Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 10

My Heroes Have Changed

Luke Skywalker.

The spinach-eating Popeye.

Superman. “Faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locomotive. Able to leap tall buildings at a single bound. Look, up in the sky. It’s a bird. It’s a plane. It’s Superman!”

Mind you, a family joke was to recite the intro to our cherished Superman TV show, pause after, “It’s a bird,” wipe our eyes from imaginary droppings, and say, in a resigned voice, “It’s a bird.”

And of course, there was the Saturday morning favorite, the Lone Ranger.

“Hi-yo, Silver! Away!”

My heroes.

Father’s Day is a perfect day to consider the role of heroes in our lives. There are the supernatural ones, like Superman, the ones who never fail, like the Lone Ranger, and the ones who grow into their legends and never dim, like Luke.

Dad was more like that.

As children, our parents know everything. As teens, we question it all. Now, looking back, I can see how wise and kind Dad was. He taught me to be responsible for my choices, my duties, my words. To respect the flag, cherish my country, support my family, and love God. As he did.

No father can stand on the pedestal of perfection, nor should he. We learn as much from mistakes as successes, maybe more. But all his effort, hard hours at a job to support us, family picture taking—more of a curse at the time than a blessing, believe me—earn my respect as I look back on how hard he worked, how hard he tried.

He had a sense of humor and was known for his intelligence, his ability to wolf down a book before you could recall where you left it, and a dubious skill at debate (arguing). He left behind for each of us a collection of the wisdom he'd learned in life—a treasure.

By the time he was 21, he had a mortgage, an afternoon shift job at Pontiac Motors, and five children. His only vacation came in the summer with two weeks for family camping (with tent, Coleman stove, and lanterns).

He loved sports cars, all cars, motorcycles, classical music, jazz, and playing the piano—none of which he had time or money for.

And he loved Mom.

They met on a blind date and he never fell out of love with her, even at his last breath.

We went to the library weekly, attended Mass as a family when he wasn’t working, and shared his large, lively family. During most of my childhood, Dad worked overtime on second shift, so when he was home, he was exhausted. Only when he retired did we get to see the man Mom married, the man his coworkers delighted in, the humor and cooking skills.

Peasant soup (“Took me all day to catch them”) and meatloaf (“American pâté”) were specialties.

I miss you, Dad. I never made time to tell you what a hero you are to me. I admired your determination, loyalty, devotion to family and Mom, and your clear-eyed view of the world, society, and what is right.

My father proudly obeyed “the unenforceable rules” and taught us to do the same, to be honest and ethical in all our dealings, whether or not anyone else was looking.

“Nowhere in the pages of history can one find a greater champion of justice! Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear! From out of the past come the thundering hoofbeats of the great horse Silver! The Lone Ranger rides again!”

Yes, there are many similarities to my father and that earlier hero.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

I wish I could share this with you in person, but one day, I will.

In the meantime, I do my best to live up to your standards.

“Hi-yo, Silver! Away!”

School's Out for Summer

“School’s out for summer…”

Alice Cooper never needed to write another song.

The first two lines in the chorus capture the excitement of that last bell ringing at school, or the thrill of tossing your graduation cap into the air after commencement.

When I was young, summer wasn’t just a season. It was a holiday, like Christmas or Halloween. Tent camping ahead, occasional trips to local beaches, begging Mom for ice cream money when we heard the music of the truck, riding our bikes up and down the street or to the Heights downtown—all rewards of summer.

Gardens produced juicy tomatoes, lawn mowers rivaled robins for the music of summer, our neighborhood rang with the voices of our friends, out early, in late.

My granddaughter graduated from high school this year, and I momentarily relived that exhilaration of finishing, for good, the school year schedule. “School’s out forever…”

One of life’s memorable milestones. The world of jobs or college or training ahead, driving, figuring out how to get a job without a car or a car without a job, and how to balance both. Life has opened double doors on the possible.

In truth, life is a day-by day experience, choices are made, remade, with paths that curve ahead as yet unseen, but nothing can dim the pleasure of stepping into the adult world from high school graduation.

Or the first morning of summer vacation.

Like taking a Florida vacation in Michigan winter, and waking up to palm trees, mockingbirds singing, warm sun.

Like spending the day at the ocean, mesmerized by the sound and sight of the waves rushing to the shore.

Like sunlight beating on the canvas of your tent on a perfect June day in a Michigan forest campground.

Like a perfect June morning with your kitchen window open, robins singing, the breeze fresh and moist, and your tea roses and bleeding hearts in bloom.

No summer is without thunderstorms or cool days. No job is without difficult coworkers or grueling routine. Life comes wrapped with the pleasant and not so, yet beginnings are always a delight.

The beginning of the next stage of your life after high school graduation.

The beginning of summer on a June morning.

The beginning of a personal goal.

Every morning is a beginning.

Every day is a chance to try again, begin again, or sit back and savor the moment.

I remember the joy of playing outside on school-free summer days, the anticipation of life after commencement, my first car, the terror of the first few days at a new job. When we celebrated with my granddaughter, I was momentarily transported to the football field at Avondale tossing my graduation cap into the air with my classmates.

This is a salutation to summer, to beginnings, to everyone who graduated this June, to every child rushing home to begin summer vacation.

Those feelings and memories never dim.

Happy June!

Toys in the Olden Days

There was a time before at-home video games.

There was a time before cell phones, Minecraft, and, gasp, internet.

We still knew how to connect and play.

Different, yes, and not so instant, unless you stood at the back door and hollered your friend’s name, but we didn’t miss what we never knew.

Brakes on my bike were my feet slamming the pedals backward. I never heard of gears on the handlebar. In fact, when I first learned to ride a bike, my brothers and I shared a used one and were pleased to have that.

Extravagance was having your own bike, and with it, we explored our neighborhood—up and down streets, visiting each other, and riding to the corner store or the Heights’ downtown, headed for Thomas Variety or Shorts dime store.

The daring took their bikes on the steep slopes of the School Hills.

We pawed through each week’s TV guide for movies and specials, and watched Saturday morning cartoons with cereal, or planned evenings around our favorite programs—Huckleberry Hound, Leave It to Beaver, My Three Sons, Bewitched, Flintstones, Wagon Train, Lassie, Bonanza…the list goes on.

There were many spots in the weekly program guide listed “To be Announced,” which I thought was a show about angels and the Last Judgement trumpet, but were usually filled with another episode of Sea Hunt.

We played outside until dinner time—which in our house was when the fire whistle blew at six o’clock—and left our bikes anywhere in the yard as we rushed indoors, protesting or hungry.

On rainy Saturdays or during winter months, most toys didn’t require batteries. Legos weren’t big in our house until my youngest brother, who could build anything with or without the instructions, and went on to be an electrical engineer and computer whiz in his jobs.

My other brothers had erector sets, Lincoln Logs, Tonka trucks, and Matchbox cars. I played with plastic farm animals, a metal dollhouse, and paper dolls. Even had a Dr. Seuss kit of snap-together plastic pieces to make his unusual creatures.

Erector sets contained nuts, bolts, girders, and a motor. The construction set was invented in New York 1913 by A. C. Gilbert, and altered over the years until 1933, when the pieces came in metal boxes. Mr. Gilbert died in 1961 and the company declared bankruptcy in 1967. A sad ending to a popular toy.

Our Lincoln Logs came in a round cardboard tin, the notched brown logs in a variety of sizes, with long green planks and red wooden chimneys. Sometimes I made fences and corrals for my collection of plastic horses.

My best friend Kay taught me dominoes and jacks. And, of course, there were board games and card games.

Monopoly, Risk, Sorry, Mouse Trap, Clue, and my favorite, the Game of Life. We played Fish, War, Rummy, Old Maid, and one-time only, 52-Card Pickup.

We had handheld pinball games or ones big enough to set on the floor with tabs to hold them at an angle. We played “store” with toy typewriters, cash registers, pretend food cans and boxes, and play money.

But outdoors held the most fun. From official games like Hide-n-Seek or Statues, to made-up games while riding our bikes up and down the sidewalks, pretending we were driving cars.

We explored woods, ponds, fields, or the Clinton River—fishing, picking wild strawberries, bringing home another batch of tadpoles, holding toads to squeal when they peed on your hand, building forts (my brothers), and playing with baby dolls or Barbies (my friends). We blew Bubbles and showed off with hula hoops, jump-roped alone or with a team.

I was and am a voracious reader like the rest of my family, but also enjoyed activities, games, and playing outside.

Many times, Mom heard our wail of, “But there’s nothing to do.” In truth, there was always something to do—and didn’t include, in our opinion, cleaning a bedroom.

Children still play indoors and out, still enjoy their pursuits, and I use my computer and the internet almost constantly. Still, I wouldn’t trade my childhood memories of games and toys.

Race you to the corner.

Loser’s a rotten egg.

Memorial Day Touches Each of Us

I never knew my Uncle Earl. He was lost at sea in WWII when his plane was reported crashing into a mountain in New Guinea. The telegram was delivered by the Navy, and Grandma placed it in the bottom of her jewelry case, unopened.

She never did open it. Didn’t need to.


SCHAFFER, Earl J, AMM1, 3116899, USN, from Michigan, location New Guinea, missing, date of loss June 19, 1944 (pm) + SCHAFFER, Earl J, Aviation Machinist's Mate First Class, 3116899, USN, from Michigan, 1946 (WW2), Manila American Cemetery (bm) + SCHAFFER, Earl Junior, Aviation Machinist’s Mate 1c, USN. Wife, Mrs. Edna Louise Schaffer, 318 W. 25th St., Norfolk, Va (na)

Memorial Day in the U.S. is a time for us to remember every service member who died in the line of duty serving our country.

I don’t remember when this commemorative day was called Decoration Day, even though 1971 began its official name change. The remembrance began during the Civil War, when family members put flowers on the graves of those killed, the U.S. war that claimed more lives than any other conflict.

The first national cemeteries were founded at that time.

Parades and ceremonies in graveyards have always been part of this day’s traditions. In the Heights, we lined up along Auburn Road to watch the parade—the high school band, local celebrities, the Fire Department and Sheriff Department (I recall mounted sheriffs, always a thrill), Shiners, Jaycees…

As a child, I loved the color, music, and excitement of our parade.

We met at the back of the Auburn Heights Cemetery, (Aaron Webster Cemetery now) for speeches, poems, and the 21-gun salute.

Moving.

Most of the attendees had lost someone in one of the wars, and Memorial Day includes the Civil War, WWI, WWII, the Korean War, and Vietnam. What a tremendous loss.

The Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington DC began in 1982 with 57,939, listed by casualty date. Currently, there are 58,281 tragedies carved on the Wall.

On Memorial Day, a wreath is placed at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier by one of the “Old Guard,” sentinels assigned to the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment. This historic monument is in Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia, and dedicated to those service members who could not be identified. These nameless heroes have received the Medal of Honor and the Victoria Cross. Presidents have led their funerals.

Considered one of the highest honors in the Armed Forces, the sentinels are selected for intense training to become full-fledged Tomb Guards. Reminds me of the Queen’s Guard (now known as the King’s Guard).

The soldier “walking the mat” wears no insignia in order to not outrank the Unknowns.

HERE RESTS IN
HONORED GLORY
AN AMERICAN
SOLDIER
KNOWN BUT TO GOD

There are over 30 flags at veteran graves at our Heights’ tiny cemetery, a reminder that these losses touch each of us, year after year, in every crossroad of our nation.

This holiday is more than federal closures, the end of the school year, the beginning of summer.

Memorial Day is a sober reminder of the complicated lives we live on our planet, the courage and grit of our heroes, and their loss to all of us.

Ay, it is fitting on this holiday,
Commemorative of our soldier dead,
When—with sweet flowers of our New England May
Hiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray—
Their graves in every town are garlanded,
That pious tribute should be given too
To our intrepid few
(Alan Seeger, killed in action WWI)

Happy Memorial Day, no matter how you celebrate the tribute.

There have been too many Uncle Earls.

Grilled Dinner on that First Warm Day

On the first warm, sunny, late spring day, Dave launched the grill.

He’d already renovated the kitchen and, in a further burst of energy, designed and built a deck off the back kitchen wall with a French door and a gazebo in the corner.

A work of art and used often.

Our kitchen on Caroline Street was huge by today’s standards. Growing up, our table was long and wide enough to fit all eight of us, and even with a family of four, our kitchen table was generous, but I still had room for a rocker in the corner, a teacup shelf on the wall (also made by Dave) for my various teacups and saucers, and of course, our wall phone with the mile-long cord.

But the deck was “a thing of beauty,” as poet John Keats says, “a joy forever.” We had a picnic table underneath the sycamore—always an adventure due to birds and their suspicious aim—and grills that grew in size from the first charcoal type to one that could manage chicken, steak, hamburgers, or even a small turkey.

Steak was always a treat, but even Dave’s hamburgers rivaled Mr. K’s Karryout. Served with beefsteak tomatoes, homemade potato salad, and corn on the cob, dinner was a gustatory thrill. Dave’s chicken would make you weep.

And for dessert, of course, strawberry shortcake. Now, we occasionally used the individual sponge cakes, but our preference was for Bisquick biscuits, split and ready. Strawberries would have been sliced and chilled with a sprinkle of sugar in the refrigerator, to be served with generous amounts of whipped cream. And freshly-brewed coffee.

Dinner on the back deck rivaled time on the front porch watching thunderstorms, a true compliment.

Every Garden of Eden has its deterrent, and outdoor dining included the yellow jackets, as intent on steaks as we were.

They were plentiful in our yard, burrowing against the concrete front porch, in shrubbery, underground, anywhere they could hide until disturbed, when they poured out with murderous vengeance on their chitinous minds.

Still, brushing aside yellow jackets while we inhaled summer pleasure was only a nuisance.

The deck also called for spontaneous desserts, like watermelon cut into slices with seeds to spit at each other, or the Shank’s famous steam pudding, served with milk and a touch of sugar. “Spoon clanking” we called it, and savored it on the deck, in Tupperware bowls, with the breeze in the sycamore leaves, kids playing up and down the neighborhood, and the latest gossip.

When Dave and I first moved into my parents’ house on Caroline Street, paper wasps were a curse. They built nests in the eaves, at the corners of the roof, and invaded the house or anyone in their territory.

Until the starlings.

I don’t know when I first noticed them, stocky birds that I mistook for grackles with stubby tails. They were noisy, messy, built nests so sloppy, fledglings fell out too often, but they delighted in feasting on wasps—adults or larvae. They made their way around the house, emptied the wasp nests, and tossed them, empty, onto the lawn.

Messy or not, starlings were my friends.

After watching Dave produce masterpiece after masterpiece, I decided to take a stab at it. I mean, how hard could it be? So one day, I offered something simple—hot dogs.

Made the potato salad, steamed the corn, set the picnic table, and dropped hot dogs on the grill.

Too ambitious with running in and out of the house. Cold and raw one minute, they were charred tubes the next. Yikers.

Started another batch of hot dogs on the stove, finished setting the table, and arranged the burnt coals on a plate with a lid. Once the replacements were hot, I called the family to the table, set down the covered dish, and whipped off the top with a “Wah-lah!” just to see their expressions before I served the edible ones.

From then on, I let the master continue the grilled portions of summer dinners.

If I close my eyes, the robins are singing, the grill’s hot, the table is set indoors with the French screen door open for the warm breeze, and dinner’s ready.

I wish.

Leone's Frosty Treats

Some things were worth standing in line for, no matter how long it took to reach the counter.

Friday evenings in the summertime. Spur of the moment after-dinner dessert. Summer afternoon indulgence.

Leone’s Frosty Treat offered the best soft-serve ice cream anywhere (and other favorites) for many years. I’m hoping that my memories will trigger you into sharing yours.

Like the favorite flavor of the week which was posted on the sign.

What to choose? Banana split or twisty cone of chocolate-vanilla? Many times, it was decided by available funds, but there was no inferior choice.

Every season we waited for Leone’s to open and grieved when they closed until the next year.

What a nice family. My nieces worked at the dairy bar for a time. Between customers they were allowed to snack on ice cream (behind the machines), which was considered a big perk.

My sister-in-law gave piano lessons to the sons, and took her daughters to their house in Indian Village (or Seminole Heights) for the lessons, where Mrs. Leone, a thoughtful hostess, always had something waiting for the girls.

Best of all was the ice cream.

Over time, I tried pistachio, peach, lemon, banana, and Irish cream, yet it was just as hard to turn down the chocolate-vanilla twist.

When the Leone’s retired and sold their business, the number of loyal customers rose like fountains to wish them well and thank them for years of service.

In fact, a selling point of the shop, listed by the realtor, was a business that had served the Pontiac community for 58 years, with a loyal customer base, over 5,000 Facebook followers, and more than 100 customers a day during their open season.

We went weekly during the summertime, usually early evening, and it was worth standing in line to people-watch, gaze at traffic along Auburn Road or the night sky darkening, and envy people leaving the counter already tasting.

Janet J shared on Facebook that her parents bought the business in the mid-90’s when the Leone’s retired to Traverse City to run a glass-blowing business. The quality and name were maintained, and the magic kept alive.

One Saturday afternoon, when the temperature rose to 90 degrees, my sister JoAnn and I decided to treat ourselves to a Leone’s ice cream. I usually bought a small or medium, but the day was sizzling and my appetite for ice cream just as intense, so we both ordered large cones.

Well.

Even small cones were generous in size, and I’d never had a large before. We couldn’t eat the ice cream fast enough. It ran down the sides and onto fingers. We gobbled as quickly as we could. Chocolate-vanilla dripped onto the steering wheel, saturated napkin after napkin.

“Faster, faster!” we told each other, laughing.

And got brain freeze.

Yes, delicious, but I never ordered a large again on a hot day.

I miss Leone’s. Many afternoons or evenings on a warm day, I long to drive west on Auburn Road and stand in line for the best ice cream treats available, but I’m nearly 1200 miles from that line.

If you can manage to get to 477 Auburn Road for me, choose the flavor of the week and relive a treasured memory.

Leone family, thank you for many happy years. Jimenez family, thank you for continuing the tradition. And to whoever owns it now, what is your flavor of the week?

Windy Day and Michigan Weather

Winter storm warning in Marquette. High gusts predicted around the state. Michigan weather is unpredictable, unexpected, and adventurous, while seasons stretch and compact at will.

Fifty years in Michigan and over twenty in Central Florida, yet I still translate weather here in Michigan terms.

After an eternal drought, or so it seemed, we had a rush of thunderstorms and rain, and three nights ago, wind swept through with gusts up to 60 mph, knocked over my container garden, ripped the table umbrella from the front patio, crashed it into the house, and sent it rolling across the yard, my grandson after it. Neighboring cities thought a tornado had appeared.

Fifteen minutes later, the storm had swept through, no pun intended, leaving sporadic rain.

Reminded me of home in the Heights.

“The state has an average wind speed of 20.9 mph, ranking it third among the country’s windiest states. Because Michigan is bordered by large enough lakes to be tiny oceans, the weather may be highly variable” (Taiwo Victor).

You think?

After another night of thunder and downpour, this morning was a Michigan day. Nothing else feels that way—cool air, gusty currents, refreshing. Yes, I’m in Central Florida, but no, this was definitely Michigan weather.

And I’ve missed it.

I’ve missed wind, clouds rolling overhead. Breezes that fill sheets hanging on the line and make the laundry dance.

Gusts of wind always preceded a storm, so that Dave and I hurried to put on the coffee and sit on our front porch on Caroline Street to watch the performance. Birds fluttered past, looking for a hideout. Clouds gathered, thunder rumbled, and leaves blew backward. The storm built in the west, traveled toward Squirrel Road, and headed for Troy and Rochester.

Afterward, the sky cleared, the wind dropped to a breeze, and the air smelled divine. Plants and trees release oils after a rain that add to the fresh perfume.

Pan fishing, including lake perch, bluegill, and, at dusk or dawn, bass required a still lake, enhanced by the threat of a coming storm. But after a thunderstorm, when the air was fresh and smelled green, the breeze light and fragrant, fish ignored any bait or lure.

In spite of the poor fishing, it was still my favorite weather.

The clouds seem closer to the ground here. Must be my imagination, but the sky in Michigan is grander, larger, maybe because of the higher latitude, maybe because of the (more than) four seasons. In Florida, we have two—wet and dry. And there are few cloudless days, no doubt because, like my old home, we’re surrounded by large bodies of water.

I don’t mind clouds or gray skies as long as there’s a stirring wind. A gusty day is a treasure, and a cool, blustery breeze a breath of home.

Yes, birds sing year ‘round here and there’s always something blooming, yet the first whiff of a cool wind and I’m back on my front porch, celebrating Michigan weather.

Even though it will change, unexpectedly, at any time. Michiganders are prepared.

But you could send me more of your after-a-rain wind.

Any time.

I'll even trade it for flowering magnolia trees.

Was This the Longest Winter on Record?

The Farmer’s Almanac predicted a cold winter for Michigan in 2023, with the most snow from late November to early December, and again early January.

Well.

They missed this time.

Fifty years in Michigan, most of it in Oakland County, means that I watch your weather in the Heights as often as I check ours in Ridge Manor. What a winter you had. Some days, your temperatures were nearly as warm as ours. Other times, you dropped below zero.

On January 31st, temperatures across Michigan fell to ten degrees below zero and Detroit was hit with nearly eight inches of snow. In early March, the Heights and Pontiac had ten inches of snow.

Yikers. What a winter.

Made me curious about other winter records.

Officially, the Spring Equinox is March 20th, when average temperatures are expected to be in the mid 40’s.

Michigan has never been average or normal. Snow, melting, balmy days, ice storms, temperatures drop and rise. Even April and May are not immune from winter storms.

Yes, Michigan is famous for being the “Motor City,” for our Great Lakes, two peninsulas, and natural beauty. But it’s also familiar with frigid temperatures, summer melting spells, tornadoes, thunderstorms at any time, and ice storms.

I recall a March ice storm in 1976 with one to three inches of ice, uprooted trees, and power outages. In fact, Dave and I packed up our children and went to stay with my friend Karie on Nichols Road because they had electricity, heat, and water. The world was a fairyland of sparkling diamond trees and shiny, silvery ground.

Interesting facts I picked up while looking for temperature ranges in Michigan—the Great Lakes keep temperatures lower than other states as long as they don’t freeze. When the lakes are coated with ice, the cold moves inland. Lake effect snow happens when water evaporates, rises, freezes, and moves to the shoreline.

Most of us recall the monster blizzard of 1978 late January, causing deaths due to heart attacks from shoveling snow, traffic accidents, and exposure inside cold houses. Highways were blocked by snow with 100,000 cars abandoned.

So when snow was predicted for the Heights again this April, spring seemed to have changed her mind.

From weather.com: “In 2014, the Detroit area broke a record for the snowiest winter ever, with 94.9 inches of snow. It included 77 straight days with an inch or more of snow on the ground and the snowiest single month on record, Jan. 2014, when 39.1 inches of snow fell. It was the fourth-coldest winter on record, too, with 79 days where the high failed to reach the freezing mark.”

In December of 1976, there was a snowfall of over 19 inches across the Metro area, 18 inches in Oakland County. Not only schools closed, but so did Pontiac Motors, Fisher Body, and Truck & Coach because employees couldn’t get to work.

Oakland County sheriffs used snowmobiles to deliver women in labor to the hospital, and Dearborn police picked up a man with frostbite whose car ran out of gas, but refused a call from another to install his snow tires.

Another memorable Michigan blizzard attacked late January 1967 after days of temperatures in the 50’s and 60’s.

Yes, Michigan is full of surprises.

One fact is certain. No matter how long winter drags, it can’t last indefinitely. Signs of spring pop up, get swallowed by cold and snow, and reappear. Robins will sing and hop over new lawns. Trilliums will bloom in the woods. Daffodils, lilacs, and dandelions will make their appearance, and I will envy you in the Heights for those warm, blooming spring days.

I checked your forecast today—chilly and rainy—brrr, so I won’t torture you with ours. In the meantime, maybe there’s some comfort in knowing that this year will join the records for all-time newsworthy winters.

Dandelion Butter and Wishes

Do you like butter?

Early in the spring, we kids would taunt each other with that question as we shoved a dandelion flower under a chin. And later in the summer, we’d blow wishes with the white dandelion pods, scattering our hopeful dreams with future golden lawn fillers.

We had neighbors on Caroline Street who cursed the bright yellow flowers or pulled as many of the tenacious stems as they could, but I loved the sight of green and yellow across yards.

Friends I visited in the Orchards or families I babysat there had, occasionally, velvet green carpets of lawn without a dandelion to be seen. Their pride in a flawless expanse was a puzzle to me. I looked forward each year to the first crop of dandelions.

My brother Dave made dandelion wine which he stored in our fruit cellar in whatever bottles he could collect. Some years it hit you with a whack as you drank it, but other times, the delicate, fragrant wine slid down your throat before it turned to fire inside.

Summer in a bottle, as writer Ray Bradbury promised.

Dandelions, a sign of true school’s-out summer. Even lawn mowing couldn’t stop them, and the persistent bright weeds popped up again to continue decorating the neighborhood.

A few of our neighbors harvested the early crop for dandelion greens, which I never tried, so missed out on a source of Vitamins A, E, C, iron, zinc, and calcium.

The obstinate weed belongs to the Asteraceae family that evolved 30 million years ago across Europe and the Middle East. Chinese medicines have included them for over a thousand years. Native Americans used them for food and medicine, and historians think that dandelions came with the pilgrims on the Mayflower.

Dent de lion, “lions’ tooth” from the French is also known as blowball, cankerwort, Irish daisy, monks-head, wild endive, and even pee-a-bed because of the diuretic effect of the roots.

Before the vitamin content was identified, dandelion leaves and roots were used as tonics to remove bloodstream toxins, fevers, toothaches, arthritis, heartburn, and other disorders.

I’m certain that my brother’s dandelion wine could overcome many ailments, as well.

Yellow dye was made from the flower and purple from the leaves. Should we also add that the root tea could increase psychic abilities or call spirits?

Dandelion plants can reach nearly a foot and a half, and their seeds can be carried five miles because of the parachute-like shape. That’s a lot of mileage for one wish or puff of wind.

You can order a package of 10,000 dandelion seeds on Amazon for ten dollars. And why would you, you think, surrounded by them in the Heights?

They don’t grow well where I live in Central Florida. We have a yellow wildflower that resembles them, but no lawn dotted with bright gold.

Now that our spring is leaning into summer, I miss dandelions, along with lilacs, weeping willows, bleeding hearts, gladiolus, and real grass. I miss lawns peppered with dandelions.

The first time I visited my friend Linnea in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, we went to a local nursery where I was stunned to see carefully-grown dandelion plants for sale.

“What?” I said, pointing to them.

Linnea grew up two doors from me on Caroline Street, so was familiar with our pesky weed. She shrugged.

“They don’t grow here naturally,” she said, “and are popular.”

I laughed at the idea then, but now?

I’d happily plant a few bright flowers in my ragged Bahiagrass-St. Augustine lawn.

Or in a pot for my container garden where I’ve also sprouted Queen Anne’s lace to baby them into flower.

Instead of being cursed, maybe my neighbors would drive by our yard in envy. I might even coerce my brother into producing a harvest of golden, heady wine.

For old times’ sake, check to see if you like butter this summer, and when the flowers dry, make a wish for me.

Easter Baskets and Chocolate Bunnies

I doubt that any of us kids believed in the Easter Bunny, although it was fun to imagine a white rabbit hopping around the neighborhood leaving baskets of candy in artificial grass.

Some families hid their decorated eggs for an Easter Sunday egg hunt. We wore our new Easter outfits to Mass.

Easter Sunday in the Heights could be early to late spring. Some years we wore our winter coats over dresses, white shirts and dress slacks, or slipped on icy pavements in black patent leather shoes. Other years the mild temperatures and new grass meant spring had arrived with birdsongs and skies the color of robin eggs.

We helped Mom color hardboiled eggs with the familiar Paas kits—pastel color tablets, egg dipper, cardboard egg holders, and stickers. The year Mom Shank used a marble-like coating, we thought the end results too stunning to eat.

Each child had an Easter basket that was reused over the years. We recognized our own, and woe be to any sibling who dipped into someone else’s. Mom insisted that she counted out jelly beans and chocolate eggs to avoid arguments, which never worked, since we could and did argue about anything at any time. But someone else’s Easter basket was strictly off-limits.

Our large chocolate bunny was eaten as slowly as we could manage, beginning with the ears. There were also marshmallow chocolate bunnies, jelly beans, creme eggs, and chocolate malted eggs.

And Peeps.

Those bright yellow marshmallow chicks were considered raw by our family until they sat out, uncovered, long enough to become chewy.

“Mine’s cooked,” we’d say, as we tried one.

Being a Catholic family, we’d give up something for Lent—nearly always chocolate, for me—and looked forward to the excitement of the Easter Vigil services with lit candles in a dark church, incense, and the Litany of the Saints, the Gregorian chant we sang to each other all year. On the drive home in the car after the late service, we’d repeat the chant, adding “Cindy the dog” to our list of saints.

Some years we attended Easter Sunday morning Mass, and in spite of many cold seasons, my memories include warm spring air, tulips, new grass, and leaves on the trees.

Centuries ago, Easter baskets were brought to the Easter Vigil Mass for the priest’s blessing, filled with meat and treats not eaten during Lent. Later, baskets containing a meal or candy were delivered to needy children or the elderly. In some families, the Easter Bunny delivered the baskets, or even hid them, along with decorated eggs.

Rabbits and springtime, of course, reach back to pagan fertility rites, but I doubt they could have foreseen the durability of the Easter Bunny.

And why “Easter”? Historians claim that the word originated with Eostre, the pagan goddess of fertility and spring, when she found a bird freezing in the cold and turned it into a rabbit. The rabbit survived, but continued to lay eggs which she decorated in gratitude to Eostre.

No more farfetched than a large white rabbit delivering baskets.

Chocolate bunnies probably began in Germany or with German immigrants, since bunny-shaped molds were found in Munich in the 1850’s.

And Peeps? Created in 1953 by the Rodda Candy Company of marshmallow paste squeezed from pastry tubes, including wings on each chick. By 1955, machinery and the loss of the wings made a laborious process into six minutes per Peep.

To children, Easter is about chocolate and baskets and jelly beans, although even in childhood, we knew the reason behind the holiday and celebrated it.

From the most sacred event in our history to arranging an Easter basket, celebration of God’s great creation and gifts makes Easter as sparkling as it was for me all those years ago, when we dug through the plastic green grass for that last jelly bean.

Happy Easter, no matter how old you are or how you celebrate the holiday.

Or even if you didn’t receive an Easter basket, eat a Peep, or bite off the ears of your chocolate bunny.