The Best Christmas Ever

1952 was the year I turned six. I could steal a line from Dickens and say it was the best of times and the worst of times. My mom and I were taking turns being sick; she with what I now believe to have been severe and frequent migraines and me with the usual array of childhood maladies such as chicken pox, mumps, measles, croup, etc. I remember one event which resulted in my dad carrying me across the park in front of our parsonage to the town doctor who painted my mouth with some ghastly purple stuff. I found out many years later this purple stuff was gentian violet used as a cure for thrush.

I also remember having to be dosed with a daily spoonful of cod liver oil because I “needed iron.” I could never figure out what the iron had to do with the medicine, but my mom and I arrived at an unusual ritual for my dosing: I used to crouch under the kitchen table for this hated spoonful and she would thrust the spoon under the table. I was very happy to be pronounced well enough to be rid of it - although I can still recall that hideous oily taste. *Shudder*

In spite of all of these ailments, my folks and I shared a wondrous life together. Dad was the quintessential poor country preacher (who one summer painted the parsonage to supplement his meager salary) and mom, in training to be agoraphobic in addition to her other illnesses, was very lucky that the church was right next door to the parsonage (she hated having to ride in the car, always got motion sickness). She occupied her time trying to decorate the old farmhouse/parsonage and sewed clothing and curtains when she could get out of bed.  I guess we did not realize how awful our lives were so we simply enjoyed life and each other.

The school was just up the road and I could walk the half block or so and come home for lunch from kindergarten and then first grade. Part of our family lore, told to me many times, was that when I first started school I kept leaving and coming home because I wanted to “help my mommy” since she was so sick. My folks and the school officials had to convince me that it was OK for me to be gone a bit each day and that mom would be all right without my ministrations.

It was in this town also that my parents were forced to buy their first television, to keep me home at night. The neighbors two houses away used to invite me over after supper to watch Hopalong Cassidy and not unlike millions of other boomers, I was immediately sucked in to the Cowboy Way. The Lone Ranger, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and of course, all of these famous TV cowboys had famous TV cowboy horses: Topper, Silver, Trigger and Champion.

It was love at first sight! I wanted a six-gun, a cowboy hat, cowboy boots…and I wanted a horse!

Little by little I acquired the six-gun (but no holster, alas), and some sort of straw hat that masqueraded as a cowboy hat. But no horse seemed forthcoming. We could not afford a horse, of course, and my dad tried ever so gently to persuade me that the parsonage committee would not take to having to clean up after a real horse.

In the fall of 1952 I was suddenly banished from the basement. This did not bother me a great deal, as I recall, because it was one of those creaky old scary basements with the low-hanging furnace pipes and the finished part just kind of trailing off into dirt. The church basement was the same and I still have nightmares about it. I remember waking in the night hearing strange noises coming from the cellar but these also did not seem to bother me and any alarums of the night were forgotten in the light of day.

Well, as it turned out, my dad had decided to build me a rocking horse. He took pieces of wood from a sturdy old rocking chair and one of the men from the church cut out the head from a piece of plywood. My dad did all of the rest of the work himself, including the glossy black paint. My mother then made the thick black yarn mane and tail. Dad even managed to find some scraps of leather and rivet together a bridle.

My dad was not known for his skills with tools. Oh, he could handle a paintbrush all right, but he had never been one with any skill, knowledge or love of saws, planes, drills, screwdrivers, hammers and the like. (My paternal grandfather had been the tool guy who worked on the railroad; I have his toolbox today, with his initials in Morse code painted on the outside.)

So the fact that dad was able to create such a magnificent rocking horse for me was all the more amazing. My Black Beauty was so well built and sturdy that even though I weigh many times more today than I did back then, he still holds my weight. I marvel at the skill that came so unexpectedly from my dad’s love for me and from his desire to make me happy that year at Christmas.

Sidi-Maree

 

♥Sidi-Maree♥

July 17, 1994 - December 13, 2009

I was hoping to be able to have the strength to write a little today about my dear little Sidi and how much it meant to me to have had his glowing presence in my life.  But every time I try to think of what to say about his life I find that words fail me.  Imagine that.

Maybe next year.  

Rest in Peace my dear little man, you are always in my Heart. 

Spam and Pop Tarts

A while back I described my anti-bucket list including two of the places anyone would be least likely to find me being any Disney park (apologies to my friend Chickie) or viewing the movie Titanic.  Now the news has provided me with a new non-destination that absolutely completely tops my list:  a cruise ship.

Imagine, if you will, cramming a small town of 5,000 strangers into a floating monstrosity and put it out on the cold deep ocean.  Bad enough, right?  But now take away their electricity so there is no light, no air conditioning, no hot water, no hot food. Free booze, though.  Great for a bunch of drunks in the dark.  Fun?  Wow! The military has to send helicopters with emergency food (the delightful aforementioned Spam and Pop Tarts.)  Egad.  What could possibly be worse?

I am composing this entry in my mind as I drive home this evening, after hearing the news story on CBC radio.  I arrive home to see a madly blinking light on my answering machine.  Oh goodie!  Messages.

Well, it turns out I have three detailed messages for a person named "Monica."  Monica and her husband and child have been confirmed in their reservation on the ninth deck of a Holland America cruise ship.  YIKES!

So I called the 800 number and left a message for this earnest employee, Lily, and told her my name was not Monica and that all afternoon she had just been leaving all of these messages on a wrong number.  

I was polite and refrained from telling her that she could not put me on the ninth deck of a cruise ship if she offered to pay me.  No matter how much Spam and Pop Tarts they were planning to serve.

Bon voyage, Monica!

Mighty Hunter, Leaf Bringer, Deer Scarer

Siobhan, my six pound black and white cow cat is many things.  She is the Mighty Hunter who brings me dead (and sometimes still alive) mice onto my bed in the morning.  She also manages to lure birds in through the chicken wire and she has captured snakes and crickets and June bugs.  

When there are no rodents to capture she makes as much of a fuss bringing in dead leaves and stalks of weeds.  I call her the Leaf Bringer.  Some days she brings in so many leaves I need a rake for my living room carpet.

This evening I glanced out my back door to see a doe and her two half grown twin fawns slowly working their way towards the cat enclosure.  One fawn kept stamping her front hooves, alternating legs nervously.  All three tails and all six ears were twitching with the tension.  What was catching their attention?  It was Siobhan, who was seated calmly in the enclosure.

Suddenly Siobhan leaped onto her platform  and all three deer scattered into the forest like leaves in a whirlwind.  So now my little girl has another name:  Deer Scarer. 

The Governor's Inn

Beginning in January of 1970, although we were still folkie regulars at the Limelight Coffee House, we also patronized another little club which presented completely different but equally remarkable music. This was the Governor’s Inn, located on Sycamore Street on Buffalo’s East Side. The Governor’s Inn was a blues club and charming owner James Peterson was a jack-of-all-trades including used car salesman, blues musician, bartender, and part-time decorator - I will never forget when he redecorated and put glitter on the ceilings (at least in the ladies’ room!). James had connections to Willie Dixon and the Chicago blues scene which resulted in national acts coming to perform including legends like Buddy Guy and Muddy Waters. On one memorable evening Buddy Guy plugged in his guitar with a really long chord and made his way down off the stage, meandered through the crowd, out the front door and into the intersection, still playing!

My then-husband Paul and I started going there originally with a couple of Canadian friends who attended Canisius College (a professor had first taken them to the place), and then later mostly by ourselves. We were drawn not only by the well-known acts but also by our favorite house group, The James Peterson Blues Band, which ultimately featured James’ five-year-old son Lucky on keyboards and guitar. Father and son were both dazzling. I recently discovered that little Lucky was playing Bill Doggett’s Hammond B3 organ, and a love for that unmistakable sound has been embedded in my brain ever since.

I don’t know how they managed to squeak past the liquor board with a kid running around in the bar but Lucky was in attendance most of the times we were there - he used to play with his toys behind the bar. I remember one night seeing his little head going down the length of the bar and I could not figure out how he was managing to walk so smoothly - turns out he was riding his tricycle! I also remember another evening when he rode up to our table on his trike and as I was talking to him he suddenly leaned over and sank his teeth into my arm - then he giggled madly and made his escape pedaling furiously. Good thing I was wearing a winter jacket and he still had his baby teeth!

In the same span of time that found Lucky riding around on his tricycle in the Buffalo night club, he was also releasing his first record album (produced by Dixon) and the  accompanying splash of publicity resulted in appearances on The Tonight Show and The Ed Sullivan Show and reviews in well known magazines.

Some evenings we brought friends with us, but Paul and I were usually the only people of pallor in that audience and it was upon the rarest of occasions that anyone would pay any attention to us whatsoever. Despite the racial tensions of the times I always got the impression that it was the love of the blues  that united all souls in the audience. One gentleman (I won’t name him) seemed to take it upon himself to act as our “guardian” - every week he would seat himself at our table and just nonchalantly hang out with us. His companionship was enjoyable and I never really thought anything of this until one evening when a patron who was more than a little inebriated staggered up and loudly insisted on buying me a drink. Our protector said softly, “The lady does not want a drink,” and then he ever so casually readjusted his suit jacket to reveal the hand gun tucked into his belt. The unwanted drunk disappeared as swiftly as he had arrived.

Another character who livened up the place was Mingo. Mingo was a snake charmer, costumed as a sort of a low-rent genii who, in addition, pranced around performing various feats of fire- and glass-eating. His huge boa constrictor was usually draped around his neck and he kept other snakes in a big basket. How he loved to scare the ladies! He snatched empty glasses off of tables, taking big bites out of the rims and he also ate light bulbs. I never did find out if he actually worked for James or if he just showed up sporadically at the club to work for tips. Mingo was also memorable to me for the last time I saw him - he was lurching down the sidewalk in front of 644 William Street (where I worked back then). He looked to be under the influence of something and he presented an exceedingly raggedy figure in the unforgiving light of day. I later read in the paper that his boa constrictor had been lost inside the walls of his rooming house.

The last calendar notation I found of  going to the Governor’s Inn was in August of 1972 - a lot of things were happening in my life in those days and I kind of lost track of how much longer the club even existed. But after all these years, Lucky Peterson, a child-star survivor, and James Peterson are still going strong as acclaimed bluesmen. Lucky lives in Texas, according to his Wikipedia page, and James is in Florida.  I hear that every so often Lucky comes to  Buffalo for a performance (although the last time went to see him was in 1980 when he was only 16 years old). But sometimes I just can’t help but wonder whatever happened to Mingo.

Lost in the Woods

On Sunday October 10, 2010, aka 10/10/10, in order to mark this special day I decided to go for a ten minute walk in my unremarkable woods and take a couple of nature photographs. My land is flat; there are no murmuring brooks, no quiet ponds, no magnificent vistas - just trees and weeds and brush and brambles (consisting mainly of buck thorn with lethal 1”- 1½” spikes). The sun was shining and the bugs were gone for the season. It was a perfect day!

I wore a pair of shoes with sturdy soles, cotton socks with jeans tucked in, and I carried my camera, my monopod, and, having locked the house, my keys. A couple of Kleenex and a half a box of Sugar Babies completed my gear. My plan was to follow the new path back to the old oak trees, take some photos, follow the same path back out. I was pretty excited about this new trail as it had been recently created by my kind neighbor with his tractor’s bush hog.

I found the oaks and took a few photos, found a handful of pretty yellow and black feathers, took a few more photos here and there, and then I found myself to be completely lost. I could not relocate the trail at all; I started following deer trails, trying to remember where the sun had been in the sky when I entered the woods. I kept going in circles, working my way deeper and deeper into the old canopy forest. Every time I tried to leave I ended up caught in the high weeds (taller than me!) or snagged in the buck thorn. Several times the thorns held me so fiercely I feared I would never be free of them. (How do deer make it through these things with their pointy antlers?) (Deer are smart - they don’t go in the buck thorn, silly!)

This was not the first time I have been lost in the woods. When I was considerably younger I once had a similar scare down near Letchworth (I can blame a camera for leading me astray in that incident as well), and I have been lost in my own woods upon several occasions. Wait - is that banjo music I hear? EEK!

It frightens me being lost like this - and of course many wild thoughts go crashing and careening through my brain as I try to find my way back to my nice little house. Honest, I will never complain about the 85% humidity again - just let me find my house! I love my house!

What if I never find my way out - not a soul knows I went for a walk - my car is there, my house is locked, my computer is on - someone will think I have been kidnapped! They will find my bones in the spring (if ever!) and since I am carrying no ID - they will not even know it is me! I was literally and figuratively spiraling out of control. Breathing heavily - blood pressure rising.

H-E-L-P!!!

And, as a person who never goes anywhere without a bottle of water, I had no water with me - I was sweating and becoming dehydrated and boy oh boy was I thirsty! I got so mixed up I started following the sun (which should have behind me to make it back to the house).

What if I fall and break my leg/sprain my ankle? Then I will be totally beyond hope and help. What would I do? I have a lot of MacGyver in me but I did not have much to work with - keys, camera, monopod, Kleenex, Sugar Babies? Oh! The Sugar Babies - they have moisture content - they will give me energy - mmmmmmm. And thank the Powers that Be for the monopod - I was able to use that as a walking stick (since my real wooden heavy-duty walking stick was in my car!).

My cats! What will happen to my cats? My cats need to be fed! By the time anyone notices I am missing my cats will all be dead. I must find my way back to my house. My cats need me!

Thinking of my cats comforted me and I gathered my wits and calmed my breathing and composed a little prayer to the Guardians of the Woodlands - “Please give me a sign, please help me, this is a special day, all I need is a sign.”

It was not long after this plea that I looked upon the ground and found a glowing red maple leaf illuminated by the sun. I took a photo and proceeded in the direction it seemed to be pointing. Soon I found a beautiful barred turkey wing feather, picked it up, found another a few steps further - and by the time I picked up the last of eight magnificent feathers, I could see the clearing.

I entered the woods around 4pm. I am old, out of shape and carrying more than a few extra pounds and although it may not sound like a lot of time to anyone else, I had spent almost an hour with my thrashing and crashing and cursing and my walking and stumbling and tripping, when I finally came through to this blessed clearing, a very large overgrown field, it was close to 5:15. At the edge of the field, way off in the distance, I could see the backs of large buildings. This put me in high spirits because I was sure what I had found was the field behind the industrial buildings on my street (the properties adjacent to mine) and I headed in that direction. I knew where I was, my goal was in sight and I trudged towards it with a huge sense of relief.

So here I am walking, walking, walking through the weedy field trying not to trip over hidden hillocks and the building I am heading towards looms larger and larger until I discover much to my shock and dismay that it is the Toyota dealer on Highway 3 and I am about 90 degrees away from where I thought I was, not to mention I am almost two miles from home.

At least the last part of my journey was on pavement and although I must have looked like a lunatic hobbling down the street clutching my monopod and my turkey feathers, I was enormously pleased that I was not going to die in the woods and I was confident that I could make it home no matter how tired, thirsty or footsore.

I have sworn an oath to never venture into mine or any other woods without a compass and a bottle of water (and quite a list of other essentials!). I also thank the Guardians of the Woodlands for giving me a 10/10/10 that was truly memorable indeed.

Zoo Story

When I worked at Bond’s back in the seventies, Cecilia Evans Taylor, aka “Peach,” was an enjoyable and fascinating customer. She bought her art supplies from our store and we also framed her many paintings. Most of these paintings were of animals: horses, giraffes, lions, elephants - so of course I adored her artwork.

I became more acquainted with Peach when she bought a Rapidograph pen. She was fond of drawing with this pen - the fine lines were quite suitable for her delicate style; but she was always mystified when it stopped working every couple of weeks. She would bring it back to the store where I would unclog it, clean it for her and refill it with ink.

Unlike the more country club attire worn by other ladies in her age group and social stratum, Peach dressed in blue jeans and chambray work shirts and she was frequently adorned with impressive Navajo silver and turquoise jewelry. I remember her red Mustang always seemed to be overflowing with big happy dogs, and I loved these and other unexpected facets of her persona. Seeing a lady her age (I was in my twenties and she was in her seventies) wearing blue jeans made me want to be just like her when I grew up - she was the perfect role model for me: creative and eccentric and a lover of animals.

One day she came into the store and showed me a letter she had just received, a lengthy missive in cramped handwriting on onionskin, folded into small rectangles and coming all the way from Africa! It was from her good friend author Joy Adamson - I remember being so impressed - this was the woman who had written “Born Free.”

In those days I used to spend almost every weekend exhibiting at various area art shows - I exhibited an array of miscellaneous artsy and craftsy creations - macramé jewelry, abstract knotted sculpture as well as little pen and ink drawings of flowers, mushrooms, lady bugs and, of course, all sorts of animals.

Peach was an enthusiastic supporter of the Buffalo Zoo (I believe she was on their board of directors) and giraffes were her passion - she created a bronze giraffe statue for their grounds, and I recall that at one point in time she even donated a real live giraffe! It came as no surprise when she undertook a mission as one of the organizers of an art show fund raiser called “The Zootique” to take place at the zoo and she talked me into participating.

The space allotted to me for my display was, alas, in a dank, dimly lit area deep in the bowels of one of the zoo buildings - I remember all of the artists’ set-ups were scattered willy-nilly throughout. The fund-raiser was scheduled for a late November weekend and it unfortunately proved to be a dismal affair: torrential rain and chilly temperatures for the entire event which resulted in hardly any visitors and even fewer sales. I felt badly for Peach because she had been so incredibly excited about the grand possibilities of this idea.

One memory from that show that I have always treasured, however, was when Peach ushered in a dapper but slightly frazzled looking older man to see my display. She was very animated in showing him all of my wares and she ended her spiel by enthusing, “Mar made all of this by herself!” The gentleman looked me straight in the eye and simply said, “Congratulations.” Then she hustled him away to see the next artist. It was only later that I discovered I had just met Seymour Knox II.

Now, every morning on the way to my shop I drive up Parkside past the Buffalo Zoo and the Cecilia Evans Taylor Giraffe House. When the weather is appropriate and the giraffes are outside enjoying the fresh air in their enclosures, I wave at them and I think of Peach.

Bobbin' Along

My mom always had the radio on - listening in the forties to hit parade music and in the fifties to rock ‘n’ roll.  I can remember her dancing in the kitchen to “Shake, Rattle and Roll.”  But before rock ‘n’ roll came along, one of the very first song I can remember hearing when I was a toddler was “When the red red robin comes bob bob bobbin’ along.”  Mom and I used to sing along with the radio whenever it came on.  I remember having a great deal of fun with “Bob, bob, bob.”

Now all these years later it has occurred to me that I am still bobbin’ along.   When I was a teenager, the pop charts were flooded with “Bobbies” and I listened to of all of them.  Bobby Rydell, Bobby Curtola, Bobby Darin, Bobby Vinton.  They all flew out of my brain, however, when “The Bob” came along.  Bob Dylan. 

Dylan’s first self-titled album was released in March of 1962.  I was a sophomore in high school, happily surrounded by a whole passel of friends, doing well academically, dating my first real boyfriend - my life was perfect and I was in love with the world.  In June of that year my dad announced we were moving - (insert dramatic teenage pause) - and my life fell apart. 

Sometime during that awful summer, I stumbled upon that first Bob Dylan album at a Sears Roebuck store in Buffalo.  From the very first spin on the console record player in the living room, it captured my complete attention.  This music was so very different from the pop pap served up on the radio in those days so as I started my junior year in that new high school that I detested even before I stepped foot in it, my loathing was fueled by the unconventional “voice” of Bob Dylan.   (I must admit at this point in my narrative that I mispronounced his name “Dye-lan” for a while until a hip friend from the beloved former high school clued me in to the correct pronunciation - thanks Susan!)

The song that I became most enamored with on that first album was “Baby Let Me Follow You Down” and I played it repeatedly at top volume until my mother finally flew into the living room yelling for me to turn it off. “Do you know what that song is about?” she screamed.  (I had no idea what that song was about but it just sounded so dangerous I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by it.)  Senior year, when the socialite kids in this school were planning the details of their prom (“Blue Velvet” - named after the Bobby Vinton song) (Ack!), I was memorizing the words to “With God on Our Side.” It has always made me wonder - had I not changed towns and schools at that time in my life, would I be the person I am today?  Would I be a housewife?  Somebody’s  grandmother?  (Not that there's anything wrong with that!)  Would I be one of those people hanging on every episode of American Idol - a (shudder) pop music fan?

Dylan proved a prolific song writer and albums began flowing out of Columbia Records at a very swift pace and I acquired Freewheelin’ and The Times They Are a Changin’ and Another Side of Bob Dylan - all before I graduated from high school in 1964.  Songs that have stood my test of time from these three albums are “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right,” “With God on Our Side,” “ Boots of Spanish Leather”  and “All I really Want to Do” (Even now, I still hope to someday own a pair of “Spanish boots of Spanish leather”).

I have always credited Bob Dylan (and the Beatles to a lesser extent) to forever changing my life.   His raw and powerful songs enabled me to survive those last two years of high school.  In December of 1964, finally away from that awful town and safely ensconced at Buff State College, I attended my very first concert - seeing Bob Dylan and his special surprise guest Joan Baez, at Kleinhans Music Hall.  In the impressively designed and acoustically perfect hall, the crowd of college students in blue-jeans was interspersed with the very baffled Kleinhans patrons in their usual pearls and furs. It was thrilling to see Dylan and Baez together on that stage and I thought I had died and gone to Heaven.

Of course in 1965 everything seemed to happen at once - Dylan released two seminal albums Bringing it all Back Home and Highway 61 Revisited (still his two best, in my humble opinion).  These songs were embedded in my heart and brain and soul from the first second I heard them:  “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “Gates of Eden,” “Queen Jane Approximately,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” and my all time favorite Dylan song, “She Belongs to Me.”  Just think - it has been 45 years now that I have been searching for an “Egyptian ring that sparkles before she speaks.”  And I have often imagined “She never stumbles, she’s got no place to fall,” as my perfect motto (for whenever I ever need a motto).

That same year I was in the crowd at the Newport Folk Festival when Dylan “went electric” (despite Pete Seeger and his frantic backstage efforts to try to pull the plug).  Some of the folkies booed but most were eventually captivated by both sides of Dylan, acoustic and electric.  In the fall of ’65 Dylan was back at Kleinhans again not too long after the Great Northeast Power Failure.  He did the first half of the concert with simply his guitar and harmonica, and then for the second half, out came the electric guitars and amps.  When he took to the stage for this electric set, some guy yelled out “Pray for another power failure!” and everyone laughed and the concert went on without a hitch.

Dylan was involved in a serious motorcycle accident in July of 1966 and did not tour again for eight years although he recorded albums with some regularity in that interval.  Blonde on Blonde which contained “Rainy Day Women #12 and 35,”  and “Just Like a Woman,” John Wesley Harding with “All Along the Watchtower,” and Nashville Skyline with “Girl From the North Country” and “Lay, Lady, Lay.”  I missed buying Self Portrait and New Morning in sequence, but later became fond of “Quinn, the Eskimo” and “If Not for You.”  I remember buying Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid and loving the entire soundtrack especially “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”

In the summer of 1972 a very interesting Dylan incident occurred which at the same time had both everything and nothing to do with him.  I was attending the Mariposa Folk Festival on Toronto Island and that weekend a rumor began circulating throughout the crowd that various folk celebrities had been spotted in our midst:  Joni Mitchell, Gordon Lightfoot, and (Gasp!) Bob Dylan himself.  We were hoping one or all of these luminaries would grace the main stage for a nighttime concert. 

One bright afternoon I was sitting on my blanket not really paying any attention to an old timey folk duo on one of the workshop stages under the huge willows along the shining water’s edge.  It was a tranquil workshop, the crowd couldn’t have been more than a couple of hundred languid sun-worshipers, and I don’t think any of us were doing anything other than killing time until the next workshop.  Suddenly a murmur swept through the crowd like a tsunami and we all seemed to be instantaneously aware that “Bob Dylan is here!”

As one, the crowd jumped to its feet, and began the first few steps of a crazed dash off into the direction (stage left) where Dylan was supposed to have been seen.  And just as swiftly we all changed our minds and went back to our spaces and sat down.  I cannot speak for anyone else present that afternoon, but in my Gemini mind the following dialogue took place:  “Oh my God!  Bob Dylan is here - we must run to him!  But then what, what would we do?  He would be very annoyed to be mobbed by hundreds of crazed folkies. In addition, we would be insulting these lovely traditional performers by abandoning them on this little stage, so we are being silly and let’s just sit back down.”

The event that I have labored to describe for the last three paragraphs took place in less than a minute from start to finish and it is one of the oddest occasions of mass hysteria (and mass sanity) I have ever encountered.  Poor Bob never knew what he missed that afternoon. 

In 1974 his career seemed to ramp up a lot and he released Planet Waves (containing “Forever Young”), and the live album with The Band, Before the Flood.   1975 brought Blood on the Tracks and my next batch of treasured favorites: “Tangled Up in Blue,” “Simple Twist of Fate” and “Lily, Rosemary & the Jack of Hearts.”

I was still bobbin’ along in late1975 when Dylan’s own version of the magical mystery tour, the incredible Rolling Thunder, came to town.  I rank that event as one of my all time favorite top ten concerts.  I have little recall of the concert in its entirety, just one amazing performance after another and when Joan Baez sang “Amazing Grace” it was so quiet in the Niagara Falls Convention Center you could literally have heard a pin drop.   Scarlet Rivera was particularly otherworldly playing her electric violin (considering when Dylan released “Desolation Row” back in 1965 we all assumed he was singing about an imaginary instrument). 

Over the years, Dylan had an almost mystical ability to gather outstanding musicians to back his efforts - among my favorite sidemen were Bruce Langhorne, Al Cooper, Mike Bloomfield, and of course, The Band.  The silvery soaring silkiness from these (and many other) incredible musicians provided an ideal juxtaposition for Dylan’s always unique vocalizations and his dancing tumbling lyrics.

In 1976, along with a live concert recording of The Rolling Thunder tour, Hard Rain, Dylan released Desire containing yet another of my absolute favorites, “Isis.”  1978 brought the release of Street Legal and although I loved the photograph on the cover and owned a huge poster of it, the songs therein rang no bells for me.  Dylan also performed a number of solo concerts in the seventies - in 1978 I was fortunate enough to see him in Toronto, Buffalo and Rochester!  Plus I was able to photograph him from my second row seat at the Aud in Buffalo - not the world’s best photos but they made me very happy for many years.

The last two albums I ever bought were Live at Budokan, which was nice but I rarely listened to it, and Slow Train Coming which I played only once.    Those were in 1979, and by that time Talking Heads  and The Rocky Horror Picture Show with Tim Curry and many other performers had entered the scene and then came the eighties and the Continental and local bands and musicians, all jostling for room in my life.  Oddly enough, although I rarely approve of cover songs, Tim Curry recorded a breathy and riveting version of “Simple Twist of Fate” and I still enjoy it equally with the Dylan original.

So I guess 1979 was about when I stopped following his career.  I have memorized almost every single word to every single song in Dylan’s first dozen or so albums, but, again, in my humble opinion, he suddenly “jumped the shark” and I stopped buying new albums.  I saw him being inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 1991 and (later learned) it was “Masters of War” which he had performed but as I was watching it I could not understand a single word he was singing and I couldn’t even figure out which song he was doing.  Friends who are Dylan fans tell me his new stuff is great and I will take their word for it - I have no desire to immerse myself in any new Dylan songs.  My Bob Dylan remains suspended in as if in amber between 1962 and 1978.  Both of us are floating there - forever young.

In her 95th year now, my step mother enjoys watching and listening to the musical stylings of The Lawrence Welk Show. If I am blessed with such health and longevity, mayhap someday I will be the one in the rocking chair on the porch of an old folk’s home and I can only hope I will still be bobbin’ along, listening to Bringing it All Back Home and Highway 61 Revisited. 

"Bobby Dylan" by Mar 1965

"No wonder you never had any kids!"

Part One – THE BLUE DRESS

My mother did not drive.  Nor would she ride in a car during daylight hours so shopping was pretty much out of the question for her (with the notable exception of the Sears Roebuck Catalog, from which she regularly made sure my father remained forever buried under a small mountain of debt).  Whenever any shopping expedition was required, especially in late summer when a new school wardrobe was needed, my mother made my father drive me to Batavia or sometimes even Buffalo to go to a big department store like Woolworth’s, Adam, Meldrum and Anderson’s or that brightly lit new upstart – K-Mart.

On one such foray, during the early sixties, we returned home from the K-Mart in Batavia with a light blue tailored linen dress with navy trim and buttons.  It was an A-line dress – I loved this dress but when I modeled it for mom she acted both horrified and embarrassed.   She was so flabbergasted  dad and I had a really difficult time trying to get her to reveal why she was so flustered,  but she finally blurted out what she thought must have happened:  my poor addled father and I had wandered by mistake into the maternity section of the store.  Gasp!   Nothing we could say would dissuade her.  Her mind was set - it was a maternity dress and if I wore it out in public - to church or to school, “People will think you’re pregnant!”

I tried to counter her argument by saying that all anyone would have to do is wait a few months and when no blessed event came forth then people would just have to stop thinking I was wearing maternity clothes.  But no – there was no arguing with my mother.  Even my dad knew it was a losing battle and retired to the solitude of his study to work on one of his sermons.

My mom then proceeded to spend the next several days remaking the dress – she ripped out the seams, she shaped it and reshaped it.  She was never quite able to make it into one of her beloved shirtwaists, but she came as close as she could until she was finally satisfied that I would be OK to appear in public in this garment and not a soul would harbor the dreaded thought that I might be pregnant.

Part Two – RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

In 1965, when Paul and I announced that we were to be wed, my mother was overcome with joy –that is, until I informed her that I did not want any kind of engagement ring, only a simple gold band as a wedding ring.  No diamonds for me, no siree!  I thought they were ugly and stupid and I am sure Paul was greatly relieved at dodging this very expensive pre-nuptial bullet.

My mother, however, contributed to the occasion with a familiar yet unexpected refrain, “You can’t just get married, you have to become engaged, otherwise everyone will think you had to get married – people will think you are pregnant!”

Once again I retorted that if anyone at all were to be paying attention to this little event of ours, all they would have to do is keep an eye on me to see if any babies were forthcoming and if none showed up then they could rest assured no shotguns were involved in the proceedings and all was above board and on the up and up.  And once again, in the eyes of the greater community, my virginity could be assumed to have been a proven fact and my mother could hold her head high in public.

My mother, again proving quite intractable, simply would not stop her argument until Paul and I went out one day, found a little junky antique store on Elmwood Avenue in Buffalo, and purchased a cheap old gold band set with three stones, a chipped opal in the center and two garnets, I believe, on either side of the opal.  Paul tied this onto the pale blue neck-ribbon of a plush toy Siamese cat and gave it to me for Christmas that year and my mom was beyond delighted.

I discovered many years later, after my mom had died, that a ring of that type - set with a row of stones, is often called a Mother’s Ring – each stone represents the birthstone of a child.  If my mom had known that she probably would have had kittens.

Part Three -THE WEDDING GOWN WAR

I have already described one of the skirmishes in the Wedding War – the battle of the engagement ring.  My mother won that one.

Herein follows the tale of the Battle of the Wedding Gown.   I will leave it to you, gentle reader, to decide the winner.

I am of the belief that my mother began planning the wedding the moment I told her I had met this nice guy named Paul.  She went into overdrive when I declared our love, and she went into orbit when I announced the wedding. 

I bought a bride’s magazine and found a pretty yet plain gown.  My mother was crushed that I was not planning to have her sew my gown.  She was, after all, a wonderful seamstress and I must admit she had probably been planning my gown since the day I was born.  She had made most of my baby clothes and most of the clothing I wore until I managed to convince her that T shirts and dungarees were my preferred mode of dress and I was able to finally escape her frilly, girlie ideas of apparel.

I grudgingly agreed to let her do a gown for me, but then one day Paul and I were wandering down Elmwood again and I found a lovely white satin floor-length gown with multi-colored embroidered ribbons on the sleeves – this dress was from Mexico and I was ready to buy it on the spot but I decided to tell my mom about it first.  She was crestfallen at the news and made my father drive her from Mayville to Buffalo so she could see this garment in person.  This was the first time I remember her being in a store since I was a very little kid.  She was appalled at the sloppy stitching and even more appalled at the colorful trim on the sleeves.

Obviously this could in no way be designated a wedding gown because of course if I were to wear any color other than a white as pure as the driven snow – it would be screaming out to any and all that I was pregnant (sound familiar?).  My mother put her tiny foot down and that was that.  The Mexican wedding dress was out.

My grandparents became involved in the Battle of the Wedding Dress.  Grandma tried her best to be the peacemaker between mom and me, and Grandpa got “het-up” and one of his rants that I recall began, “Why don’t you just wear blue jeans and ride a horse down the aisle!?!”  (Of course I thought that was a wonderful idea!)

Mom and I wrangled back and forth – would I buy a gown, would she make one.  She sent away for patterns and yards of satin while I bought magazines.  She convinced me that she could make a gown and we finally settled on the plainest empire waist A-Line gown, with elbow length bell-sleeves and a very simple unadorned neckline.  And I began to campaign for embroidered ribbon trim on the sleeves.  No, not in color, simply in metallic gold and white – different widths and designs of ribbons – row upon row.

We sent away for samples of trims and in the mean time I was busy convincing her that gold wasn’t really a color and no, people wouldn’t think I was pregnant.

Mom swung into action – sewing seams and ripping them out and doing fittings and re-sewing and re-ripping.  But she was obviously having fun so how could I get angry with her?  By the end of the whole ordeal, however, she had sneakily added a lace mantilla with gold edging and a huge gold-edged lace overskirt.  Luckily she ran out of time before the wedding or I would have been clad in lace from head to toe.

So that is why I never had any children.  I blame my mother.  I also thank my friend Babe St. Joan for the title of this post.  That is what she said to me when I told her these stories.

My Grandpa in 1910

I come from a long line of weirdos.

Link Free Zone

It just occurred to me that I have been publishing this blog for almost a year now and I have not posted one single link.  Tell your friends -  Tilting at Woodpeckers:  the Link Free Zone!  Uninterrupted reading for your edification and enjoyment.  Something new for the Interwebs.  :) (LOL)

The Sump Pump Chronicles (Part Two)

After waiting several weeks for it to rain again so I could determine if the pump was working, I decided it wasn't and so I hauled it out, took it back to the local independent hardware store and had it replaced with a new one.  That took about two minutes and the nice man even carried it out to the car for me (Valu Home Center, Nash Road, Wheatfield - yay!).

Reinstalled the pump.  Replaced leaky flexible hose.  Turned on the breaker.  It worked!  I have a few leaks to deal with, however - one at the other end of the flexible hose (hopefully taken care of now) and one where the semi-rigid pipe attaches to the sewer pipe over on the other side of the crawl space.  *groan*

It rained the other day and I heard a strange sound - the pump had come on all by itself!  YAY!

So all I have to do now is fix those leaks....

I'd better do it soon - I am losing interest in this project.

The Sump Pump Chronicles

Day One, Monday: 

Bought a new column sump pump at the local indy hardware store. It was on sale! Yay! Saved ten bucks!  Yay!

1/3 horsepower, one year warranty, previous pump lasted 11 years.

My crawl space is has gravel on the floor,  and of course the sump hole is as far away from the door as it can be. I have approximately 36" of clearance with pipes and stuff all over the place that will force one to duck even lower. I have covered part of the floor with 6 mil plastic.

Had not been under there for a couple of years.

Have to gird my loins and every other part of me - tall rubber boots over long socks with sweatpants tucked in. Shirt tucked into pants, long sleeved hoodie over that with hood tied on so no spiders will end up down the back of my neck.

Foam knee pads and rubber gloves complete my ensemble. I look so very fashionable. Oh! And sometimes I wear goggles, too.  Couldn't keep the goggles on too long because they kept steaming up.  It had to be over 80° in there - and the humidity was over 90%.

So I made a careful list of everything I needed so I would only have to make one trip in and out. Dragged all of my tools and such in a back pack and pushed the box (with the pump) ahead of me as I crawled in. Carried a rechargeable flashlight in case the power went out.

I thought of everything.

I thought of everything except for the stuff I forgot.

So I had to crawl back out and get a measuring tape, some duct tape, rope, bungee cords and a few other items. Made sure sump pump breaker was OFF up in the house.

Crawled back in.

Unplugged and removed old pump. Removed flexible hose.

Reattached flexible hose to new pump. Set up the float valve.

Inserted new pump into sump hole (which was full of water) and it tipped over immediately. Could not seem to get it to stay level. Tied it and bungeed it into position finally, replaced the cover, gathered all my tools, plugged it in, and crawled out.

Turned on the breaker.

Nothing happened.

It had tipped over. Found this out after I crawled back again (after turning off the breaker because it is so drenchingly wet under the house I am petrified of getting electrocuted and then who would feed my kitties?). I unplugged it.

Repositioned the beast, reset the ropes and cords, replugged it, crawled back out, staggered up the steps into the house, turned on the breaker, YAY!!! It was running!!!

YAY!!!!!

It shut off after 10 minutes and I could see from the doorway it had tilted again. No more crawling tonight.

Day Two, Tuesday:

Read and reread the little booklet that came with the pump. It suggested that if one were to experience a tilting problem with a flexible hose hookup, one might consider installing a sturdy PVC discharge pipe between the catch valve and the flexible pipe.

So I made a list of needed items and stopped at the local hardware on the way home from the shop.

Bought two rubber flexible couplers with stainless clamps, a five foot length of PVC and one male adapter because they thought I might need it.  Had two hardware guys helping me with this purchase, and it took 20 minutes to come up with this solution.

After I got home, checked the breaker to make sure it was turned off, donned my "outfit" this time I decided to utilize my little red plastic sled to transfer all the goodies underneath to the work site. This also included a half a concrete block which was gonna be my new weight for the sump hole cover.

So I gathered everything including an extension cord and a clip on lamp (did I mention the rechargeable flashlight died halfway through Monday?) and duct tape to protect the plug.  Put my cordless phone into a baggie and brought it with me in case I had a stroke or something.

So I crawled in, pushing the very heavy sled and playing out the extension cord for the clip on lamp.

Unplugged the pump. Unhooked the flexible hose. Measured the PVC. Cut it.

Too long! Was hitting a duct. So I cut it again. This time it fit nicely and I fastened it to the adapter and the check valve with the rubber connector. Inserted everything into the hole and the whole thing came loose. Did it again, only tighter. Came loose again.

Grrrr.....

Tried the other end, the end that attaches to the hose. Well, they sold me the wrong size flexible connector.

Grrrrr.......

Hooked the thing back up as the original pump had been connected, hose to check valve.

Plugged it back in, crawled back out, got a Charlie horse in my leg climbing through the doorway, managed to make it back into the house, turn on the breaker, it worked for 5 minutes then tipped over again.

I turned off the breaker and went to bed early.

Day Three, Wednesday:

Took the cut length of PVC and all of the connectors to the shop to play with.  Re-cut both ends of the PVC and filed them smooth. Decided that the adapter end needed a build up of something sturdy to even out the gripping space, so I used two film canisters and a short length of blue plastic tubing and at least got the check valve end to fit really well.

Added a few more things to my list like old towels to soak up some of the water lying around on the plastic in the crawl space, and I stopped at the hardware store again on my way home from the shop to exchange the rubber connector to the correct size.

Got home, checked to make sure breaker was off, donned my now rather sweaty and disgusting outfit, gathered the new items for the sled and crawled in.

Unplugged and unhooked everything. Started rehooking up the PVC pipe, and that is when I realized that the new correct connector was still in my purse, upstairs in the house.

Crawled out, got the connector, crawled back in.

Hooked everything up perfectly.

Stabilized the whole get up, wired it into place, very happy.

But I left the sled under the house when I crawled out to turn on the breaker.

Pump worked for ten minutes, I sat in the doorway happily listening to it. Then it turned off and in the sudden stillness I could hear distinct leaking and dripping noises.

By the time I ran into the house, turned off the breaker, ran back out and crawled back under, the leaking had ceased but the rubber connector by the flexible hose, the motor of the pump, and the board covering the hole were all soaked.

So I wiped everything off, unplugged everything, crawled back out, turned off the breaker and went to bed.

I am thinking about just going back to the original set up, returning the two rather expensive flexible connectors, and using the pipe for something somewhere down the line.

*sigh*

Day Four, Thursday:

Checked breaker is off. Crawled under house to put up a clear plastic splash sheet to protect motor from moisture if I have not tightened the connectors tight enough.

Crawled back out - turned on the breaker. Nothing.

Worked out a plan to minimize the crawling.

Turned breaker off, unplugged trouble light extension in garage. Crawled back in, switched plugs - plugged light into sump outlet and plugged pump into extension.

Crawled back out - turned on breaker - light goes on!

Plugged in extension cord. Sump pump does not go on.

So.....

This tells me that the outlet is OK, the breaker is OK and the PUMP IS WONKY!!!!!

I am getting ready to haul it out now, repackage it and exchange it for a new one.

Grrrrrr.......

OK, so now that I think of it, when I turned it on last night the motor may have gotten a bit wet from the leaking whatever part.

It should be able to stand a little moisture, doncha think? It is a sump pump for crying out loud!!!

Just crawled back in for a looksee and discovered that the sump hole is nearly dry - it had at least 12 inches of water in it earlier - and the plastic splash sheet I taped up is also dry - so I guess I solved the leaking problem and while I was searching online sump pump troubleshooting guides, it must have turned itself on and pumped out all the water.

It is a lot quieter than my old one.

So I just have to keep an ear out for it now for the next couple of days - and the tools in the sled can stay under there for a while.

Turns out not all of the leaks were solved,  another visit to the beast showed some drippy areas so I have tightened all of the clamps as tightly as I can tighten them.

I posted this photo online elsewhere and someone suggested I looked like the Sump Pump Grim Reaper and another person said I looked like the Statue of Liberty (tired, poor, weary) but I think I shall call it......"The Statue of Limitations."

Goin' on a Pump Crawl with the Statue of Limitations.

My Anti-Bucket List (Plus My Bonus Bucket List)

I saw this idea somewhere on the Internets and although these “meme” kinds of things usually fall into my “meh” category – I thought this one was pretty cool.  It is my baker’s dozen list of things I have absolutely no interest in ever attending, watching, reading, listening to or doing (in no particular order of dislike). 

1.    Going to any theme park, Disney in particular.  I will watch the old Disney flicks from my childhood and cry at those scenes in Lady and the Tramp and Bambi, but that is about as Disney as I get.  No t-shirts with Mickey or Pluto or Goofy, no mouse ears – I will, however, continue to make my own small worlds.  Speaking of theme parks, I have no desire to ride on a rollercoaster or any amusement park ride scarier than a carrousel.  (I love carrousels.  Pretty horses!)  I could also add Las Vegas here – it is kind of like a theme park, right?  Not for me!
2.    Watching movies like Titanic, the Star Wars prequels (Jar-Jar Binks?  I rest my case.).  Not finding myself drawn to Avatar (to quote Paula Poundstone, “Wide nose bridges exhaust me.”)  I would rather rewatch the movies I know I like.  Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, The Last Picture Show, Emmett Otter’s Jugband Christmas, The Black Stallion.  Speaking of Titanic, I hope I can make it through the rest of my life without ever again having to hear Celine Dion sing.  Or see her on television.  Or look at a picture of her.
3.    I have no desire to climb aboard an airplane and fly anywhere.  I don’t even want to have to go inside an airport – I’ll just drop you off, OK?  Back in the sixties I rode in several flying machines, including commercial jets, a bush plane and a helicopter.  That’s enough for me – yeah, they all look like ants, don’t they?    Oooh, pretty clouds.  Yup.  If I want to approximate that aerial feeling let me re-read Richard Bach’s Stranger to the Ground.  That will get me close enough to flying and it is a whole lot quieter!
4.    Never had a manicure or a pedicure – never will.  Zero interest in this.
5.    I have lost the desire to attend any more mega-concerts.  Yes, I know, back in my "yute" I was at the real Woodstock, but the idea of massive crowds freaks me out now.  Last huge concert I attended was Bowie at the Niagara Falls Convention Center (in the eighties?) and I walked out during his first song.  I couldn’t breathe.
6.    Anything involving being on or in water.  Going on a cruise has never ever appealed to me, I have never learned to swim and probably never will, even hot tubs give me the willies.  Germs!  Yuck.  Bathing suits!  Double yuck.  Water over my head.  HELP!!!
7.    I have to admit I will probably never finish slogging my way through John Galt’s fifty four page speech in Atlas Shrugged.  I have no desire to read Ulysses or anything by Sylvia Plath, Dostoevsky or Hemingway.  I will keep re-reading Thurber’s The Night the Bed Fell and all of the poems by ee cummings and my favorite science fiction.
8.    You will never find me at a tanning parlor.
9.    I think it is a pretty safe bet that I can make it through my entire life without ever drinking a cup of coffee, developing an appreciation for the taste of alcohol, or eating another hot dog.  Starbucks?  What’s that?
10.    I can also very safely say that I will never get another tattoo.  I can enjoy someone’s beautiful ink job but one is enough for me - the pain! The pain!
11.    You won’t find me attending any future sporting events.  I went to an Army/Navy game once (beautiful mules), saw The French Connection at the Aud,  went to a motocross (LOUD!), saw my dad’s curling team (gosh it was cold in that arena!) and went to a few wrestling  events to see Ric Flair and Rowdy Roddy Piper - that’s enough sporting events for this lifetime.
12.    Karaoke?  Good lord NO!
13.    I cannot recall ever dining alone at a restaurant of any type.  I have ordered take-out and picked it up, and taken advantage of the occasional drive-through, but I have never actually stayed to eat when I am by myself (Roy Roger's at the rest stops on the New York State Thruway don't count).

My Bonus Bucket List

 I suppose for every anti-bucket list one should have a bucket list.  On and off through the years I have kept a short list of things I would like to try or learn or try to learn in this lifetime.  Juggling and dancing used to be on this list.  They both got crossed off (untried) many years ago!  I used to want to go to Lilydale – I am no longer interested in that – it sounds too commercial these days, sort of like a psychic galleria.

Exploring the pyramids (Egyptian or Mayan), experiencing the solstice at Stonehenge or seeing Chichen Itza shining in the jungle dawn,  floating weightlessness in near earth orbit, summiting Everest, rafting down the Colorado – I’ll have to save these adventures for a future lifetime.  Mayhap next time I will dive the Great Barrier Reef (if the coral still exists), catch a wave at Waikiki (if the ocean is not filled with tar balls and plastic detritus), photograph translucent icebergs in the Arctic (if the ice still exists), perhaps find a nice crystal cave for a little spelunking (no, not really – it will take more than my allotted number of lifetimes to embrace spelunking).

My bucket list is quite modest these days.  Mostly things I have been meaning to do for quite some time now.  I can only come up with ten items.

1.    Spend a couple of days at the Corning Glass Museum.  I have been threatening to do that since the sixties.

2.    Tour the Darwin Martin House. It is within walking distance from my shop, for cryin’ out loud!

3.    Talk a stroll out along the breakwall on a nice sunny day when there is not a lot of wind.  I drive by it every day and it has always intrigued me (except for the fear that maybe I might accidentally fall in the water and drown).

4.     Walk over the Peace Bridge.   I once walked over the Rainbow Bridge (which makes me sound like a deceased cat or dog, doesn’t it?) – and it was a truly wondrous experience at the Falls.

5.    Go to Niagara Falls at least twice a year, once in Summer when there are tourists and once in Winter when there are no tourists.

6.    Learn to do tai chi and then actually do it regularly.  Afterwards enjoy a nice cuppa chai tea. (Seems like they should go together, tai chi and chai tea.)

7.    Learn to play the ukulele.  After having abandoned clarinet, piano, guitar, banjo, dulcimer and doumbek, surely I could learn to play the uke?

8.    Take the train across Canada (while it still exists) (the train, that it – I am sure Canada will exist for a very long time).

9.    Learn to do what I want to do in Photoshop without swearing at it so much.

10.     I have given up on ever “finishing” my house, or taming my yard but someday I would hope to be able to declare that I am organized.  If only for a brief interval – ahhhh that would be nice!  This way, if I end up with a tombstone, they can carve on it, “Once, she was organized.”

Hair today.....

Purple, red and blue on silver.  My dear mom is probably spinning!

Hair Trigger

This is a poem that my mother wrote sometime in the late fifties or early sixties.

“My Hair”

I oil it, boil it –

Cream it, steam it,

Dye it, tie it -

Stroke it, poke it –

Brush it, crush it,

Tint it, glint it –

Curl it, hurl it,

Wash it, squash it -

Style it, file it.

And how does it look

When I finally stop?

That’s it, you’re right –

Like the end of a mop!

My mother’s hair was the abiding bane of her existence, and when I was a child my mother’s obsession with my hair became the bane of my existence.   As is typical of most women down through the centuries, those born with curly hair harbor a burning desire for straight hair, and those born with straight hair would do almost anything for curly hair.  This has always completely baffled me.

My dad had beautiful thick black curly hair when mom met him and she loved his hair.  He spent his whole life trying to comb the curl out of his hair and had more or less succeeded by the time he died at the age of 85.  Mom’s hair was completely straight and so she always coveted curly hair.  She tried every product she could get her hands on to give herself those elusive curls.  She described the color of her hair as “mousy brown,” and in later years, she dyed it to cover the gray and chose the color “ash blond,” which sounded really exotic but was in reality very close to mousy brown. 

Naturally since mom had struggled with her own hair for so many years, she wanted my curved hair to be curly and so I was sent to a succession of beauty parlors (run by church ladies on their closed-in porches or in their finished basements).  I always trotted in with a picture of some model from the Sears catalog or a photo from a magazine of the latest teen idol and the hairdresser always did the same thing – a pixie cut with really short bangs (the name Mamie Eisenhower still makes me wince). Then there were the dreaded permanents – stinky and awful!  I loathed beauty parlors.

When Toni Home Permanents were invented my mom was their ideal target market.  She loved home permanents – and I can still remember the feel of that cold lotion on my scalp (dripping down the back of my neck) and the awful stench.  The little papers and the curlers, the stench!  The pulling, the yanking, the stench!  Part of the instructions with these home perms included leaving the ghastly stuff on for a period of time, preferably under a hair dryer – but we did not have a hair dryer so we knelt on the floor in the kitchen and (God’s truth!) stuck our heads into the heated oven.

Before Christmas one year when I was about nine or ten, dad teased mom and me ceaselessly about how he was giving us a present that we two could share.  This had us completely baffled – because of course I was a kid who liked horses and, well, mom wasn’t.  We tried to pry this secret out of dad for weeks – he was as silent as the Sphinx (eyes twinkling merrily).

Come Christmas morning – at long last our mysterious present was ready to be opened.  Mom and I tore into the wrappings of this medium sized box and found - a hair dryer!!!  It was one of the early versions made for home use – it was pink plastic, and it had a long pink hose connected to an elastic edged pink plastic cap.  Mom and I were in seventh heaven – and the oven returned to its original function for the drying out and burning of foodstuffs.

In between the home permanents we went through a succession a bobby pins and clips and hair pins, metal hair curlers, plastic rollers, hair nets, even little red rubber things called “Spoolies.”   Pin curls and gloppy green sticky styling gel and trying to breathe in the middle of a cloud of foul smelling hair spray!  Simply writing about these things makes my scalp hurt!  I can still remember the feeling of trying to sleep with those lumpy awful instruments of torture on my head – trying desperately to find a comfortable spot on my pillow. 

When I was in junior high school one of my classmates, Rosalie, had a mom who was a hairdresser.  Rosalie was not in my crowd, but my mother decided that I should make an appointment for a haircut and a permanent just to grease the social wheels.  Rosalie was thrilled and the appointment was set.  I dragged in my usual photo of the casual slightly wavy pixie cut, and told Rosalie’s mom that I did not want my hair to end up being “too curly.”

Rosalie’s mom set to work.  Rosalie hovered around, and even her dad made an excited appearance to bring me some special chocolate bars (Heath bars which I did like not back then and have never liked since) – the whole family was so very pleased to meet dear Rosalie’s new friend.

When Rosalie’s mom was done cutting and clipping and snipping and winding and perming and neutralizing and rinsing and drying and combing and fussing and spraying, she gave me my eyeglasses.  I looked at myself in the mirror in complete dismay as I beheld the tightest set of curls I had ever seen!  I was worse than a poodle!  Shirley Temple!   Harpo Marx!  It was all I could do to pay and choke out my thanks – I bolted out of that little shop of horrors and wailed all the way home.  I was having a complete meltdown by the time I stormed into the parsonage and encountered my mother, who was, of course, eagerly awaiting my return.

Even mom had to admit that my hair was too curly.  She calmed me down and said she would see what she could do with it.  She dug out her cheap dull hair scissors and her even cheaper (and duller) pair of thinning scissors and set to work, muttering and swearing under her breath.  She yanked and she cut and she pulled and she thinned.  I sat on a kitchen chair as she hacked away at those tight curls for well over an hour –the dull scissors caused her to end up with huge blisters on her fingers by the time she was satisfied with her handiwork and ushered me into the bathroom to peer at my new hairstyle.

I have to admit for probably the only time in her life my mom had pulled off a styling miracle.   The new version of the “do” was short, casual, amazingly even all the way around and only slightly curly.  My tears dried and I was able to hold my head high in school the next day – that is, until Rosalie saw me.   “My God!” she exclaimed, “What happened to your hair?!”  I stuttered and stammered and tried to blame it on my mother (my recall of this part seems to be blessedly dim) but I do remember that Rosalie never spoke to me again.

Actually, my mom was allowed one more very different kind of hair miracle in her lifetime.  After years of dyeing her hair that mousy brown (I mean ash blond) she went several weeks past the time for a root touch-up and discovered that in her late forties, her hair had turned a lovely silver gray.  So she let the dye grow out and for the last years of her all too brief life, she had spectacularly beautiful silver hair.  This also afforded her the excuse to buy an entirely new wardrobe in blues and grays, instead of her usual pinks and browns.  She was ecstatic!

In the time since leaving my parents’ home I have grown my hair down past my waist, chopped all but my bangs off to 1/4", dyed my hair jet black as well as varying shades of purple – but most of all I have ignored my hair.   I have been in the thrall of trendy boutique style salons and I consider myself fortunate to have escaped from the crimping irons and Aqua Net of the eighties.

At the recommendation of a framing customer I tried out a new salon a few years back.  At this salon I was ushered into their hushed sanctuary and given a five page form to fill out about my hair routine, products, and preferences.  I could not believe this questionnaire!  I wash my hair (lather, rinse, repeat) with whatever is on sale at the drugstore and then use some conditioner.  Then I try to remember to brush it before I leave the house.  That is my hair routine.  It was obvious that the time had come to grow my hair out yet again.  (I guess that is really my hair routine:  grow my hair until it is so long it is a literal pain in the neck and then have it chopped off, donate resulting pony tails to Locks of Love, and then start all over again!)

But now, lo these many years after her death, I find myself wondering every so often – what would my mom have thought of me with purple hair?   I am sure that mom would be really pleased that I have come full circle and found a “proper church lady” to do my hair and I like to think that she would at least be happy that I am paying some attention to my “crowning glory."

Cringe-worthy bangs, 1949

Camp Wesleyan for Girls

One of the most traumatic experiences of my young life was the week in July of 1960 when my parents sent me to Camp Wesleyan.  I had just turned 14, I had never spent any time away from my family, and by the time it was finished I swore I would never attend camp again.   Camp Wesleyan for Girls was run by the middle-aged wives of ministers,  elderly missionaries and one particularly memorable overzealous wanna-be drill sergeant in Bermuda shorts.

My dad drove away in his old Chevy, leaving me adrift in front of the massive and crumbling Epworth Inn at Silver Lake, New York.  It was there that the first horror story embedded itself into my brain.  A group of us newcomers were standing around with our hard shelled suitcases and matching make-up cases, trying to figure out what we were supposed to be doing.  A baby bird fell out of its nest in one of the ancient oaks and landed at our feet on the gravel .  Some girls were squealing and some of us were working on a plan to rescue this pathetic little creature when an older camper appeared and with the stacked heel of her cowboy boot swiftly smashed the unfortunate bird into the ground .

This is how we met “Tiger,” a girl whose apparel made my usual tomboy outfit look positively frilly. Tiger was wearing skinny dungarees, a Western shirt with pearl snaps, a black cowboy hat and cowboy boots.  She looked and acted like a boy (except we knew she was a girl because this was a camp for girls only).  Had the baby bird incident never happened I surely would have worshiped her (from afar) all week.  Tiger was best buddies with the entire staff and we newcomers were in awe of her and also scared to death of her – mostly however I think we all simply hated her out of pure instinct, for her aura of coolness and her seemingly casual cruelty.

Another incident I remember from that first hour involved a really shy girl whose parents had given her two cases of Hershey bars to hand out to her “new friends” at camp.  Campers swarmed her like a Biblical plague of locusts, the candy bars were devoured, and even at our young age (14 was a lot younger in 1960 than it is today!) we all unconsciously dismissed her as needy and pathetic.  I still think of her every so often and wonder how she managed to survive in the big mean world.

The camp stretched on into endless hours and days of unaccustomed dormitory living, communal bathrooms, being forced to go to bed too early, the wanna-be sergeant in Bermudas who used her bugle to wake us up at the crack of dawn, awful food, tedious and uninspired Bible classes – all supposedly aimed at turning us into missionaries – no thanks!  We new campers were terrified of the uppity clique of older girls who flaunted their familiarity with the camp routine.  Once in a while we were allowed to go down to the lake to swim or sunbathe – but there were no crafts, no music, no fun – it was like five horrible days of church with really bad meals and prison guards.

Before supper on the last evening, a grim-faced staff member came to the front of the dining room and informed us that there had been a terrible accident and their darling little Tiger had drowned.  We were shocked at this information – our young brains barely comprehending the dreadful news – someone we had all hated and now she was dead!  It was simply too awful for words. 

We were informed that later in the evening there would be a memorial service in the dining room for the dear departed.  (Why not the chapel? This was, after all, a church camp!  We were too stunned to think to ask questions.)  The lights had been dimmed when we arrived, a few candles were burning, and over on a low riser a shape(which we assumed to represent the deceased) was lying draped with a white sheet.  Soft music was playing and we were all completely cowed. 

The staff began a solemn service – which swiftly turned from flowery King James phraseology into complex doggerel and ended with a rousing chorus of “Hold that Tiger” whereupon the deceased threw off the sheet, sat bolt upright (cowboy hat and boots and all) and jumped to her feet and proceeded to stomp around in the midst of our astonishment.  The staff members were holding their sides and howling with glee.

I did not think this stunt was very funny back then and fifty years later I still think it was a rotten trick because it was such an utterly frivolous departure from the humorless tone of the overly staid camp.  Probably scarred our little Hershey bar camper for life – but, then again, who knows, maybe she grew up to became a missionary! 

It is only now as I write this that I stop to wonder about Tiger’s life – I suspect she was able to conquer any and all people and obstacles in her path.  Although I doubt if she ever became involved in wild bird rehabilitation.

Rest in Peace Sundance

Rest in Peace, Sundance

My Mother, My Father and the Cat

The cat’s name was Cherry and she was a little brown and black tiger with a white muzzle, paws and belly.  I was around twelve years old when Dad and I brought her home from one of our forays into the countryside – we had stopped at an orchard to buy a few cherries and the farmer had quite cleverly placed a box of adorable kittens on display as well.  I wheedled and pleaded and with the inclusion of much flattery I was finally able to convince “the best dad in the world” that we surely needed a cat and so “Cherry” came home with us.

Mom was not thrilled with this development and she immediately pronounced that Cherry must sleep in the basement so she “wouldn’t get into anything.”  That first night, after we had all fallen asleep, a tremendously eerie screeching was heard wafting up the basement stairs and echoing through the furnace pipes.  Dad rushed downstairs to find that the kitten had climbed up onto the wall around the old cistern and then fallen in.  Luckily there was only an inch of water in the cistern and it was filled mainly with old junk.  Dad found a long board and angled it down into the space and the kitten scrambled her way to safety.  From that moment on, Cherry worshipped my father - he was her God.

Mom eventually relented and allowed Cherry up into the house to sleep.  Mom and the cat achieved a tacit understanding early on in their relationship – mom was the boss of the household and that was that.  No arguments allowed. Cherry liked to sleep in the space between the curving pedestal legs of the dining room table.  Of course she left fur on the rug in those spots so mom trained her to sleep on flattened paper bags.  I never even once saw that cat try to leap up onto a piece of furniture or a counter.  I guess she knew what my mother’s response would have been and was a wise cat to avoid such repercussions.

This particular parsonage was a huge drafty old building – there were 7 bedrooms, 2 ½ bathrooms, a modern kitchen with turquoise and peach metal cabinets, a dining room and two, not one, two living rooms.  Mom declared that the living rooms were off limits to the cat – she could wander anywhere else in the house, upstairs or down but not one paw was allowed in either of the living rooms.

Cherry made a great display of obeying this rule – if a toy she was batting around happened to skid across the threshold she would wait, looking pitiful, until one of us noticed her plight and retrieved the toy for her.

The only time Cherry disobeyed this edict was upon the arrival of the ladies for one of the church circle meetings.  Mom was always in high dudgeon for these events, polishing her tea set, proffering her best china and trying to create appropriately dainty little snacks. The cat took full advantage of mom’s emotional state. With her tail high in the air, and a smug cat look on her face, she would stroll into the forbidden living room, making the rounds, greeting and rubbing against each guest.  Of course the church ladies would all exclaim what a lovely cat she was and mom, although fuming under the surface, could do nothing except shoot the cat dirty looks when she hoped no one was watching.

In due time mom decided that Cherry could have the full run of the house.  And run she did!  Out through the dining room, past the living rooms, a sharp left through the front hall, up the staircase, across the upstairs front hallway, past my dad’s study, through the guest room, down the middle of my bedroom, down the back hall and then she flew down the steep and narrow back stairs, launching herself into my parents’ bedroom from the fifth step – which caused her to land on the flimsy little throw rug at the bottom of the stairs and slide on her magic carpet into the dining room, whereupon her trip would end with a thunk as she slid into the bottom of the china cabinet.  She loved this wild ride of hers and did it over and over again.

Cherry worshipped my dad.  She followed him everywhere she could manage.  Since our parsonage was situated right next to the church, she snuck into the church on more than one occasion.  She discovered that she could slip into the sanctuary when the custodian was not looking and the take a nice nap on the newly re-upholstered red velvet altar chairs.  Dad was not thrilled with having to go near much less sit on red velvet altar chairs - and red velvet altar chairs with cat hairs thrilled him even less.  The cat was soon banished from the church, especially on Sundays.  We always felt that she retaliated by catching a brace of mice and laying them out for us on the sidewalk between the church and the parsonage, so we had to walk around them or step over them on the way back home.  Mom was less than ecstatic at that display of Cherry’s hunting prowess.

The funeral home was located on the other side of the parsonage.  There was a hedge between our property and theirs, and then their broad expanse of perfectly manicured lawn.  Dad was always running late so to save time he would duck through the hedge and trot across the lawn when he was called upon to perform a funeral service.  Cherry took to following him, tail in the air, across that wide green lawn and many were the times that dad discovered his little furry shadow only at the very door of the funeral home.

He would then try to pick up the cat with the tips of his fingers and with his elbows locked in front of him, carry her back to the house (she would be squirming and twisting to escape his grip), all the time hoping to suffer the least amount of cat hairs on his best black funeral suit.

Dad professed to be a cat hater but we all (mom, Cherry and I) knew he was a big softie at heart.  Dad would occasionally come home with raw liver as a treat for the cat (I was an adult before I realized that people actually ate liver and that it wasn’t just something the butcher was throwing away!).  Cherry used to go absolutely bananas over this liver, she nearly choked trying to purr and chew and swallow at the same time.

Another treat for the cat was warm milk with maybe a little egg beaten into it if he thought she was feeling “poorly.”  The best treats of all were the little sugar coated raisins from his Raisin Bran cereal.  He used to complain mightily that “the darn cat was always begging at the breakfast table.”  I tried to point out that she wasn’t born with the knowledge of little sugar-coated raisins in Raisin Bran and “someone” must have illuminated her about their existence – else how could she have known what to beg for at the breakfast table?

Cherry and I made quite a splash around town - she had a little red leather harness and I walked her on a leash.  The photographer in the studio downtown saw us one day and offered to take her portrait.  He gave me a few wallet size copies but kept a framed hand colored 8x10 in his window for a long time.  I sure wish I had that original hand colored photograph - my folks tried to buy it years later but it was unfortunately long gone.  

Bless you little cat - I still love you and your pretty smile!