I Love I Love Lucy
You may disagree, but in my opinion I Love Lucy was the funniest sitcom ever. I've seen every episode probably a dozen times and yet I still laugh out loud at some episodes.
It's hard to pick a favorite, although I do like the series when she and Rickey are in Hollywood and she does all sorts of crazy things to meet the movie stars. Breaks into Richard Widmark's house. Hits William Holden in the face with a pie. And, of course, steals John Wayne's footprints. Stars were insanely gracious to long-suffering Ricky and his crazy wife and nobody had her arrested or committed. Nice of them.
Some of those episodes were wonderful, especially the one where she mirrors Harpo Marx. Classic!
The two biggest laughs of the series for me comes in two different episodes. The first is when they're living in the country and it's the famous "tango" episode. For a variety of reasons too complex to relate, Lucy has her shirt loaded with two dozen raw eggs. She and Ricky rehearse a tango and at the dramatic end of the dance, the eggs smash. It's genius. The look on RIcky's face when his wife "explodes." The reaction from Lucy at being a drippy, messy wreck. Every time I see that episode, even though I know it's going to happen, I laugh.
The other favorite moment is from a more obscure episode where Ricky takes Lucy hunting. She enlists Ethel to help her fool Ricky into thinking that Lucy is an experienced outdoorswoman. Ethel buys a bunch of fish and gives them to Lucy who pretend to catch them. But the big laugh comes the next day when they go duck hunting. Ethel hide up a tree. Lucky "spots the duck" and fires. And down comes the bird. Ricky picks it up -- and it's already plucked, fresh from the butcher. It's a huge laugh and one that had but Husband and i in stitches the last time we saw it.
So many of the classic series hold up well. Barney Miller is still brilliant. Some of the old Dick Van Dyke shows still deliver laughs. The Newhart Show, M*A*S*H, and The Mary Tyler Moore Show can still be funny. But the only one that never fails to make me laugh is Lucy.
Maybe I'm turning into one of those cranky old women (even though I'm still under 50) but the newer comedies just don't make me laugh. Of the past few years, only Friends had scripts that were literate and funny and didn't seem to revolve entirely around who was sleeping with whom.
I know there are some good ones out there, but if left up to me to choose between something where the plot is described as "a case of mistaken identity leads Heather to suspect her new boyfriend may be her long-lost brother" or I Love Lucy, there's really no choice.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Photo of the day: Ten Pennies. Ten Years
Ten years ago today Husband and I had our first date. We celebrate this anniversary rather than the date on which we married (in 2003) because March 25, 2000 was the day we fell in love with each other. Yeah, it happened that quickly.
The story is we had our first date two weeks before our first date. After a couple of conflicting schedules, we'd finally arranged our first official date: to go see Femi Kuti in San Francisco with some friends. But Husband decided (bless him) that he didn't want to wait two weeks to see me, so he came down to the radio station.
I was doing an early Saturday morning show and rarely had visitors. And then in walks Husband. "Hey, what are you doing here?" I asked. He mentioned something about music work. We chatted. My show finished. He asked me if I wanted to go get some coffee. That was at about 9 am. And at about 2 am we said goodnight after some serious necking in my car.
That morning I woke up alone and not really looking and that night I went to sleep in love with this amazing man who was funny and smart, creative and interesting, caring, compassionate, generous and, icing on the cake, a great kisser. And to this day I still get butterflies in my stomach when he kisses me.
So each of these pennies represents a year together. Bright, lucky, simple little objects -- like my life with my beloved Husband.
Ten years ago today Husband and I had our first date. We celebrate this anniversary rather than the date on which we married (in 2003) because March 25, 2000 was the day we fell in love with each other. Yeah, it happened that quickly.
The story is we had our first date two weeks before our first date. After a couple of conflicting schedules, we'd finally arranged our first official date: to go see Femi Kuti in San Francisco with some friends. But Husband decided (bless him) that he didn't want to wait two weeks to see me, so he came down to the radio station.
I was doing an early Saturday morning show and rarely had visitors. And then in walks Husband. "Hey, what are you doing here?" I asked. He mentioned something about music work. We chatted. My show finished. He asked me if I wanted to go get some coffee. That was at about 9 am. And at about 2 am we said goodnight after some serious necking in my car.
That morning I woke up alone and not really looking and that night I went to sleep in love with this amazing man who was funny and smart, creative and interesting, caring, compassionate, generous and, icing on the cake, a great kisser. And to this day I still get butterflies in my stomach when he kisses me.
So each of these pennies represents a year together. Bright, lucky, simple little objects -- like my life with my beloved Husband.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Photo of the day: Cat Mat
I have this lovely bulky yarn which I crochet into cat mats. These are placemat-sized creations that are put into shoe boxes and then given to the cats at the shelter so they have a cozy place to sleep. These are the only things I know how to crochet because the cats don't care that the edges are uneven and the whole thing, rather than rectangular, ends up looking like an outline of Rhode Island.
I have this lovely bulky yarn which I crochet into cat mats. These are placemat-sized creations that are put into shoe boxes and then given to the cats at the shelter so they have a cozy place to sleep. These are the only things I know how to crochet because the cats don't care that the edges are uneven and the whole thing, rather than rectangular, ends up looking like an outline of Rhode Island.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
What's In a Name?
I am fascinated by names. Personally I've never liked my first name. Too common. When I was in Catholic School there were only 25 or 30 kids in the class and four of us girls had the same name. I guess it was popular the year I was born. On the other hand, I'm glad I didn't get some weird, way-out name like Sapphire or LaTonda.
I am particularly interested in last names and I love how nearly every day I hear of a last name that I've never come across before. I was watching a documentary about Chinese history and they spoke to an archeologist whose last name was Marshover. Not too esoteric perhaps, but a name I've never heard.
New (to me) last names always make me wonder about their origin. Did this man's ancestors live over a marsh or something? I mean some names are obvious. The "profession" ones, for instance. Baker. Cook. Wheelwright. But then you get one that seem like just a melodious collection of syllables. Hartsmede. Callio. Ashlyn. Many, I'm sure, are place names. Some are derived from a non-English language. But each in its own way is interesting.
Another thing that I find interesting is how names go in and out of fashion and how, in some cases, you can guess the age of the person merely by knowing their first name. I don't believe any female under the age of 70 is named Bertha or Gertrude. Nor any man younger than 50 named Adolph (unless his parents are white supremacists, in which case I don't want to know him). And yet names always seem to come around again. Flower names are again popular with girls. Rose, Lily, Daisy. And yet for a while I knew of no babies named after anything botanical, unless it was of the hippie generation and it was something wild like Orchid or Poplar. For a while it seemed every girl had to have a "creative" name like Madison or Dakota. Then the classic names came around again: Jane, Anne, Hannah. In my grandmother's generation there were several branches on the family tree with names like Lucy. Then nothing for about 40 years, and now Lucy is back.
Some names never seem to leave the map. There are a respectable number of Elizabeths or James in every generation. And then every generation grows its own. Were there any Ashtons in the 19th century? Or anyone in World War I whose name was Heath? And I'm sorry to any Cody reading this, but your name sounds like it should belong to a big dog with a bandana around its neck.
Many parents draw their inspiration from fiction. I read an article today that said Atticus was becoming quite a popular name for boys and I know someone with a daughter named Scout. Jane Austen heroines are also quite common now; lots of Emmas and Charlottes. I suppose there are worse sources for names (anybody who names their child after a retail establishment should be sterilized. Tiffany? Macys?) but if your inspiration is a romance novel, your child will definitely need therapy. (Over the years I've met a Caressa, a Jakeman and two birds: Raven and Falcon.) Honestly, how do you face the world with a name like Caressa? Are you predestined to become a pole dancer?
There are some names that I find downright ugly. With apologies to anyone named Dorcas, I think it's a horrible name. Yes, I know it's biblical, but it's just so unappealing -- a growl and a hiss. And in some cases I find names unappealing because they are tainted by someone unpleasant. I once knew a horrible girl named Christine, a perfectly respectable name and yet I dislike it because I disliked her so intensely.
But then again, I'm shallow and judgemental.
I am fascinated by names. Personally I've never liked my first name. Too common. When I was in Catholic School there were only 25 or 30 kids in the class and four of us girls had the same name. I guess it was popular the year I was born. On the other hand, I'm glad I didn't get some weird, way-out name like Sapphire or LaTonda.
I am particularly interested in last names and I love how nearly every day I hear of a last name that I've never come across before. I was watching a documentary about Chinese history and they spoke to an archeologist whose last name was Marshover. Not too esoteric perhaps, but a name I've never heard.
New (to me) last names always make me wonder about their origin. Did this man's ancestors live over a marsh or something? I mean some names are obvious. The "profession" ones, for instance. Baker. Cook. Wheelwright. But then you get one that seem like just a melodious collection of syllables. Hartsmede. Callio. Ashlyn. Many, I'm sure, are place names. Some are derived from a non-English language. But each in its own way is interesting.
Another thing that I find interesting is how names go in and out of fashion and how, in some cases, you can guess the age of the person merely by knowing their first name. I don't believe any female under the age of 70 is named Bertha or Gertrude. Nor any man younger than 50 named Adolph (unless his parents are white supremacists, in which case I don't want to know him). And yet names always seem to come around again. Flower names are again popular with girls. Rose, Lily, Daisy. And yet for a while I knew of no babies named after anything botanical, unless it was of the hippie generation and it was something wild like Orchid or Poplar. For a while it seemed every girl had to have a "creative" name like Madison or Dakota. Then the classic names came around again: Jane, Anne, Hannah. In my grandmother's generation there were several branches on the family tree with names like Lucy. Then nothing for about 40 years, and now Lucy is back.
Some names never seem to leave the map. There are a respectable number of Elizabeths or James in every generation. And then every generation grows its own. Were there any Ashtons in the 19th century? Or anyone in World War I whose name was Heath? And I'm sorry to any Cody reading this, but your name sounds like it should belong to a big dog with a bandana around its neck.
Many parents draw their inspiration from fiction. I read an article today that said Atticus was becoming quite a popular name for boys and I know someone with a daughter named Scout. Jane Austen heroines are also quite common now; lots of Emmas and Charlottes. I suppose there are worse sources for names (anybody who names their child after a retail establishment should be sterilized. Tiffany? Macys?) but if your inspiration is a romance novel, your child will definitely need therapy. (Over the years I've met a Caressa, a Jakeman and two birds: Raven and Falcon.) Honestly, how do you face the world with a name like Caressa? Are you predestined to become a pole dancer?
There are some names that I find downright ugly. With apologies to anyone named Dorcas, I think it's a horrible name. Yes, I know it's biblical, but it's just so unappealing -- a growl and a hiss. And in some cases I find names unappealing because they are tainted by someone unpleasant. I once knew a horrible girl named Christine, a perfectly respectable name and yet I dislike it because I disliked her so intensely.
But then again, I'm shallow and judgemental.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: Flash Gordon
Everyone who filed through Silver Creek High eventually sat in a class taught by William Gordon. Called “Flash” by everyone who knew him, though not to his face, Flash was your stereotypical math teacher with an abstracted look on his face and a head of hair always in need of cutting.
He was a tall, gangly man whose shorts always seeded too short and whose ties always seemed too wide. He also had a good right arm, which he’d use to lob chalkboard erasers onto the head of any student caught talking in class. I suppose today it would be assault or child abuse, but back then it was jut part of life. Walking down the science hallway with a headful of chalk dust was almost a badge on honor because everyone knew Flash had caught you.
Flash and his wife, Helen, were parishioners at Our Lady of Angels, so we often saw them on Sunday mornings. He had a very special wide tie that he reserved for services and holydays, it had crucifixions all over it. I thought it was the most morbid article of clothing I had ever seen. I used to wonder, if Christ came back, what he would make of all these people with symbols of his execution lying around. People wearing crosses around their necks, stuck onto the back of their cars. Seems kind of cruel, you know. ‘Welcome back, remember what happened last time?”
We’d often end up sitting near Flash and his wife and it was always something of an ordeal because of the hymns. Flash had an enthusiastic, though unreliable voice. He’d boom his way through the songs he knew by heart and la-la his way through the rest. This resulted in sudden bursts of noise so the hymns wound sound “la-la-la-la GLORY ON HIGH la-la-la LIKE AN EAGLE la-la FOREVER…” This had the unfortunate effect of giving most people around him a bad case of giggles.
Every month Sliver Creek High School had an afternoon assembly. The whole school would gather grudgingly into the gym, sneakers squeaking across the basketball floor, and file into the bleachers to wait for that month’s useless information.
The sophomore cheerleaders bake sale raised $210 for Polynesia. The Drama department production of South Pacific was in dire need of sailors as the entire navy consisted of two awkward Freshmen and Vikram, our Indian exchange student who was to shy to sing the word “dame.” The only good thing about these assemblies (aside from getting me out of gym class) was the feature known as “Meet Your Teacher.” This was the brainchild of our Vice Principal, Lewis Hall who decided it would make student-teacher relations better if students learned something unexpected about the faculty. And it was, in practice.
We’d learned, for example, that Mrs. Favero. from the Home Ec department was 247th in line for the British throne. She was more than a bit coy about the mechanics of it, but I gathered it was the result of some ancestress having an affair with the illegitimate son of the illegitimate daughter of Henry VII. Our principal, Edward Christienssen told of his adventures onboard the Andrea Doria the night it had its great accident, complete with sound-effects and an overwrought poem about "the great lady dipping her brow unto the gray water." And hippie English teacher Mr. Carpenter told us about traveling from Seattle to Death Valley in a van with Ken Kesey and Alan Ginsburg. Unfortunately he couldn’t relate to us any of the details because I gather it was all sex- and drug-related and while the administration wanted us to meet our teachers, they didn’t want us to get quite that personal.
When it was Flash’s turn to take the podium he started by setting up clipboards covered in blueprints. Then he cleared his throat, fiddled with his fat tie, and began talking about how he’d always had an interest in architecture and also had a fascination for all things Classical.
The result was one of the oddest hobbies I’d ever heard of: designing ancient temples. It was the “designing” part that was fascinating. Because he wouldn’t just recreate existing ones, like making detailed drawings of the Parthenon. No, he would take what the ancients had done and then get all weird and make something new. Not just new buildings, but a whole new Olympian pantheon. For example, the Temple of Athena at McDonald’s. This featured Corinthian columns flanking ample parking, complete with a drive-through portico with acanthus leaves and a frieze featuring Mayor McCheese in a toga. The Banktheon was a Bank of America in a round Classical design with a sunken vault and a colossal statue of “Altus Caponus.” (Because, of course, every bank wants a statue of Al Capone in the lobby.) And then there was the Driveoseum, a classic Greek amphitheatre that was a drive-in and included a refreshment stand known as the “Popcornia.”
All of this was delivered with not a hint of how freakishly weird it was. There was no sense of whimsy behind it, no indication that he was aware this hobby was strange and his creations were frivolous and rather wonderful. I was both surprised at this hidden streak of creativity and amused that he was so un-amused. Nobody had the nerve to laugh, we all just sat there as if he were showing us designs for something serious and we had to be suitably respectful.
I have to admit that out of all the Meet Your Teacher assemblies, Flash’s presentation was the one that surprised me the most. The following month Miss Haber from the science department told us how her family kept pet skunks when she was a kid. Yawn.
Everyone who filed through Silver Creek High eventually sat in a class taught by William Gordon. Called “Flash” by everyone who knew him, though not to his face, Flash was your stereotypical math teacher with an abstracted look on his face and a head of hair always in need of cutting.
He was a tall, gangly man whose shorts always seeded too short and whose ties always seemed too wide. He also had a good right arm, which he’d use to lob chalkboard erasers onto the head of any student caught talking in class. I suppose today it would be assault or child abuse, but back then it was jut part of life. Walking down the science hallway with a headful of chalk dust was almost a badge on honor because everyone knew Flash had caught you.
Flash and his wife, Helen, were parishioners at Our Lady of Angels, so we often saw them on Sunday mornings. He had a very special wide tie that he reserved for services and holydays, it had crucifixions all over it. I thought it was the most morbid article of clothing I had ever seen. I used to wonder, if Christ came back, what he would make of all these people with symbols of his execution lying around. People wearing crosses around their necks, stuck onto the back of their cars. Seems kind of cruel, you know. ‘Welcome back, remember what happened last time?”
We’d often end up sitting near Flash and his wife and it was always something of an ordeal because of the hymns. Flash had an enthusiastic, though unreliable voice. He’d boom his way through the songs he knew by heart and la-la his way through the rest. This resulted in sudden bursts of noise so the hymns wound sound “la-la-la-la GLORY ON HIGH la-la-la LIKE AN EAGLE la-la FOREVER…” This had the unfortunate effect of giving most people around him a bad case of giggles.
Every month Sliver Creek High School had an afternoon assembly. The whole school would gather grudgingly into the gym, sneakers squeaking across the basketball floor, and file into the bleachers to wait for that month’s useless information.
The sophomore cheerleaders bake sale raised $210 for Polynesia. The Drama department production of South Pacific was in dire need of sailors as the entire navy consisted of two awkward Freshmen and Vikram, our Indian exchange student who was to shy to sing the word “dame.” The only good thing about these assemblies (aside from getting me out of gym class) was the feature known as “Meet Your Teacher.” This was the brainchild of our Vice Principal, Lewis Hall who decided it would make student-teacher relations better if students learned something unexpected about the faculty. And it was, in practice.
We’d learned, for example, that Mrs. Favero. from the Home Ec department was 247th in line for the British throne. She was more than a bit coy about the mechanics of it, but I gathered it was the result of some ancestress having an affair with the illegitimate son of the illegitimate daughter of Henry VII. Our principal, Edward Christienssen told of his adventures onboard the Andrea Doria the night it had its great accident, complete with sound-effects and an overwrought poem about "the great lady dipping her brow unto the gray water." And hippie English teacher Mr. Carpenter told us about traveling from Seattle to Death Valley in a van with Ken Kesey and Alan Ginsburg. Unfortunately he couldn’t relate to us any of the details because I gather it was all sex- and drug-related and while the administration wanted us to meet our teachers, they didn’t want us to get quite that personal.
When it was Flash’s turn to take the podium he started by setting up clipboards covered in blueprints. Then he cleared his throat, fiddled with his fat tie, and began talking about how he’d always had an interest in architecture and also had a fascination for all things Classical.
The result was one of the oddest hobbies I’d ever heard of: designing ancient temples. It was the “designing” part that was fascinating. Because he wouldn’t just recreate existing ones, like making detailed drawings of the Parthenon. No, he would take what the ancients had done and then get all weird and make something new. Not just new buildings, but a whole new Olympian pantheon. For example, the Temple of Athena at McDonald’s. This featured Corinthian columns flanking ample parking, complete with a drive-through portico with acanthus leaves and a frieze featuring Mayor McCheese in a toga. The Banktheon was a Bank of America in a round Classical design with a sunken vault and a colossal statue of “Altus Caponus.” (Because, of course, every bank wants a statue of Al Capone in the lobby.) And then there was the Driveoseum, a classic Greek amphitheatre that was a drive-in and included a refreshment stand known as the “Popcornia.”
All of this was delivered with not a hint of how freakishly weird it was. There was no sense of whimsy behind it, no indication that he was aware this hobby was strange and his creations were frivolous and rather wonderful. I was both surprised at this hidden streak of creativity and amused that he was so un-amused. Nobody had the nerve to laugh, we all just sat there as if he were showing us designs for something serious and we had to be suitably respectful.
I have to admit that out of all the Meet Your Teacher assemblies, Flash’s presentation was the one that surprised me the most. The following month Miss Haber from the science department told us how her family kept pet skunks when she was a kid. Yawn.
Photo of the day: Last Year's Residents
In anticipation of the upcoming kitten nursery I pulled out this cutie from last year's residents. We'll be opening next month and I cannot wait! Kitten duty is the highlight of the week -- I'm alway surprised there aren't hoards of people rushing the shelter saying "Yes, we want to feed baby kittens!" Of course that enthusiasm fades away when they realize they'll have to teach the aforementioned kittens how to poop. But trust me, it's all worth it.
In anticipation of the upcoming kitten nursery I pulled out this cutie from last year's residents. We'll be opening next month and I cannot wait! Kitten duty is the highlight of the week -- I'm alway surprised there aren't hoards of people rushing the shelter saying "Yes, we want to feed baby kittens!" Of course that enthusiasm fades away when they realize they'll have to teach the aforementioned kittens how to poop. But trust me, it's all worth it.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
You Can Only Do it for the Love
I can't believe we had our first meeting for the next season's kitten nursery last night. It seems like we only just closed down from last year.
We're aiming for an early May opening and will go through September; even October if there are still kittens in need.
Last night was for us old hands, so there wasn't anything in the way of training. Just a few new policies to go over and a chance to pick out our preferred shifts. Three shifts a day breakfast 8-10, lunch 1-3. and dinner 5-7. Seven days a week. Last summer I did two regular shifts and picked up a third along the way, plus doing my cat shifts on the days when I wasn't at the nursery. This year I hope to work with some of my favorite people from last year -- at least we all requested the same shift, so I'm hoping it'll be the fun crew again.
And then I went back today for a regular cat session. Someone today asks me why I do it? Why give us so much of my days and work so had for absolutely no money. I had to, in all honesty, respond that this is the best paying job I've ever had. When I left Apple I was making over $1k a year to do nothing all that important. And yeah, I could buy socks before they all developed holes and had dreams one day of a new car (mine is 10 years old with 185,000 miles on it). And yes, my all time big dream of all dreams, owning my own house.
But what I'm doing now is more important that that. I can find a good used car. I can rent. I can shop at K Mart rather than Macy's (although I'll still insist Husband shops at Macy's). But I can't give up the fact that i am doing something good. I made a conscitious decision to turn in the 6-figure salary in favor of the buy your own catnip and band-aids brigade. And I don't regret a minute of it. There may be times when I feel guilty when Husband has to get up early or work late to make a deadline and I feel like I'm not pulling the weight in our relationship. But then he smiles at me and tells me how proud he is that I'm taking care of critters and all's right with the world again. (I am the luclkiest woman on the planet!)
Sure I'd love a car I can count on. And yes, more than anything, I was to own a house where I can paint the walls whatever color I chose and where I can't be asked to move on 30 days notice. But more than that, I want to take care of the animals. I want to be there when they learn they can trust people, when they find that one and true person who wants to take them home. I want to get the shy cat to curl into my lap and I want the agressitve cat to play with me without claws out and with no trauma getting hin back into the cage.
I honestly believe that working with animals is what I was born to do. Now if I could only find someone to help me pay my rent and I'll be a full-butt-wiggle happy camper.
I can't believe we had our first meeting for the next season's kitten nursery last night. It seems like we only just closed down from last year.
We're aiming for an early May opening and will go through September; even October if there are still kittens in need.
Last night was for us old hands, so there wasn't anything in the way of training. Just a few new policies to go over and a chance to pick out our preferred shifts. Three shifts a day breakfast 8-10, lunch 1-3. and dinner 5-7. Seven days a week. Last summer I did two regular shifts and picked up a third along the way, plus doing my cat shifts on the days when I wasn't at the nursery. This year I hope to work with some of my favorite people from last year -- at least we all requested the same shift, so I'm hoping it'll be the fun crew again.
And then I went back today for a regular cat session. Someone today asks me why I do it? Why give us so much of my days and work so had for absolutely no money. I had to, in all honesty, respond that this is the best paying job I've ever had. When I left Apple I was making over $1k a year to do nothing all that important. And yeah, I could buy socks before they all developed holes and had dreams one day of a new car (mine is 10 years old with 185,000 miles on it). And yes, my all time big dream of all dreams, owning my own house.
But what I'm doing now is more important that that. I can find a good used car. I can rent. I can shop at K Mart rather than Macy's (although I'll still insist Husband shops at Macy's). But I can't give up the fact that i am doing something good. I made a conscitious decision to turn in the 6-figure salary in favor of the buy your own catnip and band-aids brigade. And I don't regret a minute of it. There may be times when I feel guilty when Husband has to get up early or work late to make a deadline and I feel like I'm not pulling the weight in our relationship. But then he smiles at me and tells me how proud he is that I'm taking care of critters and all's right with the world again. (I am the luclkiest woman on the planet!)
Sure I'd love a car I can count on. And yes, more than anything, I was to own a house where I can paint the walls whatever color I chose and where I can't be asked to move on 30 days notice. But more than that, I want to take care of the animals. I want to be there when they learn they can trust people, when they find that one and true person who wants to take them home. I want to get the shy cat to curl into my lap and I want the agressitve cat to play with me without claws out and with no trauma getting hin back into the cage.
I honestly believe that working with animals is what I was born to do. Now if I could only find someone to help me pay my rent and I'll be a full-butt-wiggle happy camper.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Wearing of the Green
When I was a senior in high school I was in the marching band. I played the flag. You know those spangle-clad girls you see twirling flags at the Thanksgiving Day Parade? Yeah, I was one of them. Go figure.
Our band was quite a big thing. We went to, and won, state competitions and marched in a lot of big-time parades. Before my time the band from our high school played at the Kennedy inauguration. But my year we didn't do much except compete, do a few local events, and march in the San Francisco St. Patrick's Day Parade.
I suppose it was appropriate, as our uniforms were green. The flag girl uniforms were short leotard-y things, green spangles with white fringe. They were hideous, in retrospect. No. Not in retrospect. They were hideous back then too. And so uncomfortable. With them we wore white knee-high boots which made us all look like little hookers. Ah, those were the days.
For the SF parade we joined with dozens of other local bands and hundreds of floats, plus every pipe band in the universe, to march down Market Street under a typically gray San Francisco Day. The streets were lined with thousands of revelers, most of them drunk out of their gourds, happy for an excuse to be snockered at 11 am on a Sunday.
Most of the spectators were wearing green and there was a huge business in green cardboard top hats with gold shamrocks on them. There were adorable troops of red-headed Irish children step-dancing their way down the financial district. And a float from the local Irish-American Cultural Center that was tossing out green mardi gras beads. I can't tell you how many of those things I stepped on.
We discovered that the grates covering Market Street had squares the exact same size as the heels on our hooker boots and several of us got stuck along the parade route. We had to pull each other out and then dash to catch up to the rest of the band. Andy Landucci passed out in front of the Bank of America because he was hungover from Jessie Madell's 17th birthday party the night before and was dragged off the parade route by a cop and some guy in a McDonald's uniform. We were at the back of the band and had a hard time staying in step because the float behind us, playing a tinny version of McNamarra's Band, was louder than our own band in front of us. We heard McNamarra's Band 17 times during the course of the day. I hate McNamarra's Band. The float was from a local Irish pub named "Brennan's" and the guys on the float downed their first pint of Guinness at dawn and were well and truly cooked by the time the parade kicked off. Thoughtfully they had designed their float with a fake bar, with real stout. They kept up the drinking. One guy kept yelling inventive come-ons to us girls at the back. Another guy jumped off the float and started a fight with some hapless tourist who, unfortunately for him was wearing orange.
In keeping with the Irish theme, our band played Barry Manilow's Copa and the theme to the movie Rocky. Apparently we didn't know how to play McNamarra's Band.
When I was a senior in high school I was in the marching band. I played the flag. You know those spangle-clad girls you see twirling flags at the Thanksgiving Day Parade? Yeah, I was one of them. Go figure.
Our band was quite a big thing. We went to, and won, state competitions and marched in a lot of big-time parades. Before my time the band from our high school played at the Kennedy inauguration. But my year we didn't do much except compete, do a few local events, and march in the San Francisco St. Patrick's Day Parade.
I suppose it was appropriate, as our uniforms were green. The flag girl uniforms were short leotard-y things, green spangles with white fringe. They were hideous, in retrospect. No. Not in retrospect. They were hideous back then too. And so uncomfortable. With them we wore white knee-high boots which made us all look like little hookers. Ah, those were the days.
For the SF parade we joined with dozens of other local bands and hundreds of floats, plus every pipe band in the universe, to march down Market Street under a typically gray San Francisco Day. The streets were lined with thousands of revelers, most of them drunk out of their gourds, happy for an excuse to be snockered at 11 am on a Sunday.
Most of the spectators were wearing green and there was a huge business in green cardboard top hats with gold shamrocks on them. There were adorable troops of red-headed Irish children step-dancing their way down the financial district. And a float from the local Irish-American Cultural Center that was tossing out green mardi gras beads. I can't tell you how many of those things I stepped on.
We discovered that the grates covering Market Street had squares the exact same size as the heels on our hooker boots and several of us got stuck along the parade route. We had to pull each other out and then dash to catch up to the rest of the band. Andy Landucci passed out in front of the Bank of America because he was hungover from Jessie Madell's 17th birthday party the night before and was dragged off the parade route by a cop and some guy in a McDonald's uniform. We were at the back of the band and had a hard time staying in step because the float behind us, playing a tinny version of McNamarra's Band, was louder than our own band in front of us. We heard McNamarra's Band 17 times during the course of the day. I hate McNamarra's Band. The float was from a local Irish pub named "Brennan's" and the guys on the float downed their first pint of Guinness at dawn and were well and truly cooked by the time the parade kicked off. Thoughtfully they had designed their float with a fake bar, with real stout. They kept up the drinking. One guy kept yelling inventive come-ons to us girls at the back. Another guy jumped off the float and started a fight with some hapless tourist who, unfortunately for him was wearing orange.
In keeping with the Irish theme, our band played Barry Manilow's Copa and the theme to the movie Rocky. Apparently we didn't know how to play McNamarra's Band.
Photo of the day: Traces of Fire
Traces of fire against these rocks bring to mind beach parties from high school. Beer bought with a fake ID and then lots of skinny dipping and playing on the beach on a warm summer night. A ritual from high school. You had to have attended at least one of our beach parties. In retrospect, quite innocent. Some pot, maybe, but nothing more than that and alcohol and we always had sober drivers. Some great music, great friends, and a chance to get away from the folks for a while and just be teenagers again.
I lived for those nights when I could leave who my family thought I was behind and then go out with my real friends and laugh and get goofy, try stupid things, have fun. I celebrate those memories and credit them for helping me realize there was life outside of what my family were presenting me on their road map. I tore up that map. And I still don't know where I'm going. Loving every minute of it.
Traces of fire against these rocks bring to mind beach parties from high school. Beer bought with a fake ID and then lots of skinny dipping and playing on the beach on a warm summer night. A ritual from high school. You had to have attended at least one of our beach parties. In retrospect, quite innocent. Some pot, maybe, but nothing more than that and alcohol and we always had sober drivers. Some great music, great friends, and a chance to get away from the folks for a while and just be teenagers again.
I lived for those nights when I could leave who my family thought I was behind and then go out with my real friends and laugh and get goofy, try stupid things, have fun. I celebrate those memories and credit them for helping me realize there was life outside of what my family were presenting me on their road map. I tore up that map. And I still don't know where I'm going. Loving every minute of it.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: Wyatt Earp and Columbo
I suppose most towns are proud of their famous sons and daughters. Or eager to claim some brush with glory by proclaiming that George Washington slept there. Silver Creek was no exception….well, with one exception.
Silver Creek has absolutely no claim to any famous citizen or visitor.
The closest the town had ever come to a famous citizen is Andrew Kilpatrick. He right after high school to become an actor. He had one credit: he was a corpse on an episode of Columbo. I suppose his drive to be an actor wasn’t very strong because after six whole months of hard slogging in Hollywood, he got a job as a salesman at a Ford dealership in Orange County and ended his acting career. (Although he did appear in a few ads for the dealership and “Salesman Sal, your car-buying pal!”)
And as for George Washington passing through, well the only even remotely famous person to ever pass through Silver Creek was Wyatt Earp. And everyone knows he never actually visited town – it was just a PR ploy cooked up by the city council to give a little cache to our annual “Founder’s Days” events.
What prompted the deception was the fact that one of Silver Creek’s first families was named Earp. Absolutely no relation as the family never failed to point out – though I could never quite decide if they made that admission with pride at not being related to an such a character or disappointment at not having such a black sheep on the family tree. (If one can have sheep on a tree.)
But when it became obvious that nobody cared about Founder’s Days, the city council decided to add a little spice to the proceedings by claiming that Wyatt Earp had spent time in Sliver Creek in 1880, the year before the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. According to the adventurously titled pamphlet “Wyatt Earp in Silver Creek,” the lawman was convalescing from a gunshot wound at the home of his Aunt and Uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Lyman Earp.
But having him lying around in bed eating Aunt Agnes’ peach cobbler wasn’t enough and the pamphlet was three pages long so….
“By July of 1880 Earp was well enough to leave the comfort and care of the family homestead and throw himself into Silver Creek society. It was on the evening of July 17th that Earp single-handedly foiled a dastardly crime….”
Where to begin? Well, first off in 1880 Earp was living in Tombstone. The non-existent “family homestead” would have been the Earp house, a one-story ranch home built in 1892. Silver Creek never had much society. And I’m not even going to touch the phrase “dastardly crime.”
According to the increasingly hysterical pamphlet, a gang of masked robbers burst into the home of Mr. and Mrs. Preston Mears while a party was being held in honor of the visitor. Silver Creek’s finest citizens were being robbed at gunpoint when Wyatt Earp (who had conveniently been out of the room when the miscreants broke in) came flying through a window, guns blazing in both hands. He took down four robbers and finished the evening by dancing the Virginia Reel with the Mears’ lovely young daughter, Camellia.
Phrases such as “Earp’s cool lawman’s mind chilled at the thought of the beautiful Miss Camellia being misused by such ruffians” were matched in their stupidity only by the revelation that Earp was, apparently, such an expert shot that not one of the villains was killed. Earp managed to disarm each, but fired no mortal shot, so that every man was brought to a fair trial. (I guess whoever wrote this preposterous tale decided that having four men killed at a party would rather put a crimp on any further Virginia Reeling.)
One of the great things about Silver Creek is that everyone knew it was a lie, and everyone went along with it. Not in a “we believe this story” kind of way but in a “this is such a ridiculous idea that we’re going to have fun with it” fashion. The first Founder’s Day events after the creation of the Gospel According to Wyatt Earp included an old west costume party and a peach cobbler contest, in honor o Aunt Agnes Earp.
The following year proved even more exciting with a reenactment of The Great Crime, complete with Silver Creek police officer Dan Hartley jumping through a window at the Kiwanis hall and firing blanks towards the four “ruffians.”
And since then, it has only grown. There are mock shoot-outs on the street, in a battle rivaled only by the O.K. Corral itself. There is a cowboy poetry slam and a bluegrass music festival. There is even a dance that concludes with the Virginia Reel.
And one time I danced the Virginia Reel with Andrew Kilpatrick. Before he became a corpse on Columbo.
I suppose most towns are proud of their famous sons and daughters. Or eager to claim some brush with glory by proclaiming that George Washington slept there. Silver Creek was no exception….well, with one exception.
Silver Creek has absolutely no claim to any famous citizen or visitor.
The closest the town had ever come to a famous citizen is Andrew Kilpatrick. He right after high school to become an actor. He had one credit: he was a corpse on an episode of Columbo. I suppose his drive to be an actor wasn’t very strong because after six whole months of hard slogging in Hollywood, he got a job as a salesman at a Ford dealership in Orange County and ended his acting career. (Although he did appear in a few ads for the dealership and “Salesman Sal, your car-buying pal!”)
And as for George Washington passing through, well the only even remotely famous person to ever pass through Silver Creek was Wyatt Earp. And everyone knows he never actually visited town – it was just a PR ploy cooked up by the city council to give a little cache to our annual “Founder’s Days” events.
What prompted the deception was the fact that one of Silver Creek’s first families was named Earp. Absolutely no relation as the family never failed to point out – though I could never quite decide if they made that admission with pride at not being related to an such a character or disappointment at not having such a black sheep on the family tree. (If one can have sheep on a tree.)
But when it became obvious that nobody cared about Founder’s Days, the city council decided to add a little spice to the proceedings by claiming that Wyatt Earp had spent time in Sliver Creek in 1880, the year before the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. According to the adventurously titled pamphlet “Wyatt Earp in Silver Creek,” the lawman was convalescing from a gunshot wound at the home of his Aunt and Uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Lyman Earp.
But having him lying around in bed eating Aunt Agnes’ peach cobbler wasn’t enough and the pamphlet was three pages long so….
“By July of 1880 Earp was well enough to leave the comfort and care of the family homestead and throw himself into Silver Creek society. It was on the evening of July 17th that Earp single-handedly foiled a dastardly crime….”
Where to begin? Well, first off in 1880 Earp was living in Tombstone. The non-existent “family homestead” would have been the Earp house, a one-story ranch home built in 1892. Silver Creek never had much society. And I’m not even going to touch the phrase “dastardly crime.”
According to the increasingly hysterical pamphlet, a gang of masked robbers burst into the home of Mr. and Mrs. Preston Mears while a party was being held in honor of the visitor. Silver Creek’s finest citizens were being robbed at gunpoint when Wyatt Earp (who had conveniently been out of the room when the miscreants broke in) came flying through a window, guns blazing in both hands. He took down four robbers and finished the evening by dancing the Virginia Reel with the Mears’ lovely young daughter, Camellia.
Phrases such as “Earp’s cool lawman’s mind chilled at the thought of the beautiful Miss Camellia being misused by such ruffians” were matched in their stupidity only by the revelation that Earp was, apparently, such an expert shot that not one of the villains was killed. Earp managed to disarm each, but fired no mortal shot, so that every man was brought to a fair trial. (I guess whoever wrote this preposterous tale decided that having four men killed at a party would rather put a crimp on any further Virginia Reeling.)
One of the great things about Silver Creek is that everyone knew it was a lie, and everyone went along with it. Not in a “we believe this story” kind of way but in a “this is such a ridiculous idea that we’re going to have fun with it” fashion. The first Founder’s Day events after the creation of the Gospel According to Wyatt Earp included an old west costume party and a peach cobbler contest, in honor o Aunt Agnes Earp.
The following year proved even more exciting with a reenactment of The Great Crime, complete with Silver Creek police officer Dan Hartley jumping through a window at the Kiwanis hall and firing blanks towards the four “ruffians.”
And since then, it has only grown. There are mock shoot-outs on the street, in a battle rivaled only by the O.K. Corral itself. There is a cowboy poetry slam and a bluegrass music festival. There is even a dance that concludes with the Virginia Reel.
And one time I danced the Virginia Reel with Andrew Kilpatrick. Before he became a corpse on Columbo.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
CD Pick of the Week: The Chieftans and Ry Cooder
Multi-grammy winners (and elder statesmen of Irish music) the Chieftans team up with world music's favorite chameleon, Ry Cooder on San Patricio. As if that weren't enough, they include guests like Lila Downs and Linda Rondstadt, plus Liam Neeson doing the narration on one track. This release combines the music of Ireland and Mexico in a tribute to the little-known San Patricio Battalion, a group of Irish immigrants who deserted from the US Army to fight for Mexico in the Mexican-American War. This outstanding CD includes mariachi music backed by bagpipes, and Irish seafaring ballads with a touch of cancion guitar.
It's releases like this that make me so happy to be a world music DJ.
Multi-grammy winners (and elder statesmen of Irish music) the Chieftans team up with world music's favorite chameleon, Ry Cooder on San Patricio. As if that weren't enough, they include guests like Lila Downs and Linda Rondstadt, plus Liam Neeson doing the narration on one track. This release combines the music of Ireland and Mexico in a tribute to the little-known San Patricio Battalion, a group of Irish immigrants who deserted from the US Army to fight for Mexico in the Mexican-American War. This outstanding CD includes mariachi music backed by bagpipes, and Irish seafaring ballads with a touch of cancion guitar.
It's releases like this that make me so happy to be a world music DJ.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Look At Me Being All Proud
Kittie, author of the wonderful The Block has just graced me with an award. Well color me proud! Considering I have all of three readers (ok, maybe five) I'm all twitterpated. (No reference to Twitter intended.)
The instructions are to pass on the award to some of my favorite bloggers so I picked my top two.
To Finny at Finnyknits. A does of gardening. A dash of cooking. Three large cups of snarky humor. Finny is ever-hilarious, frequently instructive, and a laugh-out-loud hoot to read. She is also, I'm proud to say, a dear friend. And I hereby publicly proclaim my love for her.
To Duke at It's a Noir World. A newly-discovered blogging treasure. He writes on movies, politics, social issues. It's thought-provoking, intelligently written, and a gem for people who like to think and learn.
Thank you both for enriching my life. And thank you, Kittie, for the generous award.
Kittie, author of the wonderful The Block has just graced me with an award. Well color me proud! Considering I have all of three readers (ok, maybe five) I'm all twitterpated. (No reference to Twitter intended.)
The instructions are to pass on the award to some of my favorite bloggers so I picked my top two.
To Finny at Finnyknits. A does of gardening. A dash of cooking. Three large cups of snarky humor. Finny is ever-hilarious, frequently instructive, and a laugh-out-loud hoot to read. She is also, I'm proud to say, a dear friend. And I hereby publicly proclaim my love for her.
To Duke at It's a Noir World. A newly-discovered blogging treasure. He writes on movies, politics, social issues. It's thought-provoking, intelligently written, and a gem for people who like to think and learn.
Thank you both for enriching my life. And thank you, Kittie, for the generous award.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Lost in Coventry
I randomly picked up a copy of Coventry by Helen Humphreys. I'm one of those "judging a book by its cover" types of people and I saw it on display at my favorite independent bookstore, Keplers. Something about it had me picking it up and reading the back cover. And something there had me adding it to my pile of treasures. I don't know what or why, but it appealed to me and so it became mine.
I started it last night, finished it a few minutes ago and actually feel like I want to read it again because I think I read so fast that some of its beauty might have been missed.
It takes place mostly on one very long night, November 14, 1940, when the Germans bombed the English city of Coventry to destruction. During that night two women, connected by one young man, deal with danger, reflection, and thoughts of life and death while their world goes up in flames. Do you stay and help the wounded? Do you seek safety? Do you flee your home in terror or sit determined in your own home, feeling that being where your loved ones can find you is more important than being away from harm?
Coventry is a short book, just 177 pages in a trade paperback size. But it is intensely powerful and so beautifully written that it's like poetry. It's liquid, moving, with flashes of quicksilver brilliance. An example:
How would I describe the world? By describing something, doesn't the thing itself cease to exist? How would I decided what to marry -- this shade o grey with the low-slung clouds of November. Not precise enough. This shade of grey is cigarette ash. That shade of grey is water running over clay. Not vivid enough. That shade of grey is old mortar between old bricks.
Wow. How do you describe color? You can only do so in comparison to something else, and it's never quite right, And other literary problem children -- how does a person deal with loss? How does someone who loses everything go on to make a life? It's handled with subtle grace and breathtaking prose.
This is a beautiful, warm gem of a book that completely captured by my imagination and my heart. And makes me wish I had Ms. Humphrey's gift with words. Why, oh why can't I write like that?
I randomly picked up a copy of Coventry by Helen Humphreys. I'm one of those "judging a book by its cover" types of people and I saw it on display at my favorite independent bookstore, Keplers. Something about it had me picking it up and reading the back cover. And something there had me adding it to my pile of treasures. I don't know what or why, but it appealed to me and so it became mine.
I started it last night, finished it a few minutes ago and actually feel like I want to read it again because I think I read so fast that some of its beauty might have been missed.
It takes place mostly on one very long night, November 14, 1940, when the Germans bombed the English city of Coventry to destruction. During that night two women, connected by one young man, deal with danger, reflection, and thoughts of life and death while their world goes up in flames. Do you stay and help the wounded? Do you seek safety? Do you flee your home in terror or sit determined in your own home, feeling that being where your loved ones can find you is more important than being away from harm?
Coventry is a short book, just 177 pages in a trade paperback size. But it is intensely powerful and so beautifully written that it's like poetry. It's liquid, moving, with flashes of quicksilver brilliance. An example:
How would I describe the world? By describing something, doesn't the thing itself cease to exist? How would I decided what to marry -- this shade o grey with the low-slung clouds of November. Not precise enough. This shade of grey is cigarette ash. That shade of grey is water running over clay. Not vivid enough. That shade of grey is old mortar between old bricks.
Wow. How do you describe color? You can only do so in comparison to something else, and it's never quite right, And other literary problem children -- how does a person deal with loss? How does someone who loses everything go on to make a life? It's handled with subtle grace and breathtaking prose.
This is a beautiful, warm gem of a book that completely captured by my imagination and my heart. And makes me wish I had Ms. Humphrey's gift with words. Why, oh why can't I write like that?
Why I am Not a Drug Addict
Because I don't know where to buy them.
OK, there's more to it than that. But really I am so out of the drug-taking scene that if I suddenly decided that I wanted to get stoned, I would have no idea where to buy some pot. (I know, I'm a DJ at a college radio station -- wouldn't be that hard.)
What prompted this is the other night is I was watching a British mystery and part of the plot was that a group of men, otherwise law abiding, upstanding citizens, found themselves in a situation where they drugged a woman with Rohypnol so she would forget witnessing an accidental murder.
My problem? Where do middle-aged, usually honest, upright British gentlemen get their hands on the date-rape drug? Murder drugs seem less of a problem. I mean go to your local hardware store, pick up some weed killer, and you're one step away from ridding the world of Lord Bittwell.
But you hear about people who are addicted to Vicodin or Ambien. I have prescriptions for both drugs and getting them is a tightly controlled process. Now, of course, I'm not breaking the law. But where do people get their hands on these things? One of my fellow volunteers said her sister has ordered both, without a prescription, from internet sites and ended up getting useless fake pills. So what do addicts know that I don't about getting access to real drugs? And yes, this is a rhetorical question. I don't want cocaine, nor do I want illegal Vicodin. I'm just actually, honestly curious how people find this stuff without getting arrested, ripped off, or dead.
Because I don't know where to buy them.
OK, there's more to it than that. But really I am so out of the drug-taking scene that if I suddenly decided that I wanted to get stoned, I would have no idea where to buy some pot. (I know, I'm a DJ at a college radio station -- wouldn't be that hard.)
What prompted this is the other night is I was watching a British mystery and part of the plot was that a group of men, otherwise law abiding, upstanding citizens, found themselves in a situation where they drugged a woman with Rohypnol so she would forget witnessing an accidental murder.
My problem? Where do middle-aged, usually honest, upright British gentlemen get their hands on the date-rape drug? Murder drugs seem less of a problem. I mean go to your local hardware store, pick up some weed killer, and you're one step away from ridding the world of Lord Bittwell.
But you hear about people who are addicted to Vicodin or Ambien. I have prescriptions for both drugs and getting them is a tightly controlled process. Now, of course, I'm not breaking the law. But where do people get their hands on these things? One of my fellow volunteers said her sister has ordered both, without a prescription, from internet sites and ended up getting useless fake pills. So what do addicts know that I don't about getting access to real drugs? And yes, this is a rhetorical question. I don't want cocaine, nor do I want illegal Vicodin. I'm just actually, honestly curious how people find this stuff without getting arrested, ripped off, or dead.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Transitions
I'm sure by that title you're thinking this is one of those serious "I'm going through a life-changing event" posts. Well it isn't and I'm not.
By transitions i mean moving from one thing to another, a trick you need to learn when you're a DJ or your show will suck. So I try not to jar people by bridging two wildly different pieces of music. I will definitely switch from country to country or style to style (following, say a Brazilian samba with a warm bit of French jazz) but I try not to follow a high-energy dance track with, for example, an Irish war ballad. I will go from uptempo to midtempo, but not uptempo to downtempo. It's just a quirk of mine.
And I appreciate it when others who are in the position of programming transitions also do the same. Which was why I was amused to see the TCM schedule for tonight. They're in the process of showing five movies by Japanese master director, Akira Kurosawa. The last film will be Donzoko (English title The Lower Depths). The film is based on a story by Maxim Gorky. When you combine a director as artistically serious as Kurosawa and a writer as depressing as Gorky, you know you've got something of a dark masterpiece on your hands. Not a lot of laughs. It's apparently about a group of thieves and prostitutes living in squalor in a flop house, reflecting on the miseries that brought them there.
And then they're following this particular bit of Japanese misery with Meet the People, a lighthearted musical starring Lucille Ball and Dick Powell.
How in the world do you go from Kurosowa to Lucille Ball? That is one seriously odd transition.
I'm sure by that title you're thinking this is one of those serious "I'm going through a life-changing event" posts. Well it isn't and I'm not.
By transitions i mean moving from one thing to another, a trick you need to learn when you're a DJ or your show will suck. So I try not to jar people by bridging two wildly different pieces of music. I will definitely switch from country to country or style to style (following, say a Brazilian samba with a warm bit of French jazz) but I try not to follow a high-energy dance track with, for example, an Irish war ballad. I will go from uptempo to midtempo, but not uptempo to downtempo. It's just a quirk of mine.
And I appreciate it when others who are in the position of programming transitions also do the same. Which was why I was amused to see the TCM schedule for tonight. They're in the process of showing five movies by Japanese master director, Akira Kurosawa. The last film will be Donzoko (English title The Lower Depths). The film is based on a story by Maxim Gorky. When you combine a director as artistically serious as Kurosawa and a writer as depressing as Gorky, you know you've got something of a dark masterpiece on your hands. Not a lot of laughs. It's apparently about a group of thieves and prostitutes living in squalor in a flop house, reflecting on the miseries that brought them there.
And then they're following this particular bit of Japanese misery with Meet the People, a lighthearted musical starring Lucille Ball and Dick Powell.
How in the world do you go from Kurosowa to Lucille Ball? That is one seriously odd transition.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: Poplar Street
If eccentricity had a home in Silver Creek it lived on Poplar Street. Known as “Popular Street” it was a tree-lined lane only one block long but absolutely unique.
Every house on Poplar Street had a personality. And a name. Names usually found only in Agatha Christie novels and most rare in the colonies.
When the town was first founded, the houses clustered on Poplar Street made up the bulk of the residences. Their age and the wealth of their builders rendered them free from the dull taint of the tract homes and 50s style ranches that populated the majority of the city. They were, and are, fascinating structures full of whimsy and unanswered questions.
On the corner of Poplar and Lincoln was “The Lilac Bush.” This was the first and only house I have ever seen painted lilac. With purple trim, yet. It was a big, square, boxy place with a wraparound porch on the ground floor and a widow’s walk on the roof.
The Lilac Bush was the home of the Barrow family. For my entire childhood, Mr. and Mrs. Barrow were about 100 years old, but never aged. They remain somewhat fuzzy in my memory, with the exception of their corduroy-covered rumps, perennially up-ended over their flowers. They weeded a lot. Their garden was their pride and joy and full of color and scent though never, oddly enough, lilacs. And they were never seen sitting on the white wicker rocking chairs on their porch, though Mr. Barrow was once observed sitting on the front steps, most unexpectedly eating watermelon.
Next to the Lilac Bush was “The Cattery.” This all-female establishment was a bright canary yellow A-frame with a rotating army of cats sunning themselves on the lawn. It was home to, at any one time, between 5 and 7 women, all of whom were members of the Honnering family. These sisters and cousins were, sadly, completely interchangeable and nobody ever bothered to learn their first names – not that anyone would dare call them anything other than “Miss Honnering.” Aside from being safe (not risking using the wrong name) it seemed entirely appropriate. They were the most Victorian of women, wearing skirts down to their ankles long past the time it was even remotely fashionable.
On regular intervals a contingency of Misses Honnerings would all pile into an ancient black Cadillac and drive out of town. Nobody ever knew where they went and nobody dared ask. But speculation was both rife and ribald; each suggestion more outrageous than the last. They were strippers over in Hampton. They had a secret gold mine in the mountains. They were in the mob.
The rotating cast of Honnerings was also a mystery. One Miss Honnering would appear in town for a few years, and then she would be gone and another in her place. No questions. No explanations. Never any sign of a moving van or a hearse to resolve the mystery of the disappearing Honnering. They were the Stepford family. In retrospect, this seems more than a little disturbing but at the time it was just another weird Silver Creek entity.
The fence that divided the Cattery from its neighbor was unique for being white on one side (the Cattery) and black on the other (Mole House). Yes, you read that right: Mole House, which was named for…..moles.
Not a family named Mole. Not the gopher-like creature. No, Mole House was named, disgustingly enough, for moles on the skin. At least that was the story told by the Flannering family. Legend said the builder of the house was a man named Dr. Watson (shades of Sherlock!) who made a fortune on patent medicine designed to burn moles and warts off the skin of the gullible. However dubious this provenance, and despite the creepy name, Mole House was the most cheerful black house ever.
I remember my father once asking Mr. Flannering why he’d painted the house black and received the reply “what other color would you paint a house named after a skin growth?” Good point.
Mole House was warm and welcome thanks to a rainbow of flowerbeds outside and the sweetness of the Flannerings inside. They were a sweet and generous duo who offered a shoulder to any friend in need and who welcomed every stray dog and cat in town as if the SPCA had given the critters a map.
There were a half dozen or so other houses on the street. “The Birdcage” which looked like…well, you know. “Bluebell,” which was a Jane Austen-worthy cottage that had never been painted blue to anyone’s memory but which was noteworthy in having four chimneys in spite of its small size. “Magnolia” boasted six magnificent flowering trees that every winter rained white petals down upon the street to the point where the yard looked covered in snow. And “La Paloma” was a sedate, yet graceful dove-gray structure with bright red birdhouses hanging from the rafters and trees.
The one oddity on the street was the house with no name. It was just 7 Poplar Street. A nice enough house, but I always felt sorry for it and always wondered why the owners didn’t give it a name. The other houses all had plaques or signs with their name on it. But 7 Poplar Street just had a sign that read “7 Poplar Street.”
How inadequate that little house must have felt.
If eccentricity had a home in Silver Creek it lived on Poplar Street. Known as “Popular Street” it was a tree-lined lane only one block long but absolutely unique.
Every house on Poplar Street had a personality. And a name. Names usually found only in Agatha Christie novels and most rare in the colonies.
When the town was first founded, the houses clustered on Poplar Street made up the bulk of the residences. Their age and the wealth of their builders rendered them free from the dull taint of the tract homes and 50s style ranches that populated the majority of the city. They were, and are, fascinating structures full of whimsy and unanswered questions.
On the corner of Poplar and Lincoln was “The Lilac Bush.” This was the first and only house I have ever seen painted lilac. With purple trim, yet. It was a big, square, boxy place with a wraparound porch on the ground floor and a widow’s walk on the roof.
The Lilac Bush was the home of the Barrow family. For my entire childhood, Mr. and Mrs. Barrow were about 100 years old, but never aged. They remain somewhat fuzzy in my memory, with the exception of their corduroy-covered rumps, perennially up-ended over their flowers. They weeded a lot. Their garden was their pride and joy and full of color and scent though never, oddly enough, lilacs. And they were never seen sitting on the white wicker rocking chairs on their porch, though Mr. Barrow was once observed sitting on the front steps, most unexpectedly eating watermelon.
Next to the Lilac Bush was “The Cattery.” This all-female establishment was a bright canary yellow A-frame with a rotating army of cats sunning themselves on the lawn. It was home to, at any one time, between 5 and 7 women, all of whom were members of the Honnering family. These sisters and cousins were, sadly, completely interchangeable and nobody ever bothered to learn their first names – not that anyone would dare call them anything other than “Miss Honnering.” Aside from being safe (not risking using the wrong name) it seemed entirely appropriate. They were the most Victorian of women, wearing skirts down to their ankles long past the time it was even remotely fashionable.
On regular intervals a contingency of Misses Honnerings would all pile into an ancient black Cadillac and drive out of town. Nobody ever knew where they went and nobody dared ask. But speculation was both rife and ribald; each suggestion more outrageous than the last. They were strippers over in Hampton. They had a secret gold mine in the mountains. They were in the mob.
The rotating cast of Honnerings was also a mystery. One Miss Honnering would appear in town for a few years, and then she would be gone and another in her place. No questions. No explanations. Never any sign of a moving van or a hearse to resolve the mystery of the disappearing Honnering. They were the Stepford family. In retrospect, this seems more than a little disturbing but at the time it was just another weird Silver Creek entity.
The fence that divided the Cattery from its neighbor was unique for being white on one side (the Cattery) and black on the other (Mole House). Yes, you read that right: Mole House, which was named for…..moles.
Not a family named Mole. Not the gopher-like creature. No, Mole House was named, disgustingly enough, for moles on the skin. At least that was the story told by the Flannering family. Legend said the builder of the house was a man named Dr. Watson (shades of Sherlock!) who made a fortune on patent medicine designed to burn moles and warts off the skin of the gullible. However dubious this provenance, and despite the creepy name, Mole House was the most cheerful black house ever.
I remember my father once asking Mr. Flannering why he’d painted the house black and received the reply “what other color would you paint a house named after a skin growth?” Good point.
Mole House was warm and welcome thanks to a rainbow of flowerbeds outside and the sweetness of the Flannerings inside. They were a sweet and generous duo who offered a shoulder to any friend in need and who welcomed every stray dog and cat in town as if the SPCA had given the critters a map.
There were a half dozen or so other houses on the street. “The Birdcage” which looked like…well, you know. “Bluebell,” which was a Jane Austen-worthy cottage that had never been painted blue to anyone’s memory but which was noteworthy in having four chimneys in spite of its small size. “Magnolia” boasted six magnificent flowering trees that every winter rained white petals down upon the street to the point where the yard looked covered in snow. And “La Paloma” was a sedate, yet graceful dove-gray structure with bright red birdhouses hanging from the rafters and trees.
The one oddity on the street was the house with no name. It was just 7 Poplar Street. A nice enough house, but I always felt sorry for it and always wondered why the owners didn’t give it a name. The other houses all had plaques or signs with their name on it. But 7 Poplar Street just had a sign that read “7 Poplar Street.”
How inadequate that little house must have felt.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
ER and Pie
My day started off with poor Husband waking me with that dreaded phrase "I think I need to go to the hospital." He's been dealing with a kidney stone (his forth!) and today the pain was pretty unbearable. So off we went to our local ER.
A few years ago when I was sick with the mystery illness, we spent far too many hours in that ER. It got to the point where we knew the nurses on a first name basis. And today, with Husband, we had my favorite: Claude. He's an adorable French guy with a dishy accent and a very sweet, caring nature.
We got lucky today. We were taken right away and in and out in under two hours. That's a record. There's been times when we waited nearly that long to get seen. Today there was nobody waiting, there was an empty room, there were nurses that weren't busy, and a good doctor. Husband was taken in, given a CT scan, and given some lovely drugs....then released, all in two hours.
He's home now and in bed, doing fine. The lovely drugs have made him sweetly dopey and the CT scan shows a stone that's small enough to pass naturally (if anything that painful can be natural).
And, as compensation, I'm making an apple pie. So tonight it's apple pie, the Oscars, and pain drugs if needed.
But the adventure confirmed one thing for me: It's much easier being the patient than watching someone you love in pain. Not only is it harder to bear being powerless when the one you love is sick -- it also sucks when you're not the one getting the fun drugs.
My day started off with poor Husband waking me with that dreaded phrase "I think I need to go to the hospital." He's been dealing with a kidney stone (his forth!) and today the pain was pretty unbearable. So off we went to our local ER.
A few years ago when I was sick with the mystery illness, we spent far too many hours in that ER. It got to the point where we knew the nurses on a first name basis. And today, with Husband, we had my favorite: Claude. He's an adorable French guy with a dishy accent and a very sweet, caring nature.
We got lucky today. We were taken right away and in and out in under two hours. That's a record. There's been times when we waited nearly that long to get seen. Today there was nobody waiting, there was an empty room, there were nurses that weren't busy, and a good doctor. Husband was taken in, given a CT scan, and given some lovely drugs....then released, all in two hours.
He's home now and in bed, doing fine. The lovely drugs have made him sweetly dopey and the CT scan shows a stone that's small enough to pass naturally (if anything that painful can be natural).
And, as compensation, I'm making an apple pie. So tonight it's apple pie, the Oscars, and pain drugs if needed.
But the adventure confirmed one thing for me: It's much easier being the patient than watching someone you love in pain. Not only is it harder to bear being powerless when the one you love is sick -- it also sucks when you're not the one getting the fun drugs.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Cheese
I put in some extra time at the shelter today. We had a professional photographer volunteer her time to take pictures of some of our long-term cats so they can show their best on our website. I've never been in a position of having to keep a cat focused for extended periods of times. Cats, I've discovered, are not cooperative when it comes to posing for pictures.
When I socialize the kitties, it's all about keeping them entertained. If they want to run around and play, that's what we do. If they want a lap, they've got one. The cats pretty much dictate how the visit will go. But today I had to try and get them to sit still and look up, preferably towards the nice lady with the camera.
I had no idea how hard it was going to be. it may have been one of the silliest things I've done in a lifetime of doing silly things. Standing there, waving pipe cleaners or squeaky toys. Snapping my fingers. Making odd noises. Anything to keep them focused. In all we photographed about seven cats in two hours and only one was cooperative. This guy sat there, still and charming, and let her snap away. It only took us about five minutes to get a dozen good shots. Other cats we had for 20 minutes at a time and only at the end got something usable. The poor photographer got lots of lovely butt shots, tops of heads, or nice close-ups of side markings. But getting a full on shot of a kitty when he or she has her eyes open, looking at the camera, and still -- that was a work of epic proportions.
The one thing I keep learning from working with the cats is patience. Today was another lesson is that. But I think she did get some lovely photos and I can't wait to see the results on the website.
And, in spite of the fact that we worked with several red cats, I came away with only one scratch. (Laramie, some day you and I will be friends!)
I put in some extra time at the shelter today. We had a professional photographer volunteer her time to take pictures of some of our long-term cats so they can show their best on our website. I've never been in a position of having to keep a cat focused for extended periods of times. Cats, I've discovered, are not cooperative when it comes to posing for pictures.
When I socialize the kitties, it's all about keeping them entertained. If they want to run around and play, that's what we do. If they want a lap, they've got one. The cats pretty much dictate how the visit will go. But today I had to try and get them to sit still and look up, preferably towards the nice lady with the camera.
I had no idea how hard it was going to be. it may have been one of the silliest things I've done in a lifetime of doing silly things. Standing there, waving pipe cleaners or squeaky toys. Snapping my fingers. Making odd noises. Anything to keep them focused. In all we photographed about seven cats in two hours and only one was cooperative. This guy sat there, still and charming, and let her snap away. It only took us about five minutes to get a dozen good shots. Other cats we had for 20 minutes at a time and only at the end got something usable. The poor photographer got lots of lovely butt shots, tops of heads, or nice close-ups of side markings. But getting a full on shot of a kitty when he or she has her eyes open, looking at the camera, and still -- that was a work of epic proportions.
The one thing I keep learning from working with the cats is patience. Today was another lesson is that. But I think she did get some lovely photos and I can't wait to see the results on the website.
And, in spite of the fact that we worked with several red cats, I came away with only one scratch. (Laramie, some day you and I will be friends!)
Friday, March 05, 2010
Love in the Soup Aisle
Here's the scene:
An old woman, probably in her 80s, pushing her cart slowly down a supermarket aisle. Coming towards her is her husband, carrying two boxes of cookies. He looks at her, smiles broadly, and says happily:
"Look, those cookies you like are on sale!"
That, to me, is love. This man was so happy that he could do something, however small, for his wife.
I want to be just like that when I'm in my 80s. And I know Husband is just the kind of man who would look out for those cookies I like.
Here's the scene:
An old woman, probably in her 80s, pushing her cart slowly down a supermarket aisle. Coming towards her is her husband, carrying two boxes of cookies. He looks at her, smiles broadly, and says happily:
"Look, those cookies you like are on sale!"
That, to me, is love. This man was so happy that he could do something, however small, for his wife.
I want to be just like that when I'm in my 80s. And I know Husband is just the kind of man who would look out for those cookies I like.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Hotter Than Hot
Speaking as a happily heterosexual woman....could Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not be any hotter? That smoldering look. The husky voice. That sassy personality. There are some women I just "get". I get her.
On the other hand, there are some women that are considered sex symbols that I honestly do not get. I mean even if I were a man, or a lesbian, there is no way on earth I would find Angelina Jolie sexy. I just don't get her. To me she's all lips and not much personality. I get Halle Berry. I don't get Natalie Portman. I get the classics (Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly) I don't get the moderns (Liv Tyler or Keira Knigtley). So I suppose it's a good thing I'm straight, otherwise I wouldn't have anyone to lust over.
Or maybe I was just born in the wrong generation. To me the sexiest man ever was Cary Grant.
It seems to me that actors in the Golden Age of Hollywood used to have charm. A certain grace. And, most definitely, intelligence. Today's actors often lack all three. I'm not saying that Angelia Jolie is a dumb woman. For all I know she could be a Rhodes Scholar. But when I look at her I don't see wheels turning behind the eyes. And charm, that most elusive of all qualities, is a dead commodity. Occasionally you will see actors that have real charm, but today what passes for charm seems to be snideness. And it seems anyone even mildly attractive, with a large enough chest, can be a star. Talent is secondary. In the old studio system I believe it was the same, but if you didn't have talent you were stuck as the best friend or the smart-cracking waitress. You weren't given star billing and paid $25 million dollar to look nice in luxurious clothing.
All of the classic actress of Hollywood had acting talent. They may not have started off with it, but they learned and they got better -- or they got canned. You many not like Joan Crawford, but you can't deny she had a way of conveying evil that could be quite chilling. Grace Kelly, everyone's favorite cool blond proved she was not just a pretty face in roles like Dial M For Murder Country Girl and Rear Window. And many would dismiss Audrey Hepburn as just a pretty,charming actress with not much depth. Until they see The Nun's Story where she struggles with her imperfections as she tries to find faith.
These are deep, thoughtful performance were actresses we required to show depth of emotion, not how well that could ass-kick a ninja. (Although personally I think Katharine Hepburn could take on anyone). It's just odd to look at the all those classic actors and wonder if they'd have a career now. I mean who would hire Humphrey Bogart. He's gruft, he's got a scar and a bit of a lisp. Not terribly handsome. No, they'd make Sam Spade into Matthew McConaughey, with perfect teeth and clear blue eyes. And run The Maltese Falcon.
They had faces then. Actors. Even the extras. The glorious Thelma Diamond, the delicious Eric Blore, each had a distinctive personality so a movie was packed with real people. A real waitress who would give you a bad time for ordering tea instead of of coffee, or a cop who you can charm out of writing that parking ticket. Small interactions with minor characters that gave those sorts of films that charm. A charm that is, sadly, lacking in contemporary cinema.
Now it seems if you see an extra it is only as a prelude to them having their lungs removed by a snow plow.
No, I don't want body part and blood. I want Hichcockian suspense.. A good plot, A strong hero meets a strong heroine and together they save the world from birds, anarchy, and yet another verse of che sera sera. Put that on, I'll watch it all night long. But give six idiots small amounts of clothing, lock them up in a soon-to-be-abandoned movie studio where various murderious attacks have taken place and let the hijinks begin. Woo whoo....can't msis entertainment with that one can you?
No thanks, I'll still wit Cary Grant and James Stewart, Katharine Hepburn and Barbara Stanwick, Gene Kelly, Fred & Ginger, for me, I like my movie stars with glamour, with grace and brains, and a filter systems that lets than turn away crap So I see fewer ,movies that my contemporaries see, but I will happily see all of mine multiple times. Casablanca for instance I could probaby watch ever day until I die and still see something I hadn't noticed before. I would derve more pleasure from my 53rd viewing of Singing in the Rain than I would from my first viewing of anything by Quinten Tarintino.
Unless his film stars Gary Grant.
Speaking as a happily heterosexual woman....could Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not be any hotter? That smoldering look. The husky voice. That sassy personality. There are some women I just "get". I get her.
On the other hand, there are some women that are considered sex symbols that I honestly do not get. I mean even if I were a man, or a lesbian, there is no way on earth I would find Angelina Jolie sexy. I just don't get her. To me she's all lips and not much personality. I get Halle Berry. I don't get Natalie Portman. I get the classics (Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly) I don't get the moderns (Liv Tyler or Keira Knigtley). So I suppose it's a good thing I'm straight, otherwise I wouldn't have anyone to lust over.
Or maybe I was just born in the wrong generation. To me the sexiest man ever was Cary Grant.
It seems to me that actors in the Golden Age of Hollywood used to have charm. A certain grace. And, most definitely, intelligence. Today's actors often lack all three. I'm not saying that Angelia Jolie is a dumb woman. For all I know she could be a Rhodes Scholar. But when I look at her I don't see wheels turning behind the eyes. And charm, that most elusive of all qualities, is a dead commodity. Occasionally you will see actors that have real charm, but today what passes for charm seems to be snideness. And it seems anyone even mildly attractive, with a large enough chest, can be a star. Talent is secondary. In the old studio system I believe it was the same, but if you didn't have talent you were stuck as the best friend or the smart-cracking waitress. You weren't given star billing and paid $25 million dollar to look nice in luxurious clothing.
All of the classic actress of Hollywood had acting talent. They may not have started off with it, but they learned and they got better -- or they got canned. You many not like Joan Crawford, but you can't deny she had a way of conveying evil that could be quite chilling. Grace Kelly, everyone's favorite cool blond proved she was not just a pretty face in roles like Dial M For Murder Country Girl and Rear Window. And many would dismiss Audrey Hepburn as just a pretty,charming actress with not much depth. Until they see The Nun's Story where she struggles with her imperfections as she tries to find faith.
These are deep, thoughtful performance were actresses we required to show depth of emotion, not how well that could ass-kick a ninja. (Although personally I think Katharine Hepburn could take on anyone). It's just odd to look at the all those classic actors and wonder if they'd have a career now. I mean who would hire Humphrey Bogart. He's gruft, he's got a scar and a bit of a lisp. Not terribly handsome. No, they'd make Sam Spade into Matthew McConaughey, with perfect teeth and clear blue eyes. And run The Maltese Falcon.
They had faces then. Actors. Even the extras. The glorious Thelma Diamond, the delicious Eric Blore, each had a distinctive personality so a movie was packed with real people. A real waitress who would give you a bad time for ordering tea instead of of coffee, or a cop who you can charm out of writing that parking ticket. Small interactions with minor characters that gave those sorts of films that charm. A charm that is, sadly, lacking in contemporary cinema.
Now it seems if you see an extra it is only as a prelude to them having their lungs removed by a snow plow.
No, I don't want body part and blood. I want Hichcockian suspense.. A good plot, A strong hero meets a strong heroine and together they save the world from birds, anarchy, and yet another verse of che sera sera. Put that on, I'll watch it all night long. But give six idiots small amounts of clothing, lock them up in a soon-to-be-abandoned movie studio where various murderious attacks have taken place and let the hijinks begin. Woo whoo....can't msis entertainment with that one can you?
No thanks, I'll still wit Cary Grant and James Stewart, Katharine Hepburn and Barbara Stanwick, Gene Kelly, Fred & Ginger, for me, I like my movie stars with glamour, with grace and brains, and a filter systems that lets than turn away crap So I see fewer ,movies that my contemporaries see, but I will happily see all of mine multiple times. Casablanca for instance I could probaby watch ever day until I die and still see something I hadn't noticed before. I would derve more pleasure from my 53rd viewing of Singing in the Rain than I would from my first viewing of anything by Quinten Tarintino.
Unless his film stars Gary Grant.
Photo of the day: Husband's Bow Ties
Husband wears one to work every morning, I'm sure during the interview process they thought he was trying to make a good impression. He did, But I think they were surprised to find its an everyday thing with him. He's become so known for this look that last Haloween the rest of his team dressed up as him. Dark slacks, a dress shirt, and a bow tie. It was so funny. None looked quite as dapper as he, but perhaps I'm partial. Anyway, it's nice to have a style and bow ties are his.
Husband wears one to work every morning, I'm sure during the interview process they thought he was trying to make a good impression. He did, But I think they were surprised to find its an everyday thing with him. He's become so known for this look that last Haloween the rest of his team dressed up as him. Dark slacks, a dress shirt, and a bow tie. It was so funny. None looked quite as dapper as he, but perhaps I'm partial. Anyway, it's nice to have a style and bow ties are his.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Monday, March 01, 2010
Eavesdropping
Overheard at the grocery store:
Man on cell phone: I'll be so glad when the Olympics are over and I can go back to watching sports.
.....
Overheard at the gas station:
Woman talking to her husband who is putting gas in the car: Don't forget we need to stop at Walgreens before we go home. You're out of whopee pills.
(My first thought was Viagra. But I suppose it could be Vicodin.)
.....
Overheard at the shelter:
A woman to her friend: It was an OK first date but it would have been a lousy second date.
Overheard at the grocery store:
Man on cell phone: I'll be so glad when the Olympics are over and I can go back to watching sports.
.....
Overheard at the gas station:
Woman talking to her husband who is putting gas in the car: Don't forget we need to stop at Walgreens before we go home. You're out of whopee pills.
(My first thought was Viagra. But I suppose it could be Vicodin.)
.....
Overheard at the shelter:
A woman to her friend: It was an OK first date but it would have been a lousy second date.
Photo of the day: Bygone Necessities
It used to be that everyone had silver-backed dressing table accessories. These two brushes have the initials of both my father and my grandfather, so I'm not sure which one owned them. But the live on my dresser. Never used, but a graceful reminder of an era long ago.
It used to be that everyone had silver-backed dressing table accessories. These two brushes have the initials of both my father and my grandfather, so I'm not sure which one owned them. But the live on my dresser. Never used, but a graceful reminder of an era long ago.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
What's Wrong With Looking Out the Window?
I saw some horrible minivan/SUV ad today that features dual DVD players "for the kids." Oh, great. I think one is a lousy idea. But two? Who needs two?
What's wrong with looking out the window? I used to love it when I was a kid. Hell, I still do. I love it when Husband drives and I have free reign to look for deer and birds, read odd bumper stickers, look into people's yards. It's great fun. And don't give me that crap about "keeping kids entertained." That does keep kids entertained.
When I was a kid we used to all pile into a huge station wagon (no SUV. No pop-up table. No cup holders. No DVD player.) We had an 8-track player and AM radio. Eight people in one station wagon for a six-hour trip up to the mountains. Sure we fought and got bored and got on each other's nerves. But we also sang cheesy songs, played the license plate game, and played the "three things" game. Everyone had three things that had to find on their trip. Like a red pick-up truck or a motorcycle with two people on it. If you were the first to find your three things, you won.
But mostly we just looked out the windows. I think that's where I got my interest in photography, and my appreciation for seeing things that most people overlook. I would love thinking I was the only person to spot that herd of cows grazing on the hillside. Or the river playing hide-and-seek with the highway.
I think it's sad that we're raising a generation of kids who will never look out the window. Whose idea of a road trip with the family is to strap on headphones and watch their own movie. No talking. No interaction. Just you and Finding Nemo. But I recall our trips as a time when everyone in the family learned all the words to the Glenn Miller music my parents loved so much. As the time when we told bad knock-knock jokes, made up word games, and got inordinately excited when we saw a sign that began with the letter "X".
Remember that the journey is half the fun. It's not something to be gotten through quickly, ignoring each other, and not interacting. It's the perfect time to get your kids to keep an eye out for wildlife or to play the alphabet game with billboards. It's the time when all those camp songs you thought you'd forgotten should come back to you and be passed down.
I am so grateful my parents didn't have DVD players in the station wagon. Hell, if I remember correctly, they didn't even have enough seatbelts for all of us.
I saw some horrible minivan/SUV ad today that features dual DVD players "for the kids." Oh, great. I think one is a lousy idea. But two? Who needs two?
What's wrong with looking out the window? I used to love it when I was a kid. Hell, I still do. I love it when Husband drives and I have free reign to look for deer and birds, read odd bumper stickers, look into people's yards. It's great fun. And don't give me that crap about "keeping kids entertained." That does keep kids entertained.
When I was a kid we used to all pile into a huge station wagon (no SUV. No pop-up table. No cup holders. No DVD player.) We had an 8-track player and AM radio. Eight people in one station wagon for a six-hour trip up to the mountains. Sure we fought and got bored and got on each other's nerves. But we also sang cheesy songs, played the license plate game, and played the "three things" game. Everyone had three things that had to find on their trip. Like a red pick-up truck or a motorcycle with two people on it. If you were the first to find your three things, you won.
But mostly we just looked out the windows. I think that's where I got my interest in photography, and my appreciation for seeing things that most people overlook. I would love thinking I was the only person to spot that herd of cows grazing on the hillside. Or the river playing hide-and-seek with the highway.
I think it's sad that we're raising a generation of kids who will never look out the window. Whose idea of a road trip with the family is to strap on headphones and watch their own movie. No talking. No interaction. Just you and Finding Nemo. But I recall our trips as a time when everyone in the family learned all the words to the Glenn Miller music my parents loved so much. As the time when we told bad knock-knock jokes, made up word games, and got inordinately excited when we saw a sign that began with the letter "X".
Remember that the journey is half the fun. It's not something to be gotten through quickly, ignoring each other, and not interacting. It's the perfect time to get your kids to keep an eye out for wildlife or to play the alphabet game with billboards. It's the time when all those camp songs you thought you'd forgotten should come back to you and be passed down.
I am so grateful my parents didn't have DVD players in the station wagon. Hell, if I remember correctly, they didn't even have enough seatbelts for all of us.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wish List
I am not, by nature, an acquisitive person. Aside, that is, from wanting to own every book ever written and every world music CD ever produced. (OK, you can keep Danielle Steele and bad Hawaiian reggae.) But there are random things that I get into my head that I want. For example, ever since I was a little kid I have wanted a carousel horse. A classic one, mind you. Hand carved wood. To be even more specific, I want one from the carousel at the San Francisco Zoo. Of course I could never afford one, nor would I have anyplace to put it if I could. But still...
And also in the cannot afford list, put a Native American rug and/or blanket. I have always wanted one. Doesn't need to be antique, I'd be happy with anything. Provided it was authentic and beautiful. But then the cat would probably claw it up, so perhaps it's best I don't have one.
Then there are things that I don't necessarily care about owning, but I would love to touch or play with. Like a collapsable top hat. I've always thought they were cool. I just want to pop it out, collapse it back. Just once. Don't know why.
A tuning fork. A tuning fork? Yeah, why not. They fascinate me. I cannot sing or play a musical instrument. But I'd like to strike one and feel the note vibrate through my hand. Don't ask me to explain, I can't. I'd also like to strum a harp, just once. And get just one skrill out of a bagpipe.
I'd like to drive a Rolls Royce. Once. I'd like to write one time with an actual quill pen dipped into an actual inkwell. I'd like to use an old fashioned cocktail shaker and one of those delightful 1920's soda syphons. Again, once would be enough. I'd like to strike a pair of symbols and a big kettle drum. I'd like to wear a blonde wig for a day and see if the world is any different.
I want a silver cigarette case. I do not smoke. So why do I want one? Surely I cannot be the only one who has these unexplainably weird desires. What do you want, either to own or to try, that you really can't explain?
I am not, by nature, an acquisitive person. Aside, that is, from wanting to own every book ever written and every world music CD ever produced. (OK, you can keep Danielle Steele and bad Hawaiian reggae.) But there are random things that I get into my head that I want. For example, ever since I was a little kid I have wanted a carousel horse. A classic one, mind you. Hand carved wood. To be even more specific, I want one from the carousel at the San Francisco Zoo. Of course I could never afford one, nor would I have anyplace to put it if I could. But still...
And also in the cannot afford list, put a Native American rug and/or blanket. I have always wanted one. Doesn't need to be antique, I'd be happy with anything. Provided it was authentic and beautiful. But then the cat would probably claw it up, so perhaps it's best I don't have one.
Then there are things that I don't necessarily care about owning, but I would love to touch or play with. Like a collapsable top hat. I've always thought they were cool. I just want to pop it out, collapse it back. Just once. Don't know why.
A tuning fork. A tuning fork? Yeah, why not. They fascinate me. I cannot sing or play a musical instrument. But I'd like to strike one and feel the note vibrate through my hand. Don't ask me to explain, I can't. I'd also like to strum a harp, just once. And get just one skrill out of a bagpipe.
I'd like to drive a Rolls Royce. Once. I'd like to write one time with an actual quill pen dipped into an actual inkwell. I'd like to use an old fashioned cocktail shaker and one of those delightful 1920's soda syphons. Again, once would be enough. I'd like to strike a pair of symbols and a big kettle drum. I'd like to wear a blonde wig for a day and see if the world is any different.
I want a silver cigarette case. I do not smoke. So why do I want one? Surely I cannot be the only one who has these unexplainably weird desires. What do you want, either to own or to try, that you really can't explain?
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Focus
Husband and I have been glued to the Olympics since the start. We're total Olympic junkies and cannot get enough.
One thing, though, that has struck me time and again is the look of absolute focus certain athletes get before a race/match/event. it's something in the eyes. A sort of "I'll do whatever" look that makes you feel like they're going to give it 110%.
I happen to know for a fact, despite rarely looking myself in the eye, that I have never had that look on my face. I have never in my life had a moment of absolute and total commitment. I've been committed. I've been focused. But I've never had that cold-blooded look of a predator about to eat everyone in the competition.
And perhaps "competition" is the key word here. I'm not a competitive person. I hate playing games with people I love because I always want them to win. Husband will tell you I've been known to cheat in his favor. No. Really. I have.
It's this quality in me, though, that would make me a lousy athlete. I don't have it in me to win at all costs. I have it in me to be dedicated, sure; to give something my best. But not in any area where I'm competing against someone else.
Back when I was an acting major I would definitely find myself getting into character before shows, and would put my mind on my performance. But it wasn't to the exclusion of all else. No matter how focused I was, I would still notice things like the stage manager's beer breath or the fact that the lighting guy was wearing white sneakers. I could never, ever, manage to block everything out of my mind and think about nothing but Shakespeare.
And this quality of focus, which denies me my Olympic gold (that and the total lack of any type of athletic skills) is also responsible for my lack of sleep. I am an insomniac because I cannot shut of my mind. I will lie in bed at night and my mind is racing 95 mph over bills I need to pay, duties I need to take care of. I'll be lying there thinking that I'm trying to sleep, and then realize I've been writing a short story in my head or trying to remember who played Sam in Casablanca. (And yes, I know it's Dooley Wilson.)
I've tried bio feedback and acupuncture. I've tried chiropractic care and meditation. I've tried sleep studies and keeping a dream journal. The only thing that reliably gives me a good night's sleep is Ambien. And as for meditation, I'm a total failure. I do not possess a brain that can be shut off. I've tried for over 40 years and never once been completely quiet, blank, focused. Not on getting down the hill faster than anyone else. Not on pushing out care and focusing on my breathing. Not on shutting it down and getting some sleep.
Like many of my photographs, I am out-of-focus. And I will never be in the Olympics. Or, alas, sleep.
Husband and I have been glued to the Olympics since the start. We're total Olympic junkies and cannot get enough.
One thing, though, that has struck me time and again is the look of absolute focus certain athletes get before a race/match/event. it's something in the eyes. A sort of "I'll do whatever" look that makes you feel like they're going to give it 110%.
I happen to know for a fact, despite rarely looking myself in the eye, that I have never had that look on my face. I have never in my life had a moment of absolute and total commitment. I've been committed. I've been focused. But I've never had that cold-blooded look of a predator about to eat everyone in the competition.
And perhaps "competition" is the key word here. I'm not a competitive person. I hate playing games with people I love because I always want them to win. Husband will tell you I've been known to cheat in his favor. No. Really. I have.
It's this quality in me, though, that would make me a lousy athlete. I don't have it in me to win at all costs. I have it in me to be dedicated, sure; to give something my best. But not in any area where I'm competing against someone else.
Back when I was an acting major I would definitely find myself getting into character before shows, and would put my mind on my performance. But it wasn't to the exclusion of all else. No matter how focused I was, I would still notice things like the stage manager's beer breath or the fact that the lighting guy was wearing white sneakers. I could never, ever, manage to block everything out of my mind and think about nothing but Shakespeare.
And this quality of focus, which denies me my Olympic gold (that and the total lack of any type of athletic skills) is also responsible for my lack of sleep. I am an insomniac because I cannot shut of my mind. I will lie in bed at night and my mind is racing 95 mph over bills I need to pay, duties I need to take care of. I'll be lying there thinking that I'm trying to sleep, and then realize I've been writing a short story in my head or trying to remember who played Sam in Casablanca. (And yes, I know it's Dooley Wilson.)
I've tried bio feedback and acupuncture. I've tried chiropractic care and meditation. I've tried sleep studies and keeping a dream journal. The only thing that reliably gives me a good night's sleep is Ambien. And as for meditation, I'm a total failure. I do not possess a brain that can be shut off. I've tried for over 40 years and never once been completely quiet, blank, focused. Not on getting down the hill faster than anyone else. Not on pushing out care and focusing on my breathing. Not on shutting it down and getting some sleep.
Like many of my photographs, I am out-of-focus. And I will never be in the Olympics. Or, alas, sleep.
The Man Who Broke Into Auschwitz
One of those stories that deserves more exposure. Dennis Avey an amazing man.
One of those stories that deserves more exposure. Dennis Avey an amazing man.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
