S.Hooligan, tiny dancer

S.Hooligan had her first ballet recital last Saturday. Actually, she’s in pre-ballet class, but she and all her fellow tiny dancers got to dress up as if they were doing “Swan Lake.”

We weren’t quite sure what to expect of S.Hooligan on the stage. She has a mind of her own. We were encouraged by her performance in an exhibition two weeks ago, a tuner for the “official” program, and hoped the better angels of her nature would keep her from doing something outrageous in front of a theatre full of people. S. does have an outrageous streak, and an emotional one as well. We knew it was just as possible she’d burst into tears and race off the stage.

In her gem-themed program, S.Hooligan’s group were “pearls” and danced to “Pearly Shells” by Burl Ives. It was a sweet little dance, and the ballerinas did their best. Even though I’m a blatantly doting aunt, I’m the fist to admit I doubt S. has any kind of exceptional dance talent — but the kid knows that routine. What she lacked in showmanship, she made up for in self-confidence.

Even J.Hooligan has been impressed by his sister’s stage appearances. Although, as Diamondqueen points out, “He’s always surprised that she knows how to do anything.”

Diamondqueen realized we’d better have flowers for our ballerina after the performance. However, she wasn’t sure about real blossoms. For one thing, S.Hooligan might not have been that impressed. Secondly, given her tendency toward physical displays of displeasure, S.Hooligan was bound to strike one or all of us with her bouquet. We could easily imagine a $7 bouquet going up in a cloud of scattered petals.

So Mom and I stopped at the craft store that morning and got some silk-like pink roses. With their stems wrapped in green tissue and bound with a big pink bow, they made an impressive presentation even if they were fake. S.Hooligan seemed very pleased with them. And, as it turned out, she’d noticed all the other little girls getting flowers. In the van on the way home, I saw S. nuzzling her nose in the bouquet as if sniffing the flowers, so their artificiality obviously didn’t register with her. Plus, as Diamondqueen told us next day, S. carried that bouquet around the house all the rest of the afternoon and evening. Durability was definitely a good trade-off for not having the real thing.

 

Altered Mother’s Day Album: Minerva Alice (Hutchinson) Mount

This page of the altered photo album I made for Mother’s Day last year is dedicated to Minerva Alice (Hutchinson) Mount. She’s my great-great-grandmother. Her son, George Dale Mount, married Helen Conover, and their daughter was my Grandma Martha (Mom’s mother).

I never knew much about Alice Mount (as she was known about the time the photo above was taken). Grandma Martha talked very fondly of her, though. Grandma said her grandmother made wonderful baked goods and canned goods; she’d often have something delicious waiting for her on her way home from school. Grandma said Alice Mount reminded her of Mom with her cooking and  baking.

Grandma quoted Alice Mount in only one instance: She said she’d go to see her grandmother, and Alice Mount would peer over her glasses at her and say quietly, “Is that a new dress? Did your mother make it? Hmmm…”

I learned far more about Minerva Alice Hutchinson Mount when I began to do some genealogical work a few years ago. Indeed, she must have been quite a baker — she supported herself with her own bake shop, at least for awhile, in Morrow, Ohio. She also took care of her elderly parents near the end of their lives when they were quite ill. Her mother, Margaret Doughman Hutchinson, and her father, Joseph Hutchinson, Jr., lived either with her or near her in downtown Morrow. I have copies of the military records for Joseph Hutchinson, Jr., a Civil War veteran, which show Minerva Alice applying for increased pensions to help her care for her father, whose eyesight had been ruined by disease during the war.

Alice’s husband, Frank Mount, abandoned her at some point, but this resourceful woman carried on. Her life couldn’t have been easy. But I know from a trusted source that she was a kind and loving grandma, much loved in return. If I had learned nothing else about her, that would have been enough.

NOTE: My mother has her own Mother’s Day tribute posted at Lillian’s Cupboard, including the original photos of some of the women featured in the altered photo album.

My mother’s idea of a good Mother’s Day

I always feel a little ashamed as Mother’s Day approaches. There’s lots of talk on TV and in commercials about where to take mothers to brunch or dinner for a special experience, the kind of pampering a mother deserves on “her” day. I feel ashamed because I know my mother won’t be going out anywhere for a special meal. She always cooks her own Mother’s Day banquet.

In my own defense, I should say that we’ve been after my mother for years to let us take her out; or, at least, Diamondqueen and I could try to put a meal together (my lack of culinary talents notwithstanding) OR we could get take-out from a decent restaurant. Mom won’t have it. She says she LIKES to cook the Mother’s Day meal. And after all these years, I know she’s telling the truth. But it’s really hard to watch her put in on all that work any time, but especially on the celebratory day honoring her.

Yet, once again this year, my indomitable mother, at the age of 75, cooked a feast and served it as if part of the Mother’s Day tradition is for HER to treat everyone royally. She made chicken parmigiana and garlic bread. She claims this actually is an “easy” meal for her. She also baked two pies: a strawberry-rhubarb pie which has become, by her own designation, her traditional Mother’s Day dessert; and an apple pie for those who don’t like rhubarb’s tang. She did make the Italian bread and the two pies ahead of time, but still. And there’s no question of helping her prepare the meal on Sunday morning (I just get on her nerves by getting in her way); I supposed if Diamondqueen and I ganged up on her (I.e., tied her to a comfortable chair in the living room), we could do the clean-up, but Mom doesn’t seem to want that, either.

She often says, “As long as I can do it, I want to.” This is what she says at Thanksgiving, too, and when we have my birthday meal, for which she makes mini Beef Wellingtons. Mom has had two abdominal hernia surgeries in less than a year, the most recent just after St. Patrick’s Day. The Sunday before, as she served dinner, she said, “I guess it might be awhile before I feel up to cooking a whole meal on Sunday again.” Two weeks later she was back at it, on a slightly reduced scale, but she put a meal on the table for Diamondqueen and me and the kids. And it was delicious, of course,

I, too, want her to keep doing it as long as she’s able. There are the selfish reasons, of course. As I cut a forkful of her incredible pie crust, I had a quick flash of what life would be like someday without her pies. Without her cooking in general. She’s one of those cooks who puts her own spin on recipes. No one could duplicate her specialities; they might manage faint facsimiles. When she stops cooking, the loss will be enormous.

There is another less selfish reason I want her to keep cooking: It’s a part of her life force, an integral part of her feeling fit and alive, at one with the rhythm and flow of the active world. I know she can’t do it forever. And I’ll be watching for signs that we need to step in, to limit how much she does by herself, to negotiate what and how much we can contribute to these meals as well.

Fortunatley, Mom has a good attitude, and a realistic and pragmatic one. I know she knows that such “cutting back” won’t necessarily be a sign of waning; it will be a means for extending her participation because she’ll be sensibly rationing her energy and stamina. Maybe setting boundaries will mean that many more holidays with her prizewinning pies or bread or simply a much-loved entree, with the trimmings provided by helpers.

For now though, I’m grateful for another Mother’s Day spent the way Mom likes it best — cooking up a storm for the family gathered around her table.

 

 

Mother’s Day altered photo album

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Last year I wanted to make my mother a special gift for Mother’s Day. I had an old, dilapidated photo album with a broken lock that I’d gotten on eBay (I’d bought it for the photos, thinking maybe there would be long lost relatives in it because of it being from Brown County, Ohio — there weren’t any, of course). I’m very interested in altered books, or anything “altered,” so I decided to do an altered photo album focusing on my mother’s maternal line of ancestors.

I went back as many generations as there were photos available. We’ve been scanning in family photos for years, so I had a good stock to work from. I digitally altered the photos and printed them out. I reinforced the delicate album pages (which had openings for the old-time cabinet photos) by covering thin cardboard with decorative paper as a background, inserting it into the window of each page, and using that as my canvas. I cut out each mother’s image and glued it within the page frame, adding embellishments in collage fashion.

Some of these women would probably roll in their graves if they saw the treatment I gave them. I was trying to imagine what they would look like in color, but I also wanted to “dress” them for the special celebration the altered album was supposed to represent.

I made a small “Mother” plaque for the album cover (see photo above) by using a rubber stamp and a small puddle of warm UTEE (ultra-thick embossing enamel). When the piece was cool and hardened, I painted over it with a gold marker pen and antiqued it, then glued it to the album cover.

The album opens with an invitation:

Tomorrow I’ll post the first “collage” in the book.

The Inspirational Chocolate Pie

With Mother’s Day this Sunday, I’ve been thinking of not only my own mother, but of the wonderful women going back generations in my family. One reason I know about those women is because both Mom and her mother, Grandma Martha, always told great stories, whether about their own pasts or about the female family members who came before.

One of Mom’s stories stuck with me because I was so impressed with her mother’s resourcefulness. Mom’s paternal grandmother was known as Grandma-Up-Dayton because she lived above Dayton, Ohio — in a community called Vandalia. Grandma-Up-Dayton lived in a rather rustic home with an outhouse and an iron wood-burning stove. She turned out unbelievable breads, pies, and other goodies on that stove, which my mother recalls with fondness and admiration.

It was a long drive from the southernmost border of Ohio to north of Dayton. Something that happened on one of those return trips was the foundation for that story of Mom’s that impressed me so. It involved a flat tire, a pie, a car key, and the talents and resourcefulness of mothers:

A CHOCOLATE PIE

When I see chocolate pie I think of
a pie I never tasted, the one
my mother likes to tell about
from her childhood: She’d traveled
with her parents and sister to visit
Grandma-Up-Dayton, a remarkable
cook who baked glorious creations
in a wood-burning stove. When the
Applegates motored up from Cincinnati,
Grandma-Up-Dayton packed the car
with culinary plunder for the return trip.

On the way home that evening, their car
had a blowout. It was past dinnertime
and the girls needed something to eat.
While Grandpa wrestled with the flat,
Grandma took a chocolate pie
from Grandma-Up-Dayton’s stash of goodies.
There was no knife, so Grandma
used a car key to slice the pie. My mother
remembers how good that pie tasted,
they were so tired and hungry,
with so far yet to go.

When I see chocolate pie, I think
of this story and those three –
of Grandma-Up-Dayton, blessed
with cheerful generosity
and baking prowess; of Grandma,
blessed for life with calm resourcefulness;
and of my mother, blessed with a talent
for keeping the past alive
and for helping me understand
the kind of women I come from.

(c)2006 by Nancy Breen; “A Chocolate Pie” first appeared in Best of 2006: The 69th Annual Ohio Poetry Day Contest Awards

UPDATE: My mother has written a special blog post telling all about Grandma-Up-Dayton, her unusual house in the country, and her baking — not to mention the full story of the car key and the chocolate pie. Go to Lillian’s Cupboard for nostalgic details, period photos, and even a chocolate pie recipe!

 

Goodbye, April

“My” month is over. Funny how post-birthday blahs and some chilly weather can break the spell prematurely. It was a good birthday, though, and a good month. And more beautiful than I anticipated. Now, on to May — with summer just beyond!

Back on April 11 I challenged myself to write a post about April (or birthdays) every day for the rest of the month. I almost did it. I missed a day last week, and the past two days I felt I’d run out of things to say. Since the exercise was meant to boost me out of my sluggish blogging since the beginning of the year, I think it was successful. Keeping up the momentum? We’ll see.

April’s Cruelties: The Steamboat Sultana Disaster

Everyone knows about the sinking of the Titanic on April 14, 1912, in which 1,517 lost their lives. Few have even heard of the steamship Sultana, which went down in the Mississippi River on April 27, 1865; the tragedy cost about 1,700 lives.

I’d never heard of the Sultana disaster until a brief mention of it in Ken Burns’s Civil War documentary. Even in its brevity, it was horrifying: The victims were primarily Union soldiers recently released from Southern prisoner camps. To think that they’d already gone through so much, from battle to the terrible prisons, only to be killed en route to their homes, and in such a agonizing way — it was heartbreaking and seemed so grossly unfair.

Later, as I dabbled in genealogy, I learned I might have a link to the Sultana. It took me completely by surprise.

My great-great-great-grandfather, James Conover, enlisted in the 175th Regiment Ohio Volunteer Infantry in October of 1864. In November, he was one of several members of the 175th captured near Columbia, Tennessee; he was sent to Cahaba (or Cahawba) Prison in Albama. Here, according to his military records, James Conover died in February, 1865.

There’s conflicting information, though, regarding whether James Conover might actually have died in the Sultana disaster. One book I read on the event listed his name as one of the victims. The problem is, record-keeping was unreliable regarding what happened at the prison AND regarding prisoners who were loaded onto the Sultana. (One reason so many died was because far too many passengers were crowded onboard.) I’ve read other articles that say some bodies were dug up from the Cahaba Prison cemetery, but when they were being moved, there was another boat accident and some of the bodies floated away and were never recovered. So that makes definitive research even harder. There’s a wonderful Conover genealogical site, and it combines the data for James Conover’s death, stating he died February 17, 1865 — but seven miles north of Memphis aboard the Sultana. So it’s a difficult mystery to unravel.

I doubt I’ll ever know what happened for sure to my great-great-great-grandfather. My instinct is that he probably did die in Cahaba Prison; but no doubt many of his comrades, including friends from his home area in Brown County, Ohio, perished in the Sultana tragedy.

None of this was ever passed down through family oral history, which is curious to me. Grandma Martha loved to tell family stories; if she’d known anything about her great-grandfather, she would have shared it. I’ve always been interested in the Civil War, and I didn’t know until I started doing some research that I even had ancestors who had fought. (I have several.)

In Bloom Rose Cemetery in Brown Country, where a lot of my maternal ancestors are buried, there’s a white pillar near the front gate. I’d never read the names on that pillar in all the years I’d visited there with Grandma Martha, but out of genealogical curiosity I finally did one day. It turns out that pillar is a monument to those local soldiers who never returned from the war. One of the names on that pillar is James Conover. (The wife he left behind, who died in June of that same year, is buried nearby.) It’s only one of the things I’ve discovered about my mother’s family that I wish I could tell Grandma now. She would have been fascinated.

There’s another less personal connection to the steamship Sultana that I never knew until recent years. The Sultana was actually built in Cincinnati. A few years ago an historial marker was erected near Sawyer Point in the vicinity of the Cincinnatus statue (if I’m remembering correctly).

If you’re interested in learning about a maritime disaster that cost even more lives than the sinking of the Titanic, sites like this one have lots of information about the Sultana.

 

 

 

My Grossest Birthday Gift Ever

In this post I described the birthday cake that was inflicted upon me this past week. As I was writing that, I remembered the only other birthday on which I was truly and totally grossed out.

It was about eleven years ago. We were in the dining room of Mom and Virgil’s old place near Harrison. Diamondqueen was there with her new husband, That Poor Man. There were no Hooligans yet, although there WAS Bailey the beagle and little Ginger, Mom’s dachshund mix.

We’d had dinner, and I was opening gifts before we got to the cake. It was our usual cake from Servatii’s, our favorite Cincinnati bakery (luscious cake with frosting to die for). I picked up a small wrapped gift and tore it open to discover a little photo album with “My Family” emblazoned on the front. “Aw,” I said, and flipped to the first picture — then screamed in horror and dropped the album to the table.

I have this thing about people with stuff on their mouths. It makes me ill. It has for as long as I can remember. In first grade, a boy in my class came up to me at lunchtime and said something with flakes of glaze and spots of jam from a danish all over his mouth. I took one look at him and threw up in my hand. I couldn’t help it. And I can’t help it now. I don’t know where this reaction comes from. I no longer throw up, but I do get nauseous.

Consequently, there have been commercials that I simply couldn’t watch, especially if I was eating. There was one for a steakhouse (I can’t remember which), but it had a cowboy with his mouth covered in barbecue sauce. I hate the commercial for Campbell’s soup where the guy’s gone orgasmic over his little microwave cup of tomato, the remnants of which surround his lips. I’ve never understood why advertisers think it’s appealing to show kids with food smeared all over their mouths. It’s not. And don’t get me started on the “Got Milk” campaign where celebrities were photographed with a milk moustache. Agggh! It was even worse when I found out it wasn’t milk, but some other concoction they had to whip up so the milk would really show up on the photo subject’s upper lip.

I think it might have been my reaction to the “Got Milk” moustache campaign that inspired Diamondqueen to create her special birthday gift for me. For inside that little album entitled “My Family” were snapshots of my loved ones, each with Cool Whip smeared across his or her upper lip.

Mom, Virgil, Diamondqueen; my brother and my young niece and nephew; That Poor Man, even the dogs (Virgil was posed with Ginger, who had Cool Whip under her nose, while Bailey with That Poor Man didn’t have much cream left because she kept licking it off).

I was horrified and green around the gills, which was exactly the reaction Diamondqueen had worked so hard to achieve. My stomach rumbling, I didn’t really enjoy my birthday cake that year. It didn’t help that Diamondqueen kept generously smearing that miraculous frosting on her upper lip and leering at me.

In fact, Diamondqueen continues to do that stunt at just about every meal, regardless of the occasion: mayonnaise, pudding, sour cream, you name it. She has to do it on the sly and not bring too much attention to it because J.Hooligan’s stomach is about as weak as mine regarding such things. Diamondqueen used to have to put a cereal box between J. and S.Hooligan when the latter was a baby because the sight of S. and her messy eating put J. off his feed. Since it’s a battle to get J. to eat period (except for chocolate and ice cream), Diamondqueen doesn’t need anything else to upset him. One time when she overtly tried to sicken me with the upper lip hijinks, J.Hooligan spotted her, gagged, and set up a wail.

That’s not enough to keep me safe, but at least Diamondqueen’s stunts aren’t prolonged. And she does it so much, I’ve become a little conditioned and a little more in control of my stomach. As long as I don’t think about that first grade classmate wearing his danish around his lips…

Black, blue, and orange frosting

 

 

 

 

 

I had a very nice birthday today. I arrived at work to find a signed card from my editorial teammates and a Busken donut, a great way to start the day. The drive to work was gorgeous; the rain had let up but the wetness gave everything a watercolor effect in the soft morning light (misty green, lavender against a royal blue sky — heavenly). I had several e-cards and wishes in my e-mail in box from friends and co-workers. Mom had carry-out Phad Thai waiting in the warming oven when I arrived for my weekend at her house. There were two gifts to mark my official birthday: one of those wand-like mini craft/sewing irons from Mom; and from Diamondqueen, a certain book to remain unnamed here that we keep re-gifting to each other just to be annoying, plus a CD Diamondqueen burned from a playlist I posted through her account at Rhapsody. (Of course, Mom says there’s no printed copy of the songs on the CD because Diamondqueen likely threw in some ringers that she knows will set me screaming. If I know her, that enormously annoying “keep on, keep on, keep on…” travesty from The Brady Bunch is probably among them.)

I say these gifts were for my official birthday because I’ve already been celebrating all week, and my real celebration (if you count cake and gifts as the real celebration) will be on Sunday.

However, I’ve even had a birthday cake already this week. Rather, I shared one with J.Hooligan. We always get together with my father at Diamondqueen’s house for birthdays and Christmas. Since Dad insists on paying for dinner, even when he’s the guest of honor, we try sly ways of cutting down on expenses, like combining birthdays whenever we can. Since J.Hooligan’s birthday is on May 6, Diamondqueen simply grafted our birthdays together for our celebration on Tuesday night.

The problem is, the choice of the cake got commandeered by J.Hooligan. Dad likes us to get the cakes for our dinners from Meier’s. They lean a little heavily on the food coloring in their frosting, but the cakes are pretty tasty, so I can manage. However, J. took it totally over the top.

J.Hooligan is going through an intense Star Wars obsession right now. His birthday, as I mentioned in this post, is going to have a Star Wars theme. Why that had to carry over into our combined celebration, I do not know. What I do know is that I got stuck with a Star Wars cake for the Tuesday night festivities.

Not just any Star Wars cake. This was an unbelievable creation featuring Darth Vader and what seemed like pints and pints of frosting in black, blue, and orange. Oh, dear Lord. I’m not sure how the blue entered into it, but the orange was supposed to represent flames or something. The black was more of a spray-on effect (to match Darth Vader’s plastic head on top of the cake, or to represent the galaxy far, far away, or come up with your own explanation).

I don’t object to this highly colored frosting because it tastes bad. It’s okay. But I really get bothered by the blue frosting because it turns everyone’s teeth and lips and tongue blue. It’s thoroughly disgusting. There’s a vague corpse-like effect that I find appalling, plus there are certain people that tend to talk with their mouths open and don’t wipe the frosting off their lips (and I’m not referring only to the two Hooligans).

If I found the effect of blue frosting nauseating, it was nothing compared to the freakish marbleized patina created by black, blue, and orange frosting after mastication. To really 86 the whole thing for me, the black frosting had a faint licorice flavor. I don’t like licorice. I especially don’t like it mixed on my palate with fluorescent blue and orange frosting. (AND J.Hooligan insisted on chocolate cake. I’m not that crazy about chocolate cake any time; it’s especially unappealing when spackled with black, blue, and orange frosting.)

So OUR cake was one I preferred not to touch with a ten-foot light sabre. I ate a piece to be polite (believe me, Dad would have noticed otherwise), but it was literally hard to swallow (and it tasted like chocolate cake and licorice combined — next time just shoot me, okay?). At least S.Hooligan and I had fun with the Darth Vader head, which was also a voice converter. Granted, I sound more like Darth Vader when I have a frog in my throat, but it was fun to play with. J.Hooligan was indifferent. I guess he wanted something more authentic, maybe with labored breathing as part of the conversion. You can’t have everything, bub. You got a Star Wars cake. I got stuck with black, blue, and orange frosting.

That’s okay. MY cake on Sunday will be from a premiere local bakery, yellow cake with white frosting and decorated with spring flowers. Any blue will be lighter than that pristine sky this morning. And without so much as a hint of licorice.

A Tale of Two Birthdays

I had only two birthday parties that were open to kids outside of the family when I was a child. This was my own choice; I wasn’t entirely comfortable being the center of attention, and I was even less comfortable playing hostess.

One of those parties, though, was the year I turned eight. I don’t know what made me decide we should have a party. Maybe Mom suggested it, or maybe I just had a whim. Every kid in the neighborhood was invited, even the ones way younger than me. This might have been Mom’s doing; she might have worried about the younger siblings of some of my friends feeling left out because they weren’t invited, so she just invited everybody.

There must have been about 15 children of varying sizes squeezed in around our dining room table. The first guest to arrive was the rapscallion boy up the street, Ricky. He was known for being racuous and mouthy, but he could be slick and flirty as well — even though he was maybe a year younger than me. (He’d already tricked me into kissing him, but that’s another story.) He came knocking at our back door long before the other guests arrived, and I stepped out on the porch to greet him. He was looking snazzy in slacks and a colorful two-tone shirt. He had something cupped in his hand and said he had a present for me. It could have been a dead mouse for all I knew, but he opened his palm to reveal a small flower-shaped brooch with a rhinestone center. It was pretty, and I was impressed. Later Mom fretted whether Ricky had swiped it out of his mother’s jewelry box to give to me.

We always enjoyed the home movie of this party because of our big dance after the games and cake and ice cream. Mom turned on the stereo turntable for us; we probably danced to Alvin and the Chipmunks albums since there wasn’t much popular music in our house yet (at least nothing that a group of children under ten would want to dance to).

The dancing got wilder and wilder, perhaps from a group sugar high from the ice cream and cake. Although the home movie shows a couple of mopes slumped on the couch, the rest of the guests are kicking up their heels in the middle of the living room floor. At one point Diane, one of my livelier friends, climbed up on the solid footstool and started calling “Change your partner!” There was plenty of screeching and collisions and laughter in the mayhem. The last shot on the home movie of that party is of Diane bent completely over, dancing in a circle with her dress up over her back and her petticoat and underpants showing.

The second party took place the year I turned eleven, and it was a much more “mature” social function. That party must have been my idea, because I remember contributing suggestions for the table decorations, possibly including the spray of plastic flowers that each guest found at her seat at the table. It was girls only, and there was no dancing. Everyone wore nice dresses, and I think part of the point was to be very lady-like. I don’t know what possessed me or where I came up with such a notion, because being lady-like was never much of a pursuit for me. However, I have a dim impression of wanting things to be elegant, although I don’t think that was actually the word in the back of my head. I did want it to be “nice.” Perhaps we played some games that weren’t too rambunctious. All I really remember is having cake and ice cream, everyone with their plastic flower sprays at their places, and opening gifts. I wish I could remember more of the gifts. I’m pretty sure Rosie or someone gave me one or two volumes of Nancy Drew. I was a devoted Trixie Belden reader, and possibly Rosie was trying to influence my reading habits. Maybe that was the year I also received a copy or two of Donna Parker. Eventually I did get into Donna Parker somewhat, but I just never could connect with Nancy Drew. Too ladylike or something.

I attended way more parties than I gave, and maybe that wasn’t the best reciprocal behavior. No one ever said anything snide about it. I always took nice gifts to my friends’ parties, so I wasn’t a total moocher. I didn’t often take home any prizes — I just wasn’t very competitive, or very competent, at party games.

At one birthday party, though, I got a stunning prize simply for being bad at games. My friend Nancy, who’s birthday was also in April, had a party with all the trimmings. At game time, I never even came close to winning, or placing or showing, in a single contest. While we were having our cake, Nancy’s mother asked, “Is there anyone here who didn’t win a prize?”

“I didn’t,” I said a little louder than I should have; I was feeling very disgruntled. To my delight, Nancy’s mother handed me a small wrapped box. I opened it to discover a true treasure: a ring with a cameo of Barbie in base relief gold-tone metal, the head surrounded by rhinestones. I thought it was the prettiest ring I’d ever seen (even though I’d never been able to get into Barbie any more than Nancy Drew), and I could tell by the oohing and ahhing of the other girls that some of them were envious of my prize.

I loved that ring and wore it constantly. Eventually the cheap metal corroded from hand-washing and bathing, and Barbie’s head with its corona of rhinestones simply broke off. I kept the fingernail-sized cameo tucked away somewhere for a long time, until it finally vanished into that mysterious black hole that swallows childhood treasures without a trace.