My paternal grandmother believed that at some point in the near future the world would be bereft of spoons. To prepare her grandchildren for the coming apocalypse, we all received spoons for Christmas, that is until Cousin George, then over six foot eight, pooped on her prophesy. I believe his exact words were “Get your head out of the vodka bottle Grandmother.”
“Oh what a wonderful spoon, Grandmother! Now I’m prepared for the Spoon Apocalypse.
Through all my travels and relocations, my spoon collection has not fared well but I still have the first one she ever sent me. It’s a sterling silver teaspoon with an etching of the Moorhead Minnesota Public Library. I always assumed it was just something she picked up at some antique store, but through the miracle of the internet, I believe it had some other meaning to her besides the spoon prophesy.
Moorhead was my Grandmother’s home until her father died and her mother married The Judge. Probably a wise thing for a young widow with two small children to do but The Judge was a controlling nasty pants who didn’t allow his stepchildren to talk of their father or paternal aunts, uncles and cousins still living in Moorhead. That town always remained a life that could have been if not for the Spanish flu. As a freshman in college when the library opened, she probably also spent a lot of time there. At that time, the University of North Dakota at Fargo catered to the study of animal husbandry and improvement of soy bean crops and not to the study of something so useless as English literature. So the spoon wasn’t just something she wrapped in foil and sent to her granddaughter (or maybe it was and I’m just a fruitcake)
After Grandmother’s death my aunt sent me this odd assortment of her utensils. Note anything odd?
There’s only one fork and who needs that many butter knives? Or pickle forks.
I don’t know what to do with all those spoons. Perhaps play Spoons. Have you ever heard of that game? Apparently it’s also known as Pig and Tongue and it is some kind of variation of Musical Chairs. The winners of Spoons take a spoon from the middle of the table and the winners of Pig, fart. (Not really they just touch the end of their noses. Don’t ask.) The winners of Tongue stick their tongues out. I imagine it’s a game old Judge Nasty Pants would have loved.
Maybe I’ll give the spoons to the Spoon Lady! Any odd things you’ve gotten as Christmas presents that made sense many years later?
Thanksgiving night we watched the final episode of the Lord of the Rings as we ate the crab and potato salad. When the trilogy first debuted, our home was where stockings were opened Christmas morning and then we all walked down to the Art Deco theater at the bottom of the hill to watch whatever had just released.
We began this Xmas tradition in 1983 with The Christmas Story, a low budget picture that was not expected to do well at the box office and is now a holiday classic. We’d had a rough year and that movie was the perfect distraction.
The next year was even worse. After a failed attempt at merriment, we hiked down the hill to watch Ghostbusters.
I can’t remember all the movies we saw in the ensuing years. Generally silly flicks. None were able to make us laugh until we cried. None were as cathartic as the first two.
By the way, who’s your favorite character in Ghostbusters? Mine’s the wise-cracking receptionist played by Annie Potts. I love that gal.
To my teenage friends and I, the book The Lord of The Rings was the holy gospel of Middle Earth. It was where we were meant to be and not the Reno High School biology lab dissecting frogs. We’d heard about the analogies to WWII and the Nazis, but had no real understanding of the horrors of concentration camps or the ability of power to leech the soul from a human being. We just wanted to escape the mundanity of our lives.
Now LOTR seems like a warning and is too close to comfort to exit the theater refreshed. I think we’ll see a comedy instead. Any suggestions?
In large cities you are immediately reminded that there are doors you will never enter unless you are wealthy or service the wealthy in some way or another.
The above house (on Manhattan’s East Side) was for sale but guess what? No open house was scheduled. Rats. No peek into the Lifestyles of Rich and Famous for me. Here in honor of Norm Frampton’s ThursdayDoor event is another door I’ll never enter.
Below is a picture of a peculiar and apparently abandoned structure in another borough of NYC. Any guesses as to what it is?
Here’s a clue: It’s in the same park as the fountain below.
Flushing Meadows, in the borough of Queens, is a world away from the east side of Manhattan. On the day we visited it was packed with families. On every field, soccer, baseball, cricket, and volleyball players either practiced or competed against each other as family members and friends watched. Even in mid October, kayakers paddled around the small lakes taking selfies. They were mostly people from third world countries who will probably never be able to buy that house on the east side of Manhattan but they have their families and their community. Today is Thanksgiving here in the United States. In California we are all thankful for the rain. Our view has gone from smokey grey:
To cloudy grey. But the air has moved out of “hazardous” purple to a moderate orange. It will be awhile before we are in the green of healthy air but we will never take fresh and healthy air for granted. Nor will I complain about the high cost of roof repairs. At least I have a roof.
And of course I am thankful for you. Whether you come by once or every time I post, I am thankful for you.
Today is the 11th day of the 11th month on which we celebrate the ending of the war to end all wars. I don’t think a lot of people really understand how that war (WWI) began. I certainly don’t. Something about the assassination of an archduke. Today it honors all veterans from all those other wars that weren’t supposed to happen.
Armistice Day means red poppies. If you’re out and about you may run into a veteran selling them. This traditional started with a poem.
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
In Flanders Fields by John McCrae
McCrae was a Canadian doctor who, legend has it, wrote the poem from the back of an ambulance. Poppies leech the blood from battlefields and in the spring, cover the ground with a sea of red. A sight to see indeed, if not such a stark reminder.
My grandfather did not die in France; he returned to his family and lived a long life.The wounds he suffered were not visible to the naked eye. And he didn’t talk about them.
I’m actually quite mortified that a bit of rain has kept a president of the United States from attending ceremonies honoring the fallen of WWI. It didn’t stop the troops from fighting and losing their lives. Shame on him.
I haven’t been posting lately because I’ve been trying to finish the latest incarnation of Flipka into which I’ve rolled a sequel. Will the sequel answer many reader questions? I don’t know. Will it be less wacky than the first of which one reviewer wrote:
The wacky, utterly unbelievable plot is, however, merely the vehicle for JT Twissel to demonstrate her enviable skill set.
All I can say is, I tried. But how can I write “believable” plots set in a state that elects dead pimps to govern? By a landslide, I might add.
Meet your new legislature Nevada!
Was the other candidate so terrible that the fine citizens of Pahrump are going dig up a corpse and send it to the Nevada legislature?
According to this tweet, Dennis Hof, who wrote The Art of the Pimp and was known as the Trump of Pahrump, is going to vote from the “great beyond.”
I know Republicans in Nevada got massacred tonight, but my man Dennis Hof crushed his opponent from the great beyond in AD-36 & we crushed the anti-brothel initiative in Lyon County by about 80%. So pardon me, but I’m celebrating.
Fictional whores celebrating their dead pimp’s glorious victory!
I know those tea party folks have a few wacky ideas, like believing that Donald Trump is the second coming of Jesus Christ, but do they really think the Nevada legislature is going to allow a ghost to vote? And, how am I going to fit this twist into one of the unbelievable plots of which I am so enviably skilled?
For one of the oldest cities in Canada, Halifax NS has a remarkably young and energetic vibe.
People don’t seem rushed or anxious to be first in line. If you step off a curb, cars stop and wait patiently for you to cross the street. Of course, we lucked onto beautiful weather.
Like Montreal, it is a city for walking with a mixture of old architecture and new.
The old Town Clock was getting a facelift.
And tourists flocked to watch the hourly changing of the guard at the fortress (Citadel) on top of the hill.
It’s not quite as formal as its namesake ceremony at Buckingham Palace, as you can see. Of course, the fellow above is not a soldier, he’s a docent.
The Citadel was never attacked although they were prepared. Below is the entrance to a zigzag of foxholes.Aside from wandering around the streets, we did visit the Immigration Museum where I found out my ancestors came to Canada before there was such a thing as immigration.
They just appeared on early census records listing their birthplaces as Ireland. And here I always thought they were Scottish. Right now I’m miffed at them for ever leaving Canada.
Check out other doors over at Norm’s Place!