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My mind often wanders in the summer as I attempt to relax in a hammock in the shade under a giant oak. I’m often amazed at the span of subjects that fill my cranium at one time.
Because this is the month for Father’s Day, I’ve been especially remembering my dad, who passed away three years ago. Thoughts of him always bring a smile and often a song to my lips, both of which last the whole day.
My dad was a happy-go-lucky guy with huge charisma and a bigger heart. After he retired, he was concerned about just a few things: ice cubes, toilet paper, and directions (as in road travel).
Often when he woke up at his usual 4 a.m. to perk his morning brew, he would make about a dozen trays of ice cubes so that just in case a party broke out, he’d be prepared.
I remember a July barbecue with almost two-dozen guests, and knowing his ice cube habit, no one brought a bag of ice. Of course, that whole week he had been so preoccupied with finding toilet paper on sale that he forgot to make ice cubes, and everyone sipped warm lemonade.
His toilet paper peccadillo involved finding the biggest multipack of toilet paper ever created and buying it at the cheapest price. On any given day, you could open a closet and every roll would fall on your head.
I think that started after one long-ago Halloween when my friends and I decided to wrap all our neighbors’ cars in toilet paper, and so our cupboard was bare. The next day he made me go out, unwrap all the cars, and save all the toilet paper in big paper bags. We had a bonfire that spring.
As for directions to anywhere, my dad had total recall. Unfortunately, though, he’d remember markers like a gas station painted lime green, a drive-in movie theater that served great French fries, or two dead trees.
I’d listened intently, writing it all down. And once I hit the road, I’d try to find and follow each marker—only to find that his recall was from a decade ago. The gas station is now a CVS, the drive-in is a Buick dealer, and the dead trees are now toothpicks.
June always makes me think about white shoes. I still remember the white shoes rule that no white shoes can be worn before Memorial Day.
I once worked with a gal named Laurel. She was a fanatical “fashionista” who told me the following true story with a straight face. To this day, she does not see the humor in it. To her, it represents a major fashion faux pas and nothing more.
One sunny day in April, she and her friend Karen were cruising around the streets of New York City in their convertible with the top down. They spotted a woman standing on a corner struggling with the largest pile of overstuffed luggage they had ever seen. It was painfully obvious that this woman was overwhelmed as she frantically tried to hail a taxi.
As they got closer, the gals slowed down and then drove on by. “Wow, did you see that?” Karen asked.
“I sure did!” Laurel said, “I can NOT believe that woman was wearing white shoes, gosh! It’s only April!”
Personally, summer shoes unnerve me. I feel absolutely vulnerable in open-toe shoes, and once my snow boots get pried off, I have a difficult time getting comfortable in sandals. (Maybe it’s because my calluses need an electric sander.) I realize that’s probably why men wear socks with their sandals; they feel vulnerable too.
Summer fragrances have changed, big time. Who wants to smell like a kiwi-lime, or cotton candy or pear-fig? What happened to lemon-based fragrances like Jean Naté? (Thank you, Christmas Tree Shops, I finally found Jean Naté there!) I really miss the florals like lily of the valley, or lavender, one of my favorites.
Before I found my Jean Naté, I was wearing a scent from Glade called “Old Fashioned Rose.” While standing in line at Burger King recently, a little girl looked directly at me and said, “You smell like a bathroom, but a nice bathroom—I like it.”
And I said, “Thanks honey, so do I!”
Humorist and freelance scribe Joyce Faiola is a consultant/designer for the hospitality industry and lives in New England. Her e-mail is JLFaiola@Juno.com.
