Christmas First

For the first time in my life, I think, I went to a movie on Christmas day! Steph wanted to see Brad Pitt's new movie, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which opened today, and Jeff agreed to come along. Jim wanted no part of the crowd, so we'll watch it again on dvd later. He wants to see this, especially since we spoke at length about its merits.

Don't worry, no spoilers here. This is visually a walk back down through old time periods, both through New Orleans over the years, but also through three generations, our children's, our own, and even our parents, many of whom are gone already. Those of us in this generation, ie. the sandwich folks: caught between caring for elderly parents and still helping out the young adult children, will wince at some of moments, such as when Julia Ormond sits and sits with her mother in the hospital, short on words, with nothing to do but read aloud, and again most poignantly when Cate Blanchett switches to caregiver at the end.

Fortunately, there is some explosive (literally) comic relief. The movie audience will go uproarious on you when an elderly resident of Benjamin's home gives no less than seven hilarious visual images, steeped in sepia to highlight his very old memories, interspersed throughout the second half of the film. This is the part of the film that tugs at your heartstrings in the worst way, but this feeble man distracts us with his innocent popping out, almost in shotgun fashion, seven silent vignettes of the times he was struck by lightning. I'm still belly-laughing.

I love, love how in tune Benjamin seems to be with those around him: despite his abandonment by his father, he is able to bring him home to die on Lake Ponchartrain at the summer home. The brief affair, and this is not the best description of the relationship, and later recognition of the character Elizabeth, played by Tilda Swinton is just so "in the now"--isn't that how our memories are? We don't seem to have ever aged, but why are those around us looking so gray, weaker or getting up there? A theme evident in this section is "You're never too old to change," and much later, a wiser Swinton bears witness to that lesson learned through her experience with Benjamin. A second theme of "things don't last" in the film is made urgent with the use of Katrina as a backdrop, yet the home Benjamin grew up in lasted almost throughout the movie and was comforting to the viewer to see its architecture during the various points of Benjamin's journey through time. Cate Blanchett just isn't Cate Blanchett in the figure of an old woman gone grumpy and throaty at the end of her days. Yet, there she is lying there breathing those sometimes indecipherable words in her hospital bed with her left hand clutching her blankets, throwing out all those "darlin's" and "baby's" that honey-tongued Southern folks let flow so so easily. Contrast that with the smooth-faced beauty of the dancer she portrays in an earlier segment of her life and you'll be entranced by her performance.

Bring tissue! Go expecting to see the saga of a life enrichened yet its stumbling points magnified by the curious circumstances of an unusual birthright. It's a story that I would expect from F. Scott Fitzgerald as it portrays the 1920s, 30s and 40s so eloquently. Though it has been modernized to carry through into the year 2005, and though it is set in New Orleans instead of Baltimore, Fitzgerald's voice whispers to us posthumously. I give it two thumbs up.

Read/hear an interview with the writer, Eric Roth: http://www.collider.com/entertainment/interviews/article.asp?aid=10285&tcid=1

The Ghost of Christmas Past

Okay, I'll admit that I'm a sucker at Christmas time for reminiscing about the past. As I wrote my Christmas cards this year (which gets harder to do each year because it seems as though fewer people do so anymore) I felt inclined to rummage through some old photos and lo and behold, found some that pulled at my heartstrings.

Do you remember your first set of wheels? I do! Fly back in time to Christmas, 1955. She was the prettiest light green Schwinn with the fat tires and I rode the wheels off of that bike up and down Iroquois Avenue in Jacksonville, Florida. I loved the rustle of the wind in my hair so much that I named her "Wendy", intrigued by my play on words. This photo shows my older brother, Tom, holding a model airplane in his spanking new Cub Scout uniform and l'il sis Cathie looking on with the face we always liked to call "snagglepuss", though it usually referred to one of us missing teeth. I'm also including one of my Dad's first "wheels", bought together with my Mom in Great Lakes, Illinois in 1946.

Not all Christmas reminiscences are this joyful and mirthful, as Ebenezer Scrooge reminds us painfully each year, but let's remember the good ones and record them for posterity. Here's wishing you and yours the most meaningful and warm Christmas ever.

Christmas tunes send me back, too, and if you like them too, be sure to visit my sister's blog here: http://cogitashuns.blogspot.com We have this thing about "Feliz Navidad" that she explains there quite well.

Christmas Tea in the City

Make a Smilebox greeting

Falling Leaves

Though it might still be 80 degrees outside today here in sunny California, the leaves are red, gold, and all earthy shades of brown and my thoughts turn to, of all things, cookies. Yep, we're on our way to the Bay Area to visit with Gwen and Chuck to look at their photos from our joint trip to Paris and Amsterdam last summer. So, I like to bring them some kind of homecooked treat. Well, I found a great recipe. You really should visit http://www.kerrygold.com/ . I will give you a trail of crumbs (links) to follow to the recipe, but instead of giving you the direct URL, I want you to see how nice a webpage the KerryGold (imported Irish butter) folks offer us. Once you enjoy the Irish photos but before you click any link, notice the very cool Celtic knot patterns that appear as you mouse over the photos. Cathie, we have to do a Celtic knot quilt someday. I am mystically drawn to these patterns...then, besides a very nice cheese link, and a very cool wine and cheese pairing link, go directly to the recipes and you'll see some "Melting Moments" cookies. I whipped them up last night, and aside from making them even smaller than I did (I used a heaping tablespoonful of dough but I'd cut it to maybe 2/3 or 3/4 of a tablespoonful next time; you don't want a fat cookie here as you are putting two together and they get to be more than a mouthful) they are just that: light because of all that corn starch, flavorful because of all the butter, and delicious with Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate in the filling. Here's a picture of mine in the jar at left to show you how festive they are. When you mouse over the photo, you'll get to the KerryGold link. Try them; guaranteed to please.

Halloween Chocolate

Looking for the best double chocolate cookie recipe? Look no further...visit here: http://www.ghirardelli.com/bake/recipe.aspx?id=1071 Made these last night as a treat for those who'll help me on Wednesday to proctor the PSAT test to 400 students. Plan to bag in clear cello, tie with a Halloween ribbon. Jim and I taste-tested them with milk; these are good for you, you know. Lots of dark chocolate and magnesium--no calories!

Back to Reality

Mike and Meghan joined us on a quick 4 day jaunt to the Big Island. Never had we visited in October, but it's much quieter once school has resumed. Even three days here lowers the blood pressure and helps one appreciate how very much is accomplished at work in the same number of hours. Lots of changes over here in just over a year since we've visited. Our favorite coffee stand up in Waikoloa Village is closing, sadly, but we found another just past the Kona Airport. The Mauna Kea is scheduled to reopen at Christmas and I want to head up there this July to see the great lady's facelift, hoping that they did not do away with the amazing Hawaiian quilt displays there.

We sat out on our lanai in the evening and as usual marvelled at the view of the heavens in this part of the Pacific. Mike promises he'll go with us up to stargaze in July, when the telescopes roll open on the top of Mauna Kea and the top of the world blazes red and orange at sunset. Once the blackness blankets the sky, it's as though someone has stretched some fantastic black fabric over a bowl and has shined a flashlight through the pinpricks. But that doesn't do it justice: those white shimmers are too jewellike. A better metaphor might be that someone has strewn a black velvet tablecloth with a million diamonds of all shapes and sizes to dazzle you. Then the tradewinds buffet you and the chill up there at 14000 feet confounds you as your skin chafes from the sunburn of the afternoon against the parka or sweatshirt you thank the heavens you wore up there, though at sea level, you wondered if it were crazy to bring. I love this part of the world. The colors are just so vivid, especially the blues of the ocean. Last time on the mountain, I viewed Saturn through one of the small portable telescopes and saw the rings--what a view.

Four days back at work and it seems lightyears away. Where's my Iz CD?

Fragile Threads to History

Does anyone reading this admit to recurring nightmares? Is there one kind of knock-you-down in a panic dream that gets you every now and again when you're under stress or otherwise fretting about one thing or another? Mine have always been tidal waves. We lived on the coasts, most of the time, no wonder. We've seen our share of hurricanes, the beach during and after ugly storms, even the towering masts of naval vessels broken like toothpicks and strewn on their decks returning to their berths in Norfolk, Quonset Point or Charleston. (There is also something of intrigue about beaches during and after storms. It's always an experience to walk the beach during storms and after, to see what washes up.) My nightmares can be somewhat threatening, as when I find myself in giant, black, slow-rising swells, with just a hint of fear that one could swamp over me, or the all-out 100 foot crescent only seconds away from the biggest break in recorded history looming over my head.

This explains my morbid interest in anything about the Titanic, Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God and her description of the Lake Okeechobee hurricane of 1928, the Poseidon Adventure, hurricane stories like Isaac's Storm by Erik Larson about the hurricane that hit Galveston, Texas, in 1900, well, you get my drift. (See "The History Channel's rendition rendition of that storm here: http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=5738477727172072633 ) A colleague at work is somewhat of an expert in Titanic lore, having traveled over to Southampton via the QE II and returning on the Concorde a number of years ago. This friend has met two of the youngest travelers who were aboard the Titanic when she sunk those many years ago, Millvina Dean and Michel Navratil. (Read the amazing story of M. Navratil here, on Wikipedia http://www.encyclopedia-titanica.org/titanic-biography/michel-navratil.html .) This leads me to the point of today's blog.

My colleague, Robert, approached me one spring afternoon of 1998 in my office at school asking a strange favor: since I spoke French, could I make a call to France for him to confirm the time of his appointment with a Monsieur Navratil while Robert and his wife were abroad visiting? Laughing, I reminded Robert that my French was rusty. He insisted, saying that it was most important for him, as M. Navratil was one of the few survivors of the Titanic and the appointment meant much to him and his wife. They were reluctant to leave the States for Europe without the confirmation.

Well, now, knowing how water disasters plague me, how could I refuse such an important call? Knowing my sense of place, how could I not make that connection with someone who had been in the maw of the beast and sailed right out again? I immediately felt a sense of urgency and spoke with the retirement center staff in France, who in turn, connected me with Michel Navratil. A gracious, elderly voice greeted me and assured me that my French was fine. After the details were confirmed, I fumbled about but let this venerable survivor know that it was an honor to have spoken with him. This incident remains so vivid in my mind yet it probably only lasted several minutes at most. Michel was only three at the time of the sinking, but remembers well his father's last words to him and his brother.

I recently visited Robert's office and we spoke again of Millvina Dean, pictures of whom are very evident on Robert's bulletin boards. She is 96 years old now, not in excellent health, and will likely not be with us many more years. She is the last of the Titanic survivors, having been only 2 months old when she was placed in the lifeboat.

Years from now, when my grandchildren look back into the dim recesses of the family history, maybe they will be able to "reckon time" by toeholds leading to events that happened in a certain place, or in a certain time. Maybe they can catch threads of history through some of the stories that their great great grandparents, or whoever in the family past whose vision caught their fancy, might have told.

Cathie and I have reservations for a quilt conference/classes in Galveston this February with Sue Garman, a quilt "maven" from the Houston area, whose design, Ladies of the Sea, we are both working on in heavy applique. We are hoping these classes will still take place, as we both want to visit the hurricane museum and "The Elisa", the tall ship anchored in Galveston harbor. Our worries are small, compared to those of others, for sure, who have suffered yet again a major disaster coming from the seas. May these troubles pass swiftly for all.

Old Friends

40 years may seem like an eternity to students of the age I spend most of my day with, but it's the blink of an eye, no kidding, to me. This phenomenon was reinforced this past weekend as Jim and I met up with a family friend I'd not seen nor spoken to from at least that many years ago. How can you completely catch up on that many near catastrophes, family losses, friends in faraway cities and states, hilarious situations, and those not so hilarious in two hours over dinner? Well, you can't, at least not completely. Especially since there are six children from both families unmet, one spouse back at home 3000 miles away, and all those stories that just didn't surface. But Tom, if you're reading this, it was great fun trying! You have changed, as I'm sure have I, but not in the ways one would expect. You haven't gained weight, you look much the same as you did way back in the 60s, but you have gained in experience and, for lack of a better word, wisdom? Not that it wasn't there those many years ago. I have always felt that my own mindset has not altered much, or my basic outlook on life. It's comforting to know that my friend still has that same optimism from the days when, for example, my high school class chose "The Impossible Dream" from "Man from LaMancha" as our theme song. We were maybe more optmistic then, who knows? I know we never used to lock our doors back in Virginia then, do you now, Virginians? We Californians do, that's certain.

It's interesting to see that all three of us are planning to work beyond the years our parents did (all of whom are gone now, sadly). Each of us echoed the other's sentiment that "we'll live longer if we do," and never once did we mention the failed economic buyout nor the presidential candidates Obama and McCain, though both are hot topics at school and with casual friends. No, after 40 years, there are other important subjects to explore, family both past and present, and plans for two weeks into the future as well as beyond. I think for me, after choosing Los Gatos as the city in which to rendezvous, not only because it was halfway for both of us, but because it's a cameo of small-town-America, complete with a village green and fountain, where families were enjoying the perfect last remnants of summer warmth on a Saturday night, it felt important to try to capture those days so long ago when we were all so much younger and hopeful about bright futures. I still feel that way despite the gloom in the news and love to get the chance to share it with others who do, too.

I am not yet a grandmother, but feel in my heart that it's all about how you handle what you're dealt in life and look forward to sharing that with young ones all over again. Here's a tip of the glass to you, friend Tom; so happy we reconnected again!

Cravin' Oysters on the Halfshell

Talk about unlikely roots: our father was Quebecois (our grandparents spoke French til the day they died though they raised their six children in Massachusetts) but our mother was born and raised in the deep South. No Cajun seasonings mixed in here, or at least not until Cathie moved to Louisiana. No, our food was often an interesting mix of "tourtiere pie", okra and black-eyed peas, fried chicken, chicken-fried steak, greens, or, sometimes even onion sandwiches!

Sounds pretty run of the mill, but since our "pere" traveled a great deal, we were the first folks in our east coast cities as small children to make tacos routinely, even eating them for breakfast on occasion. No fresh masa or tortillas were available, so we bought tortillas in a can, put out by the Old El Paso company. We loved artichokes, having been introduced to them in California as small children. Basically, we learned to appreciate good food no matter what the provenance and loved to eat out and try regional restaurants whenever my mother could round us up in the station wagon.

One such place, and I love that it is still functioning as it has for over 60 years, is Charlie's Seafood Restaurant in Virginia Beach, Virginia on Shore Drive. Have you ever eaten She Crab Soup? This is the place to do that for sure. I remember Charlie's well, since I learned to slurp raw oysters here with my dad, who somehow in those days, went on days when it was "all you could eat" at the oyster bar, or at least that's how I remember it. Little me could put about one away, as I wasn't all that keen on them to begin with, but Dad could make up for what I let pass and I remember he ate them enthusiastically. Seems like they couldn't shuck them fast enough for those seated at the bar--what was it that they served them with, cocktail sauce? I felt part of a special group, sitting at that bar, of people who seemed to know that what might look alien to one (a gray/white glistening shell with something in it that was alive just seconds ago) was a delicacy to another and well worth becoming initiated into. I am still always tempted by those oysters-on-the-halfshell on any menu and the sight and fresh ocean smell of them conjures up my dad's image. I have since eaten them in Nova Scotia and Seattle, and I always glance around, wondering why there aren't stools for all of us who want MORE FAST!

I haven't visited Charlie's in probably over 40 years and don't remember if they had the typical juke boxes or tableside record choices of those old diner restaurants. But I do remember one song, that if the tableside record were sitting on that table, my mother would choose to hear: "Only You" by the Platters. That song was ubiquitous during the years we spent at Virginia Beach. You'd hear it everywhere and it is one of those transporting melodies for me back into the past. Charlie's comes to mind, as does Hurd's, with their signature popovers, and my mom's cackly laughter as she presided over her brood of us four children attacking the seafood. You can visit Charlie's on the web at the address below and even see a picture, which makes my 40 year old memory seem very foggy. But the directions re-orient me: "Take Pacific Ave towards Fort Story. Round the curve and head towards First Landing State Park. Once you pass First Landing State Park you will be on Shore Drive. We are approximately 1 mile West from the corner of Great Neck Road, on Shore Drive."

For obvious reasons, I'm feelin' a cravin' for oysters on the halfshell and some she-crab soup...

http://www.charliesseafood.com/

Gasp, Sing Me These Songs

Sometime last night, in that twilight space between sleep and wakefulness, I realized that nobody, but nobody, knows the songs that stir those deep memories in me when I hear them. These tunes seriously take me to very specific places and, just like "Name That Tune", the transport happens in seconds, to the strains of the first bar or two of music. So, here they are, for whatever they're worth to anyone reading this. They might be very worth my recording them here for posterity (see yesterday's blog) for dredging up at some distant point. (Some of you might well be able to conjure up the place that one or more of these sends me to?) The order is not significant and there are more that I'm leaving out, but those will have to wait. Can you hum bars from these titles? These are worth to listening to, you'll see...

Come Saturday Morning, 1969, Sandpipers (from The Sterile Cuckoo movie)
Jump, 1984, VanHalen
Valley of the Dolls, 1968, Dionne Warwick
Smooth Operator, 1985, Sade
Gone to Carolina, 1968, James Taylor
The Twelfth of Never, 1957, Johnny Mathis
Bohemian Rhapsody, 1975, Queen
Hotel California, 1976, Eagles,
Unchained Melody, 1955, Roy Hamilton, favorite, but also 1965, The Righteous Brothers
Watermelon Man, 1963, Mongo Santamaria
Coconut, 1971, Nilsson
The Girl from Ipanema, 1963, Astrud and Joao Gilberto and Stan Getz
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme, 1966, Simon and Garfunkel
Milord, 1959, Edith Piaf
Goin’ Out of My Head (Can’t Take My Eyes Off You), 1968, Lettermen
The Cuckoo Song (Dans La Foret Lointaine), Traditional French
Il Etait Un Petit Navire, (Traditional French)
Benny and the Jets, 1984, Elton John
Playground Love, 1999, Air (from the Virgin Suicides movie)
In the Air Tonight, 1981, Phil Collins
Could Be Anything, 2004, The Eames Era

Musing over Memories

Have you ever had anyone ask you: "What were you doing on (such and such a date)?" Well, many of you probably weren't even alive on this date, but I remember exactly what I was doing on the afternoon of July 21, 1969. But mostly, I remember the place: the lifeguard chair of the Charleston Naval Air Station's Officer's Club Pool. Of what import you ask? Let me expand...

Just finished an article in this week's Newsweek regarding memory: "Mysteries of Memory" wherein Jeneen Interlandi speaks of the idea that "the physical space in which events occur may, in fact be that scaffolding..." upon which human memories are created.

As a child, we moved frequently. My mother joked that in 26 years of marriage, she had moved 17 times. That's a bit of moving. But it's also a bit of locale changes, which makes for somewhat easier retrieval of memory as they are associated, say, with the time we lived in Virginia Beach (where we experienced Hurricane Donna, for example, and lived across the street from Alan Shepherd, but also lived in a time when no one locked their house doors, or even had house keys!) or Quonset Point, Rhode Island (where we ice skated on frozen Naval base pools, swam illegally late at night in those same pools, glimpsed John Kennedy in the flesh as-close-as-from-me-to-you) or Charleston, South Carolina (where we found the bar scene quite lively with the likes of our cousins' oh-so-successful group "The Wayfarers" and heard Neil Armstrong's words as he walked on the moon from the loudspeakers on the naval base).

I've always had a strange connection to place, anyway, and now maybe, I have a scientific explanation for why. Put me next to the ocean, and I feel almost primordial; leave me for a while underneath the peaks of Yosemite Valley, and I am rejuvenated. Take me 40 years back, as I did last fall with my high school reunion, and I want to re-visit all those spots, those places that actually look the same to me as they did way back when. (Despite some minor changes, of course.)

In the same Newsweek article, Harvard psychiatrist Salzman discusses Alzheimer's patients and ends one question with the strangest of advice: "...singing songs from the person's childhood may help you maintain contact with them, (late-stage victims of the disease) at least for a few moments." Do the songs take the person back to a place, that scaffold of memory, where those memories were laid down/embedded in the first place? I like to think so; bravo for Salzman for sharing that with us and to Interlandi for sharing the research that suggests that place might be as important in brain function as it is, at least, for me, in memory.

So much for my thoughts on memory on this beautiful September afternoon, when moving back into our old (yet renovated) offices at work/school was such a drudge, and a place I definitely was relieved to leave at day's end.

Babbles

Smashing the idea that blogs have to be written only during times of elation or catastrophe, I offer my first attempt at a blog. For Stephanie, no, the world is not coming to an end, but your mother is indeed blogging. For Cathie, your insights waiting for Ike to barrel through have been an inspiration. I have always told others that the story waiting to be written has little to do with great events. In fact, I make much of my living helping others do that: telling their stories through essays but I write little myself, preferring instead to revel in their anecdotes and to help them find their voices and profer those voices in hopes of attending this or that college. So, there you have it. More to come...