Life In A Word

Goddess of Green

Green Goddess is a salad dressing with long-ago origins in France, created by a chef who wanted to top the dish of green eel he was preparing with an equally green topping (still with me?). The Green Goddess, Danú, is a figure of long-ago Irish mythology, associated with fertility, wisdom, and the land. Danú is also the name of the Irish troupe who put on a lively concert in our small town on Tuesday night.

It seemed entirely fitting to hear a live performance of Irish music on St. Patrick’s Day. I grabbed a couple of good seats the moment this offering popped up on the calendar several months ago. As it turned out, Danú’s was the brand of lively Irish jigging you’d typically find in the streets and bars of Dublin. More of the instrumental and less of the singing. More of the fast and less of the slow. And when there was singing it was mostly in Gaelic, with a few words about the story of the song beforehand. We had a grand time of it.

Danú’s musical instruments (and the remarkable talent behind them) were as alluring as the music itself. I mean, who wouldn’t be drawn to a concert of tin whistle, fiddle, button accordion, bouzouki, and Irish pipes? The pipes, also called the uillleann, is a device played sitting down, where the bellows is compressed between the arm and the body to generate the air, producing a wail that sounds decidedly Irish (because were I to say “decidedly Scottish” the Irish wouldn’t be happy about it).

My wife is one-quarter Irish, which may explain why we’re drawn to the music of “her country”. Danú is just the latest in a series of performances of Irish music we’ve enjoyed over the years. Our initial foray into the genre was years ago in Colorado, when we first saw the group Celtic Thunder.

If you’ve seen their show, you know Celtic Thunder is as much about the theatrics as they are about the music. Like Danú their lyrics are a nod to Irish mythology, but their sounds are decidedly more modern. Celtic Thunder came together just twenty years ago but in that time they’ve recorded a dozen albums, toured the world, and spun off several solo acts. If Celtic Thunder comes to your town, drop everything you’re doing and go see them.

One of the Thunder’s spin-off soloists is a favorite of ours to this day. Emmet Cahill is an Irish tenor whose success includes a #1 album on the Billboard charts and performances in venues like Carnegie Hall and with the Tabernacle Choir. Cahill has the voice (and the accent) where it doesn’t really matter what he sings; it’s always captivating. Even better, Cahill performs the lion’s share of his concerts in church sanctuaries, where the acoustics allow for a cappella singing, not even needing the microphone. We’ve seen Emmet Cahill perform several times. You should too.

Finally (as if to top each performer with the next) we found another taste of Ireland’s music on her western shores – atop the breathtaking Cliffs of Moher. We took a bus tour from Dublin, which cut all the way across the country (in just two hours) and headed south to the Cliffs. According to the locals we were lucky to visit the Cliffs on a sunny day but I’d say we were really lucky to find Tina Mulrooney performing right there in the out-of-doors. Tina’s an accomplished harpist, with a soft soprano voice deserving of her instrument. She was parked alone on the cliffs, just sitting, singing, and playing her harp. It was magical music, befitting of what you’d hear from the ladies of Celtic Woman.

If Danú ever comes back to our fair city we’ll probably leave the seats to others. Not that we didn’t enjoy ourselves on Tuesday night, but one night of “dancing in our chairs” was probably enough. Now then, should Emmet Cahill or Tina Mulrooney choose to pass through? Why then you’ll find us front and center, hoping for just one more rendition of Danny Boy.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Card Tricks

Every now and then a blog topic appears out of nowhere, looks you in the face, and says BOO! Our credit union called on Sunday to alert us to possible fraud on one of our cards. They took us through the process of verifying a few suspicious transactions. Then they put the account on hold and began the process of issuing new cards. It was the usual over-the-phone slog. Provide member number here, confirm home address there, several requests of “Can you please hold for a minute?”, and so on. But “so on” went from minutes to tens of minutes. Suddenly it occurred to us: the credit card fraud was happening right in front of us.

If you’ve ever been a victim of fraud in any of its forms, it’s one of the most unsettling feelings I can ever describe. These cyber-thieves might as well just walk through your front door and help themselves to whatever they want. The fact that your phone sits on the counter patiently awaiting calls suggests you are open to the opportunity on any day, at any time. In this case I’m convinced the hack was deliberately timed. We were preparing dinner for visiting family on a weekend night. My wife and I were dashing about the kitchen with last-minute preparations The last thing we had time for was a phone call.

Trust can be established in the blink of an eye. The Caller ID on my wife’s phone showed the correct number and word-for-word name of our credit union. The caller identified himself in a business-like voice as an agent from the union’s fraud department. And shortly after calling, he sent us the typical text messages we’ve come to expect in these situations, showing our credit union’s logo and other validating information. In those first few moments of interaction, when your mind is focused on dinner and fraudulent charges, it just doesn’t occur to you to question the caller himself.

Of course, we committed a cardinal sin of fraud by simply answering the phone. Our credit union never has a live agent call us when they suspect fraud. Instead they leave a recorded message asking us to call back to verify the charges. When we call back we answer a few questions through an automated system, and the credit union takes it from there. Zero interaction with a real person from start to finish.

If there’s any good news in this experience, it’s that our Sunday evening caller didn’t succeed despite his determined efforts. After cutting short the call we promptly contacted our credit union and learned that yes, in fact, fraudulent charges had just been attempted on our card… and were declined. Whatever security bells and whistles were put in place to detect and deny this kind of activity worked exactly as they were meant to. But the fact remains, we pretty much opened the front door, greeted the scammer, and said, “Hey, come on in!”

The counter tactics for this sort of plunder are plentiful, of course. Some credit cards no longer use a static 16-digit number or security code. Most allow two layers of authentication before access. Others churn out text messages or emails when charges are considered suspicious. Then again, you can simply do what my mother-in-law does and pay for everything in cash. Not a bad idea to be honest, as long as cash remains an acceptable form of payment.

It’s disheartening to live in a world where others are desperate (or evil) enough to develop sophisticated, practiced methods to steal by simply getting you to pick up the phone. In truth, this bandit has done me a favor. He’s heightened my awareness to such card tricks by his single invitation to sit down at the table and play. The next time this happens (and there will be a next time) I’ll be watching the cards very carefully. And you can bet I’ll be watching the magician himself even more so.

Confection Objections

Have you ever taken a bite of something and thought, “Nope, doesn’t taste right”? Gluten-free foods come to mind. Or salsa on a tortilla chip after the salsa’s turned south. There’s nothing more unnerving than expecting one taste and getting another. But at least with gluten-free (and bad salsa) you’re sort of prepared to be disappointed. The same can’t be said with more “sacred” foods. Like chocolate.

I ate my fair share of Hershey’s bars as a kid but once Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups came along I switched my preference. Reese’s somehow developed the perfect blend of peanut butter and milk chocolate into a convenient cup where you get both tastes in every bite. The two-cup packs never convinced me to save one for later, but they did give the impression I was getting more for my money.

Some things are better left alone… but Reese’s never got the message. Instead, over the years they’ve produced endless varieties on the original peanut butter cup. Before you knew it we had a choice of sizes (including “Big Cup”), fillings (peanut butter and banana creme? Yuck!), and candy coatings, as well as holiday shapes like milk chocolate hearts, eggs, pumpkins, and bells, all with the peanut butter filling. Finally, Reese’s Pieces joined the list, made infinitely more popular by their supporting role in the blockbuster film E.T.

The problem with variations on a Reese’s is the altered ratio of milk chocolate to peanut butter. I would’ve enjoyed standing in ole man Reese’s shoes back in the 1920s when he taste-tested his way to perfection. He should’ve put a patent on it, because too much milk chocolate or too much peanut butter just doesn’t taste right to me. But at least we’re talking about milk chocolate here. Now for the real injustice…

The H.B. Reese Candy Company became a subsidiary of Hershey in 1963. Their peanut butter cups instantly became Hershey’s bestseller (even surpassing the classic Hershey Bar). But recently, subtly, quietly, Hershey committed a mortal sin of the candy world. Rather than leaving well enough alone they changed the ingredients of a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Soon to come, there will no longer be any milk chocolate in a Reese’s, at least not by proper definition. Instead, you’ll indulge in a “chocolate-flavored coating”. In the world of food, we all know flavoring is just another word for “artificial”.

This little con of Hershey’s was brought to the headlines by none other than a grandson of H.B. Reese (and who can claim better peanut butter cup credentials than that?). Brad Reese is taking on Hershey for straying from the original recipe. Granted, the price of cocoa beans – the basis of real chocolate – has gone through the roof the last few years, forcing companies to get creative with size, price, or ingredients. I just wish Hershey offered me the option to still purchase the real thing.

I’ve already noticed how Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups are shrinking. The originals were 0.9 ounces. Then they went to 0.8 ounces, then 0.75, and finally to the 0.7 juniors they are today. If Hershey keeps this up, you’ll start thinking the “original” is a “miniature”. I can make peace with shrinkage as long as the milk chocolate/peanut butter ratio stays the same. But now the words “milk chocolate” will be removed from the orange wrapper. Ask the FDA and they’ll say, “Sorry, “chocolate-flavored coating” is not the same as “milk chocolate”.

I’m joining Brad Reese’s campaign to restore Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups to their original composition. Some things are just worth their weight in gold. Not that I’d pay gold for a peanut butter cup, but show me the original size, ratio, and ingredients and I might just be tempted.

Some content sourced from the NBC News article, “Grandson of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups is in pieces over missing milk chocolate”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Lucky Charms

St. Patrick’s Day will be here in less than a month. The “holiday” is a once-a-year excuse to wear something green, pinch if you don’t, and carouse with abandon in the streets. There’s no real significance to any of it. On the other hand, St. Patrick’s Day gets me thinking about Ireland, leprechauns, and the four-leaf clover, which is a symbol of good luck. Just like Olympic Games mascots.

Can you name the animals represented by the mascots at this year’s Winter Olympics? “Tina” and “Milo” (takeoffs on the cities of Cortina and Milan – nice) are stoats, which you’d hope to be furry and cuddly little creatures, but in fact are anything but. Stoats – first time I’ve heard the word – are “voracious predators”; carnivores in the same classification as otters, ferrets, and wolverines. They’re so aggressive they can take down prey six times their size. New Zealand used a bunch of them in hopes of controlling their rabbit population but instead the stoats wiped out untold numbers of a species of native bird.

A stoat may seem like a curious choice for a mascot, but by definition it makes sense. Mascot (derived from the French mascotte or “lucky charm”) is supposed to drum up the competitive juices of fans and athletes; a sort of fierce cheerleader leading the charge to defeat the opposition. Yeah, that doesn’t quite work at the Olympic Games. As the host country you’re supposed to be friendly and cordial to the world’s visitors; not fist-pump and taunt as if to say, “Italy’s gonna take you out!”

Of course, that’s why Tina and Milo wear permanent smiles, colorful scarves, and make themselves available for purchase as soft stuffed animals instead of looking and acting like real stoats. They don’t want you to be afraid… they want you to spend.

Tina and one of her “Flo” snowdrop flower friends

Olympic mascots drum up the competition at the cash register, not at the venues. Mascots are the faces of the Olympics; at least, the marketing and merchandising faces. Over there in Italy, the “plushies” have been so popular they sold out within the first few days. Patrons complained of waiting over two hours in line at the Olympics “megastore” and walking away with zero stoats.

Tina and Milo are just latest in a long line of Olympic mascots dating back to the 1960s. It’s interesting to review the (every other) years and see those mascot names and faces again because, I don’t recognize a single one of them. It’s as if all the mascot fuss is extinguished along with each Olympic flame. Regardless, here are a few of my forgettable favorites:

Shuss – the little man on skis – is the original Olympic Games mascot. He was created for the 1968 Winter Games in France, and is the first and last mascot you would consider resembling anything close to “human”.

Waldi – a dachshund – came along just four years after Shuss. Perfect species of dog for a Games held in Germany, right? And here’s a clever detail: Waldi is shaped like the route of the Olympic marathon run through Munich.

Roni – a racoon – was the mascot for the 1972 Winter Games in Lake Placid, and the first in line of what I’d consider unattractive U.S. Olympic mascots. I’ll pass on every one of them.

Sam – an eagle – hosted the 1984 Summer Games in Los Angeles. Okay, I get the “Uncle Sam” connection but I wouldn’t have stood two hours in line to buy this stuffed animal, would you?

Magique – an I-don’t-know-what – “starred” at the 1992 Winter Games in Albertville, France. He (she?) actually isn’t so bad compared to several others on the list.

Haakon and Kristin – full-sized figures from Norwegian history – hosted the 1994 Winter Games in Lillehammer. Sorry, but doesn’t it look like Haak and Kris just want to come at you on their skis? The stuff of horror movies.

Izzy – another “I-don’t-know-what” – was all over the 1996 Summer Games in Atlanta. Leave it to the U.S. to come up with something neither human, animal, nor even “object”, yet somehow be the only mascot I can recall thirty years later.

If a mascot translates to a good luck charm, perhaps that’s a good pitch to sell more stuffed animals at the Olympics. Not that these Winter Games need help selling stoats. No doubt you’ll find the ferocious furries on eBay as soon as the Games conclude. Which has me wondering, why would you overpay after the fact for something nobody will ever remember?

Some content sourced from the CNN Sports article, “Word of the Week: The adorable, lethal stoat…”, the NBCOlympics.com article, “A look back at Olympic mascots through the years”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Leave Me Alone

Helen Reddy was an Australian pop singer from the 1970s who would’ve been considered a pioneer of female empowerment (had there been such a term back then). Reddy’s hit I Am Woman leaned on the same pointed lyrics that made Madonna and Katy Perry so popular decades later. Though I Am Woman is Reddy’s most famous anthem, another of her chart-topping hits floats through my brain today: Leave Me Alone. It’s the song the residents of tiny Santa Maddalena di Funes should be singing in the streets of their picturesque mountain village.

Santa Maddalena, Italy (Courtesy of Travel Wild/Stockphoto/Getty Images)

If I asked you to describe a “village” – a term we Americans don’t use very often – what would that image include? Mine would start with a small cluster of buildings, both residential and commercial, surrounding a cobblestone town square. The buildings would look quaint and simple, like throwbacks to earlier times. Narrow roads would lead into the square from the more sparsely populated surrounds. You’d find a lake or two nearby, and clusters of trees here and there. In the background, foothills or majestic snow-covered mountaintops. And right in the middle of it all, a charming church or some other public building rising above the rest.

I’ve just described Santa Maddalena to a tee. This tiny, picturesque gathering, nestled on the eastern slopes of the Dolomite Mountains in Northern Italy, is the stuff of postcards and jigsaw puzzles. There’s not much to it but the setting speaks for itself. And the little church – St. John in Ranui – seems perfectly placed beside the more nondescript buildings. Santa Maddalena is so attractive it draws 600 visitors a day during the peak travel season.

February is not peak travel season in the Dolomites but the Winter Olympics are taking place just a couple hours from Santa Maddalena. No doubt some of those sports fans will make there way over for a selfie. And therein lies the problem. Tiny Santa Maddalena simply can’t handle hundreds of tourists. If they keep coming, the photo I led with really will be too good to be true.

Were it not for the Chinese, Santa Maddalena might still be relatively undisturbed. One of China’s mobile phone companies included an image of the village on its SIM card and suddenly its customers just had to know where to find Santa Maddalena. A 2013 iPhone iOS update included images of the nearby mountains, adding to the draw. Now village officials are considering the unthinkable: restrictions.

It’s a move similar to what’s happening for the first time at the Trevi Fountain in Rome. If you drive to Santa Maddalena you may now be stopped on the outskirts of town, where you’ll leave your car in (gasp!) a parking lot. If you want to walk through town, you’ll have to purchase a ticket. One enterprising resident added a turnstile at the edge of his fields so he can charge those who want to cross over. Suddenly I’m having visions of food trucks and souvenir stands. How sad.

The plight of Santa Maddalena reminds me of those once-a-year lists you find in publications like U.S. News & World Report, where towns across America are ranked according to so-called “quality of life” criteria. Whether the schools, the parks, the clean air, or feeling safe in the streets, your own little corner of the world might suddenly be declared a top-five place to live. And that, my friends, is the kiss of death. Now you’ve been discovered, and everyone has to see what the fuss is all about (or at least go visit for a selfie). The masses throng to your backyard and some never leave. A year or two later – surprise, surprise – you’re no longer “top-five”.

Credit the residents of Santa Maddalena: they’re coming up with creative ways to discourage “over-tourism”. In a particularly bold move, they’re going to require an overnight stay to be able to walk the streets, so that tourists actually give to the local economy instead of just taking that selfie. IMHO all they really need to do is continue to be known as “Santa Maddalena” on the web. You won’t find much if you search with those words. As for “Santa Magdalena?” That’ll get you there. Even if you’ll find a quaint village of people singing Leave Me Alone.

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “Italian village restricts access to its Instagram-famous church”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

A Ringing Endorsement

This time of year the choices for sports on television are few and far between. Sure there’s a lot of basketball being played, but the football season wraps up on Sunday (Super Bowl LX), baseball doesn’t get underway until April, and unless you have the time and patience to watch golf you’re gonna channel surf without catching decent waves. But it’s also something of an illusion, because the Winter Olympic Games kick off tomorrow in Italy. You did know the Olympics are about to get underway, didn’t you?

The 25th edition of the Winter Games comes to your living room in the next two weeks, hosted in Milan, Cortina, and several towns in the surrounding Dolomite mountains. The natural venues of the region look spectacular, and no doubt the Italians will be worthy hosts to thousands of the world’s best athletes. We’ll be treated to sixteen different sporting competitions on snow and ice, from figure skating to bobsledding to ski jumping. Behind the scenes, you’ll get the usual inspirational stories, heartbreaking moments, and thrilling photo-finishes. I just hope you actually hear about any of it.

ESPN.com, where I get my daily dose of sports, includes a list of “Top Headlines” at the beginning of their home page. Today, less than forty-eight hours before the opening ceremonies, there is nothing about the Games. No updates on the American athletes, no projections on when or where the U.S. will be at its most competitive, no “primer” to get you ready to sit down and watch… nothing. You have to scroll way down, past NFL-this and NBA-that before you finally get to anything about what’s going on in Northern Italy. Heck, even the Westminster Dog Show rated more press than the Winter Olympics today (which always begs the question, “Is a dog show considered ‘sports'”?)

I’m glued to the coverage of the Olympics every time they come around (which is every two years, counting the Summer Games). Even with paid, professional athletes, the Olympics are the purest form of global sports competition we have left. The headlines – which will finally include the Olympics for the next two weeks – will speak more positive than negative, more jaw-dropping than ho-hum, with virtually no political undertones. How refreshing is that?

At least ESPN allots some space to the Games, however far down the page it may be. Have a look at any of the major news websites and you’ll be challenged to find similar coverage. Americans are too preoccupied with what’s going on in Washington, Wall Street, and the West Bank. It’s ironic that today’s lead news story is about the Olympics (though not really). Savannah Guthrie – one of the hosts of NBC’s television broadcast – pulled out to be with her family during the apparent abduction of her mother. My prayers are with her.

Since you’ll be hard-pressed to find a primer, here are a few tidbits about the upcoming Games. There are 232 athletes on the U.S. Olympic team, the largest in our history of participation. There are 25 venues for the competition – in four clusters across Northern Italy – making it the most geographically widespread Winter Olympics in history. And for the next eighteen days, you’ll be able to catch all of the action (at reasonable times) on some form of NBC broadcasting, whether streaming or live television. You’ll even get your fill of curling, easily the most misunderstood Olympic sport of them all.

The Olympic Games, as the broadcasters are sure to say over and over, “transcend sports”. The world records, the stories behind them, and the individuals who train tirelessly for these moments deserve our attention. Team USA’s flag bearers this year are speed skater Erin Jackson and bobsledder Frank Del Duca. Think about it – both of these athletes chose sports where their moment of glory (or defeat) starts and ends in a matter of minutes. They are everyday people whose best-in-class performances are brought to the world but once every four years.

Now go read all about it, or better yet… watch. Otherwise I’ll think you’re ignoring my ringing endorsement of the Winter Olympic Games.

Some content sourced from the NBC Olympics website, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Seasoned Greeting

Back in my days in a corporate office, where the telephone was still the preferred means of communication, my peers and I developed a habit of answering calls without a greeting. The phone would ring and we’d simply answer with our name, like “John Smith…” and then wait for the caller to start the conversation. Whether this was an effort to be businesslike or a little intimidating can be debated. But it always felt awkward to me, like one of those greeting cards with nothing printed on the inside.

Did you know the origins of “hello” go back six hundred years? We’ve led with one version or another of the greeting countless times for centuries. Take your pick from “hi”, “hiya”, “hey”, “howdy”, and even “hellaw” down here in the South: human nature demands something of an icebreaker before a conversation gets underway. The no-greeting business calls I mentioned above suggest this is not a conversation, this is business. Otherwise we need a starter word. Think about it. How awkward would it be to hug, shake a hand, or fist-bump without uttering a single word?

The history of “hello” is dry and speculative but it’s safe to say most of us started using it as soon as we could speak. Then, inevitably, we either embraced the word as our greeting or moved on to one of its offspring. For me the preference was “hey”. I find myself using “hey” whether I’m meeting someone for the first time or they’re a long-time acquaintance. I tried “hey” on for size a long time ago and it suits me just fine.

How “hello” reduced to “hi” is anyone’s guess, but it makes sense in the framework of the not-so-Queen’s English we use in America. A Brit saying “hi” doesn’t sound quite right. An American? Pretty much what we expect. A Brit can substitute “Good morning” or “Good evening” for “Hello”, while Americans just go with “Morning” or “Evening”.

But even “hi” seems a little passé these days. I’m just as likely to get a Yo!, Sup!, or Hey-ya! from Millennials and younger. Furthermore, if you gave any of those generations the choice they’d rather greet you with a text than with their voice. That leads to a whole new approach to starting conversations. Who starts a text message with “Hello, Dave!” More likely it’s just “Dave…”, an emoji, or no greeting at all.

[Blogger’s note: My favorite instance of “hello” comes at the end of the movie Jerry Maguire. The line, “You had me at ‘hello'” has been recycled many times since but never as powerfully. Pretty much launched Renée Zellweger’s career in a single sentence.]

Beyond “hello” itself, the inflections of the voice convert the greeting into something else entirely. We demand attention by saying He-LLO!!! We question attention by saying HELLO? (… “is anybody home?”). And if we say “hello” quickly we’re suggesting we don’t have time for the conversation that follows. A greeting can make a lasting impression inside of a single word.

We’ve lived in the South for a little while now, and in that time we’ve learned a new approach when it comes to greeting one another. When we’re introduced to someone for the first time we often exchange “hey” as the greeting. When we see someone we already know we go with “hey hey”. I’m still trying on “hey hey” for size. It feels a little forced to someone who grew up in the West. Give me a few more years.

A decade or two from now a wholly new greeting will be out there; one we’ll never see coming (seriously, did you ever think “yo yo” would replace “hello”?) Maybe this new salutation will suit me or maybe I’ll flat out reject it. Either way, “hello” rests comfortably in my back pocket whenever I need it. Six hundred years of history suggests it’s not going anywhere in the next twenty.

Some content sourced from the BBC article, “‘Hullo, hillo, holla’, the 600-year-old origins of the word ‘Hello'”.

When I’m Sixty-Four

We’ve reached the time of year when we abide by an unwritten rule: It’s no longer appropriate to say Happy New Year! We’re well past the first week of 2026 so quit thinking the year is still “new” already. On the other hand, it’s entirely appropriate to say Happy Birthday! Today happens to be the birthday of yours truly, as it has been for the past sixty-four years. I now find myself squarely between “Early Sixties” and “Medicare Eligible”, which sparks a wide variety of thoughts. Including a song by The Beatles.

Here’s a contradiction I wrestle with every birthday. I am celebrating 64 years but it’s actually my 65th birthday. If you don’t count the very first one (when you turn “0”) you’re effectively removing the first year of your life from the equation. 64 equals sixty-four years of my existence. But 64 also means my sixty-fifth birthday. Get it? I didn’t think so.

Birthday are traditionally celebrated with presents and cake, and both made their appearance yet again this year. I keep telling my wife and kids no presents, because in our sixties we finally learn we have almost everything we need (and need almost nothing we have). On the other hand, I will never turn down birthday cake, especially when the choice of flavor is mine to make. German chocolate – heavy on the coconut if you please.

My birthday is also the perfect reason to recall my late father. He was born the very next day (well, the very next day thirty-three years before). If my mother could’ve held on for another couple of hours Dad and I would’ve shared the same birthday. Not that I ever blamed her for choosing January 22nd. I’m sure the last thing she cared about back then was the clock. But at least she got a kind of two-fer in that Dad and I celebrated our birthdays together every year.

Our financial advisor makes a nice birthday gesture every year with the colorful assortment you see here. These beautiful chocolates – handcrafted by Florida-based Norman Love Confections – are too pretty to eat. Having said that I can assure you the entire box will be empty by early February. Yes I realize this “gift” is really just me buying myself a birthday present, since it comes out of the profits of my own investments. But at least there are profits…

My birthday is also a reminder I fall under the sign of Aquarius (barely). An Aquarius is described as intellectual, independent, and humanitarian. I happily embrace all three even if I regularly fall short in all three as well. On the other hand, Aquarius is the water-bearer. In the thirty-odd years my wife and I have been homeowners we’ve been plagued with every form of water disaster imaginable. Drips, leaks, mold, flooded basements, overflowing retention ponds – you name it. Would it surprise you to know an ice storm is headed our way in the next few days?

Finally we have The Beatles; or at least, Paul McCartney. McCartney, who turned 83 last June, wrote the merry tune When I’m Sixty Four when he was only fourteen. The lyrics include musings about his life fifty years on, but really the song’s just a silly rant about a time he couldn’t possibly foretell. (At least he thought to include “Dave” in the lyrics.) If I could meet McCartney in person I’d love to ask him, Hey, was it really like the song suggested nineteen years ago? Even if it wasn’t I’ll bet he’d take age sixty-four back in a heartbeat.

We make wishes when we blow out birthday candles (even at my post-middle-pre-senior age). Such was the case again this year on top of my German chocolate cake. What did I wish for? I’ll never tell, at least not unless the wish comes true. But I will admit to one distraction while I was huffing and snuffing those candles. There were only sixty-four on my cake. I’m thinking there should’ve been sixty-five.

Worthless Wardrobe Boxes

I’ve always liked the play on words of Men’s Wearhouse. If you’re familiar with MW you know they cover more ground than just formal wear. They’ve set aside an area for tuxedos and such, but they have other sections for dress shirts, accessories, and even shoes. It’s like walking through a miniature department store… which is probably why MW is destined for the dust bin sometime in the coming year.

Just eighteen months after Saks Fifth Avenue acquired bankrupt Neiman-Marcus (for the “bargain” price of $2.65 billion) Saks itself filed for bankruptcy; just yesterday. The 2024 merger of these big-box luxury retailers (which included Bergdorf Goodman) never really came to fruition. Chalk it up to biting off more than they could chew, or more likely to the impact of the changing habits of consumers. Today’s shoppers want smaller, more specific brick-and-mortar options; that is, whenever they can drag themselves away from online purchasing.

The shuttering of department stores is not limited to the high-end verions, of course. Macy’s is in the process of closing 150 “underperforming locations”. JC Penny, Kohl’s, and Marshall’s are closing outlets here and there. Even Carter’s, the popular option for children’s clothing, is calling it quits on 150 locations. And Sears, which had almost 3,000 locations just fifteen years ago, is down to a mere five. Frankly, I didn’t know Sears had any locations anymore.

Sears (or the Sears, Roebuck and Co I remember as a child) was my family’s go-to-department store for just about anything. My brothers and I were outfitted in Sears-brand clothing. My mother purchased all kinds of items for her kitchen. My father built up his workshop with dozens of Craftsman tools. And of course, the Sears catalog was not only a kid’s dream-book of Christmas wishes, but its arrival in the mailbox was a sign Santa was on his way… not to your house but to the toy department at Sears.

Like many other things in the States, department stores were based on the originals in Europe. Harrods of London has been around since 1849 and boasts of 1,100,000 square feet of selling space, making it the largest department store on the continent. Paris hosts several stores I’ve never heard of yet many have been around as long as Harrods. And Australia’s David Jones is considered the world’s longest continuously operating department store (since 1838!)

As you read this post – and if you’re Millennial or older – I’m sure a department store of your own experience comes to mind. Towards the East Coast: Gimbels, Hudson’s, or Wanamaker’s. Towards the West: May Company, Bullock’s, or Robinson’s. In Chicago alone: Marshall Field’s, Carson Pirie Scott, or Wieboldt’s. In Canada: Eaton’s. The list is endless, even as most of them are downsizing or closing altogether.

In deference to my former department store habits, I also prefer more specific retail these days. My shoes come from shoe stores. My shirts come from stores of particular name brands. But with shopping malls closing along with their aforementioned “anchors”, my stores of choice are now stand-alones or in outlet malls. Now that I think about it, outlet malls are kind of like outdoor department stores, aren’t they?

I may be nostalgic for the department stores of my past, but I certainly understand why the concept has come and is about to be gone. We have more convenient, more tailored options these days. Which has me wondering about supermarkets. Supermarkets are also under the threat of the changing habits of consumers. No, I don’t expect a return to those wonderful merchant-driven street markets you find all over Europe. But we are getting more comfortable with placing orders ahead of time and having groceries delivered to our car or front door. In other words, enjoy shopping in “food warehouses” while you still can, because department stores are about to become nothing more than worthless wardrobe boxes.

Some content sourced from the CNN Business article, “Saks Global files for bankruptcy protection…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

A Pricey Drive down Memory Lane

We sure love our pets, even long after they’ve moved on from this world. When we lost our Saint Bernard last September, after eleven memory-filled years together, we kept reminders of him around the house. Remy’s ashes now lie in a stately wood box up on the fireplace mantle. His leash still hangs by the back door, as if we’ll take him for another walk in the neighborhood. And the kids gifted us framed photos of our favorite moments with him. Having said all that, I never expected this under the Christmas tree…

No, this isn’t our Remy. Well, okay, it is Remy but not in the “fur” (so to speak). Instead it’s a remarkably accurate likeness based on digital photos… and it serves as a head cover for one of my golf clubs. The double-takes I get on the driving range are priceless. Those puzzled expressions from other golfers beg the question, Wait, where’s the rest of the dog?

If these doggy head covers really get popular, I’d love to see future versions get a little animated. Along with the photos, send in an audio file of your dog’s bark. Then design the mouth to open and close on cue. Remy may have been a “gentle giant” but man he had a ferocious bark. Talk about a great way to say don’t touch my clubs!

If I had any concerns about the money my wife spent on my Remy head cover, I’ve gained some perspective to make me feel better. Forget about golf clubs for a moment. Did you know you can now have your car customized as a memorial to your beloved pet?

It’s safe to say I will never own a Rolls-Royce. Even if I had the money for one I can easily come up with a dozen ways I’d rather spend that much dough. But the car-as-your-dog thing is apropos for those who have way too much money in their paws. Consider, you’re already spending upwards of $500K on the car itself so why not put another $100K into it for personalization?

The options for customizing your Rolls border on the ridiculous. You can choose the paint color to match your dog’s coat. You can have his image created in intricate wood veneer inlays between the seats. His paw prints – authentic reproductions of course – can be used to dot the pinstripes (which is nowhere near subtle with a paw the size of a Saint Bernard’s). And the possibilities with the leather seats are endless.

Candidly, when your world includes a Rolls-Royce the word “customization” really means anything you want. You begin in the lobby of a design studio, which is an unmarked ultra-secure building in downtown Manhattan. You’re escorted upstairs by an armed security guard. You then sit down to a team of consultants to fine-tune every little canine detail. Now walk away and let the Rolls-Royce crew create your personalized masterpiece. Time and money are no object so neither is negotiated. All that matters is having your dog in the details. And if you’re so inclined, those details can include real gold in the paint job.

As much as this makes for a good blog topic, I’m no fan of excess. If I’m spending six figures to embellish my vehicle with remembrances of my dog, I’ve lost all sense of fiscal responsibility. No thank you. I’ll limit my purchases to trinkets like this little framed photo ornament from Shutterfly. Okay, and head covers for my golf clubs.

One of these days my wife and I will take down the wooden box of ashes and put away the photos of our beloved Remy. Even the golf club head cover is bound to deteriorate at some point. When all that happens, I hope I can still picture our good ol’ boy in my mind. Otherwise I might be telling myself, I should’ve bought a Rolls-Royce!

Some content sourced from the CNN Style article, “Want your Rolls Royce to match your pet Labrador?…”.