I am writing this from my bedroom ... well, it was my bedroom in the 80's, at least. It is still the same color scheme that I wanted it to be - and it looks pretty good, truth be told. But it is not my bedroom anymore. It hasn't been for ... my word, over 2 decades? Yow. That's wild to consider.
It seems that some of the rules that were active twenty plus years ago no longer apply. The "no holes in the walls" rule, for instance, is CLEARLY being violated by the posting of a calendar, a map of local fishing areas, various important receipts and licenses, and of course the fake Bill Clinton 3 dollar bill that my father thinks may be the funniest thing he's ever seen. There's a computer in here, too. It wasn't a rule that there couldn't be one in here, but computers back then were not in my vision at the time. I've noticed there isn't a phone, and that would have NEVER worked for me as a kid. (I was a teen-age girl - phones very much WERE in my vision.) The dogs are allowed not just inside the room but on the bed - unheard of back then.
This room has served me well. It has comforted me through sicknesses of the heart and the body, it has seen me recover from embarrassments and celebrate triumphs. I have slammed these doors as much as I've gazed from these windows. I've sat in this room to gather my courage as much as I've sat here regretting my boldness. I've cursed and prayed here. These walls have served as my prison and my protection.
I'll be creating a new version of my bedroom very shortly. While I won't be taking any of the material things that can be found here, the emotional lessons ... they are always with me. Hard-earned, at times - but more valuable than I'd ever dreamed they would be.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Daughter's Mother
It was before dinnertime on a Sunday evening. My mom and I were watching a local show that highlights landmark businesses and places in the area. Ours is a young state, nationally speaking, so we may not have the war memorials or historical registration listings that others have but we have “It’s-It” by God, and we’re damn proud.
The program we were watching had an overly-bubbly hostess taking a tour of the It’s-It factory – located in South San Francisco along the freeway, next to the airport. I learned in this brief piece of reporting that It's-It was named by an individual who had taken great care in finding the best of just four simple items … the right ice cream, the right oatmeal cookie, the right chocolate and the right shape. His response when things came together exactly as he had imagined they could would name the product … not “that’s it!” but “it’s it”. The name stuck, the product stuck, and clearly the spell was not lost on us, my mother and I, while we sat glued to the TV, watching in silent respect. Ya’ woulda thought the national anthem was being played at a ball game, the way we were reacting.
Anyway, we had dinner – a nice salad of lettuce, avocado, chick peas, mushrooms, roasted salmon, red onion, cucumber, mozzarella and croutons with a light balsamic dressing. It was a perfect meal on a warm summer evening. We finished off with a couple of chocolate chip cookies and that was that.
When I entered the market today, I walked pointedly to the frozen food aisle. I turned the corner and walked down the length … pies, pastry, waffles, veggies. I walked the length on the other side … cookie dough, whipped topping, ice cream, frozen juices … this couldn’t be happening. Could there really be no room in the freezer for It’s-It? I looked again but slower and … ahhhh yes … there it was. Alas, it was the vanilla ice cream version (not the preferred mint ice cream variety) but I eagerly grabbed them, the package of three. “Perfect”, I thought as I walked to the checkout counter. “One for my dad, my mom and myself.”
I proudly marched into the kitchen and was about to make a big deal out of unloading my grocery bag – but before I could say a word or even take out the first item, my mother hopped up from her chair and beat me to the freezer. “Look at what WE have for dessert tonight”, she said with a wide smile while holding the box. “And they’re the mint ones too – the best kind.” My father, who hadn’t seen the segment, watched in silence when I took my box out and said “and there’s three, so it’s perfect.” “Like mother, like daughter”, he said, in semi-awe of the apparent coincidence.
We barely were done chewing our dinner tonight before we ripped into the box of individually wrapped sandwiches. And you know how some things from childhood don’t live up to the hype you build up for them as an adult? Either the quality has gone downhill or the size is so much smaller? Not so here. Not at all – these absolutely lived up to the hype! The cookie portion was fresh and slightly spiced, the chocolate had a great “crrraaack” sound as we bit into the side, the ice cream stayed solid and didn’t drip … and it wasn’t that cheap fake whipped ice cream that some mass-desserts try to pass off either – this was REAL ice cream.
“It’s-It” may be the unofficial dessert of our city but it is the official provider of nostalgia for many. Created in the late 20s, It’s-It was served at a happily-named place known as "Playland at the Beach". Playland is a fond memory of the past generations and this strangely-named ice cream wonderfulness is no small part of that happiness. While we polished off our treats, my mom shared how she and her siblings would take the N-Judah train out to Playland on the hottest summer days. They’d play in the penny arcade “that ACTUALLY had games for a penny!”, and they had the carousel and the haunted house that wasn’t too scary, but they always made sure to have enough money left over for an It’s-It, since at the time it was the only place one could find ‘em.
For as long as I’ve lived here, I’d only noticed the It’s-It plant in the past decade. I wonder how I never saw the giant ice cream sign as a child - it's not like me to miss such a thing. I have also noticed they ship nationwide. Now, I’m not gonna make these a part of my daily diet, or even my weekly diet. But I like knowing that they can continue to be a part of my world wherever I am. I like knowing that something that my parents could remember from their childhoods could still be enjoyed and be so good today. That’s a comfortable feeling to have.
*************************************
I generally don't write about specific named products ... but this is different. This isn't a product - this is a memory. It's just a memory one can still experience ... here.
The program we were watching had an overly-bubbly hostess taking a tour of the It’s-It factory – located in South San Francisco along the freeway, next to the airport. I learned in this brief piece of reporting that It's-It was named by an individual who had taken great care in finding the best of just four simple items … the right ice cream, the right oatmeal cookie, the right chocolate and the right shape. His response when things came together exactly as he had imagined they could would name the product … not “that’s it!” but “it’s it”. The name stuck, the product stuck, and clearly the spell was not lost on us, my mother and I, while we sat glued to the TV, watching in silent respect. Ya’ woulda thought the national anthem was being played at a ball game, the way we were reacting.
Anyway, we had dinner – a nice salad of lettuce, avocado, chick peas, mushrooms, roasted salmon, red onion, cucumber, mozzarella and croutons with a light balsamic dressing. It was a perfect meal on a warm summer evening. We finished off with a couple of chocolate chip cookies and that was that.
When I entered the market today, I walked pointedly to the frozen food aisle. I turned the corner and walked down the length … pies, pastry, waffles, veggies. I walked the length on the other side … cookie dough, whipped topping, ice cream, frozen juices … this couldn’t be happening. Could there really be no room in the freezer for It’s-It? I looked again but slower and … ahhhh yes … there it was. Alas, it was the vanilla ice cream version (not the preferred mint ice cream variety) but I eagerly grabbed them, the package of three. “Perfect”, I thought as I walked to the checkout counter. “One for my dad, my mom and myself.”
I proudly marched into the kitchen and was about to make a big deal out of unloading my grocery bag – but before I could say a word or even take out the first item, my mother hopped up from her chair and beat me to the freezer. “Look at what WE have for dessert tonight”, she said with a wide smile while holding the box. “And they’re the mint ones too – the best kind.” My father, who hadn’t seen the segment, watched in silence when I took my box out and said “and there’s three, so it’s perfect.” “Like mother, like daughter”, he said, in semi-awe of the apparent coincidence.
We barely were done chewing our dinner tonight before we ripped into the box of individually wrapped sandwiches. And you know how some things from childhood don’t live up to the hype you build up for them as an adult? Either the quality has gone downhill or the size is so much smaller? Not so here. Not at all – these absolutely lived up to the hype! The cookie portion was fresh and slightly spiced, the chocolate had a great “crrraaack” sound as we bit into the side, the ice cream stayed solid and didn’t drip … and it wasn’t that cheap fake whipped ice cream that some mass-desserts try to pass off either – this was REAL ice cream.
“It’s-It” may be the unofficial dessert of our city but it is the official provider of nostalgia for many. Created in the late 20s, It’s-It was served at a happily-named place known as "Playland at the Beach". Playland is a fond memory of the past generations and this strangely-named ice cream wonderfulness is no small part of that happiness. While we polished off our treats, my mom shared how she and her siblings would take the N-Judah train out to Playland on the hottest summer days. They’d play in the penny arcade “that ACTUALLY had games for a penny!”, and they had the carousel and the haunted house that wasn’t too scary, but they always made sure to have enough money left over for an It’s-It, since at the time it was the only place one could find ‘em.
For as long as I’ve lived here, I’d only noticed the It’s-It plant in the past decade. I wonder how I never saw the giant ice cream sign as a child - it's not like me to miss such a thing. I have also noticed they ship nationwide. Now, I’m not gonna make these a part of my daily diet, or even my weekly diet. But I like knowing that they can continue to be a part of my world wherever I am. I like knowing that something that my parents could remember from their childhoods could still be enjoyed and be so good today. That’s a comfortable feeling to have.
*************************************
I generally don't write about specific named products ... but this is different. This isn't a product - this is a memory. It's just a memory one can still experience ... here.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Zoom x3 x9
My boy Jake is nine years old today. We've traveled 42, 524 miles together over those nine years. This means that each year, we've traveled 4,724.9 miles ... or each day, we've gone 13 miles.
In those nine years, I've visited 13 "never been there before" states and 1 other country (Jake didn't come with me for any of those trips but still). I've worked for 3 companies and held I-have-no-idea HOW many different job titles. I've been healthy and not healthy, unemployed and employed, hopeful and hopeless, lost and found.
Some of the trips that Jake and I have gone on together were for absolute pleasure (Big Sur and Santa Barbara spring to mind) but the times he makes me most happy is after he's had a good bath, looks his best, and we're just doing errands. I like the sound his door makes when I close it and the top is down - it just sounds ... friendly. I like that he is just common enough that no one makes a real fuss over him but that he's nice looking enough that it's obvious he is treated well. The one that pampers him so ridiculously is, of course, me.
It's ridiculous that I have a nine year old car with just 42,524 miles. (The average mileage driven in my state per year is 11,400 - according to a quick glance around the Internet - so Jake is 60,076 miles under being "average".) It's ridiculous that I have a car with a name. It's ridiculous that I have friends, ex-bosses, valets and family that ask about that car - BY NAME. It's ridiculous that my parents painted that name on his car cover and not his license plate. One typically paints the license plate on the cover so that the cover wouldn't get stolen - but no - Jake's "blanket" says "JAKE" in big black letters. If it ever gets stolen ... would that be identify theft???) It's ridiculous that I refer to him as I do - "he", "him", "his".
And isn't that what birthdays are all about? A time to be ridiculous?
Happy 9th to my boy Jake. Here's to seeing what the next 4,724.9 miles looks like. Betcha they'll be pretty great.
In those nine years, I've visited 13 "never been there before" states and 1 other country (Jake didn't come with me for any of those trips but still). I've worked for 3 companies and held I-have-no-idea HOW many different job titles. I've been healthy and not healthy, unemployed and employed, hopeful and hopeless, lost and found.
Some of the trips that Jake and I have gone on together were for absolute pleasure (Big Sur and Santa Barbara spring to mind) but the times he makes me most happy is after he's had a good bath, looks his best, and we're just doing errands. I like the sound his door makes when I close it and the top is down - it just sounds ... friendly. I like that he is just common enough that no one makes a real fuss over him but that he's nice looking enough that it's obvious he is treated well. The one that pampers him so ridiculously is, of course, me.
It's ridiculous that I have a nine year old car with just 42,524 miles. (The average mileage driven in my state per year is 11,400 - according to a quick glance around the Internet - so Jake is 60,076 miles under being "average".) It's ridiculous that I have a car with a name. It's ridiculous that I have friends, ex-bosses, valets and family that ask about that car - BY NAME. It's ridiculous that my parents painted that name on his car cover and not his license plate. One typically paints the license plate on the cover so that the cover wouldn't get stolen - but no - Jake's "blanket" says "JAKE" in big black letters. If it ever gets stolen ... would that be identify theft???) It's ridiculous that I refer to him as I do - "he", "him", "his".
And isn't that what birthdays are all about? A time to be ridiculous?
Happy 9th to my boy Jake. Here's to seeing what the next 4,724.9 miles looks like. Betcha they'll be pretty great.
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