Can't Buy Me Love

Dour.  That’s what my husband said I looked like today.  It was after we started talking about “Rain”, the Beatles-impersonator show traveling the country and also on public TV.  I told him I have no desire to see a group of Beatles-impersonators, especially when they don’t look much like the Beatles.  And there are plenty of performers who do at least as good a job at covering their songs.

Maybe it has to do with my age.  When you talk about seeing the Beatles I’m instantly back in junior high—grade school we called it then.  In 1964 the Beatles exploded on the American music scene.  Their live performances cost something like $40 a ticket. A whole lot of money back in the ‘60’s.  The Beatles were going to perform in Kansas City. A friend of mine was going with her dad.  I was incredibly jealous, as only a young teenage girl can be.  My parents would not have considered taking their almost-fourteen-year-old daughter to a rock concert. And certainly not in another city.  I didn’t even ask.  They also didn’t approve of these young radicals with the long hair.
  

As a thirteen year old in a working class, Germanic household, I had no rights.  I was not allowed to play the radio without permission.  When my parents were at home they chose the station to which the TV or radio was tuned.  My father made the initial decision.  If he was not home my mother made the choice.  If they both went out my older brother and I were allowed to play music with the proviso it was not so loud as to disturb the neighbors. I counted my self exceedingly lucky to be able to persuade my parents to tune into the Ed Sullivan show the night the Beatles appeared.  Somehow I saved the money to buy the 45 of “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”  For my 14th birthday, my brother gave me my first 33, “A Hard Day’s Night.”

The Beatles back then were viewed as a curiosity by my parents’ generation. My uncle at a family gathering had his four young sons imitate the Beatles.  Apologies to my cousins, who nonetheless have grown up to be fine, no-longer-young men.  But I was horrified.  Their impersonation was blasphemy.

My husband asked me today whether I had gone to the Beatles St. Louis concert in 1966.  After all, this was just a couple of years later and the Beatles had come to my home town.  By then I had started to work a summer job (no pay, but tips as a carhop at Ted Drewes) so I had a little money.  For some reason I cannot remember the Beatles even coming to St. Louis in 1966.  But I’m sure if my husband remembers such a concert it happened.

No, I never did see the Beatles in concert.  By 1966 I was listening to Simon and Garfunkel, the Kinks and other such rock and roll and folk music, whenever I could get command of the radio.  A best friend from high school reminded me recently that in 1966 I had ran up to her at her locker and said “There’s a song you HAVE to hear: ‘The Sounds of Silence.’”  I don’t remember that incident either.  What’s the old saying? “If you remember the ‘60’s you weren’t there.”  I guess this means I was there.

I’m still listening to Simon and Garfunkel, either together or alone. And recently we went to Bloomington, Indiana to see Paul Simon.  I’m still crazy after all these years about him and his music. The Beatles-impersonators, on the other hand, are never going to transport me back to the 13 year old who wanted desperately to see them live.   Rather, they remind me of my cousins, with their longish hair styles and air guitars, mocking the Beatles.

Today I hear Beatles music on the radio, my iPod, and in elevators.  The experience of seeing them at a live concert is gone forever.

Folk Music and Musicians Aging Well: Judy Collins and Arlo Guthrie

We’ve seen a lot of aging rock and folk musicians still touring.  What is it about our generation that won’t quit and just sit in a rocking chair instead of still rocking out, or whatever it is folk musicians do, on stage?

This weekend, we saw Arlo Guthrie and Judy Collins at Centre College’s Norton Center in Danville, Kentucky.

These concerts bring back memories.  Back in the late ‘60’s when I started St. Louis University (SLU) I considered joining the college newspaper.  I had been co-editor of my high school newspaper and I liked to write.  I also enjoyed interviewing people.  But I hated to try to fit copy on a printed page, one of the jobs of the editors at my high school.  Using that type of spatial visualization was torture for me.  Of course, if I had been good at it I would now be lamenting that computers have made it a lost art. 

Anyway, I told the SLU newspaper editor, Mike Forester, (where do these names come back from, let alone the stories) I would join the newspaper staff only if he promised I would never have to do layout.  He said there was only one rule for joining the newspaper: you had to like Judy Collins. 

I guess this shows how little I knew about contemporary music.  It may also show some other traits.  I didn’t know who she was.  But I’d heard facts should never stand in the way of truth or a good story.  I told Mike, “Of course I liked Judy, who didn’t?”  Hardly an auspicious beginning for a reporter.  On the other hand, a great start for a fiction writer.  

And once I heard Judy I did like her, though not as much as some other singers of the time.  At the Centre concert, Judy demonstrated her magnificent voice, singing A cappella or with an accompanying pianist, Russ Walden.  She started with two Christmas carols, “Joy to the World” and “Silver Bells.”  Her voice cracked at times, particularly on “Joy” and also some of the other songs, showing signs of her 70 plus years of age.  But she carried on like a trooper and included a lovely rendition of “Both Sides Now.”

Arlo was in great voice, his sweet, mellow tones having aged like fine wine, as he accompanied himself on guitar, piano and also harmonica.  He has always been the consummate, easy-going storyteller.  At this concert, interweaving his own songs with those of his father, Woody Guthrie’s, as well as others by classic songwriters such as Leadbelly and Steve Goodman. 

Arlo mentioned his father would have been 100 years old next year.  And yet some of Woody's songs are as in the moment as when they were first written.  As Arlo discussed the plight of the working man and woman in Woody’s music, the dustbowl of the 30’s and union busting by the big companies it was hard not to see the parallels to today.

The auditorium was filled.  Lots of gray and white-haired folks, besides the two on the stage, probably all of us reliving memories.  Neither Arlo nor Judy, despite their long white locks, showed their age at the finale as they shared the stage for a two-song encore, "City of New Orleans" and “Amazing Grace.”  Their harmonies still took my breath away.

Clutter Be Gone

I have been “on my own” (without a secretary, that is) for several years now.  My life, for the last year, in addition to some writing and other creative and personal pursuits has included handling my Mother’s estate, and the on-going management of real estate rentals.  

Paperwork, books, clothes, accessories and well, just any sort of stuff anywhere near me, appears to have a very active sexual and reproductive life of its own. As a result, I am drowning in stuff.  

But, finally, I have determined: I am going to get my life and my stuff under control.  On impulse I bought a set of CD’s on “Uncluttering and Organizing Your Life.”  Impulse buying is another, and I am sure, unrelated, downfall of mine.

As the authors point out, being disorganized and being cluttered are two different sins. If, in fact, these are sins, l should just pack my bags and plan to go straight to hell.  As I am guilty. And in full measure. 

But I have seen the light and am going to take a new path to fight both clutter and disorganization.  

Here are the five simple rules.

1) Place and purpose.
2) One in, one out.
3) Six month/ six minute rule
4) Enough is enough
5) I forget this rule 

I determined to follow Rules 1 through 4, and 5 when I remember what it is.  Ok, let’s see how well this works in practice on a congenital hoarder and hopelessly disorganized person like myself.

Take a specific example, a water pitcher.  It has a purpose (serving water) and place (the cabinet).   So we should have taken care of Rule 1.  But the pitcher is more than just useful.  It is essential to my daily life.  As a constant water drinker, the pitcher provides a source of water without the need to go to the fridge each time I want a cool, refreshing glass of water.  Plus, the pitcher is exactly the right height and weight: it can be positioned in the fridge door at the water dispenser without any need for me to hold it.  Of course, that has a small potential drawback-- that one (that's me, disguised by the impersonal third person) could forget about the pitcher until the water starts to overflow.  But we won’t go there right now.   We are still on Rule 1.

I had bought this perfect pitcher  at Louisville Stoneware.  It had been expensive, in my estimation.  That is, the pitcher cost a lot more than $20.  Then I chipped the pour spout on the pitcher and it could no longer be used. I was frantic to find a replacement.

That takes us to Rule 2.  One in, one out.  Simple enough.  When you buy one new item you need to get rid of one old item in the same category.  Pick the oldest, most useless, worn out, or whatever adjective best fits, and give away, sell, or toss that item. The theory is you will not increase your stuff if you stick to the one in, one out rule. 

I put the broken pitcher aside while I looked for a replacement.  Even though under Rule 2 I should toss the pitcher, after all it not only had been perfect, but it also had been pricey.  And it was still very attractive.  I could not bring myself to part with it just yet.  Maybe when I found its perfect replacement.

So I held on to the broken pitcher while I shopped for a replacement.  Maybe it could be repaired.  Although I felt I had a good excuse, I mean reason, to not immediately toss the damaged pitcher, that also caused me to think I would get some forgiveness for my “sins” if the replacement pitcher was relatively inexpensive.  And, since I had no immediate intent to go downtown I looked for a replacement close to home.  

Armed with the measurements necessary to fit in the fridge water dispenser, I searched department stores, discount suppliers, and all manner of places.  Finding a pitcher of that exact dimension proved much more difficult than I had thought.  

Finally I found a beautiful Lenox pitcher.  But the Lenox did not fit the definition of inexpensive.  And given the fate of the last pitcher, such a delicate and pricey pitcher was not a good bet for every day use.  I kept looking.  

Eventually, I found two pitchers at TJ Max I thought might work, one a lightweight plastic and one metal.  I bought both.  I figured I could return one or both if they were not right.  As it turned out, the plastic one was the right size but not heavy enough to dispense water without holding the dispenser.  The mental pitcher worked but only if I wedged it under the dispenser.  It soon was slightly dented.  By then, my husband had taken the tag off the plastic pitcher so I no longer could return it.  Plus, as noted, my problem is keeping track of clutter.  So--you guess the odds I could find the receipt. You're right.  I ended up keeping both of those pitchers.

However, while this search and find mission was going on, Macy’s was good enough to send me coupons for household goods.  With the discount, I could buy the Lenox pitcher at less than a replacement pitcher at Louisville Stoneware would cost.  Home the Lenox came.  

But then I happened to be downtown and drove right by Louisville Stoneware.  I figured it could not hurt to see if they repair chipped items.  Also I was curious if they were still making pitchers in the dimensions of my damaged pitcher.   The answer to the first question is no.  The answer to the latter question is yes.  And not only that, they make the same size pitcher but it comes in many lovely patterns, including a horse pattern for Derby.  So I could not waste the fact I had again found the perfect pitcher. I bought it.  And they make wonderful matching coffee mugs in Derby themes.  So I bought a set of those too.  

Instead of one in/ one out, now I had four pitchers for the old pitcher, plus a set of coffee mugs.  In the meantime, while I had searched for a replacement pitcher, I devised a plan to repurpose the chipped pitcher as a vase.  That is, once I found a way to fix it.  

Since it looks like I will never get beyond Rule 2, I have decided to write my own organizational and clutter control book.  There will be only one rule that goes something like this. One broken, no more than five replacements, especially if you can’t find it in your heart to get rid of the broken one.  At least my program is sure to help the down economy.  But clutter control, not so much.

Thanksgiving: From Turkey-Free to Gluten Free

As Thanksgiving approaches I am sharing an excerpt from an essay I wrote on a Thanksgiving of a few years ago. 

The Thanksgiving holiday is all about the turkey.  Perhaps a football game or two and a little holiday shopping.  Well, actually, for some people the shopping is more of a competitive sport than the all-day football games on TV. 

But here it is Thanksgiving and my turkey is in another town.  No, I am not stranded at the airport due to weather or holiday crowds.  Rather, we were going to drive to my Mom’s house for our turkey dinner and instead have found ourselves quarantined at home, 290 miles from our turkey dinner.

To fully understand the situation I must digress a bit. Actually, all the way back to our childhoods. My husband is an only child and I am an only daughter.  Neither of us learned to cook with a lot of other people “helping” in the kitchen, so we seldom cook meals together.  But on Thanksgiving, after 30 plus years of marriage, my spouse and I have finally reached a truce and choreographed the holiday meal to an art form.  Early in the day, I get the turkey ready, stuffed, and in the oven. 

Early afternoon, my husband begins his elaborate preparations of  side dishes that bake for at least an hour, most courtesy of Shaker recipes or Jeff Smith’s Frugal Gourmet: corn pudding, sweet potatoes baked in maple syrup, and baked apples.  After he has lovingly nestled his gourmet creations in the oven, I then prepare broccoli casserole (also courtesy of a “Shaker” recipe, though I am jarred by the image of the Shakers driving in horse-drawn carriages to market for Velveeta cheese food and Ritz crackers), potatoes, and gravy. 

This year, though, there is no turkey, not a small roasting chicken, or even a Cornish hen in our house.  Since we were not planning on being home for Thanksgiving.  Instead we had planned on driving on Thanksgiving Day to Mom’s home some four and a half hours away.  As a result of those travel plans and Mom’s ill health, for the first time, instead of our usual holiday cooking routine, somewhat reluctantly I had ordered a turkey dinner already fully prepared.  Since this is likely to be Mom’s last Thanksgiving, I went a bit overboard and ordered an elaborate, take-out feast which Mom’s care-giver had picked up and planned to heat and serve today.

Mom has had little appetite after completing five weeks of radiation for a tumor discovered several months ago.  Even though Mom is not likely to eat much of the turkey dinner, I had hoped that she would at least enjoy the sight of a plump, baked bird on her dining room table, and that feast, shared by family, would lift her spirits.

Unfortunately, my husband and I aren’t able to be at that table today.  He came down with the old-fashioned stomach flu on Thanksgiving Eve.  A result of a virus, no doubt, but one that seems almost unpatriotic in its timing at the start of shopping and gluttony season. I, on the other hand, though not (yet) affected by the stomach bug, instead am suffering from a longer term, gastro-intestinal ailment that appears to be tracking Mom’s decline in health.

Thus, the absence of a turkey at our house this year is not a loss we particularly miss except, perhaps, in the abstract. Furthermore, according to the morning newspaper, most Americans gain five pounds over the holiday season.  The risks of over-eating, even in a single meal were laid out like the proverbial buffet: heart attack, stroke, gall stone attacks, not to mention old-fashioned heartburn and gastric distress.  We will count ourselves lucky to be sidestepping these risks as, we pick sedately at scrambled eggs, no toast for me on the chance my tummy upset is gluten sensitivity activated by stress. 

As it turned out that was my Mom’s last Thanksgiving.  She never rebounded after the radiation, but instead lingered for many months as her life spirit and her strength receded.  My brother and I spent much of that time with her.  Only belatedly did we think to play for her some of the music she had so enjoyed.  Nevertheless, I like to think that even in her coma-like state she heard and enjoyed some of the old Nat King Cole songs she had played on the piano in her younger days. 

This year because of schedules no immediate relatives are coming for the holiday, nor are we making the trip.  Instead, we are spending Thanksgiving with our older son’s in-laws, a very generous and welcoming crowd.  We will bring a gluten-free corn pudding as well as one of the other “Frugal Gourmet” vegetables. 

During my Mother’s final months I developed Celiac, a disease associated with a severe reaction to wheat and gluten. Celiac occurs as a result of a genetic predisposition, and can be activated by physical or mental stress.  Luckily, our son’s in-laws assure me they are happy to serve a gluten-free turkey dinner. 

It has taken me years to fully realize Thanksgiving is not at all about the turkey.  Or even the football and shopping.  Rather, it’s about counting your blessings for family, however you might define them, and good friends.  And for giving thanks for them, however far flung or distant they might now be.

Meaning of Life

I know the meaning of life.  And I will tell you.  But first I need to tell you a little about me.

The most important thing you need to know is I am not a small collie.  I am a big dog.  I was born what you Two Legs refer to as a Shetland Sheepdog.  I will grant that my kind looks a bit like a small collie.  But I always have stood tall and proud. 

I was the biggest of my litter.  In my prime I weighed over forty pounds.  Now I’m down to a sleek 36 pounds.  And I have always known I could take on any dog twice my size.  I also could take on the Two Legs, but I have learned to respect my Two Leg Pack and follow their lead for the most part.  You see, I’m a veteran canine companion to the Two Legs.  

What can I say?  Not much, just “Woof,” and “Grrwl.”  But I’ve had to learn to communicate with “Two Legs”.  Just the same, they know I say plenty when I look at them.  Or nose the back door.  And especially when I pace around or dig in the carpet.  And how about the times I drop a toy at their feet?

I’ve been through a lot.  I have outlived my first Pack of Two Legs.  Now I live with the younger generation.  So it is no wonder I worry when the routine changes at home. 

Just this week, the leader of the Two Legs left early in the morning.  Even though he was out of bed before the sun was up I offered to walk with him in the park.  Instead he left in the car without me or the female Two Legs.   So I went back to sleep.  An older canine needs his rest.

The female Two Legs walked me later, at the usual time.  She also fed me, gave me my pills, and even my breakfast dessert (a spoonful of oatmeal on one of the Two Legs' plates).  But I had no one to beg toast or eggs from.  She eats only oatmeal in the morning. 

What were they thinking: I didn’t want my second breakfast just because one of them left early?  I don’t think so.

It is so quiet around the Pack when just one Two Legs is here.  She goes upstairs to her computer for long stretches.  When I first joined this Pack I would follow her up and down the stairs.  I don’t how many times we went up and down.  But I do know all those trips use to wear me out.  Now I nap downstairs and wait until she comes down again.  If she were dragging four legs up and down the stairs at my age she would know to just stay put until it is time to eat or walk again. 

The Leader of the Two Legs at least plays music for me.   Not always what I want to hear.  Maybe once a year they play something with canines in it.  The rest of the time it is Two Legs’ music, lots of singing and other sounds, not found in the canine universe.  But I like most of it anyway.

So today both of the Two Legs were home.  At the table at breakfast, they were both available for me to possibly participate in a second breakfast.  But then I smelled there were no eggs, bacon, or even toast.  And I heard the dreaded word from one of them: Diet.  Oh no.

To distract myself from the possibly lean times ahead I brought them a squeaky toy.  That way we could practice catching a live breakfast.  If the Pack doesn’t have any meat to eat they could just let me off lead at the park.  I’m sure I could catch us one of those squirrels.  And I bet they make good eating.

I’m getting more philosophical in my older age.  I’ve come not to expect as much from Two Legs as I once did.  The human kind certainly don’t think like canines.  For example, even though I warn them of dangers, such as a dog near the house, they don’t really appreciate my bark. 

So I only bark when absolutely necessary.  There is one rude bulldog who hurls nasty insults.  I have to put him in his place with a few well-thought-out rejoinders.  I ignore those yappy, pillow-sized dogs entirely.  Some Four Legs are just beneath my dignity to respond to. 

In my older age I now need a number of long naps during the day.  So I don’t mind when the Two Legs go out for awhile during the day without me.  But they should know I expect them to be here when it is dark or especially if it is stormy outside. 

And the whole Pack should be home to share meals and walks.  I am a big male Sheltie and don’t especially want to be known as pretty.   But I tolerate my Pack petting me and telling me how pretty I am.  I know it makes them feel happy.  And it makes me happy too.  So here it is, what I have learned in thirteen years in this world: having two good Two Legs to share that happy feeling is the meaning of life.

Dogs As Masters

Today I read a story on NPR’s web site titled “How Dogs Evolved into ‘Our Best Friends.’”  The expert interviewed was Mark Derr, who wrote “From Wolves to Our Best Friends.” 

Derr discounts both of the main theories on the domestication of wolves into dogs: 1) humans domesticated wolves that hung out around human groups to scavenge our refuse and 2) humans tamed wolf pups and kept them. Derr instead argues that wolves and humans, as two equal beings who saw the benefit of hunting together selected each other because of the mutual hunting advantages.  As wolves worked and lived with humans, the wolves eventually became wolf-dogs and then the pets, hunters, and the all-around helper-companions we know as dogs today.

I rather like Derr’s argument about how dogs and our relationships to them have evolved.  But I am not sure I buy the argument that today they are our companions or merely our best friends.  In fact, I’d say dogs are now our masters, not the other way around.  Sure, I know people often spend a lot of money for their dogs.  And for veterinary care. And for food and grooming and toys.  Dogs even allow us the illusion we are in charge.

For example, give a dog a walk, make a friend.  Give a dog two walks and he is your BFF.  Take the walk three times together and you have created a canine entitlement.  No longer are you giving your dog a treat.  Rather you are fulfilling your purpose in his life.

Think about it: who is feeding whom?  Who is taking whom to medical care?  And back to the walking thing.  For every dog I have “owned,” once I walked that dog three days in a row at about the same time of day, I no longer had an option to sit on the couch and let the dog out in the yard.  You would think after this same experience with multiple dogs I would have learned something.  But no.  New puppy or adopted older dog, I take him or her for a walk.  I forget the “three-day-in-a-row” rule.  And it happens again.  I am the slave, he is the master.

Suddenly, the walk becomes a canine right.  A right that inclement weather, inconvenience, or a broken foot doesn’t change. 

On the other hand, would I get out every day and exercise in the park if my dog didn’t insist?  At least my dog, I mean master, is taking as good care of my health as I am of his.  I just hope we are close to the summit of our mutually-evolving relationship.

Revelations at the Nail Salon

On the neighborhood nail salon TV, CNN is covering the Penn State-Joe Paterno-failure to stop-child-sex-abuse story. Yes, even writers get their nails done on occasion.  What can I say?  It’s not the best use of my time or resources.  But a bold color brightens my mood.  And it is a relaxing indulgence.  I like to think I’m even helping the economy and the nice Cambodian couple who run the salon.  Maybe I am rationalizing.

The middle-aged lady sitting next to me, also indulging in the nail-pampering, comments on the CNN story and what a sorry state of affairs, how disgraceful the whole thing is.  I agree with her.  She then proceeds to express outrage over the matter.  Again I agree with her.

Then she says Joe Paterno should not have been fired over some children lying about sex abuse.   So much for the relaxing time at the nail salon.  No, we did not come to blows with our freshly painted, not-yet-dry nails.  But we did have a discussion.  A surprisingly open and non-shouting discussion for two adults who don’t just disagree but who inhabit two different universes.

Today I am left to wonder what does it take for people to recognize a child is more important than any ‘institution”, even if the institution is college football?  Actually, we seem to be pretty good at recognizing the importance of one child, as long as that one child is a pretty blond girl. Make it forty young boys or thousands of Indian or African girls and boys and we don’t get as excited. 

And for the record, at Penn State it was not even a question of whether a child was lying.  Not that I believe that happens very often.  It was multiple cases where adults saw the abuse.  How does that adult not have a moral obligation to stop it and call the police?

Oh, but my fellow-nail-treatment friend said, the university had a chain of command.  A lot like the chain of command in most institutions, whether they are corporations, churches, or even families.   As long as the person who witnessed the abuse reported it up the chain of command, she argued, they were “covered.” 

Well, how you would feel about that “coverage” if you had been the child.  Or had that been your child?  

Could we pretend all children are as important as a pretty little blond American girl. Maybe then the adult who had seen or heard about a little blond girl being abused would have done something.