I'm Just Being Frank

The Rolodex, a device used for organizing business cards and contact information for those of you who may not be familiar, is well on its way to joining the IBM Selectric typewriter and amber glass ashtrays the size of pie plates among things no longer found in offices. Now I know that there are those of you who will pipe up and tell me that you still have and use your Rolodex. You also probably like to brag about having a landline. Be sure and don’t forget to set your VCR to record “Murder, She Wrote” later this evening.

While I no longer have a Rolodex I do have dozens of business cards I’ve collected over the years that are haphazardly tossed in a small box I keep in my desk. And since I seldom have need for them anymore (you know, iPhone), when I do go looking for one it sends me on a trip down memory lane that is bittersweet as such trips often are.

Some cards can be dated by the fact that they don’t have an email address or a website. I have a couple that don’t even have an area code; IYKYK as they say. I found one from my days at Apple Computer nearly thirty years ago that has my “AppleLink”. I have cards from people who I have no idea who they are or how I came to be in possession of them. One of my favorites is from Karen Kohler and Larry Greenwalt whose specialty is “German Cabaret * French Cansons * American Jazz”. I kinda want to contact Karen and Larry and see if they’re available to perform German Cabaret in my backyard next Friday evening.

I have cards from friends early in their careers. Remember your first business card? It was kind of a big deal. It conferred legitimacy even if your job title was GTE Service Representative. I have cards from businesses that have ceased to exist as well as people who have. I have my father’s business card which I probably found in some of his paperwork after his death. I have one from a childhood neighbor’s son who was an attorney in New York who died of complications from AIDS 30 years ago. I have one from a mother of a long ago friend who I recently found out has Alzheimers. On the back of it she wrote, “Hugs & Kisses, Judi”. Try doing that with a digital business card.

The current reality is that we now have “contacts” that reside in our phone. This is not a bad thing. My inner cranky old man, who really isn’t all that inner anymore, is fine with this. I do not shake my fist at the sky bemoaning the fact that the world has changed and didn’t consult me before doing so though I readily admit it’s a struggle at times. I do my best to embrace the future or in some cases just get up to speed with current trends. I’ve decided I may even try streaming later this year. Hilarity will no doubt ensue when I inadvertently ask Alexa to play a porno while someone’s grandmother is visiting. Stay tuned!

My maternal grandmother, Etta LaPrade

Though I am distinctly childless, and by extension grandchildless, I’ve nonetheless found that having my peers become grandparents gives me a certain sense of place on the timeline of life. Which is really just a flowery way of saying, “Damn, I am old.” Of course I tell myself if I feel that way imagine how they must feel. Also, I don’t anticipate my honorary Uncle Frank to ever have a “Great” appended to it unless it’s in the vein of, “Isn’t it GREAT Uncle Frank showed me how to tie a Windsor knot while smoking a cigarette?” I’m a lock for Uncle Picture-of-Dorian-Gray.

The only grandparent I ever knew was my maternal grandmother, Etta LaPrade, pictured here. She resided in Mt. Pleasant, county seat of Titus County deep in the Piney Woods of east Texas. She had something of an unusual story arc in that she was a young widow with three children who married a widower with three children. And while it’s easy to jump to the conclusion that it sounds just like The Brady Bunch, keep in mind that this was during the Great Depression and Greg, Marcia et al did not pick cotton to put food on the table and Alice only existed to take in people’s laundry. This union also produced two late in life children, my mother and my uncle.

Both of my grandfathers passed away before I was born and sadly I don’t know much about either of them. And I met my paternal grandmother only once, when I was an infant. My father’s family was devoutly Catholic and at some point, I’m not sure when, he turned in his St. Christopher’s medal. He married my mother, a non-Catholic, in a civil ceremony which I’m sure was frowned upon mightily and when I came along I was for all intents and purposes viewed as illegitimate. I kinda wish my dad’s mother had just rolled with it; she could have created some great memories. “Frank, you little bastard! Bring Grandma her purse so she can give you a Werther’s Original!” I only knew about her visit when my mom told me about it when I was in college. She said my aunt in San Antonio brought her from her home in Taylor to Corpus Christi to see me. As far as I know it was the first time for Mom to meet her as well. I have no doubt my mother went to great effort to make sure the house was spotless and that she served a delicious lunch to impress her mother-in-law, but it was all for naught. And of course, being a good buttoned down Protestant my mother never discussed it though it must have been heartbreaking for her. And for my grandmother. My dad had four siblings yet I was the only offspring from the entire lot. She died when I was about 10 or 11 without ever knowing the joy of her only grandchild. And you know I had joy to burn even back then.

But back to Miz Etta as people referred to her or “Granny” as my cousins and I did. I don’t know the date of the above photo, I’m guessing early 60s, but there is a handwritten note on the back that says, “This is the way I looked Easter.” She was obviously pretty proud of her ensemble and by golly she had every right to be. And while I have many fond childhood memories of Granny, she passed when I was in my teens and I didn’t really get to be around her very much due to distance and her failing health. Those of you with grandkids, enjoy! It may not be until long after you’re gone that your impact will be fully realized by your descendants.

Also, who goes by “Granny” these days unless they’re an apple? It’s kind of hard to imagine a child running up to someone standing in the doorway holding a glass of wine dressed in an off-the-shoulder animal print top, capri pants, metallic-toned flip flops and yelling “Granny!!!” unless said child wanted a glass of pinot dumped on their head. This has no doubt spawned the current proliferation of nicknames for grandmothers that extends well beyond the tried and true “Grandma” and “Granny”. Some of them have even given me an idea for an ongoing series entitled, “Grandmother Nickname or Stripper Name?” Of course, being Uncle Picture-of-Dorian-Gray I’m here for it. Let’s meet soon for Pilates, day drinking and a trip to Forever 61, Cheeky!

August 2005. His collar and tag phase was short-lived.

Today marks the 18th anniversary of Spencer’s “Gotcha Day” and also his 20th birthday (observed). Thinking back to August of 2005 when I picked him up from the Town Lake Animal Shelter, he was a frisky two year old and I was in my still sorta frisky late forties.  Fast forward to today and I’m set to begin receiving Social Security benefits in a few weeks.  Spencer would have already been drawing his long before now if he was eligible which brings me to a couple of fun feline facts:

Cats are aged in human years differently from dogs.  Instead of the standard one dog year to seven human years (which varies by breed), all cats are considered pretty much the same and are aged on a sliding scale with 15 years for the first year of life, 10 years for the second year and after that, 4 years for every cat year. Using those guidelines Spencer is approximately 97 years old in human years.  Also, he’s not a senior cat, he is a geriatric one. Cats between the ages of 11-14 years are considered senior; 15 years and older and they are classified as geriatric.  Spencer says, “Grow old or go home!”

2023 has not been easy. On more than one occasion since the beginning of the year I was prepared to call the vet to come to the house and read him the last rites. However, every time I have tried to write his obituary he’d look at me like that character in Monty Python and the Holy Grail as if to say, “I’m not dead yet.”

He was always remarkably healthy until about four years ago when the results from his annual wellness exam showed the early stages of kidney disease.  That required a change in diet and subsequently a change in routine.  Gone were the carefree days of filling up his bowl with the same kibble every morning and letting him graze throughout the day.   The new regimen required opening cans of prescription wet food on demand and mixing them with various toppers to make it more palatable. Sometimes that worked, sometimes it didn’t.  And water, lots of water, from whatever source that would prompt him to take a drink; a fountain bowl, a Pyrex pie plate, a rocks glass, the bathroom sink, the toilet and my favorite, the garden hose with a sprayer attached to it that he discovered one day while I was watering.  During that phase he would get up in the morning while it was still dark, ask to go outside, then walk straight to the faucet and wait for me to turn it on while holding a flashlight.  This was before I even had my morning coffee. He has always had me well-trained.

August 2023. Cool cat 0n a 108 degree day.

His health was stable until the beginning of this year.  On New Year’s weekend he became lethargic and stopped eating altogether.  A trip to the animal hospital the following Monday confirmed that he was in late-stage renal failure.  The vet pumped him full of fluids, vitamins, antibiotics and steroids and it propped him back up for a while.  He had another sinking spell in May and received the same regimen of treatment with mostly the same results and then another episode in July with more limited treatment but fairly good results.  The intervals between treatments are becoming shorter and the effective options fewer.  I know this cycle can continue for only so much longer.

Amazingly, I have never been faced with an end-of-life decision regarding a beloved animal companion.  The only other cat I’ve had as an adult, Mr. Kitty, did the ultimate Irish exit. He died in his sleep on the living room sofa in the middle of the night. When I found him the next morning I touched his lifeless body and mumbled, “Thank you.”  While I mourned his passing, I was grateful to be spared the additional heartache.  I don’t expect to be that fortunate this time.

And when will that be?  I’ve heard/read that they’ll let you know.  Given that Spencer has never been hesitant or vague in letting me know what he wants be it breakfast, treats or a lap to curl up in, I can only hope that he will show the same resolve with his final request.  But until that time comes I will treat each day as a gift filled with gratitude and tempered with reality.  Happy Birthday from one old guy to another, my fine feline friend.

Today’s Boomer Moment is brought to you by the Texas Lottery.  Actually, it’s not so much about being a Boomer as it is being clueless.   I suppose it’s one of life’s great ironies that I say, “I feel like I won the lottery!” on a fairly regular basis; like if I wake up in the morning, when in fact I haven’t bought a lottery ticket in years. Back in the day when I was drinking and smoking I can assure that a lottery ticket was the third leg of the 7-11 vice trinity along with beer and cigarettes.  

I decided I wanted to buy lottery tickets for stocking stuffers this year so when I was at H-E-B this morning doing my weekly grocery shopping I was going to get $20 in cash because I thought lottery tickets might be a cash only type purchase (really) .  I then planned to stop at the neighborhood Quickie Mart on the way home to make my purchase because that’s where one buys lottery tickets, right?  Just as I completed my  transaction I realized I had failed to request cash back and lamented the fact to my cashier.  I then asked her if they sold lottery tickets at the customer service desk.  She cheerily informed me that she could sell them to me.  “Just like postage stamps,” I thought to myself (admittedly that is kinda Boomer).  She said she had MegaMillions and PowerBall and they were $2 each.  “Great!” I said, “Give me five of each,”  expecting her to pull them out from under her cash drawer in the same place she kept the postage stamps. This is where things went awry.

I’m not well-versed in lottery lingo and used the term “tickets” when what I should have said was “scratch offs”.  So you can imagine my confusion when she handed me two grocery store receipts each with five lines of five numbers on them.  When I told her that’s not what I wanted SHE looked confused (note: Millennial Moments are often triggered by Boomer Moments and vice versa). By this point the line of people behind me waiting to check out at her register had grown considerably and I began to feel like the Nana who waits until her purchase is rung up in its entirety to start digging around in her purse for her checkbook and start the process of actually writing the check.  Bonus points if she has to dive back in when they ask to see her driver’s license because who knew that was coming, right?

Having endured all the sighs and withering stares I could handle I went to the customer service desk and what should I encounter front and center but a display of colorful Texas Lottery SCRATCH OFFS.  I told the woman behind the counter my dilemma and while she was sympathetic she told me they had a strict no returns policy on lottery tickets (actually I knew that; I’m not THAT Boomer). I then purchased $20 worth of scratch off cards. As a side note, I didn’t realize there are $30 scratch off cards. THIRTY DOLLARS. Who are these people who have $30 to spend on a potentially, and likely worthless, piece of paper? Answer, the same people who worshipped the same trinity that I used to but instead of buying Pampers they’re feeling lucky.

So now I have $20 worth of lottery tickets that I had not planned on purchasing.  In my mind this is the perfect setup for a Hallmark Christmas movie.  Just wait until the children at the orphanage find out about my good fortune.

Hardly a week goes by that I’m not stopped by a stranger and asked a question while on my walk through the St. Edward’s University campus. People have asked me if I would take a photo with their phone of them standing in front of the main building or from the hilltop with the city skyline behind them. I’ve been asked for recommendations for nearby restaurants and coffee shops. The most frequent request is from people in their vehicles who roll down the window and ask if I know where a certain building or athletic field is. And while I never attended St. Ed’s I’m pretty knowledgeable about the campus. I once had someone ask me if I knew where the Our Lady of Lourdes Grotto was. Not only did I know, but I also provided helpful tips on nearby parking and felt positively catholic for it. Perhaps one of my favorite exchanges was one evening with a middle aged couple from out-of-state. The husband rolled down his window and inquired if there was a good place on campus to watch the sunset. His wife then mentioned something about The Oasis and I had to explain to them there wasn’t really any place close by that was going to offer that kind of sunset viewing experience. They thanked me and then the husband said, “Can I ask you something else? Why do all the men in Austin have beards?” I deadpanned, “Because razors are illegal within the Austin city limits.” He turned to his wife and said, “See? I told you.” I hope they found their sunset.

But today I may have been asked the best random question ever. I was walking along the main street into campus from South Congress Avenue when I heard one of those little Kubota utility vehicles coming up behind me. They are always buzzing around everywhere on campus and I usually don’t pay them much mind. I was aware, however, that it was slowing down as it drew closer until finally it was right beside me. I turned my head and an older gentleman (older than me as I was soon to find out) wearing a shirt with St. Edwards Maintenance emblazoned on it yelled “HEY!” over the drone of the 15 hp engine. Being the friendly sort I returned the “HEY!” He then shouted, “HAVE YOU HAD A STROKE?” In the split second that I thought to myself that this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship and before I could answer, he told me he had had a stroke and that it had caused him to limp. He then cut the motor, jumped out of his little vehicle, and proceeded to demonstrate in the middle of the road what he looked like dragging his leg behind him. Friends, I’m here to tell you, it only got better after that.

In the course of about 3 minutes my newfound friend told me that, unawares to him at the time, he had suffered several strokes. To help explain this behavior he added, “I was doing a lot of drugs at the time.” I thought about mentioning that I had smoked a pretty big bowl before leaving the house so maybe I AM having a stroke, but figured that would take the conversation in another direction that I wasn’t prepared to deal with, not that I was really prepared to deal with the one at hand. He told me he was 67 years old. He told me that one time his entire body went numb when he was with his son and he rushed him to the hospital. About this time a large delivery truck pulled up to where we were standing. The driver stopped and asked the whereabouts of the building his delivery was to go to. I deferred to my newfound friend and while I sensed we were on the cusp of setting up our first coffee date to discuss the results of our most recent prostate exams, I took the opportunity to bid him farewell and continue on my walk.

Alas, the one thing he did not tell me was his name. It really doesn’t matter since even if I do find out what it is I will always and forever refer to him as my stroke buddy. I’ll show myself out now…

Some of you may recall this photo I took of Spencer and me on my birthday in March of 2020.  COVID had just blown up big time with the Austin stay-at-home order issued four days prior.  The day before I had stood in line at the grocery store, everyone’s crash course in social distancing, to stock up on provisions and while there spied a lone package of H-E-B cupcakes and thus the inspiration for how I was going to mark this memorable birthday came to me.

However, a photo just wasn’t enough; I wanted MORE.   Enter my lovely and talented friend, Leslie Bonnell.  Leslie is one of the most creative people I know.  For years she owned a wonderful little shop on South First St. called Stitch Lab where she taught sewing classes as well as offered unique fabrics and notions for sale.  If you had a vision, Leslie could help you realize it.  And she did, and still does, for legions of Austinites.  While I once had a vision for a caftan, which I regret not acting on because let’s face it, the idea of walking around in this 100 degree plus heat and catching a breeze between your knees sounds pretty good, Leslie was able to help me realize this one:  

I love everything about this.  She captured the looks on our faces, which pretty much summed up our take on the then current state of affairs, perfectly.  The detail is exquisite and the background she chose is spot-on in scale and color palette and the MCM motif is perfection.  Look closer and you’ll notice that the round designs resemble the popular depiction of the coronavirus; brilliant! 

The software that she used to create this digital masterpiece is called Procreate which is designed to be used on an iPad. And while it’s a pretty amazing piece of kit, it takes someone who knows how to tap into its full capability to create a piece of artwork like this.  For the record, I tried using it and created the digital equivalent of a sixth grader’s art that gets taped to the refrigerator.

I’ve said before that I want every piece of artwork in my home to have a backstory associated with it; where it came from, who created it, what it means to me, and this one has several.  It depicts a point in time that seemed like it was going to last an eternity but is now only a memory, replaced by more pressing crises that command our attention.  It immortalizes a beloved companion who is not going to live forever, a fact that becomes a little more evident with each passing day.  And it was created by someone whose friendship I treasure and makes me think, how did I ever have the good fortune to have this person in my life?

After I’m gone and the contents of my home have been scattered to parts unknown someone browsing a St. Vincent de Paul thrift store will see this and pay a princely sum to have it hanging in their home and give it a story of their own.  Who knows?  Perhaps Spencer and I will become an internet meme or whatever they’ll be calling them then.

One of the trends that’s been discussed ad nauseam on home & lifestyle websites and blogs is how the pandemic has influenced home improvement. Since folks are spending more time at home it stands to reason that they want to make their living space as comfortable and enjoyable as possible. This could be anything from applying a fresh coat of paint to the walls to putting in a swimming pool. And let me just acknowledge right here that having a discussion about a health crisis that has exacted an immense human toll and also makes people contemplate a pool while others are wondering how they’re going to make their next mortgage payment comes from a place of privilege. We would all do well to remember that even if we’re spending $12 on a kiddie pool at Walmart.

I made the decision when I moved here that the walls will now and forever be white so no painting for me. I went through about as many different interior and exterior paint colors at the old place as I did cocktail preferences. In fact they often coincided with one another with my taste for Manhattans no doubt contributing to some questionable hues being slapped up on the walls. Pro tip: Never look at the Sherwin Williams color wheel when you’re drunk. And as swimming pools go, I have a yard the size of a postage stamp so the only type of pool I’ll be considering is the aforementioned kiddie pool. Should I decide to go that route I’ll be sure and post photos of me in it.

One thing I do have plenty of, however, are walls. 10 ft. ceilings throughout and all that whiteness calls for art and I have heeded that call, bigly. I really didn’t have much in the way of original artwork at the other house, and while I did finally part ways with that Jazzfest poster I bought 35 years ago, most of what hung at Gallery on Four Oaks were prints that I had bought either online or at places like Deck the Walls (RIP).

The tour of Cuba that I took with CAMIBAart Gallery a couple of years ago really opened my eyes to the importance of not only art, but the artists who create it. Visiting galleries and studios, meeting the artists and listening to them discuss their work, gave me a whole new appreciation for what I choose to surround myself with. In other words, life is too short to have a Thomas Kinkade landscape hanging over your sofa.

I decided after that that I would fill my home with nothing but original art. There are of course exceptions. I have some sentimental pieces from my childhood home as well as few that were gifts, but by and large most of what I have hanging in my house now was CREATED. Thankfully there are numerous outlets for purchasing original artwork, the most obvious being galleries. Austin is blessed with many fine galleries from the venerable Wally Workman Gallery to the avant garde CAMIBAart to newcomers like Commerce Gallery located in Lockhart (BBQ and art; does it get any better than that?) In the last year I’ve purchased pieces from all three and in the process brought joy and beauty into my home and supported Austin and Texas artists; art begets more art. And while galleries are the traditional avenue for being exposed to an artist and his or her work, the internet is one giant art gallery waiting to be viewed. I encourage you to do so.

And lastly there’s the personal connection; working directly with an artist to create something that speaks to both you and them. Such is the case with my most recent addition. I had the pleasure of meeting Sarah Greene Reed at a party last year and we immediately hit it off. She has a background working in art galleries and is an accomplished artist herself http://sarahgreenereed.com/. As most of you who follow me know, I was pretty excited about my Meyer lemon tree this past year and posted photos of lemons like I had just given birth to them. And like a proud parent who feels that an Olan Mills portrait just isn’t enough, I decided I wanted them immortalized in pastels for me to gaze upon lovingly. Sarah has a strong background in painting and drawing florals, so while fruit was something of a logical extension of that, it was also a newfound challenge that she relished. And I relish the results. As Rod Stewart sang(sorta) nearly 50 years ago, “Every picture tells a story” and this one tells several; about me, about Sarah, about a very specific point in time, about lemons and lemonade. Its reach extends well beyond its frame.

And speaking of the frame, this one has a story of its own as well. It originally hung in my aunt’s house in San Antonio. And if you had to guess the subject matter for a sofa painting in the home of an elderly woman from Central Texas and guessed “bluebonnet landscape” you would be correct. I’m not sure why I was drawn to it; It’s an inexpensive composite frame that’s not my style at all, but yet I looked past the bluebonnets and in a Tim Gunn moment said, “Make it work!” And here 30 years later I have. I play the long frame game.

I follow several artists on Instagram, some of whose work I own. One of them recently posted a video of them destroying one of their paintings with a utility knife and the comment, “sometimes they don’t work out.” Lest you think I’m going to clutch my pearls over that, and some commenters were appalled, I’m not. Some of you know that I took art classes and drew and painted throughout my childhood until I was a young adult. The last thing I painted, except the town, was in 1977. And then I stopped. For the record, the last time I painted the town was in 2003. My mother kept every canvas I painted. She hung a few on the walls of our home and the rest were consigned to being kept in the closet in my old bedroom that I would see every time I would come to visit. She asked me one time what I would do with them if I had them and I replied, “Burn them.” That was not the answer she was looking for and so she kept them until her passing. I held onto them for a little longer and then when I moved I put them in the estate sale. Surprisingly people bought some of them. Should I decide one day to pick up the brush again and become a well-known artist, those people will have invested wisely. And while I by no means consider myself an artist, I can appreciate the mindset. If you can create something you can also choose to make it cease to exist, popular opinion, or your mother’s, be damned.

Here is a piece I recently purchased by Cuban artist Daniel Rodríguez Collazo. I visited Daniel’s studio when I was in Cuba though I acquired this through CAMIBAart Gallery here in Austin. The black and white contrast and the details are stunning, but that’s not even the half of it. This isn’t a painting per se, but a piece of drywall that has been painted solid black and the artist has then gone and cut out the images to reveal the gypsum. Knowing how the work is created is part of its story as much as the subject matter (interestingly, it’s untitled.)

I don’t know if Daniel decided to paint on drywall out of choice or necessity, but I feel fairly certain that if he was painting a canvas and didn’t like the results he wouldn’t destroy it, but rather just paint over it. Things in Cuba are bleak. The punitive actions by our government in the last four years have by all reports made life even more difficult for Cuban citizens as if it wasn’t challenging enough before that. And just yesterday the Treasury Department announced new sanctions due to allegations of “serious human rights abuse,” the latest in a string of hard-line actions aimed at Cuba in the final days of the current administration. Here’s hoping for brighter days ahead for artists like Daniel and all the people of Cuba. And if I should ever have the good fortune to visit again upon return when I’m asked if I have anything to declare I will tell the customs agent, “Privilege.”

Yesterday, without any sort of trigger, I thought about Mrs. Helie.  She was the mother of Ginny Cobb who along with her husband Ralph and their two daughters Cynthia and Marcia and their cocker spaniel, Taffy (seriously, how do I remember this stuff?) lived next door to us when I was a child.  Mrs. Helie moved from Florida to be closer to her family and to that end built a garage apartment in their backyard to live in.  She was a lovely lady with perfectly coiffed blue gray hair that was the fashion among older women of the day.  She had dimples that would come to life when she smiled, which was often, and her eyes always had a twinkle about them. She wore colorful paste earrings, drove a prosthetic beige 1959 Rambler with front seats that folded all the way back to make a bed, played the piano and had the sheet music for “Around the World in 80 Days” which she taught me to sing.  She was like Auntie Mame Lite so it’s not too surprising that I was drawn to her.

Another thing that brought us together was church.  Religious  indoctrination was kind of an expectation for children back then, and still is for some folks I suppose, and given that my father was a lapsed Catholic and my mother had a pretty big gap in her religious resume it was determined that I would attend First Presbyterian Church though there was no Presbyterianism in my family tree.   As it turned out, Mrs Helie was Presbyterian also and so we attended church together.  She sang in the choir and I think may have taught Sunday school for a brief time.

Actually, everything about Mrs. Helie lasted all too briefly.  She had only lived next door for a couple of years when she was diagnosed with cancer and passed away shortly thereafter.  I was too young to understand what it all meant, but was saddened that I was no longer able to go over to her apartment after school and have her accompany me on the piano while I belted out show tunes.

This morning I was rearranging the books on the shelves and glanced at the “tiny book” section.  Again with no trigger, I picked up a 3″x 5″ copy of the Illustrated New Testament that I have had since I was a child. 

I opened it and found this inscription:

I have no recollection of her giving it to me.  And she would have had no idea that exactly 57 years later she would reach out and fill me with such warm and wonderful memories of her.  Not all gifts are fully appreciated at the time they’re given and I have no doubt my reaction to being given a small copy of the Illustrated New Testament for Christmas in 1964 wasn’t nearly as animated as my reaction to the new Hot Wheels track I received that year.  So, a very belated and heartfelt thank you, Mrs. Helie. 

Around the world I’ve searched for you
I traveled on when hope was gone to keep a rendezvous
I knew somewhere, sometime, somehow
You’d look at me and I would see that smile you’re smiling now

When I was preparing to move 4 years ago I opened the hallway closet containing most of my holiday decor and channeling my inner FLOTUS, said to myself, “You know, who gives a f*** about the Christmas stuff and decorations?” And so the ornaments got left behind and are now hopefully hanging on a tree in a house full of children, perhaps one with a precocious little boy who is inspecting them closely and sniffing, “Well, they’re not Christopher Radko,” before turning smartly on his Coach trainers to go to the kitchen and check up on the holiday baking activities (“You call these sand tarts?”)

I did take two Yuletide items with me when I moved. One is the stocking that I’ve written about before. The other is this little tinsel tree that was purchased by my mother before I was born. Longtime Corpus Christians may remember there was an exquisite little gift shop in The Village called Jean-Marie. Before that they were in the building across Doddridge St. (next to Chung Mei) where this came from. Every holiday season they would have a tree right in the middle of the store with the most beautiful one-of-kind ornaments for purchase. Many of the ornaments we had on our trees growing up came from there. But back to the little tinsel tree; I often wonder what possessed my mother to buy it. If I had to guess she probably bought it on December 26th. Julia appreciated nice things, but she appreciated a bargain even more.

And so now this shiny little tree standing no more than 10″ tall is all I need to conjure up over 60 years of Christmas memories and that to me is the very definition of a keepsake. And the practical side of me appreciates the fact that it takes all of 10 minutes to put it up and, more importantly, just as long to take it down.

And for those of you decorating a tree with a topper that scrapes the ceiling, I applaud your vision and determination and would love nothing more than to be invited over (masked and socially distanced of course) to admire it over a cup of eggnog. And if there aren’t any Christopher Radko ornaments on it I’ll just keep that observation to myself though I will critique your sand tarts.