Christmas Cookies and Beer

Cookie baking was an activity that fell primarily on Mom's pre-Christmas agenda. In years past, she would mix the dough for a dozen different cookies in double-batches during the day and refrigerate them in bowls. When I got home from work (or school), I'd roll them out, bake them and help Mom decorate them. There were some cookies that Mom handled herself, like Spritz cookies. This year, I helped Mom mix the cookie dough and bake them.

On Christmas Eve, I used the hand-crank cookie press for the first time. I was a little concerned because to quote Sheldon Cooper on The Big Bang Theory, I "have the upper body strength of a Keebler Elf." Although that comparison isn't entirely correct because Keebler elves can make cookies. I doubted I'd have the strength to turn that flower-shaped handle enough to squish out the compacted cookie dough.

Nonetheless, with trembling arms and stifled grunts, I pressed, turned and lifted the cylindrical aluminum press 24 times on the first cookie sheet. Some came out good, while others had to go back into the bowl for re-pressing. I asked Mom, "Am I supposed to be breaking a sweat doing this?"

Mom decorated each cookie with either a red or green candied cherry before sliding them into the oven and setting the timer. I had 7 minutes to press another 24 poinsettia-shaped cookies on to the next cookie sheet. Eventually I found a rhythm that worked. In my humble opinion, the cookies turned out lovely for my first attempt. I really enjoyed that memorable little baking episode with Mom and look forward to using the cookie press again next year.

The Stradivarius of Beers

This morning, Mom and I chatted at breakfast as we nibbled on our Christmas cookies. Mom mentioned that she once had an electric cookie press but the motor had burned out and she never replaced it. She went on to say her in-laws had given the manual cookie press kit to her when she and my dad were first married. Mom believed my grandparents got the kit using coupons from Tavern Pail beer bottles.

I had never heard that part of the story before, nor of Tavern Pail beer. So, I immediately searched the internet and found the interesting history of this popular Chicago brewery. I also found images of Tavern Pail coasters, labels and coupons, as well as photos of a delivery truck and the winner of the "Miss Tavern Pail" contest.

Newspaper ads from the 1930s touted Tavern Pail as the "Stradivarius of Beers," and in the 1940s the beer could be purchased in a convenient 3-bottle box. In the 1960s and early 70s, Tavern Pail was available in sturdy 24-bottle cardboard cases.

But the big campaign was the promise of free gifts for collecting coupons from the bottles themselves. One ad hyped bottles of beer at "4 quarts for $1" and promoted their 1963 gift catalog. Oh, how I would love to find one of those booklets to see what other gadgets were available to homemakers, and what other items might have been acquired by my grandparents and gifted to Dad and Mom.

This little bit of fun history behind the family cookie press made a lovely afternoon of Christmas baking with Mom even more special.

* * * *

Inspired by nostalgia.

Bum Bunny and the Birthday Surprise

My nephew with Bum Bunny the Gray Hare

When my oldest nephew celebrated his first birthday, my Mom wanted to give him a special gift. So she found an old gray velour shirt that belonged to my Dad. She took it apart seam by seam, stitch by stitch. Using a pattern from a local craft store, Mom carefully cut and pinned each piece. Then, with tears in her eyes, she lovingly sewed the soft pieces of her late husband’s shirt back together.

Little by little, the flat shapes of fabric began to take form. Cotton stuffing filled one piece and then another, until soft and cushy, a little rabbit was “born”. The bunny’s body was round and plump, it’s arms and legs were long and lanky. His floppy ears hung whimsically from either side of his head. 

Mom had sewn a personalized tag in the back seam, which read, “Handmade with Love by Grammy.” My nephew referred to the tag as Bum’s “tail”. He would slip his little finger into the loop of the tag  when he would nap and he also used it as a sort of “handle” to carry Bum around sometimes.

Mom put the rabbit in a lidless box, and wrapped it in colorful paper in a way that would be easy for a 1-year-old to tear open himself. 

The day of my nephew’s birthday party was a hot one. I remember he was in nothing but a diaper most of the time. I can still see in my mind’s eye how he sat in the grass with the present his “Grammy” gave him. My nephew gingerly tore the paper until it revealed the rabbit’s gray “fur”. Suddenly, he tore the wrapping with great purpose, stuck his hand into the box and pulled out the hand-made stuffed animal. My nephew put the rabbit on the grass next to him, and immediately laid his cheek against the rabbit’s soft body. Every adult in the yard responded with an involuntary “awwwww....”, and it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

The family referred to the rabbit as “Bunny” which came out of my nephew’s mouth more like “Bumpa”.  Perhaps it was a cross between “Bunny” and “Grampa” since it was made from his grandfather’s shirt. Certainly my nephew could not have known or understood that at that age, but who knows? Some people believe that children are born with a sort of “sixth sense” about spiritual things we as adults have lost or learned to ignore as we grew up.

Whatever the reason for the pronunciation of the name, eventually my nephew shortened it to “Bum” and the name “Bum Bunny” stuck.

Inseparable Pals

Aunti, Nephew and Bum on July 4th...

My nephew happily shared his bed with his new best friend. The rabbit went every where with him: riding in the car, shopping at the store, and on vacations. Bum had many adventures. My brother and sister-in-law worked full time, and Mom cared for my nephew everyday and Bum accompanied him.

Around bedtime one night, a phone call came from my sister-in-law, asking if Bum was still at our house. No, Mom was certain that he had gone home with my nephew when he was picked up after work. A frantic search began.

My sister-in-law had stopped at a department store on her way home and realized that was the last place she saw Bum. She called the store to see if anyone had turned a stuffed bunny in to the Lost and Found, but the store was already closed for the night. Still, she was sure Bum was there somewhere. Early the next morning, my sister-in-law drove to the store and retraced her every step. There was Bum, perched on one of the shelves among the merchandise in the Baby Department. Someone had found him and simply placed him there. That was a tough night for everyone without Bum, because we had become attached to that little bunny, too.

Read the Story: Click the book title highlighted in the text!

Day in and day out, my nephew would be dropped off at Grammy’s house. Each day, he had a little routine that included breakfast, napping, reading books, exploring the back yard, taking walks to the park, watching cars, and other activities, weather permitting. And all the while, Bum was at his side.

For my nephew’s 3rd birthday, I wrote and illustrated a short story about the rabbit titled, “Bum Bunny and the Busy Day.” In it, Bum does everything my nephew did each day. The visual associations were a great aid in helping him learn to read.

At Christmas time, the animated cartoon “The Bestest Present” (1985) aired on television. It was based on the characters of the popular syndicated comic strip series “For Better of For Worse” created by Canadian cartoonist Lynn Johnston. The storyline was very similar to what had happened when Bum Bunny was lost, and it deeply touched my nephew. Mom recalls how he sat silently watching the program, and had tears in his eyes at the end.

Covering the Gray "Hare" 

The extensive hugging and washings Bum Bunny received over the years began to take its toll. His  gray velour fur began wearing away. My nephew would insist on sticking adhesive band-aids on the worn spots.

Mom did not have enough of the original fabric left over to adequately patch Bum. But she came up with an alternative solution: She would make up a new “skin” for Bum from another of my Dad's velour shirts, and slip it over the old “fur”.  She could do it quickly enough without my nephew missing Bum too much.

The bigger concern was that the second velour shirt was not gray, it was burgundy. Would my nephew understand Bum was still Bum even though he was a different color? Would he still love him?

Brown Bunny with Nephew No. 2...dig the shirt!

I think the project was discussed with my nephew, much like a procedure is explained before going into major surgery. He was shown the burgundy fabric and when my nephew gave his consent, Mom went ahead with the project. She added a bit more stuffing and a fresh “tail”.

When the “refreshed” Bum was presented, we collectively held our breath. Adults tend to worry themselves about silly things that children don’t really give a second thought to. Gray or burgundy, Bum was still Bum. My nephew loved him just the same and was happy to have him back.

Bum Gets a Brother

Exactly one year after my second nephew was born, Mom made a bunny for him, too. His bunny is named “Brown Bunny.” And just like Bum, he became like family. When I made matching fleece sleepers for the boys for Christmas one year, both Bum and Brown Bunny got matching fleece sleepers too. They wore little Green Bay Packers t-shirts during football season. And on Halloween, the bunnies were dressed in “SweeTarts” and “3 Musketeer” bags.

The Bunny Poem

Part of the “Bum Bunny” legacy included chambray shirts with Bum and Brown Bunny embroidered on them. I hand embroidered both gray and burgundy Bum Bunnies on my older nephew’s shirt.

Several years back, I read a small poem about a little stuffed bunny that was well loved. It reminded me of Bum, so I decided to embroider and frame it for Mom. By this time the nephews were in the double-digit age range.  Still, when they saw the craft, they both said, “Aww! I want one like that!”

All Growed Up

Bum doesn’t get out much these days now that my older nephew is in college. But he still sits in his place of honor in my nephew’s bedroom. Bum’s fur is all gone, but the burgundy fabric is still well in tact. The little “tail” label is still there too.

Recently, Mom was going through some boxes in the basement and she came across the scraps of material left over from the Bum Bunny projects. Instead of throwing it away, I got the idea to make a miniature Bum Bunny as a surprise for my nephew’s birthday.

Mini Bum's "bum" and tiny tail...

I carefully examined a bunny Mom had made for me one Christmas. It is a brown bunny made from an old velour shirt that belonged to my brother. I call my bunny ­—what else?—“Velveteen.” I sketched the pieces of a pattern and carefully cut them out. I sewed each piece by hand. I even made a small “tail” out of ribbon and in tiny letters, embroidered “LUV YA” on it. I giggled as the mini Bum Bunny began to take shape, and I hoped my nephew would like it.

I hoped he would not think it was silly or stupid, or worse yet, embarrassing in front of his friends. On the contrary, when my nephew opened his gifts at this 19th Birthday party, his reaction was more than I could have imagined. Even with gifts of the sporting and monetary kind, he was truly surprised and enjoyed the mini Bum Bunny. He even presented big Bum Bunny for all his party guests to see.

My younger nephew, whose birthday is in December, held mini Bum and asked my Mom, “Do you have a little Brown Bunny for me? I don’t want to wait.” Once again, proving that silly adults sometimes worrying about nothing.

A big surprise in a very little package!

I have ideas for additional Bum Bunny “merchandise” as future birthday and Christmas gifts for the nephews. But I will always smile when I think of “Bum Bunny and the Birthday Surprise.”



Inspired by my nephew’s wonderfully childlike heart...on his 19th birthday.

The Main Event

Sean O'Grady and Al Albert ringside.

From 1982 to 1997, the USA Network on cable television broadcasted a sports series called “USA Tuesday Night Fights.” Hosted by Al Albert and former lightweight champion Sean O’Grady, it was a weekly program that featured up-and-coming amateur boxers. My Dad would watch these matches and one night he called out to me, “Come watch this fight.”

 

Ingrid Bergman teaching boxing from a manual...

Now, I had never watched a boxing match in my life, and I knew nothing more than seeing Ingrid Bergman shuffling her feet in the 1945 movie, The Bells of St. Mary. In the film, Bergman portrays “Sister Benedict”, a strong-willed nun who matches wits with Bing Crosby’s laid-back character “Father O’Malley”. Set in a Catholic school, both have different ideas regarding how to administer to the students. While Sr. Benedict does not condone fighting, in one scene she takes it upon herself to teach one of the schoolboys how to defend himself against the schoolyard bully. “Keep your hands up,” “Guard your chin,” and “Keep your feet moving” are some of the tips she gives the boy as she bobs and weaves in her religious habit. 

I had no idea why my Dad wanted me to watch boxing on television, but I was never one to turn down any amount of “Daddy-Daughter” Time. It’s not what you do, but whom you are doing it with that matters most. And if my Dad wanted to watch two guys pummel each other silly with me, well then all right, I was there whole-heartedly.

“Watch this kid fight,” Dad said as I sat down on the floor in front of the television. The “kid” he was referring to was Anthony Boyle, a young boxer from Philadelphia. His opponent was a fellow pugilist with whom he grew up and trained alongside. Then Dad added, “He’s fighting his against his best friend.” 

WAIT. What now? I could not imagine punching my best friend in the face for any reason! I drew a deep breath and thought, ‘Okay, this’ll be over in like, what—ten maybe 15 minutes tops?’ and I could get back to my regularly scheduled college-life activity.

The match was, by far, the BEST boxing I had ever watched. It was clear these two athletes put everything they had into that bout. Even to a spectator with an untrained eye like mine, it was obvious that the match was more of a display of skill and a game of strategy. How to avoid being hurt by what your skillful opponent is throwing at you. Friends or not, the competitors were relentless. 

It was back-and-forth, non-stop action. I could hear Sister Benedict’s voice “keep moving, guard your chin” as I watched both men: one trying to land a clean punch to earn judges’ points, the other anticipating the moves and countering with a block or combination of his own punches. 

As I sat on the floor in front of the television, my body twitched left, then right, involuntarily reacting to the action on the screen. Quiet bursts of “uh!” and “er!” inexplicably emitted from my throat. From behind me, I could hear my Dad softly chuckling as he watched my response to the fight with mild amusement. 

At the conclusion of the fight, the most amazing thing happened. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the post-match turmoil in the middle of the boxing ring and the two fierce competitors breathlessly embraced. Their “game faces” gone, their body language completely relaxed. They appeared to be just a couple of “buddies”. 

Looking back at Dad, I began asking questions about the sport. He patiently answered each one. It was a lesson in control and discipline. Dad had a sort of “I-told-you-so” smile on his face because he knew I was hooked. We enjoyed watching the fights together every Tuesday night from then on. 

Anthony Boyle had a winning career with 26 bouts in the W column (with 12 KO), only 6 Losses and 1 Draw.  Mr. Boyle is still active with the Pennsylvania Golden Gloves Boxing organization were he got his own start in the sport. In an email correspondence, he told me there have been so many fights, it is hard to recall the details to all of them. 

Father's Day a long time ago: my brother, Dad, and me.

This is true for spectators as well. I did not recall the name of Boyle’s opponent in that bout. I don’t remember how long it lasted. I don’t even remember which boxer won the match, although online resources would strongly suggest it was Boyle. 

There is one thing I will never forget about this Main Event: it provided a connection to Dad that I never would have imagined and one that I will always cherish.

Inspired by Father's Day.

Tuesdays with Ronny

Uncle Ron keeping his eye on the ball; 55+ League 2012.

 Spring is in full swing, so are the city softball leagues. Tuesday mornings the ball diamonds at Burnham Park are teeming with seasoned ballplayers of the 55+ League.  

The friendly league is as fair as it can be. There is a "5-Run Inning" rule that ends an inning in the event of one team scoring five runs, to give equal opportunity of play for both teams.

Team rosters change each season, so that every player has the opportunity to have a winning season. Fellows who played against each other the previous season may find themselves on the same team the next. There are no “Ringers”…a term usually reserved for beefy homerun hitters brought in to tilt the scales in favor of one team over another. At best, a team may have a “Bionic Man” … a player with two knee braces—evidence of joint replacement surgery.

Schaff's Funeral Service players rest between innings, 2012.

Whereas younger leagues are sponsored in large part by taverns and pubs hoping team members will patronize their fine establishments after the games, the 55+ League is sponsored mostly by local funeral homes. One player joked that the sponsoring home’s name on his back was not advertising…it was a “shipping label.”

The 55+ games are played at a significantly slower pace than other leagues. Though the participants are not as agile as they once were, there is definitely an effort put forth by each player. There are occasional bobble and missed catches. While the majority of the participants are laughing and laid-back, there are one or two who are still overtly competitive. I’ve come to the conclusion that young men who scrap and complain on the ball diamond grow to become old men who still scrap and complain on the ball diamond. All in all, it is a morning of activity and camaraderie.  

55+ League 2012 Champions with their two biggest fans!

Although my 80-year-old Uncle Ron no longer plays, he is still involved in the league, keeping score for one of the teams. His last two years as an active player saw both his teams playing in the Championship games. Wearing the team colors and cheering them on, Mom and I attended almost every game last season.

The summer of 2012 was the final active season for my uncle. When his team won the Championship game, he decided to retire and hang up his cleats on a high-note. We teased him that he might do a “Favre” and come out of retirement once “Spring Fever” got into his blood. But, as he assured us, that did not happen. 

"Coach" Ron shouts some encouragement from the bench, 2013.

This year, Uncle Ron seems content watching from the bench, keeping score, recording statistics, taking photos and providing encouragement to his team. Although he is not playing, my uncle still expects Mom and me to be in the bleachers…so do some of the other players who have come to know us from last season. 

As I observed him watching the action on the field, I wondered what he was thinking about. Was he wishing he were out there with them? Was he calculating the players’ next moves like a chess match? Then again, knowing the way my uncle’s brain works, I thought it more likely that he was daydreaming about “a time when…” and I was not far off with that assumption.

Uncle Ron walked over to us with a smile and related the following story from his early days playing for a former employer’s team:

“When I was playing infield a ground ball was hit to me. The runner from first base started to run. I was going to turn the double play. I got that ball in my glove. I spun around. You know that movie with that guy looking out over the horizon?”

“What?” I asked, my mind racing through all the baseball movies I could think of: The Natural? Field of Dreams? Bad News Bears—the 1976 original with Walter Matthau, or the 2005 remake?

Who's covering Second Base?

“That guy in the desert,” replied my uncle.

“Who? Lawrence of Arabia?” guessed Mom. 

“Yeah,” said Uncle Ron.

Wait. I was confused. Was there a baseball scene in Lawrence of Arabia? 

“When I turned to flip the ball to second base,” my uncle continued, “there was not a soul in sight! It was like a barren desert. A wasteland. No one was covering second base.” My uncle chuckled, “So I had to throw to first base. And the other guys kidded that I was the only one who had studied the playbook.”

Uncle Ron then turned his attention back to the field of play. Not more than five minutes later, the exact sequence of events my uncle had just described played out on the field before us. Uncle Ron shot me a mixed glance of amusement and surprise, and whispered, “That’s what I just talked about!” I nodded and whispered back, “I saw that!” 

Peanuts, Cracker Jacks and Donuts...

A few moments later, Uncle Ron pointed out that one of the players had brought donuts. This triggered another memory of “a time when…” for him. On this remembered occasion, he was not playing but coaching a game. On the way to the game, Uncle Ron had stopped to buy donuts for his little league team. The boys were down 19 – 2, and he was coaching at first base. One of his players hollered over to him, “Hey, Coach!” 

“Yeah, what is it?” Uncle Ron yelled back.

“There’s one donut left in the box,” the boy shouted, “Do you think I could have it?”

Uncle Ron explains the FUNdamentals of the game; 2013.

“No!” my uncle answered him. Uncle Ron chuckled at the memory, “He was more concerned about the donuts."

"Yep," I laughed, "I guess his priorities were situational.” 

Then turning his attention back to the present day’s game, Uncle Ron yelled to his team, “Hey! Who made that last out?”

Watching the Tuesday morning 55+ League is entertaining. Enjoying it with Uncle Ron is really something special.

Inspired by the “Senior Boys of Summer.”

Laughing In Stereo

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Mom’s cousin is married to a fellow from our family’s ancestral motherland, Poland. A few years back Janek’s mother came to visit for the summer. She did not speak English, but thankfully we know enough of the language of our posterity to communicate with her. Upon introductions, she pointed to my Mom and me and inquired, “Siostra?”

“No,” I replied with a smile, “Moja Matka.“ I pointed first to myself and then to Mom. Janek’s mother’s eyes went wide, “NOo….” She responded in disbelief. Everyone in the room burst out with laughter, while in a quick barrage of Polish, which I was not skilled enough to translate, Janek’s mother continued expressing her surprise at our Mother-Daughter revelation.

The reaction of Janek’s mother was not an uncommon one. Many people we meet often mistake Mom and me for sisters, rather than Parent/Offspring. And really, it’s no wonder.

Me and Mom at a festival.  (Who is that guy??)

We like a lot of the same things and hold many of the same values. We can make each other laugh, and finish each other’s sentences (most of the time). We are alike in a lot of ways. Some people say we even “laugh in stereo.”

We do almost everything together. That is in part because Mom doesn’t drive. But aside from going to the grocery store, doctor visits and dental appointments, we do voluntarily hang around together. When we are out having fun, I rarely call her “Mom.” On occasion, I will call her by her given name, but that makes me uncomfortable, because I feel it shows a lack of respect. It is easier for me to call her “Girlfriend.” (Even now, typing that moniker is making me smile!)

Halloween at karaoke. (We always dress like that.)

Who else would get into a car during a blizzard to attend a Winter Dance Party right after having gall bladder surgery? Mom. (Our car slid into a snow bank and I had to shovel it out by myself in my saddle shoes. Call it karma.)

Who else would sit through hours of late night karaoke, just to hear me sing for two and a half minutes, then either “high five” me or ask, “How do YOU think you did on that one?” Only Mom. (Really, she doesn’t pull any punches.)

We often say, “it's not important WHAT you do, but rather WHO you do it with.” Only someone who loves you would do all that and more. These details do not go unnoticed. There are oodles of funny experiences we’ve shared—we call them “episodes”. I will eventually share some of them with you.

Aloha from Elvis Week, with our "Blue Hawaiians".

Today is Mom’s birthday and the story of Mom I want to share with you is one of my earliest memories of her. I remember sitting on the couch next to Mom while she taught my older brother to read before he started Kindergarten. She taught me to read when I was three years old. One of the greatest gifts Mom ever gave me is the gift of literacy. It has opened the door to education for me, allows for adventure in my life, and inspires me to dream. If it weren’t for Mom, this Blog would not exist.

Today’s entry: Inspired by Mom.