December 30, 2016 · 11:14 pm

All we are is dust on the light fixture

By Sandra Snyder on 12/30/16

This one’s going out to my dear friend Wes, for years my mysterious pen/keyboard pal but now even better than that because we’ve actually had the chance to meet in person, at least three times to my recollection. dust

I’ll admit part of me never really wanted to meet Wes, and I hope he doesn’t take that personally, but here was the thing: Any sort of mystery will always have a certain allure because mystery tends to feed the part of the brain that controls imagination. And I’ve always been and always will be a much bigger fan of that part than the part that controls, you know, reason and logic and all that silly stuff.

I first met Wes when he popped into my inbox at work one day a million years ago with something nice to say about something I’d written. Wish memory would serve up what exactly that was, but no matter. His message was short and sweet and his grammar and sentence structure beyond reproach, which impressed me. I wrote back — and not in an offhand hurry. Then he wrote back. Then I wrote back again (because what he’d written back required it). Then we just kept up all this writing back, usually on Mondays, and for weeks turned years. I’d write a column that appeared in Saturday’s paper, and by the time I arrived at work Monday there was often a message or a triggered memory from Wes. (Phones had no email then, if you can even fathom.)

So, yes, Wes and I pretty much got along quickly and famously, though we initially knew little more about each other than that I liked to write and he liked to read. That he liked to read what I liked to write made him one of my favorite people ever. As our e-chats branched out in various directions, I got to know him better and started to imagine things about the living, breathing Wes incarnate, such as hair color, eye color, stature, style. (If there was such thing as Google images at the time, it wasn’t very good at its job.)

Then one day, I got a call in the newsroom from the first-floor receptionist asking if I was available to come downstairs because a “Wes” was there to see me. A who!? A what!? Wes? That Wes? Well, this was unexpected. But, sure, I’ll come down. I think I had a pretty good sense at this point that Wes was anything but crazy. If he had chosen now to confirm that suspicion, then now was as good a time as any.

So down I went. Turns out Wes was fabulous. Even better than I’d imagined. Dignified and refined, for sure, but also humble and unassuming, deferential yet charming. He did not want to take up my time, he said, and he hoped I would forgive him the intrusion, but he was in town (from Florida, where he lives) for what I think was a funeral. And he happened to notice the newspaper building and thought he’d stop in and give it a shot.

So glad he did. We were both surprised in a grand way. Mystery gone? Maybe. But mystery was far outweighed by the whole value of that face-to-a-name business. So maybe he already technically at least had my face because every column has one accompanying it, but sometimes photographs lie. Apparently mine did a little. For some reason I clearly remember Wes telling me I was younger than he’d imagined. (Remember, this was a million years ago.) I thought it might be because I wasn’t wearing any makeup that day but decided not to mention that and just took his words as a compliment. (Then I took a mental note to get that column photo, which I’d never liked anyway, reshot.)

Our conversation that day lasted maybe two minutes tops, but, as you might guess, the e-mails continued into infinity, and with each passing year I became even more enriched by what I was learning from Wes, a learned man who I learned liked good books, good food, good wine, museums, history, culture, world travel, you name it. More like you name it, we talked about it. He also liked language. A lot. We quite often discussed the nuances of words and sentences. He shared his peeves, and I shared mine. One of his was “so fun,” as in “that was so fun; we ought to do it again.” He found the grammar at play distasteful, and I think of him every time I hear someone say that now. Not too long ago, he called to my attention that “happy belated birthday” also troubled his ears, because, after all, it’s the greeting that’s belated, not the birthday. So if you’re late with a wish, you really should say, “Belated happy birthday.”

He’s right. Wes is right about a lot of things.

And I came to appreciate ever more deeply that linguistic ear. We could go on for hours about redundancies (“revert back,” “the reason why is because,” “advance planning/warning,” “ATM machine,” “biography of one’s life,” “end result,” “frozen tundra,” “filled to capacity,” etc.) Yes, people, if you’re imagining we two would be a real hoot at parties,  you might be right. But did I mention we both like wine? So, please, still invite us! We know when to shut up and sip, honestly.

We also talked about our families, our friends, and I felt as if I really was getting to know his — his children, his first wife (God rest her soul), who knitted me a blanket one Christmas. Seemed he was able to connect lots of things I’d written over the years to something someone in his family had experienced, and him telling  me so became one of the best parts of my job. That’s testament to the incredibly connective power of words, even between two human beings who barely knew each other, in the strictest sense anyway.

Eventually, I had the pleasure of meeting Wes in person again. And then again, most recently accompanied by his beautiful and gracious new wife, who now tells me it’s my turn to travel to Florida, which, of course, is not a bad proposition.

I’m still learning new things today. Wes is a bit of a philanthropist, for one thing, and an unhesitating one at that. I know this because he has generously supported the charity for which I now work, and he was one of my most benevolent givers when I told him I needed to raise $1,000 for charity for the “privilege” of jumping — I’m sorry, rappelling — off a 14-story building this summer. He was one of the first to give — and the last. Yes, he gave twice.

Wes, you see, is quite simply the kind of man who will always give twice. Or three or 30 or seven or seventy times seven times. And not just of his money but of his entire person. He’s the kind of man who will pour himself out until empty, but he must be signed up for auto-refill because I have yet to see evidence of him empty.

Anyway, I know this is hard to believe, but when I started this missive, I intended to write a *brief* introduction of Wes, then share an old column in which one of his stories starred. But if ever there were a case where someone deserves more, here it is. That’s my excuse for all these words, anyway, and I’m sticking to it. Without further ado …

***

GOT DIRT? NOW YOU SEE IT, BUT MAYBE YOU DON’T.

Published Saturday, November 15, 2003. (When I looked so young! Thanks, Wes!)

AMONG LIFE’S LITTLE delights is when someone reads your words and drops you a line, something besides, “You idiot.”

Sometimes the message is so delightful it cries out for sharing. Too much cleaning is getting the best of me, I wrote. Which prompted area native and now Florida resident Wes Eustice, his “memory bank a spinning,” to e-mail an amen.

“My wife was, and still is, what I call a comfortable housekeeper,” he typed. “While not sanitized, our home was always clean and very comfortable. Her philosophy is, ‘If I can’t see it, it doesn’t require dusting.’

“Many, many years ago, when our children had not yet reached the age of 10, we had a kitchen light that was on a retractable cord. Sitting around the table one day, I looked up and saw dust on the edge of the dome. I pulled it down, and there, scrawled in previous dust was ‘Hi Mom 6/5/67.’

“Now this was at least a year later,” he continued. “My wife exclaimed, ‘Oh my God!’ Our daughter Ruth ran out of the house yelling, ‘I have to tell all the kids you found it!’

“Truth. Honest,” Wes assured.

But he needed not convince me.

In wine there is truth, and in dirt there is humor, though you might have to look closely for it.

Wink-nudge, Mrs. Eustice.

Dirty blinds vs. Peeping Toms

These days, dirty mini blinds are enemy No. 1. When I moved into my current residence, a set of blinds for each window topped my shopping list. I didn’t find them particularly attractive and much preferred the look of the pretty, paned windows they unfortunately obscured. Still, they were, at least then, the fashionable choice.

Six months or so later, with dust beginning to crust and fester on top of every slat, they disgusted me at every glance. They resisted my all-natural feather duster and my cleaner-soaked rags, and I’d swear I heard them cackle when I trotted out my new — and positively useless — handheld blind-cleaning tool.

Well, I showed them. Found the perfect way to “clean” ’em: Toss ’em in the Dumpster, never look back.

But my valances and balloon treatments now too spare, privacy — and how much was really necessary — was the point to ponder as I shopped for substitutes.

The newer, scalloped-edge fabric shades enticed, as did the bamboo-stick and rice-paper varieties. Budget-conscious, I settled for basic thermal panels, some patterned window film and even two “windows-in-a-bag,” one-piece panels and valance plus bonus tiebacks, which I only wish I could use.

Who cares? a friend asked. If they want to look in, let ’em. Be free.

I remain reluctant.

Wonder if those people realize they’re on display, my sister noted as we recently walked by a blind-free unit in an apartment complex, where, apparently, privacy was of far less concern.

Perhaps it’s the type of people we are, I think. Yet it seems more and more I’m walking or driving by homes with decidedly dressed-down windows, letting not only the sun shine in but the world see in.

What’s it all mean? Are we more proud of our home interiors? Less ashamed of our messes?

I’d love to hear your theories. And your window stories — whether you’ve come up with a most creative way to showcase them or scrawled an apologetic surrender in the dust.

###

Fast-forward almost 14 years to almost-2017. I still despise mini-blinds for how dusty they get. And I can’t believe I ever thought window film was a worthy product.

And, funny thing, but I’m also STILL wondering about curtains or lack thereof. In fact, I just commissioned two replacement windows in my kitchen and left them bare, on purpose, liking the look AND all the light. Then one day my dear mother stopped over with something while I was at work. Let’s just say she didn’t like the look. Or all the light, which she called absolutely blinding. So she called me to say so, to ask whose idea this was and let me know it wasn’t a good one. Plus, she said, all the light shows all the dust!

Well now. I grumbled and groused. I told her it was MY idea. And I didn’t have time to debate it now. But thanks for calling and catch you later, good woman who gave me life.

Stewed all the way home I did. She just wasn’t up to date with the styles, said I to myself. It’s a generational thing. The curtainless windows were staying, and she’ll just not have to come by during the brightest 20 minutes of the day, gosh darn it then!

But yeah, no.

Then when I got home, I got on target.com and ordered curtains, sheers, to be more precise. With fun little cherry trees that look a bit like Christmas trees all over them. I tied one side back with burlap ribbon and let the other hang free. There, Mom, see how stubborn I am?  I texted her a picture. Made her so proud.

It’s a nice look, if I’m honest, a finished look. Helps me make my peace with the already dusty brand-new windows, too. Maybe I’ll go ahead and scroll a message to a visiting mom behind those cute curtains and see how long it takes her to spot it.

#Sucharebel

~ SJS (AMDG)

“Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world, whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.” ~ Lord Byron

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Wonder if Grandpa ever got his lap robe

 

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By Sandra Snyder on December 29, 2016

All righty then. No time like the present to start resurrecting the past as previously announced. In the entry that appeared just before this one, I vowed there WOULD be a future for this blog, even if it meant relying more on that old reliable past. No time like Christmastime for memories anyway.

Randomly opened the dusty, dated “portfolio” to the middle and looked for something that said December anyway. This column, by yours truly, appeared in newsprint on Dec. 18, 2004, to be precise. Not sure what I think of it now. It’s OK, I guess. Not great, not particularly terrible. (Be nice if you disagree with the latter and decide to tell me so.)

And, hey, anyone even remember Kaufmann’s? Apparently I liked to eavesdrop there.

###

YOU SIMPLY CAN’T BEAT people-watching at the mall during the most wonderful time of the year. With apologies to the innocent victims:

The clock shows nearly 11 p.m. on a Sunday during one of those “night sales” at Kaufmann’s. I’m idling at the jewelry counters when what to my tired eyes should appear but a papa bear, mama bear and amazingly alert baby bear. kauf-2

Howdy, strangers, on the grand, if grueling, journey to Christmas.

Mama stops at a necklace turntable and fingers something sparkly. Papa sighs, then complains loudly. “Why do you always have to buy THIS crap?”

OK, so these aren’t exactly our three idyllic bears of yore.

Mama’s defense is swift and sure: “Do YOU have a better idea?”

A silenced papa joins the search, even commenting on a few items. I particularly loved, “If I were a woman, I would wear THIS.” Mama barely gives up a sideways glance, however.

Meanwhile, sweet, patient Baby Bear has his own fun underfoot, imagining perhaps that his opinion is of utmost importance in this whole process.

“Look at this one, and this one, and, oh, this one! Mommy, see!”

Lovable little thing complains not a word when he gets zero attention.

In a flash they are gone, but versions of them turn up everywhere.

Says a wife to her husband at Bed, Bath & Beyond, “I’d still really like to find your father a nice, wool lap robe.”

His face is blank, confused.

“A what?”

He merely shrugs as she leads him, dutiful, away.

Are the holidays the one time of year when the menfolk, hunters and gatherers though they be, lose all desire for acquisition?

With six shopping days left, a frenzied, burdened mind is about to conclude there must be a better way. Strictly online and catalog shoppers often sanctimoniously proclaim they’ve found it. But are they not in on the joke that is shipping and “handling?”

“This gift-giving is a farce anyway,” one close to me recently declared. “What if we just canceled it?”

Well, a recent New York magazine street survey did find a vast majority opposing this concept on principle.

Maybe a little innovation is in order? One mail-order catalog peddles gifts for our brethren in the developing world and reminds us we can give “in honor of” anyone on our shopping list. I briefly considered ordering up a $75 goat for a family of three in an impoverished village, but my scam radar didn’t provide a clear enough read.

Then this pitch arrived: What better gift for one with close ties to the Emerald Isle than an actual piece of Ireland? That’s one square foot, to be precise, for the wee sum of $49.99. Buyireland.com hawks the plots, in County Rosecommon, and tosses in a gold-foiled deed suitable for framing.

Thoughts turned quickly to an old friend who dreamed of someday building a log home. “Even if I have to place one log per year for life,” she joked.

The memory suddenly made this laughable “Buy Ireland” idea seem a little less ludicrous.

It’s conceptual, if you will.

Sometimes we do need to lay our stakes piece by excruciating piece, one brick, log or square foot at a time.

Don’t have everything your heart desires this holiday season, be it that exquisite cashmere hat or, more substantially, the ideal place to hang it?

Remember, neither Rome nor a home was a built in a day. Patience and steadfast faith just might be the two best gifts you can give yourself in the meantime.

###

The end. Dirty 30.

Flash forward, Christmastime 2016. Let us pause to reflect, shall we? Kaufmann’s is long gone, of course, having eventually made way for Macy’s, which some say is on life support as well. Who’d have imagined?

That little boy (he of the sweet, sweet, “Mommy, see!”) would, I’m guessing, be about 17ish now. Is he still so sweet? Which road did he take? Did he buy his mama something shiny this year?  I hope he doesn’t curse too much.

Christmas shopping is, after all, still alive and well, 14 years later, despite all our grumblings about calling the whole charade off. But I think the deals get better each year anyway, as retailers desperately try to retain the tired, depleted masses. I got a $50 gift somehow marked down to $5 this year. Might have been a register error, but I’m not one to complain. (Ahem.)

Shipping and “handling.” Don’t even get me started. I still rant. Shipping I kind of get, though I never want to pay it. Handling, though, is a cosmic kick in the face, kind of like the utility companies and sewer authorities that charge me a “convenience fee” to pay online. You’re charging me to make your job a bit easier and more convenient, right? Ah, I see now. How about you pay the fee then, and we can still be friends?

Meanwhile, I’ve let too much time go by without making major changes. If I’d started in 2004, I could have owned 13 whole square feet of Ireland by now. What a fool I’ve been. I don’t even yet own one. (And I’ll have to consult my bank to see how many square feet of my own home I actually, in any sense, truly own.)

Had a conversation yesterday, by the way, with an erudite, scholarly and impressive man, against whom I’d NOT like to go up in trivia. He asked a third party if he’d ever used the Plenti card. (Macy’s, Rite-Aid, you know the card, right?)

“Plenti card is great,” scholarly man told the third party. “But the cashier always asks if I want to redeem my points today. And I always say, “Not yet. I’m saving up to buy a car.”

I might have to steal that line. This is the year I’m saving up to buy a house in Ireland.

Or not.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Happy new year, everyone!

~ SJS (AMDG)

“Be at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let every new year find you a better man. (Or woman.) ~ Benjamin Franklin

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December 29, 2016 · 6:45 pm
December 29, 2016 · 4:18 pm

Oh hey there, little blog … Let’s get this bond back together

interrupted

I don’t make new year’s resolutions, but if I did, the list might look something like this:

Write. Write more. Write even more still. Write more after that. Then write a little more after that particular more. And keep going

Note to self: Stop saying you don’t have time to write anymore. Just knock it off, OK? Because who are you kidding anyway?

Somehow you found the time to rearrange the living room 16 times this year alone, right? (Nah, that was the fabulous interior designer I have on retainer. Heh heh.)

Somehow you found the time not to miss an episode of “This Is Us,” right? (Fascinating, eminently worthy show, if you’re not on already board, btw.)

And, well, let’s see, somehow you found plenty of time to develop twitchy scroller’s thumb from flying around Facebook, right? (Sidenote for 2017, Facebook is, perhaps remarkably, still alive and well, but is Twitter really in palliative care? ‘Gram and Snapchat have been reported as the cooler places to be, but a little winged creature told me it’s suggested anyone over, oh, 21 stay away because, see, we already stole Facebook.

But I digress. This is about writing again, because few things are worse than projects started but never finished or, in this case, abandoned projects. (Guilty, your honor.)

Far be it from me to let that happen to this little blog, a project of sorts that I started in 2014 as a way to promise myself that even though I no longer technically wrote-wrote for a living I could still write-write for a life.

And I did for a bit. And then gosh-darn life and all its requirements got in the way.

New job, lots of new things to write, albeit not necessarily with as much room for creativity. During the day came letters and documents, proposals and press releases, mixed in with newsletter articles, social-media posts and of course a boatload of emails. In the evenings, more press releases and newsletter articles and assorted stories for an alumni magazine, thanks to a freelance gig on the side that keeps me busy enough and comes in awfully handy when the writing, or semi-writing, life doesn’t seem the most bang-up way to pay the bills.

At one point, someone who will remain unnamed, but let’s just say he married into the family (or someone in my family married into his) asked something along the lines of this:

How many columns do you think you have written over the course of your life?

Quick calculation accounting for more than 20 years of writing some form of those column-thingys at least once or twice a week for maybe 12 to 15 of those years …

700? 1700?

So I answered precisely:

“A lot.”

“How many have you read?” I asked in turn.

He wasn’t sure. Seventy? One-hundred-seventy? Then he reminded he has known me only since a few years before marrying my sister, so he wouldn’t mind making up some ground and maybe I should make him a little book.

And in that book — get this — maybe I should put some old columns and write him little notes explaining what I was thinking or doing or feeling at the time. Wouldn’t that be so cool?

Sure, brother-in-law, if I only had the time. That does sound fun. And time-consuming.

He gave me that look that brothers-in-law can somehow get away with, the look that loudly said, “Pish!”

Then I ran away before he could put me in a position to defend myself and my lack of time.

But this weird, wonderful week between Christmas and New Year’s 2016, when I’ve planned for a little extra time off to accomplish all kinds of astonishing things but somehow so far have only accomplished laundry, more housecleaning and freeing up some DVR space, I found something (while cleaning, of course).

In old-school, old-fashioned terms, this thing is called a “portfolio.” If you’re younger than 21 — maybe 31; who knows? — a portfolio, or one definition of it, is a huge, physical, often black and often leather carrying case full of plastic protective sheets that preserve things, in this case somewhere between 700 and 7,000 pieces of writing that exist mostly on yellowish newsprint and now, largely, nowhere in cyberspace. My portfolio was in my basement, with a broken zipper, bursting at the seams and covered with dust and a few stray hairs.

First thing I did was wipe it down with wet paper towels, then I opened it. And, ah how the memories flowed.

I spent a few minutes reading some of what I’d written over all these years and indeed recounting, as B-I-L suggested, what I was thinking, doing or feeling at the time I put those thoughts to that paper, that paper for which I used to work. And in some cases, let me tell you, it was truly, madly, deeply: WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?

But then I got this idea in my head. If I type even one of these pieces a day, or every few days, into my dormant blog, I really could have “a little book” in a jiffy, a little digital book, such as it is. And an active blog again! Maybe I could even freshen up the content a bit by recording the sentiments of the time (to the best of recollection) and noting what I’d do now if I knew then.

So, as we enter 2017, here goes nothing.

As often as I can, I’m going to upload old content while promising also to mix in some new content — because I’m still thinking, and still bumbling around and doing foolish things I’m not usually afraid to share. (If you’re new around here, let me just tell you what has been said to others who know me well about some of the things I’ve done, then recorded for posterity.)

The general sentiment has gone something like this: “Did that really happen to her?”

And someone from the inner circle might have responded something like this:

“Yes. I saw it. I was there. You’d have to know Sandy.” (Or “SandySandy,” as it’s often been said with a shake of the head.)

So, yeah. I’m going to get this blog going again, for better or worse, at least before blogging joins Twitter in the next bed over.

If you happen to have any spare minutes in the coming year, I invite you to read. (Bloggers need followers, people, and I’m not above bribery.) Then leave me a comment or send me an email. I used to love to hear from readers, and I’d still love to. And I write back, too, if that means anything.

I just have to warn you: People who know me best used to warn others about talking too much around me. “Careful, you might become a column,” they’d say. And, ha, they were often right. Because, hey, your stories are often so much cooler than my stories!

So, please, friends, do talk to me. Just be warned and be careful.

You might become a blog entry.

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” ~ Anais Nin

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November 27, 2014 · 12:28 pm

This house protected by one completely fabulous, over-the-top turkey

2014-11-27 09.56.48

By SANDRA SNYDER on NOV. 27, 2014

Puppy dogs and kitty cats are fluffy and friendly and, yes, about as loyal to humankind as animals can get, to the end of days, yours or theirs. I’ve loved many of those in my life. Poochy and Bud and Dimples and Tiger, I hope the feast served across the rainbow bridge today is grander than ever. For you, too, Droopy. Let me never forget Droopy, Nana and Pop Pop’s circa-1970s sidekick, because of whom I will long and fondly remember People Crackers, which were no Beggin’ Strips but were otherwise the funniest form of snack you could feed a four-legger. If you ask me anyway.

Still, not every household can be lucky enough to own a pet turkey. This dude, a closer look:

Go ahead, be jealous.

Go ahead, be jealous.

I love him BECAUSE he is absolutely ridiculous. And opulent. And ablaze with color. And he moves! And breathes, sort of. By that I mean when you plug him in and he comes alive with all those lights he also makes a slight hybrid kind of rattling-humming noise to let you know he’s there, in case, you know, you should forget and try to let him fade into the background. As if.

Not gonna lie, the sound did take some getting used to. For the first few weeks this turkey and I cohabitated, I commenced several fruitless searches for moths or bugs or other elusive creatures (A hellbird bat? gasp!) that might be hiding somewhere and emitting this mysterious low pitch. And then, oh yeah, it’s just my turkey talking. Back to putzing then.

Now how did this relationship come to be? you might ask. Or maybe you might not, but I’ll tell you anyway. Well, I happen to have a fabulous honorary sister-in-law — which means she’s actually my sister’s sister-in-law, but I love her as if she were my own sister-in-law — and she happens to have a fabulous mother-in-law, who gifted her with Turkey 1.0, probably many moons ago. May I just say that Leslie, a woman I never met but now want to, hit an out-of-the-park home run with this gift? Today she should be proud of the legacy she has created and the joy she has shared across several state lines.

I was one of piles of people who used to regularly see Shannon’s — Shannon is my honorary S-I-L — annual turkey-trotted-out pictures on Facebook and promptly comment my love. We’re not talking any quickie like here now, friends. No, no, no, comment-worthy LOVE. So when I got to meet the turkey in person at a January celebration in Maryland we now call Winter Thanksgiving, well … I was finished. My heart swelled six sizes, and the love was official, one of those real at-first-sight-type deals. Hey, sometimes when you know, you know. You know?

So imagine my unbounded delight when Shannon posted one day, off season, that Leslie — bless you, Leslie! — had found more turkeys on a website for 50 percent off. Any takers? I think I was the first one.

Terrific Turkey officially became mine this summer, when Shannon and her fine husband, Rob, drove him, in a cardboard box, from Maryland to Hawley, where we were renting a lake house for a few days. I swear if it hadn’t been steam-oven August, I’d have tried to suggest Thanksgiving dinner right then and there just so I could rip in and set up like a kid on Christmas.

Instead I waited patiently until I got home to put him together and revel in giddy privacy. OK, maybe I had someone else put him together; that’s irrelevant. (Hapless Homeowner’s advice to anyone, whether you rent or own, is ALWAYS to keep someone in your life who can and will put things together.)

So … what do you think? Please be honest. If you are horrified, I won’t care. (I’ll just think you have no taste, that’s all.) Here’s the way I see it, chums. Every house needs at least one statement piece, and perhaps one that only comes out for a few weeks a year is just perfect, especially if maybe you live with someone who just does not fully understand you. By statement piece I don’t mean an original Dali or Degas, or even a perfect piece of Waterford crystal, but something downright kitschy-crazy.

Let’s face it: My home is not a Raymour & Flanigan commercial, and I hope yours isn’t either. No offense to R&F; I bought a coffee table there once, and it’s the one that keeps showing up in their commercials, and I really wish they would sub it out, lest anyone think I’m a follower. Or lack an imagination.

I believe my turkey speaks otherwise.

Bountiful, beautiful blessings this Thanksgiving wherever you are and whomever you are with and whatever you are doing. As years go, 2014 could have gone better for me in many ways, but there was certainly beauty. A new little one was born into our family, for one thing. Happy First Thanksgiving, Baby Dylan! And, later, this blog was born. And some of you actually even read it. For that, I am all kinds of thankful.

Now go in peace to love and serve the turkey.

~ SJS (AMDG)

“I give thanks to my Creator for this wonderful life, where each of us has the opportunity to learn lessons we could not fully comprehend by any other means.”

— Joseph B. Wirthlin

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October 20, 2014 · 7:57 pm

In a world of live, laugh, love …

… Sometimes you just want to buy a sign that says something else.

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October 18, 2014 · 5:06 pm

Our Lady of Victory, we beseech thee

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By Sandra Snyder on October 18, 2014

“Has anyone else got anything to say before I start this meal?”

Ellipse, ellipse, ellipse. That means we skip over some dialogue from one of the greatest movies ever made, that being “Rudy,” and get right to the most salient point.

Then Pete speaks. Silly Pete. He talks crazy.

“Mr. Ruettiger, at halftime, could we watch some of the Indiana-Purdue game?”

Mr. Ruettiger, soulmate of the late, great Edward Francis Snyder — may my father rest in peace, dear Lord — promptly told him how it is, was, and always would be.

“There’s only one team we watch in this house, right?”

“Right.”

Right on, Rudy’s dad. Raise your children up right, and you can change the entire world. Smiley face.

Anyway, here in the land of the hapless, things might sometimes seem, well, indeed hapless — water still occasionally rains from the ceiling and anything that needs replacing is still not ever “standard” size — but they are traditional. And that means Saturdays in fall are as sacred as Sundays. Edward led us by example, and we are left to hold his blazing torch high.

And Saturdays really don’t get much more sacred than when Notre Dame, the “house team” from time immemorial, is playing a big, crucial, season-defining game. That happens tonight in Tallahassee, where our beloved Fighting Irish will engage in a seminal Seminoles match-up against Florida State. Upcoast, preparations are well under way, and at least one disaster already has been averted.

OK, so maybe I tried to improve upon a good thing and create a more open living room by turning a space-sucking coffee table into a television stand and relocating the original stand to the basement, which required unplugging about a thousand cords and untangling as many cables. And maybe something went a little haywire in the process. And maybe I just happened to receive, repeatedly, that dreaded 775 error on my DirecTV screen, you know, the one that indicates the box and the satellite have encountered some sort of communication problem, and it’s probably something you did, you idiot …

Me, idiot. Not you. You wouldn’t lose your head like this just before a big game.

But all is well now, and that is all that is important. It may have taken three phone calls and one “advanced” technical-support person on site — always buy the coverage that guarantees tech support, people! — but the main television is happily spouting football commentary now.

I am pretty proud my place has been chosen as “default house” for most gamewatch parties, so I really don’t want to risk messing things up by pulling antics such as this too often. Which means I hope I’ve learned my lesson.

Oh, who am I kidding?

Back to my point: In this family, there is a key rule: Notre Dame is watched together, what though the odds, or — shall I say? — regardless of whether any individual members of the extended clan might happen to be at any odds, which can happen on occasion. Say you get into a little text tiff with your older sister earlier in the week and she announces that she won’t be watching the game with anyone on Saturday. Well, you can pretty much dismiss that nonsense talk immediately.

Time and Notre Dame heal all wounds.

Regardless of what happens in the lead-up week, you prepare the menu counting everyone in, because, unless prevented by physical distance, attendance is mandatory at gamewatch. Those who are sorely missed because of that distance take part in the form of virtual commentary, and they send pictures of babies dressed in game-day gear or equally adorable videos of little voices spouting the party lines:

“Go Irish. Go go. Irish Irish.” “Touchdown!” That sort of thing.

A little indoctrination never hurt anyone.

Now let’s talk menu.

Earlier in the week, my nephew and I had roughly the following conversation:

Ryan: Are we watching the game at your house Saturday?

Me: Sure, we could. (“Default house” means if no one steps in and says I really want to take this one, we come here.)

Ryan: Cool. I think we should watch at your house. But can we PLEASE get REAL food?

Ah, yes, real food. Allow me to explain. A few weeks ago, I group-texted the clan to come hungry because I had been cooking all day.

Darling nephew responded with dread, something along the lines of “But it’s not really a party unless food is ordered.”

Out of the mouths of teenagers.

In other words, as he and his brother used to say as wee ones, “Can we get pizza from a place?”

Put another way: Glad to hear you MADE pizza, but the best kind comes from a cardboard box with grease all over the bottom. You don’t buy it at the grocery store, and you DON’T make it yourself, especially if you have any wackadoodle ideas about fancying it up, flatbread-style.

Sauce, cheese, maybe some pepperoni, call it a day. And get off Pinterest, please. Only bad comes from that.

But, children, let me tell you what I also made.

Cauliflower buffalo faux-wings. Peanut-butter hummus. And pagach. Mmmm, pagach …

Yeah, they weren’t exactly sold, but the pagach proved more of a hit than I expected anyway.

OK, so I have a ways to go in convincing the younger members of this family that a game-day spread really should be as interesting and exciting as the game itself.

“Define real food,” said I to my nephew.

“Sizzle Pi would be good. Or McDonald’s.”

Now Sizzle Pi, for anyone not local, is a bit of an institution around these parts of Northeastern Pennsylvania, representing as it does that oddly delicious incarnation of pizza known as “fried Sicilian.”

OK, I will allow it. It doesn’t come in a big greasy box anyway, and you can cut it up into small pieces, and it makes a decent showing on a buffet.

But I draw the line at McDonald’s. Unless they are now in the business of gourmet sliders, kid, I just can’t let you “ugly up” my table like that.

My name is Ryan, and I love hummus.

My name is Ryan, and I love hummus.

Compromise is a beautiful thing.

As are rules.

When it comes to gamewatches, especially BIG gamewatches, we have those, too. We have assigned seats, for example. Oldest brother is now unofficial “head of household” and gets Edward’s former chair, deemed the most comfortable and at the best angle to the television. His wife happily takes the right corner of the main couch, where you have to strain a bit more to see. That’s because she not only married into this Notre Dame madness but sometimes likes to doze off during the games anyway, especially the night ones. Oldest sister claims the next-best spot, because birthright. Mom takes any old seat because she’s happiest, bless her heart, when her clan is happy, etc., etc.

Non-game-related chitchat should be kept to a minimum, and sometimes flags are thrown and penalties are strict. My brother-in-law — fortunately for us, a diehard Domer BEFORE he married my sister — once flagged me for talking at an inappropriate time and benched me in my own kitchen for five minutes. But that happened during the national championship game a couple of years ago, so the penalty was not as harsh as it sounds.

Lots was on the line, after all, and we had all agreed to the rules upfront.

Tonight’s contest has almost as much on the line. Could be a blowout. And not the one for which we hope.

But whatever happens, here in this place, loyalties are fierce, fire-tested, and will never subside. We live by the Irish, and sometimes our spirits die by the Irish. So come what may …

I’ve said my piece. And now I must away. For I have some roasted-red-pepper hummus to prepare, and it seems I’ve forgotten to buy the tahini.

If chickpeas were left off the menu, the kids would be so devastated. Snicker, snicker.

So carry on, friends, and be well. Just remember: Eat, pray, and love thee Notre Dame.

~ SJS (AMDG)

In this house, early and often.

In this house, early and often.

Baby Dylan gets his stripes.

Baby Dylan gets his stripes.

Taking the love to Uncle Jeffy's.

Taking the love to Uncle Jeffy’s.

I'm the brother-in-law. I teach my children well.

I’m the brother-in-law. I teach my children well.

Jesus loves me, and so does Grandma. Check out my cute shorts, a family heirloom.

Jesus loves me, and so does Grandma. Check out my cute shorts, a family heirloom.

Love Notre Dame. Will travel. At Uncle Jeff and Aunt Gina's.

Love Notre Dame. Will travel. At Uncle Jeff and Aunt Gina’s.

A selfie taken at ND vs. Stanford. (17 to 14, baby.) That's your author there in the left corner. She does not ordinarily do selfies.

A selfie taken at ND vs. Stanford. (17 to 14, baby.) That’s your author there in the left corner. She does not ordinarily do selfies.

“Son, in 35 years of religious study, I have only come up with two hard, incontrovertible facts: There is a God, and I am not him.”

— Father Cavanaugh to a young Rudy Ruettiger

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September 29, 2014 · 9:31 pm

Ding, ding, ding, you’ve lost money …

And the chaplain's mug goes to the man in California for the not-princely sum of 12 smackeroos.

And the chaplain’s mug goes to the man in California for the not-princely sum of 12 smackeroos.

I'd like to buy the world a Coke ... Actually, I'd like the world to buy my Coca-Cola finds. Read on.

I’d like to buy the world a Coke … Actually, I’d like the world to buy my Coca-Cola finds. Read on.

By Sandra Snyder on 9/29/14

So, eBay.

This is one party to which I’ve come fashionably late. But maybe “fashionably” isn’t the best word. Not to complain or anything, but the music is loud, the room is crowded, and I might require a taxi to hasten me home.

Still, having taken the time to dress up and show up for the soiree in the first place, I might as well share a few lessons learned. If you’ve ever dreamed of making your fortune on eBay, of sustaining yourself as a merchant in the vast online marketplace/wasteland, of becoming so wildly successful at something so simple that you get three book deals and three times as many summonses to tell your tale on every major talk show around, well, maybe go read something else.

If you want to learn how to lose money (and time and pride), keep it here. Winky-smiley face.

First, the backstory, or part of one. On a recent outing to the garage — those of you who know me know that by “garage” I mean tiki lounge/major renovation work in progress — I was in the mood to take out some frustrations, and the walls looked like easy targets. Attached to the original studs and serving in place of brick or OSB had long been what I’d always thought were “pool walls,” as in remnant pieces of a disassembled above-ground pool. At least that’s what the first handyman who ever set foot in this place assumed, and appearances made his as good a guess as any.

Anyway, on this day I was in a right-fine mood to do some banging and bashing, and the old, tired walls seemed the logical place to start. They needed to come down anyway, to prepare the way for the new tropically painted drywall that’s been showing up in my dreams, so why not?

Fortunately my better angels stepped in and advised me it might be wise to phone a friend first. Or text one. So that’s what I did, explaining something rash was about to happen and if he wanted to put a stop to it, now might be a good time. Fortunately, the image of me having at my own walls, simply because I was not exactly in a chipper mood, did not sit well, and help arrived in a hurry.

“Let me do it, please,” he said, or something along those lines. Very well then, I replied, taking the offered opportunity to scram and take out my frustrations on a boring treadmill instead.

On that mind-numbing conveyor belt to nowhere, I first beheld the pictures, sent via text and indicating pool walls these were not. Hardly. Try vintage advertising signs, in some cases absolutely huge, nailed to the studs in — best guess — the 1940s and now laid out on my grass for me by a cat who’d just discovered a basement mouse, or 12.

Aren’t you glad you didn’t just start your slap-happy sledgehammering? the cat asked, a little too proud. Well, holy Swiss cheese that baited the innocent little church mice, yes, but I’m also sorry I ever rented that spray-painter a few years back and shot “Morning Sunshine” all over the back of these things of … questionable? … beauty.

Have I rained yellow paint on my own parade? I cried out.

I’ve seen the American Pickers take worse, he replied, even as I was already calling up “vintage Coca-Cola signs” on eBay, which I had somehow managed to avoid in all of my exciting, eventful years on this planet.

Let’s just say I was part dumbfounded and part overjoyed at what signs like this might possibly command on the open market. But I’ll not get into the nitty-gritty quite yet. For now, the cola signs have been moved to safekeeping and secure storage while I decide who the heck is going to want them — if anyone, because, see above, eBay newbie means unknown seller and no ratings or feedback — and how the heck I could get them to whomever the heck might want them anyway. Rent a big rig and hit the open road?

Time to phone another friend.

Do you still do that eBay business on the side? Because I might have something to show you …

No, she said, but I can help you get started on your own, show you the ropes, as it were.

And just like that two friends sat at a kitchen table having a few drinks, breaking down life and a great number of its built-in injustices and “putting stuff on eBay,” which was quite a bit easier than I expected really.

We thought it best to hold off on the cola signs for now and see if I couldn’t first establish a reputation on the e.

So the first order of business was my friend walking around my house pointing out, well, everything and asking questions and making bold statements.

Do you need this?

Do you love this?

Can you live without this?

How about that?

This would sell.

So would that.

Basically, people will buy ANYTHING.

Well, didn’t we have ourselves a party?

Truth is we listed one item and did more chatting than anything else, but I did whet my appetite for what I was told could quickly become an addiction. Side note: Uh oh. Be careful, chums, where you step.

So after my friend departed for her own magical land of hidden gold, I got busy, taking things off shelves and snapping pictures, sometimes three or four times — oh, cursed glares! — and then transferring from camera to computer. After five or six items, I was tired. Please note I had to write captions and sales pitches for these things as well and fill out all kinds of other specifics, such as country of origin, condition, name of firstborn son.

Maybe this wasn’t so easy after all, especially considering I thought it best to play Miss Nice Gal and try to tempt buyers with my low prices. Again, no previous sales, no ratings, better sell low and underestimate shipping, I figured.

All told, I got 18 items listed in a day or two and sat back happily as my screen showed me instant views, most times two or three within three seconds of listing.

This is so cool, I thought, regretting how many things I’d let go for way too cheap at yard sales. This was so much simpler, and you didn’t have to get up at 5 in the morning and fend off early birds hovering over you as you unpacked boxes.

But then all got quiet. Strangely quiet. Eighteen items had a total of maybe eight times as many views after a few days, and I started suspecting “watchers” were more competing sellers than interested buyers. Let it be known that just about everything you can think of to sell on eBay someone else has thought of as well, so in this world, you will ALWAYS have competition.

By way of just one example, my Ravi instant wine chiller — NIB in the eBay world, or “new in box” — which I was willing to hand off at one fifth of its sticker price — had 14 little friends just like it, and I had to wonder upon the wisdom of one with a starting bid of 99 cents with free shipping.

Hotshots everywhere, I guess.

Ditto the competition on my designer purse, my Pampered Chef micro-steamer, my Longaberger pottery … That last one I decided not to list at all after seeing the full marketplace and picturing the devastation at my friendly neighborhood post office when that baby hit the scale and broke it.

Now I know, or at least have heard, that some people, can sit and watch their “my eBay” for hours, or that they get up with the chickens to check their progress and start their days off cheerily, but I took my friend’s advice and walked away.

You’ll get an email, she said, and a message. She even attempted to mimic the soundtrack of what I’d hear. And, sure enough, a few days later, ding, ding, ding. You’ve got sale!

My phone chimed with the happy news. Ron in California had bought my “chaplain’s diner mug” for $12.

A mug. For $12! At garage sales, you can’t give mugs away!

And better yet, he’d already paid my PayPal account $18, the $12 plus my $6 requested shipping.

Also on my friend’s advice, I checked to make sure first, before boxing and shipping. No fool am I.

First disappointment: The balance was actually $17.12. Oh yeah, PayPal gets a cut. My friend had said that. And eBay, too. Still, not bad. $17 is cool. Off to the post office I went, requesting the cheapest shipping possible, for I’d promised nothing more.

Now did my tired eyes deceive me, or did that screen show $12.78? Why yes, yes it did. Share my “joy” at learning that I was now obligated to pay $12.78 to ship to Ron from California a mug for which he had just paid $12.

Fortunately, I cut that loss in half by having charged $6 for shipping, right? Well, sort of. Remember PayPal had already taken its cut, and I think eBay might still take a share besides, and if you consider what I paid for the thing originally — about $5 at a little secondhand shop — and the gas I used to take it to the post office and the box I shipped it in and the packing material … Well, you do the math.

Ding, ding, ding. You’ve got FAIL.

“Some people get their kicks stompin’ on a dream.”

Mr. Sinatra, didn’t you sing the truth?

Chin up, my friend told me when I texted her my sorry news. It all evens out in the end, she said, noting the added sting of discovering you’ve found yourself a West Coast buyer. You’ll make it up on the next sale, she added.

The next one? Oh, you mean I should stick around this crazy place? Um …

Oh wait, looks like I have to. Seems I have an $18 bid on a bracelet. Ding, ding, ding.

Please, for the love of justice in the world after all, let her — I’ll assume her — be from the East Coast, or better yet from Pa. Maybe even down the street. I’ll walk the thing down. Watch her put it on and tell her how stylin’ she looks.

If I have to pay $12 to ship a bracelet to, say, Seattle, I’m outta here, eBay. Peace out, and nice to know ya.

~ SJS (AMDG)

“Human beings will line up for miles to buy a bucket of catastrophes, but don’t try selling sunshine and light. You’ll go broke.”
— Chuck Jones

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September 11, 2014 · 12:34 am

You don’t love me, flowers …

This truly could be the story of my life in planting. Thank you, Pinterest, for the photo.

This truly could be the story of my life in planting. Thank you, Pinterest, for the photo.


Yeah, that about sums it up.

Yeah, that about sums it up.

By Sandra Snyder on 9/11/14

NO ONE EVER accused me of being a gardener. In fact, if I’m honest, I have to say sometimes I even need a little tutoring in weed vs. plant.

A.A. Milne was a wise man.

A.A. Milne was a wise man.

Good thing I have great neighbors. By great neighbors, not only do I mean people on each side of me who I know look out for me — my favorite time was when they let me know the ridge vent was falling off my house and I, of course, asked the only logical question: What is a ridge vent? — but they do things like bake brownies with little nuts on top when they know I’m housing friends for the weekend. Nothing like opening the door to a note that reads, “I have brownies. Call, and I will bring them over.”

May I never overlook, though, what they do for me without even knowing it. And by that I mean they garden. All around me, they garden, in all seasons, and they garden with grand success. Now you might think I would be ashamed that I do not garden and that, by comparison, my yard looks a little barren, especially from the street. Ah, but I ask you to reconsider. One of the beautiful bennies of living in a tightly packed neighborhood — I can throw a pebble from my kitchen window to my neighbors’ and probably hit the sink — is that people who excel where I lack can box me out, in a manner of speaking, in the best possible way.

In other words, when friendly folks are promenading their pups or lollygagging along on a Sunday stroll, my gardenless property will not stand out nearly as much as it would if I had acres of lonely land around me. Instead, occupying a tiny lot between two similarly tiny lots popping with color and flowers tends to have some residual benefits, some rubbing-off power. My neighbors’ flowers almost look like my flowers, and if they get rather big and inch over onto my property, well, all the better. Each day I pull into the driveway I simply cannot help smiling at the healthy little pair of bloomers that pokes through their back fence, as if to say, “We know you need us. So here we are. We’ll stay as long as you’ll have us, too, because we rather like the breathing room on this side.”

And Neil may not bring Barbra flowers anymore, but not so with my neighbors. When things get especially bleak outside my walls, next-door Susan sure does show up with posies. Sometimes she even plants them for me. Hands down the best summer flowers in my backyard are what I think are perennials from the iris family. Susan at some point had an abundance of them, brought them over, put them in the ground in two minutes flat, and up they have since come, year after year, as perennials are supposed to (but often don’t, at least if I did the planting). All I know for sure is they are tall, radiant in crimson-orange, and they can do a nice little bossa nova in the right breeze. They look sort of like this:

A lanky summer flower is an especially beautiful thing. Crocosmia, my friends, how I miss you.

A lanky summer flower is an especially beautiful thing. Crocosmia, my friends, how I miss you.

Every year about this time, when people are calling it fall — blasphemers, all — but we truly know in our hearts it’s still summer, I tend to take stock of how I did this year, flower-wise. My report card? Not so great, mates. But I did get rid of all my tired-looking old red mulch and replace it with a fresh new cover of dark-brown rubber nuggets. (Words to the wise: Having heard horror stories about flying mold, or “artillery fungus,” I’ll always spring for rubber mulch.) Just when I got a little puffed up, though, the angel of doom descended. A mighty storm came upon my land and laid into all my carefully filled bags of old mulch, tearing them asunder, rescattering mulch all over the tree lawn and inviting me to do what I’d just done all over again.

I. Was. Not. Having. It. (Side note: Are. You. Kidding. Me?)

My cleanup efforts were, of course, half-baked because, alas, I was defeated and depleted. Suffice to say the bits of mulch I never did pick up were left to lie on the tree lawn, killing the grass underneath. If only those who might have walked by and shaken their heads could have known my virtuous intentions. I’d like to find one of those little signs on a garden stake that reads, “I Tried, But It Died.” Then I’d hide in my house and hope everyone could just understand.

About a hundred times a hundred times, in fact ...

About a hundred times, maybe even a thousand …

Only problem is I’d need at least a dozen such signs to memorialize my efforts in various parts of the yard, where Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Peter feasted on my Asiatic lilies, where squirrels had their way with my spendy Gerbera daisies, where I sat down and all but cried and wondered how other people manage to go on, really.

Then I hit upon something exquisitely beautiful. If you are a real gardener, you might want to forsake me now, to avert your eyes from the heresy I am about to espouse. My friends, this year, I must report to you, with more than a modicum of pride, how my biggest success story of summer was having found the cutest plastic flowers, like ever.

Yes, I said PLASTIC flowers. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?

Passing by the dollar store one day, I heard them call my name from the window, these lovely, leggy lilies, in at least three different colors, all lined up in a big box. I simply had to investigate.

Do you believe in soulmates? Generally speaking, I’m a negative there, but this was love at first sight. These “flowers” were meant for me, and I was meant for them. The best part? The stems were pencil thin — all the more authentic — and the actual flowers, which had a rubbery, realistic texture, were attached by a tiny spring, allowing them to bob and sway and fool even the most professional peepers. Don’t you judge me with your judgy eyes. Only when you get good and close can you see the spring and know for sure.

Now I know what you’re thinking — I’m a mentalist, don’t you know? — and it is this: Oh, YOU would know. Best I not even bother to try to fool the not-foolish you. Well, you know what? Maybe you would know, but I’m OK with that. Because now you also know where I’m coming from anyway. Now you feel my pain, or a bit of it, I hope.

At least if I’ve done my job well hosting this little end-of-summer, online pity party, you do.

If not, I invite you over and ask you just to help me. Come to my aid, oh, ye of greener thumb, please! My good neighbors simply cannot do it all.

“To you from failing hands I throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.”

About a dozen days remain before yet another solstice. Then the perky plastic flowers will have to come inside. And, yikes, what next? Why, nothing but my favorite time of year, I do declare: hardy-mum season. I’ll buy them in bulk, and I’ll “plant” them in pots aplenty. I’ll consider each roadside Amish vendor I meet nothing less than a beautiful blessing, as I repeat my favorite autumnal mantra:

That which we cannot kill can only make us stronger.

Hey, good lookin' ...

Hey, good lookin’ …

~ SJS (AMDG)

“Your first job is to prepare the soil. The best tool for this is your neighbor’s garden tiller. If your neighbor does not own a garden tiller, suggest that he buy one.” — DAVE BARRY

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August 21, 2014 · 4:50 pm

God, or someone, save the yearbooks

photo 1

Spotted outside my back window yesterday: a twentysomething boy, in a lawn chair, in the next driveway over, reading a book, an actual book, with a spine and all. Felt as if time had stopped for a moment. I wanted to take his picture, you know, just to prove I really witnessed this.

Did you forget your phone, child? Lose it? Drop and break it? Where on earth is your e-reader? Your iPad? Do you know what day it is? What decade?

Maybe actual books aren’t so dead after all. Did you know, though, that a certain type of timeless book appears to be nearing its waterloo? Sad but true. I keep hearing it. Where has all the love (and interest) gone?

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there existed these quaint relics, made of actual paper, with sturdy, often hand-drawn covers, and they were called … yearbooks. They hardly qualified as literature, of course, and they weren’t exactly known for stellar writing or dazzling design, but, oh, were they wonderful, preserving as they did, for posterity and the record, memories of the “craziest” nine months, mostly in photographs, captioned ever so artfully.

Students did not merely “smile” but “beam,” for example. Maybe even “beam with pride.”

On page after page, we remembered how our sports teams fared, what the school play was and who starred in it, who quarterbacked the football team and who captained the cheerleaders – count on those to be prom king and queen – or who of their less gymnastically inclined counterparts had the honor of selection to “strutters,” or at least the regal color guard, those twirlers of the flags and marchers to the drum major’s beat.

Upfront in the stalwart yearbook, we memorialized each and every committee, society, club, you name it. Finding your way into at least a few of these shots was critical if you wanted, at the end of your four-year stay inside your hallowed halls, to have a respectably lengthy list of activities after your name, something to indicate that not only were you here but you did something.

Or you could just catch yourself unawares in the gloriously eclectic middle pages, full of candid shots from school dances, pep rallies or random hallway roamings. Maybe you knew the yearbook editors, in which case, not only were you there but in abundance, and you looked killer, too. Or maybe you didn’t, in which case bless you if you found yourself captured in that unfortunate moment in some unfortunate posture while … who even remembers a camera present?

Then, finally, to the back of the book we went, to find page after page, row upon row, of headshots, yours, your friends’ and your teachers’, arranged a-to-z for easy reference.

Z meant The End, and thank you for reading, right? On the shelf the book goes, and till next year, folks.

Not so fast.

If your editors were astute and dutiful, they made sure to leave a blank page or two, plus the front and back inside cover, so the real fun could begin. And by that I mean …

The. Writing. Of. The. Notes. In all the corners, margins, flaps, wherever you could find a blank spot to pour out to a schoolmate all manner of true feelings.

● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

yearbook

Sometimes a note took up an entire page and snaked its way over to the next page.

You know how some folks today marvel at or, more likely, malign the abundant use of modern-day Morse code, in the form of LOL, TTYL, BRB and the like? Yeah, well, such language is hardly post-millennial, you know. You can go all the way back to the legwarmered 1980s and likely before to find solid evidence of abbreviated expression, written in actual ink. My personal favorites? RMA and KIT – Remember Me Always and Keep In Touch – which ended easily half of the personal greetings inside all four yearbooks pulled out, along with a bag of loose-leaf paper at least a quarter-century old, merely for entertainment purposes on the momentous occasion of my recent 25th reunion.

As faithful readers of this blog know, I recently turned the Hapless Homeowner HQ into a Bed & Breakfast for six friends from high school, who had crossed the miles and soared the friendly skies to catch up with the Class of ’89 and needed a home base in between festivities. Initially I worried: Where would we go, and what would we do, and how could I make them glad they came and ensure boredom did not set in in little old NEPA?

Ha.

Turns out we could have stayed inside, at my kitchen table, from arrival to departure, with the exception of the hours spent in the company of classmates at the actual reunion, and had an outright blast. With nothing more than a couple of bottles of wine, a handful of yearbooks and about 500 scribbled notes, saved in a bag for all these years by someone’s mother and especially suitable for dramatic readings.

Oh, the drama. I tell you, the drama.

So who were we 25 years ago? Let the yearbooks and the notebooks reveal …

We were as grade-obsessed as we were academically ambivalent. In other words, who cared about this stupid test or our final G.P.A.? Except we did. (As I tell “kids today,” it really was “cool” to be smart. I hope it still is!) Our notes to each other regarding our academic performance or lack thereof were downright plaintive.

We were as fashion-conscious as we were fashion-challenged. We had big hair and wore white turtlenecks under thick, bold sweaters. We applied colored mascara – which I hear is making a comeback – and blue eyeshadow. Yet we deigned to judge others’ sartorial choices.

And, wow, were we LOVELORN. Probably 90 percent of the notes, in both the bag and on the actual books, referred to crushes, flings, boys we were certain to marry and boys we prayed our friends would not. OK, maybe boys I in particular prayed my friends – one in particular – would not.

Oh, to bring those problems back. To have my most pressing question once again be whether Dom would ever choose me over my freshman-year sidekick. Whether I had a shot with a certain Brian. Whether any of us actually would get asked to the prom or would have to resort to rent-a-dates.

Remember rent-a-dates? You didn’t have to be in Catholic school to have them, but all the more significant if you were.

Rent-a-dates bring back memories of Colin in “Love Actually,” who amusingly swore to his mate that it didn’t matter what they looked like or how they were regarded in the homeland; once they got to America, by virtue of British accent alone, women would be all over them.

Same goes for rent-a-dates from public school: Hot commodities from their own hallways they needed not be. Once they were imported and pressed into service for Catholic-school prom, their stature would shoot up instantly.

And how the night went down would more than likely make it into someone’s yearbook note, signifying, well, nothing really.

Until a quarter-century later, when the book would get hauled to the kitchen table and the readings would begin. We laughed until we cried, and probably some real tears. It truly was tough to differentiate between tears of joy and tears of pain, probably for what was irretrievably gone.

But either way, this was FUN, the kind you just can’t have with an iPhone, I swear. And reading “from the cloud” will never be nearly as natural or as easy, I just know it.

So …

Dear kids today, many of whom surely cannot wait to “get out of this place,” wherever that place might be:

Take your time. Savor your moments. Every last, silly, overly dramatic one of them.

And someone PLEASE fight so the yearbook might live. Sign up for the staff. Say you will write, edit, photograph, whatever it takes, to keep this grand old paper tradition alive. And when you do, be not too proud to pass the books around and get those margins and corners filled in with all kinds of goofy little notes.

Pour your hearts out. Put it all out there. Say what you feel, and someday, I promise, you really will look back and laugh.

Twenty-five years from now, invite your old crowd to your new playground, haul out the books, and have at it.

You’re welcome for the good time.

~ SJS (AMDG)

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“The B&B Chicks,” photo courtesy of classmate Linda Wojnar. Alternate title: How we held up after 25 years.

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Selfies. Call this a first for the night. No, seriously. Never have I ever taken a selfie, before this night.

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From a 1987 yearbook: teachers’ dreams for a distant future. Shame that cure for apostrophe misuse never has been found.

“I’ve been keeping a diary for thirty-three years and write in it every morning. Most of it’s just whining, but every so often there’ll be something I can use later … It’s an invaluable aid when it comes to winning arguments. ‘That’s not what you said on February 3, 1996,’ I’ll say to someone.”

— David Sedaris

As told to The New Yorker

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August 1, 2014 · 6:22 pm

Homemade in America: Meet the “Tiki Doors”

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Remember Eldin Bernecky? Murphy Brown’s free-spirited painter, a.k.a. domestic Jersey Boy Robert Pastorelli? Never one to paint a wall white? Or finish a wall for that matter?

Yeah, well, I have one of those, sort of, and I firmly believe everyone should. If only there were enough Eldins to go around. Because there are not, his identity will remain somewhat secret at least for the time being. But my Eldin does deserve some public credit for all the hard work he has put in here at The Hapless Homeowner HQ. So today I am trotting him out by way of introducing just one of his many projects. (Eventually E might control his own little folder on this blog, sharing tips and advice for fellow d-i-y-ers, if the spirit moves him, of course. So, in that sense at least, sure, I’m willing to share the wealth.)

Today’s project, the first of its kind in The Eldin Files, is The Tiki Doors, which actually made their debut on the Fourth of July, to rave reviews, at my annual Independence Day Backyard Hootenanny. Said one of the first to behold them: “I have to say, everything you do (or have done) is usually nice, but sometimes I question if something was really necessary. But these … ”

I think he went on to say something along the lines of, “These are the bomb.”

Yeah, Eldin!

The tiki doors are nothing more than homemade garage doors, carriage style as opposed to overhead, and they have been floating around in my imagination/dreams for, oh, years now. To make an apt comparison, I’ll borrow from a shiftgig.com link E sent me late last night, to a humor piece about chefs and, presumably, cooks. In this case — oh, OK, in many of the cases — I am the chef, and E is the cook. In other words, I do the scheming and dreaming and am responsible for the vision of the house, but E does the actual heavy lifting, the boiling and baking and frying and flipping and such. In other words, most of the actual work. (Sometimes I help. And sometimes I am ordered to help. This is what we call “sweat equity.” Keeps the costs, and sometimes the crankiness, down.) But to complete the chef/cook analogy and quote shiftgig again: “You go into the chef’s office with your own ideas and come out with the chef’s ideas.”

I rather like that. But then again I’m the chef.

Anyway, moving on …

Here’s an imaginary Q&A. I’ll answer questions I assume folks might ask about these brand-new doors. If not, carry on then. I am not a mind-reader; I only play one on the Interwebs.

***********************************************************************

Q: Why are they called tiki doors?

A: Because they front what is called The Tipsy Tiki (see sign in top photo), which is more of a warm-season lounge/party hut than a garage. And “tipsy” is not actually a reference to any sort of imbibing (though margaritas and such are certainly enjoyed under its roof). No, the “Tipsy” in “Tipsy Tiki” is actually a play on the fact that the garage itself leans a bit. What happens in Pisa doesn’t always stay in Pisa. And perhaps worth noting for future reference: It’s safe to say NOTHING in this house is plumb.

Q: Why were these doors necessary?

A: Well, “necessary” might be a bit of a strong word, but they certainly made the garage, in which a car has never rested its wheels as long as I have rested my head here (nine years), more user-friendly. The problem with overhead doors is when they are open they subtract half your ceiling height, and ceiling height is kind of a critical factor in an outdoor room, especially on a hot summer day. Plus, as overhead doors open, they tend to bring with them all kinds of earthen detritus and/or bugs that have become attached to their bottom rubber strips. Now, when the carriage-style doors open out, all that junk stays where it belongs, on the bottom of the door, not threatening to drop onto your face or into your beverage without warning.

Q: So those babies fold?

A: Why, yes, they do. Thanks for asking. Each set of doors is bifold, which was a critical part of the project due to space restrictions and the proximity of the patio onto which they open. We had to make sure we were not going to sacrifice patio space for ceiling height. That would not be a fair trade.

Q: And what are they made of exactly?

A: To quote a favorite brother of mine, “Just a piece of wood.” Or actually just a few pieces of wood. That’s a whole ’nother story, but suffice to say a beloved nephew once was terror-stricken by a decorative wooden owl that used to belong to his great-grandmother. To calm his young, suffering soul, his father/my brother simply delivered the soothing words “just a piece of wood,” which over the years has become our family mantra for anything that at its heart is pretty basic and not to be feared. So, yeah, these are basically plywood pieces with 1-inch-thick pine frames. The plywood has beadboard grooves factory-cut into it. I have a minor obsession with beadboard; it’s probably my all-time favorite feature of “cottage style,” which I like to say I have adopted even though I live nowhere near the beach. Hey, if pretending gets you through the night …

Q: Just basic wood, eh? Aren’t you worried about insulation and R-value and all that technical stuff?

A: Nah, not really. But mainly because this is a DETACHED garage, so I really don’t have to concern myself with those niceties. I would never dare try something like this on an attached garage. (OK, maybe I actually would, but I know it would not be smart.)

Q: Those are some fairly fantastic colors. Who picked those out, and where can I get that exact paint myself?

A: Why thank you. Yes, I like to think I am gosh-darn adept at picking out paint, even though I also am equally good at growing weary of paint. Sherwin-Williams and I are BFFs these days, OK? (Words to the wise: That pricy-but-worth-it paint is almost always gettable at 25 percent off and more often 30, but the 40 percent-off sales are the ones that get my heart pumping and wallet wailing, and when once in a “Sleepy Blue” (SW 6225) moon a 50 percent-off sale hits, you RUN, not walk, to your nearest store. It’s OK to say you don’t have the coupon; they’re pretty good about scanning one in storage at the register.

Anyway, you wanted to know the exact colors: Blue Sky and Torchlight.
Blue Sky (SW 0063) happens to match my front door and an also-homemade-by-Eldin wooden screen door and happens also to be an “old” Sherwin-Williams color. No, I did not know this when I first bought it for the front door; I was only distressed to learn it when I went in for refills. Say what now, you woman at the register you? Do you deliberately taunt me in so casually noting my color choice here was not exactly modern and cutting edge!? Well, harumph and huzzah and no matter. I’ve made my peace. Sometimes oldies really are goodies. And this year, any form of turquoise is still, you know, a Thing.

Torchlight (SW 6374) became my accent color because, well, torchlight! Everyone knows paint colors are best picked for their fitting names. And what’s a tiki without a torch?

Q: Are the insides of the doors painted the same color?

A: No, the backs of the doors are bright white, by design. If ever I need to be in there with the doors closed and lights off, say during a power outage at the end of the world, the white will let me better see my way around while I make my amends.

Q: Why can’t I see behind the doors?

A: You can. Just not yet. The inside is a work-in-progress, involving new walls and a speckled floor and one of those big old tropical-style ceiling fans. I’m not quite there yet. But when money and time permit, if you’re still following me, wait, you’ll see.

Q: So when can I come over?

A: I once had a neighbor across the street — God rest your good soul, Dan — who considered his single-car garage a bit of a beer-and-brotherhood hut (sisterhood, too). He always told me, “If the doors are open, the bar is open. And you are invited.”

I shall adopt his policy to keep his memory alive. Come on over any time, friends. To quote one of my favorite hymns (and its master lyricist Marty Haugen): “All are welcome in this place.”

~ SJS (AMDG)

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