A friend, pregnant with her first child, asked what I’d do differently if I could go back and change something about my daughter’s childhood. 

Later, when reflecting on my answer, I realized it had been lame. I’ll spare you the details, but it was more suitable for a Hallmark card than as honest advice.  

It wasn’t until reading about the massive Chinese toy recalls that I realized what it was that I would revise. 

If I had my daughter’s childhood to do over again, I’d change the toys. 

I suspect Celeste accumulated more toys in her first year or two than children of previous generations received in a lifetime. Few toys had a chance to be as special as they were quickly being replaced by something newer, softer, or with more bells and whistles.

 We never showered her with gifts, but she seemed to get a new toy at every turn. She’d order a kid’s meal at a restaurant and get a new toy. Visit the dentist and get a treasure box treat. Have no violations at school for a week and win her pick from the class bootie box. Even at birthday parties where she wasn’t the guest of honor, she’d get loads of loot in a goody bag.

 But most of all, each Christmas she would receive more toys than any child has a right to. Grandparents, neighbors, friends, classmates, cousins. There weren’t many toy-age children in our families then, so everyone went too far.

 All for a child who was never much into toys. 

So if I was going to attempt advice for a new parent, I’d suggest finding a way to pre-empt the toys. Most every parent has a story about their child having more fun with the box a toy came in than the actual toy. A big empty box invites imagination. It doesn’t need color or flashing lights or annoying sound effects to become an immediate favorite. 

That’s what I wish I’d done better—not allowed the toys that operated on batteries and only allowed the toys that operated on imagination. As children, brother and I were big into Legos, building houses and castles and forts. The possibilities were endless. Legos are still around, only now they’re usually packaged in sets, with pieces to build one specific thing—a passenger plane, Hogwarts castle, the Batmobile. No imagination required. Just follow instructions. 

Instead of toys, though, Kurt and I mostly played outside with our friends. You know, we’d toss them around or stack them like cord wood. That sort of thing. Other times, we’d play with our friends more like normal kids do, building dams in the creek, catching crawdads, riding bikes. We’d hang out in our tree house or play kickball or tag football or croquet or spotlight.

 Feeling nostalgic, I decided to email a few friends about their favorite childhood toys and was surprised to find that nearly all mentioned a version of the same thing somewhere on their list. 

My friend Lisa Skeens’ list included some of my own favorites–Spiro-graph, Klackers, Troll dolls, and Lite-Brite. I’d so loved Lite Brite that I bought one for my daughter a few years ago. After a short time with the cheaply made new version, she asked, “Is this all it does?” Even a child as imaginative as mine wasn’t impressed with a toy unless it does everything for them.

 But Lisa’s list also included, “Mostly, we played outside. Hide and seek, kick the can, catching fireflies, playing fort, catching salamanders in the creek behind our house.” 

My childhood across-the-street neighbor, Gale Harman, wrote that he still has and plays with his favorite old toy all the time (read into that what you will), but his other favorites included an AFX race track and cars and trucks. “But we usually just played outside.” 

My mom said it best, “After thinking about it, my favorite toys were other kids. My brother and sisters and neighbor kids. I didn’t have a favorite toy, and come to think of it, we didn’t even have a toy box. We played jacks, hopscotch, kick the can, a game called fudge. Boys liked playing marbles and a game with pen knives called mumblety peg. We played in creeks, catching crayfish and salamanders. We put on little skits in Norma’s garage that we wrote and acted in, with a curtain made from old bedspreads. We played outside so much more than kids today.” 

On Celeste’s second day of school, her fifth grade teacher assigned homework. “Play outside.” Although I had a million other things I needed to do, I take this homework business seriously, so I went outside with her to help. 

By giving our children everything, we make certain that nothing is special. There’s too much—too much stimulation, too much distraction. We cheat them out of having to entertain themselves with simplicity and imagination, and we cheat them out of experiencing the three best toys of all. Friends, imagination, and outside. 

Good website for old toys (some for sale, some just to rekindle memories).

Looking for toys that are made in theUSA toys? Try these links.

www.ShopForAmerica.com, www.ZebulonUSA.com, www.usmadetoys.com, www.unclegoosetoys.com, www.holgatetoy.com, www.maplelandmark.com 

When my daughter was in kindergarten, her favorite shirt said, “Girls rule.”

At the time, I liked the whole Girl Power rage, was charmed by the confidence and self-reliance it seemed to promote. Now that we’re shopping in the junior department, the slogans seem to have crossed from confidence to arrogance and from cute to cruel.

You’d be cooler if you were me.

It’s all about me. Deal with it.

Some might snicker and say I’m showing my age, or call me a hypocrite since those two sample sayings came straight from shirts in my own daughter’s closet. But there’s something about these types of slogans that’s been nagging at me and I didn’t realize until recently just what it was.

It’s that along with their t-shirts, I want to give them a sign.

Comedian Bill Engvall is probably best known for his “Here’s your sign” routine where he proposes hanging signs around the necks of stupid people to give others fair warning that the sign-wearer is especially clueless. 

For example, after Engvall took a friend fishing, they stepped from the boat carrying two full stringers of bass. A man standing there asked, “Hey, did y’all catch all them fish?” To which Engvall replied, “No. We talked them into giving up. Here’s your sign.”

Or when Engvall was moving—his house and yard full of boxes and a U-Haul parked in the driveway—a neighbor walked up and asked, “You moving?” Envall said, “Nope. We just pack our stuff up once or twice a week just to see how many boxes it takes. Here’s your sign.”

So when I’m out somewhere and I see a teenage girl or woman wearing a shirt that reads, “No Money, No Honey,” or “You’re ugly and that’s sad,” I envision adding an Engvall-type sign that says, “Hi! I’m superficial!”

And to the guys who wear shirts with sayings like, “No fat chicks,” “I lie to women,” or “I make girls cry,” I’d like to say, “Thanks for the warning. Along with your Stupid sign comes a free ‘I’m a jerk!’ forehead tattoo.”

Whatever happened to trying to make a good first impression?

The strange thing is, I adore funny shirts. They’re a great way to break the ice and to get total strangers to talk. But the ruthlessness of some of these demeaning sayings crosses a line, as do those with unabashedly arrogant slogans. Wearing an obnoxious saying emblazoned across your chest is much like running about, waving your arms over your head while yelling, “Look at me! Look at me!” without actually speaking. It’s a synopsis of who you are or what you believe.

I wonder if these types of shirts are appealing to some because they believe it shows strength—an ability to accept or reject whomever they please—or they think it says they’re so cool they can flaunt convention (and class). Or maybe they actually take pride in being offensive, believing it’s either part of the current culture or even the theme of their generation.

Or maybe they just don’t know any better. Tsk-tsk. The poor dears.

So yeah. I know. Maybe I’m showing my age. Is that such a bad thing? With age comes the right to be eccentric.

 Something I’ve looked forward to all of my life.

This is Henry. He’s a 2-year old neutered male terrier mix that was turned in to the Kanawha shelter by his owner — even though he’s housebroken, good with kids and other animals, and knows several voice commands. And he’s cute.

I wish I was tougher and could volunteer at the shelter — maybe just take the pictures and write little bios about each of the dogs to give more information about the dog’s personality, but I have a terrible time going there. The dogs I can’t take haunt me. I can’t seem to ever forget their faces.

 The last time I went, I was with a friend who was getting her first cat. I made the mistake of checking out the dogs. There was this one at the very end who was making a terrible racket. He was picking up his empty metal dish and throwing it. It would clatter and echo each time it fell. I walked back to see what was happening and he had this fantastic grin, like he loved all the noise and that it had succeeded in getting attention. He was a big dog, probably not even fully grown. Just your average West Virginia Brown Dog. And probably doomed, in spite of that grin.

Years back, while preparing for a yard sale, one of my items in need of a price tag was a small replica of The Thinker. Except this Thinker appeared to have been in a bar fight. The top and bottom of his jaw were no longer aligned. More accurately, the top and bottom of his entire head was askew, likely the result of a child’s surreptitious repair.

On the table next to the Thinker was an equally useless pair of old, oil-soaked boots.

“I should just throw these both away,” I said to a friend, who was helping me price.

“Leave them,” she said. “You never know what someone will buy.”

I called her crazy for pricing the boots at $2 and the statue at $3, but the day of the sale, they were the first two items to go. The buyer seemed so tickled with her purchase that I just had to ask.

Turns out the boots both looked and smelled like the work boots her late husband had worn. She said she used to complain about them all the time, but that she’d have given anything to be tripping over them on her porch once again. She planned to make the boots into a planter.

And she was apparently buying crooked-jaw Thinker because it amused her. “Doesn’t his expression make you wonder what he just thought?” she asked.

My friend Sue, a fellow yard-sale enthusiast, was recently telling me about a large box of wooden blocks she bought at a Nitro neighborhood sale. The seller had made them himself when his children were small, carefully sanding each block until it was perfectly smooth. From their condition, she could tell they’d been around a long while. The man said his children and grandchildren had put them to use, but there was no one left who wanted them now.

Sue felt a bit uncomfortable buying something she could tell was so special to him, but couldn’t bear that they might go home with someone who didn’t appreciate them. The value of some treasures can’t be measured in dollars.

“I promised him his blocks would be put to good use–that there were two little boys who’d have years of fun playing with them.”

It’s funny the old things we cart home simply because they make us feel good, because the item we’ve bought somehow helps us reattach to a specific time in our past. 

Another friend and I were also sharing a laugh about some of the “yard art” we’ve seen for sale, most often displayed around the back of a car pulled off the side of the road.

One recent roadside Charleston vendor was selling Western-themed silhouettes that appeared to be cut from old metal.

“I was sort of laughing to myself,” she said. “Wondering who would buy such a thing when I pulled up in my driveway and answered my own question. Who would buy it? Apparently–me.”

There in her yard was a rough metal cutout of a young girl, with shoulder-length hair, jumping rope.

“I’d bought it because it reminded me of this time when I was a little girl. I’d just gotten my hair cut for maybe the second time or third time ever, and when I saw that jump rope cutout, there was something about it that reminded me of just how good it felt that day, with my fresh hair cut feeling all bouncy. Weird as it sounds, that cutout connects me to that.”

But it didn’t sound weird. It made total sense.

Just like it made sense that a stranger’s old oil-soaked boots could connect to a husband that’s passed.

And that those once-loved blocks could be cherished again.   

Dining area before (excuse the mess — this photo was taken as we were moving in) and after…

Dining area after – We’re planning on changing the light, but haven’t found just what we’re looking for yet. I’d love to eventually put booth seating (with storage underneath) in an L-shape below the windows rather than chairs, although that would mean we’d have to find another place for the highchair our cats use. (We feed them there to keep the dogs out of the cat food.)

CABINETS BEFORE (above) and AFTER (under)

We still need to do something — not sure what — with the backsplash area, and eventually, I’d like to put tile on the counters since it’s something I can do myself (I hope). I’ve done tile floors before, but never tried a counter.

I need to get pictures of the buffet and shelves, but I don’t have that 100% finished yet. The brackets are up and boards cut, but I’m trying to find some banded metal edging to put on the shelves. I found it online, but I need two 120″ strips, and it’s too expensive to mail.

When we moved into our new old house nearly four months ago, we had big plans. We’d fence in the yard, buy some new furniture, remodel the kitchen. But complications with selling our Poca house and a few months of double mortgage payments have caused us to scratch fencing and furniture from our list (next to go—food), but redoing the kitchen just couldn’t wait. We needed more counter and storage space, and I was convinced I could do it for next to nothing.

Since our kitchen is primarily my husband’s domain, it couldn’t be girly.

 “Keep it simple,” was Geoff’s only request, although he rejected my first simple plan. (Flat slab of rock. A few sharp knives. Open pit fire.)

 I went back to the drawing board.

 Our existing cabinets were dated and lacked the accoutrements new cabinets have, but they were sturdy and—most of all—paid for, so the cabinets would stay. We simply slapped on some paint, and it changed the feel of the room.

 Since it would’ve been too expensive to replace the cabinet’s many old fake-copper knobs, handles and hinges, we opted for two cans of Rustoleum hammered metal spray paint (black for hinges, silver for handles). For $6 a can, the hardware looked new. Actually, better than new. The textured finish this spray paint produces is amazing, but it’s also addictive. We’ve now used it on all our cheap plastic switchplates and outlet covers, our heater vents, and several light fixtures.

 So encouraged were we by our inexpensive remodeling job (about $50 for paint and spackle) that we ventured over to ReStore, the used and new building materials resale store across the street from Green’s Feed & Seed. (Proceeds from the store go to Habitat for Humanity.)

 Hoping to find an affordable base cabinet at ReStore, we instead found a gorgeous old buffet the exact height, length and width that we needed. Just $70.

 Once the buffet was in place, we re-used old wood shelving from the basement to build over-window shelves, and two long, wide shelves for dishes above the buffet. For about $150, our “new” kitchen was done.

 When we began, we thought we were doing a temporary fix, something to hold us over for a few years, until the money fairy visits. (I’ve grown quite fond of some of my delusions.)  But we’re both so pleased with the results that we’re going to keep the kitchen this way.

 I doubt we would’ve experienced this same great sense of accomplishment had we done nothing but agree to a design and write a check. Having succeeded at being both creative and thrifty, we have a newfound confidence in our abilities that if we’d had more means, we might’ve missed.

 When my grandparents married during the Great Depression, they started with nothing, but my PapPap, a tough, Polish mill worker, was such a capable man that he got them through. When he saw a stack of broken, discarded chairs outside a community center, he took home the parts and assembled them into perfectly good chairs. When something broke, he fixed it. If he couldn’t fix it, he found another use for it. Only when something was truly useless would he throw it away.

Years later, my grandparents would wash and reuse aluminum foil, rinse out plastic bags, save wrapping paper. Their generation didn’t just know how to make money talk, they could make money scream.

Later generations seemed to measure success not by how much they could reuse and save, but by how much they could waste.

 We’ve had such a good time finding ways to reuse what we already have (or what’s already been used by someone else), that we’ve decided to make it our remodeling theme.

 Something I expect would’ve made PapPap proud.

Starting August 16, Cato Park will once again go to the dogs! 

Special dog swim events will be held from 4 to 8 p.m. on August 16 and 17, and from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. August 19. There will also be a dog and owner half-mile hike at 10 a.m. August 18 on the Garrison Trail located in the park. All hikers will meet in front of the Cato Park offices to hike. The dog swim will follow immediately.

 There will be a contest to see which dog can make the longest jump into the pool at 3 p.m. August 19. Prizes will be awarded to winners in each size category. Doggie bags and treats will provided to all swim participants.

 There is no registration fee for this event, but donations of dog food and supplies will be accepted and given to the Kanawha/Charleston Animal Shelter.

Dogs must be well socialized, and owners are responsible for cleaning up after their dogs.

For more information, contact the parks department at 348-8008 or email rachel.pett@cityofcharleston.org.

Thought I’d pass the word about this great HALF PRICE SALE they’re having the entire month of August at the Charleston/Kanawha County Humane Society. 

Wilson Martino Dental Associates will cover half the adoption fee of EVERY animal adopted during August. I love this idea!

If I could add another dog to our household (which I can’t–two dogs are the limit in South Charleston), I’d be tempted to go after “Big Dog,” who is at the Charleston shelter right now. I love German shepherds. Just look at this face–you can see her intelligence and the dignity she’s trying to maintain. Her profile says she’s a three-year-old spayed female that is housebroken, good with children, and knows several commands. She was turned in by her owner on July 25. (It doesn’t say why.) I don’t know how long they keep dogs there, but I hope she’ll have enough time to find a home.

And this cat, Milo, has been there since June 23. He’s NINE YEARS OLD. How sad that his owner could simply walk away from his obviously well-fed cat after so many years! Does he even stand a chance at getting adopted? It says he’s declawed on front and “owner couldn’t keep.”

He looks something like my Squirt, who tips the scale at about 20 lbs and is my No. 1 (of 3) cats. We already have a delicate balance going on at our house between the two males, so there’s no way I could add another, but I look at that face and wish I could take him home and allow him to finish off the second half of his life in a safe and comfortable manner.

I get so much from my animals. Yes, they can be messy and expensive and destructive at times, but they must be doing something right or I wouldn’t be sitting here wishing I could have even more.

We train them to predict seizures, to be eyes for the blind and ears for the deaf, to find our missing and our dead. We use them to detect bombs, sniff out drugs, protect our property and apprehend criminals. They provide therapy for the autistic, give comfort to traumatized children and residents of hospitals and nursing homes. They’re trained to partner with the disabled. 

 But perhaps the most noble of all “service” dogs are those willing to fight to their death simply to provide some brief entertainment.  

How appalling that the most admirable trait ascribed to dogs–their loyalty–is exploited by people who haven’t the character to recognize the horror of what they are doing.  

I consider myself fortunate to have shared my life with a great many dogs, so I come to this subject with an obvious bias. Unlike those who view dogs as property, I see them as friends. Companions. 

Family.

 I’ve joked about my dogs before, about how neither wants to be the alpha and how they’re forever submitting to each other–and to any other creature (except squirrels) that crosses their path. Although my two take it to the extreme, submitting is something that comes naturally to canines. In a normal fight between dogs, one will often quickly submit by rolling over. The winner accepts that signal and ends the encounter. 

With fighting dogs, that part of their behavior is trained out of them. They’re taught to ignore the signals of submission and continue to fight regardless of how badly injured they are. A dog’s willingness to fight is a trait breeders look for, as this quality is generally passed on (and amplified) in their offspring. 

The idea of deliberately breeding dogs based on their viciousness and ferocity is revolting, and I suspect society has begun paying the price. For the past few decades, breeders seeking to construct the ultimate fighting machines have, as a byproduct, created monsters–dogs that appear to be normal, loving pets, before some bred-in character flaw prompts them to suddenly turn on those who once were their friends. It seems hardly a week goes by that the news isn’t reporting another mauling by a pit bull, a breed once known for intelligence and loyalty, and now seen mostly as killers.

 Dog fighting enthusiasts will argue that these dogs are hard-wired to fight, claiming they’re merely allowing what comes naturally, but that isn’t the case. Owning a winning dog is a status thing, like having the biggest gold chain or the fanciest car. To some, it’s the ultimate macho bling, living and breathing. So to gain that status, these dogs are trained, tortured and starved until they’re blood-thirsty fighting machines. 

 Some of those posting on blogs discussing Michael Vick’s alleged involvement with dog-fighting are excusing his behavior by saying he wasn’t ready to face the pressures of adulthood, and that he was simply trying to help friends and relatives with their business venture. We should take note of these people. They’re waving a red flag, unknowingly alerting us to the presence of either dumbness, or numbness.

 I won’t go into Vick’s level of involvement or what type of punishment I think he should receive. That’s for the courts to decide. I’m simply grateful that someone of his stature–a previously respected person with a well-known name–is drawing attention to something this heinous. Perhaps now the scrutiny and public outrage will reach the level that people will think twice before allowing themselves to be associated with even the outermost fringes of dog fighting.

 Dog fighting needs to become socially unacceptable everywhere. Not just illegal, which it is in all 50 states. (Unfortunately, West Virginia is one of the few states where loopholes in our dog fighting laws can allow it to qualify as a misdemeanor.) Dog fighting needs to go from the low-class activity it is to a no-class activity no one will want to support.

 In spite of what happens, or doesn’t, dogs will continue to be man’s best friend. Regardless of whether we deserve such an honor.