Dark in the Lightness

Right after dark this evening, Heidi and I took our annual drive around her childhood neighborhood to see all the holiday lights. In general, the folks up here in Buffalo take their landscaping and lawns seriously, and holiday lights fit right in with that ethos. 

We played Christmas music on the radio as we rolled along the winding suburban streets, and a thin layer of snow blanketed all the yards. Like every year, we were treated to a variety of decorating styles. There were a few demure houses with candles in the windows and white lights on the lawn, but they were vastly outnumbered by inflatables. One home had the whole cast from Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer humming away in front. Many places ran colored lights along their rooflines, a classic look I appreciated. Some people still had the vintage light-up lawn ornaments that I remember from my childhood: Santa, snowmen, and the holy family glowed incandescently. A few places only used blue and red lights in honor of the hometown Buffalo Bills and the amazing season they are having.

"What's that one?"I asked Heidi, pointing at an illuminated banner. 

"It's Trump Save America," she reported with a sigh. 

"That's not very Christmasy," I said and turned up the radio a bit. Just then, the song changed to Sleighbells by the Ray Connif Singers, and we turned onto Heidi's street, where every single house was lit up. "There," I nodded, "that's much better."

First Time's a Charm

It seemed like half of Buffalo was out and about with us today as we ran the (fingers crossed) last of our holiday errands. Everyone was in pretty good humor, though, especially with both a football game and Christmas so near at hand. 

Since we were at Wegmans, we decided to grab a quick lunch, and as I sat down with my tomato bread and Topo Chico, I found that the top on my soda was not twist-off. I returned to the self-checkout and approached the young woman leaning against the workstation, ready to help."Do you have a bottle opener?" I asked, waving my drink.

She nodded, turned toward a mesh pencil holder on the counter, and fished through it. In a moment, she triumphantly produced a small opener.

"I guess I didn't think it through," I laughed and handed her my bottle.

Her eyes grew wide. "I've never used one of these before!" she confessed.

"Oh!" I replied, charmed by her honesty. "It's easy! You can definitely do it."

"Just don't make fun of me," she said, only half joking. 

"I'm actually kind of excited to be present for the big occasion!" I added.

Then she took a breath and hesitantly placed the fulcrum of the opener below the pleated lip of the cap. Then she flipped her wrist and leveraged that sucker right off.

"I knew you could do it!" I cheered as she handed me the bottle. "Thank you."

She smiled.

"Did you get it open?" Heidi asked when I returned to the table.

"Yep!" I answered. "And? Not only did I get my drink, but I also got a topic for my blog."

The Bar and the Church

As part of my genealogy research account, I also have access to an online newspaper archive, and I confess to getting lost there at times. For example, a couple years ago, I spent an hour or two looking at Christmas cookie recipes in the Philadelphia Inquirer from the late 60s and early 70s, knowing that my mom had once read these same articles. 

Recently, I found myself immersed again in the archives of the Inquirer. This time it was a more specific search centered around the location of Jack's Bar, the place my dad often went to after work. Some evenings, my mom would pile us into the car, and we would drive into the city to pick him up there. Parking was at a premium, so she usually sent either my brother or me past the wrought iron grate and down the stairs into the place to fetch my dad. 

I learned that the establishment was on the lower level of a historic building just a block from Independence Hall. Built sometime in the mid-19th century, it housed a stationary store and paper warehouse and later The Philadelphia Call, a biweekly newspaper published for a couple decades starting in the 1890s. It was also the site of a furniture and home goods store before falling into a bit of decline with the rest of the neighborhood. The 1960s brought an urban renewal project to Independence Hall and its surrounds, though, and that particular building was demolished a of decades or so later.

Tangentally? I turned up this photo, which was also from the Inquirer, published on November 10, 1969, in the New Jersey section. An interesting juxtaposition! I will note, though, that the church is still there today.

Christmas Time Is Here

Paradoxically, now that Winter Break has actually started, the anxiety level around here seems to have ratcheted up instead of down. In this house, we're getting organized and packed to drive to Buffalo tomorrow, and even though there are just a few more packages to wrap and the shopping, baking, decorating, and cleaning are done, the vibe has shifted from festive to fraught. 

It's as if, now that school is out, the holiday just got real for all the educators out there whose attention was focused on trying to hold everything together one last week. In a twist on the winter solstice, the longest week of the year is followed by what seems to be the shortest of holiday lead times.

My theory was only confirmed when Treat texted me from his school this afternoon. I made it to winter break! he wrote. There was a pause, and then he added, I can't believe Christmas is only 5 days away.

Old Faithful

Since Allyn was in town less than 24 hours, I thought it might be nice to take her to lunch today before dropping her off at Dulles for her flight to Amsterdam. She follows a gluten-free diet, but that isn't really a big deal around here. Even so, I invited her to Carlyle, a neighborhood staple with excellent gluten-free options.

At 12:30 on a Thursday, the place was full, and the hostess told us it would be a 15 to 25-minute wait. I deferred to my guest, and she opted to stay, so we took a seat on the banquette by the plate glass windows beneath the stairs and waited in companionable silence. Unlike many of my fellow patrons, I did not take out my phone as I sat. Instead, I people-watched, observed the busy restaurant at work, and considered how lucky it is to have such a dependable place within walking distance of home. 

Carlyle has been open for nearly 40 years, but I remember when it was new and called Carlyle Grand. The tasteful Art Deco decor has held up well; vintage-inspired then, it is classic now. The menu seems to have changed very little over the years, too, but I know that's not true. A rather tepid 1987 review by Phyllis Richmond praises the polenta, pan-fried veal dumplings, and noodle cake appetizers, which are dishes that vanished decades ago.

At any rate, I can honestly say I've never had a bad meal at Carlyle. Over the years, it's been a reliable go-to for brunch (donut holes and smoked trout with eggs!) and dinner. I've taken countless out-of-town guests there and celebrated many last days of school with a lobster roll for lunch. Their fries are nearly always perfect, and they have one of the best burgers in town.

Today, it was worth the wait. We were seated upstairs within 20 minutes, surrounded by six tops of what seemed to be office holiday revelers. The vibe was festive, and the service was friendly and efficient. Allyn loved her burger, and my grilled chicken sandwich was tender and juicy, served on crispy grilled bread with a tangy smear of mustard.

And the fries were perfect.

Fun and Not Fun

In advance of an overnight visit from Allyn, our 24-year-old goddaughter, I ordered a new game. Even though she spent lots of time here as a kid, it's been years since Allyn's last visit-- especially since she moved out to Oregon a few years ago-- now most of her East Coast time is spoken for by her parents and grandparents.

But she is in transit tonight. Her parents will meet her at the airport tomorrow, and the three of them will fly to Germany to spend Christmas with her younger sister, who is doing her junior year of college abroad. When the girls stayed with us when they were little, we always played games after dinner, and yesterday, when I saw an ad for Cat in a Box, I thought it might be a good fit to carry on the tradition. 

First of all, the title refers to Schrodinger's theoretical cat-- the one he hypothesized could be both dead and alive at the same time in his famous thought experiment concerning quantum physics. Allyn's dad is a high school science teacher, and they actually have a miniature schnauzer named Schrodinger (or Odie, as he is fondly known). I knew Allyn had suggested his name, too.

Secondly, it is a bidding and tricks game, and Heidi and I were recently at a teacher happy hour where folks were playing spades. Watching the game made us remember how much we like cards, and we agreed to look for more opportunities to play.

Cat in a Box ended up being a complicated version of Spades. The cards had numbers, but no suits;  each player has to declare the suit of their card when they play it. There are guidelines and trackers, because while any card can be both a red six and a green six when it's in your hand, once played, there can only be one red six per game. There is also bidding, and of course paradoxes arise, which is only fitting for a game inspired by Schrodinger.

As it turned out, Allyn had never played a plain bidding game, so these clever twists were lost on her. But, after watching an instructional video, we were able to play through the three hands required for a complete game. After the firs round, I checked in with Allyn. "How's it going?" I asked. "Do you get it?"

"Well," she answered drily, "I understand it better than quantum physics."

What Happened?

Spread over a half mile of our route to school this morning were vast swaths of wet and flattened cardboard boxes in the middle of streets.  It was difficult to imagine such an event happening without the perpetrator being aware, and yet there was no evidence of where they had come from. Nor was there any effort to clean them up, so some cars swerved around them while other vehicles ran right over, grinding them to slick piles of pulp.

Rush hour loomed, backups were forming around some of the larger mounds, drivers were getting testy, and it was hard to see how everything would work out. 

But I guess it did, because everything was clear, not even a trace of cardboard, by 3 when I picked Heidi up.