When my three girls were mere tots, my husband and I bought a 47-foot power boat – a 10-year-old Chris Craft double cabin -- in Miami, FL, and brought it back to Michigan via the Intracoastal Waterway. The whole family was aboard for an entire month bringing that freakin’ thing home. The girls were 9, 7 and 11
months.
What were we thinking?
More specifically, what was I thinking?
Because I’m a writer, I kept a daily journal. The two older girls also kept journals. The 9-year-old wrote her own entries, but I recorded what the 7-year-old dictated.
You’d think we had taken three different trips.
What more proof do I need for the power of point of view (POV)?
My worries included (among dozens of ghastly catastrophic possibilities) the chance that one of the children would fall overboard. We made them wear
life jackets from the minute they emerged from the cabin until they went back down those stairs.
A16-year-old boy, a family friend, made the trip with us. Like most 16-year-old boys, he was focused on three things: (1) the desire to get behind the wheel of a car and drive (2) the progress of his tan and (3) eating.
He helped with docking, cleaning, engine-room
work and other heavy stuff. He turned out to be indispensible. We couldn’t have done it without him. But I had no idea how much food it takes to keep a teenage boy functioning. After many trips to the weird little grocery stores that exist near harbors, I finally caught on and started stockpiling cereal and sandwich meat.
My mother- and father–in-law joined us for one
of the early weeks and my husband’s business partner and his wife joined us for the final week.
The trip was a nightmare. From my POV.
We survived one minor disaster after another as
well as one major disaster. The day of our arrival, one of the girls slammed a hatch cover on her finger. The cut was so deep I could see bone. We spent a half
day at a doctor’s office getting stitches and shots and bandages. The doctor spoke Spanish exclusively, so we communicated with gestures and with the help of the receptionist in an adjoining office.
The generator broke. Stop, get it fixed. The air conditioning broke. Stop, get it fixed. Starter motor broke. Stop, get it fixed. Water pump broke. You get the picture.
Grandpa (a non-boater) was filling in as temporary pilot while my husband dragged the baby’s playpen from the back cabin up the stairs to the deck. Grandpa steered too close to the shoreline next to an inlet on the Intracoastal, ran aground, got stuck and lost one of the props. We spent a couple of days in North Carolina, where we had to buy a new prop and have it installed.
After a series of tearful meltdowns, I threatened to take the children and fly home. When it was time for my in-laws to go home, my mother-in-law kindly offered to take the baby with them.
It was tempting.
But no.
The baby learned to walk in spite of the unsteady terrain. The teenager ate everything that wasn’t wiggling or frozen solid. When we cruised past West Point one foggy morning, he was inspired. He eventually graduated from West Point Academy.
And when I recently re-read the two girls’ journals, I see they loved the trip. POV, again.
One daughter’s favorite memory was when Grandpa
went into the tiny V-shaped head (bathroom) which doubled as a shower. It was the middle of the night and – instead of flipping the light switch on -- he
turned the shower on himself.
Another remembers playing elaborate games with
Pet Rocks on the beach near one of the harbors where we docked.
We visited Williamsburg for a half day and
Hilton Head Island for a whole day. The harbor at Hilton Head has an 8-foot tide. When you leave the boat to go to dinner, you step directly onto the dock.
When you return, you have to descend 10 steps. We also had dinner at a fancy schmantzy country club in Charleston where the teenage boy set a new record at the buffet table with the peel-and-eat shrimp.
The children witnessed firsthand the process of going through a series of locks between the Great Lakes. They can also say they traveled the length of the New York State Barge Canal (formerly known as the Erie Canal). They saw the Statue of Liberty up close and personal and I have a photo of the twin towers taken from our boat.
We also survived the Mother of All Storms on
Lake Ontario. We set out one breezy, unsettled morning from Oswego, NY, headed for Toronto. The waves increased to six-footers, topped by angry foam. The wind, according to our anemometer, peaked at more than 55 miles-an-hour. While we were
navigating this particular nightmare, the main cabin began to fill with smoke and the engine room began to fill with water.
I was conscripted to pilot the boat while my
husband investigated the fire and the flood. The boat pitched and rolled as I fought to keep the bow at an angle into the wind. We all had our life jackets
on. One child was throwing up in a wastebasket. My mother-in-law, who was recovering from a recent mastectomy, had hoped the trip would be a time
for healing and resting. She was trying to be brave. My father-in-law was sitting on the deck cradling the baby on his lap with one arm, the other arm looped around one leg of the pilot chair to keep them both from sliding toward the stern.
I thought we were going to die.
No, I didn’t think we would die, but I thought we were going to be in the water and the boat would be a goner. My POV.
But the smoke was stopped. The flood was fixed.
My husband figured out what was causing both, which is another story. We made it – not to Toronto
– but to the Niagara River where we limped into our slip.
The inside of the main cabin was filled with
food that had spilled out of the refrigerator; pots and pans that had fallen out of the cupboards; dishes; books; charts; a TV set; children’s toys; and water. Lots of water. When the cabin is full of smoke, you open the windows even though water sloshes in, right?
Teenage boy, sweetheart that he was, said, “Mrs.
Smith, don’t go down into the cabin. Take the children for a walk. I’ll clean up.”
I loved that kid.
We made it home safely. We used the boat, happily, for about 8 more years, cruising Lake St. Clair, Lake Erie, Lake Huron, Georgian Bay and the North
Channel.
The children loved boating and actually grew up to be responsible, well-adjusted people. I still have their
journals and mine.
Three totally different trips.
POV. It's all in the POV.
Anne Lamott, one of my favorite authors, gave an evening talk at Grosse Pointe Memorial Church last weekend. Her title: “An Evening of Hope & Grace.”
The sanctuary was packed, as were two side balconies and the choir loft. WDIV-TV anchor Devin Scillian hosted a Q and A with the author after her talk.
Lamott’s speaking style is conversational and chatty. Honest. Funny, too. She showed up in rumpled
jeans –the exact outfit my friend Judy said she changed out of because she was coming to hear Lamott in a church. I left my jeans at home, too.
Lamott’s light brown dreadlocks were tied back with a scarf, but a single dread hung directly between her eyes the whole time she spoke. I wanted to push it aside or hook it behind her ear, as I do to my daughters’ stray chunks of hair. Lamott is a 58-year old grandmother. Pretty. Unassuming. Charming.
She leaned forward on the podium and just . . . .talked. She started off with the best definition I’ve ever heard of the term, "grace."
She used a metaphor.
Does anybody remember Mr. Magoo? she asked. “Surely some of you out there are old enough.” The audience chuckled. Nodded.
Mr. Magoo was an animated TV character popular in the 1960s. He also starred in a series of short cartoons – the ones presented in movie theaters after Fox Movietone News or The March of Time newsreel, before the featured full-length movie.
Jim Backus provided Magoo’s voice. Magoo was a bumbling older man, a millionaire. Gruff. Naïve. Short
and plump. Bald. He had a big bulbous nose, like W.C. Fields. His most distinctive trait, however, was his nearsightedness.
Magoo wouldn’t admit his eyesight was less than 20/20. Instead, he stumbled and fumbled through various adventures in which he made mistakes, took wrong turns and got himself into – and out of -- incredibly dangerous
situations.
“Somehow,” Lamott said,“Mr. Magoo always ended up on top of a skyscraper.” Just as he was about to step off the edge of the building, a crane would swing by carrying a horizontal steel beam. Instead of plunging to his death, Magoo would step on the beam, which would then swing across the empty space between skyscrapers and deposit him on the edge of another building, where he continued to stumble along, oblivious to what had happened.
Or an airplane would swoop down beside the
skyscraper, he’d step on one of its wings to be carried aloft, deposited safely on the roof of another building. He would be saved again and again by incredible strokes of luck.
Because of his nearsightedness, Magoo never knew he was in danger. And never knew when he’d been rescued.
“That’s grace,” Lamott said.
Grace, she said, is undeserved luck. Divine undeserved luck.
“I do not at all understand the mystery of grace,” she said. “Only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.”
Hmmmmmm.
Lamott's most recent book, Some Assembly Required, is about her first grandchild's first year of life. She has also written seven novels: Hard Laughter, Rosie, Joe Jones, All New People, Crooked Little Heart, Blue Shoe and Imperfect Birds; and five nonfiction books: Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, and Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith.
I own a beat-up tintype of two grim people, a man and a woman. Unsmiling, they are seated side-by-side. They stare dutifully at the camera lens. They look to be in their mid-30s, although it’s hard to tell ages in old photos. People not only looked older sooner, but they thought and acted old sooner than we do today.
When she was my age, my grandmother wore long shapeless flowered garments that zipped up the front, called housedresses. While she was working at home during the day, she rolled her stockings down below her knees and secured them with fat blue elastic garters. Stockings came in twos back then, one for each leg.
My grandmother didn’t own a pair of jeans or athletic shoes. She wore heavy black thick-heeled lace-up shoes and (nearly always, it seemed) an apron. When she got
dressed up she wore a black coat and a black felt hat with a small brim. She kept it from blowing away by threading a hatpin through it, then through her hair.
After her five children were grown up and settled, they all chipped in one Mother’s Day and bought her a mink wrap. It was made of a half dozen whole pelts -- complete
mink skins strung together in sort of a semicircle. The minks had beady little glass eyes, sharp teeth and leathery ears and noses. Each set of minky teeth was
clamped tightly onto the tail of the animal in front as if they were circus elephants, lined up trunk-to-tail, ready for a parade.
Mink wraps offered wonderful diversions for small children during boring church services. If the lady in the pew in front of you was wearing one of those mink pelt parades, you could wag the little tails and wiggle the little feet and poke your fingers in the little eyes and stick pencils up the little noses.
But I digress.
The unsmiling tintyped couple are probably my relatives. They aren’t particularly attractive or even interesting-looking. I have no idea who they are or why they were preserved in the boxes of stuff that settled in my basement after my parents died. I’m an only child, so I got it all: the good, the bad, the junk, the odd, the ugly. Most of it was unlabeled.
I don’t know what to do with these people. Their dark, shapeless clothing is rumpled. The woman’s hair is parted in the middle and gathered unattractively in little
circlets over her ears, like hairy earphones. She has dark shadows under her eyes. He looks like he needs a shampoo and a shave. Badly.
Should I toss them? Should I keep them? Should I sell them on E-Bay? Should I pass them on to my children, who are yet one more generation removed from knowing who they were?
There is a lesson here. If you have family photos and memorabilia, for God’s sake, label everything you can. Write down the names of the people you know and a short description of where they hang on the family tree, i.e. “The lady with the oversized shoulder pads and the bad complexion is Aunt Fritzie. She was Dad’s mother’s brother’s oldest daughter. Married to Grover, who died young. Fritzie remarried a traveling salesman named Big Al and moved to Walla Walla.”
From that same box of my parents’ treasured belongings, I uncovered an 8mm movie projector and several reels of film labeled simply, “1938.”
I had it transferred to DVD, even though I hadn’t the foggiest idea what it might be. To my surprise, I now own a conglomeration of jumpy, grainy, faded movies taken at
my parents’ wedding. I typed up a commentary for the whole string of scenes, naming all the people I was sure of,the places I could identify and every bit of family history I could recall.
Some day, my children will call this priceless. Maybe my grandchildren will, too.
Karen and I have been friends since first grade. First grade, for us, was 1946-47. I keep in touch with Karen and 12 other girlfriends who graduated from high school with us. We get together every two years for a long weekend at Susie G.’s cottage, but in between, we email each other.
We all received that ubiquitous email asking us to take an “Older Than Dirt” quiz about the 1940s. Did we remember stuff like 1. Blackjack chewing gum (yes; also Beemans and Juicy Fruit), 2. Telephone party lines (yes; my mother used make us be quiet so she could listen to the conversations of the other people. She tried to figure out which of our neighbors it was). 3. Studebakers (yes; ugly). 4. S&H green stamps (yes; it was my job to lick and stick those pesky things in books). 5. Howdy Doody (yes; not only do I remember Howdy, but also Phineas T. Bluster, Princess Summerfall Winterspring, Chief Thunderthud, Buffalo Bob, Dilly Dally, Flub-a-Dub and Clarabell the clown). And 6. Mimeograph paper (I loved that juicy chemical aroma. Everyone sniffed mimeographed worksheets as they were passed down the rows. I wonder if this damaged our brains? Is mimeograph ink related to glue?)
I asked my high school girlfriends – via email -- to think of some offbeat memories – things that were unique to growing up in suburban Detroit.
Karen started it off. “My current house has a milkbox built in the brick next to the side door,” she said. “The guy I bought the house from had no idea what it was for.”
It was a milk chute, I emailed back.
Our friend Pris chimed in:“My mother shoved (her word, not mine) my younger brother, skinny little Geoffrey, through the milk chute so he could let her in the house when she forgot her keys.”
My grandmother’s house also had a coal chute. Periodically, a big filthy dump truck would lumber down her street, stop in front of the house and funnel coal into that chute. It landed in the coal bin, a small room in her basement. The cloud of coal dust took hours to dissipate.
I also remember when families on our street got new cars, all the neighbors would come outside to examine and exclaim over the new purchase. They took turns sitting in the driver’s seat. They remarked on the lovely new-car smell, kicked the tires, marveled at its new design features and gadgets – like fins and automatic transmissions and headlights with little eyelids that closed during the day and (!) turn signals. I remember when turn signals were newfangled. I had to memorize up means right; down signals left.
Karen also remembers having a crush on Space Cadet Tom Corbett’s copilot, Roger Manning; listening to a soap opera called Stella Dallas on the radio during the day; and putting her hair up in pincurls at night.
Sue G. remembered whimseys, airy little decorated net-like things that passed for hats when we had to wear hats. Yes, we wore hats. I wore one (or a whimsy) to church, along with clean white gloves. I had a dresser drawer stocked with white gloves, just to be sure I always had a clean pair. My friend Penny and I once stuffed our clean white gloves into our mouths to keep from laughing out loud when we found something to giggle about at a concert in downtown Detroit. We were in the audience of a Detroit Symphony Orchestra concert with some 25 or 30 classmates. It was a field trip for a high school elective called Music Appreciation. I loved that class. We studied Mozart’s 40th, Beethoven’s 5th, Tchaikovsky’s 6th, Shostakovich’s 5th and a violin concerto by Sibelius. I still recognize these works, even when I hear just a few bars. The beginning of the fourth movement of Mozart’s 40th still brings to mind the rhyme we used to identify it: “Mozart’s in the closet; let him out, let him out, let him
out.”
The Curse came up several times as we emailed our reminiscences back and forth. We were warned not
to wash our hair or take baths when we had The Curse. Most of us ignored this rule. Some used a dry shampoo, which Sue G. said was called Minipoo.
Susie H. remembers the brands of socks we wore to prove our coolness. Wigwams were high woolen sport socks worn with penny loafers, which were stocked with nickels in case we needed to make a phone call. The other popular socks were only available at Gray’s, a sport shop in our neighborhood shopping center. The cool way to wear these socks was with the Gray’s label still attached. How did Gray’s manage to make that so cool? You can’t pay for advertising like that.
Karen reminded us that we stared at the radio while we listened. Her favorite radio program was called Inner Sanctum, in spite of how the stories terrified her.
“One program was about shrunken heads,” she said. “That night, my father put a grapefruit between the sheets at the bottom of my bed and my foot hit it.”
Five Ladies-Of-A-Certain-Age got together for
their annual Downtown Detroit Weekend last Saturday evening through Sunday afternoon.
Three hotel rooms: $400.
Five drinks: $50.
Five hors d’oeuvres: $75.
Five small salads: $130!
The looks on the faces of the crowd waiting for
our elevator as they gawped at the young man with his pants around his ankles: Priceless!
The five of us have been friends for decades but
we no longer all get together at one time except for this annual midwinter getaway. We have more to talk about than we can possibly cram into 24 hours.
Nevertheless, we try.
We booked three rooms at the Marriott Hotel in
Detroit’s Renaissance Center (Ren Cen), located at the foot of Woodward Avenue right on the river, smack in the thick of the action. Our views were of the Detroit River and the city of Windsor, Ontario.
Last weekend, Detroit was bustling. Don’t believe pessimists who say Detroit is dead.
People jostled each other amiably on the sidewalks of Greektown. Music and conversation leaked from open doors. Crowds snaked up stairways and waited patiently at People Mover stations. They clogged the elevators in parking structures. Families shepherded children and toted shopping bags loaded with purchases. Young people ice skated in Campus Martius Park. The People Mover rumbled overhead, packed with swaying passengers. A good percentage of the crowd wore jackets, shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with the logos of Detroit sports teams.
The Red Wings were playing at Joe Louis Arena.
Autorama, an exhibition of custom cars, hot rods
and restored vehicles, was at Cobo Center.
The Michigan Pharmacists Association’s annual
convention and exposition was meeting at the Ren Cen.
The 17th annual Motor City Tattoo Expo was in Detroit for the weekend.
We planned a progressive dinner designed to give us a crack at new downtown restaurants. We met for drinks at dusk at the Coach Insignia on the 71st and 72nd floors of the Ren Cen, where we watched Windsor’s lights gradually blink on. We took the People Mover to Fountain Bistro, a small French-themed place at Campus Martius Park, for our first course: hors d’oeuvres. We walked to the Compuware building for a salad at Texas de Brazil. We planned to take our entrée at the Detroit Seafood Market, do a bit of gambling at Greektown Casino, then think about yet another restaurant for dessert.
As it turned out, we were too full for either the entrée or dessert. We played the slots and some video poker in the casino. Nobody struck it rich, but nobody lost much either. It’s hard to do either when you’re playing the 2-cent slots. We took the People Mover back to our hotel rooms, where we talked. And talked. And talked.
Sunday morning we rode the People Mover
to a hole-in-the-wall breakfast place called The Hudson Café. It’s on Woodward Avenue, across the street from the very spot where Detroit’s iconic J.L.
Hudson’s department store stood for 87 years. When we were growing up in Detroit in the 1940s and ’50s, Hudson’s was The Place to shop. This trendy little café across the street, named after the store, had excellent custom-made omelets, fresh-squeezed orange juice and steaming cups of black coffee as well as J.L. Hudson’s world-famous Maurice salad.
Now about the outrageous price of five salads.
And about our uh . . . encounter in the elevator.
When the check came for five small plates of salad from the salad bar, $130 seemed a bit over the top. We complained. “It’s our all-you-can-eat salad bar,” the waiter said. “One price. $25.”
We protested. We had no idea. We’d only been in the restaurant for a half hour, had one small salad each, and we were not given napkins, flatware or drinks. Nobody waited on us.
“Oh dear,” said the waiter. “Well, we do have a senior citizen rate.” He took our bill back and replaced it with another for $25.
Now, about the elevator. There we were -- five senior ladies standing in the back of the express elevator in our sensible shoes, leaning on our suitcases-on-wheels, hurtling downward from the 60th floor of the Ren Cen toward the lobby of the Marriott. A young man got on at the 40thfloor. He had two visible tattoos and a glittery pierced thing stuck in one nostril. He gave us a friendly nod.
One of our group (the boldest one) pointed to his tattoo and asked: “Does that hurt?”
“It hurts like hell,” he said. “Want to see my latest one?”
“Sure.”
He turned toward us; his back toward the elevator door.“Don’t worry, I have running shorts underneath,” he assured us, as he untied the drawstring of his sweatpants.
His grey sweatpants settled around his ankles as he showed off an elaborate scene that had been freshly tattooed on his left thigh. It looked raw, red, and painful and it was tightly wrapped in something
that resembled Saran wrap.
We marveled. We clucked; tsk tsked.
“It really looks like it hurts,” The bold one said.
Our elevator shuddered and settled to the lobby
level. The door opened.
Two dozen people were waiting to ascend.
Their faces? Priceless.
The young man looked over his shoulder. “Oops,” he said, as he pulled up his sweatpants, tied the drawstring and glided off, disappearing into the crowded lobby.
We dragged our suitcases off the elevator and
doubled over, leaning against the walls, dissolving with laughter.
Detroit is alive and well. And fun, too.
How about an aunt (my middle daughter) who, while
driving, plays 20 Questions with her nephews, ages 11 and 9.
It was their turn to guess what she was thinking.
The questions:
“Is it on you?”
“Yes.”
“Is it something you’re wearing?”
“No.”
“Is it inside you?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a gas?” (giggle giggle)
“No.”
“Is it liquid?”(giggles)
“Uh, no.”
“Is it solid?” (more giggles)
“Uh, not really.”
“Is it a colloidal suspension?”
“Bingo. Yes.”
“Is it above your waist?”
“Yes.”
“Is it inside your nose?”
“Yeah.” (much clapping and cheering)
Kids are so doggone smart these days. In my entire, long, long life, I never heard the term “colloidal suspension” until that day in the car.
My doctor explains many of my symptoms and
ailments with this preface: “As we get older, . . . .”
My memory isn’t what it used to be because I have so much to remember. Compare 25 years of memories to 70 years of memories. Seniors sift through nearly three times as many file drawers of memories as those twentysomethings do, just to pluck out the desired 3- by 5-inch card. And that card might be frayed, water-damaged and smudged. It may be full of erasures, cross-outs and revisions.
No wonder young people are quick.
I’ve entered the phase of my life where for hair, grey is the new black and for skin, wrinkles are the new laugh lines. I have a different perspective when I view the world. Not such a bad perspective, either. It’s wider. I have experience to draw on (even though it takes a while to dredge up details). I think I am more tolerant and accepting because of this experience.
I remember when pre-war meant before 1941; when sleeping on the floor was fun; when feeding the birds was considered enabling; when 9 out of 10 doctors smoked Lucky Strikes; and when babies were supposed to be put to sleep on their little tummies. They looked so cute with their knees drawn up, their spindly little legs curled under those fat, diapered bottoms, their little hands curled into fists.
I remember junior high school civics books that
showed pictures of “prosperous” cities with belching smokestacks and sprawling factories.
When I was a teenager, being crazy and wild meant driving the wrong way on a one-way street, smoking unfiltered cigarettes (over-the-counter varieties like Lucky Strikes or Camels), deliberately littering or getting stuck with an objectionable nickname – one that started with a W, like Wicked or Wildman or Wiley Coyote.
Surely, you know you're getting old when your body betrays you. I used to do a cartwheel on my birthday. No more. I used to skip down (or up) the middle of a flight of steps, two steps at a time. Now I go straight to the railing. I used to “hop”out of bed in the morning. Now it feels more like I’m unfolding crumpled parchment.
I recently read – or heard -- or got an email (can’t remember which) about how you can tell you’re getting older. Then again, maybe Andy Rooney said it. I miss him.
“You know your body is getting old,” it goes,
“when everything that is supposed to be moist dries up and everything that is supposed to be dry, leaks.”
That sums it up.
This week’s Newfangled Gramma is my friend Nancy Solak, author of A Footpath in Umbria: Learning, Loving and Laughing in Italy. For details about Nancy and her book, visit her web site: A Reluctant Traveler, at: www.areluctanttraveler.com She not only travels and writes, she reads a lot – Kindled books, audio books and actual books. I imagine she also reads the backs of cereal boxes, directions that come with tech gadgets, trashy murder mysteries, Shakespeare’s sonnets and everything put on paper by the six people in our writing group. Nancy prefers nonfiction, but dabbles in fiction. She wants us to keep this in mind while reading her comments on novels. Here are her takes on three books she read last year: Cutting for Stone, a novel by Abraham Verghase “I read this nearly 500-page book in two parts – a four-month period in between. To the author’s credit, I did not need to review any of the beginning when I returned to it. All the characters and the story line were still embedded in my memory. That is not a tribute to my memory, but to Verghase’s story. Most of the book is set in Ethiopia where twins are born to a Caucasian surgeon (named Stone) and a nun from India. I know … you need to trust the author. The book takes place during the 1970s when Haile Selassie was emperor and then overthrown. The author is a surgeon himself and, therefore, there is a lot of medical description in the book. Somehow this did not slow the story – the poetry of his writing kept me fascinated. I think I loved the reading of this book so much that I subconsciously spread out the reading of it so as to “keep” it longer. Toward the end there are some implausible events, but it was easy to forgive them considering the absurdly wonderful read the author created prior. ★★★★ out of four stars.” A Singular Woman: The Untold Story of Barack Obama’s Mother by Janny Scott (nonfiction) “The criticism I’ve heard about this book is that it never would have been written had Stanley Ann Dunham not been Barack Obama’s mother. It’s true – I wouldn’t have read of such a person; however, her life was far more interesting and she was far more singular than I and most everyone I’ve ever met. As an anthropologist, Dunham’s work may not have been as fascinating as that of Margaret Mead’s, but still, it was definitely noteworthy. We learn of the trials and tribulations it takes to be a cutting-edge anthropologist in an age when people scarcely have the wherewithal to finish long, technical projects. I also understand more about why Barack Obama is how he is. His “No drama Obama” moniker probably came from spending his formative years in Indonesia. Calmness (and developing a thick skin) is a cultural feature particular to Indonesia. His mother helped foster those traits in him along with the importance of learning. There are also some wonderful black-and-white photos in the book. The picture of the President’s mother at high school graduation shows an uncanny resemblance. ★★★ out of four stars, only because I think the detailed description of her dissertation bogged the reading.” Little Bee, a novel by Chris Cleave
“Sarah and her husband are trying to reconnect their relationship while vacationing on a Nigerian beach. I know. Who goes to a Nigerian beach for a vacation? Apparently the Brits do. A brief yet horrifying event occurs on the beach among the British couple, two young Nigerian girls (one of whom calls herself Little Bee) and ruthless soldiers. A moral dilemma ensues and Sarah steps up to the plate; but her husband doesn’t. This decision haunts him for the rest of his life. When Little Bee (who ended up in a British detention center after the beach incident) is released and has nowhere to go, she turns up on the couple’s steps. Although the story is somewhat implausible, I found it riveting. If they ever make a movie of it, though, I will not be among its audience for there is brutality and sadness beyond the pale. I listened to this book on CD and heartily recommend it for the voices of Sarah and Little Bee are rendered distinct and beautiful by the reader. Not only that, but the British couple has a preschool boy who not only insists he’s Batman but also is irresistibly cute. The narrator makes his voice indelible as well. Despite all the sad things that happen in this story, I fell in love with Sarah, Little Bee and Batman. ★★★★out of four stars.”
I read an article in Sunday’s Detroit Free Press about Chrysler CEO Sergio Marchionne, who I consider an exceptionally appealing and incredibly sexy-looking man. I like Italian men in general, but I especially like Marchionne’s pookie little pouchy cheeks and full, pursed lips; nice eyes; rumpled hair. I like how he dresses – casual, but impeccably crisp and tailored. The front-page article referred to Marchionne’s signature black crew neck sweater over tie-less oxford shirt with black pants.
Signature?
When I wear the same category of clothes nearly every day – as I am wont to do – I feel boring, predictable and uninspired. Lazy, even. Perhaps I’m not as dull as I think I am. Maybe it’s my signature look.
I’m retired and don’t have to dress up and punch in at an office, so I invariably select a pair of jeans (I have more than a dozen pairs in dark blue, stone-washed light blue, black, tan, olive green, gray etc.) and a crew neck sweater or sweatshirt over a long-sleeved mock turtle neck shirt. If I’m going out to one of my two volunteer activities where jeans are not allowed, I upgrade to dressier pants with ironed creases and a knitted cotton turtle neck sweater under a jacket. As soon as I return home, it’s back to jeans and a sweatshirt. I almost never wear a skirt or a dress.
Martha Stewart has a signature look – un-tucked big shirt over khakis or jeans. I wear those shirts, too, as an occasional variation of my signature look. The shirts hide a lot of lumps and bumps that, maddeningly, have encircled my midsection and settled in, apparently for the duration. I can’t remember the last time I wore my shirt tucked into pants. None of my belts fit. I am delusional, maybe, but I think the big jacket-shirts (a la Martha) hide the lumps.
A friend of a friend who is in her 70s has only worn black and beige for the last 50 years of her life. No colors. It’s her signature look.
Lady Gaga, I suppose, has a signature look – outrageous. Dolly Parton has a signature look. Cher, too. Steve Jobs always wore a black turtleneck and black pants. Novelist Tom Wolfe’s signature look is beautifully tailored white business suits. He reminds me of the Good Humor man.
Another friend – a man in his 60s – always wears an oxford shirt, a blazer and a bow tie -- a real one that he has to tie himself, not one of those cheaters. His signature look takes him to work, to church, to the grocery store, to barbecues and pool parties and fundraisers and graduation parties and high- and low-brow live performances of all kinds -- probably on vacation, as well. I picture him walking on a beach in his blazer and bow tie, but perhaps barefoot, with his pants rolled up.
In summer, I modify my signature. I have an array of long (formerly known as Bermuda) shorts and all kinds of T shirts – sloppy, holey, ragged, loose and stained as well as plain, dressier ones in every color imaginable. I like to arrange them in my closet according to color. At the far left are the stark whites, then eggshell and ecru, light beige, pale yellow, peach, various shades of pink and red, then the blues and greens and grays; finally, black.
The sloppy T shirts have words on them – places I’ve been. When I’m on vacation, I can’t resist purchasing yet another T shirt or sweatshirt touting the local attractions: Cape Cod, Nantucket, Phoenix, Martinique, Italy, Martha’s Vineyard, Sanibel Island, San Francisco, etc. I think these T shirts are my veiled way of bragging. “Look at me!! Ta daaaaaa!! I’ve been to Martha’s Vineyard.”
I love the sleek, classic, understated style of Ralph Lauren’s designs and I have a source for getting a lot of his stuff on sale. But I refuse to buy any of his shirts – or anybody else’s shirts with the designer’s name emblazoned on a pocket or a collar. I’m not comfortable with that kind of bragging, no matter how much I love the designer.
But back to Sergio. I don’t own one of his cars. I drive a Ford. But I admire a man who downplays his own appearance without looking disheveled or unwashed. Sergio’s signature look says “I am more interested in what I’m doing than in how I look. I’m more into conversation and exchange of ideas than in what you think about my appearance.”
I once asked my dad why men’s formal clothing was so restricted – black tuxedo jacket and pants, white pleated shirt, black tie, black shoes – whereas women’s formal gowns were so colorful, each one different and individually accessorized with jewelry and purse and shoes.
He said tuxedos were meant to serve as a background. The women’s ensembles were the main event. Sergio may be emulating the tuxedo.
I hope my signature look says the same thing.
Hang on, loyal readers. I'll write a new essay. It has been a busy holiday season. I'm writing! I'm writing!
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