Baseball and state fairs!
Enjoyed the first on Sunday and the latter this evening in Wisconsin. This year, the trend is food on a stick. Unless it's an olive in a Bloody Mary, or shish kabobs on the grill, I'm of the mind, "Let's not and say we did." Just not that into skewered food and, particularly, food that's been skewered and fried.
Just give me the basics, the classics: fresh cream puffs with cold, real cream. And anything that Rupena's makes -- to die for! It's a West Allis caterer that provided the eats for more weddings, funerals and picnics than I can remember growing up here. The chicken I had tonight was marinated in butter, seasoned with garlic, roasted, and served -- plump, thick and tender -- in a fresh bun with lettuce and tomato. No condiments necessary. Accompanied by a cold beer and a cool breeze, and you have my idea of heaven. Especially when there's a group of scruffy young'ins churning up some Irish folk music nearby.
A state fair appeals to all of the senses, but perhaps most salient are the smells. The convergence of strong odors from prized livestock with the aromas of their "kin" being grilled for the pleasure of attendees. Such is the cycle of life. Just ask E.B. White's infamous pig, "Wilbur," saved from such a fate by his supremely generous friend, "Charlotte."
And even when you're no longer of younger and crazier mind to partake of rides designed to do nothing less than play havoc with your central nervous system, there's the ubiquitous ferris wheel, tame enough for just about any age, and offering spectacular views of the lights of the city beyond.
There are larger fairs than the one in Wisconsin. I should know. My family lived right across the street from it, in Falcon Heights, Minnesota. Now, I know dem's fightin' words with Texans. Their fair lasts longer and ultimately has a greater overall attendance. But Minnesota's has a larger daily attendance, and it's also got Garrison Keillor and gang as perennial performers.
No matter where you live, you really oughtta go to your fair this year. Most things American -- including my beloved baseball -- seem almost unrecognizable these days, with the actual event taking a back seat to the techno-happy, ear-blasting sideshows. But not a fair. It's still pretty much what it's always been. And that's a good thing.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide ...
I have the dubious distinction of being a Louisianian who came up to Wisconsin for a reunion and a brief respite from what had become unrelenting heat and humidity in what has been predicted to be an active hurricane season ... only to have her car submerged in the Great Shorewood Flood. A once in a century event in an otherwise idyllic village. Oh, the irony!
I have also overheard in recent days comments from locals complaining about the heat and humidity index here. But it's all relative, really.
For while thousands stood and sang "God Bless America" during the seventh inning stretch of the Milwaukee Brewers versus Houston Astros game last Sunday afternoon, scores of people in Russia were dying, literally, from the heat.
Folks seem surprised -- and it's not their fault, really, with the inundation of far more "important" news, such as the latest celebrity scandal -- when I mention that people in Russia are succumbing in record numbers to the heat right now, whether by direct affect or by drowning in an effort to escape it.
Yes, these are the hottest days in history for Russia, as well as for its neighbors, Ukraine and Belarus. We are talking in terms of 1,000 years. This unrelenting blast of heat, smog and smoke, which began on June 27, has been estimated to kill at least 7,000 people in Moscow alone, with the death toll in all of Russia well more than double that figure. It's been predicted that when nature's brutal assault -- compounded by untenable pollution and carbon monoxide levels -- finally ends this year, we will be looking at the deadliest heat wave in history.
Elsewhere, as Haiti struggles to recover from its devastating earthquake, thousands have perished or are missing due to monsoon flooding and landslides in China, India, Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Meanwhile, all seems quiet for now in the oil-soaked Gulf, with some scoffing (perhaps as a means of denying the inevitable) about early predictions of an active hurricane season. But sea surface temperatures in the tropical Atlantic have reached record highs. And as I've taught in my children's science show, "When temperatures are high and wind sheers are low, hurricanes form and threaten to blow!"
The only lesson I think I personally can take away from all of this is to recognize that there truly is, as the song goes, "nowhere to run, nowhere to hide." We're all in this together on Mother Earth.
I have also overheard in recent days comments from locals complaining about the heat and humidity index here. But it's all relative, really.
For while thousands stood and sang "God Bless America" during the seventh inning stretch of the Milwaukee Brewers versus Houston Astros game last Sunday afternoon, scores of people in Russia were dying, literally, from the heat.
Folks seem surprised -- and it's not their fault, really, with the inundation of far more "important" news, such as the latest celebrity scandal -- when I mention that people in Russia are succumbing in record numbers to the heat right now, whether by direct affect or by drowning in an effort to escape it.
Yes, these are the hottest days in history for Russia, as well as for its neighbors, Ukraine and Belarus. We are talking in terms of 1,000 years. This unrelenting blast of heat, smog and smoke, which began on June 27, has been estimated to kill at least 7,000 people in Moscow alone, with the death toll in all of Russia well more than double that figure. It's been predicted that when nature's brutal assault -- compounded by untenable pollution and carbon monoxide levels -- finally ends this year, we will be looking at the deadliest heat wave in history.
Elsewhere, as Haiti struggles to recover from its devastating earthquake, thousands have perished or are missing due to monsoon flooding and landslides in China, India, Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Meanwhile, all seems quiet for now in the oil-soaked Gulf, with some scoffing (perhaps as a means of denying the inevitable) about early predictions of an active hurricane season. But sea surface temperatures in the tropical Atlantic have reached record highs. And as I've taught in my children's science show, "When temperatures are high and wind sheers are low, hurricanes form and threaten to blow!"
The only lesson I think I personally can take away from all of this is to recognize that there truly is, as the song goes, "nowhere to run, nowhere to hide." We're all in this together on Mother Earth.
Friday, August 6, 2010
A Closetful of Friends ... and no one to care
I'e always loved Georgia O'Keefe's quote, "Nobody sees a flower, really, it is so small. We haven't time -- and to see takes time like to have a friend takes time."
In this age of racing to accumulate as many friends as possible on various social networks, I can't help but compare that to people hoarding closets full of clothes, and still having nothing to wear. With all of those "friends," how many are really on hand to hear you out -- fully and completely -- on that occasion that you need to cry until every last tear is purged, or to bring you the proverbial chicken soup when you are too weak to get up from your bed?
I recently read about an Oxford anthropologist determining that the human brain's cognitive power limits the size of the social networks we can sustain. Therefore, our outside limit for human friendship is about 150 people.
I recognize that some people -- particularly in the arts -- use their social networks as a means of getting the word out about their latest gallery events, concert performances or book launches. They understand that they are not necessarily forming relationships with people they expect to have heart-to-hearts with anytime soon.
But what about the rest who "friend" others with a zeal that might be put to far better use in the world?
For some people, it's all about the very collecting of friends, as many as possible. Their wall-to-wall posts resemble frantic ping pong matches:
"How long you gonna be in town?"
"Not sure. Can't wait to see you, too!"
"Hey, maybe we can get up a posse of Tom and Dick and Harry while you're here!"
"Yeah, that'd be great!"
Only, the gathering will likely never occur, and a year down the road, there'll be an encore of similar dialogue and the same result. And even if by some miracle, the gathering materializes, how much meaningful exchange ensues?
But, oh heck, at least you tried, didn't you?!?
Oh, no judgment here from me. Not really. Just a reality check. And it is this:
If reaching out to as many people as possible is your preference, so be it. But bear in mind that when you do catch up, you cannot expect those whom you keep on the eternal periphery of your life to share confidences because you finally happen to be there at that moment. Prepare for nothing else than a brief exchange of good cheer.
Because to have anything more means that you have to be a friend -- a REAL friend. And as Ms. O'Keefe said, that takes time.
In this age of racing to accumulate as many friends as possible on various social networks, I can't help but compare that to people hoarding closets full of clothes, and still having nothing to wear. With all of those "friends," how many are really on hand to hear you out -- fully and completely -- on that occasion that you need to cry until every last tear is purged, or to bring you the proverbial chicken soup when you are too weak to get up from your bed?
I recently read about an Oxford anthropologist determining that the human brain's cognitive power limits the size of the social networks we can sustain. Therefore, our outside limit for human friendship is about 150 people.
I recognize that some people -- particularly in the arts -- use their social networks as a means of getting the word out about their latest gallery events, concert performances or book launches. They understand that they are not necessarily forming relationships with people they expect to have heart-to-hearts with anytime soon.
But what about the rest who "friend" others with a zeal that might be put to far better use in the world?
For some people, it's all about the very collecting of friends, as many as possible. Their wall-to-wall posts resemble frantic ping pong matches:
"How long you gonna be in town?"
"Not sure. Can't wait to see you, too!"
"Hey, maybe we can get up a posse of Tom and Dick and Harry while you're here!"
"Yeah, that'd be great!"
Only, the gathering will likely never occur, and a year down the road, there'll be an encore of similar dialogue and the same result. And even if by some miracle, the gathering materializes, how much meaningful exchange ensues?
But, oh heck, at least you tried, didn't you?!?
Oh, no judgment here from me. Not really. Just a reality check. And it is this:
If reaching out to as many people as possible is your preference, so be it. But bear in mind that when you do catch up, you cannot expect those whom you keep on the eternal periphery of your life to share confidences because you finally happen to be there at that moment. Prepare for nothing else than a brief exchange of good cheer.
Because to have anything more means that you have to be a friend -- a REAL friend. And as Ms. O'Keefe said, that takes time.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Why They Call It Comfort Food
My friend and colleague, the inimitable children's writer, Candice Farris Ransom, just sang the praises of mom and pop diners, which she wisely prefers over "fern bars," all the better to do "constructive eavesdropping." However, it's more than just fodder for an author's mill that she speaks of.
She writes of the comfort she's found in her own neighborhood eatery, following a summer marked by sadness and the kind of fatigue that penetrates the body and spirit. We are on the "same page" on this one. We both shared the loss of a former professor (somehow, that description is so inadequate) who impacted us forever in our professional lives and as human beings. And then, while we most needed a bit of a respite, we remained thrust in the midst of "the world" and all that that entails. She writes beautifully of her own experience in her blog, "Under the Honeysuckle Vine," and there is no need for me to comment further on her end.
As to my own travails, they included the flood of the century occurring during a sojourn to my Wisconsin hometown, which decimated my car, and an incomprehensible assault, which I will need some time to process and heal from.
And I, like my literary friend, have felt a pull towards what heals best -- a return to a simpler time in an America not easy to find these days. For me, it's a 20-minute drive to Ponchatoula, which bills itself as not only "The Strawberry Capital of the World," but "America's Antiques City."
Speaking of, I don't know how many of you have watched James Lipton's Q&A to the evening's guest actor at the close of every segment of "Inside the Actor's Studio" on BRAVO, but I'm rather surprised that no one has yet uttered what I would say when asked, "What is your favorite word?" For me, there's nothing like a sign advertising "Antiques" to make me feel like all's right with the world ...
When I get back home, that's where I'm heading. First stop is going to be Paul's Cafe, for if ever there was the antithesis of the "fern bar," there it is. http://www.paulscafe.net/full-menu.html.
I'm gonna have me some fried catfish and a Barq's rootbeer, and bask in an ambience like no other, doing some of that "constructive eavesdropping" in the "Mayberry of the Deep South" (yet another of its monikers) until my soul has been restored. Yes, it's getting time to click my heels ...
She writes of the comfort she's found in her own neighborhood eatery, following a summer marked by sadness and the kind of fatigue that penetrates the body and spirit. We are on the "same page" on this one. We both shared the loss of a former professor (somehow, that description is so inadequate) who impacted us forever in our professional lives and as human beings. And then, while we most needed a bit of a respite, we remained thrust in the midst of "the world" and all that that entails. She writes beautifully of her own experience in her blog, "Under the Honeysuckle Vine," and there is no need for me to comment further on her end.
As to my own travails, they included the flood of the century occurring during a sojourn to my Wisconsin hometown, which decimated my car, and an incomprehensible assault, which I will need some time to process and heal from.
And I, like my literary friend, have felt a pull towards what heals best -- a return to a simpler time in an America not easy to find these days. For me, it's a 20-minute drive to Ponchatoula, which bills itself as not only "The Strawberry Capital of the World," but "America's Antiques City."
Speaking of, I don't know how many of you have watched James Lipton's Q&A to the evening's guest actor at the close of every segment of "Inside the Actor's Studio" on BRAVO, but I'm rather surprised that no one has yet uttered what I would say when asked, "What is your favorite word?" For me, there's nothing like a sign advertising "Antiques" to make me feel like all's right with the world ...
When I get back home, that's where I'm heading. First stop is going to be Paul's Cafe, for if ever there was the antithesis of the "fern bar," there it is. http://www.paulscafe.net/full-menu.html.
I'm gonna have me some fried catfish and a Barq's rootbeer, and bask in an ambience like no other, doing some of that "constructive eavesdropping" in the "Mayberry of the Deep South" (yet another of its monikers) until my soul has been restored. Yes, it's getting time to click my heels ...
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