Me Too

Yesterday, I posted about a charming old man with whom I chatted at the park. Bill was a story-teller, and he had some cool stories to tell.  A diminutive Jewish man, I could not help but compare him to Woody Allen, recalling movies like Annie Hall and all the others I saw back in the day but now find that memory is not willing to call up. (I also remember reading Side Effects, but I read it simultaneously with The Postman Always Rings Twice so that I could handle the horror of the latter with the humor of the former.) Point is, Woody Allen movies were part of the movie-track of my life, as they were for many of you.

And then we learned about another side of Woody Allen. To be honest with you, I'd almost forgotten about Woody's fall from grace. It's so hard to keep up these days. But I certainly wasn't thinking about it when I titled my post about Bill. "Like Chatting with Woody Allen" seemed to sum up how I felt about my conversation with Bill, his background, his appearance, his story-telling abilities, his candor. Had Bill been more like Archie Bunker, I would have pointed that out. Had he been more like Dick VanDyke, I would have made that connection. But Bill exuded Woody Allen.

By the end of the post, I recalled the fall from grace and cautioned my audience to not be like Woody. Posted it and thought no more of it.

Last night, I received a private message from someone I knew decades ago and still admire and respect. I'll call her Sarah. She told me that she was sad that Woody Allen would be referred to in any other context but a child molester. Sarah and I shared our thoughts in a back and forth, and after we said goodnight, I realized I was no closer to a position than I'd been when she first contacted me. The good thing is that we care enough about one another that our exchange was a conversation, not an argument.

I spent most of today painting furniture. Painting is one of those exercises that allows you too much time to think. So I had plenty of time to contemplate this issue. What do we do about all these sexual harassers, child molesters, abusers, and rapists? (And I realize that there are not-so-subtle differences between the four that I mentioned.) The "MeToo" movement has broken ground that has been too long unbreakable, and at the end of the day, that's a good thing. But it seems that the movement was so sudden, there was no time to establish the rules. I am heartsick that the Senator from Minnesota resigned his seat while a self-declared predator occupies the highest office in the land. But my larger concern is how to proceed. Do we attempt to erase these people from existence? Or at least from memory? Of course, the incident that sparked these questions dealt with someone famous. Most of the MeToo testimonies that have gotten attention are about famous people. I guess it should be easy enough to make decisions about people you don't really know. Sarah can decide to never watch another Woody Allen movie. (Still not sure if I would go that far.) But what about the people we actually know? Can we erase them from our lives? My "MeToo moment" involves a relative who, decades later, became a kind and generous person in my life. Would I have been better off eliminating him from my life? My heart says no, my head says maybe.

These are tough questions. For someone who has always embraced political correctness, I am now wondering how far we can go. Perhaps this is just an issue that needs time to reconcile itself. One thing is certain . . . it is an issue that affects far too many of us, and we need to move toward establishing the rules. And if we can do that, there is a chance that it will no longer be an issue a couple of generations down the road.

The other thought that has been taking up space in my head is the concept of forgiveness. I have long struggled with that grace. One thing I have come to believe is that forgiveness is not something you do for the person who has hurt you; it is something you do for yourself. And by forgiving him/her, you have not, by any means, condoned the offending behavior. You are just releasing the offense and the offender from taking up space in your head, rent-free.

I don't need to forgive Woody Allen; I don't know him. I chose to forgive my relative. Having said that, I also know that if anyone ever harassed or abused or molested one of my kids, there would never be forgiveness from me. So it's all very complicated, isn't it?

If I offended anyone else with yesterday's post, I ask for your forgiveness. And Sarah . . . I'm sorry!

Like Chatting with Woody Allen

There's a sadistic irony that comes with age. When we're young, going to school, then working, then raising a family, then more working, we covet sleep. That 5:30 a.m. alarm is never welcome. We look forward to retirement, vowing to sleep until noon if we want. But then, upon retirement, we discover that we can't even sleep past sunrise. I've come to terms with this. As my friend Mary, who retired a year ahead of me, said, "I wake up with the light." It's a wonderful way to awaken, much better than an alarm clock. But then there are the mornings when it's still dark outside and I am wide awake.

If the weather is cooperating, I take advantage of this early rising. I am out of bed and out the door in ten minutes, and by the time I get to the park, it is light enough to feel safe. I get to observe the changing light until the rising sun breaks through and provokes my gratitude.

Because of the early hour, I am often the only person at the park. I like it that way. Not for nothing do I refer to "my park," as if I own it. Beyond the area where I do my thing, there's a field where grown men fly toy planes. I give them a "two high" when they drive past me on the way to their playground, and most of them return my sign of peace. I have befriended a couple of these men, and they will pull over to chat it up a bit, their toy planes taking up most of the back seat of their cars.

Today, Bill stopped to chat. I think he's about 85, because he told me that he got out of the service in 1955. (I was five years old then.) Bill is from Brooklyn, and he sounds like it. After he flies his toy plane, Bill heads over to Green Cay, where he walks three laps around the boardwalk, which he estimates is about four miles. Did I mention that he's about 85? And what a memory! Unlike mine, as I can't remember what it was that got us talking about Greenwich Village.

Bill rented a room in the Village, on McDougal and Bleeker Streets. He said it was in an architecturally beautiful building and very clean, but there was one problem. In the room he rented, over his bed, there was a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. (I know this picture, as there was one over my bed when I was a kid, too.) Bill, who thought it necessary to tell me that he was a "matzo," asked his landlord if he could remove the picture. "It's ruining my love life!" he said. The next evening, Bill returned to his room with his girlfriend (a ballerina), and immediately noticed the faded place where the picture had been. Great! he thought. It wasn't long before he saw that the picture hadn't been removed, just relocated to the opposite wall, where he could gaze upon it from his bed! Despite this, he and his ballerina girlfriend stayed together for quite some time. Bill rattled off names of famous dancers, artists, and actors that he met during this time in the Village.

Having recently watched the musical drama I'm Not There, about Bob Dylan, I asked Bill if he ever saw Dylan in the Village. Bill was familiar with the movie (telling me that most of it was filmed in Canada, as it was cheaper to film there instead of the Village). Not only did Bill see Dylan perform, he was also "served" by Dylan! Early in his career, Dylan had a gig as a singer/waiter. Bill says he was a terrible waiter. But as we all know, you're gonna have to serve somebody.

Bill had many more stories to share, about rent parties where you paid the host $5.00 to eat from a big pot of spaghetti and down some pink Catawba wine while trying to hook up with someone. Kind of like an early GoFundMe with a little Tinder thrown in? He told me how he made a lot of money when he sold an idea for a toy to Hasbro, but Bill talks so fast, I didn't get a chance to ask him what toy! I'll be sure to bring it up next time I chat with him.

After we parted company, I thought about my recent post about the "seven identities" of my life and bemoaned the fact that my experiences seem so dull compared to Bill's. And then I passed by the silver fork that I stuck in the sand last week, gleaming in the morning sun. Yep, it's still there. And although I cannot explain it, somehow it made me feel like my life is fine just the way it is. Like Bill, I have stories, too. We all have stories. Take advantage of opportunities to share them.

Be the star in your own Woody Allen movie. Be like Bill. (But maybe not like Woody.)

The Daily Grind

The other day, I finally broke open a bag of Craft Coffee's "Into the Black," a blend of Latin American, African, and Indonesian beans. It was a gift from my friend Jeff, who'd visited me in New Jersey back in September. So why did it take me over four months to open it? Well, because the bag contains whole beans. And if you're thinking that maybe I don't have a coffee grinder, you'd be wrong. I do have a coffee grinder. I'm just lazy. Every morning I'd scoop my ground Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee into my Cuisinart, telling myself that maybe tomorrow, I'll get out the grinder and try Jeff's coffee.

"Tomorrow" happened this past weekend, and I have to thank Jeff for the really good coffee that I am now enjoying. Note to self: stop procrastinating. Life is short and good coffee is important.

I grew up watching my mom put the Eight O'Clock coffee into a stovetop percolator and then waiting for it to "perk" in the glass bubble at the top of the pot. Several mornings a week, my breakfast consisted of dunking buttered toast into my own half cup of coffee, which was really half coffee and half milk. All these decades later, I still remember my third grade teacher, Mrs. Wilson (the old bitch), telling us that children should never drink coffee, that it was very bad for us. I struggled for days, thinking that my mother was guilty of bad parenting. When I told her what Mrs. Wilson had said, my mother controlled her rage, but assured me that dunking was not the same as drinking. I think after that, though, my breakfast was more often a bowl of Rice Krispies with a spoonful of sugar and homogenized milk.

There are so many coffee choices today, I considered creating one of those social media quizzes which questions our habits and patterns . . . all to no discernible point. Like this:

Whole bean or ground?
Arabica or Robusta?
Black or cream?
Caffeine or non?
Mr. Coffee or Cuisinart?
Keurig or French press?
Sugar or sweetener?
Starbucks or Dunkin'?

But who cares, really? As long as you like your coffee, it's all good. (But having asked the questions, I feel obligated to provide my answers: ground, Arabica, cream, caffeine, Cuisinart, no, no, and no.)

When I decided to write about coffee, of course the character of Juan Valdez came into my head. But there was another coffee advertising character that I tried to find information on. I wasted a good hour googling "Alec Sahenti" to no success. Finally, and somehow accidentally, I found "El Exigente," which means "The Demanding One." He was a spokesperson for Savarin Instant Coffee, played by Carlos Montalban in the early 80s. Not to be confused with Juan Valdez, who was created in 1958. Another Carlos (Carlos Sanchez) played the Valdez character in commercials for Colombian coffee for four decades, retiring in 2006. But the character lives on. As for El Exigente, I think the demanding one is dead.

Between the wasted hour trying to find the non-existent Alec Sahenti and the time spent thinking about mean old Mrs. Wilson, not to mention the actual writing time, I have managed to consume a bit more coffee than usual.  So I'm just going to buzz on out of here, clean out some closets, organize my desk, maybe start a novel. I now realize that if I could have some coffee before I make my coffee, I would have the energy to grind the beans.

Thanks again, Jeff, for the beans and the inspiration!

I'm Not There

A less-than-pleasant windy evening interfered with our plans to see Gov't Mule at an outdoor event last night. (Well, we did drive there and advance to as far as you can go without buying a ticket, enough to hear Walter Trout do a couple of blues numbers.) But instead of paying the too-high price for tickets with the chance of rain in the forecast, we drove back and settled in for a movie based on a recommendation from dear friend Matthew.

I'm Not There is a 2007 "musical drama film" about the several personalities of Bob Dylan. Roger Ebert called it "an attempt to consider the contradictions of Bob Dylan by building itself upon contradictions." Directed by Todd Haynes, the film uses a non-linear narrative to present "a series of shifting personae, each performed by a different actor - poet, prophet, outlaw, fake, star of electricity, rock 'n roll martyr, born-again Christian - seven identities braided together, seven organs pumping through one life story." (Wikipedia)

I know, it sounds like artistic drivel, doesn't it? If you've seen it, you understand. If you haven't . . . well, consider doing so. If you know anything at all about Bob Dylan, you will "get" it. And even if you know nothing other than "Blowing in the Wind," you'll still be captivated by the artistry of the film.

Anyway, I've been considering what my own "seven identities" might be. What seven organs are pumping through my life story? As the director of my very own drama, I came up with these: fearful child, misfit teen, hippie, mother, widow, and bucket-lister. I know, that's only six. Wait for it.

In I'm Not There, different actors (including Christian Bale, Heath Ledger, Cate Blanchett, and Richard Gere) play different characters, each addressing some aspect of Dylan's life and accompanying personality at the time. So I decided to make an attempt at creating my own characters and then casting the movie. This was harder than you would think. And while I am certain that I will change my mind dozens of times, here's what I've come up with so far:

1. As a child, I was shy and full of fear. Not only did I buy the whole "burning in hell" threat that the nuns held over my head, I was also terrified of drowning in quicksand. But I had a lot of empathy, mostly for animals and inanimate objects. And all I really wanted was to be loved. (My grandmother satisfied that need more than anyone else.) So I think I would like to cast a Golden Retriever to play this part of me. His name will be Charlie Brown.

2. Every teen is a misfit teen, right? I don't think I really knew where I belonged, but I do recall that the only thing I wanted to be was "popular," whatever that means. Sometimes I was the mean girl, and sometimes I was the goody-two-shoes. Sometimes I was the subject of slut-shaming; always I wanted my father to love me. I'm having trouble casting this one, but now that I've brought up Peanuts, maybe I'll cast Lucy. Sometimes she'll pull the football away, but sometimes she'll keep it in place.

3. One's 20s are a confusing decade. Mine started out wild, with me acting like a hippie-child, but beginning a career as a teacher subdued me a bit. A bit, I said. There was still that passion for concerts and parties and living a little bit on the edge. At the same time, I was writing, pursuing graduate degrees, and being responsible. And I think I was a good teacher. I'd like this part of the film to be shot in black and white and star Chrissie Hynde of The Pretenders. She'll just be a teacher instead of a rock star. But I could change my mind and star Murphy Brown, played, of course, by a young Candace Bergen.

4. I was in my mid-30s when I started my family, so I'd had a lot of time to sow my wild oats before settling down into domesticity. And I settled in like a mama bear in a cave. Despite living a life of frugality, we indulged our kids, especially in books. I worked hard to recreate the Easters and Christmases of my own childhood, but I upped it a bit. Halloween costumes were home-made, themed birthday parties were held at home, Christmas took a couple of months to prepare, and the house was decorated for every holiday we knew. Because I am proud of this "organ" of my life, I am going to cast Dustin Hoffman here as the nurturing parent who sacrifices everything for his family. His character name will be Brady Cleaver.

5. I was widowed at 52. (My husband was 45.) My daughters were teenagers, my son was ten. I retired from my teaching career to devote myself to raising my family. Ten graduations, twelve years of college tuitions, an unknown number of doctor and dentist appointments, school events, chauffeuring, driving lessons . . . and a whole lot of worrying. (They turned out okay.) I'm not sure if I'm going to cast Carly Simon or Diane Keaton in this role, but the character's name might be Jackie.

6. I know the idea of a bucket list is to be able to cross things off it. I do that, but somehow, it keeps getting longer. I am acutely aware of the passing of time. It takes a lot of self-control to stop from obsessing about exiting the planet before everything on the list is crossed off. The reality, of course, is that everything won't be crossed off. I want to make a conscious effort to celebrate the things that have been crossed off instead of worrying about the things that will remain on the list after I'm gone. This part of me was easy to cast. It will be played by Betty White, and the character's name will be Betty White.

So there you go. That's my movie. I was going to title it I'm Still Here, but Joaquin Phoenix already took that. I'll let you know when I come up with a title. Your suggestions are welcome.

Oh, the seventh identity? That would be "blogger." I'm playing the part.

Everyone Knows It's Windy

Ever since I watched Dorothy get blown to Oz, I have had a strong dislike of wind. Nah, who am I kidding? I've hated the wind since the day I was born. But before you judge me, let me assure you that I am all for windmills and the energy they generate. Sailboats (and sailors) rock my boat. Summer breezes and ceiling fans are cool. And that old song by The Association can still take me back to a late spring afternoon, aimlessly driving the back roads of my county when I was seventeen. And speaking of driving, hell, I've even owned three convertibles since 2003. And I never wear a hat when the top is down.

But the kind of wind I am subject to today just makes me uneasy. It's relentless, it's noisy, and it makes me want to stay inside. Beyond that, it feels portentous. I'm bracing myself for the breaking news that is sure to turn the world upside down. Amazing how weather can shape our mood, isn't it? The poets call it "pathetic fallacy," a kind of personification that gives human emotions to inanimate objects of nature. Like the wind. Think Wuthering Heights. No, never mind, think something sunnier.

And Windy has stormy eyes
That flash at the sound of lies . . . 

Speaking of Stormy, it has been announced that a suddenly-famous porn star of that name has been booked for Jimmy Kimmel Live! next Tuesday night. According to the LA Times, the man who lives in the White House "is expected to bring the thunder when he delivers his State of the Union address on Tuesday, but the real storm is likely to hit afterward." Pathetic fallacy, ya think?

Last week, I responded to a challenge by a columnist for The Palm Beach Post. Frank Cerabino was seeking "deadline limericks," those rhyming little five-line funnies taken from current news stories. I submitted three, and one of them was selected for his column. (It was about the questionable weight of that man who lives in the White House.) But here's one of the others:

A married man with Russian-backed money
Tried to hush up his porn star honey
The world gave a yawn
And wished he was gone
If it wasn't so sad, it'd be funny

Funny. Like breaking wind? Oh, I'm sorry! I could not resist. Let me try to end this on a better note. How about an Irish blessing?

May the wind be always at your back. Slainte.

Morton's Fork

Well, first of all, thank you to those of you who encouraged me to take on this new blog! I think Ron aptly referred to you as "enablers." I will now consider myself enabled. And, wow, your encouragement sort of put the pressure on me to produce something profound today! For that, let me refer again to the title of the blog: "Sky Blue and Black." It is the title of a gorgeous Jackson Browne song from 1993's I'm Alive, the album he wrote after his infamous break-up with Daryl Hannah. (I'm not even going to go there because it has absolutely nothing to do with why I stole the title for my blog.) As I revealed yesterday, the song came on while I was walking, and I felt that the sky above me was mirroring the song. Clearly, it's a break-up song, but my focus was on Jackson's powers of observation and ability to evoke mood through simple images. Consider these lines:

You're the color of the sky
Reflected in each store-front window pane
You're the whispering and the sighing of my tires in the rain
You're the hidden cost and the thing that's lost
In everything I do
Yeah, and I'll never stop looking for you
In the sunlight and the shadows

Blue skies are metaphor for joy, while dark skies portend sadness. Such is life, right? But the song offers more than just another take on the duality of opposites. Never stop looking. My own powers of observation have often left me disappointed, and so honing them has been a goal of mine for awhile now. In the busy-ness of life, too many things slip right by us. But in our quiet moments, when there's a need to be separate, the world is open to observation. My morning walk is the perfect time and place to practice seeing the world. I have marveled at armadillos, alligators, sand cranes, anhingas, herons, woodpeckers, osprey, and vultures. But I've also observed a lot of garbage. (This marks the end of the profundity of this post.)

Of course, there is litter. It's a public park, and some visitors were absent the day they taught the DO NOT LITTER lesson. The stewards of the park do a pretty good job of cleaning up, but my sunrise arrival there reveals all that has accumulated throughout the previous afternoon and evening. I like finding things, and occasionally these things end up in my home. Some abandoned strapping gave new life to a beach chair. A child's sparkly turquoise butterfly barrette joined a basket of shells. And an art deco shelf bracket is waiting for me to find its mate, which certainly must be there somewhere.

So today, I found a fork . . . in the middle of the road. And a voice in my head said, "Take it." I picked it up so that it didn't wreak havoc with anyone's tires, looked it over, and pondered whether or not I needed a good fork. Well, I happen to be well supplied in that department, so I thought perhaps someone else in need of a good fork might find it and take it home. There's no Lost & Found at the park, but I took note of a speed limit sign planted in some sandy soil, and I stuck a fork in it. I hope someone finds it.

John Morton was the Archbishop of Canterbury under Henry VII in the 15th century. He decided that the rich must have money that they could contribute to the royal treasury, but that the frugal, who must have accumulated savings, would also have money, so no one could escape his demands for contributions. "Morton's Fork" came to be applied to a situation in which there are two choices or alternatives whose consequences are equally unpleasant. Do I leave the fork in the middle of the road where someone might run over it and possibly have to fork over money to repair a flat? Or do I take something for which someone else has a greater need? Because I don't need a fork. But in a way, I gave a fork, right?

There's only one way to end this post. May the fork be with you.

Fork 'n litter.

In the Sunlight and the Shadows

Well, I went 24 days without blogging. Initially, there was tremendous relief that I no longer had to construct my day to allow for a couple of hours devoted to coming up with a song, doing some research, copying lyrics, finding a video, musing and writing about it, and finally, posting it. I was free!

What would I do with this free time? I imagined taking a pottery class, painting furniture, going to the beach and the park more often, learning how to cook Thai food, reading more, planning my next trip . . . I got a little bit exhausted just thinking about all the things I would do.

So what did I do? I read and watched too many breaking news stories. I eschewed streaming music for watching MSNBC all day. Consequently, I ate and drank too much. I took naps. I had unsettling dreams. I angsted about getting old. I felt a constant malaise. There was a cloud over my head, and it was dark.

There were a few readers who'd told me they would miss my daily blog, and I loved them dearly for saying so. But no thank you, I didn't want the responsibility or commitment anymore. And then I had dinner with my cousin the other night, and she said, "So what are you going to write next? I know you must be thinking of something to blog about!" No. I wasn't. And then . . . she got me thinking.

But it was Jackson Browne who gave me the push I needed. As I always do, I was listening to the shuffled songs on my iPod on my walk this morning. "Sky Blue and Black," and I looked up to see the song reflected in the morning sun and clouds. I thought about the darkness and the light, the joy and the fear, the promise and the regret. Not to be overly dramatic about it, but I realized that post-blog, there was a dimming of the light in my life, a sorrow and a sadness that I was unable to identify.

I can't sing. I can't swim. I can't speak a foreign language. I'm a lousy cook. But I can write. It is how I navigate both the world I live in and the world inside me. It is how I pray. Like an athlete needs agility, like an artist needs vision, like a mathematician needs numbers, I need words. My world stops making sense without them.

So. Here it is, my new blog. But there will be a few things that are different this time. Most notably, it will not necessarily be a daily effort, and I am not committing to a year. I'll write when I want to or when I have to or when the Muse insists upon it. I'm also not going to restrict myself to a particular theme, like falling in love with something every day or examining song lyrics. I might dissect a song, I might tell a story, I might write a poem, I might just ramble on about nothing at all. I will probably get political, but I hope that I can be humorous, too.

And I hope you'll come along for the ride. The top is down and the sky is blue and black.

My inspiration this morning.