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