First Down

Hello World, Well, for a month with 31 days, and 2 holidays, it certainly does seem as if January flew by, I don’t mind saying. This is already the last weekend of the month, and February will be here before we know it on Thursday, of all things. I finally grabbed the bull by the teeth, and took all of the Christmas wreaths down and lights out of the windows, so at least that’s some incremental progress, compared with the previous week – and even better, actually packed them away in the basement where they belong, and which, like camping laundry, is not always a sure thing, believe me. It especially didn’t help to have an unwelcome abundance of “assistance” from the resident kitties (mind you, this is their definition of “assistance,” not mine) especially the part about going up and down stairs, while carrying things in both hands, thanks not. All too often, it seems like we are inundated with a veritable baker’s dozen of irksome felines (not true) all of which are black (also not true) as well as all being under my feet at the same time (that part might be true) and once again, thanks ever so much not. I finally told them that words hadn’t been invented yet to describe exactly what sort of pests they are, although they seem to have greeted this revelation with the disdain that is their hallmark, heaven knows. In other animal tales, it was summer of last year on my way home from work that several of us unwary motorists were confronted with the unexpected sight of a very large turkey vulture standing in the middle of the street in Mount Vernon, just sort of watching the world go by, and finally had to inch past it one at a time, since the fowl in question obviously had no intention of getting out of our way. At the time, I thought that was so odd, finding it there in a residential neighborhood and just standing around calmly on the road, in spite of traffic, pedestrians, and noises of all sorts. I had basically forgotten all about it since then, until I bumped into him/her two weeks ago, this time just hanging about and standing on the grass in front of Concordia College in Bronxville, and for a good sized bird out in broad daylight, apparently exciting no curiosity or attention of any kind around the campus. This was followed by another sighting earlier this week, this time taking up a post on the sidewalk along Main Street in Tuckahoe, and once again, to the complete disinterest of everybody along the way, in spite of drivers, shoppers, dog walkers, and people running to catch trains on all sides. Theoretically, these could have been 3 different turkey vultures, but since all of these locations share a geographic proximity with Route 22, I’m thinking that it’s just one bird, making itself at home in the neighborhood, and certainly not a bit timid about it, not by any means. In fact, right about now, I’m thinking that I better hope that it doesn’t decide to follow me home, and just join in the rest of the black-hued thundering herd, already getting under my feet at every turn – and it goes without saying, once again thanks oh so very much not indeed. In other seasonal news, we all know that the opening month can’t come and go without our annual congregational meeting at church, notably because we don’t follow The Big Game around in January, ever since they finally moved it to February. It turns out that the great gathering came off without a hitch (not to mention, a distinct lack of name-calling, throwing things, and other evidence of a classic donnybrook from the bad old days) highlighted with a delicious meal, delightful company, and plenty of peace, love, and understanding to go around. Who said Lutherans can’t do anything but fight? Of course, the big news nowadays is the upcoming Super Bowl LII, which has finally been narrowed down to the perennial favorites, the New England Patriots, and the plucky Philadelphia Eagles, in only their third appearance in franchise history. Fans of the warm-weather venues where they generally hold this winter event might be surprised (and here, chagrined might not be too strong a word under the circumstances) to discover the game instead at the US Bank Stadium in frigid Minneapolis, Minnesota, and I think we can all agree that this would be nobody’s idea of a balmy, relaxing treat in the middle of the winter, compared with previous occasions in Miami, New Orleans, or San Diego, I shouldn’t wonder. By contrast, the Pro Bowl will be played on this Sunday during the “bye week” between the end of the playoffs and the Super Bowl, and warmly emanating from sunny Orlando, which sounds like a much better idea, no matter how you serve it, by golly. Margaritas, anyone? And while we’re on the topic of sports, alert readers may recall a recent message of mine that harked back to those halcyon days of yore, with neighborhood pastimes such as kick the can and Ringolevio, concluding with the somewhat incongruous aside that my potsy was still in the wash. Of course, we all know how hard The Research Team here strives to maintain its reputation for pinpoint accuracy (or know the reason why) and so the first question to be answered was about the correct spelling of “potsie” or “potsy.” Obviously, if you read it on the Internet, it must be right, so that was our first stop. Well, well, well! Talk about opening up the proverbial can of worms – this turned out to be more like a giant intergalactic wormhole full of worms, with extra worm sauce on top, and no way around it. Apparently there were two separate and distinct ground games that used a grid and some sort of object that was tossed into a numbered square in order to advance through the playing surface to the end. According to numerous (and often, very irate) sources, one was called Hopscotch, and the other was known as Potsy. Strident voices as diverse as urbandictionary.com, gamesweplayed.com, and grandparents.com weighed in on the subject, often in tense confrontations that belied the regional differences in rules and rituals, based on where they grew up or when. It seems to start out simple enough: “In the game of hopscotch, a player employs an object to throw into each successive chalked box he/she is trying to pass through. That object, his/her token, is a player's potsy.” But it doesn’t take long for the fur to fly, as the serious gamers defend the memories of their sacred traditions: “I grew up in New York in the 1950s and used to play Potsy. I've seen definitions around the web that say the game is the same as Hopscotch. Not in my neighborhood or any other I knew about. Although they were similar and we played both of them, the layout and the rules were different.” “Most of us threw a set of keys, since they didn't bounce much. I recall that, unlike hopscotch, we didn't hop while playing potsy.” “Potsy is an adaptation of Hop Scotch...The "potsy" is a piece of tin, a rock or a puck.” “Your definition of the object thrown into the grid being called a potsy is wrong. Neither was it called a puck. We used a rock. We called it a rock.” “I played potsy in Brooklyn in the ‘50s. We too found that a set of keys worked best since they were heavy and didn’t bounce. We distinguished potsy from hopscotch in that potsy did not involve hopping.” “Potsy is the New York City term for the game of hopscotch (or a variant of this game). As any New Yorker will recognize, the potsy refers to the piece of tin can, doubled and redoubled and stamped flat with the heel, which is kicked from flagstone to flagstone.” “I played potsy in Queens in the 50’s. We used half of a clothespin for the potsy.” “Traditionally, potsy is made from three safety pins clipped together, but one could always substitute a rock or a penny or even a skate key.” “The Potsy was always an old rubber heel that we got from the shoemaker on the corner.” Whew – talk about a tempest in a teapot! When I grew up, we played Hopscotch on the sidewalk, and everyone had their own potsy that was used for throwing – this was usually a bottle cap, often filled with melted wax or old bubblegum to make it easier to maneuver. (I seem to recall that 8-year-old girls had a peculiarly uncanny understanding of the aerodynamics of potsies.) I can’t understand how a rock would be any use for this at all, since unlike a bottle cap which stayed where you tossed it, a rock would be more likely to just go skittering off in any old direction – and those poor 8-year-olds would still be trying to get out of the first box in a game they started in 1962, I dare say. In any case, this is what I would refer to as a textbook example of a cautionary tale, where you go to look up something SO simple, and it turns into a whole kettle of fish with a can of worms on top, and not to mention, shark-infested waters on every side, besides. Say, whatever happened to those margaritas that I asked for? Elle

Sick Bay

Hello World, By golly, who would believe that we’re more than halfway past the middle of January already, I ask you that. Not to speak out of turn, but I actually know people (who shall remain nameless, but admittedly look very familiar) whose Christmas lights, tree, and assorted decorations are still up, and I don’t mind saying, lending a holly jolly air to the month, which would otherwise be sorely lacking. Heaven knows, January already has little enough to recommend it - especially now that they’ve moved the Super Bowl to February – and having a bit of left-over yuletide cheer can’t help but improve the general gloominess, I dare say. On the other hand, I recently discovered that the first month is, in fact, National Soup Month, which seems appropriate in terms of the weather, but certainly doesn’t raise the rafters with fireworks, parades, and parties, that’s for sure. Garcon, more tomato bisque, if you please, and don’t spare the pesto, my good man! Speaking of soup weather, the conditions around here have been so contrary lately that you’re afraid to watch the meteorologists on TV, because whatever they tell you would only make you want to huddle in bed with the covers pulled up over your head, and just stay there for the duration. (“No soup for you!”) It hasn’t been a large amount of snow, so far, but everything else that Old Man Winter can throw at us has been more than enough already, thanks not. A couple of weeks ago, when Winter Storm Grayson was doing his worst with record-breaking snow, freezing cold, and bitter winds, Bill checked the weather in our little corner of the world, as well as on Long Island, and also upstate New York, to see how our far-flung friends and relatives might be faring under the circumstances. While the temperature here was in the frigid single-digits (and don’t think that we didn’t complain, because we did – loud and long – to no avail, I might add) he noticed that upstate in Latham it was an appalling -10, and once again, thanks ever so much not. At that point, it was only about a week before we were planning to take our annual trip to The Great White North for the MLK weekend, and my first thought was to call on our host to prevail upon the local power company and get them to turn up the heat in the region, so that we didn’t drive all the way up there, only to have my poor car die in their driveway from the deadly deep freeze, alas. I won’t say that the Screamin’ Red Demon is trying to convince me that it makes no sense to drive 150 miles north in the dead of winter, but I do keep finding vacation brochures about Florida on the front seat – and which could easily be nothing more than a coincidence, rather than editorial comment, after all. In any event, it turned out that the joke was on us, because just as we were getting ourselves all packed up and ready to depart on our usual post-holiday mini Christmas with our friends around Albany, we suddenly got some very bad news. Apparently in the midst of all of the galloping cruds that are going around nowadays, our friends unfortunately caught the flu (even after dutifully getting their flu shots already) and had to reluctantly cancel our weekend get-together while they were flat on their backs and had generally lost all will to live. This was a low blow indeed, since we’ve been doing this every year for many decades by now, and look forward to it as one of the real highlights for us, not just in the long and dreary winter, but the whole year through. This disappointing obstacle tossed numerous monkey wrenches into many of our plans, including souvenir shopping, belated Christmas stockings for their cats, show-&-tell, classic holiday DVDs, and not to mention, more fun and games than your average elf could shake the proverbial peppermint stick at, by jingle. { sigh } Luckily, we already have plans to meet up in March for a concert (bad weather and good health permitting) so that will have to do for cat stockings, show-&-tell, souvenir shopping, and all of the assorted left-over hoopla that didn't happen in January. "Holiday Inn," anyone? Also on the topic of holiday left-overs, one thing I always looked forward to during the Christmas season was snacking on candy canes while wrapping packages and listening to those timeless seasonal records of yesteryear, with Bing Crosby, Andy Williams, and the Vienna Boys Choir joyfully decking those halls, walking in a winter wonderland, and getting all those partridges in pear trees, for some reason. Alas, times change (and not always for the better, I can tell you that) and nowadays, us old and crotchety wheezers don't exchange voluminous stacks of meticulously wrapped presents like we used to back in the old days (instead, it's "Here's a fancy bag that I bought at the supermarket, that already came with matching tissue paper, a snazzy bow, and a gift card - merry Christmas!") so that beloved ritual from those halcyon days of yore has fallen by the wayside, and more's the pity, I'm sure. But in an effort to bring a little extra yuletide cheer into our lives, Bill had thoughtfully brought home a package of mini candy canes that we could enjoy, to sweeten up our otherwise mundane activities, like vacuuming, paying bills, washing dishes, or cleaning litter boxes. (That last one of which, it can't be emphasized too strongly, can certainly use all the sweetening that's possible, by golly.) Anyway, it brought back to me, in vivid fashion, what always irritated me about candy canes to start with, and that is for whatever inexplicable reason, their impenetrable wrapping that makes it impossible to get into, except for the most stubborn and resourceful challengers to the task. I have no idea why they insist on bundling them up these days, like they’re securing the nuclear launch codes or something, and thwarting the very customers that you think they would want to attract. I already know it's not to protect the integrity of the ingredients, heaven knows, because anyone can tell you, if they've (perhaps inadvertently) left candy canes in an area accessible to household varmints, or a wide array of local wildlife, that absolutely nothing will touch them, and they will simply languish there in perfectly pristine condition indefinitely, without the slightest disturbance, and I ought to know. So it's obvious that they're not really food, and a clamoring public surely doesn't need to be protected from their supposed hazards, like a toxic spill of Agent Orange or a sack of poisonous spiders. Heck, I would think that we all have enough to worry about as it is, with the galloping cruds assaulting us on every side, without adding to that by fretting over whether mini candy canes can make us sick. Personally, I say "Free The Canes!" and wrap up the nuclear launch codes with the fruitcake instead, where it will no doubt remain hermetically sealed in perpetuity, or perhaps even longer. (Oh, hit that easy target!) Elle

Fool Proof

Hello World,     Well, I see that the bright and shiny New Year is certainly charging right along, and no rest for the weary, that's for sure. It seems like 2018 is acting like a harried commuter with a train to catch, and no time to waste, while just dragging all the rest of us along for the ride, ready or not. At least, unlike the frenzied countdown to Christmas, we can take some comfort in knowing that now we're headed in the right direction of longer days and better weather ahead, which is an idea that certainly gets my vote, and I don't mind saying, the sooner the better. Speaking of voting, it reminds me that I was coming home from work last week behind a car with a political sticker in the back window, of the type that generally has the candidate's name and the year of the election, such as [ NADER - 1972 ] only this one said [ ANY COMPETENT ADULT - 2020 ] instead. I thought that was so funny.     And speaking of funny business, it sometimes seems as if an all-out war has been declared on the English language, and you genuinely don't know whether to laugh or cry - and it goes without saying that wailing and gnashing of teeth might not be out of the question either. Our friends at Peoples United Bank sent out brochures to all of their business customers, urging us to sign up for their payroll services, with the inducement that they're "waving the set up fee." (Bye-bye now!) I might have had more confidence in their services if they said "waiving" rather than "waving" in that situation. Meanwhile, in the TV listings for this week, our local newspaper described the Toronto Raptors basketball team as being "on the heals of" the Cleveland Cavaliers (OUCH!) which I am personally whistling down as a technical foul. It makes me wonder if they were stepping on their "tows" as well.     Of course, the AOL Welcome screen has long been recognized as a virtual quagmire of linguistic mishaps, so it was no surprise to see a recent item about stray dogs "scourging" through rubbish for a meal, with the supposition that the word they were so busily scourging for was "scrounging" instead. Then the Real Estate section of our local paper took great pains to describe the historic Knickerbocker-Kilmer House in Dutchess County as having a flat roof "with Victorian brackets supporting the eves." I might have hoped in the Real Estate section, at least they would have appreciated the difference between "eves" and "eaves," but apparently not. They did no better in a concert review of Grace Vanderwaal, where they stated that the singer would often jump or "flair her arms" on stage. I admit that I'm not exactly sure where they were going with that whole idea (although "flail" does spring immediately to mind) but I'm pretty sure it wasn't "flair" in any case. Although a distress flare might not have been such a bad idea, come to think of it.     To be fair, it's not just AOL making an unholy mess of things in social media these days, and not by a long shot. This next irreverent headline comes to us courtesy of the New Rochelle Patch online, although in retrospect, they probably wish it wasn't. [ Former Westchester priest beautified by Vatican. ] The story helpfully included a picture of the saintly personage, and while I would not quarrel with the idea that he could definitely use some beautification, I'm guessing most likely they meant "beatified" instead. And here again, it's true that "beatified" is an arcane and largely unfamiliar term, but heck, if the article that you're doing is about sainthood to begin with, I shouldn't think it would be too much to expect the writer to get the terminology right in the first place, for heaven's sake.     On the political side of things, I noticed a story on Facebook about cities around the region who had decided to "declare themselves save havens." I'm not exactly sure what they're saving in these havens, but I'm not blaming the cities in this instance, since it was probably just an error on the typist's part, dropping "save" where "safe" should have been. That's the only explanation I can come up with for this next untimely notice that Bill received via email for a memorial brick commemoration ceremony: [ Due to the predicted inclement weather, the brick unveiling has been cancelled ] that was sent out a full five days AFTER the ceremony was to have taken place to start with, thanks not. Right now I'm thinking of those poor non-clairvoyant folks without a crystal ball to see into the future when the event was canceled, standing outside in the inclement weather, and wondering what the Sam Hill was a-going on around there with the darned bricks. This is a textbook example of not only saying what you mean, but let's not forget, timing is everything.     And finally, speaking of people not saying what they mean (one hopes!) I couldn't help but notice this arresting post on my Twitter feed, from the pastor of a local Lutheran church that I follow: "I sewed my seed in good soil." Gee, I sure hope not!  I realize that not many people are farmers anymore in these modern times, but anyone who knows anything about the Bible should be aware that they rarely discuss sewing in the Scriptures, compared with "sowing" instead. Alas, I fear that homophones will continue to bedevil us, as long as spell-checkers have no understanding of context, and people persist in using words and phrases that they don't completely understand. Or to paraphrase the immortal plea of the legendary Casey Stengel, "Can't anybody around here speak this language???" Elle

Moon Walk

Hello World,     Well, after all of (what seems like) the interminable build-up to the big occasion, it certainly doesn't take long for Christmas to be in our rear-view mirror, and suddenly Epiphany is upon us, of all things. Stores have been awash with Valentines displays since last week, and supermarkets are pushing anything that can be chewed, chugged, or chomped for the Super Bowl on February 4th. Then Ash Wednesday will be here before we know it on February 14, with Easter following 7 weeks later on April 1st. (On the Eastern Orthodox side of things, that would be April 8th instead.) Of course, merchants don't seem to know what to do with themselves once the retail behemoth of Christmas is out of the picture, so next I'm expecting to see racks crammed with swimsuits, and bins full of beach balls and air mattresses, I shouldn't wonder. Suntan lotion, anyone?     Speaking of the jolly yuletide season, it reminds me of holiday decorations doing their part to make things merry and bright along the highways and byways of the winter wonderland all around us. Driving back and forth to work, I was confronted with a plethora of vehicles sporting reindeer antlers and fuzzy red noses, and I don't mind saying, a welcome cheery sight in the midst of ordinary traffic on all sides. But it was in the parking lot at the Renaissance Hotel that we spotted our one and only traveler direct from Santa's Workshop at the North Pole. Instead of antlers and nose, it was very impishly tricked out with what were obviously elf ears coming out of the windows, and a jaunty elf hat attached to the grille. Too funny!     In other winter news, just about anybody who is just about anywhere felt the impact of Winter Storm Grayson hammering out a dangerous swath of snow, frigid temperatures, and ferocious winds, from the deep south all the way up to Canada, leaving whole states powerless and immobilized in its devastating wake. There were 6 inches of snow in Charleston, South Carolina, with no plows to move it off the streets, or salt to melt the resulting ice from its arctic chill. Around here, the snow wasn't excessively deep, but strong winds blew it into drifts everywhere, and the cold was unbearable. Our drafty old place was no match for Grayson's furious gusts, and our windowsills were coated with snow where it blew in under the storm windows all over the house. We had actual accumulations inside the vestibule of the back door, where a part of the trim had come separated from the porch, making a rather sizable drift across the door mat and up against the wall. I only found this out when I opened the kitchen door, but was quickly joined by a hastily organized expedition of Ernest Shackleton (A/K/A our irrepressible kitty, Mittens) and her hardy band of intrepid explorers (Shadow and Zorro) who pounced on the territory as their own, and needing no further enticements. (Which was just as well, since I couldn't see the Royal Academy of Sciences providing any funding for this particular mission.) These kittens had all been born under our porch in the spring, and trapped over the summer, so they had no experience whatsoever with cold weather or snow, unlike our other strays over the years, who had lived outdoors through the worst of winter, and wanted no part of it ever again. The adventurers seemed to take the cold in their stride, but snow was a strange and unknown quantity, and their feelings about it were all too obvious from the way they shook it off their paws with a mixture of distaste and alarm. After their fill of exploration, they eventually retreated back to their afghan-covered radiators for a snooze. But I still think Ernest Shackleton would have been proud.     Well, you know it's pretty much the middle of January when even Bill and I finally get around to seeing the biggest movie in a vast array of galaxies, which originally opened way back on December 14 - the new Star Wars movie, "The Last Jedi."  Like many of us "of a certain age," I saw the earliest film in this series - then simply known as "Star Wars" in 1977 (now referred to as Episode 4 and called "A New Hope" in the new scheme of the franchise) - and had a pretty good grasp of the narrative between the first three that came out. Things started to get a little shakier by the time the next 3 came along - which were supposed to have taken place BEFORE the first three, thanks not, so that was no help at all. And since then, it's just been an outer space free-for-all that has been impossible to comprehend, even for someone who has actually seen them all. Admittedly, I got thrown off track by a couple of non-official "Star-Wars-type" releases ("Clone Wars" and "Rogue One") along the way, but even still, I thought I was at least in the virtual ballpark, and could hold my own with the droids and wookies. Not so fast!  If nothing else, "The Last Jedi" proved that I am woefully out of touch with the dreaded Empire and rebel forces, and may never catch up at this rate. It was nice to see it in glorious IMAX and 3-D, and it prided itself on having something for first-time viewers and long-term fans alike, but it lost me right at the start, and I never got back on board the whole way through. Having said that, it's still entertaining throughout and never lags - and the special effects are so amazing that we all take them completely for granted nowadays. I see that they're coming out with a new one in 2019, and apparently I'm going to need a refresher course in the whole Jedi mythology before tackling that next one. "Luke - I am your tutor!" Elle