One hand tied behind my back

Still typing with the left hand and little help from the right.
Slow going, this is.

Ouch

Stupid me.
Slammed finger in car door last night,
Lots of blood,
trip to emergency room,
xrays,
lidacaine (ouch again),
stitches,
icepack,
tears (mine),
nice staff (them)
My Mommy (with me),

Today I hunt and peck.
Typing slow.
Me tired.

Sorry.

JohnBoy Walton, Eat Your Heart Out!

I have a new bracelet on my wrist. And I adore it.
Robby bought it for me after I’d admired it in a case over in Ann Arbor– completely on a whim.
It’s made up of old typewriter keys (a 1937 Royal).
I love it.
(And the boy that gave it to me.)

They do. They did.

[A note from Me: To read this properly, you must have running in your head incessantly the gleeful version of "Happy Anniversary" as sung on The Flintstones.]

My friends Scott & Bonnie are married 10 years this day. I could describe my friend Scott or my friend Bon and I could describe their home and son and cats (don’t get me started on their cats) but I don’t think I could begin to describe their marriage.

Marriage is a funny idea when you really think about it. It’s not the “two people against the world” crap that Shakespeare gave us (and thank goodness for it! Romeo and Juliet didn’t exactly dance at their fiftieth…) or the “never a cross word spoken” nonsense that Ward & June Cleaver seem to enjoy each night on Nick. Every marriage is unique to itself.

It gets very little support in the media or entertainment industries. And not to digress (but I will) have you noticed lately, in movies how marriage is treated? or commitment in general? Take You’ve Got Mail or The Wedding Planner (yes. I’m a girl. I’ve seen both and can quote whole passages from the former.)– in both the chief protagonists have significant others that are neatly disposed of when Tom Hanks and J.Lo swoop into their lives. (Did you see how fast Greg Kinnear is able to leave Meg Ryan? He has what– three or four boxes in the cab and his manual typewriter? That’s it? Not three days of asking her, “Is this CD yours or mine?”) I understand why you don’t see a happy marriage, or a content marriage in film. It’s not glamorous or exotic. It’s usually pretty quiet, actually.

I suppose there are kinds of marriage– but I can’t say what kind of marriage my celebrating friends have. Marriage is only definable by the people within it. From the outside it often doesn’t add up. On paper the anniversary couple makes no sense whatsoever… but of course, marriages aren’t on paper. Marriage is in the everyday loyalties; giving up the craving for McDonald’s fries when he’s got a hankering for a Burger King Whopper; Replacing socks; The pot of hot cocoa on a February morning; the ferverent obsession with Survivor and Amazing Race; and the neighborhood walk each night with a discourse on the day for the other (complete with imitations of coworkers and occasional inspired fits of descriptive name calling of said coworkers).

In any event– ten years is a noteworthy accomplishment. And not just for the shiny tin (traditional) or aluminum (modern) that you supposedly are feted with… My sister firmly believes that you should get another shower or something at the Milestone Anniversaries. (She can be very bitter at a bridal shower when the bride-to-be opens up new towels… “(sniff) I’ve been married 15 years… I deserve new towels! What has she done? Nothing…”)

I can tell you this though. In our marriage we go though both drive-thrus… I get the McDonald’s fries and he gets the Whopper. May you both get what you want today, Mr. & Mrs. Ten Year Olds.

Starring Jimmy Stewart & Yours Truly

The radio station that I listen to in the morning does “People Polls” on stupid topics. (Okay. So we’ve just ruled out NPR as my morning radio station of choice. NPR is an afternoon addiction. A weekend addiction. In the morning I want my oldies music and a little light news. Sue me.) This morning’s poll was “If you were in a movie who would you want to star opposite of you?“

Easy. Hands down. Jimmy Stewart. The man was a genius. Bumblingly humble and devastatingly handsome.

It is no great secret that I am not very technologically literate (I’m two minutes away from using an old, portable Underwood…) but even I managed to figure out how to get an audio file to play “Y-you you want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around and bring it down!” when my computer shuts down. (Little Mary Hatch’s whispered, “George Bailey– I’ll love you till the day I die!” plays when it starts up)…

Sigh. He’s dreamy.
If Jimmy’s too busy then I guess I could settle for Bing?

All the Talented People and me

Live music, is in itself one of the most wonderful gifts in a hearing world… It’s as fleeting as a sunrise or a comet shower– completely uncapturable. It remains in our memory– some of us will carry it with us for years and others will as quickly forget it… I am in the category of having it woven into my image of the moment. Good drinks (after a good, hearth cooked dinner), Good ambience, Good people with which to surround oneself, and Good music.

Spent the weekend with another knot of dear friends.

And, as is very often the case, I was struck dumb by an overwhelming sense of their many talents. I am a lucky girl– so many of the people I know are incredibly intelligent and quick-witted and able to do many, many extraordinary things. (Mind you, I realize my luck in this lot– that they haven’t called me out on account of my own ordinariness is a remarkable occurence….)

This weekend’s Adventure took me to Old Bedford Village where, as part of The Hardtack Society, my pal Speedy had arranged for us to “take over” the normally quiet little museum village for a weekend of “educating the public by day and entertaining our selves by night.” So come Saturday night– with ribs sore from laughing at a long day’s worth of antics– we gathered in the old tavern– now stripped of modern intrusions (the towels over the doors covering the exit signs sent poor Katie into a fit of giggling that infected us all. “What did that mean?,” she gasped, “Are we to believe there is a reason there would be towels hung over the doors? Why would they do that???”). Jerry and his head of lovely curls tended his period bar and plied us unceasingly with a full menu of documented concoctions. (I am very partial to “A Drink for the Dog Days” and the delicious blueberry goodness even if its name escapes me now.) A magic show preceded the real event of the day– live music.

Mind you– most of the music itself I cannot now recall– only the idea of it lingers… Still. That night– I was in my most favorite place of being able to see around me a room full of happy people. (Is there many joys in life that can top watching the people you love laugh?) We banged on tables and stomped our feet and sang along when we could (a particulary rousing version of “Battle Cry of Freedom” will not soon fade from my repertoire of humming)– and then, when one of the guitars and voices launched into a less familiar tune I happened to take in the other guitar player, my friend Mark, who unwaveringly joined the first guitar’s song by watching the first guitar player’s fingers on the fret. Most of the people probably didn’t even notice– they were talking or singing along– but I was completely in awe that there in my friend who I would first note for his constant kind demeanor and quickest of wit was a whole other talent.

And– speaking of unquestionable talent– when a pause came from the trio having played out the first songs from their collected pool–a demand went up from our end of the room to hear from Marty “Banjoman” Liebschner who obligingly joined them with his banjo. We called for our favorite of his songs, “Old King Crow” repeatedly until he found the strings and played while we all joined in on the “Caw! Caw! Caw!”s. It’s been a long 6 years since I’ve heard him play outside of the CD in my car– it brings back happy rememberings from other happy summer evenings.

As the evening progressed and the candles were reduced to waxy puddles and a long, hot July day caught up with the most of us. I replaced the candle in my lantern and made the trek back to the little 1762 log house where my feather tick waited. Today– in my air conditioned office– it’s hard to conjure up the weekend. I miss my friends. I miss their comraderie. I cannot conjure up the hot sun easily or the weight of a heavy dutch oven filled with Sue’s delicious shortbread. I am already foggy on the whether it was the tang of the lemon or the shock of the fizz that made Jerry’s drink so perfectly quenching. But I can clearly recall the faces of my friends while the music played on.

Standing ovations to musicians everywhere.

Anticipation (Stop singing the ketchup song)

(This entry marks my first foray into the world of “HyperLinks.” I’m terribly excited, as I’m sure you are, too. Not so much with the 10 year old kid in my office that said, “Are you creating a hyper link? We do those in school.” Whatever. I can drive. I can vote. I remember Marathon bars. Stupid youth.)

I am really really wanting to see the new film, I Capture the Castle. It’s based on the 1948 book by Dodie Smith. She’s better known for her book, One Hundred & One Dalmatians because of the fantastic Disney animated version… but it was this novel that allegedly inspired J. K. Rowling as a young girl and several other Authors I Love To Read.

It’s a dreamy, wispy story about an eccentric family and a precocious daughter that writes down everything in a series of composition books (the book sections are divided by the books in which she writes). It’s a coming of age tale. I’m a sucker for those…

The British have gone and made a movie of one of my most favorite books– this fills me with glee. The British have rarely let me down when it comes to book adaptations. God save the Queen. Near as I can tell it won’t hit Michigan till August. And then I’ll have to drive to some chi-chi suburb of Detroit… but it will be worth the wait.

If it’s not– trust me, you’ll read about it here.

Good, Olde Time Days

Museum people should not visit Museums. My Museum Pals and I did just that this weekend. I won’t name the site (though it’s one of the finest and largest open-air sites in the midwest region) to protect the innocent (from maiming or spamming the not-so innocent).

We cheerfully gathered in the visitors center– ten of us and a baby– and paged another pal that works at Anonymous But Wonderful Site. No answer. We hit the Gift Shop (granted, we are the same body of people that abhore the Average Visitor who’s first two questions are, invariably, “Are you hot in those olde time clothing?” and “Where is the gift shop/how late is the gift shop open?”)… we shop. We page Museum Pal again. Still no answer. Museum people are cheap. (Do you understand what we make? Nothing. Elephants that are paid with peanuts have better benefit plans…) We decided to eat first. But not on site. We caravan to the nearest Chinese Buffet. (You could air-drop a Museum person in the middle of the most remote location and I can guarantee you that they will still manage to find a decent chinese place…) We linger lazily over lunch and are enchanted by the baby and her funny little way of savoring her sticky bananas.

Back at the Lovely Nineteenth Century Site we find our pal. He looks at the large number of us and asks the visitors’ services girl about “professional courtesy”… we fumble for proof that we do indeed work in Museums… managing, in our streamlined-we’re-on-vacation mode to scrounge up a handful of business cards (three are mine, one is a colleague in Iowa, three are legit) and get the ten of us in with only Robby having to actually pay an admission. (I’m a terrible liar. I actually tell the girl that he’s the only one of us not employed by a Museum.) Two of our party have managed to somehow produce “members” stickers. Babies are free.

We pass through the indoor exhibits quickly– pausing briefly at the large wall of pictures to count the many faces that we know– and then pausing not so briefly at the “Press a Penny” machine that we each gleefully pump 51 cents into. We are our own worst enemies.

We’ve completely skipped the orientation movie designed to prepare Average Visitor for the First Person Interpretation out in the olde time village. (First Person means that we’ll encounter “characters” or “historical figures” portrayed as they were complete with dialect and costume. It also means that we cannot directly ask most questions unless we play their game and phrase the question in a manner that the “character” can answer… It’s the Museum’s answer to trying to get information out of Alex Trebek.) We look to the leader in our group– he forcefully yells out the year in which we are “entering” while clapping his hands. (There. We’ve successfully eliminated the need for the orientation movie. A volunteer with a booming voice can be just as effective. We begin to plan what the theater space can be used for now that it’s obsolete.)

Unfortunately, for the First Person Employees, we have decided to travel enmass. All ten of us (and baby, too) trooping around together. We enter the first building. Eight of us (and the baby) walk briskly through– none of the eight making any eye contact with the poor “Olde Time Lady” who is trying desperately to engage us in a conversation. We mutter to each other about the high quality of the reproduction coverlets and come out the exit. Two in our group have been delayed. One because the “Olde Time Lady” had the misfortune to ask our Group Leader, “May I offer you a bed tonight sir?” (of all the people to ask that… We retrieve Group Leader before he actually drops his pants) and the other, Robby, because he’s actually listening politely to one of the “Olde Time Characters.” Silly Robby.

We manage to cover the same space that Average Visitors need hours for in about 25 minutes. It took us longer because we had to pause to look at the hogs (“Olde Time World stinks!” “My hogs don’t smell like that!”) and spoil a game of “Olde Time Hide and Seek” with a group of youth interpreters by pointing out, “He’s in the box.” (Not that they wouldn’t have figured it out anyway– his hat was on top of the box he’d climbed into.)

Another Pal was working out in the village… most regrettably for her in character– We declare “Open Season!” and go off in search of her. We find her in the midst of a conversation with a group of Average Visitor Families. We wave from the back of the AVF heads… (She desperately ignores us but we note amongst ourselves that her coloring is reddening.) Outside we peer into the window at her as a group (all but the short baby and her mother) and decide, before she slams the window down on our collective 90 fingers, to come back later for more Olde Time Fun With the Olde Time Lady.

Tired of this time period we head towards the next one. (Group Leader booming out the change of year while the rest of us make dream sequence noises…) Group Leader rescued us from the Olde Time Church Experience by pointing out the lack of any other door (“You want to avoid the places that you can’t easily escape.”) so we also skipped Olde Time One Room School and beelined instead for the next farmhouse. It’s new and lovely and full of admirable wall coverings and furnishings. I pulled out my Gift Shop Souvenier Fully Posable General Robert E. Lee figure and we positioned him in various beds and sliding down the banister. Again we managed to avoid making any eye contact with any characters (“Don’t look them directly in the eye. You’ll provoke them into giving information.”) and breezed through, meeting up on the outside where we ran into our No Page Answer For You Museum Pal who was discreetly chucking large garbage bags into the back of Olde Farmhouse. We each slip in quickly, shutting the door behind us to keep out any AVs and get the behind the scenes tour. We pepper it with questions about logisitics and budgets. Because there are so many of us we offer to help NPAFYMP in making up the 12 beds for his camp-in program. We divide up and conquer. (Baby and her parents escape outside where there is a breeze. Traitors.) Group Leader’s wife, who volunteered our help proceeds to stand talking to NPAFYMP, pumping him for ideas for her own camp program, while the rest of us battle the beds (who decided to put them against the wall?) and the stifling heat of the bedrooms. Group Leader and I race to see who can make their bed faster. I am clearly losing until he makes the mistake of putting the top sheet on upside down– NPAFYMP points out this grievous error and I win. (Yay for me!) Apparently other contestants have also entered– we are all making a lot of noise. A character swooshes in from the front, open part of the house and scolds NPAFYMP. Apparently AVs on the other side of the wall can hear voices and they are asking questions. (If only we’d known… we could have properly haunted the places.) We are chagrined. We quietly check to see that all the chamberpots are ready while NPAFYMP makes sure the rooms are satisfactory and then we tumble out the back door and head to the barns.

In our group only the baby and Robby have never milked a cow regularly. We watch for a while talking about cows we have each loved and lost. Group Leader makes a remark about ice cold milk and is corrected by the Olde Time Farmer who earnestly assures him that the milk is in fact warm. (“Indeed, sir!”) The girls and I chat about olde wrapper (ie; costume) construction and the fabric of the original.

We’re tired. It’s hot. Olde Time Land does not offer anything to drink or eat. We descend on to the drinking fountain, discreetly tucked into the woods. Refreshed we proceed on to Olde Indian Village (we wonder if this is where the great Takhomashak lived?) and then return to the mid nineteenth century to harass Olde Time Lady friend. We haul her out front for pictures and ask her questions she cannot possibly answer without breaking character… resulting in her silently convulsing while turning redder and redder. (“If you had to eat it– and it was boiled– which would you rather consume…” “Are thou hot in thine clothes?” “Why was the boy in the box??”) We show her the evidence of the “dung fight” we had– as exhibited on one of our party’s jean legs. (Dungarees? or Dungonhes?) And ask her to pose for our newfangled photgraphic box.

Our work done we leave Olde Time Land (more dream-sequence noises) and return to the visitors’ center. We laugh when we realize that it is exactly 5:01. Having endured countless times when AVs have tormented us with “I know that you’re almost ready to close– but I have some really interesting questions to ask and we drove all the way from Nebraska in the RV so would you mind?” we are prompt and timely with our own exit.

At least we have that part right.

Reason #1 I’ll never think about trying the Adkins diet

Today I sing the praises of toast.
And all it’s crumbley butter goodness.

Buttered while still hot and glazed with just a wee bit of quince jelly.

Sliced bread may be the proverbial zenith but in reality it’s toasted sliced bread.

Rain Rain (don’t) go away

It’s thick with gray outside today. Everyone walking through the doors today grumbled about the crazy humidity– until it started to rain. Pour, actually. Now there is a hesitancy with those wanting to leave– wary looks out the glass doors to the parking lot wondering if they should wait for a break or make a mad, dash to their car. (Those that do create more tension for those that don’t… the second guessing is delicious to watch.)

I couldn’t be happier. It’s cooler now. The rain is beating a lovely tatoo on the roof over my desk. But, then again, I’m not one to long for a hot, sunny day at the beach.
Fish poo there, you know.