Good Times Like Nowhere Else Music Festival

We hadn’t been to an outdoor music festival in a long time. In fact the last time was for World Whale Day on Maui. 

So when we headed out Saturday morning for the Nowhere Else Music Festival in Ohio, I wondered if we were too old for this type of event, particularly with the uncertain weather of late May in the Midwest. Would it be too hot, too sunny, stormy, too cool or too buggy after dark? Would I find anything to eat since I have a gluten allergy? Hard to know. So we went prepared for anything and everything.

 I packed enough food for a village and a variety of drinks into a wheeled cooler, several sensible footwear choices, hats, jackets, sunscreen, insect repellant, towels and umbrellas, chairs, and a picnic blanket. We left the love beads and other hippie paraphernalia at home. In truth we have long since lost any  festival paraphernalia, unless you count our camping chairs.

We ended up arriving at the Nowhere Else festival later than we’d intended. A little plumbing emergency at our new home that resulted in some plunging of the toilet and two baskets of wet towels to deal with before our departure seriously delayed our heading out. But it was a nice day, a little overcast and the first real summer heat was upon us. Maybe we should have packed a portable fan?

When we arrived the party was in full swing. Volunteers directed us to park amongst the hundreds of other cars in the grassy fields. Someone had vacated a space just past the VIP parking section. We walked the short distance to the large tent and found two empty chairs with a great view of the stage. 

Larry Groce, of Mountain Stage was performing with his wife. They are both talented musicians and were performing Lyle Lovett’s “If I Had a Boat” to the audience’s obvious delight. We thoroughly enjoyed that song and the rest of the set of bluegrass favorites. Groce, in his bib overalls, and with a folksy style and humor, also served as host throughout much of the day.

Next up were Lily and Madeline. The two lovely sisters have very sweet and harmonious voices and their set was delightful. If I had a wish it would only be that their set had been a bit longer and had interspersed some of their covers of energetically-paced songs from their album.

The next performer, Joe Henry, brought his own distinctive singing and songwriting which soon filled the tent. Joe Henry spoke a little about the magic that has occurred at his recording studio in the basement of the old Garfield house in California. One particularly memorable story concerned trying to keep some of the magic that surrounded the singer, songwriter (as well as Renaissance man) Kris Kristofferson who Henry credited with writing songs about  very specific topics but that then have universal elements. 

Into Joe Henry’s set he was joined by his son and standout saxophone player, Levon Henry. 

Again I wished that this set list had been longer. And had included the song about Willie Mays (“The greatest center-fielder of all time; Stooped by the burden of endless dreams” ) and America spirit (“His and yours and mine.” ), “Our Song”. I hope Joe Henry sang “Our Song” the second day of the festival. So many of the lyrics speak to the angry political season we are enduring:

This was my country
This frightful and this angry land
But it's my right if the worst of it might
Still somehow make me a better man

Later, Karin Berquist and Linford Detweiler, the Over the Rhine hosts of the festival and creators of this music venue, paid particular tribute to Joe Henry, highlighting his contributions in producing two of their beautiful albums, as well as thanking him for introducing them to a number of the musicians performing at the festival. As they noted, Henry has produced music for many musicians, including some in the line-up.

For some reason, Willie Mays was still sitting in my mind, and I could only think how the next group, “Birds of Chicago” certainly fit the bill as all-star musicians. Allison Russell’s full-bodied singing blends beautifully with the outstanding playing in a host of rollicking songs that brought the audience out of their chairs and to their collective feet. Something very unique in the chemistry of this band that made the audience call out for more.

The sky was darkening with an approaching thunderstorm as the next performer, Lucy Wainwright Roche, took the stage. She has a stand-out voice and performed several songs, interspersing a casual telling of her travels as a musician, as introduction to “Deliver Me to the Next Best Western”. 

The ensuing  sudden thunderstorm caused Lucy only the slightest of pauses as the crowd under the tent made way for those who had been outside to find shelter under the big tent. The thought occurred to me, if only the politicians, political parties and this country could be as accommodating as the attendees of this music festival. Made me think of Over the Rhine’s song, “If a Song Could Be President”.

Lucy used the interruption to tell a humorous story about performing in Lithuania to an unreceptive crowd, only to discover that at the mere mention of basketball she was suddenly a hit. So she told of how she had performed a sing-along there of Bruce Springsteen’s “Hungry Heart”, substituting “basketball” for the title phrase. Lucy then led the Nowhere crowd in a stirring rendition of that song with the original lyrics. I will confess by this point, as the storm had passed, I headed to the portable toilets but could still participate in the sing along. This was no reluctant crowd.

One might think this line up, particularly “Birds of Chicago” are a hard act to follow. And they would be for ordinary performers. But as the sun set on the Nowhere Else Farm,  Over the Rhine and the Band of Sweethearts closed the day with the unmistakably beautiful vocals of Karin Berquist and their compelling sound and original songwriting to end a magical day. 

A little story-telling and goofiness, in particular, Karin’s encounter of a star-struck June bug, brought the day to a close that no one was quite ready to have end. But there was a promise of another festival day, starting with art, nature hikes and song-writing workshops to be followed by another afternoon and evening of music. 

Ah, if only we had planned to stay both days of the festival--maybe most of my wishes would have been fulfilled.

  

Crazy Stuff My Husband Thinks I Said

Ahh...us baby boomers. We're starting to fall apart. The joints are going. So we're replacing them. The backs are going. So we're getting Cortisone injections. The ears are going. But we're ignoring that.

Take my husband and me, for example. We have a little hearing loss between us. Maybe a few too many rock concerts. Or maybe just our age. But rather than view a little hearing issue as a loss, we’ve chosen to look on the experience with a sense of humor and in the spirit of fun. And besides, if Donald Trump actually wins the Presidency not being able to hear what he’s saying may be better than the alternative.

But back to my original topic of not hearing what is said. My husband has a particular gift for thinking he heard wild crazy-assed things. That would be ok except he usually claims to believe that I've said the crazy stuff.

For example, as we left our house the other day I made the remark that I was happy to be “back amongst the living again”. You see, this was supposed to be an ironic overstatement to cue I was feeling better after having had an upper respiratory virus. What our parents would've called the common cold.

My husband turned to me and said, "Did you say you just say you saw a Backalope?"

You can see how this is a crazy-assed thing to think your wife just said, particularly in view of certain undisputed facts. First, we don't live in any wilderness location. Second, my husband does not suffer from Alzheimer's. And third, so far as I know, there is no such thing as a Backalope.

We had been watching the revival of X-Files. Or should I make that sleeping through the X-Files revival? Sleeping through evening TV programs is another age-related topic I won’t digress into right now. But even Fox Mulder, true believer of the X-Files, concedes that the Jackelope was a hoax. So much more so for a Backalope.

If it were just one time my spouse claimed to have heard me say something totally crazy I'd be prepared to chalk it up. Chalk it up to what--I don’t know, but I would chalk it up. But it’s not the only time.  Seems to happen nearly every day. Today he asked me if I’d said the dog wanted a latte.

Now why would I say the dog wanted a latte? On the one hand, it’s not like our dog is a reincarnation of Mr. Ed, the talking TV horse of our youth. And on the other hand, the last thing in the world our dog needs is caffeine. We two geezers have all we can do to keep up with our un-caffeinated pooch and his excess energy issues. So maybe my spouse was thinking a de-caffeinated latte? But still… By the time I’ve gone through this crazy train of thought I’ve totally forgotten what I did say.

Maybe I will have a latte. Except we don’t have a latte machine. And if we did, no doubt the dog would want to share the treat like he does everything else I eat or drink. I could ponder if my husband is hinting he wants a latte machine for Father’s Day? But no, he doesn’t drink coffee or even like coffee ice cream.

So the only conclusion I can reach is that my husband's hearing is going. Or we’re living in the X Files where there are Backalopes and latte-drinking dogs who talk. In a world where Hillary Clinton, the presumptive Democratic nominee for President says she thinks the X Files need to be reopened since there may be something to the rumors about Area 51 and aliens, and an alien-looking orange man with fake hair who actually says crazy-assed stuff is the presumptive Republican nominee you have to wonder what is really going on.

Reaching: a Human Endeavor or Still Crazy

Still in post-moving mode, we’re happy with our new home, well, it’s new to us. And happily putting away all the stuff we schlepped over here. Well, maybe not so happily. All those boxes get pretty tiresome, pretty quickly. But we are trying to find a "home" for all our stuff. As in a cabinet or closet or somewhere out of sight. 

Isn’t that what all the organization and de-cluttering guides tell you to do? No, some of the guides suggest you form a loving relationship which each item you own and then have a conversation about whether it stays or goes. My approach is just to get it out of my sight, at least for long enough that I can unpack the stuff I actually want.

The house we’ve moved to has tall ceilings, tall windows and tall cabinets everywhere. Perfect, you would think. But also that’s why, now, that I’m way past growing any taller, I wish I could reach just a couple of inches farther.

I reached my adult height early--as a pre-teen. About 5’7” at age twelve, I was taller than most of my classmates and a lot of the teachers.  And I lived in fear I would just keep growing. I had reason to expect I’d continue to grow. Both of my parents were tall and my older brother at fourteen was well over 6’ and still growing.

I think my fear of being “too tall” had to do with the preconceptions of the era: girls should be shorter than the boys they dated and eventually married.

And it may have had a tiny bit to do with the crush I had on a boy in homeroom, over whom I towered. And then there were the famous TV and movie actors and musicians who were reputed to be about the height I already was. Think David McCallum of “Man from Uncle” and Robert Redford. Both are still pretty hunky even if they likely can’t reach any farther than I. And lack of height seems to have made no difference for Paul Simon and his creative genius nor in his love life.

A smidge over 5’7” was all the taller I was meant to be. I stopped growing at age 12. I think with girls it has to do with puberty and female hormones. With boys it’s just the opposite, male hormones spur that growth spurt. My brother’s growth spurt kicked in big time and suddenly I barely reached his shoulder. He stopped at almost 6’5”.

Now at the other end of the age spectrum, I’m shrinking. And what I’d give to have a just slightly longer reach. The cabinet over the refrigerator, the top shelf of the pantry, the top shelf of everything is at least two inches out of my reach.

I know there are those who say, incorrectly, the use of tools is what distinguishes humans from other animals. All those smart crows, parrots, chimps, elephants—not only use tools but some also make them. Well, I’ve not made any tools but I do use them and my wits to try to reach those tall locations.  I’ve positioned stepstools and nifty nabbers, or whatever they are called, in most rooms of the house so I won’t have to constantly ask my husband to reach the top shelves. Using a stepladder, I even stood on top of the kitchen counters to position decorative flowers, plates and bowls on the very top of the cabinets. 

But it would be nice to be able to just reach the tops of cabinets without standing on something or using a tool. Now I think function is more important than appearance.

Heck, if I can’t be taller, I’d settle for arms two inches longer. At my age I don’t even care if that would make me look like an orangutan. 

The Existential Mover

We are moving from one house to another in the same city. Now that we have spent the better part of a month moving (We opted for prolonging the misery by doing it over several weekends rather than in one fell swoop.) we've decided we're really too old for this whole moving thing. 

  

But we recognize it is a process—and one that makes you think about the important things in life. Like who really needs to live in a house? Couldn’t we just put a few things in the trunk and live out of our car?

The process of moving also requires you to come face to face with your fundamental humanity and all the important things in life: possessions from long ago, possessions left to you by your parents; left-behind possessions of your offspring; and all the stuff you’ve accumulated over the years. All of those things that seemed so much more valuable and useful, and well, charming and worthwhile in some way, until you had to pack and move them. And then unpack and find a place for them.

Luckily, I studied the existential philosophers in college. So now I can draw on that knowledge and see the bigger picture of what things are useful, what should be donated to others, and what is trash to be discarded. 

Or not. After all, we can just pack all this stuff and make those decisions some other time. But I did take the existential philosophy college books to the used book store to sell. They definitely are too heavy to lug around any longer. So they did teach me something useful: consider the weight of an item when deciding whether it’s sufficiently useful to merit keeping.

We last moved almost twenty-five years ago. So many years of not moving. At least we have that to be grateful for.

That last move was from one city to another. Why is this time so much more difficult than I remember the last move to be? Is moving like childbirth? Once it’s over you forget the pain? Or are we just so much older that it is more painful this time?

The truth, in this case, as in most cases where you are faced with an arbitrary choice between two alternatives, is it’s a bit of both. We are older. And we have a lot more stuff accumulated in those two plus decades.

Both sets of our parents have now passed on. Instead of getting rid of all of their possessions we kept some items, primarily for sentimental value. And in those two plus decades our sons grew up and moved on. But they didn’t take all of their accumulations with them. Our mistake for letting them go without all their stuff. But there you have it. Or rather, there we have it. A lot of its.

Moving is a reminder of many of life processes. Watching three movers bring a piano up from the basement reminds me of what it was like delivering each of our sons using the method known by the popular euphemism of the day: natural, un-medicated childbirth. Actually, I haven’t completely forgotten the experience. It was very painful, much like moving. At least this time I am not the one doing the pushing.

As I said, moving forces you to consider some of the essential questions. Why is it that when packing boxes you carefully mark the contents and proper room location, then when you open the boxes you encounter all sorts of strange items you don’t recall ever seeing before?

The objects on the top layer of every box contain items that are just barely useful enough you don’t want to throw them out. But they defy all logic of where they should go in the new house. Large, unwieldy things to be placed on some flat surface until you find a place to put those particular things.

Opening boxes is a lot like archaeology, there are layers of civilization. You would expect the top layer to be the newest. But in the packing the newest, most useful stuff got packed first so it’s on the bottom now. The top layer is the oldest or least useful stuff or the most difficult things to put away. Each layer needs to be cleaned or laundered. And only after you have unearthed multiple layers of stuff collected over the last five decades do you find something in the bottom of each box which might actually be useful.

The things you actually want are always in that bottom layer. Right now I have my computer and monitor because they weren't packed into huge boxes. But I have no idea where the high-intensity lamp that I use to see the keyboard is. So please pardon my typos. Sometime this year I may find that lamp and once again be able to see the keyboard. Right now it’s the touch method only, a skill I never quite perfected.

The movers still haven't gotten everything to our new place. Every day they promise to finish. Then they announce around 3 or 4 in the afternoon they have to quit. Reminds me of scheduling a meeting or planning things when we were on the islands. Everything is on island time. Here we are on moving time.

We're always in moving mode, either packing, unpacking or doing moving-related stuff. I have finally reached the point where I'm more than ready to abandon all our stuff and run off. I even can understand why people change identities and start a new life. It’s not to get away from family and friends. It’s their stuff they likely are abandoning. But a commitment is a commitment so I plan to stay with it to the brutal end.

Tomorrow at 8 am we are meeting at the old house: 1) carpet guys who will be installing new carpet throughout; 2) window washers who will be washing all the windows; 3) and, the movers who are supposed to move all of our remaining possessions. It should be at least a 3 ring circus.

This circus of misery should be over soon.

Meanwhile, our high-strung dog seems to be handling the chaos very well. He also is adjusting to his new home. All we’ve had to do is show him where his food and water bowls are. He selects where he wants to sleep in the new house on his own without regard to where we put his bedding. His people, on the other hand, are just hanging on by the skin of their teeth. And falling into a deep sleep wherever they are.

I'll let you know if this ever ends or if I'm actually in a Kafka story. But those existential books are gone so I’ll have to finish my own story now.

Book Event

I thought I’d mention this book signing by Tony Press, a friend from the Iowa writers’ workshop. His book has been published and he’s having book signings at a number of places. The tour starts off in Columbia, Mo on this Tuesday. If you know anyone who might be interested in this book or any of these signings please pass this along.

I liked his book a lot. 

On Tue, Aug 18, 2015 at 2:41 PM, Tony Press <tonypress108@gmail.com> wrote:

This Press Release announces, with delight:

Big Table Publishing will be publishing my short story collection - the estimated release date is sometime early 2016. It's a small operation based near Boston.

 The title is Crossing the Lines 

Tuesday, April 5th, 7pm, at Yellow Dog Bookshop in Columbia, Missouri.

Saturday, April 9th, 11am, at Burlington by the Book in Burlington, Iowa.

If you know anyone -- anyone at all! -- in/near these places, please let them know! 

And

Sunday, April 17th, Berkeley, CA

Saturday, April 23rd, San Francisco, CA

What Are Clean Water and Safe School Buses Worth to You?

Do you ever wonder how we set our priorities? How we decide how much we should pay in taxes? And where we should spend those same tax dollars?  We hear the politicians say they will cut our taxes and still provide all the government services we need and want. Do you ever wonder about that?

No doubt you’ve heard about very high levels of lead in the drinking water in Flint, Michigan. Children suffering brain damage and drinkers—of water that is—facing a variety of health issues. Now it turns out other American cities have the same problem.

Just the other night on the national news a school bus carrying a high school basketball team on its way to a tournament overturned. Luckily, no one died. But many were injured and many more were lucky they were not more seriously injured or killed.

The photos of the overturned bus and the young people scrambling or being pulled from the wreckage were awful. And this type of accident is not unusual. It seems almost every other day there’s a story about a school bus accident.

The news channel ran a brief illustration of how the kids in that bus were bounced around--as compared to what would have happened if they had been wearing seat belts.

Those images have been bouncing in my brain the last few days. I wondered why our school children have to depend on luck rather than seat belts to keep them from serious injuries in the event of an accident.

My brain tends to digress into seemingly unrelated matters. So as I turned off the TV, I wondered how many TVs, cell phones and other latest “must have’s” we all own. USA Today reports the average home now has more TVs than people. According to the Pew Research Center, 90% of American adults own a cell phone; 64% have a smartphone. You know I could go on with these statistics. But you get the drift.

Then a little phone survey caused me to do some more thinking.

The first question was, “Do you think you pay too much or too little in taxes?”

I answered “Too little.” In my head I was wondering how much higher the taxes would have to be to require seat belts in all school buses. If we paid a little more in taxes and bought fewer TVs could we buy some of those seat belts?

Back to the survey. A brief intake of breath revealed the surveyor was startled but, to his credit, he stuck to his script. He said “OK. Thank you.” Those same words were used to respond to all of my answers.

His next question was: “Do you think we have too much or too little government regulation?

I answered. “Too little.” Those kids bouncing around the school bus was still bouncing in my head.

Again, the surveyor stuck to his script, though I thought I could detect a note of panic. Maybe he had encountered a Bernie Sanders supporter—or even a communist—in his midst or at least on the phone line.

There were a few other questions. Like going through a box of old school papers you get the drift and don’t need to read every word on every page.

The surveyor was true to his word, the survey was short—or else he gave up on ever getting the answers he expected.

So much for the enthusiasm of the young. No doubt I killed this young man’s hope of making a difference in politics, at least if he supported the obvious political agenda of the survey perpetrators.

Or, maybe he was just a young person doing a job and getting paid. And he’d never before encountered someone who answered the questions in a way other than agreeing all federal taxes and regulations should be decreased to the point that the federal government would be small enough to be drowned in bathtub—the self-proclaimed goal of small government Tea Party activists.

For the record, if you are keeping score—I am not a Bernie Sanders Socialist—even though I think he has a lot of good ideas and has helped at least the Democratic Party talk about issues we might not otherwise be discussing.

I am not any kind of socialist, let alone a communist. I’m just a mother and grandmother who believes our country has a number of serious problems, to name just a few--climate change, consumer safety, clean water, even school bus safety—that are big enough and complex enough the federal government needs to be involved if we have a hope of doing a better job protecting the American people.

Who would have thought five or six survey questions could have caused me to do all this wondering? And probably not the kind of thought process the survey creator intended.

What I also started to wonder is why children in one of the richest nations of the world suffer permanent health issues and brain damage from high levels of lead in their drinking water.

Just another wondering thought: have more Americans been injured in school bus accidents, or through environmental issues, like contaminated drinking water, than in terrorist attacks. I haven’t looked up the answer but maybe you or I should.

The TV announcer said only six states require seat belts for school buses. That means in 44 states the State governments did not have the money, political will or whatever to require seat belts on school buses. The announcer also said the NTSB once again is looking at whether the federal government should require seat belts for school buses. The only problem is it costs a lot of money.

Of course it costs a lot of money. And I, like most people, would rather spend my money on my needs and wants rather than pay higher taxes. Lord knows my bills are going up all the time. It seems there always is something else that is broken, needs fixing or replacing. And also, I have to admit--that new iPhone-mini I just saw online looks awfully interesting.

There’s a saying--the Good Lord helps those who help themselves. But I don’t think that means I should refuse to pay higher taxes and not consider the health and well being of everyone else.

I hope you, like me, are willing to ask yourself, “What is more important for us to invest in than the safety of our children?” That is not a rhetorical question. If you ask yourself that question and can answer there really is something more important to spend your money on than making sure our children have safe drinking water, clean air, and safe school buses then maybe we don’t need more government regulation. And then maybe we also don’t need higher taxes.

On the other hand, if you agree that kids growing up in this country ought to have a chance to reach their full potential with safe water, safe air, safe school buses, then you should also consider before you pull that lever when you vote, how the Presidential candidates and other officials you elect will answer those questions.

A Philosopher-Therapist at the Nail Salon or Why Are You So White?

I was at the nail salon, that place where women go to indulge their beauty fantasies: a few bucks and your nails look pretty for a week, two weeks if you get the gel. Your life and finances may be going to hell in a hand basket. Your weight and mental health out of control. Even your hair may look like seaweed. At least one thing in your life, your nails, is under control if you go to the nail salon.

We were on Maui. The gel on my nails was at three weeks and starting to peel and taking the top several layers of my nails with it. So I went to a nail salon. This was not one of the spas in the fancy resorts but a nail salon in a strip mall, next to Long’s Drugstore, or the Hawaiian CVS. Still, removing the gel from my nails was going to cost $25.99 to remove and replace it with just a clear coat. But then a loaf of bread is about $10 on Maui, so the price list was not a big surprise.

The lovely young woman who was doing my nails was Vietnamese. She spoke very correct English and was quite talkative. She asked where I was from. When I told her Kentucky she asked what was the capital city. She asked how many places had I traveled. She also told me of the many places she wanted to see. Then, looking me square in the eye she said she wasn’t sure she wanted to see Kentucky.  “That’s one of those states with all the guns everywhere, isn’t it?” she asked. As she said how frightened she was of all the guns in parts of this country, I agreed there were a lot of guns. At the same time I tried to reassure her that her chances of being shot were not all that large. I felt like a hypocrite. Every day there are articles about more random shootings, accidental gun deaths, and other gun violence.

We changed the conversation and talked about languages. She asked me what languages I spoke. I was embarrassed to admit I speak only English. I told her I’d studied Latin in high school, taken German in college and also had studied Spanish for ten weeks because many members of our future daughter-in-law’s family speak Spanish. But I told her the truth--which is that I only speak English. She had an earnestness that somehow made me want to tell her the unvarnished, simple truth.

She then said, “Go back. What Latin language did you study in high school? Was it Italian or Spanish?”  I replied. “No, neither of those. I studied actual Latin.” And she asked, “Who speaks Latin?”  To which I had to admit, “”Only dead Romans. Even Catholic priests don’t generally speak Latin any more.”

Then she tried to teach me how to say her name. It’s one syllable, starts with an “N” and maybe an “h”, and ends with some sound on the roof of your mouth. I tried repeatedly to say her name. I thought I was making progress. Finally, Nhu smiled and said I’d done a good job but would never be able to pronounce it -- people who speak only English never can.

It was about that time Nhu was massaging my arm with lemongrass lotion that smelled divine. She stopped and looked at me, asking, “Why are you so white?”

Now I had not gone to a nail salon frequented primarily by African Americans. It’s true, as in most nail salons, the technicians primarily were of Asian descent. At this salon the staff apparently was from Vietnam. But I can’t say any of the staff were particular dark complected. Most of the customers were Caucasian. But also, most were in some state of tan or red from the sun.

I, on the other hand, am of the really white persuasion. I laughed and thought for a moment about how to respond. Again with that urge she evoked to just tell the simple truth I admitted,”I don’t tan.”

But some time has gone by since this nail salon visit. Since then, I’ve been trying to come up with a fitting response if someone should ever again ask me, “Why are you so white?”

The truth is really boring. I’m of German heritage. I was born a pale blonde. Originally I had some red highlights in my hair but those have long since faded to silver, making my hair an even paler shade.

I spent my teen years trying to turn my skin a darker shade, only to discover every summer that my skin would burn, blister, peel (sometimes repeatedly from the same sunburn) and then return to the same whiteness--or even more so. Freckles occasionally dotted the whiteness. By the time I was in my 20’s, being in the sun unprotected for even a few minutes resulted in sun hives.

Even the skin care products designed to artificially tan a person’s skin just cause mine to break out in hives. So to steal a George Carlin line, “I don’t try to tan. I just hope to stay even with flesh tone.”

But I have been trying to come up with a better response to the Nhu’s of the world who should ask that question. Here are the contenders so far.

The trendy horror movie version: “My mother was an albino. My father a vampire.”

The musical / philosophical version: “The cosmic baker took me out of the oven a little too soon.” (With credit to Jimmy Buffett and the “Fruitcakes” album.

The snide but clean version: “I shower with bleach every morning.”

You may have other contenders. If so, please share.

Epilogue:

When my delightful manicure was finished I asked the young woman named Nhu, since I could not properly pronounce her name, whom I should ask for if wanted to make an appointment with her for a manicure again. She promptly smiled and responded “Chloe”. I did visit Chloe / Nhu again and we had another delightful conversation while she again provoked me to consider a variety of issues and give truthful responses as she helped me to bring order to at least one aspect of my life.  Oh, and she also manicured my nails. A bargain at $25.99 plus large tip.