Raggedy Ann and Other Frightening Things

     When I was a kid, I hated clowns.  In fact, I found them scary.  Their big hair was usually bright red.  Their faces were the face of pure evil.  Even a black and white Happy the Clown and his marching sticks were not high on my list.  The same went for Raggedy Ann.  That doll, with her red yarn hair and a face that looked like Bozo did her make up, was creepy.
      Raggedy Ann was created by Johnny Gruelle.  He wrote a series of books featuring the character from 1880 to 1938.  The Raggedy Ann doll was introduced in 1915 and Raggedy Andy came along in 1920.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raggedy_Ann  Raggedy Ann dolls and Teddy bears were residents of almost every child's toy box for years.
     When Hollywood decided to demonize a toy, they picked Chatty Cathy.  Does anybody remember the Twilight Zone episode "Living Doll?"  It's about Talky Tina, a doll that will make you sorry if you're not nice to her.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSy8Ko1vSKQ  I loved Chatty Cathy, and I wanted her.  Even seeing Talky Tina wouldn't have disuaded me from begging for a Chatty Cathy.
     Maybe Raggedy Ann's reputation changed in the 1970's when the story of Annabelle came out.  A woman bought a large Raggedy Ann for her student nurse daughter.  The doll liked to move itself off the bed during the day when the daughter went to classes.  Later the doll, who came to stay in the parent's house, moved around and left meaningless, written notes.  She got nasty after the family took her to a priest to exorcise her demons.  It's a long story, but you can read it here:
http://www.dark-stories.com/eng/annabelle_possessed_doll.htm
     I suppose you can't hold a grudge forever.  Before my junior year in college, I found some six inch Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls.  They were so small that I actually found them cute.  I propped them up against my pillow every day after making the bed.  Sometimes I came home from class and found them in different sexual positions.  I doubt the dolls were demon possessed, but my roommate's crazy boyfriend might have been.
     Sometime during the early 80's Raggedy Ann became popular again.  McCall's offered an Ann and Andy pattern that could be made in four different sizes.  They also sold a Hallowe'en costume pattern.  I bought the doll pattern and started making dolls to sell or give away as gifts.   I used to tell people that I made the dolls as a way of confronting my childhood fear.  I think the thing that won me over was hugging one of my dolls.  It was soft and cuddly, not like that hard, plastic blabbermouth.
     The original dolls were Caucasian.  I decided to diversify.  I made Afro-American Ann and I braided her hair.  I even made a couple of Asian Anns.  One thing that I never, ever did was add the traditional Raggedy Ann tattoo, the "I love you" inside a heart.  The recipient could talk to the doll, but I was determined the doll was never going to communicate to a human by any means. There's no such thing as too careful when it comes to certain things.

Enough for a baseball team

       

No, Thank You

     Yesterday I was reading about Sarah Baartman, a Khoikhoi African woman, who was displayed as a freak show attraction, in the early 1800's.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah_Baartman  My mind wandered to the HBO series "Carnivale" and then to the movie "Water for Elephants."  I never liked the circus.  As a kid, I would have picked going to 2 Guys over going to the circus.  The circus came to Hainesport a couple of times in the form of the Our Lady Queen of Peace fund raising carnival.  One year they had an acrobat who ended her routine by hanging by her teeth.  http://blog.modernmechanix.com/worlds-strangest-circus-produced-by-amateurs/  Hanging by my teeth is the last thing in the world I would want to do.
     A list started forming in my head, a reverse bucket list.  There are quite a few things that I am steadfastly close minded about.

     1. I don't want a sports car.  They're way down on the ground, and it would hurt my back to get in and out.  I don't drive fast anymore.  Mike says I putt-putt along like an old lady.

     2. I don't want to eat mountain oysters.

     3. I don't want to move to Florida.  Though I whine about the cold all winter and make threats, I would rather stay away from the Sunshine State.  They have bugs and snakes and hurricanes.

    4. As much as I like dogs, I'll never keep a malamute in the house.  They don't just shed.  They moult weekly, it seems.

     5. I don't want to sleep under the stars or make love on the beach.

     6. I don't want a nose job or a face lift.  The thought of a more attractive me has been tempting at times, but in the end I'd rather spend the money at Flemings.

     7. I don't want to own a bed and breakfast.  Why would anyone want the pressure of always having to keep the house spotless and having to wait on a bunch of strangers?  I'd probably screw up all the orders for over easy eggs.

     There are plenty of things I would like to do.  I've always been in love with the jitterbug, and I would like to learn a really cool jitterbug routine.  I would like to ride an elephant and swim with the dolphins.  I would love to have three desserts after supper every night.  But wait, that's another situation to which I must say, "No, thanks."    

The Perversion List

     Goldangit!  The Boy Scouts are in the news again.  http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-boyscouts-20120805-m,0,5822319.story
     Didn't I suggest in Happy in Hainesport's entry of July 26 that there are probably child molesters right under their noses?  Their "perversion files" were an attempt to keep child molesters, once discovered, from returning to the Scouts.  Too bad it didn't work that well.  Everyone of those devils who abused a child should be outed.
     If you want to check for sex offender's in your neighborhood, use New Jersey's list that was established under Megan's Law (New Jersey Code at 2C: 7 -12 to 19).  Here's the link - http://www.state.nj.us/njsp/info/reg_sexoffend.html
     The FBI also provides links to every state, U. S. Territories, and the American Indian Tribes.  http://www.fbi.gov/scams-safety/registry/

Good Deeds

  Since I took a shot at the Boy Scouts a little over a week ago, I'll strive for balance today.  This is one of my creative writing assignments:

          A short time after I retired, I decided I would try to do a good deed every day.  The idea came to me as I pushed a shopping cart back to the store.  Pre-retirement, I wouldn’t have had the time to return a cart, because I hurriedly shopped during my lunch hour.  Now, there is no reason not to return carts.  No matter how cold and windy the weather, I should be returning those carts, after which I could tick off the day’s good turn.  Thus, I took on the mission of the daily act of kindness.

     I didn’t realize it at the time, but I have since learned that the slogan of the Boy Scouts is, “Do a good turn daily.”  And all these years, I thought the Boy Scout helping Granny cross the street was the product of Hollywood sit-com writers.  You've seen the character, a feisty old woman offended by the suggestion that she needs assistance, comes out swinging her purse at the kid in the khaki shirt and neckerchief.  It’s no joke.  Boy Scouts, who take their directive seriously, dedicate themselves to finding some small way to be of service each day.  

     Hopefully, I have a long life ahead of me.  Longer life means I have to come up with more good deeds.  No matter how creative I become, some of these acts will be repeated many times.  Some will be so trivial they hardly qualify as an act of kindness.  It doesn't matter, as long as I manage to do something each day.  I might pick up some litter, report a broken jar of spaghetti sauce all over aisle #12 at the supermarket, or make faces to amuse a fussy baby while her mother tries to unload a shopping cart and pay for groceries.  Or I could resist the urge to be snitty to a telemarketer,  take the treats the dog rejected to the animal shelter where the mutts aren’t so picky, or be the only one on the block to put out a bag of canned goods for (you guessed it) the Boy Scouts.  The longer you are at it, the easier it gets.  I’m also not above thinking that all these good deeds will get me some God-points toward a longer life.   

     Not all good deeds leave you with that warm and fuzzy feeling.  For example, Good Deed #46 involved returning a flipped recycling bucket to the upright position and putting some broken glass in it which the recycle guys left in the road, even though it caused me to be whirled around by the wind created by a car passing at a high rate of speed.  Additionally, there was some fist shaking on the part of the driver of that car.  Good Deed # 127 resulted in puncture wounds when I tried to clip the nails of a friend's dog.  

     I like to fantasize that the box I picked up prevented a broken hip, or the nails I picked up prevented a flat tire.  At times, I think the best part of this whole project is when I hear that something I considered minuscule brought tears to the eyes of the person on the receiving end. Then I think again and hope something I did left them gasping for breath because, they have laughed so hard.

     Maybe a daily good turn is too much to ask, but I would like to request that everyone in the whole, wide world try to do something nice on a regular schedule – once a week, once a month, or once a year.  Let’s all be Boy Scouts, just better dressed.     

  

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidtt

     The next lyric in the song is "his name is my name, too."  What are the chances?  These days the chances are pretty good that one child's odd name will be shared by another child.  I went to school with a bunch of Mary Anns, Patricia Anns, and Deborah Anns.  I think Ann was the only middle name allowed in the 50's.  I'm Beverly Ann - the only kid named Beverly had the same middle name as everyone else.
     I remember the surge in popularity of ethnic names in the 70's and 80's.  There were also made up names like Dreama (mom must have dreamed she was pregnant) and Nevaeh (heaven spelled backwards).  I don't know how Jason and Jennifer became so popular, but Christina was the name of the Carrington's baby on "Dynasty."  There was a period when last names became first names.  Both boys and girls were named Tyler and Taylor.  Just don't name your kid Tyler Tyler.  Biblical names have always been around, but there are a lot of Adams, Jonahs, and Joshuas coming home from the hospital lately.  I've noticed a bunch of long, girly names, Samantha and Angelina, for example.  Christina is still here, but it's being spelled Krystyna.
     I just heard that the latest naming trend is choosing names from popular sci-fi and fantasy shows like"Game of Thrones."  http://screen.yahoo.com/unusual-baby-names-becoming-popular-30157007.html?pb_list=01a0a4e8-078c-497e-87d0-021c3241ca13      
While parents think they are being original naming their kid after someone from the Iron Islands of Westeros, little Theon might find that he's one of several Theons at the elementary school.  That's okay because kids like to fit in.  Theon will probably grow up and name his baby William or Catherine or Homunculus.
     There was a story circulating that someone mistakenly thought the hospital named their child Female (pronounced like tamale).  I don't know if that's true.  It's a shame if it is.  I think parents should name their kids whatever they like and whatever fits with their culture.  What if the child hates his or her name?  That's what nicknames are for.  I think the only names that should be off limits are Formica Dinette, Alexis Infinity, and Brfxxccxxmnpcccclllmmnprxvclmnckssqlbb11116.   http://urbantitan.com/10-weird-first-names/

Hainesport Shop Rite

     I love the Hainesport Shop Rite.  The store is big and clean.  Produce and dairy products are always fresh.  The staff is friendly and helpful.  Even the kids who collect carts in the parking lot offer to take your cart when you leave or give you a cart when you arrive.
     Occasionally, there can be a snag in the shopping experience at any store.  The way the store resolves an issue is what is important.  Once I tried a new brand of orange juice.  The stuff was awful - a thick, pulpy mixture with the consistency of a milk shake.  Shop Rite returned my money and explained that the processing plant must have had a glitch when adding some pulp to the batch.  Another time, I was accosted by a panhandler in the parking lot.  He was a pitiful looking soul who said he needed gas money to return to Browns Mills.  I'm no fool, so I offered to go with him to the Wawa and put some gas in his vehicle.  He walked away saying, "Never mind."  Sounded like he really wanted beer money or drug money.  I reported the incident to the store, and they promptly handled it so that no other customers would be hassled.
     When it comes to ground beef, I like to find a lean roast and have the butcher grind it.  The result is super lean hamburger that is cheaper than the store's 93% lean burger.  Yesterday, I had some difficulty locating a chunk of beef that could be ground since most of the round roasts were marked to be sold only as roasts (no grinding allowed).  By the time I found the right cut of meat, the butcher had gone on break, and his assistant was not sure if he would be allowed to grind the meat.  I asked the manager, Mr. Blackwell, if the roast was "eligible" for grinding, and he assured me that it was.  He had the meat ground while I finished my shopping.
     Sometimes people bemoan the fact that the mom and pop stores are gone.  They say the personal attention that shoppers used to receive is a thing of the past.  That's not the case at the Hainesport Shop Rite.  Thanks, Mr. Blackwell, for doing your part to make Hainesport a happy place.            
           

The Most Important Meal of the Day

          I’m a breakfast eater.  It’s a habit instilled by my mother, a woman who knew that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  Though I am now a disciple of the morning meal, that wasn’t always the case.  As a sleep craving teenager, I would have eschewed eating at the crack of dawn if were it not for the various tortures my mother employed to roust me out of bed.  First, from the bottom of the steps, she called.  When I refused to rise, she mounted the stairs.  Now, with a glass of water in hand, mother delivered her second request to get up.  When I refused, and I always refused, she dipped her hand into the glass and flicked cold water at my face.  She was unrelenting.  It was easier to eat than to deal with a watery extra ten minutes in the sack.
     Eighteen years of indoctrination did the trick.  When I went off to college, I made time for breakfast.  Unlike home, where the menu might be oatmeal today and eggs tomorrow, the dining hall served oatmeal and eggs every day.  And French toast and assorted cold cereals and Danish.  I could have a side of Danish with any breakfast choice or consume a breakfast of Danish alone.  This truly was the best meal of the day.

     When the days of my mother and the dining hall preparing my meals ended, my commitment to breakfast did not falter.  My morning bill of fare expanded beyond traditional breakfast foods.  I still hated getting out of bed, but the thought of something scrumptious to eat lured me to the kitchen.  It might be a left over slice of pizza with everything on it or the microwaved contents of a doggie bag.  Anything qualified as breakfast.

     I looked into the refrigerator this morning.  I saw sesame chicken, no rice, left over from Chinese take out.  I decided to make a pot of rice.  I could finish the left over Chinese chicken with this rice.  Within a few days, I could use the extra rice as a side dish with some American chicken.  The rice was cooked perfectly.  I reheated the sesame chicken and combined the two.  I decided to eat while working at the cluttered computer area in my kitchen.  Bad idea.  While simultaneously viewing a web page and bearing down with a fork on an oversized chunk of chicken, my plate flopped off the edge of the desk and crashed to the floor. 

     I always wanted and recently got ceramic tile floors.  They are kid proof and dog proof and, as I was about to learn, Chinese food proof.  As a kid, I thought ceramic tile was the greatest thing.  I slid around on it in my stocking feet, pretending to be Peggy Fleming.  Today, as I watched my plate fly across the floor with the speed of a hockey puck, the skating fantasy vaporized.  These floors aren’t like an ice rink.  They are like a billiard table.  First comes the break, then the flying off in fifteen different directions.  As the shards of my plate traveled, they lost their load of rice, chicken, and broccoli.  The pieces moved with so much momentum that they ricocheted off the island and cabinet bases.  The result was a distribution throughout the kitchen with some infiltration into the dining room.  Rice has amazing adhesive qualities.  I found it clinging to my pajama legs and my ankles.

     But, as I said, ceramic tile is disaster proof.  There were no cuts as there might have been in the days of vinyl flooring.  There was no soaking into the cracks as there would have been with wood floors.  All I had to do was scrape it up and mop.

     Besides teaching me the importance of breakfast, my mother instilled my belief that everything happens for a reason.  The kitchen was due for cleaning.  Now it’s spic and span.  The PJ's were due for laundering.  The sesame chicken could have reached it’s expiration date, so I might have avoided a bout of intestinal distress. 

     Now, what’s for breakfast?