Kitty Sheehan

Hashgram

2012-01-10T23:38:00.000-05:00

I'm doing a blog post about an app.
A techie app. Not the kind you eat at a party.
The kind that searches photos, and boy, does it find em.
But only if they were taken using the Instagram app.
This is when it gets all meta.
I'm using words like meta.
Anyway, if you use Instagram, your photos are now pulled into a beautifully simple app called Hashgram.
There you can search for photos by keyword or user name.
What should we search? Oh I know, Springsteen. Ok.

What you get is this nice looking page of all the photos people have been uploading into the Instagram app lately. Some are hashtagged #Springsteen and some just have the word Springsteen in the description. You can even pin them on Pinterest or tweet them. Now your head is spinning.

So when you take a photo, add a hashtag if you want it to be sorted into a certain group on Hashgram.
That's it, you don't even have to download anything to use this one.
Simple and pretty.

Don't forget to look yourself up using the user search, and admire your own collection of photos.

You can always count on me for the very latest in procrastination tools. Now go.

Hey Santa

2011-12-22T15:24:00.001-05:00

Last year I wrote a Christmas post that pretty much covered all the fun memories I have of Christmas past. Looking at it now, I wonder how in the hell I had time to do it. You might want to read it, and we can both remember fondly the days I had nothing better to do than write about my old tin dollhouse.

So here's the thing. It's Christmas 2011. Where'd that come from? I've talked to so many people who say they aren't feeling it, they aren't ready. Maybe it's because we just aren't taking the time to reflect like I did last year.

Here's a quick little Christmas memory that flashed through my mind this morning.

It was our first day back at second grade after our Christmas break. We were all sharing our Christmas stories. When it was my turn, I told my teacher, Sister Juanita, "At our house we leave Santa cookies and beer. But he always just leaves the cookies and drinks the beer. So my brother and I get to have the cookies when we wake up!"

She tactfully said, "Oh, that Santa."

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all.

Oh, maybe have a look at this, too. It fits nicely.

Drunk History Christmas with Ryan Gosling, Jim Carrey and Eva Mendes from Ryan Gosling

What Have You Been Doing Since June 15th?

2011-11-04T10:33:00.001-04:00

Personally, I've had my ups and downs. How about you?
It was a beautiful summer, but it went by too fast, like they always do.

On June 15, we got word that our cousin, a Marine, was injured in Afghanistan. He lost both legs in an IED explosion.
In other words, he defeated the enemy that was trying to kill him.
He's kind of a badass.

Here he is--Sgt. Collin Raaz from Iowa City, Iowa on November 1, taking his first steps with his new legs. Click below the photo on the link to watch the video and read more about Collin.

http://iowacity.patch.com/articles/iowa-city-veteran-learning-to-live-without-legs

Collin's philosophy: "I would say it is physically difficult enough, and I don't need to add to it by creating mental or emotional problems on top of that."

That's all.
Now get out there and kick some ass today, people.

GREER Chicago

2011-10-27T23:54:00.001-04:00

The first time I visited GREER Chicago was magical. It's one of my favorite stores anywhere, owned by one of my favorite people anywhere. I was lucky enough to go back last weekend.

GREER is on a busy corner on North Wells Street in Old Town, one of the most vibrant and interesting parts of Chicago. If you're there, you must go.

GREER is owned by Chandra Greer, who's made it her personal quest to take civility seriously. Stationery is her avenue, and her store offers buyers endless ways to communicate with paper. She provides the tools: paper, cards, pens, stamps, envelopes, posters, books and calendars are just the beginning.

On this visit, I took special note of Chandra's great attention to detail throughout her beautiful store.

Beauty is everywhere, via words and objects.

A stack of Civilettes, Chandra's personal creation -- a missive that can be tucked into gifts and cards, and reused. The small cards say thank you, good job, I'm sorry or I love you. More on the Civilettes and Chandra's story.

Floral designs, some made from fabric, cozily tucked onto a shelf.

Here's what I mean about the attention to detail. The thoughtful vignettes get the ideas going in your own mind as you browse.

The use of vintage pieces and antiques lovingly enhance the wares on display.

Is it a card you need? You'll find the perfect one here. You'll find several perfect ones here. Chandra's known for her support of indie designers, and you'll see things here you won't find elsewhere.

A classic, one of my personal favorites.

A peek inside an antique display case at the beautiful writing instruments.

A selection of beautifully wrapped gift soaps is tempting as a treat for yourself.

I mean, who does this? Flawless and witty attention to detail.

Ready for Halloween. GREER is a must-do destination for celebrating any occasion or event.

The ever-changing window displays delight the lucky neighbors who pass by regularly.

Pencils!

The selection of ribbon for packages or projects is another reflection of Chandra's excellent eye for beauty.

Humor and inspiration abound on the recycled rubber bulletin board via handwritten quotes.

Mariesa and Wendy, two of the adorable and awesomely helpful GREER girls. They both made my visit so fun as we chatted about jewelry, journals, big life changes and what not.

If you can't make it to the store, the website is equally stunning. A custom poster design by Hammerpress with the store's motto will greet you there. Delicious copywriting too!

Thanks again for making my visit so special, Ms. Greer!

Fever: a guest post by Nina Paturel

2011-09-20T17:21:00.005-04:00

My friend Nina wrote this piece. It's so her. This is Nina: One day when she was young, her father drove home to pick her up so she could meet John Lennon who was eating at a nearby cafe. But when he asked her to come meet John Lennon, she thought he meant Jack Lemmon, and she had no interest in meeting Jack Lemmon, so she kept doing what she was doing. She hasn't changed all that much since then, which is a good thing. I love her. I think you will too.

On Tuesday at 8 am I got a text from my friend Juliet who lives in Slingerland NY. It read: Missoni. Target. 9am. Juliet is up on Target’s designer line: before Juliet, I didn’t know a designer line existed there. I had a 10:45 appointment so I thought I’d go after and peruse the aisles of The Hudson Valley Mall’s Target store.

I had yet to know of the zany zigzag stripes of Missoni, knew nothing of the shower curtains, towels or children’s line, had no idea about the bold colors on the clutches, socks and throw pillows. I pulled in around 11:30 and parked next to Kaja, an employee of mine who was just getting out of her car with her sister. They had glazed over looks in their eyes. “Are you here for the Missoni?” She asked, “Yes.” I replied. I was here for the Missoni; it was starting to sink in.

I could feel the competition begin; I heard the starting gun. I know this store like the back of my hand. I walked in and took a sharp left landing at the corner of the women’s section. Empty. Literally a few straggling pieces left in xxl and petite.

Shit, it’s gone, all the stripes I didn’t even know existed a few hours ago, that I now need, are gone. Besides Kaja and her sister, there were a few other women there checking their watches and mumbling, “ Where is it all? It’s only 11:30, I knew I should’ve taken the kids and come before school,” arms hung low at their sides in a dejected pose. Some women pretended that they also didn’t know Missoni existed but I could see the look, the look of sheer and utter disappointment.

I allowed myself four seconds of regret before I hatched another plan. I sped over to the children’s department thinking I could squeeze myself into an extra large girls’ something, anything. On the way there I passed the last two pairs of lonely Missoni socks that I grabbed and chucked in the cart without slowing down. Arriving in the young girls section I saw that I wasn’t alone. There was a gaggle of grown women holding a small child’s sweater or shirt up to their bosom and thinking to themselves, out loud I might add, “I could fit this.”

I then nonchalantly scoped out the leggings. Ah, yes, perfect. One pair was hot pink and spaced dyed and the other a beautiful brown ribbed number with three perfectly placed stripes at the bottom of each leg like only Missoni can do. The last two pairs of extra large. I dropped them into my cart like I’d just found the golden ticket. In my mind I WAS Charlie. I hummed along to the tune, feeling like I was digesting a Thanksgiving turkey. I was full and happy. Completely satiated. In the checkout line I saw a few women who had two full shopping carts of Missoni goods. Two. Full. My bubble of pride deflated slightly.

The line gave me time to pause and think about the craze I had just taken part in. It was an urge so deep that I stooped as low as shopping in the children’s section, not for my son or my granddaughter but for myself. I was as disgusted with myself as I was happy.

The next day as I slipped my bare legs into those happy little cotton leggings, I thanked my friend Juliet for including me in the madness that is Missoni.

PS: I was at Target today, and called Nina as I was standing in front of the paltry remains of all the Missoni items. I told her I was holding a shower curtain in my hand at that moment. "SHUT THE FRONT DOOR," she said in typical Nina fashion. "Do you want it?" "No." We laughed, deciding we actually thought it was rather ugly. After I told her what else could be hers, she did instruct me to bring her one thing. She's about to go on a very long trip, and now thank gawd she'll do it in style.

Happy Birthday

2011-08-31T12:36:00.002-04:00

“Bye love, have a great day, love you,” and with a kiss, he’s off. It’s not unusual for him to return at least once for a forgotten item, after one minute or ten. So when I hear the garage door vibrating, followed by him coming in the door, I barely look up.
“I have to see what my ducks are doing,” he says. This is new, even for him.
He goes to the window and finds the ducks are in the neighbor’s yard. “They’re after that corn,” he says, hurrying to the cupboard to snatch some bread.
“Don’t feed them!” I say, “They’re filthy.”
He smiles, “Oh, they’re gone soon, come on.” He’s already out the door, so I go to the window to watch, unwilling to actually join him.
He stands in the hot sun, tearing chunks of bread and throwing them to the ducks, who by now have abandoned the corn and gathered in front of him. He’s laughing and talking to them.
“Hey dude, it hit you right in the head.”
I think about the difference between us. He’s on his way to work, but sees some ducks taking a shortcut through our yard, so he stops for one last bite of joy. I know it won’t be the last time he does that today.
I’m still in my pajamas inside, not yet ready to plunge into the sunshine.
He comes inside, and I laugh at him.
“Ducks really are very beautiful up close,” he explains un-self-consciously. “They have blue feathers, their eyes sparkle…they’re supermodels!”
With that, he’s off.

10 Things I've Learned about Social Media

2011-08-22T15:20:00.006-04:00

I have mixed feelings when people say things to me about how much time I spend on Facebook. On the one hand, it means I haven’t been all in their faces about the brands I represent on Facebook, and they don’t realize I work all day in social media. On the other hand, it means I haven’t been all in their faces about the brands I represent on Facebook, which according to some people is a cardinal sin.

Understanding this dichotomy is key to understanding social media. In no particular order, here are some other circular lessons I’ve learned from being the voice of a few brands on Facebook, Twitter and blogs.

1. The game changes by the minute. One tweet or Facebook post can get the posse running in a new direction in a matter of minutes. Picture the Keystone Kops. If you’re too young to know what that is, use your Google.

2. The same people who aren’t nice in real life (IRL) aren’t nice on social media. Facebook and Twitter offer a fluid outlet for people who spend their days thinking up cruel things to say. The news is full of stories about hurtful posts on both. Last year I defriended people that joined an obscenely cruel Facebook group suggesting our president suffer the same fate as Michael Jackson. A group created to reminisce about my hometown on Facebook turned out to be a place for people who made fun of others in grade school to do it now. So yeah. Mean in real life=mean on social media.

3. Just like in real life, do your homework. Know what’s happening around you. If you’re trying to be an influencer and you repeat the same message people have been posting all day, it’s ineffective. If you post all in caps about something that isn’t true, your credibility takes a hit. So, as in life, before you get all excited about something you read on social media, do some quick fact checking.

4. Content rules, hand in hand with the lesson above. If all you’re posting is “read my book” “see my show” “come to my store” – the deaf ears are all yours. You gotta tell people why they should be listening to you, or they’re not going to. They’ll find commonality with somebody else who posts a cool article, useful info, or a beautiful photo. Your constant barking will annoy the neighbors.

5. Social media is about sharing and generosity. I’ll never forget the people who supported my blog when I first started writing it. They taught me about the reciprocity of leaving a comment. Many of the people I met in the early days of my foray into social media are still my friends. We’ve all come a long way since then. Like I said above, the game changes daily, but one rule that never changes: generosity and kindness are their own reward.

6. Social media can send you back to junior high in a flash if you let it. If you’re thin-skinned and get upset when you lose a follower, you may not be cut out for this game. It moves fast, we’re all busy, we don’t have time to read what doesn’t interest us and we must edit. Do you follow everyone on Facebook and Twitter? Not everyone’s going to follow you. Just like in real life. Hang with people who get ya. It’s the most fun.

7. Vulgarity comes across the same way in social media as in real life. If you’re the kind of person who’d come to work every day and drop F bombs all over the office, then do the same on social media. The same people who wouldn’t mind at the office won’t mind on Twitter. The rest will move on. If you aren’t after mass appeal, no worries.

8. Likewise spelling and grammar – if you’re careless about both, then you should consider yourself careless about your own credibility. If you’re ok with that, then post away without checking afterwards. We all make mistakes. It’s better to repost and delete a mistake, in my opinion. Social media gives you the option to edit yourself; it’s ok to take it.

9. Facebook is like signing someone’s high school yearbook over and over and over. Jeannie Gaffigan said this on Twitter. She’s an astutely funny user and observer of social media. I was one of those people who LOVED signing yearbooks, hence I love the chance on Facebook to read and write those funny comments over and over. The point is don’t take any of it too seriously, even if it’s your job. It’ll change, and you should too.

Two more bonus observations by Jeannie:

• Why don't they just make typing on an iphone a sobriety test?

• Twitter is just getting texts from cool people.

10. Eat your veggies. What? It’s true.

Another Visit to the Paper Trail, Rhinebeck, NY

2011-08-17T16:20:00.011-04:00

Some readers already know of my love for the Paper Trail, a delightful store in Rhinebeck, NY. Here's an earlier account of my first visit.

I've been long overdue for another look with my camera. One day this summer I dropped by on my way to an afternoon movie. As I was in the store, a torrential rain dropped by too. Since I had my camera, I decided to use the next hour to wander around the store and take photos.

Here's a bit of what I saw.

First thing in the door, I'm so delighted to see these cards (How Does Your Garden Grow?) by my friend, the sweet Katie Daisy!

A beautiful assortment of blank journals and notebooks, all sizes, shapes and prices.

Gifts for your favorite mystic.

The art of writing is pampered and encouraged here. Books, pens, notebooks and stationery in endless varieties make you want to fill your shopping basket to overflowing, if you're me.

Every time I shop for cards, if someone else is there too, one or both of us laughs out loud. This is always a good sign. You'll find the perfect card here...no matter what you need, I guarantee.

Some of the baby gifts make me want to take them home. Lucky babies.

Beautiful French notecards! Each time I look at them, I see something new.

Need a personalized invitation? Exceptional and unique designs here.

Time after time when I'm in the store, I play with this perpetual calendar, and picture it on my desk. Think Santa'll know what I mean if I mention it in my letter this year?

Mirrors by my friend Fiona! And her Cartolina cards and notebooks too. Her work fits perfectly here.

Serine Hastings and Maureen Missner, the owners, have such a combined flawless eye that every grouping looks like something that would fit right in at your house. How gorgeous are these three pillows together?

In the jewelry case, a subtle nod to Rhinebeck's equestrian crowd.

Just saw an article about stacking rings being the thing this fall. These are lovely.

To say the least.

Hmm, if I want to be extra nice to myself, I'll have my earrings wrapped in this box. Why not?

No detail is left to chance. These enchanting evening bags are works of art, just like the selection of luscious fragrances.

A charming collage was the perfect antidote to the weather outside. Hope springs eternal.

Since I've always been a sucker for packaging, Bellocq tea plays right into my hands.

A scarf, or even better, the perfect bench to bring some color into your life.

Again, the attention to detail creates an irresistible spot, especially on a rainy day. The Linda Filley paper dresses are a signature item at the Paper Trail, as are her brilliant paper shoes.

As if Linda's paper masterpieces aren't enough, peruse playful paper collages for every occasion.

My introduction to John Derian's work took place at the Paper Trail. He continues to outdo himself.

This simple little vignette took me straight to a cottage by the lake.

I recently came across an article in Yankee magazine about Stephen Huneck, the artist who created this image, which makes me love it even more.

Touchable and tempting leather goods.

Gorgeous gift wrap to finish off this shopping event -- of course.

I feel lucky to have such a wonderful place nearby.

I'll always be a fan of the handwritten letter and card, and this is where I find so many treasures.

Here's the Paper Trail's beautiful website, if you aren't as close!

A Memory of Dan

2011-07-27T15:01:00.014-04:00

We’re lucky enough to have a pool where we live, and lately I’ve been swimming daily. I’m embarrassed to say it’s the first time in many years I’ve been in the water. It’s a great pool, and I’m usually the only one there. In fact, I’m starting to think of it as my personal pool. I’m thinking of changing the locks and selling memberships.

You have a lot of time to think while you’re floating on your back staring at the sky. And there’s nothing like plunging your whole head underwater in a shimmery blue pool to bring the sense memories flooding back, if you’ll pardon the expression.

As I swim each day, new memories of all my years of swimming lessons come back to me. Early morning pools, every summer from around age five through high school, rain or shine, cold or sweltering, were my home base. My mom believed if you got that certificate that said you knew how to save a drowning person, being a lifeguard was something to fall back on. Plus it got us out of bed and kept us busy while she was working.

I wasn’t alone on these shiver-inducing outings. My brother Dan, one year older, was beside me for all of them, in the beginning anyway.

The first place I remember having a lesson was at a pool in a family friend’s backyard. It was the only backyard pool I knew of in our small town. It was a great one too. They treated it as a place to relax and have fun, so there were lounge chairs and tables with umbrellas around, just like at a Howard Johnsons. As you walked through the breezeway to the pool, there was a sign that said, “We don’t swim in your toilet, so please don’t pee in our pool.” This made sense to me, even at age five.

The daughter of the family who owned the pool was our first teacher. She was patient, funny and beautiful and we loved her. I remember being released into this pool like a minnow that’d been in captivity: I was home.

I barely noticed my brother standing on the side, holding my mom’s hand and crying. He wasn’t quite so enthralled.

Each day as I jumped off the diving board and rescued coins from the bottom of the pool, my mom and our teacher quietly and gently tried to persuade Dan to put his face in the water. He made them promise to keep a towel handy as soon as he emerged. Over and over, he ran to the towel and buried his face in it as soon as he came out of the water.

This really wasn’t that uncharacteristic for him. Of the two of us, I was always the one who tried everything first. He thought things over; I did that later, usually after the damage was done. He must've thought I was crazy. I know I was aware of him being more sensitive than me, even as kids.

The next progression in our swimming education: lessons at the public pool in our town. Everyone called this pool “The Legion”, since it was originally an American Legion veteran’s organization project.

This pool was enormous compared to our former backyard pool classroom. We took lessons from another close family friend, who also happened to be a bombshell lifeguard later crowned Miss Iowa. And as much I loved and adored her, Dan was complete putty in her hands. My mom thought this would be the key to getting him to enjoy swimming.

We had to be at the pool at the ungodly hour of 7:30 am. I remember thinking I shouldn’t have to be anywhere this early on a summer day, even as a 3rd grader. Especially as a 3rd grader, really. The sun was barely up, and sometimes it was raining. Dan was silent all the way there in the car every day.

My mom always tried to be encouraging. She knew there was a daily goal. “Today’s the day you’re going off the low board, right?” I knew she wasn’t talking to me. I was already jumping from the high tower, flinging myself out as far as I could, trying to reach the middle of the pool in a single bound.

“Maybe,” he’d say. Then he’d check to make sure his towel was still under his arm.

He was pretty silent all through these lessons, doing almost anything asked of him, but not doing it with enthusiasm. It was clear he’d never be a long distance swimmer, and certainly not a high diving champion.

When the day came that we’d been working toward for the whole summer, the day we had to swim all the way across the pool and back, even I was unsure if I was going to be able to do it. It seemed so far.

Dan had to go first. I sat on the side of the pool, cheering for him along with everyone else. My mom even came that day to witness this milestone. She stood at the side of the pool he was swimming to, bent over, shouting encouragement to him as he plowed his way through the water. “You’re almost halfway! You’re more than halfway! You’re going to make it! Keep going! Don’t stop now!”

When he reached her side, he barely stopped, he just touched the wall and turned back to finish the job. He seemed to be picking up speed as he made his way to the end. I took heart in this; it was a sign that maybe he was going to make it. If he could make it, surely I could. I’d already moved on to thinking about that.

When he reached the wall, a huge cheer erupted and our teacher reached in and pulled him out of the pool by his arms and hugged him. He didn’t even look for his towel, he just stood there basking in the glory.

I have to follow that? I thought. As I jumped in, I noted that my mom was still giving him all this praise, and she barely noticed that I’d started. She certainly wasn’t at the halfway point waiting for me. I stopped, touched my feet on the bottom and yelled, “HEY!” Everyone looked, and I continued.

Of course, I made it across and back. But I was conscious that I wasn’t picking up speed towards the end, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t. It must've had to do with intrinsic motivation.

Our next few summers were spent taking lessons at the country club pool. This had always been our home away from home all day, all summer, by virtue of the fact that my dad spent all his free time on the golf course. So it was a family hangout.

My mom dropped us off there every day at 8:00 on her way to work, and picked us up at 4:30 on her way home. Evidently the lifeguard was our babysitter. I doubt she was paid accordingly.

This was a much more pleasant place to learn than The Legion, as it was so familiar. By the time I took senior life saving lessons there, Dan was excused from swimming.

He’d discovered the golf course, and that’s where he wanted to be. For one summer, on the days he couldn’t be golfing because of tournaments or such, he ran the pool snack bar. But he never got in the water. It just wasn’t his thing, ever.

The day we learned to water ski at Lake Okoboji, he tried it once and was done. I skied all day long that day, soon bouncing over and skiing outside the wake like a superstar. Dan stayed in the boat watching my shenanigans without saying anything.

As years went by, he found peace and everything else he needed on the golf course. He was fearless there. Just as I was unafraid to deep dive over and over, he was relentless about scoring a birdie on hole 18, trying to beat his best friend.

Yesterday as I floated across the pool, it occurred to me that his early fear of water and his lack of enthusiasm for it were reflective of his approach to life.

Once he made up his mind about something, that’s how it was. He knew what he wanted, and he stuck with it. He didn’t really need to experiment, he was sure of himself most of the time. He watched me jump into trouble over and over, and he often bailed me out with a silent smile. When he didn’t bail me out, it was usually because I’d done something so stupid it was out of even his jurisdiction.

He died of cancer, on this date, when he was 22 and I was 21. I wish he’d lived longer so I could have known him as an adult. I think he’d be fun to be around, like my mom and dad both were.

And I’d love to race him across the pool.

Here's a tribute to Dan,

with some photos and remarks from a few of his friends.

Somewhere in the Swamps of Jersey

2011-07-10T18:39:00.022-04:00

My first-ever visit to New Jersey began rather auspiciously.

As we crossed the Jersey state line, we saw that it apparently had been raining in the Garden State since Easter of 2007.

We had tickets to see Craig Ferguson in Atlantic City. We got a late start due to what we'll just call a traffic snafu. So by the time we did enter the state, we were running quite a bit behind schedule. The GPS told us it was quicker to take some back roads, so we did.

As were driving through one small town, we saw flashing lights ahead, roads closed because of flooding, and stranded cars on the side of the road.

Normally, these would all be seen as signals to proceed with caution. But we'd somehow lost our ability to read normal signals a couple hours ago.

Before we knew what was happening, we were driving through water that must've been a foot higher than the bottom of the doors on the car. Suffice it to say we were tossed around by the wake from the SUV in front of us.

Silence took over in the car as we floated to the end of the deep water, at which time husband/driver burst into maniacal laughter. I said, "Now I understand those morons you see on the news who drive through flood water and can't figure out how they ended up in the creek."

All I'm going to tell you about the next 50 miles is that we drove through some more water -- stop judging -- but reached our seats at Craig's show in the Tropicana casino showroom five minutes before show time.

We had fantastic seats in the 4th row. Craig was his usual hilarious self. We enjoyed the show immensely. Though it was completely bizarre to have arrived on an ark after a multi-hour drive from hell. Craig almost made us forget all that.

We ran out of the Tropicana like our pants were on fire. Nothing more to see there. Come to think of it, our pants might've been on fire. Our butts were so numb from driving through a monsoon and sitting in the car and the theatre, we'd never have known.

Our next destination before sleep was Freehold, New Jersey.

We arrived at 1 am and checked into the delightful American Hotel. It was still raining. We fell into instant comas.

The birthplace of Bruce Springsteen was a fitting starting point for the Springsteen landmark tour I'd dreamed about for years.

Join me.

Thanks for thinking of me, Bruce.

With a plan for an early start in the morning, we regrettably spent a short time at this lovely hotel. The sunshine made it even prettier. It's right on Main Street. I recommend it.

Freehold is a beautiful town! Residents obviously take great pride in homes, lawns, and the city in general. We were surprised of course, because Jersey gets such a bad rap. I must admit the state did look much more appealing to us after we'd escaped both Atlantic City and the rain.

A few blocks from our hotel, our Springsteen pilgrimage began. If you really aren't a fan of Bruce, you may want to just sign off now and head to the gym or some other fun place like that.

First stop, 39 1/2 Institute St: Bruce's family moved here around 1955. They lived on the left side of the duplex for about eight years. I like knowing Bruce watched Elvis on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1956 right here in this house. A photo of Bruce leaning next to this tree from the Born in the U.S.A. album liner notes inspires fans to take the same photo out front. The appearance of the house numbers makes me think the residents don't mind.

Next, a few blocks over is 68 South St: Bruce's home while in high school in 1963. The family lived on the left side of this one, too. According to local legend -- and who doesn't love a local legend -- a fan bought the screen door from the homeowner in the early '80s, thinking it was the screen door made famous in Thunder Road. Duh. Hey, is that Bruce on the porch?

St. Rose of Lima Church and school, 51 Lincoln Place: Bruce attended kindergarten to eighth grade here, from 1954 to 1963. He came back to play a benefit acoustic show in the gym in November of 1996, for Freehold residents only.

Next we drove the 20 miles to Asbury Park, along Hwy 18S, which the helpful desk clerk at the American told us was the way to go. She was right.

As if it hadn't been enough to see Bruce standing on the porch of that house...here was his hand, right on the side of the Stone Pony!

Now I truly did feel like I was on sacred ground.

The club was closed, so I kind of wandered around, checking things out in the light of day. As I turned the corner, I came upon the remains of the shrine to Clarence Clemons left by fans. I don't know know why this took me by surprise, but it did. The rain had washed much of it away, which somehow made it even more poignant.

Tears immediately sprung from my eyes, messing up my sunglasses and my vision. As I took photos, another woman was doing the same thing beside me. We talked for a moment; she'd come from Michigan. It was her first time too. We sort of straightened out some of the items, brushing them off and setting them back up.

So much love for the Big Man.

I found an open door and went inside. This seems to be expected behavior. You know, like how churches are always open.

The Stone Pony is everything you'd expect, and more. The huge number of guitars on the wall surprised me more than anything. It was fantastic to be there on a quiet morning-after. One guy was sweeping the floor, and he never looked up as we wandered freely. Since it was so quiet, my brain bounced unencumbered Springsteen lyrics around madly.

Needless to say, I loved every minute of being there, and can't wait to go back to see a show there.

I'll be quiet now and let you have a look around.

After a good long while, we headed back out into the sunshine and sea air, straight out the front door and across the street to the boardwalk.

Again, the boardwalk was everything I'd hoped it would be, only better, cleaner, and emptier, since it was still early in the morning.

And the boys from the casino dance with their shirts open like Latin lovers on the shore/
Chasin' all them silly New York virgins by the score...

Yeah, that casino. Where casino stuff used to go down. Where the Tunnel of Love video was filmed. Where the scene in The Fighter when Mickey Rourke's daughter tells him goodbye forever was filmed.

Currently, the casino's an empty shell that serves as an entrance to the boardwalk. It's beautiful and perfect. I'm just glad it's still there. So much of the park is gone now.

The casino's at one end of the boardwalk, and the Convention Hall the other. C'mon.

Oh yeah.

Evidently telling fortunes better than the cops allows one to put in an air conditioner.

I can think of worse places to work.

The Convention Hall is undergoing a wonderful restoration, and it's a completely pleasant place to hang out for people-watching and relaxing.

Google the Convention Hall for some history if you care. There's a lot of interesting and surprising history in New Jersey, by the way, aside from Bruce even. The New Jersey Hall of Fame is on the boardwalk, and it's great.

One of the shops inside the hall is a delightful little place called Greetings from Geralyn, owned by a local family. Geralyn makes scrapbooks, journals, lovely cards from vintage postcards, and vinyl mementos. She also has a great selection of letterpress cards, which is always a win in my book.

I bought the most perfect journal ever, don't you think?

Some other famous Jersey boy, I guess.

From the deck of the Convention Hall, a glimpse of the Wonder Bar to the right shows how close all these legendary Springsteen haunts really are to each other. The colorful, vibrant worlds created in Bruce's songs seem even more accessible somehow.

It's almost impossible to describe what it's like to see a place you've painted pictures of in your mind for decades; a place that seemed so real yet so imaginary then. Pardon the cliche, but it's a bit like seeing a ghost. A really boisterous, friendly ghost, but still a ghost.

This might have been my favorite sight of the whole day.

We headed north along the shore through Long Branch and Sea Bright. Impressive McMansions and Mafia wives out front along the way. Quite scenic.

We were on our way to Rumson. That's right, I was going to "climb the gates of Graceland" as my Blood Brother Bob Stuewe so aptly put it on Facebook.

We made it to Rumson, which by the way, is a stunningly beautiful town. I mean stunning. The green lushness rivals upstate New York. Minus a mountain or two. But it's gorgeous.

We decided to find an eating spot before the serious stalking began.

It was at this time we realized our GPS was on crack. It took us all the way to Red Bank without passing one restaurant.

Several ugly quarrels ensued. We became less enamored of Jersey, not to mention each other.

We finally found a spot to grab a bite, and headed back to New York. No climbing of gates this time.

But don't worry, Jersey, we'll be back. We kind of love you.

Facebook and Me

2011-06-21T22:51:00.007-04:00

Facebook is like signing someone's yearbook...
over and over and over. ~Jeannie Gaffigan

This is true and funny. But then again, I happened to enjoy signing yearbooks back in the day. I enjoyed the whole concept of yearbooks so much in fact, I helped edit mine in high school.

My mom started me out on this signing thing early in life when she gave me my first autograph dog. For those of you too young to remember autograph dogs, that's why they invented Google.

I've been reflecting lately on the unexpected roles Facebook plays in some of our lives.

I'm currently waiting on news by the minute about two people I care about very much, who are in hospitals. Only others directly affected by both situations can truly understand what this is like. Reading updates and messages on Facebook has been such a comfort to me; I can only imagine the strength it must be giving to the families of these two.

One thing in particular that warms my heart as I read the comments on their pages is when I come across one posted by a grandparent. More power to those over 60 who use Facebook fearlessly to stay in touch and send blessings.

So before you dismiss Facebook as a "stupid, obnoxious thing" please keep an open mind about its usefulness in these kinds of situations.

Two friends were telling me yesterday at lunch about a Facebook group that was providing them with some surprising and much needed insight into their collective childhood experiences growing up in their small town. People in the group were posting some things that obviously needed to be said, and some healing was happening.

This use of Facebook is obviously one that couldn't have been anticipated by those kids who came up with the concept that night in their dorm room at Harvard.

When I was teaching, a seminar leader once told a group of us we were preparing our students "for future jobs that don't even exist today." I never forgot that. And now here I am, in one of those jobs that didn't exist then: social media. I like that.

I'm not naive, and I know there are many ways Facebook can be and is harmful, just like any new habit or outlet for self-expression can be. But at this moment, I'm looking at the plus side.

Since I do Facebook pages for some companies as my job -- I'm on it a lot. Some of my Facebook friends must wonder if that's all I do. It takes discipline to dole out the amount of time you spend there when it's your job to crawl over pages, link, share, post and answer comments. It took me awhile to find the balance and figure it out.

I know some people in my Facebook friends group probably think I post too many pictures, or that posting pictures is a way of showing off. Or that I post too much, period.

The good news for them is they get to unfriend me, as some have done.

It's a bit odd to know more about someone you sat next to at lunch in junior high 30 years ago versus a person you see in the restroom at work every day -- but such is social media.

When I first joined Facebook, I sometimes had dreams about people I hadn't seen for decades mixing it up with people I met the day before. Strangely entertaining. But also a signal that maybe I needed to cut back a little on the Facebook stalking.

I enjoy how it changes every day; this keeps me interested. And I also like that it can be whatever you want it to be. You can read just what you want, when you want.

And of course as a writer, I love the opportunity to do that ALL over the place.

Facebook has connected me with some new people I have more in common with than people I've known all my life. You find this out quickly on Facebook; it allows people to reveal their personalities in so many ways. You quickly learn who likes the same art you do, the same music, the same movies, the same politics, the same silliness.

Um, for better or for worse, I might add. Enter the "hide" button.

It's a community that's changed the way we think of community. And that's a good thing, right?

Who knows what Facebook will be tomorrow? I for one, am interested to find out.

Don't even get me started about Twitter.

Art by Canace

2011-05-22T22:16:00.005-04:00

Last Saturday we were doing one of our weekend road trips, only this time without a specific plan. One of the towns in the Hudson Valley we love to visit is High Falls. There's always something beautiful there to see, whether it's the landscape or one of the shops. So towards the end of the day, we headed there.

I knew there was an anniversary celebration at High Falls Mercantile, which was one of the first places I discovered when we moved here almost a year ago. I thought the celebration lasted all weekend. When we arrived, it was almost over, because it was only on Saturday. I need to start paying more attention in class.

Here's the best part. We got to visit with the nice people who work so hard to make this place so special, the owners Jeff and Larry and their girl wonder, Cait. They were winding down, and we felt it was our duty to help finish off some delicious food from the party.

Cait then introduced us to the magical Canace, who makes the unique, stunning, masterful, and highly original art that I first discovered at their store a year ago. It was great to meet her in person, I truly think her work is genius. We had a great time chatting, and a bonus was meeting Canace's daughter Bri, also an artist, as well as her friend Janet, who makes beautiful jewelry too.

I was smothered in creativity and gracious hospitality. I took pictures of as much of Canace's art as I could -- the girl obviously worked her tail off getting pieces done for the shop's anniversary.

It's nearly impossible to describe Canace's art. And photos don't really do it justice. Her work is quite soulful, and the more you look at it, the more you see. It's endlessly interesting and beautiful. She makes collages, assemblages, paintings and jewelry, each one of a kind.

Canace explains a bit about her history with her art on her website:

"For as long as I can remember I've been fascinated with old things, tarnished things, rusty things, things with a history. I've collected everything from rusty springs to dragonfly wings. My greatest joy is to create something with those treasures, to give them a new life and interpretation. Not everyone understands what I do, but if they can somehow grasp the feeling that goes into a piece then that's my gratification."

Have a look.

This necklace is positively haunting me. Just thought you should know.

I'm in love with this bracelet made from a vintage theatre seat number. The number on it represents the amount of times I've tried it on and held it in my hand.

Canace's work will appear in this upcoming book.

I learned from this book's description that "Steampunk is a burgeoning counter-cultural movement; a genre, community, and artform. The Steampunk movement seeks to recapture the spirit of invention, adventure, and craftsmanship reminiscent of early-nineteenth century industrialization, in part, to restore a sense of wonder to a technology-jaded world."

And get this:

"Dr. Grymm's alter ego, Joey Marsocci, proprietor of Dr. Grymm Laboratories, has been a freelance designer of theme park attractions, toys, puppets, graphic marketing, film props, and private consignments for over 18 years. His custom contraptions and sculptures have been seen in Steampunk exhibits and publications around the world, including the Steampunk Exhibit held at the Oxford University History of Science Museum in 2010 and The Cosmopolitan Hotel of Las Vegas, NV. He also hosts an annual Steampunk art show, Steampunk Bizarre, which takes place in Hartford, CT and is the feature artist of the 2010 documentary entitled I Am Steampunk."

Ok, so I didn't know any of this. Intriguing or what? I'm always the last to know.
But I do know I love Canace's work.

Dartbrook Rustic Goods, Keene, NY

2011-05-04T18:56:00.008-04:00

Last weekend was an unexpected girls getaway, the first one I've had in years. Two friends and I sped north to the Adirondacks, where a generous friend's cabin had been offered to us.

Forget the fact that it was raining, and we were headed for Lake Placid, site of past Winter Olympics, which feasibly were held in July. We were free, that's all that mattered. And it was my birthday.

Much laughing and talking and relaxing ensued. On Saturday morning, we headed out for a brunch-type meal. Ok, so it wasn't morning. We found a spot called The ADK Cafe, where we were warmly welcomed and had a great meal. We asked our hosts where we should go next, and without hesitation they said, "to the furniture store" while pointing up the street.

The furniture store turned out to be Dartbrook Rustic Goods, and the owner turned out to be Jay Haws, and our afternoon turned out to be positively delightful once we met him and saw his beautiful store. My camera came out pretty quickly.

Come on, I'll show you.

ADK is of course short for Adirondacks.

Or maybe A Dear Kitty.

One look at the porch told me this was going to be interesting. The painted globe wasn't too big to fit in the car, I noted.

The front porch offered this wonderful napping place, which should be mandatory equipment in every home, don't you think?

Once inside, we started peeking around, and as soon as I looked at some of the objects arranged in a display case, I knew I'd be taking photos. The arrangement was so creative, colorful and unexpected.

Somebody here knows what they're doing, I thought.

Meet that somebody: Jay Haas. He's the one on the right. We started chatting with Jay and found out he's one of the co-owners and artists who makes the incredible furniture. This third-generation shop is right the heart of the Adirondacks, in Keene, New York.

As the website describes the store's history:

In the 1920’s, Albert Jaques started a business building rustic cedar benches, chairs, and tables next to the Ausable River in Keene Valley. Many of his pieces still grace the porches and great rooms of the Valley's summer residences. Albert taught his nephew Gil the trade and Gil enjoyed a highly successful career as a prominent rustic furniture builder. Gil then passed the torch to his nephew George Jaques, who worked as Gil’s apprentice after a career with the New York State Police. George ran his own store on Johns Brook in Keene Valley for over 15 years, and then became the co-founder and lead craftsman at Dartbrook Rustic Goods. During his career, George has become recognized as one of the leading rustic furniture builders in the United States, earning acknowledgement in numerous books, catalogs and national publications.

Imagine a lazy summer afternoon nap, right here...if someone else is occupying the spot on the porch.

The furniture is made from yellow birch, hickory and oak, and this store contains the largest selection of this classic rustic American furniture in the Adirondack area.

Touches like these large linen wall hangings are the accents that set Dartbrook Rustic Goods apart from other "lodgy" themed stores, and they're the kinds of objects that make you want to go back. Yep, I'm haunted by this porcupine. Go figure.

I loved these signs describing the items. When I saw the first one, I thought it was a little wall hanging for sale; it was so charming.

This dining room sideboard has an Adirondack garnet top, and is trimmed with reverse bark.

I could see this as a beautiful vanity too.

Pieces like this bookcase were truly breathtaking to come upon in the store; I can only imagine them in a home.

The store has a mix of classic and contemporary lighting and accents that blend perfectly with the camp furniture.

The posters and camp signs throughout are authentic.

The Great Camp Breakfront is a work of art that combines stunningly detailed glass, birch bark cabinet doors, an antique barnwood top and a signature antler mirror.

Why not carry your Pendleton blanket on your shoulder in a leather carrier? A picnic could break out at any time. LOVE this.

Oh, look at that. This sweet little deer dish found its way home with me.

It's the perfect memento from such a lovely weekend.

Woodstock Writer's Fest

2011-04-06T15:52:00.004-04:00

Ok, what happened to March? I couldn't believe it when I saw my last post was dated from February. Was I here when March happened? Why didn't you guys wake me up?

Well, I have been a little busy, I gotta say. I'm thrilled to be participating in
the Woodstock Writer's Fest this weekend, doing a social media panel with my friend Martha Frankel. You should come. I'll take some photos just in case you can't make it.

Another big project that's just gotten off the ground is the new blog we're doing over at Frontier Natural Products Co-op, the spices and seasonings company I write for. We're pretty excited to get this underway. If you want to check it out, it's here. If you leave a comment, I'll love you forever. That's how it works.

Happy spring!

Irish Yoga

2011-03-17T22:55:00.003-04:00

photo from Caveman Circus

Happy St. Patrick's Day.
I'm Irish so I can make these kinds of jokes.

Winter Rain, NYC

2011-02-26T16:56:00.005-05:00

We spent a few days in the city this week.

I liked the way the rain looked through the half-open cab window.

New York: magic is everywhere.

My Life Measured in Radios

2011-02-01T21:34:00.017-05:00

image from Nostalgic New Orleans Collection Shop, Cafe Press

When I was maybe five, my dad taught me to say this:

"Coming to you from the beautiful Blue Room high atop the Roosevelt Hotel in downtown New Orleans."

I had no idea what it meant, I just knew that when I'd say it he'd laugh, so I said it all the time. Later I learned it was the intro to a radio program he'd listened to at night for years, broadcast on WWL radio in New Orleans from an actual place called the Blue Room, in the actual Roosevelt Hotel.

The program featured musicians like Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Count Basie and Ray Charles. I never saw any photos of the Blue Room as he was describing it to me, and now when I do, they're no match for the pictures he painted for me in my mind as he described what he'd heard on the radio as he sat listening in the dark.

image from therooseveltneworleans.com

He told me you could hear the tinkling of glasses between songs, and the laughter and conversations of the people in the club. Such a great storyteller was he: I can still remember him telling me if you listened very closely, you could hear the women's skirts rustle as they danced by the microphone.

He taught me even more about letting radio take you somewhere you'd never been as we listened to Cardinal games from KMOX in St. Louis. On summer nights in the living room, with the windows open and the lights out, he told me to listen to the sounds of the game and the fans, not the announcers. To this day, I still do that when I listen to baseball on the radio.

He made sure I had my own radio as soon as it was feasible.

It happened to be feasible on my first communion day in second grade. Catholic tradition dictates that on the day you eat your first communion host, you also get a bunch of money and gifts. It's only logical that I should have gotten a radio. I still think maybe it was the best present I've ever gotten.

My new transistor looked like this:

I took it everywhere with me, immediately. I can remember sitting on a swing in my neighbor's backyard trying to figure out how to hold onto the swing and the radio at the same time.

The station the cool kids in Iowa were listening to then was KIOA, "nine four-deeee" from Des Moines. The first songs I remember hearing over and over were "A Hard Day's Night" and "Needles and Pins."

KIOA was fantastic. Their DJs had names like Sandy Shore and were known as "The Good Guys."

It was sunny daytime music. It was upbeat positive energy. It was top 40 radio. And they played the Chicken Man series, probably my first introduction to satire. We kept KIOA on the loud speakers all day at the swimming pool snack bar where I spent every waking hour of childhood summers, working and hanging out.

In the late 60s I ventured down the dial on my little radio, from 940 to 1090, and found KAAY in Little Rock, Arkansas. That's when everything changed.

KAAY 1090 was a 50,000 watt station that reached way beyond Arkansas. One night I heard something unlike anything else that had been coming out of the little Arvin.

Yep, Clyde Clifford reached all the way from Little Rock and grabbed me and shook me silly that night with his 11 pm show called Beaker Street.

Beaker Street was an FM-style program on AM radio. Back then, we called it "underground." Clyde played stuff you wouldn't normally hear in Iowa. And albums. ALBUMS. We'd just started buying albums instead of 45s, but nobody was playing them on the radio, not on AM anyway.

Clyde had these sound effects he'd play between songs to create a real spacey vibe while also drowning out the loud transmitter in the background. His show was trippy, full of long pauses and obscure drug references that went over my head. But I knew something was up.

Check it out.

Quite a progression from the Blue Room high atop the Roosevelt Hotel, n'est pas?

Oh, and by then I was listening on the likes of these:

photo from really cool website gravestmor.com

Again, gifts from my dad. He worked for a company that sold electronics among other things, so I was the beneficiary of some of the latest devices.

The one above was called the Panapet, and the one below the Toot-a-Loop.

I still have both of them. All I need's a 9-volt battery and we can roll.

photo from yankodesign.com

You could carry the Toot-a-Loop like a purse or wear it like a bracelet, or twist it and set it on your desk. I never was crazy about this one. I learned I liked my radios to look like radios. But very cutting edge, none the less.

photo from yankodesign.com

When the day came that I had to drag my own self out of bed in the mornings (high school) I graduated to clock radios. This one, in fact. We were a Panasonic household.

photo from etsy.com

I still listened to KAAY but also dialed into WABC from New York City. It faded in and out, but it was a major thrill for me at that time to know I was listening to the same stuff as kids in New York. Who needed the damn internet to be connected?

Cousin Brucie and Chuck Leonard were my late night homeboys from WABC music radio 77 AM.

Chuck Leonard. He'd say, "This is Chuck Leonard, sneakin it to ya." I said that once at a party in college in Iowa City and got blank stares in response. That sealed it. I knew then I was a radio geek.

Chuck always sounded like he was smiling, and he'd play songs "for the girls up at Bard" and places like that...places that were a million miles away from me in Iowa, literally and figuratively, if you'll pardon the cliche.

I learned so much from the radio then. Some nights I'd get tired of music, and prefer talk. But back then, there was very little talk radio on the air. It must have been a lot harder to convince a station owner that you had something to say back then.

I came across a guy in Salt Lake City on KSL named Herb Jepko. He had a show called "Nitecaps." I've never admitted to anyone before that I listened to this. People like me who listened were called "The Nitecappers." You could call Herb and talk about anything as long as it wasn't controversial. Can you imagine? Somehow it must have been a relief to me in the midst of my teen age wasteland to hear old ladies talking about jello recipes in the middle of the night. I have no other explanation.

We're getting to a post length here where I know I'll be losing you soon. Anyone still here?

Let's fast forward through what I listened to in college. Ima let you paint those pictures in your own head. I'm sure you can. It was the 70s. Need I say more?

I still need to tell you about some more stuff I've learned from AM radio. Next time.

As for now, I really miss concocting late night images in my mind of those impossibly elegant people dancing and partying the night away, way down in New Orleans.

Somebody should figure out a way to bring that back.

image from etsy.com

More transistor love here and here.

Wannabe

2011-01-13T15:29:00.009-05:00

So your hometown’s bringin you down

Are you drownin in the small talk and the chatter?

Are you gonna step into line like your daddy done?

Punchin the time and climbing life’s long ladder

I grew up in town where, like most small towns, some folks just refuse to let the facts get in the way of a good story.

I just can’t say that enough. I laugh every time. It’s so true on so many levels.

It’s a place where some people have learned to fear what they don’t understand.

My problem, near as I can tell, was always being attracted to what I didn’t understand.

I just came across an article in the local newspaper from my hometown that puzzles me, and I honestly don’t know what to make of it. The article is about some rumors currently swirling there.

So… now, the local paper is giving rumors weight by publishing them. Or something. I just don’t know what to think about this.

Perhaps it confuses me because I’ve been the subject of rumor in that environment, in the past.

The funny thing is the rumors couldn’t touch the real shit I was up to at the time.

I keep thinking, would I have wanted the gossip about me published in the paper, along with my picture and my refudiation (sorry) of said rumors? Who knows?

It’s so hard to find the rulebook when you’re in the eye of the storm. The hurricane, just out of your reach, keeps carrying it off.

As I was growing up, I knew I’d leave when I could. It was a given in my family. Maybe there were even overzealous minions lined up to help with packing my bag at times. My memory is hazy.

Hazy memory might explain why, after being gone for two decades, I took the step of moving back there from Minneapolis in 1999.

I was still naïve enough to think I’d find home there. I still thought all people hoped for and looked for the best in others. I thought the new friends I’d make there would be like the friends I’d had for the last 20 years.

Let’s just say it didn’t quite work out that way. All my illusions ended with a bang one day when I found out two people I’d been hanging with pretty tightly had called me “a wannabe” to another group of people I knew.

This still cracks me up all the way into next week. A who? A what? Oh god.

At that point in my life, I wasn’t certain what I wanted to be. Out of curiosity I asked these two people what it was they thought I wanna’ed to be. They didn’t seem to know either, when pressed. In fact, they were so puzzled they denied saying it.

But I digress.

These days, in my new environment “out east” I reflect often upon where I’ve been and where I’m going.

There are some truly lovely people back there in my hometown, and I’ll love them forever. Some are there and some are gone, to paraphrase the Beatles.

Some of the people I grew up with are stellar, funny, unique individuals who played a huge role in making me who I am today; the best of the best.

Others played a role too, just not quite as huge or as useful. But memorable.

It's quite therapeutic, being able to look at these things from a distance.

You’ve been howlin’ at the moon like a slack-jawed fool

And breaking every rule they can throw on

Well, one of these days is gonna be right soon

You’ll find your legs and go and stay gone

Ray LaMontagne

from Beg Steal or Borrow (click and listen)

Friends Don’t Let Friends Drive Dumb

2011-01-09T15:26:00.003-05:00

It’s said that if you have even one good friend in your life, you’re blessed. I’m blessed many times. At every stage of my life, I’ve met people who’ve become dear friends. All kinds of people, and maybe some of them don’t always butter their bread on the same side I do. Or even use butter for that matter. Most of them use too much butter actually, but I digress.

I want to tell you about one of these dear friends now. We’re gonna call him Bumpy Time. Last week he sent me a video of his fearless high-energy toddler son flying down a monster snow hill that would make grown men whimper. Not only was he not scared, he just hung on tight and laughed, yelling “Bumpy time!”

So, Bumpy Time and me. We go way back. Back to a time in my life when I was fairly loco. Maybe that’s why we bonded in the first place. Our connection was pretty instant, we laughed at the same things, and it went from there.

It went from there to Bumpy Time being the first person to ring my doorbell to hug me on the day my dad died. The. First. Person. This will never go unforgotten. He kept this practice intact on the day my mom died as well, in spite of the fact that he had to turn around and drive back to town from god knows what work-related mission he was on.

I could regale you in several blog posts about our relationship. Suffice it to say, I’ve felt for quite some time that Bumpy Time is one of the most loyal friends I’ll ever have.

We don’t live near each other any more, so Facebook is the perfect platform for two silly, sarcastic, cynical friends such as us to stay in touch and make each other laugh in the process.

Yesterday, however, we went through a surprisingly humorless exchange right there on my wall. The way it ended makes me appreciate our friendship even more, and makes me wish this kind of discourse could take place on a broader stage.

When I heard about Congresswoman Giffords being shot yesterday in Arizona, the very first thing I thought of were those crosshair targets on a map that Sarah Palin had so smugly put out there, telling her followers to “reload.”

I went to her website, and sure enough, Gabby Giffords was one of the targets. It was sickening. My knee-jerk reaction was to post a link citing this fact on my Facebook page.

Some of my friends added comments agreeing that it was disgusting, as is Palin.

I went out for dinner. When I returned, I found that Bumpy Time had chimed in, calling my friends and me Tree Huggers and telling us we were being ridiculous to blame Palin for something that had happened miles away.

Since I was still so sad, puzzled, disgusted, scared, angry, and shocked by the whole event, I began to argue with him on my page about how I wasn’t blaming her, I was blaming her words. Blah blah blah blah blah, ad nauseum.

Then I decided to delete the whole exchange.

I’m well past needing to have public drama/dialogue on my Facebook page. That’s just not me. Any taste I may have had for any kind of public drama was well sated by spending 20 years as a classroom teacher. I don’t mean the kids, I mean their parents.

After I adiosed the argument from the Facebook page, I sent Bumpy Time an email which pretty much repeated my views. And I said perhaps we shouldn't discuss this topic, we don’t see eye to eye. I also took the liberty of telling him he sounded dumb when he called me a tree hugger.

He replied something like this. Well, exactly like this.

I don't give a fuck if I sound dumb. Blaming someone for a murder 2400 miles a way is dumb. She didn't hate that 9-year-old girl. Guns don't kill people Kitty. People kill people. Her words had nothing to do with this murder.

I don't like hate either, but hate has nothing to do with Palin and a fucking map.

You hated her in your words and your friends’ words on your page... Don't be a hypocrite.

We do see eye to eye on things. Again, I don't like Palin, but I am not going to blame her for something like this.

What made me mad wasn't the fact you guys were sick about what happened, just "hating" someone that you blame. That's what was "dumb."

I call all liberals Huggers and all Right wing wackos, Oilers You got to remember, I am about as Independent as a person can be.

OH, really, thought I. I still wasn’t quite ready to hear him. I still wanted him to listen to me. Even though, as you can see, he was.

I said in response:

Ok, now I'm laughing.

Oilers.

But I'm not blaming her; I'm NOT blaming her words.

I posted that right when it happened.

Then I went out for dinner.

And right when it happened the first thing I thought of was her page. And I went to her page and that target/reload bullshit was there and it made me sick.

So I reacted to that.

But I shouldn't put that kind of shit on my page, it's never good.

I get the thing about people killing people not guns killing people. No need for the BOLD font, mister.

I'm just so sick of it all, and it's so scary.

And a moron like Palin saying that kind of crap and thinking it's cute is just not ok with me.

She may not hold an office but she has a pulpit and people listen to her and support her.

He replied:

I LIKE BOLD FONT

Yeah. Then we exchanged opinions about what buffoons the media blowhards for both liberals and right-wingers are. And a few other remarks that were funny as heck. But there was nothing more to argue about, that I knew.

I came away from this knowing that we all need to listen to each other. We need to stop blaming, hating and calling each other names. We need to look in the mirror and see who’s there.

What are you doing, YOU, today to stop spreading the gospel of hate and ignorance?

It’s scary out there and it needs to change. And it starts with you. And me.

So today I put this on my Facebook page, while I’m busy thinking about what else I can do.

People spend too much time finding other people to blame, too much energy finding excuses for not being what they are capable of being,

and not enough energy putting themselves on the line,

growing out of the past, and getting on with their lives.
J. Michael Straczynski

Random Tales of Christmas Past

2010-12-21T21:40:00.010-05:00

When I think of Christmas as a child, I swear I remember it looking just like the image above in my mind.
Why wouldn't it?
Every visual of that era showed it that way.
I can even hear the music that's playing in that scene.
It's "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" in case you were wondering.

Oddly, my dad didn't smoke a pipe.
And I don't remember him ever climbing a ladder to do anything, especially if it involved leaning into a tipsy tree.
Speaking of tipsy, my mom did decorate the tree with great enthusiasm every year.
One year, the enthusiasm was helped along with some Hamm's beer and she decided to "flock" the tree after the ornaments had been hung on it.
(Flocking meant spraying it with that fake snow in a can.)
The snow hangover lasted on those ornaments forever after.
In fact, I still have a couple of them.
When I think about it now, her idea does seem kind of creative in some ways.
Unique, if you will.

But the snazzy illustrations weren't the only depictions of the perfect Christmas that colored my perceptions for life. There were images of real people, like these.

There was plenty of this sort of thing around, mostly in the Christmas catalogs that arrived at our house sometime in October. We'd pore over them, as did all our friends, marking what we wanted, making lists, dreaming of getting things like those strange costumes that they sold -- like you could dress up as a nurse or an astronaut, for example. Did anyone really ever get those? If you did, I want to know about it. I don't remember them being cheap either.

Then there was the music. Sorry kids, but I'm pretty sure my childhood was the golden age of Christmas music. I mean, Andy Williams was just starting out when I was a kid, so you do the math. Or whatever you need to do to realize that "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" was a pop song then.

My dad traveled for his job, so he'd bring home these albums every year from the tire stores.
They were fantastic! We played the bejezuz out of them.
I have no idea why they came from the gas stations or the tire stores, all I know is they were great and we loved them.
Here's a blog that's dedicated to the entire concept of the Goodyear Christmas album. Seriously.
If you're the curious type, I found a gem for you.
I remember the Goodyear albums being more hip than the Firestone ones.
The Firestone albums leaned more towards the Ray Conniff Singers, the Goodyear people snagged Barbra Steisand and Johnny Mathis types.

Let's talk presents. My parents let us open one gift on Christmas Eve when we were young kids. We'd get into our pjs, leave the cookies (and beer) out for Santa, and then we each could choose one gift from under the tree to open before we went to bed. Mind you, the gifts under the tree had come from non-Santa sources, so you never knew what you were going to get. We'd shake them, and discuss the rationale of opening a large gift vs a small gift.

My mom's best friend lived in Brooklyn Heights and she sent the most amazing gifts to us in Iowa. I still have some of them. One year, my brother and I had a gift from her that was to both of us, so we bit the bullet and opened just that one. We decided to do this because the noises it made were irresistible.

Inside we found the likes of this:

I can't find an exact picture. The instruments were from FAO Schwartz and were made by Ludwig, and our set had these too.

I'm sure my mom did plenty of things to her friend back in the day to warrant her sending us this. I'd give anything to still have these. We had a literal riot with them for many years.

Around the time I was 5 and my brother was 6, we each got a tin toy from Marx. Mine was this exact dollhouse, (photo courtesy of Etsy) and his was this gas station.

We didn't know until many years later that my parents had to put these dreaded objects together in the basement on Christmas Eve. As the story goes, after several hours of swearing and slicing of fingers, the gas station finally made its way up the stairs, almost making it to the top until my dad dropped it all the way back down. It truly must have been the wee hours of the morning, since we heard nothing.

When I was around 7 or 8, the only thing I wanted was this ridiculous doll named Cheerful Tearful. You'd feed her a bottle of water, then yank her arm down and she'd cry real tears.
I wasn't really a doll person, so I have no idea why I wanted this so much.
I think it had something to do with the propaganda in the ad below.

Leaving dolls behind, I guess it was time to learn some homemaking skills. So one year I got the most disgusting toy ever, also one of the best: The Incredible Edible maker.
Not lying; you poured this goo into this electric hot thing that plugged in, and made these horrid critters that you ate. Flavors like mint, root beer, cinnamon and cherry tempted your palate.

Of course we soon ran out of the goo. I don't ever want to know what it really was. But the natural progression was to find any plastic object we could to put into the hot thing and melt it into oblivion. It did great things to those plastic school rulers, and the smell of burning Silly Putty left a strong sense memory with me as well.

This hilarious blog collects memories from Incredible Edible victims, I mean fans.

I got the thing to cook goo with, and my bro of course got this chemistry set. It had the parents' seal of approval on it. Cause it was like, educational.
It was a matter of days before it was taken away and never seen again.
As if it the trouble was our fault. It actually contained instructions on how to mix explosive formulas. We were quick studies.

Let's skip ahead to the last thing I ever remember wanting a lot:
a flannel nightgown from Lanz of Salzburg.
Just like this one.

My mom had to order it from the Vermont Country Store catalog, which in itself was magical to me.
I wore it and wore it and wore it. May have even gone to college with me.
I can't remember.

I marvel now at how well-made it must have been.
In fact, how nice would it be to have one of these now?
There was nothing like coming home from a hideous day of high school and hiding out in my flannel security blanket/nightgown.

Hm. This idea's growing on me. I might have to check out the Vermont Country Store catalog right now.
Just might be the perfect way to bring back some of Christmas past.

Happy Holidays to all!
Here's my favorite holiday tune, by the way.

Garrison Keillor's Antidote for the Annual Christmas Letter

2010-12-08T13:20:00.006-05:00

Garrison Keillor wrote the perfect Christmas letter.
I tucked it into my Christmas cards a few years ago.
Posting it here for you to enjoy:

"Dear friends.
We are getting older but are in fairly good shape and moving forward insofar as we can tell. We still drink strong coffee and read the paper and drive the same old cars. We plan to go to Norway next summer. We think that this war is an unmitigated disaster that will wind up costing a trillion dollars and we worry for our country. Our child enjoys her new school and is making friends. She was a horsie in the church Christmas pageant and hunkered down beside the manger and seemed to be singing when she was supposed to. We go on working and hope to be adequate to the challenges of the coming year but are by no means confident. It's winter. God is around here somewhere but does not appear to be guiding our government at the moment. (note: It was 2006.) Nonetheless we persist. We see kindness all around us and bravery and we are cheered by the good humor of young people. The crabapple tree over the driveway is bare, but we have a memory of pink blossoms and expect them to return. God bless you all."

Flair Magazine scarf

2010-12-02T20:52:00.005-05:00

Flair magazine was the creation of Fleur Cowles, whose then-husband number three Gardner Cowles was president of Cowles Magazines, Inc., which published "Look" magazine.

A 50-cent package of high-society, art, literature and fashion, the magazine was published from February 1950 to January 1951, and even then it was considered ahead of its time.

The mag's diverse group of contributors included W.H. Auden, Tennessee Williams, Gypsy Rose Lee, Simone de Beauvoir, Salvador Dali, Jean Cocteau, Margaret Mead and Tallulah Bankhead.

Lavishly produced, it included die-cut overlays, different paper stock within single issues and accordion inserts and fold outs.

Inevitably Gardner Cowles ceased production, after losing an estimated $2.5 million on Fleur's Flair.

Though she went on to travel the world, socializing with and writing about luminaries, (and marrying once more) Fleur considered the magazine she lovingly crafted during those 12 months at the beginning of the 50s as her legacy.

A comprehensive 1996 Amy Fine Collins profile of Fleur from Vanity Fair is here.

I've collected some issues of the magazine over the years, I'll do my best to scan them and share some highlights. At the risk of speaking blasphemy about an artifact revered in some circles as positively iconic, when I look at these issues, I can't help but think Fleur was a bit of a snob. But that's part of the fun.

Blogging about Flair's nothing new. You can find bits here and there online.

However, check out the scarf above! Wouldn't it be cool to come across one of these somewhere? It makes me wonder who ordered them. If you could afford the magazine and all it heralded, would you stoop so low as to wear a scarf emblazoned with its name?

Hudson Valley Seed Library

2010-11-08T12:25:00.014-05:00

How to sell something to someone who may not use it, but will buy it anyway:
Package it like this.

While browsing at High Falls Mercantile early in the summer, I found these seed packets from Hudson Valley Seed Library, and I was smitten.

Never mind that I live in a rented condo right now, just look at them!

Each one is by a different artist -- it's a great project.
The artists are chosen from over 70 submissions. They're from the Hudson Valley and New York City. As the website explains, artists range from "up-and-coming to world renowned. The diversity of the artwork reflects the many stories behind each variety and the genetic wonder that makes each plant unique."

More information, including ways to order, can be found here.
I also love how the art ends up on the back when they're folded,
and each one is closed with a sticker.

Clicking on the links below each piece to learn about the artist is like a mini tour through an art gallery! Enjoy.

Art by Ayumi Horie .
(I'm a huge fan of Ayumi's pottery, which also can be found at High Falls Mercantile.)

Art by Lisa Perrin .

Art by Sarah Snow .

Paper silhouette by Diana Bryan .

Art by Barbara Bash .

Illustration by Arik Roper .

Painting and collage by Jacinta Bunnell .

Watercolor by Robert Morris .

Art by Christy Rupp.

Oil painting by Joan Lesikin .

Art by Sheryl Humphrey .

Photo/illustration by Michael Asbill .

Art by Allyson Levy .

AND! Recycle them for wrapping small gifts! Or tuck a small gift in with the seeds.

As it turns out, it's a great day to look at seeds and think about planting in the spring.
Spring? It wasn't that long ago. You remember.

Antiques Sideshow

2010-10-20T23:35:00.003-04:00

Hi friends!
I did a guest post over at the fantabulous blog on Domestica's website.
I invite you to check it out!
And pine for some of the great schtuff she's got over there too.
Thanks!

Again with the Drinking

2010-10-07T16:10:00.003-04:00

My husband’s late father, may he rest in peace, offered me a drink every single time I was at his house in the ten years I knew him. At first my husband would say, “Dad, she doesn’t drink.” His dad would laugh and move on. As if that was just silly. After a while my husband didn’t say anything, and I’d just say, “No thanks.”

I figured, if you lived to be 93 like him, not drinking probably did seem silly. What the hell difference does it make by then? Have a cig too while you’re at it, old timer. Cripes. You’ve made it this far; go nuts, babe.

So I wrote this guest blog for the Drinking Diaries, right? The reactions to it, or lack thereof, from people, made me decide to do a postscript to it, about the reactions, or lack thereof from people, when I tell them I don’t drink.

Let’s start with the lack thereof variety. My father-in-law’s stands alone in its own category we might call “la-dee-dah.” So we’ll move on to the silent kind.

This reaction is characterized by a look, accompanied by silence. The look is usually one of surprise. I always imagine the person thinking, “Holy shit, what must she have done?” Or, “WHOA. PROBLEM DRINKER. Thank god that’s not me.” Followed by a deep slug of beer.

Another look, the look of fear, has a sort of silent thought tapestry attached to it.

“Is she judging me now?” (No. Well maybe. Depends.)

“Wonder if I should quit drinking too?” (How should I know? I was practically the last to know when it was my turn.)

“How did I find myself in the company of this fun-hater? What the hell’s she doing here?” (Good question, actually.)

“Is she one of those AA people?” (No.)

“If I drink in front of her, will she want one?” (No. You have no idea how much NO.)

A non-silent reaction is the kind from people who don’t really think you’re serious. “Oh, on the wagon?” When you say, yeah, for the past nine years, they might say something like, “Interesting. My uncle didn’t drink for 15 years, then one night he just had a beer. He’s a better drinker now.” Good to know.

Even more curious is the person who tells you that now that you’ve “gotten things under control” maybe you can drink a bit from time to time. I always want to suggest they find the nearest AA meeting, float that theory and see how that goes.

Some people think you’re embarrassed to say you don’t drink. “Oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to go there.” Where? To my new life? To my hangover-free world? It’s not so bad, it’s ok to go there. I go there all the time, in fact.

Honest, I’ve never ONCE been embarrassed about not drinking. Never. Not even when “friends” say, “Oh that’s right, you’re a teetotaler! I forgot! Ha haha.” Remind me to google that right after we’re done here, I’ve never quite known what that is; just that it breeds sneers.

“You’re so brave. Wow.” Brave? I don’t get that one either. Unless brave means giving up the thing that’s making you sick; if that’s the case, I’m not so brave when it comes to candy corn.

Seriously, my next to favorite reaction is the one that goes like this. “Really? Wow, congratulations, and good for you. Way to go. I support that. “ Followed sometimes by some questions about the why and how. I love that. I love it when people treat it just like a broken leg. A ‘when did you fall off that ten story building and break your brain?’ sort of thing.

I won’t lie, though, my very favorite -- and most rare -- reaction is this one. “Hey, me too. How long for you?” We exchange time frames, possibly a fist bump, and move on.

Let’s summarize. Let’s be clear. Not drinking doesn’t define me; it’s a small piece of my puzzle. It’s not nearly as interesting or mysterious as all these reactions warrant.

But don’t worry, I got this.

Woodstock Film Festival

2010-09-26T10:46:00.007-04:00

2010 festival poster, created by Portia Munson, using flowers from her Catskills garden

Five years ago this weekend, we discovered the Hudson Valley for the first time, when we came to the Midnight Ramble at Levon Helm's.

We fell in love with everything about the area on that trip: the people, the food, the leaves, the Catskills, the music and art scene, the small towns, and especially the way we felt when we were here. We felt like we were home.

Now, we are home.
We've made the Hudson Valley our home, and we fall more in love with it every day.

We had no idea the Woodstock Film Festival was going on that first weekend, it was a happy accident we discovered as we wandered around Woodstock.

The small town of Woodstock makes this event a very personal, informal and intimate gathering. It's the epitome of independent as it sets itself apart from other festivals like Sundance, Telluride, etc -- this is a place where passionately creative people are relaxed and having fun while working their tails off all day long.

This event became our focus for a return trip every fall since then. So tonight, as we head to the first film of our fifth Woodstock Film Festival: LennonNYC, a film by Michael Epstein, it'll be a staycation for us.

We'd ducked into Oriole9 in Woodstock for a cup of coffee that Saturday five years ago, and found ourselves surrounded by filmmakers, composers, locals, writers, actors, and all sorts of friendly people, all buzzing about the festival.

We were taken with the cozy, funky vibe of OR9 and the warmth that surrounded us.

We walked down the street and met Barry Feinstein, the brilliant photographer, at his show at Lotus Gallery. Wavy Gravy was there too. We just kept laughing at how great it was.

photo courtesy Lotus Gallery, Matt Dillon and Barry Feinstein, Lotus Gallery, 2006

Since then, through the film festival, we've met so many people and seen some wonderful films.

Here's a quick highlight reel from our years here.

Discovering the Bearsville Theatre and the Bear Cafe
Seeing the Felice Brothers at the Colony Cafe
Attending Martha Frankel's actors' dialog every year, meeting such diverse people there as Steve Guttenberg, Melissa Leo, Lucy Liu, Patricia Clarkson -- brought together in a way only Martha can bring people together
Meeting Elliot Landy, the famous Woodstock rock photographer, at his opening at Lotus Gallery
Meeting Jonathan Demme and seeing his great Neil Young movie, Neil Young Trunk Show
Hanging out in the towns of Rosendale, Saugerties, Phoenicia and more

I could go on and on...really.

But soon it's time to head across the river on this most glorious fall day.

I'm going to try to bring you some interesting tidbits from each day's festival events.

When welcoming attendees to films last year, Meira Blaustein, Co-Founder/Executive Director of the festival, offered that the allure of Woodstock could be explained in the words of a Catskills folk legend:

If you spend more than two days in the shadow of Overlook Mountain, your heart stays there forever.

And so, just like that, here we are.

A.L. Stickle, Rhinebeck NY

2010-09-13T00:36:00.017-04:00

The other day I wandered into a place I'd been meaning to go,
a "variety" store called A.L. Stickle in Rhinebeck.
Here's how it went.
The first thing I see is this:

Really? My camera starts twitching. And my quippiness rears its head.

Then I notice things are displayed just like they were in Woolworth's
in DAYS OF YORE.
For you kids out there, Woolworth's was the place you'd go to buy a parakeet and a pack of underpants, to paraphrase David Letterman.

All the prices are marked on the items in grease pencil.
Everything's meticulously and thoughtfully organized.
In fact, there are a couple people doing just that as I look around.

Wow, I haven't seen one of these since I won one at the state fair with one of those little mechanical cranes behind glass that you pumped your coins into only to find out that just about anything it tried to pick up was the wrong size or weight to actually make it down the chute and into your hand.

When I see this sign, I think, "OK, I'm going to offer them 20 bucks for this sign. SCORE. I'll be the first person who's ever even noticed it."
I'm picturing how great it'll look in the kitchen.

I notice another sign and imagine my collection growing.
My blog's going to be about how I scored these vintage signs from some unsuspecting storekeeper.

But then I begin to notice that these signs and mechandise ARE the store.
But not in a precious or ironic way. In an appreciative, thoughtful way.
It's clear that whoever owns the store knows exactly what they have,
and they're enjoying the heck out of being able to use it in a practical way.

Check it out:

Nothing like vintage ads to remind you
that doggies and broken glass are a bad combo.
And also that no one's come up with a better way to package a light bulb.

Seriously amazing. Oil cloth, for your picnic tablecloth.

I repeat, seriously amazing.
I ordered some of these online awhile back after being unable to find what I needed.

This looks a bit like the stuff I unearthed in my mom's kitchen when I emptied her house.
And I kept it, by the way, cause that's how I roll.

Thermos replacement parts?
For the lucky few who have a real Thermos thermos?
Outstanding.

One of the wise men bolted.
Good to see the other two are hangin in though,
enjoying the perfectly consistent 70 degree temps.

Wow.

The ribbon selection is brilliant.

And as you can see, I'm not the only one enjoying it.

The vintage toys are displayed all around the store on an upper ledge.
Many still with boxes.

Most of the ad pieces are with the appropriate merchandise.
Which is very cool.

I almost faint when I come upon this.
I instantly think of my friend Chandra at GREER.
She'll flip.

Upon closer inspection, I see that it does indeed contain vintage cards.
Studio Cards!
I'm in the middle of reading a great book about them!

The school supply section causes me equal joy.
It's all arranged so well, among the kind of glass dividers I haven't seen used in eons.

I still remember when I went from a plastic ruler to a wooden ruler.
That was pretty serious.

I never studied the kind of big time geometry that required a bow compass; always squeaked by just with the kind that holds the golf pencil.

And this is the proprietor! You thought I'd never get around to this, didn't you?

Meet Matt Stickle, grandson of the store's original owner, Alfred Lee Stickle.

That's why this fantastic place is called A.L. Stickle, and it's been a Rhinebeck fixture for over 62 years, with Matt running it for over a dozen.

Alfred Lee Stickle bought a store in 1946 -- a Ben Franklin. A nearby grocery store was destroyed by a fire, and he bought that property and had the new store built there. A.L. Stickle opened in 1951.

When Al became ill, his grandson Matt came home to help run the store, and took over after Al passed away. Matt now runs the store with his wife Leah, and other family members. Jan, Al's wife, still comes in to help out a few days a week.

Matt found all these great pieces in the basement of the store, and as he brought them up, his late grandfather would say, "I haven't seen that in years!"

He loves what he's doing, and he's doing it for the love of the store.
It's obvious in talking to him, and when shopping, that he cares about what he does, and about his customers.

Oh, and yeah. None of the vintage display pieces are for sale.
I didn't even have to ask that question once I'd heard Matt's story.
But I did.
Cause I knew you'd ask.

We are across the river from Woodstock, after all.

A lion's eye view of Market Street from the front window.

I'll be back.

As I left, the word "notions" popped into my head. This is where you find them.
Nobody even uses that word anymore.
Stuff like thread, elastic, thimbles. Notions!
My dad sold sundries, so I know notions.

I also thought if we'd had a store like this near us when my daughter was little, we'd have been in there almost daily, at her suggestion.

It was refreshing to discover a place that turned out to just be what it is -- not retro, not hip, not designed to be anything other than an authentic, working five and dime.

I love New York. Upstate.

ps.
Check out Matt's wife Leah's cute-as-a-bug Etsy store, Go Monkey Designs.
The tote bags and French lounging pants are fantastic!

My 9-Year-Long Party

2010-09-09T16:39:00.012-04:00

There’s a lot to be said for not drinking. But I’m not going to say it here. I don’t come here to bore you. Not on purpose.

Nine years ago today, I stopped drinking. No DWI. No major drama.

Just a party one night, at a friend’s house. (Worth noting, I haven’t seen that friend since.) I didn’t drive my own car home, since by this time in my drinking career even I knew that wasn’t cool.

So I had to get a ride to get my car the next morning. I wanted to be sleeping instead. The thing that pissed me off the most about this was that I couldn’t stay in bed till noon. My ride was only available at 8 am.

On the way back to my bed, it suddenly hit me that instead of being mad about the early hour, maybe the whole thing could've been avoided somehow. (I always was a good problem solver.) So, yeah, next time I’ll just get a ride to the party, I decided.

After waking up later that afternoon, I sat on my couch smoking a cig and having coffee. Major headache. That last beer wasn’t so necessary in retrospect. Well, maybe those last four. Forgot my own rule about alternating drinks with water and Advil too.

My first inclination was to head to the store and get my own dainty little six-pack of Corona. To drink while pondering my future rules for drinking.

But I didn’t. I decided to quit drinking. At 4:00 in the afternoon on September 9, 2001.

I wish I could tell you about some great awakening I had. It’d be much more profound. Or some funny stories about how hard it was to quit. But it wasn’t hard, as it turned out. I never looked back.

I did go to 90 meetings in 90 days. In a small town in Iowa. So that’s something. That was more like a punishment I decided to inflict upon myself than anything else.

I found out I’m not an AA person. Sorry if you are. The people in the meetings I attended spent too much time (for me) talking about what fun they had while drunk and what great drunks they were.

I always sat there listening, thinking, “It’s over, people. You gotta let it go. You drank. Badly. It’s not a good thing. It’s not a badge of honor. It’s dumb. Really, any moron can do it. So how about we quit talking about it and live our lives?”

Some of my friends said they didn’t ever think I had a drinking problem. The funny thing about that is that pretty much right after they said that, I never saw most of them again.

I had some very close longtime friends who were uncomfortable being around me when I quit drinking and they didn’t. I understood this. I never liked to be around people who weren’t drinking when I wasn’t. I didn’t get those people at all then.

Note I said, “I understood this.” Because now I think about this and it pisses me off that I could have been friends for that long with people who obviously weren’t my friends. But that’s all part of the gift that keeps on giving when your life’s about booze.

After nine years, so much still surprises me about sobriety. Everything’s so much easier, even the bad stuff that happens to you. At least you can think straight about how to make pain go away. The common sense that eluded you for so long becomes second nature, and you go to the head of the class rather quickly it seems.

OK, that should do it for this installment. I’ll leave you with a funny story that I think of every time I hear someone rationalize their excessive drinking.

A drunk finds himself in detox after a bender. He discovers he’s on a gurney and his hands and feet are in restraints. He looks at the guy next to him, and sees that in addition to his hands and feet, his roomie's head is strapped down too.

“WHOA. That guy is way worse than me!” he thinks to himself, with great relief.

PS: Here’s a perfect essay by one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, on her 10th anniversary of being sober. She discusses how angry she was when she finally got it that there were no loopholes in sobriety: no more bullshit, in other words.

Life without bullshit doesn't suck.

Dongan's Doneag'ins, Amenia NY

2010-09-03T14:58:00.014-04:00

Rural Intelligence is a website that does a fantastic job keeping us posted on what's happening in this area.

This week's issue featured a story about a new shop that opened in Amenia called Donegan's Doneag'ins. I was pretty much in the car headed there before I finished reading the article. It's the creation of Dennis Donegan, who's won five Emmys for his work over seventeen years as the set decorator on CBS' As the World Turns, a soap opera that's older than me. Sadly, the last episode airs on September 17.

The show's already wrapped, though, and Dennis and his wife Martha have moved to the Hudson Valley with the props they were able to buy from the show, and opened this shop to re-sell them at very reasonable prices.

The drive from Rhinebeck to Amenia was gorgeous. I can't wait to do it again when the leaves are changing.

Dennis' shop is on a corner, and fills the lower floor of the building. It's brimming with treasures, and he'll be rolling out more as time goes on.

I've always been fascinated by set decoration. (And yes, a CBS soap fan, but only two: Guiding Light, which went off the air, and As the World Turns, which sadly joins it.) A former teacher with summers off, you know -- after a while you get into some habits that you never give up. Or something.

Another shopper in the store said she started watching ATWT as a little girl, when her mom turned it on during naptime. It still has that calming effect in the afternoons.

It's great fun to ask Dennis about the objects, and he let me try to guess which character they belonged to after he found out I knew my stuff.

Dennis said, "If you really are a fan of the show, I've got something you'll enjoy." He dug around in an unpacked box, and out came an Emmy. I've never seen one before, I'm still waiting for someone I know to win one and give it to me.

It really is a beautiful trophy. Dennis said he knew where four of his were, one of which he gave to his dad. He couldn't quite remember where the fifth one was. I decided he might miss this one if I slipped out with it.

Photos of the items in use on the elaborate sets. So cool to see after watching it for so long.

Dennis' memory about where every object came from is amazing. This vase came from Pier One back in the day when Pier One had things like this.

This lamp had already been sold to a gentleman who came in to pick it up while I was there. He had no idea it had an acting background until I told him. Not sure he was a true fan though.

This is the quilt that hung by the big stone fireplace in Tom and Margo's cozy house.
It's at 4:44 here, for you die-hards. And you know who you are.

This is such a great place to find a gift for a soap fan, a decorator, or anyone who loves an object with a fun story behind it. Dennis has created a beautiful shop; website coming soon.

I'm going to watch those final episodes now with whole new eye. I'm glad some of Oakdale lives on with Dennis and Martha, and their customers.

Donegan's Doneag'ins 3324 Rte. 343, Amenia, NY 845-789-1331

PS. Here's something else about soaps. My dad was a salesman, on the road every day for years. When he was older, and in the hospital, I turned on his TV for him and All My Children was on. I was stunned to find out he knew all the characters and the plots. He told me he'd been watching it while he ate lunch in bars and cafes for all those years on the road. I couldn't believe it. So there ya go. You just never know.

DIG, Saugerties, NY

2010-08-19T13:10:00.012-04:00

If my husband had a blog,

he might tell you this story.

But he doesn’t, so I will.

He’s always not-so-secretly looking for himself in a post anyway,

so what the hell.

He can be in this one.

He likes to go shopping with me. It’s one of the things that makes him a fun spouse, way above average fun, in fact. Lately, he LOVES to go shopping with me at a place called DIG Saugerties.

DIG is a boutique in Saugerties, NY owned and operated by the one and only Daisy Kramer Bolle and her husband Van Chagai Bolle.

Look how cute and in love they are. No really. Stop looking at that cake, and look at them.

photo courtesy of Daisy

You can read their bios here. Long story short: they met on a blind date at a Mexican wrestling bar in LA. Daisy had a glittering career as a celebrity stylist, Van was Director of Photography for Coachella, among a multitude of other projects. After the birth of their daughter, they decided to flee L.A. and cultivate the country life back in Daisy’s home territory, the Hudson Valley.

Which brings us to DIG. Daisy’s parents shared the wisdom they'd gleaned in the family business, and DIG was born in Saugerties in 2005.

I’d been hearing about it from a friend for some time before I moved here. And I’d been in Robin’s (Daisy's mom) divine stores in Woodstock. So I was anxious to meet Daisy and see her store.

I was leery of finding anything there that I’d wear. On the Facebook page and the website, I’d clicked through image after image, thinking, “not me, I’m too old” or “that would look horrible on me” “I have to hide my arms.” Etc etc etc. All the things women say to themselves when our bodies start to look differently than we feel they should.

Off I went.

The window enticed me with color, beauty and energy.

Daisy welcomed me on that first visit with a warm hug and a “I’ve been dying to meet you.” My day immediately was flooded with sunshine. I started looking around and still felt lost. Daisy checked me out, grabbed three things and said, “I want you to try these on.” I laughed and thought, “That’s what you think, wait’ll you see.”

Tricky girl, that Daisy. In any other store, a clerk or owner finding something for you to try on might be annoying. From Daisy, it’s an offer you can’t refuse. She offers a comfy couch where your accomplice can wait for you. When I looked back at my accomplice as I headed for the dressing room, he had that look on his face that he gets at the State Fair, when he’s settling in for some prime people watching.

Remember, I told you Daisy was tricky. There are no mirrors in the dressing rooms, so you have to come out to see how you look. GASP. I slipped into a gorgeous SLEEVELESS Karina dress, after putting on the proper undergarments that Daisy expertly handed me for just this very occasion. Before I opened the curtain to go out, I knew I FELT good. How could it possibly look good though? It was sleeveless, I had these extra pounds, I didn’t…

“WHOA” was the first reaction from the couch. I hadn’t looked in the mirror yet. It was a good WHOA though, so I felt brave. Suffice it to say, when I did look, I was transported to the end of every episode of What Not to Wear, and I nearly fainted.

I left that day with a bag of goodies and a BOATLOAD of self-confidence. Shopping at DIG is the best kind of experience. I’ve made friends with other women in front of the mirror. There’s this great camaraderie there when you’re all feeling so good about how you look, and Daisy’s boundless energy, expertise, and encouragement is all around you.

So. You must go. If you can. But if you can’t, I’ll show you around a little.

Here's one of the best parts. Unlike a big box or a mall store, there are just a few of each thing. So you get to look through a rack and find surprise after surprise. If you want something Daisy's out of, trust me, she can get it for you.

The horror of trying on jeans fades away with all these choices, a DIG specialty.

Accessories at every price range, some from local artists.

The store is a fantastic mix of funky, hip and comfy.

Look at these rings! Imagine how great popping one of these on and heading out for dinner would be. Or giving one to your BFF for fun.

New arrivals for fall. No accident that these two things are next to each other. Think of that comfy top with some jeans, those cute boots above, and this stunning jacket. You'd shut it down, so to speak.

Every space in the store is used wisely. These tank tops are kept between the dressing rooms, and one is often included for you to try on with your other things. Daisy says you should wear one under everything, all the time. Guess what. She's right.

These may or may not still be available in black, size 9. Just sayin.

Gorgeous fall colors, again just a few of each selection.

The upper level has sale racks, with things you can wear right now. This would look so cool over your swimsuit, right? And picture it on a chilly fall day with a cute skirt and some leggings.

The sublime Karina dress, which looks this good on everyone. Not kidding.

Photo courtesy of Daisy

Little by little, I’m figuring out the obvious. The way women view their bodies after 50 can be just as toxic to their self esteem as having an eating disorder.

Daisy’s passion is to change that, to make it stop. She’s seen it all. She knows the media images of women that surround us aren’t real. I love her.

My husband’s happy that I’m kind of starting to believe what he’s been telling me for quite some time now. Pretty good, huh?

Norman Rockwell Museum, Stockbridge, MA

2010-08-08T21:02:00.014-04:00

My mother's favorite artist was Norman Rockwell.
Growing up, this embarrassed me to no end.
He just wasn't hip enough for my sensibilities.
During high school, my bedroom walls featured thumb-tacked posters of Klimt's The Kiss, Picasso's Hand with Flowers (such an ironic title, so clever) and whatever M.C. Escher thing was in vogue at the time.
I pretended to find meaning in Mark Rothko, tacking Red, Orange, Tan and Purple over my bed.

The hallway in our house was lined with her Norman Rockwell plates, which she collected and treasured, saving the boxes and all the written documentation inside.
I scoffed at these even as she opened the new ones we ordered for her every Christmas.
How could she like this pedestrian illustration and call it art?
I remember once telling her she could just cut out photos from a magazine and tape them to the wall, it would be the same thing.

Aren't you sad you didn't know me then?

After she died, I inherited all the Rockwell prints, plates and books.

One afternoon when I was cleaning out her house, I sat in her chair and paged through the Rockwell book she kept next to it.

It'd been years since I'd even noticed any of the prints on the wall, they literally had blended into the background along with all the other odds and ends in this house she'd lived in for over 40 years.

Looking at the book, I saw illustrations and paintings of Norman Rockwell's that I'd never seen before. I had no idea about his amazing gifts as a painter, where he was from, or that his work was done from photos taken of the people who lived around him.

(I'd also learned, post high school, to appreciate illustrators. A lot.)

I noted that I should look into this some more some time. And I didn't get rid of the books or the plates, packing them away with the other things of hers I saved.

A few weeks ago, we took a road trip to Stockbridge, Massachusetts, to the Norman Rockwell Museum.

I somehow felt like going there for my mom, since she never did.

We left the Catskills and headed to the Berkshires. (pronounced Berk-sheers, you sillies)
Happily, the museum's not in some steel-sided hut along the thruway.
It's in this gorgeous setting:

I took those photos walking around the site, the day was spectacular.

As we approached the museum itself, we were greeted by a smiling gentleman in a blue blazer, sitting on a bench. In reply to our how are you, he said "Great, now that you're here!"
We found out later that as a kid he'd posed for a photo that became one of Rockwell's paintings.

The museum is in a beautiful, light-filled building, and as soon as we walked into one of the galleries, I was struck by how large the paintings are. Here's a shot of a gallery from the museum's website, just to give you an idea of size.

The first thing I saw, before any paintings, were the faces of the people looking at them. People were looking at the work as if they were seeing an old friend, an old friend they loved very much. Smiles of recognition, laughter, and awe were all around me. I've never seen this at a museum before. No one had that look of, "I'm pretending to like this, but I haven't a clue what it means."

The first painting I saw was The Problem We All Live With, 1964.

To my complete surprise, tears immediately sprung to my eyes as I stood in front of this. It was the detail. The care that had been taken to show every nuance of this afternoon in American history: the girl's pristine white dress, shoes and socks, the ruler she carried, the determination on her face, all painted with Rockwell's incredibly sure hand and amazing sense of detail. I'd seen this image many times, but how had I never noticed the tomatoes?

I now understood Norman Rockwell as the brilliant American historian he was, capturing every shade of what it is that makes us who we are.

These were some of my other favorites.

Jury Holdout, 1959.

Lineman, 1947.
Originally painted as an AT&T promotion, donated to the museum by Verizon in 2008.
(Thanks, Verizon! I feel I had a small part in allowing them to afford this.)

Going and Coming, 1947.

Breaking Home Ties, 1954.

A bonus for us on this visit was the gallery displaying Rockwell's movie posters. They're displayed with some of the original oil paintings beside them.
The painting of Jennifer Jones, below, is breathtaking. Combined with the graphics on the movie poster, it makes a stunning package. If only movie posters still looked like this.

Calling Don Draper!

After seeing his work, a opportunity to visit his actual studio on the grounds was icing on the cake. The studio is set up to look just the way it did when he was painting what's on the easel, recreated from photographs. The detail again is incredible, down to what's playing on the radio.
An informative guide/docent who clearly loves his work can answer any/all questions about the studio.

An additional gallery was offering the work of William Steig, which in itself would have been enough to get me to visit. Another bonus!

The museum has a great education program, classes for kids, and all sorts of on-going events.
The gorgeous setting for this collection of American treasures couldn't be more perfect.

My mom would have loved it.

Lessons Chelsea Taught Me

2010-08-02T20:44:00.015-04:00

I may be guilty of starting one of the early rumors.

A month or so ago I read the news of Chelsea Clinton’s upcoming Rhinebeck wedding in one of the local papers. I don’t remember which one it was, and whichever paper had the scoop became a debate in itself. But I read it and called my husband to tell him. He was out of town.

“Chelsea Clinton's getting married in Rhinebeck! Right down the road! This weekend!” Astor Courts is right down the road. But “this weekend” was the end of June. I told several people this. Then I read the article again, and saw the date was July 31. Oopsie. Oh well. She IS getting married here, just not right now, I said.

As for Astor Courts being right down the road…us being new in town and all, we took the liberty of a little exploration, and set off to scope out this place. Wouldn’t you? This was back before the snooping helicopters had the same idea. We drove down the lane, thinking we’d get a peek and turn around.

Out from the bushes stepped a cute young man wearing a suit coat and khaki pants, holding a cell phone. He walked up to my husband’s side of the car and said, “Hi. Can I tell the lady of the house you’re here?” Husband: “Sure!” Me: “No, no, sorry, sorry, sorry.” After a brief conversation in which he denied that anything might be happening nearby, we turned around and prepared to leave.

He saw our license plate and said, “IOWA? You’re from Iowa?” Husband: “Yes, and we drove all this way to see this place, and you aren’t going to let us in?” Hardee-har-har. Turns out the kid had family back in Iowa. As we drove away for real this time, we saw him writing our license number down. “Laugh it up, people, tell it to the Secret Service,” I imagined him snickering to himself as he jotted down our descriptions.

Before I proceed, let me just say that back in Iowa, before the days of CNN and the internets bringing us news as live tweets, by the time we got our news from either coast it was filtered down to the consistency of white bread. All we ever knew was the way things really were. The only rumors swirling around us were the ones that started at the barbershop downtown.

Here’s where what Chelsea taught me comes in. Living at ground zero for this “wedding of the century”, we’ve been able to observe the media coverage versus the truth first hand. Wowsa, as my friend Martha likes to say.

I saw a rumor actually walk itself down the street. Last Friday, we found ourselves outside Gigi’s when Bill Clinton was inside for lunch. Seriously, it was an accident. I know that’s hard to believe after I’ve already confessed to trespassing on the grounds of the estate, but it’s true. We just drove into town to check out the scene and make fun of the gawkers. Like we do at the State Fair.

However, the buzz seemed a bit amped up somehow. We decided to park and walk around. Turned the corner, and heard Bill was inside.

We hung around and waited to see how this unfolded. I saw a reporter from one of the foul tabloid shows breathlessly telling viewers as she gestured towards the darkened window, “He’s inside. Eating. We saw him go in. We’re not sure who he’s with. Bystanders tell us it might be Steven Spielberg.”

The people around her started turning towards each other, relaying, “Spielberg’s in there too!”

Bill came out, without Steven S. But we did snap this photo.

Not bad, right? Don’t judge. What would you have done? And he LOVED the attention. Hillary probably told him to get lost for awhile. So he went to eat pasta, a couple hours before the rehearsal dinner.

A reporter standing next to me yelled to Bill, “What do you think of your new son-in-law?”

Thank God no one from Extra was on the scene of my wedding to yell that to my mother-in-law and get her answer on film.

Watching the coverage of this frenzy that night on the news, it dawned on me that what I was seeing on TV was nothing like what I had seen and heard in person.

No wonder Chelsea didn’t want reporters to know anything. Your own wedding already seems like a dream. Why let the media make you doubt what you pray is real? Especially when you're Chelsea, and you've had to do just that for your whole life.

So many rumors, so little time. In spite of the crowds of people on the streets of Rhinebeck straining at the kinds of barricades you saw at the MJ trial, hoping for a glimpse of Streisand and Bono, the only celebs who could be conjured were Madeline Albright, rocking shades like a champ, and Steve Bing. I know, Steve Bing? Don’t even bother to Google if you’ve never heard of him.

By the time Saturday evening rolled around, we’d had more than enough, and planned to sit on our deck in our jammies and watch the fireworks that supposedly were going to be shot from a barge on the Hudson.

Our friends Martha and Steve dropped by to join us.

Martha and I began updating her Facebook page with her made-up reports from inside the wedding. Some people thought they were real.

Wow. New Yorkers are way more gullible than Iowans.

I now think this is because they’re used to being at the epicenter of these news events. They just tell it as it happens. Back in Iowa, we counted on them to sort it out for us. Maybe that’s it, I dunno. I have to think about that some more.

Meanwhile, I find it funny as hell that the rumored Oprah sighting placed her standing in line for a banana split at an establishment called Holy Cow.

Funnier, still, is the truth: Oprah wasn’t even invited to the wedding.

Finally, you gotta read Martha’s report. Then, pass it on.

Chelsea and Marc don't care now, they're on their honeymoon.

Oblong Books and Music, Rhinebeck NY

2010-07-28T10:40:00.012-04:00

One of my unexpected discoveries in Rhinebeck
is the fantastic Oblong Books & Music.
(A love for books and readers is obvious on their informative
and user-friendly website, if you can't make it to the store in person.)

I'll tell you with a teeny bit of shame and a double dose of honesty that maybe there might have, from time to time, perhaps, been one or two, or maybe a few boxes from Amazon on my step.
But that was then, this is now.
I'm cured.

A trip to Oblong outweighs any savings or "convenience" you may find online.
I know, I know. It's one click and all that.
But that doesn't hold a candle to a place where the owner and the staff truly care about you, what you need, what you like, and what's happening in the world of books.
Cmon, I'll show you.

Oblong has two locations, one in Rhinebeck, and one in Millerton.
This visit is to the Rhinebeck store.

Oblong Books & Music began as Oblong Books & Records in Millerton in October, 1975.
That's 35 years. Yes indeed, they know what they're doing.

The Rhinebeck location has a regular schedule of author events,
coordinated by store manager Suzanna Hermans.
She's a second generation bookseller and co-owner with her dad,
store founder Dick Hermans.
And she's a University of Iowa graduate, supreme bonus!

Among the books, you'll find a beautiful selection of journals, stationery, cards, calendars, and fun gift items for anyone who might need a very special treat.

Nice nod to our proximity to Woodstock.

Great care is given to the arrangement of sections in the store. It's easy to find things, and one section leads into the next in a common sense kind of way. Husband wanted to find David Maraniss' book on the Rome Olympics, and I did it myself easily.

The children's section is wonderful, and shows a great respect for young readers.
Love the decor, the thoughtful placement of spots for kids to settle down and look at books,
and most of all, the young customers' reviews and recommendations.
If you need to buy a book gift for a child of any age, these reviews will make it easy.

Ok, here's one of my favorite features of Oblong. The staff picks are everywhere.
Every section contains these great little handwritten cards, well edited, sometimes funny, and to the point.
They're so well done you find yourself thinking of buying books you'd never have even noticed before.
I found these much more useful than the reviews on Ama-you-know-where.
I mean, come on, it's gotten fairly obvious what's going on there.
Not to say I'm not in favor of people doing everything they can to move their own books.
Just sayin.

Enough said.

Another fun section, rock and roll. More on that in a second.

Nancy Sullivan, left, and Suzanna Hermans.
Both made us feel as if there's no place else they'd rather be on a recent Saturday night.
And to be honest, it was so lively in Oblong, it did seem like the place to be.

Like I said, the music-related section is something special.
Just when you think the store specializes in children's books, you walk into the music section.
And by music, I mean cds and books.

Since co-owner Dick Hermans has done a folk music show
on the sublime local radio station WKZE since 1987,
you're going to find things in the folk music section you won't find anywhere else.

Local music also happens to be some of the best anywhere in the world...lucky us.

The best selection of books about the Hudson Valley in the Hudson Valley.

Wall Street Journal reporter and author Katie Rosman reads from her book about her mother,
If You Knew Suzy.

Visiting authors are a regular event, and the website keeps you posted on this.
The store's Facebook page is a top notch place to stay informed about store events and other local events, for that matter.

What did we leave with?
These, and a new favorite place to hang out.

Rhinebeck, New York

2010-07-18T22:07:00.013-04:00

The circus is coming to town.
It's always interesting to see how your town looks on TV. It's not necessarily something you always WANT to see, in the case of a disaster or something. Really, I'm not kidding.
My last town, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, was the scene of a once in a lifetime flood.
It was on the news for weeks. Not in a good way.

Rhinebeck, New York has only been my town for a month or so.
It's been on TV lately as the scene of Chelsea Clinton's upcoming wedding.
Pretty much everywhere you go, you hear someone talking about it.
I've heard all kinds of stuff.
Today someone told us all the guests from the city are coming up on a special train.
It's a secret though.
And that mom and dad Clinton are staying at the Such and So estate.
That's a secret too.

Since I've now seen three strange portrayals of this pretty little town on TV, and not one of them really left the downtown area, I thought I'd show you a little more.
Remember, I've only been here a month or so, so I really have no idea what some of this stuff is.
Let me know if you do.

Gorgeous houses are everywhere. I love checking out the details.
And porches -- porches are a specialty here.

Popped into the town hall, which is right in the neighborhood.

There was a craft fair going on, right in the town hall.

Oblong Books, one of the best bookstores you'll find. I'll take you on a real visit there soon.

I couldn't figure out why I wasn't enjoying this day as much as usual. Thought I was kinda hot.
Then when I got home I saw the temp in this photo. That's not the time.

As you can see, it's a lovely town. A fantastic place to visit, just not the last weekend in July.
More to come.

ps. A must-visit place; one of my favorite stores here, the Paper Trail.

The Queen's in Town

2010-07-06T09:05:00.001-04:00

My friend Tracy emailed me this awesomeness.

I was going to put a caption under each photo,

(these write themselves, people)

but just letting you scroll down is much more effective.

Curious to know at which point you say, "OMG!"

Ok, can't resist a few notes.

One of her purses seems to have survived from the Nixon administration to the Clinton era...maybe she's not so different from us commoners after all.

Where's LBJ?, I asked. Google tells me they never met; why not is the subject of some boring conjecture.

Re the Reagan photo. Either Ronnie thought he was at a Dean Martin roast, or he just couldn't hide his true feelings about that dress.

Discuss.

The Calumet Region: An American Place by Gary Cialdella

2010-07-02T13:19:00.012-04:00

Happy Independence Day, America, in all your glory and pain.

The photographs of Gary Cialdella, below, perfectly capture the essence of a place, a place so American, that I knew well at one time in my life.

My daughter's dad, his family and many friends are from "the Region" -- a place I'd certainly never heard of when I first met them in the 80s in Minneapolis, as I was from small town Iowa. I'd certainly never eaten the stuffed cabbages and periogis they served when I visited. Nor had I known people with names like theirs, Hungarian, Ukranian, Slovak. I'd never known anyone who had a summer job at a steel mill. The closest summer job we had to that kind of grueling labor was detassling, which at least took place outside.

The movie A Christmas Story is set here. Think about the fierce family loyalty, the quirkiness, and the raging stubbornness of the characters in that movie (and all of Jean Shepherd's work), and you'll get an idea of some of the layers woven into the fabric of the Region's personality.

As described in an article in Photo District News,

Once a major crossroads for American industry, the Calumet Region sits on the south shore of Lake Michigan, just east of Chicago, straddling the border between Illinois and northern Indiana. Like so many American post-industrial regions, the Calumet is a mixture of rail yards, refineries, abandoned or underused plants, once-prosperous Main Streets, modest homes, changing neighborhoods and signs of urban renewal.

Photographer Gary Cialdella grew up on the Eastern edge of the Calumet in Blue Island, Illinois. When he left for college, he had no thoughts of returning, but as an adult he moved to nearby Michigan. More than 20 years ago, he reacquainted himself with the area and began photographing it. He recently released his book of black-and-white landscapes, The Calumet Region: An American Place (University of Illinois Press, Urbana and Chicago/Brauer Museum of Art, Valparaiso University).

Billboard East Chicago, IN 2003

Chicago Skyway, View From 99th Street, Chicago 2001

Backyard Reese Street Hammond, IN 1999

Two Houses, Steiber Street Whiting, IN 1999.

We got lost on the way to one of the many wedding receptions we attended back then, and we were driving around these same places for what seemed like hours. Every new sight was another glimpse into a world I knew I'd never really understand.

Now, several years, miles and cities later, it's profound to see how places like this -- all across the country -- have shaped who we are.

May they find life again, in whatever form that takes.

I encourage you to take a look at Gary's photographs. Then take a look around you -- wherever you are this weekend.

Maybe you'll see something you've always taken for granted that really is an American treasure. Maybe it's you.

High Falls Mercantile, High Falls, NY

2010-06-20T19:10:00.021-04:00

Look, it's me!
I'm back. All settled and deeply into an exploration of the Hudson Valley.
There's always something to see or do here, and we've already met some great new people.
We're loving it here.
I feel so lucky.

Let's get right to it, shall we?
We visited a beautiful store this weekend:
High Falls Mercantile, in High Falls, NY.

The store was founded in 2004 by Larry Ruhl and Jeff Serouya, who left city life in Manhattan to re-locate in the Hudson Valley.

They also have a great Facebook page that keeps you up to date on what's going on there.

We arrived early on a beautiful sunny Saturday morning, and were greeted by Neil, who asked me right away if I wanted some coffee -- which he got next door at a coffee shop. Love that Neil.

The wonderful scents that also meet you at the door are from the store's apothecary section, which is arranged with as much care and attention to detail as every other corner in the store.

(Click on the photos to get right in there.)

The books of birds and botanical prints are stand-outs.

Custom handmade pillows in gorgeous fabrics.

A love for symmetry and rich color are just a couple of the duo's design trademarks.

Both do interior and furniture design.

Very carefully chosen vintage pottery and tools presented as functional art.

Enchanting Ayumi Horie Pottery, a Hudson Valley potter. Each piece offers something unique and only gets more interesting and beautiful the longer you look at it.

Don't miss Larry's gorgeous garden out back. Like the store, the attention to detail resulting in casual beauty is stunning.

HFM offers vintage maps, paintings, furniture, industrial salvage, glassware, rugs -- mixed with new and handmade jewelry, candles, pillows, prints, linens, and much more. And best of all -- a great ambience and wonderful customer service.

We'll be back.

Oh! I have to tell you about these. They're for sale here, too. The Esopus is a twice-yearly magazine that includes artists’ projects, critical writing, fiction, poetry, visual essays, interviews, and, in each issue, a themed CD of new music. I walked away with a couple. It's like having an amazing art gallery at your fingertips. I'm only about 5 pages in, and my socks are off.

Moving to New York

2010-05-22T19:14:00.005-04:00

I’m sorry I’ve been so absent from my blog of late.

In case you didn’t know, I’m in the process of moving.

I’m one of the lucky people who gets to live amidst the unsurpassed beauty of the Hudson Valley area in upstate NY.

My husband and I felt inexplicably drawn to this area the first time we visited. Later, we found out there’s a saying that does explain it. It goes something like this: Spend three days in the shadow of Overlook Mountain and your heart is there forever.

The mountain that stole our hearts is one of the Catskill Mountains. Before I went to Woodstock, the only thing I knew of the Catskills was that the movie “Dirty Dancing” was supposed to take place in a resort there. Don’t hate me, but I could never watch that movie all the way through.

Oh, and in high school I used to see ads in the back of Seventeen magazine urging me to spend my honeymoon in a heart-shaped bathtub somewhere in the Catskills. So at that time the Catskills didn’t seem that much different in my mind from the Wisconsin Dells. I had no idea there was a connection between Woodstock, NY and the Catskills. (You'd think Seventeen would have mentioned that, it was the 70s after all.)

One day, five years ago, my mailman delivered an ironic magazine dichotomy addressed to my husband. The latest issue of Rolling Stone and the newest issue of AARP. I guessed he must have gotten a bit overzealous checking off boxes to get free trial subscriptions. Well, maybe the AARP one wasn’t exactly a free trial, as evidenced by the stack of them I already was ignoring.

I flipped through the Rolling Stone and came across a fascinating story about Levon Helm, the legendary drummer for The Band. He was performing concerts on Saturday nights with his friends in his barn in Woodstock, NY, and you could order tickets and go – the event being called a Midnight Ramble. I decided I had to get tickets for this to give my husband as a birthday present. I did have a moment of sympathy for him as well. I mean, how in the world would he ever top this? (I was in favor of watching him try, however.)

So, off we went, and had the most wonderful trip of our lives. We accidently arrived on the peak weekend of the fall foliage splendor. Everywhere we looked resembled a cheesy jigsaw puzzle from Woolworth’s. We swore a lot just looking out the car windows.

The Midnight Ramble itself was beyond magical. You must go if you can.

Another happy accident that weekend was the Woodstock Film Festival. We took in a few related events, and this set the tone for the rest of our visits to Woodstock for the next four years. We’ve discovered great places to eat, sleep and read – all my favorite things. But above all, it’s the people we love. We’ve encountered so many people we’ve felt like we’ve known forever. We’ve had conversations that could go on and on, and we’ve just gotten started.

Some of the people we’ve met have been subjects of blog posts.

Around December, we had the opportunity to make “living there one day” happen sooner than we’d thought. And here we are, a few days away from our journey to New York.

I’ll keep you posted.

You know I will.

Vintage Seventeen Magazines

2010-05-12T20:46:00.013-04:00

Some mysteries were solved when I started looking at a few of my vintage copies of Seventeen Magazine. Mysteries about why my taste is what it is -- or more like -- what it isn't.

I have several issues from 1971-75. Which may or may not be when someone you know was in high school. Samples below. Click on the copy for a better view if you're nosy.

So, you're trying to figure out what to do with your hair one morning before school in 1971.
Any one of these would be NO problem! Simple and natural.

And might I mention, who DESIGNED this page?

Your paste-up is showing.

It looks like a placemat I made my mom for Christmas in third grade with family photos.

This was the Christmas issue.
Trust me, my Christmas cookies did NOT make me the talk of the town.
Some other stuff they don't mention here did though, I think.

I did spend hours dreaming of enchanting lands.
That's why I couldn't afford Faberge at $15.

Is it just me, or does this chick looked stoned out of her gourd?
And about thirty years old?
Love Cosmetics, Havoc, Jovan--these were the BOMB!
But we didn't say that then.
And Mary Quandt -- don't get me started.

I DID wear a sweater over my overalls, just like this.
Note the basic lack of any organic fibers. Synthetics were all the rage.

So these bimbos have taken over some radio station,

and all HELL is breaking loose.
They look like badasses, too.
The girls in knee socks were the ones you had to keep your eye on.

Nothing says luxury like plastic furniture and electronics.
I had a clock radio just like this.
But I couldn't imagine how cool it'd be to have a personal TV, especially such a tiny one!

The oversized stuffed carrot on the top shelf leaves me wondering.

Don't forget your Hanes with your shortshorts, for heaven's sake.

Dear copywriter: you maybe should have re-considered that

"SHEER HEEL" in all caps thing.

Reads as "SHEER HELL" at first glance.

Which is a more apt description of panty hose, as it turns out.

This ad creeps me out in every way.
What the HEEL is it supposed to be? A cocoon? A pod? I'm lost.
Maybe it's a bird, her hair has a definite bird vibe.

This whole deal screams free love somehow.

And "pantyhose" is singular? Hm.

Tune into all the new ideas. Forget uptight rules.
That's right, take the afghan right off your granny and whip it into a pair of shorts.
Don't forget your tights.
Then, never mind all those hair styles we just showed you up above.

We changed our minds. Just whack your hair off.
It's all groovy and revolutionary.

Sheesh. No wonder I still can't figure out exactly what I should be wearing.
NOTHING made sense during my formative years.

Miracle

2010-05-09T14:13:00.004-04:00

The last seventeen years of my mother's life were blessed with the miracle of my only child, my daughter. My mom said -- repeatedly -- she was the best thing in her life. I finally did something right.

Here they are on the first day they met, in December 1988.

Ok, back to me. Just look at my beautiful girl!

So, how did this happen? Same girl, bigger beach. Sky's the limit.

My mom and my daughter loved hanging out together. They had a mutual admiration society. Mom presented her with her first bike, first rollerblades, first crayons, her lifelong security lamb -- and a great deal of her personality.

She's funny, brilliant, beautiful, talented, creative, sad, happy...a miracle.

Happy Mother's Day to us.

Sharing the snowy day with Grandma, 1992.

Finally, here's a perfect summary

of the very complex mother/daughter dance

by my friend, Martha Frankel. Enjoy.

Happy Mother's Day

2010-05-08T16:11:00.014-04:00

Mother's Day without your mom isn't good. Everybody had a mom at one time. Way less than half the world's population IS a mother, but everyone HAS a mother. So no matter what, the day is there for you, one way or another.

My mom died on February 9, 2006. She'd been diagnosed with cancer on Christmas Day, following surgery that day to find it. Once she knew there was a possibility it be might there, she wanted it out, now. Spending Christmas eve/day at a hospital out of town was small potatoes compared to getting this show on the road.

A few weeks after the surgery, which confirmed to us that she had ovarian cancer, she started chemo. Three days after the second treatment, her kidneys failed. Three days after that, she was gone. She was 79.

Her life was filled with laughter and sadness. She tried vainly to run the sadness off with laughter. She was born a twin, and fiercely loved her brother Bob. They were an infamous team, both fast runners and scrappy athletes who loved winning.

She had an older sister named Janice, who died from a heart condition at age 23. She adored Janice, her opposite with her quiet femininity. I wish I'd known her. Her rings and shoes fit me perfectly. I have her wedding china.

The twins. No question which one is more alert and curious--Betty, on the left. She's already glaring at her mother, I just know it.

The twins, looking like part of Al Capone's gang. My mama is not at all pleased with what's going on here. She was never afraid to show that, trust me.

I can't stop looking at this picture and wondering what happened to all these people. What a crew! This was in a tiny Iowa town, which my mom and her brother completely took by storm. She's the one on the right end, second row. He's next to her. Not sure if he's toying with the lad in front of him, or doing the ear-pulling out of meanness. Somehow I get the feeling mom told him to do it.

Marching band was a huge thing in her life. This is a photo from high school. She went on to be the drum majorette of the Drake University marching band, and was eternally proud of it.

Ok, so this guy could have been my dad! He was her boyfriend in high school and college. I still have memorabilia with his name on it: a bracelet, a ring, cards, even mittens. I don't know why they didn't get married, it was one of those things I never thought to ask about.

Photo from college years, right around the time her sister died. I know this was a deep sadness her family, especially her mother, never could move beyond.

Second from left, life of the party. She never stopped being the life of any party until the day she died. Wish I was kidding. I inherited this trait, and spent many years honing it to perfection.

My dad is on the right. He was the youngest in a family of powerful Irish New Haven athletes, an All-American baseball player at Notre Dame. She met him when she was the hostess at a classic hotel called the Lakeshore, in Clear Lake, Iowa.

At her funeral, one of her best friends told me a story I love. My dad had been working for a Hamm's beer distributor for awhile, also being catcher/manager for a local semi-pro baseball team the beer distributor sponsored. He was a ringer, in other words. They made him into a salesman.

He was the new guy, the tall, dark, handsome stranger. His fellow salesmen and their wives were very excited one night to hear that he was bringing a date to a bash at the lakeside ballroom where they all hung out and drank Hamm's like fiends.

Her friend told me, in these exact words: "He walked in with this tan girl with a beautiful dress and a huge smile and great laugh. She sat him down and danced all night with everyone else's husband or boyfriend. And it was OK with all of us! She was like that. By the end of the night, all the men loved her, but the women loved her more. I've never met any other broad like that."

I cherish this story. I'm not sure I know any woman I could describe that way. Seriously.

Well, it worked on him, too. They were married in 1953. Days after that, my dad's Irish immigrant father died back in New Haven. A few years later, one of his three brothers died too, leaving a young wife and several sons. This truly broke my dad's heart. My brother's middle name was Edward, after him.

So, we've gone full circle here, to the twin daughter all grown up, still glaring at her mother, who must've taken this picture. Glaring at your mother is a big thing in our family. We're all champions at it.

A few years after this picture was taken, more sadness descended. My mom's dad, whom she worshipped, died of a heart attack at age 61. She was devastated. I remember details of this vividly. I don't think her heart ever healed.

When my adorable brother was 22, he passed away from cancer. That was really more than this beautiful couple could endure --neither of them had the tools to deal with the staggering loss. Seriously, who does?

We all muddled through. Both of them are gone now, my dad going first in 2003 after a ten year battle with Alzheimer's. I'm not kidding, she had that happen to her too.

So, Happy Mother's Day to my beautiful, fierce, funny, sad, smart and tough-as-nails mama.