Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 2
April 18, 2025
Easter Glorious Easter
When I declare Christmas to be my favorite holiday, I’ve forgotten about the excitement of the Easter season. Traditions since childhood lasted a lifetime.
Our first Easter egg hunt was at Jaycee Park in Pontiac. As soon as the leaders blew their whistles, the big kids ran us over and grabbed eggs from our hands. I don’t recall ever going to another.
Mom helped us color hardboiled eggs with Paas kits. One tablespoon vinegar to a cup of warm water for each color using metal dippers. We’d each claim an egg and write our name on it before dipping. The eggs, when dry, rested on a plate of Easter “grass” to decorate the kitchen table.
Holy Week at Sacred Heart Church was the highlight of the liturgical year. Fr. Kreft made certain we knew the story of Jesus’ last week, from Palm Sunday, where we waved our palm branches as part of the crowd welcoming the King to save Israel, through hearing the Passion read for the Gospel. Thursday night, the Last Supper, included the washing of feet.
Good Friday was a somber celebration. Statues were covered with black cloths, no instruments were played, and our prayer service began at noon and ended at three, with Stations of the Cross to tell the story of the trial, carrying the cross, and crucifixion, with another reading of the Passion.
Easter Vigil Mass celebrated the Resurrection with our cherished Litany of the Saints, lit candles, favorite hymns—Jesus Christ Is Risen Today, O Sons and Daughters, Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee—incense, organ music filling the church, Fr. Kreft in a white and gold robe.
We each had the same Easter basket from year to year, filled with chocolate eggs, jelly beans, a large chocolate bunny, and various other candies. Jelly beans fell to the bottom so that you had to dig through the grass to be sure of finding each one. There was an Easter egg hunt.
Sunday dinner of ham and sweet potatoes, squeezed around our large table with grandparents.
Easter bunny, decorated eggs, new clothes and shoes, Easter baskets, palms, the death and resurrection of Jesus all wound together with the magic of springtime—even when the weather turned cold or there was snow on Easter Sunday.
The sight of an Easter basket, the sound of a favorite hymn, the whiff of incense brings back the excitement of that season—the end of winter, the lifting of our spirits, the Resurrection of Our Lord with the promise of life everlasting.
Happy Easter!
Our first Easter egg hunt was at Jaycee Park in Pontiac. As soon as the leaders blew their whistles, the big kids ran us over and grabbed eggs from our hands. I don’t recall ever going to another.
Mom helped us color hardboiled eggs with Paas kits. One tablespoon vinegar to a cup of warm water for each color using metal dippers. We’d each claim an egg and write our name on it before dipping. The eggs, when dry, rested on a plate of Easter “grass” to decorate the kitchen table.
Holy Week at Sacred Heart Church was the highlight of the liturgical year. Fr. Kreft made certain we knew the story of Jesus’ last week, from Palm Sunday, where we waved our palm branches as part of the crowd welcoming the King to save Israel, through hearing the Passion read for the Gospel. Thursday night, the Last Supper, included the washing of feet.
Good Friday was a somber celebration. Statues were covered with black cloths, no instruments were played, and our prayer service began at noon and ended at three, with Stations of the Cross to tell the story of the trial, carrying the cross, and crucifixion, with another reading of the Passion.
Easter Vigil Mass celebrated the Resurrection with our cherished Litany of the Saints, lit candles, favorite hymns—Jesus Christ Is Risen Today, O Sons and Daughters, Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee—incense, organ music filling the church, Fr. Kreft in a white and gold robe.
We each had the same Easter basket from year to year, filled with chocolate eggs, jelly beans, a large chocolate bunny, and various other candies. Jelly beans fell to the bottom so that you had to dig through the grass to be sure of finding each one. There was an Easter egg hunt.
Sunday dinner of ham and sweet potatoes, squeezed around our large table with grandparents.
Easter bunny, decorated eggs, new clothes and shoes, Easter baskets, palms, the death and resurrection of Jesus all wound together with the magic of springtime—even when the weather turned cold or there was snow on Easter Sunday.
The sight of an Easter basket, the sound of a favorite hymn, the whiff of incense brings back the excitement of that season—the end of winter, the lifting of our spirits, the Resurrection of Our Lord with the promise of life everlasting.
Happy Easter!
April 12, 2025
Signs of the Times
Less than ten minutes from my house is a one-acre fenced yard with a lovely frame house and a handmade sign on the gate that reads, “Please close gate, cow in yard.”
I love signs that catch my attention and stay in my memory.
“Beef—it’s what’s for dinner” is printed on a large advertisement board in a local pasture, surrounded by unsuspecting, grazing cattle.
Before the Chrysler Center was constructed, the wetlands and woods were razed in preparation (sadly) with a large sign in the muddy field announcing “Tree Preservation Farm.”
GodSpeaks billboards offered divine messages beginning in 1998 by an anonymous donor.
“Let’s meet at My house Sunday, before the game.”
“We need to talk.”—God
“That ‘Love Thy Neighbor’ thing…I meant that.”—God.
And many of us grew up with the Burma Shave signs (from 1926 to 1963) along highways:
“The bearded lady tried a jar. She’s now a famous movie star. – Burma Shave.”
“If you think she likes your bristles, walk bare-footed through some thistles. – Burma Shave”
But street signs are the most memorable and entertaining.
My small neighborhood boasts Leisure Street and Idle-a-While Circle. The subdivision was obviously planned as a retirement lure. One town away is Easy Street. I snickered over Mountain Lake Road in a flat, forested section one town away until my father explained that Mountain was the family name of the property owners.
Familiarity prevented me from seeing the humor in the intersection of Crooks Road and Corporate Drive, although I did wonder about the naming of Woodward Avenue, a boulevard with a grassy median, and the avenue South Boulevard.
The funniest intersection at that time was East Boulevard South, South Boulevard East. (In 1994 East Boulevard was renamed Martin Luther King Jr Boulevard in honor of the civil rights leader.)
In high school, we thought it the height of wit to refer to the Rochester intersection “Letts Rush.”
History of local street names is a fascinating study. Squirrel Road in the Heights was originally Adams Road for Henry J. Adams, owner of the farm that became my neighborhood, where the streets were named for his family: Caroline and Margaret (granddaughters), Bessie (wife), and Henrydale (?).
Grey Road, between Adams and Auburn, was an Indian trail with stagecoach stops at one time. South Squirrel was once known as Webster Road. No doubt, Squirrel Road earned its name from the number of oaks and squirrels in the area.
Part of a Sauk Indian trail ran from Detroit River to Pontiac, up Dixie Highway through Flint to Saginaw. In 1819 the Saginaw Trail was the first surveyed road in Michigan and called Pontiac Road from Detroit to Pontiac.
In the 1820’s it was renamed Woodward Avenue after Judge Augustus Woodward, Detroit’s first Chief Justice, and made gravel. In 1909, concrete was poured for one mile in the country (Oakland County). Woodward Avenue brought John and Matilda Dodge to Rochester in 1908 to buy a 320-acre farm for a weekend retreat, later to become Meadow Brook Hall.
But my favorite intersection was in Pontiac—Mack Square and Mack Square. I’d called my brother for directions to his new residence and that was the final destination he gave. And yes, I saw the signs.
Even funnier was my brother’s explanation.
“They renamed the four streets around the square—Paddock, Pike, Auburn, and Wide Track—as ‘Mack Square’ after Stephen Mack,” he told me, “the first settler in Pontiac,” a farmer who later built flour and saw mills.
Since it incorporated a square, where there four intersections with the same name?
I love signs that catch my attention and stay in my memory.
“Beef—it’s what’s for dinner” is printed on a large advertisement board in a local pasture, surrounded by unsuspecting, grazing cattle.
Before the Chrysler Center was constructed, the wetlands and woods were razed in preparation (sadly) with a large sign in the muddy field announcing “Tree Preservation Farm.”
GodSpeaks billboards offered divine messages beginning in 1998 by an anonymous donor.
“Let’s meet at My house Sunday, before the game.”
“We need to talk.”—God
“That ‘Love Thy Neighbor’ thing…I meant that.”—God.
And many of us grew up with the Burma Shave signs (from 1926 to 1963) along highways:
“The bearded lady tried a jar. She’s now a famous movie star. – Burma Shave.”
“If you think she likes your bristles, walk bare-footed through some thistles. – Burma Shave”
But street signs are the most memorable and entertaining.
My small neighborhood boasts Leisure Street and Idle-a-While Circle. The subdivision was obviously planned as a retirement lure. One town away is Easy Street. I snickered over Mountain Lake Road in a flat, forested section one town away until my father explained that Mountain was the family name of the property owners.
Familiarity prevented me from seeing the humor in the intersection of Crooks Road and Corporate Drive, although I did wonder about the naming of Woodward Avenue, a boulevard with a grassy median, and the avenue South Boulevard.
The funniest intersection at that time was East Boulevard South, South Boulevard East. (In 1994 East Boulevard was renamed Martin Luther King Jr Boulevard in honor of the civil rights leader.)
In high school, we thought it the height of wit to refer to the Rochester intersection “Letts Rush.”
History of local street names is a fascinating study. Squirrel Road in the Heights was originally Adams Road for Henry J. Adams, owner of the farm that became my neighborhood, where the streets were named for his family: Caroline and Margaret (granddaughters), Bessie (wife), and Henrydale (?).
Grey Road, between Adams and Auburn, was an Indian trail with stagecoach stops at one time. South Squirrel was once known as Webster Road. No doubt, Squirrel Road earned its name from the number of oaks and squirrels in the area.
Part of a Sauk Indian trail ran from Detroit River to Pontiac, up Dixie Highway through Flint to Saginaw. In 1819 the Saginaw Trail was the first surveyed road in Michigan and called Pontiac Road from Detroit to Pontiac.
In the 1820’s it was renamed Woodward Avenue after Judge Augustus Woodward, Detroit’s first Chief Justice, and made gravel. In 1909, concrete was poured for one mile in the country (Oakland County). Woodward Avenue brought John and Matilda Dodge to Rochester in 1908 to buy a 320-acre farm for a weekend retreat, later to become Meadow Brook Hall.
But my favorite intersection was in Pontiac—Mack Square and Mack Square. I’d called my brother for directions to his new residence and that was the final destination he gave. And yes, I saw the signs.
Even funnier was my brother’s explanation.
“They renamed the four streets around the square—Paddock, Pike, Auburn, and Wide Track—as ‘Mack Square’ after Stephen Mack,” he told me, “the first settler in Pontiac,” a farmer who later built flour and saw mills.
Since it incorporated a square, where there four intersections with the same name?
March 30, 2025
The First Spring Colors
March…came in like a lion, went out like a lion. No, a lamb. No, a lion. But finally, producing warm, balmy air. The first touch of spring.
With the first colors of spring.
Red from uncurling buds on maple trees. The blur of willows resembling Monet paintings. Green from snowdrop and crocus sprouts.
And the bright yellow of forsythia. Regardless of solstice and calendar, when those rows of bushes burst into bright yellow, spring is official.
One of the earliest shrubs to bloom, these springtime announcers originated in eastern Asia and were brought to the U.S. and Canada in 1842 by Robert Fortune, named for Scottish horticulturist William Forsyth. Each variety of the species is part of the olive tree family (Oleaceae), growing three to ten feet, two feet every year.
Sometimes they bloom so early, winter hasn’t let go. It’s believed in parts of the Midwest that there will be “three snows after the forsythia bloom.”
Oh, we hope not.
I remember Grandma’s forsythia lining her sidewalk on Scottwood in Pontiac. By summer they formed a barrier with tiny leaves, but early spring were bushes of gold flowers, leaf buds still waiting to open. The red oak along her driveway is still there, taller and thicker than in my childhood days, but the forsythia is long gone.
Springtime means trading heavy winter coats for spring jackets, leaving hats and gloves behind, watching tree buds open more daily.
The best trilliums bloomed in wooded sections along Adams Road, but of course that was in the “olden days” of my younger years when Adams was a narrow, winding scenic route.
At Cranbrook Gardens, anytime from early spring on, Daffodil Hill is covered by flowers I associate with Easter. (In 2015, volunteers planted 2,000 bulbs which have since doubled—a stunning sight on the otherwise grassy hill.)
Strips of garden plots along neighborhood houses display bulb sprouts which shoot up to announce the end of winter. Courting robins send out lilting melodies. Spring peepers trill from the Second Woods in a constant piercing symphony.
Only someone who has struggled with a long, cold, hard winter can appreciate the subtle signs of spring. And celebrate every new green, tiny blossoms, mild days.
In a blink, lilacs bloom and dandelions cover lawns. Lawn mowers appear from sheds. Birds hatch eggs and fill mornings with song. Gardens show off tulips and irises, and ferns unfurl. Cherry and apple blossoms draw honeybees.
In the first bloom of spring, every mild day and uncurling bud is cause for reveling because winter is over…or so we hope.
And I’m walking home from Auburn Heights Elementary, Valentine cards in the past, spring break and Easter ahead. My winter coat will be packed away for a younger sister or neighbor. Boots relegated to the basement. (Hope Easter Sunday won’t be too cold for our new clothes and shoes.) Robins serenade me home. All signs of snow are gone and garden plots are sprouting. Dad's replacing storm windows with screens.
Those days, those moments bring back the joy of early spring with every whiff of mild, moist air, or sign of iris flowers, new grass, nesting birds.
Once the forsythia blooms, late spring to early summer are a blink away. Even a sugar snow can’t stop the spring season.
Solomon had it right—“For lo, the winter is past…the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come…”
Welcome, spring, to this year and from every childhood memory. I’m off to find pussy willows to sprout on a window ledge.
With the first colors of spring.
Red from uncurling buds on maple trees. The blur of willows resembling Monet paintings. Green from snowdrop and crocus sprouts.
And the bright yellow of forsythia. Regardless of solstice and calendar, when those rows of bushes burst into bright yellow, spring is official.
One of the earliest shrubs to bloom, these springtime announcers originated in eastern Asia and were brought to the U.S. and Canada in 1842 by Robert Fortune, named for Scottish horticulturist William Forsyth. Each variety of the species is part of the olive tree family (Oleaceae), growing three to ten feet, two feet every year.
Sometimes they bloom so early, winter hasn’t let go. It’s believed in parts of the Midwest that there will be “three snows after the forsythia bloom.”
Oh, we hope not.
I remember Grandma’s forsythia lining her sidewalk on Scottwood in Pontiac. By summer they formed a barrier with tiny leaves, but early spring were bushes of gold flowers, leaf buds still waiting to open. The red oak along her driveway is still there, taller and thicker than in my childhood days, but the forsythia is long gone.
Springtime means trading heavy winter coats for spring jackets, leaving hats and gloves behind, watching tree buds open more daily.
The best trilliums bloomed in wooded sections along Adams Road, but of course that was in the “olden days” of my younger years when Adams was a narrow, winding scenic route.
At Cranbrook Gardens, anytime from early spring on, Daffodil Hill is covered by flowers I associate with Easter. (In 2015, volunteers planted 2,000 bulbs which have since doubled—a stunning sight on the otherwise grassy hill.)
Strips of garden plots along neighborhood houses display bulb sprouts which shoot up to announce the end of winter. Courting robins send out lilting melodies. Spring peepers trill from the Second Woods in a constant piercing symphony.
Only someone who has struggled with a long, cold, hard winter can appreciate the subtle signs of spring. And celebrate every new green, tiny blossoms, mild days.
In a blink, lilacs bloom and dandelions cover lawns. Lawn mowers appear from sheds. Birds hatch eggs and fill mornings with song. Gardens show off tulips and irises, and ferns unfurl. Cherry and apple blossoms draw honeybees.
In the first bloom of spring, every mild day and uncurling bud is cause for reveling because winter is over…or so we hope.
And I’m walking home from Auburn Heights Elementary, Valentine cards in the past, spring break and Easter ahead. My winter coat will be packed away for a younger sister or neighbor. Boots relegated to the basement. (Hope Easter Sunday won’t be too cold for our new clothes and shoes.) Robins serenade me home. All signs of snow are gone and garden plots are sprouting. Dad's replacing storm windows with screens.
Those days, those moments bring back the joy of early spring with every whiff of mild, moist air, or sign of iris flowers, new grass, nesting birds.
Once the forsythia blooms, late spring to early summer are a blink away. Even a sugar snow can’t stop the spring season.
Solomon had it right—“For lo, the winter is past…the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come…”
Welcome, spring, to this year and from every childhood memory. I’m off to find pussy willows to sprout on a window ledge.
February 16, 2025
No Winter Lasts Forever
After a certain age, hard times come to each of us.
“Nobody leaves this place without singing the blues,” the band leader says in Adventure in Babysitting.
So true, but this is not the place to list troubles. Instead, it’s a reminder that nothing lasts forever—not struggles and difficulties, not winter.
Remember Steve Martin’s Parenthood, when his wife tells him that life is messy? He comes back with, “I hate messy. It’s so…messy.” Her grandmother wanders in and tells them a story about riding a roller coaster. The dad doesn’t get it until the school play, when he realizes that life really is a roller coaster, “Up, down, up, down. Oh, what a ride!”
We don’t get over tragedies and sorrow. Grief doesn’t disappear, but helps us become more sensitive, more aware, more compassionate…even more grateful.
Perception is a window to the outside world.
Windows, an invitation to a greater reality.
They’re best with a screen, open to fresh air, birdsong, pattering rain, windchime music.
Picture windows. French doors. Blowing sheers. Views for dreaming.
Poets and writers require windows. Daydreamers and problem solvers need them. Gazing out a window is like opening a delicious book with quiet adventure ahead.
Wild sword ferns in a jam jar on the window ledge become a garden.
Sheers waving in the breeze are elegance.
Spring peepers, children laughing, lawn mowers, birds trilling are a symphony of life, no less than a symphony with an orchestra.
We can’t change difficult situations, although we can pray, ask for help, and give our best.
No one can shorten winter or raise the current icy temperatures, but nothing can erase the realization that spring comes again—always has, always will. Moments of peace and satisfaction remain part of us.
Mowing the lawn and inhaling the fresh green scent of summer. Picking ripe tomatoes from the vine for dinner. Standing at the edge of the woods looking out across a field of waving grass to a distant pond, frogs singing as the sun lowers.
Children running and splashing at the beach. Hamburgers on the grill and potato salad waiting. Lilacs in bloom and lawns covered with dandelions.
It’s a wonderful thing to sit at a table with a pen, page, and open window when the trees are green and songbirds celebrate, but even when your view is only snow, dark skies, and icy roads, the roller coaster keeps moving, “up, down, up, down,” from dark to light, from hard times to serenity, pain to healing. Winter to spring.
No winter lasts forever, not even this one. Your room’s window may not open to springtime yet, but it will.
"People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring." - Rogers Hornsby.
“Nobody leaves this place without singing the blues,” the band leader says in Adventure in Babysitting.
So true, but this is not the place to list troubles. Instead, it’s a reminder that nothing lasts forever—not struggles and difficulties, not winter.
Remember Steve Martin’s Parenthood, when his wife tells him that life is messy? He comes back with, “I hate messy. It’s so…messy.” Her grandmother wanders in and tells them a story about riding a roller coaster. The dad doesn’t get it until the school play, when he realizes that life really is a roller coaster, “Up, down, up, down. Oh, what a ride!”
We don’t get over tragedies and sorrow. Grief doesn’t disappear, but helps us become more sensitive, more aware, more compassionate…even more grateful.
Perception is a window to the outside world.
Windows, an invitation to a greater reality.
They’re best with a screen, open to fresh air, birdsong, pattering rain, windchime music.
Picture windows. French doors. Blowing sheers. Views for dreaming.
Poets and writers require windows. Daydreamers and problem solvers need them. Gazing out a window is like opening a delicious book with quiet adventure ahead.
Wild sword ferns in a jam jar on the window ledge become a garden.
Sheers waving in the breeze are elegance.
Spring peepers, children laughing, lawn mowers, birds trilling are a symphony of life, no less than a symphony with an orchestra.
We can’t change difficult situations, although we can pray, ask for help, and give our best.
No one can shorten winter or raise the current icy temperatures, but nothing can erase the realization that spring comes again—always has, always will. Moments of peace and satisfaction remain part of us.
Mowing the lawn and inhaling the fresh green scent of summer. Picking ripe tomatoes from the vine for dinner. Standing at the edge of the woods looking out across a field of waving grass to a distant pond, frogs singing as the sun lowers.
Children running and splashing at the beach. Hamburgers on the grill and potato salad waiting. Lilacs in bloom and lawns covered with dandelions.
It’s a wonderful thing to sit at a table with a pen, page, and open window when the trees are green and songbirds celebrate, but even when your view is only snow, dark skies, and icy roads, the roller coaster keeps moving, “up, down, up, down,” from dark to light, from hard times to serenity, pain to healing. Winter to spring.
No winter lasts forever, not even this one. Your room’s window may not open to springtime yet, but it will.
"People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring." - Rogers Hornsby.
January 25, 2025
Lobster Quadrille or Who Knew They'd Be Delicious
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle-will you come and join the dance?
From the Lobster Quadrille by Lewis Carroll.
Who knew they’d be so delicious when dipped in melted butter-garlic sauce?
Familiar arthropods with ten legs, including large pincers, living up to fifty years, and having blue blood due to copper in their protein are not known for their beauty.
Lobsters existed 140 million years ago, were eaten by early Peruvians in 800 A.D., Pompeii Romans, Vikings, and early British. They live in every ocean, on rocks, sand, or the muddy sea floor, sniff out live prey—fish, mollusks, crustaceans, worms—catching them with their claws.
Ten to twenty inches long, they walk slowly on the sea floor, but can zip backward when threatened.
Before the mid 1800’s in America they were considered food for the poor or indentured servants, and only became popular in New York and Boston when a boat was developed to keep them alive during transport.
I tasted my first lobster tail in the early 1970s. My classmate Sandy and her husband were celebrating her birthday, and invited Dave and me to join them. We made reservations at The Wharf’s River Room on the St. Clair River for Surf ‘n’ Turf.
I remember the stunning dress Sandy bought for the occasion—she looked like a million dollars—which was the amount of our dinner bill, but worth every bite and sip.
That taste of lobster sent me to Kroger’s one summer afternoon for fresh lobsters. I was reluctant, having never cooked them before, but Dave hauled out a large kettle for boiling, so I agreed, buoyed by memories of our delicious dinner at The Wharf. I brought them home and dumped them in a plastic dishpan of tap water to wait for the water to boil.
They died within minutes.
“Go back and ask for more,” Dave said.
Kroger’s was trying to get rid of the last batches, so they didn’t question me. Nor did I offer the reason for the lobsters’ demise. The kettle was boiling when I reached the kitchen.
“Just drop them in with tongs,” Dave said.
Arghh! They did not agree with their fate and tried to climb out of the kettle. Brrr, never again in spite of the taste.
I’ve had Rock lobster in Boston—a spiny lobster (or sea crayfish)—and crawdads in Cross Creek. “You get a line and I’ll get a pole, honey…”
The platter at the Yearling Restaurant was piled with steamed crawdads (which I grew up calling crayfish) to be snapped and dipped in garlic-butter sauce.
“You can suck out the brains, too,” our waitress said, and after she left, I leaned across the table to my friend Bea.
“Was she serious? Will you do that?” I said.
"I have, but not today," she said, as she dipped a tail into the butter.
But my favorite lobster experience didn’t include eating one.
I was a last-minute cable show host for fourth graders at a local Birmingham station. I’d written and recorded the theme song, and in a weak moment, agreed to continue working with the children. That included writing songs, finding guests, and showcasing the children’s talents—one girl was an excellent skater, another had a passion for astronomy.
We brought in artwork from the Detroit Institute of Arts, a magician with card tricks and a hissing parrot who tried to reach me through the bent bars of his cage, and a Seeing Eye dog with his trainer.
We also had a live lobster, courtesy of Peabody Market in Bloomfield Hills.
The young man who brought the lobster had researched every facet of a lobster’s life and kept us mesmerized. At one point in the half-hour program, one of the boys asked how long the lobster could live out of water.
“A few hours, normally,” our guest said, “but under these lights…”
The camera panned in for a closeup just as the lobster dropped every leg, lifeless.
The children gasped.
“Did it just die?” a girl whispered, but our guest started dancing the creature around, hoping to make it look natural.
“Oh, no, she’s fine,” he said.
We laughed about it after the children left the studio.
I’d love to open a menu at The Wharf again, celebrate Sandy’s birthday while overlooking the river, and dive into lobster tail and filet mignon.
That restaurant is long gone, Sandy and I have added a few years and miles, and it’s been a while since I’ve ordered Surf ‘n’ Turf.
Still, I can look back on the experience with pleasure.
I love retrieving memories.
From the Lobster Quadrille by Lewis Carroll.
Who knew they’d be so delicious when dipped in melted butter-garlic sauce?
Familiar arthropods with ten legs, including large pincers, living up to fifty years, and having blue blood due to copper in their protein are not known for their beauty.
Lobsters existed 140 million years ago, were eaten by early Peruvians in 800 A.D., Pompeii Romans, Vikings, and early British. They live in every ocean, on rocks, sand, or the muddy sea floor, sniff out live prey—fish, mollusks, crustaceans, worms—catching them with their claws.
Ten to twenty inches long, they walk slowly on the sea floor, but can zip backward when threatened.
Before the mid 1800’s in America they were considered food for the poor or indentured servants, and only became popular in New York and Boston when a boat was developed to keep them alive during transport.
I tasted my first lobster tail in the early 1970s. My classmate Sandy and her husband were celebrating her birthday, and invited Dave and me to join them. We made reservations at The Wharf’s River Room on the St. Clair River for Surf ‘n’ Turf.
I remember the stunning dress Sandy bought for the occasion—she looked like a million dollars—which was the amount of our dinner bill, but worth every bite and sip.
That taste of lobster sent me to Kroger’s one summer afternoon for fresh lobsters. I was reluctant, having never cooked them before, but Dave hauled out a large kettle for boiling, so I agreed, buoyed by memories of our delicious dinner at The Wharf. I brought them home and dumped them in a plastic dishpan of tap water to wait for the water to boil.
They died within minutes.
“Go back and ask for more,” Dave said.
Kroger’s was trying to get rid of the last batches, so they didn’t question me. Nor did I offer the reason for the lobsters’ demise. The kettle was boiling when I reached the kitchen.
“Just drop them in with tongs,” Dave said.
Arghh! They did not agree with their fate and tried to climb out of the kettle. Brrr, never again in spite of the taste.
I’ve had Rock lobster in Boston—a spiny lobster (or sea crayfish)—and crawdads in Cross Creek. “You get a line and I’ll get a pole, honey…”
The platter at the Yearling Restaurant was piled with steamed crawdads (which I grew up calling crayfish) to be snapped and dipped in garlic-butter sauce.
“You can suck out the brains, too,” our waitress said, and after she left, I leaned across the table to my friend Bea.
“Was she serious? Will you do that?” I said.
"I have, but not today," she said, as she dipped a tail into the butter.
But my favorite lobster experience didn’t include eating one.
I was a last-minute cable show host for fourth graders at a local Birmingham station. I’d written and recorded the theme song, and in a weak moment, agreed to continue working with the children. That included writing songs, finding guests, and showcasing the children’s talents—one girl was an excellent skater, another had a passion for astronomy.
We brought in artwork from the Detroit Institute of Arts, a magician with card tricks and a hissing parrot who tried to reach me through the bent bars of his cage, and a Seeing Eye dog with his trainer.
We also had a live lobster, courtesy of Peabody Market in Bloomfield Hills.
The young man who brought the lobster had researched every facet of a lobster’s life and kept us mesmerized. At one point in the half-hour program, one of the boys asked how long the lobster could live out of water.
“A few hours, normally,” our guest said, “but under these lights…”
The camera panned in for a closeup just as the lobster dropped every leg, lifeless.
The children gasped.
“Did it just die?” a girl whispered, but our guest started dancing the creature around, hoping to make it look natural.
“Oh, no, she’s fine,” he said.
We laughed about it after the children left the studio.
I’d love to open a menu at The Wharf again, celebrate Sandy’s birthday while overlooking the river, and dive into lobster tail and filet mignon.
That restaurant is long gone, Sandy and I have added a few years and miles, and it’s been a while since I’ve ordered Surf ‘n’ Turf.
Still, I can look back on the experience with pleasure.
I love retrieving memories.
January 18, 2025
Auburn Heights in 1936 from Lincolnview Road
Homer and Thelma Ward moved to a three-room house on Lincoln Street (later, Lincolnview Road) in Auburn Heights in 1936.
The Wards were the maternal grandparents of David/Daryl, Kay, Dan, and Debbie Shank. In a memoir Homer wrote for his family, he described the Heights at the time:
“Auburn Heights, at one time called Amy, was quite a booming little town back in the olden days. There was the Kroger store on the corner with a hardware store next door; a post office where everyone had their own mail box; a family doctor and dentist with offices next to the Wilson Ford Sales and Service.
"There was the Horst Drug Store, dry cleaning agency, one or two other grocery stores, a beer garden and a barber shop. There was a shoe store where they repaired shoes and sold new.
"Superior Metal had a small shop across Auburn from Ralph Block’s Mobile Gas Station and Chevy Car Sales. Along with the Free Methodist and Presbyterian churches, what more could one want?”
The Ward family consisted at that time of Evelyn (8), Billy (5), Helen (3), and Janet (8 months old) in a 20’ x 20’ house with a 12’ x 8’ garage and 4’ x 5’ two-hole privy. There were two lots each 50’ x 167’.
“The east lot had the buildings, some box elder shade trees, a couple of apple trees, a cherry tree and a garden plot across the back. The west lot had a large raspberry patch, and the rest of the lot was covered with the sharpest damn sand burrs you ever saw.
“Now this little house certainly created lots of ‘togetherness’—six people in three small rooms—it was either that or else. But it was a new adventure and there were no regrets about moving and living there.
“The geographical location of the place made it an ideal site to raise a family of small children. It was a dead-end street with practically no car traffic; it was only a half block from a school that would take them from kindergarten all the way through graduation; it was only four or five blocks to “downtown” Auburn Heights, and it was only three miles to the big city of Pontiac, where Homer worked and made all of his money.
“Lincoln was what could be called a very ‘fertile’ street. One could look out almost any time and count from six to a dozen kids playing on the street.
"There were the Ealy’s who lived next door; they had their one and only Genevieve; the Stratton boy was home at that time; Martinez and Manuel; Hackett’s, who lived in the Guerin house, had the wonderful Pat and Sonny; Miller’s had Mickey and later, Dawn; the four Gibbs boys were Eugine, Ritchey, Duane and Keith; Burton’s had Virginia and Bob; Hart’s only daughter was Mae; the two McCarthy’s were June and Fred; and the Haddix, who lived around the corner, had Rosemary and Bob.”
The Wards lived in that house on Lincolnview until they sold it to Daryl and Mary (Turner) Shank and moved to Florida. I remember summer family picnics there with homemade ice cream, bread-and-butter pickles, potato salad, grilled chicken or hamburgers, and mayonnaise cake.
Mary and Daryl raised their family (and hosted grandchildren) in the same house, their current home.
The entire collection of “Events in the Life of ‘Little Homer’” was written years ago for children and grandchildren, when Grandma and Grandpa Ward were still alive.
Recently David unearthed his copy and loaned it to me. I couldn’t resist sharing part of it with you.
Happy memories!
The Wards were the maternal grandparents of David/Daryl, Kay, Dan, and Debbie Shank. In a memoir Homer wrote for his family, he described the Heights at the time:
“Auburn Heights, at one time called Amy, was quite a booming little town back in the olden days. There was the Kroger store on the corner with a hardware store next door; a post office where everyone had their own mail box; a family doctor and dentist with offices next to the Wilson Ford Sales and Service.
"There was the Horst Drug Store, dry cleaning agency, one or two other grocery stores, a beer garden and a barber shop. There was a shoe store where they repaired shoes and sold new.
"Superior Metal had a small shop across Auburn from Ralph Block’s Mobile Gas Station and Chevy Car Sales. Along with the Free Methodist and Presbyterian churches, what more could one want?”
The Ward family consisted at that time of Evelyn (8), Billy (5), Helen (3), and Janet (8 months old) in a 20’ x 20’ house with a 12’ x 8’ garage and 4’ x 5’ two-hole privy. There were two lots each 50’ x 167’.
“The east lot had the buildings, some box elder shade trees, a couple of apple trees, a cherry tree and a garden plot across the back. The west lot had a large raspberry patch, and the rest of the lot was covered with the sharpest damn sand burrs you ever saw.
“Now this little house certainly created lots of ‘togetherness’—six people in three small rooms—it was either that or else. But it was a new adventure and there were no regrets about moving and living there.
“The geographical location of the place made it an ideal site to raise a family of small children. It was a dead-end street with practically no car traffic; it was only a half block from a school that would take them from kindergarten all the way through graduation; it was only four or five blocks to “downtown” Auburn Heights, and it was only three miles to the big city of Pontiac, where Homer worked and made all of his money.
“Lincoln was what could be called a very ‘fertile’ street. One could look out almost any time and count from six to a dozen kids playing on the street.
"There were the Ealy’s who lived next door; they had their one and only Genevieve; the Stratton boy was home at that time; Martinez and Manuel; Hackett’s, who lived in the Guerin house, had the wonderful Pat and Sonny; Miller’s had Mickey and later, Dawn; the four Gibbs boys were Eugine, Ritchey, Duane and Keith; Burton’s had Virginia and Bob; Hart’s only daughter was Mae; the two McCarthy’s were June and Fred; and the Haddix, who lived around the corner, had Rosemary and Bob.”
The Wards lived in that house on Lincolnview until they sold it to Daryl and Mary (Turner) Shank and moved to Florida. I remember summer family picnics there with homemade ice cream, bread-and-butter pickles, potato salad, grilled chicken or hamburgers, and mayonnaise cake.
Mary and Daryl raised their family (and hosted grandchildren) in the same house, their current home.
The entire collection of “Events in the Life of ‘Little Homer’” was written years ago for children and grandchildren, when Grandma and Grandpa Ward were still alive.
Recently David unearthed his copy and loaned it to me. I couldn’t resist sharing part of it with you.
Happy memories!
January 4, 2025
How a Town Lives Forever
Once upon a time…
Once upon a time there was a small town in southeast Michigan—Amy, Auburn Heights, Auburn Hills—that created a community who lived forever.
In my days of the Heights, children and adults celebrated holidays with parades and ceremonies at the cemetery or fire station.
Halloween crammed magic into one hour each year, starting with the fire whistle at six, and ending at the elementary school for cider and doughnuts at seven, with children skipping home past streets lit by orange flares to commemorate the night and support Fourth of July fireworks.
In the fall, our elementary school held their annual Fall Festival with classrooms set up for cake walks, white elephant sales, fishing for plastic ducks and prizes, hot dogs and cotton candy.
Residents gathered in the valley and hilltops across from the elementary school—known, of course, as the School Hills—for Independence Day fireworks, shot off by our fire department, with the National Anthem and glowing flag at the end of the show.
Children pulled sleds to those slopes for wintertime play, from the easy runs to the dangerous, death-defying twists and chasms with dead trees in the path.
Our friends lived on our streets and in our neighborhoods. We attended the same high school, so every name became familiar.
Neighbors took up collections for illness, death, and March of Dimes, delivered cakes and casseroles when a family faced tragedy.
Corner stores sold pop and penny candy. Mothers sent children for bread, milk, even cigarettes.
You could imagine many small towns around America like the Heights, but that wouldn’t be accurate. Our sense of community was an enchantment that followed us through the years, across states and country, even outside U.S. borders. (Right, Niki?)
A clever administrator wizard created a way for us to overcome age or distance, and relive those memories with each other, which triggered others. So many families from different income levels and backgrounds gathered in one memorable community, and as the years passed, our common bond kept us close.
I am one of many grateful for the opportunity to keep this community alive and thriving, thanks to Joanie, and to every one of us who read, share, and remember our hometown.
Once a resident of the Heights, always part of that community, no matter how many miles and changes come between us. Over the years, we’ve all experienced loss, grief, joy, and challenges.
But one thing is true.
And they lived happily ever after…
Once upon a time there was a small town in southeast Michigan—Amy, Auburn Heights, Auburn Hills—that created a community who lived forever.
In my days of the Heights, children and adults celebrated holidays with parades and ceremonies at the cemetery or fire station.
Halloween crammed magic into one hour each year, starting with the fire whistle at six, and ending at the elementary school for cider and doughnuts at seven, with children skipping home past streets lit by orange flares to commemorate the night and support Fourth of July fireworks.
In the fall, our elementary school held their annual Fall Festival with classrooms set up for cake walks, white elephant sales, fishing for plastic ducks and prizes, hot dogs and cotton candy.
Residents gathered in the valley and hilltops across from the elementary school—known, of course, as the School Hills—for Independence Day fireworks, shot off by our fire department, with the National Anthem and glowing flag at the end of the show.
Children pulled sleds to those slopes for wintertime play, from the easy runs to the dangerous, death-defying twists and chasms with dead trees in the path.
Our friends lived on our streets and in our neighborhoods. We attended the same high school, so every name became familiar.
Neighbors took up collections for illness, death, and March of Dimes, delivered cakes and casseroles when a family faced tragedy.
Corner stores sold pop and penny candy. Mothers sent children for bread, milk, even cigarettes.
You could imagine many small towns around America like the Heights, but that wouldn’t be accurate. Our sense of community was an enchantment that followed us through the years, across states and country, even outside U.S. borders. (Right, Niki?)
A clever administrator wizard created a way for us to overcome age or distance, and relive those memories with each other, which triggered others. So many families from different income levels and backgrounds gathered in one memorable community, and as the years passed, our common bond kept us close.
I am one of many grateful for the opportunity to keep this community alive and thriving, thanks to Joanie, and to every one of us who read, share, and remember our hometown.
Once a resident of the Heights, always part of that community, no matter how many miles and changes come between us. Over the years, we’ve all experienced loss, grief, joy, and challenges.
But one thing is true.
And they lived happily ever after…
December 29, 2024
How a Year Ends and Another Begins
The end of a year looms while another waits to begin.
For children, New Year begins on the first day of summer vacation.
For many adults, it’s the first (real) day of spring, when the breeze is warm, songbirds are singing, and green growth is everywhere. “The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land” (Song of Solomon 2:12).
As we enter the last decades of our own story—we won’t count which ones—New Year begins every morning.
Formally, it turns over on January First at the stroke of midnight. We’ll hear gunshots, honking, fireworks, and, in my younger days, cheering in New York’s Time Square as the golden ball announces the new year.
So many New Year’s Eves in so many homes over the years.
On Caroline Street, the first time Mom and Dad let us older kids stay up to see in the New Year.
In the same house, years later, when we let our two stay up until midnight.
Champagne or sparking water. Parties, with hooting and kissing. Home, with the TV on to Dick Clark and New York’s excited crowds. In apartments, on my own. In various houses in different States.
Each time, the old year was left behind with hope promised in the new.
Resolutions? I try not to make new ones at my age, but keep the basic health and kindness goals I’ve set myself.
Daily walks. More vegetables, less sugar. Stomping on the urge to snap back with sarcasm. More patience, kindness, acceptance, understanding. Tough goals, but worth the effort, no matter how many “just for today” beginnings they take.
Looking out a window on Caroline Street to a snowy January First, or a gray and cloudy day. Florida yards with live oaks and palmettos, where cardinals sing every morning and snow is a calendar scene (and missed).
Eat black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day. Buy a new broom and wait to sweep or clean house, since you don’t want to sweep away the year’s good luck. Hope a dark-haired man is the first to cross your doorway. My great-grandmother believed every one of those superstitions, and was careful to follow them, even inviting a dark-haired man she knew to knock on her door New Year’s Day.
I hope I remember to write the correct year on letters and bill payments.
In the ancient world, the new year began at different times. Mid-March in Mesopotamia, autumn equinox (September) in Egypt, and March First in ancient Rome until January First was chosen to honor the two-faced god of beginnings, Janus. Those Romans offered sacrifices and made resolutions.
I watched two versions of A Christmas Carol this year—George C Scott and Albert Finney’s musical, where he sings in his conversion the best way to begin the new year (music and words by Leslie Bricusse):
“I’ll begin again, I will build my life,
I will live to know that I’ve fulfilled my life.
I’ll begin today, throw away the past
And the future I build will be something that will last…”
There hasn’t been a New Year that those promises weren’t part of my intentions. Well, it’s never too late for this year, right?
Happy New Year to you all!
“I will start anew, I will make amends
And I will make quite certain
that this story ends
On a note of hope, on a strong Amen,
And I’ll thank the world and remember when
I was able to begin again.”
For children, New Year begins on the first day of summer vacation.
For many adults, it’s the first (real) day of spring, when the breeze is warm, songbirds are singing, and green growth is everywhere. “The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land” (Song of Solomon 2:12).
As we enter the last decades of our own story—we won’t count which ones—New Year begins every morning.
Formally, it turns over on January First at the stroke of midnight. We’ll hear gunshots, honking, fireworks, and, in my younger days, cheering in New York’s Time Square as the golden ball announces the new year.
So many New Year’s Eves in so many homes over the years.
On Caroline Street, the first time Mom and Dad let us older kids stay up to see in the New Year.
In the same house, years later, when we let our two stay up until midnight.
Champagne or sparking water. Parties, with hooting and kissing. Home, with the TV on to Dick Clark and New York’s excited crowds. In apartments, on my own. In various houses in different States.
Each time, the old year was left behind with hope promised in the new.
Resolutions? I try not to make new ones at my age, but keep the basic health and kindness goals I’ve set myself.
Daily walks. More vegetables, less sugar. Stomping on the urge to snap back with sarcasm. More patience, kindness, acceptance, understanding. Tough goals, but worth the effort, no matter how many “just for today” beginnings they take.
Looking out a window on Caroline Street to a snowy January First, or a gray and cloudy day. Florida yards with live oaks and palmettos, where cardinals sing every morning and snow is a calendar scene (and missed).
Eat black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day. Buy a new broom and wait to sweep or clean house, since you don’t want to sweep away the year’s good luck. Hope a dark-haired man is the first to cross your doorway. My great-grandmother believed every one of those superstitions, and was careful to follow them, even inviting a dark-haired man she knew to knock on her door New Year’s Day.
I hope I remember to write the correct year on letters and bill payments.
In the ancient world, the new year began at different times. Mid-March in Mesopotamia, autumn equinox (September) in Egypt, and March First in ancient Rome until January First was chosen to honor the two-faced god of beginnings, Janus. Those Romans offered sacrifices and made resolutions.
I watched two versions of A Christmas Carol this year—George C Scott and Albert Finney’s musical, where he sings in his conversion the best way to begin the new year (music and words by Leslie Bricusse):
“I’ll begin again, I will build my life,
I will live to know that I’ve fulfilled my life.
I’ll begin today, throw away the past
And the future I build will be something that will last…”
There hasn’t been a New Year that those promises weren’t part of my intentions. Well, it’s never too late for this year, right?
Happy New Year to you all!
“I will start anew, I will make amends
And I will make quite certain
that this story ends
On a note of hope, on a strong Amen,
And I’ll thank the world and remember when
I was able to begin again.”
December 15, 2024
Christmas Cards and Postman Harold
In the olden days, when I was a young wife and mother living on Caroline Street in the Heights, Christmas cards were a holiday tradition, one of the holiday expenses to be planned and shared.
By the second or third week of December, I collected my box(es) of cards, stamps, address book, pen, and an afternoon or two to fill out Christmas wishes for family and friends. They were sealed, stamped, and stacked in the mailbox where Harold picked them up and started them on their journeys.
Harold was our postman for years. In fact, he retired from the route. By that time, he knew everybody and everyone knew him. Friendly, cheerful, his delivery service was exemplary, so every Christmas, he was engulfed in cookies, fudge, fruitcake, and Christmas cards, with as generous a tip as each household could afford.
Christmas cards were a big deal in those days. We placed incoming cards on fireplace mantles or tacked them to doorframes. Some were strung across a corner of the living room.
Naturally, we recorded cards sent out in case someone was accidentally forgotten. I never received a card that I didn’t make certain to send one in return, if I hadn’t already.
We kept Hallmark and American Greetings in business.
Why Christmas cards?
In 1843 England, the introduction of the Penny Post allowed letters or cards to be sent across the country with a penny stamp. Henry Cole, patron of the arts and educator, requested an artist, John Callcott Horsley, to design a holiday card of a celebrating family. One thousand copies were printed.
The Christmas card was born.
In 1874, the British company Prang and Mayer sold Christmas cards in America. By 1880s, over five million cards were produced. Victorian-style postcards affected sales until 1920s, when the card-and-envelope preference returned.
Snowy villages with church steeples. Nativity scenes. Wise men following the star. Santa with sleigh and reindeer. Elves. Angels. Snowy forests. Lit Christmas trees topped by a star. Candles. Plates of holiday cookies. Ornaments on pine branches. The styles are endless.
And cardinals, the official Christmas tree bird.
The best-selling Hallmark Christmas card? Three angels.
Christmas was a time to recognize service throughout the year—paper carriers, teachers, pastors, doctors, and for our neighborhood, Harold, our postman. What better way to say thank you than with a Christmas card (sometimes including a welcome bonus).
My brother had a long, grueling delivery route for the (Pontiac) Oakland Press—nearly five miles of loops along Grey Road, up North Squirrel, Squirrel Court, Tebeau Court, Parklawn, and back to the College Heights mobile home park every night (except Sunday). He deserved any tips he got at Christmas time, especially at that time of year when rain, sleet, and snow were common.
Christmas cards and plates of decorated cookies, part of the anticipation of Christmas, along with movies and holiday specials—traditional holiday season offerings.
Over the years, my card-sending dwindled until I mail Christmas cards, sometimes with notes, only to my closest friends and family.
Email? Video chats? Phone texts and Facebook messages? Cost of postage? Not sure why cards are not as significant as they were when I was younger, but I still feel a tingle when I see boxes of Christmas cards early in December.
And I keep the covers of those cards that strike me as great bookmarks. Thomas Kinkade cards are especially stunning. Wouldn’t you like to step into one of his village or church scenes, or walk up the steps to one of his Christmas houses?
Whether or not you send or receive Christmas cards now, the message is the same.
Thinking of you, especially at this time of year.
Merry Christmas, glad tidings, happy holidays, peace and joy.
And best of all, peace on earth.
And to you, Harold, where you celebrate Christmas eternally, thank you again.
By the second or third week of December, I collected my box(es) of cards, stamps, address book, pen, and an afternoon or two to fill out Christmas wishes for family and friends. They were sealed, stamped, and stacked in the mailbox where Harold picked them up and started them on their journeys.
Harold was our postman for years. In fact, he retired from the route. By that time, he knew everybody and everyone knew him. Friendly, cheerful, his delivery service was exemplary, so every Christmas, he was engulfed in cookies, fudge, fruitcake, and Christmas cards, with as generous a tip as each household could afford.
Christmas cards were a big deal in those days. We placed incoming cards on fireplace mantles or tacked them to doorframes. Some were strung across a corner of the living room.
Naturally, we recorded cards sent out in case someone was accidentally forgotten. I never received a card that I didn’t make certain to send one in return, if I hadn’t already.
We kept Hallmark and American Greetings in business.
Why Christmas cards?
In 1843 England, the introduction of the Penny Post allowed letters or cards to be sent across the country with a penny stamp. Henry Cole, patron of the arts and educator, requested an artist, John Callcott Horsley, to design a holiday card of a celebrating family. One thousand copies were printed.
The Christmas card was born.
In 1874, the British company Prang and Mayer sold Christmas cards in America. By 1880s, over five million cards were produced. Victorian-style postcards affected sales until 1920s, when the card-and-envelope preference returned.
Snowy villages with church steeples. Nativity scenes. Wise men following the star. Santa with sleigh and reindeer. Elves. Angels. Snowy forests. Lit Christmas trees topped by a star. Candles. Plates of holiday cookies. Ornaments on pine branches. The styles are endless.
And cardinals, the official Christmas tree bird.
The best-selling Hallmark Christmas card? Three angels.
Christmas was a time to recognize service throughout the year—paper carriers, teachers, pastors, doctors, and for our neighborhood, Harold, our postman. What better way to say thank you than with a Christmas card (sometimes including a welcome bonus).
My brother had a long, grueling delivery route for the (Pontiac) Oakland Press—nearly five miles of loops along Grey Road, up North Squirrel, Squirrel Court, Tebeau Court, Parklawn, and back to the College Heights mobile home park every night (except Sunday). He deserved any tips he got at Christmas time, especially at that time of year when rain, sleet, and snow were common.
Christmas cards and plates of decorated cookies, part of the anticipation of Christmas, along with movies and holiday specials—traditional holiday season offerings.
Over the years, my card-sending dwindled until I mail Christmas cards, sometimes with notes, only to my closest friends and family.
Email? Video chats? Phone texts and Facebook messages? Cost of postage? Not sure why cards are not as significant as they were when I was younger, but I still feel a tingle when I see boxes of Christmas cards early in December.
And I keep the covers of those cards that strike me as great bookmarks. Thomas Kinkade cards are especially stunning. Wouldn’t you like to step into one of his village or church scenes, or walk up the steps to one of his Christmas houses?
Whether or not you send or receive Christmas cards now, the message is the same.
Thinking of you, especially at this time of year.
Merry Christmas, glad tidings, happy holidays, peace and joy.
And best of all, peace on earth.
And to you, Harold, where you celebrate Christmas eternally, thank you again.
December 8, 2024
Santa at Tally Hall and the Fire Station
My children and I met Santa at Tally Hall one year.
When they were young, we made periodic visits to the magical Tally Hall in Farmington Hills, also known as Marvin’s Marvelous Mechanical Museum because of the vintage arcade machines scattered throughout the food court.
Marvin Yagoda, a pharmacist, was fascinated with coin-operated machines and a collector of mechanical and electronic games. In 1980 he suggested that his arcade machines be added to the Tally Hall food court (one of the first food courts in the U.S., opening in 1980 until early 90’s). We sampled from stalls of every flavor popcorn, candies, and a bakery that sold the tallest, best, chocolate-covered macaroons.
So what has this to do with Santa Claus?
One year, before Christmas, the three of us made our Saturday visit and I noticed waves of excitement, more than usual, in various parts of the hall. Children squealed and ran, parents following. The focal point was a round, cheerful man with white hair and a long white beard, radiating goodwill and joy. Eventually he made his way closer to us and my children begged to see Santa.
He was buried in happy, chattering children, and when I got closer and he caught me staring, he grinned.
“I come here every year about this time,” he said. "It gives me great pleasure."
I hesitated. “Are you the real one?”
He grinned as children climbed around him. “Well, what do you think?”
So how did Santa Claus originate?
Fourth-century St. Nicholas gave away his wealth for the poor and sick. One story tells of him dropping gold coins in a bag down a chimney for the dowries of three sisters.
In the 17th century, children in the Netherlands left out their shoes on December 6th, St. Nichlas’ feast day, for Sinterklaas to fill with gifts.
On Christmas Eve 1822, Clement Clarke Moore wrote his famous poem “A Visit From St. Nicholas” (‘Twas the Night Before Christmas) where Santa, “chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf” rode in “a miniature sleigh” with “eight tiny reindeer” which he called by name.
Beginning in 1920, Norman Rockwell painted Santa in his red suit, and in the 1930’s Coco Cola hired Haddon Sundblom to illustrate Santa for their ads, cementing our version of Santa Claus, a larger version of the poem’s description.
“Up on the housetop the reindeer pause, out jumps good ol’ Santa Claus…”
Written by Benjamin Hanby in 1864, “Up on the Housetop” is the second-oldest non-carol song written for Christmas, after “Jingle Bells.”
Father Christmas, St. Nicholas, Kris Kringle, Santa Claus. Our Santa rides in a sleigh pulled by reindeer, delivering gifts on Christmas Eve.
He also visits shopping centers to listen to Christmas wishes. This job is so important, world-wide, he has many helpers, as Mom explained.
He even made annual stops at the Auburn Heights Fire Station, where he heard our wishes and gave us a box of hard candy, or sometimes, a coloring book about firemen.
So what do I think, Kris Kringle of Tally Hall? If Santa is, as I believe, the spirit of generosity and goodwill at Christmastime, then we did meet the real one that year.
“Ho ho ho, who wouldn't go up on the housetop, click, click, click, down through the chimney with good Saint Nick!”
Santa, I want a peaceful Christmas this year.
Thank you and Merry Christmas!
When they were young, we made periodic visits to the magical Tally Hall in Farmington Hills, also known as Marvin’s Marvelous Mechanical Museum because of the vintage arcade machines scattered throughout the food court.
Marvin Yagoda, a pharmacist, was fascinated with coin-operated machines and a collector of mechanical and electronic games. In 1980 he suggested that his arcade machines be added to the Tally Hall food court (one of the first food courts in the U.S., opening in 1980 until early 90’s). We sampled from stalls of every flavor popcorn, candies, and a bakery that sold the tallest, best, chocolate-covered macaroons.
So what has this to do with Santa Claus?
One year, before Christmas, the three of us made our Saturday visit and I noticed waves of excitement, more than usual, in various parts of the hall. Children squealed and ran, parents following. The focal point was a round, cheerful man with white hair and a long white beard, radiating goodwill and joy. Eventually he made his way closer to us and my children begged to see Santa.
He was buried in happy, chattering children, and when I got closer and he caught me staring, he grinned.
“I come here every year about this time,” he said. "It gives me great pleasure."
I hesitated. “Are you the real one?”
He grinned as children climbed around him. “Well, what do you think?”
So how did Santa Claus originate?
Fourth-century St. Nicholas gave away his wealth for the poor and sick. One story tells of him dropping gold coins in a bag down a chimney for the dowries of three sisters.
In the 17th century, children in the Netherlands left out their shoes on December 6th, St. Nichlas’ feast day, for Sinterklaas to fill with gifts.
On Christmas Eve 1822, Clement Clarke Moore wrote his famous poem “A Visit From St. Nicholas” (‘Twas the Night Before Christmas) where Santa, “chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf” rode in “a miniature sleigh” with “eight tiny reindeer” which he called by name.
Beginning in 1920, Norman Rockwell painted Santa in his red suit, and in the 1930’s Coco Cola hired Haddon Sundblom to illustrate Santa for their ads, cementing our version of Santa Claus, a larger version of the poem’s description.
“Up on the housetop the reindeer pause, out jumps good ol’ Santa Claus…”
Written by Benjamin Hanby in 1864, “Up on the Housetop” is the second-oldest non-carol song written for Christmas, after “Jingle Bells.”
Father Christmas, St. Nicholas, Kris Kringle, Santa Claus. Our Santa rides in a sleigh pulled by reindeer, delivering gifts on Christmas Eve.
He also visits shopping centers to listen to Christmas wishes. This job is so important, world-wide, he has many helpers, as Mom explained.
He even made annual stops at the Auburn Heights Fire Station, where he heard our wishes and gave us a box of hard candy, or sometimes, a coloring book about firemen.
So what do I think, Kris Kringle of Tally Hall? If Santa is, as I believe, the spirit of generosity and goodwill at Christmastime, then we did meet the real one that year.
“Ho ho ho, who wouldn't go up on the housetop, click, click, click, down through the chimney with good Saint Nick!”
Santa, I want a peaceful Christmas this year.
Thank you and Merry Christmas!
Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life
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