Stock Photos

Give me your tired, your poor! Your huddled masses bent at playing slots!

Of course that is not the way it goes.

Yet it seems that the “august group” that makes the decisions for the United States Postal Service on images to use on stamps has selected a stock photo from in front of the Las Vegas New York, New York casino as the image for a new “first class forever” stamp. The wrong “Auguste” if you will.

The stamp portrays a close-up of the face of Lady Liberty, the Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi creation which was a gift from France. As you may recall, the gesture was originally to commemorate our country’s first centennial and the close ties between the United States and France. Remember, there was a time before “Freedom Fries” when a major French officer, Lafayette, held a post in George Washington’s army. Senator Kyl?

I would have thought that with the trust that I had in our National Park Rangers, that there was surely someone responsible for photographing our important monuments. But it seems not. When a new stamp is needed, we merely go to a service like Getty or Corbis and find one that works. This time the “lady” in Vegas!!! A smaller version made of fiberglass coated Styrofoam – none of which was around when Bartholdi began to fashion his creation – standing on the corner of Tropicana Avenue and Las Vegas Boulevard not on an island that symbolized the “gateway to democracy” to thousands of refugees escaping a more restricted society.

There are so many metaphors for life here that you get dizzy from the prospects.

But I want to be a bit mundane.

I want to think about “stock photos.”

For most of my life, I remember a photo that was always prominently displayed on the desk in our den. It was a photo of my father’s mother and his youngest sister; an amateur snapshot – made sometime in the late 40s or early 50s on the lawn in front of their home in Mobile, Alabama. It was a house I recalled from visits there and one in which I resided for a period of several months when my parents were desperate to find some relief for my younger sister’s battle with asthma. I recall the house as a place filled with lots of women and then my father and me.

My paternal grandparents had a bitter divorce. I have a copy of the court proceedings. It was not pretty. But we are southerners and we don’t talk about it.

My grandfather, it seemed was a bit of a rover. But we don’t talk about that either. In his reformed state he sang bass in the First Baptist Church choir. That took another turn, but we will talk about that at another time. We need to stay focused on things we are not talking about at this time. If I introduce Napoleon and Picasso at this point, Gertrude Stein would be proud.

Things we are not talking about at this time:

My grandfather, in later years, became a staunch moralist to the point that he dis-inherited two of his children who had been involved in divorces. He never seemed to be bothered about his daughter Frances and her eight marriages. But here again, it was never discussed.

Recently I received a series of photographs of my father’s family all made on the lawn outside the famous house in Mobile.

Wait!

In one, standing among his children is the old man, himself! My grandfather.

I reasoned that it must have been made at a family gathering sometime following the death of my grandmother.

But hold on!

There is that same pair of lawn chairs and the marble bird bath situated between them just like in the photo that was forever in our den.

Boy, those chairs weathered well. Someone kept the birdbath cleaned.

Hmmm, the tree in the background, only a small sapling recently planted, has the same number of branches and leaves.

In another photo of my father, there is my grandmother. Is that the same dress that she was wearing in the den photo?

Now, Evie was a Shotts – the Shotts from Clarke County. These were very proud people. Talbot, her sister was so proud that she insisted that khaki was pronounced with the “ah” as in father and not the “ah” as in attic. You work it out. Grandma Burt was a woman of taste and fashion, not like the “other” woman that her husband subsequently married – the same one mentioned in the bitter divorce that we don’t talk about.

As I looked at the series of photos, my deductive reasoning began to set it. It was a bit slow, but finally began to click.

Lawn chairs the same. Bird bath the same. Young sapling the same. Grandma’s dress the same. Aunt Nita’s dress could have been different, but she was a fashionista and changed often, even in the course of a Sunday afternoon.

These photos were taken on the same day which means that George and Evie of the famous divorce that we don’t talk about were at the same place at the same time – her home in Mobile. This was no accidental encounter at a family gathering at some neutral location. This involved Papa Burt, as we called the old guy, placing an automobile on Highway 45 and driving south to Mobile.

This shattered a lot of ideas – stuff we don’t talk about.

Sadly, my questions could not be answered by my mom and dad since they are both deceased. My sister is younger than I, so she had no memory.

I couldn’t let it go. George and Evie together in Mobile.

My father’s younger sister – the one in the photo in the den – is still alive. I last saw her at my father’s funeral some 15 years ago. My flood of questions outweighed my embarrassment over my inattention, so I decided to phone her.

“Aunt Nita, this is Joe. I have a question.”

We talked for over two hours. It was fantastic. She was sharp and witty and remembered that my grandfather – and the second wife and the step-daughter – made frequent visits to see the first. She sensed that my Grandmother never ceased in her love for him despite the bitter divorce that we don’t talk about.

This was a total reversal of things as I had always imagined them to be. I knew we were a civil group of people, but I thought that was just the façade of a southern family. We might actually be more accepting than I realized – it’s just something we never talked about.

A truth learned from a photo.

The other lady in another photo - the tall French one on Liberty Island in the New York harbor- has been usurped by a younger version, a but more plastic; much like Grandma Burt was with the new wife. The replacement was not discussed. But upon examination by a stamp collector, the sleight was uncovered.

The USPS has declared they purchased their history from Getty Images and really like this version better.

I suppose that the selection of the Las Vegas Liberty instead of the real one is more appropriate since our GOP-dominated legislature has no real interest in the “tired and huddled masses.”

Give me your corporate types;

your lobby and your moneyed influence.

I cast my vote to insure your support of me.

"Step around that soul there – they are just too poor to matter to anyone."

Sadly, nobody seems to want to talk about it.

Stuff Left Beside The Road

Parking in Chicago following the February 2011 blizzard.

The inside of my vehicle is a disaster of major proportions. This is not in reference to some bizarre after market add-ons or manufacturer’s design whim. It is about my accumulated stuff. I often joke to wary-eyed friends, who have the misfortune to ride with me, that there is probably a family of Gypsies hidden away somewhere in the back to whom I offered a ride at some point in the past and they became lost in the mix.

Why the mess?

Remember, I am old, ugly, and live alone. Each day when I arrive home from wherever, I have several “bags” of whatever to carry up three floors to my condo. (It is a walkup building.)

I can only handle so much and in my waning years rue making the journey more than once. So, unless you are fortunate to have a spot in one of the many bags which make it upstairs, you wind up remaining in the vehicle.

Things begin to accumulate.

There are changes of clothes that we discarded over the past sailing seasons that never made it back into the closet of my home. There are coats abandoned after the surprise of a 70 degree day. There are books that were taken along in the hopes that there might be 30 or 40 minutes to read while waiting for my turn at whatever. And there is the influx of paper lovingly called the mail – most especially catalogs from Orvis and Land’s End. And yes, shoes. Often, a single shoe mysteriously separated from its mate by the circumstances of life.

The appearance of an odd shoe always brings to mind Louise Day.

To the residents of Tallapoosa County - that area of Central Alabama which is home to Alexander City and Dadeville and the Battle of Horseshoe Bend, Louise Day is a major celebrity. Mrs. Day is long gone from the scene, but is still remembered. She had a fifteen minute radio shoe, although it might have been longer, which aired each day in and around the noon hour. It was aptly called “Dayly (daily) Doings.”

The content of the program offered little insight on burning issues, unless there was a brush fire that had caught her eye on the drive to the radio station or a fire truck had forced her to pull aside. Her commentary was less biting. In her sincerity, however, there was a treasure trove. Her listeners were loyal and most generally amused by the “doing” that would occupy her interest on any given day.

One of the most amusing involved her finding a man’s dress shoe alongside Highway 280. It was not so dramatic as a pair of sneakers held together by their joined shoelaces and flung aloft over the power lines.

It was a single black shoe in relative good condition. It was obviously, to her, an unintended roadside deposit, since there was no mate about.

She was very worried that the shoe had fallen from an open window of a speeding car rushing to an important appointment - perhaps an interview, or a court appearance, or “heaven forbid, an important ceremony of life.” The physics of the situation escaped any logic. Perhaps the shoe had fallen out from an opened door when the car made a stop to check a noise from a tire. Did the owner of the shoe have a bad bunion and had removed it for some relief on a long trip? Was he headed to Florida for a wedding?

She reasoned that since it was a Florsheim brand, the owner might not have other pairs to rely upon as backup since that brand was “high end” for most pockets. If the owner was a country preacher she was certain the family budget was woefully strained. But, she reasoned that most country preachers were more Tom McAn than Florsheim.

The shoe had some wear, but still a lot of useful steps ahead.

Did a child toss the shoe from the car – bored from the trip and rummaging about unseen by the parents? Would they be able to question the child soon enough to discover along which mile the leather missile became airborne?

Her most reluctant scenario involved a shoe tossed out by an angry wife. No discussion centered on how the shoe was wrestled from the left foot by a woman sitting on the right – assuming that the husband (or lover) was seated in the passenger seat adjacent. In that day, there was never a mention of a same-sex coupling. That topic would be left for post- 2000 politics.

This was also a time before the cultural phenomena of “shoefiti” or shoe tossing. And poor Mrs. Day had no idea what a “crack house” was.

But what to do about the shoe?

Should the shoe be left undisturbed beside the road in the event the owner returned or should it be retrieved and a note left at the scene? Milo Ferguson’s prediction called for rain and you know what happens with leather and water.

People, you have to think these things through very carefully.

Mrs. Day opted to retrieve the shoe, but had the Secretary at the Flint Hill Methodist Church mimeograph some flyers which she left tacked to telephone posts and in the window of Gus Holly’s Standard Station. She reasoned that people who owned Florsheim shoes would stop there instead of the Save-a-Stop.

However, during the broadcast, she rethought that decision and would include the Save-a-Stop since they sold food items and people traveling sometimes opt to shop on the road instead of packing a cooler. Besides, some coolers leak. This would be very much the case if the owner had left on his journey at the last minute – not the leaking but the packing of the cooler. Perhaps the death of a relative would have prompted a coolerless venture.

So she planned to post one in the window there as well. I am sure you missed that segue in the broadcast. All in all, she printed 25 flyers.

FOUND, MAN’S BLACK FLORSHEIM SHOE, SIZE 11-D. CONTACT LOUISE DAY! Verify you are the owner by telling me the right or left. (Directions on how to contact the finder followed.)

I didn’t hear any follow-up broadcast related to a reunion of 11-D and the left foot to which it belonged. The next time I heard Mrs. Day, she was discussing a brilliant display of spirea vanhouttei that she had seen in Flora Robinson’s front yard. She reasoned that if Flora could ever conquer her crabgrass problem, she might win “Lawn of the Month” based upon the richness of her spirea and the large Japanese Magnolia which always caught her eye as she passed.

Chicago has had a brutal winter and I would love to see something blooming catch my eye, but that won’t happen for some time, despite Punxutawney Phil’s prediction. Then it will not be a glorious spirea but a crocus or a daffodil that had the courage to believe, much like the children watching Peter Pan. (Think Tinkerbell!)

Instead, to catch the eye we have a motley collection of chairs, boxes, and boards left beside the roadway to stake a claim on a shoveled parking space. This following the dumping of over 20 inches of snow during a recent blizzard.

Snow is a burden for man and beast here. The recent storm which had snow falling at multiple inches per hour and wind gusts of over 60 miles per hour forced 1,000 plus cars to be stuck on Lake Shore Drive. The accumulation also inundated on-street parking in every neighborhood in the city. Cars were burrowed much like a February groundhog.

People with shovels appeared to inaugurate Chicago’s most honorable time of the year.

It goes like this.

After a major snow, those who own a vehicle parked on the street take several hours and considerable energy to shovel it out so that it may be driven. Once a vehicle has been extricated, the person who removed the white stuff reserves the cleaned spot by placing some object to signify ownership of an otherwise public space. Cheap resin lawn chairs are the most popular, followed by plastic egg crates. TV trays are very popular. Telescoping tubular metal chairs are also a big hit. One guy, who obviously works in home repair, used a collection of empty white splackling buckets. I have seen several decent looking swivel desk chairs. I saw a set of upholstered dining chairs which gave me pause. I guess it is a matter of priorities and availability. I have seen two ironing boards – one standing upright and another inverted.

You can either have a place to park or you can have wrinkle-free pants, but not both.

Amazingly, a city known for its rough and tumble manners and aggressive drivers honors the “reserved parking” debris. Sadly, much of the debris remains unclaimed long after the snow has melted. Honor only goes so far.

As for a better option, I would think that a couple of stackable orange traffic cones would work and could be stored in the trunk of the vehicle – unless, of course, it is my trunk in which case you would have to remove the Gypsy family.

It has gotten me to thinking about the stuff left along the highway of life. Missed opportunities. Failed endeavors. Relationships.

And a black Florsheim shoe, man’s 11-D.

Be On The Lookout

FOMS: Frustrated Old Man's Syndrome is moving to a dedicated website. Be on the lookout for www.elderrantings.com. I will post a note here when the new website is functional. Thanks for your continued interest in the musings of an old guy who grew up among the kudzu. JB

Toes - Spuds and Otherwise

Daphne Guinness in Alexander McQueen Armadillo Shoes

I am always amazed at what gets the attention of the American public.

You might recall that I “ranted” in an earlier blog about not knowing who LeBron James was and where he was headed. That question, at the time, was the subject of great debate among the news mongers of the US.

For the record, he wound up in Miami with “The Heat.” While Miami is warmer than a large part of the rest of the country, the “heat” is a professional sports team. (I do not remember the variety – but it is not croquet.)

Today’s debate is even of less consequence.

Should the President of the United States of America expose his toes?

We have seen Presidential chests and some Presidential scars, but no toes!

That is, until now.

To begin with our leader is not walking about Washington inflagrante. Also, to my knowledge, President Obama has not been photographed with a zoom, relaxing on the Truman Balcony with his bare feet resting on the railing, while watching the sun at play on the Washington Monument.

He has, however, been photographed on a recent vacation to his native state of Hawaii, wearing flip-flops while at the beach purchasing ice cream for his two girls. His knees were also showing since he was wearing shorts, but the concern is about the exposed toes not knobby knees.

I am more relieved that he was not wearing his Hickey Freeman with flip-flops.

To begin with, I am not a fan of flip-flops, not even the bejeweled kind that the Jackie O generation wore on Saint-Tropez. While my children, now 40 and 32, both attest to the comfort of this type shoe, I am now and have always been radically opposed to them.

I used to teach a very popular humanities course at a college in Florida. It was always held in a large teaching auditorium which had tiered seating. The downside was that I faced hundreds of “flip-flopped” feet at each lecture.

It was unpleasant! Had I taught Religion, I would have probably insisted upon the re-enactment of foot-washing at each lecture.

I considered putting something in the syllabus about “no exposed feet” but then worried that I would be the subject of much conjecture. I am far too Southern to handle that much free thought about my person.

So I faced the feet.

The foot is not an attractive extremity – well, maybe on a newborn, but certainly not past puberty. So, to give the foot the minimal cladding of a strap and a sole held in place by gnarly toes offers far more than should be viewed.

Yet, at each lecture, there were hundreds of them looking back at me as I extolled the virtues of modern architecture and Paul Klee. It all seemed so inappropriate – so inconsistent with good learning. That is not to say that learning can only happen in an environment of Mary Janes and wing-tips. A “Bass Weejun” here and there is not a threat. Sperry’s in leather or canvas are fine. But a room full of flip-flops – never! Ah, where are those saddle oxfords when you need them?

Scholars, and others, cover your ugly feet! I don’t expose mine, so I don’t wish you to expose yours.

Now, I also am not interested in the strange cartoon-like inventions called shoes that have been unveiled by couture designers and find their way onto the feet of the likes of that Guinness girl - the one that makes the five perfect white shirts for ladies who need perfect white shirts. Daphne, your McQueen Armadillos are over the top. But, so are most of her clothes.

But, back to Presidential flip-flops. (The apparel variety, not the reversal of previous statements of policy.)

It seems nobody has ever seen the Presidential toes.

Back in 1992, Vice-Presidential “toes” were exposed and found sadly wanting when Mr. Quayle corrected the spelling of a spud by a young William Figueroa and created a national sensation. Some say that branded Dan as “less than a rocket scientist.” By 1992, that shipped had sailed.

Well, King Julien of Madagascar fame would well understand this thing about the "lower ten." His edict is forthright. “Do not touch the Royal Feet!” While Mort is obsessed with his feet for reasons that are never revealed, King J must have surely understood that the foot represented vulnerability and Mort was to keep his distance.

Remember the Achilles’ heel? Heel, toes – it’s the same geography.

Are we now less safe since we have seen the President’s “little piggies?”

There will be some conjecture, I feel certain, that at the next encounter with a hardliner like Mahmoud Ahmadinejad there will be the fear that he will say, “Don’t take that tact with me, I have seen your toes!”

The only recourse at that point will be to flash him the sole of the foot.

I have no opinion on the Presidential toes only that it is “much ado about nothing.” Perhaps to avoid any future controversy, Mr. Obama should only appear at the beach in a pair of LeBron James “Ambassadors.”

Speaking of “much ado about nothing,” the GOP representatives are reading aloud the Constitution on the floor of the House.

Is there an amendment “afoot?”

Opposing Views

The little redhead in Dallas has issued a type of moratorium.

Now, in my day – meaning when I was younger – three-year olds had limited opinions and generally those were dealt with by “why not?” and “but Katy has one!” The Little One in Dallas is more defiant and has obviously watched the smileless Mitch enough to understand the power of the ultimatum.

Her “dander” has been piqued by the big round guy in the red suit. You know, the jolly one! The purveyor of “Ho, Ho, Ho!”

She has announced that Santa Claus cannot bring her gifts on Christmas Eve.

She has further insisted that he never be allowed into her house. Before you think that she is “looking a gift horse in the mouth,” we need a clarification. She wants gifts – every three-year old does – but they may only be delivered by Mrs. Claus. No strange man in the company of reindeer is welcome! She is not interested in discussing any compromise.

When she accompanied her mom to the grocery store, she insisted on a promise that the chocolate milk in the cart would not be for the bearded guy with the twinkle in his eye. Yes, it is alright for Mrs. Claus to have any amount she wants.

It sounds a bit like Washington, D. C., don’t you think?

Today’s news indicates that the Senate – despite Mr. Kyl – is close to ratifying the START treaty with Russia. I am amazed that it may happen. I am really amazed that DADT was approved. I am also amazed that Mitch has tear ducts, but that is another story for another day.

So, is there a new spirit around the district? Or is it the calm before the storm that is looming when the newly elected team arrives to bring “sanity” to our “liberal bent?”

I was stopped at an intersection on a major street in Skokie, a suburb north of Chicago, yesterday afternoon. I noticed there was a gentleman moving from car to car with what I thought to be a container to receive donations for some worthy cause. However, when he turned towards me, I realized that emblazoned across his front was a large, “IMPEACH OBAMA!”

Needless to say, I was taken aback.

So I began to watch the dynamic. He went up to several cars that had their windows lowered. I assumed they were friendly to his protest and that I had found myself in very unfriendly territory. But, to my relief, not one person accepted the printed material that the man offered. One driver shook his finger with obvious vehemence. (It was like sign language since I could not hear the exchange.)

I was waiting for the man to come my way. I wanted to engage in some form of reasoning. However, the turn light flashed a green arrow and I was forced to move along.

It got me to thinking about all the disgruntled people who have issues with an obviously well-educated, articulate, and compassionate leader. I got to thinking about the number of times the Grizzly Mama has derided him for being a “Community Organizer.” This coming from someone who didn’t even complete a commitment she made to her electorate once she discovered “Paree!” And there are the “Birthers” who cannot get beyond the legitimacy of his origins. There are Glenn and Rush who believe him to be the most ultra-liberal soul to ever walk the planet.

That line of thought, of course, leads to the extreme lack of cooperation between the political factions – old and new - of our country. Is there a way to find reason in such opposites?

I really think someone should organize a Flash Mob for the next big Tea Party rally. Maybe stage a dance routine using the “Rabbit Song” from “Alice in Wonderland.” You know:

“I’m late, I’m late for a very important date. No time to say, “hello; goodbye” I lose the time, I say. I run and then I hop, hop, hop! I wish that I could fly. There’s danger if I dare to stop and here’s the reason why: you see, I’m overdue, I’m in a rabbit stew…………

Now you must imagine 3,000 flash mobbers doing a slick routine – or maybe the Macarena, which isn’t. It would throw those angry “partiers” into riotous confusion. The flashmob of “Do, Re, Mi” in the Antwerp train station certainly got smiles out of the sedate onlookers.

Or maybe all the Democrats in Congress should stage a flashmob and just disappear for 24 hours. The conservatives would believe it was the “second coming” and they were left behind and not those “godless, socialist, blue-state liberals” they had expected would be.

Can you imagine the chaos and confusion at the Prayer House on C-Street?

While the Democrats are missing, we should get someone with a booming voice like a James Earl Jones and hide them somewhere on the mall with a bullhorn turned to max output.

“I AM NOT HAPPY!”

The fear of God has been known to wreak major changes! This would certainly be more environmentally friendly than a locust plague. Less messy than a flood.

A compassionate caring legislative branch would be such a great concept. Imagine a group of people who are not interested in being re-elected, but instead desire to make a positive change in the well-being of the citizens they have been honored to serve.

Yes, the old coot is a dreamer.

So here we are, headed into our most beautiful holiday of the year. There are twinkling lights everywhere and you hear a lot of warm wishes being expressed between people who rarely speak. Some of this warmth is, of course, aided by the fuzziness from a bottle of vermouth or brandy. Some is genuinely heartfelt.

But the former is ok. There is nothing wrong with civility for even a couple of hours. There is always the hope that when the buzz wears away, the civility can stay and become the genuine variety.

Since we are on the subject of Christmas “spirits,” the two little ones in Dallas have been in a rather heated exchange about holiday drinks.

The oldest insists that Santa Claus does not drink eggnog but drinks chocolate milk. The redhead – the younger one – insists he does not drink chocolate milk, even when relegated outside her home. He drinks eggnog!

Santa may wind up with water. Afterall, it is zero calories and non-allergenic.

An Elusive Spirit

Scenes from "A Christmas Memory" starring Geraldine Page and Donnie Melvin.
Based upon the short story by Truman Capote

I am beginning to feel the spirit.

I finished a presentation of “Messiah” of Handel last week and now I am enjoying the smell of scented candles and debating the pros and cons of “real vs. fake” holiday trees. The Senate has even given the country some good legislation with the help of some Republicans who have the spirit. John Boehner keeps crying and now it seems that Mitch is joining in as well. Is this a new tradition?

We don’t need Tevye to convince us of the value of tradition.

In my “elder” state, I find myself more and more passionate about making certain that traditions are remembered, maintained, and in some instances reborn. Especially those family customs around the warm and fuzzy celebrations like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

So, I am doing a lot of remembering.

My father was a shaker. No, not of the religious sect. I think he loved his Browning “Sweet 16” with the gold trigger too much for that. No, he was a package shaker. Each day, from the first appearance of brightly-wrapped, ribboned gifts under our Christmas tree, he would investigate each package. He would pick them up, examine the name tag, pausing at each and then shake them – his ear close to the side of the parcel to see if he could elicit information from the resulting sounds. It didn’t matter that he had done this same act the day before and no new parcels had been added. He was hopeful that perhaps a better clue would emerge if he shook it again. Sometimes he imagined he heard something informative, because you would see a wry smile appear.

Around December 20^th, a new tactic surfaced.

As our family sat around the breakfast table – by this time, school was on Christmas break, so there was no early morning rush to hamper the gathering of us all – he would get a gleam in his eye and say, “Don’t you think it would be ok if we opened just one present today?”

Mom would resist.

“Just one, maybe a small one?”

Of course, my sister and I would agree with him. We were also shakers.

After serious cajoling, Mom would reluctantly agree with the provision that she would select which package it was to be. Her choices would usually produce socks and underwear. The exciting stuff!

I don’t have any memories of particular treasures from these pre-emptive strikes. I do remember that by Christmas Eve, when we traditionally opened the gifts, there were sparse offerings since there had been a five-day assault on the booty.

Once this seemed to be an ongoing problem, gifts would appear under the tree without any name tags. This was a disaster since people forgot which belonged to whom and Dad wound up with a new cap pistol and I got a pipe. In later years, presents seemed to appear later and later in the season. It was the “out of sight, out of mind” defense.

I remember the tradition of my mother’s baking holiday treats.

There was always hot chocolate each morning during Christmas vacation. We had it in January and February too, but I remember it most at Christmas. It may have to do with the fact that there was a ritual of leaving a cup of hot chocolate and a specially selected Christmas cookie for Santa Claus. My sister would also leave a note for Santa which, in the years after I was a “non-believer” I had the job of answering.

She would dictate the note to one of the parents, later on she would write it herself. Those she produced alone contained endless questions which a large man in a red suit had scant time to deal with. “How do you keep from tracking soot in our living room?” “Where do you use the bathroom?”

On Christmas Day, she seemed more interested in his answers than in what he brought. So answers had to be provided.

It seemed that my penmanship was closer akin to a tired old man who had struggled down the chimney. Seeking authenticity, I even would rub lead from the pencil on my hands so that my fingertips appeared to leave soot on the hastily composed reply. I think that I told her that I always used the bathroom before I left the North Pole. The bonus for all this intrigue was I also got the cup of chocolate milk and the cookie.

Now, a word of warning.

If you have a tradition of opening your gifts on Christmas Eve – which we did, and Santa no longer calls on the household because there are no “believers” left to anticipate rooftop reindeer in the middle of the night – which happened around the time my sister was eleven, then Christmas Day can be a real let down.

My three-year old in Texas - the redhead - has let it be known that Santa Claus is not welcome inside her house. Mrs. Claus, yes, but the old guy - a very explicit, emphatic "NO!" She offers no reason behind her banishment. But, keep in mind, she rarely offers reasons for most things she decides - including her preference for "raw" oatmeal rather than cooked. Her current disfavor of Mr. Claus means there will be no photo sitting on his lap.

I wonder if this means I may have to shave my beard?

My favorite aunt, the wife of my father's oldest brother, had the tradition of always sending cards belatedly. She did this on purpose and the card always attested to the fact that it was late. We grew to expect it. She never forgot a birthday or Christmas, but she always came in after the fact.

My paternal grandfather was also a "traditionalist."

This was a man who was fairly well-off. He owned major farmland, had a logging business, owned vast amounts of cattle, and produced large quantities of cotton each year. Yet, each Christmas I received the same gift. He would send $2.00 to be distributed between my father, my mother, my sister and me. I will say that when I married, he upped the ante to $3.00 to be shared by the happy couple. It amounted to a 300% escalation.

My sister, the “note writer,” would always send our grandfather a thank you letter. The last line of which usually said, “I put my money into my savings, Joe spent his.”

Sometimes, you just can’t win.

Alabama was a difficult state for those who enjoyed the tradition of finding their joy in a bottle of Christmas cheer. Remember, there are a lot of Baptists in Alabama. In order to have beer, wine, or the stronger stuff, it had to be purchased at the “State Store” in Birmingham. Now, my father was not a connoisseur of fine wine. On the contrary, he preferred his on the kosher side. So each Christmas, a bottle of Manischewitz or Mogan David would appear in the back of the pantry. Along with that purchase, my mom would order a bottle of stronger spirits to be used to “season” her annual batch of fruitcakes. Sometimes there was more “seasoning” than others which mean a second trip to the State Store.

There is a wonderful little folk-song, I think called “The Song of The Salvation Army.” I know of only two verses:

We never eat cookies because they have yeast
And one little bite turns a man to a beast.
Oh, can you imagine a sadder disgrace,
Than a man in the gutter with crumbs on his face?

We never eat fruitcake because it has rum,
And one little bite turns a man to a bum!
Oh, can you imagine a sorrier sight
Than a man eating fruitcake until he gets tight?

The Missionary Circle at the Baptist Church had to lay down some strict
bylaws around the holidays because Mabel Walker’s famous “Lane Cake”
seemed to have a bit too much “lane.”  Seasoned with brandy, Mabel was
generous to a fault with her portions.  It was becoming difficult to
concentrate on the children in China!

Christmas cakes always remind me of the wonderful film based upon “A
Christmas Memory” by Truman Capote.  

Narrated by Capote, himself, it was made by Frank Perry and starred
Geraldine Page.  The story is autobiographical and looks at a time in
Capote’s childhood when he lived with relatives in Monroeville, Alabama.  
This, of course, is also the same timeline found in Harper Lee's "To Kill A
Mockingbird." Geraldine Page plays his cousin, his best friend and the
buffer between him and stern aunts.  

One crisp Alabama morning, the cousin awakens “Buddy” to announce
excitedly, “It’s fruitcake weather.”  It is time to prepare their annual
batch of cakes to be mailed to people they know or have merely heard
of.  President Roosevelt will be sent one. Pennies that they have saved
must be counted so that ingredients may be purchased. This means
they must gather pecans in a neighboring grove and face the fearsome
“Mr. Ha Ha Jones” to purchase the whiskey to cure the cakes.  Beyond
the kitchen door, the others are unsympathetic to their excitement.  

The film is a beautiful look at friendship and care.  There is a newer
version which stars Patty Duke.  Sorry, she cannot hold a candle to
Geraldine Page who cornered the market on askew southern women.

I saw Page in a Broadway revival of Noel Coward’s Blithe Spirit just
weeks before her death. She played the physic medium Madame Arcati.
Richard Chamberlain, Blythe Danner, and Judith Ivey rounded out the
cast. 

For me, a tradition is to watch “A Christmas Memory” at some point
during the holidays.  For others, there is the Frank Capra route.

When I married, I encountered a new set of traditions.  These had to be
considered and carefully merged into those of my past.  Now, my children,
both married with kids – “The Little People” – are beginning their own.

I have given Advent Calendars to both families – those in Texas and
those in Florida.  It is a wish on my part to make the road to Christmas
about the important values rather than those touted by Neiman’s and
Nordstrom. The calendar has 24 numbered books of about 4 pages. 
Starting the first day of December, a book is read each day until the
Eve when the Christchild arrives.  

The calendar seems to be a hit.  My grandson has been telling me about
the “Land of Judy.”  (Judea?)  However, he insists that the angels are
“tooth fairies.”

I journey down to Alabama and onto Florida next week.  I will spend
some time at my home and then go on to visit with my son and his family
in Florida. I am taking with me a DVD of Capote’s “A Christmas Memory”
in the hope that I can pass along a tradition.

Maybe I should order a Claxton.

Letting The Cat Out Of The Bag

Chicago is cold. Rip-roaring cold and it is very early in the season of frigid air, so this doesn’t bode well at all for January or February. Even Alabama and Florida, where I associate adjectives like mild and sultry to the temperature, is experiencing a strong northern draft.

I find myself thinking of Erika’s aria, “Must the winter come so soon?” from the Barber-Menotti opera, “Vanessa.” I am just not ready for this cold, this early.

Driving down Lake Shore Drive into the city, I looked out onto Lake Michigan and there was a cold mist rising from the waters. I remembered this drive only days ago, it seems, when I was in shirt-sleeves and shorts headed down to the harbor to take the sailboat out for a day of warm, even hot, relaxation.

“Must the winter come so soon?”

Years ago, in the days before air-conditioned environments – commercial and residential – fans, both electrical and human-powered, were important fixtures everywhere in the hot summers of Alabama where I grew up. Funeral “homes” even capitalized on the heat by giving away cardboard squares with a wooden handle attached to provide some movement of air when sitting in the stuffy confines of the Baptist church in late July. Generally these “fans” had an image of “Christ knocking at the door” on one side and a description of the services offered by the local mortician on the other.

I don’t recall ceiling fans outside commercial situations. Now, of course, every room you enter in a residence has a “decorator” fan whirling away. Most seem to have been designed by Miss Ruby, the madam at a “Nevada Social Club.” (Yes, you should read between the lines since I am not going any further down that road.)

Before we had a fan that was permanently fixed in a window to pull the cooler summer evening air into our home along with the thickly sweet, wonderful smell of gardenias planted around the yard, we had a small, table-top, oscillating fan – maybe an Emerson if my memory serves me correctly.

At some point, the fan had been loaned to a neighbor who had an ill family member and thus needed the limited comfort of the Emerson while they convalesced. The individual survived their malady and soon appeared in public. They even turned up at the Ice Cream Social sponsored by the Missionary Women at the church.

But the fan did not reappear to stir the air at our home.

It was a particularly hot summer and my parents commented about this more than once – the errant Emerson as well as the incessant heat. The two subjects were bonded with perspiration.

One day, out of the blue, the fan was returned.

I was the one who answered the door and received the valued prize.

“My parents were wondering if you were ever going to bring this back.” Of course, I spoke the truth. They had said that many times during the lingering summer heat. The cat was out of the bag!

Being new to diplomacy – I was only seven – I didn’t know the difference between private and public information. It was probably around the same time when I answered the door by saying, “Mom said to tell you she wasn’t at home.”

I was forbidden to answer the door after that. They said something about safety and strangers, but I think that it was for a different reason.

Sixty years later, my purple-haired mother had an adverse reaction to the anesthesia administered for a knee replacement surgery and became very unwieldy during her hospitalization. Her “rantings” were totally candid and lacked any editorial consideration of the persons subjected to hearing them.

On one afternoon when she was particularly talkative, it happened that a relative was paying a visit to her bedside. My sister was there as well.

Much to my sister’s horror, mother launched into a long discussion about the visitor sitting opposite. For the entire visit, the relative was forced to listen to an ongoing account of why she was unappreciated, unwanted, and disliked by my mother. It was obvious that mom had no idea to whom she was speaking. It was if she had been injected with a truth serum. She was on a roll.

It is important that you know something about my mom. She was the sole of discretion.

Late one night, suffering from a bout with a serious chest cold, she phoned my daughter hundreds of miles away. "Honey, you must promise me something and you can never let anyone know this. If I die, you must promise me to get here as quickly as possible and remove the empty bottle of scotch in the bottom of my trash bin in the kitchen. I have been sipping liquor to help my cold and I don't want that to be discovered by anyone." A very private woman with a strict sense of what is proper. And a concern for image!

But back to the incident at the hospital.

I had visited mom a couple of weeks earlier and she spoke of me, thankfully in gracious terms, without ever being aware that she was speaking to me.

But now she was smoking with diatribes.

Fortunately, our relative had the good grace to take the medication into consideration. She could have been totally incensed, but she was forgiving. Mother’s tactless railings were never mentioned. Diplomacy reigned.

But diplomacy is a very difficult thing to manage. It must be carefully pursued. It is an art which requires delft strokes. Nuance!

Richard Holbrooke was a master. He traveled those avenues with ease.

He was also the epitome of one dedicated to a cause far beyond himself. He set a benchmark for public service. He died this week and we are worse for it.

I have not read all the accounts of the Wikileaks release of private correspondence of our State Department. I feel certain the some probably bore the thoughts of Holbrooke – especially his assessments of Hamid Karzai.

He might even have mused, as I have, about whether the sleeves of the coat that Karzai always drapes on his shoulder might be sewn closed. Did someone forget to snip the basting by the tailor? Such strange posturing by Hamid.

Curiously, it is reported that one of the most explosive encounters between the Holbrooke and Karzai occurred following the recent elections in Afghanistan.

It brought to mind another election in this country. Think Florida and hanging chads.

It was probably the Supreme Court that kept Holbrooke from the big desk in the corner office and the chosen seat in the Cabinet Room. For had the votes in Florida been recounted, President Gore would have most certainly named him as Secretary of State.

This, of course, was not to happen. Holbrooke has been gracious with his “under-Secretary” role and performed tirelessly up to the end. It is reported that his final words spoken to a physician of Pakistani decent had to do with ending the elusive situation in Afghanistan.

Recently, the Little People were with their mother on a shopping trip. The older of the two – my grandson – spied a man in the shop who wore an eye patch.

Failing in his understanding of private and public thoughts – of diplomacy, he shouted and pointed, “Look, there’s a pirate!”

I wonder if Holbrooke ever pointed and shouted that at Karzai.