time in a well-supervised pool with only a few bunks at a time. My Boulevard Pool experience was a rude awakening. Females of all ages in all stages of undress in an open locker room. A large, crowded pool that even at the tender age of six I was afraid was not well lifeguarded. Not my idea of fun.

I don’t recall engaging in much outdoor play at the synagogue camp. What I remember of the outside are a few peach trees—I’d never before seen fruit trees up close. Most of my memories of that camp involve staying inside playing board games that were stored in dark closets. Thankfully, I only spent one summer at said camp.

I was happy to be back at Summerdale for my seventh and eighth summers. I mastered playing jacks and lanyard making. I liked playing on the Delaware river bank among the cattails, creating Flintstone villages in the sand. I became friendly enough with a few of my bunk mates to have play dates outside of camp. I expanded my taste in food, adding shepherd’s pie to my list of favorites. I was an enthusiastic participant in musical activities in The Grove—where we held assemblies—especially when local TV personality Gene London paid visits. I rode the bus with Marlowe and Andy—my first crushes on (slightly) older boys. Those were good summers.

By the time I was nine, I was allowed to make my own summer fun at home. I rode bikes and played Clue and galloped around on imaginary horses with neighbors Cyndi and Renie. I walked the half block to the summer program at my elementary school where I stitched and frayed burlap placemats.

Ten was my banner summer. I took public transportation all by myself to Somerton Springs Swim Club where I learned how to line dance on The Pavilion. I went down town on the Shoppers Special bus with a friend for lunch. I saw Bye Bye Birdie in the newly opened Orleans movie theater.

We moved when I was eleven. I sometimes was invited to hang with the neighborhood kids who were my chronological age but far advanced socially and physically (i.e., the girls wore bras whether they needed them or not). I occasionally swam in the pool two houses from mine. But there was a pony farm within walking distance. That was where I was happiest spending time.

Meanwhile, every summer my parents took my sister and me to Atlantic City for a few days, staying first at the Algiers Motel and then movin’ on up to the Deauville Hotel. We lathered up with Sea n Ski and recuperated from the sun smeared in Noxema. Ate breakfast at Woofies. Pedaled along the Boardwalk on rented two-wheelers in the cool, humid morning air. Dressed up for dinner then braved the rides on Steel Pier and Million Dollar Pier. Begged for just one more dime to play the carnival games—Come on, number 10! Fed the pigeons treats from Mr. Peanut’s shop, from which emanated the most delicious fragrance EVER.

I worked during my teen summers. Our synagogue ran a day camp—I assisted with the younger bunks and helped Flossie the cook and camp overseer in the kitchen, making tuna salad in huge stainless steel bowls. One summer, I was supposed to play Nancy in the camp production of Oliver, but the camp director/show producer was fired and the show was cancelled. I had one harrowing experience, unknowingly closing a door on a camper’s finger. Otherwise, summer was a pleasant blend of playing with preschoolers and (by the time I was fourteen) dating Bruce.

And then it was back to school immediately after Labor Day. I was only slightly sad to see summer end. I was missing my routines and seeing my friends.

In my later teens/college years, I had brief stints in retail before spending several consecutive summers as a GS-1 clerk at the Naval Supply Depot in Northeast Philly. Computers were housed in large, temperature-controlled (i.e., frigid) rooms, sending requisition and fulfillment reports to each department on noisy, dot-matrix printers. I felt very official, removing the printouts from the machines and passing them along to the appropriate parties. I was paid quite well for doing very little.

And then, it was back to college before Labor Day, making summer seem even shorter.

And then I got married and had kids, officially becoming a grown up.

Our girls were never huge fans of day camp. But we sent them anyway—first to Hunter’s Run and then to Arrowhead—because there weren’t many kids their ages in our neighborhood and their friends were not always available for play dates. We celebrated Robert’s first birthday in our backyard with its new inground pool and swing set and wooden picnic table. To be repeated on subsequent birthdays and summer holidays and events.

Throughout their single-digit years, the kids all still went to day camp (and now Rob hated it, too), because I was not good at coming up with what to occupy a trio of kids who were happy to just hang. This was well before concerns about too much screen time. Hanging was okay until they whined they were bored. Then I blessed having the pool and videoed their raft-surfing contests and fed them lunch outside, picnic-style.

There were a few day trips or brief overnights. Harrisburg to see Bruce’s friend Bob. A trip to Atlantic City a month shy of Ali’s birth. A sleepover or two with grandparents and at friends’ houses. Numerous zoo trips. Daytime kids shows at the Valley Forge Music Fair summer program. Eventually, enough time had flown for them to find activities and/or get summer jobs.

It was as a different era than today. Bruce was working 6 days a week—the pool was our “vacation.” And few to none of our peers took their kids on trips requiring passports. Our friends Marlyn and Steve repeatedly went with their two to Kings Dominion in Virginia and Disney World. Truth be told, I visited my own travel anxiety upon our children until they were much older and we started taking them on various winter vacations to warm ports of call. They eventually were old enough (per working papers) to secure summer jobs and WAM (a.k.a., walking around money) that occupied their time and turned out to point them toward their careers. Missy was a TTY operator, sparking an interest in speech pathology. Ali worked at radio stations, an early precursor to her majoring in media. Rob held fort at the local carwash and for a few summers was the youngest salesman at a nearby car dealership.

How do my Gen Alphas fill their summer weeks? With day camp (some like/liked it, some not so much). And weeklong camps that cater to their interests—sports, theater, dog training. For Rob’s boys, summer baseball overarches everything. Ali runs Camp Mom, an exclusive schedule individualized to her kids’ passions with dedicated, one-on-one Mom time. There are berry- and flower-picking excursions. Antiquing and thrifting. The older grandkids—still in their teens—maintain their lawn care, yard decoration, and resell businesses (Leo), babysit (Em), work at day camps (Everett), and pet sit. Oh, and hopefully, there’s a Mom mom Day for each child somewhere in the schedule.

Not one of the Aruba 18—no Baby Boomer or Gen X or Gen Alpha—wanted to go to traditional, 8-week overnight camp. I wasn’t offered the option. Our kids disliked the regimentation of day camp so much it never occurred to consider anywhere with 24-hour programs. The grandkids always have had a bevy of summer activities of their liking to choose from. The only one to have done sleepover camp is Emerson, who loves the week-long, character-building immersion and camaraderie of Girl Scout camp with her besties. But neither our children nor our grandchildren had a “camp” table at their bar/bat mitzvahs.

And of course, summer means the Pink House, the double underscore to why the season has regrettably become far too short. Late breakfasts at favorite local restaurants. Bike rides. Beach days of sun and sand and ice cream men. Much discussion about where to go (or not) for dinner and then enjoying our choices. Watching our vegetables grow in our small backyard garden. Just hanging. Out back. On the big sofa. In the papasan (a.k.a, taco) chair. Late night Sundaze runs. The two of us. And any part of the Aruba 18 who may come knocking on our door, providing delightful white noise to fall asleep and wake up to.

Astrologically, summer isn’t over until mid-September. And now that Bruce and I both are retired, summer technically doesn’t have to end until it’s too chilly to be seated outside for breakfast. But I can’t override years of conditioning—that summer is over on the first day of school or when I have to start readying for the High Holidays. The truth is that, no matter when the counting starts and ends, Summer is 12 weeks long. Whether or not you like the heat. Or the change of pace. Or the feeling we should be DOING something. Or the feeling we don’t have to be doing ANYthing.

In my younger days, I wasn’t a huge fan of summer, given that I liked school and cooler weather and winter clothes. But summer now means fewer, lighter loads of laundry (not counting towels) and all the amenities of the Jersey shore. I will attempt to ignore my season change anxieties and cherish the next 7 weeks (is there really that much of Summer left?). I will lend a deaf ear to the damn cicadas and the inevitable talk of first-day outfits and the size of my brisket. We will replace our aging beach carts. Buy more sunscreen. Enjoy a good garden harvest. The haze of Canadian wildfires, the weird intestinal parasite, and triple-digit heat indices be damned.

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Books.

Newspapers. Magazines.

Billboards. Cereal boxes. Record album cover notes. IKEA instructions. Nutrition labels.

Kindles. Phones.

Signs. Signs. Everywhere are signs.

We are inundated with words. We unconsciously take them in like we take in air. And if you’re like me, in their absence you may find yourself gasping for words like you gasp for breath.

Actually, I thought I was an extreme case until I recently read someone who needed something to read while performing a natural function memorized the ingredients noted on his bottle of shampoo. A kindred spirit! I have been known to see how many words I can find in Neosporin.

I’ve always been a reader and word lover. Looking back, I think the first words I might have read were brands of cars. DeSoto. Ford. Buick. My mom said I could tell cars apart at three years old. I don’t know that I was able to distinguish from among different automobiles of my era strictly by design. I also had to have been able to recognize their names fastened across grills or chassis—my first sight words. Daughter Missy’s first learned sight words came thanks to gas station (Shell), market (Pantry Pride), and fast food (Burger King) signs. Using what she had learned skipping her naps to watch my favorite soap opera with me, she once looked up at a traffic sign and read “All my children.” The sign actually was Watch children. Give her partial credit. Anyway, the first things we read aren’t necessarily books.

Before I became enamored of chapter books, there were comics. Archie and Jughead. Veronica and Betty. Dialogue between the characters presented in little conversational bubbles, much like our son Robert’s texts—written and consumed one or two lines at a time. Our grandchildren’s first forays into chapter books involved graphic novels. Folks of my generation—ever see a graphic novel? First of all, it’s not graphic in the sense of Henry Miller’s two “tropic” tales. Graphic novels are basically comic books bound into a chapter-like story. Diary of a Wimpy Kid is a well-known graphic novel series. Like me, this graphic initiation into the world of books helped make grade-level-plus readers of our young crew.

And before I read books or newspapers or my phone at meals, there were cereal boxes. According to an astute random Facebooker, there is a definite association between reading and eating. Kids of my generation read cereal boxes. There was much to be gleaned from the stories and puzzles on a box of Wheaties or Frosted Flakes. And somehow we never minded reading the same box over and over again.

Some folks my age have been known to read phone directories. We have a Philadelphia phone book from 1954. We share it with friends, laughing over the calling instructions of the era (e.g., for proper party line decorum) and to test each other on our childhood addresses and phone numbers. But I can remember reading the White Pages and the Yellow Pages, tucked into the telephone table at my grandparents’ house for lack of any other reading material.

Although it seems like they’ve been around forever, reading nutritional facts panels on packaging did not become a thing until the 1990s. Now anything that goes on or into our bodies must be disclosed. I became a huge fan of nutrition panels when I was on the Weight Watchers fat and fiber program. The goal was to keep daily fat intake to under 35 grams and fiber to over 20 grams. I compared the labels of my favorite chips and cookies, paying close attention to portion size. And there is the comic relieve of reading labels for items like water: Contents: water. Calories: 0. Why bother labeling?

When “assembly is required,” do you read the instructions? Or like my husband, do you wing it and refer to the instructions only if you can’t figure out how part D fits with part E? Grandsons Zack and Cam are experts at following complicated and intricate Lego instructions. Okay, so the steps are spelled out in illustrations. But they are getting great training in future furniture construction.

I like that clothing comes with instruction labels for laundry in various languages. I amuse myself reading the multilingual washing instructions on clothing, trying to decipher and follow in Spanish or sometimes in a language with a non-English alphabet.

I prefer holding and reading books rather than electronic devices. But I appreciate the convenience of downloading books to my phone. I rarely use my Kindle anymore because 1) I have to remember to keep it with me for spur-of-the-moment solo lunch reading and 2) I have to remember to keep it charged. Reading a book is more three-dimensional and sensory. In addition to the words, there is the feel of the pages, the sound of their being turned, the fragrance of the binding. I am less distracted by what’s happening around me —the swirl of the other words of the world—when I am submerged in an actual book. Postscript: we still have the morning newspaper delivered for much the same reasons.

Certain things I do not read. The annual Medicare update volume. The contents of my monthly supplemental health insurance envelope (“This is not a bill”)—I just save all twelve statements until tax time. Repeated solicitations from charities. Political mail. Anything addressed to Resident. I have standards.

Thanks to technology, we seem to be exposed to more words than ever. There are some days I am weary from word overload. When words are like floaters—you can still see them with your eyes shut tight. Electronic billboards that change almost before you can digest their messages. Text messages written in incomplete sentences and abbreviations. Emails I spend more time deleting than reading.

And yet.

Words remain my go-to when I am unable to just be still. My eyes are always searching out something I can read. A new blog on Substack. A book I’ve downloaded (my current is The Correspondent). Old messages and emails. My early poems and stories, tucked away in a drawer.

And when all else fails, there is always a tube of hair gel.

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Now malls everywhere are dying.

The Philadelphia region—where I was born and raised and in which I continue to reside—has been home to more than a dozen malls. By mall, I am referring to an enclosed shopping structure that houses numerous retail businesses and eateries and is anchored by at least one if not several department stores. The complex may incorporate a movie theater or other form of entertainment venue. In addition to sit-down restaurants, there typically is a food court with a central seating area surrounded by a variety of fast food, step-up-to-order fare. Kiosks with all kinds of enticing snacks and doodads and services (ear piercing, candy, hats) interrupt the walkways.

Some strip centers try to pass themselves off as malls. But they are malls in name only. Like the Roosevelt Mall in Northeast Philadelphia. Although pretty extensive, stretching between two major thoroughfares (Bustleton Avenue and Roosevelt Boulevard), the stores abut along an outdoor sidewalk. Freestanding, not attached, “anchors” (Roosevelt Mall’s originally was S Klein). No central food court. There is no all-encompassing building. Shoppers are exposed to the elements, only somewhat protected by awnings and canopies.

The original draw of mall shopping was you parked, you entered, you shopped, you ate, appropriately warmed or cooled as the season dictated. Each mall also featured its own unique enticements. A merry-go-round. A multileveled, balconied design. A see-through elevator. For me, malls mean memories. But of course!

Cherry Hill Mall in Cherry, Hill, NJ, was the Philadelphia region’s first enclosed mall. Built it 1961, the Cherry Hill Mall was designed by architect Victor Gruen, who was responsible for the world’s first modern enclosed mall in Edina, Minnesota, erected in 1956. Suburban sprawl spurred by the baby, housing, and highway booms expedited the explosion of mall construction and culture. Consumer venues shifted away from downtowns as malls became the centers for shopping and socializing. Spencer’s and Orange Julius and Auntie Anne’s and Cinnabon became iconic mall establishments.

The first mall I ever visited was Plymouth Meeting (Pennsylvania). The mall had opened in 1966. I went with my immediate family plus cousins Jack and Esther and their sons after a Sunday smorgasbord dinner together in nearby Collegeville. Owing either to the hour or Sunday Blue Laws (remember those? When stores were prohibited from conducting business on Sundays?), nothing was open—we only could walk the mall and ride on its famous carousel. But even (or especially) as a newly minted teenager, I was much impressed with the one-stop shopping potential. Until then, shopping meant strolling Castor or Cottman or Bustleton Avenues in the Great Northeast (Philly), all excursions subject to weather and/or my mom’s willingness to drive me there or my willingness to take the bus. Malls afforded the ability to drive to one place and purchase just about anything. Plus, I’d never heard of, let alone seen, a Hess’s, one of Plymouth Meeting’s original anchor department stores. It was almost…. exotic… like shopping in a foreign country. And at the opposite end was Strawbridge & Clothier—the department store for which I had memorized my mom’s credit card number for “emergency purchases.”

Neshaminy Mall—the closest to my house—opened in 1968. It became Bruce’s and my default date night destination. No good movies? Don’t feel like bowling or watching TV? Let’s go to Neshaminy. Not long after (in 1973) and not too much farther up Route 1, Oxford Valley Mall was built. By then, we were married and living at the opposite end of the world in Delaware County. The only reason we came anywhere near the newer, larger mall was to take the kids to nearby Sesame Place, a few years later.

The King of Prussia Mall—affectionately known as KOP—was built where the Schuylkill Expressway meets the Pennsylvania Turnpike in 1962-63. It started life as a plaza, a strip center anchored by JC Penney and EJ Korvette with a Kiddie City smack dab in the middle. Over the 1970s and 1980s, the Plaza was enclosed and the mall expanded to include a separate section—“The Court.” The Court connected to The Plaza by an open-air, covered walkway and boasted a bevy of upscale merchants reminiscent of Rodeo Drive. In 2016, the Plaza and The Court were structurally connected by a corridor of new-name, bougie businesses. Currently, with more than 450 stores and at least 30-plus places to eat, KOP is the largest mall in Pennsylvania and the fourth largest in the country.

I rarely schlepped to KOP before we had kids. Before there was a need to visit multiple toy stores in search of the perfect Barbie or ANY available Cabbage Patch Kid. Or to find sneakers for picky feet. Or to put together the perfect first-day outfit. There were infinite options among the at least seven anchor department stores and the individual chains and the unique-to-this-mall businesses. Ali and friends made a tradition of shopping at KOP on Black Friday—I only had to provide their transportation and enjoyed their chatter on the way home. The extensive food court in The Plaza had a Bain’s deli. No rye bread has ever tasted as delicious.

I went to KOP often enough to have several routes of least traffic resistance. When I worked in Wayne and Malvern, this became critical to my hitting the mall at lunch and getting back within an (well, almost) hour. And because you have to navigate 2.8 million square feet of retail plus massive parking areas, I established favorite parking and entrance points to minimize my walking and maximize my shopping energy. Mall funk is a very real phenomenon when hurrying through KOP, laden with packages and wearing a winter coat. P.S. My favorite shop in the whole mall is the Swatch store.

But Springfield was my mall. When Bruce and I married, I became a Delaware County (the term Delco had yet to gain its current popularity) transplant. Initially, I was homesick for northeast Philly. Two events softened my heart: the discovery of a restaurant called Village Porch and the promise of a brand, spanking new mall. Springfield Mall opened in 1974 with two anchors (John Wanamaker’s and Bamberger’s) and lots of fun stores in between. It was an easy 10-minute car ride from home and my second solo expedition (the first was to the pediatrician for her check up) with month-old Missy. To say mother and daughter had lots of mall bonding time is an understatement. Once Missy and I were separated while shopping in Children’s Place (I didn’t see her come down the slide). She confidently headed out to the main thoroughfare and told the security officer who spotted her to head toward Bamberger’s because that’s where her mom would probably be.

Shopping sans parents at Springfield Mall became a rite of passage for our kids back in the days when it was safe—despite having no cell phones—to drop off your kids with a friend or two and designate a time and pick-up spot. Fluff N Stuff for Smurf and mini Cabbage Patch figures. Pizza at Sbarro. Chintzy jewelry and hair accessories from Claire’s. And then hearing about their exploits.

Our halcyon shopping days were marred only by the actions of Sylvia Seechrist, a paranoid schizophrenic (yes, I’ve ignored person-first language) who in 1985 went on a shooting spree at our beloved Springfield Mall. For years, I couldn’t enter the mall without a slight hesitation.

Like Springfield, Granite Run Mall opened in 1974. It also was in close proximity to our house and not far from its Springfield counterpart. We never developed the affinity for Granite Run that we had for Springfield, except Sears was one of its anchors and fueled Bruce’s relationship with Craftsman tools. I still remember the name of the sales clerk in the tool department—Jerzey. With a Z. The other anchors were JC Penney and Boscov’s, not my first choices for department store shopping. Yet.

For a few years, Bruce business-ventured outside the city to the MacDade Mall in Holmes, Delaware County. Running a store in a mall meant longer hours (nights and Sundays) and juggling where he’d be among his several stores. His mall era ended when another tenant with a longer history wanted to expand into his space. What did they call the flight of Apollo 13, a “successful failure?” That was the mall stint. He was happier operating his southwest Philly store. The kids and I missed the yummy mall popcorn.

I have fond memories of Exton Square Mall. To make an event of spending the first money she’d ever earned, I took 11-year-old Missy to Exton rather than Springfield. She bought a lavender and pink corduroy slacks and sweater set she put together herself. Years later, I would spend many a work lunch break at the Exton Mall food court. And then dash into a store or two for a quick purchase. I found several shortcuts between Exton and our Malvern offices, although you had to deal with the fragrance of driving back roads through fields fertilized with chicken poop. Ugh.

Speaking of work, malls helped me tolerate job-related travel. During a conference trip to Toronto, Ontario, I spent my free time roaming Eaton Mall with the temp assigned to our registration area. We shopped while playing the Got It game—that is, I’d note each business as got it (a store that also could be found in a mall in the US), don’t got it, or need it. And on several business trips to Baltimore, I enjoyed the Renaissance Mall shops. In fact, I loved all of Inner Harbor. My last trip there, I treated myself to some spices from the McCormick shop. Although I never made the lemon poppyseed cake for which I bought said ingredients.

Two family events held a few years apart near Los Angeles gave me the opportunities to shop The Promenade in Woodland Hills. During the first trip, we entertained the kids between bar mitzvah services and the reception by letting them amuse themselves at the mall’s emporiums and entertainment venues. For the second trip, high school senior Ali and I enjoyed a clothing and souvenir shopping spree, my suitcase on the return flight heavy with those multipound Express sweaters popular in the 1990s.

Random additional personal mall memories:

I picked up our wedding photos and albums from Ron Bader of Cherry Hill Studios at the same-named mall.

When Missy visited her boyfriend for dances at his college in Reading, rather than driving back and forth while she danced, I shopped the nearby Berkshire Mall.

And as pregnant Missy gratefully approached her due date, we took her and Eric out for a pre-parenthood dinner at the Champp’s in the Concord Mall in Delaware. T’was fortuitous we didn’t wait any longer. She called us an hour later to tell us her water had broken.

Now, sadly, malls as I knew them are disappearing. With the demise of the anchor department stores came a steady decline in quality merchants and an increase in vacancies. Malls became ghost towns. In many—if not most—scenarios, malls are yielding to the development of what are being called town centers. Huge portions of the original structure—if not the entire mall—are demolished, replaced by box stores and freestanding chain stores and restaurants, housing developments, and green space. Bye bye, Granite Run. Only Boscov’s survived the slaughter. As has the Sears building, rumored to become an IKEA. Bye bye Exton, except for the Boscov’s and a Main Line health center. Bye bye soon to Plymouth Meeting, also to be survived by its Boscov’s. Serendipitously, I have become a devoted Boscov’s fan.

KOP stands strong, albeit with lots of store turnover. My beloved Springfield, too, remains intact but with a number of foreboding empty stores. Not one mall is the same as when I first crossed its threshold.

Ahhh, but what is?

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Our parents did.

The morphine-containing medicine was paregoric—also known as tincture opii camphorata or camphorated tincture of opium. Paregoric is an antidotal/antitussive/analgesic, intended primarily for use in children. The bottle featured a red X across the label to denote its classification as an exempt narcotic, meaning it could be sold over the counter even though it contained morphine.

I was a paregoric frequent flyer, owing to numerous tummy aches. Paregoric has a distinctly licorice flavor my parents often offset by providing me an apricot juice chaser. I don’t recall if paregoric helped the pain. I think it just made me sleepy. Paregoric was sold through the 1970s with certain dosage and patient identification restrictions. It was used alone or combined into several over-the-counter medications like Donnagel, which is no longer manufactured. As of 2012, you can obtain paregoric only by prescription.

My boo boos were painted with mercurochrome, the liquid antiseptic famous for its reddish-orange stain. A mercurochromed wound was worn like a badge of honor and bravery, even though application didn’t sting like with some other products. Because it contained mercury and overuse could be toxic, mercurochrome was banned by the FDA in 1998. Perhaps because of its slight similarity in name, Merthiolate (a.k.a, benzalkonium chloride) replaced mercurochrome as an accepted wound antiseptic, as did betadine with its almost same orangey-brown color. After a few mercurochrome spills, my mother doctored my cuts and scrapes with Johnson & Johnson’s First Aid Cream—available online in its familiar white tube in case you want to retry some.

When I had a bacterial infection, the prescribed medicine of choice was achromycin—generic name tetracycline. The broad-spectrum antibiotic had many applications, albeit with side effects that were sometimes indistinguishable from the illness it was treating. Except for one that didn’t surface until later when we traded in our baby teeth for cash from the Tooth Fairy— discolored or stained permanent teeth. My recent modest efforts (I’m afraid to try bleaching. See the episode of Friends where Ross ultra whitens his teeth) to reverse the dental effects of long-term tetracycline use have been fruitless. I’ve grown to accept my very shiny but mildly yellow teeth. Tetracycline is still dispensed, but it comes with the warning to avoid use when teeth are in the formative stage— that is, in anyone under 8 years old and during pregnancy.

I should note I was spoon-fed medicine my entire childhood. My dad was a pharmacist. I couldn’t swallow pills until I was twenty-one. I’m not sure those two facts are related, other than he could get us most any medicine in liquid form. Meaning I had no need to test my gag reflex when I was already feeling awful.

My inexperience with pills made for interesting going on our two-part honeymoon. On day four, we wrapped up our stay at DisneyWorld (then in its second year—Epcot’s geosphere was under construction). By the time we arrived at Puerto Rico for part two, I realized I’d developed a raging case of “honeymoon” cystitis. We checked into the El San Juan Hotel and promptly requested a visit from the house doctor. He prescribed the iconic UTI-infection medicine Azo-Gantrisin (sulfa with a pain reliever), dispensed as horse-sized pills. Circumstances being what they were, there was no way to avoid taking my medication. I celebrated my twenty-first birthday with applesauce or ice cream from the hotel restaurant every 4 hours so I could get my meds down. Two days into the regimen, I started to feel better and had mastered the whole pill-taking ordeal. Which was good because 9 months later, I discovered I needed to take similarly sized prenatal vitamins once my pregnancy was confirmed.

Then it was time to address my mild morning sickness. Bendectin was the accepted medication for pregnancy-induced nausea in the 1970s. I was vaguely queasy throughout my entire first pregnancy, but I took Bendectin only for the first trimester. Once I could eat heartily, I didn’t need something to calm my tummy. I felt yuckier the second time around and reinstituted Bendectin use for a few months. By my third pregnancy, Bendectin had been pulled from the market due to lawsuits alleging birth defects of which I had been unaware. That was the pregnancy I felt the worst. A pharmacist friend secured me probably some of the last available inventory. Thankfully, by the time I was able to add Bendectin to my diet of saltines and Charms hard candy, I needed only a few doses. Once the nausea left, it was gone for good, replaced by a penchant for hometown Joe’s hoagies.

For as far back as I can remember, my mom suffered headaches and migraines requiring heavy duty medication. Darvon, which contained a synthetic opioid linked to heart arrhythmia. Fiorinal, which contained a habit-forming barbiturate. Empirin compound, which of the three is the only one still available but less preferred than newer medications like Imitrex and Nurtec. I can usually manage my headaches with Aleve and Mucinex, similar to how teenage Missy handled headaches with what we called her cocktail of Entex (a decongestant like Mucinex) and Advil.

I have been treating three generations of minor skin injuries with Neosporin, affectionately known in our family as abracadabra cream. This is against the advice of an emergency room pediatrician and social media influencer I follow—Dr. Beachgem10. She recommends using only old-fashioned soap and water and Vasoline. She says most wounds don’t need the antibiotic ointments for healing. But Neosporin use is a hard habit to break. Several small tubes are nestled on our kitchen and bathroom shelves right next to all manner of Bandaids.

In addition to the aforementioned medicinal missteps, many parents—including my mom—exposed their children to the second-hand smoke of their cigarette habits. We kids fashioned ashtrays from seashells for them. Now, like me, not one of my peers is a smoker. Our grandkids paint seashells for display in our garden.

Our parents also put butter on burns and sponged us with rubbing alcohol when we spiked high temperatures. Both practices became ill-advised. So I learned to apply aloe to heat mishaps and cooled our kids’ feverish bodies by giving them tub baths.

If I got pregnant now (THAT would be something!), I might not drink coffee and caffeinated Coke or eat tuna and processed meats. Or rub scotch on teething gums. I would add more ginger to my diet to combat morning sickness. And I’d definitely avoid tetracycline.

But the Neosporin stays.

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There have been other labels. But gestating parent?

When I refer to or interact with or write about any group of people, I try for unbiased, nonjudgmental. I try to quiet any prickly thoughts. And if description is necessary, I want to use the most accepted terminology—not just to be politically correct, but so as not to offend.

Maybe that’s not a bad thing? Not wanting to label people?

Through my life, I have been aware of labels and how they change. The terms colored, Negro, African-American, African American, and Black. Colored and Negro fell into disfavor in the 1960s and 1970s (my formative years) because of their association with slavery and segregation.

Around the same time—when I was in college and had read Tally’s Corner for Anthropology 101—I became sensitive to labeling. I sought clarification as to what I should say. According to a bit of research, Black should be used when describing race and African American when discussing ethnicity. I find responding to questions about racial and ethnic distinction on “official” documents irksome. When it comes to medical forms, I unruffle my ruffled feathers by telling myself these questions are asked because certain conditions and illnesses proliferate among certain racial and ethnic groups (e.g., sickle cell anemia, Tay-Sachs disease) and medical personnel need to be aware. But my knee jerk is, Why do you want to know?

We no longer say oriental. The word has roots in Western imperialism and in the notion Eastern nations (oriental is derived from the word for east) were considered inferior to their occidental counterparts. We learn from the song, Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist from the musical Avenue Q, “The term is Asian American.” More preferred is the use of specific country references, like Japanese, Chinese, and Korean American. But it is still okay to describe certain decor as oriental. Oriental figurines and lamps and mock Ming vases were immensely popular when our parents accessorized their homes. Between my mother and my mother-in-law, I inherited three (!) matching ceramic Singzi Niangniang goddesses of fertility, a ceramic dragon lamp, and a tall ceramic pagoda, proudly displayed in my oriental-accented living and dining rooms.

But I digress.

There have been language shifts for labeling girls who like girls and boys who liked boys. From the late 1800s through the mid-1900s, people who were homosexual were lumped together as queer and other harsh slurs I knew not to repeat. Then came further distinctions. In the 1970s, the terms gay and lesbian were accepted ways to address the sexual spectrum (pun intended). Twenty years later, the initials GLBT (soon after changed to LGBT) were adopted as ways to speak about people who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, and/or transgender. Soon Q for queer came back into use. And then a plus was added, presumably to encompass a broader sexual realm. And then the initials I and A and the numeral 2 were added to include intersex, asexual, aromantic, agender and other sexual distinctions, as well as same-gender-loving (SGL), and gender, sexual, and romantic minorities (GSRM).

I feel like, generally, the bigger the effort to categorize (a.k.a., label), to be inclusive, the greater the chance someone is left out. With sexual preference, I find it difficult to keep the distinctions straight (forgive another pun). When necessary, I reread Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Finney Boylan’s Mad Honey to remember the finer points of gender identity. Meanwhile, when Bruce completes a document asking about sex (i.e., male or female), he says there should be a box for the option as often as possible.

American sports teams have undergone name changes to move away from offensive caricaturization of Native Americans. Baseball’s once Cleveland Indians are now the Guardians. Football’s Washington Redskins are now the Commanders. I still like the old team names—I guess I’m one of the few who thinks a Native American reference better honors a team than being named for what sounds like a condom.

After 20 years of cobbled use, handicapped was phased out, an endeavor supported by the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act. The old terminology was replaced by what is called People-First Language—putting “person” before mentioning their disability or condition. As opposed to teaching “autistic kids,” speech therapist daughter Missy became a champion of children with autism. I, too, had to master this practice when performing my job as a medical writer and editor, composing articles about people with diabetes (not diabetics). Unlike implementing new names and confusing language to right the wrongs imposed centuries before, I appreciate the benefit of identifying someone by their personhood. I wholeheartedly embraced this revised approach to labeling.

But sometimes the verbiage associated with physical and attributes seems forced and unnecessarily oversensitive. Unarguably, saying “intellectually disabled” may be kinder than calling someone “mentally retarded.” But sensitivities continue to shift. Visually and/or hearing impaired has reverted to blind and deaf/hard of hearing because of the negative connotations of impaired. But is it really better to say “vertically challenged” as opposed to just saying “short?”

And now there is what’s happening in New York.

If the New York Family Law Bill (A8382A/S9316) is passed, the term mother will be replaced by gestating parent, father with non-gestating parent, and paternity with parentage.

The bill is designed for use in child custody cases and with related laws. The implied goal is to have language more inclusive of all kinds of families—e.g., those formed by same-sex marriages and via surrogacy. If I am understanding the premise correctly, the bill is an attempt to institute an appropriate name for the person carrying a child. But given the current political climate of trying (and failing) to accommodate everyone, I’m sure you understand my righteous indignation over trying to tamper with slash rename the sacred institution of motherhood. And my fear, What’s next?

Trying to break mother into its various inferences and implications is damn near impossible. Gestating parent completely misses the mark. I assume the updated language seeks to achieve some kind of neutral ground. Instead, the new terminology seems to limit the length of my parental status to the 27 months I was pregnant with our three kids—the least complicated part of my being a mother. Um, it’s kind of more involved.

And where are the considerations for adoptive parents, foster parents, and numerous others with whom we have associated the M word?

And oh my god, if this bill passes, can you imagine shopping for cards at Hallmark? Their selection is suffering enough in the wake of all this political correctness without having a gestating parent section. The only anniversary card I could find for my two recent June events was, “To my daughter and the one she loves,” with a definite slant toward same-sex marriage. What happened to the old, “For my daughter and son-in-law?”

It may be half a word. But mother will do just fine. As I tell Cody, “Just leave it!”

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It’s swimming pool season.

I grew up in the era of connected houses and common driveways and small backyard pools that appeared each June. Some were round inflatables. Ours was heavy plastic fastened over a metal frame with a plug at one end for draining the water. If I stretched out, I could touch my fingertips and toes to each end. The water wasn’t deep enough for swimming, although I often slipped into small, colorful blown up rings so I could “float.” And I put my face into the water—i.e., ducked my head. I had a few water toys and cups for scooping and pouring.

My sister and I were cautioned not to drink the water in the pool. We most definitely drank from the hose that filled it. The grass under the pool remained soggy and somewhat smelly for the length of the summer, the slimy underside of the pool a magnet for mosquitos and other moisture-loving creatures.

We ran through sprinklers set up on our lawns, the oscillating spray shimmering in the sunlight creating magical rainbow prisms. The grass fared much better with sprinklers than with pools. The trick was not to step on any bees that might be attracted to the clover intermingled with the blades of grass.

We played gas station. We drove imaginary cars or sometimes our two wheelers between friends’ houses where we’d get a fill up by allowing the friend to insert a hose into the back of our bathing suit. I remember cringing and dancing as the cold water puddled in my suit and ran down my skinny body. Then I’d pretend pay and drive away, switching roles between customer and gas station attendant.

In my middle years in single digits, I swam in day camp pools. They were icy cold. That and freestyle changing in and out of swim suits in view of bunk mates made swimming at camp one of my least favorite activities.

In my late years in single digits, my parents joined Somerton Springs Swim Club. There was a tall water slide that after a two-story climb quickly dumped you into three feet of chilly water. And a high dive from which I was proud to master jumps into the deep end. There was much I loved about summer, but water play was not at the top of my list. Too much water unintentionally swallowed? Too many eye irritations from swimming goggleless in over-chlorinated pools? Not liking the sensation of exiting the water and freezing my buns off?

We moved when I was eleven to a neighborhood with back yards that could accommodate large above-ground pools. I was frequently invited to swim in the pool two doors down, even though I was only provisionally friendly with the kids who lived there. Again, other summer diversions, like walking or biking up the block to visit the ponies at their small stable, were more pleasurable distractions from the heat.

I went to the beach a few times a season—sometimes with my parents and sister, sometimes with Bruce. I’d dive in and out of the waves for a bit but spent most of the time trying to tan. Which meant I burnt. Which meant lots of post-beach Noxema and few memories of ocean time.

Our kids brought me in closer touch with the pleasure of water for water’s sake. All three kids loved playing in the tub. And standing on a chair at the sink, washing plastic plates and cups or just making lots of bubbles with dish soap. Step Two and/or Fisher-Price capitalized on the idea with outdoor water play tables—little Rube Goldberg-, Mousetrap-esque tubs full of opportunity for imaginative activities. Assembly required.

Our children’s earliest swimming pools were molded plastic we filled with hose water and dumped out after each use. At our first home, Missy and then Ali entertained themselves while we parents sat around in beach chairs encouraging them to put their faces in the water and “Make bubbles!” and tried to get our dog Mandy to dip her paws in the pool.

We had an inground pool built in the back yard of our second house when Robert was a year old. No more smaller facsimiles—our kids swam for real. Still, they could spend hours just standing on the top step of the pool, filling and emptying bottles and Tupperware containers. Sometimes as part of a game of restaurant, they’d pretend to cook and serve meals and drinks. Most times they’d mindlessly scoop and pour, often singing or having conversations with themselves.

Every summer, we parents became Olympic judges. Grading handstands. And dives. And flips. Watch me! became the watchwords of summer. My personal favorite spectator pool sport was raft surfing. The kids would precariously stand on an inflatable or firm foam raft and maybe venture a dance move or two with Wipeout blasting from the boom box. I have VCR recordings of their successful balancing acts. Did I actually schlep our somewhat cumbersome (by today’s standards) Panasonic recorder outside to capture such moments for posterity? Yes. I did.

They had swimming races. And races on inflatable horses I wish I could locate and buy for our grandchildren. As our kids grew, so did the complexity of their games. Mock battles to take down friends perched on shoulders (“Don’t bang your head on the side of the pool!”) Jumping and diving into tube rings. Diving for pennies or plastic rings. Each contest had specific rules. Water gun fights that evolved from using flimsy, dime store versions to hearty, powerful Super Soakers (“Watch my hair!”). Oh, yes—and water balloon fights!

These games made for easy entertainment for Rob’s birthday parties and everyone’s end-of-school-year pool parties or spur-of-the-moment we’re bored can we bring some friends to swim visits. The weather was never too cold if a gathering was scheduled. Shivering bodies and blue lips never came between kids and their pool time. Yes, you can have “Five more minutes!”

Like their parents, our grandkids swim in any temperature water—although truth be told, they all much prefer a heated pool, something many day camps now offer. Our pool has a jacuzzi/hot tub that remains a much beloved gathering spot to warm up and chat. Plus, we have water guns and pool toys and flotation devices that withstand the test of time—unless Cody gets hold of them.

This year’s was one of the few birthdays Em did not have a pool party like her uncle did (she opted to celebrate at the beach house). But I suspect she will bring her posse for a swim in the near future. There have been after-baseball team swims. There have been four-generation Father’s Day barbecue/swims. We learned the Covid virus was not transmitted through water, so one of the first cousin get-togethers post quarantine occurred in the salt- (versus chlorinated-) filtered waters in our back yard.

So much about kids and water play is a constant—like digging in the sand and catching fireflies. Last week, Cam brought three friends for a school in-service day (in June?!) swim. They propelled themselves around the pool in our updated assortment of rafts and floats. They pulled out the pool noodles and dove for rings. They raced each other, swimming from the deep end to the shallow end. They practiced their diving and flipping skills. What tickled me the most was when they started filling and dumping their empty Gatorade bottles, just as they did as toddlers. This progressed to setting up a bar on the side of the jacuzzi, serving mock drinks and asking appropriate saloon-related questions of their patrons. No, ten is not too old to indulge in make-believe water play. And seventy-plus is not too old to take pleasure, if not in the wet, then in the watching.

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Now, magnets are what allow me to affix my life to our refrigerator.

I still don’t quite understand how magnets work. All objects contain spinning electrons that generate magnetic fields. Magnetic attraction is the result of magnetic domains—similarly aligned pieces of polarized matter that enable items to attract (opposite charge) or repel (same).

I get the principle but am vague on the details. I just remember that as part of a high school AP Physics assignment, we had to determine whether the romantic phrase magnetic attraction could be scientifically documented—i.e., if there is real magnetism between people. There is! But according to our calculations, it is an infinitely small amount following a decimal point and many, many zeroes.

Anyway, refrigerator magnets. My mom never hung stuff on our refrigerator. I’m not sure anything would have adhered, given the weekly dose of Jubilee she inflicted on said appliance. Besides, refrigerator magnet use didn’t blossom until the 1980s. By then, Bruce and I were married and living in our current house, and our kids were bringing home refrigerator-worthy tests and projects that needed magnets for display. Plus, our busy schedules demanded that I post reminder notes of coming events and appointments. (These were the days before Ali started making the family calendar.) The front and the top half of the sides of the refrigerator became my bulletin board.

At first, any magnet would suffice. Often, a work of art or an A on an exam was hung using a plastic, magnetic Fisher-Price letter or number, filched from the ever-present row that ran across the fridge door at kid height.

Through the years, I began collecting/accumulating all manner of magnets—not just for showcasing creativity and academic success but as decor unto themselves. A recent search of one of our kitchen drawers netted a Ziploc bag of fridge magnet treasures. In somewhat chronological order of acquisition:

Three plastic gingerbread men magnets, one with each child’s name. Overuse meant the gingerbread men started to lose their appendages—Allison’s two feet went first.

One magnetized business card from Drug Emporium, now probably a collector’s item. I’m sure it had a prized spot on the fridge in its day, although most likely I knew the store phone number by heart because of the number of amoxicillin (a.k.a., bubblegum medicine) prescriptions I filled there.

A magnetic business card from SaveWay Compounding Pharmacy in Wilmington. I have no idea why I have this. But it reminded Bruce and me of how my dad used to call his best friend and fellow pharmacist Uncle Vince to “check his work” whenever he had to compound medicine from scratch.

A similarly sized flat magnet with the slogan Wild About Worrall. During my J. W. Worrall School parent teacher organization days, we gave small gifts to welcome back the students—Worrall folders, Worrall pencils, Worrall magnets.

Metal magnets that read Volunteer. When I was President of Worrall’s PTO, we created the Delaware County Joint PTO, a yearly gathering of elementary school parent leaders. The meeting facilitated brainstorming and idea-sharing and the opportunity to visit schools outside our district. I think the metal Volunteer magnets are leftover giveaways.

A plastic-protected souvenir magnet from New Castle, Delaware—a memento from several Mother’s Day brunches at Jessop’s Tavern and pleasant strolls through the picturesque town.

A plastic magnet depicting a traditionally dressed Hispanic girl. I think she was part of a set. I just noticed she is frowning—I think because the bowl she is holding is empty.

Several slogan-inscribed magnets I picked up while on various and sundry shopping expeditions. One is a minimally threatening entreaty to Shut the $&@ refrigerator door. One says, My kid did this. I’d use that one to hang an art class masterpiece. And one reads, All mothers are working mothers. An exoneration. A tribute.

I have a magnetic business card from Valentino’s, a much-enjoyed neighborhood Italian restaurant that unfortunately closed, replaced by facsimiles with far less tasty dishes. Missy worked there for a time. Valentino’s had the best lobster ravioli. I have a similar magnet from Toni Roni’s. I like their steak sandwiches.

From Ali’s high school working days, I have several magnets from promotional events she handled for radio station Q102.1. Turn on this station … hit the volume… and dance. And from Classic Rock 100.7 WZLX.

I found a magnetic business card offering 25% off my next Vistaprint purchase. I don’t remember when I last ordered anything from Vistaprint, but there’s no expiration date. I may try to use it.

I have a lovely ceramic magnet from Paris. And a metal facsimile of a coin from Rome. I never have been. Anyone remember gifting them to me?

Speaking of ceramic magnets, I must say I love their artistry and heft. But after a while I stopped buying them. We always have had ceramic tile floors in our kitchen in this house, and the score is floors nine, ceramic magnets zero. It hurts my heart when a cherished magnet gets knocked off the fridge and meets its demise.

As much as I love musicals, I have but one Broadway magnet. Ragtime. Coincidentally, I also have a wooden magnet in the shape of New York State. I’m not sure if I bought them together as part of the same outing or when I took Missy and Ali to look at NYU or when Bruce and I went to a David Letterman/Late Show taping. I do ❤️ NY.

My return to full-time employment introduced the novelty of traveling on my own. I was 45 years old and as delighted as a little kid to bring back souvenirs from each trip. When I was at HMP, that usually meant magnets for the metal bookshelves in my carpeted office. Soft flooring posed less of a threat to ceramic magnets, so I often opted for some bougier designs. Among the cities in which I represented our company at conferences and bought magnets are San Diego, Orlando (Disney World), San Antonio, Atlanta, Tampa, Las Vegas (several. We hosted a yearly event in the fall), and St. Louis. There’s also a ceramic cowboy boot representing Texas because our company sponsored numerous conferences at the Gaylord resort and convention complex in Grapevine.

And there’s the black and white magnet of the Brady Bunch kids that made me grateful for coming home and having time to watch TV.

Also left over from my days at HMP—business card-sized magnets I distributed to the board members of my journal, Ostomy Wound Management (OWM) at one of our annual meetings. They read, Ostomy Wound Management— From Science to Practice: Contemporary approaches to skin, wound, and incontinence care. They have become one of the last reminders of the journal that underwent major revisions after I left and now is published online only.

Work colleagues noticed my magnet collection and acknowledged my birthdays with contributions. One is a recitation of Murphy’s Law—If anything can go wrong, it will be at the worst possible moment. Another is an Irish toast—May you live as long as you want and never want as long as you live. Cousin Jackie’s large blue pottery B held a place of honor on my shelves; it also held numerous bulletins, owing to its size and weight.

Acquired through the years and displayed and utilized at work: exact magnetic replicas of typewriter keys. And colorful plastic discs with punctuation marks (exclamation points and question marks). And a small boxful of Magnetic Poetry words. The ones I played with the most? Writers. Experience. Hire. Print. Words. Editors. Resonate. Review. Copy. Always. Proofreaders.

Back to my kitchen fridge. As the kids got older and Bruce and I started to travel a bit (and I had yet to cease and desist when it came to ceramic magnets), I brought home some funky mementos of our vacations. Characters from Disney World, experienced with all three kids. A pineapple from Hawaii, a souvenir of our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary celebratory trip. A cable car and an aquarium inhabitant from San Francisco/Monterey/Carmel from a vacation with cousins Jackie and Walt. A replica of a betting chip from the time I went to Las Vegas for the trade show Bruce attended biannually. Barbados. Turks & Caicos. And of course, Aruba.

As the kids commenced from their college years, we began receiving Save the Dates for milestone events, several magnetic—Rob and Amy’s and Cousin Kimmy and Jonathan’s weddings and the announcement of Sigma Alpha Rho’s 100th anniversary celebration. Otherwise, decorative magnets were summoned into service for displaying printed reminders of upcoming simchas.

In honor of The Great Tatonka of Edgewater, a Chesapeake Bay Retriever magnet.

Our synagogue joined the craze by offering magnets to High Hold Day services attendees. My favorite was Tikum Olam. Let’s fix the world. It reminded me of The Palm store in Aruba, where they post the familiar Hebrew phrase to inform customers a portion of the proceeds from their purchases is donated to worthy causes. Another magnet waxed cute by stating, J_daism is not the same without U.

And then our kids started having kids. My fancy magnets lost their status as kitchen decor and became utilitarian only. Six grandchildren in six years! My refrigerator doors overflowed with magnetic plastic holders with small smiling faces. Three magnets that contained photos of Ali’s three kiddos held up more photos. My kid did this was attached to the latest grandchild artwork. The gingerbread people held items from that child’s child. And of course I had to find room for a Secret Santa Shop magnet from one of the crew that read World’s Best Grandma.

But then something sad happened. We redid our kitchen. The new cabinet design featured an enclosure for the refrigerator. Meaning I lost the sides of the fridge for photo and artwork display. I had to pare down three refrigerator surfaces covered with souvenirs to only two French doors. I had to get organized and selective.

Now one door features photos of the grandkids’ early visits to the shore house, all posed with Bruce to keep with a beach-themed magnet that reads, Love you, Grandpa. There’s also one that announces, I’m going to the Jersey shore. Above those photos are three photo booth strips from our recent mitzvahs and a tiny Polaroid-type picture of Cam and me. And above those are a mosaic cow magnet Missy created (I love cows) and a photo from Amy and Rob’s Maryland engagement party of the five of us— acknowledgment he was last child to officially start his own family.

There’s a Volunteer and a few artsy magnets (the latter a gift from my former clinical editor) in case I need to squeeze in a transient reminder note. Like, “Don’t forget flowers for the recital.”

The other door is the Aruba side. At the top is a magnet with the saying, we do not remember days…. we remember moments. And a photo of my dad with “his girls.” Below that is a photo of our dog Casey (reluctantly?) sharing our bed with Ali’s dog Quincy. And a photo of Bruce and me in Aruba. And a color magnet photo of the entire Brady Bunch—a tribute to family.

But the majority are photos of each grandchild enjoying some aspect of the latest Aruba adventure. I change them out yearly: swimming, standing balanced on Steven’s shoulders, in a boat, on the rocks, winning at Bingo, playing on the floating bouncy raft stationed in the calm blue sea.

In the middle of the Aruba photos is a digital advent clock that ticks down the days, hours, minutes, and seconds until our next trip. This was a gift from Missy to give Bruce something fun to anticipate with his new knee. For me, it’s a reminder that along with cherishing all the reminders of my extensive past, there is still much to look forward to. And more magnets to purchase. And save in my Ziploc bag for future reminiscing.

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Every morning, I retrieve the print edition of the Philadelphia Inquirer from the top of our driveway. (Yes, we still have our daily newspaper delivered.) While my husband ruminates over the latest political antics, I review who has recently passed.

It’s not some kind of morbid curiosity. I read obituaries because I take pleasure in the enumeration of someone’s life achievements. And in the wondering if, to paraphrase a line from Sleepless in Seattle, she or he could have been my friend.

According to Beyond the Dash—a blog whose name acknowledges the punctuation mark between dates of birth and death—obituaries have a long history. They date back to 59 B.C. when Acta Diurna (daily events) newspapers were written on papyrus and distributed in Rome. These “publications” comprised news of crimes, births, and noteworthy deaths. The invention of the printing press many years later enhanced the ability to proliferate this information. During the U.S. Civil War, published obituaries kept citizens apprised of their loved ones’ safety. The accuracy of the reporting was presumed. To this day, it seems there is an unspoken code to tell a life’s story like it is. Without falsehood, albeit maybe with some embellishment.

I have been an avid obituary reader for decades—it has nothing to do with my age or mortality. I have an obituary column reading routine. First, I skim all the names to see if any are familiar. When they are, I say to Bruce, “Did you know so-and-so died?” Most times he doesn’t and then gazes at me wondering why I indulge this somewhat odd habit.

I’ve observed the number of published obituaries has decreased over the years. Perhaps because, like everything else, the fee for publication has increased. Plus, there are many media outlets in addition to printed newspapers that can inform the world of someone’s passing. But among my ilk, we used to say a birth or a death was not official until it was published in the city newspaper or the Jewish Exponent. So when our parents passed, Bruce and I had notices placed in our local papers.

Next I look for the deceased’s age. Age is typically mentioned in the first few lines. Often the obituary is accompanied by a photo, but it rarely depicts the person at the age of their demise. I often wonder about the photo selection. Was it a favorite picture taken at a special occasion? The way the family wants their loved one to be remembered? I say if you aged well, they should use a recent photo so we can remark (partly in Yiddish), “She looked good for her age, kinne hurrah.”

I then see if cause of death is noted. This sometimes requires a bit of deduction. The suggestion to make a charitable donation to a specific cause (American Cancer Society, Alzheimer’s Association) is a—forgive the pun—dead giveaway. “Died suddenly” or “unexpectedly” with a youngish age stated sadly may mean a life taken. I also find myself chuckling when the text reads “died suddenly” and the deceased is in their nineties. Although the older I get, the less funny that is.

I then peruse for “survived by.” Was the person married? Were they predeceased by a spouse? If there are children and no wife or husband is named, were they divorced? Were there children? Grandchildren? Great grandchildren? Alan King—the Borscht Belt comedian popular in the 1960s—did a chauvinistic routine on death notices and how the woman typically outlives the man. He’d present an obituary and punctuate it with, “Survived by his wife!” Ironically, in our family, my father-in-law and my dad outlived their wives, but we still appreciate Alan’s humor. And that of Billy Crystal as Harry Burns in When Harry Met Sally. Harry suggested newspapers combine the obituary section with the real estate section to make it easier to find living quarters in a tight market. “Mr. Kline died yesterday, leaving behind a wife, two children, and a spacious three-bedroom apartment with a wood-burning fireplace.” Again, the husband died first. And unless the wife moves out, that apartment actually isn’t available. But I digress.

Then, in longer death notices, comes the recitation of the individual’s life accomplishments. The Cliff Notes of someone’s existence. Mentions of alma maters are made more interesting when the educational institution is named and I can ponder the possibility I may have encountered this person at George Washington High or Temple University. Listing of degrees. I especially enjoy reading about advanced degrees from prestigious colleges earned by women who were a good deal older than I am. I imagine their struggle to establish themselves in their careers.

Employment.

Honors.

Testaments to humor, generosity, and being beloved by employees, friends, and family.

Also fascinating—obituaries rarely speak ill of the dead. I guess the bereaved decline publishing an obituary if they adhere to the adage “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

Typically, an obituary will provide the funeral arrangements. And/or a link to a website offering this and other relevant information. Funeral date, time, and location. Visitations. Shivas. Visitations—with or without a viewing of the casket—used to be mostly held the night before the funeral service. Now they tend to occur for the hour or two immediately preceding the religious component. Per the word (shiva means seven), shiva used to afford mourners seven days of comfort time with family and friends. Now, shiva may be only 3 days or 1 day—sometimes different homes of family members—or only a restaurant meal immediately after the funeral. My impression is that as the time for paying respects has shortened and that possibly because funeral attendance is down, the published obituaries have lengthened—the information once exchanged in person now available in a death notice in print or online.

As such, if there are no eulogies planned or if the mourners want their loved one’s story to extend beyond funeral attendees (or to give the deceased some notoriety), the death notice may turn out to be a lengthy mini biography. A resume of accomplishments. A reckoning of hobbies and deeds. Those obituaries make thoughtful reads. I’ve never met these people, but now I know they had four holes in one in a lifetime of golf or 18 foster children or like me loved the Jersey shore.

As I write this, I am coming to a realization: Meeting people, even vicariously, is why I think I loved the book Theo of Golden. Or why I enjoy books in general. It’s the new characters that come into my life. Characters I can think about for a brief but interesting interlude. People whose accomplishments I can admire without feeling competitive.

So, like with good books, reading my morning (mourning?) funeral announcements acquaints me with new characters—brief encounters without further responsibility. But maybe, in truth, a little regret that our paths never actually crossed. May they rest in peace.

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Today, I’m paying tribute to the power of actual garden-variety flowers. The domestic kind you plant every spring. The wild kind that independently sow their seeds on our lawns and along our highways, carried on the wings of flying creatures and the wind. The kind that speak of romance, of gratitude, of remorse, of sympathy. The kind that look like they should smell good but, alas, have no fragrance. The kind that have such a strong fragrance they can carry the weight of seventy years of memories.

My dad liked flowers. My mom didn’t. Which is probably why I don’t remember my father bringing home bouquets. I think my mom took the phrase pushing up daisies literally—she associated flowers with death and funeral displays. She need not have worried about funeral flowers. Jewish people rarely have floral arrangements at memorial services.

Growing up, we never had much of a flower garden. At our first house, we had flowering bushes—blue hydrangeas (we called them snowball bushes) and violet rhododendron and lilac lilacs and perhaps a few rose bushes—and some wayward honeysuckle plants by our kitchen door that smelled of pure heaven. Like kids have done and continue to do, I picked dandelions and gifted them to my mom. And blew their seeds from their fluffy puffballs. And I held buttercups to my chin to see if I liked butter, innocently unaware the yellow reflection on my jaw was a factor of sunlight.

When we moved to a larger house with a bigger lawn, my dad put in a vegetable garden (referenced in a previous blog, Vegetable wars and other earthly delights). We had few if any floral plantings other than outdoor shrubbery. And a box of artificial plastic greenery along the short flight of interior steps leading into the den. It was my task to occasionally wipe the plants. I hated every one of their gray, dusty leaves. To this day, I’ve avoided having plastic plants as part of our decor. Except my dad got us a little planter filled with plastic leaves as a housewarming present when we bought our beach house. It has a place of honor next to the TV in one of the bedrooms.

I came into my early teens and my dating years in the 1960s. Boys who took girls to dances arrived with a corsage in a small box tied with a slip-off ribbon. Carnations. Tea roses. Nestled on a bed of greens and white baby’s breath. My guy—Bruce—was no exception. His high school fraternity (Sigma Alpha Rho. Eta chapter. Go, Rebels!) supported several yearly semi-formal events like March Winds and April Showers and a formal Closing Affair in June. Besides the anticipated slow dancing, corsages were my favorite part of going to semi- and formal dances. Most if not all of my dance flowers were wristlet arrangements as opposed to the pin-on type. Less fear of putting holes in a fancy dress. Less chance of physical contact in front of my mom as she snapped pictures of the bestowal. (There was no such concern when I fastened Bruce’s accompanying boutonniere to his jacket lapel—just the making sure I pinned the small flower securely.) I’d come home from each dance and place the slightly wilted arrangement back in its box and put the box in the refrigerator, to gaze upon and smell for a few more days.

And then came proms—junior and senior. In those days, our only fashion statement was for the corsage to match the dress. Couples weren’t much into coordinating dress color to the guys tie color as occurs today, although I do find this new trend quite attractive.

At that point in my life, I loved roses. Their elegance. Their fragrance. Pink roses filled the centerpieces at our wedding. My bridal bouquet was tea roses and stephanotis—all white. But I still had/have a special place in my heart for carnations. A whiff of a carnation and I’m a young girl falling head-over-tiny-heels in love again.

A pink peony plant/bush sat next to the driveway of Bruce’s and my first house, a perennial that bloomed every one of our 8 years at that address. I shouldn’t have been surprised at its longevity. Peony plants can live up to 100 years—despite their inhabitants (peonies are a known refuge for ants that feed on their nectar). That plant was a happy welcome home every time we drove up our driveway into our lives as adults.

To the right of that driveway lived our neighbor Joan and her family. She raised African violets. Her window sills were lined with vibrant purple blossoms and fuzzy, velvety leaves. I lost count of how many times she would gift me a plant, only to have me over water. Or under water. Or give it too much light. Or not enough light. I was a plant murderer. At some point, I purchased a few potted cacti to nurture, just to prove to myself I wasn’t a serial plant killer. I took much more pleasure and far less guilt from the fruits of our other neighbor Adele, the one whose prolific lilac bush provided me many a Mother’s Day centerpiece.

And if we are including non-flowering plants I have known and loved, we still have the yucca we purchased when Missy was a baby—the one that had to be repotted after our dog Mandy ripped it out of its container when I went to the hospital to have Ali. Now almost 50 years old, Yucca is still in the same white ceramic pot as the day we purchased it from a floral design center Bruce passed on his way to work. Yucca towers over our other plants, touching the cathedral ceiling in our breakfast room. Its leaves stay shiny with occasional damp paper toweling. We’ve pared down our hanging greenery, but Yucca remains a much beloved fixture.

The move to our current house afforded us more outdoor planting options. We inherited several rhododendron and azaleas from the previous owners. Over the years, these shrubs required trimming and in some cases replacement when in their maturity they blocked windows or made the lawns and beds look unkempt. We eventually removed the older bushes and put in smaller versions or something different. For instance, we planted a Lantana (the one whose blossoms smell like grapefruit)—a gift from Missy and Eric—when the rhododendron by the front door gave up the ghost.

Planting less massive bushes also gave us room to try tulips. They bloom each spring according to color—first the brilliant red ones, then the soft pink, then the white. We learned the hard way that deer eat the buds just when our expectations of their opening are highest. We tried a few deer repellents and have been successful using one without a strong odor and any wayward effects on other creatures. You just have to remember to spray the plants repeatedly, especially after a rain, as soon as you spot the buds. The lavender beside the front step is much less trouble.

Meanwhile, we did some planting around the pool. The most prolific of our backyard flowers was a patch of black-eyed Susans we put in by the gate. They appeared each summer for several years without fanfare until they wilted and disappeared. We also had a basically nonblooming lilac bush in the far corner of the yard. What it lacked in blossoms, it more than made up for in shade for our dogs on hot summer days. When the lilac showed signs of disease, we had it removed, replaced with that weird grass bush that is totally more decorative than purposeful. We have a similar plant at the shore that Leo has dubbed “the paper cut plant” because it can inflict wounds as you walk by.

The plants behind the new retaining wall between our pool and our patio allow a better view of our swimmers than the first round of bushes we had installed. The hydrangeas planted near the gate become quite massive by season’s end. We now have a lilac bush closer to the house, courtesy of Missy and crew, that blooms a little more abundantly. A small cluster of daffodils keep it company.

And then there are my hyacinths. Ali brings me a hyacinth every Passover. When it starts to wilt, I plant its bulb outside. I now have about 10 years of Passover memories in the flower beds around our house. They usually pop through the mulch in late February, a promise that Spring is only a few weeks away. Each color has its own specific, delicious scent.

For the length of our couplehood, Bruce has acknowledged Valentine’s Day by sending me roses. He has since extended the gesture to all of the ladies in our family. Missy. Ali. Amy. Our great niece Izzy— the enclosed note to her reading he was happy to be her first Valentine. And our granddaughters Emerson and Harper. The girls appreciate the scentiment, and the local florist appreciates the yearly order.

Rob and family send me a beautiful floral arrangement every Mother’s Day, along with tickets to a Phillies game. He certainly knows how to cover all the bases. Pun intended.

And speaking of traditions, my parents sent me flowers for each grandchild’s arrival. When I gave birth to Missy, the card read, “To our angel for having an angel.” For Ali, “To our angel for having a second angel.” I can’t recall what the card said when Rob was born. Probably something like, “Three is enough.”

As proof that years add wisdom, Bruce, who likes to surprise me with “no reason” flowers, has ceased and desisted from getting me roses (except on February 14). He knows I’ve been scratched by too many thorns when placing roses in vases and that I much prefer the random, colorful sowing together of an assortment of blossoms. Such floral arrangements are readily available at the supermarket at ridiculously reasonable prices. And they last far longer than rose bouquets. In addition, the multiflowered bouquets make lovely acknowledgment of a grandchild’s dance/theater performance. I also love giving and getting sunflowers, likewise sold at supermarkets. They were among my favorites even before the happy-looking flowers were featured in Calendar Girls.

This week, a little later than usual given the cold May weather (until this week) and Bruce’s new knee, we did our annual shore planting. We recruited Leo to do all the actual digging and soil mixing and placing of the vegetables and their protective marigolds because Bruce’s knee isn’t rehabbed enough for so much kneeling. Bob’s, our go-to shore nursery, was out of some of the tomato, cucumber, bell pepper, string bean, and herb varieties we usually put in, requiring a sub-trip to Home Depot. We selected a new variety of impatiens for the front of the house—my annual responsibility to plant. I had made mention of doing perennials to be “one and done” and save myself the bending. But then when I look at the fresh fruits of my labor, I am happy I take on the task.

I have a habit of closely admiring gardens as I walk Cody. I pass a particularly prolific collection of roses around the corner from our shore house. I smell them while Cody sniffs out a good spot to relieve himself. I also have made it a habit to keep him from watering any gardens or pavement-side flowers. Sometimes I end an outing wearing proof of my affinity for floral color and fragrance. It’s become a family joke that whenever I have anything remotely resembling pollen on my nose, someone will ask, “Did you smell the flowers?” Yes I did. I try not to be so absorbed in my day that I can’t stop and smell the roses.

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When I was a kid, we were not a jeans (actually, we called them dungarees) family. My dad wore a crisp, white pharmacy jacket and slacks to work and rarely went “out” in anything less than a sport jacket and slacks. My mom wore coordinated outfits, mostly black and white. My sister and I wore dresses/skirts to school and tops with matching bottoms to play.

I was in double-digits before I owned a pair of dungarees—heavy, light blue, kind of stiff, and a tad bit uncomfortable. But hey! I had finally caught up with the popular style and had an alternative to elastic-waisted, pull-on pants that best fit my skinny frame.

In my teens, I was all about emulating what appeared on the pages of Seventeen. Especially as modeled by Colleen Corby. I don’t recall jeans being a fashion item. Rather, I went shopping for heather-toned ensembles from Lady Bug and Villager and Crazy Horse. My favorite purchase was a red, white, and blue knit pants set by Aileen that I wore to Janice Wolfe’s party. We couldn’t wear pants to school, and I still dressed up for dates. I did, however, wear slightly flared bell-bottom jeans on our senior class trip to the Poconos.

The first time I wore jeans to school was October 15, 1969 (I looked it up for confirmation)—the day of the moratorium march to end the war in Viet Nam. Temple students joined the throngs moving down Broad Street. Bruce and I cut our classes to be part of the protest. I felt liberated on so many levels. Ditching school. Giving voice to the disdain and fear that threatened my generation of service-aged men. Wearing an outfit reminiscent of Woodstock—well, at least the jeans part. From then on, I wore Levi’s as opposed to tweed skirts and tights with increasing frequency. I didn’t shop at Gap, though—I found their jeans expensive for casual attire. I’m thinking my jeans came from Gimbels or S Klein. And I still didn’t wear jeans out for dinner and certainly nowhere with a dress code.

By the time I graduated college/got married/started teaching, I was just becoming comfortable with the notion of wearing pants on an everyday basis. I had several polyester pants suits and business casual Qiana tops that sort of helped me look older than the fifth graders I faced each day. Jeans were for weekend days, for hanging with friends. I don’t remember having more than one or two pairs.

My second year of teaching I relaxed my standards. I was herding second graders, and I was pregnant. My favorite pair of maternity pants were “jeans”—in quotes because are they really jeans just because they are denim? And if they lack brass rivets and pockets and belt loops? My maternity jeans went with all my tops and my comfy saddle shoes. The problem with my jeans look was that I barely appeared to be old enough to drive, which left grocery checkout clerks peering at my bulging belly and then not-so-surreptitiously checking for a wedding band.

I had one baby. Then another. Then another. As our family grew, so did my waistline until jeans—and all pants with buttons or snaps and zippers—were no longer comfortable and far too restrictive. Ali refers to the 1980s—my thirties—as my “sad years.” I stopped wearing anything fitted, anything tight around my waist, instead opting for elastic waistbanded slacks from brands like Briggs and Erika. Right out of Dress Barn and Macy’s misses department. I wasn’t sad, but I certainly was frumpy. Gap and Gap Warehouse were visited for tops-only shopping.

Then came the 1990s. And Old Navy, the more affordable offshoot of Gap. For some reason, I’ve always found Old Navy jeans to be of a softer fabric with a little more give than those sold at their sister establishment. I started buying and wearing jeans again, even though I kept my Briggs slacks for wearing to work (I rejoined the workforce in 1991) and for when jeans were a bit too casual. But the best was when I lost 30 pounds before Robert’s bar mitzvah and my jeans got to be too big. Now that I was working, I shopped guiltlessly at all factions of the Gap empire, keeping a few of my “better” jeans for special occasions.

Now most weekdays you’ll see me in jeans and a sweatshirt or sweater, the latter perhaps layered with a T shirt or tank top. I try to look somewhat put together—my watch coordinates with my outfit and/or shoes, and my necklaces are the same gold or silver finish as the day’s watch. When I want to dress up for outings, I have my stable of better slacks and sweaters and even dresses and a skirt or two. Oh, and my boots! But these days, it’s mostly jeans.

I have tried, but I don’t get much more fashionable than that. I envy folks who can successfully embrace ensembles reminiscent of my mom and Katharine Hepburn, complete with perfectly tied and folded scarves and jewelry enhancements. I can’t seem to pull this off. I find scarves around my neck annoying…and food catchers. The closest I get to a scarf is a cowl neckline.

I digress. I’ve tried different jean brands. Chico’s. Soft Surroundings. If I like a style, I may buy it in different colors, although with jeans, I tend to vary only the shade of blue or go with black. My biggest frustration has been that I fall in love with the fit and washability of a particular store’s jean line and then the style is discontinued. I’ve never done designer jeans. Nothing may have come between Brooke Shields and her Calvins, but the cost and my disinterest in advertising a brand on my butt have kept me from my buying for the sake of a name.

My current favorite jeans are Lucky Brand and Democracy, both discovered discounted at T.J. Maxx. My favorite jeans style is straight mid rise. Never with holes. Never with appliqués or bedazzled. And I do NOT like the stove pipe or skinny jeans look—they are too trendy for me. Plus, I fear they would be impractical. I can easily envision myself tripping in wide leg styles. Skinny jeans remind me too much of leggings and jeggings and other too-tight fitting bottoms that would require my worrying about how far down my sweatshirt came. IYKYK.

I play a game with my jeans. I do not unfasten them to pull them on and off. It is how I determine whether I need to refrain from eating m&ms and extra cookies. Sometimes my game requires my doing the jeans dance—pull, squat, pull. But I feel very good about myself maintaining that waist wiggle room.

We are a family of jeans extremes. Bruce has never owned a pair of jeans. Ever. Neither has Leo. Missy has had so many jeans hanging in her closet she’s broken the pole. Rob is a pro at making jeans look dressy, paired with a sport jacket. Cam is following in his footsteps. I am with Doris Fisher. Jeans bridged a gap through the phases of my life—from reluctantly rebellious teen to thrown-together mommy to trying to be trendy mom mom. Seeing myself and my jeans in the mirror is a testament to my attempts to stay youthful. At least from the waist down.

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Really?

Philadelphia is a large news market and has featured many memorable weather people. Even if you didn’t grow up in this area, you might have heard names like Dr. Francis Davis (WFIL) and Wally Kinnan (KYW) and Herb Clarke (WCAU).

Each one came with his own weather personality and shtick, not to mention intriguing histories. Many weatherman learned their craft while serving in the armed forces. For example, prior to completing his degree in meteorology at MIT, Wally Kinnan was a fighter pilot in World War II (you can Google him for more of his story). Stateside, he subsequently became a USAF weather officer as part of a team that helped develop severe weather forecasting technology. He then went on to serve as the weatherman on broadcast television. KYW TV in Philly was one of many television affiliates to reap the benefits of having Wally Kinnan the Weatherman in its stable of weather reporters/forecasters.

Through the early 1960s, an entire newscast typically lasted only 15 minutes, with the weather segment consuming but a minute or two. The weather forecast often was read directly from National Weather Service bulletins. Weather maps evolved from hand drawn to magnetic boards with icons for snow and rain that lit up for effect. Weathermen drew on Plexiglass with black grease markers to show highs and lows and temperatures and decorated them with little sunshines and cloud doodles. Most on-air weather forecasters were men—a “weather girl” stereotype nurtured a notion of eye candy as opposed to being serious about cirrus. Willard Scott dressed as Bozo the Clown for his weather block on the news.

The seventies ushered in numerous technological innovations. Computer-generated models facilitated extended forecasts as far out as three days (!). Chromakey—or green screen—technology, developed at the end of the nineteenth century, was increasingly utilized across entertainment and news media. WLS TV Chicago’s weatherman John Coleman instituted the first use of chromakey for his forecasts; he went on to become the original weatherman on Good Morning America. Weather reporters and forecasters were qualified, experienced meteorologists. Many of them were women, following in the rainboots of June Bacon-Bersey, the first Black woman to earn a degree in meteorology and the first female TV meteorologist.

By the end of the 1970s, cable TV had gained a strong foothold in people’s watching habits. John Coleman and communications guru Frank Batten created The Weather Channel, a 24-hour source for all-things weather-related. TWC launched in May 1982; by 2013, it reached its peak of 101 million subscribers. That number has since dwindled, given our access to smart phones and other online weather news options. But many a parent of my generation can attest to the attraction of TWC. Babies and toddlers were known to zone into the soothing repetitiveness of the forecasts, the colorful graphics, and the calming elevator-esque music. I’ve only heard tale—Bruce and I didn’t do cable/satellite TV until after our kids went off to college.

When I was a kid, the weather, like the news, was kind of just there. We didn’t watch TV during dinner, and I was in bed way before the late broadcast. I remember very few instances where weather affected my plans. I once came home from kindergarten in a thunderstorm during which my elderly grandfather met my bus. I don’t recall many snow days, although I vividly remember playing in deep snow. I do recall one early dismissal from elementary school for an impending hurricane. There was the Summerdale Day Camp reunion incident, where I coerced my mom into driving me to see Gene London during what turned out to be a significant snowstorm. My grade school and high school graduations took place without a hitch on fair weather days. And the dreary, chilly typical-of-November weather didn’t dampen our spirits on our wedding day.

But with the seventies came marriage and kids and other adult responsibilities that could be impacted by the weather. Not so much out of safety-related fear but because of the associated inconveniences. Having to deal with outdoor recess in January when I was teaching. Schlepping the kids hither and yon in the rain. Do we all have snow boots that fit. As such, Bruce and I became avid fans of the 11:00 p.m. local newscasts and the weather segment that usually came at the end of the broadcast. Those were the days when I could stay awake for the entirety of the show, shower, and THEN fall asleep watching Johnny Carson.

In 1970s Philadelphia, the news shows were 30 minutes. News anchors and weather folk who were degreed (pun intended) meteorologists became news teams, kibbitzing on air while delivering the stories of the day. We witnessed the rise of the Action News concept—news fare presented using get-directly to-the-point reporting and abundant video clips instead of deliberately delivered information. Personality was important. Especially among the meteorologists. Weatherman Bill Kuster is described as the “folksy” member of KYW TV’s Dream Team (Vince Leonard, Jessica Savitch, Mort Crim). His matter-of-fact style and the vegetable garden he planted outside the station became his trademarks. WCAU’s Herb Clarke had an authoritarian yet warm demeanor that elicited trust in his weather predictions.

But our family favorite—the guy who cemented our affinity for WFIL/WPVI Channel 6 Action News and acquainted us with Casa Grande, one of the hottest cities temperature-wise in the US—was Jim O’Brien. Jim was animated, casual, and comic, but his light-hearted ways did nothing to compromise our faith in his forecasts. He died in a parachuting accident in 1983. To this day I can’t mention his name without smiling at the memory of his infectious charm and entertaining weather reports.

During subsequent decades, Bruce and I sampled weather reports and reporters on Channel 6’s rival stations. Like Glenn “Hurricane” Schwartz, with his signature bow tie, who looks like a cross between my gynecologist and Percival Dalton from Little House on the Prairie. And John Bolaris, whose epic mega snow storm hype of a blizzard that was a bust haunted forecasting for years. A few years later, I especially liked the genuineness and professionalism of CBS’ Kate Bilo. But we were (and are) devoted fans of the AccuWeather reports available exclusively on Action News. We’ve followed David Murphy and Dave Roberts and Adam Joseph and Cecily Tynan and Brittany Boyer, with a dash of Karen Rogers, as well as some transient favorites like Melissa Magee. We watch the now 10-day and long-range forecasts trusting they will be correct. But we’ve never researched just how accu AccuWeather actually is.

Meanwhile, the weather blocks have gotten longer and more sensationalized. Introductory bullets now are included in the opening headlines and a short tease is offered a few minutes into the news. And the longer the segments became, the more technology was incorporated. Station news weather sets evolved from the simple hand-drawn maps to computer-controlled displays that can be changed with a handheld clicker. Still, nothing is as engaging as a weather person who is all but blown away doing a live shot as a hurricane slams into the Ocean City Boardwalk. Despite all the technology available—now maps can be projected on the floor of the set the weatherperson walks across—nothing matches wind-blown TV reporters holding yardsticks to snow drifts. But really, how long should it take and how involved should it be to share the week’s anticipated temperatures and chances of rain with us common folk, who just want to know if we need a coat or umbrella?

Then again, I have learned new weather terms. Like graupel—snowflakes that freeze as they fall. And dew point, which seems to be another way to discuss humidity. Bruce and I like to count how many times meteorologist Cecily Tynan will say “dew point” during her forecast.

Thankfully, with but a few exceptions, we haven’t let the weather interfere much with the calendar boxes of our life. An occasional summer birthday party (Rob) was brought indoors or relocated to a bowling alley because you can’t swim when there’s thunder and lightning. [P.S.: you also can’t play baseball under those conditions. I was the mom who, at the first rumble of thunder, jumped off the bleachers yelling, “Clear the field!”] There have been rain delays endured at Phillies games. A wedding (Missy and Eric’s) that occurred on the first really hot day of June. The venue had no dedicated bridal suite for changing, so Missy was forced to stand on a bench in the women’s locker room to slip on her gown while scores of naked little girls, soaked from swimming, crowded around, gawking at the bride. A wedding (Ali and Steve’s) that was moved indoors after a drenching rain the night before forced the decision about where to put the chairs for the ceremony. The weather for Rob and Amy’s wedding was end-of-May perfection. And, including our nephew, four high school, four under-, and three advanced-degree college graduations went off without a weather hitch. Given our kids’ birth months, there was no driving through blizzards for their births, or even their kids’ arrivals. Only our cousins, Faith and David, had to pull off a wedding on Christmas Day 1966 during a blizzard. And they live happily ever after.

One year, the weather wreaked slight havoc with our annual winter trip to Aruba. We thought we could get out of Philly before a predicted severe winter storm hit. We had our housekeeper/house sitter/dog sitter Linda get settled at our house ahead of the snow. We thought. She had barely unpacked when we got word they had closed the airport. She got snowed in with us for several days. We were able to reschedule the trip for the following week, and she was able to work her schedule around us. No harm, no foul.

This past year, a predicted blizzard hit two days before our planned departure for Aruba. But we had minimal issues, other than the lot where we normally park and shuttle had not been cleared of snow and ice, necessitating a change to airport parking. Turned out to be more expensive but much more convenient.

Because I have no control over what falls from the skies, I try to think one step ahead of the forecast. I’m often laughed at for my joining the throngs hurrying to supermarkets in panicked preparedness mode. But I need to assuage my need for order and routine. And a well-stocked pantry cabinet. Like so much about life as a senior, the weather has become a dodge-and-weave issue. An on-going lesson in being flexible. Or not. I insist on maintaining Cody’s walking schedule regardless of rain (just not lightning) or depth of snow. I don’t switch my closets from winter to summer clothes until almost Memorial Day. And even then, we have been known to take winter coats to the shore at the end of May, per the forecast (and the reality). Man plans and the weather gods laugh.

Which is probably why we so love Aruba. As comedian Lewis Black noted in his commercials for our One Happy Island, you don’t need a weatherman for Aruba. The weather never changes. The older I get, the greater the appeal of monotonous warm days and only barely cloudy skies. But then, I would miss the hype of a chance of impending storms. Despite my disparaging comments, I like hearing the weather forecast for Philadelphia and vicinities. And the knowing how to answer Bruce’s daily query, “Long sleeves or short?” But I don’t really need much more weather info than that.

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I have watched dozens of videos on fitted sheet folding to no avail.

I fold towels different ways according to size (i.e., hand, bath, and the bath sheets we use by the pool and at the beach). There is a method to my madness—I fold to make the most of shelf space.

I don’t enjoy putting shirts and slacks onto hangers. Buttoning the top button with arthritic fingers. Trying to maintain the leg seams.

I get all twingy undoing items that are inside out. Especially wet sweaters.

And another issue. I rarely check pockets, so if one of us left a tissue in our pants, I have to peel static-y paper remnants from all the items in that load.

And I lose socks.

I am old enough to remember my Mom mom Annie’s wringer washer. I can’t recall ever seeing her use it, but I can visualize the large, open tub with its requisite turning arm sitting in her basement.

I am old enough to know having an electric or gas clothes dryer was considered somewhat of a luxury until the 1950s. Before that and for many years after, items were hung to dry outdoors on clothes lines or clothes poles that always reminded me of naked umbrellas.

When I was growing up, everyone’s washers (and dryers) resided in the lowest levels of their single and multi family/apartment homes. Our house was no exception. Laundry appliances lived in the basement, stationed right next to what we call the laundry/utility tub and what son-in-law Steven calls a slop sink. What the washer water drains into.

Our laundry area was the somewhat dimly lit corridor leading from the basement play room to the door to the outside/driveway. Off the corridor was an alcove where the laundry chute from the second (bedroom) story emptied. And where my grandfather built us a cedar closet. Clothes and towels thrown down the chute (throw it down became our term for dirty clothes needing laundering) were sorted into piles for washing. I forget if my mom had designated wash days. I can’t imagine she didn’t. Like Wednesday—she’d strip the beds for our cleaning lady to remake. There was absolutely positively nothing better than getting into bed on Wednesday nights and savoring the fragrance of freshly changed and laundered percale sheets.

I don’t recall my mom using drying racks or hanging non-dryerable items outside on a clothes line. There may have been an indoor line that ran the length of the laundry area. I do remember there being clothes pins—not the pinch open kind but the ones you “pegged” that look kind of like long-legged, hatted Playmobil people.

Unlike me, my mom ironed regularly. I often arrived home from elementary school to the ironing board standing in front of the TV so she could watch a show like The Loretta Young Theatre while she flattened wrinkled cotton shirts and summer rompers in the days pre permanent press. At 4:00 p.m., she’d change the channel to Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. I’d peer around the ironing board to watch the dancing.

When we moved to a bigger house, the laundry facilities no longer were relegated to the basement. Per home designs of the era, the washer, dryer, and utility tub were promoted to a bright room off the den. They kept company with our auxiliary freezer, a cedar closet (not as well made as the one my pop pop built in our old house), and Bubba’s Cabinet.

Bubba’s Cabinet is a tall, narrow, plain wooden piece of storage furniture, painted white. At some point, my dad inserted yellow and white checkered contact paper on the door insets for pizzazz (?!). We inherited Bubba’s Cabinet from Mom mom Annie, who got it from my Pop Pop Bernie’s mother. Bubba’s Cabinet held my mom’s laundry supplies in both of our houses. All (powder) detergent. Clorox bleach. Woolite. The cabinet now holds pool chemicals in our cabana. It has to be at least 125 years old.

I have no memory of drying racks or clothes lines in that house either. I think my mom laid “drip dry” items on towels across the washer or dryer.

Speaking of towels, my mom always counted towels going in and coming out of the washer and dryer. A practice I continue to emulate. I might do better counting socks.

When Bruce and I married, we purchased a small 1950s brick colonial with the laundry facilities in the basement. The unfinished (i.e., cinder block walled) laundry/utility room part was illuminated by a small window near the ceiling that was somewhat blocked by the crinkly silver dryer hose. Given the primitive state of the laundry area, it became my habit to bring all laundry upstairs to fold, a practice I’ve maintained to this day.

It was in that laundry area I first washed baby clothes and towels and bibs and washcloths—always separate from the grown up stuff. Ivory Snow in flakes. Nothing else in the world smells like Ivory Snow. It’s such a baby scent! It would waft at you as you folded little onesies and Carter’s nighties. I think you can still get a similar product called Ivory, but in liquid form. I used to wash my delicates in Ivory if the price of Woolite was prohibitive. Otherwise, I’ve vacillated between All and Tide through my married life. The only change has been switching from the powder to the liquid versions. No fabric softener (liquid or sheets)—it may make towels fluffier, but it reduces absorbability. And no detergent pods. I read too much.

I learned the hard way to check washing instructions. They used to be printed on the label at the back of the neck on tops. Now you have to search for them somewhere near the bottom hem. You can learn multiple languages by reading washing instructions. I don’t always follow them. To me, hand wash means wash in cold water on the gentle cycle. Pants that need to be hung to dry often do quite fine thank you tumble dried on low. I avoid buying anything that is Dry Clean Only.

When we moved into our current house 45 (!!) years ago, I reaped the benefits of having a first/main floor laundry room. No more running down the basement to switch loads. Having an appropriate door on which to hang an antique washboard Bruce found. But best of all, the laundry room is directly under our master bedroom closet, which meant Bruce could Rube Goldberg us a laundry chute. He cut a hole in the floor between the joists and inserted a plastic trash can to create the passage. The phrase throw it down once again had true relevance. I no longer had to cart baskets of soiled clothes or sheets or towels down even one flight of stairs. Now houses feature laundry rooms on the same floor as the bedrooms. The absolute height of luxury!

Flash forward to our grandkids, who found it highly entertaining to help me “chute” the laundry and then run downstairs to see where it landed. This escalated to chuting shoes and toys—anything they could get their hands on that could be sent down. Then it became fun to reverse the process and try to push a broom or a mop upward through the chute. To this day, Cody is fascinated there is a hole in our closet floor, cocking his head and peering at the top of the chute as if to say, “Do you guys know this is here?”

Once our family of five was complete, my laundry schedule became written in stone for the longest time. Monday and Friday, clothes. Tuesday, towels. Friday, sheets. When the kids were little and I was a stay-at-home mom, I could fold during the day, usually in our bedroom, usually watching a favorite film from my VHS collection of what has come to be known as my clothes folding movies. Pretty Woman. When Harry Met Sally. The Blue Lagoon. Often, our dog Casey would hop up in the bed as I folded and stacked, eliciting my cautionary, “Watch my piles!”

When I returned to the working world, my hours of laundry operations changed. Clothes were folded on the den sofa after the kids were in bed and Bruce and I watched Friday night TV. While the Reagan’s of Blue Bloods enjoyed their Sunday dinner and an exorbitant amount of alcohol, I was sorting undies and socks and jammies of all sizes. Now I can fold any time I want. Most times on Missy’s old bed watching Love, Actually.

On the very few occasions I iron—so few and far between, Bruce gave up waiting for me to press his button-down shirts and started taking them to the cleaners—I set up shop in Missy’s old bedroom and pop a DVD of one of my tried-and-true favorites into the player. Meaning I purchased the same movies in a newer format. Don’t judge me.

I guess I’m somewhat eccentric and totally habitual about my laundry practices. My current laundry schedule with just two people hasn’t changed much: I wash towels on Monday or Tuesday, pending how many I have. This is a factor of whether we spent the weekend at the beach house, thus decreasing the number of towels we used at home. I change and wash sheets on Thursday to avoid a laundry log jam on Friday, especially if we are trying to leave for the shore. Friday is for clothes and bleachables—hand towels, washcloths, cleaning rags, and kitchen towels.

I still sort clothes for washing into four categories: whites that can be bleached, whites/lights that can’t be bleached, darks, and gentle. I try to run only one load of each, but during the cold months I might need to do two dark loads to accommodate a full week of jeans-wearing. Laundry in the summer is so much easier—lightweight tops and shorts consume less washer and dryer space.

My washers are still top loaders. My dryers are gas. I continue to use the most basic settings. I don’t need all the new-fangled bells and whistles. Warm or cold water. High, medium, or low drying. I “hand wash” on cold in the washer. If an item can’t go in the dryer, I hang it on a plastic hanger on the bar in the laundry room or drape said item (usually a sweater) over one of the decorative wicker chairs in our breakfast room. I’m kind of lazy about setting up the drying rack. My three favorite words are Tumble Dry Low.

At the beach house, I tend to wash every day. Bruce carried towels in his store, so we have LOTS and can enjoy the luxury of washing after one use (both houses). But our washer and dryer at the shore, although work horses, aren’t large capacity. So I run small, frequent loads. My Pink House washer has a secret—with no utility tub in the laundry room, the rinse water drains directly into the pipes behind the washer. It like magically disappears!

If it’s not baby clothes or percale sheets, I’m not a fan of fragrance—you will not find me in the detergent aisle sniffing Gain. Although I am somewhat amused by the notion Monday is universally wash day—supported by the scent of laundry soap proliferating through the neighborhood at the beginning of the week—I’d rather be smelling the newly cut grass. Everything in my drawers and closets is clean, but then there’s the folding.

I don’t think I’d ever want a personal maid to handle all my house cleaning. But I sure wouldn’t mind my own laundress and valet.

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Autograph book popularity has dwindled through the years. I think the last time our kids might have wanted an autograph book was to secure signatures from various Disney stars during a Character Breakfast in DisneyWorld. I’ve occasionally seen a kid offer an autograph book to a ballplayer to sign—usually, people bring a Sharpie and get a signature on a ball or a shirt or a hat. Or a reading book. I got Cam a signed copy of one of Dan Gutman’s latest Weirdest School paperbacks. It is quite cool.

Obviously, Docusign doesn’t cut it for such matters.

By my senior year of high school, passing around autograph books at graduation time was passé. Instead, we exchanged wallet-sized high school graduation pictures with sweet comments written on the back. We then kept said photos in our wallets. I still have several of these small gems tucked away in my big Tupperware o’ photos.

The messages are poignant. And eerie. To think it’s been 55 years since Janice W wrote, “Dear Barb, To one of the sweetest kids I know. Best of luck always.” And Bob S beseeched me to “Remember, I have one word to say about sex—MORE.” (No reading into that—Bob sat near me in Chemistry and always had a snarky sense of humor.) Susan Y (my first friend at GWHS) hoped I would always find all I seek. And added “till lip sticks. Love and luck.” Lewis K penned, “To my one and only Tootsie Face. Love and kisses.” Tobi prophetically composed a message she often includes in my birthday cards: “Thanks for always being there to share the good and the bad with me.” More than aptly sums up our 61-year friendship.

And of course we signed each other’s yearbooks. The specialness of yearbook inscriptions was their affirmation of the relationship you shared and the promise, if not of keeping in touch, then of keeping the memories 4ever. I amazingly recognize the handwriting (almost without exception, all entries are in cursive) even before I get to the name. To peruse what was handwritten in my high school yearbook—George Washington High School’s Legend 5—is to revisit those relationships.

Sometimes the message was short—“Good luck, Love <insert name>.” Sometimes it was an unexpected confession or apology, a response to what you might have written in that person’s yearbook—as in, ”Maybe I didn’t adore you then but I do now. Love Rich.” A shared experience. “It was great having you sit near me in math. I wouldn’t have stayed awake if I didn’t have someone to talk to. Love, Joel.” A thank you, a compliment. “Thanks for a great yearbook and for being a great kid. Love, Fran.”

Sometimes the memories get blurred. Charlie ‘70 (he played the King to Fran’s Anna the year we did The King and I) was really going to miss me at “the table” next year. I forgot we ever ate lunch together. Selma Laskin wrote I was a “fine student, a delightful person.” That’s all she had to say after she was my English teacher in both tenth and twelfth grade? After she cultivated my interest in writing? Guess she’ll never know I was the only one of her students to attend her funeral. Edward Birk, my Algebra I and II teacher, inscribed my book, “The years together were good.” Apparently, he had recovered from the ulcer he developed, dealing with the demands of our class, the one he said he had to spoon feed. Marc E claimed I’d shown him the colors of Love’s rainbow—50 years later he all but ignored me at our class reunion. I was only marginally connected with Cheryl B, yet she wrote a warm, lengthy discourse on friendship (although she signed it “sincerely” as opposed to, as most others, “Love”). On the other hand, Cheryl U, with whom I spent many a Saturday, never signed my yearbook, nor did numerous others with whom I felt close. Sandy S. Jerrilyn F. I should remind Bruce’s best friend Mark, with whom we are still in touch, that he never signed. Tobi never signed either, but I have her picture.

Some inscriptions are bittersweet. In Mollie A’s long message, she “hoped and prayed we’ll be able to share the future together.” She married not long after we graduated and her days from there were not the happiest. She passed way too prematurely. As did Micki Y (and yes. I did “see ya at Temple”).

I have reconnected with several classmates thanks to the wonders of Facebook and Substack and extended family. Dana G is one of my most loyal blog followers. Ethel T and Barbara L love the shore like we do. Gail S ended up being a good friend of my sister-in-law. Sally U was close to my Cousin Alan. Alas, none of them signed.

A few of my favorite yearbook entries include the one from my yearbook co-editor, Rachelle L—“Impossible to fit into any space a fraction of what I feel. From looking for the creative writing club in 7th (actually, it was 8th) grade to now, I love you.” And Debbie S’s—”Ever since our eighth grade trips, I decided you were fun.”

Someone named Bruce signed my yearbook my first day at Temple University. In a very long message on the front page opposite the opening photograph, he wrote, “The foolish love of two young kids has suddenly changed to love between two mature adults.” I was sixteen going on seventeen (Leo’s age!). And, “…no matter what tomorrow may hold, it will be even better because you’ll be there with me.” Guess that inscription withstood the test of time. And knee surgery.

What was the impetus for this post, you may ask. While looking for photos for the blog, I (re)found my dad’s eighth grade autograph book among his artifacts. The book is a tribute to my dad’s days at John Greenleaf Whittier School, which served North Philadelphia from 1913 to 2013. The autograph book entries are dated June 1942. Right around the time of the Battle of Midway, Big Band Swing, patriotic popular music, Casablanca, and rationing.

The world at large didn’t visibly intrude into my dad’s life as an eighth grader. The first few pages of the book provided space to list all of his teachers from first through eighth grade. That page is blank. But he filled in the pages designated for the class cheer. And listed his fellow class officers (he was class president). The book also presents the text of the Pledge of Allegiance, minus the words “under God.” They wouldn’t be added until Flag Day, 1954.

There is an inscription from Mom mom Minnie: “May good health and good fortune smile upon you always. Mother.” Did his call her Mother back then? He called her Mom in my lifetime.

His brother, my Uncle Stan, included a popular saying of the time: “May you sail on the ship of ambition/And land at the port of success.” It is signed, “Your loving brother, Stanley,” who then added, “May fortune smile on Joseph always.” I am trying to recall if Uncle Stan had enlisted yet. He would have been about eighteen.

What follows are the funny, somewhat cliched entries that should be read while listening to Glenn Miller or the Andrews sisters. Many read like (bad) Dad Jokes. Almost without exception, you can tell they were written with a fountain pen. They represent the puns and prose familiar to the era.

From “your pal” Allen Severn: “Don’t make love by the garden gate. Love is blind but the neighbors ain’t.” And from another pal, Eugene Stogryn: “Don’t be ♯. Don’t be ♭. Be ♮.” [Translation. Don’t be sharp. Don’t be flat. Be natural.] “Yours till the diamond rings.”

Bob Frank noted, “Roses are red, violets are blue/I forget homework but I remember you.” Ginny Cox similarly wrote, “I am a friend/A friend so true/Remember me/I remember you.”

Irene Walker confessed, “Being no poet/Having no fame/Permit me only/To sign my name.” Same from Bertha Bumbley, who added “Yours till I drink Canada dry.” And Joan Cagill said, “It makes me giggle/It makes me laugh/To think you want my autograph.”

From Gloria DiGiacomo came a common entry: “2 Ys U R/2 Ys U B/I think U R/2 Ys 4 me.”

I am wondering if Gloria Herbst had anyone particular in mind when she wrote, “A box of candy/A couple of kisses/Well change her name/From Miss to Mrs.” Or when Bill Rosser stated, “Butter is butter/Cheese is cheese/But what is a kiss/Without a squeeze?” Or “Joey is a good boy/He goes to church on Sunday/To pray to God to give him strength/To flirt with the girls on Monday.” Was that a personal wish from Dot Lively? And Dorothy Hails believes, “Love is like an onion/You taste it with delight/But when it’s gone you wonder/What ever made you bite?”

There are thoughtful lessons. “Happiness is a perfume/The rarest on God’s shelf/If you sprinkle some on others/You’ll get some back yourself. Yours till a rubber band plays jazz.” Signed, Ruth Lang.

Perhaps remembering Halloween, William Hartsough wrote, “Now I lay me down to sleep/A bag of candy at my feet/If I should die before I wake/You’ll know I did with a belly ache. Yours till the pillow case goes to court.”

On aging: “When the golden sun is setting/And your feet no longer trod/May your name in gold be written/In the autograph of God. Yours till the bees get hives.” —June Lund. And, “When you are old and drinking tea/Take off your specs and think of me.” —Ruth Panzer. And Butch Sienkiewicz wanted his friend to “Remember M/Remember E/Put them together/And remember me.”

How about some advice for teenage angst? “Fall from the mountain/Fall from above/But for goodness sakes, Joe/Don’t fall in love. Yours till the kitchen sinks.”—Harriet Engelke. Vincent Giannoth expressed similar skepticism: “Ashes to ashes/Dust to dust/Can you ever find a woman/You can trust?' Yours till the cows come home.” Yep. Eighth grade.

I liked, “When you get married and have some twins/Don’t come to me for safety pins.” (Again. Eighth grade?!) —Ralph Shorthall.

Someone named George Bauer, Jr. signed my dad’s book. My tenth grade homeroom teacher was George Bauer. Wonder if he is any relation?

Anne (no last name signed) hoped my dad would never lose his good personality, “by which we all know you.” Irving Genzelman hoped he’d always be a friend. I think he was. The name sounds quite familiar.

Ray Lix wished my dad well in high school. Helen Shelhamer hoped he’d get a scholarship. Howard Lewis thought Joe was the “best catcher” he ever saw. I assume he means baseball. I thought my dad was a pitcher.

Apparently, a certain brand of car had earned a bad reputation. Thomas Lucarini wrote, “Once there was a cat who ate tin cans/And when the little kittens came they came in Ford sedans. Yours till the mountain peaks.” Louis Schaeffer wrote, “A piece of tin/A piece of board/A couple of nails/And you have a Ford. Yours till the board walks.”

From teachers and perhaps administrators (I am presuming from the content): “Best wishes…. I shall always treasure the memory of our associations here in Whittier and know that I shall be proud of you in your chosen life work. Sincerely, Mary K. Robbins.

“Your type of pupil a teacher comes across once in a blue moon, that is, rarely if ever. It has indeed been a pleasure not only to have taught but also to have known you.” Joseph H. Schneiderman.”You’ve done fine work here in Whittier. Keep it up!”— Marcus B. Greenfield.

Manny Goren (“Uncle Manny” to me), my dad’s best friend through life (albeit his political rival in school) wished, “May your future life be one of happiness and cheer. May our friendship be everlasting.” It was. Paul Berger, another lifelong friend, wanted him to enjoy “health, happiness, and good luck.”

On wanting to have the last word: “When on this page you chance to look/Just think of me and close the book.”—Jean Cressman. Kathryn Snyder held the honor of signing the last page in the book “by hook or by crook.” But Bill Quinlan claimed an especially prized spot: “In order to leave room for your lovers/Poor little me must write on the covers.”

I posted the writings of eighth graders from 1942 because they amazed me. There was no mention of a war raging in Europe and the Far East. The remarks were simply the thoughts of kids about to embark on their next big personal adventure: high school. I included their names because the authors represent my generation’s parents and because maybe some of my readers will recognize a name they heard growing up.

I am in awe of the beautiful handwriting (not to be genderistic, but….), even from the guys. Maybe we don’t sign autograph books anymore because learning cursive has fallen out of favor. I hear some school districts are considering bringing back penmanship lessons. Quoting from someone’s entry in my dad’s autograph book, I think that “would be swell.”

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