Peas & Carrots.

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By Gerry Wendel, Groovy Reflections Founder and Team Member

Carefully, I picked out every pea from that fried rice, and expertly placed each one close to the edge of my plate; so close they were threatening to tumble onto the finely clothed table. “What are you doing?” my dining date asked. “I HATE green peas!”, was my worn out response.

Nope, it wasn’t the first time I had to explain my fussy eating habits, nor will it be the last. One could say that I was conditioned into this behavior during my childhood. Please, let me explain.

As a very young lady, my Dad simply reminded me from time to time that when he was growing up he was expected to eat all the food on his plate. And he did. Period. His parents, my grandparents, were what you’d call “old school”. You just did what you were told. But perhaps that was a good thing. In regards to food, I recall my Dad once telling me “I like everything.”

I wish that were true for me.

When I was beyond “wee lass” years, around nine or ten, the “rules” really started kicking in. Just a year or two before, our kitchen had a complete remodeling, including a fabulous naugahyde covered bench seat that perfectly fit into a corner of the kitchen, curling around two walls. It was almost like eating in a diner; in fact, that seat did come from a diner that had recently undergone renovation; another one of my Dad’s “finds” that he brought home to give a second life with us.

This bench seat was perfect for disposal of all those icky foods that I refused to put down my throat; there was just enough room in that slit of space where the back met the part our fannies rested on for a little girl’s fingers to slip those previously frozen peas, carrots, and lima beans through.

Unfortunately, it took a while to learn this trick. I first went through a period of time where I sat at the table for up to an hour after everyone else left while my step-mom washed the dishes and kept her eye on me, waiting for those not-so-tasty morsels to go down my throat.

This wasn’t good. Sitting there kept me from reading my Mad Magazines and listening to records. What to do?

Our toy poodle, Oliver, that nine pound tornado of energy, liked to eat, right? Hmmm. I tried slipping him a lima. I thought he ate it; I truly did. Slipped him another. “What ARE you doing? Don’t give the dog YOUR food!” Guess I should have been a little less obvious. That hot, sticky, summer night, I sat on the naugahyde until I was glued to it. My mistake, wearing shorts and allowing bare leg to touch it. But better than eating lima beans.

A few days later, I realized that the old seating booth was my friend after all when it transformed into a vegetable depository. Now, I was in control! I could eat what I wanted, and just make the rest go away. Never got caught.  Fussy eating habits ensued. So now, if you ever dine with me and see me picking through my food, you’ll understand why!

Stevie the Wonder Dog

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By Gerry Wendel, Groovy Reflections Founder and Team Member

The photo was small, but it was easy to see that the little dog had personality. I noted the price and the phone number, with full intention to call later that day. I was in the borough hall of my home town, located in an early 1900’s structure that housed the police department, borough clerk, courts, and post office. We didn’t have house numbers. We didn’t have mail delivery. Folks enjoyed coming to pick up their mail and running into neighbors, enemies, and perhaps a famous person or two. The borough hall was a place to pick up your mail and a little gossip.

In the main hallway was a very large bulletin board. If you wanted the latest happenings, baby clothes for sale or bake sales, here was the place to look. And that’s where I saw the photo for a mini-poodle for sale.

Got home. Called the number. Spoke to a woman on the other end. Strangely, she said, “Oh, you have to make an appointment”. An appointment? To see a dog? I played along; we decided on Friday at 3PM. Then she described where she was located, no house numbers, remember? I almost gasped out loud. It was the former Diffleburg* home, set back from the road a ways, at the western edge of town. But rumor had it that it was the current home of Stevie Wonder. How could this be?

I couldn’t wait for Friday. My curiosity was killing me.

Finally, the big day. I drove down the main street of town, down the hill about two miles. Made a right at the light. A minute later, there I was. Pulled up the to the gate. There was an intercom and a small plaque that read “Morris”. A soft voice said “Yes, what would you like?”. And I said “I’m here to see the dog.” The gates slowly swung open, and I drove my not-very-fancy Chevy Nova up the driveway and parked in front of the garage.

I could see part of the backyard, where two (or maybe three?) young children were playing. There were swings, a sandbox, a jungle gym, a slide and pretty much anything that a kid would want or need. Two mini-poodles were on chains, far away from each other.

One was white, the other a light brown color.

A woman stepped out of a side door of the house and introduced herself. She was a nanny or housekeeper; honestly, I don't remember! She brought me over to the white poodle, and told me that the dog’s name was Champagne. “Champagne fights with Café all the time.” She then told me. “The two dogs just don’t get along”. Champagne? What kind a name is that for a dog? Oh, I get it. Poodle. French. Sparkling wine. Great.

I spent a few minutes petting Champagne and scratching behind his ear. He was bright-eyed, bursting with energy, and thoughtfully licked my hand. That’s it. I was in love. Where had you been the first year of your life, little Champagne?

We then moved into the house, into a huge kitchen with a black and white checkered tile floor. Nice. Of course the whole time I’m thinking, where’s Stevie? Unfortunately, he was not going to make an appearance on my part, but what’s wrong with being hopeful?

The conversation continued. One of the more memorable statements I recall was when I was informed “If that dog don’t eat, you just feed him chicken”. Sigh. This is a characteristic that I’ve noticed ALL dogs have. And me, being of solid mind but lacking pockets bursting with wealth, started haggling on price. Score! Asking price, $100. Final price, $85 and a big, big bag of Purina Dog Chow.

And so that pretty little poodle went home with me. For a day or so, as we bonded, I struggled with that name, Champagne. Couldn’t find a decent nickname, Pagny? Champy? Pane? Finally, it dawned on me. In fact I was patting myself on the back for coming up with such a clever solution. When my Dad came home that evening, I excitedly told him that the dog’s name was now Stevie. Stevie the Wonder Dog.

Stevie was with me for over 16 years, through thick and thin. I always wondered if the more famous Stevie petted him often, or if that little poodle curled up by his feet. Suppose I could write a fictional piece about that, can’t I?

For the record, the real Stevie Wonder lived in my town only for about two years. During that time, while I was coming home at 5 in the morning from somewhere, I did see his limo making a turn into his street, no doubt returning from some activity in nearby New York City. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to seeing him. I read somewhere that he still owns the house, and his ex-wife (or girlfriend) still lives there.

* Name has been changed.
Note: Photo is Stevie the Wonder Dog at about age 6.