I love this Gentleman (in Russia)

Having delighted in the entertaining romp that is Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles, I’ve come late to A Gentleman in Moscow. I’ll hold the Count in memory as one of the best drawn literary characters I’ve had opportunity to know.

A gentleman, indeed, a dignified, intelligent, crafty soul who exemplifies “Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage” – that is Count Rostov. Gaining insight into himself and the world, he lives 32 years within the Hotel Metropol, Moscow. While no cage is literally presented in the novel, an endlessly revolving door through which the Count could not travel, kept him captive. What crime did he commit in 1922 to deserve such punishment.

What beauty in the turn of a phrase, the witticisms of Towles and the Count, the interplay of ordinary workers who combine to populate a seemingly unfathomable world within four walls all captivated my imagination and kept me turning pages. Delightful conversations held me captive.

I love allusions, innuendo, and irony in literature and this novel overflows. Casablanca, the movie with Humphrey Bogart, is one of the final references while novels like Tolstoy’s War and Peace along with Anna Karenina, Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, Checkov’s The Cherry Orchard take their turn (Thank you Meta Wallace-freshman literature HSU). Watching Casablanca along with the novel's characters, I heard the dialogue and visualized Rick and his admonition to the pianist, Sam.

The beauty that was Russia as in Fabrege' eggs of St. Petersburg, and how and why it changed and what an impact the 1950s and 1960s would have on the country’s culture, as told by a novelist, was mesmerizing. Even America was spotlighted from the novelist’s and an eastern viewpoint.

As in a romance novel, I wanted the Count’s ladies, Nina, Sophia, Marina, and Anna to be his salvation. My prayer was answered when the Chief Administrator, a bad-guy at the novel’s beginning, advised his patrolmen to “round up the usual suspects.”

The novel has become a favorite. In the time of war, even Casablanca offers hope. When Rick sets up the cocktail glass on a customer’s table, “the glass having been knocked over in the midst of the turmoil and commotion of the skirmish,” Towles reminds the reader that “…essential faith (that comes) by the smallest of one’s actions can restore some sense of order to the world”

Bracketology by Frank Sinatra (My Way) - the fun way to play

I have all 4 of the Final Four teams in my bracket.  Here's how - Wait for it!

(In understanding, camaraderie, and response to Philip and Karen Martin (Ark Dem-Gaz) who confessed to three brackets and former sports reporting in days of yore and boasts that his bracket (one of them) is still "alive and well.") So is my bracket. I fill out my bracket by rounds (oh, yes, I do) and by association to basketball history and tradition.

I was 26-6 after round one, all due to my Bracketology of association with my sons, my BHS Panthers, Memphis, Arkansas, or the old SWC. Brilliant Strategy.

As an example or two in the first round - Richmond was a solid pick because a former Bartlett HS athlete was signed by the Spiders and he played there until he transferred to Ole Miss. Tennessee because I have money invested in that school as my son lived in the athletic offices, choosing athletics over academics, for a few semesters. Arizona because of Josh Pastner and Houston because U of M Tigers had beaten them this season. Of course, Memphis and Arkansas, Baylor because of  Chip and Joanna, Talya, and SWC, and KY to go down in flames because of Calipari  and his duck run under cover of darkness and suspicion to KY from U of M.

The second round was a doozie. I had Miami coming out because son had the hoodie and as a toddler referred to the team as "my mammy." Don Johnson was another good reason to choose Miami (Miami Vice). Iowa, Illinois, and Ohio because the states have three vowels (Wordle) and because I detest LSU. Sentiment went to UTChattanooga but who are we kidding. TTech was old SWC and of course Arkansas.

Texas is OUT,  just because. 

I only had nine wins going to the Sweet 16.

But, I have 7 of the elite 8 - Arkansas (yes, indeed), Duke (former BHS student is alum. He is son of a classmate from Henderson State), UNC (love Roy Williams who came to BHS on a recruiting trip and was so very kind to our students. And  Papa Smurf), Houston is in Memphis' conference, NOVA (Memphis State vs Villanova in 1985). Never had the Peacocks even though my granddaughter loves the colorful birds and we have cousins in New Jersey. 

Kansas (U of M vs Kansas. Jayhawks won in Memphis' season of shame), and My-Mammy plus Don Johnson. 

That brings me to the final four - Duke (really - even with Elvis-haired Coach K whose voice kills me), UNC (love the Carolina Blue and son has a blanket and jersey). NOVA because Dana Kirk sucked on his ring instead of coaching the Tigers and NOVA went on to the finals in 1985. And, KS because the Jayhawks can out-fight a pelican.

 My final answer for winner - prior to any of the Final Four contests, without any phone-a-friend or survey is Kansas. Easy pick - Jayhawks can torment the Devil out of an Elvis-impersonator's team. And because Kansas is a part of ARKansas. 

I rest my case.

Welcome to Earle

Long before I held any regard for slow moving pick-up trucks and farm equipment, two of us Memphis 

folks decided on a nice weekend at Heber Springs. In a cabin. In the woods. With my parents. Never 

one for following directions or reading a map, I still knew by instinct and tradition what a straight-shot 

highway looked like on a map and was familiar with color coding for highway type. Straight to me 

meant moving on down the road. Hwy 64 out of Marion, due west, was my suggestion.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said.

            Two hours, max, was estimated for the trip. I’d packed for a weekend that could include a black-tie dinner or a fish fry, swimming or dock-sitting. I had not packed for a weekend in jail.

            Highway 64 is an east-west highway but not without its potholes and pitfalls. Farming communities such as Wylie and Crawfordsville are allowed to have farm implements on the road, just like normal vehicles. Who knew?

Praying mantis and dinosaur derivatives lumbered along the road, fresh from the fields, spewing hay and dirt in their wake. Interspersed were farm trucks. Men who spit tobacco and hung an arm out the window moseyed along as if supper were yet hours away. We’d pass one big, green monster only to be waylaid by another. Our plan for a quick two-hour drive was like Gilligan’s tour – much too long.

            Neither of us had patience as a virtue so we looked for every break in the traffic along the two-lane highway. Pac-man, dot eating, ghost avoiding skill played a large part in darting between trucks and tractors. Finally, the last hay wagon in the never-ending motorcade was behind us.

            “We can give it the gas, now,” I said.

            “Yeah,” he replied, and we were off like an Indy-car on a straightaway.

            We nudged and fudged the posted highway speed to make up time. The paper accordion map showed the highway with no deviation into any town with seventeen traffic lights. We were on our way.

            Seems Earle, Arkansas, annexed a billboard and the land surrounding it on the north side of the east-west highway. I saw it and thought, “That’s odd. A billboard just sitting in the middle of nothing.” Here he came, blue lights and siren blaring.

“Oh, crud,” I said.

            “Oh, double crud,” he responded.

            “Where you folks headed in such a hurry?” asked the Earle police officer. Our story did not impress him. Since we were truly speeding and he had zero sympathy for city-folk who have no respect for farm equipment, he told us, “Follow me.”

            “Where?”

            “Into town. To City Hall.”

            “Oh, crap,” I said.

            “Don’t say anything else. Just sit there and be quiet.”

            Through winding little-town streets, as slow as a bug not knowing his fate, we drove. Parked at City Hall in Wynne, the policeman asked that we come inside. “She’s staying in the car. Just give us the ticket and let us go.”

            “Your license and registration, please,” he drawled. “Seems you folk are from out of state. You’ll have to post a cash bond.”

            They went inside. I sat in the car. I needed my jail outfit because we had little cash – just checks and a credit card. And no way of getting in touch with my parents in a cabin in the woods in Heber Springs.

            After listening to a master-negotiator tell as many sob stories as necessary, the officer allowed us to give him all our cash a check for the remainder of the fine. He let us keep $10 for emergencies.

            “Don’t be speeding anymore. Gotta stay safe,” the cop said.

            “Sure thing, officer. Thank you, sir.”

            We made it to Heber Springs before the Heber cops were sent to investigate roadside ditches and potential mangled wreckage.

            The lone billboard screams, “Welcome to Earle.” You can’t miss it.

The Benefits of Bay Leaves: A Christmas Story

     Saw a post about the benefits of bay leaves while scrolling Facebook.

Mother, David and Richard, and I flew to Colorado for Christmas a number of years ago. We flew into Telluride airport via Houston airport, flying out of Memphis. The planeload of revelers was celebrating their forthcoming high-dollar Christmas vacations at ski resorts. We were celebrating our upcoming Christmas week with Brother Tom and his crew living at that time in Grand Junction, CO, thus our flight destination of Telluride.

On such Christmas flights, the "curtain" is thrown back and everybody rides First Class, regardless of what the ticket declares. Thus, we were offered all kinds of treats for feasting and quenching our thirst. I decided on a coffee with a biscotti and Mother said, "I'll have the same."

When the flamboyant flight attendant served us, he asked, "Would you care for some Bailey's with your coffee?" Meaning, of course, Bailey's Irish Cream, a liquor that could make Milk of Magnesia taste palatable. Mother declined; "Most unusual," I thought.

"Mother, I'm going to have some. Why don't you?"

She protested, "I don't want any bay leaves in my coffee!"

"Mother - not bay leaves - B-A-I-L-E-Y-'S! - You know, Bailey's....

"Oh, Well. In that case," she laughed, "I'll have a double shot!!"

Reading for Insight after 45 years

              Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried is a collection of stories about his decision to comply with the notice from his draft board, though he was no more a soldier than “a man in the moon.”  Within a few months, he and Company A were assigned to an area in southeast Vietnam. Their losses and their lives while in Vietnam, provide the characters/individuals for the stories of memory, imagination, catharsis, and some semblance of truth. 

June, 1968- Tim O’Brien’s draft notice arrived.

The little I know about the Vietnam War can be summarized somewhere between the grief-filled silence within the Henderson State student union and the deafening WHOPWHOPWHOPWHOP of helicopter blades providing background for the evening news report.

            One of HSTC’s ROTC commissioned 2^nd lieutenants was listed under casualties in the morning newspaper that was being passed from table to table. He had been a handsome fellow with fraternity leadership skills and a beautiful sorority girl for his bride He died, anyway.

            Stories and letters, news reports from reporters in the trenches catapulted legions of soon to be college graduates into the long lines to join the National Guard or the US Reserves. Grades stayed high because repeated appearances on the academic probation list brought an immediate exit along with an invitation to enlist rather than be drafted.

            My ex-husband's ability to improvise and exaggerate his skill on the typewriter sealed his next four years in a Reserve Ordinance Unit. His brother enlisted and became a door-gunner on a rescue helicopter. I had briefly dated a guy who said he was a Vietnam veteran, in college with the GI Bill, having just returned from Nam and serving with the elite Green Berets, a fact I doubt. My best friend’s husband spent his years in Vietnam as a Texas A&M commissioned officer. I never asked Pat or Bill or Jim how they felt or what they experienced. Vietnam was mysterious, malevolent, and murky in politics. 

            My brother's age group was part of the draft lottery and his birth date was drawn in the last numbers, the war ending before “his number came up.” He had once told Mother he did not want to grow up and go to war and get killed. She said she’d drive him to Canada herself. 

           I watched the final caskets come home and watched the war declared "over" 1975. I've participated in Welcome Home, Vietnam Veterans activities and paid respect at the Vietnam Wall memorial but after reading O'Brien's collection, I find myself embarrassed by naivete.

        Returning veterans did not want to talk and, it's highly probable I did not want to know.

Magic of Simplicity vs. Packratitude

"Isn't living with simplicity suppose to be...simple?"

When a newsletter article reaches out and grabs me with its words, I take time and take note. Soliciting for The Magnolia Journal, dear Joanna spoke to me as I thought of my sewing, craft room. It begs the question. To paint, I must remove boxes and crates of saved memorabilia. What stays? What goes?
Joanna's words: "I need to be aggressive in my pursuit of simplicity. 
Left to their own devices, these seemingly small things have a way of spiraling out of control. The paring down is worth it. As painful as it sometimes feels, there's nothing quite like the feeling of a lighter load, particularly when you see in hindsight that you were never mean to carry all that stuff anyway."
Choosing simplicity gives room to breathe. It is a personal thing - We intuitively know what areas of our lives need pruning. I am not sure what is in the boxes under the counter. The cabinets are filled. Not one empty space.
These boxes contain relics, archival items saved from three purges. Sentimentality creates "pack-rat-itude."

Junior English classes require students to read portions of Emerson and Thoreau. I designed lessons that would be engaging and personal for my students, even if they read only the portions I selected for group interaction, Agree/Disagree, etc. The students identified most when asked to "go camping like Thoreau at Walden Pond." 

I struggle to pack one "overnight" bag.

Thoreau's statement resonated with them: Why I Went to the Woods - to live deliberately, and not to find that when the time came to die, I had not lived at all.  

"Simplicity may not be magic, but it is a little bit magical," says Joanna.

I'm subscribing to Magnolia Journal - I have a discount and a sticker for free stuff!

The Thrill is Gone - It Happens

At a birthday party at my house when in high school. a group of friends and I swooned over the songs and the album cover "A Song for Young Love" The Lettermen. Through college, I listened to this group along with The Association and others as they poured their hearts out with "Come Back Silly Girl, Come Back to Me," and "The Way You Look Tonight." Ooooo.

It happens to me all the time. I'm a hopeless romantic. A nostalgia junkie. Expectation is destroyed by reality.

My first album for The Lettermen

I age, but my memories don't.
I change my hair style, but everyone else remains as they were in the 1960's.
Funny.

In 1964, I latched onto the singing group The Lettermen. I swooned over Jim Pike, tall, dark, handsome and a fabulous ballad singer. The Lettermen albums contained all kinds of love songs and these three handsome dudes wore Letterman sweaters, Of course.

Lucky me - my family had connections to the big time in New Orleans. Their high school friend had made it big with Louisiana Land and Exploration. While there on vacation, staying with the Phillips, we had a stage side table at the Blue Room at the Roosevelt Hotel.Headlining - The Lettermen. I was done for - too shy to do much other than sway, swoon, and sigh...deeply.

I collected their albums and listened to their love songs through early 1970's.

Last night - yes, 2020, last night, I looked on YouTube (TV) for this singing group and found live concerts. I was thrilled. It was time for a time warp journey. See the Lettermen from the 60's. In Concert - live, before me yet again.

WHAT! They had changed their hair, their clothes, even sang some new songs. They reflected the 70's and 80's and I was shocked. Long hair. Blue leisure suits with ruffled shirts and tied-in-a-bow neck wear. Platform shoes.

I'm glad I did not follow a hunch in 2000 and set out on a quest to see The Lettermen in concert. I would have been undone to see them OLD. Or not at all. Gradually, the Lettermen morphed into name only and attempt at same harmony. THREE OTHER GUYS held microphones and sang.





I did see the video of Lettermen: the Reunion.
They were not on walkers (hallelujah) and they sang Cherish/Precious and Few along with Going Out of My Head/Can't Take My Eyes Off You,
Put Your Head On My Shoulder, When I Fall in Love, etc.

While the closely knit blend, the signature harmony, was there, the thrill was gone!

My heart-throb, Jim Pike , co-founder of The Lettermen, died in 2018, at the age of 82. He had Parkinson's disease.