O Canada
With the Olympics on, and the great showing, I had a question about the Canadian national anthem, "O Canada." Aside from the "Star Spangled Banner" this is the national anthem I know the best. As a hockey fan, I have often heard it before a US team played a Canadian team.
I've actually heard it so often I pretty much know it by heart. The English version, anyway. Here are the lyrics:
O Canada!
Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
From far and wide, O Canada,
We stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
If you're interested, here are the French lyrics:
Ô Canada!
Terre de nos aïeux,
Ton front est ceint de fleurons glorieux!
Car ton bras sait porter l'épée,
Il sait porter la croix!
Ton histoire est une épopée
Des plus brillants exploits.
Et ta valeur, de foi trempée,
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits
Protégera nos foyers et nos droits.
Now here is where things get interesting. Look at the translation of the French version:
O Canada!
Thy brow is wreathed with a glorious garland of flowers.
As is thine arm ready to wield the sword,
So also is it ready to carry the cross.
Thy history is an epic
Of the most brilliant exploits.
Thy valour steeped in faith
Will protect our homes and our rights
Will protect our homes and our rights.
It's a completely different song! Aside from the phrase "O Canada" (which I always thought was "Oh Canada") there is nothing in common. I wonder if it's the only national anthem where there are two accepted versions that are so different.
Oh, and if you want to impress the hell out of your family the next time Canada wins gold, sing along to the version in Inukituit:
ᐆ ᑲᓇᑕ! ᓇᖕᒥᓂ ᓄᓇᕗᑦ!
ᐱᖁᔭᑏ ᓇᓚᑦᑎᐊᖅᐸᕗᑦ.
ᐊᖏᒡᓕᕙᓪᓕᐊᔪᑎ,
ᓴᙱᔪᓗᑎᓪᓗ.
ᓇᖏᖅᐳᒍ, ᐆ ᑲᓇᑕ,
ᒥᐊᓂᕆᑉᓗᑎ.
ᐆ ᑲᓇᑕ! ᓄᓇᑦᓯᐊ!
ᓇᖏᖅᐳᒍ ᒥᐊᓂᕆᑉᓗᑎ,
ᐆ ᑲᓇᑕ, ᓴᓚᒋᔭᐅᖁᓇ!
Oh, you don't read Inkuit? Here is the transliteration:
Uu Kanata! nangmini nunavut!
Piqujatii nalattiaqpavut.
Angiglivalliajuti,
Sanngijulutillu.
Nangiqpugu, Uu Kanata,
Mianiripluti.
Uu Kanata! nunatsia!
Nangiqpugu mianiripluti,
Uu Kanata, salagijauquna!
Canada. So cool for so many reasons.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
A Step Down for the Big Guy
God really has come down in the world, hasn't He? Used to be when you had a religious experience, the Virgin Mary appeared to you; spoke to you. After all, that's what Bernadette saw. Or a blazing cross, a la Constantine.
Now, however, it's strictly low rent. Jesus appears in a grilled cheese sandwich. Mary on a tortilla. Miraculous appearances on the dirty window of an SUV or a paint stain on a concrete floor. That's what miraculous sightings are referred to. Look, the Virgin Mary on a pancake.
Really? Here we are with the being you believe is the Creator of All Things and you think the best he can come up with is a fromage portrait? The really sad thing is that people pay for these things. One of these things went up on eBay and fetched a few thousand dollars. Money that, if you were truly trying to live a Christian life, could have been much better used to feed the hungry and clothe the poor.
And people wonder why I don't believe in God.
God really has come down in the world, hasn't He? Used to be when you had a religious experience, the Virgin Mary appeared to you; spoke to you. After all, that's what Bernadette saw. Or a blazing cross, a la Constantine.
Now, however, it's strictly low rent. Jesus appears in a grilled cheese sandwich. Mary on a tortilla. Miraculous appearances on the dirty window of an SUV or a paint stain on a concrete floor. That's what miraculous sightings are referred to. Look, the Virgin Mary on a pancake.
Really? Here we are with the being you believe is the Creator of All Things and you think the best he can come up with is a fromage portrait? The really sad thing is that people pay for these things. One of these things went up on eBay and fetched a few thousand dollars. Money that, if you were truly trying to live a Christian life, could have been much better used to feed the hungry and clothe the poor.
And people wonder why I don't believe in God.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
My Great-Aunt and the Titanic
As a postscript to yesterday's piece about my grandmother...
The odd thing about Nan was that her sister, Auntie Clemmie, was exactly her opposite. Where Nan was small and brittle, Clemmie was round and ample. Where Nan was disapproving, Clemmie was the center of the party. Nan never touched alcohol. Clemmie, in tune with our Basque roots, never went a day without pouring a glass from a jug of what she called "Dago Red." She was noted for saying that when she got down to half a case she knew she needed to go shopping.
Clemmie as fun and boisterous; with an innocently naughty sense of humor and a big personality. Nan gave every event attended the air of sanctity. Clemmie was known for cooking meals for dozens of people, specializing in Basque sweetbreads, which personality terrified me. Nan made crepes once. They were delicious. She never made them, or anything else, ever again. Nor would she ever teach me, in spite of my repeated requests.
Clemmie would spice her conversation with bits of French, often a bit risque. Nan rarely spoke French, and then only to criticize. (Her favorite expression was basically a French version of "shut up.")
Clemmie would dance to rock and roll at family parties, moving shaking her ample bosom and having a grand old time -- not caring if she looked a fool (which she didn't). I recall Nan dancing only once, with my father, a slow, sedate, and entirely proper dance at a family wedding.
One of my loyal readers (Duke, author of the fabulous blog It's a Noir World) commented that grandparents used to have more personality. I completely agree. Generations ago grandparents were either stereotypically wonderful people who spoiled you at Christmas and baked amazing pies, or they were curmudgeonly characters with eccentric personalities. Today grandparents drive BMWs and play tennis. Hardly the same.
I did, finally, get the wonderful grandmother I'd always wanted though. When I married Husband. His wonderful Mom-Mom was a total character. Strong, brave, totally outrageous and maker of the world's strongest Egg Nog (the recipe of which included an entire bottle of Four Roses). Sadly, Mom-Mom died a few years ago. But we have memories of her all around the house and she will always live in my memory.
I recall be terrified to meet her. Husband and I were already in love and living together when we went to Philadelphia for my first meeting with his mom, stepdad, and grandmother. Husband was the only grandchild and Mom-Mom was, quite naturally, very protective. She knew I was "the one" and if I didn't pass muster, Husband told me that she would make no secret of the fact. I had no nerves meeting his mom, but the prospect of living up to his grandmother's standards filled me with dread. And I don't scare easily.
But honestly within fifteen minutes it seems like she'd sized me up and approved. She wanted the best for her boy and while I still don't think I deserve him, she saw that I loved him and would take care of him. That's all she needed to know.
She was an incredible woman and earning her approval remains one of the proudest achievements of my life.
As a postscript to yesterday's piece about my grandmother...
The odd thing about Nan was that her sister, Auntie Clemmie, was exactly her opposite. Where Nan was small and brittle, Clemmie was round and ample. Where Nan was disapproving, Clemmie was the center of the party. Nan never touched alcohol. Clemmie, in tune with our Basque roots, never went a day without pouring a glass from a jug of what she called "Dago Red." She was noted for saying that when she got down to half a case she knew she needed to go shopping.
Clemmie as fun and boisterous; with an innocently naughty sense of humor and a big personality. Nan gave every event attended the air of sanctity. Clemmie was known for cooking meals for dozens of people, specializing in Basque sweetbreads, which personality terrified me. Nan made crepes once. They were delicious. She never made them, or anything else, ever again. Nor would she ever teach me, in spite of my repeated requests.
Clemmie would spice her conversation with bits of French, often a bit risque. Nan rarely spoke French, and then only to criticize. (Her favorite expression was basically a French version of "shut up.")
Clemmie would dance to rock and roll at family parties, moving shaking her ample bosom and having a grand old time -- not caring if she looked a fool (which she didn't). I recall Nan dancing only once, with my father, a slow, sedate, and entirely proper dance at a family wedding.
One of my loyal readers (Duke, author of the fabulous blog It's a Noir World) commented that grandparents used to have more personality. I completely agree. Generations ago grandparents were either stereotypically wonderful people who spoiled you at Christmas and baked amazing pies, or they were curmudgeonly characters with eccentric personalities. Today grandparents drive BMWs and play tennis. Hardly the same.
I did, finally, get the wonderful grandmother I'd always wanted though. When I married Husband. His wonderful Mom-Mom was a total character. Strong, brave, totally outrageous and maker of the world's strongest Egg Nog (the recipe of which included an entire bottle of Four Roses). Sadly, Mom-Mom died a few years ago. But we have memories of her all around the house and she will always live in my memory.
I recall be terrified to meet her. Husband and I were already in love and living together when we went to Philadelphia for my first meeting with his mom, stepdad, and grandmother. Husband was the only grandchild and Mom-Mom was, quite naturally, very protective. She knew I was "the one" and if I didn't pass muster, Husband told me that she would make no secret of the fact. I had no nerves meeting his mom, but the prospect of living up to his grandmother's standards filled me with dread. And I don't scare easily.
But honestly within fifteen minutes it seems like she'd sized me up and approved. She wanted the best for her boy and while I still don't think I deserve him, she saw that I loved him and would take care of him. That's all she needed to know.
She was an incredible woman and earning her approval remains one of the proudest achievements of my life.
My Grandmother and the Titanic
Family lore has it that we're only here because of the Titanic.
According to my paternal grandmother her mother hated it in San Francisco. She and her husband had come over from France and she was miserable. After much moaning and complaining, my great-grandfather agreed to return to the old country after a period of five years.
And then the Titanic sank and my great-grandmother was so terrified she vowed never to set foot on a boat again and so the family stayed.
As I said, this is family lore. I also think it's apocryphal. I believe it's the one fanciful lie ever told by my staid and sober grandmother.
She was a tiny, rather bitter, decidedly un-grandmotherly grandmother with strict Catholic values and no sense of humor. She believed in two things: God and the San Francisco Giants. There was nothing cinnamon-scented or welcoming about her. We called her "Nan" and she was the kind of woman who would say the rosary aloud on long road trips up to Lake Tahoe because she firmly believed every trip would end in a fiery accident and she wanted to be prepared.
She was entirely miserly and cashed her Social Security checks every month, got cash, and kept the cash in a WWII ammo case under her bed. Each envelope was carefully totaled in pencil with a slip of paper rubber-banded around the whole thing with a running tab. At any one time she had several thousand dollars in that ammo case, and would give each of us five dollars for Christmas.
Nan smelled of Jean Nate perfume and old roses. She always had a kleenex up the sleeve of her sweater. She would sit in the kitchen, in the dark, and listen to Giants games on AM radio; swearing at the boys in French. She made huge, heavy, hideous quilts out of yo-yos of cloth and then never give them to anyone. She would go to church several times a week and nag us when we didn't go to confession regularly -- although we always had very little to confess. She told me I was going to hell but never told me why.
She had a knack of making you feel guilty for having fun. If we were outside, playing, making too much noise she'd knock loudly on the kitchen window and wag her finger at us. She would tell us to keep down the noise. And when my parents would go away and leave me with her she'd insist on watching The Lawrence Welk Show and would eat Salisbury Steak TV dinners.
If I'm making her sound unpleasant, it's because she was. I don't think she ever truly loved anything or anyone except for her only child, my father. When he died she wailed like a banshee for an hour and then stayed silent for about two weeks. And then, impossible as it may seem, she got even more bitter and cranky.
I tried to love her, because I was told you're supposed to love your grandmother. And she was the only grandparent I ever knew. But I could never connect with her. She held me at emotional arm's length for her whole life and never did anything to invite the work necessary to break through her wall. She seemed to be fonder of my brothers, perhaps because they reminded her of my father and I and my sisters did not. In retrospect I feel sorry for her, but at the time I just felt puzzled.
It's hard to feel affection for someone who never shows affection to you. I think I showed her respect, but never felt more than that. And on the odd times we would hug, I would feel a distinct coldness when I wrapped my arms around her thin, bony frame. As if I were hugging someone who was already dead.
Nan hated spending money, as I said. And in spite of the fact that she had a great deal of it, she dressed in cheap clothes with patches and holes. When she died, we had to go out and buy her a new dress because she hadn't anything decent to be buried in. That remains one of the saddest memories of my life. Not because the occasion was sad, because the situation was.
She lived with us when I was growing up. Eight of us in one house. Two parents. Five kids. One island. I don't know how my siblings felt about her or feel about her today because after she died, she sort of disappeared. She's a photo in an album, and an occasional quirky story about the one time in my life she made us crepes. And the one lie she made up about her mother and the Titanic.
Family lore has it that we're only here because of the Titanic.
According to my paternal grandmother her mother hated it in San Francisco. She and her husband had come over from France and she was miserable. After much moaning and complaining, my great-grandfather agreed to return to the old country after a period of five years.
And then the Titanic sank and my great-grandmother was so terrified she vowed never to set foot on a boat again and so the family stayed.
As I said, this is family lore. I also think it's apocryphal. I believe it's the one fanciful lie ever told by my staid and sober grandmother.
She was a tiny, rather bitter, decidedly un-grandmotherly grandmother with strict Catholic values and no sense of humor. She believed in two things: God and the San Francisco Giants. There was nothing cinnamon-scented or welcoming about her. We called her "Nan" and she was the kind of woman who would say the rosary aloud on long road trips up to Lake Tahoe because she firmly believed every trip would end in a fiery accident and she wanted to be prepared.
She was entirely miserly and cashed her Social Security checks every month, got cash, and kept the cash in a WWII ammo case under her bed. Each envelope was carefully totaled in pencil with a slip of paper rubber-banded around the whole thing with a running tab. At any one time she had several thousand dollars in that ammo case, and would give each of us five dollars for Christmas.
Nan smelled of Jean Nate perfume and old roses. She always had a kleenex up the sleeve of her sweater. She would sit in the kitchen, in the dark, and listen to Giants games on AM radio; swearing at the boys in French. She made huge, heavy, hideous quilts out of yo-yos of cloth and then never give them to anyone. She would go to church several times a week and nag us when we didn't go to confession regularly -- although we always had very little to confess. She told me I was going to hell but never told me why.
She had a knack of making you feel guilty for having fun. If we were outside, playing, making too much noise she'd knock loudly on the kitchen window and wag her finger at us. She would tell us to keep down the noise. And when my parents would go away and leave me with her she'd insist on watching The Lawrence Welk Show and would eat Salisbury Steak TV dinners.
If I'm making her sound unpleasant, it's because she was. I don't think she ever truly loved anything or anyone except for her only child, my father. When he died she wailed like a banshee for an hour and then stayed silent for about two weeks. And then, impossible as it may seem, she got even more bitter and cranky.
I tried to love her, because I was told you're supposed to love your grandmother. And she was the only grandparent I ever knew. But I could never connect with her. She held me at emotional arm's length for her whole life and never did anything to invite the work necessary to break through her wall. She seemed to be fonder of my brothers, perhaps because they reminded her of my father and I and my sisters did not. In retrospect I feel sorry for her, but at the time I just felt puzzled.
It's hard to feel affection for someone who never shows affection to you. I think I showed her respect, but never felt more than that. And on the odd times we would hug, I would feel a distinct coldness when I wrapped my arms around her thin, bony frame. As if I were hugging someone who was already dead.
Nan hated spending money, as I said. And in spite of the fact that she had a great deal of it, she dressed in cheap clothes with patches and holes. When she died, we had to go out and buy her a new dress because she hadn't anything decent to be buried in. That remains one of the saddest memories of my life. Not because the occasion was sad, because the situation was.
She lived with us when I was growing up. Eight of us in one house. Two parents. Five kids. One island. I don't know how my siblings felt about her or feel about her today because after she died, she sort of disappeared. She's a photo in an album, and an occasional quirky story about the one time in my life she made us crepes. And the one lie she made up about her mother and the Titanic.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
A Good Day (Cat-Wise)
Some days of cat duty are better than others.
Don't get me wrong, I love every single day that I'm at the shelter. But there are some days where it seems like I spend all my time cleaning cages or dealing with just-this-side-of-feral cats more interested in ripping off my arm than being socialized.
But today but was but one of those really good days. The majority of my time was spent with the inhabitants of "The Condo of Love." It's a kennel with five (5!!) 10-month old kittens. When I opened the cage my lap was instantly inundated with warm, purring bodies who decided I was their best friend. There was fighting for prime lap space. There was licking. There was batting of my head. There was ... well, love.
Luckily one of the get acquainted rooms was empty to I picked up the nearest kitten and took her into the room. Then I closed the door, went back to the cage and got the next kitty. Lather. Rise. Repeat. Once all five were running crazily around the room I left them alone, cleaned out their cage and got it all cozy for their return, and then went to the room to play with the kitties. I swear while I left them by themselves, they multiplied. There must have been 17 cats in that room. There was wrestling. There was meowing. There was attacking the bench, eating the towel, and trying to crawl into my bag.
And that was before I pulled out the toys.
The biggest hit of the day was the laser pointer. One of the kitties (appropriately named "Livewire") went insane chasing the little red light. The other cats very politely took turns in my lap. One would curl up and get the love while the others would play. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, the lap cat would suddenly hop down and decide the laser pointer was more interesting than the attention. A few seconds later another would move into the lap for his or her turn. But then...chaos. They all wanted the lap at once. I was literally covered in cats. One on my lap, another on my stretched-out legs. One curled up next to me, one trying to crawl up my arm (and eventually succeeding and spreading himself across my neck and wedged between my back and the wall).
For some reason, the song "Love Machine" kept going through my head. Along with the thought that I am the luckiest person in the world.
Some days of cat duty are better than others.
Don't get me wrong, I love every single day that I'm at the shelter. But there are some days where it seems like I spend all my time cleaning cages or dealing with just-this-side-of-feral cats more interested in ripping off my arm than being socialized.
But today but was but one of those really good days. The majority of my time was spent with the inhabitants of "The Condo of Love." It's a kennel with five (5!!) 10-month old kittens. When I opened the cage my lap was instantly inundated with warm, purring bodies who decided I was their best friend. There was fighting for prime lap space. There was licking. There was batting of my head. There was ... well, love.
Luckily one of the get acquainted rooms was empty to I picked up the nearest kitten and took her into the room. Then I closed the door, went back to the cage and got the next kitty. Lather. Rise. Repeat. Once all five were running crazily around the room I left them alone, cleaned out their cage and got it all cozy for their return, and then went to the room to play with the kitties. I swear while I left them by themselves, they multiplied. There must have been 17 cats in that room. There was wrestling. There was meowing. There was attacking the bench, eating the towel, and trying to crawl into my bag.
And that was before I pulled out the toys.
The biggest hit of the day was the laser pointer. One of the kitties (appropriately named "Livewire") went insane chasing the little red light. The other cats very politely took turns in my lap. One would curl up and get the love while the others would play. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, the lap cat would suddenly hop down and decide the laser pointer was more interesting than the attention. A few seconds later another would move into the lap for his or her turn. But then...chaos. They all wanted the lap at once. I was literally covered in cats. One on my lap, another on my stretched-out legs. One curled up next to me, one trying to crawl up my arm (and eventually succeeding and spreading himself across my neck and wedged between my back and the wall).
For some reason, the song "Love Machine" kept going through my head. Along with the thought that I am the luckiest person in the world.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Back in TIme
I went to the funeral mass for the mother of a high school friend today. It was pretty weird. For one thing I came face-to-face with half of my high school. It was a definite case of the way-back machine. I think I saw a half dozen people I went to high school with and haven't seen since graduation. It was a bit odd to see these people, remember them as young crazy people, full of dreams and energy, and hear them talk about kids and job troubles.
The other strange bit was being back in the Catholic church of my childhood. For one thing it's amazing how much of the old ritual I recall. For another, it was surprisingly Medieval. The "bells and smells" that haven't changed since back when pope's had mistresses. It was all so 12th century. The sung responses. The candles and incense. The music and flowers. The sermon about resurrection and everlasting life. The communion. I felt like I'd gone back in time to a completely different century, as if I should be veiled and holding a prayer book.
Instead I stood and sat as instructed, admired the stained glass, and wondered (not for the first time) how it is some people have faith and some don't. Me? Not so much.
I went to the funeral mass for the mother of a high school friend today. It was pretty weird. For one thing I came face-to-face with half of my high school. It was a definite case of the way-back machine. I think I saw a half dozen people I went to high school with and haven't seen since graduation. It was a bit odd to see these people, remember them as young crazy people, full of dreams and energy, and hear them talk about kids and job troubles.
The other strange bit was being back in the Catholic church of my childhood. For one thing it's amazing how much of the old ritual I recall. For another, it was surprisingly Medieval. The "bells and smells" that haven't changed since back when pope's had mistresses. It was all so 12th century. The sung responses. The candles and incense. The music and flowers. The sermon about resurrection and everlasting life. The communion. I felt like I'd gone back in time to a completely different century, as if I should be veiled and holding a prayer book.
Instead I stood and sat as instructed, admired the stained glass, and wondered (not for the first time) how it is some people have faith and some don't. Me? Not so much.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: Mrs. Liddle
Mrs. Amelia Liddle was the most theatrical person in all of Silver Creek. Rumor had it she had once been a Rockette and had appeared on Broadway. Rumor was wrong. But somewhere in her dim past she developed a love of the theatre (with an “re” always with an “re”).
She was costume mistress for every production Silver Creek High ever put on. She wrote and directed plays for children at the Rec Center. She put on puppet shows, pantomimes, even some of the worst Shakespeare ever performed. (Picture Romeo and Juliet where Romeo was a foot shorter and 50 pounds lighter than Juliet.) Every Halloween she would dress up in the most amazing costumes and pass out homemade caramel apples. And every Christmas she directed the pageant at every church within a 15 mile radius.
And above all, she instilled in every child who came into her orbit with a love of all things creative. She gave the artistic cheap sets of watercolors and thick pads of butcher paper. She gave the musical free singing or piano lessons. Every budding Olivier got a chance to perform on the stage she set up in her garage. And every would-be Astaire got tap or ballet lessons.
When I was about six or seven and decided I was going to be the next Katharine Hepburn, it was Mrs. Liddle who gave me free scripts to non-royalty plays and taught me to project to the second balcony. She gave me my breakthrough role as Rabbit #2 in an Easter play. I still remember my first line “But what will we do if it rains?” I moaned that line with such intensity, such depth of feeling that I’m sure everyone in the audience (except for my brothers, on whom such passion was lost) wept with total and absolute fear that it would, in fact, rain.
She was my first and only singing teacher. In her booming, Ethel Merman-esque voice she’d lead me through selections from Oklahoma with decreasing enthusiasm as she and I both slowly realized that I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. But once she got singing, it was hard to get her to stop and often our lessons would end with her belting out her “You’ll Never Walk Alone” with such force and depth of feeling you could feel the windows rattle. Her voice was an almost physical force, emanating from her giant prow of a bosom, typically covered in layers of costume jewelry.
Mrs. Liddle, much to her disappointment, had three athletic but entirely talentless sons. She loved them all, but never quite got over the feeling that God had somehow misplaced their parentage. She was sure at least one would win an Oscar or paint a masterpiece. But, alas, all they wanted to do was run around a track or throw a football. All were tone deaf and had two left feet. Each failed miserably at piano, drawing, singing, or acting. Her youngest, Eddie, at least felt enough filial affection to try out for school plays. But his intense stage fright would render his lines inaudible. And for boys thoroughly coordinated on the playing field, each was tremendously and surprisingly awkward on the dance floor. The middle boy, Simon, tripped up his date to the winter formal and she broke her ankle (and the romance).
Mr. Liddle was something of an enigma. His sole contribution to theatricality was being the news director of a local AM radio station. He had a commanding voice, which seemed to absorb the whole of his personality as he was physically almost invisible. I often saw him at church and five minutes later couldn’t possibly describe him. I don’t know if it was because Mrs. Liddle was so larger than life that she overshadowed him, or if it was because he truly was unremarkable. But, as Mrs Liddle once said “he doesn’t ever get in my way” so he perhaps he was used to standing in the background.
Most unexpectedly, in my senior year of high school. Mrs. Liddle died. She’s gone into the hospital for a routine operation but her huge heart gave out and she died on the table. The entire town went into mourning. When news came, the principal made the announcement over the loudspeaker at school and then dismissed classes for the afternoon. Stores on Union Street closed or taped up hastily made RIP signs. I saw big, tough high school athletes cry at the memory of Mrs. Liddle helping them to survive the terrors of the church choir or the summer musical.
Our Lady of Angels was packed for her funeral mass. It seemed as if every child in town, and half of the adults, had come into contact with Mrs. Liddle. The choir seemed lost without their director, and quieter without her soaring soprano. And those of us who had benefited from her generous expertise, her enormous talent, and her Halloween caramel apples sat a bit lost, feeling as if all of Silver Creek had gotten quieter.
Which it had.
Mrs. Amelia Liddle was the most theatrical person in all of Silver Creek. Rumor had it she had once been a Rockette and had appeared on Broadway. Rumor was wrong. But somewhere in her dim past she developed a love of the theatre (with an “re” always with an “re”).
She was costume mistress for every production Silver Creek High ever put on. She wrote and directed plays for children at the Rec Center. She put on puppet shows, pantomimes, even some of the worst Shakespeare ever performed. (Picture Romeo and Juliet where Romeo was a foot shorter and 50 pounds lighter than Juliet.) Every Halloween she would dress up in the most amazing costumes and pass out homemade caramel apples. And every Christmas she directed the pageant at every church within a 15 mile radius.
And above all, she instilled in every child who came into her orbit with a love of all things creative. She gave the artistic cheap sets of watercolors and thick pads of butcher paper. She gave the musical free singing or piano lessons. Every budding Olivier got a chance to perform on the stage she set up in her garage. And every would-be Astaire got tap or ballet lessons.
When I was about six or seven and decided I was going to be the next Katharine Hepburn, it was Mrs. Liddle who gave me free scripts to non-royalty plays and taught me to project to the second balcony. She gave me my breakthrough role as Rabbit #2 in an Easter play. I still remember my first line “But what will we do if it rains?” I moaned that line with such intensity, such depth of feeling that I’m sure everyone in the audience (except for my brothers, on whom such passion was lost) wept with total and absolute fear that it would, in fact, rain.
She was my first and only singing teacher. In her booming, Ethel Merman-esque voice she’d lead me through selections from Oklahoma with decreasing enthusiasm as she and I both slowly realized that I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. But once she got singing, it was hard to get her to stop and often our lessons would end with her belting out her “You’ll Never Walk Alone” with such force and depth of feeling you could feel the windows rattle. Her voice was an almost physical force, emanating from her giant prow of a bosom, typically covered in layers of costume jewelry.
Mrs. Liddle, much to her disappointment, had three athletic but entirely talentless sons. She loved them all, but never quite got over the feeling that God had somehow misplaced their parentage. She was sure at least one would win an Oscar or paint a masterpiece. But, alas, all they wanted to do was run around a track or throw a football. All were tone deaf and had two left feet. Each failed miserably at piano, drawing, singing, or acting. Her youngest, Eddie, at least felt enough filial affection to try out for school plays. But his intense stage fright would render his lines inaudible. And for boys thoroughly coordinated on the playing field, each was tremendously and surprisingly awkward on the dance floor. The middle boy, Simon, tripped up his date to the winter formal and she broke her ankle (and the romance).
Mr. Liddle was something of an enigma. His sole contribution to theatricality was being the news director of a local AM radio station. He had a commanding voice, which seemed to absorb the whole of his personality as he was physically almost invisible. I often saw him at church and five minutes later couldn’t possibly describe him. I don’t know if it was because Mrs. Liddle was so larger than life that she overshadowed him, or if it was because he truly was unremarkable. But, as Mrs Liddle once said “he doesn’t ever get in my way” so he perhaps he was used to standing in the background.
Most unexpectedly, in my senior year of high school. Mrs. Liddle died. She’s gone into the hospital for a routine operation but her huge heart gave out and she died on the table. The entire town went into mourning. When news came, the principal made the announcement over the loudspeaker at school and then dismissed classes for the afternoon. Stores on Union Street closed or taped up hastily made RIP signs. I saw big, tough high school athletes cry at the memory of Mrs. Liddle helping them to survive the terrors of the church choir or the summer musical.
Our Lady of Angels was packed for her funeral mass. It seemed as if every child in town, and half of the adults, had come into contact with Mrs. Liddle. The choir seemed lost without their director, and quieter without her soaring soprano. And those of us who had benefited from her generous expertise, her enormous talent, and her Halloween caramel apples sat a bit lost, feeling as if all of Silver Creek had gotten quieter.
Which it had.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Olympic Fever
Yeah, I admit it. I got it. Husband and I are both huge Olympic fans (although we'll have to decided between watching the Olympics and watching the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show). We've been glued to the TV all weekend and will continue to be obsessed until they put out the torch.
We're not all "USA! USA!" about it. We'll root for the underdog. We love it when some athlete from, say, Moldova, wins their country's first winter medal. We're all about the competition. Whoever seems to work the hardest or gives the best performance is the guy we'll be pulling for.
Our favorite sport is biathlon -- the cross-country skiing, stopping to shoot, sport. Based upon its military history, it makes perfect sense. But when you take it apart, it seems insane. Like swimming and then stopping to play badminton. How they do it is beyond me. They ski flat out and get all exhausted and then suddenly stop, slow their breathing and heart rate somehow, and blow away five targets.
We're not so fond of the "extreme" sports, but we'll watch pretty much anything.
And the coverage so far? Iffy. I am already sick of the Dreamworks movie ads where they try to tie the Olympics into their upcoming film. And there are a few commercials that make me lunge for the mute button. The sports themselves are OK, but again overdone with the "tragic athlete we're going to focus on with the dead grandmother whose parents had to sell their blood to send kid to the games" stories. But that's to be expected. We were a little pissed on Saturday when the women's biathlon coverage go 6 1/2 minutes (we timed out) out of a four hour broadcast. But apparently biathlon isn't a commercial sport. I suppose if we want fuller coverage we'll need to move to Norway.
In other news, our book group meets tonight. One of the highlights of the month. Sadly tonight's gathering will be thin due to illness, a rehearsal conflict, and a visit from distant family. I think there will only be five of us. But there will be lively talk, some yummy cheese, good friends and, in honor of the Olympics, Nanaimo Bars.
Yeah, I admit it. I got it. Husband and I are both huge Olympic fans (although we'll have to decided between watching the Olympics and watching the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show). We've been glued to the TV all weekend and will continue to be obsessed until they put out the torch.
We're not all "USA! USA!" about it. We'll root for the underdog. We love it when some athlete from, say, Moldova, wins their country's first winter medal. We're all about the competition. Whoever seems to work the hardest or gives the best performance is the guy we'll be pulling for.
Our favorite sport is biathlon -- the cross-country skiing, stopping to shoot, sport. Based upon its military history, it makes perfect sense. But when you take it apart, it seems insane. Like swimming and then stopping to play badminton. How they do it is beyond me. They ski flat out and get all exhausted and then suddenly stop, slow their breathing and heart rate somehow, and blow away five targets.
We're not so fond of the "extreme" sports, but we'll watch pretty much anything.
And the coverage so far? Iffy. I am already sick of the Dreamworks movie ads where they try to tie the Olympics into their upcoming film. And there are a few commercials that make me lunge for the mute button. The sports themselves are OK, but again overdone with the "tragic athlete we're going to focus on with the dead grandmother whose parents had to sell their blood to send kid to the games" stories. But that's to be expected. We were a little pissed on Saturday when the women's biathlon coverage go 6 1/2 minutes (we timed out) out of a four hour broadcast. But apparently biathlon isn't a commercial sport. I suppose if we want fuller coverage we'll need to move to Norway.
In other news, our book group meets tonight. One of the highlights of the month. Sadly tonight's gathering will be thin due to illness, a rehearsal conflict, and a visit from distant family. I think there will only be five of us. But there will be lively talk, some yummy cheese, good friends and, in honor of the Olympics, Nanaimo Bars.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Cathouse
A big thank you to Don, the world's best ex-husband. He made this little cathouse so I can keep feeding the ferals in our backyard. I had a rickety contraption made of a Tupperware storage box and bricks, but the raccoons knocked it over pretty much every night. I needed something to keep the food dry in the rainy weather, and Don made this. It's incredibly cute and a perfect size. Big enough for the cats to poke their heads in and feed, but small enough that the raccoons can't get in. Yay!
A big thank you to Don, the world's best ex-husband. He made this little cathouse so I can keep feeding the ferals in our backyard. I had a rickety contraption made of a Tupperware storage box and bricks, but the raccoons knocked it over pretty much every night. I needed something to keep the food dry in the rainy weather, and Don made this. It's incredibly cute and a perfect size. Big enough for the cats to poke their heads in and feed, but small enough that the raccoons can't get in. Yay!
Friday, February 12, 2010
Hallmark Love
I've never been a fan of Valentine's Day. First off, I cannot be romantic just because it says so on the calendar. There are days when I am extra in love with Husband, and days when I am just normally in love. And it has nothing to do with the date, but everything to do with who we are.
Secondly, I don't like the idea that people need a commercial holiday to remember the people in their lives.
The only good thing about losing those you love to AIDS is that it reinforces how important it is to make sure that everyone in your life knows you love them. And luckily it's a lesson that I have learned.
I say "I love you" a lot. And I always mean it. It's not a toss off, or something that I say lightly. If I have said this to you, it is because I love you. Because you are dear to me an always will be. I suppose it is nice, once a year, to get a card or flowers that make you feel appreciated. But I find it means much more when I am appreciated on an average Tuesday rather than on V-Day. Because it seems more sincere, more real.
To be loved on February 14th is a very good thing. But to be loved on August 9th is even better.
I've never been a fan of Valentine's Day. First off, I cannot be romantic just because it says so on the calendar. There are days when I am extra in love with Husband, and days when I am just normally in love. And it has nothing to do with the date, but everything to do with who we are.
Secondly, I don't like the idea that people need a commercial holiday to remember the people in their lives.
The only good thing about losing those you love to AIDS is that it reinforces how important it is to make sure that everyone in your life knows you love them. And luckily it's a lesson that I have learned.
I say "I love you" a lot. And I always mean it. It's not a toss off, or something that I say lightly. If I have said this to you, it is because I love you. Because you are dear to me an always will be. I suppose it is nice, once a year, to get a card or flowers that make you feel appreciated. But I find it means much more when I am appreciated on an average Tuesday rather than on V-Day. Because it seems more sincere, more real.
To be loved on February 14th is a very good thing. But to be loved on August 9th is even better.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Connections
It's no surprise, having majored in Classics and Art History, that I am interested in the past. Two years ago I started looking into my family tree, and that of Husband.
I love genealogy and the stories of who we came from and how. Not just my family, but anybody's. I want to know about your great-grandparents and how they left Ireland/Poland/Mexico to come to America. I've just finished watching the first episode of Faces of America, another wonderful Henry Louis Gates special on PBS. This time he's looking into the roots of Americans whose ancestors came to the US for various reasons. He discussed how Kristi Yamaguchi's mother was born in a relocation camp at the same time her grandfather was fighting for the US. And how Mike Nichols' family escaped Nazi Germany just in time to avoid the Holocaust.
My own family story is rather tame. On my father's side we come from French Basque people, mostly in and around the village of Pau (known now mainly for being a stop on the Tour de France). On my mother's side we're originally from Scotland and then from Canada....but I've hit a dead end and cannot seem to go any further. I'm hampered by the fact that the ancestor who left Scotland was named John Campbell -- and it seems every other man in Scotland at the time was named John Campbell. Her mother's family is also a dead end. I can get back to my great-grandparents, but no further.
But, alas, no Charlemagne. No Henry VIII. No royalty or riches. I don't even have any good outlaws. My maternal grandfather did make illegal beer during Prohibition, but that's about the only black sheep I can find. And the only real interesting story is that my paternal grandmother and her family lived through the great 1906 San Francisco earthquake. She was 9 at the time and remembered it clearly. It knocked her out of bed. She lined up in the park for bread. But family stories weren't tossed around the dinner table, unfortunately, and so I knew little about where I came from. Research through various online ancestry websites have helped, as has some documents that come from distant cousins still living in Pau. Those documents get my father's family back to the 1600s, but I must confess to having my doubts as to their accuracy. According to their research, everyone in my family lived to be 80 or 90, which is hard to believe since longevity wasn't one of the hallmarks of the 17th century.
Husband's family is in many ways more interesting. He is African American and we've been able to get back to his slave ancestors. Of course, it's almost impossible to go farther back than that. We're fortunate in that the family who owned his many-times-great grandfather (and I can't believe someone once "owned" his relations) was prominent in the county and there's a lot of information about them. Husband has always been curious about his identity so last year for his birthday I gave him a DNA test to help give him more information about his history.
I find it hard to grasp the reality that there is slavery in his past. It's even harder to accept the more recent racism. The fact that his grandmother, one of the most beautiful and admirable women I've ever known, had to ride in the back of the bus just burns me. This is my family, the people that I love, and yet at one point they were discriminated against, hated and, most unbelievable of all, owned.
So my sheep-herding Basque ancestors had the easy life. But dull. And I have to admit, if there were going to do a PBS special on my family, nobody would watch. Including, truth be told, me.
It's no surprise, having majored in Classics and Art History, that I am interested in the past. Two years ago I started looking into my family tree, and that of Husband.
I love genealogy and the stories of who we came from and how. Not just my family, but anybody's. I want to know about your great-grandparents and how they left Ireland/Poland/Mexico to come to America. I've just finished watching the first episode of Faces of America, another wonderful Henry Louis Gates special on PBS. This time he's looking into the roots of Americans whose ancestors came to the US for various reasons. He discussed how Kristi Yamaguchi's mother was born in a relocation camp at the same time her grandfather was fighting for the US. And how Mike Nichols' family escaped Nazi Germany just in time to avoid the Holocaust.
My own family story is rather tame. On my father's side we come from French Basque people, mostly in and around the village of Pau (known now mainly for being a stop on the Tour de France). On my mother's side we're originally from Scotland and then from Canada....but I've hit a dead end and cannot seem to go any further. I'm hampered by the fact that the ancestor who left Scotland was named John Campbell -- and it seems every other man in Scotland at the time was named John Campbell. Her mother's family is also a dead end. I can get back to my great-grandparents, but no further.
But, alas, no Charlemagne. No Henry VIII. No royalty or riches. I don't even have any good outlaws. My maternal grandfather did make illegal beer during Prohibition, but that's about the only black sheep I can find. And the only real interesting story is that my paternal grandmother and her family lived through the great 1906 San Francisco earthquake. She was 9 at the time and remembered it clearly. It knocked her out of bed. She lined up in the park for bread. But family stories weren't tossed around the dinner table, unfortunately, and so I knew little about where I came from. Research through various online ancestry websites have helped, as has some documents that come from distant cousins still living in Pau. Those documents get my father's family back to the 1600s, but I must confess to having my doubts as to their accuracy. According to their research, everyone in my family lived to be 80 or 90, which is hard to believe since longevity wasn't one of the hallmarks of the 17th century.
Husband's family is in many ways more interesting. He is African American and we've been able to get back to his slave ancestors. Of course, it's almost impossible to go farther back than that. We're fortunate in that the family who owned his many-times-great grandfather (and I can't believe someone once "owned" his relations) was prominent in the county and there's a lot of information about them. Husband has always been curious about his identity so last year for his birthday I gave him a DNA test to help give him more information about his history.
I find it hard to grasp the reality that there is slavery in his past. It's even harder to accept the more recent racism. The fact that his grandmother, one of the most beautiful and admirable women I've ever known, had to ride in the back of the bus just burns me. This is my family, the people that I love, and yet at one point they were discriminated against, hated and, most unbelievable of all, owned.
So my sheep-herding Basque ancestors had the easy life. But dull. And I have to admit, if there were going to do a PBS special on my family, nobody would watch. Including, truth be told, me.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Monday, February 08, 2010
Address Unknown
An unassuming little volume that nevertheless packs quite a punch. Address Unknown by Kathrine Kressmann Taylor is a powerful anti-Nazi short story, written in 1938. It is a series of letters between two business partners, one a Jew based in San Francisco, the other a gentile who has returned to his native Germany and taken up the Nazi cause.
It is surprisingly short, but equally as impressive. And quite devilishly plotted. I cannot explain fuller, or else I would give the plot away, but I have to admit that I found this book lived up to its reputation. It was hugely influential when it first came out, providing one of the first glimpses into just how bad things were for Jews in Germany. After the war it became somewhat forgotten but a new edition has been released and certainly deserves a wider audience.
An unassuming little volume that nevertheless packs quite a punch. Address Unknown by Kathrine Kressmann Taylor is a powerful anti-Nazi short story, written in 1938. It is a series of letters between two business partners, one a Jew based in San Francisco, the other a gentile who has returned to his native Germany and taken up the Nazi cause.
It is surprisingly short, but equally as impressive. And quite devilishly plotted. I cannot explain fuller, or else I would give the plot away, but I have to admit that I found this book lived up to its reputation. It was hugely influential when it first came out, providing one of the first glimpses into just how bad things were for Jews in Germany. After the war it became somewhat forgotten but a new edition has been released and certainly deserves a wider audience.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Chopin at Midnight
Sometimes I don't mind being an insomniac. There's a nice sort of calmness in being up all night. I can watch movies or catch up on whatever I've saved in TiVo. I can read trashy books all night or do something improving like delving into Dickens or browsing through the Brontes. Sometimes I'll listen to music, try to find something suitable for the book, the weather, and my mood.
When I'm in a classical mood I always turn to Chopin. More specifically, Chopin's piano works played by Vladimir Ashkenazy. I'm surprised I haven't worn a groove in my CD because I play it so often. It's perfect for a rainy night and a good book. Oddly enough, the same music is also perfect for a heat wave and total brain-candy-trash. Quite versatile, that Chopin.
The classical realm is one area of music where I will gladly admit my ignorance. I can beat anyone at world music knowledge (thank you KZSU), and I'm pretty good at blues, certain genres of jazz, and bits of bluegrass and country. I know my 80s pop as well as anyone, and have a fairly good grasp of what's new in the world of music. But when it comes to what's old well, there I'm lost. I've been to the symphony, but not too many. I've seen operas, but don't particularly like them. And yet I love opera CDs -- not entire operas, but certain singers performing selections from many composers. My favorite is Jose Cura, who has a warm and delicious voice. His music is reserved for intricate and cryptic literary novels full of delicious passages of prose. I cannot put on Jose Cura and curl up with, say, Nora Roberts. But he goes quite well with Arturo Perez-Reverte.
Oddly enough, since I'm surrounded by jazz, I tend not to listen to it on my own. Husband is both a jazz radio DJ and a jazz journalist (in fact he's just gotten the gig to cover the Portland Jazz Festival for JazzTimes Magazine later this month). His collection of jazz is huge, varied, and intimidating. It's so intimidating that it's in it's own room. The front room has my music and our joint collection of classical and blues. But the music office is his domain. I am perfectly free to go in and select anything I want, but I wouldn't even know where to begin. So I keep my own selection of favorites out here. They're pretty thin, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, the big bands of WWII. The Brubeck and the Monk, the Coltrane and the Pharoah Sanders, they're all in the music office.
But tonight, it's Chopin and The Pre-Raphaelites in Love by Gay Daly. Excuse me, won't you, Frederic is calling me.
Sometimes I don't mind being an insomniac. There's a nice sort of calmness in being up all night. I can watch movies or catch up on whatever I've saved in TiVo. I can read trashy books all night or do something improving like delving into Dickens or browsing through the Brontes. Sometimes I'll listen to music, try to find something suitable for the book, the weather, and my mood.
When I'm in a classical mood I always turn to Chopin. More specifically, Chopin's piano works played by Vladimir Ashkenazy. I'm surprised I haven't worn a groove in my CD because I play it so often. It's perfect for a rainy night and a good book. Oddly enough, the same music is also perfect for a heat wave and total brain-candy-trash. Quite versatile, that Chopin.
The classical realm is one area of music where I will gladly admit my ignorance. I can beat anyone at world music knowledge (thank you KZSU), and I'm pretty good at blues, certain genres of jazz, and bits of bluegrass and country. I know my 80s pop as well as anyone, and have a fairly good grasp of what's new in the world of music. But when it comes to what's old well, there I'm lost. I've been to the symphony, but not too many. I've seen operas, but don't particularly like them. And yet I love opera CDs -- not entire operas, but certain singers performing selections from many composers. My favorite is Jose Cura, who has a warm and delicious voice. His music is reserved for intricate and cryptic literary novels full of delicious passages of prose. I cannot put on Jose Cura and curl up with, say, Nora Roberts. But he goes quite well with Arturo Perez-Reverte.
Oddly enough, since I'm surrounded by jazz, I tend not to listen to it on my own. Husband is both a jazz radio DJ and a jazz journalist (in fact he's just gotten the gig to cover the Portland Jazz Festival for JazzTimes Magazine later this month). His collection of jazz is huge, varied, and intimidating. It's so intimidating that it's in it's own room. The front room has my music and our joint collection of classical and blues. But the music office is his domain. I am perfectly free to go in and select anything I want, but I wouldn't even know where to begin. So I keep my own selection of favorites out here. They're pretty thin, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, the big bands of WWII. The Brubeck and the Monk, the Coltrane and the Pharoah Sanders, they're all in the music office.
But tonight, it's Chopin and The Pre-Raphaelites in Love by Gay Daly. Excuse me, won't you, Frederic is calling me.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Olympics
Husband and I are total Olympic junkies. For the entire two weeks we'll be glued to the TV, watching athletes we've never heard of compete in sports we would never normally watch. It's an addiction. Winter or summer games, it doesn't matter, we'll watch it all.
We've gotten into the habit of watching the opening ceremonies with dinner from the host country. For the Athens Olympics we made gyros. The Torino games featured pasta. What the hell are we going to make for the Vancouver games? Aside from Canadian bacon, Molson beer, and Tim Horton's doughnuts I can't think of typically Canadian food. Seal meat? Anyway, we'll have to figure that one out. But we totally love the opening. All the pageant. The over-the-top effects and entertainment. And yes, i still do get a tiny lump in my throat when I see all the athletes marching in. Not just team USA, but everyone. All full of hopes and dreams. All dedicated and young. Healthy and strong. Hoping that a lifetime of work will pay off in the next few weeks. It's enough to make even an old cynic like I get all misty.
Our favorite winter sport is biathlon. Weren't expect that, were you? We got totally addicted to it the last winter games and cannot wait for this year's competition to begin. It's the cross country skiing flat out and then stopping to shoot accurately sport, which sounds less like a sport than a Nazi war tactic. And it did, in fact, stem from a military exercise. But it's so cool to watch because the lead can change so fast. If you miss a shot you get a time penalty, so the first guy into the shooting range might actually end up in fourth place at the end of the round because he missed shots and the other guys went clean. It's nail biting to watch because you'll find yourself cheering for some guy (the big money is going on somebody Nordic) and he'll miss one shot and that drops him back six places in something like 10 seconds.
We'll also be watching hockey. Husband is a huge hockey fan (go Flyers!) and it's always interesting to see NHL players competing on their national teams. It must be odd when some guy you play with on the same team suddenly becomes your opponent because you're from Canada and he's from Finland. Three Flyers (his favorite team -- that's my Philly boy) will be in the games, all playing for team Canada. I'm thinking it'll be a Canada vs. Finland or Sweden final. But it's gonna be a good time no matter who ends up in the finals.
There are a few sports that we care nothing about. Like snowboarding and freestyle skiing. But everything else we'll settle in and actually find ourselves caring who wins in long track speed skating or luge. And yes, we'll even watch curling.
Husband and I are total Olympic junkies. For the entire two weeks we'll be glued to the TV, watching athletes we've never heard of compete in sports we would never normally watch. It's an addiction. Winter or summer games, it doesn't matter, we'll watch it all.
We've gotten into the habit of watching the opening ceremonies with dinner from the host country. For the Athens Olympics we made gyros. The Torino games featured pasta. What the hell are we going to make for the Vancouver games? Aside from Canadian bacon, Molson beer, and Tim Horton's doughnuts I can't think of typically Canadian food. Seal meat? Anyway, we'll have to figure that one out. But we totally love the opening. All the pageant. The over-the-top effects and entertainment. And yes, i still do get a tiny lump in my throat when I see all the athletes marching in. Not just team USA, but everyone. All full of hopes and dreams. All dedicated and young. Healthy and strong. Hoping that a lifetime of work will pay off in the next few weeks. It's enough to make even an old cynic like I get all misty.
Our favorite winter sport is biathlon. Weren't expect that, were you? We got totally addicted to it the last winter games and cannot wait for this year's competition to begin. It's the cross country skiing flat out and then stopping to shoot accurately sport, which sounds less like a sport than a Nazi war tactic. And it did, in fact, stem from a military exercise. But it's so cool to watch because the lead can change so fast. If you miss a shot you get a time penalty, so the first guy into the shooting range might actually end up in fourth place at the end of the round because he missed shots and the other guys went clean. It's nail biting to watch because you'll find yourself cheering for some guy (the big money is going on somebody Nordic) and he'll miss one shot and that drops him back six places in something like 10 seconds.
We'll also be watching hockey. Husband is a huge hockey fan (go Flyers!) and it's always interesting to see NHL players competing on their national teams. It must be odd when some guy you play with on the same team suddenly becomes your opponent because you're from Canada and he's from Finland. Three Flyers (his favorite team -- that's my Philly boy) will be in the games, all playing for team Canada. I'm thinking it'll be a Canada vs. Finland or Sweden final. But it's gonna be a good time no matter who ends up in the finals.
There are a few sports that we care nothing about. Like snowboarding and freestyle skiing. But everything else we'll settle in and actually find ourselves caring who wins in long track speed skating or luge. And yes, we'll even watch curling.
Photo of the day: Cowardice
White feathers were once used as a sign of cowardice. Men who were deserters or even conscious objectors would receive them, usually anonymously (because the senders were too cowardly?) as a sign that others thought him a shirker. There have even been movies with that title, two of them I believe, where, of course, the recipients went on to brave deeds of derring-do that proved the senders wrong. The hero even saves the life on one of his detractors.
But there's no symbol here. Just two white feathers I found on a walk.
White feathers were once used as a sign of cowardice. Men who were deserters or even conscious objectors would receive them, usually anonymously (because the senders were too cowardly?) as a sign that others thought him a shirker. There have even been movies with that title, two of them I believe, where, of course, the recipients went on to brave deeds of derring-do that proved the senders wrong. The hero even saves the life on one of his detractors.
But there's no symbol here. Just two white feathers I found on a walk.
Friday, February 05, 2010
Words and Books
My fascination with the English language occasionally leads me towards speculations for which I cannot find an answer.
For instance, is there a word for a word where you have a negative but no opposite positive? As an example, you might here the word "unkempt" but no one is ever "kempt." You might be told that you look disheveled, but nobody will ever call you sheveled. You get the idea. Couth and uncouth. Gruntled and disgruntled. Someone suggested that the concept can be described as "lost positives" which sounds great. But I think there needs to be a word for something where you only hear the negative and never the positive.
Another example. Is there a word for those two-word rhyming nonsense phrases like hocus-pocus or helter-skelter? If not, there should be.
I also have this weird thing where I cannot continue with a book if I come across a word I do not know. I have to put the book down, get the dictionary, and find out what the word is. Usually this is not a problem as I have quite a large vocabulary (no doubt because I am forever looking up words). But every so often I come across a book where there are so many words I do not know that it's disruptive to be forever putting it down. Such was the case with Lempriere's Dictionary by Lawrence Norfolk. I read it many years ago and it is #2 on my all-time favorite fiction books of all time. (Number 1, for those of you who care, is Possession by A.S. Byatt. Rounding out my top three is Pride and Prejudice.)
Now, back to Lempriere's Dictionary. It is a dense and yet captivating story of John Lempriere, an actual 18th century mythologist who wrote about the stories of the ancient Greeks and Romans. The book follows his research and the weird parallels that occur in his life that seem to mirror the classic myths. It is most definitely not an easy read. And it is full of obscure and intricate words that were completely unfamiliar to me. Eventually I jotted down every word in a notebook and would look them all up at the end of the day, rather than having to constantly stop and lose the flow of the narrative. I picked up this book ages ago, and yet just the other day I ran across that notebook and knew instantly what this list of odd words referred to. Nobody I know has ever read this book. I can't even recommend it to them, as it's such an intimidating volume. You must love mythology, words, mysteries, and intricate plots. You have to be patient and willing to work for the outcome. But if you do, you will be highly rewarded.
In case you are even mildly interested, here are my favorite non-fiction books of all time:
1. Testament of Youth by Vera Brittain. Taken from the diary she kept during WWI. She was a sheltered student who volunteered as a nurse on the front lines. During the course of the war she lost her only brother, her fiance, and her two best friends. The loss of all she loved is beautifully captured. It made her one of my heroes. The way she turned such a negative into such a positive. After the war she became committed to the cause of pacifism and worked for it the rest of her life. She's not an entirely likable person, but you cannot help but respect her courage and strength.
2. Between Silk and Cyanide by Leo Marks. A fascinating look at British espionage during the second World War. Marks was one of the code-creators who came up with ways for British spies behind enemy lines to communicate information back to England. The fact that it's true only makes the nail-biting exploits of the brave men and women of the SOE more captivating.
3. The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson. On the surface, an odd topic for a book - a look at the 1893 Chicago World's Fair combined with the story of one of America's first serial killers. But it works. It's a well-researched, well-written tale about a changing world, an amazing event, and an evil mind. It's full of fascinating information about how the fairgrounds were built and what an effect the fair had on both American and international culture. The crime section is equally interesting and you read how one man planned and committed a series of horrendous crimes.
OK, now I want to go book shopping. Thank goodness for Amazon!
My fascination with the English language occasionally leads me towards speculations for which I cannot find an answer.
For instance, is there a word for a word where you have a negative but no opposite positive? As an example, you might here the word "unkempt" but no one is ever "kempt." You might be told that you look disheveled, but nobody will ever call you sheveled. You get the idea. Couth and uncouth. Gruntled and disgruntled. Someone suggested that the concept can be described as "lost positives" which sounds great. But I think there needs to be a word for something where you only hear the negative and never the positive.
Another example. Is there a word for those two-word rhyming nonsense phrases like hocus-pocus or helter-skelter? If not, there should be.
I also have this weird thing where I cannot continue with a book if I come across a word I do not know. I have to put the book down, get the dictionary, and find out what the word is. Usually this is not a problem as I have quite a large vocabulary (no doubt because I am forever looking up words). But every so often I come across a book where there are so many words I do not know that it's disruptive to be forever putting it down. Such was the case with Lempriere's Dictionary by Lawrence Norfolk. I read it many years ago and it is #2 on my all-time favorite fiction books of all time. (Number 1, for those of you who care, is Possession by A.S. Byatt. Rounding out my top three is Pride and Prejudice.)
Now, back to Lempriere's Dictionary. It is a dense and yet captivating story of John Lempriere, an actual 18th century mythologist who wrote about the stories of the ancient Greeks and Romans. The book follows his research and the weird parallels that occur in his life that seem to mirror the classic myths. It is most definitely not an easy read. And it is full of obscure and intricate words that were completely unfamiliar to me. Eventually I jotted down every word in a notebook and would look them all up at the end of the day, rather than having to constantly stop and lose the flow of the narrative. I picked up this book ages ago, and yet just the other day I ran across that notebook and knew instantly what this list of odd words referred to. Nobody I know has ever read this book. I can't even recommend it to them, as it's such an intimidating volume. You must love mythology, words, mysteries, and intricate plots. You have to be patient and willing to work for the outcome. But if you do, you will be highly rewarded.
In case you are even mildly interested, here are my favorite non-fiction books of all time:
1. Testament of Youth by Vera Brittain. Taken from the diary she kept during WWI. She was a sheltered student who volunteered as a nurse on the front lines. During the course of the war she lost her only brother, her fiance, and her two best friends. The loss of all she loved is beautifully captured. It made her one of my heroes. The way she turned such a negative into such a positive. After the war she became committed to the cause of pacifism and worked for it the rest of her life. She's not an entirely likable person, but you cannot help but respect her courage and strength.
2. Between Silk and Cyanide by Leo Marks. A fascinating look at British espionage during the second World War. Marks was one of the code-creators who came up with ways for British spies behind enemy lines to communicate information back to England. The fact that it's true only makes the nail-biting exploits of the brave men and women of the SOE more captivating.
3. The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson. On the surface, an odd topic for a book - a look at the 1893 Chicago World's Fair combined with the story of one of America's first serial killers. But it works. It's a well-researched, well-written tale about a changing world, an amazing event, and an evil mind. It's full of fascinating information about how the fairgrounds were built and what an effect the fair had on both American and international culture. The crime section is equally interesting and you read how one man planned and committed a series of horrendous crimes.
OK, now I want to go book shopping. Thank goodness for Amazon!
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Another Lost Language
I came across this London Times article about the last surviving member of an Andaman Island tribe dying, taking with her 65,000 years of culture. And a language.
Languages are as endangered a species at the salt marsh harvest mouse or the giant panda. And equally worth saving.
In college, as a Classics major, I spent several years studying so-called "dead languages:" Latin, ancient Greek, Egyptian hieroglyphics, Sanskrit. Useful for nothing, but one obscure proud achievement -- I've read The Iliad in the original. I also studied one modern language, French, which I completely forgot the day after the final exam.
I'm fascinated by languages, and by the way they survive in spite of all odds. When Europeans took over North America and stole land from the native peoples, in addition to smallpox and Christianity, they also made it illegal to speak their own language. Children were forced onto reservation schools and told to speak English only. There were severe penalties for speaking in their mother tongue.
Ironically it was one of these indigenous languages, Navajo, that played a crucial role in the allied victory in WWII. If you don't know the story of the Navajo Code Talkers, you should. Using their ancient language, Navajo Marines set up communications stations throughout the Pacific and spoke to each other, openly over the radio, knowing full well the Japanese were monitoring their transmissions. But the Japanese were never able to decipher the code. It was a simple substitution code, using real Navajo words, (using "turtle" to mean "tank" for instance) but outside of the Navajo reservations, nobody knew their language -- certainly not the Japanese, and so valuable information was able to be transmitted without fear of the enemy catching on.
What I find amusing is that these young men who still spoke Navajo did so because they broke the law. They and their families thought it was important to keep their culture alive and so, in spite of laws against it, they spoke in the old tongue at home. And because so much of Native American culture is passed down orally, many other native languages still survive, thankfully.
For a while, they were in danger of dying. But a new renaissance and pride in native culture, combined with the establishment of tribal colleges, made it possible (and even admirable) for elders to pass on their knowledge. Not just of how to speak Hopi or Lakota, but of other cultural treasures, such as how to weave, make pottery or baskets, and the correct way to conduct tribal ceremonies.
And the ones that kept the flame going were the outlaws. Those who refused to do what they were told. In public they'd learn English, just as the Europeans insisted. But at home, with the doors closed, elders would pass on centuries-old stories in centuries-old languages. And because of that, we haven't lost these linguistic treasures.
Thanks to technology, we'll never truly lose another language. We can record the old ones telling the ancient tales. But it's not the same as having a native speaker around to teach their gift.
Many years ago I was touring the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon. At the time they were putting together an impressive archive of Shakespeare being read in every language on the planet. Everything from Hamlet in Swahili to Measure For Measure in Mandarin. I'll always remember the guide mentioning how people all over the world had gotten into the spirit of the challenge and gave their grandparents passages of the Bard to read in whatever language they spoke. They had dozens of African dialects, sonnets read in the many languages of India, and everything from Icelandic to Esperanto. They also had one tape that, up to that point, they had never been able to identify. They couldn't tell what play it was from, but it came from Canada and they thought it might have been Inuit or some other First Nations language of Canada. But they weren't sure. They said for a while they asked tour groups if anyone visiting spoke Inuit, hoping they could play the tape and get an "yes" or "no" as to whether they even had the right language. Identifying the play seemed an impossibility.
I have often thought about that, and wondered if they ever figured it out.
Some day I'd love to see a Cherokee version of Much Ado.
I came across this London Times article about the last surviving member of an Andaman Island tribe dying, taking with her 65,000 years of culture. And a language.
Languages are as endangered a species at the salt marsh harvest mouse or the giant panda. And equally worth saving.
In college, as a Classics major, I spent several years studying so-called "dead languages:" Latin, ancient Greek, Egyptian hieroglyphics, Sanskrit. Useful for nothing, but one obscure proud achievement -- I've read The Iliad in the original. I also studied one modern language, French, which I completely forgot the day after the final exam.
I'm fascinated by languages, and by the way they survive in spite of all odds. When Europeans took over North America and stole land from the native peoples, in addition to smallpox and Christianity, they also made it illegal to speak their own language. Children were forced onto reservation schools and told to speak English only. There were severe penalties for speaking in their mother tongue.
Ironically it was one of these indigenous languages, Navajo, that played a crucial role in the allied victory in WWII. If you don't know the story of the Navajo Code Talkers, you should. Using their ancient language, Navajo Marines set up communications stations throughout the Pacific and spoke to each other, openly over the radio, knowing full well the Japanese were monitoring their transmissions. But the Japanese were never able to decipher the code. It was a simple substitution code, using real Navajo words, (using "turtle" to mean "tank" for instance) but outside of the Navajo reservations, nobody knew their language -- certainly not the Japanese, and so valuable information was able to be transmitted without fear of the enemy catching on.
What I find amusing is that these young men who still spoke Navajo did so because they broke the law. They and their families thought it was important to keep their culture alive and so, in spite of laws against it, they spoke in the old tongue at home. And because so much of Native American culture is passed down orally, many other native languages still survive, thankfully.
For a while, they were in danger of dying. But a new renaissance and pride in native culture, combined with the establishment of tribal colleges, made it possible (and even admirable) for elders to pass on their knowledge. Not just of how to speak Hopi or Lakota, but of other cultural treasures, such as how to weave, make pottery or baskets, and the correct way to conduct tribal ceremonies.
And the ones that kept the flame going were the outlaws. Those who refused to do what they were told. In public they'd learn English, just as the Europeans insisted. But at home, with the doors closed, elders would pass on centuries-old stories in centuries-old languages. And because of that, we haven't lost these linguistic treasures.
Thanks to technology, we'll never truly lose another language. We can record the old ones telling the ancient tales. But it's not the same as having a native speaker around to teach their gift.
Many years ago I was touring the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon. At the time they were putting together an impressive archive of Shakespeare being read in every language on the planet. Everything from Hamlet in Swahili to Measure For Measure in Mandarin. I'll always remember the guide mentioning how people all over the world had gotten into the spirit of the challenge and gave their grandparents passages of the Bard to read in whatever language they spoke. They had dozens of African dialects, sonnets read in the many languages of India, and everything from Icelandic to Esperanto. They also had one tape that, up to that point, they had never been able to identify. They couldn't tell what play it was from, but it came from Canada and they thought it might have been Inuit or some other First Nations language of Canada. But they weren't sure. They said for a while they asked tour groups if anyone visiting spoke Inuit, hoping they could play the tape and get an "yes" or "no" as to whether they even had the right language. Identifying the play seemed an impossibility.
I have often thought about that, and wondered if they ever figured it out.
Some day I'd love to see a Cherokee version of Much Ado.
Things That I've Laughed At Lately
Because we all need a good laugh:
First up we have Charlie Brooker's Newswipe The World's Most Generic News Report, a hilarious parody of how predictable "news" stories have become. I've watched this three times now and it still cracks me up.
.....
Always good for a laugh, People of Walmart, which demonstrates why I do not shop there. It'll make your jaw drop at how few people seem to own mirrors.
.....
What happens when you have too much icing and not enough education? Cake Wrecks. Dedicated to showcasing the worst dessert errors ever served up at your local bakery counter.
.....
And finally, there's Totally Looks Like, which can be hit or miss. But when it hits, it's pretty funny.
Because we all need a good laugh:
First up we have Charlie Brooker's Newswipe The World's Most Generic News Report, a hilarious parody of how predictable "news" stories have become. I've watched this three times now and it still cracks me up.
.....
Always good for a laugh, People of Walmart, which demonstrates why I do not shop there. It'll make your jaw drop at how few people seem to own mirrors.
.....
What happens when you have too much icing and not enough education? Cake Wrecks. Dedicated to showcasing the worst dessert errors ever served up at your local bakery counter.
.....
And finally, there's Totally Looks Like, which can be hit or miss. But when it hits, it's pretty funny.
In Praise of Thelma Ritter
One of the things that connects Husband and I is our love for old movies. Further than that, our love for the character actors that made so many of those old movies memorable. Character actors seem to have died out. But "way back when" every hotel clerk, every waiter, every wise-cracking salesgirl was someone worth remembering. Fans of old movies love to play the "hey, that's..." game where you realize the guy driving Myrna Loy's cab was seen two movies ago serving Humphrey Bogart a slice of pie. Today you might recognize a waitress in a movie as a dancing toothbrush from a TV commercial, but these actors have no names and there are as forgettable as a waitress is in real life (with apologies to waitresses everywhere).
My all-time favorite female character actor was Thelma Ritter. She wasn't so much a bit-part player as she was a supporting actress, and every movie she was in was made magical by her dry wit and delicious line delivery.
She was a wonderful actress, earning four Academy Award nominations for Best Supporting Actress, starting with her role as Bette Davis' dresser in All About Eve. Her movie career covered everything from Hitchcock (Jimmy Stewart's nurse in Rear Window) to romantic comedies (the scene in Pillow Talk where she drinks Rock Hudson under the table is a classic) to musicals (acting as Fred Astaire's secretary in Daddy Long Legs. But she was always flat-out fabulous.
She specialized in the smart-aleck roles. The secretary who likes a shot of rye and a snappy come-back. The maid who doesn't hesitate to tell her mistress that she's making a fool out of herself by treating the nice guy like dirt. And there's always something so spot-on about the way she slips in her comments. Of course it helps that back then they wrote scripts with dialogue that was equally memorable. Sadly, that kind of rough diamond with a heart of gold character seems to have gone the way of stockings with seams in them and men in fedoras. But very few people could ever compete with Thelma Ritter for delivering just one line with such an air of dry disdain that she could infuse a word with a world of meaning. In today's movies, I think only Alan Rickman can match her for that ability to make a single word drip with venom.
Only with Thelma, the venom really had no lasting sting. Only a smartness that would make you stand up and take notice.
Oh Thelma, we miss you.
One of the things that connects Husband and I is our love for old movies. Further than that, our love for the character actors that made so many of those old movies memorable. Character actors seem to have died out. But "way back when" every hotel clerk, every waiter, every wise-cracking salesgirl was someone worth remembering. Fans of old movies love to play the "hey, that's..." game where you realize the guy driving Myrna Loy's cab was seen two movies ago serving Humphrey Bogart a slice of pie. Today you might recognize a waitress in a movie as a dancing toothbrush from a TV commercial, but these actors have no names and there are as forgettable as a waitress is in real life (with apologies to waitresses everywhere).
My all-time favorite female character actor was Thelma Ritter. She wasn't so much a bit-part player as she was a supporting actress, and every movie she was in was made magical by her dry wit and delicious line delivery.
She was a wonderful actress, earning four Academy Award nominations for Best Supporting Actress, starting with her role as Bette Davis' dresser in All About Eve. Her movie career covered everything from Hitchcock (Jimmy Stewart's nurse in Rear Window) to romantic comedies (the scene in Pillow Talk where she drinks Rock Hudson under the table is a classic) to musicals (acting as Fred Astaire's secretary in Daddy Long Legs. But she was always flat-out fabulous.
She specialized in the smart-aleck roles. The secretary who likes a shot of rye and a snappy come-back. The maid who doesn't hesitate to tell her mistress that she's making a fool out of herself by treating the nice guy like dirt. And there's always something so spot-on about the way she slips in her comments. Of course it helps that back then they wrote scripts with dialogue that was equally memorable. Sadly, that kind of rough diamond with a heart of gold character seems to have gone the way of stockings with seams in them and men in fedoras. But very few people could ever compete with Thelma Ritter for delivering just one line with such an air of dry disdain that she could infuse a word with a world of meaning. In today's movies, I think only Alan Rickman can match her for that ability to make a single word drip with venom.
Only with Thelma, the venom really had no lasting sting. Only a smartness that would make you stand up and take notice.
Oh Thelma, we miss you.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
The World is Xfinite
Comcast, the world's most expensive and useless cable/internet/media/phone sex/animal cracker company in the galaxy has decided to address its many problems by the cheapest and most ineffective way possible. They are changing their name.
Introducing Xfinity a word that means absolutely nothing, but seems cool, hip, and sexy. Hey, if it's cool, hip, and sexy it's gotta be good, huh? Forget that our cable bill costs about a much as Ghana's national debt. We're gonna have TV that goes to Xfinity. It'll be Xfinite!
Why do companies do that? Decide that the public is so stupid we won't notice that Xfinity is the same company as Comcast, only with a different name? Are our collective memories supposed to be that short? We won't care how much our bill is because, damn it, it's a whole new ball game. It's not just TV, it's Xfinite TV! Not only that, but Comcast's Executive VP of Operations has said "the new brand name communicates Comcast's constant product upgrades and innovation." Really? It does all that, does it?
First off, when has Comcast ever innovated? Secondly, this ridiculous nonsense word conveys all that? Sure it does! After all, putting "X" in front of something is edgy. It's eXtreme. It's like snowboarding, only you have to control the snowboard through the cable box that doesn't really work all that well and sometimes goes to the wrong channel. But other than that, it's just like snowboarding. The kind of snowboarding where you have 125 different channel of slopes to chose from and no snow on any of them. Endless choices. Nothing on. But fuck that, it's Xfinite nothing! And we're all going to forget about Comcast in the rush to be as hip and cool as Xfinite. And the bad service, outrageous bill, and useless technology...it'll all be a bad dream once we're living in a world where TV is Xfinite.
Comcast, the world's most expensive and useless cable/internet/media/phone sex/animal cracker company in the galaxy has decided to address its many problems by the cheapest and most ineffective way possible. They are changing their name.
Introducing Xfinity a word that means absolutely nothing, but seems cool, hip, and sexy. Hey, if it's cool, hip, and sexy it's gotta be good, huh? Forget that our cable bill costs about a much as Ghana's national debt. We're gonna have TV that goes to Xfinity. It'll be Xfinite!
Why do companies do that? Decide that the public is so stupid we won't notice that Xfinity is the same company as Comcast, only with a different name? Are our collective memories supposed to be that short? We won't care how much our bill is because, damn it, it's a whole new ball game. It's not just TV, it's Xfinite TV! Not only that, but Comcast's Executive VP of Operations has said "the new brand name communicates Comcast's constant product upgrades and innovation." Really? It does all that, does it?
First off, when has Comcast ever innovated? Secondly, this ridiculous nonsense word conveys all that? Sure it does! After all, putting "X" in front of something is edgy. It's eXtreme. It's like snowboarding, only you have to control the snowboard through the cable box that doesn't really work all that well and sometimes goes to the wrong channel. But other than that, it's just like snowboarding. The kind of snowboarding where you have 125 different channel of slopes to chose from and no snow on any of them. Endless choices. Nothing on. But fuck that, it's Xfinite nothing! And we're all going to forget about Comcast in the rush to be as hip and cool as Xfinite. And the bad service, outrageous bill, and useless technology...it'll all be a bad dream once we're living in a world where TV is Xfinite.
Terry Pratchett's Case for Euthanasia
British novelist Terry Pratchett is, sadly, suffering from a form al Alzheimer's called PCA. He and his "stunt Pratchett" (actor Tony Robinson....remember Baldrick from Blackadder?) deliver a powerful, funny, moving, and thought-provoking talk about assisted suicide. Watch the six-part video (part one is here - links to parts 2-6 on same page) or, for those short on time, read the edit transcript here.
British novelist Terry Pratchett is, sadly, suffering from a form al Alzheimer's called PCA. He and his "stunt Pratchett" (actor Tony Robinson....remember Baldrick from Blackadder?) deliver a powerful, funny, moving, and thought-provoking talk about assisted suicide. Watch the six-part video (part one is here - links to parts 2-6 on same page) or, for those short on time, read the edit transcript here.
Hospitalitis
Hospitals are in the business of over-reacting. That's what they get paid to do. And rightly so. When it comes to health, it makes sense to be a bit of an alarmist about things that concern you. Which is why I went into the emergency room on Saturday night, and ended up in one of their critical care units on Sunday morning.
Although I was never anything other than fine, they put me in their TCU (one step down from ICU). According to the website for the hospital, the Telemetry Care Unit is a "31-bed nursing unit provides care for patients who require monitoring such as cardiac surveillance following procedures including pacemaker insertion, cardiac or vascular surgery." They put me there because of a racing heart rate. (Which they eventually diagnosed as a combination of exhaustion, dehydration following a day of zarfing, anemia, and pain.) But since my family has a history of heart disease (my father died of a heart attack and my mother has already suffered one minor heart attack), the hospital went into over-react mode and set me up in a 4-bed critical care ward with a group of patients who all sounded like they were just this side of dying. They all seemed to be having breathing problems, one poor man had a cough that sounded like he was swimming in warm pudding and they had to (delightful) repeatedly suction phlegm out of his throat so he could breathe. That was my next-bed neighbor.
So there I am, begging for quiet, next to waterlogged guy. I felt terribly sorry for him, but the sound was both repulsive and loud, and went on several times an hour for the entire time I was there. He was also hardly lucid, so whenever people came to visit him they kept talking ever-louder in an attempt to get a response. Eventually they ended up yelling his name, trying to get him to understand they were there to take him for a CT scan, or to let him know that they were cousin Al and they were worried about him. The man in the bed next to him watched TV most of the night. Loudly. (We were in an open ward, separated only by curtains, so I could hear everything he watched.) And whenever waterlogged man would start coughing, TV guy would turn up the sound.
I was also by the door into the hall, next to the nursing station. So there were phone call and loud conversations all night long. And there I am, in spite of the ear plugs, hearing it all. Trying to sleep and failing. Wishing for darkness but by a window into the hallway where florescent lights glared all night long. Wishing somebody would hand me poor, migraine-wracked head an Imitrex. But nope, no migraine drugs. (t was like those jokes you hear about Amsterdam, where you can get heroin but can't find Nyquil. Here all I wanted was a migraine pill but all I could get was Delaudid, a lovely, warm, haze-inducing narcotic that is lovely for pain but not for all that long. It hits instantly (the good), but wear off about two hours later (the bad) needing you to request another IV dose. I could have all that I wanted, apparently. It was like a drug buffet, but nothing to actually treat the cause of the pain.
And yes, I realize I'm selfish to be all about me when I'm surrounded by obviously incredibly-sick people who don't seem to be in any state to be leaving the hospital later. But hey, this is my blog, it's all about me. If waterlogged guy had a blog it would be all about him. And I'm not minimizing the pain by any means. I know they're suffering more than I was and I did not begrudge them one moment of their treatment. It's just hard to be best by nausea, finally get an appetite back, and have them bring you lukewarm oatmeal for breakfast -- only to have them start vacuuming phlegm from the guy next to you. Truly unappetizing.
All of this was decidedly unnecessary. (I almost used the phrase "over kill.") All I had was a migraine, and there I was in the "I hope you have a will" section of the hospital. It wasn't until I got out that I realized I was in that section. I can't imagine what poor Husband thought when he found out his wife was in a critical care unit. Had the positions been reversed, I would have freaked out. When he left I was in the ER, they had just decided to admit me, it was 6 am, and I sent him home because he'd been up all night. He comes back a few hours later to visit and discovers I'm surrounded by pacemakers and things that go endlessly beep in the night. (Which is good, because when they stop beeping, it's not a good thing.)
As usual with this hospital, the staff was great. I was a bit pissed that I from 6 am on Sunday when they decided to admit me to 1 pm yesterday when the ward doctor released me, I never once spoke to a doctor. That bothered me because I knew I was fine to get out but couldn't get anyone to OK that. Nor could I get anyone to OK Imitrex, which was really all I needed (plus dark and no sucking next door). But the nurses were amazing. And, being in a CCU, when you hit the nurse buzzer they come running. The endless Delaudid kept the pain away for the most part. They do this "how is your pain on a scale from 1 to 10?" thing and, at one point, it was up to a brain-exploding 9. But the lovely cocktail made it go away. The one thing it didn't do, oddly enough, was make me sleep. I hade five doses of Delaudid in ER, from 10 pm Saturday to 6 am Sunday, and I was lucid and awake for the whole time. Man, can I hold my narcotic or what?
Hospitals are in the business of over-reacting. That's what they get paid to do. And rightly so. When it comes to health, it makes sense to be a bit of an alarmist about things that concern you. Which is why I went into the emergency room on Saturday night, and ended up in one of their critical care units on Sunday morning.
Although I was never anything other than fine, they put me in their TCU (one step down from ICU). According to the website for the hospital, the Telemetry Care Unit is a "31-bed nursing unit provides care for patients who require monitoring such as cardiac surveillance following procedures including pacemaker insertion, cardiac or vascular surgery." They put me there because of a racing heart rate. (Which they eventually diagnosed as a combination of exhaustion, dehydration following a day of zarfing, anemia, and pain.) But since my family has a history of heart disease (my father died of a heart attack and my mother has already suffered one minor heart attack), the hospital went into over-react mode and set me up in a 4-bed critical care ward with a group of patients who all sounded like they were just this side of dying. They all seemed to be having breathing problems, one poor man had a cough that sounded like he was swimming in warm pudding and they had to (delightful) repeatedly suction phlegm out of his throat so he could breathe. That was my next-bed neighbor.
So there I am, begging for quiet, next to waterlogged guy. I felt terribly sorry for him, but the sound was both repulsive and loud, and went on several times an hour for the entire time I was there. He was also hardly lucid, so whenever people came to visit him they kept talking ever-louder in an attempt to get a response. Eventually they ended up yelling his name, trying to get him to understand they were there to take him for a CT scan, or to let him know that they were cousin Al and they were worried about him. The man in the bed next to him watched TV most of the night. Loudly. (We were in an open ward, separated only by curtains, so I could hear everything he watched.) And whenever waterlogged man would start coughing, TV guy would turn up the sound.
I was also by the door into the hall, next to the nursing station. So there were phone call and loud conversations all night long. And there I am, in spite of the ear plugs, hearing it all. Trying to sleep and failing. Wishing for darkness but by a window into the hallway where florescent lights glared all night long. Wishing somebody would hand me poor, migraine-wracked head an Imitrex. But nope, no migraine drugs. (t was like those jokes you hear about Amsterdam, where you can get heroin but can't find Nyquil. Here all I wanted was a migraine pill but all I could get was Delaudid, a lovely, warm, haze-inducing narcotic that is lovely for pain but not for all that long. It hits instantly (the good), but wear off about two hours later (the bad) needing you to request another IV dose. I could have all that I wanted, apparently. It was like a drug buffet, but nothing to actually treat the cause of the pain.
And yes, I realize I'm selfish to be all about me when I'm surrounded by obviously incredibly-sick people who don't seem to be in any state to be leaving the hospital later. But hey, this is my blog, it's all about me. If waterlogged guy had a blog it would be all about him. And I'm not minimizing the pain by any means. I know they're suffering more than I was and I did not begrudge them one moment of their treatment. It's just hard to be best by nausea, finally get an appetite back, and have them bring you lukewarm oatmeal for breakfast -- only to have them start vacuuming phlegm from the guy next to you. Truly unappetizing.
All of this was decidedly unnecessary. (I almost used the phrase "over kill.") All I had was a migraine, and there I was in the "I hope you have a will" section of the hospital. It wasn't until I got out that I realized I was in that section. I can't imagine what poor Husband thought when he found out his wife was in a critical care unit. Had the positions been reversed, I would have freaked out. When he left I was in the ER, they had just decided to admit me, it was 6 am, and I sent him home because he'd been up all night. He comes back a few hours later to visit and discovers I'm surrounded by pacemakers and things that go endlessly beep in the night. (Which is good, because when they stop beeping, it's not a good thing.)
As usual with this hospital, the staff was great. I was a bit pissed that I from 6 am on Sunday when they decided to admit me to 1 pm yesterday when the ward doctor released me, I never once spoke to a doctor. That bothered me because I knew I was fine to get out but couldn't get anyone to OK that. Nor could I get anyone to OK Imitrex, which was really all I needed (plus dark and no sucking next door). But the nurses were amazing. And, being in a CCU, when you hit the nurse buzzer they come running. The endless Delaudid kept the pain away for the most part. They do this "how is your pain on a scale from 1 to 10?" thing and, at one point, it was up to a brain-exploding 9. But the lovely cocktail made it go away. The one thing it didn't do, oddly enough, was make me sleep. I hade five doses of Delaudid in ER, from 10 pm Saturday to 6 am Sunday, and I was lucid and awake for the whole time. Man, can I hold my narcotic or what?
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Monday, February 01, 2010
Photo of the day: I Do The Rock
Yeah, I know I missed a day. I ended up in ER Saturday night and they kept me in until this afternoon. Great fun. I'm fine now. I just had a 32-hour migraine that wouldn't go away. They wanted to observe me because every time I stood up my heart rate went through the roof. (Ignoring the fact that I was exhausted, in some pretty severe pain, and severely dehydrated they jumped right to "heart trouble") and put me in with the cardiac care unit. Great fun. Don't ever go there. Especially for a migraine. It's non-stop noise and light -- the worst things when you are light- and sound-sensitive. And they never did, in spite of my repeated requests, give me any migraine meds. What they did give me, however, was Delaudid whenever I was in pain. Which was great fun, but didn't really treat the problem. Anyway, I'm home and well and doing fine. Just need to get my strength back after a few days without eating or much sleep.
Yeah, I know I missed a day. I ended up in ER Saturday night and they kept me in until this afternoon. Great fun. I'm fine now. I just had a 32-hour migraine that wouldn't go away. They wanted to observe me because every time I stood up my heart rate went through the roof. (Ignoring the fact that I was exhausted, in some pretty severe pain, and severely dehydrated they jumped right to "heart trouble") and put me in with the cardiac care unit. Great fun. Don't ever go there. Especially for a migraine. It's non-stop noise and light -- the worst things when you are light- and sound-sensitive. And they never did, in spite of my repeated requests, give me any migraine meds. What they did give me, however, was Delaudid whenever I was in pain. Which was great fun, but didn't really treat the problem. Anyway, I'm home and well and doing fine. Just need to get my strength back after a few days without eating or much sleep.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Things I Love
My husband. My friends. Chocolate. Hot baths. Electric blankets. Bookstores. Packages from Amazon. Cashmere. Flannel jammies. Finding a new musician that I fall in love with. Picking up a much-loved book and have it open to a favorite page. The Philadelphia Story. Giving money to charity. Animals. Hot cocoa with Bailey's Irish Creme. My bed. Old sweaters that feel like a hug. Comfy jeans. Black leather boots. My kitty. Pot stickers. Mexican food. Being caught up on work. Hearing good news. Finding something other than bills in the mail. Old movies. Hash browns. Louis Armstrong. Taking photographs. Making my husband laugh. Baking. Watching the Olympics. Being on the radio. Lord Peter Wimsey. Popcorn. Turquoise. My wedding ring. Art. Words. Dictionaries. The SF Giants. Volunteering. Generosity. Good pens. Meerkats. Red pandas. Antiques. Sleep.
My husband. My friends. Chocolate. Hot baths. Electric blankets. Bookstores. Packages from Amazon. Cashmere. Flannel jammies. Finding a new musician that I fall in love with. Picking up a much-loved book and have it open to a favorite page. The Philadelphia Story. Giving money to charity. Animals. Hot cocoa with Bailey's Irish Creme. My bed. Old sweaters that feel like a hug. Comfy jeans. Black leather boots. My kitty. Pot stickers. Mexican food. Being caught up on work. Hearing good news. Finding something other than bills in the mail. Old movies. Hash browns. Louis Armstrong. Taking photographs. Making my husband laugh. Baking. Watching the Olympics. Being on the radio. Lord Peter Wimsey. Popcorn. Turquoise. My wedding ring. Art. Words. Dictionaries. The SF Giants. Volunteering. Generosity. Good pens. Meerkats. Red pandas. Antiques. Sleep.
Unwanted Relationship Advice
God knows why, but I turned on Dr. Phil. And there was some psycho woman on the show who is single (big surprise) because she has a 20 point list that the men she dates have to fulfill. Included in this list were:
- parents must still be married
- parents must live locally
- no medications or history of health problems in family
- must be earth or water sign
and on and on.
I've seen similar lists from other people. Men's lists usually include a mandatory bust size. Women's list often mentions a minimum income.
Here's my unwanted relationship advice....get over it.
How in the world can you pick someone from a list? I can understand having certain requirements (no convicted felons) that are pretty obvious. But trying to find someone who fits every item on a "must have" list just seems like a good way to remain single. Forever.
Back when I was single I had very few requirements, and none of them were outlandish. (Like parents must still be married. Why would I hold someone responsible for what their parents did?) My list was: must have a good sense of humor, must be smart, must like books and music. I think that was it. Not out of the question, is it?
Husband is a thoroughly wonderful man and I am most happily married woman I know. But there is no way we would have gotten together if I had some ridiculously arbitrary list. While I think he's beautiful, I know he's not Brad Pitt. While he has a good job, he's not Bill Gates. He's just a normal guy. But to me, he's extraordinary. I never cared about looks or income. (Sure, he has to brush his teeth regularly and had to have met a bar of soap on a regular basis.) What I wanted was a nice guy, someone who would treat me well, someone who was funny and smart, with a good heart. And that's exactly what I found.
So, if you're looking for love, tear up the list and open your eyes. The best matches for you are those that respond to your heart, not your list.
God knows why, but I turned on Dr. Phil. And there was some psycho woman on the show who is single (big surprise) because she has a 20 point list that the men she dates have to fulfill. Included in this list were:
- parents must still be married
- parents must live locally
- no medications or history of health problems in family
- must be earth or water sign
and on and on.
I've seen similar lists from other people. Men's lists usually include a mandatory bust size. Women's list often mentions a minimum income.
Here's my unwanted relationship advice....get over it.
How in the world can you pick someone from a list? I can understand having certain requirements (no convicted felons) that are pretty obvious. But trying to find someone who fits every item on a "must have" list just seems like a good way to remain single. Forever.
Back when I was single I had very few requirements, and none of them were outlandish. (Like parents must still be married. Why would I hold someone responsible for what their parents did?) My list was: must have a good sense of humor, must be smart, must like books and music. I think that was it. Not out of the question, is it?
Husband is a thoroughly wonderful man and I am most happily married woman I know. But there is no way we would have gotten together if I had some ridiculously arbitrary list. While I think he's beautiful, I know he's not Brad Pitt. While he has a good job, he's not Bill Gates. He's just a normal guy. But to me, he's extraordinary. I never cared about looks or income. (Sure, he has to brush his teeth regularly and had to have met a bar of soap on a regular basis.) What I wanted was a nice guy, someone who would treat me well, someone who was funny and smart, with a good heart. And that's exactly what I found.
So, if you're looking for love, tear up the list and open your eyes. The best matches for you are those that respond to your heart, not your list.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
CD Pick of the Week: Christopher Tin
Calling All Dawns is a song-cycle in three parts (life, death, and rebirth) featuring some shiver-inducing music with guest stars like the Soweto Gospel Choir, opera star Frederica von Stade and Anonymous 4. 12 songs in 12 languages, united by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Knock-your-socks-off good. Seriously powerful.
Calling All Dawns is a song-cycle in three parts (life, death, and rebirth) featuring some shiver-inducing music with guest stars like the Soweto Gospel Choir, opera star Frederica von Stade and Anonymous 4. 12 songs in 12 languages, united by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Knock-your-socks-off good. Seriously powerful.
Swimming Against the Tide
J.D. Salinger author of The Catcher in the Rye has died at the age of 91.
Personally, I don't care. Sure, I've read it. Fine book. But it's not my bible. And yet wanting-to-be-seen-as-sensitive-and-literate poseurs all over the world are in mourning. And I have to wonder if it's because the author of their favorite book has died, or because they want people to think that CITR was their favorite book. People like that burn my knickers.
I cannot stand people who pretend to like or believe something because they think it'll make them appear smart, or hip, or in. People who say Citizen Kane is their favorite film because critics say it's the best American movie ever. But, in reality, their favorite movie of all time is The Breakfast Club or Caddyshack. These same people are now posting all over Facebook that their lives are darker because Salinger is gone. The fact is, they read it in high school and didn't like it. Their favorite books is actually The DaVinci Code but only losers admit to liking Dan Brown.
Which brings me to music. As a DJ at a college radio station, I'm surrounded by people who pride themselves on being at the vanguard of music. The most indie or the indie pop. But, bless them, they also admit to liking cheese. In fact we just had a discussion about our guilty pleasures....the artists we like but would never play. (My guilty pleasure? Garth Brooks.)
It's weird when I look back at the music I've owned over the course of my life. I've realized that I've never owned the album. The one everyone else in the world owns. I was probably the only kid in my high school who didn't own "Frampton Comes Alive" or the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever. I didn't own "Thriller", "No Jacket Required", or "Dark Side of the Moon." Nor did I own "Born in the U.S.A.", "The Joshua Tree", or "Like a Virgin." Which is not to say I didn't listen to this music on the radio, and even enjoy some of it. But I've always kind of swum against the stream when it comes to popular culture.
I don't watch reality TV (unless you count Mythbusers and Dirty Jobs). I've never seen "E.T." I've never cooked anything with sun-dried tomatoes. I have never gone on a diet. I have never read an Oprah book. In short, I'm a freak.
And The Catcher in the Rye? Overrated.
.....
P.S. The Internet is Made of Cats
J.D. Salinger author of The Catcher in the Rye has died at the age of 91.
Personally, I don't care. Sure, I've read it. Fine book. But it's not my bible. And yet wanting-to-be-seen-as-sensitive-and-literate poseurs all over the world are in mourning. And I have to wonder if it's because the author of their favorite book has died, or because they want people to think that CITR was their favorite book. People like that burn my knickers.
I cannot stand people who pretend to like or believe something because they think it'll make them appear smart, or hip, or in. People who say Citizen Kane is their favorite film because critics say it's the best American movie ever. But, in reality, their favorite movie of all time is The Breakfast Club or Caddyshack. These same people are now posting all over Facebook that their lives are darker because Salinger is gone. The fact is, they read it in high school and didn't like it. Their favorite books is actually The DaVinci Code but only losers admit to liking Dan Brown.
Which brings me to music. As a DJ at a college radio station, I'm surrounded by people who pride themselves on being at the vanguard of music. The most indie or the indie pop. But, bless them, they also admit to liking cheese. In fact we just had a discussion about our guilty pleasures....the artists we like but would never play. (My guilty pleasure? Garth Brooks.)
It's weird when I look back at the music I've owned over the course of my life. I've realized that I've never owned the album. The one everyone else in the world owns. I was probably the only kid in my high school who didn't own "Frampton Comes Alive" or the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever. I didn't own "Thriller", "No Jacket Required", or "Dark Side of the Moon." Nor did I own "Born in the U.S.A.", "The Joshua Tree", or "Like a Virgin." Which is not to say I didn't listen to this music on the radio, and even enjoy some of it. But I've always kind of swum against the stream when it comes to popular culture.
I don't watch reality TV (unless you count Mythbusers and Dirty Jobs). I've never seen "E.T." I've never cooked anything with sun-dried tomatoes. I have never gone on a diet. I have never read an Oprah book. In short, I'm a freak.
And The Catcher in the Rye? Overrated.
.....
P.S. The Internet is Made of Cats
Ambition
As a history buff, I find myself frequently caught up in history books or biographies about kings and presidents and the like. I've just finished one biography of Anne Boleyn, The Lady in the Tower by Alison Weir and I've just started another The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn but Eric Ives.
The Weir book is highly readable and provides insight into the rise and fall of the most famous consort of them all. The Ives book is already proving more scholarly, with endless footnotes that cite sources in Latin and such. But both books (and, surprisingly, the Showtime sex-and-blood-filled series The Tudors) have made me realize in a new way something which I have long ago acknowledged about myself. I have no ambition.
Now mind you, I do have ambitionS (plural). I'd like to write a novel. I'd like to buy a house someday. That sort of thing. But I have no ambition about the acquisition of power. I look at stories like Anne Boleyn's and I thank god that I live in the 21st century where my father couldn't marry me off for political reasons or, worse, whore me out in the quest to win king's favor. But I would never have the ambition to push myself into positions of authority just to flatter my ego and to have power over others.
I cannot imagine selling out my beliefs, morals, and self-respect in return for a title or a manor house. I can't imagine giving up life in a quiet setting with someone I love in favor of non-stop scrutiny, malicious gossip, and a naked scrambling for power that has friend turning on friend and families divided. I just don't possess that kind of ambition.
The Boleyns seem to have turned ambition into the family business. Anne's father, Thomas, was a noted courtier who learned how to play the game and earn his way into the inner circle. Along the way he pushed not just one, but two daughters into the path of Henry VIII in the hopes of currying favor. It worked. Anne's sister, Mary was Henry's mistress for a while (and rumor has it Mary also had an affair with King Francis of France and Burgundy). In fact, one of the excuses Henry had for declaring his marriage to Anne null and void was that he had had an affair with a close blood relative of his wife's and, therefore, the marriage was incestuous and against the laws of the church.
Anne herself became a willing participant in the ambition game, and seemed to have done a good job of stringing Henry along with the right amount of seduction and refusal to keep his interest for six years before they married. While queen she happily used her position to reward her brother and other family members but along the way alienated people with her high-handedness. It was the alienated ones that eventually got their revenge on Queen Anne.
All this lust for power is completely out of my scope of feeling. I know many people who have ambition. Who are willing to sacrifice family life in order to earn a bigger salary or a more important job title. I have known people who are total ass-kissing yes-men because that's what gets the rewards. How can you live with yourself when you're like that? Is it all worth it in the end.
I know I'm weird. I have quit two extremely well paying jobs because I was either bored or I hate the work/people/or atmosphere. I just wasn't willing to give up liking who I was in order to keep making six figures. So now I'm earning no money, have no job title, no fancy office, no sexy career. I had that. I worked for Apple, one of the sexiest companies around. But I was miserable. And now I'm incredibly happy. Why? Because I, apparently, have no ambition.
As a history buff, I find myself frequently caught up in history books or biographies about kings and presidents and the like. I've just finished one biography of Anne Boleyn, The Lady in the Tower by Alison Weir and I've just started another The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn but Eric Ives.
The Weir book is highly readable and provides insight into the rise and fall of the most famous consort of them all. The Ives book is already proving more scholarly, with endless footnotes that cite sources in Latin and such. But both books (and, surprisingly, the Showtime sex-and-blood-filled series The Tudors) have made me realize in a new way something which I have long ago acknowledged about myself. I have no ambition.
Now mind you, I do have ambitionS (plural). I'd like to write a novel. I'd like to buy a house someday. That sort of thing. But I have no ambition about the acquisition of power. I look at stories like Anne Boleyn's and I thank god that I live in the 21st century where my father couldn't marry me off for political reasons or, worse, whore me out in the quest to win king's favor. But I would never have the ambition to push myself into positions of authority just to flatter my ego and to have power over others.
I cannot imagine selling out my beliefs, morals, and self-respect in return for a title or a manor house. I can't imagine giving up life in a quiet setting with someone I love in favor of non-stop scrutiny, malicious gossip, and a naked scrambling for power that has friend turning on friend and families divided. I just don't possess that kind of ambition.
The Boleyns seem to have turned ambition into the family business. Anne's father, Thomas, was a noted courtier who learned how to play the game and earn his way into the inner circle. Along the way he pushed not just one, but two daughters into the path of Henry VIII in the hopes of currying favor. It worked. Anne's sister, Mary was Henry's mistress for a while (and rumor has it Mary also had an affair with King Francis of France and Burgundy). In fact, one of the excuses Henry had for declaring his marriage to Anne null and void was that he had had an affair with a close blood relative of his wife's and, therefore, the marriage was incestuous and against the laws of the church.
Anne herself became a willing participant in the ambition game, and seemed to have done a good job of stringing Henry along with the right amount of seduction and refusal to keep his interest for six years before they married. While queen she happily used her position to reward her brother and other family members but along the way alienated people with her high-handedness. It was the alienated ones that eventually got their revenge on Queen Anne.
All this lust for power is completely out of my scope of feeling. I know many people who have ambition. Who are willing to sacrifice family life in order to earn a bigger salary or a more important job title. I have known people who are total ass-kissing yes-men because that's what gets the rewards. How can you live with yourself when you're like that? Is it all worth it in the end.
I know I'm weird. I have quit two extremely well paying jobs because I was either bored or I hate the work/people/or atmosphere. I just wasn't willing to give up liking who I was in order to keep making six figures. So now I'm earning no money, have no job title, no fancy office, no sexy career. I had that. I worked for Apple, one of the sexiest companies around. But I was miserable. And now I'm incredibly happy. Why? Because I, apparently, have no ambition.
Photo of the day: Pebbles
Well, finally the weather was nice enough to go outside and take photos. I had planned on taking a walk but I had, with complete lack of forethought, failed to ensure my camera battery was charged. It wasn't. The result? No photo safari. Hopefully tomorrow will be clement enough for me to take a few shots.
Well, finally the weather was nice enough to go outside and take photos. I had planned on taking a walk but I had, with complete lack of forethought, failed to ensure my camera battery was charged. It wasn't. The result? No photo safari. Hopefully tomorrow will be clement enough for me to take a few shots.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Spinach vs. Parsley
Nowhere on earth is as mysterious as the produce section of your local grocery store. It's the one place where people will voluntarily admit ignorance and not feel bad about it. You'll often see men (and women too, let's be fair) wandering around with a glazed and pained look on their face as they consult a list and try to figure out what green thing might possibly correspond to this mysterious word on the shopping list.
I was in the produce section today when I was stopped by a man who pointed hopefully at the bundle of cilantro I was carrying and asked "is that spinach?" No, sir, it is not spinach, I explained. But I pointed to the spinach, whereupon he thanked me and wandered over to where I had pointed and picked up the parsley that was next to the spinach. "That's not spinach," I explained. "That's parsley. This is the spinach." And, so saying, I picked up a bunch of spinach to show the difference. He thanked me. Then he pointed to my cilantro one ore and asked "is that parsley?"
Nowhere on earth is as mysterious as the produce section of your local grocery store. It's the one place where people will voluntarily admit ignorance and not feel bad about it. You'll often see men (and women too, let's be fair) wandering around with a glazed and pained look on their face as they consult a list and try to figure out what green thing might possibly correspond to this mysterious word on the shopping list.
I was in the produce section today when I was stopped by a man who pointed hopefully at the bundle of cilantro I was carrying and asked "is that spinach?" No, sir, it is not spinach, I explained. But I pointed to the spinach, whereupon he thanked me and wandered over to where I had pointed and picked up the parsley that was next to the spinach. "That's not spinach," I explained. "That's parsley. This is the spinach." And, so saying, I picked up a bunch of spinach to show the difference. He thanked me. Then he pointed to my cilantro one ore and asked "is that parsley?"
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Fools and Horses
Not since the days when I worked in bookstores to put myself through college have I encountered such contact with the general public as I now experience as a volunteer at the shelter. I mean when I worked for IBM and Apple, the public was hardly likely to wander through the office asking stupid questions. But now I see them on a fairly regular basis and am constantly amazed by the folks I meet.
Most of them are normal human beings. They're polite and intelligent and ask regular questions about the cats. ("Can you recommend a cat that really likes to play?" or "Do you know if this cat gets along well with dogs?" kind of things.) But then you get the wackos. The ones who ask what do you have to feed cats. When I replied "um...cat food" they came back with "so you don't need to give them live mice or anything?" (Oh god, please don't let them adopt a cat.) Or the lady who asked specifically for a black and white cat and when I pointed out a particularly cute one she told me it wasn't black and white enough. (Oh, sorry I didn't know you had a ratio in mind. Can you give me numbers? Are we talking 50-50? 60-40?)
When confronted with the odd I find myself just sort of invisibly shaking my head in disbelief as to how these people function in the world. How do they hold jobs? And why, oh god why, do they breed? (Because many of the dumbest questions come from people with four or more kids in tow.) (Such as the lady who thought it would be fun to get five cats, so that each of her kids would have one to play with.) (No!!!)
But nothing tops working in a bookstore for stupid questions. For a while I actually kept a notebook with such gems as "do you have the yellow book that was on Oprah last week?" (Why yes, ma'am, we keep all our books filed by color. Please check our yellow section.) Or, one of my favorites, "has Jane Austen written anything new?" (Well, no, not since her death she hasn't.) A few more of my top idiot queries:
- Do you have that book, A Hundred Years of Solid Food? (No, but I've heard good things about A Hundred Years of Solitude?)
- I'd like that book by James and Harriet Yorkshire. (We're fresh out, how about a copy of James Herriott's Yorkshire?)
- I can't seem to find a copy of Shakespeare's "Death of a Salesman" can you order a copy? (Sure.)
- I need to read Jane Eyre for a class. Do you have any books like it, only shorter and not boring?
- Do you have any Sherlock Holmes books? -- Certainly, in the mystery section under Conan Doyle. -- No, Sherlock Holmes. That's the author's name. Do you have any books by Sherlock Holmes? (Oh yes, in our "books by fictional characters section over there on the invisible bookcase.)
And then there were the requests for such famous titles as:
- Lady Chatterley's Butler (a shocking tale of how to serve Port correctly)
- A Tale of Three Cities (the sequel)
- Uncle Fred's Cabin (which I think must be all about fishing)
- Donkey Hokey (this one gave me a moment's blankness before I led her to Cervantes)
- Anna Karimazov (finally Anna Karenena and the Brothers Karamazov together in one great novel!)
- For Whom the Bell Rises (Can I interest you in a copy of the Sun Also Tolls?)
- Sense and Prejudice (sadly, we were out of Pride and Sensibility)
And those are just the ones I remember without the aid of that infamous notebook.
Not since the days when I worked in bookstores to put myself through college have I encountered such contact with the general public as I now experience as a volunteer at the shelter. I mean when I worked for IBM and Apple, the public was hardly likely to wander through the office asking stupid questions. But now I see them on a fairly regular basis and am constantly amazed by the folks I meet.
Most of them are normal human beings. They're polite and intelligent and ask regular questions about the cats. ("Can you recommend a cat that really likes to play?" or "Do you know if this cat gets along well with dogs?" kind of things.) But then you get the wackos. The ones who ask what do you have to feed cats. When I replied "um...cat food" they came back with "so you don't need to give them live mice or anything?" (Oh god, please don't let them adopt a cat.) Or the lady who asked specifically for a black and white cat and when I pointed out a particularly cute one she told me it wasn't black and white enough. (Oh, sorry I didn't know you had a ratio in mind. Can you give me numbers? Are we talking 50-50? 60-40?)
When confronted with the odd I find myself just sort of invisibly shaking my head in disbelief as to how these people function in the world. How do they hold jobs? And why, oh god why, do they breed? (Because many of the dumbest questions come from people with four or more kids in tow.) (Such as the lady who thought it would be fun to get five cats, so that each of her kids would have one to play with.) (No!!!)
But nothing tops working in a bookstore for stupid questions. For a while I actually kept a notebook with such gems as "do you have the yellow book that was on Oprah last week?" (Why yes, ma'am, we keep all our books filed by color. Please check our yellow section.) Or, one of my favorites, "has Jane Austen written anything new?" (Well, no, not since her death she hasn't.) A few more of my top idiot queries:
- Do you have that book, A Hundred Years of Solid Food? (No, but I've heard good things about A Hundred Years of Solitude?)
- I'd like that book by James and Harriet Yorkshire. (We're fresh out, how about a copy of James Herriott's Yorkshire?)
- I can't seem to find a copy of Shakespeare's "Death of a Salesman" can you order a copy? (Sure.)
- I need to read Jane Eyre for a class. Do you have any books like it, only shorter and not boring?
- Do you have any Sherlock Holmes books? -- Certainly, in the mystery section under Conan Doyle. -- No, Sherlock Holmes. That's the author's name. Do you have any books by Sherlock Holmes? (Oh yes, in our "books by fictional characters section over there on the invisible bookcase.)
And then there were the requests for such famous titles as:
- Lady Chatterley's Butler (a shocking tale of how to serve Port correctly)
- A Tale of Three Cities (the sequel)
- Uncle Fred's Cabin (which I think must be all about fishing)
- Donkey Hokey (this one gave me a moment's blankness before I led her to Cervantes)
- Anna Karimazov (finally Anna Karenena and the Brothers Karamazov together in one great novel!)
- For Whom the Bell Rises (Can I interest you in a copy of the Sun Also Tolls?)
- Sense and Prejudice (sadly, we were out of Pride and Sensibility)
And those are just the ones I remember without the aid of that infamous notebook.
Photo of the day: Frieze
It's been too rainy to take my camera out on a date. And I'm getting the itch. If I go too long without taking photographs I get all squirrelly. Anyway, in the interest of my "post one photo every day" mantra, I pulled this one out of my library. It's from the Pulgas Water Temple down on the peninsula. Courtesy of the SF Water Department. I took lots of photos of the building itself, but for some reason I love this one for the design an the beautiful grey of the stone.
Hopefully I'll be able to go shooting soon. If not, I'll have to find interesting things inside.
It's been too rainy to take my camera out on a date. And I'm getting the itch. If I go too long without taking photographs I get all squirrelly. Anyway, in the interest of my "post one photo every day" mantra, I pulled this one out of my library. It's from the Pulgas Water Temple down on the peninsula. Courtesy of the SF Water Department. I took lots of photos of the building itself, but for some reason I love this one for the design an the beautiful grey of the stone.
Hopefully I'll be able to go shooting soon. If not, I'll have to find interesting things inside.
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Mysteries Mind of Mom
My mother's mind is a mysterious place. She just turned 87 and doesn't have much of a memory anymore. She can't remember the names of all her children and spent the afternoon calling me by one of my other sister's names. She couldn't recall which brother took her to dinner last night.
And yet...
I have satellite radio in my car and there's a channel that plays only 1940s music. I always put it on when she's in the car. Here's a woman who didn't remember the name of the street on which she's lived for the past 50 years, and yet she remembered all the words to "The Hut-Sut Song." No, really. And those lyrics don't make any sense, yet she knew every single one.
My mother's mind is a mysterious place. She just turned 87 and doesn't have much of a memory anymore. She can't remember the names of all her children and spent the afternoon calling me by one of my other sister's names. She couldn't recall which brother took her to dinner last night.
And yet...
I have satellite radio in my car and there's a channel that plays only 1940s music. I always put it on when she's in the car. Here's a woman who didn't remember the name of the street on which she's lived for the past 50 years, and yet she remembered all the words to "The Hut-Sut Song." No, really. And those lyrics don't make any sense, yet she knew every single one.
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