Park Slope was swarming with people this past weekend: You Gotta Have Park on Saturday, and the Fifth Avenue Fair combined with the Park Slope House Tour on Sunday. Plus there was the Park Slope Artists’ Tour and numerous block-wide stoop sales to inaugurate the official stoop sale season.

Usually the Fifth Avenue Fair is quiet until noon or so. But this year, by 11 a.m. the Avenue was absolutely teeming with people. Looking up Fifth toward Ninth Street, there was a sea of bodies, Shish Kabob booths, Scooby Doo balloons and rides.

I prefer the Fifth Avenue Fair to its Seventh Avenue equivalent because it still has a specific sense of place, despite the presence of the generic vendors (fruit shakes, sheets and sunglasses) that show up at every NYC fair. You really get a feeling for Fifth Avenue from this fair: artist Jonathan Blum with his paintings of dogs with birds on their heads; Diane Kane with her lingerie and Park Slope Reader table; the Fifth Avenue Committee with its programs for affordable housing and jobs.

Fifth Avenue between Third and Union has been completely transformed in the last few years. I have followed its transformation with great interest and some pleasure. The changes started from the ground up and it took a while for it to really take hold. At the beginning, you had to be a bit of visionary to put down roots there.

The first settlement of the new Fifth Avenue came in the 1980’s: Cucina and Aunt Susie’s were the only restaurants there for years. The Coolectibles shop between Union and President was also an early settler.

Then came Ozzies. And not long after that, Al Di La, which was the first of the new wave of Fifth Avenue restaurants, the first one to get a big deal review in the Times.
Then came the interesting retail experiments that suceeded like Eidolan, Scaredy Cat, Kimera – cutting edge designers and retailers who took a risk.

Vaux (named for Prospect Park designer, Calvert Vaux), an elegant bistro which, unfortunately, went out of business after little more than a year, was ahead of its time. But Bonnie’s Grill, the tiny, retro diner that specializes in the cuisine of Buffalo*, New York, has managed to survive.

Beso, that big nouveau Cuban brunch place with the cool design, also laid its foundation early.  And let’s not forget the now-defunct, Albert and Piccolo, that strange and funky  gallery and shop for local artisans.

Blue Ribbon’s arrival just after 9/11 really signified that the stakes had changed: Fifth Avenue was a bigger deal than anyone imagined. It would surpass Smith Street in coolness and that surprised everyone.

The latest wave includes, La Villa, Goldy and Mac, Beacon’s Closet, Gourmet Grill, and many more: I don’t even know all the names and this list doesn’t even include Fifth Avenue between Union and Flatbush

Fortunately, there is still a bit of the real Fifth Avenue left: the pork
shop, Joe’s Shoe Repair, whose hand-painted motto is: "Shoe problems?
Call Joe!", the tiny donut shop near Union, and the store for children’s dance supplies, presided over by
a large woman and her dog.

The easy co-existence of the old and new is what makes Fifth Avenue interesting. With the arrival of all the new condos, things should change again. I am bracing for what’s coming next. 

Sunday’s  fair was a frothy mix of  business, culture, and politics. Commerce Bank, gearing up for their new building on Fifth Ave. and Garfield, was trying to make make nice nice to the community with plastic shopping bags. There was also a bunch of  anti-overdevelopment groups with petitions mixed in with the local artisans, and the newer shops displaying their wares.

And the food was, of course, as good or better than ever. Newcomers like Stone Park Cafe sold pricey but delicious fried oyster Po Boys for $10. and really good white wine. Blue Ribbon had a long, line for chicken burgers, a new Japanese restaurant called Sakura, was offering California Rolls, and Thai Sky had really tasty Pad Thai.

My daughter managed to slide down the firetruck slide 6 times at $2.00 a pop, jumped up and down on the space ride for three bucks, rode a pony ($3.00) had three more rides on the firetruck slide ($6.00), had her face painted and a balloon sculpture made ($3.00 for both), cotton candy ($2.00)  and that weird string stuff ($3.00), ah, all in the course of four hours.

I don’t want to count how much we spent on this expensive and rambunctious Sunday afternoon. But it was worth it.

Every penny.

*Chicken Wings slathered with blue cheese and beef on weck (a kind of hero bread) are Buffalo specialties.

Friday night they got word. It was almost like a scene from "Forty Second Street," that great depression-era musical, in which the star breaks her leg and the understudy, played by Ruby Keeler, gets to go on.

Francesca, a local 14-year-old singer-songwriter, was sick in bed and knew that she wouldn’t be up for her gig at the Liberty Heights Tap Room the next day. So she called to see if my son’s band, Cool and Unusual Punishment, wanted to take her place.

The answer was a resounding yes. We, his parents, found out about the debut almost by accident:

"Dad, can you give me a ride tomorrrow at 3?"
"Sure. Where to?"
"To the Liberty Heights Tap Room."
"Why?"
"To hear some music."
"Who?"
"We’re playing there tomorrow."

Liberty Heights Tap Room calls itself a family and kid-friendly bar with rustic brick oven cuisine and a great backroom music space. One Saturday a month, the owner and general manager, Steve Deptula, presents Rockin’ Teens Showcase for bands aged 12-16: a chance for young Brooklyn rock ‘n rollers to strut their stuff.

Pre-show, the kids were cool and collect; the parents were the ones who were spritzing. I’d only heard them once before and never with their spit-fire vocalist, Kenda:

"We’re Cool and Unusual Punishment and we’re here to play for you," she announced boldly to begin the show. Then my son played: Da Da Da DaDaDaDaDa, the opening bass notes of their Queen cover, "Another One Bites the Dust." and they were off and running through their much-rehearsed 4-song set.

What impressed me the most was the ease and comfort they all seemed to have on stage as if they’d spent their entire lives there. The inter-song patter was great and they just oozed confidence and humor.

In other words, they were utterly adorable (my thinks my use of this word means I’m not taking him seriously. He couldn’t be more WRONG.) The crowd, made up of parents and friends of the band who had been insta-messaged about the last minute gig, ate it up and cheered enthusiastically.

Afterward, the band looked smitten with the fun of performing on stage, egged on by the thrilling applause, the feeling of being in the limelight. Something had transpired for them up on that small stage Saturday afternoon.

They may never be the same.

Way too many more photos of Cool and Unusual Punishment!

-Louise G. Crawford 

To understand Park Slopers and the way they feel about their local public elementary school, one has only to attend the school’s Spring Auction and Dance.

Hundreds of parents and teachers paid from $30-$40 a ticket to attend the affair,which was held in the elegant Beaux Arts Court of the Brooklyn Museum of Art. People came dressed in fancy fun clothes and lots of style was on display: contrary to popular belief, Park Slopers can dress well when calld upon to do so.

Last night, there was palpable feeling of partnership and friendship between the parents, teachers, and administration of the school. More teachers than ever attended,  which added a fun, young element to the party. As always, Principal Liz Phillips, the school’s masterful and fearless leader, attended the event; it’s always nice to see her in a relaxed setting enjoying herself.

The money raised at the Spring Dance and Auction goes toward the kind of  enhancements the PTA is allowed to provide. It’s all the value-added stuff that really makes the school tick.  PS 321 parents know they’ve got a great thing and they do what they can to make it even better.

Everyone came prepared to spend some money on a host of silent and live auction items. The attitude among the crowd was: it’s for the children, so let’s bid, bid, bid. In keeping with the inclusionary philosophy of the school, there was a range of items at a range of prices. In other words, the auction is not just for those who can afford to spend upwards of $1,000 for  a weekend at someone’s country house or $800 on a state of the art television set.

Gift certificates for local services are popular: haircuts, interior design, construction, plumbing, pilates, art classes, yoga and portraiture are a few examples. One of the most popular items is always legal services for the preparation of a will. It’s amazing how many people don’t have one.

Other silent auction items included: artwork by parents, a basket of books by live American poets, lunch with the school principal, artwork by a beloved first
grade teacher, a satchel of books by physicist Richard Feynemann, jewelry from the
Clay Pot,  a mosaic table made by a second grade class and a fleece PS 321 jacket for an American Girl Doll.

The live auction was for the big ticket items:  the wine tasting party, the country house, the cocktail party served by former PTA presidents, a catered dinner party. This year the school procured a real auctioneer from Christies complete with an English accent: a real pro. From what I understand, bidding, with real Christies’ paddles, was lively and lots of money was made.

The party went off without a hitch. Gorgeous flower arrangements, Asian food from Rice Restaurant served in Chinese take-out containers, Cosmopolitans, Mojitas and Stella Artois beer at the bar, a cool DJ and lots of dancing. It was a classy event for a great cause.

Crazy Guy had all his friends with him today: Elmo, the Beanie Baby with the gold angel wings, the Lambchop puppet, the gooey, space alien finger puppets, and the green velvet frog with the long legs. Next to the entourage, there was a coffee mug and buttered roll on a napkin on the Montauk Club gate. I gather the man in the silver coffee cart gives him breakfast. "Hello, how you doing?" he said in his Miles Davis voice. 

No surprisingly, Tuesday’s Postcard about Crazy Guy elicited quite a flurry of interesting information from readers of OTBKB:

"Is Crazy Guy the one who ALWAYS says "nice earrings" when I pass by him on Lincoln Place? Smiling Man, whose name is Jake, was featured a few months back in an article in a local neighborhood publication (I forget what it’s called), and on weekends likes to play doorman at the Citibank branch on the corner of President and Seventh. Sometimes in the morning, as I’m heading to the subway on Flatbush, I pass him coming out of the subway. Guess he commutes to work every day, too. There’s another Smiling Man who stations himself at the B/Q train exit on Flatbush, and another very friendly guy who stands outside of the recently-much-improved Korean grocery next to the subway. For the most part, our local vagabonds, as you call them, make me feel safe rather than menaced. I like to think Jake would come to my rescue if I was threatened in his vicinity, though I could be wrong."

Recently, I took issue with Smiling Man. I too read the article in that local neighborhood publication about Smiling Man (AKA Jake) and developed a really soft spot for him as a result. For a few weeks I was giving him semi-large sums of money because in the article it said that he needs $20 a day to eat and stay at a residential hotel somewhere in Brooklyn. One day, I gave him $10 and he thanked me warmly and smiled. Not ten minutes later I ran into him in a food store on Seventh Avenue and he asked me AGAIN like he’d never seen me before. I told him that’d I’d just given him $10 and he apologized. An honest mistake, I guess, but it sort of ruined Smiling Man for me.

Another reader shared information about the man I call  "William Burroughs, whose real name is Bob. "He lives in a 4th-floor walkup studio next to my house in Garfield Place btwn 7th/8th. Doesn’t make it out too much except to panhandle. When he’s sick he tries to get me to run down to the corner for cigarettes for him. He also makes passersby carry up his groceries from Key Food. Once he came inside and played a few bars on my piano. He says he’s on disability of some kind. One unusual habit is that he never deposits his trash in the rubbish bins in front of his own house… always takes it to some other house on the block; unclear why.

Now I’m curious what William Burroughs played on the piano. Clearly, I’m not the only one who is aware of these neighborhood fixtures. They are so much a part of life on Seventh Avenue.

Like the guy who used to sit on a fruit crate in front of the Apple Market on Garfield Place. "Remember to read a book. Can you spare some change?" he would say to my son and daughter as we walked by. I thought it was a nice message and my kids always tried to give him a little something.

Familiarity with the homeless is all part and parcel of growing up in a big city. I grew up on the Upper West Side when that neighborhood was filled with refugees from the state mental hospitals. It was a madhouse on Upper Broadway, literally, with insane people who were homeless too, running wild, doing, well, crazy things. My father called them our  "Neighborhood Nuts, the "Local Fruits." I would invent little stories about their lives and how they ended up that way.

And I guess I’m still doing that in my way. Some things never change. 

It seems that the residents of Kensington are not taking news of the
recent sale of the Little Grey Barn to a developer sitting down.
Yesterday I got an e-mail from a friend who is the owner of an adorable
rowhouse in Kensington, about a community group calling itself the East Windsor Terrace
Group, that is forming to
make sure that proposed buildings stay "in context with the community
and will not put a strain on the already overburdened municipal
services." The group mourns the downsizing of the stables and worries
that it will be "squeezed and threatened by the traffic, noise, loss of
light and air that will come with all the additional proposed housing
units."

Dating back to the 19th Century, Kensington Stables is the only
remaining stable on Prospect Park. There are two barns, one containing an indoor riding ring, and a small corral adjacent to the other. They
also have the exclusive use of The Shoe and Breeze Hill, two riding
areas in the center of the park, in addition to the bridle path, which
runs from Park Circle to the southwest corner of the Long Meadow.

There are very few horse stables left in New York City. I know of
one on the Upper West Side near Central Park and one off the Belt Parkway in Queens. Back
in the 1930’s, my mother would subway over from Avenue J to the Kensington
Stables and ride English saddle in Prospect Park.

Kensington
is a mixed-use neighborhood on the edge of Prospect Park that I was
barely aware of until a few years ago, when a realtor drove me over there to see a tiny house on Caton Street. It encompasses the edge of Windsor
Terrace, parts of Ocean Parkway Coney Island Avenue and funky name
streets like Kermit and Caton that have quaint rowhouses evocative of
London.  Apartment buildings, a bright turquoise modern pre-fab Baptist
church and tiny wood houses co-exist in a kind of rococo asymmetry.

Just minutes from Park Slope by car, Kensingtonians are able to take
full advantage of shopping on Seventh Avenue and Prospect Park West, as well as Coney Island Avenue.  Prospect Park and the Parade Grounds are just a hop, skip, and a jump away.

Understandably, the locals are of two minds about the current
development plans. "Our neighborhood certainly needs some development,
but it does not need hundreds of new residents and no new amenities or
services," says Mandy Harris, who is one of the group. Clearly they don’t want their neighborhood overdeveloped nor
do they want it to lose its unusual and eclectic character.

The word of the moment is CONTEXTUAL. And I am loving it. I
understand it to mean that development should never be indifferent to
the historical and residential context that already exists. Bulldozing
through a neighborhood and changing its architectual and social character is a sure no no.

To be contextual means to proceed with development in a way that compliments and improves what is already there.

South South Slope, the group that is protesting the current land
grab in Greenwood Heights, also uses the C-word. On
their web site they say: "We have come together to protect the
low-scale, residential character of our neighborhood and are working to
change our present zoning to R6b. While R6b allows for new development,
it stipulates that all new construction must match the CONTEXTUAL
height of the surrounding buildings" Their biggest gripe: a luxury
building that that will block a  beautiful view of the Statue of
Liberty from Battle Hill in the Green-Wood Cemetery.

In my opinion, that Battle Hill view belongs to all the residents (dead and alive) of Brooklyn
and should not just belong to someone able to pay $1 million dollars or more for a penthouse. 

Brooklyn is so hot right now that greenbacks seem to be burning holes in the pockets of developers and politicians. Overdevelopment could quite possibly destroy what makes this borough such a livable place. Development that
takes into consideration the context and the history of place will be
much easier to bear.

For those who are interested in learning more about how Kensington
residents feel about this developmental incursion: On Thursday May 12 at 7:30 there is a meeting of the East Windsor Terrace
Group at the Baptist Church on 312 Coney Island Avenue, entrance on
Caton Street.

-Louise G. Crawford

FOR MORE ABOUT BROOKLYN DEVELOPMENT: SEE LETTER FROM JANE JACOBS TO MAYOR BLOOMBERG IN SCOOP DU THURSDAY.

Yesterday, Crazy  Guy, with a three inch diaper pin through his nose and a Elmo hand-puppet on his hand, said a most friendly  "Good morning, how are you today," as I walked by his morning post at Lincoln Place and Eighth Avenue next to the Montauk Club.

My dear friend and office mate wrote, "Crazy Guy says hello to me as well. He waved to me today as if we were
friends. I’m afraid to talk to him, though. I say hello back but
quickly look away so he won’t be compelled to say anything more to me."

And he never does.

I wonder how many people are aware of Crazy Guy. Surely the morning commuters on their run-walk to the Grand Army Plaza station notice him. He must be part of that daily blur of people that we see our way to the places we need to be.

They are part of our mental landscape, in the periphery like the cast iron indians on the Montauk Club fence. We may focus on them for a moment but then, just as quickly, we put them out of our mind.

The Scholarly Homeless Guy was sitting near Joe’s Pizza yesterday highlighting paragraphs in a dense academic textbook. He looks pretty good lately; his rumpled preppy clothes are relatively clean, his face clean shaven. I get the sense that he vascilates between various states of mental illness. Sometimes he looks almost functional and coherent. Other times he is definitely lost in his own world. Sometimes I have to resist saying hello to him. "Hey, what are you reading?" But I stop myself from an easy familiarity with someone I don’t know, who doesn’t know me.

It’s been ages since I’ve seen William Burroughs, the older man who sits on a step next to Starbucks. "Can you spare some change?" He asks in a deep whisper. Sometimes I don’t register it until I’ve walked by. With his dirty trenchcoat  and mournful face, he’s been in the neighborhood as long as I have.

I like to think that Park Slope is a hospitable place for this small community of vagabonds.  They seem to stick around for a long, long time. Part of the scenery, you might say. Crazy Guy never asks for anything. Nor does Scholarly Homeless Guy.  William Burroughs obviously needs some help to get by, as does Smiling Man who panhandles on the corner of Berkeley Place and Seventh Avenue.

They’re part of this community, too.

What did the women of Park Slope do this Mother’s Day?

I caught my downstairs’ neighbor hiding out on a bench outside the Mojo reading "New York Magazine," while her husband prepared a Mother’s Day feast. She looked blissed out and serene. "I was afraid to go home," she said. "Afraid there’d be something I’d have to do."

A mother I know dug joyfully into the dirt of her Third Street stoop garden planting geraniums and flats of other annuals. There was dirt beneath her fingernails and a  look of utter contentment on her face.

Wherever I went, women wished one another, "Happy Mother’s Day," looking pleased that some attempt was being made to indulge them, to give them a break from the usual routine.

My mother, sister, brother-in-law and my clan ate a late brunch at the Stone Park Cafe, where more than one table had a young baby strapped onto a dad while a mom ate her brunch undisturbed — happy to be allowed to finish her food without stopping to appease baby.

There were many multi-generational parties: toddlers, mothers, grandmothers, even great grandmothers smushed together at tables in that crowded restaurant that recently earned two stars from the New York Times.

The staff looked exhausted, eager for the day, considered by many to be one of the busiest restaurant days of the year, to be done. The restaurant was chaotic with loud rock ‘n roll blaring: the music an obvious ploy to get people to eat quickly and leave.

At our table, a fast fight broke out between my mother and sister: something silly, no doubt. Probably a perceived slight. It threatened to escalate like wild fire but something intervened: god, the universe, common sense. Maybe it was just the drink order. Civility was restored before everyone was even aware of what had gone on.

My sister appreciated my gift of a newly revised version of Dr. Spock’s famous, "Baby and Child Care:" a little light reading before her trip next week to Russia, when she and her husband will meet their nine month old baby girl for the first time.

When my son saw the book he thought it might have something to do with Spock from Star Trek.

My brother-in-law made a toast to all the mothers at the table, including my sister "the mother to-be."  To which my mother added: "Mamainwaiting, as the blog says!"

Here, here.

Late in the day, my sister and I drank Chardonnay in her living room and looked through a box of her photographs. There were pictures of my son, now a gangly 14, as a newborn, a toddler, at his 6th birthday (a Beatles party), and my daughter, now 8, as a newborn, at her first birthday, naked on a Cape Cod beach, and on and on…

"It all goes by so fast," I said sounding like every other mother in the world. "Enjoy it while it lasts," again stating the obvious cliche. But in that moment, clutching a handfull of fantastic memories, it felt unbearably true.

-Louise G. Crawford

BROOKLYN WEATHER: What’s it gonna do today?  Check here for Brooklyn weather.

FYI: Be one of the lucky 10,000 who will get emails from the MTA about
weekend subway disruptions. As part of pilor  program, you can find out if there are problems on your train line. Go to  www.mta.info and sign up now.

BLOGGERS IN THE NEWS: The New York Times ran a piece on Sunday about about blogs that is currently making the  rounds in blogland. Nick Denton, founder of Gawker is quoted as saying: "The hype comes from unemployed or partially employed marketing professionals and people who never made it as journalists wanting to believe. They want to believe there’s going to be this new revolution and their lives are going to be changed." <>

Ooh that hurts.

"For all of the stiff-arming and disdain that Mr. Denton brings to the discussion of this nonrevolution," writes the Times, "there is no question that he and his team are trying to turn the online diarist’s form – ephemeral, fast-paced and scathingly opinionated – into a viable, if not lucrative, enterprise. Big advertisers like Audi, Nike and General Electric have all vied for eyeballs on Gawker’s blogs, which Mr. Denton describes as sexy, irreverent, a tad elitist and unabashedly coastal."

_Hot Coffee Tip. Painter Suzanne
Meehan and sculptor Yasmin Gur have just opened the Crossroads Caf

My sister flies to Russia next Saturday to meet her daughter, Sonia.
Svetlana was her given name and what they call her in the orphanage.
But Sonia Rose is the name my sister and her husband have chosen for
her. 

Ducky is her nickname around our house.  My daughter came up with
that. The only picture we have of Sonia is one taken when she was five
months old and she was swaddled within an inch of her life in a blue
receiving blanket with little ducks on it.

So Ducky it is. I wonder if it will stick?

Today we spent this day before Mother’s Day at Target getting the
remaining items on the list of things that adoptive parents must bring
to the orphanage. This includes new baby and toddler clothes for the
other children, art supplies, educational toys, and gifts for the
caregivers.

My sister picked out a cute outfit for Sonia, a host of drugstore
items, rice cereal, soy based formula and a baby book where she can
document everything about their life together. After much ado, I
selected two board books for her. "The Wheels on the Bus" and "Daddy
Kisses,"which begins "Daddy wolf gives his pup a kiss on the nose."

It was a surreal day. A sweet one, really. Pushing a big red
shopping cart around Target Knowing that in just one week my sister
will be with her nine month old baby. What a long road it has been
through infertility, medical prodedures and the arduous process of
international adoption.

Unfortunately, next week is not the end of the road. They will have
to return to Russia in early July to pick up their Sonia and bring her
home. It’s all part of the adoption game. One can’t help but wish that
they could swoop her out of the orphanage next week and bring her home
to Brooklyn. But they can’t.

I can’t wait to give my sister her first Mother’s Day gift tomorrow.
Even if she has never met her daughter who is thousands of miles away,
my sister is already a mother full of love and attention for her little
girl.

Happy Mother’s Day, sis.

As I was walking out of Possibilities, that chotchka and card emporium on Seventh Avenue, a father and son were walking in.

"This is a woman’s store," the father said. "It is?" the boy asked. "Yes, my son. You see there are only women in here…"

Aside from the sexist implications of that father’s remark, I knew that the two of them were about to embark on an important mission: buying a  Mother’s Day gift.

Ah, the pressure. The agony. The thump thump thump heart beating anxiety to locate a gift for mom.

As you can imagine, Mother’s Day is a big deal around here. Today there will be hordes of fathers with children making the pilgrammage to the Clay Pot, which will undoubted be filled to the gills with clueless men and kids struggling to find the perfect gift.

More than once, when shopping for a gift for my mother, I’ve been tempted to steer a particularly clueless man toward what I knew would be a more appropriate gift. But I resisted. It was not my place. If I did, however, run into a friend’s husband, I might make a small suggestion. But hey, it was all in the name of friendship and karma (and she could thank me later for the Lisa Jenks necklace).

While there are now more good stores to choose from (Living on Seventh, Loom, Bird, Nest, Shangri La) on Seventh Avenue. And too, too many places to name on Fifth Avenue (Diane Kane, Matter, Flirt, Cog and Wheel, Eidolan and on and on…), the Clay Pot is still, symbolically, the destination of choice, the holy grail of Mother’s Day gifts.

For one thing, they have a comprehensive selection of the best in contemporary jewelry design (at a variety of price points) and they feature an eminently tasteful selection of the best in contemporary home and gift items. As they say on their web site:

"The Clay Pot was established in 1969 as an urban ceramics studio by Robert and Sally Silberberg. Thirty-five years ago Park Slope was hardly the enclave for young professional families it is today, but it was always a neighborhood, and The Clay Pot is essentially a neighborhood store. Joined by their daughter Tara in 1990, the store now reflects her passion for jewelry and has developed into a nationally recognized source for America’s premier jewelry designers."

Plus, they make it so easy for men to find a gift that will make their wives swoon. The window is chock full of great ideas, as is the store itself. But more importantly, their long-time employees are the best at giving advice on gifts at every price range and style. They ask all the right questions (price, personal style of the recipient, likes and dislikes) and take the time to work with you. From hand crafted, simple and tasteful, high design or even something a little Blink, there’s something for everyone’s taste.

That brown Clay Pot gift box with a black ribbon is the de-facto Park Slope equivalent of the blue Tiffany box. To many a woman it means that her husband has done his job, that he’s reached to the sky and pulled down a star. Good work.

Some men even venture into the vaulted and expensive wedding ring department. Oooooooh. Now that’s a guy who really knows how to buy a gift.

That’s my kind of man…

My husband seems to have a mental block against Mother’s Day and that other holiday he hates to comply with (see Postcard from the Slope_Valentine’s Day). In his defence, I must add that on many a Saturday before Mother’s Day he has braved the Clay Pot crowds  and returned with a specially selected jewelry item pour moi. Why, I’m wearing one right now, it’s a silver Lisa Jenks ring he discovered on the sale shelf two years ago.  I happen to ADORE IT.

So you see, even for a man who has a major issue with these so-called Hallmark holidays, the Clay Pot is a marriage-saver and a sure fire way to please the mother of his children on Mother’s Day.

The shop is open on Saturday. All day. On your mark, get set…