M N X Files

I did not expect to let a whole month pass before explaining my last post.

The gag should be self-evident — or easily realized once the character peeking in registers — to Americans born during, oh, the past 70-80 years. I thought of it when texting with my niece about this routine my grandfather used to recite:

“F U N E X?”

“S, V F X.”

“F U N E M?”

“S, V F M.”

“O K, L F M N X.”

There’s a lot of material dating to the era of his childhood and young adulthood —
very broadly speaking, the first half of the 20th Century — whose provenance is hard to determine with oral tradition in social gatherings and at vaudeville shows predating, and then informing, radio broadcasts (let alone television, and never mind broadcasts that were reliably preserved).

Stella Saner 1916-2016

Stella Saner would have been 100 years old today, had she not passed early in
the morning of January 21st with her daughter, my mother, at her side.

Here’s a lightly edited version of what I wrote to read at her memorial service.

Leon Saner 1914-2011

Leon Saner died on Saturday.

I can’t begin to describe how much that fact has impacted my life. He was my mother’s father — and so much more than those words might suggest.

The number of stories that have come to mind and been told by family in the week
since we took up a vigil at Grandpop’s bedside could fill a book; perhaps one day they will. For now, I’ll just share the eulogy that I managed to read at the service held in his honor:


Stella & Leon Saner, in their mid 80s, in the mid ’90s.

96.

Boing!

I’ve joined my grandparents for dinner the past couple of evenings, although that’s the extent of the similarities between this post and last year’s “Bing!”.



On Wednesday, Grandmom and I spoke about Lost. I’m taking a break from that subject for at least one post, however, since the coming weeks will be full of it.

Christmas + 1

I don’t know when this will get posted so it feels safest to focus my yuletide thoughts
on the morning after.

Many locations have made for a special holiday in my life, but none can match the house way up New Jersey, northwest of New York City, where my father’s parents lived during my first decade. There were decorations, cookies, stockings, relatives, carolers, and gifts under what in memory at least is a majestic tree.

So much could be written about the annual anticipations of Christmas in Wyckoff —
my sister and me standing by the curb to greet Santa, in the company of firefighters,
as they handed out candy to the neighborhood children; trying hard to fall asleep, since we knew that the jolly old elf wouldn’t return to leave presents until we did (but also hoping that his visit would awaken us so that we could finally catch him in the act); preparing for dinner, then waiting for Dad and Grandpa to finish their carbohydrate-
&-tryptophan naps so that we could roughhouse or enlist their help in explaining, assembling, and playing with games and toys opened earlier that day.

For me, though, the afterglow of Dec. 26th was just as magical as the eve of the 24th and the daylong festivities of the 25th.

Coffee and Synchronicity

I found the above in my E-mail last Thursday, courtesy of Amazon.

My first thought was that it was a surreal and ludicrous (if admittedly creative) promotion, whoring out a concept as completely as possible. Then came bemusement over having had a long, freewheeling conversation at local haunt Showcase Comics just the day before on the upcoming Watchmen film, largely about Alan Moore’s displeasure with publisher DC over rights issues; his decades-old frustration stems partly from early Watchmen merchandise. Then I actually read the body of the message indicating that the coffee isn’t simply a marketing tie-in but is featured in the movie — which one familiar with the characters might surmise from the Veidt Enterprises logo atop the bag, although the Watchmen logo and date are likely absent onscreen.

Bing!

Photo: USDA Agricultural Research Service — Peggy Greb

My grandfather doesn’t get excited about food much anymore. If he does, he’s most often soon disappointed. And while my grandmother likes to point out that she doesn’t live to eat, but eats to live, I can’t help recalling how we kids used to get awakened practically every morning during a visit to their condo in Florida with “You’d better get up if you want some good sun! Where should we have dinner tonight?”

Dinner usually involved trying to make an early-bird special. They might fit a certain stereotype in that regard, but as far as I’m concerned if you grew up struggling through the Great Depression, have made a comfortable living, and can mingle your enjoyments of a good meal, a good deal, and family, you’re totally entitled to that satisfaction.

Grandmom does love her ice cream, though.