dual personalities

Month: February, 2016

Tell old pharoah

by chuckofish

Amaryllis

The Old Testament reading on Sunday was about God appearing to Moses in the form of a Burning Bush (Exodus 3:1-15). I suppose that was why we sang Go Down, Moses as our communion hymn. We gave it our best shot tried, but Episcopalians plus negro spirituals equals truly awkward. We just can’t swing it, literally.

We had a lovely, balmy weekend and I tried to get out and about, but was still recovering from my cough/cold/whatever. I re-organized a large cupboard filled with an assortment of dishes, serving pieces, silver, holiday decorations, cleaning supplies, ephemera, etcetera. This turned into quite a job as you can imagine, but I got it all sorted out, cleaned and put away. I actually threw away very little (typical).

Since officially giving up on Humboldt’s Gift, I perused several bookshelves at home and picked out several possible books to read. I settled on The Proper Bostonian by Cleveland Amory, which I had picked up some time ago at an estate sale. It proved to be very enjoyable  and full of information. Published in 1947, it “is as humorous and entertaining as anything that could be written about the Boston Brahmins–the Cabots, Lodges, Lowells, Adamses and others that make Boston a synonym for staidness and sobriety.” (Chicago Tribune) Now there’s a qualified recommendation for you! I am learning all about Boston’s First Families and the foibles of the “Proper Boston lady” and the “Proper Boston gentleman.”

This is particularly interesting to me as our maternal grandmother was a Sargent  after all and lived on Clarendon Street in Back Bay for years. She was, indeed, a “Proper Boston lady.”

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When our parents gave their third child the middle name ‘Sargent,’ our grandmother’s response was  not, “Oh, how nice,” but “Well, finally.”

Well, more on this later, because it is Monday and the bell tolleth for me. Have a good week!

P.S. I watched part of the Oscars–why? Why did they keep playing Que Sera Sera? It was a strange show. But I didn’t watch the whole thing. I went to bed. Give me some credit.

(The OM took the photo of the amaryllis.)

Picture in a Frame

by chuckofish

Winter finally arrived. We have had some interesting weather — ice, snow, rain,  then more ice, snow and rain, followed by cold, cold temps. Walking around is really quite a challenge. In the midst of all that and after years of procrastination, I was seized with the impulse to have a couple of pictures framed. So I did, and they turned out beautifully. I haven’t even fallen down yet (touch wood).

First, is a self-portrait that boy #2 painted in high school (I think), and which I’ve always loved because it really captures some elusive quality — and maybe it’s a little melancholy (and you know what a sucker I am for melancholy).

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As you can see, I have not hung it up yet. Nor am I capable of taking a photo that isn’t blurry or ill-lit. But you get the idea. Didn’t it turn out nicely?

The other picture I got framed is a watercolor of Dartmoor that I bought years ago in an antique shop in Okehampton, England. It’s not an antique — not even close, but I like it a lot. Once again, you have to use your imagination as my photographic skills  are on the weak side (to say the least) and the colors a tad washed out. Here it is leaning crookedly and blurrily against a chair in my family room.

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The prospect of spring’s arrival always makes me start planning home improvements. Certainly, new wall art is an easy way to improve a room. The portrait is going in the family room. I’m not sure about the watercolor. The green would go nicely in my downstairs bathroom, but that seems a bit of a waste. I’ll probably end up moving things around — spring improvements here we come!

Once I hang the pictures, I’m going to continue my big project, which is cleaning out  #1 son’s large bedroom closet so that I can use it to store family heirlooms that need more temperature control than the attic offers. It would also make an excellent linen closet. Onward and upward!

Enjoy your weekend!

 

 

Deep thoughts for Friday

by chuckofish

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Do you have plans for the weekend?

I will probably watch more episodes of The Rockford Files because I cannot get enough, it seems, of watching ol’ James Garner struggle in and out of that Firebird.

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He tries gamely to make his aging athlete’s body do what he wants it to do, but the camera frequently catches him limping after some bad guy or another.

Well, I guess I can relate to the aging PI.

Anyway, I thought I would choose a movie with an aging hero in it for my Friday movie pick, but it’s not so easy to think of one! If you google “Movies about old people” or some variation on that theme, you get a list of terrible movies like On Golden Pond (1981)–the worst!

So here are a few suggestions of movies I like that feature an aging hero/heroine(s)–but no wimps or sentimental stereotypes:

Grumpy Old Men (1993) with Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon–a classic.

GRUMPY OLD MEN, Jack Lemmon, Walter Matthau, 1993

Gran Torino (2008) with Clint Eastwood as a snarling old badass. Darn good.

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The Grey Fox (1982) with Richard Farnsworth in his first starring role at age 62–but good luck getting your hands on this one! I don’t think it has ever been released on DVD. Actually any movie with Richard Farnsworth would work in this category.

GREY FOX, Richard Farnsworth, 1982

Fried Green Tomatoes (1991) with Jessica Tandy as the amazing Ninny Threadgoode.

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Another along this line is Elizabeth Patterson as Miss Eunice Habersham in Intruder in the Dust (1949)–but then no one was better at writing old ladies than William Faulkner.

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True Grit (1969) with John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn or Rooster Cogburn (1975) with both Wayne and Katharine Hepburn–both playing aging badasses.

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Tom Horn (1980) with Steve McQueen in his last movie. This is a pretty sad one, because Steve was dying in real life and you can kind of tell. But it’s a good one, for sure.

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Here’s Steve with Richard Farnsworth and two lucky old ladies

Can you think of any others?

All of these oldsters make the forty-something Jim Rockford seem pretty young and with it in comparison. And me too.

Of course, if you prefer a more highbrow pursuit, you can read what Ralph Waldo Emerson had to say about Old Age here.

Have a good weekend!

Throwback Thursday–snow day edition

by chuckofish

K&S snow

Here is a snapshot of the dual personalities fifty years ago–circa 1965–in Forest Park. There’s not a lot of snow in evidence, but by today’s standards, it’s a snowpocalypse.

We had a snow day yesterday, in fact–all the schools were closed.

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A heavy, wet snow fell–we had about 4 inches in the morning–but it turned to slush very fast.

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I went out to shovel our front walk and it was like shoveling a slushie. But a lot of people lost their power when tree limbs fell on power lines and transformers blew. It was kind of a mess.

Since I am still recovering from my bad cold/cough/flu/whatever, I was glad to stay home and, except for my brief foray into the yard, take it easy.

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Sometimes there is nothing better than a Jim Rockford marathon.

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Nothing makes the present look better than a trip down memory lane into the 1970s when detectives talked on pay phones, everyone smoked,

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used styrofoam without guilt and drove cars that guzzled gas like nobody’s business.

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No offense, Jim. You were the greatest. Even though nothing ever worked out for you, even when you solved the crime and nabbed the bad guy.

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I mean, did you ever get paid? By anyone?

Have a good Thursday!

All my friends

by chuckofish

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If you cannot read all your books, at any rate…peer into them, let them fall open where they will, read from the first sentence that arrests the eye, set them back on the shelves with your own hands, arrange them on your own plan so that you at least know where they are. Let them be your friends; let them be your acquaintances.

–Winston Churchill (1874–1965)

This is going to be my next project, arranging my books “on my own plan.” I already sort of do this, but I could do a better job.

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All right, Winston, I accept your challenge.

In yo’ life

by chuckofish

mark twain

“You gwyne to have considerable trouble in yo’ life, en considerable joy. Sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you’s gwyne to git well agin.”

–Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

While sick, I have cleaned up my DVR list and watched several movies that have been sitting there for a while. I watched The Adventures of Mark Twain (1944) starring Frederic March as our famous native son. It was entertaining but pretty white-washed. At least it did stress the fact that Twain was a hero for publishing President Grant’s war memoirs and giving him 70% of the profits. And there’s a good scene where he receives an honorary degree from Oxford.

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Onward and upward.

“Go and tell that fox for me”*

by chuckofish

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Well, I spent most of the weekend coughing and blowing my nose. I had been fighting something off, but it hit me hard on Saturday and I succumbed. On Sunday I stayed in bed. So I didn’t get much of anything constructive done over the weekend.

I did read quite a bit of Humboldt’s Gift by Saul Bellow. I had not read much by Bellow since high school–remember Seize the Day? He sure can write, but like Philip Roth, he is a bit of a real show-off. All right already, I get it. You’re smarter than everyone else. (I would put Donna Tartt in this category also.)

So chalk this up as a bit of a lost weekend. Boo. And a lost Monday it looks like.

*Luke 13:32: “And he said to them, “Go and tell that fox, ‘Behold, I cast out demons and perform cures today and tomorrow, and the third day I finish my course.'”

The picture is by Norman Rockwell

O, may I join the choir invisible!*

by chuckofish

Umberto Eco once wrote, “We have a limit, a very discouraging and humiliating limit; death.” Alas, the great author and semiotician has met his limit. Aside from his most popular novel, The Name of the Rose, which I read way back when the movie came out in 1986,

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I haven’t read a great deal of his work. However, I am a huge fan of Invisible Cities, in which Marco Polo tells Kublai Khan all about the places he has visited. Here’s my favorite.

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In vain, great-hearted Kublai, shall I attempt to describe Zaira, city of high bastions. I could tell you how many steps make up the streets rising like stairways, and the degree of the arcades’ curves, and what kind of zinc scales cover the roofs; but I already know this  would be the same as telling you nothing. The city does not consist of this, but of relationships between the measurements of its space and the events of its past: the height of a lamppost and the distance from the ground of a hanged usurper’s swaying feet; the line strung from the lamppost to the railing opposite and the festoons that decorate the course of the queen’s nuptial procession; the height of that railing and the leap of the adulterer who climbed over it at dawn; the tilt of a guttering and a cat’s progress along it as he slips into the same window; the firing range of a gunboat which has suddenly appeared beyond the cape and the bomb that destroys the guttering; the rips in the fishnet and the three old men seated on the dock mending nets and telling each other  for the hundredth time the Story of the gunboat of the usurper, who some say was the queen’s illegitimate son, abandoned in his swaddling clothes there on the dock.

As this wave from memories flows in, the city soaks it up like a sponge and expands. A description of Zaira as it is today should contain all Zaira’s past.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? Our pasts are layered throughout our present, even though most of us don’t really think about it. There’s a patina of history on everything. Likewise, the things we read become memories and also belong to both past and present. For example, we’ve all read (and watched) To Kill a Mockingbird, whose author, Harper Lee, also just died  — it was a bad week for literature, wasn’t it?  Eco and Lee may be dead but they’re not really gone at all.  They’ve just joined George Eliot’s choir invisible:

“O may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude…”

Standin’ in the rain talkin’ to myself

by chuckofish

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I was reading The Secret History by Donna Tartt, which is her first novel, published when she was 29 years old. It is about a group of self-involved college students (classics majors) at a small, elite college in Vermont.

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The book has problems, but I can appreciate Tartt on different levels. Hailed as a literary star, she has won many awards. I usually find “stars” unappealing, but I have to admit she’s pretty darn good.

Pur: that one word contains for me the secret, the bright, terrible clarity of ancient Greek. How can I make you see it, this strange harsh light which pervades Homer’s landscapes and illumines the dialogues of Plato, an alien light, inarticulable in our common tongue? Our shared language is a language of the intricate, the peculiar, the home of pumpkins and ragamuffins and bodkins and beer, the tongue of Ahab and Falstaff and Mrs. Gamp; and while I find it entirely suitable for reflections such as these, it fails me utterly when I attempt to describe in it what I love about Greek, that language innocent of all quirks and cranks; a language obsessed with action, and with the joy of seeing action multiply from action, action marching relentlessly ahead and with yet more actions filling in from either side to fall into neat step at the rear, in a long straight rank of cause and effect toward what will be inevitable, the only possible end.

The problem is I don’t care anything about any of the characters. She makes me feel nothing for them. They are sociopaths with few (if any) redeeming qualities. They are not even very interesting as “bad guys.” Having gone to a school similar to the fictional Hampden College, I get it. But the jerks she writes about are her heroes and they are not, believe me, heroes. I read half of the 500+ page book, and then thought, no, this is not worth my time. I skimmed the rest and read the end. I do not feel guilty about this.

I read The Power of Her Sympathy, the autobiography and journal of the mid-19th century author Catharine Maria Sedgwick (December 28, 1789 – July 31, 1867). She lived in Stockbridge and was a descendant of Ephraim Williams, founder of Williams College, among other noteworthy ancestors. She is very appealing to me.

The first of our Sedgwick ancestors of whom I have any tradition was Robert Sedgwick, who was sent by Oliver Cromwell as governor or commissioner…As I am a full believer in the transmission of qualities peculiar to a race, it  pleases me to recognize in “the governor,” as we have always called him, a Puritan and an Independent, for to none other would Cromwell have given a trust so important. A love of freedom, a habit of doing their own thinking, has characterized our clan…Truly I think it a great honor that the head of our house took office from that great man who achieved his own greatness, and not from the King Charleses who were born to it and lost it by their own unworthiness.

Don’t you love that? Well, she was something of a literary star in her day as well. I will need to follow up with one of her novels–Hope Leslie or The Linwoods.

I tried The Round House by Louise Erhdrich, which won the National Book Award in 2012. Meh.

I may have to go back to Pierre. I could do a lot worse.

Now that we are over a week into Lent, I need to turn my movie watching to a more spiritual focus. I watched Cool Hand Luke (1967) a few weeks ago, and was reminded what a tremendous movie it is indeed.

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I highly recommend it as part of your Lenten fare.

But first, I will remind you that 71 years ago today 30,000 U.S. Marines stormed Iwo Jima. If you need a good reason to watch John Wayne in Sands of Iwo Jima (1949), here it is!

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And news alert: ninety-two percent of college students prefer reading a traditional book rather than an e-book, according to a new study.

Have a good weekend!

Don’t eat the daisies

by chuckofish

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From snow on Sunday to gray skies and frosty winds earlier in the week to spring-like weather today, we are experiencing typical flyover weather patterns.

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Our throwback photos remind us of those trips in bygone days to the Botanical Gardens when spring was in the air, but we still had to bundle up in winter coats.

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And remember: No snowflake ever falls in the wrong place.

Have a zen throwback Thursday!