dual personalities

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Hot dog, I feel lucky today

by chuckofish

Mary Chapin Carpenter (born February 21, 1958), an American folk and country music singer, songwriter and musician, turns 55 today.

mcc1

Born in Princeton, NJ, she went to Princeton Day School and The Taft School and Brown, so she grew up in a world similar to the one I did, but she also has that bad-ass cowgirl alter ego with which I readily identify. Who else could have written:

Dwight Yoakam’s in the corner, trying to catch my eye
Lyle Lovett’s right beside me with his hand upon my thigh.

And her monogram is the same as my mother’s.

Anyway, I have been a fan of hers for many years. One of my favorite Mary Chapin Carpenter memories is of the time I (once again) was having a Girl Scout earning-a-patch event at our house. The plan was for Daughter #1 and her small troop to learn to line dance. Not that I was an expert. Uh huh. Priceless.

We moved the dining room table against the wall so we could practice in a large space, which coincidentally had one wall that was a giant mirror, sort of like in a dance studio. The girls lined up and we played “Shut Up and Kiss Me” over and over and (yes) over again, carefully counting one, two, three, four before trying again. And remember, this was in the days of cassette tapes! So there was a lot of rewinding involved. Good lord, how I wish I had a videotape of this coolness.

Here she is singing this great song. In the original, Leroy Parnell was in her band, but oh well.

So happy birthday, Mary Chapin Carpenter! Salut!

This is great

by chuckofish

Have you ever run across this in your internet browsing? Well, a big hat tip to the New York Times for this wonderful tour of New York City: Walking in Holden’s Footsteps, which is from Peter G. Beidler’s book, “A Reader’s Companion to J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye” (Coffeetown Press, 2008).

I have no doubt that it is a sure sign of my unwavering immaturity, but The Catcher in the Rye never dims in my estimation. Nor does my devout love for old J.D.

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The next time I am in NYC I want to walk the “41 gorgeous blocks” from Ernie’s to the Edmont Hotel. Maybe I’ll pay the big bucks and go inside the Museum of Natural History. Now that daughter #1 lives there, I am relaxed as hell about going there. Well, the Upper West Side anyway. I’m crazy. I swear to God I am.

Music from the New World

by chuckofish

I am reading The Song of the Lark by Willa Cather. It is very good. Here is a quote about going to see a concert in Chicago, which reminded me of my dual personality and how, when she was a very small child–3 or 4–she got a record of the “New World Symphony” for Christmas.

sarah

She loved it and insisted on listening to it over and over. She would walk around the house singing Dum dum dum dum de dum, dum dum dum dum duuuuuum.

She had been to so few concerts that the great house, the crowd of people, and the lights, all had a stimulating effect…During the first number Thea was so much interested in the orchestra itself, in the men, the instruments, the volume of sound, that she paid little attention to what they were playing. Her excitement impaired her power of listening. She kept saying to herself, “Now I must stop this foolishness and listen; I may never hear this again”; but her mind was like a glass that is hard to focus. She was not ready to listen until the second number, Dvorak’s Symphony in E minor, called on the programme, “From the New World.” The first theme had scarcely been given out when her mind became clear; instant composure fell upon her, and with it came the power of concentration. This was music she could understand, music from the New World indeed! Strange how, as the first movement went on, it brought back to her that high tableland above Laramie; the grass-grown wagon trails the far-away peaks of the snowy range, the wind and the eagles, that old man and the first telegraph message.

When the first movement ended, Thea’s hands and feet were cold as ice. She was too much excited to know anything except that she wanted something desperately, and when the English horns gave out the theme of the Largo, she knew that what she wanted was exactly that. Here were the sand hills, the grasshoppers and locusts, all the things that wakened and chirped in the early morning; the reaching and reaching of high plains, the immeasurable yearning of all flat lands. There was home in it, too; first memories, first mornings long ago; the amazement of a new soul in a new world; a soul new and yet old, that had dreamed something despairing, something glorious, in the dark before it was born; a soul obsessed by what it did not know, under the cloud of a past it could not recall.

Makes me want to listen to the “New World” symphony, how about you? Well, here you go!

The Cameron saga continues…in Canada

by chuckofish

Family lore has Daniel Cameron heading to Canada at sixteen, probably with monetary help from the Baptist church, for its hard to imagine that he could afford his own passage. Somehow our young protagonist landed in the tiny hamlet of Clarence, Ontario where he got a job with a lumber company. To begin with he hiked deep into the Canadian woods with an Indian guide to mark trees. He also did plenty of actual cutting:

Daniel Cameron second from left

Daniel Cameron second from left

Clarence was a small community that had been going since the 18th century and as was the case in most Ontario towns most of the people were either Scottish or French. There were few enough people around so that intermarriage between French Catholics and Scottish Protestants was common, albeit the conversion always seemed to favor the Protestants. As it happened Daniel fell for the product of one such marriage, a lovely girl, Susan Louisa Blais, the daughter of Fabien Blais and Louisa Taylor. The Blais children were brought up Baptist and even Fabien himself eventually converted. Now Fabien’s wife, Louisa Taylor, was the daughter of Isaac Whitney Taylor (b. 1791 in Massachusetts) and Elizabeth Thompson (b. 1804 in Ireland) and one of twelve children. Three of her sisters — Elizabeth, Susan, and Anna — married three Scottish brothers, William, James, and John Erskine. After Louisa Taylor married Fabien Blais, they bought a farm next to James and Susan Erskine.

Fabien Blais and his wife Louisa Taylor had nine children, of whom four died before they could marry. In 1868 Louisa and her two year old son, William, died within 10 days of each other, some say of Diphtheria, others of Smallpox. Grief stricken, Fabien sold the family farm and moved to Nepean with some of his children. He left his daughters, Susan and Laura, with their uncle and aunt, James and Susan Erskine, who raised them. All of the Erskine children died young so the girls filled a void. Tragedy struck again when their brother, Edwin James Blais, fell through the ice on the Ottawa River as he was crossing alone to go to a New Year’s Eve party in 1880.

It gives me shivers just to think about it! Susan’s elder sister, Elizabeth, married Duncan McIntyre, who was a witness at Susan’s and Daniel’s marriage. He and Daniel Cameron were best friends. After Elizabeth was killed in a buggy crash, Duncan married another sister, Laura, who survived until 1909. Life was fragile and it is no wonder that the small community was full of devout Baptists.

The Clarence Baptist church in 1991

The Clarence Baptist church in 1991

Daniel and Duncan McIntyre, who was reportedly a delightful if unsteady sort, attempted to open a grist mill and store, but the business soon went bust through McIntyre’s mishandling (or so I understand from neutral sources). Hardworking Daniel learned his lesson and that was the last time he attempted such a business venture. He went straight back to the lumber company where he became a clerk. After the financial scare, life settled down. Daniel and Susan had a daughter Leila Erskine in 1885, a son James Erskine in 1892, and a daughter Hazel Stuart in 1897. The year Hazel was born my great grandfather Daniel was promoted and moved to Burlington VT. The family joined him within a year and it was there that their youngest son, my grandfather, Daniel Herbert Hilton Cameron was born June 17, 1900.

Stay tuned for the next installment, in which Daniel senior becomes treasurer of the Robinson-Edwards lumber company, buys a nice house, and becomes a naturalized American citizen.

Odds and Ends

by chuckofish

It’s finally Friday. We’ve had Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday, Ash Wednesday, the Westminster Dog Show, the SOTU, and Valentine’s Day. Good grief, Charlie Brown.

good grief

Seriously, that is too much for one week.

Not that I actually participated in most of it. Drunken mob (Mardi Gras)–certainly not my thing. Yes, our flyover town boasts the 2nd largest blow-out in the U.S. But no.

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I did watch some of the Dog Show, which I used to enjoy. But it is a bit over the top these days with its freaky display of weird breeds–I mean what is an Affenpinscher anyway? (This Affenpinscher reminds me of Michael J. Fox in Teen Wolf.)

affenpinscher AP

Not to mention traditional breeds that look freaky because of their blow-dried locks. I mean how embarrassed was this poor sheepdog?

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Remember when they looked like this?

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To top things off, today is the 249th birthday of my flyover hometown. Founded in 1764 by Pierre Laclède and Auguste Chouteau, it became a major port on the Mississippi River after the Louisiana Purchase. According to Wikipedia, “its population expanded after the American Civil War, and it became the fourth-largest city in the United States in the late 19th century. It seceded from St. Louis County in March 1877, allowing it to become an independent city and limiting its political boundaries. In 1904, it hosted the Louisiana Purchase Exposition and the 1904 Summer Olympics. The city’s population peaked in 1950, then began a long decline that continues in the 21st century.” I always say, we peaked in 1904. Sigh.

Here is an ironic photo of "The Captain's Return" statue on the flooded riverfront.

Here is an ironic photo of “The Captain’s Return” on the flooded riverfront.

Well, we still have these guys:

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Anyway, I think we’re all due for some quiet time this weekend, don’t you? Here’s a Quaker thought from here.

silence

By the way…I did not get long-stemmed roses from my husband for Valentine’s Day. Merci beaucoup.

Godiva chocolates, a book and Pilot pens (blue)

Godiva chocolates, a book and Pilot pens (blue)

It’s about time

by chuckofish

cashstamp

Johnny Cash gets his own stamp! Coming to a post office near you in 2013.

(As you know, I have been a big fan of Johnny since I was a small child with absurdly good instincts. I blogged about him here last year.)

Here he is singing one of my personal favorites, “Ring of Fire”:

Didn’t that make your Thursday a whole lot better?

Well, here’s something else to perk up your day. My friend Gary Hunt’s band Son Volt has a CD coming out soon. Here’s the teaser:

(Gary’s playing the fiddle and is visible in the first 2 seconds.) Word is that the band is scheduled to perform on David Letterman! We might have to actually tune in.

Praising my savior all the day long

by chuckofish

Frances Jane Crosby was the most prolific writer of hymn texts and gospel songs in the American evangelical tradition of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. She wrote more than eight thousand sacred texts in addition to other poetry.

crosby

Born in Putnam County, New York, on March 24, 1820, she lost her sight as an infant as a result of complications from a childhood illness. At the age of fifteen, she entered the New York Institute for the Blind where she would later teach for a number of years. In 1858, she married Alexander van Alstyne, a musician in New York who was also blind. Crosby was a lifelong Methodist.

Fanny Crosby is honored with a feast day on the liturgical calendar of the Episcopal Church in the United States of America on February 11, even though none of her hymns are included in either the 1940 or 1982 Hymnal. Go figure.

Here is an excellent rendition of one of her most famous hymns, Blessed Assurance, performed by Third Day. Listen to the whole thing and start your Lent on a positive note.

“I am not an angel,’ I asserted; ‘and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself.'”*

by chuckofish

My mother was a middle child. She had an older and a younger sister. The younger sister was one of those “surprises” that comes along seven years after the second child and that everyone immediately loves. Born in 1933, Donna was the next best thing to Shirley Temple–adorable.

1935

1935

When my mother was a sophomore in college and her little sister was 12, she saved her money and had Donna’s portrait taken because she thought she was so beautiful. She gave it to her mother as a surprise for Christmas. Wow. (I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for Sister #1 who probably gave her mother a nice set of hankies or something and no doubt felt a little like Cal in East of Eden when his brother upstages him.) My mother, of course, only wanted to preserve the beauty of her sister for their mother.

This is not "the" picture--I don't have a copy--but here she is graduating from high school.

This is not “the” picture–I don’t have a copy–but here she is graduating from high school.

Daughter #3 was their mother’s favorite and that never bothered my mother. It seemed perfectly natural and understandable. Her good looks were more than matched by her sweet, yet spunky, personality.

Through the years, because my Aunt Donna lived on the east coast and we lived far away in our flyover state, we didn’t see each other very much. When we did, though, she was always glad to see me and made me feel loved and appreciated. When I had long hair, she would ask to brush it and would do so as if it was a privilege. I can’t say that I have ever known anyone else like her in my life. She is like someone out of the Bible. Ruth or Priscilla.

Since my mother died almost 25 years ago, Donna has always been there when our own mother would be particularly missed. She went all the way to England for my sister’s wedding and, as usual, rolled up her sleeves and asked what she could do to help.

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I remember she spent hours with 4 1/2-year old daughter #1 making some sort of floral arrangements and sat with the poor sick 2-year old boy on her lap on the long plane ride home. She was here last summer for the boy’s wedding.

Today my Aunt Donna turns 80. Bless her heart. This calls for champagne!

* The quote is from Jane Eyre, in case you’ve forgotten!

Send me no flowers

by chuckofish

As Valentine’s Day fast approaches, I would just like to say that I hope I do not get a dozen long-stemmed red roses. Nothing says “thoughtless, auto-pilot gift” like roses. Do you know what I mean? They are expensive and let’s just admit it, not so great-looking.

roses

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, and my intention is not to hurt anyone’s feelings. I have friends who will say, “Roses are better than nothing!” But I don’t think so.

Don’t get me wrong. I would like something. Tulips from the grocery store. Daisies. A book. A plant. Booze. Red wine, just not red roses.

Okay, yellow roses would be okay. White even. Just not those big honking red ones.

I didn’t mean to rant, but it is just a pet peeve of mine.

Since it is Monday, I will leave you with this adorable picture of the kiddos all dressed up for Valentine’s Day in the not-too-distant past.

valentine kids

I miss those days of the handmade Valentines and the school essays. “I love my Mom because she makes my lunch…”–never very creative, but earnest anyway. I suppose the red roses are the earnest gift of a spouse, and we should not sneeze at that.

18th century interlude

by chuckofish

While I’ve been laid up with the flu and the snow has been falling, falling, falling, I’ve entertained myself reading my husband’s blog, Kirby and his World. Those 18th century Brits were a wild and crazy bunch. Who but an eccentric English lady would stop traffic for an elaborate funeral for her beloved pet parrot?

no kidding, pet parrots were all the rage

parrots were all the rage

No kidding, you can read about it here.

Then there’s the amusing report about monkeys, also very much in vogue.

George Stubbs portrait of a monkey

George Stubbs portrait of a monkey

There is even post involving Blackbeard the pirate!

blackbeard

Those Brits really got around, but it wasn’t all romance and hijinks. When they weren’t involved in wild escapades a la Tom Jones,

Albert Finney in the 1963 film

Albert Finney in the 1963 film

they were dying in droves from assorted ailments like “Purples”, “Quinsy”, and “Headmouldshot”, which you should read about here. So get on your 18th century and take a good look at a great blog. And don’t forget to comment!

Installment #3 of the Cameron family saga coming soon!