Has this ever happened to you? A long time friend announces out of the blue that she’s started going to church and then waits for your response.
“That’s great. I’m happy for you.”
“Really?”
“Why, yes really.” (What did she expect me to say?)
After a dry March, we’re getting pummeled!
I’ve had this happen a couple of times and there doesn’t seem to be a good way to respond. Churches provide companionship and solace for a great many people. Churches can do a lot of good in their communities and throughout the world. If I found one that didn’t demand I accept all church doctrines, tenets and interpretations of the scriptures without question or debate then I’d probably join. If I found one that studied other belief systems with open hearts and minds, then I’d probably join.
A church near my house that is very welcoming and does much good for the community.
I should point out that I’d met these ladies in the SF Bay Area where for decades we’d worked (and partied with) gay people, trans people, Muslims, Atheists, Jews, Hindus, Wiccans, Devil worshipers . . . You name it. Both of these women had been married and divorced, both had had affairs with married men (and men of color) and both had probably endured at least one abortion.
And then both women (for different reasons) had moved to towns in the inland valleys of California where, after about a year, they’d informed me they’d started going to church. I could have informed them that I’ve actually read and studied the Bible as well as volunteered countless hours etc. But that isn’t the point, is it? Believing in the concepts of Christianity and attempting to act on them shouldn’t be a competition.
And so I attempted to move on to other topics and when that hadn’t worked, and the conversation turned stale and humorless, I’d moved sadly on.
I awoke this morning thinking about this beautiful boy, my nephew, who unfortunately never grew into a man although he would have been a great one which is probably why my ex-husband always called him “Great Scott.” Today would have been his birthday.
You can see in this child’s face, slightly swollen from the chemo, radiance. In this child’s eyes, wisdom beyond his years. In this child’s smile, acceptance.
Scotty and his friend climbing the fence, a watercolor by P. Bergstrom
For the Great Scotts of the world, please . . . not another needless and totally preventable war. There’s enough misery in the world.
My Uncle Bob was born on April Fools Day 1936 and died last March. I was not invited to the celebration of his life for a couple of reasons: 1.) His wife is an ultra Maga in a deep red part of Florida and 2.) She didn’t appreciate my depiction of her third husband in Happy Hour and Other Sorrows. Honestly I don’t think she read beyond the first few chapters otherwise she would have seen that the main character is an ungrateful dimwit who comes to appreciate her unconventional uncle, warts and all.
Uncle Bob and his sister-in-law, my crazy Auntie Dottie – I’m sure they’re having many chuckles up there in Heaven at Gram’s expense!
I did hear from one of my cousins that many, many people showed up to share their love for our uncle. That didn’t surprise me in the least. He was a people person, always willing to dive into any crowd of strangers . . . if there was singing and dancing, drinking and the telling of raunchy jokes. Laughing, always laughing. He was also very beloved in the tiny German village where he lived for about three years while working for the US Army.
Uncle Bob with his buddy Bruce at an Oktober Fest beer sloshing event.
When other Americans were transferred stateside, he collected their unused ration cards and bought items at the US Commissary which he knew were beyond the reach of his German neighbors. The year I was there, Rocky Road Ice Cream, Marboro cigarettes and Folgers coffee in the tin can were all the rage! But, anything American would do, even the dreaded peanut butter that Uncle Bob put on EVERYTHING! And I do mean everything. French fries, scrambled eggs, meatloaf . . .
Considered the best brand by UB
I was amazed that somehow he managed to satisfyallthe villagers on that first day of Fest Season when he traditionally handed out those rare, exotic treats from America. Each happy recipient slapped him on the back and said in a booming voice as they walked out the kitchen door:
“Danke Oncle Boob!”
I can still remember the look on his face that day when he turned to me and said. “I suppose I have you to thank for this! Oncle Boob – sheesh, neicey – what have you done to me?” (He could be a little overly dramatic.)
I guess the name stuck long after I’d gone because he never forgave me.
I guess it’s only human nature to hope that the things we’ve collected over the years have some value beyond the sentimental. Especially if we inherited said items and have dragged them from hither and yon like a yoke around our necks!
But guessing the value of old records is a crapshoot as far as I can tell. The above recording of The Tone Poem Don Quixote was sold with a linen cover as a part of the Soria Series of classical recordings produced by Dorle and Dorio Soria for RCA Victor probably in 1958. Each came with a booklet written by experts on the subject. For Don Quixote, the booklet was written by Walter Starkie, an “authority of Spanish history and culture, an eminent scholar and writer” and illustrated by the artists inspired by Cervantes’ (Dali, Picasso, Goya and Dore)
Picasso
From what I’ve been able to tell, this album plus booklet is only worth about $30 to collectors. So we shall hold onto it. I never made it through Cervantes’ masterpiece so perhaps it shall give me the motivation!
On the other hand, this album is highly sought after.
All I can say is Ugh. I guess there are a lot of conspiracy theorists out there!
I also counted about a dozen “Live on Stage” albums in our collection. I don’t really understand the allure of the live-on-stage recordings. Who wants to listen to the applause or the back and forth with the audience? Not me. However, the following recording might be interesting. I was in grammar school when it came out as was my husband so how it came into our possession is anyone’s guess.
Unless my prim and proper MIL had a Walk on the Wild Side? Noooo.
I’ve gotten tired of researching the value of old records and so I will conclude with the most valuable record set I found. From around 1946, the six record set of The Merry Widow. Estimated value $60-70.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to play this set on my record player. The discs are only 10″ and very heavy. But we’ll see. If not, I know a near-by thrift store that might welcome the donation!
My husband is a collector (okay, borderline hoarder) but I have learned over the years how to put a kink in many of those perversions. Let’s just say that things that have sat ignored in a closet for over a decade have a habit of disappearing and rarely does he even notice. Last week we had a heat wave and since I don’t get along with hot and dry weather, I decided to tackle the closet wherein seven boxes full of vinyl records have been stored since 1993.
The trulyscary part of this endeavor was, those records had not even been sorted by genre before being dumped into cardboard boxes for the move!
Does anyone remember Soupy Sales? Think this album might be worth something?
Now, if I’d been smart I would have taken the boxes to Rasputin’s (our nearby “we will buy records and vintage clothing and jewelry” hippie dippie thrifty place) and donated them all. But I hated to do that without giving our children a chance to claim some part of their wacky childhoods. And so I spent two days categorizing and then alphabetizing the records. The closet is now empty and the totals are below – in case you’re interested.
We had over 300 albums or album sets in these approximate genres:
Rock & Roll, Rhythm & Blues, Jazz
Funk, Folk, Punk, Soul, Raggae
Grunge, Live on stage albums and What-the-Hell is this?
Most of them are in very good condition but worthless. Too common; too many sold.
Maybe not this one. Now how would you classify this album?????
There were around thirty albums I classified as Classical (Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, etc.) Another twenty that there were Classicalish:
Leonard Bernstein conducting symphonies for “everyday consumption”
Lawrence Welk’s favorite waltzes
Soundtracks from various movies
And … does anyone know Greek?
This album was so treasured it’s still got its plastic wrapping but who are they?
From my Mother-in-Law (who was a kindergarten teacher and loved to travel) we had one full box of:
Children’s records
How to Learn either Russian, German or Spanish
Music from Hawaii, Mexico, India, Java, etc.
Easy listening and popular hits by Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Julie Andrews, Burl Ives, etc.
Do these kids look happy?
I did run into a couple of albums I thought might be valuable. One because it was beautifully packaged and the other because it was so tragic. After some research it turned out I was right about both . . . although by valuable, they’re probably worth what someone paid for them!
I’ll get to my treasures tomorrow, if you’re interested! Let me know!
Almost two years ago I was invited to a postcard party, the purpose of which was to get out the vote in Ohio. At that time I asked my fellow bloggers how would they feel about getting a postcard from a stranger reminding them they could vote by mail. Happily most of you said you would at least read it before dumping it into recycling!
As you can see the postcard simply tells people how they can vote by mail.
Sadly, Amy’s district went GOP and sadly the GOP is dead set on making it harder for Amy to vote at all. But we did what we could and we did it nicely. I thought.
Poor kitty’s just as sad as me! Why, oh why, do people vote against their own self-interests?
Whelp, I did it again. Went to another postcard party along with approximately sixty of my fellow citizens, most of whom I’d never met before. This time the mood was different and the messages we sent were more desperate.
As before, I was only copying the boilerplate text I’d been given. Quite a different message, wouldn’t you say? I added the happy face and the heart . . . too much?
I sat at a table with four women and three men who were all probably beyond sixty, although it was difficult to tell. They talked about their experiences campaigning throughout the state and the country . . . staying in stranger’s houses . . . going door to door in strange neighborhoods . . . trying to spread the word. I must say, their energy was amazing.
Halfway through the session, the organizers came to each table and told us about the March 28 No Kings rally. They’re not planning to march but instead to form a five mile long human chain through Walnut Creek, a city at the base of Mt. Diablo. There will be musicians and organizers every couple of blocks to organize cheers and lead songs. To prepare, there will be sign-making and chant-practicing parties throughout the Bay Area.
Sounds hopeful, doesn’t it? I wish I could say, yes hope was in the air, like the spring blossoming prematurely on that warm day but the atmosphere was much grimmer than two years ago.
I think I know how that band on the deck of the Titanic felt.
In a previous life I worked for a midwesterner named Linda who’d been assigned to help a group of programmers find billable hours before they were kicked off the good ship TR Wonderful where they were being held captive. You see, their ship (The Milvia) had been sunk by the larger and much more powerful Wonderful the year before and now the crew of the Wonderful was doing all it could to make them comfortable. However, the customs of the Milvia and the customs of the Wonderful could not have been more different if they tried.
The Milvia on the high seas of Berkeley California – fueled by all nighters and triple Lattes!
Linda, bless her heart, had no idea what these programmers were capable of but she did have a copy of the TR Wonderful Jobs List updated weekly and faxed to various outposts around the planet from the HQ in Cleveland Ohio.
Its arrival (generally on a Tuesday morning) was always cause for joy. “Jan,” Linda would say to me, “I brought cookies. Tell the gang we’re having a do! The list is here … on time and on schedule.” Of course, one would expect no less from the HQ of TR Wonderful!
Once a giant in aerodynamics, electronics and credit card processing industries before being sunk by The Northrup Grumman
In case you’re wondering, in Linda Lingo a “do” was an informal get-together generally in the coffee room and lasting no more than 15 minutes. There would be an announcement, light refreshments and then everyone would return to work. Fifteen minutes a day of unbillable time was all you were allowed. Every other minute had to be charged to a project, duly noted on a paper timesheet and approved by a manager before being sent on to payroll. If the project you’d been assigned to ended, your name was added to the Availability List. Thereafter you had two weeks to find and be accepted on another project. Otherwise … you walked the plank.
Thus, you can understand why the arrival of the Jobs List was cause for a “do.”
Poor dear Linda really was a sweetheart. I can see her now … a petite blonde of maybe fifty, always clad in a conservative pastel pantsuit with matching shoes and accessories, trying to convince a life long resident of Berkeley California that he would just love Oshkosh Wisconsin. It was, after all, the birthplace of the “dungarees” he practically lived in.
Poor dear Linda. She really was a sweetheart. But it was inevitable what happened.
“Why do they insist on calling it a Layoff List?” She’d ask me almost in tears. “At TR Wonderful we don’t lay people off. We give them every opportunity to remain on board and enjoy all the benefits of a good health care and retirement package. They might have to move far from home but they would remain a part of the TR Wonderful family and what could be more wonderful than that!
I never knew how to respond. In retrospect, companies which encourage their employees to stay aboard with good health benefits and pensions are a dying breed. But, to those of us used to a pirate ship, their corporate ethos felt suffocating. And so I just shrugged my shoulders like a dummy.
“And why are they having all those bashes? Every Friday night — another bash!”
A bash was like a “do” … an impromptu get-together but bashes were held at some nearby “joint” that served alcohol (TR Wonderful did not allow alcohol to be served on site … unless in the boardrooms for executives, of course). We invited her to the bashes, of course, but she never came.
I often think of her on Fridays, sitting alone in her office as we all left to help our friends celebrate their escape from TR Wonderful and the horrors of pleading for billable hours. Poor dear Linda.
I mind my feet while on walks these days because I live in a rural area. There are no sidewalks and often there is no place to walk but on a narrow street. However, every now and then I stop and look skyward . . . At the clouds, at the moon, at a passing plane and sometimes, at a bird on a wire.
I stopped to observe this fellow for a while. Still as a statue was he. And then I continued on with my walk.
One of my neighbors had a curious pile of stones sitting in his delightfully overgrown garden. Perhaps the resting place of a favorite fur baby? Who knows. Otherwise the neighborhood is typically suburban. I can’t prove that to you because, as I’ve complained about before, most of my neighbors have cameras mounted on their garages or over their front doors taking nonstop of pictures of anything that moves. I’m just paranoid enough to imagine seeing my face flashed all over social media with the caption “Do you know this sick pervert taking pictures of my front yard?”
Things have gotten quite nuts as I’m sure most of you would agree.
On my way back home I noticed the hawk was still perched on the wire but not for long. Before I could adjust my camera (iPhone) on him, he’d swooped down into a garden, thrashed about a few minutes and then returned triumphant. This time facing me proudly clutching his prey.
Yes, I know. Poor snake. Hissing and striking at the hawk to no avail. The hawk, bidding his time, takes time to pose.
Then returns to the task of preparing a meal. It’s a sad business but to live we all must eat.
I decided not to watch final scene but continue on.
HeartCat wondering if I’ll try to get closer. No kitty … I’ll keep my distance. Can you see why I call him/her HeartCat?
I don’t often do this, but check out Rivergirl’s amazing sunrise shots here. As an aging Baby Boomer, her transcendental photographs put me in mind of this ballad which I’ve always loved.
It’s a song that doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense. Every stanza ends with the sky successively:
onfire
trembling
folding
changing color
embarrassed and finally
erupting
To me, it’s Dylan’s vision of the future of America and we’re at the embarrassed stage. Of course, Dylantologists would disagree. Their consensus is that it’s a breakup poem he wrote to Joan Baez which she then had the good sense to record. So there … take that Bobby! Your loss! What do you think?
It’s a beautiful day out here in Northern California which means the Seahawks and the Patriots are both winners!
The day after my father’s cremation, my sister, step-mother and I stopped to get something to eat at a McDonald’s before the long flight back to the mainland from the island of Kauai.
Salt Pond Beach – beautiful but deadly
We’d debated stopping at many places on the way to the airport but none appealed to my step-mother. They were too “native” looking.* Thus, it was Mickey D’s or nothing. She was not happy but back in 2006 the airport on Kauai offered only coffee and donuts. Maybe a pineapple but you get the picture.
At first my step-mother didn’t want to leave the car. She didn’t want a hamburger; she didn’t want fries. She didn’t want anything to drink and she didn’t want to leave my father alone in the car. “Your father didn’t like McDonald’s,” she said. It was a hot, humid day and she’d just spent three days being chauffeured:
to the beach where he’d died to thank the lifeguards who’d tried to save him
to the tiny hospital to thank the doctor who declared him dead and whom she hoped had saved the speedo swimsuit he’d died in (don’t ask why – you really don’t want to know)
to the offices of the island newspaper so she could buy an ad thanking all the people of Kauai she might have forgotten to thank, and finally:
to the police station to try to expedite the release of his death certificate (they hadn’t even done the autopsy yet). She’d gone bonkers. She needed to eat something other than cookies.
“We’ll bring Dad into the McDonald’s,” I finally said. “He can sit with us.”
“Okay but he’ll insist on paying. That’s just the kind of man he was,” Kathy sniffled, handing me his wallet.
I was exhausted and perhaps a bit hung-over (my sister and I had managed a quick trip to a nearby liquor store) but holding his wallet in my hands it dawned on me that he was gone and all those plastic cards and pieces of paper that were once so necessary were now worthless where he was going, where all of us are going regardless of our immigration status. In the end we are all undocumented aliens.
The funny thing was, the McDonald’s was full of Native Hawaiians who didn’t think that carrying a large urn full of the ashes of a loved one into a fast food joint was at all odd.
Saying nothing in particular 