blog post no. 388 and another birthday

Here it is, May 30th, 2015…and another year has come and gone so quickly, I've hardly had time to catch my breath! I've been a slacker around the blogosphere for a while now, and it seems Buenos Burritos has taken a back seat to other pursuits. Plus, I've almost run out of things to say and stories to tell. (Those who know me well may find that hard to believe)

Anyway, May 30th is the anniversary of my very first blog post, as well as my dad's birthday. My first blog post was, fittingly, about him. You can read it here if you like. So, even though I'm a recovering blogaholic, I'll still hold onto tradition and write about him on his birthday.

Today would have been Dad's 100th birthday. During his time on the planet he saw a lot of changes, probably more drastic changes in the world than those of us alive today will see in our lifetimes.
Dad was an only child, born into a giant working class Irish family in Massachusetts:

When Dad was a kid, his chores consisted of emptying the tray under the icebox before it overflowed, and shoveling coal for the furnace. In 1915, radio was still in its infancy, electric lights were not commonplace, and whaling was still a big industry in New Bedford. People kept abreast of local and world affairs through letters and newspapers.

Dad was a big baseball fan, and his dual love of sports and writing led him to NYU and a degree in journalism, and set him off on a long career as an editor at some prestigious newspapers on the east coast.

He coached both my brothers in Little League, and turned all of his kids into lifelong baseball nuts.
As a kid, I remember sitting with him in Shea Stadium rooting for the Mets in the playoffs, and that year Nolan Ryan replaced Roy Rogers as my hero.

He attended as many of his grandson's Little League games as he could, occasionally wearing one of his favorite hats (In the team colors of course):

I don't think I could ever live up to his lofty standards, (if he were reading this post now, he'd take his editor's red pencil to it, I'm sure) 

but I'm also pretty sure he'd be pleased that I tried...

Happy 100th Birthday, Dad. I miss you.

You can read more about Dad here and here .

memorial day

(photo borrowed from here)

A couple of days ago I found myself wandering through an antiques marketplace and came upon an old Smith-Corona portable typewriter from the early 1960s, the same model my dad had when I was a kid.  I've been thinking about Dad and that typewriter ever since.

May 30th was the traditional date for Memorial Day, back before an Act of Congress decided that federal employees needed more 3-day weekends. It's also my Dad's birthday, as well as the anniversary of my very first blog post, which fittingly, was all about Dad.

So as I sit here effortlessly typing my 384th post on a sleek, modern keyboard that goes, "clickety-click", instead of the "clackety-clack" of the old Smith-Corona, I'm thinking about my father who, though he would have marveled at how efficient the new world of communication has become, he surely would have hated it.

Dad was a journalist who worked in the now almost obsolete world of print. A newspaperman to his core, he loved the smell of ink on paper, devouring the news of the world page by page every morning and evening. When I was growing up in Queens, Dad worked as a copy editor at The New York Times. Our local paper (The Long Island Star Journal, and later the Long Island Press) was morning reading. The Times came home with Dad after the swing shift.  On Sundays, we'd get The Times, The Press and the Daily News. It's safe to say there was a LOT of reading going on in the Russell house on Sundays.

Back before Facebook, Instagram, text messaging and Twitter, people wrote letters - most of which were not limited to 140 characters. My dad was one of those letter writers. He corresponded with friends around the world just about every day, and almost always they were pounded out on that trusty Smith-Corona.

While Twitter and text messaging allows us to do all that, I can't help but prefer opening a real paper envelope, addressed in a friend's familiar hand, and reading a message that comes imbued with their very spirit.

some of Dad's letters

In honor of what would have been Dad's 99th birthday, I plan on writing a few letters to friends this weekend, and I hope to pass on the spirit of his wit and humor.

And one last thing: If he were still around today, I'm pretty sure Dad would be writing some great tweets.

Jack London and me, the 1897 gold rush and other random bits of flotsam and jetsam

I think of all the people and events I share a birthday with, Jack London is my favorite. I read The Call of the Wild and White Fang as a kid, but knew nothing about their author until a few years ago.
 London was the son of a "spiritualist" (his mother apparently channelled the spirit of an Indian chief) and an astrologer, who denied his paternity, causing Jack's mother to become temporarily deranged enough to shoot herself. She recovered and went on to marry a partially disable civil war veteran, but not before she turned the baby over to Virginia Prentiss, a former slave, for safekeeping. The family settled in Oakland, California where Jack went to elementary school, but by the age of 13 he was working 12 - 18 hours a day at a cannery. After borrowing money from his foster mother (Prentiss) he bought a boat and became an oyster pirate... at the age of 13.  
 Four years later, he worked on a sealing schooner bound for Japan, and returned to work various hard jobs before becoming a tramp. He served 30 days in jail in Buffalo, NY for vagrancy, where he was evidently treated like fresh meat by the inmates.
  After all that, at the ripe old age of 18, he returned to Oakland High School and then went on to UC Berkeley. At 21, he quit school and travelled to the Klondike where he gathered most of his material for White Fang and Call of the Wild.

Jack London's story is one of hardship, bad luck, bad choices, grit, determination and (ultimately or posthumously)  success. And even though he was dead by the age of 40, he lived more than many people do in twice that time. I don't know if that same urgency and drive to live a full life is a trait peculiar to Capricorns, or just those born on January 12th, but I'm glad to be counted in with that crowd.

So, here's to you, Jack...and all you other adventurers out there. Cheers!

time flies whether you're having fun or not

Five years ago today I wrote my first blog post ever. It was a toast to my dad, on what would have been his 92nd birthday. My father was an amazingly strong influence in my life, much more than I realized five years ago, and I'm discovering more and more each year how that influence has shaped my life. He was a gifted writer, raconteur, self-taught artist and builder of things, and a piano player extraordinaire, who taught me to follow my dreams and to believe that those dreams would eventually take me somewhere worthwhile. 

Three hundred and thirty-seven blog posts later, I'm still following my bliss, and that meandering trail has taken me places I'd never have imagined.  Happy birthday, Dad.

"For me there is only the traveling 

on paths that have heart, 

on any path that may have heart.

There I travel, and the only worthwhile challenge

is to traverse its full length.

And there I travel: looking, looking, breathlessly."

~ CARLOS CASTANEDA ~

no candles please, it'll just set off the smoke alarm...

Seriously?
 Does this mean it's all downhill from here?

another year done gone

Four years. Three hundred and five posts. Thanks for reading.

stuff and nonsense

tempus fugit

May 30th marks three years since I started this blog, and the time really has flown by. Counting today's entry, I will have written 242 posts, which averages out to about 80 posts per year, or somewhere in the neighborhood of 6.72 posts per month, way more than I ever would have thought possible when I started. Definitely not in the same league as this blogger, or her, or him, or even close to my favorite blogger, Bossy, but in the course of those three years and 242 posts, I've discovered that I truly enjoy writing, even though I find it to be an infinitely more painful process than drawing or painting or making teeny tiny little fairy shoes.

I'd never even read a blog until early 2007, when my nephew took a trip to Costa Rica and started a journal to document his adventures south of the border. (It's all your fault, Seamus!)

It was while reading Seamus' blog that I noticed the little "next blog>>" button at the top of his blog and clicked on it...which randomly brought me to her blog, and suddenly a whole new world opened up for me.

The other day, a friend of a friend, who I see maybe twice a year, told me she really enjoyed reading my blog, and I couldn't help but feel astonished. I mean, I know that there are people who read it...I have a site meter that tracks the numbers, but I'm always shocked when someone I know tells me they read it.

I can't guarantee how many more words I have left in me (I've been struggling lately) but I want to thank these bloggers who inspire, entertain, and make me wipe the coffee off my keyboard daily:

• Bossy
• Foolery
• Doves Today
• Mo "Mad Dog" Stoneskin
• Notes From Inside My Head
• San Diego Momma
• Tootsie Farklepants
• Talk About Change
• Artsyville
• Cupcake Murphy
• Written Inc.
• All Adither

And thanks to anyone who takes the time to read this blog every once in awhile...leave me a comment occasionally, would ya?

I don't bite. Usually.

Love,

Petunia

is the universe trying to tell me something?

Some random historical facts about January 12th:

* 1528, BI *

Gustav I crowned king of Sweden

(BI= Before Ikea)

* 1915 *

The U.S. House of Representatives rejects a proposal to give women the right to vote.

(Even way back then they were idiots)

* 1966 *

Batman premiered on ABC

(Biff! Pow! Holy Crap, Batman!)

* 1971 *

All in the Family premiered on CBS

(the show that made Meathead famous)

* 1981 *

Dynasty premiered on ABC

(it was the 80s...what can I say?)

* 1991 *

Beginning of the first Gulf War

(will we never learn?)

* 2010 *

The Christmas tree is still up at Camp Cactus

(it's a tradition, if not a fire hazard)

January 12th Birthdays:

Howard Stern

(photo borrowed from these guys)

Rush Limbaugh

(photo borrowed from these guys)

Kirstie Alley

(photo borrowed from this site)

...and yours truly.

Who do you share your birthday with?

happy birthday, roscoe

Easter, 1960.

This photo was taken was just a few months before our youngest sister, Kathy was born. My brother Jim (the tallest one in the back) was almost 17, my sister Patty (on the right) was almost 12, I was 3, and my brother John (on the left) was 13. 


Today would have been John's 62nd birthday. He was an amazing artist and musician who taught himself to play flamenco guitar as a teenager by listening to Jose Feliciano and Carlos Montoya records.  He'd often lock himself in the upstairs bathroom for hours to practice, because he said the tiled walls created great acoustics. I remember thinking he was cool because he painted the fingernails on his right hand with Sally Hansen's Hard as Nails to strengthen them. 


He taught me to play a few tunes on the guitar, and inspired me to take lessons from the guy around the corner at the music store for a little while.


He put up with my sister Kathy and I, (she adored him, and he was a softie for her, too) but he also took every opportunity to tease us unmercifully. He used to shut us in the basement and turn out the light while we crouched by the door at the top of the basement stairs, wailing "JOHNNNY! Let us out!!!!" 

Torturing your baby sisters was a big brother's perogative, after all...but he was also our protector of sorts. If we got in trouble with neighborhood bullies, we'd run home and John would come shambling out with his pigeon-toed gait and by then, shoulder length black hair and full beard, and whoever was chasing us would turn right around and high tail it home. He looked a little like Rasputin in those days, and we used to tell our friends that he kept pigeons in that beard.   

John went on to play flamenco guitar professionally using the stage name Juan Roscoe (there was already an actor named John Russell), landing a job with the road company of Man of La Mancha. We saw him in the play in Los Angeles in the summer of 1967 while on vacation. My ten year old self was so proud of him, I thought my heart would burst!

Like a lot of incredibly talented people, my brother was emotionally troubled, and had a tough time managing to live in the real world. He died in 1977 at the age of 30, a bright spark for the short time he was here. 

Happy Birthday, John.

baby dumplin'

I woke up this morning just a little after 6am. I think it was some kind of strange body-memory thing, a bit of a subconscious nudge to remind me of that other early morning 25 years ago when this little dumpling came into our lives:

Her brother's delighted reaction after holding her for the first time and gazing into those big brown baby eyes? "Her look like Yoda!" (He was, after all, a big Star Wars fan like his Dad)

As she grew into a toddler, she became for a time the spitting image of her big brother.

And almost instantly (because it seems to me it was only yesterday that she entered our lives) she grew up and became the graceful, creative, funny and exotically beautiful young woman she is today.

Happy birthday, Caitie!
Love, Yo Mama

not exactly a milestone

Today's my birthday.

 How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?

yessir, that's my baby

Twenty-eight years ago tonight our lives changed forever when our hearts were stolen by a tiny little 7lb.,2oz. bundle of joy. And even after all this time I'm still astounded every day by how lucky we are.

Happy Birthday, Matt!
Love,
Yo Mama

here's the last may birthday, I promise!

Whew! Month O' Birthdays is finally over! Not that I actually go for organizing big time shindigs for all those Geminis and Taureans (Taurusites?), but I seem to spend a lot of mental energy on them. Especially the ones who are no longer around to celebrate. A long time ago, when we lived in San Francisco, we'd have big Gemini gatherings at our house, and they'd all get together and party. We're not so much into partying these days. Maybe it's old age, or maybe the passage of yet another year doesn't seem like such a fun thing to commemorate.

With those lovely sentiments in mind, Caitie and Matt and I took Dave out to the ballgame to kick off the start of his (gulp!) sixth decade.


There were hot dogs to be had, beer to be drunk, and cheering and jeering to be done. I'm always amazed at how LOUD Caitie (a mere slip of a girl) can yell at ball games.

I love minor league baseball, mostly because it seems much less about high-end sponsors, and more about accessibility and small-town values. Although there is still plenty of advertising and practically a promotion-a-minute in an effort to keep the fans coming, it's definitely not the slick Jumbotron replays and gourmet foods in the concession stands of the big leagues. Nope. Round here, the only gourmet items on the menu are the local microbrews.

The entertainment between innings (because we MUST be entertained AT ALL TIMES) consists of fans being taken on a crazy wild ride across the field by our very own manic mascot, Lucky Beaver, or making fans circle around a bat till they're falling-down dizzy, then running the bases. My favorite, though, is when Lucky gets up on the dugout and dances to MC Hammer.
And of course, it goes without saying, that aside from watching the game itself, Triple A baseball is a fabulous People Watching Venue.
Like the guy right in front of us who kept asking every vendor how much the peanuts cost, maybe hoping one of them would give him a bag at below wholesale? His girlfriend got up at one point to get a beer and asked him if he wanted anything, "can I get you some peanuts, Hon?" I thought Caitie was gonna spray beer all over the back of his neck when she heard that.
Personally, I love to watch the little kids running down to the nearly empty box seats above the dugout at the end of each inning, hoping to catch a ball tossed their way. The players at this level don't often disappoint the fans. Except, maybe when they lose by 7 runs.



I'm pretty sure the birthday game was a hit.

another gemini birthday

I've written about my dad here once before, on this day (his birthday) last year. He would have been 93 years old today.

Today also marks the first birthday of this blog. Is that a coincidence? Not really. Dad was a big influence in my life. We shared similar temperaments and interests, like Tom Clancy and Alistair MacLean novels, minor league baseball and Dinty Moore's beef stew. (Although I don't usually admit to the beef stew thing...and it's been years since I've opened a can of the stuff-I swear!)

When I was a kid, my parents used to take my little sister and I out on Long Island to watch polo on the weekends, and afterwards we'd go to a place called Patrick's Pub for brunch. I'm pretty sure it was an excuse for Dad to eat exotic foods like blood sausage and eggs for breakfast. I don't recall what my mom ate, but I do remember my parents drinking Bloody Marys, and that Patrick made one hell of a Shirley Temple.

Dad was a writer with a degree in journalism from NYU, where he met my mom (also a journalism student). Most of his career was spent as an editor for various newspapers, some famous, and some not. He was highly regarded by his compatriots for his editing skills and mastery of the English language.

Early on, after a stint in the Army on The Stars and Stripes, he worked at a daily newspaper called "PM" with such luminaries as Theodore Geisel (aka Dr. Suess), photographers Margaret Bourke White and Arthur Fellig ("Weegee"), as well as many other well-known writers of the day.

By the time I was born (kid number 4 of 5) he had settled in as an editor at the Philadelphia Inquirer for a few years, and confined his extracurricular writing to penning witty letters to family and friends all over the world.

So today, in honor of Dad's birthday, I'll raise a toast (not a Bloody Mary, but his other drink of choice: a Screwdriver) and re-read his old letters, a yearly tradition.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

happy birthday, Smead

I've been thinking about my brother Jim a lot today, on what would have been his 65th birthday. I've always loved the month of May. Our extended family is full of Geminis: Jim, my Dad, Dave, his dad, my nephew Seamus, two former brothers in law (Tom and Tommy), and almost every one of them male, except for my friend Suzie (the first girl Gemini I'd ever met). I can't help thinking there must be some reason I'm surrounded by so many of them...I have to admit, there's never a dull moment when there's a Gemini or two around.

Anyway, I've been thinking about my big brother a lot today. He was a teenager when I was born, and always seemed more like a grownup than a sibling to me when I was a little kid. By the time I was four or five, he was already in college, and when I was nine, he shipped out for India with the Peace Corps. He married there and had a child, and brought his wife and daughter back to NYC to live with the family in Queens. After a long, incredibly cold and very uncomfortable NY winter, my homesick sister in law returned to India with my niece, ending the marriage, and it would be more than thirty years before he saw them again.
He moved to San Francisco and remarried, starting Duck Soup, a moving and hauling business. When Elmo, his beloved and bedraggled pickup truck finally threw in the towel, Jim turned to driving a Yellow cab to support his growing family.

Jim was a talented musician, able to pick up practically any instrument and make it sing, and was known to break out his accordion with very little encouragement. He was a lover of baseball, photography, humor and writing, and corresponded with our dad for years under the pseudonym "Smead" to Dad's "J.R. Tincup". I remember so many things about him...too many to go into now. I miss him more than I can say. So for now I'll simply say: Happy Birthday, Smead.

the tincup times revisited

Today would have been my dad's 92nd birthday. He was a pretty unusual guy by most people's standards: writer, editor, musician, carpenter, sometime artist, cook, and most of all, an inveterate writer of humorous letters and postcards. I have a thick file of his correspondence dating back many years, and I think that many others do also. It's hard to throw away something written with such humor and craft.

He was a copy editor, columnist and correspondant for such illustrious publications as The New York Times, The Philadelphia Inquirer, PM, The Papermaker, and The Stars and Stripes. When I got my first typesetting equipment, Dad (old newspaperman that he was) had me set up a letterhead for him entitled "The Tincup Times" whose motto was: "All the Views Unfit to Print". He had it copied and used it as the masthead for many of his letters, which were sent on a regular basis to numerous friends and relatives around the world. My favorites were and still are the ones with the quirky address lines he would make up, like one he sent to me addressed "Calamity Jane, Camp Cactus" from "J.R. Tincup, Tumbleweed Towers", or to "Bedlam Gables", from "The Fractured Arms". He was also known as Mesquite Manny, Tumbleweed Tim, Boardwalk Benny, Diamond Jiminy Crickets, Lord Feeley of Letchworth (don't even ask) and his favorite, I think: Ta Ta.

So, tonight I'll raise a glass (Dad's drink of choice...a Screwdriver. A pretty pleasant way to get your daily dose of Vitamin C, according to old Tincup himself) to Tumbleweed Tim, a man of letters.
Cheers, Dad!