More’s the pity.

Twice in one day I heard someone say “more’s the pity”. They were regretting something that is no more. It got me thinking to what I would say ‘more’s the pity’ when describing a by-gone day or pastime.

Here’s a few……

Gas station service. I have vague memories of a nice man (or several) coming out to our car to pump my gas and wipe windows, even offer to check my oil. Besides the sense of being serviced, we didn’t have to touch anything, especially the pump handle, probably one of the most nasty things imaginable.

Airplane meals. My memory is probably remembering things better than they were. I am certain the food wasn’t too large or exquisite but it was part of the deal and gave me something to do.  I remember too asking for a deck of playing cards to pass the time and being given one gratis to keep as a souvenir of the flight. I think I still have a UA pack.

Raw treats. Whether cookie dough or brownie batter, there was always a little left in the mixing bowl for scraping with a spatula and feeding it to the kiddies. We did not die of salmonella. I wonder if eggs then weren’t so nasty. Once in a while mother gave us a marble-sized raw beef as she made the patties.   What were we thinking, my niblings wonder. They also abhor drinking the notion we drank out of the garden hose, which once upon considered one of summer’s greatest pleasures.

School and work holiday parties. Whether Hallowe’en or Christmas these shin dings were lavish affairs in which no one seemed outraged or oppressed.  Nowadays if there any parties at all they are bowdlerized generic ‘season’ matters, often without booze lest the host/boss/teacher be blamed for DUIs.  I especially miss the Hallowe’en parties as one could dress up.

Contract Bridge. My grandmother (the high priestess of the game) refused to teach me how to play the game, fearing I would forsake school and all nourishment in order to play 24/7 until I died of exhaustion or something. She needn’t have bothered; no one plays bridge anymore. In my youth my parents were in several bridge clubs at work, church, and around the neighborhood. Bridge was the social glue that bound us together. I enjoyed helping out my parent’s hosting by being the servant, running around pouring coffee (from the great olive-green percolator that no one uses anymore either) and replenishing the bowls of nuts and sweets and gathering coats as I may.  I got to see the neighbors too and my parents could show off how brilliant Urs Truly was at wit and politeness (while I stole sweets from the candy dishes).   I would still love to learn but knowing no one who does makes this about as useful as learning how to disco.

Spo-fans are invited to leave in the comment section their own “more’s the pity’ items for fun and profit.

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