Garbo, Beatniks and Camille

Thanks to all of you who sent me ideas for this blog.  I now have a lot to think about and, no doubt, will be writing about quite soon. This week I'm writing another reminiscence at the request of my son. Next week while I'm on vacation, my wonderful great-niece, Grace Cheney, has agreed to fill in for me. I'm sure you'll love it! 

I was once a beatnik. For a very short time, perhaps, but a beatnik none the less. Who remembers beatniks? The 1950's non-conformist generation of men and women who wore sunglasses, dressed in black, often topping their ensembles with berets. They played the bongo drums and smoked a lot. The men had little goatees and the women didn't tease their hair and wore it long. They read blank verse and listened to strange music in subterranean coffee houses.

At least that's the picture I remember. The Beat generation was about twelve years before my own teenage angst. I fell somewhere between beatniks and hippies and flower children. But, quite honestly, I was really just preppy - or as preppy as I could afford to be.

Part of this dress style (the not-a-beatnik part) was due to the fact that my mother disapproved of black and made me wear make-up. Her feeling was that since other people had to look at me it was the least I could do. The other part (not-a-flower-child part) was that I never felt comfortable in long flowing skirts. They are not attractive on ladies with Clover Butt Syndrome which afflicted me and my sisters. I did a few years later have a pair of bell-bottom jeans to which I attached a colorful trim at the hem when they shrunk, but that's about as radical as I got.

So in my dress, if not my politics, I was very conservative. Linda, my best friend, and I must have looked like fraternal twins much of the time. Pageboy haircuts (me, blond; Linda, black), Villager shirt-waist dresses, Bass Weejun loafers. We sometimes mixed things up a bit and wore A-line skirts with matching sweaters and knee socks. In no way could anyone have considered us 'out there' just by catching a glimpse.

This brings us to an afternoon at the Circle Theatre. The Circle was a wonderful movie theater. Located at 21st Street and Pennsylvania Avenue it ran old movies for the unbelievable price of $1 for a matinee and $2 for an evening show. Linda and I were frequent patrons. We loved old movies. They were great and uncensored. I mean to tell you I saw full frontal nudity for the first time when Hedy Lamarr ran through a forest in Ecstasy.

We loved the great Greta Garbo. We saw her in Grand Hotel and Mata Hari. On the afternoon in question (a strange phrase since absolutely no one has questioned me about it) Linda and I went to see Camille.

Now, remember, we were very young and not always the brightest bulbs in the chandelier. The theater was almost empty, a few people down front and one older lady sitting a couple of rows behind us. We watched the entire movie with rapt attention. As it neared the end there was silence in the auditorium except for the sniffles of the lady behind us. Greta lay dying of consumption with Robert Taylor at her side. It was dramatic. It was tragic. Then Robert spoke her name, 'Marguerite'.

Perhaps our attention was not as rapt as we thought because Linda and I were stunned. We looked at each other and said in unison and quite loudly, "Marguerite? I thought her name was Camille!" At which the poor old lady behind us hissed equally loudly, "Shhhh! Beatniks!" So there you have it, my Jack Kerouac moment.

I never did become a Beatnik, but I have become an older lady who loudly shushes chatty people in movie theaters, but I never call them Beatniks.

Why I like to write

Wednesday evening I took part in an authors' panel sponsored by Sisters in Crime, a wonderful organizations for mystery writers and fans. It was held at the Beatley Library in Alexandria. 

This is a bit of a trek for me, especially at night. But my sister, Chris, went with me. She's a dead game sport, as my mother used to say, and always willing to accompany me wherever I might be headed from Rehoboth Beach to Alexandria.

We made the trip over without mishap. It was daylight and Chris could read the written directions I had printed. We had only one small hitch going the wrong way on Duke Street, easily corrected.

At any rate, we got there early as planned and had a leisurely dinner at a very nice Mexican restaurant. Then onto the library for the panel. I was nervous, as I always am when doing just about anything. Truth is, I get nervous writing this blog. But the other panel members - Art Taylor, Sherry Harris, Maya Corrigan, Claudia Lefevre - were warm and welcoming and very easy to talk to.

Art led the discussion and we had a lovely audience. The discussion was interesting, the other panelists knowledgeable, and I even sold a few books, which is always nice.

The trip home didn't go quite as smoothly as the trip over. I don't know Virginia roads at all. I am not comfortable driving at night really and my GPS had some serious issues about what constitutes 'keeping left'. We got rather lost.

Alone I would not have been a happy camper. But with my trusty sidekick in the passenger seat, we managed to find it all quite amusing as we wended our way through unchartered territory. And somehow we made it back, unscathed, no thanks to my Global Positioning System. I came home in a good mood.

The morning after I began to think about the discussion. I rather think I must have sounded like a scatty old lady. I'm pretty sure my thoughts weren't clear. My mind tends to drift from topic to topic, so my answers probably made no sense. I began feeling that I made an ass of myself. This may or may not be the case. Chris says I sounded fine, but what is she going to say? She's my sister. This is what I always do after speaking somewhere.

And this is why I love writing. My characters always say exactly what I want them to say because I get do-overs! Just like writing this blog. I get to edit, cut and prune. Choose the right word. Take out the wrong word. Clarify when necessary. Add the witty riposte. It's not that writing is easy. It's not. But it can be just so much fun, at times. And when I'm typing, not talking, I usually don't feel like an idiot.

A Joyous Holiday to All

I've been trying to get into the holiday spirit and having a bit of a time. I make the mistake of reading the paper each morning which is certainly not for the faint-hearted. Between the stories of hateful political rhetoric, the sheer violence we seem to enjoy inflicting upon one another, and which new toy will kill your kid this season, it's hard to be jolly.

But I'm giving it a try. Watching my granddaughter kneel in front of my Dickens village the other night and quietly whisper imagined conversations as she moved the little figures around so delicately helps.

As does taking a moment or two to remember Christmases' past. My parents were both raised by widows. There was little money, but perhaps that's what made Christmas so special, especially for my Dad. He was a stickler for the surprise of it all. In all my childhood years not one of us ever thought of searching for our presents before Christmas morning. It would have broken Daddy's heart.

Christmas morning we went to Mass. Dad stood in front of the living room door and made us close our eyes as we darted past on our way out. We didn't get much, usually one gift each and one to share, but I don't remember ever being disappointed. It was the anticipation, the warmth, the fact that Dad thought it was all so special that made it so.

I remember picking out the tree, visiting aunts and uncles, the smell of the incense at midnight Mass and of Mom's Christmas Night perfume, driving down Nebraska Avenue and watching lights twinkle magically in the dark, singing carols in the car; then in later years, ham and Mom's potato salad on the table, Dad's Bloody Marys made with bourbon (a tasty mistake), and flowers from my best boyfriend (he still is). Finally the wonderful thrill of becoming Santa for our own beautiful children. I remember watching our little Rachel take out each ornament for the tree so carefully and telling us its history every year and Matt just being so excited when he was six that he didn't notice Santa had mixed up the stockings and was apparently thrilled to be getting nail polish and barrettes. I hope their memories will be as special for them as my own are for me.

Whatever you celebrate - Hanukkah, Kwanza, the Winter Solstice, or Christmas Day - may your memories and the love of the season keep you warm and bring you a joyous holiday and a peaceful New Year.

Where did I put glasses?

My mother knew how to grow old gracefully. She never tried to look ‘young’, but she was always youthful. She laughed a lot, played silly games with her grandchildren, and seemed to have great stores of energy.

Of course, she was also of a generation who didn’t share all of the anxiety they might be feeling or complain about aches and pains, so being fairly myopic as all children are regardless of age, I always just assumed that everything was hunky-dory.

Well, now that I am moving past middle age I have the distinct feeling that Mother just hid a lot of things well. I do not. I have questions and I have complaints and I don't feel particularly graceful.

I want to know why a hair can sprout on my chin and grow to an impressive length overnight when it takes four months for a bad haircut to grow out.

I want to know exactly why no one ever told me that pulling on a pair of sweatpants would one day become an Olympic sport of sorts, a task best achieved while sitting down because balance is one of the first things to go, even if you don’t keep catching a toe on the waistband and trip.

I want to know why sleep has become such a hit or miss project. There was a time that a sleepless night was an occasional occurrence. Now it’s the reverse. I have mastered many of the sleep-inducing little games. I can list all fifty states in my head, count backward from 100 and get to 0, name a country, a famous person born before 1900, or a car for each letter of the alphabet and still find myself making soup and coffee cake at three in the morning.

Of course, the whole memory thing is something else again. I used the word ‘myopic’ a few sentences ago. It took me ten minutes searching my ever shrinking brain trying to come up with it and finally had to ask my husband who got it right away. Quelle surprise! How about that - French I can remember.

And that joke about glasses being on someone’s head while they look for them? Not so very funny anymore. If you see an older person patting themselves down don’t assume that he or she has lost his or her mind. He or she is probably just looking for a pair of specs.

 

Getting old isn't all bad. It's just so surprising!

 

 

 

 

 

A Butterfly Adventure

This week I have the honor of presenting my granddaughter's first foray into the world of writing. Sophia is all of seven years old, but already has a vivid imagination and a way with words. I hope you will enjoy this story of the origin of Butterfly Girl.

A Butterfly Adventure

Once upon a time there lived a butterfly named Fly. Fly was just flying around when suddenly she was caught in a net by a man! The man took the butterfly to his home and the next day when Fly woke up she was in a box! She looked around and sure enough there were butterflies flying everywhere and there were some on the bottom of the box sleeping.

 

Fly was unlucky. She hurt her wing. Fly cried and cried. Then another butterfly came over and helped Fly. She said that they were sailing away to New York and she was right. A few hours later they got to New York. Gulp!

 

The butterflies were taken to a park and released into New York. It was ok, but they wanted to go home. So they flew off and headed back to the dock. But just then they flew into someone! And the person was named Sophia. Sophia was a nice little girl (her mother calls her Phia, her dad calls her Schmoogins). Fly had a secret. She had magical powers. She told Sophia. After that Sophia agreed to help them get home.

 

Soon they ran into someone. Her name was Arleen. Arleen was on her way to work. She worked at a coal factory. Sophia and Arleen talked a little bit. Then Sophia and the butterflies kept on going. But at the coal factory there was an explosion turning Arleen in to Fireface!!

 

Meanwhile Sophia and the butterflies were headed for the dock. Fireface chased after them. Soon Sophia noticed that they were being chased and started running. But just then Fireface caught up with them! Sophia realized Fireface was Arleen.

 

Fireface threw a fireball at them. Sophia dodged it. Then it was a true emergency and Fly gave her powers to Sophia and fell! Sophia flew into the air and used her new powers to get rid of Fireface. Then Sophia and the butterflies looked at Fly on the ground. She was alive, but she did not move. Sophia picked her up and put her in a case. Then they headed for the dock.

 

Soon they caught a boat home and lived happily ever after.

 

 

 

500 Words and Counting

My plan today is to write 500 words. I know, to many of you that sounds just ridiculous. I read all the time about authors who regularly churn out 1000, 3000, even 5000 words a day. Journalists write long articles in the blink of an eye!

If I were a journalist I would have to write for a paper that liked to print three-day old news. I’m lucky if I actually sit down and write anything at all. Case in point. Just as I was going to sit here at this very computer I decided that I should just throw in a load of towels before I start. As I grabbed the towels from the bathroom I decided that I should really give the shower stall a good clean. No, it’s not an emergency. The health department isn’t going to condemn my home any minute now. But cleaning the mildew out of the shower door track just seemed so much simpler that figuring out exactly what Daisy and Rose are going to do with their Friday night.

And now as I have plopped myself onto my computer chair, pulled up a new Word document, am I writing about the Forrest ladies latest exploits? I am not. I am blogging about not writing about the Forrest ladies latest exploits.

It’s been a difficult year writing-wise. But I really want to get back to it on a regular basis. I’ve been trying to figure out just where I lost the impetus to write and how to retrieve it. I don’t think it’s actually writer’s block, as much as it’s writer’s ennui. So when I realized this morning that when I was writing my blog fairly frequently, I was also working on my books at a steady pace. I decided that you will all have to put up with my lunacy once again. I hope to keep this blog going. Please feel free to bug me if I don’t.

But next week - A wonderful little treat. My beautiful granddaughter Sophia will be my guest. I think you’ll enjoy her very first story. (356 words for anyone who’s counting)

Happy birthday to me! A few thoughts on aging.

I have a birthday fast approaching - and, no, you may not ask how old I will be. I'm not going for full disclosure here. Let's just say that middle age has passed me by and we'll leave it at that.

At this age ordinary phrases take on new meanings. 'How are you?' is no longer just a passing comment, a conversation starter. Now it's something we really want to know - how is your back, your arthritis, your knee, your blood sugar, and your blood pressure - all daily inquiries that need an answer.

My mother and me

'Where did I put the cupcake pans? (or the keys, or the car, for that matter) becomes quite an upsetting question. After all, if I can’t remember where the hell I put the cupcake pans, do I still remember how to make cupcakes, and do I even like them? Or worse yet, will I know what they are for when I find them?

Of course, this brings us to the granddaddy of innocuous phrases uttered a thousand times over the years. ‘What in the world would I do without you?’ Well, as Tom and I look in the mirror it dawns on us that one day one of us will indeed find this out. Unless we are, of course, the only two people in the history of the human race who will just keep going ad infinitum.

Tom, who really cannot cook, said this the other day as he watched me make my 16,000th dinner. “If you go first, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’d starve.” He quickly amended it saying, “Well, I’d miss you, of course. But I would starve.”

And well he might. Tom, bless his little pea pickin’ heart, has not yet mastered the complexities of dialing the phone and ordering Chinese. Maneuvering the grocery store seems to be beyond his skill set. And even supposing he manages to get food into the house, he simply does not know how to cook it. 

But he says not too worry. He is quite positive that he will go first. He feels in his heart of hearts that I am destined to be one of those women who outlives everyone. Well, thank you very much. An old age I can really look forward to - alone - with sixteen cats - and a cupcake pan. Happy birthday to me!