A Gift Of Music & Memories

 Yesterday, Al, Terry and I went up to Lakewood to check out the piano player at the Waterbury Tavern.  An old friend of mine from Stompin', Gerry Keating, sings there on Wednesday nights.  We each got to sing with the piano player.
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His name is Michael and he is superb!!  One of the best guys I've ever sung with!  He's young too, maybe in his 40s if I had to venture a guess.  Lovely person!

I sang Embraceable You, I Don't Know Why, Fly Me To The Moon and Someone To Watch Over Me.  I cried during that one.  Michael followed me and also challenged me by modulating during a few of the songs.  Wow!

Gerry called another old friend, a guy I gigged with for years, Steve Samuel, and he came over with his clarinet. It was great to see him and hear him play.  He's a very fine reed player! He complimented me on my singing and said I had so much depth, command and emotion.  I did feel like saying I've been at this for a while so I would hope I'd improve!  But the words were indeed welcomed and I'm grateful for them.

I told him I had been learning the ukulele.  Long story short, he had an old uke that he had purloined from a school he taught (it had never been inventoried) and wanted me to have it.

Eulalie, Ka'mea, the baritone & Adelaide

Are you kidding?  Sure!  He doesn't play it and he's had it for years.  We went to his apartment and he hauled out a BARITONE ukulele!  Hell yeah!

So I brought her home to meet the other ukes.
 
Today I took her to Pekar Music and sadly, she's in really bad shape.  Her top is coming off, her bridge is coming unglued, the neck is warping and beginning to crack.  It would cost as much as buying a new baritone uke with a pickup as if would to fix her.  Even then it would be a temporary fix.  I was wondering about the bridge, frankly.  

So even though she can barely be played, she can hang on our wall, in a place of honor, remembering good times and a generous musician friend.

The Day JFK Died

I was in 4th grade. Our principal, Mr. Will. came over the loudspeaker at Lincoln Elementary and said that President Kennedy had been shot. A girl in my class burst into tears; I think her name was Melodie. I remember it was a windy day and the bare branches were dancing outside the windows. That struck me as strange in our very quiet school room.  

We were sent home and for three days all that was on TV was the whole thing, including Oswald being shot. We wanted to be respectful because that's what we were taught but 3 days with a TV that only had 3 channels and crummy weather is boring for a kid. I do remember watching the parade and Black Jack the horse, with the boots turned backwards in the stirrups. That really sticks in my head even today. I thought that was classy.

It was my generation's Pearl Harbor.

New Shoes!

The awesome shoes that my new son-in-law, Matt Boggs,  decorated for me!  I have had these high tops since 2000 (I bought them in Vegas) and while they are actually quite uncomfortable to wear, I have never, For some odd reason,  gotten rid of them.  Now I will wear them (occasionally, because they are, after all works of art) with great pride and joy!  Thank you Matt and Milicent B!

I'm Honored

I'm not often at a loss for words.  But getting this in the mail today drove me to tears.  I am honored beyond comprehension.
An old friend rode 150 miles. in my name.  I can't believe it.
I will treasure that he thought of me.  To think I'd have to get damn cancer to have someone ride for me.
I'm a survivor.  Bet your ass I am. The last two bouts of Dragon's Blood took it out of me in the most embarrassing way, but having someone think of me makes all the shit worth it.  
Thank you, Reid, for thinking of me.

Music: Start 'Em Young

 I had my great nephews over today....I'm exhausted!  I showed my older great nephew (B) the rudiments of drumming (can you imagine THAT, LOL!) and he actually had a good sense of rhythm!  I also taught how to do the C chord (the easiest one on the uke) and I sang Frere Jacques along with him while he strummed, LOL!  I have an old candlestick phone with a rotary dial that works and those kids are simply fascinated by a rotary dial phone!!!  B was so interested that I could change the batteries and clean the terminals on my poor old Lighting McQueen plastic car; he watched in utter fascination as I made it "talk" again.  I am so NOT mechanical (and it's a big family joke) but I felt like Go-Go Gadget because I could figure out how to get the sucker talking again!  I felt like a genius!  LOL! Trying to think of things to do with a 5 year that don't involve planting him in front of a TV is very challenging!  He's not a coloring book type of boy! Phew, I'm exhausted!!!!  I need a nap!

A Dream Come True

Dreams do come true! I have always been a huge fan of Dale McKenzie's. He such a talented guy and his wife Paula McKenzie is such a cool, darling lady. They came over to our house tonight for grub and an impromptu music session happened. (I think it was Dale getting his hands on Marty Hess' lovely guitar).

I'm a beginner uke player and I have always wanted to sing with just Dale and a guitar. I've known he's a really gifted musician and to have to opportunity to play and sing with him the few songs I (kind of) know on the uke was a terrifying joy. I was a wreck! Marty played the drums too!!

We sang "Misty" and played "Dream A Little Dream Of Me",(which will be in my show on August. 29th...shameless plug) "Moon River", "You Always Hurt The One You Love" and "I'll See You In My Dreams" together. What an honor! I can't begin to tell you how much this meant to me and how encouraging Dale was! What a great team the McKenzies' are!

Now I gotta get good!

My Dad, Steve Knerly (Father's Day 2015)

Thinking of you, Fa.  I miss you.

My father loved to get dressed up; he was always very proud to wear his medals!  He always yell at us to "Hurry up, I'm WAITING!  Why in the hell am I always waiting for you all to get ready!" and he'd disappear and we'd wait for him to make an entrance He smelled like Old Spice and then Christian Dior for men.  And wool.

He'd use big words and when you'd give him the "Huh?" look he'd make you look it up in the dictionary.  (Thus our predilection for using Big Words!  He pretended he didn't speak Hungarian (his childhood in the old West Side Hungarian neighborhood was crappy) but he would listen to the Hungarian Hour on the radio and spoke it fluently.  He started most sentences with "God Damnit," when he was on the phone and then later, as we got older, in person.

He would 'conduct' classical music while driving, which used to scare me to death.  I finally figured out he was driving with his knee.  He loved convertibles! He loved music and singing especially, "I'm Glad I'm Not Young any More" from GIGI.  He loved roller coasters.

I think he lived to yell at other lawyers and I don't know how many phones he destroyed banging the receiver instead of hanging up.

His way of "fixing" things was to wack it with a hammer.  (Thus the ceiling radiator crashing to the floor and breaking his leg).

He was charming as all get out. All eyes would gravitate to him when he entered a room.

He could be very difficult and challenging to live with: his standards were very high.  He wasn't afraid to wack you if you deserved it.  But he'd go to the mat for you, taking on anyone, including the Lakewood School Board and my materanl grandmother (I don't know which was worse).

He called me My Schloukie Kid (don't ask me why) and Miachka.  He and his needs came first (typical Aries) but I know he loved us fiercely.

"Precious" Parenting Sucks.

Read this:
http://community.today.com/parentingteam/post/what-would-my-mom-do-drink-tab-and-lock-us-outside

My mom drank Tab and threw our carcasses outside.  We went to summer camp on a bus, thank you very much.  We walked to school (4-10 blocks away) or were bused. We were NOT constantly signed up for activities or given stuff on a daily basis

You had to pick ONE after school activity (a sport or in my case, theater).

If we whined about being bored, Mom gave us chores.  Least favorite: scrubbing the carpet by hand.

We had to behave ourselves in restaurants and at social events, but could bring a coloring book or small toy.

We could watch TV one hour a day and some on Saturday mornings so they could sleep in.  We rode bikes and horses without helmets.  We learned stranger danger and were expected to have two brain cells to rub together.

Record players were in our rooms, so we could listen to Mom Approved music (which could be the Beatles or Motown or Petula Clark).  I had an art area in the basement.

We had to fold the and put away laundry, make our beds, clean up and do dishes when Mom had dinner parties for 50.  And that all started young.  I had to make my bed at age 5.

When my brother and sister wanted cars, they got jobs and paid for their junkers.  I had to work at a barn for my riding lessons.

My mom was not My Best Friend; my dad was not My Buddy, she was my mother and he was my Father.  Period.  We got spanked when it was merited and it was!  Sassing back was unacceptable.  Their word was law but we were loved.  Most definitely loved.  We were fortunate kids but we weren't spoiled either.

We turned out just fine.  I have severe doubts about the next generation.

A Fall Evening

I feel this constant, burning need to be outside all the time, especially on my front porch.  I would imagine that I'm getting all the good weather before it's too cold to sit outside comfortably.

Tonight I'm sitting on my front porch.  It's near dusk, one of my favorite times of the day. It's when my vision is at its clearest and brightest.  The ice cream truck is playing the same merry tune as ice cream trucks did in my childhood. I see kids frantically biking home to hit their parents up for a buck or two.  (Ice cream sandwiches were ten cents when I was a kid.  Ah, inflation!) I hear the crickets' song and the breeze ruffles the tops of the trees.  It's not enough wind to move our four flags; they stand sentinel on their poles.  I hear kids bouncing basketballs, yelling, laughing and calling to each other.  I hear the neighbor's dog squeaking in concert with a train horn as it clacks and rattles on the tracks in the distance.  I lean back in our beat-up redwood chairs and let the sounds flow over me like a lullaby.

It's a soft night. It's early fall in my town.  It almost could be early fall when I was a kid in Lakewood.  I'm happy to be here, to be alive, to be present in this moment of almost suburban Americana perfection.  It doesn't have the glamour, bustle, vibrancy or movement of Chicago, New York or Paris.  It is a quintessential American small town. It's all good. I am content and blessed.  I'm alive.

Monday is infusion three of dragon's blood.  But that's then. For now this is a form of bliss.

Lipstick & Makeup

I grew up watching my mother and grandmother put on lipstick with no mirror.  A skill set that my sister and I both inherited. My mother wore mostly the deeper reds; she never really changed her style with that.

Unlike most of my peers, my mother wanted me to wear makeup! Like many, many women, our family seems to look a bit better with some color on our lips.  I vividly remember my mom giving me a tube of Yardley's of London lipstick saying, "Wear this so you don't scare people."  I was about 12 or so. The lipstick was a frosted pink and tasted actually quite good unlike Mom's Revlon.  Then she bought me blush, eyeshadow and maybe mascara.  My mother also bought me a striped mini-dress which got me hauled into the principal's office in 8th grade for being too short.  I think we could only have our skirts 2 inches above the knee while kneeling down.  Oh, yes, seriously.   I had a Twiggy haircut too.  When I look back on it, my mother wanted me to be in style.  However, having moved from an arts-oriented Cleveland social circle to a rural, mostly Baptist-populated middle and high school, this hip look didn't cut it.  You were a Greaser or Preppy or a Jock.  Period.

In the late 60s, the whole "hippie-natural" look was coming in and wanting to be "cool" I jettisoned the makeup thing and started growing my hair long.  My mother didn't approve of this AT ALL!  I was the ONLY girl in my high school who was putting makeup ON at the end of the day instead of frantically scrubbing it off!  "I can't go home without some makeup on, my mom will kill me!"

I still don't feel quite dressed without lipstick.

Coming Of Age In An Orange Jumpsuit

There's a family story, now a bit of a family legend having to do with fashion and my coming-of-age.

Mom had bought me (I kid you not) a bright orange short-short jumpsuit with a scoop neck, short sleeves and a white zipper.  Very mod.  I believe I was probably 16 or thereabouts, maybe older.  My whole family and my either soon-to-be (or newly made) European sister-in-law were invited to a dinner at the Blank's house on the east side of Cleveland.  (Mrs. Blank had a kind of "secret" crush on my father, which even to a teenager, was somewhat obvious.)  I asked Mom what I should wear to this dinner party and she suggested the orange jumpsuit.  "Seriously, Mom, don't you think it's a little short and casual?"  No, she said, it'll be fine.  Having Miss Manners for a mother, I relied on her judgement.  All righty then.  Orange it is.  (By the way, it is one of the only items of orange clothing I have ever worn in my entire life to date.  I hate orange on me.)

Now Mr and Mrs Blank had 3 sons: a precocious, annoying one, a nice, cute one and and kind of middle-of-the-road one.  And Mr. and Mrs. Blank were NOT happy with my father because, as I recall, Dad had helped a non-WASP move into their little WASP-island community.  Quelle horreur!  Mrs. Blank obviously, patently disapproved of my attire and we set into an evening filled with snipes, innuendoes and frosty conversations.  Cocktails began and Mrs. Blank proceeded to get slightly blitzed. Mr Blank was also feeling no pain.  My brother was wondering when this evening would end and I'm sure my sister-in-law was wondering what the hell kind of gauche American heathen's nest she's inadvertently stepped in. My mother, with all her many faults, had impeccabile social manners and kept up that good old Yankee upper lip stiff and unfailingly polite.  She skillfully steered the conversation in "safer", more neutral topics but even "Weese" couldn't keep that boat on course.

I have to tell you that I grew up in a family that is smart, quick-witted and well-spoken.  I was the family oddity; I didn't feel comfortable in social situations being very shy, a mumbler and insecure.  I never made eye contact; a tract I still struggle with. I always admired my family's quick repartee and was secretly envious.

Dinner came; there was more liquid libations and the veiled niceties were quickly going by the wayside as Mrs. Blank and my father were now starting to take the verbal gloves off.  It was getting ugly.  I remember looking at my brother across the table; he looked miserable and embarrassed.  It was cold in the house, and I starting rubbing my arms.

"Are you warm enough, dear?" said Mrs. Blank in a nasty, uppity, almost sickly sweet tone.

Without missing a beat, I looked her dead in the eye (very unusual for me) and distinctly replied, "Yes, but not from the love exuding from the table!"

(Exuding? Yes, I used that word.  Not bad.)

Silence.  Dead silence.  Tension.  My eyes dart across the table and meet my brother's. He gives me a little head bow as if to say, "Bravo!"  I had made the passage from little girl to young adult in one sentence.  There was a hesitation and then conversation returned to a fairly civilized tone.  The horrible evening wound swifty to a close with me as the clear winner in the verbal game of repartee.

Good-Bye, Old Paint

Goodbye our darling, trusted steed Miss Meon.  You took us to Montana and back, countless trips to Illinois and destinations elsewhere, carted dogs and bikes here and there.  You ran pretty darn well almost all of the time.  You were never an annoying, piece-of-crap car.

Meon in Montana

I apologize with all my heart for putting you in harm's way; for allowing you to be driven by people who didn't care nearly as much about you as we did.

I failed you, baby girl.

Your body will be pieced out and the rest of you will be junked.  You didn't make it to trade-in or had your body just give out, with too many repairs to sensibly keep you going.  Your end was ignoble and stupid.

Feb. 1, 2014

Your spirit and dependability will always be with us.  Maybe there is a heaven for a good car gone before its time.....Go in peace, little one.  We loved you.  You were a good girl.

Meon, Dodge Neon: 2005 - 2/1/2014

Throwback Thursday: Hart and True

Throwback Thursday: my first cattledog,

2004.  Hiking with Hart, age 11.

Hart-Marie (Allegra Thief of Hearts, CD, CGC, TDI, 1993-2009. Parents: Ch. Indian Creek True of Allegra, CGC, TDI x Ch. Longacres Blue Gem).

Even after, my ex and I split and Hart was done getting her CD, she was her dad's beloved buddy for almost 14 years.  I babysat her and saw her often.

True aka "Tooey"

The other pictures is of True, Hart's dad, who lived with us for about 18 months and then went back to his breeder's at their request. He had PRA, went blind and was PTS, as I understand it.

Loved both these dogs.

I still think about "Tooey" and miss him. He really started the whole cattledog thing for me because I just thought he was such a magnificent dog.  Silly, steadfast, sensible, mellow, great herder, great hiker, loved water, wonderfully patient with little kids, excellent judge of people and potentially dangerous situations, he was the only working Therapy dog I've had to date. His basic temperament, with a little more "dog friendly" thrown in is my benchmark temperament.  

2007

Hart had successful double cataract surgery at age 11.
Even at the end of her life, when her body was very old and frail and her back end didn't work anymore, Hart was always happy to be with you and lay on your lap.  She's even try a few tricks for you if she could. Her spirit and love were still going strong; her body just gave out.  I think my ex (bless his heart) kept her alive a bit too long but finally even he couldn't stave off the inevitable.

She was the best hiking dog I've ever owned; with my new rescue boy now coming in a close second. She spent most of her life hiking in the CV National Park, logging hundreds of miles a year. Even after age 10, she still could easily do a 10 mile hike, at age 15 could do an easy mile.

She always traveled like a dream and logged literally thousand of miles traveling with her dad all throughout Canada where she was a welcome guest at many a pub.

She completed her CD with a 196 score and was highest scoring Herding breed in all Obedience trials the day she finished.

I've loved all my dogs for different reasons and oddly I see a little bit of all of them in Artie the rescue. He's got some pretty big paws to fill.

Here's to happy memories of all your dogs who have left pawprints on your heart.  Especially those who corralled into the Cattledog Circle.

Mom's 89th Birthday Message

Strange things happening...."wooo-woo" stuff.  We often get messages, we just don't always listen or "get" that there are messages.  Often they are messages of alarm, danger, watch out.  (Breaking my sunglasses was NOT a message I wanted today but I digress.) Sometimes they are "softer" messages.  Messages of comfort, peace, love, joy and guidance. 

Dad, Mom and my sister

Today (Feb. 5, 2014) is my mother's birthday.  She would be 89.  She was pretty psychic, eerily so. But that's another story. 

As a historical preface to this tale you need to know that when I was a little girl, we had a wonderful Hungarian lady who would come in to clean house a couple of times a month.  Mrs. (Margaret) Pilsy was her name (and I know I'm spelling that wrong!).  She would pretty much tell my mother what she felt like doing on any given day.  

Mom would politely ask her if she could do such-and-such.  Often Mrs. Pilsy would announce, in her somewhat broken English, "All right, today I do this."  Think TsaTsa Gabor without the coquetry. 

But other times, she would look at my mother with a  stern glance and say firmly, "No! Today I I-rrron! (Iron)"  She would then attack the linens with vigor as she watched soap operas on TV.  In my mind's ear, I can still hear her banging the iron against the ironing board. "Thump-iron-iron, thump, iron-iron..."

She brooked no nonsense from us kids. She would also tell me what I could have for lunch. Sometimes it was what I asked for.  Sometimes not. She was kind of scary but we adored her!

On our birthdays she would make us a Hungarian torte. (The old softie!) A reall, multi-layered Hungarian torte with the hard-shell icing is very hard to make! My sister's favorite was the Dobos torte.  As I recall, I love the chocolate torte and the mocha torte. My brother's was most definitely the Orange torte.  He loved Orange torte and has often wistfully mentioned it over the years.  

Just now, I called my sister who was just about to call ME. She related this story.

It being a gloomy, crappy, snowy day, my sister decided to make the only brownie recipe my mom ever made.  It was from the old Joy Of Cooking cookbook. My sister has many delicious brownie recipes but she decided to haul out "Mom's" (i.e. Mother Joy Of Cooking), just to see if it's still any good. She gingerly opened up the old book, bound with a rubber band, casually thumbing through it. Tucked here and there, she finds several recipes in my mother's handwriting.  

One catches her eye. Orange torte.

Orange Torte? It had to be Mrs. Pilsy's recipe.  My mother was not a big baker. It is probably written as Mr. Pilsy would have instructed her.

Orange torte. Coincidence?  No way. 

It was Mom's way of saying, "I'm thinking about you....." 

Your Adorable Puppy? Welcome To Teenaged Dog Hell!

Someone on one of the cattledog groups wrote:

"I just want to share something for new puppy parents: When you see and read the stories on here of all the wonderful, well behaved, well trained, and awesome adult dogs that most have, and you wonder how they all "lucked" out and won the dog lottery- KNOW THIS: most of us wanted to KILL our little adorable pups when they were 4 months old. I personally lost half a bookcase of old books, 5 pairs of shoes, almost all my socks, two expensive rugs, a floor-stand antique mirror, and countless hours off my life due to blood vessels popping in my head. So remember, when looking at photos, you will look back and forget all that stuff when you see cute photos of your baby when he/she was a puppy. THEY GROW OUT OF IT. "

4-8 months, horrible, horrible, horrible time!  Sometimes it lasts into their first year.

Horrible!!!

Did I say horrible?  I meant horrible. Horrible with a capital Hor.

House training my last one, Artie, was a nightmare! I would get on FB and cry out to my friends. I'd sob on the phone to other dog people.  What the hell had I gotten myself  IN TO?  What was I thinking?  I'm too old for this.

I've had cattledogs since 1993, you think I'd have some kind of handle on it.

Oh, no!

He wasn't my first dog or cattledog either and I always seem to win the Dog Pooping Lottery because I never get to do that part in summer or fall.  Oh, no. Dead of winter.

Artie was a horrible, horrible puppy.

AND he got car sick!  What cattledog gets CARSICK??  He didn't get carsick with his foster mom. I was so stressed about that I almost got carsick.  I'd sit in the car on the way to dog classes, shaking, my heart hammering in my chest, my ears tuned to that "rrrrap-bleech-gack" sound.

His one saving grace: he was (and is) a social butterfly. He's whip-smart, funny and has a real zest for life.  He loves to swim.  He has a lovely combination of ON and OFF. He's the best hiking dog I've had in years. I adore him.

I had another one (Dru) for 6 months in 1999 I was working with (6-12 months old), he was the worst chewer I ever had.  I had him tethered to me, right by my leg, and he silently almost chewed the table leg right by me in half.  I never heard it, never felt it. He tore up and annihilated linoleum floor tiles etc. When I got him, his former owner had allowed him to poop and pee in the crate, dirtiest dog I've ever known.  Yes, Virginia, you CAN stuff a 50 pound ACD into a pretty damn small crate. He got through the horrible house-training thing but that was 3 weeks, (almost 24/7) of utter hell.

His one saving grace: he was a social butterfly, used to run with 5 Greyhounds and a Borzoi. Coolest thing you ever saw: a cowdog herding sight hounds!

Elke, our "found pupp" was another horrible chewer and dis-embowler of All Things With Stuffing.  And she had the extra bonus of being completely disinterested in playing fetch or any game for that matter.  Oh, and for an extra-extra bonus, she was (and still is to a great extent) 40 pounds of pull-you-off-your-feet.  My slightly deformed hand is thanks to Elke's pulling me off my feet and dislocating 3 fingers.  But wait, there's more.  She tends to be dog fear-aggressive too!  Which can be anything from a low growl to going after another dog to shrieking, whining and spinning!  Wheeeee, fun for the entire family!

Her saving grace is her complete and utter mesmeric ability to suck you in to her lair of sweetness.  Her coat is like velvet.  You pet her and your heart rate begins to lower.  Her eyes are limpid, brown pools; her kisses are softer and sweeter than a summer garden. People come to meet Artie; they stay for Elke.

The one thing I thank my lucky stars for is I have never had a dog in the last 20 years that wasn't ok in the crate.  I personally can't cope with that, separation anxiety or severe aggression.

I know they say you don't always get the dog you WANT but you get the dog you NEED many times.  Really?  Somewhere in the Great Cosmic Book of Life, it was written: "Mia needs the puppy from hell.  Not once, not twice, but we're going to give her that canine gift that keeps on giving."

Artie was the first all positive trained dog I've ever owned. Interesting process for all of us and continues to be.  But he really has turned into such an awesome dog in so many ways.  It must be like child birth I guess.  You know there was pain but it seems slightly dimmed.

God help me, I'm thinking about adding a third at some point.....the Gods will lead us in the right directions.  I'm a big believer in Fate.  And that they have a really sick sense of humor at times.

Puppies.  Simply Adorable!  There are not enough adjective or superlatives for puppies.

Teenaged dogs?  A new dimension of the depths of hell....Dante couldn't make up this stuff. If he did, there would be an Eighth Dimension of hell.

The Jack In The Box

When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.” 
― Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

I had one of these Jack In The Box toys when I was a little, little kid.  Mine was metal, of course.  This one is Megan's from the early 80s so it's plastic with a big Mattel logo on its lid.

Same tune.  "Pop! Goes The Weasel." Why change a good thing?

"Hey man, don't mess with the classics!" 

Many people are creeped out by clowns.  I'm not for the most part, mainly because of going to the circus and having happy clown memories. Plus I avoid watching Creepy Clown movies.

But I can't imagine even the clown-phobic having the heebie-jeebies over this little fellow with his friendly, painted face.  On the contrary, he's very precious and actually his cheerful face makes me sentimental and teary-eyed. Maybe it's because, even after I had outgrown him and his box became part of the dollhouse furniture or the cornerstone for my Breyer horse stables made with up-ended books, his friendly face would inadvertently pop up, unbidden to say Hello!  Maybe I remember coming home from school after being teased and bullied and with a turn of a crank, he had his painted smile just for me. "I like you, even if they don't!"

No matter how many times a toddler shoves his poor, spring-loaded body back into the box, he'll still spring up to startle and delight that kid. He's a harmless toy.  There is no great back-story, no batteries, no movie tie in, nothing much to him except a cheap crank tune and his version of "peek-a-boo surprise."  If you play with him and a little kid, you both end up laughing.  If you allow yourself to loosen up and get into the spirit of the silly, simple game. Play doesn't need to be complicated. Who hasn't played "peek-a-boo" just once with a strange kid someplace.  Babies and toddlers love the game!

He always has a smile. He always springs back. He is innocence, consistency, joy and laughter in a square box.  Could he be a life metaphor?

Spring back with a smile!

To an adult, he is remembrance of simple things. Since I am a very sentimental person, he makes me a bit misty-eyed whenever I see him or his box on one of our side tables. This particular one has survived many a move and years of dusty ignorance to delight a new generation.  My nephew always plays with him when he comes to our house and we laugh!

He, like The Velveteen Rabbit, seems to have a soul of sorts and is honored here for his gift of laughter.

A CHRISTMAS STORY Movie Memories

Every year, about this time, people ask where I am in the movie "A Christmas Story."  I'm about 5 minutes in on your DVD player, after the choir sings, the camera pans above the window.  You'll see the top of an Army garrison cap (that's my ex, bless his heart) and then the shot will be from the inside of window.  Look for the WAC uniform, that's a (much younger) me!

Answers to the most common questions:
I got to be an extra because we decided to dress up and go down to Cleveland on a whim.  I ran into one of the local sound guys (Chuck Fleming) that I knew from a show I did (Stompin' At The State) and he took us over to one the ADs and they said, "Sure!"  I think because we were in uniform because they weren't taking any more extras.
They sent us to hair and makeup and they shaved off my ex's moustache, which I found highly amusing! One of the Hair-and-Makeup guys was my mom hairdresser, Raun, from Kirtland, Ohio!
I had two pairs of tights on (thinking ahead, just in case) but it took about 24 hours for my feet to actually get warm and fully circulating after we filmed.
We came around 5pm at dusk and left as dawn was breaking.
We were in that window for 8 hours.
There were about 400 extras in those downtown scenes total. We were in several other scenes. Everywhere you looked, it all looked old. Clothing, cars. It was very surreal and extremely cool.  As if you'd gone back in a time machine.
The Window People, as we called ourselves, amounted to about 30 of us,
It was bitterly cold (18-22 degrees) but no snow (they made it and imported it from the local ski resorts).
They filmed these scenes on January 22-23, 1983.
They fed us a very good box lunch. I was actually stunned they fed us!
The 4 starring kids were all very nice, but they got Trailer Time in the warmth every hour.  The rest of us got a slight  break and coffee, extra kids included, but we had to pretty much stay there.
The other extras were funny as heck, God how we laughed and teased each other.  Standing in the cold, huddled together, is a VERY bonding experience.
We got paid minimum wage, I still have the pay stub and they took out taxes; we had to fill out a W-2.
The movie (which premiered in Nov. 1983) was almost a flop, it didn't do well AT all in theaters.  When we went to see it, (in early Dec.) there were 5 people total in the theater. Of course, we shouting, "Oh my GOD, there we are!"
Total time for all the shots we were in on Cleveland's Public Square: 12 hours.
It's not even close to being one of my favorite holiday films.  I almost never watch it!!
Best line of the night:
AD in megaphone to 400 extras: "Ooooooooh-kaaay folks, that was great.  Go back to your original starting spots and THIS time, DON'T. LOOK. AT. THE. CAMERA!!"
I'd do it again in a NY minute!

The Christmas Stocking

Once upon a time, long, long ago....there was a little girl who loved Christmas.  She loved the lights, the music, the tree, the stockings "hung by the chimney with care."

 Her mother loved Christmas too.  She decorated every room. The little girl, her brother and sister had little tinsel trees in their rooms.  Her mother made each child a stocking.

When the little girl was about five or so, her mother decided she needed a bigger stocking to put Barbie clothes in (so she said!)  It had an elf on it, among other decorations and the little girl's name.

As time went on, every year, the mother would hang the stockings by the chimney with care. No matter where she lived, she always hung her three children's stockings.  Hanging stockings was a big tradition in the little girl's family as was leaving cookies and brandy by the fireplace.  Yes, I know, it's more traditional to leave milk and cookies.

But her dad had said, "Santa is going to need some brandy?  It's damn cold out there all night long, delivering presents!"

When the older daughter got married, her mother gave her stockings to hang.  When her son got married, she gave him stockings.

The years came and went and as life went on, traditions faded. People left, sometimes forever.  No more caroling or singing by the piano or games to play.  But, the stockings and their tradition valiantly hung in there.

When the little girl's mom went on to her next Big Adventure in heaven, the children found their stockings among their mother's things. The son's was red with his name in glitter, the older daughter's was green with her name in glitter and the youngest one's still had her name in felt and the elf on it.  She couldn't take it with her so one her siblings said they'd keep it safe.

Years passed but somehow in the mist of time, moving here and there, the little girl's stocking got lost.  No one knew where it was any more.   Maybe it faded away or deteriorated.  It just disappeared.

The little girl, now a woman grown in her 40s, did mourn the stocking and its tradition.  She mentioned it to her new boyfriend, her friend, Debbie and her family. In vain, her family searched again through their things for the missing stocking.  

The woman grown sighed, "I guess it's a part of growing up.  It's just a thing.  Things aren't that important. Stockings really ARE for kids. I just kind of miss my stocking. It's silly, I know.  I guess I need to get over it. "

Ah but for those who believe, the magical Christmas spirit of giving and tradition was in force! Her niece decided to buy her aunt a beautiful stocking for Christmas. The woman was so grateful that her niece bought her that stocking for Christmas. She treasures it still!

Her friend, Debbie, a clever, creative seamstress plied her needle and thread to make the woman-now-grown a hand-made stocking. She plotted with the woman's new boyfriend to get that stocking to his house in time for Christmas.

He drove, like Santa himself, for over forty miles, through a blinding snowstorm, slipping and sliding in his less-than-trusty Mustang to get the stocking.

You know, she ended up marrying that fellow. so true-blue. She has never forgotten seeing the home-made stocking hanging from his mantle that Christmas Eve and weeping tears of joy and gratitude.

She never has forgotten the kindness of a friend and how her knight-in-shining-armor in a beat-up old Mustang brought a uniquely hand-made stocking back into her life.

No one is too old to be touched by the charity, love and magic of the season.  The woman grown still believes.

©2013 Mia Hess

Coincidence In Marietta

I think this picture tells a story. 

But the true story is so incredible I couldn't make this up if I tried.... 

This past weekend I did a murder mystery in Marietta, Ohio. Upon arriving in this river town Friday, I walked along the shore. I viewed an amazing "god-sky" sunset, thinking about an old friend who had passed on early that morning. Her name was Susan Carr Berilla. I thought how lovely and fitting that the rays piercing through the clouds made the water iridescent, transcendent.  I felt close to Susan's spirit.  I could almost hear her laughter on the breeze. I know she was a person of deep faith but with her brilliant sense of whimsy she would appreciate the somewhat ironic beauty of this peaceful scene.  

I shed a few tears for an old, remembered friend. 

I heard soft guitar notes on the breeze and followed them. I chanced upon this young man, a budding songwriter home from Washington State. 

He played one of his songs for me.  I told him I was a professional singer, gave him words of encouragement.  I asked him, when he was famous to remember a singer named Mia Hess.
  
I asked him his name. 

His name was Dalton.

Dalton Carr.

No relation. 

No accident. 

Rude People? Gotcha.

Someone posted on HuffPost about a woman in fast food restaurant berating the counter help because they had put ketchup on her burger.  I read this and remembered this incident.

Ask me about the Home Store (sort of like a Bed Bath and Beyond) incident when I had turned 40...very pivotal experience.....when I turned from young woman to mature woman. 

For starters. It was in a very nice area (Bay Village, Ohio), very upscale.  I nailed a Beemer Driving B*tch for downright rudeness. She is hereafter referred to as BB

Here's the story and yes, it's true and yes, I did say all that because my brain was working!

I had gone into this store which was near where I worked at the time. They were having a huge "going out of business" sale. I had my few things in a basket and got in line. The Beemer B*tch was absolutely berating this poor store clerk, called her "Stupid, Incompetent" Etc. The poor clerk was almost in tears and this was after the BB had stormed to the head of the line, almost knocking over an elderly woman! Sashaying in her designer jeans, tossing her hair back, jewelry jangling like she owned the joint and everyone there were her pickaninnies. 

I said to her, "I beg your pardon, but we were in line in front of you." 

She flipped her hair back with a most definite Who Cares attitude,  ignored me and started in on the clerk. 

I guess I got my Hungarian dander up. I said, "Look, honey, you cannot speak to her like that." 

BB: “I can DO whatever I want.”  Oh, really?

Me: “Look lady, I don't know if you've had a bad day, a bad week, a bad month, bad year, you're on the rag or just bad sex but you cannot speak to her like that. She can't tell you to f---- off. But I can. So go f---- off.” 

BB: “How DARE you? (Seriously.  Swear to God.) You can't speak to me like that!”

Me: "Hmmm. (Pause) Seems I just did.” The stuttering started. You know how people get. 

BB: "Just who the hell do you think you are?"

“I think I'm the gal who just told you to f---- off.  You really want to take it out in the parking lot. Fine.  After you.“

She flounced out of the store. I heard the elderly woman say sotto voce, "That's telling her."

The manager thanked me afterwards because that lady had caused them no end of problems for 5 years.  FIVE YEARS!!!

 I don't know as I'd do that now so quickly (this was 1994) but as I think about it….I'd probably still do it. It was pivotal because up to that point in my life, I didn't speak up like that.  I would have been too scared.  I would have inwardly seethed perhaps or literally gotten myself out of there.  I don’t know why this time was different but it was.  I guess I’d hit a level of maturity and even confidence that said, “This time I’ll open my mouth. This time I’m going to do something, not think about it afterwards with woulda-shoulda-coulda wistfulness.”

She wasn't crazy. She was rude! Nowadays it seems we equate rude people with crazy people. There is a difference. I’m tired of people getting the “crazy” excuse for what it really is.  Plain, old-fashioned, downright rudeness.

I'm TIRED OF RUDE.  The customer is not always right.  I'm a customer and I've been wrong.  

I hate to quote my mother but you DO get more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.  I've even HAD a crappy day and I've told sales people, "I know it probably isn't you, but I've had a crappy day...."  Etc.   

Again, I hate to quote my mother (because it's a rather old-fashioned quote and hardly PC) but yes, you can always tell a lady or a gentleman by how they treat the help!

And yes, Virginia, she really DID drive a Beemer! Admittedly, there are darling folks who happen to drive Beemers.  She just wasn't one of them.