One of Grandma Country’s older sisters, my great aunt Rena, had her own way about the kitchen. She was widowed at a relatively young age and had been an elementary school teacher for many decades. In fact, she taught my Dad and his siblings, and the parents of many of classmates over the years and apparently had enough of kids through these avenues and never had kids of her own. She would join us at family gatherings on holidays and we would visit her on Halloween out in the middle of nowhere. She gave out full sized candy bars and offered them up on an ornate metal tray. Her demeanor somewhat reminded me of Aunt Clara on Bewitched and I found her pleasant.
For holiday dinners she would bring a tossed salad decorated with radishes cut into flowers. I always enjoyed this little display of artistry. For Christmas she would also bring a big bowl of “Mix” as she called it; it was homemade Chex Mix that always seemed to have a little something extra. I could eat my weight through one of her bowls of “Mix” and then I had to learn to share with my cousins.
I’m the anecdotal one of the family here in our desert home and over the holidays I mentioned Aunt Rena and her “mix” and said I found the commercial versions of Chex Mix to be missing something, but I didn’t know what it was. I can’t describe it, I can’t even write about here in the blog, it just lacked “something”. Now some might get all sentimental and say that it missed my aunt’s love, which the commercial version probably does, but that side of the family wasn’t generally known as being particularly warm. Loving, yes, but in a rigid sort of way. It was just a given, no need to discuss it.
So Chris and Mike decided to mess around with some Chex Mix recipes and made a big batch of the stuff for our holiday festivities. They captured it. Whatever is missing from the commercial version is not missing from the version they put together and I probably ate my weight through the stuff on New Year’s Eve. There were no cousins around to share with so I was happy about that.
Perhaps the missing ingredient was love after all.
One of my earliest memories is playing around with my Uncle Gary on Grandma and Grandpa City’s living room floor (in front of the Davenport) and the Bewitched credits rolling by on the big RCA television that sat at one end of the room. The little Samantha-the-witch graphic turned into a “Kodak” logo while the credits played and then it was bed time. It’s funny, I hadn’t thought about that in a few decades but tonight I was thinking about the show and that flashed into my head.
As a kid “Bewitched” and “I Dream of Jeannie” were on in the afternoon on WSYR-TV 3 and Grandma Country would let me have a couple of homemade cookies and milk and stop her housework and watch the shows with me. They came on after “The Edge of Night”. I enjoyed this time very much and it’s among my fondest memories; I’m lucky that we were close to both sides of the family.
As I grew older I grew more interested in “Bewitched” and to this day it’s my favorite show of all time, especially the first, third, and fourth seasons. For years, local television stations, as well as WTBS in Atlanta, would only show the color episodes (seasons three through eight) but then in the very late 1980s Nick at Nite started showing the first two seasons and I instantly remembered them. The original Louise Tate played by Irene Vernon. Serena being sultry instead of kooky. Samantha and Darrin as newlyweds, long before Tabatha (later Tabitha).
The first season of “Bewitched” is my very favorite because it had so many more adult themes. Larry Tate had a wandering eye, Louise Tate was a little more icy than Kasey Rogers’ interpretation, and Elizabeth Montgomery had a bit more of a sultry, newlywed look about her. Alice Pearce as the original Gladys Kravitz was hysterical and Endora was more into an up-do than her wild bouffants in the later seasons. The show was focused on the trials and tribulations of newlyweds with a bit of magic thrown in, instead of crazy farcical scenarios of warlocks turned into the Lochness Monster or Mother Goose popping in.
I always include the third and fourth season among my favorites as well, because the third season had a new producer and Samantha and Darrin had some pretty impressive argument scenes during that run, and the fourth season introduced the new batch of sound effects for the choreography of witchcraft and I always found that intriguing. By the time Dick Sargent as Darrin came around in season six the show felt a bit more “designed by committee” and while there are some stand out performances, it got a little too silly for my tastes. But not nearly as silly as “I Dream of Jeannie”.
Not finding anything modern to watch on television tonight, I made my husband sit through two episodes from the first season, including “It’s Magic”, an episode about Samantha, as hospital fundraising committee chairman, finding The Great Zeno, a drunk of a magician saddled with an assistant played by an actress that chewed the scenery of every moment and every show on adjacent soundstages. There’s some, by 1960s standard, risque dialog about small costumes and the love of vodka. The other episode we watched was when a bored Samantha popped over to Paris with Endora for dinner while Darrin was at work and runs into Larry and Louise. Again, Irene Vernon’s Louise is slightly icier and seems more inline with the wife of a guy with a wandering eye, and I just enjoyed the slightly more adult tilt to the vibe of the episode.
Endora riding on the back of a 747 and declaring, “it’s the only way to fly”, notwithstanding. By the way, “it’s the only way to fly” is the motto of Western Airlines back in the day.
“My husband, some hot shot, here’s his Ancient Chinese Secret, Calgon”.
The reason I can remember this commercial is easy. I run the commercial in my head, focusing on the images. The young woman stands in front of a General Electric washing machine with the top removed, the lint filter missing, the recycling pump turned off, and pours a healthy chunk of powdered Calgon into the running washing machine. Why a commercial venture run by an Asian couple is using the washing machine typically found in the back of a mobile home with half its part missing is beyond me. It was the 1970s.
“How do you remember things like this”? I’ve been asked this more than once in my 53 years and it’s because I remember things visually. I think in pictures. I see the colors and the frame of the memory and the layout of the content and I tune in on small details that just imprint themselves into my memory. That’s the only explanation I have. I don’t remember words. I don’t remember stories. I remember things visually. If I can associate written content to the visuals, I’m good. Otherwise, I’m lost. It’s one of the reasons I’ve never tested well.
Back when I was 11 years old we were driving through the village and I said to my mom, “why are all the street corner signs gone”? It was 1979 and I was riding in the front seat next to my mom in our 1978 Chevy Impala. The sun was out. The car still smelled a little new. She hadn’t noticed the missing signs, but I instantly noticed the cast iron signs denoting the corner of Broad Street and Park Street or North Jefferson Street and Hubble Street were all missing. The change in scenery had struck me hard as soon as we had entered the area and I found it very disconcerting. A disturbance in the force, if you will. All the traffic lights and stop signs and guide signs to Interstate 81 were in place, just the signs denoting the street names were gone. My mother hadn’t noticed, asked why I noticed it and I couldn’t really tell her. I just noticed it. A few weeks later they were back, all repainted, by hand, in glorious black and white.
I think in pictures and I think in patterns. I think (that’s three ‘thinks’ in less than a dozen words) I’m really good at my job as a programmer and troubleshooter because I can instantly identify breaks in patterns. When an application or a server or something at work goes off the rails, I can see the pattern, or lack there of, as bright as day in front of me. The solution may still be off in another direction, but the break in the pattern usually leads me somewhere towards the solution. It’s an asset.
When we were in elementary school we learned about autonomous actions of the body. For example, we didn’t have to concentrate to lift our arm, we just knew to lift our arm and we did. I remember Miss Kania (my first grade teacher) saying, “now tell yourself to lift your arm”. When I did that I pictured my arm moving up. I didn’t think, “lift my arm”. I remember asking a classmate named Martin, “did you think the words”? He thought I was crazy as he said “yes”. I didn’t think the words. I saw my arm lifting. This made me think I was doing it wrong.
Thinking and remembering visually, or in pictures, probably lends to what others say is my uncanny memory. I don’t know what it’s like to not remember what I had for lunch on a Friday in second grade in elementary school (square cheese pizza, green beans, a small dixie cup of unsalted peanuts, and apple crisp, arranged on my tray with the pizza in the middle, green beans on the upper left, apple crisp on the upper right, a half pint of Byrne Dairy white milk in a red and white carton under the green beans, and the unsalted peanuts under the apple crisp, all on a light brown tray because I thumbed through the older dark trays to get one of the newer lighter ones). The cashier, Mrs. Stevens, wore a white sweater like a shawl over her shoulders that day. I can’t tell you the date, but I can tell you what it looked like as easily as I can describe what our cat Truman looks like right now. (He’s cranky that he hasn’t had a treat in two hours).
I know I’m a little off the beam. I know my bubble isn’t in the center and there’s probably test scores floating around in too many places that proves this out. I know my numbers. I learned long ago how to fade into the background a little bit and not draw too much attention to myself by barking out “hey you shaved off your mustache!”1 when I ran into my high school art teacher out in public during summer break.
I wouldn’t change a thing about how I think or how or what I remember from my days past. It’s just part of me being me.
1 He responded, “you are the only person that noticed!”. I’ve heard that a lot in 53 1/2 years.
In 1998 or so I was working for a radio station that was owned by an advertising agency. They were actually two separate businesses owned by the same husband and wife (who could fight like no couple I’ve ever met in my life) but I ended up working on both sides of that fence and it was interesting. I’ve never had an interest in advertising. I find advertising annoying. But for a small chunk of my adult life I made a living by, among many other things in the jack-of-all-trades position that involved maintaining computer networks, being on the Top 40 radio station, and working on FM transmitters, writing ad copy for a smattering of businesses across Upstate New York. Hell, I voiced more than one commercial that played on all the radio stations in the five boroughs of New York City.
As a solidly Gen X individual I know life both in the analog world and the digital world. I can easily remember before everything was computerized. I know the joy of receiving cards in the mail, I revel in the memories of dialing into to retrieve email long before the days of America Online, and I can remember what the very early stages of the World Wide Web was like. I was “raised” in a certain tech culture; before my days at the radio station/advertising agency I worked for the second largest computer company in the world. All 120K employees of Digital Equipment Corporation had a terminal on their desk at the time, and in glorious (you pick green/white/amber) text we could email, “surf” our internal pre-web text pages, and chat with one another through forums called VAXnotes and chat programs called VAXchat.
At no time did the “monetization” of the Internet cross my mind. Like many others, I thought of “the web” as a wonderfully mammoth collaborative living encyclopedia, where we would exchange ideas, talk with one another, and make each other think, communicate, and debate on various topics.
At no time did I throw advertising into that equation.
Back to the advertising agency. One of the clients of the agency was the NYS Department of Transportation, and they were looking to improve their image by running commercials about the wonders of roundabouts, the importance of expressways in our small city, and the safety of following stop signs and speed limits. Somehow the subject of my very first web site, a cacophony of information about the roads of Upstate New York, came to the forefront and I ended up showing my website to the owners of the business.
“You should charge people for this information. At the very least, you should show ads and collect some money”.
This had never crossed my mind. What eventually became UpstateNYroads.com was never a source of revenue for me; my focus on the site was to contribute to that big, living encyclopedia I envisioned and I was doing my part to contribute to the greater good. There was no money involved.
Can you imagine an Internet experience today where money is not involved? It’s so incredibly sad.
The monetization of the Internet has destroyed the original purpose of the vehicle. We now have “influencers” that try to make a legitimate living by sharing the beauty of products and places, all the while being paid for it.
Gross.
I’ve never had ads on any of my sites. I’ve never charged for content. I’ve never tried to monetize the videos I’ve shared and I throw out any resume that mentions an applicant has tried to live their life as an influencer.
I still believe the Internet can make us better, but only if approached the right way. Unfortunately, with the lies, and the deception, and the anger, and the rabidness, and the screaming, and the yelling, and the charging, and the flashy ads, and the data mining, I don’t think the Internet is going to make us better. I want to believe we’ll come around, but we’ll probably destroy ourselves before that happens.
I’m so happy I stepped away from a life of writing and voicing ads.
I started the workday by shaving off my mustache this morning. It’s a signifier of the New Year to me and the exercise complimented my mood. I’ll probably grow another mustache someday.
I have a few resolutions on my docket for 2022. I don’t start my resolutions on the first of the year, as typically I’m going to start trying to eat healthier again but that never happens on the first of January. Why set yourself up for failure? By starting any health resolutions on the 3rd, I have a chance of making it until at least the 5th. Goals are important.
I’ve been reading old posts from the beginning of various years and I really haven’t changed much in the 20+ years I have been churning away at this blog. I hope I’m a little wiser and a little calmer about things. I don’t feel the need to drop f-bombs as much as I did yesterday. I now even try to stop swearing at people when I drive. That’s an accomplishment. I probably need a fidget spinner to keep in my right hand when I’m driving. Are fidget spinners still a thing? It’s better than playing with a smartphone, which many seem to do while traveling at 75 MPH on the 10 outside of Tucson.
My husband has started taking down the holiday decorations; it’s something to be done after the first of the year is part of history. When I was a youngster I used to find taking down the Christmas tree to be very depressing, especially when the (formerly) live tree would be leaned up against the side of the house or something. We don’t have live trees here in the desert as we figure they’d dry out and go up in flames within a day or two. I really liked our new artificial trees and they brought me joy.
My biggest resolution of the year is to reduce that which does not spark joy in my life, or at the very least, reduce that which does not lead to sparking joy in my life. I mean, I enjoy my job and there are elements that spark joy, but I don’t consider the workday an entirely joyful experience. But the results of my work leads to things that can spark joy, so there’s that. I quipped to my mom not too long ago, ”I probably don’t need to figure out what I’ll be when I grow up”.
I’m infatuated with our first winter here in the Sonoran Desert. We have hints of snow on the mountain tops surrounding Tucson and I find it to be quite beautiful. I can’t get enough of it.
It was a few degrees below freezing last night, but warmed up into the mid 60s this afternoon. Temperatures will be back in the mid 70s by the end of this upcoming week and I find that quite delightful as well.
Earl and I tried to drive to the top of Mount Lemmon today (to play in the snow) but Catalina Highway was backed up for miles. Apparently this happens after the first snow on the mountains in this area. They were allowing only four-wheel and all-wheel vehicles up the mountain. We would have been fine but didn’t want to wait in line.
Truman likes to know what’s going on when everyone in the family is gathered in the kitchen. He doesn’t want to sit on any laps or at the table or anything, but he wants to be nearby and hearing the conversation and the like. Once in a while someone will make a psst psst noise and he’ll come over for some pets, but just a couple.
He also likes to keep an eye on the back patio and gazebo, looking for signs of javelinas visiting or big birds swooping through the area. Occasionally he’ll chase a fly and have a snack. He ate a bee once and decided to not do that again.
I’m often reminded of how good life can be. Here is a shot from the local Target parking lot. Mountains, snow on the mountains, sunshine. Life is beautiful.
I shared an idea on social media yesterday. Since Betty White was such an animal lover, let’s start 2022 on a positive note and keep her love of animals alive by making a donation or volunteering with a local animal shelter. When this thought occurred to me, I did some quick searching on the Internet and discovered Pima Animal Care Center, here in Pima County. There are organizations like this all over and I’m sure there’s one in your neighborhood.
Too many of our furry friends need our help or need a home. Make a contribution in memory of Betty White, and let’s keep her love for animals alive.
It’s 2022 in Mountain Standard Time here in the United States. Happy New Year! Tonight I learned that in Mountain Standard Time we are fed the Central Time Zone delays of Times Square and assorted locals. The ball dropped at 11:00 PM MST. Both Times Square and Miley Cyrus’ Miami celebration lacked exuberance. It felt more obligatory than anything.
I hope everyone that has stopped by has a joyous holiday celebration.
Just a guy with a husband. We’ve been together 28 years and he still makes me see fireworks on a daily basis. Hiker. Storm Chaser. Private Pilot. Tech Guy. Hackerish.
