Oh look! Priscilla and John have a Thanksgiving dinner! I’ll show you the newly unpacked doll kitchen and stuff another time, but how could I not show you this itty bitty turkey feast today?
Pilgrim Love
We all grew up with variations of these darling pilgrim candles, which no one could bear to burn, right?
Didn’t you think of this cute couple as John and Priscilla? As in “Speak for yourself, John?” And you felt kinda bad for Myles Standish, but not too much? And then you felt bad that Pocahontas didn’t get to marry John Smith? And you kinda wanted to plant some corn with some fish? And…
Well, anyway…
Live, from our china cabinet! It’s Thanksgiving Day!
XOXOXO
Good pickin’s in this bin! Tiny little moccasins, a Daisy Scout pinny, an aunt-knitted baby sweater, a Miss Transylvania Beauty Contest sash (not related to Transylvania University in yesterday’s post, although hilarious in timing), and a menu from Teru Sushi on Ventura Boulevard, Studio City, California.
Let’s have a closer look at this menu.
I was enjoying a business dinner of sushi and sake at Teru Sushi with my colleagues and a Disney associate, when young Gaby Hoffmann and Christina Ricci plopped down at the next table. They were so cute, and just a year off their 1995 movie Now and Then.
Ginger’s 13th birthday party had been a movie night for a bunch of girls and their moms. We went to see Now and Then. We moms sat in the row behind our beautiful newly teen daughters, and we all bounced and sang along and ate too much popcorn.
I know Gaby and Christina sent their X’s and O’s to Ginger, but I’d like to blow some back at them, for being gracious little ladies who didn’t make someone’s mom feel awkward about asking for autographs for her daughter.
In Search of Ice Skates
What do ice skates have to do with this pile of boxes and bins on the guest room bed?
You are going to be so sorry you asked.
Our front door is painted black. I know it sounds funereal, but it is actually rawther handsome. And it is set about 18 inches in from the full-glass storm door, so on top of being black, it is also mostly in shadow. I really love to showcase our 1920s Lannon-stone home, so I’m always looking for door decorations that pop off the black. And I just saw a cute idea that involves vintage white figure skates, holly, and evergreens. White skates will totally pop off my black front door, right? And so, the hunt begins. My figure skates are in a box somewhere. If mine are not, Ginger’s are. With Thanksgiving closing in, I am obsessed with finding our skates for my Christmas door decoration.
So, on Sunday, I climbed up into the garage attic, to find skates. I did not find skates, but I did ask Bill to bring down these boxes and bins. Up in the attic, I’d had a quick peep inside most of the boxes, to see just enough to make me want to explore a little more. Saw some old friends, and said, “Oh! I wondered where you were!” And found some things that were mistakenly stored, because the box was mislabeled.
Little by little, I’m going to open these treasure chests with you. I’m going to share some stuff that dates back to Early America, some stuff from Mid-Century America, some souvenirs from Not America, and some Junk with a capital J.
This is my 100th ginnygram, so I’m going to show you my first treasure — which is sweet because it relates to my very first ginnygram.
Let’s open this box labeled “Ginny — Tull Children’s Books.” Meaning, it should be full of books from my grandmother’s childhood in Kinston, North Carolina.
Oh, yeah. We’ll sort through these in another ginnygram! But may I just say how wonderful they smell? Truly. I’m not being smart.
Best book in the box? My grandfather’s 1926 Transylvania University yearbook.
William Kingsley Miller, Burkesville, Ky. My handsome granddaddy.
What ice skates?
Feliz Cumpleanos
So I was just sitting there, minding my own business, when my daughter pointed to a party of partying partiers at the now back-to-normal corner of the bar, where the play had just been. “Oh look! How cute! They have a list of things for their mom to do on her birthday,” says Ginger.
Now, I have been pretty committed to acting my age, for a long long time. But OUCH! What was that little stabbing pain in my neck? Apparently it was the (really cute) little devil on my shoulder! Who invited her? And off I skipped (not literally, at least) to ask these happy strangers what was on their mama’s Birthday To-Do List.
Do you see the check mark on #4? That was me. After studying the list of 48 things she needed to accomplish this night, I challenged the Birthday Girl to an arm-wrestling contest. I did whisper that I’d let her win, just in case she thought I was a serious contender. So I tied my paisley pashmina around my head like a Middle-Aged Warrior Queen, and got straight to it. Everyone at the bar chanted, and I spectacularly lost to Elena, a lively and obviously cherished Latina Mamacita.
Do you see these empty snifters? I am very sorry to tell you that they once held shots of Goldschlager.
Cheers, Sort Of
Speaking of theatre in Chicago, last night we were in the audience at Fuller’s Pub, to see a friend and retired Chicago cop starring in Busted City, an intimate play written by Paul Carr. Intimate, because the story takes place in a neighborhood bar, so the play is staged in a neighborhood bar. The best seats in the house are at the bar, right next to the actors, which I suppose makes you an extra. We sat on metal folding chairs, second row from the “stage.” But the line between stage and audience is blurred, so you feel like you are just hanging out at the local dive, eavesdropping on the regulars.
The five-man play is a snapshot of the days leading up to Harold Washington’s primary win, which led to his election as Chicago’s first black mayor. The language is authentic and rough; the characters are archetypes but not always predictable. It was both enjoyable and uncomfortable (emotionally and because of the metal folding chairs). You know what history is about to serve up, but you don’t know what “dese guys” are gonna do with it.
We were there to see Mike Byrne (in the plaid shirt) act the part of a retired sout’side cop. Mike and Bill were on the same 014th District Tactical Unit, back in the day. It was funny to have to walk onto the “set” to tap my husband on the shoulder and ask him to stop visiting with the star, so the play could begin. The set was too realistic, apparently.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about the after-party at Fuller’s Pub. Let’s just say that the playwright threatened to hire me.
Amen
I think I need a laugh. Maybe you do, too.
Back in the early 1990s, I needed a contractor. Note that I said “I,” not “we.” There was no “we” about it, because Bill went on a week-long fly-in fishing trip to Canada. And I got even by ripping off our enclosed back porch and building a screened porch, deck, and bought a sweet little above-ground pool. (Oh no, honey, I’m okay. You just go fishing. I’ll hold down the fort. Heh.)
Anyway, my colleague Ann recommended Maripat Donovan as a contractor. Maripat rolled up to the house in a big old black stretch of something that I think may have been a Lincoln. I sometimes re-imagine it was a hearse. Or the Batmobile. She was an hilarious — and sometimes terrifying — temporary addition to our little family. Because right on the heels of the porch deal, I decided we needed oak floors and a working fireplace. So Maripat was a pretty regular feature at our place. Summing her up for you would be impractical and impossible. And probably illegal.
Our contractor was also working on a little one-nun play. And we said, sure, we’d come on down to the Live Bait Theater way past our bedtime to see her conduct a late-night catechism. (Go ahead and Google it. And her.)
The funny part? One evening, Maripat was sitting with us at the kitchen table, quizzing Catholic School Girl Ginger on her Catholic Upbringing. When what do I hear my little daughter say? “Oh, yeah, my Dad is a Catholic. But my Mom is a Public.”
Ginger didn’t know the finer points of Being Catholic versus Being Protestant (thank goodness). She just knew that if you were a Catholic, you went to Catholic School. And if you went to public school, well, you were a Public.
With our blessings, Sister Maripat added that little gem to her ever-evolving and always sold-out performances.
And as far as we know, Catholics and Publics all around the world are still chuckling about words from the mouth of my baby.
This Mother’s Flag
About 12 years ago, Bill and I were poking around an Evanston antiques mall, when we both spotted this American beauty. Tagged and hanging in a booth, as if it were just another junky framed print. It was so sad to us, that someone’s family didn’t want this any more. Or that there was no more family to hang this in a home, to respect and treasure. So we brought home this four-star service flag, to live out the rest of its days with us.
Even though I do not know the names of the sons behind the stars, I find comfort in the fact that the stars are blue. Not gold.
Not About the Candy
We don’t have a chiming doorbell. We have a door knocker. So, on Halloween, we post ourselves in the living room, so we can hear the wee voices and the bitty knuckle-knocks. (Because most can’t reach–or don’t understand–the brass knocker thingy.) And we talk about stuff like Halloweens Past and Whatever Election Is Eminent. But tonight is my first Halloween since I started ginnygrams, so in my head, I have been listing my thoughts on which blog to blog:
1. The year I thought it was a good idea to hand out Halloween pencils.
2. Ginger’s second Halloween (she was only five days old for her first), when she wore a homemade baby duck costume. Heart.
3. My long-ago rant about trick-or-treaters who were most definitely not from our neighborhood.
4. Bill’s decision, this year, to be the house that hands out full-size candy bars.
5. The costume I agreed to wear to work today. (Has anyone seen my lost pride? Oh wait. Who cares? It was fun!)
How to decide? A sign from Miss Gigi. She just sent an email from the Eastern Time Zone to say that she had turned off her porch light. And that she remembered something Bill once told me, nearly 30 years ago. Because tonight she found herself handing out candy to mothers with babes in arms and to kids too big to be trick-or-treating. And she wrote how grateful she is to live in a happy, healthy, safe place.
So ding ding ding. Number 3 wins…
Back in the mid-1980s, I stomped my feet about the parents who were dropping off bunches of kids to trick or treat in our north-side neighborhood, instead of staying where they belong in their own neighborhoods. Because they were clearly not from our neighborhood. Says my husband, who was working in the thick of Humboldt Park and had side jobs in Cabrini Green, “These parents are bringing their children here, to give them a safe Halloween, to just be little kids for a while. No gangs, no guns. So give ’em all the candy we have, okay?”
More than okay.
The Meaning of Boy
Hunter is my nephew. He is 10. Along with much of my Kentucky family, he is here for Officer Ginger’s birthday weekend. (He’s asleep in a sleeping bag upstairs right now.) (Actually, he’s probably not asleep because he has just “secretly” had some Coca-Cola and some M&Ms.) (And I told him the house is haunted.)
The first thing Hunter finds to play with in our Big City yard? A pine cone. He has been tossing it around like a baseball and a football all weekend. He even brought it inside for safe-keeping last night, so he could play with it some more today.
Next find? A big stick. He faked a broken leg, so he needed a cane. He batted the pinecone baseball. And he made an awesome nunchuk, until the stick fell apart; then it was a “bo” staff.
Then Hunter played bags/corn hole so competitively with his adult uncles that he did NOT need his fleece — even after the sun went down and they played by full moonlight with mini flashlights duct-taped to their heads.
And almost best? He brought a plastic severed hand in his knapsack. Because who goes to a party without a severed hand? (Girls, that’s who.)
Absolute best? He brought one bottle rocket, to shoot off in celebration of Ginger’s birthday. One. And he gathered all of us into the back yard to cheer. Thank goodness it went off, because he later admitted that he only found it in the back of the truck, so who knows how long it had been there.
I think that if I look up “boy” in Merriam-Webster, I’ll see Hunter’s picture next to the definition.
ginnygram 