I am pleased to report that my daughter and I were both cast in the local production of Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance. She plays the pirate’s cabin “boy” and I am part of the pirate chorus. Our first read-thru was held at the Presbyterian Church of Novato and it looks like we will have a fine cast, although we have yet to meet several members who are currently performing elsewhere.
Our first musical rehearsal was held at the producer’s home in Mont Marin and it was a doozy. We started by learning the absurdly-long Act I Finale, which at times features twelve-part harmony. With our small cast of 19, that means there are times when an entire vocal part is being sung by only one person, making it especially difficult to stay in tune. I struggled at times to hit the tenor notes (my voice was also dehydrated from having ridden my bike home that day in 100-degree heat). I could also tell that Jessica was stressing out, too, since her part is an octave above the men’s. Talk about being thrown into the deep-end of the choral reef. Fortunately, we are both tenors for most of the musical score, so we can practice our parts together.
For the second vocal rehearsal, I went out and bought us a pair of Olympus digital voice recorders. They’re ridiculously simple to use and make recording our parts a snap. The songs we learned that night were also of the more rollicking-pirate type, so Jessica felt a lot better. She already has them down perfectly, and I am just a step behind.
In fact, she is a great asset as I learn my songs. I even find that I enjoy being corrected by her now, since it demonstrates her growing confidence. Throughout the years, I have been pretty quick at memorizing my lines in plays, but it always amazes me how much more facile young minds are. Even when she was little, she was pretty sharp.
Back when she was in kindergarten, I was cast as the lead in a production of Early One Evening at the Rainbow Bar and Grill, a black comedy by Bruce Graham. Since I was also playing the off-stage part of a single father, Jessica was with me at many rehearsals. I would set up her little pup tent in the carpeted hallway, where she would happily play with her stuffed animals and look at books. She had a sleeping bag, too, but spent a much of her time watching daddy rehearse. I wasn’t really aware of how much she had absorbed until one night in performance, when my ex came to see the show.
My line load was considerable, and I rarely paraphrased, making every effort to be word-perfect. Unfortunately that one night, I completely transposed two lines. There was no way that any of the audience could have told the difference. That is, except for one little five year-old critic in the back row. As I stumbled and then sought to right myself, I could clearly hear Jessica’s loud stage whisper, “Mommy! Mommy! Daddy said the wrong line! He should have said…,” which was followed by the corrected line, a quick shushing from Beth and giggles from nearby audience members. Well, that answered the question of whether my daughter had been paying attention.
One other incident was notable during the play. The plot concerns a small Pennsylvania town dealing with the news that an unknown force is slowly moving across the country, snuffing out everyone in its path. Entire cities, entire states are obliterated. Some of the townspeople panic, some try to live out their last-minute fantasies, some “hunker down” (as Donald Rumsfeld would have us do), and others simply turn inward. My character was one of the latter and at one point decides to commit suicide. He gets the pistol from behind the bar and puts Frank Sinatra’s “I Did It My Way” on the juke box. Then he is supposed to stand center-stage, stick the barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger. He does this three times and each time it won’t fire (it turns out that there is Divine Intervention at play, but he doesn’t know that yet). As we approached this scene for the first time, I got the gun, put the record on the juke and then caught sight of Jessica sitting in the audience. A chill ran up my spine.
Fortunately, I had enough sense to stop rehearsal and pull her aside for a little daddy-daughter discussion. I wanted to make sure she knew what was going on, how the gun was a only prop, that this was all pretend, and that it was something she should never play around with. She listened attentively, asked a couple of questions, and that was that. I was floored by her maturity. Not for the last time, I might add.
In fact, that is one of the things that I find remarkable about her. Perhaps it is the result of my going through a divorce when she was only three, or her having to deal with an occasionally mercurial father, but she is wise beyond her years. As I get older, I hope that she will continue to keep me on the straight and narrow, remind me not to take life’s tribulations too seriously, correct me when I say the wrong line and, above all, help me stay in tune.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Ratatouille and The Church - Part II
After supper, I recounted my cycling adventures over a dessert of homemade plum tart, the specialty of the cook’s husband, who usually tended to the garden and the shopping. Then we moved out onto the veranda with glasses of sherry and watched the storm put on a light show over the Lac d'Annecy. I counted down the time between the strikes and the thunderous claps: five seconds per mile, three seconds per kilometer. At times, the strikes and thunder claps were almost simultaneous.
Mme. Cailles (who, by the way, was not my grandmother) told a story of when she was a little girl growing up at the Serpenoise. According to her, during one electrical storm, a bolt of lightning hit the house and, a split second later, moved down an inside gas pipe in the living room where they were sitting and then emerged into the room as “ball lightning." Her mother quietly but firmly told everyone to freeze, as they watched the fist-sized ball move erratically across the carpet “looking” for a way to ground to earth. After what seemed like an eternity to her, it struck another pipe and was gone as quickly as it had arrived. But it left a pretty strong impression on Mme. Cailles to recall it over seventy years later.
We said good night around nine pm and I dropped quickly off to sleep. Unfortunately, my long ride in the cold rain had also weakened my resistance, for I awoke less than half an hour later with severe intestinal cramps. Over the next hour or so, I made repeated trips to the simple lavatory that was just off the cobbled courtyard. I was a wreck. Though all traces of the ratatouille had by now left my system, my body ached and I felt feverish and hung-over. To make matters worse, the bells of the church next door seemed to be ringing with excessive vigor.
Not only did they chime the hour, they repeated themselves five minutes later, lest anyone within hearing distance might have missed the first tintinnabulation (I can’t believe I actually wove that word into my blog and, yes, you’re welcome). Not only that, the bells also announced the half hour as well, though only one chime, also repeated five minutes later. Each hour, just as I hoped to drift off into oblivion, the next round would commence. First ten o’clock (twice), then eleven o’clock (twice) then midnight (twice). As I counted down the final twelve thunderous bongs of the second series, I sighed deeply. One o’clock would be a welcome respite and unlikely to forestall my slumber. And so it was; I fell into an exhausted sleep.
Until six am. At first, I thought the bells were in my dreams. They chimed six times and then continued without stopping. I kept waiting for either the bells to stop ringing, or to awaken from my dream. I finally did, but the noise went on unabated. I made a vain attempt to cover my head with the feather pillow, but nothing could muffle those bells.
I dressed and went outside into the early morning air to seek the reason for Quasimodo's concert. I made my way through the garden to the stone wall that separated our house from the church and looked into the courtyard. It was, even at this hour, filled with dozens of bazaar tables where locals were noisily selling all kinds of homemade goods.
Next I headed upstairs to the kitchen. Apparently my disheveled appearance was amusing, as the cook and her husband laughed heartily. They explained that both the bells and the bazaar were to celebrate the feast of Saint James. They had already been to church this morning.
Out on the veranda, as I breakfasted on French bread and jam, I looked out over the lake to a wondrously blue morning in the Haute Savoie and slowly achieved some perspective. Despite my trials of the day before on the Col des Marais, and the internal battle with ratatouille that raged through the night, I was still gratefully and gloriously alive. It was also Sunday – my day off – and by the time I had finished breakfast, the bells had finally ceased. I went back to my bedroom and slept until early afternoon, thankful to St. James, Madonna del Ghisallo (the patron saint of cyclists), and all the guardian angels who watch over me.
Mme. Cailles (who, by the way, was not my grandmother) told a story of when she was a little girl growing up at the Serpenoise. According to her, during one electrical storm, a bolt of lightning hit the house and, a split second later, moved down an inside gas pipe in the living room where they were sitting and then emerged into the room as “ball lightning." Her mother quietly but firmly told everyone to freeze, as they watched the fist-sized ball move erratically across the carpet “looking” for a way to ground to earth. After what seemed like an eternity to her, it struck another pipe and was gone as quickly as it had arrived. But it left a pretty strong impression on Mme. Cailles to recall it over seventy years later.
We said good night around nine pm and I dropped quickly off to sleep. Unfortunately, my long ride in the cold rain had also weakened my resistance, for I awoke less than half an hour later with severe intestinal cramps. Over the next hour or so, I made repeated trips to the simple lavatory that was just off the cobbled courtyard. I was a wreck. Though all traces of the ratatouille had by now left my system, my body ached and I felt feverish and hung-over. To make matters worse, the bells of the church next door seemed to be ringing with excessive vigor.
Not only did they chime the hour, they repeated themselves five minutes later, lest anyone within hearing distance might have missed the first tintinnabulation (I can’t believe I actually wove that word into my blog and, yes, you’re welcome). Not only that, the bells also announced the half hour as well, though only one chime, also repeated five minutes later. Each hour, just as I hoped to drift off into oblivion, the next round would commence. First ten o’clock (twice), then eleven o’clock (twice) then midnight (twice). As I counted down the final twelve thunderous bongs of the second series, I sighed deeply. One o’clock would be a welcome respite and unlikely to forestall my slumber. And so it was; I fell into an exhausted sleep.
Until six am. At first, I thought the bells were in my dreams. They chimed six times and then continued without stopping. I kept waiting for either the bells to stop ringing, or to awaken from my dream. I finally did, but the noise went on unabated. I made a vain attempt to cover my head with the feather pillow, but nothing could muffle those bells.
I dressed and went outside into the early morning air to seek the reason for Quasimodo's concert. I made my way through the garden to the stone wall that separated our house from the church and looked into the courtyard. It was, even at this hour, filled with dozens of bazaar tables where locals were noisily selling all kinds of homemade goods.
Next I headed upstairs to the kitchen. Apparently my disheveled appearance was amusing, as the cook and her husband laughed heartily. They explained that both the bells and the bazaar were to celebrate the feast of Saint James. They had already been to church this morning.
Out on the veranda, as I breakfasted on French bread and jam, I looked out over the lake to a wondrously blue morning in the Haute Savoie and slowly achieved some perspective. Despite my trials of the day before on the Col des Marais, and the internal battle with ratatouille that raged through the night, I was still gratefully and gloriously alive. It was also Sunday – my day off – and by the time I had finished breakfast, the bells had finally ceased. I went back to my bedroom and slept until early afternoon, thankful to St. James, Madonna del Ghisallo (the patron saint of cyclists), and all the guardian angels who watch over me.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Ratatouille and The Church - Part I
Living next to a church can be hell. Don’t get me wrong, I like churches. I even like church bells. Occasionally, when the atmospheric conditions are just right, I can hear the bells of Our Lady of Loretto, clear across Novato. I find the sound soothing, in an Old World way. But living next to a church can sometimes be hell, even for the faithful.
The house was smack dab in the center of Menthon, next to the church, befitting Madame Caillles’ status in the town. The Serpenoise was an impressive 3-story stone building with at least 6 bedrooms upstairs and two on the ground floor, which were occupied by the eldest grandson, Arnaud Delaubier, and myself. My room was tiny, but it was quiet and had a bed with a horsehair mattress and two French doors (okay, I suppose they were all, technically, French doors) that opened out onto the gravel patio where we played the local version of table tennis, which resembled musical chairs. I couldn’t have been better situated if I tried.
Right off the bat, I saw that I would need a bike to get around. And with Arnauld’s assistance, I acquired a well-used Mercier ten-speed from one of his buddies in Annecy. I would take it out nearly every morning for the 22-mile tour around the lake, returning in time to eat my breakfast of bread, jam and cocoa, before starting my chores. Many afternoons saw me climbing the cols (mountain passes) to our east, or clawing my way up the nearly four thousand foot massif of the Semnoz, directly across the lake from us to the west. Many of the climbs I recognize today as I watch the Tour de France on T.V.
The weather in our region was often dramatic. We had some of the heaviest rain I can remember and regular thunder storms. At times, we would sit on the veranda outside the living room and watch lightning bolts strike the summit of the Semnoz. One evening we even witnessed a pair of strikes on the gazebo at the bottom of the yard, not more than fifty yards away. Fortunately, the bad weather seldom lasted long, so I really didn’t pay much attention to it when I went out for my afternoon rides.
That is how I happened to be climbing the Col des Marais in a driving rainstorm. When the deluge hit, I was halfway into a 35 mile ride and only part way up the 2,765 foot climb. I sought refuge under a tree, but that turned out to provide little shelter, so I ventured back out onto the winding mountain road. After all, it was getting near dusk and I still had quite a ways to go. The rain was so torrential, it made me laugh out loud. It pooled on my back and sent up a veritable shower of spray from my tires. I was cycling at the bottom of a swimming pool that went clear up to the clouds.
The storm broke momentarily as I reached the summit and descended into the village of Thones, but hit again with full force as I got onto the main Route d’Annecy and rode up the Col de Bluffy, the last obstacle before descending to the lake. By this time, due to the low cloud cover, it was practically dark. Fortunately, all the traffic was heading away from the lake, so I had the descending lane all to myself. Still, as I sped down the hill with the rain in my eyes and near zero visibility, I remember repeating to myself not to get caught between a pair of headlights as cars pulled out to pass each other in the long line. The short ride along the lake back to Menthon was anti-climactic.
Mme. Cailles must have heard my arrival in the courtyard and was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. She started to admonish me for being late to supper, but then she got a good look at me - shivering and soaking wet in just my cycling shorts and jersey - and held her tongue. Instead she instructed me to get dried quickly and come up to supper. It was clear she had been very worried.
Everyone was already at table when I arrived, but Grand’mere insisted that I get some hot food into my body right away. Tales of my adventure could wait until later. And that is how I was introduced to my first bowl of ratatouille. As I ate greedily, the warm vegetable stew began to thaw my frozen body and made my battle on the Col des Marais seem very long ago and very far away.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Boy Scouts and Beatle Boots
I ran into Clifford Waldeck today, an old classmate from Tamalpais High School. We talked about mutual acquaintances from the past and also about Facebook. Yes, I did sign up for it a year or so ago, but the problem is that I’m not allowed to access my account at work, and when I get home I am so sick of computers that I can’t bring myself to log on. By now, I am also so terribly far behind on my invites that I despair. But as my old classmates continue to contact me, I wonder how far back into the past I dare go?
I had a crush on Janet Sullivan. Frankly, in third grade, I think everyone did. She had that rare combination of looks, brains, a quick wit and an off-beat sense of humor that I found alluring. I remember that she once brought a little project to the playground one day. It consisted of a simple drawing she had made of a girl wearing a dress and when you lifted the “skirt,” the girl’s derriere was revealed, which was actually two of Janet’s knuckles poking through a cut-out in the paper. I had never seen anything so clever in my life.
Both of our fathers and older brothers were involved in Boy Scouts at the time, so Janet and I were often at troop meetings together. We spent most of our time giggling and crawling around under the tables in the multi-purpose room at Strawberry Point Elementary School where the Scouts gathered. But time has a way of moving on and before long Janet joined the Brownies and then the Girl Scouts. I still have a class picture of her in her uniform. It seems so incongruous on such a free spirit. I made my way through Cub Scouts and then into the hallowed ranks of Boy Scout Troop 33, where conformity loomed.
Unlike today, when the dress code for Scouts seems to be mostly non-existent, when I joined it was a different story. You were expected to sew on your own badges (no help from mom) and every meeting started out with an inspection of each patrol by the Assistant Scoutmaster. Heaven help you if you showed up missing a uniform piece: khaki Scout pants (ironed-check!), Scout shirt (ironed-check!), web belt and regulation buckle (check!), kerchief with slide (check!), black shoes (polished-check!). The only acceptable deviation was if you had carved a kerchief slide out of something woodsy, as part of a sanctioned project. Or so we thought. Apparently, there was one other loop-hole, and I was destined to exploit it with the help of the “Fab Four.”
When the Beatles first appeared on Ed Sullivan, the Clark children begged and pleaded with our mother to let us watch the show during dinner, and she happily caved. From that point on, I was hooked. My mother’s tennis racquet from college (a wooden Dunlop “Jack Kramer” model) was put into use as a “guitar” and I started to spend all my allowance on Beatles bubble-gum cards. Naturally, I dreamt of one day actually getting to “Meet the Beatles” and perhaps even be invited to join their group despite my glaring lack of musical talent. The closest I ever got was when my sister, Kathy, went to one their last concerts at Candlestick Park, but I did convince my mother that I absolutely had to have a pair of genuine Beatle Boots.
In case you’ve never seen them, these trendy kicks were black ankle-high boots with pointy toes, an elastic insert on the outside and a zipper on the inside. This was before the era of branded merchandise, so we trundled off to Penney’s in Corte Madera to see what we could find. Lo and behold, they did have them. Unfortunately, they were cheaply made and, though they had my size, they still hurt like hell. My father, an orthopedic surgeon, would have had a fit if he had known, but I held my tongue when asked how they felt, and took my brand new purchase home.
Now that I had them, I had to figure out how to show them off. It was out of the question to wear them to school, because I would be in agony until they were broken in. Then I guessed I might just survive wearing them to the next Thursday night troop meeting. But would they be approved?
Of course none of the adults saw anything amiss as I walked in; my khaki pants covered the top of the boots. But among my peers they were a sensation. Look how high they are! No laces! Are they real Beatle boots? Are you actually allowed to wear them? As I stood for inspection I fidgeted nervously, but if the ASM noticed my anarchic cry for individuality, he didn’t say a word. I had gotten away with my openly subversive gesture.
The storm soon passed, as it did after the first bloomers made their appearance at Wimbledon or when Elvis gyrated shamelessly on T.V. Within a few months, I was not the only one sporting avant-garde British rock-star footwear in Troop 33, but I can claim to have been the first. I wonder if Janet Sullivan would have been impressed?
I had a crush on Janet Sullivan. Frankly, in third grade, I think everyone did. She had that rare combination of looks, brains, a quick wit and an off-beat sense of humor that I found alluring. I remember that she once brought a little project to the playground one day. It consisted of a simple drawing she had made of a girl wearing a dress and when you lifted the “skirt,” the girl’s derriere was revealed, which was actually two of Janet’s knuckles poking through a cut-out in the paper. I had never seen anything so clever in my life.
Both of our fathers and older brothers were involved in Boy Scouts at the time, so Janet and I were often at troop meetings together. We spent most of our time giggling and crawling around under the tables in the multi-purpose room at Strawberry Point Elementary School where the Scouts gathered. But time has a way of moving on and before long Janet joined the Brownies and then the Girl Scouts. I still have a class picture of her in her uniform. It seems so incongruous on such a free spirit. I made my way through Cub Scouts and then into the hallowed ranks of Boy Scout Troop 33, where conformity loomed.
Unlike today, when the dress code for Scouts seems to be mostly non-existent, when I joined it was a different story. You were expected to sew on your own badges (no help from mom) and every meeting started out with an inspection of each patrol by the Assistant Scoutmaster. Heaven help you if you showed up missing a uniform piece: khaki Scout pants (ironed-check!), Scout shirt (ironed-check!), web belt and regulation buckle (check!), kerchief with slide (check!), black shoes (polished-check!). The only acceptable deviation was if you had carved a kerchief slide out of something woodsy, as part of a sanctioned project. Or so we thought. Apparently, there was one other loop-hole, and I was destined to exploit it with the help of the “Fab Four.”
When the Beatles first appeared on Ed Sullivan, the Clark children begged and pleaded with our mother to let us watch the show during dinner, and she happily caved. From that point on, I was hooked. My mother’s tennis racquet from college (a wooden Dunlop “Jack Kramer” model) was put into use as a “guitar” and I started to spend all my allowance on Beatles bubble-gum cards. Naturally, I dreamt of one day actually getting to “Meet the Beatles” and perhaps even be invited to join their group despite my glaring lack of musical talent. The closest I ever got was when my sister, Kathy, went to one their last concerts at Candlestick Park, but I did convince my mother that I absolutely had to have a pair of genuine Beatle Boots.
 |
| Andy Warhol illustration of Beatle boots |
Now that I had them, I had to figure out how to show them off. It was out of the question to wear them to school, because I would be in agony until they were broken in. Then I guessed I might just survive wearing them to the next Thursday night troop meeting. But would they be approved?
Of course none of the adults saw anything amiss as I walked in; my khaki pants covered the top of the boots. But among my peers they were a sensation. Look how high they are! No laces! Are they real Beatle boots? Are you actually allowed to wear them? As I stood for inspection I fidgeted nervously, but if the ASM noticed my anarchic cry for individuality, he didn’t say a word. I had gotten away with my openly subversive gesture.
The storm soon passed, as it did after the first bloomers made their appearance at Wimbledon or when Elvis gyrated shamelessly on T.V. Within a few months, I was not the only one sporting avant-garde British rock-star footwear in Troop 33, but I can claim to have been the first. I wonder if Janet Sullivan would have been impressed?
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Noodles and Neighbors
Growing up in the Clark household, our pasta choices were confined to three basic shapes: spaghetti, elbow macaroni, and shells, with the occasional ravioli. We kept things simple, although I had a secret and unexplainable longing for spaghetti that would be somehow threaded though macaroni. I would have to wait until I was married for an indulgent wife to come up with that one. Alas, the combination was underwhelming.
But today, the choices are staggering. If you visit www.thenibble.com/reviews/main/pastas/glossary.aspI, just the list of 'C's' includes campanelle, candele, cannerozzetti, capelli, casarelli, castellane, cassuli, cavaturi, cellentani, chitarra, conchiglie, cozzetti, and the list goes on and on. I sometimes wonder if there is a secret laboratory in Italy that invents new shapes each year. If not, there should be. I simply cannot get enough of the good stuff.
I am also something of a pasta purist. My preferred way to eat spaghetti is “al burro,” which means, simply, with butter. I add salt, pepper, freshly grated parmesan cheese and a little basil, if it’s in season. And, of course, it has to be “al dente.” Few culinary tragedies can ruin my appetite as quickly as over-cooked, bloated pasta. In the times when I was single and living on a shoestring budget, it was fortuitous that my favorite thing to eat was also just about the cheapest.
But is it possible to have too much pasta? From a waistline standpoint, perhaps. But from a desire standpoint, I didn’t used to think so. That is, until I had a chance to test my love for pasta, back when I was 10 years old and living on South Knoll Road.
We had a very tightly-knit neighborhood in those days and we kids spent a good deal of time socializing, playing and eating at each other’s houses. So it was nothing unusual that I would be at the Rattos' house for lunch one Sunday after church. When lunch came, we naturally joined in and because the Rattos were Italian, we had pasta. I ate a big plate of spaghetti and didn’t say ‘no’ to another helping. Mrs. Ratto made good pasta.
Later that day, the activity moved up to my friend, Mike Baroni’s, house, where they usually had an early Sunday supper. An Italian family, another spaghetti meal. I ate my fill, and though Mike’s mother, Rita, gave me a puzzled look when I declined a second serving, I was feeling pretty smug about scoring two pasta meals in the same day. That was before I suddenly realized I had fallen afoul of the standard protocol for eating at someone else’s home: I had neglected to call my mother first. A chill ran up my greedy spine.
Usually, the call was a matter of formality. A ‘yes’ meant the adults could have a quiet evening without the kids. Sometimes, the call involved subtle investigation to determination what, exactly, were the various dining options, “Mom,” we would start, “I was just wondering what are we having for dinner tonight?” Admittedly, it lacked subtlety and felt like asking the waiter to recite the evening’s “specials,” but it occasionally helped us avoid such atrocities as Liver with Onions, and the equally heinous Cauliflower Casserole.
However, this time, I had tripped myself up. It was too late to make the call and I would have to take potluck, whatever that might be. Soon, I was the recipient of a missive to head home right away, which I did, to - you guessed it - yet another pasta dinner. Gulp. As I stared at the heaping plate placed before me by my mother (after all, she had cooked my favorite), I had to dig deep to find the room in my stomach for yet another load of noodles. I did my best, and then shuffled off to my bedroom, where I lay flat on my back and bemoaned my fate. They say that a ravenous dog has the capacity to literally eat himself to death. All I can say is that I came very close that Sunday.
But today, the choices are staggering. If you visit www.thenibble.com/reviews/main/pastas/glossary.aspI, just the list of 'C's' includes campanelle, candele, cannerozzetti, capelli, casarelli, castellane, cassuli, cavaturi, cellentani, chitarra, conchiglie, cozzetti, and the list goes on and on. I sometimes wonder if there is a secret laboratory in Italy that invents new shapes each year. If not, there should be. I simply cannot get enough of the good stuff.
I am also something of a pasta purist. My preferred way to eat spaghetti is “al burro,” which means, simply, with butter. I add salt, pepper, freshly grated parmesan cheese and a little basil, if it’s in season. And, of course, it has to be “al dente.” Few culinary tragedies can ruin my appetite as quickly as over-cooked, bloated pasta. In the times when I was single and living on a shoestring budget, it was fortuitous that my favorite thing to eat was also just about the cheapest.
But is it possible to have too much pasta? From a waistline standpoint, perhaps. But from a desire standpoint, I didn’t used to think so. That is, until I had a chance to test my love for pasta, back when I was 10 years old and living on South Knoll Road.
We had a very tightly-knit neighborhood in those days and we kids spent a good deal of time socializing, playing and eating at each other’s houses. So it was nothing unusual that I would be at the Rattos' house for lunch one Sunday after church. When lunch came, we naturally joined in and because the Rattos were Italian, we had pasta. I ate a big plate of spaghetti and didn’t say ‘no’ to another helping. Mrs. Ratto made good pasta.
Later that day, the activity moved up to my friend, Mike Baroni’s, house, where they usually had an early Sunday supper. An Italian family, another spaghetti meal. I ate my fill, and though Mike’s mother, Rita, gave me a puzzled look when I declined a second serving, I was feeling pretty smug about scoring two pasta meals in the same day. That was before I suddenly realized I had fallen afoul of the standard protocol for eating at someone else’s home: I had neglected to call my mother first. A chill ran up my greedy spine.
Usually, the call was a matter of formality. A ‘yes’ meant the adults could have a quiet evening without the kids. Sometimes, the call involved subtle investigation to determination what, exactly, were the various dining options, “Mom,” we would start, “I was just wondering what are we having for dinner tonight?” Admittedly, it lacked subtlety and felt like asking the waiter to recite the evening’s “specials,” but it occasionally helped us avoid such atrocities as Liver with Onions, and the equally heinous Cauliflower Casserole.
However, this time, I had tripped myself up. It was too late to make the call and I would have to take potluck, whatever that might be. Soon, I was the recipient of a missive to head home right away, which I did, to - you guessed it - yet another pasta dinner. Gulp. As I stared at the heaping plate placed before me by my mother (after all, she had cooked my favorite), I had to dig deep to find the room in my stomach for yet another load of noodles. I did my best, and then shuffled off to my bedroom, where I lay flat on my back and bemoaned my fate. They say that a ravenous dog has the capacity to literally eat himself to death. All I can say is that I came very close that Sunday.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Milky Ways and Mittens
“My name is Mark Clark and I am not a choco-holic.” That’s mostly true, though there are two significant exceptions. The first is the dark chocolate Scotchmallow from See’s, which often finds its way into my Christmas stocking. The second is the humble Milky Way bar, especially the mini-size, which seems to provide just the right fix of caramel and chocolate.
Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of candy around the house. That required a trip down to the grocery store, which in those days was the Bel-air Market on Blackfield Drive. It was a good mile away, but for a kid on a bike, that was a piece of cake, even if the ride back up South Knoll Road required doing the newspaper-boy weave up the really steep parts. If you were in the mood for a candy bar, but short on funds, you could also engage in a little gambling while you were there. Of course, the gumball machine out front served up your run-of-the-mill penny-chew, but there were also special yellow gumballs with red stripes that you could see through the glass dome. I don’t know if they tasted any different, but I wasn’t going to ever find out. That’s because if you were ever lucky enough to get one of those, you could take it inside to the grocery checker and trade it in for a ten-cent candy bar. I don’t know what the odds were on this clever marketing ploy/game-of-chance, but it seemed like a good deal to me.
The other place we had access to candy was when we went skiing at Tahoe, something our family did two or three times a month during the winter. Our home base was always Granlibakken (which is Norwegian for “a hill sheltered by fir trees,” in case you were wondering), a diminutive ski “resort” with only three rope tows and a quirky poma lift. But what it lacked in skiing adventure, it made up for by having the best ski lodge ever. It was constructed in 1947 by Kjell Rustad, a renowned Norwegian ski jumper and retired sea captain, whom everyone knew simply as “Rusty.” The lodge was built of enormous Lodgepole Pine logs and featured a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows facing the ski hill. There were the usual antique beer steins and decorative plates on soffits high on the wall, and many old prints.
The centerpiece was a sturdy stone fireplace with an enormous black smoke hood. Above the hood, were Rusty’s old long-skis with their leather bindings. We regarded them as impossibly primitive, even as we strapped ourselves onto our own skis with mostly non-releasable cable bindings (at least our skis had screwed-on metal edges, we thought smugly). Once each year, Rusty would don his boards for a ceremonial run straight down from the top of the 300-foot hill. We were always impressed by his bravado.
The fireplace was the natural hub of activity, especially on snowy days when half-frozen skiers fought for a spot to warm their sodden backsides. Every square inch of the smoke hood and its supporting wires would be festooned with wet ski gloves, mittens, wool hats and ski socks, all drying out in anticipation of the next foray into the cold. Though the warmth might only last for a few minutes, it was always real treat to put on a pair of mittens hot from the fireplace.
Skiing on a rope tow hill can be surprisingly tiring, even one as short as ours. Just holding onto the frozen rope as you are pulled up the hill is quite a workout. There is also hardly any down-time, since the ascent is so quick – no leisurely conversations on a slowly-moving chairlift. That meant that I took frequent breaks in the lodge, where my mother was usually ensconced in a comfy corner, wearing her blue and red Norwegian ski sweater. She would occasionally take a run or two down the mountain, but was clearly happiest in the lodge with a good book, sitting by the fire. During my breaks, I would curl up on the bench beside her and nap, or else play with my ever-present toy brick set and Match Box cars.
In addition to providing the afore-mentioned candy bars, the grill at Granlibakken was also notable for serving some of the best hamburgers ever. Even my brother, who is a true gourmand, agrees. I don’t know why that should have been so – perhaps it was the altitude, our hunger from having been out skiing all morning, the ambience, or the juke box playing “North to Alaska” for the millionth time – but whatever it was, the burgers were delicious. Even back then, when I lived on a diet of hot dogs with ketchup, I would order a hamburger at the grill behind the fireplace – just like the big kids – with French fries, a coke, and a Milky Way bar for dessert.
In a few years, I would join a ski racing team and do almost all of my skiing at the comparatively enormous Squaw Valley, with its double-diamond runs and world-class amenities. But my best days at Tahoe had already been spent in the Granlibakken lodge, whiling away a lazy Saturday afternoon with enormous snowflakes hitting the window, the distant blurs of skiers braving the elements up on the hill, and the wet-dog smell of wet woolen mittens drying by the fireplace.
Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of candy around the house. That required a trip down to the grocery store, which in those days was the Bel-air Market on Blackfield Drive. It was a good mile away, but for a kid on a bike, that was a piece of cake, even if the ride back up South Knoll Road required doing the newspaper-boy weave up the really steep parts. If you were in the mood for a candy bar, but short on funds, you could also engage in a little gambling while you were there. Of course, the gumball machine out front served up your run-of-the-mill penny-chew, but there were also special yellow gumballs with red stripes that you could see through the glass dome. I don’t know if they tasted any different, but I wasn’t going to ever find out. That’s because if you were ever lucky enough to get one of those, you could take it inside to the grocery checker and trade it in for a ten-cent candy bar. I don’t know what the odds were on this clever marketing ploy/game-of-chance, but it seemed like a good deal to me.
The other place we had access to candy was when we went skiing at Tahoe, something our family did two or three times a month during the winter. Our home base was always Granlibakken (which is Norwegian for “a hill sheltered by fir trees,” in case you were wondering), a diminutive ski “resort” with only three rope tows and a quirky poma lift. But what it lacked in skiing adventure, it made up for by having the best ski lodge ever. It was constructed in 1947 by Kjell Rustad, a renowned Norwegian ski jumper and retired sea captain, whom everyone knew simply as “Rusty.” The lodge was built of enormous Lodgepole Pine logs and featured a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows facing the ski hill. There were the usual antique beer steins and decorative plates on soffits high on the wall, and many old prints.
The centerpiece was a sturdy stone fireplace with an enormous black smoke hood. Above the hood, were Rusty’s old long-skis with their leather bindings. We regarded them as impossibly primitive, even as we strapped ourselves onto our own skis with mostly non-releasable cable bindings (at least our skis had screwed-on metal edges, we thought smugly). Once each year, Rusty would don his boards for a ceremonial run straight down from the top of the 300-foot hill. We were always impressed by his bravado.
The fireplace was the natural hub of activity, especially on snowy days when half-frozen skiers fought for a spot to warm their sodden backsides. Every square inch of the smoke hood and its supporting wires would be festooned with wet ski gloves, mittens, wool hats and ski socks, all drying out in anticipation of the next foray into the cold. Though the warmth might only last for a few minutes, it was always real treat to put on a pair of mittens hot from the fireplace.
Skiing on a rope tow hill can be surprisingly tiring, even one as short as ours. Just holding onto the frozen rope as you are pulled up the hill is quite a workout. There is also hardly any down-time, since the ascent is so quick – no leisurely conversations on a slowly-moving chairlift. That meant that I took frequent breaks in the lodge, where my mother was usually ensconced in a comfy corner, wearing her blue and red Norwegian ski sweater. She would occasionally take a run or two down the mountain, but was clearly happiest in the lodge with a good book, sitting by the fire. During my breaks, I would curl up on the bench beside her and nap, or else play with my ever-present toy brick set and Match Box cars.
In addition to providing the afore-mentioned candy bars, the grill at Granlibakken was also notable for serving some of the best hamburgers ever. Even my brother, who is a true gourmand, agrees. I don’t know why that should have been so – perhaps it was the altitude, our hunger from having been out skiing all morning, the ambience, or the juke box playing “North to Alaska” for the millionth time – but whatever it was, the burgers were delicious. Even back then, when I lived on a diet of hot dogs with ketchup, I would order a hamburger at the grill behind the fireplace – just like the big kids – with French fries, a coke, and a Milky Way bar for dessert.
In a few years, I would join a ski racing team and do almost all of my skiing at the comparatively enormous Squaw Valley, with its double-diamond runs and world-class amenities. But my best days at Tahoe had already been spent in the Granlibakken lodge, whiling away a lazy Saturday afternoon with enormous snowflakes hitting the window, the distant blurs of skiers braving the elements up on the hill, and the wet-dog smell of wet woolen mittens drying by the fireplace.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Old Men and Hats
I sat with the old men today. It wasn’t my first time. Just inside the north entrance to the Northgate Mall there are four very comfortable easy chairs arranged in a large circle. I’ve discovered that it’s a very pleasant place to eat lunch, out of the wind and warmed by the sun filtering softly through the skylights. It’s also a convenient place for wives to park their husbands while shopping at Macy’s.
The husbands, I assume, are all retired; or why else would they be at the mall on a weekday? They sit there with sadly blank expressions. They show no interest in the passing scene: the shoppers bustling to and fro, the perky teens chattering on their lunch break from nearby Terra Linda High, or even each other. Perhaps they are the chauffeurs, or perhaps their wives don’t trust them to be home alone for some reason. But there they sit. Rarely is there a book, a snack or even a newspaper.
I sometimes wonder who I will be when I get to their age. Over the years, I have had several remarkable women who showed me how to age gracefully, full of curiosity and vitality, but not many older men. There is one friend of mine, a well-known theatrical director, who once told me that he was looking forward to being a “mean, old son-of-a-bitch,” just because when you’re really old you can get away with that kind of behavior. In his case, he’s actually gone the other direction, and has ended up more of a kitten than a snarling wolverine.
I never knew one of my grandfathers, and only met the other on a couple of occasions, but there was one older almost-relative in my young life, and he was significant. He was my mother’s best-friend’s husband and was more a part of our family than just about anyone outside our home. His name was Anshall Nelson, but to us he was always just Ancy. He and his wife, Jean, made a perfect pair. Even the vanity plate on their car said so: “JEANCY.”
Ancy holds a very special place in my heart because he was my first true adult friend. He didn’t care that I was only seven or eight years old – he engaged me as a grown-up. We held grown-up conversations about what little of the world I understood. He asked me about my schoolwork in much the same way I imagined he would ask a co-worker about an ongoing project. And we pondered the unknowns together. His favorite was to pose the question: If the word “twice” means two times; and “once” means one time; then, logically, shouldn’t no-times be “nonce”? Back then, I didn’t know that nonce was, in fact, a word, but I did know that this running joke was just between us. He already had two remarkable daughters, so perhaps I was his surrogate son. As I got older, I did some gardening at their house and he was always respectful of my opinions and my work. That meant a lot to me. He died in the early eighties, and Jean left this world just a couple of years ago. She was one of those afore-mentioned remarkable women and I do miss her, but I am glad that they are together again.
There is another older man whom I have been noticing lately. If I ride my bike to work in the morning and take Novato Boulevard to Redwood Boulevard, and then up over the steep hill to Palmer – I often see him. He takes his morning stroll at that time and the first thing you notice is that he is always well turned-out, from his snap-brim hat down to his snappy walking shoes. Then, as you pass by, he will tap one finger to the brim of his hat and then point it in your direction while flashing his brilliant Maurice Chevalier smile. His face is tanned, and his wrinkles seem to be the result of a lot of smiling over the years. I don’t know his name, but he always puts a smile on my lips as I wave back, and he never fails to lift my spirits.
What I love is that through his attire and that simple gesture he declares that he is still someone who has a place in the world. For him, each day is that rare occasion – yet another morning of being alive. At my age, I have lost enough friends and relatives to begin to appreciate that sentiment.
Last summer, I took a several-week hiatus from attending my usual church. And, on the occasion of my first Sunday back, one of our congregants pulled me aside and said what a pleasure it was to see me again, that she missed the way that I always had a smile on my face. It’s funny that I don’t always realize that the smile is there, but perhaps you will see me someday, out for my morning constitutional and tipping my hat in greeting as you ride off to work.
The husbands, I assume, are all retired; or why else would they be at the mall on a weekday? They sit there with sadly blank expressions. They show no interest in the passing scene: the shoppers bustling to and fro, the perky teens chattering on their lunch break from nearby Terra Linda High, or even each other. Perhaps they are the chauffeurs, or perhaps their wives don’t trust them to be home alone for some reason. But there they sit. Rarely is there a book, a snack or even a newspaper.
I sometimes wonder who I will be when I get to their age. Over the years, I have had several remarkable women who showed me how to age gracefully, full of curiosity and vitality, but not many older men. There is one friend of mine, a well-known theatrical director, who once told me that he was looking forward to being a “mean, old son-of-a-bitch,” just because when you’re really old you can get away with that kind of behavior. In his case, he’s actually gone the other direction, and has ended up more of a kitten than a snarling wolverine.
I never knew one of my grandfathers, and only met the other on a couple of occasions, but there was one older almost-relative in my young life, and he was significant. He was my mother’s best-friend’s husband and was more a part of our family than just about anyone outside our home. His name was Anshall Nelson, but to us he was always just Ancy. He and his wife, Jean, made a perfect pair. Even the vanity plate on their car said so: “JEANCY.”
Ancy holds a very special place in my heart because he was my first true adult friend. He didn’t care that I was only seven or eight years old – he engaged me as a grown-up. We held grown-up conversations about what little of the world I understood. He asked me about my schoolwork in much the same way I imagined he would ask a co-worker about an ongoing project. And we pondered the unknowns together. His favorite was to pose the question: If the word “twice” means two times; and “once” means one time; then, logically, shouldn’t no-times be “nonce”? Back then, I didn’t know that nonce was, in fact, a word, but I did know that this running joke was just between us. He already had two remarkable daughters, so perhaps I was his surrogate son. As I got older, I did some gardening at their house and he was always respectful of my opinions and my work. That meant a lot to me. He died in the early eighties, and Jean left this world just a couple of years ago. She was one of those afore-mentioned remarkable women and I do miss her, but I am glad that they are together again.
There is another older man whom I have been noticing lately. If I ride my bike to work in the morning and take Novato Boulevard to Redwood Boulevard, and then up over the steep hill to Palmer – I often see him. He takes his morning stroll at that time and the first thing you notice is that he is always well turned-out, from his snap-brim hat down to his snappy walking shoes. Then, as you pass by, he will tap one finger to the brim of his hat and then point it in your direction while flashing his brilliant Maurice Chevalier smile. His face is tanned, and his wrinkles seem to be the result of a lot of smiling over the years. I don’t know his name, but he always puts a smile on my lips as I wave back, and he never fails to lift my spirits.
What I love is that through his attire and that simple gesture he declares that he is still someone who has a place in the world. For him, each day is that rare occasion – yet another morning of being alive. At my age, I have lost enough friends and relatives to begin to appreciate that sentiment.
Last summer, I took a several-week hiatus from attending my usual church. And, on the occasion of my first Sunday back, one of our congregants pulled me aside and said what a pleasure it was to see me again, that she missed the way that I always had a smile on my face. It’s funny that I don’t always realize that the smile is there, but perhaps you will see me someday, out for my morning constitutional and tipping my hat in greeting as you ride off to work.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Shiny Shoes and Carrots - Part II
My cowboy aspirations slowly faded after the shiny-shoes incident. On certain Halloweens, I can remember dressing up as a cowboy, simply because it was an easy costume to put together. But it would be decades before I bought another pair of cowboy boots.
That occasion was the wedding to my first wife, Beth, which took place on the set of the musical Oklahoma!, in the outdoor amphitheatre on Mt. Tamalpais. Everyone was dressed in western outfits and the consensus was that it was a pretty fine "do", as weddings go. We even went riding on our honeymoon, venturing up into the steep hills above Alpine Meadows after a rare June snowstorm.
Four years later, I surprised Beth with an all-day horseback ride from Olema to the Pacific Ocean for her 30th birthday. We rode out through eerie madrone forests, past coastal chaparral and under towering stands of bay trees. The weather and scenery were beautiful, even if my ability to trot successfully was not.
As my undercarriage repeatedly met with the unforgiving saddle, I felt as ithough I was being subjected to torture by some James Bond villain (if you've read Casino Royale, you'll know what I mean). It didn't help that when we got to the beach, both the guide and Beth (an experienced horsewoman), decided it was the ideal spot for a gallop. Apparently, my horse thought so, too. Sensing that I probably couldn't do anything about it, he gleefully took off after his two stable mates, as I held on desperately to the saddle horn. I was still persona non grata when it came to the horse population.
I remarried a couple of years later and it was my new wife, Pat, who gave my daughter, Jessica, her first riding lesson for her 7th birthday. I got her a proper helmet and little boots and she embarked on her own horsey adventure that is still going strong nine years on. At first, I was merely an observer. I drove her to the stable and sat with the other parents as her class practiced their walks and trots, her too-big helmet slipping to a jaunty angle above her brow. But as she grew in size and confidence, I was slowly absorbing knowledge, too.
I learned about trotting "diagonals" and how to see if she was on the right "lead" in the canter. I learned to hold my breath as she slid off the front of her horse when he "refused" a jump; and again when another pony decided to do an impromptu "drop and roll" exercise with her aboard, apparently practicing for the next barn fire. I also learned that my daughter was becoming a competent young horsewoman, whose ability to master a half-ton animal I envied to the bottom of my sneakers. I had long since given up the idea of wearing cowboy boots to the stables.
A couple of years ago, when we switched to the Riverside Equestrian Center, I began to take a more active part in helping her get ready for her lessons. In the interest of saving time, I learned to identify which tack she would need and what order it went on. I now know how to put on a martingale, tighten a cinch, and wrap a horse's fetlocks. I have yet to put a bridle on, as that seems a bit personal, but I do know how it should be adjusted. More significantly, I am learning to be comfortable around horses and how to make them comfortable around me.
This summer, I started taking carrots to some of my favorites in the stable, especially Llandillo, a recent import from Holland, who is a real sweetie. These last couple of weeks, I even befriended Grimm, a large black stallion whose ears always seem to be pinned back. I have been told many times that when a horse's ears are like that, it means he is upset and to stay clear. But in Grimm's case, I was intrigued; he couldn't be that upset all the time. I cautiously offered him a carrot one day and he took it gently from my open palm. He let me stroke his nose. I gave him another piece and he nuzzled me in the chest. Last weekend, I called his name and he came right over to see me, though my daughter warns me not to read too much into the gesture. She claims that there is a particular spot in a horse's surprisingly small brain that is reserved exclusively for recalling the people who bring treats.
In the final analysis, I don't know and I really don't care. While I may not be roping calves in the rodeo any time soon, I now have several horsey friends. And, hopefully, over time, the shiny shoes will be forgotten and I will become known throughout the stable, the county, the state and the world as that pretty cool guy with the carrots.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Shiny Shoes and Carrots - Part I
Nowadays, you routinely see news stories about how some elementary student has been caught at school with a concealed weapon that is “quickly confiscated by officials.” The student is expelled, the other parents are horrified, counselors are brought in, reporters do heart-felt “stand-ups” just off school property, and metal detectors sprout up to take the place of shell-shocked pre-pubescent hall monitors.
How times and reactions have changed. When I showed up at Strawberry Point Elementary School in September of 1960 for my first day of kindergarten, I was also “packing.” And we’re not talking about some puny Saturday Night Special concealed in a Davey Crockett lunch box. I had a holstered Colt 45 at my side that was fully-loaded and ready for action. But even back then, opinion prevailed that weapons had no place in the classroom, so my new teacher, Mrs. Dial, discreetly pulled me aside, informed me that toys were not to be brought to school, gently took away my gun, and let me know I could pick it up when I went home at noon.
The truth is, I never wanted to be anything other than a cowboy. Astronauts were just coming into vogue, but the uncertainty of being launched into outer space atop an exploding rocket gave me the willies. I still have the same reaction to sky-diving, bungee-jumping, hang-gliding, and most other hyphenated sports. I’m naturally scared of heights and there is just something about the all-or-nothing aspect of a controlled fall from a great elevation that makes me hesitate. No, right from the beginning I wanted to ride the range safely atop a confident and knowledgeable horse who would also be my best friend. As far as I can tell from family pictures, as soon as I got out of diapers I strapped on a gun belt. Maybe even sooner. Of course, I also had cowboy boots and a felt cowboy hat, in addition to the aforementioned “quickly-confiscated” toy gun.
Unfortunately for me, there was a distinct lack of livestock roaming the yard of our ranch-style home on South Knoll Road. I had to content myself with a yearly ride on the sleep-walking ponies at the county fair, or the two times my family actually went horse-camping in the Sierra Nevada.
My older sister, Kathy, was always the horsey one. She got to take lessons and compete in horse shows, even if she rode English saddles that came without proper saddle horns (where on earth was she planning to hang her lasso?). The only other horse I saw regularly was Blackie, the ancient sway-backed Tiburon icon, who could always be found in the exact same pasture, grazing alongside Tiburon Boulevard near the old railroad trestle. We made it a point to spot him every Sunday as we went to church at St. Hilary’s.
Our weekly visits to St. Hilary’s were the result of my adopted sister having been baptized a Catholic in Germany by her birth parents. Since the rest of our family weren’t of that faith (or any other, for that matter), it didn’t make much sense to me back then, but it did mean that I had to dress up every Sunday in clean slacks, button-down shirt, clip-on tie and shiny shoes. I politely listened to the Mass in Latin (I can still remember when they switched over to English), mumbled the hymns earnestly, puzzled over the Stations of the Cross in the stained-glass windows, and got pretty good at knowing when to kneel down and when to sit up in the pews. Beyond that, I was pretty useless in church.
One September day in 1960, as we left worship, my father announced that we wouldn’t be going directly home; he had a surprise for us. Normally, that meant stopping for donuts, or it might be time for the annual pancake breakfast down at the Bel-Air shopping center. However, since it was close to my sister’s 8th birthday, I guessed it had something to do with her.
Leaving Tiburon, we went north on US 101 through Novato and exited the highway just outside of town. Then we drove along a dirt road toward a vast open-ended Quonset hut set in a small valley. I knew where we were going now, because I had been there before. This was Meadowbrook Stables, where my sister had her weekly riding lessons. But what were we doing there on a Sunday?
We got out of the car and walked over to the nearest paddock. Of course, standing there was Kathy’s birthday present: a beautiful quarter-horse by the name of Mischief. I got very excited – we finally had a real-live horse in the family!
We walked back to the car where my dad opened the trunk and brought out all of my sister’s riding gear, which he had secretly brought for the occasion. She went off to change and I waited for the appearance of my cowboy boots, jeans and hat. Instead, he closed the trunk and went back to admire Mischief.
This simply couldn’t be happening! Here I was in the presence of a genuine horse – one who was now practically a relative – and I was shod only in shiny patent-leather shoes. I couldn’t have felt less like a cowboy if I had been wearing a pink tutu and ballet slippers. And I was mortified that this duly-appointed representative of horsedom should see me in this fashion. I stood there in shock, fighting back little cowboy tears.
I sullenly walked over to the ring, where my big sister was now mounting her new steed. I tried putting one foot up on the fence rail in true cowboy fashion, but the sight of those shiny shoes filled me with shame. Mischief glanced over my way and snorted. I don’t remember much after that, but I think I returned to the back seat of the car until the lesson was over.
I was certain that word of this cowboy attire faux-pas would quickly make the rounds of all the other horses at the stable. And though I didn’t know by what means, I was equally certain that word would somehow get out to all the horses in the county, the state, and the world. Soon, they would all hear about the wannabe with the shiny church-shoes. And they would all know that I wasn’t a real cowboy.
(To be continued.)
How times and reactions have changed. When I showed up at Strawberry Point Elementary School in September of 1960 for my first day of kindergarten, I was also “packing.” And we’re not talking about some puny Saturday Night Special concealed in a Davey Crockett lunch box. I had a holstered Colt 45 at my side that was fully-loaded and ready for action. But even back then, opinion prevailed that weapons had no place in the classroom, so my new teacher, Mrs. Dial, discreetly pulled me aside, informed me that toys were not to be brought to school, gently took away my gun, and let me know I could pick it up when I went home at noon.
The truth is, I never wanted to be anything other than a cowboy. Astronauts were just coming into vogue, but the uncertainty of being launched into outer space atop an exploding rocket gave me the willies. I still have the same reaction to sky-diving, bungee-jumping, hang-gliding, and most other hyphenated sports. I’m naturally scared of heights and there is just something about the all-or-nothing aspect of a controlled fall from a great elevation that makes me hesitate. No, right from the beginning I wanted to ride the range safely atop a confident and knowledgeable horse who would also be my best friend. As far as I can tell from family pictures, as soon as I got out of diapers I strapped on a gun belt. Maybe even sooner. Of course, I also had cowboy boots and a felt cowboy hat, in addition to the aforementioned “quickly-confiscated” toy gun.
Unfortunately for me, there was a distinct lack of livestock roaming the yard of our ranch-style home on South Knoll Road. I had to content myself with a yearly ride on the sleep-walking ponies at the county fair, or the two times my family actually went horse-camping in the Sierra Nevada.
My older sister, Kathy, was always the horsey one. She got to take lessons and compete in horse shows, even if she rode English saddles that came without proper saddle horns (where on earth was she planning to hang her lasso?). The only other horse I saw regularly was Blackie, the ancient sway-backed Tiburon icon, who could always be found in the exact same pasture, grazing alongside Tiburon Boulevard near the old railroad trestle. We made it a point to spot him every Sunday as we went to church at St. Hilary’s.
Our weekly visits to St. Hilary’s were the result of my adopted sister having been baptized a Catholic in Germany by her birth parents. Since the rest of our family weren’t of that faith (or any other, for that matter), it didn’t make much sense to me back then, but it did mean that I had to dress up every Sunday in clean slacks, button-down shirt, clip-on tie and shiny shoes. I politely listened to the Mass in Latin (I can still remember when they switched over to English), mumbled the hymns earnestly, puzzled over the Stations of the Cross in the stained-glass windows, and got pretty good at knowing when to kneel down and when to sit up in the pews. Beyond that, I was pretty useless in church.
One September day in 1960, as we left worship, my father announced that we wouldn’t be going directly home; he had a surprise for us. Normally, that meant stopping for donuts, or it might be time for the annual pancake breakfast down at the Bel-Air shopping center. However, since it was close to my sister’s 8th birthday, I guessed it had something to do with her.
Leaving Tiburon, we went north on US 101 through Novato and exited the highway just outside of town. Then we drove along a dirt road toward a vast open-ended Quonset hut set in a small valley. I knew where we were going now, because I had been there before. This was Meadowbrook Stables, where my sister had her weekly riding lessons. But what were we doing there on a Sunday?
We got out of the car and walked over to the nearest paddock. Of course, standing there was Kathy’s birthday present: a beautiful quarter-horse by the name of Mischief. I got very excited – we finally had a real-live horse in the family!
We walked back to the car where my dad opened the trunk and brought out all of my sister’s riding gear, which he had secretly brought for the occasion. She went off to change and I waited for the appearance of my cowboy boots, jeans and hat. Instead, he closed the trunk and went back to admire Mischief.
This simply couldn’t be happening! Here I was in the presence of a genuine horse – one who was now practically a relative – and I was shod only in shiny patent-leather shoes. I couldn’t have felt less like a cowboy if I had been wearing a pink tutu and ballet slippers. And I was mortified that this duly-appointed representative of horsedom should see me in this fashion. I stood there in shock, fighting back little cowboy tears.
I sullenly walked over to the ring, where my big sister was now mounting her new steed. I tried putting one foot up on the fence rail in true cowboy fashion, but the sight of those shiny shoes filled me with shame. Mischief glanced over my way and snorted. I don’t remember much after that, but I think I returned to the back seat of the car until the lesson was over.
I was certain that word of this cowboy attire faux-pas would quickly make the rounds of all the other horses at the stable. And though I didn’t know by what means, I was equally certain that word would somehow get out to all the horses in the county, the state, and the world. Soon, they would all hear about the wannabe with the shiny church-shoes. And they would all know that I wasn’t a real cowboy.
(To be continued.)
Friday, August 13, 2010
Sage Brush and Smudges
A portion of my garden is reserved for herbs. I grow Italian and French oregano, two types of thyme (nice alliteration), rosemary, and sage. The poor sage plant gets moved occasionally, as I make room for other plantings, but it doesn’t seem to mind too much. While I seldom use its leaves in my cooking, I do enjoy their strong scent, which always makes me think of Nevada.
Nevada may mean many things to many people, but for me it means rock hunting. And since I started when I was too young to drive, it means rock hunting with my father. Our favorite time to go was after a rainstorm, which were frequent in the late spring. Rain meant that dust would be washed off the exposed rock outcroppings and little streams might reveal unweathered treasures. It also meant that the desert was coming to life and sage brush was the first to make itself known, releasing its heady aroma into the warming desert air.
Our guide was a small well-thumbed paperback book (actually more of a bound pamphlet) titled Gem Trails of Nevada. It was neatly divided up into any number of possible rock-hounding expeditions, each with its own hand-drawn map and a sketchy description of how to get to the mother lode. A typical one might read something like this, “Follow this dirt road till you get to an unmarked fork, then drive in an easterly direction for four or five miles, crossing two dry river beds, until you see a large boulder on the hillside.” It always sounded simple enough, but we spent a good deal of time back-tracking and getting lost. That was okay, too.
Finally, we would arrive at what we guessed was the right spot and set out. I shouldered an army satchel that carried my rock hammer, protective goggles, gloves, magnifying glass, and my Guide to Minerals, which was full of beautiful pictures of specimens that looked nothing like what we saw in the field.
What were we looking for? Well, certainly not gems; we found precious few of those. However, anything that we could readily identify and that might look good in the collection we kept on the porch window sill was perfect. Snowflake obsidian, rose quartz, mica schist, sulphur, galena, hematite, tourmaline, feldspar, opal, iron pyrites – they were all hunted by my dad and me. Sometimes we would find lovely samples in mine tailings; at other times we would be “skunked” and return with nothing more than dirt in our cuffs and a healthy tan from having spent a satisfying day in the great outdoors. It was all good. I especially liked when we came upon miners’ claims. We would find the actual written document stashed in a rusty can nailed to a post on a hillside where someone had been optimistically digging for gold in years past. Some of them were quite old and it was pretty evident that the miner’s dreams had been given up long ago.
Not all my rock-hunting was done in the vast expanses of Nevada. There was also Tommy Heick’s driveway. Even as a young boy, I understood that the kind of rocks you might find depended on the geologic formations in the region. Obsidian was always absent from sedimentary rocks and vice versa. But in Tommy Heick’s driveway, you could often find them lying side-by-side, defying all logic of strata and tectonics. Of course, that was because Tommy’s father was a very serious rock collector and would discard his less-than-perfect specimens into the driveway. (BTW, if you happen to be living in our old family home at 38 South Knoll Road, in Mill Valley, that also explains the unusual rocks surrounding the grapefruit and lime trees below the living room window…) But, as a rock collector, I was not discerning – driveway rocks were just as good as any other. I would cart them home, attempt to identify them using my less-than-helpful Guide to Minerals, write out the common name and chemical formula of each, and add them to the collection.
Many years later, as a freshman at UC Davis, I talked my way into an upper division course in Mineralogy, something I needed as a prerequisite to Geology of the Oceans, my real goal. The lecture portion of the class was way over my head and I think I earned a B minus in it. But the lab was a different story. We started off by measuring, testing and identifying simply enormous museum-quality crystals that were as big as your fist. Then, each week, we moved on to smaller and smaller samples until we had to use magnifying loupes to correctly identify a miniscule smudge of minerals on a specimen.
Thanks to my rock-hounding trips in the hills of Nevada with my father and Saturday afternoons spent exploring the wilds of Tommy Heick’s driveway, I earned an A+ in Mineralogy Lab. I knew about smudges. In fact, I should publish a book that would present a more practical approach to rock identification. I could call it Clark’s Guide to Mineral Smudges of Nevada.
Nevada may mean many things to many people, but for me it means rock hunting. And since I started when I was too young to drive, it means rock hunting with my father. Our favorite time to go was after a rainstorm, which were frequent in the late spring. Rain meant that dust would be washed off the exposed rock outcroppings and little streams might reveal unweathered treasures. It also meant that the desert was coming to life and sage brush was the first to make itself known, releasing its heady aroma into the warming desert air.
Our guide was a small well-thumbed paperback book (actually more of a bound pamphlet) titled Gem Trails of Nevada. It was neatly divided up into any number of possible rock-hounding expeditions, each with its own hand-drawn map and a sketchy description of how to get to the mother lode. A typical one might read something like this, “Follow this dirt road till you get to an unmarked fork, then drive in an easterly direction for four or five miles, crossing two dry river beds, until you see a large boulder on the hillside.” It always sounded simple enough, but we spent a good deal of time back-tracking and getting lost. That was okay, too.
Finally, we would arrive at what we guessed was the right spot and set out. I shouldered an army satchel that carried my rock hammer, protective goggles, gloves, magnifying glass, and my Guide to Minerals, which was full of beautiful pictures of specimens that looked nothing like what we saw in the field.
What were we looking for? Well, certainly not gems; we found precious few of those. However, anything that we could readily identify and that might look good in the collection we kept on the porch window sill was perfect. Snowflake obsidian, rose quartz, mica schist, sulphur, galena, hematite, tourmaline, feldspar, opal, iron pyrites – they were all hunted by my dad and me. Sometimes we would find lovely samples in mine tailings; at other times we would be “skunked” and return with nothing more than dirt in our cuffs and a healthy tan from having spent a satisfying day in the great outdoors. It was all good. I especially liked when we came upon miners’ claims. We would find the actual written document stashed in a rusty can nailed to a post on a hillside where someone had been optimistically digging for gold in years past. Some of them were quite old and it was pretty evident that the miner’s dreams had been given up long ago.
Not all my rock-hunting was done in the vast expanses of Nevada. There was also Tommy Heick’s driveway. Even as a young boy, I understood that the kind of rocks you might find depended on the geologic formations in the region. Obsidian was always absent from sedimentary rocks and vice versa. But in Tommy Heick’s driveway, you could often find them lying side-by-side, defying all logic of strata and tectonics. Of course, that was because Tommy’s father was a very serious rock collector and would discard his less-than-perfect specimens into the driveway. (BTW, if you happen to be living in our old family home at 38 South Knoll Road, in Mill Valley, that also explains the unusual rocks surrounding the grapefruit and lime trees below the living room window…) But, as a rock collector, I was not discerning – driveway rocks were just as good as any other. I would cart them home, attempt to identify them using my less-than-helpful Guide to Minerals, write out the common name and chemical formula of each, and add them to the collection.
Many years later, as a freshman at UC Davis, I talked my way into an upper division course in Mineralogy, something I needed as a prerequisite to Geology of the Oceans, my real goal. The lecture portion of the class was way over my head and I think I earned a B minus in it. But the lab was a different story. We started off by measuring, testing and identifying simply enormous museum-quality crystals that were as big as your fist. Then, each week, we moved on to smaller and smaller samples until we had to use magnifying loupes to correctly identify a miniscule smudge of minerals on a specimen.
Thanks to my rock-hounding trips in the hills of Nevada with my father and Saturday afternoons spent exploring the wilds of Tommy Heick’s driveway, I earned an A+ in Mineralogy Lab. I knew about smudges. In fact, I should publish a book that would present a more practical approach to rock identification. I could call it Clark’s Guide to Mineral Smudges of Nevada.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Pink Shirts and Red Apples
As I approached the Kohl’s store in the Northgate Mall today, the automatic doors slid open and the out-rushing air carried with it the distinct smell of new clothes. At an almost pheromone-like level, it excited me and made me want to buy. I guess I associate whatever causes that smell (is it the sizing in the fabric?) with happy occasions – birthdays, Christmas and back-to-school shopping.
My purchase of clothes these days is somewhat limited to essentials. We are watching the budget and, more often than not, I end up deciding that I really don’t need whatever I take off the rack. That doesn’t mean I don’t shop. I still enjoy looking for something that pleases me and imagine buying it. I plan how it will fit into my wardrobe. I scrunch a sleeve to see if the fabric wrinkles too easily. I may even try it on. But it usually stays in the store.
I do like wearing new clothes, and I can remember not only where I have bought nearly everything in my closet, but when and why. I am also always looking for the perfect – whatever. Over the years, I have found the perfect ski jacket, the perfect leather coat, the perfect work slacks, and the perfect penny loafers. But, back when I was 12, I was on the hunt for the perfect shirt.
It was 1968, and my mother and I were taking a road trip up the East Coast. We did the historical tour: starting in Richmond and working our way through Jamestown, Williamsburg, Norfolk, Washington, DC, Philadelphia, New York and Boston.
In New York, we went to a Broadway show, featuring Pearl Bailey and Cab Calloway in an all-black production of Hello Dolly. The next day, my mother gave me a choice: We could either see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, or we could go to Brooks Brothers.
Now, that may not seem like too difficult a decision, but I was torn. I mean, that was a lot of shapely legs, glimpses of nether regions, and dozens of perfectly-aligned breasts. On the other hand, I had had a longing for a particular pink button-down dress shirt. I had wanted one ever since I had seen a picture of my boyhood hero, Jean-Claude Killy, wearing one while skiing down a slalom course in Val d’Isere, France. In the photo, he is wearing dark blue stretch pants and that oh-so-cool shirt. I had to have one, too.
Unfortunately, pink dress shirts were scarce back home in Marin County. Maybe you could have found one in San Francisco, but this was way before the Macy’s on Union Square started catering to the fashionable male crowd.
My decision made, we took a taxi to Madison Avenue and 44th Street and entered the biggest clothing store I had ever seen. We went up several floors and came upon more button-down Brooks Brothers shirts than I thought existed in the world. Of course they had a pink one in my size. I felt like a coin collector who had finally acquired a mint-condition 1804 Morgan silver dollar.
Back home, I couldn’t wait to wear my pink shirt, but doing so at school was problematic. First, there was the color, which would cause no end of ribald comment. Second, the shirt featured what we middle school boys referred to as a “fruit loop,” a play on words after the cereal of the same name. A fruit loop was a little tag of fabric on the back of the shirt, just below the yoke. I’m not sure what it was for. We assumed it was for hanging the shirt. If that’s the case, it was a poor design.
Anyway, the game at school was to sneak up behind your victim, grab his fruit loop and yank it off. Why? I have no idea. Sometimes it would come away cleanly. More often, it would rip a gaping hole in the back of the shirt that would have to be sewn up by a patient mother. There was no way I was going to subject my new purchase to such juvenile destruction.
My shirt made its first public appearance the following Easter, a holiday that our family usually spent at Lake Tahoe. We would decorate hats with flowers and knick-knacks from the craft store in Tahoe City and then wear our bonnets while skiing at Granlibakken, a tiny hill just outside of town. The highlight of Easter at Granlibakken was always the fun race.
Rusty, the Norwegian owner, would set a wide giant slalom course on the 300-foot-long main slope and nearly everyone participated. To make things interesting, you had to accomplish a task at each gate. One year, you had to sip from two paper cups filled with 7-Up (champagne for the adults) held in either hand – not easy when you’re breathing hard and the altitude is making the carbonated beverages even more bubbly. This year, we were supposed to pick up a red apple at each gate and transfer it to an Easter basket.
Now I was not the best skier on the hill, but there are times when being low to the ground and having nimble fingers are more important than raw speed, and this was one of them. As I flew down the course, I grabbed at the apples with my bare hands, my fingers just brushing the corn snow. I took a big chance by not slowing down at each turn – if I missed, I would have to climb back up – but this was an all-or-nothing run for me. Pick up an apple with the left hand, place it into the basket held in the right. Then transfer the basket to the left hand between gates to free up the right for the next apple. It all had to work seamlessly.
Somehow, it did, and I won. I can’t recall if received a prize other than bragging rights for the rest of the day, but that was enough for me. It would be nice to recount how that race eventually led to a spot on the U.S. Olympic team, but of course, it didn’t. However, for that one sunny Easter in Tahoe, I was top dog at Granlibakken and proudly wearing the same pink shirt as Jean-Claude Killy.
My purchase of clothes these days is somewhat limited to essentials. We are watching the budget and, more often than not, I end up deciding that I really don’t need whatever I take off the rack. That doesn’t mean I don’t shop. I still enjoy looking for something that pleases me and imagine buying it. I plan how it will fit into my wardrobe. I scrunch a sleeve to see if the fabric wrinkles too easily. I may even try it on. But it usually stays in the store.
I do like wearing new clothes, and I can remember not only where I have bought nearly everything in my closet, but when and why. I am also always looking for the perfect – whatever. Over the years, I have found the perfect ski jacket, the perfect leather coat, the perfect work slacks, and the perfect penny loafers. But, back when I was 12, I was on the hunt for the perfect shirt.
It was 1968, and my mother and I were taking a road trip up the East Coast. We did the historical tour: starting in Richmond and working our way through Jamestown, Williamsburg, Norfolk, Washington, DC, Philadelphia, New York and Boston.
In New York, we went to a Broadway show, featuring Pearl Bailey and Cab Calloway in an all-black production of Hello Dolly. The next day, my mother gave me a choice: We could either see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, or we could go to Brooks Brothers.
Now, that may not seem like too difficult a decision, but I was torn. I mean, that was a lot of shapely legs, glimpses of nether regions, and dozens of perfectly-aligned breasts. On the other hand, I had had a longing for a particular pink button-down dress shirt. I had wanted one ever since I had seen a picture of my boyhood hero, Jean-Claude Killy, wearing one while skiing down a slalom course in Val d’Isere, France. In the photo, he is wearing dark blue stretch pants and that oh-so-cool shirt. I had to have one, too.
Unfortunately, pink dress shirts were scarce back home in Marin County. Maybe you could have found one in San Francisco, but this was way before the Macy’s on Union Square started catering to the fashionable male crowd.
My decision made, we took a taxi to Madison Avenue and 44th Street and entered the biggest clothing store I had ever seen. We went up several floors and came upon more button-down Brooks Brothers shirts than I thought existed in the world. Of course they had a pink one in my size. I felt like a coin collector who had finally acquired a mint-condition 1804 Morgan silver dollar.
Back home, I couldn’t wait to wear my pink shirt, but doing so at school was problematic. First, there was the color, which would cause no end of ribald comment. Second, the shirt featured what we middle school boys referred to as a “fruit loop,” a play on words after the cereal of the same name. A fruit loop was a little tag of fabric on the back of the shirt, just below the yoke. I’m not sure what it was for. We assumed it was for hanging the shirt. If that’s the case, it was a poor design.
Anyway, the game at school was to sneak up behind your victim, grab his fruit loop and yank it off. Why? I have no idea. Sometimes it would come away cleanly. More often, it would rip a gaping hole in the back of the shirt that would have to be sewn up by a patient mother. There was no way I was going to subject my new purchase to such juvenile destruction.
My shirt made its first public appearance the following Easter, a holiday that our family usually spent at Lake Tahoe. We would decorate hats with flowers and knick-knacks from the craft store in Tahoe City and then wear our bonnets while skiing at Granlibakken, a tiny hill just outside of town. The highlight of Easter at Granlibakken was always the fun race.
Rusty, the Norwegian owner, would set a wide giant slalom course on the 300-foot-long main slope and nearly everyone participated. To make things interesting, you had to accomplish a task at each gate. One year, you had to sip from two paper cups filled with 7-Up (champagne for the adults) held in either hand – not easy when you’re breathing hard and the altitude is making the carbonated beverages even more bubbly. This year, we were supposed to pick up a red apple at each gate and transfer it to an Easter basket.
Now I was not the best skier on the hill, but there are times when being low to the ground and having nimble fingers are more important than raw speed, and this was one of them. As I flew down the course, I grabbed at the apples with my bare hands, my fingers just brushing the corn snow. I took a big chance by not slowing down at each turn – if I missed, I would have to climb back up – but this was an all-or-nothing run for me. Pick up an apple with the left hand, place it into the basket held in the right. Then transfer the basket to the left hand between gates to free up the right for the next apple. It all had to work seamlessly.
Somehow, it did, and I won. I can’t recall if received a prize other than bragging rights for the rest of the day, but that was enough for me. It would be nice to recount how that race eventually led to a spot on the U.S. Olympic team, but of course, it didn’t. However, for that one sunny Easter in Tahoe, I was top dog at Granlibakken and proudly wearing the same pink shirt as Jean-Claude Killy.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Books and Stars
The power went out last night. I was in the middle of preparing dinner for my daughter, Jessica, and myself, since Pat was off in the East Bay at a gospel singing workshop. The potatoes and green beans from our garden finished their steaming and were seasoned rather casually by flashlight. I collected a couple of fluorescent camp lanterns from the garage and we sat down to a quiet dinner without any of the usual distractions.
Typically, summer blackouts in our neighborhood are relatively short, lasting just five or ten minutes. But this was something else. As night fell and the lights refused to come back on, we took the opportunity to catch Jessica up on her summer reading. She had been slogging her way through Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and still had some eighty-five pages left.
We took opposite ends of the couch, draped a blanket over our legs, installed her dog, Zoe, in the middle, and took turns reading, tilting the book toward the lanterns for light. If you’ve never read this classic before, or if your memory of high school English has grown dim with the years, the last few chapters are where their long struggles come to a head: Rose of Sharon is getting ready to have her baby, Tom has killed a man and is hiding out, and the Joads have run into a bit of good fortune picking cotton and are living in a rather luxurious (for them) boxcar. All too suddenly, the picking runs out, Tom has to flee, torrential rains come, and Rose of Sharon loses her baby.
As we read in the silence, the darkness folded around our two little lamps. It was almost as if we were sharing the unlit boxcar with the Joads. I can’t recall reading and having the drama build so convincingly and thoroughly. We even took a break to go outside and admire the Milky Way stretching across the starlit sky – something we normally can’t do in Novato, except during a blackout.
The pages flew past as the flood began to rise up the walkway of the Joads’ boxcar. The men try to build a mud dike to hold the back the stream, but a tree breaches it. They take planks from the bed of their truck to build a raised platform inside the boxcar, but still the water rises relentlessly. Finally Ma Joad calls it quits and they wade out of the encampment to higher ground, with only the clothes on their back. I won’t spoil the last scene (in case you want to go back and re-read it), but when we got to the final line – “She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously,” – the evening was utterly complete.
Reading to Jessica and having her read to me have always been two of my favorite things to do. But this night was extra-special, bringing back wonderful memories of when my mother would read bedtime stories.
I was probably 11 or 12 and had accompanied her to the bookstore on Throckmorton Avenue in Mill Valley. As she browsed, she told me to pick out something for myself. At the time, I was heavily into archaeology and paleontology. Having read everything on the subject in my middle school, I had moved on to more advanced texts from the public library. I suppose she guessed I would pick something on the subject. Instead, I was drawn to a children’s book: Walter the Lazy Mouse, by Marjorie Flack. I brought it to her at the cash register and she raised her eyebrows just a fraction. “Is this what you really want?” I assured her it was and that was it, no more questions. I liked that about her: She accepted life’s little inconsistencies and moved on. If I wanted to delay adulthood just a little bit longer, that was okay with her.
That night, I asked her to read it to me and, this time, there were no questions. Of course, that was what I had wanted in the first place – to recapture just a little bit of something we both thought was long gone. She finished the short book and then kissed me good night. That may have been the last time she read to me like that, and it sits in my memory like a jewel.
Typically, summer blackouts in our neighborhood are relatively short, lasting just five or ten minutes. But this was something else. As night fell and the lights refused to come back on, we took the opportunity to catch Jessica up on her summer reading. She had been slogging her way through Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and still had some eighty-five pages left.
We took opposite ends of the couch, draped a blanket over our legs, installed her dog, Zoe, in the middle, and took turns reading, tilting the book toward the lanterns for light. If you’ve never read this classic before, or if your memory of high school English has grown dim with the years, the last few chapters are where their long struggles come to a head: Rose of Sharon is getting ready to have her baby, Tom has killed a man and is hiding out, and the Joads have run into a bit of good fortune picking cotton and are living in a rather luxurious (for them) boxcar. All too suddenly, the picking runs out, Tom has to flee, torrential rains come, and Rose of Sharon loses her baby.
As we read in the silence, the darkness folded around our two little lamps. It was almost as if we were sharing the unlit boxcar with the Joads. I can’t recall reading and having the drama build so convincingly and thoroughly. We even took a break to go outside and admire the Milky Way stretching across the starlit sky – something we normally can’t do in Novato, except during a blackout.
The pages flew past as the flood began to rise up the walkway of the Joads’ boxcar. The men try to build a mud dike to hold the back the stream, but a tree breaches it. They take planks from the bed of their truck to build a raised platform inside the boxcar, but still the water rises relentlessly. Finally Ma Joad calls it quits and they wade out of the encampment to higher ground, with only the clothes on their back. I won’t spoil the last scene (in case you want to go back and re-read it), but when we got to the final line – “She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously,” – the evening was utterly complete.
Reading to Jessica and having her read to me have always been two of my favorite things to do. But this night was extra-special, bringing back wonderful memories of when my mother would read bedtime stories.
I was probably 11 or 12 and had accompanied her to the bookstore on Throckmorton Avenue in Mill Valley. As she browsed, she told me to pick out something for myself. At the time, I was heavily into archaeology and paleontology. Having read everything on the subject in my middle school, I had moved on to more advanced texts from the public library. I suppose she guessed I would pick something on the subject. Instead, I was drawn to a children’s book: Walter the Lazy Mouse, by Marjorie Flack. I brought it to her at the cash register and she raised her eyebrows just a fraction. “Is this what you really want?” I assured her it was and that was it, no more questions. I liked that about her: She accepted life’s little inconsistencies and moved on. If I wanted to delay adulthood just a little bit longer, that was okay with her.
That night, I asked her to read it to me and, this time, there were no questions. Of course, that was what I had wanted in the first place – to recapture just a little bit of something we both thought was long gone. She finished the short book and then kissed me good night. That may have been the last time she read to me like that, and it sits in my memory like a jewel.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Cookie Pouches and Nut Cups
What kid doesn’t live for cookies? My mother, an otherwise adventurous shopper and cook, was pretty conservative when it came to our own supply, which she always bought from the store. Her selection consisted primarily of vanilla wafers, pink and white frosted animal crackers, ginger snaps, chocolate chip cookies, and Oreos. I was always an Oreos man but, in a pinch, I would also consume Hydrox, even though I convinced myself I could tell the difference. Like many others, I enjoyed the possibilities presented by the three-layered “sandwich” cookie. For the record, I liked to twist the two halves apart, lick off all the cream filling, and then let each chocolate wafer stay in my mouth until it got all soggy. My attention to detail definitely made each snack last longer.
My summers were mostly spent exploring our large backyard. While I wasn't an only-child, my brother and sister were four years my senior, so I was left to my own devices most of the time. And that suited me fine, especially when I was just six years old. There was a lot to do back there. I hunted for hidden treasures. There were bugs to watch and juicy Santa Rosa plums to eat off our tree. Then there were my Tonka trucks and tractors. I could spend hours upon hours making roads and generally landscaping the bare hillside, motor sound effects included. As an aside: Is making sound effects while playing with toys a totally guy thing? I never recall my girl friend (not girlfriend), Lynny Montgomery, making sound effects when playing with our dolls (yes, our dolls). Anyway, if there had been a recent delivery of a few yards of landscaping soil or sand, then I was in little-boy heaven.
My usual attire was corduroy pants with the cuffs rolled up and a short-sleeved button-front shirt. But the most distinctive accessory was an official army-issue green webbed belt that my father had acquired in the National Guard. It featured sturdy grommets from which you could hang other cool stuff. In my case, I added a steel canteen with thick canvas cover, and a small canvas bag, no more than six by eight inches and bearing a white first aid cross, both of which attached to the belt with little hooks. I doubt that the first aid bag was ever used for that purpose. Since the very beginning, it was known simply as “Mark’s cookie pouch.”
Each day I would venture forth, but not until my mother made sure I had something in my cookie pouch, lest I become faint during my treks into the wilds of 38 South Knoll and be overtaken by ravenous hyenas (I suppose, in that regard, it really was a first aid pouch.). Naturally, cookies fit the bill perfectly, being the food staple of six year-old boys everywhere. On a more practical note, my mother probably thought that by supplying me in advance with a mid-morning snack, she could have some peace and quiet until at least lunchtime. Oreos made a regular appearance in the cookie pouch, being sturdy enough to withstand the rigors of my backyard safaris.
Did my mother ever make homemade cookies? Not that I can recall. The designated baker in our neighborhood was Mrs. Gallagher, mother to my two best friends, Scott and Steven, who happened to be twins. On the occasions when I would have a play date at their house at the other end of South Knoll, I would always look forward to their mother’s cookies, often served fresh out of the oven. Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, or peanut butter with the traditional fork-marks crisscrossing the top; they transcended my family’s store-bought cookies in the way a live concert transcends even the best recording. For decades after, we would eagerly await the arrival of Mrs. Gallagher’s annual holiday basket, which was filled with a tantalizing variety of fresh-baked treats. Especially her tiny nut cups that were so delicious. Those always went quickly.
But what I didn’t know until I became an adult was that all the time the Clark kids had been craving Mrs. Gallagher’s home-baked goods, all three Gallagher kids had been pestering their mom to buy store-bought cookies, just like Mrs. Clark’s. They wanted Oreos desperately, but the only place they could get their fix was at our house.
Perhaps it was pride that made Mrs. Gallagher insist on home-made, perhaps it was economics; or perhaps she knew, even back then, that all those additives in store-bought can’t be that good for you, but she heroically held the line. As for me, little did I realize at the time that the contents of my army-issue cookie pouch had had enormous street value. In retrospect, I could have parlayed my humble Oreo stash into a vast home-made cookie fortune at the age of six. If only I had known.
My summers were mostly spent exploring our large backyard. While I wasn't an only-child, my brother and sister were four years my senior, so I was left to my own devices most of the time. And that suited me fine, especially when I was just six years old. There was a lot to do back there. I hunted for hidden treasures. There were bugs to watch and juicy Santa Rosa plums to eat off our tree. Then there were my Tonka trucks and tractors. I could spend hours upon hours making roads and generally landscaping the bare hillside, motor sound effects included. As an aside: Is making sound effects while playing with toys a totally guy thing? I never recall my girl friend (not girlfriend), Lynny Montgomery, making sound effects when playing with our dolls (yes, our dolls). Anyway, if there had been a recent delivery of a few yards of landscaping soil or sand, then I was in little-boy heaven.
My usual attire was corduroy pants with the cuffs rolled up and a short-sleeved button-front shirt. But the most distinctive accessory was an official army-issue green webbed belt that my father had acquired in the National Guard. It featured sturdy grommets from which you could hang other cool stuff. In my case, I added a steel canteen with thick canvas cover, and a small canvas bag, no more than six by eight inches and bearing a white first aid cross, both of which attached to the belt with little hooks. I doubt that the first aid bag was ever used for that purpose. Since the very beginning, it was known simply as “Mark’s cookie pouch.”
Each day I would venture forth, but not until my mother made sure I had something in my cookie pouch, lest I become faint during my treks into the wilds of 38 South Knoll and be overtaken by ravenous hyenas (I suppose, in that regard, it really was a first aid pouch.). Naturally, cookies fit the bill perfectly, being the food staple of six year-old boys everywhere. On a more practical note, my mother probably thought that by supplying me in advance with a mid-morning snack, she could have some peace and quiet until at least lunchtime. Oreos made a regular appearance in the cookie pouch, being sturdy enough to withstand the rigors of my backyard safaris.
Did my mother ever make homemade cookies? Not that I can recall. The designated baker in our neighborhood was Mrs. Gallagher, mother to my two best friends, Scott and Steven, who happened to be twins. On the occasions when I would have a play date at their house at the other end of South Knoll, I would always look forward to their mother’s cookies, often served fresh out of the oven. Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, or peanut butter with the traditional fork-marks crisscrossing the top; they transcended my family’s store-bought cookies in the way a live concert transcends even the best recording. For decades after, we would eagerly await the arrival of Mrs. Gallagher’s annual holiday basket, which was filled with a tantalizing variety of fresh-baked treats. Especially her tiny nut cups that were so delicious. Those always went quickly.
But what I didn’t know until I became an adult was that all the time the Clark kids had been craving Mrs. Gallagher’s home-baked goods, all three Gallagher kids had been pestering their mom to buy store-bought cookies, just like Mrs. Clark’s. They wanted Oreos desperately, but the only place they could get their fix was at our house.
Perhaps it was pride that made Mrs. Gallagher insist on home-made, perhaps it was economics; or perhaps she knew, even back then, that all those additives in store-bought can’t be that good for you, but she heroically held the line. As for me, little did I realize at the time that the contents of my army-issue cookie pouch had had enormous street value. In retrospect, I could have parlayed my humble Oreo stash into a vast home-made cookie fortune at the age of six. If only I had known.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Pirates and Daughters
I love theatre. I love rehearsals. I love the feeling of the stage beneath my feet. I love that giddy high as you wait in the wings for the orchestra to finish the overture. But theatre can also be an enormous time-suck. Even the shortest run means you will be away from loved ones for at least two months; four, five, or even six nights a week. That is why I pared my theatre activities down to almost zero when my daughter, Jessica started high school two years ago. This time spent with her between middle school and college is more precious to me than gold.
But, on a recent vacation to the East Coast, she saw her first Broadway show, In the Heights, featuring Corbin Bleu, the star from High School Musical. Not only that, we were invited to go backstage by one of the cast members. Naturally, it stirred powerful greasepaint longings in me, but it also prompted Jessica to express her desire to be in a show with me once more, something we haven’t done together since I directed her in The Sound of Music when she was only 9 (she played the bookish daughter, Brigitta, and did a lovely job, thank you very much).
That is how we found ourselves auditioning last weekend for a community theatre production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance. We were certainly out of our league when it came to the singing try-outs, even though I used to be in musicals in college. But that was 26 years ago and, alas, my voice is no longer trained. My daughter is also untrained and her voice was largely an unknown quantity. The audition was held in a church community room and I was the first one up. I sang "If I Only Had a Brain," the Scarecrow’s song from The Wizard of Oz, a role that I had played at the Drama Studio London. I remember my mother being delighted when she saw me perform, especially since I got to “dance up the wall” at one point in the show. As I sang for the director, I flashed back to the time I auditioned for my very first musical, Guys and Dolls, at the UC Davis Musical Theatre.
That was back in 1977. I had never done anything like it before and I was terrified. I sang the easiest song I knew, Gary Indiana, from The Music Man, and butchered it. But they obviously were desperate for male chorus members, so the let me do the dance tryouts, too. Our first task was to do a low jazz walk across the stage, with our “arms in opposition.” Now, I’m generally a pretty smart guy, but I could not figure out what that meant. In opposition to what? Somehow, I managed to waddle my way across the floor, swinging my arms not in opposition, but in the direct opposite of that. Imagine stepping out on your right foot and simultaneously swinging your right arm forward. Better yet, stop reading this and give it a try. See what I mean? If there is a more spastic way to walk, then I have yet to see it. In fact, I have used that particular walk on stage a couple of times since then, when the role called for a disturbing lack of coordination. It may not come as a surprise that I wasn't cast in that particular show. However, the humiliation did prompt me to spend the rest of the school year signing up for singing lessons, acting classes and dance instruction, which led to over 33 years in the business; so something good did come out of it.
Back to the auditions. When it was Jessica’s turn to sing, I was probably more nervous than she. But I needn’t have worried. As she launched into her song, "Part of Your World" from The Little Mermaid, I was delighted that her voice, though not as strong as some of the other girls, was pure, on pitch, and confident. She did just fine and I couldn’t have been happier. The producer even sent me an e-mail afterward saying that the look I had on my face during her audition was “absolutely priceless” and had left her feeling “verklempt.” It’s true. I was so proud of her for getting up there and taking her best shot.
Next, we were divided up into vocal groups and learned a short harmony piece. Unfortunately, Jessica was put with the sopranos and floundered. I did my best, but certainly didn’t impress. Then on to the dance routine. It didn’t seem too difficult to me, but Jessica again had a hard time of it. A tall man in front of her blocked her view of the choreographer, and she experienced that same unexplainable lack of coordination that I remembered, oh, so well. She was lost in the weeds. As we drove home, her tears flowed and we agreed that we were glad we had auditioned, but since we obviously weren’t going to be in the show, we would no longer speak of it and, instead, plan other fun activities this fall.
But sometimes life throws a curve at you. This morning, we discovered that we had both been invited to callback auditions for the roles of pirates/cops. At this point, I can't think of anything more fun than being in a Gilbert and Sullivan chorus with my daughter. She would easily take the prize for the cutest pirate in the show. Callbacks are this coming Saturday. Wish us luck.
But, on a recent vacation to the East Coast, she saw her first Broadway show, In the Heights, featuring Corbin Bleu, the star from High School Musical. Not only that, we were invited to go backstage by one of the cast members. Naturally, it stirred powerful greasepaint longings in me, but it also prompted Jessica to express her desire to be in a show with me once more, something we haven’t done together since I directed her in The Sound of Music when she was only 9 (she played the bookish daughter, Brigitta, and did a lovely job, thank you very much).
That is how we found ourselves auditioning last weekend for a community theatre production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance. We were certainly out of our league when it came to the singing try-outs, even though I used to be in musicals in college. But that was 26 years ago and, alas, my voice is no longer trained. My daughter is also untrained and her voice was largely an unknown quantity. The audition was held in a church community room and I was the first one up. I sang "If I Only Had a Brain," the Scarecrow’s song from The Wizard of Oz, a role that I had played at the Drama Studio London. I remember my mother being delighted when she saw me perform, especially since I got to “dance up the wall” at one point in the show. As I sang for the director, I flashed back to the time I auditioned for my very first musical, Guys and Dolls, at the UC Davis Musical Theatre.
That was back in 1977. I had never done anything like it before and I was terrified. I sang the easiest song I knew, Gary Indiana, from The Music Man, and butchered it. But they obviously were desperate for male chorus members, so the let me do the dance tryouts, too. Our first task was to do a low jazz walk across the stage, with our “arms in opposition.” Now, I’m generally a pretty smart guy, but I could not figure out what that meant. In opposition to what? Somehow, I managed to waddle my way across the floor, swinging my arms not in opposition, but in the direct opposite of that. Imagine stepping out on your right foot and simultaneously swinging your right arm forward. Better yet, stop reading this and give it a try. See what I mean? If there is a more spastic way to walk, then I have yet to see it. In fact, I have used that particular walk on stage a couple of times since then, when the role called for a disturbing lack of coordination. It may not come as a surprise that I wasn't cast in that particular show. However, the humiliation did prompt me to spend the rest of the school year signing up for singing lessons, acting classes and dance instruction, which led to over 33 years in the business; so something good did come out of it.
Back to the auditions. When it was Jessica’s turn to sing, I was probably more nervous than she. But I needn’t have worried. As she launched into her song, "Part of Your World" from The Little Mermaid, I was delighted that her voice, though not as strong as some of the other girls, was pure, on pitch, and confident. She did just fine and I couldn’t have been happier. The producer even sent me an e-mail afterward saying that the look I had on my face during her audition was “absolutely priceless” and had left her feeling “verklempt.” It’s true. I was so proud of her for getting up there and taking her best shot.
Next, we were divided up into vocal groups and learned a short harmony piece. Unfortunately, Jessica was put with the sopranos and floundered. I did my best, but certainly didn’t impress. Then on to the dance routine. It didn’t seem too difficult to me, but Jessica again had a hard time of it. A tall man in front of her blocked her view of the choreographer, and she experienced that same unexplainable lack of coordination that I remembered, oh, so well. She was lost in the weeds. As we drove home, her tears flowed and we agreed that we were glad we had auditioned, but since we obviously weren’t going to be in the show, we would no longer speak of it and, instead, plan other fun activities this fall.
But sometimes life throws a curve at you. This morning, we discovered that we had both been invited to callback auditions for the roles of pirates/cops. At this point, I can't think of anything more fun than being in a Gilbert and Sullivan chorus with my daughter. She would easily take the prize for the cutest pirate in the show. Callbacks are this coming Saturday. Wish us luck.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Tigers and Cows
In my medicine cabinet, on the top shelf, is a small glass jar of Tiger Balm. The lid is rusty from all the moisture in the bathroom and the label is practically illegible. But the smell is as pungent as ever and a friendly reminder that some kinds of pain can also be quite pleasurable.
I have ridden racing bikes since I purchased my first one in Paris on my sixteenth birthday (that, in itself, is another story). There was a succession of bikes, but then a long gap of some twenty-four years between the bike I had in college and the one I purchased at the ripe old age of 44. Of course, things had changed a lot since then. Ten speeds had become twenty. Shifters had moved from the down-tube up to the brake levers. And toe clips – which required a deft hand to release if one wanted to avoid toppling unceremoniously at stop lights – had been replaced with clipless pedals (a vast improvement). And I had changed, too.
Actually, the new bike was the result of my leading a rather sedentary life as a trade show manager for The Learning Company. I had returned in the spring of 1999 from eating my way through yet another educational technology conference in Orlando to find that my weight had ballooned up to a startling (for me) 178 pounds. I decided to give myself an incentive to get back into shape and four months later I had pared down to my arbitrary goal of just under 155. Soon, I was also a couple of thousand dollars lighter, with a brand new bike, cycling shoes, gloves, shorts and jersey. In the photo my wife, Pat, took of the occasion, I am practically beaming.
Naturally, I had to try it out the new steed, so I called in sick and headed out into West Marin. It took me a while to get used to the new shifters, but before long I was going uphill and down, through small towns and past scores of appreciative cattle. It didn’t hurt that the bike looked sharp, too. I stopped at my friend, Steve Boughton’s, dentist practice in Forest Knolls to let him admire my purchase, then rode back to Novato where I decided to drop by my office, too. Apparently, the fact that I was “sick,” yet had just ridden 55 hilly miles, was not that big of an issue. They were impressed and happy for me.
However, that night I realized my enthusiasm had clearly outstripped my fitness level. My knees were very, very sore. I downed some ibuprofen and then spied the jar of Tiger Balm on the top shelf. I had never thought of using it until now, but I was in the market for some immediate relief – as promised on the label. As I dipped two fingers into the jar, I tried not to think of having seen my primary physician do something similar recently, prior to a rather personal exam. Then I massaged liberal amounts into the back of both knees and waited. Not for long, though. As the heat rose, I became momentarily alarmed at the unexpected burning sensation, then pleasantly surprised as the cooling menthol came in delicious waves. Pain leading to pleasure. In my mind, I was on my way to being cured.
Since that time, I have had my bike position adjusted professionally, so I seldom experience that same type of knee pain. But I do occasionally reach for the jar of Tiger Balm to sooth wounded muscles after a big day on the bike.
There is a tremendous satisfaction after returning from an epic ride. The initial exhaustion is soon replaced by the high of endorphins released during the effort. It one of the most singularly satisfying feelings I know. Ever since that day, the smell of Tiger Balm has reminded me of that heady first day on the new bike. And it also reminds me to challenge myself often enough to “feel the burn” while my body is still up to the challenge.
I have ridden racing bikes since I purchased my first one in Paris on my sixteenth birthday (that, in itself, is another story). There was a succession of bikes, but then a long gap of some twenty-four years between the bike I had in college and the one I purchased at the ripe old age of 44. Of course, things had changed a lot since then. Ten speeds had become twenty. Shifters had moved from the down-tube up to the brake levers. And toe clips – which required a deft hand to release if one wanted to avoid toppling unceremoniously at stop lights – had been replaced with clipless pedals (a vast improvement). And I had changed, too.
Actually, the new bike was the result of my leading a rather sedentary life as a trade show manager for The Learning Company. I had returned in the spring of 1999 from eating my way through yet another educational technology conference in Orlando to find that my weight had ballooned up to a startling (for me) 178 pounds. I decided to give myself an incentive to get back into shape and four months later I had pared down to my arbitrary goal of just under 155. Soon, I was also a couple of thousand dollars lighter, with a brand new bike, cycling shoes, gloves, shorts and jersey. In the photo my wife, Pat, took of the occasion, I am practically beaming.
Naturally, I had to try it out the new steed, so I called in sick and headed out into West Marin. It took me a while to get used to the new shifters, but before long I was going uphill and down, through small towns and past scores of appreciative cattle. It didn’t hurt that the bike looked sharp, too. I stopped at my friend, Steve Boughton’s, dentist practice in Forest Knolls to let him admire my purchase, then rode back to Novato where I decided to drop by my office, too. Apparently, the fact that I was “sick,” yet had just ridden 55 hilly miles, was not that big of an issue. They were impressed and happy for me.
However, that night I realized my enthusiasm had clearly outstripped my fitness level. My knees were very, very sore. I downed some ibuprofen and then spied the jar of Tiger Balm on the top shelf. I had never thought of using it until now, but I was in the market for some immediate relief – as promised on the label. As I dipped two fingers into the jar, I tried not to think of having seen my primary physician do something similar recently, prior to a rather personal exam. Then I massaged liberal amounts into the back of both knees and waited. Not for long, though. As the heat rose, I became momentarily alarmed at the unexpected burning sensation, then pleasantly surprised as the cooling menthol came in delicious waves. Pain leading to pleasure. In my mind, I was on my way to being cured.
Since that time, I have had my bike position adjusted professionally, so I seldom experience that same type of knee pain. But I do occasionally reach for the jar of Tiger Balm to sooth wounded muscles after a big day on the bike.
There is a tremendous satisfaction after returning from an epic ride. The initial exhaustion is soon replaced by the high of endorphins released during the effort. It one of the most singularly satisfying feelings I know. Ever since that day, the smell of Tiger Balm has reminded me of that heady first day on the new bike. And it also reminds me to challenge myself often enough to “feel the burn” while my body is still up to the challenge.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Dogs and Tomatoes
I’ve read that there are some people who not only tolerate, but actually enjoy certain unpleasant scents, even something as potent as skunk spray. Others simply can’t stand the smell. I am probably somewhere in the middle on that one. A bit of odor wafting in the warm summer eve is a good reminder that wild animals still live surreptitiously among us. It is also a good reminder to close the dog door, all the better to avoid close encounters of the stripe-y kind. Up until 1994, I had never been close enough to a skunk to really form much of an opinion, one way or the other.
Our dog, Higgins (kind of a cross between a corgi and a beagle), was doing what he always did best – keeping our back yard safe from squirrels, cats, and the occasional startled raccoon family. It was fun to point out the living room picture window and exclaim in mock alarm, “Ghost Cat!,” which would send him charging out the back door and racing up the stone steps that led to the top of the yard behind our house on Via Herbosa in Ignacio. He got his exercise, we had a good laugh and all would be well.
That fateful night, however, there was a frantic barking in the unlit back yard. Not your usual “I’m just checking in” twilight woof, but a new voice that seemed to be announcing, “Captain! Captain! The alien ship has landed!” Just as I reached the sliding patio door and pulled back the screen, the barking was replaced by a shrill yelp, and Higgins shot toward me like a bullet, from the general direction of the fig tree, where intruding animals often sought refuge. Even before he got halfway, I caught a whiff of his new eau de cologne and instinctively slid the door shut. Then the wave hit.
If you have never been in close proximity to a sprayed animal, let me tell you, the stench is indescribable. Naturally, that won’t stop me from trying. The surprising part is that you might be expecting some sort of powerfully earthy, organic smell. But no. The smell of skunk spray close up is pure evil, pure chemical, like a pesticide factory exploding inside your sinuses. It immediately turns your stomach and causes an excruciating headache. And the worst part is that it simply won’t go away. It’s as tenacious as napalm.
My first reaction was that I wasn’t going to be able to handle this alone. I yelled for Beth, my wife at that time, to come help me. Shouting through the closed door, we decided to tackle this the old fashioned way, by bathing the dog with tomato juice. She ran to the kitchen to find some – but we were out. Instead, she found two cans of spicy Italian stewed tomatoes. That would have to do. I vigorously rubbed them into Higgins’ thankfully short coat and rinsed him off with the hose. Thank God it was a warm night, for both of us would spend the next hour soaking wet.
Unfortunately, the spicy Italian stewed tomatoes had not done the trick. I tried tomato ketchup. Nada. Then tomato paste. Nope. We were quickly running out of tomato products. Then I tried vinegar. Why vinegar? I have no idea; it just seemed like the next best thing on the menu. Higgins continued to reek, but at least I could detect faint notes of pasta primavera that gave my olfactory senses something else to appreciate.
Unwilling to sacrifice the rest of the pantry in what seemed to be a futile cause, Beth stripped down to her skivvies and we began bathing Higgins over and over again with a fragrant collection of shampoos. Predictably, they were having no effect. Or were they? Little by little, the stench became a smell, and then the smell became merely an unpleasant odor. We dried Higgins off with some old towels, threw those in the washer, and both jumped into the shower to make ourselves palatable.
Eight weeks. That’s how long the skunk smell lingered in our home. As the odor slowly abated, we kept a close watch over Higgins each evening. We raised our snouts and sniffed the air to detect if a skunk was in the neighborhood. At the slightest sign, Higgins was kept in and only taken out on a leash. Had he learned his lesson? We needn’t have worried – of course he hadn’t. After all, his doggy mandate was to maintain the security of our pathetic patch of grass and our few struggling tomato plants, no matter what the cost.
Predictably, just a couple of weeks after the smell had finally disappeared, Higgins was sprayed again, though this time not as thoroughly. It occurred just as Beth was returning home from a late nursing shift, after I had already turned in. The funny thing is that I didn’t hear about it until the next morning. Over breakfast, she told me how she had carried Higgins into the shower and scrubbed him until the wee hours of the morning. And, all the while, I slept on. I was dumbfounded. Normally, I was the light sleeper in the house, waking at any unusual noise coming from our baby Jessica’s room. This was totally out of character, but I had had simply no idea of what had transpired in the guest bathroom the previous night. Honest.
Our dog, Higgins (kind of a cross between a corgi and a beagle), was doing what he always did best – keeping our back yard safe from squirrels, cats, and the occasional startled raccoon family. It was fun to point out the living room picture window and exclaim in mock alarm, “Ghost Cat!,” which would send him charging out the back door and racing up the stone steps that led to the top of the yard behind our house on Via Herbosa in Ignacio. He got his exercise, we had a good laugh and all would be well.
That fateful night, however, there was a frantic barking in the unlit back yard. Not your usual “I’m just checking in” twilight woof, but a new voice that seemed to be announcing, “Captain! Captain! The alien ship has landed!” Just as I reached the sliding patio door and pulled back the screen, the barking was replaced by a shrill yelp, and Higgins shot toward me like a bullet, from the general direction of the fig tree, where intruding animals often sought refuge. Even before he got halfway, I caught a whiff of his new eau de cologne and instinctively slid the door shut. Then the wave hit.
If you have never been in close proximity to a sprayed animal, let me tell you, the stench is indescribable. Naturally, that won’t stop me from trying. The surprising part is that you might be expecting some sort of powerfully earthy, organic smell. But no. The smell of skunk spray close up is pure evil, pure chemical, like a pesticide factory exploding inside your sinuses. It immediately turns your stomach and causes an excruciating headache. And the worst part is that it simply won’t go away. It’s as tenacious as napalm.
My first reaction was that I wasn’t going to be able to handle this alone. I yelled for Beth, my wife at that time, to come help me. Shouting through the closed door, we decided to tackle this the old fashioned way, by bathing the dog with tomato juice. She ran to the kitchen to find some – but we were out. Instead, she found two cans of spicy Italian stewed tomatoes. That would have to do. I vigorously rubbed them into Higgins’ thankfully short coat and rinsed him off with the hose. Thank God it was a warm night, for both of us would spend the next hour soaking wet.
Unfortunately, the spicy Italian stewed tomatoes had not done the trick. I tried tomato ketchup. Nada. Then tomato paste. Nope. We were quickly running out of tomato products. Then I tried vinegar. Why vinegar? I have no idea; it just seemed like the next best thing on the menu. Higgins continued to reek, but at least I could detect faint notes of pasta primavera that gave my olfactory senses something else to appreciate.
Unwilling to sacrifice the rest of the pantry in what seemed to be a futile cause, Beth stripped down to her skivvies and we began bathing Higgins over and over again with a fragrant collection of shampoos. Predictably, they were having no effect. Or were they? Little by little, the stench became a smell, and then the smell became merely an unpleasant odor. We dried Higgins off with some old towels, threw those in the washer, and both jumped into the shower to make ourselves palatable.
Eight weeks. That’s how long the skunk smell lingered in our home. As the odor slowly abated, we kept a close watch over Higgins each evening. We raised our snouts and sniffed the air to detect if a skunk was in the neighborhood. At the slightest sign, Higgins was kept in and only taken out on a leash. Had he learned his lesson? We needn’t have worried – of course he hadn’t. After all, his doggy mandate was to maintain the security of our pathetic patch of grass and our few struggling tomato plants, no matter what the cost.
Predictably, just a couple of weeks after the smell had finally disappeared, Higgins was sprayed again, though this time not as thoroughly. It occurred just as Beth was returning home from a late nursing shift, after I had already turned in. The funny thing is that I didn’t hear about it until the next morning. Over breakfast, she told me how she had carried Higgins into the shower and scrubbed him until the wee hours of the morning. And, all the while, I slept on. I was dumbfounded. Normally, I was the light sleeper in the house, waking at any unusual noise coming from our baby Jessica’s room. This was totally out of character, but I had had simply no idea of what had transpired in the guest bathroom the previous night. Honest.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Crackpots and Barbasol
I just got back from a family vacation back East. After a few days in New York, my wife and I left my daughter in the care of her Aunt Julia, and ventured off on a road trip to Boston, where Pat had attended Northeastern University. Along the way, we paid a visit to my mother’s family home in Simsbury, Connecticut, to see my Aunt Kathleen. The timing was significant, since Kathleen’s twin brother, Bob, had just passed away from a massive heart attack at 86 and she was looking forward to seeing some of the family.
On our way to Boston, we were able to spend an afternoon with her, going to lunch at Peaberry’s Cafe, and then driving around town as she showed us the sights, including the elementary schools where she taught the second grade from 1949 to 1986. Seeing her brought back vivid memories of my mother, as they were very similar in appearance. We promised that we would stop by again on our way back from Boston and, perhaps, spend the night. Happily, we were able to make that hope a reality.
She seemed just as pleased to see us a second time and we spent a couple of hours looking at old photographs and talking about the family, especially Bob. I had spent little time with him over the years, other than when he and Kathleen would visit our home in California, either for Christmas or on their way to travel with my parents. I remember that Bob was in a class by himself when it came to snoring, having shared a room with him on a visit to Cape Cod. I know that he had his own unique sense of time and urgency (or lack thereof) when he traveled; often disappearing for hours and telling no one where he had gone. He said he like to go out dancing, though I have a hard time imagining him as a ladies’ man, and never knew him to have had a girlfriend (something Kathleen confirmed). He loved to tell jokes. My favorite was “What does a psychiatrist call a crack-pot? A ‘psycho-ceramicist’!” He told that one to me many times during a visit to Simsbury in 1968. But, other than those few vignettes, he was an enigma. He sold insurance, lived in Hartford, had a round, red smiling face like his father, and lived a mostly solitary life.
Bob had moved in with Kathleen in February, when his health had deteriorated to the point where he couldn’t live by himself. She had an electric lift installed in the long stairway leading up from the entry to his bedroom on the second floor.
As bedtime approached, Kathleen made sure that we were comfortably settled in my grandparents’ old bedroom, also at the top of the house. Fortunately, a summer rainstorm had cooled the evening and Kathleen had gone out of her way to make sure the air conditioning was brought up from the basement and installed. The two original single beds my mother’s parents had slept in for so many years seemed out of place in the enormous room. We giggled at how much times and customs have changed and unpacked for the night.
We were anxious to take showers to freshen up from the drive, so I went first, using the bathroom adjacent Uncle Bob’s room, kitty-corner from the one we now occupied. I was looking for some shampoo in the medicine cabinet when I came across his toilet articles. A couple of disposable razors, toothpaste, toothbrush, sunscreen, and a can of Barbasol with its distinctive red and white stripes (“Beard Buster!” the label proclaimed). I stared dully at them for a moment, then was suddenly struck by the thought that everything here was exactly as he had left it, some three weeks ago. He probably put that can of shave cream back on the shelf, weighing it in his hand and making a mental note of when he might need to buy more. Everything was put away, ready for the next day that never came. It was as if his things had managed to outlive him and they weren’t sure what to do next.
In this age of disposability, it is odd to think of our “things” outlasting us. I suppose that is why I find estate sales kind of unsettling, whereas I have no problem with yard sales. I had a similar reaction upon seeing the Simsbury house. Viewed from the street, it is a very handsome building, sitting on a hillside overlooking Hopmeadow Road, which runs straight through town. Inside, however, it was a peculiar mix of antiques from the 30s and 40s, garage sale furniture, and mismatched china. I think I expected that everything inside would be period, like the restored homes you see on the PBS show, This Old House. But this was actually a more truthful look at a life spent living in one residence for almost eighty years.
Aunt Kathleen now sleeps downstairs in the former dining room and rarely visits the rest of the house, except for the kitchen and the impossibly small downstairs vanity. Her life has shrunk, too, as her entire immediate family – parents, sister (my mother) and, now, brother Bob – have passed.
Someday – hopefully not soon, but inevitably – Kathleen’s close friend Linda will be forced to close up the Hopmeadow home for the last time. All the living Magowans will have gone, leaving no one to carry on the family name. And all Kathleen’s remaining “things” will be sold or given away to charity, to become part of someone else’s continuum, and so on, and so on. It makes me sad to think that, with all the things I now own, I am still very lacking in what I should have valued most: clear memories of some of my closest relatives.
On our way to Boston, we were able to spend an afternoon with her, going to lunch at Peaberry’s Cafe, and then driving around town as she showed us the sights, including the elementary schools where she taught the second grade from 1949 to 1986. Seeing her brought back vivid memories of my mother, as they were very similar in appearance. We promised that we would stop by again on our way back from Boston and, perhaps, spend the night. Happily, we were able to make that hope a reality.
She seemed just as pleased to see us a second time and we spent a couple of hours looking at old photographs and talking about the family, especially Bob. I had spent little time with him over the years, other than when he and Kathleen would visit our home in California, either for Christmas or on their way to travel with my parents. I remember that Bob was in a class by himself when it came to snoring, having shared a room with him on a visit to Cape Cod. I know that he had his own unique sense of time and urgency (or lack thereof) when he traveled; often disappearing for hours and telling no one where he had gone. He said he like to go out dancing, though I have a hard time imagining him as a ladies’ man, and never knew him to have had a girlfriend (something Kathleen confirmed). He loved to tell jokes. My favorite was “What does a psychiatrist call a crack-pot? A ‘psycho-ceramicist’!” He told that one to me many times during a visit to Simsbury in 1968. But, other than those few vignettes, he was an enigma. He sold insurance, lived in Hartford, had a round, red smiling face like his father, and lived a mostly solitary life.
Bob had moved in with Kathleen in February, when his health had deteriorated to the point where he couldn’t live by himself. She had an electric lift installed in the long stairway leading up from the entry to his bedroom on the second floor.
As bedtime approached, Kathleen made sure that we were comfortably settled in my grandparents’ old bedroom, also at the top of the house. Fortunately, a summer rainstorm had cooled the evening and Kathleen had gone out of her way to make sure the air conditioning was brought up from the basement and installed. The two original single beds my mother’s parents had slept in for so many years seemed out of place in the enormous room. We giggled at how much times and customs have changed and unpacked for the night.
We were anxious to take showers to freshen up from the drive, so I went first, using the bathroom adjacent Uncle Bob’s room, kitty-corner from the one we now occupied. I was looking for some shampoo in the medicine cabinet when I came across his toilet articles. A couple of disposable razors, toothpaste, toothbrush, sunscreen, and a can of Barbasol with its distinctive red and white stripes (“Beard Buster!” the label proclaimed). I stared dully at them for a moment, then was suddenly struck by the thought that everything here was exactly as he had left it, some three weeks ago. He probably put that can of shave cream back on the shelf, weighing it in his hand and making a mental note of when he might need to buy more. Everything was put away, ready for the next day that never came. It was as if his things had managed to outlive him and they weren’t sure what to do next.
In this age of disposability, it is odd to think of our “things” outlasting us. I suppose that is why I find estate sales kind of unsettling, whereas I have no problem with yard sales. I had a similar reaction upon seeing the Simsbury house. Viewed from the street, it is a very handsome building, sitting on a hillside overlooking Hopmeadow Road, which runs straight through town. Inside, however, it was a peculiar mix of antiques from the 30s and 40s, garage sale furniture, and mismatched china. I think I expected that everything inside would be period, like the restored homes you see on the PBS show, This Old House. But this was actually a more truthful look at a life spent living in one residence for almost eighty years.
Aunt Kathleen now sleeps downstairs in the former dining room and rarely visits the rest of the house, except for the kitchen and the impossibly small downstairs vanity. Her life has shrunk, too, as her entire immediate family – parents, sister (my mother) and, now, brother Bob – have passed.
Someday – hopefully not soon, but inevitably – Kathleen’s close friend Linda will be forced to close up the Hopmeadow home for the last time. All the living Magowans will have gone, leaving no one to carry on the family name. And all Kathleen’s remaining “things” will be sold or given away to charity, to become part of someone else’s continuum, and so on, and so on. It makes me sad to think that, with all the things I now own, I am still very lacking in what I should have valued most: clear memories of some of my closest relatives.
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