Rudolph the Red Knows Rain, Dear

We watched Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer tonight, and it was a vivid reminder of why people took drugs in the '60s.

I always loved Rudolph when I was a kid - the bright flashy light of his nose, the jerky puppetronic action of the figures, the Island of Misfit Toys (an apt metaphor for so many things in this world), and, of course, Yukon Cornelius, the only character in the entire show who seems to be enjoying himself.

I haven't watched it in a while, and with Tabitha and Lauren gearing up for the holidays in a big way, it seemed a good time to revisit this one in its natural habitat: network TV, complete with commercials. They loved it, as kids will. As a grown-up watching it, however, all I can ask is "what were those people smoking, and where can I get some?"

There is no continuity in this show - thing happen, and then some other things happen, and then a few more things happen, and then the credits roll. For example, Rudolph's parents have been missing for months, nobody's figured out where they are, and suddenly the action shifts to the Bumble's lair, which in the blink of an eye becomes as crowded as "Half-Off Day" at the dollar store. Why Bumble chose that particular moment to try to eat the parents (and Clarissa, the damsel in distress) instead of polishing them off straightaway with a nice Chianti and some fava beans, we are never told.

The whole notion of a dentist as a misfit is odd but, having seen and enjoyed Little Shop of Horrors, not too odd. Steve Martin got the better song, though.

The narrator is a snowman in a derby and knitted vest, all the better to keep himself warm. My graduate advisor for my MA looked just like that snowman, which made my MA exam rather difficult to pass since I kept waiting for him to break out into "Silver and Gold." Or melt, one or the other.

And what's with the Bumble? Sometimes he's taller than mountains, other times he fits into elf houses. At least he bounces, which is the best line of the whole show.

There is a definite "bad trip" sort of feeling about the whole thing, really.

It was also odd to see it as a historian, that being what I have become since the last time I watched it - the rigid and oddly conservative gender roles, the idea of Santa as a 1950s Rotarian, the strange prevalence of Brooklyn accents at the North Pole, the college-football-like atmosphere of the Reindeer Games (tm). I am clearly reading way too much into a harmless kid's show, but now I'm hardwired to see it this way. This is why nobody takes historians seriously.

Of course the crowning moment of absurdity came during a commercial which announced that at some point in the near future there would be a broadcast of Frosty the Snowman.

In high-definition.

What moron puts a Rankin-Bass animation product in high-definition? That would be like taking a 20-megapixel photograph of a Pong graphic - you can do it, but all you'd end up with is a mass of exquisitely rendered flaws.

Lawsy, there are still three weeks of this to go. Eggnog, must have eggnog.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it ... Oh for crying out loud make it STOP!

Why is it that whenever there is a good-sized snowstorm, people rush out to the grocery store and buy white food?

Milk. Eggs. Flour. Bread. Sugar. White food. Is it some kind of sympathetic magic - white in the air, white in the grocery cart? Do they plan to spend the time they are snowed in making french toast?

Of course, what constitutes a "good-sized snowstorm" varies from place to place. When I was a kid in Philadelphia, three inches was always the line where we could hope for a snow day. In parts of the south, the mere appearance of flakes is enough to start people babbling in tongues, not that they need much excuse to do that in parts of the south. Here in Wisconsin, we might not even bother shoveling until it gets to about four inches, and "good-sized" seems to start at around eight or ten.

The girls and I have even codified this into a game. "Do the 'snow in Philadelphia' thing again, Dad!" they will chant, and so I do:

"Three inches of snow in Philadelphia!?!?! Oh my! Time to panic! Close the schools! Shut the highways! Call out the Army! Run to the grocery and buy white food!"

"Three inches of snow here? Huh, better get out my broom - not worth shoveling today."

They can listen to that for hours. Why, I don't know, since I'll be the first to admit it isn't all that funny, even with the high-pitched frantic sobby voice that goes with the first part. Perhaps especially with that voice. But they like the repetition, I guess. I know I've certainly gotten tired of the "three-legged chicken" joke that I told one evening over a bucket of KFC. Every time we have chicken, out it comes again.

It's snowing right now, our second three to five inch snowstorm in three days, with more to come in the next week. Apparently we're picking up right where we left off last winter, when it snowed almost every other day from Thanksgiving to Easter - over 100 inches in our little town, breaking the old record by almost 50%. Except one weekend when it rained for two straight days, and since we already had three feet or so of snow built up and lying on the ground, the rainwater had nowhere to go - so it just accumulated until it froze solid when the temperatures returned to normal. That was a fun time, let me tell you.

Like everyone else in this state, we have a snowblower. They're standard equipment in Wisconsin, along with bratwursts, "really cold weather" coats that you can't wear if the temperature is above 10 degrees F, and household appliances in Packers colors. I drag it out and fire it up dutifully, clearing my way out of the drive way so the plow can block me back in. It's a game we play. I'm not sure what we'd do without that little machine, since shoveling our driveway is an all-day project that my back is not really up for anymore. I suppose we would just have to be stuck in our nice warm house, making french toast, while the good people of the world slog off through the cold and snow to work.

Hmmm....

Holiday Wrap-up

The house just seems so empty, now that Grammy and Grandpop have gone back east. They left this morning after breakfast, in what can only be described as an optimistic attempt to avoid traffic around Chicago, and should get back home sometime tomorrow. They will then spend the next 48 hours peeling off their cat. Charlie can get a bit clingy.

Resting up for more grandchild time!

We had a good time with them here, on this holiday-packed weekend. We didn't do a whole lot, really - just hung out, ate and talked - but really what more do you want out of life? I'm good. Plus, the girls got to have new bedtime story readers, with each grandparent taking turns. Grammy has the touch, being able to put them right to sleep even before reaching the end of the chapter. I've got to ask how she does that. Maybe she can read to me too.

On Saturday Kim and I left the girls with their grandparents and went out to celebrate our anniversary, which is always more appropriately celebrated on the Saturday after Thanksgiving than on the actual calendar date. That's when everyone remembers it, including us. We had a very nice dinner, after which we were faced with the same question we are always faced with when we go out: What now? It's too early to go home. There's not much happening in our little town, even on a Saturday night. We can't really go to some other, more hopping town, and even if we could we're just not that hopping ourselves. So we ended up at Shopko, where Kim picked out her birthday present. Because that's just the kind of party-dude guy I am.

In fairness, it is what she wanted, and it both looks good and - being a new winter coat - is nice and toasty warm. And purple, which I understand is in this year. Thankfully, it was one of the few coats there that did not look like it had been warehoused since 1974 - apparently those hoods with the fake fur trim are back too. I am old enough to remember the 70s, folks, and they were ugly the first time. Having them come back into style is like someone doing a cover version of "Feelings" - it's technically possible, but utterly pointless and likely to bring back memories long held at bay by years of heavy drinking. Don't try this at home. Waste of good booze.

But this one is a nice coat, and Kim likes it. We have simply reached the point in our lives where "What do you want for your birthday?" is a comfortable and safe question to ask. It certainly cuts down on the outbreaks of "What-the-hell-is-that?" syndrome that often accompany my attempts to figure out that sort of thing on my own.

Technically Kim was not allowed to wear it until the next day, when it was - surprisingly - her birthday. It was a good birthday, laundry day notwithstanding. We had lasagna and wine, and, keeping with the Red Food theme of the day, strawberry ice cream cake. And there were gifts, not all of which did she purchase herself the night before, though most of them were focused on keeping warm.

As a scientist, Kim understands the binary
system used for the candles.

And keeping warm was a definite theme, since we got our first real (i.e. break out the snowblower) snow storm of the season on Sunday and Monday - three to five inches of heavy wet snow that just totally destroyed Tria's outlook on life. She loves going out, even in the cold, but a black cat on a snowy lawn is just silly. Not that this stops her for long - eventually she did go out and bound around in it anyway, as she always does - but even her miniscule cerebral processor found the whole experience disheartening.

Tria cruises the 'hood last February,
freezing off precious brain cells, one at a time.

On the plus side, we did get to keep Grammy and Grandpop one more day, since driving in such muck when you don't have to do so is not all that much fun. So the weather gods are forgiven.

Thanksgiving - the Report

Saturday afternoon, and still recovering from Thanksgiving. Grandpop is conked out after a strenuous afternoon of shopping. Kim and Grammy are beading, which is not as biological as it sounds. Tabitha and Lauren are watching Wall-E, one of the classic movies of this or any age. It is a grand holiday, yes it is.

We actually ate Thanksgiving dinner on Thanksgiving Day, a rarity for us. For years we ate on Friday, simply because it worked out better that way with all of the traveling. But since the folks with the largest distance to go were already here, we figured, "Why not?" Such radicals we are. Grandma and Grandpa came down, bearing Uncle Randall, Aunt Amy and Cousins Keegan and Brody, and we filled up the house with food, more food, and still more food:

The kids ate first, since they finish faster...

Then the adults went at it, because, well, we just park there.

Turkey - 25 pounds of it.

Grandpop does the honors

Cranberry sauce - two kinds: the whole berry kind, which has a nicer flavor, and the jellied kind, since it's not Thanksgiving unless you can count the rings on the jiggling tube of jelly.

Rice. Mashed potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Bread. Stuffing. Because you can't have too much starch, Atkins be damned.

Peeling spuds for KP duty

The green bean, mushroom soup and fried onion casserole that no American holiday meal can be without by statute dating back at least to the Eisenhower administration.

Roasted beets with feta cheese, just to keep the green beans on their toes.

Aunt Linda's pineapple dish, which goes with everything.

More wine than we could drink, and not nearly enough of it.

Two pumpkin pies, one apple pie, and the remains of a ricotta pie.

Lots of good food, a warm house, and family to share it all with. Life is good.

We ate. We watched the Lions lose (another Thanksgiving tradition - we're not entirely sure what would happen if they won; probably something apocalyptic. The Eagles won the night game, though). The girls and cousins played their games. The adults talked, as adults will (great googly moogly but adults talk All. The. Time. I never understood it as a child, and certainly neither Tabitha nor Lauren understand it now, but they will - yes, children, you will).

Lauren and Brody play at the concession stand,
though what concessions they had to make were not clear.

It is a grand holiday that forces you to sit down and remember why your life is actually pretty good. I am not an optimist by nature, which helps when I'm watching the Eagles, Flyers or Phillies play their respective sports, but which can often make me miss things that I should see in the larger world around me. Thanksgiving exists to remind me that the good things are there - family, friends, food, shelter, on and on and on.

Next time, though, we'll remember to save the wishbone before getting rid of the turkey carcass. Because no matter how good life is, there is always room for wishes.

Gearing Up for Thanksgiving

Grammy and Grandpop are visiting from Philadelphia!

They drove out over the first part of the week - being retired has certain benefits, of which not having to worry about a work schedule is only the most obvious - and arrived last night at dinner time. They will be visiting over the Thanksgiving holiday, and then heading back on Monday - avoiding, with any luck, the congestion on Wisconsin's highways caused by the end of the deer season. Not Thanksgiving, particularly. We can handle Thanksgiving just fine. Deer season, not so much. It's a matter of priorities.

Kim and I got married on the last weekend of deer season, and my future father-in-law was somewhat offended by our choice of dates. "Well," his daughter said, "if you're any kind of hunter you'll have your deer by then." I don't remember offhand if he did, but I do know he was at the wedding. It was good to have him there, though whether he has forgiven us for our scheduling decision I still don't know.

So today Tabitha and Lauren have been having some grandparent time. Tabby and Grammy spent the morning baking pies, which turned out to be more exciting than anyone thought it would when Grammy forgot to put the apple pie on a cookie sheet and it dripped onto the oven floor and set off all the smoke alarms. There was much to-do, but the pie was saved. Eventually the smoke cleared, and we could close the windows and doors again. The pumpkin pies were a lot less dramatic, as pumpkin pies tend to be. They are the Quakers of the pie world that way.


Lauren, meanwhile, is currently playing "Battleship" with Grandpop, and doing a serviceable job of defeating the former Navy man at his own game. Lauren is a whiz at those things, and at some point we will seek to make money off of this.


The cooking and the general flurry of activity is designed to get us ready for tomorrow, when Kim's parents and various other folk from that side of the family descend upon us for a festive day of socializing and eating and relaxing and more eating. Grandparent time with all four grandparents! It will be fun.

We've already got the most important part of the day squared away: there will be dessert.

As for the main course, Lauren and I chose the turkey when we went grocery shopping on Saturday. Apparently, if you want a reasonable sized turkey, you can't wait until Saturday. When we got there, we had a choice between turkeys that were too small and turkeys that were too big - a choice that was perfectly obvious, really. It all comes down to one thing: Leftovers! There must be leftovers! Leftovers that we can eat well into December, until we begin to grow feathers ourselves! So we came home groaning under the weight of this beach ball of a turkey that just about fit into the fridge and will probably fit into the oven if we use enough force. But by God there will be leftovers.

I have also reached deep into the family archives and made Nana's ricotta pie. It is amazing how many of those old recipes include hard liquor - whiskey in this case. She also used to make a chicken breast recipe that involved a fair amount of brandy. Why don't we do that anymore? We worry too much about eating these days.

Of course, in retrospect, it might have been a mistake to let Lauren lick the bowl.

Though it didn't affect her Battleship skills any.

Love and Marriage

Last night I proved that, after thirteen years of marriage, I can still make my wife hot in bed.

This involved going downstairs, setting the kettle on, filling up the hot water bottle and bringing it back so that she could, with time, move her neck again. But I'll take what I can get.

Yesterday was our thirteenth anniversary - a lucky baker's dozen of years since we stood up and declared publicly what we already knew in our hearts. A lot has happened since then. Kim got tenure. I got my PhD and set off on a series of jobs, teaching, running a museum, shelving books, ferrying Russians around, and so forth. We found a nice house a couple of blocks from our original apartment. Tabitha and Lauren came along. We got rounder. Maybe happiness weighs more.

It's been quite a ride, and I'm glad that I'm sharing it with Kim.

Menthol, Eucalyptus and Memories

Tabitha has apparently inherited my respiratory system, more's the pity.

Every fall I end up with one of those lingering coughs that doesn't really stop me from doing any of the things that I don't want to do, but does keep me from being welcomed in most social situations. It hangs around, refusing to leave or be placated by medications, unguents, or whiskey, no matter how I try. Eventually it gets bored and moves on, usually sometime around spring, and then the cycle can begin again. You get used to it.

For the last month Tabitha has had one of these coughs, one that has generally not prevented her from going to school but has managed to make her rather annoyed. We did take her in to see a doctor after a while, and he got one of those looks that you learn to interpret as a parent - the one that says, "This kid has a minor cough that I can't do anything about, but I'd better dress that up in some jargon so they feel they got their money's worth out of coming here." So we got some jargon, some instructions to make sure that we give her plenty of liquids (because usually we keep her freeze-dried, you know) and a reassurance that eventually it would go away.

Well, at least we know it wasn't more serious.

The cough is more persistent at night, for some reason. During the day it appears only sporadically, but at night it can be enough to wake the cats - not an easy trick, really. So we search for ways to ease this.

One thing that does seem to work is the old standby, Vick's Vapo-Rub (or its equivalent - they all come in those little blue jars these days, so it's hard to tell them apart). You slather it on, and the cough disappears! Magic.

And so one of the scents of my childhood returns. I love that smell. All through my childhood we had a vaporizer in my room - a dark turquoise plastic bucket with a black lid, something that could only have been designed in 1964 - and every winter the room would be redolent of Vick's. It takes me back, it does.

Tabitha is less taken by it so far, though she says she is getting used to it. Ah, my child, this is how memories are made! Some day you will look back on this as the beginning of a beautiful thing.

Not now, granted, but some day.