Election day, 2012. I don’t know what to expect, although it is probably safe to say that after today about half of the country will be ecstatic, and the other half will be angry and bewildered. The real challenge will be for the victor to reassure us all that the hope for our nation is that we have millions of decent people of many persuasions, and that by their working together we may yet have a national legacy worth bequeathing to our grandchildren.
Perhaps the most hopeful signs when we went to the poll this morning was seeing a young black man seated at the table with the two veteran election workers, checking our photo IDs, recording our names, and assigning us our voter numbers. His Tshirt said Kutztown University Student Volunteer. Youth and diversity, the future of our nation requires them both. The other hopeful sign was the number of people waiting in line to vote. Large voter turnout, a democracy requires the participation of its constituents. Regardless of the election results, those were good omens.
Author: Ellen
Our nest runneth over
Not too long ago Chuck and I were empty-nesters; our children had flown the coop years ago. We still have one barn cat who greets us every morning and requires nothing other than being fed twice a day and some cuddling. We have had our share of pets: dogs, cats–indoors and out, rabbits, goats, snakes, fish, etc. But after our last house cat was hit on the road two years ago, we had found that there was a freedom to not having the responsibility of house pets…freedom to leave home and not worry about when you are returning, freedom from vet bills, freedom from cleaning pet hair off the furniture, etc., etc. And then we succumbed to the loneliness of it all and decided to rehome a dog back in July. We adore our Monah, and she has certainly given us love and lots of laughs in return, and our nest seemed complete with a dog in it again. I’ve written about her frequently in the last three months…the flea infestation, the operation for a hematoma, and then what was most unexpected in an 8 and a half year old female dog–being in heat. This week’s news is a continuation of that saga.
Being in heat made Monah feel very maternal. She picked up a stuffed animal…a cardinal that chirps like the real thing…for the first time since we had had her, and she needed to cuddle with it. That birdsong was music to all of our ears. And then on one of those lovely autumn days when I was getting some needed garden cleanup out of the way, she found two kittens in the ivy under a spruce tree. Mama Monah tended to them, gave them baths, and soon I was feeding them in the barn. And then soon I was feeding them in the house because they were following us everywhere, even out onto the road, and we had to have a safe place for them. And that’s how our nest became full to overflowing again.
Kittens can be the most adorable, inquisitive, playful, entertaining…and the most annoying little creatures. Everything from a sunbeam to a newspaper on a table–heck, the table itself–to a vacuum cleaner cord coiling across the floor requires their attack of investigation. My houseplants may not survive their onslaught. What sharp little claws they have, and they use them to climb the screendoor, shrubbery, trees, furniture, and our legs. We have scars resulting from their curiosity and need for cuddling. And poor Monah. Her maternal instincts vanished along with her estrus, but she is now saddled by two little vixens who nip at her nose and ears and pounce upon her tail.
They are of a long-haired ancestry, very fluffy, hardly feral kittens. All that furriness on their tiny bums makes telling gender difficult. We think they are sisters. Coming up with pet names is always a difficult task, requiring observation of character, cleverness and an eye toward understanding the adults they will become. Presently these two little ones are Lacey and Pym, but should the nether regions develop differently, the names may have to change.
I guess I should also tell you that there is evidence of early genious. Pym is literate. The other night I was typing here at my computer when my son Drew called (with the report of our grandson Baylor’s hat trick in a soccer game that day). As I chatted away, Pym required some attention. She walked across the keyboard–typing out LOOK? I did!
The seasons–the years. the new–the old
Oh, my, all of my friends have created quite a sensory-stirring compilation of autumn thoughts: Kira, ready for the heartier tastes of soups (and curling up with a book); Sheila enjoying pumpkin scent, pumpkin everything; Martha cozying up with corduroys and Frank; and Jane hearing the autumnal release of the bow on the violin strings. Before long we will all be witnessing the vibrancy of the fall pallet, which the previous seasons have meteorologically prepared for us. I agree that there is something renewing and stimulating in the air in fall.
Perhaps this explains why this weekend I was so affected by a show, another old delight made new again. Maybe the season sets us up to be so much more appreciative and nostalgic. Or perhaps I would have loved it even during the icyest days of February or the sweatiest days of July because this is a show for all seasons.
The show, “West Side Story”, has been around since 1957, which must put it in the “Old Chestnut” category, but the “Romeo and Juliet” story that it is based upon has brought tears to the eyes of audiences since the 17th century. The ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ and ‘good morrows’ of the chronological first one, and the ‘daddy-os’ and ‘cools’ of the second do date them both and can make them inaccesible to contemporary audiences unless they are prepared for period pieces.
So what made this something so sensually special?
The star of the show was the Philadelphia Orchestra. They played the score behind a redigitalized version of the 1961 film, starring Natalie Wood, Richard Beymer, Russ Tamblyn, Rita Moreno, and George Chakiris.
It is too simplistic to explain that the original sound track was split between orchestral and vocal and the former was deleted so that the live orchestra could accompany the lyrics, dialogue, and effects. The original orchestrations had been lost, and so it took much research among the archives of the original conductor/music supervisor, the director, and the producer to fashion a mock-up score and adaptation for live orchestra. That’s like rewriting Bernstein without missing a note or a dynamic. Even us non-techies have an appreciation for that.
I have heard the original score hundreds of times, and I’ve even played some of it. I saw the show on Broadway in 1960 and the movie in 1962. Let’s just say I know the music and have some fond connections to it. But to hear it played live by a great orchestra simply brought me chills. Adjectives fail. It added sparkle, poignancy, accent, and depth to the film. Natalie was sweeter, more beautiful, and more engaging. Rita was more of a spit fire, more enticing. George was more romantic, more exciting. And Russ was just more on point of his wonderful dance shoes. It wasn’t just the old story that brought tears. And it wasn’t just the new technical feat that brought applause. It was a totally beautiful experience.
“West Side Story” has a moral, and 50 years later we should be a better society because Leonard Bernstein, Arthur Laurents, Jerome Robbins, and Steven Sondheim collaborated to teach us about the ugliness and fatality of hatred and resulting violence. As we left the theatre, I had to acknowledge to my granddaughter and daughter that unfortunately we’re slow learners.
Some thoughts on a rather dismal day…
…Running fast to keep up here…what thoughts are running through my mind today? Well there’s:
Our newly rehomed dog Monah…who last week was my subject when she was recovering from ear surgery…well, she now is in heat! The poor girl is 8 and a half years old (equivalent of 60 human years) and should not be having to deal with this. She’s moaning/howling, lost her appetite, attracting stray dogs (male, I must assume) who are trying to jump over the wall. She’s pulled me down the road at the other end of her leash, after a barking dog in a car (again, male, I assume), and she wants to sit in Chuck’s lap (that’s a lapful, since she weighs 106 lbs.) I am following her around the house with a spray bottle of Heavy Duty Carpet Cleaner, sopping up the the drips…and following her around the yard like a duena. We’ve never experienced this before, having always had our dogs neutered early on. She knows she is behaving strangely and seems embarrassed.
And then there was a great kick off for the Reading Literary Festival, the poet laureate induction ceremony on Monday night at the Miller Center. The audience tried to pick a poet out of the crowd in our version of the old TV game show, “What’s My Line”. Many of our friends were the mystery poets, and they did stellar portrayals. Thanks and congrats to them. Sen. Judy Schwank said of the show, “What a fun way to spend a Monday night.”
I feel guilty about saying this, but it is going to be difficult to decide whether to watch the presidential debate tonight or the last games of the regular baseball season. My Mets are way out of it, as are the local favorite Phillies, but I’d just love to see Baltimore have a chance to triumph over the hated Yankees. I have less strong opinions about the election and really need to listen to what the candidates are saying. I just hope we get ideas rather than rants.It may be a toss-up because I will not be a channel switcher. That seems to be a guy-thing.
Post-op!
Monah, the Bernese Mountain Dog we rehomed two months ago, had surgery today…for a hematoma on her ear. It had been a nasty situation and obviously needed to be dealt with. So we did what responsible pet-owners do and took her to the vet.
She has quite a comprehensive vocabulary, and perhaps she had believed me when we casually climbed into the car this morning and I told her she would feel so much better soon. She loves going for rides. But, as we pulled into the parking lot at the vet’s office, her eyes mournfully revealed that she knew no good would come of this trip. Her last look at me as they walked her into the surgery was pleading. She thought I was abandoning her.
Now, here we are, ten hours later, and I couldn’t feel guiltier. I had picked her up about an hour ago, paid the $$$ bill, and was instructed as to medications and procedures. The two of us wobbled to the car, struggled into it and then out of it, staggered down the steps from the road and then up the steps to the first floor.
I’d hoped that she’d feel reassured about her homecoming, being back in familiar spaces with those who love her and bring her comfort. Hugs all around. Well, looking at her, I know this is not going to be an easy night. Her ear has been shaved, giving her a wounded look. And what was elegantly called an Elizabethan collar…more like a lampshade…has accompanied her. So far I’ve refused to add to her indignity and put it on her. Her bloodshot eyes droop over her cheekbones. Her nose is dry. Her tail drags. The dog whose favorite spot used to be at my feet now wants to be a room away. For added measure…a real Sarah Bernhardt…when I go to stroke her and talk to her, she has begun to moan, whimper, and…believe it or not…yodel.
Pets…like babies…instinctively know how to be in control of our emotions. It’s never easy to deal with one who is telling you that you let them down. I’ve gone through it before with other pets: seven dogs and 13 cats who have all resented trips to the vet that had some painful results…like neutering and spaying. Not true of our goats. Yeah, it must have hurt when they put rubber bands around their little testicles until they fell off, but they went on frolicking about, oblivious to the injustice, and easier to domesticate because of it.
Our Monah will come out of her stupor tomorrow. Her ear may hurt even more when the anesthesia is out of her systerm, and we have pills to coax into her for that. But we’ll be able to go for a walk, she’ll want a belly-rub, and there are treats to get through any peckish moods. Return of rapport, hopefully. Meanwhile I’ll have a glass of sherry to get me through the night, and perhaps I’ll try yodeling in harmony.
Looking back on the last two weeks…
Haven’t posted for a while…partly because my typing wasn’t going smoothly due to having carpal tunnel surgery on my right hand. Two weeks later I can say that it was not the ordeal I had been warned of. The pain meds were the worst part; they made me woozie and dopey, so I chose to drink wine instead and avail myself of the healing benefits of the grape. There was little discomfort to get through. Therefore here I am, two weeks later, obeying the doctor’s order of taking it easy (no vacuuming, working in the garden, etc.) and feeling just grand (until I look at all of the cleaning and weeding awaiting me).
I’ve lived a long time and had never had a surgery. My only hospital stays were for baby deliveries. So I had no idea what to expect from this procedure. It’s funny what goes through your mind during that anticipatory stage: How does one opem a toothpaste tube or pill bottle one handed? How will I shave my left armpit while using only my left hand? When we go out for our anniversary dinner, do I just order soft foods or ask my husband of 44 years to cut my meat? Do I write and address all cards to be sent in early August ahead of time so that they are legible? Well, none of these really become issues. Even with a splint much right hand movement was possible. So if progress continues, I hope to be playing my violin again in another week or so…IF there is time for that while trying to tame the garden once more and get our house in order!
Ellen
Sport
Sports, often an escape from, or a training for, or an enhancement of what we call “real life”. With the advent of the 2012 summer Olympics, it will be a source of national pride and an introduction to many fabulous young athletes from nations all around this globe. But for many Pennsylvanians, right now sport has given them a blow below the belt. The proud alumni and students of Penn State, who likely chose the institution because of its academic strengths, are reeling from the NCAA’s penalization of the football program. And that action will tarnish the reputation and financially affect the university for many years to come. It’s a shocker.
I’ve just returned from a very different sport-related weekend. Chuck and I have attended the Baseball Hall of Fame induction ceremonies for 27 years. We do this over and over again because it is a sport that we love, but also because we have come to know so many wonderful people who gather in the beautiful village of Cooperstown, NY, for this event. For us it is often like old home week when we get together. I’d like to share some of those people moments from our baseball weekend.
On the large front porch of the Inn at Cooperstown, where the guests gather and rock and swap tales, this year we met Hal McCoy, a Hall of Fame honored sports writer from Ohio. He is the man who created the name of “The Big Red Machine” for the Cincinnati teams of the 1970s and covered the Pete Rose story and the Marge Schott years. But we now know him as a personable man who has been declared legally blind since 2003 (strokes of the optic nerves) but was told by the Reds players that they would not let him retire as a writer, and they would help him with whatever he needed to do to continue. Not too many sports writers get that kind of love in return from their teams. He was in Cooperstown to cover the induction of Cincinnati’s own Barry Larkin.
Barry Larkin. I knew him only as a nemesis to the team that I love. I now know him as a man who could live his childhood dream of being a star, a rather dazzling one, on his hometown team. That’s what he talked about in his acceptance speech…but he delivered some of his speech in Spanish for the benefit of many of his gathered fans and those Hall of Famers whose roots are in the Caribbean or Central America. I wondered where this University of Michigan graduate’s fluency in Spanish came from. Hal McCoy told us that Barry taught himself the language when so many of his teammates were Latino and he wanted to be able to talk with them.
One of the guests at the Inn, named Jennifer, is a writer for the NY Times. She and her son come annually so that he can meet many of the players he idolizes. Jennifer, always toting a few laptops, hoped to spend this weekend writing fluff stuff about fans. Instead she worked from dawn until almost midnight on Saturday communicating with families of the victims of the horrible shooting in Denver. Her mission was to write the stories of those who had lost their lives, a lasting gift to their loved ones. When she wrapped it up late on Saturday, we shared a couple of bottles on wine on the porch and tried to talk of happier things.
Cooperstown has a fabulous summer opera company, Glimmerglass, as well as the famous Hall. Over dinner on Sunday night we began chatting with a man at the next table and soon learned that he is the director of the opera that had just debuted that afternoon, Kurt Weill’s “Lost in the Stars”. His name is Tazewell Thompson. We had already heard that the opera had been received with many standing ovations from friends who had attended while we were at the induction ceremony. This very unassuming man had a very contented air about him, and we chatted about the benefits of the Metropolitan Opera’s live in HD series of operas (Tazewell is all for them),past operas we have enjoyed at Glimmerglass, his future projects…and the fact that we are both long-suffering New York Mets fans.
Sports–they can make us ebullient, and they can break our hearts and dash our spirits. And they are a common denominator, one that brings people together.
Let me tell you about our dog…
Two weeks late and two days early in blogging…my apologies for both. My excuses for lateness? Not sure that there are any that are acceptible.
We got a dog…but then so did Martha, and she still found time to blog.
I’ve been trying to keep my garden under control…picking, preserving, watering, weeding, deadheading, fertilizing, tieing up…but I wasn’t working in the garden 24/7. We had children and grandchildren visiting and made the most of every minute…but that was for just three wonderful days.
It’s been too hot…well, that seems to be a popular excuse and forgiveable for almost everything these days. I won’t bother with excuses for being early…afterall I didn’t catch you just getting out of the shower, and no one cares if you haven’t done your make-up yet. If it really bothers you, then please wait until Tuesday to read this.
Let me tell you about our dog. She’s an eight and a half year old Bernese Mountain Dog. Picture big, bearlike, lotsa curly fur, black with white and rust markings on her face and paws (and oh what paws).
Her name is Monah. We found her through a Berner rescue group in Maryland. We had had a Berner before, and they are truly gentle giants. When we had visited her in her previous home, we saw how attached she was to her people and place and so had some trepidations about how successful we would be in rehoming her. She had been a kind of celebrity in the town of Ellicott City, MD, since she was raised in a little shop and everyone in the town knew Monah. When her family found out that their son was allergic to her, it was difficult to find a new home because Berners just live an average of 7 to 9 years, and few people want to make the emotional and financial investment that an older dog requires given that time frame. But we fell in love with her, and I can say after our two weeks together that the feeling seems to be mutual. Whatever the time we will have with Monah, we will think of it as a fortuitious gift.
There’s a lot to be said for taking on an older dog: no puppy shenanigans, no chewing, no house breaking, no jumping up on visitors. Given her size, she cannot squeeze through our front gate or under the fence; she will not jump over the wall or need four-mile walks each day (pulling all the way) the way our last pup did. And old dogs seem to recognize when someone has opened a special place in their hearts for them. They give you unconditional love in return.
The secret is out of the bag!
The secret actually being plural–secrets–35 of them. They were touted to be Berks County’s Best Kept Secrets, and indeed they live up to that billing. A tour with that name was discussed on the May episode of That’s What She Said, and it is on-going from June 15 until this Saturday, the 30th.
The cast and crew of That’s What She Said (all 5 of us!) hopped into a car this past Saturday and set off on a road trip to uncover these BC treasures. What fun! And you’ll be able to enjoy it with us via video on our next show, July 18, 9:00 pm, on BCTV. We’ll remind you of that over the next few weeks.
Among the delightful discoveries was a secret garden, little goats that suckled on our fingers, an introduction to Stack and Whack, some refreshing spiced tea, lovely truffles, free goodies, great discounts, opportunities to win pirzes…and all topped off with ice cream. Can’t beat that for $7. Although we gave it our best effort for 5 hours, we only were able to see 7 of the 35 locales. Revealing secrets takes time! So there should be many more to learn about in future tours. With the success of this one, there are others planned.
What I have to reveal next would not exactly be a secret, but it certainly took Chuck and me by surprise: we’re getting a dog, too. Yes, I’ll blame this on Martha and her new Chooch, the pooch. There seems to be a contagion of dog fever. Although I’ve been searching rescue sites for quite a while, her news spurred me on to relink with some I had investigated before. This past week we found a Bernese Mountain Dog who needs a new home. She is an 8-year-old with no known health problems and a very sweet disposition named Monah. She was raised in a little shop in Ellicott City, MD, where she became a town celeb who even has her own Facebook page. We will bring her to our house next Tuesday.
To be continued….
Books, anyone?
Here’s to a happy-in-her-new-job Sheila, an art-inspired Martha, a very busy Christina, and a pickled Jane! How very diverse my friends are, what a good mix of thoughts.
So what of substance can I add on this rainy June morning?
I wasn’t expecting this rain, and obviously neither were my husband and his brothers who just left for a day of golf. They are not the die-hard golfing types who would slosh after that little ball, umbrellas aloft, in a downpour, so I think they will find a 19th hole somewhere to talk a good game.
This is the kind of day when one wants to curl up with a good book, and I am into one right now–a novel called “Appassionata” by Eva Hoffman. It is about a concert pianist on tour in Europe and explores…maybe exposes is a better word…how the music she plays–its themes, its expressions, its demands, its passions–controls her life. Hoping there will be a harmonic resolution!
I just finished another that my son recommended I read, “May the Road Rise Up to Meet You” by Peter Troy, the story of life journeys of the Odyssean sort. Shortly into the book I knew why Drew had thought it was a book for me. A reader has to relate to a story, and this one seemed to have a personal pull; the author and I must have some mutual places that have special meaning to us. Among the settings important to his story were Chatham, the Civil War hospital in Fredericksburg, VA, the Susquehana River, and the town of Cooperstown, NY, and its Lake Otsego. It became my journey too.
I’m hoping that you might suggest some other good summer reads. Anyone?
Ellen