Check your manger scene. There seems to be a trend afoot. In Florida, in Texas, and now at my church here in Chicago. Baby Jesus didn’t make it to the manger tonight and no one seemed to mind.
In an effort to put some new life into the Children’s Service – you know, the one at 5:00 with all the noise – we had a presentation using “Shadow Puppets.” It was fairly effective except that Joseph, being held by a tired young puppeteer, kept wandering off towards Buffalo and once or twice Mary turned her back on the entire tableau. All in all it was effective. Sort of “nativity noir.”
Even with the puppets, we lacked the drama of St. Peters. No one jumped the pews to knock over the minister. Pope Benedict had that singular honor it seems. But wait, this was her second appearance attempting the same intervention. What’s with those Swiss guards?
It is a rainy Christmas in Chicago; cold and wet. The freezing temperature will come later in the afternoon and perhaps with it, the white stuff that we believe to be so necessary for the perfect Christmas. There is a very bad group of choristers on the early morning news; all wearing varying shades of red. There is a bass in black. This must be his attempt at “jumping the rail” like the poor soul in Rome.
I am concerned about the missing baby in the manger. This, of course, is an over powering symbol of the age, but I wont go there – just now. The nativity at Epiphany is one of our nicest holdings. It is Italianate in design and quite valuable. But where is the Baby Jesus? And why did no one notice? Or care?
As the case of many congregations across the world, Epiphany is held hostage by the Chreastors. You know, those people you see only on Christmas and Easter. They are the ones who demand that we uphold a tradition that no longer seems to be workable for our congregation: a Christmas eve service that starts at 11:00 p.m. For them it makes the "perfect Christmas." There were so few people present last night that I could not use the foundation stops on the organ lest I “blow them away with sound.”
If church is not important enough to attend regularly, then why would a particular congregation be so important to someone on Christmas or Easter? Perhaps some regional edifice should be designated as the official site for 11:00 worship for those who need it. A type of Christmas Central. The rest of us could be home earlier in the evening giving us time for reflection and a quiet moment with family.
As my mom would say, “Read your Bible and write the missionaries.”
The phone rang at the church last night around 9:30. I answered. The lady on the other end inquired, rather excitedly, “Is there an 11:00 worship service tonight?” I replied in the affirmative. “I just love Epiphany. Is it still located on the corner of Bradley and Damon?”
Another Chreaster!!!
Where, oh where, is the Baby Jesus in this bleak midwinter?
Friday, December 25, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Gail Collins, I love you!
Now, let me hasten to add – “at a distance.” She has no need to worry about a stalker or a restraining order. But, I must admit, if given a choice, I would love to sit next to her at a dinner party. She is just a lot of fun.
Thinking about girls like that took me down memory lane; back to my college days.
I dated three girls in college; concurrently. Back then, there was not the “hurry towards an exclusive arrangement” type of thing. I dated each one with sincerity, but with a different perspective.
Miss Sarah Hightower was a southerner; a transplant like me. She had been steeped in the manners that so bind the south to the past. Miss Sarah was all about formality. When I needed to make a perfect impression at some seemingly perfect gathering, Miss Sarah was my date. She was always dressed to the nines and very comfortable with the small talk that occurs at such events.
She would always say, in reference to her family, “my daddy is a farmer.” Truth was, “daddy” had over 20,000 acres of land and was a United States Senator. (Now don’t go looking up names of Senators – some things have to be changed to protect some other things!)
The problem with doing anything spontaneous with Miss Sarah was that you couldn’t. She had to be asked out at least a month before you intended going out. Usually, by that time, you were “out of the mood.” She, of course, would never initiate a telephone call. “Ladies, do not phone gentlemen.” (You see how old I am, this was way before texting “I am hot for you honey!” It was a lot easier to have clandestine affairs before the worries of leaving a cellular trail. Got that, Tiger?)
Once, when Miss Sarah’s grandfather died, she was forced to phone to ask for a drive to O’Hare. (Riding alone in a taxicab would not be proper.) She spent the first fifteen minutes of the call, apologizing for having made it. Only after we got through that, was I apprised of the passing of the old guy. But, all said, Miss Sarah did make a good impression.
When I was hungry, I dated Adriana. She loved to cook and had a rather svelte look for someone whose roots were Eastern European. Once, while I was concentrating on her stuffed peppers, she announced that when she married, she would receive a large sum of money from the treasury of her country since she was a Princess. Truth be told, the stuffed peppers were not that great!
Adriana was purpose driven, and that is always an admirable characteristic. However, she had a penchant for throwing parties at which I was seemingly the only person who remembered the date and time. (Hmmmm.)
Then, there was Nancy Dunham. Nancy was pure fun. She was obviously not “well heeled” since she worked at a downtown restaurant as a waitress. I never heard her mention what her father did. When off-duty she was often in jeans and a well-worn sweater. I am not certain she cooked or merely did “take home” from the restaurant. She had the clipped accent of someone raised near Boston. She was comfortable with a last minute call to grab a movie or a burger. She was great on a Saturday outing into the Loop. And, she was brilliant! Good fun; good conversation.
We both graduated and went our separate ways. I think she was always a bit suspicious of my accent. She was like Gail Collins, I believe, but without a column in the New York Times.
Hats off to you Ms. Collins, you made me laugh again today! (And remember.)
Thinking about girls like that took me down memory lane; back to my college days.
I dated three girls in college; concurrently. Back then, there was not the “hurry towards an exclusive arrangement” type of thing. I dated each one with sincerity, but with a different perspective.
Miss Sarah Hightower was a southerner; a transplant like me. She had been steeped in the manners that so bind the south to the past. Miss Sarah was all about formality. When I needed to make a perfect impression at some seemingly perfect gathering, Miss Sarah was my date. She was always dressed to the nines and very comfortable with the small talk that occurs at such events.
She would always say, in reference to her family, “my daddy is a farmer.” Truth was, “daddy” had over 20,000 acres of land and was a United States Senator. (Now don’t go looking up names of Senators – some things have to be changed to protect some other things!)
The problem with doing anything spontaneous with Miss Sarah was that you couldn’t. She had to be asked out at least a month before you intended going out. Usually, by that time, you were “out of the mood.” She, of course, would never initiate a telephone call. “Ladies, do not phone gentlemen.” (You see how old I am, this was way before texting “I am hot for you honey!” It was a lot easier to have clandestine affairs before the worries of leaving a cellular trail. Got that, Tiger?)
Once, when Miss Sarah’s grandfather died, she was forced to phone to ask for a drive to O’Hare. (Riding alone in a taxicab would not be proper.) She spent the first fifteen minutes of the call, apologizing for having made it. Only after we got through that, was I apprised of the passing of the old guy. But, all said, Miss Sarah did make a good impression.
When I was hungry, I dated Adriana. She loved to cook and had a rather svelte look for someone whose roots were Eastern European. Once, while I was concentrating on her stuffed peppers, she announced that when she married, she would receive a large sum of money from the treasury of her country since she was a Princess. Truth be told, the stuffed peppers were not that great!
Adriana was purpose driven, and that is always an admirable characteristic. However, she had a penchant for throwing parties at which I was seemingly the only person who remembered the date and time. (Hmmmm.)
Then, there was Nancy Dunham. Nancy was pure fun. She was obviously not “well heeled” since she worked at a downtown restaurant as a waitress. I never heard her mention what her father did. When off-duty she was often in jeans and a well-worn sweater. I am not certain she cooked or merely did “take home” from the restaurant. She had the clipped accent of someone raised near Boston. She was comfortable with a last minute call to grab a movie or a burger. She was great on a Saturday outing into the Loop. And, she was brilliant! Good fun; good conversation.
We both graduated and went our separate ways. I think she was always a bit suspicious of my accent. She was like Gail Collins, I believe, but without a column in the New York Times.
Hats off to you Ms. Collins, you made me laugh again today! (And remember.)
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wisemen From The Midwest
No, the blog title is not a typo.
Several years ago, when my son and daughter-in-law were making their annual Thanksgiving visit to Chicago; we were out shopping for the upcoming Christmas season. Now, I am going to stop this narrative to admit that I am a difficult guy to buy for. No, not that I am overly picky or put too much emphasis on a gift, it is because of my excessive Ebay obsession, I need little, if anything. (Yes, I could be called an Ebay slut.)
So we were browsing through the shops looking at the goods when my son said, “Dad, how would you like these?”
He guided me towards a table upon which sat three large, ornate figures: The Three Wisemen. One was on a black horse, one on an elephant, and one on a camel. They were magnificent; truly impressive. I was immediately taken with them and expressed my admiration to my son.
Not wanting to hover about while “my Christmas gift” was being purchased, I headed outside the store and window-shopped at nearby establishments. After a considerable delay, the kids came outside. But, there was no large package. Ah, they must have elected to have them shipped to me. That is so nice. I will receive the Wisemen closer to Christmas.
Christmas came at its regular time that year. But no wisemen!
As with most weeks following Christmas, we were meeting at the family home in Alabama. I was certain the wisemen would appear then; even closer to Epiphany!
We all arrived in Alabama. Gathered around the fireplace, I presented them with their gifts. It had all the warm and fuzzy you would hope for. Still, the elusive seers did not appear. Maybe they had lost their star, or maybe it was not to be.
“Where are my wisemen?” Of course, you cannot ask – that would be too self-serving. The true spirit of Christmas is in the giving, not the receiving. But, where are they really? I kept quiet.
That year, the media was full of advertisements that featured a former Tarzan as a spokesperson for Werther’s Originals. He was now speaking as a Grandfather, no longer King of the Jungle. The gist of his spiel was that “every good grandfather has Werther’s Originals in his pocket.” With this in mind, my son had always said that I would know when they were “expecting” when I received a package of Werther’s in the mail.
The calendar progressed into April, then May.
One morning in mid-May, I got a call at my office. It was my son. “Dad, what is your office address, I cannot seem to locate where I have written it down and I need to send you something.”
Yes!!! I am going to be a grandfather. I phoned a couple of friends. I called my sister down south. “I am about to be a grandfather.”
When questioned by those I called, I was sorely short on details. I could only relate the bit about the Werther’s and the phone call from my son. I would wait for the mail for the details of when.
All the following week, I looked for the elusive bag of Werther’s. Nothing! The week after? Nothing!
Finally I phoned my son, “Am I going to be a grandfather?”
He was puzzled with the question coming out of the blue. “Why would you ask that?” I then related the bit about the Werther’s and the phone request for my office address. He laughed.
“No, we are trying to send your Christmas present!” (Ah, the ones from Orient are!)
The three wisemen - one on a black horse, one on an elephant, and one on a camel - traveled from the Midwest to the Deep South and finally arrived back in Chicago in October – 10 months following their anticipated appearance. (Is this my Christmas gift from last year or for the one coming up? Remember, it is about giving, not getting!)
The Werther’s Originals finally arrived and so did Miss Grace. However, I am now told by their parents that the grandchildren are not allowed to have sugar treats!
Carrots anyone?
Several years ago, when my son and daughter-in-law were making their annual Thanksgiving visit to Chicago; we were out shopping for the upcoming Christmas season. Now, I am going to stop this narrative to admit that I am a difficult guy to buy for. No, not that I am overly picky or put too much emphasis on a gift, it is because of my excessive Ebay obsession, I need little, if anything. (Yes, I could be called an Ebay slut.)
So we were browsing through the shops looking at the goods when my son said, “Dad, how would you like these?”
He guided me towards a table upon which sat three large, ornate figures: The Three Wisemen. One was on a black horse, one on an elephant, and one on a camel. They were magnificent; truly impressive. I was immediately taken with them and expressed my admiration to my son.
Not wanting to hover about while “my Christmas gift” was being purchased, I headed outside the store and window-shopped at nearby establishments. After a considerable delay, the kids came outside. But, there was no large package. Ah, they must have elected to have them shipped to me. That is so nice. I will receive the Wisemen closer to Christmas.
Christmas came at its regular time that year. But no wisemen!
As with most weeks following Christmas, we were meeting at the family home in Alabama. I was certain the wisemen would appear then; even closer to Epiphany!
We all arrived in Alabama. Gathered around the fireplace, I presented them with their gifts. It had all the warm and fuzzy you would hope for. Still, the elusive seers did not appear. Maybe they had lost their star, or maybe it was not to be.
“Where are my wisemen?” Of course, you cannot ask – that would be too self-serving. The true spirit of Christmas is in the giving, not the receiving. But, where are they really? I kept quiet.
That year, the media was full of advertisements that featured a former Tarzan as a spokesperson for Werther’s Originals. He was now speaking as a Grandfather, no longer King of the Jungle. The gist of his spiel was that “every good grandfather has Werther’s Originals in his pocket.” With this in mind, my son had always said that I would know when they were “expecting” when I received a package of Werther’s in the mail.
The calendar progressed into April, then May.
One morning in mid-May, I got a call at my office. It was my son. “Dad, what is your office address, I cannot seem to locate where I have written it down and I need to send you something.”
Yes!!! I am going to be a grandfather. I phoned a couple of friends. I called my sister down south. “I am about to be a grandfather.”
When questioned by those I called, I was sorely short on details. I could only relate the bit about the Werther’s and the phone call from my son. I would wait for the mail for the details of when.
All the following week, I looked for the elusive bag of Werther’s. Nothing! The week after? Nothing!
Finally I phoned my son, “Am I going to be a grandfather?”
He was puzzled with the question coming out of the blue. “Why would you ask that?” I then related the bit about the Werther’s and the phone request for my office address. He laughed.
“No, we are trying to send your Christmas present!” (Ah, the ones from Orient are!)
The three wisemen - one on a black horse, one on an elephant, and one on a camel - traveled from the Midwest to the Deep South and finally arrived back in Chicago in October – 10 months following their anticipated appearance. (Is this my Christmas gift from last year or for the one coming up? Remember, it is about giving, not getting!)
The Werther’s Originals finally arrived and so did Miss Grace. However, I am now told by their parents that the grandchildren are not allowed to have sugar treats!
Carrots anyone?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Baby Jesus in a Texas Humvee
As you may recall, my fiery redhead granddaughter had refused to identify the baby in their Nativity Scene as the Baby Jesus. (See the post, “No Room In The Inn”) Well, she has had some type of “Isle of Patmos” experience and is now certain the figure is indeed, “Baby Jesus.” Being told of his association with the upcoming Christmas, she is even walking about singing, “Happy Birthday.”
However, Baby Jesus is missing. This was revealed our most recent conversation by telephone.
“Grandmon, whatcha doing?” I began a reply and she interrupted with some urgency in her voice, “Baby Jesus is gone and I can’t find him.” As with her younger cousin in Florida, Baby Jesus was AWOL.
I wanted to say that the Baptists had been singing, “Come Home” for years. But instead I said, “where could he be?”
“In the Humvee!” Then she immediately left the phone to pursue something infinitely more exciting than talking to the old man in “Cahgo.”
“In the Humvee.” The meaning was lost on me until I remembered my grandson’s predilection for placing all sorts of “passengers” into his toy car. However, I was struck by the number of images that "Baby Jesus is in the Humvee" evoked in me.
I began to remember all the ridiculous holiday songs from over the years beginning with “I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus” and moving onto “Grandma got run over by a reindeer.” There was even one about a camel, but, come to think of it, that might not have involved Christmas at all. I also remember the fear that “Up on the housetop” caused me as a child.
No, it was not some sense of foreboding about a fat guy on the roof falling off and breaking a limb. It was the “click, click, click.” I couldn’t snap my fingers as we sang the “click, click, click” part! This was a major source of trauma for a kid in elementary school. So in order to stay ahead in the “peer pressure” department, I was sick a lot on days we had music. Healing came when school was dismissed around December 20th.
I just had to hope Mrs. Heacock didn’t plan on our doing “The Bridge over the River Kwai.” (Whistling was as challenging as snapping my fingers.)
Christmas songs have either been the source of great joy or great consternation. Miss Cleedy Martin came in late on her much rehearsed solo at the Baptist church. She was singing something about the animals in the manger. Knowning the Baptists, I am certain it was not related to the "O Magnum Mysterium." She explained later that she was distracted trying to decide whether to sing ass with the “a” as in attic or the “ah” as in car. (Think about it and you will understand her dilemma.)
“I saw three ships” has always caused a problem if sung too fast. (You will need to think about that one too, maybe even sing it “vivace.”) "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" has always sounded like it was a bit "pouty." (I'm gonna take my Ferrero Rocher's and go home.)
Christmas is upon us and we suffer daily through “Jingle Bell Rock.” But this too shall pass.
Out in Texas, Baby Jesus has been extracted from the Humvee and when last spotted, he was being twirled around while the redhead sang, “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel.”
However, Baby Jesus is missing. This was revealed our most recent conversation by telephone.
“Grandmon, whatcha doing?” I began a reply and she interrupted with some urgency in her voice, “Baby Jesus is gone and I can’t find him.” As with her younger cousin in Florida, Baby Jesus was AWOL.
I wanted to say that the Baptists had been singing, “Come Home” for years. But instead I said, “where could he be?”
“In the Humvee!” Then she immediately left the phone to pursue something infinitely more exciting than talking to the old man in “Cahgo.”
“In the Humvee.” The meaning was lost on me until I remembered my grandson’s predilection for placing all sorts of “passengers” into his toy car. However, I was struck by the number of images that "Baby Jesus is in the Humvee" evoked in me.
I began to remember all the ridiculous holiday songs from over the years beginning with “I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus” and moving onto “Grandma got run over by a reindeer.” There was even one about a camel, but, come to think of it, that might not have involved Christmas at all. I also remember the fear that “Up on the housetop” caused me as a child.
No, it was not some sense of foreboding about a fat guy on the roof falling off and breaking a limb. It was the “click, click, click.” I couldn’t snap my fingers as we sang the “click, click, click” part! This was a major source of trauma for a kid in elementary school. So in order to stay ahead in the “peer pressure” department, I was sick a lot on days we had music. Healing came when school was dismissed around December 20th.
I just had to hope Mrs. Heacock didn’t plan on our doing “The Bridge over the River Kwai.” (Whistling was as challenging as snapping my fingers.)
Christmas songs have either been the source of great joy or great consternation. Miss Cleedy Martin came in late on her much rehearsed solo at the Baptist church. She was singing something about the animals in the manger. Knowning the Baptists, I am certain it was not related to the "O Magnum Mysterium." She explained later that she was distracted trying to decide whether to sing ass with the “a” as in attic or the “ah” as in car. (Think about it and you will understand her dilemma.)
“I saw three ships” has always caused a problem if sung too fast. (You will need to think about that one too, maybe even sing it “vivace.”) "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" has always sounded like it was a bit "pouty." (I'm gonna take my Ferrero Rocher's and go home.)
Christmas is upon us and we suffer daily through “Jingle Bell Rock.” But this too shall pass.
Out in Texas, Baby Jesus has been extracted from the Humvee and when last spotted, he was being twirled around while the redhead sang, “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel.”
Friday, December 4, 2009
No Room In The Inn
My granddaughter Grace, the youngest of my three grandkids, has a nativity scene with which she is fascinated. She is constantly rearranging the figures. There is only one of which she identifies with any regularity: “Baby Jesu.” (She is either having trouble with the “s” or speaking in classic Latin.)
Her two-year old cousin in Texas refuses to admit to the divinity at all. When told it is the baby Jesus, she adamantly corrects her mother, “No! It is just a baby.” (She would be termed a “maverick” had that designation not been opted by a ditsy individual who can see Russia from her front porch.)
“Baby Jesu” keeps coming up missing. I have explained to her father that she is merely being liturgical. The baby isn’t due until Christmas Eve. Of late, the only one in the stable is the shepherd boy. Even Mary has been relegated to a spot among the cows.
All this reminds me of the locally famous “Living Nativity” staged in my boyhood hometown; a village of about 15,000 souls with a Creek Indian name which means "Buzzard's Roost." (It was aptly designated.)
The nativity was situated in the public park on Broadway since it got the most automobile traffic. Various townspeople volunteered to be shepherds and wisemen. Mary and Joseph were generally chosen by the local pediatrician since he knew whose baby could handle the situation with the quietest demeanor and didn't require a pacifier. (Despite the occasional appearance of a pair of canvas Keds, the look was relatively gratifying.)
The animals were the most difficult to cast. Cows were ok, sheep a bit of a challenge, but camels are not native to Alabama. Otis Sprayberry, who furnished the livestock and insisted a sign be erected near the stable to attest of his altruism, offered three mules to be the transport of the seers of the East.
“Hold on!” This was the cry of Mrs. Augusta Lawson, the art teacher, who was the artistic consultant of the project. In her vision, there were camels. A mule is not a camel.
Mrs. Lawson was an enterprising woman. (Not only an artist, she was also the author of a very popular book, “What To Do With The Preacher On A Hot Day.” Relax, it was a book of cool drink recipes for entertaining and was very popular among the Presbyterians.)
Not content that three mules would spoil her Living Nativity, she fashioned papier-mâché “humps” which were attached to the sagging topsides of the aging equines. She also improvised a large headdress to further camouflage the fact that they were not camels. She insisted they be placed as far from the street as practical – off in the shadows to achieve as much illusion as possible. The placement really bothered the wisemen who were responsible for keeping the “camels” from straying away. Who could see them in the dark?
Maylene Moore made all the costumes. It was a real improvement over the “terrycloth bathrobe” look most associated with local Christmas pageants. Mrs. Lawson had sketched patterns adapted from famous paintings. Since most of the fabric was donated by the local cotton mill, something was lost with the preponderance of blue cotton ticking. (The blue did look good on the Virgin Mary.)
Things went well for the most part. That is until the handbell choir from the Methodist Church at Renfro made a guest appearance to play “carols and hymns of the season.” Rather than Christmas charm, the enthusiastic clanging had an alarming effect on the “camels.”
Despite the fact that Junior Sprayberry, the oldest boy of Otis, was Melchoir and familiar with his beast, he was unable to hold on. The frightened creature bolted, plowed right through the bell-ringers and headed down Broadway. The two others followed close behind. These followed by three wisemen. It was a cloudy night, so there was no star to guide them. By the time the “camels” reached Fourth Street, the humps had shifted position to become udders. It really frightened Birtie Parker who was out walking her dog, Mitzi. She did so each night to avoid the buzzards.
The parents of Baby Jesus assessed the trauma of the evening. He came up missing too.
Her two-year old cousin in Texas refuses to admit to the divinity at all. When told it is the baby Jesus, she adamantly corrects her mother, “No! It is just a baby.” (She would be termed a “maverick” had that designation not been opted by a ditsy individual who can see Russia from her front porch.)
“Baby Jesu” keeps coming up missing. I have explained to her father that she is merely being liturgical. The baby isn’t due until Christmas Eve. Of late, the only one in the stable is the shepherd boy. Even Mary has been relegated to a spot among the cows.
All this reminds me of the locally famous “Living Nativity” staged in my boyhood hometown; a village of about 15,000 souls with a Creek Indian name which means "Buzzard's Roost." (It was aptly designated.)
The nativity was situated in the public park on Broadway since it got the most automobile traffic. Various townspeople volunteered to be shepherds and wisemen. Mary and Joseph were generally chosen by the local pediatrician since he knew whose baby could handle the situation with the quietest demeanor and didn't require a pacifier. (Despite the occasional appearance of a pair of canvas Keds, the look was relatively gratifying.)
The animals were the most difficult to cast. Cows were ok, sheep a bit of a challenge, but camels are not native to Alabama. Otis Sprayberry, who furnished the livestock and insisted a sign be erected near the stable to attest of his altruism, offered three mules to be the transport of the seers of the East.
“Hold on!” This was the cry of Mrs. Augusta Lawson, the art teacher, who was the artistic consultant of the project. In her vision, there were camels. A mule is not a camel.
Mrs. Lawson was an enterprising woman. (Not only an artist, she was also the author of a very popular book, “What To Do With The Preacher On A Hot Day.” Relax, it was a book of cool drink recipes for entertaining and was very popular among the Presbyterians.)
Not content that three mules would spoil her Living Nativity, she fashioned papier-mâché “humps” which were attached to the sagging topsides of the aging equines. She also improvised a large headdress to further camouflage the fact that they were not camels. She insisted they be placed as far from the street as practical – off in the shadows to achieve as much illusion as possible. The placement really bothered the wisemen who were responsible for keeping the “camels” from straying away. Who could see them in the dark?
Maylene Moore made all the costumes. It was a real improvement over the “terrycloth bathrobe” look most associated with local Christmas pageants. Mrs. Lawson had sketched patterns adapted from famous paintings. Since most of the fabric was donated by the local cotton mill, something was lost with the preponderance of blue cotton ticking. (The blue did look good on the Virgin Mary.)
Things went well for the most part. That is until the handbell choir from the Methodist Church at Renfro made a guest appearance to play “carols and hymns of the season.” Rather than Christmas charm, the enthusiastic clanging had an alarming effect on the “camels.”
Despite the fact that Junior Sprayberry, the oldest boy of Otis, was Melchoir and familiar with his beast, he was unable to hold on. The frightened creature bolted, plowed right through the bell-ringers and headed down Broadway. The two others followed close behind. These followed by three wisemen. It was a cloudy night, so there was no star to guide them. By the time the “camels” reached Fourth Street, the humps had shifted position to become udders. It really frightened Birtie Parker who was out walking her dog, Mitzi. She did so each night to avoid the buzzards.
The parents of Baby Jesus assessed the trauma of the evening. He came up missing too.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Distracted by all the glamour
I really don’t understand why anyone would want to “crash” a party. Why go somewhere you are not wanted? This crash is not to be confused with the one in Florida that involved getting away from somewhere you did not want to be.
Is it reasonable to assume that you were indeed invited but it just slipped someone’s mind? Or, “once I am there they will be so happy that I arrived.” That logic is overly self-serving and borders on egomania. But, you have to have a major ego to push your way into a closed event.
Shades of Hyacinth Bucket. (That is pronounced Boo-kay, as in the collection of periwinkles.)
The news is full of the couple who crashed the Obama’s State Dinner for the Prime Minister of India. People are pointing fingers and I hear that there is even a congressional investigation to probe into how this happened. We could save some time and concentrate on more important things by just admitting: “Somebody got distracted!” Actually, it appears several somebodies! And for congress, the distraction continues.
I am reminded of Mother’s First Rule of Etiquette: Never arrive uninvited to someone’s home at the dinner hour! Did they expect their place card to magically appear just because you are wearing “off the rack” from Saris R Us and a “too-tight” tux?
A descendant of Henry Morgenthau Jr. (FDR era), wrote a great piece in the NY Times about some gate-crashing teenagers who were able to get into the White House on New Year’s Eve back in 1938. They did this on a bet and hoped to get the autographs for Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt. Their escapade was able to be played out because they were mistaken for guests who had been invited. The doorkeepers had been told to expect a group of young people. It was a coincidence that another group of teenagers opted to “crash” on the same evening.
The gatekeepers of 2009 were told to expect 300 or so people, some of them blond, I suppose.
The article in the Times sums up the events of 1938 by quoting from Eleanor Roosevelt who mentioned the incident in her column, “My Day.” According to this source, Mrs. Roosevelt couched the “crash” in descriptive terms such as “intrusive, unmannerly, rude, thoughtless and unmindful of others.” I was particularly taken by one comment that was quoted from her column. “Behavior of this kind will make the young people seem heroic.”
People have been pushing their way into private spaces for generations. Some are so intent on going where they are not wanted that courts must issue a restraining order to keep them away. But isn’t a printed “guest list” a type of “restraining order?”
Many years ago, my purple-haired mother down in Alabama phoned, quite upset with the fact that some people had arrived at her home, “totally unannounced.” I asked who these people were. “Some people we met at church,” my mother replied.
“I bet when you met them you said, ‘Come to see us some time.’”
“Of course I did, but you know, we don’t mean that!”
Is it reasonable to assume that you were indeed invited but it just slipped someone’s mind? Or, “once I am there they will be so happy that I arrived.” That logic is overly self-serving and borders on egomania. But, you have to have a major ego to push your way into a closed event.
Shades of Hyacinth Bucket. (That is pronounced Boo-kay, as in the collection of periwinkles.)
The news is full of the couple who crashed the Obama’s State Dinner for the Prime Minister of India. People are pointing fingers and I hear that there is even a congressional investigation to probe into how this happened. We could save some time and concentrate on more important things by just admitting: “Somebody got distracted!” Actually, it appears several somebodies! And for congress, the distraction continues.
I am reminded of Mother’s First Rule of Etiquette: Never arrive uninvited to someone’s home at the dinner hour! Did they expect their place card to magically appear just because you are wearing “off the rack” from Saris R Us and a “too-tight” tux?
A descendant of Henry Morgenthau Jr. (FDR era), wrote a great piece in the NY Times about some gate-crashing teenagers who were able to get into the White House on New Year’s Eve back in 1938. They did this on a bet and hoped to get the autographs for Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt. Their escapade was able to be played out because they were mistaken for guests who had been invited. The doorkeepers had been told to expect a group of young people. It was a coincidence that another group of teenagers opted to “crash” on the same evening.
The gatekeepers of 2009 were told to expect 300 or so people, some of them blond, I suppose.
The article in the Times sums up the events of 1938 by quoting from Eleanor Roosevelt who mentioned the incident in her column, “My Day.” According to this source, Mrs. Roosevelt couched the “crash” in descriptive terms such as “intrusive, unmannerly, rude, thoughtless and unmindful of others.” I was particularly taken by one comment that was quoted from her column. “Behavior of this kind will make the young people seem heroic.”
People have been pushing their way into private spaces for generations. Some are so intent on going where they are not wanted that courts must issue a restraining order to keep them away. But isn’t a printed “guest list” a type of “restraining order?”
Many years ago, my purple-haired mother down in Alabama phoned, quite upset with the fact that some people had arrived at her home, “totally unannounced.” I asked who these people were. “Some people we met at church,” my mother replied.
“I bet when you met them you said, ‘Come to see us some time.’”
“Of course I did, but you know, we don’t mean that!”
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sitting In The Dark, Hoping To Understand
In the midst of all the talk about Black Friday and Cyber Monday, I heard a blurb on WFMT about a new production of Franz Lehár’s “The Merry Widow,” just in time for the holiday season. The story involves a debt-ridden country attempting to capture the millions of a wealthy widow in order to save their economy. A contrived stimulus package. This has a strange ring of reality about it.
Opera and reality?
Now while I personally enjoy opera, I am the first to admit that there is nothing created by humankind that is more bizarre. Think about it: singing a dialogue, generally in a foreign language, then reflecting upon this dialogue with soaring melodies that challenge the bounds of the vocal physiology. All the while, this supported by a symphonic ensemble, a stage crew, prompters, lighting technicians, and an adoring public prone to wearing capes and peering through the darkness of the theatre via little golden binoculars held in place by “mother of pearl” sticks. (Okay, so I have exaggerated a bit about the capes and the opera glasses. But, only slightly.)
When people have expressed reluctance to attend opera because of not understanding the language, I have always insisted that even without knowing the language, there will be enough happening on stage to give one a basic understanding of the story.
After attending a performance of Kodály’s “Székely Fonó” (The Transylvanian Spinning Room), I may wish to amend that.
My encounter with this opera took place at the grand Hungarian State Opera in Budapest. This is a house built in the late 19th Century in a Renaissance/Baroque style and a lavish tribute to the operatic art form. Like opera, itself, everything about this palace for performance is a bit “over the top.” Since the Kodály work was new to me, I attempted with no success to research the story in advance. Having failed, I was reassured by my mantra to others: “there will be enough happening on the stage to give a basic understanding of the story.”
In this staging, the house lights lowered and you heard the sound of a steam locomotive pulling to a stop. Stage lights revealed several figures in black trench coats and black hats standing in front of the curtain. As the idle train hissed the sound of escaping steam, two figures divested their dark coats and hats to reveal heavily decorated Hungarian folk dress. In an immediate blackout, the train is heard to pull away and in a bit, stop again. The lights go up on the same group and two more people divest revealing brightly-colored folk costumes. This continues until the whole group stands before us in their traditional native dress. At this point, the music began and the curtain opened onto a large room filled with spinning machines. In the background there was a simulated forest with various wooden bridges on and over which people in black trench coats sometimes appeared. (Remember the train?) Downstage, near the edge is a box from which objects/props were removed from time to time. There was a bridge across the orchestra into the audience over which people sometimes left. I don’t recall if anyone ever returned from that direction. People sang. People embraced. People sometimes looked really sad. A couple of times I caught the glimpse of a smile. (Someone either happy or out of character.)
Despite watching everything intently, I have no idea what this opera is about. I can only say that everyone who started out singing was still singing in the end and seemed happy about things. The people in black trench coats were no longer hovering ominously in the background. The music was up-tempo.
Since the month-long wedding of Fernando and Christine back in 1589, opera has captured the imaginations of music lovers. My good friend, Mike, recently purchased season tickets to the opera. Having grown up in a less urbane part of the Midwest where there were not a lot of opportunities to hear opera, he wanted to experience a new musical idiom. Sadly, Mike’s first encounter was opera on hormones: Wagner! Some of these operas last for days with nothing even approaching reality.
Once, at a performance of “La Bohème” at Chicago’s Lyric Opera, a stage that boasts the largest proscenium opening of any opera house in the world, the curtain opened to reveal the humble loft of the starving artists of the story. In this design, rather than being a small hovel amid the Paris skyline, this loft encompassed the whole of the vast opening of the Lyric stage.
The older lady seated to my left whisper loudly to her friend beyond. “It’s no wonder they are so poor; trying to heat that place.”
Lady, it’s opera. Like our economy, don’t expect anything reasonable. Just sit in the dark and hope to understand.
Opera and reality?
Now while I personally enjoy opera, I am the first to admit that there is nothing created by humankind that is more bizarre. Think about it: singing a dialogue, generally in a foreign language, then reflecting upon this dialogue with soaring melodies that challenge the bounds of the vocal physiology. All the while, this supported by a symphonic ensemble, a stage crew, prompters, lighting technicians, and an adoring public prone to wearing capes and peering through the darkness of the theatre via little golden binoculars held in place by “mother of pearl” sticks. (Okay, so I have exaggerated a bit about the capes and the opera glasses. But, only slightly.)
When people have expressed reluctance to attend opera because of not understanding the language, I have always insisted that even without knowing the language, there will be enough happening on stage to give one a basic understanding of the story.
After attending a performance of Kodály’s “Székely Fonó” (The Transylvanian Spinning Room), I may wish to amend that.
My encounter with this opera took place at the grand Hungarian State Opera in Budapest. This is a house built in the late 19th Century in a Renaissance/Baroque style and a lavish tribute to the operatic art form. Like opera, itself, everything about this palace for performance is a bit “over the top.” Since the Kodály work was new to me, I attempted with no success to research the story in advance. Having failed, I was reassured by my mantra to others: “there will be enough happening on the stage to give a basic understanding of the story.”
In this staging, the house lights lowered and you heard the sound of a steam locomotive pulling to a stop. Stage lights revealed several figures in black trench coats and black hats standing in front of the curtain. As the idle train hissed the sound of escaping steam, two figures divested their dark coats and hats to reveal heavily decorated Hungarian folk dress. In an immediate blackout, the train is heard to pull away and in a bit, stop again. The lights go up on the same group and two more people divest revealing brightly-colored folk costumes. This continues until the whole group stands before us in their traditional native dress. At this point, the music began and the curtain opened onto a large room filled with spinning machines. In the background there was a simulated forest with various wooden bridges on and over which people in black trench coats sometimes appeared. (Remember the train?) Downstage, near the edge is a box from which objects/props were removed from time to time. There was a bridge across the orchestra into the audience over which people sometimes left. I don’t recall if anyone ever returned from that direction. People sang. People embraced. People sometimes looked really sad. A couple of times I caught the glimpse of a smile. (Someone either happy or out of character.)
Despite watching everything intently, I have no idea what this opera is about. I can only say that everyone who started out singing was still singing in the end and seemed happy about things. The people in black trench coats were no longer hovering ominously in the background. The music was up-tempo.
Since the month-long wedding of Fernando and Christine back in 1589, opera has captured the imaginations of music lovers. My good friend, Mike, recently purchased season tickets to the opera. Having grown up in a less urbane part of the Midwest where there were not a lot of opportunities to hear opera, he wanted to experience a new musical idiom. Sadly, Mike’s first encounter was opera on hormones: Wagner! Some of these operas last for days with nothing even approaching reality.
Once, at a performance of “La Bohème” at Chicago’s Lyric Opera, a stage that boasts the largest proscenium opening of any opera house in the world, the curtain opened to reveal the humble loft of the starving artists of the story. In this design, rather than being a small hovel amid the Paris skyline, this loft encompassed the whole of the vast opening of the Lyric stage.
The older lady seated to my left whisper loudly to her friend beyond. “It’s no wonder they are so poor; trying to heat that place.”
Lady, it’s opera. Like our economy, don’t expect anything reasonable. Just sit in the dark and hope to understand.
Where is Bletchley Park when you need them?
Lately, each time I boot up my laptop, I am interrupted by a popup admonishing me to update my Sweet IMs. You know, those “happy faces” inserted into online chats to convey a reaction or mood. Having never used the program, I have no idea why I ever thought it was a good idea to have it. If I am unhappy with something, I find it far more effective to say such than to insert a scowling happy face. Which, in itself, is a contradiction of “terms.”
We are a society of messages. We even use license plates on our autos to convey a characteristic or status. MBA 87 obviously means a graduate degree in business. I assume that 1987 was the year that it was awarded and not the age of the recipient. My favorite was the woman who drove the vintage Rolls convertible. Her plate: SNOB.
I once asked a young woman in our office to explain why her automobile license plates read “Hurtles?” “Do you do everything rapidly?” She looked at me with a very puzzled expression and asked for an explanation of my question. “Your license plate, it reads HRTLES. Is it because of your tendency to drive over the speed limit? Or perhaps you perform tasks quickly?
“No,” she exclaimed with exasperation, “I’m heartless.” She was without a significant other.
I am generally at a loss with the cryptic tendencies, which creep into our language either by vanity plates or the written word. I must confess from the outset, I am not an abbreviator. In fact, I have never appreciated abbreviations. My sister annoys me when she says “scripts” for prescriptions and I steadfastly refuse to IL for Illinois when I do that rare thing and send a “snailmail.” But, on the other hand, I am able to answer “yes” or “no” to a question, which, down south is considered rude. In that culture, you are supposed to take your time – ease into the reality – before moving beyond ambiguity. “Let me think about that. You know, hmmmm, no mam, I don’t think so.”
It is all about expediency. We are in a rush to get things done, unless, of course, it concerns a senseless war, national healthcare, or potholes in Chicago Streets. Our conversations become clipped with monosyllables. Our online emails and chats are rife with shortcuts. And nobody seems to remember the difference between you’re and your. O sorry, UR.
Online messages read like a code from a previous war. IB, LOL but AAYF. BST WAG1? R U CAZ? (I’m back, laughing out loud, but as always your friend. But seriously though, what is going on? Are you crazy?”)
Just as we now give a Ph.D. in Comic Book Studies, we will soon recognize Emoticon as a world language. With almost 4,000 recognized Internet acronyms, perhaps many R already there.
I need to run and nuke my breakfast!
XOXOXO
MUAH
BFN
We are a society of messages. We even use license plates on our autos to convey a characteristic or status. MBA 87 obviously means a graduate degree in business. I assume that 1987 was the year that it was awarded and not the age of the recipient. My favorite was the woman who drove the vintage Rolls convertible. Her plate: SNOB.
I once asked a young woman in our office to explain why her automobile license plates read “Hurtles?” “Do you do everything rapidly?” She looked at me with a very puzzled expression and asked for an explanation of my question. “Your license plate, it reads HRTLES. Is it because of your tendency to drive over the speed limit? Or perhaps you perform tasks quickly?
“No,” she exclaimed with exasperation, “I’m heartless.” She was without a significant other.
I am generally at a loss with the cryptic tendencies, which creep into our language either by vanity plates or the written word. I must confess from the outset, I am not an abbreviator. In fact, I have never appreciated abbreviations. My sister annoys me when she says “scripts” for prescriptions and I steadfastly refuse to IL for Illinois when I do that rare thing and send a “snailmail.” But, on the other hand, I am able to answer “yes” or “no” to a question, which, down south is considered rude. In that culture, you are supposed to take your time – ease into the reality – before moving beyond ambiguity. “Let me think about that. You know, hmmmm, no mam, I don’t think so.”
It is all about expediency. We are in a rush to get things done, unless, of course, it concerns a senseless war, national healthcare, or potholes in Chicago Streets. Our conversations become clipped with monosyllables. Our online emails and chats are rife with shortcuts. And nobody seems to remember the difference between you’re and your. O sorry, UR.
Online messages read like a code from a previous war. IB, LOL but AAYF. BST WAG1? R U CAZ? (I’m back, laughing out loud, but as always your friend. But seriously though, what is going on? Are you crazy?”)
Just as we now give a Ph.D. in Comic Book Studies, we will soon recognize Emoticon as a world language. With almost 4,000 recognized Internet acronyms, perhaps many R already there.
I need to run and nuke my breakfast!
XOXOXO
MUAH
BFN
Thursday, November 26, 2009
A Title Worth Respecting
When you get to be my age - somewhat “older than God´-you think back on your life. It happens with some regularity and often associated with a pile of pills you are about to ingest.
You realize that you have done it. You have managed, despite loftier intentions, to become quite ordinary. You have had your moment. There are no more career moves left. And unless, in an instance of bad judgement, you decide to “streak” the local Target, you have probably had your 15 minutes.
No, I am not considering checking out, but when someone who works on commission offers you the “Senior Discount,” you know its all downhill from here.
So you reflect on all the grand titles of all the interesting careers and wonder: “What if?”
To be a “laureate” either of the poetic or Nobel variety would be nice. To be President, not so, since people really like to openly voice their disapproval and I am sensitive. Senator used to have a ring of respect. Archbishop would probably be confused by the younger set with Ronald at McDonald’s.
By far, the most intriguing would be The Bulibasha. It is exotic, remote, and few people outside Romania even know its significance. Which, of course, would generate lots of discussion but there would be added security checks at the airport because of the proliferation of gold jewelry. Or being called The Metropolitan. (No, not like “The Continental” in the Conrad-Magidson song of the late 30s.) But Metropolitan with full headdress and big medallion in the Greek Orthodox sense of the word. I have always liked that title. To be so designated, however, would probably require much more than the freshman year “Introduction to World Religions” and the ability to shout “Opa!” when you see flaming cheese.
The Bulibasha is as much of a long shot as the Metropolitan. But both have interesting entourages and respect is often closely tied to the size of your entourage. (No double entendre intended.)
About three years ago I had an important career change. I became grandfather to the first of three delightful little ones. I never knew it could be so much fun. Visits with them are hilarious and filled with tons of energy and excitement. However, since I live apart and other grandparents get frequent face time, I have tried to have regular telephone interactions with each one. With this young age, you realize, early on, that you must ask questions to which they have a ready answer to assure yourself you are actually having a conversation. “What does the dog say?” “What does the cat say?” And so forth. You get the drift.
The oldest, now three, has become quite busy in his daily schedule and is often too much so to speak with Grandaddy. Recently, when pressed by his mother to come to the telephone and talk with me, he reluctantly accepted the phone and spoke firmly, “MOO!” then handed the phone back to his mother and resumed whatever he was occupied doing.
How frustrating it is when the old man can’t seem to remember the basic stuff! We have gone over this many times!
Thomas Hardy in an eloquently sad poem, “To Lizbie Brown,” writes of a man who sought to love a woman he never met. He was mesmerized by her and yet, never made a move to know her beyond the distance that separated them. In the end, he realizes when people “speak of me as not,” she will probably say, “and who was he?”
When my second grandchild, a red-tressed beauty of 2 recently gave me the title, “Grandmon,” I must admit that it surpassed all achievements I feared I had missed. When she speaks the greeting, it feels loftier than you could ever imagine. And hey, while not as large as that of the Bulibasha, my entourage of three isn’t so shabby on the playground at the local park.
It’s actually quite extraordinary.
You realize that you have done it. You have managed, despite loftier intentions, to become quite ordinary. You have had your moment. There are no more career moves left. And unless, in an instance of bad judgement, you decide to “streak” the local Target, you have probably had your 15 minutes.
No, I am not considering checking out, but when someone who works on commission offers you the “Senior Discount,” you know its all downhill from here.
So you reflect on all the grand titles of all the interesting careers and wonder: “What if?”
To be a “laureate” either of the poetic or Nobel variety would be nice. To be President, not so, since people really like to openly voice their disapproval and I am sensitive. Senator used to have a ring of respect. Archbishop would probably be confused by the younger set with Ronald at McDonald’s.
By far, the most intriguing would be The Bulibasha. It is exotic, remote, and few people outside Romania even know its significance. Which, of course, would generate lots of discussion but there would be added security checks at the airport because of the proliferation of gold jewelry. Or being called The Metropolitan. (No, not like “The Continental” in the Conrad-Magidson song of the late 30s.) But Metropolitan with full headdress and big medallion in the Greek Orthodox sense of the word. I have always liked that title. To be so designated, however, would probably require much more than the freshman year “Introduction to World Religions” and the ability to shout “Opa!” when you see flaming cheese.
The Bulibasha is as much of a long shot as the Metropolitan. But both have interesting entourages and respect is often closely tied to the size of your entourage. (No double entendre intended.)
About three years ago I had an important career change. I became grandfather to the first of three delightful little ones. I never knew it could be so much fun. Visits with them are hilarious and filled with tons of energy and excitement. However, since I live apart and other grandparents get frequent face time, I have tried to have regular telephone interactions with each one. With this young age, you realize, early on, that you must ask questions to which they have a ready answer to assure yourself you are actually having a conversation. “What does the dog say?” “What does the cat say?” And so forth. You get the drift.
The oldest, now three, has become quite busy in his daily schedule and is often too much so to speak with Grandaddy. Recently, when pressed by his mother to come to the telephone and talk with me, he reluctantly accepted the phone and spoke firmly, “MOO!” then handed the phone back to his mother and resumed whatever he was occupied doing.
How frustrating it is when the old man can’t seem to remember the basic stuff! We have gone over this many times!
Thomas Hardy in an eloquently sad poem, “To Lizbie Brown,” writes of a man who sought to love a woman he never met. He was mesmerized by her and yet, never made a move to know her beyond the distance that separated them. In the end, he realizes when people “speak of me as not,” she will probably say, “and who was he?”
When my second grandchild, a red-tressed beauty of 2 recently gave me the title, “Grandmon,” I must admit that it surpassed all achievements I feared I had missed. When she speaks the greeting, it feels loftier than you could ever imagine. And hey, while not as large as that of the Bulibasha, my entourage of three isn’t so shabby on the playground at the local park.
It’s actually quite extraordinary.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Thanksgiving Rituals
My purple-haired mother never stuffed the turkey. She felt she didn’t know it well enough to deal with it in such a personal manner. Instead we had a pan of good old southern cornbread dressing. No sage, no oysters, no canned broth with stale breadcrumbs which resembled…..Well, you know, it just doesn’t look that edible. Our dressing was made with fresh broth from a boiled hen, warm yellow cornbread from an iron skillet, and generous chunks of that fine bird sprinkled on top before baking. With the sautéed onion and the bits of celery, it was a smell to die for when it emerged from the oven. There was also giblet gravy which some poured over it. But not me! Too many giblets that I didn’t recognize.
I don’t do unknown food except for the “mystery meat” which appears on the butter-smeared sandwiches in Eastern Europe. You will find these in every take out shop in every train station from Prague to Bucharest and on most Malev flights. Heavy on butter, with bread three times thicker than needed and then a sliver of something. God knows, I have no idea what it is. It is obviously not toxic, or if so, there is an extended dormancy.
At Thanksgiving, I want my turkey to have legs and my dressing to appear in a Pyrex bowl. Citrus, pears, and apples inside the bird happened after I left home and knew the turkey better.
In October of 1979, my son, John, asked, “Dad, can we have a traditional Thanksgiving?” “Do you mean dressing up like pilgrims?” He said no; so feeling relieved I promised him a traditional Thanksgiving and promptly forgot our agreement.
A week before the holiday, he reminded me of my promise.
“John, what do you mean by a traditional Thanksgiving?”
We always had turkey and the standard side dishes – except no marshmallows on the sweet potatoes. We had long ago eschewed the oyster stuffing that his maternal grandfather had proposed. Too radical! We even served both the jellied, can-shaped cranberry sauce and the kind with whole berries just to placate each sensibility. So I was at a loss to understand what tradition was missing.
“Come with me and I will show you,” he offered.
Now, you must know something about John. Even at a young age, he was very big on image. When I trimmed back the azaleas to curb their jungle-like proportions, he was embarrassed because we had the ugliest yard on the street for several months. He was ashamed of his Schwinn 10-speed because it was not Italian.
Since I had promised, I followed his guide.
He directed me to drive to an upscale shopping area about a mile from our home. He motioned me to park outside a shop, which sold fine china and silver tableware. We were infrequent customers, so I knew their business. I followed John to the rear of the store to a display table set for a formal dinner. In the middle was the source of our “traditional Thanksgiving.” Gleaming in ornate splendor was a domed meat platter, sufficiently large to hold a 25lb. turkey.
It was priced at $8,000.00 since the Hunt Brothers had decided to drive the market that year.
To John, the image from his schoolbook of the Norman Rockwell family around a table with a silver domed platter between two single candlesticks was a traditional Thanksgiving.
We have never made it to have a “traditional Thanksgiving” in the illustrated textbook sense. There have been good years and some not so. There are even years when Boston Market did much of the cooking.
Happy Holiday!
I don’t do unknown food except for the “mystery meat” which appears on the butter-smeared sandwiches in Eastern Europe. You will find these in every take out shop in every train station from Prague to Bucharest and on most Malev flights. Heavy on butter, with bread three times thicker than needed and then a sliver of something. God knows, I have no idea what it is. It is obviously not toxic, or if so, there is an extended dormancy.
At Thanksgiving, I want my turkey to have legs and my dressing to appear in a Pyrex bowl. Citrus, pears, and apples inside the bird happened after I left home and knew the turkey better.
In October of 1979, my son, John, asked, “Dad, can we have a traditional Thanksgiving?” “Do you mean dressing up like pilgrims?” He said no; so feeling relieved I promised him a traditional Thanksgiving and promptly forgot our agreement.
A week before the holiday, he reminded me of my promise.
“John, what do you mean by a traditional Thanksgiving?”
We always had turkey and the standard side dishes – except no marshmallows on the sweet potatoes. We had long ago eschewed the oyster stuffing that his maternal grandfather had proposed. Too radical! We even served both the jellied, can-shaped cranberry sauce and the kind with whole berries just to placate each sensibility. So I was at a loss to understand what tradition was missing.
“Come with me and I will show you,” he offered.
Now, you must know something about John. Even at a young age, he was very big on image. When I trimmed back the azaleas to curb their jungle-like proportions, he was embarrassed because we had the ugliest yard on the street for several months. He was ashamed of his Schwinn 10-speed because it was not Italian.
Since I had promised, I followed his guide.
He directed me to drive to an upscale shopping area about a mile from our home. He motioned me to park outside a shop, which sold fine china and silver tableware. We were infrequent customers, so I knew their business. I followed John to the rear of the store to a display table set for a formal dinner. In the middle was the source of our “traditional Thanksgiving.” Gleaming in ornate splendor was a domed meat platter, sufficiently large to hold a 25lb. turkey.
It was priced at $8,000.00 since the Hunt Brothers had decided to drive the market that year.
To John, the image from his schoolbook of the Norman Rockwell family around a table with a silver domed platter between two single candlesticks was a traditional Thanksgiving.
We have never made it to have a “traditional Thanksgiving” in the illustrated textbook sense. There have been good years and some not so. There are even years when Boston Market did much of the cooking.
Happy Holiday!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Dealing With Atrophy
So today, after months of the relative inactivity of retirement, I decided to deal with muscle atrophy. I signed up for an intensive exercise program down the street. It is my goal to tone everything. For those of you who know me personally: yes, I know, that is a helluva lot of toning. But hey! truth is what you perceive it to be. (George and Dick certainly knew that to be a fact.)
To make all this venture seem to be even more "purpose driven," you know, like those people who jog along the lake in 20-below Chicago weather, I have opted for the 7 a.m. class. Facing the day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed! (I will let you know when I switch to the afternoon.)
I do not mean to imply that I am totally inactive.
I keep my mind exercised by driving daily in Chicago. It is no surprise that the Windy City was just acclaimed as the most frustrating city for automobile operators. Chicago drivers are the worst!!!! In our wonderful assimilation of cultures, we have also assimilated the worst drivers in the world. When the light changes red, four additional vehicles are likely to continue through the intersection. Even if you are 30 feet behind the line when the light changes red, if your blinker is on, you turn!!!! This is also good for the eye muscles, as you can surmise.
There is some degree of benefit for the “slamming on the brakes to avoid death” movement of the right leg. I have noticed it is markedly stronger than the left.
My favorite frustration is tied between two: the cellphone user and that person who passes on the right to get one car length ahead at the intersection. Sometimes events become a combination of many.
One morning, on my way to work when I did that sort of thing, there was a slight drizzle. The streets were wet and so when the light on McCormick Avenue began to change to red, I slowed and stopped. The car behind erupted with a series of horn blasts. When the light changed, the vehicle pulled around on the right and the driver, on a cellphone, shot me an offensive gesture with a middle finger.
Well! That was just too much. I followed the car for many blocks until the owner parked and headed into work.
I lowered the window and spoke calmly to the lady who had so rudely gestured to me. “You know, you may have a nice dress, a decent pair of shoes, and a so-so hairdo. But you and I both know, that each time you glance into the mirror you will know you are just a candidate for the Jerry Springer Show.” (Well, that is not exactly what I said, but that is the blog version. The actual aspersion had to do with rubbish from an assemblage of modular dwellings.)
Then I used my strong right leg to exit the situation.
I am living the “purpose driven life!”
To make all this venture seem to be even more "purpose driven," you know, like those people who jog along the lake in 20-below Chicago weather, I have opted for the 7 a.m. class. Facing the day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed! (I will let you know when I switch to the afternoon.)
I do not mean to imply that I am totally inactive.
I keep my mind exercised by driving daily in Chicago. It is no surprise that the Windy City was just acclaimed as the most frustrating city for automobile operators. Chicago drivers are the worst!!!! In our wonderful assimilation of cultures, we have also assimilated the worst drivers in the world. When the light changes red, four additional vehicles are likely to continue through the intersection. Even if you are 30 feet behind the line when the light changes red, if your blinker is on, you turn!!!! This is also good for the eye muscles, as you can surmise.
There is some degree of benefit for the “slamming on the brakes to avoid death” movement of the right leg. I have noticed it is markedly stronger than the left.
My favorite frustration is tied between two: the cellphone user and that person who passes on the right to get one car length ahead at the intersection. Sometimes events become a combination of many.
One morning, on my way to work when I did that sort of thing, there was a slight drizzle. The streets were wet and so when the light on McCormick Avenue began to change to red, I slowed and stopped. The car behind erupted with a series of horn blasts. When the light changed, the vehicle pulled around on the right and the driver, on a cellphone, shot me an offensive gesture with a middle finger.
Well! That was just too much. I followed the car for many blocks until the owner parked and headed into work.
I lowered the window and spoke calmly to the lady who had so rudely gestured to me. “You know, you may have a nice dress, a decent pair of shoes, and a so-so hairdo. But you and I both know, that each time you glance into the mirror you will know you are just a candidate for the Jerry Springer Show.” (Well, that is not exactly what I said, but that is the blog version. The actual aspersion had to do with rubbish from an assemblage of modular dwellings.)
Then I used my strong right leg to exit the situation.
I am living the “purpose driven life!”
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