A Post for Readers Only

This is a post about books. More specifically, this is a post about reading. The two do not necessarily go together.

So, if you just like books, but don't like to read: Come back another time; I often make literary references and like movies too, so that may appeal to your particular aesthetic.

If you like neither books nor reading, you fall into one of two categories: You are my brother Art and someone in the family guilted you into reading this; Or you felt, since you made it out of high school, there was no need to read anything further than video game reviews; in which case...what are you even doing here?

Even Gulliver has his doubts

I'm told everyone has their version of a literary Waterloo -- the book everyone -- everyone -- loved, said was brilliant, won awards, etc. -- that you could not get through*.

My literary Waterloo is 100 Years of Solitude.

This book is also a landmark in my life. Prior to attempting to get through it, I was adamant about reading one book at a time. 

Many people have several books percolating at one time, but not me. I gave each book the respect of my full attention. I'd finish it -- pause at least an hour to mull its impact -- and then.,.only then...begin my new relationship reading matter.

And then I encountered
100 Years of Solitude.

The fact that the first page of the book is a genealogy chart should have prepared me. All the names were similar. I might insert here that I later found out that this WAS DELIBERATE.

What kind of psychopath author tells you on the first page, "This is going to get really confusing and I did that on purpose...because I hate you?" This was an abusive relationship, plain and simple.

Okay. Perhaps I'm projecting a bit.

The fact is, I began 100 Years of Solitude with the idea that I wouldn't begin another book until I finished it.

Months went by as I hacked my way through the South American jungle; at least I think I did. I say it took me months, but actual reading time was minimal. I'd look at the book, consider the book, contemplate what I'd read of the book, realize I was going to have to reread what I'd already read of the book because I'd fallen asleep, and then turn on the TV.

Meanwhile, other enticing books crossed my path, but I had to wave them along. After all, I'd read that everyone else loved it and it won a Pulitzer, for god's sake. Oprah loved it, so surely the problem was with me. 

I fought on, during which the only thing I remember, having completed over half the book, was an unnaturally-old man chained to a tree in a yard.

I know, I know: Blah, blah, blah, magical realism*, blah, blah, blah, hyperbole, blah, blah, blah, metaphor. Like Water for Chocolate didn't torture me like this.

I got all that literary jargon. It's just that...I had to admit: it made me hate reading. And, to me, reading is like breathing.

So I shelved it. 

That's right. For the past five years, I've been cheating on 100 Years of Solitude.

Only now I no longer practice literary monogomy. Oh no --I've opened my reading experience to include multiple relationships all at once. There is my nighttime while-the-lights-are-on book; my Kindle book for when I'm awake in the middle of the night; my audiobook for the commute to work; my audiobook for my commute from work; my weekend binge book; and my non-fiction required reading over breakfast book.

This is what 100 Years of Solitude has done.

It reminds me of the first time I read William Faulkner. It was incomprehensible to me, but for whatever reason I kept at it. I hated it and loved it at the same time. I fought with it and called myself stupid. I almost gave up and, in fact, stopped reading completely for awhile, figuring my future was in something like banking or dog grooming instead of anything requiring words.

And then, Benjy Compson started calling, "Caddy! Caddy!" in my head and I had to go back. And Benjy led me to the maze and beauty of the rest of the prose. Faulkner is never going to be an "easy read;" but eventually, the words begin to take on a rhythm. I found myself talking to myself in Faulknerian. It was worth every backtrack and rereading it took to complete The Sound and the Fury.

So I joined the ranks of the few who absolutely love William Faulkner's work. And that's how my youngest son wound up with a middle name he hates.

I've been in a between-World-Wars books kind of mood lately, but suddenly that old man chained to the tree started calling me.

"Quitter!" he taunts; and then the coup de gras: "Lazy reader!"

Ouch.

And so I'm heading back to South America, armed only with a printout of the genealogy chart.

But, just between you and me, I'm seeing Stella Gibbons on the side.

*James Joyce's Ulysses is not in this category because no human being enjoys reading it. There are entities who claim to adore it, form clubs around it, quote it excessively, and extol its brilliance to whomever will listen. But these are not humans. They are aliens, as is Joyce. Jung  diagnosed Joyce as being a schizophrenic only because the idea of an alien was...ahem...alien to him. Ahem. 

Making memories......whether you want to or not

I think I've finally mastered the skill of not making an all-out assault on a major holiday.

It has taken quite awhile, considering I've been responsible in some way or another for family holidays since I was in my 20s. I admit that the weight of that responsibility is all my own. Back in the day, I had a soul-sucking habit of attributing too much sentimentality and piling too much food into one single day. This resulted in an entire week of a misery that, I was convinced, was never fully appreciated by those who benefitted from my martyrdom. By the evening of Thanksgiving, I'd be cross, cranky and ready for bed by 5 o'clock.

I had come by my holiday obsessions honestly. There was no such thing as a "quiet Thanksgiving" for my mother. Like every good Italian, it was required that there be approximately 50 percent more food than necessary for the number of people invited -- and the number of people invited was always inflated  because my mother invited anybody and everybody and, unless they told her "no" in so uncertain terms, they were counted as a definite. My mother, though, had both my grandmother and me helping out.

So the bar was set and every year I would frantically try to incorporate any and all traditions and even concocted some of my own. I would cram my kids with so much rich food and heartwarming ritual they would feel positively miserable if they had to spend the holiday anywhere other than with their perfect mother.

The first clue I had that I was missing the mark in the building memories department was the year that I made homemade cinnamon buns for Thanksgiving day breakfast. I got up at 6 a.m. to make sure they had enough time to rise and that they'd be hot and ready when everyone got up. They were absolutely wonderful and I couldn't help puffing up at my domestic derring-do...until one of the Heirs sighed, "But I sure miss those ones you used to make that popped out of the can."

Goodness knows, I tried to deliver the homey holiday Hallmark is convinced we're all supposed to have. I've tried the tradition of going around the table and saying one thing we're thankful for -- this dissolves into chaos pretty quickly when participants list "not having a gaping head wound" or "tequila." I had to hold up the Official Lighting of the Creche so the Bethlehem stable could be festooned with prayerfully and properly respectful, but anachronistic, action figures. I only tried a sing-a-long once -- it's amazing how quickly my family can come up with alternative lyrics...and I'm not talking about the kids, either. I gave up trying to inject tradition into holidays two decades ago.

Let me tell you something about traditions, particularly ones you concoct yourself -- they're never the ones your kids remember anyway. They pick their own favorites, thankyouverymuch, and the more embarrassing they are to you, the better.

Toppergetdown

For instance, we now have a tradition of guessing what dish I made that I forgot to put out. It's usually salad, but one year I woke up Friday morning to find the tiny nubs of brussels sprouts drying in the oven. Another favorite is guessing what time it will be when I'm finally so distracted by cooking that I forget to push food far enough back so our Australian Shepherd can't countersurf the cheese.

Heir 2 began a tradition of seeing how many times he could program the stereo to play "What's New Pussycat?" before it pisses someone off (he'll usually stick in one "It's Not Unusual," just to hear someone say, "Thank goodness!" to a song like "It's Not Unusual" -- which is then followed again by more "What's New Pussycat?").

And, once again, I will dig out the basket of nuts for Heir 1. So he can look at them and know they are there. (Do not eat any of the nuts in the basket, should you visit us during the holidays. The boys weren't even in high school when I bought those nuts. But it just isn't the holiday season without the basket of nuts.)

So, I've learned to let go of the control of the holidays. I no longer wear myself out cooking a huge, complicated menu. Wonder of wonders: no one cares. Do I still fuss and cook on Thursday? You bet I do! Well, until it gets tedious. Then I stop, have a martini and enjoy myself. No one ever left my house hungry.

So Martha Stewart would probably cringe at the haphazard delivery of turkey right off the cutting board and self-serve dessert, not to mention my lumpy mashed potatoes. The wine is probably wrong and I never remember to put on my "nice clothes" after doing all the cooking.

And Topper will probably eat all the leftover Doritos out of the bowl someone leaves on the coffee table. Just like he did last year. And the year before that.

Apparently, it's tradition.

Sisiggy's Red Bank Massacree

After 15 months of struggle, I finally have the "holy grail" in my grasp -- a certified copy of my birth certificate.

No big deal, you say? Your birth certificate is ensconced in a fireproof box along with the car titles of every car you ever owned, tax returns dating back to the 70s and your kid's report cards in chronological order?

Oh, yeah? Well, bite me. That's right...I...Jean Patricia Eckerson Jackson, in front of my kids, friends and everyone on the planet who knows that there was a time I would have never stooped to this kind of reaction, said, "Bite me."

First, you need to know (and most of you do) that I've been a little stressed lately. Not to put too fine a point on it, I've been a "little" stressed for the Past. Five. Years.

Now, really, I was a good sport about it for the first four years -- I understand that, at some point in our lives, God will test us. Go ahead, read about my last five years...it's pretty well documented here on Linguini. Between constant, impending unemployment and homelessness and losing a job I loved that I was in constant danger of losing because of my boss's malfeasance, I managed to maintain my composure and dignity. Wasn't I pithy and perky and the epitome of spunk and vinegar? Wasn't I patient and accepting? Seriously, WASN'T I A PARAGON OF FREAKIN' GRACE UNDER PRESSURE?

This last year, though, I have found myself down to that last nerve and right now the fact that I'm in the thralls of moving and job hunting again after spending a year at an exhausting, health-depleting job that was a Sisyphusean punishment has that particular nerve already stretched to its limit.

You need to know this, otherwise you will think me some kind of whiny, over-emotional menopausal crone who spins into a frenzy over the slightest obstacle and you might say something really stupid like, "Lady, I want your problems." I can't tell you how unwise that would be.

It all started back February of 2012 when I researched how to go about obtaining a West Virginia driver's license. My Virginia license wasn't set to expire until June, but I figured I'd get a jump on things.

Turns out that to get a WV license with my current address, I needed to present my birth certificate, marriage license and proof of residence, none of which I had (oh, give me a break -- I've moved three times in five years). New Jersey, where I was born, required me to present a driver's license with my current address.

Honestly, this conundrum only elicited a mild chortle at the time because, you know, I'm such a strong and patient person. I explained my dilemma to the lady in New Jersey and she told me that they needed the driver's license with a valid address so they know, when they mail the birth certificate, that the person who is on that certificate is the person receiving the mail. So, I figured, I'd wait, get my proof of residence and then sort this out. I mean, I was dealing with flesh and blood people who can reason and understand logic, right? I'm a decent, honest person and there is no reason this little snafu should be a problem.

And so the driver's license issue took a back burner to the 15-hour days, seven-day-a-week lifestyle common with running a family business and the whole foot pain thing and before you know it I'm checking out the cafe's order at Costco and they ask to see my driver's license...

...which had expired the previous week. That's right. I forgot. Excuuuuuuuuse me. I'd been a little...(See paragraph 6).

Meanwhile, Dirtman, who is a year older, has a valid Virginia driver's license that won't expire until sometime in the next millennium. He trots happily to Richmond and in ten minutes has a certified copy of both his birth certificate and our marriage license. They don't bother to look at the piles of documentation proving our address, because they're not mailing anything -- they're handing it to the flesh and blood person standing in front of them. This point will be important further in this story.

I have to admit, the whole issue was shelved because, frankly, I WAS A LITTLE BUSY. And I didn't drive since Dirtman and I were always, always...I can't tell you how very always...together.

I will say, though, not having a driver's license, having had one for 38 years, was uncomfortable. Between having neither a driver's license or birth certificate, it was as if I just wasn't there. Add that to the stress already whirling about me and it became one of those issues that strangle you at 3 o'clock in the morning and guarantee exhaustion the next day.

So now we're moving back to Virginia. I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to start from square one: take a written test, take an on-the-road test and a vision test. So we stop into DMV in Virginia to pick up a recent drivers' manual so I could study for the written exam. We tell the guy at the information desk (please note -- this is the name of the desk: INFORMATION. I don't think it's out of line to assume this person has the CORRECT information, do you? I think the adjective "correct" is a sort of given, right?) This is the information he is given: I have a Va. driver's license that expired almost a year ago and I need a license. We are moving back, but have not yet moved, to Virginia.

And he gives us --******GOOD NEWS!!!!!*******. If I came in to renew my license before my birthday (June 18 -- same day as Paul McCartney, but he didn't care about that), all I would need is two items showing our new address and my old Virginia license.

There was great rejoicing in Linguiniland! For a week I walked about thinking, "Finally! Finally the tide is turning! Things are going to be different and reign of bad juju is over! Over, do you hear me! OVER!!!! BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!" (That's right. I laugh maniacally in my head.)

We began gathering the proof of our new address: Opened a bank account, signed up for a library card. I practically skipped into the DMV on June 6, smiling as I presented my little packet to Mr. Information -- the same guy...did you catch that?..the same guy we'd spoken to the week before.

He looks over everything and chirps happily, "I'll need to see your birth certificate."

I sputter, "But...but..."

He interrupts, "Oh, don't worry! If you were born after 1965, I can call it up on the computer! Where in Virginia were you born?"

I'm so upset that it even escapes me that he thought I am eight years younger than I actually am. "I wasn't born in Virginia." I'm just. Starting. To. Lose. It.

Dirtman knows this; hears it in my voice. He explains about our previous visit and what he told us. Mr. Information taps into his computer, shakes his head and says, "She's no longer in the system."

Okay, I sort of blank out at this point. But by the time Dirtman installs me in the car and we are driving away, I'm screaming.

Now, read this carefully: I. Don't. Scream. EVER. I may internalize; I may get sarcastic; I may beat myself up; I may even weep; ultimately, I eat. But, I repeat, I never, EVER scream.

After all, I've driven in this state for thirty years, without incident, I might add. I'm an honest person who always behaves herself. And I'VE PAID TAXES IN THIS STATE FOR 30 YEARS. Did that little tidbit come up in his computer? If DMV doesn't acknowledge my existence, I can guarantee the treasury department can somehow manage to hold onto this data. Eleven months is nothing to the treasury department; they'll hold onto a nine-cent discrepancy from eight years ago and hound you with it from state to state, publishing it every year in the paper.

So I'm crying and screaming and having an over-all (yet cathartic) meltdown and Dirtman is frantically dialing John Boy and arranging a trip to New Jersey to obtain my birth certificate. Then he gave me ice cream.

Let me explain the preparation and reason for the New Jersey trip. If I want to renew my license without taking the written or on-the-road test, I need my birth certificate by June 17. So we couldn't do it by mail. Besides, we don't have a move in date yet, so I don't know where to tell them to mail it. Plus, all I have to prove I exist is my marriage license (which lists all the information that is on my birth certificate) and an expired Virginia driver's license. I figure, it's got my photo on it -- I'm obviously the person written on the thing. That is why I had to pick it up in person -- so the New Jersey person could see I am the person connected to that name on the driver's license and the marriage license.

Ah! But wait! I had more! I have an older brother -- John Boy -- who could attest to the fact that my parents are his parents and none of us has any intention of overthrowing the government. Plus...plus...he has a passport, which is even better than a birth certificate because you need a birth certificate to get a passport and the passport has a photo on it too!

So John Boy and I took off for New Jersey yesterday with an air of optimism -- even the unrelenting, driving rain did not dampen our spirits; the fact that I'd had to lose a day of packing to this stupid task did not dampen our spirits; the fact that John Boy, because I did not have a valid driver's license, had to drive the entire 11-hour round trip by himself did not dampen our spirits.

We figured 10 minutes at the Red Bank Office of Vital Statistics, lunch, visit our old stomping grounds for a bit of nostalgia and then home.

Sigh. You know where this is going.

[cue guitar background from Alice's Restaurant]

We walked in, sat down, the clerk came and looked at the Virginia marriage certificate with my maiden name, married name, place of birth and parents' names and the expired Virginia driver's license with my picture on it and a line where it says my name, looked at me and said, "I need a bank statement or utility bill proving your address," which I didn't have...

(and didn't figure I needed since they weren't mailing it -- I was standing right there)

[resume guitar background from Alice's Restaurant]

She asked who John Boy was and I said my older brother. And John Boy stood up with his passport which he obtained by presenting his birth certificate and that contained a picture of himself as he is now and she said:

"Do you have your birth certificate?"

[pause guitar background from Alice's Restaurant]

And we came to the realization that it was a typical case of American blind justice and there wasn't nothing we could do about it, and the clerk wasn't going to look at the Virginia marriage certificate with my maiden name, married name, place of birth and parents' names and the expired Virginia driver's license with my picture on it and a line where it says my name or John Boy's passport which he obtained by presenting his birth certificate and that contained a picture of himself as he is now.

[resume guitar background from Alice's Restaurant]

So we had to call Dirtman, who drove into town and faxed to the office of Vital Statistics a copy of a bank statement and a utility bill with the wrong address on it -- both of which he could have generated himself using any word processing program out there (but he didn't) and I got my birth certificate.

And THAT, dear readers (if you're still with me) is the point. (Okay, stop the Alice's Restaurant music.) The obvious, common sense proof of my existence was not enough to obtain my birth certificate. The ONE THING that was required was the one thing most easily faked by any 8-year-old with a laptop.

I know my quest is not yet over though. Tomorrow I go back to the DMV where, if you recall, I was told I could just renew my expired license with no more than a vision test as long as I had (remember? All together now!) my expired license, my birth certificate and proof of new address.

So, why am I posting this now, before the problem is resolved?

Obvious: I entertain the possibility that the problem will NOT be resolved. I entertain the possibility that I will present my hard-won documentation and be told that, before a driver's license can be issued, I have to come up with a rhyme for the word "orange," and that, when I do, I will have to have the answered certified by a two-headed Do-do bird hatched in captivity.

And that is when the brain cells containing all the aforementioned information will come seeping out of my ear and form a puddle on the desk of Mr. Correct Information.

So before that happens, here it is, for posterity. When you see Dirtman leading a drooling, catatonic old lady around Walmart, you'll know where her mind went and why.

The Cafe's got talent...

Well...We're good sports, at least...

 I come from a long line of frustrated musicians. Music -- and performing in general -- have always been a huge part of family gatherings for as long as I can remember.

Okay--give me a break about the "mike" thing; I'm very tired and my feet hurt.

Somewhere, probably in John Boy's Basement of Doom, is a reel-to-reel tape of my grandmother on guitar and my uncle on violin performing C' 'na luna mezz'u mare; and one of my earliest recollection is another of The Uncles doing a skit with my cousins that involved Crazy Foam and their Wire Haired Fox Terrier. John Boy's first drum set was my parent's suitcase as a snare drum and a metal trash can over-turned on a mic stand as a cymbal; my cousins were playing something on their guitars -- I don't know what, but I was singing I Should Have Known Better...badly.



Since then, we siblings and cousins have formed and reformed in various musical configurations, some even going professional (meaning some sort of item was given in exchange for the performance -- John Boy grossed $25  one night...) and we've passed this practice on to the next generation. So it was inevitable that, given our own venue, that we provide a showcase for this proclivity for ourselves and others like us.


Hence: The Courthouse Corner Cafe Open Mic Night.

Heir 1 (Charley) on acoustic, Dark Garden on drums, Mike Anderson on bass

Heir 2 (Joe) and Caisee

The Heirs

Trevor and Michael

Ladies and Gentlemen: The Von Trapp Family Singers

The Twinz (Trevor and Lucas) -- I think they're listening to the poem "Crab Boil" by Dark Garden -- hence this expression

...and the crowd went wild...sort of...

...still waiting for the crowd to go wild...

...okay, so me and Annette went wild...sort of...

Annette with some real poetry

I wasn't going to include this photo because it was so busy...until I looked a little closer...Lucas (on drums) has a stalker...

 


I can't say "thank you" enough for the community's support -- to Pastor Roy of Romney First United Methodist Church, who loaned us chairs; to Pastor Jack of Romney First Baptist Church for loaning us a mic stand; to Mike Anderson for helping out throughout this whole process and giving credibility to some of our jam sessions; to Steve and Ruth Martin of Church View Farm for their well wishes and the flowers (those roses smelled incredible!); and to the community members who braved the weather to come out (there were torrential rains and winds, not to mention TORNADOES in the area)!


Our next scheduled Open Mic Night is July 6 and we hope the antics of our inaugural event will convince more people to come in and sign up to perform.

Picnicking with the Linguinis

You must understand this: We Linguinis NEVER take picnics lightly.

Well...until yesterday...

However, you must understand our background of picnicking before you can truly be amazed at yesterday's excursion to Lost River State Park in West Virginia.

Growing up, there were always several picnic excursions throughout the summer and they were always hours away. My father always liked to be traveling in the opposite direction of the traffic; so, though we lived near the shore, with a beautiful state parks 10 to 30 minutes away, we were always heading "against traffic" to the "mountains" of New Jersey (High Point State Park has what New Jerseyans call "mountains"). This required leaving at 6 o'clock in the morning and dragging in at 9 o'clock at night -- but not a single second was spent sitting in traffic (though Pa would look at the line of cars going in the opposite direction and comment on how ridiculous it was to be sitting in traffic like that).

I realize the purpose of a picnic is to eat -- A. Meal.

One. Meal.

Remember, though: We arrive at 8 o'clock in the morning. So breakfast, lunch and dinner all have to be arranged and carted. There were bags of Mrs. Obco's Donuts and thermoses of coffee (my parents had an official coffee thermos bag specifically for this) for breakfast, deli for lunch with a complete selection of cold cuts, rolls, bread, condiments and salads, and then a variety of meats to barbecue for dinner.

On top of this, were the rare treats of junk food -- this was the one time my mother would buy us any sweet crap the television has convinced us was the end-all in desserts. And she wouldn't just buy a package -- she'd buy an entire BOX; boxes of Twinkies, boxes of TastyKake pies, boxes of chocolate grahams, boxes and boxes and boxes of sugar! (We won't discuss the long-range ramifications of this practice; right now I choose to make this a happy memory...in her heart, Ma meant well -- though when I tell this to my kids now, they're really bummed.)

Okay. That was just the food. Now we had to load the car with things to occupy us for 12 hours, both in the car and at the picnic site. John Boy had his maps and pamphlets, Dark Garden had his assortment of recreational equipment (fishing rod, basketball, swim gear), I had a pile of books, my mother had her crossword puzzles, and Pa had his beer (though, in all fairness, he was the one who took DG fishing, swimming and to the playground, not to mention he did all the barbecuing).

Oh...did I mention the assorted relatives? Grandma, aunts, cousins -- sometimes it spilled over into a second vehicle, particularly since a dog or two also had to be accommodated.

Whenever we'd arrive at the park, if it was crowded, my mother used to moan about there being so many people around that it wouldn't be relaxing. It occurs to me that, upon seeing our parade enter the picnic area, most of the other people were thinking the same thing.

Nowadays, my generation is in charge of the picnicking and, while we've streamlined a few things, it is still and event requiring more planning than the Normandy Invasion. Everything is up for discussion, from the venue to the menu.

JB makes lists and, while I've never actually seen his list, it must look like this: beer, bratwurst, bottle opener.

DG brings all the meat, barbecue stuff...and cleaning products; lots and lots of cleaning products. We always have the cleanest picnic site in the park. No roll of paper towels and damp cloth for him -- no! He's got spray disinfectant and cloths and wipes.

I bring the stuff that has to be cooked ahead -- salads, side dishes and...yes...dessert; one dessert. ONE.

Yes, we've pretty much got this picnic thing down, though I will admit, all the advance planning a prep can get stressful until we decide on everything.

Well, until yesterday...

It all came together too easily -- which should have warned me. We immediately agreed on the venue, we each stated what we were bringing (admittedly, we do turn into the Atkins family on picnics) and we generally coordinated a time (cell phones don't work at Lost River).

I have to admit, it was coming together so nicely that all week long I hardly gave it a thought. I did my usual grocery shopping and only threw in a few items that were picnic-related (instead of doing my usual pre-picnic shopping blast I can ill-afford). I did a few prep things the night before, slept in the day of (unprecedented!), and loading the car consisted of one cooler and Zsa Zsa's water bowl and tie-out chain (which we only use if we see park rangers driving around -- I try to spare her the indignity of being in chains when there is no need).

So here is how it went down:

DG was bummed because my nephews both had to work that day and couldn't come. Dirtman was also working, so he wasn't there. Heir2 couldn't make it home from Roanoke for the holiday weekend, so he wasn't there.

No one brought paper plates.

No one brought tongs to barbecue.

No one brought paper towels.

JB blamed it all on the fact that for the first time, he hadn't made a list (he never put these things on his stupid list and, besides, when he makes a list, he always forgets to put something on the list anyway, rendering the list useless).

However (and everyone else may disagree, I'll admit):

I had a wonderful, relaxing time. We had a nice, secluded spot next to a brook. I could sit on a rock and put my feet in the water. It wasn't too hot or too cold.

All the other stuff?

We made do.

Note the dishes made from aluminum foil, the knife doubling as "tongs" and our site-side cleaning system (actually, we only washed our hands in the stream).

The food was great. It was a beautiful day. But, more importantly...

...Zsa Zsa was happy.

New Year's Day . . . and beyond

This is not among my favorite holidays. All that forced celebration is almost too maniacal; the pessimist in me knows that, in spite of the "New" moniker, we are also mourning a year that's gone.

I rarely hear anyone wrap up Dec. 31 by saying, "Wow! That was a great year!" It's always something along the line of "Good riddance!"

I won't belabor the fact that you have the same assurance of a fresh run of 365 new days on June 30 as you do on Dec. 31. We love milestones and that new challenge of remembering to change the number at the end of the date every time you write a check. And -- hey -- any excuse to run a 40 percent off sale at Bed, Bath and Beyond.

My mother used to make a big fuss over New Year's Eve and even New Year's Day. I think it was her attempt to extend the holiday season as much as possible and I wonder, in retrospect, if she didn't suffer a bit from Seasonal Affective Disorder -- I do remember her sighing sadly once and mentioning, "Now comes the post-holiday blues." I don't recall her ever acting depressed, but hers was a generation that wouldn't have "acted out" their feelings.

I will admit that January is sort of a blank time these days. There is nothing to anticipate -- even gardeners are relegated to merely perusing seed catalogs. We're not preparing for anything or anticipating anything but the end of it. Even beastly February at least features Valentine's Day, Presidents' Day white sales and mattress discounts, and Lent (okay, Lent is probably not an eagerly anticipated event and one that, when I was a Catholic schoolgirl, I never quite "got." I knew I had to give something up, so I usually chose something I didn't really like to begin with -- like liver...or kale). You have to travel to experience Mardi Gras and, frankly, every day in the South is Fat Tuesday.

January, though, is 31 days of a blank slate. To me, that's terrific. I have 31 days for which nothing is expected; 31 days where whatever I do is gravy. I can get in some groundwork for times when I will have an obligation...or not. Mostly, I can pick my project and my deadline. So much power!

I remember saying last year that 2009 had been so horrible, I was glad it was over. I was ready to say the same thing about 2010. But, ya know...even though both years held their terrors, they also held a certain beauty of painful, but necessary, growth and poignant moments that only gut-wrenching misery can manifest. I doubt I would have ever witnessed my children's strength and compassion or my brothers' fierce loyalty had this year not happened.

So, thank you, 2010, for what you brought. And I'll even welcome you, 2011 -- in my own, quiet way.

Razzleberry Dressing

Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol was not our favorite version of the Dickens classic, but it was requisite and quoted extensively.

Mr. Magoo in his natural state was ...well ... very politically incorrect. Basically, it was a cartoon making fun of an almost-blind old man. To make things worse, Mr. Magoo had a Chinese houseboy named Charley, complete with buck teeth, pigtail and "l" and "r" speech confusion ("Mistah Ma-gloo!")*.

There is no Charley in Magoo's Christmas Carol (not even in the "set up" song, "Great to be Back on Broadway"). And there is very little of Magoo's vision problems -- mistaking a coat rack for a visitor and, of course, the butcher's belly for the giant turkey Scrooge sends to the Cratchitts ("bwoot, bwoot").

So, Merry Christmas, John Boy and Dark Garden. May it be filled with razzleberry dressing.



*This led to a particular embarrassing moment for my mother. I had adopted "Charley's" version of saying "hello" and used it for everyone: "Heh-roh!" We moved to Maryland during this time period and I needed to change pediatricians. My mother was mortified when I greeted my new doctor -- Dr. Yim, a Chinese-American -- with a hearty "Heh-roh!"

A brief respite from being dragged down Memory Lane

By now everyone has seen the flash mob Hallelujah Chorus, so I'm not going to imbed it here. Follow the link if you haven't seen it.

Oh, and make sure you are at maximum tissuage*.

A few things that struck me after watching it a (ahem) few times. I wonder how many people we see singing aren't the ones who practiced for the event. I, myself, could have sung any of the parts, having worked out a simplified, four-part version for kazoo that was to be performed one Christmas Eve a very VERY long time ago that never came to pass because of the refusal on the part of Dark Garden some people not to practice and the inability to find someone to play bass kazoo.

Anyway, this time of year, every church tries to whip its choir into shape enough to wow the Christmas Eve crowd with a passable version of the Handel classic and, thereby, inspire the once-a-year folks to sign on for the duration. So I figure there had to be a few church choir members in the food court crowd who, upon seeing the spontaneous outbreak of a piece they knew, stood and joined the singing.

Then there is the standing thing. I've seen a lot of comments on the internet about how rude it was that so many people didn't stand. Standing during the Hallelujah Chorus is a tradition, not a sacred rite. If this had occurred at my local mall, the lack of standing would have been the same. Most men don't around here don't bother to remove their hats during the Star Spangled Banner either.

It made me laugh to see the people in the background actually fleeing the area, as if they were terrified they'd be charged for listening to Handel without having to choke up a "love offering."

What did touch me, though, were the parents with children. I got a little weepy watching parents make some gesture or sign to their children telling them to pay attention -- "this is special; this is a moment." Watch how many parents reach out and touch their children in some way; they're so aware that this mundane shopping day suddenly became a gift that would never leave either memories.

I have to admit, if this were to occur in our local mall, while Dirtman and I would enjoy the performance, just about every other Linguini would be heading for the door. John Boy would be afraid a sing-along was about to break out. Dark Garden would balk at the idea of sacred music being inflicted upon him while he was doing a chore he hated in the first place. As for the Small Assorted Cratchits (which is what we call the Heirs and the Twins this time of year), duct tape over their mouths might be be wisest course of action.

In stark contrast to the organized and grand version of this perennial classic that is sweeping the web, I offer this older, more rustic version by the Roches (whose Christmas performance in Northern Virginia I swear I will attend one day when I grow up). It's not quite as full-bodied as a mall full of singers, but mesmerizing by its own merit.



*"Tissuage is a word because I say it is.

Those holiday specials were...ummm...special

Here is my dilema: There are certain things I love but I'm not sure I love them for what they are or for the memory they induce.

For instance: There is a song in my Playlist by Julius LaRosa called "Eh, Cumpare." Bluntly, Placido Domingo will not be performing it anytime soon at the Met. It's a campy song, but I love it. I love it because I have a very specific memory from when I was five or six of that song coming on and my mother, grandmother and two aunts singing and miming along and laughing so hard they couldn't breath. I'm pretty sure there had to be Old Fashioneds and Martinis preceding the performance (for everyone but my mother, who didn't drink but had no problem acting like she had). From then on whenever that song was played, the entire Linguini assembly would begin singing and miming and laughing. (This was obviously not only a Linguini thing -- if you watch Godfather III, they have a similar -- though certainly more organized -- reaction to the song).

So, for what it's worth, growing up I absolutely loved Christmas specials. Not just the ones for kids, though. During the Christmas season, I was permitted to stay up past my 8 o'clock bedtime (that's right -- through my sophomore year in high school I had to go to bed at 8 o'clock...) and see all the Christmas shows that ran throughout December; and everyone had one -- Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Red Skelton (who ran the same one every year -- Greer Garson; I loved it), Dean Martin, Andy Williams, and any other celebrity who had a "variety show" (TV Guide designation) on the air at the time.

I see clips of them now and part of me cringes. The writing was horrible, the "special effects" were embarrassing (and not even done ironically) and the music was canned. But -- what was it? I couldn't look away.

Well, of course it was that I was warm and comfy on the sofa surrounded by relatives (oh brother, was I surrounded by relatives...), safe, secure and convinced that this whole "living" thing was a breeze. And, of course, there were cookies.

To this day, I hear Bing Crosby sing and my whole stress level drops.

And, so, for those of you who have forgotten how wonderfully horrible they were or for those who have not experienced the "specialness" of the 1960s Christmas Special:





Or, of course, you could just go to Branson...

With apologies to modern animation...

I get sucked into a sentimental vortex during the Christmas season, so you will have to bear with me while I drag family members kicking and screaming down memory lane.

Happily, just in case you thought that some childhood holiday trauma memories have been permanently lost with the decay of time, there is always some kindred victim soul who managed to preserve it for you.

And so we have today's first offering. Thanks to YouTube, my brothers and I are seeing this for the first time in color.

When I found it and watched it, I was surprised at how much of this cartoon was ingrained in my head -- we used to do Grampy's "Hmmm.....hmmmm.....hmmm....I got it!" all the time (when we were little, I mean -- it would be silly to do it now...). And that song; I'd forgotten where it had come from.

For those of you who don't remember, Grampy used to show up in Betty Boop cartoons.

Out of the Woods

I will always think of the summer of 2010 as the Lost Summer.

I don't say that glibly, as if time just "got away" -- which it did, only that's not why it was lost. I think, perhaps, I was the one who was lost; when all your old standby survival techniques fail you, that's a pretty good indication of being lost.

Looking back now, I think I more fully understand the nature of depression and how easily it can become a way of life. I mean I didn't realize I was lost until I was most thoroughly in the middle of a dense, dark forest, afraid to take another step.

I'm not going to elaborate on the circumstances, since it really is not my story to tell. But it's best I was not communicating during the summer because I probably would have said something I'd be regretting right now.

I relate this because I went to download some photos of the farm where I work from the camera and on it were photos from May and June of a family gathering and of Dark Garden's twin's graduation. It had been that long since there was anything to photograph around here; that long since we all got together for something other than "helping Sisiggy hold it together."

We do, on occasion, take normal family photos

And so here I emerge at the end of September and find Blogland pretty much desolate. Seems no one wants to read anything longer than a Facebook entry. I would probably agree when referring to entries -- such as this one -- totally self-absorbed and self-serving.

I will continue nonetheless, if only for myself; for the same reason I still use a metal drip coffee pot and prefer to write with a fountain pen. If there is anyone left of those who used to read Linguini, you might find me slightly changed -- the forest was rather brutal -- but I'm really just the same old Sisiggy with the same old quirky family.
...same old quirky Heir 2

I like to think I kept the best part of myself and left the rest back in that forest...

I don't know why this photo cracks me up...

A Very Boring Year-end Post

The general opinion of 2009, if one can derive such a thing from perusing the internet, is that it tanked big time. In view of recent events, it is my gut reaction to agree. Working for a non-profit, I know I'm not out of the woods yet, but at least I'm in a clearing.

Before we dump the entire year, though, I got to thinking -- rather, yesterday's miraculous save got me to thinking -- of all the life-affirming moments that have happened throughout this year that not only got me through, but made me just a little less cynical than before.

I was reminded of this yesterday when Dirtman arrived home from work toting our usual order of bird seed from Wildbirds Unlimited with an added gift of a snowman seed block, courtesy of store owners Bruce and Dolores Johnson. We were out of feed and Dirtman called to see if they were planning on grocery shopping where he works and could they toss a bag* in their car for us.

Nothing makes me happier than giving my birds a treat.

So, if this is a sappy, sentimental farewell to 2009, it's because of little gesture like that -- like Gwynne sending us suet cakes just when we ran out and couldn't afford anymore (she also sent us ham to feed people -- but she remembered my birds!).

Oh, I don' mean to downgrade the big things that have blessed us this year. We would not have made it without our families helping us out financially while we scrambled to find jobs that just weren't out there. Dark Garden helped us keep our sanity by providing us with a vacation and our neighbor/landlord who never once made us feel like losers when we were late with the rent.

So, no. I'm not writing off 2009. It was the year that took the edge off my cynicism. Turns out I'm not such a tough old broad after all.

*Believe me, we've tried to get cheaper brands, but the birds just leave it there. Wildbird's seed even looks fresher. Cheap seed looks like half of it has already been hulled.

Heir 1's Four-Days-After-His-Birthday Party

This cannot end well...


See what I mean:



More photos here.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation*

I stared out at this*2:



Tried to ignore this (not for the faint of heart or stomach).

Did this:

Read these:

Came home to this*3:



(Sigh)

*Summer vacation generously supplied by Mr. and Mrs. Dark Garden, to whom we are eternally grateful, but not so much as to adopt their TV viewing habit (Oh, yes. I saw you two watching wrestling and I tried to convince myself that you were doing it so I would comment on it until I actually heard you discussing the program like you watch this on a regular basis at which point I immediately took up smoking, binge drinking and hard drugs because now I realize there is absolutely no hope for the world and I might as well die young {ish}.)

*2 Believe it or not, we were at Outerbanks -- nice North Carolina beaches. I will not take my camera to the beach. But you all know what a beach looks like, right?

*3 Our neighbor IH across the street naively took a dozen. She told Dirtman, "no more for awhile," not realizing that her acceptance of said cucumbers has automatically contractually obligated her to receive cucumbers every day until the end of the growing season -- unless, of course, she sends back the card we mail her to opt out for a days' worth, which I have a feeling will probably get lost in the mail. IH suggest we put out a table with the extra produce, but I have a feeling that's a good way to lose a table and not much else.

*4 We would also like to acknowledge Heir 1 for staying home and taking care of all the animals and plants without making me feel guilty about it, even though Zsa Zsa was on one of her yogurt and farina diets, Topper gets the runs whenever I leave, Abbey was finishing being in heat and Salt continuously slipped off to peruse the neighborhood. Miraculously, dogs and cats are all happy and healthy and one, in particular, still qualifies to enter a convent (were she not canine, I guess...).

Mr. Hulot's Clambake without Michael Jackson

Believe it or not, I have been uncharacteristically silent about all the fuss around the never-ending coverage of Michael Jackson’s death. (This may come as a surprise to some of you whose despondency over the issue is totally out of proportion with the subject’s importance in his and most people’s lives, but my only response to that is: You started it.)

Anyway, the reason I have not been indulging in as much sneering and sniping as would normally be the case is that when I do turn on the television, I watch Turner Classic Movies. And on TCM, Michael Jackson hasn’t even been born yet.

I’ll admit this is rather indulgent escapism and makes me even crankier when the 21st century insists on creeping into my sanctuary. I rarely progress beyond the early 60s, though sometimes I am forced to watch a movie I would not normally watch because I’m in the middle of some sewing or knitting handwork and that’s what’s on.

This has usually ended in the discovery of a movie to add to my list of favorites; but sometimes it leaves me oddly disturbed.

I experienced both Sunday night when, because it was on and I had projects to complete, I was forced to view an Elvis movie (Clambake) after which came a movie I had planned to watch (and was directed to watch by Dark Garden), Mr. Hulot’s Holiday.

For a quick overview: Elvis movie – no matter how I try to approach it, it is by far, one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen (and it is, by the way, the first Elvis movie I’ve ever seen); Mr. Hulot’s Holiday – loved it.

I can’t, though, let the Clambake thing go yet, because it was so phenomenally bad. And one of the things that made it so bad was its total cluelessness about what was going on in the world politically, socially and musically. This was the year of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, The Graduate and In the Heat of the Night. This was the year the Beatles released Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band.

In a watershed year for the entertainment field, there’s Elvis, singing cheesy songs based on the worst rock music ever recorded (think those stupid Brady Bunch songs…simplified) and woodenly delivering inane dialogue from an unimaginative script – surrounded by fake-lashed girls doing The Jerk, The Pony and The Swim – dances so old and culturally embarrassing, YouTube doesn’t even have decent videos of them. I admit I’m not an Elvis fan to begin with, but in this movie he certainly managed to completely disguise any reason why he deserved to even be in show business, let alone receive the kind of adulation he continues to get.

Now: Mr. Hulot’s Holiday.

I had received a directive from Dark Garden to be sure and watch this – that it was “strange,” he said. Good, but “strange.” When DG calls something strange, you sort of think twice about whether you really want to see it in the first place, but it was showing under TCM’s “Essentials Jr.,” meaning it was suitable for children to view, so I knew the “strange” wouldn’t cross the line into “disturbing.”

My guess as to why DG thought this was a strange movie is probably the combination of the facts that it was a French film, it was made in 1953 and was, for all intents and purposes, pretty much silent. Technically, I suppose it would be termed “slapstick,” but if it had been purely that, I doubt I would have enjoyed it so much. I find “slapstick” technically interesting and mildly amusing, but rarely out-and-out funny. When I see Charlie Chaplin’s eating machine, I’m so interested in the precision of the timing of the components of the scene that I forget to laugh.

John Lithgow, who introduced the film, said actor/director Jacques Tati was the inspiration for many tall, physical comedians such as himself and John Cleese. But if someone asked me to give them a general idea of what the movie was like, Rowan Atkinson’s Mr. Bean comes to mind, though less dependent on the main character.

Hulot is definitely the central character. But that doesn’t prevent Tati, as director, from having his fun with the other characters inhabiting this small seaside hotel for their vacations and making an overall statement about holidays in general. The workaholic husband constantly being called to the telephone, the elderly couple looking for an opportunity to be offended, the unintelligible announcer directing travelers to their trains, the herd mentality of vacationgoers – all these are familiar even though we are a half century removed.

I will even forgive Tati for his rather jaundiced portrayal of middle-aged women because it is just so darn funny and, in some cases, just so darn true. One woman spends her entire vacation complaining about the trouble she had traveling to the seaside. Another woman combs the beach for lovely shells she hands off to her husband, who promptly tosses them back into the ocean.

I think most of the strangeness comes from the alien landscape of a small, intimate seaside hotel, an establishment that, being born in 1957, I’ve only heard about and seen the ruins of. DG has probably not even had that experience. I also think we’re used to such light, airy locational films like this being shot in color. The film loses nothing by being in black and white, whether that was an artistic or budgetary decision. But about halfway through I realized how few “travelogue” movies I’ve seen that get that sun-drenched look without the aid of color.

I don’t know when or if TCM plans to run this again any time soon. It’s definitely a movie I’d watch over and over.

Lost in Lost River

John Boy was to arrive at Lost River State Park much earlier than the rest of us in order to go on a hike and then would meet us for a picnic.

A (sort of) direct quote from John Boy, after sitting a half hour in the general parking area while we had already set up the site and having arrived, via his car, after searching the whole park:

"I thought you'd probably leave a note or something on my windshield..."



"...but I got distracted."

Did I mention Linguinis have a focusing prob...

Oh, look! Zsa Zsa!

Up to speed

Ahhhh! Back on my usual computer. The laptop is okay for just working in Word, but doing anything else is a nuisance -- and will be until I get myself a mouse.

Things have been truly buzzing around here; so much good news, I'm wondering if perhaps the universe is tilting in a strange direction or maybe I've fallen through some black hole to a parallel universe -- one that isn't out to get us.

Or maybe my Year of Grief has come to an end, even though I didn't know I was experiencing a Year of Grief because I was...well...experiencing a Year of Grief. What is the psycho babble phrase? I found my New Normal?

First of all, NO MORE CISTERN!!!! Our landlord/neighbor hooked us up to his well. What this means is no more turning on the kitchen sink, hearing a telltale thunk that means "rinse what you got and quick;" or waking up at night when someone uses the bathroom and hearing an ominous hiss that means no one else will be able to use the toilet until water is delivered. Turns out the cistern still had a leak, which I wish we knew, like, eight expensive loads of water ago...

Second: Dirtman has quit tobacco! The Heirs are particularly happy about this since they envisioned a future of having to be the caregiver to a father with half a face. I'm just relieved he got rid of the health risk. Oh, and now I don't have to run away when he tries to kiss me.

Some minor positive notes: The thyroid meds have finally kicked in completely and, while I wouldn't say the pounds are "melting" away, I feel like I'm back on track and am fitting in clothes I haven't seen since two summers ago. My energy has returned and my joints aren't screaming every time I put forth a little exertion. My hair has stopped falling out and my nails grow again.

So we've been busy. Landlord/neighbor plowed a section in the back of the yard (beyond the fence) for a communal vegetable garden. As soon as it dries up a little he's going to have it tilled. So we started a compost pile because...yea...we've got a lot to compost.

Mothers' Day was spent at Dark Garden's house, where I was -- against my will -- entered into a dip contest. Had I known this was a contest, I would not have brought hummus, which was, technically, in violation of the "dip theme" of the gathering. The dip was supposed to go with tortilla chips, but since I was trying not to eat tortilla chips, I brought hummus and carrot and celery sticks.

Do I need to tell you I lost miserably -- even to Dirtman's dip, which was...well, if you have a strong stomach and aren't eating anything, you can read about Dirtman's dip. First of all, men don't like hummus. They say they do to appease women attempting to get them to eating healthily, but they don't. Second, I can't think of anything more disgusting than hummus on a tortilla chip. And, finally, this batch didn't turn out as well as usual because for the first time in my life I made something with not enough garlic and, I think, my tahini might have been too old. (Dark Garden will make a comment about that last phrase.)

Additionally, Dark Garden will say I'm taking this way too seriously, which is what the person who sets up such competition always says when he purposely sabotaged the entry of the competition he feared. It ended up being a draw between his and John Boy's salsas, but only statistically. Each dip had its own merit and it's hard to compare, say, a cheese-based dip with a salsa because sometimes you want cheese and sometimes you want salsa.

And sometimes you don't want either because you want fresh vegetables and hummus.

I think that catches us up.

Oh, except for this, which we found next to Abbey's favorite gnome:

Why we hate Sears

You all know how much I dislike Wal Mart (haven't been in one in almost a decade), but this rant on the part of Dark Garden reminded me also of how much I dislike Sears.

It's a shame, because they used to be a good company. But I can tell you horror stories of attempting to use their service department for services for which I paid good money. Eventually, trying to get some sort of answer from anyone became virtually impossible. We cancelled all accounts and stopped buying from them (we'd quit buying Kenmore products prior to this, since only Sears will repair them).

What is laughable (or not) is that Dark Garden was doing an investigation and couldn't get a straight answer.

Anyway, we're on a spread-the-word campaign and hoping they have a public relations department (they can't possibly) that searches the web for negative publicity. A longshot, to be sure. But shorter than calling their number and attempting to lodge a complaint with someone who can actually do something about it.

Auntie Tam

Yup. Another battlefield tour in another Civil War battlefield.

45 minutes at the Smelly Visitors' Center

I will say, of all the battlefields (and I do mean all) I've toured, Antietam is the hardest to get through, mostly because the land is so vastly different from the way it was back in the 19th century. There are whole forests that are no longer there (cleverly labeled, like they're saying, "Pretend there's a bunch of trees here. Now pretend that you are standing on a rise in the topography that isn't there anymore. Now pretend that when you face east there isn't a honkin' big war memorial blocking your view...")

Corn-dog Jackson
"There he stands, like a Corn Dog."

But I can't 'splain it any better than Darkgarden:
http://releasethedark.blogspot.com/2009/04/battle-of-antietam.html

My favorite part of the day: At the Irish Pub (serving Guiness on tap!)