Gracia: Adoration Of The Child
My son reminded me earlier this week that I am falling behind with my blog entries. It was a gentle prod, but nevertheless, it pointed to my frustration.
I have started four or five or more entries without any real desire to complete them. They ranged from my frustrations with “change for the sake of change, not in response to a need” to the failure of people and groups to assimilate.
There was also the great photo that opens this post. This resulted from the youngest of the “little people” (my grandchildren) assembling her favorite characters in a type of “Adoration of the Child." However, that idea fizzled as well, along with a story about the "middle one" in Dallas and her obsession with her "dancing shoes."
There was the “birds and bees” and my father’s inability to deal with the subject. When asked about my being born, my parents told me that I was found in a hollow log while they were walking in the woods. There is so much trauma lodged in that concept that I qualify for free therapy on a daily basis. Did they stumble upon the wrong log by mistake? Am I really a Rockefeller? Will the anti-abortionists take on the logging interests?
There was the incident of the adopted child being shipped back to Russia. Since when I asked my mother, "Am I adopted?" and her response was, "Bless your heart, had you been adopted we would have sent you back," this rang too close to home.
I am livid with national politics, but have probably overstayed my “blog welcome” on that series of subjects.
And for all those who have insisted that “offshore drilling” was an “ok” concept, you might want to stand at the mouth of the Mississippi in the next couple of days to witness the impending disaster along the Louisiana coast. European offshore wells are required to have “remote shut-off valves” but not in the US. Like “mine safety,” it would be a cumbersome burden to place such requirements upon an industry.
And then there is the craziness that is also known as Arizona. Blame it on the cactus? There was a brief foray into the ever-changing ideals of their senator. Maybe it is time to retire and work with the family beer business?
Sarah has been quiet for the past couple of days.
I thought about writing about the guy in cardiac rehab who breezes in boisterously to have a go on the “NuStep” after announcing to the nurse that he had two pieces of pound cake for his breakfast.
I continue to pray that Oprah will discover the joy of anonymous altruism.
So, I am blogless for the moment.
I am awake from all the noise inside my head - why does cellular technology change so rapidly? the hollow log, possible adoption, does the tanning salon give John Boehner frequent flyer miles? - waiting for the muse.
Why do Southerners feel "Bless your heart" will solve all our problems?
For decades we have encountered delusional talent on one type of talent show or the other. My earliest recollection was the Ted Mack Amateur Hour, which I have learned was a successor to Major Bowes. Arthur Godfrey had a run with “scouting” for talent. We had Chuck Baris on the “Gong Show.” There was “Star Search” and now Simon and Ellen on “American Idol.” As these shows often play out, sad folks who, either through encouragement, incorrect self-assessment, or a combination of both, arrive in front of an audience.
Back at the Bowling Alley in Centralia, they were thought to be better than the rest. They move up the rungs toward a dream. Then, they are given a spotlight in the big time. Some make it there because of talent. Others, because these venues need a “curiosity” to keep the ratings alive and well. Ratings depend upon angst. Frankly, there is so much angst on “Lost” that I have become immune – bored with it all.
But back to the amateur talent shows.
Eunice Harper Higgins of “Feelings” fame was convinced she was destined to greatness. She even warned Ed and Mama not to expect her back in Raytown. Yet, before she was able to get to her spoken monologue, she was “gonged” into oblivion. We all got a big laugh over it. Her delusion and eventual demise had no real impact on anything.
So why have Ann Coulter, Rush Limbaugh, and Sarah Palin escaped the “gong?”
Coulter and Limbaugh eschew mean-spirited, often ill-informed opinions. Yet, they have an impressive following. And Palin is more popular than ever even though her message is essentially the same tired stuff from the failed campaign with John McCain. I had really thought that Ms. Palin’s gong happened the night of John McCain’s concession speech when she was told that her own concession was not to be heard.
She is still "going rogue."
Palin cannot get beyond the bit about the President being a community organizer while she was sitting on her porch becoming an expert on foreign affairs as she peered over into Russia. Wasn’t Jane Addams a type of “community organizer? How about Nelson Mandela? Didn’t Pope John II do similar stuff in Poland as a young cleric? It seems like really good company to me.
Sarah’s mantra for a better world: “don’t retreat, reload.” Along with Ann and Rush, there is nothing but negative ranting. What is their “better solution?” Do their followers and those who are billing themselves as the Tea Party have a plan or is merely enough to rail at those who do?
Has hatred become a common denominator for this country of hope?
It is going to be a cool Easter in Chicago. There are flowering shrubs dotted here and there, but no leaves yet on the trees. I understand that dogwood blossoms have been sighted in Alabama and the huge pear tree behind my home there is now in full bloom.
My grandson in Dallas – the three-year old – asked me, in a recent telephone chat, if I had an Easter basket. I told him no, but added, foolishly, that I do have some hand-decorated eggs from the Ukraine.
“Me crane?” He responded.
“No, the Ukraine.”
“I crane?” he questioned, attempting to add more clarity than the adult in the conversation.
In obvious frustration with an old man mired in useless detail, he switched the subject to the joy of eating green grapes. He said he would ask his Dad if I could come over and eat green grapes with him. His sister, only 15 months younger, informed me that she was also eating grapes. That was just after she asked, “What up, Grandmon?”
The youngest of the Little People is about to be 2 years old in late May. She lives in Florida. She is good at singing to me on the phone, but not so happy with general conversation. She has become a great “reader.” She spends long periods of time with her favorite book, speaking in her “special reading language” with the occasional recognizable “George.” (Curious George is her favorite.)
As I have attempted to talk with them by phone this week, I am reminded of Easter as a child. My most distinct memory is the smell of vinegar. In my day, the packets of dye for eggs – purchased at Woolworth’s – required vinegar to bond the color to the shell of the boiled egg. It was a ritual that happened after lunch on Saturday before the big day. For the rest of the afternoon, the smell of vinegar permeated the room. I miss that.
There were also white gloves drying somewhere about. These were a staple for the females at Easter. And there was the new hat.
My mother, in the years before the hair became purple and was never covered, enjoyed a new hat at Easter. This was usually purchased with some thought from the Marble City. I remember Old Mr. Coker’s wife being the sales person. She always wore her hair in a neat bun nestled low on her neck in the back. She seemed to know my Mother’s likes and dislikes in hats.
The hats were usually of some proportion as to cast a shadow on her face. Most Easter's were very bright. (It was only after living in Chicago that I was not surprised at all by a blanket of snow.) When Mrs. Kennedy and Oleg made the pillbox hat a hit, Mother tried that, but was never as pleased. She liked the big brims.
My paternal grandfather visited us from Mississippi one Easter. As we were preparing to leave for church, he said, upon encountering my Mother, “either that hat stays home today, or I will.” He never mentioned how he spent his Easter morning. He attempted pleasantness before lunch. He was a big fan of Mother's biscuits.
But back to the little ones.
The middle one of the Little People – the redhead – shares her great grandmother’s love of hats. Her taste is rather more catholic however.
It will not surprise me if I hear a report that instead of wearing her new yellow straw hat with the white ribbons, she opts for her favorite – the plastic strainer from the kitchen. It is her “chum bucket.” To understand her thinking, you need to know about SpongeBob and the little people under the sea.
Happy Easter!
Gracia: Adoration Of The Child
