Soupy Sales and the Three Mrs. Kosses

Two days of sadness recently for the Baker clan - we lost two of our favorite people - Soupy Sales, and Mr. (Frank) Kos.

When I first met Soupy Sales, I didn't know he was famous - he was simply a friend of my Dad's coming into town to help with a March of Dimes telethon. He always called me "Nora" - even after I corrected him, saying that "Nora was a MUCH funnier name than Laura."

He also taught me the importance of the word "duck" - particularly when someone was approaching with a cream-based pie.

But what I liked best about Soupy was the way he and my Pop would banter - even though most of the time I had no idea what was so funny. I just loved hearing the two of them laugh.

I last spoke to Soupy right after my Dad died - he was unwell and unable to make the service - but wanted "Nora" and the gang to know that St. Peter was most likely waiting for my Pop with a cream-filled pie in his hands. Dad would have loved that!

My sister, Kath, emailed me to let me know that Mr. Kos had passed away. He was our neighbor for several years on Mercer Street in Harrisburg - and was almost as much of a hoot as Soupy was - albeit with a thick Slovakian accent. I loved listening to Mr. Kos talk - the rhythm of it - I was probably the only kid on the block who could imitate Mr. Kos perfectly.

One day, I was trying to impress the neighborhood kids with my Mr. Kos impersonation, not realizing the Mr. Kos was walking up the street behind me. I was so upset when I saw him - and was certain he would yell at me - or tell my Dad that I was making fun of him.

He did neither - simply told me to "watch my v's" if I wanted to truly sound Slovakian!

His then wife, the lovely Mrs. Kos, was a favorite of my sister Kathy. Each night, before bed, when she would say her prayers, they always ended the same way:

"...I pray the Lord my soul to take...God bless Daddy and Lolly and Paula and Grandma and Uncle Mike and Smokey and the three Mrs. Kosses."

There was, of course, only one Mrs. Kos - but trying to convince a three-year-old of that was near impossible - so for years she asked God's blessing for all three of them.

I think in honor of both of them, I will speak with a slovac accent for the rest of the day, and make Soupy's favorite dish: Chicken Catch A Tory!

:)

Heavy is the head that wears the crown...

I have always had an affinity for crowns and tiaras, and count many among my collection -- but was reminded earlier today of one of my more embarrassing "crowning achievements" -- the time I accidentally got Miss Universe's crown stuck on my head.

Yes, you read that correctly -- I actually got Miss Universe's crown stuck on my head -- in front of witnesses no less. And yes - it was, as pictured above. All five pounds of it.

I was in my mid-twenties and working PR at Hersheypark. Miss Universe Dayanara Torres (later married to Marc Anthony if you follow such things) and her chaperone were doing a bit of publicity at a local Ronald McDonald house. I got a call early in the day that summer asking if we would 'comp' Miss Universe (she apparently loved roller coasters) if she would agree to pose for some photos. I happily said yes.

She was lovely - although didn't speak a word of English, and, wearing her crown, posed for many photos with our Chocolate characters and some tourists. Before heading out into the park to play, her chaperone asked if they could leave her rather large crown at Guest Relations - they would then pick it up on their way out at the end of the day.

Once again, I happily said yes.

The crown was mammoth - and when not on Miss Universe's head, lived in a heavy mahogany box lined with velvet.

Miss Universe dashed off into the park, leaving this box in my hands.

I, along with two or three of the young gals working in Guest Relations, watched her walk away. They then turned to me, all of us staring at the box in my hands.

I believe my exact words were along the lines of: "I don't know about you guys, but I am trying this thing on!"

And I did!

We went into the back room - which had a mirror - and I had that thing out of the box and on my head in five seconds flat. And it felt GOOD. And looked even better! I must have admired myself in the mirror for several minutes whilst the others argued about who would try it on next.

Then I went to take it off -- and it was STUCK. Somehow with all my posing and preening, I'd managed to get strands of my then long hair wound around the little jewels going around the base of the crown. And it wasn't coming off - no way, no how.

Our giggles turned to horror as we realized just how stuck it was.

In the middle of all of this, my friend Mark came in to Guest Relations -- "Did I miss seeing Miss Universe?" -- and found me sitting on the floor, crown stuck to my head with two young girls attempting to cut my hair out of it with manicure scissors.

I think his parting words before turning and walking away were: "I don't want to know - I just do not want to know."

After what seemed like an hour, they managed to extricate the crown from my head and we packed it away.

We all agreed that the less said, the better.

Hours later, I got a call from Guest Relations that Miss Universe had come back for the crown, and did I want to come down and say good-bye?

I passed. I figured it best not to put a face to the blonde hairs she'd probably be picking out of her crown for weeks to come.

Back to School

In the twin boroughs of Annville/Cleona, Monday marks the official first day of school for students.

I used to both love and dread the first day of school as a kid.

On the one hand, I was one of those kids who found summer “boring” – despite my Mom’s best efforts to keep us busy with sports, vacations, and library cards. On the other hand, I loved being out of doors, playing “Charlie’s Angels” with my sisters, getting into trouble in the woods, and stalking the ice cream truck. One infamous summer, I walked around the ‘hood for weeks with an old fashioned tape recorder doing “man on the street” interviews – much to the neighbors chagrin!

Another summer, my sisters and I spent two months choreographing our own four person production of Grease.

But by the middle of August, I was always ready to return to the dusty halls of Lower Dauphin.

The days leading up to the first day of school were always fraught with anxiety for me – back-to-school shopping (I was always one of those fashion “don’ts” you see in magazines), wondering what classes I’d be in (we never got our final scheduled until day 1), and fretting over where I’d sit for lunch...and with whom.

By the night before the first day of school, I’d be a nervous wreck.

My much more outgoing sisters would be excited to see their friends – and would have spent the day trying on outfit after outfit, trying to find the perfect “first day” clothes.

I’d be worrying about whether or not taking both AP calculus and analysis first semester had been a good idea.

Frankly, I just hoped (and prayed!) that my clothes would match. That no one would make fun of me and that I wouldn’t have to sit alone at lunch.

To the school world at large, I’m sure I seemed like a somewhat confident, dare I say gifted student, who studied hard, had more than her share of leads in school plays, and was utterly focused on getting into college.

But inside, I was shy smart kid, who was more comfortable on stage than off.

The day before the first day of school always ended the same way – with my father drugging me.

Yup – you read that right – he would see me work myself up into such a state, that around bed time, he’d come into my room and give me half a Valium to help me sleep. This became a day-before-the-first-day-of-school tradition for the two of us. It was our little secret.

Years later, he told me he actually gave me half a baby aspirin – a placebo – and like Dumbo with his feather, that half a baby aspirin did the trick – and helped me fly back to school each Autumn.

Pedro Says...

Every year, as kids, my parents would load us all in the Gran Torino station wagon and head south to visit the grandparents in central Florida. As a future destination marketer, it was on many of these trips that I first fell in love with the idea of travel, and one of my favorite things to do was “collect” brochures from every single Welcome Center that we would visit.

I would then spread them out in the car and rate them, some individually, and some comparatively. So many side trips came from these brochures — “Please Daddy? I’ll just DIE if we can’t stop at “See Rock City!”

One of the places that I just loved to visit along the way to Florida was a tourist attraction known as “South of the Border” in Dillon, South Carolina.

But it took several years of begging to talk my parents into it.

On 95 South, just past Richmond, VA, the billboards would start: “Pedro Says: Visit South of the Border!” This first billboard would start the begging process, as well as become something of a game for the four Baker kids — “is that billboard #5 or #6?” There were, at the time, 120 “Pedro Says” billboards between Richmond and Dillon. And we loved them all.

By the time we were halfway through North Carolina, our desire to visit South of the Border reached fever pitch.

And then, finally, my Dad agreed to stop for lunch. We literally left the interstate and drove THROUGH Pedro’s legs (could there be anything more exciting to a 12-year-old?) and into what can only be described as the world’s best-marketed taco stand.

We ate tacos (not nearly as ‘available’ back then as they are now), wore paper sombreros, even rode the elevator to the top of the “sombrero tower” — it was kid heaven! And, most likely, my Mother’s least favorite place on the planet.

But the marketing folks at SOTB knew their audience — they knew they were going after kids who had been stuck in a car for hours, who were looking for any diversion regardless of their love of Mexican food.

To this day, I have never seen ANY advertising or marketing for South of the Border other than those wonderful billboards. I have even been told that the billboards have been cleaned up tremendously, removing some of the less than politically correct language.

And even though, most of those long car trips had Disney World as our ultimate destination, I can honestly say that I was probably more excited about FINALLY getting to see South of the Border on that particular trip.

Much to my Mom’s chagrin, I took more photos at SOTB than I did at Epcot that year.

As Pedro used to say: Chile today, hot tamale!

Note: This blog entry was orginally published on my business blog - but I thought friends and family might enjoy, and so posted it here as well.

...touched by the holy and beautiful light.

My friend Peyton talks about his daughter a lot – but I don’t mind. In fact I enjoy it tremendously.

She’s a cool kid – seriously – the kind of kid that even grown-ups enjoy spending time with. Smart as a whip – great sense of humor and can do really neat tricks with her mouth and an imaginary piece of string!

But what I enjoy most is the memories that seeing the two of them together conjures up – of another doting father and precocious blond girl – my Dad and me.

My Dad loved his kids. And I’ll bet that my sisters would agree that we each individually felt like his "favorite” – because that was how he made you feel – when you had his attention, you were the only person in the world that mattered at that moment.

And, like my friend, he talked about us all time. To his friends, to the neighbors, to his listening audience. Complete strangers would walk up to me and say, “now are you the sister who just got married, or are you the one who sings and dances?”

Once a few years back, I was invited to speak at a symposium in Amsterdam. Somehow, Pop got mixed up, and told folks that I was in Afghanistan! For weeks after my return, people would ask me about the desert. Pop would just smile and say – "Amsterdam/Afghanistan – who cares – my daughter is successful and world renowned!" Then it would be my turn to smile and shake my head.

But he was a proud Papa – proud of each of us for completely different reasons – even if he couldn’t remember our names.

I think my baby sister was five before she finally realized that her name was not Laurakathypaula. In the end, he just called all of us “Honey” – minimizing mistakes and avoiding us saying “Daaaaddd!”

My Dad has been gone for several years now - almost seven, although that does not seem possible.

And while there will certainly be family members who make the trek out to Fort Indiantown Gap to honor his memory -- I will not be among them.

For in my mind, my Dad isn't there -- he's all around me. I hear his voice in my head when I'm trying to make a tough decision. I see his eyes when I look at my sisters lovely faces, I can even hear him singing when old blue eyes comes on the radio.

And lately, just watching my friend interact with his daughter both relaxes and comforts me and makes me think of Dad.

So, this Father's Day I will pause to honor my Pop in my own way -- and in turn take a bit of time to remember all the men in my life who mean so much to me -- both friends and family alike.

Here's looking at you Pop -- scooby dooby doo!

A rose by any other name...

I can remember the day my baby sister, Paula, was born.

I cannot say that about any of my other siblings -- but I was almost five when Paula made her grand entrance -- and I remember the day fairly well, considering all the other childhood memories I've lost over the years -- mostly to make room for PIN numbers, users names and passwords.

What's funny is that the thing I recall most about that day is an argument I got into with my Dad.

You see, I had very specific ideas about what the new baby's name should be.

For some reason, I was convinced that new baby should be called "Julia" if it was a girl. I conceded that if it was a boy, Dad could finally have his junior and name the baby "Paul."

For days leading up to her birth, I danced around and told everyone I came into contact with that my new baby sister - Julia - would soon be here!

I was very excited.

When my Dad called home from the hospital to tell us that it was a girl -- I was ecstatic -- even to the point of making a big sign: "Welcome Home Julia!"

You can imagine my dismay when Dad came home later that night and announced that my baby sister's name was going to be "Paula."

This simply did not compute with me.

"But she already has a name -- Julia!"

"No honey -- we decided to name her Paula."

"But I already named her!"

This same conversation was repeated for two days, until she came home from the hospital. I had not yet resigned myself to the fact that her name was NOT Julia until Daddy settled me on the sofa and let me hold the new baby.

"Oh!" -- he recalled me saying, "she isn't a Julia after all -- she's a Paula!"

Dad said later, that he had no idea what I'd meant by that statement - but was relieved that I seemed to have accepted the baby's actual name.

Some years later, Dad mentioned that, at the time, there had been a popular TV show called "Julia" -- and the character's full name was "Julia Baker" -- and that was the reason I got out-voted. To this day, I've never seen the show.

Ah well...she IS so clearly a "Paula!"

And today IS her birthday.

Happy Birthday Julia ... err ... Paula!

Pomp & Circumstance

My nephew Mikey - who I am sure would prefer I call him Mike -- graduates from high school today.

He's a great kid -- full of fun - terrific personality, humorous, loves his sports, his baby sister and loves his Mom, my baby sister.

In a lot of ways, he's our family's pragmatist -- doesn't have a driver's license yet -- when pressed, he'll note that he "really doesn't need one." If Mikey discovered that he wasn't great at a particular sport or activity - no big deal - he'd move on and find that one where he could excel -- and excel he did.

The past Christmas Eve my sisters and their families and Brad and I were all sitting around after dinner playing a silly game -- a thinking game -- with questions on cards designed to get people talking. Watching Mikey take the lead in this game was among my greatest pleasures in 2008.

He jumped in when others struggled to answer questions, and REALLY thought about his own answers, showing insight and thoughtfulness well beyond his years. He worked hard to include everyone in the game - making sure everyone had a chance to speak and participate.

Hard to believe this was the same little kid who used to make me nuts a few years back -- begging to go home minutes after Mommy had dropped him off for a visit... of course, maybe that was more a reflection on ME? (tee hee).

Bizarre to realize that he's practically an adult now -- and heading to community college in the Fall.

Watch out world - here comes Mikey -- err...Mike!