Author Archives: Ginny O'Donnell

Let’s dial it back to Easter at Miss Gigi’s, shall we?

There was this…

And then there was this…

Any idea what they’re doing? (If you do, you were probably raised by Miss Gigi.) (Or you are addicted to Antiques Roadshow.) (Or both.) These thoroughly modern boys are discovering their grandmother’s thoroughly outdated — and totally fascinating — collection of stereoscope cards on her turn-of-the-century (not this one!) stereopticons.

Here’s a sample of a saucy series, which was popular back in the day.

Back in that day, one looked at a stereo picture such as this through one’s stereopticon contraption, and it was just like being there in person, in 3-D.

At first glance, you think OH MY! THIS IS SAUCY! And then you think hmmmmm, should these modern young men be viewing these pictures on a Sunday? Much less on Easter Sunday?

Absolutely not!

On the back of the stereo-card is the 1916 approval of Chief John H. Plunkett, Boston, Mass., AND IT IS X’d OUT. Too saucy for Sunday!

I just loved watching my nephews goofing around and sharing these 100-year-old stereopticons back and forth. No grumpy birds, no insta-pix, no phweets.

Just good old-fashioned laughs!

It may be the puppy or may be an attitude-shift, but I was up at 7:30 this Sunday morning, fairly bright-eyed and eager to get this day started. We are having friends over for barbecue and Arnold Palmers at 2:00, and we needed to get a few things from the grocery store. I was raised to go nowhere without my hair fixed and a little color on my lips, because, says my mother, “If you don’t, you’re going to run into an old boyfriend.”

So when I dashed upstairs this morning to spit-comb my hair and throw on yoga pants and a fleece, I also dabbed on a little lipstick. And I grinned and remembered this story.

My hometown friend Melissa was on bed-rest with her third baby. I was home for Christmas, and wanted to see Melissa. Her life was kind of complicated at this point, so she suggested that the best time to really visit would be before her two little children woke up. “Just throw your coat over your pajamas and come over!”  So I did. No shower, no curling iron, no makeup. Just my flannel jammas under my winter coat, and probably a pair of loafers, no socks.

We had a lovely, quiet visit. Melissa’s husband was at work, and her children weren’t terribly early risers. But when they did wake up I helped to get them breakfasted and dressed. Then little Claire got an invitation to play at her friend’s house in town. I overheard Melissa saying that Claire couldn’t go, because she had no way to get her there.

“Oh, let me take her, when I drive back to Mama’s. As long as I don’t have to go inside or anything.”

Melissa assured me that Claire would just jump out of the car and run in.

“Where am I taking her?”

“To [insert name of high-school crush here] ‘s house. On Lexington Ave. His little girl and Claire are best friends!”

You know what happened next. There I sat behind the steering wheel, with bed-hair, and no color on my lips, when HSC walked right up to the car to fetch little Claire.

Because God is obviously a woman. In fact, God is probably Mary Kay.

How lucky am I? I actually followed my bliss, and have enjoyed a life’s work by making books for little children. Factoring in a couple of detours (having a baby, for one), I compute that I have been in children’s book publishing for nearly 30 years. Twenty-three of them have been in one company, my last.

I was just given a lovely gift. A surprise, really. But lovely, nonetheless.

Spring.

And summer.

Lazy mornings.

More time with my mother.

Paint and brushes and canvas.

Clay on my hands.

My novel.

Comfortable shoes.

No shoes!

Long walks with a corgi.

Road trips to nowhere.

Digging in the dirt.

Fishing.

Matinees.

Long, handwritten letters.

Luncheons, al fresco.

I will miss walking through the door of the publishing house that was my second home, my second family.

But I love the view from the window that just opened.

For the better part of 20 years, I’ve had the pleasure and privilege of traveling to Bologna, Italy, for the Children’s Book Fair. And while my colleagues and I actually do spend the better part of our trip inside the BolognaFiere, we usually manage to find a little time to poke around the city. The book fair was last week, but I’m only now getting around to a ginnygram because I pretty much landed, repacked, and went to Kentucky for Easter.

This is a photo from inside the tiny salumeria around the corner from our hotel. I do not think it is a tourist trap, because there are always locals crushed inside, ordering their carne di maiale e salsiccia e formaggi e funghi. The shop lady wears a costume, and invites you to taste or purchase by saying “ees posseeble?” She’s pretty cute, right? In this photo, she is inviting my colleague to taste aceto balsamico by placing a drop on her wrist with an eye dropper. Once you have found the balsamico that you wish to purchase, you receive a lesson and a mimeograph page about how to enjoy it — on salad, strawberries, ice cream, or other. You leave feeling as if you’ve signed a contract promising NOT to use your balsamico inappropriately on fruit, when yours is ONLY for salad. Hmm, maybe her costume is actually the uniform of the Polizia di Balsamico.

All this said, my real intent is to share this funny memory with you…

During one of my first trips to Bologna, I wished to order a panini for lunch, in a shop similar to this salumeria. I pointed to a sandwich behind the glass labeled “Speck,” and asked, “Speck?” I shrugged my shoulders and held my hands palms up, the international language for “what is this?”

The shop girl said, “ees em.”

“Em?”

“Si. Em.”

I gave her my most bewildered look and shook my head. “Em?”

“Si. [oink oink!] Em!”

Ham.

And she does dishes.

Here in Chicago, we are celebrating the First Day of Spring by discussing our wind-chill factor. Guess what? That reminds me of a story!

When I moved to Chicago from more temperate climes, I had not heard of this thing called “wind-chill factor.” I’d certainly never seen it in print. So here’s what I heard, and what ginny-logic computed:

“Windshield factor.”

Because if it can be hot enough to fry an egg on the hood of your car, this cold factor must mean something about the temperature on the windshield of your car.

Go ahead and laugh.

I’m used to it.

It is called a “Proustian phenomenon,” when a smell brings back distant memories. Look it up — it involves Marcel Proust and some tea biscuits. My current Proustian flashback is because my house smells like corned beef and cabbage right now, and my memory just belly-laughed at the time we went downtown to watch little Ginger walk in the Paddy’s Day parade with her friend Colleen.

Colleen invited Ginger to walk with her family and her grandfather’s Irish Social Club. And Colleen’s mother hatched a plan that would get the girls noticed by the television cameras: Dress them in cute costumes that can be seen from a distance.

So Sheila and I cut giant shamrocks from leftover carpet padding, and spray-painted them green. And that’s what our little second-grade daughters wore in the 1990 Chicago St. Patrick’s Day Parade. And sure and begorra, they were noticed, the dears. By the Chicago Tribune, as well as the television cameras! This is their photo on the front page of the Trib, March 18, 1990.

But that’s not the funny part. This is the funny part…

A ginger-haired young man, still dressed in his kilt, had apparently marched with his pipe and drum corps, and had circled back to walk with his wife, who was pushing a baby stroller. ‘Twas a brisk day in Chicago, ’twas. And me sitting on the curb a-waiting to spy me own chiseller all dressed like a shamrock, so. The little family paused right in front of me. The baby was fussy. So the kilted young daddy bent over to coo at his bitty wee “babby.” A chilly breeze came up, and so did the daddy’s fine tartan. He didn’t even notice my squeal, or the colorful exclamation of the sistah sitting next to me. He just walked on, pleased to be Irish in Chicago.

I can confirm two things.

They wear nothing under their kilts.

And he was a natural redhead.