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From Duke
#SilentSunday
Life was easier in a training bra
I was in the middle of debating my doubtful parents over the necessity for a training bra (I didn’t need one but I desperately wanted one) when the movie A Hard Days Night finally reached one of the two movie theaters in my hometown of Reno Nevada. The Granada sat on the edge of the Truckee River about two blocks down from the Mapes Hotel which I’ve written about before. Back then, an easy two mile walk from my house on the end of Washington Street.
The Granada always had a double feature on Saturdays and, once you bought your ticket, you could stay all day. And we did. I don’t remember who I first saw the movie with. Probably my neighbor, Lee Lee (who actually needed a bra and planned to marry George Harrison) but I do remember the second feature. It was Romeo and Juliet starring Rudolph Nureyev and Dame Margot Fontaine. As a budding ballerina I loved watching Nureyev fly across the stage again and again but I can’t say the same for rest of the audience. They took advantage of the break between showings of A Hard Days Night to smoke in the bathrooms.
Yesterday I noticed that A Hard Day’s Night had been added to the roster of “Classics” on HBO Max. Ouch. Did I dare stream a favorite from my training bra days whilst strapped in my 34 D “over the shoulder boulder holders”? Would the movie maintain its magic after … don’t say it … fifty plus years? Did I dare find out?
Of course, you know I did. I guess I needed a diversion from the precipice of Civil War on which we Californians now stand. Would I do it again? Noooooo. This is a movie whose primary purpose was to cement Beatle stereotypes: Paul as cute and charming, John as rebellious and snarky, George as cool and mysterious, and Ringo as goofy and lovable. I now know too much about those four human beings (doesn’t everyone?) because, watching the movie in my over the shoulder boulder holders, John seems insecure and painfully self-conscious while Paul seems cocky and smug. George was already so thin and fragile looking that my heart wept for him. The only one who after all these years still seemed the same was Ringo, below in arguably the best scene in the movie.
At the end of the clip, Ringo watches the four young “deserters” hanging out on the edge of the river perhaps thinking back to the time when he was young and carefree. Before he got trapped by overwhelming fame. Have you ever watched a film you loved as a kid and been disappointed? Or worse, saddened? Do you think DT will rest after he destroys LA? Or is this just the beginning?
The People’s Poet
Edgar Guest, 1881-1959, was born in Birmingham England and raised in Detroit Michigan where he lived for most of his life. He started working for the Detroit Free Press as a child. So he was a guy with solid working class credentials and deserves the title The People’s Poet. One would expect his poetry to reflect the nitty-gritty of life in a newsroom but instead he is known for his inspirational and uplifting prose.
The two books of his in my possession probably belonged to my paternal great grandparents, Abezer and Harriet Jameson who lived their entire lives near Chicopee Massachusetts. My other great grandparents were Swedish and probably didn’t speak the language that well.
I am loathe to criticize any artist but I can see why a steady stream of Guest might inspire visions of the zombie apocalypse.
However, I did find this interesting snippet from one of his fourteen stanza, all in rhyme pieces:
It reminded me of a famous song by Pete Seeger. Do you suppose Seeger grew up listening to Guest’s radio program, “A Guest in the House,” and got inspired to write a protest song starting with an unanswerable question?
The Charles Dickens of the Nursery
Any guesses as to who was known in the late 1800s and early 1900s as “The Charles Dickens of the Nursery”? Probably not, unless like Yvonne of the Priorhouse blog, you’re a fan of old and dusty books.
It was Sophie May, the pen name of Rebecca Sophia Clarke who spent her entire life in Norridgewick Maine (or perhaps Norridgewock. River Gal, perhaps you know?) Like Dickens, her stories started out being published in magazines such as The Congregationalist and Little Pilgrim where they were considered more realistic than the moralistic children’s tales of the day. Her most popular series was The Little Prudy Series.
I have, in my collection of damaged and dusty, water and coffee stained, and undoubtedly worthless books … two Miss Prudy books. They belonged to Helen Nelson, my maternal grandmother.
Aside from Miss Prudy, described by her creator below:
Miss May also wrote about Dotty Dimple (who seemed to be quite the adventuress), Flaxie Frizzle and the Quinnebasset Sisters.
However, I was a little shocked to find this notation in the back of the book.
Did my grandmother fail to return a library book? Heavens, what would Flaxie Frizzle have thought?
Also belonging to my grandmother were a couple of books by Edgar A. Guest (1881-1959). Anyone care to guess what he was known as?
Aside from:
“The last man in the world is Edgar Guest”
Internal monologue of Robert Neville in I Am Legend, by Richard Matheson.
As if the summer were merely an idea: The Sixth Month
It’s hard to believe but, ready or not, here comes June. The Merry Month of June known to many foggy coastal communities as “June Gloom.”
There may be no state-sanctioned days off in Japan during June but there are regional festivals all over the country. Of course, it’s the same here in the United States. When I was a single mom I always dreaded June. School ended and yet summer camps wouldn’t begin for at least a week. And then there were all those weddings and graduations and money just flew out the door. This country has never been child friendly and it looks like it will be getting worse.
But at least the weather is neither too cold or hot and the days are long. Best, I think, to enjoy the break before summer really takes hold and lasts (at least here) until the beginning of October.
The Most Beautiful Face
My brother Oz got married when he was sixteen to a gal who claimed she was bearing his child. Two years later, after said child failed to materialize, Oz dropped out of school and joined the Navy. Next thing I heard, he was sailing the seven seas in a nuclear sub although technically I don’t think you sail a sub. He was still legally married but that all changed after he and a fellow seaman got drunk and destroyed a Jeep while on duty. Oz lucked out with only a medical discharge from the Navy but that brought Perma Pregnant Paulette back into the picture. She claimed to need far more medical assistance than the heap of broken bones she was still legally married to.
Flash forward a few scant years (maybe it was only one) and Brother Oz was again called to the altar to “do the right thing.” Only this time, not at city hall. Oh no. Bride Number Two was the gregarious daughter of the biggest Harley Davidson dealer in Southern California. This wedding would done right with Daddy renting an entire Ramada Inn for the reception. Due to LA traffic, I missed most of the actual wedding ceremony, arriving just after the “I dos” had been said and the bride and groom were exiting the church on a pair of matching white Harleys. I kid you not. As they burst into the blazing sun, their guests rushed past us to leap on their own bikes (most but not all Harleys) to follow the bride and groom to the Ramada Inn. What a sight that was. The bride in her fluffy white gown and veil, and the groom in a white tux, roaring down the freeway followed by various representatives of the many biker clubs in SoCal all proudly wearing their insignia.
“Pigs in a blanket!” My step mother said derisively as she examined the table of refreshments. The bride’s parents had not asked for her expert advice on the proper finger food to serve at a reception. “Did you make sure to lock your doors?”
“I doubt anyone is going to steal our old, gutless Toyota in a parking lot full of Harley Davidsons.” I replied. Did I mention that Oz is technically my step brother?
With nary a concern for protocol or ceremony, the blossoming bride and her daddy soon kicked off their shoes and took to the dance floor for a sentiment rendering of Born to be Wild. Well, as sentimental a rendering as could be performed by weekend musicians kicking around empty Budweiser cans on the stage.
I had three young children with me and so, after a few rounds of Born to be Wild (the only song the band knew how to play), we congratulated the bride and groom and left to find a quiet place offering a bit more than pigs in a blanket and ice-cold Budweiser. I felt a bit guilty leaving my poor father behind. He’d begun chatting about the constellations with some bearded fellow wearing dungarees and a sleeveless tee that exposed all his tattoos while my step mother sipped her tepid water in sweetly smiling disgust.
Anyway the point of this story is: the bride really was pregnant this time and delivered a boy they named Hawk. I’m sure he was riding Harleys before he could walk but his life took a different path. He’s now a social worker married to a sweet looking chap who works in a similar field. Yes, they are gay. A fact which cemented in my step mother’s mind the ugly truth that her sweet, gullible youngest had once again been taken advantage of by a female.
Not long after Hawk arrived, they welcomed a daughter. A beautiful child who so resembled my step mother that there was no doubting who her father was this time.
And so you ask … is there a point to this story? Here is my niece:
I think she has the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. I’ve tried many times to capture what it is about her that makes her so beautiful but I think it is beyond the skills of any artist.
Perhaps it’s because she lives in her own world. In our world, she will only say “I love you.”
I have only met her a few times and generally at sad events but… I always get a familiar hug.
My mother, who heard everyone’s confessions in the end, told me Oz often complained that all he wanted a son he could fish with and a daughter he could walk down the aisle. But he has caring children and that’s about all any of us could hope for. Don’t you think?
Fight, Love, Live
Yesterday my friend and I drove over to Woodside to visit Filoli.
It was one of the estates belonging to William Bowers Bourn II who made his fortune from the Empire Mine and the formation of Pacific Gas and Electric (PG&E). Now it belongs to the the National Trust for Historic Preservation. Its famous English Renaissance Gardens are huge: 16 acres. And there is a 68 acre Gentleman’s Orchard.
I loved the details in the many archways.
And the many places for quiet reflection. It was a very bright day – not good for iPhone pictures!
The main house, a 54,000 square foot Georgian mansion, is definitely worth a peek. It’s a little on the dark side with heavy embroidered draperies and wood paneling but the kitchen is amazing. A labyrinth of bright rooms, each with a specific purpose: a vault for storage of the silver, a baking room, a cold storage room, at least two ovens, a dumbwaiter, a Butler’s pantry, at least two ovens and even a very ancient dishwasher. (The house was lived in until the 1970s).
And it had a view of the clock tower and what was probably once an herb garden and conservatory (now it’s a gift shop). I’m guessing because we opted against the tour.
This was the most interesting thing in the kitchen:
It’s a census from 1930 of all the people living on the estate. Filoli is not the easiest place to reach – it’s about twenty-five miles south of San Francisco in the coastal range. But imagine what a lively place it must have been!
The name Filoli comes this motto attributed to William Bowers Bourn II:
Fight for a good cause,
Love your fellow man,
Live a good life
An Irresistible Page-Turner
This morning I received the best birthday gift of all: A lovely review of Happy Hour and Other Sorrows from Bojana!
An irresistible page-turner, so well-done!
Reviewed in Germany on May 13, 2025
I tend to read several books at once, but the moment I started reading Happy Hour and Other Sorrows, I put everything else aside.
It’s always satisfying to find a book that efficiently conveys its concepts without wasting words. I loved how full the whole world of this book felt, how effortlessly the story flows. Charming and witty, it is delightfully twisty, the mystery completely unique. The characters and dialogues felt so real…JT Twissel has a knack for telling interesting stories, and that’s a fact! I’d read anything she writes. Hope there’s more to come.
It was particularly wonderful for me because Bojana is one of my favorite authors. She has a true gift and is unafraid to dig deep. I highly recommend her book for those of you who love short stories and flash fiction!
Saying nothing in particular 