With the weather at last beginning to cool down in our little beach town, I’ve been thinking about soup.
 
More specifically, making my favorite soup, from scratch of course. 
 
And in the coming months right after this one, when it’s pitch black by six o’clock; the wind is cold and blowing hard, and flip flops are definitely not the best footwear for the season, I’ll be putting together lots of other savory broths, too.  
 
My preferred soup is chicken with matzo balls, and there are more than a few reasons why it’s The Chosen One.
 
Nostalgia is the biggest explanation.
 
My mom made this soup for as long as I can remember, probably because it was both cheap and uber-simple.  She’d buy a whole chicken on sale, cut it up, and then dump the meat with enough water to cover the poultry by an inch or so.   The chicken would cook until it was nearly off the bone; after that, she’d add one chopped onion, some carrots cut in a circular shape, and a few stalks of chopped celery.  Final steps were putting in table salt and pepper and bringing the pot to a boil.  After simmering for an hour or so, she’d pull the chicken out, serving it separately on a platter, and keep the broth and veggies in its pot.
 
For a few years when she’d serve this dish, I would dump nearly an entire sleeve of saltines into my bowl, turning dinner into something I called gruel.  (Now that I think about it, this was also around the time I was memorizing songs from the stage play Oliver!, the not  entirely unhappy story about orphan Oliver Twist.  This staging is also where Monkee heartthrob Davy Jones got his first big break, but I digress.)   
 
Like most of my cooking, I’ve now made this soup better by “jollying up” the recipe, which consequently makes it my own.   
First, I buy the chicken already cut, going to a real butcher to get exactly what I want—four meaty thighs and one large half breast, all with skin and bone still on.  I put those pieces in my mom’s Dutch oven, along with bottled water, and bring to a gentle boil, then simmer, all the while removing the pieces of white glob that migrate to the top.  
 
The chicken is done in half an hour, so I remove it (something mom should have done to prevent overcooking), but keep the broth on low.  At this time, I’ll also add a heaping teaspoon or two of Better than Bouillon chicken flavor, but if I don’t have any of that around, a few Knorr bouillon chicken cubes will do.  After the meat has cooled, I discard the skin and bones, and chop the meat into bite-size pieces. 
 
I’ve also started my veggie mix around now.  
 
In a large skillet, I take two or three large loose carrots (never ever buy baby carrots, as they dry out more easily, and in fact, aren’t miniature carrots at all, but remnants from bigger carrots that machines make pretty and smooth and polished), peel them and then cut them matchstick style.  This medley also has one large chopped white or yellow onion (whatever is around) and two or three celery sticks, cut julienne style with a good handful of roughly chopped celery leaves thrown in.  I stir this mix for a couple of minutes in a tablespoon or so of good olive oil, then dump it into my broth.  Then I turn the heat up to a low boil and let everything cook for about 15 minutes.  Next, I turn off the burner and nope, I haven’t put the chicken pieces back in yet.
 
Oh, the matzo balls.
 
My mom would occasionally make them with her soup, but she didn’t know the tricks to making them light and fluffy. They weren’t exactly hockey pucks, but they weren’t exactly melt-in-your-mouth dumplings, either.
 
Lucky for me, I’ve received some guidance in this arena. 
 
I only use name brand matzo meal—Manischewitz or Streit’s—and I get the meal, not the mix.  I follow the directions to a tee except for these things:  I use egg whites, not the entire egg, and instead of broth or water to moisten the matzo, I add club soda.  These two tips help make the finished product light.  But the most important piece of advice I’ve received is this: when shaping the matzo balls, handle them gently and as little as possible.  After the dumplings are assembled, I bring my soup back up to a rolling boil.
 
The raw matzo balls are then dropped into the broth, one at a time. (If you’d like, you can also add a handful of Manischewitz egg noodles now, but even that’s bit much for this carb loving clown.) After the matzo balls are done—they’ll expand to about three times their original size—I lower the temperature and put the cut up chicken back in, heating the meat through.  Lastly, I add my herbs and seasonings, anywhere from a tablespoon to about one-quarter cup of fresh dill and Italian parsley, kosher salt and fresh ground pepper to taste. 
 
Now, turn the soup off and let it set up for a few minutes before ladling it out. Because this soup also freezes well, I sometimes divide the leftovers up in a few individual size containers for later lunches. 
 
I have a lot of other favored soups. 
 
There’s a recipe for the official United States Senate Navy Bean, cut out from a long-ago newspaper and found in my mom’s old recipe box, and a dried split pea made with short ribs instead of a ham hock, typed by someone whose name I don’t recognize, and also discovered in the same box.  I’m always looking for new soup ideas, too: I’ve done Ina Garten’s wild cream of mushroom soup (amazingly good and amazingly labor intensive), and recently, I made an easy cream of celery soup that I’m thinking of serving as the first course for our Christmas Eve supper.  In the next few weeks, I’ll be trying a beef soup that calls for two pounds of meat on a bone—allowed to simmer for a full four hours before any other ingredients are added. 
 
Beyond their yumminess, I make soups for many reasons.
 
One, being a foodie, I actually enjoy the preparation, and then, getting to see what I’ve created in a relatively short amount of time.  But many soups are also high fiber and low fat; provide a great introduction of flavorful vegetables to children, and fill one up without a lot of empty calories.  And for those who might not know, chicken soup has its own benefits: the traditional recipe acts as an anti-inflammatory agent and also helps clear out mucus, which makes it an invaluable menu choice during cold and flu season.
 
And lastly, admit it: during the chilliest months of the year, there’s really no better smell than a made-with-love, homemade soup simmering on the stove. 
 
What about you?  What are your favorite soups, and why?  I look forward to your stories and comments!
 

​So many jobs that teenagers used to get hired to do in The Olden Days—without a hint of irony, this is how my daughter refers to my wanton youth—have vanished.  
 
At least in our sweet beach town, I’ve never seen an actual bicycle riding paperboy.  It appears that this rise-at-dawn, you’ll-get-a-ton-of-exercise task is now being done by middle aged adults in sensible vans, probably because they’re struggling to make ends meet since living wages are becoming as rare as an affordable house.  The same seems to be true for pulling weeds and pushing lawnmowers.  And thanks to automation, I also haven’t noticed any teen pinsetters in any bowling alleys I’ve visited in the last decade.      
 
Still, there was one young person gig I couldn’t imagine ever going away. 
 
That was the pizza delivery guy (or gal).
 
Usually a local high school senior or a community college student, usually driving an okay car still able to toot its way around the hood, the hours are flexible, and the tips make it a pretty good deal.  In fact, delivering pies was one of the first jobs a neighbor’s son scored, and he liked it okay.  During one four-hour shift, he told me he’d once pocketed $92. 
 
But now, Domino’s—the second largest pizza business in the United States, its annual gross sales are $8 billion—wants to take even this job away. 
 
Yup, as I write this, the cheesy pepperoni giant is in the midst of a six week experiment—delivering pizzas without drivers to customers in Ann Arbor, Michigan, home of its corporate headquarters.
 
Here’s how it works.
 
For selected pizza lovers, their round meal arrives in a special gussied up Ford Fusion equipped with radar and a camera, but no one gets out of the car. (For now, a Ford engineer is behind the wheel, but the front windows are blacked out to guarantee zero interaction.)  When their pizza is ready, customers must instead leave their couches and TV remotes behind, go out the door, and meet the car at curbside.
 
Once at the special black and white car, they next type a four-digit code into an exterior car keypad.  After that’s done, a magic rear window opens and allows customers to pick up their order from a specially-heated compartment.  Customers are chosen randomly, and receive a phone call if they want to participate.  If they decide to try it out, they’ll then get a text letting them know the car is about to pull up. 
 
There’s more: in the years ahead, not even a four-wheeled vehicle may be needed. That’s because the company is also testing delivery using—wait for it—drones.  
 
These kind of no-humans-involved transactions seem pretty odd to this Girl Clown.
 
Then I remember that the future has always included leaving jobs behind.
 
Indeed, a quick Google search of once important jobs that are now obsolete—and yikes, some were around when I was well into adulthood—yielded more than a few examples.
 
There was the lector, a person hired to read out loud to cigar makers while the latter did their repetitive work.  Paid via the pooled wages of the workers, he would sit in a chair on a raised platform so that most of the laborers could hear him read whatever requests were offered up to him.  And if you’ve seen any movies about the old timey newspaper business, you’ll for sure have seen someone playing a copy boy—essentially, an errand runner in charge of delivering news and press releases to reporters and editors on deadline, usually ripped from clattering wire news services machines.  
 
Other non-existent jobs of yesterday include lamplighters, persons who manually lit the gas lamps that used to line
city streets, and ice men, who delivered blocks of ice to homes with ice boxes (also known as the first refrigerators).  
There were also Dictaphone operators, most often secretaries who would transcribe memos and letters that had
been dictated into a machine by her boss.  About the size of a bulky shoe box, it was a device, in fact, that I had
to master in the mid-1980s.
 
And while we’re at it, let’s get into the iPhone.
 
Seemingly single handedly, these can’t-leave-home-without-it devices haven’t just replaced switchboard operators.  They’ve also superseded folks who used to manufacture and sell alarm clocks, timers, flashlights, calculators, photo albums, address books, day planners, video cameras, maps and a lot more stuff that I can’t think of right now.  Sooner than later, I’m expecting a Zippo lighter, fly swatter and luxe Swiss army knife to be part of the package, too.  
 
But it’s not all that bleak.
 
That’s because for every job that isn’t around anymore, another and often better job slides into its place.
 
So, if the Dominos experiment works, there could potentially be tens of thousands of test vehicles on the road, and that will take more designers and engineers, not to mention state-of-the-art mechanics, radar and camera technicians who need to be on hand to service all of those cars.
 
And while there aren’t any more lectors, there are certainly a lot of stand-up comedians doing their shtick out loud at clubs (whose owners hire managers, food preparers, bouncers, servers, busboys and bartenders) around the world.  
 
Moving on to the extinct copy boy, the Internet has instead exploded with all sorts of jobs that have everything to do with writing, editing and managing news sites, blogs and other information driven web site addresses.  And there are some well-paying careers that are completely brand new, such as those in renewable energy; advanced robotics, and all manner of computer coding, support and development. (The latter could be exactly where today’s teenager might be happiest anyway.)  
 
It’s a brave and sometimes scary new world out there, for sure. 
 
There’s one more thing.
 
I want to take part in at least some of this—because once I stop learning, I’ll stop living.
 
Have you, or a friend or family member, ever had a job that’s now obsolete?  I look forward to your comments
​and stories!  

(Note:  Given that millions of kids are starting school this month, I thought this would be a timely topic for my first September post.)
  
Once upon a time, we were feared and reviled.
 
Yet out of the entire population of the world—7.5 billion and counting—there are still 900 million of us out here. 
And while it seems that the latter number is a pretty hefty one, it’s really just 12 percent of the populace. 
 
However, we also aren’t going away anytime soon.  In fact, our numbers are growing.
 
Yup, I’m left-handed.
 
In other words, I’m also known as a southpaw and lefty; other names we’ve been called are clumsy, awkward and even perverse. And let’s not forget the festive phrase “left-handed compliment,” which means taking pleasure in what otherwise is a mistake. 
 
Luckily, I was well into adulthood when I discovered that not so long ago—and still around in some places today—being left-handed was thought to be an affliction.
 
My own, positive memory is crystal clear. 
 
I am almost five years old, and rays of sunlight are pouring into our first grade classroom from the solid wall of windows, yes, to my left.  Miss Kelly has handed out those chunky yellow pencils, perfect for tiny hands and fingers.  We also have one sheet of butcher-thin paper on our desks, the kind with broken blue lines to indicate where to draw
the alphabet.
 
“Pick up your pencil in the hand that feels most comfortable to you,” says Miss Kelly. 
 
I’m in the back and don’t think twice; it just feels easy and good to use my left hand. When I look up a few minutes later, I’m surprised that everyone around me is writing with their right hand.  Silently, I think, “Oh, that’s interesting,” but that’s about all.  (Still, in our very right-hand world, I long ago learned to use this “other” hand for many tasks, including ironing clothes, using a computer mouse and scrubbing floors.)   
 
But others, including my father and The Hubster, had very different experiences. 
 
My right-handed dad—born in 1919—curled his hand into a painful looking, claw-like “C” shape whenever he had to write anything down.  When I asked my mother why he held his hand the way he did, she said that he had been forced as a child to do so.  There were no other details. 
 
As for my music educator husband, his mother and her four sisters were all left-handed and he was, too.  But at the Catholic elementary school he attended in the 1950s, writing this way was considered—and he was told this, flat out—evil.  That said, he says that not only has he learned to live with the adjustment forced on him, he has benefitted from
it.  “I found it quite easy,” he says, “to learn to play many musical instruments that require small motor skills from
both hands.”  
 
But the blame shouldn’t fall completely on those long-ago teachers and nuns. 
 
After all, they were only ascribing to all of the folklore and superstitions about the awfulness of being left-handed—tales, it turns out, that have been around for thousands of years. 
 
For instance, the forever landlord of Hell—the Devil—has long been portrayed, both in stories and pictures, as being left-handed.  As a matter of fact, it was said that he baptized followers with his left hand.  Indeed, in France, witches there greeted the Prince of Darkness with their left hand. 
 
Superstitions include the belief that if your right palm itches, you’ll receive money.  But beware if your left palm needs to be scratched, because then you’ll be giving money away.  Some also believe that it’s bad luck to pass a drink to another person with your left hand. 
 
And when it comes to the tradition of wearing one’s wedding ring on our left ring finger, there’s a reason for that, too.  It seems that the ancient Greeks and Romans believed that wearing the marital band in this spot fended off the evils associated with the left hand.           
 
I sort of see where these beliefs may have started.
 
Because, what do you know, there are several studies that show that we lefties are prone to learning disabilities that the rest of the population doesn’t share.
 
One, conducted in Australia in 2009, concluded that left-handed children performed worse than right-handers when it came to vocabulary, reading, writing, social development, and gross and fine motor skills.  More recently, in 2013, a Yale investigation boasted scarier statistics: its research claimed that we are at a much greater risk for ADHD, mood disorders and dyslexia.  Here, scientists also found that a full 40 percent of patients with schizophrenia, or similar brain disorders, wrote with their left hands.  Others swear that those with autism tend to favor their left.     
 
On the other hand (pun intended), a whole lot of Very Cool People are left-handed.
 
There’s Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr, as well as Oprah Winfrey, Seth Rogan and Jon Stewart.   Surprising to me, a disproportionate number of our Presidents have also been left handed; we’ve had eight in the White House, including George H. Bush, Bill Clinton and Barack Obama (for the record, Donald Trump is not).  And, I also think our numbers are increasing—from four percent in 1920 to 12 percent today—not because there are really more of us.  Rather, my theory is that it has more to do with the fact that those born writing with this hand are pretty much no longer being forced to make a change.  
 
One more thing.
 
I’m honored to be on this list.   Heck, I’ve always been a little quirky (although I would hope, especially for friends
and family, that it’s in the best sort of way), and being a southpaw—excuse another pun here—fits right into my
Girl Clown narrative. 
 
Just as snugly as a left-handed baseball mitt.   
 
What are your thoughts about left handedness and left-handed people?  I look forward to your stories and comments!
 
P.S.  Yes, it’s true: we lefties even have our very own yearly holiday.  Find out more, at
http://www.lefthandersday.com/. 

​Unlike most parents who have been through it, there wasn’t a formal announcement.
 
In fact, there wasn’t any clear line of demarcation.  And while some of the signposts were there, I failed to see them, most likely because I didn’t want to.
 
So, at least for me, it was a surprise
 
Yup, The Hubster and I have become empty nesters.
 
It has now been eight months since The Teenage Daughter—who, in all fairness, will turn 20 years old one week after Christmas—has left the building to live her with kind and good boyfriend.  Already, the two of them seem to fit like an old shoe, so much so that my child appears more comfortable, and way happier, than I’ve seen her in a long time.
 
Most Girl Clown Dancing fans know that my girl graduated from high school last year, and then, for a whole lot of reasons, enrolled in our awesome community college. 
 
When the time came to start her freshman year there, we wanted to support and encourage her as much as possible.  So, to that end, we picked up the costs for all book rentals, registration fees and parking passes. (Thanks to a generous patron, her first year of tuition was free.) 
 
There’s more, all of which we were happy to do. 
 
We didn’t ask her to pay any room and board, and we also gifted her with a top-of-the-line laptop.  In addition, I gave her my sensible white sedan to commute to school, about 10 minutes from our house.  And we agreed to give her a small weekly allowance for gas and snacks, as well as money to cover her cell phone and most of her car maintenance
and insurance.    
 
In return, we asked that she find a part-time job (she did) and adhere to a reasonable curfew (which she mostly did), and let us know when she wouldn’t be home for dinner.
 
We figured she’d live here, with us as a mostly invisible parachute, until she got her associate’s degree, graduating with zero debt.  After that, she would move out to attend a four-year school, or maybe leave for a promising job that would be the springboard to whatever her career might be. 
 
It was A Very Good Plan.
 
And really, all went well for the first three months or so.
 
Then I noticed that she was starting to spend a lot more weekends with girlfriends.  My daughter has always been
an extrovert, so while the frequency was unusual, it still didn’t register with me that something else might be going on. 
 
But not long after, she was staying only a night or two at home in the course of any given week.  Still, we knew her grades and her job were A-Okay, so we decided it wasn’t worth an interrogation.
 
The Big News arrived in January.
 
My daughter had stopped by to pick something up.  As usual, I was on the couch with a dog or two, reading and trying to mind my own business.
 
“Okay,” she blurted out. “I have a boyfriend.  I’ve known him for a couple of months.  But now it’s official, so I can
tell you.”
 
Not long after, she and he met The Hubster and me at a favorite restaurant.  They requested that this first meeting take place in public, primarily because my child was terrified that her dad wouldn’t approve of the relationship.  She needn’t have worried; it was obvious that this man adored her, which was the most important thing to us.  We also liked the fact that he had met her at school; worked full-time, and was a few years older than her. 
 
Still, my child continued with her mostly-not-around schedule, grabbing a few items from her room here and there whenever she left.   
 
Then, a few weeks later, the two came over for dinner.   We’d just begun to dig into the meal. 
 
“So,” said The Hubster, gazing intently at both of them.  “Are you two living together?”
 
My daughter and her beau looked at each other.  Then, both smiling sheepishly, they nodded yes.
 
“It’s fine,” replied her dad.  “We just wanted to know what’s going on.”
 
The energy in the room lightened considerably, and immediately. 
 
That night, my daughter skedaddled with most her clothes and makeup and shoes to what is now her home.  These days, we usually see them once a week, sometimes for dinner, sometimes for breakfast.  In-between, my girl and I trade jokes and recipes and videos on social media.  She also knows that if the relationship ends up taking a different turn, her bed isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
 
Meanwhile, it’s a whole new, and pretty interesting, ball game for me.
 
Having had her in my home for nearly two decades, and also not being able to imagine my life without her, of course I miss her effervescent energy, keen observations and good humor.
 
I mean, what can I say?  I love her.  Beyond the moon and back.   
 
However, I don’t miss the moodiness and general angst that comes with being a 19-year-old, which included the mastering of slamming doors, one word answers and withering glances.  
 
All in all, it’s just a lot calmer, and a lot more predictable, around here.
 
Indeed, we’re smack in the middle of a routine that I found in an article titled 10 Things to Look Forward to as an
Empty Nester.  I identify with more than few items here, including the fact that our food bills are way smaller, and
the kitchen sink is cleaner. 
 
Did I mention that we can also cook shrimp and canned beans and eggs now without my daughter making faces?  But the very best part for me is number seven:  having the chance to now experience my child as a terrific young adult. 
 
Of course, each one of us is still working through the many fluctuations that this new life chapter is bringing. Interestingly, I find myself neither happy nor sad.  Rather, I prefer to think of it all as a new learning experience,
one that I’m trying to be completely present for.  
 
So far, so good.
 
What about your experiences as an empty nester—either from a parent perspective, or from a child’s point of view?  
​As always, I look forward to your stories and comments! 

First, there’s this.
 
I love my engagement ring.
 
Heck, what’s not to adore?  Unique because the Hubster and I and a jeweler designed it together, the white gold band has an oval, three-quarter carat diamond in its center—and yes, the stone is officially cruelty free. Then there’s a smaller, denim-colored sapphire on the left side, and another on the right.  The figurative cherry on top is eight tiny diamond chips, set flush next to the blue stones. 
 
I wear the ring proudly.  And, having married for the first time at the age of 50, I still sometimes find myself looking at it with a certain amount of awe.  In fact, except for the times when I’ve traveled to what might be iffy regions of the world, when I then leave the ring at home, I’ve never removed it.
 
Still.
 
If I’d taken a few steps back, I might have noticed that there were other options when it came to my left ring finger.
 
No, I wouldn’t have opted for a cigar band (as a former celebrity reporter, I can tell you that this is exactly what Richard Gere initially gave his first wife, Cindy Crawford), or a tattoo on said digit (a move that Pamela Anderson and rocker Tommy Lee did when they honored their vows).
 
But, maybe, I would have gone for something old and then made it mine. 
 
Which is to say, new to me.
 
A quick Ebay search for vintage engagement rings yields nearly 4,000 hits.  The jewelry here is mostly diamonds, but there are also rubies, sapphires and emeralds.  Prices are user friendly, too, with some pieces posted at less than $200.   (Because of my own mostly positive experiences with this site, both buying and selling, I believe most sellers stay honest in order to stay in business.)
 
Also, repurposing and recycling aren’t exactly unknowns to this girl clown. 
 
I’m the third owner of the vehicle I drive; second owner to a coffee maker, and no doubt here, the latest of several owners to a 1950s Kenmore toaster (it’s built like a solid car from that era, too, all chrome and flash, and works perfectly).  Most of my pots and pans came from estate sales, as did my nifty turquoise Sunbeam mixer.  There’s more:
I have a beautiful piece of art hanging in my office that’s nearly entirely made up of used pens and pencils.  This artist’s domain, I kid you not, is creating pieces from stuff she scavenges from junkyards.  Oh, and in the back yard, my raised herb box boasts recycled fence posts for borders; the same wood makes up the potting table. 
 
Yet the idea of repurposing a piece of jewelry wasn’t something I’d ever considered, until this happened.  
 
A good friend has an Etsy business that’s more a hobby than a money-making enterprise. A few months ago, she messaged me her latest offerings, mostly elegant vintage dinnerware, brooches and linens from France and The Netherlands.  I tend to be a collector of Americana stuff—show me an old Pyrex dish or cookbook that I don’t already have, and my heart goes pitty-pat—so I wasn’t expecting to find much.
 
Then… my breath caught at a single piece of jewelry.
 
It was a child’s delicate charm bracelet featuring The 10 Commandments, intertwined with tiny pearls.   I knew, immediately, that I had to have it.
 
Once the dainty bauble arrived, my friend explained a bit of its history.
 
The piece had come from the Irish side of her mother’s family, she wrote, and had probably been a communion or christening memento.
 
“I have a lot of religious items from my family,” she continued. “And, it’s hard to know what to do with them.  I didn’t feel right about discarding items that were important, even sacred to them.  And even though I’m not religious, I recognize
the beauty of the objects.”
 
My friend went on to say that there was a time when many fine things were made in the United States (and elsewhere, too).  Consequently, she continued, “I cannot see the point of buying new, inferior items when there are so many wonderful, real, quality things to be had.” 
 
I couldn’t agree more.
 
So now, with this sweet wristlet having been delivered to my doorstep, the stage was set to make it my own.
 
To this end, I carefully transported the piece to our local jewelers, a husband and wife team whose work I know and trust.  Neither was sure of its exact vintage, but they thought it could be from the 1940s.  In any case, within a couple of days they had replaced the clasp with a larger, adult size one; added a couple of inches of links to fit my grown-up wrist, and put on new, real pearls (turns out the original ones were not).  They also cleaned the bracelet, making each charm shine as bright as a new penny.
 
Wearing this now gorgeous bangle makes me feel that all is right with the world, so I’ve been wearing it a lot.  Having it on is also a pretty direct, in my face (or rather, on my arm) reminder to try my best to follow those rules of life that, I think, are found in some form in nearly every religion and philosophy. 
 
Just as important, I’ve now discovered one other way to leave less of a footprint on a planet that more and more, requires all of its inhabitants to be extra mindful and extra purposeful caretakers.
 
Recycling, repurposing, and in the end, giving a lovely piece of jewelry—and its history—a brand new lease at life.  
 
And that, I’m certain, is A Very Good Thing. 
 
How about you? What do you have that’s old, but made new?  I look forward to your comments and stories!
 
P.S. Find the junkyard artist at http://junkgirls.com.  My friend’s Etsy site is www.etsy.com/shop/JardinBlanche?ref=l2-shopheader-name, and for the jewelry store I so love, check out https://www.yelp.com/biz/legacy-jewelers-los-osos.

Those of A Certain Age, I think, have memorized the best vacations we ever took; top places we’ve called home,
and favorite jobs of all time.  Foodies like me can even wax nostalgic about the finest meals we’ve had the pleasure
of experiencing.
 
But for other folks, also like me, who grew up around books and can’t imagine our lives without them, there’s another inventory that comes to mind—one that goes back to our very early years. 
 
I’m talking about the children’s books (also called kiddie literature or “kiddie lit” for short) that were read to us by parents and nursery school teachers; as well as the ones we later sat down with on our own, and those that we then passed on to our children and even grandchildren. Given that I got my first library card at five years old, that’s a whole lot of pages to ponder.
 
I was reminded of my very favorite children’s stories a couple of weeks ago, when a librarian chum posted an article last month during Children’s Literature Week. The 14-page piece is courtesy of Atlas Obscura, a web site that bills itself as “the definitive guide to the world’s hidden wonders.”  The site asked its followers to recount those little-known books that have stuck with them, but ones that also hardly anyone else seems to remember.
 
Nine hundred people answered, and from those responses, the editors compiled their favorite two dozen titles.  And, although I think of myself as a big fan—and collector—of kiddie lit, I wasn’t familiar with any of them. 
 
Included are The Summer Birds, about a group of children in rural England who learn to fly one summer; Time Windows, a ghost story involving a little girl and her doll house, and The War Between the Pitiful Teachers and the Splendid Kids, all about a school that’s grimly serious about turning out perfect children, and the eventual rebellion of its students.
 
Clearly, I’ve missed a lot of terrific books.
 
Still, I wished I had seen the original clarion call, because I absolutely would have responded. 
 
But wait.
 
Because I’m the sole proprietor of Girl Clown Dancing, I still get the chance to name my favorites right here, right now.  Happily, I have copies of most of them. And because only one is a book that most don’t know about, I’m hoping that not only are these books still remembered, but that they’re still being read by millions of kids—and adults, too.  
 

• Me Too is a big, grey-covered picture book published in 1945, and would be my entry into the little-known category.  It’s the enchanting story of a very smart, very curious and very mischievous duckling. “Me Too’s name wasn’t Me Too at all,” the book begins.  “It was Herbert.  But everybody called him Me Too because every time his mother said, ‘I am going to take the older children to the pond,’ he said, “Me too, Me too!” 

• Then there’s The Little House.  Written in 1942, I still remember, as a very little girl, sitting in an itty-bitty library chair and turning its pages over and over again.  Told exclusively from the house’s point of view, the tiny pink house with big shutters lives a quiet and uneventful life, with birds and flowers and children for company. Still, she wonders what life would be like in the city, which boasts fast moving cars, busy people and twinkling lights.  Eventually, she finds out.  Perhaps this book might also be considered obscure; not even the owner of our town’s indie bookstore was familiar with this title when I placed a special order for it last year.

• Next up is a book from Dr. Suess, who I like but don’t love… except for Happy Birthday to You.  Coming out in 1959, it’s tells the magical Technicolor tale of one very lucky birthday boy who lives in the land of Katroo. After flying through his bedroom window early one morning, The Great Birthday Bird whisks the child from adventure to adventure over the course of one very long day, including a stop at The Birthday Flower Jungle and the famous Mustard-Off Pools (which I imagined diving into one day myself).  I love this book so much that I’ve bought it for more than a few friends.   

• Released in 1941, Make Way for Ducklings has been in continuous print since that time, selling more than two million copies.  With its gorgeous charcoal illustrations rendered in sepia tones, the book tells the story of ducks Mr. and Mrs. Mallard (is anyone seeing a theme here?).  After more than a few (mis)adventures, the couple decide to raise their eight little ones—Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack—on an island in the Boston Public Garden.  I bought Ducklings for my daughter before I even brought her home.

• I’m hardly adverse to chapter books either, which is where Mary Poppins, first published in 1933, and the Doctor Doolittle series come in.  For those who know Poppins only through the movie and play, it’s worth noting that the original nanny character was anything but saccharine sweet.  She’s much more dimensional and much more human: while her magical powers are very much in play, Poppins’ behavior toward her charges (Jane and Michael Banks, then later, twins John and Barbara) could sometimes be downright mean.  Also, I learned one of my first big words from the first book: perambulator, better known today as a baby stroller.

• The initial Doctor Dolittle book came out in 1920; 11 more followed, with the final one released in 1952.  All penned by Hugh Lofting, the stories about a physician who shuns human patients in favor of animals (he can talk to them!) made their premiere in Lofting’s illustrated letters to his own children.  They were literally written from the trenches of World War I when actual news, the author later said, was either too horrible or too dull. I don’t know that I got to every single book, but I did read every one my town library had on the shelf.

 
That’s it for now, but frankly, I could list a dozen more kiddie lit favorites and still be far from finished.  If you haven’t read a grand children’s book lately, the list above—if this girl clown does say so herself—is A Very Good Start.
 
Please tell me about your favorite children’s books.  I look forward to your comments and stories!
 
P.S. The entire Atlas Obscura article is here, at www.atlasobscura.com/articles/obscure-childrens-books-reader-responses
 

Right now, in these wearying and worrying times, I’m doing what I can to create a little kindness in a corner of a corner of my world.
 
Basically, it’s about one supermarket shopper at a time. 
 
Here’s how it works.
 
Depending on what our discretionary income is in any given week, I’ve started to buy groceries for whomever is standing beside me in the cashier’s line.  Since I get to choose, I don’t pay the bill for someone whose basket boasts bottles of vodka; a gaggle of gift cards, or pretty plastic bottles of the priciest hair care products. 
 
But when I see a shopper placing a handful of necessities on the conveyer belt, who then starts fumbling for change, my wallet comes out.
 
Of course, what may seem a need to me might not be one to you.    
 
For instance, a gangly 20something was ahead of me one afternoon. 
 
His shirt and pants were definitely not new, and under his arm was what I suspect was his only mode of transportation, a well-used skateboard.  He was also buying just one item: a sketchpad.  As someone who has personally experienced the healing power of art—both as participant and spectator—I didn’t think twice about gifting those waiting-to-be-drawn-on blank pages to him.
 
Told that I was doing so from the cashier, he looked shocked.  I got the impression that no one had ever bought him what many might consider an unnecessary purchase, which, after all, only set me back $3.50.  As the cashier handed him his new sketch pad, he looked right into my eyes. 
 
“God bless you,” he said. 
 
Then, just this morning, one town over at another market, a young girl and her mother were in line behind me.  Between them, they carried two bottles of water, plus two very heavy packages of crushed ice.  As I was paying my bill, the cashier made a comment about the amount of ice they were buying. “Well, we have to keep things cold for our food, because we’re camping,” said the mom.
 
Glancing at their clothes and shoes, it was obvious to both the cashier, and me, that “camping” was another word for “this is how our family is living now.” 
 
I tore up my first check and paid my bill and theirs. 
 
Like the skateboarder, the woman was surprised. 
 
“You really don’t have to do that for us,” she said.
 
“Oh, I know, but I want to,” I replied.  “You know, just pay it forward.”
 
I swear that the two of them left with tears in their eyes.
 
I’m choosing to extend myself this way for a couple of reasons.
 
One, I’ve worn their hats.  I’ve received food stamps twice in my life, once as a college student, and again, when I was living in New York City and had been out of work for a while.  And, I still remember, early into our marriage, when our dream home was foreclosed, and we were given one hour to vacate by the sheriff.  I recall the embarrassment of needing to accept the free lunch offer from our daughter’s school principal because, “You’re homeless now, and we give migrants vouchers.”  
 
There was also the time shortly after my partner had suddenly died.
 
I was alone, in impossible grief, and a true single mother to a toddler.  A near-stranger handed me a $100 bill to pay for a plumbing emergency.   
 
“I don't really know you,” I said, weeping loudly.  "I can't accept this." 
 
“Oh, I do,” she replied.  “Please, just take it.”
 
So in my own way, I’m passing it on.
 
Two, and this is harder to explain, but particularly now, it’s the right thing to do.  Although I think current policies in Washington aggressively encourage and support a mean-spirited, “I’ve got mine, so I’m not going to take care of you” attitude, I believe that this is not the America I grew up in.
 
I also choose to believe that it’s not the country I live in now.
 
But what if you’re too uncomfortable or shy to help someone in front of you?  Or, what if you want to offer assistance, but don’t see anyone who can use a happy surprise?
 
Well, there’s another way to do the same thing.
 
That’s by giving money to the cashier who is ringing up your groceries.
 
He or she has regular customers, and is often familiar with those who can use a helping hand, especially at the end of the month.  (Plus, this gives them some skin in the game, since they’re partnering with you.) 
 
I took this route last month, when I gave a $20 bill to a favorite supermarket checker. She promised she would find
the right recipient, and she did.  Spotting me a few days later, she came up to me to say that she had helped an elderly customer who is so on the edge that this person routinely picks through the store trash cans outside to collect bottles
for recycling. 
 
Sadly, with many paychecks no longer providing a living wage, more Americans can use our help. 
 
In fact, according to federal statistics, an astounding 43 million of us are living at poverty level.  Even more upsetting—and shameful—is that four in 10 children are part of this statistic, which cuts a wide swath across every state and with every ethnicity.  In addition, there’s rampant food insecurity, which is defined as being in a place—physically, economically or both—without reliable access to affordable, nutritious food every day.  The numbers here are also unsettling: an astounding one in every eight Americans is food insecure, including 13 million children.
 
I’m certainly a very long way from perfect.  But what I do try to do is pass along kindness, and at the same time, do my best to share what I can.
 
Especially these days. Because besides these actions bolstering both spirit and soul, it all counts. 
 
Every single time.    
 
How do you manifest kindness?  I look forward to your stories and comments! 
 
P.S. To learn more about we-can’t-always-see-it hunger in America, watch the 2012 film
A Place at the Table.  Here’s the trailer, at www.youtube.com/watch?v=TnuawGkTRzo. 

I’ve seen it coming for a while now, but I’m still sad about it.
 
Yup, just like wearing a wrist watch to see what time it is; learning cursive writing in third grade, and snapping
photos using a stand-alone camera, another take-it-for-granted experience of years past is ready to join the
Soon to Be Extinct file.
 
It’s something I couldn’t have imagined even a few decades ago, but it appears that shopping at a department store—a cherished memory from childhood—is about to bite the dust.
 
Once upon a time, this sort of leisurely activity was a necessary component to growing up, especially for those of the female gender. 
 
When I was very young, my mother and I would don dresses and white gloves, and head off to Buffums’, the fancy pants department store in our town, where the very air itself seemed rarified, smelling like new money and clean carpets.  It might have even been where I was fitted for my first brassiere, and it was definitely the place to get our pictures taken every Christmas with Santa Claus.
 
A short walk away was Walker’s, a lower rent affair, but also several stories tall.  Here, its sewing department—imagine, a section just for seamstresses!—sported not only aisles of fabric, but embroidery thread in every color of the
rainbow; pillow cases with stamped patterns, and the metal hoops needed for what became one of my most consuming high school hobbies.
 
A big outdoor shopping mall was one city over, and we’d go there, too, spending most of our money at its anchor store, The May Company.  I distinctly remember buying a neon orange mini skirt with matching belt, size three, for seventh grade there.  And, this was probably the same store where my mother found my first bell bottoms—black and white, boasting a zebra themed pattern. (Looking back, my clothing choices back then were a definite predecessor to my clowning career a few years later.)
 
But department stores are now slogging through what most of us know: the only real constant in life is change.
 
To that end, millions of people—and I’m one of them—no longer leave their front doors to go shopping.  Purchasing the
​e-commerce way absolutely doesn’t have the panache that browsing through The May Company once had.  But let’s face facts: it’s way easier to buy stuff sitting at a home computer.  Plus, you can eat dinner at the same time; never get out of your pajamas, and not wonder where the bathroom is.   
 
The latest statistics on the demise of the department store aren’t favorable.
 
According to a roundup article in the March 20 issue of The Week magazine, Macy’s quarterly profits fell by nearly 40 percent, with other major stores, including Nordstrom, Kohl’s and J.C. Penney also reporting strong declines in same-store sales.  In addition, an astounding 3,300 retail stores have closed just this year; employment at department stores has also fallen nearly 50 percent in the last 15 years.  In other awful news, analysists predict that by 2022, up to 25
percent of all shopping malls in the U.S. will permanently shutter their doors.
 
But here’s the good news.
 
First, retail sales in our country have actually been steadily climbing every year since the last decade.  So while shopping malls are seeing more empty parking spaces, it doesn’t mean that we’re shopping less.   We’re just making our purchases in a different way.
 
Plus, I don’t think brick and mortar stores will ever completely vanish.
 
Like millions, I’ve bought food and socks and sheets and books online, all with limited success. But the results have been disastrous when I’ve purchased dresses, shirts and pants the same way.  When these items get to me, the material is inevitably way thinner and shoddier than the web site pictures imply; also, the apparel just doesn’t fit properly.  Equally crazy making is that many online businesses charge for returning their stuff.  It’s like paying a department store fitting room attendant money for every garment that isn’t bought.    
 
Even Amazon—after Walmart and CVS, now the third largest retailer in the world—gets it.
 
Last month, the online giant opened its seventh you-can-walk-in-and-buy-something store, this time in New York City.  
The first store opened in Seattle only two years ago, with the company planning 13 physical stores by end of this year.  
 
And while Amazon executives admit that these locations represent a marginal part of its business, they also acknowledge that a physical store has benefits.  Besides the novelty experience of shopping in person, there’s a personal engagement with sales staff, along with the fact that consumers here can “test drive” Amazon’s tech products such as the
Kindle e-reader.
 
Yup, our love affair with department stores is fading fast.  
 
But I’m convinced that other ways of shopping will continue to evolve and take up the slack—which will ultimately give consumers more choices when it comes to the shopping experience.  When the dust does finally settle, this can only be
A Very Good Thing for consumers.
 
What are your memories of going to a department store?  I look forward to your stories and comments!   
 
P.S.  The Department Store Museum is a terrific online walk down memory lane.  Check it out here, at www.thedepartmentstoremuseum.org. 

I’d been looking for the perfect one for a while.
 
I was fairly certain that I wouldn’t find it in a thrift store, not even an upscale one.  I recognized, too, that it
wasn’t going to be cheap. 
 
But when I found it, I also knew it would be worth every penny.
 
Yesterday, after confirming a few weeks ago that it was at last being put together, then tracking its packaging and likely delivery date, it arrived at my front door. 
 
And today, this Girl Clown couldn’t be happier.   
 
I’m talking about my new weighted blanket.
 
Used most often these days as a calming tool for children who are autistic; have documented Attention Deficit Disorder, or suffer from a variety of sensory issues, these blankets are now being marketed to adults for an entirely different reason: to help them get a good night’s sleep. 
 
So, given my bouts with insomnia, along with always wanting to try a natural approach first, I knew this kind of sleep aid was going to be in my very near future.  (This GCD blog from last year tells more about my tossing and turning, at http://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/let-me-sleep.)
 
Although there haven’t been a lot of studies into the science of it all, some experts say that the blankets work because they increase the serotonin in our bodies, the chemical which helps regulate mood and encourage relaxation.  Consequently, serotonin is necessary to create melatonin, another chemical that tells us when it’s time to sleep.  In addition, the weight of these blankets—optimally, about 15 pounds for an adult—reduces tossing and turning at night, which makes for a more restful slumber.  
 
I’ve already experienced the calming effects of other weighted objects. 
 
Sometimes in my yoga classes, we place small fabric weights on our chests to help us achieve the best Shavasana, that final pose which releases tension and promotes deep relaxation.  I’ve noticed that I can go more profoundly into the pose when this tool is added.  I also know that I’ve long enjoyed sleeping with heavy blankets on top of me, even during the summer.  (My late partner used to say I looked like a burrito once I bedded down.)
 
Moreover, having the glorious opportunity to work with special needs children in a classroom environment, I’ve seen firsthand how weighted fabric collars, vests and lap blankets can result in easier transitions and less meltdowns. I’ve even been able to “try them on” for myself, but sadly, many seem to be made out of synthetic, cheap fabrics which didn’t feel good on my skin.  Also, the weights themselves felt, well, too weighty. 
 
But luckily, there are more than a few niche companies offering what I was hoping to find.
 
There’s Sensacalm, which also sells special bath salts and fidget tools along with blankets, and The Magic Blanket, founded by a California dad who started the company because he liked the way a Beanie Baby hugged his shoulder after his daughter put it there while he was driving.  There’s also Mosaic, with lots of blanket sizes, including tiny lap versions, for both kids and grown-ups.
 
But I knew I’d hit pay dirt when I came upon Weighting Comforts, launched two years ago and based in
Franklin, Tennessee. 
 
Making blankets for adults only, the company was founded by former family therapist Donna Durham, who began noticing how much better her clients slept when they used weighted blankets.  But Durham also has a background in home economics education, and the beautiful fabric choices, and quality of construction, reflect that.  I also love the fact that Durham’s product is sewn by international refugees who have resettled in Tennessee. (This has been made possible
by partnering with the non-profit Sew for Hope, which provides sewing machines and classes to this vulnerable
and worthy population.)
 
Of course, none of these facts mean anything if the blanket itself isn’t fabulous.
 
I carefully opened the box that mine came in, noting the matching tissue paper and easy-to-follow instructions. (Yes, it’s machine washable.  Also, the evenly, perfectly distributed weight comes from tiny white plastic pellets that are non-hazardous and FDA approved. )  I was also immediately impressed by the quality and feel of the material, and very happy that the product itself is a decent size—almost as large as a sheet for a single bed. 
 
Given that I’m getting over a stubborn cold right now, I was pretty sure that my new bedtime accessory wasn’t going to guarantee a perfect sleep. 
 
But at some point, I blacked out for a good three hours, feeling like a sweet and loving hug had completely
enveloped me. 
 
Of course, the blanket is an inanimate object. 
 
But as Humphrey Bogart said to Claude Rains in the final scene of the classic film Casablanca, “I think this is
the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
 
What helps you stay calm and reduce anxiety, either during the day or at night?  I look forward to your stories
​and comments!  

There, I did it again.
 
And once more, I couldn’t help myself.
 
I put on my community activist hat and went about correcting a wrong that needed to be righted.   
 
Maybe I got involved because I’m a journalist. Then again, it might be because I’m nosy (something, by the way, that all great reporters are). In every instance, it’s also because the issue at hand is one that has just rubbed me the wrong way.  So, probably, it’s all of these reasons that make me want to act.  
 
My latest personal crusade involved our town’s largest supermarket, a place where nearly everyone who lives here
buys groceries. 
 
I used to love the genteel mustached man who managed the store, but ever since he retired a couple of years ago, I began to question the decisions of its new manager.
 
This came to a head about six months ago, when I saw that the market was allowing a young teenager—one from at least 100 miles away—to stand right next to the entrance from early morning to nighttime.
 
This girl was collecting cold, hard cash for a group, she said, that helps wayward kids in trouble.  But, I’m familiar with this particular organization, and know that instead, it’s run by an extremely fundamentalist church which also practices gay conversion therapy.
 
When I complained to the manager, she told me, “My hands are tied.  There’s nothing I can do.  They filled out an application and it was approved by the district office.” 
 
Over several weeks, I continued to press her about allowing this organization to collect money.  After a while, she grudgingly told me I might contact the store’s corporate office.  So, I sent an email, but after two months, still hadn’t received a response (I’m nothing if not patient).  I was finally able to ferret out a complaint line number—it was well hidden within the company’s very large website, but this wily girl clown found it.    
 
By this time, I hadn’t seen the “we help teenagers” girl for a while, but now there was a new person, also from out of the area and also right at the entrance, soliciting funds to supposedly help hungry children in Africa. (Nope, I’d never heard of this organization, and had also never seen this person in our small town.)       
 
Thankfully, the customer representative I finally spoke with (somewhere in Ohio, I think) was on my side. 
 
In fact, right then and there while I was put on hold, she called the store manager, and told her that no soliciting was allowed, period.  I hadn’t known this, and now realized that the manager had lied to me from the get-go. There had been no forms that had been filled out and there had been no district go-ahead.  
 
A day later, the hungry children guy was still out front, so I decided to nicely ask the manager why she wasn’t adhering to her employer’s policy.  (I also asked friends on Facebook what they thought about these solicitors. They were unanimous in saying they hated them.  Many added that seeing someone standing next to a grocery store door with the sole purpose of collecting money crossed a personal boundary.)
 
I tried to be civil, but the manager was combative.  “I chose to break the rules,” she said, trying to stare me down.  “He seemed like a nice person, so I’m letting him stay.”    
 
As I continued to press her, she continued to say she had made the conscious choice to go against her employer’s corporate guidelines.  After a few minutes—perhaps she realized that I wasn’t going away—she then said that I had
now given her no other option.  Now, I was “forcing her to choose,” so, thanks to me, there would be no more solicitors out front. 
 
The man currently outside, she added, would be gone the next day. 
 
I went on to explain I was more than fine with local non-profits out front.  Girl Scouts could still sell cookies, or a nearby high school music booster club might promote raffle tickets.  In my book, service clubs like Rotary, Kiwanis and Lions are also A-Okay.  In fact, groups like this help to bond communities.  (Additionally, these folks have never gotten in anyone’s face.  They’ve always set up a table near, but never at, the front door.) 
 
No deal, said the manager. 
 
Thanks to my incessant complaining, she continued, there would now never be anyone out front again, ever.  I thanked her for following her store’s policy, but she had to get the last word in.  As she walked away, she turned around and snarled, “And, that is unfortunate.”  
 
I can take it, because it has now been more than a month since that encounter, and I haven’t noticed anyone from any shady organizations at the market doors.  Also, whenever I’ve run into the manager—both of us knowing that someone from the corporate office had a very firm conversation with her—she is polite. 
 
Hello, small victory.
 
I’ve had a handful of other forays into neighborhood activism. 
 
None were planned.
 
In fact, the first issue was tackled only because it was a business right down the street from the yoga studio I attend. 
 
Housed in a strip mall, this enterprise advertised massages for insanely low prices.  The blinking neon sign beckoning customers also flashed well after nine o’clock, which is essentially when our sweet little beach town rolls up
its sidewalks.  Something seemed off, but when I next heard a few people saying they knew customers who had
received “happy endings” there (www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Happy%20ending), I decided
it was time to dust off my hat.
 
The dry cleaner next door more or less admitted that she knew what was going on, but said her parents owned the property and couldn’t speak English well enough to understand what to do.  I knew that was utter poppycock, so took a next, bigger step: contacting our sheriff.
 
Detectives there had also heard the rumors.  At the same time, I was able to get about three dozen neighbors to write letters about their concerns.  It took a while, but in less than a year, the massage parlor moved to a different part of town, in a lightly trafficked area rather than the main corridor where it had been located. 
 
Then, a couple of years after this, I spearheaded the move to get a nearby abandoned house condemned.
 
A fire department captain understood my concerns, and helped me bring this sorry house—uninhabited except by rats and other vermin for close to two decades—to the attention of county officials.  Consequently, the absentee owner was ordered to pay all sorts of government fines.  At about the same time, I went on a local TV news broadcast to complain about the piles of nasty trash the owner was now leaving in the driveway in his attempt to get all of his things out.  But shortly afterwards, he sold the place to some flippers, who redid it quickly in order to make a quick sale. 
 
This “project” took well over a year, but it was well worth it: the house always had good bones, and it’s now completely renovated.  It’s a pleasure to stroll by and see lights on; hear music playing, and know a family has brought it back to life.
 
I’m not wearing my neighborhood activist hat at the moment.   But because I’m always ready to do so, and because I also always feel compelled to try and make the world a better place, I’m pretty sure that there will always be a bit of Don Quixote in me. 
 
I certainly can’t undo every wrong, and I certainly can’t bring justice to the entire world. 
 
But, I can do my best to change a corner of a corner of a corner. 
 
Especially in these unsettling times, that’s good enough for me.
 
Have you ever tried to right a wrong?  I look forward to your stories and comments!