Truth be told, there is plenty I would not mind going without in the coming weeks. Offhand, the list goes something like this, in no particular order:
1. $4.00 a gallon gasoline
2. Tornadoes and flash floods
3. Thesis stress
4. Tendinitis in both feet
5. Scott Walker
6. Income tax preparation
7. Migraines
8. Cell phone conversations
9. Insomnia
10. Difficult people
11. The ongoing construction outside my window
12. Cleaning up spontaneous emissions from pre-schoolers
See, that was pretty easy.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine's Day
If someone had ever told me that, at this point, in my life, I would be living in a city called Mandeville, Louisiana, I would have been speechless with incredulity. Me, a forever urban girl, and a Yankee at that, living in a southern city whose name translates as "big farm."
But, it is Valentine's Day, and here I am. Now, a few facts about Mandeville.
It's post-Katrina population totals 12, 421. A strange number -- 12, 420 would be so much symmetrical. I guess I'm that extra "one." The odd man out. In so many ways.
I don't have soccer-mom blonde hair. I don't play tennis. My political views are that of an independent and I generally keep them to myself. The phrase "family values" typically gives me indigestion.
Once upon a time, doctors sent their New Orleans patients with respiratory difficulties to Mandeville to take in the clear air. That was when Mandeville was a haven for towering pines. Six months ago, I was able to look out my living room window and see nothing by greenery. I now keep my blinds closed at night so that I don't get a seizure from the flashing neon sign advertising "Kim's Nails." Even with the blinds closed, that damned purple light manages to poke its ugly self through the window.
In 2009, I threw my hat in the ring as a candidate for interim mayor. When asked, the other candidates immediately affirmed that they were proponents of business expansion in the city. Me, not so much. Not without consideration of some kind of master plan. A plan that would not include being able to feast my eyes on a Dollar General store when I awaken each morning, or listen to the perpetual drone of bulldozers making way for the next similar attraction.
It also would have been nice if our forefathers had considered the benefits of sidewalks which are few and far between here. Yes, we have two state parks within walking distance, but you can't actually walk to them.
Long ago, things were much different. At the beginning of the 20th century, bands played music on steamboats traveling from New Orleans across Lake Pontchartrain, and at at local pavilions and dance halls. Mandeville was the first place where jazz music was heard outside of the Big Easy, and many early jazz artists played here.
Many people don't know this, but there used to be numerous lighthouses in the Mandeville area, too. The ultimate romantic edifice.
Mandeville still has its merits. Two libraries. Good schools. Low crime. But it could be so much more.
Maybe I'm especially feeling this way today because Mandeville, as livable as it remains in contrast to many other communities, can sometimes be a lonely place for the "plus one" to the 12, 420 other residents. Particularly when that person just lost a close friend. Someone she could have seen herself kicking back with on one of those musical, magical steamboats so long ago ...
But, it is Valentine's Day, and here I am. Now, a few facts about Mandeville.
It's post-Katrina population totals 12, 421. A strange number -- 12, 420 would be so much symmetrical. I guess I'm that extra "one." The odd man out. In so many ways.
I don't have soccer-mom blonde hair. I don't play tennis. My political views are that of an independent and I generally keep them to myself. The phrase "family values" typically gives me indigestion.
Once upon a time, doctors sent their New Orleans patients with respiratory difficulties to Mandeville to take in the clear air. That was when Mandeville was a haven for towering pines. Six months ago, I was able to look out my living room window and see nothing by greenery. I now keep my blinds closed at night so that I don't get a seizure from the flashing neon sign advertising "Kim's Nails." Even with the blinds closed, that damned purple light manages to poke its ugly self through the window.
In 2009, I threw my hat in the ring as a candidate for interim mayor. When asked, the other candidates immediately affirmed that they were proponents of business expansion in the city. Me, not so much. Not without consideration of some kind of master plan. A plan that would not include being able to feast my eyes on a Dollar General store when I awaken each morning, or listen to the perpetual drone of bulldozers making way for the next similar attraction.
It also would have been nice if our forefathers had considered the benefits of sidewalks which are few and far between here. Yes, we have two state parks within walking distance, but you can't actually walk to them.
Long ago, things were much different. At the beginning of the 20th century, bands played music on steamboats traveling from New Orleans across Lake Pontchartrain, and at at local pavilions and dance halls. Mandeville was the first place where jazz music was heard outside of the Big Easy, and many early jazz artists played here.
Many people don't know this, but there used to be numerous lighthouses in the Mandeville area, too. The ultimate romantic edifice.
Mandeville still has its merits. Two libraries. Good schools. Low crime. But it could be so much more.
Maybe I'm especially feeling this way today because Mandeville, as livable as it remains in contrast to many other communities, can sometimes be a lonely place for the "plus one" to the 12, 420 other residents. Particularly when that person just lost a close friend. Someone she could have seen herself kicking back with on one of those musical, magical steamboats so long ago ...
Monday, January 10, 2011
A Cheesehead Gloats in Mandeville -- Lambeaulicious!
Just a temporary -- but justified -- name change for my blog today, in celebration of the Green Bay Packers' win over the Philly Eagles/Michael Vick.
Be it known that once a Cheesehead, always a Cheesehead, no matter how long I live in Louisiana and embrace my current state. Especially now that there's no chance of the Saints progressing any further this season.
Seems to be a good time to let folks know a little about the origination of the term. Whenever I've heard it uttered (or should I say "uddered" -- ouch!) in these parts, there's a negative connotation. Indeed, it started out that way, reportedly first coined by Illinois (flatlanders) football and baseball fans in reference to opposing Wisconsin sports supporters.
Wisconsinites, being of gracious, self-deprecatory humor, embraced the term and now -- especially since our victorious Sunday -- wear it as a badge(as in Badgers!)of pride.
The actual cheesehead hat was first crafted by "milliner" Ralph Bruno out of foam and flaunted at a Milwaukee Brewers/Chicago White Sox game in 1987. The headgear was popularized by center-fielder Rick Manning, who noticed the hat while playing ball.
Bruno got in the biz of selling the hat as a novelty. See? A good idea flies itself. The "Cheesehead" trademark is owned by Foamation, Inc. of St. Francis, Wisconsin, which began manufacture of the wearable, foam cheesehead in 1987.
Of note, unlike the neverending conflict arising out of merchandise sporting the "Who Dat!" phrase, no such problems have arisen regarding the Cheesehead phenomenon.
And that, my friends, is "the rest of the story."
Who dat? Green Bay dat!
Be it known that once a Cheesehead, always a Cheesehead, no matter how long I live in Louisiana and embrace my current state. Especially now that there's no chance of the Saints progressing any further this season.
Seems to be a good time to let folks know a little about the origination of the term. Whenever I've heard it uttered (or should I say "uddered" -- ouch!) in these parts, there's a negative connotation. Indeed, it started out that way, reportedly first coined by Illinois (flatlanders) football and baseball fans in reference to opposing Wisconsin sports supporters.
Wisconsinites, being of gracious, self-deprecatory humor, embraced the term and now -- especially since our victorious Sunday -- wear it as a badge(as in Badgers!)of pride.
The actual cheesehead hat was first crafted by "milliner" Ralph Bruno out of foam and flaunted at a Milwaukee Brewers/Chicago White Sox game in 1987. The headgear was popularized by center-fielder Rick Manning, who noticed the hat while playing ball.
Bruno got in the biz of selling the hat as a novelty. See? A good idea flies itself. The "Cheesehead" trademark is owned by Foamation, Inc. of St. Francis, Wisconsin, which began manufacture of the wearable, foam cheesehead in 1987.
Of note, unlike the neverending conflict arising out of merchandise sporting the "Who Dat!" phrase, no such problems have arisen regarding the Cheesehead phenomenon.
And that, my friends, is "the rest of the story."
Who dat? Green Bay dat!
Friday, December 31, 2010
It's 2011 and I'm still here ...
It began with my still being engaged to marry. It ended with a newfound strength in singlehood and a magnificent male friend.
It started with being the oldest ballet major in state history, which required transcendence over cancer and injury. It ended with production of my first original children's ballet and being asked to teach at the school of a Bolshoi-trained artist.
In its embryonic stages, there were dreams of life in a less urban and more idyllic setting. At its conclusion, I am living that dream.
It commenced with a body of writing work that was directed at my peers. It evolved into works appreciated by far younger audiences.
At its origins, I did not know how to extricate myself from putting the lion's share of my labors into others' interests. Now I know better.
It initiated with undue concern about how my life looked on paper. It has culminated with my pulling my head out of my proverbial rear end and embracing what really matters.
At the onset, I had lost touch with far too many from my past. At its closure, I am magically surrounded by so many of them once again.
9/11, Katrina, Hirings and layoffs, sickness and recovery, loves lost and gained ... I remain ... most grateful, and looking forward to the next 10.
It started with being the oldest ballet major in state history, which required transcendence over cancer and injury. It ended with production of my first original children's ballet and being asked to teach at the school of a Bolshoi-trained artist.
In its embryonic stages, there were dreams of life in a less urban and more idyllic setting. At its conclusion, I am living that dream.
It commenced with a body of writing work that was directed at my peers. It evolved into works appreciated by far younger audiences.
At its origins, I did not know how to extricate myself from putting the lion's share of my labors into others' interests. Now I know better.
It initiated with undue concern about how my life looked on paper. It has culminated with my pulling my head out of my proverbial rear end and embracing what really matters.
At the onset, I had lost touch with far too many from my past. At its closure, I am magically surrounded by so many of them once again.
9/11, Katrina, Hirings and layoffs, sickness and recovery, loves lost and gained ... I remain ... most grateful, and looking forward to the next 10.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
The Most Powerful Christmas Song Ever Written
The year was 1962. The United States was in the midst of the Cuban Missile Crisis -- the great standoff between John F. Kennedy and Nikita ("We will bury you!") Khrushchev.
A French songwriter, living in New York, had been commissioned to write a Christmas-themed song, but he could not put pen to paper. He certainly had the talent. He had studied at the Strasbourg Conservatory and at the Conservatoire National de Paris.
However, the man was troubled. How could he write a joyful tune when the world was on the brink of potential annihilation? He had already been through enough war in his lifetime.
Duing World War II, the aspiring composer, previously destined for a brilliant career, was drafted into the German army after Hitler's Nazi forces overcame France.
While still in the German army and wearing the hated uniform, he became a member of the French underground. He collected information and warned French resistance fighters of attacks being planned by the Germans on his homeland.
That activity culminated in an episode that haunted him for the rest of his life. Intrepidly, he led a group of German soldiers into a trap where they were ambushed by French fighters in crossfire. The young man was also shot -- most likely on purpose -- to protect him from being found out.
The young man survived, but never forgot the image of all of those enemy soldiers collapsing and dying around him. He never talked about it publicly. He subsequently deserted the German army and lived with the French underground until the war was over.
In 1952, he moved to Manhattan, and it was on that memorable night, 10 years later, that he was having so much difficulty with his composition. He decided to clear his head by going out for a walk that evening through the streets of New York.
He saw something that made him pause. Two mothers had stopped by a storefront to chat with one another. They each were holding onto a baby stroller. The two infants in those strollers were smiling and wordlessly gesturing to one another
in a language wholly of their own.
What the songwriter witnessed was complete openness and love shared by two innocent beings. He raced home, inspired as never before, and in one sitting wrote the following as a plea for peace:
Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see?
'Way up in the sky, little lamb
Do you see what I see?
A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite
With a tail as big as a kite
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing thru the sky, shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
A song, a song
High above the tree
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea
Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king
Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king
Do you know what I know?
A Child, a Child
Shivers in the cold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Said the king to the people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
The Child, the Child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light
Postscript: Although Bing Crosby's version of the carol brought it to national attention and sold more copies that that of anyone else, the composer -- the late Noel Regney -- most appreciated the version recorded by Robert Goulet, with that artist's impassioned delivery of the line, "Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere!"
A French songwriter, living in New York, had been commissioned to write a Christmas-themed song, but he could not put pen to paper. He certainly had the talent. He had studied at the Strasbourg Conservatory and at the Conservatoire National de Paris.
However, the man was troubled. How could he write a joyful tune when the world was on the brink of potential annihilation? He had already been through enough war in his lifetime.
Duing World War II, the aspiring composer, previously destined for a brilliant career, was drafted into the German army after Hitler's Nazi forces overcame France.
While still in the German army and wearing the hated uniform, he became a member of the French underground. He collected information and warned French resistance fighters of attacks being planned by the Germans on his homeland.
That activity culminated in an episode that haunted him for the rest of his life. Intrepidly, he led a group of German soldiers into a trap where they were ambushed by French fighters in crossfire. The young man was also shot -- most likely on purpose -- to protect him from being found out.
The young man survived, but never forgot the image of all of those enemy soldiers collapsing and dying around him. He never talked about it publicly. He subsequently deserted the German army and lived with the French underground until the war was over.
In 1952, he moved to Manhattan, and it was on that memorable night, 10 years later, that he was having so much difficulty with his composition. He decided to clear his head by going out for a walk that evening through the streets of New York.
He saw something that made him pause. Two mothers had stopped by a storefront to chat with one another. They each were holding onto a baby stroller. The two infants in those strollers were smiling and wordlessly gesturing to one another
in a language wholly of their own.
What the songwriter witnessed was complete openness and love shared by two innocent beings. He raced home, inspired as never before, and in one sitting wrote the following as a plea for peace:
Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see?
'Way up in the sky, little lamb
Do you see what I see?
A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite
With a tail as big as a kite
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing thru the sky, shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
A song, a song
High above the tree
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea
Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king
Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king
Do you know what I know?
A Child, a Child
Shivers in the cold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Said the king to the people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
The Child, the Child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light
Postscript: Although Bing Crosby's version of the carol brought it to national attention and sold more copies that that of anyone else, the composer -- the late Noel Regney -- most appreciated the version recorded by Robert Goulet, with that artist's impassioned delivery of the line, "Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere!"
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Nothing says summer like ...
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
