Nessun Dorma, Jessie Cullum and Mamma Mia

The great aria, Puccini's Nessun Dorma, is playing in the background, being sung by the most wonderful tenor of all time, Luciano Pavarotti. I can imagine him, a stout little man who seemed anything but little and stout, in a black tuxedo, white shirt, handkerchief in hand, black hair and beard, head facing skyward, mouth so wide open all his teeth show, while these incredible, inhumanly beautiful sounds escape his throat and float out into the air where we can hear them and where they enter our ears and our hearts and our stomachs and our arms and our legs and I am sitting here with tears streaming down my face and a lump in my throat as big as a boiled egg, because of the other-wordly beauty of the song and the voice that is singing it. This happens to me every. single. time. I hear this aria, sung by this man and I crumble.

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J.J. Abrams, who has given those of us who love inpenetrable mysteries, LOST, is about to give us another delicious TV program, titled FRINGE. I'm looking forward to it, but the reason I bring it up here is that he is quoted as saying:

"This(Fringe) was really about saying, 'What are the things we love? How do we make a show that lets us play with these toys?' "

I think that's exactly what we should be asking ourselves, all the time. What do we love? How can we construct a job, a life, a retirement that lets us play with these toys???

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Here is a quote that's worth repeating (I think I used it in another blog post way back when):

Jamie Cullum in his song Photograph says:

"As I look back at my ordinary, ordinary life

I see so much magic, though I missed it at the time."

Look back at your ordinary, ordinary life and find the magic. It's there. Trust me.

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Jamie Cullum is worth listening to. He is very young--British--sounds a little like Paul McCartney and he has a wonderful way with lyrics. Sometimes he sings his own compositions and sometimes he sings old songs like "I Only Have Eyes for You" and that means, to me, that he has great respect for the old music as well as what's new. "Photograph" and 13 other songs that I love are on Jamie Cullum Cathing Tales http://www.amazon.com/Catching-Tales-Jamie-Cullum/dp/B000AXWHRG/ref=pd_bbs_sr_2?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1217459359&sr=8-2

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My Mom and my best friend and I went to see Mamma Mia on Monday. My Mom loved the movie unreservedly, absolutely, happily. When I asked her what her favorite part was she said she couldn't name a best part because she loved the whole thing.

Well, best friend and I had different reactions. The first thing I said to her, in the darkened theater after the movie had started was: "This could have been a good story, maybe, without the MUSIC." The second thing I said was: "I hate ABBA music". She liked Christine Baranski who she said made a bad song better. I agree. Baranski was THE ONLY ONE who looked relaxed in this movie. All her years on the stage prepared her for this movie, all her work in musicals allowed her to let her body move normally with the music, plus she has a big voice. I think Streep's other friend, Julie Waters I think her name is, has had lots of stage experience, too, but still, she didn't look comfortable either. And Streep? Oh baby, she should not have done it. She should have had second, third and fourth thoughts about this. She can sing, but she can't sing big. I leaned over to my friend and whispered: "It makes me long for Streisand when Meryl sings." And I really haven't longed for Streisand in a loooonnng time. Even Celine Dion, whom I pretty much can't stand, would have been better. She would have SOLD the songs, but Meryl, I'm sorry, no. And she flapped her arms and legs around in a way that was nearly spastic! What was she thinking???!!!!!

I liked the guys better, because they weren't supposed to sing that well. I like the Swedish actor, Stellan Skarsgard, best, and I liked the other two, Colin Firth and Pierce Brosnan, too, because they were in an uncomfortable position, plot-wise, and they looked and acted uncomfortable, as they should have. Pierce was the worst singer and people in the audience, besides us, laughed when he began to bellow like a sick bull, but I kind of liked that he isn't perfect, because he is awfully good-looking and it's not fair to be that good-looking and a good singer, too. Firth has a pleasant, folksy voice and Skarsgard was okay vocally, too, and my friend and I agreed, the most attractive of the three.

Greece was the backdrop for this movie and somehow the director, cinematographer, or someone, made Greece look bad, too! I've been there four times, to many of the islands, and the islands are breathtaking--I can't explain what they did, but it was as though they took paints and intensified and neonized the colors. The colors of Greek islands are already pretty intense, so what was the point? There were also lots of red, orange, purple printed fabrics and shiny costumes which distracted from the beautiful blue, white and green natural surroundings, so that Greece itself actually faded. Very strange. If you ever go to Greece you will see what I mean. The colors of nature are so lovely in themselves that people don't try to compete with them, they only compliment them.

Here is one of my favorite review phrases:

"Unless you buy into this ersatz jubilance and its grim determination to make you feel good, you're apt to long for a tranquilizer gun by the 20-minute mark."

Ken Hanke on Rotten Tomatoes

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So much for today and music! Long live it, but don't let Meryl sing outside her own shower.

The Time That I Thought Would Last

Me and The Crow at our 50th/60th Birthday party--Over my left shoulder.

Everybody says, "time flies", but I think time disappears. Time has been on my mind, because it doesn't seem there is a day, a week, a month, a year, a life long enough to do everything that I want to do, now that I am retired. Maybe retirement should happen lots earlier--maybe work could be less than 8 hours, maybe the Pope isn't Catholic and bears don't crap in the woods. Paul McCartney has a song on Memory Almost Full with the lyrics: "I've got too much on my plate, don't have time to be a decent lover, I hope it isn't too late, searching for the time that has gone so fast, the time that I thought would last, my ever present past". You don't have to be Paul McCartney to feel that way. Yesterday I was listing, writing in my head, a blog about passions and trying to figure out how to include them all, when there is a finite time in each day, or week, etc.. How? This morning I imagined asking my dear old friend, Jim, about this. He is gone now--I can't really ask him, but I imagined it.

"Jim, how can I figure out where to start? You've had a great retirement. How did you do it? I love doing so many things but I can't do them all and I need to try to fit them all in somehow. Any advice?"

Jim said: "Why are you worrying about it? That's a waste of time. You can't do it all at once anyway. Just do whatever is the most important thing to do right now." He would have said it in a witty way. He would have made me laugh and see how silly I was being. He could do that easily, put things in perspective. And right now, from that place he is, whether it's in that bag that Bookworm keeps so close to her or some place none of us will know about until we die, he would say, "Hey, it could be worse--you could be dead!" He really would say that.

So I looked at how Jim led his life, because I don't think he had any angst about all the things he wanted to do and the time he had to do them in. I could be wrong, but the way he seemed to do it was by doing one thing at a time. He loved digging for bones and became a highly respected amateur paleantologist, digging in Eastern Washington in the summer, discovering new bones, cataloging and writing about his findings, publishing in paleontology journals. He wanted to learn how to bind books, and so he did. He made beautiful little books that he covered with splendid illustrations he found in books and magazines--he filled them with special paper and gave them to friends--they were of excellent quality. He decided to learn to make pottery and he threw himself into it and once again produced excellent results. He wanted to take photographs. He became a brilliant photographer and enlarged and framed some of his work. Two examples hang on my walls. He began a blog after I encouraged him to do so and it turned into one of the most interesting blogs I have ever read. He was interested in geneology. Do you even have to ask whether he got good results? And then he had grandchildren. That might have been his most important avocation. And he went at it just as he had with all the other passions he had. He was the best, most excellent grandfather there was; ask his granddaughters and his grandson, they'll tell you. As it turned out, he died at the age of 74, much younger than he or any of us thought he would.

Is that why I am in such a panic to try to figure out my priorities? 74 is only 10 years away. Sure, I might live into my 90s, but I might not, and if I do, who knows who many brain cells I'll have left. This will have to be my mantra then--one thing at a time. Do it well. Dive in. Don't delay. Take it seriously, but don't stress over it. Don't imagine fame and fortune ahead, just do it because you love it. Do it now.

Does that answer your question, Roi? The question about what more we can accomplish after we've been a wife/husband and a mother/dad and ridden out that career/job? For me, it is all about my passions and how I will conduct myself from here on out. I wish I didn't have so many passions, but there you are. I made a list yesterday and there were 10 items/passions on it! Ack!!! All I can do is pick one or two and GO! I guess at 64 I'm not really concerned about making a mark, or accomplishing something Big. It will be enough to do it well.

I will probably consult my Guru, Jim, dead or alive, to see if I am on the right path. Our circle of friends all read the Carlos Castenada books way back when and Jim also talked about the symbolism of crows which sort of became the symbol of Jim and so I can picture Jim over my left shoulder like the fellow in Castenada's books pictured death, squawking at me if I am not diving in or taking what I am doing seriously, but not taking myself too seriously, or if I am having too much angst. He won't let me BS myself as he never BSed himself or anybody in his vicinity. And he never took himself too seriously, either. Crow on, Cowboy.

That's what I am thinking today. That's where retirement has me at the moment, almost a year later. Still trying to figure out what to do next. Squawk!!!!

Archeology

Lavonna Rubens, Vickie A. Holt, Marty Mclaren and Stevie Kemp

Sunday, 1:15 a.m.

When you wake up at midnight and thoughts are crowding your brain and making reservations for insertion somewhere in a blog post that you MUST write, you know you have to get up and get them down on paper before they are lost.

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“We were foolish. We were young, more than we knew.
Yellow gingham on the bed—remember?
And the canopy in red…or was it blue?
The funny little games we played—remember?
Ah, how we laughed,
Ah, how we cried
I think you were there—remember?”

From A Little Night Music—Stephen Sondheim

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The other day, Thursday, at our co-ed lunch, the phrase of the day was “who are you?” At Saturday’s six hour alumni event at Joyia’s beautiful lavender-ringed house on the hill, it was “Do you remember when (fill in the blank)?” We filled in that blank all day long. I wish I could have heard every conversation, but had I tried to eavesdrop on all the exchanges taking place, I wouldn’t have been able to instigate my own memory conversations—Do you remember Jen Southworth and how aggressively she came after couples holding hands in the hall? Do you remember Mr. Myrvang’s algebra class? Do you remember our slumber parties, Johnny Mathis, the picture of Elvis inside my locker door? Do you remember Darwin Moen, the boy with the ever-changing hair colors? Carole Mann’s beautiful skin? Bud Hawk? Mr. Baldwin? Mr. Quirk?

Every single beautiful 64-year-old woman who came to the first ever Central Kitsap class of ’62 Women’s Get-Together was bursting with questions. Rosanne Carlson wanted to know if anyone who went to Tracyton Elementary remembered when the original log part of the building was torn down, the new section built and the roof tarred. Did we remember how awful it smelled? She recalled that she and Toni Agnesani soaked handkerchiefs in perfume and put them to their faces to keep out the stench. I didn’t remember that particular thing, but I remembered Congressional Medal of Honor Winner and teacher, Bud Hawk, telling us about the steel plate in his head. I will never forget Mr. Peterson asking us all to push our cuticles back to promote healthy nails. I remember the day Pete Bachelor brought a black ceramic panther to class for a sixth grade show-and-tell. How exotic and artsy it seemed to me. I remember doing my required long research paper on Grace Kelly’s transformation to Princess Grace of Monaco, complete with pictures cut out of my mother’s movie magazines. Bless Mr. Peterson for letting me do it! I remember singing, “I’m Wishing”, from Snow White, in a fourth grade talent show in Mrs. Theis’s room. And this was only grade school! There are so many memories still waiting to be shared with only those of you to whom it matters.

“Did he die? I can’t believe it! How?” I heard this question, with shocked exclamations, plenty of times during the day. How can it still shock so much to hear of one of our school friends dying? Is it because they are still 18 years old to us? So many are gone—and more to come as we begin to push 70. Only a couple of weeks ago, Doug Garland, a man who had an amazing life, unknown to most of us until we read his obituary.

This time we women got down and dirty: “Okay”, I dared, “who’s had a face lift? Tell!” To my surprise four women in a small group of ten in an outdoor tent with a view of Mt. Rainier, admitted to having eye lifts.
“I couldn’t see without opening my eyes like this!” one of them said as she demonstrated a bug-eyed stare. When a camera trained its lens on us, I taught everyone how to do THE INSTANT FACE-LIFT:
1. Lean elbows on table
2. Hold hands at sides of face
3. Subtly pull the sagging jowls and neck skin back before the camera shutter clicks.
4. Result—taut skins, while appearing to be in a nonchalant, relaxed pose.

My friend, Kay Greaves Morgan and I used to do it whenever anyone had the temerity to approach us with a camera. Remember when?

Being a group of women-only we had brought pictures of husbands, children and adored grandchildren—so many beautiful, young people with brilliant futures ahead. Judy Benjamin showed pictures of her four sons and youngest daughter. She and Lavonna Rubens told me their grandsons (or sons?) were in Iraq. They couldn’t hide their fear. Billie Ann proudly brought out pictures of two model-perfect granddaughters who are entering serious careers. We recalled our limited expectations as young women with resignation. The Eisenhower years were not a good time for women to be ambitious and by the time Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan came along, most of us had children and homes to keep. Nancy Goit wondered if we had accomplished anything we were proud of aside from our children. Our families, though, were what we women expected of ourselves in the sixties and if we felt we’d done a good job of raising our children to be blossoming adults, and hadn’t let the crud build up in the corners of the kitchen and had made the bed most days and learned to cook and had sex with our husbands, too, then we were proud. Those of us with at least one failed marriage, or who had children with serious problems, might not have felt as proud. But we all tried.

Some of us found careers, or more often long-term jobs, after we had happily accomplished domesticity OR failed to appreciate a clean floor and a well-made Jell-O salad, suspecting and hoping that we could realize something larger. Now that I am retired I am rediscovering just how pleasant it is to have a tidy house and clean laundry, and time to go to Alumni Lunches.

Nobody at Joyia’s dared to venture into the tricky area of politics, but I wore my Obama for President button and was heartened by a nearly 90% approval rating. Can’t do much better than that. We barely scratched the surface of who we are now. We are decidedly not just who we were in high school, though what we were then is still in us somewhere. We’ve loved, hated, grieved, worked, raised kids, built houses, constructed our lives around what we thought was important, in some cases watched that life crumble, picked ourselves back up and we went on. We’ve lived through the Doris Day/Chevy BelAir 50s, the marijuana/free love/Jimi Hendrix 60s, the Mod-Squad/Black Power/Laugh-In 70s,the big hair/huge shoulder pad/Madonna 80s, the Bill Gates/Steve Jobs/Computer Age 90s, The Millenium and here we are in 2008, “still crazy after all these years”.

Wouldn’t it be fun to have a huge slumber party at Joyia’s house? What a great place to put down a sleeping bag on the floor, listen to Johnny Mathis, eat popcorn, drink Coke (or something stronger, after all we’re older now), watch a chick-flick and talk into the night? In the morning Betty Nelson could make us her Tea Room scones, women who love to cook could help her make breakfast, Nancy Goit could wash the dishes because that’s what she likes to do, I would take pictures and mental notes, we’d drink strong coffee or lovely tea, pad around in our slippers and watch the morning sun light up Mt. Rainier. Trouble is, if I slept on the floor in a sleeping bag, I wouldn’t be able to walk for days!!!!

“Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?”
Sixty-five? Sixty-six?

Ladies I offer a toast in champagne or gin tonics or wine or beer or iced tea to you. I love you all. The toast: Here’s to survival, to laughter, to remembering, to more of the same.


P.S. We found out that Sandy Harkin’s hair is still its natural color and thickness, naturally. She told us she doesn’t color it. She counts on the kindness of the sun to lighten it in the summertime. We knew you’d want to know.

Addictions Great and Small

Tis hard to tell which is best: music, food, beer or rest. - Anonymous

That about says it for me! I love all those things--the only thing that's left out of that quote is reading. Last night 5 beautiful women were talking about addictions to drugs and alcohol, because we either have had these addictions or have someone close to use with them. After a long, sort of depressing but fascinating talk about addiction we started to fess up to our own addictions. 4 of the 5 of us stated that food (which we were eating lots of), wine/beer(which we were drinking lots of) and reading were our obsessions of choice. One left out the wine/beer but listed food and reading and the 5th admitted to being a video game player--she is an engineer and has a 13 year old son and all three game systems and she told us all about Spore. But reading, boys and girls, is so much an addiction for me that if I don't get to read "my book" during the day at some point, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with an insatiable need to read. I have a light I can use that won't disturb husband sound asleep at my side, called a Book Wedge, which I highly recommend! I get it out and my book is always at the ready and I get my fix in. And then I can sleep. Oh, and I almost forgot about my addiction to GOOD coffee with freshly ground beans, black, no sugar.

Yesterdays

Ralph Erickson in 1962 Senior Class Picture

Ralph Now

Let me set the scene:

Poulsbo, 11:00 a.m., Thursday, July 17, 2008

A grey, moistly foggy day after five straight days of summer sun (only in the Pacific Northwest)

Poulsbo is busy, regardless of the fog, with "boat people" and touristas jamming the sidewalks, obviously having dressed that morning expecting warmer weather. I am heading toward a restaurant I have never been in and to an event I am hoping will not be uncomfortable, though it has all the potential to be.

***

The Bayside Broiler, up a strange, steep set of stairs into a dimly lit, rococo style, probably once cigarette smoke-scented set of illogical rooms, is not jammed but at the end of a hallway are people milling around, almost a reception line of vaguely familiar faces. I go toward this light at the end of the tunnel to be asked, "Who are you?" This question, in different circumstances, would be off-putting and a challenge to my right to be there, but on this occasion it is the question of the day, for the event beginning to take shape is a reunion lunch. The reunion lunch is for high school alumni from Central Kitsap's Class of '62. Some of the faces in front of me show traces of the eighteen year olds I knew, but some seem to be absolute strangers.

***

"I'm Chris Eddy" I respond to that first challenge, "Who are you?!"

"We were just looking at a picture of you on the steps with Beau in the old school paper!" says the stranger. Obviously, he is way ahead of me! He knows who I am, has been looking at a picture of me and knows who Beau was (is). There is a surrealism creeping in.

***

Then I look to my left, where the "old school paper with you and Beau" is indicated and there is my dear old friend, Marty. An incredible surprise because she hadn't told me she was coming. Her I recognize! And my comfort level zips up to maximum. I have an anchor! And next to her is Linda Greaves, another anchor. Then I see Ralph Erickson, who has taken on the position as Class Crier--hear ye, hear ye, come to the lunch--the next reunion--here is news. He is keeping us connected, sending emails to a big list of old grads, informing us of the fun news and the sad news, helping us to find old friends. My first hug is for great big, bearded, bear of a man, Ralph.

And then the faces--vestiges of 18, evidence of time. I am introduced to Stevie Kemp and cannot find the Stevie I knew in her face. How can this be? Later, when she is taking her high school annual around for autographs, I begin to see the Stevie I knew back then, energetic, smart, friendly. Someone says, "that's Nancy over there" and I think they mean Nancy Kvinsland and there is no trace of Nancy Kvinsland in her face. I look and stare and gape and finally I go around the table to her and give her a hug. I think I'm hugging Nancy Kvinsland and then this Nancy reports that she is Nancy Goit and lo and behold it IS Nancy Goit and I can see the Nancy of 1962 and I am so relieved that she is not Nancy Kvinsland because that would have blown my mind too completely. We've all changed, but NOT THAT MUCH! I spot Terry Scatena, who looks exactly like 18 year old Terry, but with a mustach. I see Jim Peterson, a guy who I enjoyed great, silly conversations with in school, and he is THE SAME! How can that be?

***

Nobody recognizes me except Linda, Marty and Joyia, who I saw last year at the place I used to work. Joyia is another who I would recognize anywhere. My old friends Jeanette and Billie Ann come in together and because I saw them last year at our 45th reunion, I have no trouble figuring out who they are. Jeanette pulls me to her and whispers, "You look like your Mother". I know I do, except that my hair is white and my Mother never let hers go white, always dying it and now wearing a wig. It's a compliment from Jeanette, who I used to play War with on her bed, and who knew that my Mom and her Dad dated seriously in high school and could have married. I would have been Jeanette or she would have been me.

***

Sandra Harkins appears and all heads turn, because somehow Sandra has kept her hair beautiful and blond and wavy and has kept her figure fit and curvy. There is no question who Sandra is and there is no question when John Sleasman walks in either. He also is fit and assured, as he always was.

***

What I like best, though, is the people who were on the fringes in high school, who I didn't know very well, who have become themselves over the years. In high school they were subdued, nearly invisible, but now they have led lives, sometimes successful in society's eye and sometimes not, but still, 46 years of living and surviving has shaped them into substantial beings with history on their faces. I sat next to Larry McConnell, who told me about all the cruises he'd been on and how he'd given a cruise to his kids for their honeymoon, who promised to give him a grandchild in return. I talked to Margy Reis, who nobody remembered. She seemed exotic; tanned, jeweled, blond, surely she just flew in from New Mexico or somewhere hot and artsy! It turned out she had lost her husband not long ago and was living in Allyn, far from everything and everyone, but staying in the house she and her husband had loved together, not ready to move on in order to be closer to security and family. Roseanne Carlson was an amazing surprise. I remember Roseanne as being a quiet person. She was one of the few of us who wore glasses already. But that's not the person I spoke with yesterday. She lives alone, she was once married and clearly, clearly will never make THAT mistake again. She was outspoken, delightful and surprisingly, so far from the image I had of Roseanne, wore a diamond-studded, golden wristwatch! And except for the glasses, I didn't recognize her at all in personality OR visually!

***

I talked to Nancy Goit. It is hard for me to remember exactly how I viewed Nancy in high school. She was smart, she was fun-loving, she may have been a little wilder than me. She wasn't a member of our slumber-party group. But she had a presence; she did not fade into the background. Now she is gray-haired, verging on grandmotherly looking because of her sweet, soft features, with remarkable energy and wit and the most wonderfully alive blue eyes! She could be my best friend--it is one of those feelings you get when you meet someone, or re-meet someone--I KNOW her, I am like her, we could have fun together. It was a revelation to reconnect with her. I hope she is in my future.

***

All of us at the long table are 64 years old, and we talked of arthritis, bad memory, frustrations with our bodies. We compared swollen knuckles and stories of clumsiness, surgeries and ingury. We related stories of ex-husbands, deceased husbands, current husbands. We spoke of deaths becoming more frequent in our lives. Nancy spoke about her friends retiring and moving away. Most of us are retired but many are still working or are working part time. We all look forward to being 65 and getting ALL the Senior Discounts! Linda told me how to get a Senior ferry ticket without having to show an ID! We talked about one of the truly important parts of our lives:

***

"How many grandchildren do you have?"

" We moved back to Washington because of our grandchild."

" I travel to other states to see my grandchildren."

"I wish my grandchildren lived next door."

***

Surprisingly, none of us pulled out any pictures of our precious grandbabies. I think we were there for memories and more. That's why I went. For decades, since the 20 year reunion, I have avoided all the reunions. I had divorced again, I had remarried again, I felt fat, my face was sagging, I felt unsuccessful, I was afraid, I was not interested, it didn't matter.

***

But when you are 46 years away from being a senior in high school, you are nearly 65, your peers are dying, you are getting old and your body proves it every day, there is some need that takes over. These are the people you grew up with. They may be closer to you than your cousins. They are important in your history. They knew you when. They know what you are going through now. They lived in the same town. They knew the same people you did. They knew your parents. They have had 46 years of living to share with you. They have learned lessons and they are often wise.

***

Going to a reunion doesn't recapture youth. A person shouldn't go to a reunion for that, because that expectation will be disappointed. What a high school reunion does do is show us who we were then and where we are now. It bursts images of ourselves and those images we've held of others. Reunions show us evolution. I believe these reunions are going to make me a better person. I know that is a hifalutin' thing to say, but I do believe it. If I open my heart to see all these people as they once were and as they are now, that's what will happen.

***

In closing, I would just like to say I HAVE to find out how Sandy Harkins keeps her hair so nice! And now I know my arthritis is not unusual and everybody ages! Except for maybe Dean Johnson, Linda Greaves, Terry Scatina and Jim Peterson.

***

And thank you, Ralph, for instigating, encouraging and gently nudging us to overcome our fears and jump right in. You are a Prince.

Big and Little Sisters

Don't Big Sisters love to DO things to their little sisters? Granddaughter Ali certainly does and this picture is an example. It cracks me up to see that yellow ring balancing on Zuzu's ear and the blue and green rings on her ankles. I would bet that younger siblings develop LOTS of patience. For now, Zuzu is a wonderful platform for Ali's creative and silly play and they both seem to be enjoying it, though there is a little look of resignation on Zuzu's face.....She may be thinking, "At least she is playing with me."